It's about that time of year. I remember hearing on New Year's Eve 2008 that Rob had been moved to hospice. For the rest of the night, that's just about all I could think about.
The days went by. I went up to visit him. And one day, he died. As I read back through my blog at that time, I recall my grief and my relief - simultaneous, as strange as that may seem. I remember thinking that I could count on one dear friend in particular for consolation, but that turned out not to be true. That sunk very deep.
I barely knew Adam. We had just begun dating. Yet he held me in his arms and asked about Rob. He asked for me to tell him stories. He let me cry. He let me tell him all the things I missed about Rob. What he did that evening has stuck with me and I think that's the first time I realized how truly good Adam is.
Showing posts with label Rob. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rob. Show all posts
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Finding the Summit
It's been a while. Since I wrote anything of substance. Right? It seems that there was a period of time that I was learning alot and processing through a ton and also being very up front about it. And I think I've recently moved into a stage where I've been a little more reserved about sharing what I'm learning and processing. Well, maybe I should revisit what all has been going on. It's not bad. Really, this blog started as a journal. This blog isn't really for anyone else but me. The fact that it's open to friends and family and the general population of the world sometimes slips by me. And then I'll come across someone who mentioned that they had read my writing. It shouldn't be a shock. But it is. Strangely enough. I like it though. Keeps me on my toes.
Well, I'm going to write a bit more. And I think I'll start with my recent journey to the top of Long's Peak. And the discovery of a CD that Robert made for my 28th birthday. I realized a month or so ago that I was having a very hard time processing through the loss of my dear friend and love who passed away January 25. I would get emotional when I thought of him. I'm upset that God threw such a curveball. Rob and I were good together and it was a nasty turn of events that sent us tumbling to our demise. I've talked about this before - grateful that we came to reconcile our friendship and that we got to spend his last summer together getting out to enjoy music in the park and to have dinner... to eat giant ice cream sundaes.
I think I needed to do something monumental to celebrate his life. I realized, quite sensibly, that there was no place on the entire earth that I could go that I would be able to find him. He was gone. And you would think, of course. That makes sense. But when you lose someone close to you, that is insane to even fathom. That even if you TRIED to find him, you simply couldn't. I remembered his crazy tales of getting to the top of Long's Peak with Steve. How they set up their tent but the wind tore it away from them into the night and they were forced to sleep under the stars in freezing weather at 12,000 feet. I loved that story. And I wanted to be there. To see the ridge they camped on and to summit the same beloved peak that gave Rob so much joy.
So I headed out with Eric and Erica this last Friday, July 10th. We were at the trailhead at 3:30am.
We walked for a few hours in the dark and as we got up above treeline, the sun began to peek over the horizon. It cast red light all across The Diamond. And it shone off the water seeping through the tundra. We could see a herd of elk grazing below and the monumental 3,000 feet of elevation that we had yet to gain. So we pressed on past the boulder field and through the Keyhole. 
Across the traverse on the back side and up the Trough, another field of boulders at a nearly 35 degree slope. I counted down the remaining red and yellow targets as we crested this challenging portion of the trail. Sky! And yet, the climb was not yet over. We wrapped around the corner and again traversed, this time across the front side - a portion called the Narrows. It's a fitting name. It is essentially a sidewalk across the sheer face of Long's Peak. A misstep would cause you to tumble over 1,000 feet. 
Finally we arrive at the Home Stretch. 450 feet of rock at about 45 degrees. Difficult to say the least. But we finally arrived at the top.
On the way up, I thought of all the stories I remembered of Rob. His awesome secret ingredient chili, the joy he had filtering through his gear, standing naked in the snow to eat his breakfast in Moab, the Ghost Cow, eating sweet tangerines in the park in Crested Butte, learning to ride clipless pedals in Moab, Fran shattering our front window in the place we lived in Gunny, his proposal, our toilet paper break up... so many things to remember. And then shortly after we were married, making jokes with the nurses in the cancer clinic, living in the hospital for the first month after his surgery, the Rocky Mountain Cancer Clinic 5K, learning to be a nurse, watching him 'shave' with a washcloth, trying to get him to drink Boost and to eat those Angel Heart meals, waking up 20 minutes earlier so that we could get him up the stairs in time, him calling me 'sweetie' for a series of months because he couldn't remember my name. And then there was Castle Rock and the Colorado Springs apartment, getting Maddox, all these great memories.
Well, at the top of Long's, I pulled out a dried bouquet of our wedding flowers. I found a spot to leave them and tucked them under a rock. I told him that I missed him and that I hope he could see me. I wanted him to know that I came up there to see him. It was the only place on earth that I knew I could go to do that. I told him I loved him. After a quick re-energizing, we headed back down.
Every step down seemed three times as difficult as each step up. It soon became painful and we were all exhausted. We finally got to the base of the Boulder Field. The three miles at the top are some of the most difficult terrain I've ever encountered. Yet, there was still 4.5 miles of trail to conquer. It didn't seem like much after what we just came down. But that 4.5 miles stretched into what seemed like ten. Treeline seemed so far away and even after crossing the brook, the last 1.5 miles never ended. When I got to the sign that said .5 miles left, I was so exhausted I knew I could only do it if I ran the last portion. I couldn't be on that trail any longer than I had to be. When I got to the parking lot, I threw my bag down, stripped off my shirts and laid there for a few minutes.
I laid there thinking of everything that Rob had to endure in his sickness. I realized he had no road signs saying how much more there was left. No treeline and no brook crossing to let him know it was almost done. He endured day in and day out through terrible pain and discomfort. Through swelling and loss of movement in his extremities.
On the way home, I put in a CD that he had made me for my 28th birthday - shortly before our divorce was final. The car I had before wouldn't play this CD and neither would my computer. So I didn't expect it to play. But it did. Rob had told me that this was a collection of songs he liked. They didn't necessarily mean anything. But as I listened to the entire disk, I felt like he wanted to tell me that through it all, he still loved me and wanted me back. It was very difficult to listen to. It was the music that he loved that signified importance to him. It tore me up. I drove back with tears pouring from my eyes, limbs aching.
There is no going back and changing anything. I know that. So what is it to me now? What does all of it mean? It means to me that he loved me more than anything and that our relationship was worth it to him. Worth it to fight for. He left the world without disdain or hatred for anything that had transpired between us. That is comforting. I wish, of course, that I had been more aware and that I hadn't become someone different in the middle of all of it. I know that in the future if God ever brings me anyone to love again that I will have a strength of character that I didn't have before that will allow me to persevere and love in the midst of trouble. I know that it's worth it. Rob taught me so much.
Thank you, Rob. I love you and I miss you every day.
Well, I'm going to write a bit more. And I think I'll start with my recent journey to the top of Long's Peak. And the discovery of a CD that Robert made for my 28th birthday. I realized a month or so ago that I was having a very hard time processing through the loss of my dear friend and love who passed away January 25. I would get emotional when I thought of him. I'm upset that God threw such a curveball. Rob and I were good together and it was a nasty turn of events that sent us tumbling to our demise. I've talked about this before - grateful that we came to reconcile our friendship and that we got to spend his last summer together getting out to enjoy music in the park and to have dinner... to eat giant ice cream sundaes.
