The Supra-Eruption of Tooth 15 (A Love Story of Sorts)

Warning, This true story depicts the life, care, and loss of a tooth; with intentional correlations to a deeply rooted love affair.  Sense of humor is advised....

It was 18 years ago and I was the young mother of a sweet 3 month old baby, living in a frigid basement apartment right next to Utah Lake.  My first husband and I moved to this area, just starting out in life and money was sparse.  I contemplated this as I sat eating a pork rind when I felt the crunch of a back tooth. 

Upon a visit to the dentist it turns out I had fractured a molar and at the time we could not afford the dental work to repair it.  Taking the tooth out was only $50.  I asked the dentist what the repercussions of this would be and he did advise, that perhaps, 20 years from now -the tooth above it may miss it and wander downward to find it.  At the time, I was so young and 20 years sounded like a world away.  This was a no-brainer, lets take it out!  So we removed the tooth.

Fast forward to now.  The upper molar is now seeking its long lost mate.  Sure enough, on an 18 year odyssey, tooth number 15 is desperately seeking to be reunited with the lower tooth that is no longer there.  Slowly, it has dropped down, filling in the space of the missing tooth.  My current dentist indicated that it would probably be best if it was removed.  He saw the disappointed look on my face and questioned me about it.  "Well" I told him, "It's just that I have had that tooth for a really long time." 

I mentioned this to my mother and she found it quite odd that even a tooth would miss it's mate and would actually go looking for it.  I mentioned this to my Aunt, and she wondered what would happen if instead, the tooth was cavalier and had more of the attitude that it would be better off on its own. 

But of course, I would find myself with "sensitive" teeth.  Teeth with feelings, or "fillings".  Teeth that go searching for each other...  just my luck. 

Tomorrow, I will go in for the extraction and in a note of seriousness and honesty-

There is a part of me that is proud of myself that I took the initiative to encourage good health in my body.  After losing a spouse or loved one, it is easy to ignore personal issues that go on, or to put off appointments.  It is much harder to make decisions, too.  Especially when the person you would discuss this with is gone.  These differences show in other family members as well.  After caring for a terminally ill person, it becomes easier to see how fragile life can be.  I can see this in my youngest child too.  "Are you sure it's a simple procedure Mommy?"  He asks with worry in his voice. 

"Yes, baby it is."  I say, "And you know what?  Now both teeth will finally be reunited in tooth Heaven."  

Which makes him smile.  I am getting a bit long in the tooth now.  Thanks for listening and wish me luck!

xoxo

  

Write This Down

Exactly three days after my husband passed away, I was asleep in bed and felt a firm hold upon my right hip which startled me from sleep.  There, above me, was my husband's face.  He had a very intense look coming from his eyes and it felt as though he looked directly into my heart.  I sat up and and stared at his face.  Overwhelmed, I asked him over and over again, "Is this really you?"

With his eyes he told me firmly, "Yes."

I asked him if I could touch him, and again he told me -Yes. 

I put my arms around his shoulders and buried my face into his neck and just cried and cried.  I was amazed at his patience allowing me to do this for it seemed, as long as I needed.  Then, he held me away from him and looked deep into my eyes, he told me, "Write this down..."

I was unsure of what he was about to tell me, but I knew he was going to tell me a message.  A very important message.  I did not feel prepared and told him to let me find a pen and paper.  He just repeated, with a very intense look in his eyes, "Write this down."

I ran around the room looking endlessly for a pen and paper when suddenly I found myself behind my very first typewriter, one that I had used as a teenager.  I put paper in the typewriter and my fingers on the keys, and told him I was ready.  Then, he disappeared. 

This time, I really woke up from my sleep and I cried out into the empty room, "Please tell me!!" 

But, there was no response and I knew it had been a dream.

For many days, I would fall asleep mentally asking him to come back and tell me what his message was.  Days turned to months and the intense dream I had, after my husband had passed, stayed with me and I often wondered what it all meant.  Until one day, it hit me.  I realized what I believe is the answer.  The message he wanted me to know is exactly what he told me.  To simply, Write This Down. 

If anyone wonders why I stay motivated in sharing parts of our story, his illness, and our lives, it is because I think he wanted me to write it down.  How sharing these things may help or affect others, I will never really know, but I do hope some good will come from it.

xoxo

The Grief Channel

A year went by.  I wonder, where did it go?  Yes, I survived, but what did I learn and was I truly present in the moments that have passed?  I try to remember exactly how I felt or what I was doing at this time last year.  I can't.  Only snippets come back to me.  I remember last year, on New Year's Eve going to bed early.  I remember the relief of sliding into bed and pulling the soft blankets around me, laying my head on the pillow.  I remember sleep was my only haven -and even then, it was a minimalist haven, at best.

