On one strong, determined day (or part of a day) after Greg died (there was probably some "Greg-anger", too, mixed in with the "strong and determined"), I remember saying that I would not allow Greg's death
to define me. How naive.
Greg's death does define me. Of course it does. I'm a different person than I was the day before he died. It's not a choice - it's a fact.
I will forever be the mother of a child who died - a child who took his own life. Forever.
My heart will always be broken. It won't heal. It won't be "okay" in five years - or ten years - or a thousand years.
I
hope there will also be joy - and gratitude - and laughter. But
underneath it all, my heart will always be irreparably broken.
I
can't imagine a day that I won't cry. Someone says something. I run
into something that belonged to Greg - or that Greg gave me. Or I
just... remember. And I cry - not always for long, but tears are always
just behind the next breath. Every day.
So, forgive me for my innocence. Forgive me for my hope. Forgive me.
I'm the mother of a son who died.
Monday, December 10, 2018
Tuesday, December 4, 2018
By Way of Sorrow
17 months. You are in the music in the air - in the rain that falls on the window - in the stars that shine through the darkness - and in my heart - forever and always.
Way of Sorrow
You've been taken by the wind
You have known the kiss of sorrow
Doors that would not take you in
Outcast and a stranger
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years
You have drunk a bitter wine
With none to be your comfort
You who once were left behind
Will be welcome at love's table
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years
All the nights that joy has slept
Will awake to days of laughter
Gone the tears that you have wept
You'll dance in freedom ever after
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years
Performed by Cry Cry Cry
Written by Jamie Miller
Way of Sorrow
You've been taken by the wind
You have known the kiss of sorrow
Doors that would not take you in
Outcast and a stranger
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years
You have drunk a bitter wine
With none to be your comfort
You who once were left behind
Will be welcome at love's table
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years
All the nights that joy has slept
Will awake to days of laughter
Gone the tears that you have wept
You'll dance in freedom ever after
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these
You have come by way of sorrow
You have come by way of tears
But you'll reach your destiny
Meant to find you all these years
Meant to find you all these years
Performed by Cry Cry Cry
Written by Jamie Miller
Sunday, November 18, 2018
We have a lot of things going on in our house. Our business has outgrown it's assigned spot and is just kind of oozing deeper into the basement.
The ooze is causing a necessary cleaning up and purging of "stuff" in the next part of the basement. A dear friend (let's call him Aidan) came to help us today with the heavy lifting that we just can't do.
We (99% Aidan) moved shelving units, a huge work bench, too many cans of paint, miscellaneous furniture (like the first end tables Rich and I bought in 1970), remnants of a successful, but long retired candle business that occupied the area we now need for our current business (10 years after the close of the candle business), lamps, boxes of "who-knows-what" - just endless.
I was navigating that part of the basement (which looked more like an obstacle course than a basement) just kind of trying to get a feel for what's down there. I was drawn to a tired-looking cardboard box with something red poking out of the top. When I got to the box, there were 2 stuffed toys - both super heroes - still with tags on them. I took them out to see what was underneath, There were miscellaneous glasses - I found a Seagram's glass and a couple other glasses with writing on them - obviously not new.
My breath caught in my chest when I realized it was Greg's - probably a box of treasures from a garage sale - the toys... probably intended gifts for his two nephews, my two youngest grandchildren. I held the toys to my chest and sobbed quietly. Aidan was moving shelves, Michael was moving paint - and I was sitting with my back to them both - holding two stuffed super heroes and washing them with my tears.
It's always hard to see things that were personal to Greg, but when I run into them by surprise, it bends me to the ground. When I see remnants of the life he was living before he died... the pain grabs my heart and squeezes until I think I can't breathe.
Before I could gather myself, Michael was standing behind me. He can often tell when something isn't quite right. Maybe I was too quiet. I don't know. But there he was - to take the toys and the box and to ask me what I wanted to do with them.
"Later please, Michael. I can't do it now." I left the box and went over to where Aidan was working.
"How's it going, buddy?" I asked as cheerfully as I could manage.
"Great!" answered Aidan. "Do you want these chairs in the garage," Aidan asked.
"That would be great, Aidan. Thank you," I answered quietly. "I'll list them on Facebook and try to sell them. I'm done for now," I said. "I'm going upstairs. If anyone needs me... yell."
I went upstairs - closed the door to the den - and cried.
When I held the things from the box, I could see Greg - kneeling on the floor - looking at the things in the box. I could see his clothes - his shoes. I could see his face with that crooked smile he saved for things like garage sale treasures - and jokes on me. I could hear his voice and see his worn hands. It came all at once - the second I realized it was his box.
How can such small things cause such crushing pain?
I hate surprises.
The ooze is causing a necessary cleaning up and purging of "stuff" in the next part of the basement. A dear friend (let's call him Aidan) came to help us today with the heavy lifting that we just can't do.
We (99% Aidan) moved shelving units, a huge work bench, too many cans of paint, miscellaneous furniture (like the first end tables Rich and I bought in 1970), remnants of a successful, but long retired candle business that occupied the area we now need for our current business (10 years after the close of the candle business), lamps, boxes of "who-knows-what" - just endless.
I was navigating that part of the basement (which looked more like an obstacle course than a basement) just kind of trying to get a feel for what's down there. I was drawn to a tired-looking cardboard box with something red poking out of the top. When I got to the box, there were 2 stuffed toys - both super heroes - still with tags on them. I took them out to see what was underneath, There were miscellaneous glasses - I found a Seagram's glass and a couple other glasses with writing on them - obviously not new.
My breath caught in my chest when I realized it was Greg's - probably a box of treasures from a garage sale - the toys... probably intended gifts for his two nephews, my two youngest grandchildren. I held the toys to my chest and sobbed quietly. Aidan was moving shelves, Michael was moving paint - and I was sitting with my back to them both - holding two stuffed super heroes and washing them with my tears.
It's always hard to see things that were personal to Greg, but when I run into them by surprise, it bends me to the ground. When I see remnants of the life he was living before he died... the pain grabs my heart and squeezes until I think I can't breathe.
Before I could gather myself, Michael was standing behind me. He can often tell when something isn't quite right. Maybe I was too quiet. I don't know. But there he was - to take the toys and the box and to ask me what I wanted to do with them.
"Later please, Michael. I can't do it now." I left the box and went over to where Aidan was working.
"How's it going, buddy?" I asked as cheerfully as I could manage.
"Great!" answered Aidan. "Do you want these chairs in the garage," Aidan asked.
"That would be great, Aidan. Thank you," I answered quietly. "I'll list them on Facebook and try to sell them. I'm done for now," I said. "I'm going upstairs. If anyone needs me... yell."
I went upstairs - closed the door to the den - and cried.
When I held the things from the box, I could see Greg - kneeling on the floor - looking at the things in the box. I could see his clothes - his shoes. I could see his face with that crooked smile he saved for things like garage sale treasures - and jokes on me. I could hear his voice and see his worn hands. It came all at once - the second I realized it was his box.
How can such small things cause such crushing pain?
I hate surprises.
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Chicken Soup
I'm reading Chicken Soup books. I have several around the house: Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor (it's all about attitude, people), Chicken Soup for a Better World, Chicken Soup: Grieving and Recovery (Don't get than one. It's a weep-fest), with Chicken Soup: Random Acts of Kindness waiting in the wings.
I'm all about hopeful messages - happy endings - stories with a positive point of view - anything that's quick - doesn't require much of me.
I can't tolerate anything sad - can't stomach violence. Before I read a book (or watch a movie), I check reviews and specifically search for spoilers that will tell me about the ending. Then I decide if I'll read - or watch.
I don't like surprises.
I'm all about hopeful messages - happy endings - stories with a positive point of view - anything that's quick - doesn't require much of me.
I can't tolerate anything sad - can't stomach violence. Before I read a book (or watch a movie), I check reviews and specifically search for spoilers that will tell me about the ending. Then I decide if I'll read - or watch.
I don't like surprises.
Sunday, November 4, 2018
17 Months
I've been through the 4th of the month 17 times so far.
I keep thinking that if I don't post on the 4th... or even think about posting on the 4th... it won't be so bad. I can get through the day (or actually three days) without this crushing ache of mournfulness.
It's not true. Nothing helps. Trying to sleep through the day doesn't help. Being busy doesn't help. Distraction doesn't help. Nothing helps.
Woowoo says it's my nervous system. "Your nervous system knows these things." she says "...knows the cycle - feels the days. Even more than your brain knows... your nervous system knows."
And my heart knows.
I keep thinking that if I don't post on the 4th... or even think about posting on the 4th... it won't be so bad. I can get through the day (or actually three days) without this crushing ache of mournfulness.
It's not true. Nothing helps. Trying to sleep through the day doesn't help. Being busy doesn't help. Distraction doesn't help. Nothing helps.
Woowoo says it's my nervous system. "Your nervous system knows these things." she says "...knows the cycle - feels the days. Even more than your brain knows... your nervous system knows."
And my heart knows.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
Rainbow Connection
Jason Mraz
Why are there so many
Songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side
Songs about rainbows
And what's on the other side
Rainbows are visions
They're only illusions
And rainbows have nothing to hide
So we've been told and some chose to
Believe it
But I know they're wrong wait and see
Someday we'll find it
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
The Rainbow Connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Would be heard and answered
When wished on the morning star
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it
And look what it's done so far
What's so amazing
That keeps us star gazing
What so we think we might see
Someday we'll find it
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me
That Rainbow Connection
The lovers the dreamers and me
Have you been fast asleep
And have you heard voices,
I've heard them calling my name,
And have you heard voices,
I've heard them calling my name,
Is this the sweet sound that calls
The young sailors,
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm supposed to be,
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection...
The lovers, the dreamers and me
The rainbow connection...
The lovers, the dreamers and me
La lala la lala la la la lala la la la
Songwriters: Kenny Ascher / Paul Hamilton Williams
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
New Phone
I got a new phone that arrived with all the "new phone" issues of losing log-ins, saved passwords, sometimes apps, and in this case, a whole lot of randomly missing contacts. I lost old contacts, new contacts, all kinds of contacts.
So! Last night, I decided to go through my text messages that just had phone numbers - no names - to see what contacts I could add back through text messages. Pretty doggone clever, eh?
