How grief changed me

Six years ago today, I began a different journey. I knew 11 weeks before that my Mom was going to die. Watching her courageously fight cancer changed my life. Her death did as well. Four years later, my Dad would die. I was with both of my parents when they took their last breaths. I was more prepared for what was to come after my Dad passed away but practice does not make perfect when it comes to grief.

How did grief change me? Let me count a few ways....

After my Dad passed away, my husband and I spent two months in Alabama taking care of the farm and estate. When we returned to Texas, I was clingy, needy, and would not let my husband out of my sight. I was TERRIFIED he would die if we were not together. I just could not bear the thought of another loss. So we were together A LOT. By the grace of God, we were on our sabbatical from work so we were already always together. God had already made a way. Even now, six years since my Mom passed away and a year and a half since my Dad, I am still overcome with panic at times that something may happen to my beloved. But I recognize that Benson belongs to God, who loves and cares for him inexpressibly more that I do or can possibly understand. I want my beloved's life in His hands. When I feel fear coming, I just pray and say, "Jesus!" Fear flees at His Name.

My personality has changed. I used to thrive on being around people and being on the go all the time. The thought of having downtime made me cringe. But now, I am more introverted and find much joy and energy in just being at home. I really enjoy "Me" time.

If something crosses my mind, I must be able to locate it quickly. If I cannot find it, I will panic. This revolves around anything of my parents I brought back to Texas or anything they gave me. A few weeks ago, I randomly thought of my softball glove. My parents bought it for me when I was in my young teens. It is at least 20 years old. I thought it was on a bookshelf but it wasn't and I began to desperately hunt for it. Within a few minutes, I found it in a closet and all was well. Oh my mercy. This drives me crazy. It is like these things strengthen my connection to my parents and makes the memories so real. It may seem silly that a ball glove could put me in a tizzy but when you only have a few things left of your parents, you tend to find much joy in them.

My health. Dear Jesus in Heaven. This is where I have had to learn to have a DEEP trust in God. My health did not cause me concern before my parents died. Since my parents died from the same cancer, I have at times lived in fear of the same fate. This was especially true after my Dad was diagnosed in November of 2016. I have had genetic testing completed that showed no increased risk in any cancer I was tested for, praise God! But every now and then, the enemy will try to debilitate me with fear that I could have cancer. I have abdominal scans twice a year to be preventative. I try to eat healthy. I drink water like a camel and slowly getting better about exercising. I know that the Lord has numbered my days and He is working for my good and anything that happens, happens because He allows it to be. So I just pray for the Lord to take my thoughts captive and to increase my faith in Him.

While I would love with every fiber of my being for my parents to still be alive, God has used their deaths for my good. I still doubt and wrestle and question. I still lament from time to time. But I have found it is good because it draws me near to God. So my grief journey is ongoing but moving. I am changed and still changing but it is ultimately sanctifying me more into the image of Christ. So I see through eyes touched by grief which helps me have more empathy for people, more discernment for what is really going on, and more compassion to just sit awhile.

Grief is not our enemy even though it feels that way at times. It becomes a part of who we are. You are not alone. Know there is hope. You are loved. And if you need someone to validate how you feel and even help you feel "normal," just let me know. We are in this together.

Pick up your megaphones

"Murmuring thanks doesn't deny that an event is a tragedy and neither does it deny that there's a cracking fissure straight across the heart. Giving thanks is only this: making the canyon of pain into a megaphone to proclaim the ultimate goodness of God."

I know pain and I know loss. I know the deepest of aches and have felt such gut wrenching sorrow. But I also know that God is so, so good. I know the sweetest joy and I have a constant peace. My canyon of pain has been transformed into a mountain of hope and I want to tell everyone about my Jesus!

Friends, pick up your megaphones. Even if you have to whisper, let’s share with others that God is always good and they are always loved. Make much of Him and make disciples. To God be the glory!

Mother’s Day

To the hearts hurting as Mother's Day approaches,

I am right there with you. I know the tender pain one date on a calendar can bring. Regardless if the ache is recent or years old, this day can be hard to trek through. I want you to know you are not alone. And that it is ok if you are incredibly sad. And it is ok if you are filled with joy. This is the first Mother’s Day since my Mom died that I have more joy than grief and I feel like I can take a deep breath and exhale peace. I used to run from memories in an effort to protect myself from deep pain. But now I want to remember. It took me years to reach this place. Wherever you are on your journey, you have permission to feel however you want to feel. I also want you to remember that you are not motherless. I am still a daughter to a remarkable mother even though she is no longer journeying on earth. She will always be MY mom. If you are grieving through the loss of a child, you are not childless. That sweet baby you didn’t even get to hold, only held briefly, or that child you didn't have near enough time with is still YOURS. To those who desperately desire a baby, to be called "mom" but have not been able to get pregnant, you are remembered. Every month that passes may feel like a reminder of what you do not have. You are not alone. 

