Everything That Glitters Is NOT Gold

I sold my jeep yesterday. Crap. I loved that jeep. I know. I know. "You needed a new car." "You can't drive the jeep anymore." "You've been wanting a new ride for a while now." Blah. Blah. Blah.

I sold my jeep and then cried like a freaking baby. You know the kind of bawling that leaves snot rolling and mascara dripping. I couldn't be consoled and my racking sobs WOULD NOT END.

Today the cheery, hopeful and awe inspiring blog does NOT exist. You get the raw, angry, not-so-nice side of me that NOBODY likes or even pretends to tolerate. Tough. I'm angry. I'm pissed. I'm sad. I'm scared. I'm sick. And I'm so very tired.

I have stated over and over and over again. I don't like what is in my future. Can you hear my ragged, breathless scream? I DON'T LIKE WHAT IS IN MY FUTURE. It's scary. It's sad. It's not AT ALL what I had planned. It sucks in general. The suck part is absolute, positive, and UNEQUIVOCAL. It's beyond words, beyond description and beyond cheerfulness. It just sucks. That's all.

I didn't want to sell my jeep. I don't want to sell my house. I don't want to use a walker. I don't want to be bound to a wheelchair. I don't want to spit and slur and choke. In fact, I'm TERRIFIED of choking. I despise asking for help. I don't want to be lifted by my butt into the truck. I don't want to fall down EVER again. I don't want to need help in order to simply walk and lift and carry.

I want to sing and dance and run and twirl and hike and swim. I want to talk without exhaustion. I want to yell or laugh or cry without spittle dripping down my chin. I want to work in my yard unassisted. I want to clean my house quickly. I want to hop down my stairs and dash outside. I want to hold my grand babies hands and walk with them without seeing their worry that I'm going to fall. I want to design on the computer until I'm old and frail without my stupid hands stuttering over the keys and inevitably cramping up. I want to jump on the motorcycle without my legs cramping and aching until I can't stand riding even one more second. In fact, I want my own dang motorcycle. I want the feel the wind in my face and let the sun shine on my shoulders. I want to wear heels with my dresses and feel sexy again. I want to wear my make up like I used to.

I don't want to swear every time I stand up to get a drink or pee or clean. I don't want to shake so badly that contact lenses are out of the question. I don't want to give up my independence and freedom. I don't want to lose my license and NEVER drive again.

I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THAT I NEED TO BUCK UP. I know that others are a part of the ugly brunt of my weakness. People have to be aware ALWAYS to walk with me, dish my plate for me, carry my water to the table, lift me, carry me, watch me, help me, babysit me, etc. And etc. AND etc.

However, it's ME that can't. It's ME that chokes. It's ME that slurs. It's ME that can't write. It's ME that cramps. It's ME that falls. It's ME that aches. It's ME that has to "find the bright side" of EVERYTHING. It's ME that has to find the humor in order to make things easier for those around me because they just don't know how to deal with all this crap.

I see the "looks" and I hear the comments from those that have no idea what is going on. I deal with the accusations that I blow off and make light of. I'm judged. I'm angry that people are so shallow and self-righteous.

I feel like a freight train is bearing down on me and there is absolutely NO WAY to stop the impact. It's going to hit and there isn't a dang thing I can do about it.

Today I'll be angry. Who knows? Maybe I'll be angry tomorrow. However, I will try over and over to be better. For the most part, I know that I will laugh and smile and enjoy the simple things in life. I will face the obstacles placed before me with as much grace as I can muster.

As Dan Seals serenaded in his same-named song:

And that's okay.

There's Good in Goodbye

September 9th found me loading up in my car and driving to White Salmon, Washington to participate in a memorial for my dad.

This was the first time I would ever go to Washington and my dad wouldn't be there. I didn't want to go. I had a stomach ache for days. I had no energy. I cried a ton. I have been sad and depressed and I missed my dad. Terribly.

Mark got off work early and after rushing around to complete my task sheet, we loaded up the suitcases and road food and headed out. By the way, I do NOTHING fast anymore. I walk slow. I talk slow. I move slow. I AM SLOW. So quickly for me is not necessarily very fast. However, progress was made and eventually we got out of here and directed our car towards the adventure. We ended up staying in a motel on Friday night in Boise, Idaho and left Saturday morning to complete the journeys final leg.

We wound around the Columbia River and climbed passes to get over the mountains. The scenery was green and beautiful and peaceful. I watched fishing boats and tug boats. I smelled the majestic pines. I watched for deer and goats and elk and birds. And before I knew it, I arrived in White Salmon and was able to wrap my arms around mom and cry. Hard.

