What I would say if I could

"Just calling to let you know we're all fine, we had a beautiful snow, Missy measured six inches here. And, uh, we're staying in out of the nasty. I didn't know what shift you're working so I just decided to call. Give me a call sometime and tell me what shift you're working or tell Mom on email or however you guys do that. Talk to you later. Bye."


That was the last voice message my dad left on my phone. I was working and couldn't answer when he called...and I'm so glad I didn't because now I will always be able to hear his voice when I miss him.  I listened to it a lot yesterday. I played it over and over as I drove to the funeral home to meet my family and make his final arrangements.   I listened to it before I went to bed and then again when I woke up two hours later.  I've listened to it so many times I have it memorized. I made of a recording of it and emailed it to my family so they could listen to it when they needed to hear his voice again too.

My father had a beautiful voice, it was deep and melodious. I could listen to him speak for hours. He also had a beautiful singing voice, strong and deep...and I never heard him hit the wrong note. When he sang Battle Hymn of the Republic it was so beautiful it could bring tears to your eyes.  When I was in 7th grade our school choir performed a beautiful rendition of the song. Dad and I would sing it together hundreds of times, our voices harmonizing perfectly.  My daddy always told me I had a beautiful voice and could be a professional singer. I like to think I got any singing talent I have from him.

Listening to his message soothes me, makes me calm. It brings a smile to my face and brings back all those memories of singing with him.

The last couple of days have been hard for our family. We alternate between crying and laughing as we share our stories...and man, do we have some really good stories about our father.  When we met with the preacher who will be performing the funeral yesterday we were asked if any of us would like to get up and say something about dad. We all just sat there for a minute in silence and I finally spoke for all of us. Each of us would love to say something about our father, but our grief is so overpowering, the pain so raw, we fear we will stand to speak and nothing would come out.

When my beloved Pop (my "step" father, although I loved him as much as loved my daddy) died a few years ago I got up and spoke, not because I wanted to, but because he had asked me to.  He was sick for a long time and was in hospice, so we knew the end was coming. Pop gave me messages to pass on to everyone at his funeral, and because I loved him I did exactly what I asked.

My dad didn't do that, because my father had no intention of dying right now. He hadn't been in the best of health, but they had cleaned out his carotid arteries, put in stents to keep the blood flowing freely.  He'd recently had a pacemaker put in.  He had done everything he could to stay alive, and then suddenly he was gone.

So if I could manage to stand in front of people tomorrow and talk about my father, here's what I would say.

My father loved his family, he was completely devoted to us and always had been. He and I spoke on the phone almost every day since my brother Jimmy got sick...that's a lot of talking! We talked about everything and everybody, and while he never gave me specific messages to pass on I think I know what they would have been.  So I'm going to tell you some of the things and people we talked about.

We spoke often of his wife of 40 years, Karen "Kay" Parrott. He loved her with all his heart, was faithful to her and their wedding vows for four decades.  He called me a few months ago and said, "Sis, I need your help planning a surprise. I want to take mom on a trip just as soon as Jimmy's well again, and I need your help figuring out the best place to take her and things to do.  I was thinking I'd take her to Branson, do you think she'd like that?"

She would have loved it.

I've been to Branson several times over the years so he quizzed me on what hotels I liked best, what shows she'd like, where they should go to eat.  We spent hours over the month planning the special trip he wanted to give her.  My dad didn't like to go out to crowded places and I don't ever remember him going on a vacation, so he wanted this trip to be special for her.  I don't know if he ever told her about his plans, I had the impression he wanted to make it a surprise so I doubt he did...but I know he was serious about his intention to do this for her.

He was proud of the man my brother Charlie had become.  Strong and intelligent, a deep thinker like our dad, yet such a kind and gentle heart.  Charlie is also a heavy sleeper like our dad was, so daddy took it as his job to call Charlie every morning at 5:30 in the morning to wake him up for work. He was so proud when Charlie decided to go back to school to get his degree. Education was very important to our father.

