the beauty of loss

I share these photos because even in our heartbreak and loss we saw the beauty and we want you to as well.

The evening before Andy died there was a song circle outside our bedroom window.  Beautiful voices of friends and family helping Andy find his way.

And in the morning after he passed we lovingly prepared our cabin to hold his body for two days and our farm to receive visitors to say goodbye.  An around the clock vigil was set up with friends and family taking shifts sitting inside the cabin and also outside at a fire that continuously burned.

And then food arrived and tents to protect from the rain and so many children and friends.  In the midst of deep ache there was comfort in our surroundings.  The girls and I walked many times from cabin to fire to house and back again.  Always held.

And on the last morning the beautiful box that Andy’s dear friends had built arrived and we placed him in it with cedar and pine and so many beautiful flowers and small tokens of love.

And as the children sang and collected more flowers his body was carried up the hill behind our house to the place his dad and brothers had dug one shovelful at a time.

And beautiful words were said, and another song was sung, and we took turns tossing sacred earth into the hole. And we stood in a circle and looked inward at each other and recognized that Andy was now there in each of us, and we turned outward and looked beyond at the greatness of nature that is now Andy.  And then out of nowhere the fawn appeared. 

Our hearts have much healing ahead but please know that each and every one of you who has held and supported us will never be forgotten.  Your comfort is felt.  We love you so.

the love we left behind

It’s good to be home.  But it’s bittersweet in so many ways. There are many things we miss about Miami but first and foremost is the amazing community of homeschoolers that we were so lucky to fall in with.  Not long after we got to Miami we discovered the Global Field Academy and the families there welcomed us in with open arms.  Not just open arms, open hearts, open minds and lots of love.

The girls made friends for a lifetime.  Field trips and adventures, play dates and incredible new experiences.  Every moment bolstered their confidence and made us fall in love with our fellow humans again and again.  

It was fun to watch our country girls fall in so easily with these city kids and see these city kids completely embrace our country girls.  It was like they couldn’t get enough of each other. They showed us how to dance, we showed them how to knit. And when we left there were many tears (mine too) and promises to make visits again both here and there.  We truly intend to keep these friendships alive.

Thank you GFA for being our light in the storm, you don’t know how much it meant to us.  We miss you all.

Are We Still Normal?

Are we still normal?  I feel that question a lot.  It underlies the “How are you guys doing?” and “How is Andy feeling?”.  I’d want to know too, if I were you.  Our fragile human-ness wants things to be normal, even when they aren’t.  Normal is comforting and boring and easy to take for granted. Normal can go unnoticed until someone’s life explodes with things we all fear and then we really want to know: can there be normal in all that craziness?

So let me assure you.  We are still normal. 

 

I still drive Andy crazy when I cook (Disclaimer:  he’s the cook, I’m just the substitute) because I am a disaster in the kitchen.  Things eventually turn out tasting fine (mostly), but not before every pot is used, ingredients litter the counter (the lids now missing), something on the stove smells a little too hot, and the fridge door is standing open.  He calls me the kitchen spaz (even if that’s totally not PC) and I mostly don’t take offense.  Until one of the kids says:  “seriously, we are having this for dinner?”.  Sometimes then I lose my kitchen cool.

Andy still drives me crazy with his procrastination.  I mean seriously, an email that I could shoot off in about 30 seconds takes him 10 days to just get around to thinking about sending and that’s not even counting the agonizingly long time it takes him to actually write it.  And dude, just let me organize those appointments because I’m super efficient and I can stack them up in a way that doesn’t make us have to move the car 8 times and walk back and forth between buildings 45 times AND drive back in later in the day for the last one.  And yes, I can see you are annoyed and whispering “bossy pants” kind of under your breath. 

And the girls can never agree.  I think it’s a secret arrangement they have behind our backs. They probably lay in bed and practice it at night.  It must go something like this:  “If mom says, hey, do you guys want to stop off at the park on the way home…make sure one of us says YES (very enthusiastically) and the other of us says NO (in their most whiny voice).”  Or if dad says, “Even though it’s not Sunday I’m making pancakes for breakfast!  Make sure one of us jumps up and down yelling excitedly “Pancakes!” and the other of us says in our most grumpy voice “I’m not eating pancakes again!”.

