Unapologetically Dee

The Reason

This, prologue if you will, is only to explain my purpose behind this. I am the daughter of someone who battled cancer. I know that there are probably millions of people in the world at this current moment who are getting the news of a loved one going though the same thing. As well as you. Just because they are going through it, doesn’t mean you are not as well. It has taken me over a year and a half to finally put into ink our journey together. This hasn’t been an easy process. Not going through it, nor reliving it to be able to type this. My hope for this, is that, not only will this give me solace in being able to accept what has happened and be at peace with it, but to help others. If someone had written something like this when I was first experiencing it, I would have read every detail. Everyone’s self, situation and case are different than others. No one can prepare you for what is about to happen. But my goal in this, is to be just a small light in the tunnel that you may go through, to understand that you are not alone. All the feelings that you are about to experience are not abnormal. Not anyone of them. You are not weird, you are not crazy, you are not selfish, and again, you are not alone. People don’t speak on this. So, I decided to. And as hard as it was, and as many breakdowns as I had while doing this, it was worth it.
For you.
So, you, as the reader know, you are not alone.

The News

It starts with a bee sting. That’s what it feels like, anyway. The first phone call. He hasn’t been feeling well, so he’s going to the doctor just to “get checked out”. A tiny bee sting, because everything is going to be alright, it’s just nerves. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. Days pass, as you wait for a phone call about test results. You go about your daily life. You go to work, tend to a family, take care of the dogs, get laundry done, prepare meals, and try to divert your attention elsewhere, even though your mind is constantly circling back to the anticipation of the “everything came back fine” phone call. During this anxiety ridden, yet optimistic time period, you can’t help but play out the different scenarios in your head. The good and the bad. He’s going to be fine. When he calls and says it’s nothing, we will make plans to get together for dinner and make jokes and laugh about how crazy we were to be worried when we knew it would be nothing. You tell yourself that as soon as you know everything is fine, you are going to make it a goal to spend more time together, and do things you wouldn’t normally do, because this experience has shown you how random life can be and the possibility of real and scary things. You tell yourself that life is too short to not make more time to hug, love, and spend quality time. But he’s going to be alright, so we will start with making dinner plans after letting out a huge sigh of relief together. Then the bad intrusive thoughts hit you. What if I’m wrong? What if the phone call goes the opposite way? What will I say? Will I have any words at all? What will his words be? How will he be feeling? How will I be able to feel what he’s feeling? What do I do? What CAN I do? How bad will the news itself be? How do I put my feelings and hurt for him into words? How do I tell him all the things I want to say to him? Do I even say them now? Wouldn’t it be heartless to tell him the things I feel now that he’s sick when I should have been telling him daily regardless just so that he knew it even without being sick? Will he think I’m being genuine, or just saying them because of the situation at hand? What’s next? How do we move forward? Should I come to your house? Do you want to be left alone? Should I smother you with love? Should I let you have your space? Do we tell anyone? Do we keep it between us? Who else are you planning on telling?
Are you scared…?

The phone call comes. In my particular experience, I was at work. He knew that. He never called while I was at work. Always a text, and only for a brief summary so he wouldn’t forget what he needed to tell me and would then tell me to just “call him later gator”. The phone call at work solidified what I was already terrified of. I stepped into the break room and answered the call.
My entire life changed in that very short moment…

In that moment, the bee sting converts to a knife wound. Directly into your chest cavity. But there’s no one there to remove the knife. So, it stays. In place. For the longest time possible. Even the blood eventually stops coming, but the knife stays in place. For the remainder of time.
The “C” word. The word we were hoping to hear ANYTHING other than. Obstruction? Fine. Blockage? Fine. Medication? Fine. Surgery? Fine.
Never the “C” word. Never. My heart stopped, and the tears started pouring as if I had left the faucet running. There’s no stopping it now. Every ounce of salty water has reason to be drained from your eyes as if they were just given military orders to do so. The words that he is saying go from clear and direct words to a screaming, ear piercing noise that make you want to rip your ears off. I can’t be hearing this. This is a dream. My mind is playing some sick joke with me. Why won’t my ears stop? I can’t hear him anymore. What is he saying? I can’t make the piercing noise go away. What is happening?

He says it. The results came back, and I have cancer. Esophageal cancer.
Are you scared…?

You hang up the phone with the understanding that you will talk more later. In that moment, you don’t even know what the word “later” means anymore. Do we have later? When is later? Can it wait until later? How advanced is it? Can they fix it? Will you be alright? What is the treatment? Is there treatment? If so, when do we start? Are you hungry? Are you even eating? What can you even eat? How did this happen? Are they sure? Should we go somewhere else? Who do I need to contact? Should I take off work? How are you feeling? What are you thinking?
Are you scared…?

Days go by. Waiting for the first set of test results is hard. But at least then, you have optimism in the thought that everything will be alright. Now, you know everything is not alright. Now, you wait to find out how, not alright, everything actually is. This round is harder. Yet again, you have to go on with your daily life, all the while having the intrusive thoughts again. Did they catch it early enough? Can medication fix this? Will we look back years from now making dark humor jokes about how worried we were, when we had nothing to worry about? Will we sit on a beach and have margaritas, with the sun beaming down on us as we rejoice that he was lucky enough to walk away unscathed? Or will our nightmares bare the truth and harsh reality? Will it be bad? Will it be too advanced? Will it be too late? Will we have time to be together as normal, or will we live a hospital life? If it’s bad, will he still be happy and his normal self, or will his life and personality come to a screeching halt? How sick will he get and how fast will this happen? What can I do? What should I do?
Is he scared…?

