April. My month of a lifetime of memories

My little cousins crashed the neighbor’s Easter egg hunt. I tagged along. Played soccer with the neighbor kids and giggled at my little cousins. I smelled like Northern Minnesota. Obviously, I enjoyed it.

I spent the other parts of my Easter weekend with family. Sitting and talking. Laughing and remembering. Hearing stories I’ve never heard. Telling stories I love to tell. Watching and talking hockey. Shopping in a local shop I love.

I visited my Grandma in the care center on Friday. Just for a little bit while she ate her unappetizing carrots and meatballs with questionable colors and items stuffed into them. Unfortunately, a flu virus broke out in the care center and millions and billions of tiny germs kept us from visiting again – especially my mom who cannot subject her immune system to influenza since cancer and chemo completely wiped her cells cleaner than a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

My weekend was a bit of surprise to me. See, I’m not a big fan of the month of April. I see it as a month to endure. Yes, there is college hockey (ending) and NHL Playoff hockey (beginning), but that hardly helps in my case.

April 1992. That was a long time ago. 20 years to be exact. But I remember the month. I was in Kindergarten. And had spent most of my days out of school. Up North. Because of cancer and chemo. My Grandpa’s (maternal). He had battled it for a long time. Suffered through tough rounds of chemo. Lost lots of weight and hair. But never lost his smile. I remember seeing that smile many times. And for whatever reason, maybe because I needed those memories to carry with me for a lifetime, I remember. I remember a lot of things from my year as a Kindergartener. None of them related to school.

The day my grandpa died was a grey, cold April day. A day that has come and gone for 20 years. A day that is marked on my calendar. This week.

I remember being confused. Trying to figure out all the conversations buzzing around me. Watching the cues from my cousins. Seeing people crying. I stood by the front door and watched two of my cousins make their way into the house. I turned around to see relatives consoling one another. It had been a long haul. Those months of cancer and chemo. There had been time to plan for the inevitable. But the inevitable was still not easy to bear.

The days between my grandpa’s passing and his funeral don’t register in my memory. I’m not sure if I was whisked back to my Kindergarten classroom to try and catch up on my ABC’s and 123′s or if I stayed Up North with cousins and family. We were spread out at the time, but not nearly as scattered as we are today. So, in a way, that was a good thing. We were all there. Together.

During the funeral, I remember sitting next to my mom and Cousin S (Cousin B’s older sister). When the casket was taken out of the church, I remember watching everyone cry. And I wanted to cry. So, I faked it. Somewhere in my mind, I told myself that I needed to look sad and act the part. Everyone was sad. And I needed to be, too.

The thing is, in the 20 years since that day, I have cried real tears. For 20 years, I was grandfatherless on my mom’s side of the family. Too young to remember memories from before the years of cancer and chemo. I’m fairly certain I’ve experienced the green monster of jealousy over the fact that I don’t remember much prior to my Kindergarten days in the hospital with my grandpa.

But even though I can’t recall specific moments and events before 1991/1992, I do know that my grandpa loved me. And my grandma carried that love on for the next 15 years for him. For all of us.

When she passed away in August of 2007, I was much further along in life. About to enter my senior year of college. My days with grandma had been many. My memories of birthdays and Christmases were plentiful. Yet, that still did not prepare me for the void I’d feel when she was gone. Since that day, every time I think of Up North, I think of her. I can’t help it. For 15 years after my grandpa died, I knew that there was still someone in that house who loved me. Someone who was there waiting for me. And when she died and the house was sold to someone else who doesn’t love me, it was a loss I didn’t know I’d miss.

My grandma would be 88 years old today. We’d probably have celebrated her birthday this past weekend. Cards and candles. Gifts and gift cards. Phone calls and greetings. She’d have sat in her chair. I would have opened up her gifts; helping her arthritic fingers tear the paper open to unveil presents of soft pink pajamas and sweaters from Nordstrom. And I can hear her telling us, “How nice. Oh, that’s lovely. But this is too much.”

It always was too much for her. But for us, it was never enough. To convey our love and appreciation for her. The head of the family for 15 years.

And my maternal grandma wasn’t alone in the April celebrations. My remaining grandparent – my paternal grandmother – is celebrating her 94th birthday tomorrow. Sick with the flu. Stuck in a nursing home.

