I'm Not Good At This.

"I hate to see them like that."
"I'm just not good with this sort of thing."

We've all said it, or felt it.

I'm here to tell you - that's total bullshit.

Before you get offended, or even if you want to stay offended - hear me out.

How you feel, when someone is sick or passing away? It doesn't matter. This isn't about you. It isn't about how you feel, how you want to remember someone, how you want to excuse it.

Before I go any further, let me tell you - you can do whatever you want. You are entitled to your opinion. And I won't actually fault you when you do whatever it is you feel is best for you.

But let me remind you of the childhood lesson I know we have all been taught. The universe doesn't revolve around you. And someone's disease or death? It's not the exception. You don't get to make this about you. It's about that person. It's about their loved ones. It's about their friends and family who have gathered around their bedside.

There is nothing that anyone can say to make me feel differently about this. And I'm not even saying that you're wrong you may not want to see someone like that. But guess what - no one does. I didn't wake up this morning and beg baby Jesus for the chance to stare death in its face. I wasn't wondering if I could be so lucky as to hold my Grandmother's hand while she died. I wasn't hoping to win the lottery and be seated next to my Father when he died. But guess what - I did it.

And no one is good at death. Literally no one. I've seen it, felt it, heard it (and that's the worst sound you'll ever hear in your lifetime, trust me) and experienced it firsthand and secondhand with others I care for and about and love. And it's never easy. I'm not good at death. I'm familiar with it. Practice does make perfect, after all.

But all of this just means I set aside my feelings about death, about staring your own mortality in the face, about how we want to remember someone and I did a human thing: I merely existed in the same space at the same time as them.

This doesn't make me better. This makes me a little more blessed than you. Because I realize that death isn't something to fear. Death isn't always only sad. Death brings people together. Death reminds us of stories to share with those that we care about before we aren't able to any longer. The end of someone's life can be filled with peace and caring. Even when it's terrible. Even when it's the worst thing you've ever done in your entire existence? It's beautiful. To be able to know you were there for someone. That you were able to set aside your feelings for yourself and your own well being and you were able to ease someone's transition. And so that - that makes me feel blessed. Not better.

I'm not even sure what makes me so filled with the need to tell anyone this. Other than I have been there. I've been the person who watched my father not have many visitors he would have loved to see because they didn't want to see a big strong man reduced to being confined to a hospital bed in his family room. What they don't know is that they missed out on words of wisdom, funny stories, late night fridge raids. Simply put: you're the one who has to live with the regret on what you missed out on. You missed the stolen moments of laughter. Because you can't set aside your own feelings of yourself. Those moments are going to happen whether you're there or not.

Breaking it down I feel like saying "I don't want to see someone like that" is as selfish as it gets. Is it because you're afraid you'll realize that you will die too? Is it because you don't know that you're missing out on other parts of life? Is it because you just don't know what else to say?

"I'm not good at this." No one is. I said it before and I'll say it until the day I die. Hopefully, some of you will come visit me. No matter if I still have my full head of hair and it's dyed like a unicorn mane still or not. No one is ever going to be good at death. Some of us are just better at not worrying about how it will affect us. And those people are the ones who will pass peacefully, perhaps. Because we know that death isn't terrifying. We know that it's merely a moment in time. We stop being. And that's it. You're there and then you're not. Not nearly as frightening as you think. But you know what makes all of the time between being there and not worthwhile? It's our friends and our families. And hopefully they're there for you, when able, when your time comes. Because that's what death is about. It's about the end of the life you've lived. And how sad to think people's own fear is what may deny you remembering those moments.

There's more to someone's death than the  moment they stop breathing. You're not there for just that. You're there to be a sense of comfort to those around them. To remind them that their loved one was loved by other people. To let them know that you'll be there when that person's clock stops ticking. And it's lonely when the silence sets in. And you remember all the people who where there in the past, all the people that your loved one helped in their lifetime. And how some of them can't be there because: I don't want to see them like that.

Again, it's your prerogative. And I still love each and every one of you who has used this line. Because we all have. Either out loud or to ourselves when we didn't go somewhere we didn't want to. But next time, boil it down to what it really is. Say this out loud: I don't want to come see them. Take your feelings out of it - because this isn't about you. And if you can say that, out loud, to yourself and to their family - then don't go. If it's just because you're worried that it will be sad? You're right. It will.

It will be sad.
It will rip your heart out.
It will make you not sleep, at times.
Those last moments will invade your dreams.
You'll find yourself unable to breathe, sometimes.
You will wish you never saw some of the things you did.
You'll feel nauseous.
You'll wish it would have gone differently, maybe.

But you'll never regret being there for someone. And all their someones. That I can promise you.

