Month: February 2016

A Little Help From Enrique

If dad talks to me, it’s through music. It’s usually in the morning, after a troubled night of sleep or a day of missing him so much that I had no resolve but to curl in bed and let the world fall away. It’s mornings when I can feel the frustration of missing him bursting through my skin.

It’s happened a number of times, getting in my car and hearing exactly what I need to. Songs that have no business being on the radio, but those familiar melodies I have loved for years coming forward to give me a sense of calm at a time when I can barely stand to function.

Usually, this makes me cry, but the other day – dad made me laugh. The days before had been difficult. I think it was because we soldiered through another “first” milestone, my brother’s birthday, and the three of us – mom, my brother and I – had spent the weekend together where, truthfully, the absence of dad felt more evident than usual.

Then, it hit a peak. I just didn’t have the energy or fight to force a smile. To exchange pleasantries and act like everything was OK. It was a long, somber day. After work, I retreated home to a hot shower and consigned myself inside, in desperate need of quiet. When mom called, I think she sensed my sadness. The usual engaging tone of her voiced softened as I told her I wasn’t much up for conversation.

I cried a lot that night. I laid in bed and listened to the heavy quiet, and waited. Waited for what, I’m not sure. Maybe some reassurance, a sense of peace, a voice through the darkness. Something. Anything. And nothing came, so I went to bed.

I slept more soundly than I had in days and woke feeling somewhat refreshed, but still in a haze – until I got in my car. The station it was set to was in the middle of their morning program, so I quickly changed it. And there it was. My song. My horrible song. For those that know me, know my foolish love for Enrique Iglesias – and particularly his ridiculous, sugary song “I Like It.” It’s become an anthem of sorts over the years. I used to play it in my office when it struck 5 on a Friday to signal to everyone the weekend had arrived. And I play it anywhere that has a jukebox, almost as a joke, but it’s impossible for it not to a bring a smile to my face.

It’s been years and I almost never hear it on the radio, but there was that familiar beat filling my car – and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

I could just imagine dad – “OK Toots, knock off the snibbles and have fun.” And I did, I laughed and smiled all the way through my commute as the radio continued to play other, favorite forgotten songs from over the years.

I know it’s silly. I constantly question the validity of things I interpret as “signs” – whether it’s just coincidences I eagerly look to for reassurance, or if dad is really with me. At this point, there have been too many odd things that have happened for me to ignore – but that’s a conversation for another time.

And dad, well – he was larger than life, he found joy wherever he could and loved a good party. And you know what? I like it.

 

Defining Dad

In February, not long ago, there was World Cancer Day. It wasn’t something I’d been mindful of until I saw it splashed across social media. For a moment, I thought that maybe I should acknowledge dad in some way, but I thought better of it.

I understand the sentiment behind it. It stands to inspire people to be more proactive about screenings and tests that could potentially save their lives. And it gives the world pause to remember everyone whose felt the cold touch of cancer. Those that have lost their lives, those that have and are battling it, and loved ones who’ve had cancer upset the ground. It’s a chance to really recognize the paralyzing effect it has on our society, and what we can do about it.

But I don’t want to acknowledge dad. For me, dad was not his cancer. I don’t want to define him by it, nor would he want to be remembered for it. It may have taken his life, but it did not inspire it.

When he was sick, we rarely spoke of it. He didn’t want to be looked at as a patient, which was something we couldn’t bare to do either. Truthfully, he didn’t complain – save for the numbing chemo caused in his fingers, which handicapped the building and tinkering he loved to do so much. And he never got down on himself about having cancer. He didn’t look for sympathy or get upset. In fact, when we would angrily ask why him, he’d look at us with such powerful wisdom and say “why not me?” And of course, as was almost always the case, he was right. Cancer is unjust.

