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. 

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.

Get Me My Jason Mask

This is the first Halloween without my dad. 

He loved Halloween - we carved pumpkins for as long as I could remember. And he proceeded to win the family carving competition, without fail. Spoiler alert: he was always the judge. That's a common theme. Dad being in charge of who wins, Dad winning. 

Even in the face of turmoil and change, he didn't lose his Halloween spirit. When his surgery didn't go well in 2011, he had been home for less than a week when the holidays came around. Between his month long ICU coma and a stint in a medical rehab, he had waited for Halloween for what seemed like ages. When you're stuck in an Intensive Care Unit (or, as we found out from research, a nursing home) you can develop a loss of time, days, day or night.  Dad would ask us frequently if he had missed Halloween when it was only October 12th - and every day after that, as well. He wanted to be home for the holiday. Sometimes the confusion was worse than others: once he got out of bed at the rehab facility on his own (he had been using a walker until that point) and assaulted a CNA with it when he confronted him. 

Why? Because he was sure that, in his uncertainty, someone had kidnapped his family and taken us to South America...where they then sold us. Unfortunately, his CNA this evening was named Miguel and ended up knocked over via a walker and a protective dad and husband who needed to get his family back. We cleared that up (and never saw Miguel again) and Dad came home not long before Halloween. 

He refused to be left out of the pumpkin carving fisasco when I hosted a pumpkin carving contest at work for our customers that year. He made my mom get a pumpkin and they drilled holes in it, filling it with Dum Dums. He, again, declared himself a winner because, as he said to me "who doesn't want free candy, D-bug?" 

Every year, my Dad handed out the candy. He would set up his speakers to play Halloween music, make the kids say trick-or-treat and giggle when the spooky music made a kid scared. This was no exception. He said to my mom he needed his Jason mask and his wheelchair. "Go wheel me out onto the front porch, so I can scare the kids." 

I don't think anyone was ever truly scared of my Dad. His big heart (and love of children) could be spotted from a mile a way. Tonight we will have zombie cupcakes, in his honor. Because, well -  they're spooky and also dead. 

Hey, I never said that we were politically correct. And Jim wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Spoiler alert: I didn't even carve a pumpkin this year and I think I beat you, Dad. SUCCESS. Finally.

Stay scary, folks! 

Full of Jive....

My dad's birthday is today. He would be 57. Birthdays were always kind of a big deal. There were balloons, and cakes, and presents. At least if you were dad. Here's just a glimpse into one of his earlier birthdays. He looks pained to have to open all these presents, doesn't he? Please note the dot matrix printer "Happy Birthday" banner in the background. And let's quickly discuss where Dad's children get their dorkiness from. I am pretty sure that's an old school robot on his birthday cake, yes? Yes. 

Dad had been not doing well for the few months before his 55th birthday. They hadn't recommended bringing him home, but thought that we should leave him in a nursing home. Mom, being the bull-headed (and amazing) woman she is told them no way. She would bring him home, she would fill him with home-cooking and surround him with things and people that he loved. He hadn't spoken much, but came home the day before his 55th birthday. He had lost over 100 pounds since his journey began 13 months before that. He had a feeding tube, and wasn't really eating much by mouth. In the ambulance, riding home, my mom reminded him it was his birthday the next day and asked him what he wanted on his birthday cake. He wanted his cake to read exactly as she made sure it did the next day. (The piece missing was cut immediately for him, we didn't take it - promise!) 

That's right, he said "I'm 55, still alive, and full of jive." And he was. He grew stronger, he lived for another 14 months with us. He thrived, he laughed, he mocked us, he shook his fist in frustration in our direction, he made us make cheese plates at all hours of the night, he didn't dance the jive - but he was full of it. And let's be fair - he wouldn't have danced the jive even if he could have. 

Last year, we kept the tradition going for his birthday: 

This will be our first birthday without Dad. It will be hard. We won't want to celebrate it with balloons or running boards for his truck (that was what was in the huge present years ago) - but I am thinking we will, in his honor, make some zombie cupcakes. And we'll still celebrate that he was born, that we got to cherish all our moments with him, that we were gifted an awesome dad, friend, spouse, co-conspirator, and ...well, we will have more cake without him here. I think we may have it read: Fifty-Seven and Laughing From Heaven. 

