I realized something big today—I want to live again. I want to live. I did not die from cancer a year ago. My husband did, but I have been living like I was the one who was about to die. I have been scared, I have been closed off, I have been angry—I have been the one afraid to take the next step because I have been afraid of what might happen.
There is no protocol, no treatment, and no diagnosis for the ones who are left. We just try to keep going and make some sense of it all. We try to put one foot in front of the other and find some path to take that will make it feel normal again—whatever normal is anymore.
I am not the person I was November 6, 2007, the day before my husband was diagnosed. I have read that cancer survivors sometimes take the date they receive their medical notice that they are cancer free as their new birthday. I think that is a wonderful idea. I am trying to figure out what my new birthday is—but I don’t know if it is the first day I spent without Jeff, or is it the first time I slept through the night, or is it the first time I didn’t cry all through the day—or is it the first time I realized that Jeff was really gone. I want a new birthday because I want a new life. I have been living each day since March 26, 2008, as if maybe Jeff would be back if I were patient and good enough. Well, it’s been more than a year now and that’s just not going to happen.
I have focused on my children because they are my heart now. They are doing really well, but not because of me. They are thriving in spite of me. I am so tired and scared and worried and lonely. How can those characteristics equal a good mother?
Lately, I just want to close the front door to the house, put a for sale sign in the yard and move the three of us somewhere far away—Arizona, New Mexico, Maine, New Hampshire. Somewhere no one knows us and no one knows our past or our story. I can just be Holly with my two daughters Lauren and Ashtyn—relocating because I lost my job in Missouri and I need a new start.
I don’t want the looks anymore or the questions or the pity or the pat on the back for being so strong. I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not anything special. My husband got sick and then he died. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. I will never be able to feel normal again. I will not be able to put it behind me and move on. I will not get past the guilt of being healthy. I will not get past the guilt of wanting to love someone again. I will not ever be who I was again. I don’t know who I am anymore—I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am 43 years old, but I feel ancient. I don’t feel anything deeper than the surface—it’s like my soul is empty. I gave all I could to keep it together so Jeff could die peacefully and with the dignity that he deserved. I have tried to carry on his memory—his request for his life to have had meaning. But I am failing. This world is so jaded—I am shocked and deeply saddened that some of the things we could do to make it better for cancer patients are just regarded as the mutterings of a pitiful widow.
I don’t want to be the pitiful widow anymore. I want to move forward. I want to pack up Jeff’s clothes because he won’t be back for them. I want to move away from all the memories that are in every corner, every street, every face. I want to yell at Jeff for leaving me with a weed eater that doesn’t work and a tool bench that has eight hammers and 6,000 nails! I want to yell at him for leaving me to deal with his family that does nothing but judge me and ask for money that I don’t have to give. I want to yell at him for not being there to teach our daughters how to ride a bike and for not being there to be the male role model that they will need.
But I can’t do that—because Jeff didn’t want to die. He wanted to live. But one test—one stupid biopsy turned our world up side down.
So—I am angry. I am a cancer survivor—I survived my husband’s cancer. He did not. I want to live again. I want my life back. I just don’t know what that is anymore.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Letter to an Atheist
A Letter to Ryan Culbertson-Faegre
I read with great interest the letter from the reader who explained his non-belief in God and why he feels he is an atheist. (Springfield News-Leader, Friday, February 13, 2009)
The past year and a half had me questioning my “faith” and “belief” in God. The morning my husband died from cancer I yelled that I no longer believed there was a God. How could there be when so much pain existed in the human world? After all I had seen my husband go through I struggled with the concept of a loving, healing God. I told my pastor that I just didn’t believe in God anymore—flat out. I threw away my Christian literature that spoke of God’s healing power and all encompassing love. I was beyond angry. I was convinced God was a hoax—a lie. I didn’t see the picture I had in mind--the one where Jeff was healed--become the reality therefore, God was not real and never had been.
My entire forty plus years on this earth, I was a firm believer that God was just there. I believed that no matter what God could fix it or heal it or find it. I just had blind faith that God would handle everything. When Jeff got sick, we didn’t understand it. We had lived a Faith-based life—we repented, we forgave, we prayed, we quoted and read Scripture. Surely, God would know how great a person Jeff was and heal him—Jeff of all people deserved a miracle.
