I Got Nothing

  As I sit here with a riot of thoughts, I realized none of them were really cohesive enough to make a decent blog post. When I tried to find the right words, my brain came back blank. I got nothing. Why is that? 

Part of it is because what half of the world mostly wants to hear is the good and positive stuff we are doing to change the world. That’s fun to write, but it doesn’t seem to spur people to action. The other people in the world want to hear the horrible stuff. I’m a bit appalled at the number of supposed childhood cancer awareness advocates on social media who really don’t want to share anything other than pictures of dead and dying kids. It’s disgusting, and yet they have tons of followers.

Tonight I don’t have a story that would fall into either of those categories. There was no amazing advancement today. None of the kids I’m following died – praise Jesus! No, today was simply a day where parents I know watched their children play or eat or go to school, knowing that there is a monster growing inside of them. A savage, bloodthirsty monster slowly changing their brain. These parents live every day in a place of panic you can only know if you have been there. Doctors look at you with sad eyes. You know the look most people get when they go on hospice, or run out of treatments. Our kids and their parents get those looks on the day of diagnosis. Because while there are treatments, they are not highly successful. They try them because once in a while, the treatment will work. If we could see each child on a molecular level, we might be able to figure out why one child lives while many others die. That’s what Dragon Master Foundation is trying desperately to do. And we are desperate. We know the panic. The fear. The absolute powerlessness. 

I spend a lot of my time trying to help people understand that we are at a critical juncture in time. We have a chance to impact lives in the most real way imaginable. The work we are doing alongside many partners will impact the way research is done. We are flipping the model. The old way isn’t good enough. We have other tools – better tools- that are within our reach. We could get there faster if people would just pay attention. It is hard to remember to do something like vote on social media every day. But it’s not nearly as hard as facing someone with a cancer diagnosis knowing you didn’t even try.

Tonight I feel both blessed and disappointed. Blessed by so many people who went truly out of their way to help us with our bid to win $500,000 from Microsoft. And my heart is sorely disappointed in those who didn’t make the slightest effort to help us in this or other attempts. You’re busy. I get it. I used to be “busy”, too. Ironically, I’m busier now that I have ever been in my life. It won’t bring my son back. But it will save someone else’s child. How soon it does is up to each of us. 

For Auld Lang Syne

I have an app on my phone called “Time Hop”. It goes back in time to year’s past and pulls out photos from your phone or Facebook to show you a little of your personal history. Today, one of the photos it showed me was of my Facebook statuses from 2010. What struck me was how happy they all were. How thankful. How EARLY in the year. You see, all of the statuses in the picture were from the first eight months of the year. David was diagnosed with cancer in month 9.

In hindsight, I always wonder if I was thankful enough before cancer entered our world. If I appreciated my kids enough. If I knew how blessed we were in spite of our hardships. Then today I saw this recap of my year before cancer. There’s no doubt that I knew what my blessings were. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, but I reveled in them when they appeared.

What really struck me, though, was how blissfully unaware we were. We had “normal” problems. The kind that you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get through. And then, David got an excruciating headache that led to three weeks in ICU and brain surgery. All the while, we believed that we would just pull together as a family and get through it.

But cancer isn’t always like that. Yes, being positive and fighting hard is important. I believe that it can make a huge difference in treatment and survival, but it is no guarantee. Cancer sneaks in unexpectedly and steals away your normal. To me, that is the most alarming thing. There was no warning.

In some ways life is just like that. You never know what’s around that next curve. The end of the year seems like a good time to look back over those curves and smile where you can, and cry when you must. More importantly, it’s time to look ahead to see what you can do to smooth the curves in the coming year, both for yourself and for those around you.

For me, looking ahead means finding innovative ways to fight cancer. I know David is looking down on us urging us forward. I know that he would see each life as precious and worthy of the fight. As we enter 2015, I hope that you will join us to make a positive change in the world of cancer research.

