What Time Does and Doesn't Do.

It has always seemed so odd to me that people say things like "time heals all wounds." or "give it a year." I get that people truly believe that's helpful, but it's a little crass. I mean, why would you trivialize someone's grief by putting a time limit on it? What about a year is the magic number? I don't get it. I get the good intentions, just not the silly sayings. It's almost like being a foreigner in a new country and hearing slang terms or common phrases and thinking, "What does that even mean?"

I've been finding myself in these gripping moments where the earth seems to stop. For me at least. Everything around me keeps going, and moving. And I just sit still, clutched in sorrow. And it happens so abruptly.

For instance, the other day I was listening to some Pandora playlist and the song "A Thousand Years" came on. Now to the other people sitting close by it might have just been a song from that shitty Twilight movie. But for me that song is too much when I'm not ready for it, and soothes my soul when I need it.  That was the song I danced to with my Father for probably the first time, and most crushingly, the last. My sister had given me the chance at her wedding to dance with my Father since I didn't get to dance with him at mine.
When that song came on at work it paralyzed me. This hole in my heart opened up and consumed me. Swallowed me whole. It took over and made me realize I would never see my Father again. Obviously, I know he's gone. But there are moments where the reality of it almost becomes tangible. Where the pain seems so intense, and so concentrated, that it doesn't even seem like anything this of this world.

When I feel like that it makes me envision my heart as a puzzle. There are all these stunning pieces. All these beautiful memories. So many pieces that fit together to make me who I am. But one is missing. And it's my Dad. Sure there are pieces that are all my memories with him. And the pieces that are filled with my love and respect for him. But the one that's missing is the one that made him here. The one with his body that I could hug. The one with his laugh. His smile. His voice. And where that piece went, is just black. It's a void. And that's what swallows me up when it hits me that he's gone. That one void expands and consumes everything else.

That's why I won't understand why time will fix things. Because my heart, with it's missing piece will never be whole. It will always have a void. Time isn't going to take the shape of my Father and fill that in. Nothing will. That piece is irreplaceable. So no, a year will not (and most certainly did not) make things better. Time will not make things better. I will always have those moments where that void takes over, because I will never get to hug my Dad again. I will never say something that makes him laugh to the point of tears. I will never hear him call me curly again. I will not get to make any more memories with him. I have to hold on to the one's I have. So, fuck time. Because time is what's keeping me from seeing him again.

THE talk

Last night I had THE talk with my 3 year old. No, not THAT talk. That would be ridiculous. I'm saying we had THE talk. The one I knew would come one day. I guess I figured it would take a while for Dexter to figure out. I thought he would be more worried about cars, and transformers and Paw Patrol than putting together what the absence in his life meant.

So, I put Dex to bed. Laid him down and tried to give him a kiss good night. He told me he didn't want kisses from me, just from Daddy.  I handed him the picture I framed of him and my Dad kissing right before Dad passed away.

He kisses that picture almost every night (which is why there are dried white toothpaste spots all over it) I told him, "Tutu man would like some kisses. He really misses you." Dexter still wouldn't pass out any kisses to anyone but Daddy. So, I kissed the picture and said, "Good night, Dad. I love you." And then Dexter started crying. At first I just blew it off as him being too tired, and the fact that he doesn't think that his Tutu man could also be my Dad. He can't be both!

Dexter started to argue with me through tears and tell me that wasn't my Dad. It was HIS Tutu man! Something about his tears and the way his face looked told me it wasn't just the misunderstanding of how my Dad could be two things at once. It wasn't just Dexter being possessive over his Tutu man. There was something else troubling his tender heart. I dismissed it, gave him kisses and left the room knowing he would fall asleep within minutes from being so tired.

But then I heard it. It was unmistakable. He wasn't just tired. He was hurting. I went into his room and told him what I thought would make him feel better, "Dexter, this is your Tutu man. ok, he's all yours." But it didn't help. His eyes were still full of sorrow and he said to me, "No, that's not my Tutu man anymore." I asked him why and told him once more that it was, and then  came THE talk.

"No, it's not my Tutu man anymore! *sobs* he's dead."

