Doing For Others

Just the other day, I read a Hindu Proverb that stated, "Help thy brother's boat across, and lo! thine own has reached the shore."

These words caused me some reflection and contemplation and really struck me at a time when I am trying to find my place, my purpose, my fulfillment. I have debated just which volunteer efforts to become involved in, should I drive patients to their treatment sessions through the American Cancer Society, should I become a Hospice volunteer, will I volunteer for a Board of Directors that places literacy in the hands of poverty stricken children, should I sign up for a weekly Meals on Wheels program....what am I supposed to be doing with my time and talents? And because I know the answers will come, I am patient and willing to do what I can in the meantime. However, for me, this profound loss and surreal experience has taught me that there are so many in need, so many would just give anything for a listening ear, to tell a story of their beloved who has gone before them, who would benefit from someone who knows and understands things she never thought she could!

To help another one, is to forget, for just a few moments at least, the all consuming, sometimes debilitating pain of grief. I suppose that is why support and self-help groups are so effective. So far, I have not chosen those services as part of my journey, but that is not to say I will not. I do recall, within the first weeks of Allison's passing, so many others sent me pamphlets and brochures and websites with these type of offerings. They were the kindest of gestures, but they meant nothing to me at the time. Now, they do, and I go back and look at them and perhaps one day that is the direction I will head. Perhaps I will form a charter or an organization or just host a group for mothers in my home. I attempted that at one time, but despite the responses of yes, I will be there, no one came. And I understood that. Sometimes we cannot move, we cannot bear to see someone else's "normal" life, cheerful smile, or so called happy home, because our hearts are breaking. We can't drive to the place we are supposed to be, we cannot get dressed, we cannot walk into a restaurant without scanning the faces, and we cannot fathom laughter. We cannot imagine doing for others because we don't know what to do for ourselves.

But one day, we do know. The spirit intervenes and inspires us to make those cupcakes for a neighbor, to make a meal for a struggling couple or family, to babysit the neighbors so the parents can have a well deserved evening of fun, to create a basket for a raffle at the Relay for Life, to organize a whole team and raise money for a cause, to sponsor events to support a daughter's scholarship fund. We find we CAN take ourselves out of the fog of pain because as we do for others, we ever so slowly begin to heal. The consumption of pain, fear and dread, dissipates just a bit and we begin to breathe and live. Yes, it comes back, rages at time, leaves you so breathless you know you must be suffering from a heart attack, then eases and you can get up, do for yourself, and do for others.

I suppose what I am finding is that the volunteer effort doesn't necessarily have to be a huge undertaking or commitment. It can be mailing a book to a friend or acquaintance, or sending the pink package to the young senior in high school who Allison adored, it can be making Jen's favorite cupcakes and taking them to her work, it can be supporting friends and colleagues as they make decisions about their own situations and lives, it can be the online chats with others who travel this journey with me, the conversations with my siblings about our journey of loss as it has settled in that our mother, father, and beloved Allison have left us earlier than we had ever thought possible. Doing for others is a gift in this brokenness, for I have been blessed with the gift of time and resources to help in the way I am called. What I didn't expect from all of this, was that while helping and assisting others, my healing has been impacted.

I am grateful I can reach out to others and for those who reach out to me. In spite of the loss, I am thankful for the gifts that come in many forms. I am thankful to God for the guides and beacons in my life, in the form of people who inspire me, who without saying or doing anything in particular, I can cling to and know I am going to be okay. I am thankful that perhaps I will someday be that guide for someone else, that hope-inducing model, that one who need not say anything, that one who just knows.

Children

Today, a snow day, and thoughts of children come to mind. You do not just turn off the quarter century of raising your own, and teaching other children. And when the snow day comes, well, it is always at just the right time, for mothers, the chance to spend the day baking cookies, playing games, doing things meant for no other day. For teachers, the day of reprieve, to breathe, stay on the home front, or run errands (we couldn't get to work, but we can surely get to the mall:), be domestic, make the house a home, do the laundry, make a fire, whatever simple joy can come, a snow day brings. I must admit that today the tears and gut wrenching sobs came, some from pain of loss, some from happier times, times when I would never have suspected what my heart could hold, times when the freedom of a snow day came and revived us all in some magnificent way. You could close the day off and just be with the ones you loved and just BE. For me, now, every day could be a snow day if I choose, and I am grateful. But for this day, memories are raging, sometimes swallowing me up, sometimes washing over me, both at the same time.

Snow days are for children, young and old. They mean different things to each one of us. If you asked my girls, the response would probably be centered around food or games, we always baked cookies and colored pictures or played games. And if it was a GOOD snow day (unlike today, when we barely received what was predicted, yet St. Louis folks still stock up on bread and milk, as if we are going into full seclusion), we would play outside and pile the clothes and towels at the front door, hence, causing a laundry pile-up. But it didn't matter, there were never any worries or fights on snow days! We were happy, the house was warm, and the kitchen smelled oh, so good!