This day, a day some dread throughout the year, can be horribly painful. We grieve together. I'm right there with you. I wish I could say something that would bring healing, that would lessen the ache. I wish I could just squeeze you. Please know that we are walking this journey together. You are very much remembered, especially on this day. So, take a deep breath. And keep putting one foot in front of the other. May God give you strength to press on. You are so loved. ❤️

All things new

We have a large tree in our backyard that remained naked until a few weeks ago. It withstood a hard winter that stripped away most of its life. I noticed tiny green blooms beginning to emerge. Within a few days, it was clothed with beautiful green leaves. Maybe you’ve been in a long, hard season. And you have desperately wanted to feel better, for things to just be better. Life hasn’t been fair. You’ve experienced difficult changes and your new normal just isn’t working for you. You feel stuck in your sadness, anger, bitterness. 

Friends, Jesus is in the business of making all things new. Let’s press into a new season of hope. Let Jesus be your strength. You cannot change what has happened. But you can allow Jesus to enter into the hard and ugly with you. You are not alone. And you are so, so loved.

It is ok to be ok

I recently published a blog post about “Grieving for the Holidays” and how you can begin preparing yourself if you anticipate feelings of grief. You can find it here. I want to flip the script and take a different angle as the holidays near.

It is ok to be ok.

It is ok if you feel happy and excited and believe it is the most wonderful time of the year. It is ok to enjoy all the things you used to enjoy.

It is ok to revive old traditions or make new ones.

It is ok for you to take a deep breath and exhale deeply. And then do one thing you want to do but are afraid to do. Don’t be afraid to feel.

It is ok for you to move forward.

It is ok to remember, to feel sadness, but also feel a sense of joy and peace.

It is ok for you to allow people to love and care for you well as they remember and acknowledge you. You are so loved. Let people live that out in your life.

It is ok if this holiday season is filled with more memories. Making new ones does not mean you are forgetting or replacing old ones.

It is ok for you to be ok.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. Romans 15:13

Grieving for the holidays

This is the time of year when families begin making plans for the holidays. Christmas movies are already playing on Hallmark. It is a countdown to shopping, festivities, and the anticipation of memories being made. It is also when I feel myself slowly climbing down the mountain. 

My Mom was a central part of Christmas for our family. My first one without her in 2013 was weird, and hard, and nothing I could have prepared. It was difficult in so many ways. 2014 came and I celebrated Christmas for the first time as a wife. Such joy! But also sorrow. I missed my Mom. And was sad to not spend it in AL with my Dad. I was worried about him. Here comes 2015. Benson and I spent Christmas in AL. And it was good. The grief wasn’t as raw and I had adjusted to our new Christmas normal without my Mom. My Dad was diagnosed with cancer the day before Thanksgiving of 2016. We took him for his treatments right before Christmas and celebrated big because life is fleeting. And then last year. Christmas was just not Christmas. I couldn’t get out of bed for half the day. I was heartbroken. It had only been less than three days since my Dad passed away and I couldn’t have functioned even if I tried. My body was grieving. 

I do not want to make me the center of the holidays. I really do not. If I could just play the background, I would. I know Christmas is about Jesus. After all, Christmas is when Jesus emptied Himself and became human like us. I reflect on that and then wrap my mind around the next sentence: I am feeling the most grief during a season where I celebrate the One who bore all of our griefs and sorrows. If anyone could possibly understand, it is Jesus. And Jesus is so near to me in my grief. He comforts me, sings over me, and quiets me with His love. I never shed a tear apart from His Presence. Fully known and loved. But mercy, the holidays can be hard to not just navigate but plan and prepare. I describe it as grieving for the holidays. 

So I begin my trek down the mountain. I don’t want to. I fight it. But I already feel myself grieving for what will be- Christmas without my parents. I cannot prepare for that. I grieve for what it may be. I had just adjusted to Christmas without my Mom. And now my sweet Dad. I miss him so. I miss them both. So I press in. With all my strength. To count it all joy. And to allow myself to feel and process. As I do, those running shoes I put on that were inching down the mountain slowly begin taking steps upward. And I do this on repeat until I am not climbing down. 

