February 15, 2018

It happened - ten days after my last post, my Dad passed away. Saying that is still so strange. I get the feeling like I want to stop myself and take it back, but it's true.

My Dad stopped eating and drinking for the most part on February 7th. The last great conversation I had with him was the day before. It was a Tuesday and I almost didn't call. I got off work late, I was tired and honestly the days I called when Dad wasn't feeling well were really hard on me. I had this feeling like I should just call and I'm so glad I did. We chatted for about 20 minutes, laughed, he made some jokes about cremation (always hard to talk about, but he kept it light), we said I love you and hung up. When I got off the phone I had a big smile on my face and felt really good having a fun conversation with him. I didn't know at the time that would be our last truly lucid talk.

Once my step-mom called to let me know he had stopped eating and drinking, I made plans to go up to the house that Friday and spend the night. My Dad loved having me up there overnight so he could tuck me in. It didn't matter that I was 33 years old - I would always be Dad's baby girl so I thought I'd be a big help and have a nice night with him. I knew it could be toward the end, but I didn't really believe it. He'd had bad spells on and off for years and while I knew this was worse than usual, I still didn't really think it would be the end.

When I showed up that morning, bags in hand, I had no idea how bad it was. My stepmom told me he was lying down in bed and warned that he wasn't really aware. I honestly thought she was overreacting a bit until I saw him. His huge 280 lb 6'4 frame was tucked into blankets like a child and he was staring at the ceiling with a blank and glassy look in his eyes. He did have a slight smile, but it's like his eyes were far off and looking at another world than the one in front of him. I immediately teared up as I had never seen Dad like this. The same Dad who had stern talking to's with every neighbor who drove too fast around me. The Dad who literally showed up at the gate on his horse with a gun at his side the first time I brought a boy home. The Dad who made me feel safe and protected even if he wasn't in the same town.

I went over to the side of the bed he was favoring, sat down and in the softest non-cracking voice I could muster, said "Hi Dad." He looked in my direction and seemed to look through me but got a huge smile on his face. I told him how much I loved him and leaned down to meet his puckered lips. We had a very short conversation while I held back tears. I can't remember what I said, but I remember the only words he could manage to muster were "yeah" and "I love you". It's crazy how at the end of life, nothing seems to make sense except love.

1 year and 5 months later:

Writing the experience of my Dad's death was both cathartic and incredibly difficult. Every time I thought of it, tears would run down my face and the knot in my chest would return. Now over a year later, I am able to think about it more consciously. It still hurts. I'm sure it will always hurt, but the pain isn't as sharp as it was in the beginning.

I've had friends who have lost a parent. I would always feel for them, give my condolences and try to put myself in their shoes, but you can't. You really have no idea what it feels like until it happens to you. Losing a parent is like losing a piece of you. It's like a whole part of you floats away and you're left feeling partially empty and like you're no longer on solid ground. Slowly over months and years you start to settled back down to Earth and find your footing once again.

Since Dad passed, I've lived a lot of life in a few short months. My husband and I got married in April 2018. It was a beautiful wedding and somehow tons of fun even given the fact that there was a huge physical presence missing. I could feel Dad everywhere that weekend and my husband did too. He was all around us, from songs that came on the radio, to the entire town's power going out during our rehearsal dinner (Dad was an electrician). He was everywhere, but not having him there physically was still a feeling I couldn't face. I tried to avoid the reality of his absence as much as possible in order to enjoy the wedding, but it crept in repeatedly.

The biggest moment for me was when I was waiting to walk down the aisle. I had chosen to walk by myself because I believed my Dad was walking right beside me. While the wedding party proceeded, our coordinator pulled me to a separate area to wait out of sight. Those few minutes, listening to the music, my entrance song coming on and the big moment ahead, that's when it hit me. I started to tear up when the coordinator came over and said OK, it's your turn. I looked at her with tears in my eyes about to walk and all I could say was "I miss my Dad."

Losing Dad - How to Cope

Here I am - 33 years old, recently engaged, working full time, living a great life, and trying to figure out how the hell to cope with losing my dad.

My dad has been sick with liver disease for the last three years or so. He was sick before that, but recovered for a few years and then it came back with a vengeance. I've known since then that this was going to be the thing to do him in. I've also known through a lot of research, that this is a very difficult way to go - especially for the family. It's slow, it can be painful, it's full of ups and downs, and there is no way around it. 

I've grieved a lot over the last few years. I've grieved for the idea of losing him, I've grieved for all of the things we won't do again or ever do, and I've grieved for his suffering. After all of this grieving, I'm still not even close to being ready for the day to come that I can no longer go to the ranch and sit with him or call him on the phone for advice. The only thing I am ready for is to see him not suffer any longer. Watching him in pain or knowing he is having a hard time is the worst part of the situation. I find some peace in knowing he won't be going through that and it helps me to feel better about it all.

