It's Friday, May 28, 2010. It's been one year since I watched the love of my life slip away from me. I've been dreading this day for weeks now, but I'm starting to learn the anticipation of the event is actually worse than the event itself. Today has actually been a pretty great day. I think it's a day that Jason would've loved since...well... it was all about him. LOL I'm kidding. But seriously, it was a good day.
After breakfast, Jerrod and I went to the cemetery for some private time. It was there that I had my "big breakdown" for the day. Walking up to his gravestone, a wave of sadness came over me. As I drew nearer, the tears just started to fall. I walked to the back of the stone where Jason's name is engraved, I sat down in the grass, and I just cried. I touched his name...retracing it with my fingers...Jason Andrew Harmon...and then I put my hand on the date...May 28, 2009. A date that forever changed my life.
I sat there for a few minutes and continued to touch his name, cry, and tell him how much I miss & still love him. Jerrod was so sweet to walk around and give me a few minutes to myself. I stood up as he walked back over, and we hugged in front of the stone. I expressed how incredible it was to me that the pain was just as great one year later as it was the day it happened. It blows my mind that in a year it's never lessened...not that I really expected it to. We stood there and cried together for a minute before I headed back to the car to give him some time alone.
A few minutes later, we were on our way to Jason's parent's house where we remained for the majority of the day. We sat outside on their beautiful deck enjoying this amazing weather. We sat and talked about Jason, remembering the final days...but not the sad stuff. We remembered the funny things, the jokes, the comments...the things that made us laugh. There were a few tears here and there, but it really felt good to laugh. Later in the afternoon, the four of us headed back to the cemetery to mark the event together. A few more tears, but there was more laughter, too.
Jason's friends John-Michael and his wife Heather drove down from New Hampshire to meet us for dinner. John-Michael had been there with us on Jason's final day last year, so we were so happy to get to spend the evening with them on this special day. Dinner was fantastic, and so was the company. More stories, more laughter... it really made for the perfect ending to a great day of memories.
On top of all of that, (as of this writing) our "Donate On 28" campaign for Team Jason helped land us another $3,900! Combined with our total, that gives Team Jason $11,900 so far this year. That's already $1,000 more than what we raised last year following his death. Absolutely INCREDIBLE!
Jason would've been proud.
Friday, May 28, 2010
May 28, 2009
It's Thursday, May 28, 2009.
4:45am: I woke up after hearing some moaning coming from the living/dining room. It was Jason, but it didn't sound like he was in pain. Then, there was a knock at my door. It was Brenda, the hospice nurse who had been staying overnight. She asked me if I could come help her shift Jason to one side so she could do something. I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and then ran to Jason's bedside.
4:55am: We finished what she said she needed to do, and rolled Jason back on his back. I noticed something about his eyes, though...something not right. They were half open, sort of, and all I could see was white...as if his eyes had rolled back. I also noticed that his breathing had changed, becoming more shallow. He was reaching for every breath. I looked at Brenda and asked "Is this happening now?" She said "Yes, I think so." I immediately started screaming for Jason's parents to wake up and get to the bedside as quick as possible. Jason made it very clear that he wanted to go with me on one side and them on the other...and I was determined to make that happen (whether he was aware of it or not).
5:00am: After a couple minutes of screaming, his parents came out of the guest bedroom and ran over to Jason. I was already crying, and didn't need to say much for them to figure out what was happening. We each took our positions - I was holding his left hand in mine, and the two of them held his right hand. I waited a beat for them to say something, but no one spoke. The only sound we heard was his breathing which was becoming more shallow and hollow. I began to speak - summoning whatever strength I had left in me. "Jason, it's time to go. You need to go. You need to let go. Don't worry about us. We're going to be just fine. You need to release yourself. Let the pain go away. Just let go, sweetheart, it's ok to let go." I just kept saying that over and over again. Finally, his parents both said something, reassuring him as I had been doing. We told him how much we loved him, how much we would miss him, but it was time to go.
For five minutes, we stood there caressing his hands, his face, talking to him. With each passing minute, his breathing got slower and slower. Each time one of us said "It's ok to let go", more time would pass between breaths...
5:06am: Jason struggled for a breath. He held it in, and then a long exhale...making a sound like nothing I've ever heard. It's a sound I will never forget. And then....silence. No movement. No breathing. Nothing. At that moment, I let out a cry... and all of a sudden, he took another breath. But just one, and again, a long exhale. I held my breath at the same time. Silence.
Jason was gone.
No one spoke for a minute or so, and then Brenda - who had been using a stethoscope to listen to Jason's heart rhythm looked up at us and said "I'm so sorry." His parents and I burst into tears...the two of them hugging, and then the three of us. We broke away...stood there staring at Jason's body - now lying there without his spirit inside.
I broke away to begin making the phone calls that needed to be made. I called my parents. Then I called his friends Jerrod, Rob, Mike, and John-Michael. Meanwhile, Brenda had already called in and reported the death and asked for the funeral home to come and get him. Luckily, that didn't happen for a couple more hours. It was enough time for the other four guys and my parents to arrive at the house and pay their respects. We each took turns sitting by his side, holding his hand....caressing his face. A few times, I even kissed his forehead...and once, his lips. He was already so cold.
After 7am, the funeral home arrived to take him away. They entered the house and asked everyone to leave. They recommend that because seeing what they do can be quite traumatic for grieving families. I didn't care. I had to stay there to make sure he was treated right. I never left his side before, and I wasn't going to start now. I watched as they lifted his body off the hospital bed and placed him (sheet, clothes, and all) on their gurney. I watched as they drew an ugly green blanket over his feet, legs, torso, and then finally his face. While everyone else waited outside, I watched as they wheeled the gurney out the front door and down the front steps. I ran outside and watched as they took the man of my dreams, the love of my life...and hoisted his body into their van. I stood there, crying, screaming at times...and watched as they drove away...down the street...away from me...away from everyone who loved him.
It was done.
Jason was gone.
When I first started going to therapy right after Jason was diagnosed, my counselor gave me a book to read called "Final Gifts". It was written by two hospice nurses, and it detailed the final days of many patients they cared for. It talked about how the dying will choose when, where, and who they want present when they cross over. I fully believe that book gave me the strength to know what to do when the time came. Jason's moaning that morning was his way of saying "Hello! This is happening, and I need you all here." I later confirmed that with Brenda...who confided that she really didn't need my help. She only woke me because she knew we were only minutes away.
The rest of the day was spent making an obscene number of phone calls, writing emails, and setting up the memorial service which was held two days later. That night, we all went out to dinner...and it felt good to get out of the house for a bit. While we ate, we shared stories about Jason, reminisced about the things that made us laugh. In particular, we joked about one of his favorite movies - Drop Dead Gorgeous. So, when we got back to the house, we decided to pop the movie in and watch. It felt good to laugh...knowing that he was right there laughing with us.
It's now been on year since that incredibly awful day. And I can honestly say, it hurts just as much now as it did the day it happened. May 28th will forever be a day of sadness for me. Not only is it the day that cancer entered our lives, it is now also the day that Jason left our lives. Physically left our lives. Spiritually, he remains very much apart of our lives. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.
4:45am: I woke up after hearing some moaning coming from the living/dining room. It was Jason, but it didn't sound like he was in pain. Then, there was a knock at my door. It was Brenda, the hospice nurse who had been staying overnight. She asked me if I could come help her shift Jason to one side so she could do something. I jumped out of bed, ran to the bathroom, and then ran to Jason's bedside.
4:55am: We finished what she said she needed to do, and rolled Jason back on his back. I noticed something about his eyes, though...something not right. They were half open, sort of, and all I could see was white...as if his eyes had rolled back. I also noticed that his breathing had changed, becoming more shallow. He was reaching for every breath. I looked at Brenda and asked "Is this happening now?" She said "Yes, I think so." I immediately started screaming for Jason's parents to wake up and get to the bedside as quick as possible. Jason made it very clear that he wanted to go with me on one side and them on the other...and I was determined to make that happen (whether he was aware of it or not).
5:00am: After a couple minutes of screaming, his parents came out of the guest bedroom and ran over to Jason. I was already crying, and didn't need to say much for them to figure out what was happening. We each took our positions - I was holding his left hand in mine, and the two of them held his right hand. I waited a beat for them to say something, but no one spoke. The only sound we heard was his breathing which was becoming more shallow and hollow. I began to speak - summoning whatever strength I had left in me. "Jason, it's time to go. You need to go. You need to let go. Don't worry about us. We're going to be just fine. You need to release yourself. Let the pain go away. Just let go, sweetheart, it's ok to let go." I just kept saying that over and over again. Finally, his parents both said something, reassuring him as I had been doing. We told him how much we loved him, how much we would miss him, but it was time to go.
For five minutes, we stood there caressing his hands, his face, talking to him. With each passing minute, his breathing got slower and slower. Each time one of us said "It's ok to let go", more time would pass between breaths...
5:06am: Jason struggled for a breath. He held it in, and then a long exhale...making a sound like nothing I've ever heard. It's a sound I will never forget. And then....silence. No movement. No breathing. Nothing. At that moment, I let out a cry... and all of a sudden, he took another breath. But just one, and again, a long exhale. I held my breath at the same time. Silence.
Jason was gone.
No one spoke for a minute or so, and then Brenda - who had been using a stethoscope to listen to Jason's heart rhythm looked up at us and said "I'm so sorry." His parents and I burst into tears...the two of them hugging, and then the three of us. We broke away...stood there staring at Jason's body - now lying there without his spirit inside.
