Diagnosis day aka the day we busted

When April 29 comes around, the countdown of days begins in my head. April 29, 2014 was the day that Mom and I were headed to Disneyland to meet up with my brother, sister-in-law and niece for a few days of fun. The plan was for her to pick me up from work and we would hit the road. Around noon, I received a text - "Dr called your Dad in to talk about his test results. Not sure if I should go with him or not." We went back and forth a little before the decision was made, "Your Dad said I should just go ahead with our plans. I'll be there to pick you up." Looking back, I wish I had pushed her to make a different decision.

Mom came and picked me up. As we made our way out of town I posted on Facebook, "Disneyland or bust!" I remember the exact point of the road when the phone rang, where we answered the call and my Dad's voice came through the car speakers, "You better come home. I...", he said something that got lost in the cell reception, road noise and maybe the fuzziness of our brains that comes when really bad news is about to be delivered that you really don't want to hear. We looked at each other, neither one of us fully comprehending what was said, and I asked, "What did you say?" My Dad replied, loud and clear, with a irritation in his voice at having to say it again, "I have Leukemia." I'm not sure there was even a second that passed before my Mom was changing lanes to make a U-turn. We busted.

I don't recall what Mom and I talked about in the hour or so it took to get home. I'm not sure we talked much. I remember getting home and sitting on the couch across from my Dad as he recounted the diagnosis, Acute Myeloid Leukemia. He could live 6 months to a year without treatment, or he could try chemotherapy. We talked about those options. We talked about the what-if's. We sat and looked at each other, each of us lost in our own sense of disbelief that this was actually happening. At one point, my Dad looked at me and uttered the words that have become an inside joke between my Mom and me, "If I die, you get my car." I didn't want his car. I had a car. I didn't NEED his car, I needed him. I now own his car.

We decided that I was to continue the journey that my Mom and I had started earlier that day, and head to Disneyland, more specifically, to go be with my Brother. I picked up the phone and made the call, sharing news that would forever alter the trajectory of our family. 34 days later, he was the one telling me news that forever altered our family. 

That weekend was when Disneyland became my refuge, a place to escape, to be happy, even though I was really, really sad. I had a few hours alone one day, my first solo experience in Disneyland, and just walked through the parks, watching families enjoy the magic that is Disneyland. I welcomed the laughter and the joy. I left the reality of what was happening at the gates, and immersed myself in the Happiest Place on Earth. People ask me, all the time, why I go to Disneyland so much. It's my refuge.

My Dad chose chemotherapy. He took a gamble and got 34 days. He went out on his terms. April 29 - Diagnosis day, aka the day we busted. It comes around every year and the countdown starts in my head.

A post about howling

 I sat outside on the little oasis that is our deck, tonight, enjoying the cool air and taking a moment to search for stillness. The little solar fountain next to me, that is used as a drinking fountain and bath for the birds steadily flowed. Birds fluttered around, finding a place in the trees to roost for the night. Solar tealights started to flicker on as my part of the earth rotated away from the sun. The sounds of children laughing and playing somewhere in the neighborhood floated through the air. The joy and innocence of that laughter slowly filtered through my brain and it was suddenly just all too much.

A few years ago, in a town just a few miles from my own, a young girl was murdered by someone in her neighborhood. The community, rallying around the family and seeking a way to mourn this young girls life and show support for her family organized a community "howl". At 8pm on a specific evening, people went outside and howled. It was hauntingly beautiful.

Soon after the COVID pandemic closed down the country, a community howl was organized again. This time as a way to show support for those on the frontlines of the pandemic, the doctors and the nurses. Nightly, at 8pm, people would go outside, and howl. This happened for months. Children of all ages joined together in the howl, the echoes reverberating throughout our Valley. In a way, this nightly howl connected us to each other while a horrendous disease tore us apart.

As I sat outside tonight, listening to the melodious, innocent laughter of the children in the neighborhood, as darkness started to envelope my corner of the world, and birds settled into the trees, the sorrow that had taken ahold of my soul started to rise within me and all I wanted to do was howl. I wanted to howl for the children and teachers who senselessly died in Texas yesterday, at the hands of gunman. I wanted to howl for the parents, grandparents, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, daughter, son, husband, friends, schoolmates, teachers, custodians, teacher aides, bus drivers, admins, security guards, and a whole community that has been irrevocably changed because elected officials care more for the gun lobbyists than they do for the children in their own communities. 

