A Year Reflected

This time last year is when it all started unraveling. Mom was hospitalized on Christmas day. We had diagnoses of pneumonia, bronchitis, the flu, and finally "just" a COPD exacerbation. It boiled down to, they didn't know. Then in February - nearly four years to the day - devastating news. She had lung cancer, again. Not a reoccurrence, a new one.

And of course, life happened. And because life happened, so did death.

So, here I sit two days before a new year. A little sad. A lot reflective. Still tasked with trying to get used to my "new normal." I hate that phrase by the way. It's dumb. It does nothing to help. Frankly, hearing it is slightly irritating.

My mother had me for 42 years and 10 months. I had her my whole life. This will be my first full year without her. It's just a weird feeling.

I'll be fine. As much as we all feel we won't make it through the initial grief, we do. Actually, if we're honest, we just get used to it. You don't really get over it. It doesn't just magically get better. It never really goes away. You just get used to it.

Do you remember when you were little and you had a favorite shirt? Then you wore it and wore it and wore it. It kind of smelled funny, maybe even got a little itchy. (Don't lie, you had one. Or lucky socks, a blanket, something.) But you didn't notice because you wore it EVERY day and you got used to it.

I think we wear our grief the exact same way. It might be smelly, itchy, uncomfortable, etc but after a while, you just. get. used. to. it. It still totally sucks, you just don't notice it all the time anymore because you. just. get. used. to. it.

So, I think I'm "there." Sometimes it happens faster than we think. Sometimes we don't even realize that we've gotten used to it. So, on the cusp of this new year, I'm used to her being gone. It doesn't feel good, but at least I feel.

So, 2015, here I come. Memories in my mind, love in my heart, and the realization that God is nowhere near done with me yet.

A Year Divided

Well, here I sit on the morning of December 22nd. Almost Christmas time. Almost. I think I shall be ready for it to be over. Not because I'm overwhelmingly sad at the present time - more so because it's something we're "getting through" this year.

I will always enjoy celebrating the Christ child's birth - regardless of the circumstances - however, I'm struggling to have my heart in the rest of the "stuff." I've witnessed so much loss the last quarter of this year. Between our family and our friends, there have been eight losses since August 7th and as I sit here, I am awaiting the news of another friend being called home.

I know that as I age I will see it with more and more regularity. While I know death is a part of life, and while I know that for believers absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, those things do not stop our heart from feeling the loss of that physical presence.

I simply cannot imagine not being a believer and feeling like there is no hope of seeing them again. I hold so tightly to the promises of God that I will get to see His face plus the faces of my loved ones. Oh how I long for that reunion. What a sweet, sweet time.

Someone reminded me last night that I was the only one left now (in my family of origin). Really? I didn't cry. I didn't get angry. I just nodded in agreement. How could anyone think I wouldn't realize. I know. I know. I'm ready whenever Jesus is ready for me.

But alas, my work here is not done. So many things left to do. I will attempt to do them cheerfully and relish the thought of the most glorious family reunion I could ever imagine.

Right now though, I simply look forward to this Christmas season being over. The timeline for this year has been "before mom died" and "after mom died." I really am looking forward to the new year and a fresh start.

This new year will not be divided - it will simply be moving forward "after." I've finally made it to a place of being okay with that. Over it? No. Still more days of crying ahead? Yes. However, I'm cognizant of the gifts I received in the final years of mother's life. We had made our peace. Forgiveness had been offered and granted. We had precious, silly, funny times. I knew she loved me. She thanked me for taking care of her. God gave her to me for as long as I "needed" her.

I am so thankful that there will never be one more moment of sickness from treatment. She has hair and her teeth - and yes, those things mattered to her. She will never again struggle for one more breath. Never. I witnessed that struggle over and over. It's horrible. She is healed perfect. I can only imagine - literally - the smile on her face at 12:49 am, August 7, 2014 as she RAN (I'm sure she ran) through the gates of heaven and saw her Maker's face and then the faces of her mother, her father, her husband, her children, and aunts and uncles, and the goofiest brother-in-law ever. Oh what a smile she must've had.

And being able to imagine THAT smile ☺ for those reasons is worth so much more than having her here. And I know that some day, my smile will be the same.

Feeling no feelings

Well, we are inching closer and closer to Christmas. I can't slow time. I can't stop it. Christmas will come and go next Thursday just like clockwork. Just that quickly, another first will be completed.

I have a new favorite Christmas song this year. It's called A Different Kind of Christmas. It's by Mark Schultz. You should totally give it a listen. It's fabulous. I'm thankful to have a relationship with Christ that affords me the opportunity to know that I haven't said "goodbye" to my family. I have simply had to say "see you later." There's a huge difference between the two.

But I digress. As we inch closer to Christmas, I find myself in a weird place. A place of no real emotions to feel. It's not that I'm avoiding them or stuffing them. It's just that for the first time in a really long time, I find myself completely void of ANY gut-wrenching, exhausting emotion. Oh how I'm thankful.

Am I "over" my grieving? LOL, no. Simply in a place of grace where I can have a few moments of nothingness. It's a fabulous feeling right now at this very moment. I'll take it.

I know grief will return. It doesn't subside that quickly. It waxes and wanes. With this lull, I wonder if the level of intensity will decrease? We shall see. But right now, in this moment, I will accept the nothingness and cherish it for the gift it is.

Time Marches On

Well, yesterday was December 7th. Just a regular, average, every day kind of Sunday. However, for me, yesterday, December 7th, 2014, marked off four months since mother's been gone. A third of a year. 122 days. 2,928 hours (as of 12:50 am). But hey, who's counting.

Maybe me. Maybe just a little. Maybe every now and then. In that relatively short period of time, we have celebrated seven birthdays (me, two nieces, three great-nieces, and an aunt), the birth of a new child, Labor day, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. All of those are big "family" days in our family. All celebrated without "her." All those "firsts."

We still have so many more "firsts" to conquer. Christmas is just on the horizon, then New Year's, then her birthday. Oh my, how time marches on.

This thing called "time" that they talk about healing all wounds. No, I think not. Time cares very little about my wounds. My pain. My grief. If time "cared," it would stop or at least slow down. It would let my emotions catch up before running off into the future like she never existed - never mattered.

But time doesn't stop. It doesn't even slow down. Babies are born. Other people die. People get married. They get divorced. People laugh. They cry. Time just chugs on along.

People try to care. Those closest to you still ask from time to time how you're doing? If you're okay? They genuinely care. It's not even that the others "don't." It's simply not their pain. It's not their burden to carry.

The truth is, while time "HEALS" nothing, it does change things. It changes the intensity of your grief. It allows the raw wound to simply scab over a bit. It allows a bit of perspective.

I will never be "over" any of my losses. That's not possible. To borrow and paraphrase a bit, great love often results in great pain. I have found that the length of time I go without crying is greater. However, the triggers are often weird, crazy stuff that I could never anticipate. I have found that I can talk about her without crying. However, sometimes the funny stuff makes me cry the most. As I spoke to a friend (who also recently joined the deceased mother club), she said something that we all feel at one time or another - "sometimes it feels like she's been gone forever and sometimes it seems like I just got off the phone with her."

Those are the crazy tricks that "time" plays on you. I read this earlier and I like it. I think it gives people permission to grieve AND move on because sometimes the moving on becomes the hard part. So if we acknowledge the change, it might help...

“I don’t think you ever get over the loss in your heart,” Elizabeth Harper Neeld, Ph.D, said. “And that has nothing to do with your spiritual strength or trust, or even with whether you’ve been true to your grieving,” she said.

