It's a Funny Thing: Time

“Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration.”  ~Khalil Gibran

It’s a few and far between occasion when an email stops me in my tracks and really makes me think.  Days before Thanksgiving I received an email from a certain Chris Geraghty.  Chris and I met just over three years ago as we both found ourselves teaching for the very first time as first year teachers; and swimming in the deep end of West Philadelphia.  Both teaching middle school minds (and all the liveliness and opinionated minds that came with the territory) and coaching the track team on the side, Chris and I forged a friendship that has sustained itself to this day.  During my two years in Philadelphia, we grew close, and he became a friend I could connect on many a levels.  We were there for each other in the exhaustion of teaching in an intercity school as first year teachers; we were there to share funny stories and hear each other’s rants on other days.  The fateful and stormy night in July on 2012 when I got the prognosis of my dad – Chris was there with ice cream in hand – as he, Colleen and I talked, cried, sat in silence, and took ice cream as a remedy. 

Chris; or otherwise  known as Mr. Geraghty

My 8th grade class 2010-2011

But I digress; his email was short and sweet – as it normally is – but it spoke volumes to me as I was approaching the Thanksgiving weekend.  There were happy Thanksgiving wishes, but the line stopped me and made me recollect was this: “It was three full years ago that we were gifted this long weekend as a much needed respite from the energetic children of Girard and Lancaster!”   

My 6th grade class 2010 - 2011

Three…full…years ago…  Had it really been three years ago since my first long break as a first year teacher?  Has it really been three years ago that I was still getting acquainted with Colleen and Gabi in the SSJ Mission Corps? Had it really been three years ago that I had recently left the hilly streets of San Francisco to bear the four brutal seasons of the east coast and found myself teaching alongside many other first year teachers in the notorious neighborhood of west Philly? Huh…three years ago?  

SSJ Mission Corps 2010-2011

When I stop and really think about all that’s happened in three years’ time, I can’t help but feel a sense of fullness; fullness of life that is.  In three years’ time I’ve taught as a full time teacher (now at two different schools, on two different ends of our coasts).  And in those first two years in the trenches of West Philly, those boisterous preadolescent teens taught me more than they will ever know; they forced me to grow and assert myself more than they will know; and they gave me the gift of them – every single day.  In three years’ time I’ve made some of the dearest friends out in the city of Brotherly love (Colleen, Chris, Seth, Peg, Nancy, and Rosanne just to name a few); while maintaining some other dear friendships in California (even with the three hour time difference).  In three years’ time I’ve reconnected with childhood friends and even a childhood teacher who I can now confidently call a friend and mentor.  In three years’ time I’ve traveled to all the iconic east coast cities such as: Boston, D.C., New York, and Baltimore; and never took it for granted.   In three years’ time I’ve run two full marathons and helped coach numerous other youth in the multitude of benefits that comes from running.   In three years’ time I’ve effed up a time or two; picked myself up and kept going.  In three years’ time I’ve grown into my own – even more so than before – and felt more comfortable and confidant in my own skin.  In three years’ time I’ve put myself out there; danced, dated and flirted with a number of undisclosed men – cause Lord knows my hips don’t lie!  In three years’ time I’ve asked for forgiveness, and in other circumstances gave it.  In three years’ time I’ve had a couple of fall outs with people I never thought I would, and despite the hurt that comes from a fall out, learned to let it go; learned to forgive ‘em and learned to move on.   In three years’ time I’ve faced demons of my past, and in time and with help learned to address them in a healthy and mature way.  In three years’ time I’ve been thrown under the bus and learned to hold my own - and in turn learned a hell of a lot about myself in the process.

SSJ Mission Corps in Boston Spring 2011

Kelly Drive - my running route while residing in Philly

NYC Statue of Liberty 2010

Coll and I in NYC fall 2010

Baltimore for my 25th B-day - 2011

Philadelphia's annual flower show - 2011

Philadelphia Marathon fall of 2011; with a student of a running buddy!

Philly marathon - 2011

Philadelphia city hall

Seth and I - karaoke! 

Independence hall with Nick - a SFSU college friend!

A Winter scene in Philly. 

Bryson and I at the top of the Rocky steps in Philly - 2012

A night out with a couple of gents in Philly!

And yes, in three years’ time I’ve uprooted myself back home after a cancer diagnosis; and in that time I’ve – voluntarily – took a step back professionally for the sake of time with my dad; and now I can say I’ve experienced a promotion as well.  What goes around comes around!

A SFSU Newman reunion via hike!

A long standing friend's birthday via wake boarding!

Color Run - San Diego 2011 with Justin!

With the girls at an Angels game! 

Bungie Jumping! 

Yes, it HAS been three, very full years! 

Gah, three years - where did it go; how did it go?!  And that the thing - so often we (myself included) become numb or even apathetic to that time and that value of time spent.  The Monday drain; the deadlines; the drama; the "to do lists;" the "I don't have time for..."  And while all this is real and everyday living - I know I feel like a cheesy mush when I have moments where something so simple causes me to recollect in gratitude; and even motivating me forward.    

And so, as it has been said that the first holiday season without a recently deceased is emotionally rough, I can say that was indeed the case for me this past Thanksgiving weekend as thoughts of my dad came to the surface.  Despite that fact, the other truth is I am truly grateful for my life and the fullness that it has and continues to be for me.   And while the past year and a half (of that three year stretch of time)has been the roughest year and a half– second to none – with my dad’s diagnosis of cancer, treatment of cancer and death, I can’t help but look at that fullness and not focus too terribly on the trenches of now.  In simpler words: reflecting on my past, gives me hope for what’s to come. 

“You may delay, but time will not.”  ~Benjamin Franklin

Standing in the Aftermath

More than two months after the fact of my dad's death and I still stand in the chaos of the aftermath. 

“Honestly, I don’t know how I am going to be a day; a week; a month after my dad passes.  So if you don’t hear from me, do me a favor and call me and just ask how I’m doing.”  This was the phone conversation I had with a friend the eve of my father’s passing – not knowing he’d pass in the wee hours of that night.  After a restless sleep; I was jolted awake at 3:55AM by my mother, who had found my father dead, moments before waking me. 

Throughout the whole cancer battle, people have said “yes you know his death is coming, and you can spend that time with him, BUT no amount of ‘preparing’ will make you ready for that moment when death takes him.”  And they were right!  The sound of my mothers’ sorrow waking me; hearing the news “he’s gone;” feeling the shock in my gut; seeing his lifeless and pale body; and letting the tears overcome me as my legs collapsed under me – nothing, not a thing, not one wise word could have prepared me for that inconceivable moment. 

