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