on grandma's

"Grandmas hold our tiny hands for just a little while, but our hearts forever."  

~Author Unknown

My grandmother is 92 years old. She has loved. Raised two daughters. Traveled the world more than once. She's taken care of grandchildren. She's held great-grandchildren. My grandmother has had a truly beautiful, long life that we all can only hope to come close to.

On Christmas evening I learned from my mother that grandma wasn't doing well and it was determined that she has t-cell lymphoma. Yesterday, she was placed in a hospice facility. Tonight it was suggested that loved ones say their goodbyes. 

My grandmother is quite private and has only requested her daughters and husband's presence. I am not there to say goodbye. Or to hold my mom's hand. I can only say goodbye from afar, hope that her suffering stops and that she rests in peace. 

I love you Grandma.

PS - Cancer Sucks


UPDATE: Grandma passed peacefully on the afternoon of New Years Eve with her daughters and husband at her side. She opened her eyes and grinned from ear to ear before exhaling her final breath. She lived a beautifully long life and it was a privilege to know her. RIP Grandma. I love you.

cancer sucks.

I took my girls to Ikea today for a little lunch and some shopping. While my girls were lunching in the kiddo area, I enjoyed a few minutes of dining without having to tell someone to sit down, or wipe a face, or pick forks up off the floor. And during this time, two women plopped their kids down in the same area and sat down just next to me to enjoy the same kind of dining.

I don't usually make it a point to eves drop, but I couldn't help it. I heard all to familiar words like "stage four" and "chemo" and "port line". They both shared stories of people they knew that were diagnosed with late stage cancer or of someone who recently passed away of cancer.

And suddenly I realized... We are all touched by cancer. Whether it be that we are victims in that we've had it (I have not, by the way... Knock on wood) or a loved one has had it or passed from it. It's scary. It's everywhere. And these medical terms are now average person terms. It's not uncommon to hear "stage four" and "chemo" and "radiation" and other terms of the like. Pretty soon my kids will be using them as if they were everyday words, like "fork" and "bath" and "potty".

Cancer frightens me and has taken far too many. And while I have no point to this post other than my thoughts of my ears perking up at the familiar medical terms, I hope that some day there will be world without it.

Cancer sucks.

his handwriting

My dad took me to the airport when I was going to see my mom in South Africa. He drove all the way from his vacation home in Las Vegas to Los Angeles just to drive me to the airport. He didn't do anything else while here. Just turned around and went back.

On this day, my dad gave me a book. The Diary of Frida Kahlo. Inside were half sheets of paper that he had printed some of his favorite Diego pieces. He also gave me a beautiful pair of Frida inspired earrings, that I am embarrassed to say I've since lost.

Last night Hadley got her hands on this book. She has a knack for finding rogue crayons and coloring on everything. And sometimes removing favorite pages of books. So I panicked when I saw pages coming out of this book, having forgot that they were there. And there it was. His handwriting. 

And his memory all wooshed back. Not that he is far from my mind, ever. But suddenly his voice didn't seem so distant. I can almost hear him saying what he was writing. Smell him. Feel his hand on mine.

Then I had to explain to Hadley that this is a book that my daddy gave to me. That it's special in many ways. That I don't get to see him anymore and his memory lives in photos, things he loved and left, things with his handwriting on them and in my heart. 

She doesn't understand. She's far to little and innocent to understand the concept of death. And I am fine with that. But I try to keep his memory alive for her. And Hayden. They will know him on some level and I'll always be sad that they won't get to know him alive.

But this is life. And for now, my heart hurts.
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The winner of the Mouse & Pea giveaway is Ani W. Thank you all for entering and for Casey at Mouse & Pea for providing the giveaway item.

sponsored post: the best gift I give

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THE BEST GIFT I GIVE

Gifts, for any occasion, are difficult. Especially when giving to adults.  And it would be really easy to write about the wonderful Keurig that is still getting use that we gave my mother last year. 

But I'm not going to write about that...

In the spirit of this post, I am going to write about the annual gift my brother and I make to Hospice and Palliative Care of Western Colorado. A wonderful organization, whom I not only do business with on a professional level, but did business with on a personal level.

In September of 2007 my father was diagnosed with late stage, Non-Hodgekins Lymphoma. And after a grueling five month fight, shortly after Christmas, his hematologist told him there was nothing left to do. He was sent home with this horrific news and hospice was at his home with in hours.

This incredibly kind, dedicated team spoke with him about his wished, and educated my brother and I about the process that was about to take place before our eyes. They were not only a phone call away, but provided us with multiple visits, making sure my father's needs were met, coaching us on how to keep him comfortable, providing all the equipment necessary and making sure that we, his caregivers, were OK. 

The afternoon of Sunday January 27th, he passed peacefully, listening to Van Morrison, with my brother, myself and three of his close friends by his side. After I watched in disbelief his final exhale of breath, and I told him that I loved him a million and a half times, I phoned the hospice, frantically, to notify them of his death. With in 30 minutes, his nurse was at our door, did the necessary things in this situation, and offered to stay with us until the mortuary arrived. Fortunately, we were surrounded by friends and didn't feel the need to have her there.

