Five years since P (Polyps) Day

Five years have come and gone since Brandon's March 1, 2010 procedure to remove nasal polyps. Five years since I went to pick him up after this routine procedure. Five years since I had no clue that only a few days were left of our family's "unknowing." I've already written a blog post about that day, so I won't rehash it now. 

Still, sometimes I wonder how long had this cancer - cells of Brandon's own body run amuck - been taking root, growing, spreading before the nose bleeds of late fall 2009 signaled their presence within the camouflage of nasal polyps? How long had these wild cells been mocking our unknowing? Had there been earlier, quiet signs that had been missed? If yes, would it have made a difference if the polyps had been removed then or was it already too late?  

Sure, it's moot. Still, sometimes I wonder...

Navigating the Sea of Sorrow

Memories wash over like waves. Some swirl around my feet, warm and pleasantly tickling from toes to ankle. Others pull me gently into deeper water before I realize what is happening. The swells bump me, gently lift me and set me down again, so I may easily replant my feet on terra firma. However, some waves of memory brutally drag me farther out into the deep. I feel the sand shift beneath my feet, threatening to pull me under. These waves often knock me over, pull my feet out from under me, and generate a sense of panic within. I feel myself tumbling over and over, colder, deeper. I must fight if I’m to regain my footing and find my way to the shore, but sometimes returning seems like too much work. At those moments the rough surf of grief seduces with its siren’s song humming, “Give in, give up, drown in the power of this sorrow.” I never know when or exactly how the tide of memory and grief will roll in.

 

Brandon scuba diving in the Caribbean - July 2010

Yet no matter when or how high tide arrives, I do regain my footing. I do find my way back to shore after being pulled far out into the Sea of Sorrow. I am still standing. WE – this family – are still standing. And we will continue to regain our footing no matter how brutal or seductive the waves, because none of us fights this surf alone. There may be times when one or another of us feels as if we’re facing the Sea of Sorrow alone. Perhaps there are times when one or another prefers to swim this sea in solitude. Still, one has only to call out and the others will quickly surround and guide her or him back to shore. I love my family. Each member is so unique and special, which is why the absence of Brandon has profoundly and forever affected the tides of our lives.


Added January 4th about 20 hours after posting my thoughts above. Speaking is Hazel Grace Lancaster, the narrator of the book The Fault in Our Stars. In this quote she shares feelings after the death of her boyfriend Gus.

"When you go into the ER, one of the first things they ask you to do is to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten… I called it a nine because I was saving my ten. And here it was, the great and terrible ten, slamming me again and again as I lay still and alone in my bed staring at the ceiling, the waves tossing me against the rocks then pulling me back out to sea so they could launch me again into the jagged face of the cliff, leaving me floating face up on the water, undrowned."

"O Christmas Tree! O Tannenbaum!

Want to go to the cemetery to take a Christmas tree to Brandon’s grave? Me neither. I don’t like to see the tombstone with his name and the dates of his birth and his death. Don’t like it. Too real. And I don’t really feel him there. I tend to feel him anywhere and everywhere else.

Yet as much as I know he’s not there, I’m also compelled to ensure he has a live Christmas tree where his ashes now reside. One with lights that work. The tree is small because I can’t handle or stabilize a bigger tree, but it’s just the kind of fir tree we both like.

I decorated the tree at home. Lights, gold-beaded garland, ornaments, bells, bows and a small Santa wind chimes. Why not keep the tree in a special spot at home where it would stay out of the wind and away from any inclement weather? I wish I knew. In spite of knowing he’s not at the cemetery, a real Christmas tree is a must. Go figure.

