Of Pomegranate Seeds And Blood Clots: The Evolution Of A Blog Post

Over the last five months I have rewritten this blog post a billion times.

Okay. More like fifteen. But it feels like a billion.

Back in December it was a simple: Hi. This life thing is hard sometimes, isn’t it? I hope y’all are doing okay. What’s everyone reading?!

However, in January the post took a dramatic shift in tone morphing into: A terrible thing just happened to our family. So I am digging myself a hole, and I’ll be living in it now. Hope we’re still cool when I (maybe, eventually) crawl out of it. Hugs all around!

Then another emergency joined the party, and the post became this clunky disaster. Not knowing how to clean it up, I left it hanging over my head—an ominous cloud I didn’t want to face.

That’s when a global pandemic hit (as they do). The post transitioned into a rally cry for healthcare workers and staying at home to save the most vulnerable among us. It felt preachy but important.

Yet the very day I declared the post good enough, we found out my grandmother passed away. So I took a million deep breaths and crawled back into my cozy, quiet hole—the post postponed again.

Embracing being quiet is challenging. I’m attacked daily by guilt.

Shouldn’t I be doing more? Reaching out to others: seeing how they’re doing, helping them out? Shouldn’t I care about my career as an author—write daily, market?

However, what could I possibly give right now?

I am bone dry—used up, worn out.

Enter Stephenie Meyer publishing Midnight Sun after twelve years.

Twelve. Years.

In the time it took Meyer to finish Midnight Sun: our youngest daughter grew from a newborn to a middle schooler; my father and both my grandmas passed away; I earned my Creative Writing Degree; two of our kids turned eighteen; we bought our first house; I wrote four books and published two; a global pandemic sprang up—and the list goes on.

A lot of life happened during those twelve years, some of it stretching me to a breaking point. Yet I remained in one piece. And when the dust settled, the people who love me best were right beside me holding my hand.

Maybe I’m a tad bit more tired than I was twelve years ago. But I am still me.

Funny how something so random and seemingly meaningless can knock a world of sense into a person.

Soooo…I think it’s time to share the thing that happened to our family four months ago. The thing that makes me want to vomit every time I talk/type/think about it.

On Friday, January 3, 2020, my husband had a heart attack. Not just any heart attack—the widowmaker. A blood clot blocked 99% of his left anterior descending artery.

It should have killed him.

That’s not hyperbole. My husband should be dead. Doctors and nurses tell us nonstop it’s a miracle he survived.

I almost watched my best friend die in a crowded ER hallway while he held my hand.

He spent seven days in an ICU. Seven days during which I barely ate or slept. Seven days during which every time I looked at our kids I wondered how I could manage without my best friend. Seven days of terror and doubt and so so so much pain.

He was in the same ICU my dad died in. The knowledge my husband might die there too bludgeoned me.

However, he is not dead.

My husband is very much alive. He is healthy—his quick recovery baffling doctors.

And I think it’s time I take this Frankenstein’s monster of a post and let it go.

I don’t know what this means moving forward. Currently, I am not writing at all; I have no desire to market; I can’t be on social media without feeling overwhelmed; and the thought of doing anything outside of being a mom, wife, and human being is simply exhausting.

One thing I know: I’m going to fangirl hard over Midnight Sun—pull out my old Twilight shirts, listen to the movies’ soundtracks, maybe hunt down some old fanfic.

Because why not?

Why not embrace a little crazy and let my fangirl flag fly high? Why not buy a long-awaited book with a pomegranate dripping blood on the cover and squeeeeeee with my friends over a sparkling vampire falling in love with a high school girl?

Who knows what the future holds—where we’ll be twelve years from now?

Hopefully, then as now, I’ll still find joy in books and music—or just the simple act of breathing.

In the last year, life beat me up pretty badly. But I’m still here. And I still love Twilight.

So come at me, life! I’ll be right here in my quiet, cozy hole reading books and dreaming up my own stories.

