Posted by Danny

It’s been two years this week, and I find myself flipping through an internal slide show of the days surrounding her death.  Most of my memories of Lisa bring a smile.  This week, just tears.

One week before she died, the girls left for their annual President’s Day beach trip with friends.  Lisa said goodbye – for the last time.  She stood by the stairwell – DJ headed upstairs wearing a t-shirt and her undies. 

“Great.  My last thought of DJ will be of her butt.”

“They’ll be home on Thursday baby.”

“I know…”

And she did.  She knew this was likely the last time she’d see her children.  

When they left last Sunday, I was tossed right back.  Two years?  Or just yesterday?

I remember my parents coming to her hospital room three days before she died.  She told them she loved them, and that they had raised a good boy.  My mom cried.  I wondered why in the hell she was talking like that.  She knew, but I didn’t.

That same day, she went from walking to the bathroom in the cancer ward to not being able to stand in the neuro-ICU.  How could her physical condition deteriorate in such a very short time?  I recall the look on her face – “Danny, I can’t walk.”  The panic ensued, for both of us.

I had an anxiety attack the next day.  I had never had a situation in life that I couldn’t control.  I wanted to fix things, but I simply could not.  What a failure, I thought.  I’m a weak man.  My prayers, my actions – they’re just not enough. 

I picture the car ride to Duke for Stephanie’s last visit with her mom.  She asked me, “What if you and mom die, who would take care of me?”  A valid question from a fragile fourth grader.  Your innocence is gone.

The call at 1 am from my mother-in-law:  “Come now.  There’s not much time.”  I remember standing in my closet picking out a dress to put on my sweet wife’s body.  I chose her short black one with the little crop jacket.  She did look good in that dress.

We held hands around her bed and prayed for our Lisa.  Our nurse so touched, he cried along with us.

The morning she died, my friend Gordon stood in my kitchen, khakis and blue blazer.  I thought to myself, “Wow – Gordon’s here.  I wonder why he isn’t at work.”

Her mother typed her obituary as I recanted stories – the high points of her life – there were many.

As I walked to the sanctuary to honor my wife’s life’s work, I grabbed the hand of my old friend Mo.  Hadn’t seen her in years.  I was touched that she came. 

Michelle fell asleep during the memorial service, emotionally and physically exhausted.

The morning my parents left town, and I was alone – really, really alone.

The pain subsides – but not this week.  We relive it again, and we still miss our Lisa.

I hear about more and more folks who are struggling with marriage.  There is no doubt, it is hard.  But it’s a good, good thing – if you put the time and effort into it.

Most of us get married early.  We aren’t grown – we’re not mature.  We don’t know what we want.  And yet, we establish our communication pattern with our spouse and it never seems to change. 

It’s sort of like your parents.  I’m 46, and I still like to call my mom when I’m sick.  Like it was in grade school, I  know the conversation – it’s been the same for more than four decades.  She’ll empathize, encourage me to go to the doctor, tell me how I need to take better care of myself and remind me that I’m handsome.  I’ll exaggerate my symptoms, assume I have cancer, and complain about the cost of medical care.

Hell, I don’t like to drink in front of my parents.  I couldn’t when I was 17, and I don’t want to now.  They might put me on restriction or something.

We get like that with our spouse.  We each grow up, but our relationship stays the same.  Why is that?  Why is it so hard to communicate?  Yeah, it’s uncomfortable to tell someone things need to change and grow, but it’s also uncomfortable to live in a miserable relationship. 

Lisa and I developed some stale communication habits that we really had to muscle through.  But when we found the courage to express our thoughts, frustrations and needs, and when the other was willing to listen, WOW! 

When she died, our marriage was at its strongest.  Not because we didn’t have issues; there were times we wanted to pummel each other.  But we refused to live with that uncomfortable silence.  We both knew when things weren’t right – so we manned up and dealt with them.

I lost my spouse, but not until she died.  Boy am I grateful we continually worked on our marriage.  It was worth every minute we put into it.

What is $7,227.74? 

The amount of money I’m likely to spend on high school dances over a 12 year period of time for three daughters.  I accounted for two big dances a year and included 5% a year for inflation.  This does not include middle school dances, college formals or debutante balls.

I can see myself in thirty years – living in Michelle’s cardboard box in downtown Raleigh – a large picture book of my daughters, wearing my retirement, my sole possession.

It took two grandmothers, one aunt, three of Lisa’s friends, an army of saleswomen and me to find THE dress for DJ’s first formal.  The shopping started just two weeks out with family members dropping by every dress shop from Benson to Oxford. 

