Craig's Denver Memorial Service

Please join us for Craig's memorial service:

Saturday, October 4th 10AM

Saint Thomas Episcopal Church

2201 Dexter St., Denver.

Reception to follow.

~E

Play this one out until it explodes

True to form, Friday ended in a bang. Following protocol, shortly after Craig passed, we called hospice to help "move the process along." With a pregnant stare, all hell broke loose. The hospice nurse, friendly as she was, gave Emily a look that, in better times, would have been easy to overlook. But, lacking sleep and otherwise delirious, the pregnant stare was more than she could handle. With a quick laugh and a hand over her mouth, Emily retreated to Craig's loveseat to relish in her giggle, while Erin, Diane and I looked on. That we all didn't succumb to hysterical fits of laughter was amazing. On a good day, the creepy full-eyed "stare" would get us laughing. But, unfortunately for us, D, E, and I, we were all so tired that we missed the punch line. Still, it added needed amusement to see Emily genuinely laughing.

Then, the funeral people arrived, and as Dad said, it was as if they pulled them straight from central casting. The show Six Feet Under had nothing on these guys. One guy was clearly in training and parroted everything the first guy did, down to the long handshake and uncomfortable closeness. "I'm sorry for your loss," cue creepy stare. Ohhhh...no you aren't. Let's save us all the pleasantries and just get on with it, for God's sake.

As if the stare and creepy funeral folk weren't enough, our night was punctuated by an ill-timed delivery. It was 9 in the evening and the most we had was a small breakfast and caffeine. We were starved. So, we ordered pizza late in the night. As life would have it, the pizza arrived just when we were preparing to send Craig off to his "cooler resting place" (as Mom's decedent affairs representative would say). Old gallows humor. What can you say? To be honest, it was hysterical. To picture pizza delivery as we were preparing to wheel Craig out into the hall... Uh, you can rest the boxes on the table... I write this knowing that, somewhere, my brother is laughing. And he would. He would laugh his silly little laugh that I've now memorized. His nostrils would flare and he would tell us to stop for fear of his stomach hurting. Craig would always laugh at the slightest thing - no matter how inappropriate. Though it was easy to get him laughing, the rewards were still joyous. I miss his laugh. Craig was a melody in numbers.

After spending Friday and Saturday being pampered at the Ritz Carlton (thanks Jim, Lauren, Stacy, and Manuel), the five of us (Emily included) treated ourselves to our first movie in months. And boy was it a doozie. Wow. Note to self: it's probably not a good idea to immerse oneself in all things loud after a traumatic experience. And it's also probably not wise to choose a movie with a) death; and b) a person named Craig. Yeah. Who knew being sequestered in all things cancer would alter one's tolerance for obnoxious noise. We also have little patience for annoying people; smackers; loud talkers; slow walkers; slow drivers; honkers; and people who are generally loud. Yes, loud noise is now our biggest pet peeve. Emily, Diane and I mumbled our way through Kid Rocks' craptastic song about "warriors" (though I think we would have hated in spite of our current circumstances...psst, Kid Rock, weren't you arrested at the Waffle House???...neat) and plugged our ears during a good portion of "Eagle Eye" with Shea LeBeowolf or whatever his name is. I spy from the corner of my eye, one really bad movie...and a bunch of slobber from someone's mouth. Could someone get Shea a pink sponge to wipe the spittle from his lips?

It's difficult reentering life after being away for so long. I'm not sure I like it. And it will be difficult finding our new equilibrium. That also means that we won't stand for super loud movies and obnoxious gum-smacking, cell-phone answering, children-forgetting, just a few more billable hours, bad-parenting/let the baby-sitter take it kind of crap. It's trite to say but life is too short. Really. Asterisks aside. There's nothing sadder than saying goodbye for the last time. You don't know it until the time is finally there. We're all emerging with a new perspective on life, one that doesn't take it for granted.

"Don't carve me out...don't let your silly dreams, fall in between the crack of bed and the wall..."

I miss you, Craigy... - J

Give me a reason, and I won’t break down …

To say this has been hard is an understatement. And I doubt we've seen the end of it. The loss of C is a different kind of pain, and a different kind of grief. I miss my brother. I miss my best friend. I miss his laugh and the way he kept things in perspective. Though it's hard, we're hanging in there, just the same. Sometimes, I think people expect us to be breaking down, to be on the brink of utter despair. But, to be honest, we're doing alright. And I think we will be for some time to come. We aren't particularly strong, or in denial. We're just privileged for having this experience, for living these past months with first our Mom, and then with Craig.

Though our days are filled with tears, they are equally filled with laughter. Just this evening, Dad and we were discussing the finer points of love, and romantic love, to be exact. Though Dad would like to believe that his was a rational kind of love, we argued that we would settle for nothing less than the "I'm out of breath" kind of love that Craig felt, and that Mom and Dad lived, and that we envied. After a little bullying, I think Dad realized that, indeed, he had that kind of romantic love with Mom. To see him cry, to really cry, over his wife was proof enough. It's not a bad thing to love unabashedly - even if it is a little rational. After all, who would agree to have four children and 36 years of marriage without some semblance of love? To miss your wife, I wouldn't even know where to begin ... To see Dad cry, to see him miss Mom as if she passed just yesterday, was an indication of their love and how raw the pain still is. To add on the pain of losing Craig, I'd say it would be too much to bear.

We're discussing it all these days: relationships, love, and death. Though we're long on the soliloquies, not one of us has the answers. We're still waiting for the reasons, for the long explanation as to why Mom and Craig happened to succumb to cancer all within the same year, all within months of each other. Like the song says, "Give me a reason, and I won't break down." Just one reason. I'm sure there are philosophical answers. All I know is how I feel, and that's sadness. Sadness for losing the best friend I ever had, and my rock in the hardest storm.

I'm sad, but I'm not empty. As the song adds, "I've got more in store." I have Dad, my knight in shining armor, the guy with whom I continue to enjoy in depth conversations, and the person that still manages to surprise me. You were here. That means the world. I have Diane, my passion and soul, and the person I turn to for feeling. I have Erin, my heart and spirit and the person I turn to for reason. I have Emily, the person I turn to for Craig's love and remembering. I have Mom and Craig, the people I still turn to for reassurance. I have the blog, and the people who share this experience along with me. And, importantly, I have my friends, my rocks and the people that I rely on, even if they don't know it.

Even now, Erin, Diane and I are chatting in Craig's living room. It's strange being in his place so soon after his passing, but in some way, we feel comforted spending time in the place he's called home for the past seven years. To be anywhere else would feel foreign and misplaced. But that doesn't mean we haven't had our moments. His room is a sacred place; his final resting place. His bed is as we left it. The pictures we hung just a few weeks ago still pepper his door. The books he so loved still line his shelves and the closet is still a mess. That the six of us once lived entirely in his room is clear. Empty Diet Mountain Dew bottles line the ground and his trash is full to the rim. As Erin said earlier, we did more drinking (of the caffeinated sort), and less eating during the last 48 hours of our time with Craig. It's hard being surrounded by Craig, by the person he was, and the memories we shared. Pictures of a life long ago line the bookshelves in his front room. We all look so blissfully ignorant of what was to come.

Now, I just feel tired, so absolutely tired. I haven't slept fully in over a year. The weight of the past several months is finally bearing down. Though my eyes burn and my body hurts, sleep still seems so far away. It sounds selfish but I find myself longing for those days, for the time when cancer was something we heard on the news. It's still hard to comprehend that, in a matter of one year, we've lost Mom and Craig. But as much as I want them here, I can't help but acknowledge the beauty in which they both left. It was a testament to their character that they left in the manner in which they did, and on their own terms. They both passed with us by their side. For Mom, she was in Denver, with her son. For Craig, he was surrounded by all that he has known these past seven years.

They left on the best of terms, with love surrounding them. As for us, we're doing alright - not well, but alright. Dad has left for Georgia and Woody's for the night. Erin and I will join them tomorrow for the evening. We're balancing our inert tendency to be alone with wanting to be with family and friends. For my sisters, it's hard being with others at this time. For me, I would prefer to be around people, to a limited degree. It's a careful balance. While it's hard seeing others go on with life as usual, I find comfort in conversation and in knowing that there's something else.

Regardless, we're all finding comfort in the little things. Reunions. Family. Love. Laughter. Before Craig passed, I shared with him a vision I had of Ystad, Sweden. Craig, his girlfriend, Erin ,and I biked to Ales Stenar. A slight wind greeted us as we reached the top. I can remember laying with Craig in a divot just along the edge of the Baltic. I've never seen grass so green. I told Craig that I could see us all there, laughing. So peaceful. He whispered, "yes." Somehow, later, as he struggled with his last breath, I hoped he was back in Sweden . I hoped. - J

Tin cup for a phone

Since Friday, sounds are louder, spaces are smaller, disappointments are grander, that pit deep in my soul is blasted open further by the unspeakable reality that my brother is gone. Since Friday, I find myself wandering. I wrote a "ditty" not too long ago that somehow speaks to this:

I find myself wandering in cobwebbed places, floating in stagnant ponds, digging in uncovered holes, looking for comfort in the empty. It's too lonely a place and desperate a feeling. Must be what the leaf feels when clinging to the branch and then releasing. The pause between holding on and letting go--exposed to how the wind might receive you, hoping that it will carry you well and with the grace of time. Hoping that it will embrace you and instill comfort in the moment between hope and reality. Praying that when things settle in silence, you'll be at peace and not in pieces.

