I have heard from others who have lost someone dear that often times you can catch a glimpse of someone and they are so quickly reminded of the person, there are either similarities in physical features, identical ways in which they walk, clothes that represented what was in style when that loved one lived on earth...many fascinating coincidences. I have seen Allison in many others along the way, or have seen her driving the gold sebring convertible that became hers, I have seen her in the aisles of Target, and I have seen her in many crowds. It's almost like I have forgotten, for just a moment, that she is gone and that person is not really her. A wave of recognition comes over me, for a minuscule of a second, then reality strikes and a weird sensation pulsates through me. It happened again, just yesterday, as I came out to my car from the grocery store. Just two cars over, there she was, a young girl, dressed identical to how Allison would dress on her "comfort" days...the baggy sweat pants with the word PINK emblemed on the bottom, the slipper shoes that serve for inside and out, the hair pulled into a pony tail, sitting atop her head, the wide, stretchy headband pulling her bangs back, and even the smudges of mascara under her eyes, possibly left from an unwashed face from the night before. Yet, that glow was there. It was surreal. I stared. My knees felt weak and I didn't really move. I know this young lady wondered what I was staring at, and I felt so compelled to tell her. As she locked her car and carried her cup of coffee and purse over her shoulder, she not only resembled Allison in ways too deep for description, but she walked like her, caught my eye and smiled. I was literally transfixed. Transfixed on her face, her features, her eyes, that held a smile, too. So many thoughts entered my mind, who is this girl, what does she do, is she in school, what is her life like? It's amazing to me how much you can feel, sense, and think, all in the course of a few seconds. But it seemed like minutes. I literally waited and watched her walk away, and I must say it was as if she vanished. It was as if she was not really there at all, because I couldn't tell you what store she entered, where she went, in one minute she was there, and in the next, there was no sign of her at all.
There has been an array of feelings in my soul since this sighting. It happens from time to time. And when it does, I wonder, was it real? Was it my imagination? Was it my sign that just when I thought I had the world by the tail, embracing a dark and gray day, doing my best to make the best of it, I was snapped into reality, a reality that I am learning to live through, my way, and in a way that pays homage to those I love. The pain came gripping back and nearly knocked me to my knees. While grief is never far from my grasp, I am learning how to live, breathe, laugh, smile, and maneuver it. But this reminder was intense, and how I missed her. God, you know how I wanted to cry and ask once again, why this kind of pain, why did this have to happen? Why her? When is this going to seem real? When is this going to go away?
I thought of this as being the most pain I have ever known, the loss of a child. I wonder if that is true, but for me, it seems like it. It seems that no matter what I bear or endure, nothing will compare. I would rather it be me. I would rather take the burden. I would do it all again, for my child, the one that has gone before us, and for the one that lives. I just wonder, that's all. Is this the most suffering I will ever know? Is this the giant of all giants? Will I ever face anything like it in my lifetime? What is in store for me? For us? How do I live? When I saw her standing there, not Allison, but a close replica, I wanted this to be a dream, a nightmare, and I would wake up, innocent and naive to this sort of pain. I can pledge and preach and state that I know pain and suffering is part of life, and I believe it. I now know what was not mine to know, until now. I see the faces of parents on the news or the talk shows whose children are missing, or found in fields, or who have lived for years under the guise of being someone else's child. I hear in their voices the pain that comes from knowing that there will never be that moment where you can comfort or take it all away, guide and protect. Their innocence is lost, thus, as their parents, ours is, too. I watch the battle that the people of Haiti have to face, the parents whose children are out of reach, without proper burial or ceremony, the grief, and the anguish in their faces. At times like these, there are no words needed, necessary. One just knows once they have walked the journey of losing a child, no matter the age.
Still, seeing her standing there, not Allison, of course, but the other young woman, I was reminded of so much I have learned. I have found joy in facing the truth, in knowing where my child is, in being granted those last days, hours, minutes with her. I can be sparked for hours on the mere memory of her radiant smile, and I know there is joy in believing and holding true to faith that I will see her again. I trust that there is somehow joy in suffering, for in that intensity, the faith grows stronger and the spirit grows more hopeful, knowing a miracle awaits for all of us. We know not what it will be, we just know when we find joy in believing, that God works all things out for good.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"Lost" or "Won" The Battle?
With so much cancer invading our lives, and the lives of so many others, I hear an expression quite often that resonates with me on many levels. When cancer takes the life of someone, you will hear it in the voices of the ones left behind, or you will hear it on the news, or in "water cooler" conversations....the phrase...."he/she LOST the battle with cancer". I guess I don't like the sound of it, but I understand the concept...the cancer took over and the person lost their life. They are gone. They died. They passed away. However you choose to say it, the cancer took the life. I get that. I really do. After all, I have watched cancer rear its ugly head, up close and personal, in the lives of two of my dearest souls, my father, then my daughter. Now, I watch it play havoc with my brother-in-law as he and the family ride the roller coaster ride it can take you on...the highs, the lows, the dilemma of what to do, do I take a job, do I not, do I start this project, do I not? Do I dare plan for a future when I don't know if I will be here to see the fruits of my labor pay off? What do I do, what do we do? Do we plan or merely exist? Do I take this course of treatment, do I dare hope for a better future? How do I really learn to take one day at a time? Indeed, the questions would never stop.
The numbers continue to be staggering and we can become obsessed with cancer. We know now what we hoped to never know. We have lost our innocence. We see people who live for years and years with a similar diagnosis, we see people "lose" the battle within days of diagnosis. We see people abuse their bodies as soon as they leave the chemotherapy chair, or continue habits that most of us cannot imagine, and we can wonder many things, not putting less value on their lives, but still, wondering. We can ponder, how does a vibrant, healthy young woman, or a teenager, or a 10 month old baby, "lose" a life to some rare type of cancer? Why is childhood cancer on the rise and certain types of cancers taking the lives of our pre-schoolers? How does one family who I have come to know through their caring bridge site, bury a child and the next day the father receives his own cancer diagnosis, now, looking at his own battle with barely a breath to begin grieving for his child? Again, the questions rise and can never stop.
But the answer is simple. It is life. We are not immune just because we think we have done things right or that we deserve a break! We don't get a "pass" that allows us only so much pain and loss and suffering. These things no longer happen to "other" people. They happen to us, as well intentioned, devoted, educated, spiritual, God loving people that we think we are....they happen to all of us. And the lesson is that they always will, and for now, we just have this day. There are times the day seems hopeless, and that the fight may not be worth the result, but who is to say. Who is to say, when it is all said and done, that we "lost" the battle, I say, we will have "won". And I say that with the conviction that in the case of the faithful, those who walk with God on their side and in their corner, there can be no losing. We will win, and we will each have our own miracle. The miracle may not look like we expect it to, but it is there. I remember, very vividly, talking with Allison about those miracles. We never gave up, nor did she, that a miracle would occur. But we always said, we won't know what it is, but we hope we recognize it when it comes. And we did. She did. She knew her miracle was to be saved from future pain and a life of needles, treatment and appointments. Her own personal miracle was that she "won" the battle, in no way did she "lose". She found her home in a loving God who spared her much, who never imposed the cancer in the first place, but knew her as a follower, who needed her far more than we did, who knew her work would be better served in His Kingdom. This is something we have all known, but has taken me three years to articulate.
We won't ever change perceptions and terminology and total outcomes of cancer or the losses we will face. All we can do is know in our heart where we stand with God above, that when it becomes our time for our own miracle, we will recognize it, know it and accept it. We will know, without a doubt, no matter what our circumstance, that we have "won" our battle, whatever it may be, cancer, disease, pain, loss, personal suffering. We get to choose and I prefer to win, rather than ever lose.
The numbers continue to be staggering and we can become obsessed with cancer. We know now what we hoped to never know. We have lost our innocence. We see people who live for years and years with a similar diagnosis, we see people "lose" the battle within days of diagnosis. We see people abuse their bodies as soon as they leave the chemotherapy chair, or continue habits that most of us cannot imagine, and we can wonder many things, not putting less value on their lives, but still, wondering. We can ponder, how does a vibrant, healthy young woman, or a teenager, or a 10 month old baby, "lose" a life to some rare type of cancer? Why is childhood cancer on the rise and certain types of cancers taking the lives of our pre-schoolers? How does one family who I have come to know through their caring bridge site, bury a child and the next day the father receives his own cancer diagnosis, now, looking at his own battle with barely a breath to begin grieving for his child? Again, the questions rise and can never stop.
