Psalm 118:24; "This Is The Day The Lord Has Made, Let Us Rejoice and Be Glad In It"

Concept Of Loss

2012-01-13T07:05:00.000-08:00

Loss has been the predominate theme to maneuver through the last weeks and days. Most likely because of the events leading up to a new year when all was shattered and torn, lost, and never to be the same again, yet, we didn't know it at the time. Our daughter, sister, loved one, GONE, deceased, celebrated and buried in her resting place, five years ago this very day. Our Allison, precious and beautiful, humble and positive, the face of hope and love, strength and courage. Gone before her time from a dreadful cancer that raged and moved so quickly that she did not have time to really comprehend its path, its daunting course, and what was to be left in its wake for those of us left behind...LOSS.

LOSS is all around us, and is unavoidable. We know this in theory, in reality, in life's lessons. We all lose. To live, is to lose. Yet, the concept still mystifies me, at times. I can make sense of it all with my right brained self, but the left side just cannot comprehend. More importantly, and again, prevalent, my heart cannot understand. On this day, and every day, I know I buried a part of my heart with her, under the ice and snow on a true New England day, right here in the heartland. No other time had we seen such weather, and practically everyone knows where they were during the ice storm of 2007, January 12 and 13th, the two days chosen to honor Allison's life. Yet, there they were, hundreds of people, braving the elements to be with us, to hug us, to cry, to laugh, to say nothing, or to try to find the right words, to celebrate, to take a step in finding that peace that passes all understanding...the LOSS, the pain, the sorrow, yet, the LIFE, the living, breathing, strength, and love that binds one family, that now ripples out to so many others, all the while, trying to comprehend the concept of loss.

For many, Allison's service was the first dot to be connected in their own journey of loss. For others, the celebration left them changed in a spiritual sense, forever. For others, her journey precipitated theirs, although unknown to them, or any of us, at the time. I sense that God knew, though, and through His plan, helped us to plan and orchestrate something so meaningful that when it came their time, there was strength to draw from...yes, I speak of my brother-in-law, Michael, but I speak for others as well, for Barb and her family, for Debbie and her family, for future losses in the lives touched. We knew nothing about how to go about planning a "funeral" for a child, we are no miracle workers, we simply asked for divine assistance and there it was, all lined up, as the stars are when alignment and beauty prevail. We followed the spirit and in our last earthly act on earth for our daughter and sister, we managed, somehow, through God's grace only, to provide a beautiful ending, that turned into a beginning.

As I adjust, still, to the concept of loss, I embrace the bigger opportunity, the concept of life. I know now that nothing is a given, that the hole in my heart may never mend, but that there has to be room for more. I have asked God for the energy, stamina, fortitude, strength to face the day, looking for the pleasures and the blessings, understand the Beatitudes and through affirmation to find the hope and positive factors to keep living, instead of dying. The "easy" part would be to give in to the pain, immerse myself in the LOSS, and shrivel up...but looking at what I'd miss, the true joy of my living daughter, husband, family, I would not do Allison's life justice to ignore the blessings. The concept of loss is frightening, immobilizing, and filled with fear. I know not where I tread. I have not concept of time, yet, this five year anniversary is clearly "different". I don't know why. I don't have to. I have learned to accept where I am, take this day, this moment, seize it, find the beauty, yet know, that with it, does come loss. We cannot escape it. I sincerely hope that no other parent should know this type of loss, but I know that if they do, it will be God's grace and love that will be the glue that binds.

Loss is not a popular topic, yet, there is not one family, one person, who is not defined by it. While it is something we all hope to avoid, we know we cannot, and perhaps it makes us stronger, more in tuned, brings clarity and openness. I doubt that I will ever fully understand the concept of loss, and I pray that I will not have to face much more. Yet, I know, that to live is to face loss, and God has brought me to the highest mountain. I will be okay. Allison will be smiling. And I will choose life, over loss, any day.

Time Stood Still

2012-01-03T08:06:00.000-08:00

January 9, 2007, 7:00 a.m., time stood still. Never did I look at a moment in time thinking that it would, and never would I have imagined the journey that was about to unfold. I thought the journey was over, but no, it had only just begun.

That moment, all time stood still as our daughter and sister, niece, granddaughter, cousin and friend stopped all breathing, our own breaths held in wonder, asking the questions, Is she gone?, Is she free from this pain?, Is it over?...slowly, we knew, heavenly peace was hers, Allison left us, at least physically. We would come to know that she would never leave us, spiritually. She was ours forever, but gone from our grasp, our world, our lives. She left us then, and thus, time stood still.

Sure, we moved through all the plans and motions of life, from planning a life celebration to honoring her birthdays, the "anniversaries" of sorts, never flambouyant, rather simple...after all, we didn't, and still do not, have a template to follow in living through any day, but especially THOSE days. Making no plans, we found our way by simply honoring what each other "felt" like doing, day by day, establishing no new traditions or ways to manuever occasions such as these, creating our own guidepost on the journey of loss. Through it all, time seemed to stand still.

In spite of this, we have found our way to a fifth year mark, and wonder how we got here. There are some moments so strong in our memories, yet others have faded, or don't seem to exist at all. We took trips, spent time with family and friends, gathered in small group settings, still finding large groups to be overwhelming and intimidating. The numbness set in long before Allison passed from us, and may subside at times, but still lingers. At times, it seems as if we are living someone else's life, watching from the outside, not yet realizing this is OUR life, OUR child is gone, never to come home again. We long to remember her voice, yet find it too painful to watch her on a video. We desire to be in the company of her friends, but can be brought to our knees, wondering...wondering who she would be now, where her beauty would have taken her, what she would do to fill her days with passion, would she have babies, who would she become? We have prayed for wisdom, strength, faith, blessings in a new day, perseverance, to heal through the tears. And in all this time, it is clear that we have not been alone. God has surely held us up, together, provided a path whether we can remember or not, brought light through the darkness, and shown us that this is not our home. Allison is home. I didn't need time to show me that. She showed me. God showed me.

Yet, time has seemed to stand still. A fog prevails. Sure, life has seemed normal. We have found our way, new routines, the 6:00 evening phone call stopped long ago, the sweet voice of "momma" will never be heard, she will not grab my hand as we walk through the streets or the mall, and she will not need a ride from the train or the airport. Those have been replaced for new images, new messages, new sweet nothings in my ear. She has been my pathfinder, my guide, surrounded by a host of angels, holding me up, GETTING me up, bringing new life to my soul, new purpose, new love. I have learned to release her, slowly, ever so slowly, knowing she will always come back to me, that she may need to take care of someone else for a time, but as she grew in my womb, there she is in my heart. I share her willingly, now. I don't hold too tight. I heed the messages. I listen. I feel. I ache and I cry, but I know, the peace that came in the sunburst of her hospital room five years ago, prevails, and is all of ours for the asking.

What does it matter if time seemed to stand still? What does it matter if I can remember certain things or not? What does it matter that the trips and vacations and family gatherings seem to blend into one? What does it matter if that moment in time defines me, her father, her sister? What does it matter? What is time anyway? Where she is, there is no time, no remembering, no constraints, no calendars, no worries and no designs on her time. She is free. And in being so, God has used her to teach us more about time. Time matters not at all. Five years, five days, five minutes, it's all relative and it's all the same. Allison knows no time, only peace and tranquility. She was created in love, and left in love. All she desired was to go home, in her mind, we knew what she meant. God had bigger plans. So, as her sister whispered in her ear, over and over again, "Allison, you ARE going home"...and she did. Allison is home and one day, when it is our time, there she'll be, to guide us, assist us, love us, and time will stand still.

Fresh Tears

2012-01-02T08:47:00.000-08:00

It seems I have had buckets of fresh tears for over a month now...anticipating the holidays, the final weeks of the year, re-living the drama and trauma of what December has come to mean, CANCER, dying, living, crying. Just when I felt as though there could be no more, there they came, and still do. I even awakened to streaming tears from a gut wrenched body, proving, once again, that though we remain focused, poised and strong, the heart knows what it knows. Simply put, I/we cannot escape what is within.

Fresh tears pour and with them comes release. Clarity. New images. Objectivity. Reflection. They are good for the soul, so it is said. I am finding that to be true. However, I do suppress them at times. I am not sure why. Perhaps it's because they don't always come at the "right" time, or someone else is present, and I don't want to cause them more pain. Perhaps they come in a moment when everyone is opening their Christmas gift and there is laughter. Of course, I wouldn't, couldn't, change the tone with my fresh tears. So, I suppress, I push them down. I wait. I finally cry the fresh tears, not because I am weak, but because I have been strong for too long.

What do I see beyond the tears? What do I feel? Yes, the pain, the ache, the longing, the indescribable sorrow of having lost my daughter far too soon. I see the images, although I try not to, of her final weeks, days, hours, that we now walk through in this new year. I have worked too hard for FIVE years to let this life pass me by, or to not use the tears to my advantage, so I look through the clear liquids of my soul, I focus, and I see her, her sister, laughing, laying in bed every Christmas morning of her 21 years, of her image, through cancer, yet eating and laughing, and making sure she went out for that "last" dinner out, toasting the new year with her friends in her hospital room, smiling at her aunt as she had to leave that one last time, feeling so honored to have her family and friends lay hands on her in prayer, and I even see snippets of a little girl, a ten pound baby, one who slept and ate from the minute she was born, and who had a zest for life like no other I have ever seen. I can see clearly now, through fresh tears.

The tears are healing. I may never get to the point where I let them fall freely in front of certain people or in delicate situations. I will probably save them for when I can find healing messages from them, not out in public, but in the safe arms of those I love, or in the presence of others who will not be swayed or disturbed by them. I will allow them to fall when I can, knowing that I can only escape them so long. They will find me, my soul will open up and they will come, regardless of what I say or do. They are mine, and they take me to the next place of healing. I cry for her sister, for her father, relatives, friends, and for myself. But, I try not to cry for her. Her pain is over, she is free, she is soaring, and she resides in all of our hearts. She sends the messages when we need them, and she lives in heavenly peace. Through the tears of the season, any season, and through any reason, I find that the tears still come, serve a purpose, and give me strength to look beyond them, and see what is there to see, hold what is to be held, visit the place of light and darkness, and carry on, for her, for my loved ones, for myself.

For this moment, through the fresh tears, I can see clearly, now.

I Thought...

2011-12-09T06:57:00.000-08:00

Dear Allison, I cannot help but talk with you directly this day, every day, actually, but right now it is what helps me move, manuever, make the climb that may feel like a mountain, but in reality, is only steps. Steps of healing, steps of coping, of managing, of following through with appointments and plans, of accomplishing the most mundane of tasks, that somehow feel monumental. Steps, Allison, it's all about the steps. I thought they may come a bit easier...

When my burdens are so heavy, which is really everyday, only intensified right now of course I turn to a loving God, you, His angels, His people, my sanctuary, my life, my loves. Why this intensity? I wonder if it has to do with the holidays, combined with your last weeks, almost days, now, that became more and more precious. I can promise you, sweetheart, that I do not sit and try to think what I, we, YOU, were doing this time, this day, this month, already five years long, long ago. I actually do what I believe will make you smile, what I KNOW will make you joyful, and that is to take those steps, to light the Christmas candle, to play the music, to decorate the trees. Yes, TREES! You would love it, and in many ways, I do it just for you, for Uncle Mike, but I do it for those who will visit, and for your sister, father, cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents. I do it because I know I am leaving a legacy. Oh, I know, I'm not supposed to think like that, but I do. I cannot help myself. That doesn't mean I think about the next life more than this one, I am just more aware than most that it is sooner than later, for me, for us, for everyone. And when it is my time, I want to preserve YOUR legacy, MY legacy, my parents and my grandparents. That's what the holiday is all about.

But may I say to you that it is so damn hard to do this without you, knowing you will not come through that door, and I don't care if it's been five minutes, five days, five YEARS, my soul hasn't changed. It aches for you. It takes every thing I have within to get to the store, to keep the lunch date, to hear the music in the stores, to look at the lights, to decorate. Last Sunday, when I put up your tree and decorated it, I have never felt so alone in my life. It took everything I had in me to make it a showcase of beauty, so easily done, once, now, painstaking and still raw, I know that tree exists, because you do not. At least not in the physical sense. And that is the brunt of my pain, fatigue, and soulful tears.

Thank you, dear daughter, for the Christmas gift of strength. Yes, I know you are not the source! You don't want that credit, and I can SO hear you say, "Jesus is the reason for the season"...and when I hear that, I smile. There was a time when I thought I had forgotten the sound of your voice, but it is back, and it is the sweetest song of all, to me, your mother. It is a gift, as is the reminder of your beautiful presence in that "last" Christmas. I cling to that, and I have never stopped thanking God for such a gift. Other things are coming "back", too, Allison. They show up, slowly, maybe for a short time, only to subside at another time, but they show up and make me realize you are helping me to heal. I can do things I never did before, but on the flip side, I cannot do some things I always did in the past! I follow my spirit and I let God guide my activity, my actions, my heart and my soul. I smile while I weep, and I hum along to tunes, while I see pictures in my mind's memory of a time past, when we were all so young and innocent, when Santa existed and toys were cheap, and traditions were cast and we sat in church together, singing out of tune, and going on our annual rides to look at lights. I don't see the lights like I used to, Allison, they all look the same, and I think that is because I see them through the tears that never leave.

Allison, I don't know what I thought, but this is not it...I thought I knew. I thought that someday my heart, mind, body and soul would respond differently. If truth be known, it IS different. I just don't often SEE it, for the ache of missing you prevails over all else. But you are reminding me of the so called "progress", the act of healing itself, the fact that I can actually load the Christmas CD's and play them while I work or cook, the fact that I can bake cookies and think of others, shop again, and wrap, and this year, perhaps send out a FEW cards with a photo of your father, sister and me. You remind me that I have walked down Allison Road and gained momentum and inner peace. You show me the pink sunrises and sunsets and your spirit reminds me that you are in the purest of all places. Your love reminds me through the song, My Wish, to accept God's grace and forgive my own shortcomings or mistakes. You remind me that I am always your mother, and death does not part us at all.

I thought I knew how to do this, by now I'd be seasoned or proficient or some kind of expert at grief, loss, and missing you beyond any dimension. I know now, that there is no time I will wake up and ARRIVE. I am where I am supposed to be, and for now, that's what I'll cling to.

My first of many Merry Christmas letters to you, my baby, my love.

Mom

Fragile Existence

2011-12-05T03:59:00.000-08:00

There is a fragile existence to living life in grief, fragile indeed. I think of the delicate glass blown hummingbird I so cautiously move around when I am dusting, the carefully wrapped and packed ornaments that I handled yesterday as I attempted to place them on "her" tree, the wine glasses I will wash and place around the Christmas table, indeed, the fragile state of it all. In one instant or in one wrong move, all will shatter and crumble, giving way to nothingness. We are nothing, if not fragile. And grief makes it more so, or is it from knowing some things that others may not, is it our new found "wisdom" that helps us see just how fragile all of this is, all of us are, this day, this life, this mere existence.

Sure, we go about life, after deep, intense loss, as though things are as they once were. How can we not? We don't know any other way, plus, the world expects it, and after all, nothing has changed, externally, that is. We shop for food, we cook, clean, go to work, walk the dog, pay the bills, run the errands, shop for holidays, pack up the boxes, send them on their way, we do it all as before, but unlike ever before. We are fragile, now, an aura of protection around us, a bubble in some ways, a cloud, a halo of fog. We are doing the same things, but we are not the same. We are fragile.

I think I have awakened to the fact and reality that this fragile existence is my norm, now. Sure, by all accounts, I am ME, but take a closer look, beyond the new haircut or color of lipstick, deeper, look into my eyes, and you will find someone who continues to emerge, a metamorphosis caused by losing my child. Look deep and you will find something new each time we talk. I won't know myself some days, other days I will be so strong it will amaze you, it amazes me!! In the next minute, what once was "okay" to say or do with me, will hurt me, will aggravate me, will surge in me an emotion I am not familiar with feeling. Ask me about my day and I will want to sit down and tell you about other things than my day, I will want to tell you a story of Christmas past when Allison was with us, or share a memory of my daughters on Christmas morning, talk about a tradition my parents passed down, and talk even more about them, and how much I still miss them through every holiday and gathering, or I could talk about how I struggle to look past today, for the future is so uncertain, now that she is gone. Sure, I know the future is uncertain at any time, even when our loved ones are here, but I know something perhaps you don't know, and I want to talk about it. But you may not be ready to listen. So, I don't. I treat myself with the kindness I would show someone else, I take care, and own this fragile existence of living with grief. I have come to know that I am my greatest friend, soul mate, confidante. That does not mean I do not want your company, or your kind gestures, or the ornaments, the cards, and the prayers. I want it all, I desire it at times, and other times, I cannot bear it. I am fragile. I may shatter. I may not.

Emergency Appointment

2011-11-18T10:07:00.000-08:00

At certain times, I find myself needing an emergency appointment. I'm not sure with whom, or why, or what needs "fixing", or mending, besides my heart, but nevertheless, I wish I could call 911 and get some assistance. But I cannot. They don't have the resources to "fix" this, the pain, the agony of loss, the physical symptoms that come with grief, the almost perpetual flu-like symptoms, that come and go, but like an uninvited guest, just show up and stay. At times like this, pre-holiday festivities blended with the final weeks Allison was with us in the physical sense, well, there is just no set pattern for maneuvering, I set myself on pilot in many ways, receiving comments and compliments of how good I look, or how I am out shopping again, or may even attend a holiday party this year. Or not. Most likely not. Why? Some ask. Why not? Others ask. Isn't it time? Some will say. Just come for a little while. Many will state. I love them for trying, I really do. But how do I explain what it takes to do all of that, to make the conversation, to look around and see their whole family together, knowing I still have to re figure the table setting, the plate distribution, the meal, the laughter, and now the tears, without her. I need an emergency appointment to get me through.

But who to call? I know full well that we are not the only ones staggering through the season, the final days, and I know full well, also, to count my blessings. God is so good. And I am so thankful. But that does not take away this pain, one minute feeling as though I may vomit, the next, feeling like I need to eat, and in the next, getting all ready to go to the store, only to find myself too exhausted. Emotional exhaustion, that all too consuming and I find myself needing assistance, an emergency appointment. But again, who to call? I can, and do, call my sister. We are one in our spirit, and thank God she is present in my life. But even in that, as she finds her own way in the loss of her husband, how can I expect her to know the right fix for that moment in time? I can call my neighbor, but in reality, I need to be there for her, and I wish to do more to ease her shattered world as she and her husband and daughters learn how to live and move after losing their beloved in a car accident. I can call a woman I often have coffee with, but one of her daughters is going through a cancer battle of her own. I can call a dear friend, but her sister just very unexpectedly passed and I know what this day is like for her. I can call a special friend, but she is waiting with her daughter for her first grandchild to be born. I have a whole host of people to call to make an emergency appointment, but some are getting ready for a wedding this weekend, others are having their own surgery, others are planning holiday parties, others are so strapped for time in their over busy world that my call would only add to their burdens. I can call family and friends, therapists, and healers, I can start at the top of my list, only to find every single person has something to face, work through, deal with, and yes, even celebrate. That is me, too. In my pain, in my suffering, that is known only to me, I truly understand that each one of us carries the whole world on our shoulders at times, and that it can seem monumental just to BE.

I do need an emergency appointment. Truly. And many would really be there if I needed or asked. It's not their fault that they cannot come running. I have learned, and need to remind myself, that at times like this, these days that are so difficult to stay strong through, that my emergency appointment is with myself. It is in the way I can make food for someone else today, bake a loaf of bread, pick up dear Rex from the groomer, deliver milk and eggs to some one's refrigerator that has been rather empty lately, order the Thanksgiving dinner for another family faced by extreme poverty, wrap the gifts for the children's home as MY gift to Allison this year. I have access to many ways of scheduling that emergency appointment. Most of all I have my prayer time, my devotions, the gift of intuition, the gift of time, the gift of being Jennifer mom, Joe's wife, Karen and David's sister, and God's child. I have the memory of being Allison's mother for 21 years on earth, giving me a host of memories. I have means to schedule emergency appointments that can pick myself up and share that part of me that is able to be shared, and while some days it's harder to find the right modality, at my fingertips, and in my soul, there is always reason to keep going.

2011-11-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

Much has happened of late, causing me to take a deeper look into the spiritual side of grief. I will admit I have been consumed, gravitating toward the sadness of life, the pain and loss, because it is just everywhere. I allow myself to visit the place of darkness, but just a visit. I have learned not to stay too long, or else the darkness will swallow me, and I won't be able to see the light. I learned early on to work through this MY way, and through the many, many modalities, I work to live, I grieve, and I get swallowed up, just like anyone else. I accept the dark times, and through various healing sessions, I empower myself to do what is necessary to survive. I do what is necessary to live, breathe, and exist. Even on the days when I would prefer to stay in pajamas till noon, and those are many lately, I allow the indulgence, but I rise up and gather what is good to take me out of the pain. Or at least I try to...don't always succeed, often succumb to the suction of grief, but while doing so, all the while, looking for that crack of light.

We are all in a losing zone right now. Sometimes I can imagine that no one knows my pain, and I don't know anyone else's. I can get swallowed up in wondering how I am going to keep hearing and accepting the news that each day brings...cancer, death, car accidents, house foreclosure, hunger, growing death by suicide, devastation. I find myself inundated with the tragedies, because now I feel something I may have not felt before, and that is what true grief, right to the core of my being, is like, and I only "wish" it upon no one else. But it comes, and it goes, and we each get a turn.

I have come to realize that all of this is about who we are from a spiritual perspective. It's going to happen. Loss, pain, and all those things that can consume us. We are human beings and we cannot get through life without avoiding it. We are human beings who think about being spiritual, but in reality, we are spiritual beings living in a human world. I know that I have shared a quote of this magnitude in my writing and personal journals, because early on, when I began my quest to live after death, I relied on my own interpretation of it...I believe it was Stephen Covey who said, and I am paraphrasing..."We are not human beings on a spiritual journey, we are spiritual beings on a human journey".

It takes much work and energy healing, thank you dear Helen for being in my life, to understand oneself and where we fit into all this, and how we fulfill our purpose here, that is, while we are here. It takes that deeper understanding that scriptures and affirmations provide, but more importantly, it takes weaving them into my being, not my human BEING, my spiritual BEING. It takes making the choice to still my soul so I can hear, really hear, what God wants from me. Even on my days of angst, crying out, inner turmoil, confusion, fatigue, remembering what I don't want to, and forgetting what I wish I could recall, it is about the spiritual realm, the life that is bigger and better than me.