I gazed at dad's chair. Empty. I kept waiting to hear "hello kid". The room remained quiet.

Arlene had worked super hard to get the house clean and the property in tip-top shape for the barbecue. The kids had gathered pictures and Cheryl made a I-loved-it-so-much movie of dad's life.

I think that's when it all hit me. I watched the pictures flash across the screen and I had absolutely no fond memories to attach with the pictures. No smells to go with the campfires. No sounds of laughter and singing with the guitar playing.

I thought I would be even more sad. Guess what? I wasn't.

Many many MANY people came to the barbecue. Food was abundant. The sun warmed our shoulders. Laughter filled the air. I clung to the stories of dad and thought how lucky am I to have found this family?

I really really REALLY like my siblings. I adore my nieces and nephews. My cousins are amazing and my aunts and uncles are the coolest people in the history of EVER.

I spend much of my time at these gatherings trying to remember "who is that? or asking "am I related to him?" or pretending that I know who I am talking to but in actuality I have NO IDEA. So I fake it, nod my head, smile and hug.

And I watched and listened and embraced every single goodbye to my dad. He had to be watching over us and grinning from ear to ear. It was beautiful and magical and just what this girl needed. I AM lucky. I'm blessed to have TWO wonderful fathers and mothers that love me beyond words. Not many people get to add an abundance of family and friends to their life. I did. I'm better for it. I'm grateful for it and I'm beyond lucky for it.

Shotgun Rider

I've come full circle now. Out of kids. Out of birthdays to write about. Last year I wrote about Shelby on her birthday - for her birthday. However, since I decided THIS year to write a tribute to each of my kids on their special day, I HAVE to write about Shelby. Right?

Captured audience. I'm writing, which means by default, you're reading. So neener-neener-neener.

Today is Shelby's birthday. Dang girl turned 25. What? Why oh why is she growing up? Isn't she going to stay FIVE forever? In my addled brain she's five. So there. I'm always right. Just ask me.

When Shelby was young I tired very quickly of my kids yelling "shotgun" and running in the parking lot to get to the car. First, I worried that they would be hit by a coming car and I wouldn't be able to get all my errands completed that day AND I despised the fighting and yelling that ensued with the word "shotgun". I developed a rule. Oldest kid gets front seat. Don't ask. Don't fight. If friends were older, THEY got the front seat. My theory was that eventually everyone would get a turn up front where they could rule the window and the radio.

Guess what? There came a time that all the kids went to school and Shelby got to sit in the coveted front seat.

I've always been big on holding hands with with my kids in the car. The radio would be TURNED UP. High. We would sing at the top of our lungs and hold hands. That's what mom did. Oh, you don't like it? You don't WANT to hold hands? You're mad at me? Deal with it.

Email and internet had not taken off in the '90's. In order to proof my graphic clients, Shelby and I would load up, crank up the radio, hold hands, run to Kinkos to print the job and then head out to make the delivery. Quite often I would swing in to McDonald's to get her a Happy Neal for her to snarf down before being dropped off to afternoon Kindergarten class at Franklin Elementary.

Just this morning, Shelby came over and we reminisced on the gathering of sunflowers. Sunflowers grow in random places. I would see fields of weeds, and then a sunflower would poke up to add some beauty to the ugliness around. We would cut limitless amounts of sunflowers to brighten our kitchen. But really? The outings brightened US. We would talk about five year old business. Discussions ranged from good food, great books, dogs, cats and colors to family, friends, neighbors and loved ones. We would sing a song, then Shelby would analyze the song. "Do you think he really meant that he was leaving? Do you think he has a dog? Do you think he likes spaghetti? Do you think he's lonely?" Sigh. HUGE sigh. "I don't know, Shelby. Just sing the song."

Everyone loves Shelby. I mean EVERYONE LOVES Shelby. I have friends. Lots of friends. They are ALL friends with Shelby as well. Shelby will say "We need to go see Marilyn." Hmmmm. "Shelby, she's MY friend." "No mom. She's my friend."

Shelb has been a bridesmaid or maid of honor for multiple weddings. She is friend to everyone. She is loyal and true and talented and kind and - yep - she's beautiful. But the real draw to Shelby? She listens. She doesn't judge and she wants nothing more than the best. For everyone.

That makes me happy. And proud. Oh-so-proud.