Brandon's Christmas tree 2014

And it has to light at night. The white lights I wound around the tree came with a battery pack and a 6-hour timer, which I’ve set to light from 4:45-10:45 p.m. EDT. Yes, I know the cemetery gates close at 5 p.m. and no one will see the lights each night. But like the lights place on windowsills each Christmas season to represent and welcome the Light of the world into homes, I want the spot marking the burial place of Brandon’s to have light. I can’t bear the thought of there being no light for him at night while I also know due to the unusual “vision” I’d experienced immediately after his birth that he lives in the perfect light. And I also want his spot to have sound, although I couldn’t give you a reason why. Still, the bells and the Santa wind chime are there for a reason.

Brandon’s 3-year-old daughter Morgan and I took the Christmas tree to the cemetery Monday. I staked the tree stand into the ground and then Morgan helped me add tinsel. I taught her as I’d taught Brandon and my other children how to carefully apply only two to four strands at a time at the end of a branch. Morgan loved adding the tinsel and watching it blow in the wind.

 

Morgan after adding tinsel

Late this afternoon I revisited Brandon’s gravesite and the Christmas tree. I was afraid the tree may have made it through a severe storm, which had swept through our area two nights ago. I thought it likely it had been knocked down or blown away, but there it stood little worse for wear! I had to reinsert several stakes in the stand to hold it in place, and a number of ornaments needed to be picked off the ground and rehung and others needed rearranging. Surprisingly, much of the tinsel was intact! And the lights went on as scheduled at 4:45 p.m.

I tried a chorus of “O Christmas Tree” before I left before the gates closed, but I don’t think I’ll ever make it to the end of that song. Ditto for “Silent Night” or even “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Maybe I should simply settle for “Cry Me a River”?

Prayer and positive thought gratefully accepted

And so it begins. Holiday season 2014. All children and families will be in from far and near, and will arrive here for Thanksgiving dinner in a few hours. 

Brandon preparing Thanksgiving dinner

I can do Thanksgiving, although Thanksgiving was a favorite holiday of Brandon, who loved to cook. It is Friday I fear. Friday morning we are to have family photos taken - the first family photos without Brandon physically in the picture. And I am so very scared. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be brave. I miss him. It won't be "right" without his physical presence. 

Sure, we have symbols to include in photos. Symbols aren't worth sh#t, but I think they sure beat no symbols at all.

Please send positive thoughts and prayers through cyberspace for me and our family this Friday morning (Eastern standard time). I want, I need these photos but I need your energy to get me through this. Our last family photo shoot - by Jenny of Fresh View Studio, the same photographer -  took place merely three weeks before Brandon's passing. I can't begin to tell you how many tears have been shed just thinking about this session without him. I want this. I need these family photos. But I'm so scared. 

A blessed Thanksgiving to you all. Hug each other and let each know how thankful you are to have each in your life. 

I Just Want My Baby Back

It has been an incredibly busy summer and fall. Mostly in a good way. "Busyness" is often a synonym for "denial." Is numb the same as denial? I often find myself feeling numb. I thought numbness was an early manifestation of grief, but maybe this is early. I think “early” will last the rest of my life.

Sometimes I feel angry, but this anger is not directed toward anyone or anything in particular. There is no blame to be attributed. Still, I’ll find myself spewing snippy, snappy, cynical quips. When I hear it, I don’t like myself, yet I allow this behavior to continue. I see a harsher me in the mirror and I don’t know how to soften the look.

Mostly, I’ve noticed a feeling of numbness that hadn’t been there earlier. And I spend a lot of time in the land of Denial, which to most probably looks like me living my real life, but it’s not – at least, not precisely. It’s me, sort of being real and sort of pretending.

The land of Denial, the numbness and the anger help me compartmentalize. Attending events, enjoying family and friends, participating in professional activities slip into compartments, which is different than detachment.  It’s not that grief doesn’t seep into all compartments, it's that grief simply isn’t as deep or raw when I’m in one of the compartments I need for ongoing function. Trips to Denial, feeling numb and the anger are distractions from the real.

The real doesn’t slowly sneak in. The real is the sudden shock of a sucker punch to the gut.