There have been plenty of times in my life when I was worried about the outcome of something. During those times, it always felt like the biggest deal in that moment. Looking back now, nothing in my life was bigger or worse than the outcome of that doctor’s appointment. The phone call that came was merely to tell him to come into the office in person to discuss the results. Walking into that appointment and walking out of that appointment played out in two very different ways with two very different sets of emotions. You walk in with hope. You smile with him in the waiting room, laugh and tell stories to ease the anxiety. Are you thirsty? I can get you some water. You put your hand on his leg and give him a little pat, rest your head on his shoulder and tell him “Everything is going to be alright papa bear”. He smiles and says, “I know little one”, and you melt at his words. Inside you’re both panicking, but on the outside, you keep it cool. I guess he really did teach me how to have a poker face during difficult times. The nurse greets you and you walk back to the room. The doctor will be in shortly. More waiting. He looks around the room, asking you medical questions about the stuff he sees on the wall. He makes jokes about the people on the posters in the room. He even has the spirit and humor to make a big situation light by asking where we are getting lunch after the appointment. He was always good at things like that. The room turns silent as the doctor starts to open the door. “Hi William, how are you feeling today?”

The Shock

You’re wrong. We want another doctor. We want other tests. Second opinions. Something. Anything other than this…
In that moment, you allow your brain to believe anything else in the world other than what is being said to you…
Your’e wrong.

Advanced stage four esophageal cancer that has metastasized to the liver and therefore is terminal.
The words no person or family member should ever have to endure hearing.
There is no cure. He can start treatment that may help to prolong life expectancy.
The only option.

You walk out of that room two completely different people in that moment. There is no laughter. There are no smiles. There are no sly jokes being made. There is silence. There are tears, but not from him. No. He’s too strong to let you see him breakdown. Just the thoughts running through your minds. Trying to process the information and somehow get a grasp on what is actually happening. What’s happening? Why is this happening? How did this happen? What happens now?

Are you scared…?

Daddy’s Little Girl

I’m 6 years old again. I’m laying in bed curled up in my Little Mermaid bed sheets. My hair wet and curly from the bath I just got out of. I hear Seinfeld playing on the big screen box tv in the living room. Daddy walks in and grabs The Velveteen Rabbit and snuggles up in bed next to me. He rubs my hair as he reads me the story that he has read to me hundreds of times before. I know he is sick of it, but he knows I love it. He also knows he will only make it a couple of pages before I am fast asleep, and he can put it down. The man has the first couple of pages memorized at this point. I can smell the scent of his Davidoff Cool Water cologne. His signature scent. My world is safe. I have no fears. I fall asleep snuggled up to my hero. Life is good.

I’m 33 years old. I’m laying on the couch in my house after a heartbreaking day of news that turned my world upside down. My hair is wet from the shower I just got out of that I only took so that no one would see me crying. I hear the dogs snoring on the floor beside me. I pick up my phone to send a simple, yet meaningful text message to him that just says, “I love you”. I lay there with a variety of emotions running through my body. My mind is a hamster wheel of thoughts. I feel like the world has betrayed him. I question everything. If God is real, why is this happening to such a good person? He doesn’t deserve this. I want to take his pain away. I want to take this away from him. How can I trade places with him? How can I fix this? How can I be the one to protect him now? Make it go away. Just let this be a nightmare. I can still smell the scent of his Davidoff Cool Water cologne on my hoodie that I put back on from the appointment, where he hugged me so tight in the parking lot. A hoodie that would not be washed for the longest time. My world is not safe. Nor is his. I have every fear in the world over what is going to happen. I silently cry myself to sleep worrying and sad for my hero. Life is not good.

I just hope he’s not scared…

The Blur

Nine months. The longest and shortest nine months of my life. For nine months, time stood still. For nine months, time flew past like the force of the wind. Nine months of a complete blur.
Life as we knew it had to continue.

Chemotherapy started. It started off with three days a week in the hospital getting treatment for 8-9 hours a day. The harsh truth is that, at the time, it felt like an inconvenience. I found myself scolding my thoughts multiple times. How can you say this is an inconvenience? Nothing is more important than making sure this man is on time, gets his treatment, and has someone there with him. But as human beings, we are comprised of trying to fit things into a schedule and making sure that everything gets done. Anything that alters that plan, in turn becomes an inconvenience to us. It’s not something we are proud of. It’s just human nature. For my experience, I was juggling chemotherapy, scan days, and doctor appointments, all while trying to learn the family business and take care of family life at home. It was in no way as hard as what he was going through. I stand true to that to this day. But nevertheless, it was hard. It was hard physically. Making sure that I was able to be everywhere at the same time, on time, for the full duration. At times, literally running down the hallway of the hospital to make it on time for scans or appointments. It was hard mentally. Learning how to run an auto body shop, while keeping up with medical treatments, medications, and results, while also trying to keep a relationship and family life afloat was mentally exhausting. I was emotionally drained. Happy and cheerful while at the body shop as to not let customers feel uncomfortable. Sad and heartbroken on the inside at treatments and appointments while trying not to show it as to not bring his spirits down. Cheerful and loving at home as to not let my heartbreak spill off onto them. The end result every night was me laying there in tears with a brain full of thoughts and tasks at hand which led to getting very little, if any sleep. Which made for a dragging and draining morning. Yet the day had to go on.

