Not Losing My Shit

Not too
long ago, I told you all about my dad, who is very ill. Now that the news has
sunk in a little, it’s easier to talk about, although there is this constant
hole inside of me that burns away at my heart because I know that eventually,
this illness will steal him from me. Despite knowing this, I cling to hope. I
know it’s pointless, but I find myself replaying scenarios in my mind, thinking
maybe we deserve a miracle and it will happen. Maybe he won’t leave me before I’m
ready to let him go. I force myself to forget that I don’t believe in miracles.




The reality
is that my dad has stage 4 colon cancer. The tumor is large and it has passed
through his colon wall and into his liver. It is all through his liver
actually. There was hope that perhaps remission would be possible, or that
surgery might remove some of it, but after consulting with doctors and
surgeons, it’s been decided that’s not likely. Surgery is not an option. Ever.



He
continues to fight, undergoing chemotherapy in the hope that he can slow or
stop the cancer’s growth, and buy some time, but it’s tough. If you’ve ever
experienced chemotherapy, either yourself or through a loved one, you know this
is not a pleasant treatment. It’s brutal and it’s hard to stay positive and
optimistic about it when you feel like a bag of shit 24 hours a day. Dealing with the side effects of chemo is the only time he's mentioned giving up. Once he's through it, he takes the reigns again.



I wasn’t
going to write about this again, not here, not anywhere “public” but recently I
came to a realization that’s strangely positive. Grief is a powerfully
debilitating emotion, but we writers are actually quite lucky. We can take
these emotions, this overwhelming pain, and we can turn it into something good.
Perhaps we’ll never share those thoughts and feelings with the rest of the
world, but we have an outlet to at least get it out of our hearts. I haven’t
written much since my dad was diagnosed. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve written
dozens of articles and such, but I’ve written nothing “for me.” To be honest,
most days I feel like I’m barely hanging on. Working, trying to spend time with
my dad, comforting family and friends, looking after my kids, hoping to give
them a good summer vacation despite what Fate has thrown at us, and trying to
process all of this seemingly endless bad news has me constantly on edge, ready
to topple over. I’ve seen more ugly cries than I ever thought I’d see, but I’ve
managed to keep my own limited to early morning showers.



I watched
my parents, their siblings, close friends, and my brothers, get their hopes up countless
times, only to have reality stomp the shit out of them. How many things must a
person endure before they break? The answer? There’s no need to break. We have
this. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. We can release all that shit right here on
the page. Sure, we’re still sad and angry, but we’re coping. Sometimes "getting over it" isn't an option, so coping with it is the only way to keep going.



But  I haven't been coping. I hadn’t
written anything until today. Every time I opened a Word document or a notebook
and prepared myself to write, I just couldn’t do it. There were no words there. I had nothing. I panicked, and I let fear move in. What would I do if I couldn't write? It's the only way I know to process what I'm feeling. It's the only coping tool I have. I’ve realized since then that I just wasn’t
ready yet.



I can’t
imagine a world without my dad. I don’t want to. I’m a very fortunate person in
that my parents have always been the center of my life. They are not just the
people who raised me. They’re my friends, my advisors, and my most loyal
supporters. My dad is the single person in this world that I knew would always
be in my corner, no matter how stupid my decisions or actions. Trust me, I’ve
done some pretty dumb things in my life. I’m sure he knows every one of them,
even if I didn’t outright confess to a few.



He never
judges, never says much of anything about what I’ve managed to fuck up. Occasionally
he makes a joke or a sarcastic crack about the results of my stupidity, and we
laugh. I say anyone that can make you laugh when things look dark is a special
person. You should hang onto those people with all you have. He stepped up when
my ex stepped down. He became the father my daughter needed so desperately but
didn’t have. No questions asked. No “I told you so’s.”  (and he did tell me so, many times) He just helped
me to pick up the pieces and we kept going, as though that “other guy”  he warned me about never
happened.



When I was
little, I used to think my dad had to be the strongest man alive. Sure he wasn’t
very big, but he was fast and didn’t quit until the job was done. He came from
nothing. His parents lacked the ability to make him feel loved and special, and
this town certainly wasn’t kind to him for most of his life. Yet, he never held
it against people, not even his asshole parents. My dad did whatever he could
to help someone out, even if secretly he thought they were “useless as tits on
a board.” If someone needs help, my dad believes that you should give it, even
if they’d never do the same for you.



As kids, we
knew he’d always be there for us. As adults, he’s still there. Day or night, he
would come when we called. Even when that call is at 3am because one of us
thought a mouse might be in our kitchen. Yeah…I did that more than I care to
admit.



A few days
ago, I received a call from someone who had caused nothing but pain to the
people dearest to me. He apparently felt the need to tell me that he’d been
diagnosed with cancer, but has since been “cured.” Huh. In my heart, I was
screaming. I was furious. How was it fair that a person who’d wasted the life given to him,
who’d caused so much misery and grief to decent, kind people, should get to
live, while a man with a kind heart, who’d fought through so much shit to
overcome his demons and make things right with those he wronged, is going to
die? How is that fair? It’s not. Life isn’t fair. It’s a lesson that will
continue to be taught until we get it and accept it.



I can’t
begin to describe how special both of my parents are. I can’t yet put into
words how angry and sad I feel that my dad will be gone long before his time. But
I’m working on it. I'm writing about it. Finally.



Writing has
given me the tools to cope with that loss of control I feel at my dad’s
illness. There is nothing I can do and that is the worst part in this nightmare. Losing someone
in an instant is something I think would be almost preferable to this long
goodbye. Knowing that someone so dear to you will be gone sooner rather than
later is a tough pill to swallow. Having an indefinite amount of time to prepare...it's not a gift. It's hard. It's soul shattering to hear his voice every day and have your brain whisper that you won't hear that voice soon. It's beyond difficult to share laughter  and experiences when you have that shadow constantly hovering over every moment, every memory.




In his shoes, I’m not sure I wouldn’t
completely lose my shit. Yet, my dad apologizes if he leans on us, and he tries
to make everyone feel better about this nightmare. Instead of wallowing, he’s
making the best of things. I’m not sure I’d know where to start doing that.



I wrote
this post several times. One version was full of profanity and bitter anger. I thought
that definitely wasn’t one to burden you guys with, so I wrote another. But the second one was full of resignation, a sad confession to the world that I am not as strong
as I pretend to be, and a plea for the world to stop making me be that person. But
then I thought that was rather…weak. I didn’t like that one at all. The final
version, before this one, was a single line “It’s not fair.” Then I realized
after deleting that line, I don’t feel as sad or as angry as I did before I
started. I felt…unburdened.



When I
write about feelings that I don’t know how to process, I feel like I’m taking
some control back. It might sound silly, but that helps. I’m still devastated,
but now the future beyond this illness isn’t just a black pit of despair. The clouds have lifted enough for me to imagine going on. I can see my girls growing and healing, and making their papa
proud. I see me doing what he always believed I could do. This dream of publishing
has seemed so trivial in light of recent events and I refused to indulge myself
in it over these past months. But now, I see that I will get there. For him and
for all the time and love he put into making me the kind of person who doesn’t
back down from something just because it’s hard.


As you can
see, I can write again, and that means I’ll be just fine.