Hello Grief..

We are home.
The coffeed up alleyways of Melbourne and the bittersweet familiarity of Sydney offered us a kind reprieve from real life. But we are home.  We walked in the front door yesterday and real life was waiting- with a pile of letters addressed to the estate of the late Sheldon Gakowski.
Real life was waiting- with the phone calls I had to make to institutions that require a certified death certificate before they talk to me.
Real life.

I despise these real life days.
And yet I embrace them.
I have to.
Sheldon spoke about these days often... preparing me,  encouraging me... willing me to face them with the same determination and peace that has marked all the days before this new real life.

He knew me so well.
He knew,  and told me often,  that I'd be OK.
It would make me crazy cranky when he would start to talk about these real life days that I would live without him here.
I would get snappy at him...accuse him of being cruel and heartless whenever he would chat about how ok he knew I'd be without him. Didn't he know that I'd be useless?  A hopeless mess? He'd roll his eyes and dismiss the picture of abject despair that I would paint.
And he'd paint me a new picture.
One where I'd be OK.
One where I'd go back to work.
One where I'd remember which day is bin day.

I realise now that it was his great love for me that motivated those conversations. He wanted to remind me that I can do this.
Because he knew that on that day that I came home and real life assaulted me in it's realness,  I'd want to run again. I'd want to turn tail and be anywhere else.
And as I stood in the lounge room yesterday,  one hand holding my suitcase and the other clutching the pile of mail, I didn't think I had it in me to be at home.
And just as I was about to say "nope... let's not stay. Who fancies a road trip to Perth??", I remembered one of those conversations that I hated.
It was a few weeks before he went.
He was tired and fading.
We were sitting outside,  enjoying the morning sun.
He just said it straight-
"You'll miss me..."
I looked at him and looked away. I wasn't prepared to have another conversation about my grief.
Silence stretched out. And then this:
"Just don't forget to feed the cat while you miss me... And water the garden. "

That's this grief.
My grief in real life.
Missing him.
Looking for him still.
Feeling ripped off.
Knowing that something precious and treasured was stolen right out of my hands. But then this grief is doing the missing and the looking while I pay the bills.
And while I parent.
And while I prepare to go back to work.

This grief.
It colours these new real life days.
It tones and tinges them.

I thought it would be a weight,  heavy around my neck. The heavy weight of a crushing grief.
Here's the dramatic in me. The all-too-concious of what social expectation demands of the 35 year old widow.
I wondered at a "grieving period", complete with an all black wardrobe. (Yes,  I watched Gone with the Wind alot!)
This grieving time... a window of time that I would set aside to grieve. And my imaginings had me distraught and useless.
So consider my surprise when I discovered that there is no specific and clear mourning period. No start and no definitive finish point.
And, hello, I wear alot of black but blue and grey were the colors I found myself decked out in these past few football crazed weeks.
Consider my surprise when I didn't feel the weight of useless grief,  but instead felt like laughing at the antics of my boys as they discovered Melbourne.
This grief is not relegated to a certain number of days. It ebbs. It swirls.
Sometimes it pushes. So ferocious in it's determination to announce itself. And yet sometimes it's silent. And I feel....normal. I feel ok.
This grief.
It's beautiful.
And it's horrendous.
It's testament to the immense love that I shared with him.
It's a tribute to the joy and the frustration he was.
It's the evidence of his impact.

And at the end of the day,  it's what I have.
This grief.
He knew it would be my companion and he made sure I heard him when he told me not to let it consume me.
He told me about it.
He prepared me in his beautiful and generous way to walk into these new real life days. He knew it was coming. 

So I welcome and abhor this grief that he prepared me for. 

He knew that I would miss him. And he demanded that while I missed him, in the moments and hours and days of this grief, he demanded that I remember to feed the cat.

And water the garden.

And laugh.

And cry.

And love our boys.

And live.

Football, doughnuts and runaways.

We tried to go home.

The house was so full of his voice.

The 'to do' list is just so long.

He left pink folders filled with bills and hand written instructions on what to do next. 

But I'm not ready to read them. 

I tried,  but the first note I picked up started with "I'm sorry you have to do this alone babe..."

It was the phone bill.

He was the bill payer. 

Most relationships have the bill payer. 

The person who knows what's due and when. 

He was that person. 

So.. we went home from the initial post-funeral  beach side escape and I paid the phone bill. I paid the funeral home. I spent three hours at the bank where I filled in the deceased estate forms and handed over certified copies of wills and death certificates. 

And my heart hurt.

