The Days In Between

I often wonder why it is that there are certain things about a person that aren’t often fully realized or recognized until after that person’s physical presence is gone.  Do we not see those things because we aren’t paying close enough attention?  Do we not take the time to consider the value of our interaction with and of the lessons learned from that person?  Do we see it on some level and just not think about it, articulate it, or appreciate it until we see that that’s all there is?  Is our view - or our awareness - shaped by loss, or experience, or both?

Thinking about all of that starts me thinking about the concept of rippling and about the intangible things that a person can leave behind, often without even realizing he is doing it.

I woke up with a raging headache and thought about my maternal grandfather; I remembered how he used to rub my forehead and the area around my eyes tirelessly when I was with him and had a headache.  Every time I put sheets on a bed, I think about my maternal grandmother: she always put the flat sheet on top in a face-down position so that the “good side” showed when she pulled the top of it over the edge of the bedspread and folded it over.  I think about my paternal grandfather whenever I see a man joyfully playing with young children; he was the king of the piggy back rides when my sisters and I were little.  And I think about my paternal grandmother when I notice that the bottle of Heinz ketchup is almost empty; I often follow her example of making something out of almost nothing and use her recipe to use that last little bit of ketchup to make BBQ sauce for chicken for my family.

And then there’s my dad, a man who taught me so much, most of which he did inadvertently.  Many of those lessons have become seasoned with the shift of my perspective over the years; all of them are more valued by me than I can adequately explain.  Some come from big events and big days in our lives, but most of them come from the in-between kind of days when we were just hanging out or just going about our everyday business.

I recently came across a video clip showing the different ways that people reacted to a man whom they thought was homeless:

CLICK HERE TO WATCH THE CLIP

The whole piece is framed around the idea that the people who reacted in a kind, compassionate manner were extraordinary – or even heroic.  Watching the clip, though, I thought about what my dad would say about the people and the situation shown: Why wouldn’t a person be friendly and try to help the homeless man? he’d say.  In his eyes and, because of him, in mine, the people who came to the aid of the man aren’t heroes and they aren’t extraordinary – the things they did to help the guy are normal and ordinary parts of human compassion.  Those in the film who aren’t kind are the ones outside the norm; they are the ones who are remarkable, just not in a good way.

There are so many other lessons embedded in me from interaction with those in my past, and I am appreciative of every one of them.  In return for all that has been given to me, I will continue to strive to pass on these lessons to others around me, on the difficult days, on the great days, and on the days in between.

What I've Learned About Mothering

Sometimes people say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger; I have to say, though, that that's a sentiment with which I cannot agree.

I don't feel stronger as a result of the challenges I have encountered, but I do feel changed - and I recognize that I have learned some things from those experiences.  Much of what I've assimilated is on the pages of this blog, and I suspect there is even more to come, from grief and perspective and just life in general.  Many of those things, I am realizing, can be valuable, useful lessons, serving to make me more solicitous, more introspective, and more appreciative of what I have - all of which are easily applied to perhaps the most challenging thing in my life: mothering.

From the road I've traveled, I've learned that the life I have won't last forever; it will change in many ways, some over time and some quickly, some for the better and some tragically, and that because of that I need to work hard to appreciate and remember each day.  

I've learned that it's easy to take it all for granted - and sometimes to wish it away.  I've learned that at some point there is an end to the sleepless nights, the piles of laundry, the hectic mornings filled with things like looking for a missing shoe and packing lunches and kisses goodbye, the nerve-wrecking parent-teacher conferences, the disarray of toys and books scattered everywhere, the lazy summer mornings that stretch into afternoons, the shopping for what I hoped was the perfect birthday or Christmas gift - the Tickle Me Elmo or the Jessie Cowgirl doll or the Furby that I stood in long lines to buy, ready to elbow my way to the front of the aisle to get my child what I thought her childhood wouldn't be complete without.

