Aunt Gerri, with a guest post from Lottie

Dear Aunt Gerri,

I have tried to write this so many times in the last few weeks, but every time I sit down, I freeze. There is so much to say, but it’s difficult to find the right words to say it.

So many of my best childhood memories involve you. We all spent so much time together at Grandpa and Grandma’s house. The kids would play in the huge yard, which isn’t so huge now that we’re older, while the grownups talked, cooked, laughed, and did grownup stuff. It was magical to spend time with all the cousins I love while exploring the house our mothers grew up in: laying in front of the gas fireplace, holidays, random Sundays with Noble Romans pizza, ping pong and pool in the basement. There were all of the brunches at Innsbrook with eleven of us trooping in to a big table dressed in our Sunday best. I don’t think you adults knew that I used to basically just eat caviar and lox. I remember our trips to Lake Lawn Lodge in Wisconsin in the summertime: all of us eating dinner together, dancing on the patio afterward, and spending lots of time in the game room. We rode horses, took boat rides, and even had fun in the car caravan on the way up to the resort. I wish I remembered the CB handle I used when we would talk between cars. All of our trips to Disney also stand out in my mind. I loved when Grandpa and Grandma did the Easter egg hunt in their resort room for us one year; I can’t believe they let us ransack their room that way! And of course there was the year we went over Christmas break and explored the Magic Kingdom until the early hours of the morning. . I know that you loved spending time with everyone, all together, no matter where we were. You and I had some adventures of our own, too. We took a road trip to Greenfield Village and learned all about Henry Ford, and we went to Venetian Night in Chicago a couple of times to see the boats and their beautiful lights sparkle on the water.

I took for granted that things would always be that way, and then as everyone got older, people began to make new places their home. We were together for holidays, but I missed the concentrated time we would spend together. When Trevor and I decided to move from Kentucky to Indiana, I was hoping to recapture some of that time together so I could share some of my childhood with my own kids. We had already lost Grandpa and Grandma, but I looked forward to spending time with the rest of you all.

Things changed when we lost Lynn way too early. I can’t imagine that you were ever the same after that. The only positive thing to come out of missing Lynn was realizing that none of us is promised much time in life, and we have to make the most of the time we do have. We started to get together more often, and it was amazing to watch my kids get to know and love you. Other than my parents and Trevor’s parents, you were the first to come to Kentucky to see them after they were born. You flew down and held them, admired them, and smiled your crinkly-eyed smile. Remember how we found the possum in my yard when you came to meet Dallas? You held him and watched toddler Lottie while I ran out and tried to move it out of the yard. I’ll never forget looking at the window from the yard and seeing you laugh at how scared I was.

Even though I’m an adult now with my own family, I just always assumed that you would be here, that our lives would go on with our Sunday get-togethers, articles from the WSJ in the mail from you, and holiday shenanigans. I’m still not sure that it has fully hit me that you’re gone; I think about you all the time. Selfishly, I wasn’t done. I wasn’t done spending time with you and learning things from you. I wasn’t done hearing stories from when you and my mom were kids, stories about Grandpa and Grandma when they were young, and stories about the six of us cousins when we were little. I wasn’t done taking walks with you and watching you have in-depth conversations with Lottie and Dallas about a variety of topics. I just…wasn’t done.

I feel a little unmoored, to be honest. Those of us left behind are searching for a new normal without you, and it’s hard. I hope that as lost as we feel, being with Grandpa, Grandma, and Lynnie makes you feel found. I promise that we will never stop sharing your stories, your memory, and your heart. We miss you, and we love you, Aunt Gerri.  

K. C. 

         I don’t know how my mom starts these, so I’m going to start it like this: Geraldine Mary Pigott died. I don’t know exactly how she did, but what I do know is that it was fast. Gerri wasn’t the type to be hooked up to machines or in a nursing home. She was an independent woman that could do amazing things. She would walk everyday (I think, she did it often, I know that.) She delivered Meals on Wheels to people younger than her. She gave birth to 4 wonderful kids in her lifetime: Sharin, Ted, Tim and Lynn. Lynn died at the age of 49 and I’m sure that devastated Gerri. One of the things that comforts us is knowing that they are in Heaven hugging and reuniting. 

