I’ve been trying to write about this for a few weeks now—mostly because I feel like I need to, and the poems just weren’t coming out the right way. Neither was a blog post exactly, but here we are, take four or five of the same story I’ve been reliving in my mind. We just need to get this out apparently.
So here’s the deal. It is lent. Not because Jesus died, my Dad did. A fact I’m sure you’re aware of. Now, I think highly of my Dad, but for clarification sake—I do not think he is the Lord. Now that we’ve settled that, let’s go. Lent, in the Christian calendar, is essentially a count-down to Jesus dying. My older brother is a pastor so if you need more information on that, please see him. The parallel is coming now: the beginning of September marked the beginning of my dating life two years ago. When my Dad died that November, I was still dating the original dater (what a fun name; let’s keep that). I don’t know if this was the reason, or because I used dating as an avoidant coping mechanism after my Dad passed, but my brain wraps the two up in each other. Dating, and death that is. A rather funny combination when you think about it. Awkward and uncomfortable at the very least. Now, I could tell you the whole long drawn-out-over-a-few-months story, or I can tell you this. I walked blindly into a set up in early September of 2016 and went along with it. We dated for a few months, and then my Dad died. When you’re 21 and new to dating and he’s 26 and emotionally incapable of more than “Oh shit” (the exact response I received when I told him), things don’t last long after death. October was so filled with optimism and happiness—for me, for my dating life, for this country. Yes, I should note that on October 21st 2016, I voted (for my first time in a presidential election) for Hillary Clinton. I had such high hopes for my life. I had no idea everything—and I mean everything—would come to a crashing halt before immediately thrusting into reverse. So now, two years later, I see September and I am grateful for the start of fall, for new opportunities and adventures, for a new chapter. But I am simultaneously reminded of where I was two years ago. Where I could have been now. I look back and smile at all my dating firsts. I wonder how differently things would have gone sans Dead Father. I think about how I had a plan for after graduation, how differently things have turned out since. I wonder what path I would currently be on. September just feels like the beginning of a count-down in the calendar year. It is the first time November 3rd feels close again, even though it is always right in front of me. So let me tell you a few things now. First, I am happy. I am teaching; I am learning; I am writing. I am very content with where I am and I am proud of the work I have done to get here. Second, I am still, and will always be grieving. It feels less like a boulder crushing my entire body than it does a brick I carry around in my backpack. Someday, it will be a worry stone I carry in my pocket. I still talk about my Dad every day. I’m not sure that will ever stop. I’ll wrap up with this. We have officially entered the difficult part of the year for me. Please be patient with me, with your grieving people, with yourself. We are all just trying to make it. September is here, November is inevitable, and I am still standing.
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Today is May 1st, and today it is sunny. I finally feel like the world will be okay. And because I am having an optimistic day, let’s talk about the future.
So, first let’s start with talking about “The Post”. Whether or not you recognize it by the name I have dubbed, you know what it is. It’s the moment when a person puts up a decision about their future on social media. This happens a lot with graduating seniors of both high school and college alike. It usually goes something like “I’m so excited to say that I’ll be taking my talents to South Beach” (Okay wait...that was LeBron...). But really it usually says a next step, ie “I’m pursuing a PhD in Chemistry at THE Ohio State University (I am not. That was an example. In case you missed that life update 2 years ago, it ain’t happening). Now that we are familiar with “The Post”, let’s talk about it. So when I was in high school, I was one of the first people to make “The Post”. I had only applied to one college, early decision, so I knew in early December where I would be the following August. It was great to have that off of my plate early on it was wonderful to know. I am someone who likes to have a plan. And back then, I believe fully that plans could and did work out. I knew I could count on a lot of stability in my life and I milked it for everything. I planned. Spoiler Alert: I no longer plan. At least, not in the ways I used to. Fast forward about four years from that wonderful high school graduating ignorance and confidence. May 1st, 2017 was the last day of my undergraduate classes. I had not been to 2/3 of the classes I was supposed to have attended; I was ill-prepared for the impending doom of finals; and I was supposedly two weeks away from graduating. (I hoped. Desperately.) Now, if you know me, you know it happened. I accomplished a miracle, in no small part because of the support system I had and have. If you’ve ever spoken to me about graduating, I say it happened by the grace of God and Dr. Karen Graves, my education professor in Spring of 2017. I will say that to the day I die; it is absolutely true. Bless her. All of this is to say, I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a next step. I didn’t even have my foot on the ground for the step I was taking. So I sat back and watched as my peers made announcement after announcement about their seemingly great plans. Another year has passed, and “The Posts” continue to flood in. The difference between me four years ago (and even me last year) and me now, is that while I love the idea of having one, I know it’s not in the cards for me. Things never work out the way I intend them to, but they do work out. So by now you’re probably wondering, despite all my ranting alluding to the problematic nature of this standard we have set, what my great plan is. Weren’t you paying attention?! I don’t have one! I do however have a next step—and for now that feels like enough. So it’s April 3rd. The third of every month is a not-so-gentle reminder that my Dad isn’t here. Even 17 months later. Yep, 17 months.