I broke away to begin making the phone calls that needed to be made. I called my parents. Then I called his friends Jerrod, Rob, Mike, and John-Michael. Meanwhile, Brenda had already called in and reported the death and asked for the funeral home to come and get him. Luckily, that didn't happen for a couple more hours. It was enough time for the other four guys and my parents to arrive at the house and pay their respects. We each took turns sitting by his side, holding his hand....caressing his face. A few times, I even kissed his forehead...and once, his lips. He was already so cold.
After 7am, the funeral home arrived to take him away. They entered the house and asked everyone to leave. They recommend that because seeing what they do can be quite traumatic for grieving families. I didn't care. I had to stay there to make sure he was treated right. I never left his side before, and I wasn't going to start now. I watched as they lifted his body off the hospital bed and placed him (sheet, clothes, and all) on their gurney. I watched as they drew an ugly green blanket over his feet, legs, torso, and then finally his face. While everyone else waited outside, I watched as they wheeled the gurney out the front door and down the front steps. I ran outside and watched as they took the man of my dreams, the love of my life...and hoisted his body into their van. I stood there, crying, screaming at times...and watched as they drove away...down the street...away from me...away from everyone who loved him.
It was done.
Jason was gone.
When I first started going to therapy right after Jason was diagnosed, my counselor gave me a book to read called "Final Gifts". It was written by two hospice nurses, and it detailed the final days of many patients they cared for. It talked about how the dying will choose when, where, and who they want present when they cross over. I fully believe that book gave me the strength to know what to do when the time came. Jason's moaning that morning was his way of saying "Hello! This is happening, and I need you all here." I later confirmed that with Brenda...who confided that she really didn't need my help. She only woke me because she knew we were only minutes away.
The rest of the day was spent making an obscene number of phone calls, writing emails, and setting up the memorial service which was held two days later. That night, we all went out to dinner...and it felt good to get out of the house for a bit. While we ate, we shared stories about Jason, reminisced about the things that made us laugh. In particular, we joked about one of his favorite movies - Drop Dead Gorgeous. So, when we got back to the house, we decided to pop the movie in and watch. It felt good to laugh...knowing that he was right there laughing with us.
It's now been on year since that incredibly awful day. And I can honestly say, it hurts just as much now as it did the day it happened. May 28th will forever be a day of sadness for me. Not only is it the day that cancer entered our lives, it is now also the day that Jason left our lives. Physically left our lives. Spiritually, he remains very much apart of our lives. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
May 27, 2009
It's Wednesday, May 27, 2009. I woke up early again this morning after hearing Jason moaning from the other room. I laid in bed for a minute to listen and see if he was truly in distress, and after hearing his dad's voice, I got up to go check on things. Jason was writhing around in the hospital bed, scrunching his face in pain. But this didn't seem like the normal pain he had been experiencing in recent days and weeks. This was agony. He was in extreme pain.
I immediately got on the phone to the hospice nurse (mind you, just yesterday we had practically begged for 24 hour care and were told it wasn't critical enough yet) to get her take on what we should do. She instructed me to retrieve the morphine from the refrigerator and administer a few drops. It was the strangest thing, though... when I got back to Jason's bedside with the medication, he quite literally panicked when he saw me with it. I'm not sure what he thought it was, but his dad and I had to stop and calm him down and explain that it was going to help him. After a few minutes, he relaxed a bit and allowed me to drop the drug into his mouth.
An hour later, the pain was worse. The morphine didn't help, so I called the nurse again. Again I asked for her to rush over, that a professional needed to handle this. Again she told me to give him two more drops of the morphine. I complied, and after another hour, things were still getting worse. This time, I called the "case supervisor" and all but threatened her life if someone wasn't at the house in a matter of minutes. I don't often do this, but I threw my job in her face and explained that she was "fucking with the wrong investigator" and that she "better fix this situation fast" or she'd "find Vitas and its incompetance plastered on the 10:00 news".
Another hour later, we had a team at the house, and Jason was placed on 24 hour care. They also administered another pain medication which seemed to work. Jason stopped moaning, and was able to relax and fall back asleep. So, now we were staffed with a home health-care worker all day, which allowed us to relax a bit more and spend time talking to Jason rather than trying to fix the problem.
After the morning drama, the afternoon was pretty quiet. By now, Jason was sleeping most of the time. It was getting harder to wake him, and when we were able to, he didn't stay lucid for very long. He was also unable to talk or more very much. It was almost as if he was becoming paralyzed as death took hold of his body. A few more visitors stopped by that evening including our favorite nurse, Leah, from Baylor. She brought Jason a Frosty from Wendys...which we actually used to help administer some medications, since he was now having trouble swallowing. Jason loved Leah so much, and you could tell because he actually became more aware while she was there. He did his "Oh hi!" thing to her several times, which made us all laugh. Even like this, he was still so cute.
I walked Leah out to her car a little while later, and she told me she thought it would be over by the weekend. She told me that he was very close, and that we needed to stay close by. I'm so glad we had someone like Leah to hold our hands through all of this. It made things so much easier to digest and handle knowing we were getting the best advice. I hugged her goodbye and told her I would call her after it happened.
Our night-time hospice nurse arrived a little earlier and had settled in by the time Leah left. Jason hadn't woken up for several hours, and by midnight, we all decided we should get some sleep. Like the previous night, I sat next to him for a minute before trying to wake him. This time, though...he didn't wake up. I didn't push, instead, I kissed his lips, said "I love you so much", and turned to go to bed.
Only Hours Left
I immediately got on the phone to the hospice nurse (mind you, just yesterday we had practically begged for 24 hour care and were told it wasn't critical enough yet) to get her take on what we should do. She instructed me to retrieve the morphine from the refrigerator and administer a few drops. It was the strangest thing, though... when I got back to Jason's bedside with the medication, he quite literally panicked when he saw me with it. I'm not sure what he thought it was, but his dad and I had to stop and calm him down and explain that it was going to help him. After a few minutes, he relaxed a bit and allowed me to drop the drug into his mouth.
An hour later, the pain was worse. The morphine didn't help, so I called the nurse again. Again I asked for her to rush over, that a professional needed to handle this. Again she told me to give him two more drops of the morphine. I complied, and after another hour, things were still getting worse. This time, I called the "case supervisor" and all but threatened her life if someone wasn't at the house in a matter of minutes. I don't often do this, but I threw my job in her face and explained that she was "fucking with the wrong investigator" and that she "better fix this situation fast" or she'd "find Vitas and its incompetance plastered on the 10:00 news".
Another hour later, we had a team at the house, and Jason was placed on 24 hour care. They also administered another pain medication which seemed to work. Jason stopped moaning, and was able to relax and fall back asleep. So, now we were staffed with a home health-care worker all day, which allowed us to relax a bit more and spend time talking to Jason rather than trying to fix the problem.
After the morning drama, the afternoon was pretty quiet. By now, Jason was sleeping most of the time. It was getting harder to wake him, and when we were able to, he didn't stay lucid for very long. He was also unable to talk or more very much. It was almost as if he was becoming paralyzed as death took hold of his body. A few more visitors stopped by that evening including our favorite nurse, Leah, from Baylor. She brought Jason a Frosty from Wendys...which we actually used to help administer some medications, since he was now having trouble swallowing. Jason loved Leah so much, and you could tell because he actually became more aware while she was there. He did his "Oh hi!" thing to her several times, which made us all laugh. Even like this, he was still so cute.
I walked Leah out to her car a little while later, and she told me she thought it would be over by the weekend. She told me that he was very close, and that we needed to stay close by. I'm so glad we had someone like Leah to hold our hands through all of this. It made things so much easier to digest and handle knowing we were getting the best advice. I hugged her goodbye and told her I would call her after it happened.
Our night-time hospice nurse arrived a little earlier and had settled in by the time Leah left. Jason hadn't woken up for several hours, and by midnight, we all decided we should get some sleep. Like the previous night, I sat next to him for a minute before trying to wake him. This time, though...he didn't wake up. I didn't push, instead, I kissed his lips, said "I love you so much", and turned to go to bed.
Only Hours Left
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Therapy
I'm a firm believer that those who have "crossed over" can give us signs that they're still around us, seeing everything that goes on. I've talked about a few of those instances in previous blogs. Today - a funny thing happened on the way to therapy.
I was extremely late leaving work, and I was in a terrible rush. Naturally, that meant that there was a lot of traffic which also leads to frustration and annoyance. I began fiddling around with my phone, the radio, etc and wasn't really paying attention to what was in front of me. I don't know how long it was there, but in one instant, I looked up and saw it.
Vitas was the name of the hospice organization we used to help take care of Jason. It's a name that - even a year later - I'm not very happy seeing. The truck that came to deliver the hospital bed & supplies had the name plastered in big font on the side of the truck...and I remember watching the truck drive away after they had picked up all the equipment after Jason died. I haven't seen another Vitas truck since that day...until tonight.
I looked up after fidgeting with my phone and my jaw dropped. There in front of me was a Vitas truck. My first instinct was to cry. But, instead, I began laughing. I laughed because I knew it was a joke sent by Jason to make me laugh. Of all the days to see that truck (one year to the day that it arrived on Jason's driveway to drop off the bed, etc)...I knew it was Jason's way of showing me that he's still here with me, that we're still in this together.
I was extremely late leaving work, and I was in a terrible rush. Naturally, that meant that there was a lot of traffic which also leads to frustration and annoyance. I began fiddling around with my phone, the radio, etc and wasn't really paying attention to what was in front of me. I don't know how long it was there, but in one instant, I looked up and saw it.
