There's A Beat of A Beautiful Heart

There's a beat of a beautiful heart in my soul this season, this holiday, this month, this day. There can be no other explanation as to how I have maneuvered through the tears, lumps in my throat, emotional weariness, shopping malls, grocery stores, endured hours of preparations, making cookies and this year's infamous cake balls. There's a beat of a beautiful heart in my soul.

That beat belongs to many, of course, those whom I am preparing for, my beloved daughter, Jennifer, husband Joe, his family, my family, all about to be blended in a little over 24 hours. But the beat that pounds the fastest is that of my other beloved daughter, the one who left too soon, the one who is not here in the physical sense. Yet, the beat of my heart, where hers has taken up residence, is taking on new meaning. She whispers to me, she sings to me, she inspires and guides me. She spurs me on to make this Christmas a labor of love. My baby, my child, gone from my grasp, but living on so intently that it almost seems like she is right by my side, through all the plans, preparations, decorations, food choices, steps taken to find our way to a glorious holiday.

There's a beat of a beautiful heart, I feel it, just as intently as I did when hers entered mine in her final moments of life on this side of heaven. There's a beat of a beautiful heart, and I am grateful, thankful to the end, and into eternity, for her presence in my life.

Again, to "borrow" the quote used to honor Erin's passing date, and one I have read so often through the almost four years that I have "lived" without my daughter in my sight...from The Book of Wisdom...

"The just woman, though she dies early, shall be at rest,
for the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time,
Nor can it be measured in terms of years.

Having become perfect in a short while,
She reached the fullness of a long career,
For her soul was pleasing to the Lord,
And she who pleased God was loved."


Beautiful heart of mine, you are loved, Merry Christmas, Allison.

"Inspired By Erin"

I am inspired by Erin. I am inspired by her mother, her family, these people I have never met. And not just because I am "borrowing" the title of her mother's blog/journal, it's true. I am inspired by Erin.

Whenever I see a sunflower, a red rose, an image of a beautiful family, hear of a blood donor event, touch a snowflake, sip coffee by the fire, or just about DO anything, or EXPERIENCE anything, I am inspired by Erin...and our Allison, and Jessie, and CJ, and Scott, and Phil, and David, and Faith, and Lilly and a holy host of others...I am inspired. I know their purpose, now. The purpose for their life, as we knew it. Or the life we didn't know, but now FEEL through the spirit of their days or hours on this earth. God, they had such a purpose. But you, God, already knew that.

This day, Erin was taken home to her heavenly Father. This day, one year ago. And how I met her was through her mother. No, not in the physical sense, but in the way only two mothers who know they will face days, months, years without their child can relate. Her mother, Mary, reached out to me, in those days when it became so unbearable, she thought there was a way to prepare. Just like I did. Just like we asked the doctors, the "experts", anyone who might know, only to be told, "go home, hold her hand, love her"...and we did. Then came Mary, who I believe "found" me through our messages to dear CJ, who was battling a cancer similar to Erin's, similar to what we once thought was Allison's diagnosis. Oh the great, ever evolving circle of those who come into your lives at the moment when you need them most, God's greatest coincidences indeed. So, there was Mary, writing to ME, needing to hear those words that I didn't know how to say, just as those we asked didn't know either, so I followed suit, I believe, spoke from my heart, and at that moment we became soul mates.

No, Mary and I have never met, but I know someday we will. We share so much, down to the images of our children, her daughter being diagnosed right around the time Allison passed, same initial diagnosis, same family photos, same toddler images. I know this through her blog, I know a mother's love and anguish through her blog, and I know Erin through her blog, and I am inspired. I turn to her exquisite writing when I cannot bear another moment and I feel so utterly alone in this world. I turn to her words when I wonder if I am going crazy or being ultra sensitive to words other people say to me. I turn to her for her intimate thoughts on losing a precious child, while savoring the ones left on earth. And I have found a friend. A comfort. A soul mate.

Often, we write about the very same things on the very same day. I prefer her writings over mine, she is SO eloquent! Her photos capture a thousand words, and the way she shares her heart is inspirational! Sometimes, I avoid visiting her blog, for days or maybe weeks, because it is like looking in a mirror. True enough, a unique story in itself, there are so many similarities that my heart cannot take it. Not that I believe I am the only one who could understand this heavy load, the one brought on by losing a child far too soon, but sometimes, my own pain is enough to carry, and I cannot bear someone else's. Other times, it is as if it is just Mary and me, alone, and typing away so fast as if the words can pour out, just maybe we will have a day, a half day, a moment of peace and laughter, the kind of laughter we knew, before....

Today started out rough, in the wee hours when the tears were already on my cheeks, WAY before dawn. Tears for myself, for Mary, for their family and for mine. Tears of remembrance. Tears for a multitude of reasons. Tears for no reason. I don't keep a calendar. I no longer need one. My spirit just knows what it knows. And it knows where Mary is, where every mother is, right now, those who have buried their own. Whether today, the anniversary, or tomorrow, or last week, or next month, or on Valentine's Day, or next spring, or in the past, or in the future. All these blend into one, but I can almost happily say, I AM INSPIRED BY ERIN, thank you, Mary, may God hold you and yours in the palm of His hand.

On The Tightrope

I am on the tightrope right now. I know it. I feel it. I own it. It is what I call doing quite the balancing act, when, in fact, I have never had any real "balance" at all. At least not in the technical sense. I balanced many things, for sure, being a daughter, wife, mother, teacher, principal, Sunday School teacher, car pool driver...sometimes ALL at the same time. I didn't know any better. It's what we did, us women. It's what we DO, I should say. It's what I still do, but my balancing act has become quite different. Especially during these trying days. Especially now.

I am on a tightrope and I feel sick. But I am not, not really. Yes, a cold, a slight fever, a clogged nose. Nothing important, nothing that a little rest won't take care of it. And rest, I do! I am learning to heed the signs, unlike before, when it would take a "mack truck" to knock me down, typically when my body was given permission to shut down and stop (like every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, the family could count on mom being down for the count, AFTER the festivities). This year, I am trying desperately for it to be different. I am pacing and resting, buying and wrapping, preparing and cleaning, but at a pace that is mine, all mine.

Still, I feel the tightrope closing in. I am numb at times. Other times, there I am, humming along to a Christmas Carol. Really? That is happening? Yes, after four years, the humming is coming, and I can even listen to O Holy Night, my all time favorite! But that's where the tightrope comes, and throws me off balance, because I am fine one minute, and the next, I am falling off, and not sure how to get back on this balance beam of life. The snow comes, and it is THAT day again. The day we laughed and hoped and dared to dream. The music comes, and it is "1990 something" when we sang Christmas Carols and Allison played the piano, presenting her grandparents with the homemade Gingerbread House. It is "2000 something" when the girls were older and handed out gifts in their Santa stockings. Then it is 2005, our first year in the new house, dreams of a future of families and perhaps grandchildren, a house filled with college kids coming and going, and two surprise gifts that became priceless. The photographs, one of the house where we had raised the children, the other, THE children, now grown women, standing back to back, side to side, commemorating this moment, and Allison telling me they wanted me to have a portrait of what they looked like the year we transitioned from one home to the other. My old soul of a daughter, and her beautiful sister, creating a gift that became life's greatest treasure. Then it is 2006, a Christmas filled with so much joy and hope and love and fun. The year my cancer ridden, bald headed beauty came to life, showed us what strength really means, rose above the pain, and thanked God for this Christmas, her last on earth, now her fourth in heaven. And two weeks later, to the day, she was gone. She left us. God took her home. But He gave us that Christmas. And we were blessed.

The tightrope is of pure emotion. My fingers linger on her Girl Scout ornament and I am brought to my knees. I accidentally run across the photo that always hung on the tree, the one where she is sitting on the Nutcracker's lap, what do I do with it? I cry out so hard. Where are the hopes and dreams now, God? What am I to do? Will I feel like this every Christmas? When will this grief end? Will it subside? Will the two always be one, the holiday and her last week at home with us? Why do the tangible items, like ornaments, and bows, trees, and presents, have to be so damn painful? Why did cancer have to invade and take her eleven weeks later? So many questions, with simple answers. I know them. It was her time. I know the promise of the Heavenly Father. My mind knows, but my heart still has not caught up with it!

The tightrope pulls and tugs and strains every chord. What do I do? What DON'T I do? She is part of this Christmas, she is part of every day. I am still her mother. We are still her family. We will find a way, we will pave the way, and we will not forget. We will speak her name, in the stories, in the memories, and in the love. We hope others, will, too, as they become more comfortable, knowing it is more than okay to speak of her. Yes, they think we will cry, but what they don't know, is we already are, only they cannot see from where they stand. We will have her by our side, even though her presence is in spirit. She will live and guide us through the pain of loss. Her smile will radiate the room, as it did every Christmas since 1985, and did so, on what has become an ingrained memory, in 2006.

Trials And Troubles, Grief, And Sadness

Trials, troubles, grief and sadness...we just cannot avoid them. None of us can. At times we cannot imagine what we ourselves are facing, other times, our hearts ache and cry out for others, because we just cannot imagine what would happen if those were OUR burdens to bear. So, life becomes one big circle, we are born, we live, we die. And often, until something life changing happens, we don't really stop to think of our own mortality. Why would we? We are too busy living!

This week, as in many weeks and months over the years, I have thought about and prayed for Elizabeth Edwards and her family. She has always been "just a regular person" to me, especially as we watch her raise her children, bury her beloved Wade, face public scrutiny, know betrayal in one of its greatest forms, and of course, wage a battle of cancer. She is every woman's woman, I guess I'd say. The reason? So many of us can relate to her in one form or another. She has always seemed "human" in the public eye. And, many of us were endeared to her for the way she responded to tragedy and adversity for the sake of her children.