And we still have to clean the house and find the lost library book and fix the flat tire on someone’s bike.  Oh, and the grocery.  That’s normal too except with the extra bonus of this being Miami and it takes 20 minutes to drive 1.5 miles in traffic and then when you get there you can’t find a parking spot and the girls starting fighting over who gets to push the cart.  And then you get inside and there is NO room to even move that cart because everywhere you go in Miami there are 150% more people in any given space than there should be.  And the kids are so wide-eyed at all the 6 inch heels and dreads and makeup and nails and dogs in purses and leopard print spandex that they won’t let go of the cart and so I’m totally STUCK between the mangoes and the avocados.  Wait, is that normal?

Suffice it to say, we move through each day with laughter, frustration, impatience and love, just like you.  Yes, we may have moments of raw fear, deep fatigue, mounting panic and utter sadness.  That’s part of our normal, but not all of it.  And we make sure to embrace the normal wherever we find it.  Here’s hoping you do too.

challenge

It’s been three months and tomorrow is scan day again.  Will the tumor growth have decreased even more, will it have increased again, will there be more tumors or less…?  My mind can play out a million scenarios and it often does, until I tell it (again) that all those thoughts are just stories, none of them perfectly true, none perfectly false.   Because we don’t know.  With every turn of this path there has been surprise, sometimes anguishing, sometimes exalting.  

I looked back to see that this is scan number 14 (I may have missed one or two but who’s counting?) and there is still no getting used to them.  I can guarantee that we’ll wake up tomorrow morning with aching holes in our guts, the ride to Rochester will be long and mostly silent.  The hours in between the scan and the results will be filled as best we can (he’ll eat lunch, I won’t be able to), but with faster heart rates and higher blood pressure.  The time between when the exam room door closes after the nurse admits us, and the long moments until the doctor knocks and opens the door again with news, will stretch on and on, and I’ll feel dizzy with what can only be something like PTSD.

So this weekend Andy and the girls did something hard and life affirming.  They raced the Dam Challenge!  We got so much rain that we had to call off the canoe portion but even with rain still coming down, Iris and Andy hopped their bikes and rode the 15 hilly miles.  On their return, they tagged off with Elsa who ran a wet and muddy three miles with her dad, right to the finish line.  Something about seeing them all use their strong bodies, seeing their smiles as they crossed those finish lines, knowing they can push themselves when they need too, gave me hope.  I never would have asked to build resiliency this way, but here it is.  And tomorrow we’ll hold that close as we travel again to Mayo, and it will steady us just a little.

Thanks to Nonnie and Janet who sent along these photos and cheered on the gang!

learning outside the box

When you school at home, learning can look like so many things.  Sometimes it looks like studying parts of speech at the kitchen table.  But sometimes it looks like decorating your parents bedroom.  Doing writing assignments while you walk and look at your shadows on the road.   It looks like taking a drawing class that your dad teaches for homeschoolers at the local library, or spending the day babysitting a little buddy. 

 

 

It also looks like every Tuesday afternoon (for 22 weeks!) volunteering at the Vernon County Humane Society (more shameless proud mama photos at that link).  Filling water, cleaning cages, doing laundry, walking dogs, making artistic decorations and loving, loving up all the cats.  Many thanks to their awesome Nonnie for this fabulous idea.  These girls count the days each week until “Nonnie Day” which they spend with her at the Humane Society.  They have really taken the responsibility seriously.  They get right to work when they get there, asking the staff questions and taking charge of what needs doing.  The director says that as soon as they can drive they’ve got a job.  We are just to happy to see them really owning and enjoying this opportunity.

