tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74391861425303944882024-03-13T05:20:16.023-07:00We4KimsLiving in a constant state of in-between - and loving it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-37770711298436264432015-01-31T19:14:00.001-08:002015-01-31T19:14:14.646-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It has been a year since my last post. And as we all know, SO much can happen in a year. Rather than try to update this blog in what I haven't shared, I will just say that life has been kind to us. We are together, we are healthy and have even added members to our little family. We still miss dad and have done our best to stay true to promises that we made to him. </div>
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Happy 2015 to all. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-8995542030722401732014-01-29T23:45:00.003-08:002014-01-30T11:20:02.738-08:00Hurry Up and Slow Down...We've always been a household of overachievers - but this is getting ridiculous. It feels like we've done more in the last 6 months than we have done in years. And just as we were just getting over the strain of the holidays, my entire family is gearing up to embark on a new set of transitions. More change - more to get used to. <br />
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I've been completely engrossed with a story about a 23 year-old girl who was brutally murdered outside of a club in Santa Ana. Kim Pham was in line with her friends - then somehow got involved in a verbal altercation with a separate group of women. According to local news, the exchange quickly escalated to a scuffle that ultimately led to her untimely death. Within minutes, a light that took 23 years to develop was extinguished at the angry hands of 5 heartless strangers who senselessly beat her to death. Adding insult to injury, a crowd was present - but very few came to help. </div>
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As someone who's recently experienced a battle between a loved one and an unfair opponent, I can only imagine the sense of loss that her death has left with the community that was built around her. As a parent to 2 little girls, I ached deeply for her family - especially her parents and siblings. And though I could try to speculate on what her loved ones must be feeling, I know that whatever I come up with would only amount to a small fraction of what their pain is really like. There is nothing worse than having to bury your child. Period.</div>
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This public loss brings much of my private anguish to the surface. And if I let myself, this could take me to a place that I'm not ready to deal with yet. So instead - I've decided to reset my expectations. I am going to try to move forward with whatever lies ahead knowing that I cannot control everything. I can only continue to love my family and give them all that I can, for as long as God will allow. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-58959200579033055602014-01-23T23:55:00.000-08:002014-01-24T00:57:14.319-08:00And Down Came the Rain...(written Dec 10, 2013- Post Jailyn's 10th bday)<br />
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Dad,<br />
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We watched the most beautiful fireworks show tonight. Each spark magically danced with purpose in the night sky. The skyline was breathtaking. And as familiar Christmas song medleys played, booming colors ignited approving gasps throughout Disneyland. You would have been over the moon! I also know that you would have insisted on carrying Jolie in your arms the whole time - just so that she could have the best seat in the house. Tonight she had to settle for second best and sat on my lap. Like you, she also missed the show. Your little princess was sound asleep from a full day of celebrating Jailyn's 10th birthday.<br />
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(Can you believe Jailyn is TEN?!!!)<br />
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I closed my eyes and listened intently to the crowd. Somehow I was convinced that if I honed in hard enough, I'd hear you laughing and screaming in the background. If focused enough, I'd find your face in the crowd - your signature smile lighting the way. </div>
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The moment brought me back to our last 4th of July together. 7/4/2013 - It was <i>such </i>a windy night. I remember how disappointed you were that we didn't buy our own sparklers for the girls. You even threatened to stop by one of the stands - but mom and I wouldn't have it bec. in spite of your efforts to hide it - we knew that you weren't feeling well that day. Thankfully Jon arrived later that evening with fireworks in-hand. I could tell that you were relieved.<br />
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Once nightfall came, we all stepped out to watch your silly neighbors load up illegal fireworks on their makeshift stands. I love how much we laughed that night. I also loved watching you with my Kimchix. I still recall trying to film the moment until I noticed how yellow your skin looked in the light. My camera seemed to only intensify your skin's tawny hue. I decided focus on your smile instead and it immediately put me at ease. The look on your face did all but say, "It will be ok....one day." </div>
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Back in Disneyland, I saw dads, grand dads and even great-grand dads everywhere. They were with their families and happily watching the same fireworks show. It just didn't seem fair. You are one of the good guys, Dad. If anyone deserved to be with their loved ones, YOU surely did. And though I know you were with us in spirit - I needed more. MUCH more. It just hurt so much to think about you. Soon a tear rolled down my cheek...followed by another. Before long, I was unable to stop. I suppose that one can only weather an emotional storm for <i>so </i>long. I really didn't want to upset mom or wake up Jolie but I just couldn't stop crying. Suddenly I felt someone sit beside me, resting their hand on my back. It was big sissy. She sat quietly looking away from me - but it was clear that she wanted me to know that she was there.<br />
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"I'll be Home for Christmas" began to play in the background while fireworks continued to thunder above us - increasing in cadence. All that I could do was lower the brim of my hat, cover my face and allow the rain to fall. Then just as I reached the peak of my breakdown, I felt something land on my hand.<br />
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<i>Wait... was that a snow flake?</i><br />
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I looked up and watched a million little, white flecks floating downwards. And as each speckle landed on top of me, a sudden surge of comfort fell upon me, too. You were there...weren't you? You knew that I needed you - and like big sis - you chose to comfort me in silence. You didn't miss the fireworks show. You heard the beautiful music. You were holding Jolie the whole time. And as the snow trickled down, you were promising me that it <u>will</u> be ok… one day.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-52364980056390995352014-01-21T09:45:00.003-08:002014-01-21T17:42:46.269-08:00Much Ado About NadaIt seems wrong that I have neglected to post anything on this blog for over two months. I can't even say that it's bec there's nothing to report. The fact of the matter is, there has been A LOT of amazing moments that should never have gone unmentioned. Yet somehow...I have been unable to find the motivation to do it. And though I have allowed the idea that it could all be due to writer's block - I know the truth.<br />
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I haven't written about any of it bec all of the wonderful experiences that I've been blessed with has been difficult to genuinely embrace. I'm sad and tired and don't want to put forth the effort to pretend that I'm not. I also don't have the energy to wax poetic on gloom that I've touched on before.</div>
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Not here. Not this entry. Not today.<br />
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I've opened this post over a dozen times but only end up closing my browser - feeling utterly overwhelmed. I know that I should have written about Thanksgiving, Jailyn's wonderful 10th bday, my bday, Christmas, dad's bday and the New Year. And though I do have - what appears to be -the meager beginnings of an entry for each event; but they are still sitting in my drafts folder. They're all waiting to have some semblance of completion. Waiting for me to muster the inspiration to speak about them.<br />