I have seen several interviews but most of all the ones she shared with Matt L. on the Today Show. Not long ago, or so it seemed to me, she spoke of how easy it is to give thanks and praise when things in life are going well, it's when the troubles settle that we grow stronger and find our blessings. I'm paraphrasing! But, I related because I find that to be true, also. I have found that the blessings just show themselves more as every one of the five senses become more alive, especially when they are either taken away, or seem to be...I also related to her when she spoke and wrote of her son's death. Of course, I didn't ever know her personally, but through her books, especially the chapters on this devastating occurrence in one's life, I felt she was a friend and confidant when I didn't know how to go on or who to turn to...so, yes, I feel a sense of loss now that she is gone. I'm sure I am one of many.

I have always thought of how to respond to this thing called grief, loss. I have approached it from many angles. Those that know me intimately know that Joe and I have chosen to respond with the strength and dignity not only Allison deserves, but for the sake of our living daughter, we will live on, and we will honor both daughters. That is not to say we put on a happy face when we aren't. That is not to say that it doesn't take work and plenty of it. That is not to say that sometimes we are so deep in the valley that a "peak" seems unreachable. That is not to say there are days or weeks of silence. That is not to say we are not brought to our knees in tears and angst. And that is not to say that we are limited on what we can do socially. But, again, for the sake of our Jennifer, and our marriage, and our family members, we do our best. That's all God expects and it is through Him that I find my strength, my purpose, my way through the troubles.

Troubles and trials teach us so much. There is the saying we all know...."when the going gets tough, the tough get going"...sometimes I believe that is so true. WE get going, or sometimes we get paralyzed. Sometimes we make a bit of movement only to realize we were not ready for that, and other times it is the exact nature of the "trouble" that motivates us. Hard to explain, but troubles DO make us stronger.

Recently, in light of the shadow of Elizabeth Edwards' life and beliefs, and in reflection of my status of loss and grief, I wondered what life would be without them, those troubles and trials. And in light of my current situation and life changes, I wonder if I still even know what trouble is....yes, my heart screams out, yes, you do. This pain. This incessant ache. This missing part to what once was, my Allison gone. My Allison died. My Allison buried. Yes, I know trouble and I know pain. Maybe not like others. For sure, not like others. Through my pain, I can see my blessings clearly. I have a family coming for Christmas. I can go to the grocery or department stores and purchase items within reason and within a budget. I have a paycheck coming at the end of the month. I can pay my bills. I have heat. I am loved. I am not starving, far from it. I have resources. I can help the needy and give of my time. I could, if I chose, buy a $4.00 cup of coffee! I could list my blessings all day and the list would go on an on. Yes, there are blessings in the trials, in the troubles, in the grief and in the sadness.

I have come to know that it is how we view our troubles that makes all the difference. I cannot say I agree with the scripture from James 1:2, "Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials". But I can say, I have learned from it. I can say that up until Allison's passing I didn't know a trial. I THOUGHT I did...seriously? I thought I did. That was all nothing, but what it WAS, was a preparation. A preparation for the next one and the next one. And there will be next ones, and more to come.

Of all the things we could say about our troubles and our trials, I do know one thing. God sees them as tests that reveal our true selves. It's a sure thing that in trouble, the REAL me becomes apparent very quickly. There is nothing lke trouble to reveal oneself! Until them, we can carry on an existence and even fool ourselves, and maybe others, about our true nature. It is when trouble comes knocking that our friends, our spouses, our children find out what we are really like. But most of all, and perhaps even unsettling at times, it forces us to start seeing ourselves for what we really are...

I can't say I am thankful today for the trials, the troubles, the grief and the sadness, but what I can say is that I can see the blessings, and the vision has become sharper since my child left this world. I know that I can feel her spirited smile, the one that never left her face on earth, shine on me this moment, maybe not the whole day, I don't know yet, but for this moment I'll take it. And I'll handle the trials.

In A Flash

In a flash, it all changes. Today is the perfect example. I woke up feeling somewhat rested, a state I have not really been in for awhile. I don't get concerned about it, because I don't have a schedule to follow, no students and staff to be rested for, no mommy duties, no wifely duties, either, unless I count having a good meal for Joe, my choice! We all know he would eat leftover stew or fettuccine for four nights if necessary. So, there it was, a beautiful early morning. Even the walk with Rex made me extra happy. It was a very wintry looking dawn, even looked white and hazy as if snow had fallen, and the pink glow filtered in all the windows. I was up and at 'em as they say. I was motivated. I was ON. My coffee was tasty and leisurely, my morning took shape and I was baking the cake for my new found friend, cake balls!! I want to deliver some to my close neighbors in thanks for all they have done to help us make it through this year by walking Rex and watching the house on all the trips back and forth to Karen and Michael's AND to celebrate the year anniversary tomorrow of the adoption of this little guy. I even decided that just maybe I could put on one Christmas CD among the others I loaded. I am going to try, Allison, to not let this get to me, I really am. And I was moving right along.

Then it happened, in a flash. A flashback, I guess I would say. I was making the cake ball coating, a nice shade of pink and then a nice shade of green, for reasons known only to me. Beautiful and tasty, these were becoming a masterpiece. All of a sudden the colors blurred, the room spun and the flashback came. The one where Allison had to be carried to the hospital and the one where we knew stage four cancer was moving to her brain. Oh God, how did I not know. I know how I did not know. I have been praying NOT to know. After four years of continual prayer that I would live with the beauty, not the pain, I would live with her laughter, not her cries and her sobs, I would live with the memories of a blessed 21 years. I thought I could do it. And, in many ways, I am. But, in a flash, all that was good and productive and joyous brought me to a place I don't want to go, a place I really don't need to visit. In a flash, there was a flashback. And my soul knew something that I had tried to squelch, I suppose. This date, this third day of December, the day we began to know our daughter would not live with us for much longer. This day, that two parents got on their knees and gave it to God, knowing that there was not a thing we could control. This day, that the pain subsided with an array of drugs and life took a new and twisted turn for our youngest daughter.

In a flash, I was brought back there. The smells. The cries. Me being comforted by a stranger in a bathroom, as I screamed and cried so Joe or Allie wouldn't hear me. Our family gathering around her bedside that night, choosing to hear the "good" news, rather than the "bad"...the good news was a shrinkage in the lung tumor, Praise God, the bad news, well, this is the fastest growing cancer and it is but a centimeter from her brain, causing possible swelling and severe pain. Please God, will we lose her now, or will her body stay, but her mind go? What do you have planned? In a flash, it was all there, and the pain felt like it did at that moment, four years ago.

Why did my soul go there? I was doing so well! Why????

I sat down and prayed like I did that day, and of course my prayers have changed. Well, in some ways. From that day forward, we prayed God's will, we didn't beg, bargain, or make deals. We put our trust in the capable hands of God above. That's what I am doing now. He must have brought me the flashback for a reason. As if my inner self really forgets. I will ask Him all day, as I do everyday, please let me get from point A to B, and be what you desire from this experience. Please help me create the life intended from this devastation. Please help me. I cannot do this alone.

In a flash, it has all changed, as it did then. Life was beautiful for one moment, and in the next, a storm that would shift our lives forever. But we got back on track then, with the help of a spirited young woman, and we will get back on track now. It may not be the track we had planned, or the one others expect of us, but we will be back on track. I cling to the promise, that in a flash, all will be right with the world.

It's December

December is here and with it, so much quiet, so much to say that cannot be verbalized, so much hope, so much faith, so many memories. I am not going to dwell in what was, in what was to be, rather, I am going to pray very hard to stay in the moment, and just BE. That is usually my advice to so many, and I will heed my own words, and ask God as many times a day (and night) as necessary, to just help me stay the course.

So, this morning, four years after Allison spent her last month at home with us, starting out the month in crisis and pain, and near death, I am listing in my spirit, all the reasons to keep shining, keep going, keep doing. First, and foremost, there is always Jennifer. A mother must be a role model, even though, at times, she is mine! In fact, and this is a huge step, we plan to go to The Nutcracker production together on Saturday night....wow! I will be out among holiday cheer and festivities, stepping out in the name of tradition, and love. Guided by her sister's spirit, we will bring back a part of what once filled every holiday season. There are other things, for instance, Christmas music. While I cannot listen to "her" favorites very easily, I find that I CAN play a few songs and even hum a bit. Thank you, God, and thank you, Allison, that I am able to listen, hear, live, and learn what it takes to celebrate the true reason for the season. I am so thankful to prepare for a visiting family, one who knows not how to venture this "first" Christmas without their beloved husband and father. In the name of family, and in honor of Michael, somehow, some way, they will find the strength to pack, travel, and spend this holiday with us. Praises to God for what IS and what is to BE.

I don't know any other way than to keep on. When the memories and the flashbacks filter, I try not to shove them down deep. That hurts too much. That makes me want to fall apart. I try to pause and acknowledge them. I am learning to cope and maneuver. Still, December is so damn painful. I want to hang her stocking, I want to hear her laugh. I want to see her come in with her suitcases filled. I want to share her story when other mothers talk of their children coming home. I wanted this to be different. But it isn't. It is our life. Our loss. Our pain. So, I pray to God to help me cling to the good, the beautiful, and the pleasant. And He is doing His best to show me. Even yesterday when there was the slightest of snowflakes on a dreary, gray, wintery looking day, He helped me find the good, the motivation, the desire, and the joys. It's December, but through intense prayer and devotion, God is showing me that the beauty is all we need, the pain, the cancer, the ugly, is all gone. There is beauty to behold and though it takes work, it will be found.

My mind holds images of December. Some from years gone by, some from THAT December when we knew not one day, one moment at a time, whether we would have another. But we did. We had the whole, entire month. God answered prayers then, and He answers them now. He has shown me I never have to let her go completely. She is always here. She is snuggled under the blankets on the couch, watching the snow, she is sporting her new rabbit hat, all decked out in red for the holidays, she is laying in her bed with an ice pack on top of her head, trying to stay cool from the heat of chemotherapy treatments, she is eating us out of house and home, and watching me bake the cookies. She is encouraging me to put up the tree, she is whispering what to buy for gifts. She is sending angels in the form of people or "signs" to help me know that it is going to be "okay". She leads me through the motions of a day and reminds me that all this is God's agenda, and that it will be a good day. She inspires and lights my path. She brings people into my life I would have never imagined and she gives me strength. She is here. It's December, and she is here.

