Life, Death, and the Inbetween

There's heavy stuff going on in my heart, can you tell?

I guess it's to be expected.  I'd suspect that there's something seriously wrong with me if I could see two loved ones die, and not have some pretty deep thinking to do.

Deep thinking....that's what I'm all about these days.  That, at eating massive amounts of fatty, salty, crunch, spicy, and chocolaty foods.  The thinking and the eating seem to go hand in hand for me.

Oh boy.  I thought I could write about this today.

I can't.

Till later...

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Haunted

Wow.  It's been a helluva 2 months!  I haven't written in so long, I really have no idea if I've even done a good job of keeping this blog up to date on what's happened.  This place is 1 part documentation and 99 parts therapy for me....so I'll just write.

Just a few months ago, our family was whole.  Not entirely healthy, not entirely sane....but whole.

And now, so many are missing.

In the span of 3 and a half weeks, two family members died and the local family that felt like our other half moved to California.  Can you hear the sucking noise coming from Idaho?  From my home?  From my heart?  It's this incredible void....vacuum....that's left behind.

It's funny, my sister and her family couldn't fit all their lawn chairs in their moving truck, and Grandma had a few chairs on her patio....we inherited them all.  My sister in law commented on how many chairs we have now, and all I could think to say was, "Yeah, but we don't have people to fill them!"

We're surrounded by stuff.  Extra wine glasses.  Plants.  A dresser.  A computer.  A painting.  Books.  China.  Candlesticks.  Forks and knives and spoons.  Stuff everywhere.  It's amazing how on one hand, the stuff is all precious because it brings memories of people...on the other, it's stuff.  Stupid stuff.  I'd so rather hear that laugh.  See those busy hands fluttering about.  See my kids run to the door excitedly when they see that little red car pull up.

And while I'm talking, I might as well come out and say it -- I'm beginning to believe I'm being haunted.  How else to explain how overwhelmingly powerful her presence is from time to time?  Out of nowhere, it's like she's here and I can feel her and talk to her.  I wonder if people can come to visit us after they die.  Or is this just grief?  One second I'm fine and normal, the next I'm sobbing.

It's not just her presence that's here with me.  It's the whole experience of taking that last painful and beautiful journey with her.  I can smell her.  I can see the flowers.  I can feel her hand under mine.  I can see her eyes and hear her voice.  Watching her as the realization began to dawn on her and take grip on her heart....that she was dying.

A moment of clarity among the confusion, "I'm so confused.  I'm confused about my great confusion."  She looks at me with a question in her eyes.

"Are you confused about WHY you're confused?",  I ask.

"Yes!  Can you tell me that?"

"You're confused because you have cancer in your spinal fluid, remember?"

"Ah, yes.  Okay."

pause

pause

she looks me straight in the eye and says (or asks), "It seems to me that I'm going to die."

The air is sucked out of my lungs.  I know I have to be straight with her.  It's important for her to know so she can do the work she needs to do.

"Yes, Bernie.  You are going to die."

"Is it the confusion that's killing me?"

"No.  Cancer is killing you.  Cancer is causing your confusion, and it will also cause your death."

"Okay.  Well.  That's awfully overwhelming."

"It sure is.  I'm so sorry.  I'm going to miss you a lot, you know.  I love you and admire you so much.  I wish I could fix it."

Those blue eyes look at me and I can see the confusion rolling back in.  Our conversation is over for now.

Oh, there is so much to write.  So much I don't want to forget.  So much that already feels like it was just a passing dream.

One evening, she was lying in her bed with Jeopardy on the TV for quiet background noise.  I had the overwhelming urge to just go be with her, so I crawled up on the bed with her and just laid there quietly and held her hand.  I thought she was asleep until she blurted out and answer for the TV and startled me.  I giggled.  She smiled.  I closed my eyes and let the tears run down my cheeks and we took turns trying to answer the TV's questions from time to time.

"I'm going to miss you.  I hope you know how much I love you." I whispered during a commercial break.

She just fidgeted a bit as if she heard me but didn't know how to respond.  It was okay.  I wasn't looking for a response.

