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!

Believing the lie: I killed my parents

It came like a thief in the night. I was completely unprepared. Thoughts that left me gasping for breath. Debilitating, gut wrenching, agonizing thoughts. From the pits of hell, into my mind. I killed my parents.

And I believed it. Twice. Both times. After each parent passed away, I struggled with the same notion. I was responsible for their deaths.

I want to be transparent and vulnerable, really vulnerable, in the great hope that my story can help others who may have walked, are walking, or could walk a similar journey. I am going to do a post on my Mom and then one on my Dad. And then a third post on how you can take control of your thoughts and how God can use all the ugly for good. These are really difficult for me to write as I have to relive hard memories but my prayer is that God uses my pain for your good and His glory.

My Mom passed away May 31, 2013 from bile duct cancer. A few weeks before she passed away, she became much weaker as she could not hold any food down. She was so hungry and she knew it would come right back up but she wanted to enjoy, savor every bite. And she wanted to feel normal. She would wake up and drink her coffee every morning. She would only have a few minutes before it pushed back up and exited her body. I would get so frustrated with her because she knew she would vomit every.single.time. It was hard to watch but mercy, far harder for her to endure. But my Mom knew she was dying. And she just wanted to live.

The lack of food left her weak and unsteady. She could not walk without holding on to something because she did not have much strength. She weighed 85 pounds and her fragile body barely held up her frame. And her pain was becoming more severe so that was taking a toll on her body. But my Mom was stubborn. She did not want anyone to think she was weak or that she was losing her independence. During the day, we would keep an eye on her to make sure she did not fall. This became more prevalent in her last weeks. I would stay awake all night to keep an eye on her as she slept on an air mattress in the living room. I laid on the couch beside her. She refused a hospital bed because she, again, just wanted to feel normal. And her and my Dad’s bed was too high for her to get up or down.

A little over a week before she died, she began to have cold/sinus issues. She asked me to give her some medicine from the cabinet. I believe it was cough syrup. I gave it to her. I had no idea that it could cause her to become dizzy or weaker than she already was. The next morning before 6am, I woke up to her moaning. I had accidently fallen asleep. I remember the battle to keep my eyes open. Within minutes, my Mom and gotten off of the mattress, and tried to walk to her bedroom. I am assuming it was to go to the restroom. She did not make it. She fell face first onto hard tile floor. As I turned towards her, all I saw was blood. Her frail face desperate for someone to hear her, for someone to help her. It was worse than heartbreaking. In that moment, I felt extreme guilt that paralyzed me. I screamed for my Aunt. And inside, I screamed at myself. I killed my Mom! In an instant, every butchering thought that could go through my mind, camped out there. I should not have given her medicine. I should not have fallen asleep. I should have heard her get up. It’s my fault!

We took her to the hospital where they bandaged her head. The doctors said it was a flesh wound and because of her constant state, she bled really easily. The ER doctor did not want to do a head scan because he said, “She is going to die regardless. There is no point.” Deep down, I knew he was right but she was my Mom and she deserved the best care even if she was going to die regardless. If she had a concussion or fracture, she should still receive treatment so she did not have to suffer. They reluctantly did a scan which showed everything was normal. I was relieved that I did not cause her more pain.

When we arrived home from the hospital, I told her she could be mad at me all she wanted but I was not leaving her side. If she moved a muscle, I was right there. At night, I would box her in so she could not get off the air mattress. I became a parent to my parent.

A few days later, her pain became much worse. The cancer was devouring her body. But it did not affect her spirit. She had so much life and goodness, she wanted to live. Hospice came by and I asked if she could be given more morphine. The hospice nurse explained that the increased dosage was the most she would be able to receive outside of the hospital. My mom wanted to die at home so the hospital was not an option. I agreed to the increase so she could get relief. It was what my Mom wanted.

Friends, let me tell you now, I did not understand morphine. I knew it helped with pain. That is all I knew. I had no idea that a day later, my Mom would begin to rapidly decline to the point that she could no longer walk, move, close her eyes or her mouth. Her pain might have been eased but she was now in a coma like state. I did not have time to even process or accept what was happening. She could no longer talk. She could moan. I felt so helpless. She could not have water because her muscles did not work as well. She could not swallow. I cried on the phone with hospice because she was so thirsty. But they told me not to give her any because it could choke her. I would stand beside her lifeless body and weep in agony. Her lips were so chapped, they were peeling. I would dab water on them so she could feel some hydration. My Mom suffered. Oh how she suffered.

It was months after she died when I became debilitated by memories and images. I would see my Mom lying in a pool of blood and I could not breathe. It was like I was back there, reliving it all over again. And she was reliving her pain and suffering. Like she was still there on the floor, alone, just crying out for help. I was a prisoner to that memory. It would replay in my mind anytime I let it in and many times, I just could not control it. I was especially more prone to those debilitating thoughts when I was triggered by a stressful day or if I felt hurt in some other way. It was like a door would swing wide open and the memories would walk right in.

And it became worse when I understood morphine. I then understood that it was because of my decision to allow the increase of the medicine that she died. My intentions were really good- she was in so much pain and she wanted relief. And I wanted her to have that relief. But it ultimately led to her death. While cancer is what truly caused her death, the morphine quickened it.

Friends, I do not have to tell you the depth of sorrow I felt from the images that would replay in my mind and the thought of having killed my Mom. I entered into a stage of grief that I was not prepared for and did not know how to handle. And since my Mom’s death was the first significant loss I had ever experienced as an adult, I was an amateur to grief. I now could understand a sliver of what others experience from post-traumatic stress. And I ached. And I hurt.

I participated in therapy with a professional counselor which helped me gain control. But it would take me years to really work through my grief. And learn how to immediately take my thoughts captive when those images or thoughts would appear. And how to defeat the lies of the enemy with God’s truth. I am going to spend a whole post sharing more insights and how God can redeem every bit of it and use it for your good and His glory.

I was in a really good place when my Dad was diagnosed with cancer. I was able to use my past experience with my Mom and the wisdom and knowledge I gleaned from those experiences to help me be more prepared for my Dad’s journey. While the grief has been different and more expected in some ways, it has been harder in other ways. This post will be continued......