May 29th, 2015

Listen, guys...

When I wondered if it would be worse to lose one of you over the course of a year, where we'd have to watch you suffer, or to lose one of you suddenly and in an instant, I didn't actually want to f*cking know (that was for you, pops.)

That Thursday morning started like any other day. I went for a run, having no idea that the world I finally felt like I was adjusting to without my mom was about to be once again turned upside down.

I should have known something was wrong, because on Tuesday, while stormi and I were out shopping, I stopped in my tracks because I smelled my dad. A combination of his aftershave and old spice deodeeant. Nobody was around me, and I thought "something's wrong." But by the time I got to the car where my phone was, I had naively forgotten about it. 

I'm sorry, dad. I should have called, just to hear your voice one more time. 

Thursday morning, I got a call saying you were on an ambulance because you texted the neighbor saying you hadn't been feeling well. Trying to track you down and just find out what was wrong was a process in and of itself. When I finally got ahold of someone who confirmed you were there, I got a false sense of hope when she told me you were awake and alert, just short of breath. "Okay, this is just going to be another scare. Another opportunity for neal and I to gently tell you to get your shit together, because we don't want to be orphans." 

After giving the doctors some time to assess you, I called back. It was then that I was told you were very sick and they were admitting you to the ICU. Medical jargon was thrown around, most of which I didn't understand. Unfortunately, the only topic I had extensive knowledge about was treating GBM. This was a whole new ball game. I booked a flight, talked to some more doctors and gave them permission to sedate you to give your over-working body a break...not knowing I would never again see you conscious and awake. The doctors kept telling me how sick you were, but at that point, I couldn't accept that what they were really saying was that you probably wouldn't make it.

The day of travel was a blur. Neal's incredible friend and my future beard of a SIL went to the hospital and sat with you so you wouldn't be alone. I'm so sorry you were alone up until she got there. I talked to more nurses, who told me "his outlook isn't good." It felt like people were skirting around telling me what I knew deep down in my heart.

As I sat on the flight and pleaded with mom and God and whoever else was listening to please just let you be better, I stopped and started to wonder if I was praying for you or for me. You fought silently for a long time. I don't think you ever got over losing mom, despite how much you'd try to convince us so. You lived alone and your children were living their lives, separate from yours, and I don't believe you'd have wanted it any other way. I started to think maybe it was time for you to not have to fight anymore, and maybe I'd have to learn to be okay with that. 

Once I landed, things had gone from bad to worse. I stepped off the plane and was told "your dad really isn't doing well and the doctors need to speak with you." I asked if it could wait until we got there, but was handed the phone instead. The doctor told me we were now exhausting our resources. X-rays showed you had severe pancreatitis, and your organs were starting to fail from all the pressure in your abdomen. All I heard was "mortality rate of 85%, but the mortality rate is high regardless." And "he could very well bleed to death on the operating table." I barely remember the ride to the hospital, just that the doctors agreed to let me see you first. As I walked through the doors into the ICU, 3 incredible friends greeted me with sad looks on their faces. I'm sorry if I didn't acknowledge any of them, but I barely remember that part. All I remember is walking back into that room and seeing you attached to a dozen tubes and machines. I lost it immediately. I told you I was so sorry it took me so long to get there. I told you neal was on his way. I told you if you couldn't make it through, that I hoped you knew how thankful we were for everything you'd done for us and how much we love you. 

I was told by about 4 people how risky the surgery was and the (un)likelihood of you even surviving it. I contemplated forgoing it because I didn't want Neal to miss out on a chance to say goodbye, before someone kindly reminded me that Neal would want me to do anything to save you. I'm sorry I didn't have more faith in your strength for that procedure. I fully expected the strange surgeon to enter that room with whatever look of sadness he could muster. I expected that when I came into that room and saw all those tubes and machines connected to you, it would be the last time I saw you alive. I grabbed your hand and I thanked you one more time...maybe one last time, for all you had done for us; for all the sacrifices you had made and for how much you loved us. I hope you heard me, but it's okay if you didn't. I like to think you knew all those things without having to be told. 

What seemed like forever and a day later, all those who doubted your strength stepped into the room and told us you had fared better than they expected. They said you were stable and they would continue to monitor you. I went back to our family friends' house and tried to get a few hours of sleep.