Yes, snow days are for children, which brings me to thinking of us mothers. If we had to work, and the children were home for a snow day, what a chain reaction of what to do...call in the relatives, or does Dad stay home, can they stay with friends, what do we do? Same with when they would be sick, what do we do? Do we leave them home, do we call the grandparents, do we stay home, too, what do we do? Mothers are so unique in their relationship and care and concern for their children, and today, as I heard from more than one friend about their situations with their children, now grown, and out of the "snow day" age, I couldn't help but think of the precious gift we have, with our sons and daughters. I couldn't help but think about how their every breath is ours, how we are in tune with their joys and challenges, and how the mere sound of their voice on the phone can send ripples of reality right to our core. We know the minute we hear it whether we should prepare to be joyous, sad, encouraging, whether we need to impart some knowledge and experience to help them in their decisions, whether it is time for a little discipline, or whether it is the simple listening ear that they need. We know it when they don't call, also. We know what the silence of the phone means, how the hours or days can go by and we don't hear that familiar voice, we know whether it means they are so entrenched in their own activities or lives, or whether they need a little space. We just know, our soul tells us so.

I remember many phone calls from both daughters over the years, and I can tell, in an instant, with the "Hi Mom", whether I needed to be concerned or happy. I can share many stories, but anyone who is a mother already knows, without example, just what I mean. And naturally, the one call that stands out the most, and changed my life forever, was THE call, the one from Chicago, when Allison walked eight, huge Chicago style blocks to a hospital, in freezing cold temperatures and snowflakes falling, and was admitted with breathing problems and a pneumonia diagnosis. I hear her voice, to this day, and the way it sounded, when she said, "Hi Mom". I knew what I knew, and I didn't panic, I didn't rush up there until the next morning, alongside of Joe, we took our time, we enjoyed the ride, yet we were filled with the anxiety any parent faces when about to tend and care for a child in need. Through it all, from the minute she first called, she didn't want us alarmed, told us to take our time, she would be okay. She was right, and as the next eleven weeks passed, with a parent continually by her side, we faced the joys and challenges that came our way. She had many snow days in her final weeks with us, one "real" one, many just in her mind, and she was celebrated and laid to rest on a day that would have brought her immense joy, a magnificent ice and snowy day, one where I can only hope she smelled the cookies, felt the freedom, the joys, the peace, the love that can only be captured on a "Snow Day".

Children deserve a snow day, and so do adults, today I am thanking God for the many I have experienced.

Something Inside All Of Us

There is something inside all of us that must be reckoned with, acknowledged, accepted, faced or managed. This thought came to mind after viewing a great movie, August Rush, just last evening. In the movie, the young boy has a tremendous love of music and an incredible gift, and while truly fiction, I can say that I have met so many students with such a gift. Maybe not in the music arena, but certainly in the arts of any kind, or in linguistics, or in athletics...we all have met, or heard the stories of those against incredible odds who have amazing talents and strengths. Naturally, it caused me to think of what is inside all of us, in particular ourselves and those we love. While we may not be able to sit down and play a piece on the piano or guitar by ear, or create amazing sculptures, we certainly each have our own talent and design, right within our souls.

In the movie, the main character was often referred to as a freak for his love and talent and belief in the music and what it would do for him. I have seen this over and over in a career of teaching when students were referred to as odd, weird or freakish for who they were and what they could do, or for what they believed in...and that was often the painful part of working with young people, and their parents. Of course, it brought to mind my own recent reflections and beliefs and talents and strengths. I wondered if I would stand as clearly as this adolescent did when questioned and if I would just shrug off those who didn't understand or found me to be rather freakish or odd. It brought to mind many circumstances and happenings and "signs", if you will, that I have documented to be true since Allison left this earth. I wonder if anyone would believe some of the stories, or if they would just appease me and nod their head, but turn the other way, and think that I had lost my mind! For some, I know the answer. There are those who are ready to accept the signs or visits or circumstances, there are those who believe as I do that when the soul leaves the body, it passes into eternity and naturally permeates our infinite space forever. I am thankful for those people, because it gives me others to share the stories with, and it provides hope for all of us.