What I have loved most of all was seeing the trust and happiness in my children's faces, hearing their infectious giggles, feeling their hand in mine, and recognizing things in them that they had learned from me.  Little by little, those days of not being able to shower or go into the bathroom by myself have transformed into closed bedroom doors and teenaged eye rolls of embarrassment that only a parent can still interpret as love, and somewhere along the way it hit me that it's impossible to go back and do one single minute over; I can't take back words said in anger or exhaustion, and I can't rewind the time from even one day to allow myself to better remember or to better react.  All I can do is hope that what I've made up on my own and what I've figured out with the help of those who have advised me or in some way mothered me has been right, or at least right enough, and then try to do my best with what comes as time marches forward, as we go through more proofreading, conflicts with friends and teachers and roommates, texting, phone conversations, choices of class schedules and fashion purchases and even more important things, being sure to celebrate the victories - both big and small, and just trying to keep up with everything.

These days I'm amazed when I think about how I used to think that mothering a baby was so easily definable as the hard part; it's really all the hard part, especially, as I now know, letting go as they make their own decisions, watching them stretch their wings, realizing that they are their own people, swiftly moving towards adulthood and independence, despite the feelings of joy and relief I get when they occasionally come to me for help.

When I look at the hundreds of family photos from over the years, I remember and I cherish the special moments captured on film - the birthday parties, the school programs, the first days of school, the Christmases and the Easters.  But the moments that I treasure the most when I think back are those that no one thought to capture on film, the everyday moments, those from days that I think were accurately and brilliantly labeled along the way as perfectly ordinary.

I wouldn't trade them for dollers or barbies either!

Looking Back

Sometimes I think back to the time when my dad was sick and I wonder how we made it through what we did.  Getting through those days - and the months of grief since he has gone on ahead - have definitely been the toughest thing I've ever had to do.  It's seemed insurmountable at times, and sometimes it still does.  I've learned a lot along the way about coping and perspective and life in general, though, and hopefully those lessons will continue to carry me through the rough waters of the ocean of grief in the time to come.  

When I look back now at the things I did to get through the weeks after Dad's diagnosis, some of it's a blur, but other parts are as clear as if they'd just happened yesterday.  Some of the memories bring a smile to my face; others make me feel like I've been punched in the gut or start a stream of tears that usually lasts the rest of the day.

One thing I remember is how I preferred to be asked how my dad was instead of how I was; I could give concrete information about his status and what was going on medically with him.  As far as how I was doing - what could I say?  The possible responses were just too overwhelming and confusing and sad.  If pressed, usually I just said, "I'm hanging in there," as if there were another option to that.

Another thing etched in my memory from the time after my dad's diagnosis is the amount of advice we got from so many different sources.  I guess people tend to feel compelled to offer advice to cancer patients and their families - and to those who are grieving.  We heard all kinds of advice - spiritual counsel, tips for dealing with chemo and lack of sleep, and so many more medical pointers from our well-meaning friends and some extended family members.  Most of it was welcome, though I must say that on some days I just wasn't in the mood to get that kind of input because I was too busy/too stressed/too sleep-deprived/too whatever to be receptive to much of anything.  So many times what we were being told were things that didn't apply to my dad or to his type of cancer.  Some days I just wanted to cry and others I just felt like beating someone up and cussing, but, really, with all that needed to be done and with the positive front that we were putting on for Dad's sake (and each others'), that wasn't really an option.

One thing I realized in the midst of all of the suggestions about coping with cancer - and later with grief - though, is that, even though I don’t believe that anyone else can really truly understand how I feel or what I have gone through because of the uniqueness of every situation and every relationship, the fact that other people seem to want to understand and make the effort to reach out is almost as good. 

Even having recently been in the seat of the person getting all of that advice, though, when I hear about someone who is going through something like what my family did, it's really tough for me to avoid giving out my own brand of advice.  I'm not sure why that is: it's certainly not that I think I'm an expert on cancer, or chemo, or grief, or ANYTHING; maybe it's because it's human nature to want to do SOMETHING to help in a crisis, and that seems helpful, despite the fact that I know it wasn't always to us.  Maybe because what happened to us was so devastating and awful that I want to do anything I can that might possibly somehow spare someone else from going through the same things.  