It actually physically hurt.

And so. 

We ran away. Again. 

And I'm very aware that the list of what I have to do is still waiting for me. It can wait. 

I'm aware that this is not facing reality. 

Well. I'm ok with that.

I'm ok to let the reality and the realness of this be pushed back for a little bit longer while we follow our football team to the finals. While we find the best Nutella filled doughnuts in Melbourne. 

Because the truth is this- we know. 

We know he's not at home. 

We know he's not at work. 

We know.

We know.

And even this escape isn't far enough away from reality to stop that knowing from walking these streets with us. It's a shadow that is just there. Over our shoulder. Yesterday the knowing. .that shadow of knowing.. caught up with Krystopher. And he sat in a cafe in the middle of Melbourne and cried. 

I couldn't say or do anything to fix it. When the knowing catches up with you.. well. There is nothing to be done but to let it wash over you in it's waves. And then..as the harsh knowing receded and his tears eased,  we got up and went to the football. Because that's how we keep living through this terrible knowing. We just get up and we live. We live with the shadow of knowing. We live anyway.

And one day. When we're ready to run face first into that reality and routine of the real life, we'll go home and I'll open up the next pink folder. But not today. Today we have doughnuts to discover. 

235 hours.

It's been 10 days.
235 hours.

It doesn't seem like such a long time, but I feel the weight of each of those moments. They have rested on me like an unfamiliar coat.
In those 10 days of being without him, I have known the profound and sustaining love of so many of you.
That love and kindness has wrapped around me and my sons like a cocoon, sheltering us just a little from the sharp edge of loss.

Loss.
Such a simple word to look at. 4 letters.
Such a hard word to live.

I feel it- the loss of his earthly presence.
The familiar and ingrained habit of looking for him in a room, or calling his name when something won't work.
He was just always there.
Even in those days and hours that were amongst his last- he was there. Striving to calm his parents breaking hearts. Wanting to hug his beloved brother.
Turning his weary head towards me and whispering "I love you.". His last words. I got them.

Yes.
I have felt the loss of his earthly presence.

We have escaped for a while.
To a place with sunshine and good coffee.
To an unfamiliar apartment that doesn't remind us of him with every step.
Yesterday afternoon we walked over to the supermarket. Me and my three boys.
We wanted to stock the fridge with nutella and strawberry milk.
The cashier smiled and chatted her way through the beeping and the bagging. And then it came to the paying.
I froze.
I had a purse full of cards.
I had no idea what the pin numbers were.
Total and absolute brain blank.
I couldn't think of any numbers that I could string together..
I just stared at her smiling face.
Her smile faltered as she realised that the woman standing statue still with a trolley full of groceries might be a little unhinged.
I managed to recover and asked her to break the bill into amounts that I could paypass.

Don't worry- the story isn't about how I'm losing my mind and forgetting simple things. I always forget pin numbers. It happens with uncomfortable regularity.
No. The story is about how I would forget and look to him. And he would sigh and whisper, again, the numbers to me.

Yes.
I have felt the loss of his earthly presence.
And I guess I have to remember pin numbers.

I know that it's a process- this grief that we have to walk out.
And we are on that process.
We are walking the path where questions like, "Why did it have to be my Dad?" are scattered every few steps.
It's a rocky path.
Grief always is.
Watching these three boys... I'm astounded.
And heartbroken.
And proud.
They tackle grief head on- grabbing it and wrestling out the tough parts.
And the thing is- they always come to a good place.
They talk and they wonder.. round and round, until they come to a good place.
A place where the enormous unfairness of the burden of his going is paired with the peace that he is actually ok. The faith that he is not far away- just beyond the veil that rests between here and there.
I see it on their faces.
I hear it in their voices.
This grand wrestle that plays out- it ministers to my own wrestle.
These little hearts- mending my own as they consistently come back to the conclusion that their Dad is more alive now than he ever was in the cancer ridden body that we loved.
How precious these three are to me.

I want to leave you with a section from the legacy eulogy that I delivered in honour of him last Thursday:

 

The very best moments of my life are easy to recall.

There are three of them.

They are the moments just after our three handsome and very brave sons were born.

In the moments after you were each born, something truly profound happened. Your Daddy fell instantly, head over heels in love with each of you. If you've never seen anyone fall in love before, it’s very beautiful.

He saw you.

And he loved you.

He held you and he was changed forever.

He was braver, and smarter and stronger and better the moment he held each one of you.

That’s what happened when he fell madly in love with you- his sons.

The best, greatest and most important earthly word that can describe Sheldon is Dad.