Here’s the thing—the catch—that always took my breath away when I was in the middle of an “I hate God” cry. Jeff, the one person who had the right not to believe, not to trust, not to have faith—Jeff felt completely enveloped in God’s loving, protecting arms. He often told me that he knew without a doubt that God was there caring for him and that his cancer was in no way an act of God or his not being deemed Spiritual enough in God’s eyes. Jeff reminded me, taught me that God does exist. And He exists in our lives in ways we won’t see until a time comes when He chooses to share His ultimate, Divine Grace with us. Ryan, you have evidence of God in your life everyday—maybe you don’t see it as God, and that’s OK—but a Higher Divine Power is guiding you every step. If you keep waiting for tangible evidence that you deem proof of God’s existence, then, I am sorry, you will never believe in God—with or without religion attached.
Ryan, go to a NICU nursery where the Proof is born. Go to the cancer clinics where the Proof walk through doors everyday. Talk with the hospice nurses and the cancer patients who know their time left on earth is short. Talk with the wives, husbands, mothers and fathers, and children who have lost someone who was as close as their very breath. Proof of God is there.
It has been almost a year since Jeff died. It has been a battle and a struggle to let go of the anger and the pain. The grief will last—it just does. Grief is a void we feel when a part of us is lost—humanly. Something else will last for me, though. It is my Faith, my Trust, my Belief that God is there. Only now it is not “blind” faith. I don’t take for granted that God is there. I have seen and felt proof of His love, His care, His existence with every step and every breath my children and I have taken this past year. It has been demonstrated to me and it is being demonstrated to you. Look closely at your life—the proof is there—God exists.
We all have to examine our relationship with God at different times in our lives. It will change as we change—it will grow as we grow—the relationship will look much differently tomorrow than it did ten years ago, or even ten days ago. God won’t change. The ever-present, all-knowing, all-wise, loving God won’t change. He will be there whenever we decide to look down and see the single footprints of the times He carries us and the side-by-side prints of the times He is there next to us.
You aren’t “rampaging around downtown Springfield…” because you are proof of God’s goodness and an example of His love—whether you want to believe that right now or not.
I read with great interest the letter from the reader who explained his non-belief in God and why he feels he is an atheist. (Springfield News-Leader, Friday, February 13, 2009)
The past year and a half had me questioning my “faith” and “belief” in God. The morning my husband died from cancer I yelled that I no longer believed there was a God. How could there be when so much pain existed in the human world? After all I had seen my husband go through I struggled with the concept of a loving, healing God. I told my pastor that I just didn’t believe in God anymore—flat out. I threw away my Christian literature that spoke of God’s healing power and all encompassing love. I was beyond angry. I was convinced God was a hoax—a lie. I didn’t see the picture I had in mind--the one where Jeff was healed--become the reality therefore, God was not real and never had been.
My entire forty plus years on this earth, I was a firm believer that God was just there. I believed that no matter what God could fix it or heal it or find it. I just had blind faith that God would handle everything. When Jeff got sick, we didn’t understand it. We had lived a Faith-based life—we repented, we forgave, we prayed, we quoted and read Scripture. Surely, God would know how great a person Jeff was and heal him—Jeff of all people deserved a miracle.
Here’s the thing—the catch—that always took my breath away when I was in the middle of an “I hate God” cry. Jeff, the one person who had the right not to believe, not to trust, not to have faith—Jeff felt completely enveloped in God’s loving, protecting arms. He often told me that he knew without a doubt that God was there caring for him and that his cancer was in no way an act of God or his not being deemed Spiritual enough in God’s eyes. Jeff reminded me, taught me that God does exist. And He exists in our lives in ways we won’t see until a time comes when He chooses to share His ultimate, Divine Grace with us. Ryan, you have evidence of God in your life everyday—maybe you don’t see it as God, and that’s OK—but a Higher Divine Power is guiding you every step. If you keep waiting for tangible evidence that you deem proof of God’s existence, then, I am sorry, you will never believe in God—with or without religion attached.
