The Ones that Made the Choice

For the ones that made the choice to let go:

To lose a child is a horrifying experience.  It is something you can never really get over; you will eventually move forward but never past it.  It is something that will walk parallel to you for your entire life.  While, thankfully, many people will never have to walk this awful path, the ones that do could tell you how tough it can be.  But there is a smaller sub-sect of loss parents; the ones that have had to make the earth shattering decision to let their children go.  To have to say that you will allow your child to leave this world, withdraw care?  This is an entirely separate burden that makes the path forward feel, at times, too difficult to travel.

To the ones that had to choose:  I remember barely being able to choke out the consent too.  When Sean and I had to make the impossible decision to go the palliative route for Jack, having the doctors and nurses just keep him comfortable until he passed, I couldn't even believe the words were leaving my mouth.  Every fiber of my mother-being wanted to scream ‘No, save him, do whatever it takes! Just, please, don’t let him die!’ But, rationally, I knew that it was inevitable and we had to let him go, that it was what was best for his little life; that no amount of love could save him and no medical intervention to make up for that.

To the ones that made the choice, I too beat myself up more than anybody could probably even imagine.  Asking myself what kind of mother gives the okay for her child to die?  For a long time, I hated myself.  I sometimes hated Sean for having agreed with the decision and not fighting me to fight for him harder.  I should have believed my sweet boy could have fought.  These are the lies I told myself; the lies I allowed to almost break me.  These are the lies that, more often than I’d like to admit, steep into my subconscious when I think of Jack and sometimes they damn near destroy me.  I have to remind myself that I loved that boy in that moment, that we loved him so deeply in that moment, that we could not allow him to suffer any more; yet it is still a choice that weighs heavy on my heart each day.  

To the ones that had to choose to let go, our road feels longer than the others. Not that either l path is one any of us wanted to take but when choice is taken out of the mix, I wonder if it feels less treacherous?  If the responsibility does not sit on your shoulders, does it make it any easier to breathe? Unfortunately, I suspect not.

To the ones that had to make the choice: I am with you.  I walk this road with you. My shoulders sag with the same weight yours do and I second-guess my decision almost every day.  But we mustn’t lie to ourselves.  We loved those children in a way that most will never have to experience. And because of that love, we had to let them go.

From a Different Perspective

To say my life has been moving at a break-neck pace is putting it mildly.  Since my last post in January (which kills me that it has been this long), I have been non-stop moving with my little pack in tow.  We have been firing on all cylinders from Kennedy’s social life and extracurriculars (my little girl got her ears pierced!), social commitments Sean and I have made, family visits and quick trips to visit friends, all the while planning for our Jack’s Herd annual fundraiser and trying to make sure we slow down enough from time to time to let my beautiful last baby actually be a baby.  I’m exhausted just from remembering it all, let alone actually having gone through it.

It all came together in the end and the months of planning paid off.  We had another incredibly successful year for Jack’s Herd; the turnout was amazing and the generosity was overwhelming.  This year we had a family present that were Jack’s Herd recipients after losing their precious little one recently.  To talk with them and listen to them say how appreciative they are of all they were able to receive made all of the stress and hard work that goes into the night worth it.  I felt, so deeply, in that moment that Jack’s Herd is doing some real good.  Though I say often that Jack and I are forever tied, always on that night I feel it so acutely.  Our sweet baby is leaving a gorgeous footprint on this world.  

There was another reason why it all felt a little more deeply this year.  A good friend of mine had reached out to tell me that he and his wife were expecting but that they did not get good news.  Their situation felt so eerily familiar to me; I have had a sick feeling in my belly and heaviness on my heart knowing what path they were likely to embark on.  Then just a week or so before I received a text I have been dreading from him for weeks.  It came first as just a picture.  The moment I saw it my heart dropped and my throat felt like it was closing.  It was a picture of the beautiful memory boxes Jack’s Herd donates.  He shared with me their loss; he told me how they were so appreciative of what Jack’s Herd helped do for them and he told me that he has never dreamed that when he donated to us that he would one day be a recipient.  And my heart broke.  Never in my worst dreams did I envision these things going to a friend; a friend that was there for me in so many ways after we’d lost Jack. 

