If anyone had told us that we could NOT take Ian out of the hospital to bring him home or take him for intensive naturopathic treatment…well, I just can’t even fathom what measures we would have taken to keep our “hope” alive. The doctors had given up on our 23-year-old son Ian just as they had given up on Alfie. But, are they God? Are they his parents, fiancé, brother, grandma, grandpa, aunty, uncle, cousin or best friend? Whether a hospital/doctor/government ends up being right or wrong, it doesn’t matter. It’s NOT their place to make that call…it’s just not.
We were blessed to have doctors that supported our decisions, even when they did not agree with some of them. They thought it was too risky to fly Ian to the Big Island for intensive naturopathic treatment and determined it would be fruitless. But, Ian’s mind was strong. He WANTED to go. He was not ready to give up. As his family, we would have moved mountains to give him every last fighting chance. What did we have to lose?
What did Alfie have to lose?
I will never see those two weeks spent on the Big Island giving Ian his “Hail Mary” as a waste of time. NEVER. In fact, given the circumstances, it was the best of times.
What was the alternative? Think about it.
We have lost so much. But, Ian died with dignity…making choices as HE saw fit through the end of his life. This was OUR FAMILY.
No one had the right to tell us when to “give up”.
My heart is shattered for these parents.
I feared the hedge would die.
One day, in the middle of the chaos, I dared to dream that the hedge would make it.
I imagined how we would later tell the story of the dying hedge in our front yard as a metaphor of how you faced down your near-death experience with cancer, but you came back with vigor to live out the rest of your days with renewed focus and perspective.
We would explain how the dry branches appeared beyond resuscitation. It was that pesky, destructive white fly that snuck in under the radar and spread relentlessly beneath the abundant beautiful green leaves and orange hibiscus blossoms. Continue reading “The Hedge”
Is it strange that I count the months you’ve been gone in the same way that parents count the months of an infant child’s life? Each month, as time slips by, I can’t believe we’ve made it this far without you here.
Yet, if the pattern holds true, I’ll stop counting the months soon. Just a few more months and we will likely start referencing your absence in years — should anyone ask how long it’s been.
No matter how or if I express the breadth of your absence on any given day, I always know exactly how long it’s been …
because losing a child is nothing like having a child.
To watch your child grow is the ultimate privilege. Fully in awe of the miracle, you instinctively know that he or she is a gift and you celebrate the milestones, month by month, and then year after year.
When there is life, this formula is sustainable. It propels you forward.
When there is death, this formula is difficult to sustain.
For 18 months, I have quite literally been walking with my head turned in the opposite direction … looking backwards.
If I continue this formula, I fear it will sink me.
So, where do I go from here?
Continue reading “#18 Months”