But the answer is simple. It is life. We are not immune just because we think we have done things right or that we deserve a break! We don't get a "pass" that allows us only so much pain and loss and suffering. These things no longer happen to "other" people. They happen to us, as well intentioned, devoted, educated, spiritual, God loving people that we think we are....they happen to all of us. And the lesson is that they always will, and for now, we just have this day. There are times the day seems hopeless, and that the fight may not be worth the result, but who is to say. Who is to say, when it is all said and done, that we "lost" the battle, I say, we will have "won". And I say that with the conviction that in the case of the faithful, those who walk with God on their side and in their corner, there can be no losing. We will win, and we will each have our own miracle. The miracle may not look like we expect it to, but it is there. I remember, very vividly, talking with Allison about those miracles. We never gave up, nor did she, that a miracle would occur. But we always said, we won't know what it is, but we hope we recognize it when it comes. And we did. She did. She knew her miracle was to be saved from future pain and a life of needles, treatment and appointments. Her own personal miracle was that she "won" the battle, in no way did she "lose". She found her home in a loving God who spared her much, who never imposed the cancer in the first place, but knew her as a follower, who needed her far more than we did, who knew her work would be better served in His Kingdom. This is something we have all known, but has taken me three years to articulate.
We won't ever change perceptions and terminology and total outcomes of cancer or the losses we will face. All we can do is know in our heart where we stand with God above, that when it becomes our time for our own miracle, we will recognize it, know it and accept it. We will know, without a doubt, no matter what our circumstance, that we have "won" our battle, whatever it may be, cancer, disease, pain, loss, personal suffering. We get to choose and I prefer to win, rather than ever lose.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Getting My "House" In Order
I had a conversation with my brother-in-law on a recent trip to visit my sister and him...well, I had many thought provoking ones, but one in particular sort of stays with me. As if it weren't enough to try and comprehend the passing of our daughter, their niece, on the heels of the loss cancer invaded again. This time in the form of multiple myeloma, a blood cancer that has taken him and the family on a ride of its own. Rather young by medical standards, he has already endured months of treatments, side effects, a stem cell transplant, and more. The MORE is what one doesn't SEE when loved ones "live" through cancer. It need not be described for there are no words, at least not this soon. You really cannot do any of it justice anyway, the sleepless nights, the visits to the bathroom, the pains, the alarm set to turn our loved ones over because they can no longer do that on their own, the escorting to and from the places that used to be private, the deterioration of a body, the ripping of a soul. You just cannot imagine. Until my father I never could. Then my daughter. Now, Michael. And no matter what the prognosis is, "living" with cancer takes parts of us that we never even knew existed. We are always waiting, for this blood test, this test result, wondering about this pain, or that, curious as to whether as we sit and breathe if cancer is taking hold. It's a complex journey.
As Michael and I talked about the many who have come into our life with their own diagnosis and unique journey, he was sharing about another gentleman in town with a raging cancer. He spoke to someone else who was suggesting this person "get their house in order". Immediately, when hearing this story, I moved, in my mind, from the literal sense to the spirit of the soul. But I would do that, that is where I am now. And that is where I have been since I have buried my child. Sure, I live in the literal sense as well, society demands it, our world expects it. But for me, the journey is much deeper and I was reminded of how all my healing thus far has been to get my own "house" in order. If I meant in the literal sense, I know one thing for sure, it would never happen. I have a pantry waiting for some major organization and a basement filled with items that need to be removed. I have a linen closet that needs cleaning out and I have tables that need to be cleaned since they have not seen this side of a dust cloth since before Christmas! I need to make sure our living will is brought up to date and I need to pay bills! All this to say, it's always a work in progress and will NEVER be in order.
This healing that has occurred over the past three years, and that continues to evolve, is how I am getting my "house" in order. I am not letting the other things go unattended, nor am I not living in the real world, but I am doing it my way. I have learned through experiences in my life and in the death of my youngest daughter that our bodies are our temples and that our spiritual essence manifests through a physical body. Our "home" is our soul, and all our energy follows thought. Where we place our thoughts, that is where energy will begin to manifest. Through pain and loss, and what I call the constant companion and shadow of grief, I must dwell upon the blessings and potentials that are possible within my life. I have always determined that I must look at what I DO have, rather than look at the limitations. As I learn to do so, I find that I do not have to be at the mercy of what life circumstances, or of my body, dictate. I have found that to get my "house" in order, I must walk the spiritual walk, fill my mind and soul with as much light, hope and energy that I can so that the healing takes place. I cannot say it is easy, simple or without sheer and utter pain. It brings me to my knees, this job of getting my "house" in order. I have to read, study, journal, contemplate, stay inspired by scripture and stories of men and women who have gone before me. I must find peace and fulfillment in my life, as it is, not as it was, not as it will be, but where it is now. I must make time for the things that matter, and still adapt to the surroundings for the bills keep coming, the groceries need to be bought, the house needs to be tended and life keeps on. Just because there are days I wish it weren't so, the world doesn't stop turning for me. I get to be the master of my day and my thoughts. Some would say that might be easy, I am retired, I have time, I have resources, I have the desire. And I agree, but, for me, and I can only speak for me, I must take what is handed and use the time I have to make it count.
Time is an interesting concept...at some point we all wake up and recognize we are terminal. It might be when we hear the diagnosis of cancer. It might be when we lose so deeply that we never, ever take another day for granted. It might be when we get older and we realize we have lived more than half of our lives. It might be the day we hold a funeral for our daughter and the walls of the house grow silent, no more to hear the vitality of youth, to see her mature and perhaps marry or have children. But there comes a time when we know we must stop and smell the roses, as they say, savor, breathe because we can, learn, grow, count our blessings, and yes, get our "house" in order. My work will never be done in the shelter of a house, but in my spirit, I pray that when God is ready, so may I be, my "house" in order to be received with open arms. And of course, I pray that is a long time from now. But ready or not, the time will come, and I prefer to be ready.
Thank you, Michael, for the wonderful "talks", perspectives and love as we both take another step in this thing called life.
As Michael and I talked about the many who have come into our life with their own diagnosis and unique journey, he was sharing about another gentleman in town with a raging cancer. He spoke to someone else who was suggesting this person "get their house in order". Immediately, when hearing this story, I moved, in my mind, from the literal sense to the spirit of the soul. But I would do that, that is where I am now. And that is where I have been since I have buried my child. Sure, I live in the literal sense as well, society demands it, our world expects it. But for me, the journey is much deeper and I was reminded of how all my healing thus far has been to get my own "house" in order. If I meant in the literal sense, I know one thing for sure, it would never happen. I have a pantry waiting for some major organization and a basement filled with items that need to be removed. I have a linen closet that needs cleaning out and I have tables that need to be cleaned since they have not seen this side of a dust cloth since before Christmas! I need to make sure our living will is brought up to date and I need to pay bills! All this to say, it's always a work in progress and will NEVER be in order.
This healing that has occurred over the past three years, and that continues to evolve, is how I am getting my "house" in order. I am not letting the other things go unattended, nor am I not living in the real world, but I am doing it my way. I have learned through experiences in my life and in the death of my youngest daughter that our bodies are our temples and that our spiritual essence manifests through a physical body. Our "home" is our soul, and all our energy follows thought. Where we place our thoughts, that is where energy will begin to manifest. Through pain and loss, and what I call the constant companion and shadow of grief, I must dwell upon the blessings and potentials that are possible within my life. I have always determined that I must look at what I DO have, rather than look at the limitations. As I learn to do so, I find that I do not have to be at the mercy of what life circumstances, or of my body, dictate. I have found that to get my "house" in order, I must walk the spiritual walk, fill my mind and soul with as much light, hope and energy that I can so that the healing takes place. I cannot say it is easy, simple or without sheer and utter pain. It brings me to my knees, this job of getting my "house" in order. I have to read, study, journal, contemplate, stay inspired by scripture and stories of men and women who have gone before me. I must find peace and fulfillment in my life, as it is, not as it was, not as it will be, but where it is now. I must make time for the things that matter, and still adapt to the surroundings for the bills keep coming, the groceries need to be bought, the house needs to be tended and life keeps on. Just because there are days I wish it weren't so, the world doesn't stop turning for me. I get to be the master of my day and my thoughts. Some would say that might be easy, I am retired, I have time, I have resources, I have the desire. And I agree, but, for me, and I can only speak for me, I must take what is handed and use the time I have to make it count.
