Time…It’s Supposed to Heal

But sometimes I wonder how long that will take. My days are up and down. So are Ruth’s. She misses her son badly but she’s not where I am and it’s frustrating for her. I’m frustrated too but differently.

I’m going to share a few of the text conversations we’ve shared over the last couple of weeks. In case someone reading this doesn’t know it, the ❤ is supposed to be a heart and >———-< is a hug.

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Me: Smooches.

Ruth: Butterfly kisses! ❤

Me: Mmmm…I like that.

Ruth: Oh God, I used to do that to Drew all the time when he was little! 😀

Me: I think that’s so sweet, I’m glad you sent to me.

Ruth: 🙂

Me: What about eyelash kisses – ever do those?

Ruth: That’s a butterfly kiss!

Me: Oh. Haaaaa!! 🙂

Ruth:  ❤

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Ruth: I’m coming to really hate mornings. 😦

Me: I know what you mean.

Ruth:  I just want one more chance to make it better for him!

Me: I wish you could too, sweetie. But you probably couldn’t have anymore than I could have cured Frank.

Ruth: In as much as Jesus would have allowed it, I hope Frank whacked him upside the head, and then welcomed him with open arms.

Me: I know he did. I truly feel that, Ruth.

Ruth: I just wish my heart would come to accept that so it can grieve. I can’t get past the guilt and blame to start feeling the loss.

Me: I think the guilt and blame are part of the grieving process for you. I have yet to completely forgive myself for things regarding Frank’s care that last week, even though I have been told I shouldn’t feel guilty. I know it isn’t the same as Drew but the point is, it has been months and I still can’t forgive myself. Time. Guess that’s what it takes. Tho I obviously feel the loss – but that took a long time, too.

Ruth: But I wasn’t born with the patience gene, remember?!!

Me: Too true! It will happen when you least expect it. Kind of like love – when you look for it you can’t find it, it just happens, tho grief doesn’t feel as good.

Ruth: So to sum it all up: this sucks. 🙂

Me: Exactly.

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Me: God, I hate this f@cking part of my life right now. I hate being alone so bad I cannot even begin to explain it. Dammit.

Ruth: You don’t need to explain it; just remember to go with it. I tell you this to help you since I can’t help myself right now – Lee says I’m in living in my head and won’t let my heart in yet…so I still feel nothing most of the time. So in a weird way I envy you being able to live thru your heart; mine is still too shattered to deal. I’d rather be moving forward than stuck here. That’s what YOUR doing – moving forward – one day at a time. And you can feel lonely but you’re never alone Cakers.

Me: But it hurts so f@cking bad. I think I would rather not feel anything sometimes but I can’t. The best word to describe it is raw. I would not wish this on anyone. Going to light a candle in the bathroom and take a bubble bath. Need to calm down.  Love you so much, Pooh Babe.

Ruth: Love you too. Remember to add the bubble bath and not just fart to make the bubbles. 🙂

Me: LOL! Thank you for that! 🙂

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This exchange was the day after I held a little party to celebrate Frank’s life.

Me: Thank you so much for everything yesterday, most especially for being here. I know it was hard for you and I love you tons for sticking it out. ❤ ❤

Ruth: I hope you know I couldn’t have been anywhere else.

Me: I do. >—————-<

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Below is a picture of my best friend, Ruth, and me at the party, note we are looking sweaty because we were. It was 93 degrees but the humidity made the temp feel closer to 100. And below that one are pictures of our guys.

We have each other, we have our family and friends. We’ll get through this.

One day at a time.

Drew (this is from 2006, he is on the left, his brother is on the right, clearly bored)

Frank

Sunday + No Frank + No Drew = Yuck

My husband died on a Sunday, as did my dear friend Ruth’s son, that’s why Sundays are difficult for both of us. I realized the other day we’re even more connected now than ever, not just because they both died on a Sunday but because they died at such similar times – Frank died at approximately 11:20 am on a Sunday, the medical examiner through information from the police determined that Drew died approximately 11:19pm on a Sunday. Some connections in life I’d prefer not to have but on the other hand, maybe it will help us both.

For some reason for me this Sunday was particularly difficult, maybe because it was on a holiday. Frank loved the 4th of July, always wanted to put on a fireworks show that he thought would be better than what the neighbors would do. Sometimes he was successful. Sometimes the neighbors were. But we all enjoyed them regardless.

Ruth and I exchanged a couple of text messages yesterday, typical of our days now.