Instantly, I felt on the other side.  My perspective shifted.  I was now the friend of someone who was experiencing the unimaginable loss no one wants to know about.  I was the one fumbling to say something that would bring comfort in a situation where comfort does not truly exist.  I was the one standing in the aisle of Hallmark searching for the right card, with the right words in the devastatingly small section for ‘Loss of a Child’.  I was the one arranging a MealTrain for the family, knowing that no amount of food in the world would ease the empty feeling inside but praying it could anyway.  And it had been pretty awful. 

In these moments I have felt what I can only imagine all of the friends and family that rallied around Sean and I during our darkest moments felt.  The desperation, the devastation, and the awful feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.  And my heart broke for all of them too because I don’t think I have ever been able to truly appreciate what that experience had and has been like for all of them.  What it has been like to be the people that stand by the grieving parents.  The shift in perspective has been eye opening and heart wrenching and ultimately very needed.  Grief has this way of wrapping you up and causing blind spots; blocking your vision so that all you can see is what is happening to you or right in front of you.  The periphery just doesn’t exist.  

I can only hope that my experience and journey can give my friend and his wife, the recipient families of Jack’s Herd, the friends and families of grieving parents and shift in their perspective too; they can survive this awful loss.  They can put the pieces together again and make them into something resembling a happy life again.  It will take time.  It may be ugly from time to time.  Some pieces will never quite fit again.  But, if you shift your perspective, even just a bit, it can still be something beautiful and whole in its own way again. 

Send me a Sign

I like to think that I’m pretty observant of most things in my surroundings: people, environment, emotions, etc.  I listen to music and really hear the lyrics, I notice small changes in people’s demeanor or typical moods, and I read almost every billboard I pass.  I take things in and often take them for what they are; information about what is happening, what I am experiencing, or what is out there. But I wouldn’t say I ever really believed in signs or looked for them in things.  I know there are so many people that do and I respect that and then silently wonder to myself if I have just been ignoring signs that have been right in front of me, not really as observant as I think I am.  But there is a song by The Band Perry called “If I Die Young” with a verse that goes:

     ‘Lord, make me a rainbow, I’ll shine down on my mother, she’ll know I’m safe with you when she stands under my colors...’

Ever since Jack died and I’ve seen a rainbow in my heart I believe he is saying hi to me; letting me know that he is there.  It’s a sign I can’t ignore.  I see them when my heart seems to call out for him the most.  There was a rainbow over my house the day we brought Carter home from the hospital; his big brother saying hello, letting us know he was there with us all too.

Two things have happened since Dennis, Sean's dad,  passed away last month that I haven’t been able to wrap my head around.  I haven’t been able to find an explanation for.  And there is a big part of me that has come to the point in my heart that I am comfortable accepting as signs from above.

The day after he died, his house was filled with family that had come down to be with him during his final days.  Not only was it a house filled with bodies but also tears and sadness and a lot of Irish mourners (if you’re Irish, you smell what I’m cooking!).  Now I’m not saying we are empaths, I’m not being that dramatic, but I will go as far to say that Kennedy and I pick up on other people’s emotions very strongly, especially the heavy ones.  I could see it weighing on her little shoulders and her heart as she was desperately trying to remain upbeat and happy and make everyone smile; but I could also see the distress on her little face when she didn’t think anyone was looking or the way she just couldn’t settle.  And so I told her to grab her shoes and coat and to get in the car.  I was going to take her to a wonderfully packed-full-of-stuff-we-don’t-need touristy store that we like to go to when we visit Calabash so we could do a little retail therapy and take a few breaths away from the crowd.  So, we got in the car, I typed Callahan’s of Calabash into my navigation and off we went.  We chatted while we drove about Papa and being sad, as she asked if I thought we’d be sad for a long time, like we are about Jack.  I hated telling her yes, but I wouldn’t lie; I told her being sad is different for everyone, that it would probably take a while before we didn’t feel so sad.  We called my mom and talked to her for a few minutes.  As I was driving, things looked familiar enough to me that I thought I knew where we were going.  It was only when we approached the bridge that I realized: we were being directed to Sunset Beach; the very beach we went to with Dennis each time we visited.  It is Kennedy’s favorite place down there and we all knew it. It has always been the first suggestion for something to do because it was clear there is nothing Kennedy loves more than splashing in the water, and there was nothing her Papa loved more than making Kennedy happy.  I couldn’t believe it; there was no logical explanation for why we were headed there when I had very clearly typed in the right destination.  I laughed and said to Kennedy, “I think Papa thinks we need a beach day!” She laughed too, responding, “Papa loved the beach like me!” It was cold and windy that day, even for a northerner’s standards and I had left my coat at the house, but I should have kept going.  I should have followed the sign all the way through.  Even though I didn’t, I heard it loud and clear.  I told a few people when we got back to the house but it was one of things you had to be there for the wonder to really set in.

