I can't say that I'll miss 2008. It's been a devastating year with little joy to show for it save that of the treasured last moments with Craig and Mom, getting to know Craig's friends and Emily, and reunions with extended family in between. But, before we could kick 2008 to the curb and put into press our "I hate 2008" t-shirts, ol Dad sneaked in a medical mystery of his own just under the wire.
Last Saturday, I received a call from a distressed and noticeably fatigued dad. He had spent the night under enormous pain and stomach distension--the perfect combination for midnight vomiting. He rode it out (as any dad SHOULDN'T do) despite symptoms that made him feel as if he was having a heart attack or an equally troubling ailment--poor ergonomic posture. Yes, one day carpel tunnel syndrome; the next, death. Says so in all the literature. ;0) (I couldn't help but interrupt his story and give him props for believing bad ergonomics/posture could make him feel so poor. I've clearly put the fear of human factors/ergonomics in my family. My work is done.)
In all reality, I kindly reminded him that his daughters are just a speed dial button away and he should call if ever he felt, I don't know, like he was having a heart attack! FORTUNATELY, it was only his pancreas giving him grief.
In an ironic twist of 2008, our Dad met with the very same doctor who diagnosed our Mom with her brain tumor more than one year ago. Random coincidence? Product of a smallish town? A mocking 2008? Whatever the case, the history and significance was not lost. Based on elevated enzymes, she diagnosed Dad with pancreatitis and, just as she did with Mom, ordered a battery of ultrasound/MRI tests to find the culprit.
Jill, Diane and I researched his symptoms to learn what we could to help symptom management. Regardless of condition, cause, or outcome, the process was all too familiar, all too soon. Questions of "have you talked to Mom or Craig?" were replaced with "have you talked with dad?" We called each other, relayed new information and helpful tidbits. We discussed "what this all means" in the general, specific, and indefinable terms as we had so many times before with Craig and Mom. The splitting difference was the realization that Dad is not terminally ill, and we need to do whatever we can to ensure he is healthy-to take a proactive measure rather than the familiar reactive "process". He's the only parent we have. This was his and our wake up call.
Jill drove in Sunday to help with dietary changes and other adjustments. I flew in Monday and Diane came in shortly after, after battling horrific weather leaving Denver. It was interesting to see how quickly we mobilized, ever protective of Dad just as we were Mom and Craig. Christmas Eve, Jill, Dad and I were sitting across from one another in one of the patient waiting "nooks" in the Stillwater Medical Center's MRI/Ultra Sound suite--the same one Mom visited time and time again for her periodic MRI's. The timing and detail was uncanny. Jill recounted the time when she took Mom for her MRI and the technician slammed her head--not just any part of her head, but the very sensitive surgery scar--into the machine. Jill could hear her yelp in pain, but could do little to help. Fast forward to last Tuesday to find the same technician escorting Dad back to his MRI. How the world works is sometimes funny. It's as if there aren't enough plot lines or enough cast members that we end up recycling the same characters. We'll use this technician and this family. Aaaaaand, go! Why not, it was "interesting" the first time.
Jill and I quietly cried as we remembered the details of last year. Last winter, Mom was valiantly taking in chemo, still battling her cancer. Craig was unaware he'd be next up to bat. Hard to believe what can happen in a year.
Dad walked through the doors with almost a cocky grin on his face as he declared that he had a "quarry" in his gall bladder. Gall stones. We'll take 'em! Though having gall stones is no walk in the park and we sympathize with Dad's condition and how it will impact his life, at least it's not cancer.
Dad snuck in a marble bag of gall stones under the wire to add a little last minute excitement to the year. Though he'll have his gall bladder removed at some point, suck it 2008, that's the last you'll take of the Lawlers!
~E
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Midnight
Diane is somewhere between Salina, Kansas and Stillwater. I flew in yesterday to join Jill and Dad. It's midnight--Christmas Eve; Jill and I are now 29. This is the first birthday for any one of us to experience without Mom or Craig....and we miss them beyond description.
...more to come...
~E
...more to come...
~E
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I want my money back
(Written Tuesday, December 16, 2008)
Lately, I've been tracking my life according to a sequence of songs, and like in life, some are more relatable than others. Just last night, I was sitting at a bar in Moab, Utah thinking of Craig when I heard the song "No I can't get you out of my head...Now my whole world is gone for dead". Coincidence, I thought, since I haven' been able to get Craig - or Mom for that matter -- out of my head since the night he died. Being in beautiful places like Moab makes the longing more palpable. Memories of them, their lives, and their deaths, pervade my thoughts. And though I can't get them out of my head, I realize I haven't written much about them, per se, in the last few weeks. I suppose I don't know where to begin. My mind is a jumbled mess. Suffice it to say that I'm caught in the crosshairs between longing and confusion. I still cry when I see their pictures. Where this will lead, time will tell. Until then, I'm trying to get on the best way I know how, and that is, to travel.
After spending a few weeks in Stillwater with my dad, I decided to treat myself to a road trip last week, and have since been revisiting old haunts in New Mexico, Arizona, and Utah. I used to cross these states on week-long climbing binges, but that was long ago and during somewhat happier times. In a way, I thought making the same trek would allow me to relax, and would bring me closer to those carefree moments in life, when dying from cancer was a distant possibility. Instead, this trip has reminded me of how much things have changed. I'm no longer that 20 year-old climber without a care in the world. Life has changed. Perhaps like another song, I'm just trying to "take a sad song and make it better."
In a strange twist, I decided to load up on books on CD for the road trip, including an audio version of Jarod Diamond's Guns, Germs, and Steele - a book I bought long ago but never read - and Bill Clinton's My Life. Diamond's book was clever and well put together; I can't say the same for Clinton's My Life. Perhaps I missed something during the 1990s but I don't remember Bosnia, Rwanda, and Somalia being that brief. However frustrating passing the national budget may have been, I was surprised to hear it dominate his "Life" so to speak, leaving other key events as scraps on the editing room floor. Though the listening entertainment left much to be desired, it sure beat scanning radio stations, like we did in years past.
After spending a nice day reconnecting in Santa Fe, I spent the next day in Flagstaff. One thing I've learned, I don't like to sit idle. Unless I'm doing something, I'd rather move on to see other sights. Craig and I were good travel buddies in that regard. Though he enjoyed sitting for a coffee, or taking in beautiful scenery, he was also eager to discover. So after spending a day in Santa Fe, and then another in Flagstaff, on Sunday, I treated myself to a hike through Sedona's back country, something Craig would have loved. I was the only one on the trail, thanks to Sedona's warm-weather only tourist season. The sun was out, despite having cool temperatures the day before. It was just me and the sandstone cliffs as I climbed higher and higher. As the wind rustled through the pine trees, I couldn't help but think of Craigy, and how much he would have loved such a hike. He would have remarked in his journal, just as I have, the pine scents and the sound of the wind as it passed through the tall pines. He would have enjoyed the panoramic view of red sandstone cliffs, and appreciated the squawking of a hawk as it dipped with the breeze along one of the larger cliffs. He would have enjoyed the solitude, but at the same time, welcomed the company of others. On beautiful days, I can imagine Craig there with me. If given the chance, we would have shared the day together, like we had in the past. Just one year ago, we were enjoying similar sights touring Southeast Asia. To be standing on Sedona's sandstone cliffs by myself seemed especially lonely. I wish my travels with Craig were not now permanently framed in the past. I wish we had many more travels ahead of us.
After spending some time in Arizona, and then a few days in Moab -- where I first learned to climb outdoors -- I'm now back in Colorado, though in Dillon, not Denver. I decided to stay in Dillon a night to allow for bad weather to pass, and to revisit an area that will always hold a special place in my heart. Before arriving in Dillon, I drove through Avon and Frisco, the two locations we had stayed just a few months ago with Craig. Returning to the towns where we had spent some wonderful memories was important, if not a bit painful. We stayed in the Dillon area not long after we learned that Craig's cancer had progressed and we were out of options. A few of his friends offered their houses near the lake Dillon area for what would turn out to be Craig's last trip to the mountains.
To be back here so soon after Craig's death is a bit surreal, but I feel close to him, at the same time. Sitting now at a restaurant in Dillon makes that feeling all the more palpable, like I'm reaching back to those moments, to a time when six people gathered in a remote mountain town to support Craig as he welcomed his last road trip to the mountains. I can still remember the conversation in Dr. Flaig's office that preceded the trip. That was the moment when Dr. F. informed Craig that, like Mom, he too would die from cancer. (I still struggle with how remarkably accurate science can be with predicting death, but so unremarkably accurate with predicting life.) I remember sitting with Craig as Dr. F. broke the news, which came as a shock, though we knew it was coming. I remember Craig crying. I remember how one of the first things he said was how he was going to break the news to Steve. Considering he had just been told that, at some unknown point in the future, Craig was going to die, he seemed to take it well. (Frankly, I'm not sure where he mustered the energy.)
After spending some moments coming to terms with the prognosis, Craig told us a few items on his To Do list, of which going to the mountains was high on the list. His friends helped us do everything in our power to make his dream come true. For one week, we were able to take our brother to the mountains, knowing all along that in days, or weeks, or months, Craig would eventually succumb to cancer. In hindsight, we handled the trip with a strength and solemn maturity that, to this day, is remarkable. The trip was something you read about in "On Grief and Grieving" books, or fancy fiction. In other words, it wasn't our reality. Craig was dying. Every moment in the mountains was wrapped around that point, though we tried not to make it so. We focused on being present, and on helping Craig with whatever task he wanted to fulfill, be it exploring all three levels of Leigh Flanagan's beautiful home, or sitting alongside Dillon Lake, with the mountains in the distance. Though we were five independent people, our sole duty was to make sure Craig was comfortable, and that his trip to the mountains was a trip to remember.
