Good luck and goodnight Abigail. We love you so much.

Image credit: Abigail holds a bird given to her by her medical team. 

It's given in honor of finishing her last round of chemotherapy and with the message, "Spread your wings and fly." From her Facebook photo album. 

I first posted this 9 years ago on 7-29-14 soon after Abigail continued on. Reading about her makes me smile and realize again that who we love becomes part of us. Inseparably so. 

“Where’s the pizza?” my husband asks.

We eat dinner out. He wants to make sure one of us brought the leftovers in from the car and put them in the refrigerator.

“I don’t know,” I respond from my reading chair as he walks over and takes the pizza box resting under my book off of my lap.

Oh.

He smiles gently though doesn’t mention that I still have my sunglasses on. I notice them when it’s hard to read while squinting over Jalaluddin Rumi’s poem about night travelers who search the darkness instead of running from it (Search the Darkness, The Pocket Rumi, edited by Kabir Helminski, p. 53).

I’m dwelling on the part where Rumi says that night travelers are full of light.

Here it is again: adversity is a harvest opportunity. Those night travelers are full of light from a practice of softening and opening while in the darkness of pain.

I think about Abigail, and that she knows about this type of harvest. (I meet her about a year and a half before she is diagnosed with cancer and while I am in treatment for lymphoma. I’m now stable.)

She just died.

Abigail passed from complications during an autologous stem cell transplant. She is thirty-one.  

I’m sad and shocked. I knew she was very sick. I knew about stem cell rescue statistics. So why does her passing feel sudden and unexpected?

Because she thought, spoke, and lived like she wasn’t sick. Well, it’s more than that. She lived a moment as the best ever, even at her sickest. She had that kind of life-loving spirit.

Even when her stem cells are being drawn to save for re-entry later, her “no big deal, I can do this, wait, I can do this with humor and acceptance” comes through. As if giving a White House tour, in a video she says:

“Welcome! Here I am at the hospital…blood being drawn. Stem cells! As you can see, I have a corner view.” She gestures to large windows and raises her eyebrows in jollity, making me wonder if she’s at a five-star hotel. With a click of her tongue, a nod, and grin, she closes with an Edward R. Murrow mimic. “Good luck and good night.” Then she smiles like an Olympian who has already won a gold medal.

And just a few weeks ago when her healthy stem cells were being reintroduced into her body, a group of nurses gather to sing happy birthday. Abigail opened to the love, raised her arms, and directed their song as if conducting a choir.

Abigail was happy.

Overflowing happy. I see it in her short simple videos: a close-up glee of a sparkler aflame, pleasure in seeing rowing crews glide by on a river outside her window, sounds of the Pacific lapping on the shoreline, a recording of her beloved Stanton’s Daffy Duck voice. And the video of a butterfly visit and request: “Butterfly, tell me your secrets.”

I think that butterfly gleaned from Abigail’s secrets. I imagine that large black swallowtail gathering and sprinkling golden pollen dust in a Roald Dahl BFG blow-dreams-into-hearts way. That's how Abigail's attention felt. Being happiness was giving it.

Her happiness is confident and evident in our conversations. Even ones about tough topics.

We talk about how both her brother and my son died unexpectedly. She says, “You know how when someone dies they’re still here?” I smile and tell her about the day a hummingbird flew into my school classroom and landed at my feet when I am in early grief about my son’s passing. Her face lights up as if she knows that bird. She speaks with a heart-connected sparkle in her eye, “I feel my brother nearby like that.” And then we share beautiful and quirky ways we’ll visit loved ones after passing on.

She calls around the end of June.

She talks about the coming stem cell capture procedure. She’s thinking a lot about that. Well, not that exactly. She’s thinking about love. And those who love her.

She hopes so much that they feel her love. I listen to what I believe is one of the most precious soliloquies I’ve ever heard about her deep and abiding love. Her voice sings in joy.

In love.

She loves them, and she knows they love her. She can feel it.  It’s like nothing else matters. There is nothing else to do.

I feel like I’m part of a privileged awareness.

I take in her message.

She thanks me for listening and ends with what she tells everyone she meets, “I love you so much.”

I miss Abigail. I think of all those people missing her right now. Her fearless journey reminds me that love enlarges when I face difficulty with an open heart in community with others. Her passing invites a high calling: face your joy and despair at once.

With inner brilliance beacons, Abigail shows us how. 

Published 7/29/14. 
Republished in celebration of beautiful Abigail, with love and tenderheartedness for her Mom, JoLynn.

NOTE: Pondering that comment Abigail made about visiting someone in quirky ways after passing on—twice in the last months, my phone rang for a FaceTime call invite by Abigail while I was in the middle of a call. Why hello, Abigail.

End of school year: time for talk about transition and loss

Sad and happy birds wearing bows. Natalie, 5 years young

So let’s settle it right now: Life is tough. Hard lessons are part of our days and, I believe, life's invitation for inner growth.