I think I needed to do something monumental to celebrate his life. I realized, quite sensibly, that there was no place on the entire earth that I could go that I would be able to find him. He was gone. And you would think, of course. That makes sense. But when you lose someone close to you, that is insane to even fathom. That even if you TRIED to find him, you simply couldn't. I remembered his crazy tales of getting to the top of Long's Peak with Steve. How they set up their tent but the wind tore it away from them into the night and they were forced to sleep under the stars in freezing weather at 12,000 feet. I loved that story. And I wanted to be there. To see the ridge they camped on and to summit the same beloved peak that gave Rob so much joy.
So I headed out with Eric and Erica this last Friday, July 10th. We were at the trailhead at 3:30am.
We walked for a few hours in the dark and as we got up above treeline, the sun began to peek over the horizon. It cast red light all across The Diamond. And it shone off the water seeping through the tundra. We could see a herd of elk grazing below and the monumental 3,000 feet of elevation that we had yet to gain. So we pressed on past the boulder field and through the Keyhole. 
Across the traverse on the back side and up the Trough, another field of boulders at a nearly 35 degree slope. I counted down the remaining red and yellow targets as we crested this challenging portion of the trail. Sky! And yet, the climb was not yet over. We wrapped around the corner and again traversed, this time across the front side - a portion called the Narrows. It's a fitting name. It is essentially a sidewalk across the sheer face of Long's Peak. A misstep would cause you to tumble over 1,000 feet. 
Finally we arrive at the Home Stretch. 450 feet of rock at about 45 degrees. Difficult to say the least. But we finally arrived at the top. On the way up, I thought of all the stories I remembered of Rob. His awesome secret ingredient chili, the joy he had filtering through his gear, standing naked in the snow to eat his breakfast in Moab, the Ghost Cow, eating sweet tangerines in the park in Crested Butte, learning to ride clipless pedals in Moab, Fran shattering our front window in the place we lived in Gunny, his proposal, our toilet paper break up... so many things to remember. And then shortly after we were married, making jokes with the nurses in the cancer clinic, living in the hospital for the first month after his surgery, the Rocky Mountain Cancer Clinic 5K, learning to be a nurse, watching him 'shave' with a washcloth, trying to get him to drink Boost and to eat those Angel Heart meals, waking up 20 minutes earlier so that we could get him up the stairs in time, him calling me 'sweetie' for a series of months because he couldn't remember my name. And then there was Castle Rock and the Colorado Springs apartment, getting Maddox, all these great memories.
Well, at the top of Long's, I pulled out a dried bouquet of our wedding flowers. I found a spot to leave them and tucked them under a rock. I told him that I missed him and that I hope he could see me. I wanted him to know that I came up there to see him. It was the only place on earth that I knew I could go to do that. I told him I loved him. After a quick re-energizing, we headed back down. Every step down seemed three times as difficult as each step up. It soon became painful and we were all exhausted. We finally got to the base of the Boulder Field. The three miles at the top are some of the most difficult terrain I've ever encountered. Yet, there was still 4.5 miles of trail to conquer. It didn't seem like much after what we just came down. But that 4.5 miles stretched into what seemed like ten. Treeline seemed so far away and even after crossing the brook, the last 1.5 miles never ended. When I got to the sign that said .5 miles left, I was so exhausted I knew I could only do it if I ran the last portion. I couldn't be on that trail any longer than I had to be. When I got to the parking lot, I threw my bag down, stripped off my shirts and laid there for a few minutes.
I laid there thinking of everything that Rob had to endure in his sickness. I realized he had no road signs saying how much more there was left. No treeline and no brook crossing to let him know it was almost done. He endured day in and day out through terrible pain and discomfort. Through swelling and loss of movement in his extremities.
On the way home, I put in a CD that he had made me for my 28th birthday - shortly before our divorce was final. The car I had before wouldn't play this CD and neither would my computer. So I didn't expect it to play. But it did. Rob had told me that this was a collection of songs he liked. They didn't necessarily mean anything. But as I listened to the entire disk, I felt like he wanted to tell me that through it all, he still loved me and wanted me back. It was very difficult to listen to. It was the music that he loved that signified importance to him. It tore me up. I drove back with tears pouring from my eyes, limbs aching.
There is no going back and changing anything. I know that. So what is it to me now? What does all of it mean? It means to me that he loved me more than anything and that our relationship was worth it to him. Worth it to fight for. He left the world without disdain or hatred for anything that had transpired between us. That is comforting. I wish, of course, that I had been more aware and that I hadn't become someone different in the middle of all of it. I know that in the future if God ever brings me anyone to love again that I will have a strength of character that I didn't have before that will allow me to persevere and love in the midst of trouble. I know that it's worth it. Rob taught me so much.
Thank you, Rob. I love you and I miss you every day.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Missing Rob
I want to write. Have you ever felt like there was so much that you needed to process through? I feel that today and so I have sat down to write and I'm not quite sure what needs to be said.
I sat at breakfast this weekend with my lovely friend, Lisa. I have felt for a long time like we are two little peas in our pod. I'm not sure it's a perfect pod. No, it's not. Our little pod has been marked with big, big sadness and lots of joy, too. But we seem to have the same sort of something that is carrying us through. I feel like both she and I are able to take things as they come and to laugh them along. Whatever it is - good or bad.
She posted this video the other day that nearly wrecked me - Dave Matthews singing Grace is Gone. I know Rob and I were not married when he died. But for the life of me, I can't separate it all. He is still the only husband I ever knew. I really thought that I had patched my little self together and been okay knowing that he is gone. But it comes back in waves. I miss him so terribly much. I want to talk with him. Last summer we spent such wonderful time together... having dinners and listening to music in the park. I want him back. Here. On earth. And I'm so upset that God didn't fix it all. He could have.
So what was the point in all of that, really? To love and lose? Great. I'm not one to ask why... but for some reason, I can't get past the fact that I don't understand it. I never said I had to understand. But maybe one day years down the road when I have the family that I don't have now and when I've lived days and seen things I haven't lived or seen yet, maybe I'll understand. Right now I know it was a sad, sad loss for this world to endure.
So, his picture is up in my house. His bracelet is around my wrist. But how can you be near to someone who has left? I will never forget him.
I sat at breakfast this weekend with my lovely friend, Lisa. I have felt for a long time like we are two little peas in our pod. I'm not sure it's a perfect pod. No, it's not. Our little pod has been marked with big, big sadness and lots of joy, too. But we seem to have the same sort of something that is carrying us through. I feel like both she and I are able to take things as they come and to laugh them along. Whatever it is - good or bad.
She posted this video the other day that nearly wrecked me - Dave Matthews singing Grace is Gone. I know Rob and I were not married when he died. But for the life of me, I can't separate it all. He is still the only husband I ever knew. I really thought that I had patched my little self together and been okay knowing that he is gone. But it comes back in waves. I miss him so terribly much. I want to talk with him. Last summer we spent such wonderful time together... having dinners and listening to music in the park. I want him back. Here. On earth. And I'm so upset that God didn't fix it all. He could have.
