An interesting thing happened when I was able to put on my favorite sandals, the comfy, yet sassy looking ones, that never go out of style...well, I was able to put them on this week. I almost forgot about them. They were buried underneath all the shoes from two years ago. Last year, after foot surgery on both feet(how DID the doctor talk me into that one?), I wore a boot for most of May and June, and moved into flats with little socks, but open toed shoes were a no-no. Anyone who knows me, knows that sandal season begins in March and ends in October (hence, probably the whole toe problem to begin with)! Anyway, I didn't wear any of them last year, so this year, I gave it a try. I have had to be very careful and cautious with these feet since that surgery, but somehow, lo and behold, this year, I can wear my favorites! And be somewhat comfortable, really. I have had to learn, very slowly I might add, that comfort has to win over cute and trendy...the 50's aren't always pretty.
As I slid into the shoes last week, I noticed that my feet do not look like they did, even two years ago. Toes are changing and things are happening that indicate "old lady feet" are not that far away. There was a time that would have done me in...again, beautiful toes was my one virtue. That's all changed, and as I looked at my feet in the shoes, comfy and all, I had to admit that the scars are still quite obvious, that there are movements that cannot be made, that in spite of my own foot therapy, the scar is there. And I think the scar will be there a long time. And I'm okay with it, really, I am just glad I can wear sandals and that I can walk, thank you, God.
But the scar made me think of the internal scar from grief. That the pain that came from two little toes for this whole year is really nothing compared to the pain that comes, inside, from losing my child in this lifetime. It dawned on me, how can they heal all at once? How can just a couple of years take away the damage, the piercing, the shock, the pain, the disbelief, the trauma, the gut-wrenching emotion that rattles my inner self, my bones, my head, my jaw, my heart, my soul?
Scars heal. Time sees to it. Physical therapy sees to it. Massaging with oils sees to that. Bending, taping, movement sees to that. My foot scars are only beginning to heal, barely, so, what does that say about the inner scars that no one sees? No one feels? No one knows? I am convinced, more than ever, that everything and anything needed to be done, should be done, to heal the internal scar. Someday, like putting on the sandals that I feel comfortable in, maybe I will be comfortable in my own skin, and I will know, I am healing. I am getting better. I have a long way to go, but it will be done, and while I will never be the same, I will adjust and accept that things will never be the same. In time, in God's grace, and His time, not mine, I will be whole again.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Standing On Holy Ground
Everywhere we go, there is God. He doesn't wait until the house is cleaned, the bills paid, the laundry done, all things "right" according to our way of thinking. This morning I woke up with Him in my heart AND on my mind. I think He was saying that I have to get moving, keep finding my way, move from some of what has kept me "down" so much lately. And there has certainly been enough to do that, so much so, that the prevailing sadness just doesn't leave, it permeates, even though I go on about the way of life. I know He was reminding me that all the sad stories that surround me do not have to be reminders of past experiences, images, and pain. Psychologically, I know better than to carry another's burden, at least fully, but emotionally, well, another story unfolds. I read the blog of another grieving mother, CJ's mom, who writes how it is to prepare for her son's memorial visitation and it all comes rushing back, I feel it with every fiber of my being and I don't want to...it all comes rushing back when my own brother-in-law suffers side effects due to chemotherapy, has to enter a hospital, loses another part of himself each day, and I feel it, but I don't want to....and every single time I see a woman with a shaved head, it all comes rushing back, the strength of two sisters, one doing the shaving out of love, one, the cancer patient, showing bravery and fortitude to handle it before it handled her. But the images are still painful, because I remember the tears, the dignity, the loss for her, the first of many, and I weep. I weep, but for what. For memories. For part of life that had to happen and is now gone, showing that those steps were just God's way of preparing us for so much more. I know God, the Father, weeps with me.
Every step I have taken in my life I have stood on holy ground. I may not have known it then, but from the minute I knew who Jesus was, or should I say, accepted Him into my life, developed a relationship, and knew what He did for me, I have known what His love and life can do for me. I can do everything in His name, and find the peace that comes from living for Him, not myself. I can ask God, in the name of His son, to help me through each trial and tribulation. Looking back, some of the so called trials in my life seemed so monumental, but now...well, I suppose it is all relative. Nothing has ever, or will again, compare. Surely there will be more loss, more pain, more suffering, and grief, but I will know what God has intended me to know and the giant will have been faced.
In the hubbub (is that a word?!) of schools ending and decisions being made, and many of my friends and colleagues caught up in the change, I am listening to their woes. And I listen because it is important to them. And it was to me, too, for years. We try to figure out the powers that be and their decisions or we wonder what can be good in the configurations of people and their assignments. We can easily get wrapped up in the drama that surrounds such decisions and "feel" for the people who are impacted. We can also feel as though our world is coming to an end, and it is, as we know it. But being older and wiser we come to realize that all this is part of the bigger plan, the one God has already designed for us, and it is all so much more bearable when we walk on holy ground. I recall a move to a new school, at one point in my career, and I wondered how in the world I would manage it all, and it was then that I put my trust in God to know that something was intended by it, and it was. God and I did a lot of talking in those days! It's easy to see it all so clearly NOW.
I put that same trust in God, now, only a much bigger scale. Funny how the other "changes" and losses don't compare, yet were a stepping stone to standing on holy ground. Holy ground that makes all this more tolerable, bearable, clear and even doable. Holy ground is trusting and believing, knowing that God never forsakes me, and even took our Allison in His perfect timing, not ours. He sent the beams of colored light into a hospital room, lifted her soul, and allowed her to be the teacher she was destined to become. Those are the images I pray to remember, not the pain, the shaved head, the doctor visits, the medical reports, the cancer. While not always easy, it is my quest to remain on holy ground.
