Two Healthy Breasts

With two shaking fists, I clutched the thin gown to my chest, covering the suspect lump my doctor had discovered the week before. I was advised to watch it, get to know it, and wait for a couple of months to see if there were any changes. But every night as I lay in bed with my right arm above my head, my left hand probing the solid mass of tissue, my heart would start to race with the panic of what ifs and my stomach would churn with increasing fear.

Life was so good right now. I had met the man of my dreams and was planning a spring wedding! He was intently loving me and opening my heart to new levels of giving and receiving. I was happy! Was life too good?

I was also turning 40 soon and isn’t that the time where these things begin to work their way into your life? The lump found at 32 didn’t seem so frightening. It seemed a little absurd. But I was almost 40 now. This lump was simply terrifying.

I asked my friend Diana what I should do - pursue peace of mind or wait it out like I was told. My fiancé, Peter agreed with her, peace of mind came first, and I made my mammogram appointment. Sitting in the boxy closet they had classified as a dressing room, I watched women walk by me, some grasping the same tied-in-the-front gowns, some with their clipboards and scrubs, some with ease and confidence possibly facing the routine screenings they had been through before, some with a false smile pasted on their nervous faces. I was constantly on the verge of letting my insistent tears spill over, swallowing them back only to feel them rise and fill again.

Linda stopped in front of the accordion door and directed me to make my way to the third room on the right. Maybe it was good that she was somewhat unfeeling. If she would have showed me understanding, if her hand would’ve touched my shoulder in some sort of offering of comfort, or her words would’ve been compassionate towards my obvious nervousness, I probably would’ve ended up in a puddle at her feet.

The process was a little embarrassing, her hands guiding my breasts to the correct position, feeling the twelve pounds of pressure pushing me down onto the tray. But it didn’t hurt and I was grateful for that since this would be an annual event from now on. The emotional task of keeping speculation at bay was enough.

There were no reassuring words as the pictures were snapped. Just a little prodding, a lot of skin, and a fair amount of breeze causing chills. Or maybe they were emotional goose bumps ruffling my demeanor with the reality of where I was and what I was doing.

Next, she ushered me into the hall, my purse and sweater held tight to my chest, where she then handed me off to a sweet looking, blond woman who told me she would be performing my ultrasound. “So they saw enough to warrant an ultrasound?” I asked. “I mean they saw something?”

“Actually, your mammogram showed nothing unusual.” She told me, easing my growing fears. “We’re just making sure what you felt was nothing. Your tests are good so far.”

I laid on the draped table feeling the warm gel spreading over my skin, the wand moving, pressing to get just the right picture.

“What did it feel like to you?” the blond technician asked me. It felt like terror. It felt like impending disaster, wild imaginations of the worst scenario, happiness quickly disappearing, life too good to be true.

“It didn’t feel like a hard marble, like before.” I told her instead, struggling to find the words. “It felt odd, larger, muscley?”

She continued her search. Looking over at the screen, I saw waves of white and gray. Reminiscent of pregnancy ultrasounds I had watched years ago with feelings of utter joy, I thought about just how different this was. She was perusing my right breast with concentration and determination, trying to dispel dreadings of unknowns with beautiful facts of health.

“Here we go.” She said and my stomach dropped even farther. She had found it. At least she could tell me what it is and the unknown factor could be eliminated. It took a few minutes for the words to come. “This is a fatty tumor. Perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.” Her hands continued working, recording proof, and my eyes closed in exhaustion and relief.

After getting dressed hurriedly, I briskly walked to the waiting room where my nervous, supportive fiancé was anticipating news. “It’s good. I’m fine.” I told him even before he wrapped me in his arms, not willing to stretch out this moment for dramatic effect. We both cried tears of gratitude, holding each other close. My two shaking fists slowly unclenched, nothing between us but two healthy breasts.

Indescribable

Indescribable
the Reality of utter Release,
Crashing definitions,
Consuming one we adore.
his Spirit now Silent,
Soft sound of deflating lungs,
Seizes hearts, Swells grief,
Shifts worlds, thickens Space.
one last Breath, a thin Breeze,
Brokenness envelops all.
heaven Approaches,
Altering our existence,
forcing Acceptance,
demanding Goodbye,
Gone, Gone, Gone.
the Dream of life Dissolved
by Death.
Undeniable Urgency to touch him,
needs raw and Exposed.
Empathic tears Flood.
our Hero becomes Mystery.
Untouched, Unseen spirit.
this Tender departure,
a Permanent separation,
where Fear and Faith greet
with a kiss of Finality.