So here's to you Shelby-Kar Deason. Enjoy every single minute of 25. Share your beauty and your talents with all you see. You are the world to so many. However, never, ever, EVER forget that there isn't a single person in this entire universe that can possible love you more than your mom.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

My I-love-him-oh-so-very-much-he-really-is-the-coolest-kid nephew Mat is getting married tomorrow. Nope. He's not old enough to get married. He seems to think he's gonna do it anyway. Sigh. I GUESS I'll let him. Reluctantly.

Dawn and I were BFF's in high school. Long story (Yep. It's a whopper of a story) short, we married brothers and quickly grew in the sister-in-law role. Family is full of adventure, isn't it? We embraced the adventures wildly.

We cooked. We shopped. We cleaned. We watched movies. We talked for hours on the phone. We did holidays and birthdays and average days. Yep. We did it all together, so when the time came to have families? It was only natural that we did that together as well. Tyson arrived in August. Carissa made her appearence in September. There was a bit of a break while we all prepared for Goose. From that point on, we were blessed each year with a new Deason to add to the list. Mat was fourth.

Dawn and Mike lived around the block from Mark and myself. The quick way to get to their place was to hop the fence in our backyard. Many MANY items (and bodies) were handed over that fence. If I needed to borrow sugar? I'd call Dawn and she would "meet me at the fence". When the kids were wound up and too hard to tame? "I'll meet you at the fence." And the kids would climb over so the other mother could get a nap or simple PEACE and QUIET for a minute.

Many, many, MANY times, Mat crossed that fence into Aunt Nette's waiting arms.

Mat has always been one of the kindest people I know. If you need something? Simply ask Mat and he will make it happen. Kind, handsome, smart, talented. The most stand-out characteristic he possesses? Funny. I mean smack-your-leg-with-laughter FUNNY.

When Mat was little he would sit in the back of the car and start telling jokes. His favorite go-to line? "Why did the chicken cross the road?" The answers varied from "because he likes blue" or "because he liked it better over there" or how about "because he saw a basketball". What? OHMYGOSH!  Mike would try over and over and over to explain "That's not a joke Mat. It has to be FUNNY." Mat would just howl with laughter and guess what? His laughter was contagious and we would all end up laughing. It WAS funny. Dang funny.

Mat has always found the silly side to most things. I like that best about him. He doesn't make light of horrible situations, however, there is something about his wisdom and the artful way he expresses himself that leaves even the saddest moments highlighted with a smile.

To say that Mat will ROCK this marriage is an understatement. He will, you know. When his wife has had a hard day? Mat will be there to gently lift her spirits and bring a smile to her face. How cool is that?

 "Why did the chicken cross the road?" "To get married and have babies and live happily-ever-after."

The Final Creation

I'm a designer. I know what it takes to create an all-around-feel-good piece of art. I peruse shapes and colors and fonts to find the perfectly perfect item that fits. As time has passed and my experience has grown, I have discovered fonts and colors and shapes that I use more often because they just "work".

Last year the Deason gang all gathered to camp in Oregon. Some of the cousins decided that it was silly that we never got together. Boy. Was that about to change. Plans were made. We were taking motorcycles to Glacier National Park the next summer.

Mark has been to Glacier several times. He takes off on his bike and visits his "favorite place on earth." He has gone with friends and family and I hear all about it.  I view the pictures while he tells stories. I knew it must be beautiful, however, Mark must be exaggerating a titch. Right? Oh boy. Was I oh-so-wrong.

The morning of July 30, Mark, myself and Uncle Ron left Utah to join the rest of the group in Idaho. Cousin Rick and Theresa, Cousin Paul and Jessica, new and FABULOUS friends, Randy and Jan McCollam hooked up with the three of us and so began our epic adventure.

Five bikes headed toward Grand Teton National Park, Yellowstone National Park and Glacier National Park. Rick had happily mapped our adventure. We traveled scenic routes. We ate super great food. We slept in oh-my-gosh-I'm-so excited-about-this-hotel rooms. We shared laughter and stories. We exclaimed over the beauty of the scenery and excitement over the animals. We smelled the wonderful smells and heard the incredible sounds of nature. Yep. It was a wonderful and fun and happy and stress free adventure.

As we moved forward towards Glacier, my excitement grew. Remember I had never seen what all the hoopla was about and I was ready to tie Mark's stories into my memories.

We hit Glacier National Park Tuesday morning.

This is where I lose the capability of finding the words to describe the beauty of that park. I now know why Mark emphatically proclaims that it is the single most beautiful place on earth.

