Easter Bunny Fun

So much of my mental and physical energies have been consumed with disease and death, yesterday I needed to be reminded that life can be happy and carefree as well. It was comforting to wake up with everybody under the same roof. Timmy and Robby both woke with smiles on their faces. I guess I am not the only one who has missed the normalcy of our lives. 

In the morning, before the sun warmed everything and while it was still chilly, we packed up and headed to the mall.  We were on a mission: Timmy needed to meet the Easter Bunny. (I suspect that Robby no longer believes in the Easter Bunny. Whenever the rodent is referenced, Robby includes air quotes before and after his name.) Even though my little Koopa may not believe, he played along beautifully for his little brother. 

We dressed Timmy in the same outfit Robby wore during his first Bunny encounter. I was taken aback looking at Timmy in the bunny outfit. I felt like I was looking back in time at Robby. Hair and eye color is different, but they have stunningly similar faces. 

Dressed adorably like a little bunny, we were prepared for Timmy to melt down. After all, being put on the lap of a giant furry rabbit would be terrifying for a baby. Apparently not for my baby though; he seemed to thoroughly enjoy the interaction. We set him down in the photo lounge and Timmy took off  like a flash, crawling towards his new furry friend.  The Easter Bunny, seeing a cute little bunny crawling towards him, rose out of his chair and started to crawl towards Timmy. I am so happy that Scott managed to snap a picture!

Timmy

Robby in 2007

Eulogy

I wanted to share the eulogy I gave for my Dad this past Saturday.

My Dad asked me several weeks ago to give his eulogy on behalf of the family. I immediately agreed, after all it was hard to say no to my Dad. But inside I was filled with dread.  You see, I have always been more comfortable expressing myself in writing. My Dad knew this and was one of my biggest blog fans, reading it religiously and sharing it often.  He also pushed me towards public speaking, claiming it would be good for my career.  Knowing my Dad, I suspect that this eulogy request was another gentle nudge in that direction.  In my Dad’s honor, I am going out of my comfort zone. I hope to not cry, and I will do my best today.

I am an independent woman with a family of my own. I love my parents but I am no longer dependent upon them. This being said, right now I feel like a little girl who is losing her Daddy.

My Dad wasn’t always the highly respected professional we have gathered to honor today. I remember when my Dad worked at a dog food factory in the evenings and steamed carpets on the weekend. During those lean years he accepted almost any offer for employment as long as it brought in money for the family.  

Money was tight during those years, something I have only come to realize after becoming an adult.  We were considered the “working poor” but I never knew it. He kept those worries to himself, and I suspect that these experiences strengthened his passion for helping families through his career.

We didn’t realize what was missing, but we did know that my Dad would give us a stick of gum if we stomped on his toes hard enough before going to work, and that every Friday night he would sneak out of the dog food factory and meet us for a “buy one get one free” cone. Our summer vacations consisted of camping. These treats were memorable because my Dad made them fun and special. 

He loved football, especially Penn State and the Steelers.  I remember one time, when I was little, I was sitting on his lap during a football game.  Penn State caught an interception and ran for the winning touchdown. My Dad, in his exuberance, jumped to the air. Unfortunately he forgot I was sitting on his lap and went airborne.  After that, I learned to sit next to Dad during sports, never on his lap.

He loved auto racing, especially the Indy 500.  Dad and his best friend Danny would trek to Indy every year. I’m sure that the process was as much fun as the event.  Danny died when I was 7, and even though I was young I knew that my Dad was changed. He had lost one of his best friends, and in many ways I don’t think he ever recovered from the blow.

My parents began living separately when I was eight. They have always maintained a comfortable relationship. My childhood was void of the stereotypical divorced parent conflicts. My father was often present at birthday parties and other celebrations. He came to my softball games and my school plays. They managed to execute what I have come to appreciate as the perfect divorce. 

In 1992 he married Jeanette, whom he has often claimed as the love of his life. He absolutely adored her. Together the newlyweds, along with her children, forged a new life. Their newly formed family moved to Seattle Washington. After flourishing professionally, he continued his career by moving to Texas.