Daddy was excited when my brother Jimmy got his bachelors degree and then was over the moon with happiness when he completed his Masters. Shortly after beginning his dream job Jimmy got sick and was hospitalized for the year. That was the beginning of a very dark time for our family, and it bothered daddy so much that he wasn't physically strong enough to stay at the hospital more. It was also when our daily talks began, first out of necessity to relay information pertaining to Jimmy back and forth, and then as a way for me to check on him every day.

Dad always referred to Jimmy as the runt of the litter, because while Missy, Jimmy and I had our dad's physical characteristics (big heads, stocky build), Jimmy took after the Sigsbee family and was always smaller and thinner. He was sick more often as a child, lost most of his hearing, so everyone was more protective of him.

When it became obvious that Jimmy had the Parrott fight in him and survived all that happened to him, our dad quit calling him the runt and started bragging about how he was so much stronger than any of us had ever thought. He was so proud of Jimmy's strength and determination and would proudly tell me every milestone Jimmy hit, when he got special shoes to help fix the "drop foot" he had developed while laying for months in the hospital bed.  He was tickled pink (his phrase, not mine) when Jimmy got new braces for his legs and was able to take a few steps, and I thought he was going to bust his buttons with pride when Jimmy was able to walk to the bathroom for the first time in years.

I think of all us kids he was most proud of my sister Missy, and rightfully so.  When Jimmy got sick Missy gave up everything...her job, her social life...EVERYTHING to take care of her bubby.  She moved into the hospital, she took on the responsibility of making all the medical decisions, she took over his finances and paid his bills.  She became the rock of the family, the one everyone depended on to make important decisions and make sure necessary things got done.  She fought the insurance company, doctors, nurses, she became a warrior whose only mission was my brother and father's well being. Daddy often said Missy was the glue that held everything together and he didn't know where they'd be without her. 

I know my dad was proud of me to, he told me so often.  He was proud of my work ethic, and raising two kids on my own.  He was proud of the advocate I've become when it comes to Brandi's health. He told me over and over how he had placed on of the Diabetic on Board stickers I designed on his car. 

He was proud that I'd gone to college after dropping out of high school, and was beyond proud when our local college asked me to teach classes on emergency communications several years ago. He thought it an amazing accomplishment that his "drop out" daughter was now teaching college classes.

He loved his grandchildren and great granddaughter as much as he loved his children.  He was so worried about Brandi and when I called him in tears one night because Brandi had slipped into a diabetic coma he said, "Oh sis, she's going to be fine, she has Parrott blood in her. Her body is just tired and needs to heal itself, but she'll come back to us"...and she did.  In the hundreds of conversations I had with him over the last three years he always asked how Brandi was, how her blood sugar levels were, and if she was gaining any weight.  He worried so much about her but was the first person to ever call her a warrior...and she is. He told me she took after his mom, who had given birth to 10 children and was in a coma when my daddy was born.  He said granny was strong and stubborn and a fighter - and that Brandi reminded him of her.  I think perhaps that's the best compliment he could have ever given anyone.

When I would call him exasperated with my son he'd say, "Sis, he's just like his daddy and that's not necessarily a good thing, but he's got Parrott blood in those veins too so don't you worry, one day he'll pull his head out of his ass and become a great man."  From your mouth to God's ear daddy!
Recently I had to pleasure of calling dad and telling him that DJ had completed his Bachelor degree and a perfect 4.0 grade point average and was going to graduate summa cum laude. Then I told him he had already enrolled in his first class towards his Master degree.  My daddy started laughing and said, "See sis...I told you he had Parrott blood in him. Tell DJ grandpa's proud of him!"

There's one other person my dad talked about often, a man he loved like a son and considered a part of our family, Danny Warren.