Every step I have taken in my life I have stood on holy ground. I may not have known it then, but from the minute I knew who Jesus was, or should I say, accepted Him into my life, developed a relationship, and knew what He did for me, I have known what His love and life can do for me. I can do everything in His name, and find the peace that comes from living for Him, not myself. I can ask God, in the name of His son, to help me through each trial and tribulation. Looking back, some of the so called trials in my life seemed so monumental, but now...well, I suppose it is all relative. Nothing has ever, or will again, compare. Surely there will be more loss, more pain, more suffering, and grief, but I will know what God has intended me to know and the giant will have been faced.
In the hubbub (is that a word?!) of schools ending and decisions being made, and many of my friends and colleagues caught up in the change, I am listening to their woes. And I listen because it is important to them. And it was to me, too, for years. We try to figure out the powers that be and their decisions or we wonder what can be good in the configurations of people and their assignments. We can easily get wrapped up in the drama that surrounds such decisions and "feel" for the people who are impacted. We can also feel as though our world is coming to an end, and it is, as we know it. But being older and wiser we come to realize that all this is part of the bigger plan, the one God has already designed for us, and it is all so much more bearable when we walk on holy ground. I recall a move to a new school, at one point in my career, and I wondered how in the world I would manage it all, and it was then that I put my trust in God to know that something was intended by it, and it was. God and I did a lot of talking in those days! It's easy to see it all so clearly NOW.
I put that same trust in God, now, only a much bigger scale. Funny how the other "changes" and losses don't compare, yet were a stepping stone to standing on holy ground. Holy ground that makes all this more tolerable, bearable, clear and even doable. Holy ground is trusting and believing, knowing that God never forsakes me, and even took our Allison in His perfect timing, not ours. He sent the beams of colored light into a hospital room, lifted her soul, and allowed her to be the teacher she was destined to become. Those are the images I pray to remember, not the pain, the shaved head, the doctor visits, the medical reports, the cancer. While not always easy, it is my quest to remain on holy ground.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
HOPE
Hope is that beautiful word that we cling to when there is life, breath, air, a new corner, a new chance, a new way, and no matter what the circumstance, there is always hope and clinging to it gets us where we need to go. God promises hope through a multitude of scriptures that provide a pathway for me to keep trying, to keep moving, to keep living. I am thankful for the passages that have become my road map.
Today, I just share a simple quote I have read in one of my favorite healing books, the one other than the bible, the one that I can read and reflect upon, intently, and I can relate to as I find my way to healing after loss.
"So often, we believe that we have come to a place that is void of hope and void of possibilities, only to find that it is in that very hopelessness that allows us to hit bottom, give up our illusion of control, turn it over, and ask for help. Out of the ashes of hopelessness comes the fire of our HOPE", by Anne Wilson Schaef.
Sometimes the thought or prospect of any motion or movement is unthinkable, even now, life sometimes seems to have stopped in its tracks. It is too difficult to look ahead and it is too difficult to look back. Perhaps that is why I still make all plans "contingent" and not set in stone. My commitments are few, and I have learned that is my right, in this journey that is all too foreign. Sure, well meaning friends and loved ones encourage and even share that Allison would want me to do a certain thing, dance again, laugh again, be the "old" Kathy. But I am not that person, rather a new, emerging Kathy is taking shape, with snippets of the spirit I had before, blended with a newness and a freshness. I look around and I see and feel and hear differently, the senses are alive, but in a new way. I can leave the darkness of grief behind and begin anew, noticing all that is before me, a friend who has been waiting all this time to have dinner, a walk to the library, time on the deck with my husband, new hobbies, entertaining and cooking for others, cozy times with Barkley, the chance to breathe in the air and enjoy the wonder of a morning such as this, shopping with Jennifer...it's all there, waiting, as my restless heart stops and knows I cannot stay in this same spot of grief forever. I have the fire of hope that comes from the ashes of hopelessness! I have a daughter who left such a legacy that I can never complain, never take for granted, and never be the same. Hope keeps me from getting stuck, hope spurs me to be a better mother, wife, sister, aunt, friend, contributor, caregiver, nurturer. Hope is that eternal gift, wrapped in the smile of our daughters, framed for eternity, guiding and giving reason to live. As long as their is life, and now I know, even when that life has changed, and takes form in the spirit of forever, there is hope, and as long as their is hope, there is life...the spiral takes on new form and changes, but is just that, a beautiful continuum on which we travel and evolve and live.
Without hope, I would remain stagnant, caught in my own transgressions and grief, my own pity and pain, my own brokenness. But with hope, I can find my way, give up that "illusion of control", know that a better moment is coming, find peace in comfort in God's own true word that all is temporal, that nothing is for long, that this too shall pass, and there is reason to live, breathe, believe.
Today, I just share a simple quote I have read in one of my favorite healing books, the one other than the bible, the one that I can read and reflect upon, intently, and I can relate to as I find my way to healing after loss.
"So often, we believe that we have come to a place that is void of hope and void of possibilities, only to find that it is in that very hopelessness that allows us to hit bottom, give up our illusion of control, turn it over, and ask for help. Out of the ashes of hopelessness comes the fire of our HOPE", by Anne Wilson Schaef.
Sometimes the thought or prospect of any motion or movement is unthinkable, even now, life sometimes seems to have stopped in its tracks. It is too difficult to look ahead and it is too difficult to look back. Perhaps that is why I still make all plans "contingent" and not set in stone. My commitments are few, and I have learned that is my right, in this journey that is all too foreign. Sure, well meaning friends and loved ones encourage and even share that Allison would want me to do a certain thing, dance again, laugh again, be the "old" Kathy. But I am not that person, rather a new, emerging Kathy is taking shape, with snippets of the spirit I had before, blended with a newness and a freshness. I look around and I see and feel and hear differently, the senses are alive, but in a new way. I can leave the darkness of grief behind and begin anew, noticing all that is before me, a friend who has been waiting all this time to have dinner, a walk to the library, time on the deck with my husband, new hobbies, entertaining and cooking for others, cozy times with Barkley, the chance to breathe in the air and enjoy the wonder of a morning such as this, shopping with Jennifer...it's all there, waiting, as my restless heart stops and knows I cannot stay in this same spot of grief forever. I have the fire of hope that comes from the ashes of hopelessness! I have a daughter who left such a legacy that I can never complain, never take for granted, and never be the same. Hope keeps me from getting stuck, hope spurs me to be a better mother, wife, sister, aunt, friend, contributor, caregiver, nurturer. Hope is that eternal gift, wrapped in the smile of our daughters, framed for eternity, guiding and giving reason to live. As long as their is life, and now I know, even when that life has changed, and takes form in the spirit of forever, there is hope, and as long as their is hope, there is life...the spiral takes on new form and changes, but is just that, a beautiful continuum on which we travel and evolve and live.