I Just Want To Make It Okay

I find myself layered with grief upon grief this day. These weeks, really. For here we are, right back to the weeks where Allison spent her last days with us, oh the memories, oh the pain of loss. I find myself saying out loud and more often, OH GOD can you just help me to be okay. I want to be okay. He comforts me and lets me know I AM okay, already. Even when I don't feel it, seem paralyzed, feel sick, I AM okay...or as "okay" as I am supposed to be, for now.

I also find myself wanting to help others be "okay"...my heart holds too much this day, this season, this holiday. I wake up from dreams that hold Chrissy, CJ, Scott, Kathy, David, Erin, Lilly, baby Faith, Jessica, Phil, too many faces gone too soon, too many loved ones left behind. Names that could fill a wall and consume a heart. And of course, there's Michael. When I pray about him, my own brother-in-law, lost too soon, gone from our physical grasp, never to hear his voice or jokes again, I DO have that sense of peace, at times. God has promised, through the gift of salvation, that Michael's body is now a new one, the one that Michael really would have loved on this earth! No pain, no fatigue, no cancer, the new body of a man who accepted Christ and the gift of grace under heaven. In doing so, he is free. His spirit soars, as does Chrissy's, and all the names mentioned, and unmentioned. And so it goes for my precious Allison. She, along with the others, are free, free to be. Those of us left behind are the ones with the pain, imperfect bodies, shattered souls, and broken hearts. Why is it, when we know where our loved ones are, we mourn as if this is a terrible thing? Why is that we set the holiday table, minus the place setting of the one gone before us, that we can be brought to our knees? Why is that we long for one more time, even though we know the blessing of passage into eternal peace? We are human, but we still ask WHY? Why do I get a funny feeling deep inside when friends and family talk of their children's plans to come home? Why do I lean toward a bit of angst when people complain about their 20 something year olds or watch others take for granted what is theirs, when in reality, I would most likely be doing the same, had my world not collapsed and shattered into many pieces. Why is that I can feel the burdens of the hearts of friends, family, my own sister and her children, as the "first" holiday season arrives without the physical presence of their loved one? And why is that I cannot promise them that it will get better, that if I am truthful, I would wish for the "first" because that was easier than THIS? Now I know. And knowing is painful. Painful, indeed.

Sure, there will be laughter, there will be joy, there will be new memories. We will all keep keeping on. But in doing so with such a heavy heart, well, it just makes it different. We will stay focused on what a glorious Thanksgiving it must be in heaven, Allison, Michael, reunited with our parents, their souls soaring and infiltrating ours until it is our time for the reunion. We will stay focused on the blessings, and there are so many. We still have each other. We may never do things quite the same, but we are family, and we are here, and we have this moment.

But in spite of it all, I just want to make it okay. Okay for myself, my husband, my daughter, my sister, my nephews, even Michael's siblings. I want to make it okay for the parents who now face that "first" or "second" or "tenth" holiday without their child, for Frank, without Chrissy, for Barb, without her, too, for another Barb, without her sister, Kathy, who she lost to lung cancer this summer, to CJ's mom, dad, sister, to all the all but forgotten siblings who are left alone in families, just to only name a few. My heart is full, most likely because I know what I know. And all I know right now is that I just want to make it okay!

But I am learning that I, alone, cannot do that. I can send the note, drop off the flowers or cookies, or ice-cream, or card. I can feel what I feel, pray and hope and believe that they will be "okay". I can share their journey, but just as I have my own, theirs is theirs to own, as well. I believe it helps to know someone cares. I believe it helps to know someone remembers and will speak our loved ones name. I believe that the little random acts of kindness matter. But I also believe that when we each lay our head down at night, and wrestle with sleep and loss and our own pain, that it is the one true God that will show us the light. I believe that without Him, I would not move, live or breathe. I believe that He holds my child safe and sound, happy and perfect, cancer-free, and that every day is Thanksgiving, a holiday spent in perfect bliss. A holiday spent in heaven.

I just want to make it okay. I seek to find the way. And the only way is through the love of God who holds the key to us all being "okay". Through the tears, the memories, the traditions, the place settings, somehow, we will be "okay".

Doing It Alone

I have realized that lately I have slipped back into thinking I am in control. I have been doing it alone. Well, not technically. I am surrounded by many. The last weeks, months, really, have been a whirlwind. I have travelled back and forth to Karen and Michael's haven, spent time that I will cherish forever. As God would have it, spent time in the passage of Michael's soul from this life, to the everlasting. To witness this event was a gift beyond all gifts, of course, with the exception of the same gift given when Allison left us. Oh to love and lose them, how glorious to be a witness, but how gut wrenching to live on without them. So, I journey through grief again, layer upon layer, silencing me, then restoring me, then helping me to embrace this day, this life. So, I grasp it all, as best I can, my way, but also in a way that is pleasing and helpful to the family. In the course of living and keeping on, I am forgetting at times, that I don't have to carry the full burden, I don't have to do this alone. I must not leave God out of the equation. He has been my rock, my salvation, the impetus to my very being. Yet, somehow, in all the grief triggers of this season where we lost our own child and sister, niece and cousin, friend and grandchild, I have tried to do it alone. How did I slip back so quickly, or was it gradually? How did I think I, alone, could hold this family together, let alone, myself? How have I forgotten to take time to pray, really pray and seek the answers? How have I forgotten to thank God for each little blessing of this life?

I won't beat myself up for doing it alone. I will simply regroup. I will find my comfort in the love of God and those He has given me for this time. I will be thankful for the opportunity to share Allison's "face" during Lung Cancer Month and walk in loving remembrance. I will be thankful for a safe trip to Washington, DC, to spend time with Karen's family, my family, to share in the laughter and in the tears, and to walk a city of monumental strength, not to mention, to "show up" and walk for Michael as a proud Stepper! I will look at the stars and smile and I will know that I am loved. The blessings and gratitudes are endless. I won't forget. I may slip into grief triggers, or pain, or loss, or tears, or even illness, but I won't keep trying to do this alone.

It is so easy to give away my energy. It is so easy because that is how I was raised, that is often what society expects. I don't always know how to look inside. I don't really want to, at times. Most times. It is not always "accepted" to put self before others. But as dear Helen helped me to see, without the oxygen being applied to myself first, it cannot be shared with others. And I want to share it. I am a natural caregiver, tending to, fussing over, or doing for, others. I know many others just like me! It's our gift, and it is our curse. But when we are fragile, tired, weary, grief stricken, whatever the case may be, it is only ourselves who can know what it is we need. And all I know is, I cannot do it alone. Yes, I have a loving, kind, tender husband, a spirited daughter, family, friends, and anyone who would come running. But in the end, who is that can really inspire, love, and charge me to be ME...and that answer lies in myself. And that answer lies in devotion to God above, who never forsakes or leaves, the one "constant" in a world that can be too overwhelming to live in, especially as I live in grief.

Today I will trust in God and do something. Do anything to help myself get back on track. I will remind myself that I need not do this alone.

"No Hill For A Stepper"

Our mom often used the phrase, "no hill for a stepper". I have been reminded of that many, many times over the years in my life, and more poignantly this past weekend. Michael's family stepped out, if you will, in support and loving remembrance for the "fight" he endured throughout his three year multiple myeloma diagnosis. He tried everything that doctors suggested, from the steroids, to the chemotherapy, to the stem cell transplant, NONE of which was any easy feat! It confirmed my understanding, even more, that no one truly comprehends the cancer journey until they walk it themselves or with someone near and dear. The toll is not only on the patient, it is on the caregiver, the family, the loved ones, the neighbors, the co-workers. Cancer has a spiral effect, something I knew all too well, only to re-live through the eyes of my sister, and her husband. So it was nothing less than a privilege and honor to walk among the small, but mighty family, Michael's wife, and sons, and Sarah, in the Multiple Myeloma Walk in Washington, DC. Matt had suggested it way before Michael left us, and how simple it would have been to just stay home and honor from afar, how easy it would have been to abandon plans because they weren't coming together like we had planned...but Michael never took the easy road and none of us did, either. We conquered, we arrived, we mourned, but we lived, and it was "no hill for a stepper".

Well, actually, I'd be lying if I said it was truly "no hill for a stepper". It was! I believe we walked at least a 5K EVERYDAY we were in DC! We had the time of our lives. We combined a mini-vacation with the true purpose of the weekend, having so much fun that to a casual observer, one would never know that we were not just set for life, happy and carefree (and Joe H., we are rich, right???:). Looking deeper, of course, one would know that our hearts were as heavy as our legs after 10 hours of walking through the streets, museums of DC. At times the tears came, others, we were so comforted by Michael's memory that we felt as light as a feather. Other times, well, I would look behind for his physical presence. Was he on the bench, resting? Was he reading and absorbing all the facts and information he could gather? Was he people watching? Where was he? It was obvious, while not physically present, one knew, he was there. The presence is not diminished, and if anything, he was there in ways he never could have been before. We laughed, we remembered, we cried, we thrived. We rose early and went to bed late. And though our bodies screamed out at times (well, for Karen and me, at least), there was to be no complaining...it was "no hill for a stepper".

We were Michael's Steppers, appropriately named, after all. I don't know how many steps I took over the course of four days, all in the name of Michael Powers. And not just at the Sunday morning 5K. The steps taken each brought about something, around every corner something new to see and a new memory to cling to...the steps taken were painful at times, especially the day I forgot to take my morning tylenol, so that the burning and flare ups of fibromyalgia set in, but no complaining, here. If I were so inclined, I would hold on to another memory, the ones of Michael taking on all the pain to find a cure, the ones of my own Allison sitting in a chemotherapy chair, or enduring so much radiation that her legs gave way, or of my own father being fed through a feeding tube. These memories stay strong, and everything else pales in comparison. We were Michael's Steppers, all of us, Karen, Joseph, Matt, Sarah, Joe and me! We may not have been the top team of the day, or raised the most money, or had the most people, but that wasn't the point. We were there, all who could be, in unison, proud to wear our green, proud to wear his name, thankful that God had the tender kindness to take Michael to a place of peace, where there is no pain, no conflict, no raging disease.

