We lost my grandmother last month. She was 96, and died peacefully, without pain.

She suffered from dementia for some time before she passed away, and it pains me to say that, because of life and circumstances and illness and excusesexcusesexcuses, I hadn’t seen her since before her memory started to fade. I try to take some comfort in the fact that she wouldn’t have known who I was anyway, but it’s not all that comforting. I should’ve seen her, and I didn’t, and I regret that immensely.

I hadn’t been back to the Coachella Valley since my dads illness and death 2 1/2 years ago. We drove down for the funeral on Monday, and right around the windmills on the 10 freeway, my chest started to hurt. This was the place I lived, the place I grew up, where so many of my memories were born, where so many of my friends still live. It was always a place of love. But he died there. From now until the end, it will be the place that he died. And for me, that makes it a place of unimaginable pain.

Everywhere I looked, I was reminded of those 2 weeks he was sick and dying. The familiar landscape of the desert we drove through more times that I can count on our trips back and forth. The exit off the 10, Jackson Ave, the street he lived on, the street where I presume his home still stands. The Target my husband and I stopped in the morning after we discovered how sick he really was (he asked us to stop and get him some antacids for the heartburn he was experiencing, which we found out later that day was actually cancer that was eating him alive). The cemetery where my grandpa is buried, and where we gathered to honor my grandma, is just a few blocks away from his house. If he had been buried there, I don’t think I could’ve driven through the gates.

Most of the time, I don’t realize how much I miss him. How much his death fucked me up. I’ve got my hands pretty full, with a toddler and a job and a husband. It always kind of hurts, but it’s become part of who I am now. It’s a current that runs just below my surface, and every once in a while I feel it bubble up (birthdays, holidays, Thursdays…), but on the whole, I am ok. I was not ok when I was there. And I wasn’t prepared for how not ok I was. Being in that place, being around family that I hadn’t seen since he died, took me back there. I thought enough time had passed since his death, but I was wrong. I don’t know how much time is enough time.  All I know is that 2 1/2 years, for me, wasn’t.

Driving away from my dads house for the last time after he died, knowing we would never go back there, knowing he would never be there again, was quite possibly the hardest part of that whole terrible time. Driving away from my aunts house after the funeral on Monday, I felt a little of that same feeling. Like I was leaving something behind. I fought back tears until we passed the windmills, swallowed the lump in my throat over and over until it finally stayed down. He hasn’t been there for 2 1/2 years, but it still felt like I was saying goodbye all over again. I wonder if it will always feel like that.

My grandma was a remarkable woman, and we are so blessed to have had her for so long. She is the reason that my dad was who he was, and for that, we owe her a debt of gratitude. I’m so sad that she’s gone, but so incredibly amazed by the life she lived, the lives she touched, and by the number of people who loved her. I am thankful I got to say goodbye on Monday, and I am comforted by the hope that, wherever they may be, she and my grandpa and my dad are together again. And for as long as I live, whenever I see a deck of cards or get a whiff of perfume mixed with scotch, I will think of my grandma, and I will be thankful, and I will be comforted.

I love you a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck, grandma Tina. Thank you.

So, here we are. We knew this day would come, eventually. She’s 2 now, after all. Apparently she can’t stay in diapers forever (by the way, I’d like to be shown where, in the handbook we all get before we leave the hospital, that it says that, because I’m calling bullshit).

We are Potty Training. Capitalized.

I don’t mind diapers, I really don’t. Never have. Is it my FAVORITE part of this gig? Well, no, I can’t say that wiping someone elses ass and getting feces under my fingernails would qualify as a joyful part of motherhood, but it’s never been the bane that it is for some. I don’t like buying diapers, but meh, we never bought a can of formula, so I feel like we evened out there. Dylan is getting a little long for the changing table, but even at this age, where I can barely get her to sit still long enough to put food in her mouth, she’s still really good when it comes to having her diaper changed. She’s gotten more vocal about wanting me to change her when she’s peed or pooped, and when I go to the bathroom, she always comes in and sits on her toilet. She knows what it’s for, she knows what her little toilet is for, she gets it, IN THEORY. So, I thought, hey! Why not start potty training? While it’s warm and she can run around naked and not worry about freezing her bits! Easy peasy, we’ll be done in a week!

