A beautiful imperfection..

“Grief can destroy you --or focus you. You can decide a relationship was all for nothing if it had to end in death... OR you can realize that every moment of it had more meaning than you dared to recognize at the time, so much meaning it scared you, so you just lived, just took for granted the love and laughter of each day, and didn't allow yourself to consider the sacredness of it..

 But when it's over and you're alone, you begin to see that it wasn't just a movie and a dinner together, not just watching sunsets together, not just scrubbing a floor or washing dishes together or worrying over a high electric bill. It was everything, it was the why of life, every event and precious moment of it.

The answer to the mystery of existence is the love you shared sometimes so imperfectly, and when the loss wakes you to the deeper beauty of it, to the sanctity of it, you can't get off your knees for a long time, you're driven to your knees not by the weight of the loss but by gratitude for what preceded the loss. And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life." - Dean Kootz

 

These words echo a perspective that has formed in the losing that I have endured and in the moments of grief.

Oh....perspective. 

Perspective. Defined as the way of regarding or viewing something. 
Perspective is costly.
She demands a high price. She is a costly companion.

I have perspective.

She is a companion I now carry through these days.
I had to pay the costly price... oh, how difficult that cost.

This new found perspective places a freshly formed veil over how I view the interactions and the experiences that are before me.

Every event that I step into- I take Lady Perspective with me.

Every precious moment. There she is.
In the mundane- she can't flee. She is bound to me.
She was born out of the chaos of those dying days.
She was forged from the metal of the battle days- those days where the fight against the foe of cancer and his leaving us raged.
She was found in the deep seated grief of saying goodbye.
She was heard in the thud of earth being poured onto that polished timber casket.

That's where she comes from.

And now- in all that I do and all that I put my hand to- she whispers her song of new reality.

My world- Touched and tinged with perspective.

 

I have a new perspective about love and relationship. 

I think back to the Suz of our early married days. She didn't carry this perspective. 
She took him for granted. 
She took being loved and wanted for granted.
She raged against his long work hours and didn't lean into him when things got rough. She put mammoth expectations on him- to be perfect and constantly, perfectly attentive. Oh... if I could offer her just a sliver of this perspective. 

"Love him fiercely...imperfectly even. Just the way he is. He's trying his very best." I would whisper to her. 

Perspective. It strips away the unimportant, the ridiculous.

Perspective. It peels back the superficial to expose the true meaning of these days.

Just lean into each other- that one person who is your person.

Just value the mistakes as moments to garner a second chance.
Just relish, revel and be present in each day.

If you can learn from my hard won perspective- learn this lesson: don’t rush through each day striving for a perfect tomorrow. Be present in the imperfections of today.

Listen- I know.

I was that exhausted, cranky mummy of babies. Wishing their baby days away. You- tired mumma: Look around at the baby days of your children and smile at the beauty of mess and chaos. It’s messy and it’s tiring as hell- but that’s where the magnificent beauty of your life lies- in the imperfection of now. I was that wife of a workaholic husband, always feeling like I came in a poor second place to the demands of his career. And instead of providing a safe haven for him to retreat to from the rough demands of his work day, I was cold and prickly and mean. Oh- if I could share this perspective with that me of then.

Just stop. That is the message of this perspective. Just stop and be present in the imperfection of your now. Let second chances and fierce love be the way you live and love. And laugh more.

That is this perspective and her lessons.

 

This is a letter to you- the community of readers who have watched me attain this perspective.
You - well, you have watched this birth of perspective.
You saw perspective rise up in those battle days.
You heard our grief song in the dying days.
You watched me come to terms with a world without his grand physicality.

I have written of this perspective in these words.

And you have watched her, this Lady Perspective, unfold in this story.

I read back- to the start of this blog.

92 posts ago.
1305 days ago.
31, 320 hours ago.

 

I was sitting in yet another waiting room, waiting… always waiting. This time I was waiting for yet another PET scan to be done. We were newly acquainted with the phrase, “I’m sorry, but you have cancer” and I felt like I was tail spinning somewhat.