What A Brain Cancer Caregiver Wants You To Know Before You Head to the Polls, aka People You Need to Meet: #45 Kristen Gauly

What I wish I knew before my Mom was diagnosed with Glioblastoma Multiforme…

When brain cancer entered my life, I couldn’t have processed or understood at that moment that it was the cancer that keeps on stealing. It stole my Mom’s speech, her movement on the left side, her laugh, her smile, her personality, in short, it took all of her. And then, it came for us.

My brother, David, and I have been close my whole life. I’ve been blessed beyond measure in that respect. We endured much growing up; both of us faced major obstacles that required full family support to survive. It was always a comfort to know that my Mom, Dad and David would be there to face whatever challenge showed up next. I wish I knew how to prepare to for the day when crisis would result in the death of the leader of the pack. At thirty-six, it’s very difficult to think about how to face the rest of my life without my Mom.

My Mom’s fight with Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM) was short. It began on Valentine’s Day of 2013 and ended on the afternoon of May 6, 2013. In those eighty-two days, she endured a resection, a stroke three days post resection, and three weeks of physical therapy which kept her from any sort of chemo or radiation. Mom’s left side was completely paralyzed thanks to the stroke, chemo, radiation, continued physical therapy and finally home hospice.

I wish I’d understood the health care system better. I wish I’d known that lack of funding, lack of research and no new treatment was the stark reality for those facing GBM. That death from GBM is the rule, not the exception. I wish I’d known GBM is considered “rare,” and that because it’s such a low priority, it’s considered an undesirable disease to study. I wish I’d known all of these things so I could’ve been prepared, planned ahead, advocated more effectively. But I didn’t.

I wish I knew before cancer that this… IS IT! Of course I know we only get one life; I wish I’d recognized earlier the importance of each day. I wish I’d taken more pictures throughout her life, that I’d spent more time with just her when she wasn’t sick. I wish a million things had been different, but I understand they simply are not. Mostly, I wish I knew how much the death of one family member can change the dynamic of the entire family. We aren’t the same. My Mom was the glue. She held everyone together, carried the Band-Aids and tissues in her purse for emergencies. No one tells you that cancer will change everything. Forever.

I wish I knew how just plain ugly cancer could be. There’s an unwritten rule among GBM folks: Do not compare any other cancer to this. When anyone does so, it is hard not to cringe. I’ve stood beside my dear friend while her Mom conquered ovarian cancer multiple times. GBM is nothing like that. My close friends, especially those who came to see my Mom, learned quickly this was a whole other beast. My Mom had the reasoning ability of a child post-stroke. She could say things that were cruel, such as when she told a friend that I pushed her out of her wheelchair and tried to kill her. Oh how that stung! Long gone was my sweet, smart Mama who loved others so very much. Nothing is quite as humbling as cleaning your Mom during a Depends change or feeding her soup and wiping her mouth.

I wish I knew how much others cared before cancer. People came out of the woodwork when they find out my Mom had GBM. They cooked, cleaned, prayed non-stop, gave gifts, and struggled for words that could possibly make my family feel better. My work family responded in a way you read about in books. They donated money in my Mom’s name to ABTA, covered my butt, and prayed non-stop. They took care of my cat, cleaned my apartment, gave me hugs, and listened when I needed to just spill my heart. My friends did all of this as well, but to see my work family just jump in without being asked told me quite clearly how they felt about me.

I wish I knew about post-cancer, post-funeral aftershock. I was ill-prepared for the after effects of cancer. I didn’t understand that my brain was processing all of these emotions for months after my Mom was gone. I continuously lost items, I forgot what I was doing, would find my keys in the freezer. I found myself continuing to panic with every incoming call and text, and sleep was hard to come by for months. Sometime around the five month mark, I started having nightmares. There are still days—over a year later— when I cannot remember what I’m doing or sleep through the night. While less frequent, the nightmares still love to resurface at the first sign of stress.