So much is uncertain, every step. I don't know how to do this. I find myself walking the steps of what Helen helped me term, "countdown energy", those hours, minutes, images, days, season, holiday, memories, that bring me closer and closer to a time that she, Allison, left this earth, left her physical being for her full and beautiful spiritual self, leaving behind a host of loved ones, trying to make sense of what this side of heaven is all about. It takes everything I have in me to move through this time, knowing I am being carried, knowing I am not doing anything special, this is not ME, this is a host of angels, and support from above. It takes every ounce of strength to remove myself from enduring the physical loss, to focus on the bigger and better picture. I am working on it, I am lifting my heart to her, to the light, letting her go, even when I don't want to, letting her go and spread her wings, knowing, she will never be physically mine again, but she will always come back to me, spiritually, fully and lovingly.

Any Given Day

2011-10-31T14:15:00.000-07:00

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)

2011-10-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-07T06:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-04T06:13:00.000-07:00

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.

9/11

2011-09-11T06:46:00.000-07:00

9/11. No words necessary...indeed, "this is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it"...my blog name, applies. Not because of what happened ten years ago today, but what has happened since. The stories, the lives, the impact, the shaping of a future, the life that has come from loss, knowing that God is in the midst of it, God is in the midst of me, ONE DAY AT A TIME. Admittedly, I have chosen to watch only snippets of the broadcasts. Then, and now, the devastation can take over, and we can be brought back to the place of pain, but only to a certain extent. I say that because our/my life was not as impacted. Yes, our country changed, war changed, our innocence was washed away. But, my children didn't have to grow up without a father, mother, sister, or a brother. My spouse nor I were not left to manage on our own, maneuver grief, setting aside our own pain for the sake of raising a child alone. I have no relatives who went in to those towers to do battle, fight fire, destruction, only to lose their own life right then, or later, when the effects of toxins took over. I can only imagine, from the television coverage, what began as daybreak on the most beautiful of all mornings, became night and darkness, hovering over a city for days and months to come. I can only imagine. And I know that I never could.

9/11. A day to remember. They gather today, ten years later, and they are resilient. They are teaching us how to be, also. Their aching process is known only to them, as they stand tall, dressed beautifully, tracing the names of their loved ones on the new structure. We gather today to do what we choose, fly the flag, remember, find a fitting scripture, pray, try to imagine. Only we cannot. But we try. And we honor, and we remember.

We hear the stories and we cannot help but wonder, how have they managed, how have they come through TEN years, how have they rebuilt their lives, honored their loved ones, respected the memories, yet lived their lives? Through the snippets you can see it in their eyes, listen as the names are read, voices crack, tears come, hear of the widows and widowers, children who were not even born, who never knew their parent, or listen to the older ones who have lived out the legacy of the one who left too soon. All ages, young, old, all innocently working or going about normalcy, only to find in the next second, life as they knew it is shattered and torn, perhaps gone, or fractured.

Their stories teach us all about quality of life, resiliency, courage, bravery, solitude, a need for God, love, hope, and faith. Just to hear of one, let alone, thousands, inspires little old me, who gets up each morning, bearing the losses of my own world, my own child, gone too soon, never to be forgotten, and teaching me lessons every minute of every day. Life DOES come from loss. Men and women, boys and girls, living to tell the tale of 9/11 from their perspective, share how life has gone on to be lived. Babies have been born, men and women have remarried, through the tears they find laughter, graduations and weddings continue, and the circle of life is ever present. That's what this day is for, to live it, to learn from the loss, to take it to a new level, heal and grieve as we must, but to draw strength, servitude, and to make it as full as we choose. Certainly, that will look different for each person, each of them, us, parents, children, friends and neighbors. Living through grief is as individual and personal as the person experiencing it.

Loss shows us the beauty of life. Time means nothing, is not even relative. We can all stand in wonder over the fact that it's been TEN years. To those living without their loved ones, that amount of time means nothing. I share that in common with them. Time stands still, in some ways, and in others, as we reflect and remember, we see how strong we can really be, right to the soul of the matter...the soul where God sends the Holy Spirit and speaks to us, and we choose how to respond. And ready or not, time marches on, and on, and on. It is up to us how we spend that time.

Out of THEIR losses comes my own gratitude. God knows that Joe and I have thanked Him each and every day since January 9, 2007, for the chances...the chance to be with our daughter as she faced her journey, to hold her hand, to love her, to come to know Christ through her eyes and in a different way, to laugh, to find our inner truth, to live, and to say good-bye, by far the greatest gift in all of our pain. My gratitude stems from within, in such a deep and profound way, for her life, for 21years worth of memories, for being her mother. And it goes past her life, it weaves into others, the ones I knew before, since, and trust will come into my life for a purpose in the future. I am in deep gratitude for the chances I have been given, not known in their entirety to me at the time, but now, serve as the greatest treasures known to my heart.

I cannot begin to do this day justice. Of course, like everyone, I recall where I was at that distinct moment in time, in shock, horror, disbelief, setting aside my own concerns and curiosities for the sake of the 500 children in the school building. One day the shock began to subside and reality set in...but it was MY reality. Not the reality of those living it firsthand, day in day out, not really comprehending what it must be like to lose like that, my loved one, then on top of it, an income, a home, a life that was "supposed" to be one way. All gone in an instant.

Since that time, I have learned much, and in no way would I ever think of comparing. I will not, do not. For me, though, I have learned the value of a day, of a moment, when that phone rings and life as we knew it was gone, in just that instant. Definitely not as monumental and historical. But still, a lesson in that moment of time, that all we have is this day. We seize it, we grasp it, we accept it, we give thanks for it. Rain or shine, light or dark, this is the day, let us rejoice and give thanks for it.

I'm Busy Getting Stronger

2011-09-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

I love the Sarah Evans song, and have, from the moment I heard it. Knowing a bit about her life, I understand what the lyrics are intended to portray, but I look at it differently, hear it in a way it probably was not designed to be heard, and I think of so many...myself, my husband, our daughter, Allison's family, friends, my sister in her loss of her husband Michael, many mothers and fathers who have been left to maneuver grief, a widening circle of loved ones who are grieving parents, siblings, other friends and neighbors. Yes, the circles are growing, and whether they know it or not, they, too, are busy getting stronger. Being our own best, or worst, critic, we tend to NOT see what others see, how can we? Our souls are screaming, our arms are empty, our house is quiet, the phone rarely rings, and when it does, it is not her, or him. In our case, it is not Allison. The cruel reality is that it will never, ever be again. There are many cruel realities, most too hard to bear. Sometimes, I just don't want to bear them at all. I have to literally shake my head until it rattles to dismiss the doom and gloom that this grief can bring to me, if I allow it, if I embrace it, if I let it consume me. It surely will, all the days of my life, if only I allow it. I work to do just the opposite, for what good will it do me, my heart, my soul, my emotional and physical state, what good at all? So, from the start, even though it didn't seem like it, I have been busy getting stronger.

Stronger may mean different things on different days! And if truth be known, I don't really want to work at it at all! I would like to take the low road, and just NOT show up for life, at times. Other times, I want to embrace all of it as quickly as I can because I now understand, at a deeper level, just how short this lifetime really is...never did I know that so many conflicting emotions could surface at the same time. It is no wonder that grieving is hard, dedicated, tumultuous work. But, in spite of myself, I am busy getting stronger. How do I know this? What is the measure of strength? How can I feel so strong, yet so weak?

I know I am busy getting stronger because of what I can not only DO, but FEEL, and SEE, and TASTE, and SEE, and even SMELL. My senses have come alive, because I have allowed them to do so. The numbness is wearing off, not gone by any stretch of the imagination, but shedding layers, if you will. I am working at it. It would not be doing so, if not for the work put into it. The readings, the prayers, the devotions, the healing modalities, the rest, the shifting of priorities, the shift in my life. All changed. Never to be returned to again. All because of one phone call, which led to one diagnosis, which led to treatments and protocols, which led to eleven weeks of time together, which led to a chance to say good-bye, which led to death, and in death, led to life. I cannot explain it. I don't need to explain it. I know what I know, and that is I am busy getting stronger.

I see beauty in the simple forms. I have slowed down to capture moments that will stay with me forever. I help make a memory. I even ran into the ocean this summer with my clothes on, thank you Allison, thank you Michael, thank you God for removing the inhibitions for that one moment in time. I attended two weddings this summer, and danced at both, just a little, but I danced. I listen to music and hear the lyrics, now, and sing, with my out of tune voice. I affirm that I have a purpose and trust that God will lay out His plan for me. I am busy getting stronger without even realizing it.

I am taking care of physical needs. Yes, I am often numb, and don't want to, but in spite of myself, I am busy getting stronger. I find my way through housecleaning chores, projects, trips to my sister's house, some vacations, have been to two movies, and have lunches with friends. If there is a measure of getting stronger, I am making my mark. Yes, I do so with tears in my heart, and a soul that is crying out for my deceased child, but I am living, some, and that is pleasing to her. I hear her whispers and feel her love, and know she is proud. That, and the life of those I love, myself, my daughter, husband, siblings, family, gives me the strength to carry on, to live as best I can for that moment, and to stay busy, getting stronger.

I Can't Recall

2011-08-24T10:53:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry...I can't recall...I don't remember. I wish I could. I wish I had been able to be present in the moments, to remember, to be aware. But so much of it, I just can't recall.

Since losing my daughter, well, not losing, I have come to disregard that term, in some ways. I didn't lose her. I know exactly where she is, and that is not here. She is not lost. Really, if truth is known, she is found. But not too many people can understand that concept. So, I don't elaborate. I just use the term, interchangeably, for "passed away", "died", "lost her life to a dreaded disease", whatever it is that I am desperately trying to say. But for this purpose, "losing" will do...since "losing" my daughter, well, I can't recall much. Oh sure, there are some snippets of memory. I can see some things so clearly, and others are such a fog. And that all began with the diagnosis. I was doing everything I could to digest it, interpret it, reflect upon it, keep the daily journal, write Allison a daily letter, face it, move through the day by day change of protocols as that lung cancer spread faster than anything I had ever witnessed. In the process, of course, there are memories, snippets, moments when I was surely lucid enough to notice, physically strong enough to acknowledge, or emotionally stable enough to appreciate and thank those who provided offerings during that time, and after Allison passed. But so much of it has had to be told to me. I remember looking at the guest book from the visitation to see who had attended, no, I was not drugged, but numb, or in shock, or sad, yes. I read each name over and over again, knowing that I had seen people who had not signed their name, and knowing that some signed their name and I don't remember seeing them. I can't recall certain things.

I can't recall who brought what over, flowers, food, books, gifts. I tried to keep it straight, write it down, my sister did her best, but the love poured in and I couldn't keep up. In the eleven weeks of Allison's life with cancer, she, Jennifer, Joe and myself, and daily treatments or doctor's appointments was my focus. Then she was gone, and while the offerings still poured in, I can't recall who did what, what I ate, what I did, how I lived. It doesn't really matter anymore, really. But for so long, when I had casserole dishes and gifts that I did not know where they came from, I felt those twinges of guilt that recipients never received cards or notes of thanks. People asked me about their dishes, their items, the things they loaned me for months and years to come. I just couldn't recall what they knew to be true. I will never, ever, again, expect a grieving person to know or remember what I brought, I will pray it will be a love offering with no strings attached, no acknowledgement needed, that it was an angel gift from the heart.

There are so many other things I can't recall: How did I get to this point, coming up on the fifth year of her diagnosis? How did I manage to attend functions when my heart was literally breaking and I was sick from the emotional toll? How did I fill my days once I retired, or even more out of my mind's reach, in those first weeks and months when she was gone? How did I manage to even return to work and go through the day by day events for several months? Who did I see? What did I do to fill my time? Well, of course, some of it is with me, and most of it is not. And again, it doesn't matter. What matters is where I am now, and a sweet hallelujah that I am beginning to remember Allison as a baby, a toddler, a little girl, a pre-teen, a young woman. For so long, I couldn't recall those times outside of eleven weeks of cancer, and I would be brought to my knees, wondering if I ever would, praying that it would come back to me. That her spirit would fill my soul and I would remember. Through a lot of prayer and soul searching, I can recall a little more, more and more, day by day, and I am thankful.

I have given gifts that I can't even recall. Recently, when giving a gift to someone, I could tell I had already given that to her. Hmmm....so, I asked, and sure enough, the same gift, monogrammed and everything. I'm sure this is not the first time it's happened! But, I can't recall. I can't recall what I do, what the spirit leads me to do, what I have given, what I have received. It's not a desirable place to be...but it is what it is.

For those things I can't recall, I have to let them go. I have to forgive myself for not acknowledging or thanking those who have called to see if I got the flowers, or the meal, or the gift they left on the porch some years ago. I'm sure I did get them. And I'm sure it made the difference needed at that time. But, being so numb for so long, and damaged and heart broken, there is much I can't recall. I am learning to say that it is "okay", affirm it, and go on. I can't do anything about it now. I will recall what I can, and let the rest go, and be thankful for what I now CAN recall.

Re-Enter Life

2011-08-20T08:15:00.001-07:00

For me, the death and loss of my child, my Allison, stopped ME dead in my tracks. I'm sure many people can relate to that. Many can relate to the fact that often times, if not for those we love the most who are still living, we, the mourning, do not really want to keep going. The newness is paralyzing, all consuming, physical, emotional, spiritual, and downright devastating. It is something to sort through, and it defines us in ways we could never have imagined. It is where we now start from. Loss. Grief. Pain. The point at which all we knew turned on its axis and a new start began.

The beginning, which starts with the loss, caused me to immediately look within. And what I saw, I don't think I really liked, let alone, embraced. I had to re-enter life, right then and there, because for all I had imagined and thought, life did not STOP because Allison Haake left me, us, this earth. In fact, with hindsight being 20/20 as they say, it had only just begun. It began, and continues, in looking deep within, and understanding that this journey is not only about her, in fact, HER journey was HERS, MINE is MINE. They correlate, of course. This was my child, brought through my womb to exist, to be, to live, to dream. So, naturally, they are entwined, meshed, woven together. I am her mother. Her mother. And I had to learn, I am, still. That hasn't changed. I am, always have been, always will be, her mother. But that took on new shades of life, new images, and a new relationship. And all the while, I couldn't just sit in a chair and focus on how this was going to evolve. I had to trust that it would, that it will, and to this day, I am really thankful I have THIS DAY to sort it out.

I do not know at what point I really began to re-enter life. I am sure it was right from the start. It just didn't feel like it, the numbness took what seemed forever to fade. It is still there. The pain washes over me like one of those extreme flushes of heat, my own reality and mind reminds me of what is mine to face, and I learn to cope and carry this pain through the conversations with friends, the social engagements, the movies, the trips, the travels to new places, the housecleaning, the family gatherings. Sometimes I nod my head and try to be engaged, really. I love my friends, and my family. Sometimes I seem interested in a show that Joe and I watch together, but my mind isn't there. It's way back there, a 5 year old birthday party, a teenager's dance, a shopping trip, moments in bed reading what seemed to be endless nursery rhymes. Or my mind is asking God to help me breathe and get through the next minute, that there can be real substance to my life, that the superficial aspects are abandoned for meaningful and spiritual depthness.

I offer up gratitude for the simplest of things....there has not been a day that I haven't asked God to help me know what I am supposed to know from this, re-enter life the way it is intended, to accept it, to know that there is a plan much richer than mine, to find my purpose, to be productive, even though it may not seem productive to ME, to find my way through this life, knowing that tomorrow, this afternoon, this evening isn't even promised. To love, to live, to laugh, when I can, and to visit the places I need to, physically or emotionally, spiritually or mentally, but to only linger in those that are good for me.

Each stage of re-entering life is new for me. I suppose it will always be, but to know that I AM capable of it, well, I can only imagine how pleased that makes Allison. When she passed from this temporary life to the one of eternity, I'm quite sure she didn't intend for her mother, her father, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and friends to stop living. No doubt, she wants us to re-enter life, our way, in God's timing, in the way that brings all good things to our souls. When it doesn't seem "right" or "fitting" or even doable, all I need to do is look at that smile, those eyes, feel that spirit of hers, spend time with my living daughter, share a laugh with my husband, or a deep conversation with my sister, take a trip such as this summer that resulted in changed lives, make a meal for a friend, bake a cake, put a scrapbook together, hold a baby, share a glass of wine with my nephews, go to a movie with a friend, just spend the gift of time with those I enjoy, read, write, walk Rex, look at the sunrise or sunset, savor a rainy Saturday morning...whatever, whenever, I know that this is my way of re-entering life. And I am thankful enough to seize the day.

The Blueprint

2011-08-15T06:22:00.000-07:00

Letting go of MY blueprint, my plans, my thoughts of how life was supposed to be has been, IS, a process. It doesn't come easily, without pain, without kicking and screaming, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively. I thought I had it all figured out, after all, I followed somewhat of the pattern of expectations, did I not...I went to college, married, became a teacher, raised children, went to church as a family, attended all of the girls' activities or events, was the scout leader, the Sunday School teacher, on and on it went. And on and on, so it goes.

Only, life is really about MY blueprint. In the devastation of losses, that now begin to accumulate, I can sit in disbelief, I can shake my head, I can wonder, how in the world did I get here, of all places, to the here and now? I can also find myself slipping into a state of mind that perhaps allows me to feel completely and utterly alone. When those moments come, I DO allow them, I DO visit them, as one of my wise and wonderful therapists encouraged me to do, but I DON'T allow myself to STAY there, or at least not too long. I visit, I ask God to get me to the next minute, to help me remember to breathe, and I ask for gratitude in the situation or moment. It doesn't come easily, and it doesn't come willingly. I must open my heart to accept all that is mine to accept. And acceptance comes, it wavers, it makes detours, it vacillates, but it comes...acceptance that the blueprint of my life is not as I had planned, but is here for me to handle, respond to, embrace as I must.

I know the God within me is what has empowered me to pick myself up again. There is no other explanation. Joe goes to work each and every morning, Jennifer is building her own life, my family and friends have their own lives to attend to, so who is it that gets Kathy up, and going and moving and living. It surely is not by my own design, I have learned that much, it is only by the grace of God that I am this far, living out the new blueprint, the one created just for me. I surely didn't design it, nor did I ask for it, but now, instead of being handed one, I am a student of life, maneuvering through the blueprint that has been created, and I pray to release the one I HAD planned, and embrace the one that is mine to own.

We can all hear stories and know of situations that could be considered far worse than our own, and we can certainly look at others and find ourselves almost envying the goodness in their lives. Life is perplexing, situations are confusing, and even as I sit here, close to five years ago when Allison was diagnosed with cancer, only to leave us a few short eleven weeks later, I still feel a sort of shock ripple through me, when I feel her presence, when I look into her pictures, when I travel the same roads we did to bring her home. I am awestruck! I am perplexed! I am in disbelief! And one thing I do know, time, in no way, represents a place where I should be...I am where I am. And I am okay with that. I may "look" good, "sound" good, "appear" good in all ways, but I am what I am. I have my own blueprint, now. I will manage it, I will follow it, or at least try, I will learn to live with the brokenness AND in spite of it. I will continue to seek God's wisdom, and put myself clearly in His path, and be open to receive. This is how I must follow my own blueprint, for this moment, this hour, this day.

Courting Grief

2011-08-03T14:37:00.000-07:00

I read this term, "courting grief", on a page I receive from Second Firsts and how the then therapist counseled and advised others on grief, but later, lived it first hand through her own pain of a loved one dying. She didn't expand on it, but used the term that resonated with me..."courting grief", and all of a sudden, I had my own interpretation of what it meant.

Perhaps it's because of the many conversations my sister and I have had in the wake of her husband's passing, perhaps it's because of the many ones I have held with my own husband in the passing of our daughter, or the ones I have with nearly everyone I come into contact with these days. Loss is everywhere. It is in our own family, so tightly, so uniquely, so unimaginably, so unfairly, if you will, yet, what is FAIR? It's intense. It's a wave to ride. It's here to stay. It remains that constant companion that I have spoken of for nearly five years now. Grief. Courting Grief!

When do we stop COURTING grief, and taking it on as our partner. What are we supposed to do with it? What does it look like, feel like, sound like? How do we know when we are at the "right" place, or in the "timely" stage? How are we supposed to go on, live, pay bills, let alone breathe, laugh, sing or dance? When does the naive and numb pain of COURTING grief become our new found reality? When do we trade "going through the motions of life" for the life that is now ours to live? What is the purpose of grief? Are we supposed to wake up one day and "get it", become "healed", and let go? Questions. Questions without answers. Or should I say, questions with answers that are as unique as each one of us are, as unique as the relationship we had with the loved one, or as unique as the type of loss.

Does the courting stage of grief become "easier"? Would we, would I, go back to what my perception of that term means...those months and even years, after Allison passed on, when I sat numb, went through the "motions", tried to grasp the reality of her physical absence, making dinners that I didn't taste, filling the emptiness with cookies, or puddings, or a late afternoon glass of wine, only to find that the pit grew deeper and wider. Would I return to the blank look in my eyes, the inability to imagine taking photographs again, the quiet of my voice, the quiet of our home, of our very existence? Would I recall, even if I could, how I "got through" those motions, those first steps, when friends or loved ones put timeframes or perimeters on my grief, my pain, my loss, my ability, or inability to "move on"? Would there come a time when some of this would become natural and part of my very existence, when grief would accompany me in much the same way as the winter jacket for a cool night, or the right purse to match the colors of the day? Would it ever become "comfortable" and fitting, will it ever penetrate me completely, waking up my senses enough to know this is my new normal? Would I accept it?

Grief is work. I have spoken to others willing to listen, able to hear the deepness of my inner soul, and even written about it. It takes so much work just to maneuver. And "courting grief" is a phrase I can totally relate to...as I said, I have my own perception of its definition. I have danced with it, fought with it, cried through it, hated and despised it, begged God to understand it, acknowledged it, affirmed it, embraced it, tried to let it go, but all the while, finding it to be a process that is mine to behold. Mine is mine. My daughter's is hers. My sister's is hers. Yours is yours. Unique, yet, the same.

I don't think I am just "courting grief" any longer, I know I am in full fledged living through it. Like the days of "courting" our mates, dates, partners, it has flirted with me, brought me to places in my heart and soul I never knew I existed,physically taken me to new places, made me euphoric, only to let me down, it has kissed every part of me, and it has sustained me. And when the "courting" stage has ended, and the real work begins, or when I see others in the "courting" stage, and wish with everything I have within, to go back there, I know that I had my time. The courting, for me, is over. The real work has begun. I will embrace you, you unimaginable pain, you, this part of life we will all endure at some point, for loss is inevitable. "Courting grief" is in my past, but I still go back to that place, and revisit it, when I learned what it was, how it would impact my life, and I hold true to the fact that I am in this place, this very moment in time, for a reason only God can know. I will do my best. That is all He asks of me.