I notice signs of unsettled children in classrooms and homes. I feel it myself. 

Change is in the air: the school year is ending, goodbyes to classmates are coming, a new summer routine is just around the corner.

It is a perfect time for a conversation about transition and loss.

Janice Mattina, founder and director of Center Montessori School, wisely raises awareness in her students that losses are part of life. She listens to them. 

A school year ends. 

Friends graduate and go to new schools. 

A parent takes a business or pleasure trip. 

Not getting a desired something. 

A pet dies. 

It's time to move to a new home or place. Even moving into a new bedroom at home is a chance to practice letting go.

A family member divorces. 

Grandmother passes. 

Janice moves the children from awareness to acceptance and understanding about change through conversations which require listening from the heart. Her intention is to help them embrace loss as a lifelong healing companion.

Loss as a learning and healing companion is an idea introduced to Janice and upper elementary and middle school-aged Center students by Karen Warren-Severson, MEd, NCC, a counselor and coach. Karen came into the classroom to teach a “Mending Hearts” workshop. 

Karen asks students questions such as “What do you believe about loss and grieving?” And then, “If you accept loss as a lifelong companion, how will your grief change?” There's a pause between questions to give space and time to invite response from the kids. 

An honest, open discussion comes forth. Feelings such as relief, acceptance, and peace arise.

Karen leaves the students with heart-shaped pieces of cloth. The hearts have cuts in them, cuts that the children mend or sew closed as a metaphor for their healing process. After the activity, more cut hearts are placed on a shelf for later times. Wounds surface throughout our life. The activity is ready for whenever anyone is willing to reveal and heal.

It is not surprising that these children are able to more readily and openly talk about their losses after this workshop. 

After the workshop, when a child shares about loss, Janice listens and asks “Can you work with that?” And here is the miraculous wonder of children. The common reply is, “Yes I can work with that.”

Willingness.

With willingness, it is possible to feel, share, mend, and let go. She listens. And then the heard student heads to the shelf to sew a heart.

It's Michael's birthday: I'm celebrating him and grateful for the many ways I've learned to grieve

The Star Thief by Andrea DiNoto (author) and Arnold Lobel (illustrator)

via Vintage Books My Kid Loves

I go to bed at 9:00 pm. That’s usual.

I wake several times, restless during the night. That’s unusual.

The first time, it’s just after midnight.  A full moon lights the darkness, and I get out of bed and quietly slip out onto the porch. Thin cloud wisps play hide and seek, with the moon transforming its white light into pink and yellow emanators. I smile and think of my son Michael who continued on. I can feel his presence.

I wake again at 2:15, 3:33 and at about 4:30 am, I get out of bed. I have a thought that Michael’s trying to get me up! I’m a solid sleeper and wonder what’s up. And then I remember. Oh! On a walk two days ago, I asked, “Hey Michael, will you let me know you’re around?”

I’ve been missing his physical presence and processed a little more grief this past week. It’s my first time in 18 years living where I raised my kids, which means that emotional hooks are here to be acknowledged. And today is Michael’s birthday.

I’m celebrating by talking about him (here) and with friends and family recalling his lively, outrageous at times, bright-light personality. Oh my gosh, the stories!

Michael’s unexpected passing has helped me, unlike anything else in my life, to live with presence, lightness, and fullness. I am grateful to maintain and grow a relationship with him, even now. I believe I am at a peaceful place because I’ve mourned and continue to honor my grief whenever it arises. I've learned how to do that from others who know about loss. Like Tom Zuba.

Tom has been learning to live with the death of his 18 month-old daughter Erin in 1990, his 43 year-old wife Trici in 1999, and his 13 year-old son Rory in 2005. He says, “If you want to heal, you must mourn.” And on his blog, he offers ideas on ways to do that:

Talk about it.  Over and over and over.

Paint it.  Draw it.  Form it in clay.  Art is a wonderful, healing way to express what you might not be able to express through words.

Dance it.  Move it.  Release grief by shaking your body.

Beat it out on a drum.

Write it out.  In a journal.  In a poem.  In your blog.  In a letter to yourself.  In a letter to your beloved, the one who has died.

Sing it out.  Compose your own song.

Play it out.  On an instrument.  Guitar.  Flute.  Violin.

Exercise it out.  Cross fit.  Zumba.  At your gym.  On a stationary bike.  A Stairmaster. In a pool.

Run it out; jog it out; walk it out.

Yoga it out.

Meditate it out.

Scream, shout, wail it out.

I’ve done a lot of these things, and they have helped so much.

Just after Michael passed, I started running. It took a while to work up to daily three-mile runs and an occasional five miles, but I did it and continued every day for almost four years. Like Forrest Gump, I ran until I didn't run anymore.

Well, just before I wrote this, I ran a mile in the rain in honor of Michael’s birthday. And tomorrow, I’ll do it again.

