the Lanfords

Dear Chad,
I keep flipping pages on my calendar, each day passing like the leaves that were falling from the trees the day you left.
Three months? You resided at Hospice for nearly that long; it just doesn’t seem real sometimes.
Almost inconceivable.

They say time heals all wounds.
I don’t think that a true, complete, emotional healing will ever happen.
But it does get a bit easier each day.
I pull up my cowgirl boots and deal with it.

I have truly felt more at peace since letting go of your ashes.
I have laughed more, slept better and felt more like myself.
I’ve started making decisions about the future; and for the record, until recently, my future only included planning what we would have (or not have) for dinner that night.
I can see a little further down the road now, think a little more clearly.
I am making actual plans, learning to maneuver the pitfalls of single parenthood, and still missing every little detail of you.

The girls and I will start a support group later this month.
When you were sick, I couldn’t fathom hanging out with other widow(er)s and passing a Kleenex box around the circle.
But now, I think I need it.
I need to be around other people who know exactly how I feel; and it may be difficult.
But I’m ready.
All three of us are. I’m sure of it.

You told me repeatedly that you just wanted me to be happy and to do whatever I wanted to after you died…
And even though I’m not exactly sure what that is yet, I do know that I have your blessing.
That alone makes the decisions come a little easier.

In my counseling session last week, I admitted that one of the hardest parts of living without you is not having confidence in decisions I make for our family. I was so accustomed to sharing ideas with you, seeking your opinion – and even in the later days, just running things by you for the heck of it. At that point, you had no opinion about much of anything, but I felt more at ease knowing you had at least heard my thought process. You were, technically, involved, then.
Now, there is is none of that.
I am trying to learn to stop questioning myself and just do what feels natural, even though I frequently ask myself what you would do in certain situations. You were always so collected and thoughtful. That would drive me crazy at times, but now I miss it.
I really do miss making joint decisions – the way spouses are supposed to do – even though I always secretly wished I could just make decisions without consulting you first.
Funny how things work…

And it’s also funny that I’ve had a bottle of apple juice in the fridge for nearly a week that I simply cannot open.
Definitely missing having a strong, manly grip around.

–

The girls are doing well.
Carys has stopped pretending you are elsewhere.
She is busily planning a birthday party for you in April.
I’m trying to help her get it together and I think it will be a great source of closure for her.

Cailyn has been enjoying looking through our wedding album.
She’s been dreaming of wearing my dress and marrying her Prince Charming.
She always comments on how different we look – how handsome you are and how much we were smiling.
I had to fill her in that her wedding day will be the same; her face will hurt from smiling so much.

Which led to a heart wrenching conversation with Carys.
“Mommy, last night I dreamed that I got married. My dress was pink and silver…but I have a question…in movies and on tv, when a girl gets married, her daddy walks her down the aisle. Who will walk me down there to get married?”

It is so sad they she is already asking such hard questions, but she takes it all in stride.
I can see the loving belief in her eyes when I tell her that you are, in fact, going to be there. Just not physically.
You wouldn’t miss it, and she knows that as much as I do.

Yesterday, while preparing the little Valentine’s cards for her classmates, I asked her if she was feeling better about missing you so much.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t bat an eyelash.
“Yes. But I still miss him very much. I will be sad for a long time. Because my daddy was so special.”

I think that was a pretty accurate summation of how we’re all feeling.
Our family’s monotone world is coming to life with little bits of color, little rays of sunshine.

Three months without you has been difficult.
I could not have gotten this far in my survivorship without the tireless efforts of our family and friends.
They are truly special people who loved you and the rest of our family.
I am so very thankful for each of them.
And so very thankful for you and each tiny moment we were allowed to share.

xoxo,
Skye

A photo from Valentine’s Day 2010

I spent every day at hospice for nearly three months.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve been away for nearly that long.
I have to admit that it was strange to drive there again, a familiar route. I was on auto-pilot.

Earlier today, I had my first talk session with our counselor at hospice.
She usually comes to our house to talk with the kids, and it never works out for us to talk alone without the girls interrupting.

