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Keep the Bright Memories

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In quiet moments in the past months, I have found myself dwelling on the difficulties of Patrick’s rapid decline. I saw the suffering and burden he bore by first not being able to use his right hand, next walking with difficulty, and finally not being able to support weight on his right side at all. The traumas of his last days sometimes crowd out the happy memories of years together. I have to deliberately shift my mental focus to the multitude of joys we shared, but often the stress and sadness of his final days seep back to the fore.

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Mother/Daughter adventure boots. January 2016

I am thankful for the slide show of photos that play nightly on a digital frame in our kitchen. The images recall the joy and the adventures of our lives: Pictures from before we met; our first summer together; our first apartment; friends; trips; and hundreds of CR. In the background, though, the echo of Patrick’s death reverberates loudly in our home and in our thoughts. Day-to-day, however, we are happy, and my daughter and I will continue to enjoy and capture moments that will one day rotate in our slide show.

CR picked up a rock at her preschool yesterday, black and river polished, and as she held it out to me she said, “This is my Daddy Phone. He called me from Heaven and said he would come to see me. I can call him and talk to him whenever I want.” Moments and conversations like these have been frequent with CR the past few months. I know that she was aware of his illness and of his increasing debilitation (she notices and comments on people with slings or canes: “Just like Daddy,” she’ll say). Her memories of her father are happy and, for her, normal.

Adjusting to life as a widowed parent has been a separate challenge; more often than not we are late getting out of the house in the morning, and I end up late for work. CR and I recently traveled to attend the funeral of my aunt, who also had lost her battle to cancer. There were moments of cajoling and carrying my daughter so we could stay together in airport terminals. She had an accident on the plane, and I didn’t have a change of clothes for her, so she deplaned wearing my sweatshirt as a skirt, which she had to keep hitching up as we made our way to baggage claim. Managing her and our bags was both comical and harrying. I was initially concerned that CR would not react well to attending another funeral so soon after her father’s, but we approached it as a celebration of my aunt’s life, and framed it for her as a party where we got to see our family. Again, she amazed me with her resilience and joy.

My uncle, too, will most likely suffer from the trauma of witnessing a difficult death. I hope for him that he is able to keep the bright memories of his wife’s life at the ready.

MARATHON UPDATE:

The marathon training has insisted that I pay attention to my body. A lingering ache in my right hamstring led me seek-out a physical therapist, and my weekly appointments bring Patrick to mind. Patrick never resigned himself to his diagnosis or to the physical manifestations of his tumor. At every turn, he looked for help to maintain and strengthen what he could for as long as he could. I gained a deep respect for the work his physical and occupational therapists did with Patrick, and I’m glad to be working with a physical therapist on my own body. I have given up two weeks of running already to build strength and gain flexibility in my legs, which pales in comparison to Patrick’s efforts to be well. I am frustrated by my own set-back, and yet, it is a reminder of why I signed on for a marathon in the first place — to honor Patrick’s struggle with cancer.

You have everything you need

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The very last text message to me from Patrick was sent on January 6, 2016 and reads, “Go ski! Maybe that’s already your plan for the morning!” I was trying to recreate that day from memory, and I couldn’t. I must have driven CR into daycare and gone into my office for a few hours. I hope that I did go ski on the Nordic track in town before I headed home, but I can’t be sure. Chances are I didn’t go.

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Springtime in the Rockies

That’s the way Patrick was—always encouraging me (and many others) to do the things I loved. I didn’t always listen to his advice. Like most mothers and caregivers I know, I put our young daughter’s and my sick husband’s needs before my own. I bristled at the encouragement because I had a “to do” list in my head that didn’t include time for myself. In training for a marathon, I feel I am finally heeding Patrick’s advice to just “GO!”

I’m three weeks into the training, and I wonder how I will ever get up to a marathon distance! I am still walk/jogging a 5k, and it feels like work. There was a time when running was effortless, but given the past few years of relative inactivity, my body is protesting, hamstrings and hips particularly. But, I am determined. I can hear Patrick saying, “What’s holding you back? You have everything you need to make this happen!”

It’s just stuff, but…

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imageA beautiful blue and pink plaid shirt hangs in Patrick’s closet. It is soft, rich flannel that brought out the blue of his eyes, just as it did my dad’s eyes. My mom gave it to Patrick, along with a number of my dad’s shirts and sweaters.

My father died on August 8, 2008, a date that was special in its roundness and also because it was the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics. My mom waited for a few months before tackling his closets, and she farmed out as much as she could to her brother and son-in-law. Patrick accepted my father’s clothes willingly, though most of them stayed untouched in his closet. The blue and pink flannel was an exception. I loved seeing him in that shirt! I loved seeing my father in that shirt!

I query Google in full sentences: “What are the signs of a toddler urinary tract infection?”; “How do I match wall color paint?”; “What do I do with the deceased’s clothes?” In most cases, Google provides answers for every possible scenario, and it is therefore not terribly helpful. When it came to advice on clearing out possessions, the one consensus I could find was, “Do what feels right to you.”

