I have a bad attitude. I'm just going to tell you that right off the bat. I know I'm letting some of you down- I'm letting myself down. I want so badly to set a good example for my girls and to have an attitude of thankfulness, but it's just not there today. Or yesterday. But this blog is about honesty and reality, so here's my reality.
I'm so frustrated and angry and scared that I really want to crawl into a hole and stay there for a good long while. Not because I don't love my life, but because I'm so tired of all of this and I'd like to go somewhere it can't find me for a while.
I miss my 3-weeks-ago-life. More than I could possibly express to you. I miss just being able to enjoy my babies and my new job. Everything now is scarred. My joyful things have the scar of cancer across them- again- and I am really, super angry about it. Some people have said that it's good to get angry- that I can channel it towards the cancer, but this isn't that kind of anger. It's aimless and random- hard to explain. It's not the kind of anger that makes you want to fight- it's the kind that makes you want to run.
I know I said I don't 'hope' for much, but the doctors had given me some concrete (I thought) positive news. There was a chance that I wouldn't need chemo and that I would be able to have a flap reconstruction that would mean a one-step surgery and great results to look forward to. Today I learned that my tumor has already grown in size and I can count on chemo. A few months worth at least. And apparently all of that hard work I put into losing weight and getting healthy means that I don't have enough fat and skin to perform a flap surgery. That means a 6-12 month process before the painful and embarrassing reconstruction process is complete. To make matters worse, I just couldn't stand the surgeon. It's not really anything he did or didn't do- I just don't like him. Of course it didn't work to his favor that he was about the 10th person this week to ask me the same 30 questions and then make me take my clothes off so he could poke me like the guy from the 'Operation' game. Also he appeared to be 80 years old and mostly blind.
I think maybe I was having a premonition yesterday. I woke up depressed and grumpy. Pissed off that I can't even crack an eyeball in the morning without the word 'cancer' being immediately present in my brain. I tried to listen to my 'screw cancer' songs on the way to work, but then got a notification that I had almost reached my data limit, so I had to turn on the radio. There was a nun speaking on the Catholic station and she sounded so old and sweet that I felt guilty changing it, so I started listening. I'll be damned if she didn't start talking about how we need to treat the challenges in our lives as blessings and lessons from God- and accept them with grace. Then she talked about a 45-year-old sister who had very advanced cancer and how much she admired this woman because all she wanted to do was enjoy whatever time she had left with her sisters and her God. Geez. I felt like such a whiny baby. I know that particular message was meant for me, and I tried so hard to soak it in, but it just kind of bounced off my heart. So then when I got the news today from Mr. Magoo I was just so incredibly mad, and not in a good productive way, but in a "I'm going to punch the nearest person and then drink too much" way. Finally the question of which of my many sins brought this particular punishment upon me crossed my mind. Yes, I know that all indications are that God doesn't work that way, but if you have met a sick person who hasn't wondered it nonetheless, I'd like to meet them. (Okay, so that nun probably never wondered that, but she doesn't count). And that's when I really began mourning my three-weeks-ago life.
Three weeks ago I could go to the grocery store without wondering what food I needed for the freezer meals I would make to get my family through. I could go to work without spending the whole day wondering what my new boss would think of me when I'm gone for a month. I could get dressed without staring at myself- trying to take in what it looks like so I can remember next month when it's gone. I could brush my hair without thinking about how much I have taken it for granted and how much I'm going to miss it. I could exercise without wondering what it will feel like after they cut through my muscles. I could look at my husband and not wonder what he will think of me when I'm bald and scarred. I could cuddle with the girls without thinking about how I won't be able to hold them close to my chest for months. I could yell at them without thinking about whether they would have good memories of me if I die on the operating table. And as much as I want to be positive and uplifting, I can't help but wonder what will be next. What if, in a few months, something else happens and THIS becomes my three-weeks ago life? While most days I can be thankful that we caught it early and I am lucky, these are the other kinds of days. The days when I remember that being "lucky" today does not, in fact, exempt me from further unluckiness in the future. And that's just kind of a crapper.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Miles to go
Man, I love control. I crave it- demand it even. Sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it. I think most Mothers have some level of desire or need to control- just so we don't wake up with one of those pretty white coats on. But there may be some of us who go a smidge too far. I'm one of them. Hi, my name's Angela and I'm a control addict.
Yes, to some degree, when Daddy was sick I learned that control is an illusion. At least as it pertains to our eternal fate. And even now, with my cancer, I find myself wondering what it's all for. The exercise, the healthy diet, the not-smoking. None of it made a damn bit of difference because I couldn't control my destiny when it came to developing cancer anymore than Daddy could. So you'd think that would lighten the grip that this perpetual need to control has on me. It wasn't enough, though. I still found myself panicking over what the girls are going to eat, who is going to drive them around, what if their hair and clothes make them look like rag-a-muffins because I can't dress them, who is going to scrub my toilets, what if the lack of mobility in my arms means I can't wipe my own butt?
Oh dear Lord.
But over the last week, so many people have shown up. I don't mean just verbally. They've brought me lunch (and alcohol), they've cut my hair, they've picked my girls up, done my laundry, forced me to go have a massage and traveled two hours to come to my doctor's visits. Suddenly today, I realized that I was breathing. And not the "into a paper bag" type of breathing. The calm kind. I have no control over my disease, and life or death decisions are being made for me, but I'm (kinda sorta) okay. That's the gift that people have given me- and it's the same one you can give someone when they get sick. You can do something- just one thing- the way they would want it if they were still in control. What an amazing feeling it is to be on the other end of that love. I just hope I don't get too used to it because I'm guessing ya'll are gonna expect me to do my own laundry and drive my own kids around by the time this is all over, right?
Yesterday we got some "good" news. My cancer is Estrogen-receptor positive or ER+/PR+. This is, technically, a good thing. It means that Estrogen causes my cancer to grow, so if I take an estrogen blocker for the next 5-10 years then I have a lower chance of reoccurance. The medicine you take is called Tamoxifen and is difficult for some people to tolerate- it also forces you into menopause. We also learned that my cancer is growing at a rate that causes it to increase in stage every 2-3 months. Wow! Do you know what that would have meant if I would have waited 6 more months to go to the doctor? Do the math. Then make a doctor's appointment.
As I digested that news, my thoughts went to a healthy 29-year-old mother living with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, which is essentially incurable. She, like me, went for a regular check-up when her two tumors were discovered- and by that point it had spread to her back and several other locations. No rhyme or reason- no family history. My geneticist said that two things have to happen in your life for cancer to occur. You will probably never know what two things they were. One happens earlier in life, and if the second one occurs, BOOM- hello, tumor. So I sat there thanking God that the odds are so generously in my favor- unlike so many other women. Then the thought occured to me, "is this IT??" Am I going to spend the rest of my life just accepting whatever crappy thing rolls along and begging God just to not make it any worse? Is that how it's supposed to work? I know God is not in the bargaining business, so I realize that any kind of begging is probably a waste of time. So how, then, does God make his decisions? I know it's kind of like asking "where did God come from?" I'll never be able to answer it. But yesterday I was really miffed that I can no longer be naive and just pray for things like a raise at work or good weather for my yard sale. Those seem like such a waste now that I'm busy praying that my cancer doesn't spread while I wait for surgery.
