Some Days You Gotta Dance...
Cleaning out his office was probably the hardest thing I did after Dad died. I was prepared to interact with people he knew well, who would offer condolences and try to avoid the ever-present awkwardness. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I opened his office door. I’d only been to his office a handful of times before- since he worked in Salem, it was never on the way to anywhere, and he didn’t spend very much time there himself. I’d been to various work functions with him over the years, especially once I started nursing school, but rarely his office.
He’d only been back at work for a few weeks, but his office was very HIM. Decorative sailboats, probably from Restoration Hardware, the baseball quote from Field of Dreams that I walked by everyday when we still used the downstairs as a den, and lots and lots of pictures of us. What really caught my attention, though, was the 8x10 picture of me- in my “trixie pixie” dance costume from State 2005. Immediately, albeit selfishly, I thought oh my god, this is what people here know me as- his daughter in the crazy dance costume. Seriously Dad, this picture is over five years old, you could probably find a better, newer one of me somewhere, even if you don’t have facebook. To be fair, there was also one of my favorite senior pictures in a nearby 5x7, but there was no doubt in my mind that the bright purple tutu and fishnet shirt probably caught people’s attention first.
Daddy took this picture of me dancing during May Day of my senior year. Dance was one of the ways he supported me most over the years- as king of the Prop Pops, he organized all of our elaborate sets for state and helped make our new coaches feel at home in a sometimes hostile environment. He gave up countless weekends to watch the same dance routines over and over again, and made sure that the other Prop Pops were having fun and making the most of the time as well. As state falls right around St. Patrick’s Day, they would go out for drinks to celebrate the end of another successful season (depending on how you define success of course.) They would find a McMenamins near whichever high school was hosting that particular weekend, or a golf course that would facilitate a quick 9 in between rounds. Sometimes he showed up at the end of a long practice with ice cream sandwiches for us, and even though he never made it to a VU show of mine, he always sent me something to say “good luck.”
Dance has always been an escape for me- it was worth the extra time because it took away the stress and chaos of life- even if that meant it completely took over life, like it did in high school. If I’m having a bad day, going to the studio to “dance it out” always makes me feel a little better. In college, I even discovered that it’s a great way to cure a hangover. So naturally, over the last few weeks, I’ve wanted desperately to get into a studio, in hopes of blocking out the feeling of loss for at least a few hours. So Liz, being the great sister that she is, hooked me up with one of her grad school friends who takes a few classes on the other side of town, and I joined her last week.
It felt great to be back around people who “spoke my language”, and I knew I’d be sore since it had been a year since last year’s DE show, but it didn’t quite do what I wanted it to. I’d neglected to realize that because my dad was such a part of dance team, he was also a part of my dance life, and for the first time, being in the studio brought back a flood of memories, instead of blocking out the world.
So I decided not to go this week. And immediately regretted that decision.
One of Dad’s mantras was “Just Keep Playing” or in my world “just keep dancing.” Dad wanted to JKP because he refused to let cancer define his life. He knew that as long as he was doing what he wanted to do, even if he had to do it less often, than the disease wasn’t winning. By choosing not to go to dance this week, I was letting the disease win and he wouldn’t have been okay with that. Neither am I.
I told him shortly before he died that he wasn’t “losing” the battle with cancer- but rather passing on the baton. He’d done his fighting, and now it was time to tap out. All athletes need a break, even if they have the endurance to last the full 90 minutes. Dad was stubborn, and he knew that the best goals are the ones scored in stoppage time- which is why he was insistent to just keep playing.
It’s no coincidence that I chose nursing shortly after Dad was first diagnosed, and certainly not random that I chose oncology as my specialty. I spent last spring giving other patients the same drugs Dad knew so well- it was my way of fighting with him, even though I was 2200 miles away. And while my new job isn’t on an oncology floor, that’s still my goal. I told Daddy that I’d take the baton.
Until then, the way to make sure the disease doesn’t get the W, is to just keep playing. So even though being in the studio makes me sad, it also makes me smile to remember how much he supported me.