Vitas was the name of the hospice organization we used to help take care of Jason. It's a name that - even a year later - I'm not very happy seeing. The truck that came to deliver the hospital bed & supplies had the name plastered in big font on the side of the truck...and I remember watching the truck drive away after they had picked up all the equipment after Jason died. I haven't seen another Vitas truck since that day...until tonight.
I looked up after fidgeting with my phone and my jaw dropped. There in front of me was a Vitas truck. My first instinct was to cry. But, instead, I began laughing. I laughed because I knew it was a joke sent by Jason to make me laugh. Of all the days to see that truck (one year to the day that it arrived on Jason's driveway to drop off the bed, etc)...I knew it was Jason's way of showing me that he's still here with me, that we're still in this together.
May 26, 2009
It's Tuesday, May 26, 2009. I was woken up early by some movement in the bed. I opened my eyes to see Jason trying to get out of bed. I asked him what he was doing and he said he was trying to go to the bathroom. I jumped out of bed and helped him up, walked him to the toilet, sat him down, and then waited at the door. He hadn't been to the bathroom in days, and I didn't expect that he'd be doing anything now...but it's what he wanted.
I peeked through the crack in the door and saw him struggling to sit up. After a few minutes, he looked like he was having trouble, so I went in to help him up. There was nothing in the toilet, but he didn't notice and flushed anyway. I got him back to bed, but felt something hit my arm. It was blood. My first thought was another nose bleed, but I looked and he was fine. I turned and looked at the bathroom and there was a trail of blood back to the bed. I panicked running my hands all over his body trying to find the source until I came to the IV line still in his left arm. Blood was literally shooting from the entry point onto him, onto me, and onto the bed. I threw him on his back and jerked his arm into the air which stopped the spurting. I screamed for his parents to wake up and come in to help me. We got a towel on it and applied pressure while I called the nurse.
We ended up having to call the paramedics who were there in minutes. They were able to stop the bleeding and wrapped his arm to keep it from bursting again. It seems that when I picked Jason up off the toilet, I must've grabbed his arm in an awkward way and ruptured the IV line. It was a scary sight - especially having to call the paramedics. It was at that point that I knew we needed more help from hospice. I spent the next several hours screaming my way through different hospice workers before finally getting some movement. They'd be delivering a hospital bed and other supplies later that afternoon.
After we got everything cleaned up, we got Jason out to the living room where he laid down on the couch. His parents and I, in the meantime, had a little conference in the other room where we discussed the difficult topic of planning the end. Jason wanted to be cremated, so we needed to line up the funeral home, find an urn, etc. They were going to go that afternoon to set all that up. I felt so bad for them...in this strange city they didn't know having to go to a funeral home they knew nothing about to deal with the final arrangements for their only son. It was just an incredibly sad situation.
While they were gone, hospice arrived and set up the hospital bed. We also got a wheelchair, and a few other supplies. We also learned that we'd be getting more help - in the form of a home health aide...basically someone to help lift him up, clean him, etc. That was a relief...after some very frustrating moments trying to get the hospice company to respond to our pleas. We really wanted 24 hour care, but were told the situation was not critical enough for that. As soon as the bed was set up, Jason wanted to get in it. We helped him up, shuffled him over and sat him down. He never got out of that bed again.
Later that evening, a group of Jason's friends came by to bring dinner (even though we were still overrun with food) and spend some quality time with him. By now, though, Jason was in and out of it quite frequently. So, instead, we spent the night hearing amazing and hilarious stories about him while he slept. Every once in a while, he'd wake up, smile, and say "Oh hi!" to someone who addressed him. It was so cute the way he said it, and made everyone's mood a little lighter. That is until it was time for them to say goodbye. There were lots of tears, hugs, and kisses. Everyone knew this would be the last time they saw him alive. Standing by watching these first set of goodbyes was incredibly gut-wrenching and only made me dread the final moment when I had to do the same.
I wanted to stay up with Jason in the living room where the hospital bed was, but his dad insisted that I get some sleep. He wanted to spend time with Jason, and I wasn't about to deny him that. So, I went over to the bed, sat down next to Jason and held his hand. Watching him sleep, so peacefully...it actually made me smile. I knew his pain would be over soon, and for that I was thankful. I squeezed his hand and said his name. He opened his eyes, and I looked directly into them. I leaned in and kissed him...he kissed back...and I told him I loved him. He said "I love you too baby" before closing his eyes again. It was the last time I ever heard him say that.
Two Days Left
I peeked through the crack in the door and saw him struggling to sit up. After a few minutes, he looked like he was having trouble, so I went in to help him up. There was nothing in the toilet, but he didn't notice and flushed anyway. I got him back to bed, but felt something hit my arm. It was blood. My first thought was another nose bleed, but I looked and he was fine. I turned and looked at the bathroom and there was a trail of blood back to the bed. I panicked running my hands all over his body trying to find the source until I came to the IV line still in his left arm. Blood was literally shooting from the entry point onto him, onto me, and onto the bed. I threw him on his back and jerked his arm into the air which stopped the spurting. I screamed for his parents to wake up and come in to help me. We got a towel on it and applied pressure while I called the nurse.
We ended up having to call the paramedics who were there in minutes. They were able to stop the bleeding and wrapped his arm to keep it from bursting again. It seems that when I picked Jason up off the toilet, I must've grabbed his arm in an awkward way and ruptured the IV line. It was a scary sight - especially having to call the paramedics. It was at that point that I knew we needed more help from hospice. I spent the next several hours screaming my way through different hospice workers before finally getting some movement. They'd be delivering a hospital bed and other supplies later that afternoon.
After we got everything cleaned up, we got Jason out to the living room where he laid down on the couch. His parents and I, in the meantime, had a little conference in the other room where we discussed the difficult topic of planning the end. Jason wanted to be cremated, so we needed to line up the funeral home, find an urn, etc. They were going to go that afternoon to set all that up. I felt so bad for them...in this strange city they didn't know having to go to a funeral home they knew nothing about to deal with the final arrangements for their only son. It was just an incredibly sad situation.
While they were gone, hospice arrived and set up the hospital bed. We also got a wheelchair, and a few other supplies. We also learned that we'd be getting more help - in the form of a home health aide...basically someone to help lift him up, clean him, etc. That was a relief...after some very frustrating moments trying to get the hospice company to respond to our pleas. We really wanted 24 hour care, but were told the situation was not critical enough for that. As soon as the bed was set up, Jason wanted to get in it. We helped him up, shuffled him over and sat him down. He never got out of that bed again.
Later that evening, a group of Jason's friends came by to bring dinner (even though we were still overrun with food) and spend some quality time with him. By now, though, Jason was in and out of it quite frequently. So, instead, we spent the night hearing amazing and hilarious stories about him while he slept. Every once in a while, he'd wake up, smile, and say "Oh hi!" to someone who addressed him. It was so cute the way he said it, and made everyone's mood a little lighter. That is until it was time for them to say goodbye. There were lots of tears, hugs, and kisses. Everyone knew this would be the last time they saw him alive. Standing by watching these first set of goodbyes was incredibly gut-wrenching and only made me dread the final moment when I had to do the same.
I wanted to stay up with Jason in the living room where the hospital bed was, but his dad insisted that I get some sleep. He wanted to spend time with Jason, and I wasn't about to deny him that. So, I went over to the bed, sat down next to Jason and held his hand. Watching him sleep, so peacefully...it actually made me smile. I knew his pain would be over soon, and for that I was thankful. I squeezed his hand and said his name. He opened his eyes, and I looked directly into them. I leaned in and kissed him...he kissed back...and I told him I loved him. He said "I love you too baby" before closing his eyes again. It was the last time I ever heard him say that.
Two Days Left
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
May 25, 2009
It's Monday, May 25, 2009. It's Memorial Day, and it's the day when things really started to take a turn. As I stated yesterday, I normally spend time with my family on Sundays, but this week was different. Because of the holiday, I had made plans to attend a family bar-b-q at my parents house, and was very much looking forward to getting some time in the pool. I needed to relax.
Jason woke up in pain that morning... a fair amount of pain. He always told me he was never afraid of dying. The only thing he feared was the pain. He did not want to die in pain. So, naturally, when I saw that he was having such a hard time, I wanted to do whatever I could to fix it. He was also continuing to have frequent nose-bleeds, and I knew he desperately needed an infusion of platelets.
Once again, I called our nurse/friend at the hospital and begged to bring him in for some quick treatment. She finally agreed, and the plan was set in motion. We helped Jason out to the car and then piled in and headed to the hospital. Jason was so weak by that point, he was really starting to have trouble walking. While enroute to the hospital, I called ahead and asked them to meet us downstairs with a wheelchair. Susan & Kirsten - two of our absolute favorites - met us at the valet entrance. They helped Jason out and whisked him upstairs to get started while the rest of us parked.
Back on the 5th floor, Jason chose to lay down and selected a room with a bed instead of the regular "chaired" rooms. They hooked him up to fluids, and got the platelets ready to go. But shortly after we arrived, Jason began feeling some intense pain. The doctor was called and ordered IV pain meds, so we knew we were going to be there for a while. At first, I decided I wouldn't go to my parents house, but after his parents - and even he - insisted I go, I decided I could use a couple hours away. I waited until the pain meds kicked in...when I could visibly see that Jason was beginning to relax before I kissed him, squeezed his hand, and then left.
I made it to the car before I let the tears flow. I cried the entire drive to my parents while also catching up on phone calls and updating those who needed to be updated. At my parents, I was able to relax a little and spend some quality time in the pool. I stayed there for a few hours, and after eating, I packed it up and headed back to the house. Jason and the crew had just arrived shortly before I did, and I could tell the mix of fluids, platelets, and pain meds had helped. Jason was almost like himself again, but after a couple more hours, that quickly faded.