Craigy, my brother. The standard. That guy who'd call me on a Friday night when others wouldn't; we'd laugh out loud at life in general and all things specific, wondering when things would finally kick in for the deserving, realizing that it already had in so many ways. We were loving siblings who relied on each other like a drunk to Jim Bean. We were the air in each others lungs; the calm in each other's shaking. And like a subtle decrescendo, we always found a peaceful way to end the days, end the months, end the years - we were always part of the rhythm, the beat, the notes that created it all. No matter what, the four of us were together: Diane, Jill, Craig and I. We were each other. We were it all, the crescendo and the fall. We were the fame and the flame on the lonely nights of rain. We were the summers and the spring. We were the smiles and tears, the wayward pushes and loving insults. The gentle competition and nudge to be more than we were. The desire to be at least something to each other, and to each other we were the world. The foursome. The impenetrable foursome somehow penetrated by cancer. Craig was my world, my brother, my other. He is my other and always will be my other.

There are few pleasantries in this; fairness is too hard to find. Cancer is that pitiful, amorphous form curled up in a neglected corner ashamed of taking someone so young, so vibrant, someone destined to impact this world so profoundly. Cancer, that unnecessary tool that reminds us to appreciate absolutely everything as if human consciousness was really capable of storing up all that is meaningful. Cancer, that steals dreams, milestones, ambitions and travel destinations yet undiscovered. Cancer, that f^&*#r who steals your soul on a Friday night without a $5 bill to pay your way home.

Cancer took Craigy like my mom, taking their buoyancy before too long. They weathered the storm as long as they could, longer than many would, with waves beating against their will. They stood there still. Until the air left them; until their eyes left them; until their hearts left them. And, we stood there still, never leaving their sides.

Craigy, man of virtue and strength, needing our assistance to hold your head as your muscles waned. Who will be our mark of excellence as we sail another zinger? Who will flare their nostrils and excite their "frankenviens" in tribute to a worthy joke or smartass comment? Who will be there to call and talk for hours when few would with such regularity? Who will be you? Who could be you? Jill, Diane and I are truly the luckiest sisters. We were YOUR sisters. We ARE your sisters.

There's no relief in death, only relief that he's not suffering. That comment would make more sense if he ever articulated that he was suffering, but he didn't. He took it on the chin like a Roman soldier, taking the discomfort with the comfort of existence. Any one of us would have gladly dedicated our lives to Craig's caretaking if it meant one more day of his life here with us and a life for himself -- and one that he enjoyed.

There's no relief. Doubtful there will ever be.

Just the empty feeling of a tin cup for a phone. ~E

A Celebration of Craig

September 12th, Craig meandered from a question of pleasant, recurring visions to that of his memorial service:

C: ...That's how they celebrate the passing of the dead in their culture. With music, drink and food all through the night and everyone's welcome. That instilled in me a sense of generosity, that when you go, it can be a generous act. When I go it can be a generous act. I can bring people together at least for a brief period of time, to reflect on their lives, and enjoy themselves. That's I guess what I want my memorial service to be like. A celebration of them. A celebration of our time together - friends and family. Not just an egocentric celebration.

C: Another memory: the musicians in Bali this past summer inviting me into their home. The Gamelan garage band. Those guys invited me in with a sense of generosity and hospitality, and that's how I think this leaving process should be. There should be a sense of hospitality and welcomeness. Life is a kind of dwelling.

In that spirit, we invite all who knew Craig directly and indirectly to celebrate his life and life in general.

Craig expressed a desire to have two memorials, one for his Denver family and one for his Oklahoma family. Please join us in a tribute to Craig this Saturday at 10am, Denver CO (venue to be determined shortly).

Craig's services will be organized by the Cremation Society of Colorado:

3020 Federal Blvd

Denver, CO 80211

303.797.6888

In lieu of flowers, you can contribute to the Lawler Foundation through our website or to the Kidney Cancer Association at http://kidneycancer.org/

The Stillwater service will occur the following Saturday. Venue and time to be determined.

Love to all. Enjoy each day.

~E

Craig

Craig,

I've been waiting to be ready to say goodbye and the feeling just isn't there. I can still feel your chin on my shoulder and your hands on my arms. I'm so sorry this ever happened. I miss you, love you and will learn how to let you go.

D

To my handsome brother...

I can't believe you're gone. Just three days ago, we were talking about life, dreams, and how we'd like to be remembered. I'll miss your voice, and your wisdom; your smiling eyes and your contagious laugh; your charm and big-brother sass. I'll miss our travels and late night conversations. Mostly, I'll miss you. Mom was my heart; you were my soul. You were my living memory, the person to whom I referred when I needed to recall an experience, a travel destination, a joke, or a piece of trivia. Your intelligence knew no bounds. You made life real for so many, and taught us what it means to truly live.

I'm not sure how all this is supposed to go. To say this was your time would be a lie. This wasn't your time. You weren't supposed to pass on from cancer just two months shy of your 33rd birthday. But, for an end that came far too soon, you handled it with characteristic grace and courage.

This will hurt, Craigy. And it will take a while before we're back on our feet. But as I promised, we'll get through this as a family.

I love you, Craigy. You're in my heart - always. -- J

Goodbye Craigy

Craig passed away in his apartment at 5:45 this evening in the company of his sisters, father and girlfriend. His passing was peaceful, beautiful and the way he wanted.

Craig is one of the greatest men I've ever known. He is my best friend, my brother, my role model and I will miss him beyond description.

I love you Craigy!! ...with all my heart.

~E

Tequila Sunrise

Craig and I are sharing what may be our last sunrise together. And it's beautiful, as sunrises go. I'm buzzing Craig's hand as an amber glow casts a large shadow on his bed and walls. His head drifts gently to the left with each sporadic breath. As the sun's glow takes on a more lemon colored hue, I can't help but admire the view: Erin and Diane snuggled on the bed; Emily sleeping on the floor just below; and a beautiful Craig resting just to the left of me. Perfect. I'm on watch (since 6am when I switched with Erin) as Erin, Diane, Emily and Dad catch up on rest.

That we're all here together is a gift - a gift we're taking one day at a time. After a long night of laughter, tears, and storytelling, we awake this morning to a similar state as yesterday. Craig is still with us, though his body continues to weaken. His breathing is more sporadic, and his heart beats just a little fainter. Still, he's holding on. Occasionally, he appears to be fighting, as if trying to will himself awake. But the process is too strong. With every breath, I can feel more of Craig releasing. He is doing this his way, and on his terms. I'm honored to be by his side as he continues to let go. -- J

Night Duty

It's 4:00am, September 26th. Craig's raspy breaths fill an otherwise quiet room -- a stark contrast to our hours of laughter and chatter earlier this evening. As he slept, we sat around his bedside and shared memories of Mom and Craig while harp music played in the background. We sorely missed Craig's witty contributions, and that acknowledgement quieted the tenor for the rest of the evening. For another two hours, we held his hands and whispered words of love, comfort, and peace. On several occasions, Dad gently caressed Craig's head, smoothing his hair in a fatherly way. The gesture between a father and son was exceptionally tender while exceptionally heartbreaking.

Now, Jill and Diane are tucked into Craig's queen-size bed, while Emily sleeps near them on the floor. Dad is in the other room sleeping on Craig's hide-a-bed. I'm awake on night duty.

I pulled night duty at the hospital the night mom was "transitioning", and sat by her bed in an uncomfortable chair as Diane and Jill tried to sleep. This was before we finally realized that her loud, unmistakable breaths served as a nighttime compass, pointing the direction of her "process" and giving confidence that she was still with us.

Craig's breaths are all too quiet to lend that confidence, so I'm awake to monitor his pulse and respirations, ever-ready to gently wake the others should I see a change. Craig's pulse still remains strong at ~104 beats per minute and his respirations are still, well, there. Finding some consistency is as difficult as finding a trend-line on a Dalmation and probably just as useful.

So, here I sit. Every now and then, Jill or Diane will pop up like one of their favorite meerkats on Meerkat Manor, and look around waiting for breath sounds or my sign that things are okay -- for now, they are. At some sad and horrific point in the near future, they won't be.  ~E

3 Months

The five of us sit at Craig's bedside; hold his hands and legs or buzz his head; and watch his 32 year old body slowly give into the cancer that has overcome him. With his body now limp, pale blue eyes open and fixed on some unknown image deep in his unconscious, and breaths faint and shallow, his 7 month battle is nearing its end.