I say it was a talk but that was really all that was said. It wasn't a conversation, it was just that one phrase. And I wish I could say that when he said that I picked him up and held him in my arms until he stopped crying, and told him that his Tutu man watches over him every day and smiles whenever he sees Dexter. But I didn't. My heart was too broken.

I laid there (I had told Dex earlier that I would lay in his room with him until he calmed down) and sobbed. I cried a little for myself because I missed my Dad so terribly but my heart hurt the most for my son. My little 3 year old that had figured out that he kissed a picture every night because his grandfather wouldn't ever be there to give him kisses in person. I cried because he was so broken by it. I cried because my son, at 3, had been effected by such an ugly thing as death. I cried because it was so damn bittersweet.

As a mother who has lost a parent, I always pray to God that Dexter will remember my Dad. I always try to talk about him to Dexter and show him pictures so he doesn't forget who he is. And in that moment it made me so happy to know that Dexter still remembered my Dad, but it hurt to know that his love was still so strong that his little heart was torn apart at the realization that his hero was gone.

I should have been a better mother and I should have talked to him more, but I didn't. I just cried with a broken heart for myself and for my son. I'm sure it will come up again sometime, and I just pray that next time I have the strength to explain things and use it as a positive time to talk about what a wonderful man my Dad was.

Hard Lessons

There is this moment that we see so eloquently portrayed on TV and in movies. It's a scene where a person is on their death bed and they pull their loved in close, and tell them that they love them, and how proud of them that they are. And it's beautiful. It's one last moment together. A moment that that person clings on to forever. Whenever they miss their loved one they think of that moment. And I'm sure it happens in real life. I'm positive it does. But in my own personal story, it went nothing like that.

After days of my Dad being in a medically induced coma as he laid in his ICU bed, he started to come around. He moved his fingers, opened his eyes. He even began to talk to us. There were previously a few days that I wasn't sure if I would ever get to hear his voice again. But we did, it wasn't the same voice we were used to, it was small and broken. Feeble, and barely comprehendible. It did get better as the days went on.

One morning I showed up to the hospital in Little Rock and someone came down to tell me that my Dad wanted to speak with me and not to bring Dexter up to the room yet. I had this feeling like I was in trouble. Like I had had all those years when life wasn't going so well and I would get a text or a voice mail from my Mom saying to call her back I always knew I was in trouble. This time I had my life together. I quit all the partying. I had a family. I didn't know what was making me feel so nervous. I knew that Dad probably wanted a moment together to tell me something before he died. That in itself was worrisome enough, but there was shame attached to the sorrow of hearing what he had to say to me before he was gone.

As I got to the room the atmosphere was heavy. My Dad called me over to his side and told me something that only a Father could say to a child. My Father, my hero, made a decision to speak to each one of us kids and to tell us something he wanted to make sure we knew before he died.
He said things to me that stung. They made me angry and full of terrible pride. Made me resentful towards people. They made me cry myself to sleep on so many occasions. And they make me cry now. But, they made me a better person.

He told me that I needed to watch what I say to people. And how I talk to them, because nobody liked me.

I hear those raspy words in my ear a lot. "Nobody likes you..."
And I know that he didn't mean it in a literal sense, but he was letting me know that my disposition towards other people was ugly, and people didn't really care to be around me because of it. I had become such an ugly person on the inside. Judgmental. Mouthy. Negative. I knew what he was talking about. I knew that it was true. Me, the person with the positive vibes tattoo was one of the most toxically negative people he knew.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about it. It hurts to know that I was so putrid that he chose to say those words to me instead of the words we often think we'll hear in a moment like that. He did tell me that he loved me. He told me over and over again, but I already knew that. What I was unaware of was who I had become, and that my ugliness was evident to so many people.

It took me a long time to swallow my pride and use his words to inspire me. I knew I had become someone I didn't like but I didn't think that I deserved to lose what should have been such a special moment and get slammed instead. It still hurts, a lot. But I have finally gotten to the point where when I start to gossip a voice pops up in my head and says, "is this what your Dad would want to hear?' At first my pride pushed that away and I continued gossiping and belittling other people. But then I knew I had to change. I had to make myself change.

I still make mistakes and I still find my self saying things that my Dad might not be too thrilled about. But I'm a work in progress. I try my hardest every day to be positive and uplifting, or sometimes, to just keep my mouth shut.