By nighttime, he was having a considerable amount of trouble getting up, standing, and even walking. We had to walk with him, someone in front and someone in back to make sure he didn't fall. Jason's humor was still in tact, though. At one point as we were shuffling along the floor to the kitchen, he looked up into my eyes and smiled and said "Look babe, we're dancing." We laughed about that together. We had started talking to hospice about beginning more regular care (at this point, they were only checking in one time a day) because we felt that things were getting way beyond our capabilities. However, they didn't feel like it had reached that point and told us to hang in there. Whatever.
We got Jason to the bedroom and decided to put him on my side of the bed which was closest to the bathroom. He really hadn't gone to the bathroom since Saturday, but we thought in case he had to, this way we wouldn't have to walk him all the way across the room. So, we switched sides. I got him settled and then climbed into bed. He was having a lucid moment and we were able to talk a little. I asked him again if he was scared, and he said no. Again, just of the pain. He apologized for putting me through all of this, a statement that made me nudge him angrily. He told me how much he loved me, and I echoed while telling him how much he's changed my life. It was an amazing moment, something I realized later a lot of people in our situation don't get. G-d was giving us our chance to say everything we needed to say...and we did. It turns out this would be the last night we'd be in bed together...forever.
Three Days Left
Jason woke up in pain that morning... a fair amount of pain. He always told me he was never afraid of dying. The only thing he feared was the pain. He did not want to die in pain. So, naturally, when I saw that he was having such a hard time, I wanted to do whatever I could to fix it. He was also continuing to have frequent nose-bleeds, and I knew he desperately needed an infusion of platelets.
Once again, I called our nurse/friend at the hospital and begged to bring him in for some quick treatment. She finally agreed, and the plan was set in motion. We helped Jason out to the car and then piled in and headed to the hospital. Jason was so weak by that point, he was really starting to have trouble walking. While enroute to the hospital, I called ahead and asked them to meet us downstairs with a wheelchair. Susan & Kirsten - two of our absolute favorites - met us at the valet entrance. They helped Jason out and whisked him upstairs to get started while the rest of us parked.
Back on the 5th floor, Jason chose to lay down and selected a room with a bed instead of the regular "chaired" rooms. They hooked him up to fluids, and got the platelets ready to go. But shortly after we arrived, Jason began feeling some intense pain. The doctor was called and ordered IV pain meds, so we knew we were going to be there for a while. At first, I decided I wouldn't go to my parents house, but after his parents - and even he - insisted I go, I decided I could use a couple hours away. I waited until the pain meds kicked in...when I could visibly see that Jason was beginning to relax before I kissed him, squeezed his hand, and then left.
I made it to the car before I let the tears flow. I cried the entire drive to my parents while also catching up on phone calls and updating those who needed to be updated. At my parents, I was able to relax a little and spend some quality time in the pool. I stayed there for a few hours, and after eating, I packed it up and headed back to the house. Jason and the crew had just arrived shortly before I did, and I could tell the mix of fluids, platelets, and pain meds had helped. Jason was almost like himself again, but after a couple more hours, that quickly faded.
By nighttime, he was having a considerable amount of trouble getting up, standing, and even walking. We had to walk with him, someone in front and someone in back to make sure he didn't fall. Jason's humor was still in tact, though. At one point as we were shuffling along the floor to the kitchen, he looked up into my eyes and smiled and said "Look babe, we're dancing." We laughed about that together. We had started talking to hospice about beginning more regular care (at this point, they were only checking in one time a day) because we felt that things were getting way beyond our capabilities. However, they didn't feel like it had reached that point and told us to hang in there. Whatever.
We got Jason to the bedroom and decided to put him on my side of the bed which was closest to the bathroom. He really hadn't gone to the bathroom since Saturday, but we thought in case he had to, this way we wouldn't have to walk him all the way across the room. So, we switched sides. I got him settled and then climbed into bed. He was having a lucid moment and we were able to talk a little. I asked him again if he was scared, and he said no. Again, just of the pain. He apologized for putting me through all of this, a statement that made me nudge him angrily. He told me how much he loved me, and I echoed while telling him how much he's changed my life. It was an amazing moment, something I realized later a lot of people in our situation don't get. G-d was giving us our chance to say everything we needed to say...and we did. It turns out this would be the last night we'd be in bed together...forever.
Three Days Left
Monday, May 24, 2010
May 24, 2009
It's Sunday, May 24, 2009. Normally on Sundays, I'd be leaving Jason's mid afternoon to go spend time with my family, but on this Sunday, I'm staying put. Jason's best friend Jerrod is coming by later with his mother. And, there's a new issue we're dealing with. Nose-bleeds.
When Jason's platelet level gets low, he starts getting nose-bleeds. Shortly after we woke up and moved into the living room they started to come. We'd get it to stop bleeding for a few minutes, and then out of nowhere it would start again. I put a call into our favorite nurse at the hospital - someone we'd become very close to - and asked if we needed could come in and get him an infusion of platelets. She told me that it really wouldn't do much good and to just keep him home and take care of him as best we could. She was also a little surprised that hospice wasn't there to help us.
I put a call into the hospice representative and discovered that no one really knew what was going on with Jason's case. It was the first of many screw-ups during our journey through hospice. Either way, we were there at home, which is what Jason wanted, and we were doing the best we could. Jerrod and his mother arrived after lunch, and Jason tried his best to stay a part of the conversation. But more often than before, he was beginning to space out. He would join the conversation, and then midway through a sentence, he'd stop and glass over. It was as if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.
We got through the visit with Jerrod & his mother, and Jason was visibly tired. He went to lay down in bed, and his mom went in to be with him. Shortly after Jerrod left, a few friends of mine from work showed up and surprised the hell out of me. They pulled up with a car full of food. Literally - there was enough food in there to feed an army. We were all completely blown away by my co-workers generosity. It was an incredible sight...one that brought me to tears.
The rest of the day was spent dealing with a few more nose-bleeds, but after the visit by the "Food Fairies" it was as if we were all re-energized to keep on fighting. There was a new air of hope in the house, but unfortunately, it didn't last long.
Four Days Left
When Jason's platelet level gets low, he starts getting nose-bleeds. Shortly after we woke up and moved into the living room they started to come. We'd get it to stop bleeding for a few minutes, and then out of nowhere it would start again. I put a call into our favorite nurse at the hospital - someone we'd become very close to - and asked if we needed could come in and get him an infusion of platelets. She told me that it really wouldn't do much good and to just keep him home and take care of him as best we could. She was also a little surprised that hospice wasn't there to help us.
I put a call into the hospice representative and discovered that no one really knew what was going on with Jason's case. It was the first of many screw-ups during our journey through hospice. Either way, we were there at home, which is what Jason wanted, and we were doing the best we could. Jerrod and his mother arrived after lunch, and Jason tried his best to stay a part of the conversation. But more often than before, he was beginning to space out. He would join the conversation, and then midway through a sentence, he'd stop and glass over. It was as if he had fallen asleep with his eyes open.
We got through the visit with Jerrod & his mother, and Jason was visibly tired. He went to lay down in bed, and his mom went in to be with him. Shortly after Jerrod left, a few friends of mine from work showed up and surprised the hell out of me. They pulled up with a car full of food. Literally - there was enough food in there to feed an army. We were all completely blown away by my co-workers generosity. It was an incredible sight...one that brought me to tears.
The rest of the day was spent dealing with a few more nose-bleeds, but after the visit by the "Food Fairies" it was as if we were all re-energized to keep on fighting. There was a new air of hope in the house, but unfortunately, it didn't last long.
Four Days Left
Sunday, May 23, 2010
May 23, 2009
It's Saturday, May 23, 2009. All of us were still reeling from the news from the previous day. Luckily, Jason didn't need to go to the hospital that day, so we were able to spend the day together. My parents and I were scheduled to go to the symphony that night, and we had made plans to get everyone together for dinner beforehand...though it would all depend on how Jason was feeling. He woke up in a fair amount of pain which really didn't go away during the day despite our efforts to mask it.
He was still mobile, still up walking around, talking normally. Except for the fact that you could see the giant mass of tumor which had now deformed his right shoulder, you would never know that this beautiful man was days away from death. Even the hospice worker remarked at how "healthy" he looked for someone who needed hospice.
As the day progressed, Jason's pain level progressed as well. We decided dinner with my folks wouldn't be a good idea, so I instructed my parents to come pick me up after dinner for the symphony. We were going to see the Dallas Symphony Orchestra performing the 1812 Overture. It's one of my favorite pieces of music, my dad's too... and Jason all but insisted that I continue with my plans to go. Even in the face of dying, he wanted to make sure that I wasn't drowning myself in what was going on. He was always thinking of others instead of himself.
I kissed him intently before leaving the house with my folks. Once at the symphony, I texted him until the concert began, and then again during intermission. The 1812 was the final piece that night and it was amazing. It's such a beautiful piece of music and this was the first time I've seen it performed live in person. It was a truly memorable experience, and I'm so glad I was able to see it. That piece became so much more to me through this ordeal, but more on that in future blogs.
I arrived back at the house shortly after 11pm, and was surprised to see everyone still awake...waiting for me to come back. It seems in the few hours that I had been gone, things had already started to change. I didn't want to believe it. I noticed his mom holding his cup for him and asked what was going on. She informed me that he was no longer able to hold onto things...he apparently had dropped a number of cups throughout the night. I didn't believe it. A few minutes later, I went to refill his drink, and handed it to him like normal. Within a minute, the glass was on the floor and water was everywhere. I just looked at him...as he continued to stare forward at the TV not realizing what had just happened. I knew then that this was really happening.