Finding positive stories about people with the same kind of cancer that my dad had helped me in the early stages of his illness; obviously, I thought that if SOMEBODY out there had outlived the prognosis of that diagnosis, that meant my Superhero Dad could, and I felt empowered by others' stories of strength and bravery.  I was trying to figure out what their SECRET to survival was so that I could replicate those conditions for my dad.  Early on, I saw this quote by one of the most highly respected neuro-oncologists in the country, Dr. Keith Black:

If you've recently learned that you have a brain tumor, keep this in mind: YOU ARE A STATISTIC OF ONE.  No two tumors are alike.  No one else shares your genetic makeup and your unique brain structure.  This doesn't mean that you have to face this journey alone.  It means that as you explore treatment options and "success rates" of various procedures, you cannot assume that the statistics that you encounter apply to you.

I clung to that quote like a shipwreck survivor to a piece of driftwood; besides the occasional pang of complete denial when the message of "This isn't really happening" flashed through my mind, Hope that all of the terrible statistics and the devastating prognosis wouldn't apply to my dad was all that got my family through each day.  As Dr. Henry Friedman, one of the big-time neuro-oncologists that I talked to at the Brain Tumor Center at Duke, said, "Hope provides the patient and their family the strength to continue to battle no matter how unfavorable the odds may appear to be."

From my current vantage point, I know that, in fact, you almost have to have that sense of hope as you round each corner when you have no sense of certainty about where the road will lead after such a shattering diagnosis.  Hope is really all that keeps you afloat some of the time - well, that and the love you feel for the person who is sick.

Another thing I did to buoy our Hope is to reach out for support and information through some online communities like Cancer Compass.  There I connected with some longterm GBM survivors, one with whom I emailed back and forth to get recommendations about the specific treatment protocol he was on, and the other of whom called me on the phone with words of encouragement that I later passed on to my dad and others in the family.  The second survivor, a woman about my dad's age, had been diagnosed almost 20 years before (!!!) and, although she had had to make some adjustments to her lifestyle because of some of the side effects of the treatment (mostly memory issues from the radiation to her brain), she said she was living a good life.  When she said she had taken up bird watching as a hobby to fill her days since she'd had to retire about midway through the years of on-again, off-again treatment she'd endured, and I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried to picture my dad sitting on his back porch, watching birds all day.  We will adjust as needed, I told myself - all part of the Whatever It Takes attitude that I was so sure would carry us through.  I desperately wanted my dad to be one of the ones who made it through to the other side of the time frame we'd been given; I knew that he could be a powerful motivator and a dynamic speaker, and so I let myself dream a little that he would one day be in a position to help by telling his success story to others with such a devastating diagnosis.

I became almost consumed with statistics while my dad was sick as I worked to convince myself and other around me that Dad would beat the odds.  I knew that there were so many variables that affect "outcome" (what a harsh clinical term that is), but it seemed like Dad had most of the good ones on his side (except for excision of 95% or more of the tumor).  I guess when someone you love gets a terminal diagnosis, almost everyone grasps onto the hope that their person will be one to beat the odds.  It's what we have to do; it's human nature, I guess, to think that fighting and whatever else you've got in you will be the deciding factor instead of cold hard Fate. 

While my dad was sick, I literally couldn't sit still, whether I was physically with him or not.   The sound of silence, to me, sounded like a ticking time bomb, and the voices in my head carried on an endless litany of things To DO, things I guess I believed might help my dad, things I supposed might give me some sort of control over a situation that was spinning out of control, sometimes in slow motion but most of the time at a mindblowingly rapid rate.  During times when I had to sit still like when Dad was trying to sleep, I played Words With Friends on my phone, I wrote in the Notebook, I wrote long emails to the other "inside" family members who were also involved in Dad's care, and I updated the Care Page.  I couldn't watch TV - I was way to consumed.  I read A LOT, anything and everything I could find about GBM.  I took copious notes and made long lists of ideas and questions, mostly related to long-term survival, things that I thought we'd need to know on down the road to improve Dad's quality of life. 