The second sign came last weekend as we made our way back home after the memorial that was held for Dennis.  It had been a month since he’d passed and it had been decided then that there would be no traditional services.  He had preferred a big party where people would laugh and share stories and drinks and so that is what it was; a true celebration of life.  It was beautiful and devastating to see how loved he was and just how greatly he will be missed.  Sean and his brother James spoke of their dad to everyone and my heart broke for them all over again.  It kills me that this wonderful boy I fell in love with all those years ago has had to bury both his son and his father before his 35th birthday; it just doesn’t seem fair to me.  I could see a sadness settle on Sean’s shoulders.  The month between Dennis’ passing and the memorial kept things fresh. But now that was over; he was really gone.  

We were making our way back upstate and literally drove through every type of weather there is: rain, sleet, snow, hail, sun.  It was bizarre.  It was also the type of weather anomaly that Sean would have normally called his dad to tell him about.  And, just like that, we saw a rainbow.  Now I know you may be thinking ‘That’s not surprising. You just said it was raining and sunny.’  What we were seeing was the end of the rainbow, or perhaps more accurately, the beginning. This, for me, was an enormous sign. The last time I saw him, I asked Dennis to please take care of my baby and he promised he would.  I knew, in my heart, he was trying to tell me ‘I’ve got him; me and Jack are together.‘  I cried. I cried because I was sad, because I felt relieved, and because at that moment I missed those two Doyle men more than my heart felt like it could stand.  

Are signs really a thing?  Is the Universe really telling us things?  Are those we’ve loved and lost really trying to send us a message?  I don’t know.  Part of me, the logical, rational part of me says probably not-it’s more likely our subconscious thoughts and hopes making their way to the surface.  But my heart-the part of me that took over almost four years ago- tells me that, without a doubt, they are real.  Listen to them.  Let them comfort you.  There are far worse things to believe in than those that give you peace. 

So Dennis, if you and Jackie-boy want to send us anymore, I’m all ears. 

My Old Friend

Grief is like an old friend. The kind of old friend that, over time, you lose touch with.  The old friend that was once such a presence in your life, that you didn’t go anywhere without, but that began to wear on you; you started to lose touch and eventually it felt like maybe your time together had run its course.  Things felt easier without that friend, lighter even.  You go on in life and know, in your heart you are better off apart.  And then, one day, your old friend shows back up-somewhat unexpectedly.  It is amazing how quickly the two of your fall back in step with one another, like you’d never been apart.  Part of it feels comfortable, in a strange way like you belong together.  Your old friend wraps themselves around you like an old blanket from the past, and as you breathe in its smell, the memories come flooding back with all of those tears with them.  And so when I said goodbye to my father-in-law, Dennis, my old friend grief welcomed me back into its embrace with open arms. 

Two weeks ago, in a state of confusion, fear and desperation, Sean and I packed the kids and the worst packed luggage that ever was in the car, picked his brother up in Brooklyn and headed south after getting a call that his dad had taken a turn and was not doing well at all.  He was headed for hospice.  