Lastly, I wish I’d known that all the things that fell apart did so for a reason. I’m not referring to my Mom’s death; her death is something I’ll never understand.  It is only now that I begin to recognize that sometimes you have to experience extraordinary pain from loss before you decide to change priorities. My Mom was my biggest cheerleader; her cancer helped me see my life much clearer. She was constantly telling us good things would come from her cancer. I’ve made connections with others fighting GBM, begun working to spread smiles through my charitable project for kids with, Brain Cancer Share Your Shirts, and I’ve strived to make my loved ones my top priority everyday. The more I delve into advocating, the more of those “good things” begin to surface.

Brain cancer has not changed my core values or beliefs. However, some parts of my life have been permanently altered. If you ask me which issues are most important to me at the polls in 2014, you’ll find my answers dramatically shifted from those I would have given a year ago. My first priority is now supporting those politicians, regardless of party, who support brain cancer research. It matters. I wasn’t always a major supporter of brain cancer funding, but then again, I wasn’t always a thirty-six year old living without my Mom courtesy of GBM.

Missing Patricia A. Gauly today, and always.

With Love and Hope,

Kristen Gauly

Editor’s note: If you would like to learn more about what Kristen is doing in her mom’s memory, check out her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Brain-Cancer-Share-Your-Shirts/160672910806397

It’s Kind of a Big Deal

Wish I knew who to credit for this pic because it is awesome.

We get a lot of questions about Dragon Master Foundation, and whenever I have the chance to talk to someone about it, the response is amazing. They always end up saying “Wow, that’s such a big deal!” People are so generous with their support once they understand the project. The problem is, a lot of people don’t understand what we are doing and why it is needed. So I thought I’d take a moment to explain a little bit about what makes this project so special.

When David was sick, we were inside hospitals for days at a time watching people do their jobs. Technology is everywhere – from the patient bedside to databases in some unseen corner of the building. However, all of that technology seems to be locked inside each institution, with very little ability to share information from one hospital to the next.

It is like  being a horse with blinders on. You can only see a small part what’s really out there. You get a myopic view of the world. Unfortunately, that is the world most cancer doctors and researchers face. They long for more information, but it is largely out of their reach.

You may be thinking, “But what about the internet? Can’t they just send their information back and forth?” The short answer is no. Between HIPAA, different technology formats, and the sheer size of data, even the most collaborative hospitals have trouble sharing all the information researchers want to access. Collaboration would mean that a database would quickly need to warehouse petabytes of of information – a task that has only been tackled by the likes of the NSA or Google in the past.

It is an overwhelming task, to be sure, but for the first time in history, it is possible. It is possible to house genetic information and clinical data in one place so that researchers can really see the “big picture” of a patient’s health and furthermore, they can compare that patient to other patients. They can start to see why a drug works for one patient and not another. They can start to make sense out of things that are seemingly random.

It will be four years this September since we were dropped into this cancer world. I’m not a doctor or a researcher, but I’ve talked to as many as I could over that time, and every one of them has said a database like this would be an asset to them. EVERY ONE OF THEM.

And yet, we continue to spend money on tiny projects that help a single researcher or a single hospital. Please don’t misunderstand. Every researcher needs funding. Every hospital needs more help. But this is a situation of not being able to see the forrest for the trees. We need to build an infrastructure for the research data if we ever hope to move at a pace that is faster than cancer.

The good news is, we have made amazing progress. We have joined forces with the Children’s Brain Tumor Tissue Consortium, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, Children’s Hospital of Pittsburgh, Chicago’s Lurie Children’s Hospital, and Children’s Hospital of Seattle to take the database they are working on and grow it to a scale that can help pediatric and adult patients. The data is already being collected, which is a great and wonderful thing. However, it means that we are already at a place where we need vast amounts of funding in order to continue to grow.

I wake up every morning more sure that this database will change the way they do medical research. I have hope that people will begin to understand the vision that that this database represents, and that they will focus on helping us build it. You ABSOLUTELY CAN make a HUGE difference in the fight against cancer. Please share the mission of Dragon Master Foundation. Like us on Facebook ( http://www.facebook.com/DragonMasterFoundation ). Follow us on Twitter (@dragonmasterfdn and/or @amandahaddock ). Host a grass-roots fundraising event. Something as simple as dining out at a local restaurant that will donate proceeds can be a huge help with both raising money and raising awareness. Cancer is a beast that is taking lives. You can be a dragon master. Please join us today!

