The 1st Father's Day without P

Father’s Day, another chance to say F you Cancer.  You probably thought about it pretty hard before opening this one.  You probably thought to yourself, “Nope, I know his day sucked, not going to read this one, keep scrolling.”

     I didn’t wake up to breakfast in bed.  I didn’t wake up to handmade gifts on the counter.  I didn’t spend the day near the grille cooking for a big group.  I didn’t get to take selfies with my daughter doing something random to fill the afternoon.  I didn’t get to do any of those, nor will I ever get to with Penelope.  But that’s just life.  It will be like this every holiday at some point or another for the rest of my life.  Yeah it sucks, but that’s all I can let it do is just suck.  I can’t dwell on it or I’ll never enjoy anything else again.  I will simply leave the negativity in one paragraph and a few sad moments I had today.

     I did eat Pals Cheddar Rounds with my wife at 10am.  I did wake up to a letter Ellen wrote me from P.  I did take a Jeep ride to the mountains and sit in the peace of Horse Creek.  I did go hang out with Pop and talk about random things like usual.  I did go eat with my crazy ass family and laugh at their stories.  I did sit in the backyard with Tink and a beer and watch the fireflies for an hour.  Those moments didn’t suck.  I thought of Penelope in all those situations just as I did in the other paragraph.  The positivity is what has to win, and that’s what I choose.

     Sitting in the creek all those emotions and thoughts rushed through my head faster than the water was flowing.  Then they just stopped.  I pictured P playing in the water and just smiled.  I woke up today to a Coach B text and that let me know I had the strength to get through this day just from his always perfect words.  Many of my friends sent texts saying thanks for showing me how to be a strong Dad and great father.  I wasn’t forgotten on Father’s Day, not that I thought I would be, but there’s that struggle of “do I text him or not?” and that’s ok, it’s a weird situation and I get it.

     I’ll just end with this.  What I did for Penelope in those 23 months could be seen as strong and a great father example and I appreciate that with all my heart.  I just saw it as doing what a father is supposed to do every day for his family.  You are strong and make decisions.  You show them love every second you can.  You let them know how much they mean not just in some Instagram photo, but all those times that aren’t “picture worthy”.  You watch Dads like Logan and Matt deal with situations and be proud of them for all they do.  You learn from Mike McCall, Chuck Phifer, Todd Newberry, and countless other men in your life and use that stuff to the best of your ability.  You will make wrong decisions, you will mean well, and you will screw up.  You will get mad, you will say things you will regret, and you will need time to yourself.  That’s all I did.  I did the best I could and let the world know how proud I was to be Sweet P’s daddy.  

Breaking Beans

Breaking beans is one of those things you just grow up doing.  I feel sorry for those that didn’t get to do it growing up, or don’t do it when they are grown up.  I would probably say half the people reading this are trying to figure out if they’ve ever done it or not, and those who haven’t are probably going to google it later.  Breaking beans isn’t what it is all about.  It’s the time you spend doing it that matters; because for that time, nothing else does.

     It’s a time that I want to cry because I miss my little girl so much but I don’t for some odd reason.  I get to saying how much I miss her, but then I notice how perfect the little string that just pulled off the back of the bean is.  I start to get the feeling in my gut about worrying again, and then I see how I just broke that oddly shaped green bean into a shape that looks like a football.  About the time I finish that handful, the feeling of sadness comes back over me, but it quickly stops when that 97 yr old hand reaches in the Food City bag and throws some more in my lap. 

     It’s a time that you hear about how it is going to get easier from a woman that has buried her husband and almost all of her friends.  It’s a time she tells you stories about the “Damn Cows” he left her and how many Damn ears of corn she bought from this Damn lady that her cow kept jumping the fence to get to her garden.  It’s a time where she says she’s proud of you for getting up there and talking at your daughter’s funeral, and doing it with what she calls a certain eloquence.  It’s a time that when all the beans are broke the stories stop, the feelings are put into a pot, and are cooked on low with some ham seasoning.

     I never got to show P how to break beans, but I imagined her there stealing a bean and running off into the house to try and see what it tasted like. (Maybe that was a younger me, maybe I was under the bed, and maybe I left it there because it tasted like dirt.)  She wasn’t there to break the ends and snap it into big pieces, but she was there in the perfect curls of the string and the funny shapes.  Penelope Claire was there in the stories, whether about her or in some way that made it seem it was about her.  Breaking beans could have been anything today and will be something else tomorrow; but that’s how you get through tough times, one handful at a time.

