Rerouted Tears

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

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

The Sweet Whisper of Her Soul

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

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

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

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

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

Her Hair

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

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

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

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

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

Glorious Weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's JUST Routine!

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

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

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

The Cancer World

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Have to Look Far

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

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

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

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