Love This

I took this video about a month or so before Jeff's first relapse...back in January 2009. He was just starting to feel like himself, and he looked fantastic. As much as it hurts, I love remembering a healthy Jeff.

Bahamas

I'm feeling better, and a 5 day trip to the Bahamas did wonders for us. The sun felt amazing, the water park was the best I've ever been to, and there was lots of birds for JD to chase all over the island. I'll post a few more pictures as soon as get them transferred to the computer.

Speaking of Memories

I just stumbled upon an idea. At some point when things stop being so crazy, I'm going to make a photo book for JD about his Daddy. Because I can design this book online, I'll be able add little blurbs about Jeff. So, if you have a favorite memory or just something you really liked about Jeff, that you would like me to share with JD one day, please post a comment here. If you're shy about posting publicly, you can send an e-mail to jmw280@gmail.com.

Thanks!

Chugging Along

After being really healthy for quite some time, my body sort of crashed on me. I'm two weeks into a head and chest cold, and I am finally starting to feel some relief. I think that the stress of the past two years accumulated into something that was bound to end in a bit of a meltdown. I'm still having some trouble sleeping, but hopefully, things will start to resolve themselves soon. I figure that it's all part of the grieving process, and I have no other choice but to endure it.

I just spent some time looking at pictures of Jeff before he got sick. His smile was SO big. It easily lit up his entire face, including his beautiful blue eyes. When I look at pre-leukemia photos, I can just hear him laughing at SpongeBob or singing "4th of July." It is refreshing and healing to remember Jeff before he got sick.

Now that I can do so without crying, I think I'll let some of our good memories flood my brain.

"Strength"

You may have noticed that a lot of people comment about how "strong" I seem to be. Really, I'm not much different than most people. I'm just playing the cards that I was dealt in the best way that I know how. I cry and I sob and I ask, "why me?," and I really ask, "why Jeff?" But guess what? There are no answers to those questions, and it does me no good to sit and contemplate them.

Back in July after Jeff was released from the hospital after his first round of "Relapse #2 Chemo", I hit a very low point. I felt like I could not move...like I couldn't possibly go on for another day. I didn't know how I would attend one more Day Hospital visit, or watch Jeff get one more biopsy taken from his bone, or his lung, or skin, or his where-ever. I did not want to hear the doctor say that it would be reasonable for Jeff to forgo treatment and go on a vacation in the South Pacific before he gets too ill....before palliative treatments would have to start. (We did hear those exact sentiments from his doctor back in July, after finding out the disease had infiltrated his spinal fluid. Jeff decided that giving up was not an option, regardless of the odds. Despite my mantra that Jeff was a lover, not a fighter, he fought like hell to the bitter end.)

To combat this near depression, I started coming home every week to work and take a break from hospital life. I didn't like leaving Jeff, because I knew that he preferred JD and me to be there, but I wasn't going to do much good anywhere if I didn't take regular breaks. I was, and am, only human. There were times when the stress of it all was eating me alive. Like one of my AML-widow friends (yes, I now have widow friends) says, "it was like living with a gun to your husband's head for two years." The indefinite anxiety-ridden state of not knowing is a very hard place to be.

These trips home saved my sanity. Yes, traveling for 8 hours every week with a toddler was sometimes a challenge, but every trip home helped me to help Jeff.

Grief

In reality, I have been grieving for the loss of our life, for over two years. Jeff and I were VERY happy when he was first diagnosed. We were in love with each other, had jobs we liked, a baby on the way, a house we were busy remodeling, and the list goes on....we were happy and WE KNEW we were happy. We were not two people who were too busy with life to recognize that we had it good.

So, when we found out that Jeff had AML, devastation settled itself upon our (apparently) too nice life. As we navigated through surgeries, chemotherapy and transplant number one, we succumbed to the fact that our life had definitely changed, but held out hope for a better future. For me, most of that hope died out in February after Jeff's first relapse. I am well-versed on AML, its treatments, its causes (or lack thereof), and of course, its sobering statistics. A relapse after a transplant is BAD. There is no other word for it. Very, very few people survive for very long after the relapse. A second relapse, of course, portends an even more bleak future for its victims.

If I look back on things now, I grieved for the loss of our life, as we knew it, after the first transplant, and I began grieving for Jeff back in February after the first relapse. Any hope that I did have was transferred to Jeff in any way I could manage. I didn't outwardly grieve him while he was here, but on the inside, I was preparing myself. I needed to do that so that I could manage the months of treatments and be able to take care of JD. Maybe that sounds confusing, but I'm not somebody who lives with my head buried in the sand - I needed to face what was probably coming.

I've now lost two people who were absolutely shining lights in my life. One of them left me suddenly, and the other over the course of two years. I can't say that one way is better than the other, but I can say that in a lot of ways, a sudden loss is easier. The grief is more intense, but the anxiety leading up to a sudden death is non-existent, and anxiety about death is a cruel, cruel punishment, especially for a 30-year old.

Where am I now? Good question. We're only two weeks out, and I'm okay. Not good yet, and maybe I'm still in a little bit of shock - shock that I'll never hear Jeff's voice again, never hear him strum his guitar, or never see him kiss JD again. BUT, I'm also relieved that leukemia doesn't have to be a regular part of my day, that JD doesn't have to live in Hershey and at home, that Jeff is no longer struggling with his own mortality, and that he is no longer in pain. I've loved Jeff since I was 16 years old, and I AM relieved that I don't have to watch him suffer anymore. Really relieved.

Rest in peace, my beautiful, beautiful man.

Jump!