Okie Girl…Unleashed

The Super Bowl used to mean getting together with friends or family, drinking beer, eating queso, and watching commercials, and probably the Patriots playing someone. About fourteen years ago, my family’s life took a detour when our lives were changed forever after a Super Bowl party at my brother’s house.

The following morning, I had just arrived at work when I received a call from my brother saying my dad had passed out at work and that I needed to meet them at the hospital. Weird. My dad was never sick. It sounded bad.  I drove to OU Medical Center downtown and was taken to a private family room near the ER. I had been in this exact room recently when I visited one of my employee’s families after their grandchild had a tragic accident. The little one didn’t make it. I knew this was the “bad news room.” My dad’s doctors soon came in to meet with my family to tell us my dad had suffered an Aortic Dissection. It was very serious. He needed emergency surgery. There was a high chance he would not survive the surgery.

But he did. And for 13 years, even though he faced many challenges and illnesses, he kept going and going, just like the Energizer Bunny. He fought through kidney disease, Prostate Cancer, and more illnesses I can count. He watched his grandson Kyle grow into an 18-year-old young man and he battled through to meet his now 10-year-old grandson, Griffin.

Dad and the boys

Then, last year on Super Bowl Sunday, (I guess he decided to stick with the Super Bowl theme for life altering events) right when the game ended, my phone rang with my mom on the other end, “Jen, Dad has quit breathing.”

We had recently made the decision because of his declining health to put him on hospice care so my mom called the nurse for advice and I got in my car for the drive over. On my way over, I just kept thinking, “This is really it. The moment that has been hovering nearby for 13 years is here. I am going to walk in and he’s going to be gone.” No amount of self-talk can prepare you for that moment. He had been close to death many times but this was actually happening. The moment I had dreaded. The reason I always kept my phone near me, just in case something happened to my dad. She never called back to say it was a false alarm.

When I arrived, the paramedics were leaving, mumbling their condolences. It was real. My brother and sister-in-law had arrived. All there was to do was sit with my dad, and my family while we waited for the funeral home to arrive. So many times before when I visited, we had all sat together, chatted, but this time, my dad was present in body but he was already gone. Not knowing what else to do, we told him we loved him, hoping his spirit could hear us, feel our love and said our final goodbyes. Sorrow washed over me, because this was really the end. But also, relief because he could finally rest. No more fighting. No more pain. No more sickness.

Even when you are glad the sickness has ended, it still doesn’t make losing your dad any easier. I still think of him every day. I hear a song that reminds me of him and it makes me smile. I think about how he taught me to ride motorcycles before I could reach the ground and I’m thankful he raised me to be tough. I wear my jeans with holes in the knees and think of how he teased me about why I couldn’t afford nicer jeans. I met a former OU player last year and my first thought was that my dad would be so excited to hear about it. But I couldn’t call him. I am thankful he passed his fix-it skills on to me. When I am feisty and won’t back down, I am definitely channeling my father. I know I can’t bring him back. The best I can do is honor his memory, think of him with a smile on my lips, and be the daughter he would have been proud of.

Maybe someday, Super Bowl Sunday will just mean beer, queso, and commercials again. But not yet.

Happy trails,

Grief is weird. I lost my Dad earlier this year and most days, I’m fine. He was chronically ill for 13 years, and even though I miss him, I am glad he isn’t sick anymore. Often, I remember him with a smile on my face by listening to old country like John Conlee or Ronnie Milsap (we used to jam out to their 8 tracks) or by eating an extra piece of coconut cream pie in his honor (his fav and mine, too).

Today, I drove by the OK Heart Hospital and all of the memories of last holiday season came flooding back. I felt my chest tighten and my breathing got shallow as all of the feelings came back. My Dad was there, gravely ill, and we were told it was probably the end of his life. I vividly remember Christmas Eve and the days leading up to it. Everything was going wrong, he had mystery internal bleeding, and they didn’t really have any answers without doing exploratory tests that he wasn’t strong enough to withstand. I had been asked to do a reading during one of the candlelight services at church but I had to tell them I wasn’t sure I could make it. I remember thinking about what I was going to tell my kids if their PaPa passed away on Christmas Eve or Christmas. The doctors told us it wasn’t looking good and that we should call the extended family. Somehow, by the grace of God, I made it through my reading at church and he made it through Christmas.

True to my Dad being the toughest person I’ve ever known, he continued to fight. He made it through the rest of the year, and even got to come home. He passed away in February after too many times of us being told that he probably wouldn’t be with us much longer. He survived an aortic dissection, a stroke, cancer, and too many other things to list.

I’m a “glass half full” kind of person. I believe that we are very blessed to have had 13 bonus years with my Dad, after his aortic dissection because most people don’t survive those. I’m so happy he was around to meet my husband, watch Kyle grow up, and meet Griffin. I thank God for that extra time.

