shining through the darkness.

One year ago today, the worst happened. We were overwhelmed with darkness, but Dad's light shone through - even then. I spent two years living in fear, and then the scary, horrible nightmare happended. I lived in fear, and then I could rest - rest in the peace that the big question was answered - even though the answer was death.

That has been a hard thing to express and come to terms within the last year. I don't actually feel comfort in his death, but the fear is gone - and on some level, that brings relief.
The horrifying thing happened - and I survived it.

Pastor Nanette says not to run from the darkness. We could spend life distracting ourselves from the pain, but she says, "get in there" - let's show up to our own lives, even the dark stuff. Let's be courageous and brave and get comfortable with our heartache. Let's talk about it. Let's grieve. And, I think that's how we're supposed to be - present - existing in the dank, dark crap that happens in our lives and simultaneously accepting that there is something hopeful and powerful in this world connecting us to one another. You don't get over it, you get through it. And, not alone.

Thank you to so many of you who helped me through it.
I couldn't have survived this year without my family and friends.

Big thoughts after a year? I miss him.
That's all.
I just want to hear his voice,
and kiss his head,
and lean in on the couch,
and tell him about all the things he missed.

But, I am hopeful.
And, after the year I've had, I'd say that's success.

f*** cancer

I wear a bracelet that says, "F*** Cancer." It doesn't actually say the word - it is an F with three astericks. My friend Nate gave it to me in solidarity. (Sadly, losing a loved one to cancer is now something we have in common.) I don't advertise it, but I have worn it each day since my Dad went into the hospital last year on January 25. It became a ritual for me. On the days I forgot to put the bracelet on, I wore it around the house at the end of the day. Call it cathartic, call it ceremonial, superstitious - it was a way to honor my father daily.

Last Saturday, it broke.

Exactly one year from the Saturday we took him to the hospital.

I wore it for 365 days.

I am still letting it sink in.

This entire week has been a trigger... board meetings, strange weather, snow in the forecast. All of it reminds me of last year. The day is coming, and I cannot run away from it.

Retracing my footsteps in grief.

“You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.” - Anne Lamott

2/5/2014

I see the day coming like a freight train. As we approach the year anniversary, I find myself retracing the moments of that day.

I remember feeling such relief when the first early phone call came - the office was closing for the second day in a row. The snow was still thick on the road, and I was excited to close my eyes and fold myself back into my bed.
 

We had been practically living at the hospital for the previous ten days. Now, Dad was finally back home, and I was safe and warm in my bed. I did not have to go to KU Med. I did not have to drive downtown in the 14 inches of snow. I could stay in my bed - safe from harm.
 

The second phone call changed my life. I made Evan say it at least three times. Come home, he said. The doctor called. And Dad has just days left. I knew it wasn't a joke, but I still kept making him repeat it. I made him promise me it was the truth.

The drive was a blur. The roads were empty, and the snow deep. I felt numb.

I remember kneeling next to the recliner and Dad telling me that he was done fighting. I remember holding his hand, and kissing his head, and crying. He seemed just as surprised to be saying it as I was to be hearing it.

He made jokes. He made requests. We planned his funeral. Together.

We made calls - frantic calls. We felt desperate for support.

We huddled in groups crying and tried to keep him from seeing how messy and unraveled we were all becoming. The house started filling with loved ones, and at one point he even joked, "Is this the pre-party?"

I spent hours listening to the instructions of the hospice nurse. She ordered medicine, she told us what to expect. I sat at the table trying to listening carefully to her instructions, even though I wanted to be in the other room with him.

Friends visited. Food was dropped off. Facebook statuses were updated. Love expressed. Tears shed.

And, even though it was supposed to be coming... we didn't see it coming that evening. They had said days. He was just making a joke, and then - boom. The house erupted into panic and disorder - screaming and sobbing and shock. He was gone. I heard him tell the dog to be quiet, and then it overtook him. Suddenly and without warning. Not like the quiet, painful death they had been describing to us all day. He was with us - and then he wasn't.