One Restless Night

The soft and constant moaning between each breath was coming deep from his chest and throat. He continually kicked at his sheets with determination, refusing the weight of the light cotton. He couldn’t hold on to a peaceful sleep for any significant amount of time. Comfort seemed out of his grasp. My eyes were gritty and aching for sleep, but they refused to look away from his shadowed form. I eagerly watched each rise and fall of his chest, overwhelmed by my helplessness to still the battle his restless spirit was engaging in these, his final days.

We brought him home from the hospital not only because he demanded it to every nurse and doctor who walked into his room, but also because we wanted to honor him, to love on him, and to pour the kind of compassion we had witnessed his heart offering to so many others throughout our lives. We were grateful for this precious time to have him home and under our watchful care.

I knew that every minute in my parents’ double wide mobile home was fragile and quickly dissipating. The cancer was claiming him. In the last day or so it had stolen his voice. Cancer was a cruel thief that had stolen more and more of his understanding in the past few weeks. He had suffered both physically and emotionally the past year as cancer slowly robbed him of strength and vitality.

However, cancer had no power to destroy his beauty to me, no authority to demand of his humanity. He was still the daddy I adored. I could still smell coffee when near him, still feel the bristle on his cheeks that I kissed. His hands were still the largest I’d ever seen, weathered and strong. His eyes were still the ones who had looked at me with pride and adoration. He would always be mine.

Rising from the couch, I walked the few steps to his hospital bed, and gently placed my hand on his forehead. His skin was smooth and soft. I pulled the sheet back over him carefully, and he immediately began pushing it down again with his feet.

“Okay, Dad.” I told him with a tired smile. “I get it. No sheets.”

I picked up the large, black leather Bible laying on the tray next to
his water and medications, its

thin pages lovingly marked from years of loyal study, and I sat back into the rolling desk chair we kept by his side. During the day, we took turns sitting here holding his hand, or standing over his bedside brushing our fingers over his head. Just yesterday, I had made the effort to surrender, to offer him the comfort of release by whispering in his ear, “It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay to let go. We’ll take care of Mom, of each other. It’s okay.”

What felt to me to be the exact opposite of okay was his lack of physical peace. My father, above anyone I knew, was a man of great faith, pronouncing to the hospice nurse just the week before how ready and secure he felt for the journey ahead. But this process of his body shutting down a little bit at a time was painful and I couldn’t help but wonder if fear was depleting his security as well.

I opened my father’s Bible easily to the book of John, my favorite gospel, and began to read aloud to him. He had drawn such joy and pleasure from knowing God through His written words. He had dedicated most of his life to first understanding and second teaching from this book he held in the highest esteem.

I wanted miracles there in the dimly lit living room. I desired an instant holiness to sweep in and surround his weary body, to cover his troubled spirit with reassurance. I needed one of those moments where in stories the person nearing death receives a dose of clarity and calm. I wanted signs and wonders that God was near and ready to wrap my father’s spirit in the safe haven of His own. I desired proof of supernatural power providing solace through the inspired passage of scripture I was reading out loud.

Instead, his moaning continued, his restless legs never slowing, and sleep eluded him. I read a few chapters, smiling at the verses displaying Jesus’ sense of humor. “Funny Jesus, Dad! This is one of those places!” I laughed to myself remembering the recent sermon about Jesus’ humanity and the line of sarcasm I had just read.

My eyes closed slowly, resolved to the fact that I would not be sharing “Funny Jesus” moments with this man who had led me as a child into Jesus’ arms. I would not be sharing any more phone conversations about upcoming Sunday School lessons or tender debates about differing beliefs. I wouldn’t see him stand behind a pulpit again, proclaiming the glory and magnificence of his God, weeping over the love and devotion of a Savior he felt so unworthy of.

There would be no more tenor “rolled away”s sung in celebration in the chorus of “At the Cross”, no more hymns harmonized by his side on Sunday mornings. I would never again hear his powerful voice lifted in prayer, his genuine petitions, his humble offerings of adoration that always began with the words, “Our Most Kind, Gracious, Loving Heavenly Father…”

I closed his Bible, tired of fighting both sleep and sadness, and leaned over to kiss his cheek before climbing back under the sheet that actually comforted me. The warmth of his skin under my lips, the few precious seconds our faces were so close together felt sacred. I was the little girl he had held in his arms, and the woman who he had helped to raise. I loved his presence in my life, his inspiration and unconditional love.