And this is Otis.  He needs a home.  His tongue always sticks out.  He is sweet as pie. 
You should adopt him. 

elsa mae

Mae and I celebrated her half birthday yesterday, as is now our tradition.  If the pictures look familiar it’s because she insisted we do exactly the same thing as last year.   She rides (and sings) I walk behind and carry the hot chocolate. We headed to her beloved Kickapoo Reserve and the sparkly water of the bird blind pond.  She remembered it all. This year there were no ducks and it seemed a little, well, unexciting (to me, anyway) but Mae persisted, as is her way, and soon found several small red dragonflies flitting about.  She was delighted.  We followed them back and forth on the path, we sat and waited for them to light on our palms (they never touched me, but landed on Mae several times), we noticed their ragged wings and she wondered what will happen to them in the weeks to come. We spent well over an hour admiring them.  Then we found some scat with a raptor talon in it and that was just over the top!

I love spending time with this girl, whose focus is something to be admired.  Whose determination–to wear fancy purple shoes for a hike and bike ride, to play an instrument different from her sister, to ask big questions and understand their answers–serves her well as the youngest member of this family overflowing with big issues that can easily overshadow someone so little.  This girl stays so present every step of the way.  Her heart is overflowing with wonder at the natural world, she wears her joy and sparkle right there on the surface for all of us to see.  She is generous and loving and fiery hot.  She is sure of herself.

Riding/walking back to the car she randomly said (as is her 6 1/2 year old way).  “Nonnie is really little”.
Me:  “Yes she is.  Nonnie is little but powerful.”
Mae:  “Yeah, I’m little and powerful too.”

Yes, you are sweet girl.  Yes you are.

goodness

  Today the neighbor boys (ages 10, 12 and 13), who we hired to mow our lawn this summer, showed up with a taped up gift box.  They said they had to run, just a little something for us.  This family has been kind to us, bringing the girls kites, or other small gifts this summer.  We weren’t surprised to have a delivery.

But then we opened the box. Inside was several hundred dollars-mostly twenties- pretty much the entirety of what they had been paid for mowing.  Also four pairs of fun sunglasses and a note.  The note said that they had sat down together and discussed the money they had saved from mowing and that they really wanted to give it back (they said they kept just a little for other things).  They said the money was not for sympathy but for courage and strength and passing that on to others. That they appreciated the opportunity to mow for us, and that they also appreciated learning that when life throws you a bump you can still smile, like our family. That’s what they said.  Right there in the note, typos and all.

Holy lesson in honorable.  All day I have been wiping away tears and wracking my brain about how to express my appreciation and love for these kids.  For this family.  The parents who came along to gently guide the boys in their first-ever job, who brought along their weedwhacker and trimmed even when I insisted that I could do that part, who happily gave up the better part of two hours every weekend to wrangle our lawn into shape. 

And we will express our thanks, again and again and hope to have the honor of returning the favor. But with something this big, it seems that we also have to trust the process. To know that the abundance these boys have given us will always be part of who they are, paving the path to forever thoughtfulness and generosity. That it is also a gift to our children, who witnessed their own parents moved to tears by the goodness of other children.  

That this was an offering of kindness that will stay with us always.

change

After the second chemo treatment Andy’s hair started falling out.  Lots of other cancer survivor friends gave us advice to just shave it off right away.  The girls couldn’t wait.  It’s funny how something that for Andy and me was wrought with emotion (we were trying to balance the unbelievable fact that Andy is losing his hair because he’s doing chemo, with embracing the medicine that can make him better) was new and interesting for the girls.  

We took their lead and had some fun with it. It didn’t take long before it all came out, his head is pretty pale and shiny now and his beard is nonexistent.  The girls like to pat his soft head.  I like to wonder what his hair will look like when it grows back in.  Hopefully thick and dark like it was before, but we’ll take it any way.

Iris scurried around and pick up a few fallen locks.  I found them later in a ziplock tucked into her bunk.  She’s a sentimental protector, that girl.  It’s all so hard on them but they are so loved and cared for too.

And so what better time than in the middle of cancer chaos to do a room make over for the girls?   Actually we thought long and hard about it, but the girls had been ready for months.  Up until now, they had been (so sweetly) sleeping together in a queen bed, but had been voicing their eagerness for their own space and dreaming of bunk beds.   I figured if we were going to go for it we might as well paint over the nursery yellow that had gone up before Iris was born.  In truth, I shuttered to think of how they’d agree on a color but within two minutes at the paint store (I’m not kidding) they agreed on Rhapsody Lilac.  So there it is. 

