I'll Be There For You....

Today I had to make a stop after work. This required me driving a different way - the way I used to drive home from one of my dad's rehabilitation places, in fact.

I sometimes think about alternate times. I wish I could have actually passed  myself 18 months ago, and told past me to enjoy every second. I could have told her to not feel frustrated Dad was having troubles walking, but just relish in his being there - even when he woke me up at 2 am asking me to make him cheese plates. Or when he made me give him a remote so that, after falling asleep at 10 p.m., he could wake up at 10:55, right before the answer to the Criminal Minds episode was revealed...and turn the channel to an informercial. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy these moments. I lived for them, I told people about them, I loved them as if they were the best moments I had ever witnessed. Mainly because - they were. We had seen the "what ifs" and we were loving every moment of every extra second we had with Dad. But, we were waiting for...better times. We were trying to get through the rough patches, certain that one day things would possibly (hopefully) return to (at least MORE) normal.

Those moments never came. Not in the way we expected them, at least. And I felt sorry for myself, for a moment. I felt ashamed that 18 month ago Denise was driving home at the same time I was now, in the future. And past Denise was tired, she was crabby, and she was tired of driving back and forth to hospitals. She was doing it because better times awaited, though. And then it hit me. Today was the three quarters mark. My dad has been gone for 3/4 of a year. It seems like forever ago and just yesterday all at once.

I try not to count the days, the weeks, the months, the special moments. It seems sick, at times. So I had almost forgotten. Remembering suddenly as you're accelerating on the expressway ramp is probably not ideal. But there I was.

Ah, radio. This will help. I turn the 90s channel on, because - well I was born in the 80s. The 90s are my jams. And there's some Duran Duran. Asking me who do I need, who do I love, when I come undone. I'm undone all right. In the sense that I am about to cry to a Duran Duran song. 

As a child, I think we grow up, but we don't always grow out of our roles as children. My parents will, forever, be the people I need when I feel a bit undone. And, as I'm now merging into traffic, this is unfair. The person I need the most - the other half of the most comfortable place in the world - is gone. Being a glutton for punishment I listen to the rest of the song. And maybe curse my Dad a few times. Because it's clearly his fault he's gone. Right? Don't try to rationalize it. We all know it doesn't make sense.

The song ends. I attempt to change the channel when I hear "Yo, VIP, let's kick it." Right, Vanilla Ice. And now I do feel a few tears actually fall. But they're happy and ridiculous tears. Right before Dad's last surgery, he picked me up at my house and made me take him (Okay he drove, but he made me pay) to Dunkin Donuts, where he proceeded to turn up Vanilla Ice on the radio when we pulled up to the drive-thru. Here is a glimpse of his interaction with the nice - and patient - drive-thru lady.

"Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, can I help you?"
"Well, anything less would be a felony."
"Excuse me?"
"Turn off the lights and I glow."

He finally orders, the speaker lady says: "Please pull up."

"Word to your mother."

As we're waiting he's dancing...I am using the term loosely here, trust me, in his truck.

Me: I'm just going to preface all future interactions with people by saying "Sorry, he has a tumor."
Him: Hey, you gotta use it while you can.
Me: Using brain tumors? That's classy.
Him: Well, I rock the mic like a vandal.
Me: To the extreme?

I was less embarrassed at this Dunkin Donuts episode than I was at the idea that I was now driving down the highway shedding tears as Vanilla Ice whispers "too cold, too cold." at the end of his song.

I smile. I think well, I did say I needed my Dad when I come undone. So apparently my payoff came in the form of a Vanilla Ice song. I also start to think I should rethink pretty much my entire life.

The next song shoots right into The Rembrandts reminding me that they'll be there for me. Even when it hasn't been my day, my week, my month, or even my year. It's safe to say I have now decided this is divine intervention, my father is speaking to me via the XM Radio's 90s on 9 station. I likewise think it's also a safe bet that I am the textbook definition of what kids call a "hot mess".

I sniffle through a few choruses of "I'll be there for you," thinking that this is the worst of it. But that I must immediately change the channel when the song ends. I am seriously certain my father can now hand pick the songs from Heaven and that I must never relay any of this story to anyone for fear of being mocked, stoned, and probably put into public stocks. Or possibly locked away for a bit.

The song ends. Quick, change the channel. I flip just in time to hear Led Zepplin sneak in "I need to tell her she's the only one I really love." And now I have decided I am either in a bad Lifetime movie or I am being punked.

A few months before my Dad got his trach put in, I was alone with him on a Saturday at my parents' house. He was attempting to ignore me by listening to his iPod. As you can tell, music has always been a big deal around here. Not that my Dad (or I) can sing or even read music probably. But it's always been a pretty important part of our lives. He's in his hospital bed, earbuds in, and I catch him mumbling along quietly, "I wanna tell her that I love her so. I thrill her with every touch. I need to tell her she's the only one I really love." He stops, pulls one of the earbuds out of his ear, looks at me and says "I need to tell your mother that." He quickly puts the earbud back in and resumes ignoring me. I have no idea where that memory went. I didn't even recall it, until this moment in the car this evening. I don't even know if I ever even told my mother this story. (Sorry, Mom.) Life got hectic, every day was an uphill battle. And the little things sometimes slipped through the cracks. I believe this was one of those "things" ...but just like Dad they were not forgotten. Just tucked away for safe keeping. 

The moral of the story is that I suppose he'll always be there for me, when I come undone, when it hasn't been my day, my week, my month, or even my (3/4ths of a) year. Will it ever stop? Nah. Know why? Because anything less than the best is a felony. Now, check out the hook while DJ Dad revolves it, kids.