Craig peacefully rests between sheets atop his blue hospital air mattress; his tilted head lifts ever so slightly with each breath as harp music quietly plays in the background. The image could be an identical overlay to what we experienced three months ago to the day, when our mom drew her last breaths. I remember sitting next to her, head down on her bed, holding her hand as I listened to that now unforgettable way of breathing. Then, like now, harp music serenaded her deep, unconscious sleep. Of all days, Craig spent this day, September 25th, "transitioning". The odds are uncanny. A cynical person would begin her tirade of curse words and flip her finger at life's extraordinarily cruel sense of humor. Yet, a sentimental person would view Craig's transitioning on Mom's 3 month anniversary as her way of extending her arms and saying to her first born child, "I'm here, sweetheart. I love you. It will be okay."

I've vacillated between the two mindsets, but have found myself drawing more comfort in (perhaps the hopeful) notion that this day's significance purposefully brings a mother to her son, and a son to his mother.

Today, in tribute to both of them, we brought Mom closer to Craig. Diane suggested we celebrate Mom with Craig by playing several of her videos; we also placed her famous "thumbs up" picture on his bed rail near him. Dad, Diane, Jill and I cried as we listened to Mom's healthy, full voice belt out happy birthday for Craig's 31^st (Lawler style), and sing her famous rendition of "So Long, Farewell".

Maybe, in some small way, hearing Mom's voice brought him comfort and peace. Maybe, it brought him closer to her. And, maybe it was yet another way for her to say, "I'm here, sweetheart. I love you. It will be okay."

~E

To Catch a Tear

"You know one thing Craig and I have in common are elevated ulnar wrist bones. You see?" Craig looks at me and says, "I didn't know we share that in common." That exchange comes back to me now as I hold his hand, taking in the similarities, memorizing the features. There's a profound sense of desperation to shore up memories, having been through this once before with Mom. Never means never.

Something has changed with Craig making that realization ever more potent. The secretions in his throat have increased, partly due to lack of muscle strength and partly due to diminished lungs now too flooded to properly move air. He yelped throughout the night last night in attempt to clear his throat. And, as if that wasn't enough to disrupt his sleep, he struggled with using the urinal. No longer able to stand on his own, and terrified to stand for fear of falling, we moved to the third best option -- merely using his depends. This was clearly distressing to him, though we tried to make the event as pleasant and normal as possible. The parallels to our mom weren't lost on him and he articulated how scared he was to lose the ability to stand, to urinate, and to swallow - all of which have deteriorated significantly in the last few days. To understand the context of his symptoms and to hear his fear so softly heard in his labored words was absolutely heartbreaking.

Three days ago, I recall timing my apple bites to his respirations. I would wait to hear his labored breath and then take a bite, confident that he was in fact breathing at least for the next 20-30 seconds. Now, it's nearly impossible to tell. Two or three days ago, we would assist Craig standing but could ultimately give him privacy to use the urinal. Monday, we were bracing him while he urinated and by yesterday, he could no longer stand with assistance. The exhaustion and subsequent fear of falling were too extreme. Yesterday, Jill and I helped him to his feet but he began hyperventilating and he had to sit back down.

With swallowing, Craig could slowly muscle down his pills with several gulps of water three days ago. Two days ago, we began crushing his pills as swallowing posed too great a risk for him aspirating. Last night, I rummaged through our mom's medicine/caretaker bag in search of her pill crusher. (To see her half-empty Dasani water bottle waiting to be finished stung my heart, tears immediately filled my eyes. So many of her belongings still wait for her, for our grieving). I found the pill crusher and was able to give Craig his pills crushed in a few spoonfuls of applesauce.

That was yesterday. Last night and this morning hit a new level of hard for Craig and he was painfully aware of it throughout it all - the increased difficulty breathing, the near inability to speak, and his growing incontinence. Sandy, the hospice nurse, has since inserted a catheter to ease urination, and we've begun giving an IV push medication to dry up his secretions and help him breathe. By early this evening, Craig was still relatively responsive enough to give the thumbs up to the harp music playing, but was generally uncommunicative and in increasingly more pain. His coughs now reveal a wetness we have not yet heard; he grimaces with each unsatisfying cough either in pain or fear that he can't clear the phlegm.

Now, as of a few hours ago, he is no longer responsive.

The five of us sit by his side, wanting to be near him. I watch him breath, watch his cheek tendon now so perfectly visible twitch sporadically. A sketch of his face would comprise only hard lines and shadows. This cancer has taken everything from him; he's not but skin and bones. Tears collect in the concaved groove of his hollow eyes much like our Mom, yet hers fell the length of her cheek. Now, as I did then, I extend a white paper towel to catch his tears.

We watch him, talk to him, reminisce with him, tell him over and over how much we love him, and that it will be okay. Soon, he'll be at peace. ~E

A Place That's Familiar

It’s one in the morning, and not one of us is asleep. We haven’t been able to wake Craig since five this evening. He’s drifted to a place that we can’t follow. All we can do is hold his hand and talk about the good times, and memories of happy lives together. He can hear us; that we know. Whether he’ll wake tomorrow waits to be seen. While one part of me wants to hear his voice one more time, another hopes the end to his pain is near. He looks peaceful; to wake him from this would be cruel.

So, here we are -- a place that seems so familiar. The timing of all of this is ironic, yet beautiful. Three months ago today, we were huddled in Mom’s hospital room, awaiting the worst. Tonight, we are huddled in Craig’s hallways and in his room, discussing his symptoms and acknowledging that something profound has occurred. Emily has called into work; Dad has joined our slumber party and has taken his spot on the couch. He’s sleeping on Craig’s rickety hide-a-bed and has borrowed one of Craig’s old scarves to shield his eyes from the morning sunlight. The accommodations aren’t perfect, but good enough. We called Dad a few hours ago with the latest. Though he was already preparing for bed at Georgia and Woody’s, he decided to drive the distance to Craig’s to be with his son. And if Craig were awake, he’d laugh. The scarf around his eyes makes Dad look like we plucked him straight off the Greyhound bus; now we’re holding him hostage in the front room. Hilarious. At least we’re laughing.

It’s strange how one can be so sure – so absolutely sure – about something, and then just as quickly, it changes. Our life has been altered drastically. But in this change, we find beauty and peace. As I sit by Craig’s side, I can feel the love around him. We’ll be by his side until the end; when that will be, is Craig’s decision. -- J

Heartfelt Appreciation

This is not the first time that a post has been written about the caretakers of caretakers, those of you who have taken us into your hearts and lives. I am forever grateful to the many people who have offered a helping hand, a kind word, a sympathetic ear (and yes, a warm meal) not just to Craig, but to those of us who have made it our business to provide his immediate care. There are no words strong enough to express how much that help is appreciated.

There are two people in my life who are particularly deserving of thanks, and I felt they also deserved public mention here, partially because they, like so many of you, are glued to the blog on a daily basis. I have usurped this bit of space on the Lawler family blog in order to thank two people without whom I would not, in turn, have been able to help support Craig.

As I grow older, my mom has become as much my best friend as my mother. She has supported me unflinchingly, in all hours of the day and night. She is my rock, the person with whom I share my deepest sorrow, my greatest stress, and my most profound joy. She is wise beyond measure and experience, and is the source of unlimited amounts of thoughtful advice. My mom is my first line of protection when I cannot protect myself in this sometimes too sad experience. I do not claim to understand the loss that Craig, Erin, Jill and Diane have experienced in their mom's passing. However, I can relate through the panic that squeezes my own heart at the thought of spending even a moment in their shoes. I will never be ready. Thank you Mom, for understanding, for loving me, and for always being there.

The second recipient on today's thank you list has been in my life for a much shorter time, although I feel as though we have been kindred spirits forever. We have weathered singledom, bureaucratic nonsense, break ups, road trips, loss, and heartbreak all in the space of just over two years. My friend Laurel will cringe from this public acknowledgment of my thanks. She prefers to lie low, but I thank her all the same. She has offered every kind of support imaginable. She has cried with me and listened to me cry, knowing instinctively that there is a time for both. She has offered sustenance (to Craig's sisters too!) in the form of coffee, treats, and (of course!) a bicycling magazine featuring my favorite celebrity crush. She has acted as a buffer between me and prying questions, and is preparing to take over my classroom when the time comes that I cannot be there. This evening, she is on her way to my house, braving the steps to the basement and an interaction with limpy and loony, the kitty twins-a braver soul could not be found. Thank you Laurel, for listening, for offering true support, and for keeping me sane in a mad time.

Attempting to express how thankful I am for the presence of these two people in my life brings tears to my eyes and pressure around my heart. The thanks I can offer will never be enough.

Home is where the heart is

“Craigy, look at the moon.” I turned off the light to help his eyes focus. “Can you see it? It’s just over the horizon.” Craig looks over to the left, and locks in on a full September moon. The five of us stare out into the Denver sky for a few moments before Craig breaks the rhythm and turns back to watching CNN. We’ve enjoyed full moons the past couple of days. It reminds me of watching the moon off the coast of Raleigh in Thailand. It was November and warm; the water was a little rough for the season. Craig and I would sit for what seemed like hours, talking about Mom while watching the moon’s reflection dance across the ocean water. Now as we peer out at the same moon, the reality of where we are comes rushing back with equal force.

