Heaven…I’ll Drink to That

My father communicates with me through dreams, feathers and a few other things in between.

This weekend I toasted the afterlife with my dead Dad. Yes, this past weekend my Dad, who is deceased, and I, who am very much alive, toasted his fifth heavenly birthday graveside.

I know to some this might sound insane, but he really does communicate with me and we did toast graveside this past weekend.

You have to understand the strong minded, determined person my father was. The night before he died, I begged him to not leave me and if he had to (like he had a choice) to please send me signs from heaven. He held my hand, smiled, and told me, “Lisa, I will always be with you. When you need me just call my name and I’ll be right there, I promise you.” “Don’t worry and don’t be afraid, Heaven is beautiful and I’ll be right here for you.”

I was terrified because I was not ready to say goodbye and I needed my father’s wisdom and guidance. I STILL need his wisdom and guidance.

He knew I was absoutley heartbroken and terrified and he held my hand even tighter and said, “Even when I’m gone, I will always be with you.”

And my father always was true to his word and I believed him.

The past five years since his passing I have received beautiful signs from my father. There have been moments when I know he’s sitting right next time. Perhaps the greatest sign was when I felt my father wrap his arms around me and shield me from pain during a horrific car accident, during that moment I not only felt him holding me, I smelled him. So, I KNOW he’s always right there with me when I need him most.

Sunday, January 17^th was the fifth anniversary of my Father’s passing. I woke up angry, pissed off and really missing my Dad. I have found that no matter how many signs he sends my way I am missing “the big one.” And when I say “the big one” I want to know is he eating again. My father died from Stage IV base of the tongue cancer, he spent the last seven years of his life struggling to eat and the last four year of his life on a feeding tube inserted in his stomach. He was unable to eat or drink anything for the last four years of his life.

The night he before my Dad died I was alone with him in his hospital room and he begged me for a glass of water. I can still hear him whispering to me, “Lisa please just one sip.” I knew that one sip would go directly into his lungs and he would suffer and die. So, I freaked out and denied my dying father a glass of water. You think death is like the movies, loved ones huddle together hugging and crying and the person just peacefully passes on. And while we were gathered as a family the night my father died it was far from a Hallmark movie. It was gut wrenching and painful. I watched my father die yearning for food, a drink. I watched him lay in his bed frail crying for God to please take him. I watched my real-life superhero leave this beautiful earth right before my eyes and I denied him a glass of water.

I have spent the last five years of my life reliving that moment over and over in my head.

I really beat myself up about the glass of water on holidays, special occasions and the anniversary of my father’s passing. So, this past Sunday as I was lying in bed feeling sorry for myself I started a conversation with my Dad and I pretty much demanded a sign from him that he’s “getting drunk in heaven.” I then rolled out of bed and went through the motions of my morning preparing myself to visit the cemetery.

I don’t know about you guys, but I hate going to the cemetery. I’m limited to bringing my father flowers and staring at dirt. It makes me angry. I feel robbed, my father suffered for so long and was ripped away from us piece by piece only to die unable to do what we all take for granted…eat and drink.

Our family owns a beautiful plot in a very well-maintained cemetery. My Dad selected his plot years ago and was thrilled it backed up to an Italian Deli. The irony that he died unable to eat and had such a love for food.

I quietly walked up to my father’s grave surveying the area. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash, and something rolled on my foot. Then, out of nowhere, under my right foot was a tiny bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum. My first reaction was anger. I bent down, picked up the bottle, looked at my husband and yelled, “Is this a joke!! Who is drinking here, why is this here???” I cannot stress to you guys what a well-kept cemetery this is. My husband laughed and said, “You asked for a sign and a bottle of rum landed on your foot. I’d say Big Al is having that drink.”

And then I froze. I blinked, and couldn’t believe my eyes.

I looked up to the sky and said, “Cheers Dad, I hope we are making you proud down here.”

I miss my Dad every single day. I miss the sound of his voice, his fatherly advice, his laugh, the way he could command an entire room as soon as he entered it. Even in death my Dad is still my hero. Even in death my Dad is still there for me, finding ways to remind me that no matter what, he’s still with me, guiding me and protecting me. Even in death he’s proving to me that love never dies and knows no boundaries.

