The 19th
It's not a Wednesday but it's a 19th. Andy died on May 19th. So it's been three months since he was liberated, set free. It seems like much MUCH much much longer. I listen to my saved voice messages and look at his photos and can hardly believe it was all this year. THe summer has been so long and warm and sunny... It started in March... with the snow ending, so our winter was easy, and then rolled right into a beautiful spring. The lilacs bloomed early. Andy LOVED lilacs...... when he and Heidi arrived from NC on the evening of Wednesday May 12th the lilacs were blooming all around my house. The neighborhood was perfumed.
The next day, we had to take him to the ER in the morning with explosive head pain. He was never really the same again, confused and sleepy... but he loved the lilacs. I am grateful that he didn't experience awareness of fear or sorrow after that day. It was too sad, too cruel, too hard. There was discomfort on the physical level, but not on the emotional, after that blow-out on THursday morning.
I guess I am still going over all these details, the way one does, when you're trying to make sense of the senseless. How one strong healthy young man could be stricken with cancer and reduced to nothing, so fast. And always, I reflect on how strong and brave he was. Sure, he wanted to get high, especially in the last couple of months, to avoid consciously dealing with the hell of it all. But he wanted to keep the hell out, to keep the love going, to not let cancer take away the quality of the days he had left on earth. Well done, dude. I am so incredibly in awe of your integrity.
I keep wondering how, although I fall apart intermittently, I can be as OK as I am. I am mostly very sad but pretty functional. I think it's mainly because we had so much advance warning. First I had the sense that Andy might not live a whole life, ever since he was born. Then, the cancer diagnosis in Jan 2009. Since then, it has been one long incredibly loving goodbye. Even though it ends so fast and too soon, at the point of death, after all that chemo and radiation and agony, you just want relief, and peace for your loved one.
So for the first few weeks, ALL I could feel was relief. I cried right after he died, a little, and then not much at all for about two months. Getting into this group has given me a way to feel and know more of my grief, but it has also made me feel a little different. I know that there are SO many different pathways, no wrong ways. I just do feel abnormal though. I KNOW It's all normal, that's not what I mean. A-typical!?! I am not a crier. I let out a little snuffle or sniffle or howl but just don't cry. I have gone for years without crying. I FEEL. Trust me, I feel. All of it.
Dearest Andy Boy Broccoli, Mum is ok. I will never ever forget you. I don't know what's around the corner, but I'll be your ears, your eyes, your heart, your hands. I'll find out and let you know what's next. Tomorrow is Caitlin's birthday, and we'll drink a toast to you. Wish you were here with us, sooooo much. Miss you, bunny.
xoxoxo
The next day, we had to take him to the ER in the morning with explosive head pain. He was never really the same again, confused and sleepy... but he loved the lilacs. I am grateful that he didn't experience awareness of fear or sorrow after that day. It was too sad, too cruel, too hard. There was discomfort on the physical level, but not on the emotional, after that blow-out on THursday morning.
I guess I am still going over all these details, the way one does, when you're trying to make sense of the senseless. How one strong healthy young man could be stricken with cancer and reduced to nothing, so fast. And always, I reflect on how strong and brave he was. Sure, he wanted to get high, especially in the last couple of months, to avoid consciously dealing with the hell of it all. But he wanted to keep the hell out, to keep the love going, to not let cancer take away the quality of the days he had left on earth. Well done, dude. I am so incredibly in awe of your integrity.
I keep wondering how, although I fall apart intermittently, I can be as OK as I am. I am mostly very sad but pretty functional. I think it's mainly because we had so much advance warning. First I had the sense that Andy might not live a whole life, ever since he was born. Then, the cancer diagnosis in Jan 2009. Since then, it has been one long incredibly loving goodbye. Even though it ends so fast and too soon, at the point of death, after all that chemo and radiation and agony, you just want relief, and peace for your loved one.
So for the first few weeks, ALL I could feel was relief. I cried right after he died, a little, and then not much at all for about two months. Getting into this group has given me a way to feel and know more of my grief, but it has also made me feel a little different. I know that there are SO many different pathways, no wrong ways. I just do feel abnormal though. I KNOW It's all normal, that's not what I mean. A-typical!?! I am not a crier. I let out a little snuffle or sniffle or howl but just don't cry. I have gone for years without crying. I FEEL. Trust me, I feel. All of it.
Dearest Andy Boy Broccoli, Mum is ok. I will never ever forget you. I don't know what's around the corner, but I'll be your ears, your eyes, your heart, your hands. I'll find out and let you know what's next. Tomorrow is Caitlin's birthday, and we'll drink a toast to you. Wish you were here with us, sooooo much. Miss you, bunny.
xoxoxo
Replies
Love to read about your son Andy. And now I will always think of him when I see or smell lilacs. I now have so many wonderful friends that I really enjoy hearing from. Even though the reason we are here is so painful, each Mother here makes gives that extra shoulder to lean on. Thank you, Kelly
When Jay passed one year ago today, I knew he was free. But I couldn\'t stop crying and grieving. If we hadn\'t done the surgery he would have lived a little longer, but the devastation of the paralysis, aphasia, difficulty swallowing and all other problems would still be there. He would have had some relief only to succumb to the tumor again. It was something we had to do, everyone keeps telling me, but all he wanted was to live...it was awful and still haunts me every day.
Pam
I too have many voice mails saved from Tara Lynn. Only listened to them once. I also just found an old cell phone that has her snoring on it from her first hip replacement (metastace) and listened to a few bites the other night.
I envy that you knew Andy was going to pass (in only a small way), and so spent your time saying a long and loving good-bye. Tara Lynn\'s oncologist was very cruel and she switched hospitals, her last being the NCI in Maryland. Anyway, I couldn\'t bring myself to believe that God wasn\'t going to heal her (although with the pain and terror I felt, my faith obviously wasn\'t that strong), and instead of enjoying the time and making memories with the time we had left~~I freakin\' hate those expressions~~it was spent scrambling, with lots of love, and some joy thrown in there. I never let her know how terrified I was, always acted calm. Anyway, not that it matters now, but did they ever discuss stereotactic radiation surgery for your Andy? If you don\'t mind, we\'ll have to \"talk\" more sometime about their times after dx.
I can\'t cry often either, it is too packed up. But I will, oh believe me, I will.
Peace to you Sarah and your wonderful son Byron.
Gale Sue