Now, sitting by Dillon Lake, just four months after that trip of a lifetime, I can see Craig in his wheelchair as we strolled alongside Dillon Lake. I can see him sitting at the dock on our last day here. Being back is painful, yet cathartic. I feel close to him here. Being here allows me to confront buried emotions leftover from our intense journey with cancer. It allows the memories to come in with abundance without refrain or prejudice. To be here alone makes the memories of the last few months all the more palpable. I prefer it that way. I'm seeing the pain through my own lens, and am able to work through it without suggestion. For me, it's helpful to confront the sadness, loneliness and pain. To ignore it would simply secure more years of pain in the future. Being in Dillon is hard, but needed.
Some days, life is going along, and others, it just stops. On good days, I get to experience the pine-smelling breeze. On the bad days, I'm reminded of the fact that Craig and Mom are gone forever, and how my life is so drastically, drastically different. On those days, I can't help but think of lyrics in Lenka's song "I want my money back, I want my money back, I want my money back...just enjoy the show." Maybe I, too, need to let it go, and just enjoy the show.
Like on the hike in Sedona, I feel alone, but at the same time, drawn closer to Craig and Mom. Sedona and Moab, in particular, have always held a special place in my heart. They encompass God's beauty, as some would say. For me, they hold the promise of something more. As the rocks have stood strong against the eroding wind, so too can I stand strong against the onslaught of loss and bad luck. Sedona's formations serve as a reminder that strong foundations can withstand nature's fury. In the desert, change is often subtle, like the slow rounding of a sandstone rock. But other times, it's abrupt and wholly unpredictable. I'm hoping for the former, or a slow softening of this otherwise jagged rock. For people who come and go, the change will be almost imperceptible. Like the rocks in Sedona, or the cliffs in Moab, my life will change, though sometimes, unnoticeably. On some given day, whether it's tomorrow or some time long in the future, all this will give way to the elements, changing ever so subtly, but no less immensely.
As I continue on with life after Mom and Craig, more songs seem to resonate. I seem to hear Led Zeppelin more often, and the Beach Boys, two of their favorites. I hear songs that at once held special meaning, whose meaning has changed in the last year. For instance, earlier this morning, I sipped coffee at a Moab bakery while Tracy Chapman's "Promise" played overhead. I remember hearing that song in Sweden. At the time, the song held an entirely different meaning. Now, the lyrics "If you'll wait for me, then I'll come for you" mean so much more. Music and location bring me closer to them. For a moment, I can picture them beside me singing along. I miss them. -- J
If I could save time in a bottle
The first thing that Id like to do
Is to save every day
Till eternity passes away
Just to spend them with you
If I could make days last forever
If words could make wishes come true
Id save every day like a treasure and then,
Again, I would spend them with you
But there never seems to be enough time
To do the things you want to do
Once you find them
Ive looked around enough to know
That youre the one I want to go
Through time with
-- Jim Croce, Time in a Bottle
"A change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves." -- Marcel Proust
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I saw my brother
I saw Craig today. He was wearing a grey shirt and black work out pants, and moved between workout equipment with the casual familiarity of a 'frequent flyer'. With head cocked slightly sideways, he looked down at the weights, picked them up and sat down to begin bicep curls. ...only he didn't
It was just a guy.
A random stranger who from a distance looked like Craig. I remember watching him as if watching Craig, seeing Craig-how he moved, how he lifted, how he was likely that seasoned guy moving confidently through Denver's Forza gym.
We'd work out together when home for the holidays in Stillwater. Cycling classes, weight lifting, pull up challenges, running around the cross country track, it was always so clear that we were siblings and that we loved being around each other. It's such a shame we won't be able to do that again, that we will never look across the gym, catch eyes, and make a cocky smirk at each other.
How I wished that random guy wasn't just a look-alike, but Craig--charming, energetic, fit, Craig. Seeing this young man work out accentuated the pain and sadness that Craig ACTUALLY passed away. Craig--the man who worked out religiously, took care of himself as best he could, and had an eye on the future--passed away. While so many wreck their bodies and seemingly take their lives for granted, poor Craig was cut short at the prime of his life. I often hear the common not-so-comfort food of "we all die in the end" or some variation therein as if it doesn't really matter when we pass away. Truth is, we don't all die at 32. (We don't even die at 65. That isn't considered a "full" life in terms of averages.) In the law of averages, folks who die in their thirties don't make up the fattest part of the bell curve but fall closer to the tails. Hence, average life expectancies in the 70's, when more and more make it to their 80s or 90s. Sure, nothing is guaranteed in life. But, dying at 32 isn't normal or part of the 'natural' plan, and it isn't fair to Craig to suggest that it is.
I stretched, keeping this young man in my peripheral vision. It's an unresolvable tension of wanting so badly for Craig and Mom to surface, and knowing that I have a lifetime left without them. There is no real solution to that longing other than time, and the promise from everyone else who have suffered losses before me that it somehow gets better. I believe them and know that it will "get better" (whatever that means), but, right now, I'm still that sister wishing she really saw her brother, and could say "hi" with something more in return than just a memory and a simple vision of how he was.
~E
It was just a guy.
A random stranger who from a distance looked like Craig. I remember watching him as if watching Craig, seeing Craig-how he moved, how he lifted, how he was likely that seasoned guy moving confidently through Denver's Forza gym.
We'd work out together when home for the holidays in Stillwater. Cycling classes, weight lifting, pull up challenges, running around the cross country track, it was always so clear that we were siblings and that we loved being around each other. It's such a shame we won't be able to do that again, that we will never look across the gym, catch eyes, and make a cocky smirk at each other.
How I wished that random guy wasn't just a look-alike, but Craig--charming, energetic, fit, Craig. Seeing this young man work out accentuated the pain and sadness that Craig ACTUALLY passed away. Craig--the man who worked out religiously, took care of himself as best he could, and had an eye on the future--passed away. While so many wreck their bodies and seemingly take their lives for granted, poor Craig was cut short at the prime of his life. I often hear the common not-so-comfort food of "we all die in the end" or some variation therein as if it doesn't really matter when we pass away. Truth is, we don't all die at 32. (We don't even die at 65. That isn't considered a "full" life in terms of averages.) In the law of averages, folks who die in their thirties don't make up the fattest part of the bell curve but fall closer to the tails. Hence, average life expectancies in the 70's, when more and more make it to their 80s or 90s. Sure, nothing is guaranteed in life. But, dying at 32 isn't normal or part of the 'natural' plan, and it isn't fair to Craig to suggest that it is.
I stretched, keeping this young man in my peripheral vision. It's an unresolvable tension of wanting so badly for Craig and Mom to surface, and knowing that I have a lifetime left without them. There is no real solution to that longing other than time, and the promise from everyone else who have suffered losses before me that it somehow gets better. I believe them and know that it will "get better" (whatever that means), but, right now, I'm still that sister wishing she really saw her brother, and could say "hi" with something more in return than just a memory and a simple vision of how he was.
~E
Sunday, December 14, 2008
From the Fold
(written last night)
It's 3am and I should be sleeping. For the last two weekends, I've spent the morning hours of Saturday night/Sunday morning wide eyed and bushy tailed, "staring directly at the sun". As incongruous as it seems, there is a certain comfort and sense of necessity to feeling the reality and sincerity of our loss. After all, it is through recognition-squaring off and facing the pain-that we may one day find reconciliation.
For whatever reason, Saturday seems to welcome the richness, and completeness of grieving the myriad emotions involved with losing Mom and Craig within 3 months. I suspect it has something to do with the absence of other tasks to distract the mind, but a large part of me looks for them-looks for Mom and Craig to keep me company. It's a time to become closer to them whatever it takes, even if that means inviting the sadness. I find myself talking to them more, not in a running dialogue but parroting common phrases like Mom's "Hey mom! Hey What!" response, or Craig's "Oh yeah? Cool", statements. I can hear their voices, their banter, their praise. Their voices speak to me as if they were standing at arm's reach. I can imagine them perfectly as if they were holograms or, better, with me as they always had been.
These dreams are a reminder of how hard it is to adequately explain what it is like to lose two of the most important people in my life over a matter of months. Mom and Craig were part of my "head count" and I theirs. They called me, checked in on me, were interested in my life, and the interest was mutual. We accounted for one another on nearly a daily basis if only to check on each other's day. To lose that only exaggerates the sense of loneliness.
I miss them. That phrase seems trite and generic as if that feeling of missing them is a temporary condition that can be resolved when they come home. In the past, it would be that simple. Mom would come home from a conference; Craig would come home for the holidays. Therein lies the deception of that phrase: the palpable hope for resolution remains, yet there is no solution. They will never come home. We will never again ask "how was your day" to Mom or Craig. That burning desire to tell them something neat or funny will just have to be. It's strange to think that I now actively draw from memory the image of my mom and brother while others still have theirs. It's still too abstract to believe that Craig and Mom don't exist. There's a sense of longing when I hear my friends speak of talking to their mom's or their siblings, and part of me still feels like I can do the same.