I had a coffee in hand and I was studying my shoes against the nondescript carpet of the waiting room. My phone was alerting me that I was receiving messages of love and support and that tentative querying about how things were going.

I wondered at a way to let everyone in our world know what we were living through. How we were coping with this “and then suddenly” tidal wave that had hit us.

And because I’m a storyteller- well… weaving those days and these days into our tale was what needed to happen.

 

You have been with me.

    
You have read what I have offered.
You have cried when the days were just so very lamentably sad.
You celebrated and cheered in your offices and lounge rooms when we had a breakthrough or got another bit of time to be with him in his grand physicality.

I have heard from all the corners of the world- stories that mirror our own.

I have read each message and it buoyed my heart to have contact in the valley of the shadowed place we walked through.

Community matters.

And you- the readers who have taken time to pause in your days and partake of our world- you have been a part of the community that sustained us.

 

And now- the story that was him and his valiant end is reaching for that final page.
He stands, perfect and whole, on that distant shore.
He has heaven and we have these days.

 

And now- we tenderly hold the echo of his laugh and the reminder of his bristly whiskers and we face the next days.
Days that are going to be like so many we have had since he left.
Days that will be shrouded in perspective. 
Days that are beautiful in the way they arrive with the sun- hues of pink and silver through my bedroom window.

Days that are heartbreaking when I see his sons turn their head to seek him still.

But they are our days.
And there is no timeline for this grief.
There is no expectation that I foster for how this grief will play out.

It will just play out.

And I’m ok with that.

 The chapters that have come before these days are never nullified.

Never quieted. 
Never blemished in value and adoration.
They are the days and hours that created who we are.
He is never nullified- not one iota or atom of him is nullified or quieted as we walk into the next chapter.
He is present.

I hear him.

I see him.
In the curve of his son’s brows.
That’s where I see him.

 

When I tiptoe into the darkened rooms each night to slip a gentle kiss on their brows- that’s when I hear him. Whisper soft. In the brush of my lips against their little heads- that’s the whisper of him. I carry that. I carry him with me. I carry the soft goodnight kiss that was his to give and is now mine alone. And he is there.

 

He will always be there.

 

And now- I look to the future and I smile.
I grin in eager expectation for what is to come.
The desert years of loss and devastation are behind me- I look with eager expectation to the coming days.
What has been stolen will be righted.
What grief has shattered and left torn will be mended and restored.

 

I just had a lovely conversation with a work colleague at lunchtime. She has been in our battle corner and a part of this amazing community throughout the ups and the valley-lows.
We were talking about how the boys handled Father’s Day and the one year anniversary of his goodbye.

I was telling her about how they are just so sad.

“As a mum, I want to protect them- to make sure that they never hurt…that they are never this sad again.”

She looked at me. She gently placed her hand over mine and she replied, “They need to grieve. They need to go there to those places of immense loss… And those sad feelings? They can visit. But they aren’t welcome to move in.”
Yes. Sadness will always visit. But it can’t move in. Go back to what Dean says at the start of this letter:  And the ache is always there, but one day not the emptiness, because to nurture the emptiness, to take solace in it, is to disrespect the gift of life..

Life is beautiful. Imperfectly beautiful.

It has to be.
It is magnificent and tragic and sorrowful.
There is the grand tale of redemption and second chances being played out every day.
Lady Perspective has painted a new way for us to value these new chances to smile and hold a loved one’s hand.
We have endured the rending of deaths goodbye, but we still know the magnificent gift of this life.

Yes.

I smile with expectation at what is coming.

Yes.

I smile with gratitude at what has been mine.

Yes- I have a heart full of gratitude for what this storm was unable to shake: the strength of community… the kindness of others.

Thank you- my community of load bearers and support givers.

Thank you for listening and hearing what this heart needed to say.
Thanks for pausing in your days to partake of ours.
You have given a stunning and generous layer of kindness to this story.

 

This has been a long letter- but it is the last one in this chapter.

I will continue to write- but in a new chapter- watch this space for details and links.

I have loved and hated writing to you.
It has been cathartic and painful.
I have become accustomed to typing through the sobs.
And now- this chapter is coming to a close.