Time is an interesting concept...at some point we all wake up and recognize we are terminal. It might be when we hear the diagnosis of cancer. It might be when we lose so deeply that we never, ever take another day for granted. It might be when we get older and we realize we have lived more than half of our lives. It might be the day we hold a funeral for our daughter and the walls of the house grow silent, no more to hear the vitality of youth, to see her mature and perhaps marry or have children. But there comes a time when we know we must stop and smell the roses, as they say, savor, breathe because we can, learn, grow, count our blessings, and yes, get our "house" in order. My work will never be done in the shelter of a house, but in my spirit, I pray that when God is ready, so may I be, my "house" in order to be received with open arms. And of course, I pray that is a long time from now. But ready or not, the time will come, and I prefer to be ready.
Thank you, Michael, for the wonderful "talks", perspectives and love as we both take another step in this thing called life.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Swimming
I'm not much of a swimmer, never have been. I am not all that comfortable in water. really. When I visit the ocean, I may go up to my knees, further in the south, ankles in new england! I can tread water and I can stay afloat if I must. But I like walking in pools and doing the little bit that I can. Lately, though, I feel the pull of water, as a sense that washes over me. I feel like I am in water, I even dream about it, not gasping for air, not struggling, just moving through a foggy, rather murky water and I must stay afloat. I feel like I am treading water, even as I walk, move, breathe, sleep. I suppose that is what the subconscious does to one when intense times come. I imagine that it must be some kind of symbol that I am trying to clear the path with my arm and hands, doing all that I can to get to the next destination. But what is it? How will I know that all is clear? When will the simple act of "living" feel effortless and when will the fatigue of this "swimmer" be minimized?
I doubt that there are answers to my questions. I believe that they come through trust and faith and love. I have to know that around the bend, or through the murky waters, I am, one day, going to feel less emotionally fatigued, that my legs will hold me up and carry me with more strength, and that I won't keep treading through the unknown.
Until that time, I work to move through the gravitational pull that tries to take me down. The emotional trauma takes time to "wear off", and the shock will begin to dissipate. I already see that it is shedding, some. I see the beauty in the water, the trees, the cycle of the seasons. Yes, they bring pain, in the form of "triggers" and reminders, but the energy that comes from them is a gift when despair sets in. They are there as God's finest creations, there to provide a purpose under heaven, to show us about life and death, the earth will help us. We draw our strength from a powerful source.
And we are never really alone. This I have come to know. Even if I were to not have the support and love of family and friends, I would not be alone. God promises that He will always be there, and I keep looking, and asking, as I tread upstream on many days. In the book of Isaiah, 43:1-5, it states, "The Lord who created you says, do not be afraid, I have ransomed you, called you by name, you are mine. When you go through deep waters, you will not drown, when you go through great trouble, I will be with you through rivers of difficulty and fire of oppression, you will not be burned up, flames will not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, you are precious to me, you are honored. I love you. Do not be afraid, for I am with you."
Thank you Beverly, for sharing this scripture with me at such an appropriate time, a time when I can literally feel as though I will not come out of the waters. It reminds me that we are all children of God, something that can easily be forgotten, I know Allison was, all God's children, but sometimes I can lose sight of the fact that in His eyes, I AM his child, and He is tending to all my needs.
I doubt that there are answers to my questions. I believe that they come through trust and faith and love. I have to know that around the bend, or through the murky waters, I am, one day, going to feel less emotionally fatigued, that my legs will hold me up and carry me with more strength, and that I won't keep treading through the unknown.
Until that time, I work to move through the gravitational pull that tries to take me down. The emotional trauma takes time to "wear off", and the shock will begin to dissipate. I already see that it is shedding, some. I see the beauty in the water, the trees, the cycle of the seasons. Yes, they bring pain, in the form of "triggers" and reminders, but the energy that comes from them is a gift when despair sets in. They are there as God's finest creations, there to provide a purpose under heaven, to show us about life and death, the earth will help us. We draw our strength from a powerful source.
And we are never really alone. This I have come to know. Even if I were to not have the support and love of family and friends, I would not be alone. God promises that He will always be there, and I keep looking, and asking, as I tread upstream on many days. In the book of Isaiah, 43:1-5, it states, "The Lord who created you says, do not be afraid, I have ransomed you, called you by name, you are mine. When you go through deep waters, you will not drown, when you go through great trouble, I will be with you through rivers of difficulty and fire of oppression, you will not be burned up, flames will not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, you are precious to me, you are honored. I love you. Do not be afraid, for I am with you."
Thank you Beverly, for sharing this scripture with me at such an appropriate time, a time when I can literally feel as though I will not come out of the waters. It reminds me that we are all children of God, something that can easily be forgotten, I know Allison was, all God's children, but sometimes I can lose sight of the fact that in His eyes, I AM his child, and He is tending to all my needs.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Two Parents
How do two parents (or a sister, brother, friend, aunt, uncle, grandparent, for that matter) choose to spend the "anniversary date" of the passing of their child?! There is no plan, no script, no outline, no way that we are prepared for such a thing, such an event, and we know not what to do. We have had only two experiences, so on this third year, there still is no design or way to get through it, we just do. We follow the spirit that has led us since that morning, just three years ago, and we honor, remember, and celebrate in some fashion. We both know it is not unlike any other day, but somehow the chamber of our soul lets us know that there IS something different. There are beautiful moments and there are painful moments that only the two of us can know. Others have their own loss and remembrances. Their pain is not ours. And even as together as we are, we both recognize, honor, and respect that we still have to cope with our individual loss. So we find our way, we cling to one another, we embrace and almost collapse in one another's arms. Our individual tears meld and entwine as they run down our cheeks until you could never tell whose is whose...but we smile, too, and we acknowledge where we are. We find strength. We recoil. One of us lies down under a blanket, in fetal position, praying to drift off to sleep for a bit.One of us tries to read but the words are blurred and nothing makes sense. One of us runs and runs until the fatigue takes over and rest can come. One of us tries to move through as if it is a "normal" Saturday, doing chores, trying to be productive, but knowing she is moving in circles. We both know this was not a Saturday, but a Tuesday morning, the 9th of January, at 7:00 a.m. when she took her last breath, when we had not even comprehended a cancer diagnosis, let alone that it would take her from us in this form. It's the year 2007 again, when the cold of winter was prevalent, and unknown to us, about to get colder and icier and the dead of winter would prevail. But that all had purpose under heaven, now we know. Now we know so much. Our innocence has been shredded, ripped, and lost, and we now know.
How do two parents move through such a day? Just like we do every other day. We do what must be done. We attend events and ceremonies as we can, and we broaden our horizons. We follow some routines. But we allow the moments that do come, and we honor them, too. We are here for our daughter, recognizing that she is building a life that involves her own way of moving through and honoring her sister. We may sit in silence. We may make a meal of comfort. We remember. We smile. We cry. We live. We travel, literally and figuratively. We look in one another's eyes and we see so much more than before, we attempt to speak, but no words can come. Then when we do, the words don't stop. We have faced journeys without even packing a suitcase or boarding a plane. We have known darkness that reaches to the core of our beings, but we have seen light that seeps in and takes it all aways. We settle in and watch a movie, or we play with Rex, for he knows not what has gone before him, here in the confines of our family unit. He needs his routine, his play time, his food and his walks! So, come rain or shine, we move on, and through, and we find our way.
We can say these sorts of days are just like any other,and in many senses, they are. The "triggers" never leave, we just learn a new way of life, with them as our constant companion. Yet, the day itself does bring about other emotions that sometimes seem to lie dormant, only to rise up and surge through our souls, needing to be dealt with and coped with...and we do, and we will. Sometimes we don't know how, and often we wish it weren't so that this is our plight. But it is. And we will live to honor a life that was once so brilliant and vibrant. She still is, now, we find, in different form.
So, how do we do this? Through love for her, for her sister, for each other and ourselves, to pay tribute to a loving God who has brought us this far, and who will not forsake us. And we are thankful for the day to do it, with each other. Life could hand us a different set of circumstances at any moment, so we are thankful, everyday that we are two parents who get to do this together. It doesn't take away any of the loss, the grief, the complete and utter despair, but for this day, we have each other, and we are grateful.
