Category Archives: cancer

cancer, Grief

Be Telling Nana Stories

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I can’t wrap my head around that my mom is dead.

What happened?

I never really understood cancer, how it morphs and changes, how it can consume.

I feel sharp edges of grief.
Rough, hurtful, prickly especially when I think about my mom’s unnecessary pain and hospital stay.

These sharp edges are immediately smoothed over when I hear stories of my mom, our Nana.

Like a soothing balm, these stories cover the edges and ease the pain… until the next wave comes on this ocean of grief.

Last night, we went for a walk to the field at the end of my parents’ street. As we walked, I was remembering walking their with mom, tobogganing, having the dogs out there.

Suddenly JC and CC ran ahead of us, across the field. They sat on two pieces of wood standing up. They sat there for a long time. Then JC called us over. I don’t know what the boys said while they were sitting on those logs, but JC was very clear in what he told me.

“Mom, I sat on those logs with Nana. The last time I had a sleepover by myself. ”

JC was lit up with joy by this simple memory my mom created with him.

Beautiful memory.

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Breathtaking sunset.

Thanks mom!

cancer, Family, Grief, Jesus Christ

Be Living with More Irony

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Good Monday morning friends!

When I first found out about Jesus in University one of my favourite quotes was:
Coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous.

Through my experiences the last few months of snow, butterflies and irony, it has become very clear to me that God speaks to me through coincidences.

He speaks very clearly.

Look at all this irony:

Artwork and the word beauty.

Songs and emails.

And now a Facebook message:

A couple of days before my mom died, a mommy friend, C, was working as a nurse at hospice. She had just returned from maternity leave, this was her second shift.

Coincidence = God moment.

During this shift, she took the time to take me aside in the living room to explain what was happening with mom and her body. Mom had transitioned that day and was no longer speaking. I don’t know what I would have done without C’s insight and care for me.

Coincidence = God moment

After mom died, I ran into C at the cross country ski hill. The same night I wrote her a Facebook message to share a few things. She wrote me a message as well and SENT IT AT THE EXACT SAME TIME. 10:17pm

20140112-200408.jpg(The Facebook message itself!)

Coincidence = God moment

Off to lie down again.

Basking in sorrow.

Feeling the sun of love on my cheeks.

Amazed by my friends and God’s love for me.

How do you feel God speaks to you?

If you don’t feel He does, could you ask him?

cancer, Grief, Parenting

Be Saying Thanks

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My dad continues to amaze me.

In each moment, throughout his grief, he has always been thoughtful of who he needs to say thank you to. He has exemplified gratitude through taking the time to express his heartfelt thanks.

With editing help from myself and my sister, my dad managed to get this thank you into this mornings paper. Incredible!

The hardest part of this process was that he was afraid he would forget to thank someone.

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Today, I am feeling sad but filled with gratitude for all my people in PG, Williams Lake, Summerland,Calgary, Edmonton, Vietnam, Kamloops, Kelowna, Spain, Germany, Cowichan Bay, Dawson City, Vancouver Lumby, Coldstream and here in Vernon where I currently row my boat of grief.

💓

cancer, Christianity, Grief, Jesus Christ

Be Doing Nothing Special (More Irony)

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I ain’t doing nothing special, but God is so present.

I can’t seem to pray or even open my bible or count my thousand gifts.

These rituals used to fill me with joy each morning.

I didn’t do it because someone told me to, I just did it because I could.

Now, I can’t.

I sit in a sacred space.

In grief.

In silence.

Within myself.

God pours himself out.

Through people.

Through nature.

Loudly.

All over and around me.

I watch.

I wait.

I remain open.

To see how he will pick up the broken pieces of my heart and my life.

I receive an email then another.

One says you need to see these lyrics.

Another one says you need to listen to this song.

BOTH SONGS ARE EERILY SIMILAR!

One woman lives in Leduc, the other Oyama.

They don’t even know each other.

How could this be?

God loves.

God lives.

God speaks.

These women listened and acted.

I sure didn’t do anything special.

The irony continues…

Here’s the lyrics and song if you are interested:

The song about oceans…and the lyrics to another song:
In your ocean, I’m ankle deep
I feel the waves crashin’ on my feet
It’s like I know where I need to be
But I can’t figure out, yeah I can’t figure out

Just how much air I will need to breathe
When your tide rushes over me
There’s only one way to figure out
Will ya let me drown, will ya let me drown

Hey now, this is my desire
Consume me like a fire, ’cause I just want something beautiful
To touch me, I know that I’m in reach
‘Cause I am down on my knees, I’m waiting for something beautiful
Oh, something beautiful

And the water is risin’ quick
And for years I was scared of it
We can’t be sure when it will subside
So I won’t leave your side, no I can’t leave your side

Hey now, this is my desire
Consume me like a fire, ’cause I just want something beautiful
To touch me, I know that I’m in reach
‘Cause I am down on my knees, I’m waiting for something beautiful
Oh, something beautiful

In a daydream, I couldn’t live like this
I wouldn’t stop until I found something beautiful
When I wake up, I know I will have
No, I still won’t have what I need

Hey now, this is my desire
Consume me like a fire, ’cause I just want something beautiful
To touch me, I know that I’m in reach
‘Cause I am down on my knees, I’m waiting for something beautiful
Oh, something beautiful

cancer, Family, Goals

Be Living 25 Days

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Note: Click on the blue links to see the whole twenty-five day story…

Twenty-five days ago, I left my home.

My mom was in an ambulance with excruciating pain.

Twenty- five days ago my mom was in the ER, in pain. I never saw my mom read or watch TV again.

Excruciating pain.

In the next seven days, I watched mom be in FIVE different rooms of the hospital. Not one nurse offered to wash her or change her gown. Mom never did get that bath she was looking forward to for six weeks.