Sweet P's Service

A couple people asked for me to post what I said at P's Celebration.

They don’t have a chapter for this in a handbook anywhere so I’ll do the best I can.  First I just wanted to say thank you all for everything.  Growing up you always did things like this, but you never pictured it from this side.  All I can say is you don’t want to be on this side, but if you have to be, words can’t describe the feeling of support we have.  Thank you really doesn’t cover it all, but really that’s all I have right now. 

My little girl isn’t hurting anymore and doesn’t have to fight one more day.  I want to be selfish and have her in my arms, but she’s in God’s arms right now and I have to be ok with that.  I know that she is up there in Heaven playing with all those other little kids that don’t have to fight anymore.  I know she’s looking down on her best friend Josie and taking care of her.  I look to see if she is in her boppy or bean bag and I think to myself, Andy you are crazy, she hasn’t stopped playing since the minute she found out she could.  I know she is running and picking flowers because I’ve dreamed it and pictured it in my head a million times, so I know it has to be real.    I struggled with Faith and believing through all this, and I still do about every other 5 minutes, but when a doctor tells you “I don’t know” or “I can’t explain it” then that is where my faith and belief was.  My faith is in purple hair, purple ribbons, and purple shirts.  My faith is in high school kids and seeing that there is still good in this world.  My faith is in friends driving hours from the coast, from different states, and those just across the mountain that have been there every step of the way.

  She was so unique that there wasn’t a definition for her.  We just said that’s P and knew she was going to keep going, so that’s what we have to do.  Ellen and I are the lucky ones.  Penelope inspired all these people that never even met her, but we were the ones that got to say “Good Morning Time Baby” and “I love you” at night.  No matter how bad it got, she always just looked up at us and let us know it was going to be ok.  She spoke to us Thursday morning because she knew we needed that.  She made sure we knew she loved us in her own little way. It was perfect.

I told P the afternoon she got her wings to never stop playing, and that I missed her, but I know she’ll always be with me.  Coach B from Mars Hill said something that was perfect to me.  Sweet P is running, laughing, and playing non-stop.  She finally gets to tell people how much she loved her Mom and Dad and how much she loved her unicorns and Minnie Minnie’s.  Her memory of this place will not be about politics, war, or crime but it will be of love and of how much we loved her and how much she loved us.  That’s pretty dang good if you ask me.

The thing about all of this is Penelope is going to be ok.  She’s better than ok right now.  We are the ones hurting and in pain.  I won’t ever be the same after all this, a piece of me went with her Thursday morning, I felt it.  The pieces that are still here though are a whole lot better off because of her.  We are all better people because of P.  I just see it as our job not to let that ever be forgotten and use that the best we can, just like her.  I love you little bit, thanks for letting us be your Mommy and Daddy.

Two Headed Monster

     Grief and anxiety are a two headed asshole.  Just when you thought you beat one, the other one smacks the crap out of you from behind and starts the process all over.  Today was a rough day, I won’t lie, it was like getting hit repeatedly with a bag of hammers.  Slightly worse than hanging out with a bored 6 yr old.  I think today I perfected my fake smile; or maybe I just had this awkward look on my face in public.  Let’s take a ride in the day of a “Strong Dad” who is at the end of his rope and how you aren’t going to fix it.  Think about it like the youtube video of the kid who is on that stupid slingshot ride in Pigeon Forge and his seatbelt isn’t all the way fastened.

