Regrets

Dad died on a Monday night.  It was conference night at school, and I remember I had just updated the teachers on his move to :::gulp::: Hospice- that word still fucking stings.  The prior weekend, I had sanctioned a day for me, going to the salon with my bestie.  I only wanted a day.  But my phone rang...  And rang....  And rang.  Not because there was anything trying, or concerning.  Mom needed me to go to the grocery store for her.  Don't really even remember what she HAD to have.  I got really annoyed.  And angry. 

Sunday- I think the Vikings played? Most likely.  I think a bye week on top of losing my Dad in the same week may just have set me over the edge.  So yes, there was a definitely a game.  My Dad wasn't doing well that day, but I didn't want to crowd him.  Linda, Ron, and Grandma needed time with him.  And oh, the Roseau Jack's came down, and needed their time (and quite frankly, I was NOT very happy with them at the time, so I didn't want to add undue tension to what turned out to be the last time they saw Umpa).  Mom called at one point, and gave me an update, and was concerned about something Dad was doing.  I didn't go.  I told her to call Hospice, and then to have the nurse call me.  I couldn't be bothered to go and be there for my Dad as he started the last 24 hours of his earthly life.

Now, you have to understand, my phone was literally ringing off the hook for weeks by the time Monday, November 21, 2016 rolled around.  That day I got selfish.  Worst day ever to do that.  I wanted to just pretend for a bit.  To reignite the hope I had way back in May when the docs said he could fight it.  Chemo.  Maybe radiation.  They were going to cure him.  There was going to be a fucking Cancer cure named after my Dad.  High hopes.

I was watching DWTS.  I turned my ringer off.  I shut the world out for just a freaking moment.......... and, I... missed... the... call. I didn't allow myself to be there for his last breath.  I don't know if there was fear in his eyes, as he was carried off on Angel wings.  Because I chose the worst possible fucking moment to be selfish, and so OPPOSITE of him. 

So yeah.  I have regrets.  But not just about that weekend. I was able to get down there (after I went to the grocery store for Mom) and he was able to see my new hair ("Hey Daddy, it's kinda dark, huh?"  "Oh WOW, yeah."  "Do you like it?" "I do, Baby Girl.").  Normal regrets though, when it comes to him.  I should have stopped being so self- conscience about my golf swing and just given him the satisfaction of teaching his little girl his passion for golf.  I shouldn't have shut him out by association when I was so angry at his mother, I refused invitations to spend time with him.  I should have gone down more often than I did, and I should have stopped making fucking excuses.  I should have dragged that stubborn old man's ass to his scans that he refused to go in for... He could still be here.

So I guess that's where I'm at.  And that's a lesson that maybe I didn't listen to quite as closely when my Dad taught it (perhaps another regret???)- how to have grace with your regrets.  I'm sure he had regrets, but instead of staying there, he battled them and snuffed them out.  With his positive attitude, and his hope.  Yeah, I'm still working on that. 

In... A... Nutshell

I’ve been lost.  I’ve been lost ever since the persistent heartburn.  The words liposarcoma still echo in my mind. The scans.  The doc with the-really-long-probably-shouldn't-be-forgettable- name, pulling us into the “bad news” room (find that episode on Parenthood- good show).  But it wasn’t bad news. They had pulled out a tumor the size of a damn basketball. The “leftovers”?- totally marginal.  No radiation- just follow up on your scans on time.  On time. But he was OK. He made it. He would meet our sweet homage to both Umpa and Great Grandma Marge: Lucille Brianne.  He beamed. Just like all the others. So proud.

And then... he didn’t get the scans.  Stubborn mule. And I knew. Pretty sure he knew.  But he was our Superman. He beat it before. He’d just press repeat.  But…. the repeat button didn’t work. Too late. Popcorn tumors. Lungs.  3-6 months… without treatment. Or with. Whatevs.

So yeah, I guess I’ve been gone for quite a bit.  So here goes. It was 2 years ago this past May when my whole world shattered.  Completely, utterly shattered. How could I possibly sit back and watch my Dad get sick and not fucking beat this?  How do you do it? Well, I got pissed. And I think I still am. But hey, this is my attempt to find my happy again.  To not be so lost. In the process, I am hoping that if you choose to follow my personal healing journal, and you’re going through it too, that you too, may find some healing.  

I’ve really struggled with wanting to talk about it.  I mean, this is my personal pain. My loss. A piece of me is gone.  Not sure if it is more selfishness, or if it was more of a stigma thing.  I didn’t want anyone to know my pain. Not that I felt like a burden. It’s just mine.  And eventually I am going to be OK. Dad wouldn’t like that though. If he could help, he would.  Maybe he wouldn’t be super raw with emotions, and the pain, and the aftermath- the man was the friendliest private man in the universe.  But, if I can help, even one, I’m doing him proud.

So welcome, to this little adventure of mine.

Let’s be honest. It’s time to live. I’ve been reminded recently that not living, not processing all of this…

that’s not what he would have wanted.

 He would want me to see the blue sky.

Run through the plush green summer grass.

Truly enjoy the little God Wink he sent me. He’s here. I know.

It’s time to feel it all, and get back up again.  I’ve been knocked down. Time to get back up. Here goes!