He Was an Inspiration to Many.

Facebook reminded me of this post, this morning: How Do You Measure a Year? Which reminded me that - holy crap, tomorrow is the 19th of December. Tomorrow is the day that my world stopped spinning. It's the day that made me realize that, surprisingly, the world keeps turning - even when we don't think it can or should.

Tomorrow will be four years since my Dad took his last breath. The last time I held his hand, but not the last picture I took with him. The selfie I mortified my sister by taking at his funeral with him can confirm that. The day they had to, literally, drag me away from my seat next to him in the emergency room. I was not comfortable leaving him alone. Or, looking at it now, I wasn't ready for him to leave me alone.

For all intents and purposes, tomorrow is just another day. Just like today is just another day. In fact, the strangest part is that - the thing that made my world stop turning for a brief moment is, more than likely, happening to someone else - right this very second. And I can't stop it for them. What I can do is hope that they, like me, have an amazing support system - filled with family, friends, and even people you don't know that well (but you will learn to know and love them). People who will help them realize that their world will continue. They'll have those daylights, sunsets, and cups of coffee. And there will always be love.

I took a moment to re-read my father's obituary, right now. Our obituary is another way we measure the life of a woman or a man. (You're really missing out on my "Rent" jokes if you haven't watched it, so - go read my blog link up there and school yourself.) It's words on a piece of paper - or posted online for those of you who are younger and don't know why we still have newspapers anyway. These words are meant to sum up who you are - who you were - and what you meant to people. How can we use these words to summarize someone who means so much to us?

It's mainly factual words we put in an obituary, right? My dad owned a fish store, he was a lifetime resident of Portage, he worked for all cancer survivors and sufferers, he inspired the Jim G Carpenter Foundation, he was married to my mother, he had two (pretty amazing, if you ask me) children, he took our team to the World Series (more than once, I may add), and he was an inspiration to many. 

Here's the thing: obituaries are just words on a screen or a folded newspaper you pick up off the break room table to read. But they're filled with facts, tidbits, and insights about who we are as people. And it's simply a fact that my father was an inspiration to many people. 

He was a father figure to many girls throughout the years, in his softball coaching. He mentored employees in his business. He helped create the Sarah Paulsen Park at the softball field in Portage, after her death. He inspired people with his fight against cancer. He spoke with people at his church. He raised funds for Relay for Life. During his life, he inspired so many people in so many different ways that you can't argue with the fact that this is the line that is most important, most factual, and most prominent in his obituary. 

His death prompted inspiration in people as well. He had lived his life to the fullest, every day. There weren't many wasted seconds for our family. My mother is still not good at sitting still and not accomplishing anything. Both of them inspired me to do something with my life. But there was a trigger that got pulled the second they disconnected the machine no longer reading a heartbeat from my father. I wanted to be able to have a line like this in my obituary. I wanted to be able to say that, in my life, I accomplished something that was so spectacular - those around me wouldn't be able to leave it out of those few words on a piece of paper announcing to the world that I had moved on to somewhere else. Hopefully somewhere I can watch you all from and giggle when you do something stupid. 

My dad's death was the catalyst to many changes in my life. I have never been quiet, or held my opinion. But I felt validated in expressing it in a way I couldn't explain, after his death. I felt like, no matter how much time I had left in my life, it needed to be spent fighting for things that are good. And enjoying every second of it. I changed my job, my outlook on life, the people I surrounded myself (there are those very few precious people who remained after, however, and I cherish every one of you).

It sounds silly, but the other day, thinking about how my father's date of death (that's a creepy phrase, eh?) inspired me to buy 8 cheeses at once. He had always loved a good cheese plate. And when he could no longer make them for himself - he would throw things at me to wake me up at 2 a.m. and request I get him some cheese and crackers. Don't forget the mustard, D-Bug. 

Standing in the cheese section, at the grocery store the other day, I knew we wanted to have cheese and crackers and fruit for dinner. But which ones? So many options. I wanted to try them all. So....I did. I purchased 8 strange kinds of cheeses. Because you know what? Life is short. It's meant to be enjoyed. I intended on trying two or three that night and saving the others for the next time we had a cheese and fruit night. But instead, I requested we open all of them and try all of them right then and there. I have no regrets. Well, except for the fact that I bought the edam cheese. It wasn't anything to write home about. But now I have no what ifs about that. So, I suppose it was worth it. 

