the Lanfords

One of the hardest things I’ve done during this journey is compile images to make a slideshow of Chad’s life.
Looking through pictures, remembering better times and actually seeing a life represented in snapshots was extremely difficult.
I’m glad I have it though. I shared it with Chad a few times in October and November, to help him remember.

We played it Saturday at his Memory Party and I kept turning around to look at it.
I laughed.
I cried.
I smiled.

What a beautiful, beautiful life we’ve shared.

Music:

Patience – Guns N Roses (his all-time favorite song)

You Make It Real – James Morrison

Remember When – Alan Jackson

Feels Like Home – Chantal Kreviazuk

Awake – Josh Groban

A special thanks to Ted Atchley who put this together for me.

Chad,
A week ago today, I said goodbye to you.
I held your limp hand for hours, laid by your side in bed and whispered things I’ve told you a hundred times.

I kissed your feverish forehead and told you to run to the light as fast as you could when you saw it.
I wished you would open your eyes and look at me, to be able to focus long enough to know you understand everything I’d said.
You couldn’t.
And I know you heard me even though you couldn’t tell me.

I had to take a lot of breaks from the reality that was sinking in that day.
I walked around outside, busied myself with your laundry and talked with everyone that was there with us that day.

I swabbed your mouth with water, placed cool compresses on your forehead and massaged your feet.
I know how much you hated that catheter – and I know you were relived when I asked them to remove it.
I made sure you were as comfortable as you could be, and I pray that you were.

I stared at your half-open eyes, knowing you weren’t able to see anything going on in your room.
But I know you could hear me.
Your breathing changed dramatically when a nurse asked you if she could get me from the other room to lay with you for a while, almost an excited reaction I’m told.
And then the breaths became more normal (for you) after I settled by your side.

We all watched and heard your breathing gradually change during the day.
We felt the fever take over your body and the stark coldness take your feet and hands.

Along with your parents and mine, and a dear friend, I ushered you to the gates of Heaven, which is as far as I can take you on this journey.
I held one hand.
Your mom held the other.
Your dad held your arm.
My mom stroked your hair.
My dad rubbed my back.
David stood at your feet.

We all watched as your breathing lost its rhythm and your eyes drifted.
You gritted your teeth with each breath through the last few minutes, pushing as hard as your body would allow.
And then, finally, peace.

4:55 am. Wednesday. November 10, 2010.

Your final breath in this world.
And your first breath in another.

We all kissed you goodbye.
Everyone backed away form the bed.
But not I.
I buried my head in your chest and wept.
You were warm.
I needed to feel your warmth; I know my world will be so cold for a time to come.

–

Even though I knew this day would come, it still shattered my heart into a million pieces like a glass thrown to the pavement.
I know that, over time, I will be able to delicately sweep up the shards and glue them back together with sticky memories and reshape the vessel that is my life.

But right now I miss you. Fiercely.
I’m relieved that you are free from all of the pain and helplessness you endured.

You were only two days shy of your three-year diagnosis anniversary.
Even though I so hoped you would make the three-year mark, I also know it was just your style to finish your deadline early.

I am taking moments every day to myself – just to cry and let the grief consume me.
Today has been especially difficult.
Last Wednesday is pretty much a blur, except for the frozen frames of a two hour period in my mind; 3am to 5am.
I too vividly remember the call I received last Tuesday morning at 8:17am that so began the worst day of my life.
I try not to think of it that way; because I know you were released and freed from pain – and it’s often said that the day of one’s death is to be celebrated more than one’s birth.
I just don’t feel that way today, at this moment.

I have to tell you that I am so thankful by the amazing gifts you have given me.
Besides our beautiful children, you have given me loyal friends that I would have otherwise never met.
They are helping me through this difficult part; showing me different sides of you that I never got to see firsthand.

I found a stack of letters you wrote to me while we were dating.
Reading your words was difficult, but a needed reminder for me.
I fondly remember the days when we would daydream about our future, a home, kids, forever.

On Monday, I had a panic attack when I went to nervously spin my wedding& engagement rings on my finger and they weren’t there.
They have been so loose the last month or so that I took them off and put them in my wallet for safekeeping while the girls and I were at the waterpark. I feared they might get lost while wrestling with the girls in the water.