It's days like Saturday when they do exist. They run freely through my mind and pull distant memories from the fold. I remember the music videos that were playing when we tagged along with Craig for one of his swim meets in Enid; Mom was the willing chauffeur and active cheering section. She rarely missed a meet even when the daughters grew into the sport. I remember her keeping her own time log and helping wherever she was needed. She'd keep track of our events and would cheer as we competed. She was our only spectator when Jill and I swam in Oklahoma's first All State swimming competition.
She supported us in other endeavors. I remember the drive to Tulsa to take the ACT; Mom would snooze in the parking lot while we took the test. And, when we'd shop at the mall, we'd nearly always grab dinner at a local Italian restaurant as a daughter/mom bonding ritual. Whether it was to shop, to take an academic test, to swim, or to drive us to school after we missed the bus, Mom was always their in support.
Other memories crop up. I remember watching Mom kick Craig's ass in arm wrestling when we were little, essentially throwing Craig over her shoulder. (Mom played for keeps). I also remember the assortment of games and sports we'd play with Craig, ranging from secret spy games complete with morse code to building forts and playing with muscle men, from basketball to football games. I remember him palming our heads as Jill and I would play (translate: beat him) in basketball. More times than not, we'd find ourselves tossed in the bushes after what we thought was a good, clean game. Sure, sometimes Jill and I would have to resort to pinching to get a "W", but who doesn't resort to street tactics from time to time?
Most poignant, however, are those mental snapshots of the last few years: Craig running around the cross country track; Mom bee bopping to her eclectic music playing on the stereo; or the last moments of their lives. The memories play forward like a video reel, keeping Mom and Craig near even if just in thought. Recently, the need to be with them -- near them -- is so intense that I actively say good night to them and invite them into my dreams. It's uncanny; I remember telling Mom and Craig that I'd look for them in my dreams before they passed away. I don't' think I knew then how palpable and desperate a feeling that would become.
It's still an unaccepted reality that they no longer exist. Being "near them" heightens the tension between the irrational feeling that they're still here, and the profound and overwhelming sense of loss. Still, I will keep them near whatever it takes, hoping never to forget, even if it means diving further into the fold where all the memories reside, along with the pain. ~E
It's 3am and I should be sleeping. For the last two weekends, I've spent the morning hours of Saturday night/Sunday morning wide eyed and bushy tailed, "staring directly at the sun". As incongruous as it seems, there is a certain comfort and sense of necessity to feeling the reality and sincerity of our loss. After all, it is through recognition-squaring off and facing the pain-that we may one day find reconciliation.
For whatever reason, Saturday seems to welcome the richness, and completeness of grieving the myriad emotions involved with losing Mom and Craig within 3 months. I suspect it has something to do with the absence of other tasks to distract the mind, but a large part of me looks for them-looks for Mom and Craig to keep me company. It's a time to become closer to them whatever it takes, even if that means inviting the sadness. I find myself talking to them more, not in a running dialogue but parroting common phrases like Mom's "Hey mom! Hey What!" response, or Craig's "Oh yeah? Cool", statements. I can hear their voices, their banter, their praise. Their voices speak to me as if they were standing at arm's reach. I can imagine them perfectly as if they were holograms or, better, with me as they always had been.
These dreams are a reminder of how hard it is to adequately explain what it is like to lose two of the most important people in my life over a matter of months. Mom and Craig were part of my "head count" and I theirs. They called me, checked in on me, were interested in my life, and the interest was mutual. We accounted for one another on nearly a daily basis if only to check on each other's day. To lose that only exaggerates the sense of loneliness.
I miss them. That phrase seems trite and generic as if that feeling of missing them is a temporary condition that can be resolved when they come home. In the past, it would be that simple. Mom would come home from a conference; Craig would come home for the holidays. Therein lies the deception of that phrase: the palpable hope for resolution remains, yet there is no solution. They will never come home. We will never again ask "how was your day" to Mom or Craig. That burning desire to tell them something neat or funny will just have to be. It's strange to think that I now actively draw from memory the image of my mom and brother while others still have theirs. It's still too abstract to believe that Craig and Mom don't exist. There's a sense of longing when I hear my friends speak of talking to their mom's or their siblings, and part of me still feels like I can do the same.
It's days like Saturday when they do exist. They run freely through my mind and pull distant memories from the fold. I remember the music videos that were playing when we tagged along with Craig for one of his swim meets in Enid; Mom was the willing chauffeur and active cheering section. She rarely missed a meet even when the daughters grew into the sport. I remember her keeping her own time log and helping wherever she was needed. She'd keep track of our events and would cheer as we competed. She was our only spectator when Jill and I swam in Oklahoma's first All State swimming competition.
She supported us in other endeavors. I remember the drive to Tulsa to take the ACT; Mom would snooze in the parking lot while we took the test. And, when we'd shop at the mall, we'd nearly always grab dinner at a local Italian restaurant as a daughter/mom bonding ritual. Whether it was to shop, to take an academic test, to swim, or to drive us to school after we missed the bus, Mom was always their in support.
Other memories crop up. I remember watching Mom kick Craig's ass in arm wrestling when we were little, essentially throwing Craig over her shoulder. (Mom played for keeps). I also remember the assortment of games and sports we'd play with Craig, ranging from secret spy games complete with morse code to building forts and playing with muscle men, from basketball to football games. I remember him palming our heads as Jill and I would play (translate: beat him) in basketball. More times than not, we'd find ourselves tossed in the bushes after what we thought was a good, clean game. Sure, sometimes Jill and I would have to resort to pinching to get a "W", but who doesn't resort to street tactics from time to time?
Most poignant, however, are those mental snapshots of the last few years: Craig running around the cross country track; Mom bee bopping to her eclectic music playing on the stereo; or the last moments of their lives. The memories play forward like a video reel, keeping Mom and Craig near even if just in thought. Recently, the need to be with them -- near them -- is so intense that I actively say good night to them and invite them into my dreams. It's uncanny; I remember telling Mom and Craig that I'd look for them in my dreams before they passed away. I don't' think I knew then how palpable and desperate a feeling that would become.
It's still an unaccepted reality that they no longer exist. Being "near them" heightens the tension between the irrational feeling that they're still here, and the profound and overwhelming sense of loss. Still, I will keep them near whatever it takes, hoping never to forget, even if it means diving further into the fold where all the memories reside, along with the pain. ~E
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Standard of Care
Newsweek published an article a few weeks ago on the difficulties we face with regards to "curing" cancer. Importantly, it also touched on the lack of progress we've made in treating cancer. The article described a situation where a patient with lung cancer underwent a successful surgery, followed by observation, only for the cancer to recur and metastasize two years later. Though it is nearly impossible for surgery to excise all cancer cells from the body, surgery without chemo is still the standard of care for many cancers, including lung and kidney cancer. In these cases, standard of care requires a "wait and see approach" after surgery which can ultimately lead to (perhaps preventable) metastases.
For Craig, standard of care did not include chemo or radiation therapy after his initial nephrectomy. Nor did it call for more frequent and more complete body scans to detect cells that may have been festering beyond his kidney, or that had escaped through his blood supply during surgery. Though Craig's cancer was considered extremely complex and abnormal, he was released with nothing more than a plan to undergo scans every three to six months. (The chest scans were limited in scope, and were not designed to detect small formations of cell growth.) His surgeon assured Craig that he had "got it all" and that he had virtually a zero percent chance of recurrence. So sure was he that Craig would live a long and healthy life that Craig was not given a mild chemo regimen to kill possible remaining cells left after surgery.
Surgery alone is not the standard of care for all cancers. After years of research, adjuvant therapy, or surgery followed by chemo or radiation, is now standard therapy for breast cancer, colon cancer, Hodgkin's disease, and others. As the Newsweek article explains, "even in the 1970s there was clear evidence-in people-of the deadly role played by cells that break off from the original tumor: women given chemo to mop up any invisible malignant cells left behind after breast surgery survived longer without the cancer's showing up in their bones or other organs, and longer, period, than women who did not receive such "adjuvant" therapy." It goes on to say that "every study of adjuvant therapy show[ed] it works because it kills metastatic cells even when it appears the tumor is only in the breast or in the first level of lymph nodes... By the mid-1990s studies had shown similar results for colon cancer: even when surgeons said they'd "got it all," patients who received chemo lived longer and their cancer did not return for more years."
Yet despite evidence of the threat posed by metastatic cells "breaking free" and metastasizing to other parts of the body - metastatic cells are responsible for 90 percent of all cancer deaths - the way we treat cancer still lags behind. It seems not only logical, but morally responsible to offer adjuvant therapy for rare and deadly cancers, in order to kill remaining metastatic cells leftover from surgery. To rely on surgery alone is arrogant, if not negligent. If we know adjuvant therapy has been successful in breast, brain, and colon cancer, why not take the leap and assume that chemo and/or radiation after surgery would be successful in other cancers? After all, we do not fully understand how or why cancer metastasizes. Given our lack of knowledge, it seems brazen to exclude potentially lifesaving tools from our (very limited) arsenal.
Adjuvant therapy does run the risk of exposing cancer patients to potentially unnecessary adverse side-effects, but side-effects can be managed, and some patients will eventually succumb to cancer, even with adjuvant therapy. But when so much is at risk, why hedge on potentially life-saving treatments? Where is the logic in withholding chemo or radiation therapies early in the process, when there is a good chance one will have to rely on a harsher form of the same therapies later in the process, when possibilities of a "cure" are few? Even more, where is the logic in withholding "harsh" treatments for relatively healthy patients after surgery, yet providing the same treatments to "dying" patients after the immune system is compromised and the cancer has already advanced? Is this not counterintuitive if the argument is that doctors do not want to expose a patient to unnecessary chemo or radiation? Adverse symptoms can be managed. What can't be managed is death due to possibly preventable metastatic cancer.
