tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32906185299820414082024-03-06T12:02:27.479-08:00Tumor HumorAfter an 8+ year battle with cancer, my Dad passed away in December 2013. Here are some of the ways we always kept our sense of humor. And a way to honor his spot-on humor. Tumor Humor. Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-59546954964432316982021-12-18T13:17:00.002-08:002021-12-18T13:17:36.865-08:00Tomorrow<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1A5CHbtpVCdlwac3cgfid2SfF4IFxJKgEivvpZu0o_7TrBD2HWlj--yWFBtP4WBfvN54_1STqSJsZR_-t3TWPYy8YxO3RFZBRlS1OoOy_B2mTCKcqjEvqB3yt8KfhlguhWD6aPTWmr1h4HJVWEcSrDs7kCLrOQMmoi4Njx2QrzB2axbmFQXD22WU5=s639" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="639" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1A5CHbtpVCdlwac3cgfid2SfF4IFxJKgEivvpZu0o_7TrBD2HWlj--yWFBtP4WBfvN54_1STqSJsZR_-t3TWPYy8YxO3RFZBRlS1OoOy_B2mTCKcqjEvqB3yt8KfhlguhWD6aPTWmr1h4HJVWEcSrDs7kCLrOQMmoi4Njx2QrzB2axbmFQXD22WU5=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span></p>T</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px;">omorrow we will, once again, hit the anniversary of the day my dad died.</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px;"> </span><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">It’s funny. Because we always say tomorrow isn’t promised, which is true. But the anniversaries that come up, when you’ve lost someone you care for - they seem to be promised. They lurk in the shadows, and loom over things like graduations, birthdays, and common every day actions like running out of milk. They seem to be promised. Even though tomorrow isn’t. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Every year I try to do something that reminds me of all the happy memories of my dad: we have done random acts of kindness, donated our time to organizations, shared his memories with others. Tomorrow we have plans to go look at the Christmas lights. Undoubtedly, other people will see how beautiful they are and be excited about Christmas. I will, as well. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">But, it will also remind me of the time he sent my high school boyfriend up the ladder to help him string lights, the boyfriend who was only invited because I was late getting home the night before and he called when I should have been home. It’s funny how my punishment was also his. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Kids, pay attention - you used to have to call and talk to someone’s parents to reach them. It was a wild and terrifying time for us. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">But, I suppose it led me to one of my favorite Christmas memories. My dad, with is chest puffed out, arm straight in front of his body to shake this poor boy’s hand and a voice that seemed like an impersonation of Barry Manilow leaving his lips, “I’m Jim Carpenter.” </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">If we had emojis then, you wound have gotten a puzzled monocle wearing one from me, as I said “uh, that’s not your real voice.” Out. Loud. ….I’m pretty sure I can feel his death stare still, all this years later. Which, I suppose is a double joke. Since he’s, you know, actual dead now. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">The holidays are approaching, quickly. But first, every year, we have to get past the day he died. And usually I feel like I do that with as much grace and dignity as is possible. Sprinkled with a few “tasteful” jokes, of course. Today, however, I stumbled across a post about a little girl with cancer who died yesterday. Something made me hit the page that had been created for updates. And I got lost in it. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I watched as she, going from present day back through the posts, transformed back from a swollen bed-bound girl back into who she was in July of 2020. Before the cancer. I read their struggles with the steroids, as all brain tumor patients know all too well. I saw their family photos around her hospital bed in the living room. I watched videos of the wet rattling gasps these patients make when they have to give all their effort just to tell us what they want to eat. She wanted mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving. Which is different than the last Thanksgiving my dad had when he asked my mother for some inedible things for dinner instead. But she seemed like a sweet girl. Jim was neither of those things. But we hung on his every word, anyway. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">And I wept. Alone on the couch, I cried. For that family. For our family. For the anniversary looming over our head. I remembered how I hated taking pictures of my Dad then, because I didn’t want people to comment on how bad he looked when, us, he was having one of his better days. I watched this mother have to defend that same action. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To read comments about how sugar isn’t good to feed this poor girl who wanted ice cream. And my soul felt it. I gave that man squeeze cheese on crackers whenever he asked for it. Because he was asking for and able to eat food. I celebrated their family’s victory from months ago when they got her to drink an entire 16 ozs of Gatorade in a sitting. And I silently cheered, because I know what a feat that was. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Watching their videos, I remembered the deep chest rattles of someone who needed their lungs suctioned. I can vividly recall the triumph it felt to get someone to the dinner table, even for a couple of bites. The fear you felt when their heart rate went up…or down. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I felt every single step of their journey in a way that made me heartbroken for them and for me, all at once. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">They tell you it gets easier, as the years pass. And, for some, I think that may be true. I think, instead, it just gets different. I’m far enough removed now to be able to process what it was like to do CPR on my dad, who I knew was dead. Even two years ago, it was still a flash of a memory. Now I can feel it. I’m not longer just watching it, when I recall it; I am an active participant. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">And now it’s been almost 8 years since I have heard him call me D-Bug or had him demand I make him homemade mustard with onion bits. It’s been even longer since he stood at my front door, with his earbuds in, jamming to Gwen Stefani or Kelly Clarkson so loud he couldn’t hear me yell at him to come in. And made me stomp to the door, and fling it open, only to hear him singing “this shit is bananas. B A N A N A S.” </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I was meant to be wrapping presents and preparing for a fun evening tonight. Instead, I found myself digging through the file cabinet in my brain for happy memories. Remembering how he taped every single moment of every single holiday. That tripod was a staple in our house. I’m remembering how, after a bad encounter with a boy at college, he gave me the best advice ever. “If you haven’t slept with a boy and he says you have, tell him you’re going to tell everyone his penis is small. He’ll retract. Men want to be seen as a liar before they want people to think they have a teenie weenie, D-Bug.”</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">As you can see we weren’t the Cleavers, and we weren’t always philosophical thinkers. But, well - first of all he was right about that boy. And second, we were happy and we were who we were. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Which leads me to my final points. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Grief is hard. It’s harder at the holidays. And it’s especially hard, from my perspective, for people who lose their loved ones at the holidays. Be patient and be kind to each other. Because I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have someone to miss. Don’t make them decide between being happy and with you or being sad and alone. There’s room for it all. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">And finally, all you can do is be who you are. Feel your feelings, and let them out so you can make room for the happy ones. Remember the scary and the sad. But also remember how you always felt like your dad loved you the best and that’s why he left the back of the tree for you to do alone. (I figured it out…later.) and if all else fails: teenie weenie, my friends. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 20.3px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Be good to each other. We all need it. Merry Christmas. </span></p>Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-39100066870499181572019-01-25T19:23:00.001-08:002019-01-25T19:23:38.655-08:00You’re Not A Mouser, Either. <div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">My cat wasn’t exactly an “earn your keep” kind of feline. She didn’t do windows or laundry. And she certainly wasn’t ever on time with her half of the rent every month. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">But she was my cat. I didn’t own her, as you never really own a cat. They own you, as any car lover will be able to attest to. In so many ways. You’re their timed feeder. Their back scratcher. The thing they scratch. They remind you that you are, in essence, their puny human servant as often as possible. But she was still mine. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Nissa saw me through college, breakups, makeups .....and learning how to actually use real makeup. She was there for my highest achievements and my lowest moments over the course of the 18+ years she lived with me. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">She’s seen me cry, been woken up (and annoyed) by my laughs, and definitely had to see me dancing in my underwear as I got ready for the day. Sorry, kitty. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Her constant companionship was all I could have ever asked for. When I had a house fire in my early 20s, I left that place with the few items they could save: a laptop, my camera, and Nissa. We started over alone. And I remember thinking how much emptier that new place would have been if I hadn’t had her to come home to. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Before the fire, she was more independent. After, she started sleeping next to me in bed on the other pillow. We always joked it was for her benefit. But, knowing her, it was actually for my sake. She knew I needed her. And even though that’s not the kind of cat she was - it was the kind of cat she became. For me. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">When I got Nissa it was because she was being abused by my best friend’s coworker’s husband. She left. Took her kids. Took the animals and didn’t know what to do. He made a snap judgement that I can never repay him for and brought her to me. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">She hated me. She hated the dog that lived there. She hated touching the ground. She was a pioneer in the “the floor is lava” game. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">The first six months of our relationship she lived on top of the dryer in my laundry room. I’ll never forget the first time she wandered into the living room and we all stopped and stared. She sauntered in like she owned the place. And that’s all she wrote. She was free. Finally felt safe. And decided picking on the dog was her favorite pastime. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">She ended up sick, about ten years ago and my dad met me at the vet. While they ran tests my dad attempted to comfort me. Until the vet told me it would take close to $1,000 to do an exploratory surgery to see if they could fix her. Then he said “eh, she’s not even a mouser. You should just put her down.” ....that wasn’t even an option the vet gave us. Just some unsolicited Dad advice. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Joke’s on Dad though. She even outlived him. Sucker. Told you. She’s a tough cookie. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">She never became a mouser. But she did become the toughest cookie and best friend a girl could ask for. She lived for long enough to have been able to vote if she was human. And she probably would have made better choices than some of you did. She baffled the vets when she grew a weird lip growth and they sent us home 3 years ago with a shrug and a “just keep an eye on it.” And she just kept on going. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">The last few weeks she suddenly slowed down. She got thin. She was tired. She had trouble jumping up as easily. And in the last week or so, it became a round the clock job to watch her, care for her, and make decisions for her. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">To her credit, until the last night she could let you know she wanted something and she would wobble her way around. And she never seemed to experience pain or misery. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">We set her up a little studio apartment in the bathroom for when we weren’t there. Food, bathroom, water, warm heat vent. She was basically a Jefferson. She felt like she had moved on up. To the bathroom side. To a deluxe cat condo. In the hall. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Yesterday, as I drove home to her from work I suddenly lost my shit in the car. I knew she could be gone when I got home. But that wasn’t even why I was so anxious. It was because - strangely enough - the last week to week and a half had been hard with the cat. But it also had teleported me back to a few years ago with my dad. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">How could a cat make me grieve my dead father? And how could it make me grieve for the moments I should have, but couldn’t grieve, when he was alive? </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">The similarities are where it starts. My dad got thin. My cat was suddenly a breathing skeleton, it seemed. You wrestled with the idea if you were doing the right thing. You weigh out quality of life. You don’t sleep. You watch breaths. You celebrate the small bites of food they take. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I hadn’t realized, until then, how being so busy and consumed by getting though the next moment with my dad hadn’t left me time to grieve what was happening. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Being someone’s caretaker is hard and usually undervalued work - one of life’s less understood acts. The anxiety of leaving for work when they aren’t feeling well, the guilt of taking a few extra moments to get home, the decision of if you stop and get a drink on your way home or if you’ll miss something or be needed. No one can fully understand that until they experience it. And if you’re like us, you’re too busy to stop. To process. To appreciate the good moments as much as you’d like. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">And then, a few years later, you’ll be driving home to check on your old decrepit ghoul of a cat and realize your palms are sweaty and your throat is tight. And it’s much like the feelings you’d have driving to the hospital after getting a call at work that your loved one isn’t doing well and you need to get there ASAP. And you’re driving home to an old cat. But it feels like you’re driving home to your loved one and scared. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">You’ll find the exhausted feelings after not sleeping for a few days and the anxiety and the fear of the unknown are no different than when it was the man who taught you how to spiral a football. Or who taught you how to drive. Or who, after he told you your cat wasn’t worth anything because she wasn’t a mouser, held your hand and told you you were stupid for spending $1,200 on a cat - which is your life savings in your early 20s - but he understood. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">I write all this not just as a tribute to my cat - even though she was a real badass - but because I hope that anyone else who has been a caretaker and finds themselves crying in their car about a still live at the time cat but really about their dad - knows they aren’t alone. That it’s normal - for lack of a better term - and so they know there’s someone there that understands. And who respects what you’ve done. What you’ve been through. And the amount of love it takes to care for other beings. Human or not. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">Our grief knows no end. And sometimes doesn’t have a linear passage from start to “finish” - especially as a caretaker. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".SFUIText"; font-size: 17pt;">When Nissa passed this morning she did so just like my dad did. With dramatic - oh no, this is it moments. Which weren’t. But then a calm peaceful ending when your guard was down. And all I could think was I hope wherever she ended up she ran across my dad and made a smart ass comment like “oh, you’re here. I guess you weren’t a mouser either.” </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IDZSMWW1x98IQYx2tGve7Q2m0iq2YfxucpWqvWEyibQHrgZMzpLnOK_5MNA3nk31jCxy4Ug0DsRCgzCBiAMCaXbhTI3edbwSvO_m5p3JylQ-0zApHNuQdeJvxhZV7y-EUf4patBY3Fk/s1600/E4D79FF8-BEDB-42B5-A4C5-AC28C646931A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1203" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4IDZSMWW1x98IQYx2tGve7Q2m0iq2YfxucpWqvWEyibQHrgZMzpLnOK_5MNA3nk31jCxy4Ug0DsRCgzCBiAMCaXbhTI3edbwSvO_m5p3JylQ-0zApHNuQdeJvxhZV7y-EUf4patBY3Fk/s320/E4D79FF8-BEDB-42B5-A4C5-AC28C646931A.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-86239913528978691542018-12-19T18:34:00.001-08:002018-12-19T18:34:52.860-08:00Christmas Hopes<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Today has been five years since my Dad left us. ....and not like the time he didn’t know my little sister was sleeping under their bed and left the house. ...while me and my mom were out an about. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">We passed his truck going somewhere and both parties seemed to realize there was no little kid with the other. Oops. Good thing no one had cell phones to call CPS on them. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">But he left us in the sense that he left a hole in our lives and hearts that will never be filled. Five long and short years ago. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Today, people sent texts or brought flowers, or shared a Facebook post. And it reminds you that no matter how long ago the person you loved left this earth - their impact remains. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I’ve had a great year. I’ve been nominated for awards. And won an Influential Woman of the Year award. I’ve done things at work that were important to me. I’ve made strides in my personal relationships. And I’ve done it all without him to call. Without anyone sending me a picture of the bathroom floor and saying: guess what I’m doing? </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">No one (worthy) has made a dad joke that made me roll my eyes while I stifled a laugh. No one has helped me mock that my sister in the right way. Remind me to tell you the story about how, as a teenager, she wanted to be validated when she was funny so she could work on her humor. Only she could overthink that. Especially since she’s already hilarious. But we did spend that summer giving her checks or minuses when she attempted to keep up with us. ....don’t worry, it worked. She can make you laugh almost as much as me. Almost. Don’t get wild here, folks. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">No one will be here in a few days to make me go out in Christmas Eve and buy something totally unnecessary, just so we can see the people around us panicking as they try to finish (and some of them start) their shopping. Once I realized that this was part of why he enjoyed going out last minute - since we were always done before then - I was definitely sure that the hustle and bustle of last minute Christmas shopping was maybe only half people who need things and half people like him who are just sadistic enough to want to see their people at their worst and most frantic moments. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">We did Christmas with the family yesterday, since we are leaving for vacation shortly. One of my gifts was a year membership to the Shed Aquarium. My dad would have loved that. And not just because once they asked him for help raising mudskippers. (True story.) But he also would have reminded everyone how my favorite gift as a kid was a pair of homemade stilts. Adjustable. And way too tall to be safe for a short child like me. But I spent hours stumbling, then walking, then running on those things up and down the driveway. ....to be fair, that skill has never come in handy. But the determination it taught me and the lesson that homemade and thoughtful gifts are ones that stay with us forever has stuck with me my entire life. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I know the holidays aren’t easy for people who have lost someone they love. And I know this from a family member, a child, and a friend standpoint. The empty chair will forever remind us of what we are missing. But sometimes, remembering what we are missing are the best holiday moments. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">I hope all of you who are missing a person at the table have loving and supportive people like mine around them. I hope you remember all the good moments this year. I hope you hang their ornaments on the tree. That you hug their little ones tight and for just a moment longer. I hope that the tears also bring moments of laughter. And sometimes I know the laughter can bring the tears. In those cases, I hope you have someone there to share it with. I hope Christmas is a time you still love. That you make new memories and don’t feel bad about the happiness that will also creep up on you the same way the sadness does. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">On the bright side - I am going on vacation with my family. And I know my mom won’t leave me at home accidentally. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DL5m7r_olx8wdr30Xpo8E2CaQVJjBmYpYI74KKCDIv8QyNleZzl7qdy2D7ZG6FRx0_SGxHfVvs-E9mpLvsR-pATz4avXxaQ6w0s1TlU_AMEWYJZqQDu0IrrEfJNKq1ZlhMFz2Mb_7CE/s1600/80EC1473-BB23-45F1-8E89-B13A0D2B0EE8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0DL5m7r_olx8wdr30Xpo8E2CaQVJjBmYpYI74KKCDIv8QyNleZzl7qdy2D7ZG6FRx0_SGxHfVvs-E9mpLvsR-pATz4avXxaQ6w0s1TlU_AMEWYJZqQDu0IrrEfJNKq1ZlhMFz2Mb_7CE/s320/80EC1473-BB23-45F1-8E89-B13A0D2B0EE8.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-48462807237902016292018-04-01T09:16:00.000-07:002018-04-01T09:16:19.972-07:00When Words Aren’t Enough. <div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">There are few things you can say when some people pass away. The obligatory: they led a great life and the cliche: everything happens for a reason. They’re in a better place. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Those are standard. And sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they’re all you have to say. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">When someone who has been a part of your life in a way that Kate was, for me, dies - words aren’t enough. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">If I was as excellent of a dancer as she was I would grace you all with a wonderful and emotional interpretive dance. It would be fierce and bold as she was. It would have its ups and downs like her life - but mainly all ups - because she lived her life to the fullest. Every second of it. It would be filled with emotions and caring for everything and everyone around me - as she had the biggest heart. But it would be comical. And not just because I’m a terrible dancer so you’d be cringing and laughing uncomfortably at my attempts to be half as talented and filled with passion for dance as she was - but simply because she was hilarious. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Kate died too soon. I won’t beat around the bush. The world needs people like her. I’m not going to say she lived a long and full life. Because it wasn’t long enough. She had things to do. She had ways to make the world even brighter. Just one of those ways was with the family she leaves behind. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<img alt="" id="id_5329_ca0a_5c4f_793" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqK0aRxKO4tMi4at-wfd6oBWRzWaDetN-jRvATFtkp21qI9vNXX3gvVDCt6iR_cHT08GyvfOOoLyg7R9McjfLRP-MbgVdWSwMpiXIqcpuJQViPdAJfFNepY7MurgPUGDPbI6kWwlTNf2M/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<img alt="" id="id_1706_9b52_d686_b642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3ltjWtudg1vhMfJ3YWrN9mL4-liAlJQ3TohkTRX7xtW2apr627lWYjvjuQvHrabLPBE9rTpEk8OjCdW1l_oLgueBHqdMDZnw0MBl-sl-Y8XrcPerhI7-XwECirlWTvF_SDHaEQFfsc28/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">She has two small girls who will forever be avalanched with stories about how talented and amazing their mother was. And I know that our group of friends, who have been part of a unique friendship for 23 years or so, will remind them as often as we are allowed how much she loved them. How glad she was when she found out she was having each of them. They’ll hear about how much she loved their father. From the moment they met. How proud she was of her sister and thankful for all of her help the last few months of her life. They’ll know how she’s the only person I’ve ever met who can wrangle a large group of 30 somethings from around the country to show up and say: we are here, what can we do? And those people - most of which have no children - had to chase a three year old around with a pull-up begging her to put it on. Just another way she made us laugh. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">There are few people who have this much charisma. There’s none who had her heart and we are just one group of her universe. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Her family loved her. Her dance family loved her. Her students. Her neighbors. She had so much love in her life. Because of who she was. And I am so assured that no one else, no one but Kate - who told us to call her Willow a million years ago and we never stopped - could incite that from so many people. In so many ways. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">For now I’ll be living through the good moments. Because selfishly I want to remember her laughing. And telling a good joke. And I’ll cherish that the last text she ever sent me a week ago was nothing but a laughing face. How fitting, after 23 plus years of making me laugh every single day of my life that that’s what she left me with. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<img alt="" id="id_cf01_3996_4237_b9d7" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMlirE4XXBxLyZOkl4FEXA_3pIztua0Q8IM_ORg_E8-M3pGcR3AR2zgUAZfhSQW9BUI0F4MthlCH6V9o7XgqcH7go9V1CaqfCwg-jgA5H65XlqUwuAI5PEDRW8S-11vDzBgGvHa6RtezI/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">She left the world a better place for having been here. And a void that will never be replaced. But I know there are so many friends and family that will try. For her sake. To fill half the shoes that girl did. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<img alt="" id="id_16c0_3dc5_6b93_d24b" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCugI_M478XGEN5K33Gsg6y9v_2jVuZgknapIusK8lbnckINrWanYhWxlXOQCUXUO5t2-HQCtmK2bR4DyyZH-8d3AQW83GHEtn4BIoHRI2R-jR_DdZsvxvaV6QabY1O_c3JMBEbv94_A/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" style="height: auto; width: 392px;" title="" tooltip="" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: ".SF UI Text"; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">Lucky for all of you, I won’t be wearing the ballet shoes. </span></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-4684399018013453132017-12-18T12:25:00.002-08:002017-12-18T15:50:15.737-08:00He Was an Inspiration to Many.Facebook reminded me of this post, this morning: <a href="http://tumor-humor.blogspot.com/2014/12/how-do-you-measure-year.html" target="_blank">How Do You Measure a Year</a>? 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwW8fkjIeprirZKfMWzf3D6tHvBsndmwmwNRb8x_4kIorelvnzjaIpYgqNxQfFJWfXpOiSYg6ZmK61-IGs5XEjGcDOuAuBEz1nbabmDU_V3UbB3GE6iustZqOgAQDjXen2OD6ht6bP0pA/s1600/Dad+obit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="957" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwW8fkjIeprirZKfMWzf3D6tHvBsndmwmwNRb8x_4kIorelvnzjaIpYgqNxQfFJWfXpOiSYg6ZmK61-IGs5XEjGcDOuAuBEz1nbabmDU_V3UbB3GE6iustZqOgAQDjXen2OD6ht6bP0pA/s640/Dad+obit.jpg" width="382" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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).</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3cIRhfnDQImjAUDySe94yrEE4KOPy4dtCfoi0eMqIJMSshPPHuRLQHEGDKtjbUmclo-JQv6DFQHtFkQDEEsruZkZFrPCamfLlMSGzQnEskUcghYaW23BSLaDh-F8wUivYAURN8Zoq9k/s1600/1999-03-22-2014.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic3cIRhfnDQImjAUDySe94yrEE4KOPy4dtCfoi0eMqIJMSshPPHuRLQHEGDKtjbUmclo-JQv6DFQHtFkQDEEsruZkZFrPCamfLlMSGzQnEskUcghYaW23BSLaDh-F8wUivYAURN8Zoq9k/s320/1999-03-22-2014.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Thanks for being an inspiration, Dad.Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-10300348120883417462017-10-02T23:05:00.001-07:002017-10-02T23:05:26.739-07:00Choose Your Own AdventureThe 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. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDPpMBkLQpqoQeLxiuBTNMYxby95CqFipyTrl0tqq8erc1_T0jcnWP9bXYXl6JuoyPViZvYwTLc_cMDWUtUQrL5MefZ0YL1WrMxcNEHY4hrY9SFYCRKvLdXNlf4cYecaiRz7_1uMeacc/s1600/Cancer-Memes-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="648" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDPpMBkLQpqoQeLxiuBTNMYxby95CqFipyTrl0tqq8erc1_T0jcnWP9bXYXl6JuoyPViZvYwTLc_cMDWUtUQrL5MefZ0YL1WrMxcNEHY4hrY9SFYCRKvLdXNlf4cYecaiRz7_1uMeacc/s320/Cancer-Memes-12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I turned my radio up and the next song was this: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/fFPItQWYaFM/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fFPItQWYaFM?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br />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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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.) </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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=""></3></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-36179226336323613942017-09-11T21:21:00.000-07:002017-09-11T21:21:56.573-07:00Before and After<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">When September 11th became a date to remember, I was still a teenager. I would turn twenty a few months later. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: '.SFUIText'; font-size: 17pt;">The second one - he still owes me for. </span></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-15482567545108050332017-08-13T21:04:00.001-07:002017-08-13T21:04:21.906-07:00You Have to Love Her - And Then You'll Love Those She LovesAnyone 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Thinking of you all,<br />
