Monday, June 28, 2010

The Ride

As our family, yet again, rides the roller coaster of cancer, and decisions are made for my sister's husband, we find ourselves in places we have been, places we have visited for a short while, a long while, more than a stopover. This has become our life. Never to turn the pages back before we knew of the beast and what it can do. We cling to what it CAN'T do, and we all know that is what keeps us strong and focused. While cancer rages and consumes, it also leaves gifts in its wake. That is very difficult to even write, let alone comprehend, but it does. It offers so much. It offers the opportunities that one would never have otherwise. Yet, still, there is no way to plan for the ride.

The journey takes you to the highest point of elation, then brings you right back down to a shattering puddle of despair and sadness. Then it takes you on a ride that coasts, just a little, before soaring, only to plunge. We cling to hope, we cling to faith, we cling to one another, but most importantly we cling to God. We ask Him questions that perhaps have no immediate answer, we beg Him for mercy and grace, we ask Him to help in ways that have no words, we ask Him to send angels, and we pray for peace and comfort. We don't think we can get up and go one more minute, but there it is, that strength we have prayed for...we learn from our loved ones who have shown us how, our friends who have gone before us, we have our own guiding angel in the form of my own sweet daughter, Michael and Karen's own beloved niece. She, along with so many others, are showing Michael the way, the course, and the light. And as weary as it can be, all consuming, the ride will never stop. It has only just begun.

We know not where the ride will pause, or what the day will bring. We know it will bring tears, heartache, laughter, hope, comfort, despair, anger, disbelief, the full spectrum of emotions. That is what the ride is destined to do. It cannot help itself. It is called life.

We will continue to look for the miracle of the day, the simple forms, or the astounding exclamations. It will come. It is usually not what we expect. We try to plan, we try to predict, we try to understand, but that is wasted energy. The ride doesn't call for reasoning, the beast is unpredictable, ever changing, taking us places that we had never hoped to go, let alone know. But it is the ride itself that gives us hope, faith, blessings and strength. We must trust that the answers will take form, and the ride will reveal what it is that we are supposed to learn, gain, understand and accept. God, please give my sister, the boys, Michael, the family, the peace that passes all understanding today, may the ride take them, all of us closer to you, to know you and embrace your Fatherly ways and comfort, you are the Father that we all need at this time, and through every circumstance. You are so busy with all the petitions of the universe, but your word promises that your spirit is strong and whole enough to wrap your arms around us all. We thank you for what has come, thus far, from this incredible ride, and we ask your grace and mercy upon Michael, for all the days of his life.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Expect That Miracle!

When Allison was diagnosed with lung cancer, as I wondered in disbelief how this could happen, I learned early in on the journey to expect a miracle. My idea of a miracle was that she was going to be "cured" and in remission and never would cancer be part of our lives again. She would grow older, graduate from college, perhaps marry and have children, and we would have many, many more years together. It would be me who would leave her first. I would not bury my own baby girl.

None of those things happened, and my expectation of a miracle changed. Still, I knew through it all that God performs miracles. That is not to say I didn't question, scream, beg, plead, offer choices if only He would spare my child. But I knew that miracles come to those who expect them. So, as I found my way to my knees on many occasions, and still do, I asked God to reveal them. I asked that I see them, those miracles that are "supposedly" all around us. And slowly, over time, inch by inch, bit by bit, they are becoming more clear. They emerged through her illness, her moment of passing and haven't stopped yet. In the early months and years (as if I have been at this a long time, no, I have not, I am no expert on this), I asked Him to provide me the miracle of simply getting out of bed. Give me a reason, I would beg. And the image of my daughter, Jennifer, would come to my mind, and my husband, leaving for work, every day, same time, same way, providing for the family. The least I could do was get up in those long and tumultuous winter months, that spanned too quickly to another winter, and another, and another. Some days my miracle consisted of getting up, buying groceries, and making a meal. That, indeed, was a miracle. Then, I could do a little more, and a little more, and one day I smiled, and one day I laughed, and I held parties, and gatherings, and we began to celebrate anything and everything, and every day was a miracle. It's a slow process, still, but I start each day by asking God what the miracle will be, and I look for it. It's always there, in between the muck and yuck of my life, in between my pain and sadness, and tears and fears, it is there, and so far, it is what gets me up each day....expecting (and looking for) that miracle.