She goes on to express the heartache she experiences when holiday season arrives, and her son’s presence is missing; yet, she’s obtained a state of calm and acceptance. “If something happens, or we’re somewhere Cliff would have been with us, we’ll say ‘Hi Cliff, wish you could see this…something like that, but it’s not heavy,’” she shared. “We take stock and say: I am changed by our loss, and I have changed my life as a result of my loss. And we are not shriveled permanently like a dry stick because of our loss. We can feel alive again…probably wiser, maybe quieter, certainly full of gratitude and a desire to contribute to what we have been through.”

I think the bolded part is phenomenal. Just my nugget to hold onto when I'm 2,928 hours, 122 days, 4 months, and 1/3 of a year into this load of crap.

An Open Letter to my Mom

Well, my "first" Thanksgiving without you has come and gone. I only cried twice. So I actually did better than I anticipated. However, my goal was not to cry at all.

We celebrated the "girls'" birthdays (and Debbie's). We ate too much. I used your China - with red solo cups. lol. It had to be done. Amazingly enough, nothing got broken.

Bells knows who you are. I don't show her pictures yet. I can't. But your pictures are up in the house. She knows your name. It's sad but reassuring at the same time.

My Christmas shopping is done. No thanks to you. I've cried multiple times while shopping. So there's not a lot of Christmas joy. I'm trying. I'm failing. But I'll get there.

This will be the first time in 17 years I haven't tried to make your Christmas special with dad gone. I'm sure your Christmas with Jesus will be plenty special. I'm a little jealous - I won't lie.

You used to say that once you went, no one would get flowers on their grave. You were right. I haven't been back to the cemetery since we buried you. If you knew that, you would be upset. But you don't know that. There's no reason for me to go there. Why should I? That's not where you ARE.

You can't see me or hear me. And that's fine because I feel better knowing you're happy and whole. If you could still see this dreadful place it would make you sad. But the Bible says there's no more tears in heaven so I know this place is of no concern to you.

So, enjoy your time at the feet of Jesus. Try not to drive Him too crazy. I will see you soon enough.

The Responsibility of the Griever

I find myself in a weird place. Ive become quite introspective. I'm grieving right now. Deeply. Frankly, it hurts like hell. However, grieving, hurting, and all of the things that go along with it, does not give me the right to be... well, um, craptastic to other people.

So every thought, word, and action is weighed on the grief scale. Follow me here. Patty Lou is an idiot. I can't stand her face. I can't stand her voice. Shoot, I can't stand the way she breathes. Logic has to prevail. Throw it on the grief scale. So we run through the following scenario. How do I feel today? Is this an emotional day for some reason? Is this an anniversary? A birthday? Any other special occasion? Did a song make me cry? A picture? Pre-cooked bacon? (You laugh but that's happened)

If I can answer "yes" to any of that, it is very likely that my emotions have already been triggered, Patty Lou is not truly an idiot, and I need to take an adult timeout and get myself together. The flip side of that is, grief does NOT color every emotion I have. And sometimes, yes indeed, Patty Lou is a flaming idiot that has been stupid one too many times, and frankly, yes, she ticked me off. That happened this week. 😀

They say time heals. They say it takes about a year to truly grieve. First, who are "they?" Second, "they" LIE! Third, "they" should be smacked. I will not be whole in a year. No amount of time will "fix" this. The ONLY thing that will fix this hurt is entering the gates of heaven myself (and no that comment in no way indicates a desire to harm myself).

Thanksgiving is fast approaching. Two days away. I'm not overly enthusiastic about it at all. Sure, I'll love being with all the kids. I love them dearly. However, I am so tired of empty chairs. And if I hear the phrase "new normal" one more time, somebody could get smacked. There's nothing normal about this.

Yes, yes. I'll move forward. We all do. Soon, I will be able to talk about her and not cry. That's not today. Soon, I will think of her special bond with Bells and smile rather than cry. That's not today. Soon, I will look at all her pictures and laugh without crying. That's not today. Soon, I will see her again. However, that's not today.

Lessons Learned at the Bedside - Part III

This will just be "one" lesson but I feel like this one needs its own post.

Lesson twelve - use it or lose it. No, I'm not talking about your brain, your body, or anything like that. This is about your "stuff." Maybe it was the way previous generations grew up. Maybe it was never feeling like they had enough. Maybe they passed that mentality on. There's NOTHING, I repeat NOTHING, wrong with being thrifty. I love a good deal, a great bargain, etc. However, if you have it, use it.

My mom had tons of stuff that she'd bought, been given, that she never used. I found clothes and shoes with the price tags still on them. She didn't "have any place to wear them." I just don't understand. If you wanted them that badly, why not use them.

My mom had a beautiful set of China that I didn't even know she had until I was cleaning out the trailer. Clearly, if I had no knowledge of it being here, it's never been used in my 43 years of existence. That's a shame. I'm sure she was waiting for just the right event.

Five Christmases ago (the Christmas after her first cancer diagnosis) we were shopping and she saw this bright red cape with a leopard print collar. She wanted it so badly but was shopping for other people. So I went back and got it for her. The only time she EVER put it on was that Christmas day for a picture.

She also had a small (and I do mean SMALL) bottle of Elizabeth Arden Red Door. It's still in the box. Never used. She had nowhere to wear it.

Stuff is stuff. In the grand scheme of things it's not that important. As I look around at my mom's stuff that she never used because the time or circumstance wasn't right, well, it hurts my feelings. She has other stuff that she used all of the time that I cherish.

That perfume... well, it sits in my bathroom. It's not my "taste" but I can't bear to part with it.

That china... well, it's getting used at Thanksgiving, probably Christmas, and very likely spaghetti night. It might get chipped, broken, or stained but I'm using it. I will think of her every time.

That cape... well it's hanging by the door. I will wear it all winter. Next winter too. As a matter of fact, I will wear it until it falls apart. Why? Because in my mind's eye, I can see the smile on her face the Christmas morning she put it on.

Sure, it's silly, slightly strange, and maybe even a bit weird but when I use those things that she couldn't/wouldn't, I feel like I'm honoring her in some small way.

I hope my family sees memories in my stuff. Well-used, smile making memories. I hope they want to use it too. I hope there's nothing that I "wanted", that I actually own, that I never used that makes them sad.

You don't have to have everything to make you happy. Stuff in its most basic form truly is not that important. However, don't wait for the right time, place, or circumstance. The right time to enjoy that china is tonight when you're eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The right time to wear that perfume is tomorrow when you go to work. The right time to wear "that" outfit, coat, shoes is this afternoon to the grocery store. Because frankly, if you wait long enough, there will be no time left.

Midnight Ramblings

In the past 18 years, I've lost 14 members of my family. There simply are no words to convey exactly how badly that sucks. All of those relationships were different, some closer than others, but they all mattered.

Mom and I talked about death extensively. In a manner of speaking, we were "used" to it, so discussing it came naturally. Truly, for my family, death was a part of life. After my cousin died a few years ago, our conversations grew more frequent. Statistics dictated that she would go before me, but having lost her other two children, she always worried that I would go before her.

We talked about how at some point, when you continue to lose those around you, and you're still here, how you begin to get jealous. Jealous that "they" are seeing Jesus. Jealous that "they" are reuniting with the others.

We laughed and joked and talked about how we were discussing with God that He just needed to come on back and get us all at the same time. It's a shame it didn't work out that way. But in all fairness, I spent years praying that if God wasn't ready for us all, that He would see fit to take her first. It sounds a bit horrible to say that but I knew how badly she worried about being "alone."

And God knows, I get it. I get it. I know I'm not alone. I have my husband. I'm surrounded by my "children" (no, I didn't birth them all). I am surrounded by other family and so many friends. However, those that remain with me do not replace those I have lost. Some days the sheer, overwhelming loneliness of it all threatens to overtake me.

Then, in that moment of brokenness, God gives me something. Some small gift and I know it will be okay. However, even some of the gifts are painful. (More on that in a bit).

Here lately, most days, I feel as if I wear my heart (in pieces) on the outside of my body. Small things that shouldn't bother me do and bigger things are even more magnified. A lifelong family friend lost her father yesterday. It crushed me. I know of that loss; of that pain; of "this" close to the holidays.