My husband passed away on December 15th, 2011, from Pulmonary Fibrosis.  He was the love of my life.  The only person that knew all of the real me.  When he was alive, I had somehow elevated him to hero status.  In my eyes, he was the only one who defined intimacy.  My partner, my mate. 

I was in denial, looking for him around the house.  Still, opening my bedroom door and seeing a faded image of him in blue-jeans and glasses, smiling, as I came through the door.  Then, poof!  The image is gone, he is no longer there, and the impact of that would immediately bring me to my knees.  No!  Where did you go?

I was in auto-pilot mode.  Like a zombie, moving slowly in my mind. Coiling up his oxygen tubing.  His glass of water on the nightstand.  Folding his glasses.  Fluffing his pillow.  Looking at those stupid meds on the table.  Those were the first to go and I bagged them up with disgust and anger. 

Then I would look for him again.  It was as though I had misplaced him.  I can't find him anywhere.  I still feel that way.

Then, the crying.  Constant crying.  Not the kind your mind thinks about before hand and then the tears come.  No, it was just the immediate tears before the brain has a chance to catch up.  The grief, palpable.  It was physical.  The tears during the day, then at night.  At bed, my mind ripping through the tangible love and experiences we shared was like torture.  Then the sleep comes and I see him, he comes to me.  Upon the first collective consciousness of morning, a thud in my chest and the tears come again.  It goes like this, on and on. 

Despite the physical ache and heart wrenching longing for my husband, there was also a parallel feeling that somehow he was watching me.  I could just feel it.  Even from the very moment that his eyes lost their sparkle and I knew he was gone.  I felt him watching me. 

Everything I did from that moment on, there was a deep feeling that he was seeing it all.  There were even moments within me that I felt shy about this.  In our marriage, although we shared the most intimacy I had ever experienced, we also had established a certain level of manners and respect for each other.  There were just things we did not do in front of each other.  Great.  Now he has the advantage of seeing all of those things about me.  But, what could I do besides just being me?  I hoped that wherever he was, he had a deeper understanding of human-nature.

Somehow months passed, although, my emotional disposition had not.  I stayed in a foggy, grey area within the recesses of my mind and heart.  Stuck repeating the same day, every day.  I told myself that grief has no time limit.  I knew in my heart what I was doing is what I needed to do.  All the while, I still felt our connection, I still felt he was watching me.  I began to consider what things where like from his point of view, wherever he was...

Just for one second, I contemplated the idea that he was truly watching me and it wasn't some sort of trick my mind was playing on me.  What if he was somehow still connected to me?  What if he died, but still had his own thoughts and feelings?  What if he was checking in on me and maybe flipping through others he cared about, too?  My mind imagined him flipping through TV stations of all the people that he loved.  His children and mine, his mother, ex-wife, siblings, best friend.  I could see him doing that.   Just checking in to see what's going on and seeing our daily struggles in a place he no longer dwells.  Then he gets to my channel.  There she is crying.  There she is grinding her teeth at night.  There she is crying again. Over and over. The Grief Channel plays the same thing all the time.

One day, I was blogging on the computer and the feeling came to me that he was watching me again.  A feeling of approval came over me, as though this made him happy.  I realized that I want to make him proud.  We are still in a relationship.  When he looks at my channel, I want him to beam with my progress.  It was a turning point for me.  It was the moment that I realized I had to fight to add more texture and experiences back into my life, so that I could share it with him.  To be honest, I haven't stopped crying, he knows that.  But, I have added other things into my life in addition to the crying.  Such as laughter, silliness, and love.  I have changed the channel.  The more I do this, the more proud I feel he is.

Somehow, I am here.  A year later.  I survived.

Sheba the Christmas Shepherd

I used to clean my neighbors home.  I was new to the area and wanted something to do outside of my own home.  My neighbor, a beautiful woman, worked very hard at her job and had little time for cleaning.  She had a cleaning lady although one day was talking about the areas she wished could be improved.  I offered to clean her home.  I really liked it, as I would walk over in my slippers, unlock her door, put on my IPOD to some rock-n-roll and just clean.  To me, it was like I was getting paid for a fun workout!

One day, in the winter, I was jamming away, dancing around and cleaning when it was time to clean the exterior of her sliding glass doors.  I went outside.  It was a cold, cold day, but sunny.  I wondered if the Windex would freeze right when it was sprayed on the window.  I had taken off my IPOD and I heard a sad wailing.  I could tell it was an animal and it sounded hurt.  The sound seemed to come from the river. 

