seven twenty-three

He had two girls. He probably always wanted a boy, but you'd have never known it.

He loved to travel.  He loved the mountains. Lakes. Fishing. Beautiful views.

He was quiet and reserved but didn't hesitate to speak his mind when push came to shove.

He only wanted to retire.  Enjoy his golden years. He didn't get to. Unless you call 6 months of disability "retirement." I don't.

He was at my high school graduation. He'd already had colon cancer twice by then.

He was at my college graduation. On that day, he said "I'm proud of you." That was one of MY proudest moments.  His words. Not the graduation.

Bad jokes. So many bad jokes - he just laughed at himself and it was only a matter of time before I was laughing too.

Blue eyes, with green just around the pupils.  Same as mine.

He had such a great sense of adventure and loved roller coasters, heights, and any other adrenaline pumping thrill. Same as me.

He held my hand and I sat on his lap until I was probably too old by society's standards. A complete Daddy's Girl.

He loved music - playing, singing, listening. He recorded favorite songs off of the radio when I was little and we listened to those tapes in the car for YEARS. Those songs are the soundtrack of my childhood.

His smile, I can still see. Big teeth. Mine are little.

He always said, "give me a hug, you big lug" when we were parting ways. And he ALWAYS said, "come back and see us."

He loved comfort food and sweets.  PB + Chocolate was his favorite flavor combination.

He didn't say "I love you" a whole lot. But he meant it.

He liked shooting baskets in the driveway. Playing H-O-R-S-E.

He taught me to hit a baseball.  "Watch the Ball, Hit the Bat."

He wasn't much for talking on the phone.

His voice. I miss his voice.

He called me on March 23, 2007 and said "I have pancreatic cancer. I'm dying."

My sister called me on July 21, 2007 and said "I think you better get down here."

His hands.  It wasn't until he was dying that I realized how much our hands looked the same. His fingers had gotten so thin and bony and were practically mirror images of my own. Nail shape. Finger length. Hand twins.

He said he wasn't afraid of dying, he just didn't want to be in pain.

He died around 2am on July 23, 2007.  It's been seven years.  How has it already been seven years?  Most days I'm fine. This is life now. Life without a dad. My kids don't know him. They never will, aside from the stories they hear and the pictures they see. The home videos we'll watch that are so few.

I'll risk sounding like one of my young children and pout out loud, "IT'S NOT FAIR!"  It's not fair to him that he's not here. It's not fair to me, my mom, my sister, or any of his grandkids.  He was only 55 years old.  It's not fair.  Maybe some people think I'm wallowing in self-pity. Maybe I am. But allowing myself to feel the pain and remember his characteristics and qualities is what helps keep his memory alive in my heart.

"Only time moves on to the next scene. Memory remains part of the heart forever."
-unknown

Previous posts about losing and missing my dad HERE.

xo,
~C~

missing my dad.

I have felt on the verge of tears for a few days, unable to really pinpoint why.  Just on edge - emotions running high.  I thought it was just exhaustion. The weather. The holiday rush and stress.  Finding that perfect gift for each of 15+ people on our list. And the money for that perfect gift.  My dirty house eating away at me, because everyone in it has been sick and I haven't had time to do the dishes, let alone dust.  Not getting to go visit my family last weekend because of the illness. Plans getting cancelled left and right because of snow. Or sickness. The weight of this time of year. The disappointment of everything that's gone wrong recently. The changes that have happened this year in our family and longing for the way it used to be. Always questioning if I am doing the right thing, if I am parenting the best way I can, if I'm meeting everyone's expectations. My own expectations.  Relationships that have changed or gone away. Friends that have changed or gone away.  I miss blogging regularly but don't even know what to say anymore.  And then there's winter.  Stupid, stupid winter. Not running or exercising because I can't find the time. Fear of failure. The boys crying at drop off. Again.

Tonight, Theo was asleep on the couch by 6:30 (not feeling well - AGAIN). Dex passed out as soon as I put him in bed. Ryan asleep by 7:15 (not feeling well).  By 9pm I couldn't hold back anymore and the big, hot, stupid, salty tears were pouring down my face. For no reason, for every reason.  I felt the need to see my dad, so I walked around the house looking for a picture of him.  Sat here, staring at him. He would have been 62 today, if pancreatic cancer hadn't stolen him from me over 6 years ago.  I can't remember how long it's been since I cried over my dad but now I can't stop.  I miss him.  So.  Much.  So much has happened and my life has changed in so many ways since the last time I sat down and talked to him.  I wish I could see his hands.  Be on the receiving end of one of his big hugs.  Just to hear him say he loves me one more time.  It feels good to let it out.  Now I just want to feel better and get on with these happy freaking holidays.

xo,
~C~

time of year

This is the time of year when the air gets hot and sticky.  The humidity is almost suffocating.  Going from the cool comfort of an air conditioned room to the outdoors creates a physical reaction that forces me to breathe consciously, rather than effortlessly.

