In the shadow of His wings

I knew it was coming.  The summer of the "lasts" or the "firsts" or something like that.  I just knew these few words would start so many thoughts,  "This time last summer..."

..."we were with Dad on Father and Son's campout"

..."we were in Chicago for Memorial Day"

...."he went to the doctor"

..."we got the diagnosis"

..."chemo might give us 18 months"

..."the cancer was too aggressive for chemo"

..."hospice will meet you at home"

..."was his funeral"

..."seven weeks ago he was fine"

I've dreaded this summer since I endured the last one.

Grief has been my constant companion this last year  and I've learned something by becoming so close with Grief.  Grief has buddies.  They don't spend a lot of time together yet every once in awhile they decide they miss hanging out and want to catch up on each others lives.  And I know what happens when Grief invites friends over.  They throw pretty crazy parties.  He invites Despair and Hopelessness and Despondence.  He serves chips and dips and nacho cheese on everything.  Oh and for the big parties he makes sure Depression and Loneliness show up.  They get their grub on, turn up the music and dance all over my joy.  They trample my productivity.  They ruin my plans. 

I've been to plenty of their parties this year.  It would be rude not to go when they invite, right?  It's weird though.  Because right in the middle of all their mayhem, you feel nothing.  Their party theme is "SHUT DOWN AND FORGET THE HEARTACHE"  Don't feel anything.  Zip. Void. Empty.  Not typical party emotions.

I can do grief but these big shin digs he likes to throw, I can't deal with those anymore.  Grief ain't throwin' a "LAST SUMMER WE WERE __________" party here!

So I cancelled the invitations.  I changed Grief's plans.  I called the caterer and told them this was only a party for 3.  Just the boys and I, oh and I guess that thing called Grief in the background but he doesn't need to be fed. I've learned this year he really doesn't take much attention.  We just kind of let him be in the background.  So  I made sure the speakers weren't turned on.  I shut down the party even before the guests got excited to come over.  I told him we just didn't have the energy for Grief's friends.

That's not so say we won't party this summer.  We will. I'm just trying to come up with a theme for this summer's party.  I'm not going to lie to myself and say "THIS IS THE BEST SUMMER EVER" will be our theme.  But I'm also beyond "JUST SURVIVE, IT WILL BE OVER SOON".  The idea of a party theme of "SURE GLAD OF THIS CHALLENGE 'CAUSE LOOK HOW MUCH WE CAN GROW" just doesn't sound too festive.

So what can it be.....

Then I remember something Kirby said to me this week.  Actually, something he shouted at me.  He is my running coach.  (And me re-starting running is a blog in and of itself.)  Anyway, he was literally shouting at me when I was running for the first time in WAY too long.  One thing he shouted was "Mom, doesn't that feel great?"

And you know, it did.

In a mild-aged-lady, running-in-Phoenix, sweating-like-a-linebacker kind of way.  It just felt good.  It felt good to be alive.  It felt good to have time to run after school.  It felt good to be off the couch.  It felt good to be with my son.  I just liked feeling it.

So that's my summer party theme  "ENJOY HOW IT FEELS".  Now don't get all crazy and think hedonistic thoughts here.  Don't picture glutenous Greeks chowing on grapes.  It isn't going to be a "eat, drink for tomorrow we may die" kind of summer. 

This party theme means more than that.

This theme is the EXACT OPPOSITE of Grief's themes. 

We have been to too many of Grief's get togethers where we don't feel anything.  Not at this party.  We are going to feel.  We are going to get excited waiting for Leonard's friend to pick up the boys to go to Fathers and Sons campout. Not despair since our Leonard isn't here to take them.  We are going to feel joy when we plan to head back to the beach for Father's Day not sadness that our father is on the other side a bit earlier than we hoped.  We are going to cry on those big days like when we sell his house or pass the diagnosis day or endure the anniversary of the day we lost him.  But those are all feelings.  And we have to be alive to feel.  We have to be at our kind of party to feel.  We have to be in control to feel. 

