Hello, Is It Me You're Looking For?

I grew up in a proud union home. My father retired (earlier than he had hoped) with 35 years at the steel mill. It was ingrained in my head that unions were good - they helped the common man, they stood up for you, they brought you baskets around the holidays, they were who we voted for. It was our bread and butter, as it was explained.

When my father was laid off when I was younger, the union was always there for us. When I was a little girl, one of the union workers snuck me in one year later than I should have been allowed for the Christmas party because he didn't want me to feel left out. I won a bike that year. I also donated the bike back that same year and left with a stuffed animal. My parents raised me right, don't worry. The point is - we have always been union proud.

Stick with me, I swear it pertains.

Yesterday, my mother and I were discussing people communicating with us after they die. Not that we are having tea parties with my father or anything. But it would be nice. I know my mother feels the same way. This isn't, however, Ghost - and we don't even own a pottery wheel. So there is little to no chance that Whoopie Goldberg stars in our Made-For-Lifetime-Movie that we call a life.

Fast forward to my proof that Murphy's Law exists day.

I was headed to an event for work (late as it was) when I got a message saying: Ooops, I added an extra 1 when I sent you that invite - it starts at 1 pm not 11 am. I was on the highway. I turned around, headed back to the office and then started out a bit later. With just enough time to spare, my GPS took me what I can only describe as the "You have spent so much time by Arcellor Mittal this afternoon, I think you work here now" route to Whiting. I wind through the mill area, and get stuck by a train.

Not just any train, have you. A train that was being pulled by a turtle. With a heart condition. In a wheelchair. Missing an arm. Seriously, it was that slow.

I text my apologies to my co-worker. Seriously, she gets major kudos for not harassing me when I finally showed up with my story in all its glory. And I sit. I wait. I think back to the conversation my mother and I had. And I think: seriously, Dad. No pottery wheel needed, but you could make a softball fall off a shelf or something so we know you're still around. I laugh. I finally start moving again.

I decide (not really, I follow my GPS (too) religiously) to then wind around by the BP refinery. I see some of the union workers still out picketing at a stop light. I wave. I think how my Dad would be baffled this is still going on. I move on to another stop light. And then I get stuck behind a truck that weaves suddenly, leaving me no option but to run over a small lightweight plastic container.

...it's not a small plastic container. It's huge. It's hard plastic. And it's making a noise that I can only liken to someone trying to escape the bowels of hell. And now my car smells like melting plastic. I continue for less than a mile, thinking this small (it wasn't) container will pop out. When it doesn't, I pull over, put on my hazards and watch about a million people look irritated at me as they speed around me. I apologize, of course, for my tragic moment interrupting their very busy lives. Or not. Seriously, is there a fire somewhere I don't know about?

I calmly assess what is happening and I think - well, I'm glad I'm calm. But now what? I do that thing where you lean over and look at something that's beyond repair and try to think about a solution. I stand up. I bend down again. And I think - this is when I need a Dad. So I can call him and say, meet me by the refinery. And bring a stick. But I don't have that luxury. So instead, I lean down one more time, I get in my car. I try reversing. This must work, right? No. Not even a budging of the container.

I get out again, intent on just leaning over and staring as I mentally run through what may be in my car that can help. Hairbrush? No. Hand sanitizer? Nope. Six hairties around my gear shift? Probably not. Damn these t-rex length arms of mine. I have floss. I have paperclips. I watched MacGuyver at least once - I can do this, right? Suddenly from down the street, at the corner, an older man starts moving towards me. A union guy, picketing at another street corner. He is waving. I flash the "Hi, I am an idiot. Yes, my parents taught me better than this" nervous smile that you all know and wave. He proceeds to get down on the ground and come to the same assessment I have. It is stuck. I know this because I leaned down and looked at least 10 times myself. He tries a stick on the side of the road. It won't move. "One second, I can fix it!" He runs off to the end of the street and returns with one of the big wooden sticks from their picket signs. He has to lie down on the ground and forcefully hit the container 20-1,000 times by my account and it comes out.