There is nothing in life we cannot do, Michael's legacy lives on, not just this past weekend, but always. Proud to be a "stepper", I truly know that he was proud, we got up, we moved, we enjoyed, we savored, and in everything we now do, we find Mom's statement to be true...this life is "no hill for a stepper".

Love you, Michael.

Mother to Mother, Heart to Heart

When I saw her face, embraced, and hugged her, a very long hug where neither of us wanted to let go...well, it was in that moment that we seemed all alone, yet there were literally hundreds of people standing around. I didn't notice them. I doubt that she did, either. In that instant, we were mother to mother, heart to heart. She was NOT the little girl I had watched grow up. She was NOT the little one I saw at the pool, spent time with on vacation, babysat and made crafts with one beautiful Saturday morning. I was NOT her mother's good friend, her elder, the one who had been a part of each other's lives for over twenty years. We were mother to mother, heart to heart. And in that embrace, we had two other heartbeats with us, I felt it, I know she did, too. There they were, her Lilly, my Allison. Our precious daughters, one living as an angel, literally within hours of her birth, another, forever 21 years old, were more present than if they had been standing around us like the others.

We have corresponded often since the passage of both of our daughters, especially since Lilly Kate, and mostly because of Allison. Allison paved the way for loss. She helped me to KNOW what no mother should know. She helped me to cling to faith when I would have rather abandoned it! She taught lessons that reach farther than any classroom. She taught me that a mother's love never dies, that I am always and forever her mother, just in a different way. She prepared me to help other mothers when it became their turn to grieve, live, and love. She provided the words from a heart that has so much to say. So, naturally, having a "connection" to this young mother, Lauren, she helped me reach out to her when Lilly was born, a twin to Cowen, and she nudged me when Lauren needed extra support, encouragement and love. Allison helps me to KNOW what no mother should know. And now, Lauren knows. She knows what it is like to give birth, only to release that child back to the hands of the Father. She knows the pain of a grieving heart. She knows how to live strong for her children, seize this day, make the best of it. She knows how to find strength and stand strong with a husband who is grieving, too. She knows.

But still, we cannot possibly understand one another's burdens of the heart. This young woman is just starting out, in some ways, as she raises her children. Lilly would make four babies to raise! Now there are three! Her children are almost the age when I first knew of her, so of course, she and I cannot totally relate! I have seen it all, where she is on the threshold! Yet, she knows, and I know, that we have something in common that most women would never allow their heart to feel, we carry our child in the confines of our heart, where no one truly sees, because we cannot explain. With each other, there is no need to explain. Mother to mother, heart to heart, we knew. We know. And if I could have held her forever, I would have.

She says I inspire her! She says my words bring comfort! I suppose what she does not know is that SHE is the one who inspires ME. Yes, I can send the card, and speak from the heart, I can send the Christmas ornament for Lilly and I can celebrate her life. And I can definitely understand and FEEL more than I ever wanted to...don't think I don't feel Lilly every milestone, every holiday, every time I see on her Facebook page what Cowen is doing! I feel too much because I know what I know. I know about that missing face in the photograph, that in our case there should be four, in their, six! I know we both should be buying those Christmas gifts for our beloved daughters who have gone before us. I know what triggers are and I live with flashbacks. So, I know what I know. I know I am blessed to have had 21 years of memories and photographs, yet, still, as I watch this young mother interact with her own dear sister, I wonder...I wonder what it would be like for Jennifer if she had her life to share, in the physical sense, with Allison. I wonder what Allison would look like, would she marry, have children. I know Lauren wonders, too. It's just something you know, mother to mother, heart to heart.

I don't know how she happened to be at the Lung Cancer Walk this weekend, I really don't. I don't know what brought her to town. I don't know how her raffle was chosen for the basket of love we donated in Allison's name to the event, when there were over 76 other items and thousands of tickets. I don't know how I happened to be standing in a sea of hundreds when she walked up. I don't know...or, maybe I do. Mother to mother, heart to heart, one just knows.

I've Travelled So Far

A long time favorite singer of mine, Mary Chapin Carpenter, has apparently made a comeback and I am ever so glad! There is nothing like her voice, in my opinion! And like many artists, one can tell that the journey of life has taken a different turn for them, for their lyrics are much more reflective, intuitive, softer, if you will. The carefree days of innocence and partying like a rock star are over. Life has set in. It has a way of doing that. It eventually does that, for all of us. Our travels take us different paths, roads, detours, journeys, but, still, the pavement intersects and we can see it in another's eyes, feel it in their hug, know it in our heart, know it by the tears shed, or the laughter that somehow doesn't feel so light hearted anymore. Life hands us burdens. We only get to choose how we will go on from there, how we will respond, how we will travel.

Like the song's lyrics, I feel I have travelled so far. So far. Yet, sometimes not far enough. Where am I supposed to be? Does this loss of a child, a young 21 year old who we will honor at a Lung Cancer Event tomorrow, define me? What does? What doesn't? I have many unanswered questions. I don't try to seek those answers, most of the time. Oh yes, sometimes, I wonder...I wonder how our daughter can be one of the youngest to lose her life to lung cancer. Other ways, yes, but lung cancer? I wonder how I will live a life to old age without her? I wonder if I will ever feel like the threads of my heart are sewn together again and I will FEEL like I used to...I wonder many things. I wonder, as stated in the lyrics, "why do some go and some stay"? But also, from the lyrics, I know I have travelled so far. I am proud of the journey, the fact that I am here, still standing, working a full day today to get ready for an event that will make some noise for Lung Cancer! I am proud of myself for getting up each morning, holding social events, or simply making a meal! I am proud of myself that I can "show up" for things, in honor of my deceased child, but in celebration of the lives who are still here. And as I listen to the song, it inspires me to keep travelling, show some inspiration, make my daughters proud, give my husband a reason to keep working, keep working myself on my passions.

Oh, I have travelled so far. I am often weary. I am most always weak. I find myself breathless and dismayed as to how much energy it takes to just BE. Everything we get, we get the hard way. It wasn't supposed to be easy, was it? The travels before the walk of grief seem like a walk in the park, but who am I kidding? It wasn't.
But perspectives change with life, with the journey.

I have a path to travel that I would have never predicted. I can't change things. I must learn to accept...much easier said than done. I must maneuver this my way, and I will. I keep turning to God and asking for direction. I will never stop trying to learn what His purpose is for my life. I know that wherever I go, there I am. I know that I have travelled so far.

Rerouted Tears

My tears are backing up. I want them to be shed. I am trying to cry, really, I am. They are backing up and I feel as though they are rerouting through my entire body, going every which way but OUT. They are being held in for some reason. Oh, indeed there are the morning tears, the mid-day tears, the evening tears, the seasonal tears, the middle of the night tears, all the tears of grief. But these tears, the ones that bind me up, bend me over, ache with pain, the big tsunami if you will, just races and rages and roars through my soul. They are following some sort of course within. They are brought about by the memories, the flashbacks, the changing of the season, this season which became her last, at least here on earth. They are brought about as I remember the excitement of a little girl and her sister who dressed up and waited for Aunt Kathy to come take them trick or treating. They are brought on by a young woman who bravely walked herself to a hospital, in pain, barely able to breathe, shoulder and back pain, coughing that would not stop, soon to learn of lung cancer. They are brought on by an image of a family coming home and hearing her say, as we crossed the Missouri line, home sweet home, where I am going to get well. They are brought on by what has been lost, but what has been gained. They are brought on by a sweet October, more beautiful in Missouri than I believe anywhere else, a near perfect month, ending in an even more surreal way. They are brought on by a celebration today of 33 years of marriage, and all that has taken place in those years. WE are stronger, wiser, and still together, despite the statistics...not just the statistics of divorces, but those of couples who lose a child. The silence, the ache, the pain, the loss can kill a marriage. We celebrate that ours is still alive. The rerouted tears are due, in part, because today is also the day God heard my cry and took my/our mother, grandmother, wife to her heavenly home. Sixteen years ago. A gift in the pain on our 17th wedding anniversary. For such a gift, there are still tears. They come every year and every year I think they won't. But they do.

These rerouted tears that go every which way but OUT stand for so much. They represent strength, dignity, sorrow, pain that cannot be described, joy, happiness, grief, even euphoria at times. They know no consistency. They know no reason. They are just there. They get tangled and caught up, sometimes in my throat, sometimes in my gut, always in my heart. I don't know how to live like this, but I don't know how not to...it is who I am, now. Sometimes they trickle from my eyes, sometimes they pour from every pore in my body, and always, they are screaming in my soul. They are God's way of providing a release. I used to say I am tired of crying. Now I say, I wish I could cry more. I want to let it out. I will. When I can and in due time. It might be when I least expect it, when I linger in the Target aisle looking, and even touching, Halloween costumes. It might be when my fingers trace her name on her beautiful headstone on a visit to lay fall flowers on her grave. It might even be when I look at the pomegranate juice in the grocery store. The tears come. Maybe not OUT, but they are always there. I cry for her, for myself, for my mother, for my father, for my sister, for my brother, I cry for a daughter, a husband, for what was to be, but will never be...I cry. Then I ask for God's grace, His mercy and His love, I pick myself up, I find my way to celebrate the day, honor this anniversary when perhaps I'd rather curl up with a good book, live this day to the fullest, walk my beloved Rex, plan for holidays with family, look forward to spending time with a living daughter, make her a home cooked meal after a hard week of work, spend time with those I care about, or who are important to me, help others when I can. I ask that these rerouted tears cleanse me and energize me to live and make a daughter, who resides in the heavens, proud. I ask that they release me from the bonds of pain and grief and to turn that into good and joy. I ask God to help me smile as I remember, and to focus on the good that came, not the pain, not the suffering. I ask God to show me the way He answers prayers, like the day He took my mother out of her six week coma and freed her from the bonds of living like she was...God is so good, God is so great. He hears me. And I am grateful.

