My oldest sister died today. Minae was only 53. Her 54th birthday is just over a month away. She didn't make it that far. Complications of Stage IV Pancreatic Cancer eventually took away her last breath. I miss her. That will never change until I see her again.
The end of January was busy for me. I had agreed to be the PTA member in charge of the elementary school spelling bee. The tense event was just getting started when I got a text from my brother-in-law stating he'd taken my oldest sister to the ER with severe abdominal pain. Something inside me sank. But, I had to deal with the circumstances at hand (the all-intimidating spelling bee- oooh), so I'd have to process those thoughts and feeling later.
For the next week or so, our whole family was on pins and needles, waiting to find out what was really wrong with our dear Minae. The "C" word was thrown out there, but we were all under the impression that if that was it, things weren't too bad. But one day, my husband got the news before I did. He kindly and chivalrously took me into our room to tell me the worst had become reality. Minae had Stage IV Pancreatic Cancer. My head swam. Between my own son and a brother-in-law in Boise, hadn't cancer wreaked enough havoc on our family, at least for a while?! And so the mourning for a beloved sister began.
It took a bit for Minae to say the word, "cancer," herself. She taught choir at a charter high school. it wasn't long before she found sufficient courage to go in front of all her classes and tell them herself why she was so ill. She finally found the gutts to use that all-scary word, "cancer." She even had the where with all to tell them it was terminal. How she was able to look them straight in the face- these young and impressionable teenagers who found a worthy mentor and friend in their teacher- and say that, I'll never know.
I remember talking to her not long after her grim diagnosis. She'd said all along she was going to fight it. Anyone who knows anything about pancreatic cancer knows it's one of the worst and chances of survival are super slim. I found a gentle way of asking her why she wanted to fight it. I'll never forget her answer. She told me she'd always known that when her time to die came, she'd be ready and she'd be satisfied with her life's work. She didn't feel that way yet. So she went forth, searching for a cancer center that would meet her needs. She was ready to wage a losing battle with fists flying and full gusto. Wow.
Being a state away, I was never really aware of the details regarding the process in finding the right cancer care center. All I heard was that the one she chose was stellar. She'd not only have an oncologist, but a nurse, nutritionist, and 2 other specialists I can't remember. They were that amazing. She seemed quite satisfied with how they treated her.
Then word came of how sick chemotherapy made her. Her previously healthy and strong body was discovered to be extremely sensitive to medications. The woman who loved to cook and experiment in the kitchen no longer found pleasure in eating and hardly anything was palatable anymore. Everything seemed to make her sick, from pain medicine, to chemotherapy. She had an anti-nausea patch, a pain patch, everyone was trying to get her to eat something. How her head must have been swimming. All. The. Time.
And yet she found a way to serve. She called me one day when she was lucid. She actually wanted to hear about the silly and what I found to be unfair negotiations in the selling of my house. Like it even mattered! But she listened intently and was genuinely interested in what I had to say. I shared with her my insignificant frustrations with moving while cocking my phone with my shoulder since I was fixing my son's bike at the same time. Here she was giving me her full attention and I was trying to multitask. She didn't care. That was Minae.
She allowed people to serve her. Friends and family came in droves. Here was a woman who had served her church and community with all her heart, no reservations. All were eager to serve her in return. Flowers arrived. Visitors came and wore her out (her energy slowly waned). Calls, texts, fundraisers, etc. There was no shortage of those who wanted to show their love to her through service. And she let them. She felt their strength. She felt their prayers lift and sustain her. In such a wretched and seemingly hopeless situation, there was remarkable beauty and hope.
When visitors came, they always left lifted and better than when they arrived, even if she'd let them wear her out. Fellow musicians would come and sing to her. Sometimes I'd call and just have Mom hold the phone up to her ear so she could listen (she'd eventually reached a point where energy to respond had faded). And I know I'm not the only one. Cousins and family members from miles away traveled for a chance to be with Minae one last time. And Minae hung on. She let us all say our "goodbyes." She let her adult daughters rub her down to prevent bed sores and administer medications at all hours of the night. She let us see her all wasted away to literally skin and bones and still found a way to do it with flare and her typical classy style. Even when only a faint shadow of her remained, it was still 100% Minae.