If any of this sounds familiar to you, I want you to try a few things as you grieve/prepare for the holidays:

*Every time you begin to feel overwhelmed or you can feel the grief building, just take a deep breath. Take several. Try to identify what triggered you and what you are feeling. And then excuse yourself, if necessary, and feel those emotions. Cry, weep if you need to. Lament to the Lord. And then return. It is important that you allow yourself to feel. 

*Take breaks. Take lots of breaks. Grief affects our minds, hearts, and bodies. You may feel more tired, have trouble putting thoughts together, or have a sudden onset of tears. Show yourself grace. 

*Set boundaries. Think through what you feel you will need to cope well. If you think you will need a quiet place to be alone, be mindful of that as you make plans to be in other people’s homes. You may need to not commit to certain activities or events. And that is ok. 

*Do not be afraid to vocalize how you feel and what you need. People may want to help but are not sure how. Let people love you well. You are not alone though it may feel that way. 

*Jesus. Just say “Jesus!” He is so near to you! The enemy wants to steal, kill, and destroy you this holiday season. But Jesus. Even in utter sadness, Jesus wants you to experience abundant, joy-filled life through Him. He wants you to draw near to Him especially when you want to pull away. You weep. And wail. And cry out to God. You aren’t less than because you are grieving. Your tears do not mean you are not trusting God. Jesus wept because he loved (John 11:35) not because He lacked faith. You weep because you loved. 

*Count the ways. And celebrate! Be intentional with being grateful. You got out of bed when you did not feel it. Or you did that one hard thing that seemed unsurpassable. Victory! You saw a beautiful flower, heard a bird singing, received an unexpected text from a friend. Oh, how He loves us! Your favorite song came on the radio or you witnessed love being lived out. Praise God! 

*Try to do the things you love or those things that bring you joy. Help minister to the homeless. Help a family or friend in need. Sing Christmas carols at a nursing home. Go love on babies in the NICU. Donate to your favorite animal rescue. Go look at Christmas lights. Serve your neighbors who do not have family. Do any of these in memory of your loved ones. It will make it all the more special.

If you have a family member or friend that is grieving this holiday season, remember them and show them grace. Love them well. 

Believing the lie: Part 2

If you did not read the first part of this post, you can find it here. 

I want to use this post to not just share my pain and struggles, but to also give you a glimpse into my Dad’s battle with cancer. His courage and bravery will always inspire me.

After my Mom passed away in 2013, my Dad and I became best buds. He would text me every day and we would have a phone call several times a week. Our texts became something I looked forward to every morning. The best part is when he discovered memes. He was so funny!

In the summer of 2016, my Dad began having gastro issues. And in November, he was diagnosed with Cholangiocarcinoma, aka bile duct cancer. The same cancer my Mom had. I was devastated. But my Dad was determined to fight so I was hopeful. And I was determined to do everything I could to care for him well.

From December until March 2017, my Dad had chemo and radiation. The oncologist's hope was that the tumors would shrink to the point that they could remove a large portion of his liver. His scan in March would determine their next course of action. We all thought it would be surgery and a long recovery. I was completely shocked when my Dad called during his appointment to share that his treatment had worked so well, surgery would not be necessary! They would continue with oral chemo with expectation that the cancer would continue to die and there would be no new growth.

 My husband and I sold our home in Texas anticipating that we would move to Alabama in March for a few months to care for my Dad. I did not mention this in my first post, but I really struggled with being "all there" with my Mom. My home was in Texas. My life and livelihood was in Texas. I was a single woman who had very little savings, working at a nonprofit (Lord knows you do not get paid well), halfway through my second master’s degree, and unsure how to be with my Mom when I had so much obligation back home. I knew my work team was having to work harder because I was not there. And because I had no clue how long I would be in Alabama, would I still have a job? How can I pay my bills once I use up all of my leave time and I am not receiving a paycheck? I battled with this the whole time I was with my Mom. I resolved to not have the same struggles. If we needed to be with my Dad, I was going to be all there. No guilt or regrets. Besides, I knew far more now than I did with my Mom. I was more equipped. And I was going to be the best daughter and caretaker.