I was feeling pretty good about myself - glad that I tend to use people's names in text messages - finding numbers - reading texts - identifying the texter - and re-adding them to my contacts. I was finding my lost contacts with great glee (and gratitude) - when I ran into a string of text messages with Greg's phone number.
My breath caught in my chest and the tears came before I could stop them. The words were there - demanding that I read them. I read as much as I was strong enough to read. The tone of the messages I read was warm, light, tender at times, loving without question, easy, comfortable (sober). It was the way you talk with someone that you love dearly - and know better than they know themselves - in both directions. In both directions. I could hear his voice in each message - see his face. For a few minutes, he was alive again.
Oh God, I miss him.
I didn't sleep last night. I cried.
But the new day starts, whether you're ready or not. I try hard to be ready.
Today I regrouped as best as I could, went through my day (quietly), made bracelets, answered customer's emails, did some bookkeeping - just normal "stuff", but I didn't have much voice - not many words.
While making bracelets, I remembered the recording I made with my phone of Greg's voicemail after he died. I grabbed my phone immediately to make sure that the recording transferred to my new phone. It did not.
Panic
I haven't listened to the recording in quite a while, but it has to be there when I need to hear his voice. I was afraid I'd forget how he sounded, but now I know there's no chance of that.
I looked for the recording off and on all day, positive that I saved it somewhere on my hard drive. No luck.
Tonight I found it in my email (I'm an email hoarder) and saved it on my computer. I can't lose it.
The only way to be sure it works is to listen to it. As I close my eyes and listen, the hurricane of pain and sadness that swirled around me all week nearly breaks me in two.
My sweet son - is gone. How will I bear it
So! Last night, I decided to go through my text messages that just had phone numbers - no names - to see what contacts I could add back through text messages. Pretty doggone clever, eh?
I was feeling pretty good about myself - glad that I tend to use people's names in text messages - finding numbers - reading texts - identifying the texter - and re-adding them to my contacts. I was finding my lost contacts with great glee (and gratitude) - when I ran into a string of text messages with Greg's phone number.
My breath caught in my chest and the tears came before I could stop them. The words were there - demanding that I read them. I read as much as I was strong enough to read. The tone of the messages I read was warm, light, tender at times, loving without question, easy, comfortable (sober). It was the way you talk with someone that you love dearly - and know better than they know themselves - in both directions. In both directions. I could hear his voice in each message - see his face. For a few minutes, he was alive again.
Oh God, I miss him.
I didn't sleep last night. I cried.
But the new day starts, whether you're ready or not. I try hard to be ready.
Today I regrouped as best as I could, went through my day (quietly), made bracelets, answered customer's emails, did some bookkeeping - just normal "stuff", but I didn't have much voice - not many words.
While making bracelets, I remembered the recording I made with my phone of Greg's voicemail after he died. I grabbed my phone immediately to make sure that the recording transferred to my new phone. It did not.
Panic
I haven't listened to the recording in quite a while, but it has to be there when I need to hear his voice. I was afraid I'd forget how he sounded, but now I know there's no chance of that.
I looked for the recording off and on all day, positive that I saved it somewhere on my hard drive. No luck.
Tonight I found it in my email (I'm an email hoarder) and saved it on my computer. I can't lose it.
The only way to be sure it works is to listen to it. As I close my eyes and listen, the hurricane of pain and sadness that swirled around me all week nearly breaks me in two.
My sweet son - is gone. How will I bear it
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Not me
Some days I look okay... sound okay... act okay... but I'm not okay.
I take a shower - have breakfast - take my medication - welcome the contractor who's building a powder room in my basement - smile - make a joke... but it's not me. It looks like me... sounds like me... acts like me... but it's not me.
I'm not in that body. I can see that body, but I'm not in it - not today.
I take a shower - have breakfast - take my medication - welcome the contractor who's building a powder room in my basement - smile - make a joke... but it's not me. It looks like me... sounds like me... acts like me... but it's not me.
I'm not in that body. I can see that body, but I'm not in it - not today.
Saturday, October 20, 2018
A Million Little Things
A TV show on ABC based on a man who jumped from a building and killed himself - and the effect of his suicide on his friends and family - something that I probably never should have watched, but I heard it was good. I thought... after the first episode, I'd be okay. For the most part, that's true. Every now and then... it's not.
On this week's episode, I heard a psychiatrist (or maybe a psychologist) say that only 1% of the people who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge survived. Of that 1%, 100% said that the instant they jumped, they regretted it.
They said they realized that it wasn't a case of, "I don't want to live." It was a case of, "I don't want to live like this."
I wish I had the ability to un-hear things.
On this week's episode, I heard a psychiatrist (or maybe a psychologist) say that only 1% of the people who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge survived. Of that 1%, 100% said that the instant they jumped, they regretted it.
They said they realized that it wasn't a case of, "I don't want to live." It was a case of, "I don't want to live like this."
I wish I had the ability to un-hear things.
Friday, October 5, 2018
No Hard Feelings
Maybe a reminder to hang on loosely - live your life daily - live in peace - know where you are going after this. Simple and profound. (The base player doesn't sing - in case you wondered) Video after the lyrics.
No Hard Feelings
When my feet won't walk another mile
And my lips give their last kiss goodbye
Will my hands be steady?
And love in thoughts and love in the words
Love in the songs they sing in the church
And no hard feelings
Will the trade winds take me south
Through Georgia grain or tropical rain
Or snow from the heavens?
And walk through the night
Straight to the light
Holding the love I've known in my life
And no hard feelings
Under the curving sky
I'm finally learning why
It matters for me and you
To say it and mean it too
For life and its loveliness
And all of its ugliness
Good as it's been to me
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
No Hard Feelings
When my body won't hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Will I be ready?
And it finally lets me free
Will I be ready?
When my feet won't walk another mile
And my lips give their last kiss goodbye
Will my hands be steady?
When I lay down my fears
My hopes and my doubts
The rings on my fingers
And the keys to my house
With no hard feelings
My hopes and my doubts
The rings on my fingers
And the keys to my house
With no hard feelings
When the sun hangs low in the west
And the light in my chest
Won't be kept held at bay any longer
And the light in my chest
Won't be kept held at bay any longer
When the jealousy fades away
And it's ash and dust for cash and lust
And it's just hallelujah
And it's ash and dust for cash and lust
And it's just hallelujah
And love in thoughts and love in the words
Love in the songs they sing in the church
And no hard feelings
Lord knows they haven't done
Much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Mmh
When my body won't hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Where will I go?
And it finally lets me free
Where will I go?
Will the trade winds take me south
Through Georgia grain or tropical rain
Or snow from the heavens?
Will I join with the ocean blue
Or run into the savior true
And shake hands laughing
Or run into the savior true
And shake hands laughing
And walk through the night
Straight to the light
Holding the love I've known in my life
And no hard feelings
Lord knows they haven't done
Much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Much good for anyone
Kept me afraid and cold
With so much to have and hold
Under the curving sky
I'm finally learning why
It matters for me and you
To say it and mean it too
For life and its loveliness
And all of its ugliness
Good as it's been to me
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
I have no enemies
Songwriters: Robert Crawford / Scott Avett / Timothy Avett
Thursday, October 4, 2018
15 Months
15 months - and it hurts just as much.
I have some new insights, but I'm too raw today to write them. I'll try soon.
I haven't written it every month, but if you don't hear from me on the 4th, know that it still hurts as much. If that changes, I'll be sure to let you know.
I have some new insights, but I'm too raw today to write them. I'll try soon.
I haven't written it every month, but if you don't hear from me on the 4th, know that it still hurts as much. If that changes, I'll be sure to let you know.
Wednesday, October 3, 2018
Garage cleanout
I mentioned that we are having our garage floor replaced. What a huge job! We didn't find out until Friday that Joe wanted to start work on the floor the next Monday (October 1st). Riiiiiiight!
Before the work could start, we had to empty the garage. Do you have a garage? Is it ultra tidy - or is it like mine?
Scott and Richard both offered to help move the contents of the garage over the weekend. I don't know what we would have done without them.
One of the things that had to be removed from the garage, was a set of shelves that Greg built for Michael - to hold all of his shipping envelopes and boxes - so that Michael didn't have to go up and down the stairs every time he needed a shipping envelope. He built the shelves out of whatever he could find in the garage: dry wall, pieces of scrap lumber - anything available. The shelves weren't pretty, but they were a huge help to Michael.
The shelves were moved to the back porch until the construction is over. Scott and Richard suggested that I have new shelves built that would look better and be more sturdy. I just nodded my head - couldn't talk. Greg built them. I don't like to get rid of anything connected to Greg - in any way. It's like I'm throwing away a part of him. How can anyone ask me to do that.
At the same time, there was a bag of small pieces of wood - useless, unless you're a contractor. And boards - old boards - same thing. On sane days, I know that saving everything that Greg touched isn't good for me. It makes me sad to see those things - reminds me of how unrooted he was - how alone he felt - out of his home - away from his children. It's not just blocks of wood to me - or pieces of wood - shelves made out of loose ends.
Greg left me so many special things - the plant hangers with the initials of my grandchildren - the old-time tricycle on my mantle that he made out of metal - the 1949 Aladdin kerosene lantern in the dining room - the plastic happy-memory Santa on my window sill in the kitchen - and of course, Billy the squirrel on my mailbox - just to name a few. Do I really need/want blocks of wood, boards, shelves made out of drywall to remember him?
While cleaning out the garage, Scott and Richard threw out the blocks of wood, and boards, laughing about what a hoarder their dad was (or at least pretending so for my benefit). When they told me, I had a catch in my throat - and then I mentally reminded myself of all that I have that connects me to Greg (as if any physical thing is necessary). I was sad briefly, but then it was okay.
Richard and Scott asked Michael if he wanted those shelves back in the garage. Michael told them that he did not. Michael knew instinctively that if they came back in, I would not be able to let them go.
Richard said he would come and get the necessary things back in the garage. If he gets rid of the shelves and I don't have to see them again, I think I can handle it. I am grateful for all of Richard's help.
I'll just go sit on the porch and look at my plant hangers and talk to Billy for a little while and I'll be okay.
Before the work could start, we had to empty the garage. Do you have a garage? Is it ultra tidy - or is it like mine?