Related: I am nothing if not completely oblivious to how hard each step of this having a kid thing is going to be. We had it relatively easy in the beginning, so I automatically (read: stupidly) assume that it’s going to be easy ALL THE TIME. I’m smarter than I seem, I swear.

So, we started yesterday. And 2 hours in, I was done. DONE. Like, ready to chuck that stupid pink toilet out the fucking window and duct tape a diaper to her tush. Have I mentioned that I am not the most patient person in the world? Ok, now go read the first sentence of any book on potty training, and come back and tell me what it says you must have in order to be successful. Go ahead, I’ll wait. … You back? What’d it say? Ah, yes, the magic P word. I hate that word.

See, the thing is, I have patience for most things, like Dylan wanting to do things herself and it taking 45 minutes when I could do it in 2. Or reading the same book 24 times in a row because she knows most of the words and tells me she can read. Or watching Toy Story 3 sixteen times a day because there is absolutely nothing in the world cuter than an Asian girl running around saying, “Yeehaw!”. That kind of stuff? No problem. My problem lies in trying to teach something or get someone to understand something that they should just…get. Like peeing and shitting on the toilet. I mean, it’s just something they should get, you know? And YES, I realize she is 2 and learning this for the first time and expecting her to understand something completely new to her is just stupid and insane. But the thing is, SHE DOES GET IT. She asked me to sit on the toilet, told me she had to pee, then sat there. For 20 minutes. Just sitting. Got up, walked around, sat down again. And just sat. Again. This went on, FOR FOUR HOURS. She did not pee, FOR FOUR HOURS. Not even after I put a diaper back on her. She held it? Had performance anxiety? Wanted to fuck with me? Who knows. I even left the diaper off when she was walking around or watching tv or whatever, because I was getting concerned that she wasn’t peeing, and I just wanted to make sure she still could. I don’t care about pee on the floor (hardwoods FTW), and she has a pretty regular poop schedule, so I knew we were in the clear there. No pee. Not until she was in a diaper and asleep for her nap did she finally unclench and let it flow. 4 hours. For a toddler with little to know knowledge of Kegel’s, that it pretty impressive.

After that, I started doubting whether or not she was really ready. And I still don’t know if she is, to be honest. I mean, have you ever gotten a straight answer from a toddler? So after gathering some advice from fellow mamas, and resigning myself to the fact that, as smart as my kid is, she may need a little more “training” when it comes to potty training, I decided to keep going, but at a much slower pace. Keep her in undies when we were at home, expect some accidents, and put her on the potty whenever I could. She’ll get it. I know that. She walks and talks, right? She’ll learn how to go to the bathroom too, of this I am certain. At her pace, as it should be.

And then, just when I thought I was in for a battle, she pees. In the potty. After our shower tonight, she asked to sit on the toilet, and then she…peed. I think it surprised her more than it surprised me, because she leaned back to get a good look at what the hell was happening down below, and shot a stream of pee across the bathroom, all over the floor mats. BUT. She peed! All by herself, with no prompting from me! We made a ridiculous spectacle of it all, and I may have danced around the house with the pee in the bowl, singing a song about how awesome she was. And oh my god, she was SO proud of herself. So, so proud. She talked about it for the rest of the night, and kept running up to me to remind me that “I peed in my potty mama!”. And before bed, when we were snuggling in her chair, she whispered, “I such a big girl mama, I go pee pee in my potty tomorrow too.” And my heart nearly exploded with love and pride. I think she gets it now, and seeing how excited we were, just made her even more determined to go again.

So, we are stocked up for Potty Training 2012. We’ve got a toilet, princess undies, treats for good days, and lots and lots of disinfecting wipes. I expect to be elbow deep in this shit (heh) for a while, or for however long it takes. And even if it takes one week or one month or one year to be successfully potty trained, I’m okay with that. Seeing her face when she saw my face and how proud and excited I was? Oh man. That was a good feeling. I can wait forever to feel that again.

I hope I WON’T be waiting forever, but I can.

Just please don’t shit on the couch.

Dylan will be two in just a couple of months. Two. Years. Old. I think about that constantly, and yet still cannot seem to fully process this information. Because I just gave birth to her, like, yesterday. How does this happen?