Summer Theme

2011-07-31T11:09:00.000-07:00

This has been the summer for themes. I cannot help myself, I am a thematic person. It doesn't matter if I was hosting a birthday party for my girls or family members, decorating the girls' rooms, teaching a lesson to my students, hosting a staff meeting, giving gifts, or just hosting a family dinner, themes are part of who I am. I love them! I gravitate toward them, so it should have come as no surprise this summer, when my sister was planning a one year memorial celebration for her husband, Michael, that my mind went toward themed items to send, or bring, along. I never asked her what she was planning specifically, but lo and behold, we both had the same "theme" in mind, pink and green lanterns, white, pink and of course, green balloons, flamingo type decorations and plates, because, naturally, there was a story attached to them! So, pink and green it was...and a new theme came to light, No One Fights Alone. How appropriate to find these words on the choosehope.com website, so koozies were ordered, and on an on, we found our way to a pink and green summer.

Karen's picnic table had pinks and greens among the other colors, painted by a neighborhood, as she says. As friends and family gathered around, colors and designs emerged, words surfaced, providing love and inspiration. This table became the focal point of conversation. Prior to the memorial weekend, every store she went through, as did I back in St. Louis, held items of pink and green, green and pink, Allison and Michael, Michael and Allison. One with the other, as we have discovered, it should be...and what was really Michael's one year anniversary into heaven, became yet another honoring of this angel of ours that left us all too soon.

The honoring came on Allison Road. The story sweet and simple. And timely. Perhaps to be shared more in depth at another time, the gathering of loved ones, and scattering of ashes occurred on Allison Road. Matt spoke so beautifully of how Allison gave his father so much strength to persevere and fight. Joseph played the guitar with a quiet voice of "Blue Skies" on the bench as we filed by, one by one, with our own thoughts and memories. A family friend spoke so humorously and yet, seriously, of Michael and the year since he left us. All so beautiful, and all so much than one heart can almost hold. The details will come, but right now, our hearts are filled with pink and green, green and pink.

The koozies came to mind one day when I was perusing the Choose Hope website. The colors struck me at first, because lo and behold, that day, they were featured on the front in yes, pink and green. Then the words...NO ONE FIGHTS ALONE. Visions of "fighting" came to mind, fighting to live, to breathe, to walk, to talk, to attend, to BE, to sleep, to wake-up, to take the drugs, to endure the transplant, fighting to find faith and hope and love and GOD in all of this...our loved ones fought, but they didn't fight alone. We fought with them, each one of us, sister to sister, sons to father, wife to husband, mother to daughter, father to daughter, uncles and aunts to niece, and on and on. NO ONE FIGHTS ALONE. We hope, anyway. We know our loved ones didn't fight alone. We fought. We still fight. And we always will.

The summer theme will go on and on, I suspect. It will be pink and green for eternity. We will find our own way to bring the brightness of those beautiful colors to our existing world. We will remember the sunset we prayed so hard to receive, we will stand in awe at God's wonderment, knowing we received more than we ever hoped for...we asked for beauty and we got so much more. We received, in that indescribable sunset, the sweet assurance that all is well in their world, and we will hold onto that in ours. We will find the shades of pink and greens and we will know, we will just know, it's more than a theme. It is as they want us to be, happy in our pinks, and in our greens, in our sunrises and our sunsets. We will try. And we will not fight alone.

Sabbatical

2011-07-08T05:39:00.000-07:00

We all need sabbaticals in life, from work, from daily living, from pressures and stress, but in loss, my sense is that they are needed even more. Sabbaticals come in many forms, and right away, after Allison passed away, and grief set in, I knew, that I must handle grief before it handled me. Never had I experienced anything of this intensity, from my inner core, to every part of my very existence, I only knew one thing, and that was, I was never to be the same again. I didn't know what it meant. All I could do, and still do, is to respond to where I am at that moment. Thus, the first sabbatical I took was from work. Questioned and even judged by many, it was what I knew had to be done. I asked God for guidance and I listened to the spirit within, and I took the many weeks needed to restore, reflect, regroup, rest, and prepare in the only way I knew how to go on living. That sabbatical served me well, on a personal level. It set the tone for what would become a lifetime of adjustments, a day by day existence without my child, a role that would not settle in, and if truth be known, still has not. The sabbatical did NOT set well with certain people, but as I have come to learn, it is much easier to believe what others SHOULD do, rather than try to understand what they choose to do.

This is not to say that I had not taken sabbaticals before. Certainly, we all do. In my case, they were often out of intense necessity, such as after my mother died and I struggled for three years, to the point where my health was failing. I took a short time away from the pressures of life, very short. Another time, when my father lived in our home, facing his own cancer battle, I took that time to tend to him, then to tend to ME, so that I could tend to my family. There was that oxygen mask theory again! But I took so little time. Guilt set in, all the people at work were holding the school together, I needed to be there. So, once again, the sabbatical was short lived, necessary to refuel and restore, but not enough to really gain anything from it. Even when I took the sabbaticals in forms of vacations or trips, BEFORE, I was always linked to the family issues, the job, the house, the bills, the pressures. Sabbaticals were short respites that served a purpose, but there was no way to really get away.

Now, I know so much more about them! And if I have anything to offer from this experience and earned wisdom, it is to encourage others to find their own way to REAL sabbaticals. To shut off the phones, the computers, the links to the stress of life. To lie down for 30 minutes with the inspirational music on and listen, really listen, and be present to the lyrics and instrumental melodies. To sit on the deck in the wee hours of the morning when all is quiet and God is near. To savor that sunrise or sunset, or to really listen to the laughter of their children, or just the children in the neighborhood. To listen to the sound of buses rolling in the morning and smile at the memories. To cling to a picture that brings beauty and joy and cry if you must, or have that moment of gratitude for the life that was lived. To simply BE. To savor quiet. To embrace the noise. To cuddle with the dog. To hold a baby. To pray with someone. To pray and give thanks. THESE are my sabbaticals now. I wish for my daughter, Jen, and my nephews, and the young men and women raising children that the merry go round of life, and the activities, and the pressure of the world we live in, could stop, that they would make it stop, for a short time, and take their own sabbatical. That in doing so, they won't have to wait until they cannot make it another step to seek help, that they won't have to become ill and continually torn before they slow down, that they won't find that emotional pain takes over and consumes them before they stop to take a bubble bath, or read a book of prayer, or of inspiration.

I suppose we have to learn about balance and life in our own time, that it comes to us when we are most ready and when God's nudge tells us to put ourselves first, and in doing so, we can be most helpful to others. We have the right to say NO, I'm stepping back, I'm closing the doors of life, and doing what is best for me. We have the privilege of communicating to others that this is not a good time for me, or that event is not healthy for me right now, or that I must take care of myself and my loved ones before I take you up on that opportunity. We must have the courage and the wherewithal to take our own sabbatical. Sure, work must be done. We have jobs to go to, bills to pay, and for someone retired it might be easy to say and think all of this. But it isn't about that, it's about the here and now. It's about learning to heed the signs when it is OUR time, no one else's. We have the control, I only wish I had used it much earlier, when a half hour out of my day seemed like it couldn't be done. But I found time to do all the other things, take care of the children, husband, cook, clean, study, teach, watch the neighbors children, attend all of the girls' activities, be a Girl Scout leader, Sunday School teacher, sister, daughter, friend, and social diva! What I don't think I did enough was give myself the sabbaticals needed, but now, thank you God, thank you Allison, thank you Michael, I have learned a hard lesson.

I need my sabbaticals and I don't mean in the form of trips or anything that costs money. In doing so, I find my balance, my center, my purpose, my strength, my core, and my way to keep living. I won't look back with any regret, but I will continue to spread the message within to those I love and hold dear, take that sabbatical, it will be well worth it.

Looking For God

2011-06-30T05:54:00.000-07:00

There is a saying, "looking for LOVE in all the wrong places", that has stuck in my head the last few days. Not sure why. I think I heard the song on the radio recently. Anyway, as I go about my day, each one, and I ask God to be a part of it, invite Him, sometimes even beg and plead to help me see Him in all of this...in the day of a life, so to speak, I look for Him. And I ask Him to let me see Him clearly. When the pain of loss is so wrenching, when the news of the day from friends and acquaintances, let alone a nation, can tear my heart out, I just ask Him to help me focus and be one with Him. And what I am so pleased to know, is, He never lets me down. But He has me working...oh, does He have me working.

It's not easy to see where He fits in the puzzle, at times. At other times, it is that very God-like moment that I know He is carrying me, protecting me, giving me gifts that I am sure I do not even deserve. Michael used to ask me how I could think like that when my daughter was here one minute, gone in eleven weeks, leaving parents, sister, cousins, friends, family, all here to try to live on, live strong. He also questioned "why" when by his standards, Michael's that is, WE were good people?! Michael came to know, through his own journey, that it does not ultimately come down to how many good deeds, doesn't factor in what WE think of ourselves, or others, that God truly knows our heart. And best of all, Michael came to realize that no religion, no politics, no opinions matter when it is your time to meet your Creator. It's between Him and you, and that all along, we are ALL looking for God.

I have looked in the eyes of a dear friend in the last day, had a heartfelt conversation, able to share some things about Allison's last days, that I have shared with only a few, this relationship built on trust for many years...it just happened, I didn't plan it, but there it was, and it was a God moment. It's a God moment that our dear Cassidy is alive and able to rehabilitate, not leaving her children, her parents, her loved ones, rather, being saved for a purpose that none of us can know. It's a God moment every morning when I have the privilege of taking Rex around the block and sniff each blade of grass while I look up and I see what I see in the formation of the clouds, knowing my daughter is in my spirit for eternity, yes, yearning for her physical presence with every fiber of my soul, but knowing she is at peace. I don't have to look too far for God to be assured of where she is, for He gave me a gift, to be with her and usher her to her heavenly home, and in doing so, giving me the sweet assurance that she is in very capable hands. God moments are everywhere, if we look, even when we are so crazy busy with LIFE, even in pain, even in our deepest sorrow, even when we cry and scream to Him to please reveal what is good about this life we live.

It was a definite God moment, I knew it then, and I know it now, when I had the "last" full and necessary conversation with Michael, July 4th, as I headed for home, leaving the family of four in tact for what I knew would be their last full week together. I knew, not only because God sent the spirit for me to know, but because He had me journey through it before, so the signs were obvious, but only to those in the know. The conversation was sweet and spiritual and blessed, and it was our last. He knew it. I knew it. He needed some assurances of his own about the people he was about to leave behind. I was able to give them, making no promise that I knew I could not keep. And he made me a promise, asking me if there was anything he could do for me. I tried to answer. The words wouldn't come. They were stuck in my throat. How could a man who was dying ask ME if there was anything HE could do...but he knew, anyway. That was a God moment that we didn't even have to go looking for...and in a whisper he told me that he would tell Allison that we are okay. The tears flowed, his, mine. That wasn't Michael talking, that wasn't me, that was a higher power and a spirit that is so strong that it cannot be denied. Walking away was the most difficult thing I ever did, but it had to be done, as his son took me to the airport and the tears flowed. I could tell no one, at the time, what had just happened, but God knew.

It was another God moment, when seventeen days later, I was back with Michael, Karen and the boys. As I arrived, there was a whisper, "are you really here", and I said yes, and in that moment, he knew, his beloved Karen would have her sister there, his sons would be there, and all would be right with the world. No, he didn't go easily, but he went in God's timing. He got to hear all of his family gathered, talking, laughing, loving, his home filled to the brim with people, just as he liked it, and when the small peninsula town was fast asleep, a blanket of fog keeping all inside, God intervened, morning broke, the sun rose, and Michael left, yet he stayed. That is God and God is good.

No, it's never easy to find God at times. Especially in the despair and devastation. But He is there, always right there. At that moment, on July 24, I left the family for a bit, went to the hammock and cried the tears that needed to come, sobbed, couldn't breathe, but I wasn't alone. I was held up, just like I have been every day since I was born, and in every trial and tribulation. I didn't have to look far for God that day. And I still don't.

So, today, when my heart is crying and the remembrances are cutting deep, I keep looking. I always will, and I will see Him. I will see Him in so many things today, in the blue eyed angel, as Ciara calls Allison, in the spunk and vitality of my physical daughter, in the love I have for my husband, brother, my sister, my boys, Matt and Joe, for Sarah, who will become the next Mrs. Powers, for so many, I will see Him in the blessings that surround me, and I will see Him when I ask to be held up, when I ask Him to carry my sister through these trying days, and when I ask Him to bless us all as we move through these weeks ahead and gather in His name to celebrate, celebrate a life, many lives, many memories,

I pray I am looking for God, and looking in all the RIGHT places.

The Oxygen Mask

2011-06-26T08:29:00.000-07:00

Through it all, the pain, the grief, the loss, the devastation, I learned something very quickly, and still learn every single day, no one is going to know how to take care of me, like me. It became painfully clear when I needed more time off from work to begin to process the shock waves that were rippling through my body, soul, mind, and heart, that the "world" wasn't quite ready for that. The "Kathy" that they knew before, who dedicated herself to everything and everybody for over 25 years, was now stepping back to take care of herself first. Later, much later, one of my life healers who I sought out, and still do, shared with me that there is a reason that we as parents are asked to put the oxygen mask on first in case of emergency when flying on the airplane. That is so we can take care of ourselves, first, then take care of the needs of our children. In a way, that is what I have found myself doing since Allison's passing, taking care of me, first, so that I can nourish the soul and just get up, live the day, possibly get some sleep, not dream, not hold nightmares to mean something, breathe, get through the milestones, wake up through the tears that feel as though they consume me in the night, make the meals, host the family functions, take the trips, be a mother, wife, sister, friend, and neighbor. I am learning to put the oxygen mask on myself, first.

When I first did that, it was surprising to many, as I have said. It was even surprising to me! I had not done that to the capacity in which I needed to, just to survive, just to live. I didn't really know how to go about it. So, I read everything in sight, became a learner, looked into my own soul, grappled with the loss, and still do...I soaked it all in, I stepped away, away from my career, social functions, weddings, graduations, and yes, in the process, have "lost" some friends and acquaintances along the way. Those friends and acquaintances that cannot understand and cannot help but make it personal, those I meet in the store, or run into along the way, that turn their eyes, and move along as if they didn't see me. No, it's not my imagination. It has happened. And I am "okay" with it. At least now, almost five years into this journey. Many have their opinions, still do, over why I "left them", whether it was from school, parties, phone calls, important family functions. I would like to scream out that it is not intentional, it is where I am, I have to be selective, pick and choose, and sometimes, just getting up, walking the dog, cleaning the house, or shopping is all I can do, for that day, for that moment, still, and maybe always.

The "oxygen mask" must be put on...It must take precedence over all things. It has to be a big one, though, for in grief, the many layers have to be peeled off, attended to, massaged, cared for, and loved. If I have no oxygen, I have nothing to give. And when the life, air that I breathe, partial reason for existence was stripped away, I had to learn, all over again, how to give myself sustenance. I find ways to do that. Today, on the Grieving Mothers Facebook page, I read a passage that means a lot to me, and I wish that I could turn the hands of time back a bit, and take care of ME sooner. But it's not too late for me to help spread the word to others, to my daughter, husband, sister, now in her own grief walk, nephews and niece, young mothers, friends and their children, the list goes on and on. For when we give ourselves the nourishment of oxygen we need, it is then that we can get through the madness, the crisis, the pain, the loss, all the challenges that come with life. We don't really need such "nourishment" when things are going well, but one day, when it all caves in, and it will, we need to know that we know how to reach for the oxygen. No one else can apply the mask, give us air, or sustain us.
We have to find our way, and thankfully, for me, I have a variety of ways that I can center myself and keep on breathing, keep on living, keep on giving.

Closing, and comprehending, and listening, and being aware of what I read, I will share this from the site I mentioned, for me, when I find my way, yes, even in my deepest grief, to apply to my own life, one of these, two of them, all of them, I am applying the oxygen mask.

Take time to think, it is the source of power.
Take time to read, it is the foundation of wisdom.
Take time to be quiet, it is the moment to seek God.
Take time to laugh, it is the music of the soul.
Take time to be friendly, it is the road to happiness.
Take time to love and be loved, it is God's greatest gift.
Take time to pray, it is the greatest power on earth.

All In A Day

2011-06-17T05:16:00.000-07:00

Funny how a day can make things different, a moment really. But this morning, in my morning devotion time, that quiet reflection time that I must have to find my center, ask God for the strength and peace to face not only this day, but all the days of my life, this month choosing to read about strong women in the Bible, because I feel weak and minuscule, vulnerable and sad, and I have come to learn that all in a day, life holds much. And for all of it, I need strength. And that strength comes from only one source. God above.

All In A Day...look what happens. The good, the bad, and the ugly! I was talking with Jen last evening and she was sharing the "annoyances" of life, just those little irritating things that do add up, from the bank deposit mix up, to hitting and killing a raccoon late at night on the road, which really upset her, of course, to the early morning gushing of water gushing in the bathroom that had the potential to flood, had it not been right over the tub (again, always something to be thankful for...)!!The little irritants of life! They really mean nothing, but they can often be the "straw that breaks the camel's back". We can shake our fist, curse, yell, or even cry when these things happen, and all of that only represents what is really deep down inside, the emotions, the pain, the loss, the frustrations, all that binds that we don't take care of along the way.

All In A Day...along with what life hands us, and where life takes us, for me, if I don't stop, reflect, read, write, pray, listen to music, get a massage, put my feet up, drink a large glass of water, use my aromatherapy oils or sprays, get in "tuned" with what God wants from me, I cannot cope. I cannot cope, or handle, what comes my way. This is why I have always been so thankful I knew God so well when Allison was diagnosed. What would I have done, we had done? How would we have made it through, but more importantly, how would SHE have, without God as her guide?

All In A Day...we receive news that is difficult to bear, in the blink of an eye, the phone rings and life changes forever, that moment in time stands still, and things are never to be the same. We also receive those calls, like the one I did from my nephew when he asked Sarah to marry him, or when my daughter received the job she desired, or when someone calls to say another grandchild is on the way, and so many other "good news" calls. It's not all bad. But it's the "bad" news that we must be prepared for, in our heart and in our soul. Life is good. Life is meant to be lived. We live it and one day it becomes our turn to leave this world, for the next. We might be 21 years old like Allison, 52 years old like Michael, 62 like my mother, two days shy of 30, like Kate's cousin, a few days, like Faith and Clare and Lilly, and so many other babies. We make our mark, God grants us the opportunity to live and make choices, and then, this world, as we know it, ends, and the next one, the REAL life, the eternal life, begins. All in a day, life keeps swirling and the world keeps turning.

All In A Day...these thoughts are whirling today, for I need no calendar to know, that just a year ago, I packed and prepared for the call of that day, when my sister had shared some news about the cancer invading her husband's body. I had come to understand terms and medications and the path from experience with Allison, thus, I headed out to visit, while I had the time, and more importantly, while Michael had the time. We had a wonderful visit, extended once again, until the spirit let me know it was time to go. Time to leave the family of four together for what would become a week of opportunity. I left on July 4, and not before having several talks with Michael, not before hearing from him what his deepest thoughts were, and not before knowing it would be the last time I would have that chance. I thank God above for that time and the resources He has afforded me to be there, for a loving husband who never asks WHY and for friends, neighbors and family who rushed in to help make it happen by taking care of Rex or making meals for Joe. It's all coming back to me. I don't necessarily wish it were so, it's just here, perhaps because my heart is heavy on Father's Day weekend, perhaps because it is summer and I miss my girl, and I miss him, and I feel my sister's pain, and I pray for the boys to get through this weekend with as much honor and dignity and love for their father as is possible in their loss.

All In A Day...I had the beautiful chance to say good-bye. How blessed. Good-bye to Michael, good-bye to Allison, Mom, Dad. We never know when it is our turn to say good-bye. It may be when we get in the car, or an airplane, or just move room to room. The stories come soaring in of loved ones lost. So, why is it that we don't change or we "assume" we will see each other again? What has to happen before we realize that life is fragile, precious, and to be treated like a china doll? Anything can happen, all in a day. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Some of us hold experiences in our hearts that make us look at every day differently. We learn the lessons, or we try to, anyway. We look around and understand and see clearly what God intends. But, in the next minute, we don't get it, and we ask God, why? That's life. That's how it's supposed to be. God understands. And He has given us this day to live and figure it out.

Our Father, who art in Heaven...Hallowed be Thy Name...Thy Kingdom Come, Thy Will be Done...Give us This Day.....Thank you, Father, for giving me this day. Pain or no pain, loss or no loss, I will do my best to seize it and make it pleasing to you.

Summertime...and the Living is NOT so Easy....

2011-06-13T07:32:00.001-07:00

There is that saying...Summertime, and the living is easy. Summertime. It's here. I hardly know it, not just because we went right from heat to air conditioning on the thermostat, not because I barely have a concept of time any longer, not because I have very little awareness of the changing seasons, but because, in grief, the numbness keeps me from knowing. It's just the way it is, days turn to weeks, into months, and I have little knowledge that I have ripped another page from the calendar. I remember certain milestones, and make certain of sending cards. I/We receive invitations and honestly, I can barely remember if I sent a gift or a card or an acknowledgment. I don't really need to write things down because I won't follow the list. What I do follow, is my spirit, and if that were to fail me, I don't know where I would be.

I wonder if anyone would understand that I often have to ask myself questions like, Did Mother's Day come and go? Did we celebrate the birthdays yet? What part of the year is it and are we really mid-way through June? Did I really just return from an Alaskan voyage and did I really see my sister last month when it feels like a lifetime ago? Am I living in a fog or am I present?

But here we are, summertime, and the living is easy, so they say. Summertime. 2011. Summertime and so many memories that bring smiles....and so many that bring pain. Of course, I try to stay focused on the ones that bring smiles, the trips to Hull, the vacations, the time off from teaching when there was nothing like a summer day whether the girls were little or grown, the time when leisure truly meant leisure and the days at the pool with all the friends were how we chose to while away the day! Summertime and the living was easy. We just didn't know it. Summertime. The time that still starts with three birthdays in our immediate family, blended into five by July and so many celebrations in between. Summertime. That time that really belonged to Michael and Allison, we knew it then, and we know it now. Summertime. When the hammock was put up by Michael for her, for him, but really for her visit. When their pool was put up for the neighbors and anyone who stopped by, when he would hang by the fence and forget the chore he came out to do, but rather, stand in the yard, sit on the swing, hang on the gate, and talk the time away. When the visits to Hull were all we talked about and planned for, when we would arrive and the deck would be filled with boys in ten minutes because the Powers' cousins had arrived. Michael began his worry that girls were in the house for a week, a month, or a whole summer. Summertime. When SHE asked HIM if she could stay if she got a job, and he said yes, and she had one in 20 minutes, thanks to Matt taking her over to the camp. HER life was changed forever, and so was HIS.

