From This Vantage Point

During the ten weeks that my dad was sick, whenever I heard someone use the phrase "at least" in reference to my dad's illness, my gut burned with fury.  I didn't want any at-leasts, or rather I didn't want to have to have any.  I wanted my family to go back to the way it was, and, as I tearfully texted my husband late in the night after we brought Dad home from the Brain Tumor Clinic at Duke, I wanted my dad back.  It seems selfish and childish to me now, but I was in a state of shock and disbelief that that changes that had occurred in such a relatively short period of time had happened.  The doctors at Duke had promised us that the treatment Dad had gotten just after his appointment there was like "magic;" they told us that within 24 hours of getting the medicine we would notice an improvement.  Instead, though, probably due to the toll the stress of the trip had taken on him, he seemed worse.  To me, there certainly didn't seem to be any at-leasts in the picture at the time.

Dad, competing in a half-Ironman triathlon just weeks before his diagnosis

The at-leasts poured in from seemingly everywhere while he was sick and for awhile after he went on ahead; I realized even on my worst days of rage and despair that everyone who said those words did so in an effort to help: "at least he had his family around him the whole time he was sick;" "at least he had good insurance;" "at least you got to spend those extra weeks with him;" and then, the hardest to swallow, "at least you were with him when he died."  We even got a few at-leasts that weren't true ("at least he didn't suffer" being the most blaring untruth).  People were just trying to help, I told myself then and in the months that followed.  I knew it was true; I just hated that I was suddenly on the receiving end of such a phrase. Just having part of what I had or should have had didn't seem good enough.

The flag at half-mast at the cemetery on the day of dad's burial

Over the past six months or so, though, I've been thinking more about those at-leasts, and I've started to see them a little bit differently.  Don't get me wrong: I still long for the whole; it's just that I'm starting to see the value in the in between.

I think the change has come from my reading about the struggles of others - their challenges, illnesses, and grief mostly - and seeing that the people who seem to come out ok (that is, those who don't end up with a completely bitter outlook on life, one that seems so damn disrespectful to the people in their lives including, in the stories of grief, the person for whom they are grieving) are the ones who lean at least a little bit into the at-leasts.  

My dad wasn't a big believer in thinking about Worst Case Scenario; although he like to plan ahead, he frequently said that he thought worrying was a waste of time.  I'm actually not sure what he thought about at-leasts, if he thought about them at all.  I know he was a positive thinker, though, and I can see now that at-leasts fit into to that way of thinking, which is further evidence that it's not a bad idea for me to reconsider my view on that point of reference.

From this vantage point on the road of grief, I can see the value of at-leasts.  Saying "at least" in reference to one's own troubles is a way of keeping perspective; it's a way of reminding ourselves that, while we are powerless to change certain situations and to stop certain things from going wrong, we have a choice in how we view things, even (and maybe especially) in the midst of tragedy and hardship.

And so I have changed my opinion on at-leasts: I believe in the goodness of at-leasts and of positive attitudes; I believe that each of us has the power to take tough circumstances and bad breaks and find the good in those situations.  And that, more than anything, is what gets me through the day now.

The Flow of Grief

Today is the 5th of the month, and, as on this day every month over the last 25 months, that date results in an exacerbation of grief for me, because it is the day of the month that my dad went on ahead.  

I wonder if the 5th of the month ever won't be like this, if it will ever just flow by like the rest of the days on the calendar, and I wonder if it will hurt even more when the realization hits me that it has somehow slipped by unnoticed.  

From the moment I opened my eyes this morning, I felt the grief a little heavier, like a blanket that's too thick for the temperature in the room.  I plodded through the morning routine and made it out the door on time, but then, on my drive to work, I saw a car exactly like my dad's, an army green Mini-Cooper with a customized bike rack on the top.  

