Lying on Christmas

I lie.  Not usually but sometimes.  Sometimes it really was me that ate the cookie.  Sometimes I didn't really forget the task, I just didn't want to do it.  Sometimes,  I used to think my favorite color was red but then my sister-in-law got this groovy phone cover that is a pale aqua and I'm afraid I like that color more now.  I try not to, but simply put, sometimes I lie.

When I woke up this morning, I realized I had said a pretty big doozy of a lie last night.  I told my family that there was nothing they could do to make "this better".  I just needed to sob as I saw my brothers get the "Dad" Christmas gift that would have been my husband's too.  I wept when I saw my two little boys unable to give their Dad some fancy way to barbeque while honoring the Cowboys. I cried without my sweetheart's shoulder to snuggle against as we opened the traditional Grandma jammies.  I felt devastated, lonely and broken.

I totally and completely sunk into my misery enduring my first Christmas eve in this new widowland.  Even when my Mom's eyes filled with tears,  even when my niece wrote me a sweet card reminding me how much we are loved, even when my son wrapped his arms around me, even when my sister-in-law held me when I cried, even when my nephew shared "Uncle Jelly Beans" with me, I thought they couldn't do anything to help. Nothing would make this better.

I lied.

I woke up this morning celebrating the birth of a dear sweet Baby realizing the error in my ways.  I realize that being here with these people right now is the only help I need.  They got snow to fall at just the right time to make things better.  They helped my son put a Christmas toy together to make things better.  They laugh at all of Leonard memories to make things better.  They have a 7 year old that thinks my 13 year old is the "most awesomest" to make things better.  They light a candle in remembrance of one of the greatest men who lived to make things better.  They have a 4-month-old squishy baby to make things better.  They make things better.

I'm so glad for the whisperings from across the veil between this world and the next that helped me see I'm a liar.  The nice thing is, these people, here, right now love me even when I lie.  And that is the best Christmas gift they could ever give.  They make things better.

It's everywhere

The door swings open and the doctor says "It is a cancer" even before the door finds its fullest extension.  Typing those words now makes my hands sweat. Even 26 weeks later.  How do '37', 'just played basketball', 'has 2 boys' and 'cancer' all go in the same sentence.   It still shocks, confuses, devastates me.

We went from healthy to pain so quickly.  Shortly after we got the news we ended up in the emergency room not knowing if that is what terminal patients should do but hoping for some relief. And it was in the middle of that night shift when we learned what cancer does.  It spreads.  Quickly, pervasively and everywhere.  As I looked at the love of my life asleep on a hospital bed, knocked out by some concoction pumping into his arm, I couldn't believe we hadn't known.  We hadn't seen the cells moving, finding home in his lungs, his bones, his liver.  We didn't know. We couldn't see.

It seems the same with grief.

Tonight, the coach gathered the young baseball players together to let them know one of their own has lost their father to cancer.  (Same exact story, liver, young children, and weeks between diagnosis and death).  I know there wasn't a door swinging open on the baseball field but I'm sure the words hit my son as quickly as they did his dad and I months ago.  Now the question is "How can '11', 'baseball', 'Christmas' and 'down-on his-knees sad' go in one sentence?"    It still shocks, confuses, devastates me.

My son went from happily throwing a ball in from center field to sitting in a van unable to walk inside due to his tears.  Seeing it happen to another family was too much for his system.  I don't need the emergency room doctor to explain to me how the grief has spread.  How, without me seeing it, this pervasive sadness has reached my son on the baseball field, touched him while he sits under a Christmas tree, and grabbed him while he sleeps.  It spreads.  Quickly, pervasively and everywhere.  As I watch this little boy resting on the couch, knocked out by how completely he misses his hero, I completely understand.  I have seen the sadness moving, finding home in his heart, his head, his soul.  I do know.  I can see.

Cancer taught me that much.  I can see the same metastasizing beast in grief.  But this time I have a chance to fight.  I wasn't given that gift last time.  Not this time.  I plan on fighting grief so that it doesn't completely overtake our system sucking the energy of life into its devious alternate plan.

