Before and After

When September 11th became a date to remember, I was still a teenager. I would turn twenty a few months later. 

I opened up at work. And was irritated when one of the mechanics in back came running up and said turn on the television. It's too early for tv, I remember thinking. My office was steps from the waiting room and television I had to listen to drone on all day every day. 

We stood, huddled, and gave theories on what had happened. It wasn't a terrorist attack yet. It was just a strange mishap. Some freak accident. And then boom. The second plane hit. And I can still recall thinking that was a shift in life as I knew it. I still wasn't sure what had happened. But I knew it was something. 

My college classes were cancelled. I spent the afternoon at work, helping fill cars with gasoline because the car business had no idea what was going to happen. I saw grown adults fighting and hitting each other (more than once) over gas and gas prices being raised as cars were filled. 

That night, I drove right by my house to my parents. I watched the never-ending news coverage with my dad for a few hours before going home and sitting on my porch with my roommate and her boyfriend. We remarked at how quiet it was with no planes whizzing by over our tiny little home. We had a drink or two, smoked a couple cigarettes, and figured we were headed to war. Against who - we had no idea yet. But we hadn't even had to worry about it before then. 

My life had been pretty trauma free. And I remember that night, my dad hugged me as I left and apologized. He said he was hoping for a life where I never had to recall "where I was". For them, he said, it was JFK being shot. And he told me then that this would be my moment. The moment everyone said: hey remember where you were when this tragic moment occurred. He told me that life would be a before this moment and after this moment from now on. 

I don't know if I believed him fully. And I wasn't sure why he was apologizing to me. But he was right. There are two moments I think of as "before and after" life changing moments. 9/11 and the day my dad died. He didn't prepare me for either one of these. 

But he did give me a good foundation of how to live my life to the fullest. How to never let the bad overshadow the good. How to find and be one of the people who helped make the world a better way in any capacity I could. And he left me with a mom and sister to help me get through the other life changing moment. So I guess he can stop apologizing for the first event. 

The second one - he still owes me for. 

You Have to Love Her - And Then You'll Love Those She Loves

Anyone who is an older sibling can tell you that younger siblings are annoying. They touch your things, they ask all the questions, and - if you're like me, an only child for almost 10 years before a sibling came along - they take part of the attention you're used to having all of off you.

I never wanted a younger sibling. And I certainly did not want a little sister. I had asked for an older brother for years. Even with my parents informing me that this is not, in fact, how it works.

And then there she was - a little sister. I was told I didn't have to like her but I HAD to love her. It was a family rule. I moved out when she was only 7, and we didn't have things in common. But I always loved her. And, truth be told, I learned to even like her. Even when she broke my things, picked the paint off the bedroom door we shared, and invited herself to all the things I did with my friends as a teenager. And, to be fair, she picked the paint off the door because I put a childproof door handle on….to the room she shared with me.

My parents both came from families with numerous siblings. And they assured me I would learn that my sister was not only my sibling but my friend. So they prepared me for that.

They did not tell me I would end up taking her friends places. That they would have sleepovers at my house on New Year's Eve. They never mentioned that I would forever run into people who would say: are you Emily's sister?! And they definitely didn't prepare me to care for not only her but for those who she cared for.

Even when I didn't live at home with her, I came to see my family. I watched her friends come in and out of the house. I saw them grow up from awkward preteens into even more awkward teenagers. I showed some of them, when our parents were out of town, that using cardboard wasn't the most effective way to slide down the stairs inside - let's try a laundry basket. And please don't tell your parents. I said things like: stop playing with fire. Do you really think you should be shoving that many marshmallows into your mouth at once? If you need a ride after drinking, call me. And also don't tell your parents I said that, either.

I watched so many kids not related to me come in and out of our house. I saw them grow into actual humans. I was proud when they graduated. We became MySpace friends, Facebook friends - and some of them just plain actual friends.

I never imagined that the pain they felt would make my heart ache. I don't have children. I don't want to have children. I don't have any desire to know what it's like to have my heart run around outside my body. I don't want the responsibility of another human being. I have a cat and a dog because you can put them in a cage and no one calls CPS. I have a lot of fish because when you screw up with them? You just flush them and get another. None of these practices are acceptable with children. So I didn't think I had it in me to care so much for these little kids, as they may always be to me. But I do.