I am someone who has a lot of pet peeves. Yes, there are wonderful wonderful things in this world but there are tiny things that are just somewhat wrong in my mind that really irk me to no end (yes, this will be related). Now it probably doesn’t shock you to learn that I am not a mother (I’m 23! Give me another decade or so!). So I do not know the pure joy that is holding your child...or counting their age in months well past a year. Sometimes I see a baby and I’m all “Awwe how old is she?” And the mother says to me “Oh, little Marie is 21 months old”. Excuse me? Your baby is one year. I’ll even take almost two. But 21 months, really?! That said, I still count the months since my Dad walked through the front door of our old house only to never walk back in. 17 months. It’s a lot of months. And each month brings something different. Some progress toward healing, a lot of crying, maybe some joy. So not to say that losing my Dad has in anyway given me a glimpse into motherhood or prepared me to have a child (again, give me another decade or so!). But I get significantly less riled up by aging your baby in months when year markers are relevant. All this is to say, it is the third again and the usual gnawing feeling in my gut that indicates my Dad’s absence is more of a sharp knife today. In December of 2000, I got a book of poetry for my 6th birthday (Thanks Jen!!). Shel Silverstein’s A Light in the Attic. For the next 14 years, Shel would be the only poet I would admit to liking. Now here we are, some 17 years, several major accomplishments and road blocks later and I’m a bit of poetry fiend. Who would have guessed? In case you don’t know the ins and outs of my poetry story, here’s what happened after my 6th birthday. When I was in the 5th and 6th grade—what my school district called “Intermediate School” at the time—my Drama Club put on Poetry Jams (Yes, like a slam, but a jam, because we were twelve). Between my 6th birthday and 12th birthday I had added Jack Prelutsky to the approved poets list, so I was more than prepared for my two-a-year poetry performances. Honestly, it was more about being on stage than it was about reading poetry (Sorry Ms. Beery! But I have a hunch you knew that). After 6th grade, there were several mandated attemtps at poetry—both reading and writing—none of which went particularly well. The two that stand out in my mind however are both from my English class during my sophomore year in high school. The first one was when we were asked to write something and back in the day I felt very strongly about rhyming (sorry Mark). A classmate of mine told me that I was “too tongue and cheek” and I didn’t understand why my melodramatic poem was any worse than hers. My second truly horendous run in with poetry in high school was having to read, listen to, and analyze Seamus Heaney’s Digging. Needless to say, this wasn’t and still is not a favorite of mine. Several years after my run-in with Seamus, I was looking through spoken word poems, because I knew the occasional one would make me smile when I stumbled across Rachel Wiley’s Dry Cake Wishes and Tap Water Dreams. For the first time, I had listened to a poem and thought, said, shouted “HEY!!! Me too!!”. The next year, Rachel came to my college campus and she became the second poet I would admit to liking. Another few years would pass before the day that would start out a normal Thursday and turn into the most prominent turning point in my life. On Thursday, November 3rd 2016, I got a phone call saying that my Dad had had a heart attack and the doctors were trying to stabilize him so they could transfer him to Riverside Hospital. They never transferred him. I spent the next few months unable to stop the word vomit, telling everything I was feeling, sharing everything I knew about my dad, asking about everything and I could see the discomfort in the eyes of people I spoke to and felt even worse. It was about March before I started writing what one might consider poetry and I realized I felt the same amount of relief with none of the guilt by writing. It took another few months or so for me to admit I was writing, and another few for me to share and in July I started going to a writing group (Hi friends!). Now, I’m genuinely not sure where I would be without poetry. And I know, that sounds like a cliche, but there it is. And here I am. Starting tomorrow (Well, less than 2 hours now) is National Poetry Month. It’s also my Dad’s Birthday month, Spring is (hopefully) going to come in full force, and I’m about to make some changes/take some big steps in my life. So stay tuned for all the good stuff forthcoming. In the mean time, I’ve shared a new poem over on my “Poems” tab!
