Sometimes There Simply Aren't Words.

Sometimes there aren’t words to express what you want to say. As someone who loves and writes (not all that eloquently at times) words? This is hard to accept.

With the recent passing of a certain special little boy, today is one of those days- where there aren’t enough (or the right) words. My social media is full of people looking for the proper things to say. Searching for a way to let the family know they are there. Grabbling with their (and their children's) sense of mortality.

While I love words and all they can do for people? This is not my strongest suit. I’m more of a do-er. Do you need a chicken? I’ll make it. Are you not sure what else to do? Eat a cookie – I’ll bake those, too. It’s the easiest way for me to tell you I care - and to have something tangible to show for it.

Words can seem so empty, at times. Mainly because we’re taught to say things like “It’s okay.” Or  the famous “At least they aren’t suffering anymore.” We give them an “I’m sorry.” These always seemed so empty to me. Words can’t fill the void that someone leaves in your life or your heart. Neither can cookies, honestly. But they can fill that gap in your pants pretty easily, trust me. I can make sure you no longer need a belt to hold those pants up if something dreadful happens in your life.

This isn’t to say we shouldn’t say these words. People still find comfort in knowing that there are people there for them and with them. And that’s the best way most of us know to show that we sympathize with other humans.

But we can’t fully comprehend what another person has lost. There’s no way. Even my own family doesn’t know what I have lost. Because my relationship with Dad was different than theirs. Likewise, I have no idea what my mother has lost. I haven’t been married for 32 years. I haven’t lost a spouse, a partner in crime, the other parent to my children. I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around the loss someone experiences when their child passes away. But I do know it’s special and important and so freaking big to everyone involved. The loss seems especially heavy when it is a child like this one - one that has been shared with the entire world.

When you fight for your existence every day, people take notice. People relish in the hope that you give them. They grasp onto the strength that a tiny human can show them. And you become a part of their life. The world was blessed to have such a great family surrounding him –a family that shared him with so many people. They shared his highs, his lows, his triumphs, and his final fight with people. I hope that everyone who had the honor and privilege to meet (even just virtually or briefly) this family and their amazing little boy takes notice of what he has taught them, how strong his family has been, how gracious they were to share everything they have with people. His time was limited here, but they shared him endlessly.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. And sometimes it takes a child to show a village what courage and strength and honor are really about.

I know these are just words, and they can’t heal the friends, family, and loved ones that surrounded a brave little boy. So if anyone needs tighter pants, let me know. I’ll be in the kitchen, making some cookies.

Eat, Drink, Merry, Blow Things Up, Get Married.

Today is “throw back Thursday” and tomorrow is July 4^th. So it seemed a fitting day to pull out this picture of Dad. Facebook tells me it is from 2008. Six years later, a lot of things have changed.

Dad loved the fourth. You got to blow things up. But it looked pretty, so people didn’t mind. It was also a time that people could gather and stuff themselves. What? The man liked his food. And it was also socially acceptable to participate in the gorging of oneself. ..what more could he ask for?

 The parties my parents threw when I was younger were incredible. Table upon tables of food, coolers of booze, punks lit for all the kids to set off smoke bombs, drunk people lighting off city firework display grade fireworks. …I’ll let you take a moment and think about that one. They got drunk, they blew shit up. And guess what? Everyone survived. I don’t even think we lost any limbs. I do recall a special aunt of mine being burned by a bumble bee firework. But nothing that some more booze couldn’t cure. (I’m kidding, I think she used actual medication. Think so, at least.)
July 4^th is one of the days that making noise and lighting things on fire makes you American. And boy was Dad American. He made American made steel. He drove American made cars. And he blew shit up like a good American would. But mainly he enjoyed his friends and family. He took pleasure in the freedom to do what he wanted. He reveled in the idea that we could all get together and eat, drink, and be merry. He took that a step further when he then married my mom on the 5^th of July in 1981. So the order then was eat, drink, be merry, get married.

