This is Us is All of Us.

I'm not sure how many of you are watching This is Us. I'm also unsure if I should recommend it or not to anyone who is living with the reality of cancer, or the mortality of someone they love in the near future. There's something disturbing about watching your own fears play out on the television, with actors who you've never met - finding common ground with someone who isn't even real is comforting and terrifying all at once.

Today, I watched Randall live the nightmare that I had over and over again when my dad was sick. He walked into a dark room, he reached out to shake his father's shoulder at the piano bench. And he was dead. As the man slumped foward towards the keys of the piano, I felt myself jump and heard the gasp leave my mouth. He woke with a startle, from what we learn was a nightmare. And I breathed a sigh of relief. For this character I will never meet. And it all came back in a flash.



When my dad was at home, in a hospital bed in the living room of the house he built for his family, I slept on a couch. Then a futon. And when we realized it was going to continue for longer than we anticipated, I moved myself in. And my mother moved a day bed into the corner of their family room for me. I slept at night downstairs with him. And my worst fear was always that I would wake up in the morning to my mother coming downstairs and find my father dead. He would have died on my watch. I remember waking up with a start many nights, unable to hear his steady breathing, and making my way to his hospital bed that was stationed in front of the beautiful brick and tile fireplace he built with his own hands and watching for the rise and fall of his chest. For over a year, I can recall not taking my glasses off as I slept - for fear I would have to jump up at a moment's notice and not being able to see.

When parents point out how hard it is to not sleep, I relate. When they say you have no idea of what responsibility is until you're responsible for another human life - I know it even more than they can imagine.

I prayed. I bargained. I wished. I hoped. Everything and anything you can do. Any god you can pray to. I implored them to not let me be alone and have to worry about a dead father. It's funny. I had forgotten all about that. And how angry I was when people talked about my father's end of life. Until I watched this man. Someone who isn't real. Someone whose life will probably never actually mirror mine yelled at a therapist "should we just dig the hole now or wait until there is an actual body?!"

So I'm still unsure if I should suggest to people who have been or will be in my position that they watch This is Us. But I can say they're dealing with an actual real life situation in a very real way. I always scoffed at and mock the hospital shows - their ventilators are always wrong. The way people react is never real enough. And then here's this random show. With Randall. And the way he feels anger, has fear, clings to his job as the stable and solid part of his life. It's all so real, that all of "us" - those in that club that has the highest of dues - is, in fact, This is Us.

No Peas, Please.

There are times that the words flow from my fingertips. These are the days I feel like I love writing, days I feel like I have to write or the words will swallow me whole. And then there are days when I want to write, when I feel like I need to write. And it's so hard. Today is one of these days. So was yesterday. And I know it's because this one is hard. Harder than some of the others.

Death is never easy. People make you feel like when they're older, when they've been sick, when they aren't children - it's easier. They've lived a full life. That's not true. It's still hard. It's still the thing that splits you open, with a canyon bigger than the great one settling into your heart. This one seems even harder.

I don't know why. Is it because Lyndsie was young? Only 32. Was it because we grew up together, basically? Could it be because she has a beautiful little almost three year old? Perhaps it's because her smile could, since she was a child, light up a room - it was infectious. Maybe it has something to do with the season. "Dead Dad" day was just a few days ago. This time is rough for all of us. Or maybe it's just because it isn't fair.

Life isn't fair. And death is even less so. It doesn't discriminate. It doesn't take into account how much you're loved, the sense of loss that the world will feel without you. It has no care about how your little girl will grow up without knowing her mother, but certainly will hear about how much she is the spitting image her. Death could care less than you die the day after Christmas. As far as death is concerned, it did you a favor by giving you that last holiday. And maybe it did. Family gathers, friends are there. Does that make it easier? Does anything make death easier?

We try to kid ourselves, tell ourselves that it's in God's plan. That God knows what he's doing. Maybe that's right. Perhaps we are all just not privy to his plan. To that I have a little something I would like to say:

Author's Note: Today is five or six days since I wrote this and stopped. I've tried to pick it back up a few times. But it's been the hardest thing I have tried to do in months. And you guys know me, always doing something stupid - so for this to be the hardest thing. You have to know how tough it's been. 

I've been watching the posts come across my Facebook newsfeed. Reading stories about how many lives she touched in her short years, and seeing her million dollar smile over and over again. And I figured - today is the day. New year and all. Finish it. And since the last thing Lyndsie ever said to me was this: 

I feel I have to somewhat live up to this expectation. Humor has always been easy for me. In the darkest of situations, I make terrible jokes. The day before Lyndsie passed away, we received news that George Michael had died. Immediately I blurted out: Do you think someone woke him up before he went went? 