And while this is my only experience with a hospice situation, I just know that any person who works in hospice care is an incredibly special person. But because of the tender care we received from them during his final two weeks of life, we make an annual donation in his memory. To me, this is the best gift I give every year during this time.

In loving memory of my father, Kern Hadley Copeland III.

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"cancer sucks" blog hop: my dad

I discovered a Cancer Sucks Blog Hop hosted by www.StraightTalkJess.com that www.RaisingMadison.com participated in with her moving story of her bout with NHL. I was thrilled to read that she recovered beautifully.

Three years a go, almost to the day, my 59 year old father was sick. "I think it's bronchitus" he told me on the phone. I didn't think it was any concern as this was something he got once a year or so. I talked to him a few days later and he was still quite under the weather, complaining of sweating and that his glands were swollen. He checked into a hotel in hopes that the central air (vs. his swamp cooler) would help him sleep better. I thought this was strange, but maybe it was just the ticket.

A week or so later, his friend called me. I didn't know her well as my father lived out of state, but I certainly knew of her. She was concerned of his health and asked me to help her to convince him to see a doctor. My father refused to carry health insurance, not that he couldn't afford it, he just took his chances. And because of this, he didn't go to the doctor often enough. So the persuading began. And eventually we got him to the doctor.

The doctor tested for all kinds of stuff, including the Bubonic Plague. But it seemed that they were settling on "cancer." My father shared this with me casually, as his health was declining by the minute without us knowing. My brother jumped on an airplane to see what was going on and I was scheduled to travel there a couple weeks later.

During my brother's visit, the doctor's felt that dad had lymphoma and sent him to see a hematologist. They were giving some rough news. Stage 4, Non-Hodgekins T-Cell Angioimmunoblastic Lymphoma. A rare form that effects 2% of all NHL sufferers and one that really has no known, exact cure. He was to start CHOP immediately to see what happened.

And, despite the chemo, he seemed to be doing better. Until I arrived after a business trip. The day before I was scheduled to arrive at his home I talked to him on the phone and he said he wasn't feeling well. I was worried and had no idea what was ahead of us.

I arrived to find him extremely lathargic, barely waking for any length of time. Not eating. Barely drinking. He insisted on sleeping in the basement and nearly fell coming up the stairs. It frightened me so much that I started to move him to the main level so he would no longer have to navigate the stairs, especially if he was alone. While I was moving his things up the stairs, I saw his hair all over the bed. I fell apart. I knew this was a side effect of the CHOP, but it was devistating to see. I started to cry. I knew something just wasn't right and I called my mom for support. I knew he needed to go to the hospital, but I couldn't convince him of it.

My mom called and insisted he go. They have been divorced for 18 years at this point, but she can certainly set him straight. He let me take him. And it was discovered that his body was backed up with toxins as he wasn't taking the "gout" medicine properly and he was operating on 1/4 of his blood supply.

Once he was admitted, he seemed to slip into a very sleepy state. The doctors were pumping him full of fluids and blood. The put in a PIC line. Did lot's of exrays and scans. It was frightening and the first time I was able to speak to his doctor. Who pulled me aside and told me things were not good. But to get through this crisis and plug forward.

And he did.

He seemed to be responding well to CHOP as we headed into the fall. He even made a trip to his vacation home in Las Vegas to pick up his beloved Porsche Boxter and drive it back to Colorado. It looked as though he was on the mend.

And then one day he got bad news.

The CHOP really wasn't working. And they needed to try a new treatment. He was devistated. As was I. I took the opportunity to share with him some news I was saving for my next visit. He was going to be a grandpa. He was thrilled and I think (and hope) it made that day a little better.

The new treatment was extremely rough on his system. He seemed to deteriorate quite a bit, but his glands seemed to be decreasing in size. This was good, and the hematologist seemed hopeful at his visit the day after Christmas that I attended with him, though she suggested we look into clinical trials (which I was in the process of doing). Her treatments could only keep the disease at bay as they just don't know much about it.

But we enjoyed that time together. Talking about babies. Getting to know his friends. It was a lovely holiday. And as I left for the airport in the taxi cab, him waving to me from his doorway, I wondered if that would be the healthiest I would ever see him again.

And it was.

A few weeks later, I got a call from a friend of his saying he was not doing well. The details he wouldn't share with me. I was backed up with some prenatal testing, so my brother jumped on an airplane to be with him. And they went to the doctor immediately.

And the doctor told them that there was nothing else that could be done. A hospice referral was made, I was on an airplane and we were by his side, caring for him. Talking with him. Reassuring him that we would be OK. Saying our goodbyes.

And two weeks later, he exhaled his last breath in the company if his children and dear friends in his cozy home. Van Morrison playing in the background shortly after we opened a bottle of his wine. It was how he wanted it to be. I know it. It was a privelege to be a witness and to tell him I loved him as he passed.

When they took him away, it started to snow. A friend of his commented "It's just like Kern to take off before the snow storm." And that night there was a magnificent storm.

Cancer sucks. Period. And I would give anything to have my father back. It took him entirely too young, as it does with much younger victims. It's not fair. To anyone.

Be sure to hug each other tight everyday. No matter how angry you might be. Cancer takes people fast. It's an unfortunate part of life. And it sucks.