Four Months - Only So Much

Our Family Photo from Thanksgiving 2011
Travis, Kassie, Dad, Mom, Uncle Wayne, Aunt Vickie, Max, Me, and Murphy

It has been four months since I said goodbye to my mom.

Actually, that’s not true -- we said our goodbyes before that, and I’ve been saying them ever since.

I think my goodbyes began on October 14^th of last year, the day after I had my gallbladder removed. My parents had gone to Chicago for chemotherapy at The Block Center, and then traveled to Lincoln so they could be with me after my surgery. My mom wasn’t doing very well – her liver was not recovering from the chemo, and she was starting to show signs of liver failure. Her skin had a yellow tinge, and she was very, very tired. The day after my surgery, my mom was too weak to go up the steps to our apartment, so my parents decided to go home so she could rest and be more comfortable.

I thought that was the last time I was ever going to see my mom. I was recovering from gallbladder surgery, which wasn’t super invasive as it was done entirely laparoscopically, but I was hurting, and I was very weak. I wanted to be with them, but I could barely do the steps, myself.

So, my parents left, and I said goodbye.

I look back and realize that that was such a huge moment for me. It was my first realization that my mom might not beat this disease. That she might not see my sister get married, or either of us have children. That we might never go shopping together again, or do all the things we’d planned to do “someday.” It isn’t that I gave up or lost faith – I saw a glimpse of how dire the situation was – something my mom had never let me see before.

Every birthday and holiday that followed became extra special and meaningful. We took family photos at Thanksgiving – that alone is something I will always be thankful for. I stopped going out as often when I was home, and instead stayed in to watch HGTV with my mom. I started thinking more seriously about the future, including things like children and my career.

Something else also happened during that time after my surgery – I felt a very abrupt change in my mom’s attitude. Again, I don’t believe for a second that she gave up or gave in, but she was so, so sick, and so, so tired. She’d made so many changes, so much progress, and gained so much time because of it, but now her liver was suffering due to all of the chemo and drugs that had been forced through it.

There is only so much a body can take.

This is the reality I denied for many, many weeks after she died. Why didn’t we find different doctors? She’d had no trouble in the past leaving doctors in favor of ones who shared her attitude and views, so why didn’t we do more? When she went for her final doctor appointment two days before she died, why didn’t they do anything for her then? When I begged the attending physician at Saint Luke’s to put in the catheter to drain the fluid that was building up inside her because her liver wasn’t doing its job anymore, why didn’t she do anything else for her? Why weren’t the doctors at the Block Center presenting us with new plans?

Now I know and believe that there is only so much a body can take. And by spending the past three years working WITH her body by feeding it the nutrients it needed and depriving the cancer of the toxins and sugars it needed to grow, she surpassed the expectations of all of her doctors.

Sometimes, though, I am just a greedy little girl who doesn’t care about any of that, and just wants her mom.

One of my daily rituals has become that “active mourning” exercise that I shared with you in my last entry. Once a day, I sit down somewhere quiet and look at photos of my mom with me, my sister, and my dad. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I feel better afterwards, and sometimes I feel worse. It all depends on how I woke up that day.

I think I’ve been waiting since last October to feel like my old self again, but I’m starting to think that is never going to happen. As my sister so aptly put it, “This is my life now.” 

There’s no going back. Only forward – and that is something I can try to do to honor my mom who was such a perfect example of moving forward when it was the hardest thing to do.

Mom and Dad, Thanksgiving 2011

Three Months

Mom when we were visiting Kassie in Springfield, MO, sometime in 2006.

I’m starting to believe more and more that Time is some kind of anomaly that the modest human brain can’t even begin to process, so it makes what it can of it, and thus, we experience Time in a perceivably measurable way.

Yesterday marked three months since my mom took her last breath. I haven’t been writing as much for a lot of reasons, but one of the reasons was that I didn’t want to worry people, as I have not been doing well.

Almost every night I dream about my mom – sometimes more than once – and they are usually dreams of her dying. In various ways, sometimes from cancer, sometimes in a car accident, sometimes she simply fades from view.