 

I leave you with this thought-

 

Sheldon heard the faint whispers of Heaven in the days leading up to the completion of his earthly lot.
He leant in and his spirit humbled.
His heart, always generous and unfaltering in good intentions, grew evermore determined to face the end with dignity and strength.

It astounded me- the way that he so resolutely and stoically met his last breath.

Here’s what he taught me- this great man that I so fiercely loved:

 

This is life.

Imperfectly beautiful life.

It is a breath and a heartbeat.
It is the joy of a touch and a smile.
It is the opportunity to face whatever comes with the strength of togetherness.
It is the ebb and flow of liking and hating the very nature of each other. Of loving sometimes imperfectly. 
It is the morning, fresh with the first soft ray of dawn. Fresh with a new beginning and a second chance to maybe be a better version of yourself than you were at yesterday’s dusk.
It is the night, the dim stars appearing as though they are woken from a deep slumber. A chance to rest and retire from the chaos of the day’s demands.
It is hello- the pleasure of meeting.
It is goodbye- to rend asunder and be absent from.
It is the grief and the majesty of a privileged love.
It is the turning page of a new chapter.
It is beautiful, and horrendous and stunning and sorrowful.
It is the magnificent tension that we walk. Yes- a magnificent tension.

A tensioned line that stretches out between this life and the distant shores of Heaven.

And there he stands.
Perfect and whole.
Vital and at peace.

Where once he caught the faint of echo of Heaven’s shores as he laboured in a failing earthly shell, there he stands now and he catches instead the echo of us.

He tilts his healed and beautifully whole head to the side and he hears us- the laughter of his sons as they grow into men that will mirror him. The soft sobs that still shake our grief struck hearts. He hears our echo.

Oh… that distant shore.

Hold safe my loves and let them be assured that we who are left will smile at the future.

He has Heaven and we have these days.

These beautiful, imperfect days.

 

 

Dear palliative care nurse......

Dear Palliative Care Nurse,

The hallway always seemed to stretch on into infinity at night time.
In the midnight hush. I would sneak out of the room that he had badgered you to move him into.
The hallway would stretch.
And I would listen for you.
The quiet lull of your voice.
The shuffle of paperwork as you gave careful consideration to what each room required.
More morphine in 10 minutes.

You would smile the genuine smile of one who knew the weariness that was lodged deep in me. And you would point to the teabags.
"Cup of tea time. Are you hungry? There's toast.."
I couldn't eat.
But the smell of toast is comfort.
I'll make some toast.

When we had arrived this time- you had looked at me and I had known.
No words needed to be exchanged.
I knew that he wouldn't be coming home with me.

We had been in and out of the ward in the weeks and months before this time.
And you had edged around the moment- this moment- and what it would mean.
He had bugged you about what room was his favourite- "Put it in my file. Room 116. I want this room." He would tell each of you.. "I like to see the bridge and the cars. I feel like I'm still apart of life when I'm in this room."
And you did. You managed to get him into his room.

You stoically stood by my side as the doctor went through the motions of getting us settled.
For this last time.
For this last stay.

When he was asleep- oh, how I was thankful to you for helping him to find sleep- you gently led me to the small room.
The one with the table and the tissues.
You held my hand and you were honest.
You talked me through each brutal, heart wrenching transition that we would discover as he stepped closer to leaving me.
You were kind that night. That terrible night of knowing.
You gave me time to cry and weep the bitter tears of a wife who desperately wanted to keep her husband alive, but who hated to see him fade further in pain.

You were always present.
A different face.
A different name.
The same kindness.
The same compassion deep in your eyes when you saw our sons come in to hug their dad.






It's been a year.
That's a long time, oh but it is just a drop in the ocean of days and moments we will know without him.
It's been a year.
And I remember every second.
Every moment that he lingered and raced towards his death.
I remember it.
It is knit into the fabric of who I became when he left.
And in that tapestry of his death... there is the silver thread of you.
The palliative carer.
The nurse who would put aside her own emotion to carry mine so that I could just breath for a second... just find some calm for a minute.

