There is a sacredness in tears

I need to laugh,

and I need to cry...

 

We speak often of the anticipatory grief mom experienced on her pancreatic cancer journey.  This peculiar form of torture is not reserved for the cancer warrior alone.  We all dealt with her impending loss in a myriad of ways...

 

There were the 'ostrich head in the sand' moments... pure denial of all that was happening.

 

And 'cry me a river' nights...where grief tore us raw and wounded.

 

And even 'robotic going-thru-the-motions' times... when the bleakness of this cancer journey simply numbed us to the core, leaving an emptiness that tears couldn't begin to fill up.

 

Cancer is serious business.  So true.   No two journeys are the same, but all deal with a future of uncertainty and an unknown destiny.  This uncertainty is agonizing to the nth degree... piled on top of painful treatments, nauseating chemos and excruciating surgeries, there comes a time when tears are the only language.

 

Every cancer warrior needs the permission to cry... Give it freely.

 

It was the hardest thing in the world to see mom's grief... even harder yet to watch my dad grieve her loss.  But being there, crying with them was a Mercy to hearts sore.

 

And it's so ok if this isn't your journey, nor your calling... mom didn't cry often, nor with many.  But if you are in the thick of this cancer nightmare with a loved one, don't be afraid of these moments...

 

It is love with feet, and hands and a shoulder... and Kleenex... lots of Kleenex. 

 

"There is a sacredness in tears.

They are not the mark of weakness,

but of power.

They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.

They are the messengers of overwhelming grief,

of deep contrition

and of unspeakable love."

                 ~  Washington Irving

 

 

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The Shadow Valley...

Perhaps the hardest post to write in this 31 Day Challenge is the one I have been composing for almost 3 years...

It was November, 2010 that our world changed forever when mom was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer.  I believe the journey of grief began when the doctor uttered those solemn words.

We fought the truth as hard as we fought the ruthless claws of cancer.  We lived in denial, we begged, we prayed... we experienced moments of extreme hope and horrible dark valleys of lost faith...we walked the path of grief during those twilight days of living.  With each failed treatment and painful setback, the sorrow wore ruts into our very souls.

I have learned that this anguish is called Anticipatory Grief.  And we were not alone in our struggle.  Many, many others have sojourned this same path.  We're not the first to stumble along its treacherous trail.

In our website, we share a little bit about this part of our journey with pancreatic cancer.  It is hard, even now, for me to look back on those 12 months with mom and not relive the horror of that grief.  As a Caregiver, it is doubly hard to tread a balance between offering comforting hope for our loved one while coping with the harsh reality of the disease progression.  Knowing that our miracle will be an eternal one means we will face the agony of loss here in this place...

Sometimes the grief just swamps.  The loss that is coming feels too heavy to bear.  Impossible to smile through the searing pain. 

And where do we find Grace in the midst of such anguish?

For us, it was found in mom's favorite scripture passage...and some sweet goat babies...

"The Lord is my shepherd;

I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me

in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:

thou anointest my head with oil;

my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

                                                                    ~ Psalm 23

There is a beautiful picture in my mind of the Lord as our shepherd.  I know part of that comes from our life here on the farm... we too are shepherds of our very own flock...

 

 

 

 

 

We walk fences, protect from coyotes, feed and water no matter the weather, keep nanny-watch long into the midnight hour, and muck the stable daily.  We rejoice in the bleating baby arrivals and mourn over the losses beyond our control.  Our kids know our voices...come running joyful at the sound.  And we know the ones that love to be scratched behind the ears... and the ones that always catch their horns in the gate.

 

It's our job as shepherds to watch over the flock and lead them to green pastures and still waters.

 

And I know that the care and love and protection we give our herd is nothing compared to the Shepherd Love of our Heavenly Father. 

 

But in the beginning our Anticipatory Grief colored our world bleak.  It was more like a deep, bottomless abyss than a mere shadow valley...

 

Learning to trust in the Shepherd Grace did not come easy.  Through the mercy of time and a Gentle God, we began to notice a few things...

 

1.  It is in the valley that the pasture is most lush and the rivers flow abundant, snow melt from beautiful mountain high.  It was while we were in the valley with mom that we shared some of our most intimate and precious times.  The love flowed deep and hearts were soothed.  If not for this time in the valley, when all the inconsequential and trivial fell away, I fear we would never have experienced the Sweet Blessings of Living in the Moment with Mom...

 

2.  It is thru the valley that we must walk to reach higher ground.  For mom, she is there.  Living life complete on that Breathtaking Mountain High, safe with her Shepherd Father, and filled with a Peace that passes our understanding.  We are not there, quite yet.  But we can see it...that Place of Eternal Grace that beckons hard.  We can set our hearts at rest in the knowing that the shadow valley gives way to Life Everlasting in the Light of His Love...

