Lessons Learned through Dying and Living

I am so grateful for my life!  I am so thankful for getting to mother these three beautiful children.  I am so thankful for all I've been through, all the lessons I have learned, all the tears and laughter I have gotten to experience.  Months ago I took notes of the important things I wanted to talk about after my husband died of non-smoker's lung cancer at a young age.  These notes aren't comforting or thrilling.  They are part of my lessons.

Avoid working in old buildings.
Get radon testing in your home.
Stay healthy in all ways.
Balance mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual health as best as possible.
Give great thanks for these extraordinary lives we get to live.
Each life and each day is an immense gift.
Focus on what makes you happy, on what feels good.
Laugh, cry, smile, touch.
Love those around you as completely as you can.
Fall deeply and madly in love with yourself.
Everything else will fall into place.

Digging into the dying process

My beloved partner of 18 years died nine months ago.  As I hear of my husband's uncle's dying process, it brings me back to my time traveling the path of supporting a loved one through this grand transition.  In my reflective state, I have found several messages that capture what it felt like to support my dying partner through the dying process.  These following entries are from three weeks before my beloved's death.  A few days after these messages were sent, M left our home to spend his last weeks in the hospital.

Dear Asma,

M is actively dying.  Each day is hard.  We are loved, supported, held, blessed.  Friends are coming to take care of our home and children and us each day.  I feel sad, devastated, hopeful, angry, calm, hollow, overwhelmed, supported, loving, full.  So many contraries.  Too soon, too young, too good, not ready.  Thank you for asking and wanting my honest response.  I cherish you.

Jennifer

Dearest Pamela, 

I am writing here so I don't wake you with a text.  I'm just awake.  You know sleeplessness is a part of the ride.  M's heart rate is rising, blood pressure dropping, pain at a 7 all day yesterday.  This is so hard to watch him suffer, but I am also holding on to having him here with us, as I let go.  This is so hard.  I am calm and gentle with my children and everyone, so I took an hour to cry alone and with a friend yesterday, even forgetting to pick Hannah up from class at a friend's home.  My focus now: time with M, care for my children, find out what accounts to use to pay for (3!) mortgages, credit card receipts, sign will and other important paperwork, and primarily to do what M wants me to.  I think that covers it.  It's suggested M go in for an exam today, but I don't know if he can.  Any exercise pushes his physical limits.  He has declined night care and I leave my phone on for him to call when he needs me.  Anything big I'm missing here?  

So much love and gratitude,

Jennifer

Margaret,

M's blood pressure is dropping and his heart rate is high, but I'm not ready to say his organs are shutting down or to hear this repeated back to me.  Cancer is a yoyo of a ride with so many ups and downs.  Is there a way to let people know I need help with my home (dishes, laundry, etc.) and children (food, helping them play and laugh and do chores) and not about talking with me about M's condition?  I find with my friends coming they want to talk about their lives and adventures and M's current condition.  When I want to talk about how he is, I will.  My hospice people on Facebook are on it.  When others talk talk about their own things, I just keep moving and eating and doing my own things.  This is all such a delicate balance.  I just wanted to say it... at 4am.  Thank you.  For everything.  You bring such comfort to our family.

Jennifer

Another letter from two weeks before his death...

Sue and Shannon,

There are 15 new cancer spots on M's brain.  His oncologist said he needs to improve his numbers on vitals in order to do immunotherapy this next Monday.  If numbers stay on the consistent trajectory they've been on, he says there is likely 1-2 weeks left for M to live.  It took this for M to realize the severity of it.  I think he's shut down a bit after the diagnosis of the spots on his brain.  I went to visit him twice yesterday, once with kids.  I am stretching myself between M and our children's routines.  

I met with a memorial service yesterday and looked at plots and urns and services.  M said the death industry is "all such a racket."  So he wants just an urn instead of a $3000 plot.  Tommy said yesterday people may want to visit M's ashes somewhere.  It isn't as awesome as a headstone and space in the grass, but a wall urn is still beautiful in its own way.  I'd like to have mine there with him, for our children and grandchildren and friends to visit.  So I will do what feels right in my heart.

I love my M.  I am there for him in the ways I know, there to hold his hand, ask him what he needs, what he wants me to do for him, for our family, for his treatment.  I cry when alone, letting so much flow.  Tommy shed some tears for me yesterday.  This is a beautiful intense process.

I love you.

Jennifer