So what was the point in all of that, really? To love and lose? Great. I'm not one to ask why... but for some reason, I can't get past the fact that I don't understand it. I never said I had to understand. But maybe one day years down the road when I have the family that I don't have now and when I've lived days and seen things I haven't lived or seen yet, maybe I'll understand. Right now I know it was a sad, sad loss for this world to endure.
So, his picture is up in my house. His bracelet is around my wrist. But how can you be near to someone who has left? I will never forget him.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Processing
The memorial service magnified my grief.
It has been so intense since then. I woke up Saturday morning and felt heavy, heavy, and sullen and so, so, terribly sad. The words grief and sorrow now mean something to me. And now tears come even when I'm not thinking of him. They used to come when I would think of him in heaven... or of our time together. But now they come when I don't expect them. Sunday morning was terrible, too. Trying to hold it all together while I'm around people. I couldn't do it. I cried and cried and cried. I can't imagine how his sweet mother feels.
When I'm not buried underneath all of that, I feel absolutely nothing at all. I can still smile. I can still laugh. But I truly feel incapable of any emotion. And that's why I feel I have to stop dating this wonderful man that I have been seeing. I couldn't ask him to stick around for this ridiculousness. I feel completely emotionally bankrupt. I know he is wonderful. But I can't give him 100%.
Here is what I need: I need my dear, dear friends to know Rob. No one I know now really knows him. And it makes me incredibly sad. I want to show them pictures and I want to play the music we played at our wedding. And I want to make his delicious chili. I want to tell stories about him and to try to remember what we did. I want to remember everything.
Here is what I want: I want to go with Rob's brother and his best friends when they take his ashes to the top of Long's Peak. I don't know if they will let me. But if they don't, then I will go there myself and sit and speak with him and tell him goodbye.
It has been so intense since then. I woke up Saturday morning and felt heavy, heavy, and sullen and so, so, terribly sad. The words grief and sorrow now mean something to me. And now tears come even when I'm not thinking of him. They used to come when I would think of him in heaven... or of our time together. But now they come when I don't expect them. Sunday morning was terrible, too. Trying to hold it all together while I'm around people. I couldn't do it. I cried and cried and cried. I can't imagine how his sweet mother feels.
When I'm not buried underneath all of that, I feel absolutely nothing at all. I can still smile. I can still laugh. But I truly feel incapable of any emotion. And that's why I feel I have to stop dating this wonderful man that I have been seeing. I couldn't ask him to stick around for this ridiculousness. I feel completely emotionally bankrupt. I know he is wonderful. But I can't give him 100%.
Here is what I need: I need my dear, dear friends to know Rob. No one I know now really knows him. And it makes me incredibly sad. I want to show them pictures and I want to play the music we played at our wedding. And I want to make his delicious chili. I want to tell stories about him and to try to remember what we did. I want to remember everything.
Here is what I want: I want to go with Rob's brother and his best friends when they take his ashes to the top of Long's Peak. I don't know if they will let me. But if they don't, then I will go there myself and sit and speak with him and tell him goodbye.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Words for Rob
I said goodbye to you yesterday. Or at least I think I did. Your friends were all around. Your family filled up the front rows. Last time that happened, we were getting married. Do you remember how it felt to have EVERYONE we loved there? Overwhelming. But you weren't there this time. And it was the most surreal feeling. Where were you? It couldn't be real, right? Any second now, you would be walking in the door. I think of all the times that we lived together that you would come through the front door. It was so normal.
Did you hear the story I told? I sat there, debating whether or not to go up. All I could think of was how much everybody hated me. And how with every word I spoke, they would be seething. But I knew that wasn't true. Richy, Steve, Matt, Erin, and Laurie... they all showed me love... unexpected. And I knew that maybe someone in that room would want to hear that silly story about you eating breakfast naked in the snow in Moab.
It was so good to hear Richy talk about you. And Erin. And Matt and Steve. You and I only had 8 married months together without cancer. It was so long ago, that sometimes I wasn't sure if I would remember our good times. But they reminded me.
You were so faithful. So funny. So authentic and genuine. You loved me.
You know what I thought today? That we never should have gotten a divorce. And that is why I woke up this morning at 4am. My heart weighed 100 pounds. And today at the mall, I wanted to buy something that would always remind me of you. A necklace. But I couldn't find anything. I don't want to date anyone. I just want to be alone and practice music and make you proud.
It makes me think about the purpose of my life. Really, I'm here to give to my friends and my students. And that's it. Everything else can leave me alone.
I haven't said goodbye to you yet, have I?
Did you hear the story I told? I sat there, debating whether or not to go up. All I could think of was how much everybody hated me. And how with every word I spoke, they would be seething. But I knew that wasn't true. Richy, Steve, Matt, Erin, and Laurie... they all showed me love... unexpected. And I knew that maybe someone in that room would want to hear that silly story about you eating breakfast naked in the snow in Moab.
It was so good to hear Richy talk about you. And Erin. And Matt and Steve. You and I only had 8 married months together without cancer. It was so long ago, that sometimes I wasn't sure if I would remember our good times. But they reminded me.
You were so faithful. So funny. So authentic and genuine. You loved me.
You know what I thought today? That we never should have gotten a divorce. And that is why I woke up this morning at 4am. My heart weighed 100 pounds. And today at the mall, I wanted to buy something that would always remind me of you. A necklace. But I couldn't find anything. I don't want to date anyone. I just want to be alone and practice music and make you proud.
It makes me think about the purpose of my life. Really, I'm here to give to my friends and my students. And that's it. Everything else can leave me alone.
I haven't said goodbye to you yet, have I?
Monday, January 26, 2009
It Was So Bright and You Just Disappeared
Here is what Erin wrote you on your Facebook:
"Hi Robbie Roo. Oh I'll miss you. Do they have Facebook up in Heaven? I'm sure God will tell you I called. I'm so excited for you! No more hardship and pain! I read your testimony again, all about how Jesus saved you, and it made me so happy. I know where you are. I was worshipping God with a bunch of crazy teens right when you died, and I thought, wow, this is what Robbie would want me to be doing right now. Just like we used to do. During worship I imagined God consuming you with His glory. It was so bright, and you just disappeared. Wow. Well, I love ya Rob Renfroe. I'm gonna race into your arms when I see you again, so get ready! Bye Bye for now, but just for now. yer pal Fostage"
And after I read this, I could barely breathe.
Love you, Erin.
"Hi Robbie Roo. Oh I'll miss you. Do they have Facebook up in Heaven? I'm sure God will tell you I called. I'm so excited for you! No more hardship and pain! I read your testimony again, all about how Jesus saved you, and it made me so happy. I know where you are. I was worshipping God with a bunch of crazy teens right when you died, and I thought, wow, this is what Robbie would want me to be doing right now. Just like we used to do. During worship I imagined God consuming you with His glory. It was so bright, and you just disappeared. Wow. Well, I love ya Rob Renfroe. I'm gonna race into your arms when I see you again, so get ready! Bye Bye for now, but just for now. yer pal Fostage"
And after I read this, I could barely breathe.
Love you, Erin.
I Can't Stop Thinking
We last had dinner at La Creperie.