We've been down this road so many, many times as a country. It's become clear to me that to some elected officials and some in this country, life is important before someone is born, but once a child is born money, power and the distorted belief that the 2nd amendment, written in a time when it took approximately 30 seconds to load and fire a single shot from a gun, as opposed to today's guns meant to kill a lot of people in a very, very short amount of time, are more important than that child. Human life is disposable. Guns are a right.

After every mass shooting, we hear "now is not the time" to discuss gun reform. After every mass shooting, we hear "it's our right". After every mass shooting, we hear "this only happens in the United States". After every mass shooting, we hear how mental illness is the problem, not the guns. After every mass shooting, we hear "it's not guns that kill people, people kill people." After every mass shooting, we ask ourselves "why does this keep happening?" 

Why? Because we allow it to happen. Because we don't want to admit that America is being held hostage by the idealization of the 2nd Amendment. Because we won't vote out politicians who have a love affair with the gun lobby because they are also the ones who say they are "pro-life", and making sure that women don't have the ability to make decisions about their own pregnancies takes precedence. Once a child can live outside a woman's womb, though, all bets are off. It doesn't matter that much what happens to a life at that point. 

We will go down this road again and again and again, until one day the mass shooting is outside our own doors. It's only a matter of time until EVERY community in America has lives lost to mass shootings.

I didn't howl outside tonight, but I am howling. I'm howling for Layla, Makenna, Alithia, Naveah, Alexandria, Jayce, Miranda, Jailah, Rojelio, Tess, Ellie, Jackie, Eliahana, Annabell, Jose, Uziyah, Xavier, Amerie, Irma and Eva. I'm howling, I'm mourning, I'm frustrated. I'm speaking out. I'm listening. I'm lamenting. I'm done with "thoughts and prayers", I am mad. I am so, so, so, so sad. 

A post about dreaming

It happened again last night.

I've been waking up between midnight and 2am pretty much every night and last night was no different. Midnight came around and I woke up, turned over put on a Netflix show and went back to sleep for another hour. I was up at 1am cause I needed to go to the bathroom and then back to bed. I was awake again at 2am with a hot flash. After throwing back the covers, adjusting my blinds to let air flow in and scrolling through Facebook, I was finally able to go back to sleep.

That's when it happened. I knew I was dreaming but I was having a dream within a dream. In the dream within a dream, I saw my Dad standing at my bedroom door in his trademark t-shirt, shorts and Teva's. He was saying something and whatever he said made me aware he was going to leave the room and, on an even deeper level, I KNEW he was going to leave me, forever. I heard myself say "Daddy, don't go, I need you. Daddy, I need you, don't go!" I saw him smile, and move across the room. The next moment his arms were around me and for one brief second, for the first time in 5 years, I was on the receiving end of a Dad hug. I physically felt his arms around me and then I was sobbing, "Daddy...daddy...daddy," as I could feel the moment and both dreams slipping away. I struggled to stay right there with him. I woke up with tears streaming down my face.

I've had dreams of my Dad off and on over the last five years. The last time, he was very unhappy with me in my dream. I woke up devastated that I had let my Dad down, somehow. The tears flowed then, too. Last night's dream was the first time I felt like he was really there hugging me. I've missed his hugs. I miss him.

In college I took a class on Dream Interpretation. It was a weekend course, worth one unit that I took because I needed that one unit to graduate college. This morning at 3:30am, I was wishing that I had paid a little bit more attention in that Dream Interpretation class. I was also wondering, was it just a dream, or was that a visit?

Whichever it was, I wish that hug could have lasted just a little bit longer.

A post about the friend who knew...

Somewhere along the road of grief there is an expectation that you will just "get over it" and move on. It's not that people think you have to forget that you have lost someone, but that grief has a time limit. Once you have hit the time limit, then they move on...and so should you.

I was blessed to have a friend who knew, from her own experience, that grief did not have a time limit. We met for dinner once every other month and those dinners were a lifeline for me. We would talk about grief, work, church and politics...a lot of politics...and pretty much anything that was on our hearts at the moment. Two hours would pass in an instant and I would leave knowing, once again, I was not alone in the world. My friend never once told me to "get over it" or served up platitudes about grief. She allowed me to be me, without judgement or expectation.

We met up in September for dinner. It had been a lot longer between dinners, as she was now fighting her own battle with cancer. We laughed and talked about everything we could possibly jam into two hours. It was so, so lovely. The next day a text arrived from her son, she had been hospitalized with pneumonia. For the next couple of months there would be an update every few weeks with glimmers of hope for healing and more dinners together, but in my heart I knew the ending to the story. She died on Christmas Eve.