"Thanks," I say. "I'm so sorry. It was starting to smell like burning plastic"

He holds up the plastic container and shows me where it's starting to melt as if to say "Well, because it is burning plastic" And assures me it's no problem and takes off.

I get back into my car, turn off the hazards and take a deep breath. And that's when the radio starts to come through. I no longer hear the "AAAH" in my head but the soft soothing sounds of Lionel Richie asking me if it's him I'm looking for. No. But I was looking for my Dad. I found him in the kind older union worker all bundled up on the corner of the street. But I found him. That's all that matters.

Maybe the dead don't communicate with us the way we'd like. Maybe you don't believe in that. I'm not even sure if I do, fully. But I know today I needed my Dad. And I got the next best thing. Another USW union guy. Like my Dad said - they take care of us when we need them.

You can argue the point that it wasn't because he was a union man, but because he was a good man. My dad was that, too. So either way? Yes, it was you I was looking for.

Thanks, Dad. You did always promise to haunt us when you died. I suppose I didn't think it would be in the form of an older Hispanic man with a sign on a stick that was just the right size - but it works.

Also, if any of you ever hear a really nice man telling the story of the dumb girl who ran over a container by the refinery? Tell him I said thanks. He was gone by the time I headed back out for the day. 

Change Is Inevitable.

They say that change is inevitable and change is constant. When you’re someone’s caregiver, it doesn’t feel like you ever get off the hamster wheel. Change doesn’t happen, not to you. Not in your house. Not in your bubble that you call your life. It just keeps going. Things around you change. People change. The seasons change. But your life remains, in essence, the same.

You go through the same routine, every day. The variables change. But the scenario is always the same. It’s the same way when you’re dealing with grief. You go through the steps, you keep pace. But you don’t always feel like you’ve changed.

There’s a major component missing in your life, when people die. But the way you feel doesn’t change the way the seasons do, always. The grief remains constant. The void never fills in. But life never stops moving, around you. So when you break free of that for moments? There is change. There has been change.

Sometimes you have to create your own change. This week, I resigned from my position at work. I’ve been where I am now for a little short of 13 years. My life has, without a doubt, changed since I signed my employment packet with them. I turned 21, I got cheaper car insurance when I turned 25, I turned 30, I graduated from college, I survived a house fire, I lost friends, my relationship status changed, my dad was diagnosed with cancer, my dad died,  my sister got married, co-workers passed away, my job status changed, I got my first management position, I got my first office, I got my first company car, I bought my own first car, I lost pets, I got new wonderful pets, my housing situation changed – all of these things (and so many more) happened while I worked for my company. The one thing that remained steady was my employment. The place I went every day. The place my father had walked into…so many times. That was the steady part of the last 13 years of my life.

But like they say, change is inevitable – evolution is optional. Which means that sometimes you have to take the change, embrace it, and move forward. While it’s inevitable that things change, that we must accept it, that we must even intiate it at times – it doesn’t make it easy. It doesn’t mean that walking away from everything you know, your comfort zones, the people you consider friends and even family is easy. It’s the exact opposite. Leaving somewhere that you know, somewhere that you have grown up – it’s heart wrenching. It’s terrifying. And it’s so exciting all at once.

My father once tried to tell me that you work hard at work, you even do things you hate, so that you can enjoy the time you’re not at work. I’ve taken the opposite approach. And been mocked by him since then. I wanted to love my job, I wanted my soul to feel fulfilled, I expect to have a sense of peace from what I do for a living. He’d be proud to know that I found a place I think I can do just that. He’d be even more proud that I actually said yes and left my comfort zone…which also means I have to leave the offices he’s sat in a hundred times. I have to leave the ghost of him walking through my work’s front doors behind me and start a new chapter.