 

You three. My sons.

Listen closely.

You are the reflection of your father.

You are his legacy and his imprint on this earth.

Today you each wear a set of dogtags that have Daddy’s thumb print on it. This is to remind you that YOU three, his greatest loves, his masterpieces, are his imprint on this world.

You will reflect his humour and his crazy obsession with B grade Sy- fy movies.

You reflect his generous love and loyalty.

You reflect his compassion.

You boys. You are the one reason he wanted to stay.

He was ready to go.

He was tired.

His body was failing him.

I never heard him complain.

But… he would have stayed a million years for you.

The love he had for you three little men is such a beautiful testimony of his life. I’m proud to have witnessed such a love. I’m proud to be your mum.

We will be the strength and the joy that he wanted us to be for each other.

 

The final word that I can give you today that describes Sheldon and the legacy that he has etched across this place is “Home”.

He’s home.

Sheldon knew the grace of Jesus.

He knew the unreligious, real love of a real, unreligious God.

He held onto one promise. “God didn’t promise to heal me of cancer..” he’d say.. “He promised to be with me. To never leave me and to walk me into eternity. That’s my promise… Home with Him”

That. Is the kindness of God.

Is it unfair that he is gone? Yes.

Does my heart feel about ready to shatter and disappear in the weight of this grief? Yes.

But even then. But even then.

The Kindness of a God who gave us Jesus. The Kindness of a Jesus who took the curse of being alone in death so that we would never have to be.

Yes, Kindness wins.

 

It wins because of Eternity.

Heaven.

Home.

He’s there. He’s gone home.

I’ll see him again.

And until that day my sweet darling heart.. Oh the grief of it! Oh the heart ache of it! I love you. Thank you for being so amazing.

Thankyou for being so strong and so very brave.

Thank you for the gift and the enduring legacy of these three beautiful brave sons who will surround me and protect me.

I love you.

 

 

 

 

About Sheldon.

I have been staring at this screen for a while now.

Wanting to find the perfect way to tell you all what needs to be told.

I wrote plenty of words while I waited and watched over him in those hours and hours, but I'm not ready to tell you that yet. One day I will.

But today I want to tell you about Sheldon.

I have given so many words to the battle and the heartache of finding beautiful. So many sentences have taken you on the journey with us.. You have walked beside us and carried the burden.

And today I just want to tell you about Sheldon.

He was our calm. 

I was the storm and he was the calm. 

I would make mountains out of molehills and he would scrape away the useless mounds of sand so that I could see what I truly needed to deal with. 

He was the steadying hand that I could count on. 

He would pull me back from over analysing the world or from the dark silences that I would find when my world was so noisy. 

He was the smile. That smile that would light up any dark mood. 

A smile that would make the crappest of days seem more manageable.

He was the problem solver and the people manger. I would ring him at work and complain about the computer or someone at work and he always ALWAYS had an answer. And yes, my darling. You were normally right. 

He couldn't sing. Not a note. The man was tone deaf.

He couldn't dance either, and unfortunately one of our sons has inherited this trait. (Sorry buddy)

He had some crap taste in music.

He loved terrible scu-fu movies.

He talked through movies.

He had an opinion on everything.

He loved that I disagreed on some of his opinions.

He had a dream to have a massive herb and organic vegetable garden. He wanted it to take up acres. He had plans to source cafés and restaurants with valley fresh herbs.

The dream was so real to him he would stand at the farm and I know he could see it.

He loved generously.

He cared for his friends with a genuinely kind heart.

Trust me.. Even if you haven't heard from him or he didn't text you, he talked and worried over where you were at. How your marriages were going. What decisions you were making in your careers and businesses. He cheered when you had a win and he worried over you when you struggled. 

What a friend he was.

He was my favourite human being. 

I loved everything about him. 

The flaws and monumental stuff ups that humbled him and softened his heart.

The strength and capacity to dream bigger that I've ever dared to. 

I guess the thing I loved the most... The thing I will miss the most is how he was such a great dad.

I can't even write these words right now. 

It's too hard to think about our sons being without him.

I just can't.

I'll tell you all another day. 

But he was the best.

And today. On Father's Day. You aren't here.

Sheldon. You are with your Father God.

Heaven will shout to you today.. "Well done awesome man. Well done daddy!!"

An understated update.

There are no profound ways to start this one. No deep and insightful words to convey where we are.
These days are tough.
Understatement... such an understatement.
But it's the best I can do.

I want to tell you how Sheldon is going.

