2013

Starting a blog is pretty overwhelming. It’s like, where do you start? What do you start with? Especially when it’s a blog about pretty much anything. In my case, I wanted to start a blog as a form of a diary, so I can look back and read the story of my life when I’m too old to remember the details. So, here goes nothing! Or, maybe something. We’ll see.

Life became pretty interesting about 6 years ago, when my Dad was diagnosed with Sinonasal Undifferentiated Carcinoma (SNUC), which is an extremely rare form of cancer that affects the nasal cavity. His started there, and then spread to his brain, lymph nodes, and many other parts of his body. It began with a glimpse of hope that he’d do some chemo, have the surgery and do more chemo and be A-OK. But, the problem was, if the surgeon missed even one single cell, the cancer would spread like wildfire. And that’s exactly how it went.

About 6 months after his surgery, we were told that his cancer had returned, and he was given about 5 months to live. He survived a bit more than 5 months, but it was brutal. Absolutely brutal. My relationship with his partner wasn’t good, so it made visits extremely difficult and uncomfortable. There’s a whole story behind my relationship (or lack of) with her, but it’s not worth my time, and I prefer not to waste any form of energy on her memory.

The last couple of months with my Dad were unbearable to witness. The chemo side effects gave him sores the size of dimes all over his mouth, so it was nearly impossible for him to eat. He had to be on steroids and medications of all kinds that made him swell. He initially had the bone in his forehead replaced with artificial bone, but that had to ultimately be removed, so he had a large indent in his face. His vision was blurred, as the tumors behind his eyes cause his eyes to cross. He could only stay awake for an hour at a time. He wasn’t making much sense when he spoke. There were many times where I would just sit with him in silence on the couch, holding his hand. He had no idea where he was. But, he knew who I was. He always knew I was there.

I’ll always remember my last day with my Dad. We were up in his room, watching the Red Sox. I remember looking around the room at the hundreds of ‘Get Well’ cards and notes. He had a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order hanging outside his bedroom door. My heart would drop every time I walked in and saw it. I held his hand for what felt like forever. We didn’t say anything. He would look over at me every now and then and smile, then half-smile. He was in so much pain, but so numb at the same time. Before I left, I kissed him on his forehead, and told him I would see him tomorrow. I would see him tomorrow, but he wouldn’t see me. He passed very early the next morning. I received a phone call around 4am from his partner. I called my Mom, drove to her house, and we went to my Dad’s house to see him one last time.

I wanted to sit there with him forever. I was dreading having them come up and carry his body out. His partner came over and placed his wedding band on the table in front of me and told me I could have it. Wouldn’t she want to keep his band, considering she was his wife? I guess it didn’t mean that much to her, since they had only signed marriage papers 4 months prior. I went down to the basement where my Dad used to write and play his music. I found nothing. The basement was empty. His guitars, piano, Mac computer, speakers, microphones – all gone. I asked her where it all went, and she told me it was at the lawyers office, and the computer was out getting fixed and she’d have it back soon. All of my Dad’s music, everything of his, was on that computer. And it was gone. Why? I never knew why, and we never got any of it back. None of it.

Before my Dad got sick, I had never really lost anyone before. I didn’t know how to handle it. Does anyone, really? Things were pretty gloomy for a while, but I slowly learned how to handle the pain. I’d listen to his voicemails that he left me, put together a binder with pictures of us, and I started writing letters to him. It just felt good to get my feelings on paper, and writing to him felt somewhat like actually talking to him. My Mom played a massive role in getting me through it all. Like most girls say, my Mom was my rock; my solitude. She was my positivity every single day. Then, as if I thought things might be okay, I got some more crippling news.

My husband (boyfriend at the time) had gotten a new job, and we needed to move closer to make the commute easier on him. We decided to move in with my Mom and her husband in New Hampshire. I was so beyond excited to move back in and spend some quality time with her. I had moved down to Massachusetts when I became a Patriots Cheerleader, to be closer to Gillette Stadium. Although I’d have a long commute, it was worth it to see my Mom everyday.

We moved in on November 4th. After unpacking, my Mom and I were talking about things, like we always do, and then her face became very serious. “I’ve been really sick for a while now”, she said. My Mom was never, never sick. She took vitamins every day, drank a ton of water, drank tea like crazy. Her immune system was always strong. “What do you mean? How sick, like what doesn’t feel good?” I asked her. She told me that she had been having severe headaches for a while, like part of her skull was open and there was an air conditioner placed directly on that spot. She felt fatigued, lost her appetite, things like that. She said she had been to the doctors multiple times, and they had her taking something like 300mg of Advil a day (WHAT?). She claimed the doctors had run multiple tests and nothing serious was showing up. She said she would be ‘fine’, but she just needed to take it easy and keep taking the Advil.

I had a serious pit in my stomach.  Something was very wrong.