At one point I think we had four dresses on hold.

Finally, as the calendar grew tight, I stepped in – sort of the Godfather of shopping.  A decision had to be made.  I was strong and equipped, I’d just paid off my monthly VISA bill.

We started at North Hills – a store called Ubiquitous (or something like that).  They had nothing (under $300) that we liked.  We ran by Hayley’s – they were holding one.  The woman assured us this was the only one of its kind in the free world.  Grandma liked it better than DJ.

We hit another store on Oberlin Road – it cost me one $50 Sunday dress, but nothing for the event.

I was getting worried.

Two days later, it happened.  She found something else in North Hills and put it on hold.  We walked in together.  There was a comfortable black and white couch with a huge framed mirror propped right in front of me.  I looked good – graying at my temples, the black circles under my eyes hidden under the soft lights.

She came out in the dress – it was a darker shade of purple.  It was short. 

“You look beautiful but you’ll need to wear a bathing suit under that one.”

“It’s fingertip length.”

“Maybe your pinkie fingertip, if you’re slouching.  What are you going to do when you raise your arms?”

“Why would I raise my arms? It’s a formal, not a math class.”

“Don’t you raise your arms when you dance?”

“No.”

I demonstrate some of my basic moves – hands in the air.

“We don’t dance like that.”

“Oh.”

There were slits in the sleeves from shoulder to elbow.  “What are those for?”

“I don’t think they have a specific purpose.”

“They’re like air vents – they’ll keep you cool on the dance floor. Or, you could put your cell phone in there.”

The nineteen year old salesclerk assured me the dress was an appropriate length for a high school dance.  “Would your father let you wear it?”

“Absolutely.”

Liar.

The shoes were next.  We headed to Southpoint mall.  She knew what she wanted:  Nude (color, not a state of dress), patton (means shiny), pumps (unrelated to the gas station).  Easy to find – but expensive to me.

Ends up that all of the girls checked their shoes at the coat closet when they arrived at the dance.  That means that those shoes cost about $1 per minute of wear.

I think the best part of the evening came when at about 10 pm, Jesse texted DJ with these two pictures and the following message:

Who looks better in your dress? Michelle, you or me?

Yes – Jesse and Michelle had taken pictures of themselves in DJ’s formal dress earlier in the week with the sole purpose of harassing her in the middle of her date.

I cannot tell you how much joy that one act has brought to my life.

Posted by Danny

I occasionally teach my adult Sunday School class.  We study the bible trying to understand the historical times as well as trying to figure out what it can mean for us today.  By far, my favorite verse to teach was written by the apostle Paul and is in the book of Colossians:  “Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord.”

When that verse would appear in a lesson, I would read it slowly, awaiting my wife’s reaction.  She’d grab the sides of her skirt, cross her arms and shift in her chair.  I knew I was treading on thin ice.

Some of the men in class might have wanted to believe this verse was the true desire of God, but our wives wouldn’t let us.  Lisa had a great many talents but submission was not one of them.

As much as I enjoyed sparring back and forth with the women in the class about God wanting them to submit to their husbands, I did not want that in a wife and that is not what I want for my girls. 

Perhaps it’s because I have never seen that exemplified in my family.

We called one of my grandmothers Idee (her name was Ivy).  She did not submit!

One day she came home from work and my grandfather had her housekeeper, Ophelia, out hoeing in his garden.  Idee was not happy.

“Spurgeon!  If you ever come in my house and tell Ophelia to dig in that damn garden, I’ll have your head.  You need a farm hand?  You go find your own!”

The next day he dropped off a crop of squash on Idee’s kitchen counter which he’d grown himself (well, with a little help from Ophelia).  Idee opened the lid of the trashcan and with one swoop of her arm across the formica counter deposited the 12 yellow gourds into the Glad bag.

“Take my maid outside to hoe and then drop these damn dirty vegetables on my counter.  You bring any more of this %$&# in here and I’ll…”  She finished the sentence under her breath.  I intently looked down at The Florence Morning News as if I didn’t hear.

Papa didn’t get mad.  He just laughed it off.  Plus, I think he was scared of her.

Someone recently told me, “Your mother is the sweetest lady.”

Well, she’s sweet, but she’s not the sweetest.  Let’s just say she sometimes has opinions and obviously her mother, Ivy, didn’t set a great example of demure.