And the singing.  One of the hospice nurses told me that people can often understand singing after their ability to comprehend the spoken word is gone.  So I sang.  I have a terrible singing voice, so I felt a bit bad filling her last couple of days with my voice :-)  I racked my brain for a song, and the only tune that would come was "Amazing Grace".  So I sang it.  I sat by her bed and sang for hours. When I'd start to sing, I could just see her settle in and relax, and it felt so good to be able to do something to help her just a little.  After a while, I thought she'd drifted off to sleep so I stopped.  It took her about 10 seconds to realize that I didn't intend to go on and she opened her eyes, looked right at me, and said "Don't hear anything!"

So I sang.

On her last day, I couldn't come up with the tune to Amazing Grace to save my life.  All I could hear was "I'll Fly Away".  So I sang it.  And she relaxed.

One of the most tender moments I had with her was in her last couple of days here.  We would physically move her every couple of hours to keep her from getting sore.  My sister-in-law (although she feels more like just a sister now) worked from one side, while I was on the other side.  Bernie was on her back, and we were rolling her to her side.  She looked up at me, and started working to do the moving herself, but she couldn't.

She looked into my eyes as if to ask me why her body was betraying her in such a cruel way.  I leaned in to her,  grabbed her left hand with my right, and wrapped my right hand and arm around her back.  We were cheek to cheek, my tears falling on her neck, while I said "It's okay.  You just relax and let me do this for you, okay?"  I felt her body relax into mine and it was as if I was holding and caring for a child.  She was losing a bit of her fight...or she trusted me enough to let me help her.

I got her positioned, kissed her cheek that was damp with my tears, and told her I loved her before wiping her cheek dry.  She looked at me with eyes so clear and filled with sorrow.

Her last 24 hours.  I can't even talk about it right now.  It needs to be written, but it will have to be later.





And  Grandma.  She's gone too.  I feel guilty that I don't think about her more.  I miss her, yes.  But her moving on was something she was totally ready for....eagerly anticipating, actually.  Death is ugly and sad and painful no matter the circumstances, but hers felt more like a relief for her....less like the tragedy of a 60-something year old woman who was fighting and wanted so desperately to live.

But, oh, Grandma.  How is she GONE?  Those frail but busy hands always fussing with her hair or adjusting her glasses.  The lipstick always on.  The pantry always stocked with Oreo cookies and little boxes of juice for my kids.  She was the picture of elegance and grace and beauty right up her last moment here.  And now she's gone.  I can still feel her hands under mine....still and cool.  I had to give her a little shake just to be sure she wouldn't just wake up.  She didn't.

She died 3 weeks and 2 days after her own daughter did.  I like to think of them both whole and happy and healed.  I like to think that they both finally know each other with love and peace in their hearts.  And forgiveness.  Theirs was not an easy relationship this side of Heaven.


My writing about this is necessary, but not tidy or clean.  Such is grief, I suppose.  Such is grief.

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After...

Well, I'm not much in the mood to blog.

After going through what we've gone through in the past month, it's hard to feel like much of anything is important.  Except snuggling with my kids....telling all of my loved ones how deeply they are loved....watching the sun set...enjoying a glass of wine and rejoicing in the fact that I have this day to LIVE.

But the world didn't stop turning - although, it MIGHT have for just the briefest of moments as that last breath was exhaled and we waiting for the next....and waited....and waited...

If it did, it started right back to it's turn.  The school programs, the sports, the memorial service, more goodbyes as family went back to their (new) normal lives, the work, the laundry.  A small box wrapped in a velvet bag.

Seriously....how is it that the whole world seems oblivious to what happened in the wee hours of that sacred Monday morning?

I was existing in "crisis mode" for quite a while.  It was pretty nice - I was mostly numb and just doing what needed to be done to survive.

But now, I'm coming out of crisis mode.  Please note that this is totally and completely against my will.  I prefer crisis mode.

In crisis mode, there is just sleep....not these nightmares.  There is just laundry....not surprising myself with sobs as I catch a tiny whiff of her.  There is just music....not time travel as I'm transported back to her bedside at the sound of "Amazing Grace".  There is just our bedroom....not hers....even though I rearranged the furniture.