The days following are all but a blur.  Being in and out of work that week, with students of ranging ages reacting to the news of my dad’s death; and some not knowing what to say or even how to act around me - I indeed felt like the elephant at the school.  Feeling like I was perpetually on the phone with friends or family or replying to emails from friends or family – certainly it was comforting to be consoled so much.  With ten out of the twelve of my dad’s siblings flocking in from across the country, and a fair number of other relatives in town - we were hardly alone in that first week.  Flower deliveries flocked our door steps; home-cooked meals that gave us the luxury of not having to cook for a week.  Constant company from friends and family alike gave us comfort and consolation as condolence cards and care packages seemed to have caravanned its way to us constantly.  Managing plans at the mortuary while blinking back tears; tying up loose ends at the church for the funeral while pushing back bitter sweet memories that became hauntingly painful to me; grappling and wrestling with words for my father’s eulogy as I struggled to write without breaking down – this was the emotional state I often found myself in the preceding week after his death.  And the irony is, as emotional as I was that week I could really be emotional - there just wasn’t time to really mourn. 

As the days of the viewing/Rosary proceeded; and as the funeral preceded the burial, the out-pour of people who showed up to pay respects truly surprised and moved me.  Even those who either didn’t know my dad that well, or at all for that matter came out of the woodwork to show their condolences to my family and me.  In this way I truly learned the funeral was just as much for my family and me, as it was to honor and remember my dad. 

Now, more than two months after the fact I still walk in a fragile state of emotions that simply lay just below the surface of the façade I sometimes put up.   From where I stand, I can honestly say, I feel bipolar – no offensive intended – either that or I feel like I’m perpetually PMSing.  On any given day or week I don’t know where my grieving will be at.  In some days or circumstances I might find myself recalling his memory and in turn (of course) missing him – A LOT; wishing I could just see him walk through the door, or give me a hug, or hear his voice.  But I can’t, and I won’t – and it breaks my heart. 

Other times I think: what if we had detected the cancer sooner?  Would he had more of a fighting chance?  Would he still be here?  What if my folks hadn’t visited me in Philadelphia in May of 2012; would the lack of walking all around town not triggered symptoms; and would he have gone sooner; and (hypothetically) not having a lot of notice would I have been around? 

His memory visits me in the early morning as I run and gaze at a morning sunrise – as it reminds me of the morning he passed and the gorgeous sunrise he gave me and my family.  I think and picture him as I get ready for work, and how he and I were often the first ones up in the morning; to find him plugging away on Quicken or sittin’ on the front porch was common place and a fond presence to my morning routine.  I replay memories of outings and conversations of the past year; conversations I never thought I’d have with my father.  It makes me smile in gratitude, yet sigh in the fact that I wish we could have more.  Songs like "The Scientist" and it's words "nobody said it was easy; it's such a shame for us to part; nobody said it was easy; no one ever said it would be this hard; oh take me back to the start," and with that the tears come rushing down.  I gaze at pictures old and new of my dad; me and my dad, and notice how the stress of life really weighed on him at times; while other times his disposition really is quite sweet. 

In the mist of the unpredictable highs and lows of the grief I treated myself to a weekend getaway to Chicago to visit my SSJ Mission Corps and Philadelphia dear friend Colleen.  On the Sunday morning of the long Veterans Day weekend I sat in morning Mass with Colleen when the presider gave his homily on death.  Oie – just when I thought I could evade the grief for one freaking weekend!  As he spoke with sincerity I couldn’t help but think of my dad as the priest spoke of the dying process and comparing it to someone sailing into the ocean horizon.  “Little by little we (the loved ones) see less and less of the one dying; while more and more they sail into the unknown waiting for what awaits them.”   My dad’s declining time in hospice was all I could think about; my family and I more and more watched him straddle that line between heaven and earth; life and death.  As the priest continued he talked about grieving the death of a loved one is a very human experience; that grieving is preserving (really preserving) that memory of the person. 

And so as I sat there in a parish I had never sat in; in a city I had never been to, the grief I could not evade came rushing through that façade, and it was all I could do to breathe back sighs of tears, as my dad’s memory came back to me.  Try as I may to keep up the façade, tears came steadily down my face, as I first dabbed them dry with my scarf; then with tissues from Colleen’s purse, who sat next to me and offered them, before she offered her hand as some comfort in the church pew.  Without hesitation I grabbed her hand in support and strength in some relief from the grief. 

And so goes the question I’ve been wrestling with: how do people comfort when I’m at the mercy of the emotions that take me captive?  And the answer: just be…present.  When all I need to do is recollect and process memories of my passed dad– just listen without fear or uneasiness.  When all I need to do is let the tears fall and let them be heard – take me without question in an embrace, and hold me in my sadness.  Let me know my mourning is warranted and approach without anxiety or hesitation.  Let me know you care enough to ask me how things are, and not look at me like you’d like to ask me but you’re too nervous to – and in a sense making me the elephant in the room.  While I know it’s never an easy conversation starter; know it’s better attempted then dismissed.  

Let it rain; let it pour; let it come down on me.  

How Do I Say Goodbye?

Every morning as I laced up my sneakers; young and shy

I’d say goodbye

Before I’d hike up the school bus; it was easy then

I wasn’t thinking how I’d see your face that night; worn from work

A conversation; a moment in your lap; what a perk

But when I think of the goodbye ahead

I can’t fathom that

How do I say goodbye for the rest of my life?

As I grew I never quite could wrap my head around

The distance you placed between us, and how it would compound

The drives to school bright and early; ready and waiting for

A word and complement; anything

All I wanted was a bit of your affirmation and time

Perhaps, maybe a nursery rhyme

It was easy to say goodbye then

But when I think of the goodbye ahead

I can’t fathom that

How do I say goodbye for the rest of my life?

By and by though I would mature,

And have to say goodbye after the sun fell

And I secretly hoped

You’d wait for me to come in and be well

You wouldn’t and you didn’t

I persisted to keep my thoughts hidden

It was easy to say goodbye then

But when I think of the goodbye ahead

I can’t fathom that

How do I say goodbye for the rest of my life?

A goodbye for the day: simple

“See ya later.”

A goodbye for a week: more affectionate

“Have a good week.”