At the time, you think you are spending so much time with him, because you are with him everyday. Whether it be for treatment, an appointment, at his house to give him medication, at his house to stop in on lunch to check up on him… but the hard truth is that you’re not. This is time around him. Not quality time spent with him. Unfortunately, you don’t realize that until quite some time later. At first, it’s not so bad. He is still driving and getting out of the house. He comes to the shop for a while. You get the crew together and go to lunch. Grab dinners here and there. He’s still so full of life and his spirit is so high. It’s incredible to physically witness how strong he is. Physically and mentally. He never breaks down. He never seems sad. He’s always cracking some kind of joke. Making someone smile. Creating awkward situations like his normal self. Attending events that he’s invited to. Keeping up with house and yard work. Having pool parties in the backyard. This is the good blur. Things are standing still and moving so fast, but he’s in good spirits, he seems to be happy for the most part, and he’s being himself. He stays optimistic for scans and doctor’s appointments, telling himself and others that he knows the chemotherapy will work and that he has been looking into other diets and holistic measures that he is so certain is going to make him better, or at least feel better. It not only gives him hope, but it gives all of us hope at the same time. If he’s optimistic, we’re optimistic. If he’s smiling, we’re smiling. And in the moment, that’s all anyone can really ask for.

Then the trajectory shifts. The chemotherapy changes. He only goes one day a week now but comes home with a portable chemo pump that he wears for three days. We are no longer at the hospital three days a week, but he is now getting chemo four days a week. After the chemo pump comes off, it takes about two days of recovery, which consists of him sleeping and feeling ill. That leaves one day of the week for him to feel just the slightest bit normal, before having to start the process all over again. He’s getting tired. It’s making him sick. He can’t drive anymore. He can’t leave the house. The chemo is causing him to have numbness and tingling in his fingers. He is so sensitive to cold that he has to open the refrigerator with oven mitts on. He can’t drink cold water. He would give ANYTHING to just be able to drink a cold glass of water again. He can’t sleep on his stomach. He has a port in place in his chest, which is where his chemo pump goes. This port makes it easier to give treatment and medication so that he is not constantly having to get an IV. However, the port makes it difficult to sleep. He can’t shower anymore. He can’t get the chemo pump wet when he has it, but he also can no longer stand long enough to shower. At this point, he is couch ridden. He is losing mass amounts of weight and is no longer eating much because he doesn’t have an appetite, and nothing tastes good to him. He’s tired.

At this point, everyone is lost. Our small circle of people is coming together to try to figure out where we go from here. What can we do to help him? We are all physically, mentally, and emotionally drained. We just want him to be happy and healthy. At this point, he is neither of those things. It’s a blow to the gut, honestly, to feel so helpless. We want to help. We want to take his pain away. We want to make this all go away.

We don’t want him to be scared…

The Scans

Scan days are never easy. You already know what your’e dealing with, but the scans are supposed to be hopeful. The scans up to this point had shown no decrease in the cancer, but also no progression. Of course, you are hoping for a decrease, to prove that the chemo is working. But you soon learn in the cancer world, that if you have can’t get a decrease, you will settle for a stable scan result. No decrease, but no progression. This scan day, however, was different.

Every person, every situation, and every case are different. The majority of the time though, when you have multiple stable scan results, over time, you end up getting one that shows some kind of decrease. Unfortunately for us, we never saw that scan. The scan we saw on this particular day was, quite honestly, dumbfounding. It showed progression. And a lot of it. His body was riddled with cancer. Everywhere. His spirits were instantly shattered. As were mine. How could this be the case? He never missed a treatment. He took every last bit of medication that he was told to take. He didn’t eat sugar, as sugar feeds cancer. He got his rest. He didn’t overexert himself. He listened to everything the doctor told him. How could this be happening? Hasn’t he been through enough?

The phone calls from friends and family poured into him and myself, looking for updates on the latest scan and any information on his condition. He didn’t have the energy to talk, let alone address everyone’s questions. It was at this point that we decided that I would make weekly Facebook posts on my page with a “dad update” to keep everyone following his journey informed. We weren’t thrilled at the thought of his very intense and emotional personal life being shared on social media; however, it felt like the only outlet. He didn’t have the energy, and just two phone calls a night would take up my entire evening. I didn’t want to feel like I had to pick and choose who was most important to update first. I didn’t want to send copy and pasted text messages to people. That didn’t feel personal enough to our loved ones.

The love and support for him started pouring in the comments of my update posts. I would read each and every one of them to him. Even on the days when he didn’t even open his eyes, he would smile listening to me read him all the lovely and kind things that people had to say. Prayers poured in for him. Thoughts poured in for him. And the love and memories that poured in for him were astonishing.

Even through the most trying time, he was able to reminisce on the years of his life through posts of memories from his loved ones. That was something that no one will ever understand how much he needed during that time. We didn’t speak to people about how much that meant. So, if you’re reading this now, and you were one of those people… thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

The Decision

He was done. His mind was made up and the decision was made. He no longer wanted to receive chemotherapy treatments. There were a lot of mixed feelings from people on this topic. People giving him grief, making him feel like he was giving up. People saying that if this were the only option to prolong his life, why would he just stop? It was just one bad scan, right? It could get better next time.

He never said this to any of those people. He never felt the need to give an explanation for his decision. He never let their opinions get to him. But he said these things to me multiple times on many separate occasions. So, I am here to set the record straight as his voice now to those people…

That man never gave up. NEVER. He went through the chemotherapy. He took the medication. He lived the cancer and chemotherapy life. He fought that battle. And he fought hard. He was sick. He was tired. The chemo was doing nothing but making things worse for him. As for prolonging his life… why would he have chosen quantity over quality of life? He knew he was dying. He was hell bent on not spending the last of his life in a hospital room or attached to a chemo pump at home just to buy a little bit more time. And more time for what!? To lay around asleep, miserable, or sick? He wanted to be awake. He wanted to talk to his family. He wanted to taste food. He wanted to drink a glass of water. As his daughter, and the most important person in his life, I supported his decision one thousand percent. I knew my time with him was running short. Whether I had one day left with him or one year, I wanted him to be happy. Making him healthy was out of the question at this point. So, we chose happiness and serenity. And never once did he feel guilt or regret for his decision.

