Denial is Not Just a River in Egypt

Denial – a psychological defense mechanism in which confrontation with a personal problem or with reality is avoided by denying the existence of the problem or reality (m-w.com).

When Brandon was young, it concerned me that he’d use denial to cope with his learning disabilities. It was as if by “forgetting” an assignment or not facing some problem at school, it would all disappear. How could he not see that this tactic never worked and repetition did not improve the odds of it doing so?

Eventually, he got past most of this behavior. He graduated from college and became the kind of person who stuck with the job. He stuck with his job through surgery. He stuck with his job through chemo, and he stuck with his job through radiation. (Sometimes he stuck with his job receiving one or the other, and sometimes he stuck with his job while receiving both at once.) He stuck with his job through side effects that he made light of, but these side effects interfered with sleeping, eating, breathing, exercising, ad nauseam (literally).

Still, I don’t think he ever completely stopped visiting Denial. In fact, I think he took his old defense mechanism and really made it work for him during his illness. It allowed him to remain hopeful. It allowed him to continue saying, “Get ‘er done” when new "spots" were found and new treatments recommended. Denial let him joke and laugh through treatments and side effects that would bring most of us to our knees. It allowed him to take joy in his baby daughter, his wife and his life until the day he had to leave us all.

I never thought of myself as someone who dabbled in Denial. I’ve always considered myself as quite pragmatic. (Sure, I can be a bit oblivious, but that’s different than denial!) And then Brandon found out he had cancer. Initially, I didn’t realize I was escaping to Denial, but eventually I recognized it as the ultimate vacation getaway spot. I never stayed long; I couldn't. (Sometimes I wanted to stay forever.) Still, I usually returned feeling fairly refreshed. I could visit Denial and be ready to jump back into reality. At least I could do so until May 2012 when Brandon’s condition began taking a huge nosedive.

Since Brandon’s death, I continue to visit Denial on a frequent basis. Sometimes I’m there for only a few hours; other times I stay a couple of days, although that’s an unusually long vacation. Without those hours spent in the lovely land of Denial, I don’t know how I’d make it.

I didn’t seek these frequent but brief trips. My mind just seems to travel there of its own accord. Because when I really stop and let it in, when I return from Denial and must “feel the real,” I honestly can’t bear it. I still cannot truly comprehend or bear that Brandon is truly gone from this life for the duration of mine. And then the tears come – still. Twenty-one months after his death. Not simply a watering of the eyes that I can blink to a halt. No, before I’m even aware, huge blobs of salty liquid are rolling down my cheeks to splash wherever.

From: A Bed For My Heart

My trips to Denial usually let me get through the day so that I may cry in private at night. That’s the way I prefer it. That’s the way that allows me to keep moving forward. That's me. For now. For always? I'll go where it takes me.

So if you’re considering a brief vacation in the land of Denial, go for it. It is a beautiful land. Enjoy your time there. Just don’t stay too long… 

A Sword Will Pierce

…and Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother, “Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted – and you yourself a sword will pierce – so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”                                                        Luke 2: 34-35

Pieta - Assisi, Italy

Pieta - Salzburg, Austria

When I went to Mass this morning, I was reminded that it was the feast of the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple. The full Gospel reading has more depth, but I automatically focused on verse 35. I focused on it because as Brandon grew sicker and after his death, I literally felt - and still feel - at times as if a sword had pierced my heart.

Many think that “heartbreak” or “broken heart” is a metaphor for the emotional pain one feels when a person one loves leaves or dies. But it is NOT a metaphor. It is quite physical. The weight one feels on the chest is real. The heart palpitations and chest pain are real. The shortness of breath and feelings of sheer terror are quite real. (And yes, I’ve had these “symptoms” checked out.)

There is a hole in my heart from the wound of a metaphorical sword, but metaphorical swords have physical consequences.

Euphemisms

There are many euphemisms for “die,” “dead,” “death,” although some are more popular than others. My least favorite ones are variations of  “lose,” such as “loss” or “lost,” perhaps because they refer to the second or third scariest possibility for a parent.