I got 2 calls in the middle of the night. One that said you were teetering back and forth between stable and unstable. The nurse asked if I had any questions, and said the odds weren't good. I knew this. I told her my concern was getting my brother home in time. I think I knew it was time for you to go and be with mom and grandma and all the other people you were missing terribly, so my hopes were redirected to Neal and his ability to make peace and find closure. I could no longer protect you and take care of you, it was out of my hands...so protecting my "baby" brother became that much more important. I knew it would soon be just the two of us.

I got another call a few hours later saying you had coded overnight and we were on the last ditch effort. It was only a matter of time, and your body was too tired, and you weren't responding to medications. I got to the hospital and was met by all the people I had sent SOS messages to, asking for company because I couldn't be there alone to receive the news I knew would be coming.

I walked into the room as your blood pressure had started to drop, which meant the last ditch effort was wearing off. I was told you weren't going to make it and the doctor suggested I should just let you go. They asked if I wanted them to do CPR if it came to that. My initial thought was yes...I had to do everything I could to keep you there for Neal. But then I realized, after 30 years of you making selfless decisions for the sake of Neal and me, it was my turn. I told them no CPR. I asked for a priest to read last rights; I knew that was important to you. (5 priests later, and I think you were good to go and totally covered.)

People started trickling in and the last priest who came to do last LAST rights was the priest from your church. I told him about Neal and how I was hoping he'd make it home in time. By the end of his bedside prayer (and song...), he looked at me and said "you know...your brother's on his way home, but maybe dad's on his way home, too."

It was too much to process. All I wanted was to allow my little brother the opportunity to make peace with both of your deaths. I needed him to have closure. I hate that I couldn't protect him from losing you both, because that's what big sisters are supposed to do. So I had to at least try to keep you here until he could see you.

But you had other plans. Within 30 minutes, you were gone. The nurse (who was wonderful) asked us all to step out to see if they could do something with your wound because the pressure in your stomach had started to build again, and you must have been waiting for us to do so. A few minutes after we were asked to leave the room, the nurse stepped out, made eye contact with me, and pulled me into the room to give me a moment. And that was it. At 2:45 on May 29th, my greatest fear (becoming an orphan) had come true. 

Neal made it home a few hours later, and he knew immediately upon seeing our faces. He didn't get to be with you in that hospital room that day, but I think maybe that's how you wanted it. At 25, he's already witnessed more than he ever should have had to. The sight of him crying during mom's last rights flashed back in front of me as yours were being delivered. A 25 year old shouldn't have to see both of their parents die. He shouldn't have to remember you both during your last few moments, when you looked nothing like yourselves. It's bad enough he had to see it once with mom.

I remember you on the phone with him during mom's last appointment with Dr. Drapatz, when we found out her treatment was no longer working and the cancer had spread. I remember you losing it from him losing it on the other end of the phone. It broke your heart to watch ours break the way they did. It's okay that you spared him that. It was important for me to hold your hand and thank you and tell you goodbye, and I wouldn't change being in the room with mom and you both as you took your final breaths. But at the same time, I wouldn't wish it on my little brother. It's a bitter-sweet thing, to see someone in their final moments on earth. On one hand, they're not alone and you get to be there with them. But on the other hand, it will always be the last memory you have of them. And it's okay that Neal's last memory of you was during your skype call, when you were happy and relatively healthy and probably rolling your eyes at what a dufas he is.

Thank you both for parenting us correctly; for loving us so much, and for preparing us to survive without you. 

Goodbye, Daddy-O

When grandma Jeanne passed away, I remember looking at mom in front of us, delivering the most perfect farewell for her mom that I could have ever imagined. I remember the desire that developed inside me that day to pay tribute to you both when you would leave this world behind. I never imagined that day (for both of you) would come less than 5 years later, and less than 2 years apart.

I take more pride in being able to recount some of the most important lessons learned from you both and share them with those who loved you most than I do in any other life accomplishment. Because I never thought it would be possible to stand up in front of people, in the wake of either of your deaths, and be able to complete a sentence without breaking down, let alone an entire speech.

I loved you both more than I could ever properly tell you or show you. I was the kid who refused to sleep at friends houses growing up because I would miss you both too much. I was the teenager who didn't go out with friends and get into trouble, but instead spent most evenings with my mom, watching our favorite shows and laughing and enjoying the company of one another. I was the college student who didn't move out of my dad's house, because (aside from it being cheaper) our father-daughter relationship was perfect and our living situation was fun and laid back. I was the young adult who agreed with my mom that we would not say goodbye as I packed my brand new pontiac vibe and moved to Florida, because I knew it would destroy us both. And I was the daddy's girl who soaked up every second of our 16 hour car ride to Florida before fighting off tears as I hugged him before he left me to be on my own for the first time in my life; a thousand miles away from my home and the only life I'd ever known. And I was the adult who spoke openly about my desire for the world to end in December of whatever year it was supposed to happen, because I couldn't imagine being on this earth without my parents. 

