Uh, what now?

I'm sitting in my new Denver apartment listening to men jumping on the roof. Someone forgot to tell me that they were going to be replacing the roof before I moved in :/. Details, details, details. Anyway, I've been here since Monday night and am at a loss for what to do with myself now. I had originally thought that I'd take the next couple weeks to rest, hike, and just follow my whims for the day. Instead, I find myself creating errands and piddly work so that I feel useful in some way. Methinks I need a j-o-b. The transition from the intensity of the past year to normal daily life is tough; I often feel like a visitor in other's more normal lives. Nights are still tough for some reason. The dark and quiet make me anxious. I refuse to just sit and ruminate, though, and have been rewatching the Rome series and rented a movie on Ghengis Khan.  There's just something comforting about gory battle scenes :) I miss Craig and my mom everyday and worry about the future of our family; how we'll each cope and heal and build new lives.  I have hope for us, even if the future is nebulus and cloudy and always shifting. It's what keeps me smiling :)

And the pain comes in the morning

I don't remember much of last night. The details are hard to recover as they blend too homogenously with the nights before--nights of restlessness, sleeplessness, and dreams of Mom and Craig. I remember releasing Sam from his "tent of fury" (he digs and digs as if gold were at the end). I remember Maxie pinning Sam, giving incentive to put "Broken Leg Sammie" in the tent. Before it all, I remember Mom.

I dreamt of Mom last night, only Mom. It's an increasingly rare occasion to think of one and not the other. I suppose guilt and confusion aren't such rampant ingredients in dreams. During the day, and more so as night falls, I can't help but play a cerebral and emotional pin-pong match between thinking/grieving Craig or Mom. Which one ‘serves'? It's too hard to process the feeling of losing two, TWO, of the people you'd call on a Thursday night, a Friday night, any night. Two people who were your confidants and soundboards. My mom. As a family friend put it, to lose your mom is to lose the person who loved you first. She was the constant, the moonbeam on a long night's drive home and the sun as the morning broke. She was my lighthouse. My brother. To lose your brother is to lose your best friend, and all the stars that sparkle in the sky--the patterns, the luminance, the wishes. How do you grieve them both, simultaneously? I haven't figured that out and my dreams are a perfect reflection, most nights. Most nights, they are both present--either in sickness or in health--but ultimately together. Last night, Mom rode solo.

We were waiting for her for dinner at a Stillwater Restaurant. She eventually wandered in with her striped shirt and khakis, ready for spring and the perennials she planted. Her eyes were down with an expression of fatigue, despite a crisp new haircut and appearing thinner than before. Work was on her mind--not cancer. She had a pep in her step and walked straight, not leaned over. She sat down without effort and could get up as she pleased, not with the care of others. She could order what she wanted not through her ever vigilant daughters. Diet Coke with a twist of lime. Though brief, she was "Mom" without the disease in my dreams.

And the pain comes in the morning when she disappears. ~E

Denver 'Lights' Dancing

The nights grew long as Craig's process took hold; inevitably, the day would turn in much before we would, and it'd be "tomorrow" before we'd find some rest. I remember looking out at the twinkling lights from his 31^st floor window much like I did when I first "came on duty" back in April. The street lights changed for traffic, the house lights were still on for the people inside--the lights always looked eager and inviting as if they were pin-sized bonfires of "activity". From the 31^st floor window, the lights seemed to dance.

I remember being mesmerized by Craig's view the first time I entered his apartment. I remember his crooked, almost braggish, smile as if trying to hide his glee of the view and his sisters' compliments. We'd joke about the various one-liners he could use, changing the term "apartment" to the more appropriate "lair". He'd don his familiar "ladies man" persona or the uber important "lawyer look" as he'd stare out over the Denver skyline with hands perched on the windowsill as if contemplating the meaning of life. We still have pictures of that moment.

Later that night, as the Denver lights danced outside, I taught Craig how to Latin dance. He was my partner as Jill and Diane danced with each other. We danced until we were good and sweaty and our faces hurt from laughing. Oh, how I remember the devilish look in Craig's eyes as he finally caught the sequence of moves, and learned what he should do...when. He was an eager/fast learner, albeit a bit stiff in his hips. Regardless, he tried and, more importantly, he was willing to try and I loved him for that. He'd even add on to the moves once he got the hang of it, inserting one of his "and then I'd go like this" statements widening his eyes and sucking in quick bursts of air as if it was super cool and we should take note. The four of us would quickly spiral into making fun of it all, and pretty soon we were all kicking our heads back melodramatically and punctuating each move with a "pow" or "tadow".  

The four of us would dance time and again after that night. I taught Craig "hip hop/dance floor" moves one night in Stillwater, and, once again, the four of us danced together in my compact apartment until we eventually fell to the floor laughing and exhausted. It was impossible to take ourselves seriously despite our best efforts. Too quickly, we'd incorporate "Mom and Dad" moves and fall into hysterics. This was a typical outing for us, perhaps not dancing every night but the laughing and genuinely enjoying each other's company. Looking back, it's a bit surprising to think that Craig was even REMOTELY interested in hanging out with his sisters but that was the norm--our coveted norm. A pod, a four leaf clover, our good luck charm. We completed each other in a way that will never be replicated. It was uncomplicated, natural, and loving.