The big sister you didn't need. Or want. But got stuck with.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/83/9f/6f/839f6f2f6930dbd487bd7c1f827c6280--quotes-about-loss-quotes-loss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/83/9f/6f/839f6f2f6930dbd487bd7c1f827c6280--quotes-about-loss-quotes-loss.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-90211645485708840032017-06-18T16:09:00.001-07:002017-06-18T16:09:17.869-07:00So, It's Father's Day, You Say?<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHsJ9HpTRigNhyphenhyphen3SLh8wcJb43pG2hD6N9v4G1Rj4ZCC4mTTz7zKhnoFJLvCptxD_e7sIgV9AOPecydpqxZXCWX8moDH5PAnl8CAZ0VEQHpOzXWfP8hBDTIMVs6vWD2IvtiDCqBZtEU9A/s1600/team+win.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1600" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpHsJ9HpTRigNhyphenhyphen3SLh8wcJb43pG2hD6N9v4G1Rj4ZCC4mTTz7zKhnoFJLvCptxD_e7sIgV9AOPecydpqxZXCWX8moDH5PAnl8CAZ0VEQHpOzXWfP8hBDTIMVs6vWD2IvtiDCqBZtEU9A/s320/team+win.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRIvCc1lmWy71GCzPFLwAIaimKmMFbAKGkpJUh-1zQVvlwCz8J8F63p-46no37hehD0ggyGWhPRVcPgdU-LFDbyQeRfwqZpDoZJJ35xzQpJ5gHb4DyExK5lU_3DwaBmjpvaDFeQhLy80/s1600/dad+faking+it.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="1600" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRIvCc1lmWy71GCzPFLwAIaimKmMFbAKGkpJUh-1zQVvlwCz8J8F63p-46no37hehD0ggyGWhPRVcPgdU-LFDbyQeRfwqZpDoZJJ35xzQpJ5gHb4DyExK5lU_3DwaBmjpvaDFeQhLy80/s320/dad+faking+it.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; min-height: 20.3px;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;">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. </span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #454545; font-family: '.SF UI Text'; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-family: ".sfuitext"; font-size: 17pt;"><br /></span></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-69847136438386907782017-03-20T22:35:00.005-07:002017-03-20T22:39:30.575-07:00Like a Record, Baby. <div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
A letter to everyone I know. And even those I don't,<br />
<br />
Today has been long. Today has been tough. By mainly for a lot of people around me.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And here I was, chasing a cat and cursing at how late I was going to be for the day.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.").<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
With love,<br />
Denise<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://celebriot.com/quotes_img/r/robert-frost/robert-frost-quotes-8021.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://celebriot.com/quotes_img/r/robert-frost/robert-frost-quotes-8021.png" width="263" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="webkit-fake-url://741e7bea-068d-43a0-a1c0-1b234ad024f7/imagepng" style="text-align: center;" /></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-42190581072476041552017-02-08T19:21:00.000-08:002017-02-08T19:38:57.732-08:00This 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?!"<br />
<br />
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.Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-20755126520451879952017-01-01T17:34:00.000-08:002017-01-01T17:34:13.904-08:00No 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2wHRuBoJh7xCrgIiOqgmu6ObmT-6m7oDur9w5lZT1pI4qNSg5xhSbLAZPyJX2i3G_1faEeijm7-emL0N5oPaS5Qz4nAPrYcMPv-PtrDGuAZ3pFfB-V6PkiP-eEtOBLGMwLjPvs7FAbg/s1600/lyndsie3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2wHRuBoJh7xCrgIiOqgmu6ObmT-6m7oDur9w5lZT1pI4qNSg5xhSbLAZPyJX2i3G_1faEeijm7-emL0N5oPaS5Qz4nAPrYcMPv-PtrDGuAZ3pFfB-V6PkiP-eEtOBLGMwLjPvs7FAbg/s320/lyndsie3.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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: </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Q6jgbnQ4uh_bgRnqDdXAbYj8P-qiIRYyafVEx9cYZ6wtHrWK3tYlKpiu3pBwNVpwEJGNRmNS6z_sd0A9EG5L08TF_CEc4FA321XlyBXVlEwyf8t_f64jWgnXher3zrJSTUBGi42jU_4/s1600/lyndsie1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Q6jgbnQ4uh_bgRnqDdXAbYj8P-qiIRYyafVEx9cYZ6wtHrWK3tYlKpiu3pBwNVpwEJGNRmNS6z_sd0A9EG5L08TF_CEc4FA321XlyBXVlEwyf8t_f64jWgnXher3zrJSTUBGi42jU_4/s320/lyndsie1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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 <i>collector's edition-very expensive-very amazing-verypriceless </i>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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLD4P707Yrqk540_9-atrdYvsDEkDGBDtjGE71RBJD_5_y-ed3i0_euk3zGHV2GTT_RDRBSzi1c3TzsGmvwHP7-Qb23wBvYfcRtUBPQ4H8wcFhyXE7IbModOqOOvo5atuIJ7akwl_HB84/s1600/lyndsie2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLD4P707Yrqk540_9-atrdYvsDEkDGBDtjGE71RBJD_5_y-ed3i0_euk3zGHV2GTT_RDRBSzi1c3TzsGmvwHP7-Qb23wBvYfcRtUBPQ4H8wcFhyXE7IbModOqOOvo5atuIJ7akwl_HB84/s320/lyndsie2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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!"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I hope she knows that the final lesson she showed her "big sister" was how to be strong, resilient, graceful, and full of fight. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And with that, I bid you goodnight. Tip your waitress, try the veal. And make sure you all finish your veggies. Dad's watching. </div>
<br />Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-91486091858945780122016-12-19T22:14:00.001-08:002016-12-19T22:16:39.786-08:00Free to Enjoy ThreeToday is the third anniversary of the day my father died. It's been three years since I held his hand in mine, not wanting to leave the hospital they took him to and pronounced him dead. Three of the longest and shortest years of my life have passed since I drove the car home to my parents' house, knowing when we walked through those doors everything would change. The world I knew had ended. It ceases to exist. I couldn't even imagine at that point, that I could make it another day. So how I've made it over 1,000 days never ceases to amaze me.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today I woke up like every other day. I grumbled about how I had to leave the burrito of blankets. I read texts with my head still under the covers. I shoved the dog over to give myself at least one quarter of the bed. It was, for all intents and purposes, a normal day. A normal day without my dad. Without his jokes, his sarcastic quips, his unconditional love and, let's be real - his criticisms of all the things I do.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lying there this morning, I realized two things - it wasn't a normal day. I doubt that the 19th of December will ever come and go without me remembering what that last day was like. I'll never forget the 911 call, the fact that I administered CPR to him until the ambulance arrived. I will never forget the looks my mother and sister shared with me in those excruciating minutes before anyone arrived to help us. My mind will never let go of the longest two miles I've ever driven to the hospital behind the ambulance. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then I also realized the second thing - the memories I have of my father will also ever die. I will forever recall his smile, his loud booming voice, how big his hands always seemed in mine - even when I was an adult. The good things he instilled in me will never die. His love for helping others won't cease to exist because he does. The work ethic he showed me my entire life will forever stick with me. And let's be honest - his brutal honesty, his lack of filter from brain to mouth, and his do what you want, say what you want attitude is something no one can ever take from me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I got up with the sudden revelation that I was free to enjoy year number three. And not feel guilty about it. I'm sad he's gone. And I always will feel a sense of loss. But I think it's important to know that enjoying your life, and even the day they passed is not only okay - it's good. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today we ventured to the humane society where he adopted a cat for my mom days before his last surgery and paid for a large dog adoption fee in his name. He had a cat cage dedicated with his name on a plaque. The large dogs are overlooked. And most expensive. He would have loved knowing he helped someone get a dog that may have been ignored without his help. And let's be real - he would have loved to make a joke about how he will forever be surrounded by pussy by being in the cat room. I'd apologize for that distasteful joke. But, a.) he would have loved it and b.) I got my lack of apologizing from him as well. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today is also the day we buried his mother, a year before he passed away. So we went to grab lunch at one of her favorite places. While there, we noticed a letter above some food donations from a family explaining they had been the victim of a tragic fire a few years ago. Since they received so much help from others, they spent the next few years giving back around the same time as their fire and put together a dinner for the less fortunate at Christmas. We left for the store, after lunch, and doubled what was already collected. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My work is hosting a food drive with my old place of employment. (He would love that so much!) So our last stop was to drop off a load of food for them, as well. As we loaded the food into the back of the truck there, I felt happy. And at peace. I enjoyed the day. And he would have loved every moment of it, as well. And you know what - that's okay. The memory of him will live on. In all of us. In what we do. In what he's taught all of us. And he enjoyed his life to the fullest. So it's only fitting that we do the same. And then make a poor taste joke about him being forever surrounded by pussy. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aEQS99PFibk/WFjLiyT35JI/AAAAAAABAhs/Te9H5_txhmYbIhGGiXUfnaC6FsuhNkzbACPcB/s1600/2016-12-19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aEQS99PFibk/WFjLiyT35JI/AAAAAAABAhs/Te9H5_txhmYbIhGGiXUfnaC6FsuhNkzbACPcB/s320/2016-12-19.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He will, in essence, never truly die. He will live on in our stories, in his legacy, and in the joy we experience every day. And I'm free to begin to enjoy number three. Even if he isn't here to see it. </div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-69432845394880254052016-05-07T16:01:00.001-07:002016-05-07T18:25:28.566-07:00Dear Hallmark....Today, while at the store, I realized I didn't see a "Sorry Your Mother Isn't Here on Mother's Day" card. I feel like these should be a thing. But funny ones. Not sappy: picture of umbrella with the words "I'll weather the storm with you" but more like: <i>Sorry your mom isn't here, but at least no one will nag you to do the dishes. Let them pile up today. Why not?</i> Or maybe - <i>at least no one's harassing you for grandkids, go have some protected sex today!</i><br />
<br />
Just saying - as someone without a father for a card on Father's Day? If you gave me one that said: <i>here's hoping all the cookouts get rained out</i>. Or: <i>don't worry he's not here to dance with you for your wedding day, he was a real embarrassment on the dance floor</i>. ....I would be their friend forever.<br />
<br />
As a realistic bit of advice: do something that you know will remind you of the happy moments, relish in the Mother's Days you had with your mom, try to laugh at least once. But as a totally sarcastic moment: feel free to flip off all the emails you get reminding you of last minute gift ideas, scowl at the numerous Mother's Day brunch signs you pass driving home, and allow yourself to feel a little cheated. But never forget that the reason you're upset is that you had something that great, that important, and that loved. And that's why you're actually upset. Having a love that makes you feel that sad is a real gift.<br />
<br />
I leave you with some distasteful memes, as is my style.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKw5OErDlGJOI_a0p6wZczPxvJihv6cel4L4obcG1mEWalaj3akhyphenhypheneH3G6hyphenhyphenckZH_ePlaVctM6IyvYHKDtQaKqEu-jatscBmEv6YbUs9KhmKTVH6Tl7IIDA_kthuMrIdh_5BTG5lDJimQ/s1600/mom1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKw5OErDlGJOI_a0p6wZczPxvJihv6cel4L4obcG1mEWalaj3akhyphenhypheneH3G6hyphenhyphenckZH_ePlaVctM6IyvYHKDtQaKqEu-jatscBmEv6YbUs9KhmKTVH6Tl7IIDA_kthuMrIdh_5BTG5lDJimQ/s320/mom1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWqjvCtTmmLz127lp6EQJpU_oZK9Ew8Dn1Z3qXvE6Jyu0gTB4whlt97FE7pIOFxLXyDwmvi73ls3PkbhMBEQ-Eb4RheERQk6S0RB8qIy0DTtzjKOd16nsMkJHVxGwNS_fgK99Jcb-Fao/s1600/mom2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWqjvCtTmmLz127lp6EQJpU_oZK9Ew8Dn1Z3qXvE6Jyu0gTB4whlt97FE7pIOFxLXyDwmvi73ls3PkbhMBEQ-Eb4RheERQk6S0RB8qIy0DTtzjKOd16nsMkJHVxGwNS_fgK99Jcb-Fao/s320/mom2.jpg" width="304" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Seriously though - dead parent club members? Solidarity for your tomorrow. Thinking of you all.Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-16256023461527706902016-04-29T20:42:00.002-07:002016-04-29T20:42:33.672-07:00I'm Not Good At This. "I hate to see them like that."<br />
"I'm just not good with this sort of thing."<br />
<br />We've all said it, or felt it.<br />
<br />
I'm here to tell you - that's total bullshit.<br />
<br />
Before you get offended, or even if you want to stay offended - hear me out.<br />
<br />
How you feel, when someone is sick or passing away? It doesn't matter. This isn't about you. It isn't about how you feel, how you want to remember someone, how you want to excuse it.<br />
<br />
Before I go any further, let me tell you - you can do whatever you want. You are entitled to your opinion. And I won't actually fault you when you do whatever it is you feel is best for you.<br />
<br />
But let me remind you of the childhood lesson I know we have all been taught. The universe doesn't revolve around you. And someone's disease or death? It's not the exception. You don't get to make this about you. It's about that person. It's about their loved ones. It's about their friends and family who have gathered around their bedside.<br />
<br />
There is nothing that anyone can say to make me feel differently about this. And I'm not even saying that you're wrong you may not want to see someone like that. But guess what - no one does. I didn't wake up this morning and beg baby Jesus for the chance to stare death in its face. I wasn't wondering if I could be so lucky as to hold my Grandmother's hand while she died. I wasn't hoping to win the lottery and be seated next to my Father when he died. But guess what - I did it.<br />
<br />
And no one is good at death. Literally no one. I've seen it, felt it, heard it (and that's the worst sound you'll ever hear in your lifetime, trust me) and experienced it firsthand and secondhand with others I care for and about and love. And it's never easy. I'm not good at death. I'm familiar with it. Practice does make perfect, after all.<br />
<br />
But all of this just means I set aside my feelings about death, about staring your own mortality in the face, about how we want to remember someone and I did a human thing: I merely existed in the same space at the same time as them. <br />
<br />
This doesn't make me better. This makes me a little more blessed than you. Because I realize that death isn't something to fear. Death isn't always only sad. Death brings people together. Death reminds us of stories to share with those that we care about before we aren't able to any longer. The end of someone's life can be filled with peace and caring. Even when it's terrible. Even when it's the worst thing you've ever done in your entire existence? It's beautiful. To be able to know you were there for someone. That you were able to set aside your feelings for yourself and your own well being and you were able to ease someone's transition. And so that - that makes me feel blessed. Not better.<br />
<br />
I'm not even sure what makes me so filled with the need to tell anyone this. Other than I have been there. I've been the person who watched my father not have many visitors he would have loved to see because they didn't want to see a big strong man reduced to being confined to a hospital bed in his family room. What they don't know is that they missed out on words of wisdom, funny stories, late night fridge raids. Simply put: you're the one who has to live with the regret on what you missed out on. You missed the stolen moments of laughter. Because you can't set aside your own feelings of yourself. Those moments are going to happen whether you're there or not.<br />
<br />
Breaking it down I feel like saying "I don't want to see someone like that" is as selfish as it gets. Is it because you're afraid you'll realize that you will die too? Is it because you don't know that you're missing out on other parts of life? Is it because you just don't know what else to say?<br />