I didn’t see my Dad a lot during this decade. He was busy with his career and strengthening his new family.  I was busy with college and starting my career. During these hectic years we became disconnected.

Late on a Sunday night in 2001 Scott and I heard a knock on our front door in Virginia. It turns out that my Dad accepted a position in DC (for APHSA) and had planned on staying with us for a few weeks until he “got settled.”  He stayed for 9 years.

My life has drastically changed during his residence in our basement. I bought my first house, Scott and I  we were married. I struggled through numerous surgeries and agonized with the decision to amputate my leg. My Dad was there for the surgery. Lying in the hospital bed, I remember him being furious because he was given a speeding ticket that morning as he drove to the hospital. He wasn’t upset with the ticket, he admits that he speeding.  He was upset that he had explained the situation to the police officer and was called a liar.  Questioning my dad’s integrity has always been unacceptable. 

My Dad became my cheerleader as I learned to walk again. He witnessed my journey from a patient with a bandaged and blood stump to a happy and active amputee. I started my blog. He encouraged my passion for reaching out to new amputees.  My Dad was there for all of it, a constant presence and unobtrusive support.

Some events, however, are etched in my memory. Neither Scott nor I will ever forget that cold night when my dad received the phone call that a lung was available for Christopher. (Christopher was my stepbrother who was dealing with Cystic Fibrosis.) My Dad began frantically pacing, wringing his hands and unsure of what to do next. In that moment I assumed the care-taking role, making his plane reservations and helping him pack. What a terrifying and wonderful night.

I became the conduit between my dad and the rest of the family during this time. He called me with updates on the transplant surgery as well as information concerning Christopher's recovery. I passed the information to concerned friends and family. Sadly, I resumed this role when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. 

I saw my Dad age greatly during this time as he struggled to stay strong for his wife and son. (Yes, Christopher was technically his stepson, but that was simply a label. For all intent and purposes, Chris was my dad's child.) I witnessed his true heartbreak and pain when Christopher passed away. I was angry when he received criticism from coworkers the weeks following the funeral. I learned that a daughter never forgets!

9 years after he moved in “for a few weeks” he accepted a position at Accenture. He moved back to Texas with a pledge of visiting often.  Again he became busy with his family and work, and we stayed in touch primarily through telephone. As my career expanded into new directions he became my sounding board, confident and consultant. He understood my passion and my need to give back to the community. I have lost my professional confidant and mentor. I find myself terrified about making professional decisions without his insights and advice.

My Dad was more than a professional. He was a husband, father, brother, cousin, friend and Candy Papaw. My Dad and his sister had a uniquely tight relationship. The pair forged a bond in childhood that was unbreakable.  My Aunt Judy wrote to me last night shared the following:  “My brother used to say the best insurance policy in life is having a big sister and I say the best gift in life is having a little brother to love.”  She could not be here today, but she loves him dearly and the loss is devastating.

My Dad adored his grandchildren and took pride in each one. He is called Candy Papaw because he always had lollipops in his pockets. Despite the weather or the hour, he would make sure that his grandkids had a lollipop as soon as he saw them. They didn’t see him often, but when they did it was always so very special. 

He frequently used his hotel reward points to treat his grandkids to a night at a hotel. Staying in a hotel with your cousins is a very big treat when you’re a kid. The grandkids all looked forward to these special nights, and would light up for months afterwards whenever they talked about it.  I know that they will miss these special hotel night experiences as they mourn their candy papaw. 

My Dad came into town every December so that he could take all of us shopping for our Christmas trees.  Schlepping into the woods, through the mud, carrying a saw, my Dad’s smile never ceased. He loved these simpler moments with his grandkids, and they will always think of him when cutting down their trees from now on.

I am grateful for the time I have spent with him, and I know that our relationship is a gift. Not many parents and children get the opportunity to forge adult relationships with each other.  I am proud of my dad's professional and personal accomplishments, but I cherish our family memories over his professional legacy.

