thelanfords.com // life & loss & everything else

Happy Father’s Day to all the men in our life who are lucky enough to ever have been called “Daddy” by a small voice.
And to all the fathers my girls “borrow” from time to time, THANK YOU for giving them the opportunity to have strong male role models in their lives. It matters more than you could ever imagine.

—

This morning, the girls and I sent Chad some more red balloons.
In honor of Father’s Day, the girls made a card – which they sealed with a kiss and stuffed inside of one of the balloons.
Then Carys found another card she had made at school that she wanted to include.
My original plan was to send one balloon up this morning, but the cards weighed the lonely balloon down and it wouldn’t float — so we inflated a few more. Since the first balloon was so full of love (and paper), it needed a few chaperones to make sure it went upward. SO we changed plans…pretty typical for us nowadays.
The girls drew pictures and wrote lovely messages on the balloons; I wrote a simple note.

Cailyn drew chocolate chip cookies on her card; she wanted to make sure Chad knew she remembered his favorite things.
Carys picked some flowers yesterday from Chad’s mom’s house – and wanted to make sure Chad knew she picked them just for him. His favorites – that he used to pick for his mother, too.

The girls were very excited to do this today. They didn’t even take time to get dressed – they got right to work this morning.
All of us, in our pajamas, stood in the front yard and sent our Father’s Day wishes to Chad. Then the girls released the four balloons…and watched them disappear into the sky.
The girls stood there for a bit, even when the balloons were no longer visible, just in case the red vessels came back into their sight.

After our balloon release, the girls and I got dressed (finally) and grabbed some lunch.
Then, we dropped Carys off at camp. For a week! EEEEEEkkkkkkkk!
I cannot believe she is old enough to do this – or to want to do this – without Mommy there.
She was so excited, but a little nervous as we pulled into the camp area and she saw how many people were there.

We unpacked and got her all set up.
And then I learned that my baby is not a baby anymore.
Which I knew.
But it helps my mommy*heart to think she still needs me more than she actually does.

She wouldn’t allow me to kiss or hug her “in public” because I was embarrassing her.
I really thought I had a few more years before she started complaining about her embarrassing mommy…but, no. That day came too early for my taste.

I hope she has a fabulous time – which I know she will.
She has a friend from her Girl Scout Troop that is sleeping right next to her each night.

I can’t wait to hear about all the fun times and memories she’ll make this week.
And it will feel kinda strange not having her around this week.
Cailyn will see what it feels like to be an only child for once in her life…and I suspect she will start missing her sister fiercely after day three.

When I look at my children, I do not merely see fatherless daughters.
At least not anymore.

The immediate weeks after his death, I could barely look my girls in their sparkling ocean eyes without sobbing.
They remind me so much of him.
The sorrow was all-encompassing: all the things that he will miss, all the times they will wish he was here to offer advice or a hug or refuge from their overwhelmed mother.

Now, however…I dare to see past the period of pain, doubt, tears.

I see strong little spirits; on the perpetual cusp of understanding who they are meant to be.
I see little wildflowers; yielding to the rain and looking forward to their time to blossom in the sun.
I see daring little dreamers; not yet knowing that reality and dreams can be thoughtfully entwined.
I see bright little stars; lighting up my darkness with a special flair that is their own.

In the last few days, I have been hit with an onslaught of emotions with Father’s Day quickly approaching.
The commercials.
The greeting card aisles.
The recordable voice books meant to hold precious memories.
The television shows centered around weddings and watching proud fathers walk their glowing daughters down the aisle.

I have been angry.
I have been sad.
I have been weary.
I have been worried and anxious and nervous about what the upcoming day will mean for the girls.

Cailyn unexpectedly announces how much she misses him; in line at the grocery store, while in the bath tub, while at dinner.
She likes to talk about him; she likes to remember the smiles and hugs and the special whistle he let out when ever she dressed up.
She asked me if we could send Daddy a Father’s Day card to Heaven, and I will make that happen. There is a helium tank and many, many bright red balloons tucked in my hall closet for this reason alone — to send a love note whenever they feel the need.

Carys has been making Father’s Day cards for Chad at school this week.
Each day, I check her backpack and find a crisply folded piece of paper, neatly decorated with two stick figures impeccably dressed in Crayola’s finest. A girl and a man, beaming and standing under a tree and smiling sunshine. She’s always wearing pink; he’s always wearing his Wolfpack red. And she always pens, “I love you Daddy.”

My heart hurts for her on a daily basis.
I wonder what she must feel when kids at school talk about their weekends with their families, their moms and their dads.
I wonder if she refuses to talk about it because she’s afraid to cry.
I wonder if she thinks the rest of her life will be so full of hurt and sadness and an empty feeling that no one will ever truly understand.

And then an epiphany.
A thought that I’d thought so many times before, but never quite got.