Over the next two weeks, I noticed my Mom was sleeping a lot, and she was pretty irritable. I tried making her our favorite meals (even chocolate chip cookies from scratch!) and nothing. I did some shopping and picked out some fun things for her, and when I brought them home to her, she was barely excited. I brought her to one of her doctors appointments. The doctor gave her a steroid shot in her thigh for the pain in her.. head? “Have you run every test you can for a smoker?” My Mom smoked. You could say she was the healthiest smoker there was, until now. She got her shot, and we went home.

Friday, November 15th, I had a promotion up north for the Patriots. When I came home that night, my Mom was slumped into the couch, crying hysterically. She ran to the bathroom and couldn’t stop throwing up.

She had been going to a local hospital, where they had run tests, checked her levels, etc. and then cleared her completely. They claimed that what she had was something relative to migraines and they recommended a neurologist. Clearly, they were way off… for months.

“We are going to Mass. General, right now”, I told her. I had told her the last two weeks that she really should go to Boston for a second opinion, and she kept saying no. Thinking back now, I feel as though she was afraid that they would find out what was really wrong, and she was afraid to hear the truth.

We got to Mass. General ER late that Friday night. Checking her into the hospital, I had no idea at the time that we would never check out.

After a day and a half of test after test, the doctor came in and asked us (myself and her husband) to sit down. My Mom had stage 4 lung cancer that had metastasized to her liver. There was no way to remove it, and she could attempt chemo, but she was given about 8 months to live.

I just lost my Dad. I’m not even close to being mentally okay. I needed my Mom. She was my rock. She literally carried me through the darkness of losing him. But in this moment, it wasn’t about me. It needed to be about her. I took her hand and laid my head down on the hospital bed beside her. She picked my head up and looked at me and said, “Honey, we will make tons of videos and write letters, we will make the most of the next few months, I could go into remission!”

There would be no remission.

That was the last full conversation that I ever had with my Mom. She spiraled that night, and over the next few days. Her heart rate was consistently in the 150’s. It felt like the monitor was beeping on overdrive. I can still hear the beeping, to this day. It was tough getting the nurses in when we needed them, so I ended up changing her bed pans. Never in my life did I ever think I’d be changing my Mother’s bed pans for her.

I didn’t understand why she spiraled so quickly. The doctors said that her increased breathing and discomfort was not a side effect of the cancer, but it was something else that they couldn’t find. They had asked her if she had been out of the country recently, which she hadn’t. They had no idea what caused her to spiral. I sat there, angry, confused, how could these doctors not know what was wrong with her?

I tried to get my Mom to have even the smallest conversation with me. I guess I was looking for some type of ‘goodbye’, and I wanted her tell me to be strong and that everything was going to be okay. She was too weak, and could barely keep her eyes open. The woman who had always, always pulled me from the dark and put a sun in my sky; the woman who taught me what a take-your-breath-away belly laugh was; the woman who found strength and positivity in literally a n y t h i n g, was leaving me.

I found myself in a very dark place, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever make it out. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to ever make it out.

A doctor came in the room and started explaining to me that whereas my Mom’s heart rate was so high, her heart would eventually become too weak and stop beating. She explained that this can be very terrifying and painful for her, and that I had the option to give the doctor permission to administer medication to stop her heart.

Permission to administer medication to stop her heart? Stop her heart? You want me to tell you when to stop my Mom’s heart?

It took all of the strength in my entire body to put my own feelings aside and look at what the doctor was presenting to me. My Mom’s breathing was getting worse and worse. The last thing I wanted was for her to be in fear or pain, more than she already was. I knew it killed her to be that weak and helpless in front of her daughter; the one person she lived to be strong for. I always wonder if that’s why she didn’t speak to me before she passed away.

Maybe it was too hard for her to accept the fact that she was leaving me.

I somehow consented to allowing the doctor permission, should that situation arise. I prayed and prayed and prayed for a miracle. I prayed every second that the doctor would burst through the door and say that they found out what was wrong with her. I prayed for even one more week with her.

Friday, November 22nd around 1am, I left the room to go and get a drink and something to eat. My Mom’s eyes were closed, and she was resting in her bed. About a minute after I left the room, my Mom’s husband text me “get back here now”. I ran back to the room, to find my Mom flailing on the ground, her eyes rolling back in her head, being lifted by about 5 doctors with masks and full body scrubs. At this point, my Mom was gasping helplessly for air.

I climbed on top of her, rubbing her head, telling her over and over, “It’s okay Mama, I’m here I’m here, I’m here with you”. All I could see were the whites of her eyes, as her chest repeatedly caved in as she desperately tried to breathe. The doctor came in and firmly asked me if I was ready to administer the medication.

I felt like there were a thousand knives being driven into my chest. The doctor asked me again, louder this time, as my Mom continued to suffer.

“Okay”, I cried.

I held my Mom’s hands and continued to rub her head and kiss her forehead, as they injected the medication into her IV. Slowly, breath by breath, my Mom left me there. She left me in that bed, in that hospital, in this world, alone.

How many people have watched someone die before? How many people have watched their parent die right in front of them? How many people lose their parents 3 months apart? How do you process something like that?

