For the past 6 months or so I've thought about the holidays. I've said all along that I believe this year will be more difficult than last year. Looking back, I have no clue how I not only survived the holidays, but I managed to do most of the normal things associated with that time of year. I guess I was on some sort of autopilot mode.
As Thanksgiving got closer and closer this year, I began to feel more anxiety. But once the one year anniversary passed I started feeling better. Along with my new tattoo, I gained a sense of strength, confidence and resolve. I somehow knew that I was going to end up being okay after all. That allowed me to push aside the anxiety about the holidays.
No matter how much I've told myself that I will breeze through the next month...no matter how determined I am to enjoy this time of year...no matter how satisfied I am with the life I'm living now...
...well, it still sneaks up on me.
It creeps in...a little at a time. And then it just builds and builds. It sits there within you. It puts a knot in your stomach, tears just behind your eyes, and an ache in your heart. Ignoring it, while impossible to do indefinitely, doesn't make it go away. I'm just thankful I can usually control the times I choose to ignore it, and the times I choose to face it head on.
While delivering papers this morning, one of my customers met me at the door. He's an elderly man whose wife just died 3 days after the one year anniversary of Chuck's death. (Chuck used to be his paper carrier so he's aware of my situation.) She was 86 years old and hasn't been well for quite some time. This was the first time I've seen Mr. Finch since he lost his beloved wife of 63 years. I told him how sorry I was for his loss. He thanked me. We chatted for a minute about what happened to her. And then he said, "Well, I guess both you and I...." He broke down in tears and couldn't finish his sentence. But I knew. I knew what he felt. It makes me feel awful to see anyone cry, especially an elderly person. And it also made me remember the raw pain. Especially on a day like Thanksgiving. At that point, I couldn't ignore it any longer. I allowed those tears just behind my eyes to make it to the surface.
That encounter left me feeling very sad for several minutes. But then something happened. I started realizing how much I do have to be thankful for today...and every day. I'm thankful for my kids, my health, my home. I'm thankful I have a job. That I can still plan for the future. I'm thankful for all that I've had...and for all that is still yet to come. I'm thankful for my friends. I'm thankful that I'm still capable of opening up my heart to another.
And I'm extremely thankful that I'm not in the same place emotionally that I was this time last year. In that terrible and dark place that Mr. Finch is in right now.
Happy Thanksgiving everybody.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
This Time Last Year - Part Four
I used to only post my blog entries on my MySpace page. Just out of curiosity, I went back to see what I posted one year ago today...back in the time when the grief was all-consuming and overwhelming. I still have moments (sometimes hours) of intense grief. I am getting pretty good at pulling myself out of that low place though. Or even not allowing myself to get too low in the first place. It tends to hit me out of the blue. Especially when I have too much free time on my hands.
When it does hit, I still can't believe this has all happened. And I definitely can't believe it happened over a year ago!
Another thing I'm getting good at is trying my best to turn a negative into a positive whenever possible. So, tonight, while going back and reading what I wrote one year ago...I am grateful that I am not still stuck in such a deep, dark place. And I am grateful knowing that, with the passage of more time...perhaps in ANOTHER year, I will be in an even better place.
I hope to never have to go back to feeling what I felt one year ago today. I honestly don't know how I survived it. I don't know if I could do it again. It was terribly lonely, terribly depressing and terribly painful.
For those who weren't able to read my older posts, I'm copying and pasting this one here...the words I wrote just shy of 2 weeks after his death and only 9 days after the funeral. It helps me to read it again because it proves to me how far I've come. Maybe you can see it too?
That's how long it's been since my Baby took his last breath. Over 19,000 minutes. You know, in recovery groups they have a saying... "One Day at a Time". Getting through the grief has been one minute at a time. When it hurts too bad, I just will myself to take one more breath. And then one more. Until the pain eases up enough where I don't have to remind myself to breathe.
When it does hit, I still can't believe this has all happened. And I definitely can't believe it happened over a year ago!
Another thing I'm getting good at is trying my best to turn a negative into a positive whenever possible. So, tonight, while going back and reading what I wrote one year ago...I am grateful that I am not still stuck in such a deep, dark place. And I am grateful knowing that, with the passage of more time...perhaps in ANOTHER year, I will be in an even better place.
I hope to never have to go back to feeling what I felt one year ago today. I honestly don't know how I survived it. I don't know if I could do it again. It was terribly lonely, terribly depressing and terribly painful.
For those who weren't able to read my older posts, I'm copying and pasting this one here...the words I wrote just shy of 2 weeks after his death and only 9 days after the funeral. It helps me to read it again because it proves to me how far I've come. Maybe you can see it too?
That's how long it's been since my Baby took his last breath. Over 19,000 minutes. You know, in recovery groups they have a saying... "One Day at a Time". Getting through the grief has been one minute at a time. When it hurts too bad, I just will myself to take one more breath. And then one more. Until the pain eases up enough where I don't have to remind myself to breathe.