Now for a bit of background, Dennis had Mesothelioma and was diagnosed about fourteen years ago.  His prognosis then was about six months but with the help of Sean’s mother, his ex-wife, was able to find an amazing doctor to do a pretty radical, experimental surgery, and had results nothing short of miraculous.  Dennis was a fighter, he was strong, and clearly knew he had so much more life to be part of.  He married his wonderful wife, Pattie, saw Sean and I get married ourselves, was there before anyone else when I went into labor with Kennedy, drove up from North Carolina after only having been there a week to be with us when Jack died, and was right here again for Carter.  He has grandchildren through his stepchildren as well that loved him like their own. All of this extra time allowed us to have him for so many of life’s most beautiful and some of life’s most difficult moments.  But the thing about extra time is, is that you don’t realize it is “extra” until it’s over; and that’s the hardest part.  

When we arrived at Duke, where he was being treated, Sean and his brother immediately went to the hospital to see the situation and be with him.  When Sean called to tell me that they were moving him to a hospice closer to home as quickly as they could, I instantly heard the panic in his voice. When we were on our way further south he said to me, “I know it’s bad, the doctors said they had to get him out of the hospital before they no longer could.”  I could see the fear in his eyes that, every time he mentioned his dad, looked like it was going to spill out.  All I could manage to offer was, “We are here now.  You were able to see him and be with him.  And you will stay here as long as you have to.” And mentally I was preparing myself for that to be a few weeks.  

The day before Dennis had apologized on the phone to Sean for ruining his Sunday and told him he was going to try and make it through Christmas.  That day he apologized for maybe going to ruin Kennedy’s Christmas. Even in the worst of it this man was thinking of his sons and his grandchildren, and really that sums up who he was as a man.  

From the moment I met him, fifteen years ago, I was struck by how two people could be so alike. Sean and his dad are more similar than I could possibly find words for; in looks, in mannerisms, in sense of humor, in disposition.  They are cut from the same cloth.  I could look at Dennis and feel quite confident that I was looking at Sean thirty years later. 

He instantly welcomed me into the family, always making sure I had someone to talk to.  Though I come from a big, loud family of my own, at family functions when I needed a breather he was the quiet I could seek out.   When he talked to me, he really listened and would ask about things I’d said later on.  He sat with me at Sean’s baseball games and made me laugh through the sport I clearly didn’t follow.  When we got married, he was the only one that didn’t offer his opinions-just his support. He checked in on me every single day while I was pregnant with Kennedy and, my god did he fall in love with that little girl when she’d arrived.  It didn’t matter that Papa didn’t live nearby, he and Kennedy were inseparable when they were together; one of the few people she would willingly go with without a fuss.  She could sense his easygoing nature from the beginning and loved to play with him.  

When they moved away I know it was hard for Sean, especially since we had just lost Jack.  Though it was not something he talked about, he offered his support in the ways he knew how, lending us money for funeral expenses, offering to fly us down for a visit to the warmth and away from the sadness we couldn’t escape at home.  His and Pattie’s new home in Calabash quickly became our favorite place.  There was nothing Sean loved more than playing golf with his dad; forever competing with each other and Sean often on the losing end. Papa was always willing to brave the cold ocean (and Glamma too-I can’t leave her out!) and Kennedy knew it, begging to go in the second our toes hit the sand.  We have so many memories, beautiful, beautiful memories of our weeks spent in the sun with Dennis that we do not have to look far in our hearts to remember them.  

Things happened very quickly once he arrived at the hospice, a lovely place- for what it was.  We spent the first evening there with him, he was tired and uncomfortable though participating in some conversation.   We said goodnight, as we were all pretty exhausted working off of about 4 hours of sleep.  We headed back to his house for the night before we could check into the condo we rented the next day and got some rest.  His siblings and cousin/best friend were due in the following afternoon. We woke the next day, Sean’s brother gathering Christmas decorations to take over and make it more homey and festive, and Sean and I trying to help get the house in order that has been left in a hurry the days before.  We let the kids catch up on rest with naps and couch time when we got a call from his brother saying we needed to get there in a hurry.  By the time we made the 15 minute drive over it was a much different picture.  This man that we loved so dearly was struggling.  It was made clear that things were progressing much more quickly than we’d expected.  Our beloved, dad, Papa and Dennis had days rather than weeks.  