We talked for about an hour, I released some tears and frustrations.
I signed up for group therapy later this month. The girls and I will go once a week; some time for them with other kids who have suffered loss – and time for me to be with other adults who have suffered, too.
I think it will be good for all of us.
We’re ready.

After talking, the counselor asked if I wanted to go next door to the Hospice Home.
I knew I would. I even stopped on the way to pick up donuts for my friends, the staff, there.
I have missed them all so much. I’ve missed bringing in treats for them!

Walking through the doors of the Hospice Home was a surreal experience.
It smelled like I remembered.
It felt like I remembered.
It was just as I had remembered.
Only, I wasn’t there to see Chad this time.
I was there for me.

I saw familiar faces at the sign-in desk.
And then again at the nurse’s station.
And I saw the doorway to Chad’s room.
I didn’t go any further than the nurse’s station – that particular room was being cleaned, so I’m certain a new patient now resides there.
To me, and to them, it will always be Chad’s room.

I hugged, laughed & chatted with my friends.
Because they are all my friends – they embraced our family and I could not thank them enough for that.

Since dispersing Chad’s ashes last weekend, I have felt peaceful.
I have laughed more this week than I have in the last three months.
I haven’t felt the sense of dread and confusion nearly as heavily this week, either.
It’s progress, or at least  that’s what I”m going to call it.

Going back – it was something I knew I would do. Eventually.
That place, those people, those feelings – I knew I would revisit them all.
I just wasn’t ready until very recently.

My time at hospice during Chad’s stay really opened my eyes.
To what’s important.
To what’s essential.
To what’s good in a time in our lives that wasn’t good.

The staff was able to give me part of my life back, my life as a wife and a  mother.
I know, now, what I am supposed to be doing – and I had to let them know they had all inspired me to make a change in my life that will help me, but more importantly, help others.

In the Fall, I am going back to school.
For nursing.
At least, that’s the plan.

Today, I left with  happy tears, with promises to return, and an application to volunteer.

Going back – I will be.
Frequently.

My body is exhausted.
I sleep and sleep and sleep.
Yet I still feel like I’ve been running around all day.
My poor children know to keep it quiet when Mommy has to rest or take a nap.
I feel bad for them; but it won’t be forever.

I’ve started the arduous task of really cleaning the house; clearing out things that don’t need to be here anymore.
Goodwill loves me; I am donating as much as I can.
The garbage men probably hate me because my trash and recycle bins have been overflowing for the last few weeks.

And while it feels good to reclaim some of the physical space in my home, it’s amazing what it also does for my mind.
There is so much clutter here, things that don’t quite fit anymore: clothes, furniture, paperwork, regrets.

I will admit that it is absolutely overwhelming to reduce a person’s life to a few boxes here and there.
I peer into the cardboard and see a career, a life, a family, a future.
It is hard.
A lot harder than I expected.
But it’s also liberating to find those key things that link you to a person’s soul.
Things that bring memories flooding back; pictures and shirts and cologne and running shoes.

I feel like I am able to think a little more clearly the last few days; the fog is lifting.
Or maybe I am finally pushing it away.
Some people think I’ve been in a cocoon.
Maybe I have.
It wasn’t my intention.

The girls and I will be attending family therapy sessions starting in late February.
Next week, I’ll be heading over to talk to our counselor on my own.
I feel like the girls are getting what they need; now it’s time to take the same opportunity for myself.

I’ve been writing.
I’ve been talking, when I feel like it.
I share a lot here because it’s easier for me…it’s less emotional for me and it still gives everyone a chance to know what’s going on, without me having to regurgitate the details over and over.

I’m walking an emotional tightrope, or haphazardly meandering through a highly sensitive emotional mine field.
I need someone to help me maneuver it.

This loss is still so fresh, not quite three months.
I’ve mourned and grieved for a lot longer than that; probably for the last year (at least).
Things will never be the same.
I just have to find a new normal.