A month; and year: complicated and prolonged

“Take care; call if you need anything; don’t forget to do…”

And as I’ve grown

There is forgiveness, peace and gratitude

For the time we’ve reconciled

Over the youthful confusion I harbored towards you

When I think of the near imminent future 

I can’t think of how I can

Or will

Be able to

Say goodbye

And even when

Memories replay, rewind and replay again

In my mind, as I think over the course

Of this most recent year

How difficult and draining it has been

I am grateful for just

The time

To be with you

All the same though

When I think of the goodbye ahead

I can’t fathom that

How do I say goodbye for the rest of my life?

For a dad who would carry me when I was young and couldn’t speak

I now do that for you

I carry you; even when you can’t speak

For a dad who fed and watered me out of parental instinct

I now do that for you

I feed you and give you drink out of loving instinct

For a dad who would tell stories of his youth and early years

When I was young and simply listened

I now do that for you

I tell you stories of the father you’ve been for me

Despite your inability to respond

I know you can hear me and are listening

As your time approaches

I see the signs of your body giving way

A little more; each and every day

And all I can do is just be

With you

And all I can do is

Grab some serenity

In knowing you will be at peace; and we will be at peace

As we’ve said our peace

Words become unnecessary

And we will just be

A loving expression

Of father and daughter

Truly I know

I will never be ready

For your last breath

Yet I give you my

Consent, to go from this world

And into the next

You know that I love you

So goodbye dad

But only for now…

A Year Ago Today

My dad and I sitting by the water in Santa Barbara. 

Today – to the day – marks a year since hearing the news about my dad’s final diagnosis of his cancer.  Weeks upon days of suspense piled up, as I received updates and news across the county and being three hours ahead, of what doctors detected was cancer or not; then the final wait of the stage he was in, built up to one stormy night in July, this day last year, as I listened to my dad from across the country, filled with sorrow and tears.  The words: terminal, stage 4 lung cancer, four months to live without treatment, 12 months at best with treatment filled my ears.  A whirlwind of a summer had me consumed as I wrapped up my two years living in Philadelphia, attended a wedding in San Francisco, before coming back to Philly to finally pack my final bags and hop on a one way flight home to the west coast.  It all went by too fast as I dreaded leaving my friends on the east coast; and at the same time not fast enough as I anticipated seeing my dad and reconnecting with my friends I grew up with.  

Well, 12 months later to the day, and he’s still kicking!  Surely, it hasn't been easy.  If anything – emotionally – it’s been the roughest 12 months of my life.  Please don’t get me wrong, I am very fortunate and blessed to have this time to intentionally spend with my dad, and have whatever closure I feel I need; and let him know in my actions and words that I love him.  All the same I am weighed heavy again with recent news of where his cancer has spread.  

The cancer has spread to his brain; on both sides no less!  With one mass of cancer the size of a pea, and the other the size of a walnut, we are again thrown another emotional hit.  Consequently, now, the implications of it spreading to his brain could have side effects like I never thought.  We’re talking: memory loss, personality chances, loss of functionality; you know how you operate yourself – no biggie!  As he told me this most recent update, for the first time in this whole cancer battle, my dad showed a very human emotion: fear.  Up to this point, he had a very calm serenity about the whole thing – hardly ever showing distress over it.  He was at peace with his life and what he had accomplished, and was doing things to make peace with God and his family.  But now, I could see it one his face, and in his eyes – he was scared of losing himself before death takes him; and I think what scares him the most is his fear of what it will do to us.  In simpler words: he doesn't want us to suffer as we watch his functionality go before death.  In his own words: "it scares the hell out of me!" 

As the days and weeks have passed since this latest update in June I have seen these symptoms run my dad ragged.  Be it watching my father pass out and collapse with no warning; be it forgetting what he was talking about or having to repeat the same answer to a question he asked me 2 minutes prior; be it watching him lose his train of thought; emotionally it’s daunting and draining. 

Above all of that though, something very interesting has happened.  I've expressed before that I've tired over my dad’s emotionality.  He keeps his emotions very close to his chest, and it’s caused our relationship to be that at a distance.  By all means, I've come to a place of acceptance and understanding of why he’s behaved this way while I grew up; yet I see his walls coming down.  It was first evident, when my two sisters and I took my dad on a father/daughters day trip to Santa Barbara and Vandenberg Air force Base.  On the drive up, as we weaved in and out of LA traffic, talk of my dad and his time in the Air force during the Vietnam war became a major part of our conversation.  For a war he didn't have a lot of choice in fighting in or not (you either enlisted, or were drafted) he recalled a lot of the painful and traumatic memories – all of which he has suppressed since the war.  Memories of dodging bullets and bombs; memories of explosions; and memories of the ridicule and scorn he and other soldiers received after the very unpopular war.  In this moment as we were beach bound it was all coming to the surface, and for the first time – ever – I watched my dad get chocked up and shed some tears over his time in Vietnam.  Truly, he held a lot of painful memories; to hold all that in for decades, I certainly can’t imagine it. 

His personality change became evident again one morning. As I stammered and stumbled to the kitchen (I hadn't had my two cups of coffee yet), my dad had a sleepless night (another side effect once it’s in the brain), and was enthralled in a re-run of CSI.  As the episode and plot was coming to a close, I noticed my dad getting emotional over the ending of the episode.  Totally uncharacteristic of my dad!  In my life, I can count on one hand the number of time I've seen him cry or shed a tear – and those moments have been a far cry from a TV drama.  Coming totally out of left field, and not having my caffeine fix yet, I wasn't sure to either be stunned and taken aback, or amused and chuckle at the slight comedic scene; so I just patted and stroked my dad’s back in comfort, as I said, “it’s going to be okay dad.” 

What really threw me for a loop was one morning as my dad and I sat and chatted on the front porch, he began to express his concern and interest in my dating life.  What?!  Something to understand about my dad: there has never been a time – ever – that he has invested interest in my dating life or who I've dated.  So this little heart to heart pep talk about my love life came truly out of the blue.  Again, I wasn't sure if I should be stunned or amused; nevertheless though, it was nice to be able to talk to my dad about that aspect of my life that I've never shared with him.  In a later conversation with a friend of mine, he mentioned, “it could be the personality change due to cancer spreading to his brain, but it might have something to do with the fact that he’s looking at his own mortality.” Perhaps he is right; but I suppose I’ll never know; regardless I treasure the new vested interest.       

As all this has been happening over the past month or so, life has definitely gone on, and I've been wrapped up and preoccupied with many a things.  A new promotion, a wedding, a baby shower, social outings of summer of a twenty-something year old, committee meetings and tasks of a Gala, studying and taking the CBEST, helping my two sisters move (one in the area, and the other to North Hollywood), grandmother in and out of the ER, helping my brother navigate going back to school have all done well to keep me and my emotions distracted from the precedence of my dad’s recent update.