He wasn’t going to let people make him scared…

Are You Scared…?

In the days to come after his decision to stop chemotherapy, there was a lot he wanted and needed to discuss. The awkward stuff. The hard stuff. The conversations that no child ever wants to have with their parent. The will, the estate, the assets, the business, the finances, life insurance, power of attorney, medical power of attorney, his wishes for medical care and treatment, his wishes to be resuscitated or not, his wishes for his body in death, his wishes for a funeral, and his wishes for my life past that point.

We spent two full days going over every last detail. In hindsight, I wish we had taken more days to talk about things, even as much as I didn’t want to have those conversations. Reason being… it wasn’t long after that before he stopped talking. He would muster up a few sentences here and there to try to have a conversation, but he was slipping. During that second day of our conversation, he got quiet for a few minutes. I could see in his eyes that he was trying to figure out how to say something. And then, the question that he asked me caught me off guard. It was the question that I had been asking myself of him since day one. He looked at me with fear in his eyes and asked, “Are you scared?”. I felt a lump in the back of my throat and for a second, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Why would he be asking me this? He was the one that was sick. He was the one that was having to go through all of this. Why in the world would he be focused on me and my feelings when he should be focused on his? I didn’t know how to respond. I had never thought of it from that view before. I had never worried about if I was scared, only if he was. So, as the typical daughter that I am, I responded and said, “You first. Are YOU scared?”. He chuckled and made that sly side eyed grin that he does, and said, “No. I’m not scared to die if that’s what you’re asking. I am scared for you. I am scared for how you will handle it when the time comes. I don’t want you to be scared and I don’t want you to be sad. I want you to live a wonderful life with the memory of all the times we have had together. I want you to go on to be a wife and a mother, so that you will one day know the love that I have for you as your parent. I have raised you well and I have no doubt that you will live a happy life. I want you to make the best decisions and be a good person. Remember that family always comes first. And I am so very proud of you. So, no sweetheart, I’m not scared. I’m happy with the way my life has gone. And I want you to feel the same way in your last moments. So, make the most of it.” I couldn’t help but cry. Like a baby. I had tried so very hard through everything not to cry in front of him. I didn’t want him to see how upset I was or how badly I was hurting. I didn’t want to add more hurt to him. And this wasn’t about me. It was about him. I guess without ever asking myself or really putting much thought to it, deep down I really was scared. And he knew it. It was written all over me in that moment. I wasn’t just sad though. I was angry, confused, depressed, overwhelmed, and frightened. I didn’t want to express all of this to him. I wasn’t going to make the emotions about me, and I surely was not going to worry him. I hugged him as tight as I could without breaking his frail body and said, “I’m just scared to lose you”. His weak, bone thin arms wrapped me with every last bit of strength he had in him and whispered in my ear, “You’re gonna be just fine kid”.

That was the last full conversation that I had with my hero. The last one that made any sense. The last one that he could form full sentences. The last one that he truly knew what he was talking about. The last one that would ever mean anything to me again. And as hard as the conversation was, I thank my lucky stars every day that I was able to have that with him. I was able to stop asking myself in that moment if he was scared. It gave me some kind of peace that I didn’t know I needed. I will forever hold that with me.

The Blur 2.0

Days after that conversation, he started declining. And quickly. He could no longer talk more than a couple of words at a time. He wasn’t eating. He would barely drink anything unless forced. He couldn’t walk on his own. He got up one night and attempted to walk to the kitchen by himself and took a hard fall. I went to his house and tried to convince him to go to the hospital. He had cuts on his arm and hand from the fall, along with a cut and bruise on his head. I wanted him to get checked out, given that he hit his head, but he was stubborn, and quite honestly, was tired of going to the hospital. The next day he started slurring speech and acting out of sorts, still refusing to go. In the days following, his feet, legs, and everything up to his waist, and yes, I mean EVERYTHING up to his waist was completely swollen. It was at that point in time that I told him that he had no other choice, and that we were going to the hospital.

The first blur was a lot. It was filled with running around to appointments, working around schedules, getting medication timing and dosages down, keeping up with the chemo pump, and the fear of scans. Time stood and went by like a flash. This blur was different. This blur went at lightning speed. This blur left me angry, confused, overwhelmed and completely heartbroken. This blur was on steroids. This blur spared no time for feelings, or emotions. This blur made you think and act fast. This blur took away his comfort and completely robbed us of our last bit of time. After all, time was our enemy at this point.

The scans from his fall came back clear. He had no internal bleeding or damage, just the cosmetic bruise and scarring to his head. He wasn’t in line to be America’s Next Top Model any time soon, so he didn’t mind the scar. Those scans were the only bit of good news that we had heard this entire time and would continue to be the only good news we would receive. The swelling was caused by his liver. His liver that was riddled with cancer. He didn’t know what was going on. We never got a scan of his brain, to see if the cancer had spread there, but if I had to bet my last dollar on it, I would guarantee that it did. He wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t know simple things. He was confusing who people were. It was a scary time, but we proceeded with what the doctors recommended.

He was in the cancer unit at Barnes Jewish Hospital in St. Louis. His team of doctors were extraordinary, even despite the events that played out. His liver was filling with fluid, which was causing the swelling. At this time, he needed a procedure that would drain that fluid. It was a painful procedure. The recovery was completely uncomfortable and miserable for him. But the fluid had to be drained. It was the only option. They proceeded with the procedure, and he spent a few days in the hospital for observation. He returned home a few days later, and we assumed that was it. We were done with the hospital. He could now rest peacefully at home.

