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.

I Started to Call You

I started to call you, but then I remembered
I almost texted you to see how your day was, but then I remembered
I saw your picture and went to read what you posted, but then I remembered.
I was so excited to tell you about the 100% I got on my test but then I remembered.
Dexter was taking a bath the other night so we were going to Skype you, but then I remembered.
I was going to text you and ask you about someone you knew, but then I remembered.
I got a craving for your beef stroganoff, but then I remembered.
I thought of you while watching a show we both like, but then I remembered.
I almost asked Mom if it was ok to come over since I got a flu shot, but then I remembered.
I went to send you a SnapChat of  the kids dancing, but then I remembered.
I was going to ask you what you wanted for your birthday, but then I remembered.
I wanted to tell you that I love you, and to keep fighting...
But then I remembered that you already won, and that you love me, too.

Eulogy

How do you put into words the kind of man that Bill Goodness is? Husband, Father, TuTu Man, Brother, Uncle, Trooper, Fighter, Mentor, Friend, Christian. He is all those things, yet so are many others. What set him apart from the rest? What about him brought so many of us here today?

Bill is an exceptional example of what we should all strive to be. He loved his wife with a fierceness rarely seen in this world. Kim was the first person he held hands with. The first person he kissed, and loved. She was truly his one and only. He made a wise choice in her, she wasn't just the first person he held hands with, but also the last. Their love for each other is that of a story book. Together, they were "good cop and Mom"

Together, Bill and Kim had raised 3 children. Bill's role as a Father was everything it should have been. He taught them all the life lessons that children need to be taught, even as they stopped being children and turned into adults. He taught them honesty, and hard work; humility, and respect. They saw from what to expect in a husband, and how to act as one. From him they learned self defense. They learned how to be aware of their surroundings, whether that meant on walks to their cars at night, or when they opened cabinets that he had boobie trapped with fireworks. He was their friend when they needed it and the enforcer when it was obvious that a life lesson he had taught just didn't quite sink in. Bill not only taught them how to grow up into amazing people, he showed them through his own actions.

Another one of Bill's roles he played, was one that he took great pride in. Being a Kansas State Trooper. Bill was a Trooper for 21 years. He went from training in the old Troop C building, to high speed car chases through town. Then to the SWAT team and Marijuana Eradication, to teaching self defense. He travelled all over teaching classes to different organizations and groups, and then became Technical Trooper. Of course, while all these things were going on he was playing pranks and using Joe Vagjrts complete lack of technology skills to his own benefit. Because of all these things, Bill has become one of the most well respected Troopers in the State and he was always proud to be a brother in blue.

We could go on all day about the kind of man the Bill was and will continue to be in our minds. Just look around, the sheer number of people here attests to the kind of man that he was. And to each of us he was a different mixture of things mentioned before. As we move on today and celebrate Bill's life, we should remember what he was to us as individuals, and try to carry on whatever it was that he left with us and brought us all here today.

The Bond That Breaks and Fulfills My Heart.

Since arriving in Little Rock my family has been through every emotion. I will honestly say that I was not prepared for what I saw that first night.  I came down to see my Dad but when I got to his room I found a stranger in his bed, surrounded by our family. A few short minutes after I arrived they needed to have us all leave the room so they could change his bedding. That gave me a few minutes to step away from everyone to collect myself and not try to be strong in front of my Dad. I just remember thinking, "That's not my Dad." over and over. It was just so surreal. I knew things had gotten bad. I had already been wrestling with the fact that all the bad news I got and being told things like "they're just trying to make him comfortable" and "to give us quality time together" meant that we were facing the worst situation possible. I can't bring myself to say what all of that actually meant, but you get it. And even though I knew what all those cues were, I still wasn't ready for what I saw. Taylor had told me that dealing with him would be comparable to a wasted 3 year old. Even that didn't get through to me, but she was exactly right. We had to treat Dad like a child. Tell him not to pull out his IV's, or his other various chords. He would continuously ask for Dexter even though I had told him several times I didn't bring him with me. My heart broke each time he asked. Seeing him so forgetful was startling. He never quite grasped the fact that Dexter wasn't with me. Part of the reason it broke my heart was because I started to feel like maybe if I had brought him then my Dad would bounce back. You hear stories of Alzheimers patients who won't remember who anyone is and then all the sudden the incredible love that they have for someone will stir up feelings and memories that seemed lost forever. I felt like maybe Dexter could have brought that out of him, that he would be him again even if only for a few minutes and it would be driven by the unconditional love of a grandparent. I felt so guilty for not bringing him. For not letting my Dad have one more moment with his grandson. For not giving my son another moment with his TuTu man.

