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.

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. 

Congrats, it's a discus.

Tonight is my last night as a 32 year old. Tomorrow I will no longer be the same age I was when my father passed away.

It's a relief. And sad - all at once. There's a comfort in knowing my dad was at his house when I got home from watching a (really bad) movie with my mom and sister exactly a year ago. But it also will probably be a step forward. Going on a whole new year without him there. I feel torn. I want to leave the 32nd year behind me. To think that time heals all wounds and this is a tangible marker of time.

I may leave the year behind, but not Dad. That's not possible. I figure dragging him along for the ride is a fair trade off for him making me listen to my birth story so many times.

Mom required a cesarean when I was born. And back in the dark ages, they knocked you out. And also stapled you shut. I won't go on about how Dad took a staple gun and stragetically placed staples around their bathroom after we got home to make mom think she was losing them. You're lucky you lived as long as you did, dude. Instead, I will just relay Dad's favorite part.

They owned a tropical fish store when I was born. And my doctor happened to be one of their clients. He proudly removed a beautiful baby (that's me, duh) and handed her off to my father.

In the movies they say "Congratulations, it's a girl!"

In the story of my birth, the doctor chuckled and said "It's a discus!"

My dad told me once when I was older that he wasn't ready to be a father. That he almost felt indifferent until they put that little discus in his arms, and then his life changed forever. Please note that he didn't say for the better or worse. But since he left me to tell the tale, we will pretend it was for the better. I know my future was destined to be full of life, love, and laughter because of my parents. But, then again, Dad did often point out that Mom slept through the whole ordeal and he was the one there to hold me.

From this discus to her Dad: I'm ready to leave this year behind me. But not you.

And for reference, here are a few discus. They look about as amused as I was upon hearing this story 1,000 times in my 32 years.