Any Given Day

Each new day, any given day, holds so much. I try desperately to look for the blessings, the sweet miracle of the day, the messages, the signs, the beauty, the love. It's all there. By looking for it, I hold myself together. I couldn't show up for LIFE if not for the beauty, the legacy of her life, my life, the lives of those I LOVE. But, still, I feel myself falling, descending, if you will, into some sort of pit. I carry the cloak of grief a little tighter when I desperately want to shed it. It's choking me some minutes, it's wrapping me as though it is a cocoon I cannot crawl out of, the next. It isn't very gentle right now, and I suppose that is because of what each new day represents.

In spite of the beauty of autumn, it is the season of grief. It is when we lost her, but we didn't know it. It is that time of year when there was so much to hear, digest, and respond to, and even before we could do any of it, there was more. There was always more. Always. Each new day held so much meaning. And while I am willing those memories to be part of a very distant past, they are too close. They are in the Halloween preparations, they are in the falling amber leaves, they are in brisk walks with our beloved, Rex, and they are in this house, in the form of chili cooking and sounds of laughter when friends gathered that "last" Halloween to play games. She couldn't sit. She couldn't stand. She was weak with pain moving down her spine and around her body. I was weak, looking at her, as she clutched her abdomen, her weight loss so evident and her skin color changing. It was a devastating time, we barely knew what cancer would come to mean, yet, there we were, facing each new day. Please God, I have begged today, let me remember her as a little girl, dressing up, trick-or-treating, going to church parties, and later, school parties, then teen-aged parties. Let me remember the other days. Let this be like any given day.

I am still pretty amazed at what each new day holds for people. As some of us are in constricting pain, others are going about life as if there is not a care in the world. Other days, we are the ones holding parties, or celebrations, humming tunes, dancing, feeling light hearted, and the others are the ones in hospital rooms, holding hands of their loved ones, or holding funeral services, or waiting for a doctor to call. A baby is being born right now, while loved ones are saying good-bye to someone dear. It's life. It's good. It's hard. Through it all, it is what it is. And, on any given day, it all changes.

I remember so vividly coming home from the hospital after Allison took her last breath. The sun that had illuminated her room with vibrancy at precisely 7:00 a.m. had made way for the grayest of days. My nose pressed to the cold window of the car, I looked in the cars we passed, or who passed us. I saw serious faces, ones singing to the radio, groups of what appeared to be students on their way to high school, or others on the way to work. I remember thinking that not one of them could imagine what we had just come to know. But I wasn't correct about that. They did know. And if they didn't know, someday, they might. It's not that I wished it upon them, it just seemed odd to me, that I was about to go home and plan a memorial service for my daughter, when I should be going about my "normal" day. I should be the one driving to work on that very road, coming home to cook dinner, waiting to touch base with both my daughters. On that given day, my world would change, and I would never know how much.

Each new day brings what it will, what it does, and in some ways, that's what makes each new day so beautiful. There is a lot to enjoy. There is much to be celebrated and honored. The little things seem so monumental now, and the problems seem so trite. I never believed I would be here for so many new days once Allison was gone. I knew I would die of heartache. As much as this "season" is difficult to maneuver through, I am thankful I didn't die as I thought I might. I would miss so much, mostly spending life with Jennifer, Joe, and all those I love. Each new day holds a promise of some sort. I look up and ask God, and Allison, to help me live it in a way that is pleasing, and as the descent comes upon me, and the pain of missing her becomes too unbearable, I don't look back, and I don't look ahead. I stay right where I am, expecting or anticipating nothing, just being where I am supposed to be on this new day. Any day we are "given" brings about so much, from pain, to joy, from love, to sorrow, but worth it? Yes, any given day is all we have, for now.

Cancer...I Have Something to Say to You (posted one day early)

Indeed, I have much to say to you, Cancer. I have much to say EVERYDAY, but this day, the five year "anniversary" of Allison's diagnosis, I believe I have more than ever to say to you. It may not be what you think. It may not be what I would have said five years ago, but I am changed, I am different, I was never to be the same, from that moment, on October 17, 2:15 in the afternoon, that most beautiful of Chicago's autumn days with the sunshine lighting up the room, us passing the time, as we did for four days, waiting, and wondering, hoping and praying. Please God let it NOT be a tumor, cancer, let us not hear the words we knew we might hear, that hundreds, thousands of us before, and since, have heard. But when those two doctors entered the room, one looking at the floor, one looking straight into my eyes, I knew, WE knew. As the doctor approached our girl, his patient, and tenderly caressed her arm, we knew. And the tears sprang. And they have never stopped.