The real is that I just want, but can never have, my second baby back. The real is that my family can never physically be intact again – the joking, poking, bantering of an integral member will always be missing. The real is that I miss Brandon the adult son so very much. The real is that an amazing little granddaughter is left without her daddy and a daughter-in-law who is beautiful inside and out is left without the husband she loved and had too little time with.

The real is a sadness so profound I cannot begin to adequately describe it.

I know life is short. I know God’s time is different than human time. I know our family will be together again on the other side of life on this planet. When I’m in the “right” compartment, I can appreciate all those things.

When I’m in the real, I just want my second baby back. I just want my baby…

Dying As Healing?

It has been almost four months since I last posted. The gap is not due to having nothing to say. It may be due to too much to say and an inability to find the words to say it. I could blame it on a busy summer, since it has been a busy summer. It may be that I’ve entered some different phase or way of grieving. Quite possibly it’s a combination of all of those things. (More on all of this soon – I hope!)

I’ve started a number of posts in the last few months without finishing any. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I received an email newsletter from the nurse organization AWHONN (Association of Women’s Health, Obstetrics and Neonatal Nursing), which included a link to an article entitled A TransformationalJourney Through Birth and Death by Maureen Cavanaugh, DBioethics, MS, MAHCM, RN. The article is about a childbearing woman whose beliefs regarding birth and death challenge the nurse author’s (and her staff’s) concepts of care. Both the story of this particular woman’s journey and the struggles of hospital staff to let go of some nursing care beliefs and adapt care to meet the needs of this expectant, and then new, mother is what makes this article so remarkable.

It was a shock to read that the article’s subject, the expectant/new mother, was dying and had little time left to live. Still, this “high risk” mother was excited about her soon-to-be-born baby and believed in no or as little as possible intervention for her baby’s birth. The dying mother’s desires and the nurses’ usual practices initially seemed poles apart. During the subject’s prenatal and postpartum stay, a number of the nurses began to question “usual” practices and adapted care as much as possible to meet the mother’s desires for this birth and the time she might have with her baby. Never have I felt more proud to be a registered nurse myself as when I read of these nurses as they overcame beliefs based on routine versus research evidence and then worked to individualize nursing care and ensure the best possible experience for this mother.

As I came to the end of the AJN article, I looked at the references. A couple came with links to the referenced articles, which I took so I could learn more. One reference discusses the baby’s mother and her philosophy of birth and death, and I was struck by something journalist Jennifer Gish wrote. “Doctors looked…and saw the 42-year-old was dying. Renee… told them she was healing. Dying, she'd say, might just end up being part of that process.”

Dying as part of the healing process. Wrap your head around that. I know I’m trying to do so.

June as a dichotomy

The date of Brandon's disincarnation has come and gone for a second year. The date is one thing but I am more moved by the day of the week. This year the date was a Monday, but the day of the week forever remains Saturday. Then there are the days in between disincarnation and the funeral Mass celebrating Brandon's life followed by his cremation. (And who came up with the tacky term "cremains"?)

I expected a less-than-pleasant first week of June, but the intensity of feeling was unexpected. In many ways it hit harder this year than last. The sadness of missing someone so essential, so much a part of who I am is indescribable. (Being an intrinsic aspect of one's "becoming" changes a woman forever, and the child becomes part of the mother in a literal and figurative way.) The sadness of missing him came in waves of what felt like punches to the gut. It came with heart palpitations and a heaviness in my chest. The word "heartache" is so very apt.

Once past the days of the week and the dates on a calendar, I returned to my cute little vacation home in the land of Denial for a needed hiatus. Not sure how long I'll stay, but at least I can begin to appreciate the beauties that are June. 

That Brandon's disincarnation occurred in June creates a dichotomy. June has always been my favorite month with its magic, but now it is also my worst. How can such profound sadness possibly co-exist with the flowers, fragrances and fireflies of the month? (And some years June has also been the month when I've been privileged to watch the fairies dance.) However, I feel both the sadness and the joy that is June. 

Somehow I can't quite believe this is coincidence.