It's been a minute.
I've felt compelled to write.
Write it all down. The good. The bad. The in-betweens.
So here I am. For the first time since April 4, 2017.
The day I turned 35.
The day I learned my dad's cancer had spread.
I had intended to keep up with this blog--to keep family and friends updated on the status of my airway surgery, and how my dad was just beating the absolute shit out of cancer.
But cancer had other plans.
On May 28, the most cruel disease on this planet took one of the best friends I had from this world.
Life hasn't really been the same, since.
My grief doesn't even pale in comparison to the grief I witness on my mom's face. Her best friend. Her partner. Her soul mate.
But together--although alone--we are navigating this new world without the glue that seemed to really hold a lot of things together.
My mom's first birthday since my dad died was pretty shitty.
And then the 4th of July sucked, without him there.
Celebrating either of my children on their respective birthdays has been tough, without their grandpa.
Thanksgiving was basically miserable, as we all knew who and what was missing.
And quite frankly, I can't wait for Christmas to be over. Just get it done with. I wish we didn't even have to celebrate, but we will--for Thaddeus and Charlotte.
Through my grief--much of which I have shared, but most of which I haven't--I have met a small circle of people who share this misery. If you haven't lost a parent--or someone close to you--then you can never understand. You can read about it (like I did), but you won't understand (because I didn't).
You will never truly grasp the feeling, until you are smack-dab in the middle of it.
Then.
Then you will understand.
I had one of my best friends lose her dad to cancer this past November. A few days later she text me, "I am so sorry that you had to endure this pain."
She didn't understand.
Until she did.
So while I write for my sanity, I also write for others--those in my new circle of friends who get it. Who grieve it. Who agonize because of it. Who don't grasp it. But who deal with it. Who might actually want to read about it, because they can empathize with it.
But if no one ever reads this, I also write for myself. For my peace of mind. For my sanity. For my bottled-up emotions. For that ball of words that I feel in my chest, waiting to burst forward, often being quelled and silenced because I either (a) can't be bothered, or (b) don't think anyone will want to hear it.
This is why I write. For all of the above.
In the midst of my grief--and then in the midst of my wedding season--I postponed my airway surgery. First to May. Then to June. Then to July. Then to December.
And now to January.
January 17.
There is no turning back at this point. I will not post-pone. I will not reschedule. I will not allow fear to rule my thoughts, or my actions.
In fact, I had allowed fear to creep in. My surgery has been scheduled (and re-scheduled) for the same exact hospital where I spent 11 days sitting with my dad, before he died. Where I ate every meal between May 17 and May 28. Where I spoke to doctors and asked the same question you see in the movies, "How long does he have to live?" Where I spent countless nights trying to sleep--one night in particular, my sister, my uncle, and I all slept on one couch--sitting straight up, using one another to prop ourselves up.
We didn't want to miss a moment.
I watched my dad take his last breath in this hospital, and now I face a life-threatening surgery under the same exact care. An excellent hospital, really. But I dread all of the emotions that will come with being there, while simultaneously dealing with all that comes from a lengthy stay in the hospital after major reconstructive surgery to my only airway.
My fear had guided me down a path recently, where I started seeking fifth and sixth opinions. Questioning my surgeon--an incredibly gifted surgeon, who is highly sought after by people from all over the country. His competency. His knowledge.
I was convinced I needed to travel to Cleveland and seek treatment there.
But then a phone call this afternoon--from the same surgeon I was second-guessing--that totally put my mind at ease.
I am going to be just fine.
It's going to be hard. And the journey will be long.
But I will be fine.
I am getting a new lease on life. You never know how important it is to breathe, until you can't breathe normally. This is another one of those things that you just don't understand, until personal experience forces you to do so.
But I will be able to breathe again.
To breathe.
To go skiing with my kids.
To sing along in the car.
To read books without gasping for air.
To cough without fear.
To take walks.
To navigate this world without wondering whether there will be stairs.
I will be able to do all of it, and I can't wait.
The past 10 years of struggling to breathe is almost behind me. All of the fear and pain that comes with surgery is going to be totally worth it when I can take a deep breath.
I can't wait for that day.
I wish I could call my dad and tell him all about it.
Oh, P.S.
We got a dog. His name is Luke. He's super serious, and he fits in perfectly.
He doesn't chew on important things, but he will pee all over your shoes if you talk to him like a puppy.
So. There's that.
We still love him, though.