Summertime and the living is easy....has in many senses, become, summertime, and the living is NOT so easy. It's not so easy because we never knew just how painful memories can be, how much emotional fatigue it takes to pack the bags and the summer boxes without them, how much emotional energy it takes to make a meal, to plan, to organize, to shop, to put up the hammock, for Karen to figure out how to "open" a pool, for us to once again visit "heaven on earth" without her, to put our toes in the sand and remember the images of HIM burying HER in the sand, HIM taking all the children to the beach and making memories for all of them, for HER to come so alive, OR relaxed in the place she loved best. While thankful and blessed for the memories, the pain associated with their absence has blended into one at times. Not really separate now, because summer came, and went, and HE was gone. Summertime. The time, so appropriate really, when the good Lord took Michael home, to his resting place, to meet his beloved Allison, whose hands were reached out all the way. Summertime. A foggy morning when a town was asleep, not a sound could be heard, until the sun came out, and the whispers began. Michael is gone. Gone from us. Gone from our town. But asleep with Jesus and alive with his loved ones.

Summertime. It takes on all sorts of new horizons, images, feelings, memories, joys and pain. The pain of losing him, her, Michael, Allison, is setting in. We all feel it. We don't need the calendar. We just know what we know. And even when we are confused by it, our soul knows. We have to dig deep and ask God what is this all about. Why am I on the verge of tears? Why am I dreaming and having fitful nights? Why am I/we reliving something that doesn't need to be relived? Why does my mind take so long to catch up to my soul? Why can't I let the images go? And God whispers back, that it's all part of the process. We are right where He wants us. We are right where we are supposed to be. And so are they. Allison and Michael. At rest. No more cancer. No more worries. Only true peace. The kind that comes when we know God has the answers, the master plan, the course already mapped out. If only we can stay focused on that when the pain comes, when the seasons change, and when the summer comes, and the living is not so easy.

The Numbness...The Pain

2011-05-16T06:51:00.000-07:00

I have felt physically and emotionally numb since Allison passed away. Oh sure, to see me laugh, to see me cry, to see me walk the dog, respond in "normal" fashion to every day experiences, one may think that I am the same, or better, or healing, or improving. And, I suppose, in many ways, I am all of the above. I move. I live, I respond, I plant, I decorate, I cook, I visit others, I pray, I smile through the pain, I attend gatherings when I can, I find myself through many healing modalities, I listen to new types of music, I go shopping, I occasionally go out for lunch or dinner, I do a little socializing, I entertain, I drive, I fly, I travel. But what I FEEL is another story.

I have had cause to evaluate what I FEEL lately...from the numbness to the pain. I didn't know I was numb, at first. I just knew nothing, other than the maternal instincts for my oldest daughter, could make me FEEL a thing. In the early months, and even years, I would literally pinch myself, just in an effort to FEEL. I would ask God if I would ever respond again, the way I used to, to touch, to smells, to tastes, to just about anything involving the senses. But mostly, to pain. I just couldn't FEEL anything. I even recall going to the dentist, and may have even written about that, thinking, okay, now I will FEEL something again. But it didn't really happen. I knew then, no novacaine needed. I am numb. I am anesthetized for the time being, maybe for a short while, maybe for a long while, maybe for life.

In time, I began to notice twinges, but my heartstrings ruled. No sign or symptom of pain could overshadow the hole in my heart, and no pain could be trumped by the pain I witnessed my cancer ridden daughter in...the images, the crying, the moaning, yet, never complaining, trying to put on that bright and happy smile and persona became her mantra...perhaps that is why it is mine, now, also, maybe always was, and now, I know, it always will be. I saw more than any mother should see, but not more than many do. I just didn't know what it could do for my past, my present, and my future, when it came to the numbness, and when it comes to pain.

I have found myself in full blown pneumonia, hospital ridden, and lately, "battling" sinusitis, a chronic condition I have no doubt had for years and years. Impending surgery awaits, and I have a chance of feeling "good" again. I must admit I have felt this pain. But even still, not until it was beyond treatable with your basic antibiotics. I let the pain go and go, as I usually do, feeling little, knowing it's there, but feeling numb to it.

I need to be able to feel again, in many senses. I pray to feel again. Then when I do, I don't want to...am I ever going to be "satisfied" in this life I live without my youngest child? Am I ever going to FEEL the same senses that once were part of my so called normal existence? Or will I remain NUMB and find myself on the brink of hospitalizations, surgeries, or worse fated illnesses? I am praying for direction. I am praying to all that is good and bountiful to help me to know what is REAL, what is the distinction between what I must attend to, and what memory holds on to, to know the difference between real pain and this numbness that has become my inner and outer core.

The numbness, the pain...all blended into one, giving me something else to sort through, to tell myself that because I know what I know, saw what I saw, watched as my daughter, woman to the world, baby girl to me, battled with dignity, strength, courage and everlasting hope, that it is okay to tend to the things that ache, twinge, seep, shock, induce pain, for in doing so, I may learn the difference....between the numbness and the pain.

Do I Lie?

2011-05-04T14:37:00.000-07:00

I have read this poem before, and each time, something different speaks to me...wherever I am in this process of grief, healing, journeys, "new normals", phases or stages, there is something I hear in the words that resonates well. I think it struck me this morning, when I read it on the Compassionate Friends Facebook Page, posted perhaps, in timing with Mother's Day. It struck me because just this week, as I have worked extra hard to work through the tears and the memories, the pain of loss, and the new realities that come with it, now, and probably forever, I found myself saying I was "fine" to a few people who have asked. Of course, the checker at the grocery store wouldn't want any other answer, nor would the neighbor who I chatted with while we walked our dogs, nor would a friend who called to ask my assistance in something monumental in her life, nor would just about anyone. Out of courtesy, we ask, "How are you", and we all reply, "fine".

I am really not fine. But even if I could, I don't have ways to describe how I am, so "fine" will do, just as good as anything else! I'm "fine", has become my mantra. It stands for, "I have found some moments of calmness today", "I got through another holiday without my daughter here", "I had to lie in her bed to cry myself to sleep", "I don't know why I keep thinking the phone will ring at 6:00 and it will be her", "I'm working diligently, day by day, in all ways to appreciate life and count my blessings", it stands for, "I'm tired of this", and "when will it be over"...It stands for the dreams and the nightmares, the despair of a future torn apart, and a shift in my existence. It stands for hope, and it stands for faith, and it stands for love. I am fine. Just fine.

This poem is dedicated to so many mothers I know who will find their own way through Mother's Day, even with the joys, the blessing of other children, family, friends, presents and sunshine, there will be that special place in our heart for that child, the one who left us too soon. This is for all of you, and the fathers too, for surely, they find themselves often saying, "I'm fine".

Ask My Mom How She Is-Author Unknown

My mom, she tells a lot of lies,
she never did before,
but from now until she dies, she'll
tell a whole lot more.

Ask my mom how she is and
because she can't explain,
she will tell a little white lie because she
can't describe the pain.

Ask my mom how she is, she
seems to cope so well,
she doesn't have a choice you
see nor the strength to yell.

Ask my mom how she is, "I'm
fine, I'm well, I'm coping."
For God's sake mom, just tell the
truth, just say your heart is broken.

She'll love me all her life, I loved
her all of mine.
But if you ask her how she is,
she'll lie and say she's fine.

I am here in heaven, I cannot hug from here,
If she lies to you don't listen,
hug her and hold her dear.

On the day we meet again, I'll smile and I'll be bold,
I'll say, "You're lucky to get in here, MOM,
with all the lies you told!

The last line, Allison, sounds just like what you would say! I'm fine, my sweet, I'm fine.

Aftermath

2011-05-02T06:10:00.000-07:00

The aftermath is something we all face when loss occurs, pain, sorrow, destruction, suffering, and illness. It is during the aftermath that our reality sets in and we must "pick up the pieces" and move. Move any which way, forward, backward, sideways, just move, as we stagger through our personal trial.

I am still learning about the aftermath. Who isn't, really? After all, even though I can feel completely alone in my journey as a mother who has buried her child, I am not. Many more mothers join this inner circle each and every day. Every time we see a soldier dying, there is a mother grieving. Every day more and more young children and adults are diagnosed with a disease that takes our children from us far too soon, and there is another mother grieving. Every day a baby is born and that mother doesn't get to take him or her home. Fathers, too, of course, but I cannot write from the perspective of the father, only the mother. Sure, I can write from the perspective of a couple married for 29 years when their youngest has passed in their arms, the selection of the grave site memorial, the visits to the cemetery, the life in general, and the aftermath. Oh, indeed, every aspect of life holds an aftermath now. I surely knew it before, but not in this way. I had not been shattered in this manner. I honestly believe that had every bone in my body broken apart, and I had to recuperate, that the pain could not be worse. I may be wrong, or someone who does sit in a body cast may beg to differ, but it is how I feel. No matter, we each have our own aftermath to deal with and we find our way. No one sees it on our faces, there is no sign, no image, no outward message that states what is going on in the inside, or what we just dealt with, or what phone call we just received and with what kind of news. Life goes on, regardless, and the aftermath continues.

I could speak of grief aftermath for pages and pages. It is part of life. And how we respond to it, just as how we respond to the loss, makes all the difference in the world. As we see the news and watch the tsunamis and tornadoes, one hitting right in our own back yard, so to speak, it isn't the moment, or even the day, that I think of, it is the aftermath. It is in the days and weeks to come that I pray others will still be there, helping, offering, bringing items, and replenishing resources. It is down the road when the shock wears off and the folks impacted have a moment to sit and realize what has happened, that I hope someone will sit with them and let them talk or cry, and not make it about them! Just listen and BE with that person. The aftermath is when we need each other the most.

The destruction taking place all over the world is profound and impacting. I ask myself at times, why would I think I am immune from this? Why would I think other mothers must face the fact that they will not see their daughter or son again? Why would I believe that my "perfect" world would, and could, continue, without pain and strife? Why do we seem so shocked and surprised when others die, or houses are destroyed, life is mangled and taken by fellow man, why are we surprised when it hits so close to home? God shares with us that suffering is part of life, and that with His love and grace, we can sustain. I believe that to be true. I am sustaining. And I know full well that without the grace of God I would not be standing. I have begged, pleaded, screamed, cried and been brought to my knees in ways I never thought possible. Is that what He wants from me? To be totally dependent on Him? Again, I believe that yes, He does, for without Him there is no way to move and find our way through the aftermath of loss.

Loss takes on new meaning every day. From my vantage point, I believe that as long as there is life, we can find our way. Others, who have lost every shred of paper or belonging, may not necessarily agree with me. Yet, over and over again, so many people impacted by the recent tornadoes, who have to rebuild from the ground up, have been interviewed and I hear them thank God for life. That is how I do it, too. I thank God for life. Do I wish I could turn the clock back and have this all be a very bad dream? Of course. Do I ponder, still, in my own shock and aftermath, how this became my life? Of course. But I pick up, and no, I don't know the same loss as others, but this is mine. I have my house. I do not have my youngest daughter to share it with. I have my family, a family still learning how to adjust to being a family of three, and not four. I have this day,I have my life, and I am learning how to maneuver it all with a hole in my soul, a hollowness that cannot be filled, no matter how hard I try. Still, I am grateful and appreciative and I no longer have time for foolishness. Real life things change a person. Ask a tornado victim if they are too worried about the things people complain about! Ask a mother who will visit her child's grave this week if she is concerned about the complaining and griping they do about workplaces and neighbors! I know, I know, it's important to them at the time, and they are not in the aftermath. Not yet.

The aftermath is when we need to be there for others. Long after the funerals, the pieces and debris of our lives have been picked up, and long after it seems as though life has returned to "normal" for others. When reality sets in and life must be lived, the aftermath is what we live through. Helping one another through the aftermath of their life is one way we can serve, and in the process, we cannot help but heal ourselves.

First Steps

2011-04-25T06:44:00.001-07:00

As many people gathered around their holiday tables, Easter or Passover, traditions were in place, some in the form of the type of gathering itself, by the people around the table, by the china or the stemware passed on from generation to generation, some in the form of selected, special dishes served, after all, what is a family gathering without the presence of the Easter ham, or the augratin potatoes, or the green bean casserole, or the jello salads, or the desserts that Grandma used to make?! The plans, the grocery shopping, the preparations, all spark tradition, and in doing so, in loss, can also ignite pain. Emotional pain. Or physical pain, caused from the emotional pain. A hole in one's heart that seems it can never be filled. Loss. Yet life. That is how I have to look at it, to keep going, and to take those steps.

The first steps seem so difficult, but for me, the steps get a bit more difficult, weary, sluggish. I asked Joe, yesterday, through the preparations and tears that flowed, when he thought it might get a bit easier. He said it may never, but we will keep going, and trying, and doing, and taking steps. That was my comfort in that moment when the tears wouldn't stop and my body wanted to stop. And I thought back. Back to a time when the grief and loss, my first real significant experience, of my mother, was more than I thought I could bear. But, I did, and still do, and when I think of her when I prepare for special occasions, that pain of ache is not quite the same, and a smile can fill my heart as I make my way. Then of course, another significant loss, my father, who "endured" the holidays and showed us how to take the steps after our mother was gone. Now, my daughter, my child, my balance, my rock, my strength. She is gone, and nothing has ever seemed the same.

I have, and will, always, take the steps. I would almost give anything to turn back the clock and be in the "first step" phase, the steps when you really do not know how to turn, how to persevere, the time when God bears down and gives His unending grace and holds you up. The time when the new reality hasn't quite set in, and the numbness and shock keep you standing. The time when I never fully realized that Allison is not coming back. Now, I do. And those steps must continue to be taken.

Loss and grief over the missing loved ones will always be part of life. It's just the way it is...and loss and grief comes to mind, in gut wrenching ways, as we have seen, almost firsthand, how our community has lost. Lost items, property, entire homes, from this devastating tornado pattern in St. Louis. How to rebuild? How to start taking those steps when people we personally know do not have a shred of paper left, who are filtering through debris many blocks and miles away in hopes of finding a snapshot, a momento, a piece of the way life was, before life as they knew it no longer exists? How to start taking the steps?

The steps are going to be many, long and difficult and challenging. Emotional and relentless. But it's the first steps that will lead to the bigger ones, and on and on, and yes, when reality sets in, and some of the shock wears off, these people will find their blessings, too. They already have begun to realize that no one has perished, and this tornado taught the true meaning of family and neighbors and community. They are in high need of everything. Today and always. It's not what is going to take place today that will matter, it's what, and who, will be there for them when others seem to have forgotten. Even this weekend, most of us went along with our plans for our holiday, because we needed to and should. What was to be gained from changing plans, even when our hearts weren't in it? What could we really do that would make a difference? We each found our way, whether through prayer of thanksgiving that our houses were in tact, more importantly, our lives. We found our way, whether through making donations or physically taking items to the centers. Yes, our lives were touched, deeply, but the Easter egg hunts went on, and the families gathered, and the meals were prepared. We counted our blessings in the face of yet another disaster. And we, each in our own unique situations, took the steps, maybe the "first steps", maybe we are walking a path that is ours for the rest of this lifetime, but whatever our story is, we took the steps. And that is the important thing.

We will take steps with our community, with our loved ones, with our neighbors, through the tornadoes of life. Nothing seems more devastating right now than the intensity of loss, and there but for the grace of God go I...but they, and we, will rebuild, and we will take those first steps, and another, and another, until we find our path.

At Most

2011-04-21T11:01:00.000-07:00

I am changing my "at leasts" to "at mosts", partially because it makes sense to me, partially because I am so grateful for the fullness that DOES exist in my life, partially because the "at leasts" indicate a minimum to me, especially as I wrote, and reflected, on my past entry. I do not really know what I will write when I sit down with my thoughts, intuition, soul searching ways. It just pours out and I don't even know if it makes sense. I rarely read the entries. I don't even know why I am writing, except that it is my therapy, my release, my way of taking those steps of healing that I am learning so much about. However, I DID choose to read the "at least" entry, mostly because I hear those words a lot. I ponder them. I count them as gratitudes. But the "at leasts" sound like the exception, the things I will "settle" for because something else is lacking, someone is missing, many people are missing. The whole in my heart stands for my child, but the layers of grief are piling up with each passing day. Layer upon layer, news of the day, filled with pain and sorrow, devastation and destruction, loss and angst. So what to do? For me, turn the "at leasts" into the "at mosts".

But, for this moment, this dawning of Easter weekend, and the significance, the beauty, the story, the promise, the onset of something bigger and better in one's life, I have chosen to focus on the "at mosts" in my life. I am turning the minimum into the maximum. That doesn't come easily, at times. It has taken me many twists and turns to remove the "at leasts", which for years, have sustained me, and turn them into "at mosts".

Some "At Mosts" that I am thankful for at this moment in time....a vibrant, loving daughter, a husband who has a routine and commitment to family that nothing, not even the devastation over losing his youngest child, can shake, a sister who I can express myself to without fear of judgment, daily walks with my beloved Rex, the pink corner of my deck, complete with incredible blooming plant and angel wind chime, the strength to make my way to the grocery store to purchase food for Easter dinner, the ability to even host Easter dinner, an intuitive spirit that just knows what needs to be done, the gift of time and retirement, the ability to never complain about any situation, resources to give to charity, a cozy couch that welcomes the afternoon sun, a rainy day to clean a closet or read a book, seeing eyes to read that book, hands that can shape, mold, hold and create, ability to move on my own, memories of Allison's 21 years that sustain me through moments when I cannot breathe, smiles of the heart over what Michael would say to me, or how he would make a comment about everything, answers to prayers, and the trust that goes with waiting for answers to be revealed, memories of two little girls growing up in our own Easter traditions, filling a house with a palette that is pleasing, and filling that house with light and love, endless messages from Allison as she helps me appreciate the day, and scriptures from God that help me know that where I am, at any given time, is only temporal.

I wonder how long I could type and feel such overwhelming gratitude of the heart. I know I could choose to focus on the pain, the loss, and some days I do just that. I cry. I pound. I beg God to help me. I ask Him to show me how to do this. I ask Him when the numbness will go away so that I can feel again? Feel, as in the physical sense. I do all the things that grief causes me to do. But I know, "at least" for the moment, some moments, anyway, I can focus on the "at mosts" and be just okay.

At Least....

2011-04-12T06:03:00.000-07:00

How many times a day, or a lifetime, do I find myself saying..."at least"...or have heard it from my children, my family, my friends, and even my neighbors. At Least. It holds so much in those two little words. More, now. More, forever. And what do those words really say? Do they say, this is a blessing in comparison to what could have been, this is a favor, this is the so called up side?! Do they tell me I am left with a better choice, a stronger outcome, a more pleasing palette? Hmmmm....why contemplate it, why even think about it? I don't know, I think about a lot of things that I never would have before. I don't dwell, it just comes to me, in conversations, in writings, in reading, in reflection, in remembering.

Again, a conversation with my sweet sister, prompted us talking about our circumstances. I love how we can be honest. I can ask her if she has ever thought of something, and she will respond, or she can ask me, and I can be honest, and while we might tread lightly for a minute because we are both so fragile and don't want to even begin to assume we know what the other one is walking through, we ultimately get to the core. Like last night. We talked about our losses, a bit, and the way our immediate families have been redefined, the ones that were families of four, now shifting to three. Yes, shifting. We are not used to it. I don't know if we ever will be...We talked about the joy of those who we DO have life to share with, now. And I think we were both envisioning one another's life, her going home to the emptiness tears at my heart strings every single day. And Joe and I, knowing that one daughter will never join the family celebration rips apart her already grieving heart. But here come the "at least" moments...and they are not meant to be a substitute, but through this pain, "at least" I have Joe, Jennifer, and she has Matt and Joe and beautiful Sarah. At Least. To me that sounds minimizing. I don't even know if I should use the term, but sometimes I do. And so do others. When they do, I don't like the sound of the words, but I am beginning to understand that it is what we think, at times, some of us, in certain situations. "At least you have another child", they will say. "At least you can remarry if you choose," they will tell my sister. As if the "at least" makes those so called realities any better. The "at leasts" of life really do exist. I prefer to call them the blessings, not the at leasts!

I am brought back to many times when I have heard "at least" from my daughters. One time in particular was when Allison asked to go with a group of friends to Mexico for spring break, with the answer of course, being a very firm NO. But we had a plan, for our 25th wedding anniversary, we were going to take the girls to Hawaii, and as a "substitute" for the friend trip, we shared our plans. She really did not argue much with our emphatic NO to begin with, but when learning of Hawaii, she announced, "well, at least I get to go someplace". SOMEPLACE?? This was Hawaii we were talking about!!!! So at the very least, she had a trip of a lifetime, even her sister and her would agree!

At Least. It came back to us in more serious fashion with a cancer diagnosis. At least it's a treatable cancer. At least it's not spreading. At least it's not going to take her life. Until, of course, it was all of those. Then it became, at least I can still swallow and eat. At least it's not tongue cancer. At least it's not causing me to be incapacitated. At least I can still walk. At least I can still talk. At Least. There was always an at least. There was always a blessing, a reason to be hopeful and positive. There is always that "up side" where we know that for the grace of God go I...and the "at leasts" seem more like gifts in the making.

As our circumstances change, so go the "at leasts". They must. Allison left us that legacy, too. There was always an "at least". And there always will be. I am choosing not to look at them any longer as the diminishing and sometimes even ONLY option, but, rather, to think of her, and Michael, and all of us, and hear the words, and know they aren't degrading, they are hopeful. They don't really mean "at least" at all, they mean so much more.

Resources

2011-04-06T07:01:00.000-07:00

Another deep conversation with my beloved sister prompted me to verbalize what is inside my heart about how to walk, ride, travel this journey we both seem to be encompassed by, that is, the journey of grief. Loss is a part of life. We know this. All of us do. We cannot help but look around and know it, and then when it is ours to bear, it becomes all too real and personal. But in that loss, we learn more about life than we ever imagined. I am thankful to have her to talk with, and say things out loud with, and be together in this stage of our being. I am NOT thankful that she has to go through this, that I do, that Jennifer or Joe does, that my nephews do, that anyone else does...but, as the saying goes, that is life. That sounds flippant, even in my reality. And I don't mean it to be, I hope not to be flippant, but I do believe I am a realist. Especially now that I am understanding and "realizing" this is my life, for better or worse, it is mine to own and mine to bear and mine to live. And I don't say that easily. I say that with the scars of the battle, the pit in my stomach that has not eased, the pain in my heart that feels like it cries in unending fashion, and in wonderment of how to keep my mind and soul in sync.