During an August appointment, my Dad was told that the chemo was no longer effective and that the tumors were starting to grow. In September and October, he had a SIRS-Spheres procedure. They were both successful but his recovery was very painful and difficult. His pain was hardly managed. I was able to be with him for both and it was hard to know how to comfort and help when nothing really helped.

In late October, my Dad had a scan and it showed that the tumors were gone! We were elated! He would have another scan in eight weeks. Fast forward to mid-December. My Dad went in for another scan. I was in New York with my husband and anxiously waited for his call. I was ready to hear that he was cancer free! He called but the news was not as we had hoped. The cancer returned aggressively and was worse than when he was first diagnosed. My sweet Dad was heartbroken. Another SIRS-Spheres procedure was scheduled. This time they would use chemo instead of radiation.

Right before Thanksgiving, my husband and I took my dad on a train trip through Tennessee. I could tell he was not feeling well. He did not have much energy and he was in pain, though he did not want anyone to notice. Since he had been told the cancer was gone, I assumed he was just still recovering from the October procedure. Radiation embolization is really hard on the organ. It literally kills the tissue surrounding the tumor so it is really painful. And it liquefies the tumor which causes very intense pain.

My Dad began sharing that he was having upper back pain in early December. For him to even mention it, I knew it had to be bad. I tried to push aside thoughts that the cancer had spread to his back especially believing that the cancer was gone. When he went in for his December scan, he mentioned it to the oncologist and they did a scan of his back. He was told when he came in for the third procedure, they would share the results with him and go from there.

I made sure my Dad knew that he was our greatest priority and that he was not a burden. And that we counted it a privilege and a gift to love and serve him well. Benson and I were both on a sabbatical from work so we did not have many, if any, commitments that would interfere with our care of my Dad. But he hesitated to take my offers of help and it was hard for him to ask me for help.

After his last scan, they moved quickly with scheduling the next procedure in an effort to stop the cancer from spreading. The oncologist and his team were hopeful they could get ahead of it. And my Dad trusted them. They gave him hope.

Benson and I were unable to get a flight out due to the Atlanta airport’s power being shut down so we drove. My uncle met my Dad at the cancer center on the day of his procedure as he had to have a caregiver present. The procedure went as planned. My Dad went to recovery and called me as soon as he was moved to a room. He was drowsy and in pain but they were giving him IV pain meds which were helping. He was relieved that he was staying overnight as he was sent home after the first two procedures. He was optimistic his recovery would be better the third time around. He wanted Benson and me there late morning of the next day to discharge him from the hospital.

We arrived and went to his room. He was sitting up in his bed. He looked good and sounded like himself. I asked the bedside nurse if he was ready to discharge and she shared that he would need to stay another night as his pain was not quite managed. I was relieved to hear this because my Dad’s pain was not managed by taking pills. The IV pain meds really helped alleviate the pain. He was completely content staying another night. After the nurse stepped out, I asked my Dad if he received the results of his back scan. He shared that the cancer had spread to two vertebrae but his interventional radiologist felt he could take care of it once he recovered from the procedure. I was deeply saddened to hear it spread but encouraged there was a plan.

Early evening, my Dad told Benson and I to go ahead and go to our hotel room, that he was going to rest. We left and headed to dinner. After 10p, my Dad texted me, asking me to come to the cancer center as soon as possible. I went into a panic. We rushed there and ran to his room. My Dad was hunched over on his bed in severe pain. He was upset because the nurse would not give him more medicine. He was in a regular outpatient room where meds were given every 4-6 hours. I asked (begged) the nurse to give him something. She agreed to give him his IV meds early as it was obvious he was in severe pain. We stayed with my Dad until he fell asleep.

We arrived at the cancer center by 7:30a the next morning as we wanted to catch the doctor on his rounds. I was concerned about my Dad’s level of pain and him being discharged with so much pain. When we arrived to my Dad’s room, it was empty. I asked the nurse where he was and she said he was sent up the ICU floor in the early morning hours. I was really confused so we headed to the next floor up. When I walked into his room, it was far more confusing. The room was filled with nurses, as if a scene of chaos had just calmed. My Dad had a breathing tube as well as more wires than I can recall connected to his body via IV or on his skin. He was moaning and groaning. I asked everyone in the room what had happened and what was going on. The head nurse shared that my Dad awoke around 3am in excruciating pain. They tried IV pain meds but they did not work. They took him for a MRI which showed he had multiple blood clots throughout his body. These were causing him severe pain. But the nurse stated they had him on an anticlotting medicine and they felt hopeful. My Dad quieted as the pain medicine kicked in. Being on the ICU step down floor allowed them to give medicine more frequently. When they asked my Dad what his name was or his birth date, he did not answer. But when they asked who I was, he would say “Say-ruh.” It appeared something was going on cognitively but that could also be explained by the increased meds.