After I changed into my pajama's, I had to help Jason stand up so that we could get to bed. I walked him into the kitchen where we performed our special dance - I got his pills together, put his fentanyl patches on him, and then helped him into our bed. He fell asleep quite quickly that night, and thankfully so. He didn't hear me crying next to him...having finally come to the understanding that our days together were numbered.
Five Days Left
He was still mobile, still up walking around, talking normally. Except for the fact that you could see the giant mass of tumor which had now deformed his right shoulder, you would never know that this beautiful man was days away from death. Even the hospice worker remarked at how "healthy" he looked for someone who needed hospice.
As the day progressed, Jason's pain level progressed as well. We decided dinner with my folks wouldn't be a good idea, so I instructed my parents to come pick me up after dinner for the symphony. We were going to see the Dallas Symphony Orchestra performing the 1812 Overture. It's one of my favorite pieces of music, my dad's too... and Jason all but insisted that I continue with my plans to go. Even in the face of dying, he wanted to make sure that I wasn't drowning myself in what was going on. He was always thinking of others instead of himself.
I kissed him intently before leaving the house with my folks. Once at the symphony, I texted him until the concert began, and then again during intermission. The 1812 was the final piece that night and it was amazing. It's such a beautiful piece of music and this was the first time I've seen it performed live in person. It was a truly memorable experience, and I'm so glad I was able to see it. That piece became so much more to me through this ordeal, but more on that in future blogs.
I arrived back at the house shortly after 11pm, and was surprised to see everyone still awake...waiting for me to come back. It seems in the few hours that I had been gone, things had already started to change. I didn't want to believe it. I noticed his mom holding his cup for him and asked what was going on. She informed me that he was no longer able to hold onto things...he apparently had dropped a number of cups throughout the night. I didn't believe it. A few minutes later, I went to refill his drink, and handed it to him like normal. Within a minute, the glass was on the floor and water was everywhere. I just looked at him...as he continued to stare forward at the TV not realizing what had just happened. I knew then that this was really happening.
After I changed into my pajama's, I had to help Jason stand up so that we could get to bed. I walked him into the kitchen where we performed our special dance - I got his pills together, put his fentanyl patches on him, and then helped him into our bed. He fell asleep quite quickly that night, and thankfully so. He didn't hear me crying next to him...having finally come to the understanding that our days together were numbered.
Five Days Left
Saturday, May 22, 2010
May 22, 2009
It's Friday, May 22, 2009. With Jason's parents now in town, I decided to go to work on Friday and spend the day catching up on all the work I had left behind the last week while taking care of Jason. He and his dad, in the meantime, spent the day at the hospital getting the necessary fluids - blood, platelets, etc - that he needed. Little did I know they were also running some other tests on him...results I'd find out later.
I spent the day at work trying to focus on my job. However, when the love of your life is dying literally before your eyes, it's hard to focus on anything but that. The boys at work did their best to make me laugh, but there was an air hanging in the room that day, and everyone knew it. I made it through the work-day and sprinted out of there as soon as I could.
I arrived home before Jason & his dad did. I found his mom there alone, and we had a nice chat just the two of us. The boys got home around 6pm, literally seconds before the 1st hospice nurse arrived to check in. I met Jason at the door, and he gave me a look... a look that said "I don't have good news." My heart sank, but I hid it as best I could from everyone else. We sat and chatted with the hospice nurse for a while. She ran her tests on Jason, wrote the results down, and then was out the door. Jason's parents had stepped out to the backyard during this, so we took a few minutes to ourselves after the nurse left. That's when he dropped the bomb.
His kidneys had begun to shut down, and they told him it would now be a matter of days...not weeks. Can you even begin to imagine when the man you love is sitting in front you telling you he's going to be dead in days? It's something I wish I never heard...but it's something I'll never forget. I told him we needed to tell his parents (his Dad had been told to leave the room when Jason initially got the news). He agreed, begrudgingly. We invited his parents back in, sat them down, and Jason told them the news. It was like an out of body experience...sitting there watching him tell his parents that their only son was going to be gone soon.
We invited a couple of his friends out to dinner that night and filled them in on the situation as well. Things were going to start happening fast, and we needed everyone to be on the same page. But fast doesn't even begin to describe how quickly things started to go downhill the next few days.
Six Days Left.
I spent the day at work trying to focus on my job. However, when the love of your life is dying literally before your eyes, it's hard to focus on anything but that. The boys at work did their best to make me laugh, but there was an air hanging in the room that day, and everyone knew it. I made it through the work-day and sprinted out of there as soon as I could.
I arrived home before Jason & his dad did. I found his mom there alone, and we had a nice chat just the two of us. The boys got home around 6pm, literally seconds before the 1st hospice nurse arrived to check in. I met Jason at the door, and he gave me a look... a look that said "I don't have good news." My heart sank, but I hid it as best I could from everyone else. We sat and chatted with the hospice nurse for a while. She ran her tests on Jason, wrote the results down, and then was out the door. Jason's parents had stepped out to the backyard during this, so we took a few minutes to ourselves after the nurse left. That's when he dropped the bomb.
His kidneys had begun to shut down, and they told him it would now be a matter of days...not weeks. Can you even begin to imagine when the man you love is sitting in front you telling you he's going to be dead in days? It's something I wish I never heard...but it's something I'll never forget. I told him we needed to tell his parents (his Dad had been told to leave the room when Jason initially got the news). He agreed, begrudgingly. We invited his parents back in, sat them down, and Jason told them the news. It was like an out of body experience...sitting there watching him tell his parents that their only son was going to be gone soon.
We invited a couple of his friends out to dinner that night and filled them in on the situation as well. Things were going to start happening fast, and we needed everyone to be on the same page. But fast doesn't even begin to describe how quickly things started to go downhill the next few days.
Six Days Left.
Friday, May 21, 2010
May 21, 2009
It's May 21, 2009. Jason and I woke up early that morning to get to the hospital for whatever things he needed done that day. We were pretty well rested, having had a pretty good time the night before. The night of the 20th, I had joked with him that I wanted to get my nails done, and that he should too. He told me he had never had a manicure or pedicure before, and that sealed the deal. We dropped everything and went to a nearby nail salon.
We sat next to each other in the pedicure chairs as the two ladies worked on our feet. We looked at each other, smiled, and at one point he gently put his hand on my arm. I could see it in his face, he was genuinely relaxing. It was a good thing. I finished first, and then went over to the desk and had my hands worked on. When that was done, I realized I had forgotten to get cash. I left Jason at the store while they finished with him so I could run and grab cash. When I returned, all three of them had been crying. In her broken english, one of the women said to me "You really love him, don't you?" Taken aback, I said "Absolutely. How could you not fall in love with that?"
On the way home, I pressed Jason to tell me what was said, but he didn't. It wasn't until several days later that he told me about their conversation...how he told them about his cancer, about how he was dying, and about how I had stayed by his side every step of the way. I went back to that nail salon the day before I left to take Jason's ashes back to Boston. The woman remembered me, and knew when I walked in there alone that Jason had died. She didn't say anything at first, but before I got up to leave, she came around the table and gave me a hug. It was one of the most touching experiences, and one I'll never forget.
Back to the 21st. It was a Thursday, and we spent most of the morning at the hospital. I can't recall exactly, but I think Jason only needed a couple things, and we were on schedule to meet with the Hospice worker at the house that afternoon. It was also the day that Jason's parents were arriving - to stay until it was over. They got to the house about the same time as the hospice worker. Jason was very coarse with his parents and sent them to the backyard while he and I worked out the details with hospice. He didn't want his parents involved in that - I think more to protect them than anything else. We sat with the guy at the dining room table while Jason filled out the paperwork and answered questions. After he left, we filled his parents in on everything.
Jason talked to his parents about wanting to throw a party for himself the next weekend. He likened it to the movie "It's My Party" where they guy has a party for himself to say goodbye to everyone the night before he dies. None of us knew how fast things would go, so a party seemed like a good idea. We went to bed that night talking about it, laughing, and thinking about how fun it would be.
Seven Days Left
We sat next to each other in the pedicure chairs as the two ladies worked on our feet. We looked at each other, smiled, and at one point he gently put his hand on my arm. I could see it in his face, he was genuinely relaxing. It was a good thing. I finished first, and then went over to the desk and had my hands worked on. When that was done, I realized I had forgotten to get cash. I left Jason at the store while they finished with him so I could run and grab cash. When I returned, all three of them had been crying. In her broken english, one of the women said to me "You really love him, don't you?" Taken aback, I said "Absolutely. How could you not fall in love with that?"
On the way home, I pressed Jason to tell me what was said, but he didn't. It wasn't until several days later that he told me about their conversation...how he told them about his cancer, about how he was dying, and about how I had stayed by his side every step of the way. I went back to that nail salon the day before I left to take Jason's ashes back to Boston. The woman remembered me, and knew when I walked in there alone that Jason had died. She didn't say anything at first, but before I got up to leave, she came around the table and gave me a hug. It was one of the most touching experiences, and one I'll never forget.
Back to the 21st. It was a Thursday, and we spent most of the morning at the hospital. I can't recall exactly, but I think Jason only needed a couple things, and we were on schedule to meet with the Hospice worker at the house that afternoon. It was also the day that Jason's parents were arriving - to stay until it was over. They got to the house about the same time as the hospice worker. Jason was very coarse with his parents and sent them to the backyard while he and I worked out the details with hospice. He didn't want his parents involved in that - I think more to protect them than anything else. We sat with the guy at the dining room table while Jason filled out the paperwork and answered questions. After he left, we filled his parents in on everything.
