Category: grief

Categories
grief Stage 4 cancer

Things I Will Miss About Him

I will miss seeing his little red sedan coming down the road.

I will miss his comings and goings, and the brief exchanges we had in passing.

I will miss seeing the bumper sticker on his car, knowing that the kids he coached thought enough of him to make an effort to help him in his hour of need. They got involved in the effort to fight cancer because of him. It mattered to them that he knew he mattered.

I will miss knowing that he touched many lives because he insisted on working, even through the tough, painful days. He didn’t quit.

I will miss the man who was an inspiration to adults and kids. Where will they turn when they have those moments of doubt? Who will show them what courage looks like, sounds like, feels like?

He wasn’t a superhero. He didn’t leap tall buildings in a single bound or fly through the air. I never saw him wearing tights and a unitard. What I saw was him shuffling along with his rollator, struggling to get to where he wanted to be. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time.

He was a decent human being who found himself facing a tough opponent. It was a scary battle. His foe was unrelenting. But he worked through the pain because he needed to believe that his life still counted for something, that he still counted for something.

There were times he doubted the path he was on. He even doubted himself. But he still persisted.

His future was clouded by cancer. This disease robbed him of the moments that normal people take for granted. He learned the hard way to make his life count.

He will not be around to see the kids he coached grow up. He will not attend their weddings or celebrate their life events. He won’t be here to cheer them on as they grow into the people they were meant to be.

But he will always be with them. He is a part of them now. They will remember him and be more compassionate with the people they meet in life. They will go the extra mile because they had the chance to learn that it counts.

And maybe the biggest lesson of all for them is the hardest to learn. Life isn’t fair. We don’t always get the breaks we deserve, no matter how worthy we are. Things happen that are beyond our control. We can only do the best we can with what we’ve got. We hone our skills and figure out ways to make improvements, so that we have the best chance to succeed. Sometimes we don’t get there, but playing is always better than being stuck on the sidelines, wishing we could participate.

He went the distance. He put in the time, the energy, the effort, even though it was often so hard to do. Those kids will remember that. And they will remember they were lucky to know him. And they will be better for having known him. And maybe one day, one of those kids…or two…or three…will decide that it’s their turn to guide young lives, to mentor them, to encourage them, to believe in them and what they can do.

We are here on this earth for such a short time. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. The spirit lives on in every heart. Rest in peace, Coach.

Categories
Christmas grief hospice pancreatic cancer

What Pancreatic Cancer Took From Us

Dying from complications….one day busy with holiday shopping and ordinary errands, the next irreversibly transformed into a shell of herself, all because of unexpected developments that seem to accompany some of the more difficult cancers to treat.

It’s a shock for all who knew and loved her. Less than a month ago, she finally discovered why she hadn’t really felt well in a while. Not only was she diagnosed with one of the most difficult cancers to treat — pancreatic cancer — she was Stage 4. At best, she might buy a few extra months to get her affairs in order and say her goodbyes with chemotherapy. There was a slight possibility that she might enter clinical trials and discover some small miracle that knocked back the cancer enough to allow her to enjoy a little more time, a few more moments of joy. But there was also the very real possibility that palliative care would be the only real Band-Aid for what ailed her.

The shock of such a brutal diagnosis coming just before Thanksgiving was hard for those of us who loved her to accept, but it was especially difficult for her. It came as the great holiday season commenced. This was her time of year. She adored decorating her house. There were tiny little Christmas scenes everywhere — miniature cottages set upon white batting on tabletops and snowmen tucked into nooks and crannies. There were always decorative candles scenting the air, pine cones and boughs draped on fireplace mantels, and angels on high. She even scattered little treasures throughout her winter garden. The walk up to her gingerbread-like house on a snowy night was magical, especially enhanced with the tiny twinkling lights she draped here and there.

She loved shopping at this time of year, whether it was for people or pets. She was the only person who always remembered, after my mom died, that my dad likes real handkerchiefs. Every year, she would make sure he had new ones. She made sure that cats and dogs had toys that would offer hours of playtime that would amuse their pet owners. She took great pains to shop for the people she loved. I thought about that the other day when I donned a fleece top she had given me more than ten Christmases ago. I am reminded of her every time I pull it on over my head.

The last time I saw her was at her son’s wedding a few months ago. We spoke on the phone a few times as the countdown to the ceremony began. She was ruminating on the fact that the planning and execution of the wedding was an exhausting process. Did she really want to wear silver shoes and a lace dress? I told her she would look lovely. I advised her to smile and focus on having a good time, because that’s what her boys would remember years from now. I had no idea it would be the last time we would all be together for a happy occasion. There was so much fuss, she lamented. She remarked that she would be glad when it was all over and she could relax again. I think that was indicative of what was happening to her body as the secretive cancer began to spread. She wasn’t feeling quite right, but it was the kind of feeling that was too vague to be remedied. The symptoms could have been anything. That’s the trouble with pancreatic cancer. By the time the doctors figure out what the trouble is, it’s often too late.