Cheers to you Dad on your fifth heavenly birthday. May your guiding hand remain on my shoulder forever. Thank you Dad, for always reminding me that death is temporary but love is infinite.

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Thanks for the Memories…

Most days I welcome my happy little Facebook memories.

This week, leading up to the anniversary of my Father’s passing it’s a love hate relationship.

For those of you who do not know my Dad passed away after a long battle with Stage IV base of the tongue cancer.

The last 4 months of his life he was on hospice, and I was in total denial. I would walk around telling people hospice was to help him “get stronger.”

He was unable to eat orally for the last 4 years of his life; all of his nutrition came from a peg tube inserted in his stomach. Let me repeat that, he could not eat or drink orally for 4 years. He lived on Ensure and Gatorade all through a peg tube. He suffered from extensive nerve damage after his aggressive radiation treatments. He would shake and sometimes scream in pain. People often tell me to remember the good times, but if I forget how much he suffered then he suffered in vain and I can’t let that happen. I spoke to my father daily, visited weekly and with each visit another piece of him was ripped away. On my car rides home, I would punch my steering wheel and scream at God.

Why was I given front row seats to watch my beloved father suffer?

Five years later and I still do not have an answer for that.

The days leading up to my Father’s death were gut wrenching and emotional.

I had a very difficult time accepting that he was in fact dying. In my mind he was supposed to get better and eat again. See, I’m Italian and like many Italians we love our food. When my father lost his ability to eat a piece of me died. I became angry. Quite honestly, I am still angry. There is truth in the saying “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” People spend their lives chasing fad diets, depriving themselves of various foods for vanity and my father suffered and yearned to eat something, anything.

I didn’t realize how much I still carried this pain with me until I clicked on my Facebook memories today.

Thanks for that.

Those little Facebook memories always seem so friendly and inviting. “You have memories.”

Memories like sitting in the sunshine watching the ocean waves ride up to your toes.

This week is quite the opposite.

What Facebook should have said is “You have a painful nightmare, click here if you want to throw up.”

Even now, I scroll through those memories and my heart is shattered into a million pieces.

With each post leading up to the anniversary of my Father’s passing my heart is shattered over and over.

How quickly we can slip back into a memory and have it feel so real and raw…and if no time has passed.

Today I clicked on my Facebook memories and once again my heart shattered all over, my eyes filled with tears and the gut wrenching pain all returned.

Instantly I was brought back to the moment when I was sitting next to my Father’s hospital bed hysterical crying begging him not to die. Making childish bargains with him to please not leave me. I realize how incredibly stupid and selfish that sounds, but death does that to us. We get wonky. We say stupid stuff. We get angry. My father’s body was ready to leave this life but I wasn’t ready to let him go. I needed him, I still do.

Death is final and terrifying for the people left behind. Our parents teach us everything in life but how to survive without them.

Five years ago I cried until I had no more tears left and then I cried some more.

Five years ago I knew my Father was dying in the days to come.

Five years later, I’m thankful for the time God gave us with my father despite how painful some of those memories are.

I feel incredibly thankful and blessed that God gave us these last moments with my Father. My Dad already knew how much we adored him, but I was able to tell him one last time. On the day of my Father’s death I held the hand of the man who guided me throughout my entire life as he took his last breath. My Father was my best friend and my deepest inspiration for strength. There’s something profound about holding someone’s hand as they leave this life. Even more if that person is the center of your entire universe.

Monday will be five years that my Dad is gone, but I can still remember holding his hand as he took his last breath and my assurances to him that it was okay to let go. That despite my childish pleas just days before I would in fact be fine and to not worry about me.

Five years later and I have created my new normal without him.

There are moments that I still go to call him for his fatherly advice and those waves of grief come rushing in. But I consider myself blessed to have had a father who had such an impact on my life that even now he’s still missed.

These Facebook memories truly are a love hate relationship.

Some are gut wrenching and shatter my heart into a million pieces, but they remind me of what an honor it is to be the daughter of a man who fought so hard to live for his family.

And as long as I have breath in me I will be my father’s living, breathing legacy. I will tell his story and remind everyone of how hard he fought to be a part of this beautiful life.