Despite what we know, standard of care for some cancers still requires that patients wait to see if the cancer returns before introducing more systemic therapies. To this day, standard of care for kidney cancer includes surgery followed by observation. Though promising chemotherapy agents exist, they are available mostly through clinical trials, unless there is evidence of recurrence or metastases. Waiting quite possibly cost Craig his life. Failure to act is not a viable treatment option.
We are only scratching the surface of cancer. The more we research, the more we understand that cancer is aggressive, and highly adaptable. How can we be so certain about our treatment options when we still do not fully understand what it is we're fighting? If there is even the slightest possibility that chemo and radiation therapy after surgery could, at the very least, delay death, then it is worth considering. In the end, patients should have the right to choose whether to proceed with additional treatment after surgery. Unfortunately for Craig, he was never given the choice.
Then again, perhaps when it comes to kidney, lung and all the other tricky cancers, surgeons really are superhuman. -- J
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
To move on a feeling
Kindly or cruelly, time has wedged itself between one event and the next, between caring for Mom as she died and sitting with Craig as he took his last breath. Still more time has passed since returning to Silver Spring in October, and subsequently, resuming the life I abruptly left back in June, when I learned that Mom had weeks to live. The memories of that single June week when I briefly returned to Maryland are still fresh in my mind. I had been in Denver taking care of Mom and Craig for over a month, and though I hated to leave, I needed to return to Maryland to resume work. That one week was one of the hardest weeks of my life. Though I was in constant contact with Diane and Jill, I was overwhelmed with feelings of anxiety and isolation. Mom had been readmitted to the hospital after experiencing more difficulties with swallowing and speaking. Though she seemed to perk up over the weekend, news from Denver seemed to suggest that her life was moving towards an unforgiving end. Doctors on the 11th floor were giving her weeks to live. I felt restless in Maryland, and when Jill, Diane, and I decided that I needed to come back, I booked the first flight back to Denver to be with the family.
I can remember the Friday before laving for Denver like it was yesterday. That was the day the doctors told Mom that her journey was nearing its end. I remember sitting in the same office chair that I fell into when Diane told me to "find a quiet place", and relayed the news that Mom had a brain tumor. A brain tumor. It was the same chair I sat in when Mom uttered with tear soaked words "George is back, sweetheart" in early November. (George was the name she gave her tumor.) Eleven months later, on a Friday afternoon, I sat in the same Herman Miller chair, as I was patched through on speaker phone to Mom in Denver. The sound of her wailing and sobbing was striking and different than anything I had heard before. It was the sound of a woman left wanting more from life. The sense of helplessness shattered my heart. I had Jill and Diane hold the phone clsoe to her, so that I could tell her I loved her and that I was coming.
Within 30 minutes, I had left the office with only my computer, literature, and an unparalleled sense of desperation to make it back in time. I had only one goal, one singular interest and that was see Mom before she died. Nothing else mattered. I left on a red-eye the next morning, telling only my colleague Richard that Mom was dying and I didn't know when I'd return. I remember feeling melodramatic as I told him. That week already seemed surreal and disconnected as if I carried a horrible truth but lacked the context to convey it. How can a person really address the imminent death of a loved one? My sources of confirmation of "where we were in the process" were back in Denver. We knew how frail she looked; how much she had aged over the months; the physical faculties she had lost. We saw how much the cancer had taken from her over the months, leaving little else to take. We needn't any convincing. Still, to really believe that she could and likely would pass away "soon" was still an abstract. It felt awkward and ludicrous to give her death credence by mentioning the possibility out loud. What if I was wrong?
I had only been back to the DC area for a week before returning to Denver. I think part of me knew all along it was a bad idea to leave Mom in the state she was in. I left only days after her seizure that rocked her body and our foundations. To see her convulsing and turning blue left a sense of powerless I had not yet felt until her actual passing. In the time between her seizure and my departure, she had gained a few new scrapes and bruises, increasing weakness, and had suffered another fall. Still, I had been away for nearly two months and had to return to work.
I still remember that day when I pulled up to Brelle's house to say goodbye before my flight back to Maryland. Jill and Diane met me at the door with grins on their faces and purple gloves on their hands; they had a "hurried" look about them. I stepped through the door and turned to see Mom lying in her hospital bed. The only thing she was wearing was a devilish grin and an extremely soiled nightgown. That was my Mom and these were my sisters, and I couldn't have been more proud. Some families would have made a fuss of such an incidence, but not ours. We reveled in the bonding experience. Just as we had time and time again, Mom and her three girls cracked up with each other as we helped clean her amidst the unfortunate side effects of her new chemo therapy and steroids. Diane made breakfast while Jill and I finished cleaning and dressing her.
I'll never forget watching her eat and memorizing her face. Dressed in her pink striped shirt and black pants, she was leaning considerably to her side as she ate. Nearly a year before, we were sharing drinks and tapas at a restaurant in DC. I remember just how she looked, dressed in black with turquoise accents--beautiful and engaging. We nearly closed the restaurant that night. It's hard to imagine I'd be staring at her nearly a year later, watching her muscle up the effort to eat her scrambled eggs while tilting far to her left simply because a cancer had invaded her powerful brain.
I remember standing in front of her in her wheelchair to say goodbye. A Kleenex was clenched in her left hand; a bite of scrambled egg still filled her cheeks as swallowing was difficult if not impossible for her by that time. I spread my legs into a split to gain a better eye-to-eye vantage as I told her I loved her and that I'd see her again. I'll never forget the way she stared at my lips and then looked into my eyes; I'll never forget her sobs. Leaving her was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. My week in Silver Spring was miserable and disorienting, through and through. Mom needed me, my sisters and Dad needed me, Craig needed me, and I needed them.
That one week was difficult, but on that Saturday flight home to Denver, I held tight to the knowledge that Mom was still coherent and awake and that I'd be able to hug her once again and tell her that I loved her in person. Nothing in life was more important. I remember Diane and Jill picking me up with a Diet Orange Sunkist in hand and their usual briefing of where we were. We had grown accustumed to doing "handover briefings" for those of us away from the action -- this time is was me. I couldn't believe how surreal it felt. I remember walking into the hallway of the llth floor back in April when Craig was admitted for fevers. I had been in Oklahoma taking care of Mom, and subsequently, hadn't seen him since March. Night had already fallen by the time I arrived. The luminance from his IV monitor and track lighting dimly filled the room and shed light on his thin frame. A washcloth draped over his eyes. Then, his belly was still relatively flat and he was still mobile, self-sufficient.
Fast-forward a few months and it was as if I was making the same rounds, but this time with Mom. I towed the same piece of luggage as I walked passed the name board to see Mom's name, as well as Craig's, who had been admitted across the hall in order to receive his 4th Hickman. Craig was exiting her room and crossing the main lobby with IV stand in tow when I arrived. I gave him a quick hug and quickly entered Mom's room. She began to cry the moment she saw me. I came to her side and fell into her arms. I remember mumbling in a narcissistic and sarcastic way something to the effect of, "fear not, the world is right again, no need for these understudies", which made her laugh. But truly, it was my world that was complete.
A week and a half later, she was gone. Craig was readmitted to the 11th floor for anemia two days after her passing. It was hard for us to enter the hospital doors knowing that Mom was still with us, but in the hospital morgue. Just like that, she went from a person we saw every day, to being a memory.
I remember feeling a sense of anxiety and panic during that one week in June when I was back in Silver Spring. An urgency deep in my gut spoke of a horrible and imminent reality, yet I had no experience in which to judge the circumstances and build confidence to move from a feeling to something more tangible and known, from something that seemed at first dramatic, to knowing that Mom's dying process was really happening.
Thankfully, I acted. I moved on a feeling, and not from it. ~E
I can remember the Friday before laving for Denver like it was yesterday. That was the day the doctors told Mom that her journey was nearing its end. I remember sitting in the same office chair that I fell into when Diane told me to "find a quiet place", and relayed the news that Mom had a brain tumor. A brain tumor. It was the same chair I sat in when Mom uttered with tear soaked words "George is back, sweetheart" in early November. (George was the name she gave her tumor.) Eleven months later, on a Friday afternoon, I sat in the same Herman Miller chair, as I was patched through on speaker phone to Mom in Denver. The sound of her wailing and sobbing was striking and different than anything I had heard before. It was the sound of a woman left wanting more from life. The sense of helplessness shattered my heart. I had Jill and Diane hold the phone clsoe to her, so that I could tell her I loved her and that I was coming.
Within 30 minutes, I had left the office with only my computer, literature, and an unparalleled sense of desperation to make it back in time. I had only one goal, one singular interest and that was see Mom before she died. Nothing else mattered. I left on a red-eye the next morning, telling only my colleague Richard that Mom was dying and I didn't know when I'd return. I remember feeling melodramatic as I told him. That week already seemed surreal and disconnected as if I carried a horrible truth but lacked the context to convey it. How can a person really address the imminent death of a loved one? My sources of confirmation of "where we were in the process" were back in Denver. We knew how frail she looked; how much she had aged over the months; the physical faculties she had lost. We saw how much the cancer had taken from her over the months, leaving little else to take. We needn't any convincing. Still, to really believe that she could and likely would pass away "soon" was still an abstract. It felt awkward and ludicrous to give her death credence by mentioning the possibility out loud. What if I was wrong?