Sometimes I hear music when there is none, sometimes I feel a whisper of encouragement when there is none, and I have had the shadow fall over me when there is not a cloud in the sky, or reason for another being to be in my space. Sometimes I have smelled the faint odor of a beautiful perfume in a room where there is no candle, and sometimes the salt air infiltrates the house, right here in the midwest. Often a light beam will shine through the house and light it up, if only for an instant, and many times there is an energy about this house that is indescribable, it vibrates with activity and love, and there is no one physically here, but me. Sometimes the computer chair will look occupied by the faintest of beings, only to see that it is not occupied. And sometimes, when little children have come over, they see things here that our eyes do not...one described it as an angel for Joe and Kathy, an angel with blue or green eyes. There is a peace about our lives, now, through pain and loss and tears and devastation, there is still a peace. There are whispers of love and the will to go on. There are signs and they are everywhere. I often wonder, is it God, is it Allison, is it Hope?

I recall, so vividly, the first Thanksgiving after Allison was gone. None of us knew what to do or how to do it. We couldn't imagine the empty chair. We didn't want to go on. But we had to, for our sakes, and the sake of everyone else. None of us could commit to a plan. Grandpa was in the hospital for surgery, the same hospital that Allison spent her last days in, and since it was a holiday, many patients were moved to another floor, and yes, he was moved to Allison's floor, and the very room, or the one right next to it, where Allison fell to eternal sleep. It was all too much, yet, we moved through it all, and had dinner here. Every step was so surreal and felt as if we moved in a fog. Who knows what I cooked or what we ate, but we somehow managed to have dinner. When everyone was gone and I could barely stand with the compelling emotion, I headed toward my bedroom and checked on the lights. There was a bright light in the little office, and as I headed there, I noticed it began to fade. But a very clear whisper came from that room, "you did it Mom, you made it", and then the room was dark. Did I imagine it? Did I dream it? Did I make it up? No, it was real to me and I believe, accept and acknowledge that these things can and do happen. Again I say, was it God, was it Allison, or was it Hope? I believe it was all three, giving me reason to keep going, showing me signs that I can do this, somehow, someway, and giving me reason to accept, acknowledge and face what is mine. It won't matter what anyone else thinks, or if they wonder about me, for I know, I know something that is only mine to know, and I will stay open to the wonderment of the signs, and the music when there is none, and the scent when there could be no reason, and I will cling to the messages.

Yes, there is something inside of us alright, and it is beautiful when we know it, embrace it, acknowledge it, but mostly accept it, without concern of what others may think or do or say. What a treasured gift indeed!

Medicine

Perhaps I should have titled my blog, Random Thoughts, because that seems to be more appropriate lately. So many thoughts that weave in and out of my mind, so many emotions, so many lessons, those learned and applied, those yet to be introduced, let alone learned. What brought "medicine" to mind, I suppose, are all those I somehow now find in my ever growing circle who, for one reason or another, find the need for medicine. Maybe it's the strongest form, the chemotherapy, or the drugs to ease the pain and discomfort of a spreading, or even dormant, cancer. Maybe it's the prescription to bring balance to a body whose chemicals or cells or hormones find it necessary to medicate in order to function. Maybe it's the small, or large, doses of sleeping aids that some need in order to shut off the pain, whether emotional or physical. Or maybe it is the three tylenol that I take each morning to ease the pain of joints and muscles or arthritis, whatever the case may be.

Medicine comes in many forms, and a funny story (well, sort of) comes to mind. My father and mother grew up in the martini generation and each night, well, standard practice was to share a drink together as Dad came in from his day. They would sit and share that drink, no matter what was going on, and yes, sometimes, one led to two, and then maybe three, and often, the three of us would be edgy, wanting to eat, yet, somehow, it was just the expectation that dinner always followed the drinks. When my parents moved in with us, I recall Allison asking Grandpa what that drink was with the lemon in it, and his response, "my medicine". She took it literally, as any young girl would...years later, when she took a sip of his medicine while the glass sat on the kitchen counter, she realized, this wasn't really medicine at all! Or was it?! We all know those, and even ourselves, who count on our own form of "medicine" to take care of what ails us! I always say, but there by the grace of God go I that I am not addicted to any form of drug or alcohol...I suppose some would question that if they saw the number of empty wine bottles from time to time, so suffice it to say, I do like wine and yes, in many ways, if I drank it every day, it could become an addiction, and probably HAS served as my form of medicine a time or two. And while I must be honest, and share that there have been many times since Allison's passing, that if I knew a certain "medicine" would dull my pain, take it away, make me forget, help me cope, I would be the first to take it. I even had those offering to share their perscriptions with me at the onset of this journey, "just to take the edge off". And, by admittance, I did see my physican about a sleep sedative for awhile, when rest was so desperately sought and needed. And I am no hero, I have cried to God to spare me this pain, that surely there is a drug out there that can numb this grief, that can make me a little foggy, a little groggy, that can take the images, dreams, reflections, away. But it wasn't the course for me, and God truly knows that each one of us responds differently. I have always said, and mean from the bottom of my heart, that I am so thankful that faith and trust in a loving God was part of my life before this journey began. If not for Him, this whole scenario would look different, I know it as well as I know my own name.