And don't worry, we'll save you a piece, Dad. 

Edit: I have the best mom, ever. Look at the cake she picked up. 

I'll Be There For You....

Today I had to make a stop after work. This required me driving a different way - the way I used to drive home from one of my dad's rehabilitation places, in fact.

I sometimes think about alternate times. I wish I could have actually passed  myself 18 months ago, and told past me to enjoy every second. I could have told her to not feel frustrated Dad was having troubles walking, but just relish in his being there - even when he woke me up at 2 am asking me to make him cheese plates. Or when he made me give him a remote so that, after falling asleep at 10 p.m., he could wake up at 10:55, right before the answer to the Criminal Minds episode was revealed...and turn the channel to an informercial. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy these moments. I lived for them, I told people about them, I loved them as if they were the best moments I had ever witnessed. Mainly because - they were. We had seen the "what ifs" and we were loving every moment of every extra second we had with Dad. But, we were waiting for...better times. We were trying to get through the rough patches, certain that one day things would possibly (hopefully) return to (at least MORE) normal.

Those moments never came. Not in the way we expected them, at least. And I felt sorry for myself, for a moment. I felt ashamed that 18 month ago Denise was driving home at the same time I was now, in the future. And past Denise was tired, she was crabby, and she was tired of driving back and forth to hospitals. She was doing it because better times awaited, though. And then it hit me. Today was the three quarters mark. My dad has been gone for 3/4 of a year. It seems like forever ago and just yesterday all at once.

I try not to count the days, the weeks, the months, the special moments. It seems sick, at times. So I had almost forgotten. Remembering suddenly as you're accelerating on the expressway ramp is probably not ideal. But there I was.

Ah, radio. This will help. I turn the 90s channel on, because - well I was born in the 80s. The 90s are my jams. And there's some Duran Duran. Asking me who do I need, who do I love, when I come undone. I'm undone all right. In the sense that I am about to cry to a Duran Duran song. 

As a child, I think we grow up, but we don't always grow out of our roles as children. My parents will, forever, be the people I need when I feel a bit undone. And, as I'm now merging into traffic, this is unfair. The person I need the most - the other half of the most comfortable place in the world - is gone. Being a glutton for punishment I listen to the rest of the song. And maybe curse my Dad a few times. Because it's clearly his fault he's gone. Right? Don't try to rationalize it. We all know it doesn't make sense.

The song ends. I attempt to change the channel when I hear "Yo, VIP, let's kick it." Right, Vanilla Ice. And now I do feel a few tears actually fall. But they're happy and ridiculous tears. Right before Dad's last surgery, he picked me up at my house and made me take him (Okay he drove, but he made me pay) to Dunkin Donuts, where he proceeded to turn up Vanilla Ice on the radio when we pulled up to the drive-thru. Here is a glimpse of his interaction with the nice - and patient - drive-thru lady.

"Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, can I help you?"
"Well, anything less would be a felony."
"Excuse me?"
"Turn off the lights and I glow."

He finally orders, the speaker lady says: "Please pull up."

"Word to your mother."

As we're waiting he's dancing...I am using the term loosely here, trust me, in his truck.

Me: I'm just going to preface all future interactions with people by saying "Sorry, he has a tumor."
Him: Hey, you gotta use it while you can.
Me: Using brain tumors? That's classy.
Him: Well, I rock the mic like a vandal.
Me: To the extreme?

I was less embarrassed at this Dunkin Donuts episode than I was at the idea that I was now driving down the highway shedding tears as Vanilla Ice whispers "too cold, too cold." at the end of his song.

I smile. I think well, I did say I needed my Dad when I come undone. So apparently my payoff came in the form of a Vanilla Ice song. I also start to think I should rethink pretty much my entire life.