Yes, my little precious 11 year old will cry.  My boy-turning-man, 13 year old will scream.  I will sob as I ache for my partner.  Those around us will watch as grief reaches into each system. Until our hearts, head and souls are suffocated by the sadness.

And then we will fight it.  We will remember what a gift it is to bear his name.  To be owned by him.  To be watched by him.  We will fight by being like him.  By sneaking cookies in church.  By playing sports until we sweat.  By having quiet whispers reminding us of moments we had with him. 

This time we will win knowing we only have to be separated from him once.  Someday soon he will meet us, gather us in his arm, whisk us away to the heavenly mansion he has prepared for us and get back to water gun fights and tag playing.  We will win.

Indescribably happy

Leonard preferred to be with people.  He could have quiet alone time when battling/enjoying his insomnia but for the most part, he preferred to have someone with him.  In fact, the night before we got married, his dear friend Mike took me aside.  He warned me that Leonard didn't self-entertain well.  I don't know if it came from being one of 8 kids all born very close but it was true.  He loved being with people.

And I loved being with him.

Another thing Leonard loved was to cut wood.  I think he loved the process almost as much as the finished product.  He loved planning the cuts, setting up his machinery and finding the most accurate way to get his desired results.  He would spend hours in his garage shop even in the dead of a Phoenician summer.  In fact, one of our favorite family memories is when a very young Kirby wrote a To-Do list for his Dad that included:  1.  cut wood and 2.  get sweaty.

Cutting wood made him happy.

And like pretty much everything in his life, he liked to share the activity.  He would set up a folding chair and invite me out to just be with him.  I would work side by side with him getting him his needed tools, listening to his plans, giving my opinion and helping where I could.

Truth be known, I didn't really like it.

I didn't like the noise, the dirt, the mess.  I didn't like the heat.  I didn't like how patient you had to be with the process.  I really only liked the finished product and I wanted it done and done quickly!  I don't have what it takes to be a master woodworker.

But what kept me out there and made me look forward to each of our projects was how much it made him happy.  His joy was infectious.  I loved the twinkle in his eye when he got a cut so perfect that the union of the two pieces would be seamless.  I loved how he planned and talked and reviewed each step.  I loved how much pride a well executed day in the shop made him.  I was happy because he was so darn happy.

And now I'm faced again with a process I don't really like.  I don't like being a widow.  I don't like solo parenting his children.  I don't like missing him so much.  I don't like the patience required of mastering this earthly existence.  I really only like the finished product and I want it done now.

Yet, truth be known, I'm pretty sure heaven makes him happy.  If I believe there is a paradisiacal existence with God after this life, I have to believe he is happy now.  Indescribably happy, I've heard it called.  I have to remember to be infected by his joy.  I have to remember what his face looks like when he smiles.  I have to be happy watching him be happy.

The thought of his joy brings me peace.  The thought of his joy helps me be patient with this process. The thought of his joy helps be emulate his workmanship as I finish my time here on earth. The thought of his joy just makes me happy, darn happy, indescribably happy.

Beautiful feet

Feeling beautiful has never been an easy task for me.  I never felt gaggle-toothed-monstrous, hide-in-the-belfries ugly but I never had the inner confidence that would have helped pull of my 5 foot 10 inch pre-teen frame. I can't even admit the inner dialog I practiced when I would go around a room and find the girl with prettier feet, the one with prettier hair, the girl with the prettier waistline, the one with a prettier smile on and on and on.

Then I went to BYU.  Where in the heck are these girls manufactured?  I am convinced there are factories that spew out blonde,  blue-eyed, 5 foot 2 bombshells peppering the Utah-Idaho border.  Not to mention the bronzed beauties coming from the Pacific Islands or the long haired knock outs with a Hispanic background.  My inner comparison went into high drive.

This lack of confidence got an eighteen month respite as I served a full-time mission.  Missionaries didn't have to be beautiful, they just needed to work hard.  So I rolled up my sleeves, worked hard and stopped the silly worry. 