First Text Conversation with Ruth yesterday:

Me: “Sometimes I don’t like Sundays. Every so often I forget what it means for me but when I can’t it really sucks. Like today.”

Ruth: “Yep…Sundays have taken on a whole different feeling now.”

Me: “Can’t even pause the waterworks. Pissing myself off. If it wouldn’t hurt, I would consider punching something. I just want to stay in bed until tomorrow.”

Ruth: “My mom told me that when they start you can’t stop them and that you need to let them come.”

Me: “I know she has to be right because the times I don’t stop them I feel better. Minutely, but better. Maybe I’ll watch The Men Who Stare at Goats with George Clooney. That should cheer me up. It’s George, how could it not?”

Second Text Conversation with Ruth yesterday:

Me: “From Sara McLachlan’s new cd, I love the chorus from ‘Changes’: ‘Time passes us by and the way we love changes, and we’re learning to waltz through the waves like everyone, let it keep us from falling, would you dance with me, dance with me now?’ We can dance through this together, Ruth, we have to.”

Ruth: “I know which song you’re talking about. And you’re correct – we HAVE to.”

Every single day we exchange some messages. Not always conversations like those above. Sometimes they’re just single words like “hugs”, “smooches”, “snuggles”,  and sometimes it’s a simple phrase like “love you, Pooh Babe” (she’s a Winne the Pooh fan) or “stay strong”. Just little things that don’t require a response but that are heartfelt.

Yesterday was 18 weeks since Frank died, 3 weeks since Drew died.

When will I stop counting the weeks?

Do I have to?

Rest In Peace, Drew Walters

One of my very best friends lost her younger son unexpectedly this past Sunday. The wake is today and the funeral tomorrow. This should not have happened, children aren’t supposed to die before their parents. It just feels so damn surreal. He was only 17.

I’m staying here at my friend’s house with her and her family until she’s okay with me leaving, and I’ve said it before over the past few days in various conversations, and I’m sure I’ll say it many, many times again – the looks on Drew’s (and his brother Ryan’s) friends faces and his brother’s friends, really tear at my heart. His parents and family are torn apart, all of the young friends are grieving, the parents of those children – everyone is still in shock. There’s a numbness that just cannot be described.

But then there’s a little laughter tossed in once in a while that makes some of us feel a little bad afterwards, how can you laugh in the face of such tragedy?? However, I noticed that sometimes that laughter is almost on the edge of hysterical, I don’t know how else to explain that. But I think it’s because tears leak out at the same time.

To Drew:

I pray for you the pain has been relieved and I pray you’re in peace, sweetie. You will be permanently in my heart forever so I can remember you and your smile. The last time I saw you was at Frank’s funeral service when you gave me a hug and told me you were sorry about Frank, I know you meant it too. Now I want you to go with Frank and your Grandpa and others you know when they come, they’ll take you under their wings and guide you where you need to go. I love and miss you. Rest In Peace, Drew.

8 Weeks

Sunday, April 25th, will be 8 weeks since Frank passed away. Sometimes it feels like it’s been longer than that and other times, much shorter. Maybe it’s because I’ve kept busy with school, a surgery (I’m fine), an internship and hanging with friends and family since then.

Last Saturday I had a party with a special group of people to honor Frank. We had picnic food, a campfire, a quiz with prizes and just all around grand fun. I bought some shot glasses with an up north scene on them and had Frank’s name and the date he passed away imprinted on them. So we all toasted him at the campfire with them – I had scotch because it seemed the right thing to do as that was what two of Frank’s best friends and I had the day he passed away, in the living room while saying good-bye.

I never did share here much of that day and some parts of it will always remain private. It’s interesting because I had put out a post on the blog at 10:06 am that day, Feb 28th, explaining that I was going to be restricting visitors because he seemed so agitated, and then he passed away not much later the same day.

From the time I put out that post until just moments before he died, I knew something was happening. I honestly didn’t know what it was but I knew something had changed. The energy, for lack of a better term, was different in the house. I had to be in the same room with him, I needed to be, I physically couldn’t bring myself to leave his side. Even though he wasn’t responsive at the time I talked to him about the fact I loved all the trips we took together and how much fun they were, and how he was the love of my life, how it was a good thing we never went to bed angry at each other because it was so much more fun being happy, how I knew I was going to be okay and that he didn’t need to worry about me. Sweet stuff. Silly stuff. Our stuff. I told him I loved him and I kissed him, and hugged him the best I could without hurting him.

