the Lanfords

And the way it should have been…

We’ve been talking about Chad a lot during our trip.
The girls are asking very open and honest questions – and I am being as open, honest and age-appropriate as I can be.
Some questions I’ve anticipated.
Some I have not…and those really throw me for a loop.
All part of the process, I know.
They are such strong little souls and I am extremely proud of them; they are handling all of this so well.

We’re getting lots of sun, snuggles and laughter.
And a whole lot of time to reconnect with each other and figure out where to go from here.
We’re getting a game plan together, so to speak.
And I couldn’t ask for more, at this particular moment.

It has been extremely difficult to roam around here, seeing families with a mom and a dad.
The girls are taking it in stride though, talking about how much Daddy would have liked it here, and what his favorite thing to do would be. And I always tell them little stories from our honeymoon close to this place; how much fun we had and what his favorite things to do were. They really like that – hearing stories about Chad.

When we go to dinner/breakfast/lunch every day, the hostess always assumes we need a table for four people. I hate correcting them; but no – it’s just the three of us. One of my girls will usually say something about Chad being in Heaven…but many of the natives here don’t understand our Southern sweetness accents, so I just smile and nod my head. Just three, please.

Today marks two weeks since Chad left us.
It doesn’t seem fair that life goes on.

It’s not that it hurts any less or that we miss him any less.
We just have to keep on living.
Nothing else in this world stopped the moment his life did; and I so wished that it would.

Just stop.
To give me time to think.
To cry.
To sleep.
To breathe.
To mourn.
To hug these little girls so tight.
To figure out what to do next.

But nothing stopped.
It just kept going.

And as unfair as it is that he’s not here to share this phenomenal vacation with the three of us, I know he is here.
He would want to be here, if he could be.
He’s watching over us; keeping us safe; dotting the sky with beautiful stars for us at night.

It’s not necessarily enough at times, but it will do.

We miss him so very much.

Just some pictures. Enjoy.

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.