Waterfalls, green trees, wildflowers, animals, lakes, mountains, grass and animals. This all sounds "nice". Right? Get up there. See it. Smell it. Feel it. Hear it. The description "nice" fades with the impact of the beauty in which you are immersed.

I was overwhelmed with emotion while riding through the park. The sun was hitting my shoulders. I was surrounded by beautiful family and friends. I was gazing at the kingdom before my eyes. That's when I knew. Glacier National Park was God's final creation.

I imagined Him at his desk. He had bare feet up and His fingers were steepled below His chin in concentration. He had to be ruminating over past work. He had already created heavens and water and continents and animals and rocks and plants. I believe He knew that his final creation had to speak on it's own. It had to be viewed in wonder with humble adoration and would need to inspire speechless silence.

And He began.

He took the best of the best from his previous designs. He placed waterfalls in precise locations that would accent not dominate. He made the grasses so green yet they complimented the blue of the mountains. The lakes were created so amazingly still and clear that they mirrored their surroundings in such a way that the park seemed as deep as it was tall. He scattered wildflower seed to add smatterings of color throughout.

And when he finished? He sat back, looked at his work and said "This is good."

L-R:  Paul Pergson, Jessica Pergson, Linnette Deason, Mark Deason, Rick Deason, Theresa Deason, Ron Jones, Jan McCollam, Randy McCollam.

T H I R T Y T W O

Today Tyson turns thirty two. T H I R T Y  T W O. What the heck? No way am I old enough to have an old man for a son. Sigh. I guess I am. Crap.

To understand Tyson slightly, you have to hear a bit of his early years.

Mark was in the Navy and we lived in Norfolk, Virginia in a time where email and cell phones didn't exist. Not long after Mark deployed, I found out I was pregnant with our first baby. I was so excited that I hollered and screamed my joy to the nurse through the drop-a-dime-and-wait-for-a-dial-tone phone. Poor thing hung up on me. I'm sure her ears were bleeding from the LOUD screams that rocked through the phone lines. When I had calmed down enough, I dug another dime out of my pocket, called back to find out what to do next. Remember, my family is all adopted and I had NO idea how this childbirth stuff even worked.

After hanging up with the nurse (who, yes, hated my guts), I wrote Mark a letter. "We're having a baby!" I wrote with swirls and hearts and tons of kisses.

My excitement continued through Mark's arrival home. I was HUGE. I don't mean a little big, I had doubled my weight and was still going strong. I was wearing Mark's Navy pants and keeping them tight around my tremendous belly with a rope. Yep. You read it right. A rope. Oh and by-the-way, I had taken a huge bite from a Big Hunk candy bar and the cap on my front tooth stuck in the remainder of the candy. Snaggle tooth and HUGE. Yep. That was me. Poor Mark. He came home to THAT sight and I'm sure wanted to run screaming back to the ship. Sigh. Not my most beautiful moment.

August 18 rolled around and we were hanging out with some friends at their house. We had all decided that we were going out to dinner that night. Italian. And I was super excited to have a date night with my hubby. Problem was, throughout the day, I kept getting a stomach ache. My due date was two months away. It didn't even cross my mind that I could possibly be in labor. Young and naive. Yep. That described me.

I borrowed the phone to call my mom. "I keep having these stomach aches that don't seem to go away." I called the hospital. By then, the pain was coming more frequently and my enormous belly would go hard as a rock.. "You can come in if you want, but, it doesn't sound like anything serious."

No way was I going to miss my date night and spaghetti dinner. The hospital was about twenty minutes away, involved a toll bridge and I HAD A DATE scheduled. The hospital said not to worry so I didn't.

I began showing tension from the pain and Mark said that we were going to check everything out. Crap. Looks like spaghetti would have to wait.

We arrived at the hospital and I was whisked into a back area where they hooked me up to I.V.'s and performed an ultrasound. I was having the baby. They tried to give me stuff in my I.V. to stop the labor. No go. I was having that baby. Today.

The nurse went out to the waiting room and told Mark to get me admitted. It was an OLD hospital built like a campus. Different buildings for different needs. Mark had to drive to the Admission Building. In all the discombobulation of bad directions and nerves and WHAT-THE-CRAP's, Mark left the Naval Hospital, drove down the street and attempted to admit me in the civilian hospital.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Deason, we have no record of your wife." "Well, she's here. I was told to admit her. We're having the baby. Check again." Nurse finally takes a good look at the haircut and realization dawns on her. Wrong hospital, buddy.

