"This much I know is true…"

April 15, Jesus Calling, Sarah Young

"Trust Me, and don't be afraid.  Many things feel out of control.  Your routines are not running smoothly.  You tend to feel more secure when your life is predictable.  Let Me Lead you to the rock that is higher than you and your circumstances.  Take refuge in the shelter of My wings, where you are absolutely secure…"

My phone lays quietly, often in some remote spot I left it in.  No need to hover anymore for her call.  Mom's call.  It would come at 10, then 3, and then 9 pm when I was readying for bed.  I startle now, when the phone rings.  My heart leaps for a brief instant, and then I pause, realizing I no longer have any idea who it might be.  

Its so quiet.  How do you fill the silence? And that space.  That "Mary Ann," shaped space in my life that refuses to fill right now, with anything else.  

I numbly stumble my way into Dr. Panwalkar's exam room on Tuesday.  When he asks how I am, I blankly answer, "Okay, I'm okay."  

He pauses, searching my face for clues.  "Why just okay?"

The tears rimming my eyes, threaten to slip, as my voice hushes and I barely squeak out a reply "My mom died a week ago."  

We sit in silence a moment or two.

Dr. P's face registers compassion, and understanding.  As usual, his understatement speaks volumes to me.

"I'm sorry."  

But I already feel it, hovering in the space between us.  

And really?  I'm still in that haze of grief and loss and what just happened to us?  

Suddenly, I see we've moved on as I shift my focus again.

But when we go over the PET scan?  And he shows the 3 tumors that have grown?  

"Oh well,"  I think.  Because I can't multiply sadness any longer.  I just can't add more + more + more.

The news barely registers.

At the end of our conversation, I remind Dr. Panwalkar its been 4 years.  He smiles, in acknowledgement.  

Then says, "You are a trooper," while shaking his head.

And I tell him, I am lucky, and beyond grateful, and have a deep desire to keep going on.

He walks me to infusion and as he reaches over to side hug me- I reach my arm back around his side and hug him right back.  

Even though I have no earthly idea how I am going to do this.

This much I know is true.

I deeply desire moving forward.

Today, I am going to have my brain MRI with sedation.  I am bringing you all with, to pray over.  

I'll be back with results soon.

I also long to come back and share about my mom's funeral.  

Her dollar story.

The word "come," and my Uncle Ernie.

And the gem of a quote my mother wrote on a small square of paper she carried with her.

It lightens my heart to come here and share.  This is one way, I know, will help me find my way back from the grief filled haze that obscures my days right now.

Our Mom...

"Just as hope rings through laughter, it can also shine through tears."

The day before mom's party, (Saturday, April 4th) mom grew less present with us.  Sleeping more, eyes closed, working harder to just breathe in and out.  

We simply decided to leave her in her room, resting in bed, during the party.

We had a steady stream of people for her party.  They all so bravely came down to her room, and spoke to her, even though her eyes barely fluttered.  There was much laughter, with tears sprinkled in.  So many wonderful stories shared about our mom.  She'd still raise her eyebrows, or smile at mention of someone's name on occasion.  She was clearly taking it all in, as were we.  I didn't even manage to reach for my camera.

All 3 of mom's sisters were there.  So many of her nieces and nephews had come.  Neighbors and friends from years back.  Concordia College faculty and staff filled the unit.  A card even arrived, from the President of the College.  

Dr. Jalil, mom's liver specialist, arrived with this beautiful gerbera daisy.  It was his first time visiting the Palliative Care Unit, and he was noticing the tranquility he felt.  He had been so instrumental in getting mom into the unit, without even having been there.  I only hope more doctors will visit the unit and get to know what a true gem it is.  

He somewhat, apologetically said, "I thought she had longer, two maybe, three weeks."  But I assured him, we treasured any time we had with her, and nobody really knows when.   Its clearly not in our hands."

Sunday, I awoke to an early phone call from her nurse.  Mom's breathing had grown more shallow, perhaps I would like to come in and sit with her?

Lee and I both spent Easter Day with mom.  With lots of visits and support from our family, we watched over mom.   She seemed to be less comfortable and worked to position her in ways that may help.  More pain meds were delivered and yet all we could do was watch as she struggled to take in air.  