I had only been back to the DC area for a week before returning to Denver. I think part of me knew all along it was a bad idea to leave Mom in the state she was in. I left only days after her seizure that rocked her body and our foundations. To see her convulsing and turning blue left a sense of powerless I had not yet felt until her actual passing. In the time between her seizure and my departure, she had gained a few new scrapes and bruises, increasing weakness, and had suffered another fall. Still, I had been away for nearly two months and had to return to work.
I still remember that day when I pulled up to Brelle's house to say goodbye before my flight back to Maryland. Jill and Diane met me at the door with grins on their faces and purple gloves on their hands; they had a "hurried" look about them. I stepped through the door and turned to see Mom lying in her hospital bed. The only thing she was wearing was a devilish grin and an extremely soiled nightgown. That was my Mom and these were my sisters, and I couldn't have been more proud. Some families would have made a fuss of such an incidence, but not ours. We reveled in the bonding experience. Just as we had time and time again, Mom and her three girls cracked up with each other as we helped clean her amidst the unfortunate side effects of her new chemo therapy and steroids. Diane made breakfast while Jill and I finished cleaning and dressing her.
I'll never forget watching her eat and memorizing her face. Dressed in her pink striped shirt and black pants, she was leaning considerably to her side as she ate. Nearly a year before, we were sharing drinks and tapas at a restaurant in DC. I remember just how she looked, dressed in black with turquoise accents--beautiful and engaging. We nearly closed the restaurant that night. It's hard to imagine I'd be staring at her nearly a year later, watching her muscle up the effort to eat her scrambled eggs while tilting far to her left simply because a cancer had invaded her powerful brain.
I remember standing in front of her in her wheelchair to say goodbye. A Kleenex was clenched in her left hand; a bite of scrambled egg still filled her cheeks as swallowing was difficult if not impossible for her by that time. I spread my legs into a split to gain a better eye-to-eye vantage as I told her I loved her and that I'd see her again. I'll never forget the way she stared at my lips and then looked into my eyes; I'll never forget her sobs. Leaving her was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. My week in Silver Spring was miserable and disorienting, through and through. Mom needed me, my sisters and Dad needed me, Craig needed me, and I needed them.
That one week was difficult, but on that Saturday flight home to Denver, I held tight to the knowledge that Mom was still coherent and awake and that I'd be able to hug her once again and tell her that I loved her in person. Nothing in life was more important. I remember Diane and Jill picking me up with a Diet Orange Sunkist in hand and their usual briefing of where we were. We had grown accustumed to doing "handover briefings" for those of us away from the action -- this time is was me. I couldn't believe how surreal it felt. I remember walking into the hallway of the llth floor back in April when Craig was admitted for fevers. I had been in Oklahoma taking care of Mom, and subsequently, hadn't seen him since March. Night had already fallen by the time I arrived. The luminance from his IV monitor and track lighting dimly filled the room and shed light on his thin frame. A washcloth draped over his eyes. Then, his belly was still relatively flat and he was still mobile, self-sufficient.
Fast-forward a few months and it was as if I was making the same rounds, but this time with Mom. I towed the same piece of luggage as I walked passed the name board to see Mom's name, as well as Craig's, who had been admitted across the hall in order to receive his 4th Hickman. Craig was exiting her room and crossing the main lobby with IV stand in tow when I arrived. I gave him a quick hug and quickly entered Mom's room. She began to cry the moment she saw me. I came to her side and fell into her arms. I remember mumbling in a narcissistic and sarcastic way something to the effect of, "fear not, the world is right again, no need for these understudies", which made her laugh. But truly, it was my world that was complete.
A week and a half later, she was gone. Craig was readmitted to the 11th floor for anemia two days after her passing. It was hard for us to enter the hospital doors knowing that Mom was still with us, but in the hospital morgue. Just like that, she went from a person we saw every day, to being a memory.
I remember feeling a sense of anxiety and panic during that one week in June when I was back in Silver Spring. An urgency deep in my gut spoke of a horrible and imminent reality, yet I had no experience in which to judge the circumstances and build confidence to move from a feeling to something more tangible and known, from something that seemed at first dramatic, to knowing that Mom's dying process was really happening.
Thankfully, I acted. I moved on a feeling, and not from it. ~E
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Cat Fight
I see your corky wine and raise you a "patient" safety adverse event. Yes, as if life wasn't "exciting" enough, it would appear that I have given Samcat three times the written prescription dose for a new anemia drug. It all began on Monday when I picked up the boys from their stay at the vet. Sam, with his never-to-heal broken leg, came home with a urine soaked cast. Outraged, I called the vet and booked him the first appointment Tuesday morning, despite suffering from a cold my glorious sisters kindly gave me while in Oklahoma. But, my gifted vet insists on sedating the cats for every minor procedure so Sammie was tranquilized to replace his splint. By late evening, brother cat still walked about as if hopped up on Jim Bean.
Believing he had recovered well enough from his sedation to tolerate his new medication to combat anemia (his kidney levels are now normal but blood levels are a bit off), I prepared his syringe, drawing .3mL from the small clear vile. The feeling of inserting the needle and drawing back the fluid instantly took me to Craig's kitchen and pulling his Reglen or his Haldol. God, how it transported me--to the smells and how it felt to open his fridge and rummage through the brown bags prominently labeled with sharpie marker "Reglen", "Zofran", etc. (We ran a well-oiled, well organized machine.) I remembered the feel and weight of his jiggly TPN bag, and drawing up his needed vitamins. I was back in the routine of gathering his meds and going through the "system" of drawing each one like an old pro, being responsible for preparing and delivering not only his "comfort" but his "sustenance". I stood frozen, remembering just how it was. Part of me wanted to go back to that. Tears welled at how that's all part of the past tense, now. Jesus...
It wasn't until after delivering the dose to Sammie that I realized something seemed amiss. I checked the bottle to verify the dosage and compared that with the doctor's script, which the pharmacist had handed back after declaring Sam had a refill in the computer system (from a prescription last year). He did not recognize that it was for a different dosage.
Sam suffered loss of appetite, slight drooling/vomit issue and perhaps a fever in the days between anesthesia, anemia drug, and today. I took him in for repeat blood work to make sure his kidneys haven't suffered from this recent assault.
Plenty of conditions could have aided this blunder not limited to a pharmacy that was closing within fifteen minutes despite a line full of customers, cluttered workspace, and noise permeating from a neighboring bakery ("I'll smack your face, I ain't even playin'. I'll jump your back..." and so it goes). Still, I kindly presented the situation to the pharmacy, expecting a reimbursement for the vet costs and correction of the drug.
We'll see what the blood work says. Good times all around.
~E
Believing he had recovered well enough from his sedation to tolerate his new medication to combat anemia (his kidney levels are now normal but blood levels are a bit off), I prepared his syringe, drawing .3mL from the small clear vile. The feeling of inserting the needle and drawing back the fluid instantly took me to Craig's kitchen and pulling his Reglen or his Haldol. God, how it transported me--to the smells and how it felt to open his fridge and rummage through the brown bags prominently labeled with sharpie marker "Reglen", "Zofran", etc. (We ran a well-oiled, well organized machine.) I remembered the feel and weight of his jiggly TPN bag, and drawing up his needed vitamins. I was back in the routine of gathering his meds and going through the "system" of drawing each one like an old pro, being responsible for preparing and delivering not only his "comfort" but his "sustenance". I stood frozen, remembering just how it was. Part of me wanted to go back to that. Tears welled at how that's all part of the past tense, now. Jesus...
It wasn't until after delivering the dose to Sammie that I realized something seemed amiss. I checked the bottle to verify the dosage and compared that with the doctor's script, which the pharmacist had handed back after declaring Sam had a refill in the computer system (from a prescription last year). He did not recognize that it was for a different dosage.
Sam suffered loss of appetite, slight drooling/vomit issue and perhaps a fever in the days between anesthesia, anemia drug, and today. I took him in for repeat blood work to make sure his kidneys haven't suffered from this recent assault.
Plenty of conditions could have aided this blunder not limited to a pharmacy that was closing within fifteen minutes despite a line full of customers, cluttered workspace, and noise permeating from a neighboring bakery ("I'll smack your face, I ain't even playin'. I'll jump your back..." and so it goes). Still, I kindly presented the situation to the pharmacy, expecting a reimbursement for the vet costs and correction of the drug.
We'll see what the blood work says. Good times all around.
~E
Single girl’s lament
Tonight’s been one of those, “well, it seemed like a good idea at the time” kind of nights. I was scheduled to travel back to Thailand on November 29, but have since been grounded in Stillwater due to political unrest in Bangkok. The People’s Alliance for Democracy blockaded both the international and domestic airports, preventing all flights from leaving or entering Thailand. After several phone calls with Northwest Airlines, I’ve finally rebooked my flight for December 29. I’m planning on a road trip next week, but in the meantime, I’ve been catching up on my readings, and taking care of little odds and ends career-wise.