When my dad became sick and I learned that he was terminal, I was devastated. Again, I tend to express myself better through writing, so I penned the following letter to him.  He asked me to read it here today.

Dear Dad,

I feel heartbroken when I contemplate the possibility that you will not always be on the other end of the receiver when I call you. I have become so accustomed to calling you throughout the course of my week, sometimes to exchange work stories (good and bad), to ask for advice, or just to complain. I have learned to rely upon your professional guidance as I navigate through my career. You have always understood my passion to help, and you have fostered and nurtured me as I stumbled to find my way.

Even though you may not always be on the other end of the receiver, rest assured that I will always carry your wisdom with me. As I find myself at professional crossroads, I know that I will continue to be guided by the advice and insights that you have already imparted.  You told me to become the co-worker that brings donuts to the office. "It never hurts to have people like you, and spending a few dollars for a dozen donuts every now and then will go a long way."  Well Dad, I've been taking the donuts (and cookies) to work ever since and that isn't going to change. 

Although you moved away to Easton when I was in the second grade, you remained present in our lives. You weren't there for everything, but I can promise you that you were there for everything that was important. I don't remember the highlights you missed, but I vividly remember looking into the bleachers at my All-Star softball game and seeing you cheering me on. You were there when I won Miss Tip-Tam, when I was "girl #2" in the school play and for my graduations. You took me trick-or-treating, and endured more than your share of  WWF wrestling matches.  Remember you were given a speeding ticket as you drove to my amputation?  But you made it in time to see me before the surgery.

You probably don't remember my 14th birthday, but it ranks among my favorites. You had just moved back to Harrisburg and drove over to Mom's house before I caught the bus for school. We went to breakfast for my birthday, just the two of us. Sitting in the booth at Burger King, happily munching on my french toast sticks, I felt like I was the most important person in the world. Although our relationship hasn't been perfect, I never felt abandoned or unloved.

I smile when I recall your reaction upon learning that you were going to be a grandfather again. You uttered the exact sentiment when I called you to tell you the same news 7 years later. "Holy shit. Are you shitting me? You're pregnant?"

You were at the hospital when Robby was born, passing the hours I was in labor by filling out crossword puzzles and chatting. You were the second man to hold my son, which in retrospect is appropriate. You were also the second man to hold Timmy. The stars certainly aligned that day, didn't they?  You happened to be at a meeting in DC when he was born. I loved that you could visit us in the hospital that first day. I probably never told you how much seeing you meant to me, but please know how happy it made me.

I feel like our relationship was taken to a unique level when you moved in and lived with us for 8 years. I enjoyed putting dinners in the refrigerator for you to eat when you came home late at night. When we moved and were no longer near the donut store, I had fun baking you cookies to take to work. More than anything, I just enjoyed seeing you and having you in our lives. Robby adored having his Candy Papaw live with him. Remember the games the two of you would play? His face still lights up when he sees you!

Dad, there is so much that I want to say. There are just too many memories to recount, and I feel too much love to put into words. I think what I really want you to know is that I am lucky to be your daughter.

Please know that you will always remain present in our lives. Robby and Timmy will know their Candy Papaw and will learn about the impact he made on millions of people through his career. You could never be forgotten.

I know someday I'll pick up the phone to call you and you won't answer. I also know that you will still be with me, even when we can't converse. I will remember all of the professional advice you have given and will always consider what you would do when I am contemplating a professional decision. And yes, I will always bring donuts to the office. 

Someday I am going to be overwhelmed with grief. Losing you will cause a hole in my heart that will always remain vacant. But please rest peacefully knowing that I will, eventually, be okay. I will keep it together for Jae, Sheri, and Jeanette. I know that you would want me to become their rock, to support them through their grief. I promise you, I will be there.  After all, I'm your daughter.

Thank you, Dad, for everything that you have done for me and for all of the love that you have given me. I'm now 40 years old, but I've come to realize that I will always feel like your little girl, your Gupper.  I love you, and I will always try to make you proud.