I could list them all, but I carry them in my heart. They are not big, or profound, or even what I expect. I just know they are coming. I don't complain of being tired, or in pain, or sad or depressed, because I know that is going to change. But it changes because I listen to what God is telling me to do. At least I try. Sometimes I have to really work at it, hard and long, and diligently and I just don't get it. I don't understand. But as I hear bad news, and I travel to my sister, yet again, to be here while she and Michael absorb and comprehend and try to make sense of their decisions, and as I hear of more and more friends being diagnosed, or losing their homes, and their loved ones, I know that God has used Allison in powerful ways. He used her as our miracle, to give strength to Michael as he travels such a similar journey that none of us can comprehend, He uses her to light a path of unknown, to take our fears away, to let go and let Him be the compass. He uses her to help us shed the tears that must be shed so we can find healing and comfort and a unity of purpose as a family. He uses her to inspire others to fight the fight with dignity and strength, courage and bravery. He uses her to guide me and show me that I must wake up every day, expecting the miracle of the moment.

Yesterday's miracle came at the airport Starbuck's, when on the marker board, in the wee hours of the morning, there was a sign listing the daily coffee drink. In red and pink marker, it was written, today's drink of the day, "iced vanilla latte", and beneath that, "made with love, by allison", written with hearts all around the words, just as she always wrote her name. I smiled, and said to myself, of course it is. My travel plans of layovers and hours in airports were just made all that much better by my own personal miracle of the day. I knew I would reach my destination, even if there were delays, even if I had to stay in an airport longer than expected, even if my life held much turbulence. And I knew Michael would have a restful day, a day of peace, and that my sister would take one more step in knowing that God is in control. We are going to continue to expect that miracle, and wait to see how it is revealled.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Detours

The detours of life are mind boggling at time, they take me places that are foreign and unknown. Like the ones on the road to vacation, or even just to my favorite store, they come up unexpectedly and often without notice. Perhaps there were signs to warn me, to tell me that at some juncture, another route would need to be taken, but I miss them. I miss them as I travel in my own world and mind, perhaps in a fog, or not glancing that way or the other. I miss the signs. And then I am on top of the twist or turn that I did not expect to make. So, I go with it, and know that I will come out where I am supposed to because some one has taken the time to put up the signs, figure out the route, and get me to my destination. I find my way, I arrive, and I am guided.

I know I am guided in my grief work, as well, but from such a different source. God guides me in this quest, gives me His word as resource, provides more affirmations and soul searching than one could desire, but still, I often find myself blindsided by the detours. We learned more about detours than we thought possible with the day to day living with cancer. Talk about detours! Allison had many each and every day of her eleven week walk to live. It was staggering what she fought through, lived through, cried through, laughed through. More staggering was just how quickly cancer was moving and taking over her body, bit by bit, step by step. Her detours were magnified each day as she faced treatment after treatment, drug after drug, and plan after plan. The plan had to change like the wind as the cancer invaded everything but her soul. Her detours built character and did not rob her, or us, of anything. Of course, there was frustration, and the not knowing, the fatigue and the pain, but there she was, a model for all of us, in ways we could never imagine.

So, Allison has become my compass in my own detours. I refuse to complain, how could I anyway? Nothing in life will compare to what she faced and endured and triumphed over! While I cannot bear to look down the long road of living without her I remind myself, that today's detour is just that. I don't have to, I refuse to, rather, I choose to live in the moment. My day, in itself, will hold detours. I will have a plan, such as today is cleaning day, and catching up day, but who knows what other roads I will travel. I will go with the spirit, be guided by one who left me/us way too soon, if the tears come, they will be shed, if laughter prevails, I will go with it, I will know it's okay, I am learning. I am learning so much. I will take the detour of my life. None of this was planned. No one has the road mapped for me, or for any other grieving soul, telling us how to do this, how to live, gather as a family as we did this weekend for a milestone 60th wedding anniversary of her grandparents, how to celebrate these birthdays, and plan for vacation without her. No one will map it out and help me get to the other side. Because no one knows how to do this. There is no course. There is no map. There is no sign telling me which way to turn. There is only me, support and love of family, a loving God who provides, and her, a spirited daughter who left a legacy bigger than life for those she loved. She is ever present. She understands the detours. She took the high road. And she taught us well.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Without Her