So, since my darling little girl will be an ACTUAL little girl soon, I’ve been thinking a lot about the things that we (I) need to accomplish before too long. It feels like we’ll be graduating, moving onto the next stage, and while I’m hoping there isn’t an actual test at the end of this term, I realize there are certain milestones one is expected to master. Or at the very least, attempt.

Here, in no particular order, is Dylan’s cram list (I’ll provide the Red Bull and pancakes, she’s gotta do the heavy lifting):

-Weaning. I KNOW. We had this conversation a few months ago. Or a year ago, whatever. Anyway, the point is, I started weaning, it was going awesomely (is that a word?), and then we kind of stalled out. Bedtime and nap time were the ones we held onto, and the rare occasion when she woke up at night. I was ok with getting rid of those sessions a little more slowly. But then I started working at night, and in the interest of sleeping in a little later in the mornings, I started bringing her to bed with me, and giving her a boob to get her back to sleep. Rookie mistake. And now it’s kind of a…thing. I don’t even know where to begin on this one.
-Pacifiers. I don’t hate them. I actually kind of love them. They saved my sanity many, many a night. And day. And car ride. But, it’s almost time to ditch the paci. I’m just not nearly stupid enough to cut off the boob and the baby plug at the same time. Boob first, then pacis.
-Potty training. Um. Yeah. We got a toilet? It should just resolve itself, right? (Please, leave me to my delusions. I don’t even want to think about all the pee. All. The. Pee.)
-Big Girl Bed. This one sends shivers down my spine, even more so than the peeing. I mean, cribs have bars for a reason people. Toddlers are insane little creatures that would set fire to their own foot if given the chance and a box of matches. The idea of her being unshackled and able to roam freely, even if it’s just in her little bedroom, is enough to keep me awake for the next 7 years. I think we’ll push this one off for a little while longer. Cribs are cool in high school, right?

If we buckle down and put our nose to the grindstone and burn the candle at both ends and any other clichés you can think of, I am fairly confident we’ll get this done in the next few months. But I’m not worried, and honestly, I’m not in too much of a rush. Dylan has always, since we brought her home all tiny and wiggly and pink, taken the lead. When she’s ready, she’s ready, and she gets shit done. I know her well enough to not push her, to wait until its her time. I know this because I am the exact same way.

So if I change her diaper, nurse her, then put her to bed in her crib with a pacifier (ok, two) the night of her second birthday? Meh. I’m ok with that. I know her time is soon. And when her time comes to graduate, please, send me booze. Not wine. Hard shit. Because lord help me, a toddler who can pee on your floor in the middle of the night because her baby jail is gone and who cannot be silenced with a boob? There is nothing more terrifying.

I know how much she loves me. I do. She tells me now, all the time, even at her age. I know by how tightly she holds onto to me when I hold her, by how big she smiles when I walk into the room. I know, because I am the first person she looks for, asks for, needs. I KNOW how much she loves me, because I do.

But she never smiles and runs to me like she does her daddy. At the end of the day, when his key turns in the door and he walks in, jacket folded over his arm, briefcase swinging by his side, she almost bursts with happiness. She doesn’t laugh like that with me. She doesn’t run that fast to me.

She loves me, but she doesn’t ever miss me. I’m never gone.

I was gone this evening, for a few hours. When I got home, and my key turned in the door, I heard her. I heard the squeal, the pounding of tiny toddler feet running to the door, to me. I opened the door to the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, the tightest embrace, the best kisses. Her little fingers prodded my face, her head rested on my shoulder, her voice whispered “mama” in my ear. She was bursting with happiness. For me.

She missed me when I was gone. I know how much she loves me.

Two weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been here. Two weeks. That’s a long time, in blog time. I’ve missed it, have missed you all, but can I be honest? It’s been…nice. Quiet (ish) (I do still have the Queen D running around at full steam, natch). I’ve been ridiculously busy and crazed and stressed on more days than not in the last 14, but I feel at peace. Let me tell you why…

I’ve decided to cut myself some slack. Let myself off the hook. Stop expecting so much of myself. I have a child, a husband, a home, and a job, all of which require 100% of my time and attention and energy and effort. And that is where I want to put it. Which is not to say that I DON’T want to put as much love and time into my writing, but right now, I don’t have it to give. I was posting 3 times a week, every week, and I don’t think I can keep that up. I’m going to try, to write and share as much as I can, but when it comes down to hunkering down with my laptop to write, or playing Fairy Princess Parade with her, well, I can’t put my tutu and wings on fast enough, friends.