Some days, you just gotta dance.
(in other news, how many sports analogies can I cram into a post about dancing? Pitchers and catchers reported this week… Opening Day is only 6 weeks away!)
He’d only been back at work for a few weeks, but his office was very HIM. Decorative sailboats, probably from Restoration Hardware, the baseball quote from Field of Dreams that I walked by everyday when we still used the downstairs as a den, and lots and lots of pictures of us. What really caught my attention, though, was the 8x10 picture of me- in my “trixie pixie” dance costume from State 2005. Immediately, albeit selfishly, I thought oh my god, this is what people here know me as- his daughter in the crazy dance costume. Seriously Dad, this picture is over five years old, you could probably find a better, newer one of me somewhere, even if you don’t have facebook. To be fair, there was also one of my favorite senior pictures in a nearby 5x7, but there was no doubt in my mind that the bright purple tutu and fishnet shirt probably caught people’s attention first.
Daddy took this picture of me dancing during May Day of my senior year. Dance was one of the ways he supported me most over the years- as king of the Prop Pops, he organized all of our elaborate sets for state and helped make our new coaches feel at home in a sometimes hostile environment. He gave up countless weekends to watch the same dance routines over and over again, and made sure that the other Prop Pops were having fun and making the most of the time as well. As state falls right around St. Patrick’s Day, they would go out for drinks to celebrate the end of another successful season (depending on how you define success of course.) They would find a McMenamins near whichever high school was hosting that particular weekend, or a golf course that would facilitate a quick 9 in between rounds. Sometimes he showed up at the end of a long practice with ice cream sandwiches for us, and even though he never made it to a VU show of mine, he always sent me something to say “good luck.”
Dance has always been an escape for me- it was worth the extra time because it took away the stress and chaos of life- even if that meant it completely took over life, like it did in high school. If I’m having a bad day, going to the studio to “dance it out” always makes me feel a little better. In college, I even discovered that it’s a great way to cure a hangover. So naturally, over the last few weeks, I’ve wanted desperately to get into a studio, in hopes of blocking out the feeling of loss for at least a few hours. So Liz, being the great sister that she is, hooked me up with one of her grad school friends who takes a few classes on the other side of town, and I joined her last week.
It felt great to be back around people who “spoke my language”, and I knew I’d be sore since it had been a year since last year’s DE show, but it didn’t quite do what I wanted it to. I’d neglected to realize that because my dad was such a part of dance team, he was also a part of my dance life, and for the first time, being in the studio brought back a flood of memories, instead of blocking out the world.
So I decided not to go this week. And immediately regretted that decision.
One of Dad’s mantras was “Just Keep Playing” or in my world “just keep dancing.” Dad wanted to JKP because he refused to let cancer define his life. He knew that as long as he was doing what he wanted to do, even if he had to do it less often, than the disease wasn’t winning. By choosing not to go to dance this week, I was letting the disease win and he wouldn’t have been okay with that. Neither am I.
I told him shortly before he died that he wasn’t “losing” the battle with cancer- but rather passing on the baton. He’d done his fighting, and now it was time to tap out. All athletes need a break, even if they have the endurance to last the full 90 minutes. Dad was stubborn, and he knew that the best goals are the ones scored in stoppage time- which is why he was insistent to just keep playing.
It’s no coincidence that I chose nursing shortly after Dad was first diagnosed, and certainly not random that I chose oncology as my specialty. I spent last spring giving other patients the same drugs Dad knew so well- it was my way of fighting with him, even though I was 2200 miles away. And while my new job isn’t on an oncology floor, that’s still my goal. I told Daddy that I’d take the baton.
Until then, the way to make sure the disease doesn’t get the W, is to just keep playing. So even though being in the studio makes me sad, it also makes me smile to remember how much he supported me.
Some days, you just gotta dance.
(in other news, how many sports analogies can I cram into a post about dancing? Pitchers and catchers reported this week… Opening Day is only 6 weeks away!)
...because I know you really wanted to see my trixie pixie costume...
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