We don't have a week such as this without missing her, longing for her, wishing that she would be at just one of the dinners, the celebrations, sharing cake or opening gifts...this is the week of all weeks, holding my birthday, her dad's birthday, her grandmother's birthday, her grandparents' 60th wedding anniversary, and Father's Day all in ONE week. So to weave in an out of the celebrations, find our way, live through, and enjoy the explosions of life, well, to say the least, it is difficult without her.

Without her we are no longer the same people. The birds, the trees, the surroundings, the celebrations look, and feel, different. Without her we keep trying to carry on, for we know when the sweet reunion comes at the end of a life well lived, there she will be, and none of this will even matter. It will be forgotten, as it has been already for her, and the heavens will embrace us and we will know no pain. But still, here we are, left to live, and move, and breathe, and celebrate these milestones, without her.

We will get through the moments. We have already had four birthdays without her, four Father's Days, and God willing, many more. Many more to behold and though there can, and most likely will, be tears, we will embrace them. We must. For each other. And for her. We have learned that the present moment holds much and is significant by reason of what it holds. This is the day we have. As my soul swirls and reminds me that something is coming, there are gifts to purchase, plans to make, as my heart races and lets me know I am doing all this, again, without her, I pray that God will keep me grounded and just where I am. That has been my coping way, even my mantra, since the day she left us, to live in the moment, and find its beauty. This is all I have, and this I know for sure.

I pray for courage, bravery, stamina, strength, faith for my daily walk. A walk that involves so many blessings, yet, a journey that I do not understand or comprehend, life without her. This life, without her, takes more self-discipline than I have ever had to know and I affirm that I have control over how much sadness will rule my life. I can spend the day giving in to the temptation of my heart, or I can capture that beautiful sunrise that came this morning, read, and learn, and seek and find.

The celebratory week has come, it is beginning. I won't close it off. I may want to, but I won't. I will accept the goodness that comes from it, and I will release the emotions when I can. I will find the joy and peace that is mine to find. I know I will, all the while, without her. Without her.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Curious

People are curious. People who I know, those I don't, and even complete strangers, are curious. And I get that. I am open to that, perhaps that is the "teacher" in me, always looking for an opportunity to "educate" others. That is what part of my purpose is now, to "teach" others about this journey of grief. Most of the time I don't mind the curious questions or glances, even stares. I can feel the question before it even comes. My senses are aware and even ahead of themselves. That may not make sense to some, but to me, and those who have walked in my shoes, we completely understand. We have to be aware, on guard, and prepared. Our armor has to be attached and ready for anything, now that we have lost a child and must live in a world that is not what it once was, a new, uncharted course that must be learned with each new day.

Curiosity does different things to different people! And it is interesting to be on this side of the questions, the opinions, the stares, the looks and the wonder. Depending on where my grief journey has taken me that day, that hour, that very minute, my answers can fluctuate...there can be tears, there can be real and honest responses, there can be no words because my throat has closed and my heart is breaking, there can be raw and blatant descriptions, so much so that the person asking may indeed become uncomfortable. But they ask, and I answer, at least when I can. And I know, in my soul, that I am left to help others understand.

I have always welcomed questions and opinions of others, so I suppose this is no different. Except, now, those opinions, when expressed with no knowledge or attempt at understanding, can cause me to be sensitive. Not the questions. But the judgments and opinions, oh yes, I can become offended. Because they come from nowhere and they come from people who may be trying to fill the air with comforting words, but instead, fill them with more pain...especially when I have been told, "well, at least you have another child", (God, don't they think I already know that and count my blessing every day and night for that gift), or when I am told that "time will ease the pain", (God, don't they know I pray everyday for this pain to be eased so that I may seize the day and live it as you desire). The statements about comparing always leave me speechless, as if to say that another mother who buried her child moved on a bit sooner, went out earlier, attended parties and celebrations without hesitation, (God, don't they know that each of our stories is different, and no loss can compare with mine?). I find myself sometimes just nodding my head when others share stories, while indicating I am not in a place that they thought I might be! I know they are curious. I am, too. I am curious as to how I am going to do this the rest of my life and maintain the dignity and grace that I pray to uphold? I am curious as to how I am going to attend weddings of her friends, and baby showers, and show up for life. I am so curious as to how I have even made it this far, to this day, to a time when she should be coming home or taking summer vacation with her family. I am curious as to how this is me and how this has become my life! But through all the curiosity, I understand that I am just where I am supposed to be, that God has my plan all worked out, and that He has me here for His own intents and purposes. What they are, I do not know, but I trust that He will show me, and I am never disappointed. Curious? Yes. But never, ever not willing to wake up and seize the day, count my blessings, and find my way.