Let's talk about the 2018 Grammy's. Just because it's topical and I want to. But before we go into the Grammy's, let's back it up a little.
At the end of October in 2016, Lady Gaga released her latest album, Joanne. What I didn't know at the time was that this would be Marie's Grief Album: Part 1. A few weeks after Joanne's release, my Dad died. I remembered listening to her album earlier that week, and loving, but not needing the lyrics "every part of my aching heart needs you more than the angels do" (from Joanne, the song). The whole album, which I had loved before, suddenly became the album I needed. I think it's a cliche to say that songs say what we can't, and I'm not sure I quite feel that way, and I know, logically, that Lady Gaga did not release this album for me in preparation for my father's untimely death, but here we are a year later, and it is still what I refer to as the album of my early grief. Fast forward not quite a year. In early August of 2017, Kesha released her newest album, Rainbow. For her, it was an album of redemption, a comeback album to say the least about her music career. Kesha had been to hell and back and here she was standing, and while our versions of hell were entirely different, I felt her reborn strength through her album strongly. Rainbow, was, and is, Marie's Grief Album: Part 2. In October, I was lucky enough to see her perform live at the Filmore in Detroit, in front of a sold out audience. We had nose bleed seats. I cried. I felt close to Kesha, and close to my father and I know how that sounds but there it is. Okay, so that's my connection with the two albums. Now, come Grammy nomination season, I realized that my Grief albums, and songs, were about to be pitted against one another and I struggled for which album/which song I would be pulling for but resolved that I would be happy regardless because how could one of them not win in their categories? (Let me start this next chunk of thoughts by saying that I love Ed Sheeran. I saw him live approximately a week before I saw Kesha's concert and I cried there too.) So then, I come to find out that last night Ed Sheeran won Grammy's for Pop Solo Performance and Pop Vocal Album BOTH of which he was up against Kesha and Lady Gaga for. Now, I love Shape of You, I move and groove just as much as the next person every time it comes on, but I am beyond disappointed here (which is to say nothing of the fact that it also snubbed Kelly Clarkson and P!nk both artists I not only love but who's music has been amazing this year). I just find it absolutely ridiculous that Given the options of such powerful collections of work, we wound up with winners like Shape of You and Divide. I'm not a person who is particularly good at making and keeping New Year's Resolutions. And, if we're being honest, I think if you really need to make a change you should make it ASAP rather than waiting arbitrarily for January 1st. Run your life on your watch my dear, not the Sun's. That said, I wanted to give myself something to keep in mind throughout 2018 (I've never typed that before...super weird). So, I've been thinking a lot about one particular line from a favorite poem of mine, and I'm going to try and keep it in mind as I go about my year, and really, my life in general. So here we go. "And then, it's 10 years later and they are still dead and you are happy" -Jared Singer, Just Take a Shower Now, if you know, you know it has not been 10 years. It has barely been one. But I find myself having more and more days when I laugh more than I cry. More and more days where I think "Damn, I am happy again." And for a while I felt kinda guilty about it. Going back to what people think of you and others' expectations of grief, I'm constantly waiting for someone to tell me I'm doing it wrong. But it's okay to be happy! It's great to be happy! Dad would be so thrilled that I'm happy. There are moments I drive home from work and a favorite song of his comes on the radio and I cry and smile and I swear he's in the passenger seat. So I didn't really resolve to do anything new in 2018 I suppose, but rather I will just continue to be, and hopefully in that I will continue to be happy. So if you've ever watched any Disney movie, like ever, you're familiar with the Dead Parents Trope. Heck, maybe you don't like Disney. Maybe you're a comic book nerd. Uncle Ben, Thomas and Martha Wayne? The idea of a having a Dead parents is so ubiquitous that it is ever-present in the media we consumed as children, and that children even now consume. So if we were introduced to this concept as toddlers watching Ariel insist that she was old enough to make her own decisions (we all know how that turned out), why is it that so very few of these outlets has chosen to show a realistic reaction to grief? (We'll get there). My Disney-crazed self has, for probably more than a decade now, retained the knowledge that you can count on one hand the number of