Grief is weird. Most days, when I think of my Dad, I do it with a smile on my face, and a giggle in my throat, thinking of the crazy adventures we had together. But every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of something that instead of happy memories, brings back the pain of countless hospital stays, bad news, suffering but never complaining, watching my Mom struggle through years of care giving, setback after health setback, and it hits me like a swift kick to the chest.

I’m trying to make the most of this holiday season in our new home and having fun decorating a new place. But I know he will be missed when it comes time to open presents this year.

I guess this is why they say grief is a process. Some days are good, but some are harder than others. For now, I’m going to sing some “Smoky Mountain Rain” and “Rose Colored Glasses” in the shower at the top of my lungs to wash away a little of the tightness still sitting in my chest.

Happy trails,

On February 4, 2018, my Dad passed away after a long illness. The past few days of funeral planning has been in a word: exhausting. But with the sadness has come many good memories, laughter going through old pics, and relief that my dad isn’t sick anymore. It’s been a roller coaster of emotions.

As we planned the funeral, we met with the pastor of the church I grew up in. I had written out some words I wanted him to share. He carefully read them,  looked at me, and said, “This is a eulogy. It will be a lot better coming from you. I think you need to deliver it.”

I didn’t want to do it. I prayed and prayed about it. But then. I knew he was right. I needed to say those words. But how? Even though I’ve spoken in front of people many times, it wasn’t at my father’s funeral. That’s a whole different story.

I logged on to Facebook last night and I saw that one of my friends had just changed her cover photo. It said, “God is within her. She will not fall. Psalm 46:5”. It spoke to me. I kept repeating it. I also kept repeating, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Philippians 4:13”  My friend Heather delivered an amazing eulogy at her mother’s funeral and I asked her for pointers. I knew I would only be able to do it with God’s help.

Today, somehow, I made it through. Here’s what I said:

It feels a little like I had two Dads. The first one was manly-man George that I had up until 2005 when he nearly died from an aortic dissection and subsequent stroke. In true manly- man style, he fought and survived something that most people don’t.

The Dad of my early years was a tough, motorcycle riding, booming voiced, hard-working, a little rough around the edges kind of guy. When I wore too much blue eye shadow in middle school, he let me know (which in hindsight was actually really good advice). Once, when there was a worm on my Mom’s salad, he didn’t just let the waitress know, he complained loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear, much to my teenage embarrassment. He taught me to ride a motorcycle before I could even touch the ground on one. When my brother was racing bicycles at a local track, my dad had me racing Big Wheels. We used to roar through the neighborhood on our three-wheelers, much to the delight of our neighbors. He wasn’t raising me to be a sissy. When I’d go out with my friends as a teenager, instead of telling me to be careful, he’d say, “Don’t stick any beans up your nose!” Also good advice. When I moved out on my own, he gave me a toolbox of everything I’d need to fix anything in my apartment that was broken and I did. He taught me to shoot a gun, respect my elders, to do the right thing, and to love the Lord. He tried valiantly (and failed miserably) to teach me to drive a stick shift. Sorry Dad. He used to go camping with his family and friends to a place called “Deer Camp” but I don’t think they ever even looked for deer. It was just an excuse to get away and do “man stuff.” Since he was a manly-man he didn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve but he showed he loved me by always keeping my cool Mustang convertible in good working order, getting up when it was still dark to go to work hard for our family, and mumbling that he loved us kids every once in a while.

After 2005, my dad was different. I don’t know if it was his brush with death that prompted the change but he became so sweet and kind.  He worried about me when I’d travel for my job and always wanted me to call when I reached my destination. He told me he loved me ALL THE TIME. Our joke became that I was his favorite daughter and he was my favorite daddy. He told me that he was proud of me. So even though the past 13 years during his illness were so tough, in a small way, they were a gift. They showed me the softie that my dad was on the inside. They gave us a Dad who could more easily share how much he loved us. He didn’t quite lose his feistiness, though. When I would wear my favorite distressed jeans with holes in the knees, he’d say, “You look real pretty, Jennifer, but can’t you afford nicer jeans by now?”

I’m thankful for the 13 bonus years so he could meet my wonderful husband Justin, 9-year-old son Griffin, and see my 17-year-old son Kyle grow up. He loved being the “World’s Greatest PaPa” more than anything.

I came home from the cemetery to discover that my 9-year-old had written this on my car today.

I’m so grateful for all of the years I had with my Dad. I’m thankful that he expected a lot of me as a kid because it made me strong. I’m happy that he pushed me to try challenging things when I was growing up because it made me tenacious. I appreciate that he taught me to try and try again because failing is part of life and so is getting back up. I’m even thankful for the past 13 years because it showed me what true love looks like- my mom lovingly stuck by my dad with kindness and grace even when times were unimaginably difficult. They showed me that you never give up on those you love. I’m most thankful for the gift of all the time we had with my dad because he was truly one of a kind.

I’ll miss you, my favorite dad.

Happy Trails,