This weekend, so many of them have suffered a loss. Of one of their one. One we watched grow up. One I spoke to as a friend, even recently. Watching my Facebook feed light up with posts to his page has made me happy, to see how cared for he was. And sad to see the impact he had on their lives and how heart broken they are. It's also surprised me. To see how many of them mean so much to me and to my family. And see how easily they weaseled their way into a spot in my heart.

I've been where you all are. At a loss. Without the right words. With an ache you can't touch. The loss of one I had to say stop playing with fire to hurts me, makes my heart throb a reminiscent tune I hate knowing. But knowing they're all hurting as well makes the tune go from mono to stereo in a way I didn't know possible.

I know you don't think you'll ever be the same after your loss, little friends. And you won't. But you'll live. You'll learn. And you'll grow from this - you'll grow in your adulthood. And you'll grow even closer as you all help each other through this. And I love each and every one of you in a way I didn't know possible. Even those of you who are still annoying. And those of you who still need a reminder to not play with fire - you know who you are.

Thinking of you all,
The big sister you didn't need. Or want. But got stuck with.

So, It's Father's Day, You Say?

It's Father's Day. If you didn't know this, where have you been hanging out? And can I maybe accompany you there next year? Because it means you haven't checked your email, been on Amazon, looked at Facebook, or kept any civilized company for weeks. 

I've been reminded to buy my father a gift for what feels like months now. Spoiler alert, I didn't. I'm a real louse. 

I played ALL THE SPORTS as a kid. And my dad enjoyed watching them. For the most part. I don't think he was really keen on soccer. But he did enjoy the part where teenage girls acted like total douche canoes and knocked each other down, I imagine. Any sport where girls were proving they played just as tough, if not tougher, than the boys was his kind of sport watching. He reveled in the moments someone who wasn't well versed in competitive softball showed up to watch a game, only to witness a first basemen stand her ground and put a runner on their ass, or (even when it was his own kid) those covering home for a passed ball situations where the pitcher ate dirt and everyone waited for the dust to settle to see if her barely moving body also had control of the ball. Full contact softball, he would call it. And there was no crying in softball, either. He was never prouder than the times I'd end up with a cut that needed stitches that he would butterfly tape up between innings and watch me go back out to the pitching mound. He was a real twisted man, that dad of mine. 

Let's take a moment and enjoy this picture of him in all his glory (and I'm not just talking about the glorious mustache) with his prized all-start team that won ALL THE THINGS that year. 

He told me, when I decided to play golf in high school, that he would never come watch me play. What a dumb sport, he would remind me frequently. You hit a little white ball. You chase after it. You hit it away from yourself again. It's like you're playing fetch. Without the dog even bringing it back to you. I will never watch you play. 

He wasn't lying. He never showed up to my high school matches. Which was good. Because I gather he liked watching most of my sporting because I was rather good at most of it. And in high school - I was far from the star golfer. But the sport stuck with me. Or, I stuck with it. Major props to my one armed neighbor who taught me how to chip and putt. I still have a weird approach. But it has all come together. The solitude of the game ended up being one of my favorite parts of it. I'd never been involved with a sport where I wasn't somehow responsible for everyone's winning or losing. (Being a pitcher is stressful. There is no doubt about it.) That's also been my downfall. I learned to love and perfect my game alone. And I still have to make golf partners turn around for the first few tee offs. I get performance anxiety when I'm not golfing alone. 

Over the years I've gotten better. I can keep up. I'm not going to hold up a decent golfer. And I have to admit, there are even days I say: hey, look. I'm not so bad at this. If only my golf coach from high school could see me now and realize 20 years later, I'm free of my softball swing. Finally. But I'll still make you turn around if you want to golf with me, for the first round or two. 

I intended on taking my dad's miniature urn with me today, and forcing him to go golfing with me. Instead, we ended up in Chicago with my extended family. A trip through my great uncle's land of memories of growing up in Wrigleyville postponed my afternoon golf plans. I have to wonder if there wasn't some divine intervention happening there. Baseball. No golf. Delicious food we stuffed our faces with. And some spattering of memories of my dad when they ate a Chicago dog covered in that radioactive relish, as my dad called it. 

He would have enjoyed this day. And it's a good lesson for me to learn. Not everything works out how we want it to. My day was nothing like I had planned or hoped for. And sometimes, that's okay. Sometimes (like today) it's even better than okay. The company was good. The memories of my dad - and today - will go on. And somehow, that jerk weaseled his way out of a round of golf. Again. 

