Signs

For the most part, I believe in them. Or maybe it’s more of a I need to believe in them. And it seems to be more necessary now that my dad has died. I want to be able to connect with him so I “talk” to him through the moon, a butterfly that floats by, and other small unexpected things. As he was dying, there was a constant stream of hummingbirds that made their presence known to a few of my family members, as well as fluttering outside of my dad’s hospice room- so now everytime I see one I say “hello” to my dad.

I think it is possible to connect with spirits and other beings in realms that exist beyond ours. I think this is possible because everything is energy- and energy has the ability to show itself in many different ways. This is why I believe in magic. This is why I believe in love. Anyone and everyone is capable of this type of communication. It is simply a matter of tapping into that deeply rooted part of our intuition. It can be done with practice but I also believe it can happen unexpectedly. Sometimes the very act of trying too hard can set up boundaries. It is when we soften and allow ourselves to remain fully open in our hearts that these experiences can make themselves known to us. 

My soon-to-be niece will be making her grand presence into our world at any moment. I have had this image of my dad sitting with her and sharing his widely known words of wisdom as she prepares for her life in our world. I like the idea of them getting to know one another as grandfather and granddaughter- wherever their souls currently reside. I believe this time is near and my dad is watching out over all of us and sending his love which became all the more apparent as my mum, her dear friend and I were watching television this evening. I took a picture of what we saw (see photo). This little white heart came across the screen as a great big sign- not as a part of the commercial or movie we were watching- but in the screen itself. It spent some time here, and then *poof* it was gone! These are the signs. These are the reminders that the ones we love are always and forever with us. My father has died but my love for him has not. So where does the love go? Apparently everywhere…including my TV.

31.

So here I sit- the first day of my 31st year on this planet. And I have decided something. This years needs to be magical. It needs to be enchanting. It will be about love. It will be about transformation. I recall posting a blog last year on my 30th birthday. I spoke about how I felt my 30’s were going to be monumental. I think I was right. See my dad just died 5 weeks ago today. This is the first year he hasn’t been able to call me and wish me birthday blessings. And it’s awful. This is the first year I have had less than enthusiastic emotions about today. For me, it’s just one more day that is spent without my dad. Grief transforms a person. I mean, how can it not?

Getting back to my original thought process though- magic. I woke up this morning to my hibiscus plant in bloom for the first time this season. A gorgeous, bright red blossom- as if it was intentionally waiting until today to greet me. Two thoughts came to mind. The first being that perhaps it was a sign of good things to come this year- a new part of myself would be blossoming into something beautiful. Second, that it was my dad sending a hello and happy birthday message to me. Whether or not these little things are signs of my dad letting me know he is still “around” I am not totally sure. But I like to believe so. And that brings me comfort. 

Instead of just sitting around the house feeling sad, my mom and I decided to drive into the city to visit the new butterfly conservatory that just opened. It seemed perfect. What is more transformational than the life of a butterfly? Walking around the sea of gliding wings was absolutely magical. Almost surreal even. High above, low to the earth, flitting and fluttering from tree to tree and flower to flower, these creatures represent beauty. They represent change and the cycle of life. Their lifespan so short in comparison to the rest of us- a mere 2 weeks for most once their transformation as a butterfly comes to completion. 

As we wandered among these delicate, floating creatures, one landed on my arm. It stayed awhile too (and by awhile I mean a couple minutes). I took a few steps and it didn’t budge. Again, I had the thought that perhaps it was my dad just letting me know that he was thinking of me. It was a reminder that love is everywhere. We are all born and we all die. The only thing we bring into and exit this world with is LOVE. More than any other gift I could ask for, this was the most special. 

Yes. I do believe in magic. 

Universal Prayer of Peace

There will be a memorial service for Chuck (aka my dad) in early October in NJ but I thought we should all do something prior to that.

