Year Five - 2021

July 23, 2021

 Today marks five years since Brendan passed away. Last night, I awoke several times and remembered the long hours of sitting at his bedside, helpless to relieve his suffering. All I could do was adjust his oxygen and be there for him. I remembered thinking about how our Savior suffered in Gethsemane and how He wanted his disciples nearby to strengthen him, so I prayed that somehow, in some small way, my presence would strengthen Brendan through those long, dark hours.

And then dawn came. As his siblings gathered around his bed, I couldn't help but smile. Brendan had suffered through the night so that he would still be there when everyone gathered. Brendan never liked to be alone. And he was most happy when he could get all of us to do something together.

So now we still gather. We gather on his birthday, and we gather as much as we can on this "angelversary." Being together strengthens and lifts us. Knowing we can all be together again gives me hope and peace.

Last week the community gathered to support another cancer fighter among us. The memories were strong of the love and help we received from these same wonderful people. Once again I stood in awe as people gave so much love, care, and financial support. We live in a blessed place.

Benefit for Karen Weeks held at the Avon park

Usually, we spend the day at Primary Children's cooking dinner for families who come to the Ronald McDonald Family Room. But because of Covid, we don't have that option this year.

The hardest part of the last two years has been watching the kids struggle. I've been grateful other parents of cancer kids gave me the heads up that year four is often the hardest for grieving siblings - when all those tucked away and hidden emotions begin to surface. As the trauma manifests, grief is an ongoing struggle. Loss of control is difficult for everyone, but especially teenagers and young adults who try so desperately to maintain some control over their unpredictable lives. And death and cancer is not something they can control. Depression and anxiety are 50% more likely in those suffering a "Big T" trauma (such as death of a loved one). And have you ever thought about what siblings are hearing? Being told that their loved one isn't suffering anymore and they are "in a better place" makes it difficult for them to want to stay here in a hard place, especially when they feel so much pain and suffering.

As we continue on this journey, we rely on the Atonement of Jesus Christ to see us through. The blessings of the resurrection, forever families, and the promise of burdens lifted give us the strength to keep moving forward.

Year Four - 2020

July 27, 2020

This year I feel like the trauma of hospital visits, cancer treatments, and chronic stress are starting to fade.  I sometimes have to stop and think about it to conjure up feelings of what that all felt like.  I’ve worked hard these past four years to try to bring calm back into my life — to not feel like my heart is racing and my adrenaline coursing.  I’ve used massage therapy, yoga, journaling, and meditation to try to calm my emotions and bring my cortisol back to normal levels. 

This year is the first time since Brendan died that I actually felt like making an effort to do something hard.  Physically hard.  Mentally hard.  Grief left me physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted and I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to make an effort to do anything again.  I felt like water running downhill, taking whatever course was of least resistance.  

Over the years I began to heal.  Slowly at first.  Oh, so slowly.  Taking a year to rest then another year to re-live and rewrite my experience was both hard and healing.  My stress hormones re-lived another year of trauma, but my mental healing made leaps and bounds as I actually had time to look at our experience from another perspective (that of knowing the ending this time). Looking at these experiences much more slowly allowed me to process what had happened with Brendan in context of understanding his ultimate mission.  I was taught some beautiful lessons and saw the hand of God even more in Brendan’s life — and in our lives.

Now, at year four, I’ve found a new zest for life and health and living and have found joy in moving and trying to connect with my family through activities we can do together — cross country skiing, biking, and hiking.  I’m loving the joy that comes from discovering and sharing family stories of loved ones who have passed on.  It keeps me feeling connected to family both here and there.  I love feeling myself stretch and grow and am grateful that the desire to live and grow has been rekindled in me, for I feared it may never return.  

On days like today, the tears still fall and my shoulders heave under the sobs that I can’t seem to stop no matter what I do.  So I let the feelings come and wash over me.  I let the tears run down my cheeks and drip off my chin while I muffle the sobs so I don’t worry those around me.  I know I’m fine.  I just don’t think they will know I’m fine.  My heart still breaks at the thought of all Brendan had to suffer.  My heart still aches knowing I won’t see him again for a while.  My mind still wonders what he would be like as a 16-year-old.

