Last words.

I wrestled out of my slumber this morning by reliving one of the last days I had with Ansley. It never fails to transform me into a jar of marbles that have been spilled across a hardwood floor. The marbles just keep rolling in all directions, some bouncing little hops tip...tap...tip.tap.tiptaptiptap. Others make a spiraling sound as they move across the hard surface. Scattering.

It was the last day that I had a conversation with her. It was also her worst day with cancer. She was in the hospital, had been for over a week. Her liver functions were down the drain and the doctor was trying to sort through options, choose a new treatment, and give reason for hope. The cancer had invaded so much of her body, but nowhere more so than her bones. Her scans lit up like a Christmas tree and the pain in her hips and weakness in her legs had forced her to a wheelchair. Knowing all of this, however, did not prepare me for what was to happen that day. My sister simply rolled over in the hospital bed and her hip snapped. The bone had been eaten away by cancer leaving little strong bone left. It was as completely awful as it sounds.

I was the one who held her, her face inches from mine, her hands strangling mine like a vice grip while they tried to change her soiled linens. Her broken hip being shuffled while she laid there. Her face contorted in pain, eyes wild, while her voice strained through clinched teeth begging God to make it stop. In only a few more hours, they would put her in traction, stabilizing her bones. The increased pain meds looped her into another orbit with only an occasional passing through our world again.

It was during one of these moments that I realized that it was time for me to get home to my own family. I bent toward her face to say goodbye. I gave her a little peck on her forehead; a little stubble from her hair pricked my lips. I said, "I have to go, Ans. I'll see you soon. I love you." She smiled that little wry smile, her lips not giving a hint of the teeth that were behind. She lifted her arm and pulled me back to her. She looked at me, straight to my soul. "I love you, too, Kels. I really do." I responded, "I know. I love you." We gave each other a long, deeply held hug.  And with that, I pulled away, turned, and walked out of the room.

I didn't know that would be our last exchange. I didn't know I wouldn't hear her voice again. I didn't know it was my last chance to say what needed to be said.  And yet, I said what needed to be said, simply. Oh how grateful I am.

Random thoughts

I wrote the following collection of scattered thoughts over the past several days. The thoughts smack of triviality in light of the catastrophe in Haiti. I hesitate to post them. However, this is my life, as out of focus it may be at times. I also think of the people living in abject poverty every day through out the world. What am I doing for them? But for the grace of God it could be me. With renewed feelings of extreme gratefulness and gratitude to have the following experiences and thoughts, I post.

Tonight, I was helping Lily take a bath. She loves to talk, babbling incessantly without much thought as to what is coming out of her mouth. She says to me, "Today, we did 'science' at lunch." I responded, "Oh. What did you do?" Lily said, "We put yogurt in our water and then we added some food." "Lily, that isn't called 'science,' that is called 'playing with your food.' You better watch it because you will get in trouble for it." She paused and chose not to say anything else on this topic.

I don't understand Sarah Palin. I mean, I am a card carrying member of the Republican party. I will never vote for her, ever. Who is driving her train? My best guess is that it is the media. The more they portray her as the "shining light of party," the more those of us on the fringe closest to left of the party start believing that she is the core of what it believes rather than the freakish, far right. Surely this benefits "the other side" of which most of the media is card carrying members.

I just know way too much about her personal life, more than any other elected official, and she is not that anymore. (The names of her children, out of wedlock grandchild, even the boyfriend/father in Playgirl - the fact that he posed, not the pictures themselves) Well, maybe we ALL know more about "that dress" and Bill Clinton than we needed. And, I do recall Dick Cheney has a lesbian daughter. Useless pieces of information people. Useless garbage taking space in my brain. I don't need to know any more about her than I do Jon & Kate plus 8. And yet, the media keeps going on and on and on.

I hear people say that they feel they can relate to her. She is just an average hockey mom. Or, someone will say I will vote for this person because they are like me. I believe that I am far too simple-minded for that to be a good thing. I don't want "to be able to sit around" and have a glass of wine, or beer with Barack Obama. As our president, he should be above me in intellect, in education, in knowledge, in experiences. He shouldn't be "common man," right? C'mon people, we are electing the leader of the free world, not choosing our next dinner club members.

Library Books. Why can't we keep up with them? It doesn't matter whether they are from the school library or the city library. We lose them - in the car, in other peoples' cars, all over the house, even at school. We turn them into the wrong location, creating confusion for everyone. We get overdue fines (from the city) and reminder slips (from the school). We have paid money for books we never located. You just have to love spending money on something you lost. If anyone out there has a process for keeping up with library books, please let me know. I am afraid to go there any more.