My brain will process, I guess.  Even if I'd rather it not.

It's not all doom and gloom.  Not by a long shot.  I'm remarkably happy.  Joyful even.  It feels amazing to be alive.  Every day feels like a miracle - precious and precarious.

Live, friends.
Love.
Leave nothing unsaid.

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Moment by Moment

Feeling a bit like I'm living in some sort of time-free bubble.  Right now....how is she?  Is she awake?  Is she talking?  Is she in pain?  All that matters is right now.  How do we make it better....how do we help....how do we cope....how do we do things like WORK so that we can keep paying the mortgage?

Time-free.  Except, that is, when the kids have to get to school....and we can't find the shoes....and Clara doesn't have a single pair of pants that fit her...and Thomas isn't even dressed even though we were supposed to be out the door 15 minutes ago.  Time.  It's sort of a bugger.

Clara and I both cried on the drive to school this morning.

Not so sure that I'm being the pillar of strength and peace that my children need.  I feel bad about that, but have no idea how to change it.  So I just hug more.

Some things I want to remember about the past week or so:

-  I actually looked UP one day and saw the most spectacular fluffy clouds.  "Look at those beautiful clouds, Sammy", I said.  "Yeah, they're pretty.  Maybe God made them to celebrate the snow cone shack FINALLY being open!" was her sweet reply.

-  "Therapeutic Lumbar Puncture" seems like the cruelest oxymoron and it makes me shudder.

-  Three strong, broad shouldered men towering over their mother while they work tenderly to make her comfortable in her bed.  "I love you mom" as they kiss her goodnight.

-  From Ben recently, "Mom, I sure love having communion at church."

"Oh yeah?  What do you like about it?"

"Well, lots of times when I want to spend time with God, I can't stop thinking about lots of other things.  But when I'm holding that bread in church?  And thinking about what Jesus did for me to save me?  Well, when I'm doing communion, it's just me and God.  Just us and nothing else in my head.  It feels good."

Me,  "WOW"

-  In a confused moment on the way home from chemotherapy being injected into spinal fluid..."I need to get some tickets."

"Some tickets, Mom?"

"Yeah, tickets."

"Tickets for what?"

"For Heaven."

"What kind of tickets are those?"

"Well....Heavenly tickets!"

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And Then Life Gets Turned on It's Head

Whose life is this?

Can I even talk about this on the world-wide-web, or is it too sacred?  Too private?

I don't know.

A week ago today we were concerned about a loved one....enough that we decided to pack a little over-night bag for her and have her stay with us for a couple of days.

A couple of days turned into a couple more days.
Then a week.
And now, as Clara put it this morning, "for the rest of her life, maybe?"

For the rest of her life.

Oxygen tanks, piles of laundry folded with love, "hats" that need checking and rinsing, tube drainage, confusion, pain, medication schedules, talks of the here and now....and of eternity.

Visits from family from afar, notarized plans and documents, treatment vs. comfort.

So much to think about.  So much that my brain seems to have stopped, and is stuck in the moment called "right NOW".  How can you help?  I have no idea.  I don't even know what I'll be doing in 5 minutes....never mind what I'd like your help with tomorrow.

This woman, those strong hands, that soft hair, that confused look, the smiling eyes when I take her hand.  All of our history seems to have melted away.  What matters more than right now?  Nothing, that's what.  Well, except for the choices that effect eternity....so I let the tears come, swallow my fear and hesitation, pray for wisdom and the right words and I tell stories about the One named Jesus who turned my life into something beautiful.  I trust in the power of the words coming out of my mouth to cut through the confusion and touch her soul where it needs to be touched.

Please Lord, open that heart, draw her to you.  I can't save her, but you can.  Do whatever it takes to save her.   I'll give anything.  Do anything.

I know why we're told to pray for one another.  I can feel myself being held up by it's power.  I'm either in shock, going slowly insane, or this is that "peace beyond understanding"....Not only am I fine, I'm wonderful.  Joyful.  Peaceful.  Strong and solid.  It's the very power of the Holy Spirit here with me. Or, yeah, I could be going slightly crazy :-)

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