I could use some of the all too common quotes that one sees in relation to cancer, "cancer sucks", "F*&% Cancer", and so on. I could curse and scream, cry and moan. I have, and I probably always will. But I also knew, right from that moment in time, that cancer was NOT going to define this beautiful young lady, on the threshold of her life, and it was NOT going to define us. She wouldn't allow it, therefore, we will not, either. Oh God, yes, we were shocked and saddened but the diagnosis, it had to be wrong, especially since Allison was "too young for lung cancer". We were brought to our knees in a fashion like never before. We were beyond devastated at what she would endure, what the side effects may be, what cancer may take from her. It was so mysterious, how could this beautiful 21 year old daughter of ours hold the lung of a 60 something year old smoker? And how dare people ask us, upon learning of the diagnosis, "did she smoke"? I wanted to scream, and still do at times, upon hearing the question over and over again. But, over time, I learned that, like us, many people are uneducated about lung cancer and the statistics, and maybe it was going to take Allison to help them learn. Sadly, I learned more than I ever imagined, right here in the confines of our loving family, and the education has not stopped.

In seventy-seven days Allison was gone. We could say cancer robbed her of her life, of her future, of ours, of her sister's and all those who faced a harsh reality that their smiling, life of the party friend, was gone. In many ways, we are all just now beginning to grasp this concept, proving, once again, that time has no relevance in matters such as this.

Yes, CANCER, I have a lot to say, many things to say to you. This day is difficult for me, for us. The memories are still as raw and fresh as the day we faced the giant together, surrounded by the love of family and friends. Allison didn't fight alone, we didn't either, and we still do not. It is Allison's warrior image that keeps us fighting, whether it is to just get up, face the day, walk the dog, run the errands, work a job, take vacations, see the world, participate in the Lung Cancer 5K, decorate for holidays, celebrate birthdays, show up for social engagements, or accomplish what once was done with ease. CANCER, you didn't rob us of our daughter, our sister, our grandaughter, niece, cousin, and friend. You may have slowed her body down and eventually took over to the tiniest of crevices, but you didn't take her from us. Instead, what you gave us in return, is an eternal presence, a constant companion, a heart that beats stronger than any before it, for her spirit fills ours, and we are one with her, never to be separated, never to be alone, or never to be forgotten. You have taught us that THIS world is temporal, and as you keep striking, over and over again, with no discrimination at all, and you wear down the bodies, you intensify the spirit. You leave legacies like none before them. You give us the gift of time, the chance to say what most may never have the opportunity to say, and that time becomes our greatest treasure.

CANCER, you don't WIN at all. I would never take back the memories of that strong spirited daughter of mine, fighting with everything she had, to live....to go have dinner with friends, giving them a lasting memory, lying on the bed with her sister watching Ellen every day, laughing and planning for their day, what to eat, what to do, and when the simple things, like playing a game, or watching a movie, became the great accomplishment! I would not take back the friends and family who came to lay with her, eat with her, laugh with her, LIVE with her, even if living held a new definition. I would not take back the image of her older sister rocking her to eternal rest, watching in wonderment as two sisters' souls entwined and became one. I would not take back the talks and plans for eternal life, the questions and the hopes of peace and comfort it held. I would not take back the unseasonably warm November evening when she and I walked her beloved Barkley for the last time. I would not take back any of it, except for it to have never have happened at all.

Allison looked you right in the face, CANCER, and she won. You didn't rob her of the beauty of this world, her beauty, her smile, and you won't rob us. Perhaps it is because of you that our senses have magnified and our travels have broadened. Travels near and far, yes, some days just to the porch or deck to listen to the chimes and speak to a loving God, to "her" pink blooming tree in the yard, to touch a bloom, caress it as though it were her face, or to far off places where she leads us to explore. Does it make sense to you, CANCER, when I tell you that you took nothing from us, yet you took everything?

I know that you will not stop! I know that others will hear your word and fight their own battle, follow their own journey, and make their own way. You are not finished, in fact, you have only begun. If you can strike the healthiest of young woman, "strong as a horse" her doctors would say, with lung cancer of all things, fine one day, heading to college classes and planning to become a teacher...if you can infiltrate and magnify and become relentlessly aggressive, it is clear you will not stop. But guess what? WE will also NOT STOP, for Allison, for Michael, for names way too numerous to mention. I only wish I could honor each and every one right here, right now. But I do, in my heart and in my soul. And whether those special souls are survivors, or soar alongside my daughter in sweet, heavenly peace, I can assure you, CANCER, you have not won.