Truthfully, and admittingly, I was a little proud of myself.  Being someone who wears her emotions on her sleeve (something that is a double edged sword); I was impressed at how long I was able to evade the impact of the news.  It finally caught up to me one night as I sat around the table at the house of some girlfriends of mine (often called the girls house – original I know), and the topic of my dad came up (as they all are well aware of his illness).  I couldn't get two minutes into updating the ladies with the news till the efforts to hold tears back failed miserably.  It was all I could do to just weep – and I mean cry and mourn.  As the tears that I had held at bay for a month came running like rain, my weeps and mourns were intervaled with brief seconds of profound silence as the girls just listened to my words in between weeps.  Once the update was given, and my tears started to subside, one friend – Theresa – asked a difficult yet profound question: “when you pray, do you ask for God to end your dad’s suffering.”  To which, I answered, “I can’t pray that prayer!  I know it sound selfish, but I can’t; I just can’t fathom praying that.”  That night was the first of other times in a weeks’ time my tears would catch up to me.  One time they caught up to me during a women’s prayer night; and again during a visit to my grandparents.  And here I thought I was outrunning the emotions of the news!  It sounds awful, I know, to avoid the emotion of the news; but after a years’ worth of this roller-coaster, there comes a point where you just tire of being emotional.       

With this year anniversary of life – if you will – it comes with a lot of thoughts, questions and new treatments.  One: being my dad’s week-long outpatient radiation treatment in LA to just target the masses in his brain; another thing to struggle with emotionally. Two: twelve months ago today, doctors said my dad would have died; and against all odds he hasn't.  Not to say that we don’t think it’s coming – cuz it is – but more to say that, we really don’t know how much longer he has.  Part of me thinks his length of mortality has to do with his trip to Lourdes, France he took with my mom back in January.  Call it superstition; call it faith; call it what you want.  All I can say is there is a reason he’s still around; there is a reason God is extending his life longer than the twelve months given a year ago today, or even the three month prediction we were given in January.  Three: aside from the new found interest my dad has in me, and how he has opened up about traumas of his past; what more will I and other members of my family be surprised with?  What other kinds of closure will occur as his mortality weighs heavier on him, and he inches closer to death?  To that, I really don’t know; but you know, I’d rather not know, not even wonder, and just be surprised with that gift anyway.  In three words: let it be.   

On the way home from Santa Barbara and Vandenberg Air Force Base.  We stopped off at Anderson's Split Pea Soup - photo opp for my dad! 

Soundtrack of My Life

I don’t know about some of the rest of you, but with almost every significant moment in my life, there’s an equally significant song that has branded my memory to associate that said moment with.  As of late, I’ve been re-savoring these said moments – for reasons unbeknownst to me.  For those unknown reasons I simply smile to relive where I’ve come and how far I’ve come. 

For artistic reasons, these moments I describe and associate songs with are told in a kind of shuffled order.  

…(Summer of 2010)...One afternoon in the foggy summer’s day riding and peddling the hilly streets of San Francisco, after leaving a rondevu with co-workers and supervisors (who I looked at more as friends) as I made my rounds to say good bye to a city that had forged so much for me, a quiet and soft song queued on my iPod.  A song that almost whispered to me of returning to these wondrous streets of cable cars, eclectic characters, and iconic sights; “Do you have to…do you have to…do you have to let it linger…Oh you know I’m such a fool for you… you got me wrapped around your finger…do you have to let it linger.”  That song by the Cranberries speaks to me of my love for the city by the bay; how I’m hopelessly intoxicated by its originality, by its intrigue, by its allure, but most importantly by its people, and how I came into my own there.    

…(July of 2012)...One angry and stormy night in July, I found myself alone and hearing devastating news of my dad’s health.  The words: stage four, terminal, 12 months to live echoed in my ear as I simultaneously collapsed in a rage of tears and sorrow.  After many more words and tears exchanged between father and daughter in a cross country call I promised two things: one to make the arrangements to come home to California, and two, to get some friends over and help me get through the night with devastating news and an angry storm.  Before those two dear friends came rushing over in loving aid and presence, the rock song with heavy emotion from 3 Doors Down came on…  “It's down to this, I've got to make this life make sense; Can anyone tell what I've done.  I miss the life.  I miss the colors of the world.  Can anyone tell where I am 'Cause now again I've found myself so far down, away from the sun, that shines into the darkest place I’m so far down, away from the sun again.”  It was all I could do, to feel thrown in that darkest place, as I tried with all my might to simply walk down the second floor hall, but instead found myself gripping the banister railing to keep me from totally falling in a rage of sorrow that pierced my gut.  As I crouched there in a haze of tears and screams, one hand on the banister, the other on the opposite wall, it was all I could do to inch myself closer to the stairs to get to the first floor before my friends arrived.  

…(Fall of 2009)...Another song, sung by none other than the Michael Jackson, graced my ears one afternoon, after being distraught from friends and confusion.  It was all I could do and hop on my bike (yet again) and sail down a steep 45 degree downward decent from my San Francisco abode to the sands of Ocean beach.  As I listened to the hums and rhythms of the opening melody, it granted me an instant serenity.  “Hold me; you are my friend; carry me; love me; will you be there; when wrong will you scold me; when lost will you find me; care enough to bare me…”  As the words resonated with me, the sunset I gazed at, as I continued to soar downhill, embraced me, and all I could do was surrender with arms wide open (still on my bike) into the sunset.  And in an instant, serenity overwhelmed me.  

 …(December 2010)...One serial afternoon I found myself visiting San Francisco via the underwater rail system (BART) one late December day, after living and teaching in Philadelphia for a mere 5 months.  It was Christmas break, and I was home for the holidays!  As I anticipated the city that I love so much and all its sights, sounds and people Vanessa Carlton’s blissful keyboard playing arose on my iPod just as I stepped off the BART train and up the escalator to the hilly streets of the city and song “San Francisco.”  “I know what you did; Like a boy of summer gives his first kiss; Love, is dancing on my finger; Now I'm walking with the living; I always liked Steinbeck and those old men whistling; We're back, we're back in San Francisco; We're back and you tell me I'm home; Talking in the Mission; Over coffee this is my utopia…” The song and its melody sang to me of my love of my city. 