Later I was sitting next to the bed, just being quiet, touching his arm lightly. I knew then it was close. I felt it in my gut. He moved a bit and then took two calm breaths with a pause in between, just in and out, very slowly. And he was gone. After that and before I called anyone, I spent time with him, just me. No one else. It was my turn, my time. I wanted more time than nearly 15 years but you have to appreciate what you get, right? I held his hands, I patted the arm that was nearest to me. I kissed him, I hugged him and tidied the blankets around him. Then I started the calls.

Later that day two of his friends were here with me and we stood around the bed and toasted him with shots of scotch, because that’s what Frank would have wanted. Yes, it was sad. Yes, it sucked in the worst way imaginable to even do that because it signified the end of his life here as we know it, but we had to honor what we thought would be his wishes. Frank was a big presence, a free spirit who spoke his mind and loved those who were true, and he will be remembered that way always. If anyone remembers him as anything else, you didn’t know the same person. I know he is somewhere enjoying the next part of his journey, pain-free, strong and happy. I wish he were here doing that but I have come to accept that isn’t possible so I need to more forward with my life. To my next journey.

I wasn’t going to share even this much on the blog but I just spent the past week doing my 40 hour internship at the same clinic Frank received his cancer treatments at. I wasn’t sure if it was a smart idea going there for the internship but it turns out it was definitely the right thing to do. There wasn’t one single person I met or worked with who didn’t truly care about the patients – the level of compassion and caring is simply admirable. I applaud the entire staff sincerely for what they do – from the front desk to the switchboard, the schedulers, financial counseling, the nurses, the doctors…everyone really, truly has empathy for those coming to the clinic.

They welcomed me with open arms and those who knew Frank, I offered a memorial bookmark to them that I had made for his service. He is now all over that clinic with those bookmarks, he’s grinning from ear to ear in the picture on it – and likely grinning from wherever he is now because even when he was at his crabbiest, someone always got him to smile when he was there. Believe me, I heard the stories and they were lovely. For that, I thank the staff from the bottom of my heart for not only helping make his day, but sharing those stories with me last week. To the staff – I will be visiting sometime this summer and I’ll bring the salsa I promised all of you. 🙂

I know now doing my internship there was the right thing to do because it confirmed for me that I’m moving into the right field for the next part of my life’s journey. I may not be able to work at that clinic but I know what aspect of the Medical Office Assistant role I want to do now, it’s probably really not a true aspect of it but it’s definitely related. And it’s important.

I don’t know when it happened but the majority of the anger I had about losing Frank has dissipated, it’s been replaced with a quiet resolution to move forward and begin my new life, and with the knowledge that it’s okay to do so. But I will do it without forgetting Frank – he is permanently in my heart.

So Much Anger and Sadness

I’m still so angry about certain things – like the fact that Frank didn’t have an opportunity to go up north to enjoy his birthday with his friends that he had planned before he died, and wear the beautiful clothes he bought for the event. He was in the rehab facility instead. Why couldn’t this have all started one damn month later? Just one!! Why not February 26th going into the hospital instead of January 26th. God. I’m just so angry. He didn’t seem to have regrets himself about it, but I’m pissed off. Too bad I don’t have some glass that I don’t care about because I think the sound of it breaking would help temper my feelings. But probably only temporarily. So perhaps once I have the all clear for strenuous exercise, I should pick up kick-boxing to let out some of this anger, yes?

Then there are the phone calls. Oh my god. You have to call everyone – credit cards, medical insurance, investments (yep, we need a 25 minute phone call about that $60 investment in 3M just to find out that I would need to be transferred to someone else because this was the wrong department to let them know about his death – you didn’t know that from the first sentence I spoke when I mentioned he had passed???), bank accounts (the checking account that doesn’t have much money in it but by god, you’d better have a list of whatever assets he owned, that in total have a value over $28,900, plus his certified death certificate order to touch one single solitary penny. And by the way, no, they don’t need a list, the woman was off her rocker, and where the hell did she get that dollar amount??).

Then you get the snail mail. The flyers, the magazines, dental appointment reminders, all the crap you don’t even realize has any meaning until the person they’re intended for is gone.

