We had the very great pleasure of walking with my Dad’s biological family.  My Dad was adopted as an infant, and a little over ten years ago his biological family found him.  They live in Washington state, and he flew up to meet them and they got to know and love each other until my Dad passed away last year.

All of us got together on Saturday night, hoisted illuminated balloons in the air, and set out at twilight to walk 2.8 miles in memory of my Dad.  We were surrounded by families and teams, everyone walking and holding an illuminated balloon in different colors signifying whether they were supporters, patients, or they’d lost someone.

We all walked around the lake, and as the night grew darker the balloons and the moon were the only illumination.  All around us was happy chatter, and it was staggering to see how many people had come out to raise money and support blood cancer research.

Along the walk they had posters of the people who had passed away, and when we came to the one that had my Dad’s picture on it we all stopped.  I’m having a hard time explaining how it felt to see his picture there.  It was moving, and all of us were emotional to see him there.

As we walked away, it felt like my Dad was there with us.  Like he was on the walk with us.  And it made  me smile, because even though lymphoma ultimately defeated my Dad’s body I still maintain that it never got the best of him.  Still though, if we can help raise money to find a cure for lymphoma, I sure wouldn’t mind pushing lymphoma down a well and leaving it there, you know?

When he passed away, so many people said and did such sweet things for me and my brother.  Some sent flowers, some brought food, some sent cards.  One of the cards someone sent me said something that’s stuck with me.  It said, more or less:

“The first year is the worst, because it’s filled with all those firsts without that person.  Gradually, though, you’ll feel the sadness subsumed by the happy memories you built together, and thinking of the person you lost starts making you smile rather than cry.”

This person, Wes’ uncle in fact, is more or less correct.  The first year was hard, and there are very few days that go by where I don’t hold Aidan close and smell his little baby head and ache because my Dad won’t ever get to meet his grandson.  But, I don’t spend nearly as much time crying as I used to, and in fact can now share stories and memories of my Dad without misting up.

For example, while on vacation it was massively windy and my nieces and I, together with their parents, dashed outside to fly kites.  As those brightly colored kites took to the sky, it reminded me forcibly of how my Dad used to fly kites with me and my brother on the beach.  I smiled at those memories while my kite took to the sky.

Still, as happy as I am to coexist peacefully with my memories once again, I’ve been dreading this day.  While I know intellectually that I’m only one day farther away from the last time I saw him than I was yesterday, now that it’s officially been a year since the last time I saw him, that day feels a lot farther away.  Does that make sense?

It’s just hard for me to get used to the idea that as time inexorably marches on I’m only going to get farther away from him.  It’s just feels disloyal somehow, to be moving on.  I know that’s silly, and that it would be unhealthy to hold onto my grief, but I’m loyal to a fault and have never been the kind of person who lets go gracefully.

My little brother, Nick, is on the left with our Dad in the middle and Wes on the right.

So that’s where I’m at.  Wes has been forewarned that this was going to be a maudlin day, so he’s prepared to come home bearing pizza and cupcakes, and then to turn a blind eye while I eat my weight in said pizza and cupcakes.  I called my brother a couple days ago, and we shared some memories and generally agreed that we wish he was still here but that we were glad he isn’t suffering any more.

My little brother is an awesome fellow, actually.  You guys would like him.  He’s getting married in October, so Wes and I will take Aidan on his first plane ride and watch my little brother tie the knot.  Even though Dad won’t be there, I plan to say to my brother what our Dad said to me right before he walked me down the aisle.

And that’s how life will go on.  My brother and I will be there for each other, our spouses and families will be there for us, and we’ll keep being a family.  My Dad would be proud, I think.

Aidan at the farmer's market. Of course, Aidan was far more interested in his tasty knuckles than in the fresh local produce.

Can I just say that my husband is awesome?  I can, can’t I?  Because if I can’t, then why the heck am I paying to host this blog?  Down with censorship!

Jeeze, easily distracted much?

All distractedness aside, Wes is awesome.  We spent some seriously fun time together as a family this weekend and it was bliss.  On Friday we decided to celebrate Cinco de Mayo in honor of my late father.

