When Ruthie Lou was alive we called it a “time out of time”. Time was passing in the world that rotated around us, but not in our life. In our life, time had stood still. And then after she died, then came “the after”. The after time was filled with empty space. It was a quiet time, isolated, alone while the outside world continued on but we didn’t. Sure, there were meals delivered, text messages, invites from friends but a lot of time, there are was emptiness. So many hours that I just sat, whether in the backyard, on the couch, or on my bed. I sat there, in silence. No TV, minimal phone calls, moderately responded to texts. I just sat there with thoughts swirling in my head. And now, I couldn’t even tell you what I was thinking about as my brain jumped from one event to another, from one emotion to the next, from the present and then back to the then recent past of my daughter’s brief life. Now I tell you this because I am both here in another time out of time while simultaneously sitting in empty space. When Ruthie Lou was alive, we had her to occupy us and to tend to, to make memories with. So the empty space didn’t occur until after she was gone and all we had left was ourselves. But now, I have no distraction. My boys are not really here and when they are, I am in my bedroom to escape the noise, their energy, and a possible magic wand to the face. So, there isn’t much distraction in my day to day. I require minimal efforts to take care of and as long as my water is full (as well as my belly) there isn’t much I need. On the days that Chris has been working (because I send him out of the house) and the boys are away (because I cannot tend to them) I just sit. In that empty space. I couldn’t tell you what I do with most the day. I watch a little TV. I do minimal reading. I sit outside and watch the birds. I respond to a text or phone call here and there. I make sure my water (and belly) are full. I open a card or gift or package. But mostly, my mind wanders. Mostly to safe places. Sometimes to the scary ones. (I quickly get myself out of those.) I think about my sore muscles, what my boys are doing, that I should get up and walk around, and that I wish it were cooler so I could sit outside. I contemplate taking a nap, but although I am tired my brain won’t stop so I settle for laying down “resting” instead. I wonder when my last pain pill was and about tomorrow’s surgery, or how radiation and chemo will affect my body. Once a day, I make sure to flip my meditation cards and when I remember, I write them down and marvel how they’re so relevant to each particular day. Overall, I consider myself in good shape. I allow my body and brain to do what it needs to process and heal during this time of little control. I listen to what I need and then give in to what that is. And mostly, it’s just sitting in silence… or a little music...or a sitcom to lighten the mood. And I am grateful. I am recovering as expected from surgery. I am ready (mentally) for another surgery tomorrow. I have treatment options after recovery. My son can’t wait to see what my head looks like bald. My baby is oblivious to any change in our home or on my lap. And my husband loves me through all the good and the bad and in the times out of time. Again. So, I am just sitting here in the empty space in another time out of time. Waiting. Processing. Healing. Living. https://www.giveinkind.com/inkinds/324/lands-family-love
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What’s that saying? You want to hear God laugh, tell him your plans. I thrive on plans. I love consistency. I hate surprises. To feel safe growing up, I thrived on consistency. Unpredictability causes me such anxiety. So I have created a comfortable life, a safe life, a life filled with love. I have the kindest husband whose self-proclaimed motto is “nobody tries harder” and he couldn’t be more right. I never felt more loved by him than in the days he parented Ruthie, in the months he had to care for me in my grief, and again last night when the surgeon called to say that chemo is recommended to my already scheduled treatment plan of 2 surgeries and radiation. The thing is, my prognosis is good. This type cancer is super responsive to treatment. Those facts will not and did not change with the discovery of my lymph node capillary extension. But, have you ever loved someone so much and felt completely helpless? Maybe it was a hurt or sick child. Maybe you watched someone suffer from a life-limiting illness. Maybe a loved one suffered from addiction or mental illness. Maybe you had to call hospice and hold dying hands of someone you love. It’s debilitating. It’s terrifying and it’s horrifying. And you would give anything to take it from them, but that’s not the choice you were offered so you have no