     Start the day with a good cry that you can’t hold back.  You try to at least make it through putting your contacts in but it falls in the sink and you know your day is going to be shit and trust me it doesn’t get better.  Start crying again once you walk in the lonely living room that used to start your day with a kiss and an I love you.  Now it is silent and a depressed cat just lays there looking at you.  **At this moment you probably think, I wish I could just hug him.  No, I have morning dragon breath, I’ve already been crying, and I haven’t had coffee.  Not a good time.**

     The next 2 hours are a blur.  No TV, I couldn’t tell you what I was looking at on Facebook or Twitter, so I resort to watching videos of P which just make the situation of the day 100 times worse.  Cry #4 at this point.  **Don’t think some uplifting Facebook status is going to help.  99% of those quote things are stupid and not even correct, I’m a nerd, I’ve checked it before.**

     Now you would think that your buddy coming over to hang out is a good thing, and for the most part is.  In times like this people don’t need to be alone, just FYI.  Then again that’s all I wanted.  Enter head 2 of the monster: anxiety.  I love my buddy to death, about as much as a grown man can love another grown man, and it had nothing to do with him, you could have inserted anyone here.  My mind starts racing, I can’t think straight, and I’m worried he’s going to ask how am I.  Well then he actually walks in.  Friends are good to have, and in my situation I have some dang good ones, but I still can barely sit still and talk to them, it just isn’t in me.  **Insert you wanting to come over and hang out to make me feel better.  Truthfully, it is a good thing.  For me, today it would have put me over the edge and I probably would have hid upstairs hoping you would leave.**

     Going in public today was even worse.  I was glad to see two people who gave Penelope a prayer quilt and I could thank them.  That felt good.  Then grief comes back and I never got to bring P there.  Then anxiety smacks me in the back of the head when I realize I’m so anxious I don’t want to sit there anymore.  I have my wife and one of my best friends there and I want to run out when they aren’t looking, for real. 

     Spent the rest of the afternoon by myself.  Glad to be alone, but interchange that monster every 30 minutes and staring at P’s urn just talking to her.  When I start answering myself then I’ll worry.  **thinking to yourself, I probably should have texted him today, etc.  I would hit you with the I’m fine, thanks for asking and go back to my little day of horror.**

     The part that sucks is today I couldn’t be there for Ellen.  This grief process will not break us, but just like today it will bend us to a point we yell and sit in different rooms.  Not because we love each other less, but everybody grieves differently.  You have to accept that and just ride it out.  Tomorrow might be different, who knows.  I could throw some cliché in there about take it day by day and all that, but that’s not what I’m dealing with.  I’m dealing with a loss that I’ll have forever.  This loss is something that took part of my soul with it and I have to figure out myself how to get it back.  A grieving Dad doesn’t want pills to make him sleep, he doesn’t want to talk to somebody on a couch about how much life sucks.  He doesn’t want to go for rides or even walk outside really.  I don’t want to look at my wife crying and have nothing.  I don’t want to snap because the water hose keeps kinking up and blow my lid outside yelling at a piece of rubber.  I don’t want to numb all these emotions because if I don’t deal with it I won’t make it. 

     Life would be better if I had something to make me sleep.  I probably need a 3^rd party to listen to this buzz saw in my head and help out.  I need my friends to keep showing up just to talk and make me workout.  I need random text messages and stupid animal videos.  I need to get in the Jeep and just drive with my wife.  I probably should get a new water hose reel.  There’s a lot of stuff grief and anxiety want to take away from you.  They won’t take my Sweet P’s memory.  They won’t take all the fight and strength she gave me.  They’ll test it, but hey, day by day right?

Parenting

    In the past few days parenting has come up a lot.  Many people have said that I was a good father and Penelope was lucky to have a strong Dad like me.  I'm at that point in my life where that accomplishment is about all I need in life.  I don't know if that’s the only words people have, if they are blowing smoke up my butt, or if they really mean it.  I'll ask P the day I get to be with her again what she thinks, and that’s when it will mean the most.  For those of you that have said that to me though, I’ll tell you nothing means more than to hear I was a good Dad to my little bit.

     I was a parent for almost 23 months and I’ll be the first to say I am no expert.  I just did what I had to do and what I thought was best for my girls at that moment.  75% of the time I probably didn't know what I was doing or was repeating “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” in my head while I acted like everything was ok on the outside.  I do think though I got the opportunity to not be more of a Dad than others, but to be more aware about being a Dad than others have the chance to.  I obviously sit and think about Sweet P all the time and what made our time so special.  If I ever had any advice to future Dads, or those going through hell like we did, it would be these couple things.

-Enjoy the moment you are in.  Dads are always thinking about 100 things at a time, I know, I sure did.  But are we really enjoying our kids at that moment?  Sure you are at a baseball game with them, a restaurant, or even just sitting on the couch, but are you really there?  Facebook and Twitter can wait, I promise.  I don’t get to do those things anymore right now, but what I can do is remember all those times and places I was with P and tell you every single detail because I was in the moment; and truthfully, it was awesome.