There are a lot of things that have broken me down. Lots. Most of them I have gotten somewhat of a hold on and can start to deal with them without just completely losing it. But not when it comes to my son.

I remember a few years ago I dated this guy who never wanted to get married or have kids. For whatever reason, I started convincing myself that if I were with him, I could be ok with never being married or having kids. I just loved him, so I'd give those things up. (The thought now is so mushy and disgusting it makes me gag) But not long after I began accepting those things, I saw a picture of one of my friends kids holding an umbrella in the rain. Except, it wasn't rain. My Dad had put the sprinkler on top of the garage to make it "rain" outside. I guess Addy had really wanted to play in the rain that day so my Dad made it happen. I knew right then that I couldn't go the rest of my life without seeing my Dad have those moments with kids that I would one day have. My Dad loves kids, probably because he's still a kid himself. I envisioned myself screaming after opening doors and cabinets that Dad had taught my kids to booby trap. Seeing my Dad play catch with them. Seeing him and my Mom sitting in fold up chairs at their sports games. And finally I had a vision of him holding a baby in his arms. I knew that my kids and Dad would be best friends.

Ever since Dad got sick I have had this fear in the back of my mind that I try not to address because I want to be positive and not spread negative energy. It's hard to even say now because I just don't want to come to terms with how bad things are. But I have always been so scared that Dad would too sick to do things with Dexter before he was old enough to remember them. Or, even worse, the thing that I fear the most, is Dad being gone before Dexter is old enough to remember him. This week I keep breaking down because all the things I'm afraid of are becoming a reality. Dad is starting to move in the right direction, but he has a VERY long way to go. And with all the things that are starting to head in the right direction in terms of his heart rate and breathing, etc, the Myeloma is still raging war on his body. That's not getting any better. There's no hope for a second remission. There's only hope for a little bit of quality time. With the realization of that comes the knowledge that Dad will not be with Dexter when he has his first Cozy burger. He won't be there for Dexter's first baseball game, or take Dexter out on his first fishing trip.

Luckily, there are a lot of things that Dexter did get to do with my Dad. He was held by him on the day he was born, just like I had visioned. He rode around in his first tricycle while Dad pushed him. He got to have Dad push him on his swing. Eat cotton candy and drink limeades from Sonic while I was gone. They had so many beautiful moments together that, luckily, I have pictures and videos of. It just breaks my heart that his memory of my Dad will be reduced to pictures, videos and stories. He will be told of the relationship that they had instead of getting to experience it and continue to build that bond. He will get to hear his sisters tell about their memories, but won't get to share any himself. My heart aches at the thought of it.

Even though I truly feel like my heart is shattering as I think about it, I do thank God for the bond that they have. They both love each other dearly. Dad lights up every time he sees Dexter and Dexter does every time he sees Dad. It's such a heart warming thing to see.

With Questions, Come Answers.