People You Need to Meet #38: Clint Murphy

What I wish I knew before my mom got brain cancer… the value and limits of time.

For me, Friday, September 12 was like any other day in the life of a presidential campaign staffer. Working from dawn to dusk, doing everything and anything to push the ball just a touch forward in the task of getting John McCain elected as the next President of the United States. I lived and worked in Tallahassee, FL and was the Deputy Southeast Regional Campaign Manager for McCain for President.

That night, a few campaign staffers and I headed up to Marietta, GA for a GOP Unity Rally on behalf of Senator Saxby Chambliss and the Georgia Republican Party. Nearly a thousand Republican volunteers from throughout the state would be congregating, and it was a perfect time to sign up volunteers, recruit people for coalitions, and generally show the flag on behalf of Senator McCain. I had arranged for the Senator to call in to the rally and express his thanks for their support.

The night before I had talked with my mom, and I got the impression she wasn’t feeling well. During the day on Saturday, I talked with her and again got the distinct impression that something just wasn’t right. She insisted that I call her when I got back to Tallahassee that evening and that I shouldn’t worry.

The event was a success, and we were all excited about having gotten so many people signed up and engaged in the campaign. In the months before, the Obama campaign had placed staff in Georgia and tried hard to make Georgia competitive. With nothing but volunteers and me and my teams’ efforts from Tallahassee, we organized the state, built coalitions, and flexed our muscle via earned media events and scared the Obama staffers out of Georgia and into North Carolina.

I dropped everyone off at their respective homes and was entering the code to get into my apartment complex while I was on the phone with my mom. The sun was setting on what had, for me, largely been a great day. Up until that point, Saturday, September 13 had been a very successful day, and I was excited about the future. For my mom, it would be an entirely different story.

As I spoke to her, mom seemed so calm as she described to me the events of the night before and then, with what seemed to come out of nowhere, she said, “They found a mass in my head.” I believe my initial response was pure disbelief, and when she confirmed for me what she had just said, I immediately started to have a panic attack. I had to hang up the phone because I just needed to scream as loud as I could, something that I had honestly never done and have never done since.

I called back and spoke with my cousin who walked me through the events of the following day, which lead to this grim discovery. On Friday, my mom had noticed that her tongue felt thick. She called her various doctors and sadly, none of them returned her calls. She called my aunt and they decided to go to the emergency room.

Initially, my mom was told that it was likely an allergic reaction to something and she was given a prescription for an EpiPen. While getting the prescription filled at the store, mom had a full seizure and back to the emergency room she and my aunt went. It is then that they performed the CT scan and found the mass.

I wanted to drive back to Savannah right away, but between crying and already being tired, I couldn’t see clearly to do that. I went back to my apartment and began to research everything and anything as it related to brain tumors. Everything I read made me even more upset. Eventually, I went to sleep as I was crying so much I could barely see the computer screen, let alone make sense of anything I was trying to read.

The mass was large, and it had tentacles forming something like a dumbbell in my mom’s brain. The CT and MRI had suggested a Glioblastoma Multiforme Brain Tumor (GBM). A GBM is one of those diagnosis that, by and large, has had very limited hope for a long time. Innovations in treating, let alone curing, GBM have not been forthcoming. Having been so involved in politics, I knew that Senator Ted Kennedy had been recently diagnosed with the same tumor and had successful surgery to remove the tumor. I went to work researching where he went to have that done.

My mother seemed so calm as we sat in the hospital room the night before her biopsy. She wasn’t crying and showed no sign of even being nervous about what might lie in front of us. I on the other hand was a mess. I tried to keep a brave face, but I couldn’t. I was scared, sad, angry, and just about every other emotion you can imagine.