It’s hard to believe that eight months have passed since Craig’s diagnosis. Little did he know that his apartment would someday welcome an entire family of squatters. For eight months, at least one family member – if not the entire gaggle of sisters – has crashed at his place. With Emily, the number of squatters is closer to four. Like a bad version of Goldilocks, we’ve sat in his chairs, ate his porridge, and crashed his bed. Though it must be unnerving to be surrounded by so much estrogen, Craig doesn’t seem to mind. Growing up with three sisters was like going through an extended period of hazing, with rituals that, to this day, make little sense. Though I feel every man should first go through a sister “internship,” I’m sure Craig would disagree. Whatever the case, eighteen plus years living with us prepared him well to endure these past eight months of “sisterness”.

Though we’re essentially occupying his place, we never forget that we’re his guests – that this is his home. He’s been gracious enough to open his life to us, and we try to be respectful in that regard. The routine of doing his laundry, cleaning his apartment, and washing his dishes helps us feel normal. In a way, we’ve recreated a home for ourselves, a home that strikes an interesting semblance to our life back in Stillwater. Although we feel comfortable here, it’s hard to escape the reason why -- after several years of living separate lives -- we find ourselves living with each other once again.

Cancer has closed in on Craig early; it’s taken over the better part of his 32nd year. In fact, it’s taken nearly everything, except his spirit. From the beginning, Craig (and Mom) has required total care taking. With the level of care Craig required, he would have most likely been transferred to a skilled nursing facility months ago. But that was never an option. As with Mom, he deserved more. We “moved” to Denver out of a sense of duty. Rather, we’ve come to surround him with the love and support he deserves, and to honor his wishes to live his life by his own standards.

His apartment is not 1109 N. Skyline, but it’s our home nonetheless. Craig is one of several hundred in this downtown high-rise apartment. Despite its size, there’s a real sense of community here which has made us feel welcome. His neighbors have become acquaintances; the apartment management and staff follow Craig’s process as if they were family. We know people not by name, but by appearance, the dogs they walk, or their apartment floor. These are the people that leave magazines on Craig’s doorstep or notes of encouragement on his door or funds for care taking in envelopes downstairs. This has been his home for the past seven years; it’s clear Craig has touched many during his stay.

For seven years, Craig has been a part of the Denver Place community. Not too long ago, Craig was that young guy in the hall, that “man with the swim bag” heading off to the nearby gym, or that person mingling with neighbors at the monthly get togethers. It's easy to picture him chatting with his friend Bill on the way up to his floor, or talking law with an older judge who lives on a floor just above. I can see him coming and going just as his neighbors do, and with similar freedom.

It’s hard to imagine that, while people continue on with their daily activities, Craig struggles with the end stages of cancer behind closed doors. His life seems oddly separated from the fast-paced life he once led. I often wonder about his neighbors, about those who don’t yet know of Craig’s sudden turn. I wonder how they would react to the news that Craig -- that guy once so full of energy -- is now nearing the end of his young life.

That he’s nearing his end is still unbelievable. Craig’s experience with kidney cancer has been vastly different from Mom’s battle with brain cancer. With Mom, her process of decline occurred relatively gradually over eleven months. Mom was fairly functional during her first six months with cancer. Then her tumor began picking away at her cognitive and motor functions. It started first with the tumor, then wobbly walking, then incontinence. When she lost her ability to walk without support, we helped her with a walker. When her balance worsened and she was no longer able to stand, we helped her bathe and use the commode. And when her tumor inhibited her motor abilities, we helped her eat and drink.

With Craig, saying goodbye to his past life has seemed to occur all at once. In fairly quick progression, cancer overwhelmed his ability to eat and drink. When the vomiting became too much, we helped Craig cope by administering meds and TPN. As his cancer progressed, the tumors became more painful. When the pain worsened, we helped Craig by applying fentanyl patches. But when the cancer invaded his diaphragm, and he became short of breath, there was little we could do to help. Over time, the pain became too much for Craig to sustain long expulsions of breath; cancer took away his ability to do what he enjoys most: playing harmonica.

Now, as he’s unable to walk, his world has become his apartment, and even more, his bedroom. He lives in a one bedroom apartment, with a living space and a kitchen. In the front room, walls are spotted with random paintings from Craig’s bedroom in Stillwater. Two paintings that once hung in his room share equal prominence in his Denver living room. Artifacts from his travels line his bookshelf and windowsill. A samurai sword – a present from me on his 30th birthday – rests just behind a love seat within easy reach should a guest become too boring.

Though the living room is a welcoming place, Craig spends all of his time in his bedroom. Compared to the front room, Craig’s bedroom is a tad austere. His form of decorating includes two pencil sketches which hang above his bed. Blown up pictures of our life in Stillwater hang off the door, adding color to otherwise bare walls; a bamboo plant keeps Craig company from its spot in the corner. Where his room may lack in personality, it makes up in clutter. Craig has surrounded himself with the things he loves most: books, books, and books. Shakespeare fights with Yeats, Nietzsche and Beckett for space while nameless stacks of journals and boxes line his closet shelves. Valentine lights string the ground from a past life.

His room is many things: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen (if you count TPN) and pharmacy. Though his life is now confined to this single room, and he’s offloaded every single task of living -- except living itself -- to us, he rarely complains. Like Mom, he’s lived these last eight months as he has his entire life, with courage and grace that, in our world, is hard to come by. Like Watermelon Slim described, Craig’s very much an old soul. He listens with his heart, and plays music with his soul. He tells stories as if he’s lived twice as long as his 32 years, yet listens with a patient ear. He’s a romantic and a poet. He listens to Coltrane and Charlie Parker, but can sing the lyrics to all things Cream. He reads Seneca and Nietzsche, and enjoys the art of a well crafted phrase. He loves Jane Austen and stories that leave open the possibility of redemption and alternative understandings.

His home -- and specifically, his bedroom -- is a gathering place for lively debates, philosophical discussions, and tearful conversations. It’s a respected space, a place for deep reflection. More than this, his bedroom is his sanctuary. After traveling the world and the better parts of Denver, it is now unlikely Craig will ever be able to leave his room. Though Craig has fought hard these past eight months, he's nearing the end of his process. Cancer has done all that it could possibly do to Craig. But though this space may be bereft of healing, it’s not absent of love and peace. By staying here, he’s surrounded by all that he loves most, and all that is familiar. By staying here, he’s able to set the parameters for how he would like to live the rest of his days. Craig is with us because he’s able to live these days in his home and not in a facility. As Sandy said last week, Craig would have most likely passed long ago had he been subsequently transferred to a nursing facility back when he started TPN. The same is true for Mom. We’ve always said that cancer is a family, and oftentimes a community, effort. Though our decision to help Mom and Craig through their process was simple, it could not have been done without the community of friends that he continues to have around him.

Our sole purpose now is to make his last days comfortable. To be able to spend his last days in the comforts of his own home is, and has been, important to him. Though, for Craig, there are no alternative endings, Craig still has the ability to dictate the terms and to craft his denouement to a long struggle with cancer. Craig would have surely chosen a different ending to his life; never did he imagine that he’d lose it so soon to cancer. But, though cancer may have drafted the outline, Craig still has the ability to fill in the details, to leave on his own terms. Even with cancer, there’s still room for a happy ever after. – J

Some things never change

At around noon, Craig is usually sleeping off a restless morning. Today, however, he’s having a hard time falling asleep. I sit beside him with my hand on his leg. His head is cocked to the right and his eyes are open. He lays wide-eyed, staring at his door of photos. His poor eyesight prevents him from seeing the familiar faces that we’ve taped on his door. I ask him which photo has caught his eye. He makes a “thumbs up” gesture, indicating that he’s looking at the now famous photo of Mom, which was taken shortly after a fall. He asks me about the photo pasted to the left of her picture. It’s of Diane, with Mom peering behind a large vase of flowers. After some moments reminiscing, Craig turns his gaze towards me. His eyes lock in with an intensity I haven’t seen, as if he wanted to tell me something but couldn’t muster the words. I return his tearless gaze, determined that this time, I wouldn’t cry. But then, it hits me. As I gaze into Craig’s blue eyes, I realize the enormity of our situation. There have been countless times where I’ve relayed painful information to friends and families, looked into frightened eyes, and shared the worst without crying. This is not one of them. The tears stream down in a free fall. The impact of tear after tear creates a small dark pool on his sheets. Craig just buzzes my hand, and waits for the outpour to stop. After a few moments of red-faced sniffling, I let out a laugh and admit to Craig that every time I tell myself not to cry, but it never works out as planned. I told him it reminded me of the time when I sat weeping at a restaurant just on the coast of Raleigh beach. Craig’s visit to Thailand provided me the first outlet to really talk about Mom, and I selfishly took advantage. As I cried about Mom, Craig patiently sat next to me. Though he eventually joined me in crying, it wasn’t with the same ferocity. He simply held my hand and listened; he was as strong then as he is now. It’s nice to know some things never change. -- J

Bringing Down the House

This is a memory courtesy of Craig's friend, Stina. I recall Craig bragging about the event but never thought he literally brought the house down. I don't know why not -- seems like a very typical scenario for him. He beamed and bragged, once again, when we read him this message... Enjoy. ~E

...I thought I'd share with you one of my favorite Craig memories, so you can ask him about it. A bunch of us (Kim was there, some other S&H folks) went out to karaoke one night at a place called Odgen St. Tavern (or something like that). We all took our turns doing our ear-bending renditions of various 80s hits - the usual Livin' on a Prayer, I Love Rock N Roll, Paradise City...you get the picture. Craig's song didn't come on until prime time (after everyone in the bar had the right ratio of alcohol flowing in the bloodstream), and he chose to sing Get Up (Sex Machine) by James Brown. It was the first time I heard him sing and I was blown away by how good he was - and he was IN the role! Movin' like James Brown, hitting the words. Just a blast to watch. Clearly, the rest of the bar patrons felt the same. In a few verses, everyone in the bar was dancing and singing along. Several folks (not in our group) jumped on the tables and started dancing. This was back in the day when the bar still had TV monitors mounted from the ceiling to provide lyrics to the singers. Next thing you know, the tvs are falling off the ceiling from all the commotion and the karaoke DJ angrily puts a stop to Craig's show and to all the karaoke for the rest of the night. Craig literally brought the house down. It was great. To this day, TV monitors are not mounted on the ceiling there.