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The good news is my family is doing ok We are still going day by day. We still miss dad immensely, but find comfort in the circle that he helped built. And still trying to figure out what this "new normal" is all about. In spite of the difficulties we are facing, we are carrying on together. That's what counts, right?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-79289735891950247642013-11-09T11:57:00.000-08:002013-11-27T23:28:00.741-08:00Jogging for Joe<div style="background-color: white; color: #484848; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On November 9, Team Jogging for Joe walked in honor my dad - joining thousands of others during the 2013 Purplestride OC. I really had to mentally prepare myself for that day - knowing that it would be an emotional moment for my entire family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's hard to explain what it feels like to be in the midst of a sea of people who have traveled down similar paths - families that endured the same painful losses. To walk side-by-side with those who managed to beat their cancer - thanks to successful whipple procedures. To try to stifle pangs of envy while survivors bravely shared stories about their well-deserved triumphs. To see my mom's face when we saw dad's picture displayed on the "Path of Heroes." To watch her sob uncontrollably then fall straight to her knees. To miss dad in such a profound way that all I could do was crouch down and cry beside her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">THAT was the hardest part. Dad is our hero.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Mom asked me to make customized t-shirts for our entire team. Determined to stand out, I opted for yellow shirts and purple font. Ironically our colors also represented dad's passion for a basketball team that he loyally supported since our family arrived in U.S. many moons ago - but I digress...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3.1 miles later, our team crossed the finish line screaming. My cousin, Mark, even managed to exchange high-fives with a very friendly bear. Lol.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What an on-rush of emotions! I was so proud of all of us. We came out, pledged our support and did our best to show the world that nothing - not even cancer - can ever take away what dad helped build within the crevices our hearts: a family united.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want to thank everyone who participated in the walk and to all of the generous donors who helped our team nearly DOUBLE our original goal. The final magic number? $1,360. It's humbling to know that in spite of our late start, we were able to rally such awesome support behind our cause. I pray that we will have an even more successful walk next year...and the year after that....and, again, the year after that.... until pancreatic cancer finally get the funding and attention that it so desperately needs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad, I KNOW that you were with us that day. I hope that you watched us with pride because God knows how proud we are of you.</span></div>
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<b><u>#KNOW IT. FIGHT IT. END IT. </u></b></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0William R Mason Regional Park, 18712 University Drive, Irvine, CA 92612, USA33.6564238 -117.8330040000000233.6299893 -117.87334450000002 33.6828583 -117.79266350000002tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-38979748352782657422013-10-05T11:46:00.001-07:002013-10-18T01:03:17.264-07:00Sad DaysIt's funny how moments of sadness seem to hit me at random intervals. While laying in bed with Jolie, she woke up with THE biggest smile. My baby was OVER THE MOON about finding me by her side. You know the laugh that begins at the under side of one's belly that resonates straight to your heart? Jolie was laughing like <i>that</i>. And for a split second, I actually thought, "I should call dad so that he can hear her laughing like this." --- How does that happen? I'm a reasonably sane person (most of the time.) All that I could come up with is that once unconditional love is imprinted on the heart, it supersedes the mind - even for a moment.<br />
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Just 10 minutes ago, I was sitting on my couch - feverishly working on my company's newsletter. One of the articles I was working on was about an associate's daughter who died a few days before her 3rd birthday due to Acute Myeloid Leukemia or AML. I looked at her daughter's young face - and wondered how something so tragic could ever happen to that beautiful angel. Her brown eyes were so vibrant, so innocent. I can only imagine the suffering that she's seen through them. At nearly 3, it was probably near impossible to comprehend what leukemia was doing to those eyes.<br />
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And, of course, I began to think of our dad and HIS brown eyes. I'm certain that, even with all of the wisdom he's acquired in life, nothing could have prepared him for cancer.<br />
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It was all too much. I began to weep. I wept for little Isabella. I wept for my dad. I wept for <i>me</i> - bec. I can no longer read about anything sad without being reminded of my own personal loss.<br />
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I've stopped writing about my grief bec. I hear the same type of well-meaning statements:<br />
- Time heals all wounds.<br />
- He's in a better place now.<br />
- At least he is no longer suffering.<br />
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And don't get me wrong; I really do appreciate the sentiments... but.....<br />
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Yes, I 'm sure time will help me somehow. Yes, he IS at heaven now. And, no, at least he's no longer suffering ----- BUT I MISS HIM. I don't miss what he <i>did</i> for us - but who he was to us. He was my dad. And my kids... they miss him in ways that I never thought they could. I have to endure watching my mom walk around looking lost everyday. My sister and brother mourn him deeply. My niece is always sad. THIS SUCKS. I don't want to hear anyone tell me how it doesn't BECAUSE IT REALLY, REALLY DOES.<br />
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The day will probably come when the pain isn't this intense - but that's not today.<br />
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And most likely won't be tomorrow either. :(Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-25354971297011474392013-09-09T11:53:00.000-07:002013-09-27T02:03:20.213-07:00FOURTH GRADE - AND STAYING PUT ----- FOR NOW.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love that Jailyn is in the 4th grade. And though she's considered to be an upper grader - she is still my goofy, silly, lovable my baby girl. </div>
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In an effort to curtail the effects of the <i>many</i> transitions we've gone through over the summer, Jon and I agreed to keep Jai at her old school...for now. The good news is that Jailyn appears to have a pretty good teacher. Mr. Beyer seems enthusiastic, warm and has a passion for teaching. (Imagine that!) Thank GOD for that bec. he'll need all of that to mitigate through teaching a class of THIRTY-FIVE kids.</div>
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Jailyn seems to enjoy his class and I'll take what I can get. :) </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-31331795900595102202013-09-01T22:57:00.000-07:002013-11-27T15:16:18.826-08:0040 Days<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">Some Catholics believe that the soul remains on the earthly plane for forty days before entering the afterlife - recalling how Christ </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ascension_of_Jesus" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Ascension of Jesus">ascended to heaven</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"> forty days after his </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Resurrection_of_Jesus" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Resurrection of Jesus">Resurrection</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 19.1875px;">Today marks the 40th day since dad passed away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 19.1875px;">We visited his grave to deliver multicolored gladiolas and roses. When we arrived, the 3 vases were already brimming with flowers and decor that my sister left just a few days earlier. The combination was nothing short of amazing:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 19.1875px;">Cali's unrelenting heat wave forced us to keep our visit short. We retreated to my Uncle Flor and Tita Mercy's house to celebrate dad's life with our extended family. Lots of food. Lots of family. Lots of laughter. Yet in spite of everyone's best efforts - the festivities were dwarfed by the painful fact that dad wasn't there to eat, laugh and BE with us. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 19.1875px;">Not gonna lie - it really f&^*ing sucked. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 19.1875px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 19.1875px;">Only adding salt to the wound, Jolie displayed the first obvious sign of grief. I will never forget how her face lit up after seeing my Uncle Flor (who could pass as dad's twin) walking around wearing a salmon colored t-shirt. Jolie ran up to my uncle SO fast. She grabbed both of his hands and looked up at him. I could see her big, brown eyes searching for a glimpse of returned recognition. That's when she began to hop in place - waiting for Uncle Flor to do what my dad used to do. Dad used to joyfully clasp hands with Jolie and jumped around in dizzying circles until they both fell down laughing. Jolie kept staring - waiting. And as the seconds ticked by, I could see sad realization enter her expression. He was not going to jump. Though smiling, Uncle Flor was not overjoyed at the sight of her - not the way dad always was. He was not going to do any of those things bec. he is not the grampa she was hoping for. In spite of that, I painfully watched as Jolie trailed behind my uncle. Still waiting - still hoping. It was really more than I could bear. I left the room in tears. I realized - only then - that Jolie was NOT too young to feel his loss. In fact, her sense of loss was a lot deeper than I could <i>ever</i> even imagine. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 19.1875px;"><br /></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-123562987450167962013-08-26T02:57:00.000-07:002013-11-27T15:05:36.030-08:00Painful FirstsMom and Dad celebrated their birthdays in the same manner every year: they'd wake up early, quietly eat breakfast, go to church then grab a quick lunch together - always together. Then when the weekend came along, our entire family would gather together and commemorate the day in a special way.<br />
