A REKD GIRL

What I hope has come across here, is that I had an incredible father. One that has given me so much unending joy and perspective over the years. Even in the most difficult moments, I know how lucky I am.

But what you should also know – is what an amazing mother I have. And how amazing she’s been through all of this. And how much she is still teaching me about being strong, even when I don’t think I can be.

I don’t use the word “mom” lightly – because she is one in so many other ways than who she is to me. Her heart never quits, but just keeps opening even in challenging times. It’s an almost unimaginable task, but not for her.

Our home has been a place of comfort for so many people over the years. Friends, kids around the neighborhood, family members – they always had a plate for dinner, someone to talk to or a quiet space if they needed to go somewhere to breathe. It’s a door that never closes.

For me, she’s been an unwavering source of love and solace. She’s talked me through panic, quieted my tears and been there to answer an endless amount of big and little questions. And even though it broke her heart, she supported me and let me go – when I first decided to move away to continue growing in new ways.

But lately, she’s done even more. She’s stepped aside and let me cry when I thought I would never stop. She’s let me scream and explode. And she’s done what she can to make me smile and find light in an otherwise grim year – whether it was simply sending me a silly card, or putting me on a plane to get away for a few days.

You see, it can be hard not to get lost in your own point of view. It’s the nature of grief, to regress into your own feelings. We’ve each done it – trying to stay afloat. But I see how she’s risen above it, and tried to become a harbor for my brother and I when we’re upset. She’s absorbed our pain as part of her own, and handled it with grace.

And dad. She became an extension of him in his last year, doing for him what he couldn’t do himself. Championing his treatment. Shuttling him to and from appointments. Chasing doctors. Pushing for tests. Cooking whatever he could stomach. Helping him with bandages and dressings. Holding his hand. Loving him maybe more than ever and never, ever giving up.

I know this has been infinitely harder than she will allow herself to admit to my brother and I. That there are more bad days that she smiles through in front of us. And that there is so much of her pain that I could never understand – and she is entitled to all of it. But she’s protecting her kids. She always has.

That’s something I can never repay.

So with it being Mother’s Day this Sunday, I just wanted to take a minute to acknowledge mom – Debbie Do – a woman who is so selfless in all that she does. A woman who has given me an extraordinary blueprint for being a good person. A woman whose strength has been inspiring not just now, but always. A woman who knows how to love without limits. And a woman who makes me laugh and fills my life with wonder.

Thank you for all that you do and are. I am so incredibly proud of you.

If there’s something to know about me, it’s that I don’t take myself too seriously. I’ve dragged countless friends on countless carousels across the world over the years, and danced whenever the mood called for it – even if it’s on a dark road, stopped by a train with the boy who had my heart.

It’s this freedom to be silly with a total sense of abandon. It’s the best gift my dad ever gave me and has become such a fundamental part of who I am as a person.

Dad and I had a wonderful shared sense of humor. Whenever I’d come home, I’d enter through the garage door where the living room sits just around the corner. Dad would often be nestled there in his chair when I’d barge in shouting “your favorite child is home!” And never missing a beat, I’d turn the wall to him exclaiming “but I don’t see your brother anywhere!” with this enamored grin as he’d stand up to give me a hug. That’s just how we got along, in this endearing, playful way.

One of my favorite memories was from a few months before he was diagnosed. We took our first family vacation in over a decade, which in retrospect was some very fortunate timing. At dinner one night, I started folding a piece of paper into the shape of a bird, playfully tapping it across the table. Dad joined in picking up his napkin, and before I knew it we both were creating hand puppets and laughing so hard we were crying and barely saying anything at all, while my mom and brother looked at us from across the table like we were crazy. And we both were, on the upside of crazy that is, and we didn’t apologize for it.

The last two years, from dad’s diagnosis to navigating life without him, have been anchored with so much frustration and sadness, that finding moments to be silly isn’t just welcome, but necessary. To let the worry give way to laughter. It’s been especially helpful now. We’re coming up on the anniversary that no one wants to celebrate, and without realizing it, I think it’s made us all more deeply sensitive than usual. I’ve noticed it in myself, where that anger is quietly born again into all that I do.

