28

Friday marked my 28th birthday. Although 28 isn't a traditionally momentous birthday, I thought I'd take some time to reflect on where I've been, where I'm at, and where I'm going.

I blog a lot about my father and from anyone who knows me, that's no surprise, because I talk about him a lot too. Last year, my father passed less than a month before my 27th birthday. I was so consumed in the planning and arranging that his passing entailed, I'm not sure it really felt like he was gone when my birthday came around. I think I was still in shock, I still felt like he was on some lengthy business trip and would be calling to wish me a Happy Birthday any minute.

So when my birthday rolled around this past Friday, it was a very emotionally-fueled day for me. It felt like the first birthday my Dad had missed and his absence felt like the weight of a ton of bricks. Everything set me off, I spent a good chunk of my day in tears. It almost felt like I was watching myself from the outside, wondering, why on Earth I was so upset. I was an emotional runaway train and not much could stop it. After talking with my mom later in the day, I realized what my problem was - I missed my Dad and everything he did to make me feel special. I missed all the "little things." I'm not sure I will ever not miss the little things . . . but I hope to one day smile because they happened, instead of crying because they're gone. Until then, as they say, it's my party and I'll cry if I want to!

Someone, probably my brother, reminded me that only 20 percent of my twenties now remain. That's kind of scary. Look, I'll be the first person to admit, 28 is not old, but it's not young either. With 30 just two years away, I think my goal this year is to take stock of what I've accomplished and what I have left to do, so I don't end up missing out on what I'm really after.

If you asked me ten years ago, where I thought I'd be today, I'm not entirely sure I would have had a great answer. A few things I am sure of though . . . I definitely thought I'd be married with a child by 30. I walked into college expecting I'd meet my future husband and then get married shortly after graduation. Clearly that was not in the cards for me. Some days I'm totally okay with that - I know I'm definitely not ready to have children - and I know being single has afforded me some great opportunities. I often think, if I had been married young, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to spend so much time with my parents as an adult. I spent a lot of weekends with my parents, vacationed with them, volunteered with them. I had the unique opportunity to spend such quality time with my Dad before he passed, that had I been married with my own family, I'm not sure I would have been so lucky.

As "okay" as I am with being single, at the same time, it's a lonely proposition. As more and more of my friends end up in relationships, engaged, and married, sometimes I do wonder, "What is wrong with me?" It's also become a bit of a chore to continually answer the lengthy questioning of family and friends, "Are you seeing anyone?" "Why not?" "Have you tried online dating?" No, if I knew I wouldn't be single, and not interested. And yes, I know the line, "A watched pot never boils." I know I can't worry about it, but sometimes it's not that easy. I suppose what I really need to do first, is to learn to love myself, so I can be more open to others . . .which leads me to this next revelation . . .

Body image has been a real issue for me over the years. If people could hear how I talk to myself about how I look, they'd probably be appalled. I think as a kid, I always assumed I'd get to a point where I was happy and comfortable with my body, but sadly, at 28, I'm still struggling. It amazes me how much a number on the scale can throw off my entire day, how compulsive I am about weighing myself, and how much I beat myself up about what, when, or how much I eat. I see a totally different person staring back at me in the mirror - she's fat, ugly, has huge arms, massive shoulders, it's really terrible. No matter how much I work out, no matter how far I can run, how much I can lift, or how athletic I might be, I still see a fat girl in the mirror. This could be an entire blog post in itself and it probably will be at some point, but suffice it to say, that my goal as I round out my twenties is to reach a place of acceptability when it comes to my body. I want to appreciate my body for all it can do instead of continually pointing out the negatives. I want to feel comfortable in who I am, regardless of what I weigh or don't weigh.

But, instead of lamenting on all the things I haven't accomplished yet...what are some things I have?

Well, I've been blessed to finally have an incredibly supportive and caring group of friends. I may not be the most popular person in the world, but I do have people I trust and can count on. People who love me regardless of what mood I might be in or how stressed out I can be. People who accept my flaws and encourage me on a regular basis. My dad always said, "You can count your real friends on one hand, " and as I've gotten older, I've come to realize how true that really is.

I have had the opportunity at 28 to travel the world. I've had the chance to see some amazing places, frame some beautiful photos, and share my travels with friends and family. I've seen more of the world in 28 years, than some people see their entire lives. For that I am truly blessed and grateful.

I've done well in school, completed my master's and been pretty successful in my career. I've had amazing career opportunities and there's more to come. I'm not sure what company I would have said I'd be working for if you asked me ten years ago, but I am very glad to be working for the one I do. I'm also really glad I figured out pretty quickly that living the life of Carrie Bradshaw was not for me. I've always done what has felt right and its paid off every time. I'm thankful for that. I've never shied away from an opportunity (which isn't to say I haven't needed a little push here and there) and have always been willing to try something new. It's made me a bit of a wanderer (which I also get from my father), but it's also made for a really exciting and interesting life.