We want anyone who has been a part of his life and loves him (or even if you don’t know him!) to be able to celebrate and honor him in their own special way. This Thursday is the full moon which for me seems like the perfect time to do that. At 5pm pacific standard time (adjust for your time zone) I invite you all to join in a universal prayer of peace for my dad. Whether you would like to simply light a candle and whisper a few words or create something more elaborate, the idea is for everyone to hold space at exactly the same time all across the country. I feel that this will be powerful and healing for us all.

Please feel free to invite and share this event with anyone who might like to participate.

We also invite you to share any photos, words or videos that you take on this page if you like. My dad touched many hearts and was well respected, loved and trusted. Let’s join together as one to celebrate this wonderful man’s life.

Please click on link to join! https://www.facebook.com/events/112875865580426/

My New “Normal”

I have to keep reminding myself over and over. My dad is dead. I have to keep telling myself because it doesn’t seem real. It can’t be. Just over 3 weeks ago my dad, though not completely healthy, was going to live. And now he is no longer here. How can I at the age of 30 not have a dad anymore? How can my mom be a widow? 

At 11:21 last night, this man whom I love so dearly took his final breath. There is a part of me that feels like I took a final breath as well. I had a pain in my body that I had never felt before. Everything hurt. I felt nauseous. I sobbed. My mom, sister and I had talked earlier about our plans for the moments following his death. That moment was upon us. We gently bathed his warm but limp body. We dressed him in his clothes. We anointed him with oils. We spoke loving words- words of peace, prayers and grace. “You are free now, dad.”, “There is no more pain.” , “We shall see each other again.” We had wanted to wrap him in beautiful cloths but hadn’t had the time to acquire any prior to this sacred moment. We thought about it and realized that my mom had a couple of blankets in their car that ended up being perfect. It was almost poetic as the blanket that wrapped him was covered in butterflies and colored in earth tones making his body appear to be wrapped up like a cocoon. I liked that idea. He truly was going through a transformation where in the end, he will be morphing into something beyond words and beauty- soaring into his next adventure. Covering his head was more difficult. This would be the last time any of us would lay eyes upon his face. Each of us took our turn to say farewell, kiss his head and wish him onward.

It’s a strange feeling to know that death is imminent but still be in complete shock when that moment comes. It consumes you. It’s like watching someone else’s life unfold before your very eyes. I looked at his cocoon and wondered who was in there? It was a man that resembled my dad but also looked nothing like him. The man I knew was full of life- bright, exuberant, compassionate, energetic and humorous. The man wrapped on the bed was a shell. That couldn’t possibly be my dad.

The coroners came to take his body. They were calm, gentle and respectful. Witnessing his body being placed on a gurney and rolled out of our view was devastating. I placed my hand on him as they passed by. I hugged my mom and sister. It was finally over. A culmination of 3 1/2 weeks of hospital/hospice visits (though truly I felt as though I lived there 24 hours a day), massaging, nursing, crying, loving, meal runs, loads of laundry to help keep his body in dry clothes, phone calls, time off from work, hours of sitting and watching- all over.

My nerves are wrecked. I have experienced a level of exhaustion I have never known before. I know that the sounds of coffee being brewed will haunt me for a time as they will remind me of the gurgling sounds that echoed from my dad’s breath as he lay dying. The smell of lavender that I used to rub into his swollen feet will fill my mind with images that I wish to forget. I also know that this too shall pass. My heart grieves and yet is somehow filled with hope. I will remember him and strive to live my life by the examples he showed me. My dad will forever be a part of me- just in a different way now.

I too am wrapped in a cocoon- and my transformation is also just beginning.

Facing my fear

I have been in California 2 days now. And other than sleeping, I have been with my dad for just about every moment. Had you read my previous post, you would have read that he has a large tumor growing in his left lung and a slightly smaller one in his right. Just the thought of it makes me want to be sick. There is no definitive prognosis yet- still waiting on the biopsy results. Any way you look at it though, there is nothing good about this. 