Without hope, I would remain stagnant, caught in my own transgressions and grief, my own pity and pain, my own brokenness. But with hope, I can find my way, give up that "illusion of control", know that a better moment is coming, find peace in comfort in God's own true word that all is temporal, that nothing is for long, that this too shall pass, and there is reason to live, breathe, believe.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Cancer
It's everywhere we turn, the news, the journals, the documentaries, the statistics, the diagnosis in new souls in our circles every single day, the treatments, the side effects, and all of us, directly impacted or not, know that the definition means something different to each of us. Perhaps it is the recent media coverage of Elizabeth Edwards or Farrah Fawcett that brings it home even more. Perhaps it is the fact that lung cancer is the leading cause of death over most all other cancers combined. Maybe it is the fact that our family was represented by Aunt Kathy at the Lung Cancer Advocacy Seminar, selected after submitting an essay about our story, her story, as it relates to Allison's diagnosis. Maybe it is the fact that CJ seems to be nearing the end of his earthly journey (please God for a miracle that we know you can perform), a vibrant, young life, perhaps taken all too soon by this dreaded disease. Maybe it is the fact that another loved one in our family, my sister's husband, faces new challenges in his fight with multiple myeloma. Maybe all of this, and much more, combined, is taking its toll on a family who really hasn't had time to take much of a breath in the 28 months since Allison left us. And by family, I don't mean the three of us, I mean ALL of us, the friends, loved ones, widening circle of amazing people who have now entered our lives, those who were with us before, and those we have met, since. Indeed, we opened ourselves up by first the caringbridge site, now this blog, and Michael's family website. Some have criticized Elizabeth Edwards and some, Farrah Fawcett, and many others who choose to share the journey in a way that is fitting for them. And some have asked me, us, how we can share some of the story, since it is so private and all. I don't ask myself why or how to take these steps, I just follow the spirit within and do what is right at the time, still knowing, that so much of Allison's cancer journey is still untold, that on most days I prefer to remember the beautiful part of it, the glowing young woman who held strong and believed she would "beat" this thing. I prefer to spend my energies knowing that the pain and fatigue and suffering of cancer are a thing of the past, heaven is the glorious reward for a young woman who knew Jesus and accepted Him as her personal saviour. In doing so, though, that means putting out the bad and the ugly part of her experiences, and that's okay. I almost hear her whisper, "there is no need to dwell on that, look at me now".
But try as I might, I cannot control certain images and reminders as my own brother-in-law battles away at what was to be a simple course of treatment. All the things that are happening of late were not "supposed" to happen, the course was set and things were targeted...life was going to be beautiful. And it is, but the fact is that somedays the fight is harder than others. Even still, with him in the hospital now, for observation and regulation, many things that are happening are completely foreign to him, and to those who have not had to endure any part of this experience. We feel helpless in this cancer journey, we want to do something, make it go away, ease the pain and effects of the drugs that must be used to kill this demon.
Cancer is ugly but it does not strip us of life, hope, laughter, joy, or courage. In fact, it turns us into people we would hardly have recognized, physically, of course, but more importantly, soulfully and spiritually. There are times we want to scream and curse at it, and that is okay, and there are times we want to say, thank you, cancer, you made me into a different and better human being, and you brought God closer within.
There is much more to be said but I must close now, not for fear I am headed to a soapbox, but because, I really cannot make sense of this week's emotions, I ache to be by my sister and brother-in-law's side, and I will be soon, and I am pained by their journey, but I know it is theirs, ours, and we will triumph. I don't know why or how I started writing about this thing called cancer today, other than there has been much to think about, again, firsthand, as our family holds Michael and all others close at heart. I do know that as I tried to even write words that could convey what is on my heart today, just now, before I could finish, CJ's journey here on earth DID end, and his new one begins. An e-mail popped up from his caringbridge site, simply stated from CJ's father, "God's finger touched him and he slept". Christopher Jonathan Gabriel Aubuchon was 19 years of age and leaves a legacy that cannot be put into words. Rest, CJ, rest, you precious young man. You are now cancer free and you are ready to soar.
But try as I might, I cannot control certain images and reminders as my own brother-in-law battles away at what was to be a simple course of treatment. All the things that are happening of late were not "supposed" to happen, the course was set and things were targeted...life was going to be beautiful. And it is, but the fact is that somedays the fight is harder than others. Even still, with him in the hospital now, for observation and regulation, many things that are happening are completely foreign to him, and to those who have not had to endure any part of this experience. We feel helpless in this cancer journey, we want to do something, make it go away, ease the pain and effects of the drugs that must be used to kill this demon.
Cancer is ugly but it does not strip us of life, hope, laughter, joy, or courage. In fact, it turns us into people we would hardly have recognized, physically, of course, but more importantly, soulfully and spiritually. There are times we want to scream and curse at it, and that is okay, and there are times we want to say, thank you, cancer, you made me into a different and better human being, and you brought God closer within.