That wedding, in the end, will be our salvation in many ways. I am so grateful we had that chance to gather. It was poignant when the mother of the groom took to the dance floor with her son. It was even sweeter to see her out on the dance floor, wiggling and wriggling as the sound system pounded out a steady beat. She was smiling and laughing, laughing and smiling. That is how I will remember her.

But I will also remember the tremendous tribute to her motherhood that came in the form of her two sons at her bedside during her sudden and unexpected final hospitalization. There, in her hospice room, these fine young men took turns watching over her, making sure that she was as comfortable as possible after the heart attack and stroke robbed her of her faculties. Their compassionate efforts were testimony to the love she raised them with and the time she dedicated to their upbringing. As her new daughter-in-law gently leaned in to check on her breathing and cover her up when the blanket was kicked away, I realized her son had chosen a bride who would stand with him in difficult times. But I also watched another young woman, newly engaged and soon to join the family, gently place her hands on the bedridden patient whose life was about to end. This dying woman would not be there to share the joy of seeing her second son marry the woman he loves. She would not have the chance to dance at another wedding because cancer caused these terrible, irreversible complications. My father keeps saying she would have been a wonderful grandmother. It’s too true. She would have thrilled at the prospect of that. She would have loved to spend hours outdoors with little children, working in her garden as they napped in their playpen in the shade on a fine summer’s day.

That is perhaps the hardest thing to accept about her untimely death — all of the experiences she never got to have, all of the joy and the laughter she dreamed she would someday know. It’s so easy to imagine what would have come next in her life if cancer hadn’t come knocking at her door. It’s so easy to picture all of the activities that would have brought family and friends together to celebrate the good things in life.

It will take time for all of us who knew her to find our equilibrium once more. There is no denying that there is a hole in our circle now that she is gone, never to return. But I hope that with time, those of us who love her will find ways to keep her with us as we gather. We will recall her passion for cooking that set amazing meals on her table, her endless hours of nurturing her charming cottage garden, and her love for Christmas. With every passing year, we will incorporate a little more of her goodness into our own lives, finding ways to share the warmth she brought into our lives by offering it, in turn, to others. It won’t happen instantly. It will take time for us to realize how much we miss the little sparkles of joy she shared, the small touches she added in our lives. But I am confident that we will do it. We will be here with her sons, their wives, and her grandchildren, remembering the magical moments she gave us over her lifetime, and we will honor her by embracing her essence, by letting her live through our own inspired actions. In that way, she will never really die. She will always be a part of us, eternally residing in our hearts.
Categories
#LiveLikeMichelle cancer caregiver CTCA grief hospice

Michelle DID Win

Michelle DID win. As I join so many others in grieving the loss of this vivacious, determined, spirited young woman, that is uppermost in my mind. #LiveLikeMichelle….

She started out her life with cancer by blogging about what it was like to face such as horrible diagnosis. Wife, mother of young children, daughter, sister, and friend to so many, Michelle had no intention of allowing cancer to suck the joy out of life. She was going to beat this thing, come hell or high water. You know what? She did.

Too often we hear that people battled cancer and the cancer finally got the upper hand, resulting in death. Too often it sounds like they failed because they were weaker than the disease. The words “brave” and “courageous” can be found in obituaries in every newspaper around the globe. But battling cancer isn’t what makes someone brave or courageous. Battling the demons that stop us from living with cancer is the real test of the soul. We wage war with an enemy that steals our humanity as it marches through the human body. Cancer is a weapon of mass destruction. It terrifies us all with its mighty power, especially when it’s an aggressive, untreatable kind of cancer cell that invades. But that’s not the foe we need to fight, first and foremost.

Cancer cells destroy — that’s true. In lucky times, the right mix of treatments and drugs sometimes halt cancer in its tracks. Then again, cancer can be sneaky. Those cells can hide in the body, only to resurface at the most inopportune times. We never know which way the cells will mutate, or where they might show up next, or whether there’s a treatment that will be effective. That black cloud of uncertainty hangs heavy over the lives of cancer survivors and the people who love them. All that darkness can take its toll on the soul, drowning us in a sea of sorrow for what could have been, what might have been, what never was.