Picking my Battles

This morning Scott and I are flying to Austin in preparation for my Dad's Memorial Service.  The boys are spending a few days with my Mom, who definitely deserves a day at the spa to thank her for all of the help she's been providing. The service in Texas is the first of two, with the second being a smaller funeral and internment in Pennsylvania next week.  My Mom has really stepped up and selflessly picked up the slack when I needed to be away. If it wasn't for her help, I know that I wouldn't have been able to be with my Dad when he needed me the most.

A few weeks ago, during the first visit to see my Dad after his diagnosis, he asked me to give his eulogy on behalf of the family. Of course I agreed, hoping beyond hope that he would be granted a miracle and my speaking would not be necessary. I've thought about the eulogy periodically since the request, more so in the past few days, but each time I try to organize my thoughts I become overwhelmed and cry. I know that he asked me to speak because he believes that I can do it; right now I'm worried that his confidence in me was misplaced. 

I'm hoping to find the right words between now and the service tomorrow. I know it won't be perfect, but I don't want to appear foolish. Hopefully inspiration will hit in the next few hours. 

True to my pattern during the past few weeks, I'm currently pushing the eulogy out of my mind because I have more pressing matters that need attention. I need to make sure that the funeral home is abiding by my Dad's extremely detailed instructions. I know that he meant well by planning so thoroughly, but I discovering that his explicit instructions are become a source of anxiety. The Funeral Home has already made blunders, things that normally wouldn't matter. However,  I find myself becoming upset because I know my Dad wanted something different.  I also know that my Dad wouldn't want me to become this upset over small details, so I am trying to relax.  I think the next few days I will have to pick and choose my battles or I will leave Texas completely drained.

Congress?

Yesterday was a blur.  Despite my intentions to get some rest after learning the news, I wasn't able to sleep. I ended up lying on the couch, closing my eyes and desperately trying to escape the reality of the news I was trying to absorb. Eventually I gave up and began to drink copious amounts of coffee.

As my mind was swirling, it dawned on me that I was going to have to break the news to Robby. My little Koopa does not accept change gracefully, and I was dreading breaking his heart. While he knew that his Candy Papaw was ill, Robby was still grasping the hope that he was going to fully recover. In his young mind, any other alternative was unacceptable.

When he finally emerged from his bedroom and curled up on the couch, I could sense that he knew something was amiss.  I curled up next to him and began to break the news. He cried, screamed and tried to run away.  I let him have a few moments alone, hiding under his covers, but soon went to retrieve him.  Although it was a difficult lesson, he also needed to learn that we do not hide from our emotions.

After talking with Robby for awhile and as the news began to sink into reality, it became clear that he was becoming angry. He wasn't angry with his Candy Papaw for dying, but he was furious that his prayers for healing and recovery were not answered.  This was the first time that he wanted something so badly and it did not happen, and he was livid.

I tried to explain that prayers were not guarantees, but rather suggestions for how you would like things to happen. God has his own plans and, while praying makes you feel better and will not hurt, it doesn't necessarily mean that God will grant the request.  In a way, I explained, prayers are like voting for an outcome.  Sometimes you win, and sometimes you don't.  But either way you have to accept the result and make the best of it.

Robby seemed okay with the explanation, and was actually composed enough to go to school.  When I received a phone call from the school a few hours later, I assumed that his grief was manifesting and expected a request to come home. Instead I heard his teacher chuckling.

During circle time, Robby took the opportunity to share his news about his Candy Papaw.  After accepting the condolences of his friends, he continued by sharing his new understanding of prayers.  "When you pray, it doesn't mean that God will do what you wanted. Think of prayer like Congress. Sometimes it doesn't really matter how you vote because they are going to do what they want."

Somehow, I knew that his Candy Papaw was smiling.

Dreaded Phone Call

I had trouble falling asleep last night. About an hour before bedtime, I developed an overwhelming sense of foreboding. I tried to shake it off and ignore to little avail.  After tossing and turning for awhile, I finally drifted to sleep.

