Never Lose Your Spark

The world has been spinning with the news of Robin Williams passing for a few days now. I know there are other and even bigger things in the world that we can and should worry about. But this one hits many close to home. 

I don't apologize for being moved by his death. Robin Williams was one of those people who a lot of us grew up loving and laughing with (and sometimes at, let's be serious). He provided us an outlet. He gave us an escape. It wasn't just a laugh he bestowed upon us - but a reprieve from whatever may have been bothering us. And on good days - he only served to make us laugh more and enjoy life. 

I remember watching Mork and Mindy with my father. He loved Robin Williams. But he also loved to laugh, and to make other people laugh. My dad was always full of jokes. He made everyone around him smile and probably cringe, at times. He wasn't always politically correct. But then again, neither was Robin (I imagine that's part of what Dad always loved about him): 

There's something so hard about facing your own mortality when someone else dies. Sometimes it's a relative, sometimes it's a celebrity. But it's hard to recognize that you, too, will die one day. That one day people will be gathered around your casket. And in Dad's case? They'll take selfies with you, even then. I'll spare you guys that visual. ...this time. I will, however, show you a picture of Dad modeling for a cancer survivor catwalk show. Check out that pose. 

 But there's something extra hard about realizing that someone you cared about took their own life. I've seen a lot of interesting debate about suicide being selfish or being something you can't help often, due to things like depression. I've seen both those sides attack each other. With statements about how careless and selfish some are while others are trying to explain how callous it is for people to not understand mental anguish and depression. While I won't get into the debate on that - I will say that both sides have something to say that are important. They're both human reactions. And that's what death brings about for so many people - the raw emotions of being human. While I've never suffered from depression and can't relate - I don't know many people who have been on the "receiving" end of a suicide. I have. I know what it's like to be left with the "what ifs" and the "should I have known" issues. I know what it's like to spend years trying to justify that you did what you could and that's all you can do. So I see it from that angle and I know how hard this must be for his family. I may never reach them, but as someone who is 10 years out from the death of someone I cared for that made me question my own actions? You did all you could. You cared. You loved. And sometimes that's just not enough. Sometimes the demons win. But that doesn't make your efforts any less valiant or valid. 

Robin's daughter Zelda, released a statement that was full of such wonderful words. I want to share with you then part that hit me the most: Dad was, is and always will be one of the kindest, most generous, gentlest souls I’ve ever known, and while there are few things I know for certain right now, one of them is that not just my world, but the entire world is forever a little darker, less colorful and less full of laughter in his absence. We’ll just have to work twice as hard to fill it back up again. 

My Dad wasn't a celebrity. He wasn't a millionaire. But he was the brightness in my world. And many of those around us. I know how dark and less full of laughter the world can be when we lose someone we care so deeply for. Perhaps it's the connection of having watched Robin Williams with my father so many times. Or maybe it's just the world lost another funny man. Mine wasn't famous. But he was as important to me as Robin's family must feel he was to them.

I know that, even my father's darkest times, before he passed away - he never lost what made him "him". I'm sure my mother will kill me for telling this story. So let's hope she doesn't check this blog anytime soon. But my father passed away right before Christmas. Near Thanksgiving he hadn't been feeling well and hadn't spoken much. A few days before the holiday, while I was at work, my mother called and put my dad on speaker phone. She then asked him to retell the story. I'll make it brief.
Mom: What do you want for Thanksgiving?
Dad: A blowjob.
Mom: Don't say that in front of your daughters. How about turkey? Does turkey sound good?
Dad: It doesn't sound like a blowjob. 



That's the "spark" he never lost, that's for sure. And he provided us with love and laughter until the moment he left us. 

There aren't many words that can take away the sting of losing someone that you loved. And like Zelda pointed out, we'll have to work twice as hard to fill the darkness full of light, color, and laughter. But I think both our dads would want it that way. 

Until then?