So grief began anew. Only this time, the person who I could rely on to understand that grief never ended was the one I was grieving.

In my email inbox are pages of emails from my friend. Many are about her cancer fight but tucked in among those are emails of understanding, commiseration and hope. I delete emails all around them, but all of her emails remain. They bring me comfort, as well as tears of grief. I'm not ready to let go of them...and I know she understands.

I miss my friend.

A post about turning a corner

When I turned the corner it was noticeable...at least to me. Others may not have caught on but all of a sudden I went from feeling like there was no hope anywhere to feeling peaceful. Not happy, still quick to tears, still finding it hard to believe that this isn't all a really bad dream...but better. I'd been waiting for better.

Grief is an individual state of being. We all go through the highs and lows at different times. I can move from laughter to tears without even blinking.  Being the private person I am, I tend to not want to share everything with everybody all the time. I've drifted off into a corner by myself, needing to work through the emotions, the waves of regrets and sadness, the misty-eyed bittersweet memories, the unconscionable pain of missing my Dad...my friend. There are some who have understood that need to curl up by myself and allow the emotions to play. There are some who haven't understood at all.

What I have learned about grief, that I knew but didn't know, was how much of an individual process it truly is, how long it can take to feel semi-okay again and how some people just don't get it. My favorite question came from a friend who asked, just 20 days after my Dad died, "So, are you over it yet?" I didn't take offense. My filter was not on and I laughed at him and told him, no, I would never be over it.  He couldn't relate at the time. Unfortunately, he can relate now.

The journey of grief that I continue to traverse is filled with highs and lows, ups and downs and unexpected turns. My Mom and I are remodeling the kitchen, which means all the cabinets that my Dad built are being removed. I didn't think about it until my Uncle came over to look at the kitchen floor and made a comment about how well the cabinets were built. He left and I broke down. Taking those cabinets means letting go of another piece of my Dad. I was sharing that story with a friend and she looked at me and said "but there are still so many things in the house that your Dad built!". She didn't get it. It doesn't matter how much is still left, every little piece I let go hurts. It's another acknowledgement that he is never coming back. (The kitchen is still being remodeled...my Uncle is taking the cabinets.)

So, on it goes. The ups and the downs, the laughter and the tears. The sweet memories and the regrets. Old kitchen cabinets are removed, new cabinets are brought in and time moves on.and grief remains.

A post about dreams

I had dreams, when I was younger. Ideas about how life would be. There was a husband, children, nieces and nephews. I would enjoy my parents as they grew old together. In my mind, I was always a teacher - a kindergarten teacher. In my dreams for the future there was hope, happiness, contentment and purpose.

The reality of life is so much different. The husband and children have yet to manifest themselves, and with all that is changing within my body, some dreams of children grow slimmer each day. My Dad's life ended much sooner than any of us imagined. My teaching days weren't in a classroom but in a church "basement", with middle school and high school youth and involved so much more than teaching. Those days are years behind now.  It was my choice to move on, well, there was a "voice" that I heard pretty clear telling me it was time for change and I listened to that voice. I don't regret that decision...but I do miss those days.

I do have a biological niece and lots of nephews-of-the-heart. I was content with life...once upon a time. Content didn't always mean happy, I have learned. Content simply means content. Content is a distant memory, right now.

The Disney movie Inside Out came out the summer my Dad died. The movie centered around  a young girl as she deals with her new reality of life. The majority of the movie is told from the perspective of her emotions - Joy, Anger, Sadness, Fear, and Disgust. There is one point where her state of discontent, disillusionment, deaden her emotions and her emotional headquarters goes gray. Everything is viewed through a cloud of gray. I remember sitting in the movie theater, watching that scene, trying really, really hard to keep myself together and not just sob loudly and hysterically. Everything about that scene resonated with my soul. Reflected on the screen was my own inner state of being.

I moved out of that state for awhile, but lately the gray has started to creep back in. Contentment is nowhere to be found. Passion, happiness, hope...those feelings are hiding. I'm going through the motions of life. Right now, everything looks and feels gray.

Everyone once in a while I look around and wonder, what happened to all the dreams I had?  Did I somehow miss the boat, or train or helicopter or plane or car or horse or whatever clue I was supposed to catch to make my dreams come true? I wonder what I've done wrong. Maybe I didn't listen close enough to the instructor and wandered down a path I wasn't supposed to take. What happened to my dreams?