How do two parents move through such a day? Just like we do every other day. We do what must be done. We attend events and ceremonies as we can, and we broaden our horizons. We follow some routines. But we allow the moments that do come, and we honor them, too. We are here for our daughter, recognizing that she is building a life that involves her own way of moving through and honoring her sister. We may sit in silence. We may make a meal of comfort. We remember. We smile. We cry. We live. We travel, literally and figuratively. We look in one another's eyes and we see so much more than before, we attempt to speak, but no words can come. Then when we do, the words don't stop. We have faced journeys without even packing a suitcase or boarding a plane. We have known darkness that reaches to the core of our beings, but we have seen light that seeps in and takes it all aways. We settle in and watch a movie, or we play with Rex, for he knows not what has gone before him, here in the confines of our family unit. He needs his routine, his play time, his food and his walks! So, come rain or shine, we move on, and through, and we find our way.
We can say these sorts of days are just like any other,and in many senses, they are. The "triggers" never leave, we just learn a new way of life, with them as our constant companion. Yet, the day itself does bring about other emotions that sometimes seem to lie dormant, only to rise up and surge through our souls, needing to be dealt with and coped with...and we do, and we will. Sometimes we don't know how, and often we wish it weren't so that this is our plight. But it is. And we will live to honor a life that was once so brilliant and vibrant. She still is, now, we find, in different form.
So, how do we do this? Through love for her, for her sister, for each other and ourselves, to pay tribute to a loving God who has brought us this far, and who will not forsake us. And we are thankful for the day to do it, with each other. Life could hand us a different set of circumstances at any moment, so we are thankful, everyday that we are two parents who get to do this together. It doesn't take away any of the loss, the grief, the complete and utter despair, but for this day, we have each other, and we are grateful.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Morning Has Broken
Morning has broken, as it did that morning three years ago this moment. It now seems appropriate that our Allison left us at dawn. It signifies a new day. It shows us we do not know what each one holds. That is the beauty. That is the wonder. That is the mystery. That is the reason to live it. At dawn, as she transcended from this world to her eternal home, how loving the arms on both sides must have felt to her. There was love in the room like we had never known and I can only imagine the love in the heavens, the joy, the peace, the freedom, the release from the bondage of this world. That is what I will focus on today, my sweet child. You are free and loved and known, because of that moment in time, when our arms and hearts were intermingled and you left your physical body. I will capture the grace and love of a merciful God and I will cling to your strength and courage, will, and spirit, but mostly, your love.
I will seize the day and I will hold you in my heart until our promised reunion, under God's holy word. I will mourn, of course, every fiber is tingling with some form of emotion, but I will find the smile and know the love and blessing that this day holds, for you, for myself, for your father and your sister. I will live. And I will hold love in the chambers of my soul.
I will seize the day and I will hold you in my heart until our promised reunion, under God's holy word. I will mourn, of course, every fiber is tingling with some form of emotion, but I will find the smile and know the love and blessing that this day holds, for you, for myself, for your father and your sister. I will live. And I will hold love in the chambers of my soul.
Friday, January 8, 2010
I Just Want You to Know...More
Dear Allison, this is my therapy this day, pouring out my heart to you, as if you don't already know what lies there, what sounds it makes, how it weeps for you on this last full day you spent with your family and friends. I long to close out the physical sounds of your cries as you begged to come home this day, so anxious that no amount of drug would calm or sedate you. I work in all ways to shut out the screams, the begging, the pain, the rage of cancer, literally taking over your strong and amazing body, the darkness of night and I strive to only remember the sweetness and the gifts that come from this day. But no mother wants to remember the LAST day their child had, no matter how you look at it, even through the beautiful lense, I don't want to think about it. So I have stayed busy doing other things, even with the snow day, and the cold, I am warmed by your love in this house, that lingers through the belongings I touch and the photos I scan. Why I have finally chosen this time to go through all the photos that your sister and friends put on the boards for your service and visitation, I don't know. I guess I was ready for this step. But board by board, picture by picture, I would find myself in utter disbelief, still, that you are gone. I want you to know that what I miss most is your hand. That was our common touch. It amazed me how you were not embarrassed to take my hand, in public, in private, and there were times I wasn't sure who was holding whose to lend strength to the other! Right now, I want you to know, I feel your hand and it is holding tightly through this day, these memories, this moment.
I just want you to know, too, that rocking you to eternal sleep was one of my greatest privileges, if not THE most important act of motherhood. It stays with me, not just on this day, but every day of my life. I want you to know that the gift I received from that moment was that all fear is gone, I have nothing to worry about any longer. Even should I lose other family members, and I will, I will not fear, for I know now that you are there, and through salvation and the gift of grace, they will be, too. I know horrible and terrible things can still happen, cancer can invade, accidents can occur, suffering will come again, but don't you see, I have faced the giant and if peace comes from all of this, it is the notion that all is temporal and this too shall pass. I have held my head up, lived a life, and I will die, someday, a long time from now, I hope, knowing that I served God with dignity. You have taught me so much.
I used to ask God relentlessly to help me find the peace that passes all understanding. I will never understand your illness or death. So, I have never really tried. But I have begged and pleaded with God to show my why and how it was you, and slowly, over time, the answers are there. But I have to be open to see them. I pray to be still and hear Him, feel Him, even when I am busy. Oh, I know, I have the gift of time. And believe me, I am grateful. There is nothing more beautiful than retirement and having your day to follow where the spirit leads. But, Allison, if I am honest, my retirement came about as a result of you leaving, so sometimes, I call it the mixed blessing. But sometimes I know it was all part of God's plan for me to be where I am. I must admit, though, when people tell me they are envious or jealous of my retirement, I do cringe. They don't know what those words say to me, they couldn't. So, I don't try to explain. But you know. You know that I want to cry out and say, "no, you don't want my life", "this isn't as you think you see". I want to tell them to look deeper or let me explain. But most people don't have time for that, the important ones, do, though. And that is all that matters.
I want you to know that you have helped me recognize the signs you send and allow myself that it is "okay", that it is not strange when the times I need it most, that "right" person calls, or the other day when I was sitting in a parking lot, listening to a song that was so YOU, with tears running down my face, and needing so desperately to be "connected" to you, my cell phone rang, and it was Sandy, in her office, listening to the same song, on the radio, feeling pulled and nudged to call me in the middle of her day, something that she does not do, but knew she had to at the time. I felt you and I know you knew what I needed. I want you to know I do not question these things any longer. I have learned that when you "live" in spirit world, so much can happen, and this is how our relationship must be, now. I want you to know I am more aware and appreciative and I see you, feel you, know you, everywhere. It is no longer cliche' that you are in the wind, the sun, the moon, the stars, the plants, and the sunsets, sunrises. There is no explanation as to how, on the first anniversary of your passing, the skies across the country turned pink and photos were e-mailed to all of us, and in Iowa, Rut could see a clear and distinct "A", outlined in pink, against the magnificence of God's handiwork. You have helped me put the wonder in wonderment and I enjoy it all. It doesn't matter who believes or not, for all I know is that I do, and that is all that matters.
I want you to know that our connection of the heart is my greatest gift today. For nine months I felt your heart connected to mine in the deep bosom of my soul, your body entwined with mine. And in the last hours, it surely was God's plan that our physical souls were wound together, as one, with Dad looking on, and holding us both. I will never, no never, forget the hours that begin tonight, of me holding your hand to my heart and mine to yours, and never moving it. I wanted to feel every heart beat, and as it began to slowly fade, I could lay my head on your chest to be sure, and I could know that you were at peace. I just want you to know that moment will never leave the chambers of my own heart and has bonded us for eternity. I thank God every day of my life for that moment, because I could so easily been someplace else when it was your time, but I wasn't, and Dad wasn't, and Jen wasn't. And you had your dog, in the form of a stuffed one, but as you said your final words and took your final breath, there we all were, one family, one unit, blending as one soul.
I want you to know that my heart is pouring and my thoughts are whirling and my soul is aching, but I am blessed. I have never ceased to list my five blessings of every day in my "blessing journal". Some days that is all I can accomplish, other days I can be as productive as I was in a 12 hour day at work! I want you to be proud. I live to serve who I can and what I can, in the name of the Holy Father. I live to find myself and will live through this journey, I will be here for your father and sister and all who travel in my path. You have shown me how to BE.