When Allison would enter chemotherapy or radiation treatments, she read the pamphlet given to us, "God's medicine", and she never looked at it any other way. Sure, she learned that she had to take the drugs that were prescribed, she learned the difficult lessons that when you are a cancer patient and do not stay ahead of the pain, it gets ahead of you. We all learned valuable lessons associated with medicine, but we also learned that doctors and nurses and medications do part of the work, your faith and belief in God's healing does more. Her beloved oncologist never let her lose sight of that, either. You could tell he knew he was a mere mortal, not God, not the ultimate physician, not the man with all the answers, and he, too, gave her the gift of hope and miracles and God's presence. I hope Allison knows how proud we are to be her parents, her sister, her family, that she left us the desire to take the pain, swallow hard some days, go to sleep without benefit of drugs, wake up without a pill, face the grief, roll with it, deal with it the best and only way we can...in honor of the Father who never forsakes us and in memory of a daughter who would choose the clean, pure way of handling this, with as much dignity as we can muster, and as much strength to live this day.

Cling To Hope

I recall, during Allison's illness, and in many other times in my life, clinging to hope. Knowing that with faith and love and trust, there is always hope. I used to say that while there is breath, there is hope, and I still say that, because at any minute, any second, everything as we know it can turn around, and things will be different. I now know that even after life, there is still hope. God provides it through His love and word, and families provide it through their own love and actions, and friends provide it with their own love and support. Hope is a beautiful word, if nothing else, it always gives you something to cling to...HOPE. I must say, however, that my hopes and dreams have changed along the way. What I once thought I had hoped for has changed and what I believe, know and trust has evolved. Mostly, I'm certain, from the experience of this incredible loss of a child, but also through the experiences of others and their personal journey. When we awaken and our mind brings forth all the sorrow, pain, chronic illness, and heartache of those in our lives, it's enough to send us right back to a place where we don't want to think about it, let alone face it. Why just this week alone, and I do not exaggerate this statistic, I have been contacted or told of five beloveds whose cancers have returned after celebrated remissions...FIVE, just THIS week. That, added to the sadness of a young mother with babies having her husband leave her to fend alone, a friend of Jennifer's whose doctors found cancer while she was pregnant with her second child, who is battling with every ounce of strength to fight and live for her husband and children, another friend who began treatments and whose system is crying out for it to be over, a brother-in-law who will make a decision about a life altering stem cell transplant in the coming months, added to the recent story of someone I know whose son decided to end his own life, and now the parents cannot go on, too many unanswered questions and guilt and pain. None of these situations are fair, yet, they happen every day, and to all of us as we pick up the phone or read an e-mail, or worst of all, receive our own call from the doctor or loved one. This pain is real, but so is hope. We have all said it, but have we really listened to the words, HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL. I surely am learning the true meaning of those words and as I visit with those struggling and suffering, it's all I can offer. Some don't want to hear it, or their level of readiness is not there. Some resist it, choosing to stay in a place that is dark and dreary. But some embrace it and hold tight and let it carry them to the next moment. It conjurs up light and beauty and goodness and all we have to do is open the word of God to find more scriptures about hope than almost any other phrase, feeling, word, or thought.

A scripture of hope read so eloquently at Allison's end of life celebration, and one that pulls me through every difficult, challenging, gut wrenching moment of my own life...Romans 5:3-5, "Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance, perseverance, character, and character, hope. And HOPE doe not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."

Truly, hope does not disappoint us. No matter our circumstances, bleak or bountiful, happy or sad, devastating or enjoyable, we need the promise God gives us in the gift of hope.

Her Name

I have certainly learned how each individual, couple, sibling, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or friend deals with the knowledge that their loved one is gone from our physical lives. It is such a personal journey, yet, we have to "fit in" with others from time to time, and surely respect that their way may not be our way. Saying Allison's name and sharing stories has been one such step, but for each of us, the way of handling it is different. For some, it is still too painful and early to bring her into the stories, for others, it's as if the comfort comes in knowing she is still with us, just in a different way. For me, I still get choked up and find it hard to swallow when I must refer to a deceased daughter...I shouldn't have a child who has gone before me, therefore, when I am forced to say it or think it, it reconfirms for me what I already know, Allison's life as we knew it is over.