So instead, I want to spend such days thinking about what an amazing man he was. Someone that swallowed life whole and came back for more. How he lived a life of service helping others. How his family reigned before anything else. How he was a bit of a rascal, pulling pranks and teasing the people he loved most to no end. How he’d quip the best, dry remarks, such as my personal favorite whenever mom would ask where he was going – “crazy.”

Dad was many things. Enough things and moments that filled a brilliant lifetime. But he was not his cancer, and he never will be.

A REKD Girl

I’m not sure when it started, but as far back as I can remember writing has been my safe haven. I’d wake at all hours of the night and crouch beneath the lamp on my nightstand to scribble down poems or short stories – probably causing my parents to wonder what the hell I was up to when they saw light peeking out from my bedroom doorway. Aside from being something I enjoyed, it was a simple comfort that I could turn to when my heart would wilt in disappointment, or when my dizzy thoughts needed a safe page to land on, so that I could make sense of them.

In May of 2014, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer. Here was my strong, amazing father suddenly at the mercy of a debilitating disease. The next year that followed was an awful, unpredictable journey – as alarming ailments and complications further challenged his diagnosis, and stripped more of life’s freedoms and joys from him. As a child, you expect to lose your parents – eventually – but you put this idea out to the far-reaching future. A future when they’re old and gray and have watched so many of life’s beautiful milestones unfold in your life. That’s what I thought, until May 2015 when I lost my wonderful father. He was just 64 – I was 30.

The immediate weeks and months are numbing, and confusing. You’re pulled under by a weight of new and extreme feelings, trying to navigate through a consuming sense of grief. You’re desperate to find some grounding and feel only somewhat normal, if possible. For me, that meant channeling all the things I couldn’t say or understand through a keyboard or pen.

I wrote veraciously, privately, and searched for others – because despite how well intended, no one could relate or understand how I felt not knowing this pain themselves. Grief is isolating that way. So I became ravenous with articles and books about other people’s stories, and yet nothing tamed my hunger. Even in recounting their own experiences, it felt like people were holding back and dressing up grief. It was all too nice, too tame, and while sometimes comforting, not very realistic. Nowhere did I find a book that would say “today I felt like screaming so loud that my lungs might collapse” or just simply acknowledge the only sure thing we can agree on: “this is hell.” I sure feel like this very often, as I guess others in similar situations do too.

Death has long been an uncomfortable topic – something taboo we speak of in quiet voices and soft words. But really, while there will still be moments of joy and beauty in its wake, death is awful. It’s raw and painful and brings out the realest emotions in people, especially the ugly ones.

I’ve found myself at a cross roads that I’m still staring down – at the crux of rectifying who I was before, and who I am responsible, or more so able, to become now. So I decided to create a place that could talk openly about this experience – to get deeply honest about what happens instead of glossing over death with commercially-packaged phrases like “everything happens for a reason.” To talk plainly and say the things that no one else would. I’m no expert of course, I’m just someone who has dove into the depths of grief and at times still find myself treading water.

And worse yet, at my young age – I know far too many people intimate with unexpected loss, particularly with one of their parents. So I’ve gathered all of those private writings, whether journal entries, poems, blunt thoughts or unforgiving rants to the universe, and have decided to make them public – in the hope that maybe, in some way, I can help others. And I’ll share them here, maybe in real-time, or perhaps post things I’ve written before that still have a message worth expressing.

Maybe this isn’t the best place to start a blog – in the wake of losing my dad. And maybe it’s the best, since I’m forced to go forward into a totally new and foreign way of life. But his abrupt and heavy absence is what defines my life most right now – so it’s only natural for it to guide my hand.

Pivotal moments in one’s life are usually cause for celebration, evaluation or both – I suspect will do both here. It won’t all be gloom, because truthfully there is also light, understanding and even gratitude that comes with grief. And we’ll explore life in all of its many forms – whether happy or sad.

Dad always said that “life was for the living,” and – well, I’m still here. So I have an obligation to if not myself, to him, to make something of it. To find laughter and joy and moments of complete unbridled madness. Here goes nothing.