Peanut Butter Chocolate Spread. Yes, it exists and it is heavenly. Like putting a spreadable Reese's cup on bread. It is at WalMart - peanut butter aisle. I wonder why I can't drop these last 5 - 6 pounds.

Once again, a particular family member is moving. Once again, I feel the need to scoop up any discarded furniture or items of memory. Among this move's loot, are voluminous boxes over flowing with crafting supplies. I will never need take a trip to Hobby Lobby for a child's project again. Paint, glue, feathers, markers, Styrofoam balls, enough beads and parts to make 100 necklaces, clay, sponges, brushes, nifty little craft knives...you name it, my sister bought it. She really had two obsessions - funky folk art and craft/scrapbooking supplies. I have now been the recipient of both. Her distinct smell is still all over these things which make me weepy. I wish she were here to use them with me.

Lately, my heart has heard the cry of a little baby, possibly a child. I don't mean this in the literal sense like I am hearing voices. I mean, a little desire is stirring in my soul to bring another into our family. I know I am a bit crazy, but this idea of adoption has always been out there in my thoughts. It is a little louder at the moment. I pray that God will open or close the door to this thought and for my spirit to calm and at peace.

One last thought to Haiti...I find it interesting that I wrote the morning of the earthquake in Haiti about some of the responses to the Tsunami in 2004 being the wrath of God. It has happened again; this time with Pat Robertson. Speechless.

Blessed Assurance

What must it be like to lose the person you have lived with, loved with for 67 years? They are here, you are with them, holding their hand and then, they are gone. Sixty-seven years together, sharing it all and now...alone.


This is where I find my grandmother. Alone, in her house for the first time in my lifetime. Due to my grandfather's deteriorating condition over the last 11 years, but specifically the last 3 years, she has barely lived in that house. It must also be a bit strange to her to wake there and not hurry to him.


Over the last 8 months, she never left his side whether in the assisted-living center, the hospital and at his final stop, the Hospice Home. She toiled over him, catering to his every need, cleaning and trimming his beard, feeding him his every meal until he could no longer eat. Now, she is at home, in quiet and solitude, trying to figure out how to start living again.


My heart hurts for her. She is a strong woman, but her heart is shattered. I know how much I miss him and I know it can't compare. The day after his death she asked me through her tears, "Why did he have to leave me here? Why couldn't I have gone with him?"


I took the girls to her house this evening to eat dinner. She is over run with the generosity of friends who have brought her food and it has given me an excuse to hang out in a house with so many of my own warm memories. Not that I need an excuse to come to her house, but I wouldn't want her to feel the need to prepare anything for me.


It was standing in her kitchen that she spoke the words to me that I know now had been brewing in her mind for several days. In almost a whisper, she said to me with the rims of her eyes filling with tears, "I don't know for sure if he is in heaven." I waited to hear more. She continued, "While he was dying, I told him, you are going on a journey to see Jesus, but I never talked to him about it. We never spoke about it, Kelsey. I just don't know." My own sadness for her nearly tore me down.


I imagine it was partly their generation and partly the uniqueness of their relationship that prevented the discussion of this "deep issue." Despite what was clearly the love of a lifetime, full of laughter, fun, devotion and affection, my grandmother could not recall hearing my grandfather speak of his love for our Savior. My grandfather was a member of their church, he was a leader, an usher, and yet, she never talked about Jesus with him. Not growing up in the church, there were zero conversations with my father about religion, let alone Jesus, until after I became a believer. I know many relationships in my own circles that are the same. It is easier to talk to a stranger whom you might never see again than your own family members and closest friends. I think that even though you have this person with whom you share everything, sometimes it still seems too personal.


Back in the kitchen, I pulled my grandmother to me, putting my hands on her shoulders. I remembered why I was so sure that he was in heaven. My precious, dear sister, years before she became ill and before my grandfather's mind no longer functioned in our world, had had a conversation with him. When Ansley became a believer, she was immediately on fire for Him. She spoke to every one she held dear about Him and praise the Lord for that. She had talked to my grandfather about his faith and he told her that yes, he believed in our Savior and what He had done for him.


As I retold this conversation to her, her crying became heavier and a bit louder, and yet, it became the sound of joyous relief. The burden of the past several days was lifted and there was that blessed assurance.

It is strange to be in a place of ministering to someone so much older and wiser that yourself. She has been the teacher and I have been her student our entire lives and now because of life circumstances our roles seem to be reversed. Is this just another reason I had to lose Ansley? So, I could guide my own grandmother through her own grieving process?