Your mom, eternally, with love.
I just want you to know, too, that rocking you to eternal sleep was one of my greatest privileges, if not THE most important act of motherhood. It stays with me, not just on this day, but every day of my life. I want you to know that the gift I received from that moment was that all fear is gone, I have nothing to worry about any longer. Even should I lose other family members, and I will, I will not fear, for I know now that you are there, and through salvation and the gift of grace, they will be, too. I know horrible and terrible things can still happen, cancer can invade, accidents can occur, suffering will come again, but don't you see, I have faced the giant and if peace comes from all of this, it is the notion that all is temporal and this too shall pass. I have held my head up, lived a life, and I will die, someday, a long time from now, I hope, knowing that I served God with dignity. You have taught me so much.
I used to ask God relentlessly to help me find the peace that passes all understanding. I will never understand your illness or death. So, I have never really tried. But I have begged and pleaded with God to show my why and how it was you, and slowly, over time, the answers are there. But I have to be open to see them. I pray to be still and hear Him, feel Him, even when I am busy. Oh, I know, I have the gift of time. And believe me, I am grateful. There is nothing more beautiful than retirement and having your day to follow where the spirit leads. But, Allison, if I am honest, my retirement came about as a result of you leaving, so sometimes, I call it the mixed blessing. But sometimes I know it was all part of God's plan for me to be where I am. I must admit, though, when people tell me they are envious or jealous of my retirement, I do cringe. They don't know what those words say to me, they couldn't. So, I don't try to explain. But you know. You know that I want to cry out and say, "no, you don't want my life", "this isn't as you think you see". I want to tell them to look deeper or let me explain. But most people don't have time for that, the important ones, do, though. And that is all that matters.
I want you to know that you have helped me recognize the signs you send and allow myself that it is "okay", that it is not strange when the times I need it most, that "right" person calls, or the other day when I was sitting in a parking lot, listening to a song that was so YOU, with tears running down my face, and needing so desperately to be "connected" to you, my cell phone rang, and it was Sandy, in her office, listening to the same song, on the radio, feeling pulled and nudged to call me in the middle of her day, something that she does not do, but knew she had to at the time. I felt you and I know you knew what I needed. I want you to know I do not question these things any longer. I have learned that when you "live" in spirit world, so much can happen, and this is how our relationship must be, now. I want you to know I am more aware and appreciative and I see you, feel you, know you, everywhere. It is no longer cliche' that you are in the wind, the sun, the moon, the stars, the plants, and the sunsets, sunrises. There is no explanation as to how, on the first anniversary of your passing, the skies across the country turned pink and photos were e-mailed to all of us, and in Iowa, Rut could see a clear and distinct "A", outlined in pink, against the magnificence of God's handiwork. You have helped me put the wonder in wonderment and I enjoy it all. It doesn't matter who believes or not, for all I know is that I do, and that is all that matters.
I want you to know that our connection of the heart is my greatest gift today. For nine months I felt your heart connected to mine in the deep bosom of my soul, your body entwined with mine. And in the last hours, it surely was God's plan that our physical souls were wound together, as one, with Dad looking on, and holding us both. I will never, no never, forget the hours that begin tonight, of me holding your hand to my heart and mine to yours, and never moving it. I wanted to feel every heart beat, and as it began to slowly fade, I could lay my head on your chest to be sure, and I could know that you were at peace. I just want you to know that moment will never leave the chambers of my own heart and has bonded us for eternity. I thank God every day of my life for that moment, because I could so easily been someplace else when it was your time, but I wasn't, and Dad wasn't, and Jen wasn't. And you had your dog, in the form of a stuffed one, but as you said your final words and took your final breath, there we all were, one family, one unit, blending as one soul.
I want you to know that my heart is pouring and my thoughts are whirling and my soul is aching, but I am blessed. I have never ceased to list my five blessings of every day in my "blessing journal". Some days that is all I can accomplish, other days I can be as productive as I was in a 12 hour day at work! I want you to be proud. I live to serve who I can and what I can, in the name of the Holy Father. I live to find myself and will live through this journey, I will be here for your father and sister and all who travel in my path. You have shown me how to BE.
Your mom, eternally, with love.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Dear Allison...I Just Want You to Know
Dear Allison, I just want you to know that today is a snow day. Enough said. I may make cookies for obvious reasons and to fill the house with the sweet smell of days gone by. Or I might change course and find other productive ways to fill the day. I want you to know that since the wee hours of the morning, I cannot sleep. I feel you with every move and my heart beats faster and faster as we move toward the 9th, waiting for what? I already know what. I want you to know that I miss you. I want you to know that I don't how I am doing this, living without you. I want you to know that at 4:00 a.m. I snuck into "your" bed, and got under the new quilt made in your honor, and I found myself a position that felt like it formed to your physical body. Yes, I know, in three years in all the loved ones who have slept in that bed, your form should be gone, but it isn't. It was there and it let me conform and finally get some sleep, in peace and in love.
I want you to know that I really didn't want to let you go. It pained me like no other event in my life, But I knew I had no choice. I had to release you to God's capable hands. I want you to know that with every beat of my heart since that morning, I want to cry and even scream. Did you know that I have had angry moments? I want you to know the truth. Grief is ugly. But life is not.
I want you to know how proud you would be of all who loved you. I wish I could write every person whose life you have changed, even for those you never knew. People have shared so many wonderful stories of hope, because, as they know your story, or look at your smile, they can make it through their own trial? They can plan beautiful services of remembrance for their loved ones, or they can walk the journey of cancer, for you charted the course.
I want you to know how your father continues to stay true to his vows and commitments and grows stronger every day. I want you to know that when you had your last night together he became a different man, and your hero, I know. And Jen's and mine. I want you to know that he stays stoic and true to the purpose of living strong for you and Jen and me. His heart is breaking and his spirit does weaken at times, but he concentrates on his purpose, and the courage and strength you left him, not to mention the words exchanged at the "end" provide his map for living this day. His beautiful, unique relationship with each daughter won't let him rest.
I want you to know that as your sister laid with you in those final hours, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that your spirits merged and became one, new and beautiful creature. She remains her own person, yet blends with who you were and are to her, and lives strong in ways none of us could have predicted. Your death, turning to life, has set her free to BE. I want you to know that I love you for that. You made all of this happen by example and faith. I wish you could see her apartment and the life she is making, the choices, the living she is doing.
I want you to know you are my source of strength as it relates to my life and purposes, second, of course, to the Lord above, who strengthens us. But even you helped me see that. I knew it before, but not as intently. I want you to know that the ending of your life has begun mine. That makes me sad. But as you would say, it is what it is! My senses are more alive and I know the true meaning of hope.
I want you to know that I detest cancer and all that it entails. I don't need to go into that, you already know. I sometimes scream at it and I know that every day someone else is facing it. Right here in your own family. And it could happen again, to any of us. But I want you to know that your journey has assisted so many in theirs. They find me, they call me, and I have met the most amazing souls because of your journey and influence. Tell me that was not part of God's magnificent plan.
I want you to know that I fill my days. I do cry, at times, and I won't say less and less....sometimes it feels like more and more. But I read that tears are good and I could go into all the scientific reasons! But I won't. Sometimes I wish I could just cry a river and feel better for a minute, but I can't. And when I don't want to, or least expect to, there they are, the tears that will not stop. I cry most comfortably with my sister. That may be a burden for her. But she lets me and has this way about her that simply knows what I need when I need it. And sometimes she will cry, too. She misses you. She has a lot on her plate and should cry. But she has a lot to live for, too, and you have walked Uncle Mike through his own cancer walk. We all certainly wonder how he would have fared had he gone this alone, not paved by one of his favorite girls!