Disney Princesses who have two living parents the entire movie (Sleeping Beauty, Mulan...) So when my Dad died, I knew that I was officially a Princess. But what I didn't know was how any one of them would have handled it. I suppose what we learned from those movies wasn't supposed to be particularly prolific. But the music is good! So basically today I'm just gonna rant about some movie/TV show characters, their experiences with grief, and how I reacted to that before and after. Let's start with Simba. For a few reasons you can guess, and a few you can't. Rewind to June of 1994. I was a little bun in the oven (Shout out to my mom's uterus), and my Dad's Dad--Papa as I never got to refer to him--had just passed away. My family used to say we passed each other. So my Dad takes my older brother to see the movie, thinking oh good! A Disney movie. Lions. Apparently they didn't get the *Inspired by Hamlet* memo. So Mufasa's dying the revine and oops! Dad needs some popcorn stat. 4.5 year old James doesn't care. Rafiki's gonna sing again soon, he thinks nothing of it. This is a story I've known for a long while. Little Simba trying to wake up his Dad was obviously upsetting to *my* Dad because of *his* Dad enough that he spoke of it even twenty years later. Before I knew anything of death or grief, I, like any other Nala-like little girl thought Simba needed to just get his shit together. Face your legacy bro! Here's what I'll say now. I didn't *really* get out of bed for a month after my Dad died, and I wasn't convinced I was the cause of his death. So frankly, Simba can do whatever he needs. That said, I'm glad he saved the prideland. Okay, let's talk about my younger brother's least favorite Disney movie ever. (Any guesses?) It's Frozen. Lord knows why. I think he's wrong, but I digress. [SPOILERS AHEAD in case you haven't seen the the movie and magically don't know what happened but let's be real you're reading this blog post so you know what happens anyway]. So when Anna and Elsa's parents die tragically in a sea storm in the middle of "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" (that song is on my Dead Dad Playlist for that reason). They have such different reactions. WHAAAT?! Siblings do that?! They don't have the same feelings all the time about their deceased parents?! Please read my brothers' blogs for their thoughts on the matter...oh wait... But anyway, back to Anna and Elsa. While their personalities may have been different had their parents not, you know, suppressed their eldest daughter's every emotion, it's clear that Anna reaches out for support in grief while Elsa, either by choice, or as a survival instinct insists on being alone. At the time I originally saw the movie I was like yeah dude that sucks. But having been through that, I find it cool that Disney showed even that small bit of dysfunction during grief. Have you had enough Disney? I don't believe in too much Disney, but we'll call it a wrap there. Let's talk about some of my favorite TV Shows! So in Downtown Abbey (yes, we're going there), the two best couples (don't come at my opinion) lose a half. Obviously you see Tom and Mary go through some grief. I think it's interesting how you get to see Tom (and really everyone) right after the fact. Sybil has just died, and he's distraught (duh). But with Lady Mary, you don't see her grief until several months after the fact. Even so, she is a shadow of her formerly-firey self. I remember watching the first time around and being so confused as to why Mary was still so deep in grief six months later. Hey, I just didn't know any better! (what a gift!). But after rewatching, I was constantly thinking Hey! Let her chill! She's grieving her husband! This is not like Robert's dogs, we can't just justify getting a new one next season. And yet...they tried!!! I find it absolutely ridiculous that given two prominent characters in the series both of whom lose their spouse so young, they only *really* try to pair up Mary again and they certainly only succeed with her. Compare that one to reality... Alright and we'll wrap it up with yes--you guessed it--Gilmore Girls. More specifically, the revival Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. Now, I of course, relate to this one especially for several reasons. I have always thought of myself as a parallel to Lorelai Gilmore. But it got particularly real last fall. The revival was released just weeks after my own Dad's death, and Edward Hermann--who played Lorelai's father, Richard, had died in the years between the original show and the revival. So of course, Richard's death was a large plot point in the new show. While Lorelai's story about her best memory of her father is already posted on my I Am Not Alone page, I think Emily's grief is so well portrayed both in the way it is written and the way Kelly Bishop plays the role--in no small part because she and Edward were close friends in real life.