I remember when I first brought him home from the hospital, on October 18th. I remember laying in bed next to him, unable to hold him the way I wanted to because of his pain. Unable to joke around and put my cold feet on his legs so he would jump. But I could put my hand on his. I would just touch his wedding ring and think back to the first time I placed it on his hand. I could put my hand over his heart and feel it beating. Such a strong heartbeat. It was hard for me to believe that those beats were numbered. Because he was so strong. And I could feel happy and secure just knowing that he was still here, lying next to me. And we could talk. And we tried to laugh. And we loved. We loved a deeper love than I ever thought possible.
I also cried. Silently, many times, because he did not like to see me upset. And I didn't want him to have to comfort me. He had enough to deal with -- physically, mentally and emotionally. I didn't want to burden him with worrying about me. Sometimes I asked him to please let me cry. After all, I loved him and my crying was just an expression of that love. I think he finally understood that.
Every time his health declined, I would quietly wish we could just go back in time...even one or two days back. I remember when his back was hurting. I wished we could back about a week before that. After all, we had just been to Cedar Point and he was fine walking around all day and he looked healthy and tan and happy. Then I remember being at the hospital and hearing the word cancer for the first time. After that, I wished we could go back to when his back was just hurting. Then two days later, when they confirmed the results of the biopsy and bone scan, I remember wishing we could go back one day...or even one minute...to when we knew he had cancer but had hope for a chance to fight it.
When he came home, he still felt healthy. He said, "If it weren't for the pain, I wouldn't feel sick at all." How quickly that all changed. I remember how he would call me early in the morning and tell me how he wished I would hurry home. I would come home and make him something to eat. He would eat a few bites and be finished. How I wished we could go back to the week before when he had a craving for Rally's or McDonald's and we would go out to lunch. I remember the first day he slept for all but two hours. I wished I could go back to the day before, when he would have me on my feet atleast once every five minutes to turn the fan on, turn the fan off, get him a drink, wash his back in the shower, help him into the bathroom, help him get dressed. I remember the last time he ate. On November 6th, he had a half a piece of toast. I wished we could go back five days. On November 1st, he ate filet mignon for dinner. I remember the day I realized he could no longer stay alone for 3 hours while I worked. I wished we could go back to the days when he would just call me and ask me to get home.
As he got sicker and sicker, I remember telling myself that no matter how bad it is, there will be a time real soon that I will be wishing we could go back to even the sickest times. That time arrived shortly after 1:25 PM on November 11th. Even though it was the most painful event of my life, I would go through those last minutes again in a heartbeat. Because atleast he was still here. I could still see him, touch him, talk to him, and kiss him. I know that is selfish. He would not want to go back to that. He didn't even like to look at pictures or watch old home movies during his sickness. It reminded him of what would never be again.
Every moment, every memory is so sharp and clear in my mind and my heart right now. I am so scared of forgetting. Not him...I could never forget him. I keep reminding myself how his voice sounded, how his snoring sounded, of his scent, of the feel of his touch, of the tender look in his eyes. I'm so scared I will forget, although I know these things are seared into my heart and soul. He is a part of me. He is all I've ever known. It has been me and him for all of my adult life. Always me and him. I spent over half of my years with him. And now I have to face what will most likely be many more years without him. Without him physically atleast. That is just too big for me to even think about. It's too overwhelming.
I don't think my brain is letting the many broken pieces of my heart accept that right now. I can say the words and think the thoughts...but if I were to accept that at this point in time, I think the pain would be so deep that it would literally kill me. I feel bad even writing all of this down. I could write it down in a private journal but I choose to write it here. I don't do it to worry anyone, I don't do it to show everyone that I am grieving even if I put on a happy face, I definitely don't do it to bring anyone else down. It is just what I need to do to try to begin to heal. I hate the thought of healing. Right now I don't WANT to heal. But I know that is a goal I need to work toward. For our sons. For me. These things I write are at the very front of my thoughts and feelings. This is my way of getting them out. So I'm not going to worry what reading this will do to anyone else. If it is too upsetting for someone, they can choose not to read it. I'm just glad I have this one way of sharing with others because I sure can't do it by talking.
I love you Chuck Roach. And I miss you terribly. But I'm sure you already know that, don't you?Thursday, November 12, 2009
Phoenix
From ezinearticles.com:
Mythology says that the Phoenix is a creature that rises from its own ashes after burning down. The name itself originated from the Greek word for "red", the universal color of fire. Being the bird of fire, Phoenix can be aptly used to symbolize a person's inner fire and zest for life. The Phoenix bird epitomizes the rebirth and resurrection from the ashes. You can use this symbol if you have had a tough patch in life and successfully overcame it.