It was hard to leave her that night.  I longed to stay, as much as I needed to go.  

I spent extra time, brushing her hair.  Moisturizing her lips, her face.  Holding her hand, and whispering to her how she was loved.  Treasured.  Cherished.

My phone was silent all night.  My mind, prepared for the possibility of a call.

Yesterday, I arrived mid-morning.  

Mom labored, so, with her breathing.  Her chest, shoulders, and neck, askew, working so hard to bring in air.  I noticed a new noise to her exhale.  The pale enshrouding her face.  The positioning, again, of her head and neck at awkward angles.  And yet, the reassurance by nursing staff, that all was a natural part of the process.

So Lee and I, sat, watching, each breath, each sigh, each little thing.

She no longer responded to our words.  

Sometime, yesterday morning, I felt an energy in my chest.  Something shifted.  The air changed.  As I went out to get a drink of water, then returned, the sight of my mom stirred me.

It felt to me as though her spirit had already left.  While we still had no idea if she had mere hours left, or days, I sensed her journey moving forward.

Her sister, Marlene came.  We sat sharing stories about Mom.  About Grandma, and Grandpa, and their passing.  About her first husband Emery, and then our Dad,  and so many others who had gone before us.

And ever so slowly, mom's breathing slowed.  Our voices grew softer, as her breathing grew quieter.  

We filled the in- between minutes with chatter, 

until...

It was Marny's voice that sing-songed through the air…

"Mary Ann, do you hear me?"  You can leave.  Time to go, Mary."  

And we chuckled, at the sight and sound of the older sister, doing what she had done since childhood.

She got up and leaned over the bed, peering into mother's face.  She kissed her cheek and told she was loved.  Then sat down.

It felt like mere minutes, as Marny and Lee sat across from me talking.

But, I noticed the lapses between mom's breathing.  Longer and longer till she breathed again.

I stood, noticing how still and quiet it had become.  Marny and Lee were right there with me.  We surround the bed, searching for signs, searching each other's faces, while stroking her hair, her cheeks, just her.  

Each breath now,  a mere sip of air.  

We all three spoke our love to her, and then, it happened.

The slightest smile alighted on mom's lips, as Marny proclaimed,

"You see the pearly gates, don't you Mary?"

The smile lingered a second.

And then it was gone.

And so was she.

Shortly before 5 pm yesterday, our sweet mother, Mary Ann, went Home to be with Jesus.

We are both joyously celebrating her entry into her eternal life, and deeply saddened by our lives going on, without her lively spirit in our midst.

“Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation.”  Rumi

Today, as I downloaded a couple of quick snaps from my phone- this vision caught my eye.

Do you see it?  The reflection in the window?  

I have to tell you, I believe.  And I felt it, and now, I feel as though I see it too.

side by side, roots and wings- plus an invitation

"Side by side, heart to heart, we will always be connected in our traveling journey.  Remember your roots, and trust your wings."  Kelly Rae Roberts

The room streamed warmth and sunlight as soon as we entered it last Friday at noon.  Mom was quickly hugged by the Resident, Dr. Harmon, who helped get mom into the Palliative Care Unit.  They chatted in earnest as we went through the admission process.

Visitors showed up almost right away.  Mom chose sitting in the recliner, covered in her warm blue sherpa blanket we bought for her long ago.  

Mom's sense of humor is as quick and sharp as ever.  Her spirit remains strong, her outlook positive, her love pouring forth from every interaction.

The loving care she receives is exceptional.  Its been a long time since I've seen my mom so rested and peaceful.  The quiet and calm, everywhere, do much to foster the tranquil environment.

My brother, surprised mom, showing up in her room on Saturday.  The sheer delight and joy on her face was a moment we'll never forget.

Lee and I have been busy, spending time with mom, and making plans for one big wish she'd like to fulfill.  

She would turn 80 in October, and had dreams for a big celebration.  Dr. Harmon so astutely said, "So why wait?  Lets celebrate now!"

So if you are a friend of my mom's or a family member that would like to come celebrate- we would love to have you!  

The gift of your "presence" is most welcome.

(please no gifts) 

This Saturday, April 4th.

From 2-4 pm- open house style.