          At the visitation and funeral, there were photos of her doing all the things that she loved in life. This includes reading, singing, hugging, talking, telling stories, recycling, and helping people. One specific photo caught my eye; it was a picture of her standing on a stage holding flowers. The caption in sparkly purple letters said “1^st PROM QUEEN!” Turns out she was the 1^stprom queen ever at her school. When I went to ask my grandmother about it, she said that she had cared so much about her education she told her dad about how her high school was unaccredited, and without a certification on her diploma, no college would accept her. Her dad and some other men fixed it, and she was able to go to college! She didn’t stop at one college though; she went to a lot of them. I remember Ted saying, “she would go to every college if she had the chance.” Gerri really loved school and learning, on the day of the prom, she didn’t go home early to get ready, even though she had the opportunity. 

        I’d like to share some of my most treasured memories with her. At my uncle’s house we went on a little hike. I was in the back walking with her when she said, “You know, Lottie, Tim just never liked peas.” She went on to tell the most random story ever told. I also remember her basement, it was like the cave of wonders. It had all this old stuff that my mom used to play with. It was so cool to see! 

        She loved so much in her life: Lynn, Sharin, Ted, and Tim as her children. Kathy as a sister. Carolyn, Tommy, and Theo as grandchildren. K.C and Matthew as her niece and nephew. And me and Dallas as great-niece and nephew. She also loved Shuting with all her heart. Sundance, Minny, Honey, and Judy all had special places in her heart. We love you, Aunt Gerri! 

Written by:

Lottie Wells

Now what?

In the last three months, T has finished his cancer treatments.  He had a final surgery to reconnect his bowel system, and he was able to 86 the colostomy bag that he had been carrying around for seven months.  The ileostomy take-down surgery has a long recovery period, very long, but T has already seen improvement since the procedure in May.  (If any of you are singing Bob Seger in your head right now, bonus points to you.) 

We spent so much time waiting for the next steps during all of the treatments, and now we are finally at the point where all there will be are follow-up appointments.  It's a wonderful, amazing feeling to finally be able to relax after fourteen months of never taking a deep breath.  The last year has been so chock full of tests and appointments and surgeries; now we're looking at only four appointments a year.  

So...now what?

We're planning a trip to Hawaii in the Fall to celebrate the demise of the cancer and to belatedly celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary.  Yes, we're taking the kids with us because they deserve a vacation as much as we do, and we also invited my dad to join us as well.  We went through the ordeal as a family, and I want us to unwind as a family.

I'm starting a new part-time job at the beginning of the school year.  I'll be working as a University Supervisor through Purdue University; basically, I'm going to help student teachers learn how to be the best teachers they can be.  I honestly never expected to go back out into the working world in any way, shape, or form.  I have always been fulfilled by what I do at home, and I have never felt the need to prove anything, to myself or others, about my value as a homemaker and mother.  But this opportunity fell into my lap, and after initial resistance, I decided to grab it.  I can basically make my own schedule, and the majority of my work can happen while the kids are in school.  

The timing was right to start doing something new.  I thought I would be ready for business as usual once all of T's treatments were over, but I have found that I'm ready for change instead.  People have asked what I have learned throughout this whole journey, and I don't know that I have one simple answer for that.  I think, though, that I have started thinking more in terms of why not instead of why. "Change is good" has always been one of my mottos (although it makes T shudder) but it's not exactly change that appeals to me now as much as it is taking advantage of opportunities, no matter how big or how small.  

It's not as dramatic as deciding to live life to the fullest, grab the brass ring, etc.   I wish I could say that the last few years of cancer hullabaloo have made me appreciate every moment in life that I have, but I think that's a pretty high expectation for one person.  I'm only human, and things are bound to get me down now and again.  But instead of wondering if I should do something, I want to start asking myself why wouldn't I do it: small things like giving the kids ice cream before dinner and letting them stay up late, big things like a new job and a dream of starting my own business someday, or in-between things like nights out with friends.  I don't want to look back and regret the things I didn't do, the places I didn't go, or the friends I didn't make because I was afraid or thought somehow I didn't deserve to do it.   