There is much more to be said but I must close now, not for fear I am headed to a soapbox, but because, I really cannot make sense of this week's emotions, I ache to be by my sister and brother-in-law's side, and I will be soon, and I am pained by their journey, but I know it is theirs, ours, and we will triumph. I don't know why or how I started writing about this thing called cancer today, other than there has been much to think about, again, firsthand, as our family holds Michael and all others close at heart. I do know that as I tried to even write words that could convey what is on my heart today, just now, before I could finish, CJ's journey here on earth DID end, and his new one begins. An e-mail popped up from his caringbridge site, simply stated from CJ's father, "God's finger touched him and he slept". Christopher Jonathan Gabriel Aubuchon was 19 years of age and leaves a legacy that cannot be put into words. Rest, CJ, rest, you precious young man. You are now cancer free and you are ready to soar.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Charlie...simply, Charlie
Yesterday, today and the days to come, a small New England town mourns Charlie. And anyone who has come in contact with Charlie, even myself, mourns the physical death of an amazing man. I don't even know if I could spell his last name correctly, I know it is Fiese, or close enough, but I knew him as Charlie. And if I am this saddened, I can only imagine those who he connected with each and every day. You see Charlie is the custodian at Hull High School, a quaint, ocean view peninsula of a town, the town I visited all my years and the town where my sister and her husband settled and raised the boys. And Karen works at the high school as school secretary and has held many "jobs" there, some imposed, some by the nature of the assignments. Every day for years and years Karen and Charlie connected in ways that one does when there is a mutual respect and a common understanding of how to get the job done, and how to put the students first. Charlie took care of Karen, brought her water, treats, they laughed on the walkie-talkie, they chatted about life, they knew every move of each other's family, and they were family to one another. Their bond created a glow that gave off a spark of energy like no other! It is hard to say when I actually started making a visit to Charlie as part of my trip, but each time, I would make it to the high school to connect for a minute....sometimes on my way in to town, sometimes as I caught the ferry back to the airport, but more often than not, Charlie was on the horizon of every visit. And he would joke that he was going to come to St. Louis and work in one of my schools, kidded that I was the sister who was nicer, ribbing my own sister, all the while, looking at Karen with the admiration of a father/brother/uncle.
Charlie was 66 years old and on any given day would have been at the school long before 7:10 a.m. yesterday. In fact, Charlie devoted his life to that school and those students and staff. He made everyone's day brighter and he cared so deeply that everyone have a safe, clean, maintained building, but more importantly, a positive experience and the best day possible. He would lean on his mop, broom, over the counter, or stand straight and tall, it didn't matter, he was the mainstay of Hull High School. And yesterday morning, he was not scheduled to work, a rarity, as he was called to jury duty. God's intervention that he was not at school, tending to the day? Did God have the premonition that Charlie needed to be at home, not where hundreds of people would gather at just the time when the pain would come...the moment when he shared with his beloved wife that something felt a little odd, only to sit down and stop breathing completely? God knew something that the rest of the world did not, Charlie needed to be where he needed to be, tended to by his family, preparing for the eternal rest that comes when our work on earth is finished.
Charlie has other work to do, but it is sad. Karen shared how the principal gathered the staff and students in the gym for an assembly to share the news of their Charlie. She also shared how when it was time to return to class, the hundreds of students made nary a sound, that a pin could drop and it would be heard, as the saying goes. The silence must have been telling, I felt it from here.
Charlie was one of a kind. I smile through tears as I recall him creating a special place for my daughters and me when we attended Matt's graduation, special, roped seating, complete with water and fans! He checked on us periodically to make sure we were comfortable in the sweltering space, an unusual surge of warm temperatures causing a bit of staleness in his gym! He didn't check only on us, although he wanted me to believe it! I saw him make the rounds to others in that room, but he made us feel like dignitaries. Just as he did the day he came to a graduation celebration for Joseph, stopping by the house and bringing ME flowers. Charlie was quite a guy. I can only imagine from my small spectrum of experiences, what it must be like for my sister and all those who adored Charlie to face this loss. The stories are never going to cease!
My time of visiting Charlie ended after Allison passed away from us. It was too much for Charlie. He couldn't stand the pain and the sadness that resonated from my sister, let alone see me. I think Charlie grappled with the complexity of this young woman dying of lung cancer, as we all did, but maybe even a little more. Now that the world has lost Charlie, and he is with a loving and true God, he will find his answers and his peace about the parts of life that are so unfair and wrong and painful. No maybe about it, we will all learn the lessons taught by his example and his legacy is going to live through generations of students who moved through those halls and classrooms.
Charlie's memorial service will be held in the gym of the high school this Friday. How perfectly fitting! How perfectly aligned will the chairs be, the floor will shine, the flowers will adorn the makeshift alters, and Charlie's spirit and soul will see to it that every one is comfortable.
I am reminded of a poem that we placed on the back of Allison's memorial service booklet, but it is particularly fitting for Charlie...so, dedicated to a man who made such a difference, from one soul of thousands who will miss his presence, and to the students and staff who will walk the halls of Charlie's high school, I share, "I Am".
I Am
by Mary Lou Van Alta
The "I" that is me--you cannot see
You see only the form that you think is me.
This form that you see, will not always be;
But the "I" that is me--lives eternally.
Rest, dear Charlie, rest in peace.
Charlie was 66 years old and on any given day would have been at the school long before 7:10 a.m. yesterday. In fact, Charlie devoted his life to that school and those students and staff. He made everyone's day brighter and he cared so deeply that everyone have a safe, clean, maintained building, but more importantly, a positive experience and the best day possible. He would lean on his mop, broom, over the counter, or stand straight and tall, it didn't matter, he was the mainstay of Hull High School. And yesterday morning, he was not scheduled to work, a rarity, as he was called to jury duty. God's intervention that he was not at school, tending to the day? Did God have the premonition that Charlie needed to be at home, not where hundreds of people would gather at just the time when the pain would come...the moment when he shared with his beloved wife that something felt a little odd, only to sit down and stop breathing completely? God knew something that the rest of the world did not, Charlie needed to be where he needed to be, tended to by his family, preparing for the eternal rest that comes when our work on earth is finished.