Speaking of relatives, I want you to know they are all finding their strength, your aunts and uncles, grandparents, and of course your friends. I want you to know that at every family gathering your candle is lit and shines brightly, no fancy ceremony, just that tangible flicker that says to us, you are here. But we know it, because we are learning how to live with you in our hearts, and not in our grasp. Aunt Kathy hosts the Thanksgiving and Christmas because I am not ready, and she weaves her special touches into each. The emotional fatigue of those events is so grueling, and surprising, given how much I once loved to entertain. But I am thankful. Because I get overwhelmed easier. I can only take so much social interaction. I find it most difficult to be in larger groups or functions where a lot of small talk must take place. I cannot do it anymore. I am learning what I can do and what I cannot, who I can spend time with, and who I cannot. I am reading everything in sight, starting with the Bible, front to back, I take notes like a student, and I am learning. I even took notes on a show last night about happiness and learned so much about the human spirit. (I feel you smiling right now, and saying, of course you took notes, mom:)
Allison, how can you be gone when you are so present? Why does my heart ache and the tears fall so quickly this morning, why is my sleep interrupted as I recall these last nights? Why is it so painful when we know we live to die? Why did you have to leave us so soon? I know, I know, that is all part of the mystery and the LESSON. And you know I like a great lesson! So, my child, I will continue to learn it, please continue to guide me, I know not how to do this, yet, here I am, doing it.
Lastly, for now, and we both know I could keep going, maybe I will later again, today. But lastly, I want you to know that because of you and Barkley, we agreed to adopt Rex. We didn't want to, we said no way, but here he is. I want you to know that I never thought I would care for, or love, another dog, but my heart is opened. He is so unique. And I know that you and Jen feel I have the flair for embellishment, but he hugs like a person, ask Jen! And when he wraps his arms around my neck, I can honestly tell you that it was the best gift, him finding us, us saying yes, and taking him home, to your room, we now call Rex's room, but will always be YOUR room to all of us. He is a keeper and he is loved.
I want you to know so many things, Allison. In my own way, I want to keep typing and never stop, putting to words just what this journey has meant. And maybe I will keep on, it's part of my healing, but because of where you now reside, you already know. Yes, you already know.
My heart is yours,
Mom
I want you to know that I really didn't want to let you go. It pained me like no other event in my life, But I knew I had no choice. I had to release you to God's capable hands. I want you to know that with every beat of my heart since that morning, I want to cry and even scream. Did you know that I have had angry moments? I want you to know the truth. Grief is ugly. But life is not.
I want you to know how proud you would be of all who loved you. I wish I could write every person whose life you have changed, even for those you never knew. People have shared so many wonderful stories of hope, because, as they know your story, or look at your smile, they can make it through their own trial? They can plan beautiful services of remembrance for their loved ones, or they can walk the journey of cancer, for you charted the course.
I want you to know how your father continues to stay true to his vows and commitments and grows stronger every day. I want you to know that when you had your last night together he became a different man, and your hero, I know. And Jen's and mine. I want you to know that he stays stoic and true to the purpose of living strong for you and Jen and me. His heart is breaking and his spirit does weaken at times, but he concentrates on his purpose, and the courage and strength you left him, not to mention the words exchanged at the "end" provide his map for living this day. His beautiful, unique relationship with each daughter won't let him rest.
I want you to know that as your sister laid with you in those final hours, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that your spirits merged and became one, new and beautiful creature. She remains her own person, yet blends with who you were and are to her, and lives strong in ways none of us could have predicted. Your death, turning to life, has set her free to BE. I want you to know that I love you for that. You made all of this happen by example and faith. I wish you could see her apartment and the life she is making, the choices, the living she is doing.
I want you to know you are my source of strength as it relates to my life and purposes, second, of course, to the Lord above, who strengthens us. But even you helped me see that. I knew it before, but not as intently. I want you to know that the ending of your life has begun mine. That makes me sad. But as you would say, it is what it is! My senses are more alive and I know the true meaning of hope.
I want you to know that I detest cancer and all that it entails. I don't need to go into that, you already know. I sometimes scream at it and I know that every day someone else is facing it. Right here in your own family. And it could happen again, to any of us. But I want you to know that your journey has assisted so many in theirs. They find me, they call me, and I have met the most amazing souls because of your journey and influence. Tell me that was not part of God's magnificent plan.
I want you to know that I fill my days. I do cry, at times, and I won't say less and less....sometimes it feels like more and more. But I read that tears are good and I could go into all the scientific reasons! But I won't. Sometimes I wish I could just cry a river and feel better for a minute, but I can't. And when I don't want to, or least expect to, there they are, the tears that will not stop. I cry most comfortably with my sister. That may be a burden for her. But she lets me and has this way about her that simply knows what I need when I need it. And sometimes she will cry, too. She misses you. She has a lot on her plate and should cry. But she has a lot to live for, too, and you have walked Uncle Mike through his own cancer walk. We all certainly wonder how he would have fared had he gone this alone, not paved by one of his favorite girls!
Speaking of relatives, I want you to know they are all finding their strength, your aunts and uncles, grandparents, and of course your friends. I want you to know that at every family gathering your candle is lit and shines brightly, no fancy ceremony, just that tangible flicker that says to us, you are here. But we know it, because we are learning how to live with you in our hearts, and not in our grasp. Aunt Kathy hosts the Thanksgiving and Christmas because I am not ready, and she weaves her special touches into each. The emotional fatigue of those events is so grueling, and surprising, given how much I once loved to entertain. But I am thankful. Because I get overwhelmed easier. I can only take so much social interaction. I find it most difficult to be in larger groups or functions where a lot of small talk must take place. I cannot do it anymore. I am learning what I can do and what I cannot, who I can spend time with, and who I cannot. I am reading everything in sight, starting with the Bible, front to back, I take notes like a student, and I am learning. I even took notes on a show last night about happiness and learned so much about the human spirit. (I feel you smiling right now, and saying, of course you took notes, mom:)
Allison, how can you be gone when you are so present? Why does my heart ache and the tears fall so quickly this morning, why is my sleep interrupted as I recall these last nights? Why is it so painful when we know we live to die? Why did you have to leave us so soon? I know, I know, that is all part of the mystery and the LESSON. And you know I like a great lesson! So, my child, I will continue to learn it, please continue to guide me, I know not how to do this, yet, here I am, doing it.
Lastly, for now, and we both know I could keep going, maybe I will later again, today. But lastly, I want you to know that because of you and Barkley, we agreed to adopt Rex. We didn't want to, we said no way, but here he is. I want you to know that I never thought I would care for, or love, another dog, but my heart is opened. He is so unique. And I know that you and Jen feel I have the flair for embellishment, but he hugs like a person, ask Jen! And when he wraps his arms around my neck, I can honestly tell you that it was the best gift, him finding us, us saying yes, and taking him home, to your room, we now call Rex's room, but will always be YOUR room to all of us. He is a keeper and he is loved.
I want you to know so many things, Allison. In my own way, I want to keep typing and never stop, putting to words just what this journey has meant. And maybe I will keep on, it's part of my healing, but because of where you now reside, you already know. Yes, you already know.
My heart is yours,
Mom
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Sunrise, Sunset
Yes, these are the days and nights that the sun set on Allison's life. It is a very tangible symbol to us now, the rise and fall of the sun, in a day, on a vacation, on a life. They have always held beauty to me, but now, they represent so much more.
We selected the song, "Sunrise, Sunset" for our wedding ceremony. It seemed appropriate (although I would only come to really understand just how much so as the years passed by) as a passage of youth to growing up, single to married, man to woman, season to season, signifying life changes. A man grows up, marries a woman, they make a life, and the sunrise and sunset of the years becomes more than literal. It has nothing to do with the scientific gasses any longer, it is symbolic for the seasons of life. And the sun rises and it sets, and there are good times, and there are difficult times. There are laughs, there are joys, there is pain, and there are tears. And we respond. And in the darkness, whether we are ready or not, willing to embrace it or not, comes the light.
When you get away to the ocean or the mountains or just the back deck, each sunrise or sunset offers many possibilities, and they are never, ever the same. That is why they hold so much beauty and their story is new every time. We can go about our business and not even notice, never stopping to savor them. But then, out of nowhere, the painful, difficult times occur and we begin to notice, like never before, just how infinitely rich and beautiful life is, and we sense just how God created it all, and that we must not take it for granted.
I look at these days, leading up to the morning of eternal peace for my daughter, as the sunset of her life. Of course, I am not speaking literally, yet, when I think and reflect on these nights, and I awaken with the memory, with fresh tears streaming down my cheeks from the pain so far down that I don't even know if it has begun to emerge, well...when I think of these "sunset" nights, her last with us, the final ones where we never left her side, I do feel sad, and pain, and the most intense emotional fatigue possible, but I see and feel the glory and the beauty. No mother knows, no father, sister, brother, knows, until they are given the glorious privilege of ushering their beloved from this world to the next, just what a sunset can mean. Not one I have ever taken a snapshot of, or viewed over the ocean, can compare. There is, and was, beauty in the moments and as the sun set on Allison's life, so did it rise, and stay overhead.