CANCER, you are part of every day of my life, now. You always were to some extent. You hovered. You visited others, mostly the older ones, and my heart was sad. One day I opened my eyes to see that no one could really escape you at all, you infiltrated children, babies, folks of all ages. Then you attacked my own and brought a true and new understanding of your meaning, and now you have given me a different mission. You have taught me to do what I can, whether it is participate in a walk/run, take a meal to the families, send a card, make a donation, sit and talk, pray alongside the family as their loved one enters final hours, whatever it is that the spirit nudges, you have given me the gift to know. You have grown me up spiritually, to put no God before the Heavenly Father who promises all things to those who believe. You have given me the true and utmost respect for a new day to live and breathe and take nothing for granted. True, it would be easier to focus on what you have taken away. I cannot do that. Allison will not allow it. It is not fair to those who still depend on me and it is not fair to myself.

CANCER, I have something to say to you. You are relentless and cruel, menacing and piercing. You have taken much, taught me every parent's worst nightmare in burying my child, but perhaps it is because of you that I am who I am today. I do not choose it, I do not want it, I didn't opt for this journey. I give in when I must, I grieve every day and in every way. I cry tears from the inside that often make it to the outside, every single day of my life. Yet, at the same time, I smile, I smile because she lived, she didn't die. You didn't win. You didn't take her from me.

As I write today, I grieve for my child and I grieve for all those, including myself, who knew, and loved, a fabulous soul, Felicia Levo Harrington, gone too soon, a short battle with pancreatic cancer...mother, wife, teacher, whose legacy will be everlasting. Here today, gone tomorrow, like so many before her, and so many yet to come, teaching us to seize the day, for this is the day the Lord has made.

What We Learn

What we learn from the deceased is what makes us go on, I know this to be true. If we are able, and open to it, we learn so much. It doesn't matter who it is, even those we didn't personally know in this lifetime, it is upon their "death" that we often come to know them more deeply, intimately, and their lives make a difference. Whether it is the sad passing this week of Steve Jobs, the recent passage of two daughters in political families, former presidents, the many friends who have joined our circle of loss, those burying their children before them, it just doesn't matter. Loss is loss and the impact is astounding. Death takes their bodies, but their souls and spirits are left to teach us more. I know this because I cannot look at a snowflake without remembering Phil, a piece of artwork without knowing more about Jessica, a beautiful August day without understanding baby Faith's presence. I cannot look at little Jasmine's picture on my refrigerator without smiling inside, thanking her and her family for paving the way and embracing my own family, some years later, when it was "our turn" to face death. I cannot look at little Cowen's pictures without seeing his sister, Lily. I feel and know Michael is with me in all aspects of my day, guiding and inspiring, and reassuring me in ways he would not be able to do if still here. I will always associate the beauty of a winter day and a life well lived with Chrissy, a sister, wife, but most importantly, young mother who left us way too soon. The hummingbirds that rest on our feeder and who provide such beauty and mystery will always represent Jim, not his battle, but his life. I am connected to Mary, whose own Erin has passed on and each time I see a sunflower, I feel as though I know her, and my heart feels joy. Then there are the connections of CJ and his family, a circle we both travelled well, yet paths never crossed, until Allison and CJ were our heavenly children. I still draw strength and resilience from Elizabeth Edwards, a political wife, who in spite of all the tragedies in her life, her own cancer and spousal betrayal, till her death contended that the loss of her son to a tragic accident was the most devastating part of her life. I have come to know and learn from each death along the way. Whether it is the wife and mother across the street, and now the young man, Steven, also a family member from across the street, it is what we learn that now sustains us and gives us strength. We cannot possibly know everyone in this lifetime, but the beauty of death is that we come to know so much more, and it is what we learn that keeps us going.

Obviously, I cannot look and see, very deeply, the signs of autumn, in all its beauty and splendor without knowing that this season was to be Allison's last. There is no escaping the memories, the triggers, the flashbacks, even when I don't want to. The sleepless nights have begun and the memories are strong, showing me that time doesn't make a difference, what is in our soul, the deepest crevices of our hearts, remains. It's how I choose to deal with them that matters, after all. So, I choose to learn. I study, I reflect, I pray, I listen to music, I read, I take every opportunity to learn from the deaths before me, long ago, and recent. It is important to me to honor each life in the way I can, especially Allison's. And I must admit, on any given day, that is going to look different. I may spend it in solitude, scrapbooking, cooking, baking, reading, relaxing with head phones, sleeping, socializing, whatever it takes to get through that moment. Not that day, not even that hour, sometimes, it's still, just that moment.

What we learn from death becomes important. That's how I feel, cope and maneuver this loss. What I have learned from Allison and her passage could fill volumes. I have learned to smile, savor, slow down, sip, enjoy, smell the roses, so to speak. I have learned that life is so fragile, a concept I wish every one of us could grasp, but we don't, until it's our time to do so. I have learned that there is nothing worth complaining about. There is no doubt the way in which she faced her diagnosis and ultimate death left us a legacy of hope, faith and love. I can do anything now, and will gladly do so, face the challenges, and come out stronger. I am weak but I am strong, that is what I have learned.