And someday soon I’ll crawl out of this hole and get back into the swing of things.

Maybe. Eventually.

Who knows when?

For once, I’m in no rush.

February: A Complicated Month in Review

This month has been a weirdo and writing a review is a tad difficult.

Let me explain.

On the first day of the month I was battling a cold. The cold had been kicking my butt for a week, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. Continuing my mission to embrace my too nice, too positive, too cute ways (more on that at a later date) I posted about our adorable coffee calendar on social media. It was Friday (I mused at the time) and come what may, I’d be thankful.

Adorable coffee calendar gets me.

Not long after posting, my mom called with news that someone in our family had committed suicide. I shared a little on Instagram. However, I still believe the most respectful thing I can do on social media for those directly involved is keep my loved one’s name and relationship private. After a loved one dies, dealing with the emotional wreckage left in its wake is challenging. After multiple suicides in my husband and I’s extended family we’ve learned that keeping things private for the sake of those most harmed is the best path forward.

If you or someone you know is struggling with depression
please get professional help. Go here.

Yes, this is not the first time someone in our extended family committed suicide. And no, hearing the news, processing the news, telling our kids never gets easier.

With a cold that would not quit and news of a loved one passing, we (as a family) did our best to embrace moving forward.

Three days later, the flu knocked me out and stayed for an extended visit.

For the next seven days, I had a high fever, a painful cough, a headache that would not quit, and more. I do not remember three whole days of my life. My family took care of me and everything else. I won’t bore you with all the details. But will share this, I still have the damn cough from the flu and I’m over being sick.

Enter a week until my husband and I’s twentieth wedding anniversary—a time of celebration and joy. Yet neither of us was feeling much joy, let alone had the energy to celebrate.

Still stupid sick and with the awful news hanging over our family, I realized I had two choices: embrace the unfairness of life or give in and give up.

Cue a good friend saying something I took to heart. It went a little something like this: “We all face challenges. We all have unfair things happen to us. We all hit speed bumps. That’s life. It’s not fair. But if something (or someone) is important to us, we’ll make it (or them) a priority. If not, it’s something we don’t care about. It’s something we don’t really want.”

Okay. Those weren’t her exact words. But you get the picture.

Those words sang to me. They opened my eyes to a lie I’ve lived. The lie: there are levels of unfairness and suffering. There are people who have a right to be overwhelmed and people (like me) who don’t.

See. Life sucks for all of us. It’s difficult.

But life is also good. So. Very. Good.

We MUST hold on to the good. But it’s a choice. We get to decide who we make priorities. What we make priorities. There’s no real right or wrong. It’s a simple choice.

With our anniversary looming and too much pain and sickness weighing me down, I let it go. Let the sickness run its course. Let my grief be. And let my heart feel joyful over twenty freaking years of marriage to my best friend in the whole world.

Life is complicated. This month didn’t differ from any month before it. And as March looms before me—the month of my dad’s birth and death—I know I have a choice. I can be bitter and angry and think I deserve more. Or I can understand life is messy for all of us and roll with its punches. I can spit in the face of life’s unfairness and choose joy.

And with all the strength I have plus this persistent cough, I am more determined than ever to choose joy.

See ya on the flip-side of March, my friends.
Let's show life we're stronger.

p.s. It snowed in the desert last week.
Which is not unheard of, but isn't normal either.
Tychus was not a fan. Shocker. ;)

of lies and zombies cover reveal

*cracks open blogger*

*sweeps away cobwebs*

*opens post composer*

*inserts image*

*smiles*

*types*

coming soon

April 2018

check back on Monday for the pre-order announcement

add to goodreads here

*rubs hands together*

*clicks publish*

The Fault in Our Stars: A Review (of sorts)

 

Danger, Will Robinson!
This review (of sorts) is a rambling, depressing mess.
You. Have. Been. Warned.

link to GoodReads here

Sometimes I feel like a broken record when talking about my dad and his so-called battle with cancer. Most of the time, I feel like I'm stuck in this awkward silence wanting (yet not wanting) to share and having no clue how to begin.