Danny is my sisters best friend, has been since childhood, and a few months ago they declared their love for each other and officially became a couple. Oh man, dad was over the moon thrilled. When I asked what he thought about their relationship and if he thought they'd get married one day he said, "I sincerely hope so Sis, Danny is a fine man, an honorable man, and I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have for a son in law."  The truth is that I already consider Danny my brother, just as daddy already considered him a son.  As my father said, "All the rest is just a piece of paper."

Dear Daddy,

Dad & Mom Parrott and me
1971
 

Dear Daddy,

I kept my promise to you today. Do you remember when we spoke a couple days ago and you made me promise to not take any overtime this weekend because I had been sick and you thought I needed to rest? Well, at 3:21 this morning my work called and the phone woke me up but when I reached to answer it I remembered my promise to you so I let it go to voice mail.  Then I smiled, said, "There you go dad!" and turned over to go back to sleep. Unfortunately I found myself wide awake so I set off to tackle taking down the Christmas tree and getting the house back in order.

About 4 am I thought about calling you, sure that you'd be awake and just wanting to hear your voice. Then I decided against it because I didn't want the phone to wake up the rest of the family. Oh daddy, how I wish I'd made that call.

At 9:12 Missy called me crying. She told me I needed to get dressed and drive safely to Washington County hospital.  I immediately thought something had happened to Hobbs, but when I asked what was wrong she started sobbing and all I could understand was "Dad" and "we did CPR."  I remember telling her that I was on my way and running up the stairs then pounding on DJ's door screaming for him to wake up, to get Brandi up, that something had happened to you and they were doing CPR.

I remember grabbing my jeans and shirt, intentionally choosing a shirt that Brandi didn't like on me, thinking if you died I was going to burn it. And then I ran out the door.  My hands were shaking so badly that at first I couldn't open the car door, it felt like hours before I was able to get into the car, but I know it was probably only a few seconds.

I called Milton, Lynda and Mom Oakley, trying to be calm but hearing hysterical screams coming from me instead.

I don't think I've ever been that panicked daddy, I was screaming at the top of lungs "Daddy don't die, Please God don't let my daddy die" over and over. I drove a quickly as I could and I know people must have thought I was crazy...screaming, crying, beating my fist on the steering wheel, but all I could think about was getting to you.

At 9:40 I heard your voice above my screams saying, "Calm down sis, you won't do anyone any good if you crash, slow down, it's okay, slow down."  The strangest thing happened then daddy, I was suddenly and completely calm.  Oh I was still upset, still worried, but I felt...I don't know, I guess the best word would be peaceful.  I knew at that moment you were gone and yet I felt you there in the car with me, calming me.  I swear daddy, I heard your voice.

When I got to the hospital they put me in the "quiet room" which I knew was a bad sign. The doctor who spoke to me was so kind, and he gently explained what they had done in their attempts to revive you, but then he said there were no brain waves, and even though your pace maker was still working every time they paused CPR there was no heartbeat.  He told me that as hard as they tried they had been unable to save you. Then they took me to a room so I could see you one last time.

You looked so peaceful as I sat there holding your hand. You were still warm when I kissed your forehead and stroked your hair.  The nurse in the room was so kind, rubbing my back as I cried, handing me tissue after tissue. She never rushed me to leave, never made me feel anything but her compassion at our loss.  She told me how hard everyone had worked to save you, how the paramedics were drenched in sweat from performing CPR for so long.

I could hear you again saying "Sis, it's okay, I'm here, but you need to get yourself together, mom and the kids will be here soon and I need you to be strong for them.

Do you remember how you always told us if you died to play Dueling Banjos and if your toe didn't start tapping it meant you were really gone?  We honored your request and played it for you, mom holding my phone up to your ear so you could hear it and everyone staring at your feet, waiting for even the smallest tapping of the toes.  There was no tapping and I think that's when it hit us that you were really gone.

Missy told me what had happened that morning, how you had been watching the news and drinking a cup of coffee, and then how you were gone so quickly. She told me how she and Danny had immediately started CPR while mom called 9-1-1.