Scott and Richard both offered to help move the contents of the garage over the weekend. I don't know what we would have done without them.
One of the things that had to be removed from the garage, was a set of shelves that Greg built for Michael - to hold all of his shipping envelopes and boxes - so that Michael didn't have to go up and down the stairs every time he needed a shipping envelope. He built the shelves out of whatever he could find in the garage: dry wall, pieces of scrap lumber - anything available. The shelves weren't pretty, but they were a huge help to Michael.
The shelves were moved to the back porch until the construction is over. Scott and Richard suggested that I have new shelves built that would look better and be more sturdy. I just nodded my head - couldn't talk. Greg built them. I don't like to get rid of anything connected to Greg - in any way. It's like I'm throwing away a part of him. How can anyone ask me to do that.
At the same time, there was a bag of small pieces of wood - useless, unless you're a contractor. And boards - old boards - same thing. On sane days, I know that saving everything that Greg touched isn't good for me. It makes me sad to see those things - reminds me of how unrooted he was - how alone he felt - out of his home - away from his children. It's not just blocks of wood to me - or pieces of wood - shelves made out of loose ends.
Greg left me so many special things - the plant hangers with the initials of my grandchildren - the old-time tricycle on my mantle that he made out of metal - the 1949 Aladdin kerosene lantern in the dining room - the plastic happy-memory Santa on my window sill in the kitchen - and of course, Billy the squirrel on my mailbox - just to name a few. Do I really need/want blocks of wood, boards, shelves made out of drywall to remember him?
While cleaning out the garage, Scott and Richard threw out the blocks of wood, and boards, laughing about what a hoarder their dad was (or at least pretending so for my benefit). When they told me, I had a catch in my throat - and then I mentally reminded myself of all that I have that connects me to Greg (as if any physical thing is necessary). I was sad briefly, but then it was okay.
Richard and Scott asked Michael if he wanted those shelves back in the garage. Michael told them that he did not. Michael knew instinctively that if they came back in, I would not be able to let them go.
Richard said he would come and get the necessary things back in the garage. If he gets rid of the shelves and I don't have to see them again, I think I can handle it. I am grateful for all of Richard's help.
I'll just go sit on the porch and look at my plant hangers and talk to Billy for a little while and I'll be okay.
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Coming and going
I had hopes in the beginning of writing every day. After reading the first few months of this (after I promised myself I would not go back and read what I wrote), I couldn'e help but think how depressing it was - couldn't possibly help ANYone - and wondered if it was good for me to write every day.
A cancer diagnosis solved part of that problem for me. There are days I'm just too exhausted to do anything other than the things I need to do every day - the "one-foot-in-front-of-the-other" things that keep me from thinking any farther than the next hour.
So... I come and I go. I don't like it, but it's where I am in my life at the moment. Maybe tomorrow will be better - or next week maybe.
I feel better today than I have for quite a while (remembering that everything is relative).
I didn't feel great this morning, so I went and plunked myself on the sofa (a reclining sofa) in the den - put my feet up and my head back - and I fell asleep quickly. Sounds perfectly normal - until you understand that we are having construction at our house this week.
Downstairs, in the basement, the plumber (let's call him Dave) is breaking up the concrete floor in order to add a powder room there.
In the garage, a concrete guy (let's call him Joe), who had already broken up and removed our garage floor on Monday, was filling the garage floor area with gravel and tamping and leveling (I guess) the gravel with a machine that sounded like a helicopter was in our garage - truly. It was so loud, that Michael and I had to yell to talk in the den (the garage is on the other side of the wall where the sofa is located).
Michael left - I fell asleep - with the helicopter machine behind my head - growling and sounding like a helicopter. I probably slept close to two hours. It was likely that the silence of the helicopter-sounding machine being finished was what woke me up.
After I woke up, when I saw Michael, he looked concerned - couldn't believe I could fall asleep with that noise. He said he came and checked on me several times. I was sound asleep.
"How are you doing?," he asked, his brow furrowed with worry.
"I feel SO much better after sleeping!" I'm going to take a shower, get dressed, and get my day going. He just hugged me and told me he loves me - which I appreciate. He thinks I'm "just being brave", but I really do feel pretty good - a far cry from three hours ago. This is how it's gone - up and down in the same day - often within a couple of hours. Crazy,
This whole experience is just strange - not definable - barely describable - it just is. And what is true this minute may be entirely different an hour from now.
And once again, like ripples in a pond, this affects everyone I know and love.
Minute by minute - step by step - in faith - trusting God. That's all you can do.
A cancer diagnosis solved part of that problem for me. There are days I'm just too exhausted to do anything other than the things I need to do every day - the "one-foot-in-front-of-the-other" things that keep me from thinking any farther than the next hour.
So... I come and I go. I don't like it, but it's where I am in my life at the moment. Maybe tomorrow will be better - or next week maybe.
I feel better today than I have for quite a while (remembering that everything is relative).
I didn't feel great this morning, so I went and plunked myself on the sofa (a reclining sofa) in the den - put my feet up and my head back - and I fell asleep quickly. Sounds perfectly normal - until you understand that we are having construction at our house this week.
Downstairs, in the basement, the plumber (let's call him Dave) is breaking up the concrete floor in order to add a powder room there.
In the garage, a concrete guy (let's call him Joe), who had already broken up and removed our garage floor on Monday, was filling the garage floor area with gravel and tamping and leveling (I guess) the gravel with a machine that sounded like a helicopter was in our garage - truly. It was so loud, that Michael and I had to yell to talk in the den (the garage is on the other side of the wall where the sofa is located).
Michael left - I fell asleep - with the helicopter machine behind my head - growling and sounding like a helicopter. I probably slept close to two hours. It was likely that the silence of the helicopter-sounding machine being finished was what woke me up.
After I woke up, when I saw Michael, he looked concerned - couldn't believe I could fall asleep with that noise. He said he came and checked on me several times. I was sound asleep.
"How are you doing?," he asked, his brow furrowed with worry.
"I feel SO much better after sleeping!" I'm going to take a shower, get dressed, and get my day going. He just hugged me and told me he loves me - which I appreciate. He thinks I'm "just being brave", but I really do feel pretty good - a far cry from three hours ago. This is how it's gone - up and down in the same day - often within a couple of hours. Crazy,
This whole experience is just strange - not definable - barely describable - it just is. And what is true this minute may be entirely different an hour from now.
And once again, like ripples in a pond, this affects everyone I know and love.
Minute by minute - step by step - in faith - trusting God. That's all you can do.
Friday, September 7, 2018
Character Magnet
I attract "characters" like an industrial magnet. It's as if a magnetic aura surrounds me. Not everyone can see/feel this aura - only the strange and wonderful - and they are unable to resist the pull.
Here's the story of this particular character and the joy that she brought into my life.
My grandson is turning 13. Imagine all the cliches about time flying - I feel them all looking at this child.
ANYWAY... Bryce plays football. His number is 8. His dad gave him a beautiful gold chain for Christmas with a number 8 charm to put on it. Bryce's mom and dad weren't sure he'd like the chain and/or number, so the number they bought him was gold plated rather than 14K gold. Well... Bryce loved the chain AND the 8 - so much in fact, that he wore all the plating off of the 8. His father suggested that I might want to purchase a 14k gold number 8 for Bryce for his birthday. Great idea! I'm in!
So... off to the hunt. I saw some 14K gold numbers to order online - which would arrive after Bryce's birthday - so my oldest son suggested that I might find one at the mall in one of the kiosks so that I would have it in time for his birthday celebration. Great idea! (These guys are soooo smart)
Michael and I went out to dinner, which is not something we do often - so many dietary restrictions and so little energy, By the end of the day, I'm usually out of steam. (Do you know about the Spoon Theory? If not, find an explanation in this post: https://despitethedarkness.blogspot.com/2017/08/putting-in-time.html#more) I was pretty much "done" by the time we finished - my spoons depleted - but the mall was just across the street, so we decided to go and take a quick look.
We found the kiosk easily and asked the woman working at the kiosk (let's call her Dana), if she had a 14k (or even 10K) gold number 8. She was a petite black woman wearing a baseball hat, jeans, a t-shirt, gold sparkly sneakers, and a HUGE smile. I was dressed in jeans, sandals, a shirt, and a bandana covering my almost-bald head, dark circles under my eyes - no smile.
After looking thoroughly in each display case, she told us, "I don't have any here, but let me check with the kiosk at the other end of the mall for you."
As she called the kiosk at the other end of the mall, she began searching the internet on the computer in the kiosk. The kiosk at the other end of the mall didn't have any gold numbers either. That wasn't enough for her. She made a few more calls, but couldn't find the charm for us. I can't remember when I experienced service to that level. She was just exceptional.
She asked about the bandana, and I told her that I had just finished chemo the week before and that I had no hair. She laughed and took off her baseball cap. Bald! B-A-L-D.
Laughing, with an infectious deep pitched belly laugh, she said, "I'm too old to mess with hair every day. No thanks! I shaved it off. Done." I had to laugh with her as Michael and I turned to head toward the mall exit.
"I feel like you have a birthday soon. Do you?," she asked, cheerily.
"I do", I answered, incredulous. "My birthday is the 20th of this month."
"I just knew it," she answered loudly, laughing. (she laughed a LOT) "Which way are you headed? I'll walk with you a little bit." We pointed to the direction we were going and she moved next to me as we started to walk.
With her cap still off, bald head exposed, the woman started singing Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday to you" - with the most wonderful voice - at the top of her lungs - walking down the mall next to me (me on my mobility scooter).
She walked part way with us and then waved (still singing) as we moved away from her.
I looked at Michael and told him how thankful I was for her help and for her presence that particular day. This last chemo was rough. I was tired and didn't feel well. It had been a long day - I pushed harder than I should have (a recurring theme) and I had been missing Greg a lot that day.
I am grateful that God not only loves me - but that he puts this kind of person in my path at the times that I need them most.
Thank you, God, for the characters in my life. I love them all.
Here's the story of this particular character and the joy that she brought into my life.
My grandson is turning 13. Imagine all the cliches about time flying - I feel them all looking at this child.