Each winter, when the temperatures drop, the top of the river freezes over.  The water still flows beneath the river, although the top forms an icy crust.  I walked across her back yard and stared.  Sure enough there was an animal walking and crying in the center of the river.  I went down to the dock and started making kissing sounds, calling to the animal.  The animal started walking toward the dock.  Once the animal was about 30 feet from the dock, I could tell it was some sort of dog.  But, it looked strange.  In the distance I could see it's face did not look normal, and it must have been just a pup.  I kept calling and calling but the animal seemed frightened and stayed on the ice.  I went inside and called animal control. 

A few minutes later a Sheriff arrived, as in our small town, animal control is the Sheriff.  He came in and walked out onto the porch with me.  I explained the situation and we caught sight of the pup whimpering and wailing walking along the center of the river.  It was a scary situation, because the ice was not solid and there were little melting puddles within the ice that was very thin.  The animal could have fallen through and I was beside myself.  The Sheriff indicated that there was nothing that could be done, as the dog started running up the center of the river and it was too dangerous.  No human would consider doing such a foolish thing, going out onto the ice, they would surely fall through.  I thanked the Sheriff as he left and continued to clean, the whole time listening for the poor pup.

At the end of my shift, I poked my head out of her sliding glass door, to hear another neighbor calling to it.  I walked down to the dock again, this time to see a neighbor downstream, kneeling at his dock holding out a hot-dog.  The pup was back and crying on the ice, walking slowly in but  stopping about 20 feet away from the dock.  Then it started running up towards my direction and ran past me on the ice.  This time, I had a chance to see it closer and realized it was a German Shepherd puppy.  It's eyes where white, because it was blind.  A blind dog, stranded on the ice.  My heart just tugged, but still there seemed nothing we could do.  I went back to my house.

For two days all of us who lived on the river, listened to the poor baby crying on the ice.  We all talked on the phone, we all left food out on the docks, we all called to it.  It seemed like a helpless situation, and it caused us much anxiety to hear the wailing in the middle of the night, knowing this pup was on its second day there, with no food and bone chilling temperatures.

My hubby had been on the road for work.  But, he spent time on the phone with me as I told him about this dog and how heartbreaking the cries in the night were.  On Christmas Eve, my husband was due back home.  Once he arrived, he asked have I heard any news on the dog?  I shook my head 'no' as the last time I heard it, was the night before.  I was sure the dog had perished.  Just as I said this, we both heard a wail.  I jumped up and said that is the dog!  Next thing I know, my hubby was out the back door.  I ran to the porch after him.  Yelling for him not to do anything crazy and to be careful.  He disappeared through the archway which lead to the river.  I stayed on the porch completely frightened for him.  Time began to pass and I heard nothing.  Not my hubby or the dog was making a sound.  When suddenly, in the darkness of the sunset, my husband's silhouette appeared beneath the archway, with a bundle in his arms.  My heart leapt!  He carried into the house the dog who now had now been on the ice for three days. 

The dog, we called her Sheba, was a puppy of 6 months.  She was completely blind.  Around her neck was a nylon cord that had been broken or chewed.  Her nose was hot and she was barely hanging onto life.  We fed her milk and water through a dropper.  We kept her warm.  We took care of her until a vet was willing to see her a couple days later.  They put her on an IV and was not sure if she would make it.  She had an infection from the cold temperatures.  But, Sheba pulled through within the week.  We knew we couldn't keep her there on the river, so we were going to take her to an animal sanctuary in another state.  Before we had the chance, the vet found a wonderful home for her up in the hills.  A home where they raised German Shepherds, with acres for them to run, all fenced off.  It was like a dream.  On every Christmas Eve, I think about Sheba, and of course my hero, my hubby.

Photo 1 via

I Just Called to Say I Love You

Our family recently got through the one-year anniversary of my husband's passing.  On the day, my son and I wrote little notes to him and then burned them.  We blew the ashes out into the wind.  It was our way of sending him the thoughts in our hearts.  Later, we were talking about other ways that we still talk to my hubby.  My son told me he calls his cell phone and leaves messages on his voicemail. 

After my hubby passed away, I could not bring myself to cancel his cell phone service.  So, I pay for his line every month.  I had already played his voicemail greeting and recorded it on a hand-held recorder, just so I could have the sound of his voice stored, but still, I want to be able to call him.  So, his cell phone account is still active. 

While discussing this with my child, he told me he calls his line often and on particularly difficult days, he may call more than once.  Then, he told me that he even texts him.  I asked how often he texts his step-dad and he says about once a day. 