The four of us complimented each other; we fit together like puzzle pieces-each piece unique, irreplaceable, and leaving a gaping hole when missing. To me, my sisters and brother were the lights of Denver that night--the dancing lights of Denver.

As Craig's process took hold and in the time after he passed, I'd look out on the dancing Denver lights and remember our night together, dancing. I could hear our laughter and our voices, see our bodies swaying while others our age would be at a club wasting time. Thank God we didn't waste time, but spent time together. How I wish for even more time now. ~E

Low of all lows

Just when you think you've seen it all, some soul-deprived jackass robs your deceased mom's identity and goes on a spending spree all the way to North Carolina. While Jill and I were grocery shopping, we received a call from our frantic dad wondering if we've purchased items at a department store or on a certain credit card none of us own. In a matter of a Monday evening, one of our dad's single worst nightmares has come true.

It happens, but to use our not but four months deceased mother's identity is absolutely despicable -- the kind of disgust where you spit through your fingers shaped like snake eyes hoping that in some culture, there's an ancient tradition where a snake eyes curse would actually work against whoever racked up a credit card in her name. I'm not a violent person, but sure would throw a stone or two at the asshole who is so shallow to steal a recently deceased person's identity--one who valiantly battled cancer and worked HARD her whole damn life and earned a PhD while raising four young (sometimes hyperactive) children.

Put out a beggars cup, do something more honorable than the cowardly and ultimately LAZY act of filling in lines using someone else's name. What if that was your mother's,friend's identity? It's the same as road rage and honking. Not to stray too far from the point, but what if the person you're flipping off in a two-second lapse of self-control was really the spouse of your child's teacher or your boss' wife? A conscience is a powerful thing-- one that guided my mom through everything, directing her towards one morally correct decision after another. But, here, four months after her death, some disgraceful yahoo grabs her name as a meal ticket for their next one stop shop to a pair of Nikes or thousands spent at Lane Bryant.

It's a problem easily resolved by a death certificate and patience, but one that brings to surface the painfully callous reality of our mom's passing and the sometimes pathetic nature of human kind. More importantly, it throws my dad into an anxious spiral neither he nor his children really need. ...To do that to a man grieving his wife and son, or to daughters grieving their mother and brother...good lord, have some tact.

So, when these folks are caught and wherever they have their hearing in hell, I'll be sure to bring the popcorn, Jill the lawn chairs, and Diane the tomatoes to watch justice be served.

Man up, humanity. Man up. -- E

In dreams is where they find me

(written Wednesday)

I've been dreaming more about Craig and my mom of late. There is no rhyme or reason to it, no pattern apart from perhaps a continuance of an earlier thought from the day. Monday night, I dreamt they were fish in a fish tank after spending quite some time watching fake and real fish swim about while waiting at the vet. Sammie has an infinitely impressive way of making life needlessly more "exciting". In what should have been a "walk in the park" for a cat that has been confined in a tent for 6 weeks, he defied all odds and came away from his 6-week checkup in a new blue splint, complete with a cat and a moon decal. For three hours, I sat and watched little puppies pass on through and 'Nemo' finally find his father (or vice versa). Finally, they pulled me back to show me Sammie's latest x-rays and the pins that had somehow pulled from his bone. Awesome. Sparing Sam and my pocket book another surgery, they compromised with a sassy new splint, one month's confinement (in smaller quarters...what, like a shoe box??), and a new x-ray in 6 weeks with the possibility of another surgery.

Instead of discovering just how many ways there are to skin a cat (nooo, never!), Mom and Craig entered my dreams as "Finding Nemo" fish. They were relatively healthy despite having cancer (even in my dream), and had healthy fins and fish bodies. The next night, I dreamt we were raking leaves from our roof when a pile of wet leaves morphed into Craig's talking head. There he was, smiling with his familiar sassy, fun-loving expression.  I remember feeling a sense of comfort, wanting to hold onto the moment, as well as panic for wanting to find a cure. Before they passed, I would have similar restless dreams of wheeling Craig and our mom from hospital to hospital trying to find a cure or at least a "chance".

Their appearances frequently vacillate between times when they were both healthy to times just before they passed. The dreams are random, inconsistent, and aren't always pleasant. What is constant is a palpable and somewhat disturbing sense of conflict, a tug-of-war between wishing so desperately that they are still alive, and knowing deep down that they aren't. Somehow, this nightmarish reality creeps into even the most pleasant of dreams. It's disturbing and the uncertainty of knowing how, in dreams, I'll be reminded of our unbearable loss builds a certain reluctance to fall asleep.

Still, the dreams remind me of one of Craig's friends (and now our friend), and her beautiful tradition she shares with her 5-year old niece.

---"Lily and I have a tradition of visiting each other in our dreams. Before she goes to sleep we decide on things to do. Tonight we decided we would go to Australia and see platypuses (platypusi?). Then Lily decided "we should visit your friend Craig and his family . . . what are their names again, Aunt Kim". So don't be surprised when you go to sleep tonight if you have two extra visitors in your dreams..."---

In peaceful dreams or in nightmares, as long as Mom and Craig find me, they are sweet dreams to me. ~E

Leaving today

Our cars are packed save that of the kitties and our luggage. Soon, we'll traverse Kansas' exciting countryside towards Oklahoma.

...more to come when we find a stopping point from this "go go go".

~E

I always feel like, somebody's watching me...