Oh, I know, how I know, all the things to say. You'll see him again. He's in a better place. He's not suffering anymore. Yep, all meaningless drivel because words CAN'T fix that pain. Time can't fix that pain. People can't fix that pain. Only God can.

There are days that I wish I could throw my heart away and seal up my tear ducts. I am just
so.
tired.
of.
feeling.
every.
little.
thing.

Maybe I could just be an emotionless, human robot. I know, I know. That's not really what I want. I know that we grieve greatly because we love greatly. And frankly what's the point of life if there's no love. It just hurts. So badly. I'm just tired of hurting.

So, those God moments that remind me that He's not done with me yet...

A one year old (who quite possibly knows more in her spirit than I could ever hope to know) who drags a blanket around reminding me that death DOES NOT end a relationship.

A husband who puts down a spoon and lid while cooking to put his arms around you when you've "lost it" yet again for no "real" reason.

A chubby hand on your face and a sleepy arm around your neck (belonging to the one year old that sometimes tests your sanity and endurance) and then the sweetest, sleepiest kiss you've ever been given.

A friend that cries in your office, because she's hurt, because life is hard and you know the only reason she can do that with you is because you've done it with her.

A husband that checks on you when you can't sleep at midnight and then offers to "stay up with you" even though he must be exhausted.

Yes, God's in it all. Even in the pain. Even in the tears. Even in the deepest, darkest nights of grief that we think we won't get through. He's there. Sometimes it simply requires looking for Him. And I'm convinced that anyone who has traveled the grief highway, that's your "one set of footprints in the sand" moment.

Lessons Learned at the Bedside - Part II

Lesson seven - life goes on. With painful regularity, life marches on. In the first few hours, days, and maybe weeks, those closest to you will love on you, support you, be your shoulder to cry on. Then, one day, you will notice that for them, life has gone on. It has for you too. The difference is, your grief really isn't their grief. It's not that they "no longer care" it's just not their pain. Even your spouse will seemingly move forward. They mean no ill will, no disrespect. It's just not their pain. They love you. They care. They're there if you need them. Accept it for what it is - your pain.

Lesson eight - grief never ends. Accept that fact early on. It changes in intensity. It's face changes. It never ends. When you love someone and they die, you never reach a point that it doesn't matter that they aren't there. If your mother dies when you're 30, you're still going to miss her when you're 60.

Lesson nine - sometimes the absence is felt more strongly down the road. I was 25 when my dad died. In that moment, I thought I could never miss him more than right then. I was wrong. Flash forward to 2011. Gabby turned 18 and graduated high school. She was his first grandchild to graduate. I married Johnny. A man he would've been proud to call his son-in-law. A "wonderful" year for me for all intents and purposes. I grieved and grieved that year. Understand that grief has a way of jumping up and screaming at you when you least expect it.

Lesson ten - it is the little things that you will miss the most. Sure, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, they're hard. Really, really hard. Do you know what's harder? Picking up the phone, dialing their number, only to realize they won't answer. You will do it more than once. Going into the store, seeing something so fitting for them, and thinking "I need to get that for mom" only to realize you can't give it to her.

Lesson eleven - words. Be so very careful with them. Think it through before you say it. If the words getting ready to cross your lips were the last words you would ever get to say to that person, would you regret what you said. Because one day, the last thing you say to your mom, dad, husband, wife, etc. will truly be the last thing you say / they hear. Through everything we'd been through - and it was a lot - the very last words my mother EVER uttered to me... thank you. I had felt so inadequate. I had been enough. What will your words mean.

To be continued...

Lessons Learned at the Bedside - Part I

Lessons learned at the bedside indicates terminal illness, caregiving, and death. However, for me, it's really lessons learned through death period. This will likely encompass more than one post. These lessons learned are NOT listed in order of importance.

Lesson one - no matter how much time you have, it's never enough. We talk about whether they had a chance to "live" based on age, etc. The truth is, if you love someone, no amount of living is ever enough. You will always wish for one more kiss, hug, conversation, hour, etc.

Lesson two - no matter how prepared you are, you are never really prepared. You simply can't be. No matter how much loss you've experienced, it doesn't prepare you for the next one. It can't - the relationships are not the same.

Lesson three - given lesson two, knowing you're dying / your loved one is dying is a gift. It might not feel like it at the time, but it is. Embrace it. I've had sudden losses and terminal illnesses. Knowing you're dying / they're dying gives you the gift of time. Time to do. Time to love. Time to talk. Time to forgive and ask for forgiveness. It's one of the hardest gifts to accept. Do it anyway.

Lesson four - people are so much more valuable than things. Things will never satisfy. They will never be enough. Even if your house is full of stuff, if you have no one to share it with, it matters very little. Surrounding yourself with love is always a much better option than surrounding yourself with stuff.

Lesson five - photos. I don't care how ugly you feel, how fat you feel, how "whatever" you feel. At some point, photos will be all that is left. Step in front of the camera. Your family loves you, regardless of what YOU think about yourself. They will NEED those photos. I could not be more grateful for all of the photos of my mom and Bells - mom's bald head and all!!!

Lesson six - voice. It may sound silly but one of the first things that occurs to you after a loss is hearing the voice of the one gone. Take video recordings. Let people record you. Use your own voice for your voicemail greeting. Trust me, it's important. I or my niece was always my mom's voicemail voice. I have plenty of videos. However, I find myself unable to watch this at this point because they're all "gone" but me. So being able to call her phone and hear HER would be great.

To be continued...

The Emotional "Anchor"

I've been self-sufficient for a long time now. Physically and financially independent from my parents for years. I moved out at 19, married my first husband and moved 2,200 miles away. Life happens, things happen, you go through hard times. I had just turned 25 when I lost my brother. Three months later, almost to the day, I lost my dad. Ten months after that (I had recently turned 26) I lost my sister. To use the word devastated is probably insufficient. However, life goes on. It has a way of doing that.

Flash forward a bit. That grieving is well and truly done (pardon me while I chuckle). I'm stronger, wiser, even more self-sufficient. As I so readily and so often tell my husband, I don't "need" anyone. That word is distasteful. I really don't like it. I digress...we're flashing forward. Mom has cancer. God grants her a miracle. Yeah! Flash forward a bit more. Mom has cancer. Again. I just know that this outcome will not be the same.

I've GOT this. We've (she and I) have made our peace. I've worked for hospice for years. Death is simply a part of life. A part I'm "used" to. I've GOT this. I've lost before. I've grieved before. I'm ready. I lost three in a row. This won't be that hard. I've GOT this. I know it's coming. I rally the troops. Come say goodbye. Medically I'm prepared. I know what's happening as it's happening. We're inching closer. I've GOT this. I know death is imminent. Maybe minutes away. Gather the kids. Say goodbye one more time. Yep, that's it. Last breath. Call the nurse. I've GOT this. I'm grown. I've been her caretaker off and on for years. She was tired. She's whole now. I've GOT this. Get everything together. Plan the funeral. Be strong for the kids. I've GOT this. I've TOTALLY GOT THIS.

Wait. What? I totally DO NOT have this. WHY is this hurting like this? Why? I didn't "depend" on her. I've done my own thing for years. I don't need her. Good grief. Get this crushing weight of despair off of me.

Here's the thing... I didn't need her. I didn't depend on her. She didn't support me financially or physically. So why was this so hard. First of all, no amount of knowledge or preparation truly prepares you for the loss of your mother. Secondly, as a general rule, your mom is your anchor. She might not do much. She might not say much. She might not offer much. She's just there.