I so wish to touch her, to hold her, to feel her. The ache of physical desire takes me to my knees at times. I allow that grief to pour over me, infiltrate and I rise, taking on the challenge of suffering once more. I cling to the promise that I will see her again one day, that THIS world is temporary, and that in death, her death, and the death of so many, I have much to learn. That is her legacy, their legacies, to us. God grant me the serenity to accept what I cannot change and learn what is intended, so that when it is my turn to take that first breath in heaven, God will know the true intentions of my heart, and He will consider me a good and faithful servant.

I will keep learning, trying, and put perseverance to the test. What LOOKS easy is not. Nothing comes by second nature any longer. It's a new day with much to see and do, and learn. With God as their Father, Allison, and all the others, are great teachers.

At The Moment Of Separation

The moment of separation is different for all of us. Allison was surrounded by her family and that was bittersweet for sure. Death of a body separated us, showing us just how precious and fragile this life truly is, here one minute, with hopes and dreams, plans and life to live, gone the next, leaving that shell, that body that held a spirit, the earthly tomb laying there, with a spirit released to soar. I felt then, as I do now, that it was such a privilege to give birth to this bundle of joy, and be there to usher her into heaven, to witness her last breath on earth, and her first in heaven. It was joyous, yet as painful as anything I believe I will ever, ever do in my lifetime. Joyous in the sense that her failing body was given relief, the trauma over, and the life she was born to have had begun...but in just 21 years, on the threshold of her life, it just didn't seem bearable. Most times, it is not. I wonder if it ever will be...I wonder many things.

I have given deep thought to this world and the next since loss began in my life, years and years ago. And loss doesn't stop. With each passing loved one, I learn more and think more about what life is like AFTER this. But no loss has compared with THIS loss, my child, my daughter, my light, and my life. I am truly blessed to have yet another daughter, still on this earth, and ever growing into a tremendous soul, living life, now, for two, herself, and her sister. I am blessed in so many ways. But through the multitude of blessings, comes the pain. The pain that never leaves, eases, or subsides. Sure, after five years, it is different. That's all I can say, it is different. And as I have given thought to what happens after this life, I have been closely reminded, once again, about how we breathe in this world, and in one second of time, all changes or shifts, and loss happens again, and breath on earth is exchanged for breath in heaven. I know I am particularly touched by a life of someone I had only briefly met, yet, who followed in a circle of connection that keeps growing, and a soul who happened to belong to the neighbors across the street. Their son, Steven, whose life was cut short in an instant by a drunk driver, careless and reckless, this driver changed the course of Steven's life, his family, his students, his friends, ALL of our lives. We are never the same once a tragedy like this occurs. Hundreds mourn and will be forever changed.

In honoring Steven's life at the funeral, the pastor shared many healing scriptures and messages. One in particular was of our last breath here, and our first in heaven. A thought that has crossed my mind, and burdened my heart on many occasions since witnessing that moment of separation, my daughter from me, from us, from this world. I often wondered how it would have been had I not been there, had we not been helping her release the fight and let God take over, ease the control that she thought she had. I have been thankful to have been there. But it's a memory that has been difficult to overcome and to shed, the painful part, that is. Did she fight, did she struggle, did she linger, did she have pain of all kinds, yes, she did. And as a result, so did we. We begged for God's intervention as it took all of us to soothe her, cradle her, rock her, assure her. And He came through. He was there all along but came at just the right moment in time and took it all away. At the moment of separation, the worries and pain of this world were but a memory to her. She took her first breath in heaven and all was right with the world.

That is the case for Steven, too. He was a believer. He held faith and hope. He lived his life pleasing God. How beautiful to know, because everyone who loves him can have the sweet assurance that he is in the loving arms of God. A car accident, a suicide, a cancer diagnosis, another disease or type of accident, we are all going to take that last breath here, and that first breath in heaven. As it does with Allison, it brings me peace to know that is promised to those who believe. Does it make the separation easier to bear? Sometimes. Yes. No. Maybe. It depends. Sometimes nothing can bring comfort for that moment. Sometimes, the thought of that first breath is all that can get me through the day, knowing the peace that must accompany that breath.

Those moments of separation, permanent and eternal, are forever framed in our minds, hearts, souls, subconscious. For each of us, it takes our own time, and our own journey, to come out on the other side. We can be tortured and sickened by them, and by the circumstances, but just as quickly as the toss of a coin, those moments of separation can bring comfort, hope, faith, and peace that passes any understanding. For in those moments of separation, we grow and we learn and we believe. We believe in something higher and more divine than ourselves, we trust in the hands of the Father, and we try to breathe, in and out, until we find that inner peace, one day, and until we take our own first breath in heaven.