As hard as it is to think about that day and how hard it was to hear that, I just try to think of the day when I see him in Heaven and he hugs me and tells me the strong voice that I remember,
"I saw the things that you've done since I left. And I am so proud of you."

October

October. Easily one of my favorite months. It means hot days have been ushered out to make room for cooler days and warm clothes. It brings the excitement of Halloween with it. It means apple cider and candy apples. Pumpkin carving and Facebook posts filled with awful pumpkin spice recipes. Sweaters and boots. Scarves and my favorite, dark lipsticks! I love fall. It is the change that I desperately long for after an agonizingly hot summer on the Midwest.
But this year is different. This year I'm not driving down my parents street visioning the street being full of children dressed up, going door to door for candy. This year I'm driving down my Mom's street counting down the days until it's been a year since he left us. Hell, I've been counting down the days til October knowing that it would bring feelings that have been festering at the surface.
Today, October 2nd is exactly a year since I left for Little Rock. Exactly a year since my father was put in ICU and exactly a year since I realized the last time I had ever seen my Father happy without tubes in his body and in his own home, was the last time I ever would see those things. Those days were gone and they would never be back. It has now been a year since I left the room to gather myself because the man in front of me was not my father, at least not the one I had in mind when I left for my flight that day. He was sick. Very, very sick. And even if he got better, he wouldn't be the same. Did I hope for a miracle, sure. But I had already been jaded by the cancerous world we had lived in for so long now.
We did have a few moments of laughter here and there that acted like a pair of scissors to cut up the tension in the room. At one point we were talking to Dad and he started staring off into the hallway with a bewildered look on his face. When I asked him what he was looking at he said there was a camel in the hallway.
I looked and saw a stairwell door right across the hall and said, "oh Dad, I see what you're talking about. It's a door. It is big and about the same color as a camel, though!" Then he looks at me and says in an annoyed tone, "Rachel, I know there's a door, the camel just opened it to go down the stairs." Ha. What do you say to that? The man saw the camel go down the stairs! Can't argue with that!
That moment of laughter was a great way to end the evening. The next day proved to be much worse.
Kobe and I woke up, got around and stopped at Dunkin Donuts to grab breakfast. While we waited for our food, we got a phone call saying we needed to get to the hospital ASAP. We left with no food or coffee and sped off to find Dad hooked up to a machine forcing him to breathe. It was awful. The mask forced in air while he tried to fight it. This caused him to essentially choke on his own breath. I remember he looked so defeated. He looked like he wanted to fight the machine because he wanted to keep his dignity and breathe on his own. After just a short amount of time doctors decided they needed to intubate him. We left the room to find to come back and find our Dad in a medically induced coma. It was at that moment that I wasn't sure if I would ever hear my Dad's voice again. That was the day that we had to decide if we wanted to sign a DNR. That was the day that we had to decide if he could have a certain medicine to help him but that could cause him to go into cardiac arrest.
The next day would be the day that we sat there waiting for any sign that he might wake up, but none came.
The next two weeks are going to be filled with memories of a year ago. Each day will represent a bittersweet victory or a tough decision. They will remind me of a time when I was able to stand next to my Dad's side and talk to him, even if he couldn't respond. Each day will bring heartache back and an eerie feeling of past foreshadowing, if that makes sense. It's hard to believe that this month there will be one day that I think, Dad was alive a year ago, and the next day I will think, the worst day of my life was exactly a year ago. It will be hard to get through this month as each day is a reminder of what was to come. But if I could get through living it a year ago, I can get through remembering it this year. Ugh. October.