To which I responded, "There's just a slight problem with that, your Dad doesn't have texting on that line.  No wonder my phone bill has been so high... :)"

The Big Hill

I'm a list maker.  I always have been.  I save all my tablets of lists from over the years so that my grandchildren could read about all the mundane things a person did, back in the old days.  When my family was young, I made lists for shopping, homework and chores.  When my hubby had his trucking company, I made lists of repairs and maintenance, lists for taxes.  I think my hubby liked this in me.  I made the lists so he didn't have to.  If there was something he was forgetting, he could always look at my list - or the 'honey do' list that I made for him :)

When my hubby was diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis, my list making really went into action.  This is where my expertise kicked into gear.  I made lists for medication, bathing, food, topics to bring up to the doctor.  Lot's of stuff to list!  When my hubby was on hospice, I made more lists having to do with the end of his life.  Some where things I knew that I would need to do, other lists I took dictation from him.  Call so-and-so.  This is what I want for you and the children, ect...

I started doing this a long time ago, because I had trouble sleeping.  I would toss and turn and think of the things that I thought needed to be done.  I realized that writing things down eased these feelings and would help me sleep better.  I also felt that it was my way of taking care of others.  To know what was expected of me and what needed to be done.

After my hubby passed away, I made a list of 5 small things that were actually huge.  They were some of the biggest things, I knew in my heart I needed to do.  Some of the items had to do with finances, others had to do with the children, another healing.  This list, for once, I didn't write down.  It stayed in my head and I tossed and turned many-a-night.  These were such large things to me, that one could simply give up due to the overwhelming feeling and sometimes I really wanted to.  The things on the list were also connected to my life with my darling husband.  A way to make him proud of me, if that is possible.  So, I couldn't walk away from this list.

Today, I completed that list.  I should feel proud and in some ways I do.  I actually think the list has got me through this last year.  It gave me a reason to go on.  Now, I have finished it.  I climbed a big hill and now am sitting on top of it, feeling not proud, but sad.  I never thought of what I would do after climbing the big hill.  I guess I will sit here and ponder it for a while. 

The Red Tree

Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, my hubby would climb into the rafters to pull down all our boxes of Christmas decorations.  This year it was two days after Thanksgiving that I climbed into the attic to fetch the boxes. 

"Not bad."  I thought to myself, somewhat proud that it was only a day off from what was our annual tradition.

One by one, I pulled down the boxes which were labelled with permanent marker in my husbands handwriting, "Christmas". 

Once all the boxes were brought down, I realized that I didn't need the smaller white tree that I had set up in our bedroom the previous year.  I had the tree in our room, so that my husband could experience Christmas from the bed.  The thought of having the tree in the room reminded me of all the nights, that we said 'goodnight' to each other and I would roll over and stare at the lights of the tree with silent tears rolling down my face. 

I mentioned to my youngest that maybe they could put the small tree elsewhere in the house, and he said, "No, Mom, that tree goes in your room."

"Honey, we just did that last year but it's not tradition or anything."  I replied.

"Yes, it is Mom", He argued, "It's our new tradition." 

"Okay, sounds good.  We will put the little tree in my room." 

Looking through more of the boxes, "Oh, look!  Your Choo-Choo train!"  I exclaimed.

This was the train that we set up around the main tree ever since my little-one was 4 years old.  Every year the sound of "All aboard!" and the train's whistle filled the house. 

"Oh, I don't think we need to set that up this year, Mom."  My child says.

"Are you sure, Honey?

"Yeah, let's just keep it simple."  He replied. 

"Alrighty." 

Then, I open the big box.  The one with the big, white tree that goes in our main room.  I am so excited.  I love how the tree glows, so bright and pretty.  I begin to pull the tree out of the box when I see that large portions of it had become discolored and yellow.  All these years, we have stored the tree in the same manner, and it has always remained pristine.  Why now?  I wonder to myself. 

I tell myself that it has a sweet, aged appearance, it's like an antique effect.  I proceed to set up the tree.  As I arrange each branch negative thoughts begin in my head.... 

"Why bother?  You know you feel sad.  Nothing will ever be the same without him here, not even the tree.  The glorious tree.  It's all gone now.  Who even cares?"

My thoughts run away with me as I put each ornament on the tree.   

"Do it for the kids.  But, where are they now?  Oh, yeah, playing video games, while Mom decorates the tree all by herself.  Well, you better get used to it, after they leave you will really be alone probably too achy to get up into the rafters at all!  Then what are you gonna do?  Your a real piece of work thinking like this.  Isn't this suppose to be about the wonderful gift of Christmas?  So much for that!"