So I made a deal, with myself, to not be so hard on me. To cut me some slack, let out the line a little. I write down everything, and have weeks of posts scribbled all over the place, so when I get the time to share it here, I will. I have no intention of going away, or stopping what I do here, because I love it and need it and it’s a part of me now. But it’s a smaller part than my other parts, and that’s ok, and that’s how it should be. I am a writer, yes, but only because I am a wife and mother. They are my inspiration, my reason, my heart. And I need to nurture them now.

And I need them to nurture me.

Sigh.

It’s been over a week since I’ve been here, in this place I love so much. Over a week since I’ve been able to stop and listen to the words in my brain, and have enough time to put them down. It’s been a blur of toddlers and work and comings and goings and meals and cleaning and barely seeing the husband and and and and and.

Sigh.

Things have changed quite a bit in the last month. I started working, which is GOOD, but it’s a lot. Husband got a new job, which is AMAZING, but takes him away now, instead of letting him be here a lot. So husband is gone all day, all week, and I am here, and the kid is here, and it’s me and her all day. Every day. And into the evening. And during the night. And in the morning. And all day again. Every day. My job is in there, not the kid one, but the paying one, and while I love that I have it, it is a weight. It’s all weighted. And heavy on my shoulders. And my arms are getting tired.

Sigh.

I miss rest. I miss having time, even just an hour or two, to myself. I miss my husband. I miss writing. Life is here, and it is moving, and I’m caught in the tide, and I feel like I’m missing everything. But I am going to stop swimming, and relax, and go with the current. I’ll circle back around when I catch a calm spot.

Sigh.

She has my hands. Long, slender fingers that will turn upwards when held palm down. She has my skin, translucent, pale, with just a hint of pink. Her hair feels like mine, baby fine and wispy. She laughs like I do, with her whole self. She laughs at the same things too. When she can’t do something, her cheeks flush and she stomps her foot and I can feel the rage bubbling up inside, percolating at the surface, threatening to boil over. I can feel it because it bubbles in me too. We’re both quick to smile, and even quicker to strike. We are almost identical on the inside, she and I.

But her face is not my face.

Her face is his. The full lips, strong jawline, sharp, defined cheekbones. The little button nose, and the eyes, almond shaped pools of soulful brown. Her face is striking and unique and the most exquisitely beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I can stare at her for hours, and discover new parts of it that I hadn’t noticed before. And I do. I’ve memorized every inch of it, and I stare at it in my minds eye, at night, in the quiet of the dark.

The world notices too. The world sees her, and the world says she is beautiful. Exotic, is the word it uses. The world doesn’t see her and think, “beauty”. The world sees her and thinks, “different”. When it is just she and I, that’s when the differences are marked. When the world notices the most. Are you the nanny? Is she yours? Where was she adopted from? Just words, innocuous and curious and benign and like knives, every time. My green eyes and her almond eyes don’t match, so she can’t be mine. They don’t see her insides. They don’t see how our laugh is the same, or how our rage bubbles just under the surface in the face of failure. They can’t know that it is my blood that pumps through her heart, my blood that sustained her then and now and will always. All the world sees in her face, and her face is not my face.

At this age, this clumsy, toddling, babbling age of wonder and curiosity and innocence, her face is just one part of her. Babies are adorable, and she is a (quickly growing, almost not) baby in their eyes. But soon, I fear, her face will cease to be just one part of her. Soon, the world may see it as the only part of her. The part of her that stands out, not because of its beauty, but because it’s different. And sometimes, sadly, the world doesn’t like different.

I’ve spent the last 18 months preparing for scenarios we might encounter in the coming years. I know what I will say to her the first time she loses. I know how to comfort her the first time a friend hurts her on purpose. I’ve practiced what to say when something is out of her reach, and how to coach her to reach it. I’ve stored words away, in letters and journals and in my mind, to use for her first betrayal, her first success, her first fight and win. I’ve cried tears remembering these moments in my own life, and I’ve written down those feelings. I know what ice cream we will eat to soothe her first broken heart (and subsequently, the place husband will have to take me to keep me away from the one who broke it). But there is one thing I don’t know how to deal with, or even how to prepare for. I’ve had my heart broken. I’ve experienced loss, both superficially temporary and soul crushingly permanent and irreversible. But I have never been treated differently because of how I look. Because of who I am. I have never had ugly words used against me, had my heritage and appearance used as a weapon to hurt me.