…(Spring 2006)...Walking through the coble stoned streets of Rome one warm spring day, I and new earned dear friend and I played hooky from our study abroad class.  Italian Cinema; eh, I’ll pass for one day!  Passing the flower covered Spanish Steps, the tourist packed Trevi Fountain; and charming and quaint streets till we passed other ancient landmarks preserved in a modern city full of romance, subways, busses, food and delicious gelato.  In an instant; on this delightful sunny day; we both impromptu put on the first song in her iPod: “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield.  “Staring at the blank page before you, Open up the dirty window, Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find.  Reaching for something in the distance, So close you can almost taste it.  Release your inhibitions.  Feel the rain on your skin, No one else can feel it for you. Only you can let it in.  No one else, no one else, Can speak the words on your lips.  Drench yourself in words unspoken.  Live your life with arms wide open.  Today is where your book begins.  The rest is still unwritten.”  As we strolled down Roman streets sharing earphones, a kind of beauty and potential for my life came over me.

…(September 2008)...In another moment, James Taylor and his soothing vocals played in a Tai restaurant a block away from Golden Gate Park, as two friends sat across from each other in a kind of unrequited love.  “I’ve seen fire, and I’ve seen rain.  I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end…I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend…but I always thought that I’d see you again…”  As my heart was aching in this moment of unreturned love, I listened to this song as a promise of retaining a dear friend.   

…(November 2011)...In the final stretch of my second marathon, I found myself searching for a power song to carry me the rest of the way down the scenic Kelly Drive.  Florence + The Machine should surely do the trick!  “Dog Days Are Over, and it’s playful trickle like melody was the winner.  “The dog days are over.  The dog days are done.  The horses are coming.  So you better run.  Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father.  Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers; Leave all your love and your longing behind.  You can't carry it with you if you want to survive.”  In the height of autumn colors and leaves, I ran and sprinted down that final Philadelphia marathon stretch without an ache in my body…that is not until I finally crossed the finished line; then I could barely walk.  What can I say; 26.2 miles will do a number one you.  Lots of ice!  

…(January 2010)...In another instant I found myself by coincidence reconnecting with a missed connection of a fireman.  A tall and handsome brown haired and eyed man and I almost collided on ice in the middle of Union Square, San Fran over holiday ice skating.  What were the odds I’d run into this dangerously charming man?!  One or two weeks later (like it matters now) him and I gravitated towards each other over Naun and Curry, Mass, and dare I say rock climbing.  Nothing like muscles, sweat, and our bodies sprawled on a rock wall to build some tension!  Needless to say it was a short lived lil romance; especially since I was about to move to Philadelphia to teach intercity youth; yet I found myself in my SF abode cooking dinner as my Pandora played, “Here we go Again” by Demi Lavato.  “So how did you get here under my skin; Something about you is so addictive; We're fallin' together; You think that by now I'd know; 'Cause here we go go go again; But I start to go insane; Everytime that you look at me; so here we go again.”  How was it that I fell for this man’s charm again?  Shake the dust off - it's all good.  

…(Spring 2009)...One spring day turning to evening I joyfully hopped on my bike, zipped and zoomed through the twilight lit streets and iconic campus of Berkeley.  In this moment I felt a sense of zeal for life after leaving a dual campus ministry event between two Newman clubs, that I had a large part in forming.  In this high of joy and bliss MC Hammer and one of his better known hits, hit my ears – “U Can’t Touch This”  “Give me a song, or rhythm…Make 'em sweat, that's what I'm giving 'em…Now, they know…You talking about the Hammer you talking about a show…That's hype, and tight…Singers are sweating so pass them a wipe…Or a tape, to learn…What's it gonna take in the 90's to burn…The charts? Legit…Either work hard or you might as well quit…That's word because you know... You can't touch this.”  Without a doubt, I felt nothing could “touch” me. 

…In the fall of one of the years I addressed San Francisco, my dear Ethiopian and alluring friend/coworker and I departed from an evening gathering of prayer, as we both by spontaneous chance began obnoxiously singing to Don Mclean’s “American Pie,” in his car, riding through a moonlit night in Golden Gate Park.  “We were singin' bye-bye, Miss American Pie; Drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry; Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye; Singin' "This'll be the day that I die; This'll be the day that I die"”   For a friend that challenged me quite a bit in my Catholic beliefs; but who also brought out a care free kind of go with the flow way of being, I felt a huge sense of gratitude for him in my life and the gift of his friendship. 

…(Spring 2011)...Bright and early one spring Monday morning, before the sun had even completely risen, I found myself driving through Center City Philadelphia on interstate 676, before transferring to interstate 76 on route to my classroom in intercity West Philly.  First year teacher; Monday morning; coming off the weekend – need a say more?  I needed a Monday boost of energy to kick start me – and my two cups of coffee clearly wasn’t enough!  Queue Jennifer Lopez’s “Let’s Get Load” please!  “Let's get loud, let's get loud; Turn the music up, let's do it; C'mon people let's get loud; Let's get loud; Turn the music up to hear that sound; Let's get loud, let's get loud; Ain't nobody gotta tell ya; What you gotta do.”  There’s something about the song’s contagious energy that gave me the energy to handle the energy of my boisterous students.

You may ask yourself, why do you smile at some of these moments; as some are clearly painful?  To which I simply say, all good, bad, difficult, joyful, have made me into the strong independent woman I am; full of opinion (sometimes to the dismay of my family, as some opinions have changed), full of life and itching to live and see more of life here in California and elsewhere.  These moments remind me that if this is how colorful, eccentric, exciting and passionate life is now at 20-something, imagine how much more there is to discover. 

The Heart of the Matter

Shocked and appalled was how I found myself this time last year.  Today, I stand in the shadow of my former self re-reflecting on a culmination of events that was perpetrated against me; and one word comes to mind: forgiveness.

For reasons I suspect, but will likely not ever fully know or understand, I was deeply hurt.  Without going into detail, circumstances were blown out of proportion; I was made a scape goat; certain avenues were not honored; and when I made my claim, the rug was pulled from underneath me.  Wolves haunted me while crows heckled at me, and despite my best efforts to hold my own (believe me, when I say I did), I was powerless to stop it – any of it. 

In the midst of the cascading events, truly I was beside myself.  Events that stemmed months prior to the culmination replayed over and over in my mind like a broken record - as I wracked it - trying to figure out where I went wrong, or what I could have done differently.  Clearly some miraculous epiphany was what I was searching for in my memory to know how I could have changed the outcome.  True to many stages of grieving, I blamed myself. 

Days, weeks and even months after the climaxtic ending waking up in the aftermath, I was at the mercy of the emotions that followed.  Some days it was all I could do to cry – earphones in and lying in the grass - as I thought of what was taken from me.  Other days it was all I could do to yell and scream in rage as I slammed doors at the injustice, manipulation, and abuse of power that was committed against me.  Truth be told, these escalating events even haunted me in my sleep as I’d wake up suddenly reliving scenes from spiraling events.  Never before have I felt so deeply hurt before – honestly and truthfully. 