The last thing he said to me: "It's ok."
The last thing we ate together was rootbeer shakes from that ice cream place off of south Union.
The last time I heard him laugh... this summer. Our last conversation... in the park listening to music. We've had many silent moments since then. And now he is gone from the world.
But now he's back to who he was in full health... right? I wonder if he can look down and see us. I wonder if he remembers that I love him. I wonder what he is doing.
I looked at his picture today. I've had his pictures up in my house for months. He meant so much to me and he taught me everything of value. I look at pictures of him sick and swollen. And his death makes sense. But I see pictures of him joking, healthy, strong. And it doesn't make any sense. He's 30 years old.
The whole situation is ridiculously shitty. Ridiculously shitty that we had to deal with all that. Ridiculously shitty that we couldn't work things out. Ridiculously shitty that he had to suffer for so long. You know, it is what it is. Max always says that. And it's true. We have to take everything in stride. I don't get to have an opinion of what should have been. Because I can't change any of that. And it brings me back to thoughts on being present and living fully in this moment. Because this moment is the only moment that I have to DO. I don't have the next moment or the past moment. But I do have this moment. And at this moment I can DO anything I want to DO. I suppose this whole situation - shitty as it was, taught me what I couldn't learn otherwise. And if I look past all the terrible, there was so much beautiful. There really was. Otherwise this wouldn't be so hard.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Goodbye, Rob
Rob is in heaven today.
I said goodbye to him two and a half years ago. He moved out. And we started our lives apart from each other. Today is sad. I think of him, now in heaven. Finally free from that crippled body. Can you imagine how he sounds? I can hear his laughter still. I'm sure it's ringing through heaven as the angels celebrate along with him. And for that, I celebrate with him.
But he is gone. How can this be real?
If we had said our final goodbyes two years ago, today would find me empty. Destitute and lost. But the one solace I find rests in our reconciliation. The sweet and simple forgiveness that defined the last year of our relationship. I can't tell you how much it comforts my heart to know that he loved me until his last breath. And I love him. Today and always. Our last moments together, I fed him breakfast. And if his family hadn't been in the room, I would have laid up next to him. And touched his skin. And kissed his shoulders. I wonder now why I didn't do it when I had the chance. But I think it may have outraged his family. I don't know if they understand the love that, even after our divorce, drew us together.
So, there is a measure of hope in all this dispair. And tomorrow, the sun will rise and I will go to work and teach just like I do every Monday. Lacking serenade and pomp. The day will go on for everyone just like every day goes. But for me, my thoughts will be on him and how happy he must be, now free from his suffering.
His vest hangs in my closet. It's all I kept.
I said goodbye to him two and a half years ago. He moved out. And we started our lives apart from each other. Today is sad. I think of him, now in heaven. Finally free from that crippled body. Can you imagine how he sounds? I can hear his laughter still. I'm sure it's ringing through heaven as the angels celebrate along with him. And for that, I celebrate with him.
But he is gone. How can this be real?
If we had said our final goodbyes two years ago, today would find me empty. Destitute and lost. But the one solace I find rests in our reconciliation. The sweet and simple forgiveness that defined the last year of our relationship. I can't tell you how much it comforts my heart to know that he loved me until his last breath. And I love him. Today and always. Our last moments together, I fed him breakfast. And if his family hadn't been in the room, I would have laid up next to him. And touched his skin. And kissed his shoulders. I wonder now why I didn't do it when I had the chance. But I think it may have outraged his family. I don't know if they understand the love that, even after our divorce, drew us together.
So, there is a measure of hope in all this dispair. And tomorrow, the sun will rise and I will go to work and teach just like I do every Monday. Lacking serenade and pomp. The day will go on for everyone just like every day goes. But for me, my thoughts will be on him and how happy he must be, now free from his suffering.
His vest hangs in my closet. It's all I kept.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Finding Songs
I was asked to make a list of Rob's favorite songs. Even after two years of being apart, I still remember. Led Zeppelin - Tangerine. Ben Harper - Gold to Me. Simon and Garfunkel - Homeward Bound. And now songs mean a little bit more, right? Every line has unsung meaning hidden in the space between one note and the next. 'Home... where my love lies waiting silently for me. Like emptiness and harmony, I need someone to comfort me. Homeward bound.' How the hell am I going to make it through that?
Even the sound of Simon and Garfunkel feels like Rob.
There was a song he used to love. Sweet River Roll by WaterDeep. "Henry... he's got a tumor in his head. He wakes up sweating every morning after dreaming he was dead. He used to think that life was boring but now that's not the case. He turns to his wife in the evening and says, 'Honey, I'm afraid I'm going to lose this race.' Sweet River Roll, roll over me. Sweet River Roll, all over me." We thought he had beat it.
What is it about music that grabs us? That sends us head over heels? Or ass over teacup, like Rob used to say.
Even the sound of Simon and Garfunkel feels like Rob.
There was a song he used to love. Sweet River Roll by WaterDeep. "Henry... he's got a tumor in his head. He wakes up sweating every morning after dreaming he was dead. He used to think that life was boring but now that's not the case. He turns to his wife in the evening and says, 'Honey, I'm afraid I'm going to lose this race.' Sweet River Roll, roll over me. Sweet River Roll, all over me." We thought he had beat it.
What is it about music that grabs us? That sends us head over heels? Or ass over teacup, like Rob used to say.
No Chance
When I roll the dice, I've got a one in 36 chance of rolling doubles, right? Maybe it's a two in 36 chance. I did not take statistics.
Rob and I never had a chance for a family or the kind of life that you look forward to on your wedding day. Even if we had worked everything out and pulled everything together, there still was no chance for any of that. I still would have lost him. It makes me angry. You look at our wedding photos and everything seems so possible. It was a huge lie. And in the meantime, our dear friends are getting married and making decisions and living life together. They encounter problems and struggle through the muck together and they thrive in the huge joys of life together.
It's almost as though I started a race with my knees bound together. Although this makes me angry... I should probably rephrase my ideas. Rob and I together never had a chance. And Rob now has no chance for any of that. I have days left of my life... weeks and years perhaps. And maybe one of those days will bring me a chance for all this. But Rob never had that.
Rob and I never had a chance for a family or the kind of life that you look forward to on your wedding day. Even if we had worked everything out and pulled everything together, there still was no chance for any of that. I still would have lost him. It makes me angry. You look at our wedding photos and everything seems so possible. It was a huge lie. And in the meantime, our dear friends are getting married and making decisions and living life together. They encounter problems and struggle through the muck together and they thrive in the huge joys of life together.
It's almost as though I started a race with my knees bound together. Although this makes me angry... I should probably rephrase my ideas. Rob and I together never had a chance. And Rob now has no chance for any of that. I have days left of my life... weeks and years perhaps. And maybe one of those days will bring me a chance for all this. But Rob never had that.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Saying Goodbye (Part 32?)