Yes – my girls are surrounded by strong women.  Lisa’s sister has a PhD from John’s Hopkins and a MD from Harvard.  She’s going to save the continent of Africa from AIDS.  And the only thing my mother-in-law has ever submitted to was a mandatory drug test upon hire in the local school system (she passed).

My dream for my girls is not for them to submit, in marriage or career, but rather to be confident and sure of what they want and need.  And if any guy thinks he’s gonna come in and find a Tanner girl willing to cater to his every whim, he might get a rude awakening.  Thus far, I see glimpses of thoughtfulness but not a lot of surrender.

Good luck fellas.

No!

No!

Yes!

Posted by Danny

I get a lot of emails.  I enjoy the ones from friends – making plans or sharing news.  And most of the ones at work are important enough to read.  But bulk emails from school, dance, church, sports teams, etc., etc. get me down. 

The volume of information coming at me is sometimes overwhelming.  There are so many things to read and each is so very…very long. 

I am amazed at how many sentences it takes to remind me to send money to school.  Don’t wish me a good day or tell me the kids’ activities for the week.  Just tell me what I need to do:  Bruce, Send $10 on Wednesday.  I will obey.

I don’t care what it’s for – the teacher can use it to buy a farm animal for her great-aunt.  No explanation needed.  Just get to the chase!  

DJ is in a a mother/daughter service club.  It’s a great organization that does incredible work throughout the community.  This group has a weekly email that gives the details for the upcoming activities – it is fairly short and to the point.  But recently the 9th grade class was responsible for putting on a tea.  And the reminder came out two days before the important event.

Email 1:  Details, details, details…and remember, you can’t wear boots to the tea.

Email 2 (from a mother responding to all):  You can wear boots to the tea.

Email 3 (from another mother responding to all):  No, you can’t wear boots.

Email 4 (you get the picture):  Yes – you can wear boots to the tea but they have to be dress boots.  You can’t wear Uggs or riding boots.

Email 5:  No – no boots. 

Email 6:  Anyone can wear boots but the 9th graders – they are hosting the tea and cannot wear boots.  And they aren’t allowed to eat.

Who hosts a party and doesn’t eat?

Email 7:  We talked about this for 15 minutes at the last meeting.  You can wear dress boots.

Email 8:  Attachment: The bylaws of the organization (I did not read them but there must be something in there about boots and teas).

I deleted Emails 9, 10 and 11 before reading them because I had to go pick up the kids. 

Fortunately, the boot situation was not an issue for us.  DJ has at least one pair of shoes that are not boots.  That must not be the case for some of the other girls.

My sister-in-law was taking DJ to the tea.  It took me 30 minutes to explain to her what shoes she could wear.  I made her come by our house before the event to ensure that she didn’t try to sneak in with a pair of rain boots (they weren’t specifically singled out).  I could see Aunt Sallie trying to push the envelope.  She wore heels.  I was relieved.

I actually understand the No Ugg policy.  My girls would wear them to a Nascar race or to the Royal wedding.  They have no Ugg filter.  These women are just trying to teach some manners – and lord knows I need help with that. 

But I was convinced with the first email…

Email 1:  No boots…

My response:  OK…

Apparently the party was grand, and they did get to eat – but just in the kitchen.  Probably a good idea.  I could see my girls sipping punch out of the ladle.

Posted by Danny

I remember buying the green Honda minivan.  Lisa was pregnant with Michelle.  I spent the previous Saturday in the driveway trying to squeeze three car seats in the back of our four-year old Honda Accord.

“Honey, I know you don’t think we can afford a new car,” my wife with the big stomach reasoned, “but you can’t fit a booster seat, a car seat and an infant carrier in the back of that car.  We have to go bigger.”

“Does DJ have to have a booster seat?  Or, could we just squeeze her between the other two?”

“Why don’t you just bungi her to the hood?”

“I guess that would work as long as it didn’t snow.”

Somehow we managed, a new baby, a new car and we still had enough money to buy beer.

It’s amazing how attached you can get to an inanimate object.  It was eleven years old, I hadn’t driven it in months.  Jesse took it when he moved back to town from DC where he didn’t need a vehicle.  And last week, as Jesse headed up the last hill to drop the kids off at school, it died - for good.

I had it towed to a salvage yard and traded my precious memories for a $350 check.  I almost refused the check, it was insulting.  Like selling your dog.

I headed through the lot to find my car for the clean out.  I spotted the back of the van.  I could picture following Lisa home from church on Sunday nights – I could pick out those tail lights in a midnight parade.  As I approached, I grabbed the bar of the luggage rack.  There were many trips to the beach, the girls’ red wagon strapped on the top along with the jogging stroller.  Lisa was always afraid they’d fly off on I-40 - a warranted lack of trust in my mechanical abilities.