Well, we met 'survy" the surveillance man, a.k.a Diane's neighbor.  Though at first, we thought the cameras belonged to the trusty maintenance man, we've now discovered that, nay, they belong to Diane's new creepy neighbor, who apparently dabbles in Ebay and is worried about the apartment's clientèle (or something to that effect).  We (Diane and her posse of Saturday movers) were quick to feel the presence of his many cameras as we carried boxes up the two flights to her apartment.  But, though we were hoping to meet mystery Ebay man, we were deprived the pleasure of putting a face to a camera until last night.

No longer worried about sleazy Ebay deliveries during the nighttime hours, her neighbor's door was sprung wide open to let in the crisp Colorado air (or out his stale cigarette smoke). Jill and I were locked out of Diane's apartment, so with little else to do, we peaked inside his apartment to see just what the cameras were "protecting", since anyone with that level of security would surely have prized items (and/or a healthy dose of paranoia). Check, check on the paranoia but as for the gold trimmed crown molding, not so much.  Instead, we saw the back side of what we thought was a young man wearing a college-style ball cap.  He was seated at a computer discussing what seemed to be steps for activating a facebook account. Surely anyone adept in Ebay selling and trading would already have zillions of "friends", but nay. And, sure enough, eye spy a 4-screen surveillance monitor complete with the black and white image of the goings ons of the oh so 'traffic heavy' staircase and hallway.  It was strange to see our images float across his screen.  (Really, what right does he have to monitor people as they catch some air outside?)

With arms casually draped over the steal railing and looking to the right for any sign of Diane, we were enjoying the quiet night when we suddenly realized we weren't alone.  "You two look like you're having fun." Jill and I swung our heads around to find an older man with a deadpan stare and crooked grin standing in the doorway. I guess we didn't pay attention to the "silence of the facebook" to realize he had wandered to the doorway for a smoke break. We were waiting for the "it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again" line when, instead, he proceeded to tell us all the ins and outs of the apartment complex, including who lives where and what apartments have been (or will be) renovated.

Responding to my query about his surveillance cameras, he told us that he does "a lot of Ebay trading" and wants to monitor the 'sketchy' people delivering the goods. Riiight. More like he wants to monitor people's comings and goings. (We've got your number, bucko.) We instantly realized that his need to monitor his Ebay distributors is just a thinly veiled cover for the worlds nosiest (and perhaps paranoid) neighbor. If one was so successful in Ebay trading to warrant a surveillance system, why not upgrade to a controlled access apartment complex instead of opting for the more creepy route circa Psycho?

Of course, the first thing Diane does when arriving was strike up a conversation with the guy. Whatever happened to stranger danger??? I think Diane should "see" his surveillance camera, and "raise "him a spotlight aimed right at his bedroom window. So there!  -- E and J

Check out this link--AMAZING!

Check out this link (also can be found under "Three parts to a Friday" comments):

http://homepage.mac.com/chuckcam/Craig_Jam/iMovieTheater153.html

Make sure you watch it in full. Craig's best stuff is towards the end. Phenomenal! Our brother was hot (in a sisterly way, of course).

Thanks for the video, Chuck!

~E

Il faut d'abord durer

This time last month, we were sitting in Craig's room, enjoying an episode of Rome. Just a few days after, Craig fell into a deep sleep from which he never awoke. Now, almost a month in, I find myself longing for the days of Rome watching, caretaking, and silent conversations. Though nearly a month has passed, there is no easy fix, no return to the days of plucky IV pushing and cancer dodging; to nebulous conversations of what could be. Our “what then?” has quickly become “now what?” But, as we’ve discovered, life continues after death. Plans have to be made, and affairs settled. The time for grieving comes not now but months later, when the funeral machine ends and the pressures of life take hold. Craig’s absence is painful, and real. His presence lurks in the hallways, in his kitchen, in the hallway of his apartment complex. I can hear his voice, and miss his laugh, which, though easy to elicit, was still rewarding to hear. I miss our talks, and his wit. The principle danger now is not burning out, but getting stuck in handwringing gloom and doom. After all, how does one move on after such loss? For the most part, we’re taking things in stride, though I continue to be amazed at my inaudible cry voice. Wow.

The happy endings in cancer get the coverage. But what of the people that have succumbed? Or those who continue to live knowing all along that, in the end, their final chapter has already been written. Those stories are no less courageous, no less commendable. Battles with cancer have a starting point, but never an end; the battle with cancer continues on with those left behind in finding a cure.

The challenge is to last, in memory, in people's hearts and in their busy schedules. For the cause to last, and not disappear simply because Mom and Craig are gone. Their lives and stories continue in our selves and in our actions, and in those of friends, family, and strangers that continue to be changed by their story. Our collective journey with cancer has only begun. We all have a special opportunity to share our experiences and to continue to fight fiercely against cancer. That’s what we intend to do. -- J

Ten til remains

Back in the time of chemo, my phone would vibrate with a clever reminder "Chemo time" at ten til 8am and 11pm, when Craig would need his next dose. When Mom was back on oral chemo, she fell into a similar routine.

My phone would continue to vibrate each morning and night even as chemo's utility slowly slipped from our ever desperate hands to become just another unnecessary bottle of pills left abandoned by cancer. Each time my phone would buzz, those in the room would inevitably look at each other, first convinced one of us had received a message followed by the solemn realization of what that message meant. Either it was time for chemo, or we had reached a point in the advanced stages of cancer when it no longer was.

