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.