<br />
"I'm not good at this." No one is. I said it before and I'll say it until the day I die. Hopefully, some of you will come visit me. No matter if I still have my full head of hair and it's dyed like a unicorn mane still or not. No one is ever going to be good at death. Some of us are just better at not worrying about how it will affect us. And those people are the ones who will pass peacefully, perhaps. Because we know that death isn't terrifying. We know that it's merely a moment in time. We stop being. And that's it. You're there and then you're not. Not nearly as frightening as you think. But you know what makes all of the time between being there and not worthwhile? It's our friends and our families. And hopefully they're there for you, when able, when your time comes. Because that's what death is about. It's about the end of the life you've lived. And how sad to think people's own fear is what may deny you remembering those moments.<br />
<br />
There's more to someone's death than the moment they stop breathing. You're not there for just that. You're there to be a sense of comfort to those around them. To remind them that their loved one was loved by other people. To let them know that you'll be there when that person's clock stops ticking. And it's lonely when the silence sets in. And you remember all the people who where there in the past, all the people that your loved one helped in their lifetime. And how some of them can't be there because: I don't want to see them like that.<br />
<br />
Again, it's your prerogative. And I still love each and every one of you who has used this line. Because we all have. Either out loud or to ourselves when we didn't go somewhere we didn't want to. But next time, boil it down to what it really is. Say this out loud: I don't want to come see them. Take your feelings out of it - because this isn't about you. And if you can say that, out loud, to yourself and to their family - then don't go. If it's just because you're worried that it will be sad? You're right. It will.<br />
<br />
It will be sad.<br />
It will rip your heart out.<br />It will make you not sleep, at times.<br />
Those last moments will invade your dreams.<br />You'll find yourself unable to breathe, sometimes.<br />You will wish you never saw some of the things you did.<br />You'll feel nauseous.<br />You'll wish it would have gone differently, maybe.<br /><br />But you'll never regret being there for someone. And all their someones. That I can promise you.<br />
<br />
<br />Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-65395118350968221562016-04-19T21:11:00.001-07:002016-04-19T21:11:34.296-07:00I'll Save You A Seat.There's a certain responsibility that comes with being an alumni of the "Dead Parent (or person, they aren't always a parent, but we'll use Dead Parent as mine is a Dead Parent)" club. No one tells you about it, in the beginning. They probably don't want to scare you off. Or they're still deciding on a logo for Dead Parent Club. Maybe the Board of Directors is just slow.<br />
<br />
But one day, you'll find yourself as the Dead Parent Mentor. It isn't a glamorous position. It isn't something that they write a manual about - but they should. It doesn't even pay well. At least not in cash currency. It's just that. Dead. Parent. Mentor.<br />
<br />
Don't worry, there are perks. You can share terrible "My Mom" or "Dead Dad" jokes. Don't make that face at me. Until you've made the "Sorry your Dad calls you too much, mine doesn't get good cell service down there. He's dead." joke? You have no idea how satisfying it can be. And there's that terrible sense of satisfaction that you have in knowing that all the grief you've felt wasn't in vain. You can use your "steps of death" to help another person. (Pro tip: mine is an escalator. Mainly because I am lazy and also because sometimes I run down them and it's hard as hell to escape still going up.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbBxwAnz5H1wtrJFHFfgj4NMNXQowCky9aLLEOnHl8PW2fCGzl7L9jlDq3LqtyFGsuJZz9MorV-yAJ8zN1HijnElzZJFujQ5-HTf6qMoGdQ0VyLHceK3Bfj_B4rYz_zmOzLyzzSmFhaI/s1600/escalator.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPbBxwAnz5H1wtrJFHFfgj4NMNXQowCky9aLLEOnHl8PW2fCGzl7L9jlDq3LqtyFGsuJZz9MorV-yAJ8zN1HijnElzZJFujQ5-HTf6qMoGdQ0VyLHceK3Bfj_B4rYz_zmOzLyzzSmFhaI/s320/escalator.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's undeniable that sharing your grief with another human being is a bond that is special. It's weird. It's totally indescribable. Sometimes it's beautiful. Sometimes it's exactly what you need. Other times it's like pouring salt in a wound. Only it's a wound you opened yourself. And sometimes it hurts more than the first time. It's not a Bryan Adams song. It cuts like a knife. But it doesn't always feel so good. But then it does. But you can't deny the inevitable heartbreak that follows it. It isn't even for yourself, anymore. It's for that person. Because you know the good days can lull you into a false sense of comfort. And that there's a bad day up ahead. But you don't say that. Because that would make you a dick. And because you care. More than you should. Because you know. There's a dull ache in your heart. One that you can't touch. Because you know that, two years later - where you are now - they'll still have those moments where you're driving in your car. And it suddenly hits you. That they're gone. They're still gone. And you wonder how you could have ever forgotten it. And then you start to question if it's too soon to forget for a whole day and feel happy. Is that okay? Is that allowed? And why isn't there a damn manual? You'll still wonder, two years later - where is that manual? Why didn't someone write it for me?<br />
<br />
Grief strips you down. It leaves you bare. And it didn't even attempt to buy you dinner first. So reliving it, even years later, makes you feel cold. It makes goosebumps form on your skin. Just like when you strip down. But it also shows you the true colors of people. Of those you care about. Of those you thought cared for you. Your friends. Your family. But mainly yourself. You think that grief is about how you feel for another person. About how much you loved that person. But grief also teaches you just who you are, as a human. It shows you if you can make it. And you can. And you will. And you'll pick up people along the way - those who understand you, who care, those who can literally feel your pain. And those people are the ones who two years down the road won't forget you. They won't forget that you have grief. They'll check in on you. They'll share a terrible Dead Dad joke with you. And they'll laugh, even if they think: what is wrong with her? Some people forget, after a few weeks. After months. Definitely by the time a year has hit. They'll forget. But you can't blame them. They don't feel the grief. Not the way your fellow members of the Dead Parent club do.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6WmvsxpbfgHFcRGHMX-ULton1IlgTI5CxXqBCl999V-BjmQYiSY0oC6pc1l8zebaz_DS4vCr-K4VQ_OVfdafQ_VVCCIAr_WUVkrcmCI3-pouaGNk-zcg5PjO4fSwMTCEr36Dsk8LphI/s1600/dead+dad+club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6WmvsxpbfgHFcRGHMX-ULton1IlgTI5CxXqBCl999V-BjmQYiSY0oC6pc1l8zebaz_DS4vCr-K4VQ_OVfdafQ_VVCCIAr_WUVkrcmCI3-pouaGNk-zcg5PjO4fSwMTCEr36Dsk8LphI/s1600/dead+dad+club.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I remember, when my father died, someone reading a long letter from someone welcoming my mother to the widow club. I was appalled. I was almost offended. If I had feelings, that is. But now I get it. It's true. Grief pushes people away. Grief makes some people vanish. But it also makes you a part of a club of those who understand. (And no, they don't all have to be part of the dead parent club, we call those people allies.)<br />
<br />
I've broken down the way Dead Parent club works. It's like the movie Mean Girls. There's clearly divided sections, segregated by tables. There are those who sit at the Angry Table. They're angry. They don't understand how people can still be alive when their loved one was the most amazing and clearly the biggest loss to the world. They gravitate towards people who are angry. Because there's power in numbers. That power is loud. It's fierce. And it is mad.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EF8FtO4_WE78hJ4082AN3xWcmiPY9oqWR9aZmbtK1TmHUTapeqUTOog9nv3HuS7h4fc5t-Zfmcs1nRKMH3UJno8aNiJrmXDlk1sk46nuuAdyK9tQvzxBCy42nPLsHC9CZeVypD73cqM/s1600/anger.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EF8FtO4_WE78hJ4082AN3xWcmiPY9oqWR9aZmbtK1TmHUTapeqUTOog9nv3HuS7h4fc5t-Zfmcs1nRKMH3UJno8aNiJrmXDlk1sk46nuuAdyK9tQvzxBCy42nPLsHC9CZeVypD73cqM/s320/anger.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Then there's the sad table. They still tear up, years later, at the mention of Mother's Day. These people are kind and soft and calm. They say things like: it gets easier. While wiping their own tears away. They will be the ones you call when you need a shoulder to literally cry on.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCYlOvDqL8ixb2wVj35RCihZl45BC1I39YGzOeqUXjLlE55Q_VaoaB2QlaooDCBPYaGLClYFsmtS21OdjioW_8PtfMMS3lUbTUd4Em_dBo4nhNV_FzAQz4nqb7V83QG7eka8Re5KFUcg/s1600/sadness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCYlOvDqL8ixb2wVj35RCihZl45BC1I39YGzOeqUXjLlE55Q_VaoaB2QlaooDCBPYaGLClYFsmtS21OdjioW_8PtfMMS3lUbTUd4Em_dBo4nhNV_FzAQz4nqb7V83QG7eka8Re5KFUcg/s320/sadness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There's the oblivious ones. They act as if nothing has happened. People wonder how and why they're so strong. Where do they find the power to get through the day? Because they are still ignoring it. There are three things that don't go away: a toothache, pregnancy, and a dead loved one. People don't stay at this table forever, it's a transitioning table. They move to either angry, sad, or inappropriate table quickly.<br />
<br />Which leads me to my table: the inappropriate table. I sit at the head of it. We make bad jokes, we often make others feel uncomfortable. But mainly: we don't worry about steps. We don't worry about the normal stages of grief. And we rarely worry about being politically correct. If you know me and you become a part of this table? You know you'll receive terrible pictures of pigs on a spit being cremated. Probably the day before your loved one's funeral. You know I'll send you a picture of my Dad's urn, on my desk at work - right after I pulled him out and told someone "Don't speak to me like that in front of my Dad." We also won't be politically correct when you ask us how things are, or how they will be. We'll tell you: things suck. They will suck. But you'll get through it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZl9VLVt3xQ1wI3RGK3bQuhz6g2Nk_i2VVWI-GsZv418y0HGGHmODDnIyQyqNRTzu0Glg-cQGfRB2V-2G_qnsBSGGREN6gxgdRhjRjm9pRNS8UkKDjUPpfGkFfGjNqjNDSuLoX0adWoc/s1600/inappropriate+joke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZl9VLVt3xQ1wI3RGK3bQuhz6g2Nk_i2VVWI-GsZv418y0HGGHmODDnIyQyqNRTzu0Glg-cQGfRB2V-2G_qnsBSGGREN6gxgdRhjRjm9pRNS8UkKDjUPpfGkFfGjNqjNDSuLoX0adWoc/s320/inappropriate+joke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Being a member of the Dead Parent Club isn't going to make you famous. It isn't going to make you look amazing at parties. But it will make you realize that you aren't alone. Even when you feel alone. It will hurt when someone you know goes through the same situation. You'll find yourself driving around the block a few extra times on a night that you've gotten bad news about a friend, knowing his family will experience what you did. And all you know how to do for the moment is turn up the radio, sing loudly, and dance it out while driving around the block for 15 minutes after you should be home.<br />
<br />
And then you come inside, and you sit down at the table. You make an inappropriate joke. And you're home. For better or for worse? That's your table. It's a fun table to sit at, if you have to choose a table. And if you do? You can come sit at my table. I'll save you a spot. Because as much as you think that being a mentor is a thankless job? The people who sit at your table may just be mentoring you, too. So don't take their lunch money. They're here to help. Even if you didn't know you needed<br />
it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvJr_o3dpPKSvJBk9Gh2KAONErYWUlHCG-pMb4VMtaSs7qkDlJ7_pwACSrsgFS99HlgtLzBpH14cS6EZcn6XRx7b5My5OqOfCoIUXJSqC5aS7JOMrlDyuD33jOD7IBWpAffoQfiCd7Ek/s1600/I_ll_Save_You_a_Seat_1024x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvJr_o3dpPKSvJBk9Gh2KAONErYWUlHCG-pMb4VMtaSs7qkDlJ7_pwACSrsgFS99HlgtLzBpH14cS6EZcn6XRx7b5My5OqOfCoIUXJSqC5aS7JOMrlDyuD33jOD7IBWpAffoQfiCd7Ek/s320/I_ll_Save_You_a_Seat_1024x1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And on Wednesdays - we wear black. Like my Dad's soul. Because you know. He's dead. And soot-y, now.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9NpOIVEEvVsDnLa6zq7aFXSNYAz-HsWYe7TrInuL5mJj13iq8tnF05jkIFGks-o3Og6TukZVQ77_jmTcCtbPLnZo6TX6eaToJ_q5PZNSafxM_19J5z0-e4aRBMsTnhT0eqzMSVQABH0/s1600/on+wednesdays+we+wear+black.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9NpOIVEEvVsDnLa6zq7aFXSNYAz-HsWYe7TrInuL5mJj13iq8tnF05jkIFGks-o3Og6TukZVQ77_jmTcCtbPLnZo6TX6eaToJ_q5PZNSafxM_19J5z0-e4aRBMsTnhT0eqzMSVQABH0/s320/on+wednesdays+we+wear+black.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-47328514915666781012015-12-20T22:11:00.000-08:002015-12-20T22:11:54.892-08:00Today: Two Years Too Many. Today has officially meant we lived two years without my Dad being on this Earth. At least in the traditional sense. I've learned that, no matter how many days, weeks, moments, milestones, or even years we are without him - he's never truly not here. He's here. He works in mysterious ways: a song on the radio, a joke someone reminds me he used to share with others, a memory that pops up out of nowhere.<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean we aren't sad. The old adage says that time heals all wounds. Time doesn't heal your wounds. I am no less sad than last year when I asked you <a href="http://tumor-humor.blogspot.com/2014/12/how-do-you-measure-year.html" target="_blank">How Do You Measure a Year?</a> In fact, I think the sadness sets in more. Because it has revealed itself to be permanent. You merely figure out how to go about your day. You, instead of feeling relief from the sadness, learn how to live with it. Some people become quiet or withdrawn, others make jokes, some turn their sadness into other's happiness. I think I'm a little from column a, a lot from column b, and try to make as much of column c as possible happen.<br />
<br />
It's hard, especially around the holidays, to be without someone that you truly cared for. As a quick rundown - let me tell you that my father was the last of his four sibling to pass away. Two of them passed before his mother. She died one year and five days before my father. My sister and I sat with her as she took her last breath. I reminded her of all the wonderful things that she did that other's don't - like have grandchildren like me. We buried her on the 19th of December in 2012. My aunt, my father's only living sibling passed away a few months before he did, and he died on December the 19th of 2013. We stood around his casket, celebrating him on December 26th of that year, which was the day his father passed away when I was a teenager. To say that this season is the hardest for many of us in our family would be an understatement. The bright cheery colors and sounds of the holidays that so many of you see reminds most of us of our most pained memories. Aunts, parents, grandparents, spouses, mentors - they're all gone. And so many of them right now. Right when you need to be happiest.<br />
<br />
Christmas shopping is hard. Crowded places full of people wearing unintentionally hideous Christmas garbs, laughing and making plans. It's enough to make you stop, glance around and wonder how none of them know. How can you be so unaware that my life has changed so drastically, so dramatically - in such a short amount of time? It's like they aren't privy to what they have lost - what the world has been missing for two years now. It's likely to take your breath away some days.<br />