I experienced some of this during Daddy's illness, though, and while it may sound pessimistic, it's actually been helpful. I don't "hope" for things anymore. When he was first sick, I hoped and hoped and hoped that something would change. It didn't. So I quit hoping and just resigned myself to learning to accept the inevitable. I thought this was "unchristian" of me until I read a life-changing article about how the idea of "having hope" often contributes to cancer patients stress. So now, frankly, "hope" doesn't really cross my mind. Part of me even fears that the more I "hope" it won't happen- the more likely it is that it WILL happen. So I've started asking God to help me deal with whatever He throws my way. And I usually squeeze in, "but if you could stop throwing sucky things at me, that would be AWESOME." Is that wrong? When the bible talks about "faith, hope and love" being the three most important things, am I exhibiting a lack of faith if I don't "hope" for something better? Also, is it wrong to use the word "sucky" when I'm speaking to my Heavenly Father? Just asking.
Yes, to some degree, when Daddy was sick I learned that control is an illusion. At least as it pertains to our eternal fate. And even now, with my cancer, I find myself wondering what it's all for. The exercise, the healthy diet, the not-smoking. None of it made a damn bit of difference because I couldn't control my destiny when it came to developing cancer anymore than Daddy could. So you'd think that would lighten the grip that this perpetual need to control has on me. It wasn't enough, though. I still found myself panicking over what the girls are going to eat, who is going to drive them around, what if their hair and clothes make them look like rag-a-muffins because I can't dress them, who is going to scrub my toilets, what if the lack of mobility in my arms means I can't wipe my own butt?
Oh dear Lord.
But over the last week, so many people have shown up. I don't mean just verbally. They've brought me lunch (and alcohol), they've cut my hair, they've picked my girls up, done my laundry, forced me to go have a massage and traveled two hours to come to my doctor's visits. Suddenly today, I realized that I was breathing. And not the "into a paper bag" type of breathing. The calm kind. I have no control over my disease, and life or death decisions are being made for me, but I'm (kinda sorta) okay. That's the gift that people have given me- and it's the same one you can give someone when they get sick. You can do something- just one thing- the way they would want it if they were still in control. What an amazing feeling it is to be on the other end of that love. I just hope I don't get too used to it because I'm guessing ya'll are gonna expect me to do my own laundry and drive my own kids around by the time this is all over, right?
Yesterday we got some "good" news. My cancer is Estrogen-receptor positive or ER+/PR+. This is, technically, a good thing. It means that Estrogen causes my cancer to grow, so if I take an estrogen blocker for the next 5-10 years then I have a lower chance of reoccurance. The medicine you take is called Tamoxifen and is difficult for some people to tolerate- it also forces you into menopause. We also learned that my cancer is growing at a rate that causes it to increase in stage every 2-3 months. Wow! Do you know what that would have meant if I would have waited 6 more months to go to the doctor? Do the math. Then make a doctor's appointment.
As I digested that news, my thoughts went to a healthy 29-year-old mother living with stage 4 metastatic breast cancer, which is essentially incurable. She, like me, went for a regular check-up when her two tumors were discovered- and by that point it had spread to her back and several other locations. No rhyme or reason- no family history. My geneticist said that two things have to happen in your life for cancer to occur. You will probably never know what two things they were. One happens earlier in life, and if the second one occurs, BOOM- hello, tumor. So I sat there thanking God that the odds are so generously in my favor- unlike so many other women. Then the thought occured to me, "is this IT??" Am I going to spend the rest of my life just accepting whatever crappy thing rolls along and begging God just to not make it any worse? Is that how it's supposed to work? I know God is not in the bargaining business, so I realize that any kind of begging is probably a waste of time. So how, then, does God make his decisions? I know it's kind of like asking "where did God come from?" I'll never be able to answer it. But yesterday I was really miffed that I can no longer be naive and just pray for things like a raise at work or good weather for my yard sale. Those seem like such a waste now that I'm busy praying that my cancer doesn't spread while I wait for surgery.
I experienced some of this during Daddy's illness, though, and while it may sound pessimistic, it's actually been helpful. I don't "hope" for things anymore. When he was first sick, I hoped and hoped and hoped that something would change. It didn't. So I quit hoping and just resigned myself to learning to accept the inevitable. I thought this was "unchristian" of me until I read a life-changing article about how the idea of "having hope" often contributes to cancer patients stress. So now, frankly, "hope" doesn't really cross my mind. Part of me even fears that the more I "hope" it won't happen- the more likely it is that it WILL happen. So I've started asking God to help me deal with whatever He throws my way. And I usually squeeze in, "but if you could stop throwing sucky things at me, that would be AWESOME." Is that wrong? When the bible talks about "faith, hope and love" being the three most important things, am I exhibiting a lack of faith if I don't "hope" for something better? Also, is it wrong to use the word "sucky" when I'm speaking to my Heavenly Father? Just asking.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Betty
I went back today and ready every single blog post. Heavyyyy. Ugh. Sorry about that. It was kind of creepy, actually. All of these things that I wrote to Daddy about his cancer- I had forgotten that I had even said them- and now I'm repeating them about my own cancer. I even mentioned the song that is now one of my favorites- Martina McBride's, "I'm gonna love you through it." It seriously made me mad. Like I'm experiencing some kind of divine test- or joke. I know that my job is to show my girls how this is supposed to be done, just like Daddy showed me. I know I can do it, but ya'll. . I really don't want to.
Most of my friends know that what I need most is to laugh. To stay busy with other things besides cancer. Maybe do a couple things that are bad for me and say, "WHAT? Afraid I might get cancer or something?" When one of them complains about something, I like to make them uncomfortable by saying, "trade ya'," or "well, I have a tumor." I told someone last night that I was going to milk that part while I can since someday I won't be able to. ;-) Then I laughed because I said, "milk it," and pretty soon I won't have any boobs with which to milk anyone. The great part about all of that, though, ('that' being cancer, I guess) is that cancer makes everything else seem so freaking AWESOME.
My job was awesome before, but now it's a vacation for me. Somewhere where nobody even knows I'm sick. Somewhere I can be anyone I want to be. Somewhere where I don't have the time to cry. It's so awesome.
