One year ago today, we got the best news possible. The doctors said that Ian’s first evaluations were “remarkable.” The cancer cells were no longer visible on the MRI. It felt like a miracle, and words can’t express how overjoyed we were with the news. I can remember Ian’s large, slow-motion fist pump when we got the news over the speaker of my cell phone! The doc advised that he’d have to continue the 10-month chemo treatment plan to be sure we killed every last cell of the aggressive cancer.
While our prayers were not answered the way we wanted them to be last year, I remind myself this morning that our prayers were likely answered about a dozen years before that…
Below is a post that I made on my personal Facebook page a few months ago (before I started this blog) where I shared about the gift of time that I believe Ian was given.
This post and many of my early FB posts were written directly to Ian…
This is one of my favorite pictures of you. It’s just so … you! You were on a Big Island trip with your classmates – maybe in the 5th or 6th grade. Your extra-large looking forearm makes me think of that funny episode of the King of Queens where Doug and Carrie get that portrait and Carrie’s arm looks enormous and Doug has rabbit-sized front teeth. That was one of your favorite episodes of that sitcom. You would laugh and laugh and laugh, nearly jolting out of your seat.
You had a very sweet childhood filled with lots of laughter. But at around the age of 10 or 11 we had a quite a scare when a quickly growing lump on the front of your right thigh appeared out of nowhere. It doubled in size in about a month and the doctor decided to have it removed, although he expressed no serious concerns about it initially.
Continue reading “Thankful for the years…”
I know we’re not supposed to “compare” grief and rank them. I know that.
Yet, as I consider the depth of my broken heart, my mind sometimes does exactly that before I can stop it. And when I believe someone else’s loss could possibly be even greater than my own, I wonder how can they bear it?
In my own life, there is someone whose grief, I believe – in many ways – could outrank mine.
It’s the beautiful, strong, and vibrant love of Ian’s life and fiancé, Lei.
Yes, I am Ian’s momma and it’s easy for me to believe that no one (besides God) could love him more than I do. But, the truth is, if there was such a thing as a loss-meter, I think Lei’s grief would easily measure up to mine (if not surpass it) because her loss comes at such a young age.
Yet, in the months that have passed, I’ve watched Lei handle her grief with strength, grace and wisdom beyond her years.
Continue reading “The Gift of Lei”
One Sunday, Ian and I listened to our pastor speak on the subject of “Being a friend of God.” Ian was probably about 12 years old at the time. The pastor expounded on a related scripture verse and provided examples of what it means to be a friend. He explained that a friend is someone who wants the best for you. Someone who sees the good in you. Someone who loves you, despite your shortcomings. Someone who understands your moods, quirks and peculiarities. In a nutshell, when you’re with a true friend, you can totally be yourself.
It was at that moment that Ian turned to me and said, “Just like you and me, Mom.”
Some things just stick with you for life, and I will never forget those words.
I felt the same way. There was just something “easy” about our relationship, even during this preteen stage in life. He knew that I did not expect him to conform to society’s expectations nor behave any other way than his natural happy-go-lucky, cheerful and sometimes goofy little self. I utterly loved everything about him. It was true. He could always be himself around me.
So, when I ponder the fact that God considers himself a friend, the way Ian and I were (are) friends, then I know that I am truly blessed. To be a friend of God means that I can be myself and it is enough for God. He will love me just the way I am, despite my shortcomings.
And he still loves me when I’m broken.
Continue reading “Where I Go…in My Mind”
When Dr. Vassalli told us that malignant tumor cells were found in the biopsied lymph node of Ian’s neck, it seemed that all the world should have stopped at that moment and taken notice. But it did not.
For our family, life was in slow motion for about half a day as we processed the impossibly bad news. Then, just as suddenly as we were given the life-changing information, we were thrust into a whirlwind of appointments, conversations, and decisions.
Within a few days, we found ourselves shuffling through notes written on bits of paper, within the margins of books, on the back of brochures, and on our electronic notepads. It quickly became an overwhelming task to keep track of who was who and what came next.
To keep our sanity, I grabbed a yellow college-ruled notebook that was in my desk drawer and added tabs to segment the pages into sections for “Notes,” “To Do’s,” and “Appointments.” I consolidated all our notes and talked to Ian about the new plan of attack. We agreed that anytime he or I would speak with a doctor, nurse, insurance representative, disability coordinator, or any of the myriad of others now in our life, we would add notes to the notebook.
Continue reading “The Yellow Notebook”
We were sitting on the couch watching The Amazing Race on TV the other night. It’s been a family favorite for many years. Dave and I always thought our sons, Zach and Ian, should enter the race!
“Send in your audition video,” I’d encourage year after year. “You guys should do this! Hey, it’s for a million dollars,” I’d carry on.
We were very serious but the idea never gained traction with either of them. I guess they were just too busy creating their own Amazing Races or they just weren’t that interested in a million dollars. Still, anytime I watched the show, I could envision them navigating foreign streets, launching watermelons with enormous slingshots, scaling the outside of skyscrapers, rock climbing or whatever crazy challenge came their way. Upon being eliminated from the contest, most contestants tearfully admit that it is the incredible journey that is the most valuable part of being on the Race.
This year, two young men have dominated many of the challenges, Redmond and Matt. Matt is a professional snowboarder and Redmond is a motivational speaker who races with a prosthetic leg. Both are very athletic. I don’t know too much about their backgrounds but, of course, when I watch them I think about Zach and Ian running the Race!
But, this can never be.
Continue reading “Amazing Race, Amazing Grace”
It had been 3 agonizing, mind-numbing months since Ian passed away when I decided I needed to do something outside of myself – something that allowed me to replace a bit of his kindness in the world. I searched for a community service outlet to honor Ian’s memory and then joined a group of volunteers that delivers meals to homes of the aged and ailing.
Training was provided in the form of a ride-along with an experienced volunteer. When we visited the last home on what would be my weekly Friday route, my trainer told me that this elderly recipient had no family left. Neighbors checked in on Marilyn routinely and she got this vital meal service but she was otherwise on her own. Marilyn is 96 years old.
On the following Friday, I managed to make it through my delivery route without getting lost. Not bad for the first time. When I pulled up to my final stop, Marilyn’s house, my trainer’s words rang in my ears…she has no family. My heart broke and I temporarily forgot about my own heartbreak. Emotions from Ian’s passing were still so raw at that time. In fact, driving to my route earlier that same morning, I looked hard into the clear blue sky and searched the clouds for some type of sign from God…from Ian. Nothing. As I drove down the freeway, I cried out to God that I desperately needed a sign that Ian was with him and that he was okay. Continue reading “The Message”
I am on a thousand-mile journey. My shoes are worn out and my flask is empty. The sun is beating down on me. I want to give up, yet I continue to take one tiny step at a time. I don’t know what propels me forward in this desolate place. Is it my faith in God and his promises for a reunion one day? Is it out of love for dad, Zach and other family members who loved you so much? Or, is it the memory of you battling through one of the toughest situations imaginable and never giving up. You never gave up. How can I?
Continue reading “To Share is To Heal”