I’ve worn my engagement ring for more than 10 years: 3,870 days
And my wedding ring for 3,392 days.
I rarely take them off.
I suppose that there will be a day when it will feel natural not to wear them, not to have a sparkly reminder of what was.
They are part of me.
Much like you.

I never imagined what losing you would feel like.
I couldn’t fathom it.
I guess I still can’t find the words to adequately explain how much I miss you.
There are many, many times a day that something happens and my first thought is, “I have to remember to tell Chad that later.”
Only, I can’t.
I know you can see and hear everything now – you know my daily struggles and grief. I don’t have to tell you anything. You already know.

I keep going back to the early days of this journey; when we laid in bed at night and discussed our plan of attack to battle IT.
You were always so positive, even when I cried into your shoulder and told you it wasn’t fair and things like this aren’t supposed to happen to us. We were invincible.
And you always reminded me that we still were. “It is what it is, Skye. It can’t change who we are together” – is what you would say.
And you always repeated: Cancer would never win. It may take you, but it could never take us.

I’m holding onto that today.
IT did not win. IT may have taken your body from me and left an empty hole in my life.
But you taught me to stare IT in the face, fight with two fists, laugh when you can and thank God for all the good times along the way.

I miss you; the way you smell, your brand of laughter, the excruciating amount of time it took you to make a decision because you had to think of responses for every possible outcome from every possible angle, your shoes tucked neatly inside the hall closet, the orange plaid  flannel shirt you wore during the Fall, the way you held your chocolate chip cookies over your glass of milk each night to catch the crumbs, your truck parked in the garage, arguing over radio stations in the car, being in a room with you and not having to speak because we were just content to be, begging you to sit still for five minutes and leave your ‘to do’ list for tomorrow, listening from the bedroom as you made the girls pancakes every Sunday morning. I miss a million tiny little things that made you who you are.

–

A week without you has passed, that’s true.
We’ve also had a full, rich, beautiful life that cancer cannot rob from me.

I’ll survive another week.
And then another.
And another.

Thank you for the stars tonight.
The clouds from the storm broke briefly and I saw a beautiful display.

I love you, too.

Yesterday I packed up the girls and headed to Stedman to see Chad’s family.
Most of his New York family came to the service Saturday and we didn’t get to talk much, so I wanted to make sure the girls got to meet everyone and thank them for coming.
It was great to see them all and I wish we had more time together.

We also went to spend a little time with my dad and let the girls play with his dogs — they love Papa &  the pups.

Then, we hit the road.
I didn’t tell them where we were going — but Carys guessed it on the first try.
I just didn’t confirm her suspicions until she read the sign when we pulled into the parking lot.

I decided to take them back to a place where they had recent, good, fun memories of Chad and Great Wolf Lodge seemed fitting.
It is, after all, where we began our Ultimate Summer adventure.
It has been hard for me because I fondly remember better times here, as a family of four.
The girls are also remembering how much fun we had earlier this year – just a mere five months ago.
That doesn’t seem like that long ago.
He was tired when we were here in July, but still had all of his motor functions.
He looked good. He walked a little slow, but he looked really, really good.

Last night, the girls wanted to head straight to the water park once we got here.
Of course…

At the door, the lifeguard measured them and placed arm bands to indicate what rides they could and could not go on.
Carys can do everything – she’s tall enough.
Cailyn has grown since the last time we were here, so she can do everything except the “big slide” (which Carys and I rode last time, not knowing that it wasn’t something we realllllly wanted to do until it was too late).
The lifeguard explained to Cailyn that she would have to ride the other bigger slides with her mom or dad — and Carys looked at her little sister, then back to the lifeguard. And said, “Our daddy just went to Heaven. So he can’t ride the rides. He’s just watching us now.”
That poor lifeguard didn’t know what to say. But I was proud of Carys. My sweet, sweet girl that is much too wise for her age.

They have had a blast.
They have played and talked openly and have remembered Chad with laughter.
Exactly what I had hoped would happen for them.