I am trying to embrace my role of being a single stay-at-home mom to two rambunctious girls…and I will admit that I want to run and hide sometimes.

This is not what I wanted.
But it’s here and there is nothing I can do about it.
Push forward.
Love them.
Love myself.

All in time.

The night time is hard.
The daylight fades and things become hidden in darkness.
Still.
Quiet.
Not quite as real, especially to little ones.

Carys has been pretending that Chad is just at work for a little over a week now.
Usually at dinner time, her fantasy begins.

When the girls are sleeping and I”m all alone in this quiet house, it hits me hard too.

Last night, Cailyn woke up sobbing.
She was crying so hard that she couldn’t catch her breath.
By the time I calmed her weeping down enough to understand her frantic language, I knew what had happened to my sweet girl.

Cailyn had a dream about Chad last night.
A very vivid, very real dream.

If you believe in seeing angels or our loved ones reaching out to us after they’ve gone to Heaven, then maybe you’ll view this experience the same way as I do.
If you don’t believe in that, then maybe you’ll think it’s just my daughter’s overactive imagination playing tricks on her.

She says she woke up and looked around, and noticed a man standing in her doorway.
She looked at him for a while.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t talk.
He just stood there, observing.

She said she knew it was Chad – and she knew he wasn’t supposed to be there.
“He is ‘upposed to be in Heaven. Why was he in my room?”

It confused her.
It shocked her.
And it scared her, immensely.

She ended up in my bed with me last night, talking and hugging.
I assured her that, if it was Daddy, he was just saying hello.
And he would never scare her. He wouldn’t mean to, at least.
She was adamant that it was Chad.

Today, we talked about it some more.
I was hoping she could tell me more once she had calmed down.
But she had no new information.
The story she told me was exactly the same as it was last night.

The thing that struck me most about her story was that Chad used to do that; stand in the girls doorways at night and watch them sleep for a few minutes. He started doing that when they were babies; checking in to make sure they didn’t need a blanket or that they weren’t half-hanging off the bed, in danger of falling to the floor. Carys, bless her heart, fell out of bed frequently for a while when she was about three years old. It just became his habit to check on them.

As his disease progressed, he still checked in on them although it wasn’t every night.
Sometimes, he would sit on the edge of their beds and rest his hand on their leg or their back.
Sometimes he would just sit on their beds, trying to say things to them, to tell them how much he loved them.
When it became harder for him because he couldn’t stand very long on his right leg, he would stand in the doorway to brace himself in case he fell.

Cailyn didn’t know that he used to that.
I never told her.
I never told Carys, either.

The fact that she saw him standing there, which was so common for him to do, made me feel comforted.
She was scared. But I was not. I am not.

She asked me what to do if it happened again tonight, and I simply told her to say hello to him.
And if she couldn’t get the words out, to call me. I would help her through it.

I’m hoping she doesn’t get scared again, but I can definitely understand why she would be frightened.

–

I spoke with the counselor about Carys’ current situation with pretending that Chad is at work.
We’re going to keep an eye over it over the next few weeks and see what happens.
Carys feels comforted thinking that Chad is somewhere else other than where he is; which I can understand.
We just don’t want her to develop an alternate reality.
So, I talk her through it when she brings it up.

Yesterday, she wanted to pretend he was in an accident and in the hospital.
“His truck was waaaaay broken, Mommy. He can’t drive it anymore.”
I let her lead the conversation.
And I, gently, reassured her that Daddy was not at the hospital and he was not in a wreck.
He was dead. He was not coming home.
And she does not like that word; dead.
I am very careful not to say anything other than that particular word, even though it’s hard to say and, I’m sure, hard for her to hear. She has to hear it. Unfortunately.
She tries to use other words to describe where Chad is: gone, in Heaven, not here, in the better place, sleeping good.
She will, sometimes, say it. But she tries not to.

She is doing extremely well in school.
She is making great grades.
She’s sleeping well, eating well.

She just misses her Dad.
And I completely understand.
We all do.