I’ve always been a vivid dreamer. My nights are filled with colorful, noisy expressions of my subconscious, and I often remember several dreams from any given night, although they do tend to fade as the day goes on.

When I was in high school, I had some very disturbing dreams about friends dying or leaving me. My therapist at the time suggested that I was probably anxious about upcoming changes and that in dream imagery, death can indicate a drastic change.

I don’t know what I believe about dream meanings, or if it matters, but I do know that my entire family has undergone the most drastic changes of our entire lives, because of the death of one person.

She was the center of our family. She was the president, receptionist, and director of the board. She planned everything, kept in touch with everyone, and kept us all going – while keeping herself going at the same time.

Sometimes it feels like it’s been years since it happened, and on certain days, I feel like it hasn’t happened yet. I still feel a sense of dread and anxiety about losing her. Not past-tense—not about having lost her¸ but about the process of actually losing her.

My therapist suggested I take time every day to “actively mourn” my mother. She said I should sit down in a deliberate manner and think of my mom and how I miss her. I have found this to be the most helpful advice anyone has sent my way since May. Sometimes I lie in bed with my teddy bear like a little kid and cry into my pillow, and sometimes I look through photos. I listened to some voicemails I saved (and thanks to my tech-savvy husband, will always have saved—on my computer, a thumb drive, and my external hard drive, as well as saved in my inbox) on my phone during one of these “active mourning” sessions, and that was still too hard. But one thing I’m grateful for is that in nearly every voicemail she ever left, even if it was just a “call me back!” message, she always told me she loved me.

The most useful part of “actively mourning” is that by giving myself permission to cry and be sad every day, I am not as worried about public meltdowns, or crying on friends’ couches at inopportune moments. Another perk is that through the practice of pulling myself out of the sadness and grief, I am better equipped to do so if a meltdown does occur.

In my head, three months feels like forever. A long, sad, lonely forever. In my heart, I’m not sure it’s even been three minutes. 

Mom in October 2006 when she came to visit me in Lincoln, Nebraska, shortly after I started going to school there. Frisco is the Railroad her father worked for.

Life Goes On

Mom and me at my wedding rehearsal, September 3, 2010.

I have had a lot going on lately, and I've learned that nothing is as fun or exciting as it used to be now that my mom isn't here to hear about it and share it with.

I know I’m feeling sorry for myself. It’s been 2 months, 2 days, 8 hours, 39 minutes and 22 seconds since my mom took her last breath, and I think my brain is still keeping an inventory of everything I need to tell her. For the most part, I’ve stopped having the impulse to call or text her, and when it does still happen, the pain isn’t quite as sharp. I haven’t had a panic attack in several weeks, and I haven’t had a meltdown in a couple of weeks. I don’t cry every day anymore. I’m functioning pretty “normally” for the most part. I get up at a decent time, go to the gym, play with the dog, look for jobs, write, talk to friends, go to the grocery store, cook dinner, etc.

But I am so, so lonely. And I’m not lonely because of a lack of people but because of a lack of one person who was such a huge part of my life and who I am. How am I even supposed to react to things when I don’t have her to consult?

I’m still figuring it out.

In the past two weeks, I have found out that two of my favorite people in the world are getting married and that a dear old friend is pregnant. I went to a concert and got to meet my favorite band! I scheduled a job interview. I witnessed a 14 year old boy suffering from heat exhaustion and not know who or where he was and be rushed to the hospital by paramedics.

None of it seems half as exciting as it probably would have just a few months ago.

My job interview is a week from today, and I am hopeful that means my job hunt will soon be coming to an end. Not that job hunting isn’t a huge thrill…

I’ve been making a lot of phone calls trying to get everything organized for Kassie’s wedding in October. She is so busy, and I know what it is like to be planning a wedding while being crazy busy, so I’m trying to help as much as I can, and so far we are getting along great! I didn’t know if it would be possible for two sisters to work on a wedding and not have a huge fight, but so far, so good.