I'd say it's a real gift. But it's also probably a curse - mainly for those around me. My life has never been charmed, it hasn't been perfect - but it's always been full of laughter. Even and especially in the moments where others struggle to find any positivity. And always in those seconds where you shouldn't make a joke - there I am. Always. These last few days have still been filled with jokes and laughter. 

Some of Lyndsie's family came over the day she died and we shared some funny stories. We laughed together, there were tears shed that day, as well. So it isn't as if I haven't found humor. But sitting down and writing this makes it feel so final. More final than knowing her services were over last night. More set in stone than the phone call I received that morning. Or the post I saw on Facebook that sent me scrambling to find where my mother was so I could let her know.

I made a resolution to myself that this year  (amongst other things like reading more and learning to love the life I live even further) I would write more. Maybe here, but always somewhere. At least once a week. And this seems like a fitting way to begin that resolution to myself. With my first little sister, as she says. 

Lyndsie and her family moved away when we were younger, but they always still felt like family. Once, she came back to visit and stayed with us. I can still remember her, sitting on the top bunk bed in my room. Swinging her feet. Probably with that notorious smile plastered on her face. I can't even tell you what happened next. But it resulted in her grabbing the framed picture off the wall and it ripping. She probably fell, to be honest. But being in big sister mode, all I can remember is thinking: that little brat just ripped my collector's edition-very expensive-very amazing-verypriceless picture of George Harrison. Who just so happened to have been my favorite Beatle. My mother sat me down and explained to me that no we can't have a formal trial. No, we aren't going to put her in "the hole". And absolutely not, you can't make her sleep outside in a tent for the remainder of her visit. 

I forgave her. As you do little sisters. And I still laugh about it. But it did teach me a very valuable lesson, honestly. About accidents. About forgiveness. About how littler sisters will touch everything and break all your things. And you can't return them, because there is no gift receipt with a little sister. My blood sister should thank Lyndsie for training me so well. Because it probably saved her from being put on the Internet in later years. Sister for sale: will pay you to take her. 

I will, however, let you know that during that same visit, when my father made Lyndsie eat green peas and she cried and told him how he was the meanest man alive and how this was torture: I didn't stop him. I didn't speak up for her. I ate my green peas (that I detested) with a smirk. And that's when she also taught me about karma and about silent revenge. Also very important for a big sister. 

In true Jim Carpenter fashion, that year for Christmas he wrapped up a can of green peas and sent them to her as if they were a present. Consider that my next lesson she taught me: how to laugh at someone else's pain. Seriously though, green peas are the worst. But that did not stop me from posting this to Lyndsie's page when they sent her home from the hospital a few days before her departure from our Earth. 

Lesson there: a good joke never dies. And memories live forever. They make us laugh, they can make us cry. But they can also remind us just how much we loved and still do care for someone. Even when they're miles away. Even when there are years between visits. 

Lyndsie passed away the same day of my Dad's service. And I can only imagine he was there, greeting her with a smile, open arms, and a plate full of peas. And reminding her to eat her vegetables. With any luck, in Heaven, you don't have to do what men with giant mustaches tell you to do. 

I feel at peace to know that someone was there who knows Lyndsie the way I do there to help her along the way. I feel a sense of happiness that the last thing she probably ever read from me was "love you!"

When Lyndsie's battle got tough (not that it all isn't) a few months ago - my family sent a card a day for a month. Just a little reminder someone was thinking of her. We sent a few shirts with my Dad's face on it. I regret I did not send a can of peas in time. But a few weeks before her passing, my mom found "worry stones" with the patron saint of cancer on them (who the hell decided that cancer needed a saint, by the way? It's way more a fallen angel moment, if you ask me). We signed a card, she tucked one for Brenda and one for Lyndsie into a card and sent it out. To the same address we had sent over 30 cards in the last few months. This weekend, it was returned in the mail. One stone missing, a tiny tear in one side of the envelope and a sticker saying: no such street. We double checked the address. It was correct. I like to think that some how, some way, Lyndsie got her stone - one way or another. And that she passed know how cared for, how loved, how cherished she was in her short time we got to have her with us on this planet.

I hope she knows that the final lesson she showed her "big sister" was how to be strong, resilient, graceful, and full of fight.  

And I hope she knows I have to make one more bad joke: George Michael wasn't kidding when he said he wasn't planning on going solo, kid. He took you with the next day. WHAM! Just like that. 

And with that, I bid you goodnight. Tip your waitress, try the veal. And make sure you all finish your veggies. Dad's watching. 