We scrambled to get all the necessary forms completed in advance of the biopsy because I was informed that if the tumor were operable; they’d likely go ahead and remove it at the same time. Worried about what condition my mom would be in afterwards, I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

It was random chance that my aunt and I were walking down the hall when the surgeon came out of the operating room. He informed us that the tumor was inoperable and that it very much looked like a GBM, but would need the path report to confirm that diagnosis. Based on what he saw, he said he thought my mom had less than 3 months to live. We were dumbstruck and heartbroken. Even writing this now, I can feel that helpless feeling that I felt that day in the hospital. With everything in my being, I felt that those words just couldn’t be true.

In researching Senator Kennedy’s experience with a GBM, I saw that he went to Duke. He had surgery, was getting treatment, and doing relatively well, all things considered. I called Duke, got all the information to get a second opinion, and camped out in front of the path lab waiting on the slides so I could send the package to away in hopes my mom would be accepted as a patient.

There was no way that I could or would accept that my mom had less than 3 months to live, thus I went on a one man campaign to ensure that she got into to see the same surgeon that worked on Senator Kennedy’s tumor. My goal was to give my mom the best chance that there was to ensure she would survive this diagnosis and disease.

My mom’s 3-month diagnosis turned into an incredible 18-month experience. Through all the ups and downs over those 18 months, you might be surprised to know that, aside from the initial conversation about her possible death just before the biopsy, my mom and I only talked about her death one more time.

—

In February of 2010, mom and I made our final trip to Duke. It was on this trip that we had the final conversation about her possible death and she laid out for me her thoughts, as best she could, on the experience that she had gone through in fighting this tumor.

The doctors informed us that the tumor had started to grow again and that we were running out of options and were likely at the end of the line. Most people at this point would assume that we would have had Hospice assistance, but we didn’t. Even after returning home, we still did not have Hospice.

On the return home, mom shared with me that she had few regrets in life. She would do a few things differently, but all in all, she was pleased with how her life had turned out. She wasn’t angry that she had this tumor, nor was she angry that God was cutting her life short. She felt that it had all happened for a reason and that she was confident that God would use this experience she was going through for something better. She had a few people that she wanted to talk with before her journey was over and, if possible, wanted to make a trip to Hawaii. Her strength and bravery was just amazing. I was in awe.

On the other hand, I was a mess. I spent every moment of my time not spent working or taking care of mom, researching other treatment options, calling medical centers, and sending medical records to get another opinion. Sometimes those calls were so hard that I had to call back because I couldn’t control my crying. I was not prepared at all to lose my mom. I was not ready.

On February 28, my mom fell down and hit her head. She seemed fine and the doctor from Duke spoke with us and suggested that unless she seemed to be in pain that we wait and take her to her primary doctor in the morning. Mom seemed fine the rest of the day and evening, however the next morning she began to go downhill.

That Monday, I still thought we had more time! I spent the morning with her and then ran errands in the afternoon to go ahead and purchase the cemetery plot, send off yet for another 2nd opinion, and then have a conversation with my mom’s nurse at Duke about a possible hospital to hospital transfer. The nurse from Duke was the one who actually told me that we were at the end, and that there weren’t other options or opinions and that what my mom needed now more than ever was to be given permission to die. To acknowledge how hard she fought, but to let her know that it was okay for her to let go.

I returned to the hospital, and together with my family and a couple of my mom’s best friends, we sat there with her. By this time she was in a coma. I asked everyone not to cry or be sad while we were with her. We talked about my mom’s favorite flowers and a tear shed from her eye. The nurse at the hospital told me that this could last just tonight or could go on for some time, but almost as quick as she said that it seemed to come to an end. I told my mom how much I loved her, and how proud I was of her fight. I assured her that she would be going from my arms to the waiting arms of her mother and father, and that all would be okay.

Without notice, mom woke up and looked right at me. She turned her head to look at her sisters and friends and then took her last breath. Her death was both peaceful and beautiful.

When it was over, then I cried. I cried out how much I wish I had done more. I cried at how sorry I was that I hadn’t done more. I cried because while she was at peace with what she had been through, I was not, nor was I even ready. I felt like I needed more time.

