A Podcast Interview: Memories and Missing

Yesterday morning, I sat with a friend and visited about widowhood.

She asked real questions and I gave raw answers.  We barely even noticed the microphone in front of us.

Today, her podcast interview was released.

My first thought while listening is, "Goodness gracious, I do laugh a lot in this life!" and I am not one bit sad about that fact!

Tim would be tickled that I am still laughing my way through this messy life.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/elizabethkaydyers-podcast/id1417204110?i=1000436964800&fbclid=IwAR19zGOQI3gvZ36Feettpa367VXZkp0vYETXWacmtTdgLfatJ-7qSkCHTcA

The Surprised Missing Role

She had surgery today. 

Our girl. 

It wasn’t massive, only an hour or so under anesthesia, but my heart still felt anxiety.

Tears stung my eyes as I prayed over her last night and this morning.

Will medical events; however minor, ever feel normal again? 

I sat in the waiting room with her boyfriend and my mom, journaled a prayer into the prayer book I keep for her, and thought a lot of you. 

I’ve spent far too many hours in waiting rooms petitioning our God for safety and healing.

Today brings back the flood of memories from being your caregiver for our 19 years of marriage.   

Never a year passed where we weren’t at one specialist or another concerning your health; countless surgeries, dozens and dozens of them. 

We are home now.  She is resting as comfortably as possible.  I am caring for her, changing ice packs, explaining where she is to her as the anesthesia continues to cause confusion.  And a lump forms in my throat. 

I miss being your caregiver.  I didn’t realize until now how much I miss that role.  I miss YOU the most, obviously, but I miss expressing my love to you through tenderly caring for you all those years. 

As I read through all of the pre- and post- surgical instructions last night and organized all of her medications on the bathroom counter, I had so many memories of doing the same for you.  It had become a part of who I am.  Another consequential loss compounded by your departure to heaven.

I am tired.  So very weary lately.  No particular reason.  Life is good.  We continue to engage as a family and laugh daily.  But I would love a week to not get out of bed.  Although I fear if I ever take such luxury, I may never return to living.  So, we press on.  We put our feet on the ground each morning and we do our work, love each other, look for ways to serve others, and keep making the next right choice.

And we try to enjoy the process of figuring out who we are now, without you by our side.  Three and a half years into this “newness” and I’m not sure any of us have fully found ourselves yet.  And that’s okay.  We will get there eventually. 

Our one constant, the solitary that has remained unchanged in your absence is the presence of God.

He is enough.  I trust Him to redefine each of our roles in this life in His perfect timing.

For today, I’m allowing the missing and the sorrow to wrap itself around me for a bit.  Then, tonight, I will fold it up and tuck it away until the next time.  It’s how I do this life now.  And that’s okay too.   

Christmas Miracles

ONCE UPON A TIME...a wife spent most of an eight month period beside her terminally ill husband at their "vacation home" on Mercy Hospital's 4th floor oncology wing. 

Excursions were rare but when able, the two would walk the hospital halls and grounds hand in hand.

The hospital had a nice little gift shop on the first floor that the couple would pass by in route to fresh air and sunshine.  Sometimes, the husband would become too weak on the journey and they would have to pause for rest beside the gift shop window.

A large display of Brighton jewelry was just beyond the glass.  The wife was drawn to a pretty necklace. Something about it made her smile. 

One day the husband felt stronger than normal and asked his bride if she would escort him and his iv pole into the shop to point out the exact necklace she liked so much.

The husband was a great provider for his family and a generous man.  The wife expected to receive the necklace as a gift from him maybe on her birthday or for Christmas.  But as is the case with terminal illness and chemotherapy, the husband's thought processes became cloudy.  The necklace was never mentioned to anyone other than the husband and the gift was never received.

In August of 2013, they wheeled the husband out of Mercy Hospital as he completed his final life extending dose of chemotherapy and returned home to die. 

He passed away in January of 2014.

In December of 2016, the wife sat in her living room flanked on either side by their two precious children, now sixteen and seventeen years old. They presented their mother with her Christmas gifts.  As she opened the first gift, a luxurious throw, a Brighton bag slipped from its folds.