The next song shoots right into The Rembrandts reminding me that they'll be there for me. Even when it hasn't been my day, my week, my month, or even my year. It's safe to say I have now decided this is divine intervention, my father is speaking to me via the XM Radio's 90s on 9 station. I likewise think it's also a safe bet that I am the textbook definition of what kids call a "hot mess".

I sniffle through a few choruses of "I'll be there for you," thinking that this is the worst of it. But that I must immediately change the channel when the song ends. I am seriously certain my father can now hand pick the songs from Heaven and that I must never relay any of this story to anyone for fear of being mocked, stoned, and probably put into public stocks. Or possibly locked away for a bit.

The song ends. Quick, change the channel. I flip just in time to hear Led Zepplin sneak in "I need to tell her she's the only one I really love." And now I have decided I am either in a bad Lifetime movie or I am being punked.

A few months before my Dad got his trach put in, I was alone with him on a Saturday at my parents' house. He was attempting to ignore me by listening to his iPod. As you can tell, music has always been a big deal around here. Not that my Dad (or I) can sing or even read music probably. But it's always been a pretty important part of our lives. He's in his hospital bed, earbuds in, and I catch him mumbling along quietly, "I wanna tell her that I love her so. I thrill her with every touch. I need to tell her she's the only one I really love." He stops, pulls one of the earbuds out of his ear, looks at me and says "I need to tell your mother that." He quickly puts the earbud back in and resumes ignoring me. I have no idea where that memory went. I didn't even recall it, until this moment in the car this evening. I don't even know if I ever even told my mother this story. (Sorry, Mom.) Life got hectic, every day was an uphill battle. And the little things sometimes slipped through the cracks. I believe this was one of those "things" ...but just like Dad they were not forgotten. Just tucked away for safe keeping. 

The moral of the story is that I suppose he'll always be there for me, when I come undone, when it hasn't been my day, my week, my month, or even my (3/4ths of a) year. Will it ever stop? Nah. Know why? Because anything less than the best is a felony. Now, check out the hook while DJ Dad revolves it, kids. 

Stand Up For Yourself And Others

We are sitting here watching Stand Up To Cancer and reminiscing about Dad.

When Stand Up To Cancer first aired, years ago, it wasn't well known. We watched it with Dad....who literally stood up out of his chair every time they said the words "stand up to cancer" during the hour long television show.

As someone who saw him no longer able to stand from a chair, and wished for nothing more than to see my dad stand up and walk down the hallway of their home, it's a bittersweet memory. I'm proud of him. Proud that he stood up to cancer. Proud he fought for as long as he could. Proud that he affected so many lives in his own short life.

But I'm sad. Sad he was robbed of the chance to stand on his own. Sad that cancer knocks as many people on their ass as it does. I'm sad that so many can say they were touched by the disease.

But being where we have been,  seeing what I've seen, I'm also encouraged. I'm encouraged by the generosity of strangers. I'm encouraged by the people who have reached out and asked to help with The Jim G Carpenter Foundation. The deepest darkest depths of this horrendous disease has crippled and robbed our family. It has brought us to our knees. It has rocked our world and made the bottom fall out from under our feet. But it has shown us how good people are, how strong they can be when you can't be strong for yourself, and just how much promise there really is in the world. The darkest times sometimes show you the most blinding of lights.

I don't have cancer to thank for this eye opening experience, but people. People show us the good every day. People like my family, my friends, cancer survivors,  community members - this is what provides us with the light and love (and often times laughter) that help pull you through. These are the people that help you stand up to cancer. They are often, also, the people need our help standing up to cancer themselves.

If you feel like you want to donate to help others stand up to cancer, feel free to do so here.

My dad taught me to stand up for myself, no matter how hard it was. He believed you should never back down from a challenge. No matter how difficult or fear inducing the fight was - you give it all you can. And that's exactly what he did. Until his very last day,  he stood up to cancer. Even when he couldn't stand up any more. He fought hard enough and long enough to instill the fight in so many others. I implore all of you to stand up. For yourself, for others,  to cancer, to your darkest fears. Just stand up.

Now,  if you'll excuse me - I need to go stand up and sit down a few 100 times from my dad's chair. Just like he always stood next to me? I will continue to stand up for him, in his honor.