When the weather gets this way, my mind wanders.  It feels like both a lifetime and just a minute have passed since that day. I picture myself standing there.  Mind whirring and body numb.  Realizing the magnitude of what was going on around me but unable to purposefully take it all in.  Knowing that this moment was one that I had pictured, had feared, for many months but unable to wrap my head around the fact that this day had arrived.  Unable to fully feel what I expected to feel.  We were about to watch as my dad's casket was lowered into the ground and I was numb.  Cried out. Physically and emotionally drained.  Exhausted in every way.

I wore a sheer white shirt with red and black flowers on it with a knee length black skirt and black flats.  I smiled robotically as relatives took family photos in front of the treeline at the back edge of the cemetery, atop the hill where my dad's body lies today.  I repeatedly twisted my long(er) hair up in a knot with my fingers and held it there for a few seconds in an attempt to cool off before letting it fall again around my shoulders.  I stared off in the distance.  I hugged family members and friends and thanked them for their condolences.  What else can you say?  It's okay? No. Because it's not okay.

Just a week prior, I stood on the deck looking at him. Watching him. Waiting. He was working in the yard in the mid-July heat.  So many loose ends he wanted to tie up and things he wanted to take care of so my mom wouldn't have to. He knew he was running out of time.  He changed the oil in my mom's car less than a week before he died. He was a shell, literally a shell, of the man he once was.  Bones and skin.  Beyond thin.  Sickly.  I stood on the deck as he took a break.  He was wearing a hat and he sat in a chair in the yard just beyond the shed.  His head was down.  I contemplated.  Watched, waited.  Finally he moved and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

I didn't know that that was the last Saturday I'd see my dad alive.

So today, July 23rd, is always my least favorite day.  Not because I expect horrible things to happen.  But because as soon as the first day of July rolls around, I start thinking about it. Feeling it.  The humidity. The emptiness that a girl feels when she loses her dad at 27.  They say you "lose" someone that you love. Lost loved ones.  It's the ones that are left behind who feel lost and abandoned.

Most days are fine.  Most days I think about my dad in a positive, pleasant way.  It took a long time for those images of him being very ill to be replaced with better memories of happy times.  However, July pretty much stinks from start to finish.  Now I can look at a photo and know immediately when it was taken.  Before he got sick or after. But most days I feel okay.

There are moments.  Sigh...it's so hard to explain to people that have never been through it.  Talking about it with people who do understand, I mean REALLY understand, is such a breath of fresh air.  Anyway, there are moments that still get me.  It's like finding out all over again.  Realizing all over again.  Something will happen - one of the boys will say something.  We'll be out doing something he would have enjoyed.  Seeing a place he would have loved to visit.  A song will play on the radio.  I'll catch myself telling a stupid joke that only I think is funny.  Those moments have the capacity to take my breath away, because I'll remember and realize that he'll never be here for that, to do that, to go there, to laugh at himself.  I know he's been gone for 6 years, but sometimes it still takes my breath away like a solid punch to the gut.

I don't know how else to explain it or what else to say.  Have you ever missed someone so much it takes your breath away like that?

xo,
~C~

To read previous posts I've written about losing my dad, click HERE.

father's day weekend 2013

Saturday we traveled to Richmond to visit some of my relatives and celebrate my grandmother's 79th birthday at a surprise party.  My uncle Joe & aunt Sandy have an alpaca farm so we went there first to meet their newest baby, Annapolis aka "Annie." 

The boys love feeding the alpacas.

Annie!

All I could think was that poor mama! Can you imagine giving birth to this large of a baby?  Two weeks old! That's the mother, standing right beside me.  I could only hold this strong girl for about 60 seconds.

No worries, these animals would scatter every time the boys took a step in their direction. They're very docile animals.

Dexter loved this barn cat, Louie.

We hung out at the farm until we received word that the party planners were ready for their special guest of honor.

Time to go, boys!

Yes, Grandma had her hair up in bobby pin curls like she does every Saturday.  Gotta look pretty for church on Sunday.  Grandma has looked like this for as many Saturdays as I've known her, unless she was aware of a special occasion.  I don't think she cared at all that she came to her party with a kerchief on her head!  I think she looks beautiful! 

