Two Years and Counting

I constantly wonder about the value and emphasis placed on time in relation to memories. What is the difference between emotions felt this year compared to last year or two years ago. How did we all decide what kind of pain or grief is appropriate  given the passage of time? I have moments now that are more raw and soul-wrenching than 72 hours after you died. 

 

Yes, you’ve been gone for two years. Even typing that sentence feels unfathomable to me. Maybe it’s because I still talk to you in the little moments. Okay, maybe in the bigger moments too. Maybe it’s because when I’m driving around in my car, I can hear you singing along to Zeppelin or the Doobie Brothers, and I imagine how much you would have loved driving around Montana with me. Maybe I’m still mad that I had so many years stolen away by your disease. Maybe it’s because I still don’t think I would have traded those moments for anything because they are cherished, and you raised me to believe that everything happens for a reason. Maybe because I grew up knowing that time was valuable and finite I tried to etch every moment into my brain, terrified that whenever you would leave it wouldn’t be enough. Maybe I’m mad that even though I knew these things, it is still so bitterly raw realizing that I didn’t carve quite hard enough. That time is done. It doesn’t seem fair, and my skin crawls at even thinking that. I had you for 25 wonderful years. I am blessed beyond belief that I was your daughter, and I’m still upset that I don’t get more. I will never come to terms with that. 

I’ve been gointo therapy and trying to work through the fact that I won’t get to talk football, books, or music with you anymore. I’ve been trying to understand that I won’t get a voicemail whenever we have an upcoming meteor shower. I’ve been trying to look through a lense that always reminds me that life can be short, and being authentically happy is the most important thing. I have been attempting to live my life for the last 704+ days that would have made you beaming proud. I’m still working on it, and you have my promise that I’ll keep at it. Everyday. 

I miss the shit out of you, but I’m doing pretty dang good. Just like you would want. 

Deathiversary and Life Lessons

Every day has been a different struggle. It's been a year since you died and somehow it still feels like a lifetime and a single breath all at once. 

Some days it's forgetting that you're gone, and having a mini-experience of that grief all over again.  Other days it's wanting to get some of your great life advice and realizing that I will only be able to recall things you've told me. Having to realize that there's a moratorium on the life advice you provided, and that I'll never gleam anything new.  That's weird to think about. I will have to depend on the 25 years I had with you to get through the rest of my life. 

Other days it's simply talking about you in the present when people ask what my parents think about me moving away,etc.  It's easier than having to explain that you're dead.  Can you have a elevator speech about the death of a parent? I feel like I've crafted one, and it's very bizarre that I can give a synopsis of your life in the time it would take to ride an elevator with a stranger. But don't worry, I haven't hit that level of crazy yet, I'm not striking up conversations with strangers to discuss your death.

I feel like that's something I still don't know how to handle.  How do you remain authentic without over-sharing? How do I express that your death can feel crippling, without freaking people out or getting the sympathy-dead-dad eyes.  It's a look.  I never quite understood the look, until I started to receive it all the time.  It's hard to catalog how I feel when I get that look. Thankful? Frustrated? Embarrassed? Sad? Guilty? Loved? It makes for this blend where I want to say thank you and express my gratitude while simultaneously making sure they know that I don't need those eyes. I have been able to grow in the last year in ways that I would never have understood until I was on the other side. Your death was an inevitability that I spent two decades preparing for.  I thought I was ready.  I felt prepared.  I still didn't get it, not until a year ago.  

Shit, most days I'm still having to dig deep and mine the gems out of the rubble and utter destruction I felt when it happened.  

I'm standing here, in the foundation of my story, and trying to remind myself that we all have different stories.  I'm lucky because I had you for 25 years. Some people aren't able to have that. Some people have parents who remain aloof or aren't in the picture. I had 25 years of intentional time.  I had magical bed time stories that I'm sure I'll tell again someday, and I had support and love while I made mistakes. I had someone to teach me what it means to love with your whole heart. I guess I'm just unlucky because you'll miss getting to be involved with the rest of my life. You'll miss being present in the milestones, but I don't doubt that I'll feel you in those moments.  I feel you now while "the sun beats down upon my face"

I wasn't quite sure how to spend today. Do you celebrate a deathiversary? Is that a real word? I'm sure I could google it and check, but it's what feels most right.  I took the day off of work, and I'm sitting out on my porch writing this while the weather tries to make up it's mind.  It's raining and the sun is shining. Honestly it's just such a perfect damn metaphor for how I feel today that its almost comical. I'm listening to Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti album because it's your favorite, and I'm trying to feel you in all of the ways I've felt you in the last year.  I feel pieces of your soul in the strangest of places, and every time it washes over me I just feel so damn thankful that I had the time with you that I had. 