A couple images cross my mind daily - my brother screaming out the front door, Pam picking me up off of the floor, Gary yelling down the street for my cousins to leave the kids in the car. And then the look on Matt's face. He was too late.

It was one of the most painful experiences of my life, yet I find myself searching for details of the day in my thoughts regularly. I have to remember the order in which it all happened, or somehow I don't honor him, or care, or have control over it. And, I like control.

This year has been an unending spiral of events that have forced me to let go of my expectations and simply breathe.

One day at a time.

4 Months Old | Benjamin Craig

Our little june bug is 4 months old!

 

 

 

His fourth month was significant. In the last days of September, John's mother passed away and Benjamin lost his sweet Mimi. She fought so hard to meet him. She was a tough, courageous, lovely woman who I grew to love very much in the last couple years. Knowing that a baby was coming was fuel for her to keep fighting the cancer, and I am so sad that Ben will not know her as I do. I know she would have spoiled him rotten!

 

His smiley, flexible personality - paired with his good sleeping habits - made travel to North Carolina much easier than I expected. Benjamin rode not only on his first airplane, but four! Mama was full of anxiety, but he was cool as a cucumber. He slept in airports, I pumped in weird places, we warmed bottles in tea pots on planes... everyone seemed to just beam when they saw him. He even laughed for the first time on our last plane! 

 

I never imagined how friendly and accomodating people would be. In fact, one woman could have moved out of our row because there were extra seats, but she WANTED to sit by him! My mom traveled with us, and I will be grateful for the rest of my life. She endured her worst nightmare - talking casually to strangers - and the topic is death - and we politely chatted for hours and hours, because everyone in the whole church wanted to meet Ben. My mom must love us very much.
 

Many milestones this month too! Benjamin didn't put on the weight we wanted, so we have been putting a little rice cereal in his bottles to help thicken it up and keep it in his tummy - fingers crossed! Formula was an option too, in case he has allergies, but I wanted to stick to the breastmilk - I have worked so hard! We also started some meds.

 

Benjamin started rolling over in the last few days - back to front only! His favorite thing! Until he can't get back over... Our perfectly swaddled sleeping baby has had his world turned upside down... and his Mama is keeping him in his Rock n' Play next to her bed until he masters the front to back. No more crib until I feel safe!

 

He is taking six ounce bottles, making friends at daycare, and seems to be thriving developmentally. He can pull the pacifier out and just about get it back in. His neck is really strong, he loves to "stand up," and he coos along when anyone sings.

 

Benjamin also went to his first wedding this month and saw his first band - all in one night! We missed the ceremony because the cold bottle (oops) put him into a tissy. We sat in my brother-in-law's truck and I cried. It was my first real breakdown since Martha died. I am just trying to keep it together, and it is all very overwhelming. Being a scrappy Mama, I warmed his other bottles in hot apple cider... and he loved watching the band!

 

To top it off - he was in the kiddie parade at Mapleleaf Festival!
What a big month!

Lessons in Grief | the impact of strangers

A week after Dad died, Mom and I went to the library to get her some books. Mom was walking down the aisles kinda zombie-like, so I started pulling books for her. Finally, a title caught my eye - "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake." I opened it up to read the synopsis - and BAM! There it was - a post-it on the inside cover that read, "YOU ARE NEVER ALONE." We were speechless. She still has the post-it. It was obviously for her. I often find myself thinking about whoever put it in the book - how did they know? Could they ever guess the impact?

We didn't know it, but these types of experiences would keep happening.. strangers impacting our grief in positive ways, and like this (the most dramatic of the stories), the stranger will never know the relief and comfort it brought us.