Lately the phone calls I've been getting from my Mom are sounding more and more like the nightly news. They're bad news for the most part and from time to time there might be mildly good news or a heart warming story. But those are all few and far between.
The first phone call was to tell me that the trial didn't work. That it was time for plan b. The next one was that Dad was having a hard time breathing and he had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. That was followed by the update that he had gotten a staph infection...AND strep. In his blood system. Most recently, it was that he wasn't making any sense. He had progressively gotten worse throughout the day and that the doctors had no idea why.
Obviously, I had questions, and I even started to ask one, but I knew. I knew Mom didn't know the cause of it. I knew if she had any idea or if the doctors had said anything that she would tell me. There was no point in asking. It's bothersome knowing that there are questions that go unanswered. Sometimes for a few days or weeks, and sometimes indefinitely.
What's more bothersome than those questions is the one I don't ask because I'm scared to. I would suppose that if you were to be sitting with me hearing every word my Mom relays you would know what to take from what she said. You would know what she was getting at. But I can't do that. I can't just deduce that this is it. I can't just assume that this is our last Thanksgiving. Or our last Christmas. That Dexter is the last grandchild that my Dad will hold in his arms. That my sister's wedding was the last one where my Dad would get to see his child get married. And maybe that's not what's going on at all. Maybe we're all holding on for an answer. Maybe the doctors are just trying to make him comfortable until the next trial comes around. It's just a total mind trip. I don't know how to respond emotionally because I don't know what's going on. It might be that I'm just not willing to accept what no one wants to hear or say. Or it might be that I'm just freaking out too much and being too negative.
Either way I won't ask. As a child, how do you find the strength to ask a question like that? And even more importantly, how do you find the strength to cope with the answer? And it's not just me in this situation. If I'm asking a question then there's a person answering it. My Mom. Being a Mom and a wife myself, I have to put myself in her shoes to understand the depth of this situation. Even if I were prepare myself, and ready myself to ask and to hear, how do I put my Mom in that situation. As a mother, how do you find the words to tell your child that their father might not make it to see their next child. How do you find the words to tell yourself that as a wife? Hell, for all I know my Mom might be in the same situation as I am. Maybe she doesn't even know. Maybe she's afraid to ask. Holding on to the faith of a miracle and putting off the reality that's looming at a dangerous distance.
I guess that's it. I'm holding on to a hope that something will happen. That God will do a divine intervention and show everyone that He's been here this entire time, just waiting for the moment that He knew would come. And that moment would be to heal my Father. It could happen. And I pray every day that it does. Every single day, multiple times. But I'm just so scared that my faith will make me a fool, and that I'll find myself blindsided by this and that everyone else will have known that it was coming. But I didn't because I hoped too much. I don't want to be blindsided, but I don't want to ask either. Cancer is such an asshole.

Birthday Wishes

A week ago I was thinking about what I wanted for my birthday. I love makeup, clothes, shoes, makeup, and clothes. (Ha!) But the only thing I wanted was for my Dad to be cured. I thought about blowing out the candles and making that wish. Then I thought to myself that a few short weeks after my birthday I would actually have my birthday wish come true! How crazy is that? Most people make wishes but rarely do they ever come true, but mine actually would. I just had to be patient for just a little while and I'd get what I asked for. 

Two days before my birthday Mom and Dad Skyped me. We Skype all the time but usually it's so they can see Dexter and we can talk in between his antics about how they're doing. That night Dexter was already asleep so they asked how work was. While I was talking to them I could tell they hadn't called with any intention of wanting to see Dexter. They had something to tell me. As I spoke I left out details of how bad my week was because I wanted to get to whatever they needed to tell me about. I also had some long pauses because I wasn't really sure if I was ready to hear what they were going to say. Finally, it came out. Mom said that they were told it's time to switch to plan B. I knew what that meant but I still needed to hear it. Then Mom told me the trial didn't work. Dad's lesions were growing in size as opposed to shrinking like they were supposed to. Dad had been having pain in his arm for a while but we were all just hoping that the pain was the measles fighting the cancer and killing it. In reality it was just the cancer growing and giving us all the middle finger. 

We're not really sure what Plan B is right now. Not that it really matters. I think that if the doctor had some elaborate plan that he was confident in we'd still be pretty skeptical. I mean, this was supposed to be it. This was supposed to be the answer to our prayers. It was supposed to be the beginning of my Dad's new life post cancer. But it's not. Our prayers weren't answered. Our hopes were crushed and our hearts deflated again. Do we even dare to inflate them back up? It's not that we don't believe that a miracle can happen or that God still has our family in his hands, it's just that we need to take a break and let Him carry us for a little while. We're so broken and defeated. I don't think any of us were ready for this. We had put so much hope and so much faith into this trial that I think we don't have any for what's next. We literally gave it all counting on the fact that we wouldn't have to rely on any of it for a while. We thought this was going to be the end. 

So, here it is, my birthday. As I ate my gelato  (which I opted for over cake) I decided not to make a wish. I decided to follow the verse that my Dad has been posting lately and let God fight for us and for Dad. Because right now I think all any of us wants is to be still and let Him do the fighting.