These Facebook memories are a love hate relationship, but they also remind me of what a blessing this life is.

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Christmas Feels Different When Your Dad Is An Angel

The death of a parent is an immeasurable blow that stays with us forever.

The past 5 Christmases have been a little quieter and the lights shine a little dimmer now that my Dad is gone.

Even now, I still can’t get my heart around the fact that I will never see him again.

The first few years I tried to distract myself by submerging myself with entertaining on the holidays.

It. Was. Freaking. Exhausting.

This year, our Christmas will be smaller. And it’s forcing me to deal head on with my grief.

This year for the first time in YEARS I listened to Christmas carols and made struffoli.

I cried a little, ok I cried a lot. But then something magical happened…I found joy.

I found joy in the memories of my Dad at Christmas.

As some of my struffoli began to burn I found laughter in thinking of my Dad laughing at my kitchen disaster. My Dad had a laugh that was infectious and a smile that could light up the whole room, and boy did he love to tease us. For a quick second I could HEAR him laughing with me.

As I poured the honey over my struffoli I found joy in knowing I successfully baked a traditional Italian dessert, one that my father loved and enjoyed pretty much every single Christmas until he could no longer do so.

You see, my Dad died unable to eat, and when my Dad lost his ability to eat a piece of me died forever.

He died from Stage IV base of the tongue cancer, he was living on a peg tube inserted in his belly and ALL of his meals were administered via his peg tube.

And I had anger, lots of anger.

Quite honestly, I still do. Let me cue in my inner child and say, “It’s not FAIR!!!!! Why my Dad!!!”

Fad diets piss me off.

I would have sold my soul to the Devil for my father to have just one taste of anything before he died.

Food is a comforting tool of nostalgia.

It’s why we love to overindulge at Christmas. It’s part of celebrating, and it reminds us of the good times with the people we love. And very slowly as I shed some of the layers of my angry grief I am able to remember the foods my father once loved.

It’s taken me years to get to this point, my grief is still messy, chaotic and complicated.

Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my Dad or think of his endless suffering. But as my grief evolves I’m finding ways to celebrate his life. You won’t catch me doing a fad diet ever, but you will catch me baking his favorite desserts and smiling at the good times.

The magic of Christmas is slowly returning by sharing holiday traditions with my family and remembering the best of my father and sharing those memories.

The magic Christmas is slowly returning because no matter how sad I become I will always be forever thankful that I’m Al’s daughter and he will live on in my heart as my angel protecting me from Heaven.

“Pain can change you, but that doesn’t mean it has to be a bad change. Take that pain and turn it into wisdom.” Unknown

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This is why we go to funerals

This January will be 5 years my father is gone.

That’s 1,825 days of not seeing my Dad.

That’s 60 long months of not hugging my Dad.

That’s 43,800 hours of not hearing my Dad’s voice.

And despite all of that time passing I can still give you a list of who did NOT attend my father’s funeral.

Yup, you read that right.

In the 5 years of me learning how to live without the man who taught me everything in life but how to live without him I STILL have not forgotten the VERY FEW people who did NOT attend his funeral.

Now, some of you are probably reading this thinking, “how petty!” or “I told you she’s a child.” And I’ll tell you the people thinking that are probably the ones who didn’t attend the funeral or just haven’t experienced grief yet.

I am a firm believer of always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.

The first time I tried to get out of going to a funeral I was 15 years old and it was a close family friend. I wanted to stay home, watch TV and eat cheese puffs. When I pleaded my case as to why I couldn’t go, my father looked at me directly in the eyes and said, “Lisa you’re going to the funeral. We ALWAYS go to the funeral. It’s our last chance to pay respects for the deceased, and we go for the family they need us now more than ever.”

It was an awkward experience for me. I was one of the only kids there. Everyone was sobbing, and I felt out of place. But I held my Dads hand tight and together we made our way up to the family.  I remember whispering, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I also remember the husband of the deceased hugging me tight, almost like he was hanging on for dear life and quietly whispering back, “Thank you.” At the time I couldn’t possibly understand what just happened, I was far to young to understand the impact of attending a funeral.

The family never forgot that we attended and years later thanked me for making time to pay my respects. And when my Dad died almost 20 years later that entire family drove over an hour to attend my dad’s funeral.