We will have coffee and Mom's favorite treats lovingly baked and furnished by Concordia.

Sanford Hospital, Palliative Care Unit, on University in Fargo.

Take elevator B to the 5th floor, and we'll be in the Family Room directly across from the Elevator, with Mom.

Will you come help us celebrate her life?

We're simply following His plans, day by day, leaning on Him, as our Dear Mom continues her journey to her Eternal Home.  

4 years… and updates

Superman and I escaped for an hour in Duluth, with the sun shining bright and the boys busy with their friends.  We simply went for a drive.  Rick googled and found the name of a park- Enger Park- that was close by.

The light was bouncing off everything, surrounding us with warmth and beauty.  Everywhere our eyes sought out, seemed to be cast with a golden glow.

Enger Park is the home to an observation tower that overlooks the city of Duluth,  as well as Lake Superior.  

Up we climbed.  Stopping to soak in the golden hues already lowering in the sky.

People were quietly traipsing about, going in and out of the tower.

The concrete staircase was in the middle, with each level having places to sneak a peek.

And this is what awaited us at the very top…  my camera may have been tilted just a tad, but what I love is that it looks like the curve of the earth, in the photo below.  Could the sky be any bluer?

Here is the draw bridge below, and areas where the the ice has been broken and it won't be long and ships will be moving through once again.

A peek out the back of the tower which overlooks a golf course.

The lake view through the front.

One last look back, as we descended the hill out of the park.

As we drove down the hill from the park, I squealed when I saw this next structure looming in front of us.  This was just one of the hotels we stayed at over the course of our honeymoon- almost 18 years ago.  

I sometimes feel, like God, puts these reminders in my path and helps me conjure up memories of what has stood the test of time- like Superman, love, and our marriage.  

Speaking of still standing...

As much time as I spent at the hospital with mom last week, when our book club found a night we could all meet last week, I knew how much my spirits would lift being around these beautiful women.  Impulsively, I lifted my glass and said I had just passed a milestone worth mentioning.  

March 16th, 2011 was the date of my breast cancer diagnosis.  We had book club just the night before my appointment. 

Last Monday, marked my 4th year of living with cancer.

So many have continued to walk with me, all 4 years, like these special friends.  We lived fully this night, and I am one blessed woman.

I've always thought that reaching a million views on my blog, was like a fantasy dream.  But suddenly, I am well over half way to that reality.  Want to help me achieve another goal?  Visit away! 

Its still the "little" things that add up to the biggest joys.  

Mom is settled back into room 212 at Bethany on University.  I finally crumbled on Saturday.  My body simply unable to tolerate much food, my legs cramping, and the rest of me just worn out.

It was Rick and my Uncle Bill and Aunt Carol, along with my cousin Pam who saved the day for us.  They fully moved mom out of her apartment in the basic care side and moved her all the way in to the skilled nursing side.

We took pizza over to her last night and Colton entertained with his new card tricks.  

Mom ate a little.  Talked a little.  But she has a new look in her eyes.  A far away look, that goes right past the grandchildren, right above my shoulder, and seemingly penetrates the brick wall, in a dreamy way.  

We talked about celebrating her 80th birthday earlier than October 21, her actual birthdate, with a big party, sometime this spring.

But as Rick so poignantly said last night, "the time to celebrate your mom, seems to be right now, in this moment, today."  

Thank you to all who have done exactly that- the love is streaming throughout her room.  

I have received some lovely and encouraging gifts in the mail, and on my doorstep.  Thank you!  

 Nolan's re-test for his concussion looms later today.  Infusion tomorrow.  I will be back with more as soon as I can… 

Live your moments.  Live them full. 

Chemo day

Every time I sit down to write a bit, it seems, I am jumping up to take care of something else.  After the weather went all kinds of crazy cold on us, threatening to bring winter ahead of fall, warmer temps arrived again today.  

So I've been sneaking outside with the dog, trying to figure out how to preserve a little bit of the warmth and brightness of the sun to feast on in the darkest corners of winter. 