Unfortunately, we were wrong. Days later the swelling resurfaced. His stomach, where the liver is, was protruding. It was massive. He pleaded not to go back to the hospital. At one point making the comment of, “just let me die”. My heart was torn. I knew he didn’t want to be in the hospital anymore. But I knew he was in pain. I couldn’t let him lay there and be miserable. The fluid needed to be drained again. I just couldn’t grasp in my mind why it would have come back so quickly. Against his pleading, I told him that we once again were going back to the hospital, regardless of how badly he resisted. In that moment, there was absolutely no way that either of us could have predicted how long and treacherous this hospital visit would be and that the next time that he would be coming home, it would be on hospice.

We returned to hospital, where the doctors informed us that the fluid had in fact built back up, and that he would need another procedure to drain it. They took him in the very next day. They drained 8 liters of fluid from his liver. He remained in the hospital for observation. Rotating friends and family who came to see him, be by his side and comfort him. Many of sleepless nights I laid on the couch in the room with him, just so he wouldn’t be alone. Days passed as we waited for the doctors to tell us we could go home. Unfortunately, that would not be our fate. In just days, the fluid had returned for the third time. He would need another procedure. And another 8 liters was yet again removed. Returning to the same waiting game of family and friends rotating, nights spent in the hospital, and with every day passing, him getting more uncomfortable, even more miserable, overall fed up and ready to go home. A few days later the doctor told me that the fluid was coming back again. I couldn’t do this to him. I couldn’t keep putting him through this. His body was naturally trying to shut down. The fluid was building up to shut it down. Every time the fluid was drained, his body would be tricked into thinking it was healthy again, just to continue to try and shut down.

This was it. I knew it in my heart. It was the moment I never wanted to accept. His biggest wish throughout this entire tragedy, was that he did not want to die in a hospital or in a nursing home. He made that abundantly clear. After conversations with his oncology team, the decision was made to start filling out the paperwork for hospice. A process I never thought I would have to go through. Especially not at such a young age for the both of us. That was by far, the hardest paperwork I have ever signed in my life.

But it was time. And I knew he wasn’t scared.

The Benefit

Weeks prior to filling out the paperwork for hospice, close family members and friends helped me organize a benefit to honor his life, journey, and battle with cancer. The benefit was to raise money for medical expenses that were piling up from hospital visits, and what we would soon realize to be hospice expenses. The day of the benefit was the day that he was going home from the hospital to start hospice. The benefit was incredible. So many friends, family members, and members of the community came together to show up for him. A screen was set up at the benefit, as well as a computer in the hospital room. While he couldn’t physically be at the benefit, we were able to get him on the screen. Everyone saw him, but most importantly, he saw everyone there. He was in awe. The amount of love and support that radiated in that building was euphoric and overwhelming. He had so many people who loved him. And they showed up to prove just that. Not one person that was in the building will ever truly understand how much that meant to him. It lifted his spirits in ways that no one could imagine. If even for the slightest moment, he was happy again. He got to smile and laugh and wave to people. Something I never thought he would be able to do again. And yet, he did.

The Day

The day of the benefit he went home to be on hospice. The people were so kind and assisted in getting everything set up for him. He had a hospital bed in the front living room of his home. The tv was set up for him. His phone next to his head playing his favorite music. Twenty-four hour round care nurses in shifts sat with him and dispensed his pain medications so that he would be comfortable and at ease. Everyday for an entire week I stressed, wondering if it was the day. He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t drinking. No bowel movements. Physically his body was done. I couldn’t understand how he was still with us. Obviously, I didn’t want him to go. I just couldn’t understand. I sat one night and had a conversation with Rob. Rob started off a friend. It wasn’t long before he turned into dads’ best friend, which turned to family. Our conversation was confusing for me at first. He told me that dad wasn’t sure if I was ready yet, which is what kept him holding on. Due to my confusion, Rob explained in more detail. Dad wasn’t going to let go until I told him that it was alright. He couldn’t speak, but he could hear everything. He needed to hear from me. He needed to know that it was going to be ok.

That next night, I got in the hospital bed in the living room and laid next to him, holding his hand, with my head close enough to his ear so that he could hear me. To this day, they are the hardest words I have spoken aloud. I told him I loved him. I told him I was proud of him. I told him that he was leaving me in the arms of good people to love me and support me. I told him how loved he was by people. I told him what an inspiration he was to me and so many others. I told him that I was going to be alright. And finally, I told him that if, and only if, he was ready, that it was ok for him to go. I continued to hold his hand, as I laid there with my head on his chest, letting the tears fall and soak up his shirt. In that very moment, he made a moaning noise and squeezed my hand. I whispered to him, “I love you too daddy, it’s ok”.
Those were the last words that I ever spoke to my hero.

At 6:05am that next morning, Saturday, September 16, 2023, my hero took his last breath and surrendered to his battle with cancer that he fought until the very last moment. His wounds were closed, his scars were healed, and his soul was at peace.

And he wasn’t scared.

The Funeral

If someone had told me how incredibly beautiful his last day above ground would be, I wouldn’t have believed it. The weather was his weather. The sun was beaming, there was a breeze, and still been alive, he would have been in his pool with a margarita. The flowers were the perfect shade of purple that signified the Esophageal Cancer ribbon. Everyone who had been at the benefit wore their ribbons in his honor. The casket was mahogany and was simply beautiful. Especially after we branded it with an Auto Art sticker, so that he would always have the body shop with him. The chapel was large, and yet even still, the service was standing room only by the time it started. Do you know how many peoples lives you had to make an impact on in order for your funeral service to be standing room only? A lot. That’s how many. The room was filled with his childhood friends, his adult friends, his family members, his employees, members of the community, friends of mine that he treated as his own children throughout my life, and random people whose lives he impacted just out of the kindness of his heart to lend a helping hand or guide them through tough times in their lives. There wasn’t a dry eye in that room as I gave my eulogy, and others came fourth to speak of him in his honor. As we laid him to rest in the Mount Hope Cemetery, I held my hand on his casket one last time, as I sent him off and said my final “later gator”. It was time for him to fly.

