A birthday and an anniversary

I'm asking that y'all keep our family in prayer this weekend.

Today (Aug. 30) would have been my husband's birthday. He would have turned 60 today. The last birthday we got to celebrate with him he turned 46.

Tomorrow (Aug. 31) is the anniversary of The Caregiver's wife, Lea's, death. She died in 2000.

We've been experiencing these days without them for 14 years now.
That's a painfully long time.

We "do death" differently in our house. We have pictures of Mike and Lea everywhere. We talk about them freely and frequently. They are very much a part of our lives and a part of our family.
Birthdays and death anniversaries and wedding anniversaries are celebrated. Over the past 14 years we have done all sorts of things to celebrate and remember Mike and Lea.
Things like:

• release balloons
• share a favorite dessert (Twinkies for Mike, blonde brownies for Lea)
• share a favorite meal 
• go to a favorite restaurant
• go to a favorite place
• do a favorite activity
• share stories
• watch home movies
• look through photo albums

It's difficult to explain and, I'm sure, difficult for others to understand, how so very much The Caregiver and I lean on each other and hold each other up. We held each other and cried early this morning. We still love, miss and ache for Mike and Lea.
If you are told, "time heals all wounds" or "you'll get over it," you've been told wrong. That's a lie. And I wouldn't want it any other way. In my mind "getting over it" equates to "forgotten."
Time passes and children grow and we continue to live.
Fourteen years later, it still hurts. Our spouses are still gone. Our children's parents are still not ever coming back. We all still cry.

Kiss your family this weekend and hold them close. XO

Fear and loathing from the back side of 40

Birthday flowers.

Today is my birthday. 

I say that not because I want songs, or presents or recognition (although I did get all these things today) but because there was a time I wasn't sure I'd actually be here for today.

I have been trying to discover my New Normal while living with a cancer diagnosis since October. 

I remember the doctor's declaration distinctly. 

"You have leukemia."

Wait, what? 

"Leukemia." 

That's cancer, right, of the blood? You can't be serious. Cancer killed my first husband and now you're telling me I have it, too? How am I ever going to tell my kids?

What went through my mind?
Fear. Fear of the unknown future. Fear that there won't BE a future.

My brain immediately starts spinning and spouting off worst-case scenarios.

I'm going to die (not anytime soon).

My hair will fall out (eh, it changed, got thinner).

I'll need a bone marrow transplant (nope, only if the Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills stop working).

They'll admit me to the hospital (nope).

I'm going to die (not anytime soon).

Thanksgiving came. I watched from the couch, huddled in blankets, suffering from the effects of the Super Dangerous but Absolutely Necessary chemotherapy pills as my children prepared all our traditional dishes. My mind slipping into thoughts of "What if this is my last Thanksgiving?"

Which quickly became "What if this is my last Christmas?"

And then "What if this is the last ..."

Looking back now I realize it was fear driving the bus. And here's what I figured out: If I let fear drive me around I will end up frozen. So frozen, in fact, that I'll be unable to experience what's happening right in front of me. I'll miss it. All of it. 

The thing is, if I focus on the "what if ..." I realized I will miss out on the Right Now.

So, with a little help from Isiah 41:10, I told fear to get on the bus and go. 

"Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. 

I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."

My New Normal is going to take some getting used to. But I do know that I want to be a participant in this New Normal and not a spectator. Today I got to experience my first birthday since my diagnosis and it's been my best birthday yet.  It's been complete with flowers, friends, singing phone calls, a massage, baked goodies, chocolates, laughter, and the love of my amazing family. It won't be my last.