 

3.   It is because of the valley that we learn to trust a Faithful Shepherd.  He is able to meet our needs, provide comfort and guide us unerringly through the dark days.  If we lived only and always on the mountaintop, we would never know the Strength of His Love as The Good Shepherd, nor would we truly understand the heartache of those traveling their own shadow valley.  Because of our own experiences we can come alongside and share Grace, and Comfort, and Encouragement... 

 

The Journey of Grief is different for each of us.  And so too the shadow valleys we must walk.

 

But Grace is there to meet us in the midst of the anguish.  Let Him hold you close and carry you a spell.  He will you know... He loves you that much...

 

Graced to walk the Shadow Valley with the Shepherd of the Mountain High.  His Light reaches even the darkest corners of our Grief, dispelling the fear and the pain of our worst nightmares.  Always.

 

May you find His Love Sufficient to Protect and Cover you with Peace this night,

 

You are so Precious to him. 

 

The Right Place at the Right Time doing the Right Thing

Earlier this month in our 31 Day Challenge, we were privileged to "meet" Phyllis Greene and listen as she shared her perspective on being the "Cared-For."  She admitted her struggles and frustrations with aging and coping with a terminal illness, yet her story was one of uplifting encouragement as she graciously blessed her daughter for the gift of being her Caregiver.

Today I would love to share her Daughter's Perspective:

I am the Caregiver

by D.G. Fulford

 

The other day, I was thinking about William Butler Yeats, which was a shock because I'm usually thinking about The Real Housewives of Orange County.  A line from his poem "Easter 1916" kept running through my head:

 

 "All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born."

 

All has changed utterly in the past 12 years for my mother, my daughter and me.  What a terrible, beautiful limbo we're in, this intimate and temporary time, glimmering between Before and After.

 

For years, I lived in California, then in a ghost town in Nevada.  Twelve years ago, I picked up my life and moved it back to Ohio, leaving my daughter, Maggie, who was well on her own, way out west.  I became my mother's compatriot, then caregiver after my father died.

 

At first, I didn't understand what my mother meant when she called and said she needed me during Dad's illness.  If you needed help around the house, the last person you'd call would be me.  I am more bohemian than bountiful; not a cooker, not a cleaner.  "Why would she possibly need me?"  I asked a friend.  "Fresh air," my friend said.

 

Being a writer allowed me to stay with my parents during the long winter of Dad's death.  When it came time to leave, I didn't want to.  By then, I needed Mom as much as she needed me.  Having been through a divorce, a failed business and the usual frenetic life of a single working mother, being home felt safe and right.

 

Mom's health was fine for the first few years, but time took its toll.  By her side, I steadied an arm as we went to lunch and brunch and errands.  Slowly our outings turned into a mash-up of waiting rooms, doctors' appointments and hospitals.  Soon we were picking out canes, then a walker, and finally a folding wheelchair.  Now Mom is bedridden.  She suffers from congestive heart failure and her legs don't work like they did.  She is a hospice patient.

 

In her pink bed, in her pink bedroom, you'd swear that if she had a suit on instead of a nightgown, she could be presiding over a meeting with the Franklin University Board of Trustees.  When you see her hunched over her walker, though, attempting to wheel to the bathroom, the truth cannot be denied.  "I hate being an old woman," she says.  And who can blame her?

 

We keep up our routine, Mom and I.  I call her every morning at 9:30, then run out to her house to start the day.  She has 24-hour care now, which eases my hyper-vigilance.  Most of the time, we are free to just sit and talk.  Even at this hardest time, we have had a blast.  We laugh more than we cry as we face the unfaceable together.

 

She is ready.

 

I am not.

 

Over the past 12 years, I have not had a thought that did not contain my mother.  Her life so fills my own that I cannot even think about other relationships.  I doubt that this is healthy, and sometimes weigh the wisdom of my decision.  But as the years go by, I am more and more convinced that I have been at the right place at the right time doing the right thing.  How often in a life do we get to acknowledge that?

 

My friends keep me sane - and I am surrounded by great ones.  They hear when my voice sounds crazy and come to my rescue.  We meet and we laugh, and I feel my dark clouds dissipate.  I spend a lot of time alone, too, which soothes and sustains me.  At night, I put myself away for the day, nesting with my cuddly dog, a bunch of books, my laptop and good old Mr. Television.  The next morning when I speak to Mom, I am ready to go again.

 

In the years that I have been here, my daughter has gotten married and had two glorious sons - Zachary,6, and Nate, 3.  I cannot visit them as often as I like, which is hard - the push and pull of going and staying.  I am always conscious of what could happen, while never believing in a million years that it will.

 

For 12 years, like an anticipatory survivalist, I have been steeping in my mother's sun, absorbing all the light I can.  When our last day together comes, I will be lonely; I will be rocked and knocked to me knees.  When I am ready, I will get up.  My mother's light will guide me.  The terrible part will come to an end.  The beautiful will live on within.