My friends are awesome. I've never been one to have a ton of friends. I prefer just a few close ones who really, truly know me. It took me a long time to find that, but I have it now and it is amazing. And I consider every single one of you who takes the time to read this a friend. My friends have touched my heart and made me feel so unworthy of the love they're giving me. Every message, every call, every hug- I am so, so grateful for each of them- and each of you.
My girls are so awesome. Last night they were driving each other nuts in the car and I laughed out loud at them. How awesome that they think that someones knee touching their carseat is the worst thing that has happened this week! It's already like they've forgotten that I'm sick. Of course they can't see it yet, but it gives me hope that they'll brush this off and move on. At the same time, I hope that I can teach them something they'll remember along the way.
My husband is awesome. He's been folding laundry and packing lunches. And when I tell him that my back hurts and I think it must be another tumor, he tells me it's just stress. When I tell him that I'm going to look like a freak, he tells me he didn't marry me for my boobs, that he's really more of a butt man, and that I would never look like a freak.
Exercise is so awesome. I cried in the gym this morning. You see, I've battled my weight since I was a teenager. I've lost more weight and gained it back than I can even count. I hated sweating with a passion- and I used to tell people that I would only run if I was being chased. Two years ago when J was put on blood pressure medication we decided we needed to do something. We started a fitness journey together that changed our lives. I've done things in the last two years that I NEVER thought I would make my body do. I lost 40 pounds, ran in races and began to love sweating.The gym became my second home, and I was so proud of it. I have these fleeting thoughts now that maybe I'm being punished for caring so much about something so cosmetic. On the other hand, if I weren't so strong now, I wouldn't have as much muscle to fight this bi*ch with. That's what made me cry in the gym, though. I'm going to miss it so much. And I'm afraid I'll get fat again. There, I said it. I'm afraid I'm going to be bald and fat with no boobs. Yes, I KNOW I have bigger things to worry about. Yes, I KNOW I'm fighting death. But I would rather not be bald, fat and boobless while I'm doing it. And before you say it, yes I KNOW it's only temporary and I'll get through it. That does not make it any more appealing.
Here's what I've learned that I didn't know- and you probably don't either. They have this thing called "immediate reconstruction," except that it's not really immediate. The only immediate thing is that they put, essentially, balloons in where your boobs were. They blow them up weekly to stretch your skin until you're ready for implants. In the meantime they look all lopsided and uneven. And here's the great part. Apparently, if you need chemo, "immediate reconstruction" isn't even an option. That means I would have NOTHING for several months. NOTHING. How will I even LOOK at that? Isn't that insanely vain? I know it is, but I can't help it right now because I know it's going to be a long time before I will look like something even CLOSE to normal. I am telling myself, even as I write this, that after I get through that, getting ANYthing in there will look and feel awesome for me and I'll never take my body for granted again. See, I really am trying hard to put an upside to every down.
I feel like I have to say this every time. I know that even though cancer sucks, I'm a very lucky woman. There are so many people out there with no hope for themselves or, worse yet, for their babies (by the way, September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month- talk about a vicious monster). I never want to discount what they're experiencing or compare my pain to theirs. The fact remains, though, that however big or small our battle, our pain is our pain. Thinking about other people's battles can give us important perspective, but it doesn't fix OUR battle. I'm kind of just figuring that out. So when you say you have a cold and I say, "wanna trade?" it doesn't mean that having a cold doesn't still suck.
I named my tumor. Betty. Betty the Bi*ch, actually. Sorry for the language, but she is kind of a bi*ch. And now, even though I know she's only, like, 1 centimeter, she feels like she's the size of my fist. That's kind of a bi*chy thing to do if you ask me. And what kind of bi*ch sets up camp in your body without asking and then, when you evict her, takes your freaking boobs with her? So you see, I think the name fits. It helps me stay mad at her as I sit here and DREAD- I mean full on sweating, heart pounding, can't eat (which is RARE for me)- DREAD tomorrow. Are they going to tell me more unexpected things? Are they going to repeatedly shake their heads when I say, for the 10th time, "YES, I'm 34 and NO there is absolutely no history of breast cancer in my family. Ever. Anywhere. Nobody." Well, my girls will have a much different answer, won't they. I'm praying that the advances in medicine are so great over the next decade that they won't have to fear it as much as we do. But right now it just reiterates what I'm already feeling. I'm 34 and I have a disease that nobody I know has ever had. They even told me not to bother calling the American Cancer Society support hotline because most of the women are retirees and "probably wouldn't be able to relate to my situation." But I know there are more "me's" out there, and I'm going to find them. As soon as this bi*ch hits the road.
Most of my friends know that what I need most is to laugh. To stay busy with other things besides cancer. Maybe do a couple things that are bad for me and say, "WHAT? Afraid I might get cancer or something?" When one of them complains about something, I like to make them uncomfortable by saying, "trade ya'," or "well, I have a tumor." I told someone last night that I was going to milk that part while I can since someday I won't be able to. ;-) Then I laughed because I said, "milk it," and pretty soon I won't have any boobs with which to milk anyone. The great part about all of that, though, ('that' being cancer, I guess) is that cancer makes everything else seem so freaking AWESOME.
My job was awesome before, but now it's a vacation for me. Somewhere where nobody even knows I'm sick. Somewhere I can be anyone I want to be. Somewhere where I don't have the time to cry. It's so awesome.
My friends are awesome. I've never been one to have a ton of friends. I prefer just a few close ones who really, truly know me. It took me a long time to find that, but I have it now and it is amazing. And I consider every single one of you who takes the time to read this a friend. My friends have touched my heart and made me feel so unworthy of the love they're giving me. Every message, every call, every hug- I am so, so grateful for each of them- and each of you.
My girls are so awesome. Last night they were driving each other nuts in the car and I laughed out loud at them. How awesome that they think that someones knee touching their carseat is the worst thing that has happened this week! It's already like they've forgotten that I'm sick. Of course they can't see it yet, but it gives me hope that they'll brush this off and move on. At the same time, I hope that I can teach them something they'll remember along the way.
My husband is awesome. He's been folding laundry and packing lunches. And when I tell him that my back hurts and I think it must be another tumor, he tells me it's just stress. When I tell him that I'm going to look like a freak, he tells me he didn't marry me for my boobs, that he's really more of a butt man, and that I would never look like a freak.
Exercise is so awesome. I cried in the gym this morning. You see, I've battled my weight since I was a teenager. I've lost more weight and gained it back than I can even count. I hated sweating with a passion- and I used to tell people that I would only run if I was being chased. Two years ago when J was put on blood pressure medication we decided we needed to do something. We started a fitness journey together that changed our lives. I've done things in the last two years that I NEVER thought I would make my body do. I lost 40 pounds, ran in races and began to love sweating.The gym became my second home, and I was so proud of it. I have these fleeting thoughts now that maybe I'm being punished for caring so much about something so cosmetic. On the other hand, if I weren't so strong now, I wouldn't have as much muscle to fight this bi*ch with. That's what made me cry in the gym, though. I'm going to miss it so much. And I'm afraid I'll get fat again. There, I said it. I'm afraid I'm going to be bald and fat with no boobs. Yes, I KNOW I have bigger things to worry about. Yes, I KNOW I'm fighting death. But I would rather not be bald, fat and boobless while I'm doing it. And before you say it, yes I KNOW it's only temporary and I'll get through it. That does not make it any more appealing.