For someone who didn’t change much for 3 and a half years while we spent his last days with him? Change seems hard. We spent so long not wanting things to change, hoping for things to always hold as steady as they can. When you’re dealing with cancer – hearing the words no change is usually a positive thing. I’m sure my Dad would understand that. I also am pretty sure he’s somewhere rolling his eyes, telling me to suck it up, soldier, and grinning from ear to ear that I am ready to take on the next part of my life.

….don’t worry though, I’m not going far, which just means I’ll be able to visit my memories of him at work and my work family whenever I want. Just as an outsider. Which also means they have to treat me like a guest. I’ll take a coffee with 3 cream and 3 sugar, guys.

Here’s to the next chapter, to change, and to hoping you’ve made your parents hard work at turning you into a decent human being worth it.

Weddings and White Castles

My sister got married this weekend. I was honored to be the person who walked her down the aisle. I could never fill Dad’s shoes, but I did rock some killer tennis shoes he would have loved. The party was a blast, everyone danced, drank, ate, drank, partied, drank…and ended the evening with White Castles. All in all, it was a party Dad would have been proud of.

We missed his killer dance moves. But my mom did order him a plate, and he had a seat of honor right next to her. He probably missed her looking like a movie star.

But he would have been overshadowed by her beauty, anyway. So it was probably best he was there in spirit only. He would have just been background noise to our awesome, right?

My father was always behind the camera, taking pictures of everyone and documenting every milestone he could. On Christmas mornings, we weren’t allowed to come into the room until he had set the tripod and video camera up in just the right spot so that no one missed anything. At the time I thought it was annoying. Now, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if we recently found a video tape of him, my mother, and two of their friends painting the ceiling in our living room. No, really, it’s hours of them painting the ceiling. We won’t even delve into the hours of him and their friends playing Risk that we found, as well. When we say he documented everything – we really mean EVERYTHING.

This also meant that he was absent from a lot of pictures. But that didn’t stop him from showing up in almost every roll of film. Before the invention of smart phones and self-facing cameras that man still took a selfie as often as possible. You’d pick a roll of film up and there’d be 25 of me opening my birthday presents, then his mug, then more present pictures. He was king of the selfie before the selfie was a thing. When he passed away, we had an entire board at the funeral home dedicated to selfies that we found going back to the 70s.

It only seemed fitting, then, that when I walked my sister down the aisle – we would take a selfie. And we did. The music started, everyone stood, we took a step out, and everyone looked back at her. And who could blame them, she looked amazing. And then we walked her down the aisle to get married. Just kidding, first – let us take a selfie.

The ceremony was beautiful, full of laughter, and some tears. It’s hard to not feel like we’re losing another member of our family as we “let her go” (and no, I’m not singing Frozen songs – trust me) but we know she’s in good hands. Dad would have been proud of her, of her husband, and of me for not tripping as I walked her down the aisle.

When we got to the front of the fireplace where they were married, her husband-to-be was choked up. I can’t say I blame him. She joked, under her breath, that it was because he realized he’d been duped into this. I added in he was probably just tearing up because he realized there was no way out now. But really it was because she looked stunning and he loves her almost as much as our family does. I say almost as much because he didn’t have to listen to her slamming doors as a teenager. And he never saw how mad she gets at me when I make a bad joke at her expense. Which, to be fair, is pretty often.

I am not, surprise, a wedding lover. And talking about it for the last year, as Dad had just passed – was not something I was incredibly open and supportive about. Luckily my mom and sister were focused and paid attention to every detail. My job was over when I sat down next to my mother and I could just enjoy watching the two of them profess their love for each other. I was so happy to see everyone being so happy FOR her. I snuck a picture of her man of honor holding her flowers. Mainly just to be funny that he had to hold a bouquet of flowers for so long.