I often ask myself, "Will the struggle from the experience overcome us or be our undoing?  Or will we be stronger for having gone through it?"  Once again, I’m grateful for what I learned about myself and about Brendan and about each of my children. I also learned a lot about our family, ward, and community.  These experiences certainly brought out the best in everyone.  I continually pray that Brendan’s healing spirit will continue to bring us together, and through Christ, help us overcome all.

Anniversaries People Don't Talk About

By Rachel Peck

Four years ago today my little brother, Charlie, was diagnosed with cancer while I was studying abroad in the Czech Republic. It was the third worst day of my life thus far. Whenever days like this come up it feels like a constant battle between wanting talk about it, air my thoughts and memories, get it off my chest, etc and feeling the urge to keep it all to myself. Why should I put my private grief on display? And on a social media platform, no less. People have enough of their own grief without me giving them mine as well. There's a quote that I feel like covers it pretty well:

"Everyone had anguish of their own by now... grief was contagious, and [she] could no more speak of her own than she would cough...without putting her hand to her mouth.
One could only carry oneself in such a way that the pressure wave of the tragedy was contained within one's own body, and could not spread one inch further."

So that's always my inner battle. Maybe I want people to know, but also want to spare them the awkwardness of never knowing what to say. I feel like this is a common problem with grieving people (and I will always consider myself to be grieving, in some way - you never really move past it) - to us, sharing is selfish. It's taking someone's time and emotional energy and giving them a heavier burden instead of lifting it. Getting out of this mindset of "sparing others" your grief is hard.

Don't get me wrong, I know that people do care. I know that all of my friends would be willing to talk about it with me at any time, and I know consciously that they don't view it as a burden. And I am very thankful for everyone who has been that listening ear. You are so appreciated. But I also just wanted to illuminate these battles that I have year after year as we relive those awful (and incredibly precious) 10 months.

I guess this post serves a few purposes. It is me (still somewhat mutedly) sharing that today was hard. It's me trying to tell myself that it's okay to share those feelings (while still feeling apologetic for it), and it's me giving voice to some of my deeper struggles. Do with that what you will, I suppose, but if you've stuck with me this long, here are a few more thoughts: if you know a grieving person (and we all do), it's okay to bring up their person. It's okay to ask about them, or ask how we're doing.  Please bring up memories; we think about them all the time anyway and hearing it out loud is healing.


And because I'm still a doctorate student, if you want to know more about what a sibling of a child with cancer goes through, give this nice little research article a read. ;)
Grief Related to the Experience of Being the Sibling of a Child With Cancer

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B7f0RL3Din7VbWpjM1N0dk5wT1U3bThkVUhYMTV6dXRuVDU0/view?usp=sharing

Year Three - 2019

Now that July is over I can finally say that this year has been a little easier than the last two.  Episodes of grief have been shorter and easier for me to manage.  They didn't feel like they knocked me off my feet.  I knew they would come, I knew I could manage them, and I knew they would go.  Just knowing those things made it easier for me to actually indulge in the grief -- welcome it, embrace it, savor it, and (when I was ready), let it go.  In many ways, the grief was what allowed me time to remember Brendan and immerse myself in his memory and relive the time he was with us.

The hardest part of year three has been the fading mention of Brendan.  While Brendan's illness and death is still the focal point of all my experience, it's hard to talk to others about Brendan because very few people are willing to mention him.  And what do you say?  I know it is awkward.   I know of lot of mother's now who have lost children and I struggle with what to say all the time.  Only now, I always try to say something, however awkward.   

On a particularly hard Sunday for me I went to Relief Society and suffered silently.  Near the end of the lesson, the teacher asked if I would share something I learned from our experience with Brendan.  Just her thinking of me and letting me talk about Brendan was what I needed that day.

I found this great visual when some have asked me for advice on how to talk to someone grieving.  It pretty well sums up what we can do:

We celebrated Brendan's birthday again on July 2nd with pizza, frosty's, family, and sparklers.  Brendan would be 15 years old this year.