"I will fight for you; you need only be still." 

Exodus 14:14

Who Cares What the Title Is, Just Read It.

Today is the beginning of our answered prayers. It is the beginning of the end. Today, Dad starts the measles trial. He has been given a dose of chemo already and will be hospitalized tonight so that he can receive his injection tomorrow and recover from it. It's a strange feeling. There's so many emotions that come with it. There's obviously an excitement in the air. Family messages are full of hope and faith. Friends and acquaintances and even strangers are messaging us sending their prayers and positive vibes. It's like my Dad is on the verge of having a real life miracle happen and everyone knows it. Everyone believes it. Everyone will  be a part of it. It is almost too much to handle. It's almost like a high, with the peak being the day we finally receive the news we've been waiting for.

Then there's a weird feeling of incomprehensiveness. That's not even a word but that's what it feel like. Maybe the correct word is unconceivability? I don't think that's right either. Oddly enough, the fact that I can't think of the word perfectly speaks to what I'm trying to say. Knowing that my Dad could be cured is ludicrous. Is that even possible? Honestly, is it? Is that something that happens? It's crazy talk!! Cured. Like, really cured. It's hard to think about because one of my fears has been finding out my Dad has gone into remission a second time. That sounds horrible I know, but I have good reason for it. With MM your first remission is generally your longest, then they get shorter and shorter. Dad's remission only lasted a few short months. So, to me, hearing that he went into remission for a second time would be like hearing that he maybe had one more month cancer free and then that was it. There would be nothing worth fighting for because there wouldn't be any more remissions after that. So, in a way, finding out that Dad is in remission would be like hearing that he only had a few months left to live. So, for us to skip remission and go to a cure is almost unfathomable. It takes away one of my greatest fears and replaces it with something... life saving. 

There is this little thought in the back of my mind saying that I shouldn't get excited about this because what if it doesn't work? I mean, there's not much left to do if this doesn't yield the results we've been hoping for. That tiny little part eats at me. I don't want to speak about the negative thoughts much because I want to stay hopeful in the thought that my Father will be cured. I want to stand strong on that and see this journey through the eyes of  a child that has yet to be jaded by this world and all the heartache in it. I want to have the faith of a child, and dance like one when we receive the news that he is Cancer free.

Lastly, there is this weird sense of finality to all of this. What is life like without cancer? For a while we talked about having a "normal" life again but this has become normal. It's not the kind of normal that I would wish upon any person, but it's what our family has grown accustomed to in some ways. I'm not saying I'll miss it. But it has brought us together as a family and opened several doors that without cancer, would never have been opened. It has allowed us to speak into the lives of others. To create bonds. To celebrate the little things more. Cancer eats away at the body, but with the right mindset, it almost frees the soul. But where do we go from here? I almost expect to feel in a daze for the first part of it, almost like the day we found out Dad was sick. Will Dad still have to go back to Little Rock for follow ups? What about all the relationships they have built with people there? There are so many unanswered questions, but I guess we will all rejoice and see what life has in store for us. I mean, if we had so many amazing things happen to us in a time of cancer, just think about the possibilities of things to come without it:

Conversations With God

Dear Heavenly Father,
I'm coming to you to ask for a miracle for my Dad. Right now there are two big events that lie ahead of us. I'm asking you to make sure the first one goes we'll so that the second one is even possible. You know Dad had testing on Monday, you and I have been talking about it a lot. I need you to make sure that his results are good enough to get him accepted into the trial. You know I like to be upfront and honest with you so I'm not asking you for that, I'm telling you to do it. That might be disrespectful but my heart is broken and I need you to come through and fix it by fixing my Dad. I know you can appreciate me being real with you. You know how I'm really feeling so there's no reason to pretend in our conversations that I'm being polite and asking. Even if his tests didn't go we'll or his body wasn't in the shape it needed to be on Monday I need you to do a divine intervention and change the results. This needs to happen. Oh, and there's more. Not only do I need you to get him into the trial, I need you to make it be successful. I need you to cure him of cancer. Every drop of it gone, never to return. Again, I'm not asking you. I know you hold the whole world in your hand and that you are the Alpha and the Omega. You are the redeemer and the healer. I know that you can see what is ahead of us and what the outcome of this is for my Dad. I trust you and know that if it's not your plan to heal my Dad right now that you have a reason. I get that. But, you also gave me emotions. Love, anger, sadness, angst, hope. So I think it's only fair that despite my knowledge of what you're capable of, I still am not ok with the thought that you might not heal my Dad. I'm coming to you now to tell you I need you to heal him. If you don't do it I won't understand why. I don't see the future like you do and I don't think that I can take any more bad news. You have shown me a lot of things in the past few days, and you've told me that I need to have hope. Until a few days ago I have been very real with myself and with how cancer works. I have purposely calloused myself to not get my hopes up. But you have shown me verses on facebook, and t shirts. You even brought up hope through a small clip in Breaking Bad the other night. You have given me doubts and being real and made me start believing that it is ok to hope again. So, I'm going to need you to do your part. To show me why you wanted me to hope again. You're the one who made me open my heart and make it vulnerable again and I'm hoping that that means you're preparing it to be able to rejoice. And that it will be ready to believe the good news when I get the call that my Dad is healed. I'm not telling you to do this because I don't think that you will, I'm telling you because I know that you can.
Amen.

Anticipation vs Reality

Every time I see my Dad he looks more like a skeleton and less like my Dad. I can't help but to notice how small his legs are. They're frail and bony. They used to deliver roundhouse kicks as he instructed karate class and now they barely hold him as he walks. His tattoo he got done just a few short years ago used to stretch across his muscular arms. Now it hangs on his limp skin that has no muscle or fat to cling to. His clothes swallow him up. The shirts he wears are loose garments draped over his body. His pants hang from his waist and I imagine a belt underneath that has added holes in it to make it tighter than it was meant to go and a cinched waistline bunched up beneath it. There's this darkly ironic detail I've noticed. The chemo has destroyed his body, but his hair is coming back. I know we can't pick and choose what side effects the chemo has but it's wreaked havoc on his weight and let his hair continue to grow in, and it pisses me off. He didn't have hair before because he always kept his head and face shaved, now there's peach fuzz everywhere and no fat anywhere. If that's cancer or life's way of being funny, I'm not amused

He used to be a big foodie. He still loves new restaurants and food trucks, but he rarely eats anymore and when he does he fills up on a few bites and then struggles to keep it down. The lack of calories he consumes has left him weak, and exhausted. It's a challenge to get from the couch to the front door and back. Small tasks like letting our car Fred out, cooking a TV dinner, and chasing my 1 year old Dexter around are doable, but they push him to his limits. Sometimes they push him past them. It's tough to see him on the couch every time I go to their house because I know he's probably only gotten up to go to the bathroom. A few years ago he was training for BJJ/MMA fighting and now....

In the Lupe Fiasco song  "Mission" that I reference a lot, there's a man at the intro who talks about his battle with cancer and what he went through to get into remission. There's a line from the song that he said before that broke my heart but now it haunts me because now I don't just understand what he saying, I see it happening right in front of me. He says, "I literally died to stay alive." Before my heart went out to this brother in the dysfunctional family that cancer creates, but now I weep for my Dad. Even though the man said he was LITERALLY dying to stay alive I didn't get what he was saying in it's full capacity. 

The strange thing about cancer, or one of them, is that you know what to expect, but everything is still such a surprise when it happens. There's a big difference between anticipating and experiencing. I knew my Dad would get sick. I've seen other people get sick, I've watched documentaries, I've seen movies and TV shows about people with cancer and what it does to them, but cheese and rice... seeing it happen to family, that's a whole different thing. 

Unwelcome Anniversaries

It was my senior year of high school. Softball season. My Grandma had just had a heart attack and was going into surgery. I didn't think much of it. After all, she had been diagnosed with brain cancer and given 6 months to live. And at the time that had been 10 years ago. She had beat all odds and survived. The fact that she was given a 99% success rate for this surgery made me feel like this wasn't a big deal, not for her anyways. I mean, even if she was given a 50/50 there might have been some thoughts, but not a lot of worry. She had already beat death once and laughed in it's face for 91/2 years past the "expiration date" it had given her. 1% chance of death and 99% chance she'd be showing up back at our house sometime at 5am after a 2 hour drive from Pratt. I never got any more wake up calls. She never made it out of surgery that day.