Sometimes I wonder if I say too much. Is it better to not know what is around the bend when "around the bend" is not all rosy and pretty? I think she thought that with the assurance of knowing where my grandfather is now that the hole left her in heart would heal. I had to tell her that that hole would always be there - maybe not as painful or large, its edges no longer sharp and jagged, but it would always be there. She would always miss him. The words slipped quickly from my mouth and I worried that it might cause her more sadness. But, they were out and I couldn't shove them back in.

I try to keep my grandmother focused on the future and all the things we can do together. She desires to know her great-grandchildren. She talks about building her strength so she can get rid of her cane. She speaks of trip to the beach, or "to the coast" as she calls it. We talk of cleaning out the house, taking the girls for tea, redecorating her living room. "All in time," We say to each other.

The irony of feeling like you have all the time in the world does not escape me when I have just lost someone dear to me. The reality is that we don't have all the time in the world. We will all die. It is that fact, along with this conversation with my grandmother that has stirred me to throw open the doors to conversations about Him. It is time to have those difficult, deep and possibly "too personal" conversations with some of my closest and share the blessed assurance that is mine.

Rembering the End, Draft 3

Here is why you should care about breast cancer. Here is why you should never tire of hearing "just another" story about its victims. Here is why there is fear in my heart with every mammogram and MRI I have. Today holds such appointments. I will think of her, my sister and best friend, the entire time. This is the story of the her death on this earth, draft 3.

The call came in the middle of the night. As was the custom over the past three years, my sleep was light. Calls in the middle of the night always make you jump, fumbling for the phone. Knowing good news is highly unlikely, the ring gives you a quick stab in the stomach. This call was no exception. It was Todd. The hospital had called. Ansley wasn't breathing well and they thought he should come to the hospital. I could not decipher whether they had not given Todd clear information about Ansley's condition, or if he was holding back what he knew. He gave me the option of meeting him at the hospital. He also said he would call me once he got there and assessed the situation. I decided to wait. We hung up. I sat on the floor of my bathroom thinking. The floor was cold and I remember working through my mind if I should head over there or wait until the morning. I realized that I didn't feel well - my body was incredibly achy and my head hurt. My stomach was churning. Was it from the news or something else?

I went back to my bed and waited, not sleeping, not even close to sleeping. The next call came some 20 minutes later. I answered the phone before the ring had finished sounding. This time it was from Mom. She said she was going to the hospital - Todd had called. The information was still foggy and her tone was a little vague. I wasn't sure whether to go or not. She told me very clearly that I should go. I woke Jay from his coma-like sleep to tell him. I quickly got dressed and prayed that I would start to feel better.

It was a very chilly February night - I remember shivering and feeling my stomach continue its roller coaster. Halfway through the drive, ironically in my mother's neighborhood, I pulled over to vomit. My own body was fighting sickness. The drive was silent and lonely and long. The care never seemed to warm up and I drove, tense from the unknown and the cold. There was only one other car on the road and I realized that with its flashing lights that it was our pastor, Bill. My stomach and heart did another jump - it was more serious than I had worked in my mind. He must know more than me and I panicked at that knowledge. I no longer felt the sickness of my own body as adrenaline took over. We raced together down the empty streets, a tandem team, to reach someone before she was gone.

I walked down the silent hospital corridor and into ICU. My pace quickened as I neared her room which was more like a large open cubicle with some sort of sliding glass door. My countenance collapsed when I saw her for the first time. My hopes vanished. My heart hurting. She was gasping for breath, her defeated body shuddering and fighting each inhale. She was pale with her eyes closed. I cried, "Oh, Ainie." I was quickly given the update - it was still a little unknown but she was not doing well. This might be the end.

I stared at the monitors hoping to see some positive change - to see the numbers inch even slightly up to give me the tiniest bit of hope. Even with the oxygen mask she couldn't muster above an oxygen level of 85. My face fell. I cried softly.

I went to Ansley's side and held her hand. I told her that I was there. I loved her. I went in close and kissed her cheek and forehead. Her body not changing, recognition not there. I stayed in my spot, planted, holding the hand of the person I loved longer than any other in my lifetime.

Her hand. The hand that had dressed many dolls with me, had made me meals, who had patted me on the back, had angrily pointed at me, had held my wedding bouquet and Jay's wedding ring, had stroked my hair, had found buckets of seashells and shark's teeth, had punched me, hit me and loved me, had drawn pictures on my back to help me sleep, had created beautiful pieces of artwork and had held me crying from a broken heart. The hands that held each of my three children in the first moments of their lives. The same hands that would clap in excitement when great news was at hand. A hand that was pressed together when praying the sweetest, most heart-felt prayers to our Father on my behalf. The hand I never wanted to let go.