—-

Since my mom’s death, I have gotten involved with the National Brain Tumor Society as the Lead Advocate for Georgia. Additionally, I am a brain tumor caregiver mentor with Immerman Angels. I want to use the experience I went through and the lessons learned to help others going through a similar situation and try my best for the experience my mom went through to be used to help benefit others.

It should be noted that when I read Senator Kennedy’s book, True Compass, he referenced his own desire to share his experience with GBM so that he could offer hope to those who faced a similar diagnosis. Knowing Senator Kennedy’s experience showed me the path to hope for my mom, and for that I am grateful.

52 People You Need to Meet: #20 Sarah Coffin Witte

What I Wish I Had Known…

By the time my son Andy was diagnosed at the age of 26 with terminal brain cancer (GBM/PNET, a brutal combination of Glioblastoma Multiforme and Primitive Neuro Ecto-dermal Tumor) there was a lot I already knew. I’d been his mother for 26 years, after all. I knew how to coax a funny little boy out of his moods, how to soothe a teenager through disappointments, how to see the big picture and not sweat the small stuff.

I knew how to let go. In 2008, I was in Maine and both my sons were in California, living a few blocks apart in Oakland, close to each other and loving their community of friends. Byron was a recent graduate of the University of San Francisco, hoping to find a job in public health nursing, and Andy was a musician and barista. He had just fallen in love with a beautiful drummer, just found a band to play with, just rented his first apartment out there.

I knew how to stay strong in crisis. I had risen to that challenge the day Andy was born, when he was taken to Children’s Hospital in Boston with ‘petechiae’, little red subcutaneous dots that indicated a concern for meningitis. I had stayed strong moving out to Arizona and back east again, strong through my husband’s unemployment, strong through the boys’ tearful nights of homework and meltdowns over girlfriends, strong through a devastating divorce, the loss of dear dogs and cats, and strong through an intervention in family alcoholism. I am calm in crisis. This is a good thing. When Andy collapsed in California, and an MRI revealed a large diffuse mass in his brain, and he was scheduled for a craniotomy and biopsy, my new husband and I left our honeymoon and flew west to get there in time to see him that night in the ICU, in terrible and unforgettable (really unforgivable… such a bad hospital) agony. I stayed calm. I comforted others. I made plans for getting Andy back east and getting the medical team lined up to hopefully buy some time from the monster.

I knew how to be realistic. I knew we don’t all get to old age. Having lost loved ones before, and having seen others endure what so many think is just unthinkable, I had done plenty of thinking about the so-called journey, and what befalls us along the way. S*** happens. We are fragile. It’s just biology. It’s nobody’s fault. My aunt, my parents, and even my sister had all lost a child. Children had also died in my town due to bone cancer and heart disease, as well as from accidents. My beautiful cousin, Lisa, died of a subdural hematoma one summer day, leaving two children and a stunned husband. Friends in our lives died of leukemia, breast cancer, and ALS. I knew that there were no guarantees.

I knew how to grieve, thanks to all those losses, though none are as close to you as your child. I started grieving the day of Andy’s surgery. I called my ex-husband at the hospital to see if Andy was out of surgery, heard the terrible preliminary diagnosis, and then called my sister from the runway at Oakland Airport after touching down, and said, “Google this word: G-L-I-O-B-L-A-S-T-O-M-A. Then call me back OK?” She said calling back with the grim news of a twelve to eighteen month prognosis was one of the hardest things she ever had to do. From then on, however, it was our reality. We never hid from it or denied it. That would have been a waste of time, we thought. Call it anticipatory grief: that’s when you know you’re going to lose someone you love. You grieve in private moments, and every day is a journey of courage and love.

I knew how to make the best of every day. Something about the person Andy was, so full of insight (or his own extreme analysis of the world) and appreciation for the best things in life, brought us all to a shared focus on love, fun, laughter, music, art, animals, beautiful skies, firelight, the best of friends. From January 2009 to May 2010 when the cancer consumed Andy’s poor brain and quieted the rage at last, we boogied. We knew how to love, and live with love.

