This month will be...

Difficult.

I'm doing the countdown to the events that led to Rich's final days that will mark a year. My brain says I shouldn't think about it, my brain then thinks about it and relives it anyway. 

August was our last month of being able to do things together. No, it wasn't easy. Friends helped in super human ways. 

We went out to lunch every Wednesday that we could. It was my treat since Steve was the one driving and assisting with the wheelchair, oxygen, and everything else we did.

We laughed and told stories. Well, the guys did. They travelled down memory lane together. Their stories of hunting together and fishing together were endless. I was the witness and listened intently. These memories and stories were before I entered the picture.

Steve's patience helped me when I got frustrated. He was the rock in the turbulent moments while we were out and about. Rich was happiest and full of spark whenever we went anywhere with Steve.

I know it was his friend's influence and gentle ways that convinced Rich he could be out in public and still enjoy himself.

Below is when Rich wanted to pose in Reserved Parking with his wheelchair. There is that look of devilish fun in his eyes! Being a smart-ss, he said he had to park right there!

Some days the fishing was horrible. I purchased a Stuffed Fish at a gift shop and Rich took it with us from then on.

The beauty of it all is that he often forgot that he was in the last days of his life. He looked forward to the Hospice visits from the nurses, the aide, and even the Chaplain. He didn't always connect the visits with the fact that he was dying. He enjoyed the moments and that is what mattered.

One of the things I learned was that this man who spent much of his last years self isolating really loved the company of others. He often said he didn't.

He did.

Severe Major Depression Disorder kept him lonely. 

In the photo below he was watching the birds and the driveway to look for Allie who came twice a week to give him a bed-bath. He would sit for as long as he could watching and waiting. Often he asked me to tell him the time. It reminded me of kids in the car on a trip asking "Are we there yet?".

The photo reminds me of scenes I've observed while in Nursing Homes. A patient sitting in a wheelchair looking lost. 

It wasn't that way with Rich, he was always watching what was going on outside. The birds caught his attention or perhaps deer walking in the meadow. He couldn't help the attentiveness, it was how he survived his time in Vietnam. Being aware at all times of everything going on around him.

Do you see the little dog who is
sitting next to him? 

In these moments, I never thought about "What Next", I was in the present and the here and now every day. At night I lay on the couch and cried for myself and for us. I didn't want anyone to know. I was 'strong' and tough. I was and had to be the Rock.

I put on one ear bud in my ear and listened to music. I had to keep an 'ear' out for Rich too. 

So now it is August 2026 and I feel like I am going through the countdown once more. 

I've made some adjustments and I still have issues with being around others who can't fathom what I went through. I don't bother telling them either. The other day at the gym, someone who hadn't seen me in a while asked a simple question that threw me.

"You are doing so great! So what are your plans?" 

My plans.
I'm going to survive the next 8 weeks, I thought. Those are my plans. I'm on hold right now. I feel like I'm just keeping it together. 

I smiled. Tell the truth. "I'm just hanging in there."

Next? A look of pity. She didn't mean to look that way. But the eyes and facial expression was there.

Today? 
I don't know what I want. 

I do know this. I am not 'over' it. I have had more good days than bad that is a good thing.

One of the things about going through Hospice like this, you know what the end 'game' is. You know the eventual outcome.

But nothing ever prepares you for it until you've lived it. So now I want to reanalyze it to see if I could've have done better. It is a worthless exercise, yet my brain goes there.

I know that I did the best I could.

Hospice sent me a letter asking if I'd consider being a volunteer. Yes, I would. But not yet. I'm not in a place where I can do through this again even if it is someone I don't know well. 

My heart and mind are still trying to heal.

It must be destiny

This summer I got a text from my good neighbor Olive. It simply said, "I'm having a really bad day, I could use a friend."

The home health aide was with Rich giving him a bath so I asked if I could run up to her house and find out what was the trouble. Olive never sends cryptic messages like that.

I did go there and found out that her husband had just been diagnosed with a rare cancer and surgery was going to happen in 5 days. She was distraught, her husband was not. 

The surgery was called a success and I helped out in their garden when I had respite visiting us. It was for emotional support and I helped keep the littles busy while Olive worked [from home].  When they were too tired, I picked their veggies and strawberries and as a reward, got to keep what I picked.

I'd have done it either way.

When Rich died, they had me over a few times to ease the quietness of our house and I got to enjoy the chaos of little ones climbing furniture and jumping off couches. The squeals and peels of laughter and cries of hurt or imagined hurt filled my heart with joy. We laughed about kids and life. Aiden, who is 4 offered to come and live with me for a bit so I wouldn't be lonely.

I got another message today while returning from a nice long hike with Charlie at Wildcat Mountain State Park. 

I rushed out the door after dropping Charlie off and walked the 1/2 mile to their house. 

That awful C word had re-entered their lives with the latest follow up scan. Another one is planned for later this week to see if IT is in the lungs. Then in a few days there will be a follow up plan.

Olive said she needed to be able to fall apart and be a Hot Mess for a bit. I took her in my arms and told her to let it go. She did and she shook and sobbed for her heart, for her husband, for her children, for the unknown, and for herself.

She talked about what might happen and choices they didn't know they'd have to make.

I said that I think I understood a little of what she was feeling. 

"When Nate told you," I said, "did if feel as if all the blood drained out of your body and fell into a pile on the floor with all of your guts? Did you want to puke, scream, and faint at the same time? Did it feel like a gut punch and you knew you were just going to melt into a puddle on the floor...BUT couldn't?"

"Almost exactly like that." We spent more time holding each other.

I walked outside and stopped to talk to Nate. He was working on a project. He told me that he would have choices once the lung scan had been done on Friday. 

It was possible he'd have to do targeted radiation. It was possible that he'd have to targeted radiation AND chemo. 

He looked at the ground and said radiation is a course of something like 6 weeks in LaCrosse which is an hour away. 5 days a week. Chemo had its own crazy schedule.

I told him that I could help. I would commit to being the transport if they wanted it. Olive works a full time job as he does. I know how hard it is to work and transport for treatments daily. The grind is hard. But I've done it. 

I also offered to take Aiden to school if needed or pick him up. I could be a babysitter for the times they needed to go to appointments without kids.

Olive's mom would have been in my place except she is still recovering from her medical monster of having a cancerous tumor in her leg. 

I told Nate, that I knew the routine. I'd drive him there and back and would not question him during treatment. I told Nate that I'd be his driver and he could rest on the way there and back. I would be happy to be the silent partner.

I told Olive that it would be good for me to feel needed and actually be able to be helpful. 

She argued that they would have to 'pay' me at least for gas. I said all of that was negotiable. For a chosen family that is not genetic, there is no price for the ability to assist.

[Especially in an area I'd been through before. Yes, I know, each person, each cancer is different. But a good support crew is what really matters. I'm all in on that.]

I was going to enroll in a volunteer Hospice program this winter, but it looks like I can be of a more immediate help to a young family.

I don't want to have another C story. Really, I don't. But this is another path that has chosen me. I will follow it with my heart.

Just like the vine I saw today while hiking with Charlie.

The Heart knows when it is needed.