The Sweet Whisper of Her Soul

Our hearts will always be connected, her and mine. I know this because sometimes mine beats so fast, it feels like it is beating for two...and it is. It's like that extra beat that occurs when we know our children need us, or are troubled, or are ill. It's also like the extra beat it takes when we have the love and pride that only a parent can understand, as we watch them spread their wings, graduate from college, find joy in their chosen profession, observe them as they find their way to happiness, maybe hold their own child someday or find someone to share their life with...whatever our child feels, we feel, only I believe, we feel it to an intensity that cannot be described, only felt.

My own heart beats so fast in these beautiful autumn days, each day more beautiful than the other in this month, October. It beats fast as I attempt to maneuver and find my way through the memories, the "flashbacks", the occurences, the diagnosis, the treatments. I have learned how to put each painful part in a compartment and visit it at an appropriate time, to hold on to it for a bit of time, but to let go and find some peace. I thank God for that peace that He has promised, that peace that passes all understanding. I will never understand. I am trying not to understand. It is a waste of time, because there will be no revelation, no explanation, no ah-ha moment. She is gone and just this morning I had to say it again, out loud, through the tears and the pain, she is not coming back. She is not coming home. She IS home.

A gift that has come, in time, and in the brokenness, is the whisper of her soul to mine. It is true that I have felt hollow and empty, sometimes fake and certainly phony, since she left. I have felt numb as I attempt to go through some of life's motions. Other times, not. Other times I am just so damn grateful for the moment that I don't want it to end. I don't want my days with Jennifer to turn to night, I don't want to take my sister to the airport, I don't want a quiet evening of drinking wine on the deck with Joe to end. But they do, and when the special moments bring me back to my "reality", it is the sweet whisper of her soul that moves me. She is there, always and in all ways. My greatest gift has become my new reality, she is gone, but she is part of me. Her soul whispers to mine and we are connected.

It's hard to describe, really. How can something so beautiful be so painful? I want her here, don't I? I want her in the photograph I saw the other day of some friends from the class of 2003 posted on Facebook. I still look for her there! She should be, she should not have died so young. I want her here as we plan for a cousin Christmas, she should hear of the plans and be there in the new memories we will make. I will look for her. And she won't be there. Yet, she will. Her sweet whisper to my soul will be even more magnified than her physical presence. She sends me message, gives me ideas, provides the courage, hope, love, and energy it takes to take each step in this thing called life.

As we head into the last weeks she was home with us we find even little observances like Halloween and evening walks with the dog can be painful. Everywhere I turn there is a reminder, intensified at this time of year, because this season was her last. How appropriate that God would keep her here through the beauty of a season, in preparation of a holiday, only to take her in His time, the dead of winter for us, but to Him, a place of no seasons, a place where she is free from pain and treatment and a place where she can live larger than life itself. A place where she is blessed and where the sweet whisper of her soul will never die. A place where she can be everything to every body, all at once, and all consuming. A place where the whispers never stop.

Her Hair

No doubt I have written about this before, but again, this morning, thoughts of her hair. For BOTH my daughters, hair and hair design defined them. Jennifer is an amazing stylist and color specialist, fulfilling a dream of hers that was almost squashed by you know who...ME. What? A hair designer, what about insurance, what about a good living, what about standing on your feet your whole life...didn't you do that mom, didn't you love what you did? A resounding YES, so here she is, and lovin' life! And there she was, styling and fixing and coloring her sister's hair and anyone who came to our makeshift salon in the basement! It is the courage of BOTH sisters that came to mind this morning, the bravery of one, loving older sister, cutting and shaving the head of her cancer ridden sister, the warrior who took it in her own hands to shave her head at the onset of some shedding due to chemotherapy. When it became apparent that she would lose that hair, there she was, attacking it as she did everything else, with a vigor and the spirit of a take-charge young woman who wanted to face whatever must be faced.

What most likely prompted my thoughts was a segment on the Today show of a woman battling cancer who did virtually the same thing...she even hosted a hair shaving party, and she was surrounded by love when it happened. Tears, sadness, pain, yes, but love. That sent tears streaming down my face, wondering if the "average" person really knows what goes into the shaving of one's head in cancer treatment. Did we know then what a defining moment it would be, did we know then that we would find strength for months and years to come from that one simple, yet complex, moment? Did we know then that we would find that we could do virtually anything in this life with Allison as our example, with Jennifer as our example, standing stoically behind her sister, very lovingly and gingerly taking the last of the hair off of a beautiful and bold head? Did we know that not much compares to watching two young women in what would become one of life's final moments of love and grace, dignity and determination? Did we know that the tears Allison went to shed in private would ring in our ears for eternity, but that they would be soon overshadowed by a desire to live strong and filled with hope? Did we know what a bald head signifies?

When I see the bald heads on men and women, now, I want to salute, take their hand, congratulate them, something!! I want to say much, but the words most often get caught in my throat. EVERY single time I see someone in "battle" I am brought to a place where it became my own daughter's to own, the shaving of the head, she took control, she didn't let it define her, she radiated and found her peace through the pain.

That is my lesson this day, to find my peace through the pain. That is my lesson every day. She taught me more than I even know and is still with me in all ways, always. I can put one foot in front of the other because she taught me how. It is sad, it is painful, I know nothing else like this, but her legacy lives, and that is how I do, her father does, her sister does. We have been blessed by an angel.

Yes, her hair once defined her. Every picture is a new design and a new color. Then there was none. And that only enhanced her beauty and her soul. What she found was she didn't need hair at all. Beauty comes from within.

Glorious Weekend

On this most glorious of all weekends, weather-wise, at least, I am reflective in my heart. Four years. Four years ago yesterday that we drove to Chicago to visit Allison in the hospital with plans to bring her home to recuperate from pneumonia. Four incredibly, long, yet short years. We packed a weekend bag and headed out on the very same type of glorious weekend, weather-wise, at least. We stayed almost two weeks and what we learned in those two weeks, every day, practically every hour took our breath away. Took OUR breath away, figuratively. Took HERS away, literally.

She was struggling to breathe. Her lungs were drained. She was on antibiotics for pneumonia, but all along, there it was, a tiny mass at first, until the picture, until the biopsy, and then it became much more. So much more. The raging cancer would take her from us in eleven weeks. She WOULD become the statistic of lung cancer, even though we never chose to believe she would. How could she? She was healthy, vibrant, a virtual non-smoker, and anyway, these things don't happen to us, to this family...or do they?

On a glorious weekend, weather-wise, at least, our world shifted and we were never intended to be the same. The crisp mornings, warm afternoons, chilly evenings now represent so much more, and with each turning tree, falling leaf, there it is...the memories, the diagnosis, the pain, the treatments, the no known cure. There it is, and there it was, and here we are. And I can honestly say, that in the beginning, I would never have believed that I would sit here, four years into this, four years of learning to maneuver a life that was numb and seemed to have no course of action, no light, no joy, no laughter. But that has changed. God has seen to that, and has used Allison to help me see to it, too.

It's a glorious weekend, weather-wise, at least. It's a glorious life, if we find our own true driven purpose from the loss, the pain, the devastaion, the loneliness. It doesn't come easily and it doesn't come with no cost. The suffering brings on a new meaning to life, and even brings on a gratefulness of the heart, that is, when I can stay focused and thankful. I get to choose gratitude. I get to thank God for the 21 years we had with Allison, and even the eleven weeks, for now, I can capture glimpses of those glorious days, days spent in talking, planning, understanding and growing. I get to be thankful that my pain must be only a shadow of the suffering she endured as a cancer warrior, as the brave soul who went into battle every day. I tell myself, so often, that I DON'T need to remember and remind myself of the time she "suffered" while here. I remind myself that where she is there is no pain, no sadness, no illness, no time, only freedom and glorious weekends. She sits at the hand of God, now, and while I cannot help but feel autumn in my heart, to my core, I know that life continues in the ever present circle God intended. Babies are born, Mason, and Mylah, and Maria and those too numerous to mention. Lives are lived. We capture moments. We try and we remain strong, and I ask God to know my heart when I don't know it myself. My heart cries, yet no tears come from my eyes. I don't know whether I am coming or going, or how we even got to October, but we did. We went places, saw things, experienced joys, found laughter, and I am beginning to learn how to dance with the cloak of grief.

It is a glorious weekend, weather-wise, and it is October and it holds too much to bear, at times. Then again, I am reminded of a spirit who has become my mentor, my guide, who never leaves me, my daughter whom I carried under my heart. I am reminded that God the Father looks at me as His child, not an adult, not a grown up with all the answers, but a child who will always need His guidance, love, mercy and grace. I am reminded that I have a choice, I can coil up and retreat, ignore the sounds of the children playing outside, pass up the opportunities that lie before me, miss out on the merriment of the lives of those I love. I will not take this lying down, I will be that warrior that Allison was, and is, I will find a way to my own light and shine it when I can. I will be all I can be as her mother.

It IS a glorious weekend, weather-wise, and all ways. All I am promised is right now, this day, this moment, and I affirm that I will do my best to seize it, remember with whatever conviction of the heart that comes my way, and move in a way that is pleasing and beautiful. I long to make this a glorious life, as I honor the one that left before me, my baby, my child.

It's JUST Routine!

Who among us has NOT waited for that call from the doctor's office, anxiously, or not, we can all relate...and if we cannot, surely we have waited in anticipation for the call regarding a loved one. I know one thing for sure, you don't make it to my 50 something age and NOT know what it is like to wait, and wait, and wait some more. And more often than not, I have heard the words, "it's just routine"...and it IS, to THEM. Before Allison's diagnosis, I surely experienced the wait. The call was coming. Either there was a scope, a mammogram, a biopsy, or SOMETHING that I waited to hear about. And always, thus far, the word benign accompanied the call or the letter. There was an anxiousness, then relief, then "thank you, Lord", and life went on. Until the next time. But then it happened. The biopsy that changed my life, our lives, her life, in ways I still cannot begin to fathom. The lung cancer diagnosis in my healthy, vibrant, beautiful, spirited, 21 year old daughter. The tumor was large, it was repulsive, it was consuming, it was spreading, it was causing bone pain, body aches, fatigue, and it was MALIGNANT. It was what would take her life in eleven short weeks. It was what took our breath away, as if we were the one who struggled to breathe with a 50 pound weight on our own lungs.