Still in pain.

I encountered a surgeon who told mom she would die, a doctor who empathized, an anaestesologist who overruled our oncologist who wanted mom to have more pain meds, nurses who laughed and were afraid, nurses who advocated and hid. A social worker who stood strong and stole chairs and a palliative care coordinator who finally helped mom be pain-free.

Mom was continually trying to ‘conquer’ her pain (mom’s words).

I watched mom lovingly hold dad’s hand, I watched her hug my boys. I heard her never complain nor whine about her situation.

Not once. Not ever.

Twenty days ago, Wendy and I had a sleepover with mom. Sleeping in chairs. Mom still in pain. Chasing nurses for meds. Laughing. Crying. Massaging. Comforting.

I watched mom try to put one foot in front of the other. I saw her desperately want a drink of water. I put lip chap on her lips, got her ice and massaged her sore hips.

One moment at a time.

Nineteen days ago, I went by ambulance with my mom to hospice. . Dad and my boys greeted us there. You should have seen mom’s face light up. Finally pain free with a grin on her face.

I savoured watching snowflakes flutter onto her face as she entered this holy place.

I watched my cousins, my uncles, my sister, her family and our wonderful friends arrive to comfort us. And we saw food, wine and more food come through those doors.

All with my dad steadfast at her side and my Sexy Neck a pillar of strength.

I saw my boys playing peek-a-boo outside mom’s window, I saw JC kiss her hand one last time, CC give her a big hug and OC a high five.

Sixteen days ago, I heard mom say hi to me for the last time as I walked into her room in the morning. Room number eight.

Always kind, always thoughtful, always just mom.

Fourteen days ago, I watched the family from my childhood (dad, sister, cousins) eat Christmas dinner together, listen to Christmas carols and drink wine. I heard stories and quite a ruckus being made in room number eight. I watched tears flow, mom’s hand being held and felt her body next to me as I lied with her.

I watched my family grieve, my cousins step up, my boys soak in the love of everyone and my dad continue to walk forward with his love.

I looked at mom’s beautiful skin, incredible blue eyes and felt her warmth and kindness flowing out of her, as it always has.

Thirteen Days ago, mom took her last breath. Dad sitting at her side.

I was awed by love, snow, hugs and fluttering butterflies.

Thirteen days ago we started planning, writing, savouring, cherishing.

Eleven Days ago, we celebrated mom’s life at her favourite beach, held the people who love her and cried tears of love over and over again.

Ten days ago we said goodbye to many departing for home and then it was just us and dad. Staying at mom and dad’s house. Puzzling, talking, organizing, crying, drinking wine, skiing, leaving roses, smelling the flowers, taking down Christmas decorations and talking about stuff.

Today, I return to our home in KCity .

Today, this is how my husband found me as I wrote this blog:

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Disclaimer: For my Prayerwalking friends, my lying down is a regular occurrence. For my new grieving self, it is a daily occurrence. Just rowing my boat… in my quiet laundry room.

Don’t worry, I am not alone. God is with me, my friends close, boys sleeping and Sexy Neck woowing me with warm muffins.

Can you leave me a wee comment? It will give me something to read while I lie on the floor.

cancer, Grief, men

Be Living With Irony

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In the last six months, I have endured the most devastating and richest time of my life.

I am living through metaphors and irony daily. I should have paid more attention in English Twelve so that I could figure this all out.

Irony, ironic, paradoxical.

Sitting where I am today, I know that I will never be able to ‘make sense’ of my mom’s cancer journey and death.

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But I will look at the irony and beauty that has come from this beast of a year.

The irony that the hard times are when you find your deep friends, the ones that you can never repay, come be at your side, feel free to weep with on a daily basis and organize decorations from 500 kilometres away for mom’s funeral without question.

The letting go of people that just don’t get what you are going through and the deepening of friendships of those that know the profound earth shattering feeling of losing your mom.

The yanking apart of my family so that I could be at Mom’s side.

The incredible pillar of strength deep within my husband so that he could be all things for me and the boys when we needed it throughout this entire journey. Sexy Neck has a deep, deep well. What a gift he has been.

My dad, oh my dad. We were close before we went to war to help mom, but now we have an honesty and camaraderie that makes us teammates and friends.

Sweet victory.

Sad loss.

Richness.

Devastation.

Beauty.

Beast.

Life.

Death.

Light.

Darkness.

Irony.

Living in it, through it, with it, every day!

cancer, Family, Grief

Be Beauty

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I have been overwhelmed with coincidences – butterflies and snow anyone?

I have been blessed with prophetic women.

Now I am blessed with both – prophesy and coincidence. I don’t think I am getting up off the floor anytime soon. Sorry if I don’t respond to emails!

A week ago I asked my A friend from Atown if her daughter would draw a picture for our family. I had heard that this wonderful child has gifts that go beyond understanding. I don’t exactly know what my friend said to her daughter, but this is what she drew:

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A told me about the significance of the colours from a prophetic art book. I told her that mom was talking about water when she was in hospice and the fact that a few days ago Sexy Neck had picked up mom’s ashes that were in a box.

Scroll back to the girl’s picture and sit with what I just told you. Woah!

But, of course, that is not the end of the story.

Sexy Neck and I were sitting on the couch talking about mom and life when I received the text with the picture from A. She had read my post about grief being like waves and decided to send it immediately.

After I showed Sexy Neck the text, and responded to A, I looked over at the memory tree from mom’s celebration of life. This Douglas fir had cards where people wrote down memories of mom.

I am not sure who drew this, but take a look:

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Woah! Dude!

I want to share some brilliant and inspiring words at this connection between the word beauty and the parallel pictures, but really I am just gobsmacked!

God is connecting the dots for me when I can’t even put one foot in front of the other without help.

Glory to Him.