Jason talked to his parents about wanting to throw a party for himself the next weekend. He likened it to the movie "It's My Party" where they guy has a party for himself to say goodbye to everyone the night before he dies. None of us knew how fast things would go, so a party seemed like a good idea. We went to bed that night talking about it, laughing, and thinking about how fun it would be.
Seven Days Left
In A Year...
Have you ever stopped to think what you've done in a year's time? What have you accomplished in 12 months? Are you proud of what you've done? Is there something you wanted to do but didn't get the chance?
As we enter Friday the 21st, I'm left thinking about everything that's happened in the last year...leading up to next Friday - the one year anniversary I've been dreading. I feel like so much has happened in this last year, but on the other hand...I feel like it's only been a month. I've read that - for many widow(er)s - the first year after their spouses death is often a blur. They only do whats necessary to live daily life and get by.
Before Jason died, we had several conversations about what life would be like for me after he was gone. He was quite concerned (as was I for that matter), that I would lapse into a depression and forget to live. I had already given up so much to be with him and take care of him, something he scolded me for often. He was afraid that I would give up even more when he died.
When that day came, I stood at a crossroads. In one direction, there was sadness, and depression. I began to take a few steps down that road in the weeks after he died. But then, something changed in me. It was like a fog lifted...more like shifted ever so slightly. I was able to see a glimpse of what lie ahead, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it because I knew Jason was watching my every move, upset with me because I had promised I wouldn't go down that road. Things needed to change, and they did. I slowly worked my way back up to that crossroads and then made a turn went down the other road.
So, looking back... what have I done in the year since I lost the love of my life? I must say, as I take stock of the last year, I've actually surprised myself a bit. In June, just weeks after Jason died, I created Team Jason for the Light The Night Walk and over the next 4 months we raised $11,000 for lymphoma research. In September - four months after he died - I was nominated for an Emmy Award (my 6th nomination), and the next month, I won (my first win). I carried my Emmy at the Light The Night Walk which was held the very next night. I traveled to Boston, New York, and San Diego. I've held down my job and the job of 2 other people singlehandedly, and I've kicked some ass...if I do say so myself. I bought a boat (half of one, anyway...) and spent a good chunk of last summer on the water. I decorated my apartment. I started reading again...a lot. I started this blog. I met many amazing people, including two widows that have become very dear friends. I turned 30...and actually had fun at my party (though my mind did wander to Jason often).
I'm sure there's more that I'm not thinking of, but hey, looking at that list, I'd say it was a pretty banner year. Looking at it on "paper", I actually start smiling. I've really done a lot this year that I'm proud of, maybe even more than I've done in previous years. So why then, in this week before the devastating anniversary, am I wishing that I could give all of that happiness back for even just one more minute with Jason? I've said it before, and I'll say it again... it's just not fair.
Until next time --
Stuart
As we enter Friday the 21st, I'm left thinking about everything that's happened in the last year...leading up to next Friday - the one year anniversary I've been dreading. I feel like so much has happened in this last year, but on the other hand...I feel like it's only been a month. I've read that - for many widow(er)s - the first year after their spouses death is often a blur. They only do whats necessary to live daily life and get by.
Before Jason died, we had several conversations about what life would be like for me after he was gone. He was quite concerned (as was I for that matter), that I would lapse into a depression and forget to live. I had already given up so much to be with him and take care of him, something he scolded me for often. He was afraid that I would give up even more when he died.
When that day came, I stood at a crossroads. In one direction, there was sadness, and depression. I began to take a few steps down that road in the weeks after he died. But then, something changed in me. It was like a fog lifted...more like shifted ever so slightly. I was able to see a glimpse of what lie ahead, and I didn't like it. I didn't like it because I knew Jason was watching my every move, upset with me because I had promised I wouldn't go down that road. Things needed to change, and they did. I slowly worked my way back up to that crossroads and then made a turn went down the other road.
So, looking back... what have I done in the year since I lost the love of my life? I must say, as I take stock of the last year, I've actually surprised myself a bit. In June, just weeks after Jason died, I created Team Jason for the Light The Night Walk and over the next 4 months we raised $11,000 for lymphoma research. In September - four months after he died - I was nominated for an Emmy Award (my 6th nomination), and the next month, I won (my first win). I carried my Emmy at the Light The Night Walk which was held the very next night. I traveled to Boston, New York, and San Diego. I've held down my job and the job of 2 other people singlehandedly, and I've kicked some ass...if I do say so myself. I bought a boat (half of one, anyway...) and spent a good chunk of last summer on the water. I decorated my apartment. I started reading again...a lot. I started this blog. I met many amazing people, including two widows that have become very dear friends. I turned 30...and actually had fun at my party (though my mind did wander to Jason often).
I'm sure there's more that I'm not thinking of, but hey, looking at that list, I'd say it was a pretty banner year. Looking at it on "paper", I actually start smiling. I've really done a lot this year that I'm proud of, maybe even more than I've done in previous years. So why then, in this week before the devastating anniversary, am I wishing that I could give all of that happiness back for even just one more minute with Jason? I've said it before, and I'll say it again... it's just not fair.
Until next time --
Stuart
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Back On Six
Today was a very interesting, sad, and memorable day. A dear friend of mine - who has been battling breast cancer for more than two years - was hospitalized yesterday. Hearing that news so close to this upcoming monster of an anniversary was almost too much to bear.
I met Leah through work. We actually profiled her fight against breast cancer for a story. Jason and I laid together on his couch and watched the first report that aired. We both remarked at what an incredible woman she is, and how she was facing her fight with courage and determination. This was three months before Jason died. My colleagues and I continued to follow Leah and her treatments over the next few months, and decided to do a follow-up report on her in November (Click here to see the report).
Leah has become a friend, and I stay up to date on what's going on with her. Things have not been going well for her lately and she's been going through quite a few blood & platelet transfusions, and numerous rounds of chemo. That's why my heart leapt into my throat yesterday when I saw she posted on Facebook that she was back in the hospital. I knew I had to go see her the next day, so a co-worker who had helped produce Leah's stories and I made arrangements to pay her a visit.
I knew Leah was being treated at Baylor, so I knew that she would be hospitalized there. I also knew that there was a chance that she'd be housed on the very same floor where Jason had been cared for half a dozen times throughout his illness. What I didn't know is that walking back onto that floor would have such an impact on me. I had been back to the hospital several times since he died. I went to the outpatient cancer center to visit his chemo nurses, and even shot a few stories at the hospital itself. I enjoyed going back to visit the nurses, as they were like family to us. However, this was the first time that I'd be going back to the place where Jason spent so many nights.
Stepping off the elevator on the sixth floor, my heart began to beat faster. It was as if only a day had passed since I was there last. The place hadn't changed at all. Everything was as I remembered it. We walked through the door and past the nurses station on our way to Leah's room - 605. In the back of my mind, I wondered "Did Jason stay in this room?" My question was answered the second I walked in...he had. Leah is sleeping in the very same bed that Jason had been in some time ago. It was everything I had in me not to break down crying right then and there.
Seeing Leah was tough. She's visibly changed by what she's been going through, and her demeanor is different. Moments after we arrived, she began asking me questions about Jason's memorial service, planning, etc. She asked about the urn we selected for him, and expressed that she wanted to design her own urn. Normally, talking about this stuff wouldn't bother me - having been there before. But, sitting in that room, looking at her in that bed...it was an extremely difficult conversation. I left an hour later and spent the drive back to work crying my eyes out.
12 months ago on May 19th, we were dealing with getting Jason's affairs in order. We were preparing to meet with Hospice and get that started, and we were just a couple days away from welcoming his parents in for the long haul...a haul that only lasted 1 week. A week from Friday, it was all over. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that it's been a year. How can so much time have passed when it still hurts so much? How can so much time have passed when I can still recall every detail of those last few days?
It just doesn't seem real.
Until next time --
Stuart
I met Leah through work. We actually profiled her fight against breast cancer for a story. Jason and I laid together on his couch and watched the first report that aired. We both remarked at what an incredible woman she is, and how she was facing her fight with courage and determination. This was three months before Jason died. My colleagues and I continued to follow Leah and her treatments over the next few months, and decided to do a follow-up report on her in November (Click here to see the report).
Leah has become a friend, and I stay up to date on what's going on with her. Things have not been going well for her lately and she's been going through quite a few blood & platelet transfusions, and numerous rounds of chemo. That's why my heart leapt into my throat yesterday when I saw she posted on Facebook that she was back in the hospital. I knew I had to go see her the next day, so a co-worker who had helped produce Leah's stories and I made arrangements to pay her a visit.
I knew Leah was being treated at Baylor, so I knew that she would be hospitalized there. I also knew that there was a chance that she'd be housed on the very same floor where Jason had been cared for half a dozen times throughout his illness. What I didn't know is that walking back onto that floor would have such an impact on me. I had been back to the hospital several times since he died. I went to the outpatient cancer center to visit his chemo nurses, and even shot a few stories at the hospital itself. I enjoyed going back to visit the nurses, as they were like family to us. However, this was the first time that I'd be going back to the place where Jason spent so many nights.
Stepping off the elevator on the sixth floor, my heart began to beat faster. It was as if only a day had passed since I was there last. The place hadn't changed at all. Everything was as I remembered it. We walked through the door and past the nurses station on our way to Leah's room - 605. In the back of my mind, I wondered "Did Jason stay in this room?" My question was answered the second I walked in...he had. Leah is sleeping in the very same bed that Jason had been in some time ago. It was everything I had in me not to break down crying right then and there.