I dug out the Disney CD’s we’d sing to as we drove home from preschool each day.  There were road maps we’d accrued from trips up and down the east coast and Lisa’s handwritten directions to Capon Springs.  I know how to get there now, but I didn’t throw the scrap of paper away.

The car Bingo game -

A hair clip -

As I shut the automatic door for the last time, I thought of how quickly time passes and how silly it was to equate life to a ton of dark green metal.  Losing the car is not re-losing Lisa.  Her memory isn’t in stuff - there is a part of Lisa in me, and in our friends, and especially in my girls. 

That’s the fortunate thing – I get to see her everyday.

Posted by Danny

We have toilet issues. They constantly clog. Seriously, I plunge potties multiple times each week, and this has been going on for years.

Now keep in mind there are two large, six-foot men living in this house. Our intestines are 25 feet long,  and we pack down some food. My favorite meal is my homemade bean dip: refried beans, cheddar cheese, ground beef and hot salsa. The girls and Jesse won’t even look at it. They claim it looks like it has already seen my colon.

I tell them that not all food looks appetizing. The kids’ favorite yogurt squirts out of a plastic tube and looks like pink snot. But you don’t hear me complaining. Why? Cause it tastes good!

I seldom see Jesse eat – but I know he does.  He often enters the house with a styrofoam cup from Cookout, Chargrill or Jersey Mike’s.  The man ain’t going hungry.  And the stuff hitting his stomach isn’t easy on the system.  I can assure you it’s coming out with a bang.

But are the clogs coming from Jesse and me?  Nah.  Out of the 8,672 times I’ve used a plunger in this house, not one – and I am not exaggerating, has been for someone of the male species.  All have been for little girls and usually just for pee. 

It has nothing to do with what’s coming out.  It’s about what they’re putting in there.  It’s all about the toilet paper! 

I swear they’re wiping with my t-shirts.  Like entire, large, possibly long-sleeved, Hanes for Men tees. 

I’m aggressive in my quest to be clean after a bathroom visit.  I understand not wanting to be all damp or squinchy down there.  But geez.  We go through toilet paper like a Chinese restaurant goes through rice.  I bought Proctor and Gamble stock years ago and have made a killing – because I’m keeping them in business!  (They make Charmin.)

I’ve decided to solve the issue. I will ration the toilet paper.  I’m going to buy a metal box and a combination lock where I’ll keep the loot.  If they need to go, they’ll have to come to me.  I’ll give them six squares.  That should be good for three wipes. 

I’ll let you know how it goes.

A friend recently sent me an article by Dean Murphy, an editor at The New York Times.  He lost his wife to cancer and is now raising his three sons on his own.

He encapsulated something I’ve felt for a very long time when he wrote:  “It is an odd feeling as a father to be so transparent, so naked, in front of the children you still provide for.”

I can’t imagine seeing my father, the rock of our family, lose his heart.

I wonder what it was like for my girls when grief paralyzed me.  How did they feel when I was reduced to tears by a Kenny Chesney song or the scent of Lisa’s perfume?  I can picture them looking up at me when I stood in church, eyes fixed on that cross, unable to sing or recite The Lord’s Prayer knowing if I opened my mouth, I’d be overcome with sadness. 

Can you imagine being filled with your own grief and the person you most look to for comfort can’t do a thing but cry with you?

Looking back on the past two years, I wonder if my kids aren’t truly the ones who have lost the most.  Their lives were turned upside down instantly at a time when they should have been eating ice cream, snuggling with mom, or running with friends on the playground. 

Instead, as Lisa fought valiantly for her life, with me by her side almost every minute of her illness, they were tossed on a real life Tilt-A-Whirl.  Jerked from one family member to another.  Tossed in a car with a friend or at least a friendly acquaintance, assuming their mother would soon be back to gracefully bring our lives back to normal.

As Lisa became sicker, I couldn’t be the father they needed.  I was so desperate to save her.  I was consumed with finding her cure – medically, through prayer or voodoo if necessary.

As I missed work, they were required to proceed with life.  Walking on a tight rope with no apparent safety net.

And the person who is supposed to be comforting them had been so deeply damaged, that at times, they became the comforter.  Michelle creating art to brighten my days.  Stephanie, quick to test, “Are you OK?  You look sort of sad today.”  And DJ, filling in the gaps.  The ones her mother left as well as the ones I wasn’t able to fill myself.

