LIVE!

I understand that some level of grief will likely be a part of my life for – well, forever. So, I do what I can to find a way to move forward as best as I can.

I’ve joined a variety of grief support groups, which have been helpful. I’ve started this blog as an outlet for my thoughts and emotions. And, I’ve connected on a one-to-one basis with others who walk this same painful journey.

Recently, though, I received good counsel from a highly unlikely source: me. Rather, the other me … the Sherrie of years ago, the mom before she lost one of her sons to cancer at the age of just 23.

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The Gift of Lei

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.

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Where I Go…in My Mind

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.

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The Yellow Notebook

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.

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To Share is To Heal

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?

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