Mama's big brown wagon

A couple nights ago, as I was drifting off to sleep, I kept having this image run through my mind. It was of my mom driving her big ol' brown station wagon that she used to have when we were kids. You know the kind, faux wood panelling on the doors, vinyl seats so hot in the summer they would literally give you third degree burns. So, I kept having this picture in my mind of mom driving into the room in the station wagon to pick Craig up. He got into to the front seat and off they went. Where they were going, hell if I know, but she had on her crazy super-fly, rose-tinted sunglasses and was cackling away.

I don't believe in visions, or that mom is going to "come for Craig." But the station wagon does have special significance in our family which is why I think it popped into my mind. Each of our birthdays was never complete until Mom told the story of our birth, from beginning to end, including every contraction, epidural, stitch and swearword. Craig's always began with that damn station wagon. "Well," she'd say. "Once I began labor I called your father to tell him I was heading to the hospital and decided to take the car in to get it worked on since I wasn't going to need it. Boy did their eyes get big when I told them I was in labor and heading to the hospital!" And so the story goes.... Suffice it to say, that was a point of pride for her; practicality above all else. I was re-telling this a couple days ago with Emily here and got to the Craig-had-a-huge-head-so-they-had-to blah, blah, blah part when Craig broke in to say, "I like my head." We all cracked up of course. That giant cranium has definitely proven to be his biggest asset!

D

Make it through the Night

Each night, we turn Craig's one bedroom light out and flip on his closet night as a nightlight. As children, our mom would strategically place nightlights in our rooms and hallways to ward off the boogie man and to illuminate the path should we urgently need the bathroom in the midst of a hazy dream. Here, though the nightlight does little good with our 'boogie man,' as cancer thrives in the dark all the same, its glow is just enough to see his chest rise. Of late, such an event is increasingly harder to confirm.

Craig's breathing patterns have changed significantly, falling from 6-8 respirations per minute to 5-6, and now 4. Though somewhat disconcerting to hear, his labored inhalations and exhalations bring quiet comfort that he is in fact breathing. Yet, at night, things change.

Saturday night, Craig's breathing quieted to subtle puffs of air and he yelped through part of the night, not necessarily from pain but as a means to forcefully release air. Early in the morning, he awoke calling for help, "Help! I need some help!" Diane came to his side and later mentioned that he said he had seen mom, and that she had fallen and needed help. I later asked him if he remembered dreaming of mom and he emphatically said, "Yeah, she had fallen in the front seat of the car and needed help." He said that the dream was a haze and couldn't remember if she said anything to him and or what the dream meant, if anything.

But last night was different. His nighttime audibles ceased as soon as the lights went out. His breathing grew eerily quiet. Throughout the night, we repeatedly sprung awake to stare intently at his chest, hoping to hell we didn't somehow sleep through his passing. There's no comfort in sleep anymore. To go to bed with that chance, with the very real possibility that he could simply stop breathing while we rest next to him, is beyond comprehension. Reluctantly, we retire to bed. Yet, the realization that we haven't checked on Craig somehow pierces through a shallow sleep and draws us awake; we prop ourselves on our elbows and wait. Still bleary-eyed, it's difficult to gaze at his chest for the duration his increasingly long apnea requires, and I often find myself willing my eyes open and my mind awake to concentrate. At 5:30 this morning, our angle from the bed did not suffice; we couldn't tell if he was breathing, so we calmly approached his bedside preparing for the worst. This is really Craig who is dying, this is really happening, and it could happen at any moment. It's beyond difficult. The harrowing moments in which there are no respirations and you're left silently pleading "not yet, please not yet" defy description. 

Finally, a breath. A shallow, quiet breath.

And, somehow, we've managed to make it through the night. ~E

Slumber Parties

"I'm going to miss this view," Diane says as she peers up from her spot on the bed.

I turn my head towards the window.  "Yeah, the clouds look peaceful."

"Did you see the moon last night?" Erin asks.  Diane and I nod our heads. 

Then Diane asks, "Can you get your knee out of my back?" "Move over big hips."

And so goes another slumber party for the Lawler four.  The three girls are resting on Craig's bed as he sleeps just a few feet over.  True to form, we're in the same sleeping positions as we've been in for the past several months:  Diane and I on the ends with Erin sandwiched in the middle.  It's a tad crowded but better than the floor routine we had at the hospital.  I can imagine the sight of us:  three grown women packed in like sardines for a mid-afternoon nap with their brother sleeping soundly on his hospital bed just to the right. 

We wouldn't risk leaving his side for a posh room at the Ritz.  More than this, we wouldn't miss a nice Lawler-style slumber party.  Whether traveling together, visiting each other during the holidays, or crashing each other's rooms while growing up, we've always found comfort in sibling slumber parties. 

In fact, one of my favorite memories is of the four of us bunking out in Diane's room just before Christmas.  Pre-Christmas slumber parties were tradition so that, on Christmas Day, no one was disadvantaged for sleeping in -- our entire life was one big competition.  On Christmas morning, the four of us would sit in the hallway against the hall door, bracing our feet against the wall, as if to block each other from the loot that awaited us on the other side of the door.  When the doors would open, we'd sprint to the living room towards PRE-LABELED packages.  Though each package was clearly marked, we still raced to see who could open the presents the fastest. 

Slumber parties for the purpose of preventing Christmas Day sabotage soon gave way to slumber parties for the sake of conversation.  As adults, chats about relationships, school, and jobs would carry us well into the morning hours.  Most often, we'd end the night in fits of laughter, usually after an impromptu dress-up session.  Craig has a picture on his refrigerator of one such dress-up session where we donned ski caps and danced to Rage Aainst the Machine's "I Could Just Kill a Man." 

Some of our best conversations have occurred during slumber parties.  Granted, now our slumber parties have taken on a new meaning, still crashing here with Craigy feels natural.  Like in the past, we end each night with silly stories, impromptu dances, and "I Love Yous."  The only difference is rather than join us; Craig now looks on from his bed.  And, unlike before, sleep is a harder destination to find.  Even now, as I fight back yawns from my spot on Craig's bed, my body won't allow me to drift off into oblivion; Craig is much too fragile for that kind of hard sleep. 

He's breathing now four times every minute, which, for me  -- who has tried to mimic his breathing -- is impossible to maintain.  It's hard to describe how it feels to be cuddled in Craig's bed knowing he's struggling for his life in the next bed over.  We're hardly sleeping as a result.  At night, we strain to hear his breaths.  Eventually, we'll give in to fatigue and allow his breaths to lull us to a light sleep.  But it's not uncommon for one of us to spring up during sleep just to stare at Craig's chest to see if he's breathing.  On other occasions, someone will whisper, "boy, that was a long one" referring to the time between breaths.  Awake and listening along, we'll inevitably whisper "yep."  When he calls out, someone is always there to offer assistance or lend an ear. 

Craig has defied predictions in many regards.  When Mom was nearing the end of her journey, her respirations dropped below six within the last few hours of her life.  Craig, on the other hand, has been breathing at this rate for the past several days, and remarkably, his oxygen saturation hasn't dropped.  Though he's breathing only four times a minute, he's still able to hold brief conversations.  Despite losing much of his muscle mass to cancer and immobility, he's still able to stand, though with assistance.  Still, he remains in a fragile state.  We want to be here for Craig as we were with Mom.  We want to be here during the wakeful moments, as well as when he sleeps. 

Knowing that I'm not alone, and that Erin and Diane are here with me ready to offer support, brings me comfort.  I'm not sure how we'd get through this emotionally had we not all been here.  I can't imagine going through this alone, or the frustration of having to explain extremely painful thoughts and emotions to them.  Thankfully, "not being here" has never been an option for us.  The four of us have been each other's best friend.  So many nights I've fallen asleep to their laugher; it's only fitting that we're all here together, though I wish under better circumstances. -- J

Why So Serious?