Another story I like to share is about a kind cashier. When we were preparing for Dad's funeral, we had to run to CVS to get photos printed and buy frames to put throughout the church. The woman at the cash register asked us what the photos were for, and she was stunned by our answer - probably as stunned as we were to be doing this chore. She was so thoughful and comforting. She took a deep breath and slowed down... she offered her sympathy... then she discounted the entire purchase and might have even given us the photos for free. I can't remember. She told us she was going to buy a candle at the end of her shift and light it in Dad's memory until it burned out.

I don't think I have ever taken the time to show that kind of attention to a stranger's loss. But, knowing now how much it meant to us, I hope I have the chance to pay it forward one day.

Lessons in Grief | How to be a good friend.

Talk to us about who we lost.
While there may be certain times I am not open to speaking about my Dad, the truth is that I don't want to be the one always bringing him up. And, I feel like I am. Didn't everyone remember what happened to me? The unimaginable. And I want to talk about it. It shaped me, my mom, my siblings, my friends... and even Benjamin. He will not have a grandfather. How is that NOT reason enough to talk? Let's remember him together. I want to talk about his ability to befriend everyone, or his genuine interest in everyone's lives, or his minute to minute coverage of weather and sports - or maybe you can tell me what you liked and remember. Either way, he can only now live through me and my memories, so help me keep that alive.

Send real mail.
It was so touching to find cards in the mail almost daily for a month. It takes so much more effort to hand-write a message than to comment on Facebook. Make someone's day. Send a card.

I know you want to run away. (Please don't!)
Listen. I get it. Every time I open my mouth, it is something else. It's enough that I lost my dad, but now, we are losing John's mother. I KNOW. It's CRAZY. But, I am not exaggerating, so please bear with me. Please don't run away. I know you are probably afraid it will rub off on you, but it won't. And, this too shall pass for me. One day, if you too are in crisis, I will not run away either.

Make a real offer to help... or don't say anything.
Wow. That sounds harsh. Sorry. I don't know what to say to people in crisis sometimes either, and I don't make awesome, freezable casseroles; but, offering over and over and over to do "anything," yet never actually suggesting something... that gets old. Tell me you are bringing over dinner. Come over and say you are there to watch the baby so I can nap. Bring me a book of stamps* and offer to help write thank you notes. Or, just ASK me what needs to be done. If there is nothing, I will tell you. More often than not, we are doing okay and just want you to be a friend. Instead of saying you'll doing "anything," just tell me you think of me often and are here for support.

Sorry my laughter is creeping you out.
I am sorry that I occasionally laugh or am sarcastic about the drama in my life. It really is all I can do to not to cry sometimes. When life hits you all at once with challenges and you hear the words come out of your mouth... you want to laugh, because it often sounds ridiculous outloud! Please forgive me. I really am sad, I just cannot cry all day, every day. Laughter is healing. I'll never forget talking to a pension guy on the phone a couple weeks after my dad died. He said "sorry for your loss" probably ten times in ten minutes over speaker phone. Finally, I whispered over to my mom, "He is sorry for our loss." We started laughing so hard he thought she was sobbing. When we realized he though we were crying, it made us laugh harder.

You are allowed to talk about your good stuff.
Just because I lost my dad does not mean I don't want to hear about how great your dad is and what great things you are doing together. It's not a competition. Yes - I wish he was here, but I am not jealous of your dad. I want mine.

And your bad stuff.
You don't have to apologize for unloading on me, even if my stuff is "worse." I also cry when I stub my toe and get annoyed when the waitress gets my order wrong. You are allowed to be mad and to tell me about it. It's okay that it's not as bad as "my" stuff... that's actually awesome. It makes me feel normal to bitch about a paper jam. (Damn it feels good to be a gangsta...)

before this & after this.

"There are moments that mark your life,
moments when you realize nothing will ever be the same.
And time is divided into two parts,
before this and after this."

