{This is a long one,  friends.  Although it is partly selfish to fill a need to purge my feelings that VAl’s experience has brought up at this time, it is mostly sharing something very personal in hopes it touches another’s heart.

Or helps us see the importance to rally around one another, especially women rallying around women… or helps just one person know… they are not alone.  Not ever alone.}

Cancer Shmancer.

I have seen so much suffering because of this ugly disease lately by people dear to me.

It hurts my heart.

6 of them have been able to ward off the demon, so far (one minus a leg, but not her spirit-so inspiring), but not for another friend recently…

actually a friend of a friend, who I feel is a friend, because of our connection.

Val had to say goodbye to her husband on Saturday, February 5th.

He fought a long, hard battle, but his time on earth was through.

Let me take you to the beginning of something I know a lot about…

When you receive the news that a loved one is stricken with a terminal illness,

(in my Dad’s case, it was AIDS)

after all of the stages of grief and shock are over,

you go into survival mode and play a long, dreadful waiting game.

Not knowing when the final day will come, but knowing when it does it will be just that.

Final.  So excruciatingly final.

For my family, we spent over 2 and a half years of time playing that game.

It is a time of conflict trying to hold on to “nows”,

yet wondering about “lasts”… will this be our last talk, our last movie together, our last hug…

After my dad died, people thought it would be so much easier because we were

“ready” and had time to “prepare”.

Let me tell you… There is no preparing.

Death is death is death is death… whether you know it’s coming or not.

It hits you like a bulldozer.  You don’t know how to continue on.

Here you are having to go through every stinkin’ stage of grief

ALL. OVER. AGAIN.

And as much as you think you know about life and God and faith and are surrounded by loved ones,

you still humanly grieve.

You kind of got used to the way things were, as bad as they were.

Their final breath just sucks your very own breath away.

{My handsome Dad as a child-now you can see that my girls curls don’t just come from their Daddy!}

As I stoood next to my dad’s hospice bed for the last goodbye 19 years ago, I was numb, yet shaking.

Ready to collapse from the longest train wreck of emotions.

I couldn’t hold back a few wayward teardrops, but fought back  a waterfall so as to be strong for him.

I grasped his hand… he was unable to speak, yet his eyes said so much.

I spoke, but repeated the same things over and over.

I wanted so badly to say the right things, for this would be my last chance, but alas,

I couldn’t form any meaningful thoughts.

I feared I wouldn’t say all that I needed to.

His eyes were scared and full of tears, yet dry as a bone, for his body had

sucked up every last drop of fluid.

A dry, barren well wishing to provide the water to quench my bitter, wrenching thirst.

I believe he wasn’t scared because death’s door was open for him, but I believe he was scared for me.

For us.  Those left behind.

I think he knew that it was harder for us because we would have to find a way

to carry on without him and everything would be turned upside down.

I think he felt sad and responsible for causing us that pain.

As I walked out that door looking back, and reaching for something to make it all go away,

I knew.  And the waterfall came in a big ugly, endless sobbing way.

Letting go is hard.

I think for the dying as well as the surviving.

But going through what we did, gave me compassion, tolerance, empathy, a greater ability to forgive

and the capacity to love more than I would have ever known.

There are gifts in tragedy when you allow your heart to be changed for the better.

There are things that can only be learned through adversity.

And I am thankful for them.

But yeah, letting go is hard.

It takes awhile to mold a life into something new.  It can be strange and unrecognizable.

It can be scary and lonely.  Oh so lonely.

A feeling like “NOBODY knows what I’m going through”.

And sometimes that is true, because we all grieve differently, but the same.

When we are in that bubble it can feel like you’re the only person on earth that’s ever felt this pain,

or been through this situation.

The kind of feelings that make your heart literally hurt.

The hurt making it hard to breathe.  But we must remember to breathe.

And all I can say to Val, is BREATHE.

God will give you breath just when you think you can’t breathe anymore.

Take it moment to moment.

And give it all to the Lord… Although you may feel that you are left to drive this ship alone, He will take the wheel for you.

Just like Val’s husband, Wayne said,

“the only thing he could control was the present. He found peace in the moment by not worrying about tomorrow. By not letting the fear of the unknown get to him.”

One foot in front of another… take it slow.

And let yourself feel whatever it is you need to feel in those moments.

As an outsider it is often hard to find the right words to help the suffering.

Even when I myself have been through a similar situation.

But don’t just say nothing out of fear of not saying the right thing…

say anything.

Don’t be afraid to speak, because sometimes it is hard to speak themselves.

Then let them speak when they need to… and then listen, and listen, and listen some more.

And let it be still and quiet when it needs to be.

Sometimes nothing at all needs to be said, but just to be there… in body.

If you can’t be near your loved one in body, be there in spirit and prayer.

They will feel it and it will buoy them up.

I pray for Val and her sweet children and hope you can do the same

for her and those who are suffering.

I pray for her strong, brave boy, Caeden, that stood by the side of his father’s bed

and held his hand just as I did 19 years ago…

with no choice, but to say goodbye.

This is the part of the story that grabs me and throws me back in time like a ton of bricks.

Except I was 17.  And I said the same things as this strong little 6 year old…

“Totally normal and calm… told him he loved him and that everything was going to be okay…”

I remember holding on to my father’s hand with a super glue grip… repeating “I love you”

over and over and over again.

It was the last time I would get to… face to face.  Hand and hand.  And I didn’t want it to end.

But I had to say goodbye and let go.  Hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

(And I’ve been through a heck of a lot of hard things)

Having to let go of the dreams…being Daddy’s little girl,  graduation, wedding days, grandchildren…

Dreams and things  you feel die along with them.

Having to let go of my Daddy… but not of his spirit or the essence of him.

That will live on in Caeden’s own life too.

Letting go “in body only.  Only.”

It is the physicality, the presence of the loss that can keep you reeling.

But now’s a time to hold on to so many other things…

LOVE.

Each other.  Faith.  Memories.  HOPE.  Gratitude. Photographs.  Family.  Legacy.

New memories and new moments.

Sometimes newness doesn’t feel so good, but it will eventually.

And hold on to the things from that person which will live on inside of you and in your actions.

You are not alone.  Not ever.

Nobody said it would be easy, but oh so worth it in the end.

Go hold a loved one a little bit closer and in honor of  Val… enjoy the moment.

::::STAY TUNED FOR AN INCREDIBLE WAY TO RALLY AROUND THIS DEAR MAMA (click on link)!!!::::

Let it shine… especially for others today,

Dana