In many ways, they have become my protector -  their strong one, now “transparent and naked.”  For them, a journey that started on a concrete bridge ended up on an old wobbly log.

I’ve become stronger again – more able to provide the security that for so long has been missing.  But I wonder if they will ever experience the blind trust they had before?  Can good intentions and unconditional love rebuild the bridge?  Not fully I don’t think.  But hopefully it can come close.

Posted by Danny

It’s our first Winter Formal at St. Mary’s School, and it has been two of the most stressful months of my life.

Being an all girls school, some random guy isn’t going to invite you to the dance.  Someone asked me if DJ was going to a Sadie Hawkins Dance – I told her “Every dance at St. Mary’s is a Sadie Hawkins Dance.”

Normally, that would be a good thing.  I fully supported DJ’s decision to attend an all female institution – and my enthusiasm was in part sparked by the lack of testosterone cruising the campus.  Who needs that headache?  I was breaking girls hearts left and right at that age!  I thought myself sort of a young Don Juan, although I’m not sure any of the girls felt the same.

But in this case, I was wishing there were a couple of dudes on campus to take the pressure off me to find her a date.  Well, I didn’t really find her a date.  But I sure did feel the pressure. 

In October I started probing about who she might ask to the big event.  I pulled out last year’s school annual – when she wasn’t at home.  I earmarked several fellas I felt came from good stock and committed their names to memory.

DJ did not ask for suggestions, but I felt compelled to offer a few. 

I suggested the boy with great hair.  He’s like Bieber! I’ll kill to have that mane. Apparently, good hair was not enough.

With no nibble on ”Hugh Grant,” I suggested another cute kid from her eighth grade class. 

Apparently he moved to Canada.  I wonder how I missed that.  No problem, we could fly him in I offered.

I also suggested a nice kid we see on our annual trip to West Virginia.  He lives in DC.

It didn’t take long for DJ to inform me that she wasn’t inviting a guy who had to be UPS’d to Raleigh.  I was shocked at her lack of appreciation for my input.  I had put hours of thought into my suggestions.

Each night as DJ calmly ate her dinner, I casually tossed out names: 

“I’m sure that boy on last year’s basketball team would put on a shirt with sleeves for a dance.  Certainly he owns a pair of dress shoes.”

“No one has to know you’re related by blood.  Just tell them you vacation together.”

“The kid who won the science fair last year is bound to grow up and invent something.  You’re doing well in biology.  You could talk to him about that.”

“I know you don’t know him, I don’t either.  But his father is hilarious. And he’s grown this year.”

“I was chubby in middle school too and look how I turned out.”

I suggested boys from church, sons of my friends, and the cream of the crop from our neighborhood, summer camp and beyond.  She was unfazed by my growing angst.

And then one day, as dinner began, she quietly announced, “I have a date to the Winter Formal.”  And…it wasn’t anyone I had proposed.

And that was that.  She didn’t need my suggestions.  She didn’t need airfare.  DJ had it all under control.

I often get accused of “freaking out” by Jesse and the kids, and I regularly dispute their claim.  But I wonder, just wonder, if this could be what they’re talking about.

I know some of you who read this blog.  You just aren’t that cool (dad).  So I thought I’d bring you up to speed on a new fad.

I knew that my iPhone had a camera, and you probably know that too.  But when you put it in photo mode, there is an icon at the top of the screen that allows you to reverse the lens.  And when you do that, you can take a picture of yourself!  The screen actually becomes a mirror so you can pose as you deem appropriate.

After Stephanie showed me this feature, I told DJ I was taking some self portraits.  She informed me that when you take a picture of yourself, it is called a “selfie.”  She also said it was not cool to take “selfies” unless you were doing it for fun.  Apparently serious “selfies” are not hip at all.  Want to be a dork?  Post a bunch of serious “selfies” on Facebook. 

I’m glad I didn’t do that.

Instead, on Saturday when I was waiting in a parking lot for Stephanie to finish cheerleading practice, I texted a few “selfies” to DJ who was on a ski trip.

Here are some of my works:

I call this one Sideburn Selfie.

This is entitled nostril selfie (note - no cavities).

And finally, Chelfie (short for Chin Selfie).

DJ texted back:  Get a life.

What she doesn’t realize is that finding ways to drive my children nuts is my life. 

So, take a “selfie” today, and text it to your kid or post it on Facebook.  I  promise it’ll make you incredibly cool.