Losing you both was always one of my biggest fears. Yet here I am, facing this world without you both. Dad, you always said the mark of a good parent is to prepare your children to live without you. And here we are.

Thanks for everything, daddy-o...

Less than two years ago, I stood up in front of many of you and tried my best to sum up the most important lessons my mom taught me.

 

Today, I'm here to talk about Phil.

 

Better known as my dad, Phil was one of the most straight forward, hilarious, brutally honest people I've ever known. He never held back his opinion, and it usually involved the F-word a minimum of 3 times. Multiply that by 10 if he'd been drinking.

 

He probably obtained his funny bone from a combination of growing up in a colorful family (2 derelict brothers, an outspoken little sister, and a Polish mother) and the situations he found himself in during his college years as a Fiji.

 

A sense of humor is one of my favorite things my dad taught me. Though my wit will never be as quick as his, my stories will have just as many F-words.

 

My dad taught me to use my head for something other than a hatrack. For years, he reserved the nickname "hatrack woman" for my blonde moments.

 

My dad taught me that popping two ibuprofen before drinking heavily will almost always prevent a hangover.

 

My dad taught me that playing on his opposing trivial pursuit team was a guaranteed loss.

 

My dad taught me to never throw anything away. While cleaning his house, I found 13 hairdryers. Which will perfectly compliment the 3 I have at home.

 

My dad taught me that you can never have too many fans running at once. And even then, it's always good to have a bandana to soak up any excess perspiration.

 

My dad taught me that the only acceptable thing to quit was smoking, even if it takes 40 plus years to accomplish.

 

My dad taught me that friendships and maintaining them is one of the most important things in the world. He taught me that it's not easy, and you have to put a lot of work into them, but it's always worth it...even if it may not have seemed like it the morning of, what the Fiji family refers to as the "Jonestown massacre."

 

My dad taught me what love is through seemingly small things, like Christmas eve pajamas, bringing home fresh donuts every Sunday morning, and picking me up from the bar at 2am. And he taught me what love is through big things...like sitting by my bed every night when I was a kid and listing all the people who loved me as I faded off to sleep, moving me a thousand miles away to Florida, and taking care of my mom through her battle with cancer.

 

My dad taught me that you actually lose money if you have a 20% off coupon at Kohls and don't use it.

 

My dad taught me patience. Whether it was answering the same question 30 times from my mom, or waiting for Aunt Linda to find a 15c coupon at the bottom of her purse, he always showed patience. Except when Neal conveniently forgot his wallet and shoes every time he came home, or when someone would insist that "slippy" was a word in the English language.

 

My dad taught me that just because a marriage may be broken doesn't mean the family bonds it created have to be.

 

My dad taught me that it's still okay to rock a mini-van, even when your children are fully grown.

 

My dad taught me that alka seltzer is the cure to all ailments.

 

My dad taught me the importance of vehicle maintenance. Apparently, it's less than acceptable to go 20,000 miles without a single oil change.

 

My dad taught me that family goes beyond bloodlines. Family is about the people who stick by you through hell and high water. The people who invite you back on vacation year after year, even after your son climbs on the roof of your beach house and nearly gives everyone there a heart attack.

 

My dad taught me that pajama pants are not acceptable attire to wear in public.

 

My dad taught me that happiness for the people he loved mattered to him more than anything else. For Neal and for me, he didn't care what career path we chose, to where we traveled, or with whom we fell in love...as long as we were happy.

 

I never have to wonder if my dad was proud of me or if he loved me, because he showed me every single day. He lives on in Neal, through his quick wit, stubbornness and stunning good looks (in addition to the fact that Neal's wardrobe is made up entirely of my dad's old clothes.) And he lives on in me, through my sheer awesomeness and my ability to keep literally everything I have ever purchased, in case I might need it in the future.

 

Thank you to the many people in this room who contributed to the man and the father that he was for us. Because he was the best.

 

 

 

Reunited

Take good care of him, momma. I'm glad you are together again to subtly annoy the crap out of eachother. I love you both to the moon and back. 

Philip Carlin Obituary