For the past year, I've been considering getting some sort of a memorial tattoo and I wanted to have it done on a meaningful date. I could never quite figure out what design I wanted or where I would want it placed on my body. Since it is permanent, I chose to let every significant date in the past year slip by without getting my tattoo. After all, I would rather do nothing than do something that I would regret every day for the rest of my life.
For the first 9 months or so after Chuck died, all I did was allow myself to grieve. I kept almost everything in my home, in my head, in my heart and in my life the exact same as it always was. I'm glad I did it that way. There was no getting around the grief. It definitely is something that takes time. Lots and lots of time.
But for the last few months, I started to become restless. I started to really want to be able to tuck away some of my grief and start reinvesting in life again. I simply got plain old tired of living in misery and looking forward to nothing.
So I pushed myself. I've had the encouragement of others through it all. But it was me who had to make the decision to move forward in the healing process. It wasn't easy. Some things were less difficult than others. But none of it was easy. From removing my wedding ring, to packing away his belongings, to dating, to feeling okay about laughing and enjoying things again. Or simply changing my day-to-day actions and thoughts. I would take a big step forward and then be still for awhile to process and chart my progress. Once I adjusted to my most recent step forward, I knew it was time to move on to the next difficult task. Even in those times it appeared I was at a stand still, I was still doing my grief work.
A couple of months ago, I really started looking at how far I've come. I went back and read a lot of things I wrote in the beginning. That proved especially helpful during those times I was sure I hadn't made any progress at all. That's when I started feeling better. That's when I realized that I will not only survive, but that I will most definitely be okay...or even better than okay.
That's the moment I decided I didn't want a traditional memorial tattoo. I wanted something to symbolize my experience as a whole. My past, present and future. My survival. My strength. My courage. My ability to rise above one of the worst possible experiences.
That, to me, is what a Phoenix symbolizes.
I began searching online for Phoenix pictures and designs. After viewing literally hundreds of them one really stood out to me every time I looked at it. I knew right then and there that the version of a Phoenix that most symbolized my experience would look something like that.
So, without further ado, here is how I spent my evening yesterday...on the one year anniversary of Chuck's death:
(It's on my upper back...and it's not nearly as big as the picture makes it look. But it's much more beautiful than the picture portrays it. And, yes, it is a unique design. It's based on a picture I found online but it was drawn exclusively for me.)
If you know me at all, you know that I have always been a poor decision maker. It's gotten even worse in the last year. But this was all me. That's one reason I told very few people about my plans. I didn't want any outside influence. I chose the design. I went in the tattoo shop and talked to my artist about what I wanted. I picked the date. And everything just felt right.
I did ask Chris to go with me to my appointment. I didn't need him there to "hold my hand" through the process. It was just an experience I wanted to share with him. I was never really even nervous. I did have a few minutes of excited nervousness before we got there. But I was never really scared or unsure nervous.
When my artist showed me the drawing, I absolutely couldn't wait to get it done. I knew the moment I looked at it that I would love it. Chris even told me that out of all the people he's gone with to get their first tattoo, he's never seen someone so confident about it. I had no doubts whatsoever.
I won't lie and say it wasn't painful. But I earned that tattoo. After everything I've gone through in the past year to earn it, this was by far the least painful aspect of it. This might sound strange but every time that needle pierced my skin, I felt more and more liberated. It was as if the pain of the procedure released so much of the built up tension in my body. To me, it felt like some sort of a ceremonial release of the pain and sadness.
After it was finished I was in awe of its beauty. I felt proud of myself. Not only proud that I took this step on my own, but proud of the strength I've had to persevere. Like the legendary Phoenix, I am reinventing myself and renewing my life. I am rising from the ashes.
I instantly felt like a new woman. I am proud. I am capable. I am strong.
I am alive.
Mythology says that the Phoenix is a creature that rises from its own ashes after burning down. The name itself originated from the Greek word for "red", the universal color of fire. Being the bird of fire, Phoenix can be aptly used to symbolize a person's inner fire and zest for life. The Phoenix bird epitomizes the rebirth and resurrection from the ashes. You can use this symbol if you have had a tough patch in life and successfully overcame it.
For the past year, I've been considering getting some sort of a memorial tattoo and I wanted to have it done on a meaningful date. I could never quite figure out what design I wanted or where I would want it placed on my body. Since it is permanent, I chose to let every significant date in the past year slip by without getting my tattoo. After all, I would rather do nothing than do something that I would regret every day for the rest of my life.
For the first 9 months or so after Chuck died, all I did was allow myself to grieve. I kept almost everything in my home, in my head, in my heart and in my life the exact same as it always was. I'm glad I did it that way. There was no getting around the grief. It definitely is something that takes time. Lots and lots of time.
But for the last few months, I started to become restless. I started to really want to be able to tuck away some of my grief and start reinvesting in life again. I simply got plain old tired of living in misery and looking forward to nothing.