ANYWAY... Bryce plays football. His number is 8. His dad gave him a beautiful gold chain for Christmas with a number 8 charm to put on it. Bryce's mom and dad weren't sure he'd like the chain and/or number, so the number they bought him was gold plated rather than 14K gold. Well... Bryce loved the chain AND the 8 - so much in fact, that he wore all the plating off of the 8. His father suggested that I might want to purchase a 14k gold number 8 for Bryce for his birthday. Great idea! I'm in!
So... off to the hunt. I saw some 14K gold numbers to order online - which would arrive after Bryce's birthday - so my oldest son suggested that I might find one at the mall in one of the kiosks so that I would have it in time for his birthday celebration. Great idea! (These guys are soooo smart)
Michael and I went out to dinner, which is not something we do often - so many dietary restrictions and so little energy, By the end of the day, I'm usually out of steam. (Do you know about the Spoon Theory? If not, find an explanation in this post: https://despitethedarkness.blogspot.com/2017/08/putting-in-time.html#more) I was pretty much "done" by the time we finished - my spoons depleted - but the mall was just across the street, so we decided to go and take a quick look.
We found the kiosk easily and asked the woman working at the kiosk (let's call her Dana), if she had a 14k (or even 10K) gold number 8. She was a petite black woman wearing a baseball hat, jeans, a t-shirt, gold sparkly sneakers, and a HUGE smile. I was dressed in jeans, sandals, a shirt, and a bandana covering my almost-bald head, dark circles under my eyes - no smile.
After looking thoroughly in each display case, she told us, "I don't have any here, but let me check with the kiosk at the other end of the mall for you."
As she called the kiosk at the other end of the mall, she began searching the internet on the computer in the kiosk. The kiosk at the other end of the mall didn't have any gold numbers either. That wasn't enough for her. She made a few more calls, but couldn't find the charm for us. I can't remember when I experienced service to that level. She was just exceptional.
She asked about the bandana, and I told her that I had just finished chemo the week before and that I had no hair. She laughed and took off her baseball cap. Bald! B-A-L-D.
Laughing, with an infectious deep pitched belly laugh, she said, "I'm too old to mess with hair every day. No thanks! I shaved it off. Done." I had to laugh with her as Michael and I turned to head toward the mall exit.
"I feel like you have a birthday soon. Do you?," she asked, cheerily.
"I do", I answered, incredulous. "My birthday is the 20th of this month."
"I just knew it," she answered loudly, laughing. (she laughed a LOT) "Which way are you headed? I'll walk with you a little bit." We pointed to the direction we were going and she moved next to me as we started to walk.
With her cap still off, bald head exposed, the woman started singing Stevie Wonder's 'Happy Birthday to you" - with the most wonderful voice - at the top of her lungs - walking down the mall next to me (me on my mobility scooter).
She walked part way with us and then waved (still singing) as we moved away from her.
I looked at Michael and told him how thankful I was for her help and for her presence that particular day. This last chemo was rough. I was tired and didn't feel well. It had been a long day - I pushed harder than I should have (a recurring theme) and I had been missing Greg a lot that day.
I am grateful that God not only loves me - but that he puts this kind of person in my path at the times that I need them most.
Thank you, God, for the characters in my life. I love them all.
Thursday, August 30, 2018
Halloween memory
Richard stopped by tonight on his way home from work. I fainted yesterday, did something to both knees, and was unable to walk. I have a lightweight (35 lbs) mobility scooter in the basement that I use to gather leather, etc. while making bracelets. While Richard was here, I asked him if he could possibly bring that scooter up. Michael had been pushing me through the house on a rollator since I fell. ANYWAY... that's not the reason for this post.
Richard stopped by and we were talking about some work I was having done to the house and that the man doing the work (let's call him Brian) was someone who graduated with Richard. Richard didn't remember him at all. Didn't surprise me.
Brian told me that he played American Legion baseball with both kids but knew Greg better. He cried when he learned that Greg had died. He also told me that he had a history of drugs and that he had been sober for 13 years. Now I knew why Richard didn't know him and Greg did - kind of. That's not really the reason for this post, either.
When Richard left, Michael walked him out to his car and as they talked, Michael mentioned that one thing he has learned is that the McKinnons were well known in this area and that we keep running into people who knew them - and it often worked to our advantage. Richard laughed.
He told Michael that Greg knew everyone. Richard remembered one Halloween when he and Greg were 12 or 13. They were walking down the street together and at one point they heard a group of kids behind them. The kids' behavior identified them quickly as thug-type kids. They kept getting closer - their language threatening. Richard said that it was becoming obvious to Greg and him that they were about to be beaten up - their candy stolen. The kids behind them continued to get closer and louder. At the last second, Richard and Greg turned around and one of the kids, seeing Greg, yelled enthusiastically, "Hey McKinnon... how you been?" Greg responded just as enthusiastically.
Richard just laughed. He said that was Greg. He knew and loved everyone from every part of life.
Greg was voted "Most Popular" in high school. When he told us, I wondered how many people he had to please to be voted Most Popular. Greg knew the nerds - he knew the jocks - he knew the thugs - he knew the medically challenged kids - he knew the unpopular kids.
In Greg's adulthood - especially watching him in his own business, I learned that Greg just had a huge capacity to love... people... all people. He forgave easily - was compassionate and empathetic. He employed people who needed the work - whether they were a help or a hindrance. He took payment in old cars and cats. Greg did work for people who couldn't afford to have that work done. He did it because he could - and because they needed the help.
His light burned brightly and went out way too quickly.
Richard stopped by and we were talking about some work I was having done to the house and that the man doing the work (let's call him Brian) was someone who graduated with Richard. Richard didn't remember him at all. Didn't surprise me.
Brian told me that he played American Legion baseball with both kids but knew Greg better. He cried when he learned that Greg had died. He also told me that he had a history of drugs and that he had been sober for 13 years. Now I knew why Richard didn't know him and Greg did - kind of. That's not really the reason for this post, either.
When Richard left, Michael walked him out to his car and as they talked, Michael mentioned that one thing he has learned is that the McKinnons were well known in this area and that we keep running into people who knew them - and it often worked to our advantage. Richard laughed.
He told Michael that Greg knew everyone. Richard remembered one Halloween when he and Greg were 12 or 13. They were walking down the street together and at one point they heard a group of kids behind them. The kids' behavior identified them quickly as thug-type kids. They kept getting closer - their language threatening. Richard said that it was becoming obvious to Greg and him that they were about to be beaten up - their candy stolen. The kids behind them continued to get closer and louder. At the last second, Richard and Greg turned around and one of the kids, seeing Greg, yelled enthusiastically, "Hey McKinnon... how you been?" Greg responded just as enthusiastically.
Richard just laughed. He said that was Greg. He knew and loved everyone from every part of life.
Greg was voted "Most Popular" in high school. When he told us, I wondered how many people he had to please to be voted Most Popular. Greg knew the nerds - he knew the jocks - he knew the thugs - he knew the medically challenged kids - he knew the unpopular kids.
In Greg's adulthood - especially watching him in his own business, I learned that Greg just had a huge capacity to love... people... all people. He forgave easily - was compassionate and empathetic. He employed people who needed the work - whether they were a help or a hindrance. He took payment in old cars and cats. Greg did work for people who couldn't afford to have that work done. He did it because he could - and because they needed the help.
His light burned brightly and went out way too quickly.
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Suicide Day ~ Chemo Cycle #5
One day last month Richard stopped at the house and I asked him how he was doing and how Greg's death has affected him.
His told me that he's angry - all the time.
"At Greg?," I asked.
"Just... angry," he told me. "All the time. I wake up angry. I don't know why I'm angry. I just am."
"You process your way and I'll process mine," he told me before I could ask another question.
"Okay," I answered.
He and Greg were close all their lives - played the same sports - had the same friends. They were best friends - inseparable. Although 14 months apart, they were known as "the twins" - the McKinnon brothers - clear through high school. Richard's loss is enormous - and he'll have to carry that loss much longer than I will have to carry mine.
I don't think I understood until that moment, how profoundly the loss of his almost-twin brother changed Richard's life.
"Does talking about it help you," he asked me.
"It does," I replied.
"Well, it doesn't help me."
I talk to Richard about everything. I lean hard on him. I think we'll still be able to share memories and stories about Greg. I hope so. But if he doesn't want to talk about "feelings" or how he's working through this, I have to respect his boundaries. I hope it will change, but I'll follow his lead.
All of that is a preamble to Suicide Day from Cycle #5 of chemo.
I told you about the emotional drop that I experience from prednisone after chemo. Cycle #5 was the worst to date.
I decided that I was tired - done - ready to die - ready to let other people get on with their lives without being crippled by my presence. These were not sad, self-pitying thoughts. I was calm - rational (or so I thought). I began to Google my medications to see what would take me out the fastest.
As I was gathering pills to kill myself, I had a flash of Richard - just a flash - his face - how he would look like after I died - how my suicide would affect him - forever.
I collapsed in tears. I knew in that moment, that suicide could never be an answer for me. Never. No matter what.
God's grace - his infinite mercy - touched me in that flash of Richard's face.
What had I been thinking? It was then I realized the roller coaster pattern of chemotherapy (therapy?) and the chemical effect on my brain. Knowledge is power, I've heard. This experience was the living truth of that saying.
I will be forever grateful for Richard sharing his feelings with me that day - and even more grateful for God's mercy.
When I talked to Woowoo (You remember Woowoo, right??) about what happened, she told me that people contemplating suicide often report a "vision" that prevented them from completing their plan.
Did Greg have a vision? Was it too late?
His told me that he's angry - all the time.
"At Greg?," I asked.
"Just... angry," he told me. "All the time. I wake up angry. I don't know why I'm angry. I just am."
"You process your way and I'll process mine," he told me before I could ask another question.
"Okay," I answered.
He and Greg were close all their lives - played the same sports - had the same friends. They were best friends - inseparable. Although 14 months apart, they were known as "the twins" - the McKinnon brothers - clear through high school. Richard's loss is enormous - and he'll have to carry that loss much longer than I will have to carry mine.
I don't think I understood until that moment, how profoundly the loss of his almost-twin brother changed Richard's life.
"Does talking about it help you," he asked me.
"It does," I replied.
"Well, it doesn't help me."