Or how about the phone call from the temp agency that Frank hadn’t worked for in almost 5 years that called out of the blue, a week after he died, and left a message -“Hi, this is Crystal calling from _______, this message is for Frank. I’d like to talk to you about a position I think you’d be interested in. It could go to permanent from temporary status rather quickly so if you’re interested, please give me a call.” I know they couldn’t have known but right now in my head, I don’t care.

Then I get sad because I realize that the anger isn’t meant towards them. It’s meant towards whatever higher power deemed it necessary to take the most important person in the world away from me. Frank wasn’t perfect and good gosh, I’m not either. But we balanced each other in ways I can’t explain. Who else is ever going to put up with my imperfections? My faults? How will I be able to do that for someone else? Will that even ever be a possibility? Will that all simply become moot because another incredible person will miraculously come along?

We never, ever once went to bed angry. If we had an argument, and we had a few doozies, or even just a heated discussion, we kissed and made up before going to bed. Neither of us were very good at staying mad for long, it was much more fun being happy.

Which I guess is what I am hoping for. Happiness. Right now I don’t even know how to categorize my feelings except to slot them into either sad or angry. Sometimes I have moments of what seems to be happiness but then I think I can’t be that happy because Frank isn’t here to be happy with me.

I’ve planned a 10 day get-a-way at the end of May for myself. I’ve rented a cabin that overlooks a beautiful part of the world I live in, it has a 3 season porch, kitchen, living room, bathroom and bedroom (not fancy, kind of rustic and simple), and is just a couple of blocks away from a pebble/sand beach. It will be just me and my thoughts, watching the sun rise from the porch steps, walking along the beach, resting when I need to. I need this. I crave this. I only hope I’m not pinning too much importance on the outcome of my trip but I hope that I find a way to de-compress and begin whatever healing process I need to move forward. Without forgetting Frank.

The Eulogy I Wrote For Frank’s Memorial Service

I had no problem writing his eulogy and truly thought I could read it at the service. But once I was there I knew I wouldn’t be able to. Instead, Reverend Jack did it for me and he did a wonderful job. In fact, he choked up a bit himself while reading it.

Enjoy:

I made note in Frank’s obituary that he had beat the odds against kidney cancer. That may have raised an eyebrow or two because if he beat it, why isn’t he here?

Frank beat the odds because only 5% of those diagnosed with advanced kidney cancer make it 5 years. Frank’s original diagnosis was made in March 2005 so that means in my mind, it was close enough to say he beat the odds.

He is part of that privileged 5%.

I am most proud of Frank’s unwavering determination and upbeat attitude throughout his cancer journey. Not once did he give up or admit defeat. He literally fought the cancer to the very end. I don’t know if I could have fought as hard as he did, and with jokes no less.

One of the things Frank started to do over the past few weeks or so as his illness advanced, was signal to us that he needed more time to process an answer to a question. To do this he would raise one finger, smile and then say “I’m still here.”

I firmly believe that Frank is still here with us in spirit and always will be. He is here in our hearts as well. I think Dr. Suess had it right when he said “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” I think Frank would have appreciated that quote because he was all about enjoying life to its fullest.

I still have a lot crying to do but I also have so many, many happy memories that I can think about to help me heal through this next part of my own life journey. Just remembering his smile makes my heart flutter and makes me happy – I guess that’s what true love must really be if something as simple as his smile can touch me that way.

I will love Frank to my dying day – he was my first true love.  I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have had him in my life for nearly 15 years. He was one of the most well-read people I’ve ever known, always searching for knowledge, always looking for answers. In fact, I can just see him at the pearly gates telling St. Peter – “Hold on, I’m not quite ready – I have another question for you.”

I would like to express my heartfelt appreciation to Frank’s friends for their unending support and love for him, especially during the last month or so while he was in the hospital and then at Presbyterian Homes and finally, at home.

You were all there for him, night and day, without question, even if that meant yet another spur of the moment trip to the Mall of America, wheelchair transfer and all.

You have all also been there for me. I could not have gotten through this time without you. We have all talked about Frank’s loyalty to his friends – you are all just as loyal. For that I love and thank you.

I feel so lucky to have been a part of Frank’s life and of course, part of his family. Thank you for sharing him with me.

Cheers to you, Frank, my love. May you find peace and happiness wherever you are.

Rest In Peace, My Love

Frank Joseph Asher

Born: 01/31/1953

Passed: 02/28/2010

I Will Love You Forever

My Teddy Bear

February 25 – February 27

His passing is getting closer. I can feel it. In fact, I feel it’s so close it’s almost a physical sensation. I don’t think I’ll sleep much tonight.