Allison struggled with many symptoms that no doctor would have imagined would have been more than a cold, a virus, later pneumonia (serious enough in the eyes of her parents). The symptoms were sporadic, meaning good days, weeks, then very rough ones. She would call to report that she felt bad because she couldn't make it to class, let alone study. I would encourage her to go to the doctor and each time she did, she got a prescription or an inhaler, and would be better, but not for long. She slept a lot, she came home to rest, she was cranky, she got upset easily, but still, every few days, she would rally, until she could rally no more. She found her way for a "routine" scan, and the rest, as they say, is history. A history that changed the course of my very existence and that of many others, as well.

So, now, when the visits to the doctor are necessary, or pneumonia entered my life, causing me to grasp my chest, spend time in the hospital, wait for lung results, check on my heart, take antibiotics for the heart wall infection, struggle even to walk the dog, I only know a snippet of what my daughter went through. I do not have lung cancer. Aside from the fluid built up, and doctor's orders, I am fine. I am fine after a recent endoscopy that, again, was "routine". I waited for the biopsy results with a fervor and once again whispered a very appreciative thank you to my God above. And today, as I got called back for yet another mammogram, with the nurse telling me that the doctor wants me to know "it's just routine" when we see certain things, I am doing my best NOT to jump to breast cancer. I know that is not the case. But, you see, nothing is ROUTINE for me any longer. There is nothing normal or "routine" about any of this. I have heard what no mother wants to hear, MALIGNANT, CANCER, DEATH of her own child. This is NOT routine, but it is my life.

The Cancer World

Whether we know it or not, we are all in the Cancer World. No one can really miss it, even if it has not happened to directly impact someone they know or love. With the statistics, I am hard pressed to believe that any of us are not deeply and greatly touched by the "C" word, CANCER. I have even heard there is a show about it, although I could never bring myself to watch that one...I have seen more and more cancer centers being constructed and of course, all of us can now name on more than one hand those who are battling or who have left all too soon. It's a world we enter whether we choose to do so, or not. It's a world that touches us in different ways. It touches each of us differently as we deal with it directly or indirectly. Some of us are the ones who battle and fight each day, fight to live, find a cure, and miraculously the cancer is gone, for awhile, for years, or forever. So many names come to mind right now, even as I pray for those undergoing the treatments and the hospital visits and ALL that comes with the diagnosis, ALL those things that most of us could never see unless we walk the walk, ourselves or with our loved ones.

Then, of course, there are the names that come to mind of those whose bodies grew weak, tired, weary. Those who God laid a gentle hand upon and called them to be home with Him. Those whose names are growing in our circles each and every day...in our own family, my father, my daughter, and so recently, my brother-in-law, Karen's husband of almost 31 years, Matt and Joe's father, my girls' uncle, gone to rest, after a tumultuous three year journey. I certainly did not choose this, but whether I want to be, or not, I am in the cancer world. That didn't just begin, and it is not the end, the cancer world is part of my life. No matter what I do, how hard I try, how many times I ask God to take this part of me away, it is not going to happen. The "Cancer World" has become my world.

Sometime after Allison passed from us, I began to see a wonderful grief therapist who specialized in those impacted by cancer. In every session, I was able to learn a strategy to get through this life, to help ease the images, to wash away a bit of the pain, if only for a moment. I learned to "shelve" the flashbacks, not put them away, but work at them in more appropriate times. Like some patients who have to walk again, I had to rehabilitate myself, so that I could rejoin my family, my life, myself. I, in no way compare my struggles with those who have physical incapacities, I am just sharing my soul of how it was to breathe again, stand tall in moments of despair, re-enter a public with some stamina and dignity, when all the pain was wired inside, nothing anyone could see...after all, to them, I looked fine!!

I am in the Cancer World...some have suggested I find another type of "job" or place to work, and don't think I haven't thought of it. I have inquired, even interviewed, and turned down "jobs", jobs that bring me no satisfaction now, no joy, no interest in getting dressed only to find that there is no meaning to the work. Some believe that a diversion would be good, and I thought so, too. But how can I sell handbags, or be a party planner, or substitute as a school administrator any longer when I know what I know. So, I stay in the Cancer World. Sure, I find some "fun", I travel a bit, I enjoy working in my home, I read, I write, I am finding my voice, but it's not enough. And I keep searching, asking God to help me find a purpose, a plan, a way to help and assist. And lo and behold, in this Cancer World, along comes my experiences with my own father, my very own precious daughter, and along comes a dear soul, Chrissy, who allowed me the privilege of spending time with her and her "sissy" in her final days, and then, not finally, because there will be more, then comes Michael, my brother-in-law. I shared his own personal cancer journey with him, through thick and thin, good and bad, beautiful and rough. My travels were mostly back and forth to their house in 2009 and 2010 and I learned more, yes, about the Cancer World, but more about myself. And in those final days, and hours, and minutes, I felt God pointing out what I may have known all along, but wouldn't listen. I wanted OUT of this Cancer World. But that is not to be, so I am learning to embrace it. To embrace life, no matter for how long. Their life. My life.

Thanks to all my experiences, and Michael's gift, I am finding my purpose, my way. I thank Dad, Allison, and Chrissy, too, and names too numerous to mention. It will be a simple step. It will be a baby step. But I will volunteer through the wonderful organization of hospice. I made the call. I have no idea what it will "look" like, whether I will offer caregivers a respite once I am trained, or share time with a patient, pray with them, read to them, help them live. Hospice, to me, has never been about dying, it has been about living. Somehow I didn't know that until my sister and I met with them so many years ago. Somehow I couldn't face that when it was mentioned for Allison. But in Michael's final days, he was able to LIVE in the comfort of his own home, with those who loved him most around him, and nothing could have been more beautiful when he took his final breath.

Yes, we all live in a Cancer World. I have promised Allison it won't consume me. I have promised my family I will sing again, I will dance again, I will find myself. I will make time for everyone who I care about, I will find a solution to every problem without getting anxious or upset. None of it matters anyway. It's all temporal. And in a minute, it will all be over, one way or another. A piece of me HAS to give back to this Cancer World, Dad, Allison, Chrissy and Michael are making sure of that!

Don't Have to Look Far

I don't have to look far to seek and find the blessings in my life. Not far at all. Focusing on them has been somewhat of a challenge in the months and now years since Allison passed away. I have my moments when all I can feel is the pain, all I can see is the blur of life through the tears, all I know is that a treasure has been ripped from my physical life and my heart has never been the same. Yet, from the start, I had to focus. Focus. Focus on what is true and good and faithful and meaningful, the simple blessings of life, that once were just part of my work/social/personal calendar of existence.

I don't have to look far, but I DO have to dig deep. I have to ask God to help me step away from the changing of the seasons as summer ends and fall begins, such significance for my family, for me. I have to choose to remember what she meant, how she lived, what she taught us in those weeks of cancer drugs, pain, treatments. I have to focus on her smile, her light, her love. I have to keep learning how to live with her in my heart instead of her calling me with news, with stories of her life, with her thoughts and dreams. I have to let God take control of my every fiber just to move through a day. I have to ask Him, repeatedly, to show me what is good and meant from this pain, this suffering, this sadness of missing her.

God shows me I don't have to look far...I see the blessings all around me. When I choose to look at them, I have better moments, that get me to the next ones. I can feel joy, even if only for a moment, or an afternoon, or a day. I can feel again. But not by doing it alone. I can't do any of this alone. God has to be my co-pilot and He helps me know I don't have to look far...I can be in the company of my daughter who is nothing but pure pleasure, even when she faces her own troubles, I can spend a week with my sister, even when she is mourning and facing such uncertainty about the loss of her beloved husband, I can spend an afternoon with my brother and sister at the cemetery of our parents, not saying much, but not needing to, and I can attend the celebration of dear friends as they celebrate 60 years of marriage, surrounded by so many caring and wonderful emotions. I can sit down and write in my journal, care for my adopted dog, and I can sing a song to my ipod as it blares through the house. The fact that I have even figured out the ipod and iphone is a blessing in itself! I can make banana bread for Joe and receive an e-mail of thanks and appreciation from him at work. I can take a neighbor to the airport because her car won't start, or I can tend to the girls next door when the parents need a little break. I can keep wine, coffee, tea, and crumpets ready and on call for those who need a little respite. And I can find my way through projects, gift buying, note writing, fund raising, shopping for others. I don't have to look far, but, yes, I do have to dig deep.

I have asked God this morning to help me dig deep and even deeper. It is too easy to dwell on missing my daughter, my brother in law, dwell in the sadness of my sister and her new stages of grief...God knows how desperately I want to take that away. He also knows I cannot, just as no one can take away mine, ours. It is too easy to stay in the place of sadness and loss and pain. I will and I do. But I will keep preparing. I know it's not an easy time that we embark on...ending September brings on a new dimension to our lives, the leaves will fall and with them will signify the days in Chicago, the failing health of an undeserved young woman, a disbelieving diagnosis of lung cancer, and all that surrounded that. The leaves will represent so much, but already, I am asking God to prepare me in new ways. Help me find the beauty. Help me to focus on what is good in my life. I expect results. I know He will help and never forsake me. He will remind me that I do not have to look far.