I talk to Richard about everything. I lean hard on him. I think we'll still be able to share memories and stories about Greg. I hope so. But if he doesn't want to talk about "feelings" or how he's working through this, I have to respect his boundaries. I hope it will change, but I'll follow his lead.
All of that is a preamble to Suicide Day from Cycle #5 of chemo.
I told you about the emotional drop that I experience from prednisone after chemo. Cycle #5 was the worst to date.
I decided that I was tired - done - ready to die - ready to let other people get on with their lives without being crippled by my presence. These were not sad, self-pitying thoughts. I was calm - rational (or so I thought). I began to Google my medications to see what would take me out the fastest.
As I was gathering pills to kill myself, I had a flash of Richard - just a flash - his face - how he would look like after I died - how my suicide would affect him - forever.
I collapsed in tears. I knew in that moment, that suicide could never be an answer for me. Never. No matter what.
God's grace - his infinite mercy - touched me in that flash of Richard's face.
What had I been thinking? It was then I realized the roller coaster pattern of chemotherapy (therapy?) and the chemical effect on my brain. Knowledge is power, I've heard. This experience was the living truth of that saying.
I will be forever grateful for Richard sharing his feelings with me that day - and even more grateful for God's mercy.
When I talked to Woowoo (You remember Woowoo, right??) about what happened, she told me that people contemplating suicide often report a "vision" that prevented them from completing their plan.
Did Greg have a vision? Was it too late?
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Chemical impact
Post chemo week is always an adventure. When I look at the way prednisone affects what goes on in my head, I can't help but think of all the drugs that Greg took and how the "Greg" of him disappeared into the drugs.
On chemo day I get 100mg of prednisone. Have you ever taken 100mg of prednisone? Have you ever taken 40mg of prednisone?
100mg of prednisone makes me feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound. It makes me feel like the impossible is just within reach. It makes a lot of my physical pain a vague memory.
Chemo day in the oncology world is known as Day #1. In addition to the 100mg of prednisone I get on Day #1, I also get a pretty large dose of Benadryl (for reactions to the chemo). The Benadryl counteracts the prednisone, making me sleepy. The night after chemo is usually a good night - no pain and Benadryl helps create a deep, dreamless sleep (a welcome change).
But on Day #2 I get another 100mg of prednisone. Sleep that night just doesn't happen. My eyes are wide open - my mind is on super-charge.
On Day #3, yet another 100mg of prednisone. Sleep? Not a chance. But I'd be happy to talk to you - all night - non-stop.
So, now I've gone two nights without sleep - and then the fall begins. On top of the effects of sleep deprivation, we now cut the prednisone in half, from 100mg to 50mg for two days on Day #4 and Day #5. On 50mg of prednisone, sleep is still sketchy at best. On Days #6 and #7, we cut the prednisone in half again - from 50mg to 25mg and Depression replaces the feeling of well-being. Thoughts of suicide - feelings of hopelessness - exhaustion - confusion - and the pain is back.
Today is suicide day. I woke up this morning in pain, this hideous oxygen tube strapped to my face, heart rate too high - oxygen levels too low - almost no hair - my skin the color of chalk. I wonder why I'm doing all this - knowing that everyone around me would have a simpler, happier life without me in it. No doubts. Certainty.
And then I remember that today is Day #6 and I'm sitting in the first car of the prednisone roller coaster - strapped in tight. I know that everything I feel or think today is due to the chemical onslaught that my mind and body have experienced since Day #1. I'm just a passenger. I have no control over this ride. All I can do is hang on until the ride is over - promise myself that I'll make no decisions - take no actions until the ride comes to a complete stop. No matter what I think - no matter how I feel - I will make no decisions today.
This has been a pattern for every cycle of chemo, but I didn't recognize the pattern until the previous cycle. Someone should have warned me about this. Last month, it almost cost my life (more tomorrow).
Greg didn't appear to know how much the drugs affected his mind - his thinking - how altered he could become. He didn't seem to understand that much of his loneliness - his feelings of isolation - and of hopelessness were drug induced. As the highs got higher, the lows must have gotten correspondingly lower.
I've seen God's hand in my life over and over again in the past year or so - his mercy - his grace. I know that Greg begged God for help - cried in anguish to God for help. Did he have to find his help in death? Was that the only way for him?
There is no peace in understanding - firsthand - the death call of drugs.
On chemo day I get 100mg of prednisone. Have you ever taken 100mg of prednisone? Have you ever taken 40mg of prednisone?
100mg of prednisone makes me feel like I can leap tall buildings in a single bound. It makes me feel like the impossible is just within reach. It makes a lot of my physical pain a vague memory.
Chemo day in the oncology world is known as Day #1. In addition to the 100mg of prednisone I get on Day #1, I also get a pretty large dose of Benadryl (for reactions to the chemo). The Benadryl counteracts the prednisone, making me sleepy. The night after chemo is usually a good night - no pain and Benadryl helps create a deep, dreamless sleep (a welcome change).
But on Day #2 I get another 100mg of prednisone. Sleep that night just doesn't happen. My eyes are wide open - my mind is on super-charge.
On Day #3, yet another 100mg of prednisone. Sleep? Not a chance. But I'd be happy to talk to you - all night - non-stop.
So, now I've gone two nights without sleep - and then the fall begins. On top of the effects of sleep deprivation, we now cut the prednisone in half, from 100mg to 50mg for two days on Day #4 and Day #5. On 50mg of prednisone, sleep is still sketchy at best. On Days #6 and #7, we cut the prednisone in half again - from 50mg to 25mg and Depression replaces the feeling of well-being. Thoughts of suicide - feelings of hopelessness - exhaustion - confusion - and the pain is back.
Today is suicide day. I woke up this morning in pain, this hideous oxygen tube strapped to my face, heart rate too high - oxygen levels too low - almost no hair - my skin the color of chalk. I wonder why I'm doing all this - knowing that everyone around me would have a simpler, happier life without me in it. No doubts. Certainty.
And then I remember that today is Day #6 and I'm sitting in the first car of the prednisone roller coaster - strapped in tight. I know that everything I feel or think today is due to the chemical onslaught that my mind and body have experienced since Day #1. I'm just a passenger. I have no control over this ride. All I can do is hang on until the ride is over - promise myself that I'll make no decisions - take no actions until the ride comes to a complete stop. No matter what I think - no matter how I feel - I will make no decisions today.
This has been a pattern for every cycle of chemo, but I didn't recognize the pattern until the previous cycle. Someone should have warned me about this. Last month, it almost cost my life (more tomorrow).
Greg didn't appear to know how much the drugs affected his mind - his thinking - how altered he could become. He didn't seem to understand that much of his loneliness - his feelings of isolation - and of hopelessness were drug induced. As the highs got higher, the lows must have gotten correspondingly lower.
I've seen God's hand in my life over and over again in the past year or so - his mercy - his grace. I know that Greg begged God for help - cried in anguish to God for help. Did he have to find his help in death? Was that the only way for him?
There is no peace in understanding - firsthand - the death call of drugs.
Saturday, August 25, 2018
Brain rest is a fantasy
No such thing. I can't write much about this, but I have to at least give it an attempt.
Sometimes music helps. Sometimes it doesn't. So many memories. So many connections.
When I try to empty my mind, it doesn't really empty. I can get rid of the stuff that's there: make an appointment for blood work - call American Home Health about getting oxygen - text Brynn and congratulate her on her tournament win yesterday - what kind of bird is that - Sim is back from vacation - geez, my forehead hurts - these sandals are shot - and on... and on... and on...
But as soon as one thing slides out, it's replaced by another. As long as I'm busy, the thoughts are busy. When I slow my mind, try to relax, I lose control of the thoughts and the ones that slide in are images of Greg - hanging in his workshop - or on the autopsy table - or screaming through the house - exploding out the front door as two ambulances and three police cars pull up to the house, lights flashing - or crying in my arms.
How do I empty those thoughts and images from my mind - my heart - my entire being? Oh! I wish I could.
Rest your brain.
No computer.
No texting.
You can't heal without resting your brain.
No reading.
Very limited television.
Did you know your brain can take from 100 to 500 times longer to heal if you don't rest it?
No jewelry.
Stop planning.
Stop thinking.
REST!
Can't do it
Sometimes music helps. Sometimes it doesn't. So many memories. So many connections.
When I try to empty my mind, it doesn't really empty. I can get rid of the stuff that's there: make an appointment for blood work - call American Home Health about getting oxygen - text Brynn and congratulate her on her tournament win yesterday - what kind of bird is that - Sim is back from vacation - geez, my forehead hurts - these sandals are shot - and on... and on... and on...
But as soon as one thing slides out, it's replaced by another. As long as I'm busy, the thoughts are busy. When I slow my mind, try to relax, I lose control of the thoughts and the ones that slide in are images of Greg - hanging in his workshop - or on the autopsy table - or screaming through the house - exploding out the front door as two ambulances and three police cars pull up to the house, lights flashing - or crying in my arms.
How do I empty those thoughts and images from my mind - my heart - my entire being? Oh! I wish I could.
Rest your brain.
No computer.
No texting.
You can't heal without resting your brain.
No reading.
Very limited television.
Did you know your brain can take from 100 to 500 times longer to heal if you don't rest it?
No jewelry.
Stop planning.
Stop thinking.
REST!
Can't do it
Thursday, August 23, 2018
A little about chemo
Today was my last chemo. That's what the doctor said, so I'm going with it.
Her first words to me today were, "I'm really on the fence about giving you this last cycle." (worried face, scrunchy face, closed face)
"Why?", I asked in my most pleasant voice. (smiling face, convincing face, open face)
I knew why - fainting - concussion, but I wanted something to argue with, so I let her go first. I wasn't prepared for what she said - or her passion. She never fails to surprise me.
"I love your brain. I LOVE your brain and I cannot damage it. If you fall again on top of this last fall...."
"I won't fall," I told her. She laughed,
I'll spare you the details, but when Richard (did I mention that Richard took me for my last chemo? So special) explained the visit to Michael he said...
"You know how when kids want a puppy they say... I'll feed it - I'll give it water - I'll walk the puppy - I'll clean up it's mess - I'll pick up its toys - I will - I will - I will! Well... that was mom working on that doctor today."