But when I looked back at it, the expression of pure joy he has on his face is priceless. And it sums up the feeling that I think everyone had. They were happy. We were, of course, sad that Dad couldn’t be there. But he was. For every moment of it. I know it would have been nice if he could have sat next to my mom and held her hand. So they could be proud and (I’m sure) also a little bit sad to see her get married to someone she has loved for so long. Instead, she was stuck with just me. But I was glad she was there for me to hold her hand. Sometimes you get wrapped up in your own thoughts and feelings and you forget about everything else happening in the world. Or at least everything happening in your world. I hope, for you, that if and when that happens – you have a moment like I did on Saturday. When something so good breaks through all of that and you can feel happy for other people. And I am. I’m happy that they’re happy. I’m happy that my friends and family had such a great time. I’m happy that someone else did my hair and made it look so spectacular. But mainly, I just felt happy. It wasn’t a day for me, by any means. It was her day and it went off without a hitch. But I do feel like I got a present filled with happy. And I suppose a brother. I always asked my parents for an older brother. But I suppose that ship has sailed and I’ll have to make do with that I got. Just kidding, he’s way taller than me – so I suppose that’s a big brother, right?

It was a wonderful day. My mother (and sister) know how to throw a party. I think Dad would have been proud to be a part of it. And I’m not just saying that because we’re a good looking bunch. But also because he would have been proud of all of us. Mainly them, they did all the work. But he always cut me a bunch of slack. So I think he would have lumped me into that group, too.

My sister was thoughtful and incorporated so many things that my father loved. For her bridal shower, my mother and I gave her a Doctor Who scarf from Dad’s favorite Doctor.

She rocked it. I’m not even being biased as a big sister. She really rocked it. And her friend made her a killer set of Tardis heels for the ceremony. Dad would have been completely geeked out. I should have taken a picture of Brittany and the shoes, but instead I think you’ll have to settle for a selfie of her and I.

It was a wonderful weekend. And I’m proud to say my little sister is all grown up. Well, I’m using that term loosely. She did wear a Spongebob shirt to brunch yesterday with a #Swag logo. But we wouldn’t have her any other way.

Let's have one final moment of "holy crap she looks beautiful" and p.s., your Dad's showing, Emily. 

Oh The Places You'll Go

Today is a year to the day of Dad's funeral. A lot has changed in a year. We've been places, we've grieved, we've laughed, we've made new friends, we've cherished old relationships, we've heard stories we didn't know about Dad, we've finally gotten past the routine that used to be our old life. 

It's been over 52 weeks since I had to clean a trach, or make Dad a smoothie. It's been 365 days since my Mom said "Hey, let's harass your Dad and put him in the wheelchair and take him outside." 

Dad has, however, been on an few field trips. 

He went to work with me

He went out to breakfast with Emily, Mom, and I

He went out to coffee with my friends 

 

I would like to say I took him (most of) these places on purpose. But really, I put him in my purse one day and there he's stayed. At first it was because I forgot...and if you know me? You know there's one of everything in my purse. It's a Mary Poppins bag. Only Mary Poppins (probably) didn't have a dead guy in her bag. Who knows though. Where DID that spoonful of sugar really come from? We'll never know. Then it just became a habit to jokingly pull him out at places and say I brought my Dad along. Most recently, it's been more of a sense of comfort, perhaps. Knowing he's always there. 

And he is, not just in mini-urn-to-freak-out-friends fashion - but in my  heart. I felt like my heart would break into a million bits the day he died. Instead it grew larger. So that I could carry him, his memories, his love wherever I went. 

In exactly a week, I'll take him with me - probably in both heart and urn - when I walk my baby sister down the aisle. It's not the wedding I ever envisioned. I always thought that Dad would be there. And that we'd see his terrible Dad dancing when their first dance happened. But he will be there. In spirit, and in our memories. And in the terrible jokes I am going to say the entire way down the aisle with her. I'm sure that he would approve. He'd probably disown me if I didn't. And in his memory, I think after I give her away (I've been trying to get people to pay for years, but no luck. I suppose I'll have to go for just giving her away at this point.) I'll say "First, let's take a selfie." I hope that Pastor Duane is ready for us next week. 