I’ve never had to hold back tears against the sting of hateful whispers.

He has. And my fear is that she will too. And instead of helping her, instead of teaching her how to deal with and stand up to it, all I can see is white, hot rage. And I hate them, the world that will one day make her feel not beautiful. I hate the ones who will make her hate her eyes, those breathtaking almond pools of soulful brown. I hate them for hurting her. I hate that world for ever making anyone feel different, for making even one person look in the mirror and feel anything but acceptance and love for their face or skin or body. I never thought beyond the surface of it, because up until I met him, I was, by nature, on the other side of the mirror. Never hating, but so far from understanding.

I still don’t fully understand, and I may never understand, what it feels like on that side of the mirror. If I could, I would spend my life changing the wiring of every single person in this world who could one day hurt my baby. I would never change her, because she is perfect. I will never wish for her face to be different, because it is HER face. It is beautiful and exotic and perfect. I wish for everyone else to be different, for her face to never be anything more than a PART of her, not all of her. There is something coming, that I am not prepared for, but I am ready. I don’t know how long I have to find the words, but I am looking, looking, looking everyday for them. I may not understand how the world thinks, but I know how she thinks.

Because inside, we are the same. It is my blood that pumps through her veins. It is my rage that boils just under her surface. Her face may not be my face, but her heart is my heart. And my heart is strong. And it gets stronger everyday. For her.

So. Hi. Been a few days. Or a week. But who’s counting?

I’m having a little trouble learning how to balance my time, or better yet, find time, now that I’ve started working from home.

Oh yeah. I might’ve forgotten to mention that. I got a job! An actual, legitimate, work-at-home-in-my-pajamas job. For an actual, legitimate, LARGE company. With paychecks. And benefits. And cool perks like employee discounts and stocks and all kinds of goodies. I wasn’t really looking, but happened to stumble upon it a couple of weeks ago, and thought, why the hell not? Dylan’s getting older, she plays well by herself, Tom is around during the day often enough to help when I need it. It seemed like a great idea, and so far, it really has been. For the most part.

The thing is? Working is a major time suck. Like, maaaaaah-jaaaaaah. I decided to work mostly at night, because I wanted to make sure I didn’t disrupt Dylan’s schedule any more than I had to. And, I wanted to leave my days free so we weren’t stuck inside all day during the week. I’m a night owl by nature, so I’m up way too late most of the time anyway. Seemed like the best option for us right now.

Except, late at night was MY time. It was when I vegged on the couch, read blogs, caught up on stupid celebrity gossip. Late at night was when I sat down with my iPad and wrote down whatever had been swirling around in my brain all day. It was my decompression time. My comedown. And I’ve lost that time (at least, 5 days out of the week). And now I’m looking at my day, and I’m trying to find it somewhere else. ANYWHERE else. Because I need it. Not the tv or the blog reading or the gossips (although I will continue to do all of those things because they are awesome), but the writing. I NEED the writing. It’s what I do. It’s how I get it out. So I need to find the time to do it.

Anybody got a few extra hours I can borrow?

I haven’t been able to find my words lately. I wrote last about my dad, and I needed to be silent after that. For a bit. I needed to just let that be. Last week was hard. But it’s done now, and it’s a little less hard.

I asked Dylan a question the other day, something innocent, something in passing, fully expecting to answer for her, like I’ve been doing for all her (little) life so far. “No want mama.” I smiled a thousand smiles, to hide my tears. Who cries when their child answers their question? I feel like I can’t keep up. Sometimes I don’t recognize her, my own baby. Not a baby. Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize her, I still think of her as my baby.

I started working today, from home. It’s been so long, I feel out of the loop. Old. Used up. I’m lucky to have found something that allows me to stay home and still be her mom. I wouldn’t have been able to leave her everyday. Even today, my first day, my heart ached for her. I missed her. How do you miss someone in the next room? I’ll be able to work around her, so she never misses me. Because that sort of the point, isn’t it? Absorbing all the bad so they don’t feel it? I’m learning that.