Then suddenly, she's not. Suddenly the boat is adrift. The anchor is gone. It's a weird feeling to truly be on your own. It's okay though. I've been anchored long enough. I've been anchored long enough to know that I can sail my own ship. I've been anchored long enough to know that despite the wind and waves, I can weather the storm. I've been anchored long enough to know that I am an anchor for others. Besides, I have a much stronger Anchor. It'll be okay. With God's help, I've got this. It won't be easy. It won't be quick. I won't ever get over it. However, it will be okay. Right now, the "hard" days tend to happen with more regularity than the easy days. One day though, I will wake up and the scales will change. But life will always be different. I will always be different.

I will allow God to use this to change me. To change my heart. To soften my heart. I will allow Him to use this to teach me compassion. To teach me mercy and tolerance. To teach me that ultimately the only Anchor I truly need is Him.

Christmas Before Thanksgiving and Grief

My Christmas decorations are up. My tree is standing in my living room waiting on decorations. With any luck at all, I will get it decorated tomorrow night. Do you know how tired I am of listening to people whine about Christmas music "already" and Christmas decorations "already?" Tired... oh so very tired. I haven't "skipped" Thanksgiving because my Christmas decorations are up. I haven't "skipped" Thanksgiving because I'm listening to Christmas music. Thanksgiving will come right on time. On the 4th Thursday of this month, Thanksgiving will occur - despite the fact that I have Christmas décor out right now. I'm fairly certain the calendar doesn't "know" that I have my Christmas stuff out. I'm fairly certain that Thanksgiving won't suddenly disappear because I'm doing things too quickly. Yes, the 4th Thursday of this month, my family will gather, we will give thanks, and we will eat.

Let me make this clear, I don't really want my decorations up. No, I don't mean just this early. I mean AT ALL. My preference this year is to just skip the whole blasted holiday. But I can't. You see, I have children in my family. I have a lot of them. They don't understand that my grief makes me want to say "Christmas? Yeah, Christmas blows." You see, in your mind, I lost my mom. Sure, it hurts, blah, blah, blah. The thing is, yes, I lost my mom, but in losing her, I don't just grieve for my mother this year. This year, I grieve my ENTIRE family of origin. I'm it. I'm all that's left.

Well, you still have... (fill in the blank). I sure do. And do you know what, my husband, my child, my grandchild, my nieces and nephews, I love them all. But not one of them replaces my mother, my father, my sister, or my brother. My mom was that final piece of the puzzle. Despite all of the losses, we still had each other. We still had that one person left which meant we weren't quite alone. We discussed it often. Well, my person is gone.

My hope is that if my Christmas decorations are up long enough, if I listen to Christmas music long enough, that when Christmas day rolls around, maybe, just maybe, it won't hurt so badly. I won't hurt so badly. Sure, I know that's an illusion, but it's ALL I have.

Maybe the stores put their Christmas stuff out too early. You know what? You don't HAVE to shop there. Maybe the radio stations play Christmas music too early. You know what? You don't have to listen - change the channel. Maybe I'm the only one that feels this way. Maybe I'm the only one handling my grief this way. I doubt it, but maybe.

So, as you sit there in judgment of my decorations and my music choices and say that I'm not being thankful, perhaps you should sit back and think that maybe I (and whoever else) am doing the best I can in the situation I'm in at the moment.

Despite the fact that my decorations mean I'm skipping Thanksgiving and I'm clearly not thankful, I am. I really, really am. I'm thankful that I had my parents and my siblings at all. I'm thankful that I got to share the years I did with them. I'm thankful for the influence both good and bad they had on my life. I'm thankful that I walked with my mother through every step of her cancer journey - BOTH times. I'm thankful that I was with my father and my mother the exact moment they drew their last breaths. And I am thankful, oh so thankful, that I have the assurance that I will see them again.

So let me have my Christmas music. Let me have my decorations. Let me get used to them all. Let me pretend that when Christmas gets here in 51 days I won't hurt so badly. Let me grieve the way I need to grieve. Stop assuming that you know everyone's situation. You don't. Enjoy Thanksgiving and Christmas your way. Let others enjoy it their way. Soon enough, it'll all be over and we'll start a new year.

For me, each day I wake up and put one foot in front of the other is a stark reminder that time marches on whether we want it to or not. The world doesn't stop because I'm grieving. I have to grieve as the world turns. I'm doing it the best way I know how.

Please be slow to judge me

For the sake of this article, “I” am anyone you might encounter.

A few of you (likely a very few) are probably very excited by the Christmas décor up in stores and Christmas music playing on the radio. The rest of you are probably disgusted by the retailers shoving Christmas in your face before Thanksgiving and I have heard chorus upon chorus of “it’s too early” where the Christmas music is concerned.

Christmas – and the holiday season as a whole – will be different for me this year.

Perhaps I’m already joyfully listening to Christmas carols.

Perhaps I won’t listen to them at all.

Perhaps I will have all of my Christmas decorations up by this weekend.

Perhaps I won’t decorate this year.

Perhaps I will take great delight in every ounce of festivity I’m subjected to.

Perhaps I will be a scrooge at every turn.

Perhaps I will say Merry Christmas to everyone I see.

Perhaps I will be the refrain of Bah Humbug.

Perhaps I will attend every party, gathering, and event I can find.

Perhaps I will stay at home, grateful to be by myself.

Perhaps I will have myself a Happy Hallothankmas.

Perhaps I will boycott all three.

Perhaps decorating now gives me the opportunity to prepare myself for the onslaught of emotions.

Perhaps there is no amount of time that could prepare me.

Perhaps I am waiting for Christmas as a reminder that life goes on.

Perhaps I am dreading Christmas because it’s a reminder that life goes on.

Perhaps… I’m somewhere in the middle.

Please, be slow to judge me. Maybe you know what I’ve gone through this year. Maybe you don’t. Maybe you know me intimately and personally. Maybe I’m just that happy / cranky shopper you see in the store. Please, be slow to judge me. Christmas for me will be different this year. Give me a moment to explain.

This year…      I lost my mom / dad

                        I lost my husband / wife
                        I lost my sister / brother
                        I lost my son / daughter
                        I lost my grandmother / grandfather
                        I got divorced
                        I lost my job
                        I moved away from my whole family and won’t be home for Christmas this year
                        I / my loved one was diagnosed with a terminal illness

For a moment, just for a moment, lay down the commercialism that Christmas brings to the stores. Take a moment and stop assuming that people that enjoy Christmas aren’t thankful because they become “festive” before Thanksgiving. As Christians, Christmas is one of the days that we are MOST thankful. Christmas symbolizes the birth of our Savior. For so many, Christmas means so much more than the songs on the radio and the displays in the store. Christmas represents memories – perhaps memories are all that is left. Actually shouldn’t we “feel” Christmas all year long? Instead of focusing on the commercialism of Christmas, focus on the love.

Please… be slow to judge me. Christmas will be different for me this year.

Where is God

Even though we're not apt to admit it, most of us, on some level, are control freaks. We like to disguise that little nugget by exclaiming that we simply have a life plan. At 18, my high school sweetheart and I will graduate high school. At 21, during our junior year of college we will get engaged. At 22, we will both graduate college and have "this" job. We will marry at 23. By 27, we will have 2 kids (a boy and a girl), a dog, and a house with a fence. We will live happily ever after.

In that neatly laid out life plan, we don't stop to consider any diversion. We don't plan on infertility. We don't plan on losing a job and then perhaps our home. We don't plan on a child with special needs or a teenager with a drug problem. We don't plan on a cancer diagnosis. We don't plan on aging parents, unwed teenage pregnancies, raising grandchildren, burying parents, etc. It's simply NOT part of the plan.

Oh how we get angry when we get thrown those curve balls. What? Wait? God, why? Where are you in all of this? Don't You see me suffering? My life is not going according to plan.

Yet it very much is. Perhaps, instead of asking where God is, perhaps we should ponder why we don't see Him in the curve balls. Because we could. If we just look.