You cried when he left.
You let me sit in the quiet room. Just me and his absent physicality.
But I saw the tears that spoke of him.
And my heart was quieted somewhat.
Because your tears spoke of his integrity and his kindness.
You couldn't help but like the man- I mean, he was cheeky and trouble but he knew how to make you smile.

The final thing I have to say to you, dear palliative care nurse, is this-
Thank you.
It's not enough. Not nearly enough.
A million words couldn't do the job of expressing my thanks.
But, in the moments and nights in those dying days that I left him in room 116 and I went home to tuck in our boys and kiss their sleeping faces, I knew that he wasn't alone or lonely.
I knew he would potter down that long hallway and find you in the still, dark hours of the night.
He would ask you the tough questions about what was to come and you would answer him in kind honesty.
He would call you to his room and let you know the pain was becoming unbearable, and if it wasn't too much trouble could you please give him some of the good stuff...

He would talk to you.
The palliative care nurse.
He would talk to you in those dying days and you would hear him.
When I couldn't be by his side, you were there.

In the shadow of the valley of death, God granted us his strength and the offer of His kind graciousness.
And it was you.
It was the palliative care nurse.

The Last of the Firsts

He was the youngest of four sons.

The baby.

The running family joke was that baby Sheldon could do no wrong in the eyes of his parents- he was the curly haired golden child.

His mum lovingly recalls how he was an early baby- in a rush to get to this world. Maybe he had been told he would only have 43 years and 13 days to be here- a beautiful physicality on Planet Earth. Oh- those days and moments that you walked upon this earth with the sure and steady tread of a man on a mission. Oh my heart.

His mum remembers that the tiny, premature to this world baby Sheldon Dale loved to be held and rocked. Oh- she sighs- the hours I would rock him. You couldn’t put him down!

I’m a mum. I have baby boys. My heart fractures a little when I hear her memories. A mum who treasured her tiny, last born son.

This week was his birthday- and his mum, for the first time, had to stand by a patch of Planet Earth and whisper a soft “Happy Birthday my darling son” into the earth.

This week was his birthday and his sons sat in a circle around a cake and didn't quite know what to do. Do we sing? Do we cry? Is there some ritual for the no-longer-with-us on their birthday??

Matthew saved the day. Oh, my strong and lovely-hearted Matty boy. He choked back the tears and said "This is about how special Dad was and how lucky we were to have him. That's all we have to do- just remember how great he was."

 

Oh, my heart.

I’ve both dreaded and longed for these days.

We are amongst the moments that are the last of the firsts.
We have survived and lived through the first Christmas.
The first Easter.
Each of us have had a birthday celebration of our own without him here.

We have had so many firsts since we laid him to rest in that earthy grave.

And here- this week was his birthday.
The marker that celebrates his arrival to this life he was graced with.

I have so very many words and yet I can’t form them into what I need you to hear.
Just this-

Happy 44^th Birthday my darling Sheldon.

The marker exists still- your grand arrival needs to be celebrated still.

Oh- how privileged is this Earth to have known your step and your smile and your kindness for 43 years and 13 days.

You lived with a vivacious energy and a generous spirit.

You gifted us with some really profound insights in those last months before you left.

You lived.
You were here.

It’s that birthday time... so would you eat a piece of decadent cake, or maybe have a shot of tequila- hey, go crazy and do both.

And as you do- would you raise the glass or the cake covered fork and remember him.
Remember the message that he echoed in his dying days.
Be present.
Be purposeful.
Be kind.
Be brave anyways- especially when it's scary as hell.
Put down the screen and look into a loved ones eyes and smile.

We had a conversation, me and him- on the way to his big Birthday party last year. He was so weak and tired. The pain was raw and he was fading fast.
I looked at him and sighed.
"It's a privilege and an honour to grow old". I said.
"Yep- don't ever complain about how many candles are on the damn cake Suz- it means you've had another year of love and laughs." He replied.

Hey- You have another year of love and laughs before you.
Use them well..

So...

We are amongst the last of the firsts, and it’s a heartbreakingly beautiful place to be.

We are amongst the last of the firsts- and the most profound is coming. That day that was your last is coming. How can it be a year?

The last of the firsts is where we are walking.

The Last of the Firsts

He was the youngest of four sons.