I feel anxious about work. I like it, am looking forward to it, but it’s been so long since I’ve had to be anything other than mom. I don’t who that other person is, anymore. I hope she’s still here, out there, somewhere. I catch glimpses of her on occasion, like seeing your reflection in a window as you walk by. I speak of her as if she’s a different person, separate from me, because I think she is. I haven’t made her and I whole yet, I don’t know how to do that. I hope she’s there. I hope she isn’t mad that I left her so long ago.

I hope she comes back.

-linking up with Just Write

Back pain. That’s how it started. The man who didn’t do doctors or medicine or pain, was being cut down, little by little, day by day, by back pain. Painkillers, heat packs, physical therapy, x-rays and MRIs: everyday something new was added, something else mentioned, in his quest to rid his life of that fucking back pain. We learned all this by phone, followed along with daily calls, listened as he checked off the appointments and pills and “if this doesn’t work, we’ll try this…” lines from all the doctors he was seeing. Over the phone, he sounded tired, but he didn’t sound sick. Over the phone, he looked fine.

He taught me how to drive. How to bait a hook, hook a fish, reel it in, and clean it. He taught me about dirt. And trees. And animals and rocks and books. He taught me how to cook, and taste, and love food. He taught me how to sharpen my knives. Do you realize the importance of that? He taught me everything I needed to know, and everything I didn’t.

I was newly pregnant. Weeks, only. We made a plan to drive down to see my dad, help him in whatever way he needed (he mentioned not being able to get out much, needing groceries to be bought and heavy things to be lifted), cooking and cleaning and whatever needed to be done. We told ourselves he just needed a little help until he got better, until the doctors fixed his back. We didn’t know. With my hand over my belly, we walked into the house, and my world caved in. It was January 15, 2010.

He laughed with his whole self. At everything. Sometimes he would call, and it would be 5 minutes before he could even get a word out. And he always called when he saw or heard something funny, always. He told a joke better than anyone I know, and he never told a joke the same way twice. I have so many stored in my mind, his jokes, his punch lines, but they’re incomplete. My memories of him telling the jokes are pure and bright and perfect, but I couldn’t tell one now. For the best probably. I can’t tell a joke like my dad.

He was at another doctors office when we arrived, so my reaction to what we found inside was raw and immediate and unedited. I knew the second my eyes glanced the filth he was living in, the piles of dishes covered in day and week old food that hadn’t been touched, the smell of rot coming from the kitchen, the messes his beloved cats and dog had made all over the house: something was horribly, horribly wrong. He was telling us what he needed us to hear, what he wanted us to know. He wasn’t telling us his truth. To this day, I wonder if he told it to himself. I called my sister, told her that something was really wrong, that what I was looking at was more than just back pain. And then the car he was riding in pulled up, and the door opened, and a man I didn’t recognize got out and said, “hi baby”, and I knew. I knew.

He nearly lost us, and himself, long ago. He wore his sobriety proudly, but never boasted. He collected his coins, for all the years he attended meetings, and carried his very first one in his wallet, for so long that it rubbed a circle through the leather. I was so proud of him, so proud to be his.

He had lost probably 40 pounds in 2 months. His hair was greasy and hung lifeless in his face, days and days since it had been washed last. He walked with a stoop, shortening his tall frame by 4 inches. His skin. Oh my god, his skin. A lifetime of working outdoors had given him a dark, natural bronze tone, but that was no more. I looked down at my feet to keep from fainting when I saw that he was yellow. Yellow. I knew what yellow skin meant. I knew what that meant. We helped him inside, and I called my sister, and in between panicked sobs, managed to tell her to get here, she needed to be here, I needed her here. I called my mom, despite their having been divorced for 10 years. I told her what I saw, and she came. And she saw. We talked to my dad, cleaned, tried to get him to eat, tried to get him to laugh, tried to stop his pain. He refused to go to the hospital, insisting that it was just a back problem, and he was already seeing a doctor for it, why did he need to see another? But his eyes betrayed him, showed his fear, his confusion about what was happening. He refused, and he slept. When he slept, we talked, about all the things we didn’t say in front of him: illness, serious illness, obvious liver dysfunction. He slept, my mom stayed the night, and we drove home to regroup. We would return in the morning. It would all look better by light of the new day.