Seeing Leah was tough. She's visibly changed by what she's been going through, and her demeanor is different. Moments after we arrived, she began asking me questions about Jason's memorial service, planning, etc. She asked about the urn we selected for him, and expressed that she wanted to design her own urn. Normally, talking about this stuff wouldn't bother me - having been there before. But, sitting in that room, looking at her in that bed...it was an extremely difficult conversation. I left an hour later and spent the drive back to work crying my eyes out.
12 months ago on May 19th, we were dealing with getting Jason's affairs in order. We were preparing to meet with Hospice and get that started, and we were just a couple days away from welcoming his parents in for the long haul...a haul that only lasted 1 week. A week from Friday, it was all over. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that it's been a year. How can so much time have passed when it still hurts so much? How can so much time have passed when I can still recall every detail of those last few days?
It just doesn't seem real.
Until next time --
Stuart
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Letters To God
Tonight - as if I didn't need another reason to cry - I went to see the movie "Letters To God" with my friend Casey. I knew the premise of the movie before going in tonight... hell, even the preview made me cry. Casey and several others even wondered if it was a good idea for me to be watching this movie this week. What can I say? I'm an emotional cutter, and I knew it would give me a release I needed. And boy did it.
Overall, it was a good movie. The acting left a lot to be desired, but above all of that, the story - the script was amazing. It was extremely touching, and very real. Despite the fact that I'm a non-practicing Jew, even I was able to take-away some of the God-bearing message this movie carried. It was heavy on the Jesus side at times, but apart from that, it's religious message has the ability to metaphorically reach across the pews to other faiths.
If you haven't heard about the film, in a nutshell - it's about a little boy who is battling an aggressive form of brain cancer. There are several sub-plots involving his mother, brother, and mail carrier who all get wrapped up in Tyler's (the boy with cancer) letters to God. Those letters transform everyone who reads them and spreads through the entire community. It really is very touching. More than touching, though. It's inspiring. It's inspired me to want to write my own letter to God, and even if you haven't seen it - whether you have a relationship with God or not - I hope it might inspire you to write one of your own.
Dear God:
I've tried to understand why you've done what you've done in my life the last two years. You've certainly thrown a lot of things in my direction... most of which I think I've handled fairly well. I understand that everything happens for a reason, and it's that reason I'm trying to figure out.
For instance, what reason would you have for bringing a wonderful man into my life - give him an incurable disease, and then take him out of my life just as quickly as he entered? For months I've pondered this. I've spent countless hours thinking about it. Obviously there was something you wanted me to gain, to learn from this entire situation. Maybe it was to be more humble. Maybe it was to be more appreciative of life itself. Maybe it was to ignite my passion for charity. Maybe it was to teach me what true love feels like, and what true pain and loss feels like.
If those are the lesson you expected me to learn, then I can honestly say "Mission Accomplished, Sir!" I am without a doubt more humble in my life since Jason died, and because of that, I am much more appreciative of the life I have been given by you. My time in the cancer trenches with Jason has most definitely ignited a passion for charity that will continue the rest of my life, so check on that one. And because of the amazing man you put in my path, I've definitely learned what true love feels like. And because you took the amazing man with whom I fell in love away from me, I've felt true pain and loss. But, something tells me there's still more I need to learn from this entire thing. What that is, I don't know.
It is my hope, God, that you'll soon make that clear. It is my hope that I will be able to learn everything I need from this situation and move on because frankly, I can't hold on to this much longer. God, you gave me so much in my 29 years of life on this Earth, and in just two short years, you've also taken away so much. I've never been angry with you, though. I may have questioned why, but I have never once been angry or turned my back on you. Instead, all I've asked of you, time and time again, is that you open my eyes and allow me to see what I'm supposed to see, learn what I'm supposed to learn, and accept what I need to accept and move forward on whatever new path you set before me.
God, I know you and I don't talk as often as we should...and that's most definitely my fault. I suppose I should be better about that. But, as I suspect, you already know what's in my heart, in my soul. I only wish now that you will guide me as I continue on my path to healing, and that you will continue to guide me in my life as I move into the next phase of my life.
Before I go, I'd like to take a moment to thank you. Thank you, God, for putting your faith and trust in me to handle what you've put in front of me. Thank you for bringing that wonderful man into my life - however short our time was. As cliche as it is, it's entirely true. I would rather have two years of love and happiness with Jason than a lifetime without. So, thank you again for that. Thank you, also, for the amazing support system you've given me - my incredible friends who have stood by my side through thick and thin. Thank you for my family who actually loves me for who I really am. Thank you for blessing me with an exceptional career that's given me so many unbelievable opportunities of which some people only dream. And finally, but above all else, thank you for blessing me with 30 amazing years of life (and hopefully many more to follow). I only hope I'm doing enough with it to make you proud.
Goodnight God.
Until next time--
Stuart
Overall, it was a good movie. The acting left a lot to be desired, but above all of that, the story - the script was amazing. It was extremely touching, and very real. Despite the fact that I'm a non-practicing Jew, even I was able to take-away some of the God-bearing message this movie carried. It was heavy on the Jesus side at times, but apart from that, it's religious message has the ability to metaphorically reach across the pews to other faiths.
If you haven't heard about the film, in a nutshell - it's about a little boy who is battling an aggressive form of brain cancer. There are several sub-plots involving his mother, brother, and mail carrier who all get wrapped up in Tyler's (the boy with cancer) letters to God. Those letters transform everyone who reads them and spreads through the entire community. It really is very touching. More than touching, though. It's inspiring. It's inspired me to want to write my own letter to God, and even if you haven't seen it - whether you have a relationship with God or not - I hope it might inspire you to write one of your own.
Dear God:
I've tried to understand why you've done what you've done in my life the last two years. You've certainly thrown a lot of things in my direction... most of which I think I've handled fairly well. I understand that everything happens for a reason, and it's that reason I'm trying to figure out.
For instance, what reason would you have for bringing a wonderful man into my life - give him an incurable disease, and then take him out of my life just as quickly as he entered? For months I've pondered this. I've spent countless hours thinking about it. Obviously there was something you wanted me to gain, to learn from this entire situation. Maybe it was to be more humble. Maybe it was to be more appreciative of life itself. Maybe it was to ignite my passion for charity. Maybe it was to teach me what true love feels like, and what true pain and loss feels like.
If those are the lesson you expected me to learn, then I can honestly say "Mission Accomplished, Sir!" I am without a doubt more humble in my life since Jason died, and because of that, I am much more appreciative of the life I have been given by you. My time in the cancer trenches with Jason has most definitely ignited a passion for charity that will continue the rest of my life, so check on that one. And because of the amazing man you put in my path, I've definitely learned what true love feels like. And because you took the amazing man with whom I fell in love away from me, I've felt true pain and loss. But, something tells me there's still more I need to learn from this entire thing. What that is, I don't know.
It is my hope, God, that you'll soon make that clear. It is my hope that I will be able to learn everything I need from this situation and move on because frankly, I can't hold on to this much longer. God, you gave me so much in my 29 years of life on this Earth, and in just two short years, you've also taken away so much. I've never been angry with you, though. I may have questioned why, but I have never once been angry or turned my back on you. Instead, all I've asked of you, time and time again, is that you open my eyes and allow me to see what I'm supposed to see, learn what I'm supposed to learn, and accept what I need to accept and move forward on whatever new path you set before me.
God, I know you and I don't talk as often as we should...and that's most definitely my fault. I suppose I should be better about that. But, as I suspect, you already know what's in my heart, in my soul. I only wish now that you will guide me as I continue on my path to healing, and that you will continue to guide me in my life as I move into the next phase of my life.
Before I go, I'd like to take a moment to thank you. Thank you, God, for putting your faith and trust in me to handle what you've put in front of me. Thank you for bringing that wonderful man into my life - however short our time was. As cliche as it is, it's entirely true. I would rather have two years of love and happiness with Jason than a lifetime without. So, thank you again for that. Thank you, also, for the amazing support system you've given me - my incredible friends who have stood by my side through thick and thin. Thank you for my family who actually loves me for who I really am. Thank you for blessing me with an exceptional career that's given me so many unbelievable opportunities of which some people only dream. And finally, but above all else, thank you for blessing me with 30 amazing years of life (and hopefully many more to follow). I only hope I'm doing enough with it to make you proud.
Goodnight God.
Until next time--
Stuart
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Do You Really Know?
I had an interesting conversation with some friends over dinner the other night. Actually, I've had this conversation a few times since Jason died. It's an important conversation, and one I've never written about. So let's talk.
When Jason died, there were a lot of things that had to be done in a very short amount of time. Most importantly, the planning of the memorial service in Dallas. There really wasn't much of a plan, per se...that is until I was standing there with a microphone in my hand welcoming everyone on that beautiful Saturday. What transpired over the next nearly two hours was incredible, though. I joked afterwards that I couldn't have produced it better had I tried.
The thing that was so great about the service was that there was someone there representing every aspect of Jason's life. His parents were there to represent his childhood. His college friends were there. His first work buddies were there. His gay friends were there. His Lone Star Ride family was there. His work family was there. His best friends were there. Hell...even some people from the oncology team who treated him showed up. There was about 150-200 people there in all. It truly was a mind-blowing sight.
What happened next was even more incredible, though. One by one, people got up and spoke about what an amazing person Jason was. They spoke about how he touched their lives - even in the slightest way - and how he meant so much to them. There were some he hadn't spoken to in months, even years... but it didn't matter. The impact was there. His parents and I talked after the service and joked that we learned things about him there that we had never known... and maybe for the first time, his parents learned what a truly amazing person their son was.