My parents have always been a testament to the fact that love is patient and love is kind. It doesn’t mean that YOU are always patient. It doesn’t mean that the only words that ever leave your mouth are kind. But the act of loving people the way my parents loved each other is patient and kind. I saw my father attempt to finish building my mother the house she had always wanted before he got too sick. I saw my mother be kind enough to take care of my father when he became too sick to care for himself. Love is patient. Love is kind. And sometimes love is hell. And sometimes you do things for one another that you would never have wanted to do. But you do it because you love them. Because you care for them.  And because they let you blow shit up for years on end before that. (Thanks for letting Dad always be a big kid, Mom. It worked out for all of us!)

Unless we are under the assumption that I was born extremely premature, as I came along in December of 1981, I’d like to say I was the best witness to the marriage vows of my parents. I’m even in the pictures, if you look hard enough. This means I have spent years reminding my parents that their anniversary is really just a celebration of me. And that they should make “Thank you for bringing us together” cards at Hallmark. That way they could have bestowed upon me gifts and cards. If you’re listening, Hallmark, let me know. I have a few good ideas. I can be hired to freelance for a nominal fee.

These next few days will be hard. We probably won’t blow shit up. But we will remember how proud Dad was to fly his flag in this picture. And how he always made us laugh. Not always AT him, sometimes WITH him. Promise.  Seriously though – how American is a picture of a man flying a flag out of his truck, a thumbs up, and a backdrop of fields? You can almost hear the “And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free…” from the radio. (I’m kidding, he had great taste in music. It was probably something more akin to Crazy Train playing at the time.)

The most important thing my Dad ever taught me was that people fought for the freedom I have to be who I am. Unapologetically me. He would have never wanted anyone to change who I am. Or who you are. That’s why we have these freedoms. So we can fly our flags as high and as often as we want to. That was what the Fourth of July meant to Jim. Well, and that he could blow shit up and people would “ooh” and “ahh” instead of “OH! STOP!” I’m not sure which was more important to him. Heh.

Until next time – go out. Make memories. Gorge yourself. Hide behind the smoke bomb. Throw some poppers around. Make a lot of noise. Blow shit up. Celebrate all the moments. And cherish them all. But most importantly, don’t forget to fly your flag. Whatever flag that is. Fly it high and fly it proud. (Extra points if you yell ‘Merica! While doing so.)

Let it Rain...

I woke up this morning, looked out of the bay window and said “Well it looks like it’s going to be a lovely day.” I paused and then called my mom and said “Hey, looks great outside. I hope it rains on everyone’s cookout plans.”

My mother is very supportive of me, as a whole. She also is sometimes appalled by me. Today was an appalled day. A few minutes later my iPhone went off, reminding me (via the calendar) that it was Father’s Day.

Thank you, iPhone – I have been living under a rock until this morning. I hadn’t seen the mass Facebook postings. I also did not notice the commercials reminding me about how my time to get my Father a gift was running out. Nor had I opened the 1,000 emails that my inbox was filling up with reminding me of things I had purchased  my father in the past – or telling me other great gifts he just couldn’t live without. Someone should really talk to the marketing department of these email companies and tell them to think about wording. Because guess what – I think he can live without a new power washer. Because guess what – he’s already dead. OH, BURN. Wait…maybe that’s why he died. Crap.

What do people do who don’t have a father on Father’s Day? Good question. We aren’t normal, so I can’t tell you what people normally do. We, however, put on our JimG Carpenter Foundation shirts and ventured out.

We stopped by one of the hospitals that Dad was a frequent flyer at (too bad they don’t give out frequent flyer miles, or we would have spent Father’s Day in France or something) and went into the ICU waiting room. This had been our home away from home many times. For days on end. It was empty of people but full of their stuff. You could tell people had been sleeping and basically living there. We waited for a bit and then decided to head down to the basement and into the hospital cafeteria. We saw a lady and a small boy getting ready to check out.

