You’re Not Alone…

May 31, 2016

This weekend, I was at a party and someone asked me “So what exactly is cc&mike?” I laughed and then I pondered. The truth is, I don’t know exactly what it is yet, and that’s ok. Only time will tell. But for now…It’s our little creative corner of the world; it’s a place to enjoy shared interests with my sisters and others; it’s a place to grab a recipe or read a story; it’s a place to perhaps get ideas for your next home renovation or build; but today it is something so much more than that. Today, and perhaps at other times in the future, cc&mike is a place for a friend to share her struggles and triumphs; and I am so very proud to be a part of that.

Life is hard people. Life is HARD. I’ve been through heartache and pain and struggles, and so have others. The internet is filled with beautiful pictures of beautiful people living beautiful lives. But what about the pain? What about the heartache? What about the ugly? What about the loss and the struggles? What about disease and longterm illness? What about mental illness? What about suicide? What if more people shared the ugly and the pain and the hurt, so that those who are hurting would know – “You’re not alone. I hurt too. I’ve been there, and guess what, it hurts like hell….but there is hope. There is always hope. I’ve made it through to the other side. Hold on, because you can too.”

My friend has an amazing story to tell about living through unparalleled grief and tragedy. Maybe you know someone who has struggled with a debilitating disease, or mental illness, or perhaps even someone who has been marked by the tragic pain of suicide. Maybe that someone is you. You are welcome here. This is a safe place to share struggles and pain as well as triumphs. You are not alone.

This is Canaan’s story.

Dad,

Today it will be exactly ten years since I was forced to say goodbye to you.

You have marked my life with the before’s and the after’s – before you were sick and before your surgery; then after – after the failure of the surgery, after your body’s deterioration and, the biggest one of all, after you were gone. Forever.

Over Memorial Day weekend, I went to Charleston for a business trip then met Jeremy and our good friends, Dave and Kerrie, at a cabin in the mountains of North Carolina for the holiday. Before I left, we had a scare. You were done. You drank your favorite beer while writing your loved ones a note, took a lot of pills and quietly fell asleep. The suffering was too much. The pain was too great. Parkinson’s disease had already taken all the things you loved – running, fishing, traveling, antiquing with mom, and the simple things like getting out of bed, walking, or driving the short distance to see your daughter and son-in-law. You. Were. Done. We tried to be selfless and to understand, as much as we could, knowing that you wouldn’t suffer anymore.

But your plan didn’t work, and as strange as it was, I felt sad for you. I felt devastated, thinking about how defeated you would feel when you woke up to realize that you were still trapped in your body and didn’t get the relief that you so desperately needed. That fear, the fear of you being forced to continue living a life of excruciating pain, was almost great as the fear of you being gone for good.

Two weeks later I came by to see you. It wasn’t formal or planned. I just stopped by to say hi and check on you after your first attempt to end your life. I didn’t know. I didn’t know that would be the last time I heard your voice; the last time I laughed with you; the very last time I would ever feel the comfort of your embrace. I made you promise you would wait for me to get back. I knew you were determined to not be stuck in the body that betrayed you, but I couldn’t stand the thought of knowing it would be the last moments I had with you. I will never forget how we talked about my upcoming career change and how Jeremy and I were ready to start a family. You told me I would be a wonderful mother and Jeremy would be a wonderful father. I will forever cherish hearing those words from you. I didn’t know it then, but you were saying goodbye to me when you spoke those words.

Up on that mountain in North Carolina, I enjoyed the last days of my normal, 26-year-old life. Life-long friendships were formed with people who are now our extended family. We didn’t know this friendship would be sealed by experiencing the worst pain I have ever felt.

Jeremy, our friends and I received the news when we drove up to the cabin and found a police officer waiting in the driveway. He said he was doing a “welfare check” and I had no idea what that meant. Then, he said my name.

That’s the switch. That’s the end of before and the start of after.

Completely panicked, I asked him what was wrong. The officer simply said I needed to call my Mother and in that instant, I knew. I knew what had happened. I knew the truth. But the pain was too great, so I denied what I knew to be true. I wasn’t ready to accept that you were gone.

In an instant, there was a before and an after – before you were gone, and after you were gone. Forever.

When I called my Mom, she was still at the hospital and didn’t answer the phone. Her dear friend answered and said, in a voice of pure love and devastation, “Sweetie, I need to talk to Jeremy”.

Inside the cabin, everyone just stood there watching Jeremy and not knowing what to do. The minute that passed felt like an hour. Then, Jeremy told me. He told me you were gone and I forced him to tell me the details of what happened.