The baby.

The running family joke was that baby Sheldon could do no wrong in the eyes of his parents- he was the curly haired golden child.

His mum lovingly recalls how he was an early baby- in a rush to get to this world. Maybe he had been told he would only have 43 years and 13 days to be here- a beautiful physicality on Planet Earth. Oh- those days and moments that you walked upon this earth with the sure and steady tread of a man on a mission. Oh my heart.

His mum remembers that the tiny, premature to this world baby Sheldon Dale loved to be held and rocked. Oh- she sighs- the hours I would rock him. You couldn’t put him down!

I’m a mum. I have baby boys. My heart fractures a little when I hear her memories. A mum who treasured her tiny, last born son.

This week was his birthday- and his mum, for the first time, had to stand by a patch of Planet Earth and whisper a soft “Happy Birthday my darling son” into the earth.

This week was his birthday and his sons sat in a circle around a cake and didn't quite know what to do. Do we sing? Do we cry? Is there some ritual for the no-longer-with-us on their birthday??

Matthew saved the day. Oh, my strong and lovely-hearted Matty boy. He choked back the tears and said "This is about how special Dad was and how lucky we were to have him. That's all we have to do- just remember how great he was."

 

Oh, my heart.

I’ve both dreaded and longed for these days.

We are amongst the moments that are the last of the firsts.
We have survived and lived through the first Christmas.
The first Easter.
Each of us have had a birthday celebration of our own without him here.

We have had so many firsts since we laid him to rest in that earthy grave.

And here- this week was his birthday.
The marker that celebrates his arrival to this life he was graced with.

I have so very many words and yet I can’t form them into what I need you to hear.
Just this-

Happy 44^th Birthday my darling Sheldon.

The marker exists still- your grand arrival needs to be celebrated still.

Oh- how privileged is this Earth to have known your step and your smile and your kindness for 43 years and 13 days.

You lived with a vivacious energy and a generous spirit.

You gifted us with some really profound insights in those last months before you left.

You lived.
You were here.

It’s that birthday time... so would you eat a piece of decadent cake, or maybe have a shot of tequila- hey, go crazy and do both.

And as you do- would you raise the glass or the cake covered fork and remember him.
Remember the message that he echoed in his dying days.
Be present.
Be purposeful.
Be kind.
Be brave anyways- especially when it's scary as hell.
Put down the screen and look into a loved ones eyes and smile.

We had a conversation, me and him- on the way to his big Birthday party last year. He was so weak and tired. The pain was raw and he was fading fast.
I looked at him and sighed.
"It's a privilege and an honour to grow old". I said.
"Yep- don't ever complain about how many candles are on the damn cake Suz- it means you've had another year of love and laughs." He replied.

Hey- You have another year of love and laughs before you.
Use them well..

So...

We are amongst the last of the firsts, and it’s a heartbreakingly beautiful place to be.

We are amongst the last of the firsts- and the most profound is coming. That day that was your last is coming. How can it be a year?

The last of the firsts is where we are walking.

Generations

Hello August.

We are walking into August. It arrived today- it was a quiet, pretty arrival... all soft hues of sunrise.
All week I've been hearing people lament, "Where has the year gone??" and "How quickly are the months flying by?"
I may have uttered such thoughts myself as I realise that the end of year madness is fast approaching.

August is a 'line in the sand' type month for us.
It was the last month that he lived and loved and battled to stay with us.
He set a goal- a determined decision- to survive August.
He wanted to be alive for his 43rd birthday.
And he was.
Oh- that season of the great leaning in. Those days of thousands of birthday cards and the support and overwhelming push of care that they arrived with.
Yes... He determined to survive August.
And it was a battle.
Each day was tough.
Each day was brimmed and tinged with pain.
The physical pain that he endured as the tumours raged and grew. As his liver shut down- threw in the towel in violent response to the masses that had lodged there.
The physical pain- and the other type of pain. The one that lodges up in your heart.
That primal, heart wrenching pain of a long goodbye.