But YOU don't understand. This hurts! My life is changed. This wasn't MY plan. I do get it. I do. I've said that statement oh so many times. I've even said it knowing that God's plan for me has to be better than my plan for me. How dare He change my plans.

To be brutally honest, the last two years have felt at times - in my mind - like I was living hell on earth. In retrospect, God actually gave me more gifts and blessings than I could have imagined at the time.

In November of 2012, my daughter came home pregnant and unwed. To use the word furious would be THE biggest understatement imaginable. We accepted the reality and formulated a new plan. Nope! Through various circumstances, Johnny and I found ourselves in the position of raising Bella. Hmm, definitely not sure THAT was part of the plan. By December 2013, Christmas morning to be exact, we began what would be my mom's last leg of her journey on this earth. By February 2014, we had her diagnosis. A reoccurrence of her lung cancer, this time Stage IV. Months of treatments culminating in words she didn't want to hear. Finally the gracious act of our Father healing her perfect and calling her home on August 7th.

Do you really think ANY of that could've been MY plan. Um, no. Just no. Did God cause the pregnancy? The circumstances through us gaining Bella? My mom's cancer? No!!!!! But every bit of it, every single moment WAS filtered through His hands. And now, sitting in a hospital room in Children's Hospital at 3:36 in the morning, I am grateful for it ALL.

When Issabella Grace was born, she wasn't just her mother's gift. She was mine, her Poppa's, her maw maw's (oh how much her maw maw's), the rest of her extended family, and I'm convinced the world at large. Her sheer existence brought a joy to my mother that I have NEVER seen. Hurting - she still wanted Bella. Sick - she still wanted Bella. Bella didn't look at her funny when she was bald. It was a toss up as to whose face held the most joy when they saw one another.

Mother died almost three weeks to the day after Bells' first birthday. She saw almost all of Bells' most important firsts. Each holiday, first tooth, first word, first steps. I will thank God and always cherish that year of immense joy in the midst of heartache that He gave my mother. By giving her that gift, He gave it to us as well.

God gave us time with mother. Sometimes, when you know, and I think we all "knew", it really is a gift. We talked, spent time, laughed, argued - all of it. I wouldn't trade any of it.

Despite losing my dad, both my siblings, all of my grandparents, and an uncle I was extremely close to, nothing and I do mean NOTHING prepared me for the heart break of losing my mother. The woman that I loved so fiercely but with every fiber of my being fought to be the exact opposite. I have stated multiple times since her death that I just didn't think it would hurt this much. What kind of moron thinks THAT???

But even in my grief, God has given me a gift. He's made me softer. He's given me the desire to truly find myself. Despite the discomfort of some of it, He's allowing those that love me to see the tender, vulnerable side of me. I'm not sure they like it, because some days I don't.

As for Bella, well, I've never been more tired in my life. She challenges me. She frustrates me. She makes me feel really, REALLY old. But, and there is a giant BUT, I couldn't imagine a greater gift or blessing in my life if I tried. This is the happiest, sweetest, most affectionate human I think I've ever been privileged to be around. Such a sweet little human. A tiny little being that God has already used to bring so much to so many. It's funny to be 43 and wish that I could be like a 1 year old - but I do. Her enthusiasm, her joy, her capacity to love... I WANT IT!!!

So, yes, God's always there. It's just that most of the time, we don't even try to look for Him. His ways are so much better than our own. We just need to follow His plan for our lives. It would be much easier at that point to follow along joyfully. 😊😊😊

Jeremiah 29:11

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

Despite every painful thing I've been through, I've never had more hope, never been more excited about my future than right now.

Why are we living in fear?

I have thought much about fear lately. I have often wondered if I were the weird one. Am I just too stupid to be fearful? I see it so much, every day. The things people are afraid of, the strange things people live in fear of, and frankly I just have a hard time understanding.

I have a handful of friends on fb that I can depend on to report EVERY terrible news story they come across. Murder, check. Rape, check. Child abuse, check. Animal abuse, check. Some weird new virus, illness, etc., check. I have no need to EVER flip on the news.

So as I scroll through the daily crap on my news feed, I definitely understand how the fires get fanned. Mercy. If you're already a fatalist and you get on fb, by day's end you'll have yourself or your family dead - or well on the way.

We have conspiracy theories about the government. Vaccines of any kind will surely kill us or make us stupid. If you breathe the air you're sure to catch herpegonnastaphaclap. And the list goes on.

The Bible / God's word addresses repeatedly that we are NOT to live in fear. Period. End of story. Fear doesn't come from God. It comes from the author of lies himself, satan.

My house has been robbed and everything taken in the past. I don't live in fear that it will happen again. I've been in car accidents. I don't live in fear that it will happen again. I've lost jobs, been sick, been divorced, been hurt. I don't live in fear that it will happen again. I don't worry about the economy, the president, enterovirus 69, Ebola, or germs in general. Why? Because my God is bigger.

Two scriptures come to mind...

Matthew 6:25-34 

“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

2 Timothy 1:7 

For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.

I love both of these!

So bear in mind that scare tactics should not work on any of us - ever!

Grieving as a Christian

Being a Christian, I know a couple of things. Number 1, I grieve with hope. Jesus Christ's crucifixion, death, burial, and resurrection singlehandedly conquered the grave. Number 2, although I don't have EVERY scripture in the Bible memorized, I like to think I'm fairly well versed in God's word. So, a few words to those that deal with me (and others) as I grieve...

(If you're easily offended, perhaps you should skip this post.)

Whether I've been grieving two days, two weeks, two months, or two years, please do not say nor imply that my faith is not what it should be because I still miss or cry over my loved one. It not only angers me and hurts my feelings, it's also rude and wrong.

When I choose to express that I still miss them, the appropriate response is NOT "well, you know they're in a better place." I do know that. But they're still not here and I miss them. And frankly, if I'm being honest, I'm a little (okay a lot) jealous that they're in Heaven without me.

Another personal favorite "it was just their time." Clearly, otherwise they'd still be here. It is appointed once to man to die. God knows that date at our moment of birth.

Then there's always "you wouldn't want him/her back like that." Thank you for making me feel like a heel. No I wouldn't want them to suffer anymore. Truly. But as a human being, feeling human feelings, why wouldn't I want my father, mother, sister, brother back? Thanks for making me feel selfish.

"It'll get better with time. / Time heals all wounds." Wrong. Wrong, wrong, and just WRONG! The gaping hole of losing my loved one will only be closed on the other side of eternity. Yes, I will eventually have more days that I don't spend crying. The grief won't be quite so intense. However, I am convinced grief never ends, it only changes. In January, my dad will have been dead 18 years. I STILL cry over him.

I know that we want to make people feel better. We want to fix it. We are uncomfortable with other people's pain. So we pull out scripture or some other words of wisdom passed down through the ages in an effort to try to say something, anything to stop the pain or the tears.

I applaud the compassion - just not the method. Sometimes, the most helpful thing you can say is nothing at all. Sometimes I need to hear that "yes, losing your "whoever" truly sucks." Maybe you could overlook your own discomfort and just let me cry while you hold my hand. I know it's hard.

Please know a few things about me while I make my way through this.
1-although it may not SEEM like it, I truly do grieve with hope. I'm blessed enough that my loved ones were saved. I know who has them and I know the One who holds my future.
2- I know my grieving makes you uncomfortable. Thank you for standing with me anyways.
3-I promise I won't always be THIS emotional.
4-please realize that I'm not broken. There's nothing wrong with me. You can't fix the problem. However, God will see me through this. This is my footprints in the sand moment where He is carrying me.
5-sometimes, I need your words. Most of the time, I don't. Your ear, your shoulder, they're enough.
6-I love you more than you will ever know for standing with me as I go through this. 7-when the time comes (and it will), I promise to do my best to stand with you during your grief. I will be an ear. I will be a shoulder. I promise not to doubt your faith because you're sad. I won't try to fix it with scripture or wise words. I will acknowledge your pain. I will acknowledge that it sucks. I will cry with you. I will listen when you tell me what you need and I won't get offended.
8-one day, none of this will matter because I will be before my Savior and reunited with all those gone before me.