From where I sat in the midst of these heated and hurt emotions, it wasn't until three distinct friends of mine on three separate occasions suggested to me to forgive persons I was holding resentment towards.  It was an enormous idea and dare I say task – this idea of forgiveness. 

“How could I?”
“They don’t deserve it!”
“They haven’t earned my forgiveness.” 
“I want them to feel the hurt I feel!”
“I’m not ready to forgive!” 

Fortunately for myself these friends reminded me of something. The remorse I was aching for from these persons wasn't going to come.  In other words, some kind of resolve or apology wasn't going to happen.  I was waiting for a healing word to come from these people, an apology in a bottle; maybe a flare that says, "I'm sorry," and the hurting left me numb. And as days went by, and the sun settled on my anger, so did the darkness laugh, as the wound destroyed, thus turning my prayers to noise.  The bitterness I was hiding would eat me alive; it would seep into my soul (without me even being suspect of it) and steal my joy.  A joy that many know me for would indeed be robed from me, till all I might now is bitterness.  Thus, I needed to let it go, and not be held down by a hurtful past.  Knowing I can’t change the past, as much as I’d like to.  In a word: acceptance. 

Something to be grasped, as I walked this road, I realized something: forgiveness isn't something to be earned, rather it is given, without an expectation of any resolve in return.  Most people associate forgiveness with letting the perpetrators off the hook, an out of jail free card if you will, an attitude of “it’s okay” (when it’s really not).  Rather, forgiveness, as I've come to learn again, is more of a reconciling within of actions that caused so much hurt, and then and there reconciling those feelings.  Then in turn, to forgive the inexcusable in the other; not forgetting, rather understanding the human in them.  In essence, it’s not sweeping it under the rug, its water under the bridge; where one image pretends it’s not there, the other accepts that it has passed.  Letting it go, and moving on. 

That is not to say that the essence of this word didn't come without much struggle; in fact it came with ample struggle.  After all, in the words of Alexander Pope, “to err is human, to forgive, divine.”  To say that there isn't the struggle; would suggest that there wasn't an offence made; hurt done; thus nothing to forgive.  But no matter it something as petty as a lie; or something as hurtful as betrayal, it still boils down to forgiveness.  Forgiveness surely doesn't happen overnight; without a doubt forgiving takes time – as it did for me. 

Will I forget what happened?  No.  But I have learned a lot about myself in the process.  I've learned what I’m capable of facing head on.  I've learned that I gave it my best effort – and put up quite a fight.  I didn't go quietly if you will – and for that I’m proud.  As cliché as it sounds, it has made me stronger.   

And so it goes, the age old question: can you forgive if you can’t forget?  Sure.  Forgiveness doesn't imply amnesia.  Rather forgiveness implies an interior strength greater than the hurt; greater than the emotions that drive us away from peace within.  And in time, time does heal all wounds – and I’d add: if you allow it to.

“The more I know, the less I understand

All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning them again

I've been tryin' to get down to the Heart of the Matter

But my will gets weak

And my thoughts seem to scatter

But I know it's about forgiveness.”

~India Arie 

Never You Mind

(Just a couple of disclaimers, one: this entry is not for the faint of heart.  Two: many lines in this entry are inspired and paraphrased from a many of musical artists that a dear friend of mine recently burned for me as an encouragement for these hard times I’ve been facing.  Music, does have a many healing powers – at least I believe so.  And so, I cannot take complete credit for this entry.)

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.” 

― Maya Angelou

It’s often said that anger is just anger. It’s neither good. It’s neither bad. It just is. What you do with it is what matters. It's like anything else. You can use it to build or to destroy. You just have to make the choice.  Well, it was brought to my attention through a friend that I might be projecting my anger of my current situations. 

Truth be told, I know I am.  And I’m not just angry, I’m pissed and enraged; I’m one or two mishaps (depending on the day or my time of the month) from blowing a fuse.  It’s not like me, and I know it.  Try as I may to shake it off though, this anger is proving to be a stubborn parasite.     

Well in the mist of this parasitical anger I was reminded of another dime a dozen self- help books my grandparents gifted me after I graduated from high school. Through reading page after page (years ago) I learned all kinds of “truths” that I have truthfully rejected about the idea of anger’s opposite – happiness.  Like, happiness is a choice.  In part sure, but in all circumstances you can’t help but feel angry or sad – it’s natural to feel that way, so excuse me if I’m not perky, cheerful and optimistic given my circumstances!  Or another “truth” like it’s my moral or social obligation to be happy around anyone and everyone.  Surly, I’m not going to be a hot mess throughout my day, but there is only so much of a façade I can paint. 

Through silent car rides and conversations gone ape shit, I’ve deduced that this parasitic anger is a result of my circumstances that are truly out of my control. Watching my dad face and battle a kind of terminal cancer – outta my control.  An unexpected diagnosis of amnesia had by my sister and all the implications that come with it – yup outta my control.  Knowing I need to be home and available to a certain degree to my family, but still living in the trenches of what that reality is – to an extent outta my control, but I know I can’t simply run away and abandon what that is.  Frustrating? Tiresome?  You can’t believe how much it is. 

Somewhere in between dealing with the cancer battles, and taking care of my sister, or feeling tired and unsatisfied from this hamster wheel, or craving a space of my own, I’ve lost my joy; I’ve lost who I am.  And I don’t know how to get back to where I once was.  That, and this, is what has made me so irate. 

Thus from where I sit, people (be it I ask or not) have felt the need to prescribe their philosophical therapy of wisdom.  Some of which is welcomed (you know who you are), but some of which is not.  And I’m tired of the unwelcomed “wisdom,” because if all it is, is cliché mantras, and fortune cookie advice, save your breath!  It’s not doing anything for me!  If anything it’s more insulting, that my struggles would be reduced to something so simplistic.   

I don’t wanna hear you say that this will all make sense some day!  Cuz it doesn’t help me today. 

I don’t wanna hear you say that I should unite my sufferings with Christ’s sufferings!  Cuz his suffering happened more than two millennia ago, and mine are today, right now. 

I don’t wanna hear you say that my anger and sadness is a choice! Cuz sometimes a silver lining isn’t enough to make the wrongs seem right. 

Spare me the tough love talk of starving and dying kids in Africa, and how they’re able to retain their happiness!  Cuz, what deep pain are you holding right now that you can begin to compare to mine, that would justify you pulling the Africa card on me?!