One night while kneeling in prayer on the floor in a small apartment on my mission, I discussed with the Lord the blessings needed for the families we were teaching.  Out of nowhere He turned my mind to a passage I had just read in the Book of Mormon.  The passage was explaining how the early prophets testified of Christ.  It reads, "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that are still publishing peace."  I was overcome with personal, however trivial, inspiration. The personal logic was lightening fast and flawless.  I gathered the facts.  "I have feet". "I had published peace".  "BYU is the mountains" thus I WOULD HAVE BEAUTIFUL FEET ON THE MOUNTAINS.  I would be beautiful there.  I didn't think I needed this truth right then but my Father slipped this little nugget into my basket to use later.  My attempts to fulfill my calling would result in the confidence to feel beautiful. I had beautiful feet.

I returned home, finished my time at BYU, went on to post-graduate work, started my career in a new city and got swept off my feet by my sweetheart.  Yes, he thought I was beautiful but my own confidence came from knowing I had lived my life worthy of the blessing of him.  Just like on my mission, my beauty came from knowing I had pleased the Lord with my "publishing peace" and righteous living.  I had beautiful feet.

Time passed as we built our world together.  And with time came a physical change that 40 brings.  I still had his hand as we attempted to live our lives in accordance to God's will.  I had confidence even if my eyebrows weren't where they used to be and laugh lines creased my eyes.  I had beautiful feet.

But the biggest change to my beauty came post-diagnosis.  Cancer is at its worst when the sun goes down.  And the caregiver gets slapped by its cruel timing as hard as the patient.  I slept at his feet for 7 weeks to be at the ready for anything he would need.  And he needed.  My waking hours were full of worry and stress and concern and heartbreak.  None of these were good companions to a beauty routine. 

Yet with all this, something magic happened.  While rushing from bathroom to kitchen to serve the man I loved, I would catch a reflection of myself in the mirror and I was amazed at my beauty.  The face of a woman fiercely devoted to her children looked back at me.  A wife madly in love with her husband was obvious from her eyes.  Her mouth fixed strong showed someone who was determined to make it through the challenges rocking her world.  An inner grace and peace accompanied her every move.

Then I lost him.  And again the magic continued.  As I followed behind his casket holding the hands of his gorgeous boys, I was stunning.  As I laid him to rest in the sweltering heat of a Phoenician summer, I glowed.  As I mourn him and learn to live with only a fraction of my heart, I radiate.

How could this be?  Simple.  It is the same doctrine I was taught long ago in that moment of personal prayer on my mission.  "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that are still publishing peace."  My publication task might have changed from preaching the gospel to Texans to raising righteous boys without my eternal companion as a physical presence.  My task is now to pick up the pieces of my life to shelter my children.  My task is to rely wholly on the Lord when my own strength is deplete from grief.  My task is to testify to all that know me that Leonard continues to live through Jesus Christ's ultimate sacrifice.  And in accomplishing these tasks, I will qualify for beauty.  I have an inner glow.  I have beautiful feet.

My birthday gift to you, my Leonard

Things these days are code protected.  You have to know what 4 numbers give you access to your money at the bank. You have to supply a snappy one liner each time you log on to a computer at work. You have to answer a secret question about what your kindergarten teacher was wearing the first day back from Christmas break to change your cable TV settings.    There are a lot of codes.

It must stem from the prevalence of fraud in our society.  I understand that when it comes to my hard earned cash.  But is there really some entity scheming to add channels to my cable TV subscription?  My cartoon mind conjures up an image of men sitting around a table tucked away in a cave in some desert country.  One says to the other "She will never see it coming.  Tomorrow when she turns on the TV she will have HBO!  I knew Ms. Winkler wore that red dress after Christmas at Laidlaw Elementary in 1977."

So now you know what was going through my mind during Leonard's varied medical procedures.  When I brought him to appointments, the first question was always "What is his name?" followed by "And his birthday?"  11-14-75 became our free pass.  If we could supply it ( and prove that they didn't have Leonard Murley Lorton the first or second sitting there)  we could move forward with whatever medical step was next.