Let's be frank, sharing with the internet your pain and suffering can come off as either a. look at me look at me, b. *emo in the corner,* or c. flippant, at best. Furthermore Susan, nobody really wants to hear about it. If they do, it's sorta okay to talk about it a little, but not too much. The line is extremely fine.

Yet, when you drop off the social media grid without preamble, how do you explain your sudden come back without mentioning the dreaded: Yeah, so, my dad died of cancer, and no, I don't want your pity, I just want to talk about it, cause it's sort of a big deal to me?

My struggles over the last two years with reading and writing and social media-ing have been directly related to the sudden loss of my father.

And somehow, the book The Fault in Our Stars got mixed up in my grieving process.

See, I'm a huge John Green fan. His writing is pristine. His sense of humor slays me. And when I read his books, I think "good Lord, I'd love to write a story even a tenth as good as this book." Needless to say that early in 2012, pre-ordering this book was a no-brainer. Unfortunately, it arrived on our doorstep the same day I got news my dad had a mass in his bladder and the doctor was saying it could be cancer. Not soon after, we had confirmation. Before we knew what was happening, he was in the ICU and we were learning his body was made of cancer.

Now, fast forward to April of 2012, when my dad was dead, and I was trying to get back into the swing of life, and this book mocked me from our bookshelf. Suddenly, cancer books made me angry and uncomfortable and I wasn't happy with Mr. Green for daring to write a cancer book.

Where did he get off? How dare he believe he could possibly understand. And why would he do this to his readers? Why make them suffer in ways no one should have to suffer? What joy could he possibly find in that?

It was sick. It was twisted. And I was pissed.

My negative feelings toward this book built up. Every time I looked at the book, I couldn't help but envision those last few moments we had with my father in the ICU as he took his final breath. And I wanted a direct phone line to Mr. Green so I could ask him how he felt qualified to define such a moment.

Which I know isn't fair, but feelings don't care about fairness.
They just feel.

Recently, I realized my anger toward this book wasn’t about Mr. Green or his rights (which, of course, he has the right to write any story he'd like), but it was about me and my pain and  my frustration. Somehow, I'd decided to attach to this novel my sorrow and rage over the loss of my father.

Misplaced? Yep.
Ridiculous? Heck, yeah.
Give me a little slack here. I’m a nerdy bookworm. Books are my lifeline.

So, now that I've read The Fault in Our Stars, every thing's better, right?
If only life was that simple.

I'll say this much:

This is a beautifully written book. A book about two people and their struggles with death and love and suffering and fairness and indignity and cancer. Cancer that tricky bastard who doesn't care about age or sex or good or bad or right or wrong. It doesn't think about tearing families apart, leaving young men fatherless and old men without their sons. It doesn't care about dignity or shame, love or pain. It just wants to live and grow and weed its way into the very fabric of our being. It leaves behind it a lasting legacy, one that just might outlast the human race.

For me, this is the cornerstone of Mr. Green's story. As I closed this book late last night and put it back on the shelf, I realized I felt both hopeful and destroyed. By reading this novel, I feel I've made some small progress. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to untangle my father's death from this book, but instead of fearing the association, I've found some peace in it.

Unknowingly, Mr. Green has given me a gift. It might not be a gift I wanted. It might not be a gift I understand. However, it is the gift I needed.

In the words of C.S. Lewis:

We read to know we are not alone.

After reading this book, I don't feel so alone.

Life Journaling: A Story About My Dad

I remember the day my step-mom called me and explained my dad needed to have a procedure done. They'd found a mass in his bladder. The doctor knew it was cancer without a single test. I went with them to the hospital. I held his hand. I hugged him. I told him he would get better or else I'd kick his ass.

We held onto hope. 

That was the last week of February 2012. Or was it the first week of March? I don't remember. It's a blur. On his birthday, March 12th, we got the news, it was cancer and it had likely spread. But we didn't know how badly. They'd have to rebuild his bladder. I told my mom. I told my brother and sisters. I told them our daddy had cancer, but his chances were good.