So after walking the dogs, and spending yet another day reading my daily blogs on all things foreign policy, I decided to take myself out to Chili’s, for a nice night to myself. Dad had plans to go out with his friends, so I thought, heck, I’d treat myself. After throwing on my best sweater and jeans (not really), I drove the five minutes to Chili’s where I was greeted by three semi-teenage they-only-let-me-work-the-doors types. The encounter was a little more awkward than I let on. Though I was ‘greeted’ by no less than three people, it was only after I opened the door myself that they said hello. They remained near the door as I walked into the restaurant. Puzzled as to whether I also needed to seat myself, I turned around to the doorway and asked if they could seat me. Once the restaurant folk realized I was rolling solo, I was taken to the kitchen area. Aw, how cliché. I don’t have cholera, I assure you. But at least I know this tradition is universal throughout the globe. I’m always stuck near the kitchen in Thailand. I remember one time in particular when the wait staff wanted me to eat out in the parking lot, using a potted plant as my table. Classic. Craig cracked up when I relayed the details. At least when he visited, I could exploit the fact that people thought we were ‘together’ for better seating. I know he’d laugh at this occasion as well. He’d get a kick at how a) I do this often; b) it rarely phases me; and c) sitting women near the kitchen still continues (right ladies?).
After a quiet night watching BIG XII football at Chili’s, I decided to buy a bottle of Malbec wine, something I haven’t done in a while. Once I arrived home, I crammed the bottle opener into the cork and twisted.... twisted…and twisted. Who on earth invented that stupid corkscrew thing that uses merely leverage to uncork the cork? Not only is it prone to pinching the old thumb, it rarely works. So after ripping half the cork from the bottle, I realized that I had but one choice: ram the rest of it into the wine. Yes. Perfect. Solo kitchen dining followed by tree-bark wine. Pouring one teaspoon of the stuff into a cup revealed that along with the wine, I’d be drinking a whole chunk of tree along, unless, of course, I used a sifter. Yes. Saturday night. Sifting cork from a bottle of wine. Perfect. So I grabbed my best Nalgene bottle, and poured the entire bottle of 2005 Malbec into a fluorescent pink Nalgene, complete with BPA and whatever other chemicals left over from the hardened plastic. And nothing says I’m trying to hide something than pouring wine into a Nalgene bottle. Though there’s still quite a bit of cork left in the wine, it’ll do; I’m too lazy and too proud to whip out the paper towel. Aw the glories of living in Stillwater for the holidays. God bless the Bangkok protests.
Oh, and as I typed this blog, I somehow ripped off the { button (opposite of this button, since I can no longer use it). I don’t know how the hell I did it, but par for the course. Yeah.
On nights like tonight, I miss Craig the most. He would have laughed at my effort to shed cork from wine. He would have lamented the continued discrimination of hard-earning, dollar-paying women whose only flaw is that they frequent restaurant enterprises alone. Most of all, he would have enjoyed rubbing it my face. Miss you, Craigy. -- J
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Catching up
A lot has happened since late September, including two trips to Denver, two trips to Stillwater, and one trip to DC. The cats hate us, but that’s to be expected. I’ve been meaning to write in detail about the last few months, but couldn’t find the words. So here’s a hodgepodge of miscellaneous events that have touched my heart these past few months.
Craig’s Denver service
Craig's service in Denver was absolutely beautiful, and hard to get through. We selected an old Spanish-style church with high ceilings and beautiful stain-glass windows for the service. Craig would have loved it, not simply for the history but for the fact that once a month, the church opens its doors to the homeless. The night before Craig’s service, families were welcomed into the church for a meal and warm place to sleep. By 7:30 a.m., families were still trickling out of the Great Hall. Craig would have enjoyed sharing the space with so many in need.
As for the service, I can still remember the pink glow that overwhelmed the Great Hall as the morning sun leaked through the stain-glass to bounce off rose-colored walls. Around eighty of Craig’s closest friends joined us to say goodbye. Aunt Joan and her family flew in from Kalamazoo, Michigan a few days earlier to be with us for the service. It was nice to have family close as we tried to come to terms with Craig’s death. We hired a cellist to play some of our favorite Bach pieces during the service, including Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, which I used to play back in the day. I remember the crescendo of the piece reverberating off the stucco walls. Though the cello was no harmonica, Craig would have appreciated the emotion put into the piece.
We asked a pastor from a nearby Presbyterian church to preside over the ceremony. The pastor did a nice job of letting the moment guide his words. Rather than overwhelm the service with scripture, he focused on Craig and who he was as a person, as represented by the diverse group of people that attended his service. Dad, Diane, Erin, Emily, and I said a few words before opening the service to others to speak. Craig’s best friend, Writer, shared a few words about Craig, the loyal friend. Craig was always one to put others first, and would do his best to attend to his friends, particularly in times of need. Our mother’s best friend, Rhinda, spoke just after Writer, to shed light on who Craig was as a kid. She mentioned how even at the age of five, Craig enjoyed holding court and would lecture his fellow Cub Scouts on the art of playing Spiderman, or Luke Skywalker, as it were. Few at the service knew Craig as a child. For her to share her memories of Craig allowed others to have a more complete understanding of the person they knew and loved, and the person we were saying goodbye to.
I remember looking into the crowd towards the end of the service and seeing a mass of friendly faces. That I knew most of the people there was a testament to how close and supportive Craig’s friends and colleagues had been (and continue to be) throughout the experience. I’m honored to have had the chance to know so many during our seven months in Denver, and look forward to continuing our new friendships. We ended the day with a reception at Woody and Georgia’s home, where food was provided by several of Craig’s former colleagues and friends.
Craig’s Stillwater service
After spending a few days closing down Craig’s affairs and packing his apartment, we left Craig's things in Denver in order to travel back to Stillwater for the third and final service. Oldies piped through the radio as Diane and I drove down I-35 towards Stillwater. As if guided by Mom herself, we heard some of her favorites like Franky Vali’s “My Eyes Adored You and Roger Miller’s “Dang Me.” Shortly after, we heard Cream’s “White Room” and Ray Charles’ “Hit the Road Jack” which was the song Craig sang back in May with his acapella group. As I listened to Ray Charles belt out one of the refrain’s, I could see Craig standing on stage, with his TPN leaning against the wall, belting out a solo while twelve others sang backup. Though his voice sounded strong then, I knew how much energy it took for him to perform. As I watched Craig sing, I remember thinking “That’s my brother.” When he finished, he took his seat next to me and asked if he sounded okay. With tears in my eyes, I told him, “you were amazing,” and he was.
As Diane and I took the turn into Stillwater, I remember feeling like we had left something behind. For the first time, I felt Stillwater was incomplete, like it had lost some of its brightness. As we drove by popular buildings and favorite walking spots, I couldn’t help but remember how just three months before, we were playing taxi driver to Emily and Craig as he showed Emily his favorite locations. The memory of his voice as he described Stillwater High School, or our elementary school, or his life at OSU, was still so clear.
Though being back in Stillwater with Craig as a memory was hard to get used to, Saturday’s ceremony was surprisingly lighthearted. Craig’s friend Steve flew in Thursday night, while Emily and her friend Lorel flew in Friday evening. To have them in Stillwater -- three people who perhaps knew the situation better than anybody -- allowed us to relax a bit and laugh. My best friend from college and her husband drove in from Tulsa to join other familiar faces for the service. I remember laughing more that Saturday morning than we had in quite some time. And it felt right. Craig would have laughed at the “play it again, Sam” feel to having three services in as many months. He would have laughed at some elements of the sermon, or how his service competed with OSU Game Day. And he would have loved seeing his sisters, his girlfriend, and his best friend genuinely enjoying each other’s company. Craig wanted the end of his life to be a celebration. For me, Saturday was that celebration.
After spending the morning reminiscing with family friends and colleagues on years gone by, we parted to enjoy what was to be one of the last warm days in Stillwater. As I sat next to Boomer Lake, talking with old friends, I couldn’t help but feel that Craig was still with us. He was simply swimming at the YMCA and would join us for a run around the OSU cross-country track just as soon as he was finished. (Still, I can see his face as I travel through Stillwater. Craig’s at the gym with me, or walking through the Wal-Mart aisles, helping me find nightgowns for Mom. He’s grabbing a coffee with Steve, or meeting up with old professors on campus. That he’s gone seems surreal.)
That Monday, Dad, Diane, Erin and I gathered at Sunset Memorial Gardens for Craig’s internment next to Mom. We brought one white bouquet of flowers left over from Craig’s service to lie at the head of his marker. We each had colored flowers collected from the other bouquets to place with Craig’s urn. As we each took turns pouring the earth that would form Craig’s final resting place, I remember reflecting on our individual strength, and how, after a year of hope, pain, and acceptance, the four of us were standing together, bravely taking turns to help fill Craig’s grave. I remember glancing at Mom’s marker and her dates, and wondered if strangers walking by would notice the similarities between her marker, and his. And as I stood watching the grounds team finish pouring the remaining earth, and packing it in with their large work boots and hands, I thought how fitting that Mom and Craig’s earth and grass would be settling in together.
After a few moments standing at their graves, I turned to walk towards the gravel road where we had parked our cars. For some reason, I had the urge to leave, to get some distance from death. From my perch on the gravel, I could see an oil rig slowly turning as cars passed along the highway. Within minutes, Erin joined me. As we stood shuffling our feet against the gravel, I remember mentioning how quiet it was. Erin just whispered back, “yeah.” I said that it was hard to believe; she nodded her head. I then added that I hope Dad would be okay. She asked, “will we?” to which I replied, I hope so. After a few minutes, Dad joined us and the three of us watched from our place on the gravel driveway as Diane poured Craig's ashes on his grave. I remember thinking how beautiful the flowers looked as they marked Craig’s place next to Mom.