It has become apparent to me that it is the resources that I choose to use that keeps me upright, keep me keeping on as I like to say, keep me grounded and soulful. I was determined to live when Allison passed away in my arms, but I didn't know how to do that. I still don't, I am the perpetual learner. But I use my resources and listen to my spirit. In the process of doing so, it seems I have offended some. I don't willingly accept invitations. I do not commit to many things far in advance. I can not spend time with people who drain my already depleted energy supply. I can not listen to complaints or griping, even if I may have been one of those people, before. (I hope I wasn't, but truth be known, I am sure I vented about life.) I can not socialize in big groups or in the homes of some, the pain is too great. I can not listen to endless chatter about things that are seemingly surface talk, and I can not surround myself with those "all about me" people any longer. So many things I just can NOT do. And in the process of taking care of ME and the emotional toll it takes to face another day, month, year, holiday, birthday, some folks just don't understand. And I am learning, that is okay. I still love them, they love me, but the energy has shifted, my world has, even if there's has not, and I remind myself that perhaps we were brought together for a reason, and not a season. As Jen and I talked yesterday, everyone we meet has a purpose under heaven, and it might be for a day, a short relationship, a long time, years, or one chance meeting. It has become liberating for us to know, and accept that.

But back to my resources...yes, people are one of them. So many people who I could turn to, or call, or spend time with, and that has been a blessing. Other resources? Other ways to navigate this new way of living? There are many, and for each of us, they are different. I see that in the "phase" my sister is in, her boys, my daughter, my husband, my sister-in-law, friends, everyone. But my number one obligation is to myself and how to continue. And, continue, I must. Not just because I promised Allie, God, but because I am still a mother, wife, sister, aunt, friend, but most of all, I am ME. And my way has become MY WAY.

I choose my resources as I need them. First and foremost, and always, for ME, God is my ultimate resource. The Lord above who is the Creator of all things good, not bad, not cancer, not death, not accidents, not despair. For who knew more about pain and loss than He possibly could, watching and knowing His own beloved Son would be crucified and die on the cross. So, I turn to Him, continually, and pray that my heart is right, that I do not just give lip service to Him, the Almighty, but that I come to know Him in the ways He would desire. When I falter, I ask forgiveness, when I need to know Him better, I ask Him into my heart and soul, and I read His word, and try to comprehend it, or take into the context of my own life. I ask Him for answers, and when they don't seem to come, I learn about faith and how to cling to His coatails and hold on until they surface. God is my resource above all others. And He provides others. I find resources in the quiet solitude of my house, my deck, in the sounds of the birds, or the chimes, or on my walk out to touch the memorial tree, or in the early morning walks with Rex, in the sound of my daughter's voice, in the precious moments shared with her, in the companionship of my husband, even when neither of us can speak, or touch. I find those resources in the music I choose to listen to, in the melodies, in the sounds, in the lyrics. I find resources in the affirmations I repeat until I believe the words, and in the healing sessions I find myself needing. I find resources in travel, or in being still. I find resources in tropical paradise, or creating my own paradise right at home. I find resources in scrapbooking or lighting candles, and I find them in the strategically placed reminders of those I love, the pinks, the greens, the turquoise and the oranges. I find resources in making things nice for people who visit, keeping a favorite wine or tea available, and I find them in the pleasures of positive people. I find them in creating, something new for me, whether in the kitchen or in the craft area! I find them everywhere! I find the ones that work for me. And my prayer this day is that my sister will find hers, that other grieving people will find theirs, and that, in spite of our pain, we will find a way to cope, heal, breathe, and live. Our loved ones would want it that way!

The Next Step

2011-04-03T08:14:00.001-07:00

TAKING the next step is hard enough, TRUSTING in it and holding onto faith is quite another story. I remember, with vivid detail, the moment our daughter heard the word CANCER. I remember our tears. I remember our fears. I remember our hope. I remember the faith we had, that she would be the one to BEAT this, live through it all, cope, finish her teaching degree, marry, have children. Sweet Allison even had the wherewithal to ask for her eggs to be frozen for the day this was all behind her and she would marry and want babies. Dear God, there were so many steps taken. With haste, and no time to waste, she called the shots, so to speak, turning to us, to her sister, to her doctors, for answers. But most of all, she turned to her God. And that brought us all comfort. God was not going to let us down, let her down. She took His medicine just as she did her prescribed pills, chemotherapy, and she kept taking the next step. Step by step, day by day, even hour by hour, years of a future cancer journey packed into eleven weeks, one week short of three months, and it was over. In once sense. But, as we know now, it will never be over.

Allison taught us how to take the next step. God used her to show us. Little did we know that we were never to complain again, never to really feel sorry for ourselves (except for those rare times when YES, I DO feel sorry for myself), step out on faith, never knowing what lies ahead, just doing it with the greatest of attitudes and the ambiance of grace. That's what we know to do. That's what we aspire to be, like her, through her life, mostly, but especially once the word CANCER became part of her being.

So, we take the next step. I take it. I don't know where it goes. I don't know where it will lead. It can be as scary as anything I've ever done in my life, as I walk the tightrope of unforeseen circumstances. It can be unsettling and fray my nerves, to keep going, muddle through and TRUST that I am doing what I am supposed to do. It can be as exhausting as any flu, illness, or series of sleepless nights that I have ever encountered. The next step. The step that leads to something that is designed just for me.

It's not as if Allison believed this cancer was designed especially for her. But she knew, in order to "beat" it, there were certain things that just had to be done...blood work, chemotherapy, sleepless nights, pain, fatigue, tears, and more pain. She never gave up. She never would. She took every step necessary, emotionally, physically, spiritually, psychologically that she could. And when it didn't turn out the way she believed, the way we believed and prayed and pleaded and begged, there she was, willing to take yet another step. Step out on faith and love and hope and belief. Faith and love and hope and belief that there is a God and He will provide, and faith and love and hope and belief in her family. There she was, with God and her family, at the end, as she took the next step, and that was all she needed.

I continue to take the next step. Maybe some day mine will mirror hers. I don't know. Like any of us, our future is unseen. It's up to us to take the next step, whether a baby step, or a giant step, one that sets us back, or one that spurs us on. I, too, have learned to take the next step, with faith and love and hope and belief...at least I'm trying.

Still Saying Goodbye

2011-03-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

I find myself still saying good-bye to Allison. How was I to know, that moment, when I knew the time had come, as morning broke, to say good-bye, that I would keep saying it, over and over again, now, even years later, until some day it would become real. Yes, I know in theory that this is MY reality, but it is still not real, at times. I said good-bye. I told her I loved her, and that I would see her again. She said good-bye, and the thought of that one moment in time, still brings me to places I do not know how to visit. Saying good-bye. The final good-bye. That is, until we meet again.

As I said, I am still saying good-bye. But in a sense, an unexplainable, undefinable way, I am saying hello. Maybe because it is still too painful to say good-bye. The "official" good-bye was beautiful in many ways. God showed the grace and mercy we literally begged and pleaded for, to release Allison from her pain. The mental as well as the physical. A parent can barely stand to see a child suffer, fall off of a bike, grow weary from a broken heart, lose friends, be mistreated, struggle with depression or suicidal thoughts, lose their own child, without feeling every bit of the heartache right along with them. But to see your child go through the pain and agony associated with cancer, let alone the inability to breathe, the pleading in her eyes for it to be over...well, I have no words for that. Truly, I do not. So, yes, it was "easy" to say good-bye and thank God above for hearing her, us, even the nurses and doctors. Dear God, it was so easy. Then. Then, the hard work began. Oh, the shock helps at first. It paves the way with numbness and disbelief. It shelters and it holds you till you feel like you will crack. It even protects you. It makes you stare off and not fully comprehend what has happened. Until one day it begins to fade, bit by bit, and it becomes real. I said good-bye to my precious one. And now, I have to live. How to do just that is my curious mission.

I live by saying my continuous good-byes. My good-byes turn into hellos. And how to explain that is beyond my repertoire of words. It's just something that happens, and for me, it helps me to say good-bye, yet say hello. Good-bye to her physical state, but hello to her new, spirited self that guides me and lives on in the chamber of my sometimes hollow soul. A spirit that can often show me the path to God above and bring me so much joy, just in knowing that He is there when no one else, or nothing else, could possibly be...Good-bye to that beautiful voice, the sweet sounding "mama" that she would call me, but hello to new experiences that she guides me through. Good-bye to the touch of her fingers. Good-bye to shopping trips, future plans, and hopes and dreams. But hello to endless possibilities of travel, time, understanding and reflection. Good-bye to one daughter, but hello to another who lives with a defined purpose and renewed enthusiasm for life, who encourages me to try new things, and travel new roads. Good-bye to what I believed was a chartered course of life, but hello to places yet to be discovered.

As I stood at the Grand Canyon this week, with thoughts of my father, my mother, my brother-in-law, my child, my friends' children, my friends themselves, and many others, tears poured. I miss them all. I have said good-bye to so many. I will say good-bye to more. I couldn't stop the tears from flowing, I was in awe that there I was, little ole me, standing at the Grand Canyon. I don't know how that happened! How did I happen to be available when a friend offered me the opportunity, how did I just up and pack yet again, for an unexpected journey, how did I dare say yes, when all I wanted to do was stay home, in the confines of my own home, and do what I do best. How did I say good-bye once again to a very understanding and loving husband? How did I dare say hello to a new horizon? I did it for them, for her, for me, and because God laid the opportunity right at my feet. I said good-bye to her again, from the Grand Canyon, standing in wonderment, feeling her presence in ways I have never felt before, I said good-bye as I did that morning in January, as I have on every shore and land my feet have touched since she passed, in places I had already travelled, but now visit with a new set of eyes, a new heart, a new purpose, I am still saying good-bye, and as I said good-bye, again, still, I certainly said hello.

Birthday In Heaven

2011-03-20T13:08:00.000-07:00

Allison, you had yet another birthday in heaven and that must be too beautiful for words. I must say that is how I got through this one, knowing you are being taken care of in the glorious kingdom, in heavenly peace, reunited with all the souls who dearly love you, and you, them. This birthday that has the number 26 associated with it, at least for those of us who measure in those ways. A birthday that, if you were here on earth, I may or may not have actually seen you, but a birthday when I would know you are here. Who would you be now? Where would you be? How would we have celebrated? What would we have done? Through your beautiful smile, I wonder what your eyes would tell me? Would you be happy? Would you be graduated from college and getting started on your life's plans? Would you be the same sweet, "old" soul, with the feisty attitude? I cannot help but wonder, as the song goes, who you would be now.

I have very little to say today, but I felt remiss if I didn't write for a minute, just to tell you that your family is honoring our promise. We are keeping on, and trying. Your sister is amazing, but you already know that. She has her own twists and turns in life, that have been forever altered and changed since you are gone, but she is guided by your love, and in her heart, your own heart beats. Dad and I didn't want to do it, but we honored your birthday in a way that took us out of ourselves, out of the house, into a world that we are still not often ready for, and we felt your pride, knowing we had a date and shared a concert together. We didn't speak much of you, but when we toasted, and words didn't come, only tears springing to our eyes, we both knew why we were out and about. For you. For your sister. For ourselves.

I am so often sorry that the pain overshadows joy. I don't want it to be this way. More importantly, I know that you do not. But, sometimes it cannot be helped. Yet, through the pain, we are finding our way, on your birthday and every day. We stand in awe that you have been "gone" for five birthdays already, and do our best to focus and count the blessings of you being her for 21 of them. We concentrate, now, NOT on the number, but on the moments, and after all, that is what's important anyway. I cannot remember how old you were when the snowstorm hit and changed the Easter Egg Hunt planned, or the year we went to Chuckie Cheese, or to your favorite restaurants. I cannot remember how old you were when you received the magical gifts and special remembrances, all that doesn't even matter anymore. It's the moments, the life, the love, and the heart of birthdays that linger in our minds, traditions, and in our memories. We still celebrate you, honor and remember, do what we can, when we can, and your birthday goes on and on.

A mother's love and relationship with their child never dies, and ours did not, will not, either. I whispered so much, these last days, when tears fell freely, when memories surged, when we found our way through honoring you...I whispered to a loving God who now has you in the palm of His hand, thanks be to God for you, and for His grace and His mercy, and I whispered to you, happy, happy birthday, my sweet and beautiful angel, who now soars higher than THIS world would have ever allowed. I miss you with every fiber of my being, but as people across the country honored you, celebrated your life, even found ways to include you in their day, with the setting sun and the rising moon, a once in a lifetime event, I felt honored and blessed to be your mother, and I remembered your birth date, when our hearts knew what our soul already had, and I remembered your passing date, when our hearts entwined, never to let go.

BUZZ WORDS

2011-03-18T07:27:00.000-07:00

In education, my chosen career path, there were so many "buzz words" that kept cropping up. Those of us in the "business" would use them and know just what we were referring to, and too often, we would use those words in front of parents or "non educators", leaving them with a dazed or confused look. It's not that we meant to, we just did it, and then, upon realizing what we were doing, would step back and attempt to explain or define the terms. Buzz words became part of our universal vocabulary. I'm certain that occurred in other areas of work, also, it's just that education is my only point of reference. Plus, I was in the field and schools long enough that I began to see and hear the terms resurface, return, as if they were something new to grasp. Indeed, it must have been time to let that part of my life go, thank you God and Allison for the gift of retirement. I no longer know the buzz words and that is fine by me!

But, now, I have my own set of buzz words. I am in a league of my own, in a way, yet, in a field of many. I try not to say that "grief" defines me now, but in many ways, it does. It does, because when my world was shifted, I had to relearn just about everything. To the ones who don't know what I mean, I am glad for you. To those who do, well, no explanation is needed. I most likely couldn't describe it if I tried. But the "buzz words" exist, IN and OUT of my circle, my pain, my field of view. From the outside, and from the inside, the "buzz words" get thrown out there, and as I live through the losses of life, and I do mean LIVE (or attempt to:), I hear them used more and more. I read about them. I try to identify whether any of them describe me. I try to comprehend the definition and ask myself where I fit on the spectrum. Sometimes I cannot help myself from being the teacher I once was, and I try to look at this from a logical perspective. Yet, my heart screams out, there is nothing logical about this at all.

Maybe the "buzz words" of grief are meant to help us as we alter the balance and shift to adjust to this way of life that has been ours to bear. Maybe they are meant to give us hope. Maybe, we pray, there is a timeline and one day I will reach the "healing" that is described in all the books, manuals, and discussed in all the therapies. Just maybe some of these words, the words I term "buzz words" of grief...shock, denial, acceptance, healing...just maybe they are there to give us hope. Maybe the definition of each one is meant to give us guidance and something to cling to when we don't know who we are, let alone, where we are going. Maybe the words are simply there to be used when no one else knows what to say. Maybe they sound intelligent and sophisticated, and provide us a means of conversation. But, maybe, they leave us dazed and confused, like the parents who listened to us educators as we threw out the "buzz words" like they were something we should all understand.

I have been asked by friends or loved ones...Have you found the acceptance? Are you healing? Is the shock still with you? Did you go through denial? Were you angry? Are you angry now? In many cases, they want the reassurance that I just don't know how to give them, and in other cases, they are grieving, too, and look for answers that may provide them with a timeframe, a path of hope and relief, or a deeper understanding that they will not have to feel like this forever. There are no answers, other than we all find ourselves at different places at different times. As today dawned, and I felt the presence of my "birthday girl" so profoundly, I knew I would be "okay" today. I feel that the tears of this week have passed. At least for now. And maybe through her 26th birthday tomorrow. But, ask me later today, when I should be wrapping her gifts, or making her cake, and there might be a different answer. There also might not! I just don't know. That's why I live in the moment I have, because I just do not know. What I do know is that I have my coping ways, skills, strategies, and yes, even my own "buzz words" to get me through. I have but one choice, and that is to keep going, my way, the path that works best for me, just as each individual grieving person does...and that is something no book has taught me, no person has taught me, nothing has shown me how to do this, only my heart, connected to hers, and connected to my living family, and from the grace of God, who keeps the lessons strong. I am learning...with or without buzz words!

Something To Live For

2011-03-13T06:09:00.000-07:00

Grief changes perspective, attitude, way of life, the view, the pain, every breath...and in the early days, even without us knowing it, it gives us something to live for. We really don't know that in the beginning stages. Those are shock waves rippling through your body. That is the numbest feeling you have ever felt. That is most likely God's way of layering us with a protective coating to maneuver and "get through" the "firsts", the initial steps to a new normal. As the shock of it all begins to subside, tiny bit, by tiny bit, I found myself wondering how it could be that these many weeks, months, now years, could pass by and I would "feel" a new way, again, bit by bit, step by step.

As my mind looks back to the images of the last four years, I am in awe that I have survived. And I know it is only God's grace that has brought me to this point. I know that suffering in this way strengthens and heals. I would not have chosen it. I do not want to know this. I do not want to own it. Yet, it is mine. And I am not alone. Even when I feel utterly so, even when I am surrounded by the love and prayers that hold me up, I don't know how I got here. All I know is, that I have always had something to live for. It's always been about my family, my daughter, Jennifer, my husband, my siblings, my friends, my former dog, Barkley, and now, Rex, and even my neighbors. They have given me purpose and reasons to keep living. And how wonderful it is to be needed. And how wonderful to have something to live for.

But life is becoming much richer now. I feel myself, literally turning some type of corner, if you will. I am living for me. The last years I have studied, read, journaled, grieved, embraced anything I could to learn how to do this. You see, there's no manual. And I am a fighter within. I know God did not create me to take this, accept it, without changing. I can resist it. I can fight the urges. But He sends a spirit through me that is not to be ignored. And He gives me every tool to make a difference for myself. I feel it in the new waves that surge through my body, soul and mind. I'm not comfortable with it. But I'm not comfortable with much, as I learn to live life without my child.

Life is richer in the sense that I have something to live for...and yes, it will continue to be those people I mentioned. I know God is bringing me through something unimaginable to be there for others. But I also know God expects me to live life in ways that only I can. I don't know what He will bring today, what life will bring tomorrow, but I do know, that He is giving me tools. Tools of existence. Tools that must be sharpened and used.

I have so much to live for...this week, as Allison would turn 26 years old, I cry every day. I am not always positive and upbeat, but what I am is consistent. I pace. I know what I need and I listen to God's whisper. I open the Bible and I find what works for me, this day, this moment. The scriptures. The reminders. I read, or say aloud, the affirmations to help me move in the direction that is pleasing to him. I surround myself with the people I choose, I love, who are important to me, and not the ones who drain me, who say things that rip apart an already fragile existence. I get to make those choices. And I give where, and when, I can. I will find ways to honor Allison's birthday and it will be good. It will be pleasing to her to know that instead of being able to buy her the gifts, others will be recipients of something, the dog shelter, the food pantry, the Ronald McDonald house, or the cupcakes that I will make for the neighbors. I will focus on what I have to live for, and even when my heart is breaking, and I remember, or wonder, who she'd be today, I will know, there is always something to live for.

The Heavy Coat

2011-03-08T09:02:00.000-08:00

No matter where I go, the heavy coat accompanies me. Even to the far away shores of St. Thomas Island! What a beautiful, dream come true type of trip! Time spent in the lush and plush portion of the Virgin Islands, the crisp, clear, green and turquoise waters twinkled and sparkled, as if calling me to simply stare for days. I did not read a page. Instead, I was in a trance. A good state of being. Time spent with my daughter and my sister, a respite, a REAL vacation as we kept saying. It had been so very long since a real vacation ensued. Sure, lots of travel for all of us. But travel and vacation don't necessarily go hand in hand. Travel can mean many things. Oh, don't get me wrong. I would never take back any of the last year or two, or three, or four. Every moment has provided a memory, a time to grieve, a time to heal, a time to laugh and a time to cry.

To the natural observer, no doubt, the three of us had not a care in the world. And in some ways, we didn't! We were able to shed some of our realities, escape the eyes that are upon us, and the demands of life. Yes, even retired people have demands. They are just different, that is all. But there we were, in our glory of surrounding beauty. Amazed and enthralled with the ambiance and the view. The view from our eyes, the indescribable beauty of an island paradise that I would never have believed would be mine to capture, let alone, spend in treasured time with my daughter and my sister.

We each carried our own burdens, along with our literal baggage. Suitcases filled with summer items, a treat, and a novelty to be shedding the heavy winter clothes for the bathing suit, white, flowing skirts, short sleeves and flip flops or sandals. It was pure joy and therapeutic! But the heavy coat always travels, the heavy coat of grief, that is. It may look like it is shed, temporarily, but it is there. Maybe no one can see it. Maybe we don't really acknowledge it, but it is worn. And it never truly disappears. Grief. It never leaves me, my sister, or my daughter. But in spite of it, we managed to find a place, a center of our soul, a time to just BE, and what better place than paradise. And surely, we found our loved ones in various places, in the waters, in the clouds, in the music, Michael's favorite reggae song, and oh, yes, in the incredible rainbow. There it was, that rainbow, that has seemed to follow us wherever we go on our journeys since Allison left us. Well, maybe the rainbow was always with us, maybe she has taught us to see and appreciate more clearly, more dearly.

The heavy coat represents much. We try not to dwell on just how heavy it really is, rather, we try to live, for ourselves, each other, for them, our beloveds. We try not to let it define us for if we do, it will sag our shoulders, it will smother us, and it will suffocate the life out of us, so much so, we won't capture, and enjoy, the beauty. We learn to maneuver and thrive under its weight. We know it is ours to hold onto, yet, to release at the same time. No one can see it, but we know it is there.

For those days in paradise, we carried our heavy coat differently. But, it was still there. It matched, and reflected, the hole and sadness in our hearts. No one would recognize it in the image of three women enjoying every part of paradise. No one would feel it like we do, each in our own way, each facing our own loss, yet sharing a common bond of the lessons learned. We wear the pain like a heavy coat, and we are learning how to do just that. It does not go away. I wonder if it ever will. But in the meantime, we are learning how to adjust the heaviness, the burden, the weight, not just on an island of paradise, but in the beauty of each day.

Packing...Again!