Here's what I've learned that I didn't know- and you probably don't either. They have this thing called "immediate reconstruction," except that it's not really immediate. The only immediate thing is that they put, essentially, balloons in where your boobs were. They blow them up weekly to stretch your skin until you're ready for implants. In the meantime they look all lopsided and uneven. And here's the great part. Apparently, if you need chemo, "immediate reconstruction" isn't even an option. That means I would have NOTHING for several months. NOTHING. How will I even LOOK at that? Isn't that insanely vain? I know it is, but I can't help it right now because I know it's going to be a long time before I will look like something even CLOSE to normal. I am telling myself, even as I write this, that after I get through that, getting ANYthing in there will look and feel awesome for me and I'll never take my body for granted again. See, I really am trying hard to put an upside to every down.
I feel like I have to say this every time. I know that even though cancer sucks, I'm a very lucky woman. There are so many people out there with no hope for themselves or, worse yet, for their babies (by the way, September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month- talk about a vicious monster). I never want to discount what they're experiencing or compare my pain to theirs. The fact remains, though, that however big or small our battle, our pain is our pain. Thinking about other people's battles can give us important perspective, but it doesn't fix OUR battle. I'm kind of just figuring that out. So when you say you have a cold and I say, "wanna trade?" it doesn't mean that having a cold doesn't still suck.
I named my tumor. Betty. Betty the Bi*ch, actually. Sorry for the language, but she is kind of a bi*ch. And now, even though I know she's only, like, 1 centimeter, she feels like she's the size of my fist. That's kind of a bi*chy thing to do if you ask me. And what kind of bi*ch sets up camp in your body without asking and then, when you evict her, takes your freaking boobs with her? So you see, I think the name fits. It helps me stay mad at her as I sit here and DREAD- I mean full on sweating, heart pounding, can't eat (which is RARE for me)- DREAD tomorrow. Are they going to tell me more unexpected things? Are they going to repeatedly shake their heads when I say, for the 10th time, "YES, I'm 34 and NO there is absolutely no history of breast cancer in my family. Ever. Anywhere. Nobody." Well, my girls will have a much different answer, won't they. I'm praying that the advances in medicine are so great over the next decade that they won't have to fear it as much as we do. But right now it just reiterates what I'm already feeling. I'm 34 and I have a disease that nobody I know has ever had. They even told me not to bother calling the American Cancer Society support hotline because most of the women are retirees and "probably wouldn't be able to relate to my situation." But I know there are more "me's" out there, and I'm going to find them. As soon as this bi*ch hits the road.
Monday, September 2, 2013
365 days
Well, Daddy, this is one letter I never pictured writing. Actually, I had avoided writing anything at all since you left. I like to come back and read your letters, and I kept telling myself that I should tell you about all of the ways the girls remember you. They look out the window and wave at the sky in the morning to tell you hello. When we had a picnic last week, the little ones did their new dance while they looked at the sky and said they were "showing Papa because he likes our dances." L calls you on her "phone" all the time to talk about the games you used to be able to play with her. K is so quiet. I can't get her to say much about you, but I know that's how she protects herself from her sadness.
This week you have been gone one year. 365 days without touching you or seeing your face. 365 days with no cancer in our lives. 365 days of stories that I didn't get to tell you. 365 days of memories you missed out on. 365 days to start to heal.
Then I went to the doctor.
In the midst of this story, let me tell you about all of the amazing ways you played a part. I dream about you pretty frequently. I get frustrated because you are always sick in my dreams. They are so realistic that I can't enjoy seeing and touching you again. A few months ago, I had 3 dreams in the course of about 2 months in which you and I both had cancer. One time I specifically remember telling you that I didn't want to die, and you told me that I wouldn't, but I didn't believe you. Finally, after the third dream and reading a story about a young mother who died of cancer at 38, I decided I must go to the doctor- just to make myself feel better.
I haven't been to the doctor in three years. It's easy to tell me how stupid that was- you're right. But I had just had a baby, so I figured I was good for a year. Then you got sick and I cancelled it last summer because I was too busy, and I figured it had only been two years. Then the dreams came, and I realized it had been three years, so I got the message- from you, the universe, God, whoever- and made an appointment in late June.
I went in on that day two weeks ago without even a second thought. I was excited to see my midwife, whom I hadn't seen since L was born. We talked about the girls, you, vacations, just life. And then she stopped and looked in my eyes and said, "do you feel that?" I realized that she kept touching the same spot. And I did feel it. She said, "It's probably nothing, but I am concerned enough that I want you to get it checked." I think I asked her if she was kidding. She wasn't.
While I waited for the next appointment, it was other people's concern that got me worried. I kept telling myself that we were all overreacting and we were going to feel so stupid when it was nothing. So we went to the follow-up- just to make ourselves feel better.
When you were sick and they made us go to that awful family meeting, I had this overwhelming urge to grab your hand and run. Just run. Because if they couldn't tell us, then we didn't have to know. We could just live. I felt that again as I was walking into the clinic. I felt the need to just run. If I didn't go, they couldn't tell me anything. After all, I've never been this healthy in my life so I'm probably just going through all of this expensive bullshit for nothing anyway.
Of course I didn't run. I didn't even run when they told me they needed "more pictures." I didn't run when they wouldn't say anything to me. I didn't run when they brought us into the quiet room with watercolor paintings and kleenex on the table. I didn't run when two doctors came in instead of one. I didn't run when they gave me a 50/50 chance of cancer. I didn't even run when they told me I had to come back right away for more tests. After all, I knew I was going to feel stupid when it was nothing. So I would go back for more tests- just to make myself feel better.
They did the tests and wouldn't tell me anything. They spoke in generalities and hypotheticals which made me so angry. They told me to sit and wait. Maybe 2 days, maybe 7, who knows. I asked them to call me as soon as they knew. I told them I was prepared.
I wasn't prepared.
They called at 1:20 on August 28th. My midwife was out, so someone else had to call. "Angela, are you at work?"
"Yes, but it's okay."
"Angela, are you alone?"
"Yes, but I'm okay."
"I'm so sorry, but it looks like you have cancer. It's what's called Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. We think it's a Stage 2. I'm sorry, but I'm not an expert so I can't really tell you more than that right now. The doctor can call you later. I'm so sorry."