"Whoa, Mom!  The tree looks great!"  says my oldest, coming up the stairs.

"Yeah, great, if you like 'the dog-peed-on-it look'."  I said flatly.

Finally, I plugged it in and all the lights twinkled and it glowed again.  The next morning, I walked by the tree.  Only noticing the yellow stains.  This doesn't look antique at all.  It looks horrible.  Maybe I should just go buy another tree.  But, I don't want to.  This was 'our' tree.  Here come those thoughts again....

"The tree doesn't look bad with its lights on.  Whenever visitors come, just turn on the lights.  You should be happy, you should be grateful.  Stop being so superficial.  It's just a white tree with enormous yellow stains.  But, I don't like it.  What are you going to do, be bothered by it all season?  Do something if you don't like it.  I miss my hubby."

Then it came to me.  One-by-one I took each decoration off of the tree.  I ran down into the garage, my feet cold on the bare floor, searching through my husband's shelves of this and that.  Until I found it!  A can of red spray paint.  Shaking the can and hearing the ball bearing rattle against the edges,

I thought, "Oh yeah!  I'm gonna do it.'

I placed the tree, in all of its yellow and white glory onto the balcony, still shaking the can of spray paint, more thoughts ran through my head...

"If he was here, he would not like this at all.  Maybe you should test the wind direction. You're probably going to get paint on the deck." 

I began to spray and immediately the tree started to look better to me.  I kept going, like a frantic artist on a masterpiece, like a street graffiti artist tagging in the subway.  It felt good, really good.  I could almost feel my hubby saying, "You go girl!  Do what you gotta do!"

Not sure how many people can say they spray painted the Christmas tree.  In the end, not one drop got on the deck.  I walk by the tree now and think it looks "different" which is fine with me.  Maybe next year I will get a new tree, or just buy a can of gold spray paint...  Good, bad, or ugly, I realize that I was marking the moment of new traditions yet to come.

xoxo

On This Day, Last Year: Details from 11-03-2011

With my husband in the end stages of Pulmonary Fibrosis, I tend to write about the emotional side of things and often gloss over the physical parts of dealing with this illness.  Many people who suffer from this disease have different courses of treatments to try and experience a wide range of issues.

For my husband, he was diagnosed just a little over a year ago and during this time last year, he was able to rake the leaves on the lawn and was still embarrassed about using his oxygen in stores or public places.  He was on 2 liters of oxygen back then. 

At that time, he was the first one up in the morning to bring me my coffee and throughout the day created his own schedule of getting cleaned up for the day as well as helping out with dishes or watering plants on the balcony.

As time progressed and we received more assistance from in-home care, he no longer prepared his breakfast or lunch as to reserve his energy.  He also took physical therapy and learned exercises in order to retain his lung function.

Slowly, the level of oxygen he needed increased.  He would sleep on 4 liters and go up to five, while awake. 

Then, about a month ago his SAT's seemed a bit lower and we had to go to 8 liters during the day and 6 at night.  Pretty soon, anything that had to do with movement took great effort from him.  Such as washing his own hair.  So, I pitched in to help him with this. 

About two weeks ago, he needed a bit of assistance getting to the bathroom.  Someone to hold his arm as he walked there. 

As of last week, at 100 pounds, my husband was carried to the bathroom for his last "real" bath and since then, he cannot leave the bed. 

What is it like to be in end stage Pulmonary Fibrosis? 

At this time, he is on 12 liters of oxygen at rest.  Things like sitting up or moving his arms cause his SAT's to drop down into the 50's.  It takes additional oxygen through the mouth to get them to slowly climb back up.  He no longer craves big, juicy steaks and now sticks with small portions of nourishment that are bland and easy to digest.  Eating also causes his oxygen to drop.  Water or Pedialite must be dropped into his mouth with a straw as sometimes, he cannot hold the cup.  He is given Morphine, orally, to help with the oxygen craving.  This helps him to sleep and forget that he has to work so hard to breath.  This will become our primary course of action to assist him as he progresses even further.  

We have a schedule.  Periods in-between his personal care and rest, when he enjoys spending time with family.  He is all there, mentally.  He responds well and knows exactly what is going on although he does forget which day of the week it is.  When I squeeze his hand three times for... I Love You.... He always squeezes back three times.  Even when he is asleep. 

Every morning when he awakes he is always thankful for another day, which amazes me...his desire to live.  

For us, that is what it is like to be in end-stage Pulmonary Fibrosis.  

xoxo