We held onto hope. 

He wasn't eating. My siblings and I got him a basket. We filled it with nuts and chocolate and dried fruit and juices and books on baseball. He had a catheter. He carried a bag of pee around with him. He was so thin. When I hugged him I thought he might break. He tried to eat, tried to laugh, tried to be normal.

We held onto hope.

I got the call. He'd gone to the ER. The pain was unbearable. His heart was palpitating. I rushed to the hospital. I sat with him. Alone. Me in a chair in the corner trying to stay out of the way of the nurses. Him in a bed, half asleep. Sometimes he'd wake up and looked at me. He'd say: I love you, Bonehead. And I'd say: I love you too, Daddy.

We held onto hope.

They moved my dad to the intensive care unit. The man in the room next door died that day. He looked so alone. The tests started. MRIs. X-rays.  Blood work. Fasting. Heart meds. Pain meds. The whites of my dad's eyes turned yellow. We had our favorite nurses. Our least favorite doctors. We took over the ICU. We hung pictures drawn by my kids and colored in coloring books. My nineteen year old sister wanted to sleep on the floor at night, she didn't want our father to wake up alone.

We held onto hope.

He had a good day. His eyes cleared and he promised he'd do everything he could to get better and we'd all go on a trip to see the Grand Canyon. He smiled and chuckled. He watched baseball and teased us.

We held onto hope.

We got the results. The cancer had spread. It was in his gallbladder, his lymph nodes, his lungs, his brain, and so many other places I can't remember them all. We called our extended family. We told them things had taken a turn.

We still held onto hope.

Tuesday evening. I went to visit my father after settling the kids. I had a few new pictures they'd drawn for their Poppa. The room had become familiar. Beeps. Flashing lights. Tubes. IV lines. But the man in the bed, he was different. He struggled to breathe. His skin like paper, eyes bulging.  I said, "Hey, Daddy. Bet you've missed me." He looked at me as if I were a stranger. I knew-- knew in my very soul...

There was no hope. 

He crashed that evening, alone in his room. They shoved a tube down his throat. Pumped him with meds. His eyes wouldn't close. His feet were ice cold. A machine breathed for him. Medications kept his heart pumping. We gathered around his bed. We had to decided what to do. I held my baby sister close to me and watched my fifteen year old brother clutch our dad's hand. My grandmother kissed my father's head, said she was the first woman to kiss him and by God she'd be his last. We prayed. We sang songs. We decided to let him go.

....

On March 28, 2012, my father died of cancer. It happened suddenly. One moment, he was running marathons and laughing louder than any other living soul and the next he was laying in a hospital bed dead. Before my very eyes, I watched my father take his last breath.

Why am I tell you this? Why have I decided to share this with *strangers* online?

I don't know.

Sometimes, I feel like the cancer that killed my father wormed its way inside me, craving out a little piece of me. Maybe if I let it go, release it into the wild, I can start to breathe again. Maybe I can let go of the guilt. The guilt of him not knowing about all of this. The guilt of living when he's not. The guilt involved with life having continued and it not being unbearable without him.

I naively thought there'd be a day when all this would be a distant memory and I'd have to force myself to remember. But the truth is, I will never forget. The real challenge is living with the memory and allowing myself to move forward without the guilt or the regret or the fear or the envy I have of those who get to share all this with their fathers when I don't.

And as I sit here and cry and type these words, it is my humblest prayer, that these mixed up, morose memories will find a place where they can rest and allow me to move forward. Because that's what my Dad would have wanted, but more importantly, it's what I want too.

2012: A Year Without A Review

I am left speechless when I contemplate 2012. Reviewing the year is near impossible. It was the year of green hair and bestie hugs, tremendous loss and a thousand tears. What I'm left with is a few choice images-- memories of things created, moments cemented in my brain, and a heart full of both sorrow and joy. 2012 was a good year, not the best year and not the worse. It was the start of something bigger and a sampling of life's many flavors. I hugged my best friend for the first time and my father for the last. A year like that is impossible to define, and I refuse to make an attempt.