Mom approached them and asked them if we could buy them lunch. The lady was confused (and probably concerned)  - Mom started to explain why we were there…she told the lady that it was our first Father’s Day without Dad and that her kids wanted to do something in honor of their dad-  and got a bit choked up. The lady was very kind, and asked about Dad and the foundation. She said they were there visiting her father who hadn’t been very responsive or able to communicate with them - she sounded frustrated. Mom assured her we had been in her position and to hang in there. The lady thanked us numerous times and we headed back into the elevator.

I don’t think that any of us were prepared for the feelings that came along with being there, or talking about how this was our first Father’s Day without Dad. We got back in the car, the original plan to head to another hospital and find another family to donate to.

Instead, we decided to just stop by the store and head home to make dinner. While here, we decided we should offer to purchase the gentleman’s groceries in back of us in line. My sister asked him if we could, after they rang up his purchases. He and his daughter were a bit stunned. I explained we just wanted to do something helpful in honor of our Dad. He reached out immediately, hugged all three of us, and wished us the best for the foundation as he left.

My father was the type of person who would go out of his way to help. He wouldn’t have openly admitted that, since it would have killed his street cred. But it was true. He was the guy who took extra angels from the Angel Tree at Christmas so that the kids who hadn’t been chosen wouldn’t go without. He was also an amazing father to have. While going through some old pictures I happened along this one.

It doesn’t look like much, and you can’t even see his face. But you can see the effort he put into being my father. Due to my allergies I can’t eat most mayos. The comments on this old picture (thank God I posted it to Facebook?) tell me that we were making tuna melts one day. My parents have Miracle Whip and more than a few flavored mayos. I couldn’t eat any of them. I offered to just eat something different or to go get some “Denise-safe” mayo from the store. Instead, my dad decided to make homemade mayo with me. I took this picture because it seemed like a funny thing. We were making mayo. And every spice in the cabinet somehow made its way out. That’s just the kind of guy he was. Spare no effort.

Father’s Day will never be the same. It will always have some sadness. But I’m lucky enough to have a great vault of memories to fall back on. And when all else fails – I can go scare some people and offer to buy them something.

All in all, it was a good way to spend what could have been a pretty crappy day. I’m glad it didn’t rain on anyone’s cookout plans, I guess. And I’m not just saying that because my mom made me. (But really, she did.)

You're Welcome, World.

My sister and I often hear how much we look alike. While I suppose she can’t deny being my sister – we are very much different people. She colors within the lines, I don’t even think I stay on the paper most days. She makes lists and plans and goals. I accomplish things by realizing the deadline is in 10 minutes and hauling total ass through it. My sister needs validation. She needs to know that people around her recognize all the good things she does. I, on the other hand, wake up every morning and say “you’re welcome, world…” I admit that it sounds cocky and arrogant. But it also forces me to do something every single day that makes the world thank me the next day. It reminds me that I have purpose. That I have a reason that I am here and that I shouldn’t waste a second of it. As you can see, we are very very different individuals.

We were, however, both taught to excel and to do our best. Dad used to say anything worth doing was worth doing well. He said it by using the words “Don’t half-ass anything” …but still, the sentiment is the same. My parents gave us all the tools – the best education, the best environment, all the support in the world. And they said – “Go, do it your way,” basically.

They let me figure out my path in the world and in my academic studies. It wasn’t easy. (For more about how sad they are they gave me my own thought process, read here.) But they let us both free to do what we wanted.

For any more evidence that we are different, you only have to look at our college life. It took me 7.5 years to get my undergraduate completed. My sister, on the other hand, graduated with two majors, honors with both programs, in 3.5 years. We both graduated with great GPAs, we both went into fields that we love and feel passionate about. We just, without a doubt to anyone, went about it in different ways.

