Today: 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.

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 How Do You Measure a Year?  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 Some people become quiet or withdrawn, others make jokes, some turn their sadness into other's happiness.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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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."

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?

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.

Two years is two too many.

Digging An Ash Hole....

Today was July 5th. I've pointed out in last year's blog post: Eat, Drink, Be Merry, Blow Things Up, Get Married, 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. 

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. 

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. 

First we spread some of Dad's ashes in both of the holes:

                               

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. 

                     

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.

But then we gave him the very serious job of watching over the garden. And not just 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. 

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.) 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

All in all, Dad would have given it two thumbs up. 

And then told us we planted him wrong. I'm pretty sure of that. 

See ya tomorrow, Pops. Try not to kill the plants. 

Does It?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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).

Change Is Inevitable.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

….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.

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.