The people around us, our experiences, they inspire us to be who we are. I won't deny that tomorrow will be hard. For me and my sister, and especially my mother. But it will also be a day that I remember what an inspiration my father was. A day I do something that will hopefully, one day (and not TOO soon), lead to a line in my obituary that makes someone stop, take notice, and change their life. 

Christmas is coming. And it's a hard time. I'd imagine it's my father's death that inspired us, as a family, to decide to go away for Christmas. We've never not been home, inside the same house that my father and  mother bought before me and my sister were even thought of, the house my sister and I both moved out of and left our parents alone in, the house he died in, the house he built onto (with a lot of help from my mom - don't let him fool you. It wasn't ALL him.) and it will be different. It will be strange. But it will be an adventure. And that's the other thing my father inspired me to do: not wait for the perfect moment. They're all perfect moments to make your own. And we never know how many we have left. So make the most of every single one of them.

Thanks for being an inspiration, Dad.

Choose Your Own Adventure

The other day, I had a discussion about how life was like a choose your own adventure book. I used to think, back when I was a young and carefree little lass - that you wrote your own story. The pen was in your hand, and you wrote it from start to finish. 

I was, of course, the main star of my story. Who else could play such a character? And everyone else was just a cameo I allowed them to have. That's how the world works, that's how  my life was going to shake out. 

As I got older, I encountered things like car accidents, suicides, bad choices, and I started to think maybe I wasn't completely in charge. Recent events have led me to believe that life is like a choose your own adventure, for sure. You think you're on one track and you have to make a choice and then life reminds you - you aren't totally in charge. 

You have choices, yes. But life is (at least partly) luck and chance. You can work hard, you can make up your mind to do what you want. But your exact timing for when you leave for work - it can determine your life or death. It can be the few minutes that spares you from a life altering accident. That's not you being the master of your own destiny. That's a little bit of luck. 

So what determines who has the good luck - who has a hand of 20 and is about to be dealt an ace? And which ones of us are holding a hand of 10? With no chance to even win? It isn't about who is good, it isn't about who is bad. It's a little bit of luck. 

Lately I have been reminded that I have not invited cancer to have a reoccurring and starring role in my life. But here it is. Over and over again. I'm pretty sure it has gone off script. That it's just ad-libbing at this point. But the audience seems to respond so well to it that it keeps getting invited back. 

It isn't fair. It isn't right. But some of the people I care about the most seem to be the ones who suffer from this Newman in the sitcom I call life. Most recently it's someone I have called a friend and considered one of my best friends for more than half my life. She's done everything right. She's a beautiful person. She's taken the right steps that they lay out for you: she's fallen in love, gotten married, had two beautiful children, been a wonderful wife, an adoring mother. She should be holding a hand of 20 and the rest of her life should be an ace. Instead she's been dealt this crappy hand. 

Selfishly, I'm so tired of dealing with this cancer shit. I'm so frustrated and angry at the idea that those around me have to deal with it. Whether it be because they know someone or they have been afflicted themselves. When she sent a message this weekend saying the cancer was in her spine - I was sad. I was upset. Wait, I was livid. When the message this morning said the cancer was in numerous bones - I almost called off work. I haven't used a sick day ....ever. Not once in my adult life. But I was sick. Because there's nothing you can do. You can't fight it for her. You can't throw money at it. You can't wish it away with prayers and well wishes. And you don't cure it just by posting on Facebook. Contrary to popular - like this picture of a kid with cancer or else memes. 

It's there. It's made itself the star of this chapter of her life. And I can't do a damn thing about it. Except say I understand how much it sucks to be involved in cancer taking over the starring role in your life story. You become an understudy, for the time being. 

She's been there through so many issues in my life. She was one of the first people I contacted when my dad's battle with cancer ended. So what now? She's part of the group I turn to the most when things are shit. You can't turn to her now. Well, you could. But guess what? That's shitty. You don't complain IN about issues. You complain out. She's always been my out. Now she's my in. You don't realize how important those people are to you until you want to reach out and say: man, fuck cancer. It's really being an asshole to my friend. Wait. That's you.