There are days when I think about blogging, days I think about doing laundry, days I think about taking the girls to the movies and forgetting everything else that needs to be done around here.
There is so much to be done, so much stuff to unclutter.
There is a lot of mental cleaning I need to do too, and I find that to be the most difficult.

Right now, Carys likes to believe that Chad is at work and is on his way home.
This is especially difficult for me to handle.
She knows he is not coming home.
But it helps her to believe that he is, usually around dinner time.
We always had dinner together, at the table. Every single day.
And I know that is a particularly hard thing for her.
She wants our family back, as do I.
I am not indulging her fantasy, but try to talk to her about it instead.
We have an appointment with the children’s grief counselor this week, so I hope to get a little assistance in how to handle this.

Cailyn is doing very well, although she does pretend that Chad is all around us sometimes.
I suppose that he is, technically.
But she likes to pretend he is in the car with us, at the store with us, out to eat with us.
She doesn’t get weepy or upset; but she does insist that he is playing a game of hide-and-seek with us almost daily.
Again, I will be getting some help with this later this week.

I definitely understand that Chad’s death is more than they can handle at times.
It’s more than anyone should have to handle.

Last week, I happened across a bottle of Chad’s favorite cologne.
Cool Water.
He wore it all the time, until the scent made him nauseous over the last year or so.
So, he wore it sparingly until the bottle was empty and we never bought any more.

I purchased the bottle and brought it home, intending to share it with the girls (and myself) when we were having a particularly difficult day remembering the details of Chad.

I sprayed my wrists with it and got teary-eyed each time I would catch a whiff throughout the day.
Cailyn noticed the scent too, and before I knew it, I was spraying her tiny wrist with “Daddy’s smell”.
Of course, Carys followed suit once she got home from school.
I’ve caught them in my bedroom, standing perfectly still, taking turns inhaling the intoxicating aroma of the cologne.
They understand it’s special and they genuinely feel comforted.
As do I.
Scents definitely bring back intense memories.

And me?
I am doing the best I can.
Even though I didn’t thoroughly enjoy the holidays like I normally do, I was thankful I had something in which to focus my time and energy. I had Christmas shopping, tree decorating, holiday parties. There was always something to keep me busy.
Now, it’s just quiet. School is in, friends are back to work, traveling is over.
It’s so very, very quiet.
Just me and my thoughts.
Which isn’t the best situation – I need something to do that doesn’t include cleaning the house or rearranging memories and furniture.

I’ll be completely honest in saying that the emotions seem to hit me out of nowhere and make me feel like I am losing my mind sometimes.
I feel generally impulsive, sometimes detached, sometimes alive, sometimes super-sensitive, sometimes I lack patience, sometimes nothing at all.
I say and do things that aren’t me, things I don’t fully understand. I feel things that I didn’t expect.

Like anger? Not really.
I guess that is hard for some people to understand, but I’m not angry at God or at Chad or at anyone else.
I have so many other emotions that I don’t think anger has a place to fit in around it all.
In my weakest moments, I am more disappointed than anything else. But angry? No.

I think my lack of anger has a lot to do with the way Chad chose to handle this whole situation.
He had a brief period of anger, which he had every right to experience.
And then one day, he just decided he was spending too much energy being angry over something he had no control over.
This time period was shortly before he was given a terminal diagnosis, when he was unable to work or drive or provide for his family in the ways he thought he should be able to.
He told me that there was sense in being angry and that life was never promised to be fair; “It is what it is; life keeps on going.”

It would not be helpful for me to sit around and be angry.
Probably like it’s not helpful for me to sleep as much as I can and never get out of my pajamas unless critically necessary.
But I think sleeping and pajama time is a little less damaging than being angry all the time.
At least I like to think it is.

This week I have a goal to focus on: the girls & I need insurance.
We haven’t had insurance since the end of November, when Chad’s policy ran out.
And I am extremely thankful that no one has been sick or has needed anything other than a band-aid or a kiss to make it better.
It just makes my stomach twist in knots to see the premiums we’ll pay. Talk about something that does make me ANGRY…
We could carry over Chad’s insurance, but I’m not convinced it’s the lowest rate for us. So, I’m on a mission.