As far as 2012 goes, I have decided to take the advice of a man who defined a turning point in my country's history:

“We don’t look backwards, we look forward. We look at that distant horizon, we look at that new frontier. We are not afraid of the future. Our destiny is not written for us, it’s written by us. And we can write that next chapter together.” —Barack Obama

Here's to forward. Here's to never forgetting. Here's to letting go. Here's to another year filled with joy and sorrow. Here's to the next chapter. Here's to writing it together.

an emo post

Hey, so yeah...

*crickets*

I've been thinking about this post for a week now.

You know the post--

blah blah blah life

blah blah blah emo

blah blah blah drama queen

It's the sorta post that says nothing 

but means everything.

It doesn't say,

hey I've been extremely sad of late,

what it does says is 

I've been dealing with some stuff.

It doesn't say,

the thought of being social right now overwhelms me,

what it does says is

hey I might not be around for a wee bit.

It doesn't say,

not being around makes me feel like a loser,

what it does says is

hey, I'm sorry

and I hope y'all can forgive me. 

 It doesn't say,

three months ago today my dad died and I just feel off,

what it does says is

I miss you all.

Maybe that's the most important part of the post?

So here it is,

the I'm gonna slip into a lil cocoon
and rest my head for a wee bit longer post.

Not too long.

Just long enough
 to grieve,

to think,

to heal.

But the whole time I'll be missing you.

Yes you.

Because we're friends, you and I.

And that's oh so important to me.

Five for Friday -- With A Little Help From My Friends

It's Friday. 

I've got my Avenger tickets in my pocket

and a feel good vibe floating 'round inside my heart.

I think it's all the fairy dust in the air of late.

Whatever it may be,

I'm embracing it, jumpin' back in the saddle,

and putting together a fun times post complete with

cackles,

balloons, 

chocolate,

anthologies,

and marshmallow villains.

It will all make sense.
 

Ready. Steady. 

Let's get this party started!

1. This week in Tweet Tweet Land.

I made new friends.

It made my heart happy.

Here's why--

Sarah from re-raveling and I told fairy tales about eyelashes, big toes, and marshmallow men.

*out -- ya know how it goes on twitter. typos be running wild!

 Susi Holliday (who's blog is here) cackled and my heart sang.

Victoria Pearson (who's blog is here) came up with the best job EVER.

Jessica Grey (who's blog/website is here) wholeheartedly supported my decision to make a tumblr vs being productive in life.

p.s. I also made a pinterest, because ya know, I don't have enough to distract me.
*headdesk*

And my lovely friend Katie and I discussed Ben & Jerry's. 

word

2. This week in writing.

Speaking of Ben & Jerry's, 

this took place yesterday.

 Editing of Fluff, Nonsense, & Other Emo Crap commenced this week
and, let me just say, my brain-brain hurts.
It's a good thing the doctors decided I have two,
cause I'm pretty certain this whole process is gonna cause one to explode.

 3. This week in crazy awesome news that made my heart stop!!!
Speaking of exploding brains,
about a week ago I entered a flash fiction contest
hosted by @SJIHolliday & @ruanna3.
I do so declare it has been the best experience EVER!!!
Eighty-eight stories were submitted.
I've read every single one of them
and honestly adored them all.
There is no way I am going to win.
Having the privilege of playing a small role in this event has been my prize.
And then, low and behold, an announcement was made that knocked my socks off.

What is this wonderment @SJIHolliday is speaking of?
Why a published anthology of all the stories from the contest,
but of course.
ALL the stories, which means ME!
That's right, folks!!!
I'M GONNA BE A PUBLISHED WRITER!!!!
An actual physical book made of paper with stories in it
will have my name and my words in it!!!
I feel honored.
I feel stunned.
I feel verklempt!
I feel...
*brain-brain failure*

How doth one follow up that news?!
*ponders*
Oh, I know where to go next!

