nine

Hey, Dad.

Today marks 9 months since you lost your battle with cancer.

It's been a while since I gave you a life update.

I'm gonna try to write this like I used to write you letters in Freshman year and we were pen pals.

There's a lot you've missed since you've been in heaven or wherever it is people go (if they go anywhere. I'm still figuring out what my beliefs are regarding the afterlife.  I loved discussing this with you.)

One, we had an amazing trip to Europe this summer.
I know you planned it with mom before you died.  You guys talked about it and said it was okay to use some of the insurance money to send us on a trip.  It was just what we needed- well, if I'm speaking for myself.  When I think about 2013, I'll think of losing you.  But I'll think about that trip, and the beautiful sights in Italy, and the atmosphere of London and how badly I want to go back.

Two, school started again.
I'm in three journalism classes this quarter.  Law, newspaper staff, and photojournalism.  Law is kicking my butt because it's, well, law.  Newspaper staff is a lot of work but I love it anyway.  It's pretty cool seeing my work published and knowing that the entire school can read it.  Photojournalism... easily my favorite class. I've gotten A's on everything so far and I love seeing a new side to photography.  I know you would be stoked to see how well I'm doing with all this.

Three, I'm on Relay committee this year!
I know you totally supported me through the one Relay I did while you were still here.  You gave me a pretty hefty donation and I wasn't expecting that at all.  I guess for you it meant a lot.  Last year I was the 2nd highest fundraiser and Leo's Legacy was the top team.  Now I'm trying to be one of the people who makes it happen and help the ACS fight against cancer so at least one less family has to go through what we went through.


I found an email last weekend that you sent the other weekend to an old friend.  You caught her up with what was going on in your life, and then talked about your family.  You gave, like, one sentence about Coralie and Sara.  Then you proceeded to give a whole paragraph on me and how I'm doing.  You ended it with "one of my only hopes is to be there when she graduates".  I'm usually pretty good at keeping my cool and not freaking out, but I started bawling when I read that.  The things that get me are knowing you're not going to be there for the big things.  For instance, graduation.  You're not going to be there to see me walk across the stage and get that coveted diploma.  When/if I get married, you're not going to be there to walk me down the aisle.  My kids will never know their grandpa Leo.

A couple weeks ago I was walking home from class and had the sudden urge "oh, I'll call Dad" and then as I got my phone out of my pocket I realized I couldn't just do that anymore.

It's getting easier without you.  Well, I should say I'm getting more used to it.  There are some things I'm not sure how to get used to.  There are a lot of firsts to be had- my first birthday without you, your first birthday without you, our first Christmas without you.  I'm not sure how I'll handle those yet but we're getting there.

One step at a time.

6

Dad-

Six months ago today, we lost you.

You slipped away from us in the morning, as I was sleeping.  Sara rushed to the room I was in and woke me up- "Allie. You need to get up. Dad just died."

I woke up, dazed, freaking out, and took the few steps it took to get to your room, where we all sat and cried.

You looked more peaceful than I've seen you in years.

It couldn't have been easy, going like that.  Gasping for air like a fish out of water, relying on dozens of pills a day just to keep your pain at bay and your body functioning (if that's what you want to call it).

The last conversation I had with you is kind of a blur.  I had a nasty cold, and you were coming in and out of consciousness.   You took off your oxygen tubes and offered them to me because you heard me coughing.  I laughed and said "no, I don't need them" and you asked why- "because I have a cold, and you have lung cancer, dad."  You smiled, put them back on, and fell asleep briefly again.

The next morning was the hardest morning of my life.  Doctors and nurses came in and out of the house, along with the closest friends we had, offering us more love and support than we could have ever asked for.  I stood in the kitchen as they brought what was left of you downstairs.  I didn't want my last sight of you to be your lifeless body going into a car that was headed to a funeral home.

The rest of the day whizzed by, but it felt like the longest day ever.  We couldn't believe it actually happened.  We were expecting it within the week or so... but I was still shocked to lose my daddy.

Thank you for being the backbone of our family, keeping us together when we needed you most.  You have lit up the lives of most people who have met you.

Thank you for being the best Dad us girls could have ever asked for, and the greatest G-pa, and the greatest husband.

You are missed like crazy, but we are learning how to stand on our own two feet again.  It sucks not being able to call you on the phone, or go visit you in your room when I come home for the weekend, or write you a dumb letter anymore.  But I'm learning.

I love you, Dad. Plus one.
-Miss A

{five}

Today marks five months since my dad passed away.

I try really hard not to dwell on it, and not to let it overcome me, but the 22nd of every month since January has been more than just a normal day.

It's a reminder of what we lost, and conversely how far we've come.

For those of you who have been affected by cancer, you know how much it sucks.  You know how hard it is to watch someone you love be torn apart physically, emotionally, and psychologically by the disease.  Being part of the "I've Lost Someone I Love to Cancer" club isn't something I ever thought I'd have to live with.  Luckily, everyone in this "club" is so loving and caring that it makes it that much easier.

I was being bored a few weeks ago and searching through my old emails, and I found this gem from my dad.

My dad and I emailed each other often, mostly because I was in school and we had completely opposing schedules (he'd be getting home from work and I'd be going to the gym, and by the time I got home he'd be in bed) and so we just constantly emailed and wrote letters.  I don't remember what the context of this advice was- probably feeling bummed out from a bad grade- and he always had the best advice, even if it was something so little.

Since he died, I've done a lot to help with my own 'well being'.  I've changed majors (and haven't felt so happy about a decision this big in such a long time), found out the people who matter most, and just taken small steps to find overall happiness.  I don't want to sound naïve by thinking this... but in times of hardships, we really realize who we are, and where we want to go from there.

If you are sad, be sad.  If you are happy, be happy.  Don't let anyone tell you how you should and shouldn't feel.
Don't feel like you have to stick to something if it doesn't feel like the right thing to do.
Have the conversations you want to have, while you can.
When people ask "how are you doing", don't feel obligated to say "fine". It's okay to break down and cry.  The people who love you won't care.
Do the things you want to do while you have the chance.
It's okay to smile when the whole world thinks you should be sad.

I suppose I'm lucky to have learned all of this at the age of nineteen.
Thank you, dad, for teaching me these.

What I want, more than anything, is for my dad to be remembered not as his disease but as the person he was. 

How he had the ability to light up the room.  

How he could play 'blackbird' on guitar over and over again and no one would get sick of the sound. 

How he was always happy to come home from work and see his family.  

How he could make anyone laugh with the silliest joke, or a word he made up on the spot.

How he would get up early every Sunday and make me his famous French toast and take me to a movie.

How he would ask me a million questions when watching Doctor Who because he failed to watch the most recent episode.

How he would let me lie my head on his belly and listen to the funny noises it made when I was little and we were watching Saturday morning cartoons (especially Rocko's Modern Life, because it was his favorite).

How he would let me skip school almost every Friday during my senior year because I hated my class.

This is who my dad is.

And this is how I choose to remember him.