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This year, mom welcomed her bday like this:<br />
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And as much as I wish that she was able to happily celebrate another year of life, I know that the fact that she was able to muster getting up is pretty darn remarkable in itself. But the truth is - my mom is a pretty remarkable lady. </div>
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We ended the night at home with cupcakes and cuddles. Our puffy-eyed mom put on a happy face for the sake of her grandkids and smiled for pictures.</div>
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The truth is nothing outside of having dad around again could have changed her sadness. It is simply not what is not meant to be. So all that we can really do is to continue to go day-by-day and pray for the day when these moments will feel less excruciating. One day...<br />
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Happy Bday, Mommy. We love you always.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-51124381031961527682013-08-24T14:09:00.006-07:002013-08-28T10:52:47.189-07:00Bless This MessAs a working mom, the challenges of keeping a home intact is nothing short of a freaking miracle. Thankfully my hubby is a laundry extraordinaire so we do have clean clothes most of the time.... but they're often stored like this on my bedroom floor:<br />
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Ok ... more like this:</div>
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At least they're clean, right?<br />
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Then there's the rest of the house... Oy. I'd post a picture but I actually do have a little bit of shame left.<br />
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The good news is that my house is definitely filled with love. (...and dust...and crumbs and dirty dishes and stains.) My Kimchix are happy and my husband adores me. That trumps tidy any day.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-23266293442686067422013-08-24T01:11:00.000-07:002013-11-20T15:07:03.432-08:00Accepting ChangeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-67366607194434083012013-08-22T13:51:00.001-07:002013-10-14T02:50:18.162-07:00Greener Pastures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">It’s hard to believe that dirt could ever house someone as “big” as our dad. 12 feet below, beneath a small, brown patch of grass, is the body of man who lived a life much larger than a coffin could ever amply contain.Yet in spite of my difficulties with coming to the realization that dad is gone, it is, in fact, </span><em style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">our </em><span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">reality. Life </span><em style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">has </em><span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">to go on. ( Right?!?)</span></div>
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On August 10th, we celebrated my little brother’s birthday. The day was especially tough bec. it was the first family event that dad wouldn’t be around for. I know that we all secretly dreaded what it would be like. A multitude of worries hung like a dark cloud bec. if <em>anything</em> would make dad’s absence more apparent, this type of celebration would.</div>
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Dad <span class="caps">ALWAYS</span> made a big deal about special occasions – especially birthdays. He insisted that we make the effort to get together <strong>no matter what</strong>. Each gift <span class="caps">HAD</span> to be accompanied by a thoughful card. We knew that absences would <u><em>not</em></u><em> </em>be pardoned bec. no reason could ever be good enough for missing such a special event. </div>
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But <span class="caps">DAD</span> wasn’t there; And we had to excuse him; and <em>that </em>has to be good enough.</div>
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During lunch I really tried not to stare at my brother. He was visibly dejected – and that just broke my heart. We all tried to don happy faces – but it was a facade. We missed dad. He should have been there – but he wasn’t – and boy did we <em>feel </em>it. It took a while to get into the spirit of things but soon – we were reminded of how strong we are together. We began to take pictures, laughed like idiots and broke bread simply to rejoice that Jo was born 34 years ago.<br />
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Want to hear something crazy? It felt wonderful to feel normal – even for a moment. Simply put: we looked happy bec. we were. We were happy to be together. Happy to eat a good meal. Happy that our family was genuinely in tact. After lunch, we took the festivities to Queen of Heaven. We brought desert so that we could celebrate with dad in a small way. <u><em>That </em></u>felt good, too.<br />
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The bitter fact that our family was short one person made it even more important to stay focused on our little brother. We had to try to make the day better – bec. much like the fact that pancreatic cancer did not define our father, we could not allow our sadness to define Jo’s special day. </div>
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From dad’s resting place, we went to a local “family fun center” and played to our hearts’ content:</div>
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For a brief moment, we allowed happiness to genuinely take over <span class="caps">AND IT FELT RIGHT</span>.</div>
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Soon the brown patch of grass above our dad’s grave will turn green. His “spot” will become more uniform with the surrounding area. It will no longer look “new” and out of place. And though he will still be <strong>there</strong> and no longer with us – we will find a way m<span style="line-height: 1.6em;">ake room for the possibility of greener pastures to come. I know it will just take time – but I know that, that is what dad would want. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-33973405055441957112013-08-15T23:18:00.000-07:002013-08-15T23:31:04.195-07:00Delivering My First Eulogy - Dad's Dedication 8/3/13<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Dad - I haven't delivered a speech in years. I can only hope that you were proud of what I prepared for you that day. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad's Eulogy - Read on 8/3/2013 </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> St. Elizabeth Ann Seton</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was approached about delivering a eulogy today, I couldn't help but feel worried and unqualified. Sadly the only person who is worthy of carrying out such an important dedication is the same man we are honoring today. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After writing his obituary for his funeral program, I went back and tried to reflect on what else I could say about our dad. I was reminded of an early morning conversation with my sister and our mom. Overcome with heartache - went through all of the “why’s:” ---- Why us? Why dad? <i>Why</i> now? We’re so happy, so settled. Our family is stronger than ever. WHY?!!! Mom said that she wants to believe that there is a lesson behind all of this, though to be honest, none of us could think of it that day.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now a little over a week since he’s passed away, I continue to marinate on that thought – <i>IS</i> there a lesson here for us?</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve read somewhere that God doesn’t waste a hurt. And this…THIS definitely HURTS. I’ve never experienced a grief so profound and life-changing. Our dad has always been a strong advocate of higher learning and persevering through hardships. Perhaps THAT was the lesson? I sat in front of my laptop – with dad’s face as my screensaver – and that’s when it hit me: I need to take the one emotional state that’s taken over our entire lives for the last 8 weeks, and turn it into something that may help us process through this hollow pain. The lesson is within our grief.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">G-R-I-E-F.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">G stands for GRATITUDE</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The quality of being thankful; readiness to show deep appreciation for and to return kindness.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you’re sitting in this church, it is likely that you or someone you know has benefitted from my dad’s generosity. I am definitely a recipient as well. And for many years, I’ve struggled to understand why dad used to emphasize SO much on “utang na loob.” In my ignorance, I used to resent his preaching. I thought to myself, <i>Giving is something that should be extended freely, with no strings attached or unfair expectations for reciprocity. </i>But I’m finally starting to understand that the act of giving has nothing to do with the gratitude it should evoke.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So what is gratitude? It’s a deceptively simple word, yet so hard to articulate. And since I still have many miles to go on my journey towards enlightenment, I can only tell you my opinion on what gratitude is NOT.