<br />
This makes the holiday spirit a bit hard to find. Like that one particular spirit may be playing hide and seek with you. Or maybe a game of Marco Polo - and you can't open your eyes to cheat. I say all of this from a cozy spot in my bed, with the only lights being the ones on the Christmas tree in the corner of my room. So, I'm not the Grinch. That was my Dad, he did steal Christmas from us after all. I try. But it's hard. Life is still amazing and I'm so thankful for mine. But denying that my father being gone is sad - that's impossible.<br />
<br />
I knew this weekend would be difficult. It likely always will be. It's a few days before Christmas, which we have established, can feel suffocating - and the date of the time we last saw my father open his eyes and give us a thumbs up. Last year we committed twelve random acts of kindness as the day of Dad's deathiversary wore on. To say Jim's spirit lived on through us as we bought toys, dinners, massive remote controlled helicopters, and even groceries - for random strangers - would be an understatement. He loved Christmas for the giving (and the receiving - let's be honest, this is the guy who made his birthday an entire week - giving no regard to it being called a birthDAY) of gifts. But he would also give someone the shirt off his back, if the thought they needed it.<br />
<br />
This year we were far more low-key. We set up the Christmas tree in their family room. I know this is hard for my mother. My dad built the room with his own two hands (we helped but he wouldn't have said it that way if he were here today - he would have taken the glory, so why pretend) and he died in the same room, in front of the beautiful fireplace he crafted himself. This doesn't make Christmas cheer easier to find. Trust me. But we did it. The tree is up, there are presents under it, and that feels like a small victory in itself.<br />
<br />
We also removed my Dad's chair from the room. He had that chair for as long as I could remember. And it finally broke in the worst possible way and there was nothing else we could do to save it. When my mother stated the chair was leaving yesterday - I thought about yelling at her. Really? Today? On this day, we are going to get rid of the chair my Dad sat in for years?<br />
<br />
Honestly though, is there a more fitting day to remove the chair? Probably not. And Dad wasn't ever a sit around and wait kind of guy. Unless, of course, it was something my mother asked him to do. Then he waited until the last possible second and then did it. So I took it as a small homage to him. To let his chair leave us on the same day he did.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFhgfPoCLtRDX1uVrs89mkEaJFUOB8ubBu479Xy15Q_lDXhgiYgqQ5mXp8c0GNv1XcCMcF0Wsu9aL8c0L3WCnV9qXLOlooVQzAq_ofkeBbyoXUs4Bx8-rc6RkvH70qmisetP0mYTIoRs/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFhgfPoCLtRDX1uVrs89mkEaJFUOB8ubBu479Xy15Q_lDXhgiYgqQ5mXp8c0GNv1XcCMcF0Wsu9aL8c0L3WCnV9qXLOlooVQzAq_ofkeBbyoXUs4Bx8-rc6RkvH70qmisetP0mYTIoRs/s400/image1.JPG" width="215" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My mom set it back up, held it together, and urged me to take a picture of it to keep for myself. It's just a chair. But it also holds a lot of memories. The last time I can remember sitting in my Dad's lap was in that chair. I was twelve, we had just lost an important game in the world series of softball a day before and I felt like it was all my fault. Easy grounder to the pitching mound, I overthrew first base and the winning run came in. I was still devastated the following day when we arrived home, so I crawled into his lap and said "It's all my fault."<br />
<br />
As all good parents do, he stroked my hair and whispered softly to me. "It is. That was an easy out." He was right. It was an easy out. And the next season, when we returned to practice - he had a new drill. He put us all in our positions, blindfolded us and made us throw buckets of balls to first base. Guess what - I've never overthrown first base since. And I never expected, from them on, for either of my parents to lie to me. Although, I'm sure I could find someone else to blame it on. If only the second baseman would have been a foot taller. Shouldn't some of that responsibility lie on her shoulders too?<br />
<br />
The whole point is - I wouldn't have even remembered that memory had my mother not insisted that the chair leave yesterday. So it left. And we even found her a new one today. The memory of the chair will probably live on even longer than I anticipated. And I know the memories of my father will too. In the way we handle column c - and find ways to make other people happy. We'll remember a piece of him even in the smart ass comments from people like my mom who yesterday said "Go ahead and get some moon pies, get two! Don't get one for your Dad though, he doesn't need any," as I walked away. Thanks, Mom. Or from the texts from friends who said things like: Thinking of you, your father, and dead baby jokes today. Yup. That sums him up. Amazing, inappropriate, and unforgettable.<br />
<br />
Two years is two too many.Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-85920411548344640062015-10-14T22:18:00.000-07:002015-10-14T22:18:32.786-07:00Shake it Off<div dir="ltr">
Today is the day, everyone. The day we celebrated Dad's birthday with him for 56 years. It's the anniversary of the moment he was brought onto this planet. It marks the exact start of when my life's footprint took shape. What a momentous occasion. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
How do we celebrate someone after they're gone? Are you intended to be sad today? Do you not acknowledge it? Do we pretend that it's just another day? ....not if you're a Carpenter. We take this huge event and boil it down to its essence. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Basically, this means we got (what I call) Dead Dad Cake. We forced a bakery worker to write something ridiculous on it. And we impulse bought. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Sums Dad up in such an eloquent way. We had dessert. We bought things. We were smart asses. And we made a random stranger uncomfortable. Yup, his spirit is still alive. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
You may remember Dead Dad Cake from last year's entry: <a href="http://tumor-humor.blogspot.com/2014/10/full-of-jive.html" target="_blank">Full of Jive</a>. And any of you who remember Jim can recall him singing along to basically everything. We won't relive the time I walked into his kitchen while he was singing "This shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s" while he was scrubbing the stove. I won't even mention the time he couldn't hear me yelling for him to come in, at my house. Why? Because when I finally opened the front door he had his iPod on and his earphones in while singing "Miss Independent" by Kelly Clarkson. This makes his Taylor Swift inspired cake fitting. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN8w4QjvhMWM7xotJGX1V3-0nfSmlFt4CnC8fGwOj0eXkCOwx2XMv-ENt7tx0CAuKudxENJCu9sJCXaupkoD42XQbr51HIad9z1FHCjbcat2_Hr1ygq-6eZhMk9wVYutlx-kTvYu7WGY/s1600/download_20151014_233336.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN8w4QjvhMWM7xotJGX1V3-0nfSmlFt4CnC8fGwOj0eXkCOwx2XMv-ENt7tx0CAuKudxENJCu9sJCXaupkoD42XQbr51HIad9z1FHCjbcat2_Hr1ygq-6eZhMk9wVYutlx-kTvYu7WGY/s320/download_20151014_233336.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I tried to get the bakery lady to write "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate." After a few words of encouragement that included "Listen, it's my Dad's birthday and he's dead" - we settled on this. She did, however, try to include proper grammar and make it say "Haters are going to hate." </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As much as I am not a TSwift fan, Shake it Off is an appropriate theme. People seem to make you feel as if you should shake off a day like today. Just take it in stride. This is officially my second Dead Dad Birthday - and you can't shake it off. Trust me, you would if you could. If a grieving person could shake off that feeling of sadness - they would. Who wouldn't fill the empty spot in their heart, given the option? The grief, we could all do without. The remembering? I wouldn't change that for the world. So when my sister asked if I wanted to go to the pet store? I was ready. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We went to look at fish. Our parents owned a pet store that specialized in tropical fish. There was (and still is) little to nothing they didn't know about owning, caring for, and loving your fish as pets. Which may lend itself to explain why I walked out with a fish tank well beyond the scope of the tiny beta tank with Toothless, the Dragon Beta as its lone inhabitant. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
As my sister and mother helped me set up the tank this evening, we were happy. We talked about what fish to put in, our favorite fish throughout the fish store's existence.It's sad that Dad wasn't there. But the afternoon and evening flew by. And now I have a lovely reminder of today. Of my father. Of my mother and father's knowledge. A remembrance of their love for fish and the calmness a good fish tank can bring to someone. And that, even when I'm an adult - I will need them to teach me. To remind me of things. To tell me "stop spilling water" even. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The tank is empty for now, as the water waits for the right temperature and pH balance to move its new tenants in. But I type this now, from my bed. The light is on. It looks amazing, thus far. And the small quiet noise the filter is making is a near-silent but ever present reminder that I can't shake it off - but I can remember the beautiful moments and all that my father taught me. Not just about fish. But about being strong, remaining resilient, never giving up, and mainly - not to put more than one male beta in a tank - unless we're running a gambling ring. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMvoNAk2PQcUqMoHU67EHrs_118tsERENcaMvnESBvlxKLk8o5e_PpcmYaafHO3AeOQFPnu2e0pboJfe5fnuqyj6-6ReSJShnLFkEfqQf5N-EZ3UMFzD2_8ByZ1ir1H7Op6pKjl9W-4s/s1600/download_20151014_233303.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsMvoNAk2PQcUqMoHU67EHrs_118tsERENcaMvnESBvlxKLk8o5e_PpcmYaafHO3AeOQFPnu2e0pboJfe5fnuqyj6-6ReSJShnLFkEfqQf5N-EZ3UMFzD2_8ByZ1ir1H7Op6pKjl9W-4s/s320/download_20151014_233303.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Don't shake it off, when you have grief. That's my advice for you. Especially if it's because others make you feel as if you should. Instead, dig deep - find a way to make that grief work for you. Don't always go buy a fish tank, however. They're expensive. </div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-49089070051126582602015-07-05T21:51:00.000-07:002015-07-05T21:51:08.600-07:00Digging An Ash Hole....<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today was July 5th. I've pointed out in last year's blog post: <a href="http://tumor-humor.blogspot.com/2014/07/eat-drink-merry-blow-things-up-get.html" target="_blank">Eat, Drink, Be Merry, Blow Things Up, Get Married</a>, July 4th was one of my Dad's favorite holidays. July 5th was also a big celebration, as it was my parents' anniversary. Timehop can be your best friend or worst enemy, depending on one's grief level for a day. Today it reminded me that I posted this gem of a picture seven years ago - Dad outside of a Chinese place we went for their anniversary that year. Spoiler alert: It wasn't good. But the picture are priceless. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMTYD4OHhwBaSbfXyEh_QyVBBGYOstJXDc_GWA-kqiYKrTBte_NxxKrsl4JoFRrHroL51MLKuF5ToLK8E0pibRFwBSZ_-rJBUe3AITGKYsKSVXx2wphk9APpYOPUmL_ZTdC3hg8jnsKk/s1600/dad+lion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIMTYD4OHhwBaSbfXyEh_QyVBBGYOstJXDc_GWA-kqiYKrTBte_NxxKrsl4JoFRrHroL51MLKuF5ToLK8E0pibRFwBSZ_-rJBUe3AITGKYsKSVXx2wphk9APpYOPUmL_ZTdC3hg8jnsKk/s320/dad+lion.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This year we celebrated in a different way. Mom has been working tirelessly at dismantling Dad's old garden in the corner of the yard. These last few days we, with the help of some other great people, finished a few projects in the yard to prepare for today. And then we planted some items in his old garden. First, however, we spread some of Dad's ashes in the holes. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Which means we dug ash holes. For an asshole. I mean, for Dad. He would have loved that joke, so don't feel bad laughing at it. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First we spread some of Dad's ashes in both of the holes:</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYaK69r4SLH0y8I2XQhTLpKBYdtg0QVaHI5TC0LNZZKzXEJCQYvFbyYg61GwaUQGY_htZMci_d_v_8lf01uEKEGQOGsY1uet2PHXC4peVOxLcTPkClL1HGgI4Wi6pR5hvn_2PVJlkk4SE/s1600/dad+hole+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYaK69r4SLH0y8I2XQhTLpKBYdtg0QVaHI5TC0LNZZKzXEJCQYvFbyYg61GwaUQGY_htZMci_d_v_8lf01uEKEGQOGsY1uet2PHXC4peVOxLcTPkClL1HGgI4Wi6pR5hvn_2PVJlkk4SE/s320/dad+hole+1.jpg" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZAHFtv9ddGMSjXBznNIoI6S0-fvIGfasQnMZyQmukIfRElabrRia4Koqp03QQIuLpcof1dKSy39-4pYr2Kw68v-qj50Fud2jtnnBau461cCcwE6vqYespuvIrwPAipEwhG7t-mSGncY/s1600/dad+emily+hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZAHFtv9ddGMSjXBznNIoI6S0-fvIGfasQnMZyQmukIfRElabrRia4Koqp03QQIuLpcof1dKSy39-4pYr2Kw68v-qj50Fud2jtnnBau461cCcwE6vqYespuvIrwPAipEwhG7t-mSGncY/s320/dad+emily+hole.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then we had to listen to my sister freak out because I told her she had some Dad on her hands before we planted a burning bush and a lilac tree in the front corners of the garden he spent so much time building, maintaining, and enjoying the fruits of his labor from. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHqOuiFr-oRgF9tsD5wq9P0Ih1iwUHACrZzz38W6arYAetQ49oymNkO97TqipOv_5nvug_pJIFSnnpl_FyfLdITNdBEeAXjGt3PvjZzLOHBl5m2J_XuWd9016fHKz7Twokwvesu7CVP0/s1600/burning+bush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHqOuiFr-oRgF9tsD5wq9P0Ih1iwUHACrZzz38W6arYAetQ49oymNkO97TqipOv_5nvug_pJIFSnnpl_FyfLdITNdBEeAXjGt3PvjZzLOHBl5m2J_XuWd9016fHKz7Twokwvesu7CVP0/s320/burning+bush.jpg" width="180" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEief_dFeBkZ18MGSDoXjtfBQKeIAIine6wIPVfI9Bi5TgW6z_r2-rPcM9c6NFe3D6fmPOFuWRk0yGSTV9iQMjte29v8jTf9G20Z5JZ9-6N4TJdF3m854YDIi4KYjHH9qIdjbljWfREfpb8/s1600/lilac+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEief_dFeBkZ18MGSDoXjtfBQKeIAIine6wIPVfI9Bi5TgW6z_r2-rPcM9c6NFe3D6fmPOFuWRk0yGSTV9iQMjte29v8jTf9G20Z5JZ9-6N4TJdF3m854YDIi4KYjHH9qIdjbljWfREfpb8/s320/lilac+tree.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The neighbor's even rescued his hideous pet pig that Mom banished outside years ago. He loved that pig. And then somehow, the ears fell off. That's right, Mom, I'm looking at you. Last week the best neighbors ever saw him outside. Mom told them we were going to put it in the garden when we were done with it. So they took him home, glued his ears on, and painted him. Today, Grandma felt like his future was so bright he needed to wear shades.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LJ4vq1lkZL0g6DfqWxRBbGvbQILhUgUURQQRj7GGKBHb7UtaRSrWiXUbSqxnciQMuzU27s_odpq8EDEGVSmNbvDTJGJ4Np9eyvtzdqUQVm3MeB1NPZawZ-3qirLC6TUl81OkyAqf-hI/s1600/pig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LJ4vq1lkZL0g6DfqWxRBbGvbQILhUgUURQQRj7GGKBHb7UtaRSrWiXUbSqxnciQMuzU27s_odpq8EDEGVSmNbvDTJGJ4Np9eyvtzdqUQVm3MeB1NPZawZ-3qirLC6TUl81OkyAqf-hI/s320/pig.jpg" width="180" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But then we gave him the very serious job of watching over the garden. And not </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">just</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> because Mom is happy to get rid of that hideous little statue that Dad sat next to his chair for years. But because we didn't want Dad to be lonely. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfT3gle2q1cR3wes-P0_9ycohOE476jGe5Diu7HPUhZ-TzmBhg-7EN9otCpnMZchrvFDj05KX019JwRaWjzhyBdIhjTJuC34Ed58-nq05J83tltLQ7psmdOhH3q7Gd-FUtDXwpyz7dzc/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYfT3gle2q1cR3wes-P0_9ycohOE476jGe5Diu7HPUhZ-TzmBhg-7EN9otCpnMZchrvFDj05KX019JwRaWjzhyBdIhjTJuC34Ed58-nq05J83tltLQ7psmdOhH3q7Gd-FUtDXwpyz7dzc/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When Mom and Dad moved into this house, more than 35 years ago - she told him she wanted a purple tree and a red tree and that was it. So now she will have that. Hopefully the burning bush we planted isn't any indication of Dad's afterlife. But the lilac tree was dug up this morning from a place he planted it in the front yard - years ago - from just one little stick. As we pointed out today, with Dad in there they should grow like crazy. If nothing else,he was sometimes full of crap - so he ought make for great fertilizer. (Again, don't feel guilty, he would have gotten a kick out of that one too.) </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We didn't take a handful of ashes and blow them away so we could make jokes about blowing him off one last time. (Keep it PG here, kids). But we did partake in one of his favorite activities while in the garden. We took a selfie of everyone who stopped by, after we finished the garden. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDvt1AQ-J1ecy-SGO1Un0xfnOonEZZFJSNqVBlfWap0KbWUe8XzQ5ecW2pFAaAoYWV4LonoAGr4T8rF2OT76zZgLT_KgqUB5LBU6y0RzaXQWVmps72_KHuDSl5olVSc8DGIlaPkrB5O8/s1600/group+selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPDvt1AQ-J1ecy-SGO1Un0xfnOonEZZFJSNqVBlfWap0KbWUe8XzQ5ecW2pFAaAoYWV4LonoAGr4T8rF2OT76zZgLT_KgqUB5LBU6y0RzaXQWVmps72_KHuDSl5olVSc8DGIlaPkrB5O8/s320/group+selfie.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We also headed to Dari-Dip earlier this afternoon and picked up dilly bars.We all know much that man loved Dari-Dip and his ice cream. So we had friends, family, ice cream, and a hideous pig. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mom said a few words about how today was their first date 39 years ago. Apparently, Dad was always looking for a great deal and took her to Burger King. Which is fitting, because she did treat him like a king for the next 37 years. After that we just stored him in a box in the closet. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And she did go to great efforts to make sure he has a great spot. Where we can visit him, talk to him, and if my dog was any indication today - roll around in the dirt at. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">All in all, Dad would have given it two thumbs up. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHXK_vZH3Ebd9CHiJ5xQHKB2Vs6FGg3CB7y3bylA_cAal7CZpEUthxZNNweqyMhXChtGeYguPTnNNhx3nSBaF5gEA0kTc4bhUkAjZeD_-lKXBiJjknzuiEnV216B7eBTvDtIkK3tOhKo/s1600/dad+lion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitHXK_vZH3Ebd9CHiJ5xQHKB2Vs6FGg3CB7y3bylA_cAal7CZpEUthxZNNweqyMhXChtGeYguPTnNNhx3nSBaF5gEA0kTc4bhUkAjZeD_-lKXBiJjknzuiEnV216B7eBTvDtIkK3tOhKo/s320/dad+lion.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then told us we planted him wrong. I'm pretty sure of that. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">See ya tomorrow, Pops. Try not to kill the plants. </span></div>
<br />Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-36560637755912199722015-06-21T22:17:00.002-07:002015-06-21T22:17:35.071-07:00Just Another DayFather's Day can be tough. I get it. Your parent is gone. A piece of you feels missing. It's easy to believe that the day doesn't have meaning. Or rather, that the meaning for your day is gone. Some of us treat it as it's just another day. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My mother and I had a long discussion about this very thing, this morning. Everyone is allowed to (and should) grieve in their own manner. Some choose to move along as if the day doesn't happen. Others decide to mourn the loss of their loved one. My mother is amazing for lots of reasons. First, she put up with all of my dad's crap long enough to have two (amazing, if I do say so myself) children. Then there was "typical" mother stuff. I know some people have less than wonderful parental experience. But, to me, all the things my mom did as I grew up just felt like things parents were supposed to do: she showed up to all my games (and I played a <i>lot</i> of sports), she encouraged me, she supported me, she did my hair, took me to school, picked me up after every (oh God, so many) practices. This seemed normal to me. The being truthful when I sucked at things part was hard then, but now I see the merit in it. This was all so common place in our house - the fact that I had great parents - that I thought everyone had this. Dealing with my father's cancer the way she did was extraordinary, however, there was never a doubt in my mind. She did everything in her power to make sure my sister and I had a father for as long as we could. But she's also beyond compare for sadder reasons: she knows how much we loved our father - so she gets our sadness. But she also lost her father when she was just 19. Well, she didn't lose him - she knows where he is. But it also puts her into the: <i>what do we do with Father's Day now</i> club. So she's understanding, she's helpful, she's willing to listen to me about it and comprehends the importance of those early morning discussions. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, this doesn't mean she always agrees with me. Last year she <i>did </i>scold me for trying to do a Native American rain dance with hopes that it would <a href="http://tumor-humor.blogspot.com/2014/06/let-it-rain.html" target="_blank">ruin all the Father's Day cookouts</a>. This morning, she did, though. Father's Day sucks. Yes. My father is dead. Don't worry, I'm not going to make a bad joke about that. I did that this morning on Facebook. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMREGLy-STl-X8vHV6sPTlDoZWWXBy3oX4MMMTfklwkFbZY26IAlQNzP8HoGyTe4yXmVfHzqFQHa9FFC0O_E1jpDCTdzGHQrhfjHB3ed98NysHGDSaRMQwwhSTQ84NdKQS97_XvscfgcA/s1600/2015-06-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMREGLy-STl-X8vHV6sPTlDoZWWXBy3oX4MMMTfklwkFbZY26IAlQNzP8HoGyTe4yXmVfHzqFQHa9FFC0O_E1jpDCTdzGHQrhfjHB3ed98NysHGDSaRMQwwhSTQ84NdKQS97_XvscfgcA/s320/2015-06-21.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
But that doesn't mean I can't celebrate him. It doesn't mean I can't mock him. Laugh at him. Poke fun at his expense. I mean, the beauty of having a dead Dad? I always get the last word. That must be burning him up somewhere. Let's hope he's not really burning up though. So today we celebrated. And laughed. And told Dad stories.We even went through some of his old t-shirts, looking for ones to wear.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I will forever remember today as the day I learned my father must have worn half shirts in the 80s - because seriously, look how short this shirt is. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkSEJqHU1lUcjdNANBuncbBDWFlXULs-oc5-8LXff-bukwwqMEXUJlvckxVtGmvS7J8IwPwu7w0VLQP3n48_fM4X9V0kIsNmSd-yynX_D-cTS4MNem48yNqyvr95AGL2OI10s8yKwDqQ/s1600/20150621_103409.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkSEJqHU1lUcjdNANBuncbBDWFlXULs-oc5-8LXff-bukwwqMEXUJlvckxVtGmvS7J8IwPwu7w0VLQP3n48_fM4X9V0kIsNmSd-yynX_D-cTS4MNem48yNqyvr95AGL2OI10s8yKwDqQ/s320/20150621_103409.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We went to breakfast at one of his favorite local spots. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We sported mustache rings I purchased at a Relay for Life event a few weeks ago.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aEyYrRkMD7Z0gucEoKzgTJSlh2Ig0C6NE-ZfRAr8EtKJn3oCMnIoSKr8BZ2Clju3fD2Jx9LpJlmk6T1oX629sGffzHDhR9NRJM7s1_OMJkDRRQNb9Gg7U0vhEB-WAbVIJ2zkJvnDJUM/s1600/20150621_113132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0aEyYrRkMD7Z0gucEoKzgTJSlh2Ig0C6NE-ZfRAr8EtKJn3oCMnIoSKr8BZ2Clju3fD2Jx9LpJlmk6T1oX629sGffzHDhR9NRJM7s1_OMJkDRRQNb9Gg7U0vhEB-WAbVIJ2zkJvnDJUM/s320/20150621_113132.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We went to his favorite casino and I lost all my money. My sister looks so happy here because she did <b>NOT </b>lose all her money. I should have taken a picture before we went in, instead of as we were leaving, eh? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiEd6NpxX5g9x7JdvdARYtnM4IQ4ZduugxgLzBvavK-zitrJnKiZ2TqpNpes7KuyLdjCUk078aO1V3Vw2QGLXAXP9VtFjrQ8G-MPqsBWQreFaxTjGkPI84W3nxE38TeBobCqbLMuqy9I/s1600/20150621_174524.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIiEd6NpxX5g9x7JdvdARYtnM4IQ4ZduugxgLzBvavK-zitrJnKiZ2TqpNpes7KuyLdjCUk078aO1V3Vw2QGLXAXP9VtFjrQ8G-MPqsBWQreFaxTjGkPI84W3nxE38TeBobCqbLMuqy9I/s320/20150621_174524.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then we went to one of Dad's all-time favorite places. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXzdMf5n_o_xxtejXe_8I0chJyzCAIMD1rrYFF4GwsWfGTpU2Y44UC7m8hHtv9-tJrHE3RSEJ0pZENJQj6NWBGQdbcWOFn65p6lFSnQSmGdxVENkPadwuZYQMk8CKd54g8jKQA_5Pb_0/s1600/20150621_175825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcXzdMf5n_o_xxtejXe_8I0chJyzCAIMD1rrYFF4GwsWfGTpU2Y44UC7m8hHtv9-tJrHE3RSEJ0pZENJQj6NWBGQdbcWOFn65p6lFSnQSmGdxVENkPadwuZYQMk8CKd54g8jKQA_5Pb_0/s320/20150621_175825.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And ate Redamak's burgers. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbvMPIO0HO_8iwoyDuM58PtS0ZnTgjD59rvJatAxNkA4NiOZ4K5c1rTxA4ltGniPNckhIrduaVP-jSVPI7PBQH1VbiMzTm1F_eMsQBdxiDW3VcarZ5fS0bkj-Xe4k4RQIK9i55za5gZ4/s1600/20150621_181713.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbvMPIO0HO_8iwoyDuM58PtS0ZnTgjD59rvJatAxNkA4NiOZ4K5c1rTxA4ltGniPNckhIrduaVP-jSVPI7PBQH1VbiMzTm1F_eMsQBdxiDW3VcarZ5fS0bkj-Xe4k4RQIK9i55za5gZ4/s320/20150621_181713.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We listened to stories about Dad taking Mom up on the back of his motorcycle when they were young. Back when Mom let him have a motorcycle. This means she was either not smart yet, or really in love with my Dad. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then we came home. My mother made us each two framed collages of Dad. We decorated them and sealed them back up. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYLHymqQek8yIyKvRK6TVYlvY9zqXhodiBO1VXKfBeDuE0PEfEZ5iW15z1AClvPW2Pkyi4x6-gmOrTEJ4e-TYpfaH6BKgQVwR-EKYgTCVFyb_JKysW671fNIB3UXSrHvqQ2kW5vExqtQ/s1600/20150621_232310-1+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisYLHymqQek8yIyKvRK6TVYlvY9zqXhodiBO1VXKfBeDuE0PEfEZ5iW15z1AClvPW2Pkyi4x6-gmOrTEJ4e-TYpfaH6BKgQVwR-EKYgTCVFyb_JKysW671fNIB3UXSrHvqQ2kW5vExqtQ/s320/20150621_232310-1+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was a great metaphor. The pictures won't change - just like our memories. But we can add to them, enjoy them, and cherish them. We can revisit them every day and smile. They are forever ours. Just like the day can be, too. We still have a father.So we can celebrate Father's Day. We just get to spend the money on ourselves instead of on him. Not exactly a win. But we'll call it a tie. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And don't worry, I still found an appropriate Dad shirt to wear. Even if it was tempting to wear a #1 Dad shirt just to confused the masses.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfDEz8zkAExvgcNbLiWUnwfbyrxFTUvspB6XGjYSSiAU66SDnEmyaCiGB8wt7jFStUTDCK8t1KG9a_vQcS9OhmIsqe0Fy7RzsbDamfjxDqJ8CIpNjEYDvMrVM37MF5Mb0dqpI5RJsJSE/s1600/20150621_174344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBfDEz8zkAExvgcNbLiWUnwfbyrxFTUvspB6XGjYSSiAU66SDnEmyaCiGB8wt7jFStUTDCK8t1KG9a_vQcS9OhmIsqe0Fy7RzsbDamfjxDqJ8CIpNjEYDvMrVM37MF5Mb0dqpI5RJsJSE/s320/20150621_174344.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-22739091145875438422015-05-27T21:00:00.000-07:002015-05-27T21:00:54.052-07:00Does It?<div dir="ltr">
There are few things harder than seeing people you care for in pain, especially if it's the type of pain that you can't do a damn thing about. The type of pain that comes from losing a parent - you can't touch it, you can't sooth it, you can't even put your sympathy into words. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzPnZ2W-fR8Yo9KlxFesIz8dZencfuHvhd9hawBD5ywtZZejSra_gFO7Isskj0xMPU7Z8MSbKn6P1DzTBSWulMh3I6l3BQOnZuEs3fC3JeZ67kyH1GFLRGQg8k49gevQsuorH0yQsBSLc/s1600/2dfc0788d8b96770c6ace5ab6c5ad6a4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzPnZ2W-fR8Yo9KlxFesIz8dZencfuHvhd9hawBD5ywtZZejSra_gFO7Isskj0xMPU7Z8MSbKn6P1DzTBSWulMh3I6l3BQOnZuEs3fC3JeZ67kyH1GFLRGQg8k49gevQsuorH0yQsBSLc/s1600/2dfc0788d8b96770c6ace5ab6c5ad6a4.jpg" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
If there's one thing I have learned in the last few years, it's that words are sometimes hollow. You mean well, you try to say the right things - but they are, in the end, only words - just whispers in the wind, things people won't even remember after a funeral service. But we still find ourselves trying to comfort someone we care for. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Tonight, I attended a wake for a friend's father. I tried my hardest to not say "it's okay" or "he's in a better place" or my favorite "he's no longer suffering." As a caretaker, as she was, that one hurts the worst sometimes. We know their lives still had meaning. We know they enjoyed their days. And we know when they wanted to continue their fight as long as they did. The whispers of "you'll have more time" or even "now you can have a life" are all well meant. But it stings. Your loved one was your life. And often, you wouldn't trade that for the world - the stolen moments, the late night laughs, the seconds you shared with them. Loving and caring for someone enough to be with them in their last days and weeks - that is a life. It's your life. And that's okay. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
The 3 a.m. cheese plates, the late night "I want a piece of gum, get me some gum?" They aren't moments that others know of or regard as a life. But it is. It's your life as a caretaker. You don't measure the meaning of your life in dates, dinners out, or coffee with friends - you count making it through another day as a victory. An entire week is a battle won. And when it ends, there is silence. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yv5VSQ2QA5ZitvWiFvuS3mPcdOaPh0XQJoeBKVS-VF8ng7uHHtnV-ZLqZuq4FYY_XZE17ahCpN1j6wnlatyYIWbdoD-c-NdkKQ6LWYUiBQSHidiap-4BXUOKMZEQk-VfLqkhhOspWwI/s1600/881548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yv5VSQ2QA5ZitvWiFvuS3mPcdOaPh0XQJoeBKVS-VF8ng7uHHtnV-ZLqZuq4FYY_XZE17ahCpN1j6wnlatyYIWbdoD-c-NdkKQ6LWYUiBQSHidiap-4BXUOKMZEQk-VfLqkhhOspWwI/s320/881548.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Tonight, my dear friend asked me if it gets easier while we knelt in front of her father's casket. My heart shattered into a million pieces, my stomach dropped, and my words caught in my throat for a second. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
I believe in honesty. I trust facts. I don't think lying to anyone is worthwhile. But in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to say "it will all be okay." </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
Instead, I was truthful. It isn't going to get easier to accept someone you loved with every fiber of your being gone. But getting through a day without them will. You won't magically understand your place in life. You can't fathom how hard it is to find your footing, understand your life purpose, and fill the silence and the void left. But you will. Your life isn't without meaning. And it will, in time, be easier to see that and feel that. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