I knew how to trust my instincts as a mother, from Andy’s home birth to his hospice death. Five months before he died, he even fell in love again. People asked who was this person coming into our lives at this incredibly fragile time? The answer was Heidi, a talented, sweet and brilliant woman, who wanted to be with Andy. When I told her, you know he’s going to die and we’re going to have to see him through to the end, and if you don’t want to do it, say so now and I’ll understand, she said, I’m in. How did the universe even bring this star child into my life? Heidi’s previous life experiences brought us domestic serenity, massage, herbal healing, creativity, caregiving skills… even more calm in the storm. She had my back and I had hers. We made it through the worst of days, the worst of nights, and I am a better person for having had her walk into my life. She is now my daughter-in-love, for life.

So after all that, what do I wish I had known? I have asked myself this question, so many times, ever since Amanda posed the question. The first answer is: I don’t wish I had known anything that it is not within a human’s potential to know.

I know there’s no doctor or alternative healer who could have saved Andy. I know we gave him the best of medical care. If Senator Edward Kennedy with the same diagnosis – who could have afforded ANYTHING – went through the same radiation and chemo regimens as our son, and died within the same typical time frame, then I know there was nothing on earth that could have saved either him or Andy.

I know that the afterlife is not for humans to know. I know that wherever we go and if we have any consciousness after we die, no one has ever proved to know. I am fine with not knowing. I suspect we go back to wherever we came from, and I feel no fear or worry about that. I trust it is a place free from pain or sorrow.

I know how blessed I am. I know that the world I live in – lucky, lucky me — cares deeply about me and my family. I had nothing but love and support of every kind. My neighbors fed and housed our extended family as they came and went. My employer gave me security and flexibility. My church and pastor took amazing care of us during and after Andy’s illness and death. My dear husband, Drew, offered nothing but love, support and kindness. Our new marriage went through quite a test, and essentially was put on the back burner for the first year and a half. I found empathy and support through online communities such as Cancer Compass, Young Adult Survivors of Glioblastoma, Daily Strength ‘For Moms Only’ grief support, my Oasis friends group, and eventually, the astounding blessing of the GBM Warrior Women, a private Facebook group. Since joining each of these virtual communities, I have met the people in real life. We have embraced and wept and even laughed together. Nobody knows like somebody who knows. Compassion makes a huge difference.

What I wish I had known then, and what I seem to care most about growing as a skill in my life going forward: I wish I had known how to comfort. Deeply, meaningfully, and successfully. I have learned from others who have journeyed through terminal illness as parents and spouses and friends and children that we want to know what to say. We grope and grasp and struggle. I felt desperately unequipped to comfort my beloved and terrified and outraged son.

Yes, of course, I said many good words. Loving words, the best I could think of. Constantly and every day. I told him it wasn’t his fault. That terrible unfair things happen to good people. I told him that we would be with him to the very end, that he would never be alone, no matter what. I told him he could have as much of the narcotics and painkillers as we could get, and he could manage. I told him how much I loved him, a hundred thousand times. The very few times he crashed and raged and wept and howled in grief over the end of his own life, I held him in my arms and I said I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. I said I wish there was something, anything, I could do. I said I wish I knew words to say. I said I wish it could be me instead of you. I said I am sorry they haven’t found a fucking cure; they’re working on it, sweetie, but right now there’s nothing. I said I know, it sucks! I said I can’t believe it either, that there’s nothing else out there. Isn’t it terrible? Isn’t it unacceptable? I said you will never be forgotten. I said you have been an amazing person and goddammit yes, please, you have to believe this, you really have made a difference in the world. Yes, I said, you have, I swear! I said you have given people so much, and the ripples will go on and on and on. I said I’m sorry. I said I will never stop loving you.

But what can you say to really, truly, deeply comfort someone who is dying, someone young and strong, who doesn’t want to die? Someone whose life was just coming into focus? Someone who loved life so much, and wanted to go on? What can you say that would put that person’s mind at ease? I don’t know. I didn’t want to say anything that was not true, that I didn’t absolutely know for sure, so I said I love you. I said thank you for being in my life. And I have said it every day since he died. And I will say it forever. I love you.