I am pleased that Jennifer can very easily share the "remember when" stories, just as we would do if Allison were present and among us. To me, it is natural to share the stories, for they have always been, and always will be, part of who we are as a family. It's also very hard to do, because with each utterance of her name, is that heartache or missed beat and conscious reality that we are living here without her. While beautiful, the memories can be so painful, just like saying her name. Yet, as her mother, I have always felt it part of my responsibility to keep her part of us and not ignore the fact that she was part of us, not to move or remove photographs, yet not create a shrine either. I am still, and always will be, her mother, and just as if she were here, I have to set the tone for how others will react or respond by the way that I do...therefore, sometimes during blessings or special occasions she will be mentioned, or toasted, or simply remembered or honored, not by words, always, but by actions or surrounding ourselves with something we know she would like or enjoy. We may have the white cake with chocolate icing on or around her birthday and not say a word, but we will know. I may light my daily candle and send my love to her, needing no words. I may linger a bit as I get the scent of her from something that was moved or removed from her closet. I may notice all the Allison's now on television shows or hear the name and think of her, or we may celebrate a special day by simply going to her favorite restaurant. All in all, it is important to me to keep the door open to her life, not closed. But sometimes that makes others unsure or uncomfortable, and for that I am truly sorry. I never want to inflict emotional pain on anyone, or cause an uneasiness in those who don't know what to do or say. This has been an awkward dance for all of us, to be the family who lost a daughter, who is forever changed, who will never be the same again. So many do not know how to respond to that, and I would not have either, until God chose this path for us. It is amazing to me that there are so many people who shared our lives before who I have never heard from or seen since the day of Allison's service. I truly understand why, I grasp the pain it causes when they see Joe, Jennifer or me, they don't comprehend how we appear normal or can even speak of her. They don't understand, and I pray God they never do, but I do, and I know no words are necessary. No words but sometimes a simple story or just hearing her name acknowledges she existed and still does. The mere mention of her name is not going to cause us any more grief than we already carry or any more pain than is already raging through our hearts.

This one I have loved, my daughter, is with us, always, and we can speak her name. We can cry when we do, we can fall to our knees, we can laugh at her antics, and the way she always got her way, we can remember that sincere, immense smile and her spirited eyes, and we can one day, I hope, do it with some decreased heaviness in our souls.

TIME

There is a season for everything, and I live by the understanding, as promised in Ecclesiastes, a time for everything under heaven. A time to mourn, a time to laugh, a time to weep, a time to plant...my paraphrases, obviously! It leads me to think of time this day, time to be, time to do, time to stay productive, time to be lazy, time to savor the hot chocolate this morning, time to set goals, time to fill with a full day ahead to do so. I have been known to look back in time, ahead, or view the moment I am in, the present, this moment. That is where I like to be, now. Not that I don't enjoy the memories, I do. Not that I don't like to plan the future, I do. In fact, I love it best when I am in the planning stages of some special occasion, a trip, a get together, an event or function. I like to fill my time, but in the months since Allison passed away from us, I also like to savor it. I never knew coffee could taste so good or time could be so precious when I wasn't rushing to work for an early morning meeting, juggling the school day, going to class at night, teaching Sunday School, attending the girls' activities, being a Girl Scout leader. Not that I didn't enjoy all of that, in fact, thrived on it, exhilerated by the next opportunity to be in this life. Now, my time is spent in different ways and I am adjusting. I like it, I am thankful, I am not bored, I am productive (in my own way) and I am healing. That is my full-time job now, healing and understanding what precious time really means, and filling it with positive energy from my own agenda. I get to choose how to spend this time and with whom. I am thankful I get the chance to face life on my own terms...another lesson from loss. Suddenly, all the other things do not matter anymore, all the running and doing and meeting others expectations of me. What a precious gift! Yes, gifts DO come from intense loss. Some days I have to look so intently to find them, but mostly, they are in simple form. They are the morning sun streaming across my book, Barkley needing his 9:30 a.m. walk, the sky opening up with streams of whispy clouds, the pink glow on the house most evenings as the sun sets, the extra hour of sleep that I had yearned for all those years, the big, cushy robe from Jennifer and Allison that I can stay in as long as I want, the new music I am learning to love, the online opportunities for healing and strength, and the friends and family who bring me energy. Sometimes I ask God if this is part of the lesson I am supposed to be learning? To find comfort in time, not needing to fill every moment, but to explore and find a world out here that I never knew before, that being alone at times is very good for the soul, and that I am in my happy place when I am by myself. Not that I could become a recluse, but to balance alone time with family time and selected social engagements. I trust God to show me what I am supposed to know, even in the moments when I cry out to Him to help me get to the next minute in time, to help me find peace, to show me the way of doing this. It's all so foreign, still, and I suppose when one has lived over 50 years one way, and is "forced" to live life another way, it takes adjustments and acceptance. I am learning to be patient and thankful for this day, this gift of time, that so many would like to have, to savor the small things, find the blessings, and embrace this moment. The quiet, empty bedroom is my physical reminder that time is so short, we live, and we are gone. Needless to say, my hollow heart also tells me that with every beat. So, it is my daily pledge to God and myself, that I will live this day, I will fill this moment and I will live while I can.