I’ve also been exercising a lot. I’ve lost 6 pounds and 1% body fat. I’ve been doing cardio and weight training at the gym that mom went to. Mom had purchased 8 personal training sessions that she never got to use, and the manager at the gym was nice enough to let me use them, so that has been incredibly beneficial to me. I’ve also made some friends at the gym – some of them knew my mom, and some of them heard about her. It seems like everywhere I go, someone has heard of mom. At first, I actually found it to be really overwhelming. I couldn’t go to the grocery store without being stopped by someone wondering if I was Kristie’s daughter, and wondering how we were all doing. But now I am so touched by it. My mom touched so many lives. Sometimes I wonder if she even had a clue how much of an impact she had.

Thanks for reading my rather fractured blog post today. I just knew I needed to get back into writing, so I didn’t really plan this one out at all. It was more of a stream-of-consciousness than a planned essay or observation.

I’m going to close with the lyrics of the chorus of a song I heard for the first time at the Avett Brothers concert on Tuesday. The song is called The Once and Future Carpenter.

Forever I will move like the world that turns beneath me

And when I lose my direction

I’ll look up to the sky

And when the black cloak drags upon the ground

I’ll be ready to surrender

And remember –

Well, we’re all in this together.

If I live the life I’m given, I won’t be scared to die.

My friend Lindsey and I were lucky enough to meet the Avett Brothers on Tuesday at their show in Council Bluffs! It was a thrill!

Sad Days

View from the cemetery where my father's parents are buried

View of the cemetery where my father's parents are buried

It’s been a really rough week.

Saturday we scattered mom’s ashes at the cemetery where my dad’s parents are buried, per her wishes. It’s a beautiful place in the country, with a picturesque view of the land my father’s family farmed for generations. It was a small, simple gathering of just a few family members to say a prayer and say another farewell to their sister, wife, and mother.

Honestly, it wasn’t as hard as I was expecting. Not that it was easy—it definitely wasn’t easy. I cried more than I’ve cried in quite some time. But it was comforting to be in such a peaceful place that I essentially come from, with that small group of people related to me who loved my mother.

Sunday was actually the hardest day for me. I think it was hard for many, many reasons, one of which was that I hadn’t prepared for it. I felt prepared for Saturday, and then it was over, and suddenly there was another day. I didn’t sleep well Saturday night, so that added to my feelings of crazed despair and anxiety. Another problem with Sundays, in general, is that Max typically leaves on Sundays. He offered to stay another day so I wouldn’t have to be alone on Monday, but I didn’t feel like he should miss another day of work right now.

Monday was my mom’s 54^th birthday. It was a very difficult day for me, and everyone else in my family. I wanted to take everyone’s advice and “remember the good times” and maybe even celebrate her a little, but it’s too soon for me. So I cried a lot and I missed her.

Sometimes I do the things “they” tell you not to do. I stuff my face when I’m sad. I stay in bed when I don’t feel like facing the day. I ignore phone calls and texts from people who care.

Because the truth is, while I am healing (I feel it happening constantly), I am still so, so sad. I am the saddest I have ever been times infinity. I am so sad I am sick over it.

But I am also doing my best to be healthy. I am exercising, keeping an eye on my diet, spending time with friends and family, writing about it, and I’ve started looking for a new job. I think about my mom and how hard she worked to be healthy and happy, and I think she’d be proud of the steps I’m taking. 

My Mother's Strength (Part 1)

Mom and Dad dancing at my wedding, September 4, 2010

I have been wanting to write this since the beginning of this blog, but I am having a lot of trouble with it.

Why did I name this blog "My Mother's Strength?"

There are a lot of reasons, but one of the bigger ones is that I think so many people, including myself, can learn a lot from the way my mom dealt with her disease, and essentially, her life, as it became more and more a part of who she was.

Cancer doesn’t just grow in your body; it grows in your entire essence. When it metastasizes, like it did with my mom, it wasn’t just in her lung, bones, brain, and liver; it was in her soul. It became who she was. She was no longer Kristie, wife of Kyle, mother of twins, business owner, church member; she became Kristie, cancer patient, wife of Kyle, mother of twins, business owner, and church member.