I can never seem to capture the sunrise or sunset photos the way I would like to, I look at them and while I see the beauty, they are never quite like the magnificence or the feeling of the moment the camera took aim. I have no photos of Allison's sunset days and nights, the days that brought the sun down on one life, but opened another. I don't need them, the images and feelings and memories are secure in my soul for always. But, still, we didn't know it was time. We thought we had more of it. But we didn't. She should not have gone from our grasp so quickly, she should have had more time with us, but what would more time have brought us? We would never have been ready. Neither would she, really. She knew it was time, but she didn't want to leave. She fought with every ounce of strength she had for many, many hours, just to live and go to her home. But as one night ended, and the sun set, and morning came, and the sun rose, we rocked her in our arms and she found contentment in simply being loved. That was all that mattered, loved by a family who needed nothing at that moment other than to ease her pain and troubles, and show her the way to a Loving God who would take it from here. He gave us that precious, indescribable time of closure, and the one final act of parenthood on earth. He gives us the sunrises and the sunsets, and each one holds its own meaning.
If we can find our way between the sun rising and setting each day, from that day forward, in these past three years, and in all the days and years to come, if we can weather this storm, maybe we will have a better sense of who we are and what we want most in life. And we will savor all that is around us, all who we love, and we will seize this day.
We selected the song, "Sunrise, Sunset" for our wedding ceremony. It seemed appropriate (although I would only come to really understand just how much so as the years passed by) as a passage of youth to growing up, single to married, man to woman, season to season, signifying life changes. A man grows up, marries a woman, they make a life, and the sunrise and sunset of the years becomes more than literal. It has nothing to do with the scientific gasses any longer, it is symbolic for the seasons of life. And the sun rises and it sets, and there are good times, and there are difficult times. There are laughs, there are joys, there is pain, and there are tears. And we respond. And in the darkness, whether we are ready or not, willing to embrace it or not, comes the light.
When you get away to the ocean or the mountains or just the back deck, each sunrise or sunset offers many possibilities, and they are never, ever the same. That is why they hold so much beauty and their story is new every time. We can go about our business and not even notice, never stopping to savor them. But then, out of nowhere, the painful, difficult times occur and we begin to notice, like never before, just how infinitely rich and beautiful life is, and we sense just how God created it all, and that we must not take it for granted.
I look at these days, leading up to the morning of eternal peace for my daughter, as the sunset of her life. Of course, I am not speaking literally, yet, when I think and reflect on these nights, and I awaken with the memory, with fresh tears streaming down my cheeks from the pain so far down that I don't even know if it has begun to emerge, well...when I think of these "sunset" nights, her last with us, the final ones where we never left her side, I do feel sad, and pain, and the most intense emotional fatigue possible, but I see and feel the glory and the beauty. No mother knows, no father, sister, brother, knows, until they are given the glorious privilege of ushering their beloved from this world to the next, just what a sunset can mean. Not one I have ever taken a snapshot of, or viewed over the ocean, can compare. There is, and was, beauty in the moments and as the sun set on Allison's life, so did it rise, and stay overhead.
I can never seem to capture the sunrise or sunset photos the way I would like to, I look at them and while I see the beauty, they are never quite like the magnificence or the feeling of the moment the camera took aim. I have no photos of Allison's sunset days and nights, the days that brought the sun down on one life, but opened another. I don't need them, the images and feelings and memories are secure in my soul for always. But, still, we didn't know it was time. We thought we had more of it. But we didn't. She should not have gone from our grasp so quickly, she should have had more time with us, but what would more time have brought us? We would never have been ready. Neither would she, really. She knew it was time, but she didn't want to leave. She fought with every ounce of strength she had for many, many hours, just to live and go to her home. But as one night ended, and the sun set, and morning came, and the sun rose, we rocked her in our arms and she found contentment in simply being loved. That was all that mattered, loved by a family who needed nothing at that moment other than to ease her pain and troubles, and show her the way to a Loving God who would take it from here. He gave us that precious, indescribable time of closure, and the one final act of parenthood on earth. He gives us the sunrises and the sunsets, and each one holds its own meaning.
If we can find our way between the sun rising and setting each day, from that day forward, in these past three years, and in all the days and years to come, if we can weather this storm, maybe we will have a better sense of who we are and what we want most in life. And we will savor all that is around us, all who we love, and we will seize this day.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Oh Ye Grief, Such a Teacher
These are restless times, the minutes turn to hours, to days, to nights, and then in one final breath, life as we knew it was over...or did it just begin? I think that is what causes the restlessness, the complexities of grief, especially as the emotional fatigue literally consumes us as we "feel" inside, down so deep that we never knew such a place existed, feel the last and final moments. There is a definite sunset to her life, then a sunrise, and they blend as one, at times. You cannot tell one from the other. They are both beautiful, yet definitive. Where one life ended, another began.
Grief takes me on a magic carpet ride. I feel elation as to how God answered our prayers, opened Allison's heart and all of ours to his Son, Jesus Christ, who died so that we may live. We knew He was waiting. When I focus on that, it is pure jubilation and bliss. So, I work to get past the physical loss every day of this journey, focus on the here and now, and where she is at this time....not those last days of pain and tears and anxiety and frustration. Focus on the beauty of the final moment, where all was right with the world, and focus on her celebration of life, an icy, cold Saturday where hundreds gathered to pay homage to her and our family. I ask God to help me remember the sweetness and perfect times of life, not the darkness of night during these, her final days with us. Even still, in the darkness of night, when we knew time was ticking in such a miraculous, precious way, we found beauty. I am holding on to that and it is only by God's grace that I can even maneuver through the minutes of memory.
Grief doesn't just stay with us as we face the first days of loss, grief is our constant companion, as I have said many times. It is my coat and my armor. It is my shadow and my soul. It is my cloud and my sunshine. And everything is impacted by it. It never leaves, and it teaches. The shock of losing one's child takes years to even begin to fully comprehend, then shed, like layers of skin, and maybe someday reach the core. That's because it isn't simple. It is complex. It impacts everything, every relationship, every friendship, your job, career, every step, a marriage, a mother-daughter relationship with a child still here, who must be my primary focus, every new person you meet, every social gathering, every purpose. But I didn't know that at first. Perhaps I am just now beginning to grow into it, this thing called grief. Perhaps it intensifies during the challenging times, such as her last week of life, her birthday, my birthday, her month of diagnosis, her sister's birthday, our trips, the holidays. And when one looks at it like that, there won't be a time where impact is NOT present. So we learn, and in our own time, we find our way, ourselves, redefined, yes, different, yes, changed forever, yes. And that is not a bad thing. It just is what it is.
Grief has taught me much. More than I would have ever asked for. I didn't sign up for this like I did all the classes in college. But it is mine. I own it. And I must live this day.
Grief takes me on a magic carpet ride. I feel elation as to how God answered our prayers, opened Allison's heart and all of ours to his Son, Jesus Christ, who died so that we may live. We knew He was waiting. When I focus on that, it is pure jubilation and bliss. So, I work to get past the physical loss every day of this journey, focus on the here and now, and where she is at this time....not those last days of pain and tears and anxiety and frustration. Focus on the beauty of the final moment, where all was right with the world, and focus on her celebration of life, an icy, cold Saturday where hundreds gathered to pay homage to her and our family. I ask God to help me remember the sweetness and perfect times of life, not the darkness of night during these, her final days with us. Even still, in the darkness of night, when we knew time was ticking in such a miraculous, precious way, we found beauty. I am holding on to that and it is only by God's grace that I can even maneuver through the minutes of memory.
Grief doesn't just stay with us as we face the first days of loss, grief is our constant companion, as I have said many times. It is my coat and my armor. It is my shadow and my soul. It is my cloud and my sunshine. And everything is impacted by it. It never leaves, and it teaches. The shock of losing one's child takes years to even begin to fully comprehend, then shed, like layers of skin, and maybe someday reach the core. That's because it isn't simple. It is complex. It impacts everything, every relationship, every friendship, your job, career, every step, a marriage, a mother-daughter relationship with a child still here, who must be my primary focus, every new person you meet, every social gathering, every purpose. But I didn't know that at first. Perhaps I am just now beginning to grow into it, this thing called grief. Perhaps it intensifies during the challenging times, such as her last week of life, her birthday, my birthday, her month of diagnosis, her sister's birthday, our trips, the holidays. And when one looks at it like that, there won't be a time where impact is NOT present. So we learn, and in our own time, we find our way, ourselves, redefined, yes, different, yes, changed forever, yes. And that is not a bad thing. It just is what it is.