So I pushed myself. I've had the encouragement of others through it all. But it was me who had to make the decision to move forward in the healing process. It wasn't easy. Some things were less difficult than others. But none of it was easy. From removing my wedding ring, to packing away his belongings, to dating, to feeling okay about laughing and enjoying things again. Or simply changing my day-to-day actions and thoughts. I would take a big step forward and then be still for awhile to process and chart my progress. Once I adjusted to my most recent step forward, I knew it was time to move on to the next difficult task. Even in those times it appeared I was at a stand still, I was still doing my grief work.
A couple of months ago, I really started looking at how far I've come. I went back and read a lot of things I wrote in the beginning. That proved especially helpful during those times I was sure I hadn't made any progress at all. That's when I started feeling better. That's when I realized that I will not only survive, but that I will most definitely be okay...or even better than okay.
That's the moment I decided I didn't want a traditional memorial tattoo. I wanted something to symbolize my experience as a whole. My past, present and future. My survival. My strength. My courage. My ability to rise above one of the worst possible experiences.
That, to me, is what a Phoenix symbolizes.
I began searching online for Phoenix pictures and designs. After viewing literally hundreds of them one really stood out to me every time I looked at it. I knew right then and there that the version of a Phoenix that most symbolized my experience would look something like that.
So, without further ado, here is how I spent my evening yesterday...on the one year anniversary of Chuck's death:
(It's on my upper back...and it's not nearly as big as the picture makes it look. But it's much more beautiful than the picture portrays it. And, yes, it is a unique design. It's based on a picture I found online but it was drawn exclusively for me.)
If you know me at all, you know that I have always been a poor decision maker. It's gotten even worse in the last year. But this was all me. That's one reason I told very few people about my plans. I didn't want any outside influence. I chose the design. I went in the tattoo shop and talked to my artist about what I wanted. I picked the date. And everything just felt right.
I did ask Chris to go with me to my appointment. I didn't need him there to "hold my hand" through the process. It was just an experience I wanted to share with him. I was never really even nervous. I did have a few minutes of excited nervousness before we got there. But I was never really scared or unsure nervous.
When my artist showed me the drawing, I absolutely couldn't wait to get it done. I knew the moment I looked at it that I would love it. Chris even told me that out of all the people he's gone with to get their first tattoo, he's never seen someone so confident about it. I had no doubts whatsoever.
I won't lie and say it wasn't painful. But I earned that tattoo. After everything I've gone through in the past year to earn it, this was by far the least painful aspect of it. This might sound strange but every time that needle pierced my skin, I felt more and more liberated. It was as if the pain of the procedure released so much of the built up tension in my body. To me, it felt like some sort of a ceremonial release of the pain and sadness.
After it was finished I was in awe of its beauty. I felt proud of myself. Not only proud that I took this step on my own, but proud of the strength I've had to persevere. Like the legendary Phoenix, I am reinventing myself and renewing my life. I am rising from the ashes.
I instantly felt like a new woman. I am proud. I am capable. I am strong.
I am alive.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
This Time Last Year - Part Three
November 11th, 2008...the last sunrise he would live through.
Not that he saw it. Not that he was even aware of it.
But he was still breathing. His heart was still beating. I could look at him. I could talk to him. I could take care of him. He was alive.
November 11th is also my Grandpa's birthday. When it's my time, I hope I don't die on a family member or friend's birthday. I didn't want Chuck to die on Grandpa's birthday. (Well, I didn't want him to die AT ALL.) But if he had to, why on Grandpa's birthday?
But...
When it got to that point, I secretly hoped that he would die that day. Because the next day, November 12th, was my niece's 18th birthday. And that would have been even more awful. It's bad enough that her birthday weekend...Friday night and all day Saturday...was spent at Chuck's funeral. That kinda puts a damper on a birthday celebration. Especially one of the big years.
So, if I am forced to look at the bright side, I'm glad he chose(?) to die on the 11th instead of the 12th.
And I'm pretty sure Grandpa would agree with me.
So, this is it. Today is the day.
The anticipation and anxiety has been building for several weeks now. I've been saying all along that the days I anticipate being horrible usually pass by considerably smooth, while the ones I think will be a piece of cake are sometimes surprisingly difficult.
So far, that has held true for the last couple of days.
Today, on THE actual day, I feel relatively calm. Yesterday, especially last night, was another story. It was a little rough. I woke up in a good mood. I remained in a good mood for the first several hours of the day. I had a hair appointment at 11:00. (Why in the world did I schedule that appointment at that specific time? Around the time he declined so rapidly?) I made it through that appointment without freaking out. I came home and accomplished some things and still managed to keep my spirits up. But every now and then, totally out of the blue, I would just break down and start sobbing. Sobbing in a way I haven't since the first couple of months. It took me totally by surprise.
Then it started getting dark out...