When Dad was first diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer, I was still working towards my degree and my sister was still in middle school. I immediately felt guilty. When someone is diagnosed with a stage IV lung cancer – they don’t usually live long. I was going to be the person who didn’t graduate from college in time for my Dad to see one of his kids walk across the stage. I wasn’t married, I had no children. All the things that you think a father looks forward to seeing their daughter do? I had done none of them.

Luckily, for me (and I think all of us), Dad lived for 8 more years. He got to see me walk across the stage. Even if there was a last minute “you may not graduate” snafu and my name wasn’t on the list of graduates. Sorry, Dad. But – hey – you taught me to do things my way. And boy did I. And I did graduate. Promise.

My sister graduated at the top of her class. She even got to give the student response at graduation. Dad was sick and unable to be at the ceremony. But Charla, one of his home health nurses – and someone we considered a friend to all of us, went to the hospital and sat with him while Emily graduated and gave the address. They lived streamed the graduation. He got to witness Emily’s speech. He got to see her walk across the stage (twice!) and be honored. Charla said as she finished her speech Dad whispered “Good girl.” And you know what? She is.

I was thinking about how lucky I am to have had that moment with my parents. To know that they were both proud of me, that they both recognized and appreciated my accomplishments. And this morning, as I was driving all alone I thought to myself that life isn’t fair. (Also it isn't fair all I have is this blurry picture of Dad and I on graduation day. But being that my haircut is terrible, maybe I should be thankful.)

It isn’t fair, little sister, that you didn’t get to stand next to Dad and take a picture when you graduated. It isn’t fair to our mother – to try to fill the void that’s left in our lives. It isn’t fair to our community and to everyone who loved and cherished my father to not have him here. It isn’t fair to anyone or in any way.

But, I hope that you know, that your father was and will continue to be proud of you. Trust me, he was proud of me and it took more than seven years to graduate. And, as he always pointed out (to anyone who would listen), it took that long and I’m not even a doctor. He used to tell people that he was sure my major was beer and I may have picked up a minor in weed. He was wrong, for the record, my minor was definitely in bar dancing. But, that’s not the point. The point is, I always saw him speak of you with pride. I always heard him tell his home health care workers that you were away at school studying and that you were a good kid. You don’t know that because you weren’t here. But that’s because you were busy doing another job – making your dad proud.

As I thought about all of this, this morning, about how you got cheated a bit – I felt an overwhelming sense of pride in you, little sister. And, since we all know I am not very emotional, it had to be Dad. I’m basically a robot, you know. Robots don’t feel. But your Dad certainly did. I know that both of your parents are proud of you. Your father would have been pleased as punch to brag that even though you graduated mid-term you still won four awards at the Senior Banquet this last week. I do believe that was the most I saw anyone win.

We often look to our parents for a gauge on how good we're doing, on if we've made the right decisions, if we are embarking on the right path. I don't even know if we realize that we do it. But validation from your parents is the best feedback at times. I know you feel cheated and sad - that you can't have that from your Dad. I don't blame you. And, even if you don’t wake up and say “you’re welcome, world” tomorrow, I hope you can take a moment and realize that your parents are both proud of you. I suppose I am, a little. But I have to admit, I made it pretty easy for you to look outstanding. The college graduation bar was set pretty low. You just happened to fly past my record at lightning speed. And, as you move on to the rest of your life, I hope you realize how proud your father still is of you. I know it. I don’t even have to hear him. Or see him. And I know it’s true.

Even if he was pretty proud of my beer major, I bet he has room to be proud of you, too.

You’re welcome, world – because not only am I amazing, but I also have a pretty great little sister. I’m still always going to be his favorite, though. Sorry. You can’t win ‘em all.