4. This week in heroes of the stache.
Speaking of feeling honored,
it's May and time for us to support our local staches.
This week I'm paying homage to a great hero of the stache--
Mr. Tom Selleck.

You, sir, are a god among staches.

Long live the stache!!

5. This week in yeah buddy.

And last, but oh so far from being least,
my family and I sent messages to our Rocketman last Saturday.

i love you, rocketman

It's been over a month since "the event."
It's weirdy in a far too comfortable kind of way.
And yet, I keep asking myself if it was all just a really bad dream
that I'm going to wake up from any day now.
*sighs*
For now,
I'm grabbing onto everything good and wonderful
and I'm refusing to let go.
Thanks to all of you for helping with the good and wonderful parts.
*hugs all around*
See ya on the flippy-flop.

22 Things - Take Two

Recently, my life was put on hold.

When you're in the thick of things

it's easy to get derailed. 

That's what happened to me.

This train is one hundred percent off the track,

cars haphazardly laying about,

engines stalled,

passengers wandering amongst the wreckage aimless,

conductor without a clue what to do next.

As I sit here,

I remember where I was headed,

I'm just not sure how to clean up this mess

and get back to chugging along. 

Then it hit me--

22 Things!

And I couldn't think of a better way 

to start piecing my life back together.

What's 22 Things?

In summation:

The 22 Things Creative Change Challenge

is being hosted by Angie Richmond of Write Me Happy

    22 Things is a Creative Change Challenge. By signing up, you are announcing to the world - and more importantly yourself - that you are breaking free of the long standing idea that in order to make changes in your life, you have to do BIG things. 22 Things is about making a list twenty-two small steps you can take - right now - to change your life.

 You are more than welcome to peruse my original post

and Angie's post for more information and awesome lists.
In fact, I highly recommend doing so.

Now where was I?
Oh yes,

getting my life back on course.

So 22 Things seems a bit much to tackle right about now,

but five things...

Well now there's a number I can embrace.

So here's five lil things I'm gonna work on in the next month

and an update on what I've accomplished since March 14th.

1. call/text a family member everyday and tell them I love them

This simple task has brought me oh so much happiness

and made the last month do-able.

Tell a friend.

Tell your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/fish/whathaveyou!

Just spread the love.

2. take my vitamins everyday

I've been hit and miss with this one.

Mostly hit.
I'm putting it in my win column.

3. take a long walk once a week

While no walk ever seemed longer than the one from

my car to my dad's hospital room, I'm pretty sure it doesn't count.
Thus, the whole I'm gonna get out in the fresh air more often goal
 has been a ginormous failwhale.

This is one goal I'd like to make a reality in the next month.
In fact, why not start today?!

4. stop being afraid of editing Fluff, Nonsense, & Other Emo Crap (title copy written)

Still haven't edited this beaut.

The plan Stan?
To read it for the first time in a two months next week.
Starting Monday.

yerp.
Here's how I see it,
I want this story to be the best of me,
so why would I rush it?

5. do at least one page in Wreck This Journal a week. 

This is a new one.

The awesomeness that is my bestie gave it to me whilst she was visiting.

It goes against everything I am to wreck a book

yet I'm wondering if it's just what the doctor ordered--

a little creative destruction.

We shall see.

So there they are,

the five little things I'm gonna work on for the next month.

I already feel a tad bit more in control.

Just a tad.

It's a start.

A Time To Mourn

My Dad is dead.

Great way to start a post, eh? Blunt. Cold. Harsh. Either a desperate cry for attention or a need to purge oneself of an inescapable and ugly truth. Maybe a little of both. I haven't figure out which yet.