Weeks before her passing she sent her only son back out on his LDS mission. Both knew they'd never see each other in this life again. The level of courage and selflessness both my sister and nephew displayed is beyond my level to comprehend. My sister who'd struggled to get pregnant, who'd had a tubal pregnancy burst and almost died because of it, who only bore 2 children herself, was willing to let her son go to serve God when she could have justifiably demanded he stay close for just a bit more. That act alone, I believe, put her on Heaven's list of saints.
Now she suffers no more. We, who had the pleasure to know her, are left with much to live up to. Was she perfect? No. She was just as human as the rest of us. But she was Minae, and no one else. She loved. She served. She tried. She let Life teach her wisdom. She bore her burdens with grace and let God help her with them as He saw fit (and she had many). May we all do our upmost to be strong in Christ, like Minae.
Friday, June 8, 2018
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Stud Muffin
I know a lot of women who think they're married to the best man on the planet. Well ladies, I know that I really am married to the BEST! If you'd told me as a freshman in college that my future husband was, at the time, a freshman in high school, I might have barfed. Gross! But, it's true. My darling is 4 years my junior. It surprised me when were dating that I was so attracted to him. I'm the youngest of 6 girls and growing up I always identified better with people older than me. So to find my soul mate in someone that much younger than me was a pleasant surprise.
When we were newlyweds, I was training for my 1st marathon- something I'd dreamed of doing for years. My husband loves sports, but is not a runner. Not at all. No way. Don't even think about it. Despite that, he wanted to be supportive. So he rode the bike with me during a handful of my long Saturday runs. Until he ran into a mailbox. Yes, you read that right. We had a speedometer on the bike and I had asked him to tell me how fast I was going. He would go back and forth from glancing at the speedometer, to looking to see if he was totally in step with me. And then before I knew it, he was not at my side anymore. He'd managed to run into the only mailbox out on the edge of the sidewalk for at least a mile. His hand was bloody and I think he left a dent in that poor, metal, mailbox. Since we were only a few miles in to my run I refused to turn around and head for home. The man actually stayed with me through the whole run! Was he annoyed? You betcha! But, he still stuck with me. He didn't ride with me on my long training runs much more after that. I've never blamed him.
In the years since, he's been at every marathon finish line, except one (have you ever been at a marathon finish line and you're not a participant? talk about booooooring! and he brought the kiddos once they had joined our little clan). In my athletic pursuits he's always let me do what I want and figure out for myself when I've done too much or given myself unrealistic goals. He's been my sports psychologist when my multiple attempts to get into the Boston Marathon have been foiled. He's let me cry on his shoulder when my hips have been in pain for so long I just can't take it anymore. He massages my feet, does the dishes when I'm at work (I work a swing shift), buys me flowers "just because" sometimes because he knows I love them. He always remembers my birthday and usually gets the kids in on doing something fun and surprising for me. He's never been remotely bothered by my absolutely hideous varicose veins or my small bra cup size. In the past few months as I've had to face the fast-upcoming demise of a loved sister. He's listened to me rant and tries to offer words or comfort. He tries to understand when I have random moments when I miss my deceased father very acutely. We've talked about how all this crap in life might fit into God's Plan.
And, did I mention he's in law enforcement? He's a parole officer and therefore deals with people who have serious problems and are literally menaces to society. He comes home emotionally and mentally wiped out. Every. Single. Day. I see the toll his job has on him. He often needs to de-escalate. But instead of choosing something destructive like alcohol or pornography, he plays basketball and video games (and even with these, he uses a lot of scrutiny in choosing which games to purchase so they're at least somewhat clean). All this makes me love him even more. That he is able to be such a loving and steady husband and father, regardless of what his current profession is, blows my mind. I did indeed marry up.