His final day at home was the 31st August.
It was the worst day we had- he was in and out of lucid moments. He knew- I could see it in his eyes. he knew that he was nearing the end.
The boys came home from school and he was sitting up in our bed. He gathered every iota of strength that he had and he opened his arms to his boys.
They all piled on the bed and what followed was a special moment.
The boys revelled in his arms being around them.
He fought to stay present.
I felt my heart shatter into a billion pieces.
I knew it was time for him to go to palliative care for that last time.

No more daddy-type bed time hugs.

At 11pm that night, we ushered him out the front door and he never returned. As he shuffled slowly past the boys room, his hand went out- a silent wave to his sleeping babies.
We got to the hospital and I wheeled him into St. Catherines ward. The amazing nurses began the process of getting him settled and he suddenly says, "Wait- what day is it??" One of the nurses looks at her watch and says- "Well- it's past midnight, so that makes it the 1st of September."
Sheldon sighs and looking at me says, "I did it. I lived August!"

He lived August.

And now- here we are. A whole year has marched by.
I've talked to you all about how precious time is and about how the fleeting beauty of the moments that we are granted are to be treasured. Treasure them!
Time.
A year.
I couldn't imagine being without him for a day, and here I am. A year has waltzed past and I am learning to fly again.
Learning to laugh freely.
Learning to expect that good things will happen- and that those good things will not be snatched away from me. Death and grief can foster that fear. That every time something precious and good is placed before you, it might just vanish.
It's taken some time, but I can now think about the terms "...a future and a hope", and truly believe that yes, maybe they still apply to me and my family. That maybe they weren't nullified by the curse of cancer and the grave.
That's the thing about hope- once it's been lodged and anchored deep in the recesses of your heart, well it can't be shifted- not truly. No chaotic storm. No cancerous growth. No sad, lamentable day of death- nothing can truly shift that hope.
It is steady and steadfast.
It is the most immoveable of anchors.
It was silent for a while as my heart mended it's shattered and torn edges, but then- it softly and slowly rose up.
Hope rose up.
It had never shifted.
I can see now that hope was the sustaining breath that I needed when I thought I could go no further- it whispered, "One step more, my girl. It will get easier. He has heaven and you have these days".
Hope.
Hope for a brighter day than the ones I have known.
Hope for laughter and joy that echo despite the grief of death. A hope filled laughter that flows from such a deep perspective of how beautiful the gift of life is.
Hope for Heaven and for the people that stand on her glittering shore.
Hope for now- that the healing will continue and that garment of praise will replace the spirit of heaviness.

Yes- hope rose up.
I heard her call.

And now- a year.
August arrived today. I heard her being ushered in by the early morning bird calls.
I had thought I might flinch or grimace at this day.
But I found myself waking with a peaceful heart- and a smile to greet this day.

And while I walk through her days this time around, my heart is full.
It's a different August this year.
No more pain.
No more long goodbye.

 So- Hello August.

You are called the same numbered days, but you have a different agenda this year.
You don't carry us towards the moment of his final breath, you carry us into a new chapter.

Thank God for the next page, huh?
Thank God that the next page is bordered and margined with the reminders of a kind, strong and courageous Sheldon- who we miss but who we KNOW is so very whole and at peace on that distant shore. And on this page we see the brilliant new days we are living written out in clear and determined letters. Oh- thank God for the next page.
Thank God for sons who mirror the very reflection of their dad- in looks and in kind heart.
Thank God for the days that are unravelling, touched with a new expectation and a future worth smiling at.

Yes- August, you are not the enemy.
You are not days to be sighed over or feared.
You did your job last year. You were his last month and you helped us find a moment each of your days to say goodbye.
Those 31 days of his last month are amongst the most precious moments I have tucked away. He was present and purposed in his love for those he adored. He dragged the most out of each moment. Because he knew.

What if you knew?
What if you knew that you had one more month to live?
One more month that would be named and numbered your last?
Sheldon knew.
And he gathered his loves around him.
Our house filled and brimmed to overflowing with love and our people.
What if you knew?
What would you change?
What person would you forgive?
What story would you tell?
What face would you study and burn into memory?
How would your last month be different to the hundreds of months that you had at your disposal before?
Would you love deeper?
Would you live kinder?
Would you be more present at the meal time conversations?
Would you put down the phone and look into a face for a conversation?
Would you jump on a plane and take that trip to hug that far away loved one?
Would you finally face the fears and the issues that hold you at ransom?
Could you find freedom from strangleholds in an effort to truly live free- if only for a month?