It’s pretty simple, when someone dies you make time out of your busy life and go to the funeral.

We go to the funeral even when we really, really don’t want to. We go to pay respects for the deceased, but we also go for the surviving family members.

We go because at some point in life we all experience the horrific pain of death, and when that happens I can promise you the pain is unlike anything you have ever experienced before and you too will be hugging funeral attendees holding on for dear life.

My father died on a snowy January night right before Martin Luther King’s birthday. He died after a long, horrific battle with cancer. He died with my mother, my sister and me holding his hands crying our hearts out.

Planning his funeral was painful despite all the preparations he did beforehand for us. I kept waiting for my Dad to show up to take care of it like he always did. Going through his closet for the perfect suit and tie for people to stand over his casket was gut wrenching. It was especially difficult because my father was gravely ill from cancer and wasn’t able to wear a suit for years. We buried him in his Ugg slippers with the lower half of his casket closed. For some reason I insisted that he HAD to wear his slippers. I think my poor mother was too grief stricken to really care if he had slippers on, so slippers it was. When the moment came for our private family viewing I felt sick. The man in the casket didn’t look like MY father.  His cheekbones were sunk in and his hands were like ice. After about 20 minutes of freaking out that my father was wearing makeup and didn’t look like my father, I pulled it together for the guests to arrive. Despite going to grandparents, aunts, uncles and friend’s funerals burying my father was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I felt dazed and physically ill the entire time. I felt like I was stuck in quick sand, I knew I had to hug and thank all of these incredible people for coming but I felt like I was drowning in my grief. I remember hugging every single person in that room, clinging to them for dear life.

I sat in the front row with my Mom in a daze. At one point I turned around and looked back at all the people waiting to enter and pay respects. The memory of police officers in full uniform saluting my Dad’s casket, friends young and old waiting in line to pay respects not just to my Dad but his wife and children still takes my breath away. It was the most powerful and humbling thing I have ever experienced. Countless inconvenienced people on a Wednesday snowy evening who also believe in going to the funeral.

And THAT my friends is why we go to the funeral in our busy, chaotic lives-we go for the deceased but we also go for the surviving family members.

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For the Fatherless on Father’s Day

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Macy’s is having their annual Father’s Day sale, ties for Dad are flying off the shelves.

For the fit Dads, FitBit is offering free two day shipping with some terrific discounts.

Omaha Steaks just emailed me about their incredible Father’s Day sizzling steaks sale.

Treat Dad like a king this year, the options are endless!

But what are the options for the fatherless on father’s day?

What do the fatherless do?

This year, just like the past four I will be visiting my Dad’s grave and place flowers by his headstone.

Sunday will be a difficult 24 hours for the fatherless. You have so much love you want to give your Dad, but sadly he is no longer here to shower him with all the love and adoration that he deserves. The entire day, specifically the commercialized aspect of this day illuminates the absence of him.

For those of you like my husband and one of my best friends who are experiencing their first Father’s Day without Dad the entire day is like riding a rollercoaster without a seatbelt in a thunderstorm and you’re on fire. You quickly go from devastated, to sad, to inconsolable, to devastated, then if you’re like me you laugh at nothing only to return feeling totally devastated. It’s really quite confusing for people who have yet to lose a parent. My advice to friends and family is to just be there, we need you. For my husband, his first Father’s Day without his dad also happens to be his birthday.

Yes, you read that right.

It’s my hubby’s first birthday without his Dad AND his first Father’s Day without his dad.

I mean would you expect anything less from 2020 at this point?

This will be my fourth Father’s Day without my Dad. For me, it’s a time to reflect and to practice gratitude. A time to look up and say, “Thank you for choosing ME to be your daughter.” Full disclosure, I still get angry, and sometimes downright jealous of people who still have their Dad’s. For me, because my father died unable to eat I still get anxious and angry when I see an abundance of food, especially on a day like Father’s Day. I don’t think that pain ever goes away, but somehow, I don’t know how, you just learn how to hide it and live with it.

If I close my eyes tight enough I can see my Dad grilling burgers on Father’s Day with a smile from ear to ear. I can hear him talking and laughing. My Dad had a laugh that was infectious. I think that’s what I miss most, his laugh and his hugs. Two things that meant everything was going to be okay.