What I do know is there is a cog missing in my life, an essential little piece of me that is no longer there. There are moments when the world seems okay, the sun shines, the air feels crisp and cool, I'll breathe in the scent of freshly baked cookies, and a little voice will whisper into my ear, I love you so much, Mommy.  The world feels do-able. And then, like a sharp knife in my gut, a single thought will leap out at me:

My Dad is dead.

Like a skipping record, it will repeat and the world will jerk out of focus. Much like the unforeseen cancer that spread throughout my father's body destroying everything in its path, the thought overwhelms me and brings me to my knees. I long to rebel against it. Demand the world stop and fix it. I feel small, helpless, lame. 

Mostly I feel stuck. I know I must move forward, yet how? I mean I sorta know how, but maybe I don't want to. Maybe I don't want that day when it's okay he's gone, when the world is more than do-able. Days when it doesn't feel so strange he isn't here anymore. Days when it feels alright to have fun. Days when words come easy and life is good. Days when I just forget. How can the world be without him here? It just doesn't seem possible and yet here I sit with the reality of it staring me right in the face. 

My Dad is dead.

And I realize with a sudden and swift intensity that I have two options-- to let this control me or to fight back against the desire to give up. For now, I know this is a time to heal, a time to weep, a time to mourn, a time to embrace, a time to mend, a time to be silent, a time to figure out what the hell just happened and try my darnest to make sense of it, or maybe just accept it. Accept the fact that on March 28th, 2012 I watched my father die right before my very eyes and the world twisted and warped and became something I was unprepared for, that I have no words for, that has changed me in ways I don't even realize yet, that has left me speechless and weak and wanting, that has left me silent.

Squeezy Hugs -- A Post for my Dad

When I was a little girl there were four little words that could make me stop doing anything-- be it playing with my Barbies, messing with my Colorfroms, or interfere with my obsession over Rainbow Brite and her never-ending battle with Murky and Lurky. I'd jump as if struck by lighting, a huge smile sweeping across my lips, and run full-tilt in the direction of the words.

Those magical words? I need a hug!!!

The bellower? My father, who was normally reclined on our very 70's-ish brown couch while watching a game on the telly.

Thinking back, I realize now it was hardly ever during commercial break that he'd beckon me. It would be the middle of an inning, bases loaded, Mattingly at home plate, and the game hinging upon him whacking a homerun out of the ballpark or the fourth quarter of an away game that was down to the wire, the Jets with the ball hoping to make it down the field in under 60 seconds.

Despite all the insanity of the game and his passion for it, my dad would call out my name and I'd come running, fling myself into his arms, and receive the world's biggest squeezy hug-- the most important hug of all time. Then I'd settle down next to him and yell until I was hoarse, lending my enthusiasm and my passion to my father. I'd cross my fingers so hard, hex the other team with boos and jeers, and get swept up in the moment along side him.

It's strange how it took him getting ill for me to remember all this. Such a simple act, yet oh so very telling. In his moments of need, he'd call out to me. And not just his need for someone to give him a hug, to show him they loved him, but when the game was on the line, all the cards stacked against him, my dad knew who he needed most-- his little girl.

As the years flashed by and our family warped and shifted things have changed between us, as they are bound to do. Life isn't always the friendliest of people and sometimes he likes to throw road blocks in our way and misdirect us with all sorts of shenanigans. And yet, through it all, every wrong turn, dead end, and pot hole, one thing has remained, I will forever and always be on my dad's team. I will always answer the call.

Because despite the turbulent teen years or the hurt and pain of growing up and realizing your parents are all too human, I never ever stopped needing him, his passion for life, his wonderment at the little things, and his love for me. And now, when he's called out to me from his hospital bed, I cannot help but drop everything and give him a hug.

If I could write a story-- a story worth reading, a story that could change lives-- I'd pour into it my love for my father and every thing he taught me. It wouldn't be perfect, because my dad and I, we are far from it and our tale has been messy along the way-- the big kind of messy that makes you cringe and you think will never get fixed and might just need to be tossed. But the ending would be a thing of beauty, one for the record books, one full of hope, love, and, most importantly, squeezy hugs.