When I was 11 years old, one of my little sisters somehow became separated from our family and was lost at an amusement park. I don’t know how long it took before someone found her and Security contacted my parents to let them know she was safe. I can tell you that my parents were frantic, and the time between the realization that she was missing until they were contacted that she was found seemed like a very, very long time. Having a child disappear is torture.

Yet people often refer to Brandon as if he suddenly disappeared. Some say, “I’m so sorry about the loss of your son.” Another version is, “I heard you lost your son.”

Yes, yes, I know these people mean well. I also know that many parents don’t mind these euphemisms. But what is it in our culture that makes it so difficult to speak the word “die”?

We did not lose Brandon. He was right in front of us when he took his last breath. I was with him at the crematorium. We may not know exactly where the essence of who he is went, but he wasn’t lost. Brandon died. Brandon is dead. We do feel the loss of his presence in our lives, and his death has created a gaping hole in the fabric of our family. It isn’t that our fabric isn’t holding strongly together, it’s that this hole has disrupted its pattern and has taken some of its beauty. There is no patch able to camouflage a gash of this proportion.

Then there are the other “lose” euphemisms in reference to cancer, such as “I was sorry to hear Brandon lost his battle with cancer.” But if cancer is a war then it is a war with one’s own cells. Can one win or lose to oneself? If cancer “wins,” then it also “loses” since the death of the body means the cancer cells die too. And how can we consider that a person lost to a disease if he refused to let that disease control him – who he is and what he did?

I hate the f’ing cell disease that took Brandon from our daily lives. I miss his hugs. I miss his reassuring, calming, “don’t sweat the small stuff” presence. I miss his mannerisms, which seemed a reflection of his spirit and body interacting. I especially miss that he can’t be here to physically watch his daughter grow up and enjoy the love he shared with his wife.

Still, Brandon didn’t lose, and we didn’t lose Brandon. He died. He’s dead. No euphemisms can change that or lessen the tears that flow every time I re-remember that fact – a fact that my mind still can’t completely comprehend. 

Happy New Year?

We returned from Naples, FL the afternoon of New Year’s Eve in plenty of time for the annual dinner party with good friends from the “old” neighborhood. I both looked forward to and dreaded the get together with friends. I didn’t dread it because I didn’t want to spend New Year’s Eve with friends who’ve all been tremendously supportive; I dreaded it because my mind wanted to wander to New Year’s Eve 2011 when Brandon had helped me prepare to host the annual dinner party, and that is a tough destination for me. Throughout the evening I occasionally traveled to 2011, but then I or a friend would pull me back to the last few hours of 2013.  

I thought I was doing pretty darn well. I felt fine as we all gathered around the television just before midnight to join the countdown to 2014. We watched Manhattan’s Times Square New Year’s Eve Ball descend during the final seconds of the old year until it proclaimed the beginning of the new one. Everyone began shouting, “Happy New Year!” as husbands and wives kissed each other and then turned to share New Year’s greetings with friends.

Yet as excited “Happy New Year” greetings rang out, it hit me. I would never know a Happy New Year again. It hit me that every New Year now means one more year without having Brandon here, physically present in our lives. One more year missing him. One more year missing everything about him. One more year without “Brandon hugs” and one more year without his humor and kind commonsense.

A friend turned, hugged me and said, “Happy New Year!” And I replied, “No more happy new years for me.” The tears started, and I could tell any efforts to stop them would fail. I left the room to find a private spot where I could cry in peace by myself, as I prefer. The tears surprised me by turning into loud sobs. After a minute or two, my husband found me and put his arms around me. It took several minutes, but I eventually “collected” myself and we rejoined the party.  

I don’t think I’ve ever had a reputation as a “weepy” female! Quite the contrary. (And “quite the contrary” is probably an understatement!) It has been 19 months, and I am still always on the verge of tears. Always. One second I can speak of Brandon, his life, his illness and even his death while remaining cool, calm and collected; however, the next second I may completely dissolve. Or I may completely dissolve without ever mentioning him. Still, I’m thinking of him. The mere thought that he’s really not ever going to open our front door, stride in and announce his presence easily results in tears.

And tears are no longer watery eyes. Tears are now these giant alien blobs of salty water, which roll down each cheek, one after the other, in what seems an endless trail.