And I hope I can do half as good as he would have at telling her how proud he is of her, how much he loved her, how much we'll all miss having her around all the time. And not just because someone has to be the butt of all my jokes. But because she's my little sister. The only person that shares my Mom and Dad's blood with me. The only person who knows my Dad the way I do. Although, to be fair - we can eat gluten without guilt once she's gone. And Dad would have agreed that this is a win. 

We'll probably have to make Dad's urn a tiny suit. He always said that he only wore suits to funerals and weddings. I'd like to imagine he looks a bit like this next week, when we all gather together to finally give my sister away. 

That face he's making? It's him saying: Stop taking pictures. Knock it off. Or maybe it's: How'd I get such a pretty lady to stand next to me? (Hi, Mom!)

If only they'd kept that gift receipt 23 years ago. I'd be an only child. And my life would be less full. (Of jokes. CHECK!) 

How Do You Measure a Year?

A year is: 

• 365 days
• 52 weeks
• 12 months
• 4 quarters

It's also 525,600 minutes. 

If you're familiar with the musical Rent you'll know this song straight away. You'll probably be humming it by now. You're possibly at this part: 

If you're not familiar, let me assist you. Don't worry, the rest of the class will wait while you catch up. 

When Rent first came out, I tricked my best friend into going to watch it with me. We were two of four people in the movie. As they started singing for the second time in the first 10 minutes he said accusingly "This is a musical?" Yes. Yes it is. I believe he and the only other man in the theater bonded over being dragged to see it. 

Fast forward to it being released on DVD. I made my sister watch it. She loved it. I am surprised I hadn't been banned from my parents house by then, because every time I came over, the movie (or soundtrack) was playing. My father was about as appalled as those two men in the theater had been. 

I can still vividly remember him walking through the house mockingly singing the words "525,600 minutes" with a disgusted look on his face. 

Christmas rolled around. And my sister and I, being the most amazing children he could have ever been graced with, made him a mixed tape. We get into the car Christmas night and he puts the CD into the player and starts to reverse out of the driveway. 

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes." 

"Seriously?" He hits next.

"Five hundred twenty-five thousand." 

This time he hits next with a bit more fury and spits out "This better not be the whole thing, you twerps."

"Five hundred twenty-five." 

*Next*

"Five hundred twenty."

*Next*

"Five hundred."  

Window down, CD flung out of the vehicle. Cue fits of laughter from everyone in the vehicle except for him.

So it seems like an apt way to remember the last year of our lives. Tomorrow will be 365 days since my father took his last breath. It will be five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes since I held his hand and told him I loved him. 

I'd rather measure it differently. 

in daylights, in sunsets

in midnights, in cups of coffee

in inches, in miles

in laughter, in strife

I can clearly remember there being a time I never thought a daylight would come without my father. Or the first time I watched the sunset after he died. There have been so many of them since he left. Daylights that broke where I broke down. Sunsets that were so breathtaking they made me remember when he'd throw me on his shoulders so quickly I thought my breath would stop. 

The midnights continue to come. Even though he isn't there to ask me to (tell me to) make him a cheese plate. Or him changing the channel to the home shopping network where he proceeded to never purchase me anything from. They say that they get easier. Time heals all wounds. I don't know if that's true. Instead of it only being a few weeks since I heard my dad's voice it's been almost a year. 

Luckily, however, there have been numerous cups of coffee, too. From friends, family, co-workers, people you barely even know. And they listen. They console. They laugh with you. They share stories. They play Hungry Hungry Hippo or Cootie with you. These moments are beyond precious. To everyone who has shared a cup of coffee with me over the last five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes - thank you. Thank you for meeting me on Christmas, the day before my Dad's funeral. Thank you for stopping by my house early in the morning with a cup of coffee. Thank you for bringing a cup to my work. Thank you for sharing a mug of homemade coffee at my house. Thank you. For helping me across the inches. 