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gratitude is not the ability to find the silver lining around murky clouds. That, my friends, is called positive thinking. Gratitude is not regret. In many ways, the present moment is all that we have. When you’re grateful for the present, you see past regrets as necessary steps to get where you need to be. Gratitude is not striving for and obtaining the brass ring. Feeling fortunate and celebrating victory is wonderful - but no one reaches the mountaintop alone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So there, I’ve said what gratitude is not. But, much like love, gratitude is something you have to experience to fully know <i>what</i> it is. I truly believe that our dad understood this word to the core. He lived it - exemplified it - and he required it from most of the people in his life. It is my hope that in this leg of the journey, I will learn to practice gratitude the way that our dad taught us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">R is for RELATIONSHIP</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Joe Tumambing was an exceptional tipper. He believed in always leaving 20% for servers wherever he dined. And if our party was large, he’d personally hand them an additional $10 - $20 bucks in cash on top of that hefty tip. And in response to our protests, dad used to say, “These people work really hard for minimum wage. Can you imagine… doing <i>all</i> of this? I want them to feel good that they’re doing something to sustain themselves. Perhaps this will give them good incentive – maybe show them that a little extra effort might get them farther.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad taught us that the connections we make are central to a successful life. If you accomplish all your material goals but you do not attend carefully to your relationships, you will end up empty, alone and miserable. But if you build wonderful relationships with people who genuinely care about you, and whom you equally care about, then no matter what happens in the outside world, you will still be happy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I is for IMPORTANT</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of great significance or value; likely to have a profound effect on success, survival, or well-being.</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a world chock-full of distractions, focusing on what’s truly important can be hard. We get fixated on our immediate needs and ignore the “bigger picture.” We get lost in toxic relationships that yield no long-term happiness.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Family is important. Both of our parents taught us that. They made sure that we all felt responsible for one another. We HAD to take care of each other - NO excuses. And before we knew it, what started out as this guilt-induced Jedi mind trick, soon transcended to unconditional love, respect and regard. There is absolutely nothing we wouldn’t do for our family. That’s a character trait that my dad upheld until he took his final breath.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">E is for EMBRACE</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An act of accepting or supporting something willingly or enthusiastically.</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">While most 7 year-olds are gearing up for 2</span><span style="font: 7.3px Arial; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><sup>nd</sup></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> grade, at 7 dad was selling ice cream to help sustain his large family. I can only imagine how daunting it must have been to help feed a family at such a young age. Dad embraced the opportunity to support his parents in any way that he could. All he asked for in exchange was a chance to obtain an education. Dad sold ice cream everyday after school until well into his early adult life. Things later came full-circle after he landed a top management position at Magnolia Ice Cream. Pretty cool for a local kid from Pasig was who was teased and called “Betet.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad’s commitment and work ethic was unparalleled. He taught us that even the most difficult or mundane task can become more than ever imagined. You just need to put your best foot forward and step up to the challenge with your whole heart.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">F is for FAITH</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Battling dad’s pancreatic cancer was – singlehandedly – THE hardest thing we’ve ever had to do as a family. The emotional and physical toll it takes out of you is difficult to explain unless you have been through the struggle yourself.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And for nearly 7 weeks, our entire family banded together to ensure that our dad was always surrounded with love – and cared for with dignity. There were times when dad grew tired of the situation. He hated losing his autonomy. And when nothing seemed to pacify him, prayer always brought him back to us. It brought a calm to his face that can only be attributed to his devout faith in God.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During his final days on Earth, Dad taught us that faith is an expression of hope for something better. It is more than a belief – because belief is rooted in the mind. Faith is based in the language of the heart. We act in faith when there is no guarantee, no certainty. Just an expression of hope and that was enough.</span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dad – I’m humbled to be here to represent our family. Thank you for loving us – and for never giving up. We will continue to honor your light and legacy by teaching our kids and their kids follow in your footsteps. We miss and love you – so much.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-11280674761432619912013-08-15T13:42:00.001-07:002013-08-15T14:36:54.078-07:00Dear Dad...<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18px;">"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." ~</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Havelock Ellis</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Dear Dad, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">..I don't know why this has been so hard to write. We've been through so much the last few months - and yet, I can't seem to finish this blog entry. Perhaps the words will flow easier if I say the hardest part first?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">You died on Wednesday, July 24th at 7:31pm.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">There. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Now I doubt that I will ever see those numbers on any display without thinking about you and the day you finally left the pain of cancer behind.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">We all knew that the end to this awful journey was imminent. Your last remaining guests were quietly escorted out at 7 p.m. After the room cleared, 3 things remained: our immediate family, the white noise created by the oxygen machine, and the unreasonable hope of waking from this nightmare. Your breathing was notably shallow. Each breath ended with a slight flutter that was both rhythmic and frightening. </span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #fff2cc;">Is that what the hospice nurse referred to as a "death rattle?"</span></i><br />
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">We decided to give you one last dose of liquid morphine to help ease the fluttering. We didn't want you to be in pain but unable to convey it. 30 seconds later, the fluttering went away. The morphine must have helped.</span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #fff2cc;">See, Dad? You always knew how to get what you need without having to state it.</span></i><br />
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">We each began to take turns talking to you individually. We stroked your hair...sang to you...kissed you...held your hands. It was important that you knew we were all there - just as we have always been. A circle formed around you - hands tightly clasped together to frame a man whose life was dedicated to each member of his family. The moment felt so surreal.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Now even shallower, your breathing somehow began to pick up a little pace. Your core body temperature was averaging around 101 degrees. We all looked at mom, unsure of what to do. Instinctively she leaned over and began to whisper quietly into your ear. I don't know if <i>anyone</i> was breathing at this point.</span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #fff2cc;">Is this what goodbye feels like?</span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Mom placed a kiss on your lips - and with that, you released two final breaths then left us forever. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Your departure was met with a flurry of overlapping sounds. We crumbled into each others' arms - finally letting go of months and months-worth of sorrow that we didn't know how to release until after you passed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); color: #fff2cc;">The moments that followed were shrouded with darkness and confusion. The 12 x 12 room suddenly felt larger, more imposing. Lost in grief, I ended up by your bed and decided to lay down beside you. I nestled into your left side and placed my hand above your heart - just as I have done many times before. It was weird to feel such stillness beneath my palm. Hard to believe that a heart as mighty as yours could ever stop beating. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">I scanned the room and saw mom standing in the doorway. She looked utterly destroyed. I watched as she slowly made her way towards your bed again. Her face sank deeper in sadness with each step. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); color: #fff2cc;">"What did you say to him, Mom?" </span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); color: #fff2cc;">Mom clutched her hands tightly around your fingers and said, </span>"I told him that I will always love him and would see him again soon. I asked him to walk with Jesus."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">***</span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Oh Dad... I hope that you felt our love. We wanted to reassure you that in spite of our sadness, we were ready to escort you beyond the confines of your hospital bed. Where lavish buffet meals are comped - and special treats are set aside just for you. A place where people will do exactly what you ask them to, and each lotto voucher is the winning ticket (every time.) We prayed that you'd soon walk free from the pangs of neuropathy. Best of all, we couldn't wait to have you surrounded by angels who have earned the right to welcome you home. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">Farewell, Dad. You many not have changed the world, but you've certainly changed our lives forever. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-36535917719396983272013-07-23T16:00:00.000-07:002013-07-24T07:31:06.376-07:00Respite<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px;">When caring for someone who is dying, you hear words and terminologies that normally wouldn't apply to your daily life:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>HEPATIC ENCEPHALOPATHY</b></span><br />