My father was my real life super hero. He was larger than life in my eyes and could fix anything. When I was scared he would hold my hand, look me in the eyes and tell me everything, absolutely everything would be okay.

And I believed him.

He loved me when I needed it most. He loved me for me, flaws and all. He was the definition of unconditional love.

This Father’s Day, my gift to my father is to love that way. To love others for who they are, to open my heart and let others know I am here for them. No questions asked, no judgement, just pure unconditional love.

To my husband, my friend and everyone else, know that your father is with you in the twinkle in your eyes and the comfort of your hugs. When you feel the warmth of the sun on your skin it is your father’s smile as he watches you from above. He is with you when you help others and offer advice.

A father’s unconditional love, kindness and wisdom are things that can never be taken away even when he is gone. Our father’s never really leave us. We are a part of them, and they are forever a part of us.

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Please Take The Photo

January is a difficult month for me.

Why?

My father died on January 17, 2016.

It was the day my entire world shattered.

It was the day I lost my voice and a piece of my heart shattered, forever.

My Dad was on hospice when he died, he was weak and frail. I remember him struggling to even change the channel on the remote. Getting out of bed to use the bathroom required patience and skill. I would visit him every single morning in the hospital before work then sit in my car sobbing my eyes out.

This photo was taken exactly four years ago. Not realizing how “sick” my father looked, I posted it to Facebook only to receive lots of judgement. Judgement from people who were too busy to visit or perhaps didn’t realize how ill he was. I don’t know what it was, and four years later I could care less. My father was dying and I was desperate to keep his memory alive, to preserve him regardless of how we looked.

Within seconds of posting the texts came in.

“Why would you post a picture of your Dad looking so sick?”

“Your Dad got so skinny!!!”

“You look exhausted!”

My Dad was on hospice and he was dying. Unfortunately, there is no filter for death and dying.

This photo is one of the last memories I have of my father.

This photo is all I have left of the man who raised me.

Take the photo, one day he will be gone, and that photo will be all you have left.

Take the photo.

Take the photo to remind you how brave he was and how fiercely he loved his family. All I have left are pictures to remind me of the incredible man who raised me. I zoom in on his smile to see if I have his smile. I zoom in on his hands to remind me of the hands that guided me throughout life.

Take the photo.

Please take the picture and share that picture.

Don’t worry about what others think or say, my guess is that they are unable to comprehend how painful grief is. Just take the picture. You will thank yourself someday.

 

Appreciate what you have before it becomes what you had

That 80’s hairband Cinderella was right. You absolutely do not know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

I thought I was prepared to say goodbye to my Dad after watching him suffer for 7 years, but the truth is you are never ready to say goodbye.

I knew my Dad was a larger than life, real life super hero. He was my father, my best friend and really the greatest man to ever walk to planet.

I learned how to dance while standing on top of his feet, he taught me how to throw a baseball, but most importantly  with an enormous amount of love and patience he showed me how to stand on my own two feet and helped me evolve into the independent woman I am today. Right up until he took his last breath he was telling me he loved me. I know God smiled at me the day he chose me to be Al’s daughter.

My Dad prepared me for almost everything life would throw into my path, but I wasn’t ready for the incredible pain I would feel once he was gone. I wasn’t ready to feel as if someone tore my heart out with a butcher knife leaving it outside my body for me to attempt to put back.

My father was a fighter and he fought hard to be with his family. I took for granted that he would continue to fight and would just be here with us forever. I never stopped to think that someday he just wouldn’t be here.

I absolutely adored my father. I cherished every single second we had together. I took hundreds of photos together, so many he would call me the paparazzi and we would laugh endlessly. I posted our hospital selfies on Facebook and he would call me to announce how many likes we had. I never knew all of those wonderful moments would evolve into memories. I never thought despite all the photos we took, someday they just would not be enough.

One day my Dad was here and the next day he was gone.

One day I was standing next to my Dad’s hospital bed quickly talking to him because I had to get home and the next day he was gone.

One day I was rushing my father off the phone to watch television, and the next day I would be yearning to call him.

I always made visiting my father a priority – NOTHING was more important than spending time with my father. But even with that, there was just never enough time.