It's funny...the grandkids my age call her Grandma and the little grandkids and great grandkids call her Mamaw.  Not sure when the switch happened... Some people call her Barsie - no clue where that came from.  (She had a sister named Elizabeth who was only known as Tootie, so who knows?)  Hardly anyone calls her by her lovely given name, Arizona.  I always told Ryan if we'd had a girl, I wanted to name her Arizona and call her Zoey.

Lots of fun things for the boys to do at my uncle Kerry's gorgeous, huge property.  They enjoyed a nice, sloooow go-kart ride (at least while mom was watching).

The birthday cutie opening cards and gifts.  She was so surprised, she just kept saying "I've never been surprised in my life!"  Can you believe this was her first ever birthday party?  I guess when you have 7 kids, 14 grandkids, and 7 great grandkids, the attention is always focused somewhere else.  

It was a little too breezy and cloudy for me to get in the pool, but the boys did not hesitate!

Happy Birthday Grandma!

On Father's Day morning, I surprised Ryan by taking him to First Watch downtown for breakfast.  Oh. So. Yummy.  Afterwards, we went over to the Indiana State Museum for a short IMAX film about butterflies.  We were a few minutes early so we walked around outside for a bit.

Waiting for the show to start. 

Somehow, I abandoned my camera after the movie, but Sunday afternoon, Ryan's parents came up and I fixed dinner for Ryan, the boys, and Nana and Pop-Pop.  It was a wonderful weekend.  Father's Day is always bittersweet as I'm missing my own dad, but this weekend was full of family and gentle reminders that I am so very lucky to have all these special people in my life.  

xo,

~C~

this is the hard part.

Since I've got two weeks off between jobs + a house that needs LOTS of work and updates, I've been spending as much time as possible at the house doing whatever I can to get it (more) ready for us to move in to.  That means getting up in the morning and getting the boys ready for the day, whether that means going to the babysitter's house or staying home with Nana, and then only seeing them for another hour or so each day.  This is the hard part.

I keep thinking it will all be worth it.  I have only been going at these long days for a week or so but I feel like it's been 10 years since I've spent any time with my kids and I really miss them.  I wonder if they think about me when I'm not around because they cross my mind 10 times a minute.  I know they're fine without me around.  But what do they think?  Do they miss me?  I'm looking forward to moving into our house and living there as a family.  Dinners there, baths there, bedtime there.  Living with my husband there.  Seeing the improvements we make over time.  This is the hard part.

My mom is in town. She has been hard at work painting for me the last 4 days.  I can't wait to show you what she's done!  I'd be lost without her, my father-in-law, and my mother-in-law.  I asked my mom what she thought dad would be working on if he was still here with us.  She laughed and said, "probably whatever you told him to." I sure miss him at times like this. I know he would love our house, flaws and all, and would do anything he could to help us make it better.  This is the hard part.

The house looks worse than it did when we bought it because it truly is a construction zone right now.  We keep asking ourselves how we ended up in a total fixer upper when we have no time and very little money to make it the way we want it.  We can't keep beating ourselves up for our questionable decision making skills. We have to look to the future and realize how great this house WILL be one day.  This is the hard part.

I really do believe one day we will look back at these days fondly and admire the work that we did.  The love that our family shared with us throughout this process..  Their talent, their generosity, their time, their aching backs and knees, and the list goes on and on.  I just have to keep telling myself that it will be worth it. It won't always be like this.  This right here, this is the hard part.

xo,
~C~

comfort food: this ain't your granny's shepherd's pie.

It's my dad's.  It is nothing fancy, but it's warm and the flavors and textures are just right on a winter day.  It's one of the few things I remember my dad cooking and I always loved it.  I didn't have much in the cupboards or fridge last night, but I had what I needed to throw this together.  It was just as yummy as I remembered, so I thought I would share.

There are no veggies in this shepherd's pie. No gravy. And that's how we like it.  Three layers: cheese. mashed potatoes. sloppy joe meat (or something like it).

~Jack's Shepherd's Pie~

Preheat the oven to 350ish.  Make some instant mashed potatoes (or real ones, if you're crafty like that. But the point here is quick and easy on a weeknight, so whatevs...).

Start by browning a pound of ground beef or ground turkey in a large skillet. 

How do you make sloppy joes?  I just squirted some ketchup and barbeque sauce in the skillet.

And voila!

Spread the meat in a square baking dish.  Preferably a cute blue one like mine.

Spread the mashed potatoes over the meat mixture.