What if you knew that one more month was all you had?

Don't wait to know.
Linger in a kiss today.
Wrap your arms tighter in a hug this morning.
Face them- those fears and issues that have held you captive for too long.
Make every second and moment of this August count.
Be kind despite the unkindness of others.
Tell them- those people that you love- what they mean to you.
Be PURPOSEFUL in your moments.

Don't wait.
Live this month with determined JOY!

Find the crazy parts of a day and laugh!!!!

Adventures are ours to have!!!!

What madness is this?

I sat down this morning.
My coffee was hot and my slippers warmed my cold toes.

I sat down and I decided to catch up on the happenings of the world.
I've been living for so many weeks in a lovely little bubble planet... and I said to myself-
"Suz- it's time to catch up on what's been going on in the big wide world.."

I sat down this morning and I turned on the TV.
As the news anchor spoke and the images flashed before me, my fingers curled around my now cooling coffee cup.
As the anguish and the monumental heartache was communicated from distant, bloodstained shores... I sat.

I sat in silent disbelief- I mean, why?
Why?
Why?

We fought cancer.
An insidious and evil terrorist that tormented and wreaked havoc on healthy cells. Invading and overtaking until the cancerous cells were the ruling majority.
We fought cancer and we battled long and hard against a foe that we could name.

What is this madness- that invades our society in cruel and malicious means.
Worse than any cancerous cell.
Unnamed and masked behind the labels of religiosity and fundamental belief hierarchies.

Today and tomorrow, the families of those who were slain by this rogue madness will prepare themselves to say that final farewell.
They have had no preparation.
No last, long lingering looks as the life of their beloved slowly ebbed away.
They have had no discussions by the fireplace as the last moments crept closer- conversations about what life without their physicality would be like.
No.
This madness... worse than a cancerous cell... is a cruel and heartless menace.

And this madness is not merely confined to the headlines of today.
It's everyday.
It's 310 dead in Baghdad two weeks ago when a bomb ripped through a market place.
Madness.
It's the Syrian crisis.
A madness too heavy for comprehension.
It's the unknown and relentless attacks that plague this planet.
And closer to home the madness edges and dips her toes in our pleasant waters.
We push it back and refuse to admit that we, the luckiest of all lucky countries are amongst those who will fall prey to this... to this madness.

I know grief.
She is my friend and my worst enemy.
And I felt her sigh as I sat this morning.
I heard the woe in her voice as she whispered of broken hearts that are scattered across the face of this planet- broken because of a madness.

I sat this morning and watched a world turned upside down by madness.
And my heart ached for them.
For us.
For me.

And my thoughts turned, as a mother's thoughts always will, to the children that are mine.
To the world that they are entering into- bright eyed and full of the potential to be anyone and do anything.
And I felt a moment of bitter sadness. A sadness that was carried by the weight of a world turned mad.
And then, because it's who I am and it's how I am wired to process- I hoped.
I hoped.
In the face of hopelessness.
In the harsh glare of madness- I hope.

Hope won't disappoint.
It can't.
It is the fervent belief that things will be ok.
That, despite and regardless of how truly bottom of the barrel this world just might get, there will be a glimmer of good.
I hope.
I hope that the families of the slain will find peace.
Peace in the midst of chaos.
That is a beautiful, hard fought for peace.
It is a war-weary peace.

Hope- an expectation that there will be beauty in the midst of chaos.

If I have discovered anything on this journey of the long goodbye to him- it is this...
Hope matters.
Looking forward with expectation, even in the darkest and wildest of storms- it matters.
Looking to a day that is bright with laughter and love, even while death and heartache abounds... well that matters most.

I don't have a solution.
Or even a reason for this madness.
I have only this- a glimmer of hope.
A sliver of hope that my children will know a world where beauty lives and flourishes.
Because if we lose hope- well, then we lose the war.