In an instant, tears filled my eyes.  I felt like I'd been punched in the gut but weirdly also a little bit comforted; feeling that it was a sign from my dad, I felt both like I'd gained something in experiencing that connection with him and like I'd suffered a loss again with the thought that the only contact I can ever have with him is transcendent. 

The unpredictability of grief is something that gets to me time and time again.  I like patterns and predictability; I don't like surprises or disorder.  All along I've felt like I wanted, or actually needed, to know - how will this go?  What's the plan?  How long will it last?  When will I feel like I have a grip on this grief, if ever?  

In the beginning, I told myself I could take it, if I only had an idea of how long it would go on.  And if I had some kind of rules or guidelines for getting through it.  When I realized there was none of that type of knowledge or information to be had, I found that pretty much all I could do was to cry.  We all cried, to each other and alone.  We worried about each other and we worried about ourselves; we wondered if this was how things would always be, and we wondered if we would survive the hardest thing that any of us had ever gone through.

So far I've just been muddling through it.  And the change - and the order to it and the flow of it - that I've started to notice, one that has come about at some imperceptible point in time, is that I have started to be able to reflect on the road I had traveled, to see some ribbon of road behind me as I glance in the rearview mirror, even as I have continued to trek along the same route, and I have started to see some differences in myself and in my grief ... not "progress," really, but observations about the path I have traveled as part of this process. 

Maybe it's just familiarity with grief, almost a relaxed intimacy like a couple who has been together for awhile or like shoes that are worn in but not worn out.  Certainly part of it is a realization that there is no standard of excellence in this process, just getting through it, hopefully intact. 

                           "I pick up a stone that I cast to the sky, hoping for some kind of sign."

I can smile most of the time these days when I see a photo of my dad, and I can usually talk about him without the extreme sadness and devastation that used to bubble right up to the surface so quickly.  I can laugh at some of the inside jokes that he and I shared, even though I realize that I'm the only one left on the inside of those now; I can usually think about something that he should be here to experience or to participate in now and not fall apart.  I can go to sleep most nights without feeling like I need to beg into the dark for a good dream about him.  Much of the difficulty is still there, though; I think I've just gotten more adept at managing it.  

I used to be a lot more inflexible - maybe even close-minded or harsh - in my views about certain things before my dad got sick.  I must admit: I did the same thing about certain things before I had children of my own; I thought I had at least some of the answers, and then reality hit me and I realized that I didn't.  I spent a lot more time with the "my way or the highway" type of thinking going on in my head than I do now.  

There's a certain amount of perspective that growing up  gives to a person - some of it good, some maybe more realistic than good, but nonetheless having our views changed over time is just part of life.  It's almost kind of metaphysical the way perception can be divided up over the course of a lifetime: either you think you know, or you know you don't know. 

But then comes grief, and that's a game changer on an entirely different level.  I think for most people, grief softens the edges of what we worry about, of our priorities, and maybe even of our philosophy about things.  For me, going through the trial of my dad's illness and living with the grief that has come from his death has also blurred lots of things.  I'm less sure about certain things - many of which I have written about and will continue to write about - and that can be stressful, confusing, and exhausting.  But one thing that I think has actually been a change for the better in this process is the mitigation of my tendency to cast judgment on others in general; not only have my views on some things softened, but I guess so have I.  

Here's what I know for sure about grief: there is no "right way" to get through it.  Each person brings a different set of circumstances, different coping skills, and different needs to the situation.  We may share some of the same emotions and sometimes even thought patterns as we travel down the road, but, as we are all unique individuals, so is the exact nature of our mourning and our grief.

In the weeks and months after my dad went on ahead, my first instinct was to isolate myself.  I'm not sure why, exactly; there are probably a whole host of reasons that went into that propensity.

With the encouragement of my family, though, I tried to get out and do things socially, although, truth be told, I didn't really feel like leaving the house most of the time. 