Dump a bunch (or about a cup) of shredded cheese on top and spread it to the edges of the dish.  I prefer sharp cheddar but I had colby & monterey jack on hand so that's what we used.

Put it in the oven and start the timer for 15 minutes. 

Hint:  It improves efficiency in the kitchen if you can find a couple of helpers to get things out of drawers for you and hold on to your legs while you walk back and forth.

When that timer goes off, I like to leave the oven door cracked and turn up the heat to broil until the cheese starts turning brown and getting a little crunchy. 

Not as brown as I'd like it, but when you have hungry mouths to feed, you have to make sacrifices! 

The verdict?

It's in his mouth (this equals success) AND he {almost} cleaned his plate.  Yummy.

If you try it, let me know what you think.  Jack would be proud.

~C~

Jack, part 2

When I wrote about my dad back in January, I had so many more thoughts than what I could put into words at the time.  After the post was published, I immediately started this one that I hadn't been able to finish.  Until now.

****

I was on Spring Break from school in March of 2007, a week or two before he got his diagnosis.  He was on disability leave from work indefinitely so I went down to visit and spend some extra time with him.  We spent most of that week together.  He was feeling pretty good, or at least acted like it.  We went to a nature center and explored it.  We went to a scenic overlook across the river and saw the city from a new perspective.  We took my niece to the park and played with her.  We went to lunch.  We went downtown and pretended we were tourists.  It was the most one on one time I spent with my dad as an adult - I loved it.  At the end of the week, I had packed up to go home and we went to a little Mexican restaurant for lunch before I hit the interstate.  In the parking lot, next to my car, he gave me as big of a hug as a sick, skinny man can give and told me "I've really enjoyed our time together this week."  And he hugged me a little longer than usual.

I said before that my dad wasn't a touchy feely guy.  He said things like "come back and see us," rather than "I've really enjoyed our time together."  If not before then, I knew at that moment that he knew he was dying.  I didn't know that he was dying, but I at least knew that he thought he was.  It was just the little things he did and said all week.  I'm so grateful for that week with him.  If he had gotten his diagnosis before Spring Break, I don't think we would have had as much fun.

After he died, I felt lost.  Literally.  I had a recurring dream that I was a child standing in a crowded mall, spinning around and around in one spot.  The crowd was a rotating blur and there were loud echoes of people talking and laughing.  I was too scared to move out of that spot, feeling totally helpless and alone while the world just kept moving in circles at an accelerated pace.

I cried sobbed myself to sleep over and over.  It was a gut-wrenching sadness.  I wondered if I was normal and if I should be having this hard of a time adjusting to life after my dad.  No one that had lost a parent ever explained the weight of this grief to me.  Maybe because there is no way to explain it.  I don't think my husband knew what to do with me, but he did the right thing.  He held me tight and let me cry.

About a week after I returned to "normal" life, I decided to seek help through a grief support group.  I found one that was offered at a church not too far from my home on Friday nights.  We went and were the youngest people there.  One lady was about 10 years older than me and had lost her fiance, but everyone else was elderly.  Like senior citizens.  And they had lost a spouse.  We shared our stories of loss.  One of the older ladies told me that she was really broken-hearted when she lost her father, but I wouldn't know what grief was unless I lost a spouse, like she had.  Umm.  What? 

I don't doubt that the pain you feel when your husband of a gobzillion years passes away is intense, but I'm not there.  I'm here.  My dad died two weeks ago and I'm still reeling.  The support group was not helpful.  I think I went back once after that out of guilt for starting something and not finishing it, but I couldn't bring myself to keep sitting around with these sad old ladies.  I guess I wanted to sit around with sad 27 year olds.

I experienced a lot of jealousy.  I was so envious of anyone and everyone who still had both of their parents.  And you know who was included in that list?  My mom...whose parents are now in their late 70s.  MY MOM, of all people.  She just lost her husband of 35+ years and the love of her life.  My mom, who was 53 at the time and still had both of her parents.  I was jealous of my mom.  I felt guilty about that, but I guess I somehow separated the loss of her husband from the fact that she still had both parents.  I thought I'd have my parents until I was in my 50s too.  When my dad was dying, I told my mom that she better plan on living to be about 150 to make up for my dad dying so young.  He was only 55.

At times, I was suprised at what friends were there for me.  Some friends that I hadn't even heard from for months or years came out of the woodwork while many whom I expected to be there unconditionally were the ones that let me down.  I get it.  No one wants to reopen the wound.  No one wants to bring it up if you seem happy because they don't want to make you sad.  People don't know what to say.  It made me feel like people forgot about my dad.  Or forgot that I was in pain.  Or didn't care?  Looking back, I don't think that people didn't care, I just think that they were scared I would cry.  What's so scary about crying, anyway? 