When my friend, Jessica, had her first baby, I was the videographer. And being my first birth experience... other than my own, of course, I had no clue what to expect. So, the video goes something like this... Action sequence. We see mommy-to-be, doctors, daddy-to-be. Daddy is saying, 'push'... no baby. Camera off. Camera on. Action sequence. Daddy is saying 'push'. Mommy is pushing... no baby. Camera off. Camera on. Well-wishing sequence. Friends saying, 'Go, Jess!' and 'Welcome to our lives, baby. We love you.' Camera off. Camera on. Action sequence. More pushing. No baby. Camera off.
I'm sure it made for terrible footage. Note to self: when asking someone to videotape the birth of your child, get someone with experience.
I remember feeling completely unaware. I had no expectations and had little reference to make my way through that situation.
The last time I lost someone, I was five. My grandpa, Robert, lost his battle with cancer... or should I say, lost his battle with radiation. And I've lived twenty-four long years without losing someone I love. Dare I say, I am lucky enough to see it approaching? It approaches now for someone young. Someone I lived many adventures with. Someone who I hurt deeply. Someone whom I love with all my heart. Now, my friend, Robert is close.
I feel somewhat like I did in the delivery room eight years ago. Where I once waited for a birth with anticipation, I now look to a death with a mix of dread and calm. It's been like this for the last eight months. But with every little step the day comes closer. I just don't know what it looks like. I have no reference to make my way through this situation.
Rob is in hospice now. What does that mean? Does that mean it is close? I know he is ready.
I went in today and he was more alert than I had seen him in a long time. I got to feed him his breakfast. He looked at me. I would have done anything to know what he was thinking. I wonder if that were me, would I send my ex-wife away, or would I let her feed me? Would the sight of her disgust me? Or would I just want her to touch my skin? I didn't know. So I just did the best I could. And I tried to make damn sure he knew that I love him before he goes.
This has been a long time coming, I think. And now that it's here, I don't even know what to think or say.
I'm sure it made for terrible footage. Note to self: when asking someone to videotape the birth of your child, get someone with experience.
I remember feeling completely unaware. I had no expectations and had little reference to make my way through that situation.
The last time I lost someone, I was five. My grandpa, Robert, lost his battle with cancer... or should I say, lost his battle with radiation. And I've lived twenty-four long years without losing someone I love. Dare I say, I am lucky enough to see it approaching? It approaches now for someone young. Someone I lived many adventures with. Someone who I hurt deeply. Someone whom I love with all my heart. Now, my friend, Robert is close.
I feel somewhat like I did in the delivery room eight years ago. Where I once waited for a birth with anticipation, I now look to a death with a mix of dread and calm. It's been like this for the last eight months. But with every little step the day comes closer. I just don't know what it looks like. I have no reference to make my way through this situation.
Rob is in hospice now. What does that mean? Does that mean it is close? I know he is ready.
I went in today and he was more alert than I had seen him in a long time. I got to feed him his breakfast. He looked at me. I would have done anything to know what he was thinking. I wonder if that were me, would I send my ex-wife away, or would I let her feed me? Would the sight of her disgust me? Or would I just want her to touch my skin? I didn't know. So I just did the best I could. And I tried to make damn sure he knew that I love him before he goes.
This has been a long time coming, I think. And now that it's here, I don't even know what to think or say.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
I Miss Rob
I remember his laugh. He used to have this hooting laugh. Especially when Matt and Richy were around. And Jeff and Clyde.
One summer we laid in the grass in the Crested Butte town park and ate fresh tangerines from the farmer's market. I remember the first Christmas I spent as his wife. We cooked cornish game hens and ate mashed potatoes. We opened gifts under our little tree and spent the day with each other. He was my family.
And then there was the time he left his bivy sack buck naked. He walked slowly across the snow in his bare feet to grab the NutriGrain bar I threw him. He slowly peeled it open and nibble by nibble finished off his breakfast, tiptoed back to his bivy sack, and went back to sleep. All this charade just to prove that I had no business telling him what to do.
When I first met his Grandmother, his mom, and his brother, we played guitar for them. I made the chords and he strummed. He would sing at the top of his lungs. And that used to drive me nuts. But I would listen to it again if I could.
When we lived in Gunny, we kept our icecream on the roof. Our freezer was much too small. And he would have to get up at 2:00 in the morning in bitter negative temperatures to let our car engine run so that it would start when we left for school in the morning. One time he called the police because Mitch and Clyde were stomping around on our roof trying to scare me.
I remember when he was dissecting a mouse next to me while I was eating dinner and some of the brains squirted into my food. And then I let his roommate eat it.
We had a very short married life.
After he got sick, we were hardly married at all. But I remember watching him 'shave' as he rubbed a washcloth over his chin... watching his whiskers fall to the shower floor. Sitting with him as he got whatever treatment was next... platelets, blood, chemo, radiation. Scheming with him to devise our next practical joke to play on the nurses. Learning how to hand-stitch a quilt with him - he would have punched me if I had said I did it myself.
He made the best chili. I was always jealous of how he could open the fridge and make the best meal from hardly anything. He would always make yummy breakfast burritos. And he taught me to make tuna melts. I would love to hear his voice again. He loved Seinfeld and the Simpsons and those terrible movies by Wes Anderson. You know, he stepped his climbing down a few notches so that we could be partners. That makes me sad. I could have gotten better if I had tried. He really loved me. So much.
One summer we laid in the grass in the Crested Butte town park and ate fresh tangerines from the farmer's market. I remember the first Christmas I spent as his wife. We cooked cornish game hens and ate mashed potatoes. We opened gifts under our little tree and spent the day with each other. He was my family.
And then there was the time he left his bivy sack buck naked. He walked slowly across the snow in his bare feet to grab the NutriGrain bar I threw him. He slowly peeled it open and nibble by nibble finished off his breakfast, tiptoed back to his bivy sack, and went back to sleep. All this charade just to prove that I had no business telling him what to do.
When I first met his Grandmother, his mom, and his brother, we played guitar for them. I made the chords and he strummed. He would sing at the top of his lungs. And that used to drive me nuts. But I would listen to it again if I could.
When we lived in Gunny, we kept our icecream on the roof. Our freezer was much too small. And he would have to get up at 2:00 in the morning in bitter negative temperatures to let our car engine run so that it would start when we left for school in the morning. One time he called the police because Mitch and Clyde were stomping around on our roof trying to scare me.
I remember when he was dissecting a mouse next to me while I was eating dinner and some of the brains squirted into my food. And then I let his roommate eat it.
We had a very short married life.
After he got sick, we were hardly married at all. But I remember watching him 'shave' as he rubbed a washcloth over his chin... watching his whiskers fall to the shower floor. Sitting with him as he got whatever treatment was next... platelets, blood, chemo, radiation. Scheming with him to devise our next practical joke to play on the nurses. Learning how to hand-stitch a quilt with him - he would have punched me if I had said I did it myself.
He made the best chili. I was always jealous of how he could open the fridge and make the best meal from hardly anything. He would always make yummy breakfast burritos. And he taught me to make tuna melts. I would love to hear his voice again. He loved Seinfeld and the Simpsons and those terrible movies by Wes Anderson. You know, he stepped his climbing down a few notches so that we could be partners. That makes me sad. I could have gotten better if I had tried. He really loved me. So much.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Bleary, Bleary Eyes
I couldn't really explain exactly what I'm thinking now. It's a mixture of many things, I am sure. But my eyes are bleary and I can't breathe through my nose. It's been a while since I had a sob-fest. But here it is...