Just a few hours later, a doctor and a team of nurses entered the room. I was sitting on the couch with Benson so I walked to my Dad’s bed to meet them. The doctor introduced himself. He shared what the nurse had told me about the blood clots. He asked me if I had called family in. I told him that my Dad was a private man and no one really knew that he was even there, including my Granny. He did not want anyone to worry. And why would I need to call family? He had only been in his current state a few hours and no one seemed worried. He then said words that literally took the breath out of me and caused my legs to give out. “We are past time for you to call family. Your Dad is not going to make it.” What? I’m sorry. What? I do not understand. He was fine yesterday. What do you mean he is not going to make it?

The doctor went on to explain more about the blood clots and how a person with cancer cannot be cured of them once they have them but they could try to prevent more from occurring. And that it was likely a matter a time before one dislodged and went to his lung or to his brain. He also explained that my Dad’s liver wasn’t functioning well, his kidneys were very poor, and that he was needing more oxygen to breathe. The doctor told me to consider moving him to comfort care, that it was in my Dad’s best interest. After he left, the nurse shared that the cancer was very aggressive and that my Dad would die from it regardless. There was nothing else they could do. She also shared that they felt my Dad had mini strokes and that is why he was cognitively not responding as well.

Shock. Complete shock. In a moment, everything changed. Everything.

I called family. It was hard to prepare them for what they would see. And impossible to convey to them what was shared with me.

I cannot even put into words the next 24 hours. I couldn’t make the decision to move my Dad to comfort care. That meant I was making the decision for him to die. I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it. But his pain became much worse. He was suffering so.

In the wee hours of Thursday morning, the nurse and two aides turned my Dad to his side. He had been on his back and they asked if they could turn him. He said yes. I knew in my spirit that he did not know what he was saying. As soon as they turned him, he screamed in pain. He went into A-fib. It took hours for him to calm and for them to get his pain under control. It was horrible. The nurse believed a blood clot dislodged and caused the A-fib and the excruciating pain. He never recovered. I blamed myself. I should have told them not to turn him. But they knew what they were doing, what was best for him. But I should have spoken for him! That one instance led to my Dad’s demise. And it was all my fault. That is what the enemy wanted me to believe.

After being shown scan after scan and reading every report handed to me, and after being further consulted by doctors and nurses who were telling me that at this point, it was unethical for them to continue treatment or continue finding veins for IV’s (they were having to use an X-ray machine to even find veins) because it was no longer helping my Dad but hurting him, and after consulting with family, the decision was made for him to move to comfort care.

My Dad’s last 24 hours were spent being surrounded by loved ones. He was so loved. He was not in pain. His final moments were peaceful. I held his hand as he took his final breaths. And then I left the room because my Dad was no longer there. Jesus came for him. And then I grieved. Wept. And wailed. But I had an impossible joy because of Jesus.

Friends, if you have ever had to make this decision on behalf of a loved one, there are no words to express the weightiness I know you felt. And may still feel. There are no earthly words that can comfort. You do not hold the power of life and death. And you only did what was best for the parent, child, loved one who was suffering imaginably. Sadly, you had to be the one to make a decision that most people never have to face or make.

One thing a doctor told me about comfort care that made all the difference for me was this: if my Dad could get better, he would still get better. The increase in medicine would help him not be in pain and allow his body to heal. However, if he was not going to get better, comfort care gifted my Dad time to not suffer or experience pain a minute longer on earth. For my Dad, it was the latter. And I am thankful.

I have woken from sleep in despair and agony believing that I killed my Dad. I have not been able to breathe or catch my breath because I believed decisions I made or didn’t make led to my Dad’s death. The guilt part of grief is brutal. But I know these are lies. They simply are not true. God spared my Dad immeasurable pain and suffering by taking him Home when He did. According to the doctors, had my Dad recovered, he would have faced the same fate as my Mom. His body would have been eaten by the cancer and he would have suffered. Oh, how he would have suffered. But God. My Dad is not suffering. He once was dead but is now living forever. Praise God!