I have a wonderful family - not many people can say their parents are their best friends, but I am blessed to say just that. I have hobbies and interests that keep me motivated (whether that's crossfit or running races or movies or the beach). I find time to give back and volunteer, which has helped immensely this past year.

So, at 28, things aren't perfect. They are far from it. I have bills, fights with family or friends, a sick puppy from time to time, so much stress I feel like my head might explode, and days where I am so overcome with grief about my Dad, all I can do is cry. But, I'm here. I'm still putting one foot in front of the other and trying to make a difference in this life.

I'm still a work in progress, but at the end of the day, life is good and I'm going to spend the next two years, trying to make it even better, before I hit the next birthday milestone. Thanks for joining me on the ride.

Carry On

As March 14th creeps closer and closer, I thought I would reflect on the past year and what it's been like going through this life without my father.

It feels like this past year went by in the blink of an eye - faster than it normally feels. And without question, my father's absence was felt at every turn. I can't tell you how many times I wanted to pick up the phone and and call him. It was second nature sometimes. In fact, although his cell phone has been shut off, I still have "Dad Cell" listed in my favorites and I just can't bring myself to delete his number. I've kept about a dozen voicemails from him on my phone, which he left me over the year before he passed. I still find tears welling in my eyes when I listen to them, although I think I've come to appreciate them a little differently now and sometimes find myself smiling.

I often think about how he would react to certain news or circumstances, what he would say, or how he might go about something. When I was chosen to participate in an elite leadership development program at work, all I wanted to do was call my dad and tell him the news. I could hear his response, I knew exactly what he would say. And he'd have this indelible way of letting you know how proud he was of you. He'd tell all his friends what an accomplishment it was and before I could tell anyone myself, our entire extended network of family and friends would already know. Every child should have the opportunity to feel that loved and to know someone is that proud of you. My dad did that for me, every day of my life.

Father's Day was difficult this year. I felt so out of place as I read all the various well wishes my friends posted for their own fathers. I avoided the Father section in Hallmark like the plague. In fact, I had to purchase a birthday card around Father's Day and I had to leave the store, because it was too much for me to watch others search for cards.

Church is also difficult for me, even now. For some reason, when I do make it to church, I can't seem to get through the service without tears. I know it's connected to my father, I just don't know why. I think the constant messages of hope, love, and Heaven, just make me miss him that much more.

While the nights where I cried myself to sleep are fewer and far between these days, the pain is still so real. I often find myself listening to a certain song on the radio or watching a particular scene in a movie and feeling the tears rush down my face. I still wince when I hear talk of fathers and weddings - I'm not sure that particular pain will ever go away.

It's funny, through this process, I have learned so much about myself, about grief, about other people. There are mountains of books available for people who have lost someone to dissect their grief, to learn how to process grief, and to eventually "move on." In many ways I'm almost compelled to write a book for other people to learn how to care for someone who is grieving, because I have to tell you, that is one skill a majority of people lack.

I think grief and loss is generally awkward for those who have never really experienced it. Society as a whole seems to think you should be "back to normal" in a matter of weeks, but I  question whether "going back to normal," is really ever possible - especially for someone like me who was so completely connected with the person who is lost. While I have met some incredibly compassionate and loving people through this process, at the same time, I've been completely baffled by others. I've heard things like, "I know exactly how you feel, but instead of listening to you, let me just tell you how I feel instead," (a piece of advice, you never really know how someone feels, ever.) to, "You just have to get over it," to nothing at all. The most deafening noise you can ever hear when you're grieving, is that of silence from people you thought cared . . . but that is a post for another time.

Although there are certainly tough days, I do think I'm handling things better than I expected I would. Relocating to be closer to family and friends has been a tremendous blessing - just not being alone is so comforting.

I've also done my best to keep my father's memory alive at every turn. I try to recognize every major event he might have missed, like his birthday or Father's Day. And the scholarship has been a real dedication - we'll host our first fundraiser event on April 5 - an Easter Fest for children in my parents' town, an event I know my Dad would have loved.

As March 14th approaches, I keep asking myself how I want to mark the day. I can't let it go without addressing it somehow - it's a day that will forever mean so much to me and to do nothing would seem so callous. While I plan to visit my father's grave and buy a lottery ticket (since he was adamant, that you can't win if you don't play!), I've also decided, perhaps the best way to acknowledge the day is to go about some random acts of kindness, in honor of my father, who was always so passionate about helping others.

