The Day My World Stood Still

March 5, 2010. Five years ago. My world is divided between before March 5, 2010 and after March 5, 2010, and there it will remain. Before. After. 

March 5, 2010 is the day a phone call brought me to my knees while putting laundry away in a closet. "Mom, the doctor called this morning. I have cancer." 

March 5, 2010 is the day I clung to a shelf so I would not completely collapse. 

March 5, 2010 is the day all my children enjoyed a family dinner at our home with Brandon as chef. Joey and Mia announced they were expecting their first child. We celebrated the March birthdays of four of our five children. Brandon shared that he was diagnosed with a sinonasal cancer. He then joked he was not even able to "play the cancer card" that evening, since Joey trumped him with the announcement of their expected baby. 

March 5, 2010. Dinner was fantastic, as it was always fantastic when Brandon took over in the kitchen. Conversation was light, heavy and just plain silly, as it was always so during our family dinners. Still, a bit of fear invaded the silliness and more than a bit of hope invaded the heaviness.

March 5, 2010. Our family's world briefly stood still, but all too soon it began to turn again. 

March 5, 2010. Five years. A moment and one very special person's lifetime. Five years. 

Brunch the weekend of March 5, 2010 L to R:
Tony, Joey, Mia, Joe, Christina, Brandon, Kris, Carolyn
(Several are out of camera range and Christina and Kris are partially obscured!)

Where's the Soundtrack?

After posting the other night I went back to our bedroom. My husband Joe was watching a movie. With each change of scene, the music would change. It struck me. Why don't we have a soundtrack that plays music to fit the mood or foreshadow what is soon to happen? Would it help or would it hinder? When might the notes have changed to signal that cells were growing wild in Brandon's sinus? Might we have known to seek help months or even years before? What happy music might have played in the background during periods when there appeared to be NED (no evidence of disease)? Would an occasional jarring note or two have been interjected, telling us that this happiness was to be short lived? What would have played those last few precious months when we could see his body failing, yet we all thought he had more time than what was given? Would the soundtrack that presaged Brandon's death have interfered with our ability to enjoy the time we had left with him still in our world? 

Questions, questions, questions - questions with no answers. 

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…