So basically, I went a really long way to say that the media portrays grief in some really odd ways. It is something we are told is universal. But how can something that is supposedly so universal almost always illicit ridiculous comments and reactions?! The question of the century folks. Nothing in life in certain but death and taxes, and well all know how to file for our refunds... It's a pretty standard Thursday evening when you get a phone call that a crisis has happened. You know how to handle a crisis. Until several hours later that you get an eerily stoic phone call saying that the crisis has turned into a tragedy. Heart attack has become death. So, now what do you do?
We interrupt your programming for this important announcement. Here is my official disclaimer: 1) I know only my personal experience. I know what was and was not helpful to me. I do not pretend to speak on behalf of the entirety of Dead Parents' Club. So as you continue to read, please keep in mind that I am someone who relies and thrives on the presence of other people in my life, both physically with me and generally supportive. 2) This is about to contain some information about me dating (etc.)--if you are my mother, or someone who is a parental-like figure in my life, proceed at your own risk. We will now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Here are the people, the actions, gestures, etc. that helped me the most in the weeks and months immediately following my Dad's death. One of my best friends, called me the day after it happened. She asked if there was anything she could do to help. Obviously, there is no cure for death. And no cure for grief. But in that moment I really wanted Starbucks. So I said yes actually, could you pick up Starbucks and come over and sit with me. She came over, brought coffee drinks for me, my mom, and my aunt. Now I'm not about to sit here and tell you the healing qualities of Starbucks coffee. Here's where I'm going with this. If/when you call and ask if there's anything you can do, you should be willing to do what is asked. Even if it's something as silly as picking up a blended coffee beverage. Even now, I worry what people will think of my reactions in grief, I worry about what people will think of my behaviors and wants. But sometimes what you need in that moment is a cup of coffee, and that is a small thing someone absolutely can do for you. That is a small thing you can absolutely do for someone else! So do the little things without judgement, and ask for the little things without worry. One of my mentors in life called me a few days after. I forget how she started the conversation, but I remember this. "I'm taking you to get coffee." And she did. I know right now you're thinking I really do believe coffee cures grief--no. My mother and I know better. The beauty in this, was once again that she showed up. And she did. And this was just the beginning. She consistently showed up and took actions--sometimes actions I wouldn't have thought to ask for. She got me a gift card to Netflix, so I could watch and unwind; a gift card to Amazon in case I decided I needed something like a book or a little gift or whatever, she wanted to make sure I could treat myself if/when I needed. These actions, and unasked for moments of "I'm going to do this for you" made those first few months bearable because it wasn't just an empty "let me know if you need anything..." offer. On a Tuesday night, I was at school, and I felt particularly lonely. I was trying to get homework done, homework I needed help with, homework my dad could have helped me with. And often times, when I have moments of "I need my Dad", it doesn't matter if 20 people are around me, I feel alone. In that moment, I needed someone who knew my Dad, but also knew me and my Dad. Which is to say, had seen us be us and just got it. So I called up one of my oldest friends in tears and very reluctantly asked her to come over. She drove roughly 40 minutes to get to me, and then took me out to Chipotle. We talked a lot about my Dad, and just how shitty everything was. I am someone who processes out loud, and someone who keeps very few things to herself. I will tell you my entire life story if you really want to know, even if we've just met. The problem with that is, nobody wants to hear about death. Especially the recent death of your Dad. If I ever opened my mouth to talk about it or accidentally let a story slip and then follow it up with the fact that he was now dead, I felt terrible, because it felt like this unbearable burden that I was putting on everyone who would listen. So yes, being fed for the first time in a day and a half was important. And yes, just being with someone was important. But even more than that was that I felt comfortable sharing and talking about my Dad and how much it sucked that he was gone. Be that person for someone! Sit through reasonable discomfort, ask yourself why you're uncomfortable in the first place, and create a safe space for your person to talk about their whatever it is. [This is the part with the dating story so maybe skip this part if you don't wanna know] Dating and grief are a kind of awkward combination (more on that to come). There's really no way to bring up the whole dead Dad thing. And honestly, I don't know that I ever had an idea of what the right reaction was when I shared, until it happened. I was on a first date, and after ice cream and a walk and some conversation, we were kissing in the back of his car, as you do. As we're in the back, my phone started buzzing. Except that then it wouldn't stop. I got a constant stream of phone calls and text messages for a solid 15 minutes