Perspective

Easter came and went this past weekend. My dad was competitive, he always had to win. He was also usually the judge. This transferred to later in my life, when he played judge, jury, and executioner when I had been out past curfew. But Easter eggs did not escape his grasp of: things I must win at. And, realistically? He was probably kicking our butt anyway. So we knew that this year would be a bit rough, because last year he was here. He was coloring eggs with us. He was sitting at the table and yelling and still proclaiming he was going to kick our butts at the contest. Where, to be honest, we had no shot. But there were also no prizes. So, there's that.

The Friday before Easter, my grandma called from the hospital and said she thought she had a stroke and was in the ER. (Spoiler alert: She is settling back in at home and doing well, so no worries, folks!) Just to prove that we are crass and terrible with all family emergencies, here is quick view at the messages between my sister and I. 

Her: So, apparently Grandma had a mini stroke, wtf? 
Me: Yeah. That's why I was asking if you had talked to mom, to make sure she had told you.
Her: So Dad's gone and now she has to be an attention hog?
Me: I know. I told Mom she was just trying to get out of making the dressing for Easter.
Her: She must have been out of sage. 

A few Easters ago, Grandma made her (seriously delicious) dressing and it was spicy. She said, "I must have been a little heavy handed with the sage." She may never live it down. But we ate (and loved it) anyway. So, I think she's in the clear to keep her "Best Dressing" title in our family. Although, seriously Grandma - all you had to do was ask us to bring you some sage. You didn't have to go and do all of that!

This development also meant that we were going to spend another holiday in another hospital. We're getting good at it. Off the top of my head I can recall: 

• Eating Thanksgiving dinner in the hospital at the University of Chicago
• Making dad's favorite meatloaf muffins and taking them to UIC for Father's Day
• My parents celebrating July 4th AND their anniversary at the Rehab Institute of Chicago
• An anniversary of theirs at Porter Regional Hospital
• My sister's birthday where my Dad was one of the first patients moved to Porter's new location
• An Easter at a skilled nursing facility/rehab center in Chesterton, Indiana
• Dad's birthday at the Rehab center at St. Mary's in Hobart

I'm sure I'm missing a few, but you get the drift. We are experts at making and transporting food to wherever the holiday is. As I said in a text message to my aunt on Easter when I sent her a picture of the spread: "You can't even have a stroke and get out of a family dinner. We will find you and hunt you down." 

Before we packaged (not so well by the look of the yams over there) dinner and took it to Grandma, my mother and I were inside cooking and my sister was outside, with a huge bubble wand blowing bubbles. She stuck her head in the door, "Come out here!" I grumbled a little bit, because we had been cooking all morning. 

My mom said "Go outside and play with your sister." 

"Uh, you know she's 22 and I'm 32, right?" 

She didn't even bat an eyelash and replied, "Yes. Now go." 

I went outside and spent much longer than I should admit, blowing bubbles with my younger sister. I'm glad I did. Because it brought back memories. The ones from being a little kid and blowing bubbles with Dad. (see: The Great Bubble Incident) But also because it reminded me of a few Easters back, when Dad was with us and in a rehab facility in a skilled nurse home. He hadn't spoken in awhile and we took bubbles with us on Easter - blowing them at him in a pretty transparent attempt to annoy him enough to speak to us. He didn't, that Easter. But by last Easter, he was back home and completely with us. Coloring those eggs. And annoying us right back by claiming he would win. He only had the use of one arm at the time, but he was still going to beat us. To be honest? Even when he was wheelchair bound and bed bound at the end? He still probably thought he could have beaten us in a 50 yard sprint. ...even if that meant he made one of us push him so he could. 

It also gave me some time to think. Bubbles are a lot like our time and memories with our loved ones. 

Sometimes they're beautiful.

Sometimes there's just one or two over that a ways - that drift out away from us, but we can still see them. 

They float away. The moments aren't going to last forever.

But the memories of them are. And we have some really beautiful ones.

Often, they come back and they feel like they are righthereinourface.

And sometimes, we have one that sticks with us - that's different - that makes you change your perspective a bit.

All the time I spent with my Dad and my family that was there to love and support him - it has changed my perspective in ways I can't put into words - and quite possibly in ways I haven't even begun to comprehend, yet. 

Three years ago? I wouldn't have even imagined I would have had so many stories about how to maneuver through (and to new) hospitals, how to deal with rushing food to your father in Chicago to make sure he got his favorite meal for Father's Day. Or how to handle when your Grandma calls to tell you she thinks she had a stroke. But now - we know. We know how to navigate a situation that could (and often does) bring families to their knees. We know how to survive. And, most importantly, we know how to do so while having a good time, and still cherishing every moment.  

We colored eggs that day. I think I finally won this time, Dad. 

And we made more beautiful, and definitely perspective-changing memories. We laughed with Grandma so hard that it hurt in the most beautiful way possible, as we tried to take hospital Easter selfies. Here's just a small glimpse at the "better" ones. No, really. We are that bad. 

But more than anything? We had a moment. One that we won't forget. And not just because a kid asked me if my hair was dyed green for Easter. (It's blue, kid, jeez.) But because we realized that no matter what? We will be okay. And along the way - we will stop to blow bubbles, to laugh, and to take some terrible hospital selfies. And don't worry, the bubbles went with us too. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy my grandmother some sage, so we don't have this problem again. 