I scraped myself together. Went to work. Decided I was going to be an adult and I would figure out whatever it was I and those around me could do to help in any way. I refuse to let cancer be the star of this story. She's more deserving of that role than cancer can ever be. 

I went to an event for work and made it through that. On my way back to the office, I was feeling a bit numb. I silently wished my Dad was here to talk to her. My mom has been the person I turned to here. But my Dad - he would know what else to say to her. He's been there. In her exact position. Fighting this silent but tenacious disease. He'd have the perfect words. Also he would give me some bullshit line like: suck it up, buttercup - this isn't about you. Stop being a whiner. My mom's just been giving me hugs and trying to make me find a positive outlook. You may say one or the other is better. I prefer both. I like to have my cake and eat it too. 

I turned my radio up and the next song was this: 

And suddenly I had made my mind up. Cancer is the flashing lights. They can catch you up for a few minutes. But make your mind up, keep it moving or turn the lights out. I'm not ready to accept the darkness. 

That's when I witnessed one of the worst car accidents I have ever seen. When they say you can wrap your car around a tree - they aren't lying. That man choose his own adventure. Luck or bad choice to turn to page 8 instead of 14. And all you can do is make the choices you think are best for you. 

Suddenly I wasn't nearly as mad at cancer as I wanted to be. The fact that it's been such a prevalent force in my life since I was a child is why I live my life the way I do. People often are shocked when I say what's on my mind. People weren't entirely understanding when I changed my major when I was almost done with school. Many remark on how I live my life now - doing what I want. When I want. Experiencing all the things I can between the work weeks. That's my choose my own adventure. I choose to have adventure. To enjoy those moments before and even during the crappy hands. Because one day you're going to choose your own adventure and the book is going to end. And all you can hope for in between is a wild adventure. Without cancer showing me, as a small child, what it means to cut a life short - I don't know if I would be who I am. (Don't get me wrong. I hate cancer. And hope it chokes to death. But I suddenly stopped being angry. It doesn't even deserve that from me.) 

For now my life is filled with people I love. With friends who may have trials and tribulations but still keep their heads up. With family who has been through what no one should have to witness and remain a family unit full of dyFUNction. When my story ends, cancer will have been there. It may have had a reoccurring role I didn't write it. But it will be so overshadowed by the wonderful moments in between - that it doesn't even matter. 

And for what it's worth - I'm going to peek ahead on this choose my own adventure for my dearest friend. And I'm going to pick what's the best option and that's the one she's going to get. I'm going to write it. So it shall be. 

Love you Kate. Thank you for being a part of my beautiful story. I'll sneak you an ace as soon as I find one. <3 p="">

Before and After

When September 11th became a date to remember, I was still a teenager. I would turn twenty a few months later. 

I opened up at work. And was irritated when one of the mechanics in back came running up and said turn on the television. It's too early for tv, I remember thinking. My office was steps from the waiting room and television I had to listen to drone on all day every day. 

We stood, huddled, and gave theories on what had happened. It wasn't a terrorist attack yet. It was just a strange mishap. Some freak accident. And then boom. The second plane hit. And I can still recall thinking that was a shift in life as I knew it. I still wasn't sure what had happened. But I knew it was something. 

My college classes were cancelled. I spent the afternoon at work, helping fill cars with gasoline because the car business had no idea what was going to happen. I saw grown adults fighting and hitting each other (more than once) over gas and gas prices being raised as cars were filled. 

That night, I drove right by my house to my parents. I watched the never-ending news coverage with my dad for a few hours before going home and sitting on my porch with my roommate and her boyfriend. We remarked at how quiet it was with no planes whizzing by over our tiny little home. We had a drink or two, smoked a couple cigarettes, and figured we were headed to war. Against who - we had no idea yet. But we hadn't even had to worry about it before then. 

My life had been pretty trauma free. And I remember that night, my dad hugged me as I left and apologized. He said he was hoping for a life where I never had to recall "where I was". For them, he said, it was JFK being shot. And he told me then that this would be my moment. The moment everyone said: hey remember where you were when this tragic moment occurred. He told me that life would be a before this moment and after this moment from now on. 