Back when my grandpa was around, 7 years ago, we would have celebrated Easter and birthday at their house. Baked her a cake. She would have opened her gifts in the living room. Family gathered around. My grandpa would have some gift for her – a card and something special. Again, it would have been “too much.” Gifts from out West and East and phone calls from Chicago and Boston would have rang throughout the house. I can hear her on the phone, telling my cousins what she was doing. Laughing her little laugh.

I saw glimpses of her smile in the care center. Listened for a sign of her laugh. Wanted so badly to hear her tell a story. Use a full sentence. She didn’t. But I know she would. If she could.

She’s still here. Head of the family for 7 years. Her time after my grandpa has been different than we expected or hoped. But it has been time.

7 years. 5 years. 20 years. And now.

Years and moments I will always remember. Especially this month. Always on these days.

Crashing Easter Egg hunts and playing soccer outside. Those are new April memories. There may not be birthdays and Grandparents, but we are still here. Still a family. Minus our grandparents.

And though they left us with April – a month of nostalgic memories and sad tears – they left us with each other so that when these Aprils roll around year after year, we’d have each other. To make new memories with. Not to replace the old April memories, but to make them less painful.

 

The place I want to be

Cancer keeps on coming.

My mom’s chemo is working. It makes her feel like crap 24/7 but it is working; shrinking the tumor that caused this whole commotion.

My family is thrilled. Blessed by such wonderful results. We’re still waiting to see where this cancer road leads us. We know these things take time. We know that we have to keep fighting. We have to keep dealing with this thing called cancer.

As I learned early this week, a friend (co-worker) has to travel this road, too. A different form of cancer, but scary, real, and dangerous nonetheless.

Cancer is cancer.

So, last week when she, my-younger-than-me co-worker was waiting, I couldn’t help but remember what that was like. The unknowing. The hoping that maybe the initial tests were wrong but thinking they probably weren’t. The how do I act normal when I am scared to death feelings. All those emotions I felt back in October were real and part of my life again.

Because once you’ve set foot on the cancer road, you sympathize and empathize with everyone else who travels with you, ahead of you, or behind you. You get it. Of course, people in the exact same race as you are the ones you connect with the most. Like the hockey mom I’ve known for years who told me that her mom had cancer at the same age as my mom.

In the months since October, months full of cancer and chemo, I’ve thought about a place I loved as a kid. A place that always melted my problems away.

That place. Grandma’s house. Bordering the Great White North, it was a place of comfort, safety, and love. A place where I knew I’d find the love of an entire family to sort through my sorrows and a Grandma who knew how to listen.

As I’ve shared before, that wonderful place no longer exists. Physically, it still stands. Mail still arrives in the box by the front door. The floor still squeaks in that certain spot. And I hope that the house is full of love. Like the love I felt whenever I walked around the house to the back door and found my Grandma waiting with a hug.

It was a house that saw many Christmases. A house where too many cooks in the kitchen was a scary sight. The basement saw wrestling matches and doll dress ups. The bench in the back entry was always covered with jackets; the floor full of shoes.

And it is that place that I wish I could escape to. That house where I wish I could go.

Going there then. When life was simple. When I was young. When cancer hadn’t pulled my mom down its path.

Though I cannot go there, I can remember. That fact brings some comfort from this cancer confusion. The memories and love of that place, the place I want to be, is what I’m drawing on right now. Because those memories and feelings were built on a Love stronger than cancer.

And that Love is what is going to see my mom and young friend through. Because no one beats this thing called cancer without it. Even if you’re a bystander on a cancer track, cheering someone on as they make the first turn, know that your love is all they need.

Love. That’s the only place you need to go.

Week in review: Stories of 2012. What more can this year possibly bring us?

MN Meditations Original Instragram photo via facebook profile pics

This week needs to start over again. This year needs to start over again. It needs to go back to where it came from. Back to the eve of the New Year.

What 2012 ushered in is a whole lot of hard-to-believe moments.

My days are completely messed up right now after my Christmas vacation (which wasn’t really vacationy – unless you count the no-sleep-sleep-in routine I mastered while never changing out of my pj’s.
So, my first week “back” (to work, life, and blogging), came as a bit of a surprise to me. And ever since cancer & chemo, nothing has really surprised me.

Excpet for this week.

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In life there are names we hear and easily forget.  And then there are names we hear that strike our hearts – names that make us stop forgetting names and start remembering people and their stories.

These are their stories.

