Category Archives: Email

Dad and Daniel

Dad and Daniel

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Mom is fading. I’ve been seeing her everyday in Hospice care. I pray I did not act hasty but the surgeon gave her as short as 3 days or as long as six months, and she is in such pain.

This care home I found is so clean and beautiful, with such nice staff, but at the same time I’m SO sad that Mom isn’t home in Hawaii, where she is desperate to be, or at least still in my own house — in the guest room I created for her, or finally, even in a city she knows. She’s in a strange place in a strange city with unknown people.

I know she is safe, and clean, and comfortable, but I’m heartbroken she is in this place that means nothing to her, a city that means nothing to her, while at the same time I’m relieved as to how much care she is receiving.

Clif is on his way to see Mom today. His plane arrives today. He will stay with me a few days while he sees Mom. He will be so anxious and broken when he sees how far she has declined. He is not prepared for it, thinking he can “take her lunch” when I’m just pleased she opens her eyes and recognizes me.

Kathleen starts chemotherapy soon. She is a terrible state and I don’t know when she’ll make it up to see Mom for the last time. She is carrying her own burdens.

I’ve been praying that you bring Mom home to you guys, as soon as you can, so that she isn’t miserable and suffering, or, show me another way — can you make her healthy and stable? I don’t want her gone for my convenience, but I’m adrift knowing how to take care of her up here in these mountains, with such access problems with Kaiser and Medicare. It frightens me to be on this “island of uncertainty.”

Mom came for a visit and never got to go home — it’s just a tragic set of circumstances to leave her house that way, not saying goodbye to her friends and her life in Hawaii, and ending up here, on a strange lifeboat with strange faces, knowing this may be where she dies.

Please bring Mom home to be with you. Please, Dad. Please, Daniel. HELP US.

I miss you both and I love you both.

xox
Kristy

Michael

Michael

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Hello Michael,
It was 4 years ago that you left me. Many words were left unsaid. I had asked if you could hear me, and if so, please squeeze my hand. There was no response, only silence, except for the machine that was keeping you breathing.

The hospital put you on a ventilator which I had instructed them not too the day before since there was nothing they could do to save you. That was the most difficult decision of my life to take you off of it. Once they removed the equipment, within a short time, you were gone. No goodbyes. You always said that the antibiotics that they were pumping into you would eventually kill you and that is exactly what happened.

This has been the worst 4 years of my life. The emptiness and silence is a struggle every day. At dinner time it hurts to look at your empty chair. Too many challenges emotionally which makes it difficult to get up every morning. It’s like having my own version of Ground Hog Day that will never go away.

Your beagle girls miss you, especially Roxxy. Ralph bought your dump trailer. Roxxy wants to go over next door and sit by it. I guess she is hoping you will come. I think sometimes she mistakes Ralph for you when she sees him.

Our son abandoned me. It will be coming up on 2 years in May that I saw him last. He changed his phone number and email address so I cannot get a hold of him. He even sent me a letter telling me to stay away from his home. I feel this was all Harley’s doing because we did not raise our son to be this kind of person. But I cannot lose sleep over their silliness so I don’t even think about it anymore. I just wanted to let you know.

You have visited me a couple of times in my dreams. There is even a presence sometimes in the house which makes me wonder if it is you letting me know that you are here. Like the bathroom scale coming on or the flash light in the outlet behind the bedroom door that flashes sometimes when I have trouble getting up in the morning. If it is you, please come back more often.

Miss you every day.
Cheryl