The strangest part about navigating this new life without Dad is that I am about to encounter my next "before this and after this" point in my life - becoming a mother. Maybe these couple months in between will dissolve into a mushy part of my memory and these two events will collide into one big life change... what a strange part of my story, grasping to understand life and death all at once.

details of the day

It's hard to put into words how overwhelmed a person can feel when they are grieving. I feel tied to images that I don't want to see again, but I can't stop thinking about. I press myself to remember what everyone said. Daily. I make myself run through the timeline - my dad's last day. A day that began with 14 fresh inches of snow on the ground and a phone call that changed my life. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why can't we allow ourselves to forget the details? Why do we hang on to them - grasping at them so desperately? Forcing the memory.

This week has been particularly challenging. I am overwhelmed at work by my workload and the atmosphere, I am barely sleeping because of this little one in my belly, and my emotions are running high.

And, I am really starting to miss my Dad. Terribly.

Last week I remembered a part of the day we lost him that I had forgotten - My cousin's son is 12. Luckily he was not there when Dad passed. He came back by later that night, and through his tears he told me, "we had ice cream for dinner." And, I remember it really struck me in the moment. I was happy that the kids were taken away and fed ice cream - it made sense. It was one of the only things that did that day.... because, what else could they do to fix what was happening? Nothing. There was nothing to change what was happening or make it better or make it easier for a child to comprehend. What was happening was unnatural - so, they ate ice cream. Brilliant.

one month.

I can't believe it has been a month.

A month since I have seen my dad.

He was my biggest fan.

From my first steps, he was nothing but proud.

I was always proud he belonged to me too.

 

I will give you rest.

I didn't ever really think he would die. I knew that he had stage four cancer. I knew that it had spread to multiple locations throughout his body. I cried at least once a week for two years. I knew that as the ascites filled his body with fluid this fall that that couldn't be good. But, I still didn't think he would die. It might also be so soon still that I am still in shock and wouldn't be surprised if he appeared around the corner. Too little time has passed - and I am sure the loss will grow stronger.

On some level, even though we all want to deny our narcissism, our lives are really all about ourselves - even beyond the love of our families - we still come first. And, part of that innate narcissism is believing that - even beyond science and knowledge - that the horrible thing won't happen to you. That's how I felt. Even with all the information - Why me? Not now. It can't. Not my dad.

Be Not Afraid has been playing in my head all morning. It just came to me. Is that my dad? Is that God? I really do need some rest; and, I don't mean sleep.

Be not afraid

I go before you always

Come follow me

And I will give you rest

most of most heartbroken - the loss of my dad

We lost my Dad on February 5. It felt sudden, even though it shouldn't have.

He was diagnosed in November 2010, and we knew it metastasized in November 2011; but it still felt sudden, and shocking, and too short. Especially the last month. We really didn't know it was the end until that day; and even then, we were told "days." Words will never explain my heartbreak and sadness. I had a good one. I always knew it. From a young age, friends and even family told me they wished they had my dad. I didn't know when I was young how significant that was, but I realized as I grew. He was special, and I was lucky for it.

We celebrated his life on February 8. The service truly honored his life, and I continue to think back on it in such a positive way. Our pastor made the service personal - she took the time to really understand him and our family, and the entire service paid tribute to his well-lived life. Whenever I think on the darkness that was the night we lost him, I try to remind myself of that day. The day that the church was filled to the brim - the day that we sang, laughed, and cried for his special life. I have never seen so many people at a funeral, and they all left with a message of hope - a guide to live a good life: bus buddies and embarassing your family. I think we were all inspired.

I also ache for the baby in my belly who will have seven living great-grandparents, and not a grandfather. What a special relationship to miss out on. Luckily, I have a lot of other great men in my life who will show my child versions of that relationship - though never fully replacing him.

Thank you to friends and family who continue to hold us close in prayer - we need it. I know that death is a part of life, and that as Christians we believe that our earthly life is simply that - the physical here and now - the life we live that leads us to eternal life - but I am just another broken, flawed human who wants her daddy.

My dad's obituary can be found here. He was our most of most.