His goal right now is to make it another 2+ months to be at my wedding and God what I wouldn't give to have him walk me down the aisle. He's picked out his outfit and our song, "I Loved Her First" by Lonestar. But I don't want him miserable. I'm ready to say goodbye and know that he's been a HUGE part of my life and even when he's gone, he'll still be a HUGE part of it. He'll be there walking me down the aisle and watching me marry the love of my life. He's had the chance to get to know my fiance and show him how a man should care for me. So, even if he's not there physically, he will be there in some form no matter what.

I know there are a lot of people who have gone through what I'm going through. I've also noticed there aren't that many people talking about it, so I wanted to open the discussion. Grief is such a strange thing. It doesn't just go away - it sticks around and comes in and out of life sporadically. I've grieved so much already and I know there is much more to come. 

I'm not one to grieve publicly - on occasion I can't help it, but usually I cry to myself and put on a brave face. I've noticed this isn't the healthiest way to do things as I've given myself chest pains from holding in the crying for so long. I'm working on better ways to deal with my grief - letting it be what it is, accepting it, and then letting it go. Some days I do alright and other days, like today, I can't stop sobbing. Which is exactly why I'm writing this. It's cathartic to put it down on "paper" and let it all out.

My heart is breaking - it's been broken since this process started, but it continues to break. I love my dad with my whole heart. I know he'll always be with me, and although the hole he'll leave behind will be immense - it will be filled with 33 years of incredible memories.

Transition Time - Horse Accident First 8 Hours

Aww life transitions.  This one kind of snuck up on me.  I take that back, it hit me like a freight train going 80, or better yet, a 1600-lb horse flipping over on top of me.  Yeah that's it.  Nothing like waking up in the trauma unit to knock some sense into you.

I regress.  August 8, 2011.  I don't remember it.  It's a complete blur.  On occasion I think I have flashes of memory but my doctors have told me that's what happens when you experience a traumatic brain injury and have memory loss.  Apparently my brain can't fathom the fact that the day is gone so it tries to piece information together and form memories that aren't actually there.  Weird concept.  They are kind of like dreams coupled with an anxiety attack.  All I know is I took Tuff for a ride and he flipped over on me.

I have spent hours trying to put the puzzle together, granted I had 6 weeks to recover from the broken bones and 6 months to recover from the head trauma, so I had a lot of time on my hands.  Tuff is an amazing horse.  In fact, I had told his owner repeatedly that he was the exact kind of horse I would want to ride.  He was beautiful. About 15.3 hands, solid black, with a super thick, stocky build and roaring energy.  My kind of quarter horse and that boy could spin on a dime.  He was extremely athletic, to the point where I could literally feel his energy course through me when we ran.  It was electricity.  His physical power was overwhelming.  I rode him a few times before this, the first time with another rider while I was giving a lesson.  I remember feeling foreign in the saddle.  His movements took some getting used to because he was nervous.  He was deathly afraid of cars and riding in Rancho Santa Fe, cars would speed pass every few seconds.  I could feel his nerves beneath me.  He would jump and bolt so quick that even as an experienced rider, it would catch me off-guard.  I remember thinking this horse needs work and I could help him.

Before I knew it, I was hired to get this guy out a few times a week along with the other paint mare I rode for the same clients.  I was excited but there was a sense of insecurity about the situation.  Riding him wasn't the problem, it was consistently being on my game since this horse was so athletic and could throw me like a rag-doll if he felt so inclined.

A few rides went by effortlessly.  Tuff and I were running around the Rancho Santa Fe golf course a few days a week, I felt confident and comfortable and he was obviously warming up to me.  His power became normalcy as we flew around the trails together.  After every ride his owner would get a phone call from me raving about how wonderful he was and how much better he was doing with cars.  Then August 8th happened.

As I said, I don't remember waking up that morning.  I don't remember anything until approximately 7pm when I came to at Scripps Memorial Hospital.  According to the doctors I was found unconscious on the driveway next door to Tuff's house.  A neighbor saw him running around the outside of his corral fully dressed in saddle and bridle with no rider.  She knew something had gone wrong.  When she walked down her driveway, there I was tangled on the pavement.  She called 911.


The first thing I remember is seeing my Dad's face peering over the hospital bed.  His full white beard and big blue eyes, glassy with tears.  He let out a worrisome grunt.  A sound I've heard for years when he is disappointed or worried.  In this case, his baby-girl, the one who always loved horses was sitting in a blank-stare before him.  The same strawberry blonde who at three years old he asked what she wanted for her birthday and she quickly replied, "a horsie."  From that point forward his goal was to eventually fulfill that dream and on Christmas morning 1996 he surprised me with my very own horse.

Now looking at me in a neck brace, swollen cranium, glazed over appearance, being pumped with morphine, his worst fear was realized.  My love of horses that he had fueled led me to this place, this hospital bed, unsure what the future would hold.

The room slowly started coming into focus as I entered my new reality.  Welcome back Carli, your life has changed.

To be continued...

The Adventures of Patito: Part 1

Ah the baby duck story.  Yes I raised a baby duck, a mallard to be exact.  You may ask how the hell did this chick end up raising a duck?  Well, here's how...