My mom had a rough week last week.  Nolan and I surprised her with a visit early in the week, and all seemed well.  The week before we took her to the dentist to have a tooth pulled, but she seemed to be healing well and had no discomfort in her mouth.  But then, a long series of events occurred, that ultimately led to a fall the other day.  While physically she assured us she was fine, it was her raw emotions that stayed with me.  That nagging voice kept at me, no matter the assurances she gave.

Friday night I called to tell mom, that Rick was home, and we were coming to visit.  But she didn't answer.  For hours upon hours, she didn't answer her phone.  

By 10 pm,  long after we would usually have heard from her, I was starting to rapidly grow concerned.

What if she had fallen again?  What if she went for a walk outside and lost her bearings?  What if….?  

Rick, long exhausted from his 18 hour drive back from Idaho, was a trooper and got on the phone with Bethany Towers.   Could they please locate her?  

Our concern grew as they failed to establish her whereabouts.  Where could she be?  They kept saying, "oh she is probably down in the community room,  or in the dining room, etc., we could have her call when she comes back?"

Our last call to the switchboard and Rick, firmly, but politely refused to get off the phone until they found her.  As I dressed, getting ready to get in the car, he carefully explained our concern with her fall, and that her not answering her phone was not typical.  

Finally, they dispatched several people to set off on a search for her.  

Then the call came- she had been found!

She was in the room across from hers, gaining some emotional support from her friend.  The two women had lost track of time.  

Saturday we had a busy day with hockey, a birthday party, a bon fire with friends.  But I called several times to talk with mom.  Then mom tried calling us, and I answered as she hung up.  When I dialed her back, the phone was busy for a long time.  It was after we got home from the bonfire I called her again.

  It was then that she told us she had been sent to the Emergency Room because of her fall, and when I didn't answer, her sister came and took her. She has some bruised ribs and pain.  But, no fractures fortunately. 

I have so many questions?  Why two days later?  Why not the day of her fall?  What protocol for falls do I not know?  

We've had such excellent care at Bethany.  What just happened this past week?  

Rick and I will be going in to talk with the director.  

We went and spent a long time with her yesterday.  Her spirits are lifting, but she remains cautious and worries about the course of events.  

But first, I have Dr. Panwalkar this morning where we will discuss my PET scan results, then I will have chemo.  

~All shall be well~

tightrope walking

He stands clearly 4 or 5 inches taller than me now.  That Nolan, growing, even while I see him every day.  He stretches out before me and I blink, and miss the totality of all the inches.  It hits me over the head as I notice the subtleness to his adjustments.  He tugs his pants down, just a tad lower, so that they aren't too short. He stoops to give me a hug goodnight.  When I finally stand, back to back, with him, its me looking up at the back of his head.   And suddenly, its I who reach on my tiptoes, when I go to give him a hug.  

I'm needing so many of those hugs lately.  Hold tight.  Hold on.  Freeze this moment in time because the moments are moving so quickly and I can't grasp them in my tiny, slippery hands.  I watch as they flutter effortlessly through, sifting through my fingers, landing at my feet in clumps.  

Its both been harder, and easier than I thought it would be.

She railed against leaving.  She wouldn't go.  Her friends?  Her treasures?  Her life?  How could she, our mother, be asked to leave?

And as my brother and I watched… continuously through my head ran the thoughts… how can she stay?  She lives a triangular existence these days.  From her recliner, to the bathroom to the door on occasion.  Back and forth, forth and back.  At times its 3 tries to hoist herself up from her chair, wincing in pain around her middle, trying to steady herself with the grips of the walker, her lifeline.  While we wait, arms outstretched, for extra measure.

And what day is it?  Didn't she have her meds already?  Has she talked to her sister yet?  

The moments, here too, slipping so effortlessly by, both Lee and I, unable to grab and hold onto them for mom.  Because we would.  We'd do anything to keep her where she loves to be- her apartment- with spacious ceilings, two big bedrooms, two bathrooms, oodles of closets, oodles of space.  Kind neighbors who have formed a community of people looking out for each other.  

But as she recovers from surgery, its abundantly clear to us, she can't be left alone.  She needs that voice of reason.  That extra set of hands.  The reminders, the cues, the hints.  

She will stick out her tongue at us and mock us, while listening and obeying at the same time.  This is our mom.  And I relish "seeing her," shine through all the bits that don't resemble her any more.  

