My Beautiful Mess

Last week was a rough one. I find it harder to write here during weeks when the grief is heavy. I was caught off-guard last week, more than once, by the physical and subtle emotional qualities of grief - especially when they became not quite so subtle. It began on Monday.

I had an acquaintance come over to help me organize the photos that sit in my closet and in my computer (something I had hoped to not ever do!). While flipping through an album with her, I came upon pictures of Dad…and I stopped breathing. I actually had to tell myself Breathe, Jenn. Take a breath. It was only momentary but it jolted me. I have photos of Dad around the house…why did these photos do this to me?

My mom is a counselor, working on her LPC (Licensed Professional Counselor) and she volunteers as a group facilitator at a grief center. Ironic, huh. She said, “Jenn, the photos around the house are planned. The others weren’t.” Makes sense, but yet I was surprised at myself. [Note: Mom and Dad had been divorced for 12 years. Though I know she has some grief too since they were married for 25 years, she is able to separate some of that out, bless her.]

Then on Tuesday, I had a frustrating day at work. Because I am part-time and because the agency is going through a re-model, I have no permanent place to do work. Last week, I had to float from computer to computer to complete my work. Now, even on a good day that would frustrate my very AR/Type-A personality. But this was not a good day. It was all I could do to stay the 4 hours I was to work. Immediately upon leaving, I call my precious husband (bless him too!) and completely fall apart. I am sobbing uncontrollably. And I feel like a freak. What is happening to me?

Because it’s not like I can’t function on some level. I don’t go around thinking about Dad all day or thinking about how sad I am. I do the cooking and cleaning. I go to were I need to go. I have even been exercising. But it all takes…so…much…energy. I am so stinkin’ tired all of the time.

Today, my precious mom again gave me a saving grace. She emailed me a hand-out she had in her “grief file”. The title of it is YOUR ARE NOT GOING CRAZY. This is what it says, along with my thoughts:

Normal grief involves a variety of characteristics that are common after a death.  Most people who suffer the loss of a loved one experience one or more of the following:

Feel as though the loss isn’t real.  May feel numb or feel that this has not really happened. (I’m not really doing this one. But I do have moments that I feel numb or that I just don’t care about anything.)

Experience bodily distress of some type.  Tightness in the throat or heaviness in the chest.  Empty feeling in the stomach and loss of appetite.  Tired all of the time.  Difficulty sleeping. (yes to almost all of those.)

Lack of ability to function as before the death.  Feel their mood change over the slightest things, cry unexpectedly and at unexpected times.  Forget or don’t finish things they start.  Feel restless and look for activity.  Find it hard to concentrate.  Lack of organization. (this is so me - all of it. again, really messes with my normal Type-A self.)

Be preoccupied with the life of the deceased.  Need to tell and retell the experience of the loved one’s death. (sometimes - depends on the who I am with)

Be preoccupied with the image of the deceased.  May sense the loved one’s presence, hear their voice, or see their face.  Find themselves expecting the person to walk in the door, etc.  Dream of them frequently. (I have had one bizarre dream with Dad in it. But otherwise, I don’t do much of this - I think because he lived in Texas and I didn’t see him all of the time.)

Feel anger, guilt or hostility which may be directed toward the deceased, themselves, family members, friends, God, medical professionals, or the circumstances of the death itself. (I am not filled with anger but I do feel very cheated - we were suppose to have 4-6 months, not 2 weeks.)

Feel as though they need to take care of other people around them by politely not mentioning their feelings of loss. (yes, I do this.)

Today is a new week. I hope it is not quite as rough. Maybe it helps to know that this might be my temporary new “normal”. I know it won’t last forever. And I know, overall, I am O.K. But I am also acutely aware that grief is a process; this is something I have to go through. I know He is with me. I know He is my Hope and my Comfort. And I know that I miss my dad. All at the same time.