My Dad loved Cinco de Mayo (he was a phenomenal cook, and his favorite kind of food to make was Mexican food) and he also loved The Big Lebowski (he loved that movie so much that at his request we carried his ashes around in a coffee can until we could spread them in the ocean), so we whipped up some White Russians and tamales and had a fan-freaking-tastic evening.

Yes, I cried at the end of the movie, and cried even more when we watched the slideshow of his life my aunts made for his memorial.  But, I don’t think it’s a bad thing to cry because you miss someone you love.  It felt nice to spend an evening enjoying the things he enjoyed, and I’m really glad Wes was willing to share it with me.

On Saturday we took Aidan to the local farmer’s market for the first time.  I don’t know what the farmer’s markets are like in your area, but ours is pretty fantastic.  Lots of fun, food, and festivity.

We bought some fresh asparagus, potatoes, and English toffee, and then stopped by Costco to buy some crab-stuffed salmon.  Wes then proceeded to make me a special Mother’s Day dinner the likes of which has not been seen this side of a 5-star restaurant.  De-LISH!

Of course Sunday was Mother’s Day, and it was a lovely time.  Wes gave me an incredibly thoughtful gift and I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you what it is: A silver ring with an amethyst (Aidan’s birthstone).  I wear it on my right ring finger and it looks perfect there.  Such a thoughtful gift!  Now I have a ring to celebrate the day I became a wife (my wedding ring) and a ring for the day I became a mother.

Now it’s Monday.  And I’m kinda sad.  It was such a fun weekend, why did it have to go and end?

Doc hurt his leg (y’know, the bad one) getting into the bathtub for bath time on Sunday.  This is not atypical, jumping into the tub has always been a strain on his legs and hips.

He followed up the mild injury by taking a bad fall while trying to make it up the stairs.  This compounded the problem, changed it from a limp to a disability.

We kept him in his crate all day Monday and yesterday, letting him out for stretches, water, and bathroom breaks, but he struggles.  A lot.  The wood floors are challenging for him, and he’s so scared of slipping on them that he just stands in fear and refuses to walk on them.

His other back leg is in no great shape either, and the strain of supporting the weight of his back end on its own leads it to shake and tremble before betraying him and making him fall.

Wes and I spent half an hour trying to coax Doc out of his crate last night.  We wanted to take him out to the bathroom one more time before bed, but he wouldn’t stand up for us.  We tried enticing him out of his crate with treats and peanut butter but he wouldn’t.  He was more scared of falling than he was desirous of peanut butter.

We finally had to dismantle his crate around him so that Wes could lift him out from above and help him make it outside.  We’re keeping him out in his kennel now because the floor there is concrete and not slippery at all.

This whole episode has really thrown me off my game.  It tears me to pieces to see him struggling like this.  It’s not like this all the time, which is why we haven’t put him down yet, but knowing that this kind of injury is always just a bad run up the stairs away, well, quite honestly it makes me not want to do this anymore.

I’m not sure whether this makes me a bad person, or a bad pet owner.  Is it wrong to say I’m tired of watching my dog struggle?

Wes says Doc’s quality of life is normally very good, that he still plays with his toys and eats and gets affection.  I can’t quite see it that way.  When I look at Doc, I see a dog who loves being with his people but who otherwise has nothing else to look forward to in life.

I see a dog whose opportunities to run, play with other dogs, fetch, and swim were taken away by a freak leg injury that happened when he was less than a year old.  Yeah, he’s still happy to be around us but that’s the only thing in life he’s able to enjoy anymore.  The best it gets for him would barely even register for other dogs.

Especially coming off watching my Dad’s health decline, hating the cancer for every pleasure it took away from him until the only thing he could do that brought him enjoyment was use the computer and watch TV, I just feel spent.  Doc got injured right around when my Dad was diagnosed with cancer, so their health declines have thus far been eerily matched.

I really do wonder if it makes me a bad person for not wanting to do this anymore with my dog.  My heart, still so tender and raw and pained, rebels at the prospect of watching Doc get marginally better again, better enough to hobble around anyway, only to know with sick certainty that his next injury is simply a matter of time.