Grief has taught me much. More than I would have ever asked for. I didn't sign up for this like I did all the classes in college. But it is mine. I own it. And I must live this day.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Sun Is Setting
The sun was setting on her life on earth, this day, as she found her way through the final days, culminating on the 9th when the heavens opened and rays of orange, blue, pinks, came through the hospital room, then taking that last breath, and the sky turned gray. It is the rainbow of colors that I work to focus on this day, the beauty of life, God as our master teacher, using Allison in such powerful ways. She is gone from our grasp, but as she lives on in our hearts, we are the blessed beings, for the strength she gives us surely outweighs what we would gather if she were simply heading back to school or work. Life would be mundane but in the heavens, well, she soars.
The days of her life are winding down in my soul, yet gearing up for something more beautiful than any of us can imagine, a place where there is no pain, no procedure, no needles, no worry, no sorrow. Only bliss and grace and complete mercy. Yes, the sun is setting as we make our way to another anniversary, yet it is rising, too. It is rising on this life, that cannot be explained, where darkness leads to new sight, and a new day opens up a wealth of possibilities.
It is no wonder the sunsets are so beautiful and pink and filled with hope.
The days of her life are winding down in my soul, yet gearing up for something more beautiful than any of us can imagine, a place where there is no pain, no procedure, no needles, no worry, no sorrow. Only bliss and grace and complete mercy. Yes, the sun is setting as we make our way to another anniversary, yet it is rising, too. It is rising on this life, that cannot be explained, where darkness leads to new sight, and a new day opens up a wealth of possibilities.
It is no wonder the sunsets are so beautiful and pink and filled with hope.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Every Picture
Every picture tells a story, and we all know that once a life has changed, or in Allison's case, ends on this earth, the photos become worth gold. I look at them intently today, as I made a few selections that represent this week, our last with her, the beauty of her spirit shining through pain, hair loss, and cancer. Taken just 14 days before she left us, this main picture tells us so much, she was, and is, our inspiration.
The others just represent so much to us, her desire to live, and love, and seize every opportunity. That is what I am trying to focus on today, not this day just three years ago when we heard that there would no longer be treatments, not the procedures and radiation and chemotherapy that was needed just to sustain her for a short time, but the life she lived. I am looking deep to find the story every photo tells.
The others just represent so much to us, her desire to live, and love, and seize every opportunity. That is what I am trying to focus on today, not this day just three years ago when we heard that there would no longer be treatments, not the procedures and radiation and chemotherapy that was needed just to sustain her for a short time, but the life she lived. I am looking deep to find the story every photo tells.
Simple Words
The simple words, written here before, no doubt, help me this day, quote by Mary Lou Van Atta, and scripted on the back of Allison's celebration of life program:
The "I" that is me-you cannot see
You see only the form that you think is me.
This form that you see, will not always be;
But the "I" that is me-lives eternally.
As she rests in peace, I pray for our own.
The "I" that is me-you cannot see
You see only the form that you think is me.
This form that you see, will not always be;
But the "I" that is me-lives eternally.
As she rests in peace, I pray for our own.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Another Day, Another Year
This truly IS the day the Lord has made...and the fact that we are here to begin a new year, a new part of the journey of life, is amazing. I often wondered, and still do, how I would LIVE without my child, my young woman of a daughter, how would I stay upright, keep a home, family, marriage in tact. It's no accident. It doesn't just happen. It takes conscious thought, effort and constant prayer. I know God never tires of me asking for continued guidance, help and assistance. Sometimes it is just to get to the next minute, sometimes the next day, or just through the dark of night. This week, it is to help ease my spirit of her last days as we head to the glorious morning of January 9th, not a day of death, in my eyes, but her everlasting life, where there was no doubt that God heard our cries and took her to his sweet arms of relief and love. The doctors and nurses, along with all of us, close family and dear friends, witnessed a miracle. This is not just something determined by one grieving mother. We hear the stories over and over again. There was no rhyme or reason Allison's physical body could or should go so quickly, one day sitting up coloring in those books brought by her beloved Sandy, eating small bites of Kentucky Fried Chicken, to 48 hours later, gone from our physical grasp.
This is not to say there were not transitions, pain and confusion. As she volleyed between this world and the next, there was much to be discussed. There was much to say and we held on to every second. We still do. Her death taught us so much about savoring the moment. The more difficult moments do spring to my conscious thought, and I pray to dismiss them, and try to focus on the life. Still, the journey of cancer in a child, in a loved one, leaves you changed forever. Never, ever will I look at things the same.
As I try and long to release a little of the grief that settles in the pit of my stomach and whole being, I want to cry out...I still ask the questions, and God still provides the answers. One thing I know for sure, is that our plan is not His. God knows no timeframe. WE are the ones that do the imposing of time. For, when we really think about it, we are here such a short time, it is the life that Allison now leads that is our ultimate purpose. Still, in the darkness, as I search for the light, I can be as confused, uncertain, and restless as she was, as she found her way to the glorious Kingdom of God.
The peace eventually came and we all held on for dear life, this one, and the one hereafter. We found that her body could not sustain any more treatments on January 2nd. The "Happy New Years" and hopes, dreams and plans faded quickly, and January 1, 2007, was our last day of innocence. We went from hoping and praying that she would live a quality of life for several more months or years, to accepting that it would be days, then hours. We grew stronger with each passing moment, each breath, and we lived. She saw to it. She allowed us all, including herself, the day to grieve, but sucked it up and made sure that whatever time we had left as a family, we would play, and laught and color, and EAT! We didn't know it would be nine days, but once we gave all control to God above, He took it from there and did what was necessary. He created an angel who was free from pain and worry and in doing so, has developed a family who now knows that nothing is impossible. We can do whatever is set before us, with the grace and mercy of His favor.
It's another day and another year, the loss of innocence sets in, the pain of those days, yet the hope and belief that God hears us, in it all we were given that tangible gift. It does not take away the grief, the loss, the indescribable pain, but our Allison really didn't die this week, just 3 short years ago, she lived.
This is not to say there were not transitions, pain and confusion. As she volleyed between this world and the next, there was much to be discussed. There was much to say and we held on to every second. We still do. Her death taught us so much about savoring the moment. The more difficult moments do spring to my conscious thought, and I pray to dismiss them, and try to focus on the life. Still, the journey of cancer in a child, in a loved one, leaves you changed forever. Never, ever will I look at things the same.
As I try and long to release a little of the grief that settles in the pit of my stomach and whole being, I want to cry out...I still ask the questions, and God still provides the answers. One thing I know for sure, is that our plan is not His. God knows no timeframe. WE are the ones that do the imposing of time. For, when we really think about it, we are here such a short time, it is the life that Allison now leads that is our ultimate purpose. Still, in the darkness, as I search for the light, I can be as confused, uncertain, and restless as she was, as she found her way to the glorious Kingdom of God.
The peace eventually came and we all held on for dear life, this one, and the one hereafter. We found that her body could not sustain any more treatments on January 2nd. The "Happy New Years" and hopes, dreams and plans faded quickly, and January 1, 2007, was our last day of innocence. We went from hoping and praying that she would live a quality of life for several more months or years, to accepting that it would be days, then hours. We grew stronger with each passing moment, each breath, and we lived. She saw to it. She allowed us all, including herself, the day to grieve, but sucked it up and made sure that whatever time we had left as a family, we would play, and laught and color, and EAT! We didn't know it would be nine days, but once we gave all control to God above, He took it from there and did what was necessary. He created an angel who was free from pain and worry and in doing so, has developed a family who now knows that nothing is impossible. We can do whatever is set before us, with the grace and mercy of His favor.
It's another day and another year, the loss of innocence sets in, the pain of those days, yet the hope and belief that God hears us, in it all we were given that tangible gift. It does not take away the grief, the loss, the indescribable pain, but our Allison really didn't die this week, just 3 short years ago, she lived.
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