Life's Celebrations

We wake up and we get to choose how our day will run, well, mostly, at least we get to choose with which attitude we will prevail. We don't get to select the situations, happenings, or even what gets handed to us. We don't get to choose how it unfolds, even, but we do have a hand in the response. We get to respond, and that is the beauty. Those thoughts come to mind, this day, when I remember, with jubilation, Allison's celebration of life service, two years ago this day. Jubilation because she was free, free from any worry, loss, pain, anxiety, free from any uncertain future, free from the cancer that I always say, never defined her. She found her way to accept that she would leave this earth and live in spirit with a loving God, whom she trusted to make the right decisions for her. She celebrated life, each day, and I can still hear her, as part of her legacy, her often stated comment, "I love my life". She truly did, so it was appropriate that we celebrated it as such, and we did our best. God sent us angels in the form of many friends and family members whose time and talents were needed to plan and prepare the Saturday we would gather in His name, and celebrate her. I still have the sense of peace in how we honored a life, one little speck of a life in all of mankind, yet a celebration that is etched in my mind and heart forever. As we sorted out ideas and plans, the "angels" heard us, helped us and we prepared. We gathered and sent her "safely home" with dignity. Several pastors gathered and lent their own renditions and ways of driving the point home to all of us that God gives us ALL the gift of salvation through His own grace, and we all had the sweet assurance that the gift was ours for the taking. There was laughter and joy and balloons and cake. There were serious moments, and there were stories, shared by eloquent storytellers. The music was beautiful and there was peace. The scriptures read held promise and hope for all of us as believers, and even those who were not. It was a day in the life...and it was wondrous, made more so by the blend of those gathered from all walks of life, all there to support us and say good-bye to Allison. The ice forming only added to the novelty of it looking just like a new england day right here in the midwest! There was elation and hope and beauty and purity. And there still is, only it takes work to retrieve it and "maneuver" through the pain. I never knew that living without her would be more difficult than saying good-bye....I never knew until I have walked in these shoes for two years, awakened in the night, still sometimes reeling from the shock that our daughter's life was taken by cancer. I never knew until I found that I cannot call her to tell her the latest family news or share a story. I never knew until I think I hear her calling my name from her room, only to find it is a dream or a long ago memory. I just never knew.

What I do know is that this is our particular "trial", if you will. Everyone carries one and shoulders burdens and loss. And loss comes in various forms, this I know...divorce, a husband leaving his family, jobs, children who live but do not visit their parents, those walking with mental illness, or chronic illness. I listened to Patrick Swayze as he spoke of getting up hours and hours before he had to be on the set of his new television show just to get the "plumbing" ready for the day. Some folks I know can relate. I recall a time when that was me, only not to that extreme, but getting up hours before work just so the body would move through fibromyalgia, just so I could walk that day...still, I knew, to be grateful and thankful, that life can be worse. And it always can. Sometimes, in the darkness of my own despair and loss, I can selfishly, for a minute, believe that nothing is worse than this walk, but then God, and Allison's spirit snap me into reality, I hear that whisper, I find that spark, I affirm that I am right where God intends, I watch the story unfold and I find the answers. I believe that is the key to moving through whatever suffering is ours to bear, and I am thankful, grateful for the life I DO have, because I do have this day, this moment, this life. Through the challenging times I can find the blessings, the celebrations that don't need to wait until I am gone, that can happen right now. I can drink the good wine first! I can travel to my favorite places. I can watch the sun rise and set, I can bake a cake for a neighbor, I can find a project, I can make coffee and sit and chat with Jennifer, or take her out to lunch, I can make happy and healthy meals for Joe, I can walk and pamper the dog, I can go back to work, should I ever desire to do so, and I can whisper the profound statement of my youngest daughter, "I love my life".

I miss her so, as I recapture the beauty of her service, filled with celebration and love, but I am blessed with the sweet assurance of her ascension to her place in eternity. And with each passing day, I find getting to know her through her spirit, rather than the physical presence, is a joy to behold!

She Did Not Die

This is the day....the day for memories, when at 7:00 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, 24 months ago, our beloved Allison left this earth for her eternal home, parents and sister by her side. It has occured to me on many occasions that not many mothers can say, I felt her first heartbeat, and I felt her last. With my hand to her heart, and hers to mine, her heart came to a slow and steady and final breath. The room filled with sunbeams of pinks, orange, yellow and even blue. Yes, the skies opened up and all the nurses and doctors spoke of what they saw...an amazing array of brilliant light, creating a glittery path to the skies, and it was then that I knew Allison's soul found her way to the heavens above.

This day I simply share a poem that our daughter Jennifer read at Allison's celebration of life a few days later. We have come to fully understand why this particular poem was the one she chose, they are not just words read at a beautiful ceremony, they now have deeper meaning and share Allison's spirit as we live our lives for each other, for God and for her.