My sleep was forced into short intervals, fitful and light enough to hear every noise. I wanted to be awake as he needed me. We took turns so that one of us would always be with him. I was so afraid that the moment I let myself truly drift off would be the time he took his last breath. All of us wrestled with this unspoken fear when it was our shoulders the responsibility rested on. What if we lost him in the middle of the night? What if we woke up to see he was alone when he died?

It was irrational, the demand for such control over this. But it was real nonetheless. So I closed my eyes and listened to his breathing, slightly labored and raspy. I stood up every few minutes and pulled the hated sheet back over his exposed legs. I moistened his lips with the pink sponge sucker and rubbed his tired muscles. I let songs fill up my head and pour quietly into the room, songs he loved like, “He Touched Me” and “In The Garden.” I heard the meanings delivered to my ears with newness and depth, because I was losing him, because he was reaching the end of this life. And when the sun began to fill the space with pink, warm light, my mother’s presence slipped next to my father’s. I breathed a sigh of relief and allowed my heart full of trust and despair to slip into the escape of sleep, just for a little while.

Sturdy Mother or Broken Daughter

I didn’t know how to be the protective mom I was used to being and the grieving daughter I had never been before. How did these two core personas intermix? Where did responsibility to shelter and love my children above myself fit into the breakdown of fear and heartache when losing my father? What could I offer them when this tremendous loss was depleting my desire to breathe?

The three of them had walked into his hospital room as unprepared as I. What was racing through their minds as they came face to face with the blatant truth that their grandfather would soon die? I had not debriefed them for this moment. My mother had not informed me that it was here. We had walked unknowingly into the solid wall of reality, his sunken eyes, his empty expression, his hollow cheeks.

I don’t remember taking them into my arms. Maybe I did. I remember needing to sit down, needing to look away to hide the flow of my tears. I remember my mother’s arms wrapping around me, her comforting voice lilting in my ear as she let me sob into her chest. I remember feeling 100% like a little girl who was terrified of this dark and strange path in front of me.

My sisters’ presence confirmed the identity of three doting daughters in the midst of witnessing our daddy’s departure from this life. I felt a complex amnesia of the mother I was made to be as these child emotions took control of my heart.

Somehow I know that these children of mine that brought out the most raw and intense feelings of my soul, could be a catalyst for the undoing of all the strongholds I had worked so hard to erect. Being “mom” meant that I could shove my feelings aside and take care of them. At least that’s what it used to mean, that’s what I grew up witnessing. Here in this place where I was losing my daddy, I wondered if I could keep it all together. Or if the arms of my sons and daughter would shatter the barrier around my vulnerable defenses.

It’s strange to me, how little of the details I remember about where my kids were, of what they were doing during this time. I can somewhat excuse myself because I know the fragile state I was in. But it breaks my heart that I wasn’t more attuned to their needs.

I want to go back and notice they are losing their Papa. I want to give them space to feel their own sadness and express their own fear and grief. I want to hold them and tell them it will be alright, that I am hurting with them, that we will walk this together. I want to love them! Oh! I want to love them!

I wasn’t big enough to be both daughter and mother. No, I wasn’t brave enough! I didn’t realize that letting them see my brokenness was part of loving them. That they needed to see the freedom of my grief so that they could experience their own! I didn’t walk them through it. I hid from them and so taught them that the depths of grief that require release, groaning poured out like water, is unsafe and unwanted.

Each one said goodbye. Where was I when they bent over and kissed him? I watched them walk out the door, hugging each child I adored more than anything on earth, and then letting them go. I hoped that their father would be enough. I wonder if they talked or if they cried.

I know that it both hurt me and relieved me to see them head home. I thought it would be too much for them to be there when he died. I thought that it would be too much for me. I called their Aunt and asked her to go to the house when they arrived, to tell them that their Papa had left us just a few hours after they drove away, to offer her arms to them. She held them while they cried. She loved them. She took my place.