She is sassy and full of sarcastic wit.  She can be exasperating, and funny, and exhausting to all of us trying to keep her safe and comfortable. 

Then Saturday steamrolls its way in… and its time for mom to go.  We gather the things she'll bring with her.  It fits in one truckload.  As we mentally take stock around us, of what she'll need, she sits quietly in her chair.  Not saying anything, a far away look on her face.

She gets to her feet without hesitation when we tell her its time.  She has already given away one of her chairs, to a friend.  She steadily walks to the kitchen without a single glance around.  No final look at anything, and no looking back.  She walks upright, rolling her walker along forward,  right through the front door.

Although quiet, not a hint of emotion surfaces, as I sit biting my cheek to keep the tears from falling.  This moment forever etched in my memory.  

We've promised she can move back, if she regains her ability to live independently again.  And she speaks as though she will be back, while also telling us who should get her things.  

Its Sunday, the day my brother flies back home to Pennsylvania.  Mom is settled and I am back at home.  I'm still wading through Christmas storage containers lined up along the walkways through our home.  But a flash of purple catches my eye.  A wrapped, square, object, I've not seen before.  I shove aside the bins and boxes of stuff and grasp the package.  Its Colton who says "mom, thats for you!"

"Mrs. Sailer, my art teacher, made it for you.  Mrs. Herbranson (Colton's teacher) helped me wrap it to protect it and bring it home.  Its been waiting for you!  I've been waiting for you."  And he throws his arms around me.  

I wonder how long.  Days?  Weeks?  A mountain of moments I've walked through without seeing.  So we carefully unwrap the purple paper.  

Its breathtaking as Crosby's eyes pierce my heart instantly.  Mrs. Sailer got him just right.  She wrote us a note saying "your dog on your blog spoke to me… as a critical part of your family.  A member who listens and responds to your needs.  Consider this upcycled frame and ripped up magazine pages… and a dab of paint… a late Christmas gift."  

This is her second "gift " to us.  I have the other hanging on another wall and will share about it in the near future.  Mrs. Sailer is an uber talented and artistic woman.  She does not walk an easy path either, her burdens heavy and cumbersome.  But her heart is big, huge really.  And she gives of herself at times when others would be more focused on themselves.  

She is a gift.  A friend.  And she has helped clear my vision for the day- helping me see clearly- the things that matter most.  

While everything continues to swirl around us in transitions of varying magnitude, anchors have risen up, asserting their sturdiness, their solidity, their ability to bear unbearable burden.  

Mom's new home, Bethany Homes on University Drive, in Fargo.

The anchors come in the form of family who visits mom, and offers all kinds of help.  In friends who drive our boys where they need to go, and bring them to hockey, feed them, and watch over them.  In neighbors who drop everything and drive me, or check on the house, or the dog.  In a fridge that is filled with food from family and friends, and texts that send supportive words and advice.  In prayers, being said by you, by me, by all of us.  Filling in like glue around the moments slipping so precariously through our grip.  They're not lost, we'll catch them somehow, and persevere.  

Jesus Calling, Sarah Young, January 21.

I want you to be all mine… I am weaning you from other dependencies.  Your security rests in Me alone-not in other people, not in circumstances.

Depending only on Me may feel like walking on a tightrope, but there a is safety net underneath: the everlasting arms.  So don't be afraid of falling.  Instead, look ahead to Me.  I am always before you, beckoning you on-one step at a time.  

Neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, can separate you from My loving Presence.

Today, I will meet with Dr. Tinguely, and we will come up with a plan for surgery.  Will update soon.  Blessings and love to you all. 

untangling...

Her voice is whisper thin on the phone and its with great effort that any sound comes out at all.  The changes in my mom have come rapidly and have changed her ability to function at her usual capacity.  But her stubborn streak glimmers when her doctor tells her maybe she should start trying a cane.

Who me?  I'm not old enough for a cane.  No, I don't need that.  No, no.  Not that.  I'm fine.

I shrink back a little in my chair at the shrill and razor sharp quality appearing in her voice.  

She doesn't want to acknowledge that her gait is unsteady, and she has fallen a couple of times already.  Her diseased liver has grown maybe triple its size and grossly distends her stomach.  Ascites continue to build around her middle and its clear that walking is a major feat.