I was sitting on the couch last night before bedtime, just having a moment for myself.
And of course I cried a bit.
Cailyn noticed and came over, asking why I was so sad.
I explained to her that I just missed Daddy so much, and wished he was here with us.
And she gave me a hug, crawled in my lap and told me how much she missed Daddy too.
Then came along Carys.
More hugs and snuggles.
We all had a good little cry and then we took turns talking about Daddy and remembering our wonderful Summer together.

It’s been therapeutic.
And a little sad.
But it’s also been a liberating day for me to come back and experience our time here together all over again.
And to create new memories.

Forgive the grainy camera phone pictures. I didn’t lug my big camera with us for this trip – just didn’t feel like it.

Today, Cailyn told me she was having so much fun that even her toes were smiling.

And Carys remembered her favorite thing to do here – she didn’t miss a beat.
She even taught Cailyn how to do it this time, too.
There has been a lot of growing over the last five months. Physically and emotionally.

We spent a lot of time in the arcade this time and the girls had so much fun.
They got a LOT of tickets – 990 when it was all over with.
And they divided their tickets up evenly, each getting a journal and some other little stuff.
They are already writing nice little messages in their private journals – mostly about Chad – then locking it up tight with a tiny little key. Something they will love to see in fifteen years, I bet.

As we sat by the fireplace tonight for story time, I remembered our family photo from July in the same place.
A stranger snapped it for us and I am so thankful that I have it.

The last time we were here, it was July. It was so hot.
This time, there is actually a nice little fire dancing in the fireplace.
And I couldn’t help but think that it was supposed to be this way; a glowing reminder of what has been.

And this fire of remembrance  is never going to go out.

I found a proverb over the Summer that just stuck with me and I remember telling him what a beautiful sentiment I thought it was:

“Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in Heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.”

The stars have been so bright in the sky since the day Chad left us.
Each time I step outside at night and look to the heavens, I don’t see a cloud in the sky.
Just bright stars. And so, so many of them.
And I’m sure I’m reaching for something to comfort me – but I can’t help but think that Chad’s putting on a show for us.
He’s making them brighter – just for me.
Just to let me know he’s okay.
His eyes were always bright like stars.

We will be home tomorrow.
Carys & I are still sickly. But we’ve been having fun despite the few hundred tissues we’ve gone through.
We all took a big fat nap today and it seemed to help greatly.

I plan to have the girls back to school Wednesday and am keeping my fingers crossed that we don’t end up at the doctor’s office tomorrow after unpacking.

Thank you for the support and encouragement.
We do feel it, if you’re curious.

Thank you all for your support today.
The girls and I held up a lot better than I anticipated, and I’m certain that a special angel was guiding us through.

I wrote a letter to Chad that our dear friend Mark, the pastor today, shared on my behalf.
I can’t think of anything else to say today.
So, I’m sharing the letter with you.

I’m taking the girls on a little surprise getaway tomorrow before we discover our new ‘normal’.

–

My dearest Chad ,

There are things I want to remember that have nothing to do with the terrible disease that began stealing precious moments from us and stole you from our lives much too soon.

I will remember our first date and how nervous we both were to know we had something so special so early in our relationship.

I will remember the letters, cards & flowers you sent to me for no special occasion, only to let me know you were thinking of me.

I will remember the way my stomach twisted into butterfly tangles each time you reached for my hand.

I will remember how nervous you were to tell me you loved me for the first time, unsure if I would reciprocate. Of course I did. You’re easy to love.

I will remember the joy I felt when you asked me to be your wife, nervously slipping a ring on my finger that you had carried around for a week, waiting for the perfect moment.

I will remember the day you accepted Jesus Christ during one of our premarital counseling sessions.

I will remember the tender, consuming look on your face as I walked down the aisle on our wedding day, a perfect August morning in 2001.

I will remember the overwhelming love, hopefulness and anxiety as we prepared our home for our first child, our sweet Carys.

I will remember you rocking her for hours in her star-filled nursery and quietly promising her the world.

I will remember the sacrifices we made for you to finish your Master’s Degree, all with the promise of a better future.

I will remember the excited commotion around the birth of our second child, our baby Cailyn.

I will remember you embracing her with loving arms and a full heart.

I will remember our first days as a family of four; and how happy, excited, and triumphant we were…but exhausted.

I will remember your love for all things NC State, and how you loved it when the Tar Heels were defeated, no matter the opponent.