Fast forward to my Freshman year of college. Spring again. My Grandpa and I were closer than ever. The loss of my Grandma had been hard on him but we went out on dates every single week and I think it really helped keep his mind off things. It was Good Friday and my cousin Jessica called me, told me that my Grandpa had a heart attack. It was mind blowing, earth shattering, life altering de ja vu. I left that day to go see him in Wichita. For the next few days we all camped out at the cardiac center there. We went in to visit him and talk to him as he waited to have his surgery. Same odds. Same. F**king. Odds. I remember watching my Dad as he relived this situation for the second time. One parent gone on a 1% chance, and the other awaiting the same surgery with the same chance, almost exactly a year later. I had never seen irony be so cruel.  I tried to imagine all the things going through his mind. He had to make the same connections I did. But I never asked to find out.
 

I watched an episode of Parenthood the other day and the family was all waiting for Zeek's heart surgery results in the waiting room. Another person in the waiting room got called into a different room. Someone had mentioned that when that happens it means they're giving you bad news. They give you good news in the main waiting room and bad news in a separate room so you can grieve.

That Easter Sunday morning we got asked to go into the separate waiting room.
 

Now we flash forward again, or backwards if you will, to June 19th, 2013. Exactly 2 years ago from today. At 10pm my alarm went off for work. I really enjoy my sleep so I usually only give myself time to throw some clothes on, brush my teeth and run out the door. That night was no different. By the time I got to work it was 10:45 and I noticed my Mom had sent me a message saying I needed to call her. I decided it was too late and that I'd call the next morning when I got off work. The next morning I received a call from my uncle and found out that my Dad had been put in the hospital the day before. His kidneys were failing and they were only at, I believe, 4% usage. It was horrible news, I can't honestly say I knew how bad of a thing that was. I mean, I know having your kidneys fail isn't a good thing, but was it a fixable thing, could it be turned around, is it a lifetime issue or just a quick stay in the hospital and everything will be back to normal? I had no idea, it just made me panic. I felt so guilty for not calling my Mom back. I should have called her and went to see her and stay with her that night. The next 3 days I spent every free minute I had at the hospital. The doctors ran every test they could think of to try and find out what was going on. At the end of those three days my Mom and Dad waited until all 3 of us kids were together and told us that Dad had cancer. He had gone from kidney problems to Cancer. From dialysis to chemo. From this sucks to WHAT...???

Finally, the present. The past few days I've been in this weird mood. It's not so bad until I'm alone and then it really hits me. You see,  I've known this big date in our family's life was coming up and it's really left me with this unsettling feeling. It's not the kind of anniversary you want to celebrate or remember, but it looms anyways. And to add to it my Mom had texted me one day saying that Dad's kidney's had been bothering him. That one little message brought back so many feelings. So many fears, insecurities, falsehoods. It made me remember thinking that something was wrong, but not "cancer kind of wrong," only to find out, it was in fact that exact kind of wrong. It made me feel very vulnerable and worrisome. I had always wondered how it felt to watch a horrific situation regarding your parents unfold in front of you twice like my Dad had to and now I couldn't help but feel like it was happening to me. I don't know what I expected to hear that could be so bad. Not to sound crass but he's not in remission so it's not like he was going to end up in the hospital and find out the cancer came back. It's already back. I just panicked.  It didn't make sense and I shouldn't have let it bother me but it really made me relive a lot of those old emotions. I've already heard my parents tell me once that Dad had cancer, and then tell me another time that it was back. I never wanted to hear those words or feel that way again. Twice was enough. Hell, once was enough. I suppose it's just a part of this journey, though. Every year around this time my heart will be heavy and mind will start to remember those feelings, I just hope my Dad's kidneys decide not to bother him this time of year ever again.

My hero. My mentor. My Mom.