So this summer will be "ENJOY HOW IT FEELS."

And we are just crazy enough to celebrate this summer of "FEELING" by kickin' our heads back and eating grapes from the vine 'cause who isn't happy when doing that?  We are.  

I can only imagine our Leonard smiles looking at his little family throwing a party where they were in charge of the invites.  He is probably eating grapes with us!

Let the summer begin!!

His biggest fear on June 13th was the doctor would still not have any answers.  I remember sitting in the waiting room of a world famous liver specialist and Leonard saying "What if they don't know what this is and I have to deal with this pain forever."  In those few short weeks between onset of pain and diagnosis, it didn't even dawn on him how much he had to fear.

But then everything changed.

"It's a cancer" was the doctor's opening line when he came in the door.  We asked a few questions, were given  a referral to an oncologist and then went to the van.  We sat there in unbelief.  Shocked.  Silent.  Dumbfounded really.  Surprisingly, a few minutes later, out of the side of our eye, we note the intern standing by the side of the van.  Leonard rolls down the window and he hands us Leonard's file.  He says "You better get your affairs in order."

What do you do with that?


I remember getting out of the van.  I remember thinking I couldn't let Leonard see what I was feeling.  I remember knowing I needed to be real with someone.  I remember feeling I needed someone to prop me up.  I remember realizing I couldn't do it alone.

So I called my mom.

And for the next seven weeks, she held me up. Like the stays in a corset, she allowed me to look strong, straight and true.

She let me be beautiful.

And I was. I had a strength to be patient with my Leonard.  I could roll my eyes at her not him when he went on and on about how thick the cream of wheat needed to be.  She took on my frustration so none of it went to him.

She watched over him when I stole a short nap, allowing me a quick respite with the reassurance that he would be loved when I slumbered.  She loved him so I could rest.

She marveled at his true nature that casual visits never revealed.  It wasn't until she moved in with us and held my hand as I helped him die that she could see the real him.  She pointed out the things I had just come to accept as normal.  She noted his frequent statements of love, his consistent, gentle touches, his expressions of gratitude.  All things he did all the time.  But to her, it was new and it reminded me what a giant he was.

She lost the "in-law" part of her title.  She truly became his mother too.  She doted on him.  She even got him to eat.  I came to learn that an aware death requires a mother figure.  He reached out to a entity he could associate with the creative force of mothering to soothe him to acceptance of his own passing.  And she had the strength to sit by him in his sick bed and be that for him.  She mothered him.

My boys were never neglected when all of their own mother's power went to their father.  Grandma monitored them.  Grandma sheltered them.  Grandma let them escape.  She even let her Leonard die without her in the room so his boys would be mothered.  She was me when two moms were needed. 

And then the hard part began.  The long, awful, lonely road of grief.  She took me to the beach to escape the missed rituals of Thanksgiving.  She stared at me in disbelief when I questioned if I had loved and served him enough.  She let me feel justified when I wanted to shout at God and scream "ENOUGH".  She casually mentioned how much she admired my strength.  She stated things about me like they were permanent and real.  Things like "faithful", "loving", "great mom" "capable".  Things I just couldn't believe myself.  Always my stay.

It's taken this long for the idea of her grief to even enter my thoughts.  Becoming a widow made me incredibly self centered.  I can only imagine her heart break might be bigger than mine.  Not only did she lose a son, she lost the peace of knowing what his void left in her daughter.  She lost the reassurance that her daughter was loved and taken care of.  She lost the feeling that her grandsons would be shaped into men by a great man.   She lost a complete and whole heart as she felt my heartbreak with me.  She lost the peace of all of her chicks being in safe nests.

But it never showed.  And that is the magic of motherhood.  We stand.  We support. We swallow. We make it so our chicks can be beautiful.

I want to go back to that intern when he stood by our van on that hot day in June.  I want to have a better reply to him when he says we need our affairs in order.  I want to reassure him.  I would tell him,

"We are going to be OK."

"Our affairs are just fine"

"We have Mom."

"All is in order"

I love you Mom.