I think at first, she fought the idea of cancer being part of her identity as much as she fought the actual disease. But eventually, she realized if she didn’t want to be defined by her illness, she needed to meet it most of the way.

After a friend of mine’s mother passed away when her triple negative breast cancer spread to her brain, my mom got really scared. Then she got mad. She found the drive to find another way. She knew chemo made her too sick to go on, and her doctor at KU was not receptive to alternative treatments (or positive thinking, for that matter), so she decided to look elsewhere.

She read books and read about cancer as a cellular process, not just a disease or a tumor to be removed. She learned the ways in which our bodies permit or even promote the growth of these cells, and decided to fight the cancer with everything she had – her entire life.

She learned about the Block Center for Integrative Cancer Treatment in Chicago, Illinois after reading a book written by the founder, Dr. Keith Block. After visiting their website and talking with her insurance company, my mom decided to go to the Block Center. This was a decision I will always be grateful for.

At the Block Center, she was treated with concern and respect, and everyone loved her. She was given supplements and vitamin infusions before, during, and after chemotherapy to help her body handle the dangerous toxins chemo drugs contain. She was told she needed to make drastic changes in order to live. She made them.

She began a vegan (except for certain fish), bleached and processed flours and sugar-free diet. It was maybe the hardest thing my mom ever did. However, it changed everything, and she lived.

She continued chemo for years, and fought the cancer hard. She started practicing Yoga, having laser therapy to deal with her uncomfortable and scary neuropathy, and even having her chakras aligned regularly. She started exercising daily and even worked with a personal trainer, and for the first time in her life, found control over her weight – something that had plagued her for her entire adult life.

And she prayed. And you prayed. And you sent positive thoughts and love. And she lived.

We had at least three more Christmases than we were supposed to. She was able to attend my wedding and see Kassie’s dreams come true with her career and meeting and getting engaged to Travis.

When people say that my mom “lost” her battle with cancer, I want to correct them – she lived longer and better than anyone ever expected or even dared to hope for. And because of that, she was able to inspire us and teach us what it really means to be strong. 

Friends (Part Two)

Me and many of my girlfriends at my bachelorette party in Kansas City, September 2, 2010.

In addition to my mom’s friends who are really like second mothers to me, I have my own wonderful friends. Not all of them are women. Having a guy who isn’t family OR romantically interested in you worry about how you’re coping is a really interesting experience for someone who typically surrounds herself with girlfriends.

I’m used to being the worrier. I’m worried about everyone, all the time. I’m worried about my friends, their decisions, their boyfriends/girlfriends, their families, their jobs, etc. This isn’t to say that I’m a nervous wreck all the time. In fact, a lot of my friends are in great places in their lives, loving their jobs, newly married, and/or new homeowners. I’m excited for them! But I want their happiness to last. So I worry.

I’m not used to people (other than my mom) worrying about me. Or I should say, I’m not used to knowing about people worrying about me –  I’m sure people have worried about me my whole life (and I’ve given them plenty of reasons!) but it’s mostly been that quiet, observational worry that I have for my friends, where concerns are rarely voiced, and the worries  mostly come from hope.

Over the past month and a half (and before), I’ve experienced an amazing exhibition of love from my friends and their families. My family and I feel so encouraged and supported by all of the phone calls, texts, emails, and hugs. But it’s more than just support and encouragement for me. In a way, I feel like my broken heart has been spewing sadness, anxiety, loneliness and a little despair everywhere. My friends are applying pressure to this figurative wound by taking me out to movies or for drinks, calling to check on me, going shopping with me, or just hanging out with me.

My friends loved my mom. To them, she was a strong, independent woman who owned her own business, battled a terminal illness, and worked every day to be as strong as she could be so she could stay here with us for as long as she could. I think a lot of people really looked up to her.

Whether you’re for Nature or Nurture, my mother holds the key to half of who I am genetically, and most of who I am emotionally and mentally. I am who I am because of her. So much of the good is from her, and even some of the bad.