I don't know if I believed him fully. And I wasn't sure why he was apologizing to me. But he was right. There are two moments I think of as "before and after" life changing moments. 9/11 and the day my dad died. He didn't prepare me for either one of these. 

But he did give me a good foundation of how to live my life to the fullest. How to never let the bad overshadow the good. How to find and be one of the people who helped make the world a better way in any capacity I could. And he left me with a mom and sister to help me get through the other life changing moment. So I guess he can stop apologizing for the first event. 

The second one - he still owes me for. 

You Have to Love Her - And Then You'll Love Those She Loves

Anyone who is an older sibling can tell you that younger siblings are annoying. They touch your things, they ask all the questions, and - if you're like me, an only child for almost 10 years before a sibling came along - they take part of the attention you're used to having all of off you.

I never wanted a younger sibling. And I certainly did not want a little sister. I had asked for an older brother for years. Even with my parents informing me that this is not, in fact, how it works.

And then there she was - a little sister. I was told I didn't have to like her but I HAD to love her. It was a family rule. I moved out when she was only 7, and we didn't have things in common. But I always loved her. And, truth be told, I learned to even like her. Even when she broke my things, picked the paint off the bedroom door we shared, and invited herself to all the things I did with my friends as a teenager. And, to be fair, she picked the paint off the door because I put a childproof door handle on….to the room she shared with me.

My parents both came from families with numerous siblings. And they assured me I would learn that my sister was not only my sibling but my friend. So they prepared me for that.

They did not tell me I would end up taking her friends places. That they would have sleepovers at my house on New Year's Eve. They never mentioned that I would forever run into people who would say: are you Emily's sister?! And they definitely didn't prepare me to care for not only her but for those who she cared for.

Even when I didn't live at home with her, I came to see my family. I watched her friends come in and out of the house. I saw them grow up from awkward preteens into even more awkward teenagers. I showed some of them, when our parents were out of town, that using cardboard wasn't the most effective way to slide down the stairs inside - let's try a laundry basket. And please don't tell your parents. I said things like: stop playing with fire. Do you really think you should be shoving that many marshmallows into your mouth at once? If you need a ride after drinking, call me. And also don't tell your parents I said that, either.

I watched so many kids not related to me come in and out of our house. I saw them grow into actual humans. I was proud when they graduated. We became MySpace friends, Facebook friends - and some of them just plain actual friends.

I never imagined that the pain they felt would make my heart ache. I don't have children. I don't want to have children. I don't have any desire to know what it's like to have my heart run around outside my body. I don't want the responsibility of another human being. I have a cat and a dog because you can put them in a cage and no one calls CPS. I have a lot of fish because when you screw up with them? You just flush them and get another. None of these practices are acceptable with children. So I didn't think I had it in me to care so much for these little kids, as they may always be to me. But I do.

This weekend, so many of them have suffered a loss. Of one of their one. One we watched grow up. One I spoke to as a friend, even recently. Watching my Facebook feed light up with posts to his page has made me happy, to see how cared for he was. And sad to see the impact he had on their lives and how heart broken they are. It's also surprised me. To see how many of them mean so much to me and to my family. And see how easily they weaseled their way into a spot in my heart.

I've been where you all are. At a loss. Without the right words. With an ache you can't touch. The loss of one I had to say stop playing with fire to hurts me, makes my heart throb a reminiscent tune I hate knowing. But knowing they're all hurting as well makes the tune go from mono to stereo in a way I didn't know possible.

I know you don't think you'll ever be the same after your loss, little friends. And you won't. But you'll live. You'll learn. And you'll grow from this - you'll grow in your adulthood. And you'll grow even closer as you all help each other through this. And I love each and every one of you in a way I didn't know possible. Even those of you who are still annoying. And those of you who still need a reminder to not play with fire - you know who you are.

Thinking of you all,
The big sister you didn't need. Or want. But got stuck with.

So, It's Father's Day, You Say?

It's Father's Day. If you didn't know this, where have you been hanging out? And can I maybe accompany you there next year? Because it means you haven't checked your email, been on Amazon, looked at Facebook, or kept any civilized company for weeks. 

