There are so many places and moments that I would love to return to for just a minute. I would love to touch the newborn versions of my children just one more time and inhale their otherworldly scent. Have I done enough as their mother? Have I taught them everything they need to know to succeed in this world? I have so many memories of my children that I would love to relive....but I know I cannot go back. That is why the San Diego trip is so important to me. I want my children to have the greatest memory etched into their hearts of me. I want them to feel the sand between their toes and watch the sunset at the ocean. I want them to always remember this time whenever they are sad or lonely.
Of all my fondest memories, one stands out. One year I had won some money at the casino. We were sitting at home and I told the kids and Kevin to pack their bags. We had no idea where we were going, just that we were leaving. We ended up going to Arlington where we went to Six Flags for the first time. We were standing in line waiting to pay for our tickets when all of a sudden, a pastor came up to us and asked if we could use five free tickets. He said he had purchased five to many. We were able to get into Six Flags for free. I never saw that pastor again...so I think it was one of God's angels. After we left Six Flags, we drove to Oklahoma and rented a cabin. We sat outside and star gazed with the kids. Tristan was still in diapers...so he was making all his cute baby sounds. I will never forget this trip because it was so unexpected. It was our first vacation.
I think about these children, these blessings. I thought about how I had breathed life into them before my sick lungs and how they breathed life into me with their very existence. Their births were the most perfect moments of my life.
When I pass away, I want them to know that I will be with them wherever they are. When they are happy, I will be sharing their joy. When the tears fall, I will be there to hold them and wipe the tears away. I will be there to listen to their angry shouts and feelings of doubt. They may not see me, but I will be there somehow.
I realize how much our minds are in tune with our bodies. I always have to pee right before I wake up and have to race to the bathroom (otherwise known as the pee-pee dream). Maybe it's the power of suggestion or maybe my brain just keeps me from peeing the bed! Now if I could just get my inner physician to figure out a few other things, I'd be all set.
The funny thing about my dreams lately is that they are rarely sad or frightening. If anything, they are pleasant and filled with people I have met throughout my life, both lead characters and bit players. I dream often about people I have not seen in 25 years. I wonder if this is a way of saying, "goodbye". Or is it a way of marshaling support from everyone, everywhere who had meant something to me however long ago?
I'm sleeping a little better now thanks to my pain patches and Lorazepam. I still wake up after four hours, but am able to fall back to sleep for usually another two or three. Hopefully, I will get seven hours straight someday. I am always so grateful for the end of the day and for rest when it comes. I crave my sheets and fuzzy blankets. I like the feeling I get just before I drift off, "Ah! Sleep. Welcome."
These days I'm really into PDA. No, I'm not talking about public displays of affection. I've decided the acronym could be used more widely. It can serve its originally intended purpose, especially in Paris, the motherland of PDA, or it could stand for public displays of agitation, especially handy in Italy where the most mundane conversations engender passionate expression. Or, in my current situation, it could stand for public displays of angst. I cannot count the number of times over the past four months that I have publicly dissolved into a tear-stained, snot-laden mess. I don't even try to stop myself anymore. Instead, I take a boy-scout approach: I prepare. I no longer wear make-up if I think there is a remote possibility that I may cry. This, of course, means I no longer wear make-up period. I'm starting to understand why old men don't cut those hairs that grow out of their ears. They just don't give a crap. They know it's there. And I don't give a crap about roving the streets of Gainesville looking like some escaped mental patient. I still prefer not to wipe snot on my shirtsleeves, but, hell, I might let go of that soon. It's a good thing I don't get out much.
But I digress.
Anytime I see Christ on the cross I think to myself blasphemously, "I'm right there with ya buddy." But then I really think about it and wonder, "Isn't that the point?" Jesus became human so that he could feel suffering and pain the way we do. Aren't we supposed to see our suffering in the savior? When I look at that cross, I do not feel alone.
I wonder if God sits in heaven with His hand on His head and wonders, "Where did I go wrong?" That's the way I feel when the kids leave their dirty clothes on the floor. Do I have to tell them to put their clothes in the basket? Isn't it obvious that the dirty clothes do not walk themselves into the basket? And for the record, I do not pick up after them, and never have. Why do I have to say it once, let alone every other day? And when I tell them to wash their hands, why do I need to remind them to use soap? Isn't all of this common sense?
And isn't it obvious that one should treat a sick person with kindness rather than disdain?
I picture God in heaven plagued with self-doubt. "Should I have given them twenty commandments? Perhaps I wasn't clear enough. They seem to be having a hard time working from the general to the specific. Like the whole false gods thing...they don't seem to realize it extends beyond statues. Does anybody even worship statues nowadays? They probably think that commandment has been retired. I thought I made it so simple: Love me, love each other." And like all parents, I imagine that He wonders where He went wrong.