This can't last forever. Next year. I will be the victor. And I'm going to make him chase them all with me. There's no way out, Pops. Better work on your caddying skills. Because we're going to hit the ball. Then we are going to chase the ball. I'll try not to dump you out of the golf cart. But those things can be tricky, you know. 

Sorry I didn't buy you a pressure washer this year. As I did every other year. (Who am I kidding? My mom did it, I got all the glory, and a picture that looks just like this every year. I bet she hated us. Faking these surprised faces. Every year. Since he said: get me a new pressure washer. EVERY SINGLE YEAR. And she did it. And EVERY SINGLE YEAR we made this dumb face. Thank God I had a dad who played along and a mom who captured all the moments and let me steal the glory for the presents I couldn't afford but took all the credit for.) 

Thanks for being a hole in one type of dad. Even if you're only claiming the grand slam part of your dad skills. And don't worry, we won't chase a little white ball when I make you go golfing next year. It will be pink. 

Like a Record, Baby.

A letter to everyone I know. And even those I don't,

Today has been long. Today has been tough. By mainly for a lot of people around me.

This morning, the cat somehow opened the back door herself. While I was getting in the shower. So. No clothes, no shoes, no socks. One foot in the shower. Home all alone. Hear the back door shut. Peek around the corner down the hallway and see the cat staring at me. From the other side of the door.

As I scrambled for the closest clothes I could throw on, sans shoes and socks I started cursing the cat. Monday morning. So good to see you, frenemy. No one else here, busy day coming up at work. And here I am. Outside. In case anyone was wondering - the ground was still semi-frozen. And the back deck at my house is full of squishy and thick mud - it's heavy. And serves as a small shield for the thorny remains of flowers, particularly rose bushes.

My feet were sunk into the mud, my fuse was at its end. And the cat was wavering from side to side under the deck I'm too tall to crawl under. Ironic, isn't it? The one thing I'm too tall for. And it hit me - the world keeps spinning. Mine was spinning out of control at the moment. But, it was spinning.

Earlier in the morning I had seen the update that an old friend's mother had passed away. A coworker I would call a great friend was going to be absent today because she was still handling things from her mother's unexpected passing a week and a day before. Saturday evening, I had run into a coworker who alerted me another beloved coworker's son had died suddenly over the weekend.

And here I was, chasing a cat and cursing at how late I was going to be for the day.

The cat was safe, the running shower received an occupant, finally, and I was on my way to work. Still marveling at how some of the people I care about the most were dealing with life changing and hard moments: the one year anniversary of a parent's passing or a hospital stay for an infection while battling cancer.

And here I was deciding if I wanted to stop for a coffee or a Diet Coke before I hit the office. Where, undoubtedly, there would be confused and sad people at the absence of at least two coworker's for the day. And probably for the week while they handled their affairs.

Sometimes it's incredible that the world keeps turning. Sometimes it's beautiful. If my world had stopped, the way I thought it would when my father died - I would have missed out on the last year of my life. The last year of my life has been pretty amazing, even with his absence. Sometimes it's so good, I feel sadder. Because he's not here to see my accomplishments and share in my happiness. And mainly because he has missed another year of my amazing (and inappropriate jokes. As a warning, if both your parents are dead I will, in fact, tell you at some point "know who else doesn't have parents? Batman. And he's awesome. You'll be fine. And probably need to get a bigger belt.").

If the world stopped every time something bad happened? We would still have dinosaurs. Wait. We'd still have dinosaurs. I could really use an attack raptor. Can we rewind? But then we would miss out on all the good upcoming good moments. The nights spent doing nothing in the company of someone good, the emails sent back and forth between a group of friends, the quick but moving conversations with favored coworker's, the coffees shared with friends, the surprise texts reminding you of a shared memory. All of these things are waiting ahead. Even when the world feels like it shouldn't even be spinning.

Just know. If I know you, and today has been tough for you? I've thought of you. I've sent good wishes. I've made a batch of cookies, to share, but also because when I'm sad or unsure of what else to do - I bake. And I've wondered at how the world keeps spinning when your life isn't just right. And then I made the decision to get the coffee instead of the Diet Coke.

With love,
Denise

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.