Cherish every single second with your father.

Pick up that phone and call him. Stop making excuses no one is too busy to call their parents.

Visit him. Stop making excuses no one is too busy to visit a sick parent.

Love hard and forgive the mistakes because we are all human.

As my Dad’s quality of life diminished and his illness progressed, my entire world exploded.

I was never ready to say goodbye and I’m still not ready to live in this world without my father. I miss him with every single breath I take. I still cry for him and yearn for the incredible father daughter bond we had. It’s been three years and I’m still learning how to survive in a world that doesn’t have a seat at the table for my person of significance.

Learn from my heartache friends, make the time to appreciate what you have before it becomes what you had.

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The Greatest Gift My Father Left Me

This Sunday will be my third Sunday as a fatherless daughter on Father’s Day. The pain doesn’t go away, you just learn how to disguise it. My father died after a seven year battle with Stage IV base of the tongue cancer. He spent the last four years of his life surviving on a peg tube inserted into his belly. That peg tube was his sole means of nutrition.

I felt robbed. Robbed of the relationship I dreamed of having with my father as he grew older. Taking him out to a restaurant or pretty much anyplace was out of the question. He was too sick and frail and couldn’t eat orally. As my father’s health was ripped away from him I became angry. I couldn’t understand how my father, the man who was larger than life now needed my assistance just too slowly shuffle to the restroom and eventually press a button on the television’s remote control to change the channel.

It wasn’t fair.

Why my father?

The moment my father took his last breath was one of those unprecedented moments, a moment that is now a part of me, a moment that defines me. A moment that, despite my father being so ill I could never imagine the pain and the waves of sorrow that would try to suffocate me for the rest of my life. I could never imagine the enormous void my father was about to have on our family. As I held his hand and watched my father take his last breath, I felt pain so ferocious I was positive that I too was dying.

I would be lying if I told you that three years later I had some sort of an epiphany and I’m okay with the suffering my father endured. I’m not.  I would be lying if I told you that as time goes by the holidays become easier. They don’t. I would be lying if I told you I no longer have moments where I feel incredibly small and alone in this world as a fatherless daughter. I do.

And my pain is magnified during weekends like Father’s Day.

While my friends are scrambling for the perfect gift for Dad, and others are trying to squeeze their father into their chaotic schedules, I’m trying to figure out what flower will last on my father’s grave. I desperately try to quiet my brain as I’m bombarded with the endless Father’s Day commercials and I sometimes scream at my television, “Do you have the perfect gift for the dead Dad?”

Since my father died, each June, I now have an ache from missing my father on Father’s Day. But despite my heartache, I know I was fortunate enough to be raised by a man that loved me enough to leave a mark to last a lifetime. I know I am truly blessed to be one of “Al’s daughters.” My love for my father is so massive, that even three years after his death it remains unfinished and messy in a tangle of emotions that surround a day that will always be for him.

And even now, as a grown up I would do anything to hear his voice, to spend just five more minutes with him. I would still do anything to buy him the best gift money could buy and to take him to the fanciest restaurant around, when in my heart I know he would be just as happy with that silly macaroni tie that said, “My Dad Is Rad.” That gift I made him a lifetime ago, back in kindergarten. Because he loved me.  And love is the greatest gift my father gave me, a gift that never dies.

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The Day Jesus Took The Wheel

Photo by Riccardo Bresciani on Pexels.com

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

And that moment happened three weeks ago.

My father taught me everything I needed to know in life. He taught me how to dance, he taught me the importance of self-respect, he taught me how to be kind and compassionate and like many Dads, he taught me how to drive.

My Dad was a car guy, I remember being a young girl and he would sit me on his lap and let me “drive” in parking lots while we waited for my Mom in the store. This was the 80’s so that was normal back then, now not so much! But you get my gist.

When I was of driving age, my father taught me how to drive. Rule number one, always wear your seat belt. Rule number two, keep both hands on the wheel. My Dad was an excellent driver, he had lightning fast reflexes and eyesight like a hawk. He also had an undeniable belief that he owned the road. With my real life superhero by my side I learned how to navigate myself through traffic and never be afraid.