Ryan, go to a NICU nursery where the Proof is born. Go to the cancer clinics where the Proof walk through doors everyday. Talk with the hospice nurses and the cancer patients who know their time left on earth is short. Talk with the wives, husbands, mothers and fathers, and children who have lost someone who was as close as their very breath. Proof of God is there.
It has been almost a year since Jeff died. It has been a battle and a struggle to let go of the anger and the pain. The grief will last—it just does. Grief is a void we feel when a part of us is lost—humanly. Something else will last for me, though. It is my Faith, my Trust, my Belief that God is there. Only now it is not “blind” faith. I don’t take for granted that God is there. I have seen and felt proof of His love, His care, His existence with every step and every breath my children and I have taken this past year. It has been demonstrated to me and it is being demonstrated to you. Look closely at your life—the proof is there—God exists.
We all have to examine our relationship with God at different times in our lives. It will change as we change—it will grow as we grow—the relationship will look much differently tomorrow than it did ten years ago, or even ten days ago. God won’t change. The ever-present, all-knowing, all-wise, loving God won’t change. He will be there whenever we decide to look down and see the single footprints of the times He carries us and the side-by-side prints of the times He is there next to us.
You aren’t “rampaging around downtown Springfield…” because you are proof of God’s goodness and an example of His love—whether you want to believe that right now or not.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
January
The Christmas tree stands in the corner of our sitting room. Like a close friend that was here for an all too brief visit. The Tree is a gentle reminder of years past—children who were once small, a family that was once complete and is now without a father, a husband--memories of vacations, a honeymoon, first Christmases, new babies. I look at the tree and see children who sleepily tumbled out of bed on Christmas mornings to see all the gift-wrapped glory that lay beneath its twinkling branches. I see my husband as he patiently assembled bikes and doll beds and tried to find the hundreds of game pieces that spilled out of packages ripped open in an excited frenzy. I see his smile as he basked in the happiness of his babies.
This year—our first year without his warm presence—is bittersweet. How time continues. Holidays come and go without regard to the absence of one so dear. How can it all keep revolving when my world stopped that heartbreaking day in March? “He is gone—he died—can’t you get that through your head?” This seems to be what the world is yelling at me, but it hits my ears in some foreign tongue, because I just stare and try to understand the words. But it does not make sense. He was just here—I think—I am sure he will be back in a few moments. He is just at the office or has been delayed by a late client or he has stopped to pick up some little treasure for our girls. But the time passes and the door does not open to his gentle smile. The dogs wait for their master who never comes—the children grow and change and they do not get to look over and see their Daddy as he cheers them on in soccer or basketball, nor does he get to hear their sweet voices as they sing a Christmas carol. Where did he go? I cannot understand why he is not here—he would never miss these things—these life events—the things that we dreamed and hoped for from the moment we first said “I love you.”
Come back to us—come home—the tree is beautiful this year. It is waiting for you—if I just leave it up long enough—like a beacon in the night, then I know you’ll find us and come back. We are not done yet—it is all just beginning—we were just really starting to love. We are a family and that will not change—even our littlest child understands that Daddy is still with us.
My arms ache to hold you, my fingers long to trace around the form of your face—trying to memorize every part of you—your voice, your laugh, your smile, how it feels to be in your embrace—how it feels just to know you are in the house—even if it is in another room where you are reading or napping. Just to know you are with us—we feel safe, we feel complete, we feel warm. My biggest worry is what to make for dinner and how to get our youngest to eat vegetables... I took it all for granted.
I never thought we would have a last kiss, that I would close my eyes and wake to find you gone. I never thought I would be so alone so soon. I never thought the light would go out in your eyes.
You are gone—somewhere I cannot go. Sometimes I feel you near—perhaps you are there and just within my reach, but untouchable. I talk to you and ask you how to keep going—how to know all I need to know to get through each day. I beg God to keep what is left of our family together—I beg him not to take any more from us. I pray for Him to forgive me for all my wrongs. I want to be with our children until they are grown. I want to be able to keep them safe and to catch them when they fall. That is all you ever wanted. I remember you told me you would miss being there to catch them if they fell. I promised you that I would take care of them forever. I would have taken care of you forever. You had to go—and I understand. It was not okay to go—I know that is what they told me to tell you, but it was not. It will never be okay for you to go. I have to move on—I know that—but move on to what. Who am I if I am not your wife, your friend, your business partner—the one you fought with—the one who cried with you—the one who bought you Christmas gifts—the one who needed you. Who am I now? What do I do with my days while the children are at school? I am not a wife anymore—my life is not the same—my dreams have to change, but what do I dream of now?
