thelanfords.com // life & loss & everything else

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.

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.