My illness has made me so mindful of not leaving things unsaid. When we are children we are taught that words are not powerful: "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." How untrue. I do not know if the pen is mightier than the sword, but I do know that words have the ability to hurt and heal, comfort and agitate, build and destroy. And yet we are so generous with hateful speech and greedy with our kindest thoughts and feelings. Perhaps the vulnerability that is inherent in truthfulness is more than we can bare. To admit our love and admiration for another leaves us open for rejection. And rejection breaks our fragile hearts. Or maybe we just assume that people know how we feel.
My husband and I met on a cold day in January of 1999. I was sipping hot cocoa with my best friend Toni. She looked over at his table and told me he was staring at me. We were at Denny's of all places. She told me to walk to the restroom so she could be sure he was looking at me. She told me he watched me the entire time. As I was leaving, his table was by the door, and Toni knew him...I said hello, and he could not even muster the courage to say hello back. He was so shy and timid. He simply waved. I was working at Wal-Mart at the time and I began seeing him every day. He would come through my line and buy goofy items just so that I could check him out, but he never spoke to me.
A couple of weeks later, Toni told him that she had a friend she wanted to set him up with. When he found out it was me, he was over the moon. He came over to Toni's mom's house where we ended up kissing and talking the entire night. This became his regular routine. He would come over to my house, we would talk all night long and kiss, and then he would leave. He never asked me out. He would drive by my house almost daily. He was my best friend (and kind of a stalker ha!).
He feared being rejected by me, but he had no idea that I worshiped the ground he walked on. He was truly a nice guy. He was everything I had ever wanted. On June 17, 2001 (my birthday), I finally broke down, called him, and asked him out. He dropped the phone! He, of course, said yes. I ended up proposing to him in July and we were married on November 2, 2001. We waited to be intimate with each other until marriage. Even though we have separated, we still find our way back to each other. That is how I know he is my soul-mate. The kids and I are all that he has, literally. Both of his parents passed away, and the rest of his family disowned him. They are truly missing out on an amazing man.
I have always been comfortable sharing my feelings, wearing them openly on my sleeves, pants, coats, etc. I should've been voted "most emotional" when I was in high school. Kevin tends to keep things inside. Perhaps that's why Kevin and I were attracted to each other; he's the yin to my yang.
At times, I think Kevin regrets choosing such an emotive partner. When we fight, I hurt him so badly with my words. He has often told me that my words make him want to crawl in a hole and die. I'm a little too quick with the tongue-lashing,but at least I'm generous with kind words as well. I laugh, cry, and fight hard. And thankfully, Kevin is more reserved (though sometimes he throws fits); I cannot imagine a marriage made from two people with my disposition. He truly is the only man that can handle me.
I met Kevin when he was twenty-five. And like most 25 year old males, he could barely take care of himself. His apartment looked like an episode of "Hoarders". In those days, Kevin could spend $100 at the grocery store without buying a single food that I considered an ingredient for dinner. But what Kevin lacked in innate skills, he made up for in openness to suggestion. Over the years, he learned to eat better and clean better. He may not do everything to my exacting standards, but he does them well enough. He has become such an incredible man.
When we first started dating, Kevin wanted to make me a cake. He forgot to add the vegetable oil. The point is, he was thinking of me. He wanted to do something incredibly sweet for me. Nobody had ever baked a cake for me before.
Of course, he isn't perfect. He works too hard and he doesn't take care of himself enough. But as I watch him these days (and I spend a lot of time watching life from my bed), I'm amazed by him. He shoulders so much without self-pity or complaint. He humbles me daily with his goodness. I used to think, obnoxiously, that he was lucky to have me. He always seemed so simple, like such a young soul on its first time out. I felt like I was teaching him about life, love, and being a dad. But, now I know I am the lucky one. Of the two of us, he is a far better human being. I don't know that I could've cared for him with such love, compassion, and patience had the situation been reversed.
I just want him to know that I am proud of him. He is truly a wonderful man and I want him to know that. I also want him to know at the core of his being that he has done everything he should do. I don't know how to tell him how I feel. I don't know how to tell him how much I admire him. How do you put into words the feeling that comes when you look at someone and your heart feels full and warm and settled all at the same time? Do we have a word for that?
To my husband, I know of no better summation, "You are a man of whom I am so proud...to know and love."
P.S. Don't forget to send in your notes to thebrocks2001@att.net with the following:
- How did finding out the news that I have lung cancer affect you?
- Have I inspired you in any way?
- How do we know each other?
- What is your fondest memory of me?
- What do you enjoy most about our friendship?
Love you all, mean it,
Shanna xoxoxo
gofundme.com/hope4shanna (Please donate if you can. The medical bills are piling up and we are overwhelmed with the expense. Any amount helps. Thank you and God Bless you!)
facebook.com/hope4shanna (Don't forget to like our page!! My husband keeps it updated regularly and he posts my blogs on the page...that way you never miss a blog!)
No comments:
Post a Comment