I've been reminded to buy my father a gift for what feels like months now. Spoiler alert, I didn't. I'm a real louse. 

I played ALL THE SPORTS as a kid. And my dad enjoyed watching them. For the most part. I don't think he was really keen on soccer. But he did enjoy the part where teenage girls acted like total douche canoes and knocked each other down, I imagine. Any sport where girls were proving they played just as tough, if not tougher, than the boys was his kind of sport watching. He reveled in the moments someone who wasn't well versed in competitive softball showed up to watch a game, only to witness a first basemen stand her ground and put a runner on their ass, or (even when it was his own kid) those covering home for a passed ball situations where the pitcher ate dirt and everyone waited for the dust to settle to see if her barely moving body also had control of the ball. Full contact softball, he would call it. And there was no crying in softball, either. He was never prouder than the times I'd end up with a cut that needed stitches that he would butterfly tape up between innings and watch me go back out to the pitching mound. He was a real twisted man, that dad of mine. 

Let's take a moment and enjoy this picture of him in all his glory (and I'm not just talking about the glorious mustache) with his prized all-start team that won ALL THE THINGS that year. 

He told me, when I decided to play golf in high school, that he would never come watch me play. What a dumb sport, he would remind me frequently. You hit a little white ball. You chase after it. You hit it away from yourself again. It's like you're playing fetch. Without the dog even bringing it back to you. I will never watch you play. 

He wasn't lying. He never showed up to my high school matches. Which was good. Because I gather he liked watching most of my sporting because I was rather good at most of it. And in high school - I was far from the star golfer. But the sport stuck with me. Or, I stuck with it. Major props to my one armed neighbor who taught me how to chip and putt. I still have a weird approach. But it has all come together. The solitude of the game ended up being one of my favorite parts of it. I'd never been involved with a sport where I wasn't somehow responsible for everyone's winning or losing. (Being a pitcher is stressful. There is no doubt about it.) That's also been my downfall. I learned to love and perfect my game alone. And I still have to make golf partners turn around for the first few tee offs. I get performance anxiety when I'm not golfing alone. 

Over the years I've gotten better. I can keep up. I'm not going to hold up a decent golfer. And I have to admit, there are even days I say: hey, look. I'm not so bad at this. If only my golf coach from high school could see me now and realize 20 years later, I'm free of my softball swing. Finally. But I'll still make you turn around if you want to golf with me, for the first round or two. 

I intended on taking my dad's miniature urn with me today, and forcing him to go golfing with me. Instead, we ended up in Chicago with my extended family. A trip through my great uncle's land of memories of growing up in Wrigleyville postponed my afternoon golf plans. I have to wonder if there wasn't some divine intervention happening there. Baseball. No golf. Delicious food we stuffed our faces with. And some spattering of memories of my dad when they ate a Chicago dog covered in that radioactive relish, as my dad called it. 

He would have enjoyed this day. And it's a good lesson for me to learn. Not everything works out how we want it to. My day was nothing like I had planned or hoped for. And sometimes, that's okay. Sometimes (like today) it's even better than okay. The company was good. The memories of my dad - and today - will go on. And somehow, that jerk weaseled his way out of a round of golf. Again. 

This can't last forever. Next year. I will be the victor. And I'm going to make him chase them all with me. There's no way out, Pops. Better work on your caddying skills. Because we're going to hit the ball. Then we are going to chase the ball. I'll try not to dump you out of the golf cart. But those things can be tricky, you know. 

Sorry I didn't buy you a pressure washer this year. As I did every other year. (Who am I kidding? My mom did it, I got all the glory, and a picture that looks just like this every year. I bet she hated us. Faking these surprised faces. Every year. Since he said: get me a new pressure washer. EVERY SINGLE YEAR. And she did it. And EVERY SINGLE YEAR we made this dumb face. Thank God I had a dad who played along and a mom who captured all the moments and let me steal the glory for the presents I couldn't afford but took all the credit for.) 

Thanks for being a hole in one type of dad. Even if you're only claiming the grand slam part of your dad skills. And don't worry, we won't chase a little white ball when I make you go golfing next year. It will be pink. 