This week, pray for me to find insurance that won’t make me physically ill each time the premiums are due.
Pray for me to find the focus to feed my children healthy meals – instead of offering cereal or takeout.
Pray for me to find my patience, even in increments of 5 minutes per day.
Pray for me to find sleep at regular hours, instead of spread throughout the day – when I should be doing something else.

Dear Chad,

There was definitely something missing yesterday, as the girls were opening their gifts and we shared fun with family and friends.
It was strange this year, no doubt.

All last week, I kept thinking about this time last year.
You had surgery on December 16, 2009 to reroute one of your shunts.
You had such a hard time with the pain and once you got home, your energy was just zapped.
Somehow, I knew it my heart it would be your last Christmas with us. And you thought so, too.
I hate that I was right; that we were right.
It just seems so long ago, yet not.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I missed waking up to your famous pancakes.
Technically, this is our second year with them, as you didn’t feel up to your chef duties last year.
I even missed cleaning up after you – pancake mix dust all over the counter and sticky syrup faces on two sweet little girls.

Last year, you were awake and out of bed just long enough to see the girls open gifts; which isn’t very long.
They had everything unwrapped in record time this year, I’m sure you know.

The girls received some gifts you would have despised; noisy toys.
I can remember how those noises would aggravate your headaches, so we just never bought them – or the girls had to play in their rooms quietly, headphones and reduced volumes.
The girls were so excited. You should have seen the look on their faces when they realized the electronic piano has a microphone that allows them to sing along with their melodies. I think I will be hearing their remakes of Justin Beiber songs in my dreams for a while to come…

Part of their childhood has been stifled; I’m trying to make up for it.
They’ve been noisy.
They’ve been loud.
They’ve been what kids should be at Christmas; loud and often crazy on a sugar high.
It seems to make the quiet a little more bearable for me at times.
And at other times, it makes me crazy. And I wish I had never purchased toys that make noise.
But they are happy. And that’s all I need right now.

We followed our traditions, for the most part.
We went to the annual Christmas Eve party at Shannon’s house.
We came home and I let the girls unwrap one gift; new pajamas.
We went to bed and I hurriedly set up Santa Claus’ goodies – hoping the rustling of paper and bags wouldn’t wake them up.
Funny how we always worried about that; because they never budge.
They did, however, wake up around 3:30am to check out what Santa brought — then they went back to bed. I had to make them get up at 7:30. You would have liked “sleeping in” on Christmas morning this year.

We went to my aunt’s house in the afternoon and visited with family, just like every year before this one.
It was so good for me to be surrounded by so much love.
The girls had a lot of fun, laughing and playing with their cousins, aunts & uncles.

We had a good day.
The girls were exhausted when we finally got home.
And when it was quiet, when I was alone with my thoughts, I just missed you.
I sobbed, which caught me by surprise. I seemed to have myself together yesterday for the girls’ sake, but the quiet got to me.
The quiet exhausts me.
It doesn’t seem right and it doesn’t seem fair.
I’m so tired of the quiet.

Life is never perfect, I understand.
And it’s not promised to be fair.
I get that. I truly do.
Life is such a precious, precious gift.
I just hate that it was us; that it was you; that it was me; that it was our family.
I wouldn’t hope for this to happen to anyone else; I would just wish it away all together.

You seem to be sending me little messages here and there, putting people in my path that I would never have met without this unfortunate situation.
It’s humbling.
And it’s tragic.
And it’s also so beautiful.

We woke up this morning to a winter wonderland.
You would love it; snow and snow and snow.
Large fluffy flakes are still coming down – you would have been out with a snow shovel this morning so you could take your truck out and survey the snow outside of our neighborhood.
You would have been bugging me to get the girls dressed to go out and play.
You would have been dressed in your bright yellow Columbia parka, ready for fun with your girls.
I really miss seeing you in that coat today.

Merry Christmas, Chad.
I love you.
And I miss you.

xoxo
Skye