But this past weekend, I took a walk to enjoy the onset of spring and happened across a park with a set of swings near its back. Even now, at 31, I can’t resist a swing. I’ve stopped many runs and walks to sit at one and feel young again when I come upon a playground. So I did – I nestled into the rubber seat and began pumping my legs, and as I swung higher and drew the clear, blue sky closer, I let out a really genuine, free laugh.

You see, dad always knew how to make things better. And even though he’s not with us anymore, here he was, still helping me across place and time. Because he gave me the ability to help myself.

From a young age, I learned from a very smart man that life is too short to be serious.

Thank you, dad.

The word “acceptance” has gotten tossed around a lot in the last 11 months. Like something I have to check off of a to-do list. I’ve been told I need to accept my father’s death. But I can’t. And I won’t.

To me, acceptance implies I’m in some way OK with what’s happened. That I have an understanding of why things unfolded as they did – but I’ll never embrace the idea that there was any reason for this to happen. Or how it happened. Or when it happened. All I can do is adjust to it, absorb it as a part of me and understand that life is very different now. And maybe someday, I will make peace with it. But I won’t accept it – I can’t.

Dad, I think, could – and did. He always had the strength to do what others couldn’t.

When he was diagnosed, “environmental” was all the explanation doctors could offer when trying to identify the origin of his cancer. It wasn’t genetic, it wasn’t behavioral. Environmental. Which is really just another way of saying they had no idea. He was just unlucky.

After he died, there was an endless trail of questions with no answers at its end. Chief among these was “why?” Why him, why now, why this way? And of all the questions, questions about how we approached treatment, of doctors’ decisions, of what we could have done differently or what could have helped us find it sooner, why this had to happen at all is the one that drives a wedge between grief and understanding. It’s what fans my anger and has turned my mind in endless circles on many nights.

No answer, even if there could be one, would be good enough. The only reassurance I had was to think about who dad was. Someone who was larger than the moment he was in. How he viewed each day through an adventurous, hungry eye. That man, he flew planes, skied mountains, dove to the ocean’s depths and more. And he shared this appetite for life with others. He made you want life the way he saw it – bigger, better. He saw a great full world in front of him and wanted to swallow it whole. And he gave back too. He’d help anyone that asked and many who didn’t – spending so many hours putting others’ needs before his own, whether it was helping the neighborhood kids with math homework, or fixing a friend’s car. That’s just who he was.

Whenever all four of us were home, we’d sit in the living room enjoying each other’s company over cocktails and conversation as twilight gave way to the early morning hours. And in many of those nights and conversations, dad would lean back in his leather recliner, legs crossed. You could see a reflective pause come over him, when a grateful smile would part his lips and he’d raise his hands for emphasis, saying: “this is what it’s all about.” This. These moments. All of us together. Of opening up to a love for others greater than yourself.

It’s not fair, but maybe dad didn’t need as long as a lifetime – some people just don’t need as much time to get it right.

Just after dad died, the oddest things upset me. Like hearing the faucet turn on through the shallow wall between my parents’ bathroom and my bedroom. When I was little, it signaled dad getting ready for work, and that he’d shortly come to my room to wake me. He was always the first one out the door before the sun came up, at O-Dark-Thirty as he called it. But before he did, he would tread quietly to the edge of my bed, and rub my back saying “rise and shine!” in something just stronger than a whisper.

And his truck. It was parked, back end to the garage like it always was. And every time I came around the soft curve of our street – I’d see it there as if he was home. It’s these little things, strange things, that sent me reeling, and often times still do.

After my brother cleaned the truck out, I crawled into the driver’s seat to check it over and rifle through the center console. A first aid kit, loose change, a pair of reading glasses – mundane things that collected as he went about his days. I can see him writing down instructions for a tool, or reaching for a bandaid when he’s cut his finger. But just being in there was intoxicating. It smelled like him. The smell of a long day’s work, of dirt and grease and oil and milling through a garage, buried under machines he was fixing.

Mom has already cleaned out most of his clothes, and I understand why. Walking into their shared closet every day and seeing his clothes hanging was a painful reminder that he wasn’t there. I took a number of his things – a polo shirt he wore often out to dinner, sweatshirts he spent lazy days in and, my favorite, this light sweater he wore on so many cool summer mornings when he was doing things around the yard, like vacuuming the pool with his coffee. I’ve worn it several times, closing my eyes to take myself back to those mornings when I’d walk out onto the deck and see him outside. In ways, it brings comfort, hugging the fabric tight against my chest – but always leaves me wishing my arms were holding more.