I was on the phone with mom this morning, and she was talking about how much you loved Emily and I. She was talking about how blessed we were to have a father who cared about us so deeply. She said that the light and pride in your eyes when you talked about us was overwhelming. She thinks that you were finally able to let go because you could see how happy we were.  Emily and I were starting our lives, and you could see that we were going to be okay. I want you to know that I've spent every day of the last year trying to make sure that you'd still be proud.  I'm living my most authentic life.  I'm trying to be more vulnerable with people, and I'm trying to learn to ask for help when I need it.  I'm making sure to tell the people in my life that I love them because at the end of the day, that sense of love is what will remain far after I've gone.  I can still feel your love like a tidal wave, and it's been a year. So dad, you can "die easy" because we are still okay. 

Happy (belated) Birthday

I wrote this on the plane to Texas for your birthday, but I just realized I never posted it.  I came back to write about the impending anniversary of your death, but I wanted to put this out in the universe first....

1/26/2018
I guess I'm not quite sure what the protocol is.  Do I wish you a happy birthday, or is that wrong because you're gone? I guess I always hear people say "Well he/she would have been...." so, Dad, you would have been 61 this year.  Is it weird to find it satisfying that you died in a multiple of 5? That's the way I like to adjust the volume in my car or on the TV...so having that 0 at the end of your birthday feels more...final, somehow? Maybe it's that it helps me feel a sense of control over something that was so radically out of my control? Maybe it's because I'm still listening to my "Dad Jamz" playlist, and sometimes the music is just a little too loud in my car but it always feels right. It might be a little obsessive, but we've all got our problems.  Loud music will always be one of mine.  After all, I am your daughter.

Whoa, sorry about all of that.  I feel like when I get really overwhelmed I look for the things that comfort me.  I guess that little Woolf-rant about a life-long habit is just one example of the moments I've needed in the 10 months that you've been gone. It even feels weird to say.  How can 10 months simultaneously feel like a lifetime and a single breath?  I don't know if I'll ever understand it, but I know I'll learn to cope with it better (or at least I pray I will).  

I think I just still can't process that I don't get to tell you things anymore.  I guess I still tell them to you by writing these out, and I believe that you can see what's going on in my life, but I want your feedback. I want you to tell me what you think of the Cowboys 9-7 season.  I want to talk politics with you. I want to hear about who has visited you lately and what they're up to. I want to show you all of the places I've taken your passport in the last 10 months. I want to tell you about the hikes I've done and the trips I've taken. I want to swap more stories. I would give anything  to hear one of your stories. I regret the times that I helped finish one that I'd heard a thousand times because I want to hear it so bad.  I feel even more ridiculous because I always knew that I needed to be cherishing these moments, and I still finished your stories or reminded you that you already told me.  I want to sit and drink a nice single-malt scotch with you.  I want to go to El Matador, so Emily and I can tell them it's your birthday. I want to watch you fume that you can't get away from the table, so you have to sit there and let us sing to you while you wear a sombrero.  I can see it so clearly in my mind that I don't know if it's actually happened before or if I'm fabricating memories. I want to watch an episode of Breaking Bad with you because we never finished the series. I want to FaceTime so I can show you my dog and my cabin. I want to complain about the stupid amount of snow piled up outside. I want to hear you say "peachy-keen" (which I always thought was "peachy-king") or end a phone call with "peace, love, grand-funk". 

If nothing else, I want to simply exist with you.

Well, I guess that's actually a pretty large request.

I've caught myself doing or saying things that feel like you. I didn't realize how many of my idiosyncrasies were things I picked up from you over the years.  I never thought twice about calling myself a "nekojita" when describing my aversion to super hot drinks. I will never think it's weird to add an ice cube or two to a piping hot cup of coffee. I didn't realize that it's impossible for me to say "Ohio" without immediately singing "Round on the end and 'hi' in the middle" in my head. When I talk about microwaves and tell people to "nuke it"- I should tell you that I'm trying to break this habit because of all the utter insanity in the US. I didn't realize that my need to make other people feel comfortable in awkward situations comes from you cracking jokes about wheelchairs in a room when people don't know what to say. 