When I passed my driving test and he handed me the keys to the car, I remember my father telling me, “Lisa Mia, it’s not you I’m worried about it’s the other drivers on the road. You must have eyes all over, always drive defensive. Please honey, be careful.”

Years have passed since then and I’ve always considered myself a safe driver. Driving is when I have my alone time and I think. Driving is when I think of my Dad.

Three weeks ago, my entire life changed in the blink of an eye.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

It was a normal Saturday morning, I was on my way to do my normal boring Saturday morning routine, when I realized I forgot my cell phone at home. I was about a block away from my house, so I made the decision to return home to retrieve my cell phone. A decision I will regret for the rest of my life.

I put my blinker on, looked like I always do, and then something happened. I saw all white and instantly I felt my father’s presence – perhaps the strongest since his death three years ago.

For a brief moment I felt strong arms wrap around my body.

I wasn’t afraid because I felt surrounded by pure unconditional love. There are no words to accurately describe the love I felt surrounding me at that exact moment. I didn’t hear tires screeching or feel an impact, I only saw white. And then I realized I smelled smoke and my car was in the middle of a busy road. I saw people gathering on the sidewalk and I felt confused, I started to remember feeling a slight impact, I thought I was rear ended. A woman in a minivan slowed down, rolled down her window and yelled to see if I was okay. I couldn’t understand why so many people were coming to help me. I was only tapped, or so I thought. And then I realized my air bags were open. ALL OF THEM WERE OPEN ON THE DRIVERS SIDE OF THE CAR. And burning, I smelled something burning. Was there a fire? Oh God, please not a fire, I need to get out of here. Then my left eye started to hurt, REALLY HURT, and my vision was blurry. The entire left side of my face began to throb.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

I took a deep breath and I quickly looked around.  I wiggled my fingers and toes, I recited the Our Father in my head. I then screamed at the top of my lungs for God and said, “Dear God please give me the strength.” My vision was so blurry, and the smell was awful, the burning, where was it coming from? I realized I needed to open the door and get out of my car. With all my strength I pushed open my car door and made my way across the street.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

“You’re going to be okay, I am right here with you.” is what I heard in my head and I knew it was my father. It felt as if someone was guiding me across the street, helping me. Confused, because I still thought I was rear ended, I made my way across the street and turned to I looked at my car.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

I saw my wheel torn off, pieces of my car all over the road, plastic pieces everywhere, a puddle of fluid under my car. My airbags were deployed. I couldn’t believe all of that “stuff” came from my vehicle. The sight of my car made my entire body began to tremble, I could not believe my eyes.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

I made my way to a man standing on the side of the road with some other people.  The man offered me his hand and smiled at me. I looked at the Good Samaritan and between tears I said, “How is this possible? I thought I was rear ended, I was going home for my phone. I have to call my husband, I need my husband.” And then I started to cry while I stared at the heap of metal that was once my car in the middle of the road. The Good Samaritan looked at me and smiled, “You’re lucky to be alive, you can use my phone.”  He was so calm and reassuring. I remember trembling so badly that the Good Samaritan had to dial the phone. I remember him smiling at me saying, “You’re safe now, the police are here.” And he left. I’m so thankful that this stranger stopped what he was doing to wait with me for help to arrive.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

As the police began to pull up, I noticed a woman on the other side of the road. She was frantically waiving her arms, screaming for me. She was screaming, “You guys have the Boston Terrier! I’ll go get your husband!” She ran to my house to get my husband. I wish I knew her name, I only know her because I have noticed her walking her dog the weeks leading up to my accident. Now, a few weeks post-accident and I have yet to find that woman to thank her. My husband and I look for this woman daily, we want to thank her for her act of kindness.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

Despite all the chaos that Saturday morning, but I could feel my father’s strong presence. I could feel my father’s protection and love, but I felt something else, something even more powerful. I felt God’s love and protection that morning.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

I remember being loaded into the ambulance feeling shaken up but so incredibly thankful and blessed as I watched the mangled wreck that was once my car fade in the distance. I remember closing my eyes and quietly thanking God for being with me that morning and protecting me.

There are moments during my grief journey that I am positive my father is guiding me and comforting me.

