4/23/12 - Home

We got our marching orders this morning! It seemed to take forever between the time the doc told use we could go and we were finally able to get out of there.

We stopped for prescriptions and then got home and settled.  It was nice to have his first day back full of sunshine and all of the windows open.  John was super active guy all afternoon (probably a little more than the doc would have liked :)). When I went to teach class, he even took the motorcycle to the gym to say hi to his friends there.  (definitely more than the doc would have allowed and possibly strategically placed when I was gone since I might have been on the doc's side :))  It's good to have the hospital part completed.  The battle is not over, but it's nice to fight it on your own turf.

"The scan looks good"

It was such a relief that the doc walked into the room and these were the first words from his lips.

The first scan after surgery is the scariest, we remembered that from last time. No matter how positive you feel or how much you trust that the cancer is gone, you really need those scan results to know.  We confirmed the plan to keep double daily doses of Gleevec and we'll scan again in 4 months.  John has been doing better on the morning doses so I think that his body is getting used to it and he's learning to work around it and with it the best that he can.  The doc felt around a bit and gave us the green light to go and we burst into tears.  Keeping everything together as we waited for these results was an essential, but difficult thing to do.

This is hard.  It's something that we are going to have for the rest of our life.  We'll always have a scan or checkup on the horizon and John has to be on drugs forever and on top of that, continue the mental battle against his cancer.  The fact that it found a foothold and came back so quickly when he was off his drugs really goes to shows the monster that cancer is.  It's like we have to build ourselves into a fortress and keep someone in the watchtower at all times.  It will take all three of us: John, me, and the Gleevec.

It took a while to let our nerves calm down and our bellies to release their butterflies.We are utterly elated that we are fighting to keep it from coming back rather than fighting something growing inside.  This is the best possible outcome we could have hoped for and the fact that we are in this position twice is amazing.  I know that this is not the case for many cancer fighters and thank my lucky stars that we are here.

Here's to celebrating successful scans.  I love you JJ.

12/8/13

I have been going between episodes of tears and of focus and of unabashed drunkedness.  I have a hard time concentrating on more than one thing at a time and I am going to struggle to be effective at work for a bit.  I'm trying to make myself eat healthy and drink water and exercise, but all of my cycles are off and I might be suffering a bit of depression.  All my timing is off. Hours seem short and minutes seem long and I never know what time it is.  I know this is all part of a normal grieving process and am trying to go through each part of the experience while still keeping my head on straight and both feet on the ground. 

What happened between John and me was sad, yes.  Through this past year, I have been constantly reminded that it was a part of my journey to be apart from him and to be here.  What I have realized in the past few days is that I think my leaving was also a part of his journey.  Because he didn't have me, he became larger than life.  He affected many people.  He got to share his story with many people.  He made choices for his life, something he hadn't actively done for a long time.  If I would have stayed, I would have sheltered him and taken on everything I could.  I would not have accepted the help he was able to accept on his own.  He died surrounded by an army of love and the knowledge that his passing was truly OK.  He got to go in peace knowing that he wasn't leaving anything behind but his awesomeness in the memory of so many people.

I will likely never have the opportunity to tell Brandie how much taking care of John meant to me.  John and Brandie are soul mates, they always have been.  They connected in a way that was unique to them. In a way that did not make their mates jealous but often did make their mates roll their eyes at the shared twisted sense of humor and dark outlook.  I believe she was the only person who would be able to do the amazing task of being with him on this final part of his earthly journey.  She was able to be his nurse and his friend and able to go to her own husband and family for the comfort and support that she needed to do it.  I can only imagine some of the tears she has shed and the loss she feels now.

Throughout this past year, I have tried so hard to keep my personal life personal and to not involve the public.  As I have said before, that may have backfired on me a little.  I still believe I have done the right thing but can't ignore the hurt of the inevitable rumor mill and misconceptions.  I am devastated at the loss of John.  We shared a giant part of our hearts and of our lives.  I am working very hard at making sure that I don't publicly grieve and "make it about me," as I have been accused of before and am also getting flack for the perception that I am not grieving enough by those who I am not sharing my experiences with.  John and I spoke and shared life experiences, traded pictures and jokes, and while our last year was different than previous years, maintained importance in each others lives.  I am close to John and have been for many years.  I know him better than anyone.  I am spending this time with him in my heart and that is no one's business.

He hung out over my shoulder as I picked out pictures for his slide show and I could feel his arm around me, see his smile, and hear his laugh as I went through the thousands of pictures of his life.  Our life.  He was here the next night as I was alone and reflecting on a healthy night of non-drinking.  I could feel him cautiously and tenderly touch my brain.  I can't describe it as anything other than a mind meld (Star Trek reference, sorry) and he was just in there for a second but he was around me for another couple minutes just telling me over and over that it was OK.

I will forever feel bad for breaking his heart and I know he felt bad about breaking mine but I have to believe that everything happens for a reason and this was no different.  We were lucky to have each other for so many years and to have shared such a good life and to have learned so many things together and from each other.  But I also believe the feelings over the past few days that this was part of his destiny.  I am grateful both for the part of my life path that intersected his and for the part that continues on now that his has ended.

I loved the shit out of you, John Judy, and I always will.

2/20/14: Farewell for now

John has been present throughout the last couple months.  He pops in here and there and I have a few fun stories about him making his presence known.  I've felt lucky to feel him near and as a trusted friend since he passed.  We've talked and laughed and cried and he's made fun of me for the ridiculousness of my mortal life and has been consoling in his nearness.  Others have shared stories about his appearances as well and I am grateful to know how many people he's been visiting.  Last week at church he came into my my mind and I saw him sitting on a porch of clouds with his hand on his knee, chin on his hand, looking down on all of us.  He was thoughtful and quiet.  It stayed like that for a while until I noticed something next to him.  It was Little Black Kitty.  I always have said that kitty was an angel.  Thinking of her as his spirit guide practically brought me to my knees.  I saw him sit there for hours that day and had the feeling that he was getting ready to leave, to go onto the next stage of his journey with our little kitty to transition him from the comfort of his earthly proximity to whatever was next.  He wasn't scared or sad, just watching us in a way I don't think he will get to do again.  While I believe that I'll always be able to talk to him, I don't think he'll get to reach down and touch me or be close enough to feel him anymore.  As the day went on, the image persisted.  John stayed exactly where he was as the cloud porch and kitty had motion around him.  In the late afternoon I saw him stand up, turn around and walk away.  The kitty looked back and then followed.  I relived that throughout the rest of the day fighting the tears of the loss and the temptation to jump and wave and yell for him to come back. 

With so many emotions and thoughts about John and his life and our life together and our life apart, I look back in wonder.  I know that we had to be apart for the final stage of his journey in order for him to learn and do what he was supposed to learn and do in his earthly time.  I can't explain how real that feeling is to me and while I know the pain that it caused John was excruciating, we were where and how we had to be.  and we're where and how we have to be now.  I'm grateful.  I'm grateful for him and for our time together.  I'm grateful for what we got to do together, learn together, how we got to grow together and help each other.  While it's hard to know that we hurt each other, I'm grateful that as odd as it sounds, that we at least did it together.  We talked and shared until the end, and have had a nice time together since the end.  I'm grateful for the times that I've seen him and that the image of the porch and kitty above were visible to me.  I feel like now when I talk to him, it will be more to the air than to the strong image of his person.  He's in the next place right now and I am excited for him.  He's moving further away from us, but towards whatever is next for him.  I miss you JJ, but I'm happy for you.  Give the kitty a hug for me.

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