She has never been a drinker and yet Cirrhosis has staked a claim on her liver.

Ammonia built up in her system recently and induced confused thinking and lots of drowsiness.  At very high levels, ammonia can induce a coma.  We quickly got her to the liver doctor. She started a new medication that has fortunately brought her ammonia levels back down, but its a delicate balance calculating just the right amount of medication to keep it at a normal level.  I check in with her twice daily. 

I am finding its an odd thing when you are walking through your own illness, at the same time your mother is walking through one as well.  

Who takes care of who?  

She called yesterday.  Could I pick up her gluten free bread at the health market?  I'm relieved she has listened to her doctor and left her car in the garage for the winter months.  

I pick up her bread and she insists I come inside her apartment.  The heat blasts my face as I enter and I quickly take off my heavy winter coat.  Its stifling to me.  But her body can no longer regulate her temperature well and she is constantly cold.  

It's the perfect metaphor for our relationship.  She can't fathom anyone would think it was too hot.  As sweat beads on my forehead, she tells me she is thinking she'll need to turn the heat up soon.  I swear there is a glint in her eye as she says this.  The word facetious comes to mind...

My past rises up to meet me.  I am 12 again.  Her traditional and strict rules rub up against my soft heart time and again.  She closes off the heat registers in my bedroom telling me it isn't necessary to heat the whole house.  I layer myself in long underwear, then sweat pants and quilt after quilt - its a classic Minnesota winter and its -15 outside.  My nose is still red and cold when I wake in the morning and race down to the wood burning stove to start a fire.  

The 12-year-old in me wants to remind her of her own advice a "little cold" never hurt anyone... and... yet, I'm not 12 anymore.  And this too, is part of the reason I chose the word embrace- because I used distance to cope in the past, and sometimes I still just want to run.

She snaps me back to the present asking me which ones do I want to keep?

My eyes adjust to the soft lighting and I see she has been sorting through her Christmas ornaments.  She has divided them into piles.  Some for me.  The rest will go to my brother.  Christmases past spill out before me in a jumbled heap of beaded bells, glass ornaments, and delicate wire angels.  We've hand crafted  most of them, her and I, and they are a concrete reminder that we are deeply woven together, despite our differences. The sturdiness of the beads (her) entwined with the bending of the wire (me)-forming a brilliant and delicate white angel.

I still long for her to desire more.  More Christmases, more travel, more time spent with her grandchildren.  Its her grandchildren who have carved out a soft place in her heart.  

But she makes no pretenses that she might have had her "last Christmas."  There is no trace of sadness, merely a hint of resignation to what is.  She is merely taking care of what needs to be done. 

She comes around the corner as I heave the tote filled with ornaments into my arms.  She is carrying her new coat- have I seen it yet?  

I pause, with my heart lodged in my throat.  

A few seconds pass, and it suddenly dawns on her...

Ohhh, YOU were the one who took me to buy the coat!  

It was just last week and I had spent an entire day getting her groceries, picking up her pills, paying her bills, sending off her mail and helping her buy a new coat.  Sigh... how will it ever feel like enough?

She awkwardly embraces me as I stand holding the tote.  

Clearly, there is love between us.

Bundle up- its cold out there! She admonishes me.  

I'm rushing now to get home in time for when Colton gets home from practice.  

How will I continue to do this?  To care for her when I am so easily transported to the past.  I've been wrestling with this for so long.  

I'm entrenched in thought when suddenly the wheels on the van lock as I grip the steering wheel, sliding on the ice as I approach the turn to my house.  The ornaments shift precariously on the seat. With my heart beating rapidly, a singular, quick thought appears running through my brain.

Care for her as you will one day want your children to care for you.

You will never untangle the circumstances that brought you to this moment.  Maybe I don't need to. Maybe those circumstances made me who I am, like them or not. 

As I scoot down the hallway to my bedroom, I pause for a moment at the thermostat.  I smile as I turn the heat down a few degrees.  It turns out I like it a little more cool when I sleep at night.  I realize the very things that used to make me want to run, are some of the very things I turn to these days.  

And I'm learning... just keep embracing.