Life can be messy and chaotic and we never know what tomorrow will bring. But through it all there is a God up there and God is good all the time, His grace and mercy are boundless. He is so willing to forgive, so eager to answer prayer, and so ready to bless us beyond what we deserve or hope for. I cry when I think of what happened to me a few weeks ago, I am forever thankful for all of the blessings bestowed upon me. And someday when God calls me home, I hope to tell Him in person, “Thank you God for being so good to me.” 

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The Power of Journaling

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Ten years ago, when my father was diagnosed with Stage IV base of the tongue cancer none told me that I was about to embark on the ride of my life. As my father began his grueling treatments I went out and purchased journals. I began to feverishly put my feelings down on paper and document this new, often horrific journey.

My journey with grief began the day a mass on the base of my father’s tongue was given a name – squamous cell carcinoma. As a matter of fact, I still have the paperwork that I frantically faxed over to the team of doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering to evaluate my father. The cover sheet in my father’s handwriting ends with “I would like to see the doctor as soon as possible. Thanks for your help.”

Our family had no idea the cruel battle we were about to embark on. We only knew that that we needed my father to live. Life without him was unimaginable, it still is and he’s been gone three years.

I watched cancer hijack my father’s body until I could hardly recognize him. Those radiation treatments for that “little” mass at the base of his tongue wreaked havoc on his entire body. The radiation eventually destroyed his entire epiglottis, making it impossible to eat or drink orally for the last four years of his life, relying on a feeding tube inserted in his belly for his sole means of nutrition.

Sunken cheekbones, his dark hair gone white. Pale, pasty skin. Brown eyes that were distant, almost empty. Strong hands that had guided me throughout my entire life became thin and frail, and often trembled. The last four years of my father’s life are forever etched in my brain, a painful reminder to never take life for granted.

A few weeks after my father’s death, my husband encouraged me to write down my feelings and send them to the Huffington Post. I thought he lost his mind. Who wants to hear my sob story? I was already on the verge of depression, why would I share my darkest feelings with the entire world? Instantly I envisioned internet trolls making a mockery of my grief. My husband’s response to me was, “Steve Harvey had a make up blogger on his show yesterday and I don’t really know what she was talking about, but I think you should share your articles. People will read them, I believe in you.” I laughed and began to critique a very private essay I wrote to my mom who was my father’s caregiver for his entire journey with cancer. I then decided to go big or go home, and I sent my article to Ariana Huffington. I remember thinking, well if I’m going to share my deepest feelings with the entire world let’s start with someone I admire.

The next day I was a Huffington Post Blogger. I also began journaling again.

Why? Because grief has a way of making you feel like you’re trapped on a deserted island and you’re all alone. My articles and journals have been my lifesaver when no one could save me. And guess what there have been no internet trolls, just some really incredible people who are also hurting as they embark on their own grief journey.

Grief is a long, lonely journey and my journals and expressive art are my most intimate, trusted friends during one of the darkest, most difficult times of my life.

If you’re lucky, friends and family will offer as much comfort as they can give, but they all have their own lives to live and after the funeral most people don’t want to hear your sad story repeatedly. Let’s face it, grief makes most people uncomfortable. We live in a society where death is taboo, and we are expected to “get over it.” Unfortunately, there is no getting over a person of significance. Where there is great love, there is great grief, and if we do not find an outlet we will not heal. If you broke your arm would you leave it unattended? So why do many choose to ignore their grief and think it will just vanish?

Writing has provided me immense comfort and relief at a time when nothing or no one else could. My writing is one of the places where I can speak the truth and express my emotions. My journal is always there for me to listen to the same story, over and over, without judgment until I am ready to move onto the next chapter.

Journaling is is an effective way to keep their legacy alive.

10 years ago, I was unaware that expressive writing and journal therapy are actual ways for healing. I’ve always grabbed a pen to document my feelings, to process what was happening. By putting my emotions on paper, I could somehow make sense of what seemed impossible and find strength to carry on.

Journaling is also the cheapest form of self-care there is and a great way to heal grief. Even if you don’t start your own blog and share your raw emotions with the entire world, I challenge you to go buy a journal and start documenting your feelings throughout your grief journey. Why not keep a journal by your bed and each night write down your feelings, you never know you might find it helpful.

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