I cried until I realized that she was just going to sit on the phone feeling sorry for me until I quit. So I quit long enough to convince her I was fine. I was thankful to have a sound proof office. On the way home, I found a friend who fought through the same thing two years ago. She let me ask anything I wanted. All I could think was, "what's going to be the worst part?"
"Pretty much everything for the next year is going to suck."
But I could look at her and see that there is an end. Or a new beginning. Or both. Someday maybe I would have trouble remembering this moment and the horrible depth of fear I was feeling.
The doctor called while I was on my way home to tell me that I could expect a mastectomy and probably four rounds of chemo. And I should know I would lose my hair. Thanks- I hadn't figured that one out already.
I drove really slowly because I wanted J to have as much time as possible living in normalcy before I told him. I thought about staying away for hours so he could be mad at me for being late instead of having to think about what was actually happening to our life. I remember walking into the house and the girls running up to me screaming and grabbing my legs like any other day. I felt so guilty for what they are undoubtedly going to see and experience over the next two years. Then I saw him, and all I had to do was nod my head.
It was a very long night.
I waited a few days to talk to the girls and to Mom. As soon as I asked the girls if they had heard of cancer, Claire said, "that's what Papa had." I explained to them that you can get cancer anywhere, and that not everyone dies. I tried to laugh about what was going to happen to my body so that they wouldn't be scared. They were still scared. The little girls kept asking me if I was going to die and go to heaven. They don't want me to leave them to go to the hospital. They don't want people to see me "with no hair on." But we got through that together. And you would be so happy to see how amazing your son has been. He is there for me every step of the way- taking care of Mom and me. He's brave and strong- just like you.
You know, Daddy, many people have mentioned how sad it is that this is the one year anniversary of you leaving, but to me it's not all sad. I was so scared, so angry when I found out, but I was also ready to fight. I saw you fight more valiantly than any person could imagine. You fought a monster that you could NOT beat- just to show me how it was done. You taught me how to do this, Daddy. You gave me a reason not to have a pity party- because I have a monster that I CAN beat. Remember that day we walked into the chemo room for the first time and we were horrified and scared to death? Well, I've been there with you, so when I do it this time, the monster has a name and I know the end game. Do you see, Daddy? I know why you had to go now. You had to prepare me for this fight. And even in my really, really dark moments when I think about the what-ifs, I am less scared because I know that my Daddy is there waiting for me.
Wednesday I will spend all day in the hospital. I have gained a new appreciation for what you must have experienced. I feel like a science experiment. All of the questions and the tests and the needles. I'll feel mad and scared and sick- and I'll feel like I really want to run away. But then it will be over and I'll go home and try to be Angela again and not the 34-year-old science experiment with a random case of cancer.
So thank you, Daddy. Thank you for showing me what to do. Thank you for holding my hand- in life and in death. I want you to know that God has blessed me with some seriously AMAZING people who will hold my hand now that you can't.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ufq8iMYvL0
This week you have been gone one year. 365 days without touching you or seeing your face. 365 days with no cancer in our lives. 365 days of stories that I didn't get to tell you. 365 days of memories you missed out on. 365 days to start to heal.
Then I went to the doctor.
In the midst of this story, let me tell you about all of the amazing ways you played a part. I dream about you pretty frequently. I get frustrated because you are always sick in my dreams. They are so realistic that I can't enjoy seeing and touching you again. A few months ago, I had 3 dreams in the course of about 2 months in which you and I both had cancer. One time I specifically remember telling you that I didn't want to die, and you told me that I wouldn't, but I didn't believe you. Finally, after the third dream and reading a story about a young mother who died of cancer at 38, I decided I must go to the doctor- just to make myself feel better.
I haven't been to the doctor in three years. It's easy to tell me how stupid that was- you're right. But I had just had a baby, so I figured I was good for a year. Then you got sick and I cancelled it last summer because I was too busy, and I figured it had only been two years. Then the dreams came, and I realized it had been three years, so I got the message- from you, the universe, God, whoever- and made an appointment in late June.
I went in on that day two weeks ago without even a second thought. I was excited to see my midwife, whom I hadn't seen since L was born. We talked about the girls, you, vacations, just life. And then she stopped and looked in my eyes and said, "do you feel that?" I realized that she kept touching the same spot. And I did feel it. She said, "It's probably nothing, but I am concerned enough that I want you to get it checked." I think I asked her if she was kidding. She wasn't.
While I waited for the next appointment, it was other people's concern that got me worried. I kept telling myself that we were all overreacting and we were going to feel so stupid when it was nothing. So we went to the follow-up- just to make ourselves feel better.
When you were sick and they made us go to that awful family meeting, I had this overwhelming urge to grab your hand and run. Just run. Because if they couldn't tell us, then we didn't have to know. We could just live. I felt that again as I was walking into the clinic. I felt the need to just run. If I didn't go, they couldn't tell me anything. After all, I've never been this healthy in my life so I'm probably just going through all of this expensive bullshit for nothing anyway.
Of course I didn't run. I didn't even run when they told me they needed "more pictures." I didn't run when they wouldn't say anything to me. I didn't run when they brought us into the quiet room with watercolor paintings and kleenex on the table. I didn't run when two doctors came in instead of one. I didn't run when they gave me a 50/50 chance of cancer. I didn't even run when they told me I had to come back right away for more tests. After all, I knew I was going to feel stupid when it was nothing. So I would go back for more tests- just to make myself feel better.
They did the tests and wouldn't tell me anything. They spoke in generalities and hypotheticals which made me so angry. They told me to sit and wait. Maybe 2 days, maybe 7, who knows. I asked them to call me as soon as they knew. I told them I was prepared.
I wasn't prepared.
They called at 1:20 on August 28th. My midwife was out, so someone else had to call. "Angela, are you at work?"
"Yes, but it's okay."
"Angela, are you alone?"
"Yes, but I'm okay."
"I'm so sorry, but it looks like you have cancer. It's what's called Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. We think it's a Stage 2. I'm sorry, but I'm not an expert so I can't really tell you more than that right now. The doctor can call you later. I'm so sorry."
I cried until I realized that she was just going to sit on the phone feeling sorry for me until I quit. So I quit long enough to convince her I was fine. I was thankful to have a sound proof office. On the way home, I found a friend who fought through the same thing two years ago. She let me ask anything I wanted. All I could think was, "what's going to be the worst part?"
"Pretty much everything for the next year is going to suck."
But I could look at her and see that there is an end. Or a new beginning. Or both. Someday maybe I would have trouble remembering this moment and the horrible depth of fear I was feeling.
The doctor called while I was on my way home to tell me that I could expect a mastectomy and probably four rounds of chemo. And I should know I would lose my hair. Thanks- I hadn't figured that one out already.