But does it get easier? No. Instead, you get tougher. You grow stronger. Your resolve hardens. You realize that with all you've been through - you can do this. Your father is gone. Yes. Nothing can change this. No amount of tears, anger, yelling into a running shower, or bargaining can rectify that situation. But the final lesson your loved one taught you? Is just how strong you are. That you can and will survive. You will find your footing. It's the final gift they leave you - the understanding that living without them is hard, but you are stronger than the grief. </div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2UR5TXoIx43K0g6m5h_NDKTnKWnkMzRgJUIOCvBqBIn2icP7G0pvxG8HxYNPWOLfT9UF4w_cP9ELZd5_z1WiDkm0C6FOT8r96OnRFvIZSPVTtAyOiyA97mdqKEq18foMcMPS17p2YGI/s1600/c328fc8ba9da348fe6ef4912d23e43ee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX2UR5TXoIx43K0g6m5h_NDKTnKWnkMzRgJUIOCvBqBIn2icP7G0pvxG8HxYNPWOLfT9UF4w_cP9ELZd5_z1WiDkm0C6FOT8r96OnRFvIZSPVTtAyOiyA97mdqKEq18foMcMPS17p2YGI/s1600/c328fc8ba9da348fe6ef4912d23e43ee.jpg" /></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr">
And when you need your support system, they're right there - with their hands held out to pull you up. And, if they're anything like me? Probably around the corner, rewriting the pamphlets at the funeral home entitled "Losing Your Mother" (at the mall). </div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-87993304406708805292015-04-21T21:44:00.000-07:002015-04-22T13:42:01.550-07:00Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?I grew up in a proud union home. My father retired (earlier than he had hoped) with 35 years at the steel mill. It was ingrained in my head that unions were good - they helped the common man, they stood up for you, they brought you baskets around the holidays, they were who we voted for. It was our bread and butter, as it was explained.<br />
<br />
When my father was laid off when I was younger, the union was always there for us. When I was a little girl, one of the union workers snuck me in one year later than I should have been allowed for the Christmas party because he didn't want me to feel left out. I won a bike that year. I also donated the bike back that same year and left with a stuffed animal. My parents raised me right, don't worry. The point is - we have always been union proud.<br />
<br />
Stick with me, I swear it pertains.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, my mother and I were discussing people communicating with us after they die. Not that we are having tea parties with my father or anything. But it would be nice. I know my mother feels the same way. This isn't, however, Ghost - and we don't even own a pottery wheel. So there is little to no chance that Whoopie Goldberg stars in our Made-For-Lifetime-Movie that we call a life.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to my proof that Murphy's Law exists day.<br />
<br />
I was headed to an event for work (late as it was) when I got a message saying: Ooops, I added an extra 1 when I sent you that invite - it starts at 1 pm not 11 am. I was on the highway. I turned around, headed back to the office and then started out a bit later. With just enough time to spare, my GPS took me what I can only describe as the "You have spent so much time by Arcellor Mittal this afternoon, I think you work here now" route to Whiting. I wind through the mill area, and get stuck by a train.<br />
<br />
Not just any train, have you. A train that was being pulled by a turtle. With a heart condition. In a wheelchair. Missing an arm. Seriously, it was that slow.<br />
<br />
I text my apologies to my co-worker. Seriously, she gets major kudos for not harassing me when I finally showed up with my story in all its glory. And I sit. I wait. I think back to the conversation my mother and I had. And I think: seriously, Dad. No pottery wheel needed, but you could make a softball fall off a shelf or something so we know you're still around. I laugh. I finally start moving again.<br />
<br />
I decide (not really, I follow my GPS (too) religiously) to then wind around by the BP refinery. I see some of the union workers still out picketing at a stop light. I wave. I think how my Dad would be baffled this is still going on. I move on to another stop light. And then I get stuck behind a truck that weaves suddenly, leaving me no option but to run over a small lightweight plastic container.<br />
<br />
...it's not a small plastic container. It's huge. It's hard plastic. And it's making a noise that I can only liken to someone trying to escape the bowels of hell. And now my car smells like melting plastic. I continue for less than a mile, thinking this small (it wasn't) container will pop out. When it doesn't, I pull over, put on my hazards and watch about a million people look irritated at me as they speed around me. I apologize, of course, for my tragic moment interrupting their very busy lives. Or not. Seriously, is there a fire somewhere I don't know about?<br />
<br />
I calmly assess what is happening and I think - well, I'm glad I'm calm. But now what? I do that thing where you lean over and look at something that's beyond repair and try to think about a solution. I stand up. I bend down again. And I think - this is when I need a Dad. So I can call him and say, meet me by the refinery. And bring a stick. But I don't have that luxury. So instead, I lean down one more time, I get in my car. I try reversing. This must work, right? No. Not even a budging of the container.<br />
<br />
I get out again, intent on just leaning over and staring as I mentally run through what may be in my car that can help. Hairbrush? No. Hand sanitizer? Nope. Six hairties around my gear shift? Probably not. Damn these t-rex length arms of mine. I have floss. I have paperclips. I watched MacGuyver at least once - I can do this, right? Suddenly from down the street, at the corner, an older man starts moving towards me. A union guy, picketing at another street corner. He is waving. I flash the "Hi, I am an idiot. Yes, my parents taught me better than this" nervous smile that you all know and wave. He proceeds to get down on the ground and come to the same assessment I have. It is stuck. I know this because I leaned down and looked at least 10 times myself. He tries a stick on the side of the road. It won't move. "One second, I can fix it!" He runs off to the end of the street and returns with one of the big wooden sticks from their picket signs. He has to lie down on the ground and forcefully hit the container 20-1,000 times by my account and it comes out.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," I say. "I'm so sorry. It was starting to smell like burning plastic"<br />
<br />
He holds up the plastic container and shows me where it's starting to melt as if to say "Well, because it is burning plastic" And assures me it's no problem and takes off.<br />
<br />
I get back into my car, turn off the hazards and take a deep breath. And that's when the radio starts to come through. I no longer hear the "AAAH" in my head but the soft soothing sounds of Lionel Richie asking me if it's him I'm looking for. No. But I was looking for my Dad. I found him in the kind older union worker all bundled up on the corner of the street. But I found him. That's all that matters.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidW4g4kHPl-UReow5SoovV1wEAaxbC5E1TMw1Fbkdohuq83RibH-u9Akune65MHJf0A_J5IoImu1xSu_cExFjkFuCGqnkwLmi2oPdxaY36yEODqnEcdNFmCRHCXzHPi5hwkT9vrXVo3p8/s1600/IS+IT+ME+YOURE+LOOKING+FOR.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidW4g4kHPl-UReow5SoovV1wEAaxbC5E1TMw1Fbkdohuq83RibH-u9Akune65MHJf0A_J5IoImu1xSu_cExFjkFuCGqnkwLmi2oPdxaY36yEODqnEcdNFmCRHCXzHPi5hwkT9vrXVo3p8/s1600/IS+IT+ME+YOURE+LOOKING+FOR.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Maybe the dead don't communicate with us the way we'd like. Maybe you don't believe in that. I'm not even sure if I do, fully. But I know today I needed my Dad. And I got the next best thing. Another USW union guy. Like my Dad said - they take care of us when we need them.<br />
<br />
You can argue the point that it wasn't because he was a union man, but because he was a good man. My dad was that, too. So either way? Yes, it was you I was looking for.<br />
<br />
Thanks, Dad. You did always promise to haunt us when you died. I suppose I didn't think it would be in the form of an older Hispanic man with a sign on a stick that was just the right size - but it works.<br />
<br />
<i>Also, if any of you ever hear a really nice man telling the story of the dumb girl who ran over a container by the refinery? Tell him I said thanks. He was gone by the time I headed back out for the day. </i>Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-38558075964044930482015-03-03T16:49:00.003-08:002015-03-03T17:46:26.151-08:00Change Is Inevitable.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHY__Nwj4IAmZF3uLXolAywoGeA7RNOz8ywa2eTIva0XKT24EE0yVk9YNTdrZd9vjXMu19o4XRTQGBcnzlQgwk4rCtr99huEkF9mNUBsChleTES6nZC1Dwy4YS442DgU2HI96-gyAqug/s1600/change-just-ahead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHY__Nwj4IAmZF3uLXolAywoGeA7RNOz8ywa2eTIva0XKT24EE0yVk9YNTdrZd9vjXMu19o4XRTQGBcnzlQgwk4rCtr99huEkF9mNUBsChleTES6nZC1Dwy4YS442DgU2HI96-gyAqug/s1600/change-just-ahead.jpg" height="131" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They say that change is inevitable and change is constant. When
you’re someone’s caregiver, it doesn’t feel like you ever get off the hamster
wheel. Change doesn’t happen, not to you. Not in your house. Not in your bubble
that you call your life. It just keeps going. Things around you change. People
change. The seasons change. But your life remains, in essence, the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You go through the same routine, every day. The variables
change. But the scenario is always the same. It’s the same way when you’re
dealing with grief. You go through the steps, you keep pace. But you don’t
always feel like you’ve changed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There’s a major component missing in your life, when people
die. But the way you feel doesn’t change the way the seasons do, always. The
grief remains constant. The void never fills in. But life never stops moving,
around you. So when you break free of that for moments? There is change. There
has been change. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes you have to create your own change. This week, I
resigned from my position at work. I’ve been where I am now for a little short
of 13 years. My life has, without a doubt, changed since I signed my employment
packet with them. I turned 21, I got cheaper car insurance when I turned 25, I
turned 30, I graduated from college, I survived a house fire, I lost friends,
my relationship status changed, my dad was diagnosed with cancer, my dad
died, my sister got married, co-workers
passed away, my job status changed, I got my first management position, I got
my first office, I got my first company car, I bought my own first car, I lost
pets, I got new wonderful pets, my housing situation changed – all of these
things (and so many more) happened while I worked for my company. The one thing
that remained steady was my employment. The place I went every day. The place
my father had walked into…so many times. That was the steady part of the last
13 years of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But like they say, change is inevitable – evolution is
optional. Which means that sometimes you have to take the change, embrace it,
and move forward. While it’s inevitable that things change, that we must accept
it, that we must even intiate it at times – it doesn’t make it easy. It doesn’t
mean that walking away from everything you know, your comfort zones, the people
you consider friends and even family is easy. It’s the exact opposite. Leaving
somewhere that you know, somewhere that you have grown up – it’s heart
wrenching. It’s terrifying. And it’s so exciting all at once. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father once tried to tell me that you work hard at work,
you even do things you hate, so that you can enjoy the time you’re not at work.
I’ve taken the opposite approach. And been mocked by him since then. I wanted
to love my job, I wanted my soul to feel fulfilled, I expect to have a sense of
peace from what I do for a living. He’d be proud to know that I found a place I
think I can do just that. He’d be even more proud that I actually said yes and
left my comfort zone…which also means I have to leave the offices he’s sat in a
hundred times. I have to leave the ghost of him walking through my work’s front
doors behind me and start a new chapter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For someone who didn’t change much for 3 and a half years
while we spent his last days with him? Change seems hard. We spent so long not
wanting things to change, hoping for things to always hold as steady as they
can. When you’re dealing with cancer – hearing the words no change is usually a
positive thing. I’m sure my Dad would understand that. I also am pretty sure he’s
somewhere rolling his eyes, telling me to suck it up, soldier, and grinning
from ear to ear that I am ready to take on the next part of my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">….don’t worry though, I’m not going far, which just means I’ll
be able to visit my memories of him at work and my work family whenever I want.
Just as an outsider. Which also means they have to treat me like a guest. I’ll take
a coffee with 3 cream and 3 sugar, guys. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here’s to the next chapter, to change, and to hoping you’ve
made your parents hard work at turning you into a decent human being worth it. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQO5J6a-8a6xCcTzrMCQqMotv6S7I7pzut_bw1RKAVh5KYR61hzlnK3N9gKDe4wPfo_uyqPsG7BRlMLdGf78Er9jfx-l4-NUYqey1bKtDD_q4sAGf8W26LSY61dqCM3mf2KhMHGkoHRM/s1600/robert-c-gallagher-quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQO5J6a-8a6xCcTzrMCQqMotv6S7I7pzut_bw1RKAVh5KYR61hzlnK3N9gKDe4wPfo_uyqPsG7BRlMLdGf78Er9jfx-l4-NUYqey1bKtDD_q4sAGf8W26LSY61dqCM3mf2KhMHGkoHRM/s1600/robert-c-gallagher-quote.jpg" height="176" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-68257958805726707152015-01-05T09:03:00.000-08:002015-01-05T09:04:10.091-08:00Weddings and White Castles<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My sister got married this weekend. I was honored to be the
person who walked her down the aisle. I could never fill Dad’s shoes, but I did
rock some killer tennis shoes he would have loved. The party was a blast,
everyone danced, drank, ate, drank, partied, drank…and ended the evening with
White Castles. All in all, it was a party Dad would have been proud of. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We missed his killer dance moves. But my mom did order him a
plate, and he had a seat of honor right next to her. He probably missed her
looking like a movie star. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi30fT5f-ZTnLvLBTuvuZWGEIVsIYJr-1RFQqNMPNwTsDB0GLPY4JneqoU9Ahw8t_UMgCgOg1srp2hjvFFqQwNS095buKlk5Y-tnyyC1tfHsIBCUuFH6S7FeQO7ZkEX7Y_MdZQymlByXHk/s1600/Mom+Before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi30fT5f-ZTnLvLBTuvuZWGEIVsIYJr-1RFQqNMPNwTsDB0GLPY4JneqoU9Ahw8t_UMgCgOg1srp2hjvFFqQwNS095buKlk5Y-tnyyC1tfHsIBCUuFH6S7FeQO7ZkEX7Y_MdZQymlByXHk/s1600/Mom+Before.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But he would have been overshadowed by her beauty,
anyway. So it was probably best he was there in spirit only. He would have just
been background noise to our awesome, right? </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father was always behind the camera, taking pictures of
everyone and documenting every milestone he could. On Christmas mornings, we
weren’t allowed to come into the room until he had set the tripod and video
camera up in just the right spot so that no one missed anything. At the time I thought
it was annoying. Now, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if we recently
found a video tape of him, my mother, and two of their friends painting the
ceiling in our living room. No, really, it’s hours of them painting the
ceiling. We won’t even delve into the hours of him and their friends playing
Risk that we found, as well. When we say he documented everything – we really
mean EVERYTHING. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This also meant that he was absent from a lot of pictures.