Her hand was soft from the lotion I had applied just a day earlier. They were always our connection, even when we were small. She loved to have her arms scratched and being the only sibling, that duty often fell to me. It seemed only natural that while during her illness, that need intensified. While we waited at countless appointments, during mind-numbing treatments, and most often when she was trying to brave the pain and suffering, that I would instinctively try to bring her comfort with my well-practiced strokes.

I had only been in her hospital room a short time - or so it seemed. I felt the strong urge to read to her from her bible. I opened up to Isaiah, her favorite book from the Old Testament. I began reading...

The monitor began to display ominous signs of the end. The warning alarm of a condition that would normally bring in the nurses was turned off. Flashes of memory of that time - Pastor Bill praying over Ansley, John asking questions to the nurse, Todd whispering his love to Ansley in her ear, my dad and mom standing across the bed from me - both of them with red eyes, tears, and contorted hurt and pain on their faces - coming together to say goodbye to one they created together. Pastor Bill and Tammy at the foot of the bed - Tammy crying quite audibly.

Was this it - is the day I had imagined and begged never to arrive, finally here? I am so unprepared, God. This can't be happening. No, not now. I wanted to scream. Someone do something. She can be saved for a few more days. No - no - no.

The weight of the moment was too much for me - I was overwhelmed. My head, heavy with sorrow, bent over and drooped onto the bed and Ansley's legs. I could only mutter, "no, no, no." I never wanted to raise my head and body again as if I could somehow suffocate this moment away in the sheets of her bed. I found the strength to force myself to straightened up. My tenuous composure barely hanging on. The monitor slowly descending. Mom was telling Ansley to run to Jesus. My Dad telling her he loved her. Todd telling her to go. My mouth was silent as I felt paralyzed from the tears in my eyes. The only desire of my heart was to have her with me forever. I couldn't give her permission to leave as I didn't want her to go.

Her breathing became less labored. The elevated sound of painful grasping was replaced by fluid, smooth soft, sighs. It was slow and peaceful. Her body stopped fighting for life. The mood in the room changed from urgent to inevitable...from crisis and on edge to knowledge and peace.

Completely unexpectedly, she opened her eyes just slightly and appeared to strain under heavy lids to look in my direction. She knew we were there. We all declared our love for her. The monitor reached the end. She was no longer breathing, but her heart continued for a while. The strongest part of her pushing to the end, symbolic of who she was. Then nothing. The nurse marked the time. It was silent except for sniffles and a phone call being made. My dad slumped in a chair in the room. His voice eerily several octaves higher than normal as he strained to tell Terry that Ansley was gone. We left the room for a brief moment while they removed all of the wires and tubing that had fought to keep her going, but comfortable. I realized that I had not felt sick once arriving at the hospital. I knew I needed to call Jay and struggled to find words to verbalize my new reality. We were allowed to see her again, to say goodbye.

I walked back into her room. I held her hand, our connection over 35 years, for the last time. I recognized with brutality and cruelty that coldness was creeping in. It was a shock of reality to my body that she was gone. I talked to her for a short, short while. It was my deepest and most difficult moment. I leaned in and kissed her still warm head. The stubble of the hair that was just beginning to show again pricked my lips. I didn't want to leave her. I would never see her again on this earth. I walked away. Alone.

Missing

There just seemed to be something missing today. In fact, it has been building steadily for a while now. A void, depression, near despair. And, then, it hit me, like it always does. Out of nowhere and painful. She is missing. A piece of me. Gone.

I needed her today. And, she is not here. I cannot hear her or touch her. I am angry about it. More than that. I am full of vile and fury. Life is not what is was supposed to be I want her back. I want her love. I want her humor and her understanding. I want her hands that comforted me. I want her laughter. I want that person that knows me better than anyone else to be here for me. I want my support, my cheerleader. I want my sister.

The tears on my face are hot and stinging. I haven't sobbed and wailed for her with such intensity in a while. Sure, little tears, but not the soul rattling level of this evening. And, I don't think I am finished. The anger has been bubbling on the surface for a while now and I was afraid to unleash it. And, now here it is. Out. Out in all of its rawness and ugliness and darkness. Exposed to the world.

The bitter winds of winter remind me of the time of her death - February. The day just around the corner. After nearly 2 years, I thought I had escaped the inevitable anger stage of grief. Perhaps, I wouldn't have to deal with that. I was hopeful. But here I am, collapsing on the floor like the day she died, unable to figure out how to navigate this world without her.

For two years, I have kept vigil. Searching for what, who, anything to fill her spot. Not a replacement, but just something to soften and lessen the hole. My search has been futile. There is nothing. Nothing but more time.