Right after my dad died, I had a lot of anxiety about what would happen to him.  Not him, physically, but the things that made him him.  His thoughts.  Fears.  Talents.  His personality and character.  The sound of his voice.  The sound of his laughter.  The memory of his face and his smile.  The sparkle in his eye.  I was afraid I would forget everything.  I was afraid people would never think about him.  Downright anxious that everything would disappear.  I can look at pictures of him, but they are flat...physical and spiritually flat.  It's not like being with him or feeling his presence.  I usually drive by his grave when I go home.  It's the only place I can go where I feel just a little bit closer to him.  I know that none of those things are there, but at least what's left of his body is there.  I know that he doesn't know that I'm there, but it makes me feel better, knowing that I at least tried to visit the place he is.

I wonder what he would think and say about the way his girls are turning out.  I'd like to think that he'd be so proud of us both, for different reasons.  I'd like to think he would have a great relationship with my boys.  That he'd take them fishing or toss a football with them.  That he'd play HORSE in the driveway with them and sneak them candy and dollar bills when I wasn't looking. 

****

This will be the 5th Christmas without my dad.  It's hard to believe almost 4 1/2 years have passed since he died.  Being in the midst of that grief and watching the rest of the world carry on as usual was hard.  I felt like because my world stopped, the rest of the world should too.  Now I know that the world doesn't stop for one woman's heartache, and I can say that I'm happy.  I think about him and miss him every single day, but I'm happy.  I try to focus on the wonderful things he brought to my life and not the emptiness his absence has created.  I continue doing the things that I hope would make him proud.  I'm going to raise my boys to know their Gramps, even though they will never meet him. 

getting it all off my chest,
~C~

when sad slaps happy upside the head

This past weekend was such a mix of the ordinary and the extraordinary.  There were these moments, those little ones, that make it all worthwhile.  Friday I had both babies by myself and it was a good day.  Nothing spectacular, but not stressful and therefore a solid "good."  I ran some errands, met a friend at the mall for a Chic-Fil-A lunch and playground time, and did some chores while both kids napped (massive success).  That night, my heart nearly exploded out of my chest as I watched Theo trying to entertain Dexter for the first time.  I mean, Dexter is pretty entertained by Theo - he always follows his every move.  But this was different.  It was on purpose.  Theo was sitting on the couch next to me as I was holding Dexter and they were smiling at and reacting to one another.  Theo was leaning over in Dexter's face, grinning and admiring his baby brother.  It was a moment that would mean absolutely nothing to anyone else sitting there, but one that I had been waiting for.  It was so sweet.  Stinkin' adorable. 

On Saturday, the early morning was full of sleepy snuggles in a dark bedroom as barely awake babies were tucked beneath cozy blankets.  Theo drank whole milk from a pirate sippy cup as Dexter nursed and a big mess of intertwined legs and feet ensued.  R and I paused and looked across the divide between us, full of squirmy little kids in footie pajamas, and quietly smiled at one another...thinking this is it.  This is what everyone wants.  We've got it.  This is the dream.  If "they" don't want this, then "they" don't know what it is.  I felt insurmountable wealth in that moment.

After agonizing about it all week, I decided to accept R's parents' offer to keep Dexter and Theo Saturday night so that we could enjoy our first kid-free night since April.  I went back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  There were pros.  There were cons.  There were stomachaches thinking about leaving my bitty baby Dexy for the first time.  Ultimately, I knew that I had to do it because we desperately needed that time together.  But I didn't want to.  But I did.  You see?  It was quite the challenge.  Long story short(ish), we dropped them off and had dinner at Bravo, then saw the movie Straw Dogs (I thought it was good, for what that's worth, and I'm going to talk more about a particular scene in a separate post).  Of course, I had to pump, so we went home for that and then headed over to The Melting Pot for a decadent dessert (which was friggin' amazing).  Y'all.  We didn't even GET to The Melting Pot until after 10pm.  That's 2200 hrs.  Do you understand how wacky and extraordinary a phenomenon this has become?  As we were gushing over how delicious our Cookies 'n Cream Marshmallow Dream fondue was, I felt the deepest gratitude for my in-laws...who not only agree to babysit when we ask them to, but ask if and when they can babysit.  Again, so lucky. 