By hook or by crook, we find a way to laugh through the changes despite the pain and sadness they bring. Earlier today, Jill relayed an event where she rode the elevator with two guys and noticed the back of her shirt was tucked into her underwear, revealing a good two inches of whitey-tighties. Jill joked that it was for lower back support - orthopedic underwear. Shortly thereafter, Diane noticed Jill's underwear literally swallowing half of her back yet again, capturing her shirt once more. This somehow quickly spiraled into one of our infamous impromptu dress up sessions with the only goal being to make oneself as hideously unattractive as possible. Jill tucked her black t-shirt into her green pants, slipped on a brown fleece, and donned dad's Crocodile Dundee hat to complete the zoo-keeper "I need to clean the tiger cage" look.  The hysterical laughter woke Craig and he momentarily enjoyed our playful dress up spirit - an activity he willingly participated in back in the day.

A few hours later, the sisters huddled around Craig's bed as is customary, and giggled over melodramatic renditions of bad 80's/90's songs --songs that we dutifully turned into lullaby-esque/Linda Ronstadt "whisper voice" style. "She paints her eyes as black as night now; pull those shades down tight. Yeah, she gives a smile when the pain comes. The pain gonna make everything alright. Says she talks to angels, they call her out by her name..."  The bed moved with our obligatory animated posturing and giggling as we transformed the Black Crowes. Jill asked Craig if he liked having his sisters giggling around him, and he said, "Yeah". Even now, at this very vulnerable and precious time of his life, he doesn't mind having his younger sisters around him acting silly; in fact, he yearns for it. As Jill said, "it's neat that we are so in tune with each other that we know when to come in with a joke, that we can anticipate how Craig may be feeling." We have such similar senses of humor that we play off each other seamlessly, trailing (or talking over) another's sarcastic comment as if on cue. He looked at us as Mom often did, merely enjoying the company and jovial spirit, occasionally responding to something we said or did with raised eyebrows or an emphatic "yeah!"

Our singing and laughing meandered into retelling tales of our travels in Lithuania, where Diane studied abroad. I was Craig's roommate while Jill and Diane bunked in her room upstairs. Craig and I would talk every night before finally saying our "good nights". Every morning, I would follow Craig in our two-person shower rotation, slipping on his wet and over-sized shower shoes before shuffling down the hall towards the communal showers. (It still surprises me that "precious" actuallly relinquished ownership of his beloved shower shoes to me. I had forgotten my shoes and risked infection, gangrene, disease, sudden death if left barefoot. Ever a protective brother, and probably too grossed out to envision me barefoot in there, he offered his.) He'd tell me whether the water was hot or cold and if there was a line before sending me off. I'd return to the room some moments later to find him in the midst of his morning workout routine. Over his pushups and my moisturizing, we'd talk shop about relationships, work, and the day's events. I've never had the opportunity to travel alone with Craig (without at least one of the sisters). He was to visit me in Maryland the week of Mom's initial diagnosis; naturally, our travel plans changed to destination, Oklahoma. Though we've shared a lifetime of other meaningful experiences together, I can't help but feel a small sense of loss that we never had that opportunity. But, I have Lithuania.

And, I have this day - a day of laughter and silliness by Craig's bedside, a time where we were momentarily just siblings without the sickness.

 ~E

Changes

A few days ago, I asked Craig if he wanted time to talk to us individually about his thoughts and feelings.  After stating a firm yes, Craig drifted off to sleep.  As he did, I reassured him that we'd be there for him if and when he'd like to talk.  Then I turned towards his bedroom window and looked out.  To what, I'm never sure.  Some mornings, it's the sun that catches my gaze; it's comforting to watch the sun emerge from its hidden location just beyond the horizon.  Other times, I'm mindlessly staring at endless stretches of industrial buildings and open fields.  

At some point, we've all assumed the same position:  hands on the window ledge, gazing at some fuzzy spot in the distance.  Sometimes we're searching for meaning or clarity; oftentimes, we're not searching at all.  The window serves as a portal to some unknown destination, an open invitation for our minds to drift to somewhere else.

Now, as I listen to Craig's unsteady breathing, I find myself staring out towards the University of Colorado Hospital.  Though I can barely see its contours from our downtown location, my mind is navigating its halls with haunting familiarity.  It has been two months since we said our final goodbye to Uni C.  Still, I can recall the hospital's carpet, decorations, sound and smell with strange exactness.  To see Uni C from Craig's bedroom is oddly comforting, especially as Craig continues with his journey.       

Craig's hospice nurse, Sandy, visited again earlier this morning, though she was here only two days ago.  She said that after speaking with me yesterday, she felt another visit was needed, if only to help walk us through yet another turn in Craig's process.  His pulse has dropped from 100 to the low 80s, and the time between respirations has become longer.  More than this, Craig seems different.  Though he is more alert today as compared to yesterday, he's having difficulty staying awake.  His facial expressions have also changed; he appears to be grimacing more. 

Sandy spoke with Craig privately about the changes and what they likely mean.  (Craig gave Sandy permission to share their conversation with us.)  Sandy said that his body is slowing down and that it's time for him to give himself permission to let go.  He said he knows.  Craig mentioned that he's been experiencing changes in his body that would suggest he may be nearing the end of his journey.  When that will be is up to Craig. It's his will that is keeping him here.  This is Craig's process; he'll decide to let go when the timing feels right to him.  And, like always, we'll continue to be there in support.  

Sandy said he took the news with courage and that he seemed prepared.  She also mentioned that Craig seems to be opening himself to the possibility of finding peace in and beyond death.  What that may mean to Craig is only for him to know.  But it's clear that Craig feels a change. 

Though he was awake earlier, he's since fallen back to sleep.  I'm typing as he sleeps; Emily is stretched out on Craig's bed just a few feet away, while Diane is perched on the floor by Craig's hospital bed.  She's slowly buzzing his hand as he drifts in and out of sleep.  At one point, she takes a green cloth from his bed and dabs a tear from his eye.  She's also crying. 

He seems to be taking the news well, though he says it's tough to hear.  Though it's hard for any one of us to leave his side, we've started to cycle in alone time to give each other time for private conversation with Craig. We're just taking it one day at a time and will continue to be with him as he works through the changes.  -- J  

Rome

We’re watching season one of Rome on DVD.  I’m laughing because some Roman brought his whistle to the battle field.  He’s squeaking for people to get into formation.  Maybe it's me, but I don’t think a whistle is the most effective tool for keeping soldiers in line, what with all the clinging and clanging.  Dad doesn’t seem so amused.  Rome happens to be one of his favorite shows, and laughing in the middle of it is tantamount to carrying on a conversation during Sex in the City. 

Despite the whistling, Craig’s watching on as Romans battle Romans in a good old version of West Side story.  Dad is sitting in a chair just to his left, while Emily leans against Craig’s wall, cringing at the violence.  Erin and I are quietly mocking the show’s set-like appearance, while men in robes argue about Caesar’s whereabouts.  That he’s interested in Rome is no surprise.  Craig is, after all, Dad’s son.  Romans, and specifically Roman battle formations, are like catnip for the Lawler men.  In this way, I can relate to the women depicted in the mini-series, particularly the feeling of having to hold off an eye-roll while getting a puffed-up lecture about crossing rivers and battle formations and what not.  (Love in my heart, Craig and Dad.)  (What's with the promiscuity? Surely there are more creative scene fillers than what they’ve opted for, or is that really how things went down…anyone who’s seen the show knows what I’m talking about).  

That Craig’s awake, however, is a surprise.  Since yesterday, Craig has been more or less asleep.  When he is awake, he seems less present and engaged.  Today, like other days, Craig seems different.  He’s less communicative, and he appears uncomfortable.  His body is twitching as he watches the movie, and he’s sweating profusely.  His pulse has dropped slightly, as has his blood pressure, though not significantly.  Thougth, he’s still speaking and engaging in minimal conversation, in my gut, I feel as though Craig has taken another turn.  What that actually means, I’m not sure.  Earlier today, I thought Craig had taken a turn for the worse.  But now, he seems to be hanging in there.  He’s a Lawler, after all.  I suppose by now, we’re used to the emotional rollercoaster.  -- J

Grief

Losing Mom, and coping with Craig's illness, has me thinking about grief, and in particular, the five stages of grief.  Experts point to denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance to help frame feelings and emotions that people may experience after a loss.  Granted, the five stages are controversial, at best, but, given that they’ve been bandied about by grief counselors and others to help people cope with loss, they serve as a useful starting point for a lively discussion. 

The five stages of grief were first developed by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross to describe emotions associated with one’s own death, and were later expanded to apply to the emotions survivors may experience after a loss.  Critics argue that her stages were rigidly applied beyond Kubler-Ross’ original intention and taken out of context.  They further argue that there’s no empirical foundation for Kubler-Ross’ stages of grief.  Regardless, the stages of grief remain popular for explaining, well, grief.  Some have expanded the stages to include “pain and guilt,” “an upward turn,” and “reconstruction and working through” as additional stages.  And as they say, not all will experience these five stages, nor are they time oriented or sequential; people may traverse the wide spectrum of emotions multiple times, skip stages, or overlap. 

In reflecting on these stages, I suppose they serve as helpful starting points for recognizing the wide array of emotions one feels when coping with loss.  A more cynical response would tell Kubler-Ross et al to shove it (I suppose that would mean I’m temporarily in the anger stage).  To be honest, I feel the stages of grief are more used by psychologists and counselors to try to help someone work through difficult times then they are used by the actual “griever.” 