Charlie has other work to do, but it is sad. Karen shared how the principal gathered the staff and students in the gym for an assembly to share the news of their Charlie. She also shared how when it was time to return to class, the hundreds of students made nary a sound, that a pin could drop and it would be heard, as the saying goes. The silence must have been telling, I felt it from here.
Charlie was one of a kind. I smile through tears as I recall him creating a special place for my daughters and me when we attended Matt's graduation, special, roped seating, complete with water and fans! He checked on us periodically to make sure we were comfortable in the sweltering space, an unusual surge of warm temperatures causing a bit of staleness in his gym! He didn't check only on us, although he wanted me to believe it! I saw him make the rounds to others in that room, but he made us feel like dignitaries. Just as he did the day he came to a graduation celebration for Joseph, stopping by the house and bringing ME flowers. Charlie was quite a guy. I can only imagine from my small spectrum of experiences, what it must be like for my sister and all those who adored Charlie to face this loss. The stories are never going to cease!
My time of visiting Charlie ended after Allison passed away from us. It was too much for Charlie. He couldn't stand the pain and the sadness that resonated from my sister, let alone see me. I think Charlie grappled with the complexity of this young woman dying of lung cancer, as we all did, but maybe even a little more. Now that the world has lost Charlie, and he is with a loving and true God, he will find his answers and his peace about the parts of life that are so unfair and wrong and painful. No maybe about it, we will all learn the lessons taught by his example and his legacy is going to live through generations of students who moved through those halls and classrooms.
Charlie's memorial service will be held in the gym of the high school this Friday. How perfectly fitting! How perfectly aligned will the chairs be, the floor will shine, the flowers will adorn the makeshift alters, and Charlie's spirit and soul will see to it that every one is comfortable.
I am reminded of a poem that we placed on the back of Allison's memorial service booklet, but it is particularly fitting for Charlie...so, dedicated to a man who made such a difference, from one soul of thousands who will miss his presence, and to the students and staff who will walk the halls of Charlie's high school, I share, "I Am".
I Am
by Mary Lou Van Alta
The "I" that is me--you cannot see
You see only the form that you think is me.
This form that you see, will not always be;
But the "I" that is me--lives eternally.
Rest, dear Charlie, rest in peace.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Sounds
I wonder if Allison had not left this world so soon, leaving me to redefine my own existence and purpose, leaving me to wonder what is to be made of all of this, leaving me to find the blessings in the depths of pain...I wonder if I would have slowed down enough to hear the sounds of life. Sometimes I cannot help but wonder how my life would have been had she not been struck with cancer and gone in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed. I remember thinking that we would be blessed to have her for five more years, maybe three, then it got to weeks, then days, then minutes. I feel it all so intently as the minutes ticked by and I knew in one last breath my life would change forever. But I did not know how much and where it would lead. I didn't know that a slow pace would be, or could be, so beautiful. That when you listen you hear things as though they are the first time. The background noises of daily living sound like trumpets to me, blasting and blaring that I am alive in this moment, that there is no rushing, that I have the gift of this day to do and be exactly what moves me, that there is some beauty in the neighbor's dog yelping at 6:00 a.m., that the sounds of another neighbor's lawn trimmer remind me that the beauty of spring is to be savored, and the children playing on the swingset behind our house sings a different song, one of hope and life and innocence. The buses pull in and pick up the children and the laughter is contagious. Even the sigh of my own dog as he takes his morning nap in a sunny spot of the house, is a treasure, for it reminds me that his unconditional love has been one of my greatest gifts and pleasures in days of uncertainty and loss...my constant companion hobbles to my side wherever I am, resting his head on my foot at the computer, or sitting by me while I stand and make a salad, jiggling his collar and sending out happy messages.
Then there is the quiet, and even that is a refreshing sound, for in it, I can hear the birds that still chirp this late in the morning, and the sound of the chimes, making their own sweet music, or the CD I have playing, Eva Cassidy's melodious, yet silenced voice, due to her own battle with cancer. As I listen, now, her song, Time Is A Healer, resonates throughout the house, and in the silence of the surroundings, I hear, and cling to, the words. She truly must have been an old soul, like Allison, who knew much before her time, for her words ring so true to what so many of us face in this lifetime.
This day, with senses alive, I am thankful to capture the beauty around me. I know that for some, for many, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight to the pain, loss, sorrow, or grief. I also know that in the next minute, it can rush in and consume me again, that I will stare in disbelief at a photograph and have to say out loud, once again, to affirm, that Allison is gone, that I will not hear her voice again, and that is a very deep pain. I will feel melancholy and sad, fatigued and distraught, but I will keep going, get up, move along, inch forward, find my way, and maneuver through the sights and sounds that are all so new, all so fresh, all there for the enjoying. I will hear things I never thought possible as I set out with new senses, and even a rebirth, all in the name of hardship, change and life. Life is happening whether I am ready or not, and it keeps evolving, and I must hold on for the ride, being open for the sounds that will restore and refresh and give me hope, keeping it simple and savoring every minute. I will whisper, "thank you Allison, thank you God for opening my ears to the newness and wonderment of this day".
Then there is the quiet, and even that is a refreshing sound, for in it, I can hear the birds that still chirp this late in the morning, and the sound of the chimes, making their own sweet music, or the CD I have playing, Eva Cassidy's melodious, yet silenced voice, due to her own battle with cancer. As I listen, now, her song, Time Is A Healer, resonates throughout the house, and in the silence of the surroundings, I hear, and cling to, the words. She truly must have been an old soul, like Allison, who knew much before her time, for her words ring so true to what so many of us face in this lifetime.