That's when I realized that I couldn't sit in this house all night, alone except for the kids in their bedrooms, in silence. Alone with my thoughts. And those memories of what was going on in this room last year at this time. It was too much. I just couldn't stay here. So I stayed at a friend's house. I didn't need to talk. I just needed to be near someone and away from this house for those overnight hours. And I slept like a baby. (Thank you, Friend.)
My mind will go through a million and one thoughts today. But I'm doing okay. I really am. Even though it's a significant date, it's just another day that he's been gone. It's kinda like your birthday. You are not really another YEAR older on your birthday, even though the number of your age changes. You are just another day older than you were the day before.
So, today, I will think of past memories with fondness. But I will also think about the future. I'm sure I will still have some of those terrible thoughts...of sickness and dying. After all, that was the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. But that happens on "regular" days, too. I'm sure I will visit the cemetery for a few minutes. But I do that quite frequently already, too.
And at 1:25 PM, I will take a few minutes to be silent. I will remember him with love and respect. I will remember how much courage and strength he showed...right through to the very end. I will honor his memory and the memories of the life we created together.
And then I will make a conscious decision to continue on living. Never forgetting. Living a good life doesn't mean I have to forget. It means I won't let grief, sadness and pain hold me back. I intend to flip those things into something positive. Those things have made me more compassionate...but they've also made me stronger and more determined.
No, I don't have to forget. I will incorporate every aspect of the last 20 years into my future in as positive of a way as possible. Smiling because it happened...instead of crying because it's over.
His cancer isn't going to kill both of us. I won't let it. And he wouldn't have wanted it to steal the rest of my life away from me. If he would've had the choice, he would have sacrificed his life in order for me to live the rest of mine. I know that without a doubt.
So enjoying every little thing that life has to offer isn't forgetting him. It's honoring him. What a shame it would be to waste the lessons I've learned from him...from his life...and especially from his death.
I'll never forget you, Chuck. And, I know. I can hear you now. You might be a little pissed that your picture is in the paper...again! And I know you think it was a waste of money. ;) But I guess I didn't want anyone else to forget either.
I made you two promises on this day one year ago. I promised you that we would be okay. And I promised I would make you proud. I hope I've done just that so far. I've certainly been trying. And I'll never stop.
I'm going to live a (God-willing) long, full and happy life. For me. For our boys. And also for you...in your honor. I know you wouldn't want it any other way.
I'll always miss you. I'll always love you. But I think I'm gonna be okay. After all, I promised.
Not that he saw it. Not that he was even aware of it.
But he was still breathing. His heart was still beating. I could look at him. I could talk to him. I could take care of him. He was alive.
November 11th is also my Grandpa's birthday. When it's my time, I hope I don't die on a family member or friend's birthday. I didn't want Chuck to die on Grandpa's birthday. (Well, I didn't want him to die AT ALL.) But if he had to, why on Grandpa's birthday?
But...
When it got to that point, I secretly hoped that he would die that day. Because the next day, November 12th, was my niece's 18th birthday. And that would have been even more awful. It's bad enough that her birthday weekend...Friday night and all day Saturday...was spent at Chuck's funeral. That kinda puts a damper on a birthday celebration. Especially one of the big years.
So, if I am forced to look at the bright side, I'm glad he chose(?) to die on the 11th instead of the 12th.
And I'm pretty sure Grandpa would agree with me.
So, this is it. Today is the day.
The anticipation and anxiety has been building for several weeks now. I've been saying all along that the days I anticipate being horrible usually pass by considerably smooth, while the ones I think will be a piece of cake are sometimes surprisingly difficult.
So far, that has held true for the last couple of days.
Today, on THE actual day, I feel relatively calm. Yesterday, especially last night, was another story. It was a little rough. I woke up in a good mood. I remained in a good mood for the first several hours of the day. I had a hair appointment at 11:00. (Why in the world did I schedule that appointment at that specific time? Around the time he declined so rapidly?) I made it through that appointment without freaking out. I came home and accomplished some things and still managed to keep my spirits up. But every now and then, totally out of the blue, I would just break down and start sobbing. Sobbing in a way I haven't since the first couple of months. It took me totally by surprise.
Then it started getting dark out...
That's when I realized that I couldn't sit in this house all night, alone except for the kids in their bedrooms, in silence. Alone with my thoughts. And those memories of what was going on in this room last year at this time. It was too much. I just couldn't stay here. So I stayed at a friend's house. I didn't need to talk. I just needed to be near someone and away from this house for those overnight hours. And I slept like a baby. (Thank you, Friend.)
My mind will go through a million and one thoughts today. But I'm doing okay. I really am. Even though it's a significant date, it's just another day that he's been gone. It's kinda like your birthday. You are not really another YEAR older on your birthday, even though the number of your age changes. You are just another day older than you were the day before.
So, today, I will think of past memories with fondness. But I will also think about the future. I'm sure I will still have some of those terrible thoughts...of sickness and dying. After all, that was the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. But that happens on "regular" days, too. I'm sure I will visit the cemetery for a few minutes. But I do that quite frequently already, too.