I felt a sense of renewal and rejuvenation I haven't felt since, well, probably the last time I was kid-free for a night.  I spend so much time in mommy mode nowadays that I tend to forget I ever had any other mode.  Being my husband's girlfriend (and not just the mother of his children) for a day was fun.  Waking up on Sunday morning at 9:08am was pretty magical too.  Lying on the couch watching Ghost on Lifetime (or whatever channel it was) was kickass.  But you know what, guys?  Seeing those kids on Sunday afternoon - that was the best.  Theo's little chipmunk grin and Dexter's gummy, slobbery smile...those faces melt my heart.  My little humans were finally home and back in my arms.  We had a good dinner and some time to play before they went to bed.  The weekend was over but the euphoria from those perfect three days lingered on. 

I got in my car and started the quiet drive to work, feeling full of contentment about my life.  For some reason, I started thinking about a shirt we bought Dexter that had a cute excavator and said "my grandpa digs me" on it.  I had showed it to R's dad before they left.  Five minutes before I pulled into the parking garage, that stupid little 3-6 month shirt made me cry.  I thought about how Dexter would never wear that shirt for my dad.  I have often thought things like "my dad won't meet my kids," etc.  But I had never thought much about what his relationship with them would have been like.  I never pictured him chasing after Theo or them laughing together as he tossed Theo up in the air.  I had never imagined him snuggling Dexter up to his scratchy beard to kiss his forehead.  Never envisioned him taking my boys fishing and coming back with stories about funny things that happened.  He won't shake their hands or hug their necks and say "I'm proud of you" on graduation day.  I never thought about the memories my kids won't make because they don't have their Gramps.  The memories that I won't make because my kids don't have their Gramps. 

For some reason, that realization took me by surprise and before I knew it, hot tears were welling up in my eyes and streaming down my cheeks.  Life is weird.  And beautiful.  And strange. And ugly.  Death and loss is a natural part of that, I know.  Just when you think you're truly happy, sad comes along and slaps you upside the head.  Missing my dad is something I do every day, but I'm not going to let that steal my thunder.  All in all, it was still a perfect weekend. 

xo,
~C~

dear pancreatic cancer...i hate you.

Dear Pancreatic Cancer,

Today, it's been 4 years since you robbed me of my dad and my kids of their Gramps, whom they will never know outside of the stories they are told.  Today is the anniversary of the day you stole a devoted, loving husband from his faithful wife of 35 years.  You took a grandfather from two little kids that thought the world of him.  The little girl is now 9 and it's been almost half of her life since she saw her Gramps.  Will she remember him?  The little boy was only 2 at the time and he already remembers Gramps only through stories he is told and pictures he has seen.

Pancreatic Cancer, I hate you.  You're the meanest, least forgiving cancer and I wouldn't wish you upon my worst enemy.  Only 6% of people diagnosed with you survive more than 5 years and nearly three-fourths of patients die within 1 year.  You made quick work of my dad, ripping him from my clutches 4 months to the day after he was diagnosed with you.  You're sneaky and relentless.  You hide and fail to present with your symptoms until it's too late.  In 40 years of research and clinical trials, no cure has been found to eradicate you.  No treatment has been found to hold you at bay.  

You have forever ruined July 23rd for me.  My kids will only ever have memories of one of their grandfathers.  I have beautiful memories of my father's father, who died when I was 8 or 9.  Knowing him helped me know my father.  Helped me understand where he came from and how he became the man that he was.  My kids will never have the chance to hear stories about their mommy when she was a little girl from their maternal grandfather.  They may never know what they have lost but I will always know.  I will always loathe you and blame you for the deficit in their lives.  My dad was only 55.  Don't tell me everything happens for a reason.  There is no justification for taking such a wonderful man away from his family, who adored, admired, and needed him.  

Pancreatic Cancer, I hate you.  

~C~

sad scribble

Things are starting to come together for Theo's first birthday party (in less than two weeks).  We bought the decorations over the weekend.  We talked to the cake-making lady and have a better idea of what's going on there.  We have a semi-decent idea of how many people are coming.  I talked to a friend who advised me on how many pizzas to order.  The anxiety about all of this is coming down a little. 

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my dad.  I miss him every day but sometimes he just comes up in the most random ways.  Shortly after he died (and occasionally still), I'd say something about going to "Mom-n-Dad's house" or calling "Mom-n-Dad" to ask a question.  Mom-n-Dad is kind of like a run-on word/title/entity growing up, so when one of them is gone, it's hard to just say "Mom."  It's missing something (or someone). 