I married a wonderful man. There was so much to love. So much to be grateful for and so much to hold on to. Yet, after a series of years of leaving our issues unspoken, a rift cut through every good thing. And all that was left between us was bitter words and threats and painful, seething wounds. And if that was all it was, maybe that would be bearable.
But no matter which way you look at it, I was bound to lose. We were bound to lose. Because today he is a shell of who he once was. You would never recognize him if you saw him. And one of the only things that remains distinguishing him as my beloved husband is his love of mint chocolate chip icecream. His crippled body can't even position itself for rest. But I look into his eyes and I can see he understands every bit of what is going on around him. He isn't in a fog. He isn't confused. He knows. Yet he can't scrape together the syllables he needs to convey what he is thinking. And for me, the rift is gone and I can't remember the bitter words and the painful, seething wounds. To be truthful, I can barely even remember the good times. But what I do remember is that I loved him. And that has never - not for one second - faded away. So when I look in his eyes, I see the eyes that promised to love me forever. His swollen hands were the hands I held as we walked happily down the aisle - finally man and wife.
He is no longer my husband. It is what it is. Who is to say if I am better or worse off? But I don't want to leave someone that I love without hope. So I stay by his side.
I wonder sometimes what he does remember. Do his medications leave him with little memory? Or are those memories all he has? Does he remember taking his bride into their bedroom to make love for the first time? Does he remember all the silly jokes they had? (This picture is of us sucking our cheeks in... he isn't so good at it).
He called her his partner in crime once. And does he remember how beautiful life was? I hope he does. Because it is hard to see the beauty in the life he has now. And if God had any mark of decency, wouldn't He take him now? How can he leave him in this condition to die... or even worse - to simply grow old?
I married a wonderful man. There was so much to love. So much to be grateful for and so much to hold on to. Yet, after a series of years of leaving our issues unspoken, a rift cut through every good thing. And all that was left between us was bitter words and threats and painful, seething wounds. And if that was all it was, maybe that would be bearable.
But no matter which way you look at it, I was bound to lose. We were bound to lose. Because today he is a shell of who he once was. You would never recognize him if you saw him. And one of the only things that remains distinguishing him as my beloved husband is his love of mint chocolate chip icecream. His crippled body can't even position itself for rest. But I look into his eyes and I can see he understands every bit of what is going on around him. He isn't in a fog. He isn't confused. He knows. Yet he can't scrape together the syllables he needs to convey what he is thinking. And for me, the rift is gone and I can't remember the bitter words and the painful, seething wounds. To be truthful, I can barely even remember the good times. But what I do remember is that I loved him. And that has never - not for one second - faded away. So when I look in his eyes, I see the eyes that promised to love me forever. His swollen hands were the hands I held as we walked happily down the aisle - finally man and wife.
He is no longer my husband. It is what it is. Who is to say if I am better or worse off? But I don't want to leave someone that I love without hope. So I stay by his side.
I wonder sometimes what he does remember. Do his medications leave him with little memory? Or are those memories all he has? Does he remember taking his bride into their bedroom to make love for the first time? Does he remember all the silly jokes they had? (This picture is of us sucking our cheeks in... he isn't so good at it).
He called her his partner in crime once. And does he remember how beautiful life was? I hope he does. Because it is hard to see the beauty in the life he has now. And if God had any mark of decency, wouldn't He take him now? How can he leave him in this condition to die... or even worse - to simply grow old?
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
The Lake Was Glassy And Cool
His speech and hearing and mobility have all taken a dive. His brain is still undergoing swelling as a result of the extensive radiation. And so he is stuck in this holding pattern. Not being able to move or speak... just to think. And what goes on in his brain all day, I wonder?
I sat down near him on the couch as he was lying there. I set my chin on his knee. And I looked him in the eyes. I told him I love him and then my eyes filled up with tears. And so did his. And some of the words he can manage to say are, "It's ok." ... What's ok?? What is it that is ok, Rob? Because none of this seems ok to me. It would seem ok if you could get better. And it would seem ok if you could pass quietly into the next world. But this does not seem ok. This holding pattern. This lengthy stall of inability and frustration.
I swam across a lake this weekend... just as the sun was reaching its fingertips into the sky. The lake was glassy and cool. And a man and his boy were fishing at the southern edge. Why did I jump into that water? I sat there for a few minutes... tottering the line between jumping in and just dangling my toes in the water. And as the sun quickly made its ascent, I knew there were precious few minutes to enjoy this moment. To float softly across the water just as the sun made its way into the open sky. Only 200 miles south lay a man that I loved and that I still love that couldn't jump in even if he wanted to... unless he wanted to just roll off the dock and sink through the murky water to settle at the bottom. And here I was delaying a beautiful moment simply because the water was cold?? Insane.
I sat down near him on the couch as he was lying there. I set my chin on his knee. And I looked him in the eyes. I told him I love him and then my eyes filled up with tears. And so did his. And some of the words he can manage to say are, "It's ok." ... What's ok?? What is it that is ok, Rob? Because none of this seems ok to me. It would seem ok if you could get better. And it would seem ok if you could pass quietly into the next world. But this does not seem ok. This holding pattern. This lengthy stall of inability and frustration.
I swam across a lake this weekend... just as the sun was reaching its fingertips into the sky. The lake was glassy and cool. And a man and his boy were fishing at the southern edge. Why did I jump into that water? I sat there for a few minutes... tottering the line between jumping in and just dangling my toes in the water. And as the sun quickly made its ascent, I knew there were precious few minutes to enjoy this moment. To float softly across the water just as the sun made its way into the open sky. Only 200 miles south lay a man that I loved and that I still love that couldn't jump in even if he wanted to... unless he wanted to just roll off the dock and sink through the murky water to settle at the bottom. And here I was delaying a beautiful moment simply because the water was cold?? Insane.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Rolling Around The Park
I walked around America the Beautiful park with Rob tonight. I felt so good. Truly good. I'm pushing the love of my early days in a wheelchair, knowing that his days are short, and my entire body is filled with overflowing joy. What am I so happy about? The feel of the air on my skin... the gentle colors of the setting sun across the clouds... the laughter trickling through the air... the fact that I have another day with someone I care about.
It was truly glorious. And Rob mentioned that it was the most fun he has had in months. We rolled around the park and bumped over choppy ground. We ate trout with capers and delicious garlic beef tips. We sat in chairs on the grass to listen to an old big band. We tried to remember the songs. That's it. But if that's all it takes, I want to give him that feeling again and again. Every day until his days have run out. You know, that's all I ever want to do for anyone. Give them joy and good memories each day again and again until their days run out. I love this.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Thinking
I got to hang out with Rob last night. He has been practicing using a walker. He did a great job. I was nervous the whole time that he was going to fall. He uses his left hand to fix the fingers of his right hand into a brace on the walker. Then he stands on his left foot to swing his hip so that his right foot moves forward. He puts his weight on it and then makes a quick step with his left foot. That little bit of mobility must be great for him. His mom said that there is a brace he wears around his waist to connect him to the walker. It gives him some extra support.