Then I start to wonder, what is my purpose?  I want to be useful, do something that makes a difference in the world. I am grateful to have a job but it's a job. I don't come home at night feeling like the world is a better place because I sold office products. It's a means to an end. Why am I here? I know that I'm not the first person to ask that question nor will I be the last.

My younger self had dreams. They were good dreams. They were the dreams that every younger self needs. Dreams of  happiness, hope, contentment and purpose. Some dreams have yet to be realized. Some dreams have been lost along the way. Some dreams became reality and I am forever grateful for the memories.

Tonight, my soul is longing for new dreams. Dreams that move me out of the state of gray and back into a world of color. I am longing for new dreams to mingle with the old, to stir in my soul and bring me to a place of happiness, contentment, purpose and hope again. 

Same journey, new chapter

I left the office on Thursday evening exhausted. The last conversation with a co-worker was draining, as I attempted to share about a situation that needed attention and struggled to be heard.

As I drove home, my mind reviewed the conversation, what I said, what the other person said, the body language, the words that were unspoken. Over and over the conversation ran, all the while I kept thinking, "how could I have handled that better?" It was just a few miles from home when the thought ran through my head, "I want to talk this over with Dad."

But I can't talk it over with my Dad. I don't get to come home and hear "Hey, Kiddo, how was your day?" I don't get to walk in the door, sit down, draw his attention away from his computer and spill the whole story. I don't get to listen to his advice. For the first time in three years and 8 months I cried tears of anger.

I haven't before felt angry with my Dad for dying. He didn't choose to get leukemia. He didn't choose for the chemo not to work or the crap that invaded his lungs to not clear up. Why be angry with him? But yesterday, I was angry at him for not being here when I needed him. Really angry...and sad.

Most days, I think about my Dad a few times throughout the day. Usually when I walk past pictures of him or while driving to or from work. Usually I can think about him without tears making an appearance. Yesterday was not that day. Yesterday I needed him and he.wasn't.there. And I was mad.

I miss my Dad. I miss his laughter, his humor and teasing...well most of it. I miss seeing him every day. I miss the sound of his voice. I miss his phone calls and emails. I miss telling him about my day and hearing feedback. I miss so much and yesterday, for the first time, I was mad at him for leaving.

The winding road of grief continues...

A tenuous peace

"I guess God needed her more."

A friend of mine made that statement after the sudden, unexpected and tragic death of a family member. This family member was a cancer survivor.  Her husband had died suddenly years before and the extended family most recently had been grieving the death of their father/grandfather/patriarch. She was at work on Thursday, in the hospital on Sunday and died on Wednesday. When above statement was made, "I guess God needed her more", I sat silently, unable to continue down that road.

Death is never easy, expected or unexpected. Those who find themselves in the midst of grief also find their own ways of coping with grief.  Some ways make sense to others, some don't. There isn't any "right" way to grieve. We just get through the days, especially in the first few weeks, and eventually find some sort of peace.

Along my journey of grief, I have made peace with the emptiness, the sorrow, the tears that come so easily. I have made peace with my complete lack of understanding as to why and accepted that some questions are unanswerable. I still have the questions. I would still like answers. I simply have a tenuous acceptance with not knowing.

For some, though, the not knowing means that we need to give answers and "explain" God or explain God's intentions. So we give answers like "God needed them more", "God needed another angel in heaven", "God has a plan" and so on and so forth. Those words don't ring true to my ears. I can't believe that God would "need" the mother of 10 who just died more than her children ranging in ages from 20 to 2. I don't think that God needs another angel in heaven that much.

Sometimes there just isn't an explanation. Sometimes death, expected or unexpected, just doesn't make sense. We can try to give answers but the truth is we can't answer for God. I wish some people would just stop trying.

A post about the state of grief

The wind started blowing the other night.  It was howling around the house, knocking the tree against the corner of the house.  I was upstairs listening and thought of my Dad.  There was some weather event that would cause my Dad to sleep downstairs on the couch.  I can't remember if it was wind or lightening but the reminder of my Dad came just the same.

Memories are triggered everyday.  The wind, a song, politics, a familiar face in the grocery store, photos, the date on the calendar, there are so many little triggers.  Some memories bring a smile, many bring tears.  I've gotten used to him not being here.  I hate that. 

There are moments when I forget and think of something that I want to tell him when I get home from work, only to violently remember that isn't going to happen again.  I miss my friend who would listen to my day, or my rants on politics or whatever triggered my "are they serious?!" response.  I miss hearing "How was your day, kiddo?" when I walk in the door.  I miss trailing my fingers over his shoulders in hello, on my way to my room and saying "Hi Dad" when I arrived home from wherever I had been that day, as he sat at the computer doing whatever he was doing.