Now, as we approach the first "dual anniversary" of Craig and Mom's passing--Mom's 4 month anniversary is this Saturday and Craig's one month anniversary is on Sunday--it still vibrates with the message "Chemo time". Preserving that direct link to what we've experienced makes it real in some way when so much of life seems to hastily "move on" from this very recent past.

For now, it hasn't felt like the right time to dismantle the reminder of these last 14 months and what we've been through, especially Mom and Craig. It has become "Craig time" and "Mom time" and a reminder to TAKE time. We (family and friends) have suffered great loss--twice. To process and grieve all that we've seen, experienced and lost will take time. It's a reminder that though the river may flow ahead, and some day, we will pull from this man-made "eddy" into the "current", it doesn't have to happen today or tomorrow or the next day.  When it does happen, we'll be ready.

For now, I need that reminder. ~E

Three parts to a Friday

A hard night has fallen

Three weeks ago, almost to the hour, the sisters, Emily and our dad escorted Craig from his apartment one last time. Wrapped in his golden bed sheets, two pictures we kept close to his chest, and dressed in his red "Beer Lao" shirt he bought while traveling (and the one Sandy, the hospice nurse, commented on just days before), we walked tall with our hands draped over him as he was respectfully escorted on a gurney by his apartment management through a private exit. Three weeks ago, we coached Craig through his last moments of life, and watched as his last breath left his body and his pulse faded from view. We--his sisters, girlfriend and Dad--"called it" when it seemed he had passed. Three weeks ago, the remnants of the last 24-48 hours filled the trashcans with saline syringe wrappers and times of binge drinking (Diet Mountain Dew and Coke Zero). Three weeks ago, Craig's hospital table held his glasses, his bell, and his next dose anti-lung secretion medication. Three weeks ago, the pictures we hung for Craig still peppered the door, minus Mom's infamous "thumbs up" picture and a picture of the family we placed on his chest after he passed. Three weeks ago, a single rose rested on his pillow marking where he once laid. Three weeks ago...

Nine months ago, Craig was running around a cross-country track.

A sentimental overture

It's Friday night. A nearly full moon floats just outside Craig's 31st floor window as Jill quietly strums his guitar. After a bit of tuning, she is playing one of her own--a song that would mesmerize Craig by her picking ability time and again. If you close your eyes, you can see him listening, staring intently at her fingers and strings waiting for the opportunity to try his hand. "How do you do that?" he'd say before showing off his own talents.

Ten more years of Craig's musicianship and who knows what we'd find. For so many, he was that very sexy harmonica bluesman, playing on stage with a mysterious story to tell. To us, he was our brother hamming it up for the masses, and probably using routines he first tested on his sisters. I once had the opportunity to see him play at one of his gigs. I had a hunch he was talented (being a "Lawler" and all), but never knew his talent hit the next stratosphere until I saw him perform. He came alive; he made people come alive. Ten years from now...

Boxes now crowd Craig's living room and bookshelves are empty except for a few keepsakes. We packed most of Craig's things, leaving the more emotionally tormenting items for some other time. Hard doesn't begin to describe the process or the feeling when we find paper towels and chapstick in his long business coat, which he likely wore prior to being diagnosed. Or, the harmonica found among his jump drive and pens. The sight of his things left behind, the seemingly mundane items that defined him that are now left waiting cut to the bone. We stumbled upon a plastic bag found in his more "winter" coat pocket, the one he wore when visiting Oklahoma over President's day just weeks before diagnosis. Before being officially diagnosed with recurrent cancer, he'd have a bag handy for the "recurrent" spontaneous vomiting. I suspect that's why he had it in his jacket. It's a difficult detail to face.

Hard doesn't begin to define what it's like to box up Craig, to see where aspects of my brother's life stopped.  His things rest in the same place, as if waiting for re-engagement, for the vibrant harmonica player to return with a new Friday night activity up his sleeve. His "industrial strength" paper towel left in his coat pocket somehow magnifies the notion of never taking life for granted. In a day, life as you know it can very well change.

Jill is still strumming. She looks at a music book she found while boxing Craig's things. Still, the music she plays is her own...and Craig's.

Finding friends on a Friday night

Tonight, we spent the evening with some of Craig's closest friends dating back to his first weeks in Denver and his time at his "first job". Two long tables were pushed together to fit Craig's crowd to which we had to pull even more chairs. I remember gazing over the group; most have found other jobs and other lives since their first meeting at the "first job" years ago, yet they were friends, still friends, connected in some way by Craig. I'm not sure if the other patrons noticed, but, to me, this group was the envy of the restaurant. It's no wonder why this was his crowd. Personable, inviting, kind, unique--they all have something different to offer, and complete one another in that way. I couldn't help but envision Craig amongst them and wished that I could have been a fly on the wall as he interacted with his group--oh how he'd shine. I'm sure he was that guy who'd crack a joke or would share some sordid tale of a date gone awry.

From his stories, I know Craig counted himself lucky to call these folks his friends. His friends are indeed lucky to have known Craig.