I drove really slowly because I wanted J to have as much time as possible living in normalcy before I told him. I thought about staying away for hours so he could be mad at me for being late instead of having to think about what was actually happening to our life. I remember walking into the house and the girls running up to me screaming and grabbing my legs like any other day. I felt so guilty for what they are undoubtedly going to see and experience over the next two years. Then I saw him, and all I had to do was nod my head.
It was a very long night.
I waited a few days to talk to the girls and to Mom. As soon as I asked the girls if they had heard of cancer, Claire said, "that's what Papa had." I explained to them that you can get cancer anywhere, and that not everyone dies. I tried to laugh about what was going to happen to my body so that they wouldn't be scared. They were still scared. The little girls kept asking me if I was going to die and go to heaven. They don't want me to leave them to go to the hospital. They don't want people to see me "with no hair on." But we got through that together. And you would be so happy to see how amazing your son has been. He is there for me every step of the way- taking care of Mom and me. He's brave and strong- just like you.
You know, Daddy, many people have mentioned how sad it is that this is the one year anniversary of you leaving, but to me it's not all sad. I was so scared, so angry when I found out, but I was also ready to fight. I saw you fight more valiantly than any person could imagine. You fought a monster that you could NOT beat- just to show me how it was done. You taught me how to do this, Daddy. You gave me a reason not to have a pity party- because I have a monster that I CAN beat. Remember that day we walked into the chemo room for the first time and we were horrified and scared to death? Well, I've been there with you, so when I do it this time, the monster has a name and I know the end game. Do you see, Daddy? I know why you had to go now. You had to prepare me for this fight. And even in my really, really dark moments when I think about the what-ifs, I am less scared because I know that my Daddy is there waiting for me.
Wednesday I will spend all day in the hospital. I have gained a new appreciation for what you must have experienced. I feel like a science experiment. All of the questions and the tests and the needles. I'll feel mad and scared and sick- and I'll feel like I really want to run away. But then it will be over and I'll go home and try to be Angela again and not the 34-year-old science experiment with a random case of cancer.
So thank you, Daddy. Thank you for showing me what to do. Thank you for holding my hand- in life and in death. I want you to know that God has blessed me with some seriously AMAZING people who will hold my hand now that you can't.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ufq8iMYvL0
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Happy Birthday
Half a year, Daddy. I've been writing to myself for half a year. I know this is how it will continue. I will blink my eyes and then I'll be saying 'one year. I can't believe I made it through one year.' I will go to sleep and when I wake up I'll be saying, 'five years. I've been without my Daddy for five years.' I'll take my babies to their ballet recital and when I take their picture I'll say, 'ten years- and how he loved to watch you dance. Then, inevitably, I'll watch them walk down the isle and I'll think, '20 years. And how your Papa would have loved to have been here.' And here we are- your 59th birthday.
I told you before you left that I would celebrate your birthday with the girls every year so that we could remember you the way you would want us to. You liked the idea. In my head, I had envisioned a more grand celebration- and one during which I didn't make the girls uncomfortable with my constant crying. I guess I'm just not there yet. I look at their little faces and listen to their stories about the zoo, mexican food, liver and onions, bing bong, shoulder rides and Yellow Submarine and I'm so sad that you're not here- that their memories will fade and the smiling face in the pictures with them will be nothing more than a mystery- a fairy book man from Mommy's stories. That's the reality- I know it is. You knew it was too, and I think that was what made you the most sad. I will try to keep you alive, but you are slipping away, even out of my grasp and I am holding on SO tightly.
Some days it still feels as if you've just been on a trip and I'll see you again. Just last week the phone rang in the evening and the fleeting thought came, "that must be Daddy. I haven't talked to him in a while and he's going to say 'you don't love me anymore!' Then I almost laughed because I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten that you're gone. Then some days your absence is so painful that it chokes me- takes the air from my lungs. Like today. It's hard to breathe when I look at pictures of you.
I feel blessed that I have no regrets when I see your smiling face. I think I held on to every moment with you as much as I could. I even knew the pain that was coming before you left. Yet I still can't breathe when I see your face. You come see me in my dreams. Usually you are still gone, but I can see you. You walk with me, you protect me. Last week, though, you were sick and I knew you would be leaving soon. I touched your cheek and felt it's roughness. I held your hand and felt the tough skin. I hugged you and smelled your Daddy aftershave. I said, "nobody will love me like you do, Daddy." And then I woke up. And I was right. And I will always be right. And that is why I can't breathe- because I am less loved than I was when you walked on this earth with me. Yet I am so happy because of the love you left with me. I am so proud of the strength that you taught me. I am so grateful for the joy you instilled in me.
I don't know why God didn't give you 20 more birthdays, Daddy, but I know He is merciful and holds your hand as you walk the streets of gold today. And I pray he'll continue to hold my hand as I learn to walk these streets without a Daddy to hold my hand. Stay in my heart, Daddy. Help me hold on. Happiest of birthdays to the man who gave me life and taught me how to live.
I told you before you left that I would celebrate your birthday with the girls every year so that we could remember you the way you would want us to. You liked the idea. In my head, I had envisioned a more grand celebration- and one during which I didn't make the girls uncomfortable with my constant crying. I guess I'm just not there yet. I look at their little faces and listen to their stories about the zoo, mexican food, liver and onions, bing bong, shoulder rides and Yellow Submarine and I'm so sad that you're not here- that their memories will fade and the smiling face in the pictures with them will be nothing more than a mystery- a fairy book man from Mommy's stories. That's the reality- I know it is. You knew it was too, and I think that was what made you the most sad. I will try to keep you alive, but you are slipping away, even out of my grasp and I am holding on SO tightly.
Some days it still feels as if you've just been on a trip and I'll see you again. Just last week the phone rang in the evening and the fleeting thought came, "that must be Daddy. I haven't talked to him in a while and he's going to say 'you don't love me anymore!' Then I almost laughed because I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten that you're gone. Then some days your absence is so painful that it chokes me- takes the air from my lungs. Like today. It's hard to breathe when I look at pictures of you.
I feel blessed that I have no regrets when I see your smiling face. I think I held on to every moment with you as much as I could. I even knew the pain that was coming before you left. Yet I still can't breathe when I see your face. You come see me in my dreams. Usually you are still gone, but I can see you. You walk with me, you protect me. Last week, though, you were sick and I knew you would be leaving soon. I touched your cheek and felt it's roughness. I held your hand and felt the tough skin. I hugged you and smelled your Daddy aftershave. I said, "nobody will love me like you do, Daddy." And then I woke up. And I was right. And I will always be right. And that is why I can't breathe- because I am less loved than I was when you walked on this earth with me. Yet I am so happy because of the love you left with me. I am so proud of the strength that you taught me. I am so grateful for the joy you instilled in me.