Curious to know the family’s feelings on the matter, I asked them to share their thoughts on the five stages of grief.  The common response was “yeah, yeah, yeah.”  While Dad argued against the empirical evidence for supporting the stages of grief, Diane and Emily felt they were too limiting. Diane put it well:  “The stages of grief take away the freedom and originality of experiencing grief.”  Emily added that people should be allowed to “deal with grief as a unique manifestation of their emotions, and shouldn’t be confined to boxes.”  Though for some, it’s useful to know “you’re not alone,” my perspective is rather of feeling handled and slightly invalidated.  It’s like giving “grievers” tacit approval for experiencing what they’re experiencing -- as if by identifying the stage of emotion, one suddenly feels “normal” -- while reminding the griever that what they are feeling is completely unoriginal.  Chiming in, Erin said the stages were helpful in that there is some level of commonality and predictability for people experiencing loss, but that the stages and emotions should be construed as “fluid.”  

Craig agreed.  He added that he feels like he confronts most of the stages – except depression and bargaining – almost daily and often multiple times.  Ultimately, he doesn’t find the stages helpful, but added that he tries to remain mellow or calm, which may be in line with acceptance.   For Craig, his philosophy is more useful for dealing with cancer, dying, and grief.  He said what was missing from the list was “distraction.”  He tries to keep himself distracted from thinking about where he is.  (To me, distraction is different from denial, and can be a healthy way of coping.)

My chief complaint is why must everything seem so dire?  Where does “happiness” fit in, or “humor”?  The five stages give the impression that people experiencing grief sit around drumming their fingers all day.  Perhaps we’ll be slammed with “denial” or “anger” or “depression” in the months to come, but so far, I see my family taking each day as they come, and laughing through the moments.  I’m still happy in all this sadness.  But could saying this be construed as denial???  What if a person does not encounter one or all of the stages?  Is something, then, wrong with the person?  Should they be fearful of possibly suppressing anger only for it to erupt in some incident to be aired on the evening news? 

And how do these stages apply to multiple losses?  Diane and I thumbed through Kubler-Ross’ second book On Grief and Grieving while waiting for Craig to get his second Hickman inserted.  We recognized familiar chapters on anger, depression, grieving a spouse, etc. but, surprisingly, nothing on grieving multiple losses that were not accident-related.  The chapter that touched on multiple losses referred to a car accident where several members of one family perished.  Kubler-Ross seemed to pass by instances of multiple grief not brought on by tragic accidents. 

Compounded grief, or grieving loss back-to-back, takes on a different form, especially if loss is due to cancer.  Cancer takes absolutely everything, and in the wake, leaves only a mound of sharp lines and crooked edges from which to shape some semblance of understanding.  To live through one death from cancer is difficult; to live through another so soon after the first is inhumane.  How does one stay strong for two people simultaneously, and after a death, how does one honor, in our case, Mom, while being there for Craig?  Compounded grief skews the timing of loss of things. 

And what of the grief of the person going through it?  I remember a time when Mom said to Diane one morning "I don't know how you can sit here and look at me without crying."  I remember her wondering what would be the outcome of her life, all the while worrying about Craig and his illness. What of her grief?  What about her sense of powerlessness to help Craig?  What about her feelings of hope, anxiety, and sadness associated with a terminal prognosis?  Or Craig's fear?  Or of exhaustion, despair, guilt and dread of possibly going through another dying process so soon after saying goodbye to a loved one?  What about patience? I remember a time not so long ago when Craig asked to get up after the third attempt trying to put him to bed.  I looked at Erin and in a joking voice mumbled “Craig Kennedy Lawler, for the love of Christ, find a resting spot.” 

If it’s true that the five stages are not exhaustive, and are merely jumping off points for a broader analysis of how one is coping, then what’s the harm in jotting down a few more stages?  How about “getting on with it;" or “not every waking moment is spent focusing on loss;" or “I’m genuinely happy and not in denial so knock it off with the doubting Thomas expression;" or “I’m angry but not everything has to be couched in grief terms, so cut it with the psychoanalysis B.S.?"  How about hysteria; agitation; rage; annoyance; gallows humor; alcoholism; sniffing blue paint; passing gas; uncomfortable moments of silence; sexual promiscuity/susceptible to peer pressure/rebound relationships/I can’t hold a job four-for-one special stage, etc. (Not all of which, or any actually, we are experiencing, mind you).

I suppose my frustration with the stages of grief stems from an overall feeling of being handled.  'To be' isn't good enough; it has to be defined and neatly wrapped in psychological concepts that are so transient, so fleeting in their time and nature, to warrant little meaning.  Rarely do my emotions linger long enough for me to define them.  What matters is honoring the whole lot of emotions that come with profound loss, and giving people the space to truly experience grief as a manifestation of their unique situation.  After all, as Erin says, "stages of grief show most definition in hindsight. Who says, I'm in the denial stage when actually in denial? Wouldn't that be contradictory?" For me, grief is personal.  The last thing we need is to feel preached to about some archaic notion of what experts consider normal stages of grief.  That might swing me back into anger. ;) -- J 

(This isn't to say that we have been preached to.  This rant is derived more from our prior knowledge of the stages of grief and psychology backgrounds.  Plus, sometimes it's just fun to gripe.  Heck, there's another stage.) 

Times Like These

I see your cat with a broken leg and your little fender bender, and raise you random abdominal pain. Ha Ha ha huhh ugh wait, that's me --one seemingly unlucky lady of late. What makes this infinitely more interesting is, oh by the way, Craig's nearing the end of his very young life and there is literally no more room to accommodate the random and unnecessary. If I had to use text message shorthand, it might read, "WTF!" Throw me a bone, here.

As Jill alluded to, it's true; I've been having random pain in my lower left quadrant of my abdomen, coupled with extreme weakness. The weakness has returned to baseline fatigue, but the pain is still there. I had a doctor's appointment yesterday to investigate the problem. My phone alarm rang early for my morning appointment. Within seconds, Craig answered, picking up his phantom phone and speaking gibberish for several moments to the receiver he held neatly to his left cheek before finally hanging it up.  Perched on our elbows, Jill, Diane and I couldn't help but smile at the image and how wonderfully endearing and earnest he looked lost in his dream. It's almost enough to set the alarm every morning just to watch him answer his 'air' phone.

Doubled over in pain, I wandered into the doctor's office and then wandered out with a script for an ultra sound to look from possible ovarian cysts. The likely diagnosis was nothing unexpected and nothing to worry about. On any other day, the thinking would stop there, but it didn't. I immediately thought of my Mom and how I would have discussed the symptoms, ultra sound test and various "shop talk" with her. This was her domain; she was the person I'd call. "Hey, Mom", I'd say. "Hey, what", she'd inevitably reply. Time again, from random moles to lumps and bumps, she was there as Nurse Mary and as Mom - duel hatted for the task of consoling and deciphering symptoms.  These symptoms aren't ones to raise alarms, but, with our recent history, we have to pursue them nonetheless. Still, I would have described to her in detail the fairly invasive procedure; I would have laughed with her and brought it down to size. She would have said, "It's OK sweetheart". "It's probably this or that but it's better to get checked and be safe than sorry". She would have listened without invalidating me. She would have been there. It is times like these that I realize she isn't there and never will be apart from memory; the feeling couldn't be lonelier. Realizing that loss was the most difficult part of the day--far more difficult than the pain or invasive procedure.

One day later, I've learned that my blood work is normal, as well as the results from my very uncomfortable ultra sound, though I do have a few small cysts on my ovaries. I didn't expect there to be bad news, but it is a quiet relief to hear it. You never know with our luck; wouldn't be too surprised if my ultra sound showed a third ovary shaped in the face of Elvis or the plant from Little Shop of Horrors. No third ovaries, no big problems except for the lingering question of "why the sudden pain?" "We know what's right with you, but we don't know what's wrong" as the doctor put it. She recommended a CT scan just to cover all bases.

At this stage, I chalk it up to mystery pain to befriend my other mystery pains, and find it difficult to justify further testing when those tests would pull me away from my increasingly fragile brother. But, he'd want them taken as would my Mom. If my sisters had even a hangnail, I'd sedate them and drag them to a doctor for a full MRI. Times like these, we're not taking any chances, not with our recent history - even if this does seem a bit absurd. The unfair and ridiculous have been our "new normal" for so long, why question it now? ~E

Dreams for my father

A few months ago, Dad and I shared a touching moment together, one that I still hold dear.  It was in May, just before Mom and Dad were due to fly Denver via a Williams Energy flight.  We were crying together in his Honda, the first time I really cried with him.  He was confiding in me his fear of losing Mom and Craig, and of being alone.   At one point, I reached out to rest my hand on his shoulder.  It was then I saw him as a man, and not just my father.  As we cried, he told me how he couldn't fathom losing both his wife and son.  In between hiccups, he said how hard it was for him to see his wife fade away before his eyes.  He wondered how he was going to be able to get through her passing, and how he would pick up the pieces of his life after she was gone. 