Perspective

Easter came and went this past weekend. My dad was competitive, he always had to win. He was also usually the judge. This transferred to later in my life, when he played judge, jury, and executioner when I had been out past curfew. But Easter eggs did not escape his grasp of: things I must win at. And, realistically? He was probably kicking our butt anyway. So we knew that this year would be a bit rough, because last year he was here. He was coloring eggs with us. He was sitting at the table and yelling and still proclaiming he was going to kick our butts at the contest. Where, to be honest, we had no shot. But there were also no prizes. So, there's that.

The Friday before Easter, my grandma called from the hospital and said she thought she had a stroke and was in the ER. (Spoiler alert: She is settling back in at home and doing well, so no worries, folks!) Just to prove that we are crass and terrible with all family emergencies, here is quick view at the messages between my sister and I. 

Her: So, apparently Grandma had a mini stroke, wtf? 
Me: Yeah. That's why I was asking if you had talked to mom, to make sure she had told you.
Her: So Dad's gone and now she has to be an attention hog?
Me: I know. I told Mom she was just trying to get out of making the dressing for Easter.
Her: She must have been out of sage. 

A few Easters ago, Grandma made her (seriously delicious) dressing and it was spicy. She said, "I must have been a little heavy handed with the sage." She may never live it down. But we ate (and loved it) anyway. So, I think she's in the clear to keep her "Best Dressing" title in our family. Although, seriously Grandma - all you had to do was ask us to bring you some sage. You didn't have to go and do all of that!

This development also meant that we were going to spend another holiday in another hospital. We're getting good at it. Off the top of my head I can recall: 

• Eating Thanksgiving dinner in the hospital at the University of Chicago
• Making dad's favorite meatloaf muffins and taking them to UIC for Father's Day
• My parents celebrating July 4th AND their anniversary at the Rehab Institute of Chicago
• An anniversary of theirs at Porter Regional Hospital
• My sister's birthday where my Dad was one of the first patients moved to Porter's new location
• An Easter at a skilled nursing facility/rehab center in Chesterton, Indiana
• Dad's birthday at the Rehab center at St. Mary's in Hobart

I'm sure I'm missing a few, but you get the drift. We are experts at making and transporting food to wherever the holiday is. As I said in a text message to my aunt on Easter when I sent her a picture of the spread: "You can't even have a stroke and get out of a family dinner. We will find you and hunt you down." 

Before we packaged (not so well by the look of the yams over there) dinner and took it to Grandma, my mother and I were inside cooking and my sister was outside, with a huge bubble wand blowing bubbles. She stuck her head in the door, "Come out here!" I grumbled a little bit, because we had been cooking all morning. 

My mom said "Go outside and play with your sister." 

"Uh, you know she's 22 and I'm 32, right?" 

She didn't even bat an eyelash and replied, "Yes. Now go." 

I went outside and spent much longer than I should admit, blowing bubbles with my younger sister. I'm glad I did. Because it brought back memories. The ones from being a little kid and blowing bubbles with Dad. (see: The Great Bubble Incident) But also because it reminded me of a few Easters back, when Dad was with us and in a rehab facility in a skilled nurse home. He hadn't spoken in awhile and we took bubbles with us on Easter - blowing them at him in a pretty transparent attempt to annoy him enough to speak to us. He didn't, that Easter. But by last Easter, he was back home and completely with us. Coloring those eggs. And annoying us right back by claiming he would win. He only had the use of one arm at the time, but he was still going to beat us. To be honest? Even when he was wheelchair bound and bed bound at the end? He still probably thought he could have beaten us in a 50 yard sprint. ...even if that meant he made one of us push him so he could. 

It also gave me some time to think. Bubbles are a lot like our time and memories with our loved ones. 

Sometimes they're beautiful.

Sometimes there's just one or two over that a ways - that drift out away from us, but we can still see them. 

They float away. The moments aren't going to last forever.

But the memories of them are. And we have some really beautiful ones.

Often, they come back and they feel like they are righthereinourface.

And sometimes, we have one that sticks with us - that's different - that makes you change your perspective a bit.