It’s easy to hate cancer, to give in and give up when we first hear that horrible diagnosis, to surrender before we’ve even begun to understand the real enemy. When we allow our fear of cancer to decide how we live our lives, we give up our personal power, self-determination, and above all, our right to choose to live our lives out loud.

Michelle taught me much about personal courage and bravery. Right up to her last few days, she fought hard to remain the wonderful young woman we adored. That mattered to her, even in hospice care. Imagine feeling like you’ve let down the people who love you because you just don’t have the strength, the energy, the power to rise above the cancer any more. You want to go on giving, but you’re just too exhausted to do it.

Michelle DID win because she allowed us to join her on her journey through a war zone where cancer is a weapon of mass destruction. Every time she was knocked down, she stood up. Every time she lost her footing, she got to her knees and then to her feet, dusted herself off, and continued on. Cancer never took that brave, courageous spirit from her. As the power of those destructive cells wreaked their havoc on her body, her spirit grew. Love became more important. Sweet moments mattered more than sorrow, more than hate. There was no such thing as an ordinary day. She chose to make her time on this earth count for something.

Michelle could have hated her life, could have raged against the unfairness of it all. She chose to encourage all of us to grab the light. She picked her path up the mountain, and in doing so, became a wise teacher. Michelle DID win.

None of us who ever had the chance to meet this dynamic, determined, dedicated young woman will ever be the same because we choose to remember and honor her. She lives on through us, through the things we learned vicariously as she battled to save her psyche and her soul against all odds. No virtual reality, no video game ever produced a fighter quite like Michelle. She was the real deal. She was a valiant warrior in a too-real war that doesn’t have a reset button.

And she did save her psyche, staying focused on what mattered even as doubt pushed at the door. She did rescue her soul from that dark, endless night by growing in power as a human being. She did become extraordinary, this woman with the soul of a warrior — not because she fought a battle with cancer, but because she lived in spite of cancer. Who would she be when the dust settled? That mattered.

Too often we see death as failure. We forget that each of us is mortal, that with every passing day we move closer to the end of our own lives. Sometimes we’re so focused on that, we forget to live. We squander our hours in meaningless activities. We hold back our unspoken thoughts, hold in our deeply felt emotions, hold ourselves off from really engaging in life. Michelle made those moments count. She was “working the room” everywhere she went, networking with hearts and minds on her crusade to make life matter. Michelle DID win.

Cancer never took the love out of her. She worked hard to make sure her children would be safe after her beautiful spirit departed from her body. She wanted her family to go on believing in sunshine, blue skies, and good times. She wanted everyone to thrive in her absence, not fall apart. You could see it in the things she chose to do. She was building memories to keep the hearts above the high water mark, to keep the souls she loved swimming when the tears came. And they have come.

Yes, Michelle’s spirit departed, but she is everywhere around us. She’s there, in the random act of a kindness shown by a stranger, in a hearty laugh that reminds us we have this glorious moment in time, in an outstretched hand when the heart is heavy. We need to recognize that same wonderful spirit in others and appreciate it, because that’s what Michelle taught us to do.

Michelle DID win. Our lives are richer for those beautiful smiles, the touching words, the moments that she chose goodness over evil, kindness over cruelty, generosity over stinginess. The world was a better place because she lived. The light she brought to this earth grew brighter as her spirit faced an enemy that wielded cancer as a weapon of mass destruction. The real enemy in the cancer fight is apathy. There was nothing dispassionate about Michelle. She cared about everything and everyone.

As we now go on facing life without Michelle, we should not think we have lost that beautiful spirit. She sowed the seeds in each of us who yielded to her joie de vivre. Her own light faded when she left us, but she lit our souls with her fiery passion for love, for life. It is up to us to feed that flame, to carry on that legacy in the way we choose to live. We honor her by remembering that apathy, disinterest, and dispassion are the real enemy. Live in the moment. Embrace love and let it fill your soul with its warmth. Seek joy and don’t stop until you find it. Demand all this from yourself and don’t take no for an answer. Burn brightly, as Michelle did, even in the face of that horrible weapon of mass destruction, cancer. Don’t let your light go out. Long after you are gone, your spirit will live, as Michelle’s does, in all the people whose lives you touch.

Rest in peace, dear Michelle. And thank you for being you.

Categories
grief hospice lung cancer non-small cell lung cancer small cell lung cancer

A Mother Faces Her Grief

I was out to dinner last weekend, enjoying myself thoroughly. As is my usual custom, I did a little people-watching. The restaurant was busy, especially after a flood of patrons arrived for a party in one of the private dining rooms. There were chattering children and cheeerful adults…lots of smiling faces. Was it a birthday party, or perhaps an anniversary celebration? I couldn’t guess, but it was obvious from all the hugging that these people were close.