But, what killed me about that beautiful sight - all those wonderful things people said about him... what hurt the most was that he wasn't there to hear it himself. Oh, I'm sure you're thinking "he was there" and "he heard it all". But, don't you think it would've meant more, had more impact had he heard it for himself when he was alive? It got me thinking... as a society, why are we so afraid to tell those around us how we feel about them? Why do we hide our feelings? Why do we hide our praise for others? Why do we keep our pride from our friends, family, and other loved ones?
Do you know what people really think about you? Do you know what kind of impact you've had on someone else's life? Have you been told lately how much you mean to someone - your partner/spouse or otherwise? If you can't answer yes to all of these questions, then there is something wrong. How do we fix that? I don't know, but maybe it starts with us. Maybe it starts with us taking charge of our feelings and becoming more open to divulging how we feel. We should all live like we're speaking at a funeral - as odd as that sounds. But it's true. Live and speak freely to people as if you were speaking at their funeral. Tell them how you really feel about them and stop hiding behind your heart. Let them know before it's too late. Let them know so they have the pleasure of hearing it, taking it in, and letting it fill them with the kind of warmth that only comes from that kind of love.
Right here, right now - I pledge to tell everyone in my life - anyone who has had an impact on me - exactly how I feel about them. Will you join me and take the same pledge?
Until next time --
Stuart
When Jason died, there were a lot of things that had to be done in a very short amount of time. Most importantly, the planning of the memorial service in Dallas. There really wasn't much of a plan, per se...that is until I was standing there with a microphone in my hand welcoming everyone on that beautiful Saturday. What transpired over the next nearly two hours was incredible, though. I joked afterwards that I couldn't have produced it better had I tried.
The thing that was so great about the service was that there was someone there representing every aspect of Jason's life. His parents were there to represent his childhood. His college friends were there. His first work buddies were there. His gay friends were there. His Lone Star Ride family was there. His work family was there. His best friends were there. Hell...even some people from the oncology team who treated him showed up. There was about 150-200 people there in all. It truly was a mind-blowing sight.
What happened next was even more incredible, though. One by one, people got up and spoke about what an amazing person Jason was. They spoke about how he touched their lives - even in the slightest way - and how he meant so much to them. There were some he hadn't spoken to in months, even years... but it didn't matter. The impact was there. His parents and I talked after the service and joked that we learned things about him there that we had never known... and maybe for the first time, his parents learned what a truly amazing person their son was.
But, what killed me about that beautiful sight - all those wonderful things people said about him... what hurt the most was that he wasn't there to hear it himself. Oh, I'm sure you're thinking "he was there" and "he heard it all". But, don't you think it would've meant more, had more impact had he heard it for himself when he was alive? It got me thinking... as a society, why are we so afraid to tell those around us how we feel about them? Why do we hide our feelings? Why do we hide our praise for others? Why do we keep our pride from our friends, family, and other loved ones?
Do you know what people really think about you? Do you know what kind of impact you've had on someone else's life? Have you been told lately how much you mean to someone - your partner/spouse or otherwise? If you can't answer yes to all of these questions, then there is something wrong. How do we fix that? I don't know, but maybe it starts with us. Maybe it starts with us taking charge of our feelings and becoming more open to divulging how we feel. We should all live like we're speaking at a funeral - as odd as that sounds. But it's true. Live and speak freely to people as if you were speaking at their funeral. Tell them how you really feel about them and stop hiding behind your heart. Let them know before it's too late. Let them know so they have the pleasure of hearing it, taking it in, and letting it fill them with the kind of warmth that only comes from that kind of love.
Right here, right now - I pledge to tell everyone in my life - anyone who has had an impact on me - exactly how I feel about them. Will you join me and take the same pledge?
Until next time --
Stuart
Monday, May 3, 2010
5 Days Left
There are just five days left of my 20s. There are just 5 days left of the 29th year of my life. And what a year it has been.
This time last year, I had been through the ringer. Jason had been through the ringer. Together, we were exhausted, crushed, beaten, and tired of fighting. The only thing we had was each other, our love, and the knowledge that someday - unfortunately very soon...days, weeks even - it would all be over. Most of you have never known what this feels like, and I pray you never will. This time last year - when I should have been preparing to celebrate my last year in my 20s, I was dealing with a will, an advanced directive, power of attorney questions, estate issues, and above all that - trying to keep Jason as comfortable as possible while his cancer continued to grow inside him.
The day before my birthday, Jason was in an extreme amount of pain. We had gone to bed the evening of the 6th, and he was unsettled. He was hurting, and the pain only continued to grow throughout the night. He took pills, I put Fentanyl patches all over his body, but nothing helped. By 5am, neither of us had slept a wink, and it had become clear that his pain was not going to subside. I made a call to the on-call doctor, and then off we went to the hospital. He was admitted to the oncology ICU, and they immediately started IV pain medications. A few hours later, he was drugged, I was tired...and off I went to work.
I came back immediately after work, obviously, and stayed until I couldn't stay anymore. The next day was Friday...my birthday, and we spent it in that Oncology ICU room hoping that he'd be released the next day. He was feeling much better, and was so concerned that I was spending my birthday in a hospital...nevermind the fact that it didn't matter where I was...I just wanted to be with him. Earlier that day, he apparently had begged his doctor and nurses to make sure he was released either that night or first thing Saturday morning. I didn't know he had done that, nor did I know what he had planned on Saturday and why it was so important for him to get out of the hospital in time. He did, and I'm so glad because that Saturday has become one of the best memories I have of him.
In the face of dying - literally being stalked by death, Jason put aside his pain... he put aside whatever fear he had, and he focused on me. He treated me to one of the most amazing birthdays. He had arranged for a gigantic suite at the brand new Omni Hotel in Fort Worth, along with a day at the spa which included champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a couples massage that we both so desperately needed. For just a few hours, we were both able to forget that cancer was ruining our lives. For just a few hours, we were allowed to be just us, just together, just alone with each other...without cancer. It was the best birthday, and it will forever be the most special time I spent with Jason.
So, this week as my 30th birthday approaches, I will be thinking a lot about those days last year, but I will try my best not to dwell on them. I know I need to focus on looking forward to celebrating a new decade in my life, and take comfort in knowing that Jason will be there...celebrating right alongside me. I know I'll feel him, I know he'll be there...but it's just not the same. It's just not fair! It's not fair that the love of my life was able to surprise me with an amazing 29th birthday, and then not be here to do the same for my 30th. It's not fair that on Saturday morning, the very morning I turn 30, I won't be waking up to see his face lying next to me, but instead I'll be thinking about what could have been, what should have been.
Here's to 30.
Until next time...
Stuart
This time last year, I had been through the ringer. Jason had been through the ringer. Together, we were exhausted, crushed, beaten, and tired of fighting. The only thing we had was each other, our love, and the knowledge that someday - unfortunately very soon...days, weeks even - it would all be over. Most of you have never known what this feels like, and I pray you never will. This time last year - when I should have been preparing to celebrate my last year in my 20s, I was dealing with a will, an advanced directive, power of attorney questions, estate issues, and above all that - trying to keep Jason as comfortable as possible while his cancer continued to grow inside him.
The day before my birthday, Jason was in an extreme amount of pain. We had gone to bed the evening of the 6th, and he was unsettled. He was hurting, and the pain only continued to grow throughout the night. He took pills, I put Fentanyl patches all over his body, but nothing helped. By 5am, neither of us had slept a wink, and it had become clear that his pain was not going to subside. I made a call to the on-call doctor, and then off we went to the hospital. He was admitted to the oncology ICU, and they immediately started IV pain medications. A few hours later, he was drugged, I was tired...and off I went to work.
I came back immediately after work, obviously, and stayed until I couldn't stay anymore. The next day was Friday...my birthday, and we spent it in that Oncology ICU room hoping that he'd be released the next day. He was feeling much better, and was so concerned that I was spending my birthday in a hospital...nevermind the fact that it didn't matter where I was...I just wanted to be with him. Earlier that day, he apparently had begged his doctor and nurses to make sure he was released either that night or first thing Saturday morning. I didn't know he had done that, nor did I know what he had planned on Saturday and why it was so important for him to get out of the hospital in time. He did, and I'm so glad because that Saturday has become one of the best memories I have of him.
In the face of dying - literally being stalked by death, Jason put aside his pain... he put aside whatever fear he had, and he focused on me. He treated me to one of the most amazing birthdays. He had arranged for a gigantic suite at the brand new Omni Hotel in Fort Worth, along with a day at the spa which included champagne, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a couples massage that we both so desperately needed. For just a few hours, we were both able to forget that cancer was ruining our lives. For just a few hours, we were allowed to be just us, just together, just alone with each other...without cancer. It was the best birthday, and it will forever be the most special time I spent with Jason.
So, this week as my 30th birthday approaches, I will be thinking a lot about those days last year, but I will try my best not to dwell on them. I know I need to focus on looking forward to celebrating a new decade in my life, and take comfort in knowing that Jason will be there...celebrating right alongside me. I know I'll feel him, I know he'll be there...but it's just not the same. It's just not fair! It's not fair that the love of my life was able to surprise me with an amazing 29th birthday, and then not be here to do the same for my 30th. It's not fair that on Saturday morning, the very morning I turn 30, I won't be waking up to see his face lying next to me, but instead I'll be thinking about what could have been, what should have been.
Here's to 30.
Until next time...
Stuart
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