My best argument was that with the information that I got on Monday (Oh! I was in the ER at Penn on Monday with a crazy high heart rate and an active SVT [superventricular tachycardia] episode - tested - monitored - hooked up to anything they could find to hook up to me - finally released about 8 hours later) AND with the information that she was about to give me (because I was counting on a discussion), I had a much better chance of controlling the fainting than I did of curing cancer.
The original node that I found was 11cm x 9 cm. As of the last PET scan, that node was 2cm x 2cm and cancer free, BUT, if there are any nodes left - no matter how small, I'll need radiation to get rid of them - cancer free or not. Without radiation, they will replicate themselves and well... no thanks. I told her that if this last round of chemo had anything at all to do with whether or not that node would be gone, then there was really no question.
Some more chatter, rules, pointed looks from the doctor at Richard, making him promise to follow up and make sure I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing (and not doing what I'm supposed to not be doing).
This concussion scared me. Concussions are no joke. My brain is damaged. I can feel it every day. Hopefully, it will heal. I do not want to do this again!
I was selling hard... and it finally paid off. Sunita agreed to the last cycle of chemo.
About five and a half hours later, I had finished my last chemo and Richard encouraged me to ring the bell on the way out. It's tradition when you finish your last chemo, that you ring a big brass bell on the way out - maybe as an encouragement to those receiving chemo that day, maybe as a celebration. I didn't want to do it. I'm not much for hoopla, but Richard really wanted me to - so I did.
After I rang the bell, I have to say I agree with Richard. It was a good thing to do. He said it was like putting a period at the end of a sentence and he was exactly right.
Bell rung - period placed - now to get through the next two weeks without fainting. Moving on.
Her first words to me today were, "I'm really on the fence about giving you this last cycle." (worried face, scrunchy face, closed face)
"Why?", I asked in my most pleasant voice. (smiling face, convincing face, open face)
I knew why - fainting - concussion, but I wanted something to argue with, so I let her go first. I wasn't prepared for what she said - or her passion. She never fails to surprise me.
"I love your brain. I LOVE your brain and I cannot damage it. If you fall again on top of this last fall...."
"I won't fall," I told her. She laughed,
I'll spare you the details, but when Richard (did I mention that Richard took me for my last chemo? So special) explained the visit to Michael he said...
"You know how when kids want a puppy they say... I'll feed it - I'll give it water - I'll walk the puppy - I'll clean up it's mess - I'll pick up its toys - I will - I will - I will! Well... that was mom working on that doctor today."
My best argument was that with the information that I got on Monday (Oh! I was in the ER at Penn on Monday with a crazy high heart rate and an active SVT [superventricular tachycardia] episode - tested - monitored - hooked up to anything they could find to hook up to me - finally released about 8 hours later) AND with the information that she was about to give me (because I was counting on a discussion), I had a much better chance of controlling the fainting than I did of curing cancer.
The original node that I found was 11cm x 9 cm. As of the last PET scan, that node was 2cm x 2cm and cancer free, BUT, if there are any nodes left - no matter how small, I'll need radiation to get rid of them - cancer free or not. Without radiation, they will replicate themselves and well... no thanks. I told her that if this last round of chemo had anything at all to do with whether or not that node would be gone, then there was really no question.
Some more chatter, rules, pointed looks from the doctor at Richard, making him promise to follow up and make sure I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing (and not doing what I'm supposed to not be doing).
This concussion scared me. Concussions are no joke. My brain is damaged. I can feel it every day. Hopefully, it will heal. I do not want to do this again!
I was selling hard... and it finally paid off. Sunita agreed to the last cycle of chemo.
About five and a half hours later, I had finished my last chemo and Richard encouraged me to ring the bell on the way out. It's tradition when you finish your last chemo, that you ring a big brass bell on the way out - maybe as an encouragement to those receiving chemo that day, maybe as a celebration. I didn't want to do it. I'm not much for hoopla, but Richard really wanted me to - so I did.
After I rang the bell, I have to say I agree with Richard. It was a good thing to do. He said it was like putting a period at the end of a sentence and he was exactly right.
Bell rung - period placed - now to get through the next two weeks without fainting. Moving on.
Wednesday, August 8, 2018
Little things
Some days it's the little things that drop me.
I decided today that I'd better start catching up with the orders in my Etsy shops that are backing up while I've been taking my "brain rest".
I fired up the ol' printer, turned on the laptop - and reached for my computer glasses (yes, I have glasses in multiple strengths - in every room). And then I cried.
I love these glasses. They're cheap - not fashionable - not even cute, but they are the perfect strength for my workroom computer and oh-so-comfortable.
I remember the day I broke them. I dropped them on the floor - and then accidentally rolled my chair over them, breaking off the right temple. It was broken in such a way that there was no way it could be repaired. The part that held the screw was broken off. They were done. I left them on my desk and quit for the day.
Greg found them the next day (he was always in my "stuff') and brought them to me.
"Mother... Do you need this side to bend?", he asked, holding the glasses (which were now in one piece) by the right temple - and grinning.
"What did you do to them? They were in two pieces!"
"Not any more," he said. "I glued them." He let go of the temple and sure enough, they were glued together. "I know you like them. If you don't need them to bend, they should be good for a while."
One temple bends - the other doesn't, but that's okay with me.
I hugged him and thanked him - they're still together - and I still love them.
One more "little" thing that reminds me of him every day. Some days it makes me smile to think of his thoughtfulness. Some days I can't get past how much I miss him. Today I miss him so much I ache.
I decided today that I'd better start catching up with the orders in my Etsy shops that are backing up while I've been taking my "brain rest".
I fired up the ol' printer, turned on the laptop - and reached for my computer glasses (yes, I have glasses in multiple strengths - in every room). And then I cried.
I love these glasses. They're cheap - not fashionable - not even cute, but they are the perfect strength for my workroom computer and oh-so-comfortable.
I remember the day I broke them. I dropped them on the floor - and then accidentally rolled my chair over them, breaking off the right temple. It was broken in such a way that there was no way it could be repaired. The part that held the screw was broken off. They were done. I left them on my desk and quit for the day.
Greg found them the next day (he was always in my "stuff') and brought them to me.
"Mother... Do you need this side to bend?", he asked, holding the glasses (which were now in one piece) by the right temple - and grinning.
"What did you do to them? They were in two pieces!"
"Not any more," he said. "I glued them." He let go of the temple and sure enough, they were glued together. "I know you like them. If you don't need them to bend, they should be good for a while."
One temple bends - the other doesn't, but that's okay with me.
I hugged him and thanked him - they're still together - and I still love them.
One more "little" thing that reminds me of him every day. Some days it makes me smile to think of his thoughtfulness. Some days I can't get past how much I miss him. Today I miss him so much I ache.
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
Brain rest
Not my best week. Last Thursday was chemo (always a fun time). Friday was a typical, sleepy, day after chemo. Saturday was... an adventure.
I got up late, read my morning devotional, and then started my newly defined morning routine - brush my teeth - do a fluoride rinse for my teeth and gums - next the salt water rinse for the sore post-chemo mouth - and lastly, a rinse with liquid Benadryl and Maalox (Magic Mouthwash). Yummy.
I didn't feel great - oxygen levels and heart rate were kind of all over the place, so I did a lot of resting between rinses and then sat and waited until oxygen and heart rate were stable (I spend my life with a pulse-ox in my hand). Everything seemed okay, so I turned on the water and got in the shower.
I'm not able to stand for more than (maximum) 2 minutes due to lung damage, so I have a shower bench, which is placed in corner of the shower (this is a very small stand-up shower) so that I can sit and lean in the corner and let the water run over me (Greg set it up that way when he fixed my shower).
I took my normal shower - felt "okay". I normally finish my shower by washing my hair (or I should say... head), and then washing my face. I washed my hair as usual (with my eyes closed because of the shampoo) and everything seemed fine until I opened my eyes. As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong and decided that I should skip washing my face - and get out. That was the last thought I had - until I woke up, naked, face down on the ceramic tile, bathroom floor, hearing Michael yelling my name on the other side of the door. He said he talked to me for at least 30 seconds before I answered.
I finally answered and told him that I was okay, but confused, and that I was just going to lie on the floor for a couple minutes and regroup. My body was blocking the door, so that the door wouldn't open.
Eventually, I was able to get up, grab my housecoat, and sit on a bench inside the bathroom door and let Michael in. He helped me to the bed and I decided to just sit for a few minutes until my head cleared.
I could see and hear him talking. I knew he was saying words, but they didn't make any sense to me. I tried to touch my head, but it was too painful to touch, I had a lump the size of an grapefruit (okay... and apple) over my right eyebrow. There was stabbing pain on my entire right eyebrow and my right eye.
Michael got me an ice pack, but I couldn't put it on my face. The ice was too sharp. I couldn't bear it. Next we tried a gel pack. Although I sobbed in pain, I forced myself to put the frozen gel pack on my eye - a couple seconds at a time, increasing time slowly.
I spent the day trying to ice my face, eye, and forehead. We finally decided that we should call Penn and go the ER. I called my doctor's service and the on-call doctor paved the way for us. They were ready by the time we got there. We should have gone in the morning... but we didn't.
When we got to the ER, they put us in a room (in the ER) right away, did an EKG, hooked up a heart monitor and IV. They were afraid that I had broken the orbital bone around my right eye or that I had a brain bleed. I apparently gave my brain quite a jolt. My eye was swollen shut and the lump on my forehead was now down to the size of an apple (okay... a lemon). Yay, ice!. I thought my nose was (re)broken, but the CT scan showed no breaks. Unbelievable that I didn't do more actual damage than I did.
ANYWAY... I still have some shorted connections - like trying to put the lid for the superglue on a Sharpie (didn't work) - or typing a text message this morning that I forgot to send. It's a little better today than it was yesterday, but it's still there.
All of that to say, that I've been trying to rest my brain - no texting (almost no texting) - no computer (okay - no computer until this) - no reading (just my morning devotional) - very little TV (define "very little") - no bracelets (orders are backing up). Deviation from "the rules" results in a nasty headache.
This is rambling and disjointed and it took three sittings to write. And it's been a "just the facts, ma'am" post without telling how I felt - the terror - the residual fear of taking a shower. I'm a mental mess.