As the mom reached into the bag, the very necklace that had brought smiles to her face during some of the darkest days of her life fell into her hand.  Tears fell from her face as she whispered the story to their children.

💞🎄💞🎄💞🎄💞🎄💞🎄💞🎄

Year Two in Review and Year Three Ahead

Photo Courtesy of Trish Scott
Sweetberry Photography

 

Most days I step boldly forward in this life and find secure footing as the kids and I navigate our way into a new kind of beautiful life.

Most days.

But some days…

Some days, I take that step and find nothing but air beneath my feet.  I free fall.  Spinning wildly, gasping for air, and wondering what will break my fall.

While the bad days are farther apart now, they still arrive ferociously and unexpectedly, leaving me faced flat on the ground, a bit dazed, and quietly whimpering the name “Jesus”.

Medical memories flood me, nestling in the forefront as if set to constant replay on the big screen of my mind. 

His battle.

The days away from our children turning too quickly into weeks and then months; we blink and it has been two years consumed with medical treatments.  The IV’s, tests, scans, exams that violate, radiation masks, chemotherapy ports, too many surgeries to count; they are horrors that can never be erased from my existence. 

His constant suffering plagues my thoughts.

My continual juggling of roles.  I remember with pride the honor of fulfilling my wedding vows to this man, “to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health”.  The privilege of being a mother to his children.  The two separate responsibilities are so tightly interwoven, existing out of the deepest love for my family.

It’s all there.  The guilt over being away from my children coupled with the joy of serving my husband by rarely leaving his side in the battle.  The traumatic memories of medical horrors I can find no words to describe and the comfort of the love we shared that somehow only deepened through the journey.

I remember someone telling me that missing him would be harder than walking beside him as he awaited death.  I thought they were crazy.  I needed them to be crazy.  The pain of anticipating his death was excruciating.  Having to ensure I was the first one in the door from school carpool so I could protect a child from being the one to find their Daddy’s unresponsive body somewhere in our home was exhausting.  Holding my own breath to listen for his staggered breathing throughout each night would cause heart palpitations.  I am experiencing them even as I type this.

Then, he died.

And someone dared tell me year one would be hard but year two would be hell on earth.  I needed them to be a liar.  I couldn’t fathom pain more intense than each “first” ticking off the calendar.  I thought “well, maybe for them, but we have been living with the stress of death for a few years, so we are probably further along in our grief journey than most.”

I’m not here to say that losing a loved one to a terminal illness is harder than receiving a state trooper knock on the door with notification they have passed away.  This isn’t a competition!  It is all hard.  It is all painful.  It all downright stinks.  All I know is what I have experienced.  And yes, while we were able to say goodbye, I also witnessed suffering that I wish I could somehow un-see.  I simply thought we were “more advanced grievers” in our home.

I was wrong.

Year two was H A R D.  It was MESSY and painful.  It compounded grief in ways that I could never have foreseen.  There was anger.  There were hurt feelings between friends.  Abandonment, betrayal, loss of self-all tumbled upon us triggering new levels of grief in each of us.  His loss was the undercurrent of every encounter we had; whether the other person realized it or not.

We have emerged into the beginning of year three without him; having passed the two year anniversary of his passing one month ago today.  It is still hard, but we have found new footing and it seems to be solidly holding us. 

Here is hoping that the healing is sinking deeper within each of us with the dawn of each new day. 

They say “this year will be a turning point for us”.  The missing never ceases, but the coping with loss becomes more stable.  I pray they are correct.  I need stability.  Our children need to string good days together in a consistent pattern of success.  I believe Tim is praying on our behalf at the very throne of God; praying for Him to use all of this, our good days and our bad, for His glory. 

Lord, thank You for never once leaving our side.  YOU ARE GOOD.  Remind us to remain focused on your goodness and rain down your healing into every crevice of our  brokeness.  Amen.

Six Month Mark

Tomorrow will be six months.  It feels like a million years ago and it feels like yesterday, all at the same time.  Painful memories of a two year, all-encompassing battle for Tim’s earthly life flood my mind daily.  Triggered by random experiences, I am taken back to an onslaught of flashbacks at any given moment. 