-Quit trying to make your kids “perfect”.  I was really bad at the first of P’s life focusing on all the stuff these kids were doing and P couldn’t.  I wasn't mad at her, but it broke my heart for her.  I failed to notice for a long time all the pretty cool stuff she could do and how special the things she did do were.  I don’t know your kid, but stop freaking judging them and comparing them to everything else in the world.  Laugh at their silly way of doing something. Notice how they look at something they love.  Celebrate things they think are cool, even if it is nerdy as all get out.  I lived in the land of unicorns and Minnie Mouses.  If I can find any part of that cool, you can too.  And keep repeating that.  Those are the things you will miss if you are sitting where I am.  If I was sad all the time or didn't pay attention because it wasn't “perfect”, I would have missed all these, and that I couldn't forgive myself for.

    

    I’m not going on the road holding seminars saying these 2 things will make your life perfect.  I’m also not going to limit these to just parenting.  What about your husband or wife?  This road we have been on can make or break relationships, and I’m pretty sure the statistics show it breaks more than makes.  But I started enjoying these moments with not just P, but Ellen too.  I stopped trying to worry about everything going perfect and realized I’m 100% happy eating supper on the couch yelling at those idiots on Wheel of Fortune with her.  Just be happy and enjoy the life you are living.  When situations like mine occur, all you are going to do is second guess and woulda, shoulda, coulda, every single situation.  The good thing is, P taught me these things early, and my moments from then on were perfect.

Google says Sorry, No Results Found

    Surely with Google there should be some sort of guideline and handbook for this stuff.  Let me tell you, there isn’t.  I have looked.  I even got so desperate and hit the 2^nd and 3^rd O at the bottom of the search page on Google.  I will say, if you have never done that, I mean seriously who has, you should sometime because it is an adventure.

     I've got 4,000 emotions running through my head, another 4,000 things I need to do, and 1 image of a little girl picking flowers that overpowers them all.  I want to talk about believing, faith, addiction, cancer (yes, again F you cancer), friends, phone calls, church lady deviled eggs, and grieving.  I want to talk about looking into Josie and Harper’s eyes and seeing my little girl.  I want to, I have to, get all these emotions out somehow but I am not ready to let go.  I can’t hit that publish button because in a way I don’t want you to come into this world.  I talked about not wanting you to know what to say and that it is ok in one of my earlier posts.  I really don’t want you to enter this buzz saw I have going on in my head right now.  Nobody should have to do this, but the truth is they do and it is just part of life. 

    I go from crying about missing my little bit so much that I get sick to smiling because she’s here saying “Daddy, it’s ok.”  I get mad that I couldn't protect my little girl from something to being happy that a little girl touched so many lives.  I spend time talking to P about what she’s going to do today, then worry that when somebody comes over later that I’ll even be able to sit there and talk to them.  I get anxiety about walking out of the house, but feel calm when I feel the breeze because that was her favorite.  This is all before I've even had my first cup of coffee.  So see, in my best Ice Cube voice, “You don’t want none of this.”

     I've written a lot, thought a lot, cried even more, and talked to my little girl a lot over the past few days.  To all of you that have told me to keep writing, I have and I will, it is just going to take some time to let it out.  I wanted to say Let it Go right there, but if that Frozen song gets stuck in my head I will go crazy.  I appreciate all of the love and support.  I’m sorry I don’t have anything more than thank you, but then again, the handbook is blank.

"She looks so Good!?"

                Stage 4 medulloepithelioma cancer. Malignant tumors.  Very aggressive. Weeks to months to live. Those are the highlights that many of you know about P.  Now what does that look like? If you were like me, all I thought about was hospitals, ventilators, feeding tubes, grasping for breath, and crying…..a lot of crying.  Penelope’s diagnosis does not define her.  It never has, and it never will.  My little pigtail princess gives cancer a run for its money every single day. 