<i><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(also known as portosystemic encephalopathy) is the occurrence of confusion, altered levels of consciousness, or coma due to liver failure. In advanced stages it is called hepatic coma or coma hepaticum. It may ultimately lead to death. It is often caused by accumulation of toxic substances </span></i><i><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">in the bloodstream</span></i><i><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> that are normally removed by the liver. </span></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>APNEA</b></span><br />
<i><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A temporary period of time in which an individual stops breathing. It literally means, "no breath."</span></i><br />
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<span class="vk_ans vk_bk" style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 5px;"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><b>RESPITE</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc;">A short delay permitted before an unpleasant obligation is met or a punishment is carried out.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Friday, July 27th, marks 7 weeks since dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. <i><u>SEVEN. WEEKS.</u></i> Based on Monday's physical assessment, our nurse informed us that he may not even make it <i>that</i> far. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad hasn't eaten solids or consumed any liquids in almost 48 hours. He's also been sleeping a lot more. We can't even keep him conscious enough to take his pain meds. NOT a good sign. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dad never wanted to be a hospice patient. Up until his <a href="http://we4kims.blogspot.com/2013/07/hospice.html" target="_blank">oncologist revealed the dire results of his liver biopsy</a>, dad still held onto the hope that he would be able to aggressively treat his cancer with chemotherapy and/or radiation. He planned to seek out a hospital in Arizona that boasted success in slowing down the progress of this nasty, nasty disease. He <i>so badly</i> wanted to fly to Lourdes, France with mom so that he could swim in <a href="http://en.lourdes-france.org/deepen/the-signs-of-lourdes/the-water" target="_blank">"holy water"</a> - checking off an item in his bucket list.</span><br />
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I guess it was never meant to be.<br />
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As a part of dad's final list of instructions, we moved him into a respite facility to spend his final days of life. He did NOT want to pass away in the home that he loved. He felt the need to preserve the special moments that our family shared together. It was of prime importance that what remained there was not stained with the sad aftermath of cancer. With mom in-tow, a 2 man crew transported his bed into a nearby hospice home facility equipped to fulfill specific requests that we made in his behalf:<br />
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<li>A private room that's big enough to accommodate a sleeping area for my mom (who absolutely refuses to leave dad's side.)</li>
<li>24 hour "visitation hours" that will allow any and/or all of us to stay by both of them for as long as we desire.</li>
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All that's left now is our faith, our family and the love that dad instilled in all of us to bolster us during these coming days. </div>
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<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-size: large; line-height: 1.5em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>ACTIVELY DYING</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-weight: 700;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc;">Death, like birth is a rite of passage that each one of us experiences. For some, death is a </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #fff2cc; font-weight: 700;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>sudden catastrophic event, </i></span></span><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">for most it is a “process,”
allowing time for preparation. As the </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">dying and their loved ones attempt to “deal” with death </i><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">it is not unusual to experience a variety </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">of emotions that both help and hinder one’s ability to cope. </i><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">Often family relationships become </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">tense and strained. Although each death is unique to
the person, </i><i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;">there are commonalities that occur </i></span></span><br />
<i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-weight: 700; line-height: 1.5em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">when dying extends over time, these include:</span></i><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc;">• Social changes, redefining “self” within the context of relationship;</i></span><br />
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• Emotional changes, addressing the inevitability of death and engages in attempts at “closure”;</i></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i> </i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>• Spiritual changes, “life review,” reflections on “meaning,” addressing forgiveness and reconciliation, </i></span></span><br />
<i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> making one’s peace; </span></i><br />
<i style="background-color: #fff2cc; color: #444444; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 1.5em;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">• Physical changes, physiologic processes change as the body prepares to “shut down” </span></i><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i style="background-color: #fff2cc;"> and “let go” . . . to die. </i></span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-40380555279875624742013-07-21T02:30:00.000-07:002013-07-23T01:36:10.455-07:00Begging<div>
In the middle of the morning, my sister and I like to take turns crawling into bed with dad to keep him company. He doesn't seem to mind having his tiny space invaded. I'd like to think that the additional body warmth helps with aches that he can't tell us about. Perhaps he likes knowing that he isn't alone.</div>
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<i>Don't you worry, Dad. You will <u>never</u> be alone. </i></div>
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The hospice nurse said that along with dad's pancreas and liver, his lower lungs have also shut down - thus causing his breathing to sound labored. A week ago I counted the lull between breaths, noting 5 (one-thousands) second intervals. As of last night, dad's lungs expanded between <b>11</b> second intervals.<br />
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I am convinced that waiting period in between each inhale is what eternity feels like.<br />
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It takes every ounce of restraint to keep from pounding on his rib cage to wake up his failing organs. In helpless anguish, I place my hands on top of his chest - trying to manually draw his breath out through sheer will.<br />
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<strike>No such luck.</strike><br />
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As a part of the "natural process of decline," dad is also refusing to and/or having trouble with swallowing. This makes the task of administering his morphine and other meds extremely scary. Choking is a real threat. We've resorted to crushing his medications and mixing them with a teaspoon of pineapple juice. The slurry is digustingly bitter (I tried it!) - but it's a necessary step to ensure that he is as comfortable as possible. The only caveat is that we have to make sure that my dad is wide awake whenever we offer him anything. That is the most painful process of all. <br />
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You can hear the voice of the person attempting to wake dad up getting louder and louder.... the level of desperation increasing with each decibel reached.<br />
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"Dad? Daaaaaad??! We have to take your medicine, Dad. Daaaaaaaad????"<br />
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By the fourth or fifth "Daaaad???" ---- it is clear that we are no longer just trying to stir him - we are begging.<br />
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Begging him to take his meds.<br />
Begging that he swallows properly so that he doesn't choke.<br />
Begging him to come back to us.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-umLnPIK_Jbs/Ue3HFzMwUnI/AAAAAAAAASI/rDX7jJmejCk/s1600/IMAG1207-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-umLnPIK_Jbs/Ue3HFzMwUnI/AAAAAAAAASI/rDX7jJmejCk/s400/IMAG1207-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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But we all know how this story is going to end.<br />
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We find solace in knowing that we are surrounding him with love. We are honoring my dad with the dignity that he deserves. And even after the Lord decides to bring him home, we will continue to love him ... and miss him.... forever.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-12415773113707883572013-07-20T19:17:00.000-07:002013-07-22T18:06:15.591-07:002 Minutes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Sometimes you just have to take 2 minutes to laugh, take silly pictures with loved ones, and remember that life is a blessing. </div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-42369625693335618182013-07-15T02:13:00.000-07:002013-07-17T17:08:28.365-07:00Death Personified<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tCBhmpYMc48/UebrlkdS9zI/AAAAAAAAARQ/Xu95rIMeigs/s1600/grim-reaper-original.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tCBhmpYMc48/UebrlkdS9zI/AAAAAAAAARQ/Xu95rIMeigs/s200/grim-reaper-original.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Scythe-wielding, cloaked in black and with hour glass in hand - the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_(personification)" target="_blank">Grim Reaper </a>is probably one of the most recognizable dark symbols on mortality. If he had a singular purpose, it would be to bring a human "face" on the concept of death.</div>
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In the Kim Kasa, however, the grim reaper looks like this:<br />
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<img height="154" src="http://pages.ramaz.org/2015/KayeJ/Mitzvah%20Fair/arrow.jpg" width="200" /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nqnTqBV0_hs/UebqkAeaVDI/AAAAAAAAARE/HWUzYucB7v4/s1600/676A0501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nqnTqBV0_hs/UebqkAeaVDI/AAAAAAAAARE/HWUzYucB7v4/s200/676A0501.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> See the cute kid holding the bunny purse? Her mommy brings up the grim topics - sans scythe. Lol.</span></div>
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One of the hardest things I've had to grapple with is HOW to tell my kids that their grampa is dying. At 3 years-old, I don't feel that much can be addressed with Jolie. Jailyn, on the other hand, is a whole other can of hooooolllly craaaaap. Jai is far too young to know the (whole) truth, too intuitive to accept my futile lies, and too perceptive to ignore the chaos around her. She is smarter than me - but I know enough not to have a battle of wits as the unarmed man.</div>
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Aware of the short time frame we're facing, Jon and I devised a plan. We decided that I would lead the conversation - but allow Jailyn to decide on the pace. When prompted with questions during our bedtime routine, I casually mentioned my dad's failing health - using passive words like "Grampa's feeling sicky" a lot. I allowed time to go by and would say "Grampa is <i>still really </i>sicky." The intensity increased with each passing week until I finally said, "The doctors said that grampa is not going to get better." </div>
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I remember that conversation distinctly. It's kinda hard to forget. :(</div>
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"What does he have?" Jailyn's eyes were lined with tears as she frantically searched my face for a reply. I stared back knowing that she already knew my answer. "Is it cancer?" </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">How did she even know what cancer was??? </span></i></div>
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"Yes," I said quietly.</div>
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"What kind? There are different types, right?" Her lips trembled as she posed the question. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>God give me strength....</i></span></div>
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"It's in his pancreas...his stomach." I finally stammered. There's that familiar hollow pain in the center of my gut again.</div>
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"Ok.... but miracles happen, right? Grampa said he was told he'd live for 18 years and that was 25 years ago. So his cancer could be cured, right? Mommy?" </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Good grief. I can't believe she actually listened when dad said that to us during Christmas!</span></i></div>
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<i>"</i>Yes, Jailyn, miracles <i>do</i> happen - but every circumstance is a little different. He's sick. Like, really, really sick. Ultimately God does decide what happens in the end. Hope is definitely something we should hold on to." </div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Why couldn't I be somewhere else at that exact moment?!?!?</span></i></div>
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My heart ached because I knew that this was one of those pivotal moments that will change my baby girl forever. I began to cry. I wept for my dad. I wept for myself. I wept for Jailyn. I let my tears flow bec. I wanted to let her know that it was ok to cry. Jailyn looked scared.</div>
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"Are you telling me that he's probably going to... die?"</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>OMG. HOW THE F*CK AM I SUPPOSED TO ANSWER THAT?!?!</i> </span></div>
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I nodded my head. "Yes....probably."</div>
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Then came a wave of impossible questions to answer:</div>
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"Will grampa see me graduate from high school? Will he be here for my birthday? Or Christmas? Will he be here to see Jolie turn 4? He would want to see that, wouldn't he?" </div>
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I shook my head. "I don't know." She glared back at me - completely unsatisfied. "No," I continued, "I don't think that he will be. I'm sorry, baby."</div>
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I remember stroking her hair. Dad has always loved her beautiful hair. </div>
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She and I cried and cried together that night. I assured her that she didn't do anything to hasten my dad's illness - nor could she change the outcome at this point. I told her that she could lay her worries on me and her daddy - and that we will carry them for her for as long as she needed.</div>
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I don't know if being honest was the "right" thing to do or not. I just felt like lying to her would scare her more. I want her to trust us. Jon and I need to support our girls and let them know that - at the very least - it's ok to cry.</div>
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I <b>hate </b>cancer. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-41755417818905995932013-07-13T14:01:00.000-07:002013-07-16T17:20:52.273-07:00Stupid Freaking Cancer<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">Oh ... Sammy's </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">so confused he</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;"> don't </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">know whether</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;"> to scratch </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">his watch or wind his</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;"> butt." </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">- Truvy, Steel Magnolias</span></span></i></div>
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It is hard to explain what it feels like to watch someone you love die. It's a confusing, unrelenting pain that resonates from center of your gut and just...sits there. The grief is near debilitating - making it difficult to gauge reality apart from the hope that it's all just a really, <i>really </i>bad dream. We have to endure waves of emotions - mean roller coasters with drops that are difficult to predict.<br />
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Father Henry (Ruszel), our favorite family priest, came over to anoint both of my parents, and to give my dad his final sacrament. I walked into the kitchen to find my dad enveloped in a circle comprised of extended family. Everyone was crying. Dad was in his wheel chair - eyes closed, mouth slightly gaping open. He looked so tired, so yellow - so frail. My heart ached to see him there. Dad always took pride in his appearance. I knew that he wouldn't want to be seen like that. Pitied like that. Mourned like that. I desperately wanted to take him and scoot him away from everyone - but I didn't. I stood behind his chair instead and began to weep with everyone else. I had to remind myself that I was not mad anyone in that room. I'm mad at the stupid freaking cancer that's taking my daddy away. And there is no scooting him away from <i>THAT</i>.</div>
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THIS IS SO UNFAIR.</div>
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*******</div>