My friends love me. There is no doubt. I worry about exhausting them with my tears and anxiety, but I know that isn’t going to happen anytime soon. I know that if I’ve had a rough day, or a rough three days, all I have to do is scroll through my phone or Facebook, and there are a dozen or so people who would be happy to talk, go for a drink, watch a movie, or just sit with me. This knowledge adds security to my life, and is a reminder that not everything is bad or wrong.

Thank you for the love, hugs, and perspective, ladies (and a few gentlemen).

(Happy) Father's Day

Mom and me, Kassie and Dad

My dad hasn’t always had an easy life, but is always grateful for what he has, and doesn’t complain when things are difficult, because to him, there isn’t a point to complaining. I’ve heard him say “well, that’s life” in response to worries, complaints, or criticisms voiced by my sister or me. And it’s true, as we’ve all learned at one time or another – life is definitely not fair. Life is tumultuous and full of unexpected twists and turns, yet so many of us fight these unwanted shifts and turns and find ourselves depressed or anxiety-ridden when circumstances change. Not my dad.

This is not to say that he doesn’t feel the pain of loss or change. I told you – he is surprisingly complex. I believe he feels these things just as much as anyone else might, but with one difference – he doesn’t indulge the childish voice inside that constantly reminds us, in that whining, sad voice, “it just isn’t fair.” No, it isn’t. But “that’s life.”

Father’s Day is a difficult holiday for my father. His father, my granddad, passed away Father’s Day weekend of 1990. When Dad reminded me that it had been twenty-two years since Granddad died, I was shocked. I audibly gasped. I don’t have a lot of vivid memories of Granddad, but I have a lot of feelings associated with him. When I think of my Granddad, I remember feeling secure, special, and loved. I also remember that it was important to mind my manners and be good, or I would be in big trouble. Much like my own father, Granddad never yelled, and I only have one memory of ever seeing him angry.

I don’t know for sure how old we were, but we couldn’t have been older than three years old when Kassie, Granddad, G-G (what we called my dad’s mom) and I went to Wendy’s for lunch after church. I was so upset that Kassie got to sit by G-G, that when Granddad wasn’t looking, I decided to crawl under the table to G-G’s side. I didn’t make it very far. He grabbed me by the belt loop on my jean shorts and pulled me back out from under the table, swatted me on the rear (in front of everyone!) and made me sit by him the rest of the meal. I was so surprised! My family and I laugh at this memory because Granddad didn’t really tend to get angry (much like my father), so he must have been pretty angry at me that day if he felt the need to spank me in public.

Mom and Kassie, Granddad, G-G, Dad and me

 Another memory took place at their house in the country. They had a pretty big yard next to some railroad tracks and a farm with horses. There were some huge trees in the yard that my sister and I spent hours playing under and climbing. One afternoon when I was three or four years old, I was climbing one of the trees and slipped, landing on something soft. The air was immediately filled with the sounds of screams.

I’d landed on a rabbit. If you have never heard a rabbit scream, you are lucky. The rabbit was fortunate that day because I was still pretty small at that point. He scurried away and got stuck in a basement window well. I was so upset and worried about the rabbit. Granddad calmly put on his medal-working gloves, while explaining to me why it wasn’t ok to pick up a wild animal with your bare hands, and rescued the rabbit. He let me pet him and apologize to him, and then he took him to another shady spot away from where we were playing and let him go.

My dad is a lot like Granddad. I remember lots of times when my sister and I were little when my dad would explain things to us, show us how things worked, or tell us stories. He was and is always calm and patient. I was (and am) very much my mother’s daughter, but as I’ve gotten older, I have started to appreciate more and more his perspective on the world. We don’t see eye-to-eye on many things (like politics and religion), but he is a gentle soul who bases his entire worldview on doing what’s right, even if it is hard or impossible.

Being a good father is about so much more than paternity. My sister and I are so blessed to have a father who has cared for us, provided for us, nurtured us, looked out for us, taught us, and loved us through everything (which I imagine was not always easy with twin girls – especially through the teenage years). We were so lucky to have parents who epitomized the ideal of marriage and being in love with one another until the end and beyond.

Dad and Mom on their wedding day, December 18, 1976