Lest we forget about the fact that he was late to his own funeral. I couldn’t leave that part out. The man was late for everything. If you wanted him there by 3pm, you had to tell him 1pm, and then he would show up by 4pm. It was an ongoing joke my entire life that he would be late to his own funeral. And as a man of his word, he made it possible. The directors of the funeral home came out to me and the family I was sitting with and explained to us that he was late, in fear that I would be upset with them. Simultaneously, we all started laughing. The man actually pulled it off. In the middle of laughter, we see a casket being sped across the hall into the room that already had people in it waiting.
Even in death, he still remained a jokester.

To conclude the section of his funeral, I would like to leave my eulogy for you to read. How can you take years, memories, experiences, and love of someone and put it into so many words? I thought I would struggle with this, as I never wanted to have to do it, and could have written novels about the man who was my everything. I kept it as short as I could, while truly trying to portray the incredible human being that he was.

These are the words that I sent my hero off with…

~
I would like to thank everyone for coming today. My father was a very blessed man to have so many people who loved him and cared for him.

I’ve been trying to decide if I should talk about him, or to him today. So, I’ve decided to do both.

My father lived his life. Let me be clear that when I say he lived his life, I don’t mean he lived his life. I mean he LIVED his life. He knew from a very young age that he did not want to be the person to work a 9-to-5 job, clock in clock out, and make just enough money to get by. He wanted to LIVE. And he made it happen. He busted his butt day in and day out to make sure that he could do the things that he wanted to do. He lived just about everyones dream. He made a life for himself that allowed him to take that vacation, or drop everything and take me to breakfast, to disappear and spend all day at Menards, or to simply grab his buddies and drive aimlessly in a classic car around the hill. He was proud of the life that he built. He was proud of the family that he had. And he was proud of his circle of friends.

His passion for cars came at an early age also. Anyone sitting in this room knew of that passion. The pure joy that he would get after seeing a customers face when they saw their classic car restored, was worth every second of any headache he would acquire from it. He was truly a talented man.

He was also a family man. I was so very blessed to have been chosen to be this man’s daughter. He made me nothing short of a princess from the day he laid eyes on me. I was his world. There wasn’t a thing on this planet that man wouldn’t have done for me. He supported me. No matter what. He has literally spoken the words to me, “Hun, I want you to know that I think this is one of the biggest mistakes you’ve ever made, but I’ll be here no matter what you decide”. We had each other through everything.

The most important thing about him though, is that he was a selfless man. He did things for other people that no one else could or would do. He gave chances. He gave opportunities. He gave hope. He gave reassurance. He gave confidence. And he gave genuine love.

I was just telling this story the other night, about one time when my dad and I went to get McDonalds breakfast when I was a teenager. The line at the drive through was long so we decided to go inside. There was a man sitting at a table, with holes in his clothes and shoes that had tape on them. It was obvious by looking at the man that he was down on his luck. As we were ordering at the counter, my dad started ordering extra food. He walked over to the table where the man was at and motioned for me to sit down also. My dad gave the man food, and while the man was trying to thank him, dad said “Who are you? What’s your story?” … We sat there for over 2 hours talking with him. Before we were about to leave, dad asked if he would be there for a few minutes. The guy said he wasn’t going anywhere. We left and went to our house. Dad got back in the car, and we drove back. Dad gave the man a bag of clothes and a pair of shoes from our house. He handed him a hundred-dollar bill and wrote his phone number down on a piece of paper and told the man that if he ever needed anything or found himself in a bad situation, to call him. When we got in the car, I asked him why he did that. He said, “Whats the point of having a good life if you don’t help others who need it”. Ive carried that with me ever since. He was wise. He was humble. And most of all, he was good. He was a good human.

Daddy,

I don’t know how we got here. Your life was taken too soon, and I still can not believe that any of this is real. I keep waiting to see your name pop up on my phone. Nothing means anything anymore. My world has shattered. Everything is foggy and confusing and you’re the person that I would call to help me through it. And I can’t. And I don’t know that I will ever get over this empty feeling.

But for now, I’m going to be happy. For you. Im going to be happy that I had you. Im going to be happy for all the times that we had together. Im going to be happy for the unconditional love that you gave me. Im going to be happy for the good things about you that will live on through me. And Im going to be happy that you LIVED your life with such strength, dedication, and perseverance for me, so that I will be able to LIVE the rest of my life for you.

You can fly now daddy.
I will always be your little girl. I love you.
~

The Grief

The weeks following his funeral were like the blur. An outpouring of friends and family checking in, sending love, sending meals, and offering support if needed. I was overwhelmed, but in a good way. People that I really didn’t even know were reaching out to me just because of how much they loved him and knew that I was his world. I didn’t take any time to myself. I needed to stay at the shop and continue to power through. Alone time became the enemy. I seemed to be handling everything well, as that’s what others told me. I heard it all.

“You are carrying yourself so well”
“You are so incredibly strong”
“I don’t know how you do it”
“You are handling everything with such grace”
“I’m so proud that you’re not letting this take you down”

And, in my most sarcastic voice, my favorite… “I’m so sorry, I’m praying for you. Is there anything I can do?”
This is the part where I suppose, I may come off a little mean. But I mean it in the nicest way possible.