All the time I spent with my Dad and my family that was there to love and support him - it has changed my perspective in ways I can't put into words - and quite possibly in ways I haven't even begun to comprehend, yet. 

Three years ago? I wouldn't have even imagined I would have had so many stories about how to maneuver through (and to new) hospitals, how to deal with rushing food to your father in Chicago to make sure he got his favorite meal for Father's Day. Or how to handle when your Grandma calls to tell you she thinks she had a stroke. But now - we know. We know how to navigate a situation that could (and often does) bring families to their knees. We know how to survive. And, most importantly, we know how to do so while having a good time, and still cherishing every moment.  

We colored eggs that day. I think I finally won this time, Dad. 

And we made more beautiful, and definitely perspective-changing memories. We laughed with Grandma so hard that it hurt in the most beautiful way possible, as we tried to take hospital Easter selfies. Here's just a small glimpse at the "better" ones. No, really. We are that bad. 

But more than anything? We had a moment. One that we won't forget. And not just because a kid asked me if my hair was dyed green for Easter. (It's blue, kid, jeez.) But because we realized that no matter what? We will be okay. And along the way - we will stop to blow bubbles, to laugh, and to take some terrible hospital selfies. And don't worry, the bubbles went with us too. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy my grandmother some sage, so we don't have this problem again. 

I Wanna See You Be Brave...

I relate a lot of songs to Dad. To anyone who knew him, this wouldn't seem strange. He was always playing music, singing, and usually dancing around the kitchen while he cleaned it. Seriously, ask my sister, she was the one who busted him singing "This shit is bananas. B-a-n-a-n-a-s." while scrubbing the stove one day. He was never without an iPod - especially if you were trying to talk to him about something you wanted him to do that he wasn't keen on doing. Suddenly, he would have both earbuds in and the conversation was over. There were months that he was overmedicated, after his surgery, and verbally he would be checked out. Mom would set his iPod up for him, and you'd catch a quick glimpse of him mouthing the words to a song - singing along, even when he couldn't talk to us. Music has always been a big part of my Dad's life. Even if he couldn't carry a tune. Thanks for passing that one along to me, Dad. All my road trip partners - past and future - thank you. 

I can remember before Dad's last surgery, him showing up at my house on a weekend. I was expecting him, and had left the door unlocked. I heard him knock and yelled "Come in." He must have knocked three times, causing me to repeatmy "Come in, dude!" cycle, before I flung the door open - annoyed. There was my Dad. On my front porch. Earbuds in his ears. Singing: "Miss Independent, Miss Self-sufficient, Miss Keep-your-distance, Miss Unafraid, Miss Outta-my-way, Miss Don't-let-a-man-interfere, no." ...yes, that's right. My father couldn't hear me telling him to come in because he was jamming out to Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent." I know that I'm not the only daughter to have a special relationship with their father. But I am pretty sure I am the only one who witnessed things like that. (Consider yourself lucky.) 

So, on a long drive last weekend, when I heard Sara Bareilles singing "Brave", it shouldn't have shocked me that it made tears start to stream down my face, because music was a way I bonded with my Dad. We sang in the car, we shared CDs, he took away my Beatles "Let it Be" album when I was a teenager because he said that I was the only person who could make someone else sick of The Beatles by playing it too frequently. But it still shocked me, that it hit me that hard. My initial response, when I feel suddenly sad about Dad is to turn the station, or avoid it. This time I didn't - I turned it up, I let the tears fall, and I listened carefully. 

My father never told me I was beautiful. He told me I was amazing. He told me I was intelligent. He told me I was strong. He told me that I could do anything I wanted to do. He told me to stand up for myself. He told me to never let anyone underestimate me. 