If you're reading this and have the time, perhaps you might want to take part in some random acts of kindness on March 14th - whether it's buying coffee for the person behind you in line, baking cookies for a neighbor, or sending a card to a friend to let them know you care. Whatever it is, I encourage you, in the spirit of love and hope, to honor my father by doing something special for someone else, regardless of how big or small it may be . . . for some reason, I think that would mean so much to my Dad. To know because of him, others are doing good. His personal motto after all was, "Remember, each one of us can make a difference every day."

As the first year without my dad comes to a close, I won't lie. I miss him more now, than I ever have. And I sincerely do not believe it ever gets easier, dealing with the loss. But I do find myself smiling more and laughing more when I think about
memories we made together.

It's a tough world for a Daddy's girl without her Dad . . . but I'm confident he's still with me - I see the signs. And I know I will see him again. Until then, all I can do is continue to walk in his footsteps and make him as proud as possible, just from a different vantage point.

Make a difference people.

Daddy's Little Girl

I realize I haven't blogged in a few months. And I had every intention of writing about a slew of things, that in hindsight seem rather pointless, especially now that my life has changed forever.

I spent a week and a half in February visiting my parents in Arizona. I knew my Dad hadn't been feeling too well, but I was hoping he'd feel better and come home to Pennsylvania in April on the mend. My entire trip, he was ill. His stomach hurt, he felt nauseous, didn't want to eat. I even went with him to the doctor to see what was wrong and they told him he probably had caught the stomach bug that was going around at the time. Their suggestion was yet more pills, adding to the dozens he was already taking for a slew of other things.

Despite not feeling well, he still tried to make my vacation memorable. He took me horseback riding and brought me to an orange grove I had been wanting to visit. He took me out for dinner and drove me to stores he wanted me to see...even though most of the time he waited for us in the car.

The night before I left, I spent the evening watching television with my Dad. He kept telling me he couldn't believe my trip was over and how fast the time had gone and how he wished I didn't have to leave. Little did I know, I'd be back in just a couple of weeks.

After I flew home, my dad's back began to hurt immensely. He finally gave in and went to the emergency room to find out what was causing all the pain. The doctors discovered a tumor in his spine, which he had had for a number of years had begun to grow and inadvertently cracked his vertebrae in the process. But to determine what caused the sudden growth, the doctors decided to run more tests.

I knew the answer to those tests wouldn't be good...I had had an eerie feeling the past few months that something wasn't right...If only I had been wrong.

My mom called me on a Saturday and told me to cancel my work trip to Europe and fly to Arizona right away - Dad had stage IV small cell carcinoma in his right lung, which had already spread to his liver. On Sunday, I sat in the White Plains airport terminal, as my mom further updated me that my dad only had four to six months to live. I sat there for what seemed forever just crying, tears streaming down my face. Even as I boarded the plane, I couldn't stop the tears, they just kept coming.

That next day, I saw my dad in the hospital. I had to leave the room at first, it was too emotional for me. He was on so much pain medicine, it wasn't him. He knew who I was, but I could see that things were far worse than I had expected. I had come to Arizona with hope...hope he'd get better, hope I'd be able to bring him home, hope I wouldn't lose my dad. But when the doctor came in to speak with me, some of that hope was torn away when he told me that my father was not a candidate for chemotherapy and that in fact, he only had a few weeks left.

A few weeks? A few weeks? I kept asking, how did we go from four to six months to a few weeks? How did my Dad go from being fine over Christmas to now only having a few weeks left on this earth? Despite my puffy eyes and tear stained face, I went into Amanda PR mode and started planning and calling and arranging things. I was determined to get my dad out of the hospital and home to Pennsylvania. I really thought I had a chance.

That day, Dad was released to a rehabilitation facility, which was meant to help him gain strength in his legs, so we could bring him home to Pennsylvania. That night was difficult. Transferring my dad from the hospital to the center took a lot out of him and mom and I cried the entire ride home that night, thinking that was it. To our surprise though, the next morning my Dad looked pretty good. He was even talking a bit, which he wasn't doing the day before. They had him out of bed and in a wheel chair. It was progress. Maybe we could bring him home.

Over the next few days, family and friends flew in to see my Dad and say their final goodbyes. That Wednesday, Dad and I sat together for lunch. He was talking more now and more himself. He asked me what was wrong with him and what kind of timeframe he was looking at. He said, "what's my prognosis?" I had wanted my mother to be there, but he insisted I tell him and he promised, "I won't tell mom you told me." I held his hand and as the tears streamed down my face, I said, "Dad you have Stage IV lung cancer and it has already spread. You're not a candidate for chemo, so the doctors are saying . . .  you only have a few weeks left." I will never forget the look on his face...the shock in his eyes. I quickly said, "But you know how much I love you right?" and my dad replied, with his strong determination, "You know how much I love you?"