Denver again
After spending a few days in Stillwater, Erin, Diane and I drove back through Kansas towards Denver to finish packing Craig’s apartment. Along the way, we were blessed by one of the prettiest sunsets that I’ve seen in awhile. The moon seemed to take over as the sun sunk past the horizon. The moon hovered low like a piñata dangling on a string. We arrived in Denver just after ten. After dropping the cats off at Emily’s, the three of us drove the familiar route to Craig’s apartment. As we entered his front hall, we were overwhelmed by Craig’s familiar aroma. The scent brought us back to happier times, when Craig filled our days tooting around on his harmonica, or waxing on about Nietzsche. I’ll always remember that moment entering his vacant apartment, of meeting a familiar smell knowing that, in time, the scent -- like the person -- would fade away. That night, the three of us slept in his apartment, and though we were together, I felt profoundly alone.
The following day, Diane, Erin and I prepared to pack Craig’s life. We thought initially that the task would take only a day, but as we went through drawers of random nick-knacks, we realized that the project would take much longer. His apartment was filled with remnants of his life in Stillwater, Michigan, and Denver. Frazzled and exhausted, we agreed to box his things and transport them to Stillwater as is, leaving the “unpacking” for a later date.
That Friday, we joined Craig’s friends at Wash Park to dedicate an oak tree and memorial brick in Craig’s honor. Craig loved Wash Park and would spend hours sitting under its many oak trees reading or people watching. It wasn’t uncommon for his friends to bump into Craig as he lounged on the grass, enjoying Denver's sun. I could picture him leaning against one the lakeside trees, watching us as we gathered around to plant a tree and bring new life to Wash Park in his honor. Craig’s friends Writer and Kristen arranged the celebration, and provided the group with tags for us to tie messages to the tree’s young branches. As we each took turns looping our messages to the leaves, I was struck by all the warmth and support that had gathered there. Even after death, Craig’s essence brought people together. It was comforting to see his friends, and as I said that day, I look forward to watching our new friendships grow along with the oak tree.
After spending a few moments admiring the newest member of Wash Park’s fall foliage, we gathered at a nearby restaurant for dinner. It seemed so natural to be eating with his friends, as if, through Craig, we had known them much longer than the few months that had brought us together. I could picture Craig sitting with us, casually sharing stories of life growing up with us or on Match.com dates gone awry.
The next day, his friends joined us at Craig’s apartment to help finish packing and move his things to Diane’s new apartment. In essence, they helped Diane welcome in her new life while closing down Craig’s. Within a few hours, we had packed and moved his apartment. It was touching to see his friends turn out to help “Craig’s little sisters.” He would have been proud.
The next day, Erin and I drove to Golden to join Steph, Steve, Taylor and Della, for a stroll along the river. We ate lunch downtown, just a few blocks from a bar where Craig used to play. It was nice to get a sense of his life beyond Denver. I could picture him walking, amps in tow, towards the bar. He always looked so out of place and he was known to work on law briefs in between sets.
That Monday, we finished cleaning Craig’s apartment. After five years living in 3104, Craig’s apartment was finally bare. I remember standing at the window with Erin, and reminiscing of the time the four of us salsa danced in his front room. Erin and Craig were partners, while Diane and I had to duke it out for the ladies’ spot in our couples dance. I can still remember the music: the Gypsy Kings. I’ll always miss the view; the sunrises and sunsets; and the hovering moon. I’ll miss watching the Rockies games for free and, of course, Lauren, Stacey, and Manuel.
That night, Emily joined us for dinner with Kim and her sister. We had a nice time talking about our fallen loved ones, and how to find joy in the little things again. Later that night, Erin and I met Emily for tea at her local hole in the wall coffee shop. We talked about how we need to invest time in the things we truly love, as well as take time for ourselves. We reflected on Craig’s life and how well he seemed to prioritize his life. He made time for the things he truly loved: friends, harmonica, swimming, and reading. He persevered through the awkward start up phase with the harmonica to become an extremely gifted musician. When he knew he had evening obligations and would be unable to swim, he would carve out time during his lunch break to go to the gym. He pushed through the hiccups that turn so many of us away. And even in the end, he didn’t let cancer slow him down. How could we possibly let the little things get in our way? We agreed that it’s worth fighting through the struggles for the things we truly love.
The next night, Erin, Diane and I treated ourselves to sushi. Craig and Erin shared one thing in common: they were never adept at using chopsticks. I remember sitting with a mouth full of hot egg roll, struggling to swallow as Erin struggled to eat a sushi roll. Hopeless. We hadn’t laughed that hard in months. The next morning, we drove Craig’s things home to Stillwater.
It’s been a long road, and I haven’t begun to process all that has transpired. In many ways, I’m still in shock from the trauma of last few months. I think of Mom and Craig every day; some days I laugh, and some days I cry. I miss them with every moment. Though difficult, the events of the last few weeks have been cathartic and much needed. They’ve been tender and supportive; random and hysterical. We’ve experienced the best of humanity, and have witnessed the outputs of love and support that truly represent what it is to be a friend. And we’ve watched it grow long after death. We’ve laughed at ourselves, at the situation, and at each other. We continue to take one day at a time, catching up with ourselves along the way.
– J
A few weeks before Craig passed away, I stumbled upon a random quote book buried deep in his bookshelf. Amongst the quotes from Woody Allen, Gandhi, and others, one quote stood out for its irreverence. I find the humor fitting for where we are in the process:.
The good Lord never gives you more than you can handle unless, of course, you die of something. -- Anonymous
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
To the gypsy that remains
About a week before Mom was rushed back to the hospital for what would be the last time, Diane and I blessed her with a beautiful rendition of Stevie Nick’s Gypsy, complete with trilly vocals and dramatic whirly birding. We were at Brelle’s house then, and preparing Mom for bed when we were pulled in by the wonders of Stevie Nick’s artistry. With one impromptu lyric, we had been transformed to another world, a world without medical beds and wheelchairs, brain cancer and bathroom changes. We were in the velvet underground, back to the floor that old Stevie loved (or whatever she says). We had become our own sort of gypsies: people that faced freedom with a little fear, but had no fear….only love. And when we hit the chorus “And if I was a child, and the child was enough, enough for me to love, enough to love,” we mumbled that sucker as if the words were too powerful for us to understand. (Seriously, I always thought she was saying that the child was a dove, which, at the time, didn’t make sense, but with Stevie, I never really questioned it.)
With that kind of transformative power, we had but one outlet and that was to dance, dance (a little shout out to Don Henley). Though I’m sure Mom had no clue what we were singing, she eagerly looked on as we purposely poked fun at what was a hit from her era (sort of), and all for a laugh. She was so obliging. No matter how silly the circumstances, she always looked on with an interesting sense of pride and absolute confusion. She thrived on the quirky and ridiculous, and in that way, allowed us to be young at heart and spontaneous without feeling embarrassed or immature. Her laughter only fueled the flame. She not only knew when we were joking, she bought into it and even participated when she could.
Now, as I listen to Stevie belt that familiar tune, I can’t help but recall that evening with Mom, when the lyrical arrangement of our words and the unity of our voices had her spellbound. I miss our performances. It's hard to find the inspiration now that we're sans our captive (literally) audience.
I miss you, Mom. -- J
“She is (prancing) away from me now... She was just a (witch), she was just a (witch). And (her) memory is all that is left for (us) now … “
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Problem with “How Tos”
While scrolling through MSN’s online page, I stumbled on the catchy headline: “7 Tips to Decrease Cancer Risk and Prevent Recurrence.” The article says “cancer survivors can help cancer-proof their bodies by managing their weight in the healthiest way possible. The same way of eating that will help you lose weight in a healthy manner is the same way of eating that will help you improve your immune function and promote anti-cancer activity in your body.” Sounds simple.
Of the seven useful tips, my favorites include eating a plant-based diet; exercising (i.e. parking away from a store, walking down longer store aisles, etc.); sleeping better (but only when it's dark and not before feeling tired???); and integrating mindfulness (e.g. less stress). So, if I’m reading correctly, all the lazy, close-parking, short-aisle walking, daytime napping, ADHD types have a higher risk of cancer.
Before I dive into what may come off as a snarky commentary on what is ultimately, helpful advice, let me say that the correlations between obesity and cancer are convincing, as are the studies promoting anti-oxidants and leafy greens as strong cancer fighting agents. By eating a balanced diet and exercising, one can improve immune function which can help stave off cancer. Mom and Craig were strong advocates of eating well, and following nutritional guidelines to maximize their chances for overcoming cancer. That being said, following simple tips is easier said than done, and in the end, may not change the outcome.
The problem with “How Tos” is that they imply that if people would simply eat more blueberries, park farther away from the grocery store, avoid alcohol, or be more patient, they too could avoid cancer. But what happens when a healthy diet isn’t enough? What after ingesting anti-oxidants and flax seed oil, walking ten flights of stairs, and slowing life down, we still “catch” cancer? After all, Craig was extremely healthy. He worked out religiously, avoided butter and trans-fats, ate veggies and whole proteins, and he still “caught” cancer. For Mom, no amount of blueberry shakes and long walks down Skyline prevented her tumor from recurring. And if the "Seven Tips" were true and healthy living was the golden cup, how do we explain Keith Richards, Nick Nolte, and the other seven-tip rebels? What gives?
