Tag: passing

Holy Waterbed

Ninety-six years ago today, my grandmother was born. I had envisioned this day would involve a visit, a meal, and undoubtedly some dessert, as I have always, to the dismay of my inner, self-anointed nutritionist, shared her fondness for sweets. However, God and the universe had other plans, and she passed away on December 17th, a mere week before Christmas and twelve days shy of that birthday dessert. 

As you might imagine given her age, she had amassed quite the impressive repertoire of life experiences. She had five children, four grand-children, and five great-grand-children. My grandmother attended college, spoke several languages, worked outside the home, traveled to more countries than I can count, cooked and baked prolifically, volunteered, attended mass every day, and drove until we could no longer, in good conscience, allow her to do so. She was truly the matriarch of our family, in every sense, and I spent a month each summer living with her, yielding some of my fondest childhood memories. 

But there was another, unspoken yet more important, way in which she left an indelible impact on me. And it is only now, as I write these words, that I realize I never shared this with her.  Yes…I know…there should have been plenty of time to share somewhere in those ninety-five plus years. Yet somehow, despite the fact that I wrote about it in my manuscript over a year ago, it just did not occur to me to tell her. As it is twelve days too late to remedy that, I will just have to hope that, as a woman of incredible strength, wisdom, and intuition, she simply knew. Ironically, her greatest impact on me likewise came without much overt verbalization. Having survived endometrial (uterine) cancer, a mere year prior to my own cancer diagnosis, my grandmother was the ultimate example of faith and strength.

Shortly after I was diagnosed at age eleven, I lay on my waterbed thinking about my reality. Yes, I had a waterbed. In 1989, it was still cool. And for any readers born in the late nineties or beyond, I will be sincerely flattered if google sees a significant uptick in the search term “waterbed,” as a result of this post! Alright, back to my contemplative waterbed scene. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, and wondered whether or not I would be OK…whether or not I might die from this disease.  Quite oddly, I never allowed that thought to really take hold in my mind. I remember telling myself that since my own grandmother had recently survived cancer, that surely I would do the same. That was it. It was decided.

It was not a formal prayer. I do not think I even asked God to heal me in that moment. Instead, it was as if I acknowledged that God and I had some type of arrangement or understanding that I would simply be ok. “Hey God. We’re good, right? Yes? Ok, good.” It felt as simple as that. I can only wish my current adult practices of prayer and faith were that simple. While I would not wish to relive that experience, I would happily take back some of that simple, blissful faith, without the side of the adolescent awkwardness, of course.

It is that simple example of spirituality for which I would thank my grandmother, if had a few more moments with her. And perhaps, given the symbolism of water throughout many different religions, it was appropriate that the impression of my grandmother’s faith was appreciated while lying on a waterbed. Happy birthday to my grandmother, and may she rest in eternal peace.

Welcome To The Group…

I would like to think it was fitting that I spent the last night of my dear friend’s (all-too-short) life raising money and awareness at a JDRF fundraiser, for it was diabetes that first bonded us. Unfortunately, we were bonded by another illness, cancer. And it was that illness which caused her to breathe her last breath a handful of hours after I returned from said fundraiser. It was shortly after I emerged groggily from my bed, having perhaps overestimated my ability to stay up so late (and having slightly underestimated the appropriate food to cocktail ratio the night prior), that I learned of her passing. She had been on hospice a few short weeks, and I admit that each day I wondered if this would be the day that the world would lose an amazing woman, mother, physician, and friend.

I admit that my friend and I had what you might call an unusual friendship. It was non-traditional in the sense that our entire friendship occurred through the mediums of text, phone calls, social media, and messenger. Yes, that means we have never met in person. We live in entirely different states, 1300 miles away from one another. Yet, we led eerily similar lives, which united us in ways that likely no two people would ever hope to be aligned.

I first “met” her the day after my youngest child was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. He had just been admitted to the hospital, and I posted in a private physicians group about what it was like to watch my then 20-month-old son get his first insulin injection. She reached out to me, and the next thing I knew we were chatting away on the phone as she helped me navigate my first few days and weeks as a MOD (mother of a diabetic). Her own son had been diagnosed many months prior, and she already had some experience under her belt with navigating medical devices, carb counting, and the other details of the day-to-day care of a diabetic toddler. She understood what it felt like to be a mother, and a pediatrician, dealing with this disease, and her advice and support were invaluable to me. As I traversed the path from a pediatrician ordering all the shots, to a mom giving the shots, she was the one that shepherded me along the way.

Quite ironically, we had both been pediatric hospitalists (pediatricians who care for patients admitted to the hospital). I had transitioned to outpatient (working solely in the clinic) about 3 years prior to my son’s diagnosis. Shortly after we became friends, she considered and ultimately made a similar transition to outpatient medicine. Sadly, her tenure in the outpatient world would be way too short.

We both had three children, including an older daughter (hers a few years younger than my own) and two younger boys (hers are twins, mine are 5 years apart). Our type 1 diabetic boys even looked a bit like one another, and we kept saying how we needed to get the boys together. My heart aches when I consider that this particular play date never occurred.

As a person who values physical presence and touch, it might seem odd to feel so close to someone whom I have never hugged, other than in a virtual fashion. But sometimes empathy forges powerful connections that transcend physical distance. Something within me recognized and connected with something…many things… within her. And because of that recognition, my life was touched by having her in it. Likewise, because of that same connection, I now feel the void left behind by her absence.

Having been first diagnosed with cancer at an early age, I have had many occasions in which to experience survivor guilt. Most would say it is a good problem to have. And it is. I am grateful to be a survivor. But survivor guilt is a very real thing and in no way diminishes the gratitude of the survivor. And today that survivor guilt weighs more heavily than in the past. It is not merely because she and I both had a similar type of cancer (hers clearly worse than my own), though I have contemplated that particular unfairness on more days than I can count since she was diagnosed. It has less to do with our uncanny similarities, and much more to do with the fact that I know how incredibly heartbreaking it had to be to leave behind three young children, including one with a medical illness of his own. It is the pain of knowing that your babies need you, and that you will not be able to be there.  While I am sure she took some solace in knowing that her children will be loved, nurtured, and cared for, that knowledge cannot erase the reality she faced in these past few weeks. While I am grateful that her suffering has ended, I wish God and the universe had granted her more time with her children (and, selfishly, with the rest of us as well).

However, despite all that cancer has robbed us of with her passing, she managed to touch so many people in such a short time. And those memories will hopefully ease the ache that we now feel without her presence, physical or virtual. One of my first memories of her was during our first conversation, as I stood in my son’s hospital room with tears in my eyes. At the time she jokingly welcomed me to the “group that no one wanted to be a part of.” It broke my heart a year later when I welcomed her to the other “group that no one wanted to be a part of” after she was diagnosed with cancer.  My sincere hope is that her children will know there was one more “group” to which she belonged as well. A “group” that defined her more than her identity as a pediatrician, mother of a diabetic, or even a woman with cancer. It is the “group” of women who support, empower, and touch the lives of others.

Rest in peace, my beautiful friend. Your time here may be done, but your work continues.