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Jack Jablonski. 16 years old. #13. Hockey player. Benilde St. Margaret’s.

Like the hit Jack  never saw coming, so also did his life; it changed with one instant in one game by one hit. He had no choice; the accident took his 16 years of living and rearranged the story. A story him and his family have to live out – chapter by chapter.

Jack is receiving the care he needs and the overwhelmingly necessary support of the hockey community. A community that knows how to take care of its own.

Jack’s prognosis is grim, but the hockey world keeps hoping and praying.

#13 In our hearts.

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Alissa Haines. 15.

Her name won’t pull as many hits as Jack’s. But that doesn’t diminish her name or story.

Life, as her family knew it, changed. They had no choice. She did. Everyone does. So as many hardships as this life throws at us, at Jack and his family, it’s worth the risk. When you take out the risk, you take away the opportunity to experience life the way it is meant to be lived.

But Alissa’s family and friends still need support. Just like Jack’s family and friends need support.

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A Minnesota Mite. 8.

Not just any Mite. But one of my buddies from back in my mini-van-soccer-practice-I’ll-let-you-stay-up-late-don’t-tell-your-parents days.

A kid I’ve watched grow up from toddlerhood to elementary school. Just thinking about him makes me smile. And tired. Active hardly describes this kid – his enthusiasm and happy-go-lucky-spirit and hard-core competitiveness are unparalleled.

And this week, with Jack and Alissa’s names and stories on the tips of people’s tongues, my little buddy was playing in his own Mite game.

And he took a hard fall into the boards. He laid on the ice without moving. Crying. His lower back was tender and sore, trainers, coaches, and paramedics confirmed it was not broken. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that it was scary – for him and his newbie hockey mom and family.

He was taken to an ER – just in case. And when he sat in a wheelchair, he asked his mom, “Am I going to be in this forever?”

His name won’t pull up any search results in Google or Yahoo. You won’t find videos or profile pics supporting him or his family, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a story.

He’s on the mend. Back in school; his buddies and classmates called to make sure he was all right. Hockey parents supported the newbie hockey mom.

It’s a rough way to enter the hockey community, but a welcome I know the mom appreciates.

Life changed a bit for my active friend. No sports for a week. Signed up for everything and anything, as well as just running around the house, my little buddy is going a bit stir crazy. That’s a good sign. One to be extrememly grateful for.

Who knows how long my little buddy will stay in this Minnesota sport. All I know is that I’m grateful for his story – a reminder that even the youngest names have important stories to tell.

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A girl and her grandpa.

Earlier this week I was informed of a loss. A loss of someone I did not have  the privilege of knowing. But a loss that was hard to swallow for a family I have come to know over the past year.

The grandfather died just before Christmas from an aggressive cancer; one in which he beat all odds and lived longer than the doctors thought possible.

Like many grandparents, he left behind a family – kids, grandkids, and greatgrandkids. Networked in with the grandkids, I was asked to be there at the visitation and funeral for support.

And so I went, on this week with Jack, Alissa, and a Minnesota Mite’s names in my heart. I didn’t know anyone in attendance, except the family who requested my presence. I didn’t know the person we were honoring, but I honored him because of his family – the family he left behind.

Life changed for this family, right before the most magical time of the year. I glimpsed at this great man’s life through pictures in the funeral home. Pictures with the family and kids that I am connected to. The kids showed me the pictures commenting on how much they liked or disliked ones with them in it. One of the kids told me, “There’s a lot of pictures.” And I simply asked, “Do you like looking at the pictures?” Her response was, “Yeah, I do.” When I asked if the pictures made her happy or sad, she replied, “Happy and sad – both.”

The name of her grandpa will draw some hits, people stumbling upon obituaries thinking it’s just another grandpa. But it’s never just another grandpa. Even when it’s not your grandpa. It’s someone’s grandpa.

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Needless to say, I’m a bit tired from the emotions of this week. From the physical tiredness of getting back into normal sleep patterns and a busier than normal work week.

This is just the beginning of the year. But for so many people this week, it is the end of life as they knew it.

These are the stories of tragedy, hope, and comfort that I want to remember throughout this year. The names I want to know at the end of 2012.

If this is just the beginning, what else will 2012 bring us?