Like a Record, Baby.

A letter to everyone I know. And even those I don't,

Today has been long. Today has been tough. By mainly for a lot of people around me.

This morning, the cat somehow opened the back door herself. While I was getting in the shower. So. No clothes, no shoes, no socks. One foot in the shower. Home all alone. Hear the back door shut. Peek around the corner down the hallway and see the cat staring at me. From the other side of the door.

As I scrambled for the closest clothes I could throw on, sans shoes and socks I started cursing the cat. Monday morning. So good to see you, frenemy. No one else here, busy day coming up at work. And here I am. Outside. In case anyone was wondering - the ground was still semi-frozen. And the back deck at my house is full of squishy and thick mud - it's heavy. And serves as a small shield for the thorny remains of flowers, particularly rose bushes.

My feet were sunk into the mud, my fuse was at its end. And the cat was wavering from side to side under the deck I'm too tall to crawl under. Ironic, isn't it? The one thing I'm too tall for. And it hit me - the world keeps spinning. Mine was spinning out of control at the moment. But, it was spinning.

Earlier in the morning I had seen the update that an old friend's mother had passed away. A coworker I would call a great friend was going to be absent today because she was still handling things from her mother's unexpected passing a week and a day before. Saturday evening, I had run into a coworker who alerted me another beloved coworker's son had died suddenly over the weekend.

And here I was, chasing a cat and cursing at how late I was going to be for the day.

The cat was safe, the running shower received an occupant, finally, and I was on my way to work. Still marveling at how some of the people I care about the most were dealing with life changing and hard moments: the one year anniversary of a parent's passing or a hospital stay for an infection while battling cancer.

And here I was deciding if I wanted to stop for a coffee or a Diet Coke before I hit the office. Where, undoubtedly, there would be confused and sad people at the absence of at least two coworker's for the day. And probably for the week while they handled their affairs.

Sometimes it's incredible that the world keeps turning. Sometimes it's beautiful. If my world had stopped, the way I thought it would when my father died - I would have missed out on the last year of my life. The last year of my life has been pretty amazing, even with his absence. Sometimes it's so good, I feel sadder. Because he's not here to see my accomplishments and share in my happiness. And mainly because he has missed another year of my amazing (and inappropriate jokes. As a warning, if both your parents are dead I will, in fact, tell you at some point "know who else doesn't have parents? Batman. And he's awesome. You'll be fine. And probably need to get a bigger belt.").

If the world stopped every time something bad happened? We would still have dinosaurs. Wait. We'd still have dinosaurs. I could really use an attack raptor. Can we rewind? But then we would miss out on all the good upcoming good moments. The nights spent doing nothing in the company of someone good, the emails sent back and forth between a group of friends, the quick but moving conversations with favored coworker's, the coffees shared with friends, the surprise texts reminding you of a shared memory. All of these things are waiting ahead. Even when the world feels like it shouldn't even be spinning.

Just know. If I know you, and today has been tough for you? I've thought of you. I've sent good wishes. I've made a batch of cookies, to share, but also because when I'm sad or unsure of what else to do - I bake. And I've wondered at how the world keeps spinning when your life isn't just right. And then I made the decision to get the coffee instead of the Diet Coke.

With love,
Denise

This is Us is All of Us.

I'm not sure how many of you are watching This is Us. I'm also unsure if I should recommend it or not to anyone who is living with the reality of cancer, or the mortality of someone they love in the near future. There's something disturbing about watching your own fears play out on the television, with actors who you've never met - finding common ground with someone who isn't even real is comforting and terrifying all at once.

Today, I watched Randall live the nightmare that I had over and over again when my dad was sick. He walked into a dark room, he reached out to shake his father's shoulder at the piano bench. And he was dead. As the man slumped foward towards the keys of the piano, I felt myself jump and heard the gasp leave my mouth. He woke with a startle, from what we learn was a nightmare. And I breathed a sigh of relief. For this character I will never meet. And it all came back in a flash.