We inch our way through the first few weeks. They fly by, but you measure them in inches. In tiny milestones. In the first shower you took after he died. In the first time you went grocery shopping. The first time you make dinner. The first time you realize that your life is going to go on. Even if it doesn't feel like it. And the inches turn into miles. Without you even knowing. 

Without thought you realize you're at the 3rd quarter of the year since your father passed away. And you only got there because of everyone around you. Because of your family, your friends, your resolve to move forward. Guts you didn't even know you have make those inches turn into feet and into miles. And maybe into kilometers. But I'm American and we don't get the metric system, so I'm not even sure about that. 

Miles down the road you find yourself laughing. I have read articles on grieving where people say they never thought they'd laugh again. Fortunately, I never thought that. We laughed on the way home from the hospital they took Dad to. We called my Dad the Grinch who stole Christmas. Well - *I* did. My sister and Mom just let me. Because they know there's no stopping my wit and charm. I choose to call it that so that it doesn't sound as creepy. 

There's no way to measure your strife through a year. Believe me, I have tried. I've tried to be angry, tried to be bitter. But I can't. I feel lucky. To have had the year I had. Life is unfair. It's full of trials and tribulations. It's full of life and death and endings and beginnings of all sorts. My life has changed in ways I am just figuring out, in ways that aren't what I thought, in ways I never wanted. But I have people who have shared sunsets and laughter. I (with help) have inched my way into miles. My daylights, my midnights, have been full of coffee, laughter and friends...and love. 

Seasons of love. Seasons come and seasons go. They change. They ebb and they flow. But the last five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes have shown me how much love I had for my father. It's proven that it will only get stronger - that it will never fade.  It's opened my eyes to how many people loved him. And it's shown me how many people I have in my life that will help me through the inches, through the miles, through the strife - and they're always nearby with a cup of coffee and a laugh. No matter if it's daylight, sunset, or midnight. That part of the season always stays constant. 

There will always be love. 

Congrats, it's a discus.

Tonight is my last night as a 32 year old. Tomorrow I will no longer be the same age I was when my father passed away.

It's a relief. And sad - all at once. There's a comfort in knowing my dad was at his house when I got home from watching a (really bad) movie with my mom and sister exactly a year ago. But it also will probably be a step forward. Going on a whole new year without him there. I feel torn. I want to leave the 32nd year behind me. To think that time heals all wounds and this is a tangible marker of time.

I may leave the year behind, but not Dad. That's not possible. I figure dragging him along for the ride is a fair trade off for him making me listen to my birth story so many times.

Mom required a cesarean when I was born. And back in the dark ages, they knocked you out. And also stapled you shut. I won't go on about how Dad took a staple gun and stragetically placed staples around their bathroom after we got home to make mom think she was losing them. You're lucky you lived as long as you did, dude. Instead, I will just relay Dad's favorite part.

They owned a tropical fish store when I was born. And my doctor happened to be one of their clients. He proudly removed a beautiful baby (that's me, duh) and handed her off to my father.

In the movies they say "Congratulations, it's a girl!"

In the story of my birth, the doctor chuckled and said "It's a discus!"

My dad told me once when I was older that he wasn't ready to be a father. That he almost felt indifferent until they put that little discus in his arms, and then his life changed forever. Please note that he didn't say for the better or worse. But since he left me to tell the tale, we will pretend it was for the better. I know my future was destined to be full of life, love, and laughter because of my parents. But, then again, Dad did often point out that Mom slept through the whole ordeal and he was the one there to hold me.

From this discus to her Dad: I'm ready to leave this year behind me. But not you.

And for reference, here are a few discus. They look about as amused as I was upon hearing this story 1,000 times in my 32 years.

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!