Water Marks

I've heard it said that within two generations after a person is gone from the earth that it will be as if he was never there. This is a statement with which I completely disagree, though; I think people who think like that have not considered the rippling of a person's presence, the mark that is left behind forever by association on generations to come. If something about a person affects me in any way at all, there is a shift in my actions, in my perspective, in my words, or in some other area, and those around me are likely then to be impacted to some extent, which then affects others in their path in the future.  That's how the rippling effect works; that's how our presence is maintained long after each of us is gone. This is something that has become very clear to me since my dad's death, and it is a truth in which I find comfort.

Once when I was in college, I heard someone make an off-hand comment about how it drove her crazy when my dad put a glass of water down on her coffee table without using a coaster. "It's like he doesn't even think about the water marks he's going to leave," she complained. I didn't really see her point at the time and I still don't; like my dad, I guess, it's never been something that I've thought was worth adding to my Worry List. 

In fact, I noticed a water mark on a piece of furniture in my house just the other day and thought, "Damn, what I wouldn't give if I knew that mark had been left there by my dad."

I don't think my dad went through life thinking about the water marks that he was going to leave behind; he wasn't that self-centered or that existential in his philosophy.  I wish he could know now, though, about at least some of the ripples he created; certainly his presence and the waves of his existence continue far beyond what he was able to see.

What I Have Come To Believe - Part 1

There are some things that I've started to think about since my dad died that leave me with feelings of uncertainty; the more I ponder those things, the greater the lack of clarity I experience.

However, there are other things that I have become completely clear about, sometimes because I had never experienced or considered these particular issues before - and some things that I had come across but about which I hadn't had this particular perspective previously.  

Here's one of the things I know for sure:  I know that the world is different without my dad in it, but it's probably not as different as I judge it to be, at least not in a general sense.  Personally, I see the world now in a totally different light than I did before Dad got sick, and I've developed a view that is perhaps less naive, perhaps more jaded, or maybe both.  Every time I hear or read the statement "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," I want to argue: from my perspective, this could not be further from the truth.  If we can keep from allowing it to break us down completely, we are not left stronger;  if we are lucky and diligent, we are left transformed, metamorphosized, different.

I search for consolation for the rest of my family and for the other people who knew my dad and who still say to me "I just can't believe he's gone," but I am unable to find anything of comfort for them since I have yet to find it for myself.  Time has passed; some of the sharp edges of grief have moved into more of an aching pain, but the sorrow and all of the other emotions that come along with the mourning are still there, with no end in sight.  I am different from the person I was before my dad got sick; I live differently, I think differently, and I believe differently.

I know this grief won’t end. It will only change and lessen. We will not get over it, but we will learn to live beside it, hopefully more efficiently and more gracefully than we have been able to do so far. We will hold our memories in our hearts and rely on the promise that the thoughts that now make us mourn will one day be overshadowed by the ones that make us smile.

One More Conversation

I recently read about how sometimes people who are going through the grief process think about what it would be like to have one more conversation with their loved one.

Thinking about that is complex for me, because, as far as I knew, my dad didn't think that he wasn’t going to survive his cancer diagnosis, and so the things that I'm guessing typically come up in those one-more-conversation type of exchanges weren't on the table for us to talk about when he was sick.  We didn't talk about end-of-life kinds of things during the ten weeks we had after his diagnosis; honestly, I don't know that any of us could have withstood that type of emotional wrenching, including my dad.  He knew that we loved him, and we knew that he loved us, and I think we thought there was still time to talk about everything else.