Mark finally got me admitted to the RIGHT hospital and made it back to me. "WHERE THE CRAP HAVE YOU BEEN? " as I moaned and groaned through my pain.

It was 1984. Not much in the lines of doctor bedside manners. PLUS we were at a Navy training hospital. I had different a doctor every time someone walked in the room. Felt like a circus and I was the main attraction. By then, I hurt so bad I could have cared less if it was in the middle of main street. I wanted that baby OUT.

2:30 in the morning of August 19, Tyson Jack Deason was born. All 5 lb. 6 oz. of him. There was a crew of emergency technicians to whisk him away and begin working on him. As they were running out the door, I yelled "Can I see my baby?" someone held him up for me and hollered back "It's a boy." and ran out with my son.

They told us there was only a 50% that our boy would make it. "Screw that. He's a Deason."

Tyson spent his first days in an incubator. He was in a room with babies half his size. He was so tiny, yet the other babies were dwarfed next to him. We were allowed to sit by the incubator, stick our hands through and hold his hand. That's it. No cuddling.  A few days passed. We were finally allowed to hold and ROCK our baby. The sweetness that emanated from that little bundle remains locked in my mind.

I stroked his beautiful head of hair. Swirled the hair on his back. Tickled his tiny toes and told him how important he would be in this world.

Tyson grew and flourished and came home to a VERY PROUD mother and daddy.

I dug out the handy-dandy click it camera. Mark was holding Tyson against his chest. I aimed the camera to snap a picture, and Tyson lifted his head off Mark's chest and turned away from the camera. That's when I knew. I had the strongest kid in the history of EVER.

We turned his head back. I drew back to snap the picture and again he turned his head. So began Tyson's stubbornness over picture taking. I swear he does it just to get a rise out of mom. I yell. I holler. I beg, plead and make promises TO THIS DAY to get that kid to pose for a picture.

Tyson strength remains a central part of his being. He has never let himself or others remain stagnant. He endures and learns and grows in epic proportion. Tyson is super smart. Always has been.  He is handsome and kind. He is the kindest person I know. Seriously. He will do anything you ask of him. There are times when he is alone in the "doing". That doesn't stop him. He continues forward and will not stop.

Tyson is the epitome of one of my all-time favorite quotes:

"I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better I do better." Maya Angelou

Thirty-two is just the beginning for this boy. He will continue to grow and learn and BE. I'm so proud of him. I'm proud to know him and ever so proud to be his mom. I jokingly say (when people ask if I am mom to Tanna, Shelby, Goose or Jaden) "Why do you ask?" and then I screw up my eyes in disgust and ask "Was he/she nice to you?" and we laugh and laugh. Sometimes they WEREN'T nice. HA!

However with Tyson? I NEVER ask that. I don't even joke about it. I know that my son represented himself and our family remarkably. In fact, I inevitably wonder what he gave to them, what he did for them or how he shared something that changed their lives for the good.

That's my boy. Honest. Kind. Handsome. Caring. Unselfish. Smart. Hopeful. Valiant.

He is the best person I know and I'm ever so proud of him.

Happy thirty two, son. I can't wait to see what you do with the rest of your life.

Aloha 'Oe

A few weeks ago I received a phone call from Arlene. "Your dad's cancer has spread and it doesn't look good." What? I had no idea there were more problems. Crap. Not good. Not good. Not good. Those words echoed through my head over and over until I thought I might go mad.

I booked a flight to see him and on July 12 I landed in Portland where Uncle Ed, Aunt Alice and cousin Brenda scooped me up and took me to see my dad in the Hood River hospital.

Dad had been put on life support. They had removed half his colon and for a bit, it was touch and go for him. Guess what? He pulled through like the trooper he is. They kept saying "I can't believe how good he is doing." And he did, you know? He pulled every ounce of strength necessary to get home. He walked and sat and joked while being poked and prodded and groped all in the name of getting better and getting home.

When I arrived at the hospital to see my dad, he was on a ventilator. They had removed the tape from his eyes. He was drugged and miserable and it BROKE MY HEART to see him in such disarray. I remember sitting by his bed and holding his hand. I was so very cold in that hospital. Don't they have a heater? They sure charge enough. You would think that they would pay the heating bill. Geesh.

As I held my dad's hand, his warmth coursed through me. And my thoughts played through the song by Pink "Please, please don't leave me."

