On Friday, August 20th, the hardest year of my life came to a close. It’s difficult to believe that April has been gone for an entire year – a very, very long year.
It truly was a blessing that April and I had no idea how close she was to death in her last summer. We had parties at April’s request, we worked (she was still employed full time by Pellissippi State up to the last Friday that she went in the hospital), and our struggles seemed ordinary in many ways. It would have been so much harder if we had known that she was so close, if she had not been so tough and positive minded.
She didn’t believe the end had come until she heard it from the doctor’s mouth. Up to that point – even when Dr. Gharavi told us that she was going through liver failure – she still thought that she was going to be returning to work in a few days.
As difficult as those two years during April’s diagnosis and battle with cancer were, they were a blessed time that I cherish and miss terribly. I miss April so much.
But life goes on. As we all know, life goes on. We don’t have the choice to stop time and reverse to the days when our loved ones were still with us. We can’t re-wind to say “I love you” one more time, or to do more special things for them to say with actions louder than words that they are loved. We move forward.
Our year without April has been forward moving. Babies have been born and conceived; houses have been re-modeled; a career in medicine has begun; business plans have been laid, and new friendships forged. I can see paths before me that lead to new places and ways of life that I’d never before considered as a possibility.
This is as it should be. It’s as April would want it to be. She loved us – all of us. And she would have been so pleased with each of our victories and treasured moments.
In closing, my dear ones, I offer you words that April would have said at this time, were she able. Live well. Have a party. Eat some chocolate. And smile to know that you are loved from this side and the next.
Mac
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Thank you for this lovely remembrance. Dr. Gharavi is my father’s doctor, too. My father is throwing himself a party on October 2, at his favorite restaurant, Litton’s, even though he barely eats anymore. (Sadly, chocolate and ice cream have become repulsive to him.) I am amazed April was able to work throughout her cancer years. I’m inspired by both of your positive attitudes, and I still visit here often to reread some of your posts.
My aquantence, Carole Ann Borges, a local writer who lost her daughter to pancreatic cancer a few months after April passed, recently wrote this: Death is a formidable visitor that shakes you to the very core. I hate death, yet realize without it we might not live our lives so urgently. Since my daughter died. I seem to be obsessed with it. Not fear, just awe. I have come to believe that although death does take away, it also leaves gifts. Be alert for the gifts.
I like reading about how you have been alert for the gifts. I find gifts, too. Reading and adoring the entire “Little House” series of books with my mom; going to Sonic with my dad to get milkshakes when chemo first started; Dr. Gharavi’s wonderful annunciation (I enjoy thinking about how he properly pronounces “ing” and “tt”.) Driving home from chemo and seeing wild turkies gamboling by the side of the road. My dad loving the Northern Exposure box set that I gave him. Stuff like that.
Keep writing.
“If I die young, at least I got some chocolate on my tongue.” — Wood Brothers
Yesterday I found this wonderful Emily Dickenson poem on a cancer blog called Do Not Go Gentle:
“If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain, or help one fainting robin unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.”
- Emily Dickinson
This brought tears to my eyes.
When I had my third back surgery in 2004, I was unable to drive for several weeks because of some complications with my right leg. I had to move back in with my parents, and depend on them to go everywhere. I had physical therapy several times each week, and was instructed to walk every day, but never alone, as I had a cane and there was the risk of falling. Luckily my recovery happened to be in the Spring. My Dad walked with me most days. He also had to take me to the store, and I remember fondly my trips with my Dad to the Dollar General and Walgreens. But, mostly I remember the walks and talks on those beautiful Spring days. I have always and will always treasure the extra time that I got to spend with my Dad because of the hardship of an unexpected complication.
I can’t imagine how much you must miss April. It’s wonderful how you manage to keep her in your heart, but still move forward with your life. I hope this coming year will be easier for you. As always, please let us know if you need or want anything at all.
Karla
Keeping those special moments in our hearts is such a treasure, Karla. I’m glad you have that time to look back on and smile.