When we were newlyweds, I was training for my 1st marathon- something I'd dreamed of doing for years. My husband loves sports, but is not a runner. Not at all. No way. Don't even think about it. Despite that, he wanted to be supportive. So he rode the bike with me during a handful of my long Saturday runs. Until he ran into a mailbox. Yes, you read that right. We had a speedometer on the bike and I had asked him to tell me how fast I was going. He would go back and forth from glancing at the speedometer, to looking to see if he was totally in step with me. And then before I knew it, he was not at my side anymore. He'd managed to run into the only mailbox out on the edge of the sidewalk for at least a mile. His hand was bloody and I think he left a dent in that poor, metal, mailbox. Since we were only a few miles in to my run I refused to turn around and head for home. The man actually stayed with me through the whole run! Was he annoyed? You betcha! But, he still stuck with me. He didn't ride with me on my long training runs much more after that. I've never blamed him.
In the years since, he's been at every marathon finish line, except one (have you ever been at a marathon finish line and you're not a participant? talk about booooooring! and he brought the kiddos once they had joined our little clan). In my athletic pursuits he's always let me do what I want and figure out for myself when I've done too much or given myself unrealistic goals. He's been my sports psychologist when my multiple attempts to get into the Boston Marathon have been foiled. He's let me cry on his shoulder when my hips have been in pain for so long I just can't take it anymore. He massages my feet, does the dishes when I'm at work (I work a swing shift), buys me flowers "just because" sometimes because he knows I love them. He always remembers my birthday and usually gets the kids in on doing something fun and surprising for me. He's never been remotely bothered by my absolutely hideous varicose veins or my small bra cup size. In the past few months as I've had to face the fast-upcoming demise of a loved sister. He's listened to me rant and tries to offer words or comfort. He tries to understand when I have random moments when I miss my deceased father very acutely. We've talked about how all this crap in life might fit into God's Plan.
And, did I mention he's in law enforcement? He's a parole officer and therefore deals with people who have serious problems and are literally menaces to society. He comes home emotionally and mentally wiped out. Every. Single. Day. I see the toll his job has on him. He often needs to de-escalate. But instead of choosing something destructive like alcohol or pornography, he plays basketball and video games (and even with these, he uses a lot of scrutiny in choosing which games to purchase so they're at least somewhat clean). All this makes me love him even more. That he is able to be such a loving and steady husband and father, regardless of what his current profession is, blows my mind. I did indeed marry up.
Monday, May 28, 2018
Outta Control
Is there anyone out there who disagrees when I say that cancer sucks? I sure hope not. Yes, my son has leukemia, but he'll successfully end his battle months from now. However, my oldest sister (16 years my senior) is currently dying from complications of stage IV pancreatic cancer. I wish there were words to describe how my heart sinks and literally hurts every time I think of her current suffering. She looks like a concentration camp victim- emaciated, distended abdomen, sunken eyes, rag on her head. Only a shadow of her vibrant, very classy, compassionate, and strong self remains. She can hardly eat. Talking takes too much energy. Visitors wear her out. Nowadays she hardly gets up to walk around the room. She's in pain a lot of the time. She's on so many medications that her speech is slightly slurred. THIS BLOWS!
So often I have asked the question, "Why?!" Tragedy is not new to the human experience whether it be sickness, trauma, sudden fatality, cruelty, etc. And yet, it all looks so different when it's happening to someone else. And then it's your turn.
I think we as humans are naturally curious and automatically desire answers. We want to hold someone or something accountable for all that is messed up in this world. We crave purpose and meaning, especially when our lives explode. But how can we explain it all away? Does there have to be a reason why my son has cancer, why my sister has to die in her early 50's? Do I need to know this very second? Is it in my best interest to have the whole answer right now?