I miss his smile and laugh.  The little grin that played along his lips when he was teasing someone and the laugh that came out when he was with his friends, relaxed and enjoying the moment.  I miss watching him kiss Mom in the kitchen and really miss him drying the dishes...Mom does too.

Life moves forward.  So much has changed in the last year and 11 months.  The paralyzing, overwhelming grief has abated but grief remains.  Tears come easily.  The hope that maybe, just maybe, this is all a horrific dream has not fully abated.  The reality is just too overwhelming to fully accept, right now.  I will get there...someday.  I'm moving at my own pace, and learning to live without my Dad.  And that's the state of grief. 

A post to my Dad

Dear Dad,

You can come home now.

Mom and I are both done with the quiet, stillness of the house and this new reality.  It's time for you to come home.

Right now I wouldn't even care if you gave me crap about the state of my living space or being a hermit and not getting up and moving when you think I should.  I would welcome your rants on politics and "those people" or climate change and big box stores or...

I keep waiting for my phone to ring and for you to be on the other end, just checking in because it's been so long since we last talked.  I keep waiting for an email with random things about your day to arrive in my inbox because you are away from home and you just need to check in with me.

I didn't realize how much I welcomed your swiveling in your chair when I walked in the front door at night, a smile on your face and a "Hi, Kiddo" ready for me as Rachel Maddow or Jon Stewart blared from the TV, until the last four months when you haven't been there...when I walk in the door to silence and realize, you aren't ever going to be there again.

It sucks.  It hurts.  I miss you so much.  I just want you to come home, for this little corner of the world to be right again...I want my Daddy back.

A post about the spaces in my soul

There's this space in my soul.  It's the space where my secret fears and anxiety lives.  It's the space where I hide my deepest insecurities.  This space usually stays hidden, away from the prying eyes of others...even myself.  Then other times the air in that space becomes thin and suddenly I am gasping for breath, desperate to keep the feelings of inadequacy at bay.

There's this space in my soul.  A place where confidence gathers steam, where I find strength and hope and inspiration.  This place, too, stays hidden until I suddenly burst forth from my quiet, introspective usual shell and stand.my.ground.  At those times the air is violently churning, producing winds of unknown proportion in my soul and I can't let it out fast enough.

These days, I've found a new space in my soul, where grief resides.  Where the pain is so deep, the ache is so profound I wonder when I will next be able to take a breath without air escaping around the lump in my throat.  This place too, stays hidden, until the grief builds up and suddenly shuddering breaths of pain and sorrow escape, usually accompanied by a torrent of tears.

These days, I'm desperately longing for the space in my soul filled with joy to take over again.  For the smile that I wear to be genuine again, not inadequately masking the sadness beneath.  For the bubbles of air to happily flow from within, lightly and carefree.  I don't want this place to be in my soul to be hidden.  I want to let this place shine and yet, right now, it's not the time.  The joy is still there, it's just covered up, muted, with the realities of life as other spaces in my soul take precedent.

Somewhere down the road...

A post from the desert

A wise friend said recently, "Brittany, you've been wandering in the desert for a long time and it seems to me that you keep trying to return to Egypt."

CRAP.

Today the new Pastor spoke about the Israelites traveling through the desert and how God provided manna (bread) for them EVERY DAY while they wandered in the desert.

CRAP.


There is truth to what my wise friend said (don't tell him I called him that, okay?  He'll get a big head)...there is a part of me that longs to return to Egypt.

There is truth to the what the Pastor said...God is providing manna for me EVERY DAY as I wander in the desert.

So, y'all, will you pray for me to:

A.) let go of Egypt
B.) remember that God is providing
C.) be open to whatever is next?

Because my fears are definitely ruling my judgement and my eyes have been blinded but are beginning to clear and the numb lump of something that has been my heart is beginning to feel again.

This growing up stuff is hard.

When all you can do is pray

I have been feeling a little disconnected and numb from the latest cycle horror...until today and a post from a RevGal on Facebook.  Her simple prayer request:  "Please pray for my friend M who will be participating in 5 (so far) of the memorial services this week."  That's when the prayers started flowing.

Praying for the families.  For the teachers.  For the school and district administration   For the survivors.  For the first responders.  For the town.  For the country.  For the pastors.  For the children's directors/pastors.  For the youth directors/pastors.  For the counselors.  For the church administrative assistants.  For the funeral parlors.  For the organists, pianists and soloists.  Just simply praying because right now, that's all I can do.