Sheldon is the strongest and bravest person I know.
He rallied every ounce of strength and wellness to enjoy August.
The great pressing in helped. Operation birthday cards helped.  The kindness of loved ones and strangers helped... immensely.
He loved August. It was his birthday month made beautiful.
And here we are...
August is over.
Spring is here.
Sheldon has spent the two days of September in St. Catherine's palliative care ward.
He is extremely fatigued and experiencing such a disorientation..
The goal of everyday is to manage his pain and this foggy disorientation.
And the struggle is real.
I'm in awe of the medical team who are working with us to find that fine balance.
It's working today. He's asleep at the moment. And hopefully he'll wake up and have some good, lucid moments. 

I know you will be gracious and appreciate that I will update you when I can...

Thanks for the caring and the prayer.

The Birthday Present

Birthday day is here!

He's 43.

I asked him all week.. "What do you want for your birthday??"

What a question huh??!

What he wants is out of the realm of my capability.

I'm no miracle maker.

He told me to get the boys something.

He wanted them to open presents on this Sunday morning.

And so they did. 

Here it is. 

Present time....

A special letter from their dad was included in this present...

For my sons on my 43rd Birthday.

I want to talk about Time.

Time matters.

They say that men are given the gift if time.

That's true.

In my case the time I've had with my boys is short. I hope we have treasured it. Be thankful everyday that you have more time to appreciate and love the things that matter to you. 

For me- that has been you boys.

Time has been precious since I became your dad.

Time is one thing that you can never get back.

Once it's gone,it becomes our memories-make sure that you build great memories with your time.

When you boys grow up, make the most of your time.

Love your Dad.

Today, on his 43rd birthday, Sheldon gave his three sons a watch. And the reminder that time is precious. 

Time is precious.

And fleeting.

And today it belongs to our birthday boy.

Finding Beautiful

'Kindness is a language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see.' -Mark Twain

I want to tell you about some of the moments that have made these days bearable. The beautiful moments that are the load bearing beams in this horrendous structure that has become our reality.

Beautiful came in a canvas.

It's the commissioned artwork that arrived and as the sun sets through our lounge room window this piece of art manages to capture a sense of the beautiful... a moment of the beautiful.

Beautiful came in a cake.

The neighbor who noticed the cars arriving and who found out the reason and so she baked delicious goodies for us. It's beautiful. It's kindness.

Beautiful came in words.

The messages I have received. The wife who recently said that final goodbye to her husband and sends me her love and strength. She knows the valleys I walk. She doesn't know me but she loves me in these days. That's beautiful. 

The 8 year old sweetheart who lives 1000 Kms away and yet has been moved to pray for our family because she heard our story. She teaches her world how to be compassionate and faith-filled. She doesn't know us and doesn't need to- she operates in the beautiful and in kindness.

Here is beautiful on a massive, community scale.

The cards. The piles of cards.

 

I guessed at this strategy to help make these days easier. I couldn't have guessed at how generous and whole heartedly we have been enveloped by you. Each day these cards divert our attention away from morphine pumps and we enjoy the words of cheer. We comment on the kindness of strangers and we shed tears when memories are reminded. So very beautiful. 

Beautiful looks like the offers to cook and clean.

It sounds like the tears and sighs of my dearest people as they suffer to make sense of this.

It is the relentless peace.

The abiding presence in this valley of shadows.

Beautiful was found in a Monday morning last week. 

A perfect morning at our beach.

It was the Monday before a week of palliative care and unbearable pain.

Beautiful was found and captured in the lens of a camera.

Images that show our heartbroken joy.

Cherished conversation between a fading dad and his sons. His sons who cling to him with little arms wrapped so tight. They would hold him here with just their strength of adoration. Oh... If only we could. 

We will treasure these images. The video that shows us laughing and crying in equal measure. Those pictures of bright paper planes on a perfect Monday morning and my boys who threw them with joyous abandon. Beautiful. 

It's a difficult path we find ourselves on today.

We stepped further into that shadowed valley this week. 

And here.. Even here in the dark and terrifying place we trudge through... I find beautiful. 

The best beautiful I find is this collision of heartache and grace.

Sheldon has proclaimed at every moment of this track that he knows that he will never be left alone. He knows... he KNOWS.... That he is held close by Jesus. 

And that is beautiful.

We are finding beautiful. 

It's actually ingrained into the fabric of these moments.

How amazing. 

Cancer doesn't win, hey...

Cancer is a murderous thief.

But it doesn't win. 

Beautiful wins. 

Kindness wins.

Grace wins.