Speaking for his family, we're lucky to know both. ~E

A Conversation with Smurfette

The spirit of Anna Nicole Smith (ANS) lives on. Just when we thought we’d forever be deprived of ANS’s unique blend of quick wit, candid story-telling, and lightning fast delivery, a surrogate ANS has emerged. Erin, Diane and I had the misfortune of being independent observers to what could have passed as either one of the most awkward first dates known to man, or a job well done if the ultimate goal was a little late night exercising. Ripped from Saturday Night Live’s The Smurfette Show, the ANS look alike/sound alike covered all the sordid bases; her likeness to her fallen hero was uncanny. Her comments were thoughtful and witty, and her intonation spot on. In the course of one hour, she insulted her date, praised his family values, played home wrecker to a couple of strangers trying to have their own first date, coughed up her most intimate secrets, and then like Roy’s Bengal tiger, proceeded to maul her closest victim.

It all started at a sushi restaurant, which for me doesn’t rank high up on locales to launch a few indecent proposals. While we sat just a few feet away, ANS’s clone, in her loudest speech-making/’you’re doing it, mama’ voice, proceeded to list all of her wonderful talents including setting goals. Yes, Cloney is not only a goal maker, she’s a goal breaker. No plateauing for her. She started school when she was 24, I mean really started. And she put her whole mind into it. She thought, this is what I want to do, and it’s going to be hard, but I go after what I want. And she’s incredibly successful. She’s even turned down a special offer to run sales for her best friend, the millionaire, because she has to achieve her goals first. Taking a break for a sip of her sake to cool her voice, she asked her date if he had any goals (alright Kit De Luca), which for some ‘successful’ folk may have come off as a tad offensive, but he seemed to take it in stride. Though it was hard to hear his answer -- by then, he was whispering and looking around his shoulder -- he offered a few goals as example. Like any good listener, she laughed and said something about how she could pay his way through nursing school. When he said that was offensive, she took back her offer and said “shut up (mama), first of all, I don’t even know if I would pay for you, and second, we may not even be hanging out then… I’m leaving (cue creepy Smurfette laugh).”

After a few minutes of awkward conversation, she launched into her supremely offensive speech about how she’s never dated an Asian before, how much she likes Asians, and that she has a friend with (African American…I dare not use her wording) features. Kudos to her?? He asked why she specifically liked Asians at which point she said in her best Smurfette voice “I don’t know, I guess I can’t figure you people out.” He mumbled something about how she shouldn’t say such things, she interrupted and said she doesn’t care; she makes fun of her race all the time (clearly). Then, as if touched by Venus, she blurted “you’re cute,” which prompted a romantic “you’re only saying that because you’re drunk.” As if trying to reassure him, she mentioned something about how she appreciates his family values, and that she’s been proposed to twice but turned the guys down. She was in a relationship from the age of 15 to 20. Surprisingly, the guy wanted to marry her, but she wanted to “travel the world.” Since then, she’s dated a lot; it’s not even about the sex anymore. After all, she’s “slept with a lot (a lot, a lot, a lot) of men” (good she got it out of her system). Good Lord. She added, “I’ve dated some of the most beautiful people in northern California (try the world), but I’ve been burned. I’ve been stabbed in the back and some have even stolen from me…no they haven’t, but still. I just want to find a nice guy, but I’m not seeking a relationship either, which I guess is my answer.”

Mid-way through their date, the couple next to them stood up to leave. With her date looking on, Smurfette pulled one of the guys aside, stuck her head in his neck, and whispered in a long and drawn out slur that he shouldn’t date the other guy, and that he deserved someone a little “bossier.” Awkward. Once they left, she launched into how she had a lot of gay friends and that she’s always offering advice. She added that she feels she’s a little bossy, but in a good way. That she’ll email her boss and say “put the f-ing drink down and check out my last sale.” (Yes, I find dropping the f-bomb is always an effective tool for getting the boss’s attention.) By now, her date was barely audible. When he asked her to lower her voice, she said “I don’t f-ing care; I’ve lived a good life.” She then went into a sob story about how hard it is to find a decent person in Denver. Dating is so hard. She hates it when people mistake her as stupid (shocker). But then, like, after the thirtieth date, guys finally realize that she’s smart and stuff. They’re surprised to hear her talk about (pregnant pause) sales and goals and stuff.

As if feeling a tad sorry for herself, she proceeded to maul his face. After a few minutes, she surprised us all with the revelation that she’s drunk (gasp from the gallery) followed by a “do you want to drive me home?” Awww, the goal-oriented self-achiever offers the closing deal. Will she surpass her expectations and bag another sale? My guess is yes.

What was hilarious is that the happy couple actually met on the social dating network Match.com. Wow. Wow, wow, wow. It’s times like this when I miss Craig most. He would have laughed his trademark nostril-flaring, milk-snorting laugh. Craig had his share of creepy Match.com experiences, complete with some lady being late to a date because she thought she was going to hit children on her drive over. To know that this lady was out there lurking on Match would have had him crying. As we sat not three feet over, listening to her pour her heart out, we couldn’t help but feel that Craig was there with us, flaring his nostrils and trying not to laugh. I miss him. -- J

A ramble through a tired mind …

The psychoanalyst Frieda Fromm-Reichmann once remarked that it’s difficult for most people to retain vivid recollections of times when they were very lonely. “This isn’t because the experience isn’t striking; it’s because it’s almost unbearably so. Loneliness presents a threat to a person’ integrity and well-being to the very sense of who one is. Loneliness is so awful that people will do practically anything to avoid it.”