Guilty Goodbye's

I remember waving goodbye to my Mom and Dad as they left for Little Rock. There was so much excitement in the air. Dad was weak and frail, and he would return home the same way, but he'd be cured. A trip to Hawaii would be in his future, with my mom by his side. There would be road trips to Topeka to eat at Noble House to hold him over until they left for the islands. We would celebrate another birthday of his grandchild's. And one day he would see his other daughter have a baby as well. Some day he would see my brother wait at the alter while his beautiful bride came walking towards him. There were so many promises hanging in the air. It was a great day knowing that the moment they left the driveway was the moment  that began our lives changing for the better.
I remember another good-bye, too. This time it was when I was leaving Little Rock. The previous weeks had been hell. Us kids were receiving updates from our Mom that were anything but welcomed. We hadn't gotten word that the measles had worked, in fact, they hadn't. Our last option was a bust. All our hopes were handed back to us in the form of a crude middle finger. After that news came the update that Dad had been taken to the hospital because he was having a hard time breathing. Mom sounded confident that it wasn't a big deal. Then pneumonia set in which was followed by staph and something else that were all in his blood stream. Things just kept getting worse and worse. As all of this was going on Taylor and Kobe were in Little Rock helping Mom out. Finally my turn came to go. All of the updates had seemed dismal but we kept our faith. The day of my flight out to LR Mom called me. Dad had been placed in ICU. He was hallucinating and going downhill really fast. Kobe was there with her and was supposed to be coming home, but he stayed. Taylor and Jerick were already on their way. I'll save the details of those 10 days for another time, but they were far from joyous. Don't get me wrong, there was no where else I'd rather be. I needed to be there with the rest of my family while my Dad fought hard to hold on, but it was so damn hard watch.
At one point Mom had told us that Dad had said he was going to die that day. It seemed like such a strange thing to say that I took it as truth. When midnight came and went I think we all breathed a sigh of relief that he was wrong. It was, I think, two days later that we left. Dad was awake and alert. He could talk, although it was hard to discern what he was saying. But at least we knew he could hear us telling him we loved him and that he could nod back and mumble that he loved us, too. Saying good bye that day was insanely hard to do. We had seen him come out of his coma, which was uplifting, but he was far from health and closer to death. As I said good-bye I had the feeling it was the last time I would ever see him. Even thought I felt that way I fought the idea of it. Acknowledging it felt like saying I didn't believe he could be healed. I felt guilty for thinking it. I felt like a horrible daughter for allowing such an idea cross my mind. How morbid of me to accept that he would die soon. So, I pushed the idea away and tried to not make too big of a deal of my goodbyes. My thoughts still bothered me and I kind of lingered and stood at the door longer than I planned on but something told me I would never see him after that. Finally, I dismissed the idea and left the room and we headed home to Salina. That was, in fact, the last time I ever saw my Dad. But it wasn't the last time I said good-bye.
The last time I actually said goodbye to my Dad was over the phone. Mom and I had been making plans all day to get Dad home. We knew it wouldn't be much longer so we wanted him to be home for his last moments. In a few short hours friends and strangers of our family had raised $10,000 to have him flown home on a medivac. Mom talked to all the people she needed to only to be informed that he probably wouldn't survive the drive to the airport where the helicopter would pick him up. More phone calls were made and it was evident that Dad's body had just about had all that it could humanly handle. So, my brother and I were to leave that night to Little Rock. No one was certain how long we had. I think my Mom knew. They were apart of each other, so of course she knew. But I still couldn't give up hope. I needed him to make it out of this. He was my Dad and I would never give up on him. (And I don't mean in any way that my Mom gave up, I just think her life was watching him slowly die, so she knew in her heart that it was time for him to let go and not be in pain anymore. And she knew that that was what he wanted, and as a spouse of someone else, all you want is for them to be happy even if it means letting go.)
After talking to her all I could think of was getting to LR as soon as I could. My uncle was on his way and the sooner he got there the more time I had with my Dad. He had texted me to let me know he was there. As I was walking out the door my Mom called me. She asked if there was anything I wanted to say to Dad. She had the phone up to his ear and said he could hear me but couldn't speak. I should have known then, but I felt guilty again so I kind of blew it off. I told him I loved him and I was on my way and that I would be by his side soon to tell him in person how much I loved him. She told me to tell all the kids to talk to him. They all told him they loved him. I rushed it, though. I told Mom I had to go because Uncle Craig was outside and I really wanted to get on the road. She sounded upset and told me to tell Dad anything I needed to say to him and not worry about getting on the road. Even after she said that I still rushed my words and said good-bye. A few minutes later we were on the road to Little Rock. Less than an hour later my Mom called me to tell me that my Dad was gone. All I can think now is that the last time I spoke to him my words weren't comforting or full of love, they were rushed and ignorant of reality.