Whatever it brings you, remember it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Accidental non-posting week

There are no pictures to portray the feelings floating around my allergy-stuffed head. Well, maybe there are, but I’m not  going to take the time to search Google for an image today. My fingers are semi-sore from various projects I’ve worked on lately and I decided to cook one night and needed to use knives…

The point is this: I have missed writing “live” posts. Posts about real things. Sure, every Wednesday War and French Fry Friday is real. It’s there for you to read. But sometimes I scratch the surface and don’t actually talk about meaninful things. And there’s been a boat load of meaningful things going on in the world. None of which you will find to be breaking news in this post. But topics worthy of a nod. Worthy of a look. Worthy of words.

The day the Russian plane carrying the entire Locomotiv Yaroslavl hockey team of the KHL crashed, I was busy at work. I caught a glimpse of a news feed on my Google homepage. My first thought was that this has been the worst off-season. Tragedies keep shaking the hockey world – right down to its core. And it’s a small world, so it doesn’t take much to shake it. Players, coaches, trainers, GMs, and fans around the world are affected everytime our televisions and internet newsfeeds light up with heartbreaking news. Everytime a hockey player is lost, the world shrinks.

Everytime a hockey player’s life is lost, we stop to remember them. Not their slap shot or work along the boards or their role as the enforcer. We remember them as a person. As a human being.

And that’s the way it should be.

And that’s why it’s so important that they live out lives on and off the ice that are honoring and full of integrity and purpose.

Another meaningful topic I failed to cover earlier is the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. When I realized it had been ten years, I shook my head in disbelief. I remembered the exact moment, the exact feeling of that day. And this past September 11, just five days ago, it was perfect outside. Blue skies, sunshine, a wonderful fall day. And I couldn’t help but compare the two days - ten years apart. Because it didn’t feel like ten years had passed. The moment I crossed an overpass with bikers and flags, firetrucks, and families, I lost it. And it felt like I was back in 10th grade wearing my white GAP sweater and baby blue American Eagle pants. But I wasn’t. Because so much has happened in those ten years. And yet, we still remembered 9/11. The lives lost.

The people who died that day were not just victims of 9/11 – they were mothers, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, co-workers, former camp counselors and lifeguards, marathon runners, neighbors, book-club members – they were people. People we can’t ever forget. No matter how many years separate us from that day.

The last part of this post is a lot more personal. For Labor Day, I traveled to my parent’s hometown with my dad. I don’t remember the last time my dad and I went to visit the town where he was born and raised – just the two of us. So, I tucked this trip into the nooks and crannies of my memory so that I can look back someday and remember it. Because you never know if you’ll get another opportunity like that.

Our time spent way up north, the true “Up North” of Minnesota was packed with family. And it reminded me of when I was a kid. Minus the fact that we didn’t stay at either of my grandparents’ homes. Due to the fact that they are no longer in those homes. Instead, we sat with my grandma at the care center (sounds much better than nursing home). We helped her eat her meals, talked with her, and clung to those lucid moments when she smiled or seemed to recognize us. She’s the last grandparent in my life. The last one I have to love and hug. I didn’t cry when I saw her this time. Instead, I just enjoyed it. I talked with some of the other residents and cheered my grandma on everytime she took a bite of her eggs and toast. It was kind of odd to cheer on a woman in her mid nineties as she ate a simple breakfast, but I hoped that with every cheer and every bite, she knew that she was loved.

And I know that I may not get another chance to watch her eat breakfast or smile from her wheelchair.  Even if it is at a care center and not her home. A home in which my dad and I passed on our way to the cemetery. A home in which I have all my childhood Christmas memories.

We went to the cemetery just to see it. Nothing has changed since the days we buried my three grandparents. Besides the fact that more of their friends and neighbors have been buried just a few plots over. Standing in front of headstones and walking from plot to plot, I realized that I’m getting older. A duh moment you may think, but one that hits hard when you stand in front of headstones and see your grandparent’s names etched on them. Or when your visits to grandma’s house are at a care center with hundreds of other grandma’s and grandpa’s. Or when you realize that your pregnant cousin’s kids are never going to meet their great grandparents. Or when you remember that you really want to tell your grandparents something.

Maybe that’s why I subconsciously didn’t post this week’s typical Wednesday Wars and French Fry Friday. Because as fun as they can be (in my humble opinion), I had other thoughts that wouldn’t leave me. Other thoughts that mean more to me than Online vs Store (shopping) or Backpacks! The two posts I had written in my planner but never wrote on here.

Sometimes you just have to stop and remember. Sometimes you just have to write so that you remember.