I will remember your boisterous laughter, your genuine smile and your affection for practical jokes.

I will remember the pride your parents feel for all you’ve accomplished. They are so proud of you, and I think everyone knows it; their baby, their handsome, intelligent, witty and charming son.

I will remember the pride I felt when people told me how lucky I was; what a good, honest & loyal man you were and how much your coworkers genuinely appreciated your dedication.

I will remember your opinionated nature and strong will. You always stood up for what you felt was right, even if no one else, including me, saw things exactly the same way as you did.

I will remember your brilliance. You are, truly, the most brilliant man I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I will remember our life, our hopes, our dreams for our precious children.

I will also remember to have someone else help them with their math homework, because that is definitely your strong suit.

I will remember your vibrant blue eyes every time I look into our daughter’s faces. They have the same hue, sparkle and kindness as yours.

I will remember you tossing our girls up into the air, just to hear them giggle hysterically, knowing it nearly gave me a heart attack each time you did it.

I will remember, every day, that we were given the gift of each other and we were fortunate enough to experience such a full life in a short amount of time.

I will remember, every day, to make sure our daughters know exactly what kind of man you are.

I will remember, every day, that you were mine for a time and you gave to me, to our daughters, so selflessly.

I will remember, every day, your promises to me to love, honor and protect us; which you have gallantly done.

I will remember, every day, to uphold my promises to you and raise our children while focusing on the dreams and hopes we had planned for them together.

I will remember, every day, that’s it’s okay to miss you. It’s okay to cry. And it’s okay to let you go.
I will remember, forever, to be thankful for every moment I was allowed to spend with you.

I will remember.

I love you.

Forever,
Skye

Today, I woke up and glanced at the clock.
And scolded myself for not getting out of bed.
I would surely hit traffic on the way to visit you at the Hospice Home.

Then it hit me.

Not today.

I would not be going to see you today.
We have been married for 3,385 days.
In that time, we’ve only been apart a handful of times.
And during those times, we always spoke on the phone. Usually multiple times a day.

But not today.

And not ever again.

The grief counselor came to see the girls today.
And I think it’s safe to say that Carys is waffling between anger and sorrow. If there is a difference right now.
She’s been pulling me into my bedroom every couple of hours just to be held and talk about you.

I went ahead and gave the girls their fingerprint necklaces this morning.
They were so proud to be wearing your fingerprint close to their heart, literally.
Cailyn was reduced to frantic screaming and tears when she broke her chain.
But we fixed it. Good as new.

I also talked to the girls today about your service on Saturday.
They didn’t quite understand why I was walking around the house, pulling pictures and other things to take with us there.
So, I told them we were just having a Memory Party for you.
And it is.
Daddy’s Memory Party.
They seem to like the sound of that better anyway.
I guess I do, too.

Carys asked me if Jesus had a chef in Heaven.
And I explained to her that Heaven was Paradise – with any and everything you would ever need.
All your favorites.
And she quickly asked if Jesus’ chef would know how to make chocolate chip cookies the way you like them.
And I assured her you would have your cookies.
Then she told me that if the chef didn’t have the chocolate chips in the brown bag (Hershey’s), she could mail some to you.
I chuckled.
And she checked to make sure you would have some milk, too.
I assured her you would have your milk. And that, finally, you would feel like eating.
She smiled and told me she was glad.
Sweet girl. Who misses you so very much.

She wanted to write a message to you on your quilt today.
She told me, “Write this, Mama….As high as the sky, as deep as the ocean. I love you, Daddy.”
For years, this is what I have told the girls every night before they go to bed.
I was so touched that she wanted to share that with you.

So.
Today was the first day without you.
I survived.
It was hard.
But we did it.

And tomorrow is another new day.
The start of a new life.
A life without you.
It doesn’t seem possible that you’re really gone.
I remember like it was yesterday, walking into our home for the first time.
You had painted all the rooms by yourself while I was busy packing the the other house.
You were so proud.
And I was so proud of you.
Just walls and doorways I pass through, now.
But I promise to find a way to fill this home with laughter again.

I really hope you know I am trying to do everything you wanted me to do.
It’s so hard.
But I am trying.