Free to Enjoy Three

Today is the third anniversary of the day my father died. It's been three years since I held his hand in mine, not wanting to leave the hospital they took him to and pronounced him dead. Three of the longest and shortest years of my life have passed since I drove the car home to my parents' house, knowing when we walked through those doors everything would change. The world I knew had ended. It ceases to exist. I couldn't even imagine at that point, that I could make it another day. So how I've made it over 1,000 days never ceases to amaze me.

Today I woke up like every other day. I grumbled about how I had to leave the burrito of blankets. I read texts with my head still under the covers. I shoved the dog over to give myself at least one quarter of the bed. It was, for all intents and purposes, a normal day. A normal day without my dad. Without his jokes, his sarcastic quips, his unconditional love and, let's be real - his criticisms of all the things I do.

Lying there this morning, I realized two things - it wasn't a normal day. I doubt that the 19th of December will ever come and go without me remembering what that last day was like. I'll never forget the 911 call, the fact that I administered CPR to him until the ambulance arrived. I will never forget the looks my mother and sister shared with me in those excruciating minutes before anyone arrived to help us. My mind will never let go of the longest two miles I've ever driven to the hospital behind the ambulance. 

But then I also realized the second thing - the memories I have of my father will also ever die. I will forever recall his smile, his loud booming voice, how big his hands always seemed in mine - even when I was an adult. The good things he instilled in me will never die. His love for helping others won't cease to exist because he does. The work ethic he showed me my entire life will forever stick with me. And let's be honest - his brutal honesty, his lack of filter from brain to mouth, and his do what you want, say what you want attitude is something no one can ever take from me. 

So I got up with the sudden revelation that I was free to enjoy year number three. And not feel guilty about it. I'm sad he's gone. And I always will feel a sense of loss. But I think it's important to know that enjoying your life, and even the day they passed is not only okay - it's good. 

Today we ventured to the humane society where he adopted a cat for my mom days before his last surgery and paid for a large dog adoption fee in his name. He had a cat cage dedicated with his name on a plaque. The large dogs are overlooked. And most expensive. He would have loved knowing he helped someone get a dog that may have been ignored without his help. And let's be real - he would have loved to make a joke about how he will forever be surrounded by pussy by being in the cat room. I'd apologize for that distasteful joke. But, a.) he would have loved it and b.) I got my lack of apologizing from him as well. 

Today is also the day we buried his mother, a year before he passed away. So we went to grab lunch at one of her favorite places. While there, we noticed a letter above some food donations from a family explaining they had been the victim of a tragic fire a few years ago. Since they received so much help from others, they spent the next few years giving back around the same time as their fire and put together a dinner for the less fortunate at Christmas. We left for the store, after lunch, and doubled what was already collected. 

My work is hosting a food drive with my old place of employment. (He would love that so much!) So our last stop was to drop off a load of food for them, as well. As we loaded the food into the back of the truck there, I felt happy. And at peace. I enjoyed the day. And he would have loved every moment of it, as well. And you know what - that's okay. The memory of him will live on. In all of us. In what we do. In what he's taught all of us. And he enjoyed his life to the fullest. So it's only fitting that we do the same. And then make a poor taste joke about him being forever surrounded by pussy. 

He will, in essence, never truly die. He will live on in our stories, in his legacy, and in the joy we experience every day. And I'm free to begin to enjoy number three. Even if he isn't here to see it. 

Dear Hallmark....

Today, while at the store, I realized I didn't see a "Sorry Your Mother Isn't Here on Mother's Day" card. I feel like these should be a thing. But funny ones. Not sappy: picture of umbrella with the words "I'll weather the storm with you" but more like: Sorry your mom isn't here, but at least no one will nag you to do the dishes. Let them pile up today. Why not? Or maybe - at least no one's harassing you for grandkids, go have some protected sex today!

Just saying - as someone without a father for a card on Father's Day? If you gave me one that said: here's hoping all the cookouts get rained out. Or: don't worry he's not here to dance with you for your wedding day, he was a real embarrassment on the dance floor. ....I would be their friend forever.

As a realistic bit of advice: do something that you know will remind you of the happy moments, relish in the Mother's Days you had with your mom, try to laugh at least once. But as a totally sarcastic moment: feel free to flip off all the emails you get reminding you of last minute gift ideas, scowl at the numerous Mother's Day brunch signs you pass driving home, and allow yourself to feel a little cheated. But never forget that the reason you're upset is that you had something that great, that important, and that loved. And that's why you're actually upset. Having a love that makes you feel that sad is a real gift.

I leave you with some distasteful memes, as is my style.

Seriously though - dead parent club members? Solidarity for your tomorrow. Thinking of you all.

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.