I DID NOT DIE

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond's gilt on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I DID NOT DIE.

May God carry us all through this day of mourning, memories, tears, remembrances, just as He has every minute, every day for all of our lives.

And may we find the blessings in brokenness, always, for they are there, love and light on this beautiful, sun-filled morning, an anniversary of sorts, a day etched in our hearts and souls forever, Kathy

Remembering

Many weeks ago, I began to whisper to God, to Allison, to all the angels above to please help me through what I knew would become grueling, memory filled days, all the "lasts" so to speak. I had already experienced what "triggers" and anniversaries of sorts can do to one's soul, heart, being since losing my mother then my father. I knew the last 11-week journey would be difficult to say the least but I knew I would work through it as I have for the last two years, my way, and with the support of a loving husband and daughter. I also knew I would not retreat, for there is life to be lived, people to enjoy, experiences to gain, and everything to learn. I know to appreciate the fluffy pink sunset differently, and to praise God that the day has dawned, I know to concentrate on what I do have, rather than what I do not, to bask in the greatness of the fact that I am alive, and can walk, breathe, and talk. I know how to find the blessings and be grateful and to take a trip or a walk or talk with a dear friend. I strive to keep this house alive by the occasional group or individuals who visit and I have truly appreciated the taste of fine wine! I savor the meals at the dining table or find joy when Joe can laugh, or Jennifer shares her day. I don't want to miss a minute of life, yet, realistically, there are times, when the heartache and pain of loss tries to infiltrate, and sometimes I let it. I hold my knees and cry, or cry in someone's arms, or see special and varying types of healing therapists, just so I know I am living, trying, paying honor to who I am and who my deceased daughter was...all in the name of finding my way, NOT moving on, that will never happen, NOT letting go completely, but loosening the grip, freeing Allison to be the spirit she was destined to become and allowing me to live this moment that has been given, for I have learned, this moment is all we truly have...savoring it has become my breath and my way of living. I don't look ahead and I try not to look back, yet, still, on this day, part of me cannot help but look back to another January 8th, in 2007, when Allison spent her last day and night with us, her family never knowing that when the morning dawned on January 9, God would hear our cries, her cries, her pain, and bring her to His sweet kingdom.

So, today, is really a significant day, it is bittersweet and it carries many memories. Some I feel so deeply, others I replay in my mind, not necessarily intentional, but because they come and rest in my heart. I will live it with what would seem some normalcy, tending to my day the same way I do every day. Any observer would never know how I long to have the opportunity for one more day, how I woke up with tears on my lashes, how my body is responding. No one would know unless they were me.

I share this poem, brought to me by a dear friend on the anniversary of Allison's last night at home, December 29th, simple and sweet, minimal words, but it says so much, written and adapted by a family member of hers.

REMEMBERING

Who can fill this void? No One
Who can comfort us now? Everyone
What can we do to right past wrongs? Nothing
What would we give to see them again? Everything
When do we not feel their loss? No Day
When do we miss their loving smiles? Everyday
Where can we go to forget? Nowhere
Where can we go to remember? Everywhere
Why do we not say more? No words
Why does faith say it all? Every word

Remembering Allison this day, with love and hope to all reading this message, Kathy

The Faces of Lung Cancer

When we realized that small cell lung cancer could possibly take the life of our beloved daughter, it was a monumental, life altering moment. We had to face many facts and little did we know what would lie ahead, in the months, and now years, two already, to come. It is too mind boggling to even say two years, for in my heart and soul, it feels like today. My soul feels the same that it did that day, an aching, pounding, surreal fog has enveloped me from the outside to the inner core. I look in my own eyes, and see hers, or I see clear, crisp, bright green, cleansed with fresh tears or confused by all that has happened. I don't climb into bed or arise in the morning without feeling the same as I did that night and in all the days to come for 24 months. I have a restless, anxiousness to life, yet at the same time, a peace that passes understanding. I do not ask why or how...there would be no answers anyway. I pray, I ask God to hold me up, I ask God to keep me focused, I live to honor the moment that is now and I find the beauty in the gift that God heard our utter cry for release. I live to make her proud of the legacy she left, one of will, faith, hope and determination, grace and goodness, and no complaining!

Yet, I am perplexed, this day, as I finally posted a photograph of Allison Marie Haake on the lung cancer alliance website, www.lungcanceralliance.org, a picture of one of the faces of lung cancer. Perplexed and still overwhelmed that this disease attacked, raged and took her from us. Still shocked, in some ways, that her face is one of a lung cancer statistic. I have wanted to post her picture for some time, don't ask me why. As painful as it is, she needed to be there and has a story to be told. I guess I want others to see the life in her eyes and in her smile, the very radiance that still permeates her family's lives, that inspires those who knew her and even those who didn't. I want others to remember her, share a story, say her name, recall a memory, or look into her eyes and find the strength to face their own challenges. I want others to know what is in my heart, she did not die, she lives on in those who will someday reveal the whole story.