I'll Save You A Seat.

There's a certain responsibility that comes with being an alumni of the "Dead Parent (or person, they aren't always a parent, but we'll use Dead Parent as mine is a Dead Parent)" club. No one tells you about it, in the beginning. They probably don't want to scare you off. Or they're still deciding on a logo for Dead Parent Club. Maybe the Board of Directors is just slow.

But one day, you'll find yourself as the Dead Parent Mentor. It isn't a glamorous position. It isn't something that they write a manual about - but they should. It doesn't even pay well. At least not in cash currency. It's just that. Dead. Parent. Mentor.

Don't worry, there are perks. You can share terrible "My Mom" or "Dead Dad" jokes. Don't make that face at me. Until you've made the "Sorry your Dad calls you too much, mine doesn't get good cell service down there. He's dead." joke? You have no idea how satisfying it can be. And there's that terrible sense of satisfaction that you have in knowing that all the grief you've felt wasn't in vain. You can use your "steps of death" to help another person. (Pro tip: mine is an escalator. Mainly because I am lazy and also because sometimes I run down them and it's hard as hell to escape still going up.)

It's undeniable that sharing your grief with another human being is a bond that is special. It's weird. It's totally indescribable. Sometimes it's beautiful. Sometimes it's exactly what you need. Other times it's like pouring salt in a wound. Only it's a wound you opened yourself. And sometimes it hurts more than the first time. It's not a Bryan Adams song. It cuts like a knife. But it doesn't always feel so good. But then it does. But you can't deny the inevitable heartbreak that follows it. It isn't even for yourself, anymore. It's for that person. Because you know the good days can lull you into a false sense of comfort. And that there's a bad day up ahead. But you don't say that. Because that would make you a dick. And because you care. More than you should. Because you know. There's a dull ache in your heart. One that you can't touch. Because you know that, two years later - where you are now - they'll still have those moments where you're driving in your car. And it suddenly hits you. That they're gone. They're still gone. And you wonder how you could have ever forgotten it. And then you start to question if it's too soon to forget for a whole day and feel happy. Is that okay? Is that allowed? And why isn't there a damn manual? You'll still wonder, two years later - where is that manual? Why didn't someone write it for me?

Grief strips you down. It leaves you bare. And it didn't even attempt to buy you dinner first. So reliving it, even years later, makes you feel cold. It makes goosebumps form on your skin. Just like when you strip down. But it also shows you the true colors of people. Of those you care about. Of those you thought cared for you. Your friends. Your family. But mainly yourself. You think that grief is about how you feel for another person. About how much you loved that person. But grief also teaches you just who you are, as a human. It shows you if you can make it. And you can. And you will. And you'll pick up people along the way - those who understand you, who care, those who can literally feel your pain. And those people are the ones who two years down the road won't forget you. They won't forget that you have grief. They'll check in on you. They'll share a terrible Dead Dad joke with you. And they'll laugh, even if they think: what is wrong with her? Some people forget, after a few weeks. After months. Definitely by the time a year has hit. They'll forget. But you can't blame them. They don't feel the grief. Not the way your fellow members of the Dead Parent club do.

I remember, when my father died, someone reading a long letter from someone welcoming my mother to the widow club. I was appalled. I was almost offended. If I had feelings, that is. But now I get it. It's true. Grief pushes people away. Grief makes some people vanish. But it also makes you a part of a club of those who understand. (And no, they don't all have to be part of the dead parent club, we call those people allies.)

I've broken down the way Dead Parent club works. It's like the movie Mean Girls. There's clearly divided sections, segregated by tables. There are those who sit at the Angry Table. They're angry. They don't understand how people can still be alive when their loved one was the most amazing and clearly the biggest loss to the world. They gravitate towards people who are angry. Because there's power in numbers. That power is loud. It's fierce. And it is mad.

Then there's the sad table. They still tear up, years later, at the mention of Mother's Day. These people are kind and soft and calm. They say things like: it gets easier. While wiping their own tears away. They will be the ones you call when you need a shoulder to literally cry on.

There's the oblivious ones. They act as if nothing has happened. People wonder how and why they're so strong. Where do they find the power to get through the day? Because they are still ignoring it. There are three things that don't go away: a toothache, pregnancy, and a dead loved one. People don't stay at this table forever, it's a transitioning table. They move to either angry, sad, or inappropriate table quickly.