2011-02-22T09:07:00.000-08:00

As I am packing the green suitcase that has travelled many miles over the years, especially in the years since Allie has been gone, I am melancholy, I am thankful, I am blessed, I feel the full spectrum of emotions. And one constant thought filters through my heart, if not for her death, I would not be packing. I don't know what life would have held, had cancer and death NOT visited our family. I cannot even fathom where I would be right now, WHO I would be, had she not left us when she did. I try not to dwell on it, because it is never to be what it WAS again. And as thrilled and joyous as I feel about packing for yet another trip of a lifetime, I can only imagine what it would be like if SHE were packing, with us, with her sister, with my sister, with me, shooting e-mails and texts about what we are bringing and what we plan to do, and sharing the information we have learned, and looking forward to those banana daiquiri drinks with umbrellas adorning each one! I can only imagine...

Should I imagine? Should I be so vulnerable to tears, wondering what it would be like? Should I look at the suitcase and wonder what she would look like, what she would bring, what she would wear? Should I even go there? No answers. I just do. And when I do, and feel at my saddest, I remember. I remember that we are probably going BECAUSE OF HER, BECAUSE OF MICHAEL, because each day holds something new, now, now that we know. Now that we know the pain of loss and grief. Now that we know that next year is not promised, not even tomorrow is promised. We take advantage of what we can and new horizons when they rise up, and, so, we pack, again!

Packing and anticipating is usually half the fun. We already know it will go by way too fast, our four nights on St. Thomas Island. We already know, from perusing the internet and reading the brochures, we are going to paradise. We look forward to it with a zest for life, and I pray to appreciate it, savor each moment, my feet in the sand, taking in the sunrises or sunsets, perhaps trying new food and drinks, but most of all, appreciating with a new zeal for life, the time with my daughter and my sister. Yes, I am packing again, I thank God for the blessing of resourses, and in my sadness, I know it is Allison I need to also thank, she gives and gives and gives, through her spirit and her life. Even in death, she is helping me pack, again!

I shall miss her. The grief will not go away. It is not washed away by spending time at the beach. But the grief spurs me on when I am almost too exhausted, emotionally, to even think about going. That's why I don't think. I just take it as it comes. And in my heart of hearts, as I remember ours entwined until the end, I know she is pleased. She will be there. She will hover. She will whisper. She will guide. She will be smiling. She knows. She knows we are there because we are learning. Learning how to take the baby steps, the monumental steps, actually stepping out and leaving our comfort zones, taking advantage of new opportunities, learning what she told me, "I came into this world without anything, now I leave without anything". How true. And how profound for a 21 year old.

I take her in my suitcase, I take her in my beach things, I take her on each trip and journey of my life, and I take her in my heart. I am packing. Again.

"Chatty Cathy"

2011-02-17T05:56:00.000-08:00

I grew up in the era of the Chatty Cathy doll, and those of us named Kathy, HAD to have one. Our parents indulged and must have surely been a bit annoyed by the string attached to the back, that was continually pulled, and released, pulled and released, over and over again to see what Cathy would say. I did love that doll! I wish I had kept her!

As many "Kathy's" probably were, I was referred to as "chatty Cathy", more often than not. I liked to talk, too! Just like my "chatty Cathy" doll, I could ramble with the best of them, talk, talk, talk, and unlike my inanimate friend, there was no string attached or battery to take out! I was Miss Social and talk I did! The talking served me well as I followed my life's path, in high school being so involved in many clubs, went to college, attending every social gathering possible, and then becoming a teacher where I got to talk ALL day long. Oh, yes, I could talk. I liked to listen, too, but if I am honest, I probably liked to talk more!

The shift began when personal experiences began and I chose to sit back and listen. The world is fascinating when we listen! Other people's stories, the sounds of the world waking up, or the sound of nature, the laughter, the cries. I slowly began to realize that I couldn't hear all there is to hear if I am talking. I suppose I awakened to the possibility that my voice didn't need to fill up the quiet, or the unknown, or the uncomfortable aura when silence is not golden. So, over time, I became more silenced and I listened. I could not have known that later in life, the silence would be a constant companion in the form of grief. I had to learn how to be still and silent, first when my mother passed, after all, she was the original "Chatty Cathy" of the 50's! She and I talked like no other. When she was gone, that part of my life became silent. Oh, sure, other talking was necessary, my daughters were young, my marriage was young, Joe and I were finding our way, and there was LOTS to talk about. Yet, a part of me became silent. Other losses and changes in life caused me to be silenced, as well. Not permanently. Not for eternity. But silenced, nonetheless. And the "chatty Cathy" changed, at least on the inside.

Losing Allison silenced me in ways that I can never describe. Although, to the "naked eye" that may not be the case. I still entertain. I still host dinner or other parties. I still feel compelled to make others feel comfortable at gatherings. I even laugh now. I share stories, again. I have a voice. But that voice is different. At least on the inside and from my own perspective. And silence fills my day.

The largest part of my day is quiet, and I don't feel the need to "fill" it with my chatter. If I am honest, there are times, still, and probably always, when I cannot pick up the phone, talk, or say a word. I hesitate to solidly "book" events or weekend trips (although no one would really know that by the looks of my often filled calendar), but when I do, it is with the stipulation that I will, IF I can. I cannot predict how life will be, and I have surely come to know that how I feel about something this morning, could very well change by this afternoon. This is grief. This is the silence of the heart.

I suppose I will always be "Chatty Cathy" in some sense. It's not that I don't have something to say. I do. Of course, I have an opinion and I have thoughts and ideas. It's just that all of that chatter isn't important to me anymore. In fact, again, being honest, the chatter and chit chat, that I do claim to enjoy on one end, brings me back to where I am in my life. A woman, a mother, a wife, a sister, a friend to many, but yet, a quiet, reflective soul, who does not mind where I am, at any given moment, who has truly learned that the next day, or even later today, is not promised, that life is so very short, that there is no room for bickering, or worry, or discord, and who knows that the only way to care for others is to care for myself. I often, now, cannot "handle" the chatter and the talking, it's whimsical and even mundane to me now. It is often over stimulating and when I experience too much of it, I have to recover, regroup, and rest, maybe even for days. That is what grief does, it changes everything, the social status, the conversations in our home, the visits with others, the listening. It changes virtually everything, this thing called grief. Grief is the master teacher, and the lessons are painful. Grief robs you and it stalks you. But it gives, and what it gives to each of us is different. Grief has given me silence, time to come to know myself, time to be Kathy, time to give up the chatter and learn to love the solitude, the peace and the wonderment of what God shows us when we stop talking. On a day like this, a perfectly beautifully spring-like, winter day, the quiet is all I need.

Blessings in Broken Times

2011-02-15T05:52:00.001-08:00

I am sure I have written on this topic before. It has become my mantra, but I cannot take credit for it, I must give credit where credit is due. Not only through my scripture readings, but in particular, the book by Dr. Charles Stanley, "Blessings in Brokenness", has stayed by my side since Allison's diagnosis, not her struggles, not her death, but from the start of the journey. A friend gave me the book and I would have never known then just how I would have to turn to the blessings in the broken times. They are there. In spite of the pain and angst, and despair and fatigue, they are there. As I am sure I have written about, they can range from the small and ever minuscule, to the monumental and prevalent. The key is looking. The key is WANTING to see them, feel them, know them. And some days, I have not wanted to, but most days, they keep coming, even when I don't believe that anything can be considered a "blessing" in these broken times of missing my daughter.

As I write, I am not thinking just of my own blessings, this day. I am thinking of Cathy's. She has given me permission to write about her story, at least part of it. And somehow, as I know it helps me to see beyond this life, I know it will help someone else, too. For it is when we hold on, persevere, triumph, or even simply get out of bed when we have lost so deeply, that the blessings come, and we are given HOPE to carry on, and on and on.

A year ago yesterday, on a snowy, Sunday afternoon, gray and bleak looking, yet beautiful in its own rite, Cathy's son, Phil, left this world. Cathy had gone home on what was to be a "normal" three-day weekend, only to find her son unconscious and losing life. On his own accord, he had perhaps decided that life was not worth living. The details, known to Cathy and her own grieving heart, shared with those of us she trusts, are not important. What IS important is that her son was gone, on Valentine's Day, took his last breath, a decision made by a mother who would extend her "final" act of love on this side of heaven by working with doctors to remove life support. Soon after the decision, he was gone.

Suffice it to say that the year since has been one of heartbreak, devastation, loss, pain, emptiness, wonderment, and every emotion on the spectrum. For, as we know when our child is gone, we have not JUST lost them, we have lost a part of ourselves, a big part, maybe even all of ourselves, for awhile. And we rebuild. Cathy is rebuilding. She tries. She lives with an elderly mother. She lost her job soon after her son. She had lost her husband to cancer not long before her son. The losses piled up and still do.

So, where is the blessing? What has happened? We could start small. Cathy has emerged, some. She has cooked and regrouped, and been to her garden, and stopped smoking. Cathy has found a little of her voice and she has shared her unique sense of humor. She created a facebook page and connected with friends. She has tried and tried and tried to live through the broken times.

It was on this very facebook page that it happened. The connection. You see, Cathy had a son at the age of 16, some 39 years ago and due to circumstances, gave him the gift of adoption. And lo and behold, the son grew up, and married and the son's wife found Cathy. The son's birth certificate should NOT have really shared his birth mother's name, but somehow, part of it showed through, and he knew her name. The "connection" has been made and mother and son have chatted via e-mail and now phone, and plan to meet in person. The son is very open to meeting his mother and getting to know her. And Cathy has told him about his brother, a brother he never knew, but nevertheless, will know through Cathy's heart. Blessings in broken times? I would say a resounding yes! God's intervention and miracle? I would also shout a resounding yes! I say YES because when we lose our child, no matter how they go, we come to view and know heaven in a new way. We come to know that God makes room in His Kingdom for all who accept Him, even if they do so in transition. Even when they left on their own accord. Even when the circumstances are so bleak, He is there, on that side, with arms wide open, to receive.

This is Cathy's story, not mine. We relate in ways of loss, and our children have brought us closer because of it. Our circle is widening. That's the sad and painful part. We know what we KNOW when our children leave. We know what we KNOW when we are forced to make arrangements and sit at a table, choose a casket, select a burial plot, make decisions we are never prepared for...but as God promises, the goodness comes in the morning. It does not go away. In Cathy's story, there are so many unknown variables. But there is time. And there is grace. And there is HOPE. And there is one more part to the story...her son has a son. Yes, a grandson for Cathy. A year later, who would believe, that as we honor her son's life, another is brought into her life, complete with a grandson, a grandson who bears the name of her own father. The story continues, life goes on, and we must BELIEVE that blessings DO come on broken times.

Be My Valentine

2011-02-10T06:13:00.000-08:00

The stores are packed with the pinks and reds of the season, have been since right after Christmas, I suppose. I didn't get out much. Lately, I have been out a bit more and the Valentine displays tug at my heart. I suppose that is what they are meant to do! And of course, like any other day in the walk of life and loss, my mind drifts, my heart aches, my spirit soars, only to plummet with the reality...she is gone. No Valentine cards or gifts to buy, no care package to send to college, no special little touches or baked goods for her. So, what is a mother to do? This mother chooses to redirect the energy. The energy that once went into TWO daughters, and one husband, our family of four, and those in my immediate circle. The energy that once was "easy" and "comfortable" and "natural". The energy that is no longer any of the above, yet, still ALL of the above. Too difficult to explain. And for those who journey with me, no explanation is needed.

I redirect. I give to myself so that I may give to others. Not necessarily in the monetary way. Maybe it's that cup of coffee I chose to have this morning, in bed no less, with Rex curled up beside me. Maybe it is making cake balls with love and patience for a little gathering I am having soon. Maybe it is taking time in the late afternoon and writing out cards to two mothers who lost their sons this very week, one year ago, two years ago. Maybe it is going and getting a facial and enjoying the "luxury" it provides, that I once would never have afforded myself. Maybe it is making that fudge for someone special and putting it in the mail. Maybe, I believe, by doing what I like to do, taking care of me, and others, I am finding a way for her, my Allie, to still be my Valentine.

This year I even put the vinyl clings on the windows and a Valentine tablecloth on the table. My hand runs along the little hearts and lingers on the pink. The pink in the house is her. The pink is love. The pink is comfort and God's grace and a reminder that any day needs brightening, for myself, and for others.

I talk myself through yet another little milestone. It's the memories. It's the moments. It's the candy, her favorite, her joy at cards, and the sentiments within. It's her humor in a funny card and it's her smile upon opening a gift given in love, from the smallest trinkets to the biggest treasure. It's the heart she always wrote above her name. It's Valentine's Day. Everyday.

As I went about my week, something compelled me to look through pictures the other day. Not for Valentine's Day, but just because. So, I followed my spirit, until the pain came, and I had to close the drawer. But, then, stuck in the back was a folded piece of paper. I opened it up and didn't know whether to rejoice, recoil, hold it tight, laugh, cry, say my prayers, and praise the angels! So, I did just about all of that. It was a Valentine, her Valentine to me, I don't know when, and I only wish I had marked the date. But, it does not matter. There it was, as I was saying to myself that I/we have come through FIVE Valentine Days without her, wondering how the months and years can pass and I can STILL find myself in this walk of grief, longing for my child. Longing to see and know her as a soon to be 26 year old. And just as I was thinking to myself, there it was...and it felt like a whisper from above, "BE MY VALENTINE, MOM", Be My Valentine.

Kiss Goodbye

2011-02-05T14:27:00.000-08:00

Today, I was driving along and thought of my last touch, hug, and physical connection to my daughter. I cannot say what triggered it, possibly nothing, no reason needed, no way to explain it. This was one of those days where I longed for her smell, the feel of her skin, the strength of her hand, the compassion of her heart, her "I love you, mom"'s, her cheek on mine, my lips on her cheek, her forehead, her shoulder, wherever it landed. I need to feel her today. My body is screaming with the need and desire to touch my child. It is something we can take for granted, I'm sure I did, the swiftness of the hug, especially when they were babies and we longed for our own sleep, or when they were growing up, or moving along into their teens, their twenties, their thirties....I doubt it ever ends. But then one day, it does, or it can. In those moments I stop and thank God for the time I DID have, but when the ache of loss and loneliness creeps up, there seems to be no reprieve. No reprieve at all from the need to touch my child. I have had people actually tell me things like, "well, at least you have another child", or, "maybe you can put the same energy into Jennifer", or "do you know how lucky you are to have another daughter". I would like to scream at times, and say, don't you know I know that, don't you know how thankful I am each and every minute of the day that God has kept another child of mine living to this point, don't you know my relationship with Allison was different, no, not better, not worse, just different, and don't you know that I cannot put all my hopes and dreams into Jennifer and smother her...she has to be her own person. She cannot live for two. She has to live for herself. And that part is hard enough to watch, knowing that in an instant she became an only child, never to have a sister to share the natural course of life's journey with any longer. Don't you know, people, that it doesn't matter if I had one child, five, ten, or NONE, I still long to touch my Allie. What came back to me, this morning, was OUR last moments. Anyone who knows my heart at all, knows that I am eternally grateful that we were part of her final months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds. Simply and gloriously grateful. My circle has widened so large to include many mothers, and fathers, who were not given that opportunity. Cancer DOES give, at times. And in this case, what better gift could any of us receive, or her, as well, than to be together in the name of love and family. But, it's still those last moments that sometimes come into my soul, heart, mind. And today, I was actually thinking of that last, good-bye kiss, when on the radio I heard a song about a kiss goodbye. Thankful for SHAZAM, I pressed it on my iphone and found the title to be Kiss Goodbye, by Little Big Town. I don't know what, or who, the lyrics were written for, no doubt a man, a woman, maybe not death at all, but all I know, that in that moment, I wasn't sure whether to feel elated, cry, feel sorry for myself, or what. I wanted her back. I want it all back. And I want to kiss her goodbye again. Sometimes, we can ache beyond description. The loss we feel as a mother, or father, and any other grieving person, has to be part of life's most challenging journeys. We not only lose them, the physical presence, but we lose a part of ourselves, we rebuild, or not, we respond, or not, we recoil, we live, we breathe, we get from point A to point B, week to week, month to month, year to year, having no idea how we did so. We go on. We hold on to the part of life that brings us reason to live, another child, a grandchild, a spouse, a job, a purpose, a mission, a cause. Whatever it is, we find our way, and we certainly do it our way. I cannot begin to know how the young mothers who have known their child an hour, a day, a week, a month, a few years do it. I don't know what would be worse, there is no reason to compare. Nothing prepares us for this part of life. Some days we are "okay", we manage, we even soar, others, like today, it's an uphill climb, it's treading water, it's lonely and dark, and bleak and despair can overtake me if I let it. Today, the kiss goodbye has saddened me, but it has strengthened me, too. And while I want another, I am grateful, so grateful that my heart knows the fullness of gratitude and God's grace. And when I close my eyes and let it go, I feel the brush of her lips on my cheek, the hand that held mine, and the love between mother and child that death does not part.

Life Is Eternal

2011-02-02T14:01:00.002-08:00

Did I really need my child to leave me way too soon to understand that life is eternal? Did I really need to see her go right before my eyes to begin the process of understanding my own mortality? Hadn't I thought of this before, after all, I had LOST before, my grandparents, my mother, then my father, then my daughter...now my brother-in-law, and in between, many, many souls. We live. We die. And in between, we must think of it, yet we don't really. After all, we are too busy living to think of dying.

We only need to look back to the stories in the Bible, in Jesus' day, in the lives of our ancestors, to know that life is eternal. We are here but a short while. Yet, we don't treat it as such. We know it at one level, or at least our mind knows it, and our heart, well,that is a different story. We watch the changes, we find our loved ones gone, we one day find WE are the elders at the family gatherings, WE are no longer the youngsters, we have been replaced. So, why is it that we don't think that one day we will be in the eternal kingdom, sitting at the right hand of the Father, living out eternal peace and glory, should we know and believe what we are taught? Why is that we don't get that, and that we still spend time worrying, fretting, griping, complaining, fearing, believing that life is unfair, wondering what we did to "deserve" this or that...why is it that we don't look at each day as the ultimate gift that it truly is, and why did it take my daughter's death for me to see more clearly, and more dearly...as the song goes!

I certainly cannot take credit for this poem, entitled "Life Is Eternal". I found it on a card while shopping with my sister last week. What drew my attention, at first, was the picture of the seashore, and everyone knows I love anything with a beach scene on it! I even have a secret "bucket list" to see as many different beaches as I can since Allison passed, call it crazy, call it my way of "connecting" with her. Thus far, I have seen two new ones and a third is on the way at the end of this month, if God wills! At any rate, the poem was even more beautiful than the photograph, and I bought the card, maybe for someone, maybe for myself. In the moment I read it, I feel it was written for Allison, and I would imagine others would think it is written for their loved one. Nevertheless, it is beautiful and helps us to know, LIFE IS ETERNAL!

I am standing upon the seashore, A ship at my side spreads
Her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.

She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch her
Until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the seas and sky
Come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, "There! She is gone."
Gone Where??
Gone from my sight, that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side,
And just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her;
And just at the moment when someone at my side says, "There! She's gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up
the glad shout, "There, there she comes!"

How do I know life is eternal? Allison taught me. God used her in such powerful ways.

The Sweet Miracle of Trust

2011-01-30T06:33:00.000-08:00

One of my many "coping" strategies since losing our daughter has been to look for any blessing or miracle of the day. It didn't matter what it was, it could be as simple as listening to the birds on a spring morning because I never really had the opportunity to just sit and BE one with them, always too busy with the hustle and bustle of life...it could be the sound of children laughing in the back yard....in the early days and months, it was the blessing of tending to Barkley, her dog, and in his own final stages of life, it was that "privilege" Joe and I smiled about, privileged to be home and provide tender loving care to our aging guy....it could be those times Jennifer was able to come over and bring Starbucks and chit chat...it could be when I was finally able to answer phone calls and a friend would call and just listen or just say that she loved me...it could be ANYTHING, just about anything. It was my way of getting through those early stages, look for the blessing, find the sweet miracle, and it was all simple enough.

It is still my way, I MUST keep looking. Some days it feels like I am grasping at straws...I ask myself, "where is it", "where is the blessing in THIS"???? I talk to God, I ask Him to show me, and better yet, I began to trust HIM. Our relationship, His and mine, developed over time, not easily, not without a fight, not without buckets of tears. I read His word, I cling to scriptures, I pray when I don't know how, I beg for answers, I seek out His help, I do not know this path. I write in my journals, fast and furiously, because when the words can pour from my heart, I have a moment of peace. Until it starts again, and again, and again!

But the trust built and I began to see and feel and know that there is something good to cling to...I could list all the blessings in my journal, I could name the sweet miracle of the day. Again, nothing profound, nothing deep, God above knew that some days, most days, the sweetest miracle was that I got up. I willed my left foot to the floor, and the first step became the last step. Even when the steps in between were beyond devastating, I was up, and I was working on this thing called grief.

I have come to know that my sweetest miracle is the trust I speak of, the trust that something is going to come from all this that I least imagined, the trust that God will help me every step of the way, the trust that when I come to know Him better, and accept His son's sacrifice for my sins, I am promised that place in His heavenly Kingdom, reunited with those I loved on this earth. Trust is beautiful, and it is the sweetest miracle of all.

Trust helps me to know God is going to provide. I never know what it is He plans to provide, but it is always there. Not in my timing, though, in His. Trust tells me that no matter how my child died (yes, I said it, died) she is with Him. Trust tells me that my wildest dreams, or nightmares, could not come true without Him. Trust tells me that He will bring a brighter tomorrow, once the dark and devastation clears, even if that is only for a minute. Trust tells me that our timeframes really mean nothing, that there is no such thing as time in His home, only freedom, beauty, love and light. Trust tells me that if He took me there, I would not want to come back. Trust tells me that I am going to be alright, pained, yes, beyond heartbroken, lonely, and grieved, but alright, yes. Trust tells me that there is a world to see, and He wants me to see it. He sends His message through the sweet spirit of my child, who I am beginning to see as she was, before...before the pain of cancer, the loss of her own bodily functions, and the devastation she felt upon leaving us.

God is providing. Sometimes I don't see it. I don't understand it. I question. I scream. I cry. I want her back. I ask Him why she had to go, and then there is an answer. Not one to my satisfaction, nevertheless, it is an answer. I can see clearly sometimes, and sometimes I cannot see at all. But I trust. And that is my sweetest miracle of all.

She Changed The World

2011-01-24T11:55:00.000-08:00

Today, as I write and reflect and pray, I dedicate my thoughts to ALL who have changed the world, not just my Allison, but today, and the last week, my heart has travelled with the family of Tanner, the Lowrance's and the Wallace's and the Sheridan's, and others whose names I may not know...may the family, someday, find reasons to celebrate the difference he made, and the ways in which he, too, changed the world.