Folding cranes for Clare and how talking about being bald is healing

The Beginning, Christian Schloe

His work. Find him on Facebook. 

I folded a paper crane today. It’s my 347^th.

I began folding them in February of 2011 when Terry's sister Clare called to say that her breast cancer metastasized. 

That's the day I started.

I got the idea from Sadako Sasaki whose story is told in A Thousand Paper Cranes.

Sadako was two years old when the atomic bomb was dropped near her home in Hiroshima, Japan.  A few years later she was in the hospital with leukemia.

While in the hospital, her friend Chizuko Hamamoto visited and buoyed her spirits: “Remember the ancient story about folding 1000 paper cranes? If you do, you get a wish.” Then Chizuko folded a gold crane for her.

Inspired, Sadako begins folding cranes for that big wish.

In a similar spirit, I fold.

Over the last three years I’ve folded and given the cranes away: to friends, to people in the grocery store, to people in the infusion rooms, to nurses and doctors, to support groups. I give each one with a silent peace wish for the person and for Clare. I smile and say, "Make a wish."

Clare doesn't know I'm folding cranes for her. (I was waiting until I folded the 1000th, which will be hers.)

I haven’t folded for a long time, until today.

Clare says scans show that the cancer is advancing—in her bones, lungs, liver. Significantly.

Clare already describes her cancer-eaten femur and hip as looking like delicate Belgium lace. That’s her choice of seeing the beauty in her being. (Writing that chokes me up.) 

I want to think and feel positive, breathing in those things I learned from Thich Nhat Hanh about acceptance, impermanence, and letting go. I ponder the idea that there is no coming and no going and that we carry those we love in our hearts. I believe this.

At the same time, I know about dual, opposing feelings and thoughts. I can have strong faith (which to me means confidence + trust) and, therefore, peace while at the same time feeling deeply sad and angry.

Clare tells how her doctors march her down to chemo after showing her the scans. No waiting. A new infusion drug must be administered. Time to treat. Now.

It’s hard news.

How to cope? Breathe, yell, laugh, cry. And text. 

Clare and I text. We deal with the news by texting about losing our hair. Back and forth.

Clare: You know what’s ironic? I haven’t even liked my hair in the last 15 years until just recently. Do you think it’s hard to be beautiful without hair? Another thing: bald feels like illness gone public.

Me: The hair loss thing is like a flaming flag flapping the news that cancer rang the bell, and who invited it anyway?

Clare: Right!

Me: I felt beautiful bald.

Clare: Really?

Me: And I miss that hair-just-coming-back look. But then, Clare, I was a slave to my long hair and without it, I got to say, “I’m not my hair.”

Clare: I get that.

Me: Now I want hair. But mainly for Terry and others who, I believe, don’t want to be reminded that someone they love has cancer. Because I feel that way about you, Clare. I hate that you might lose your hair. Or more. 

Clare: I HATE IT TOO!!

Me: I am angry Clare. And sick and tired of you having to get scans and bad news.

And now this. I’ll get to the positive. But look out. I want to kick the cat. I mean. What the F kind of Christmas present is that? Another port? F that!!

Clare: It’s helpful to me that you’re angry. It gives me permission to feel angry, too.

Me: Yes. Tell Pio (her cat) to leave the room

Clare: F the port. Chemo on the December 23^rd—screw that!!!

Me: Really? Well sh*#t.

Clare: I need 2 more MRIs this week, too—they can’t do them on the same day—Tuesday and Thursday!

Me: That takes the cake. Just for that, you get to keep your hair.

Clare: Agreed

Me: I do love your hair

Clare: And I do have to drive by Culvers each time, where a vanilla ice cream with fresh frozen raspberries…”

Me: You do? Torture. Or, let’s see. Make that delight. Yes. Perfect. Have a Culvers! (Some people with cancer try to avoid sugar.)

Clare: Oh yeah!

Me: Clare, you are a saint. I’m serious now. You are walking this path with such bravery and tenderness. I love your anger. I love you.

Clare: Aw. I dunno about sainthood. I’m just doing what I have to do, with the support of lovely tender companions to journey with.

Me: It’s how you’re living with it. Your courage and humility.

Clare: I love you very much!

Me: Night sweetie. My first prayer is for you. xoxo

Clare: xoxo visualize the hair hanging tight! 

Me: Will do. xo

We stop texting.

Talking about our hair helps.

I understand and accept dying issues in my life. But with Clare, my grief swells.

Maybe it’s easier to leave than be left.

One of Clare’s favorite music pieces is The Servant Song by Richard Gillard. She's even asked her son Tim to learn it on his guitar. There’s a line in it that goes, “We are here to help each other, walk the mile and bear the load.” That fits her.

I know that thinking of Clare in the light of wellness is a way "to help each other” (the wisher/giver and the receiver). So, I’m inviting you to join me in thinking of and holding her in your thoughts.

Now to fold a paper crane.