When I close my eyes and tell my mind to take me to his place, it’s always on water. That’s where he felt right. Where he felt at home. In a boat, with a pole in the water, watching the break, listening the waves lap against the hull. We could spend hours on the water, and not say more than 20 words. He would have spent his whole life out there. He would have stayed out there forever.

My sister came the next day, and we were able to convince him to go to the hospital. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave his home. I think he knew that if he went, he wouldn’t be coming back. He walked around, aided by my husband and brother, taking in the vista of his ranch, the mountains and trees. He petted his dogs. He breathed in. He said goodbye. And he got into the car and we drove an hour to the only hospital he deemed acceptable. We spoke with the admitting nurse, told her his symptoms. We didn’t wait long. He found relief from the pain, the first in weeks. Blood was taken. Questions asked and answered. We waited again. The doctor came, told the gathered what they’d found: pancreatic cancer. Metastatic. End stage. I was in the waiting room, having rotated out to allow my brother in, so I wasn’t there to see my dad being told he was dying. I’m glad. My brother burst through the doors to the lobby, and his face told me what I knew already to be true. It was January 16, 2010.

I lived my life to make him proud. I still do. I think I did right.

The doctors couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us how long. Treatment wasn’t an option with a non-functioning liver, and the scans and tests done in the days after he was admitted revealed more than we’d bargained for. 6 months, maybe? On the outside? We were devastated. 6 months meant he wouldn’t be here to see the babies that were coming. How do you say goodbye in 6 months? He heard that number, and he clung to it. He planned his time left, what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go. He had to know, on some level, that 6 months was not guaranteed, that it was a best case scenario, that we would be lucky to get that long. I think he needed something to pin his hope on. We all did.

The days following the diagnosis are a blur, still, 2 years later. A lot of driving, sitting, talking, crying. A lot of waiting. He rallied for a few days after being admitted to the hospital, but never made any great improvements. There’s a kind of sick that’s not the kind you get better from. He was that kind of sick. He spent a little over a week and half in the hospital, before the decision was made to move to hospice. He couldn’t be treated. His care was palliative. He needed his pain managed. He didn’t want to go to hospice, he wanted to go home, but we needed time to figure out how. He was in hospice for 4 days, and declined steadily each day. We decided to take him home. He wanted to spend his last days in his house, looking out his window, at his trees, his mountains. He slipped out of consciousness the day before being moved. When the ambulance pulled up to the house, and the hospice care team unloaded him and brought him inside, he was a shell of his former self. We got him in bed, facing his big window overlooking his mountain. As the nurse briefed my mom and brother on his care, I sat with him. I held his hand, and whispered to him all the things I had planned on saying over the next 6 months. I spoke fast, with urgency and panic, trying to get it all out while he was still…there. He moaned, his eyes fluttering, the morphine keeping his voice locked away. We sat, and I talked, and told him where he was and that we had done it, we had brought him home. And he sighed a heavy sigh, and breathed out the word “home”. And I touched his brow and kissed his hands and said yes. Yes, daddy. Home.

He came home on Monday, February 1, 2010. He was surrounded by love. We talked to him, about him, around him. We curled his fingers into his dogs fur, let the sun shine on his face. He never opened his eyes. He never came back. Aside from “home”, he never spoke another word. He slipped from us, in peace and no pain, in the early morning hours of Tuesday, February 2, 2010. We had hoped for 6 months. We got 16 days. I wouldn’t trade that time for anything.

It’s been 2 years, and time has not healed me. I still miss him. I still hurt. Too much some days, just enough on others. I don’t know how to process his death. I don’t want to acknowledge his absence. I still dial his number, long disconnected. I still set things aside to share with him. I don’t know how to live a life without him in it. It’s been 2 years. Maybe next year will be a little better. Writing this, his story, is a step towards healing. Towards moving forward. I’m learning how to move forward and keep him with me, even though he’s not with me. I don’t want to. But I need to. For myself, for my girl. For my dad. He’s out there, on the water, listening to the waves break against the hull, waiting for a bite. I know where to find him. He’ll be there forever.