Livi 

Loren and Hudson

On Brendan's Angelversary (July 23rd) we returned to Primary Children's Hospital to serve dinner.  It was good to see Dr. Jessica Meznarich again.  She had remembered us on this day and sent me a text message letting us know she was thinking of us.

Kerry, Dr. Jessica Meznarich, Shaun

Izzy and Stacey Swan
We met them as they were coming out of the hospital.  They agreed to stay and help with dinner!

I debated keeping Brendan's Birthday and dinner at PCH traditions this year, but when they came around,  I was glad to have them.  It helped me feel grounded.  It also helped that everyone just expected to celebrate Brendan's birthday on July 2nd and serve dinner at Primary's on the 23rd.

While fewer people mentioned Brendan during the year, many still let us know he is not forgotten.  Flowers were sent, a birthday cake was made for Charlie  by my sweet friend, cupcakes were dropped off, and many, many notes and texts were sent.  We are remembered and Brendan is remembered and that always feels good.  I'm grateful everyone takes the time to think about how I, (the mother), am handling the grief.  I just hope that everyone would also remember the dads in these situations.  They are grieving just as much, just more privately.  Remember the dads.

Year Two - 2018 - Not To Be Forgotten

July 23, 2018
Today commemorates the day Brendan passed away 2 years ago.   I can hardly believe it's been 2 years.  In some ways it has gone so fast.  In other ways it has felt like forever.  Whoever said that the first year of losing a loved one is the hardest either never lost a loved one, or never made it to the second year.  Year 2 is definitely the same pain, only without the numbness.  Ouch.

Sarah captured her feelings in a poem she wrote this year.

July 23 and Other Days

FEBRUARY 8, 2018

How dare the sun shine,

tossing rays toward this cold chunk of rock like weak caresses,

insincere and haughty?

How dare the sun shine

in cruel contrast to the cloudy darkness in my heart,

mocking me?

How dare the sun shine

oblivious, and above

the petty hurts on its third satellite?

How dare the sun rise in the morning

on a day when my world has stopped spinning?

There have definitely been hard days, but there have also been good days -- very good days.  Days when remembering Brendan has been a joy and a privilege.  

Brendan is being remembered in so many ways.  Landon's Eagle Scout project (which was a surprise to us) was installing the bench the city made room for and donors provided to remember Brendan.

Last Christmas, Chris and Kristen decorated a tree with pictures of the ways we kept Brendan's memory alive throughout the year, and put it at his gravesite.  

Lindsay, Jamie, Loren and Rachel prepared a song remembering Brendan and sang it for us.

Family came together for fun and games on July 2nd to celebrate Brendan's birthday.  (He would have been 14 years old this year.)

Loren learned the song "Remember Me" and played it on Brendan's ukulele.

 Shaun, Jamie and Loren surprised me with the song, "I Believe" as we remembered Brendan this year.

Tonight we remembered Brendan and all of the time we spent at Primary Children's Hospital by returning to serve dinner at the Ronald McDonald Family Room.  It felt like something Brendan would want to do.  

While our family is spread far and wide, we keep in touch, we share our feelings, and in our own ways, we remember Brendan and all that he taught us during his brief stay on this earth.  We're grateful for all of you that have shared in keeping Brendan's memory alive.  Thank you!

Pieces

Healing takes time and comes in lots of pieces. Writing has been such a healing activity for me. Social workers, grief counselors, and child life specialists said it could be, but I didn't realize how much it would really help until I did it, then didn't, then did again. There was so much in my head that I was trying to hold on to -- to remember, to keep safe -- that it needed a place to go. I was afraid if I didn't remember, the memory of Brendan would be lost forever. But always remembering kept my brain too busy and too occupied with the past that it made moving forward difficult. Writing has saved the memories but freed my mind of the tiring job of holding onto anything and everything related to Brendan. It has allowed me the opportunity to look at what happened, and has given me a way to process those experiences.

As I work through my emotions on paper, I've encouraged the kids to write their experiences as well. We all went through this together, but we all experienced it differently. Some moments can be captured in writing right away, while some hurts will be buried yet for years to come -- only to come forth when they can be looked at safely and bravely. Lindsay recently looked back at her experience and bravely faced some of those difficult memories. She's graciously allowed me to post her writing.