And at 1:25 PM, I will take a few minutes to be silent. I will remember him with love and respect. I will remember how much courage and strength he showed...right through to the very end. I will honor his memory and the memories of the life we created together.
And then I will make a conscious decision to continue on living. Never forgetting. Living a good life doesn't mean I have to forget. It means I won't let grief, sadness and pain hold me back. I intend to flip those things into something positive. Those things have made me more compassionate...but they've also made me stronger and more determined.
No, I don't have to forget. I will incorporate every aspect of the last 20 years into my future in as positive of a way as possible. Smiling because it happened...instead of crying because it's over.
His cancer isn't going to kill both of us. I won't let it. And he wouldn't have wanted it to steal the rest of my life away from me. If he would've had the choice, he would have sacrificed his life in order for me to live the rest of mine. I know that without a doubt.
So enjoying every little thing that life has to offer isn't forgetting him. It's honoring him. What a shame it would be to waste the lessons I've learned from him...from his life...and especially from his death.
I'll never forget you, Chuck. And, I know. I can hear you now. You might be a little pissed that your picture is in the paper...again! And I know you think it was a waste of money. ;) But I guess I didn't want anyone else to forget either.
I made you two promises on this day one year ago. I promised you that we would be okay. And I promised I would make you proud. I hope I've done just that so far. I've certainly been trying. And I'll never stop.
I'm going to live a (God-willing) long, full and happy life. For me. For our boys. And also for you...in your honor. I know you wouldn't want it any other way.
I'll always miss you. I'll always love you. But I think I'm gonna be okay. After all, I promised.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
This Time Last Year - Part Two
November 10th, 2008...his last full day alive...started out pretty much the same as every day of the previous week or so. I mean, he seemed to get a little sicker each day. But I still went to work (worrying and rushing to get home, of course) and the kids still went to school...with a heavy heart and a lump in their throat, I'm sure. But it was, by all accounts, a routine morning. A routine that had become our normal for weeks.
While I had known in my heart by then that he only had a matter of days left, death didn't seem imminent...not on that morning.
Until about 11:00 AM.
He had experienced some agitation on and off for days. He also slept a lot. And he hadn't eaten anything in at least a couple of days. But I could always seem to calm him down when he got restless. When I would talk to him, he could somewhat focus on me, even if it were only for a minute or two.
But something changed at 11:00 AM last November 10th.
There was no calming him. He was struggling. Physically? Emotionally? Both? I'll never know. All I know is that I couldn't calm him and I got scared. No, scared isn't the word. I got frantic. I tried everything. Pain medicine. Talking to him. Rubbing his hand. More pain medicine. Running my fingers over his hair. Softly playing our wedding song in the background.
But, still, there was no calming him.
So I called for his nurse. I think she was there in less than an hour. But it felt like it took about 5 hours. Even if she couldn't do anything for him, I knew I would feel better to NOT be alone with him. I needed reassurance. I needed her to tell me what to do for him. (What I really needed at that time was a miracle but I knew that would never come.) I needed someone to just be here and take over for a little while. Maybe I just needed her to confirm what I already knew.
I'd never been through anything like that in my life. It was worry, fear, sadness. It was a sense of disbelief that this was really happening. It was absolute torture.
It's indescribable.
It's also what I still see many times when I close my eyes to sleep. It's the one thing I would give anything to forget.
No, I'd never experienced anything like that before in my 37 years. And I hope I never have to again.
While I had known in my heart by then that he only had a matter of days left, death didn't seem imminent...not on that morning.
Until about 11:00 AM.
He had experienced some agitation on and off for days. He also slept a lot. And he hadn't eaten anything in at least a couple of days. But I could always seem to calm him down when he got restless. When I would talk to him, he could somewhat focus on me, even if it were only for a minute or two.
But something changed at 11:00 AM last November 10th.
There was no calming him. He was struggling. Physically? Emotionally? Both? I'll never know. All I know is that I couldn't calm him and I got scared. No, scared isn't the word. I got frantic. I tried everything. Pain medicine. Talking to him. Rubbing his hand. More pain medicine. Running my fingers over his hair. Softly playing our wedding song in the background.
But, still, there was no calming him.
So I called for his nurse. I think she was there in less than an hour. But it felt like it took about 5 hours. Even if she couldn't do anything for him, I knew I would feel better to NOT be alone with him. I needed reassurance. I needed her to tell me what to do for him. (What I really needed at that time was a miracle but I knew that would never come.) I needed someone to just be here and take over for a little while. Maybe I just needed her to confirm what I already knew.
I'd never been through anything like that in my life. It was worry, fear, sadness. It was a sense of disbelief that this was really happening. It was absolute torture.
It's indescribable.