Are you wondering what these two seemingly random topics have in common?  I was writing a list of people that have RSVP'd to the party (thank you, kind souls) and sure enough, it looked like something this:

aunt
uncle
cousin
cousin
blah
blah
mom
DAD

Stop.  It just came out of the pen before I had a chance to think about what I was writing.  As soon as I wrote the letters d-a-d, and before I realized what was happening, I scribbled those three letters out.  Then I stopped again.  What am I doing, scribbling Dad out?  All of that happened in a matter of a couple of seconds and the whole 2 second ordeal stopped me in my tracks.  I felt guilt for scribbling and panic for wanting to unscribble...to undo what I had done...to undo that he won't be at Theo's first birthday party.  It was the first time I thought about the fact that my d-a-d won't be there.

As I sat there paralyzed, not able to continue with my list, I stared at my scribble and a massive, unexpected wave of sadness swept over me.  They say you never really lose the ones you love.  They say that the hurt lessens over time.  It's true - I don't feel that kind of intense emotion every day.

BUT. 

There's something about having all of this emotion coming out of nowhere 4 years later over a scribble and a vacant chair at a baby boy's first birthday party that knocks the wind right out of your chest.

wondering why that had to happen,
~C~

Jack

My dad, Jack, started losing weight long before he got really sick and everyone told him that he looked great but we, those closest to him, knew that something wasn't right.  He had to use the bathroom all the time and continued to eat whatever he wanted for the most part.  He was diabetic.  He had colon cancer twice while I was in high school.  I was certainly affected by it and upset about it, but I never realized then how serious it could be.  I guess it's pretty age-appropriate to be self-absorbed at that developmental stage in life, but looking back I always think about what a jerk I was.  And I have a.lot.of.guilt about that.

I got my love of music from him.  Any desire to do something sports-related/athletic that I have comes from him.  I look more like him than anyone else in my family.  My  mom and sister could just about be sisters themselves, but I look nothing like either of them.

When you lose someone, you always wonder what if?  I have wondered what if he had died when I was in high school?  Would that have been easier?  Because in high school, you don't realize what a treasure your parents really are.  They are annoying and pesky and always trying to ruin your good times with their rules and concerns for your well-being.  Because they do know what's best for you (usually).  But that's a hard thing to reconcile when you're 16 and want to do everything that your 18 year old sister wants to do.  Or want to stay out just a little later.  Or want to date that guy that they have serious reservations about (for all the right reasons).   

You don't know how much it will mean when your dad walks you down the aisle on your wedding day.

You don't know that one day you will want to ask them questions about things.  You don't know that one day you will want to spend as much time with them as you can.  You don't know that one day you will ache to hear him singing the wrong lyrics along with a song on the radio or that you'd give anything to hear that corny joke that always kind of embarrassed you just one more time.  You don't know how badly it will hurt when they don't get to meet their grandchildren.

By November 2006, he had lost a whole bunch of weight and was starting to feel pretty bad.  Doctors started running tests and trying to figure out what was going on.  Was it a reaction to the type of insulin he was on?  Was it pancreatitis?  By early December, he was looking frail and was jaundiced.  He itched so he shaved his beard, that I'd never seen him without, and that made him look even more sickly.  His jawbone jutted out.  He looked older.  Weaker. 

He spent most of January 2007 in the hospital.  He was retaining fluid in his abdomen that had to be drained 2 times a week.  By March 2007, the doctors finally had a diagnosis.  Pancreatic Cancer.

I didn't know anything about Pancreatic Cancer.  I just knew that when my daddy had cancer 10 years earlier, he beat it with a stick and came out smelling like a rose.  So when I got that call, I was initially disappointed but I had no clue what it ultimately meant for my family.  No clue that this beast is incurable 95% of the time.

My dad didn't talk on the phone.  It was March 23rd, a Friday afternoon around 3 or 4 in the afternoon and I was picking up around the house.  I vividly remember that the lights in the living room were off and it was kind of dark in there when the phone rang.  My dad rarely called, and I knew we were awaiting results so I sat down on the couch and answered the phone. 

Me: "Hello?"
Dad: "Well, I got my diagnosis."
Me: "And?"
Dad: "It's Pancreatic Cancer."
Long pause...
Me: "So, now what?  What are the options?"
Dad: "I'm not doing chemo or radiation again.  There's no point."
Me: "What do you mean?  You have to... what's the alternative?"
Dad: "I'm going to die.  Treatment would only make me sicker and maybe I would live a little longer..."

Then, he said something that I will never forget. 

"...but it's not like I'm going to be around long enough to see you have kids."