I remembered the conversation we had after you learned Brandi needed a pancreas transplant and how you told me you wanted to be an organ donor when you died.  I didn't think you'd fill out the form like I asked you to...but you did, so that made the process a lot easier for us. We donated your organs daddy, just like you wanted done.  Because of you two people will be able to see again, burn victims will be able to heal, people with leukemia will get the bone marrow transplants they need to survive.  It helps us so much knowing that part of you will live on and help other people. 

I have spent hours today thinking about your life, your achievements.  How you were the first person in our family to ever graduate college.  How you gave up your dream of working at the United Nations to take a better paying job at General Motors so you could provide for your family.

I remember singing with you in the truck whenever we did errands and how well our voices harmonized.  I remember the way you looked when you got to the hospital after my car accident, how your hands shook as you told me you'd passed what remained of the car and how you didn't think anyone could have survived the wreckage.

I remember the night you stay up all night with me studying for the U.S. Constitution test and how proud you were when I passed.

You always made me feel so smart, telling me I could do anything I set my mind to and encouraging me to live up to my full potential.  I remember working along side you in the garden and riding on the tractor with you as you plowed the fields.

The thing I most looked forward to every year was you calling me on my birthday and singing Happy Birthday to me.  You never missed a year but after cell phones and voice mail came along I never answered because I wanted to have it recorded.  You knew I'd always call you right back and we always have the same conversation with you asking me how it felt to be however many years old and me laughing and instead of answering asking how it felt to be the father of a however many year old woman.

I remember the conversation we had just a couple weeks ago when you pointed out I had a big birthday coming up and asking if this was the year I would answer the phone. I assured you it was not, that I loved having you singing to me on tape so I could replay it over and over again.

I remember the terrible habit you had of simply hanging up a phone when we were done talking without even saying goodbye, and after telling you how much it bothered me how you NEVER ended another phone conversation with me without telling me goodbye and that you loved me.

You were the best father, always showing each of us how much you loved us every day.  You sacrificed so much for your family but I never heard you complain. You had the uncanny ability to make each of your children feel like they were your favorite, even though we we knew that you loved each of us independently yet equally.

You taught me to be brave, to be hard working, to respect other people's opinions even when I didn't agree with them.  You taught me that sometimes the best thing a parent can do for their child is say "No."

You loved mom and all of her quirkiness so much. Forty years of marriage, wow...that's such an accomplishment.  I remember you grilling me for different ideas on where to take her for the surprise trip you were planning and I wonder if you ever told her your plans, how you wanted to give her that memory.

I love you daddy, I love you so much and it's killing me to think of never talking with you again while I'm driving to and from work, to never have you call and check on Brandi, to never hear you laugh over some of the crazy things Bella says.

Don't worry about mom, Missy, Jimmy, Charlie, Danny and I will get her through this, we'll get each other through it.  We'll cry and we'll laugh and we'll spend hours reminiscing about our time with you and the honor of having you for our father.

So daddy, you go visit with Pa and Granny some more. Tell them we love them and miss them just as much, and that someday we'll all be together again.

Until then my dearest father, rest in peace and remember how very much I love you.

Tanya

Another Diabetic Anniversery



Brandi and me shortly after her diabetes diagnoses was made.



 I really wanted to write a touching blog about the 8th anniversary of my daughter's diagnoses with Type 1 Diabetes. 

My first draft was too raw, too angry.

My second draft read like a textbook history lesson

My third draft was basically about all the wonderful friends we've met due to her diabetes.

None of them felt right, felt complete... so here's what I really wanted to say....

1. Diabetes sucks...it is an evil, horrible, unforgiving disease that is doing its best to kill my daughter.
2. We need a cure today...this minute...this second...before it kills another person.
3. As much as I love all the friends we have met in the diabetic community, as close as we have become, as much support as we've given each other, I would give up every single one of those relationships if it meant my child would live one day...one hour longer.  As much as I love my friends, I love my daughter more.

