Press in..

"The veil between here and heaven is very thin. But it's a dreadfully painful one. We struggle to see beyond these days and look upon eternity with gladness... (The Hardest Peace)

 

 

I've found a strange kind of beautiful in this... 
In these terrible, chaotic, white knuckle-type- days there are moments of this strange beautiful.

This week the beautiful has looked like a pressing in of our people.
They have taken a large step towards us,  pressing in and shouldering the all too sad.

This pressing in is so important at this stage of our long goodbye.. This goodbye that I want to last and linger and prolong in it's eventual arrival.

This beautiful pressing in- It's a tangible thing. The way our house has seamlessly filled with our people. The hands that have arrived to fold washing and unpack dishwashers.
The hands that have arrived and held him close.
Held me close.
Held my three little guys closest.

This is a beautiful thing.
The gentle press of love and kindness.

Sheldon wanted this.
He knew we needed this pressing in of support and care.
He knew we needed the hours spent sitting around a table laughing and eating and crying... and eating (oh the food of this pressing in!!!)
And it isn't just us. Those people who press in need this time.

Time to love on him.
To remind him of how he has immeasurably impacted their lives.
To laugh about the old days and to reassure him that they'll be here in the coming days.
To hold his hand as tears flow and to sit in a beautiful silence that says so much.

 

Time to just press in.
To press closer to him.
To revel and savour these days.

We need to revel in these days.

 

And so I have a request.

 

A request that will help this pressing in of love and support.
We honestly don't have a truly clear idea about the time we have.
But we know that this week is worse in so many ways than it was last week.
We know that he is tired and in more pain. Today he relied on morphine injections to function. The pain is increasing and stealing in.
So. ..
Here is my pressing in request.

August is an important month for Sheldon. On the 23rd of August Sheldon will turn 43.
The harsh reality of this jourey is this: It will be his last birthday that we can celebrate with him.
That sucks. So much.
So very very much.

We want to fill this place with birthday awesomeness.
We want him to feel the full force of this pressing in.
And not just Sheldon.
But our boys,  who have had to carry this weight of grief and are doing such a courageous job. They need this. Need to read messages of birthday joy and kindness.
We need to celebrate this. In the face of the un-celebrate-able. We need to celebrate 43 fantastic years.
So... here's  what you can do:
Send Sheldon a birthday card.
Tell your family and friends to send him a birthday card.
Get your work mates to send him a birthday card.
Send a message of birthday joy.
Help us make August the month of celebrating Sheldon.

Celebrate life and the days and minutes and hours he has lived.

It's time to press in.

To say what needs to be said.

To celebrate.

To wish him the happiest of all birthdays.

 

Send your cards to

Sheldon Gakowski

PO Box 130

Rural View 4740

 

One card.

Two cards..

a dozen..

Let's fill these days with YOUR messages to him.

Press in.

  Thanks. Xoxoxo 

 

 

I'm angry..

I don't even know what to tell you.
How to put these days into sentences.

It's hard to give borders of meaning to the insurmountable loss we are staring down.
I've tried.
For two years.. I've tried.
I've metaphorically painted pictures of this cancer and how it's tearing my heart out.
I've verbalized the idea of loss and the flip side of eternity.
I've waxed lyrical about the journey.
You've heard me.
You've listened.

And tonight I have so many things to say but I can find no words.
Just this:
He's dying and I don't want him to.
I'm angry.
He's heartbroken.
I'm heartbroken too.
But mainly angry.
And not raging, table flipping angry. Just a slow burn.
A simmer.

I'm trying not to let this simmering anger invade the moments we have. Sometimes I'm good at that. And sometimes I fail..
I don't think the anger will last forever.
I hope it will ease and be replaced by a calm acceptance.
Not yet though.

I've always attempted to shy away from the anger emotion.
For good reason.
Anger is a bitter pill.
But at the moment it's my bitter pill.
And I'm savoring it.

I'm angry that he is losing weight and exhaustion steals him away from us and he sleeps so much. I don't want to accept that.
I'm angry that we have conversations about funerals and life insurance. I don't want to accept that.
I'm angry that his liver is peppered with tumors and when we sat down with the ct scan we lost count.
I'm angry that he is in pain but tries to hide it.
I'm angry that his body is signaling to us that the fade has started. That we know. We don't want to talk about it...Admit that we can see it. I don't want to accept it.

But we can see it.
Cancer is a thief and I'm angry.