Pieces

by Lindsay Peck

"Even after so many times replaying the memories, I still can’t decide exactly when my world shattered. In reality it was many times. The first time, it is fall. I am sitting in the dark with my brother and sister, and we are sobbing our hearts out. That was when I learned what a malignant tumor was. That was when I learned that cancer isn’t just a thing that happens to someone else, it happens to eleven year old brothers who love sports and board games and pizza. The next morning I go to school. The popular girl who sits behind me in class chooses to loudly make fun of what I am wearing and my very fragile world breaks again. In front of everyone. That was when I learned the impact of ignorance and cruelty.

A few months later, it's a gray winter day. I am sitting in a hospital chapel, surrounded by a congregation dressed in hospital gowns, pajamas and slippers, rumpled t-shirts and jeans. We are all singing a hymn. I feel like a choir of angels. That was when I learned that hospital life can feel normal.


A spring morning, I get a call during school from my mom. She is at Primary Children’s with my brother for scans and tests. She is crying. I’m in the hall crying. That was when I learned that an extremely rare form of sinus cancer can spread into the bones even after surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation.

A summer day, and I’m folding laundry. My sister’s phone rings. She only has to look at us and we run for a pair of clothes and a toothbrush. That was when I learned that the drive to Salt Lake can be an eternity. Two days later, I’m sleeping halfway on the end of a hospital bed, halfway on a chair. That was when I learned that the kink in your spine and the cramps in your legs mean nothing as long as you’re closer to the one you love.

Ten months after my world first shattered, I am putting on a dress for my little brother’s funeral. It has yellow flowers. Just ten months, and I am a new person. During those ten months, I have picked up the shards of my broken self and tried to put them back. But they don’t fit the same. There are old pieces, and some are new. The reflection has changed. Now when I look, I see things differently than I did before. I see things that other people don’t. This is when I learned that a broken heart with a missing piece won’t ever feel the same again, and it hurts terribly. But the brokenness means that someday I will be stronger. It’s the kind of strength that comes from a clearer lens of understanding, and empathy, and insight."

The In-Between

September 15, 2015.  It was a calm, normal, "hurry-up-it's-time-to-catch-the-bus" kind of day. I snapped this picture in response to a text from Rachel (homesick after a few days into her year long study abroad in the Czech Republic.) She was asking, "What are you doing?"  It was 6:32 a.m. on that Tuesday morning and he and I were the only ones up yet and moving on that early fall morning.  I'm sure I was rushed (I always was then, with 7 kids at home and all 9 of them in school that year.)  I'm sure I felt like I had a million super important things to do. (None of which seem even remotely important now.)  But all I can remember was how easy life was back then. And how I wished I had enjoyed every crazy, busy, blissful moment more.

I've thought a lot about this picture this week.  The memory of it kept popping into my head until I had to go find it. It represents "The In-Between" for me -- The time in between the cancer tumor starting to grow in Brendan's sinus, and the time we found out it was there.  With an estimated growth time of only 6-8 weeks, I fearfully caught myself going back after his diagnosis to pictures from this time (and this picture in particular) to see if there was anything I had missed -- anything I could have seen -- that would have clued us in to the silent killer that was aggressively growing out of control inside his head.

Now, two years later, this picture represents the time in between the anniversary of Brendan's death (July 23) and the anniversary of his diagnosis (Oct. 8) --a time when we start all the memories and anniversaries over again.  It's a quiet time of reflection until the slant of the sun turns everything golden and the feel of fall in the air brings unanticipated tears and memories of those first days of fear and anguish.

I look back on this day two years ago and try to imagine what it felt like before cancer took over our lives.  I try to imagine how blissfully ignorant I was of cancer and of a children's hospital full of suffering children and anguished parents.  As much as I would love to go back to that day of blissful ignorance, I'm always grateful I can't.  Because I've learned too much -- I've felt too much -- I've met too many amazing people -- and my heart is better for it.