He didn't always say it in words as beautiful as Sara's, of course. Sometimes, when he was setting a broken nose in a dusty room attached to a softball field after a collision with a catcher, it came out in the form of "Here, put this washcloth in your mouth." For the record, if my father ever said this to you? I'm sorry. Because it usually meant he was going to hurt you and make you scream. All in the name of making you feel better. I had my nose set, cuts cleaned that he butterfly stitched back together, and dislocated body parts put back into place with a washcloth in my mouth. Before you cry child abuse, I would have much rather had my Dad superglue my wounds back together (this happened) and get back on a softball field than had to sit out a game and go to the hospital. It was my choice. And hey, I have less scars, and more stories than most people I know. So I think it's okay. These moments were always followed by a "I didn't feel a thing," and a snort from him. Yes, he did think he was funny. But he'd usually add in a "way to go" and "Thanks for not bleeding on me, TOO much." 

When I first went away to college I studied computer programming. I had little knowledge of it when I went into the program, which was full of mostly males (and all males by the time the courses ended) who were very educated on computer languages, and I felt out of my element. I wasn't used to being so lost in a classroom setting and I told him I wanted out, that I didn't think I could do it. 

Dad: You can do anything you want to do.
Me: Except learn how to code in C++. That's not happening.
Dad: Yes, you can do that. 
Me: You have no idea.
Dad: I know that we have raised you to do anything and everything you wanted to do. This is just one small step in your education and your life. And you can do this.
Me: I don't know.
Dad: Stop whining. Don't be a baby. 

See? The words weren't always as beautiful as Sara's. But they were always there. Both of my parents instilled in me a belief in myself and my hard work. There is no price tag that you can put on someone telling you that you can do anything you want to do. 

There is a void as large as the Grand Canyon when I think of all the things my Dad won't get to see me do. But in the last three months or so, I have learned that there's a new voice in my life - one that says: You can be amazing. You can do this. It also sometimes tells me "put on your big girl panties and deal with it." But it is always there. I know that's his voice, reminding me that life isn't always easy. But, in Sara's (slightly more eloquent) words: Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down by the enemy, fallen for the fear and done some disappearing. Bow down to the mighty, don't run, stop holding your tongue. ...show me how big your brave is.

Earlier this week I had to do a few things I wasn't ready to. Things that I knew would be hard. And that I would have been more than happy to forget and never think about again. But then I let myself flash back to Sunday, while I was driving in my car and listening to this song. And then all I could hear was my Dad saying: I just wanna see you be brave. So, I put on my big girl panties. Let your words be anything but empty. Why don't you tell them the truth? Say what you wanna say. And let the words fall out. And I did just that. And that little voice was right, it wasn't so bad. 

Sometimes, I feel like the last few months have been a constant "here, put this washcloth in your mouth" moment. And Dad's snorting somewhere saying "I didn't feel a thing, D-bug." I hope you didn't. But I hope I always have the chance to show you how big my brave is. And thank you for giving me that, too. 

Solidarity.

A comedian has been live-tweeting her father's last days in hospice. He's dying of lung cancer. And she's hilarious. See the correlation? ...you were supposed to put together my Dad had lung cancer and also had a hilarious child. If you didn't? I don't even want to talk to you. 

Laurie Kilmartin's Twitter is outstanding, in my opinion. My friend sent me a link to it this morning. And I haven't stopped laughing, and grieving with her since. Here are a few of my favorite moments, so far: 

• Dad is not incoherent, we discovered while gossiping about his side of the family in front of him.
• More unfortunate phrasing. Mom to Dad, re: the reclining hospice bed, "Should we put you down?"
• just tried to weasel out of changing Dad's sweatshirt by arguing its more damp than wet.
• Sister and I tortured our poor Dad with multiple photo sessions because we did not like how we looked in the pictures.
• Good luck getting an answer to the question, "Did I give you too much morphine?"