You don't have to understand. You don't even have to try. Just be there. I promise, I promise, I promise, it's enough.

One of my favorite songs right now. It's called save a place for me.

Don't be mad if I cry
It just hurts so bad sometimes
'Cause everyday it's sinking in
And I have to say goodbye all over again

You know I bet it feels good
To have the weight of this world
Off Your shoulders now
I'm dreaming of the day
When I'm finally there with You

Save a place for me, save a place for me
I'll be there soon, I'll be there soon
Save a place for me, save some grace for me
I'll be there soon, I'll be there soon

I have asked the questions why
But I guess the answer's for another time
So instead I'll pray with every tear
And be thankful for the time I had You here

So You just save a place for me, save a place for me
I'll be there soon, I'll be there soon
Save a place for me, save some grace for me
I'll be there soon, I'll be there

I wanna live my life just like You did
And make the most of my time just like You did
And I wanna make my home up in the sky
Just like You did, oh, but until I get there
Until I get there

Just save a place for me, save a place for me
'Cause I will be there soon

Save a place for me, save a place for me
I'll be there soon, I'll be there soon

Don't be mad if I cry
It just hurts so bad

Changes

I realized today that my mom's death has changed me. I know that sounds like a "duh" statement, but I don't just mean in the sense that she's gone. I didn't have to let her death change me. I could've just done the "regular hurting" part, stuffed the rest down, and went on about my merry way. Don't tell me you can't do that. Believe me, I've lost a lot, you can stuff anything you don't want to deal with. But that changes you too - and not for the better. But I digress...

I cried at lunch today. At work. With people around. I didn't even try not to. Most people would say "so, people do that all the time." Sure they do. But I don't. I struggle with that. It's part of my "stuff." It's weird and people don't understand it, but it's MY stuff.

You know what I realized today (although it's been true all along), no one ran from the room because of my weakness. No one thought I was a pansy. If they did, they were gracious enough not to say it out loud. Not one person in the room thought any different of me. Except for me. I thought differently of me.

Right now, at this particular point in my life, crying is not unusual. However, not feeling like I needed to stop was unusual.  I've made a conscious decision to grieve. Again, I know that might sound crazy that I've made the decision to grieve. Most people would be thinking "you have no choice in the matter." Wrong!!! I am an active, avid emotion stuffer. I will gladly eat any feeling I have.

Hmm, I'm sad today. Cake sounds great right about now. Hmm, I'm mad at so and so today. Why yes, I will have that extra large combo. I feel fabulous today. Oh, pizza sounds fantastic. So, yes, you can stuff those feelings. As I said, I have made a conscious decision to grieve my mother.

I think my emotions bother some close to me. I think others welcome it. I think some are so stunned by any display of emotion from me that they don't know what to think.

Actively feeling these emotions are HARD. I don't like it. There are days that the pain seems unbearable. Some days, I miss her so much I can't stand it. Some days, there's guilt for what our relationship wasn't. Some days, there's anger over a relationship that will never be. Some days, there's anger at them all because I'm "alone." Some days, are riddled with laughter thinking of the silly, goofy way she was. Some days, I long to be Bella's age snuggled in her lap. Most days, there's a quiet longing for a phone call, a conversation, simply the desire for it to be the way it was... crazy, dysfunctional, imperfect.

The thing is, feeling all those nasty, hard, yucky feelings, lets me feel the other feelings more intensely. By not ignoring one (the sucky, hard ones) I get the joy of really feeling the other. I find that the little things bother me less. I'm actively learning to acknowledge them and then let them go. Simple pleasures, well they're more pleasurable. I'm trying very hard to live in and enjoy the "right now."

So, yes, mother's death has changed me. Hopefully for the better. Grief is a beast. It's hard. And it hurts like hell. Grief kind of feels like you're taking a cheese grater to your very soul.  I won't even try to lie about that. But I pray that it molds me and changes me into a better person. A person that is more open. A person of true compassion. I pray that I learn to love myself the way others love me.

Every Breath Counts

Can I just be really blunt? Good. Cancer sucks. True story. Cancer has touched every aspect of my life. Don't ask me to financially support one cancer over another, because I won't. They are all worthy of eradication.

I have a fabulous cousin that fought a NASTY melanoma. I thank God that her husband and children still have her. Another cousin and several friends have fought breast cancer. I thank God they're here too. My husband has had Melanoma twice. I thank God for doctors that check him like a momma monkey checking her young because both were caught very early.

My mom...she had cancer twice. We were given four fabulous years between the first diagnosis and the second. We prayed, others prayed, she prayed, for her healing. You know what? God did heal her. He just chose to heal her perfect. Does it hurt that He chose to heal her that way? Any answer other than yes would be an outright lie. Am I thankful on some level that He took her home? Again yes.

I, more than anyone, know "our" story. The heartaches throughout life. The hurts. The losses. The battles. She was ready. Do I have any regrets? Just one - and it's not even mine to carry. Had the choice been mine, I would've chosen no treatment. Why? Because deep down I think we all knew it wasn't going to work. I would've liked for her last months to have been without sickness and without pain of any kind. However, the choice wasn't mine. I fully and wholeheartedly supported her decision - one I didn't agree with. And I knew the decision had been made for her child and grandchildren. Watching her hurt, watching her suffer, watching her deteriorate before my very eyes SUCKED!!! Do you hear me? It sucked. I cried. It broke my heart. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Why? Every breath counts.

I was blessed enough in my life to get to be with the two people who gave me life as their earthly lives ended. Was it hard? Gosh, yes. I'm so thankful I was there. Every breath they took in their lives counted - including the last one.

Should the good Lord choose to take my dear, sweet husband first, I want the privilege of being there when that last sweet breath is taken and God calls him home. I pray that he would want to be with me. It's important.

You see, all of it counts. It's all important. Every single piece of our lives is important. Do I EVER want him to suffer in any capacity? NO. If that's the plan - suffering - I want to be with him. See, I love him. Love isn't just the good stuff. Sometimes it's really ugly and really painful and that stinks. But loving him means I want every aspect of his life intertwined with mine. Yes, that includes the pain.

Because every single breath he takes counts. Every single breath I take counts. Every single breath you take counts. Somebody wants to be there for each of them.

Sometimes, love hurts. It hurts a lot. Especially when we're near the end of life. I knew my mother was dying Tuesday, August 5th. The last words my mother ever spoke to me were "thank you." She never really regained consciousness much after that. But EVERY breath between that moment and 12:49 am, Thursday, August 7th counted! I thank God for each of them. I wouldn't have rushed through or missed any of them even though they were soul-crushingly painful.

Our last breath should never be at a time of our choosing. To do so, cheats us and our loved ones of vital breaths that count. No matter how much we might want to, we cannot protect our loved ones from the pain of losing us if we die before they do. Making it happen quickly so they don't "have to see us suffer" won't stop the pain of loss. I think, sometimes, the best we can hope for is for our loved ones to love us through our pain.

What an interesting and stressful few weeks it has been. Mercy. We have two chemo treatments done and four more left to go. Radiation has been started – finally. She has thus far had relatively few side effects. She seems to semi-lose her voice for the first day or two after chemo but then it comes back and no other real problems to speak of at this point. We will have to monitor her fluid intake because her blood pressure does tend to drop without enough fluids after chemo.