What a fighter he was.  For 16 months of his battle, he had no swallow.  NONE.  I used a headlight, medical gloves, tongue depressor, face mask and surgical tweezers to pull the dried saliva and blood out of his mouth and throat at least twice daily for 473 days.  Think on that for a minute. 

He.  Never.  Complained. 

Tim Streller was just as gracious, appreciative, and dignified “behind the scenes” with me and the kids as he was in public.  What an absolutely amazing man I had the privilege of calling my husband.  What a blessing for our children to have him as their Daddy. 

This morning, thunder boomed loudly, startling me awake.  Lightening flashed across the sky, illuminating our bedroom.  A loud thunderstorm rolled over our home; heavy rain pounding the windows.  It was gone within twenty minutes, but I was left awake and thinking.

Will I one day look back on the two years of Tim’s illness as a short thunderstorm in my life?  Not our marriage, not our love affair, and certainly not the loss of him…but the sickness and the battle to survive that we so valiantly fought side by side.  Will remembering these years eventually be less painful?  In many ways I hope so.  Oh how the rawness of it is still incredibly tender and aching memories are triggered easily; but I oddly also hope the pain never ceases to swallow me when my mind is brought back to this place time and time again.  I don’t like pain and sorrow.  Who does?  But here is my fear.  Without the sharp, physical grief that these memories bring, I am scared I won’t fully remember the ways in which God comforted us. 

The extent of His love blows my mind.  That is truly what I don’t ever want to forget; the powerful comfort from our great and mighty God during this treacherous journey.  He calls us in Scripture to use the comfort He has given us in our troubles to bless others in the same way (2 Corinthians 1:3-5).  Through Christ, my comfort overflows. 

Friends, God is faithful.  Whatever storms we face in this life, He never leaves our side.  His strength and His power alone are what have sustained our family on this journey.  The peace of Jesus Christ is beyond human explanation.

He goes before us and fights our battles (Deuteronomy 1:30).

His love for us will last forever (Jeremiah 31:3).

We can trust in Him, for He will never forsake us (Psalm 9:10).

He watches over us and He listens to our prayers (1 Peter 3:12).

So as the kids and I (and the rest of the family and friends who love and miss Tim) navigate this grief process, I pray we never forget the goodness of our God.  May the intensity of those feelings of comfort and love never leave our hearts or minds.   

Lord, come close.  Turn our sadness into joy (Psalm 30:5).  Be glorified in this journey.

Even if…..

The Overlooked Role of Caregiver (part two): How God’s People Served

With God by my side, I knew I was an overcomer; and He knew I would need encouragement to continue on this road.

I would literally administer a feeding through Tim’s tube while he rested, climb the stairs to play video games with our kids, slip back downstairs to check his blood pressure or get him more pain medication or honestly sometimes only to make sure he was still breathing, then return to the laughter of the upstairs den.  I don’t understand how anyone can endure this hurricane without God’s grace and the hope we find in Him.  God alone was my sole source of strength.  

He was my EVERYTHING! 

Because this was my husband’s personal health battle, we agreed to let him make the rules of how we would manage this season of our lives.  He chose to handle it without allowing many people around.  I sometimes felt isolated and suffocated by the stress and loneliness of my role. 

God sent special friendships to minister to me during this time.  Friends who respected Tim’s wishes, and left us to our privacy, but still managed to be creative in ways to bless and encourage me; they were my God-given lifeline to the outside world. 

We spent months in the hospital, me sleeping in the chair that made into a mini-cot (when I was lucky).  Most mornings I would find a text message to “please step out into the hallway” where my favorite specialty coffee and oatmeal would be waiting with a quick hug from a precious friend.  In the quiet stillness of the hospital room as Tim would spend periods unresponsive to outside stimuli, I would find emails or private Facebook messages with prayers specifically for me.   

On weeks where we were able to be at home, my mailbox would hold all sorts of treasures from anonymous friends…encouraging cards filled with Scripture or gift cards to ease the financial burden we were experiencing.  We even returned one day to find a beautiful fall wreath hung on our door.  On two occasions, our flower beds had gorgeous flowers planted by loving hands.  Our church friends filled our freezer with groceries.  