The Quilt

A masterpiece has been created, a work of art, a treasure, an heirloom, and a gift. It is THE quilt. Somewhere along the way, Joe, Jennifer and I had the idea to gather Allison's t-shirts and find someone to perhaps put them together in the form of a quilt. The thought of being wrapped in a blanket of such love, so many memories and smiles, was but a dream, a thought, an idea. We slowly began to pursue the thought by looking into finding someone that could perhaps put our "dream" into reality...but where to start? I found a painful part of the process to be actually even gathering the shirts, let alone letting myself think of them being cut or torn apart. So, they sat, and they were moved, and they sat some more. They stayed in a bag in my closet. Her scent still lingered, and when I opened the bag, there she was, almost in the flesh, to me, again. How could I let go? So time passed, but then my heart led the way, and we also found the person who would create this legacy of love. Right there all along, really, was a family friend, especially to Michael and Karen, and eventually to all of us, Karen, KLO as we call her. She lives in Hull and over the years her creations have astounded me, her eye for color and detail, the need for no pattern, her talents an obvious gift. We began to have conversation about some possibilities, and lo and behold, a plan took shape. A plan that involved no timeframe, no design, no limits, no restrictions. We had all the faith and trust in her as I gave her the shirts. It was when I handed them to her, without saying a word, that she knew my heart. She began to caress the shirts and the sayings, her hands moving gently over the material and patterns. The look in her eyes told me she was just the "right" person to be handling this project, and thus, it evolved.

I think it is fair to say that the creation of the quilt was far more than any of us intended. For me, it was letting go of a piece of Allison that I was still holding on to, for Joe it was the emotion of the memories surrounding each shirt, and for Jennifer, I can safely say that any part of her sister is what she wants surrounding her, in any form, fashion, or design. So, she was ready for the comfort and the beauty. This was to be HER quilt, Jennifer's that is, this first one, maybe the only one, with all parts of her sister in tangible form. And for KLO it became so much more, too. We have spoken of it, some. But her stories and her eyes and her heart let me know that this was a labor of love. No amount of money can substantially thank her, no gesture, no words of gratitude. And she, simply and humbly, GETS THAT. We didn't intend for her to do this on her own, we were out for "hire", we didn't intend for it to be completed just as her dear friend, my own brother in law was in his own end of life stages in this summer of 2010, and we surely didn't plan for it to be completed by Jennifer's 28th birthday, which she celebrated in Hull, along with celebrating her uncle's life. We didn't plan any of it, because there was no plan. But as all things do, they come together in God's plan, and that is not one to be questioned.

I could write an entire book about the quilt and what each block, each stitch, each color, each border, each shirt means to us. The memories are profound. There are tears, but mostly there is joy. Allison was known for her rather unique style in t-shirts, often bought at thrift stores and always making a profound statement. So, when I look at the quilt, and picture Jennifer wrapped up in it, I remember the summers on Karen and Michael's couch, wearing the bright orange "Beer Delivery Guy" shirt till it was almost threadbare, I look at the Maui 2003 shirt and I feel joy and peace, knowing the 10 days we spent in Hawaii were meant to be for so many reasons, and I laugh to myself when I run my hands across the one, "Tell Your Boyfriend To Call Me"...and yes, I could go on and on for each shirt gives me something more, and makes my heart sing.

Rather than doing so, I will include the writing that KLO presented us with when she gave us the final product. This is how I know it was a journey for her, as well, one that she needed at a time that no one else would understand, one that she took on with her full heart and soul, and one she caressed with love in every stitch.

Another Quilt, by KLO

Another Quilt
Shop fabrics, coordinate colors, choose pattern
Stop...NO!
Like no other, this quilt has walked, breathed, laughed, loved
There is a difference-a strong feeling of Zen
An emphasis on the process over the product.
She was.
Making this quilt came down to the here and now, the moment to moment handling of the cloth.
She is here-guiding the choice of fabrics, deciding each block's placement, the colors-Her colors.
What was she doing when she wore this one...Swinging in a hammock?
Shopping? Dating? Studying? Eating? Going to the beach? Cradling Barkley?
What is she doing now?

Thank you, KLO, from the bottom of grateful hearts...and oh, yes, we know what she is doing now.

Grounded

I am grounded. Still. I am resisting the urge to find some "normalcy" and visit Target or go to the grocery story. I must rest. But I know I am healing since these thoughts are even beginning to penetrate my better judgment. A week ago I felt as though I could slip away into a far off place, where the breathing wasn't labored and the pain didn't exist. But, still, with every blood draw, tube insertion, test, tunnel, probe, shots in the stomach, and the stick, stick, stick of needles, the pain didn't compare to that of my broken heart, the one that is broken that still beats. The one that had a bacterial infection, what??!! What does that mean? My scans showed a healthy heart, other than that, once again. Well, that and the slight chance that in the past I had something known as a "silent heart attack", proper name forgotten in my feverish delerium. So, other than THAT, and the pneumonia, all tests are good and fine and I am going to be well. I am thankful. I am thankful for benign polyps and no tumors. I am thankful that God is seeing to it that I am here a little longer, that this is a temporary setback, probably, as I have said, just to make me stop, rest, heal, do what is necessary to move through this phase.

Being grounded is interesting, though. I am not used to just sitting and reading or watching an hour here or there of television, lying down to rest, I am an on the go person, involved in many projects, some of my own design, some of other's, the ones I enjoy and wouldn't even consider saying no to, because of my love or admiration for that person. But I have had to re-evaluate, define my purposes, and establish my priorities...and I don't even have a REAL job:)

Being grounded has been uncomfortable. It has brought grief to the front and center. It's not that I don't live with it every day, every second of my life, every beat of my heart, but this is different. I have realized that in doing all I do, even when it is simply "nesting" or reorganizing closets, or staying productive in other ways, I have come to know that this is my way of working through grief. I don't want to think about it, I don't want to really absorb what has just happened in our family. I am in shock mode and don't even know it. I am reeling. I have added yet another layer of grief to my soul, and still, always, I must find my way.

I am going to slow down a bit. I am going to focus on me for awhile. I am going to stay grounded in God's blessings and not try to do it all. Sometimes we don't have choices, like all the events of the last months. Could I have ignored Michael's last weeks and days, and stayed home, going about my life as if the people so near and dear to me were not suffering and trying to find their own way? Could I have stayed home and "enjoyed" the festivities of life, giving no thought to what was happening in my own family, a beloved facing his final days? A sister tending to him with every touch, needing someone to help hold her up, too? Could I have ignored the similarities between Michael's voyage to Allison's, that while they were separate, they were also, one? Could I have turned away from the need to pray and hold and tend to my loved ones? We respond to the call that God puts before us, but then He gently speaks in whatever form or fashion necessary to get our attention.

He has mine! I am grounded. I will sort it all out. I will find my way. I am blessed. I am blessed with so many opportunities that seem so privileged, and then in the next breath, I can feel so lost, lonely, forgotten. But God's word promises me I am not. I am never alone. I am never lost. I am never forgotten. I may be grounded, but in many ways I am soaring.

Grief---Still?, Again?, Always?

Fresh grief has knocked me down, literally, and after a hospital stay with pneumonia and a bacterial infection in the wall of my heart, I am grounded. God is most likely telling me to put on the brakes, park it, and STOP. I am listening, heeding all advice, taking medications, and laying low. I am focusing on myself. I am trying. But these patterns are new to me, and I am not comfortable. I am at ease and at my best when I can do for others, when I can make that meal, work for that cause, help others with their efforts, support the things that mean the most to them, as they do for me/us. I have handled grief in ways that are uniquely my own. I continue to mourn, but I find the fun, laughter, joy. I wake up praying to seize the day, maybe that is why I fill it so much....fill it with what I deem purposeful and productive activity, yet throwing in the occasional indulgence. I do go out, I have lunches periodically, I may see a movie, but mostly, I wrap myself around reasons to bring me closer to my daughters, my family, my husband, and in doing so, I know I am letting myself down a bit. This case of pneumonia has shown me that, I need to take care of me, before, and during, the time I take care of others.

Doing for others has been my therapy. I know so many grieving souls, and each take a different course. One fills her day with so many activities that it makes my head spin just to hear her agenda! I'm not saying that is how she handles grief, but that has become her "way", not only because she can right now, but a loved ones death has shown her to capture it all! Another attends church daily, cries incessantly, has not seen friends in many months, and attempts to understand what has happened in the loss of her child. And yet another, keeps working, doing her best, carrying a broken heart, yet a smile for everyone she meets, finding the joy in the simple pleasures of life. These are not all loved ones who have lost a child, but have faced some sort of loss, and loss is loss, grief is grief, and I ask myself is it STILL with me?, is it here AGAIN, adding a new layer in the loss of Michael, and will it ALWAYS be part of me, my cloak, my armor, to wear for life? I already know the answers, yet, I find myself asking the questions. Asking for what reason, I do not know, just asking, I suppose.

So, here I am, "forced" by this lung condition, brought about by perhaps "catching" a virus, exasperated by a simple procedure, and bringing me to place where I must rest and heal, yet again. As I have found the ability to breathe a little easier in healing, I suppose I am so emotional because of what she went through, the pneumonia that took Allie to the hospital that unseasonably cold autumn day in Chicago. The fact that she walked eight city blocks to get to the hospital in pain, out of breath, and weak has lingered in my mind as I have relived the symptoms I had last week, and the week before. Some would say this has been brought on by my travels, so many in the last months, the lack of rest, the strength needed and desired to weave through Michael's last weeks, and the loss this has been to the family. I suppose they would be right. But I know more, and I know that it was my time to just BE, rest, read, indulge in TV shows, and books of choice, to lay with Rex and heal and cry if necessary, to let others do the shopping or the cooking, to take a breath and figure out where I go from here. I know that the physical met the emotional and blended with the spiritual in a way that God intended, to remind me that I, first and foremost, must take care of ME, then my family, then my friends, then the causes that are near and dear.

Grief has struck, I won't deny I am sad, I am mourning, I am beyond devastated, but I will soar, I will take this as I should, I will heed the call, and listen. I hear you God. I hear you Allison. I hear you Michael.

Just To See You Smile

I have learned to enjoy the smile on a loved one's face so much more. When those I love are happy, I am happy. When those I care for share an expression of joy and happiness, I am content. When a real smile comes across the face of someone near and dear, there is no greater gift. It's true and honest when a face lights up and breaks into a smile, not the posed look for a photo as one stares into the camera lense, but the the true spirit shining through.

