There's the support you ask for and the support you don't ask for. Then there's the support that just shows up.

I love that quote. It's from the Sex And The City episode where Miranda's mom passes away. Samantha let's go at the funeral in Philly and that moment in the church made me lose it. I don't know if I lost it when it originally aired but my mom lent me the whole catalog of the show for the flight home and such. She can quote every episode.

The day after New Year's is always the same, whether you are in LA or NY. It's like the whole city heaves a heavy sigh of relief. The wash of holiday haze has been lifted and it's back to business. The trees, still littered with glitter are hung-over on the city streets and we begin to resolve, take our vitamins, do a cleanse, clean our closets, fill in our new, clean and tidy daily planners and get back to reality.

Reality.

The day I left for LA, I felt uncertain. Sure, I was excited to start my new slightly old single life in a new pad just a block from the beach, see my students, hit the pavement and audition, write, shoot some more videos etc., but I was leaving home, to go back, well, home.

I love my life in this great city. But I love my life in that other great city. What's the right coast? If I lay down on the earth, the right coast would be LA. If I stood up with the sun to my left, NY would be the right coast.

I went for a bitterly cold run on my last day at home in NY. Besides my legs, everything ran, my nose, my eyes. I thought about my old high school friend, Christine. At the pure forecast of cold weather, her eyes would tear from the cold. It always made me laugh.

Like every year, it's like religion, I run on Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Years Eve and New Year's Day. Then I sign off and head back to my busy other life in LA. But this time, I know it's not my last winter run in New York.

I came home, showered and sat down for some soup. My flight is just hours away. Need to nourish.
My mom joined me and we tried to behave like it wasn't a big deal and that she would be ok and that my dad would get through and everything would be ok.

My dad had come into the kitchen. He stumbled around the dining table, and then stumbled back into the living room.

Crash.

My mom and I rush into the other room to see my dad doubled over onto the coffee table.

I grabbed him from behind to try and lift him. My mom hurried over and asked what happened. My dad, didn't snap, but told me that he needed to lie down on the floor before getting up to stand.

He was trying to clean up an accident he had. His muscles just couldn't support his fervor to carry it out.

This wasn't the first time.

They always say you never regret a workout. Well, maybe that's just what I say. As soon as you are out there, running, or taking a class or hitting the gym, the feeling you get was worth the struggle to get there if you are less than motivated one day or the other.

Three days prior, we had come back from dad's pet scan. My mom had some business so it was just my sisters, dad and I around the house.

I decided to go downstairs to work out in their basement gym. Within minutes, my sisters were scurrying around, to the laundry, outside to the porch.

My dad was locked out and couldn't get inside in time.

My sisters, in valiant form, hustled to get dad out of his clothes. They cleaned the outside, dropped his clothes in the laundry. I tried to help, even though I knew they were taking good care of the issue.

I couldn't help but think, how selfish, was I, to go downstairs and workout, when I knew my dad was upstairs and that my sisters had their own things to do. They dropped whatever it was that they were doing to help him.

I stood, sweating, scared and stoic. What could I do?

How can I expect that when I am home, it is enough? How can I expect that when I am in LA, it is enough, to talk to my mom and sisters? How can I expect that I serve any purpose of service? My life is service. I selected that life. I love that life. And the people that mean the most to me need service and here I am, standing, helpless.

When dad fell for the second time, I was there. Both of my sisters were out running errands for my mom and taking care of some of their business.

When they came home, I told them what happened. They were my relief. They were my saviors. We discussed the possibilities of hospice care or hospital care. We got a little riled up in our stereotypical fashions, Karin, quiet and calm, mom, emotional, Kathy, angry, defensive and emotional and me, trying to keep the peace between us all. Everyone was right in their emotions but with one hour before I was to be at the airport, I couldn't feel right about leaving to come back to LA with such scary and new things happening everyday with my family.

I feel like I miss so much. Sometimes I miss the really funny memories they all have at holidays and random visits I'm not home for. Sometimes I dodge bullets from experiences I'm grateful I missed. Mostly, I just miss them all always.

My dad's boss sent someone to pick up his car, my dad's livilihood and freedom.

He won't be working anymore.

We decided I should come back to LA, get myself moved and then come back to NY.

But....

For what?

I still question my role in all of this. Am I enough?

20 minutes before I leave or don't leave for LA, I lie down in bed with my dad. All you can see is his little head and his bulging rib cage underneath the heated blanket. I hold onto his arm, which feels more like holding onto the straps of a handbag. I look into his eyes, my eyes, not my mom's eyes, and I ask him, what he wants. He tells me that I have my whole life ahead of me, which sounds strange to hear at my age. He says that I have dreams and a life that I have made for myself in LA. He says that he would be happy if I stayed or went that it was my decision to make. He said that he always wished that I were here with them in NY, but that I had to follow my dreams.

I had asked him what he wanted.

I meant if he would fight or let go.

I told him that every dream had him in it. I would never have competitively swum if it weren’t for him and his love of swimming. I would have never played softball. I would have never gone to Boston University. I think deep down he knew that I would move from Art to Communications. He always encouraged me to write. I would never be writing if it weren't for him.
Every mile I drive in LA, I think of him and how he would handle the traffic or the nasty driver that flipped me off. I wouldn't be acting or teaching or fit or thin or active or breathing or eating or loving life or here in California if it weren't for him.

I love my dad. My dad has let me down more than anyone I know. My dad has been there for me more than anyone I know.

He used to call me at 7AM whether I was in college on the east coast or in California and ask what I was doing. It drove me up the wall. I barely sleep as it is!

He constantly sends me oversized t-shirts with cats doing yoga poses or New York Marathon memorabilia or kitschy bagel shops or coffee shops from 'ol New York.

He knows I'm a coffee snob but always knows where the best little coffee places are in NY that are NOT Starbucks and I am always amazed and hooked.

My dad is my dream. I am my dad.

So, what the fuck am I still doing here?

If these are my dad's last days or worst days, shouldn't I be there for support?

The phone calls to my mom and sisters keep me updated and allow me to be there for venting sessions on their end, but am I really there for them?

I guess that's the question.

And the answer.

Will my life be here for me when I return?