Ian stared up at the ceiling from the bed at the naturopathic treatment center, unable to move any part of his body below the neck. For most of the 10 days we spent there, he was getting intravenous high dose Vitamin C and a host of last-chance protocols commonly used in European countries to fight cancer. During this time, Ian’s mind was relatively strong. Except for the last few days his life, he was aware of his rapid decline.
I often wondered what was going through his mind.
This was new for me. I had always known exactly what was going on his mind — Ian could talk and he loved to share! He easily filled up an entire 30-minute drive home from school with colorful stories of the day’s adventures. Things didn’t change much when he started his new job straight out of college. I knew about the potential clients, the presentations, the contracts that closed and the ones that did not. He texted me often and kept me posted on just about everything.
But, here I am, 22 months since our beloved son’s passing to Heaven, and I’m left still wondering what was he thinking in his final days on earth? Was he devastated? Was he still hopeful? Did he ever resign to his soon departure? If he did, he never shared that with me. He chose not to talk about the end.
One thing I know is that through his entire 8-month battle with cancer, he never uttered one word of victimized complaint to me. I never heard him ask, “Why me?”
Continue reading “There was Patience, There was Peace”
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”
I sat with Joy on the back patio on a sunny afternoon in May 2017 as we talked endlessly about our sons. Her son, Kekoa, passed over to heaven in July, while our son Ian passed in October.
We had met each other only weeks prior at Griefshare, a grief support group we attended at a nearby church. Joy is a deeply spiritual woman with a solid footing in her faith. We grieved together with hope, knowing that our sons are now among the Lord’s saints in heaven.
Nonetheless … there were tears and pain.
When two butterflies suddenly started to dance on and around our hedges that afternoon, we chuckled about it. It was tempting to say these two dancing butterflies were our sons visiting us, but we knew better than that. Our children did not turn into butterflies, black moths or angels. They are still the magnificent souls they were here on earth but in a new and improved physical state in heaven.
Yet, as these two butterflies brought smiles to our faces long into the afternoon, Joy suddenly asked, “Do you see two butterflies hanging around like this very often?”
“Not really,” I replied.
We stared at those butterflies in silence for a bit of time, and then we laughed.
It felt good to laugh.
Something felt very special about those butterflies.
Continue reading “Of Butterflies, Black Moths and Angels”
The hospital bed in the middle of our living room was surrounded by sofas that served as seating for those who came to say goodbye. Hospice workers came and went, addressing Ian’s “comfort” needs that changed drastically with each passing day.
Pastor Glenn arrived on Monday to pray with us, again. This time, he gently told Ian that while we continue to pray for a miracle, it was time to consider that God was preparing a place for him.
But, Ian was not ready…
Even Jesus asked God to “let this cup pass from me” before going to the cross.
Pastor Glenn later reassured us that even if Ian wasn’t ready to leave, God had him – his child – by the hand and would not let go.
Six days after returning home from our Hail Mary attempt at the naturopathic treatment center, the good Lord dispatched his Angels for our precious Ian.
Continue reading “A Smile to Remember”
“Ma, can you show me around?” Ian asked as daybreak arrived.
Grimacing in pain, Ian slowly sat up in bed. I pushed the wheelchair as close as I could to the large king-sized bed. Taking hold of him under booth arms, I moved him onto the wheelchair. I then pushed him very carefully over the sliding-door track so as not to put any more pressure onto his aching neck.
We exited the room onto the grounds of the naturopathic treatment center where we were scheduled to stay for the next 14 days. I wheeled him through the property that featured lush trees, hammocks and a mostly empty lava pond. He soaked in the beauty for about five minutes but suddenly said, “Let’s go back.”
I knew the pain and pressure on his spine had caught up with him. I rushed him back into the room. As I transferred him back into bed, he sweetly thanked me for taking him outside. “I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to be stuck in this bed forever,” he added with a small smile.
The very hard truth is that Ian would not leave that bed again under his own power, as paralysis continued to take over.
When we arrived at the treatment center the day before, Ian was too exhausted from the plane ride over to notice the beautiful surroundings. As soon as we arrived, he was placed into a large, quaint room with ample space for us to stay by his side.
My heart surged with hope for the first time in weeks. We made it to the Big Island. The center was beautiful and very unlike the harsh hospitals Ian had come to know all too well that year.
Continue reading “A Glimpse of Heaven”
One year ago today, on August 5, 2016, (Friday) Lei and I hoisted Ian into my car and drove him to the nearby clinic. His health was deteriorating rapidly. It was an unexpected turn of events after receiving glowing evaluations just two months prior, following three months of chemo and radiation.
However this week, Ian suffered a severe headache, he could barely eat and his legs grew weaker and weaker by the moment. He clutched Lei’s shoulders and coerced each wobbly step out of his reluctant legs. While at the clinic, Ian suddenly lost his ability to speak for a few minutes.
Something was very, very wrong.
Continue reading “What Else Can We Do?”
Facebook Post: March 23, 2017
You bought this longboard very shortly after we got the news about the cancer and the challenging treatment plan you faced. One of the first questions you asked the doctor was if you could still surf. The doctor said there would be times when you probably wouldn’t be up to it because you might be too weak. He said, though, that it would be a good idea to stay active.
Well, that’s all you needed to hear and you made sure that the doctor repeated that statement with me in the room! I told the doctor he should probably define “active.” We all laughed, somehow, on that dreadful day.
Continue reading “We Feel You…”