I am, of course, immensely saddened for my girls.
I cry for them more than they will ever know.
It is true. The most respected, loved and heroic person in their life is no longer here.
There isn’t a physical father in this family of ours.

They do have an outstanding, loving and supportive network of men in their lives that I know are committed to helping these precious girls find their way.
They have a great-grandfather – and they will, many years from now, be aware of how lucky they are to have a relationship with their great grandfather.
They have two grandpas, who spoil the girls rotten and return them to me as the sugar high wears off…which is the way it’s supposed to be.
They have many, many uncles that love my girls as their own; taking turns giving pony rides on their knees or sight-seeing adventures from atop their broad shoulders.
They have cousins who play duck-duck-goose and tic-tac-toe and whatever else their heart desires.
They have the admiration of our male friends, who listen to (and joyfully laugh at) made-up knock-knock jokes and play Barbie or try to teach them karate without my prior knowledge…

We have been blessed in so many ways.
And I cannot continue to weep for my “fatherless” daughters as I have been.
There will always be a part of me that cannot hold back tears when I think about traditional father-daughter moments.
They had an amazing, loving and inspiring father who can never be replaced.
And now the Little Lanford Ladies need (and have) many strong male figures in their life to help fill the void I never will be able to.
I understand it’s not quite the same as having a father. But it certainly helps.
And I’m certainly thankful for each of you who take the time to make them feel special and loved.

Lately, Cailyn has been asking a lot of questions about death.
She brings the subject up voluntarily and is so inquisitive.
She is just trying to wrap her mind around everything, I know.

Earlier in the week, she asked me why I wouldn’t let her go to Hospice the day Chad died.
I explained that it was a very long day and it was very sad for everyone…and that she was much too young to be there.
That response wasn’t quite satisfactory to her, so I added that she could see a picture I took when she is MUCH older.

Yes, I took a picture…for this very reason. I knew, one day long from now, the girls might want to see or better understand what occurred on November 10, 2010. I would have wanted to know if it were me. They may never ask about it again, but I couldn’t imagine anything worse than not having something to show them if they needed to have an image for closure and I had nothing to offer. I would never share it with them until they were well into their teens or even later.

“Well…what did he look like when he died?”

I further explained that he looked just like he did the last time she saw him, a few days before he passed away.
I also added that he looked very peaceful and calm, that he wasn’t frightened, scared or nervous.

“What happened to his body?”
“How did he go to Heaven without his body?”

I knew this was coming, as I had only offered minimal information about cremation. I didn’t want to scare her.
She knows that Daddy’s body wasn’t buried and that his soul went to Heaven.
She also knows that we have his ashes and we disperse them in specific places that he would want to be. And she knows he didn’t need a body anymore because he got a new one as soon as he passed away.
She gets all of that.
Or, at least, as much as a child her age can get it…

Today, while riding home from running errands, she asks a few more questions:

“So, when you die, do you just wait around for a few days for Jesus to come get you?”

I almost chuckled, but I stopped myself because she was being very serious.
I also had an instant vision of Cailyn packing her pink Hello Kitty luggage with glitter and Twinkies, waiting for Jesus to come pick her up in a convertible – because I’m sure this is what she was thinking…

I kept it brief, and just let her know that Jesus takes your soul to Heaven the very second you die.
Your last breath one Earth is your first breath in Heaven, and that everyone you love (that’s in Heaven already) is there waiting for you.
She said “Oh…okay” and that was it. She went back to watching a movie in the back seat.
It was quiet for a while.

Then….

“Mommy, what’s a soul?”

I have a few age-appropriate responses that I’ve cataloged in the back of my mind; an arsenal of toddler theology.
We’ve approached this subject before, so I was pretty quick to remember my last little speech.

A soul is the invisible part of you – the part that makes you who you are. It the part that makes you lovable, loving, funny, caring and so very different from everyone else in this world. It’s the part deep inside your heart that tells you right from wrong; the parts of your brain and heart that hold your memories and your attitude; the part of you that makes other people know what kind of person you are.
Your soul goes to Heaven, your body does not. When you get to Heaven, you get a new body that is perfect and will never get sick; you just don’t need your old body anymore.

I could see her sweet little face, twisted in confusion.

“Does that make sense, Cailyn? I know it can be hard to understand. Lots of grown ups don’t understand. You don’t have to understand it right now, but one day you will.”

“Mommy, I know what that kind of soul is. I wanted to know what the bottom of my shoe was made out of.”

Oh.
Right.
Silly me for thinking we were still continuing a conversation from minutes earlier.

I did let out a chuckle, then.
I am the Queen of Over Thinking.
But then again, you can understand my confusion of soul vs. sole given our previous conversation.

That child never surprises me.
She keeps me on my toes and she never stops asking questions.
She’s going to be an outstanding lawyer one day…and channel Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde.

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.