Grief is a bitch.

Wonderful, awful season

As I noted in a November 2012 post, I’ve kept two cards displayed on the table next to a basket of "sympathy" cards. Neither suggests Brandon's death is an event that will resolve in feelings of peace, comfort or healing. Each acknowledged the enormity of this particular grief and offered support while conceding a lack of understanding since neither had experienced the death of one of their children.

The basket of cards remains on the table. I've tried to reread them. I've tried to move that basket or place the cards in a box or plastic bag to save elsewhere, but I'm simply not ready to do either. The two "special" cards remain in place next to the overflowing basket. However, a third card has recently joined the other two. 

A day or two before Christmas I received a card from a long-time friend. (We go back to grade school and beyond. She was a bridesmaid in my wedding.) The card let me know that  she understood how difficult this season is for a mother missing her child and whose loss creates a black hole in her heart. To emphasize the card's words, this friend included a contribution for the foundation we started in Brandon's name to raise funds for innovative head and neck research. 

I am currently away from winter and Christmas festivities at home. Another friend and her husband offered to let my husband and I use their Florida condo this week, and it has been good to be in sunshine, warm breezes, flowers, and green grass and trees. Yet it means I can't include photos of the outside/inside of the card that joined two other special cards; I will add these photos to this post later this week.

**January 4, 2014 update - adding the outside/inside of the card photos…

Front (outside) of card

Message (inside)

 Thank you and a joyous 2014, dear friends!

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year – NOT!

It’s December. Thanksgiving transitions seamlessly to Christmas preparations and celebrations. As a child and then as a mother of young children, December truly was the most wonderful time of the year. Grandchildren help pick up the slack as the magic begins to dim and is replaced by the occasional, “Bah humbug!”

As with everything else, the Christmas holydays are divided by “then” and “now.” And for some reason a line from another George Harrison tune keeps playing in my mind over and over. Back then, as a family, when we was fab, we weren’t perfect but we were together and intact. There was no black hole in my heart – a hole so deep it can never be filled. Now I feel frozen. Another year has passed and I still feel somewhat numb at times.

During December of 2012, I felt as if we were trying too hard to “make Christmas." This year some dear friends have offered us the use of their condo in Florida, and we’ve decided to go Christmas day. Our oldest daughter and her significant other are leaving with us. One of our twin sons and his family will be only 10 to 20 minutes away, staying with his wife’s parents.

Avoidance was a theme both last year and this one. Avoidance is a theme of the numb, of the frozen. However, those missing loved ones during special times of the year are more than aware that, whether one stays or goes, "you can run but you can’t hide”! Avoidance is simply another illusion.

I don’t feel magically merry this Christmas season, but I do want to honor those I love. And I want to honor Brandon, who would want all of us to enjoy time with each other during this special season of the year. 

I hope I’ve found some ways to honor loved ones still in this world, but I’d like to ask for everyone’s help to honor Brandon in one or a few special ways. 1. Brandon was always a kind person and he performed numerous acts of kindness. Some I knew of, but I’m only now learning of so many others. With that in mind, I ask you to perform a “Brandon Act of Kindness” in his honor during this holiday season – no matter how big or how small. (No act of kindness is ever too small!) 2. I don’t want any other family to have to watch their child, their sibling, their spouse – no matter how young or how old – die of a head and neck cancer and then have to live on with deep black holes in their hearts. If possible, consider a contribution to the Brandon C. Gromada Head & Neck Cancer Foundation to support innovative research focused on finding cures for these cancers.

3. Lavish your fab family with love during this blessed season…

To Everything There Is a Season

Two years ago tonight I was with Christina and Brandon as Christina labored to give birth to daughter Morgan. (Morgan would not make her appearance until the next evening on December 3, 2011.) I stayed awake and worked alongside Christina, as we both insisted Brandon try to get some rest after his chemo treatment earlier that day. 

Brandon gets his turn (after new mommy Christina's) to hold his newborn daughter, Morgan, skin-to-skin

Eighteen months ago tonight I was with Christina and the rest of our family as Brandon's spirit left the wonderful body that had gotten its start within mine…


To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die…  Ecclesiastes 3