When my dad was at home, in a hospital bed in the living room of the house he built for his family, I slept on a couch. Then a futon. And when we realized it was going to continue for longer than we anticipated, I moved myself in. And my mother moved a day bed into the corner of their family room for me. I slept at night downstairs with him. And my worst fear was always that I would wake up in the morning to my mother coming downstairs and find my father dead. He would have died on my watch. I remember waking up with a start many nights, unable to hear his steady breathing, and making my way to his hospital bed that was stationed in front of the beautiful brick and tile fireplace he built with his own hands and watching for the rise and fall of his chest. For over a year, I can recall not taking my glasses off as I slept - for fear I would have to jump up at a moment's notice and not being able to see.

When parents point out how hard it is to not sleep, I relate. When they say you have no idea of what responsibility is until you're responsible for another human life - I know it even more than they can imagine.

I prayed. I bargained. I wished. I hoped. Everything and anything you can do. Any god you can pray to. I implored them to not let me be alone and have to worry about a dead father. It's funny. I had forgotten all about that. And how angry I was when people talked about my father's end of life. Until I watched this man. Someone who isn't real. Someone whose life will probably never actually mirror mine yelled at a therapist "should we just dig the hole now or wait until there is an actual body?!"

So I'm still unsure if I should suggest to people who have been or will be in my position that they watch This is Us. But I can say they're dealing with an actual real life situation in a very real way. I always scoffed at and mock the hospital shows - their ventilators are always wrong. The way people react is never real enough. And then here's this random show. With Randall. And the way he feels anger, has fear, clings to his job as the stable and solid part of his life. It's all so real, that all of "us" - those in that club that has the highest of dues - is, in fact, This is Us.

No Peas, Please.

There are times that the words flow from my fingertips. These are the days I feel like I love writing, days I feel like I have to write or the words will swallow me whole. And then there are days when I want to write, when I feel like I need to write. And it's so hard. Today is one of these days. So was yesterday. And I know it's because this one is hard. Harder than some of the others.

Death is never easy. People make you feel like when they're older, when they've been sick, when they aren't children - it's easier. They've lived a full life. That's not true. It's still hard. It's still the thing that splits you open, with a canyon bigger than the great one settling into your heart. This one seems even harder.

I don't know why. Is it because Lyndsie was young? Only 32. Was it because we grew up together, basically? Could it be because she has a beautiful little almost three year old? Perhaps it's because her smile could, since she was a child, light up a room - it was infectious. Maybe it has something to do with the season. "Dead Dad" day was just a few days ago. This time is rough for all of us. Or maybe it's just because it isn't fair.

Life isn't fair. And death is even less so. It doesn't discriminate. It doesn't take into account how much you're loved, the sense of loss that the world will feel without you. It has no care about how your little girl will grow up without knowing her mother, but certainly will hear about how much she is the spitting image her. Death could care less than you die the day after Christmas. As far as death is concerned, it did you a favor by giving you that last holiday. And maybe it did. Family gathers, friends are there. Does that make it easier? Does anything make death easier?

We try to kid ourselves, tell ourselves that it's in God's plan. That God knows what he's doing. Maybe that's right. Perhaps we are all just not privy to his plan. To that I have a little something I would like to say:

Author's Note: Today is five or six days since I wrote this and stopped. I've tried to pick it back up a few times. But it's been the hardest thing I have tried to do in months. And you guys know me, always doing something stupid - so for this to be the hardest thing. You have to know how tough it's been. 

I've been watching the posts come across my Facebook newsfeed. Reading stories about how many lives she touched in her short years, and seeing her million dollar smile over and over again. And I figured - today is the day. New year and all. Finish it. And since the last thing Lyndsie ever said to me was this: 

I feel I have to somewhat live up to this expectation. Humor has always been easy for me. In the darkest of situations, I make terrible jokes. The day before Lyndsie passed away, we received news that George Michael had died. Immediately I blurted out: Do you think someone woke him up before he went went? 

I'd say it's a real gift. But it's also probably a curse - mainly for those around me. My life has never been charmed, it hasn't been perfect - but it's always been full of laughter. Even and especially in the moments where others struggle to find any positivity. And always in those seconds where you shouldn't make a joke - there I am. Always. These last few days have still been filled with jokes and laughter. 