The days that followed, my dad did seem to come back to us. We had real conversations and he was lucid. I spent that Friday night watching television with him...Blue Bloods, our favorite show to watch together. He asked me if I thought we were doing the right thing...not pursuing chemo and actually going ahead with direct injection radiation in his spine to help reduce the tumor size and the pain, in order to bring him to PA. I told him I did and he said he thought it was the right thing too. He thanked me for being there with him and I said I love being here with you. He said, I wish you could be here all the time. He even called to check on me and make sure I got back to the house alright that night.

The day before he left the rehab center, my mother and brother and I surrounded my dad as he gave us instructions and told us how much we meant to him. I couldn't help but cry. I asked him if he'd get strong enough to dance with me to what would have been my father-daughter dance song, "Through the Years" by Kenny Rogers. He said, "I'm going to try." I told him how much I loved him, that he was my best friend and that he was supposed to be there for my wedding. He said what he always said, "I'll always be there." I told him I'd probably talk to him every day and he said, "I'll be listening" and he promised he'd ask God to hurry and send me the person I was supposed to be with.

His oncologist had him come home to the house in Arizona that Sunday. At least he could be comfortable there. I took him to the radiation oncologist that Tuesday. It was a tough day. They gave him a very large dose of radiation and he got very sick when we brought him home. He basically slept into the next day. Wednesday he was in and out. He started to say random things and wasn't eating. We moved him to a hospital bed in his room and decided to bring in hospice. I didn't notice it at the time, because my Dad always had breathing problems, but the death rattle started on Wednesday. I did notice how swollen his stomach was and I knew the end was close. I told him that day, that it was ok, he could go. That he didn't have to stay for me, I'd take care of our family and it was time for him to be with my brother Stephen. Funny enough, a couple of hours later (I think he was processing things at different times) he said to me, "I'm in no hurry Amanda."

That night he was delusional, saying things that didn't make sense and it was like he was somewhere else. At one point, I asked him, "Who's your daughter?" And even though he was slipping, he looked at me and firmly pointed to me. So I know he knew who I was and that I was with him.

I slept in his room that night. Every few hours, I'd wake up, hearing him talk. Finally around 5:30 a.m. he started to speak loudly. He said, "I don't know Will." Then he said, "It's so white." I said, "What's so white daddy?" He replied, "It's just so white." I then rubbed his head and said, "shhhh, it's ok daddy. Close your eyes, go to sleep."  Around 6:15 a.m. I left the room to sleep in my own bed for a few hours. I woke up around 7:15 and finally went into his room at 7:30. My mom was sleeping, but the room was eerily quiet...still. I looked at my dad...it was like he was sleeping, but I knew something was wrong. I paused and ached to hear him breath, but I didn't...he chest wasn't rising. I ran to his side and touched his hand, "Daddy?" But as soon as I touched his hand, I knew...he was cold...he was gone.

I woke my mom...I told her I thought Daddy was gone and he was. I watched her try to wake the love of her life, gut wrenching sobs filling the house. I left the room and almost collapsed with grief, crying so hard and so deep, my abdominal muscles actually ached the next day.

On March 14 around 7:15 a.m., my Dad left this earth. I read that people often wait for the person they feel most protective of to leave the room before passing. And although I wish I had been holding my father's hand as he left this world for the next, I'm filled with incredible love knowing I was that person for him.

The next few days were a blur, filled with funeral arrangements and sympathy cards, and phone calls, and flowers, and family. I arranged my father's funeral and gave the final eulogy I can only hope he was proud of how it all turned out.

In September or October of last year, I had watched an Oprah Winfrey interview with Chris Christie of all people. He recounted how he was with his mother a few days before she died. His mother said to him, "Chris, why are you here? Get back to work, there's nothing left unsaid between us." I mentioned that to my dad one day, when we were in the car. I said, I want that to be the case with you and me. My dad didn't miss a beat, he said to me, "It already is. You know how much I love you." So, I find peace and comfort in knowing my Dad and I were so close that there is nothing else I would have or should have said. He knew it all. But it still doesn't ease the immense pain and loss I feel in my heart.

We always knew he wouldn't be here forever...probably me more than anyone else. But I thought he'd have more time. I thought he'd see me fall in love and get married and I prayed he'd meet his grandchildren. But what's to be is to be.  The tears at this point are just too much, so I should probably close my little novel with this...My dad lived a great life despite it all and I can only hope he'll continue to walk with me for the rest of my life...always in my heart.