This day, with senses alive, I am thankful to capture the beauty around me. I know that for some, for many, there doesn't seem to be an end in sight to the pain, loss, sorrow, or grief. I also know that in the next minute, it can rush in and consume me again, that I will stare in disbelief at a photograph and have to say out loud, once again, to affirm, that Allison is gone, that I will not hear her voice again, and that is a very deep pain. I will feel melancholy and sad, fatigued and distraught, but I will keep going, get up, move along, inch forward, find my way, and maneuver through the sights and sounds that are all so new, all so fresh, all there for the enjoying. I will hear things I never thought possible as I set out with new senses, and even a rebirth, all in the name of hardship, change and life. Life is happening whether I am ready or not, and it keeps evolving, and I must hold on for the ride, being open for the sounds that will restore and refresh and give me hope, keeping it simple and savoring every minute. I will whisper, "thank you Allison, thank you God for opening my ears to the newness and wonderment of this day".
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Every Day is Mother's Day
As the emotion builds and churns over yet another holiday, the one where the universe (or so it seems) honors and celebrates mothers, I cannot help but rely on the comfort in knowing every day is Mother's Day. Perhaps that is my coping mechanism to alleviate the pain of loss, to "convince" myself that it's just another day...and really, it is. Yet, it isn't. It isn't because of all the hype in cards and gifts and dining out and family time that is set aside for this day. It's true, you don't get the cards, flowers, gifts, picture frames, lotions, perfumes most every other day of the year. Most every other day of the year, we do what mothers do best, we live for our children, we work so that they may have those things that we once thought were important and we cook so they will have a good, healthy meal and we know that we would do anything for that child, lay down our life if we could. We carry that child from conception under our heart and we feel the beating of theirs, sometimes in tune with our own, sometimes not. And if we don't carry them under our heart, we take them in, foster and adopt them and love them as our own. Mothering is a 24/7 type of job mixed with love, pain, joy, worry, celebrations.
I thought about that as our now family of three relaxed a bit last evening, each on a different, comfy chair in our home, gazing at a new painting just shipped from Napa (a whole other story!), sipping a bit of red wine, talking about experiences of the week, weaving Allison into the memories, taking pride in our oldest daughter who has grown into her own, wondrous person. We are making a life, we are making our way. That moment couldn't have been planned and was another reminder of how beautiful it is to be a proud mother to the daughter who is present and among us, and to the one who resides with the Father in eternal bliss. There is no worry, no pain, no grief for her, but the celebrations continue and the love and joy must be glorious.
Naturally, those are the thoughts that take me through the ebb and flow of this journey. And as much as I know with the conviction of my heart that Allison is free to be, a beautiful spirit who will live within my being forever, it is the physical presence that I miss the most. Just as I do the physical presence of my own mother this day, this weekend. But what I know now is that the love in my heart will never cease, and that is where they both reside, now and forever, until it is our time to reunite under God's good grace.
The emotions do run high, I cannot help myself. It's almost as if you don't know just what you had until you do not. I would like to think that I didn't take those times for granted, but human nature tells me that I did. But one thing I do know, God is hearing me and my prayers, and is providing me snippets of memories of days gone by, connections through indelible memories that are overshadowing the loss. The memories of Mother's Days gone by that bring a smile to my heart, a song to my soul, and a moment of comfort. I am grateful that while I am crying out inside, I can now begin to see the little glimpses of hope, mixed in with the sadness and loss, reminding me to seize the day, make this about someone else, be productive, be creative, get up, plant a flower, bake those cupcakes for the newly grieving mother, step away from the grief, and remember that every day is Mother's Day. I must move forward, knowing that God is all-powerful and everywhere present.
I thought about that as our now family of three relaxed a bit last evening, each on a different, comfy chair in our home, gazing at a new painting just shipped from Napa (a whole other story!), sipping a bit of red wine, talking about experiences of the week, weaving Allison into the memories, taking pride in our oldest daughter who has grown into her own, wondrous person. We are making a life, we are making our way. That moment couldn't have been planned and was another reminder of how beautiful it is to be a proud mother to the daughter who is present and among us, and to the one who resides with the Father in eternal bliss. There is no worry, no pain, no grief for her, but the celebrations continue and the love and joy must be glorious.
Naturally, those are the thoughts that take me through the ebb and flow of this journey. And as much as I know with the conviction of my heart that Allison is free to be, a beautiful spirit who will live within my being forever, it is the physical presence that I miss the most. Just as I do the physical presence of my own mother this day, this weekend. But what I know now is that the love in my heart will never cease, and that is where they both reside, now and forever, until it is our time to reunite under God's good grace.
The emotions do run high, I cannot help myself. It's almost as if you don't know just what you had until you do not. I would like to think that I didn't take those times for granted, but human nature tells me that I did. But one thing I do know, God is hearing me and my prayers, and is providing me snippets of memories of days gone by, connections through indelible memories that are overshadowing the loss. The memories of Mother's Days gone by that bring a smile to my heart, a song to my soul, and a moment of comfort. I am grateful that while I am crying out inside, I can now begin to see the little glimpses of hope, mixed in with the sadness and loss, reminding me to seize the day, make this about someone else, be productive, be creative, get up, plant a flower, bake those cupcakes for the newly grieving mother, step away from the grief, and remember that every day is Mother's Day. I must move forward, knowing that God is all-powerful and everywhere present.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Bigger Than Life
This journey is bigger than Life, it really is...sometimes it seems as if I am the only one I know who could be in this much pain as I face every day without Allison. It is as though I am walking with the suffering and pain and loss and memories all bound up, causing me to think only of myself. I wonder, is there anyone out there who knows this grief, this breathless moment when I don't think I can go another minute without her, these memories that wake me up in the middle of the night, this pain of wishing it could have been me, not her. Those moments that enter my mind, the ones I try to shut out, the unanswered questions, the "whys" and the "what ifs", the valley of darkness knowing what I now know. My heart and soul feels so alone, as I grapple with the reality of the physical death of my own child.