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The truth is, we are really blessed. Since Thursday, a revolving door of family and friends have come to pay their respect and offer their support. My mom's granite counter is constantly layered with a plethora of food - containers bustling with main courses, snacks and desert choices so that we can focus on taking care of my dad. The support has been tremendous.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-87276419904218786882013-07-12T20:07:00.002-07:002013-07-17T00:02:56.980-07:00HospiceYesterday was my dad's final visit with his oncologist. Thanks to his f*cking pancreas, the evil cancer that has also invaded his liver is no longer allowing the organ to do its job. He's really yellow - as if someone airbrushed his skin using a jumbo highlighter. The same pair of dark brown eyes that once commanded respect - now appear as though they are drowning in butter. The "sudden" deterioration was explained by his bilirubin count during his last liver biopsy.<br />
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A normal person's <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bilirubin" target="_blank">bilirubin</a> count is measured at no more than 1. If your count rises up to 1.5, it is considered dangerous. Dad's bilirubin was measured at 5 last week. As of yesterday morning, it doubled to 10. What does that mean to the people in the cheap seats? That means that his health is deteriorating <i>very </i>rapidly, folks. The oncologist was kind, but honest. He told dad that there was nothing left to do. He told my sister that we could do nothing else but watch my father die. They gave us pamphlets on hospice and said they'd set up all arrangements for us.<br />
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How thoughtful. Where's the damn manual on how to make our hearts not sink straight down to the soles of our feet?<br />
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It's difficult to comprehend that at the same time last week (July 4th), dad was walking around the mall with us to shop for the girls' new back-to-school gear.<br />
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NO ONE could convince him to not to participate. He beamed as each Kimchick completed her selections. He and mom even managed to sneak in 4th of July dresses and bathing suits for both kiddos to wear. Once we were done, we went to a Starbucks kiosk, purchased some snacks, then sat in the middle of the mall to bookend the afternoon. Dad gazed at all of us - finally resting his eyes on Jolie. He held her <i>so</i> tightly. It was almost as if he was trying to absorb her into his skin. His stare was so intense - perhaps hoping to be able to take a piece of her inside of his heart. <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I know that stare - bec. that was exactly what <i>I </i>was trying to do...with him. </span><br />
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We watched fireworks that night and stayed the entire weekend. I didn't know it then but that was the last time we'd ever be together that way again.<br />
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***<br />
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When Jon, the Kimchix and I finally arrived late last night, dad was sound asleep on his recliner. He was completely exhausted. My dad spent the day with some of his siblings - mending old wounds and reminiscing. I was told that he had a good day.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">They all look so much alike! Lol!</span></div>
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Today his hospice equipment was delivered. We have a hospital bed, a motorized mattress topper (that helps prevent bed sores), a portable commode, an oxygen separator machine, a portable oxygen tank, a shower chair, a table top, a wheel chair, a walker, wipes, disposable chucks and a folder with instructions. Never thought I'd ever take inventory like this. His hospice nurse, Barbara, seemed nice enough. Barbara lost her husband to pancreatic cancer just 2 years ago. I suppose that it explains her slightly detached disposition. Lack of complete warmth would normally turn me off, but I know that she has to do that to keep our circumstance from exposing her own grief.<br />
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I do notice a pause in her stare whenever she looks at my mom.<br />
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Things are feeling pretty real right now.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-31472883826504756752013-07-11T12:04:00.002-07:002013-07-11T12:06:25.753-07:00Knots in My Stomach<div>
For the last few weeks, my dad sternly refused visitors other than our immediate family. He insisted that he wanted to use his energy finalizing arrangements and spending time with us. Dad said that extra presence would be too distracting and emotional for him. It was heart wrenching to hear bec. we all know how much his family means to him. Still - it's his journey, not ours. We honored his wishes, knowing that he'd come around sooner or later. Yesterday dad finally acquiesced and allowed a few of his siblings to visit him at home. His joy was evident during our late night conversation.</div>
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"You sound happy, Dad."</div>
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"Really? You can hear it, huh?" Though his voice sounded raspy and tired, I could tell that he was smiling. I could <i>feel</i> it through the phone. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying.<br />
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"Yes, I can tell." I said. </div>
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He and I spoke for a few more minutes. Before we hung up, I assured him that we would be at their house again this weekend. (<i>Please</i>, God. Let me see him this weekend?) </div>
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Today my sister and mom are with him at his oncology appt. They're going to talk about his recent liver biopsy results. I'm hoping that dad will allow conversation to occur about palliative or hospice care. ANYTHING that will make him as comfortable as possible. </div>
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I feel scared. I don't know why. I physically feel pain in my stomach. I don't want to be scared.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-59205207800784928312013-07-10T23:28:00.001-07:002013-07-11T11:30:45.641-07:00Convos With GrampaI can't remember a time when I didn't wish for a closer relationship with my dad. Throughout my entire adolescent and teen life, we bumped heads - never really seeing eye-to-eye on anything. <br />
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I know now that it's because we are too much alike. Lol. I am, after all, my father's daughter.<br />
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As I got older, my relationships with both of my parents evolved. The arguing minimized - only to be replaced with solid time together. True clarity came once I became a parent myself. (So cliche - yet so true.) When Jonathan and I found out that we were pregnant for the 2nd time, we were elated and couldn't wait to share the news with our families. We also knew early on that we'd name our new addition in honor of my dad.<br />
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On<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif;"> February 11, 2010, Jolie Calla Kim joined our family. She was perfect ray of light and instantly brought warmth into all of our lives. Little did we know that she and my dad would develop such an inexplicable bond. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif;">God blessed me with the opportunity to finally experience the connection I yearned for with my father through someone I love more than myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: times new roman, new york, times, serif;">After finding out about my dad's declining health, I felt compelled to capture special moments that he shared with both of my kids - especially Jolie. I secretly began to record their telephone conversations on my cellphone. Each "convo" had a life of its own. Random, funny, intuitive and always full of love. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman, new york, times, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: times new roman, new york, times, serif;">It brings me comfort to know that Jolie will always be able to <i>hear </i>the lilt in his voice, and the joy she's brought into his life (and mine) forever. </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-25390345816577779392013-07-06T16:27:00.000-07:002013-07-26T19:28:30.949-07:00A Lesson About Respect<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">A convo between Jailyn and my dad this weekend:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Grampa: When you are speaking with someone older than you, you need to remember that they are NOT your peers. You have to speak *up* to them to show respect.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Jailyn: (looking perplexed) Um.... But if I "speak up" to them, wouldn't THAT be considered disrespectful, Grampa?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Grampa: Not at all. Why would that be disrespectful?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Jailyn: Bec. "speak</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">ing up" means you have to speak louder. And mommy says that yelling at old people is considered very rude.<br /><br />****<br /><br />OY VEY. <i class="_4-k1 img sp_76skge sx_7cb20c" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/ym/r/0Gtf20tdcer.png); background-position: -17px -751px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: -3px; width: 16px;"></i> Mama's got some 'splainin to do, Lucy.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-16947795656928828872013-07-03T14:46:00.000-07:002013-07-08T10:07:48.362-07:00Facing DeathWe are all going to die. But if given the choice, would you choose to know when "it" would happen??<br />