It's also what I still see many times when I close my eyes to sleep. It's the one thing I would give anything to forget.
No, I'd never experienced anything like that before in my 37 years. And I hope I never have to again.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
This Time Last Year - Part One
Approximately one year ago today, I started telling people that Chuck was going downhill...and fast. "I think we're looking at days, not weeks."
The response was always one of surprise.
After all, only 6 days earlier, we ran errands together. He was in pain and didn't get out of the car on many of the stops we made. But he was functioning. He was alert. He was eating. He was awake.
I kept many of the receipts from that day. October 30, 2008.
We went to the junkyard to buy a mirror for my mom's van. He came home and installed it for her...that was the last car repair he ever did. He had a craving for Rally's french fries and a chocolate shake so we stopped there...that was his last fast-food meal. We went to the dollar store for some odds and ends...he made sure to buy the dogs some treats, as he always did. He bought some "Marvel Mystery Oil" stuff for one of the cars. (I still have it. I have no idea what it's for or what to do with it.) We bought a small wastebasket that he could keep next to his side of the bed. We also went to the auto parts store to buy a bulb for the car headlight...a simple fix, right? If you know what you're doing (he did) and if you felt well enough to get under the hood of the car (he didn't). He tried though. He got frustrated so he tried to explain to me what to do. I just couldn't get it in there right. I mean, I never figured I would need to know how to do those things. He got even more frustrated at me but didn't want me to go in and ask one of the employees for help. So I got back in the car and cried. That was our last argument...ever...in the parking lot of Advance Auto Parts.
We both knew that he wouldn't be able to do too many things in the days and weeks to come. But neither of us knew that would be the last day he would ever get into a car. (And we sure didn't think he would die a mere 12 days later.)
I saved the receipt from the next day when I went to the grocery store...alone. I noted on it that this was "the first time he admitted that he just wasn't up to running to the store with me". I bought some things that he had a craving for. He never even attempted to eat most of them. (I really do have to finish cleaning out my freezer...some of those things are still in there!)
Now, here it is, one year and 6 days after his final outing. On November 5, 2008 he wasn't doing much of anything anymore...except sleeping. He was still eating sporadically. But barely. I knew it was getting close at that point. I remained relatively calm though. I had to. I went into full-swing caregiver mode. There was no time for fear, worry or sadness. (Except for when I was alone at work or in the shower.) But in front of him? No way. Not even while he was sleeping.
And this is about the time that he woke up because I was tearing through the bedroom in search of a misplaced photo. The one he requested to be buried with. It was my senior picture that I gave him when we first started dating. I had written on the back of it. He carried it in his wallet for many years but had taken it out because it was getting so worn. When he woke up, I looked at him. I was crying and I said, "I can't find it, Chuck. I can't find the picture." One simple wish that he had...and I couldn't fulfill it. (I ended up placing a duplicate of that picture in his casket with a new note written on the back...it still wasn't the same though.)
As a side note, I still haven't found that picture. I hope it shows up someday.
When I look back on "this time last year" now, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I would have felt then...if I would've had the opportunity. I couldn't have cared for him if I had given in to this feeling.
I really just want to get past this next week or so. The next few days of thinking how much sicker he got with each passing day "this time last year".
And then November 10, 2008...when I couldn't get his restlessness to settle down...the day I frantically called his nurse out around 11:00 AM and she started talking to him to calm him down. He was out of it but couldn't hold still. She quietly told me that it would probably happen some time tonight. She started giving him the "talk". "It's okay, Chuck. Jodi is here. Right by your side. She's taking such good care of you. But you can start to let go now. It's okay to go whenever you're ready, Chuck. Jodi and the boys will be okay." He began to calm down a bit after she said those things to him. That's the day his breathing started getting that ugly rattle. The day his nurse put the oxygen back on him and he didn't fight it or complain about it. The day I had to make phone calls to tell everyone he probably wouldn't live to see tomorrow.
Then November 10th turned into November 11th. An all night vigil by his side. Caring for him. Loving him. Kissing the top of his head. Drugging him up as much as possible to get him to just be still for more than 10 minutes at a time. (No amount of drugs worked.) Wetting his lips. Wiping the blood away that kept coming out of the right side of his nose. Helping him use the urinal whenever he felt the urge. Attempting to change his bedding whenever he didn't make it in time. Talking to him. Telling him, over and over, that it's okay to go. Fighting off the urge to beg him to just go already...to stop fighting the inevitable...to stop suffering.
For God's sake, I just wanted him to be able to be still and find some peace. He never got that until his final 10 or 20 minutes. The suffering and agitation (it's called terminal restlessness) was absolutely heart-wrenching to watch. That and the "death rattle"...his breathing...are two aspects of the nightmarish final 26 hours I will never forget.
I remember being afraid to take a shower. Or to doze off for 30 minutes. There was no way I wasn't going to be there...holding his hand. I was so worried that I wouldn't be able to tell when that moment would arrive.