She is more of a harm to herself than chemo or radiation could ever be. Last Saturday (before Mother’s day), she managed to catch her face on fire. Yes, you read that correctly. That’s what happens when you have an open flame near oxygen. Yes folks it does happen and that’s why they tell you not to do it. Scorched her nose pretty good. It was all swollen. She looked a lot like Bozo the Clown. However, it is healing nicely. Monday (the day after Mother’s day), I was talking to her on the phone and heard a noise and I just knew what had happened. She thought I hung up because she pushed too many buttons on the phone so she hung up and called me back. And sure enough, I was right. She had fallen. Her blood pressure dropped (not enough fluid intake) and she face planted in the kitchen. Goose egg on the eye brow, torn up hand, and torn up elbow. Somehow she managed to avoid hitting the scorched clown nose. Fast forward to Tuesday (yes the very next day), and we are leaving her house headed to chemo. She rolls her window halfway down to throw her gum out. She then commences to flinging her hand at about a hundred miles an hour into the glass and of course the gum flies back into my car. At this point I am in hysterical laughter. I had to stop the car. I told her, “Okay, you’ve torched your face, you’ve faced planted, and now you’ve tried to break your hand. That’s three things in one week. We are DONE!!!!”

The cancer will never kill her – she may however kill herself. And crabby… oh sweet heavens is she crabby. It finally occurred to me why. She can’t take Benadryl so they have to pre-medicate her with steroids. We are talking a HUGE dose of steroids complete with two smaller doses of steroids. My mom has taken steroids all her life. Have I mentioned she’s the devil incarnate on steroids? Well… she is. Again, the cancer won’t get her but I may choke her to death before chemo is over. J

Crabbiness and all, to God be the glory. Her side effects are minimal if any, her counts did not drop in the slightest after the first treatment, she is maintaining her weight, and the doctor is thrilled. Speaking of the doctor, she is in LOVE with the doctor. Okay, maybe not love but definitely lust. Never a dull moment with this one.

So much is going on. Not only with her but with the daughter / granddaughter situation. My stress level is high. But I know my God has a plan for every single stressful moment I encounter and I continue to depend on Him to get me through it all. We will come out victorious on the other side.

Well, mom's port is in place and healing nicely. Her whining is at a minimum. :) Seriously, if I had two surgeries in that short of a time span I would whine. She says she's not anxious about chemo starting Tuesday but all of her questions indicate otherwise. I would probably be anxious too.

My mom is a tiny woman. Short and thin. So short in fact that she fits under my arm. At my height and weight, I make that woman look like a dwarf. She's older. 71 years old to be exact. Sometimes I forget how small she is. Sometimes I forget how old she is. Tuesday on that hospital gurney after port placement, the stark reality of both was right there in my face. I just looked at her all hopped up on anesthesia, curled up in a little ball and well she just looked awfully fragile. I want to protect her from all of this. I need to protect her from all of this.

But... I can't go there. I can't let her see that. She feeds off of those closest to her. If we're positive, she's positive. If we're negative, she's negative. So, I'm as compassionate as I can be without giving her any indication that I see frailty or weakness. That would simply never do. I will be the one who has to push her. If / when she reaches the "I can't do this" stage, I will remind her that yes indeed she can.

I pray that these treatments are easy. I pray there is no sickness and limited weakness. But I really wish I could just do it all for her because I'm at a place of being physically stronger and frankly it just sucks that she has to go through this.

However, this cancer is treatable. She can get well. How many other people heard different news the day we heard Stage II. How many other people heard, there's nothing more we can do. How many other people went to their final resting place that day? So... we will be content with where we are. And we will be thankful in all circumstances. And we will thank God for picking us up and carrying us down this road we must now travel. And we will thank Him for His strength in these circumstances.

Gosh, it seems like the last few months took forever to get through. We waited for test results, surgery, answers to biopsies, and a treatment plan. Well, we’re here already. Maybe it all went by faster than I thought it did. We have our plan.

Tomorrow, we put it in process. Mom gets her port placed tomorrow. Next week she starts radiation and chemo. Six weeks in all. Every day – Monday through Friday – we will make a trip to the hospital; either my mom and my niece will go or my mom and I will go. She will take radiation five days a week and chemo on Tuesdays for six solid weeks. Six weeks is doable. You can easily mark that off the calendar. An intense schedule but for a short period of time.

Six weeks after her last treatment, she will head back for another PET scan. We are praying AND believing that her scan will be clear. Should it not be, she will receive six more weeks of chemo only. We are believing after the first round, she will be in remission.

Thankfully, with weekly, smaller doses of chemo, her hair shouldn’t fall out and her immune system shouldn’t plummet quite so badly. The doctor has her on a regime to hopefully curb any nausea and vomiting and another regime to stop any potential allergic reaction from the chemo. He has to be careful because antihistamines are their first line of defense in case of an allergic reaction. Well, hidey ho neighbors, guess what? Mom is allergic to antihistamines – they affect her breathing. His response… “I will only use them in case of an emergency and THEN I will worry about your breathing.“ Isn’t that awesome??? J No worries, we’re trusting God in that area too.

Our oncologist is phenomenal. His name is Dr. Shaily Lakhanpal. And although I hope no one reading my blog ever needs an oncologist, if you do, he’s the way to go. A very kind man, a very smart man, and a believer. He hugged my mom twice. He hugged her when he came in and met her and hugged her before we left. You don’t see that much out of ANY physician.

The biggest concern for mom at this point is her use of oxygen. She hasn’t been able to come off of it since her hospitalization in December. Several years ago, they wouldn’t have even come up with a treatment plan with her on oxygen. But, as Dr. Lakhanpal said, “When you’re boxed into a corner, there’s no other option other than to box back.” I like him!!!

So… off we go into the land of oncology, a lowered immune system, and chemo brain. Praying that all goes fantastic. And should you ask why I so often say “we” instead of her… well it’s not just her battle – it’s our battle. We fight with her because, well, no one with cancer fights alone.

Sounds like life to me it ain’t no fantasy

It’s just a common case of everyday reality
Man I know it’s tough but you gotta suck it up
To hear you talk you’re caught up in some tragedy
It sounds like life to me
Sounds like life to me plain old destiny
Yeah the only thing for certain is uncertainty
You gotta hold on tight just enjoy the ride
Get used to all this unpredictability
Sounds like life
Man I know it’s tough but you gotta suck it up
To hear you talk you’re caught up in some tragedy
Sounds like life to me
Sounds like life

Those words are the chorus to Darryl Worley’s song “Sounds like Life to Me.” There’s a lot of truth in those words. If I’ve learned one thing in my 42 years on this earth, it’s this – life is a roller coaster and roller coasters tend to make me sick. J However, I have yet to find anywhere in the Bible that God says life will be a smooth ride like a carousel.

Really, when you think about it, which one is more fun? Sure, a carousel ride is predictable. The speed never varies. You stay on the same animal the whole time and that animal never leaves its spot. Sure there are some ups and downs but they are moderated and you know exactly when each one is coming. The music NEVER changes. It’s mundane, tame, and often monotonous. Now, how about that roller coaster? Completely different ride right there. Usually the ride starts out really slow while you’re climbing your first mountain but boy oh boy, when you reach that first peak – OFF YOU GO!!! That ride never slows down. You’re up, you’re down, zoom around a curve, maybe even a loop. Whew. There are screams, there is laughter. Each roller coaster is different. Roller coasters leave you breathless. I hate heights and roller coasters are very high – but I love breathless.

Breathless is what we prefer when you think about it long enough. Your first real kiss – leaves you breathless. Your first real love – leaves you breathless. That first married kiss – leaves you breathless. That first look into your newborn’s eyes – leaves you breathless. We love all of those things. There are other things that leave us that way. Our first broken heart – leaves us breathless. A crumbled marriage – leaves us breathless. The loss of a loved one – leaves us breathless. You know what? We survive it all and we move on to the next thing that leaves us breathless. Why, because life is not a carousel, it’s a roller coaster.