I had a hard time starting the first grade. Being the first-born of a stay-at-home mom, I was not use to being gone all day from home. It was hard for me to make it through a full day at school without crying at some point. I would wake up and feel sick to my stomach and would hope that Mom would not make me go today. After a month or more of this, my parents started to really worry. It was Dad who came up with a plan that, I am assuming, he likely felt was a shot-in-the-dark. But it worked.

He gave me a silver dollar. He called it my magic coin. I was to keep it in my pocket and then hold it when I felt sad. It would make me not miss home so much. And by golly, that is exactly what it did. I took it to school everyday and eventually, I wasn’t so sad.

When Dad went in for his surgery on November 5, 2008, I decided to return the favor. I found two silver dollars, one from the year in which I was born and another from the year in which my brother was born. I took those to the hospital in Texas and gave them to Dad the morning of his surgery, hoping that he wouldn’t feel as scared if he had them. He looked at the coins, looked at me, and with tears in his eyes said, “You must be my daughter.” Behind him, his wife was pulling a purple bag out of her purse. Inside of it? Two coins. A Texas quarter and an Oklahoma quarter.

Oh, how tightly I held onto the coins during the surgery, during his two hospital stays, and during his memorial service. And now they sit on my night stand, reminding me that Dad is still waiting for me to come Home…

I’ve been trying to tell a story - a story about my dad that began on October 29, 2008. I have found that harder to do than I anticipated. Remembering the details of those 3 weeks is something I am obviously not ready to do. Maybe, in time, I will go back and journal the specifics of some moments. But for now I will summarize, here in this post, about our loss. There are current day-to-day moments that are entrenched with emotions of loss and grief that I need to process on this blog. In order for those to make sense, I must tell you this part of the story….

Dad had surgery on November 5th, a surgery that was to take approximately 6 hours, if all went as planned. It didn’t go as planned. About  3 1/2 hours into the surgery, the surgeon found us all in the waiting room to tell us that Dad had stage IV pancreatic cancer - it had already spread to his liver and stomach. We were told there would be no recovery from this; treatment was not an option, and we were informed that Dad had 4-6 months to live.

Chemotherapy was discussed but only for what the medical world calls paliative care, that is to say that chemo might make his quality of life a little better and maybe a little longer. But the first priority was recovery from the surgery which left a 6-inch vertical incision down his gut.

Dad was in the hospital for a week, went home for not quite 2 days and was back in the hospital on November 13th, if I remember right. What I do remember right is that we received a call on Sunday November 16th that his kidneys were shutting down, and we drove back to Texas. We were not to have the 4-6 months the surgeon had spoke of. Dad died on November 19, 2008 at the age of 61.

I am thankful we were with him those final days. I am thankful he did not have to endure difficult treatment or months of pain. I am thankful that he is completely healed now and spending eternity with The Almighty. But I am sad. Very, very sad. He was a precious Daddy and Papa. I miss him terribly. I know that with time, it will not hurt so much. But I am also aware that life from now on will have a hole. I have many stories - because life with Dad was never dull! He was quite a character. You would’ve liked him…most folks did. And me, well, I loved him. And I still do.

I guess it is time to tell some more of Dad’s story…something about the fog and drizzle…and the fact that I am worn out….makes me feel sad today.

It was a weird feeling, waiting for his surgery. On one hand, you want time to hurry up so we can just get “this” over with. On the other hand, if the news is going to be bad, you want time to stop, or to even go backwards. Back to before things felt scary and uncertain. Back to Daddy being healthy.

I talked to Dad every day on the phone - but with Dad, it is hard for him to have emotional conversations. So we talked about other stuff - the kids, the weather, how he was feeling today, etc. He was the only one during this waiting period that did not get on the internet and google “pancreatic cancer.” I think even that would have been too much for him - it was almost too much for the rest of us. Because you read things like “This year, approximately 37,680 Americans will be diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Statistically, 75% of them (28,260 people) will die within a year of their diagnosis. Within five years, only 5% will still be alive – a mere 1,884 people – and most of these will have a recurrence and eventually succumb to the disease.” And then you try to go to sleep. Don’t do things like that, O.K.