Through phone calls and sporadic visits between the different places where we lived, my siblings and my mom and I all stuck together as much as we could, but at the same time we all did different things to keep ourselves together in the midst of the grief, to ward off the grief, to get through the days that were so much tougher to get through than I'd imagined.  Wait a minute, scratch that:  I actually never even took the time to imagine what life would be like without Dad, until we were without him.  I guess that, like Dad used to say about worrying being a waste of time, I felt that punching through the unbelieveability to picture the sadness, the absurdity of that life, even when he was so sick, was just too far out there to be a reasonable use of time for me - it would be like me thinking about jumping on the space shuttle and going to the moon right now.   

I recently looked back at something I wrote very early in my grief, a jotted-down Q and A with myself. I wrote, "How can I get through this, how can I go on, what can I do?  I will probably end up sleeping too much, drinking too much, not eating enough, walking around in a stony silence, and I hate all of those ideas."  For better or for worse, I actually missed the mark on all of those things.  A lot of time at work and around town, I felt like a fraud, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if I were the same. I felt lost, but I knew where I was and I knew I didn't want to accept it.  I didn't know where to even begin trying to figure out how to live without my dad or how to live with the sorrow. 

In the immediate aftermath, my mother, of course, was the one still at the house where Dad was supposed to be with her, with the most dramatic life change, and she was the one that we worried about the most.  Her form of coping initially seemed to come in the form of trying to re-organize her house; it was as if she was trying to gain some of the control that had been lost the moment we heard Dad's diagnosis.  In my corner of the world, I made a list of the things that angered me, in an effort to keep from exploding in my fury, and of questions to which I knew there were no answers.  I tried different things, many of which I've written about since.  One of these was my longtime balance: running, which failed me in that role; for the first time ever, running didn't feel right to me.  It wasn't physically therapeutic and it wasn't emotionally therapeutic; it felt more like I was trying to chase down the answers to an interminable stream of runaway questions.  It hurt, something I was used to and was well experienced in in the physical sense, but the pangs of emotions that flooded my mind and my body on these runs were difficult to bear. After awhile, I gave up on it, and only recently have I begun to try it again, intermittently, as it seems like the flow of the grief and the things that come along with it allow.

Silver Linings

"Grief is not just the absence of a loved one: it's the complete and total changing of one's life." ~ Shelley Bosworth

On this day two years ago and over the course of the next few days after it, I learned firsthand how life can change in an instant.  My relatively peaceful life was suspended when I returned from an out-of-town business trip and was told that it had been discovered that there was a large mass in my dad's brain.  

As my family and I started down the road of Cancer and grief and all the things that come with both of those things, we clung to Hope, not just because we wanted to but because we HAD to.  And, following Dad's lead, we got through it by trying our best every step of the way to emulate his glass-half-full perspective by consciously looking for Silver Linings, an outlook that has also served to carry me down some of the darkest alleys of my grief since his passing only ten weeks after his diagnosis.

If there's one thing that can keep someone in the midst of tragedy from falling to their knees in desperation, it's the realization that, in any pretty much any situation, things could always be worse.  There could be so many more things that could be going wrong, things like lack of insurance coverage, poor access to health care, or insufficient family support.  I will never understand why the things that happened with my dad happened, but I can clearly see that we could have encountered so many more obstacles along the way in taking care of him, and I am grateful for the blessings that we had in the midst of what we experienced.

In talking about cancer and death and loss with other people over the last two years, this point has been reiterated time and time again.  Despite the horror and the unfairness and the awful blow of what happened, I still feel lucky, for so many reasons, largely due to the perspective that I was given by my dad.

With that outlook, it's easier to see those Silver Linings, the things that might not have happened otherwise, or at least things that I probably wouldn't have been in a position to notice and/or appreciate.  I believe that Silver Linings exist in almost every situation; we just have to choose to recognize them along the way.  And, to be clear, I'm not saying that I think that Silver Linings can take away the pain or the sadness in a given situation, but I do think they can provide balance and perspective, two things that we may need in grief more than ever before.