Part of me wonders now if we should have been straight up with him about what was going on medically; after all, he was an adult and maybe it was underestimating him or overprotecting him to keep that information from him.  He knew his diagnosis, but he didn't know the prognosis.  The bottom line, though, is that my family and I did what we truly believed was in Dad's best interests at the time, given what we knew and the resources we had.  We didn't LIE to him, but we did skirt around the truth about his prognosis and the severity of his illness on the few occasions he asked us about it, when he said things like "What if the chemo doesn't work?" and then we said things like, "It will, Dad! We just have to get through it."  He asked one of his doctors a few times about the usual prognosis of someone with his same diagnosis, and they told him the truth, but all of us, Dad included, discounted what they said because Dad wasn't "usual" - he was extraordinary.  Towards the end, he asked me a few questions like, "What's it like to die?" and "Do you think it’s cold in heaven?" (he hated to be cold), and I am so very glad that I answered him truthfully then.  Most of the things I said to him though, when I realized how very limited our time together was going to be were part of a one-sided conversation - when he couldn't talk back, and when I'm wasn't sure he heard me.  Looking back, I think it would have been so hard for us to say goodbye to him and then to have him say it back; the pain and sorrow that I see on his face when I picture this scene in my mind are heartbreaking, sending a stream of tears down my face, and that's when the vision is only in my imagination.  I think Dad might have viewed his own farewell message as quitting, and I am glad he was spared that, at least.  

So when I think about what our conversation would be like had he gotten an extra few minutes tacked on at the end of his life, it’s hard for me to picture anything other that what we did talk about when he was so sick.  Given that, I want to respond to the question of what would I say to him now - not as if he is still alive but as though he and I are able to communicate now, with him being wherever he is in the afterlife and with me being here on earth:

Dad,

There are a few things that I want to be sure you know, and if I can be assured that you realize and understand these things it will help me to better deal with my grief:

I miss you so much, every day.  You had such a big impact on my life and on making me into the person I am today, and the things you taught me and the lessons I learned as a result of having you for a dad are carrying forwards, still affecting me every day.  So much bigger than that, though, was your impact on the hundreds of other people you knew and even on the thousands of other people you came into contact with over the course of your life.  What you left all of us with – and all of the people with whom WE will come into contact with in the time to come – is your perspective, your view on kindness, and your joy and gratitude in all kinds of situations.  Because of you, I know that I am lucky, no matter what is happening around me.  Because of you, I know that I can decide to be happy, if I choose.  And because of you, I know that family comes first but that every person is important and that being kind and giving to others is a privilege, not a duty.   I wish you could realize how many people admired and loved you; I think while you were sick that you might have gotten confused on just how many friends you had because we discouraged people from visiting you then because we were so worried about you catching their germs.  I’m sorry that we didn’t find a way for you to see how cherished you were by so many.  Finally, I want you to know that we will be forever grateful to you for the way you fought so hard to hang in there through so much over those last ten weeks, I want you to understand how we are so appreciative of every bit of light you brought to us over the years, and I want you to know that I will think about you and try to make you proud every single day, for the rest of my life.  

The Truth about Childhood Cancer

September is National Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, and I'd like to share some information about a project about which I have recently learned in regards to childhood cancer.

This project, called The Truth 365, is a ground-breaking, grass-roots documentary film and social media campaign that has set a goal to give a voice to all children fighting cancer and those who care about them.  They want to make all of us aware of the things that need to be done in battling pediatric cancer and to spotlight the state of childhood cancer research funding by uniting the childhood cancer community, government officials, top pediatric oncologists, and several of the country's most influential celebrities. 

This is an important effort, and here's why:  The Truth is that childhood cancer research is vastly underfunded, and the funding that's needed needs to become a priority for all of us, right now, because childhood cancer is the #1 cause of disease-related death in children under the age of 14, killing more than asthma, cystic fibrosis, diabetes, and pediatric AIDS combined. In the United States alone, 13,500 children are diagnosed with cancer every year, which translates to 46 children and their families getting a cancer diagnosis every single day, 365 days a year.  And although one out of every five of these children who are diagnosed with cancer will die, those who survive are often left with life-changing side effects from the cancer and the treatment that was used, which is often based on research done on adults with cancer instead of on children. The Truth is that the incidence of invasive pediatric cancers is up 29% in the past 20 years, and yet only $20,000 is invested in cancer research for every $595,000 invested in pediatric AIDS research.  Of the National Cancer Institute's budget of $4.6 billion, breast cancer received 12%, prostate cancer received 7%, and all 12 major groups of pediatric cancer combined received less than 4%.

The Truth is that this isn't right - and that it's not acceptable just to look away, as if these statistics don't affect every one of us, because they do.  To learn more, check out the Facebook page for this campaign and the group's website  to find out what's going on in their efforts, and stay tuned for the launch of their film which is due out on September 13.