I read some of her tweets to Mom this morning and we couldn't stop laughing. I especially burst out into giggles when I got to this one: 

This was a very real thing for my family. We spent hours watching Dad breathe, for two years. And there were nights I stayed awake longer than I should have, just to make sure he there was a rise and a fall. There were nights I jumped out off the couch, next to him, and got up to put my  hand on his chest, to ensure he was still breathing. Someone would text me late at night and say, "Hey, we're headed to the bar want to go grab a drink?" And I would respond with "No, my dance card is all filled up with watching Dad breathe tonight, sorry!" 

For the record, I wouldn't trade any of that time I watched Dad breathe for the world. 

My biggest issue with this live-tweeting isn't Laurie, she's spectacular. But the people who have commented on articles about the tweets with things like: "How disgusting. That poor, poor man, having a daughter like that!" make my blood boil. Plus, she's clearly a great daughter. She even bought her dad a Valentine's Day gift: 

I sort of loved this one even more after I scrolled through my own Twitter and found that for last year I wrote about how I didn't buy Dad a tie for Father's Day because he only wears them to weddings and funerals and I wasn't ready to take one for the team for either of those. 

I am a bit flabbergasted to see people's reactions about how she's taking away his dignity or the ever judgmental: "I hope this is a reaction to grief. Or else it's just appalling." 

I hope, Mr. Commentor, that your comment is a reaction to not knowing what it is like to be in her shoes, or else it is just appalling! Laurie has taken the time to spend her father's last moments with her. She tweeted about how she starts out every day with the goal of not seeing her dad's genitals when helping him to the restroom. Unless you know what that's like? You have no reason to comment on how anyone deals with the situation. Until you know what it's like to transfer an immobile person from a chair to a bed? I don't want to hear how you feel about how she reacts to it. Especially because we used to throw the sheets over Dad (to help us lift him easier) while I made cracks about how he was like Madame Butterfly as I covered and uncovered his face. (Ps, he hated when I would throw the sheets off his face and exclaim he had become a beautiful butterfly. But he took it all in stride.) Unless you know what it is like to watch someone, especially someone who gave you life, take a breath and pray that it isn't their last? You should probably keep your comments to yourself. I will take the high road and not point out that your poor father has a terrible child for making such comments.

I like to imagine that some of these people commenting on what a terrible daughter she is are the type that weren't or won't be running to the hospice bed of a loved one when they're passing away. They'll breeze into the funeral with a hankie and a somber attitude and wonder where all the jokes and laughter came from. And probably remark about how they aren't appropriate. They'll take sideglances at loved ones who dare laugh or make a joke about the situation. But, I venture to guess, they haven't been there. They haven't seen that a joke and a laugh are sometimes the best way to help the patient and their loved ones. 

I know that, as Dad went through all he did, if we would have sat around somberly staring at him - it would have been worse for him. Not everyone takes themselves that seriously, I suppose. Dad was one of them, I guess. When he had his first seizure - which indicated he had a brain tumor, my sister and Mom called me and I went rushing to their house. I arrived as they were getting ready to take Dad out on a stretcher. I was terrified. I wanted to throw up. My  hands were sweaty. My sister was pinned in a corner of the living room by all the medical equipment and paramedics, and she was frantic. I was trying to shove past all of them to get to her, because I knew Dad was going to be fine. You know why? Because as I walked by him, he mumbled through his oxygen mask: Keep that one away from me, she'll stand on my oxygen line. And then he smiled at me. And I knew he was okay. Because, even in the face of danger or crisis, we're all human. And we know that we're staring down the barrel of the gun of mortality. And, you know, it is completely acceptable to laugh. Or cry. I won't shame you for showing your emotions with water from your eyes. Don't shame me for laughing and making those around me laugh. We're all going to die someday. Pretending it isn't happening, crying, begging - these won't make them stop. But laughing can make those moments pass by with ease. They can soothe those around us. And, damnit, laughing feels good. So give in. Laugh with her. 

And if you can't laugh with her? Don't expect me to invite you to the next family reunion. Because seriously, she must be related to me, right? 

Solidarity, Laurie. Keep laughing. And keep loving. You're doing it right.