In my typical human reaction to both my son's initial diagnosis and watching my sister suffer, I have been angry. Very angry. At God. At Life. At myself for not handling things "perfectly" (whatever that means). But, I get to choose if I stay angry. No one or nothing is *making* me mad. I'm the only one who has power to choose my attitude. Am I suggesting I sweep all my anguish, mourning, sorrow, etc. under the rug? No. That's unhealthy and I can say from previous experience, it will only come back later in the form of an ugly monster. I am, however, proposing that we find a way to work through all these powerful and difficult emotions. Move them. Understand them. Learn about yourself in the process. And then, probably the most difficult thing of all, get outside of yourself. Yep, go do something for someone else. Nothing else has the power to change perspective and attitude.
Now this last suggestion may seem incongruous and downright outlandish. I know. I've often been in the wallows of sorry and self-pitty that the mere idea of doing something for someone else (we're talking something as simple as reading my toddler a story or getting him a drink of water) feels like wading through sludge. The initial inertia that must be overcome feels like climbing Mt. Everest. We've got to do it anyway.
One of the hardest days at the oncology clinic with my son ended with me doing some scheduled volunteer work. It made my day. The difficulties of my son's chemotherapy treatment that day were still a reality and still hurt, but the sting was softened by the joy of lightening someone else's load.
So even when Life royally sucks, cry, scream into that pillow, throw things, get yourself a punching bag, whatever you gotta do. And then, get up. Wipe the tears from your eyes. Clean up your mess, and go lift someone else's hands that hang down. See the good. Be the good. Learn. Grow. Be better because of your sufferings. It's grueling, and the change is painstakingly slow, but it's possible. Don't let inertia and circumstance determine who you become. YOU decide.
So often I have asked the question, "Why?!" Tragedy is not new to the human experience whether it be sickness, trauma, sudden fatality, cruelty, etc. And yet, it all looks so different when it's happening to someone else. And then it's your turn.
I think we as humans are naturally curious and automatically desire answers. We want to hold someone or something accountable for all that is messed up in this world. We crave purpose and meaning, especially when our lives explode. But how can we explain it all away? Does there have to be a reason why my son has cancer, why my sister has to die in her early 50's? Do I need to know this very second? Is it in my best interest to have the whole answer right now?
In my typical human reaction to both my son's initial diagnosis and watching my sister suffer, I have been angry. Very angry. At God. At Life. At myself for not handling things "perfectly" (whatever that means). But, I get to choose if I stay angry. No one or nothing is *making* me mad. I'm the only one who has power to choose my attitude. Am I suggesting I sweep all my anguish, mourning, sorrow, etc. under the rug? No. That's unhealthy and I can say from previous experience, it will only come back later in the form of an ugly monster. I am, however, proposing that we find a way to work through all these powerful and difficult emotions. Move them. Understand them. Learn about yourself in the process. And then, probably the most difficult thing of all, get outside of yourself. Yep, go do something for someone else. Nothing else has the power to change perspective and attitude.
Now this last suggestion may seem incongruous and downright outlandish. I know. I've often been in the wallows of sorry and self-pitty that the mere idea of doing something for someone else (we're talking something as simple as reading my toddler a story or getting him a drink of water) feels like wading through sludge. The initial inertia that must be overcome feels like climbing Mt. Everest. We've got to do it anyway.
One of the hardest days at the oncology clinic with my son ended with me doing some scheduled volunteer work. It made my day. The difficulties of my son's chemotherapy treatment that day were still a reality and still hurt, but the sting was softened by the joy of lightening someone else's load.
So even when Life royally sucks, cry, scream into that pillow, throw things, get yourself a punching bag, whatever you gotta do. And then, get up. Wipe the tears from your eyes. Clean up your mess, and go lift someone else's hands that hang down. See the good. Be the good. Learn. Grow. Be better because of your sufferings. It's grueling, and the change is painstakingly slow, but it's possible. Don't let inertia and circumstance determine who you become. YOU decide.
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