One of the biggest ways my family has chosen as a way to deal with our grief is advocacy. Fighting back against the disease that stole our dad, husband, grandpa and best friend.
In May 7-11 my mom, sister and I will be traveling to DC to attend the ALS Advocacy event on Capitol Hill. One way you can help is to write letters to your congressional delegation. You can find more information on www.alsa.org or e-mail me at tenhill@msn.com and I can send you the letter template.
If you write a letter (handwritten or typed is fine) and want to send them with me, please e-mail me. Be sure to reference Advocacy Day in your e-mail so I open it :)
If you are from a state other than MN, ND or SD, that's ok too. Just be sure you address the letter to whomever represents you in DC.
Thank you so much!
April 20, 2013
April 11, 2013
Dancing With a Limp
It is a year today…and I still miss you so much Bill. No matter how happy I am for you that you are in paradise, I still haven’t been able to not wish that we could have had those retirement years that we tried to claim. We almost made it. We almost rode off into the sunset didn’t we? Today is very sad for me and all of us, but we are going out tonight to celebrate your life, not your death.
Erin sent me a quote
the other day that I really like:
“You will lose someone you can’t live without,
and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never
completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news.
They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come
through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still
hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
― Anne Lamott
― Anne Lamott
I think this is where I am at now sweetheart…..I can never
get over losing you, but you will live forever in my heart, and no one can ever
replace you. Thank you for our years together -- I am a better person
for having been with you. I hope that you died knowing how very much I loved you, and
how proud I was to be your wife. I pray that you knew that.
I love you Bill, always have, always will.
Joan
April 10, 2013
One Year Since We Spoke
Yesterday marked one year since the last time I talked with my dad. I remember our last conversation. The last things we said to each other were "Love you" and "Love you too." I am lucky to know exactly how my last conversation with Dad went ... some people don't get that luxury.
Life does go on, but it is forever changed. We all do fine in our day-to-day life "operations" because what other choice is there? He is there and we are here and, for now, that's the way it is. I do wish there was a way to make the world truly understand what I lost on 4/11/12, but there isn't. Everyone would have to have my relationship with my dad to really "get it" and that isn't possible.
There is still an element of disbelief. Don't get me wrong, I watched my father take his last breath. My mind knows that he is gone, but there is a part of me that still expects to see him or hear his voice when I call. Disbelief. The anger stage is fading. My dad would say, "You can't stay mad forever," and that is true. It's exhausting to be angry and it doesn't change the situation.
One year later I do still cry some. There is sometimes a claustrophobic feeling (that's the closest word I can find to describe it) when I want to talk to my dad and there is nothing I can do about it. I can't pay enough money, scream loud enough, travel far enough, cry hard enough or beg long enough to change anything. Claustrophobic is how that feels to me.
I read a quote in a magazine -- it was in a love letter, but still fitting -- that says, "I would swim six oceans just for the possibility to get a glimpse of you standing on the shore." This is a hard week. A snowy and icy week too, and that doesn't help. Probably feeling more emotion this week than I expected to.
Remembering those who I thought would show up and didn't, but especially remembering those who did show up .... in cards, letters, e-mails, at hospice, at the house, at the funeral home, at the church. I never knew that one year later that would still mean so much to us.
But mostly, I am remembering my dad. The dad who took me with him to horse sales and hay sales, to bale hay in ditches, to roof with him once or twice, to get a "new" stereo for my car at Nordstroms so I didn't have to listed to RUSH (ugh), through many (many!) miles of the Rockies, down so many horse trails, down the aisle to my groom, and home from the hospital with Ben --- and the dad who did his best to prepare us for his absence every single step of the way.
Miss you Dad - I love you and I am eternally proud to be your daughter.
Life does go on, but it is forever changed. We all do fine in our day-to-day life "operations" because what other choice is there? He is there and we are here and, for now, that's the way it is. I do wish there was a way to make the world truly understand what I lost on 4/11/12, but there isn't. Everyone would have to have my relationship with my dad to really "get it" and that isn't possible.
There is still an element of disbelief. Don't get me wrong, I watched my father take his last breath. My mind knows that he is gone, but there is a part of me that still expects to see him or hear his voice when I call. Disbelief. The anger stage is fading. My dad would say, "You can't stay mad forever," and that is true. It's exhausting to be angry and it doesn't change the situation.
One year later I do still cry some. There is sometimes a claustrophobic feeling (that's the closest word I can find to describe it) when I want to talk to my dad and there is nothing I can do about it. I can't pay enough money, scream loud enough, travel far enough, cry hard enough or beg long enough to change anything. Claustrophobic is how that feels to me.
I read a quote in a magazine -- it was in a love letter, but still fitting -- that says, "I would swim six oceans just for the possibility to get a glimpse of you standing on the shore." This is a hard week. A snowy and icy week too, and that doesn't help. Probably feeling more emotion this week than I expected to.
Remembering those who I thought would show up and didn't, but especially remembering those who did show up .... in cards, letters, e-mails, at hospice, at the house, at the funeral home, at the church. I never knew that one year later that would still mean so much to us.
But mostly, I am remembering my dad. The dad who took me with him to horse sales and hay sales, to bale hay in ditches, to roof with him once or twice, to get a "new" stereo for my car at Nordstroms so I didn't have to listed to RUSH (ugh), through many (many!) miles of the Rockies, down so many horse trails, down the aisle to my groom, and home from the hospital with Ben --- and the dad who did his best to prepare us for his absence every single step of the way.
Miss you Dad - I love you and I am eternally proud to be your daughter.
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