During our conversation, he also expressed his hesitation about traveling to Denver to see Craig, a hesitation we all felt at the time.  A sick wife is one thing, but a sick wife and son are simply more than a man can reasonably bear.  For a parent to survive a son is a unique kind of grief.  It's impossible to understand how it must feel for a parent to see a child suffer, and be powerless to stop it.  Like any father, Dad was torn.  He wanted to be strong for Craig, but, at the same time, he didn't want Craig to see him break down.    

That he confided his feelings in me was touching, and against the norm of things.  Our society teaches men to be stoic, and fathers to be strong.  I felt honored to be in the seat next to him, listening as he honestly expressed his feelings as they came.  Despite initial reservations, Dad is here in Denver.  He was here with Mom when it mattered most, and has been by Craig's side.  There's no script for living with this kind of grief, but he's doing the best he can.  I know Craig appreciates his presence.  He said the other day that he "enjoys talking with Dad" and that what Dad says "means a lot."  He looks up to him and admires his perspectives.  Mostly, he appreciates having him here.  Though I know it's difficult for Dad to see Craig so sick, it's important that he's with him by his side.   

Four months after our conversation, and three months after Mom's death, I still remember Dad's words.  I remember how he looked as the tears fell.  And I remember how I felt.  Though we've talked about our grief as a family, I still wonder how Dad is doing.  Fears of loneliness and feelings of loss are profound for Dad, as they are for all of us.  But grieving a partner is different from grieving the loss of a parent. 

Though we're here for him, the widower's journey is ultimately private and deeply personal.  Dad didn't just lose his wife of thirty-six years; he lost his best friend, his buddy, his confident, and his first love.  Future plans have been lost to time and cancer.  While our lives of love and companionship still lie ahead of us, Mom was Dad's life.  As he has said, he built his entire life around her; there are aspects of Mom that only Dad knows.  The bond between husband and wife is strong.  For Mom and Dad, that bond was indestructible.  Like many, their union wasn't without incident, but they decided long ago that they'd persevere and weather the rocky times for their love was worth keeping.  We will never truly know the depth of that love, or the fears, hopes and dreams that only they shared.  There will be aspects of his grief that I will never fully understand, as well as those that he will choose to keep private.  Just as the grief of losing a spouse is unique, so too is the grief over the loss of a child.  Craig's death will create yet another unique layer, and though we'll be there to listen, there will be aspects that we won't completely understand. 

There will come a point when there will be the four of us, just trying to pick up the pieces of our shattered lives.  We'll make it through, but it will be different.  For the first time in thirty-six years, our house on Skyline will be quiet with memories of shared lives and love filling the extra spaces.  While the memories may offer comfort, Dad will have to rediscover what it's like to live alone.  As much as it feels natural for the four of us to be together, there will come a time when we'll disperse to chase dreams and resume our independence. 

What then?  What happens to Dad?  How does someone move on after losing a lifelong partner, a best friend, a lover?  How does one say goodbye to long held plans and future expectations?  How does one grieve the loss of a wife, and then grieve again with the loss of a son - and so soon, without preparation or time to make sense of it all?  Mom was the hub of our lives, and Craig the ever trusty spoke.  How does someone pick up the pieces of their life and begin again?  How will he handle living in our house now that two of the five rooms will be permanently empty, and the space beside him on his bed cold?  Will he reengage once shared activities or discard them altogether?  Will he pick up new hobbies?  Will he go back to work?  Or perhaps find love? 

He's said before that he doesn't know how he'll move on with his life, but nearing seventy, he's fearful of a life alone.  In my heart, I know Dad will be okay, but after caring for Craig and Mom, my first instinct is to move back to Stillwater and care for Dad.  It breaks my heart to imagine him living alone.  But at some point, we must continue with our lives, and Dad must continue with his.  He wouldn't want, nor expect, us to put our lives on hold for him.  Still, I feel some aspect of guilt that, at some point, we'll all disperse, leaving Dad to manage his new life alone.  It's a battle of managing expectations, and mostly my own. 

I dream, in time, he finds happiness, friendship, and perhaps love.  I dream he'll continue to go on long afternoon walks; laugh at silly movies; travel and live out retirement plans just as Mom would have wanted.  I dream he'll continue to open his heart and his grief as he did four months ago.  I dream that someday he'll walk us down the aisle, see his little girls become mothers, and teach our children how to kick soccer balls as he did with us when we were young.  I dream he'll find wisdom and understanding in all this loss.  And I dream that, in time, the grief will be less raw.  I dream this for us all, but mostly, I dream it for Dad.     

I've said before that we'll get through this -- in time.  There's energy left for one more rally - a rally for a family that's been through hell and back.  That rally will be long and sustained, and will require all that we have left.  It will be important that we take time for our own grief process, and that we find a balance between comforting each other while also dealing with our own loss.  But, there's energy left; this, I know.  -- J

Whoa there, Wednesday…

Just when it looked like Wednesday was pulling away with the craptastic title, Thursday has dipped its glass-filled hands in foul smelling tar and appears ready for another round.  Yep, we’ve got a good old fashion bruiser on our hands.  But it’s not what – or who – you think.  To sprinkle drama into an otherwise lackluster day, Erin visited the doctor this morning with stomach pain.  Feeling left out, Erin’s little ovaries have been kicking up a fuss, and leaving her doubled over in pain in the process.  We’re awaiting the results on whether she has fibroids or an ovarian cyst or simply a mystery pain.  That’s what you get for putting baby in the corner…literally. 

Though painful, fibroids et al are relatively common, especially for our family.  That special predisposition has passed on to us like premature graying.  Diane and I have both struggled with painful cysts.  In fact, Erin was our fallback just in the event our baby making machines went kaput.  Though surgery is sometimes needed to remove larger ovarian cysts -- Mom underwent an oophorectomy (removal of the ovaries) a few years back to remove large cysts on her ovaries -- most cysts simply reabsorb.  We’re keeping our fingers crossed that that’s the case.    

The fact that they are more or less common is beside the point.  Why now?  Why, in the midst of everything else, must Erin also deal with hyperactive ovaries?  Really, people.  Our shoulders were on the mat a long time ago.  No need for the extra ‘facebuster’ and ‘moonsault’…show offs.  -- J

Common Phrases

"We need to give Craig a bath tonight." This sentence, as well worn and commonplace as the upholstery in Craig's apartment, gave me pause immediately after saying it. To think of it. Bathing Craig?

I began considering all the other phrases, questions, comments we have said throughout Mom and Craig's processes -- phrases we never envisioned becoming cornerstones in our daily dialogue. They help paint a picture of what we've experienced as caregivers.

Here are few we've all said during our time with Mom and Craig...

Craig

-We need to give Craigy a bath...

-Will you change the morphine cartridge?

-Are the food smells hitting his room?

-Boy you haven't vomited that much today.

-We need to change his dressing.

-Does somebody have his bucket?

-Bucket bucket bucket bucket (before he vomits)

-Does he get Factor today? (referring to Factor VIII to help with his blood clotting)

-Is he breathing? Can you hear him breathing? Can you tell whether he's breathing? (very casual remark)

-What's his pulse? What are his respirations?

-I think his anti-emetic bag is out; it's beeping.

-You get his legs, I'll get his back.

-Will you check on Craig?

-It's your turn to do the 6 o'clock meds.

-How's your nausea?

-Has he had his morning/nighttime meds?

Mom

-Did you heparin it? (Referring to Mom's pic line)

-I'll feed Mom.

-Mom seems different today.  She's having a hard time walking.

-Can you help me prop Mom's feet up?

-One, two, three, lift. (Lifting Mom from a chair or car).

-Can you bring the commode closer to her?

-Can you pull up her depends while I take out the commode?

-Can you get Mom up while I make the breakfast?

-Is the pad down? (For using the commode)

-Do the bird perch, Mom. Hang onto the window, now scoot your legs, we'll move your legs for you; pivot, pivot, you can do it, keep pivoting (while we physically pivot Mom and try to move her into the car)

-You get her legs, I'll get her back.

-Can you help keep Mom from leaning? (While driving, I'd brace Mom up with one arm to help keep her relatively straight).

-Will you cut her food for her?

-Mom, are you getting distracted? 

-Can you help Mom brush her teeth?

-Can you wash Mom's hands?

-We've got you Mom, you're not going to fall.

-What was your blood sugar?

-Did you go in your depends?

-How much water have you had today? Or...   Are you drinking your water?

-Are you having any headaches today?

Both

-One, two, ready, pivot. (Pivoting Mom or Craig in the bed to a sitting position at the edge of the bed)

-One, two, ready, go. (Moving Craig or Mom higher in the bed)

-Can you grab the wheelchair from the trunk?

-Move this foot, now move that foot.

-We're right here, we're not leaving.

-We need to rotate your hips.

-You get the door, I'll push the wheelchair.

-Did Mom get her chemo? Did Craig get his chemo?

-Can you use your legs to help scoot up? (Bringing Mom or Craig to the head of the bed)

-How are you feeling today.  Are you having any pain? 

-I wish there was more we could do.

 

I'm sure we'll add to the list as they come to mind, or are generated in time. ~E