When I think back to when my Dad first got sick there is an image that always pops in my head. It's a simple picture. But it resonates within me as a profound symbol of so many things. Love. Friendship. Strength. Hope. Togetherness. It rocked my soul. It well...It made me view life a little differently. I wish I could put into words all the things I felt. I watched the moment unfold before my eyes and I just had to capture it. I knew then that it was a moment that would define the rest of my Dad's journey. I'll just let you see it and let you decide what you get from it. 

They say behind every great man is a great woman but this picture shows why my Mom is the exception. She's never been the woman behind my Dad, she's always been beside him. Because of that my Mom is my hero.

 A lot of people have a misconception about who suffers from cancer. To them, it's the patient, but it's also the one who is doing what my Mom is doing, standing beside the patient. Since the day my Dad was put into the hospital my Mom has been a rock. There have been times when they had to give us bad news but my Mom always stayed positive. She would always say that God was in control and He would take care of everything. And she meant it. I don't know how she does it. I have doubted God so many times through this, been angry at Him. Yelled at Him, even cursed. But never her. She's always praising Him, giving Him thanks for the things they do have. My Mom is incredible.
I think of how common Cancer is these days and it scares me to think of my husband getting it. It breaks me down. These days it seems more people do have it then don't, and it scares the hell out of me. Just thinking about it has me in tears. But my mom lives my biggest fear. And she does it with such strength and grace.
She might not be superhuman but she is as close as it gets. We've had some pretty deep talks, talks where she is worried, where she cries, and where I don't know what to say or how to console her, but she's not asking for that. She's just getting her feelings out, which is true strength.

  There have been times where I have asked her how she's doing and she says things like, "You're Dad is having a really good day today." or "We've had a rough day, but we'll get through it." When I ask how she is, she tells me how he is. She always puts herself second. She is vigilant in her cares for my Dad, the love of her life. Even in the middle of all of her duties as a wife, a Mother, a Grandmother, and a caregiver she finds time to fill this world with her love. She's taken time to stop and make sure a local homeless man had ways to get food and something to drink. She updates everyone on her and my Dad's adventures and heartaches. A week or two ago a man came to our house to see my Dad and was speaking of the Melanoma he has and all the different radiation treatments he's had. He told us he's not complaining though, because what my Dad is going through is far worse. Instead of leaving it at what he said my mom said, "No, that's your journey. Your battles are just as tough and just as important. We all have things we fight and they are just as important as the next person's." I loved hearing her say that. I loved knowing that woman with such wisdom was my mother. She doesn't get caught up in the "pity me" mindset. And she never belittles anyone's problems they are facing. Instead she lifts them up, with words and with prayer. 

My Mother is a warrior. She is the woman spoken about in Proverbs 31. She's the woman who spends her days reminding Dad to drink his water. To not go out without his mask when he's neutrapenic and to make sure he doesnt overdo it when he's weak. To others it might sound like she nags at him about all the rules he has to follow. To me, she is being firm in her efforts to keep my Dad alive. And I will forever be thankful that she is so persistent on her "nagging." 

My mother does so many things just to help my Dad get by day to day that no one sees. She does things that don't make sense to other people, but to her they are things that are necessary for my Dad to have a good day. And she might not think that anyone sees them, but I do, Mom. I do. 

I Dont Know How to Answer Your Question

I have a love/hate relationship with a question that I get asked every day. "How's your Dad doing?". And I cringe when I hear it. Not because it annoys me. I think it's very indicative of the amazing friends and support that my parents have. It makes me so happy to know that so many people care.
What I hate about it is that I don't know how to answer it. Usually I say, "oh, he's doing good" or "he's Ok." But then those answers started to bother me. What do they even mean? What is "good" when it comes to having Cancer. I truly don't know. And when I say that, I guess I'm saying it in terms of his health, but he also has a spirit inside of him that I find to be just as important as his health. He could be getting worse but God and his faith are carrying his burdens and his pains and giving him good days. Or he could be doing alright in terms of the cancer but getting tired and broken from having to deal with the daily tolls of battling it.

And like I said before, what do words like, "Ok" "good" and "alright" mean? To any other person those might mean that life is going smooth maybe a few bumps here and there but nothing to complain about. But when someone has an incurable disease like Multiple Myeloma it probably has a different meaning. Sometimes I wonder what goes through my Dad's mind when he answers that question. I'll hear him say, "oh...ya know, I'm doing good."