before I finally decided I should check and see what was going on. When I realized it was my Mom, I knew I had to call her back, at which point I told the man in front of me this. He gave me a look...a 22 year old doesn't usually *have* to respond to her mother's phone call immediately. In fact, most mother's weren't this persistent. I could tell he was confused about if I had one of *those* mothers and if I was the daughter, practically an adult, but enabling her to run my life none the less. So mostly without thinking, I said "My mom's not a helicopter Mom! She just has PTSD 'cause my Dad died in November and now at the drop of a hat, anyone of us could die so I just have to call her back so she knows I'm alive". At which point, he looked at me for just a moment before reaching out and pulling me in for a hug. And he just held me for a little bit. Then I called my mom, and we enjoyed the rest of our date. Sometimes you don't have to say anything in response. That hug meant more to me than a lot of the words I got from people who had known me for years. Finally, let's talk about professors. I went to a liberal arts college, and my college experience was defined by the relationships I had with my professors. If we're being 100% honest, they're probably the reason I stayed at Denison, but that is another story for another day. After my Dad's passing, I received several e-mails from professors--most of whom I was not at the time in a class with. That being said,I had two professors in particularly whom I wholeheartedly credit for my graduating on time. On a regular basis, I got e-mails saying "Marie, I hope you are okay, stop in and see me so I know you are eating" or "Marie, I know class is a lot for you right now, but please let me know that you are safe". One of these professors even suggested I go to drop-in counseling at school, which lead me to a really wonderful counselor I saw all of the following semester. These women were not going to let me slip through the cracks. I had worked very hard for three years and they knew it, and despite the gravity of my situation, they knew I could make it. And truly, because of them, I did. So in case you haven't noticed, I certainly did not lack support. I had a lot of truly wonderful, supportive people around me and they helped me immensely. That said, some days, some weeks, some months are just hard. And that's fine too. As someone who is grieving, you are allowed to be upset, in whichever form you choose. And as someone supporting someone in grief, you are *NOT* expected to cure grief. It cannot be done! Nobody expects that of you. But what is helpful is to listen, to show up, to actively choose to care, and show that you do, in whatever ways you know how. Honestly, one of the most ridiculous thing anyone should have to worry about in the wake of grief is what other people are thinking about them now. I remember, the week after my Dad died, my Mom and I went to CVS to get panty hose and toilet paper and whatever else you get from CVS and we ran into someone who knew my Dad and I from one extracurricular or another. I made eye contact, tried to turn around the other way, and before I could escape I hear "Oh Marie!" What could she possibly want to say to me...whatever it is I certainly don't want to hear it. So she stops me, and says "I just don't know how you're even out and about, if I was you I know I wouldn't be able to get out of bed". I felt awful, like maybe I wasn't grieving *enough*. How dare I be standing; how dare I not be crying 24/7. It took me a while to figure this one out, for whatever reason, but I didn't owe anyone anything, no particular reaction of lack there of. No state of falling-apart or put-togetherness (is that a word?). Nothing. I was, and am allowed to feel whatever I feel, and do whatever I need to do (with the obvious exception of actions/words that will harm myself or others). One of the places this idea most came into play was at the Memorial Service. On November 11th, 2016, approximately 500 people flooded into my church to grieve my father. That is something I will never forget. I will also never forget shopping for the occasion. My Mom and I went to find dresses, and my constant question was "Mom, is this too much cleavage for a funeral?". I remember wondering if it was bad if I looked good, was it worse if I looked bad? What would Dad want? Definitely not black. What do people expect the daughter to wear at her father's memorial service? Probably black. I didn't really own much black and wasn't planning to start now. The only thing more awkward than spontaneous cleavage at a funeral is spontaneous laughter. You're sitting in the first pew, your father's ashes in front of you, and hundreds of crying people around you when you suddenly remember something he once said to you about how they make baby carrots ("Well Marie, when a Mommy carrot and a Daddy carrot love each other very much..."). Laughter happens in grief; laughter happens at funerals. Both of these things make people uncomfortable, and it is their problem to work through not yours or mine. I still make what I call "Dead Dad Jokes" which are only funny of course to people in Dead Dad's Club, everyone else insists I stop. But if you're not laughing, you're crying, and let's be real, we've done enough crying. My family and I laughing after my Dad's memorial service, at a joke someone behind the camera made.
Note my cleavage-less dress, and the fact that I am wearing two different character shoes as I couldn't find the match to either one |
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May 2018
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