One odd thing that I did at a few points during that time was laugh; it really was the embodiment of the expression, "Sometimes, you just gotta laugh."  It seemed to be so closely related to crying, which I did a lot of then too, although that was more challenging because I didn't want Dad to ever see me cry.  The hurt and the uncertainty was so present in those weeks that it seemed crazy, almost laughably out of control.  It was so tempting to start to feel unlucky, but then Dad would say or do something that would remind me of just how lucky we were in that moment, how it could always be worse, and how the only thing that we could really control at all was our perspective.

“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”  ― Charles R. Swindoll

When It's Time

About two years ago, my family’s almost 17 year-old dog Clifford passed away after a lengthy illness, and, at the time, his deterioration was the hardest thing I'd ever had to watch up close.

Cliff gave us so much and in many ways got our family started when he joined my husband and me while we were expecting our first child. He taught us many lessons, including and ending with three of the most important:  through him we started to learn about how to care for and comfort to the end; he showed us that love transcends all boundaries, including the difficulties of a terrible disease and even the end of life;  and, finally, he taught us that sometimes the only thing left to do for one so very sick is to them let go. 

Clifford struggled through many months of decline, losing his playfulness, his independence, his dignity, and finally, the light in his eyes.  He had grown up with our children, and, after all he had given to us over the  years, it was my duty to hold his head in my lap and tell him that his job here on Earth was done, that he had done what he’d come to do, and that it was ok if he was ready to go on ahead of us.  As I watched him take one last big breath, a sigh of relief really, I knew in my heart it was his time to go but that one day I would see him again, carrying a shoe in his mouth and running around among the clouds.  

Lessons I Learned from My Dad Through Running

From the first day that we found out about Dad’s diagnosis until 75 days later when he went on ahead, my family and I kept detailed logs in spiral notebooks  to record everything involved in his care – grids of medication logs, fervent notes from conversations with doctors, comments he made that we wanted to share with whomever wasn’t there at the time, schedules of who would be with him when. 

One of the many elaborate schedules we kept for Dad during his illness

It helped us to keep things straight during a time when we weren’t always thinking straight, it gave us a place to write down questions and to-do lists, and it was a way for us to communicate with each other when we passed like ships in a harbor.

But Dad thought the logs were funny.  He liked to tell other people about them: “Watch what you say,” he told whoever came into his hospital room, “The court reporter is here.”  A few times he even told us what to write in the notebook, questions he wanted to remember to ask the next time he saw the doctor and things he hoped to do when he got better, a much-abbreviated Bucket List.  Still, he acted like he didn’t really see the value in them; certainly he didn’t get as much use out of them as we did during his illness.

The day after he went on ahead, I was going through some old photos in a box at my parents’ house and came across a set of running logs that he had kept on me many years ago.  In the margins he had written notes that made me think about the many lessons I have learned over the years from him through running, all of which can be translated into important life lessons as well as training and racing tips:

-“No guts, no glory!” (“Don’t expect something for nothing,” he’d say as he prodded me to run up the levee AGAIN in the Mississippi Delta 95 degree weather as part of my training regiment. “It’s good to be lucky, but it’s even better to be prepared!”)

-“Always double-tie your shoes before a race.”  (Be prepared!)

-“Don’t quit just because you get a cramp.” (Even when the going gets tough, stay in the race.  “Keep your eyes to the front and your head in the game” was often his pre-race advice to me.)

-“Know the course and know your competition.” (Pre-pre-race advice!)

-“I know the secret to being a better runner, and it sure isn’t fancy running shoes or gadgets.” (“Well, what is it then?” I asked him when he said this to me when I started training for my first marathon.  “Get your ass out there and run more!” he said and then roared with laughter at his own cleverness.)

-“If you need motivation, find a friend.” (“Running is easier with more than two legs,” he told me more than once, and then he always added, “Do you get what I’m saying? I mean running is more fun with friends.”)

-“When you’re going on a long run, always tuck some TP into your shorts.” (I like to think he meant “Be prepared” which is a good life lesson, but I’m pretty sure he meant this one literally.)

-“Sometimes the best runners have the crappiest running gear.” (Dad’s version of “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”)

-“Keep track of your thoughts in the field.” (Dad sometimes carried a pen with him when he went on a run, and when he had an idea during the run he would – without breaking stride, of course - use the pen to make a note on his hand.  If he didn’t have a pen, he moved his wedding ring from the ring finger of his left hand to that on his right hand as a reminder, a habit that one of my sisters and I got from him and still do now.) 