This week, a site I visit often, The Compassionate Friends network, (thank you, Joe S.), the question was asked...How did your child, sibling, grandchild change the world? I don't know if I ever thought of such a question, let alone, an answer. But I have thought about how both my children have changed MY world. And to wonder how my deceased child has changed the world, well, that is a very profound question.

We, the mothers or fathers who have lost our children, the sisters or brothers, or the aunts and uncles, the grandparents, might like to think that our baby, our child, our daughter, our son, no matter the age when they left, no matter the circumstance, may have left a mark on the world. We may like to believe that someone's life has changed, even if it's just one, for the better, because ours lived, and then didn't. And sometimes, we take on the responsibility to keep that memory alive, because it is the only way that we feel we are alive, too. It helps us know that inside, when we feel we are dying, actually, we are living. It is the only purpose to our being, maybe for awhile, maybe forever, maybe for a day, maybe for an hour when we get the opportunity to talk about that beloved.

So, I contemplate...and in my dark hours when I feel completely alone and lost in my grief, I know, I know Allison changed the world. She changed the world in ways I may never know. But bit by bit, I am blessed to know, sometimes, how her life has changed others, and ultimately those around them, and the circle widens. When I do have those courageous souls who will actually share with me that her constant smile in this life helps them smile through bad times, I am blessed. When the bold ones tell me that they have never taken a day for granted since her passing, because if Allison Haake could die from lung cancer, well....what does that say for the rest of us, I smile to know that someone has actually gained something from our tragedy. When I am given each new day to see her sister blossom and grow into an amazing young woman in her own right, I know it is Allison who gives her strength, and when I see her turn to God, I am thankful, for without God, we are nothing, dust to dust, ash to ash. When I am told that libraries hold books in her memory, how joyful I feel, the sadness dissipates for a moment, for there was nothing Allison loved more than being read to, or reading those non-fiction books of truth and life, and yes, even pain and struggles and death. When I am told by a colleague of mine that when middle school girls come into her office, and they have the brightest, piercing eyes, she thinks of Allison, and she is calmed in her interactions, I whisper a thanks to Allison. And when the circle keeps widening and tightening with love, when her own family now trusts that a plan is in place, that yes, we have to do our part, work hard, love unconditionally, savor the moment, make new memories, hold each other's hands, never judge, just BE where God needs us to be, well, then, I know all is right with the world and she is changing ours, bit by bit, day by day, now year by year.

I suppose one big fear when we lose our loved one is that no one will remember. Other mothers have shared that with me. Mothers of newborns who live a day, three days, a month, mothers of children of all ages who have been taken from us by cancer, and mothers whose children took their own lives, for reasons never to be revealled in this lifetime, yet reasons that maybe someday will bring a peace that passes all understanding. We do fear that others won't remember. That fear sets in for all those who have lost a loved one. We want that loved one remembered, even though, in initial stages, and maybe during trying milestones, we can barely speak of them, we secretly hope someone else will...someone else will tell the story, relive the memory, remember the life as they lived, not as they died, and help us to know how that our cherished soul made a difference. It helps in grief to know that our loved one served a purpose. No matter the stage of grief, the years that pass, the beginning days, grief is a complexity that we so often dance around. We know not what to do. We know not what to say. It's when we follow our heart, and do or say what feels right, that we cannot go wrong. Maybe today we can tell someone who lost their child, or their spouse, or their sister or brother, or mother or father, or aunt or uncle, or niece or nephew, or friend, or their grandparent, just how that person changed your world. And if not today, maybe tomorrow, or the next day...for everyone under heaven has their purpose, and whether we know it or not, or are ever told or not, we each change the world, and hopefully, always for the better.

Allison, you changed my world. You give me strength, you give me hope, and you give me faith. You led your uncle into his purpose under heaven, only to be welcomed by our Lord and Savior, you are there with open arms when it is time for others to join you, and this life shows us that it won't be long. We know not who, or when, or why, or how, but we know that to understand life is to understand death, death from this world, but life for eternity. None of us would be where we are, what we are, who we are, if not for you and the life you left us, and that alone, has changed my world.

Two Sisters

2011-01-18T06:48:00.000-08:00

As I am packing, and embarking, on yet another visit to my sister, I am thankful...thankful to God for the time, the resources, the ability, the strength, and yes, the courage, to even leave home, and go. Why courage? Why strength? Why? Because nothing comes easily anymore. Not one trip, and there have been many, has been "easy", yet, here I go again, under the premise that I may be of some help to her. There are many things for her to do, now, and decide, and plan, and talk through, and I want to be there for her. Sure, she has many wonderful friends, sister-like friends, who she can talk with, and does...as do, I. And we are blessed, and thankful for those sister-friends. There is nothing like a girl friend to live with you through life's joys and challenges. But there is nothing like that sister, who knows you, loves you unconditionally, learns to never judge, who walks with you, breathes with you, feels what you feel, knows what you know, who grew up with the memories to be shared, who makes new memories, and in our case, at least for right now, grieves with you.

This trip is a little different. It's my first one where Michael will not be at the boat. It is the reminder of the one, one year ago this very week, when he stood at the dock, waiting, and looking at me in wonderment. He got it! He understood! He knew something in his soul, I sensed it then, and I know it, now. We didn't speak of dying, except in his joking way, we didn't speak of anything but life. He told me things that I do not need to look back on a journal to remember. Whatever he had to face, he could do it, because of his niece, our daughter, sister, girl. He was not afraid. He seized the day and filled the house with people, for an impromptu party, where laughter rang true, and again, memories were made. Photographs were taken, and life was lived. Special people gathered. And it was the last time. He did it for me, for Karen, for himself, for them, and for her, his compass, his guide, his angel.

So, two sisters will gather, again. The house will be different for me. Michael is gone. I keep telling myself that. The flight will be different. Everything is different. It's not that I didn't already know that. Different is my way, the new normal, ever since my life changed and the world shifted. But the larger than life presence will be absent, at least physically. It will all be so different. Yet, I know it is time to go. Maybe I fool myself into believing I can actually be of some help, maybe it is I who needs the help the most, and I rush to the haven where I can grieve, find a little more of myself, live, love, and just BE by the SEA.

Winter, summer, fall, or spring, Hull is where the heart is...yes, Allison taught me that, my upbringing is there, but most of all, my sister is there. We will laugh, we will cry, we will pray, we will be silent, we will be respectful of where the other one is, emotionally and spiritually, we will tell stories, we will remember. But most of all, we will be together. And that is nothing but ALL GOOD.

Dying in Winter

2011-01-13T05:55:00.000-08:00

This week, on this "anniversary" of four years, I found myself asking God why she had to die in winter...why does this week have so many parallels to that week in 2007 when weather changed drastically and we went from a sunburst of color, to gray skies, to sleet, to ice, to snow, to frozen temperatures. Our city was at a standstill at times, and so many without power. We, of course, were one of the fortunate ones. We kept our power throughout the whole week, when literally thousands had to endure the cold and ice with little relief, no heat, no lights, no power. I hadn't thought of this much, because, at the time, I wasn't too impacted. I didn't know just how blessed we were that we were one of few houses in our own subdivision, let alone the entire metropolitan area. I was preparing for a funeral, a burial of my child, a tribute, a celebration. It was up to her family to set the tone for what was to be, we had no plan, blueprint, idea how to go about this. One day she was here, one day we realized she may not be, and in what seemed an instant, she was gone, and we were left, to move and live and breathe, orchestrate and organize the most important day of Allison's life. We did our best with what we knew to do. And now, the memory of that day, this day, similar in many ways, brings a smile to my heart, yet a stabbing, piercing reality that I lost my child. She died in winter.

It seemed appropriate, and still does, in a way. Only, this week, as I have endured the emotions that surge, the pain of the reality of it all, the thought of my child being ushered to her resting place, through the snow, the ice, the freezing temperatures by the boys, well, men, really, who loved her most...well, the images, the flashbacks are difficult. Yet, they do make me smile at times. After all, there were balloons, and pictures, and a video, and love, and laughter, and stories and memories. But then the reality of it all takes that place in my soul, and in the depths of pain and grief and sadness and loss, and in days when it is most difficult to get out and about, in snow and slick roads, in sub zero temperatures, I ask, God, why did she die in winter?!! Why not spring, when I could get to her grave, why not summer, which was such a favorite season, why not autumn, when the trees are beautiful and I can sit and look up, in the beauty of your creations? Why not when it was warmer, milder, calmer? And it is then that I feel Him smiling, almost laughing at me...as if I could question at all what happens in HIS timing!!! The nerve, I almost hear Him say back, sending me the message of spirit. The audacity, He almost chides, that I would even wonder or question! But, He is not angered or mad, or frustrated, or combative...He gently reminds me of His own timing, through His word, His love, His plan, His timing. Of course, she died in winter. Of course, the service was celebrated and even mentioned about the picture perfect New England day, the type of day she has become known for, the kind of day that reminds everyone of her life on this earth. The type of day that would have brought her so much comfort, where she would have stayed on that couch, and we would have baked chocolate chip cookies, and lounged around, or played outside. The kind of day that brings memory to her sister and her friends. The kind of day EVERY kid loves! The kind of day, made just for her, a winter day, the "dead of winter" as goes the phrase, yet, the LIFE of winter, when I think of her.

God has His ways. She lived for only eleven weeks. She could have left us in a day, a week, a month, or two. But, she didn't. God waited until the perfect time, the perfect place, the perfect day, the right plan, all for her. She died in winter, so that all the other seasons she would live. I am grateful for the reasoning and the reminders of His great love and mercy and grace. I am grateful that winter will cease, in time, and then will come spring, summer and that beautiful fall. I am grateful for the sweet remembrance of a celebration of life, something we all needed, right smack in the "dead of winter". Four years ago today. I cling to the words of the pastors, the love of those who could be with us, the connection of family, and the celebration of a life that continues to give, guide, love, and share. Allison, I will keep looking at winter as YOUR time, not the time you died, but the time you lived. You are my heart, my soul, my being, my breath. You are the ice, the snow, the cold, and every season in between. You rest, now, from the pain, but soar and stay with me. I need you now and forever, until we meet again.

Who Would I Be?!!???

2011-01-12T06:40:00.000-08:00

I often wonder, who would I be, what would I be doing, WHERE would I be if not for her passing, her diagnosis, her legacy, the spiritual awakening, the revelations, the pain, the incomprehensible grief...who would I be, if she had lived? I try not to GO THERE, because I know this is part of God's plan, yet...I still wonder. At times. I try not to spend too much time contemplating a concrete answer for there will be none. I am where I am, and I face grief like a part of my day that has become part of a routine, just as getting up, brushing my teeth, cleaning house, preparing meals, all accomplished now, with the cloak, the aura, the shadow of grief surrounding me. I am learning how to go through all the motions of life, with a new zest for the day, with new meaning to words like hope, love, faith, and a favorite, cherish. I cherish so much more since she is gone. I suppose if I realistically could, I would travel the world, and back, just to see what she now sees from a different perspective. Just to see what she didn't, in the physical sense, knowing all the while that it is God using her to guide me, assist me, restore me, push me, nudge me, and love me, until I love myself enough jut to BE.

I do know that nothing bothers me, nor will it ever again, and rarely am I irritated. I do know that simple pleasures have become greater gifts than anything money can buy. I do know that there are no worries in this lifetime, for I have climbed the mountain, to the top, and back down again, and know, now, that every problem has a solution. I do know that who I AM is not who I would have been, if not for her passage. I do know that it also takes work, this life, this living without her, suppressing the flashbacks, the memories that cancer brought on, and to try to regain those of a happier time, more carefree, days gone by that thankfully serve as the picture window of my mind. The camera is always going. The playbacks are always winding, and I try to capture those, instead of others.

Sometimes I don't know who I am, even four years later. I stopped working right after she passed away, and I am thankful. I know that as much as I miss that part of my life, that was a gift from God, delivered by Allison. As each day unfolds, I know the reasons I am not adding THAT type of stress to my life. I am thankful. I have seen the reasons that I was able to travel back and forth to visit my sister and brother in law, in his final years, months, weeks, days....to be there with the family as we said good-bye, again, to a beloved. I have seen the reasons that I am home to make a comfortable setting for a husband who grieves in a very quiet, secluded way, who works to this day to remain strong and true to his love for a deceased daughter, and one filled with life. I find myself discovering new things and new ways, and opportunities, each and every day, yet there are those moments when I wonder, who would I be? Where would I be? WHAT would I be?

Really, there is no reason to wonder. God took care of that. The path is laid out, and it is mine to follow. Absolutely no one gets me up in the morning, something that is still rather difficult, even on this fourth anniversary week. No one spurs me on and takes me by the hand and leads me through this journey. But I am not remarkable or even inspirational, as some would say. What they don't know, is that this is not me. It is divine intervention at its best, it is a will to live, and live strong for those I love, which includes my immediate family, my siblings, their children, and a whole host of friends and others. It is the power of God's grace that I ask for each and every day, even now. Nothing about this is simple, easy. Nothing about seeing how Allie's friends are growing up, finding out who they are, perhaps marrying, having babies, settling into careers, nothing is easy at all. It takes perseverance and patience and prayer and fortitude to stay a part of their lives, but it is also important to do so. We have one thing in common, none of us are who we would have been, had she not left us when she did.

Who would I be? I'll never know. Does it even matter? I am what I am, who I am, where I am, for reasons that will become clearer and clearer with the passage of time. I am defined now, by many things, her life, her death, her sister and family living out a legacy. We are not what we once were, we are learning lessons others won't know until it is their own time. For now, it is ours, and in dying, Allison left us to capture, seize, and savor the times that are ours.

We celebrated her life four years ago tonight and tomorrow. And we have not stopped. I don't know who I am supposed to be, but I will keep learning, trying, and honoring. It's a gift to have this day.

My New Year

2011-01-09T11:08:00.000-08:00

My new year seems to begin today, or has, since that year and day in 2007. That day, that moment, that second, where my heart beat with hers, until it didn't. That new year when the first nine days were spent in a hospital room, celebrating, enduring, crying, laughing, living, dying. That new year when I don't recall any celebrations or pleasantries shared, no "happy new year" wishes, because, after all, we weren't happy. The definition of "happy" was changed as we knew it, as was "merry" and "great" and "wonderful" and "joyful"...our baby girl, yes, 21 year old that she was, was dying. And nothing about the new year rang true.

Now, in this fourth year since her passing, I have come to realize that my new year begins today. It began at 7:00 a.m. this morning. I don't know what I did on year one, year two, year three, since she has been gone, and I don't know what I will do in the future. I probably won't know what I did today. It doesn't matter, anyway. It is what it is, and the spirit guides us through what is a day that no parent, no sibling, no family, should know. But we do, don't we? Loved ones leave us every day, every minute, every year, and yet, we are stunned when it happens again and again. We don't know how to plan for a day such as this. How do you honor this life? How do you seize this day? What do you DO to help it pass, or go away, or celebrate it? If only someone could tell me. But they cannot. So, we take our individual preferences or desires, blend them with the ones who are here, and honor the spirit that soars. And we find what gives us meaning. Today will be like any other day. Only it really isn't. It is the day our Allison was set free and pain and worries and complexities of THIS life became but a memory. She set foot in the heaven, at the foot of the throne of grace and mercy, never to return in physical form again.

The physical form is what we miss the most. When I can stay focused on where she is, what has happened, how the skies opened up in an array of color blossoms on a cold, winter day, and how the world seemed to stop and pause for a second, I can find my peace. When I recall the answer to prayers that were cried out in the final days, I can know my God. And when I know that in order to fulfill a plan that is beyond my own comprehension, she had to go, I can understand...if only for a moment. I can understand what seizing the day means and find new relevance in a new year. It has nothing to do with the calendar turning, and everything to do with where God wants us to be. I can breathe and say to myself, my new year begins right now, I am nine days behind everyone else, but it does not matter. It's only time. And where Allison is, there is no time, there is no confinement, there are no deadlines, and appropriate time frames, there's only freedom, bliss, wonder, hope, love and longevity in the hereafter.

My new year begins today...while a very bittersweet day, this is not a day for death. That was last week. That was last month. As God's word affirms, there is that time for dying, and for living. She was set free to live. She did not die. Her love is even stronger than if she were in this room right now. She was set free so that others may live. Or die. She was chosen from a host of holy warriors. And she answered the call. And until we meet again, and while I am "forced" to follow a calendar, today, January 9th, 7:00 a.m. will always begin my new year.

Happy new year to my sweet Allie, my compass, my guide. Happy new year to my child, who reminds me that we are ALL children in the eyes of God. One day we will be with her, and Him, and all those we love, and our age won't matter, the calender won't matter, nothing will matter. Worries will be gone, extinguished. We will be set free.

Happy new year, to the child I rocked in my arms, four years ago last night, who I was blessed to give birth to, and who I was blessed to know, for 21 years, and into eternity. Happy new year to the one who whispers her love and gratitude to me in ways I could have never imagined possible. Happy new year to my beloved, Allison Marie Haake, who rests in eternal peace.

Facing Death

2011-01-05T15:08:00.000-08:00

I don't want to think about it, what this day, the past few days, really, and the next few, to come, represent. But my mind goes there, in spite of the multitude of prayers and near begging antics I lay at the foot of God's throne. Trusting Him as I do, I know I must be in this place, in the here and now, and live out each day as a grieving mother for a reason. I know He has many reasons and a bigger plan, but oh, how I wish I could turn off the last days, the last hours of Allison's life. They serve no purpose to a saddened soul. Yet, by remembering I draw strength.

I cannot be in the first week of January without remembering how she faced death. It was really the first we had spoken of it, because in her 21 year old mind, and in ours, we prayed God's miracle would be a cure. We stuck to His medicine all the way, through the scriptures that carried her through treatments, to prayer time, to laying in bed and just giving thanks for so much. One day we watched Oprah and there was a young man who had eye cancer that caused both eyes to be removed, spreading to his tongue, and then causing him to be fed by a tube. Allison was so moved, as she always was by anyone's plight, and we actually stopped and prayed on the couch at that very moment. Not for her. But for him. She KNEW she would be fine, she planned to outlive this cancer.

In retrospect, I know more than I thought I would about facing death. I sat by my mother's side, my father's side, my daughter and a friend's sister, and Michael's side. While each circumstance was different, it was this world they didn't want to leave, for reasons known only to them, or shared if they chose to do so. We mortals believe we are needed here, and we are. No one wants to go on without the ones we love most in this world. I couldn't comprehend a life without my mother, my father, my daughter, I couldn't comprehend Chrissy's children living on without a much needed, and loved, mother, and I couldn't imagine this family without Michael. Now, all this is but a mere remembrance, because for some reason, some way, we are living without them.

Allison faced death in her own way. When she asked me if she would die, and I was honest in my answer, I will never forget her eyes. She already knew my answer. I didn't say yes, today, tomorrow, or the next day. I just told her that yes, we are all going to die, that is God's purpose for our life. There were a few times she cursed cancer, but mostly, she embraced it and fought and learned. She spoke of a time when she may change career paths and work with cancer patients in some capacity. She mapped out her life. She knew things no 21 year old should ever know. And she faced death with the love of Jesus in her heart. I know that makes it "easier" for me, her sister, her father, and her family. I know she is an instrument of His peace, to help guide, and who better to guide than her own uncle, who lived with his own diagnosis, right on the heels of hers. She gave him endless strength, courage, and love. Everywhere he went, he saw her. And as he faced his own death, there she was, arms outstretched, waiting, and he spoke of seeing her.

All of this brings me comfort, but all of this causes me grief. I am saddened at what the first week of January will always represent. I miss my child more than I can even articulate. I don't know how to go on, at times. But, then I remember the promise, my promise made to her, as she faced death. Yes, Allison, I will be okay, and I will live strong, and when I falter, I will look up. God will carry me, and you will guide me. When that promise was made, I could not imagine just how difficult it would be to live it out in my new reality. I didn't know just how gut wrenching every single day would be. I didn't know there was such a process, that grief isn't just in losing her, that it is also in letting her go, accepting, and moving. I didn't know so much. I didn't know that as she faced death, a part of me died, too.

She faced death with all the gusto a person could, wise beyond her years, connected to a loving God. But she didn't go easily. She fought and thrashed and yelled and begged. Those moments serve me no purpose to remember, but as the calendar days turn, they come rushing into my subconscious and rip apart a heart that is already crying. Please God let me remember where she is, that her work was done here, and that she rests safely and beautifully in your hands, being reunited with those who have faced their own death, in order to live.

Continue The Climb

2011-01-02T17:02:00.001-08:00

Today, I pledge to continue the climb. Climbing to where or what, I do not know, but climbing is what it feels like. Climbing the mountain of grief. Climbing out of bed. Climbing past myself and my emotions. Climbing out from underneath the reminders, the memories, the remembrances, the flashbacks. Simply, climbing.

With the holidays all but a memory now, I continue to praise God for that "last" Christmas, when Allison could have been gone, but was not. I thank Him for the blessing of knowing her for 21 years. I thank Him for taking her quickly, eleven weeks, and for keeping her suffering to somewhat of a minimum. I ask Him for daily help and assistance to live on, live strong, and live honorably, without her. I thank Him for the gift of family over this Christmas, for sustaining us with love, knowing that is all we need. For the resources, for the ability to live another day, for carrying me through the day to day life since she left. And for giving me the ability to continue the climb.

I needed such strength today, just to climb out of bed. Fatigue and exhaustion have taken over, and not just from weeks of preparations and holiday cooking. It's called grief. And it's knowing in my soul what this day represents...her last week, the words, "no cure", "no treatment", "no options". My dear God, how does one endure? But she did, we did, and we do. We continue the climb.

I hold on to the image of where Allie is now, in a place that knows no new year, no January 2nd, and no January 9th. A heaven and a God that holds no timeframe at all. So why should I, why should we? Our hearts and souls tell a story that is physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual, and mental. And it takes work to continue the climb. I don't want to forget, yet, I do. I don't want to GO THERE! There is no need. So, instead, I work like I have never worked at anything, work to continue, move, savor, be in the moment, not the ones four years ago today and this week. But right now. When I falter, and I do, I look up and I ask for God's good grace and tender kindness. I cannot change the fact that she is gone. I can only respond and change how I cope.

Still, the climb is breathtaking and painstaking and monumental. Grief barely settles in from the holidays, and then it is her last days, week, breath. She climbed the biggest hurdles and left me to continue the climb...I will, I do, I must.