We Are All Strong

Yesterday my best friend had to say good-bye to someone she loved. It came with no warning. Her uncle was here one minute and gone the next. I can't even fathom having someone you care about so deeply leave this world forever for no apparent reason. It just baffles me.
I've talked to so many people who have lost a loved one from a car wreck, or heart attack, or a freak accident and they all say they don't think that they could have done what I did. They couldn't have watched someone suffer and fight, to slowly lose at a visible rate. And I admit, it was hard, it's still hard to think about. To think that the last time I saw my Dad he was so weak and so frail, and he barely resembled my himself. Sometimes I wish for a brief second that I didn't see him like that. That I didn't have to see him hooked up to all those machines, tubes, and meds. I think about when they left for Little Rock. He was so small, and so fragile, but he could still walk and breathe on his own. He could still eat food with a fork and not a tube. I wrote a blog a while back about how much he had changed and how sick he had gotten. I would give anything in the world to have had the last time I had seen him be like he was when I wrote that. That was nothing compared to what we all saw as he sat in ICU. I hope my friends never have to see someone they love the way I saw my Father those last few precious days. But I know that I am so thankful I had those moments and didn't have to say good-bye in shock and in bewilderment. I'm not strong or brave for handling my Dad's sickness, and ultimately his death, with composure. And my friends are not weak for handling their sudden losses with overwhelming grief. I don't even know if I could handle it if my Dad had left us from something so sudden. Yes, he was sick. Yes, it was hard, but we knew his days were coming to an end and we made sure we said everything we needed to and spent our time together. No matter the circumstance we are all dealing with grief. Mine was spread out over a few years. My friends' all came at once. Neither one is fair. Death isn't fair. Death is a tremendous blow to your soul no matter what way it was delivered. We have all lost someone, and we are all strong for dealing with it in whatever way our hearts could handle.

Mood Congruency Theory.

My senior year of High School I took an AP Psychology class to get ahead on the psych degree I was going to pursue in college. I learned so many interesting things that I still remember to this day. One of the most prevalent things was the mood congruency theory. Essentially all it means is that when you have a happy thought, your brains continues to pull up happy memories or memories that gave you a similar feeling as to what you just felt. The same theory also applies to sadness. I've been living proof of this theory a lot lately. It seems like whenever something bad happens that makes me angry, upset, or sad, the next thought that pops into my head is that my Dad is gone. It's the strangest thing.
I've felt like such a monster lately because I didn't completely fall apart when Dad passed away. I thought that I would be paralyzed with emotion and in a constant daze. I didn't think I'd be able to eat or smile for days. But none of that happened. I was obviously upset and cried when I first found out but the crying didn't last long. I went into a small daze, only for a short while. I think I was just in shock. I mean, I knew Dad was sick. Hell, I knew he was dying, but I didn't want to accept it. I guess my emotions are just as torn as my acceptance and knowledge of what was going on. I think sometimes my brain blocks out the reality of what happened and zeros in on how life still goes on. It sounds crass, I know, but I can't help it. I wish I could change it, and that I could cry and cry and stop feeling like a monster. There were a few times that I was talking to someone  and I almost felt like I was faking what happened. Or, at least I felt like they might think I was faking it, and doing a horrible job of it. I just didn't cry a whole lot. I was very matter of fact about things. I said things like, "I'm just really glad he wasn't in pain." Or, "I'm just thankful that we knew it was coming so we could spend time with him and say our good byes and tell him we love him. So many people don't get to do that." And I meant those things, but who says that so calmly and so emotionally void?
I hated it. I still do. In fact, I feel such a wave of relief when I cry in front of people. Sometimes, I feel like my whole goal for the day is to break down, so I can finally grieve and cope. When I do cry it's only for a few minutes and then I am numb and hate myself for not crying more.
One person told me that months after their father had passed that they were making their bed and it hit them. They would never see their father again. I can totally identify with that. And it gives me comfort to know that it took months to hit her. I mean, I know I'll never see him again but life is just so surreal right now. I can't wrap my mind around it. Maybe it will hit me when thanksgiving rolls around and we won't have a fried turkey. Or on Christmas, when he's not there. Or even his birthday, which will feel so empty. I don't know when it will hit me, but I welcome it. I long for the day when it hits me so hard the wind gets knocked out of me.