Yesterday, I was talking about my father to my CASA supervisor and he said something that made me feel better about the situation: “As a father, I want to be the first to go. God and I have an understanding that I cannot live without my family.” I’m sure the same is true for my father and I found it comforting to hear those words.

Another interesting conversation from yesterday occurred with my middle son. We were discussing where we would go on our next family vacation. I told him I wanted to travel for Christmas and that we would be taking Nana with us. He got really excited, “Yay! Nana’s coming! Wait, why not Grandpa?” “Because he will be dead by then,” was my response which had my son sitting in silence for several minutes. Silence is very abnormal for this kid. He will literally still be trying to talk to you when he’s taking a drink. “There’s no cure for his cancer?” He finally asked after a couple minutes. “His type of cancer is not treatable. That’s why we’re going over there every Sunday now. We’re trying to spend time with him while we still can.”

I’m not going to say I handled that conversation well. I don’t know that the cold hard truth is the best way to go with eight-year-olds. I’ve always tried to be honest with my kids, even about the big stuff, but I will not say that is the best approach.

I was ten when my maternal grandmother died of cancer. My kids are 13, 11, 8, and 4 currently. I was very close with my Nana. I was homeschooled, but one day a week I would go over to my maternal grandparents’ house while my mother went to painting class. In hindsight, my mother probably did more than just painting class because it seems like we were at my grandparents’ house most of the day. I’m sure she needed the “me time” or maybe she just used it to grocery shop without us kids or to run other errands. It didn’t matter to me. I loved spending time at my grandparents’ house.

My Nana and I were really close. She’s the one who taught me how to tie my shoes. She bought my first communion dress. I was her first grandchild and first granddaughter and I’m sure I have more memories of her than any of my cousins. When her breast cancer came back, she fought hard but did not buy herself much time. She did all the treatments, and, knowing her time was short, she tried to take me on a lot of adventures. She would take me to shows in Branson, Missouri. She started teaching me to knit, but unfortunately died before I ever finished learning. I should probably try to pick that back up sometime. One of the girls I teach in Youth Group brings her knitting to church and it always makes me think of Nana. I remember Nana’s last Christmas she had got all of us a bunch of Christmas presents and tried to get us things that would last a long time and remind us of her. I know she bought us all suitcases, and I think I got a dalmatian stuffed animal, but I don’t remember the other things.

My uncle and his wife had struggled with infertility and when they finally were able to get pregnant they suffered a miscarriage. So, when they got pregnant a second time they kept it a secret. They told Nana though. I’m not sure if it was because my Uncle wanted his parents to know or because he knew his mother was dying, but for whatever reason my Nana knew they were pregnant again. She told me too but made sure I knew it was a secret. I remember I would ask to talk to Nana every time she called the house. When I was on the phone with her I would stretch the phone cord (yes kids, phones used to have cords) into the bathroom and lock the door (the bathroom was the only room in our house that had a lock on the door). Once I was in the bathroom, I would ask her for updates on the pregnancy. There were never any updates because there really aren’t that many updates in pregnancy, but I was nine and didn’t know anything about pregnancy.

My family went camping with my uncle and aunt at Table Rock Lake the summer my aunt was pregnant and still keeping it secret. She kept an oversized tank top on when she was in the water and no one thought anything of it, but I knew what was up. I felt so cool knowing that secret. Eventually, they reached the point they were willing to tell people. I remember my uncle sitting at the kitchen table at my grandparents’ house and halfway whispering to Nana that they were ok with telling people. She then yelled to me across the room, “our secret isn’t a secret anymore!” My uncle seemed really surprised she had told me, and probably more surprised that a nine year old had managed to keep it secret. I remember my aunt telling me she was shocked I knew during the camping trip and never said anything.

Nana was unconscious in a hospice bed by the time my uncle’s baby was born. They told us they thought she could still hear. I remember sitting next to her bed telling her about my cousin being born and telling her I loved her. She died that night. They let me stay the night, so I was asleep on the loveseat next to her hospice bed when she passed. I remember my Papa waking me up in the middle of the night and having me move to a different room. I’m crying now as I remember all this, but at the time I never cried about any of it.

I woke up the next morning and my aunt was crying, making the calls to let everyone know Nana had passed. I don’t know why I didn’t cry. Maybe I felt like I had to be strong because everyone else was sad, but I really don’t know. I remember my aunt telling me how hard it was to call my great-grandparents and tell them their daughter was gone. At the time I don’t think the weight of how hard it is to lose a child was something that resonated with me. I remember my aunt reading a letter she had wrote Nana at the funeral. I don’t remember everything it said, but I remember her talking about heaven and Nana getting to hold the baby my uncle lost. I vaguely remember sometime after the fact having a breakdown and telling my mom I missed my Nana, but while everything was happening I never cried about it. I also remember having diarrhea after her funeral. It’s so odd the things we remember. I guess my body may have been grieving in a way other than crying; or maybe I just ate way too much from the fruit platter.

Now that my children are losing their first grandparent, I’ve been thinking a lot about Nana, trying to compare my response to what their responses seem to be. Obviously, my daughter is having a tough time. She’s eleven, so a bit older than I was when I lost Nana. My thirteen-year-old cried when he first heard about it but hasn’t really mentioned it since. My parents have eighty acres, and he loves that property, so I think his biggest fear is his Nana selling that land after Grandpa dies. I have great memories on that property too, but my husband and I plan to buy land of our own soon so I’m trying not to be overly sentimental about it. I just want my mother to do what is best and easiest for her. My four-year-old doesn’t understand what’s happening at all. My eight-year-old is the one who is harder to figure out. He’s obviously processing it because it prompted him to silence, which is an extremely rare state for him.

There’s not a lot of new updates on my father. My mother told me a couple days ago that my father will just sit in his chair and cry a lot of evenings. She’s not sure if he’s sad, or worried, or in pain, but I know it’s awful for her to watch. My father was sitting in my office yesterday, talking to his brother, and started tearing up asking his brother to pick up a fifty pound bag of corn and put it in the barrel in my parents’ barn because my dad can’t lift those bags anymore. When my father got off the phone I told him my husband would be happy to help him with the corn or any other chores. With tears in his eyes, my father said, “it’s just embarrassing needing help with your chores.” I told him the usual mantra, “It is what it is. You’ve helped all of us and we’re happy to help you.” My uncle was obviously happy to help. My father needs the corn because his favorite hobby is feeding deer and watching them eat from his bedroom window. I think deer are a nuisance, but my father has always believed they are the most majestic creatures.

My father did start the twenty-five milligram fentanyl patches two days ago and was actually able to get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. He was also able to eat a significant amount of food yesterday. My mother worries a lot about his pain, but I suspect the starvation is what is going to kill him. Apparently that is exactly what the oncologist told them. So, I tend to worry more about my father’s ability to eat. Though, seeing him in pain is not easy either.

I told one of the Judges we appear in front of about my father last week. He called me back in chambers and was very kind to me. He said he always liked my father and didn’t really know what to say other than that. He said he would be praying for my father. I told him I am grateful for the warning and the opportunity for closure, but watching the decay is tough.

I’m still not thinking my father will be up for the trip I planned to Hot Springs, Arkansas, but the fentanyl seems to be helping. So, hopefully that will improve his quality of life for his remaining time.