I wish I could give Brandi my pancreas, I wish I could take her diabetes as my own and let her have a normal life. I would gladly face death if it meant my daughter would live and I know every single D-parent feels the same way. But I can't...and my friends can't...so we retain this helpless feeling every day of our lives.

I'm training to participate in the Ride to Cure Diabetes on August 17th,  a 100 mile bike ride to raise money for diabetes research...research that could save the lives of my daughter and my friend's children. I'm old and I'm fat, and I'm about as out of shape as a person can be, but I'm working my ass off so I'll be able to ride the entire hundred miles.

For me this ride is personal. I NEED to do this ride for Brandi, for me, for my father, my brothers, and friends. For every person this stinking disease has touched and every person it will ever touch. For every parent who has lost their child and every child who has lost their parent.

It's a way I can physically fight back. Every muscle ache, every drop of sweat makes me stronger, and when I'm training and my legs are burning and shaking I'm not sitting on the bike saying, "You can do this, " what I'm muttering with every panting breath is, "Fuck you diabetes, you can't have her."

I'm scared. This is one of the hardest things I've ever done and I'm afraid I won't be able to complete it, but as scared as I am it pales in comparison to the fear I have that I'll lose my daughter, that one of my friends will lose their child. So I happily embrace the upcoming months of training, pain and frustration because I will do anything to save our children's lives.

Who knows...maybe...just maybe..one of the dollars I raise will be the dollar that funds the research that finds the cure.

A little thing called exercise

 

 

Last night I sat on the parking lot of 24-Hour Fitness and typed the following message on Facebook, "Taking a Deep Breath...and here I go!"

Walking into a gym may not seem like that big of a deal to most of you but when you're 50 years old (well, almost), 74 lbs overweight (hey...I'm no longer 100 lbs overweight!) and haven't done a real workout in years it can be a bit daunting. So as I sat out in the dark looking at the brightly lit building I kept repeating, "You can do it...don't overdo it...slow and easy wins the race."

I had a plan, I think it was a very good plan...I would start off slow....I'm talking turtle slow, dip my toe in the pool kind of slow. Tonight I would ride a stationary bike for 30 minutes, swim 10 laps in the pool, then sit in the whirlpool for 10 minutes so my muscles wouldn't get sore, and then spend a few minutes in the sauna to sweat out those impurities. Nice and easy...hoping I wouldn't be bed ridden with sore muscles the following day.

All went well until I sat down on the stationary bike and found I needed to adjust the seat because it was too far back. After finally figuring out which level moved the seat up I sat back down...damn, still too far back. Okay, another fight with the evil red bar and the seat slid up a couple more notches...too close...after several more adjustments - and LOTS of giggles from the people around me because I looked like something out of an I Love Lucy episode - I was ready to ride. Ear buds in, Runaway Bride ready to be viewed on my Kindle, sweat towel and water bottle ready, and I was off!

I peddled and peddled, dreaming about the day when I would be on a real bike, riding 100 miles to raise money to find a cure for diabetes - our family's arch nemeses. I felt the burn in my legs, felt my heart rate increase, made sure to take slow deep breaths and pace myself. I felt the sweat rolling down my body, became my own cheering section chanting, "You can do it, you can do it...feel the burn, the burn is good...you're doing great!" And then I looked at the timer..

3 minutes. Are you freaking kidding me...THREE MINUTES...holy hell, this was going to be harder than I thought.