Surly, there’s that great God in the sky saying, “you got to come on up! You got to hold on. You got to wait.”  To which I say, very simply,” I don’t wanna wait.  I got so much to do, I ain’t got much time.”  If it’s always darkest before the dawn, I must insist and persist; how long is that darkest?

Can you tell there’s a lot of anger in me right now?  Good.  Now, as it were, all my ranting begs a certain question.  How can anyone truly comfort those who morn, weep, cry, or suffer from anger of a situation, such as myself? 

For starters, don’t feel obligated to “fix,” those who morn or suffer, at least not right away.  Just give me a bit of your time.  That does a world of good.  You can’t imagine how many people have told me, to my face no less, “oh, I’ve been meaning to call you, your mom, your dad; or go see them for that matter.”  Well then go and do it.  What’s stopping you?  And if you think telling me all your empty should’ve(s) would’ve(s) could’ve(s) make anything, any better, you’re mistaken.  For many it’s a thirty car pile-up.  And when I start to question, they throw their little hands up.  So just stop.  Actions versus empty broken record words, talk is cheap; ‘nuff said. 

Another thing, do me a favor: minimize the hard realities.  Tell me bad news comes, and say don’t you worry, even when it lands.  Cuz good news will work its way to all them plans.  We’ll float on; good news is on the way.  And we’ll all float on, okay?  Show me some kindness and remind me that we’ll always have each other; each other’s friendship – a real kind of friendship.  Say that the better part of me is lost, but only for now. 

And yes, I’ll be the first to admit I’m stuck in a moment, and I just can’t seem to get outta it.  And if only for a little while, I can just leave my worries in the corner, ignore them for a moment, leave then in a big pile and find a simple distraction, I’ll be okay.   Help me to just laugh it off, okay?

So in the meantime, or in between time I’ll simply fix my mind on that crystal day.  Hard times ain’t gonna rule my mind; or so I try.  So for now, I try to look to the positive, and work to look past my worries, and just tread water.   

And so it goes, if you are unfortunate enough to ask me that dreaded “comforting” question: how’s the family?; or your quick fix one liners slip their way to me; or your unwarranted philosophical wisdom comes my way, I might just reply, “never you mind!” 

“Anybody can become angry — that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way — that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.” ― Aristotle

Some parts of this entry inspired by the following musical artists:  LCD Soundsystem, Modest Mouse, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Alabama Shakes, Incubus, Florence + the Machine, De La Soul, Yo La Tengo, Gillian Welch, Creed.  

Teacher Meets Student

"One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child."  ~ Carl Jung

For myself there were many teachers that touched on my feelings; that gave warmth to my growing soul, but none quite like one teacher.  She was the first teacher growing up that inspired me, of whose class I loved, and always think fondly of.  For me, she preceded all my other teachers I think fondly of; when I think of my significant teachers, I think of her first and foremost. 

When I was a young girl, I pined over Ms. Johnson.  A teacher that was considered “that” teacher, everyone raved about her.  My first memory of her was a school rally of sorts, while I watched her so enthusiastically rally her class, into a cheer that their loud and voluminousness cheer jokingly gusted her over, as her class smiled and laughed in agreement and comradery.  So when I came to be a 5^th and 6^th grader, I yearned and crossed all my fingers and toes to be assigned to Ms. Johnson’s class.  Much to my delight I was! 

While in her class she was everything a teacher should be, and everything a young kid could want: she was young cool and hip, she had command over the class.  She taught with conviction and passion. The self-assurance and enthusiastic presence in the classroom was infectious.   If ever we didn't meet her expectations, or misbehaved for her or any substitute there was sure terror in our bodies.  She cared about her students and was involved in school activities, and we loved her for it – all of it!  Without a doubt Ms. Johnson rattled me when I slacked off; and because I was eager for her approval, I was eager to atone for my lack of work.  She poked fun at us – myself included – and let us do the same to her.  In fact, one of us did just that in their daily journals; Ms. Johnson would be the lead character on some epic, embarrassing, and elaborate story, that this student reveled in sharing with the class (every day), and Ms. J would grin over in amusement.  Truth be told, before Ms. Johnson I don’t quite remember enjoying school quite as much as being in her class.    

So as I’ve been reconnecting with friends from my youth while acclimating back home, my longest friend to date and I tried visiting Ms. Johnson, more than a decade after leaving her class.  Well, that reunion of sorts finally happened: what a treat is was! 

What turned into a failed attempt to visit her at her current school, turned into a thread of emails back and forth trying to find a day and time to meet up and catch up.  Wouldn't you know the only good time was a classic happy hour rondevu?   As that day approached, so did my anticipation to connect with my favorite grade school teacher.  After getting off work late, and rushing to meet Ms. Johnson, I finally made it to the restaurant, not before making it inside when I heard a familiar voice say, “so do you get a detention for being late?”  What a witty ambush greeting! 

Sitting across the table during happy hour with my former teacher that taught me when I was eleven and twelve was a delightful and unreal encounter!  Over the course of the night as we shared nachos, a quesadilla, sipped our booze, and shared highlights and low-lights with each other from the past ten plus years.  Much to my pleasant surprise, commonality of many things are surprisingly shared between former student and former teacher: a parent who battled, and is now battling cancer, similar travel experiences and aspirations, parallels in family roles we both have in common, and a similar outlook and attitude on many a things.    

As I sat there across the table from my former teacher, I thought: what an awesome moment!  For a teacher who once taught me as a shy and tubby girl, to now sharing how far I’ve come in all my endeavors thus far: unreal.  For a teacher who inspired, and delighted me as a child, to now be speaking on adult terms with, and all the swear words that come with it (and without the threat of a call home): amusing!  For a teacher who taught me more than just reading, writing, and arithmetic, but how to be confidant, bold and determined, to now be sharing more in common with her than the fact that I can now drink, but that we could exchange stories of teaching, of cancer battles, of family drama, of dating and life: sublime! 

At one point over the course of appetizers and conversation, I felt a full circle of sort of feeling.  Here sitting across from me was my former teacher, who I adored (and still do), and hearing her recall and remember all these traits that was me when I was a quite girl with big rimmed glasses, but also someone who she saw took care of people around me, to hear in so many words give me affirmation of who I was then, but to affirm how far I’ve come, and the growth she saw in me that night.  To put that feeling in a word: uplifting! And for that there is much gratitude!