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In 1990, my dad developed type 2 diabetes. His stressful lifestyle took a severe toll on him - leaving his pancreas in an alarmingly poor condition. His doctors told him that he only had 18 years to live. My dad was 43 years-old with a wife and 3 young kids. I can only imagine what a scary and surreal moment that must have been for him. And while others in a similar situation may have opted to "live life to the fullest" - Jose D. Tumambing continued on the same path that he's followed since he was 7 years-old: he buckled down and focused on the future of his family.<br />
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He never told us about his prognosis.<br />
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The decade to follow proved to be very challenging for our entire family. There were several moments when we all feared for the future of our brood. But once the dust cleared, the foundation that my parents painstakingly worked to establish still remained. All we had to do was build up from there. Brick-by-brick ... everything to fell into place. And before we knew it, an edifice - bolstered by each member of our family - surrounded us. We were whole, strong and more unified than ever.<br />
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We even managed to add on to our clan: :)</div>
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We spent every weekend together - celebrating our family and a future filled with happiness beyond our wildest dreams. It was clear to all of us that the troubles we overcame only strengthened our bond - and bridged all gaps. Life was getting sweeter by the minute. </div>
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Then the proverbial "other shoe" dropped.</div>
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On June 7th, 2013, - one week before Father's Day and <b>23 years (not 18!!) </b>after his initial prognosis - the news that's haunted my dad finally reared its' ugly head. A series of recurring issues and unexplained weight loss prompted tests. All of the results came back frustratingly inconclusive. My dad insisted that more needed to be done - pushing for deeper testing. Finally a CT scan yielded results that changed life as we knew it. It revealed 2 masses: one at the tail of his pancreas - and a smaller one in his liver. (A later PET scan revealed tumors throughout his pancreas, his liver, his kidneys and lungs.) The doctor told my parents that had<a href="http://ww2.cancercenter.com/terms/adenocarcinoma/?source=ROOGLORG&org=true"> adenocarcinoma</a>- stage IVB pancreatic cancer. It was metastatic, extremely aggressive and will most-likely take his life sooner <i>than</i> later. The end could come at any time - going from several months to mere weeks. The 2nd, 3rd and 4th opinions all supported the diagnosis. We were crushed.- feeling sadness at a cellular level. I know that it will only get worse from here - but I can't even wrap my head around what that means yet.</div>
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<u>AMAZING GRACE</u></div>
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Now nearly a month after the CT findings, he is enduring the side effects this horrible disease: headaches, back and stomach pains, digestive issues and fatigue. My dad is trying very hard to maintain a positive facade - smiling and laughing with his grandkids - trying to enjoy this precious time with unbelievable grace. In spite of his pain, my dad is completely focused on protecting us. When he isn't in pain, he is feverishly working in his home office, making college fund arrangements for his grandkids and securing my mom. I can only pray to have an ounce of his courage.</div>
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*gulp*</div>
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All that I can do is to be here for both of my parents. To offer support - even if only in the form of bringing my Kimchix to reek havoc at their house. Tonight we are heading to their home for the 4th of July holiday. We're staying for 4 days and coming armed with stomach-friendly ingredients. It's so funny bec. all I want to do is feed him. It must be the Filipino in me. :) I guess it's just easier to do that than to figure out a way to convey a lifetime's worth of love in (what feels like) a minute.</div>
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If you pray, please pray for a miracle. But knowing what we know, I would settle for the hope that my dad won't be wrought with pain during his final days. If you don't pray, please consider making an exception for my dad. He is worth it. </div>
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In an effort to honor my dad and to help others, I intend on updating info about our journey through this blog. It'll help avoid repetition while allowing me an outlet to vent. In the meantime, please go to <a href="http://www.pancan.org/">www.pancan.org </a>for more information on pancreatic cancer. The statistics are <i>awful!</i></div>
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I will soon post about our participation in the upcoming <a href="http://www.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=1073087">PurpleStrideOC</a> later this Nov. Look out for <b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/551230398267009/">Team Jogging for Joe</a>.</b> :) I hope we can count on your support to help find a cure for this awful disease. </div>
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Know it. Fight it. End it. ---- <b>Love you, Dad!!! </b></div>
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P.S.</div>
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Hug your loved ones!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7439186142530394488.post-88286420522338409662013-06-27T13:30:00.000-07:002013-07-03T14:47:32.596-07:00An Accurate Fuel Gauge<br />
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Ever notice that your car's gas gauge lingers on "F" for a bit before the needle even moves; and then it moves faster and faster as it approaches empty? Once it does get to "E"- it dawdles there for a while until the warning light comes on - letting you know that it's time to fill up. This is a design flaw that thwarts us from truly knowing how much gas our tanks have left. <br />
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Silly? Yes. Accidental? No.</div>
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I've read somewhere that car engineers calibrate our gauges to do that on purpose based on consumers' feed back. Consumer surveys indicate that "we" do not want our gas needles to move from the "F" right away. (Technically, the needle should move the moment you pull away from the gas station.) Consumers also want some fuel in their tank even though the needle is pointing to "E." This gives car owners the <em>illusion</em> that they are getting better gas mileage or at least, not burning through the expensive tank of petroleum they just bought - in spite of the fact that they - quite literally- are.</div>
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This type of assuage is akin to those of us who set our clocks 10 minutes ahead so that even thought you KNOW it's 10 minutes fast, it somehow motivates you to get out of bed earlier, when in reality, you really just snooze 10 minutes longer anyway.</div>
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As a full-time working mom to 2 growing girls, this type of "miscalibration" in my mommy-tank holds true, too. I go, go, go - foregoing any and all signs of fatigue in the name of attending to other "more important" issues in my life. Then, as always, the inevitable happens....<br />
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Tank meet "E." - Which is exactly what happened several nights ago.<br />
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After 3 days of little-to-no sleep, my body finally screamed, "That's it, sister! I don't care if you think you need to do anything else - I. Am. Done. YOU are done. DUN-DUN-DUUUUNNNNN!" <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Insert snicker and silent reference to "The Croods" here. If you don't have little kids or haven't seen that movie then ignore this whole part.)</span> Next thing I knew, it was 1:30 in the morning and I woke up tucked into a corner of my couch. No Kimchicks. No hubby. Just me, my blanket and the flickering light of a nearby candle. Suddenly I am barraged with familiar thoughts...<br />
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I didn't tuck the girls in.<br />
I needed to give them baths!<br />
This place is a mess.<br />
I didn't spend any time with my man.<br />
I didn't cook food for tomorrow!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Why</u> do I feel guilty for resting?!</span></i><br />
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<a href="http://www.movingboxdelivery.com/media/images/products/more-info-moving-boxes/moving-out-checklist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.movingboxdelivery.com/media/images/products/more-info-moving-boxes/moving-out-checklist.jpg" width="115" /></a><i><span style="font-size: large;">WHERE IT COUNTS</span></i><br />
I'm not a martyr or a superwoman. I'm not some drone who thrives on working without emotion. And though there is a sense of satisfaction in a job well-done, one has to ask: WHY DO I PUSH MYSELF SOOOO HARD?!?!? <br />
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The answer is simple: I need to realize where true self-worth should come from. First of all ME (duh) and:<br />
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NOT what I can do FOR them but what I can do BECAUSE of them.<br />
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Life ... is so short. And in a moment, all that matters can be taken from you. I have spent a good amount of time correcting mistakes - addressing regrets - and from this day on - I am going to stop. No more lists - no more tallies. Just moments that I will do my best to be present for and unedited love that I intend to give.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00361458096775362991noreply@blogger.com0