Oh, if only lonely people were so lucky as to simply avoid it. Instead of spiraling into a rant about loneliness, I’d rather focus on the differentiation between loneliness and the need to be left alone. There is a difference, though the two are often confused with the other. For me, I vacillate between wanting to be with friends and wanting to be by myself; from feeling isolated to feeling crowded; from feeling complete while alone, and empty when in the company of others. It’s odd the tendency to want to be left alone during times of grief. It’s a difficult and oftentimes, fluctuating balance. The feeling defies the notion that there’s comfort in numbers. When we were with Craig, I felt anxious to go out, to leave Craig’s apartment, to again be a part of the outside world. When I did, I had the urge to rush back to our safe base, to Craig and the life we had created where the pieces somehow fit, albeit awkwardly. It made sense then. Our routine was secure. Variation was unnecessary. Being a family made sense. The “what then?” question was something we saved for later.

Now that it’s all over, we find ourselves in the tricky spot of figuring out our lives. How do we resume our lives? How do make once familiar pieces of a family of six fit our new and complicated puzzle? And how do we fit back into what was? It’s hard to remember what life was like before all of this. What were our activities then? How did we communicate with people without dropping the big C? What was it like when relationships were normal, and before conversations were so dire?

As people talk about new jobs, babies, relationships, and travel, I can’t help but pine for how things used to be. My thoughts are always drifting between here and what was. I’m not locked in the present long enough to connect with people or their life stories. Once the ever patient listener, my mind now flutters in and out of conversations like an emotional nomad with no fixed roots. 'Is constructing sentences coherent difficult'...or so I say. Talking at all is a feat; for it to be somewhat intelligible is a triumph. Fourteen months of complex living has a way of overburdening the mind to where even simple sentences are difficult. Craig could relate. He often spoke of the fickleness of speech, especially in times of stress. In times like these, I wish different variations of grunting were allowed.

When I am present, it’s hard to muster the enthusiasm or energy needed to celebrate another’s life. I feel emotionally empty and distracted, shut out of that distant world of happiness and ease. When your mind is panting from sprinting the distance between two distant poles of normal and absolutely not, the last thing you feel like doing is explaining. But being alone is tough too. The balance ...

I'm different from who I was pre-cancer and falling into place just doesn’t seem possible. I remember talking to two of my best friends about the possibility of leaving Bangkok for good. In March, it seemed like a real possibility, and in May, an even firmer bet. Now as I type in October, I feel that may be the ultimate choice. Though I’d love more than anything to resume my life in Bangkok, to go back to work with some of the most brilliant minds working in development, I’m not sure the old life is waiting for me, or I it. When life has been altered so drastically, it’s hard to imagine picking up where things left off or finding your heart after such a long absence.

Often, in the face of tragedy, more change is needed. Risking loneliness and an unfamiliar world, it's common for people to relocate and start over. I understand this tendency. On the one hand, leaving creates a clean break. It offers a certain anonymity, that, for some, is needed. To avoid questions and scrutiny and questions about whether someone has changed after distance is attractive. Starting anew would be akin to a rebirth – a cleansing with no history and no expectations. Change would provide space to process, to be oneself again -- free and clear. On the other hand, there's an element of insincerity in the sentiment. For me, I could no more slash and burn my old life than I could leave Craig when he was sick. Leaving friends after so much personal loss would be painful.

How to make it all fit is the question. I feel like I’ve been cowering in a den for a year. People have moved on. They’ve married and had babies and continued with lucrative careers. To emerge changed yet be expected to reengage life is terrifying. How do we fit in with such a void? How do we not erupt over people taking life for granted? How do we not blow up over the guy who grabs his kid so hard that it spills the drink out of his hands? Or colleagues who care more about their professional accolades than their impact? Or job demands that trend more on the busy work than anything substantial? How do we answer asinine interview questions about strengths and weaknesses after all that we’ve gone through? (People take themselves way too seriously. Strength=biceps and chest; weakness= I guess quads and calves could use some work.)

For so long, we’ve been caught in the frenzy of cancer. And while we’ve lost Craig and Mom, the journey hasn’t ended. We still have our own lives to figure out. I’m sure there will come lonely periods, and though I might try to avoid them, as the famed psychoanalyst might suggest, they may decide to linger. The challenge we have is recognizing the loneliness with the need to be left alone, and the need to change and “run-away” and all the emotions that come with it. That is, after all, the challenge. We’re two days off our final funeral service. I have no idea how the next months will play out, or how we’ll be doing a year from now. In many respects, the hard life has yet to come. But, like always, we’re taking one day at a time … --J

Revival

(written Wednesday prior to leaving for Stillwater)

The time in between memorials reveals only one thing: we have a long road ahead of grieving and of learning how to live again. I find myself stumbling for words, asking whether I used correct English or noticing when I changed tenses midstream. The other night, I used my facial cleanser as toothpaste. It's hard to stay on task, on topic, in the conversation. I admire folks who freely formulate sentences or can still throw a joke in the air with friends around them to catch it. I notice the couple in the elevator dressed in sportswear ready to enjoy a Denver afternoon. I see professionals stealing time at the local Starbucks, or college somethings standing outside one of Denver's local hotspots. People buzz about as if nothing has changed when everything has changed for my family. It's hard to believe what has happened this year; to lose your mother and brother to cancer within 3 months seems like something made up in over dramatized daytime television. Yet, somehow it has happened to us and I feel as blown over as a cardboard sign in an Oklahoma wind.