Lukey-Luke.
Write it all down. The good. The bad. The in-betweens.
So here I am. For the first time since April 4, 2017.
The day I turned 35.
The day I learned my dad's cancer had spread.
I had intended to keep up with this blog--to keep family and friends updated on the status of my airway surgery, and how my dad was just beating the absolute shit out of cancer.
But cancer had other plans.
On May 28, the most cruel disease on this planet took one of the best friends I had from this world.
Life hasn't really been the same, since.
My grief doesn't even pale in comparison to the grief I witness on my mom's face. Her best friend. Her partner. Her soul mate.
But together--although alone--we are navigating this new world without the glue that seemed to really hold a lot of things together.
My mom's first birthday since my dad died was pretty shitty.
And then the 4th of July sucked, without him there.
Celebrating either of my children on their respective birthdays has been tough, without their grandpa.
Thanksgiving was basically miserable, as we all knew who and what was missing.
And quite frankly, I can't wait for Christmas to be over. Just get it done with. I wish we didn't even have to celebrate, but we will--for Thaddeus and Charlotte.
Through my grief--much of which I have shared, but most of which I haven't--I have met a small circle of people who share this misery. If you haven't lost a parent--or someone close to you--then you can never understand. You can read about it (like I did), but you won't understand (because I didn't).
You will never truly grasp the feeling, until you are smack-dab in the middle of it.
Then.
Then you will understand.
I had one of my best friends lose her dad to cancer this past November. A few days later she text me, "I am so sorry that you had to endure this pain."
She didn't understand.
Until she did.
So while I write for my sanity, I also write for others--those in my new circle of friends who get it. Who grieve it. Who agonize because of it. Who don't grasp it. But who deal with it. Who might actually want to read about it, because they can empathize with it.
But if no one ever reads this, I also write for myself. For my peace of mind. For my sanity. For my bottled-up emotions. For that ball of words that I feel in my chest, waiting to burst forward, often being quelled and silenced because I either (a) can't be bothered, or (b) don't think anyone will want to hear it.
This is why I write. For all of the above.
In the midst of my grief--and then in the midst of my wedding season--I postponed my airway surgery. First to May. Then to June. Then to July. Then to December.
And now to January.
January 17.
There is no turning back at this point. I will not post-pone. I will not reschedule. I will not allow fear to rule my thoughts, or my actions.
In fact, I had allowed fear to creep in. My surgery has been scheduled (and re-scheduled) for the same exact hospital where I spent 11 days sitting with my dad, before he died. Where I ate every meal between May 17 and May 28. Where I spoke to doctors and asked the same question you see in the movies, "How long does he have to live?" Where I spent countless nights trying to sleep--one night in particular, my sister, my uncle, and I all slept on one couch--sitting straight up, using one another to prop ourselves up.
We didn't want to miss a moment.
I watched my dad take his last breath in this hospital, and now I face a life-threatening surgery under the same exact care. An excellent hospital, really. But I dread all of the emotions that will come with being there, while simultaneously dealing with all that comes from a lengthy stay in the hospital after major reconstructive surgery to my only airway.
My fear had guided me down a path recently, where I started seeking fifth and sixth opinions. Questioning my surgeon--an incredibly gifted surgeon, who is highly sought after by people from all over the country. His competency. His knowledge.
I was convinced I needed to travel to Cleveland and seek treatment there.
But then a phone call this afternoon--from the same surgeon I was second-guessing--that totally put my mind at ease.
I am going to be just fine.
It's going to be hard. And the journey will be long.
But I will be fine.
I am getting a new lease on life. You never know how important it is to breathe, until you can't breathe normally. This is another one of those things that you just don't understand, until personal experience forces you to do so.
But I will be able to breathe again.
To breathe.
To go skiing with my kids.
To sing along in the car.
To read books without gasping for air.
To cough without fear.
To take walks.
To navigate this world without wondering whether there will be stairs.
I will be able to do all of it, and I can't wait.
The past 10 years of struggling to breathe is almost behind me. All of the fear and pain that comes with surgery is going to be totally worth it when I can take a deep breath.
I can't wait for that day.
I wish I could call my dad and tell him all about it.
Oh, P.S.
We got a dog. His name is Luke. He's super serious, and he fits in perfectly.
He doesn't chew on important things, but he will pee all over your shoes if you talk to him like a puppy.
So. There's that.
We still love him, though.
Lukey-Luke.
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