Another long pause... What did that mean?  If I were pregnant he'd think about it?

My head was spinning.  I was trying to wrap my mind around the words that were echoing in my ears.  It was a surreal moment.  Going to die.  See you have kids.  All of the sudden, I remembered a walk that my dad and I had gone on about a year earlier when he told me that he didn't think he would live long enough to retire.  That broke my heart because he worked hard his entire life and there were so many things he wanted to spend his golden years doing.  Fishing. Traveling. Building this or that. Watching his grandchildren grow.

I don't know what I said after that or when I started crying.  I don't know when I decided that I was packing my bags and going to Tennessee right that minute to see him.  All I know is by the time I called my husband, I was hyperventilating and crying so hard that I could not get the words out.  He left work immediately and I got into the shower because I didn't know what else to do.

I wanted to wash away what he just told me.  I wanted to wash away the way I acted when I was a teenager.  I wanted to wash away my future without him.  I remember crying until I was too weak to cry anymore and falling down in the bathtub, just letting the hot water pour over my back. 

And I wondered some more.  Is it better when someone dies unexpectedly and you don't have time to grieve before they are gone?  How do you make the most of your time with someone when you know they are dying?  What's it going to be like?  Is it going to hurt?  How long will it last?  When? 

Why?

I graduated from college (yes, at age 27) in May and my mom and dad were there. 

It was the last time my dad came to my house.  When he was leaving, he hugged me and told me "I'm proud of you."  Those four words meant more to me than he could have possibly known.  My dad wasn't touchy feely or emotional.  A couple weeks later, I had started grad school and I recall sitting in the parking lot talking to him before class.  I asked him if he was scared and he, like always, shrugged it off and said there was nothing to be scared of.  I can't imagine knowing that I am dying.  I don't think I would want to know.

After we got off of the phone, I cried.  And cried.  And cried.  Then I turned around and went home instead of going into class. 

Between December of '06 and July '07, I made more trips home than I care to count, but I know it amounted to about 20,000 miles that I put on my car.  On July 21st, a Saturday night, my sister called me around midnight and said that something wasn't right.  I knew that my dad had been eating less and less because he couldn't hold anything down.  His digestive system was shutting down completely.  He weighed next to nothing.  She said that he had been lying on the couch with his eyes partially open but wasn't talking.  She said that my mom had tried to get him up to get him to bed and he couldn't support his own weight.  My brother-in-law had to go back and help her carry him to bed.  I started washing clothes and got a couple of hours of sleep before making my last 350 mile trip to see my dad.  I think I cried the whole way.  We got there around 1 or 2 in the afternoon Sunday and he took his last breath around 4 in the morning on Monday, July 23rd.  Exactly 4 months after he was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer.

The week that he died and the funeral and the burial was such a blur but there are specific moments that I recall so easily.  I remember sitting in the house, expecting him to come around the corner.  I heard his laugh and turned to see if he was there.  I remember feeling guilty that we went out to eat without him.  I remember smiling and crying at the most random times during the viewing as friends and family offered their condolences.  I remember being numb at the graveside ceremony.  And crying all the way home. Not wanting to leave my mommy.  Scared that she would die before I got to see her again.  Not wanting to go back to work and face normal people that weren't in the throes of all this pain. 

I remember my friend Jody telling me "it will get better.  it will be a new normal, but life will be normal again.  everything really is going to be okay."  Of all the things that people said to me at the funeral, that is what I remembered the most.  And I clung to those words like nothing else.  It's taken some time, but her words were true.  It's not okay that my dad's not here to see Theo.  To play with him.  To teach him things and tell him stories about when I was a little girl.  That breaks my heart when I think about it.

But I'm okay.

I have stories to tell Theo about my dad.  I have pictures to share with him when he is old enough to understand.  I have already started telling him little things about his Gramps.  We keep him alive by talking about him with my sister's kids. 

Three and a half years have passed and some days it feels like a million.  Other days it feels like just moments.  I wish I could hear his voice again or give him one more hug.  Losing a parent well before you'd expect to is tough.  It happens to so many people but it is such an individual journey.  I wouldn't expect to understand how anyone else in my shoes felt or vice versa.  I'd give anything to spend one more day, take one more walk, watch him play the guitar...take back the mean things I said and the thoughtless things I did that probably broke his heart. 

I can't do any of those things, so I just have to go on living my life the best way I know how.  And the biggest part of that is being a good mom to my sweet Theodore Jack, hoping to make the same kinds of happy parent-child memories that I have of my dad from my childhood and adulthood.

~C~