Do I need to tell you how hard it was to leave when it was time to fly home? I tried so very hard to keep my grown-up-I'm-a-big-girl game face on as I hugged my dad for the last time. Of course, I told him I loved him. Did he really know? Did he know how he had changed my life? Did he know how grateful I was to be a part of his journey? Did he know? Did he know? DID HE KNOW? I left my dad sitting in his bed in the hospital with I.V.'s dripping and monitors flashing. I shut the door to his room and fell into the waiting arms of Uncle ED, Aunt Alice and Brenda. Then I sobbed. I mean I SOBBED. From my toes to the top of my head I cried. NO WAY did he know the depths of my love.

I got home and life resumed. Bills still came. Emails still dinged. Phones still rang. But not a single day went by that I didn't worry and fret and fear for my dad.

He went home with Arlene. He went back to the hospital.

This time the doctors sent him home with hospice. And, indeed, things didn't look good.

I wrote dad nearly every day. Since he and Arlene live in the BOONIES without cell phone coverage and only dial-up internet, (Yep. I'm not joking. Dial-up internet still exists and yes, it's still frustrating.) I decided that I would send a short letter and a blog post daily. I truly believed that if I had an agenda that the good Lord would put his plans on hold and let my dad read all that I had written.

I wrote dad every chance I got. When we left on the motorcycle? I made the group stop for post cards and mailings. I wanted dad to know he was in my thoughts. I NEEDED dad to know he mattered. Ugh. WHY OH WHY do we wait to share our true feelings?

Last night came.

Mark's job has him leaving at midnight on Sunday and Monday night, so he attempts to hit the hay Sunday afternoon to sneak in as much sleep as possible.

The house was quiet. The dogs were sleeping. Jaden was with his friends. Mark was snoozing. I was watching the Olympics and decided that I would get a head-start on writing dad. I sat down to the computer and it hit me. Hard. There isn't much time left and I need to say the words to him.

I wrote "This is the deal, dad. We are nearing the end and I'm freaking out a bit. I know all the right words I should be saying, yet I am a selfish, selfish, selfish girl and I want you here. With me...
I love you. More than words can express. I'm so lucky to have been able to get to know you and love you without bounds. And I do, you know, I love you endlessly."

When I first met my dad, I wrote a blog called "It's a good story. And it's mine." It IS a good story. Unsure whether he had ever read the posting, I put that in the envelope.

I took the dogs outside to do their business. While enjoying the night sky, the cool air on my shoulders the tears began streaming down my face and realization hit me. I uttered the words "I'm never going to see my dad again."

I came upstairs, sealed dad's envelope, kissed it, set it aside for tomorrows mailing, sat on the couch and my phone rang. It was my brother Ron. "Hey. Can I talk to Mark? I've called his phone a few time and he isn't answering." "Sure. But he's sleeping for work tonight. Is everything okay?" "I just want to ask him a question about my motorcycle." You're not a good liar Ronnie. I knew. I knew. I knew. Dad had died.

My all-time-favorite-cartoon-movie-in-the-history-of-EVER is Disney's Lilo and Stitch. I love Lilo. If you haven't seen the movie? Watch it!

The basis of the move is: (According to my search on Bing)

A tale of a young girl's encounter with the galaxy's most wanted extraterrestrial. Lilo is a lonely Hawaiian girl who adopts a small ugly 'dog', whom she names Stitch. Stitch would be the perfect pet if he weren't in reality a genetic experiment who has escaped from an alien planet and crash-landed on earth. Through her love, faith and unwavering belief in "ohana" (the Hawaiian concept of family), Lilo helps unlock Stitch's heart and gives him the one thing he was never designed to have – the ability to care for someone else.

Lilo's parents were killed and Nani (the sister) is left to care for her rambunctious and often difficult younger sister. This dysfunctional family is about to be ripped apart by a Social Worker. Nani sits with Lilo in a hammock and attempts to explain the precarious situation in which she finds themselves. Inevitably, Nani pulls Lilo into her arms and begins to sing:

Aloha 'oe, aloha 'oe
E ke onaona noho i ka lipo
One fond embrace,
A ho'i a'e au,
Until we meet again.

While waiting for Mark to break the news to me, that was the song that played in my head. Over and over and over I heard the words. So, I say loudly. Aloha my dear dad. Rest. Thank you for your warmth. Your hugs. Your love. Your strength. Your kindness. Thank you for giving me your eyes. The curl in your hair. The stubbornness that kept you going against all odds. Your emotional attachment to family and friends. And the silence of my words when my heart and mind are running away.

Most of all? Thanks dad, for letting me share these last years with you. I love you.