We couldn’t have done this without so much help (thanks Nonnie and Mike and Kelly for rocking the painting and Uncle Chuck for bunk bed transport).  

The girls are settled in and loving the space.  Iris was able to use a corner to recreate a little home/nursery for her boys and Mae was able to fill her shelf with “invention stuff”.  And, for the first time in eight years we are no longer lying next to a child as they drift off to sleep and as much as I loved (o.k. and sometimes hated) that time, we were all ready.  And I’m proud of them that despite the hardships right now, they tackled this.  They showed themselves that change can be o.k.  And they showed me too.

the easter magic

  dying easter eggs with onion skins

On Saturday evening as we were preparing for bed, Mae turned to me and said “Mama, who is the Easter Bunny?”   

Really, right now, on the eve of the Easter Bunny magic we are going to talk about this?

“Um”, I stumbled, “What do you think sweetie?” 

“I think it’s you and papa.  Is it?”  

More stumbling and mumbling about magic.  And then with one lame last stab at hope, “Yes, Papa and I share the magic with the Easter Bunny.”

“So, is it you?” 

Ugh, my heart was hurting. “Yes.”

But her response was smiles and giggles and hugs.  Not unlike her sister’s last year when she found out about the Christmas magic and nailed us down.  When she learned the truth she giggled and said “You rascals!”and then proceeded to ask about every last thing she could ever remember getting from Santa.  Yes, yes, and yes.  And then she said “You guys do too much for us.”  Seriously.

I remember vividly when I found out about Santa.  It was spring, I was probably 7 or 8  and had just gotten off the school bus.  Something in me really needed to know that day so I asked my mom and she told me.  Then I asked about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and it all came crashing down.  I was devastated.  We are talking tears, not giggles and delight in all they had done for me.

Our girls response leaves me mystified and thankful.  Like many parents there was a part of me that wasn’t so sure about the “big lie”.  But I believed in the delight of the magic, the nature of children to be held by the good, the sweetness of it all.  I believed they would understand that we told these stories out of love and generosity (just like the spirit of Christmas).  

I can’t help some personal sadness that the magic is now over, our youngest is in.  She hasn’t asked yet about Santa and the Tooth Fairy but it’s right around the corner and she hasn’t even lost her first tooth.  They tell me that’s the way with younger siblings, the magic never lasts as long.
   As I reflect I realize that my sadness in watching childhood roll on is her joy in getting bigger and growing up.  Today she rode her two-wheeler without training wheels with eyes shining and pride positively glowing from her smile.  “Look at me Mama, I’m doing it!”

Yes you are, and we are watching.

half again

Yesterday Iris turned 8 and a half, and as has been our tradition now for a year, we headed out, just the two of us. 

The idea of this tradition is to carve out space for mama and girl.  To talk, maybe hike, relax, and enjoy eachother’s company.  Yesterday it blowed and snowed, so although we had packed journals and binoculars and hoped to see some water birds, we ended up spending most of our time lingering over lunch and hot chocolate.  We read some inspiring Eleanor Roosevelt and we talked about how brave Annie is in The Magic Treehouse series. 

Then we went thrifting, because we both love it.  I always struggle with this because it’s so easy to add more stuff to your life when you find it used.  And buying stuff, just because, isn’t something I want to teach this girl.  So we hunted and marveled and at the end of the day we sifted through our cart full of treasures and bought only just a few things, putting all the rest back on their shelves in recognition of just not needing all that stuff.  She did that easily and gracefully.  She chose to keep something for herself and something she had picked for her sister.  And I saw in this young girl, a wisdom and maturity that swelled my heart. 

As we drove we sang out loud to our current favorite, and stopped for a few minutes along the road to watch two Sandhill Cranes, just feet away, crank their alarms at us while they picked weeds and threw them in the air and gracefully stomped their feet asking us to leave.

And as always, I marveled at this girl, belting out the words to the song, watching in silent amazement at the cranes, and choosing wisely what to bring home from the thrift store.  I remembered again how honored I am to be her mama, lucky to grow by her side, eager to be there with her as she moves out into the world.