There is, of course, another side to this.  I also have to learn how to say no when I really don't want to do something.  That is going to be difficult because I don't like saying no or letting people down.  Like anything in life, there needs to be balance between what will make others happy and what will make me happy.  Right now, I don't know how that balance will fit into my new viewpoint, but I'm eager to see how it's all going to work out in the end.  The beauty of it all is that I have the power to choose and make my own decisions.  I don't have to be perfect, and I don't have to be everything to everyone at every moment.  

Now what?  Now we breathe in and out; we laugh and we cry; we travel and we enjoy nights at home; we go to soccer games and we host play dates; we do what we have to do and we do what we want to do; mostly, we live and love.  Beyond that, we'll just have to wait and see.  

2,920 days

The sweetest pea,

Today you are eight years old.  It feels like this is the age when you're not a big kid yet but you're not little anymore, either.  You're trying so hard to become independent, and I'm wishing you were still the little toddler with the cheeser smile. 

We have had quite a year, and you have handled everything so well.  I know that it's really hard on you to see Dad sick because all you want to do is take care of everyone.  I'm proud that you have talked to me and asked questions instead of holding everything inside.  What a difference a year has made with your level of understanding and maturity.  You still continue to mother everyone around you, especially Dallas.  It makes my heart so happy when you two protect each other.  Please watch out for him forever; he'll always need his big sister.

Dad and I couldn't be any prouder of how hard you have worked in school.  We both know that you would much rather be playing outside or doing something physical with your time.  Sitting down to do anything, let alone schoolwork, has never been your bag, baby.  This year, something clicked, though, and you are doing your best with your homework and with your work at school.  I still don't envision you ever having an office job, but I feel reassured to know that you will try your best at whatever you choose to do in the future.

One thing that hasn't changed over the past year is your beautiful heart.  You are truly the kindest person I know.  You hate to see anyone in any kind of pain, physical or emotional, and you always step in to make people feel better.  You would give away anything you had to comfort someone in need.  Never ever lose that sweet soul: we need more people like you in the world.

One thing I know for sure is that I never know what you're going to do next.  There is no pigeonholing my girl.   I love that you're a "girly" girl with pierced ears and tulle dresses who also loves to go crazy on the zipline in our backyard and literally roll around in the mud. You love summer and winter, playing with dolls and playing Star Wars, jumping into leaves and getting dressed up, listening to Katy Perry and listening for Santa, going to your first sleepover and cuddling at home with Daddy.  Our lives would be awfully quiet and boring without you.  

My wish for you is that you always have the spirit and spark that make you who you are.  There are going to be times you'll need to tame yourself a bit, but I hope that you never fully lose your zest and passion for life.  I want you to experience as much as you can because I know you're happiest when you are out doing and living.  

I see a hopeful future every time I look into your stunning blue eyes, and I thank you every day for reminding me about the wonderful and simple moments I might otherwise be missing.  I don't know what you'll be doing or where you'll end up as you grow; however, I have seen who you are in your soul.  You're going to shine, babe.  You will always shine.  

Oh, how I love you,

Mom 

Moments

It is one of those perfect fall days: sunny but crisp.  Someone in the neighborhood is burning leaves, and the slightly acrid smell in the air is comforting.  The kids are outside after dinner, and their screams of laughter echo throughout the gloaming.  Those are some of the happiest sounds I have ever heard, and I'm trying to imprint them into my memory.

My mom and I visited a friend a couple of days ago.  We met the year I was student teaching at a small Catholic high school in Indianapolis.  I ended up teaching at that same school for four years, and our friendship grew and cemented.  We're sort of an odd couple: there is a big age difference, we don't have a great deal in common at the core, and we have lead extremely different lives.  And yet, of all the amazing people I met those four years, he is the one I see the most often, the one who has been most consistent in my ever-changing world.

