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 Some people become quiet or withdrawn, others make jokes, some turn their sadness into other's happiness.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. 

Just Another Day

Father'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. 

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 lot 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: what do we do with Father's Day now 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. 

Now, this doesn't mean she always agrees with me. Last year she did scold me for trying to do a Native American rain dance with hopes that it would ruin all the Father's Day cookouts. 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. 

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.

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. 

We went to breakfast at one of his favorite local spots. 

We sported mustache rings I purchased at a Relay for Life event a few weeks ago.

We went to his favorite casino and I lost all my money. My sister looks so happy here because she did NOT lose all her money. I should have taken a picture before we went in, instead of as we were leaving, eh? 

And then we went to one of Dad's all-time favorite places. 

And ate Redamak's burgers. 

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. 

Then we came home. My mother made us each two framed collages of Dad. We decorated them and sealed them back up. 

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.  

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.

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).

Hello, 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.

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.

Stick with me, I swear it pertains.

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.

Fast forward to my proof that Murphy's Law exists day.

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.

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.

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.

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.

...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?

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.

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.

"Thanks," I say. "I'm so sorry. It was starting to smell like burning plastic"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

Weddings and White Castles

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Let's have one final moment of "holy crap she looks beautiful" and p.s., your Dad's showing, Emily. 

Oh The Places You'll Go

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. 

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." 

Dad has, however, been on an few field trips. 

He went to work with me

He went out to breakfast with Emily, Mom, and I

He went out to coffee with my friends 

 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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!)

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!) 

How Do You Measure a Year?

A year is: 

• 365 days
• 52 weeks
• 12 months
• 4 quarters

It's also 525,600 minutes. 

If you're familiar with the musical Rent you'll know this song straight away. You'll probably be humming it by now. You're possibly at this part: 

If you're not familiar, let me assist you. Don't worry, the rest of the class will wait while you catch up. 

When Rent first came out, I tricked my best friend into going to watch it with me. We were two of four people in the movie. As they started singing for the second time in the first 10 minutes he said accusingly "This is a musical?" Yes. Yes it is. I believe he and the only other man in the theater bonded over being dragged to see it. 

Fast forward to it being released on DVD. I made my sister watch it. She loved it. I am surprised I hadn't been banned from my parents house by then, because every time I came over, the movie (or soundtrack) was playing. My father was about as appalled as those two men in the theater had been. 

I can still vividly remember him walking through the house mockingly singing the words "525,600 minutes" with a disgusted look on his face. 

Christmas rolled around. And my sister and I, being the most amazing children he could have ever been graced with, made him a mixed tape. We get into the car Christmas night and he puts the CD into the player and starts to reverse out of the driveway. 

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes." 

"Seriously?" He hits next.

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand." 

This time he hits next with a bit more fury and spits out "This better not be the whole thing, you twerps."

"Five hundred twenty-five." 

*Next*

"Five hundred twenty."

*Next*

"Five hundred."  

Window down, CD flung out of the vehicle. Cue fits of laughter from everyone in the vehicle except for him.

So it seems like an apt way to remember the last year of our lives. Tomorrow will be 365 days since my father took his last breath. It will be five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes since I held his hand and told him I loved him. 

I'd rather measure it differently. 

in daylights, in sunsets

in midnights, in cups of coffee

in inches, in miles

in laughter, in strife

I can clearly remember there being a time I never thought a daylight would come without my father. Or the first time I watched the sunset after he died. There have been so many of them since he left. Daylights that broke where I broke down. Sunsets that were so breathtaking they made me remember when he'd throw me on his shoulders so quickly I thought my breath would stop. 

The midnights continue to come. Even though he isn't there to ask me to (tell me to) make him a cheese plate. Or him changing the channel to the home shopping network where he proceeded to never purchase me anything from. They say that they get easier. Time heals all wounds. I don't know if that's true. Instead of it only being a few weeks since I heard my dad's voice it's been almost a year. 

Luckily, however, there have been numerous cups of coffee, too. From friends, family, co-workers, people you barely even know. And they listen. They console. They laugh with you. They share stories. They play Hungry Hungry Hippo or Cootie with you. These moments are beyond precious. To everyone who has shared a cup of coffee with me over the last five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes - thank you. Thank you for meeting me on Christmas, the day before my Dad's funeral. Thank you for stopping by my house early in the morning with a cup of coffee. Thank you for bringing a cup to my work. Thank you for sharing a mug of homemade coffee at my house. Thank you. For helping me across the inches. 

We inch our way through the first few weeks. They fly by, but you measure them in inches. In tiny milestones. In the first shower you took after he died. In the first time you went grocery shopping. The first time you make dinner. The first time you realize that your life is going to go on. Even if it doesn't feel like it. And the inches turn into miles. Without you even knowing. 

Without thought you realize you're at the 3rd quarter of the year since your father passed away. And you only got there because of everyone around you. Because of your family, your friends, your resolve to move forward. Guts you didn't even know you have make those inches turn into feet and into miles. And maybe into kilometers. But I'm American and we don't get the metric system, so I'm not even sure about that. 

Miles down the road you find yourself laughing. I have read articles on grieving where people say they never thought they'd laugh again. Fortunately, I never thought that. We laughed on the way home from the hospital they took Dad to. We called my Dad the Grinch who stole Christmas. Well - *I* did. My sister and Mom just let me. Because they know there's no stopping my wit and charm. I choose to call it that so that it doesn't sound as creepy. 

There's no way to measure your strife through a year. Believe me, I have tried. I've tried to be angry, tried to be bitter. But I can't. I feel lucky. To have had the year I had. Life is unfair. It's full of trials and tribulations. It's full of life and death and endings and beginnings of all sorts. My life has changed in ways I am just figuring out, in ways that aren't what I thought, in ways I never wanted. But I have people who have shared sunsets and laughter. I (with help) have inched my way into miles. My daylights, my midnights, have been full of coffee, laughter and friends...and love. 

Seasons of love. Seasons come and seasons go. They change. They ebb and they flow. But the last five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes have shown me how much love I had for my father. It's proven that it will only get stronger - that it will never fade.  It's opened my eyes to how many people loved him. And it's shown me how many people I have in my life that will help me through the inches, through the miles, through the strife - and they're always nearby with a cup of coffee and a laugh. No matter if it's daylight, sunset, or midnight. That part of the season always stays constant. 

There will always be love.