In an act of empowered grief, my amazing, strong, and courageous mother has cut off all of her hair. It is shocking and it is beautiful. SHE is beautiful. This is her way of wearing her grief right out in the open. I was proud to stand by her side and witness this transformation. To me, she represents the truest form of a Wild Woman- embracing the light and dark that lives within each one of us. I stand humbled. I stand in awe.
It was like a death march. The heaviness of gravity bearing down on my body like a lead weight- I wanted to collapse onto the floor. Earlier yesterday we gathered around my dad, his wife, 4 kids, sister, 2 in-laws and a dear family friend to witness as he signed the necessary paperwork allowing him to be received into hospice care and a DNR (do not resuscitate order). It was one of the most powerful sights I have ever seen- this man, my father- knowing that this would be the last piece of paper that he would ever sign.
7pm. Waiting for the medical transport that would take him on his final ride. I wanted to throw up. I had to sit down due to the fact that I was feeling faint. His nurses assistant, Dora and PT, Marsha, both stopping by to see him off. Both of them saying how wonderful it was to have met him and what a wonderful patient he had been. As they said their goodbyes and gave him hugs, it hit me like a ton of bricks- they weren’t saying goodbye because he was simply being released from the hospital. They were saying goodbye because they knew he was going to die. My dad knew too. I watched his face as this happened and it shattered my heart into a tiny little pieces. The question that kept passing through my mind was, “Even though he has been surrounded by so much love, does he feel alone?” I spoke with my mom about it. She understood what I was asking. “He alone is the only one who can take this journey.” And its true. What he is experiencing in his world is something the rest of us have no way of truly understanding.
My mom, dad and medical transport went in one direction. The rest of us in another. We huddled in the elevator, still in disbelief. This all just made it so much more real. 4 cars would be driving over to meet him. I had named our parade The Love Caravan. As our car followed, I found myself (and not the first time) looking out and around wondering how it was possible that “normal” things were continuing to happen. Didn’t everyone know what was going on? Why wasn’t the entire world on hold and grieving with me? It seemed incomprehensible. I feel like I am in some strange time warp. Time has stopped and yet continues to move forward for the rest of the world. Moments seems like hours. Hours like days. Days like years.
The feeling of being in the hospital felt like as long as we were all there, nothing would move forward. This would all just become the new normal for everyone. The cancer would remain but nothing would actually change. This would just be my dad’s new home and we would all adapt. Moving to hospice moves us forward in a direction none of us want to accept. This will end. Whether it is a couple more months or couple more days, my dad is at some point not going to be here anymore. And I am really sad.
Sometimes there just aren’t the words to describe a true love.
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.
I was on the cusp of something huge. I could feel it with every fiber in my being. We had a pretty epic storm last week and it turned out to be a perfect metaphor for everything I was experiencing. Just as the wind forced its way through the valley, my truth was forcing its way through my being. I could no longer keep it inside. Fear? No longer dictating my desire to speak from my authentic self.
It was not an easy decision to finally allow myself to “lean” into my fear, but it was necessary. And so I did. The energy permeating the air was almost tangible. All that I had been holding onto for so long had finally been released. The empowerment I felt was almost surreal. It was also terrifying. But I survived. And it was received in the way I had been hoping with all my heart.
And so the next part of my path moves forward. And I am so excited! I feel more fully myself again. It’s such a beautiful and freeing feeling. My purpose is continuing to become more clear and I know this next chapter, when it happens, will allow me to wholly embrace my womanhood. I can already sense the energy and it resonates with me on such a deep level. My capacity for love is greatly expanding and it feels so right.
Thank you Universe. Thank you for your guidance, strength and love when I needed it most. Thank you for helping me recognize that it was there all along and all I had to do was liberate it. Thank you for challenging me.
Thank you.
MoonStruck 