So those numbers became a code for me.  In the beginning there was hope embedded in those 6 random digits.  They were on the intravenous antibiotics they started with when they thought his gall bladder was infected.  They were on the sleeping pill that would give him some relief in a dual occupant hospital room.  They were on the bag of poison we pumped into him that would let him see his boys go to high school.  They were hope.

Then it changed.  Each time I rattled off 11-14-75, I could hear the code screaming the obvious to everyone.  Yes this robust healthy man born in 1975 is the same one you just read about in his chart.  Yes, he is the one with metastasized cancer throughout his body who appears as asymptomatic to his young wife as to you.  Yes, that makes him 37.  37. 37.

Quicker than either of us ever imagined, the meaning behind the numbers changed again.  Supplying those precious numbers, 11-14-75, became a pathway to relief.  If I could utter them for him when the pain halted his own response, a bolus of morphine could be administered while we waited for the IV to work.  If I could provide the code, the home delivery would leave me a 200 mg bag of relief so I would be ready as soon as the last one was empty.  If I could supply the code, our journey would be bearable, manageable, possible.

Now it is 11-14-2013, the first time those numbers hit me here alone.  What does the code mean to me now?  I don't see them as a backstage pass anymore.  They are no longer hope.  They don't scream as loud.  They don't bring with them relief.  They remind me that my sweetheart, my love, my giant will forever be 37.  He won't be gray.  He won't be stooped over.  He won't be weary.  He won't age.  He won't get Medicare.  He won't share pudding with me in the old age home.  He won't subscribe to ARP magazines.  He won't even see 38 let alone 58 or 78 or 98.

But again, my cartoon mind thinks that maybe the next realm required a new code.  Maybe heaven requires a password change.  Maybe St. Peter follows the same protocol.  Maybe Peter greeted my Leonard at the Pearly Gates and asked "What is your name?"  and then "When is your birthday?"  Maybe, just maybe, when my Leonard rattled off 11-14-75 he was told that wasn't accurate any longer.  The code had been changed.  Now his code is 8-6-13.   
8-6-13 wouldn't need morphine.   
8-6-13 wouldn't endure the irritation of shared hospital rooms.   
8-6-13 doesn't have a midnight delivery from a hospice pharmacy.   
8-6-13 would give the opportunity to gain eternal knowledge in God's presence.   
8-6-13 would signify that through an Infinite Sacrifice, Leonard's soul continues.   
8-6-13 means hope.

So on this day, 11-14-2013, my birthday gift to him, is my acknowledgement of this hope.  I count the days until I, too,  require a password change and we are reunited making up for not getting to share pudding in our old age.

His wings' shadows

Everything got torn down when Leonard went home.  And I mean everything.  Not one single portion of my life wasn't touched and altered.  (I avoid the word "destroyed" since I long for a perspective on this that doesn't enact the vision of natural disaster relief.)  My bank account changed. The place where we store our car keys changed.  The way the pillows in my bed look changed.  The laundry changed.  Our Sunday night activities changed.  Our television habits changed.  The use of toothpaste and towels in the bathroom changed.  THIS CHANGED EVERYTHING.

There is no place that didn't change.  And with the destruction (see, I can't avoid the word!) of all parts of our life, so are my islands of refuge all gone.  The comfort of jumping on his lap after a hard day is gone.  The peace of sitting with him at church is gone.  The intimacy of reviewing hopes and dreams with my head propped up on an elbow is gone.  IT IS ALL GONE.

But the crazy thing is, I still have refuge.  As the storm rages, I'm not left to endure it wet with rain.  And the Lord taught me this through the eloquence of Psalms.  The phrase, "In the shadow of His wings" gave me a better visual picture of this tsunami in my life.  The Lord would offer His wings to me.  And wings can travel.  The bird of his comfort could find me anywhere.  I didn't need nor would I have my old places of refuge.  But the Lord found my heartbroken soul out in the worst storm humanity would ever endure (or at least that how it feels to me).

So right now, I find refuge from this deluge under His all capable wing. 

Seeking leperchauns

I keep getting the advice from voices both of this world and beyond that I need to write.  I need to document.  I need to publish.