Hear me out, I know you hate(d) Fleetwood Mac- this is where I'm like mom-but I actually broke down crying while getting ready for work last week because "Landslide" came on. It was this live version, and you hear Stevie Nicks say "This is for you, Daddy". I just lost it.  Right in the middle of putting on my mascara.  It is inconvenient, this grief of mine.  I was just trying to start my day, and suddenly I had to be aggressively reminded that you're gone.  I went to Thailand in November, and on my first flight to Beijing I was aggressively reminded that I wouldn't get to tell you every last detail of the trip. Honestly, you owe the poor man next to me an apology.  He just sat there in confusion while I quietly had a breakdown somewhere over the Bering Sea. I much prefer the passive reminders.  It happens when I'm driving home from work, and I want to call you and tell you any of the  aforementioned things, and I simply think "Oh wait, I can't." It happens when I'm digging through my purse and touch your passport- I told you it's with me everywhere I go. It happens on Sundays when I expect you to call me after a Cowboys win or a Texans loss to gloat. By the way, they didn't play each other in preseason this year because of a hurricane. I was glad the game was cancelled because I wasn't ready to face that day just yet.

I don't quite want to call it a gift, but I think that this is a lesson you're forcing me to learn, and it will continue to make me stronger.  You taught me a lot about love, compassion, and empathy while you were alive. I think I'm still trying to figure out my buzz words from this lesson, but so far it feels like grace, appreciation, and trying to carpe the hell out of this diem. 

This is for you, Daddy.

For my dad

I don't know how to exist in a world where you aren't.  That sounds really obvious and sorta cheesy, and honestly I've almost definitely heard it somewhere else before, but it's true.  You have been my inspiration, reason, and excuse for as long as I can remember.

 Because of you I grew up fast.  I learned how to put others before myself, and I learned a lot of valuable life skills and lessons that I think gave me a jump start on life.  When I meet new people I tend to get a lot of "wow, you're mature for your age" and I just laugh and say that I'm an old soul, rather than explaining that my dad has chronic progressive multiple sclerosis and is in a wheelchair. That I learned to co-parent, for lack of a better word, with a parent.  How to be the shoulder you cried on while I cried on your shoulder.  I learned what a mutual support system was.  How beautiful (and messy-literally) it could be to lean on someone whenever you needed to.

Because of you I learned to love fiercely and to tell the people in my life that they matter. I grew up knowing that time could be precious so you have to make the most of whatever moment you're in. I learned that, contrary to what I was always told, words can be just as memorable as actions. I may not remember the last time you were able to hug me, but I know that I never went a single phone-call without hearing you say you love me and how proud you were of me.  I was able to hang my hat on that whenever I questioned if I was making the right choice.



Because of you I learned that humor doesn't always solve the problem, but it makes you laugh in the moment, and sometimes that's the only medicine that works.  I learned that sometimes you can't find the right words, and that sometimes simply agreeing that something sucks and sitting in silence is okay.  I learned that you will never have all of the answers or reasoning, but to simply sit back and have faith and let things happen as they may.



Because of you I learned a little bit about being selfless.  It was always in the little things, like taking your young daughters to paint pottery for hours on end, after you lost the use of your hands, and simply sitting there and being enamored of our mediocre artwork and jokingly calling it "Killin' Dad" instead of "Kiln Time". I learned that doing things to help others can provide just as much comfort to you as to them.  I learned that this comfort is the best kind because it is done without assumption or expectation.  It is motivated by love, and when things are motivated by love it will always go the way it should, even if it's not the way you want.



Because of you I learned to be selfish. I learned that sometimes you have to do what you feel is right in your heart, even if it goes against everything you've thought or believed.  I know that you were frustrated when I moved across the country, but I have always been your daughter, so I don't know why you were surprised.  At least I stayed in the country.  I also know that you are proud of me for living my life the way I need to.  Thank you for supporting me, even when we all didn't quite understand why.  You just (mostly) got it when I said I needed to move, and I will always be thankful.



Because of you I learned that it was possible (and okay) to be angry and still have faith.  You also taught me to believe that faith could come in a variety of forms, and that I should never close myself off to the possibility of more. I don't mean more in a cosmic sense, although I sort of do.  I mean more in the fact that you constantly challenged me to grow my knowledge.  I remember playing with the globe and spinning it, around and around, and then stopping it suddenly with my finger. You would either regale me with a story of when you'd been there, or you and I would sit and wait for the CD-ROM with the Encyclopedia to load so we could learn about it, together. I remember seeing a trailer for a movie called "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" and you said you wouldn't take me to see it until I read the book. Little did you know that I would have read all of the released books by the time the first movie came out.  Thank you for introducing me to that magic. It has changed me. You taught me to believe in the things that matter to me, and that I could damn anyone else's opinion who told me to think otherwise.



Because of you I grew up knowing the power of music.  Take right now for example, the house is full of family and friends sharing stories, crying and laughing, and I find the most comfort sitting back in your room, staring at your empty bed and listening to my "Dad Jams" playlist. I swear I can feel you singing along to "Black Dog" and "Radar Love".  You showed me how to shut off my mind and lose myself in the music.