AND... this is the second time I've fainted like this. The last time was 2 chemo cycles ago. The doctor thought it was due to a quick drop in steroids - turns out... not so much. Last time I fainted before I got into the shower. Same thing, though - face plant on the tile floor, but much less damage than this time. Will there be a next time?
Where do we go from here?
I got up late, read my morning devotional, and then started my newly defined morning routine - brush my teeth - do a fluoride rinse for my teeth and gums - next the salt water rinse for the sore post-chemo mouth - and lastly, a rinse with liquid Benadryl and Maalox (Magic Mouthwash). Yummy.
I didn't feel great - oxygen levels and heart rate were kind of all over the place, so I did a lot of resting between rinses and then sat and waited until oxygen and heart rate were stable (I spend my life with a pulse-ox in my hand). Everything seemed okay, so I turned on the water and got in the shower.
I'm not able to stand for more than (maximum) 2 minutes due to lung damage, so I have a shower bench, which is placed in corner of the shower (this is a very small stand-up shower) so that I can sit and lean in the corner and let the water run over me (Greg set it up that way when he fixed my shower).
I took my normal shower - felt "okay". I normally finish my shower by washing my hair (or I should say... head), and then washing my face. I washed my hair as usual (with my eyes closed because of the shampoo) and everything seemed fine until I opened my eyes. As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew something was wrong and decided that I should skip washing my face - and get out. That was the last thought I had - until I woke up, naked, face down on the ceramic tile, bathroom floor, hearing Michael yelling my name on the other side of the door. He said he talked to me for at least 30 seconds before I answered.
I finally answered and told him that I was okay, but confused, and that I was just going to lie on the floor for a couple minutes and regroup. My body was blocking the door, so that the door wouldn't open.
Eventually, I was able to get up, grab my housecoat, and sit on a bench inside the bathroom door and let Michael in. He helped me to the bed and I decided to just sit for a few minutes until my head cleared.
I could see and hear him talking. I knew he was saying words, but they didn't make any sense to me. I tried to touch my head, but it was too painful to touch, I had a lump the size of an grapefruit (okay... and apple) over my right eyebrow. There was stabbing pain on my entire right eyebrow and my right eye.
Michael got me an ice pack, but I couldn't put it on my face. The ice was too sharp. I couldn't bear it. Next we tried a gel pack. Although I sobbed in pain, I forced myself to put the frozen gel pack on my eye - a couple seconds at a time, increasing time slowly.
I spent the day trying to ice my face, eye, and forehead. We finally decided that we should call Penn and go the ER. I called my doctor's service and the on-call doctor paved the way for us. They were ready by the time we got there. We should have gone in the morning... but we didn't.
When we got to the ER, they put us in a room (in the ER) right away, did an EKG, hooked up a heart monitor and IV. They were afraid that I had broken the orbital bone around my right eye or that I had a brain bleed. I apparently gave my brain quite a jolt. My eye was swollen shut and the lump on my forehead was now down to the size of an apple (okay... a lemon). Yay, ice!. I thought my nose was (re)broken, but the CT scan showed no breaks. Unbelievable that I didn't do more actual damage than I did.
ANYWAY... I still have some shorted connections - like trying to put the lid for the superglue on a Sharpie (didn't work) - or typing a text message this morning that I forgot to send. It's a little better today than it was yesterday, but it's still there.
All of that to say, that I've been trying to rest my brain - no texting (almost no texting) - no computer (okay - no computer until this) - no reading (just my morning devotional) - very little TV (define "very little") - no bracelets (orders are backing up). Deviation from "the rules" results in a nasty headache.
This is rambling and disjointed and it took three sittings to write. And it's been a "just the facts, ma'am" post without telling how I felt - the terror - the residual fear of taking a shower. I'm a mental mess.
AND... this is the second time I've fainted like this. The last time was 2 chemo cycles ago. The doctor thought it was due to a quick drop in steroids - turns out... not so much. Last time I fainted before I got into the shower. Same thing, though - face plant on the tile floor, but much less damage than this time. Will there be a next time?
Where do we go from here?
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Beyond the first year
I thought the first year would be the worst year. I was wrong.
I thought if I got past Greg's birthday the first year... his boys' birthdays... Thanksgiving... Christmas... Father's Day... all of those "firsts"... I thought I'd be okay. Maybe the next year wouldn't be quite as bad. I knew it would still hurt, but maybe it wouldn't hurt quite as much. Maybe I'd have just the slightest room to breathe. I was wrong.
The first year was just the beginning of forever.
I thought if I got past Greg's birthday the first year... his boys' birthdays... Thanksgiving... Christmas... Father's Day... all of those "firsts"... I thought I'd be okay. Maybe the next year wouldn't be quite as bad. I knew it would still hurt, but maybe it wouldn't hurt quite as much. Maybe I'd have just the slightest room to breathe. I was wrong.
The first year was just the beginning of forever.
Saturday, July 28, 2018
Sculpture
When I saw this sculpture - before I knew what it was - I knew it was me. It took my breath away. The pain is tangible. I feel this.
I posted the sculpture on Facebook a week or so ago. And then I thought about it - thought about my kids - wondered if they think that the depth of my grief diminishes them in any way. So, I wrote the following - for them. One read it and thought it was "okay" - the kind of post people post when they want people to tell them how brave they are - how strong. Knowing my oldest, I was not in the least insulted. I'm pretty sure he knows that I would not post something for that purpose. (Pretty sure) :-)
To the best of my knowledge, the other son never read it.
An exercise in futility. Oh well.
Here it is.
Just something I need to say. Thanks for your patience.
Although my reaction to the sculpture below that was in a previous post, (“Emptiness”- Original artist : Albert György - Bronze Statue located at Lake Geneva, Switzerland) was immediate and visceral, I think it's important to say that "bereaved parent" is not all that I am. There is (and always will be) an empty place in my life where Greg used to be. He was a big part of my daily life and I miss him every day (sometimes more than I think I can bear). I read that it takes months - and even years to fully grasp the full extent of the loss of a child. I'm finding that to be true.
Having said that... I have two other extraordinary sons and 8 remarkable grandchildren who infuse a huge amount of love and joy into my life. (and yes... don't forget those daughters-in-law)
Sitting at a sporting event, or a dance recital - a play or a concert - or even in my own living room (or theirs), I am constantly amazed at the talents and abilities of these wonderful grandchildren. I'm in awe at their kindness, their tender hearts (some more tender than others), their humor, their strength and determination (bullheadedness and competitiveness?) - all of the things that make them who they are - and each one different from the others. Being in the same room with any of them is fascinating, joyful... and healing.
My life is a roller coaster - especially at this time of year. There are moments of horrible sadness (grief has a life of its own) when the emptiness is debilitating. But there are also top-of-the mountain highs when I get a hug - or an "I love you" - or a text message from a grandchild (my favorite... "I love you so so so so so so so so much"). I cherish the rummy games, the sports events, and the occasional dinners together. I love the "thinking about you" phone calls or text messages from my kids. I love the the pictures and videos sent to me when I can't be there. I am determined to be emotionally present at every opportunity for joy. (Sometimes I'm more successful than others)
This "bereaved parent" thing is worse than anything I could have imagined. There are days it's difficult to even speak, but I won't let it be all there is to my life.
I am grateful for my children, my grandchildren, my daughters-in-law, and for faithful friends who have been so generous with their love and support - and for Michael who is there for me all day, every day.
God is good!
Some of it is heartfelt - some is wrapped in positivity for the my children. More days than not, I couldn't have written it.
God IS good. There have been days when I've felt wrapped in God's arms - and days I can't find Him. I don't always "feel" God's goodness, but I know, in my head (and some days in my heart) that He is good. That will have to do for now.
Some of it is heartfelt - some is wrapped in positivity for the my children. More days than not, I couldn't have written it.
God IS good. There have been days when I've felt wrapped in God's arms - and days I can't find Him. I don't always "feel" God's goodness, but I know, in my head (and some days in my heart) that He is good. That will have to do for now.
Friday, July 27, 2018
Quitter vs Pauser
For the record, I didn't quit. I thought I did, but in reality... I just paused... for a lonnnnng time, but I'm back so that's proof that I didn't quit. (That''s my story and I'm sticking to it.)
It got to be too painful. I don't know what I expected, but this has not been "it". I knew it would hurt. I knew it would change me. BUT... I'm an overcomer... a fighter. I thought every month it would get just a little easier - that time would help. It doesn't work like that. I thought I could "handle" the pain. I was wrong.
A week and a half ago, I was as close to suicide as I could be without actually committing suicide. What stopped me? A sudden vision of my oldest son - the pain he is feeling now - and the knowledge of what it would do him for the rest of his life if I took mine. Divine intervention?
That day I wrote:
If I had a way to do it
I would have done it today.
Too late now.
No more pain for them -
no matter the cost to me.
Going through the motions -
screaming inside.
Smile.
Yesterday I had a hopeful day - posted happy words on Facebook - and got lots of support from people who actually think those words mean something more than having "a good day". They think it means I'm a trooper - that I've got this grief thing under control. They don't understand that it's fleeting - it's a feeling - it's not a definition of who I am.
I saw 3 of my grandchildren on Wednesday night - just for five or ten minutes when I dropped something off at their house, but it was enough. Life makes more sense when you're hugging a 6-year-old - or an 8 year old - or an 11-year-old... who, by the way, gave her 8-year-old sister a nasty elbow shot to push by her - to get to me. It was just what I needed and it made my day. I'm in charge of love - not discipline. :-) Wednesday night - got me through Thursday. That's how I roll.
This morning, I put my head down in the shower and let the water run over my head and face - and cried for about 10 minutes. I miss him all day - every day. There is no relief from grief (a term that is too liquid to hold in your mind). There are days that have real joy in them - days that I'm incredibly grateful - but the loss is always there. Always. Under the joy - under the gratitude - under the smile - it's still there.
When I finally stopped crying in the shower, I got out - got dressed - and went to Philadelphia for a PET scan. I was diagnosed about 4 months ago (I think - I lose track of time) with stage 4, lymphoma. I'm trying to find space in my life to have a feeling about this, but I can't afford it right now. I'm just moving forward - some days I'm sure I'll be fine - some days I just don't care. Unfortunately, I'm sure you'll hear more about this, but I assure you, this is insignificant compared to the loss of Greg.
Tomorrow? I don't dare anticipate.