I have to start with the Christmas tree. It has to be put away—like a cherished friend who has come to visit and now must leave. I worry and ask “where will we all be in a year?” Will we be together next Christmas—can I count on that? What can I hold on to in order to get through the next year, the next week, the next hour?
If you can see me—if you can whisper words of comfort to wipe away my tears and ease my worry—please make it better. Help me to go on without you—to find some way to see a new life and to be okay again. I don’t need to be happy—just okay. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I need to start by putting away the Christmas tree. It is January.
This year—our first year without his warm presence—is bittersweet. How time continues. Holidays come and go without regard to the absence of one so dear. How can it all keep revolving when my world stopped that heartbreaking day in March? “He is gone—he died—can’t you get that through your head?” This seems to be what the world is yelling at me, but it hits my ears in some foreign tongue, because I just stare and try to understand the words. But it does not make sense. He was just here—I think—I am sure he will be back in a few moments. He is just at the office or has been delayed by a late client or he has stopped to pick up some little treasure for our girls. But the time passes and the door does not open to his gentle smile. The dogs wait for their master who never comes—the children grow and change and they do not get to look over and see their Daddy as he cheers them on in soccer or basketball, nor does he get to hear their sweet voices as they sing a Christmas carol. Where did he go? I cannot understand why he is not here—he would never miss these things—these life events—the things that we dreamed and hoped for from the moment we first said “I love you.”
Come back to us—come home—the tree is beautiful this year. It is waiting for you—if I just leave it up long enough—like a beacon in the night, then I know you’ll find us and come back. We are not done yet—it is all just beginning—we were just really starting to love. We are a family and that will not change—even our littlest child understands that Daddy is still with us.
My arms ache to hold you, my fingers long to trace around the form of your face—trying to memorize every part of you—your voice, your laugh, your smile, how it feels to be in your embrace—how it feels just to know you are in the house—even if it is in another room where you are reading or napping. Just to know you are with us—we feel safe, we feel complete, we feel warm. My biggest worry is what to make for dinner and how to get our youngest to eat vegetables... I took it all for granted.
I never thought we would have a last kiss, that I would close my eyes and wake to find you gone. I never thought I would be so alone so soon. I never thought the light would go out in your eyes.
You are gone—somewhere I cannot go. Sometimes I feel you near—perhaps you are there and just within my reach, but untouchable. I talk to you and ask you how to keep going—how to know all I need to know to get through each day. I beg God to keep what is left of our family together—I beg him not to take any more from us. I pray for Him to forgive me for all my wrongs. I want to be with our children until they are grown. I want to be able to keep them safe and to catch them when they fall. That is all you ever wanted. I remember you told me you would miss being there to catch them if they fell. I promised you that I would take care of them forever. I would have taken care of you forever. You had to go—and I understand. It was not okay to go—I know that is what they told me to tell you, but it was not. It will never be okay for you to go. I have to move on—I know that—but move on to what. Who am I if I am not your wife, your friend, your business partner—the one you fought with—the one who cried with you—the one who bought you Christmas gifts—the one who needed you. Who am I now? What do I do with my days while the children are at school? I am not a wife anymore—my life is not the same—my dreams have to change, but what do I dream of now?
I have to start with the Christmas tree. It has to be put away—like a cherished friend who has come to visit and now must leave. I worry and ask “where will we all be in a year?” Will we be together next Christmas—can I count on that? What can I hold on to in order to get through the next year, the next week, the next hour?
If you can see me—if you can whisper words of comfort to wipe away my tears and ease my worry—please make it better. Help me to go on without you—to find some way to see a new life and to be okay again. I don’t need to be happy—just okay. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
I need to start by putting away the Christmas tree. It is January.
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