 

Because of you I learned the power of a story.  I can say with confidence that every person you've met has walked away with one of your stories, whether it was your "World's Worst DWI" trophy or talking about your time living in Japan with the girl who broke your heart..or hearing some of those awful jokes, over and over.  "What does a cow order at Starbucks? De-CALF...get it, get it?" I think of all the stories I've heard you share, our bedtime stories were my favorite. You were so convincing that I never wondered how a boy and his best friend, who just happened to be a robot, could get out of so many sticky situations while they traveled the world with his parents. I learned that the words you wove could build a sense of community so strong that people have always returned to you, like moths drawn to a flame.

So, daddy, thank you for everything.  For making me into who I am.  It will suck.  It will suck a lot, but because of you I know that Emily and I will be okay.  We just miss you, but we know you are whole now.  Thank God.

"I don’t believe in a God who sits in conscious judgment of the actions of humanity."

-Jared Leto

Millennial Podcast

"Oh, I get it.  I get why people stay.  It never occurred to me that while you're in this not so sexy transition space in your life you could get stuck, because after awhile it becomes comfortable and you could stop pushing towards your goals and moving toward the place where you actually want be..because at this particular moment I didn't have a yearning to leave and that was becoming my biggest fear, not leaving." 

-Brunchies, episode 03

Lift Off

By: Donovan Livingston

“Education then, beyond all other devices of human origin,
Is a great equalizer of the conditions of men.” – Horace Mann, 1848.
At the time of his remarks I couldn’t read — couldn’t write.
Any attempt to do so, punishable by death.
For generations we have known of knowledge’s infinite power.
Yet somehow, we’ve never questioned the keeper of the keys —
The guardians of information.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen more dividing and conquering
In this order of operations — a heinous miscalculation of reality.
For some, the only difference between a classroom and a plantation is time.
How many times must we be made to feel like quotas —
Like tokens in coined phrases? —
“Diversity. Inclusion”
There are days I feel like one, like only —
A lonely blossom in a briar patch of broken promises.
But I’ve always been a thorn in the side of injustice.

Disruptive. Talkative. A distraction.
With a passion that transcends the confines of my consciousness —
Beyond your curriculum, beyond your standards.
I stand here, a manifestation of love and pain,
With veins pumping revolution.
I am the strange fruit that grew too ripe for the poplar tree.
I am a DREAM Act, Dream Deferred incarnate.
I am a movement – an amalgam of memories America would care to forget
My past, alone won’t allow me to sit still.
So my body, like the mind
Cannot be contained.

As educators, rather than raising your voices
Over the rustling of our chains,
Take them off. Un-cuff us.
Unencumbered by the lumbering weight
Of poverty and privilege,
Policy and ignorance.

I was in the 7th grade, when Ms. Parker told me,
“Donovan, we can put your excess energy to good use!”
And she introduced me to the sound of my own voice.
She gave me a stage. A platform.
She told me that our stories are ladders
That make it easier for us to touch the stars.
So climb and grab them.
Keep climbing. Grab them.
Spill your emotions in the big dipper and pour out your soul.
Light up the world with your luminous allure.

To educate requires Galileo-like patience.
Today, when I look my students in the eyes, all I see are constellations.
If you take the time to connect the dots,
You can plot the true shape of their genius —
Shining in their darkest hour.

I look each of my students in the eyes,
And see the same light that aligned Orion’s Belt
And the pyramids of Giza.
I see the same twinkle
That guided Harriet to freedom.
I see them. Beneath their masks and mischief,
Exists an authentic frustration;
An enslavement to your standardized assessments.

At the core, none of us were meant to be common.
We were born to be comets,
Darting across space and time —
Leaving our mark as we crash into everything.
A crater is a reminder that something amazing happened here —
An indelible impact that shook up the world.
Are we not astronomers — looking for the next shooting star?
I teach in hopes of turning content, into rocket ships —
Tribulations into telescopes,
So a child can see their potential from right where they stand.
An injustice is telling them they are stars
Without acknowledging night that surrounds them.
Injustice is telling them education is the key
While you continue to change the locks.

Education is no equalizer —
Rather, it is the sleep that precedes the American Dream.
So wake up — wake up! Lift your voices
Until you’ve patched every hole in a child’s broken sky.
Wake up every child so they know of their celestial potential.
I’ve been a Black hole in the classroom for far too long;
Absorbing everything, without allowing my light escape.
But those days are done. I belong among the stars.
And so do you. And so do they.
Together, we can inspire galaxies of greatness
For generations to come.
No, sky is not the limit. It is only the beginning.
Lift off."

Watch the video here