I woke up at midnight with a ominous feeling, like in that moment everything had changed. I tried to rationalize the feeling by convincing myself that I was just exhausted. Although I did fall back to sleep, I wasn't surprised when the telephone rang and hour later.

My Dad had just passed away.

I am writing this at 2 AM, about an hour after receiving the call.  I suppose that there isn't really anything for me to do at the moment.  I can't sleep, but I suppose I should try. I know that the day that lies ahead will be long with phone calls and arrangements.

It is odd that, in this moment only removed one hour from the news, I feel numb instead of pain and grief.   I know the gravity of this loss will be felt fully and deeply in the coming days, weeks and months. Even though I was anticipating this moment, it feels surreal. 

Wing Man

With the weather finally breaking, Timmy and I have been able to spend more time outside. Although I have seen Mr. Bill in passing and for brief visits, I haven't really been able to sit and chat with him in a few months.  (Neither of us "do" cold weather and tend to become hermits during the winter.) Sunday afternoon Timmy and I spent almost two hours on Mr. Bill's back deck swing, just talking and catching up. Before leaving, we made plans to go to Cracker Barrel for breakfast on Monday.

Mr. Bill adores going to Cracker Barrel, and yesterday I learned that his motives were not entirely pure. As he explained to me before we left, a lot of single ladies his age tend to congregate for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. He also added that Mondays, more than any other day of the week, seem to be the morning that the "hot grandmas" choose to get together for breakfast.  I found this observation odd for two specific reasons. First of all, I was surprised that Mr. Bill has been tracking the breakfast dining habits of his female counterparts for some time and has accumulated enough information to be deemed an expert. Secondly, I knew that at that very moment my mom was on her way to meet her friends for their scheduled Monday morning breakfast.

Instead of just being a dining companion, I quickly realized my real purpose: he needed a cover for his hot grandma reconnaissance.  As it turned out, I was Mr. Bill's wing man!

As soon as we entered the restaurant, he began to put on the charm. He smiled broadly to all of the single ladies, offering up casual conversation with an ease that I found both endearing and impressive.  He referred to all potential dates as "my dear" or "my lovely" and insisted that the group of women (all senior citizens) get seated before us because "such beauty should never have to wait." He may be 73, but he can definitely still work a room. 

As we were eating, the ladies who were seated ahead of us stopped by our table to say good-bye. (I must admit it was odd seeing this generation flirt so openly.) They thanked him for allowing them to jump the line (an obvious grasp for a conversation starter) and wished him a good day.  Without missing a beat, Mr. Bill responded by saying, "My day will be measurably better if I knew that I would see you lovely ladies next Monday for breakfast."

After they gushed and plans were made to meet the following Monday, Mr. Bill wouldn't stop smiling. I wasn't sure how to respond, but he winked and filled the void.  "Looks like I have plans for breakfast next week Buddy, but did you know that Tuesday is Senior Citizen Day at IHOP? How do you feel about catching some lunch with Old Mr. Bill next week?" 

Obviously spring is in the air.

Rest!

Knowing that I was both emotionally and physically drained, Scott took off Friday afternoon. I handed him Timmy almost as soon as he walked up the stairs and headed back into Robby's room to take a nap. I woke up nearly two and half hours later. I can't remember the last time I took an afternoon nap of that length! I woke up feeling stronger and more centered.

This weekend we didn't do anything of any significance, but it felt like I was constantly in motion. We ran a few errands, but I spent the majority of my time doing laundry from the trip, catching up with the mail and returning phone calls. It is amazing how life's little tasks really accumulate after two weeks. I did manage to get in some outdoor playtime with Robby and a few neighborhood strolls with Timmy. 

Between the weather and my health, it has been a long time since I have been able to leisurely walk through the neighborhood. It was wonderful to push Timmy through the neighborhood, stopping to talk with neighbors I haven't seen since Fall. This has been a long and extremely cold winter; I was happy to officially ring in the first day of spring.  I love being outside, and judging from the smiles on Timmy's face, he does as well. I have a feeling the stroller and wagon will be logging a lot of miles in the coming weeks.