Our children’s school…

where do I even begin with the love they poured out to us?  

They came up with the best idea I have ever seen to provide meals for us.  Tim’s cancer took away his ability to swallow and eventually his sense of smell.  Until he lost his sense of smell, I was very hesitant to cook meals.  It seemed torturous to put him through that, and Tim had been clear that he did not want company in our home, so having meals delivered wasn't an option.  The school left an insulated food bag in the office and families took turns anonymously filling it. This eliminated my need to spend hours in the kitchen away from Tim, it minimized the aroma from cooking, it skirted the issue of having people visit, and it did not require me to send thank you cards.

I have found that no one knows the extent of the caregiver’s role unless they have walked the road for themselves, and even then, circumstances and degrees vary greatly.  If you have someone in your life that is a primary caregiver to a loved one, seek out ways to minister to them.  You may be the only one who shows the hands and feet of Christ to them on their journey.  Be creative and bring them little encouragements of love.  You may not be able to truly empathize with them, but maybe from this glimpse inside my journey, you can better sympathize with them.  

"Bear one another’s burdens, 

and thus fulfill the law of Christ.”

Galatians 6:2

I was beyond blessed in my role as caregiver.  Beyond BLESSED by a grateful and brave husband!  BEYOND blessed by Christians who helped bear my burden!  I fear this isn't the case for many others on this road.  

I have committed to keep my eyes and ears open for ways I can intentionally show Christ’s love to others who walk this path.  Will you join me?  If so, I’d love to hear how.  Let's be creative together as we bear one another's burdens!

The Overlooked Role of Caregiver (part one): How God was Enough

I've learned that most people don’t really comprehend the stress associated with balancing life between the living and the dying.  It’s kind of this overlooked or ignored portion of the primary caregiver’s process. 

Only by the grace of God, did I stay afloat during those 17 months.  

only.  by.  HIS.  grace.

It’s not natural. 

It’s not feasible to exist in this wait pattern; having young, energetic, lively children who need to live and participate in life and not sit in a house or hospital room waiting on death to occur.  Loving them; leading them; helping them to develop into who God has designed them to be.  Allowing them to fully experience their childhood and mature through it into healthy teenagers.  All the while knowing their childhood will never again be as carefree as the majority of their peers.

Yet at the same time….

Caring for their father who is the ultimate, brave, fighter; who wants to be a part of every little thing they are doing.  Not desiring to miss a second of their childhood; yet trapped inside a body that won’t allow it.  This strong and yet even stronger-willed man who wouldn't accept his own physical limits and often refused to use his walker, only to become too weak part-way to his destination and pass out cold on the floor.  I will never be able to erase the sound of his body slapping the bathroom tile, time and time again as his strength failed him.  That sound.  It rings out in the hollowness of my mind when those particular memories flood their way back.   

I existed in this crazy ocean of exhaustive waves between the love of my life and our loves, trying to protect them all.  My reality was that I couldn't always be with Tim every second of every day when we were not in the hospital.  I had carpool to run and kids to shuttle to events, and groceries to buy; all the basic necessities for living.  My other reality was that I could never allow the kids to be alone with their father.  I was unable to run for a gallon of milk without taking both kids with me, for fear of them being alone with dad when he passed away.  There were so many gruesome scenarios that could have played out for Tim’s death because of the nasty head and neck cancer that had invaded his body.  I couldn't have a child be alone with him.  I just couldn't.

For 17 months, every single time I walked into the door of our home, (if we weren't in the hospital or Tim wasn't with me), I knew there was a very real possibility that Tim would be gone.  Without saying a word, I would try to position myself as the first one in the door or be right beside a child as they entered.  I am still recovering from the mental exhaustion of constantly being in “Protect Mode”.       

Hardest of all was bouncing between the two extremes.  Giving my all to be “in the moment” and truly living with our children; then instantly transitioning into giving my all to be “in the moment” and tending to the every need of my husband who was truly dying.  The waves of both realities crashing against my mind and body at all times; crushing me under their weight was just too much. 

Too much to handle alone; I am forever grateful for my hope in God which was the anchor to my soul.

Hebrews 6:19 “We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.”