"Okay, look at the bike setting, maybe you have it in mountain terrain setting...nope, flat as Kansas...shit...keep peddling...don't focus on the time, focus on the distance...a half mile...shit... don't look at the distance, focus on the rpms...62...good, 62 rpms is good isn't it...maybe I should increase the rpms...faster, that's right, FASTER...82 rpms, that's better...look at granny go...how in the hell am I going to ride a hundred miles...what was I thinking...I can't do this...yes you can.. NO I can't...YES YOU CAN NOW SHUT THE HELL UP CAUSE I'M RIDING HERE....wait, my legs feel like noodles, is that a good sign or a bad one? Just peddle...that's it, keep peddling...OMG I'm going to die...you're not going to die, quit being a drama queen...no really, my heart is going to explode...maybe just a glance at the timer...10 minutes, ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!... Keep going, you can do it...okay lets get in a groove...ride at 60 rpms for 3/4 of a mile then peddle your ass off for the last 1/4 mile, nothing less than 80 rpms....what's my heart rate...how in the hell do I check my heart rate...oh, there...yep, that's it...142...that's a good rate..isn't it..shit, what's my resting heart rate, I forgot to check....what's that guy doing, why did he put in his weight...was I suppose to enter my weight...if I can see his weight that means everybody would be able to see me...F that...I'm not putting my damn weight in...keep peddling, don't stop...shit, time to increase the rpms again...oh my God, WHAT WAS I THINKING...I'm too old...I'm too fat....shut up, I'm trying to focus here...I want to walk, I miss walking, look at all those happy people on the treadmill...stupid foot, it's YOUR fault I'm not over there walking...keep peddling...wow, my foot hurts, is it suppose to hurt...where's the kids play area, I didn't see it when I came in...don't forget to look for it before you leave...what's that machine for...maybe I should try using some of the cool looking exercise machines before I leave...really, because you think they're not going to be hauling your fat ass out of here in an ambulance...will an ambulance get here in time....PEDDLE...how long now...25 minutes...wow, 25 minutes...I'm almost there...keep peddling...I wonder if people think I look as weird as I feel...wow I can't feel my legs at all now...is that a good sign....almost done, 1 more minute...PUSH...come on you can do it...PUSH....30 minutes...or thank you dear Lord in heaven for not letting me die during my first workout. Time to stop...no wait, aren't I suppose to warm down..warm down, is that really even a phrase...it's warm UP you idiot, you cool down....oh fuck this, I'm getting of this damn torture device!

 

Yep folks, apparently when I get on a stationary bike I become a raving lunatic because I pretty much typed the experience exactly how it happened.

 

Next came the pool which meant I had to change into my swimming suit...oh no, fat chick in a swimming suit...not just a swimming suit but a fluorescent hot pink swimming suit..damn my love of hot pink! Okay, new plan...just get your hot pink ass into the pool and get under the water as quickly as possible so you don't burn anyone's retinas!

 

I QUICKLY waddled to the pool and was happy to see it deserted...well, almost deserted, there was only one other person. Okay, head down, focus...just get in the damn pool and Vince...Vince Buman..is that you?!?

 

Yep, the only other person in the pool happened to be one of my favorite deputies I'd ever worked with, and although I couldn't clearly see him without my glasses I never forget a voice and that was definitely Vince's voice...it hadn't changed in the 20 years since I'd last heard it.

 

So for the next 30 minutes Vince and I walked, swam, and dog paddled laps in the pool together catching up with each other's lives. It was great seeing my old friend, remembering war stories, talking about our children and grandchildren. Holy cow, we're grandparents...where did the years go?

 

Next it was off to the hot tub and as we entered I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of me and Vince being in a hot tub together...never thought THAT would happen!

 

Finally the sauna (dry heat is a sauna, right?) Even though I'm not a fan of high temperatures I LOVED the sauna..it felt relaxing and comforting and not any hotter than one of my hot flashes. I really wanted to spread out a towel and take a nap, I knew that probably wasn't a good idea..but it was tempting.

 

So I survived my first day at the gym, the first of many. I need to go from 30 minutes on a bike to..well, a lot longer than 30 minutes. I imagine it will take several hours to ride 100 miles, but that's okay, I took the first step, and tomorrow morning when I get off work I'll take the second step...and before I know it will be spring and I'll be going on real bicycle rides with the wind blowing through my hair.

 

The important thing is that I took the first step.