It is no exaggeration to say that Allison always had a smile on her face. From the moment she was born, and this is no fabrication, she smiled. And she made us laugh. All of her life, from start to finish. At times she knew that smile could get her anything she wanted, she knew she was cute and had a winning way with just about everyone. I can only imagine the way she would "use" that smile to her advantage with the young men she dated, but I don't want to know!

There is not one picture that I have ever found of her where she was not smiling! And not one memory without that beam and glow in her eye, except of course, those weeks when cancer invaded and pain set in...but even then, she found her way. Her last visit with my sister, she put an ice pack over her bald head and tied it under her chin, grinning from ear to ear as she sat up in a hospital bed, the medications finally doing what was needed to help the pain subside. She had the look of an angel, truly. She glowed. Now we know why, she was gone in nine days, NINE days. And almost to the end, she was smiling.

I am trying to capture that smile today. Something my sister said to me yesterday, as she is desperately trying to put some of the pieces of her life in a new puzzle, reminded me of where I once was in my grief. She is trying to hold on to anything that is/was Michael's. She cannot remember his voice right now. How desperate I felt for her at that moment. How do I tell her that it is going to come back, it will, but it may take awhile. Because, no matter how much she was ready for him to be eased of his pain, and move on to the place that gives the eternal rest and perspective, now she must go on. And she is numb. She is confused. She is in so much pain that of course, she cannot capture Michael's voice, his touch, or his smile. Or anything about him for that matter. But she will. Grief has a way of striking every aspect of your being, from the physical, to the emotional, to the psychological, and we do forget. And as she is struggling to hear his voice, I remembered how desperate I was to remember Allison's smile. For so long, all I could see was her face as she heard the diagnosis, the tears, the pain, the procedures, the lack of body movement, the shaving of the head, the inability to live a "normal" 21 year old's life. I couldn't find her smile. I was desperate and immobile. I couldn't see past the pain, but was it her pain, or MY pain? I wanted that smile back, at all costs.

Grief continues to plague many of us. It is work. It is my daily assignment and task. It doesn't take a break. It is my constant companion, compounded, now, by another family loss that seems so soon. Don't we get more of a respite? Dont' we get to breathe a little easier without wondering what is going to happen in this life to take someone else that we love away from the family unit, the group photo? Don't we get to say enough is enough? We know the answer and that is a resounding NO, it's not over, it has barely begun. So we capture what we can, take the good with the bad, the tears and the laughter, the pain and the joys, the reasons to smile and be glad for this day, no matter what it brings. We get to find one sweet miracle, even if the miracle is simply getting up and moving through.

I needed to capture her smile today, that one that lights my soul, my world, my surroundings, that smile that reminds me that I will find a reason to smile today, as I look in the eyes of my vibrant 28 year old daughter, as I take Rex on his walk, as I meet with a friend tonight to "celebrate" the five year passing of her dear husband, as I make a meal for my own husband, as I remember Michael and all his funny ways, and as I hold my dear, departed daughter close to my heart, as she lives on and on and on, helping me to forget the days that mean nothing now, the painful ones, and focus on the smile...oh, just to see her smile! What a joy! What a blessing! What a memory!

Just Hold My Hand

For some reason, tonight, I cannot shake a certain experience of cancer as it relates to Allison, and I am quite sure, Michael. I am thinking of my sister and how she is working through the days and nights, four weeks now, that her partner and soul mate is no longer with her. I am reminded of my loss, our loss, as I found myself mentioning Allison's name a bit more than usual today. I found it necessary to explain, last evening, to inquiring new acquaintances that yes, I have two children, one with us, one residing in heaven. With God, my heart told me. With Michael, now, my heart cried out, but of course, I didn't say any of that. It still takes my breath away when people ask, and I find the gentle way to explain the fact that I am a mother to two daughters, and then the familiar questions come, and I must answer. I must.

I have had more than a few flashbacks as I travel the journey with my sister. Not the same one, of course, but it has it's similarities. Every part of it has had a familiar path. The diagnosis. The treatments. The side effect. The gifts, yes, gifts that cancer can bring. But also, the pain, the loss, the heartache and the sadness. And for some reason, today, I cannot get certain images and happenings out of my head. The day is ending soon, and I pray the night brings sleep, peace, rest for myself, my sister, my special friends, and for those I love, and for all those who grieve.

The image in the flashback moments are of her hands, and of his, Michael's hands. I held hers so often that I still feel them. I haven't let go in many ways. I suppose I never will. Her hands became very symbolic because of their beauty, their strength, their grip, their touch. So did Michael's. But when I see, in my mind's eye, his hands, I also see hers, my sister's, holding his, caressing, and loving him through touch. Each time I visited his hands were different, still his, but somehow telling a story, just as hers did, Allison's that is. Her hands told it all, they swelled with steroids, they shrunk in sickness, they thrived and brightened in health and they showed us that death was looming, her body changing and shutting down in a way that we could have never imagined. And his did the same. They swelled, too, they became healthier, fingernails looking finer than any time in his life, and then, the signs, that passage was imminent, the slender look of hands that had done their work, were ready for idleness and rest. Yet, the hands of a man who gave it all he had, and that of a young woman who did the same, leave a lasting image and feeling in my heart. I can almost feel them right now. And I hope my sister never loses the feeling of Michael's hand in hers. I hope in her desperate times, she can close her eyes and remember the loving caress, the gentle touch, and the strength that was transferred between them, in the touch of a hand.

Toward the end of Allison's life, when we were still in a state of confusion and uncertainty, wondering if there was more that we/she/doctors could be doing, her father made a visit to her doctor and asked if there was anything else we should or could be doing. This doctor was a father. It must have pained him deeply, for we knew his sensitivity with our daughter, and the look he, himself, had in his eyes when he was in her presence. No questions were asked by my husband as to amount of time left, or predictions, instead, he stayed clear of asking the doctor to play God. He asked a simple question of the doctor, what else do your recommend we do? And a simple answer, enjoy your time, love her, and hold her hand.

We may not ever get another chance to hold the hands of a loved one. So my thoughts tonight are that I am glad we did when we could, and I know my sister must be glad she did while she could. It's simple and it costs nothing, it may cause embarrassment to those we love, depending on ages and stages, but there is nothing like the strength and caress of holding someone's hand. It passes strength from one soul to another. Tonight I feel as though Michael is reaching out and touching Karen's hand, and giving her a bit of strength to get up, to put one foot on the floor, to make movement in a day, and even to go to bed at night. I feel it as much as I feel Allison doing the same for me, for us, for anyone who asks. She is reaching down and holding our hands, and I am allowing myself to feel the magic of that touch. Good night, Allison, and good night, Michael. How it must feel for you to be holding hands in spirit in a place that knows no day or night, no pain or strife, no worry or angst, just the pure joy of touch and goodness and grace.

Who To Talk To....????

One thing about grief, like cancer, it is unpredictable and unprecedented, and unique to each individual. It rages and grips and holds on until you think you surely have an illness, a diagnosis yourself, amnesia, paralysis, or even temporary memory and hearing loss. It rips apart any semblance of organization or way of life that existed before. It tears at every heart string and pulls until the pain pierces through one's bones and tissues and soul. It makes you want to scream, or cry, or yell, or fall to the floor, sleep the day away, ease from it's tight grip. It makes you sad. And like many days of my life in the last three and a half years, today I wanted to call someone, anyone, and talk it out, cry about it, ask the questions that have no answers. I wanted to share the journey, the loss of Michael, now compounding even more the loss of my own daughter, bringing back the flood of memories that I thought had been dealt with and shelved for a bit. I wanted to tell someone about his last words to me, his last moments with his family around him, the laying of hands prayer and the ushering we did as we each kissed him and encouraged him to let go and rest. I wanted to tell someone everything! And as I have felt before, I didn't know who to talk to or with...

I have so many supportive, loving, empathetic, wonderful family and friends. That has been a gift along this path. Any one of them would take the time to listen. But I can't call them, and one by one, as I listed the names in my head, starting with my own sister, husband, daughter, I knew there is no one to call. Each have their own life, burden or celebration occurring in their own life. Or they are at work. Or they are on vacation. Or they are not able to listen right now. And the truth is, I am not really able to talk right now. I talk myself out of talking. It is exhausting. This is fresh grief, all over again. I need time. My sister surely needs time. My nephews do, and everyone who knows and grieves for Michael, needs time, too. That is why this is a lonely phase. It is what I have referred to as the "awkward dance" stage. Although, truth be known, my life feels like an "awkward dance" most of the time. I don't even think I had begun to get my bearings, and now, again, here we are, shattered and uncertain. Everyone is in a state of fuzziness, trying to make sense of this, if there is any sense to be made.

Who to talk to??? Who can make this better??? We know the answer to this, and that is simply no one on this side of heaven. Even those who have loved and lost before, can only bring those moments of comfort and ease. It is surely wonderful to relate to those who have gone before us, draw our strength from the courage, determination, dignity, and grace of others. But surely we know that it is only God above who can help us find our way. Our true source of light and love is right there. And when there is no one we can call upon, He is there. He is there in the form of the Book of Ecclesiastes that Karen and I are both reading through. He is there in the night. He is there in the morning. And He is never tired of the call. I work to figure out what He wants from me, why does this loss have to impact and change me once again, when I didn't even know who I was before? Why does my sister have to come home to an empty house each night, after nearly 31 years, and why does she have to get to know herself now? Why does she have to suffer this way? And why does she have to be alone, now, just when she and Michael were "supposed" to be heading into the twilight years? Why did our gathering of eight become six so quickly and how will we adjust? What am I supposed to learn from this and what is my calling?

Who knows the answers, but God above. Who knows the truth and intentions of my grieving heart, but God above. And who has a plan for me, even though I do not know it, but God above. I can call so many people today, but the truth is, I am weary and exhausted and don't know what to say. I am loved and love so many, but the truth is I don't have the energy to do what is needed, not today. Maybe tomorrow. For now, I am thankful God hears me and guides me and answers the call, even when I don't know how to find the words.