I had the nurse put in a catheter today so as not to cause any further undue stress when he feels the need to urinate. He panics and has trouble holding the urinal jug. I hated the thought of doing it because it signals a closer end when he’s not doing something as simple as peeing – something he should naturally be able to do by himself.

It was painful for him to have it inserted. He held my hands and I told him to squeeze as hard as he wanted to – he said so quietly you almost couldn’t hear it, “f**k! that hurts – stop!”. When she was done I gave him another dose of pain medicine. His strength is ebbing – he could barely squeeze my hands though I could tell he tried so hard.

It is now nearly 12 hours later since she put in the catheter. He doesn’t seem to want to pull it out, which is what I was worried would happen so I’m relieved. He’s slept most of the day and I’ve noticed that noise, even quiet music, is making him fidgety and agitated. I’ve started giving him one of the medications to help ease that under his tongue. The hard part about that is that he isn’t taking in fluids so I’m worried the pill won’t dissolve. But the nurse said I could crush it and put it under his tongue and it will be fine.

I was initially going to allow visitors tomorrow but I changed my mind. It’s simply too taxing on him and as I am his health care agent – not to mention the fact I am his wife, I can make this determination.

I would love to have others visit him but you know what? It’s not the Frank they know and love now. What we have here is a wondrous soul that’s ready to travel to another place and begin another journey, that resides in this broken shell. The broken shell that’s hard to look at and understand why it had to be this way.

I want him to find peace and start his new journey. Wherever that might be.

I hope he sees the white light, and soon.

February 23 – February 24

Since Frank got home I’ve noticed his level of confusion has increased, words are jumbled, out of context. Seems to be withdrawing a bit also. Today for the first time he wasn’t even able to hold the urinal jug to pee into it, his friend and I helped him and then cleaned him up and put adult diapers on him. I know he hated that when he had to do it before but it’s either that or change sheets (which is a feat in and of itself, not only difficult on my part but tiring on his because he has to keep rolling back and forth) each time this happens.

I sense that he’ll be gone even sooner than I thought. Knowing that I’m okay with people visiting but I also don’t want to overwhelm him. It’s going to be a tough balancing act between allowing people to see him but also not wanting to hasten his passing by the obvious stress it puts on him.

He’s slept probably 20 out of the last 24 hours and I’m sure that will continue to increase. I just hope I can still continue to get him awake enough to take his pain medication, otherwise we’ll have to find a non-oral option.

Big sigh…

February 15 – February 22

I’ve been updating my original blog with information and will get more here eventually. But I want to share for now the surprise that my very dear friend, Ruth, came up with. She thought it would be cool to have Frank ride home in style from the rehab facility. She has a spanking new Lexus SUV and he hadn’t been in it yet and was just aching to do so.

We planned it so that when Frank was being wheeled to the elevator by the friends he thought were bringing him home, I would pretend like I needed to go to the bathroom or forgot something. In actuality, I was racing down the stairs to beat them to the exit so I could get pictures of him coming out.

Outside was Ruth wearing a black suit, holding a sign with Frank’s name on it, standing in front of her SUV. Included was a small red throw rug that acted as his ‘red carpet’. Oh, and don’t forget about her cool shades. 🙂

I have to say – the smile on Frank’s face was just so huge. You couldn’t hear him very well but he said, and I quote “You’ve got to be f-ing kidding me!”. He wouldn’t stop smiling. It’s tough to pull a fast one him and the fact we were able to just filled me with joy.

Here are a couple of the photos:

We’re home now and still adjusting with the bed and other equipment. Last night was kind of scary. Using a sliding board my two neighbors and I should have been able to slide him down on to the bed from the wheelchair. But we realized that the bed was higher than the wheelchair and the bed wouldn’t go any lower. Well, you can’t use gravity in your favor if it doesn’t exist. We almost dropped him – as it is we bumped his leg and today it’s sore. I felt horrible about that.

The nurse came today and after a lengthy discussion, said we need a different bed, a different wheelchair, and a different mattress. That should help us transfer him easier. Those have been ordered and are coming this afternoon.

I’ll want to express some other thoughts on different things that have occurred in the last few days, but I want to gather my thoughts to get them down properly, plus I don’t want to ruin this post by having bummer things in it. I just want to enjoy the face and the big smile I see in the photo of Frank. Because it’s a mighty darn cool smile.