 

 

 

D.G. Fulford and her mom, Phyllis Greene, have written a book about their experiences.

It is called Designated Daughter: The Bonus Years 

 

Something better...

When mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and the full impact of her prognosis sunk in, our world shifted into nightmare status fast.

The night-terror-while-you're-awake, can't breathe, heart-hemorhaging kind of horrible...

It is not a place where Christian platitudes or superficial niceties make a dent.  The grieving and pain were physical and did not make for charitable company.  Honestly, we were wrecks...just trying to find a foothold for the next step, all the while feeling the bottom dropping out under us.
   
And so, it is amazing, really, to look back on mom's journey and realize how the nightmare transformed somewhere along the way into moments of radiance.

A Life well lived, of Love showered abundantly, and a Hope shared with confidence.  Cancer definitely shaped and molded these last months with mom, but in some indiscernible way cancer helped refine our lives for the better.

Fran Drescher shared some great insights in a recent interview.  She is probably best known for her role on The Nanny.  What many may not know is that she is a survivor of uterine cancer.  When she was asked what's your best piece of advice for cancer survivors, this was her reply...

"Become something better than you were before, whether it is how you relate to your family, or how compassionate you are as a human being.  I always say that turning pain into purpose is very healing."

That advice hits home on so many levels, and not just for cancer survivors.  I believe that's exactly what mom was working through on her cancer journey... she took the pain of her diagnosis, the utter nightmare of a prognosis and turned it into a passionate purpose.

Something better than she was before.  Refined into gentle beauty, touching each of us with grace whispered, and turning the night-terrors into dreams of hope fulfilled, eternal and perfect...

Challenged anew to Become Something Better...no matter what the journey holds,

Graced Always in His Love this night,
                                                         Jane     

 

All Out of Whack

This afternoon I walked into the house and was greeted by the loveliest little Christmas Cactus flower!

In the middle of March mind you!  I have been so preoccupied with life, grief, dad, grand-babes and chores that I had totally forgotten to look for the beautiful Christmas blooms this past December.  And really, this little plant has always been so faithful to flower during the holidays. 

Here she is in years past.  Laden with blooms, dripping sweetness and beauty...

So this year, she's 3 months late.  Go figure!  Perhaps our grieving spirits really knocked her for a loop this Christmas.  But in the midst of it all I never even noticed.  I consider it a blessing we're talking about a cactus here, because I don't think she got watered for weeks on end.  Really, my house plants were not high on the priority list during the tumult and sorrow of losing mom.

But, today she blooms.  There is Hope.  Even for the dry, parched, barren places of the soul. 

Beauty is there.  Sometimes small, sometimes late.  But struggling to be seen, to be felt, to be embraced.

And I know this little blossom was a gift to a tired heart this day...

It was a day spent with Dad, walking yet another first.  Celebrating their 52nd Wedding Anniversary.  Not at a fancy restaurant, nor a candlelit dinner at home.  This anniversary was commemorated with a small yellow rose bouquet and quiet, shared memories at her columbarium...

We should take stock in Kleenex at this point in our journey.  The grief is still heavy and ever present.  I am learning anew how difficult and uncharted this road can be.  We can laugh over shared memories and stories while lips are quivering and tears are falling.  It is the nature of the beast.

And yet, this moment of beauty in my day. 

Fiercely determined to bloom, delicate and lovely, despite an inner clock that is all out of whack!

Sometimes beauty comes late.  Still a gift, delighting the heart.  And know that it brings Hope.  Always right on time...

May Beauty flood your soul this day.  Perfect, Fierce and Lovely.

Resting in Grace, Jane

The Journey Clarified

Yesterday's post caught me by surprise.  What started out as a light commentary on the doings of the day took a detour down a much deeper, more emotionally raw path than I expected.  I guess it's part of the journey, but still the visceral punch leaves me winded.  The anticipatory grief is truly a glacier weight, slow, massive and unstoppable, grinding us down when we foolishly turn our backs on its icy chill to seek the sun.

I am always in awe of the timing of God.  Some would call it coincidence, I believe it to be the providential work of His unseen Hand.  An email hit my inbox just as I posted yesterday's blog.  My heart was sore, my soul felt bruised.  The note spoke healing with mercy and grace.  In it, a sweet so-journer on this cancer trail shared a Word.  Of Hope.  From God.

Ecclesiastes 3:11b "He has set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end."

The timing was right.  My heart was questioning.  In answer, a glimpse of God's longing... for us to long with a desparate need for Him, for Eternity.  He has set eternity in our very hearts.  Oh, what we miss as we live our very lives focused on the here and now.  Does it take a terminal illness to draw our eyes heavenward?  To seek the answers of eternity?  Of paradise?  Peace settles as God assures that we will never understand, never completely fathom the path, and it's okay.  Setting our hearts on eternity is the goal, and God has already done the work.

Grace met the need.