I look at four years and wonder many things...how did I get here? How will I go on like this? When is it easier? When do I FEEL something different? And I realize that to my multitude of questions, there are no easy answers. Climb I must, and climb, I will.

A quote this week on The Compassionate Friends facebook page really hit home..."The passage of time does not cause our grief to end, but it's softening touch helps us to survive"...by Wayne Loder.

Grief has not ended, but perhaps its softening touch, and God's gentle hand, has helped me to survive. Only time will tell how long I have to live in this world, but I do know, each day I spend, I will take my cues from both daughters and a family who loves me, and I will continue the climb.

There's A Beat of A Beautiful Heart

2010-12-23T05:57:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Inspired By Erin"

2010-12-18T07:33:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

On The Tightrope

2010-12-16T06:28:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Trials And Troubles, Grief, And Sadness

2010-12-10T03:57:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In A Flash

2010-12-03T10:15:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's December

2010-12-01T06:37:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

I Just Want To Make It Okay

2010-11-24T07:06:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing It Alone

2010-11-19T06:41:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

"No Hill For A Stepper"

2010-11-16T07:10:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

Love you, Michael.

Mother to Mother, Heart to Heart

2010-11-08T07:01:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

I've Travelled So Far

2010-11-05T07:05:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Rerouted Tears

2010-10-29T06:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

The Sweet Whisper of Her Soul

2010-10-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Her Hair

2010-10-21T06:27:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Glorious Weekend

2010-10-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's JUST Routine!

2010-09-30T15:27:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

The Cancer World

2010-09-28T04:41:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Have to Look Far

2010-09-21T07:17:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

The Quilt

2010-09-07T04:20:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Another Quilt, by KLO

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

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

Grounded

2010-09-02T07:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-08-31T04:41:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Just To See You Smile

2010-08-24T07:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Hold My Hand

2010-08-21T19:42:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010-08-19T12:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Anchorman

2010-08-17T05:15:00.000-07:00

Michael was a bit of an anchorman for our family, and after the stories I have heard in recent weeks, I believe for many others as well. I don't suppose I truly knew that before. I knew he was our "historian", often remembering, and commenting, on things I'd rather forget! He could bring out the best in one, and the worst! He could cut you to the quick in such a funny way that you were not sure whether he was making fun of you, or if you were so endeared to him that he just felt comfortable saying whatever he chose to say. He kept my mother, my father, my daughter alive in ways that no one else could, partly because he just never forgot a detail, and had a way of resurrecting the stories that could bring you to your knees, in laughter AND in sadness. Whatever the case may be, he was the anchorman of the family. And now he is gone. I am struggling to figure out, once again, how to go on. So are many others, most of all, my sister and their sons, his siblings and their spouses, the nieces and the nephews, the friends and the neighbors. None of us really know what to do, we are off balance, we are drifting in silence, going through the motions, layering the grief in our soul, one on top of the other, until we are choked. We must cry, we must find our way through the pain, we must make movement in some direction, even if it is wrong. We must keep on living.

This companion of grief is not new to me. I have worn the cloak for so long now, yet only beginning to understand how to truly live with it, and now, another layer has been added. Karen and I both talked about the fact that often it is difficult to realize where living in grief over Allison's passage ends and Michael's begins. Perhaps that is because the journeys were so similar, maybe because Michael correlated his life with cancer and ultimate death from this life to hers, he compared, and he used her legacy as his compass. All the while, he was thankful, appreciative, grateful that he was the one diagnosed and not one of his children. He never made it about him, he felt "chosen" in some ways to walk the journey and felt God must have wanted him to know something he didn't already know, and that Allison had paved the way for every treatment, procedure, symptom, pain, side effect. He used her story as a barometer, knowing if she could do this, then so could he, for however long. For many months, he truly expected to "beat" this thing called cancer. Even in early summer days, he was willing to keep fighting and trying new options. But he grew tired. He became weary. He had endured SO much. He knew his boys had evolved into men, he saw the fruits of his labor, as I have said, and at some point, he knew his beloved Karen would be "okay", never the same, but "okay". She promised him so, and so did I. She will be "okay". She will be forever changed, walk with a sadness until grief becomes her familiar partner, learn to find Michael, our anchorman, in the breezes, in the eyes and actions of her sons, in the beach days, in the flying acorns, in the singing chimes, on the swing, and most of all, in her heart.

None of us has comprehended this loss, yet. It will take a long time. We don't honor our loved ones at a service and resume any type of life. Everything is shattered. Everything is different, and takes on a new look. The world moves slower, then faster, and we need one foot on the floor to keep the world from spinning. Perhaps that is why, when it was their time to leave this earth, both Allison and Michael kept that one foot on the floor, they transitioned the same way, not wanting to leave their loved ones behind, but knowing it was time. Time to rest and find peace, time to leave the world so that they could guide from the spirit that was restless in pain and fatigue, to be free to BE, to share their laughter and their love.

The layers of loss are hard to separate. Where one begins, the other ends, and so on. It's complex. It's indescribable. It's lonely. Even when we know the world out there mourns for their own loved ones, and in theory we know life IS loss, still, this pain is exhausting. It is consuming. It kicks you in the gut. It brings tears that pour from places we didn't know existed. It is grueling to live without our anchor. But we will. God will see to it. Allison will see to it. Michael will see to it. They won't let us rest, not at all. They will see to it that we celebrate the day, find one sweet miracle in it, even on the days we don't think we can at all. They will see to it that we smile, live, love, and even laugh. They will never leave us, truly. So we will do our best to honor the legacy, the hope and the love. We will simply do our best.

Saying Good-bye

2010-08-14T04:47:00.000-07:00

There comes that time to say good-bye...and good-bye's are never easy, certainly not the ones of recent days and months and years. I follow my all time favorite scripture that I use often, almost every day, from the book of Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, verses 1-8, it begins, "There is a time for everything and a reason for every activity under heaven", and it continues, "a time to be born and a time to die, a time to weep and a time to laugh", "a time to be silent and a time to speak"...and in my own words, a time to say hello, and a time to say good-bye. Hello to the new babies being born all around us, hello to new friends and summer vacations, hello to new days filled with sea breezes and sunshine, at least from where I sit right now, hello to new seasons and reasons to keep living. Then there is a time to say good-bye, good-bye to all plans that were made and not fulfilled because life changed, good-bye to summer days as they ease into autumn, good-bye to dreams and hopes, shattered by realities and now need to be readjusted, good-bye to loved ones as they board planes as I will do today, good-bye to a parent, a daughter, a son, a husband, a father, an uncle, a brother, a brother-in-law, Michael.

I am not only saying good-bye to summer, I am saying good-bye to my sister as we both, surrounded by hundreds of others, have said good-bye to Michael. Each good-bye has intensified over the years, but we know if God wills it, we will meet again. And we know that about Michael, too. Some days we will desire that reunion so much it will hurt. Some days we will praise God to the highest for allowing us one more day to live on this side of heaven so that we can spend it with our loved ones and enjoy the beauty of this life. As difficult as good-byes are, and this one today is especially so, they create the opportunity of a hello. That's the beauty of life. The hellos become good-byes and it's all in the eyes of the beholder.

It doesn't lighten my heart much today, though. I can comprehend it in theory, and I truly embrace the thought, but I don't want the new reality to come forth, just yet. For me, or for my sister. But it is time and it must. Just as I have done before her, and continue to do each and every day, she must find her own way, and be in the moment where she needs to BE. That may be in a puddle of tears, it may be in the chapter of a book, it may be thumbing through Michael's bible for the scripture that will be the sweet assurance that she can get to the next minute, it may be swinging in the special swing just staring at the clouds or the pink lined sky, it may be caressing the spot where Michael once sat, or sniffing his clothing until the tears stop. She begins a new chapter of her life, and did so, three weeks ago today, as her husband's heart took it's last breath beneath the tender touch of her loving palm. Grief is work, there is no way around it. Her walk will not be the same as my walk, I know not where she will need to go on her own journey of healing. All I know is that while we say our physical good-bye today, we will still walk as one and soldier on...that is what we do. That is what we must do to honor the life and love of our precious Allison and our beloved Michael.

Our world has more than shifted. Our anchor is not standing in our physical presence, but Our Father is, God above who makes room and time for each of us as we need it. My contention is that we draw closer to Him when the trying times outweigh the happy days! When things are beautiful in our lives we can often forget to come to our knees and thank Him, but when the pain overtakes and we don't know how to breathe or maneuver, He is there. He is there, showing us that there is a time for every purpose under heaven. He has set eternity in the hearts of men and women, and for that I am most grateful. Back to eternal perspective! All this is temporary, the worries, the fear, the angst, the pain, the sorrow, the definitive sadness...it is ours to own right now, but one day, we are promised we shall say good-bye to all of that, too. Just as Allison and Michael have, we too, will find our peace. The beauty is, we have an opportunity to find it now, and we will.

"There is a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time for war and a time for peace"...Everything God does will endure forever. We thank Him for taking Michael at just the right, precise planned moment, even though saying good-bye is one of the hardest things we will ever do. Good-bye Michael, as you rest, you live on, and will be here when I return.

Eternal Perspective

2010-08-09T06:57:00.000-07:00

I am trying to keep my focus, my understanding that heaven knows no untimely death, that all is temporal in our physical world, and that eternal light is what we live for...but I miss her, my daughter, and all those who have gone before us, and I miss him, Michael, my brother-in-law/brother who left this world for his eternal rest on that Saturday morning, just a little over two weeks ago. And if I miss him this much, I can only imagine my sister's pain, the loss of Matt and Joseph, Michael's siblings, neighbors, friends and just about everyone who has shared their "Michael moments" with Karen in the last days. I hope those stories continue, I pray that people do not forget, I plan to make sure his life was lived so that we all can learn. We can learn, once again, not to take one minute for granted. We can learn that speaking from the heart is honest and good, even when others do not want to hear what is ours to own. We can learn that one simple, random act of kindness will one day mean the world to someone. We can learn that the dusting and cleaning can wait, that taking someone on the jeep ride, or driving someone to the beach, or building a sandcastle means so much more. We can caress the hand of our beloved spouse in new ways, take the time to really listen to them and their deepest desires, beliefs, or wishes, we can linger in the embrace of a hug for a little longer, and we can kiss more passionately. All these things can help Michael live longer in our hearts.

His was a story entwined with Allison's. It is safe to say that she paved the way, or rather, God used her in wondrous ways to show her uncle the way to truth, light, acceptance, and eternal life with a loving God. It is safe to say that Michael Powers was never the same after his niece left us. It is safe to say that he learned the lessons as his own life changed and cancer invaded his body. It is safe to say Allison led him to Jesus and the life he now lives, in spirit form, free, simply free. It is safe to say the questions, perplexities, confusion, doubt and even anger or angst, was precipitated by his beloved pink angel. She had felt all of those emotions, too, and charted a course for him that was often ugly and painful, yet made beautiful by the end result...the eternal perspective, the place we all desire, yet don't feel ready to move to, especially when we think of our physical world.

Michael found his readiness, made a little easier by his love of God and family, a family who stood by his bedside and prayed and ushered him into new life with kisses and hugs, loving touches and the laying of hands. What joy he must have felt, but could not convey to us, yet, we knew, we knew because the next morning, he took that final breath and his heart stopped beating under the loving palm of his beloved Karen.

Eternal bliss awaits us all, it is ours for the asking and the accepting, heaven knows no untimely death indeed...Michael was on this side of heaven for 53 years, not enough, not nearly enough, Allison for 21, never enough, Faith for 3 days, not even beginning a life here as we know it, and I could list all the others who I carry in my heart. Never enough from our perspective, but just enough by God's definition. Just enough.

Michael

2010-08-04T08:16:00.000-07:00

On July 24, 2010, 8:52 a.m., it was as if the world broke into song, "Morning Has Broken", the fog covered this sea town in the wee hours, and moments before God took Michael Powers to His Heavenly Kingdom, the sun broke through and all was right with the world...for that moment, for the days of celebration, for the family gatherings, for the prayers, for the celebration of such a life in a magnificent service, for the garden of flowers, and the pink sunsets, all has been right with the world.

Michael, for a "sister" who loves words, there are none right now. But there will be. None are necessary at the moment. All IS right with the world, but we miss you, we are sad, and our hearts now feel even more empty, if that can be possible. But you live, always have, and always will. So much has been shared in such a short time, the stories, the memories, the impact, the light you brought into countless lives. LOVE prevails as you make your transition to eternal life. God has, and will continue to use you in such powerful ways. I thank Him for allowing me to be part of the journey, for revealling in all of us the sensitive side of life, and for helping us to find our peace and center. You have found yours in the arms of the Lord. As you orchestrate and guide, light and pave our paths, we know we are better off, wiser, blessed for walking the journey of life with you. You live on in the lives of those you have touched, and for that, we know, you will never die, you LIVE.

The Pit

2010-07-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

I have tried to not only understand, but describe, the pit that has been in my being, my soul, my inner self, my womb since Allison died. Yes, I am saying the word. Died. It still doesn't roll off my tongue easily. It's like a stutter. It's even like I try to think of words to say INSTEAD...because, as I have written about and live through every day, she didn't DIE, but, yet, in terms that people understand, she did. So I sometimes say IT. But I don't like IT. Still.

The "pit" is something that I am learning to live with, through, and to cope with. I heed its messages, warnings, sadness, as I know it is the place I hold my grief. Is this the way with all mothers who have carried a child under their heart, I often wonder. I just don't know how to understand it. It gnaws and makes me feel hungry, I try to satisfy it by eating healthy, or not so healthy, satisfy the pain with what appeals to me at the time, but very seldom does anything soothe or take it away, that ache, that is sometimes dull and often relentless. It creates nausea, it stimulates hunger and it is my constant reminder that the effect of grief on my body and spirit never leaves, no one will ever see it, yet, it is always there.

Imagine my surprise when I turned to a Facebook Page I look at from time to time, Grief and Loss, and a mother's blog was featured. I like how the group showcases different blogs with one time articles, and then if the blog appeals to you, you can certainly follow. Sometimes I do, often I do not. Lately, I have found them to be of some comfort and support and they touch me in ways I didn't even know I needed. My own blog has been my main source, as my fingers virtually fly to release the feelings within, so that I may move through, and around this cloud that follows my every move. So, there I was, led to a posting of "The Pit", so I am not taking credit for her words on www.thegriefspot.blogspot.com, I am simply sharing so as not to plagiarize (the English teacher I was has made me paranoid:). The mother remains nameless to me thus far, but I did post on her blog so she knows how much she helped me as she shared, and put into words what I could not, her feelings of "the pit". What struck me most was her words that were so literal and descriptive, especially when she spoke of how the feeling was like one of "scar tissue stretched and spread" and how "the pit" is her "touchstone in reality". I, myself, being so unaware of this type of grief, have often believed something HAS to be physically wrong with me, have sought out doctors, have in my heart wondered if I had cancer, or if something had gone horribly awry with surgeries that took place long before grief! When I read that this grief has been with her for eight yers and that "the pit" was her personal "reminder to look after me", I struck an instant, identical understanding! I have so often used "the pit" as my personal barometer, especially since losing my child, and try to heed the signs to rest and care and find my own self-awareness!

No one sees this pit, no one knows it exists, no one knows how deep it goes, the numbness, the emptiness, even while being filled with all the other joys of life, learning to live with this pit, a hole that will never be fulfilled again, is my constant challenge. Sometimes I welcome it because it makes me FEEL again, sometimes I despise it, because I do not understand it, sometimes I embrace it because it is my signal to hold on and know myself, to fill myself up with God's embrace and love, to cling to love, to count the blessings of my life. And sometimes, I just want it to all go away, to turn back and not know of it, and others, I want it to stay, because it makes me know I am alive and it helps me find my purpose, if only for a short time. This "pit" may be here to stay, it may fade in time, it may surge without mercy, all I know is, it is real, no, you cannot see it, but it is mine.

A Home

2010-07-12T06:18:00.001-07:00

I am posting a photo that brings me comfort, peace, joy and love....and oh so many memories, not just for me, but for my family, both immediate and afar, the cousins, the friends, the parties, the celebrations, the milestones...through many rough times that only made us stronger, I needed to see this image today, for myself. I could write a book about this house, and I just might, beginning with a couple who barely had any funds to do so, yet found a way to move into the house that would become a home. We stretched the dollars back then, Jen being 5 and Allison being 3 years old. We didn't enter with much. But we left with so much more.

Joe had just gotten the "really big job", inside family joke. We had to move from the other house for a multitude of reasons, and here we found this multi-level home, complete with an in-law apartment in the basement, all set up for whatever we may need. Thinking it might serve us well for the future teen years, it was enticing to say the least. The three level deck served us in ways that were complete and utter enjoyment, from hosting David and Kathy's rehearsal dinner, to all the birthday parties, to the relaxation of wine and ale, to the supervision of the young people who liked it as well, a little too much at times! We had a neighborhood pool where we spent our summers and we thought we had truly arrived! Sacrifices, oh yes, worries, oh yes, times that became almost too difficult to bear, oh yes, just like any house that becomes one's home.

What has brought me to think of this house is the many conversations my sister and I have had about THEIR house. The one where Michael now rests and restores and heals in, the one where Karen tends to every need of the family, and her beloved husband. The one where the memories just stream out of, and the one where our past became our future. Just like the house on Cameo Drive. Just like that one.

What transpired in those houses have now become pictures in our minds. At the time, we were too busy to notice. We were going here, there, Joe was coaching t-ball or soccer for girls' teams, God bless his soul and he was always working toward his own personal goals and running, running, running (the girls in Bridgeton still miss him)! I was Girl Scout Leader and Sunday School teacher, and a social butterfly. We came, we went, we lived, we didn't know, sometimes to slow down and look around. We didn't know those were the best years of our lives. Well, sort of. I'm not saying I would trade them. Would I do anything differently? Perhaps. But we didn't know any better. We did our best with what we had or were given at the time. We didn't know love was holding it all together.

There came a time when my parents lost all possessions and everything they had. They were the age I am right now. They had no place to go and had exhausted options in Missouri and in Hull, where Karen and Michael and the boys lived. So, they came to the in-law apartment, and stayed for many years to come. Not enough years. Mom became ill and left this earth so early, at 62 and later, Dad developed cancer and three months after diagnosis, he, too, was gone. Both virtually lived and died in this house. So many stories in between, but those will be saved for another day.

The lesson of the house was simple, or at least now it is...when the airport bought us out and the land was to become a runway, I was devastated. I think I could have stayed in that house and be the last one standing, well, we practically were. I couldn't bare to leave it, even though we had not repaired or replaced much, knowing for years it would be demolished. Still, I will never forget the feeling of closing that door for the last time, wondering why I felt so emotional, so sad, so lost and empty. Now I know. It wasn't a house, it was a home.

It brings me great joy just to gaze upon the photographs that we have of our beloved house with the orange door, orange carpet and worn out stairs. Through my eyes, I see so much more, and I feel so much stronger, for having learned what I learned, loved who I loved, and know what I know about life, from within the walls of that home. I am richer, wiser, and better for having been there.

Stress, What Stress?

2010-07-11T07:03:00.000-07:00

There are ways we all cope with our stress, some involve things or addictions that are not necessarily good for us...the list can range from sugar, alcohol, drugs, tobacco, too much sleep, not enough sleep, on and on and on....The list can include many things that ARE good for us, as well, and that is what I focus on, even though I have a few of my own ways that are probably not as beneficial as others....like baking too many things from the new cookbook, and eating them, or spending money on things I really don't need, and neither do the people I buy them for...but what the heck?! As I think about moving energy and staying around all that is positive and powerful for myself, I risk moving on and past some former things, and people, in my life. I have written about this before, it seems to surge when I know that someone takes offense to my inability to be present in their life, or when I don't have the emotional strength to attend a gathering or be social. Grief is a lonely world at times. I don't want any other mother to share this, but I do want every other mother to understand. Maybe that will help the next mother or father or sister or brother, or wife or child. Maybe they won't question or wonder why things aren't "different" or "better", maybe they can rid themselves of perceptions or how things appear, seem or "look", maybe they won't impose a time frame for others who walk the valley of grief. Maybe they won't be so quick to misunderstand the meaning of an "anniversary" that doesn't have to be marked with a profound passage, maybe it's just a day that means something only to me, that brings on a memory that I can barely breathe through, let alone live through, that suffocates, only to bring a surge of peace and elation that Allison was spared the dreaded disease to her lungs, that God chose her to leave this earth early, and she took heed of His call.

My stress lies in the pain and distress of my daughter, who went through more than I have ever observed in my lifetime, now, with the exception of my brother-in-law, who now parallels her every step. Uncanny? Unbelievable? Surreal? All of the above?

But that stress was taken from me, almost as soon as it began. Eleven short weeks for her, going on three years for Michael, and he is still fighting. And those around him are managing the stress of watching a loved one in pain, in suffering, myself included. My stress is different than anyone else's because I have travelled a road that many have not, at least not in the immediate family and circle of friends. I understand at a perfectly different level how this all makes sense, no, not the diagnosis, the journey, the fluctuations, the hope, the despair, but the divinity that prevails and the plan that God is unravelling. That doesn't mean I don't operate with my own stressors, but I have learned to cope and live, despite the fact that I would prefer to roll into a ball and never come out of a sheltered cocoon. That doesn't mean I don't over indulge in ice-cream or other coping mechanisms from time to time to manage the stress! But what it does mean is that I know how to find my peace, the peace that God gives for the asking when we travel hand in hand with Him. And what it does mean is that when God used Allison in such powerful ways, He erased stressors from my life in a way I would have never seen or imagined. He has shown me that all circumstances change, and we must change with them. Nothing remains the same. We get to respond to the pain and problem of the day.

I work on self-discipline, seizing the day, waking up and living, moving, maybe not ON or AHEAD, but moving. I may tread water, I may have setbacks, I may have to affirm through faith and scriptures that I am going to be able to do this, live with the stress life hands, and ask God's guidance on how to respond. I don't always do things right or correctly or according to plan. There is NO plan for this, this painful and penetrating loss of a child, this observance of another loved one who follows in her footsteps, leaving us once again breathless and in wonder. There is NO plan at all. But we will do it, I will do it, I will fill myself with the energy only God can provide, through His word, through His creations, through the beauty of this day, through the small blessings and the lives of those around me who need me, and whom I need. I will not be stressed, I will rid myself of the negativity that permeates when I listen to others who do not know, who only think they are helping, or of those who offer opinions without any basis of reality. I will do what is best for me, knowing that with my daughter, God took any reason to be stressed completely away. Nothing else can compare. There is no reason to be afraid.