It got to be too painful. I don't know what I expected, but this has not been "it". I knew it would hurt. I knew it would change me. BUT... I'm an overcomer... a fighter. I thought every month it would get just a little easier - that time would help. It doesn't work like that. I thought I could "handle" the pain. I was wrong.
A week and a half ago, I was as close to suicide as I could be without actually committing suicide. What stopped me? A sudden vision of my oldest son - the pain he is feeling now - and the knowledge of what it would do him for the rest of his life if I took mine. Divine intervention?
That day I wrote:
If I had a way to do it
I would have done it today.
Too late now.
No more pain for them -
no matter the cost to me.
Going through the motions -
screaming inside.
Smile.
Yesterday I had a hopeful day - posted happy words on Facebook - and got lots of support from people who actually think those words mean something more than having "a good day". They think it means I'm a trooper - that I've got this grief thing under control. They don't understand that it's fleeting - it's a feeling - it's not a definition of who I am.
I saw 3 of my grandchildren on Wednesday night - just for five or ten minutes when I dropped something off at their house, but it was enough. Life makes more sense when you're hugging a 6-year-old - or an 8 year old - or an 11-year-old... who, by the way, gave her 8-year-old sister a nasty elbow shot to push by her - to get to me. It was just what I needed and it made my day. I'm in charge of love - not discipline. :-) Wednesday night - got me through Thursday. That's how I roll.
This morning, I put my head down in the shower and let the water run over my head and face - and cried for about 10 minutes. I miss him all day - every day. There is no relief from grief (a term that is too liquid to hold in your mind). There are days that have real joy in them - days that I'm incredibly grateful - but the loss is always there. Always. Under the joy - under the gratitude - under the smile - it's still there.
When I finally stopped crying in the shower, I got out - got dressed - and went to Philadelphia for a PET scan. I was diagnosed about 4 months ago (I think - I lose track of time) with stage 4, lymphoma. I'm trying to find space in my life to have a feeling about this, but I can't afford it right now. I'm just moving forward - some days I'm sure I'll be fine - some days I just don't care. Unfortunately, I'm sure you'll hear more about this, but I assure you, this is insignificant compared to the loss of Greg.
Tomorrow? I don't dare anticipate.
Wednesday, April 4, 2018
Nine Months
Nine months
I saw a red pickup truck with a ladder rack today - one of the biggest triggers for me. Every time I see a red pickup truck with a ladder rack, it wipes me out.
I don't know how to change that, but I'd love to. I'd like the site of that truck to make me smile - and remember. It doesn't seem possible, but that's what I'd like.
For months, I had a hard time finding those happy memories. The past couple years of Greg's life were hard on everyone. I probably have more good memories of those years than most, but they don't come easily.
The sad and traumatic memories have been dotted with happy remembrances, but they were few and far between. In the past month, there have been more good memories - and older memories. They don't come easily or often, but they have started to come.
I'm grateful.
I saw a red pickup truck with a ladder rack today - one of the biggest triggers for me. Every time I see a red pickup truck with a ladder rack, it wipes me out.
I don't know how to change that, but I'd love to. I'd like the site of that truck to make me smile - and remember. It doesn't seem possible, but that's what I'd like.
For months, I had a hard time finding those happy memories. The past couple years of Greg's life were hard on everyone. I probably have more good memories of those years than most, but they don't come easily.
The sad and traumatic memories have been dotted with happy remembrances, but they were few and far between. In the past month, there have been more good memories - and older memories. They don't come easily or often, but they have started to come.
I'm grateful.
Saturday, March 17, 2018
Seeing Stars
I got up this morning at about 5:00 and looked out the window to the sky.
Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the sky at night in and around Philadelphia, but stars are not our "thing". In fact, I can't remember when I looked at the sky at night and saw stars.
But I saw stars this morning - a whole sky full of stars - and one star in particular, that was exceptionally bright.
It was beautiful and unexpected and just for a few seconds, I felt peace.
It was fleeting - but it was there. The first time I've felt any peace since Greg died.
I am grateful.
Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the sky at night in and around Philadelphia, but stars are not our "thing". In fact, I can't remember when I looked at the sky at night and saw stars.
But I saw stars this morning - a whole sky full of stars - and one star in particular, that was exceptionally bright.
It was beautiful and unexpected and just for a few seconds, I felt peace.
It was fleeting - but it was there. The first time I've felt any peace since Greg died.
I am grateful.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
March Madness
Sitting here watching the NCAA Basketball Championships, I can't help but think about a year ago when Greg watched every game with us. Michael and I were so into it, he thought we lost our minds.
Richard started a family bracket on the CBS website and invited ALL of us to join and submit our brackets. I love the NCAA's and began getting ready for them weeks before the actual tournament.
By the time the tournament arrived, I was ready to fill out a bracket.
Almost everyone filled one out. Richard invited all the kids, from the oldest at 18 to the youngest at 4-years-old. Even Michael filled out a bracket and he said that it was the first one he ever filled out in his life. His goal was to beat Brynn (who was 6 at the time). We had so much fun as a family - more connected than we had been in years.
Everyone laughed at my bracket, but I ended up coming in second. Take that, you sports wizards!
Greg was sick of basketball. We watched SO much basketball. I thought it was funny at the time. This year I have a different perspective.
I don't know if he was living here then, but he spent a lot of time here and he was kind of stuck watching whatever we chose to watch.
I think about what his life was like then - how it felt to not have his own television - his own remote - his own place to watch whatever he wanted - whenever he wanted.
To feel so alone - so sad - so depressed - so hopeless. To know more about how bad things were than anyone could even imagine.
I wish I had known. I wish I had been able to help.
I wish.
Richard started a family bracket on the CBS website and invited ALL of us to join and submit our brackets. I love the NCAA's and began getting ready for them weeks before the actual tournament.
By the time the tournament arrived, I was ready to fill out a bracket.
Almost everyone filled one out. Richard invited all the kids, from the oldest at 18 to the youngest at 4-years-old. Even Michael filled out a bracket and he said that it was the first one he ever filled out in his life. His goal was to beat Brynn (who was 6 at the time). We had so much fun as a family - more connected than we had been in years.
Everyone laughed at my bracket, but I ended up coming in second. Take that, you sports wizards!
Greg was sick of basketball. We watched SO much basketball. I thought it was funny at the time. This year I have a different perspective.
I don't know if he was living here then, but he spent a lot of time here and he was kind of stuck watching whatever we chose to watch.
I think about what his life was like then - how it felt to not have his own television - his own remote - his own place to watch whatever he wanted - whenever he wanted.
To feel so alone - so sad - so depressed - so hopeless. To know more about how bad things were than anyone could even imagine.
I wish I had known. I wish I had been able to help.
I wish.
Sunday, March 4, 2018
Eight Months
Eight months today since Greg died. I miss him more every day.
I watch the news and cry when I see the parents of the children who were killed in the school shooting in Florida. I wish I could save them from what's to come.
I watch the news and cry when I see the parents of the children who were killed in the school shooting in Florida. I wish I could save them from what's to come.
Friday, February 23, 2018
Irony
Greg and I were sitting and talking one morning over a bowl of Cheerios. He had a chastising look on his face (accompanied by a crinkly smile), like I was about to get a lecture.
"What's up with you?" I asked, preemptively
"What's up with you?" I asked, preemptively
Sunday, February 18, 2018
Tender Heart
His name was Rich B. It was August and he was approaching his senior in high school. Due to problems at home, he suddenly and unexpectedly found himself in need of a place to live.
I knew this because Greg came home from football practice one hot August afternoon and told me. Greg had a plan.
I knew this because Greg came home from football practice one hot August afternoon and told me. Greg had a plan.
Saturday, February 10, 2018
A crack in the darkness
For over a month, I've been flattened by grief - living through the first Christmas without Greg, with all of the sorrow and despair of missing him - while at the same time, buying presents, making lists and elbowing my way through the myriad of busyness that accompanies the holidays - determined not to fold, not to crumble.
The closer it got to our Second Christmas, the closer I got to falling apart. Stubborn determination can only carry you so far.
The closer it got to our Second Christmas, the closer I got to falling apart. Stubborn determination can only carry you so far.
Sunday, February 4, 2018
Seven Months
Today is Kate's birthday. She's eleven today. We had a family breakfast at a local diner to celebrate her day.
I had to wake up early - get dressed - and show up. A challenge on my best day. This was not my best day.
I had to wake up early - get dressed - and show up. A challenge on my best day. This was not my best day.
Wednesday, January 17, 2018
Regrets
Long night - nightmares - flashbacks of the worst days of the past few years with Greg - all carry over into and throughout the day.
I do believe I did the best I knew how to do - but it wasn't good enough. There are so many things I did that I could have done better. I caused pain when I wanted to give love - caused hurt when I wanted to heal. If I could go back and do things differently, would it change anything? I don't know. Maybe. But I doubt it.
I do believe I did the best I knew how to do - but it wasn't good enough. There are so many things I did that I could have done better. I caused pain when I wanted to give love - caused hurt when I wanted to heal. If I could go back and do things differently, would it change anything? I don't know. Maybe. But I doubt it.
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Helpful Solutions
Greg was great at finding solutions for problems that I hadn't even recognized as problems - yet. He was always making unsolicited changes to my house. He couldn't see a solvable problem - and not solve it. Just couldn't. Here are a few...
Thursday, January 4, 2018
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
No escape
Nothing is simple.
The past month has been a combination of plowing through, looking forward, and periods of unbearable sadness and grief. Autopilot. Numbness. Despair.
I did a lousy job of "Christmas" this year. I'm usually thoughtful - give thoughtful gifts. Not so much this year. I did 'okay' but not great. Christmas is huge for me. I get enormous pleasure from creating our family's 2nd Christmas celebration - and all the planning that goes into it. My spreadsheets have spreadsheets.
The past month has been a combination of plowing through, looking forward, and periods of unbearable sadness and grief. Autopilot. Numbness. Despair.
I did a lousy job of "Christmas" this year. I'm usually thoughtful - give thoughtful gifts. Not so much this year. I did 'okay' but not great. Christmas is huge for me. I get enormous pleasure from creating our family's 2nd Christmas celebration - and all the planning that goes into it. My spreadsheets have spreadsheets.
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