Jim isn't the friend who will bring a pint of ice cream and a DVD when I'm feeling sad.  Quite the contrary.  When I had to move out of my house in Indianapolis rather abruptly because my first husband decided that being married to me wasn't his thing, Jim brought boxes and helped me pack.  I remember crying while I packed my broken life, and he kept telling me to quit crying because it wasn't helping me get anything done.  "Oh, stop it.  You're fine and this is all going to be fine.  Now, where do you want all these books?  You know you have way too many books, don't you?"  And he was right.  Well, one can never have too many books, of course, but I was fine after that mind-numbing heartbreak.  I AM fine.

We travelled together, had meals together, had drinks together, laughed together.  Every time I moved, which was oddly quite often, he came to help put my new places into working order.  He became friends with my whole family, my new (much better) husband, and eventually my children.  He even visited my parents in Valpo when I was still living in Lexington.  We didn't see each other as often as we used to, but we talked on the phone and were always in each other's thoughts.

The phone rang a few months ago as I was making dinner.  The kids were asking for the umpteenth time what I was making, T was in the living room chatting with his parents, and I was frazzled.  Normally I ignore the phone when I'm busy, but I glanced at the caller ID.  I saw the name and number of a friend of Jim's and I went cold.  She told me that there had been an accident, and Jim was in the hospital with what the doctors thought was a stroke.  The next few weeks were agonizing as I made call after call to try to get information.  After a month in the hospital and one measly week in a rehab center, he ended up at his niece's house a little south of Indianapolis.

My mom and I made the trek to see him, and I carried the warning in my head that he was suffering from expressive aphasia.  Logically I knew that he would be different, but the tiny Pollyanna in my head assured me that Those People were wrong.  Physically, he didn't seem much different although he was unshaven, a sight that I had never seen in twenty years.  He knew who we were straightaway and gave us both hugs, but I could immediately see the effects of the stroke.  He claimed he didn't know we were coming to visit, that people had been lying to him.  He couldn't easily find his words, he went off on tangents that we couldn't understand, and he just looked...old.  There were some things that seemed decently fresh in his mind, things about 1995 when a bunch of us starting teaching and hanging out together every free moment outside of school.  He somewhat remembered travelling with me and how much fun we have always had together.  He didn't remember where he was staying or why my mom was there or even his own beloved cat.  Every once in a while, there were glimpses of my old, very funny, very smart friend, but they were few and far between. I tried to stay sunny and happy and positive, but inside, my heart was breaking.

I had a lot of time to think on the three hour drive home.  My mom and I went over and over the conversations, trying to dissect them and find the old Jim.  It all made me tired.  I mean, bone-tired-weary-to-the-core-curl-up-in-bed-on-a-rainy-day-taking-care-of-a-sick-kid-in-the-middle-of-the-night kind of tired.  It's impossible for me not to worry about my friend.  I know he is getting good care with people who truly care about him in every way, but that doesn't stop me from draining my own emotional reserves on his behalf.

And I want this to all mean something.  That's why I am trying so hard to embrace the small things in life and enjoy living as much as I can.  That's why I want to memorize the sounds of the kids' laughter and their weird comments and their beautiful smiles.  Jim obviously isn't gone from this mortal coil, but he's not completely here, either.  So I'm trying to embrace life and enjoy every moment.  Trying.  But that's so much easier said than done sometimes.  I can't always find the joy in every given moment. When I am in the middle of telling Lottie to focus on her homework for the twentieth time while Dallas drones on and on about dinosaurs and the clock is telling me that I should have started dinner already and both kids are hungry but not for what I'm cooking and the phone is ringing and my eye is twitching,  I can't channel my inner-Zen and think about how much I will miss this all when the kids are grown and gone.  Instead, I try to get through the minute by minute drama so I can eventually snuggle with freshly shampooed heads and find a sweet spot of time when no one is fighting or crying or arguing or pouting or hungry or hurt or angry or tired. And I think about Jim and think I should really work hard at finding those great moments because the future is so uncertain and fragile, but I know Jim would think that was a bunch of schmaltzy hooey and tell me to just keep on keepin' on.