Weeks before Craig passed, I would convince myself that I had at least 30 minutes to "do the cats". I'd tell myself surely Craig wouldn't pass away within 30 minutes, and block out the thought that he actually could as I drove the ten minutes to Emily's house. For so many occasions, it felt like Chicken Little's sky was falling, or could fall at any moment. No longer a fable, for months each day presented the very real chance that either our mom or Craig could suddenly fall into cardiac arrest. Our mom could have thrown a blood clot in her brain; Craig could have had an event in his intestines; or, very simply, their bodies could have merely given their hand to cancer. This was the way of life for so long - even before Craig passed away. When our mom was in the hospital, I'd leave for the cats after telling Jill and Diane to call me if there was the slightest change in demeanor, in expression, in living. Three days before our mom fell into a state of unconsciousness, it was I who called Jill with the news that something had changed and I could hear the panic in Jill's voice. I had to tow the line between Chicken Little and the reality of what I was witnessing. The change was ever so slight from her already very compromised condition, yet it screamed to me. Her color seemed a deeper yellow or grey; her eyes were distant; her tracking slow; and, most of all, she looked at me from a place between holding on and saying goodbye. I could see her hand slowly rise from the bed as the palliative care team spoke of her condition, and I came to her side to hold her hand and sit near her. It was the first time since I can remember when I didn't think twice before interrupting our conversation and calling my sisters to say something was different. It was different and would be for the next three days.

For weeks it seems, perhaps months, I'd peel away from Craig with that memory and the fear that I wouldn't have a chance of returning before something had changed with him - something that would take from me the opportunity to tell him how much I loved him, and hear it said so softly and sincerely back. With shaky reassurance, I'd fall away and enter Emily's basement for the cats. The storyline turned to something of "the Boy Who Cried Wolf" only because Craig's will to survive was of gladiator proportions, surpassing any medical indicators of what should happen, and when. The final weeks and the quickly changing "new normals" dampened that hidden confidence of "surely not today", "surely not within 30 minutes". I'd scurry off desperate to make it there and back before Craig had woken up, or said something profound, or changed. To stay at that level for so long can certainly make a mess of things.

As I slowly step from the shadows of this disease, I can't help but wonder how on earth I will ever fit into this pulse, this pace of life that bustles by-- or want to fit in, for that matter. The aperture of our expertise has narrowed to that of knowing exactly how to move our mom from the car to the wheelchair and which side to stand on when talking with her, or how to draw IV Ativan and when and when not to push heparin. This is our frame of reference. After having been shaped so dramatically by these experiences, it's difficult to imagine relating to much else for awhile.

And, there's a level of fear that that life that bustles by won't be patient for our "revival" -- for learning to live again after caretaking, for picking ourselves from the rubble and making sense of the damage, for the excruciating process of grieving our mom and Craig. I'm sure there will be plenty of self-referencing, plenty of cancer talk and "that reminds me of my Mom or Craig" statements. This is just the way it will be until the void is less jarring and the pain less sharp.

I miss my mom. I miss my brother. I'm not one to project anymore; there are no predications. Each day is new. But, I suspect it will be a long, long time before we touch down from these tragedies. ~E

Heading home

It’s Thursday morning. Diane and Erin continue to sleep as I welcome in yet another sunrise. Man, I’m tired. My eyes are burning from fatigue. Though I’d love nothing more than to sleep through the morning, my body won’t allow it. Whether fighting back nightmares or just restless with unspent energy, we’re all finding it hard to turn in. It’s difficult to re-set the clock after fourteen months of living in crisis mode.

Though we're tired, the truth is fatigue is going to have to take it on the chin, at least for another week. In a few hours, we’ll pack up our cars with Craig’s books and head east towards Oklahoma in time for Craig’s Stillwater service. With luck, the cats will behave themselves during our ten hour drive home. Dad flew home to Stillwater last Monday to prepare for this Saturday’s service. Diane, Erin, and I stayed back to start packing Craig’s apartment, which, by all standards, has been a slow process. Gutting his apartment just doesn’t feel right, not when we have another memorial service just ahead. Though we’ve boxed a few of his books, the three of us agreed that the larger, more sentimental items could be addressed after Saturday’s service in Stillwater.

This Saturday will mark our third service in as many months. We’ve become pros in all things funeral, but lucky for us, we’ve had support. Immediately after Mom’s death, family friends and colleagues in Stillwater were at the ready to offer help with food and reception preparation. Our family from Michigan joined us in Stillwater to say goodbye. Our community embraced us with love and support during the few days we were in Stillwater to lay Mom to rest. Last week, the baton was passed to our Denver community. Throughout Craig’s process, we’ve been overwhelmed by people’s generosity and loving spirit. We’ve grown to know so many over these past months, and feel honored to call Craig’s friends and acquaintances our friends. And to our family, we are blessed to have you in our lives. Your support helped us get through Craig's service.