Yet, my inner sense and mind and spirit, tells me that I am not alone. Every day, another joins my ever widening circle of those who DO understand, who live with their own memories, their own last moments, their own questions, issues, and pain. We carry that special look, that unique bond and that everlasting turmoil in our very existence. We find each other in a crowd or we seek one another when the hole is so deep we don't know how to find our way out. We need the comfort of another who has walked in our shoes, who shares this experience in ways we would have never imagined as we walked the linear pattern of life. Our very being is shattered to the core and we now live in a world that can feel foreign and off course.
I have many breathless moments lately, ones where I want to cry and cannot, ones where I simply whisper her name, as though the mere mention will carry me through to the next breath...and it does. Of course, all the while, I ask God to help me find my way in all of this, to help me stay the course, to find the harmony in my life, the balance and the good...and to help me know I am not alone. He never forsakes me and always, always sends me my answers. They come in many forms. One came the other day as I wanted to cry, needed to cry, didn't understand how a mother can bury a child and live strong. I needed something but I didn't know what, but He did, and in the form of a letter from a former colleague, who now travels her own unbelievable journey, came my answers. Not only did she write the words I needed to hear, and inspire me, but she sent an article. Yes, an article written by another grieving mother, who, my friend said, reminded her of my/our story. I so related to that mother, a teacher, also, who lost her daughter, Ann, the day the twin towers were attacked. Four years into this and she was still wondering when her grief would ease. She lives with the numbness that I can barely describe to others. And another similar situation, she needs no novocaine at the dentist because she feels nothing, absolutely nothing. How I can understand as I have pinched myself, literally, to see if I can feel something again, or to know if my whole body has gone numb. The article went on to explain how this mother found a beautiful legacy on Ann's laptop, one that has given her some peace in knowing the memory never fades. It was a list of her Top 100 things to do in her lifetime, and while she only got to number 36, there were beautiful memories for this mom to know her daughter had accomplished. Some of the list included, "learn to cook", "be a person to be proud of", "be a good listener", and "remember birthdays". It reminds me of the college paper Allie wrote entitled "A Happy Life" and how, now, it means something different than the time I read it and helped her edit!
This mother, Ann's mother, is finding, as I pray I am that this is how we live, by moving forward. Sometimes the movement may not be far or monumental, but still, movement, nonetheless, helps us in our grief. It doesn't take it away, it doesn't diminish the need to cry, or ask God for the peace that passes all understanding, but it does allow us to live. Thank you, dear Beverly, for the message on a day when I asked God for His guidance and support, knowing I cannot do any of this without His wisdom, grace and mercy.
Yet, my inner sense and mind and spirit, tells me that I am not alone. Every day, another joins my ever widening circle of those who DO understand, who live with their own memories, their own last moments, their own questions, issues, and pain. We carry that special look, that unique bond and that everlasting turmoil in our very existence. We find each other in a crowd or we seek one another when the hole is so deep we don't know how to find our way out. We need the comfort of another who has walked in our shoes, who shares this experience in ways we would have never imagined as we walked the linear pattern of life. Our very being is shattered to the core and we now live in a world that can feel foreign and off course.
I have many breathless moments lately, ones where I want to cry and cannot, ones where I simply whisper her name, as though the mere mention will carry me through to the next breath...and it does. Of course, all the while, I ask God to help me find my way in all of this, to help me stay the course, to find the harmony in my life, the balance and the good...and to help me know I am not alone. He never forsakes me and always, always sends me my answers. They come in many forms. One came the other day as I wanted to cry, needed to cry, didn't understand how a mother can bury a child and live strong. I needed something but I didn't know what, but He did, and in the form of a letter from a former colleague, who now travels her own unbelievable journey, came my answers. Not only did she write the words I needed to hear, and inspire me, but she sent an article. Yes, an article written by another grieving mother, who, my friend said, reminded her of my/our story. I so related to that mother, a teacher, also, who lost her daughter, Ann, the day the twin towers were attacked. Four years into this and she was still wondering when her grief would ease. She lives with the numbness that I can barely describe to others. And another similar situation, she needs no novocaine at the dentist because she feels nothing, absolutely nothing. How I can understand as I have pinched myself, literally, to see if I can feel something again, or to know if my whole body has gone numb. The article went on to explain how this mother found a beautiful legacy on Ann's laptop, one that has given her some peace in knowing the memory never fades. It was a list of her Top 100 things to do in her lifetime, and while she only got to number 36, there were beautiful memories for this mom to know her daughter had accomplished. Some of the list included, "learn to cook", "be a person to be proud of", "be a good listener", and "remember birthdays". It reminds me of the college paper Allie wrote entitled "A Happy Life" and how, now, it means something different than the time I read it and helped her edit!
This mother, Ann's mother, is finding, as I pray I am that this is how we live, by moving forward. Sometimes the movement may not be far or monumental, but still, movement, nonetheless, helps us in our grief. It doesn't take it away, it doesn't diminish the need to cry, or ask God for the peace that passes all understanding, but it does allow us to live. Thank you, dear Beverly, for the message on a day when I asked God for His guidance and support, knowing I cannot do any of this without His wisdom, grace and mercy.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Still
A friend called the other evening, we hadn't spoken in awhile. We haven't seen much of each other lately, either. Her life is very busy, and mine, is, well, paced and protected in many ways. I do enjoy seeing her from time to time, we have that kind of "history", but circumstances and life keep us from getting together often. As for many of us, her life has changed drastically and what once was important, well, there are new perspectives and outlooks. She is changing with the tides and the coming of age and learning from what has happened in her life, too. But when we get the chance it's always good to talk with her and catch up. She usually gets around to asking me how I am, midway through the conversation. Many people ask me that question. My answer is usually similiar, now, changed from the years of "fine" or "great". I usually respond with phrases or words that are satisfying, yet truthful. I may say, "I am doing well", or "I take it day by day", or "I am happy for this day", or "I look for the blessings". Sometimes I do want to cry or scream or talk someone's ear off about how I am deep down, how I long for what was once normal, how I miss my daughter with every ache, pain, breath, in every waking moment, and even, still, wake up, sometimes with tears on my face...but I don't. I want to say, well, let me tell you a story of what happened today. Today I received another "sign" and I know Allison is with me in such a profound way, more so than when she was on earth, but I don't. I don't because I still don't know how to explain all of this. So, sometimes, I don't try. I just say what is on my heart to say. But I keep it simple. I don't know if people are really ready for what I could say or what I long to say.
