Get Me My Jason Mask

This is the first Halloween without my dad. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay scary, folks! 

Full of Jive....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll Be There For You....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Word to your mother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stand Up For Yourself And Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Never Lose Your Spark

The world has been spinning with the news of Robin Williams passing for a few days now. I know there are other and even bigger things in the world that we can and should worry about. But this one hits many close to home. 

I don't apologize for being moved by his death. Robin Williams was one of those people who a lot of us grew up loving and laughing with (and sometimes at, let's be serious). He provided us an outlet. He gave us an escape. It wasn't just a laugh he bestowed upon us - but a reprieve from whatever may have been bothering us. And on good days - he only served to make us laugh more and enjoy life. 

I remember watching Mork and Mindy with my father. He loved Robin Williams. But he also loved to laugh, and to make other people laugh. My dad was always full of jokes. He made everyone around him smile and probably cringe, at times. He wasn't always politically correct. But then again, neither was Robin (I imagine that's part of what Dad always loved about him): 

There's something so hard about facing your own mortality when someone else dies. Sometimes it's a relative, sometimes it's a celebrity. But it's hard to recognize that you, too, will die one day. That one day people will be gathered around your casket. And in Dad's case? They'll take selfies with you, even then. I'll spare you guys that visual. ...this time. I will, however, show you a picture of Dad modeling for a cancer survivor catwalk show. Check out that pose. 

 But there's something extra hard about realizing that someone you cared about took their own life. I've seen a lot of interesting debate about suicide being selfish or being something you can't help often, due to things like depression. I've seen both those sides attack each other. With statements about how careless and selfish some are while others are trying to explain how callous it is for people to not understand mental anguish and depression. While I won't get into the debate on that - I will say that both sides have something to say that are important. They're both human reactions. And that's what death brings about for so many people - the raw emotions of being human. While I've never suffered from depression and can't relate - I don't know many people who have been on the "receiving" end of a suicide. I have. I know what it's like to be left with the "what ifs" and the "should I have known" issues. I know what it's like to spend years trying to justify that you did what you could and that's all you can do. So I see it from that angle and I know how hard this must be for his family. I may never reach them, but as someone who is 10 years out from the death of someone I cared for that made me question my own actions? You did all you could. You cared. You loved. And sometimes that's just not enough. Sometimes the demons win. But that doesn't make your efforts any less valiant or valid. 

Robin's daughter Zelda, released a statement that was full of such wonderful words. I want to share with you then part that hit me the most: Dad was, is and always will be one of the kindest, most generous, gentlest souls I’ve ever known, and while there are few things I know for certain right now, one of them is that not just my world, but the entire world is forever a little darker, less colorful and less full of laughter in his absence. We’ll just have to work twice as hard to fill it back up again. 

My Dad wasn't a celebrity. He wasn't a millionaire. But he was the brightness in my world. And many of those around us. I know how dark and less full of laughter the world can be when we lose someone we care so deeply for. Perhaps it's the connection of having watched Robin Williams with my father so many times. Or maybe it's just the world lost another funny man. Mine wasn't famous. But he was as important to me as Robin's family must feel he was to them.

I know that, even my father's darkest times, before he passed away - he never lost what made him "him". I'm sure my mother will kill me for telling this story. So let's hope she doesn't check this blog anytime soon. But my father passed away right before Christmas. Near Thanksgiving he hadn't been feeling well and hadn't spoken much. A few days before the holiday, while I was at work, my mother called and put my dad on speaker phone. She then asked him to retell the story. I'll make it brief.
Mom: What do you want for Thanksgiving?
Dad: A blowjob.
Mom: Don't say that in front of your daughters. How about turkey? Does turkey sound good?
Dad: It doesn't sound like a blowjob. 



That's the "spark" he never lost, that's for sure. And he provided us with love and laughter until the moment he left us. 

There aren't many words that can take away the sting of losing someone that you loved. And like Zelda pointed out, we'll have to work twice as hard to fill the darkness full of light, color, and laughter. But I think both our dads would want it that way. 

Until then? 

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.)