As we prepare to head to Stillwater, it's comforting to know we'll be coming home to friends. Just like three months ago, family friends have offered their support to make Saturday as easy as possible for us. It will be hard to say our final goodbyes to Craig and lay him to rest next to Mom. Sadly, this weekend will also mark the first time to visit Mom since her service in July. This weekend will be difficult but we'll get through it.

To all who have walked beside Mom and Craig during their battle with cancer, and who continue to be a part of our lives, thank you. Before Craig passed, Diane, Erin and I were discussing how difficult it must be for friends and colleagues to witness Craig and Mom struggle against the end stages of cancer. Cancer isn’t easy, and seeing a loved one struggle is often too hard to take. But, for you, it was never simply their struggle. By bringing food, sharing stories and laughter, and loving Mom and Craig unconditionally, you helped to shoulder some of their burden and made life with cancer easier to manage. Thank you for your support, for staying present, and for taking time out of your lives to be a part of theirs. We feel overwhelmed by everyone’s continued love and support.

Diane, Erin, (Sammie and Max) and I will be back in Denver next week. For now, we're taking it one day at a time … -- J

To Stillwater

Jill, Diane, the cats, and I will soon be blazing a course through Colorado and Kansas highways to sunny Stillwater for the third, and final, memorial service. Last night, we put into boxes what our limited emotional capacities would allow us to see and process of Craig's belongings. Personal items as meaningless as his sunscreen and deodorant were often too difficult to address, so we focused on bulky books and desk items. Of course, even the books are labeled "to go through later". Just two weeks since his passing, it's too fresh, too soon, too muddied with the emotional debris of these last months to be going through his personal belongings so intimately-- to be witness to his life, only to "put it away".

Diane, Jill and I stood in his room yesterday evening, looked at one another and decided we couldn't do it yet. We aren't in the right mindset and would either callously shove feelings and his belongings aside, or fall into a puddle of tears over his deodorant or contact lenses. We did what we could to fill the cars and will return for Craig's belongings next week when we have time and emotional space to see, feel, appreciate and remember him, and who he will always be to us.

The cars will share space with leftover remnants of our Mom's stay here -- her wheelchair, her walker, her hat and wig. Items that sat in the corners of Craig's apartment and Emily's basement, waiting, watching over us, reminding us every day of our first tragic loss three months ago. Side by side, a part of Mom and Craig are coming home together just as they heroically fought their cancers and found their mutual end. The image, the symbolism, the intensity in meaning, it's too hard and heartbreaking to fully comprehend. Perhaps, in time ...

~E

Craig's Stillwater Memorial Service

My family would like to extend a heartfelt thanks to the friends and family who joined us in celebrating Craig's life Saturday in Denver.

We will have a Stillwater service this Saturday, October 11th at 10:30am at the First United Methodist Church (400 W. 7th Ave, Stillwater OK.  405-372-5854). Reception to follow.

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

~Erin

And then there's Sammie

It's worth very briefly remarking on the irony of Sammie -- the cat. A little more than two years ago, Craig first felt the symptoms of a bleeding kidney yet to be defined as kidney cancer. Almost simultaneously, Sammie was diagnosed with an irregularly shaped kidney yet to evolve into Feline Renal Failure. So began the incredible "cannonball run" of medical tragedy.

Craig began the run with his first round of kidney cancer. He "got better", then Sammie fell ill with Feline Renal Failure receiving a "might have a month left" prognosis. Remarkably, I somehow nursed him back to health. Shortly thereafter, our Mom was diagnosed with devastating brain cancer with Craig being diagnosed with kidney cancer Part 2 only a handful of months later.

I've just returned from "tent city" (Emily's basement), and from giving Sammie his lactated ringers/IV fluids and other medications he receives on a daily basis. I can't help but shake my head and laugh when I think back to the long nights of tears and concern for poor Sammie, whose survival seemed improbable given his advanced symptoms/illness. At the time, that was a significant and legitimate source of distress. Now, I sarcastically say to myself, "Sweetie. You have no idea." Little did I know what was in store and the horror that lay ahead.

Here I am giving Sammie IV fluids...and I no longer have a mother or a brother. Oh, how quickly life can change.

~E

(It was never an either/or scenario and of course I'm happy Sammie's a survivor; it just somehow magnifies and deepens the absurdity of what we've experienced and endured.)

Something's growing in the sink...

Apparently, dirty laundry and dishes have no respect for death and the grieving process. For anyone afraid of what happens after someone you love has passed, all I can say is that everything stays the same....the dirty dishes are still dirty and the clothes don't magically wash themselves. Life goes on. It's been almost a week since Craig passed away and everyday so far has been filled with errands and tasks both related and not related to his death. I find myself moving through them all like a robot, be it a very, very tired and cranky robot. Who knew that there's so much freaking paperwork and arrangements involved with the death process? Please excuse the irreverance, but after these experiences I have decided to have myself pickled because, so far as I know, it costs nothing but the price of vinegar and there's no paperwork involved.

Random gallows humor aside, we have yet to really experience the loss of Craig. I say we instead of I because there are several grieving processes going on at once. I'm grieving the loss of one of my best friends, my hero, my role model, as well as the loss of our former family configuration. This is both an individual and collective loss for me as I'm sure it is for Jill, Erin, and my Dad, although they each have their own grieving context. We are a new family unit and none of us are really sure what that means yet.  And yet, I have a feeling we'll be able to create something new that's equally as special, if not different, than what we had before. That's what I want for us.

 D