So I'm raising my kids the best way I know how; I'm constantly thinking about T's upcoming surgery; I am pretending that the surgery isn't happening; I'm having dreams that end with me waking confused and bleary; I'm attempting to oversee a new deck project at our house; I'm reading books; I'm being a friend, a daughter, a mother, a sister; I'm smiling when I can and crying when I can't; I'm drinking too much coffee; I'm riding my bike; I'm trying not to think too much; I'm over-thinking everything; I want to be left alone; I want to be surrounded by friends; I'm taking one breath at a time.  I'm going to keep going because that's what Jim is doing, and that's what I can do, too.  For now, that's enough.

Life is but a dream

“We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.”
 Nathaniel Hawthorne 

Death is a scary concept.  No one knows exactly what happens to us after death, and the unknown can be terribly frightening.  But we all have our ideas, our hopes, or our faith about what happens after death.  These thoughts are usually kept in a far corner of our minds and only pulled out when needed, but perhaps if these thoughts were shared or brought out in the sunlight more often, death wouldn't be so scary.  

Last week, I lost my eldest cousin, Lynn.  Lynn was a person who inspired others.  She was a yoga instructor for twenty years, and she poured her passion into teaching and nurturing others.  When we were children, Lynn was the eldest of the six cousins, three boys and three girls, our leader and the one who paved the way.  I used to spend hours watching her, playing with the dolls she had grown out of, and so wishing I could grow up to be like her.  She was wicked smart and had a funny sense of humor.  The three female cousins used to go shopping with our grandma for our November birthdays; we were all born in different years but within a week of each other.  I would watch as the older girls picked out clothes that were fashionable and beautiful, and I couldn't wait to be able to wear what they were wearing.  But despite our age difference, Lynn never treated me like anything but an equal.  She came to the very first Thanksgiving I hosted by myself and made me feel at ease when I was freaking out.  We didn't get to see each other much as adults, but we always communicated during the November birthday week.  It's hard to grasp that the three girls have become two in the blink of an eye.


It's always terribly difficult for those of us who are left behind.  We ache for the person we have lost.  Sharin, Lynn's sister, and I talked about that first moment of wakefulness in the morning, the sweet moment where the fabulous start of a new day has begun.  Then in the next moment, you remember.  You remember what you have lost, and the ache starts all over again.  I don't know how to make that go away.  I don't know how to soothe that pain and that sadness.  I have no idea how to make a family complete again.  There is so much I don't know, but there are some things I know for certain.  

I know in my heart that Lynn has gone on.  Trying to put into words how I feel about it all has been difficult.  Perhaps, as Hawthorne wrote, death is like waking up after a dream, a good or a bad dream.  It's the reward for what we went through in life.  When the kids ask me questions about what happens after people die, I feel comfortable telling them what I believe.  I believe, simply, that we are happy.  We are in a place that makes us happy, be it on a beach or in the mountains or at home. We are healthy and laughing and full of joy.  We can watch the sunrise and the sunset with no fatigue and nothing to distract us.  The best part is that we are with the people and animals that we love.  I believe that there is no such thing as the passage of time, so as people on Earth join us, it's like they have always been with us.  We all fit into each other's lives perfectly and with utter joy.  There is no pain, no sadness, no tragedy, and no misery.  Things are simple, peaceful, and the epitome of beauty.  That's exactly what I believe and exactly what I told my children.  The more I think about it and talk to them about it, the more at peace I feel.  And maybe that's all we can do as those left behind: we can try to feel better and be at peace.  

Namaste, Lynnie.  Give Grandpa and Grandma hugs from all of us, and may you forever have your sunsets.  