I am a teacher and used to the curious faces of my students. Now I am just a teacher in a different way. I understand people and their curious nature. I know they look at me and wonder how I am upright and moving. I know they wonder why I can't attend a Christmas party and make the chit-chat of days gone by, and I know that they think I may be in a different place than where I am. I get it. I only wish I didn't, and I hope to God above they never have to know what I know. But in the meantime, as long as God gives me a new day to live, if it is His desire that I be the one to field the questions, help others understand, resist the urge to judge where we think others should be in their own journey. and to respond with grace, then I will answer the call and be prepared to meet the curious ones, head on, with a purpose and a strength that only comes from Him alone, and the spirit of my daughter who left before me.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Pain and Beauty Connected

I never would have imagined that one person could bear so much pain, yet find so much beauty. I have learned that they are truly connected, this pain that is really indescribable and the beauty that comes from it, both too deep to even find words to explain. There is grace in suffering. God's grace. He gives it to us to help find our way and when there seems no reason to keep breathing, living, or moving, there He is, with the treasures at hand that give me that ah-ha moment, that second where I know I can breathe in and get to the next minute. I don't always want to, I want this to end. I know and trust it is all to make me stronger, wiser, live out my purpose, but I ask the question often, what is all this for? Why do I have to endure this? What do you have planned, God?

I cannot do anything simply anymore. I cannot respond YES to wedding receptions or graduations or showers...at least for some. Some are simple and can involve little or no intense emotion, so I can do it. Others, well, it involves digging deep to a part of me that I do not know. I do not want to know. I keep trying to get to know her, the new me, the ever evolving me, the transforming me. The me that once was known for socialization has to plan, affirm, work at, and find strength just to BE. But I do what I can and I call on God's strength more than I would have ever imagined. I know He is feeling good about that!

The pain I experience now is truly connected to the beauty I see, the beauty of the future, and the beauty within. I understand it on many levels. I don't wish any of it away. I have learned to take this day as it is presented and make it work. I cannot say I will ever understand why I am here to do this, and she is not part of that, but each day I grow a little stronger, then weaker, then I vascilate. But that is okay. That is grief.

I am overwhelmed by the beauty around me. Would I have seen it so clearly, so intently had she not left before me? Am I here to soak it all in for both of us? Am I the mother who watched her child take a last breath so that I can put on that new set of glasses, open up my heart, find my senses to be awakening with each passing day? Did her passing teach me so much more about the passage of time? Would I have learned what it is to savor the simple things in life? So many questions. So many answers. And in my soul, I know what they are. I am left to capture the beauty, to make new memories, to see beyond the surface, to feel things that I never thought possible, yet to be numb and staggering as I maneuver this new phase of life...life that could never have been planned or imagined.

I continue to pray to be enlightened. I am a student of God's word, and I do my best to apply the teachings. I want to learn and I want to know what God's hopes and plans are for me. I don't want to be idle, and I am not. I don't let grass grow under my feet, as they say! But in staying active and busy and focused and involved, I am doing so with a sorrowful burden, a body that still feels emotionally and physically crushed, and a crying heart.

It might be natural to wish for a day when all this pain will be gone. I don't know if that will ever happen. I haven't done this before. Sometimes I don't even know what to wish for, pray for, hope for. I don't know where I am going and I don't know where I have been. But I am thankful that a loving God DOES know, and He is helping me take the wheel of life, gripping it with all my might, and I am not letting go, I am learning to drive, live and BE.