The conversation turned when I did try to "go there" and tell my friend, "I am okay but had a bad day, I miss her so much". When I tried to share what got caught in my throat, the word from my friend was "STILL"?!! I asked her what she meant by "still" and she said, "well, you know...it's been some time and all". The line went silent, the ME of the past would have tried to fill the emptiness with words, but my mind was racing and I didn't know if I even should bother to explain, to ask her if she could imagine waking up and going to sleep, knowing that you do not get to put your arms around the shoulders of your child for a hug, to face another Mother's Day without the physical presence of that abounding energetic, healthy young woman with her whole life ahead of her, to never hear that voice again, the voice that called several times a day to share her life, to say she loved us, to ask for money. I didn't know how to explain what was screaming out inside of me. I didn't know how to explain the tears that are ready to shed at a moment's glance of a picture, or the new beach towels that come out in the store, the pinks that are blooming all around me, or the reliving of her experience as my brother-in-law undergoes his chemotherapy treatments in pre-transplant procedures. I didn't know how to speak. All I could say was, "yes, still, always and forever".
I have learned a lot about people through this walk and journey and what I do know is that there is no comprehension of this loss unless you are unfortunate enough to travel it with me. They do not comprehend and I wouldn't want them to...it's a destiny for God's chosen. But, still...we can all learn from it and know that sometimes there are just no words needed to be said, just a compassionate heart, a listening ear, a quiet touch, or an empathetic and sincere question of how we are doing. Maybe they won't like the answer, maybe they will be uncomfortable, maybe they will have to face things they'd rather not think about, maybe the truth is not what they are desiring to hear. Maybe we can all learn from this experience.
I don't fault others, nor would I judge their purposes. I know if this is so foreign and out of my own realm of thinking, that those who have not been impacted cannot possibly know what to say, or what to do. And this isn't about me, anyway. It's about Allison and her lesson and her preparations for when another mother or father lose a child, enter a world of grieving, and find themselves needing someone to listen to a story or reach out with a simple kindness. The world is full of well-intentioned folks who desperately want to know how to help. To them, I say, call that person you have put off calling, send that card, take that moment to drop that plant off, bake a casserole just because, take time away from what we once perceived as the all important task, and give back or pay forward all your blessings. The recipient will be honored and comforted, if only for a moment, but that joy will spread and the light will keep shining.
Do I miss her "still", a resounding YES, but I know our Allison is active, engaged, spreading the good news, and resting in a place with no conflict, no pain, no fatigue, no heartache, no illness. She knew a loving and kind Father above who took her "home" sooner than I would have ever chosen, had I been given the chance, but her work takes on a broader horizon from where she now resides. I cling to the promise of salvation and hope when I am missing her, still.
The conversation turned when I did try to "go there" and tell my friend, "I am okay but had a bad day, I miss her so much". When I tried to share what got caught in my throat, the word from my friend was "STILL"?!! I asked her what she meant by "still" and she said, "well, you know...it's been some time and all". The line went silent, the ME of the past would have tried to fill the emptiness with words, but my mind was racing and I didn't know if I even should bother to explain, to ask her if she could imagine waking up and going to sleep, knowing that you do not get to put your arms around the shoulders of your child for a hug, to face another Mother's Day without the physical presence of that abounding energetic, healthy young woman with her whole life ahead of her, to never hear that voice again, the voice that called several times a day to share her life, to say she loved us, to ask for money. I didn't know how to explain what was screaming out inside of me. I didn't know how to explain the tears that are ready to shed at a moment's glance of a picture, or the new beach towels that come out in the store, the pinks that are blooming all around me, or the reliving of her experience as my brother-in-law undergoes his chemotherapy treatments in pre-transplant procedures. I didn't know how to speak. All I could say was, "yes, still, always and forever".
I have learned a lot about people through this walk and journey and what I do know is that there is no comprehension of this loss unless you are unfortunate enough to travel it with me. They do not comprehend and I wouldn't want them to...it's a destiny for God's chosen. But, still...we can all learn from it and know that sometimes there are just no words needed to be said, just a compassionate heart, a listening ear, a quiet touch, or an empathetic and sincere question of how we are doing. Maybe they won't like the answer, maybe they will be uncomfortable, maybe they will have to face things they'd rather not think about, maybe the truth is not what they are desiring to hear. Maybe we can all learn from this experience.
I don't fault others, nor would I judge their purposes. I know if this is so foreign and out of my own realm of thinking, that those who have not been impacted cannot possibly know what to say, or what to do. And this isn't about me, anyway. It's about Allison and her lesson and her preparations for when another mother or father lose a child, enter a world of grieving, and find themselves needing someone to listen to a story or reach out with a simple kindness. The world is full of well-intentioned folks who desperately want to know how to help. To them, I say, call that person you have put off calling, send that card, take that moment to drop that plant off, bake a casserole just because, take time away from what we once perceived as the all important task, and give back or pay forward all your blessings. The recipient will be honored and comforted, if only for a moment, but that joy will spread and the light will keep shining.
Do I miss her "still", a resounding YES, but I know our Allison is active, engaged, spreading the good news, and resting in a place with no conflict, no pain, no fatigue, no heartache, no illness. She knew a loving and kind Father above who took her "home" sooner than I would have ever chosen, had I been given the chance, but her work takes on a broader horizon from where she now resides. I cling to the promise of salvation and hope when I am missing her, still.
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