The first thing of Patrick’s I dealt with was his cell phone, an iPhone, which I felt attached to as an extension of him. It contained his voice, his thoughts in voice memos and notes, photos of things and people that he treasured, records of his activities, medications, doctors’ appointments, and memories of CR and our life as a family. I contemplated keeping his number active, but couldn’t justify the ongoing expense. So, I once again turned to Google: “How do I extract and save all of the data from an iPhone?” This time I found a concrete answer. Patrick’s phone data now lives in various files on our computer’s hard drive, and his iPhone went back to Apple via their recycling program.

His closet, however, remains as he left it – the blue and pink flannel hanging where he last hung it. Our basement is full of the gear we used together: backpacks, skis, bikes, books, Frisbees. It’s just stuff, but it is his stuff, infused with his smell and our memories. I know that I will eventually take the time to go through everything and decide what to keep, sell, or give away. But, not quite yet.

I’m keeping the shirt.

Language of Loss

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I am currently at a professional conference. My daughter, who is three, is with my mom at our home. This is the first time I’ve been away from her for more than the workday since Patrick died. I got a FaceTime call last night from CR, and she was gasping sobs, wanting me to be there as she went to sleep. I sang her some songs– ours are “Twinkle Twinkle” and “Over the Rainbow” — and my mom reported that she went to sleep pretty easily after we had said goodnight.

img_0518The opening speaker at the conference was CNN’s Anderson Cooper, who was promoting his new book about his relationship with his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. Cooper lost his father when he was only ten years old and lost his brother to suicide when he was a senior in college. He said two things during his talk that I found haunting:

  1. Regarding the death of his father, he said he realized that “all things are possible and nothing is safe.” CR is much younger to have suffered our loss, but I think her tears last night may have been rooted in a fear that, like her father, there is a possibility that I might not come back.
  2. After his brother’s suicide, Cooper sought out war zones to report on because, as he put it, “I wanted to be around people who spoke the language of loss.” CR and I talk about her father on a daily basis, and she usually initiates the conversation. This is our shared experience. My three-year-old and I speak a language of loss that none of our peers have yet learned; Her friends all still have daddies; My friends are either recently married or still single. In my family, I am the first faced with raising a child without a spouse.

Tonight’s bedtime phone call was much better–no heart wrenching sobs–but the anxiousness in CR’s voice about my absence is evidence of this new language she’s been forced to learn. Does the death of someone you love make you instantly fluent in the language of loss, or like all new languages, does it take years to learn?

P.S. The running continues. I am sore, and the soft skin of my feet is tender, but as I alternated walking and running in the crisp air of early morning, I felt hopeful and happy and glad of the effort.

P.P.S. I promise I wrote my blog’s tag line BEFORE I saw Cooper’s book cover!

26.2

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My husband died at 6 am two months ago today. I was sleeping near him and was
awakened by a change in his breathing. I was able to hold his hand as his chest rose and fell for the last time. He was so peaceful and unlabored, surrounded by love and the warmth of our home. Our daughter awoke and called for me at the same moment of his last breath, and I have to believe that we both sensed his passing – a blessing from our wonderful man. He was fully himself until the last day, including his ability to speak and laugh with us.56b3ac43a589b4e5222f65d0.jpg

We sat with him for two hours before the hospice nurses arrived. Our daughter was able to hold his hand and to tell him goodbye. I know she does not fully grasp the impact that today will have on her life, and we will continue to process her father’s death and absence for years to come.

Witnessing my husband’s death carried its own beauty and power. He was my best friend, a deeply devoted son and brother, and the most loving father. He touched so many in his life with his calm manner, attentive listening, and deep intelligence. He faced his terrible brain tumor diagnosis with courage, grace, and hope. His faith remained unshaken, and he faced the end without fear or regret. May we all be so blessed.

The summer I first met my husband, Patrick, I was training for a marathon. I had been a competitive athlete in college, and after graduation, I decided I was going to train for and run a race. I had a summer internship near my college town. All of my friends had left to start their lives. So, at 22, I felt like I didn’t have much else to do besides work and run. There is more to that summer to write about later.

Patrick’s cousin sent around an email last week that he is going to start training for this year’s New York City marathon; he is running to raise money for brain cancer research, and he emailed the family to see who wanted to join the team. I remember thinking after I finished my first one that I would never punish myself in that way again. Never say never. The last week has brought blizzards to our mountain town, but I am planning to strap on my running shoes! The arrival of our daughter, Patrick’s illness, work, and other excuses have sidelined my more athletic ambitions of late. Enough! Fighting cancer is an ultra-marathon! I witnessed Patrick fight so hard, give clinical trials a chance, and endure physical discomfort for nearly two years to try to beat his tumor. What is training for and running a marathon compared to that?!

I am basically starting from zero, but I’m going to start training and fundraising to run. My family, Patrick’s memory, the race, and the cause are just the motivators I need. What I hope will come is a chance to grieve, to reflect on our lives together, and to rebuild my strength. An e.e. cummings poem was central at our wedding and during our marriage: i carry your heart with me. Patrick, I carry your heart into this endeavor and into all things.