Sweet relief

The surgery on Thursday went well.  I spent another lovely night at Central Baptist Hospital.  Don't get me wrong: the people are really nice there, but I quickly grew weary of being woken up every three hours, sleeping with an oxygen mask on, and being fed orange Jello and beef broth.  I got to go home pretty early on Friday morning, and as if the whole ordeal hadn't been bizarre enough, leaving the hospital was even more bizarre.  The nurse refused to unhook me from the IV until I ate solid food, but she wouldn't give me any solid food.  She also insisted that I sleep in the oxygen mask even though my oxygen sats were fine.  After the shift change, I got a new nurse who was on duty when I was discharged.  She and the student nurse who was shadowing her unhooked me from everything, and then the nurse proceeded to tell me that when my ride arrived, I could go ahead and just leave.  All I had to do was wave to the nurses at the nurses' station and tell them I was leaving.  By myself.  On my own two legs.  Without a wheelchair.  I mean, I was perfectly capable of walking to the elevator and to the front door alone, but I found it odd that the nurse would let me go alone due to liability.  As I was walking down the hall to leave, a staff member stopped me and said, "What are you doing?  Does your nurse know you're walking down the hallway?"  When I told her that my nurse not only knew but TOLD me to do it, the woman just shook her head and said, "Okay, good luck."

I was so glad to have Nicole, my parents, and Trevor's parents in town to help me with the kids.  I was able to take a nap (if you count four hours as a nap) on Friday and another nap on Saturday.  Lovely!  Trevor stayed home with me on Friday just to make sure everything was okay.  Either that or he wanted to nap, too, so he could stay up for the UK basketball game Friday night.  Other than fatigue, I have been feeling pretty good and slathering my sweet scar with vitamin E oil as often as I can.

On Monday, I had my first appointment with my endocrinologist, Dr. Wendell Miers.  (He is really cool, by the way.)  He was able to get into the CBH computer and see my biopsy results from Thursday.  Drum roll, please...

There was NO cancer in the second lobe that was removed.  Not only was there that amazing news, but I also don't have to do the radioactive iodine treatment.  Dr. Miers started me on Synthroid to regulate the level of thyroid hormone in my body, and I will continue to do checkups with him every three months, then every six, and eventually once a year.

I knew in my heart that everything was going to be okay, but hearing the news for sure was a huge relief.  All I wanted to do was go home and sleep for twelve hours because I felt completely weightless for the first time in a long time.  I didn't get to do that, of course, but last night's sleep was one of the best I have had in a long, long, long time.

I truly appreciate all of the thoughts, prayers, and kind words that you have all sent my way.  I know that every bit of love has helped me and my family get through this rough, insane, and emotional time.  Thank you all!

Now that I am cancer-free, I can get to the business of packing up the house.  But that's a whole other blog...

Best laid plans

I had a plan to write tonight about how busy and crazy life has been here lately with birthday parties, nights out, holiday happenings, visits to the doctor and ER, and the usual insanity.  That's what I planned, but you know what they say about best laid plans.

I found out this morning that I boy (M.) I knew from high school - a man now, of course - died.  I'm no spring chicken, but I'm also not at the point where my contemporaries should be dying.  We're still pretty young with kids and dreams and futures.  Only M. doesn't have a future now, and that's surreal.  It's surreal, and it's wrong.  He left behind a family who loves him, a career, the years ahead of him...

Maybe living each day like it's your last isn't so silly.  Maybe Tim McGraw was onto something with "Live Like You Were Dying." Every time I looked at my kids today, I thought about M.'s kids.  When I kissed Trevor after he came home from work, I thought about M.'s wife and how she would never get to kiss M. again.  His mom won't get to make him another birthday cake; his siblings won't hear his voice on the phone; the public won't get to see his new art; his daughters won't lean on his shoulder after their first heartbreaks.  It's wrong and it's sad and it's just damned unfair.

Someone I know posted a status update on Facebook today that said, "What if we all said, 'I'm going to make 2012 the best year of my life', then we all did it?"  (By the way, I think it's brilliant, Alex.)  What if we tried to do that every day?  We could be nicer to each other.  We could judge less. We could say what we mean and mean what we say.  We could live up to our responsibilities.  We could perform random acts of kindness.  We could accept others for who they are instead of who we want them to be.  We could live openly and honestly.  We could live simply.

We could smile more.  We could laugh more.  We could love more.  We could live more.  We could.

RIP, M.