The day of the funeral came. I made rounds greeting, hugging, welcoming people to the service. Where were my children? I sat on the front pew with my sisters, mother, and aunt, while they sat three rows back with their dad… so far apart. We were always so far apart. Whether by miles, by rows, or just by the busyness provided to me by practicalities, we were always just far enough to be unable to reach each other. These are my children. And I wasn’t there for them. I was far apart.

When we finally got home, I went back to work. They went back to school. I cried when I was alone in my car. I ended up taking time off work and making several trips to be with my mom as she and I got used to this world without daddy in it. My children continued to go to school, do homework, and care for themselves. Their dad stepped up and took care of dinners and rides to school.

When did we say the words how much we missed him? When did we come together and weep over the loss of so great a man in our lives? When did we simply hold each other and mourn?
And I wonder now… is it too late? To bridge the distance, to crush every bit of unnecessary protection, and come together? Is it too late for it to be my arms to hold you, my voice to love you, my heart to weep with yours? I still don’t know how to be the protective mom and the daughter who lost the daddy she adored. But I want to be more for you and for me, for love.

My Daddy

The past few months, I have been surrounded by love and acceptance. I have been embraced and adored. Loneliness has been swallowed up in finally being known and understood. But the power of such emotions has opened a well of grief inside me for all the losses of my past. At the forefront of my mind has been the grief from losing my father three years ago and all of the torrential feelings that my world has been changed beyond recognition. I want to post some of that journey...

My Grief

(written March 2009)
We knew months in advance that it was creeping towards us, but still, the hollowness of his eyes and the gauntness of his face overwhelmed me with the reality of how soon. I felt swallowed in the intense grief that I was losing my dad. He was the first man I ever loved, the first man I relished attention and adoration from, the man no other could compare to. He was the daddy who brought me complete security and acceptance for who I was and who, no matter what my mistakes were, loved me with a deep, unconditional love. It was December 27th, 2008, and it was nearing time to say good bye.

My mother held me close as I sobbed quietly. Her soft hand stroked my hair as her own tears fell. My husband and children stood around the hospital bed trying to take it all in themselves and I felt the weight of needing to be strong for them too, needing to be sturdy mom instead of broken daughter. I just couldn’t get past his beautiful face fading right in front of me. His incredible smile diminishing, his mind crippled by the cancer’s theft of the nutrition he needed. His eyes seemed to search for sense in where he was and who he was with, Momma’s face being the only constant source of comfort and recognition. I couldn’t bear to look at him without tears forming and falling down my face.

A few months before, I had been praying about this impending grief, sharing with God the fear that was inside me at the complete newness of the experience. He laid on my heart the story of Mary and Martha, and their brother Lazarus, who laid buried in a tomb for three days before Jesus arrived. The Bible says that “Jesus wept” as he stood at the grave of his dear friend. I had heard sermons pronouncing His tears to be sadness from his disappointment in Mary and Martha’s lack of faith. But in this quiet moment alone with God, He communicated to my heart that it was so much more than that.

Jesus wept for the loss these precious women were experiencing. His compassion was great and He felt their grief fully. He loved them and ached for their broken hearts. He sympathized and cried right along with them.

Last night, our assistant pastor told a story during his sermon of his wife’s failed back surgery and the long term pain she had went through as a result. He shared an intimate conversation they had had sitting on the edge of their bed.

“Are you praying?” She had asked in the middle of her hopelessness.

“Yes,” He told her, willing to firmly assure her need.

“Why isn’t God doing anything then?” Oh, the question everyone of us will beg an answer for sometime in our lives! Where is He? Why isn’t He doing something to help me? This is too much for me to handle! Right? Haven’t we all fell into that question?
“He is doing something Randee.” Pastor Jones started. “I believe He’s sitting right here on the bed with us, crying tears right along with ours.”

We face so much heartache and questionable, blank futures in this existence. We hit times where we wonder if the joy is worth the pain. We find losses too great to bear and troubles that completely overwhelm the small amount of strength we carry. And we wonder where God is. Jesus told me, in that moment of prayer, that He was right there, crying tears that mingled with my own. I knew that He was standing beside me in my night of mourning, feeling my pain, and being greatly affected because of His great love for me.

As I walked through the hospital corridors, heading back up to my father’s room after dinner, I shared the Mary and Martha moment I had with God with my mom and my eldest sister, Tina. We all three stood silently in the elevator with the mixed comfort and pain from the words spoken out loud, the admission that we would soon be facing our own loss.