Before this delightful rondevu of sorts I was invited over the thread of emails back and forth to address Ms. Johnson by means of her first name.  Suffice it to say, I couldn't quite bring myself to initially.  If memory serves me right, I said that was more surreal than the thought of having “adult beverages” with her.  Yet after a night of good food, drinks, conversation and a pleasant reunion, she referred to me as a friend, that she’d enjoy doing this again.  And so it goes, I could finally make that leap from looking at her as my fond teacher Ms. Johnson, to a new mentor and friend, Gloria!  

At a Loss with the Hard Truth.

Suffice it to say that the past two weeks have been an emotional roller-coaster! 

With the news via phone call that my dad was rushed to the ER one night for 14 and a half hours, and a week later learning that further chemotherapy treatment would be in vain, and in turn hearing three more months to live (at best), I’ve been a wave of delicate emotions. 

The first news came right after an amusing phone call from a dear Philly girl friend of mine.  We caught up like we always to, with our dear added friendly factitious commentary, and spoke of things that are ahead for both of us, that we’ll be eager to hear more of later for sure.  After getting off the phone, I noticed I had a missed call from my mother.  Naturally I called back, but alas, got the voicemail.  Being a dutiful daughter, I called the next person in line who might know something – Joey, my brother.  The words, Dad, and the emergency room came out of the same breath; and I stopped!  Now, as expected I started asking lots of questions, of why?  For anyone who knows my little brother, knows that those answers are sometimes difficult for him to articulate.  Worried, and scared of the reasons, I rushed home; not before sending a mass text to friends of what I just learned!  I didn’t know how else to cope at the time.  Rapid lane changes and many tears later, I got home to find only Joe home.  Getting voicemail after voicemail from my mother’s cell, I didn’t know what to do. 

Thank God for friends who stepped up to the plate, and who were able to think more rationally then I at the moment.  A dear friend, Amy, called right away, and after a very short conversation offered and insisted with the company of Ruwanka,(another friend), to take me to the ER with my younger sister; of whom walked in the door moments after I got in. 

As we drove the 7 minute drive to Kaiser’s ER, I didn’t say a word.  It was all I could do, to hold back my tears.  After, getting in to a crowded and distraught ER (not that I’ve ever been to a chipper one), the four of us sat down and waited for my mom to come out, so we could take turns visiting with my frail and weak dad.   As I walked into my father’s ER cubical defined by a curtain, what struck me the most was how fragile he looked as he laid there on a narrow ER bed; hooked up to I.V.’s and monitors, beeping and flashing like a quite metronome.  At this moment, I thought: is this the beginning of the end?  What’s the next defining moment in this awful battle with cancer? How much more will this hurt? 

As I sat next to my dad, and listed to him speak of this ER visit, it took everything I had to stay composed.  He spoke of his doctor receiving CAT scan test results back, and noticing that his four cancer lumps had grown, and that there were even more lumps that formed as well.  Yet what alarmed the doctor the most was a blood clot in his lung.  As I sat there listening to my dad; gazing at my dad, all I thought was, how much I love him, and how much more time I wanted with him under different circumstances.  Now, as I sat in this ER cubical with my dad with a terminal illness, that is slowly taking his life, I finally – since the rapid lane change car ride back to the house – began to shed tears. 

After my time with him, I walked back to the waiting room, so as to let my younger sister have her turn with our dad.  Many moments later, she too came out, in tears, probably thinking similar things as me.  It wasn’t until the next afternoon (14 and a half hours later, and my mom staying every minuet), that my dad was finally released. 

Now, a week’s time later, both my parents come home from a doctors meeting, with grim news.  As both sisters and I sat and stood on the back porch, we listened to an update that revealed to us that the cost of further chemotherapy would outweigh the benefit – in other words live out the rest of your life.  And the rest of that life is three more months at best.  I watched my little sister shut down and break down inside, and my older sister seem confused as she struggles with being detached, and having a sense of emotional implications.  And as for myself; I pushed the emotion down, walked away from the conversation with a simple statement: “well I’ve gotta get ready for work.”  And work I went to that day, and all was fine, until I was off the clock, and I sat in my car, about to put the key in the ignition, when the grim news from the morning finally hit me.  Three months at best to live, after all the chemo, after all the hope, at best: three months.  The tears came rushing down… 

In that week, I remember breaking down and balling over the phone to a friend, as he gave me words of comfort.  In that week, I remember emotions being high, and tensions being higher as my members of my family (and I) continued with the week.  In that week I remember spending time in morning Mass and breakfast at I Hop as my friend embraced, comforted and consoled me in word and hug.  In that week I remember it finally affecting me at work, and feeling embarrassed about it too, (as I pride myself being able to detach from any stress or drama once I’m in the work place).   In that week, I remember getting chocked up about it as girl friends and I cracked open two bottles of wine. 

As I look at my dad now, he’s impressively kept a constant calm over the whole situation and illness.  He’s not afraid of death.  Talk to him about it, he’ll say he’s lived a full life: went to and graduated from college, raised a family, and did a fare about traveling.  On top of that, he calls himself a cat with nine lives, as he recounts facing death a number of times throughout his life, and lived to tell the tale.  Once as a young boy; where some rough housing went wrong, an injury was inches away from a deadly injury.  A number of times, he tells of his time when he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force, and dodged bullets while serving in the Vietnam War.  Even during his time in and after college while living in Chicago, he tells the story of when he missed a flight, and subsequently that plane crashed, and killed everyone on board.  Even a time when I can remember – while I was in high school – he suffered a massive heart attack and went into cardiac arrest, before emergency crew people revived him. 

And so it goes now, as he lives out the remainder of his life; as he looks back one his life, he’s acknowledged his some regrets or demands he’s battled, but also treasures the triumphs.  As he says: “I’ve lived a full life, I’ve made right with God, and am doing my best to make right with my children and family.”  Truly, I’m very happy for my dad – that he’s at peace with his fate.  Honestly, I don’t know if I would be as calm. 

At this point, I’d conclude with some words of wisdom; a reflection of sorts; a moral of the story if you will.  To be quite frank though, I got nothing!  The fact that I’m watching cancer take my father’s life, has me beside myself.  The emotions are real and raw, and I’m powerless to stop it.  There is anger, as I feel as though I'm being robbed of time with my dad.  There is sadness, as I watch my dad suffer, and knowing I'm losing someone I love.  And there is fear, as I wonder what will happen after he passes.  At twenty-six there’s so much that I want to do and share with my dad; things that only come at a certain point in my life; and I the fact that my father won’t be around for all those life moments breaks my heart.  It’s not fare!  So once more, if everything happens for a reason, there’s no reasoning I can find out of this thing.