I imagine it is part of the desire to give this horrific experience meaning.  And that is the somewhat impossible quest I'm on.  How can the death of such a giant at the tender age of 37 have meaning?  How can raising two boys without their hero have meaning?  How can the deep stab of loneliness have meaning?  How can one income, pool maintenance, project finishing, life insurance pay out have meaning?  How can widowhood and partial orphancy have meaning?

I can't even begin to answer that but realize that the Holy Grail of my seeking is the answer to my "'why's?".  I long for the answers.  Yet from the very beginning when the doctor said "cancer" before his entire body had joined us in the examination room, I KNEW I WOULD KNOW.  I knew with complete assurance, that I would know why this happened. I would feel the meaning.  I would understand.

Thirteen weeks later, I don't know.  But I do have cliff hangers on my journey that reminded me the answers are out there and I will grasp them sometime.  So for now, I will keep field notes as I hike through this ridiculous trial to help myself document those clues I gather towards the goal of knowing.  The leprechaun's pot at the end of this rainbow is filled with answers and I still have enough hope/naiveté/delusion to believe there is a reward out there for my seeking.

Text messages on my heart

"How can you be gone?"  I find myself asking his picture when I wake up and when I go to bed.  Some days I assault his picture with a more harsh version, "How can you be dead?"  Dead, gone, left, disappeared, missing, abandoned; the verbs change based on how large the fissure through my heart is at the moment. The paper version of him propped up in my makeshift shrine never answers.

And that is the worst part of this journey; him not answering.  I am so reliant on his answers.  That is what I miss the most. 

Just a few short weeks back, Leonard answered everything I threw his way.  I remember a couple of years ago, the boys and I went on a vacation with my parents.  Leonard stayed behind to work and planned on meeting up with us on the later portion of the three week escape to the Rockies.  But I had him in my pocket the whole time.  When Kirby said something funny, I grabbed my phone and called Leonard.  When Carter caught a fish with his grandpa, out came the phone.  When I went to bed, ring-a-ding ding, I called him.  All day long I would reach out to him in his absence.  Then one afternoon we were all sitting on a boat dock on the side of a lake in Colorado.  It was raining slightly but we were sure just a few more minutes would result in that elusive "big catch" all fishers long for.  I watched my line with lazy intent.  And all of the sudden I saw what I thought was a bobber go under water.  I quickly realized I wasn't watching a red bobber get pulled under by a big catch but witnessing my red cell phone going to a watery grave.

MY LIFE LINE TO HIM WAS GONE.  I reassured myself it was no big deal.  He would be coming out in a few days and my dad had a cell phone I could borrow.  Breathe in, breathe out, no need to panic.  So I proceeded to borrow Dad's phone for all the trivial happenings I knew Leonard would want to know about.  On about my third request of the morning, Dad said "Don't you think you have called that boy enough?"  THAT BOY?!?!  That 35 year old MAN I love?  Don't you mean my husband of over 10 years?  The father of my children?  My co-pilot to eternity? How quickly my dad and I returned to the time of my early adolescence  when I needed to be taught the social expectancies of a girl with a silly crush.  JUST GIVE ME THE PHONE, I wanted to scream.

And it all worked out.  My sweetheart joined me a few days later with a new cell phone in hand.  We reunited in person and continued with the reassurance that technology offers to parted lovers in the modern day.  We were connected again.

And that is what I miss.  The non-stop everywhere connection. Maybe that is why I continue to pay for a cell phone that won't be used anytime soon.  703-1317 still works even if its owner doesn't. 

Shout as I may, that polaroid likeness that stares back at me from my bedside table never answers.  I gave up daily texts of him reminding me he was there the minute he was diagnosed with a horrible disease that would take with it our connection.

Now I strive to feel him in my life instead of feel him buzzing in my pocket.  And I do.  I feel his love for our children emanating from my little heart.  I hear his voice when acquaintances enter the realm of dear friends.  I sense his love for me when coincidences can only be contributed to his orchestration of getting us through this.  I get his messages through simple truths uttered by his progeny.  He IS still here but I don't need to use my cell phone minutes anymore to know that.