I climbed off of her, and sat in a chair in the corner of the room. People were asking me questions, and I couldn’t even hear them. I began to wonder if my Mom had tried to climb off the bed to follow me when I left the room. And began thinking it was my fault and that I shouldn’t have left her for even a minute. Up until that point, I hadn’t left the room. The minute I leave, this happens. I should have stayed.

What now? My Dad was gone. My Mom was gone. What now?

Thanksgiving was a few days later. And then Christmas came. And then my birthday on New Years Eve. Nothing was the same. Everything was dark. My Mom’s house was cold and empty. The pictures hanging were gray and lifeless.

I tried my best to resume my normal schedule as I thought it was best to attempt to stay distracted. I continued my 2nd year as a Patriots Cheerleader, and continued coaching the local youth cheerleading team.

Throughout every single second of this, I had my (now) husband by my side. He was always there. He let me cry, he let me talk, he let me be silent. He dragged me out of bed against my will. He didn’t let me have pity parties, he kept me strong and gave it to me straight.

The only one who can save you, is yourself.

I thought, my Mom and Dad are not here to give me the hug or advice that I need. Therefore, I need to be my own advocate for strength, and get inside my own head and keep myself going. If I give up, I will let them down.

If I give up, I will let myself down. Do. Not. Give. Up.

From the moment I lost my Mom, a lot of things changed for me. I lost the spark that I always had; the ability to giggle over anything, the ‘pep’ that always drove me, the desire to match my shoes with my top or my purse. I lost the desire for the main things in life.

I was a 23 year old who had experienced darkness that most people don’t see until they’re much older. When you’re 23, you’re supposed to be somewhat carefree and eager to see what life has in store for you. I wasn’t eager, I was scared.

I had to now somehow find and afford insurance in all areas, find a new doctor, find a new dentist, move back down to MA, go through my Mom’s and what was left of my Dad’s belongings. These things sound simple and kind of stupid to be concerned about, but trust me, when you’re on your own (and so abruptly) the world is a scary place.

When it came to handling the wills that my parents left behind, things got ugly. Both of my parents had remarried within the year that they passed. My Mom hadn’t updated some of the terms on her will, so there were some gray areas as far as the components that were in my name. Since my Dad was borderline unconscious the last couple of months before he passed, he was somehow convinced to change his will so that the majority of his assets went to his wife. This included a brand new Jeep that was purchased the month before he passed, that he somehow signed for even though he couldn’t hold a conversation. Perfect.

If you are reading this and you are a parent who has or are considering getting remarried, for the love of God, update your will and protect your children.

For months and months I couldn’t fall asleep without hearing the monitors beeping in the hospital. Hearing my own heart beat gave me panic attacks, as that’s all I could remember. I spent endless nights crying myself to sleep. Some days were okay. Some were hard. The 2nd and the 22nd of each month were sad reminders. Going through pictures, emails and letters was crippling.

I’ve never been one for medication, so I chose to skip the anxiety medications. I felt that it would just be a band aid for emotions that needed to be dealt with. I learned how to block the anxiety from creeping in. I chose to fight the thoughts about my parents altogether. I stopped looking at pictures, I stopped talking about them. Every time a thought would creep in, I would repeat in my head, “Think of nothing, think of nothing, think of nothing.” Some people would say that the ignorance is a band aid in itself, but it really worked for me.

Overtime, the emotion became more manageable. I will never say that it got easier, because it truthfully never does. But somehow, from all of the darkness, I feel as though I escaped a deadly car accident, and I made it out alive. I always thought that if something had ever happened to my parents, I would be dead too. But I’m still here. And to me, that is a miracle.

I see life so differently now. I don’t ever take things too seriously. I am constantly digging for the positive in every situation. I don’t sweat the small stuff, or the big stuff.

I am here, on this earth. I am breathing, walking. I can see, and I can hear. I am surrounded by incredible people.

My time to leave this earth could be tomorrow, it could be next year, or it could be 50 years from now. I look at at that way for the important people in my life, too. So I treat them that way. I cherish all of the special moments in my life, like they’re gold. I stop and look around as often as possible, and breathe in the moment.

I feel as though after such intense loss or emotional devastation, you can either spiral out of control, or you can move forward. I was lost in a crippling darkness, but I forced myself to push through, because I know that’s what they would have wanted.

I remember Googling “How to cope with the loss of both of your parents”, and I barely found anything. If my story can even help one person see the light, I’m happy.

It took me 4 years to write this without falling apart. I am finally strong enough to discuss it in depth. Although there are still some days that are difficult, I can feel my parents all around me, and I use their energy to find the light in it all. I’m grateful for the strength that they send me daily.

Life is hard. Some have it easy, some don’t. We all have our own obstacles. Whether big or small, they matter. It’s important to feel strong enough to manage them, whatever they may be. I strive to maintain an open mind about everything and everyone, and that is what works for me. I remind myself that pain is temporary, and manageable. It is not permanent. And when it gets really hard, remind yourself: tomorrow is a new day.