My incredibly tolerant roommate, Heather, and I were driving down from our place in Mammoth Lakes, CA to Bishop to float the Owen's River with some friends.  It was the middle of Summer 2008, the weather was perfect, hot and dry.  The water was chilly and still deep enough to keep our butt's from scratching along the bottom while we float on inner tubes, one holding a cooler filled with Bud and Coors Light, the others a few tipsy friends looking to relax and get a tan on a perfect Saturday.  Just what a bunch of Mammothites needed to escape the sometimes suffocating small town that we called home.

As we entered Bishop on the 395, excited to start our adventure, we saw some cars slowing down in front of us.  Curious and impatient, we peered around to see a 3 inch puff of black and yellow feathers waddling across the street, heading directly into oncoming traffic.  Each car took a look and slowly started back toward their destination but I could not pull my horrified eyes away from what was about to happen.  This baby duck, only two days old, had somehow been separated from his mother only to end up smack dab in the middle of a busy highway, dodging semi-trucks driven by oblivious men on a mission that didn't include braking for anything, especially a supposedly insignificant life.


I watched as the helpless duck took a few steps forward in front of a truck traveling at close to 35mph.  I gasped as it sped passed and watched the whirlwind from the tires pick up the tiny bird and throw him back to where he started.  He began to walk again, trying desperately to avoid the seemingly giant cars and trucks zooming across his path.  Heather, watching in awe, looked at me and asked what we should do.  My heart was in my chest, I was squinting at every car, every near death experience, panicking as I watched this little creature almost die a tragic death over and over.  I screamed for her to stop the car.  Without hesitation I swung the passenger door open, leaped out and ran to the median.  Filled with the overwhelming need to do something, anything, I darted into the middle of the highway.  A scream hit my lips as I watched the duck roll in the street after a car drove directly over him, the force sending him tumbling deeper into traffic.  I couldn't think, I was overcome with irrational hatred for our way of life, for the carelessness of every driver whizzing past without even realizing the impact they were having.  I held my breath and focused on nothing but the baby in front of me, helpless and scared.  I ran.  I ran without looking, I didn't care if I was hit, I didn't care what it took, I was going to save this duck.  My legs propelled me forward at a speed I'd never experienced.  I was weightless.  I had a purpose.  As I sprinted across the busy street I lowered my hand and felt my fingers wrap around cold feeble legs and lift the ball of feathers into the air all in one sweeping motion.  Before I knew it, I was on the other side, panting as adrenaline rushed through my bones, standing in a grassy lot staring at my roommate still parked in the middle of the street.  I was in shock.  I looked down at the foreign object sitting peacefully in my hands as though nothing had happened.  He was a baby.  He had that look that every baby has no matter what their species, the innocent eyes, filled with curiosity and undeserved trust.  He looked up at me as though he knew he was now OK, that's when I realized, in that moment of chaos, I had become Mama.

Heather pulled her car into the parking lot, looking at me like I was crazy and I'm sure, wondering what the hell I was going to do now.  I figured I would walk around, check out the local stream and hopefully find a mother duck wandering around aimlessly but there were no ducks.  Not a duck in sight.  I decided to call the local bird rescue but since it was a weekend there was no answer.  Now, running late to our floatopia, I made the decision that after all I'd done, I couldn't leave the little guy lost in the park just to end up back in the street so I decided I would raise him.  Heather laughed when I told her my plan.  This is where the tolerant part comes in, she somehow agreed, knowing the ridiculous amount of bird poop that would inevitably fill our rented condo.

A warmth came over me as I sat back down in the car and laid this perfect little being on my chest.  He stared at me as I studied his form.  Big round expressive eyes, soft rabbit like fluff where feathers would eventually grow in, a little yellow beak, and surprisingly big feet and long toes.  I had grown up with animals but never birds and this one was alien to me.  I had no idea where to start, how to feed him, or where he would sleep but none of that mattered.  He was my responsibility and I would care for him the best I could.  Step one, he would float the river with me.

We continued on our way to the Owen's, car packed with beer and floaties and one special stow away, my new found feathered love, Patito.

To be continued...

Just the Beginning

Many of you may not know this, some of you do, but I used to write A LOT. I was into politically infused poetry in college and was an avid journal writer but over the last few years, things changed. Now I can't even tell you where my journal is let alone the few small UCSB publications I used to cherish, probably in a box packed in Anza with the rest of my past. That storage unit that somehow turns into a black hole filled with old yearbooks, love letters, and the occasional half melted scented candle, still potent through years of dust and mildew. Memories of another time, another life, something so foreign I don't even recognize it except there's my name in big black sharpie staring at me, screaming "Yes this is you!".

Crap. I don't want to admit that I was once a love struck college student journaling about some guy who loved me and left me and blah blah blah. Or, maybe I do. Maybe that's the good stuff and maybe, just maybe it's a revelation to see how much I've changed and how much I am the same. So here it is, the stories of my life, the transition from a 3 year old ballerina in a chicken costume to the woman I am today. My little existence that to some is irrelevant but to me is everything.