I don't know why God didn't give you 20 more birthdays, Daddy, but I know He is merciful and holds your hand as you walk the streets of gold today. And I pray he'll continue to hold my hand as I learn to walk these streets without a Daddy to hold my hand. Stay in my heart, Daddy. Help me hold on. Happiest of birthdays to the man who gave me life and taught me how to live.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Christmas where you are
Dear Daddy,
Christmas Eve is here. I knew it was coming. I'm trying so, so hard to keep the joy. The girls are so happy and excited, as if nothing is different. That makes me so happy, and yet so very sad.
My sweeet Daddy, how you loved Christmas. All those months of watching and listening to us to decide what the perfect gift would be. Then a few more months of trying REALLY hard not to tell us what it was. I could hear your voice first on Christmas morning. Your loud, silly voice when the girls bounded up the stairs to find you. It's going to be a very quiet Christmas morning here, Daddy.
Thanksgiving was harder than I thought. I ordered everything premade because I wasn't ready to pull that perfect turkey out of the oven and not have you there to start immediately picking at it and hopping around saying, "HOT, HOT, HOT!" as if you were surprised. Then after the meal you would find just the right spot on the couch, turn on the game and force us all to go in the other room because we didn't want to ruin your nap. It drove me absolutely crazy. And now I would give just about anything to have another chance. John missed you too- he told me later- it was lonely for him without you. He thinks of you every holiday when he turns on the John Wayne movies and has nobody to discuss the shooting techniques with.
I think about you every day, Daddy. Maybe every hour you cross my mind. Last weekend we watched videos of you and it was so overwhelming to hear your voice. I had avoided it for just over three months. J planned our family Christmas for the 15th, which was the anniversary of your diagnosis. We didn't talk about that elephant in the room, but we did drink too much, tell embarassing stories about you, listen to saved voicemails from you and watch all the videos we could find with you in them. J says he makes himself do it even though it hurts because it reminds him that you were real. I know just what he means. I go through my everyday life with this constant feeling that something is missing and I'm just used to the space. I have to remind myself that you were here. You were real. You were mine. It wasn't much, but you would've been happy with it because we were together and we were thinking about you.
K is amazing, Daddy. She's reading like a maniac, she's happy at school and she's just as much a cuddle bug as ever. I asked her last week why she hasn't really cried about you and said, "well, I did, but I know he's in heaven so I guess I'm just okay." The faith of a child. L gives me fits. How I wish I could call you when she's driving me absolutely nuts so you could laugh at me. She still tells me that she's The Hopper because Papa said she is. When I tell her Nene's coming she yells, "YAY! And Papa too!" It makes me so happy and breaks my heart at the same time. I tell her you're probably thinking about us and that you would be here if you could. The little Bear talks about you often. She misses you and still surprises me the most of the three of them. She has such a caring and tender heart. She has this sensitive honesty, and yet she is not pulled down by other's sadness. She will gently rub my back or leg when I cry about you and then she'll skip away humming a tune. She should be a nurse. Her joy would bless people. When the shooting happened last week in Conneticut, I wept for those poor babies and their parents. A thought crossed my mind, though, that brought me some peace. You're with them. I just know you're having a catch or tossing a football with those sweet little boys. You're playing hide-and-seek and having tea parties with those precious little girls. You're teaching them. I know you are- Jesus would want you to teach the children. You have to be the best story teller in heaven. Oh how I wished those poor parents could know that those babies would be well cared for (and that they would surely learn all the words to Yellow Submarine). You were the world's most fun Daddy and I'm thankful they have you.
We're all doing our best, Daddy. We miss you so much and make you a constant part of our lives. We learned so much from you, Daddy. In life and in death. I look at the bookmark on your computer that says "Our Blog," and I just can't give it up. I know you can't write me anymore, Daddy, but I want you to know that I write you every day in my heart. You made Christmas so perfect, and I will remember that joy always. Merry Christmas, Daddy. I love you so very much.
Christmas Eve is here. I knew it was coming. I'm trying so, so hard to keep the joy. The girls are so happy and excited, as if nothing is different. That makes me so happy, and yet so very sad.
My sweeet Daddy, how you loved Christmas. All those months of watching and listening to us to decide what the perfect gift would be. Then a few more months of trying REALLY hard not to tell us what it was. I could hear your voice first on Christmas morning. Your loud, silly voice when the girls bounded up the stairs to find you. It's going to be a very quiet Christmas morning here, Daddy.
Thanksgiving was harder than I thought. I ordered everything premade because I wasn't ready to pull that perfect turkey out of the oven and not have you there to start immediately picking at it and hopping around saying, "HOT, HOT, HOT!" as if you were surprised. Then after the meal you would find just the right spot on the couch, turn on the game and force us all to go in the other room because we didn't want to ruin your nap. It drove me absolutely crazy. And now I would give just about anything to have another chance. John missed you too- he told me later- it was lonely for him without you. He thinks of you every holiday when he turns on the John Wayne movies and has nobody to discuss the shooting techniques with. I think about you every day, Daddy. Maybe every hour you cross my mind. Last weekend we watched videos of you and it was so overwhelming to hear your voice. I had avoided it for just over three months. J planned our family Christmas for the 15th, which was the anniversary of your diagnosis. We didn't talk about that elephant in the room, but we did drink too much, tell embarassing stories about you, listen to saved voicemails from you and watch all the videos we could find with you in them. J says he makes himself do it even though it hurts because it reminds him that you were real. I know just what he means. I go through my everyday life with this constant feeling that something is missing and I'm just used to the space. I have to remind myself that you were here. You were real. You were mine. It wasn't much, but you would've been happy with it because we were together and we were thinking about you.
K is amazing, Daddy. She's reading like a maniac, she's happy at school and she's just as much a cuddle bug as ever. I asked her last week why she hasn't really cried about you and said, "well, I did, but I know he's in heaven so I guess I'm just okay." The faith of a child. L gives me fits. How I wish I could call you when she's driving me absolutely nuts so you could laugh at me. She still tells me that she's The Hopper because Papa said she is. When I tell her Nene's coming she yells, "YAY! And Papa too!" It makes me so happy and breaks my heart at the same time. I tell her you're probably thinking about us and that you would be here if you could. The little Bear talks about you often. She misses you and still surprises me the most of the three of them. She has such a caring and tender heart. She has this sensitive honesty, and yet she is not pulled down by other's sadness. She will gently rub my back or leg when I cry about you and then she'll skip away humming a tune. She should be a nurse. Her joy would bless people. When the shooting happened last week in Conneticut, I wept for those poor babies and their parents. A thought crossed my mind, though, that brought me some peace. You're with them. I just know you're having a catch or tossing a football with those sweet little boys. You're playing hide-and-seek and having tea parties with those precious little girls. You're teaching them. I know you are- Jesus would want you to teach the children. You have to be the best story teller in heaven. Oh how I wished those poor parents could know that those babies would be well cared for (and that they would surely learn all the words to Yellow Submarine). You were the world's most fun Daddy and I'm thankful they have you. We're all doing our best, Daddy. We miss you so much and make you a constant part of our lives. We learned so much from you, Daddy. In life and in death. I look at the bookmark on your computer that says "Our Blog," and I just can't give it up. I know you can't write me anymore, Daddy, but I want you to know that I write you every day in my heart. You made Christmas so perfect, and I will remember that joy always. Merry Christmas, Daddy. I love you so very much.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Miss you
Dear Daddy,
Yesterday was one month since you left. The impact that it had on me caught me off guard. I'm not really one for anniversaries. Dates don't really bear a lot of weight- they're just a day like any other. I don't usually feel more pain or joy on an anniversary than I do on any other day. This one is different, though. I think because it forced me to face the fact that time has continued to pass, even though I feel like it has been standing still.