And the way he pauses makes me wonder what went through his head in that brief amount of time. Does he think of the pain he's in? Or maybe the exhaustion he has from the chemo? Is he thinking of his mental state and how fickle it can be. Possibly how yesterday was a really bad day for him but today is better. He could even be thinking that things are actually not good, but he needs to keep a positive outlook, and thus his answer.

I don't know. I just know that it's almost impossible to answer that question. And please don't think that you can't ask me how he's doing. I truly love knowing people care enough to take the time to ask. Just know that this is scary and it's ever changing. Dealing with seeing your Father fight cancer is a contradiction, it's odd in the fact that this isn't a normal person's life, yet it's normal for us now. And because of that I don't really know how to answer so I say "he's Ok." But I don't even know what I mean by that. I suppose I mean, he's not about to die, but he's very much still fighting for his life. I guess that's what I mean. I guess. I'm sorry, I just don't really know.

My Dreams Aren't Your Dreams

Most girls dream of their wedding day. Or the day they have their first child. The day they buy a home to start their family in. I dreamed of all those things. But I also dreamed of the day my father would go into remission. A year ago today, that dream came true. I cried and thanked God in the middle of the break room at work. That whole day I was on such a high. I felt invincible. I felt like my Dad was invincible. He did it! Goodness had overcame. That day was one of the greatest days of my life. But it's hard for me to wrap my head around. Mainly because here I am, a year later, and I'm still waiting for that same dream to come true. A year later. His remission didn't even last a year. Just a few short months. Months. How can that be? He fought so hard and we were all riding on this high of life and defeating death only for it to come back and give us all terrible come downs.
Today we should be celebrating together or having a big pig roast. But we're not. Today, my Dad is 40 pounds underweight and oftentimes needs to use a cane to walk. Today I'll be listening to Lupe Fiasco's song "Mission" to give me hope. Hoping that my Dad will be just like Cathy Philips. Every time I hear her I cry. I hear the empowerment in her voice and I get chills. She sounds strong and fearless. "Hi, my name is Cathy Philips and I just beat the living shit out of breast cancer. Cancer definitely picked the wrong bitch to mess with. F$@% you cancer! Woo hoi! I'm a survivor baby! YEAH!!!" I dream that one day that will be my Dad. He won't say it in those words, but he will say it with a fierce boldness and empowerment. One day. I know it.

Listen to the song and read the lyrics here. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIj8_E3oZx0

Achieving the Impossible

If people could catch a glimpse of the day I had yesterday they would weep. That's what I was doing anyways. All day long I received message after message. E-mail after e-mail. And after each one, I cried. It was so hard for me to wrap my head around how selfless all my parents, friends, family, and supporters are. Not only did it make me happy to know that my parents would be able to go on a guilt-free trip to Hawai'i but to also know that the world I'm raising my kids in is still full of loving, giving people.
When I started this GoFundMe account I wanted to be clear that this trip was for a vacation. It wasn't to help Dad get better. But so many of you realized that this vacation was to help him get better. To help him relax, and to go visit the place his heart resides. To give him hope.
I'll be honest, when I had to set a goal I thought, "why not set a crazy outlandish goal?" So I did. I thought. $5,000 to be raised by the kindness of others for a trip to Hawaii. I knew everyone was kind and rooting for Dad but I didn't know how much until my phone started going off nonstop. I watched as the list of donors got longer and longer and the total soared higher and higher. I was elated when we reached $1,000 after a few hours. Boggled when we hit the halfway mark, and dumbfounded when at the 23 hour mark we had achieved 75% of our goal. This morning I stared at my phone in shock. Not only did we hit the goal, but someone had blown it out of the water with a large donation knowing we only needed $90 to reach our goal. I called my parents and told them we reached our goal. Dad had me on speakerphone so Mom could hear. They were both speechless. Dad just kept saying, "I really just don't know what to say." And Mom literally said nothing, which if you know her tells you how shocked she was.
So thank you a thousand times over for helping me with two miracles:
Raising the $5,000 that I thought was impossible and making my Mom speechless, which I also thought was impossible. I love you, Mom!!