I Wanna See You Be Brave...

I relate a lot of songs to Dad. To anyone who knew him, this wouldn't seem strange. He was always playing music, singing, and usually dancing around the kitchen while he cleaned it. Seriously, ask my sister, she was the one who busted him singing "This shit is bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s." while scrubbing the stove one day. He was never without an iPod - especially if you were trying to talk to him about something you wanted him to do that he wasn't keen on doing. Suddenly, he would have both earbuds in and the conversation was over. There were months that he was overmedicated, after his surgery, and verbally he would be checked out. Mom would set his iPod up for him, and you'd catch a quick glimpse of him mouthing the words to a song - singing along, even when he couldn't talk to us. Music has always been a big part of my Dad's life. Even if he couldn't carry a tune. Thanks for passing that one along to me, Dad. All my road trip partners - past and future - thank you. 

I can remember before Dad's last surgery, him showing up at my house on a weekend. I was expecting him, and had left the door unlocked. I heard him knock and yelled "Come in." He must have knocked three times, causing me to repeatmy "Come in, dude!" cycle, before I flung the door open - annoyed. There was my Dad. On my front porch. Earbuds in his ears. Singing: "Miss Independent, Miss Self-sufficient, Miss Keep-your-distance, Miss Unafraid, Miss Outta-my-way, Miss Don't-let-a-man-interfere, no." ...yes, that's right. My father couldn't hear me telling him to come in because he was jamming out to Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent." I know that I'm not the only daughter to have a special relationship with their father. But I am pretty sure I am the only one who witnessed things like that. (Consider yourself lucky.) 

So, on a long drive last weekend, when I heard Sara Bareilles singing "Brave", it shouldn't have shocked me that it made tears start to stream down my face, because music was a way I bonded with my Dad. We sang in the car, we shared CDs, he took away my Beatles "Let it Be" album when I was a teenager because he said that I was the only person who could make someone else sick of The Beatles by playing it too frequently. But it still shocked me, that it hit me that hard. My initial response, when I feel suddenly sad about Dad is to turn the station, or avoid it. This time I didn't - I turned it up, I let the tears fall, and I listened carefully. 

My father never told me I was beautiful. He told me I was amazing. He told me I was intelligent. He told me I was strong. He told me that I could do anything I wanted to do. He told me to stand up for myself. He told me to never let anyone underestimate me. 

He didn't always say it in words as beautiful as Sara's, of course. Sometimes, when he was setting a broken nose in a dusty room attached to a softball field after a collision with a catcher, it came out in the form of "Here, put this washcloth in your mouth." For the record, if my father ever said this to you? I'm sorry. Because it usually meant he was going to hurt you and make you scream. All in the name of making you feel better. I had my nose set, cuts cleaned that he butterfly stitched back together, and dislocated body parts put back into place with a washcloth in my mouth. Before you cry child abuse, I would have much rather had my Dad superglue my wounds back together (this happened) and get back on a softball field than had to sit out a game and go to the hospital. It was my choice. And hey, I have less scars, and more stories than most people I know. So I think it's okay. These moments were always followed by a "I didn't feel a thing," and a snort from him. Yes, he did think he was funny. But he'd usually add in a "way to go" and "Thanks for not bleeding on me, TOO much." 

When I first went away to college I studied computer programming. I had little knowledge of it when I went into the program, which was full of mostly males (and all males by the time the courses ended) who were very educated on computer languages, and I felt out of my element. I wasn't used to being so lost in a classroom setting and I told him I wanted out, that I didn't think I could do it. 

Dad: You can do anything you want to do.
Me: Except learn how to code in C++. That's not happening.
Dad: Yes, you can do that. 
Me: You have no idea.
Dad: I know that we have raised you to do anything and everything you wanted to do. This is just one small step in your education and your life. And you can do this.
Me: I don't know.
Dad: Stop whining. Don't be a baby. 

See? The words weren't always as beautiful as Sara's. But they were always there. Both of my parents instilled in me a belief in myself and my hard work. There is no price tag that you can put on someone telling you that you can do anything you want to do. 

There is a void as large as the Grand Canyon when I think of all the things my Dad won't get to see me do. But in the last three months or so, I have learned that there's a new voice in my life - one that says: You can be amazing. You can do this. It also sometimes tells me "put on your big girl panties and deal with it." But it is always there. I know that's his voice, reminding me that life isn't always easy. But, in Sara's (slightly more eloquent) words: Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down by the enemy, fallen for the fear and done some disappearing. Bow down to the mighty, don't run, stop holding your tongue. ...show me how big your brave is.

Earlier this week I had to do a few things I wasn't ready to. Things that I knew would be hard. And that I would have been more than happy to forget and never think about again. But then I let myself flash back to Sunday, while I was driving in my car and listening to this song. And then all I could hear was my Dad saying: I just wanna see you be brave. So, I put on my big girl panties. Let your words be anything but empty. Why don't you tell them the truth? Say what you wanna say. And let the words fall out. And I did just that. And that little voice was right, it wasn't so bad. 

Sometimes, I feel like the last few months have been a constant "here, put this washcloth in your mouth" moment. And Dad's snorting somewhere saying "I didn't feel a thing, D-bug." I hope you didn't. But I hope I always have the chance to show you how big my brave is. And thank you for giving me that, too.