For anyone who has said those words… please stop. Stop saying sorry. Sorry is something you say when you break a lamp, you spill a secret unintentionally, or you drop a child’s ice cream cone on the ground. Don’t say sorry when someone dies. I promise you; it’s the last thing someone wants to hear. Don’t tell me you’re praying for me. While I appreciate it, I’m not the one that needed to be prayed for. I’m grieving. That’s normal. If you want to pray, pray for the others out there in this world who are battling the same unfortunate circumstances. They are the ones who need it now more than ever. And the best… “Is there anything I can do?”. Can you bring him back? Can you stop this hurt in my heart? Can you take away this nightmare? Can you guarantee that this feeling will go away? Sure, you can make me a casserole. You can clean my house. You can run to the store for me. But you can’t change anything. You can’t change what happened. So no, you can’t do anything. But thank you.

This sounds mean. But grief isn’t kind. It’s hard and it hurts. And the stages of grief will most definitely bring out the angry stage.

The months, and even year to follow were a roller coaster. At first, you’re a zombie. You’re numb. The loss hasn’t hit you yet. At least, for me it didn’t. Some people it hits right away. My experience didn’t allow me to do that. I was a zombie for months. Which, honestly, is probably why people thought that I was handling it so well. But once that stage subsides, then the hard stuff starts. What I like to refer to as the D4’s start. The deep, dark, dirty, depressing grief starts. Let me elaborate for you.

The deep: You start digging. These deep thoughts were the first for me. I was reaching deep, wondering what things I could have done different or anyone else could have done differently. Did I not do enough? Should I have spoken up more about things? Should we have gotten other opinions? Could I have changed this or fixed this in any way? He was stage four. Shouldn’t I have noticed symptoms sooner? Made him go to the doctor sooner? What was I missing? What was he missing? How did people around him not know that something was wrong? Every time he said he had heartburn, why didn’t we focus more on that? I have heartburn a lot, does that mean that I’m sick also? He was diagnosed in January. How did I not see it on Christmas the month before? What more? What could I have done?
These thoughts sit and resonate with you. They don’t go away. At least, not right away. You beat yourself up with the “what ifs” or “what could have been done better”.
But don’t worry, it will subside.

The dark: For me, these were the morbid parts. The moments of thinking that I should end it, just to be with him. Why is it alright for me to be here, but not him? Without him, I didn’t feel purpose. I didn’t feel the need to make anyone proud. There was no reason for me to be here anymore. But I had to remember that he wouldn’t want that. He would be angry, actually, if that was the path I chose to take. He fought for his life, and I would just end mine? How would that be fair to him? But it doesn’t mean that the thought doesn’t stick. When you feel like absolutely nothing.
But don’t worry, it will subside.

The dirty: This was the angry and vulgar stage. I cussed like a sailor during this stage. If you are offended by cursing, then don’t read this next part. The best way I can put it, is this…
What the fuck!? Why the fuck did this happen!? And why do I have to be here to be the one going through it!? You left me! How could you just leave me? Do you know what you’ve done to me!? Do you even know how hurt I am? You left me here all alone to deal with this by myself. How the hell am I supposed to do this life without you? Who is supposed to guide me? Who is supposed to be proud of me, mad at me or be in my corner? Did you think this through when you decided to end the chemo? What if you would have given it another shot?
Then the question sets in, that you never thought you would ask yourself.
Did you, in fact, just give up?
But you snap out of it. Of course not. He didn’t give up. He wouldn’t have done that to you. You’re being ridiculous because you’re hurting.
But the feeling and question sits.
But don’t worry, it will subside.

The depression: This one was the hardest for me. Everyone saw me in the beginning. “Doing so well” and “handling things so well”. It was quite a while later before this stage set in. And it was my least favorite, not only for myself, and everyone around me, but also to try to explain to people. This was the seclusion. I was supposed to be already working my way past things at this point. However, this was the downfall. This was I guess, what most people experience in the beginning, that I never did. And let’s talk about that for a minute. In the beginning, when everyone expected me to be crying all the time, upset and depressed… I wasn’t. And I honestly thought that something was wrong with me. Why was I not sad? Why was I not grieving harder? Did I not love him enough? What was wrong with me? I struggled with this a lot. If you are reading this and going through the same feelings, fear not sweet soul… come to find out, it’s actually normal. Everyone copes in their own ways. Some people, like me, laugh at funerals and cry in the dark. It’s our defense mechanism. Not everyone has this, but some of us do. The beginning was my defense mechanism. This, however, many months later, was my downfall. I didn’t get out of bed. People would call to check up on me. I would see them calling and ignore it. I didn’t have the words nor the energy to answer. And what was I going to tell them anyway? When they asked how I was doing, should I tell them fine and lie to them? Or tell them the truth and admit that brushing my teeth was the only thing I had accomplished for that day? I didn’t even have the willpower to send a text back. I felt terrible. Texts from friends just trying to support me and make sure I was ok, and I couldn’t open them. I could text back. I didn’t want to explain myself. It had been so many months since he passed, how would anyone understand that I was just now going through it? I felt lost. I felt alone. So, I secluded myself. I would get out bed to pee or get a drink. Which let’s also talk about. I was only drinking. And not water. Alcohol. Now, I’m a beer person. But during this time, it was straight alcohol. I would get up, pee, take a shot, go back to bed. I didn’t eat. Didn’t want it and didn’t feel that I needed it. I was spiraling and didn’t even know it. And this lasted for a while. At one point in time, I decided that if I was going to be miserable, sad, and drunk, I may as well do it somewhere else. Right?

The D4’s were over. Except the last one, that was still lingering, which stunted the T2’s.