alternative to stand by and bear witness to life or the ending of life. It’s awful. I know because I’ve done it, more than once. And now my husband has to do it again. And I feel so sad for me, but I feel even more awful for him. He doesn’t deserve this. Neither of us and nobody does. So, another curve ball thrown. Another wrench in the plans. Treatment is scary. I am hopeful, but terrified. I smile, but I feel fear. The difference is, I will keep getting up and keep trying again. Because I refuse any other option. So I will rock this badass scar (and most likely a bald head) with a smile on my face and tears in my eyes. Because this is life. Real life. And our job is to love each other and make the best of what we are given. I love my husband (and babies) more than life. So, I am doing this for them. I am doing this for our life with the belief that it will be calm and boring again soon enough. I'm hoping for January... I’m not afraid of death. I’ve watched it, been in its presence. The rebirth into the other side. It was painful to feel the loss, but sacred to be in it’s presence. A gift. An honor. It’s not death that I fear, it’s the pain for those left living. It’s that untouchable, aching hole in your heart that no other person can quite fill. For the one who leaves, they don’t know the loss because they’re enveloped in love. There is not worry, fear, sadness. Only love. But understanding this concept and conceptualizing this as a mom, a wife, daughter, sister, friend-that’s what makes me human. It's overwhelming, terrifying, scary. I envision a long life. I see Adam graduating high school and Reid cheering for his little brother, so proud. I see Chris and me, empty nesters, enjoying our freedom and reveling in the boys that we grew to men. I see weddings and grandchildren. I want to see this. I choose to see this. I want this life. I always wondered how a person with a cancer diagnosis could “pretend” they will be ok, or believe it even. Now I know. You have to. There is no alternative. The energy that surrounds our body, ingrains into our cells, absorb into our beings, is so important. I fear my siblings, children, parents, friends dying. I don’t want to miss them, I want to be with them in this world. I fear leaving my family as a young person. I want to be present for their life celebrations. I want to hug them and their partners and children. And so I will “pretend”. But really, I will believe. And this is hard for me. I like numbers, science, statistics, facts, certainties. I hate surprises, unknowns, unpredictability. But, I have learned that faith and fear cannot occupy the same space, so I CHOOSE faith because I REFUSE to live in fear. But know this, I am scared. Shitless. And sad. And angry. I don’t think this is fair. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to prove to the Universe once again how strong I am. But, I will. I will fight. I will believe. I will have faith. And I will remain the warrior I was born to be. I will love the shit out of myself. I will be healthy. I will love my way through this. I know who I am. I know what I’m meant to do here. I know what’s important. LOVE. Love yourself. Love each other. Love me. I can’t be told that it’s going to be ok. Or that I “have this”. Nobody knows that. I don’t know that. But, I know I have today and I know I’m not done here yet. Today I am alive. Today I am healthy. Today I will hug my 3 boys. Today is a good day. So many have asked, but to repetitively tell this story is exhausting and creates such negative energy in my body. So here you go:
I noticed a single swollen lymph node on the right side of my neck, under my jawline. After a doctor's exam, an ultrasound, a CT scan, and biopsy it has been confirmed "malignant cells identified of an unknown cancer". So, here I sit nearly 5 weeks later from that first appointment, anxiously and nervously, awaiting the ultimate diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment plan. It is out of our comfort zone to ask for help, but I need to be as present and healthy as possible during this time. I need to be a good mom. In order to do that, I am learning to ask for help. To help support my family during this time, please visit: www.giveinkind.com/inkinds/324/lands-family-love Give InKind is a place to offer meals, help with childcare, or donate to support any additional costs of this healing journey, regardless of distance. (There are even local restaurants listed for take-out!) **And special note: Give InKind was founded by another bereaved family in honor of their beautiful daughter, Layla. |
Amie LandsI am mama of three beautiful babes; two sons whom I have the privilege of raising and my daughter who lived for 33 sacred days. Archives
May 2020
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