He also had to sign his name on some paperwork yesterday. His mom wrote out his name and he would copy it. Some of the letters he remembered. But he was thinking 'f' when the next letter was 't', and things like that.
Learning to walk and learning to write... Things he's known how to do the last 26 years of his life he is beginning to piece together again. Ten days until his birthday! The big 3-0.
Yesterday he was upset because he was trying to understand a medication switch. He knew that he used to take four pills a day - one every six hours. And now he was to take three a day. So he was just trying to figure out how many hours between each dose. But his mom mentioned it might be good if instead of going all the way down to three a day if he took 3 1/2 for a while. That totally pissed him off. He is hardly able to express himself and to say what he is thinking. And to see him express frustration makes it so hard. I tried to turn the conversation back to what he was trying to figure out first and once we got that settled, we addressed the 3 1/2 pills issue.
I'm getting much better around him. I don't cry as much and I think he appreciates that I talk to him just like I always have. He was getting pissed that his mom brought him vanilla icecream when he wanted 'black'. He told me to throw it away but I just said, 'Quit your bitchin'. This is all we have. Do you want some caramel on it?' And he ate it.
I am lucky to be here. I am glad he still wants me in his life. He brings me joy.
He also had to sign his name on some paperwork yesterday. His mom wrote out his name and he would copy it. Some of the letters he remembered. But he was thinking 'f' when the next letter was 't', and things like that.
Learning to walk and learning to write... Things he's known how to do the last 26 years of his life he is beginning to piece together again. Ten days until his birthday! The big 3-0.
Yesterday he was upset because he was trying to understand a medication switch. He knew that he used to take four pills a day - one every six hours. And now he was to take three a day. So he was just trying to figure out how many hours between each dose. But his mom mentioned it might be good if instead of going all the way down to three a day if he took 3 1/2 for a while. That totally pissed him off. He is hardly able to express himself and to say what he is thinking. And to see him express frustration makes it so hard. I tried to turn the conversation back to what he was trying to figure out first and once we got that settled, we addressed the 3 1/2 pills issue.
I'm getting much better around him. I don't cry as much and I think he appreciates that I talk to him just like I always have. He was getting pissed that his mom brought him vanilla icecream when he wanted 'black'. He told me to throw it away but I just said, 'Quit your bitchin'. This is all we have. Do you want some caramel on it?' And he ate it.
I am lucky to be here. I am glad he still wants me in his life. He brings me joy.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Saying Goodbye - Part III
I showed up at Rob's house today. I thought we were going to go catch a movie. When I got there, Rob mentioned he was scared to go in the car with me. Because I would have to lift him into the car and lift him out into his wheelchair. And he didn't trust me enough not to drop him on the ground. Fair enough. When he was first sick, he weighed less than me. But now he is on steroids and carrying him around might be a pretty tough task. So, we went together down the street to a little Cuban restaurant. There was a table near the door that we sat at. And when the menus came, Rob asked that I read the menu to him. He held his finger on the one he wanted so he was able to order for himself.
Independance. It's got to be so hard. When he wants to call me, does he need help finding my name? Fuck. He can't even pee without help. I don't have a clue of what it takes to be his caretaker. I used to. I used to inject heparin in his hickman - a port that was inserted into his chest to take medication through. I would care for his wounds. Get him into bed. Advocate for him. Help him up the stairs. Make his meals. Clean up his emesis bucket. Help him into the shower. Keep track of his medications and chemo. Call the Medicaid bastards to get them to pay for his treatment. Now it is very different. He needs help dressing. He has braces on his legs. How do you provide support in this situation without doing too much? Or too little? It's a fine line.
He mentioned how frustrated he was with his mother. She apparently said something to the doctors that kept him in the hospital an additional three days. At least that is his point of view. She is so loving and caring that it stifles him sometimes. But it's so hard to understand what he wants or what he needs. So when we made rootbeer floats and she brought out some chocolate sauce, he nearly flipped because he didn't want it.
His mother asked me if she could take my picture. They are making a speech board for him to use to communicate when he begins to lose even more speech. Fuck. Are you kidding? I've worked with special needs kids at school who use these boards. And now you are telling me that the man I married... the man who pulled my garter off my leg with his teeth... who led five pitches to the top of Independance Monument... who traveled halfway across the world to trek across Russia has to now point to words to tell me what he means?!?!
God in Heaven,
He said he wants to make it to his 30th birthday. That is fifteen days away. This man wants to survive fifteen days and not a day more. Today he said he just wants to stay at home and die. Do you hear this, God? He is ready. God listen to him! Before he loses more. Before he loses the use of his left hand... his left leg. Before he becomes totally trapped within his own body. He needs to be released from this body and this world. Please.
Independance. It's got to be so hard. When he wants to call me, does he need help finding my name? Fuck. He can't even pee without help. I don't have a clue of what it takes to be his caretaker. I used to. I used to inject heparin in his hickman - a port that was inserted into his chest to take medication through. I would care for his wounds. Get him into bed. Advocate for him. Help him up the stairs. Make his meals. Clean up his emesis bucket. Help him into the shower. Keep track of his medications and chemo. Call the Medicaid bastards to get them to pay for his treatment. Now it is very different. He needs help dressing. He has braces on his legs. How do you provide support in this situation without doing too much? Or too little? It's a fine line.
He mentioned how frustrated he was with his mother. She apparently said something to the doctors that kept him in the hospital an additional three days. At least that is his point of view. She is so loving and caring that it stifles him sometimes. But it's so hard to understand what he wants or what he needs. So when we made rootbeer floats and she brought out some chocolate sauce, he nearly flipped because he didn't want it.
His mother asked me if she could take my picture. They are making a speech board for him to use to communicate when he begins to lose even more speech. Fuck. Are you kidding? I've worked with special needs kids at school who use these boards. And now you are telling me that the man I married... the man who pulled my garter off my leg with his teeth... who led five pitches to the top of Independance Monument... who traveled halfway across the world to trek across Russia has to now point to words to tell me what he means?!?!
God in Heaven,
He said he wants to make it to his 30th birthday. That is fifteen days away. This man wants to survive fifteen days and not a day more. Today he said he just wants to stay at home and die. Do you hear this, God? He is ready. God listen to him! Before he loses more. Before he loses the use of his left hand... his left leg. Before he becomes totally trapped within his own body. He needs to be released from this body and this world. Please.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Saying Goodbye - Part II
I went over to his house today. I've been wanting to share all that stuff with him that I wanted to say. But time keeps ticking by and instead of making excuses for why I couldn't do it, I just did it. The first thing I see as I walk in is his wheelchair. There are baby monitors around just in case he needs help. There's a special seat over the toilet. There's a wheelchair ramp. His face is puffy from steroids and the right side of his face droops. His right arm lays next to him almost like it wasn't part of his body anymore... a noticeably thinner arm than the left. The muscle tone is disappearing and his skin is softening.
I wonder how he is feeling and what he is thinking. And I don't know whether he's able to share that with me. I don't know whether he wants to share that with me. How must it be, to helplessly watch your own body wither?