On a walkabout

Other than being in hospitals to support mamas in labor (I am a doula), I have never spent time in them. I certainly have never seen a greatly loved family member of mine in one. It was difficult to keep myself together when I walked into my dad’s room. I felt scared, nervous and didn’t really know what to expect. He looked not as much like himself. Even since seeing him in early February, I could tell he had lost some weight and just looked older. His left lung has what the doctors call, functionally collapsed. This means that the tumor has grown so large that it is compressing his lung no longer allowing the lower half of his lung to function. This causes him the need to be on oxygen- adding to the scare factor. 

Yesterday evening and throughout the day today, he was chatting away with me, my husband or my mom like his old self. It’s kind of a mind trip. There is a part of you that starts thinking, “He’s totally fine.” or “A few months from now, they are going to be back on the road and everything will be normal again.” You look at him and see that dad you have always known, wanting so desperately to believe that he isn’t sick. But then he coughs. Or has a hard time getting up or walking around because of the pain. Or his speech is jumbled and slurred as he dozes in and out of sleep because of the pain meds he is on. Then you think, “Fuck. This shit is real.”

I feel like a complete emotional basket-case. Pretty much anything and everything sends me into tears. Even messages of love and support are like a wrecking ball. And trust me, they are coming in non-stop. It’s funny how illness brings out the love and support in people- people you don’t even know. I can’t even begin to describe how touched I am feeling right now. Prayer chains, emails, calls, texts- I even had a friend who had her yoga class set a group intention of love and healing for my dad this morning. It’s incredible. Between the sobs and meltdowns however, there are moments of laughter and smiles. Our family is good at that. 

Family and friends have been asking us how they can help beyond the well wishes and hugs. Today I started a fund campaign to raise money for those unforeseen expenses that come at a time like this (travel expenses, gas money, meals etc). For those who want and are able to help, this is a tangible way to do so. We have already just about raised enough to purchase a plane ticket for one of my siblings who might not otherwise be able to come out and visit our dad. Each contribution that comes in sends me into tears- it is a reminder that we are not in this alone. There is a huge network of people in our lives that pretty much just think my dad is awesome. And he is.

http://www.gofundme.com/hhhospitaladventures

SH*TF&CKD@MNIT

Fuck. This isn’t meant to offend anyone, but it’s one of the first thoughts that come to mind when the doctors say cancer. Not me- my dad. And it’s not the first time. He beat it a couple of years ago when a bastard little tumor decided to invade his body and plant itself right on his ulnar nerve (which is in the wrist). Well, this time it’s back with a vengeance. He has a large mass- slightly larger than the size of a mans fist- on his left lung and a smaller tumor on his right lung. This mass has “eaten” its way through a part of his ribs. I didn’t even know something like that was possible. He has never been a smoker- which is one of the first things the docs asked when they reviewed his CAT scan results. I guess once cancer enters your body at any point, it’s bound to be there again. That’s how I’m feeling anyway.

There is the added challenge of my parents location. They have been travelling around the country for almost 4 years as Happily Homeless (you can read their blog too). They don’t own a home anymore or many belongings for that matter, and love it. Currently “residing” in California for the next few months in a sweet, cozy condo just outside of Joshua Tree National Park, they don’t have access to their support team- friends, family etc. There is also the potential issue of medical insurance. Trying to figure out if my dad will be covered in CA (they are from NJ). My dad’s health is such that it is not that feasible for them to travel and get back east. Trying to maneuver that (insurance) system is never easy or fun.

Naturally, my day has been spent trying to remain positive with spurts of falling apart and bits of wanting to be sick. My brain wondering, “How can this be happening again?” We thought we were in the clear and done with this shit 2 years ago. And now the C-word rears its ugly head once more. I wish it would take a hint and see the obvious- we don’t want you around anymore. That cancer is a real asshole.

In the meantime, I will be driving out to join them in the next day or so. A 4 1/2 hour drive hardly seems like a commitment when your dad is in the hospital. I know how desperately my siblings want to be there to support them as well, so I will be acting as a proxy of sorts. There are so many people in their/our lives that are sending love, support and healing energy their way and that means so much. We thank you all from the bottom of our hearts.