Which leads me to my table: the inappropriate table. I sit at the head of it. We make bad jokes, we often make others feel uncomfortable. But mainly: we don't worry about steps. We don't worry about the normal stages of grief. And we rarely worry about being politically correct. If you know me and you become a part of this table? You know you'll receive terrible pictures of pigs on a spit being cremated. Probably the day before your loved one's funeral. You know I'll send you a picture of my Dad's urn, on my desk at work - right after I pulled him out and told someone "Don't speak to me like that in front of my Dad." We also won't be politically correct when you ask us how things are, or how they will be. We'll tell you: things suck. They will suck. But you'll get through it.

Being a member of the Dead Parent Club isn't going to make you famous. It isn't going to make you look amazing at parties. But it will make you realize that you aren't alone. Even when you feel alone. It will hurt when someone you know goes through the same situation. You'll find yourself driving around the block a few extra times on a night that you've gotten bad news about a friend, knowing his family will experience what you did. And all you know how to do for the moment is turn up the radio, sing loudly, and dance it out while driving around the block for 15 minutes after you should be home.

And then you come inside, and you sit down at the table. You make an inappropriate joke. And you're home. For better or for worse? That's your table. It's a fun table to sit at, if you have to choose a table. And if you do? You can come sit at my table. I'll save you a spot. Because as much as you think that being a mentor is a thankless job? The people who sit at your table may just be mentoring you, too. So don't take their lunch money. They're here to help. Even if you didn't know you needed
it.

And on Wednesdays - we wear black. Like my Dad's soul. Because you know. He's dead. And soot-y, now.

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.

Shake it Off

Today is the day, everyone. The day we celebrated Dad's birthday with him for 56 years. It's the anniversary of the moment he was brought onto this planet. It marks the exact start of when my life's footprint took shape. What a momentous occasion.

How do we celebrate someone after they're gone? Are you intended to be sad today? Do you not acknowledge it? Do we pretend that it's just another day? ....not if you're a Carpenter. We take this huge event and boil it down to its essence.

Basically, this means we got (what I call) Dead Dad Cake. We forced a bakery worker to write something ridiculous on it. And we impulse bought.

Sums Dad up in such an eloquent way. We had dessert. We bought things. We were smart asses. And we made a random stranger uncomfortable. Yup, his spirit is still alive.

You may remember Dead Dad Cake from last year's entry: Full of Jive. And any of you who remember Jim can recall him singing along to basically everything. We won't relive the time I walked into his kitchen while he was singing "This shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s" while he was scrubbing the stove. I won't even mention the time he couldn't hear me yelling for him to come in, at my house. Why? Because when I finally opened the front door he had his iPod on and his earphones in while singing "Miss Independent" by Kelly Clarkson. This makes his Taylor Swift inspired cake fitting. 

I tried to get the bakery lady to write "Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate." After a few words of encouragement that included "Listen, it's my Dad's birthday and he's dead" - we settled on this. She did, however, try to include proper grammar and make it say "Haters are going to hate." 

As much as I am not a TSwift fan, Shake it Off is an appropriate theme. People seem to make you feel as if you should shake off a day like today. Just take it in stride. This is officially my second Dead Dad Birthday - and you can't shake it off. Trust me, you would if you could. If a grieving person could shake off that feeling of sadness - they would. Who wouldn't fill the empty spot in their heart, given the option? The grief, we could all do without. The remembering? I wouldn't change that for the world. So when my sister asked if I wanted to go to the pet store? I was ready. 

We went to look at fish. Our parents owned a pet store that specialized in tropical fish. There was (and still is) little to  nothing they didn't know about owning, caring for, and loving your fish as pets. Which may lend itself to explain why I walked out with a fish tank well beyond the scope of the tiny beta tank with Toothless, the Dragon Beta as its lone inhabitant. 

As my sister and mother helped me set up the tank this evening, we were happy. We talked about what fish to put in, our favorite fish throughout the fish store's existence.It's sad that Dad wasn't there. But the afternoon and evening flew by. And now I have a lovely reminder of today. Of my father. Of my mother and father's knowledge. A remembrance of their love for fish and the calmness a good fish tank can bring to someone. And that, even when I'm an adult - I will need them to teach me. To remind me of things. To tell me "stop spilling water" even. 

The tank is empty for now, as the water waits for the right temperature and pH balance to move its new tenants in. But I type this now, from my bed. The light is on. It looks amazing, thus far. And the small quiet noise the filter is making is a near-silent but ever present reminder that I can't shake it off - but I can remember the beautiful moments and all that my father taught me. Not just about fish. But about being strong, remaining resilient, never giving up, and mainly - not to put more than one male beta in a tank - unless we're running a gambling ring. 

Don't shake it off, when you have grief. That's my advice for you. Especially if it's because others make you feel as if you should. Instead, dig deep - find a way to make that grief work for you. Don't always go buy a fish tank, however. They're expensive. 

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).