What had I been doing the day you took your last breath? When you and Mom experienced the most traumatic and horrifying moment of your lives, what was I doing? I was probably touring The Biltmore, or enjoying lunch in Ashville. I was living my life at the same time you decided to end yours.

As I absorbed the news, I was looking at those beautiful mountains and pure nature. I looked at those massive mountains that you would have loved and suddenly they looked insignificant.

There’s so much I’ve wanted to share with you; so much you have missed. At every milestone, you were there in my heart and mind. I wanted to share joy, sadness, confusion, love, excitement and so much more – with you. I wanted the hug and comfort only a Daddy can give his little girl, no matter her age.

***

I have wanted to share the little, everyday things that make up our lives. And most of all, I wanted to share the milestones where, in the pit of my stomach, I could feel the lack of your presence. Here’s a snippet of what I’ve wanted to share with you:

I did end up leaving my job for real estate, a move you were worried about. You were right. I wasn’t made for it. But, I was able to go back to my work “home” and continue to do the work I love – planning and traveling and being supported by great coworkers and friends.

In 2008, after not having a baby according to the timeline Jeremy and I laid out, we decided to adopt. You would have been thrilled. So thrilled, like I know Mom was, for the opportunity for me to experience the love of adoption as the two of you did in adopting me.

But, change of plans, the day we mailed in our first round of adoptions papers we found out I was pregnant with Rebekah Lynn!

We decided to build a house for our little family and I know you would have driven me crazy giving advice and opinions. If only I could have another day of you getting on my nerves the way only loving parents can, oh, I would take it.

Oh my, would you love your first granddaughter, Bekah. If daughters have their Daddy’s wrapped around their fingers, this granddaughter would have you wrapped around both hands. She would light up your life and make you smile. You would love her smile, infectious laugh, natural empathy, analytical and organized mind, her strong will, and, well, every single thing about her.

I would have been able to share my struggle in the early days of Motherhood with you, the unbelievably hard time I had adjusting to being a mom. You would have given me pep talks, listened and probably sent me articles from all over the web about being a first-time mom.

After six months, I decided to leave my job to be home with Rebekah. I don’t know that you would have been too happy about this; it would mean less time at your house with you and Mom. But you would have tried your best to be supportive.

Two years later, we were thrilled and surprised to learn I was pregnant again. We were only able to enjoy that excitement for five days when I learned the new life we had pictured with another baby was taken away as quickly as it arrived. While going through the miscarriage, I wasn’t happy with my medical care. You would have been nipping at the bud to get up to that nurse’s office. You were always calm, cool, and collected until someone messed with your child. I would have needed to calm you down and, at the same time, you would have comforted me in my time of sadness.

If I only knew then what was in store for us – Adalynn Rose. This little girl would brighten your day, all day, every day. Mom says she looks just like me. She says it’s like looking at me as a baby and toddler, only with lighter, curlier hair. Her personality is electric, her smile is beautiful and her orneriness is endearing. You would have gotten to see that Rebekah is an amazing big sister. Your granddaughters would absolutely steal your heart.

You would be there on their birthdays and first days of school. You could attend their soccer games, dance recitals, and simple days at the park. You would see their smiles, hear their laughs, feel their hugs and wipe their tears. And would they ever love you! I see the adoration and deep connection they have with Mom and I know they would feel the same about you.

I started working again, something I know you would like. I became certified as a yoga instructor, which I wanted to share with you so badly. Our love of sports and athletics was my favorite among our many bonds. Your inner hippie would have loved the idea of me teaching yoga. But, again, there were other plans in the works. I found my way into a small, local business owned and managed by women. Here, I am doing the work I love. You were always a feminist at heart. I know seeing me surrounded by these strong, amazing women and learning to balance passion for what I do and family would make you proud.

There’s so much you have missed and I haven’t been able to share with you. When I think about it all, I just want to throw a tantrum and scream, “It’s not fair!”

It’s not fair that you got sick.

It’s not fair that you aren’t here.

It’s not fair that you don’t know your granddaughters and they don’t know you.

It’s not fair that I can’t call my Dad whenever I want.

But, I find comfort in knowing that you would be proud of the life Jeremy and I have built. You would be so proud of the father Jeremy is. You and Mom would come over to our home and you would try new beers with Jeremy and talk about all these crazy girls in your lives. You would be here. You would be here, with us, where you belong.

I miss you. We all miss you.