I couldn't even get through five minutes without tearing up. And so I cried. And I told him a few things that I had wanted to say. And there were things I forgot to say. And things I wasn't ready to say. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. That's for sure. And maybe that's something I should never say until he is laid to rest.
It breaks my heart that he is dying. I wonder if his mother is scared each morning when she wakes, wondering if she will find her son has passed away. I wonder if he is ready. I wonder if she is ready. You know, when you are in a situation like that, you just do what you have to do. And abnormal situations become normal. When you have no choice... no alternative, you have to embrace the only situation you have. And his mom is doing really well. She is amazing. And I know it brings her joy to be able to care for her son.
God... it looks to me as though there is no coming back from this. You know what is going on. So please consider it all. And let him pass on in peace, away from pain and away from heartache. Away from frustration. Thank you for him. For his love and patience and faithfulness. And take him Home.
I wonder how he is feeling and what he is thinking. And I don't know whether he's able to share that with me. I don't know whether he wants to share that with me. How must it be, to helplessly watch your own body wither?
I couldn't even get through five minutes without tearing up. And so I cried. And I told him a few things that I had wanted to say. And there were things I forgot to say. And things I wasn't ready to say. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. That's for sure. And maybe that's something I should never say until he is laid to rest.
It breaks my heart that he is dying. I wonder if his mother is scared each morning when she wakes, wondering if she will find her son has passed away. I wonder if he is ready. I wonder if she is ready. You know, when you are in a situation like that, you just do what you have to do. And abnormal situations become normal. When you have no choice... no alternative, you have to embrace the only situation you have. And his mom is doing really well. She is amazing. And I know it brings her joy to be able to care for her son.
God... it looks to me as though there is no coming back from this. You know what is going on. So please consider it all. And let him pass on in peace, away from pain and away from heartache. Away from frustration. Thank you for him. For his love and patience and faithfulness. And take him Home.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Saying Goodbye
There are many reasons we would say goodbye in a lifetime. Perhaps it's to move on from an old relationship. We say goodbye to friends and people we love as they set off on a new journey in their lives. And sometimes we say goodbye because someone we know is dying.
I've never encountered this. Until now. When I was five, my grandfather died. It barely made sense to me then. And two years ago, I lost a student. It was so sudden, there was no time to say goodbye. And it rocked me to the core. I couldn't believe that one moment, he would be celebrating Halloween - dressed in full knight garb - and the next, he would be fighting to breathe and then be gone. It crossed my mind that the last time I saw him, he got his turn to be the pirate in a game we played together. How insignificant, really. But it brought some slight sense of peace to know he had been given his turn.
Well, today I thought of my dear ex-husband. I wonder if that sounds odd to some people. My dear ex-husband. He has been given an extremely rough life. Brain cancer at the age of 23. Remission until age 28 and then it roared back just as a bill of health was sure. I'm getting ready now to say goodbye. And I want to do it well. The last few months have been so hard for him. He's had to come to terms with losing speech, losing mobility, pain, loss of sense of touch, sight, and hearing. I only want his final days to be beautiful and full of the best. Full of good memories and song. I want to put on a beautiful dress. I want to make my skin glow. I want to smile. I want to emanate beauty and light. I want to share all the beautiful memories I have of the two of us and I'm hoping he will be able to share some with me. I want to dance with him a last dance. The dance that brought us so much joy at our wedding. And if he can't dance, I will sing to him. If his last day passed without me being able to share how much I love him - how he made an impact in my life - and how he will not be forgotten, it would be difficult to forgive myself.
It's hard to talk about this now. And I think it's hard to explain how much I love him, and yet how assuredly I know that we were not good for each other. In the end, his words and actions suffocated me. And my own words and actions choked him. But all the beauty is worth remembering. So in the middle of tears, I hope my words and my presence bring joy to his last days and that he can pass on into Heaven knowing that he is and will always be loved.
I've never encountered this. Until now. When I was five, my grandfather died. It barely made sense to me then. And two years ago, I lost a student. It was so sudden, there was no time to say goodbye. And it rocked me to the core. I couldn't believe that one moment, he would be celebrating Halloween - dressed in full knight garb - and the next, he would be fighting to breathe and then be gone. It crossed my mind that the last time I saw him, he got his turn to be the pirate in a game we played together. How insignificant, really. But it brought some slight sense of peace to know he had been given his turn.
Well, today I thought of my dear ex-husband. I wonder if that sounds odd to some people. My dear ex-husband. He has been given an extremely rough life. Brain cancer at the age of 23. Remission until age 28 and then it roared back just as a bill of health was sure. I'm getting ready now to say goodbye. And I want to do it well. The last few months have been so hard for him. He's had to come to terms with losing speech, losing mobility, pain, loss of sense of touch, sight, and hearing. I only want his final days to be beautiful and full of the best. Full of good memories and song. I want to put on a beautiful dress. I want to make my skin glow. I want to smile. I want to emanate beauty and light. I want to share all the beautiful memories I have of the two of us and I'm hoping he will be able to share some with me. I want to dance with him a last dance. The dance that brought us so much joy at our wedding. And if he can't dance, I will sing to him. If his last day passed without me being able to share how much I love him - how he made an impact in my life - and how he will not be forgotten, it would be difficult to forgive myself.
It's hard to talk about this now. And I think it's hard to explain how much I love him, and yet how assuredly I know that we were not good for each other. In the end, his words and actions suffocated me. And my own words and actions choked him. But all the beauty is worth remembering. So in the middle of tears, I hope my words and my presence bring joy to his last days and that he can pass on into Heaven knowing that he is and will always be loved.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
A Sad New Dress
I bought a new dress this week. I bought a new dress to hide my puffy red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. This dress leaves my shoulders bare and wraps around me just snug enough to feel as though I'm being held. And that's just what I need... to be bare - to be authentic and real... and to be held.
A man I love is dying. He's planned his last adventure. He's put together pictures and memories to share. He's made strides to forgive and to clear the air of the foul stench of offense. I felt heavy this week - as though his sudden depart would be just around the corner. And it might. I prayed that God would give him enough days for me to be able to put my thoughts to my lips. Can I possibly find the words to tell him that he is unforgettable? To tell him that his love has touched my soul in a deep and lasting way? Really, I want him to remember that I am a good woman. And that he really did choose a good wife. I want him to remember all the smiles we had and all the days of sunshine. And although his words are jumbled and his body is crippled, I want him to be filled with joy and to let the healing beauty of this woman fill his heart.
A man I love is dying. He's planned his last adventure. He's put together pictures and memories to share. He's made strides to forgive and to clear the air of the foul stench of offense. I felt heavy this week - as though his sudden depart would be just around the corner. And it might. I prayed that God would give him enough days for me to be able to put my thoughts to my lips. Can I possibly find the words to tell him that he is unforgettable? To tell him that his love has touched my soul in a deep and lasting way? Really, I want him to remember that I am a good woman. And that he really did choose a good wife. I want him to remember all the smiles we had and all the days of sunshine. And although his words are jumbled and his body is crippled, I want him to be filled with joy and to let the healing beauty of this woman fill his heart.
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