All of these things haunt in an unexpected way. But the house, for whatever reason, never has.

I am very attached to my parents’ house. Crazy attached. Sitting on the deck on a warm day watching the sun shine over a calm of grass and water is my most favorite thing. It’s where I feel happiest. And safest. Especially during all of the years I lived far away. I’ve spent my whole life growing, and learning, and screwing up in that house. I’ve sat with friends and family over the years filling it with unending laughter and tears. And as hard as it is to go back to that moment, it’s where we watched dad become something greater than his body, and leave us. That lot on Knudsen, is very much a part of me.

And being there has brought me a sense of peace – even if he’s not sitting in his favorite chair or tinkering in the garage. Because he’s touched every inch of that house. I can remember him laying grout in the kitchen or fixing a bathroom sink. So it helps to be where he’s been. Where he’s laughed, and slept, and sweat.

The other night though, I had a horrible dream that the house was burning. It woke me from one of the deepest sleeps I’d had in days with a heavy feeling as if I was losing dad all over again.

Because, truth is – even though it may just be a patchwork of tile, and carpet and plaster, it was his home.

I know the day is coming, when we’ll need to go through the rest of his stuff, and release it. That the day will come when we might sell the house. It’s just things, I know, but it feels like erasing what traces of him are left. It’s just so horribly final.

Letting go of any piece of him is hell.

The day before Easter, there’s always a service to bless baskets and all of the goodies that fill them. It’s usually some hard-boiled eggs, cookies, maybe some cuts of meat. That’s what my mom would always bless – in one of her baskets, anyway. But there was always a second basket, one that would clink and clank as we walked into the church gathering space. Champagne that we would pour Easter morning for mimosas. Wine to accompany dinner. And whiskey, always whiskey. It’s become a family staple over the years.

It all started with my grandfathers. They’d toast with whiskey to mark occasions that brought us all together – birthdays, holidays, weddings. But also, funerals. They grew close over the years, as they became more like family and less like in-laws. From how I remember it, one gifted the other with a bottle of Bushmills and a simple ask – whoever goes first, use this to celebrate all of wonderful moments they shared. And we did, for both of them over the years. And we continue toasting for everyone we’ve lost whenever we’re gathered for those occasions that bring us all together – birthdays, holidays, weddings and funerals.

One important thing about grief that no one ever tells you about – is how you have to balance the grief of others against your own. It’s been a hard lesson. The revolutions of emotion my mother, my brother and myself go through are ever-changing and unpredictable. You lean on one another, but don’t want to amplify each other’s pain in doing so. It’s caused some very raw, and difficult moments.

It can hard to be honest and sensitive at the same time. Someone may want to reminisce about dad or talk openly about how they’re coping, when someone else needs a break from the riptide of feelings they’re battling.

For me, it’s typically helped to keep dad part of the conversation. I’m hungry to hear stories about him when he was younger, or recall happy moments. But not everyone has felt that way, and I’ve tread lightly in kind. We’ve all tread lightly, trying not to upset one another.

But on Easter, something shifted. We weren’t worrying or dancing around grief in the ways we had been. Us three came together and sat at the kitchen island talking and laughing for hours – talking and laughing about dad. And it was more freeing then probably anything else has been in the past few months.

But maybe, most importantly, we poured this year’s blessed bottle of whiskey and raised our glasses high, toasting dad with smiles, finally, instead of tears.

We’ve always had a good time with Easter. Maybe it was the first flush of warm air and the promise of spring – but it would bring out dad’s playful side. He was a rascal, that one.

When we were younger, he’d hide the Easter baskets mom had prepared for my brother and I to find on Easter morning. But it could never be easy. They wouldn’t be resting behind a couch or simply covered by a blanket – you had to work for it. I remember one year, when I must have been about 4 or 5, when he hung it from the attic hatch – feet above my little girl sight lines. I wandered that house for hours as they all called out “hotter!” or “colder!” as I made my way from room to room, never thinking to look at what was overhead. Oh, I shed some frustrated tears that day. And dad, well – he’d sit back with that slightly sinister grin of his that was so endearing you couldn’t get mad at him. Because truthfully, the more he teased or seemingly picked on you – the more he loved you.