                My good friend Josh came by the other day and said something that really stuck with me.  “I sat in the car and prepared myself for what I thought was near the end.  I knew I had to be strong for you while I sat in here.”  We sort of looked at each other and he said, whether he remembers or not, “This isn’t the cancer I was imagining.”  This is exactly what I needed to hear.  In all this pain I carry in my heart from sun up to sun down, I forgot to notice something.  I forgot to notice how P is dealing with cancer.  I’ve been so blinded by how I am dealing with cancer that I haven’t really looked at how she is dealing with this hell. 

                The thing is, this is cancer. This is what it should look like. Strength….Courage…Faith.  She has more strength in that 17 pound body that I’ve ever thought about.  She doesn’t know it is courage, but she’s fighting something she can’t win, but it doesn’t bother her.  She has faith in all those around her.  She has faith that can’t be shaken.  Preacher Ritchey said it best.  “This is where the rubber meets the road when it comes to faith.  It is going to be shaken, bent, crushed, and everything in between.  But it is ok, you will rise above that, because she will.”  There’s a lot of different things you can call it, I simply just call it Pigtails and Steel.

                P knows nothing but to fight.  She doesn’t see it as fighting, but just simply living.  Cancer took her legs, but she still will shake those pigtails like it is going out of style.  She will still move her arms to the best of her ability.  She will still Woo! Cuter than Rick Flair ever hoped for.  She will still smile ever so often because that’s just what she does.  She still looks at her mama when she brushes her teeth.  She will still look me in the eye when I say Daddy loves you before she goes to sleep at night.  It doesn’t matter if it is in a hospital bed, an MRI waiting room, an ambulance, her bff Harper’s boppy, or her favorite place the bean bag, Penelope just does what she wants when she wants.  She lives to live, not live to die.

                I’ve learned to explain her cancer, but not dwell on it.  I’ve learned to see things on the bucket list as her firsts, not her last.  I don’t mind questions about how she’s doing, it gives me an opportunity to talk about her.  I lost a piece of myself in all those hospital rooms and doctor’s offices; that is just what happens.  I have found myself when I walked out of them.  Her diagnosis doesn’t define her, it will also not define me.  I am not the father of a sick girl.  I am a father of Penelope.  She will make her own definition, so I’ll just keep writing until we figure out what that is.

The Dance

            P and I danced in the rain today.  There was no cell phone, no video camera, nothing to catch the moment.  That doesn’t matter.  For those two minutes, no cell phone, no video camera, no nothing could have told you what was going on.  I have no idea why I just walked out there.  It just felt like the right thing to do, so we danced in the rain.

            Penelope will never have the chance to actually dance.  She already had low muscle tone and it was a long shot, but cancer decided it would take that from her first.  Her legs are pretty lifeless and just hang there.  I don’t get to put her feet on mine and dance through the kitchen.  I don’t get to do whatever new dance is on the radio with her and act a fool for Ellen to videotape and probably put on snapchat or facebook for all to see.  I’ll never get to dance with her at a party and laugh because I probably stepped on her toe or am embarrassing her in front of some boy that she likes.  Let’s just stop there and say this pretty much sucks.  All those things Dads “don’t want to do but secretly do”, well Cancer said F you Dad, I’m going to take that from you. 

            Well F you Cancer you can’t take that two minutes away from me.  You can’t take the song in my head that I was humming to her.  You can’t take the drops of rain hitting her cheek and making her rub her face on my shoulder.  I was soaked, but let’s be honest, I was crying enough to drown us both, so at least that masked my tears.  The drops began to slow down and the sun was peeking out over the trees, so I knew our moment was about over. We came inside and simply resumed our normal routine, which yeah, there was that damn Caillou.

            Cancer took all those things from me, but it also gave me something more.  It gave me two minutes of pure Daddy Daughter time.  It gave me a memory that I’ll have for the rest of my life.  Whenever it rains, I’ll smile.  Hell, I’ll probably cry a little too, but the rain will mask that again so it won’t matter.  I don’t have to dwell on what dances won’t happen.  I got to dance right now, and that’s what matters in my life.  Sure I’ll be bitter when I pass out the flyers of the Daddy Daughter dances at school. I just only hope that when they do get to dance, they don’t worry about updates on their cell phone, or count the minutes until they can crack that well deserved beer afterwards.  I hope they get to look down at their daughter and not even hear music over the moment.  Cancer can’t take all those moments, it isn’t that powerful.  We take away those moments from ourselves, and that is just as bad.