I feel like I have been on 37 roller coasters in the last week and a half. I’ve had to kick my daughter out of my mother’s home. That left me breathless. I received custody of my beautiful, beloved granddaughter. That left me breathless. I watched my mother go into surgery. I watched her come out. I watched her struggle through pain and hallucinations. I’ve waited for results of biopsies that have yet to come. Breathless, breathless, breathless. I took her to a doctor’s appointment and watched a doctor marvel at how far she’s come in a week. I’ve watched him look at a tough 71 year old woman who is widowed, lost two children, fought and beat lung cancer once, and who is now fighting it again, with fresh eyes and a different attitude from when we started. I watched him have a new sense of positivity because of her toughness. Breathless.

My God is in control of this crazy life I live. He is the Author of every breathless moment I experience. For every positive breathless moment I experience, I thank Him. For every negative breathless moment I experience, I know He is holding me and molding me. I have had a lot of positive breathless moments and I have had a lot of negative breathless moments but each experience on that roller coaster has made me the woman I am.

In my infinite impatience, I had a nurse I work with look at mom’s pathology reports since we have yet to see the oncologist (that’s next Tuesday). My nurse used to work in oncology and actually worked with the oncologist we will be seeing. J She feels that mom’s cancer is Stage IIb. If she is correct, mom’s cancer is still in the “early” stages and is treatable. BREATHLESS! If she’s wrong, we’ll walk the path God has laid out before us holding onto His hand. Each and every moment of this journey – good or bad – will prove to be breathless.

If you knew you were dying, if you knew your time was limited, what would you do? Would you go places you’ve never gone? Would you do things you’ve never done? Would you mend fences with people that have never been mended? Would you offer forgiveness and accept forgiveness? Well… guess what? We’re all dying!!! From the time of our birth, our earthly body begins to decay, begins to break down, begins to shut down. None of us will live forever. We all have an appointed day, hour, and minute that we will breathe our last breath. Shouldn’t you be doing all of those things now? Why wait? You may not have the privilege of knowing that your time is drawing to a close. Make memories. Offer forgiveness quickly. Say I’m sorry. Say I love you. Live BREATHLESS!

Whew, what a long day. Not a particularly good one in my eyes. We spent most of the day waiting in one capacity or another. The surgery itself was short. They couldn't remove the mass but got enough for a biopsy. The results should be in within a few days.

Maybe it's my medical background, maybe it's my practical side trying to prepare myself for the worst but to me the surgeon didn't seem overly optimistic. After conversing with my aunt, she told me that if the biopsy staged out high my mom had already said she wanted to enjoy her time. Even thinking that makes me want to throw up.

I've worked for hospice for 13 years. I know that quality is better than quantity. My brain knows that. I will be strong enough to deal with whatever decision my mom makes. However, my heart is screaming, I'm not ready for this. To be perfectly honest, it pisses me the hell off.

There were five of us total. I lost my brother in October of 1996 when I was 25. Then in January of 1997 I lost my dad. I was still 25. Then in November of 1997 right after I turned 26 I lost my sister. My mom and I are all that's left. I am 42. I do not want to have my entire immediate family gone. Am I whining? Maybe. But that's just where I am.

Sometimes I just don't feel grown up enough for the life I'm having to lead right now. I mean I know I'm old enough. I'm married. I've raised one child already and now I'm raising a grandchild. But somehow I don't feel adult enough to handle this. I am not ready to face my mother's mortality.

I need this to be treatable. I need her to fight. I need her to want to fight. And then I have to remember that this really isn't about me. It's about what she wants and what she needs. The thought of my mom being gone freaks me out. The thought of her suffering freaks me out more. So I guess I'll just sit here and wait some more and be miserable until we find out the answers.

Well, mom's PFT's were yesterday. The lady performing the test said she did well for a woman her age. She was a little shocked that mom was 71. That's all she could tell her though. So we've just been hanging out waiting some more - because we all love that. We should get a call from the doctor tomorrow with a yes or no to the surgery.

The intelligent part of me, the medical field part of me knows we need this surgery. We need to know exactly what we're fighting and exactly what stage we're at. The daughter in me that looks at my 71 year old mother and wishes I could just do it all for her... well, that part wishes we could just skip that surgery stuff altogether. I remember, well, what that first one was like. The recovery was brutal and this time we add chemo and/or radiation. This is the part that sucks.

Then I remind myself that I am strong. That came from somewhere. That came from her and her mother before her and her mother before that. We come from a long line of strong women - physically, mentally, but most of all spiritually. God has this. Good, bad, or indifferent, He has gone before us into tomorrow. He's paving the way.

So whether she has surgery or not, I will trust that He knows what He's doing when nothing makes much sense to me. I will hold onto those that are holding onto me. We will be strong together. We will be weak together. We will laugh together. We will cry together. We will pray together. We will do it all together. Why? Because no one fights cancer alone.

Welcome to my random thoughts. There is absolutely no telling where I will go or what I will cover in this blog. I find myself on a unique journey at almost 43 years old. I am raising my eight month old granddaughter and I will soon begin to walk with my mother on her SECOND lung cancer journey. My granddaughter is a blessing but she reminds me just how old I am most days. J She is a blessing to my mother as well. Keeps her young and keeps her fighting. It is very likely that this blog will be my way of processing my mother’s journey, processing my feelings. So to start, I’ll back up a few years and start from the beginning.

 

My name is Susan and four years ago this past February, my mom (Linda) was diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer in her right lung. We were very blessed. It was caught early – Stage I – and through surgical intervention alone, the cancer was removed. She lost the bottom lobe of her right lung. She needed no chemo or radiation. God provided us such a miracle. The surgery was rough but she made it through – she’s a tough little bird – and on we went. My mother who had literally stayed sick for years suddenly became the picture of health. No hospitalizations, no use of oxygen, nothing. It was nothing short of amazing. Slowly but surely her check-ups went from three months to every six months to yearly.

Fast forward to December 25^th, 2013; we find my mom hospitalized in the worse shape she’s been in in years. She spent 11 days in the hospital – 7 of those in ICU trying her best to stay of the ventilator. Fast forward to February – time for our yearly CT scan. She did not get a passing grade. And so the testing began. PET scan – positive. Well that sucks. Bronchoscopy done – shows staph in the lungs. Well that sucks. Right now we’re waiting to have PFT’s (lunch function tests) done on Monday the 31^st to see if they are strong enough for her to handle the surgery to do the biopsy. After that we hope to schedule surgery for the 7^th. Then we will set up her treatment plan.

Needless to say this is not the path I had chosen for myself at this juncture in my life but God knew I would be here. He knew what I would need to make it down the path and He will give me the strength to hold my mother’s hand wherever this takes us so that she’s not alone! We are fighters! Our strength is in Jesus.

Our song is Overcomer by Mandisa. The words are below. Maybe they will inspire you.

Staring at a stop sign

Watching people drive by
T mac on the radio
Got so much on your mind
Nothing's really going right
Looking for a ray of hope

Whatever it is you may be going through

I know he's not gonna let it get the best of you
You're an overcomer
Stay in the fight 'til the final round
You're not going under
'Cause God is holding you right now
You might be down for a moment
Feeling like it's hopeless
That's when he reminds you
That you're an overcomer
You're an overcomer
 
Everybody's been down
Hit the bottom, hit the ground
Ooh, You're not alone
Just take a breath, don't forget
Hang on to his promises
He wants you to know

You're an overcomer

Stay in the fight 'til the final round
You're not going under
'Cause God is holding you right now
You might be down for a moment
Feeling like it's hopeless
That's when he reminds you
That you're an overcomer
You're an overcomer

The same man, the great I am

The one who overcame death
Is living inside of you
So just hold tight, fix your eyes
On the one who holds your life
There's nothing he can't do
He's telling you

You're an overcomer

Stay in the fight 'til the final round
You're not going under
'Cause God is holding you right now
You might be down for a moment
Feeling like it's hopeless
That's when he reminds you
That you're an overcomer
You're an overcomer