Solidarity.

A comedian has been live-tweeting her father's last days in hospice. He's dying of lung cancer. And she's hilarious. See the correlation? ...you were supposed to put together my Dad had lung cancer and also had a hilarious child. If you didn't? I don't even want to talk to you. 

Laurie Kilmartin's Twitter is outstanding, in my opinion. My friend sent me a link to it this morning. And I haven't stopped laughing, and grieving with her since. Here are a few of my favorite moments, so far: 

• Dad is not incoherent, we discovered while gossiping about his side of the family in front of him.
• More unfortunate phrasing. Mom to Dad, re: the reclining hospice bed, "Should we put you down?"
• just tried to weasel out of changing Dad's sweatshirt by arguing its more damp than wet.
• Sister and I tortured our poor Dad with multiple photo sessions because we did not like how we looked in the pictures.
• Good luck getting an answer to the question, "Did I give you too much morphine?"

I read some of her tweets to Mom this morning and we couldn't stop laughing. I especially burst out into giggles when I got to this one: 

This was a very real thing for my family. We spent hours watching Dad breathe, for two years. And there were nights I stayed awake longer than I should have, just to make sure he there was a rise and a fall. There were nights I jumped out off the couch, next to him, and got up to put my  hand on his chest, to ensure he was still breathing. Someone would text me late at night and say, "Hey, we're headed to the bar want to go grab a drink?" And I would respond with "No, my dance card is all filled up with watching Dad breathe tonight, sorry!" 

For the record, I wouldn't trade any of that time I watched Dad breathe for the world. 

My biggest issue with this live-tweeting isn't Laurie, she's spectacular. But the people who have commented on articles about the tweets with things like: "How disgusting. That poor, poor man, having a daughter like that!" make my blood boil. Plus, she's clearly a great daughter. She even bought her dad a Valentine's Day gift: 

I sort of loved this one even more after I scrolled through my own Twitter and found that for last year I wrote about how I didn't buy Dad a tie for Father's Day because he only wears them to weddings and funerals and I wasn't ready to take one for the team for either of those. 

I am a bit flabbergasted to see people's reactions about how she's taking away his dignity or the ever judgmental: "I hope this is a reaction to grief. Or else it's just appalling." 

I hope, Mr. Commentor, that your comment is a reaction to not knowing what it is like to be in her shoes, or else it is just appalling! Laurie has taken the time to spend her father's last moments with her. She tweeted about how she starts out every day with the goal of not seeing her dad's genitals when helping him to the restroom. Unless you know what that's like? You have no reason to comment on how anyone deals with the situation. Until you know what it's like to transfer an immobile person from a chair to a bed? I don't want to hear how you feel about how she reacts to it. Especially because we used to throw the sheets over Dad (to help us lift him easier) while I made cracks about how he was like Madame Butterfly as I covered and uncovered his face. (Ps, he hated when I would throw the sheets off his face and exclaim he had become a beautiful butterfly. But he took it all in stride.) Unless you know what it is like to watch someone, especially someone who gave you life, take a breath and pray that it isn't their last? You should probably keep your comments to yourself. I will take the high road and not point out that your poor father has a terrible child for making such comments.

I like to imagine that some of these people commenting on what a terrible daughter she is are the type that weren't or won't be running to the hospice bed of a loved one when they're passing away. They'll breeze into the funeral with a hankie and a somber attitude and wonder where all the jokes and laughter came from. And probably remark about how they aren't appropriate. They'll take sideglances at loved ones who dare laugh or make a joke about the situation. But, I venture to guess, they haven't been there. They haven't seen that a joke and a laugh are sometimes the best way to help the patient and their loved ones. 

I know that, as Dad went through all he did, if we would have sat around somberly staring at him - it would have been worse for him. Not everyone takes themselves that seriously, I suppose. Dad was one of them, I guess. When he had his first seizure - which indicated he had a brain tumor, my sister and Mom called me and I went rushing to their house. I arrived as they were getting ready to take Dad out on a stretcher. I was terrified. I wanted to throw up. My  hands were sweaty. My sister was pinned in a corner of the living room by all the medical equipment and paramedics, and she was frantic. I was trying to shove past all of them to get to her, because I knew Dad was going to be fine. You know why? Because as I walked by him, he mumbled through his oxygen mask: Keep that one away from me, she'll stand on my oxygen line. And then he smiled at me. And I knew he was okay. Because, even in the face of danger or crisis, we're all human. And we know that we're staring down the barrel of the gun of mortality. And, you know, it is completely acceptable to laugh. Or cry. I won't shame you for showing your emotions with water from your eyes. Don't shame me for laughing and making those around me laugh. We're all going to die someday. Pretending it isn't happening, crying, begging - these won't make them stop. But laughing can make those moments pass by with ease. They can soothe those around us. And, damnit, laughing feels good. So give in. Laugh with her. 

And if you can't laugh with her? Don't expect me to invite you to the next family reunion. Because seriously, she must be related to me, right? 

Solidarity, Laurie. Keep laughing. And keep loving. You're doing it right.