The challenge with “How Tos” is not that they are misleading in their advice; it’s simply that cancer is far more complicated than what seven tips can adequately capture. For decades, cancer has stumped some of the best scientists across the globe. The first chemo agent was developed in the 1940s. In 1971, Richard Nixon declared a war on cancer with the National Cancer Act. Since then, countless federal task forces, foundations, non-governmental organizations, private businesses and academia have teamed to find a cure. Billions of dollars later, the war against cancer continues, with “Stand Up To Cancer” being the latest initiative to join the cause. To be sure, we’ve made great strides in cancer treatment and research. From 1975 to 2005, death rates from breast cancer and colorectal cancer fell from 31 to 24 and 28 to 17 per 100,000 people, respectively. This is largely due to better screening and advancements in chemotherapy treatments. Exciting new treatments like angiogenesis inhibitors (e.g. Avastin), epidermal growth factor receptor (EGFR) inhibitors (e.g. Tarceva) and others have also emerged on the market, making some cancers easier to treat.
Yet, despite advances in cancer treatment, progress has been wildly uneven. According to Newsweek’s “We Fought Cancer…And Cancer Won,” the death rates for other cancers, including lung, pancreatic, liver, and melanoma, have increased. Cancer is on track to kill over 500,000 people this year. The difficulty in finding a cure has not been from a lack of trying. Cancer cells create multiple pathways for growth. While innovations targeting one pathway may help slow cancer, it’s typically only a matter of time until cancer cells discover alternative pathways to proliferation. As the article explains:
"Most cells use the VEGF pathway [that Avastin blocks], but there are at least 12 other pathways, and Avastin doesn't block any of them. With VEGF out of commission, malignant cells turn to these alternatives...[With] Tarceva, given to lung-cancer patients, which turns off a molecule called EGFR that fuels the proliferation of some lung and other cancer cells...Even if a tiny fraction of malignant cells in the tumor or at metastatic sites use a proliferation pathway other than EGFR, they proliferate unchecked; most patients are dead within three years."
Though we have made great strides in understanding and treating some cancers, and improving the quality of life for cancer patients, other cancer remain stuck. We’ve only begun to scratch the surface of the biological and molecular complexity of the 100 types of cancers identified so far. Where science remains stuck, patients have few options and death is almost a certainty. The article suggests that to overcome cancer, oncologists must target all the various cancers that comprise cancer, or the dozens of different pathways that cells use to proliferate and spread. Determining how a particular patient's tumor works and treating the growth, replication, and angiogenesis pathways with multiple drugs may lead to better outcomes.
But transferring breakthroughs in scientific research into breakthroughs in therapies is another step altogether. In the cross-sections of funding, interest, and risk are cancer studies – some are provocative and may lead to major breakthroughs, others are slogging away at tricky problems, building on past research to improve current treatments and standards of care. All have the possibility of making a difference and advancing what we know about cancer(s). The problem is the time it takes transferring scientific studies from the thought to the laboratory to the pharmacy. FDA approval is long and costly. The article states that whereas 20 percent of compounds for other diseases acquire FDA approval, for cancer, only 8 percent are of compounds are approved. The possibility of wealth generated from patent rights provides disincentives for market competition. There is less incentive to invest research time and money in largely unprofitable areas or in obscure cancers with little chance for fame and glory. Insurance companies generally accept only approved treatments, so if science lags behind, so too does the health coverage.
With that said, breakthroughs in one area tend to affect cancer treatments as a whole. And with every study, we move closer to understanding cancer’s complexity and how to better treat the varieties of mutations. The last thirty five years fighting cancer has proven that more research is needed to not only develop cures, but to discover preventative techniques that ultimately decrease the likelihood of cancer. To the extent that an anti-oxidant rich diet, daily exercise, and a stress-free life help stave off inflammatory or other processes that may contribute to cell mutations, tips such as MSN’s Seven How Tos are useful.
But what Newsweek’s piece “We Fought Cancer…And Cancer Won” reminds us is that, for some, cancer is a crapshoot. Our culture likes to emphasize the success stories, the Lance Armstrong’s of the world who battle back testicular cancer only to win seven Tour de Frances, and the advances in technology that may someday lead to a cure. These stories must be told. But equally as important are the thousands of stories where there are no cures, where technology lags behind, and where despite everything, cancer wins. Craig’s kidney cancer emerged from the depths of nowhere. While in hindsight, he could have had more blueberries while growing up, my gut tells me that he probably would have developed cancer anyway. As for Mom, scientists have only now discovered cell mutations and pathways that may contribute to the cancer's growth. Something tells me, her diet was only a part of the puzzle. We’re just beginning to understand why cancers develop, and how they grow. I suspect that, in time, we will have a new way of viewing cancer, and perhaps a new term altogether – one that accounts for each cancer's complexity.
I realize that the tone may sound defeatist. To the contrary. I am advocate for taking proactive steps to decrease cancer risk. But, there’s a careful balance between emphasizing the tools that are available to promote a healthy immune system and implicitly blaming the victim for not doing enough. When will our “yes we can” culture be okay with acknowledging that sometimes “no we can’t…at least not yet.” Not all cancers are the same and not all are winnable. Cancer is a combination of environment, diet, biology and genes, or in other words, bad luck. We’ve made a lot of progress with a handful of cancers, but there are still cancers that remain terribly hard to treat. One can do everything possible to avoid it, but often, there’s little one can do. That's where we are, but with hope, more advances are on the horizon. -- J
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
5 Months
Today is also the 5 month anniversary of our beautiful mom's passing. Five months ago, we buzzed her hair and held her hand as she passed away in our arms, bathed in love.
During these difficult days--Craig's birthday, our mom's 5 month anniversary, Craig's two month anniversary tomorrow, our first Thanksgiving as a family of 4 (2 in spirit)--I can safely say that, now more than ever, we need to feel the embrace of those around of us...
~E
During these difficult days--Craig's birthday, our mom's 5 month anniversary, Craig's two month anniversary tomorrow, our first Thanksgiving as a family of 4 (2 in spirit)--I can safely say that, now more than ever, we need to feel the embrace of those around of us...
~E
To Craig on Your 33rd Birthday
Happy Birthday Craig!
The sun shines bright over the Oklahoma straw grass. It's a beautiful day, and the temperature is ripe for a run around the cross country track. I can still see you whizzing by with a goofy look, your swishy pants nearly catching fire with every stride.
The loss is too big for words. I miss you and love you, and wish you could be here to celebrate your 33rd. We have a cake for you, and will toast in your name...
I miss you Craigie...with every part of me. ~E
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
When 'cool' things happen, I think of them
Batman
After standing outside for what seemed like a half an hour and holding off our position in the front of the line, we eagerly handed our tickets to the usher and scurried towards the theater for Batman showing in one of Denver’s Downtown movie theaters. First through the doors, we quickly staked our claim, parking Craig in one of the theater’s few wheelchair viewing spaces. This was the first movie-going experience where Craig needed reinforcements and it came in the form of Mom’s wheelchair. But, the viewing angle from such a short distance to the larger than life screen was too extreme for Craig; he needed to move back (as would anybody!). We helped Craig to a seat a few rows from the main aisle, where the majority of people who had a TRUE opportunity to CHOOSE a seat would sit. (Folks in wheelchairs might well come away with hearing and vision problems after sitting so close to the screen. Sheesh.)
As I watched Batman, I couldn’t help but think of Mom and how much she likely anticipated seeing this blockbuster of a movie, and would have been there in the row with us had she the opportunity. I could see her staring at the screen, completely locked into the movie--the images bouncing off of her glasses. A few more weeks and that would have been so.
Rome
Jill inserted disc one of the Rome series into Craig’s DVD player as others gathered their respective laptops and caffeinated beverages before finding their seats. Craig waited patiently in his hospital bed; his RT-D2 supplemental oxygen tank hovered just over his right shoulder, giving him extra oxygen to aid his increasingly labored breathing. I remember being skeptical of the series as characters were introduced and sex scenes streamed along as common as floats in a Macy’s day parade.
As the days passed and Disc 1 was replaced by Disc 3 and Disc 4, we were hooked not for the glorious content of Rome, though it was rather entertaining, but because it made Craig happy. It had become something he looked forward to with each new day. Tired as he was, he would always find the strength to stay awake through an episode, sometimes two.
One night, I vividly recall it taking him every ounce of energy and determination to utter the whispered words, “Are we going to watch Rome?” His eyes were wide, excited, focused; his eyebrows curved upward with a hint of concern over the effort it took just to speak. Every word took concerted effort. I remember just how he looked, just how he sounded—the last word said in crescendo in as much a question as it was a plea. This was the last night we watched Rome together.
A few weeks later, after we brought back Craig’s belongings, Dad, Diane, Jill and I watched the final episode of Rome, and I couldn’t help but think of Craig and how much he would have enjoyed seeing the grand finale. A few more weeks and that would have been so.
Obamarama
Jill and I stood on a grassy Virginia hill among thousands of energized Obama rally-goers. We danced to cheesy music, and rolled our eyes to sleepy Casio music from what could only be Kenny G/Earth, Wind, Fire karaoke winners as we awaited Obama's arrival and subsequent speech. The air was crisp and thick with the feeling of witnessing history. “Heyyyyy!” Somehow, through the sea of faces, Steve managed to not only find us but sneak up on us. We stood together with Craig’s best friend, listening to Obama’s speech, each of us wishing Craig could be there with us.
Craig was active in the Obama campaign before he fell ill and would have been a delegate for the DNC. He would have loved hearing about the rally—Mom, too. We would have surely captured the moment through speaker phone. And, as history was made the next day, we would have surely conference called each other in elation of witnessing history. A few more weeks, a few more months, this would have been so.
From the everyday occurrence to celebrated marks in American history, not a day passes where I don’t think of them and wish so desperately that I had them here to share in the moment.
It's during these "cool" or "neat" moments, when I miss them the most … -- E
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