I remember that I ran errands one day by myself over that weekend. As I was coming home, the song Something Heavenly, sung by Sanctus Real, played on the radio. I had already loved this song but, that day, I was overcome by The Spirit. I felt again, that God was saying, Hold on, sweetheart, this is going to be rough. Trust that I am at work, that I am truly up to something Heavenly. And that I love you.

By the time I entered the house, I was sobbing. My precious husband looked at me and asked What is wrong? I begged him to promise me that God was up to something Heavenly. Because this feels like total chaos. Promise me that this is something bigger than me. Because otherwise, this ain’t worth it.

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer at the age of 33. She found the lump herself, over 20 years ago. She had a mastectomy, some radiation, and then eventually reconstruction surgery. Glory to The Most High, she has never had a problem since then.

But because of that history, I have already begun to have mammograms, and yesterday was my yearly appointment. Actually, I go on their “high risk” clinic days so I have a mammogram and then 6 months later they do an ultrasound on me. Have you had a mammogram yet? Let me, tell ya, sister - they ain’t fun. My sis-in-law and I have actually decided that they might be worse than your yearly pap! No wonder they have not made me the spokeswoman for early detection awareness, huh! Yet, I do advise you - get one - every year. Please.

So when I check in, they have me review my “Patient Information and History” forms. I am struck with a question that completely took my breath away: Has anyone in your family been diagnosed with ovarian, breast, or pancreatic cancer since your last visit?

WHAT?? Pancreatic?? Why is that in there?

Due to my mom’s young age at diagnosis and other factors about my medical history, they have calculated my risk of having breast cancer sometime in my life at 20.8%. The average woman’s risk is somewhere around 3-6%. So what in the world, I am thinking half-dressed with a stupid drape over me, will this pancreatic thing to do that risk?

A sweet, young genetics nurse comes in to see me, and does explain that an association has been found to exist between breast cancer and pancreatic cancer - something I knew nothing about. However, she explains, because on my mom’s side there is breast cancer and on my dad’s side there is pancreatic, this does not change my risk factors. If both had been on one side of the family, then that would make a difference. And yet, I found myself in a complete state of non-stop tears with this young gal who I had never met.

But guess what? She had lost her brother suddenly a few years ago due to a brain aneurysm. And the other nurse who runs the high risk clinic who I have seen during all of my previous appointments comes in, and she had lost her brother in September. So they knew. They knew grief. They used some of the same words I have been using to describe my current state of life. In short, they said to me “Me too.”

And I am hear to tell ya, shared grief is not so heavy.

So by Wednesday evening, Dad and my step-mom had talked with the GI doc who was planning on doing an endoscopy the next day to try to unblock a bile duct. This blockage was what was causing the jaundice and the weight loss. No bile to your stomach means no “juice” to digest your food properly and so then the bile goes into your system, turning you yellow (just fyi, jaundice in newborns is totally different). And, yes, there was discussion as to “what” might be blocking this duct, but of course we all remained hopeful that it would be a quick and easy procedure.

The next day was my youngest son’s birthday, and a work-day for me. But Dad was constantly on my mind. If I am remembering right, the procedure was to be done at 1:00 pm so I was expecting to hear from my step-mom shortly after 2:00 pm. When 5:00 pm began to approach and my little family was preparing to go celebrate birthday, I called my step-mom.

Hey, it’s Jenn, I say. Amidst tears is the reply, I know.

The GI doc had run into a hard mass and couldn’t even get to the bile duct. He said that 9 times out of 10, this was pancreatic cancer.

The next step was to talk to a surgeon. One thing I still don’t get is that they were going to have to totally open Dad up to get a complete picture of what was going on - was it cancer, had it spread, what organs were involved - we would know none of that until they opened him up.  The best surgeon to do the procedure (a whipple) would do surgery on November 5th. So on Halloween, they sent him home. I told Dad that the jaundice at least made for a good Halloween costume!!

You have to laugh - or you’ll just end up in sobbing heap on the floor.