The first T was travel. Not everyone has the ability to do this. Fortunately for myself and peers, I did. I started booking trips. The first person to take them with me was my cousin. Since dad passed and up to that point, she had been my rock. During the depression stage, she wasn’t the person that would call or text. She was the person that just showed up. She had a key to my house but also knew that my door was always unlocked because apparently, I don’t practice stranger danger. She would show up, while I was laying down, walk in and not even say a word. She would start cooking dinner, doing my laundry, or cleaning up. She didn’t have to ask questions. She just knew. She understood. She then became my travel partner. We went all over. Exploring and trying to make the best of things. My money, her time, and we did it well. She knew what she was walking into with it though. She knew that there were going to be times when the fun would come to an abrupt stop because that good old last D depression would kick in. But she didn’t turn away. She didn’t fight the fact that the night was over. She knew it was time, and I needed to cry, talk, or just sit in silence. She became the person that I leaned on, for everything. The person to get me out and not let me stay secluded. The person that knew my dad as well as I did and knew how much we meant to each other. She never looked at me weird in the beginning for not grieving. She never looked at me weird later for grieving. She just stood by my side. No matter what that meant. And to this day, I am forever grateful to her. The travel started with her as a way to get me out of my head, out of my bed, and to be miserable somewhere else.

Our travels subsided for a while, as she has a child and work, and I could only convince her to get away every week for so long.
The depression started again.
I wasn’t going to do this again. I would rather be dead than do this again. I know, shame on me. Yet again, dad was fighting for his life, and I would just end it?
What else was I to do?
I did what any rational, completely depressed, yet competent person would do.
I rescued a puppy.

The hell? Let me say this for the record right now. If you are depressed and grieving… don’t get a puppy.
BUT… also, get a puppy. He has been my sidekick without me even knowing it. Let’s touch on that before we move along.
My before mentioned cousin and I were on a plane, about to take off on a flight back home to St. Louis from New Orleans. The humane society in St. Louis called me asking me if I were still interested in adoption and asked if I would be interested in rescuing a puppy that was found on the side of the highway in Georgia in a Doritos bag. There was a fee for him, and he was skittish, but would I be so inclined? They sent me pictures of him. The second I saw his face, I knew, that even if he wasn’t a match for me, someone that I knew would take his cute self. I sent the funds. When I landed, I went to the humane society to meet him. The second he walked in; he ran into the wall and flipped upside down out of excitement. Come on. Let’s go. You’re coming home with me.
To this day, he has anxiety, I have anxiety, everything is anxiety ridden. And we’re a perfect match.

He was the only thing keeping me going at that time. But his behavior started. I had to put him in training. I once again felt lost. Did I get the faulty dog? What have I done? Was this too impulsive? Was this depression?

He was in behavioral training for the week, so I called up a friend to go on a trip to Key West with me.

That week, on the very last day, I met the man who reminded me so very much of my dad. He and I are together currently to this day, one year later.

Get the puppy. No matter what anyone says.

The second T is time. This is the one you think will never come. There is no way possible to convince anyone in the early stages that this one will come, but I’m here to tell you… it does. If ANYONE tries to tell you that it gets better, they are lying to you. It never gets better. But time… oh that tricky thing called time. It steps in when it’s the moment to shine. You don’t see it coming. You’re going through your grief process and doing it in the way in which your body and mind is meant to do. You don’t even know that time is a benefactor in the process. Until you actually realize it. Before you know it, time itself has passed. You’re still hurt, sure. You still grieve, sure. It doesn’t get better, but it does get easier.
Some would disagree, but by this I mean, the emotions get easier. You’re not as mad all the time. You don’t have the daily thoughts. They are there, but randomly instead of daily. You can get out of bed. You can accept that nothing more you would have done would have helped the situation. He was sick. He was dying. This was something that you both had to endure. The regret gets easier. Living your life happily gets easier without the guilt of being happy without him being here. He’s looking at you. He wants you to be happy. He wants it to be easier, because remember…
“You’re gonna be just fine kid”.

The Aftermath

This morning, I woke up in Arizona. A place I never would have been had I not gotten out of the bed and pushed forward over a year ago. My guy left for work, and I started my day thinking, it’s time. It’s time to put into ink his story. My story. Our story. I grabbed my computer, fired it up to a blank document, and titled it. I grabbed my phone and put on Spotify with the first playlist that popped up. The very first song that came on was Taylor Swift (go figure) “You’re on your own kid”. I put my fingers to the keyboard and started typing. It has been 1 year, 7 months, and 17 days since I held my father for the last time.

How am I doing?
I’m at peace, now, after typing this all out. I have had so many pent-up thoughts, regret, and remorse over losing him. I couldn’t find what I needed to cope. It got easier, absolutely, but there was still this lingering tension in my heart. I realized what it was.

His journey had never actually been told. My journey had never actually been told. People only knew the outside looking in.

Writing this has been an emotional roller coaster. It’s easy to relive everything in thoughts and your mind. When you start to put every moment, every detail, every thought, and every word into ink… it becomes so much more real all over again.

I can’t say that this is closure. There is never closure to something like this. But I can say that this is peace. This is peace in finally taking the time to put his journey out there. Everything he went through. Everything I went through. Everything we went through. It’s been a long time coming for me to finally be able, comfortable, and willing to put it out there. And I know he would be proud.

If you find that you are in the same situation as anything that I have said throughout any of this, and you need someone to talk to, please reach out.
I will give my last breath to help someone who is experiencing the same things. You are not alone. I promise you.

Daddy’s Little Girl

I’m 35 years old. Im sitting at the kitchen counter on my computer, with a picture of us next to me. My hair is dry because I haven’t showered yet due to typing all night. I hear Breaking Bad playing from the living room. Porkchop is chewing a bone on his dog bed. My man is sitting on the couch anxiously waiting for me to finish this so he can read it. My world is currently safe. I currently have no fears. Im sniffing the last bit of Davidoff Cool Water cologne that I took from his things. I will forever be thinking of my hero. Life is currently good. It’s as if I’m 6 years old again.

And we’re not scared.

 *In loving memory*

William “Billy White” Anselmo
June 30, 1960 – September 16, 2023
“It’s time for me to fly”