Wes argues that until Doc doesn’t want to live anymore we should continue to keep him as safe as possible, and that we’ll know he no longer wants to live because he’ll grow lethargic, unwilling to play, and unwilling to eat.

I argue that there’s only so much I can take, and there’s only so long I can keep watching my dog struggle to do normal things.  Like stand up.

Does this make me a bad person?

It’s the kind of program my Dad would have loved.

He passed away Thursday night.  My brother and I were there, holding his hands, and when he was gone I smoothed his hair back to the way he liked to wear it and closed his eyes.  Being here in his kitchen, knowing he’s not going to just come down from his room ready for the next adventure is surreal.  I was there when he passed, but the fact that he’s gone hasn’t sunk in.

He was a good man.  The best, really.  Quiet, quirky, moral, and skilled, he made his way through life with confidence in who he was.  He never apologized for being so quiet, or for enjoying the things he enjoyed.  He loved watching birds, sailing, and working with his hands.  He was marvelously talented, and he had the best sense of humor of almost anyone I know.

We’re going to miss him, and I have the feeling that the next year will be filled with moments when I wish he were there.  He was really excited to be a grandfather, and I have the feeling that when Squishy is born I’ll wish more than ever he were still around to meet him/her.

We take comfort in knowing he lived a very full, very good life.  We smile to know that he lives on through us, in our ridiculous senses of humor, our appreciation for nature, our skills with woodworking and cooking.  We’ll miss him, but we’ll also celebrate him.

The doctors are certain that this is the end of the line for my Dad, so I’ll be staying in California for at least the next week.  Updates will be light.  My Dad fought an amazing fight, and now it’s time to say goodbye.  I’m just so blessed to have gotten here in time to do just that.

I’m not sure how many of you know this, but my Dad has cancer and has been fighting it for almost two years.  He’s incredibly strong, and more brave than anyone I know, and, against all odds, makes having cancer look like not a big deal.  I don’t talk about it much, mostly to respect his privacy.  I also keep mum on the topic because, when I look back on my archives, it delights me to re-live the things that made me smile, or fascinated me, or drove me to distraction.  I have little interest in re-visiting the things that make me cry.

That’s why I’m sharing this today.  My brother called me Monday afternoon to let me know my Dad was checking into the hospital for surgery and would be expected to stay for around four days.  I fretted most of Monday night, and spent Tuesday obsessively checking my phone for updates.  Testing it to make sure it was receiving calls, stopping myself from calling my brother, typical waiting stuff.

He did finally call and all is well.  The surgery went well, and my Dad’s recovering nicely with every intention of transferring back to a regular room later today.  After a call like that, it’s hard to get irritated about the petty annoyances of life.  I feel disconnected from everything, but not because I’m depressed or angry.  I’m transcendent at knowing that, once again, my Dad has demonstrated his remarkable ability to make impossible things look easy and that he’ll be much more comfortable now.

When someone you love fiercely pulls through surgery and comes out the other side waving and well, it’s pretty silly to get all bent out of shape over getting cut off in traffic.

The first thing I forgot to tell you is that there’ s a new post up on Qvisory and you can check it out here. It’s about steps you can take now to prevent the potential recession from kicking your career in the shins.

The good news is that my Dad is doing great! He had his third round of chemo yesterday and is feeling fine. The terrific news, that’s put a smile on my face all day, is that the nurse says that his kidneys are almost 100% functional again! They have to do one more test to confirm but it looks like he’ll be spending a lot less time in dialysis soon! Huzzah!

I totally called this one. My Dad is tough and he’s kicking cancer’s butt harder than a kangaroo kicking a beachball.

My Dad starts chemo today and will hopefully get to go home on Sunday. I’m still not sure what his treatment schedule looks like so I don’t know when I’ll be visiting. Wes isn’t thrilled at the idea of me being away from home for so long without him but has assured me that he’ll manage. I’ve already spoken with his mother and sister and both have assured me that they will feed him from time to time. You see, Wes has an abiding love for Velveeta Shells & Cheese and Red Baron pizzas and I know in my bones that if I’m not cooking our fridge will be filled with utter crap.

I guess what I’m truly worried about is that dinner every night will look like this: