the Lanfords

Dear Chad,
Six months ago today, I said goodbye to you.
Each second of that day is stamped in my heart, written in my eternal memory.

Half a year has passed without you.
It still, at times, seems unreal.

I didn’t write a letter to you last month. I didn’t forget; I just didn’t have words.
I feel like regurgitate words, spill them out over and over again.
I overflow with the same, tired words.
I’m almost tired of hearing myself talk about how much I, we, miss you.

A lot has happened in the last two months, and even though we’re going through a “good” emotional period, it’s still hard to live a life that seems incomplete.

Carys learned to ride her bike without training wheels.
I remember you trying to teach her a little over a year ago; removing the training wheels, knowing she was ready.
She wasn’t quite as confident though, so you put them back on.
But, now…now, she rides every day. She gives me mini heart attacks each time she turns too sharply or glides down our neighbor’s driveway too quickly or falls face-first into the pavement. You would love it, though. And you would have been so proud at how determined she was to learn. Even when her daily biking endeavor ends with tears because she tasted a little too much asphalt for her liking, she gets right back on and gets back to it.
In celebration, I allowed her to pick out any big girl bike she wanted.
You should have seen the proud beam on her sweet little freckled face.
Pink and covered with ladybugs and glittery streamers used to flutter in the wind before she fell too hard a few times and tore them all and a hand brake – it’s definitely one of her new favorite things.

Not to be outdone by her sister, Cailyn has also learned to ride a bike.
You know how stubborn that child is; she does things on her time, when she feels like it and with a panache that only she has.
I also allowed her to pick out her very own bike, complete with a seat in the rear for her beloved sidekick Maisy.
She later told me that she never wanted to ride a bike before because she wanted one of her own, one that she picked out.
Now if that isn’t Cailyn, I don’t know what is…

–

And I’m trying new things, too.

I bit the bullet and applied to the local community college.
Remember the first time I tried to do this?
It was shortly before we found out Carys was on the way, in early 2003.
I was heartbroken that I just couldn’t make it work with a full-time career and a baby on the way.
But you promised me I would go back when the time is right.
And honestly, there is no time like the present.
All along, I think this was part of your plan, making sure I would be able to follow my dream and become something better than myself.
I feel like a caged butterfly, peeking out into a vibrant world I couldn’t see through my dense emotional cocoon.
The good new is — the cage is too small to keep me anymore.

–

Carys is nearing the send of the first grade year.
And Cailyn is about to graduate from preschool.
Such big girls. Too big, too fast.

You didn’t get to see them on their first day of school this year, as you were moved to hospice about a week before school started.
And you won’t be here to celebrate with us on the last day of school. Or attend our annual pancake feast on the first official day of Summer.
It seems unfathomable that you didn’t attend a single school event or lunch or field trip or carpool pick-up.

They amaze me with their daily trials; the things they get into! I don’t know if you would chuckle or be annoyed because they are completely girly — something foreign to you. I remember trying to teach you to fix Carys’ hair so you could help me with the morning routine. You decided to resume your career as an engineer instead of a hairdresser.
(And I just want you to know I’m about to give up on my little-people-hairdressing skills, too. Something about tangles and tears and little voices arguing over which hairbow matches…)

–

The last two months have been healing for me.
I’ve finally been able to let go of the guilt and release myself from the emotional trauma of being your wife versus being your caregiver. I did the best I could, loved you as much as I could and hoped for the best. I see it all clearly now, but I sure did beat myself up about it for a while.

I have more energy lately, I’ve regained a semi-normal appetite and sleep better.
I still think of you all the time, but the tears I’ve often shed at the thought of losing you are being replaced with laughter and fondness for all the good times that came before the not-so-good ones.
I’m making more time for myself and making some small improvements to the house, things we put off for rainy days and tax refunds.

The first four months after your death were some what of a blur. I was on auto-pilot. I prepared lunchboxes and maintained a routine, for the sake of the girls. I had no routine for myself, except for sleeping, feeling guilty that  I too often offered take-out for dinner and constantly trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I missed that would have kept you here with us. I know, and I knew, there is nothing I could have done, but I felt so out of control of my own life that I couldn’t help but dwell on what I could have controlled in yours.
I literally scraped myself out of bed each morning, got the girls off to school and came back home to sleep. I slept all the time. Every day. Grief is exhausting, and I had no idea what a toll that would take on my body.
I’ve lost a lot of weight int he last year, which has its benefits, but I was also starting to look unwell. A little gaunt. Definitely pale and frazzled. I put myself together for the benefit of others, trying to delay or squash their temptation to begin the ‘are you feeling okay?’ conversation. I wasn’t. I wanted to feel okay, so I pretended to be.
Even though I had sorted through so many of these emotions for nearly three years before I actually needed to, they sorted through me when it was time.

Now, I am focusing on me.
On becoming a better version of my prior self.
On being the best possible mother, friend, confidant, healer and constant force du jour our girls deserve.
On what I want and need from this life in order to feel complete again.
On preparing for the rest of my life, the next chapter.

I, we, have survived the first six months without your physical presence.
I, we, will survive six more.

We miss you so very much.

Loved,
Skye

Today, I felt like a nervous high schooler.
Knots in my stomach, sweat on my brow.
It wasn’t really a big deal. But then again, it is.

I applied for the Fall semester at our local community college.
I’d made my mind up a while ago, but there always seemed to be something that took my attention off actually submitting the application.
No time like the present.
No time to be timid.
Time to figure out what to do with the rest of my life, with my time, with my passions.

My phrase of the day:
Fearlessness. Apply daily.

I typed a few things on an online application, printed out a few documents and pushed send. (Then took a heckuva deep breath…)
I could, potentially, start school on August 15.
Yikes.

I say potentially because there are a few things that might sway my decision — as in how long the degree will take and how many of my classes from UNC-Chapel Hill will transfer over, if any.

We will see how it goes.
And I will keep you posted.

–

The girls were on Spring Break last week and had a whirlwind vacation.

We started at Great Wolf Lodge with our neighbors.
All of us had a lot of fun – it was great to let the kids run and play and scream and get waterlogged for a few days.

The girls and I then came home for a brief breather before heading to Beaufort for Easter weekend.
I felt a little conflicted about leaving town for the holiday weekend. We’ve always gone to church on Easter.
But this is a different year, and if there was any time to do something different…this is that year.
I started to hyperventilate about finding matching Easter dresses and white shoes – so my mind was made up pretty quickly.

The first day was a little chilly, but every other day was simply gorgeous. We didn’t want to leave.
And we didn’t want to get back into the carpool, lunchbox and homework routine.
I just keep repeating to myself: June 9, last day of school. We can make it!!!

Despite our frantic (and hot!) search this past Summer, we never saw the Shackleford ponies.
But this time…we did. The girls were most excited about that.

We did a lot of walking and shell searching and talking and eating and daydreaming and goofing and remembering.
The last time we were in Beaufort, Chad was with us. It was the start of his decline, so that was a little hard to think back upon.

Last year for Spring Break, Chad & I took the girls to the zoo.
I remember worrying that the walking would be too much for him. But he powered through it. He was exhausted at the end, but he did it.
It just doesn’t seem like that long ago that he was here. And stable.
Frequently, I just have to do something to keep busy from thinking about it all.
So, we keep busy.
The busier, the better.

It seems that everything we do, everywhere we go, has a memory attached to it.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing.
The girls and I are at a good point in our grief journey. At least for now…
Until recently, we were all pretty emotional. Rightly so. The tiniest thing would set us off into a tailspin of tears and suffocating memories.
And while we are not healed, and never will be, we are embracing the now. We’re looking back at the past with good memories, laughter, love and the knowledge that we survived the most tragic thing that will ever happen to our family.
We miss him.
But we are doing okay. We are doing things that make us happy.
We cry a little less, laugh a little more, and are focusing most on the good memories of the best of times.
The ability to talk openly about Chad without sadness, but laughter at remembering his fun spirit, is refreshing.

I was longing to get to this point.
I am so glad we’re here.
Right now anyway – for who knows what will happen tomorrow or next week.
Grief will come in waves, in cycles, for a while yet.
It’s just nice to have a reprieve at the moment.

April 13, 2000
Each year on our anniversary, Chad and I treated ourselves to a nice night out.
We had been dating for three years on this particular anniversary.

He had been so busy with his new job that we hardly ever saw each other.
It was extremely difficult, but we manged to carve out time with his work schedule and my college career.

We had been talking about the future in casual conversation for a while.
We both knew where we were meant to be.

A couple of months earlier, he asked me show him what kind of engagement rings I would like…
I was like a kid in a great big candy store.
Everything I saw was THE ring.
I just happened to see a gorgeous bauble in a newspaper circular for a local jewelry store that took my breath away.
I took it upon myself to cut the picture out. I stuck it in my wallet so that, when he asked me what type of cut/mount/etc I would like in the future, I would have it ready for him. I’m a planner like that.

And he did ask again.
Like a giddy school girl, I pulled out the picture and showed him – “this is something I would like – something similar…”

At dinner on our third anniversary, he was so nervous.
His face looked different, almost anxious.
He was drinking water like he had a hole in the bottom of his foot and it was seeping onto the floor beneath us.
I jokingly said, “What is wring with you? Do you have ring in your pocket or something?”

Yes. Yes, he did.
He didn’t propose right then.
I had no idea what was coming.

We ate.
We talked a bit
We ate more.
We were at a fondue restaurant, so the eating and talking took about three hours!

The conversation, of course, made its way back to our eventual future.
Knowing how fickle I can be, he asked me if I was sure of what kind of ring I wanted…if I was sure that I really wanted a princess cut.
Well, of course, I did.
I started with, “Remember, I showed you this ring from the jewelry circular? I want something like….”
“Like this one?”

And there it was.
A shiny, sparkly invitation to be his partner for life.
The exact ring I had drooled over.
Only the folded picture I had of it didn’t do it justice in real life.

I wanted to scream.
Or faint.
Or shout, “I AM MARRYING THIS MAN!”

I’m a little reserved and don’t cause much ruckus, however.
I did let out a little shriek.

“Would you please do me the pleasure of being my wife?”

Duh.

Later, I found out that he had been carrying the ring around in his pocket for nearly two weeks, waiting for the perfect time to catch me off guard. He always had a thing for timing…

After crying and catching my breath because hello! this really just happened, I ran to the payphone (neither of us had cell phones in 2000) to call my parents.

There was excitement, all around.
My parents.
His parents.
All of our friends.
It was all too perfect, too real and just too…complete.

We married in August of 2001, and instantly had a “new” anniversary.
But we always celebrated our other anniversary, too.
We always had two.

April 13
and
August 4

The girls and I went out to dinner tonight.
And even though I didn’t tell them why, I know it is our anniversary.
And he knows it too.

–

Last night, we had our last group therapy session at hospice.
At the end, we each held a white balloon tied to a string with a note.
We were able to write something, anything we wanted.

Me:
Love you until the day after forever.
I miss you and I am trying to do what
you wanted. Forever, Skye

Cailyn, with help from a counselor:
I miss my Cookie Monster Daddy.

Carys:
I love love love love love you DaDa.

I stood in the middle of the girls and we released our balloons on the count of three…
Only Carys’ balloon didn’t go anywhere.
She panicked and someone in the crowd grabbed the balloon so we could remedy the situation.

She looked at me with hurt in her beautiful little eyes, and I gently told her that her balloon was so full of love that it needed extra help to float.
I feverishly removed the string and her love note to Chad – and asked her to release the balloon again.
It sped away, racing to catch up with the other balloons.
She smiled, the sparkle returned to her sweet little face.

She then asked if we could visit Chad’s brick in the memory garden, so we meandered that way.
She paused at it, and said, “I’ll see you later, Daddy.”
She is such a sweet, sweet girl.

Today we met at Hospice with family and a few dear friends to celebrate Chad’s life.
His memorial brick was installed this week near the garden, so we all gathered there to wish him a happy 33rd birthday.

The day could not have been more beautiful – a prefect backdrop of Carolina blue to release 33 Wolfpack red balloons.

The girls picked the cake and drew birthday love notes to stuff inside a few balloons.
A lot of us write notes on the balloons, too.

We all sang Happy Birthday at the top of our lungs, then released Chad’s balloons at the very end.

There were no tears.
Just love and laughter.
And that’s the way he would have wanted it.

Happy Birthday in Heaven, Chad!
We miss you every single day.

We’ve been blessed with beautiful weather lately.
The girls and I have thoroughly enjoyed soaking up the sun and doing absolutely nothing this weekend.
We did head to the park yesterday….

Apparently, we had equally beautiful weather like this last year.
I was flipping through some pictures on my laptop, purging some that were taking up space.
March 20, 2010 was a gorgeous day – all of us were in shorts and t-shirts.
Much like we were yesterday.

I got to one particular picture and I couldn’t stop looking at it.
Even though tears have soaked my shirt and my throat hurts from holding back sobs, I can’t look away.

Exactly one year ago today, March 20, the girls, my mom and I went to the park.
And Chad joined us, which wasn’t like him. He was so tired at that point and it was hard to get him out of the house.
He was worried that the sun would be too bright and bother his eyes or intensify his headache. I remember promising him we would leave the moment he got too tired or his headache got too intense, but that some fresh air might do him some good.
He loved Spring, so I didn’t have to twist his arm too hard.

I snapped a few pictures on my phone.
I just came across this picture of Chad.
He looks so good in this picture.
It just seems like a lifetime ago.
And yet, it seems like yesterday.

He grew that beard – which drove me crazy. The more I commented on it, the funnier he thought it was and let it grow more.
I miss that stupid beard.
I miss that look on his face; the look he usually gave me when I begged him to look at the camera. He would look, just to appease me, but my finger better be quick because he usually only gave me a second to get a picture.
I’m so thankful for all of these pictures.
They are so hard to look at, but also comforting.

Those sunglasses he’s wearing?
They are still clipped to the visor on the passenger side of the van.
The shirt?
It’s in my bedroom, folded and tucked away neatly in my drawer.
It was one of his favorites.

Apparently, I also snapped a few pictures of the girls from March 20, 2010.
What a difference a year makes.
They have grown so much.
And while these pictures of them make me smile and remember better times, I am also crying because they represent a time before everything changed. A time when they had both parents and they had no idea what was going to happen in their little lives in the next few months. They were truly happy. And didn’t know what heartache or missing someone who is not coming back actually feels like.
My sweet, innocent girls.

Isn’t it strange that I felt this urgent need to go to the park yesterday?
I had no idea we had been there exactly one year earlier with Chad.

Chad,
I’ve just spent a third of a year without you.
Before this, I never could have imagined what a third of a day, a third of a week, a third of a month or a third of a year would feel like without you.
But you are here.
You are everywhere.

I see little things every day that remind me of you.
I have been flooded with memories from our life together that I hadn’t thought about in years.
Happy, happy times. Before all of this.
And it’s enough to keep me going.
It’s enough to make me feel loved beyond the space that separates us.
It’s enough to make me feel so lucky to have experienced so much life with you in such a short amount of time.
Some people never have it; they never are as lucky as we were. I am thankful for that.

Tears are still shed. Every day.
But there is also laughter and a bit of joy creeping back into our life.

The girls are happy and adjusting so well.
We talk about you all the time and I see so much of you in each of them, in different ways.

They have good days and bad days, much like I do.
They are enjoying memories from the better times and I am thankful that those memories are the ones they seem to recall so vividly.

It will forever break my heart that they will miss so many things in life without you by their side.
I feel fortunate that we did have some time to prepare for the future. You left things for the girls; things they will treasure and help them fully understand how much you love them and wanted to be there for all of their accomplishments and steps in life.

Last night, I had another dream about you that jolted me from sleep.
I heard your voice call my name so clearly in my dream that it woke me up, scanning the room for you.
For a split second, I truly felt as if I’d been sleeping for the last year or so; a terrible nightmare that simply wasn’t true.
I always feel this way immediately after I wake up – like it’s just not real. It’s just not my life.
It is. And I accept it. It doesn’t make me wish it wasn’t so, though.

Group therapy at Hospice has been a wonderful tool to me and to the kids.
I am thankful that those wonderful people are in our lives, although I often wish I never had the opportunity to meet them.
I wish you were still here. I wish you were still here and healthy. I wish you were still here and enjoying this crazy life we built from dreams and late night talks.

But you are here.
You are everywhere.

xoxo,
Skye

Tonight, the girls and I attended our first group therapy session at hospice.
I was a little nervous about going; I wasn’t sure what to expect.
There were kids and lots of wives that, like me, that lost their partner much too soon in this life.

We started with dinner, then split into groups; several different age groups for the kids and then one for the adults.
We didn’t do a lot of talking tonight; mostly listening about what the group would discuss over the following seven weeks.
Surprisingly, I knew another one of the women tonight. It seems so surreal to see someone in a situation such as that; unfair, even.
I want to see people at the grocery store. Or at Starbucks. Or even Wal-mart. Not at a support group for grieving widows and their children.
It was also comforting to see her. She knows my pain, even though we don’t know each other very well outside of that common thread.

Next week, we’re supposed to bring a picture of our loved one and discuss what brought us to the group, our story.
I don’t think I need to really say it.
But.
That will be intensely difficult.

Most people in my life know what has happened.
I don’t have to rehash details or really talk about it very much.
And when I do, it’s usually to help someone who is going through something similar.
Sitting around a circle, looking into the lives of others who have suffered such a traumatic loss, will rip the band-aid off my heart.
It is something I must do, however.

I’ve learned many things throughout this journey, and it appears that I’m not done just yet.
I teared up a few times, seeing the physical signs of grief and exhaustion on everyone’s faces.
And, again, it was comforting at the same time.
A room full of people who get it. Who know exactly what widowhood feels like everyday.

I am just so thankful that there are resources available to help the girls & I get our emotional and physical lives back.
We’ve been held hostage by IT for too long. Enough is enough.
We’re on the way to living an ordinary life, with ordinary dreams and ordinary days filled with laughter, sunshine and contentment.

For a little over three years, my heart has been heavy, my mind has been consumed, and my computer bookmark folder has been filled with research.
Not only was I looking for answers, treatments and advice to help Chad through his journey, but I was also looking for information about IT’s ability to invade our children’s lives. Early on, we were told our daughters would have a 50/50 chance of developing the same type of tumor as Chad. This thought brought Chad & I to our knees many, many times.

Most primary brain tumors (meaning the tumor started in the brain, and wasn’t a metastasis from another type of cancer somewhere in the body) are formed from two different types of cells; astrocytes and oligodendrocytes. These cells, when healthy, are vital parts of the brain’s tissue. Sometimes, and for unknown reasons, these cells mutate and go bad.

Each time Chad had surgery, tissue was sent to biopsy because his tumor was so large and didn’t behave they way his medical team anticipated.
With the very first biopsy, we were told it was a mid-to-high grade mixed glioma – oligoastrocytoma, with a higher astrocytic component. Which meant IT was likely going to morph into a glioblastoma (GBM). GBMs are one of the most prevalent malignant brain tumors; highly aggressive and hard to treat. We were scared to death.
After further investigation of this same sample by Johns Hopkins, we were told there was no astrocytic component. It was a well defined oligodendroglioma. Which was better news. These tumors usually respond better to treatment than astrocytomas, especially with the 1p 19q chromosome deletion (which Chad possessed).

But how can you reconcile two vastly different pathology results from the same tissue?
We always questioned it, quietly to ourselves and obnoxiously loud to Chad’s doctors.

Our neurosurgeon strongly felt that Chad’s tumor was mixed, even though the pathology didn’t confirm his suspicions. He was confident that IT’s behavior was proof of an astrocytic component – he thought the tumor had two separate supporting cells, and the astrocytes (GBM) were invading and taking over the tumor all together.

This terrified us both.
What would this mean for our sweet, innocent, precious girls?
We had, unknowingly, given life to these two amazing little people that may be hit with a genetic disease beyond anyone’s control.
We had been small-talking about having another baby shortly before Chad was diagnosed; but very quickly ended those talks when we were told our children could suffer from IT. He was very matter-of-fact: he could not, would not, bring another child into our lives after knowing IT could, eventually, take over.

Every time my girls have a headache, I want to rush them over for an MRI.
Which I know it’s a little over zealous.
If IT is going to show up in their lives, there is little I can do about it.
Chad reminded me that we could only be prepared…

When Chad decided to end all treatment on June 29, 2010, I supported him.
But I desperately wanted another biopsy; and I wanted multiple opinions on the pathology results.
He declined, but did remind me that he wanted his brain to go to science; a decision he made when this journey first began.
He wanted me to wait until his death to get a biopsy – and then he wanted the medical community to use his tumor for research.

I carried out those wishes.

Chad received a brain autopsy at Duke the same day he passed away.
After talking with the team there, I understood it would take 60-90 days to receive the pathology findings.
I have had a knot in my stomach for many reasons since the day he died; but also because I knew I would soon know if IT could take me (and our daughters) hostage for the rest of our lives.

Ninety days came and went.
After a call to the appropriate people and clearing up a few clerical errors, I received the report Saturday.
Yesterday.

When I reached into the mailbox and saw the Duke logo on the envelope, my hands started shaking.
The girls and I were outside, enjoying the beautiful weather.
I walked closer to the house, ripping the envelope as fast as I could.

As I read the words, hot tears rolled down my cheeks.
The first page was a condolence and some contact information. I scanned.
I shuffled to the second page and the tears fell larger, quicker.

Tears. And tears. And tears.
Mixed with overwhelming shortness of breath.
Mixed with relief and laughter.

Anaplastic Oligodendroglioma.
NOT a glioblastoma.

While it’s possible for this type of cancer to be hereditary, it’s extremely rare.
Extremely rare.
IT, at its devestating size and at end stage, behaved more like a GBM.
But it was not.  (!!!)
You cannot imagine the blessedness, alleviation and absolute relief I feel.

I’m sure there will always be a small part of me that will always wonder if the girls will ever be affected.
Right now, though, I feel a calming hand on my shoulder, reassuring me that we will be okay.

We are okay.