Kennedy, my sweet old soul, was aware of what was coming.  It is impossible for her to not read mine and Sean’s faces and emotions. She entered the room and gave her Papa a big hug and showed him the ornaments she had made and brought for his tree.  She talked to him and brought him drinks and cookies.  She decorated his tree and room, desperate to make him smile.  And he did, for her; it is something I will be thankful for in my heart forever.  She desperately needed to feel like she was making him happy.  Carter, happily oblivious to anything out the ordinary, toddled around the room, smiling at everyone, giving Papa ornaments to hold and his finger-his affectionate, hysterical alternative to a high-five. Though Kennedy smiled for him, and he for her, I could see she was nervous and he was tired and not feeling well. We took lots of breaks and walks. More family arrived and emotions were high and was all becoming too much; for the kids, for me, for Sean and most importantly for Dennis.  I knew it was time for me to go with the kids.  I knew it was time to say goodbye.

As we made our way over to his bed, Kennedy walked right up to him and wrapped her arms around him and said, “Bye. Love you, Papa!” It was in the next moment that I knew we were saying our last goodbyes and this was an all too familiar feeling for me and I could barely breathe.  Dennis closed his eyes and said in the strongest voice he could muster, “Oh Kennedy, I love you so much.”  Then he kissed and hugged Carter and smiled big up at him.  When it was my turn I could barely talk; it was taking everything out of me not to get hysterical.  I hugged him so tight and kissed his cheek.  I told him I loved him and he said, “Oh Trish I love you too.”  The last thing I said to him was, “I promise to take care of your baby boy.  Can you go and take care of ours for us?” and without a moment’s hesitation he said, “Promise.”  I left that night knowing we would not go back day if the next day came.  I had to leave it at that for Kennedy.  I had to have her last moments with him be of him telling her how much he loved her; she would need that to hold onto soon.

The next day came for him and Sean was there with him, along with his brother and everyone else, but soon he was sleeping and did not wake again.  Once again the timeline changed; we were told hours not days. Then the waiting came-for everyone.  I was back at the condo with the kids and no car.  Desperate to entertain them and stay busy while fending off the building anxiety that was pushing against me and so they played in the shower for an insane amount of time, I received a makeover with all of my expensive make-up (when a grieving six year old requests to give you a makeover, you oblige and you like it), walks, more screen time then I'd care to admit, and enough pasta, butter and parmesan cheese to send you into a food coma.  And then when the baby was down and Kennedy was almost asleep, I got the call. ‘He’s gone.”   And the heartbreak was enormous.  For Pattie, losing the man she loved fiercely, for Sean, losing his best friend and father, for Kennedy, losing her beloved Papa. The loss felt suffocating.  

And then the fear set in for me.  Could we recover from this?  We had finally made our way back to a good place; could we do it again?  But as Sean came through the door a few hours later and hugged me and cried and asked, “What am I going to do?” I was heartbroken for him but knew we would be okay.  We learned from Jack how to grieve and survive it.  We will do it again.  

The next days were filled with what they should be: family, hugs, tears, laughter, and wonderful memories. But they were exhausting.  And as everyone eventually headed back home, things set in that opened the wounds.  This would be the last time we came down here when Dennis was alive.  Sean was not able to call him along our travels and tell him about the traffic and stops we’d made.  We would have to return to school and work.  Life had to go on and as I have also learned, sometimes that’s the hardest part in all of this. 

As with all sad stories, there was incredible love that came before the sad part.  In his sixty-four years John Dennis Doyle inspired a love that I can only hope to have and be surrounded by when the end of my story has come.  And as I have learned all too well not so long ago, with great love comes great grief, it is the price we pay. 

To my friend, Grief; you can visit for a while but you cannot stay.  I respect that you are needed here for a time but you will not be allowed to overshadow the beautiful life of Dennis; that cannot get lost in all of this. 

And to the man that taught the love of my life to be a man:  We will love you forever.  We will miss you forever.  We will see you again.