-“Excuses don’t get you to the finish line.”  (“You can always say it’s ‘too something’ to run, but you’ll be glad you got out there anyway,” he said.)

-“If you are adequately prepared, you won’t have any regrets, no matter what happens in a race.” (If I heard this one from him once, I heard it at least 100 times.)

The last two are my favorites. 

Dad, you were very much “adequately prepared,” and you made it to the finish line in a way that was respectable and admirable.  Thank you for the runs and for the advice; I get what you were saying, and I will remember your wise words.

Running with my dad

Words and Thoughts on Father's Day

                            CLICK HERE FOR MUSIC TO GO WITH THESE WORDS

"Father and Daughter" by Paul Simon (with my thoughts in blue)

If you leap awake in the mirror of a bad dream

And for a fraction of a second you can't remember where you are

( ... Every day I wish that someone would wake me up and tell me it was just a bad dream, that I can pick up the phone and hear your voice, that you didn't really have to go on ahead ... )

Just open your window and follow your memory upstream

To the meadow in the mountain where we counted every falling star

( ... I'm trying to stay focused on the many, many good memories that we have with you and to feel LUCKY just like you taught us ... )

I believe a light that shines on you will shine on you forever

And though I can't guarantee there's nothing scary hiding under your bed

I'm gonna stand guard like a postcard of a Golden Retriever

And never leave 'til I leave you with a sweet dream in your head

( ... I know you are still with us because we'll always have you in our hearts and in our memories, and I still feel you watching over us ... )

[Chorus:]

I'm gonna watch you shine

Gonna watch you grow

Gonna paint a sign

So you'll always know

As long as one and one is two

There could never be a father

Who loved his daughter more than I love you

Trust your intuition

It's just like goin' fishin'

You cast your line and hope you get a bite

But you don't need to waste your time

Worryin' about the market place

Try to help the human race

Struggling to survive its harshest night

( ... I remember how while you were sick you talked about how we all need to spend less time WORRYING and more time enjoying life and being with the ones we love ... )

I'm gonna watch you shine

Gonna watch you grow

Gonna paint a sign

So you'll always know

As long as one and one is two

There could never be a father

Who loved his daughter more than I love you

THANKS, DAD, FOR TEACHING ME SO MANY LESSONS OVER THE YEARS, EVEN AND SOMETIMES ESPECIALLY THE ONES YOU DIDN'T EVEN REALIZE YOU WERE TEACHING.  THANK YOU FOR PASSING ON YOUR PASSION AND YOUR PERSPECTIVE.  I MISS YOU SO MUCH EVERY DAY!

The Jason Veck Lesson

One thing that I noticed even as a young child was that my dad always treated people fairly, even when someone might not technically have deserved his kindness.  In one of his first jobs as a manager, he found out that one of his employees was using the company’s money to make unauthorized purchases.  I remember that Dad was upset that he had to fire the guy; he said that, even though the guy had made a mistake, he wished he could give the guy another chance, because we never know what kind of problems someone else has had or has currently.  One of the things this guy bought with company funds was an expensive hunting knife, and, after Dad had fired the guy, Dad’s superior told him to keep the knife since it couldn’t be returned.  Dad said that he had really liked the guy and decided to call the knife by the guy’s first and last name, Jason Veck.  I remember many times when we needed to open a package or do something else with a knife and Dad would get Jason Veck out of the glove compartment of his car.  Every time he did that, I thought about how it was a shame that the guy never even knew how much he had lost as a result of his poor choices, not just a job but an opportunity to learn from someone who has so much to offer and is so accepting and nonjudgmental.  I am so grateful that I got to spend so much time with my dad and that I did take away so many valuable lessons that I have often used and will carry forward.  One of the many that I will certainly remember is the "Jason Veck" lesson:  Because we never really know someone else's circumstances, we should always try to give that person a second chance.

Click on this to hear some of the music that's on my mind right now ...