But that didn’t stop him from showing up in almost every roll of film. Before
the invention of smart phones and self-facing cameras that man still took a
selfie as often as possible. You’d pick a roll of film up and there’d be 25 of
me opening my birthday presents, then his mug, then more present pictures. He
was king of the selfie before the selfie was a thing. When he passed away, we
had an entire board at the funeral home dedicated to selfies that we found
going back to the 70s. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It only seemed fitting, then, that when I walked my sister
down the aisle – we would take a selfie. And we did. The music started,
everyone stood, we took a step out, and everyone looked back at her. And who could
blame them, she looked amazing. And then we walked her down the aisle to get
married. Just kidding, first – let us take a selfie.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEBZ2ZzVGJSF9M6O1VQClzqLq61Ce8UvDuDuUoWgyarv0OaTD6mdQOYGdYu2RiscdOhr8MAHf55EpRlUtIQ7KdV8kOb3H-nc9FaSiJCJMesgCwCkkSyyZZfZfiFwmSvWQjbjOCGc4umQ/s1600/Wedding+Selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEBZ2ZzVGJSF9M6O1VQClzqLq61Ce8UvDuDuUoWgyarv0OaTD6mdQOYGdYu2RiscdOhr8MAHf55EpRlUtIQ7KdV8kOb3H-nc9FaSiJCJMesgCwCkkSyyZZfZfiFwmSvWQjbjOCGc4umQ/s1600/Wedding+Selfie.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The ceremony was beautiful, full of laughter, and some
tears. It’s hard to not feel like we’re losing another member of our family as
we “let her go” (and no, I’m not singing Frozen songs – trust me) but we know
she’s in good hands. Dad would have been proud of her, of her husband, and of
me for not tripping as I walked her down the aisle. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When we got to the front of the fireplace where they were
married, her husband-to-be was choked up. I can’t say I blame him. She joked,
under her breath, that it was because he realized he’d been duped into this. I
added in he was probably just tearing up because he realized there was no way
out now. But really it was because she looked stunning and he loves her almost
as much as our family does. I say almost as much because he didn’t have to
listen to her slamming doors as a teenager. And he never saw how mad she gets
at me when I make a bad joke at her expense. Which, to be fair, is pretty
often. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I am not, surprise, a wedding lover. And talking about it
for the last year, as Dad had just passed – was not something I was incredibly
open and supportive about. Luckily my mom and sister were focused and paid attention
to every detail. My job was over when I sat down next to my mother and I could
just enjoy watching the two of them profess their love for each other. I was so
happy to see everyone being so happy FOR her. I snuck a picture of her man of
honor holding her flowers. Mainly just to be funny that he had to hold a bouquet
of flowers for so long. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXnLJ8prLD-X2B3iivWnmQI7AzGcMW4I0z9Yp88bVdEQQofCdLH5Gowicv0H-45ZwsmUwcjBmSCQOQ-6BAHWCr8rMuvgQcwJu-uEbmfOCV5K4dRzzoA9gtvNq9rnCXZuaC85ZslwF8t4/s1600/nick+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXnLJ8prLD-X2B3iivWnmQI7AzGcMW4I0z9Yp88bVdEQQofCdLH5Gowicv0H-45ZwsmUwcjBmSCQOQ-6BAHWCr8rMuvgQcwJu-uEbmfOCV5K4dRzzoA9gtvNq9rnCXZuaC85ZslwF8t4/s1600/nick+flowers.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But when I looked back at it, the expression of pure
joy he has on his face is priceless. And it sums up the feeling that I think
everyone had. They were happy. We were, of course, sad that Dad couldn’t be
there. But he was. For every moment of it. I know it would have been nice if he
could have sat next to my mom and held her hand. So they could be proud and (I’m
sure) also a little bit sad to see her get married to someone she has loved for
so long. Instead, she was stuck with just me. But I was glad she was there for
me to hold her hand. Sometimes you get wrapped up in your own thoughts and
feelings and you forget about everything else happening in the world. Or at
least everything happening in your world. I hope, for you, that if and when
that happens – you have a moment like I did on Saturday. When something so good
breaks through all of that and you can feel happy for other people. And I am. I’m
happy that they’re happy. I’m happy that my friends and family had such a great
time. I’m happy that someone else did my hair and made it look so spectacular.
But mainly, I just felt happy. It wasn’t a day for me, by any means. It was her
day and it went off without a hitch. But I do feel like I got a present filled with
happy. And I suppose a brother. I always asked my parents for an older brother.
But I suppose that ship has sailed and I’ll have to make do with that I got.
Just kidding, he’s way taller than me – so I suppose that’s a big brother,
right? </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a wonderful day. My mother (and sister) know how to
throw a party. I think Dad would have been proud to be a part of it. And I’m
not just saying that because we’re a good looking bunch. But also because he
would have been proud of all of us. Mainly them, they did all the work. But he
always cut me a bunch of slack. So I think he would have lumped me into that
group, too. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNc2RH27X1cGbbdJC86hWf_8n1OPv-2EsBEpwWkZRJ-6nQ9Kg0f0IoOpeBLvNVao_ISd21soknh6gYEMI7IGGmwd05f0cM5scjULfFqnIvdVx486Rc6D1Px-jjWDMIEZtFR7iHEt8Yww/s1600/the+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkNc2RH27X1cGbbdJC86hWf_8n1OPv-2EsBEpwWkZRJ-6nQ9Kg0f0IoOpeBLvNVao_ISd21soknh6gYEMI7IGGmwd05f0cM5scjULfFqnIvdVx486Rc6D1Px-jjWDMIEZtFR7iHEt8Yww/s1600/the+girls.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My sister was thoughtful and incorporated so many things
that my father loved. For her bridal shower, my mother and I gave her a Doctor
Who scarf from Dad’s favorite Doctor. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIu94JmkxmxAZib9xmqwoDdq_LT1GfzdUhIz9wVduh7_zrAoXAtZ4sOyhWuqnrC6cru7rC1FUmIw9UukgCb76AtbWljCVpvq0SH9uB8xml1vTEjFNT8HHu43D7RFryAP_Xd9n5Auh2BUI/s1600/bridal+party+scarf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIu94JmkxmxAZib9xmqwoDdq_LT1GfzdUhIz9wVduh7_zrAoXAtZ4sOyhWuqnrC6cru7rC1FUmIw9UukgCb76AtbWljCVpvq0SH9uB8xml1vTEjFNT8HHu43D7RFryAP_Xd9n5Auh2BUI/s1600/bridal+party+scarf.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She rocked it. I’m not even being biased
as a big sister. She really rocked it. And her friend made her a killer set of
Tardis heels for the ceremony. Dad would have been completely geeked out. I
should have taken a picture of Brittany and the shoes, but instead I think you’ll
have to settle for a selfie of her and I.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQjYe8q832NGsoSH37e0pTDTxacqL88u4xQdDqjbR9j4gwYLu2fre2U7kgXR6yGrzqROE24efGGUc0pzyCEAKBY4ClkPCZSPj31GRAWzOSbcnAFM5GHJctVPQg5abgGa5SGrADsuy9yk/s1600/me+and+britt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoQjYe8q832NGsoSH37e0pTDTxacqL88u4xQdDqjbR9j4gwYLu2fre2U7kgXR6yGrzqROE24efGGUc0pzyCEAKBY4ClkPCZSPj31GRAWzOSbcnAFM5GHJctVPQg5abgGa5SGrADsuy9yk/s1600/me+and+britt.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was a wonderful weekend. And I’m proud to say my little
sister is all grown up. Well, I’m using that term loosely. She did wear a
Spongebob shirt to brunch yesterday with a #Swag logo. But we wouldn’t have her
any other way. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXw5qL3BeugtvXIzDjwXvkym6vbwe7pQxB1tL28xkdE0ZjbgAP2_6R4EOiKjDW3tZm4IHfhvEgWM_MQeSx5p924GWoM31kXYSfRFZpNMIMB-IE0Tv32nBdyh-emEkYXzBTsMVWXglQes/s1600/Emily+Dad+Showing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBXw5qL3BeugtvXIzDjwXvkym6vbwe7pQxB1tL28xkdE0ZjbgAP2_6R4EOiKjDW3tZm4IHfhvEgWM_MQeSx5p924GWoM31kXYSfRFZpNMIMB-IE0Tv32nBdyh-emEkYXzBTsMVWXglQes/s1600/Emily+Dad+Showing.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Let's have one final moment of "holy crap she looks beautiful" and p.s., your Dad's showing, Emily. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3290618529982041408.post-8419173464884406462014-12-27T14:45:00.001-08:002014-12-27T14:45:08.437-08:00Oh The Places You'll Go<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today is a year to the day of Dad's funeral. A lot has changed in a year. We've been places, we've grieved, we've laughed, we've made new friends, we've cherished old relationships, we've heard stories we didn't know about Dad, we've finally gotten past the routine that used to be our old life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />It's been over 52 weeks since I had to clean a trach, or make Dad a smoothie. It's been 365 days since my Mom said "Hey, let's harass your Dad and put him in the wheelchair and take him outside." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dad has, however, been on an few field trips. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He went to work with me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CUxTcMgo9335aPdE8vYevH18Q6J971FM7ZlEBgwdiJDjLNfARrfO4lmF4dBqsVvp_GISFzED4ASrkClvP455Hn70OE_LBnFecKfA2geoSdx0iZ3XOCW1MmzPIeDwZLWyPusL1-S-f3o/s1600/dad+-+work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CUxTcMgo9335aPdE8vYevH18Q6J971FM7ZlEBgwdiJDjLNfARrfO4lmF4dBqsVvp_GISFzED4ASrkClvP455Hn70OE_LBnFecKfA2geoSdx0iZ3XOCW1MmzPIeDwZLWyPusL1-S-f3o/s1600/dad+-+work.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He went out to breakfast with Emily, Mom, and I</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkl8IoU8fZi78luQTKK-Mq2mz1NRIbyK5n5nopZFTsLioI8BAVGlW-vnRQE-r0MbaAW1ddsPDJjA-SyAU6PkNLgDyhteu9CZfYuX18t2Ojlrp0jEPMGawoYVIoUciLQYq3dPi97-JOcY/s1600/dad+-+breakfast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkl8IoU8fZi78luQTKK-Mq2mz1NRIbyK5n5nopZFTsLioI8BAVGlW-vnRQE-r0MbaAW1ddsPDJjA-SyAU6PkNLgDyhteu9CZfYuX18t2Ojlrp0jEPMGawoYVIoUciLQYq3dPi97-JOcY/s1600/dad+-+breakfast.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He went out to coffee with my friends </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwAHvVjmNzcNsaid1eUOrqWIdrJToG-8AKUEtL5qBmkvHcpzkK4YBwm8SY_ZoNg4qnnukVjZg83qGaG3Ht-ich-NXwkSqp6QChoZTGx_mu0eHQYE4jLtUdS9JtN69xY71RXZEF1SBPvM/s1600/dad+-+dunkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwAHvVjmNzcNsaid1eUOrqWIdrJToG-8AKUEtL5qBmkvHcpzkK4YBwm8SY_ZoNg4qnnukVjZg83qGaG3Ht-ich-NXwkSqp6QChoZTGx_mu0eHQYE4jLtUdS9JtN69xY71RXZEF1SBPvM/s1600/dad+-+dunkin.jpg" height="320" width="167" /></a> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I would like to say I took him (most of) these places on purpose. But really, I put him in my purse one day and there he's stayed. At first it was because I forgot...and if you know me? You know there's one of everything in my purse. It's a Mary Poppins bag. Only Mary Poppins (probably) didn't have a dead guy in her bag. Who knows though. Where DID that spoonful of sugar really come from? We'll never know. Then it just became a habit to jokingly pull him out at places and say I brought my Dad along. Most recently, it's been more of a sense of comfort, perhaps. Knowing he's always there. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />And he is, not just in mini-urn-to-freak-out-friends fashion - but in my heart. I felt like my heart would break into a million bits the day he died. Instead it grew larger. So that I could carry him, his memories, his love wherever I went. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In exactly a week, I'll take him with me - probably in both heart and urn - when I walk my baby sister down the aisle. It's not the wedding I ever envisioned. I always thought that Dad would be there. And that we'd see his terrible Dad dancing when their first dance happened. But he will be there. In spirit, and in our memories. And in the terrible jokes I am going to say the entire way down the aisle with her. I'm sure that he would approve. He'd probably disown me if I didn't. And in his memory, I think after I give her away (I've been trying to get people to pay for years, but no luck. I suppose I'll have to go for just giving her away at this point.) I'll say "First, let's take a selfie." I hope that Pastor Duane is ready for us next week. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And I hope I can do half as good as he would have at telling her how proud he is of her, how much he loved her, how much we'll all miss having her around all the time. And not just because someone has to be the butt of all my jokes. But because she's my little sister. The only person that shares my Mom and Dad's blood with me. The only person who knows my Dad the way I do. Although, to be fair - we can eat gluten without guilt once she's gone. And Dad would have agreed that this is a win. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We'll probably have to make Dad's urn a tiny suit. He always said that he only wore suits to funerals and weddings. I'd like to imagine he looks a bit like this next week, when we all gather together to finally give my sister away. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rsbcxePwTZsQbqYWp8CgJnDGFfeFpPfOi8A2F-i552RmlzIAWZwecIaqkOF26nzoJM45OR5kObDL9ouuUdfNjBkOB9IBEBNTlPjLWCCeyjKun519vPaUmQmX2vCDUm8qcSNboow-ofE/s1600/Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1rsbcxePwTZsQbqYWp8CgJnDGFfeFpPfOi8A2F-i552RmlzIAWZwecIaqkOF26nzoJM45OR5kObDL9ouuUdfNjBkOB9IBEBNTlPjLWCCeyjKun519vPaUmQmX2vCDUm8qcSNboow-ofE/s1600/Dad.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That face he's making? It's him saying: Stop taking pictures. Knock it off. Or maybe it's: How'd I get such a pretty lady to stand next to me? (Hi, Mom!)</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If only they'd kept that gift receipt 23 years ago. I'd be an only child. And my life would be less full. (Of jokes. CHECK!) </span></div>
Neeseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01585871506450367193noreply@blogger.com0