As I look at the website and all the faces of lung cancer, hers now blended with theirs, I know each has a story. Their pictures don't need to be posted for me to know that for everyone we meet has a story. Telling them and hearing them gives us each a little more hope to carry our own burdens, a little more faith that all will work for good when God is at the helm, a little more peace that this is all temporal and shall pass in a moment. The glory of the sunrise on that January 9th morning, with the beams of light entering in brilliant, vibrant colors, assuring us that God is in control, that we can let go and let Him carry our burdens, reminds me that while her face now sits with the hundreds of others, it is also beaming that smile, giving me reason to carry on, keep the faith, and cherish the time with my living child, my husband, my family and friends, and myself.

To Allison

I talk to her so often, a whisper, a prayer, a song, a poem...and as the days grow closer to the day she left her physical form, I sometimes have to touch an image of her on a photograph or hold on to my aching, broken heart to remind myself that this is all true, and not a dream that I will awaken from, that she is gone from my grasp, but not from my life.

To Allison...

Since your eyes were closed
Mine have been opened,
They have never ceased to weep, not one day,
But I see things more clearly, vividly, sharply,
I know things more deeply.
I feel things more explicitly.
I am learning how to smile through the heartache and find joy through the pain.
I am discovering the wound of losing a child doesn't heal completely.
I am learning to live with what has been handed to me.
I journey to places unknown and unchartered.
I am finding my true direction, my purpose, my self.
I know that I am never to be the same,
Since your eyes were closed.

May your rest be beautiful and freeing with your eyes wide open, eternal love, Mom

A Journal of Healing

I am so glad that I had the fortitude and determination to keep a journal of the last 24 months, and even the 11 weeks before, when Allison was first diagnosed with lung cancer. Going back and reading some of those entries helps me to know that this journey of healing, while still a long way from completion, is taking steps for my own betterment and health. I still maintain that it would be easier to shrivel up and not live the life I have, the day at hand, and I cannot deny that sometimes I want to do just that. I want to drown out these "last" days that are upon us, I want to rest from the emotional fatigue and pain that has been caused this holiday season, thinking that she should still join our dinner table, sit and open gifts, call me with her new year's plans. I want to shrink and not go out or be seen, I want to recoil with just my memory and my comfort zone...but God, and Allison's spirit, will not allow it. I am thankful that we were left with the gift of life, seen now through new eyes that would never have known what we were destined to know.

So, I focus on the goodness of it all, as I recall the final days and moments. Even as I held her hand to my heart, and mine to hers, and held her all night long, and even as I knew she would leave us to meet her maker, with tears streaming in the most broken of hearts, I felt a joy for her, almost a euphoric, elated giddiness, that she would soon be released and free...and God had heard us so clearly and soon. I sensed it then, and I know it now, that Allison was on a threshold of some great adventure, that her real work was just about to begin, and she would never leave us in the true sense. I have learned that she lives on in my heart and can never truly be defined as gone. No, she is not here in the physical sense, but I have come to know her presence is more profound than ever....that is what gets me from one moment to the other.

She did not necessarily die a beautiful death. Some might think so because of her spirit and nature and sweetness and beauty and faith. But she suffered, God only knows how much, and it was not easy. She didn't just fade into eternal, blissful sleep without a fight. And those images are the ones that break my heart and cause the onset of never ending tears...and those images are the ones that only her close family captured...and those images are the ones that wake me in the middle of the night. Replacing those images with the true beauty of God entering her soul and taking her with Him is the key to healing and hope, knowing there is such a loving Lord who will walk with us in all ways, in all days, if we just ask. Replacing those images with the beauty of His love and the fact that she, now, has no recollection of pain or suffering, brings me the peace that passes all understanding. But I cannot deny it takes work to stay focused and work through grief. It doesn't come naturally or on its own. It is a full time job and one that takes incredible faith and love and patience. My suffering cannot compare to hers, but it does exist, and I will look to the promises God makes as I travel this spiral of grief, while learning to live in a new way.

Reading some of my past entries, I have come to see that I am indeed finding my way, not like anyone else, not like Joe, not like Jennifer, but each of us our own way, held together with the love of God and each other. There is light and life in each new day. I will always remember these final days, and they will most likely bring on sweet sorrow, and many other mixed feelings. But the gift of all was that God chose a special moment in time, with her family all around her, for us to say good-bye, knowing we will have that reunion of our own, some day, in God's timing, not ours. Yes, sweet sorrow to let her go, but how sweet to know she is comfortable and calm and pain-free, and guiding us in new ways throughout each new day.