The day after my father died I searched for a sign - a sign that he was okay; a sign that I would be okay; a sign that any part of the whole damn universe was still okay. In the midst of all my terror and confusion, I’m pretty sure any old sign would have done. But on that day my Dad sent me an honest to God S-I-G-N. A sign too real, too pure and too sacred to try and put into words. But from that time on, I have known my Dad is with me. I feel him everywhere. And while some may say it’s a coping mechanism, no one will ever be able to prove me wrong. Sometimes, though, I feel the need to prove it to myself again. So every now and then I ask him, “Daddy, are you with me?”

When I first started asking this question, it was a little creepy. Getting used to the idea of always having your Dad around can take some getting used to. “Daddy, are you with me? If you are, could you please leave – I can’t poop in front of anyone, let alone you.” “Daddy, are you with me? ’Cause dead or not, Dad, it’s sick and wrong for a father to watch his daughter shower.” I have come to apply the same logic he held in his life to his afterlife – there is no way in hell my father wants to watch me doing certain things. Taking a shower, going to the bathroom and God-willing, having sex are all things I believe my Dad makes every effort to avoid watching me do. But he is around for damn near everything else. Sometimes when I ask him if he’s with me, it will start raining. Other times, I get dive bombed by a bird, or awakened by moonbeams so bright they seem to be powered by Pacific Gas & Electric.

Now, in addition to having an affinity for nature, my Dad had a wicked sense of humor, and an equally wicked case of colitis. (/Ko-lite’-us/ n. Sudden freak attacks of diarrhea that invariably lead to either: A) funny shit stories or B) mortifying shit stories. ) Last week while visiting Muir Woods - the most glorious national monument we have – the national monument that truly makes you realize how small we humans really are – I proved once again that I am my father’s daughter. Maybe my Dad is just plain sick of having to prove to me he’s around. Maybe he was having a particularly shitty day up there in heaven. Whatever the case may be, his point was made. He is with me. And now, a piece of me will always be with Muir Woods.

Here’s how it all went down…
10:00 – Brunch. I order the house special – lobster & crab omelet with champagne caviar glaze.
10:35 – 16-year-old cousin starts asking lots of questions about my Dad’s death.
11:15 – 16-year-old cousin still asking lots of questions about my Dad’s death.
12:00 – We arrive in Muir Woods.
12:15 – 16-year-old cousin asks yet even more questions about my Dad’s death.
12:16 – I feel pretty blue. I ask, “Daddy, are you with me?” Any sort of sign would really help me through all of these questions…
12:17 – (Dad decides to say hello.) Stomach starts to rumble.
12:18 – I break out in full body goose bumps and cold sweats.
12:19 – Excruciating crampage – no doubt about it, diarrhea has entered the express lane.
12:20 – I decide to make a run for it. (Dad starts to laugh. “Does she realize how far away from a bathroom she is?!?!”)
12:21 – I see a sign “1.8 miles to Muir Woods entrance.”
12:21 – “SHIT! FUCK! PISS! FUCK! SHIT” is suddenly heard throughout the forest.
12:22 – (Dad grabs Granddad Gene. “You’ve gotta see this, Dad!” he exclaims. She’s gonna have one of my world famous colitis attacks!”)
12:23 – There has been a breach. There is a shit ball in my pants.
12:24 – I look left. I look right. I scurry off the trail up the side of a hill and hide my ass inside a giant Redwood. (Dad starts laughing so hard, a tear rolls down his cheek. Granddad pats him on the back, “That’s a great one, son!”)
12:25 – Massive Ass Explosion.
12:35 - I am still defecating on a national monument. I have reached an all-time low.
12:36 – I realize that Muir Woods is not a deciduous forest. There are no leaves.
12:37 – I start to cry. I’m 29 years old and I have shit my pants and I have shit on my favorite national monument. The day officially sucks. (Dad tries to track down Cousin Buddy – he’d really get a kick out of this, too.)
12:40 – Strange things are used to try and clean myself up. Sticks, pinecones, pine needles…things that don’t belong near your sphincter. Ever.
12:47 – I look left. I look right. I make a break for it and scurry back to the trail.
12:49 – In the middle of my 1.8-mile walk to the bathroom in my shit covered pants and my shit covered underwear, I realize I also have shit covered hands. (Dad thinks about feeling guilty, but the thought passes and he continues to wipe his tears from laughter.)
1:01 – I arrive in the National Park bathroom, where paper products are considered an environmental evil.
1:02 - “SHIT! FUCK! PISS! FUCK! SHIT” is suddenly heard throughout the forest.
1: 15 – My favorite underwear is thrown away.
1:16 – 16-year-old cousin’s trip to Muir Woods is cut short – must buy new pants immediately.
1:17 – (Dad pats himself on the back for pulling this little stunt when a family member was with me so the event will forever be immortalized.)

Nice to hear from you, Dad. Next time a goddamn bird or some freaky flower will do just fine, okay?