Easter last year was the last holiday we’d all spend together. We spent the morning gathered in our living room drinking mimosas and teasing mom. She’d given my brother and I nice gift bags with some candy and small presents, but gave dad his favorite peanut m&ms and some boat magazines in a Meijer’s plastic bag. You can’t bait that man with a joke or you’ll never live it down.

Finally, mom got up to make phone calls to wish other family well. Typically we had larger gatherings with everyone at Easter, but this year we resigned to a calmer affair. Dad was in great spirits, but struggling physically by then. She grabbed the phone and we could hear the tick of the buttons as she dialed, walking to the front of the house for a little privacy – when my brother’s phone started to vibrate on the couch. He looked down at it with a curious glint and shrugged his shoulders. Dad and I exchanged glances, tightening our lips to muffle the giggles we could feel swelling inside.

My brother answered his phone. “Hello?”

“Happy Easter!” You could hear my mother’s voice boom from the other room.

“Happy Easter,” my brother dead-panned.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In the living room.”

A heavy pause followed as my mom’s mind was registering. “Oh.”

Click.

We were doubling over in our seats while mom walked back into the living room flushed. “I thought I was calling your uncle! Why did you answer?”

“I just thought it must have been important!”

I don’t think any one of us had laughed that hard in months. Maybe not since this whole mess started.

Dad could barely contain himself. You could always tell when he thought something was really funny. He’d laugh so hard that there was scarcely a sound. He’d put his hand to his forehead, as if to steady his breath, lightly spreading his fingers across his eyebrows. It is easily one of my favorite, last memories of us four together.

Since then, “Happy Easter!” has become a rallying cry of sorts. It brings levity to moments that are clouded by pain. And laughter is so absolutely important when you’re anchored by a million feelings at once. And laughter was so essential to who dad was.

A bit of a rascal, that one. Happy Easter.

Today is a good day. It’s the eve of a plane ride that will take my mom, my brother and I far away from here. I know, as our first trip, there will be difficult moments. As is typical when all three of us are together, dad’s absence will be heavy on our hearts – and we’ll wish for nothing more than for him to be with us.

But this is what we need right now. We need the worry to melt away with each mile we travel. We need to celebrate in the joy of each other’s company. We need to disconnect from everything for some moments of quiet, and take in the beauty of our surroundings. And tequila – that won’t hurt either.

A few months ago, I wrote a poem which, quite simply, is about hope. About finding life and embracing it beyond the folds of grief. As we head south, I thought this an appropriate note to leave on:

Oh let us cross the open sea

Breathe in its promise of certainty

Where the pain resigns

And our hearts our free

Let us cross the sea

Let eager waves lap against the shore

Eroding us and wanting more

Where our eyes are open

And hope implores

Let waves lap against the shore

Let the gentle tide lead us away

Beyond the stretches of the day

Where new life beckons

Just beyond the fray

Let the tide lead us away

One of the hardest things in losing dad, is trying not to let my heart drift to all of the moments I’ll never have with him. To not let the anger creep up and lodge in my chest when I see other fathers and daughters creating memories. To feel full of gratitude for the time and relationship I had, instead of empty for what I won’t. But it’s really hard. Incredibly hard.

Lately however, I’ve been experiencing my father in new ways. I see him when I look in the mirror. The curves of my round face, his nose – the funny birth mark we share just below the left lash line. I feel him when I smile and a dimple folds into my cheek – not nearly as pronounced as his, but still framing my smile when something is really funny.

I am him when I drive. Oh lord, my impatience for getting somewhere as quickly as possible when I’m weaving through traffic. I am him when I ski, when I drop my hips like he used to, digging the edge of my skis into a pillow of fresh snow. I am him when I tease or am being silly with a total sense of abandon like he used to. In so many wonderful ways, I am him. And in that way, he has been here all along.

If I get married, he won’t be there to see me in my wedding dress, but I can remember his face for every school dance when it would light up with hesitant pride – watching his little girl growing into a woman. He won’t be there to twirl me on the dance floor, but a few months into his treatment we danced at a wedding with my hand in his, and we spun dizzy circles and laughed trying to keep up with one another. If I have children, he won’t meet them, but they’ll know him in the way I play with them, teach them to ski and give into the silly. I will cup their small hands against the curves of my round face, his face, and they will know their grandfather.

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.

 

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.