Sacred Beauty

This is a love story. It may not look like it from the outside, but from the heart of it, it is impossible not to see. My mom and dad have been happily married 23 years. 4 years ago they sold their home and most of their belongings and have been traveling across the country and blogging as “Happily Homeless”. 2 weeks ago my dad was diagnosed as terminal with cancer. We suspect he only has another week or 2 to live. I sit here now, writing to you as my dad wakes this morning not knowing if he will see tomorrow. 

The feeling that resides in my body right now is almost indescribable. I suppose it started to become known to me a few days ago. This eerie sense of peace is gently working into my soul. It seemed odd given my current residence in grief, USA. It has been coming to me in pieces. I have been becoming more and more aware of my “role” in this process. Everything in my life- my yoga teacher training, my doula training, my maternal instincts (even though I don’t have children), meeting my husband, my extended family- all of it, coming together to prepare me for this moment in my life- the realization that the entire universe has been conspiring from day 1. And it goes even beyond this.

From the moment of his diagnosis, my family has been documenting each precious moment- through Facebook, blogs, photos & video. The outpouring of love in support of my dad and our family is having a snowball like effect.  Friends, family and people we have never even met have been sharing our story. It may just be in our little world but it almost seems as if a phenomenon has been taking place. It started out with words of comfort and prayers. It evolved into people donating funds to help us cover unforeseen expenses. It has cascaded into stories being shared about how my dad has touched the lives of so many. Strangers who have seen “Happily Homeless” on the road have become avid followers of day to day updates. People have been flying in from across the country just to have a few more moments with my dad. My auntie sent a support package the other day. In it were magical things- things that represent the love spilling out of our hearts, things that represent our grief. Each item carefully wrapped in black paper but when opened burst with color. That box was a metaphor for everything that is happening. It had us wondering what is still to come? There is magic within our grief.

Our family has grown exponentially in these last 2 weeks. Strangers no longer exist. Everyone knows my dad’s name. They know our story. Our tears fall like rain soaking through anything they touch. But the compassion, kindness and beauty that surrounds us is like nothing I have ever seen before.

Like I said, this is a love story.

Heartbreak.

I know that the last few post are full of sadness. They might seem depressing. They might seem full of beauty. Guess it just depends on how you look at life. This just happens to be my world right now. I woke up this morning hoping that the universe was just playing some awful April Fool’s joke on me. Maybe I am still sleeping.

Today was hard. Watching my father succumb to the side effects of his pain medication is almost as difficult as watching him suffer in pain. I look at my dad in these moments and all I see is a shell of a man- his mind too far gone for any real connection. I weep. Then suddenly, quick and short bursts of clarity. He tells me he loves me. He tells me that no matter what, we are all going to be ok. He asks me to make sure my mom is going to be taken care of. A sound utters from my chest and I realize I am sobbing. This can’t be happening. THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING. As my dad continues to soar someplace none of us can follow, we surround him. I at his feet, massaging.  I inhale, desperately visualizing the tumors that wreak havoc on his body, exploding and leaving his body forever. And then I exhale, taking every last bit of love and light I can gather from my heart to send into his body. My brother at his side, hands placed ever so gently on our father, doing reiki while verbally reminding him to breathe in. My mum on his other side, head buried in his neck while whispering words of love.

The oncologist arrives. The biopsy results are in. It’s a sarcoma- originating from his previous cancer over 2 years ago. Treatments are discussed. Chemo and surgery. Even if both of those were to be successful, his cancer will more than likely return once treatment is over within a 6 month to 2 year time frame. He will need to be on continuous monitoring, with follow up chemo and surgery in the years to come until neither is a viable option any longer.

But it doesn’t end there. Earlier in the day we noticed swelling in his legs. Given that he has been in bed for 6 days, that seems normal to me. His primary care doctor checks it out and discovers growths in his thighs, pelvis and abdomen. When my mom asked him how he was feeling about all of this information he replied, “Shock.” With all the drugs he is on this is about as much as he could verbalize. An immediate CT scan was ordered. The results should be in soon.

As I sit here and write, my body experiences so many things. I am sad. I am scared. I am numb. I am in shock. Somehow I seem to feel all of these things simultaneously. It is all very surreal. It seemed less real before the biopsy results. Almost as if the cancer was on hold and nothing would change as long as we didn’t have any other information.

Tears are falling from my face. I think if you listen closely you can hear hearts breaking. My brother, currently speaking words of love to our dad. Each of us taking a turn. The energy in the room is palpable. The collective intuition is one of endings. So full of grace, so full of love- he is the strongest man I know. I wouldn’t change a moment.

Finding magic within grief

It’s Easter Sunday. Not something that holds meaning for me on a religious level but at least for today, has me searching. Today is a day of miracles. For many, that represents the resurrection of Christ. For me it has been a chance to reflect on the definition of miracles. When an illness (see cancer) is involved, voices from within your circle begin to talk about how miracles happen- “Stay positive. Your dad will survive this.” “People survive cancer all the time!” This is true. People do survive cancer all the time, and yes, perhaps one of these people will be my dad. My mum and I however, have been thinking about the word miracle, and we have decided to expand what that definition is for us.

For me, the first thing that comes to mind is love. Unconditional love. It’s not always easy to come by, but let me be the first to tell you, it exists. It comes in the form of watching a wife love her husband so deeply that she is by his side through the worst imaginable scenario. You see it in between words spoken- a look, a touch, a breath… It comes when family joins and even in the midst of tears, there are the sounds of gentle laughter that echo through the hospital walls. It comes when the man you love says, “You need to eat something.” It comes from the outpouring of support and well wishes- many from friends and family but also from strangers. It comes when you wake up in the morning, shaking to the bone because the gratitude you are feeling overwhelms your body. 

In my particular life circumstance, perhaps a miracle translates into a lack of suffering. Some way to take my dad’s pain away. Whether it’s medicinal, musical, the scent of lavender that fills the air, or a compassionate massage- the shift in his energy that occurs with any of these, is a miracle. Being able to take a shower on a daily basis, watching his face as he enjoys a piece of cake for the first time in two yeas, getting up to go for a walkabout, the gracious efforts of his nursing staff and having any person who encounters you still talk to you like a human being, allowing you to maintain your sense of dignity, are all miracles. 

I don’t believe miracles always present themselves in grand gestures. Sometimes it really is in the small stuff. I suppose I have always been aware of this, but in the last number of days I feel that I have been a true witness to what this really means. 

Facing my fear

I have been in California 2 days now. And other than sleeping, I have been with my dad for just about every moment. Had you read my previous post, you would have read that he has a large tumor growing in his left lung and a slightly smaller one in his right. Just the thought of it makes me want to be sick. There is no definitive prognosis yet- still waiting on the biopsy results. Any way you look at it though, there is nothing good about this. 

On a walkabout

Other than being in hospitals to support mamas in labor (I am a doula), I have never spent time in them. I certainly have never seen a greatly loved family member of mine in one. It was difficult to keep myself together when I walked into my dad’s room. I felt scared, nervous and didn’t really know what to expect. He looked not as much like himself. Even since seeing him in early February, I could tell he had lost some weight and just looked older. His left lung has what the doctors call, functionally collapsed. This means that the tumor has grown so large that it is compressing his lung no longer allowing the lower half of his lung to function. This causes him the need to be on oxygen- adding to the scare factor. 

Yesterday evening and throughout the day today, he was chatting away with me, my husband or my mom like his old self. It’s kind of a mind trip. There is a part of you that starts thinking, “He’s totally fine.” or “A few months from now, they are going to be back on the road and everything will be normal again.” You look at him and see that dad you have always known, wanting so desperately to believe that he isn’t sick. But then he coughs. Or has a hard time getting up or walking around because of the pain. Or his speech is jumbled and slurred as he dozes in and out of sleep because of the pain meds he is on. Then you think, “Fuck. This shit is real.”

I feel like a complete emotional basket-case. Pretty much anything and everything sends me into tears. Even messages of love and support are like a wrecking ball. And trust me, they are coming in non-stop. It’s funny how illness brings out the love and support in people- people you don’t even know. I can’t even begin to describe how touched I am feeling right now. Prayer chains, emails, calls, texts- I even had a friend who had her yoga class set a group intention of love and healing for my dad this morning. It’s incredible. Between the sobs and meltdowns however, there are moments of laughter and smiles. Our family is good at that. 

Family and friends have been asking us how they can help beyond the well wishes and hugs. Today I started a fund campaign to raise money for those unforeseen expenses that come at a time like this (travel expenses, gas money, meals etc). For those who want and are able to help, this is a tangible way to do so. We have already just about raised enough to purchase a plane ticket for one of my siblings who might not otherwise be able to come out and visit our dad. Each contribution that comes in sends me into tears- it is a reminder that we are not in this alone. There is a huge network of people in our lives that pretty much just think my dad is awesome. And he is.

http://www.gofundme.com/hhhospitaladventures

Soul Sisters

We are not sisters in the biological sense. In fact, we are actually mother and daughter. These are the roles we have spent many of our years playing. It is different now. It is much easier to see her as not just my mother, but a woman herself, now that I am a woman. She is beautiful. And she will be here, in Arizona, on Wednesday!

I feel fortunate to have such a wonderful relationship with this amazing woman. Naturally, part of me will always see her as my mum (especially when I am not feeling well and want her to rub my back). But she is so much more than that to me now. She carries experience, wisdom, a great sense of humor and so much more. Were we always destined to be such friends? So many mothers and daughters do not (or choose not) to share the type of friendship we do. This is why MoonStruck even came to be! We always knew we wanted to work together. It just kinda made sense. We feed off of one another for inspiration, energy and support. Our views and goals are similar. We both have a strong affinity for pink and glitter (though some may call it an obsession). We love the idea of sisterhood and women creating community amongst themselves. It is what drives our passions.

It has been just over a year since I saw my mum last. We skype, we talk on the phone close to every day…it’s just not quite the same. I am greatly looking forward to the next 3 months as we create, laugh, connect and grow into our destinies just a little bit more. It is this relationship that makes me long for a daughter of my own. I want to carry down this legacy of sisterhood that I share with my mother. I want my daughter to know the strong line of women she comes from. I want her to expand and create her own. I want her to be blessed as I have been.