Some of Lyndsie's family came over the day she died and we shared some funny stories. We laughed together, there were tears shed that day, as well. So it isn't as if I haven't found humor. But sitting down and writing this makes it feel so final. More final than knowing her services were over last night. More set in stone than the phone call I received that morning. Or the post I saw on Facebook that sent me scrambling to find where my mother was so I could let her know.

I made a resolution to myself that this year  (amongst other things like reading more and learning to love the life I live even further) I would write more. Maybe here, but always somewhere. At least once a week. And this seems like a fitting way to begin that resolution to myself. With my first little sister, as she says. 

Lyndsie and her family moved away when we were younger, but they always still felt like family. Once, she came back to visit and stayed with us. I can still remember her, sitting on the top bunk bed in my room. Swinging her feet. Probably with that notorious smile plastered on her face. I can't even tell you what happened next. But it resulted in her grabbing the framed picture off the wall and it ripping. She probably fell, to be honest. But being in big sister mode, all I can remember is thinking: that little brat just ripped my collector's edition-very expensive-very amazing-verypriceless picture of George Harrison. Who just so happened to have been my favorite Beatle. My mother sat me down and explained to me that no we can't have a formal trial. No, we aren't going to put her in "the hole". And absolutely not, you can't make her sleep outside in a tent for the remainder of her visit. 

I forgave her. As you do little sisters. And I still laugh about it. But it did teach me a very valuable lesson, honestly. About accidents. About forgiveness. About how littler sisters will touch everything and break all your things. And you can't return them, because there is no gift receipt with a little sister. My blood sister should thank Lyndsie for training me so well. Because it probably saved her from being put on the Internet in later years. Sister for sale: will pay you to take her. 

I will, however, let you know that during that same visit, when my father made Lyndsie eat green peas and she cried and told him how he was the meanest man alive and how this was torture: I didn't stop him. I didn't speak up for her. I ate my green peas (that I detested) with a smirk. And that's when she also taught me about karma and about silent revenge. Also very important for a big sister. 

In true Jim Carpenter fashion, that year for Christmas he wrapped up a can of green peas and sent them to her as if they were a present. Consider that my next lesson she taught me: how to laugh at someone else's pain. Seriously though, green peas are the worst. But that did not stop me from posting this to Lyndsie's page when they sent her home from the hospital a few days before her departure from our Earth. 

Lesson there: a good joke never dies. And memories live forever. They make us laugh, they can make us cry. But they can also remind us just how much we loved and still do care for someone. Even when they're miles away. Even when there are years between visits. 

Lyndsie passed away the same day of my Dad's service. And I can only imagine he was there, greeting her with a smile, open arms, and a plate full of peas. And reminding her to eat her vegetables. With any luck, in Heaven, you don't have to do what men with giant mustaches tell you to do. 

I feel at peace to know that someone was there who knows Lyndsie the way I do there to help her along the way. I feel a sense of happiness that the last thing she probably ever read from me was "love you!"

When Lyndsie's battle got tough (not that it all isn't) a few months ago - my family sent a card a day for a month. Just a little reminder someone was thinking of her. We sent a few shirts with my Dad's face on it. I regret I did not send a can of peas in time. But a few weeks before her passing, my mom found "worry stones" with the patron saint of cancer on them (who the hell decided that cancer needed a saint, by the way? It's way more a fallen angel moment, if you ask me). We signed a card, she tucked one for Brenda and one for Lyndsie into a card and sent it out. To the same address we had sent over 30 cards in the last few months. This weekend, it was returned in the mail. One stone missing, a tiny tear in one side of the envelope and a sticker saying: no such street. We double checked the address. It was correct. I like to think that some how, some way, Lyndsie got her stone - one way or another. And that she passed know how cared for, how loved, how cherished she was in her short time we got to have her with us on this planet.

I hope she knows that the final lesson she showed her "big sister" was how to be strong, resilient, graceful, and full of fight.  

And I hope she knows I have to make one more bad joke: George Michael wasn't kidding when he said he wasn't planning on going solo, kid. He took you with the next day. WHAM! Just like that. 

And with that, I bid you goodnight. Tip your waitress, try the veal. And make sure you all finish your veggies. Dad's watching.