After finishing my coffee, I excused myself to use the ladies room. A long line of women and children greeted me at the door. They quickly rushed me in because they were only conversing there. Once inside, I found an empty stall, and that’s when the conversation began. A voice on the other side of the stall made a comment. I answered back. As someone who loves parties, I mentioned they seemed to be having fun. “Do you know why we’re all here?” asked an unseen woman. “My son died September 30th.”

My heart sunk as I heard those words. In a million years, I never would have thought that the people enjoying their gathering in the private dining room were in mourning. “I’m so sorry,” I quickly said. “That’s so hard.”

“My son was an artist,” the proud mother told me. “But he never really made any money at it.” I assured her I know all about that, since I’m an artist, too. We emerged from our respective stalls and continued our conversation as we stood at the sinks. Her son had lung cancer. So did my mother. “Small cell,” she confided to me. I knew what she was talking about. “That’s tough. My mom had non-small cell,” I replied.

I looked down at this tiny sprite of a lady — she barely came up to my shoulders, but in her I saw a tower of strength. She had endured the pain, the grief, by reaching out. And in that moment, we were connected as part of the extended cancer family. She needed to tell me about her son, and I wanted to listen.

Stephen’s struggle was over in less than a year. There wasn’t much that doctors could do for him. She wished it had been an easier journey. I understood exactly what she was saying. We never seem to have enough of the right medicine for someone whose cancer has advanced beyond repair. There is no magic left to conjure up. How hard it must have been for this mother to watch her son fade away — this child she gave birth to, nurtured, and even relied upon. Stephen was only 53.

Was there comfort in the sharing? I’d like to think so. As I learned the details of what made Stephen who he was as a man, I found we had much in common. And as I learned the details of what he endured, I connected the dots to my mother’s cancer care. One of the first things she wanted to know about my mother’s lung cancer was this. “Did she smoke?” I gave the answer that I came to appreciate more and more over time, with every asking by doctors, nurses, and others who “needed to know”. Yes, but lung cancer runs in my mother’s family, I told her. Not everyone who got it was a smoker. “Yes!” she cried.

In that one emotion-filled word, I understood her sense of relief. Not every smoker gets lung cancer. And not every lung cancer patient ever smoked. We are sometimes too quick to assume that patients cause their own cancers and judge them as they slide towards death. Clearly there had been much passing of the “guilty” verdict in her son’s case. He must have brought it all upon himself. What other explanation is there?

I was saddened by this thought. No mother should have to feel she must defend her dying son when there is already no hope for a cure. This is here. This is now. Leave the past behind. Let go of the need to be a medical historian. Cancer is what it is, and at the end of life, do we really need reminding of cause-and-effect, or do we need to embrace life, even in its last few breaths?

That’s why I wanted to hear more of Stephen’s life, of the positive things he did, of what he liked to do, of the people who cared about him. His mother began to list all of the unexpected visitors at his funeral. She was stunned that the secretary of the oncology department came, but I thought that spoke volumes about her son as a man. “He clearly touched a lot of people,” I told her. She nodded. As I stood there, taking in all the details, I thought about so many things. Stephen must have had a lot of his mother in him. Her generous and kind spirit guided him, encouraged him, wanted the best for him.

I thought about the months to come, as the holidays approach, when we most miss those who have left us. It’s so critical to remember the positive, to embrace the good times of the past, and to forgive the human frailties that make us stumble and fall. None of us is ever perfect. We can only do the best we can with what we’ve got. We can only get up each morning and start fresh.

As we left the ladies room, we paused a moment, and I felt her hand slip around my waist in a hug. She could go back to the party again, be with family, and know that Stephen was still with her in spirit. A perfect stranger understood what mattered most to her about her son. She slipped his mass card into my hand, that one final gesture of sharing. I took it and tucked it into my purse. I didn’t want to lose it. I am already connected to Stephen because he was a talented artist, loved the frog statues on the bridge that spans the Willimantic River in “Thread City”, and had lung cancer. But now I am also connected to his mother, the woman who misses him dearly and just wants the world to focus on what was good and decent about her son.

I share this story on her behalf. The next time you meet someone from the extended cancer family, don’t turn away. Cancer has brought us together to remind us we are all here too briefly. Though the light may seem to dim now and again, and the memories begin to hide away in the darker recesses of our minds as we try to cope with our loss, it only takes a moment to bring it all back. Who was that glorious shining soul who was so well loved by family and friends, that source of joyful laughter and random acts of kindness? He was here and he left his footprints behind as he left this world. He will not be forgotten.