There was no mistaking it. Things changed with him all of a sudden...and I knew instantly.
To be continued.....
The response was always one of surprise.
After all, only 6 days earlier, we ran errands together. He was in pain and didn't get out of the car on many of the stops we made. But he was functioning. He was alert. He was eating. He was awake.
I kept many of the receipts from that day. October 30, 2008.
We went to the junkyard to buy a mirror for my mom's van. He came home and installed it for her...that was the last car repair he ever did. He had a craving for Rally's french fries and a chocolate shake so we stopped there...that was his last fast-food meal. We went to the dollar store for some odds and ends...he made sure to buy the dogs some treats, as he always did. He bought some "Marvel Mystery Oil" stuff for one of the cars. (I still have it. I have no idea what it's for or what to do with it.) We bought a small wastebasket that he could keep next to his side of the bed. We also went to the auto parts store to buy a bulb for the car headlight...a simple fix, right? If you know what you're doing (he did) and if you felt well enough to get under the hood of the car (he didn't). He tried though. He got frustrated so he tried to explain to me what to do. I just couldn't get it in there right. I mean, I never figured I would need to know how to do those things. He got even more frustrated at me but didn't want me to go in and ask one of the employees for help. So I got back in the car and cried. That was our last argument...ever...in the parking lot of Advance Auto Parts.
We both knew that he wouldn't be able to do too many things in the days and weeks to come. But neither of us knew that would be the last day he would ever get into a car. (And we sure didn't think he would die a mere 12 days later.)
I saved the receipt from the next day when I went to the grocery store...alone. I noted on it that this was "the first time he admitted that he just wasn't up to running to the store with me". I bought some things that he had a craving for. He never even attempted to eat most of them. (I really do have to finish cleaning out my freezer...some of those things are still in there!)
Now, here it is, one year and 6 days after his final outing. On November 5, 2008 he wasn't doing much of anything anymore...except sleeping. He was still eating sporadically. But barely. I knew it was getting close at that point. I remained relatively calm though. I had to. I went into full-swing caregiver mode. There was no time for fear, worry or sadness. (Except for when I was alone at work or in the shower.) But in front of him? No way. Not even while he was sleeping.
And this is about the time that he woke up because I was tearing through the bedroom in search of a misplaced photo. The one he requested to be buried with. It was my senior picture that I gave him when we first started dating. I had written on the back of it. He carried it in his wallet for many years but had taken it out because it was getting so worn. When he woke up, I looked at him. I was crying and I said, "I can't find it, Chuck. I can't find the picture." One simple wish that he had...and I couldn't fulfill it. (I ended up placing a duplicate of that picture in his casket with a new note written on the back...it still wasn't the same though.)
As a side note, I still haven't found that picture. I hope it shows up someday.
When I look back on "this time last year" now, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I would have felt then...if I would've had the opportunity. I couldn't have cared for him if I had given in to this feeling.
I really just want to get past this next week or so. The next few days of thinking how much sicker he got with each passing day "this time last year".
And then November 10, 2008...when I couldn't get his restlessness to settle down...the day I frantically called his nurse out around 11:00 AM and she started talking to him to calm him down. He was out of it but couldn't hold still. She quietly told me that it would probably happen some time tonight. She started giving him the "talk". "It's okay, Chuck. Jodi is here. Right by your side. She's taking such good care of you. But you can start to let go now. It's okay to go whenever you're ready, Chuck. Jodi and the boys will be okay." He began to calm down a bit after she said those things to him. That's the day his breathing started getting that ugly rattle. The day his nurse put the oxygen back on him and he didn't fight it or complain about it. The day I had to make phone calls to tell everyone he probably wouldn't live to see tomorrow.
Then November 10th turned into November 11th. An all night vigil by his side. Caring for him. Loving him. Kissing the top of his head. Drugging him up as much as possible to get him to just be still for more than 10 minutes at a time. (No amount of drugs worked.) Wetting his lips. Wiping the blood away that kept coming out of the right side of his nose. Helping him use the urinal whenever he felt the urge. Attempting to change his bedding whenever he didn't make it in time. Talking to him. Telling him, over and over, that it's okay to go. Fighting off the urge to beg him to just go already...to stop fighting the inevitable...to stop suffering.
For God's sake, I just wanted him to be able to be still and find some peace. He never got that until his final 10 or 20 minutes. The suffering and agitation (it's called terminal restlessness) was absolutely heart-wrenching to watch. That and the "death rattle"...his breathing...are two aspects of the nightmarish final 26 hours I will never forget.
I remember being afraid to take a shower. Or to doze off for 30 minutes. There was no way I wasn't going to be there...holding his hand. I was so worried that I wouldn't be able to tell when that moment would arrive.
There was no mistaking it. Things changed with him all of a sudden...and I knew instantly.
To be continued.....
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