You probably know this from where you sit now, but everything is okay. The night you went was horrible. Only someone who has witnessed it can possibly understand. It was the most traumatic event I hope to ever experience, yet I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I begged God to take your pain away, yet begged Him not to take you from me. My soul was forever changed that night. You blessed me with an incredible brother who was my backbone, my bodyguard, my best friend. You must be so proud of how strong he was and how he held me up. You were so strong, Daddy. I'm sure it sound cliche by now, but nobody will ever understand unless they were there. You were your own man, the master of your fate and the captain of your soul until your last breath.
I managed to ensure that your last words to me were, "I love you too." Your granddaughters were brave, too. I hope you saw how our little Bear hugged you, kissed you, held your hand and covered you in sparkles so the angels could find you. She loves you more than you ever knew, Daddy. Yesterday I asked them what they love most about you and she said she loves how silly you are. Kate loves how you sing with them. They still sing your songs. Yes, I'll make sure they always do. Lauryn sometimes walks around singing, "bushel and a peck" for half an hour straight. They are so strong. Stronger than me.
Sometimes I think I'm doing okay because you loved me so well and so deeply that I have enough love to last a lifetime. Then I have days, like today, when I think that I've just been so busy that I haven't fully grasped what the rest of my life will be like without you. I have good substitutes, but my days are so lonely without you to call. Nobody cares like you did. Even though I know I am loved, the world is so empty when someone who loved you from your first breath has taken their last. I carry your love for me in my heart, but it's still gone. It's no longer tangible. You are a memory now. That's what hit me the other day-walking out to the mailbox- my Daddy, so real just weeks ago, is now just a memory. The memory of you takes my breath away, but everyone else has to keep breathing.
Uncle B said he dreams about you. John did too. I told them I didn't want to dream about you and so, of course, that night I dreamed about you. It was Christmas. You were there the whole time, standing by the tree, opening presents with us (you were silent, I later realized). I left to go somewhere and remembered that I had been to your funeral. Suddenly I wondered if I was crazy. If anyone else had seen you. It had been so natural to me that you were there, but I was scared to ask John if you were really there because I was afraid he would think I was crazy or tell me that I had imagined it. Maybe I hadn't really been to your funeral. I drove around trying to decide if I should go back to see if you were still there. Then I woke up. I don't mean to make you feel bad, but I dread Christmas now. Oh my goodness, how you loved that holiday. You loved giving gifts and you were worse than a child at keeping secrets. I just can't imagine finding the same joy from now on that I had when you were here.
Daddy, I miss you so much. I love you so much. No illness, no death, can take that love away. What is love without an outlet, Daddy? What do I do with it? It's not a love that I can give anyone else- it's only for my Daddy. Thank you for teaching me how to love.
A day with the Lord is like a thousand years and a thousand years is like a day. I'll see you in a day or so, Daddy.
Yesterday was one month since you left. The impact that it had on me caught me off guard. I'm not really one for anniversaries. Dates don't really bear a lot of weight- they're just a day like any other. I don't usually feel more pain or joy on an anniversary than I do on any other day. This one is different, though. I think because it forced me to face the fact that time has continued to pass, even though I feel like it has been standing still.
You probably know this from where you sit now, but everything is okay. The night you went was horrible. Only someone who has witnessed it can possibly understand. It was the most traumatic event I hope to ever experience, yet I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I begged God to take your pain away, yet begged Him not to take you from me. My soul was forever changed that night. You blessed me with an incredible brother who was my backbone, my bodyguard, my best friend. You must be so proud of how strong he was and how he held me up. You were so strong, Daddy. I'm sure it sound cliche by now, but nobody will ever understand unless they were there. You were your own man, the master of your fate and the captain of your soul until your last breath.
I managed to ensure that your last words to me were, "I love you too." Your granddaughters were brave, too. I hope you saw how our little Bear hugged you, kissed you, held your hand and covered you in sparkles so the angels could find you. She loves you more than you ever knew, Daddy. Yesterday I asked them what they love most about you and she said she loves how silly you are. Kate loves how you sing with them. They still sing your songs. Yes, I'll make sure they always do. Lauryn sometimes walks around singing, "bushel and a peck" for half an hour straight. They are so strong. Stronger than me.
Sometimes I think I'm doing okay because you loved me so well and so deeply that I have enough love to last a lifetime. Then I have days, like today, when I think that I've just been so busy that I haven't fully grasped what the rest of my life will be like without you. I have good substitutes, but my days are so lonely without you to call. Nobody cares like you did. Even though I know I am loved, the world is so empty when someone who loved you from your first breath has taken their last. I carry your love for me in my heart, but it's still gone. It's no longer tangible. You are a memory now. That's what hit me the other day-walking out to the mailbox- my Daddy, so real just weeks ago, is now just a memory. The memory of you takes my breath away, but everyone else has to keep breathing.
Uncle B said he dreams about you. John did too. I told them I didn't want to dream about you and so, of course, that night I dreamed about you. It was Christmas. You were there the whole time, standing by the tree, opening presents with us (you were silent, I later realized). I left to go somewhere and remembered that I had been to your funeral. Suddenly I wondered if I was crazy. If anyone else had seen you. It had been so natural to me that you were there, but I was scared to ask John if you were really there because I was afraid he would think I was crazy or tell me that I had imagined it. Maybe I hadn't really been to your funeral. I drove around trying to decide if I should go back to see if you were still there. Then I woke up. I don't mean to make you feel bad, but I dread Christmas now. Oh my goodness, how you loved that holiday. You loved giving gifts and you were worse than a child at keeping secrets. I just can't imagine finding the same joy from now on that I had when you were here.
Daddy, I miss you so much. I love you so much. No illness, no death, can take that love away. What is love without an outlet, Daddy? What do I do with it? It's not a love that I can give anyone else- it's only for my Daddy. Thank you for teaching me how to love.
A day with the Lord is like a thousand years and a thousand years is like a day. I'll see you in a day or so, Daddy.
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