Who else, who less, we all know someone who has left because of cancer. Sometimes it is a family member, sometimes someone known, and sometimes who you least expect by age, the couple, leaving on land the project of life and family that had begun.
This happened in 2012 to the family Creekmore, when the mother and couple with 48 years of age were fired. Since then, they keep writing on their family blog and remembering it, and a few days ago the Washington Post echoed the emotional letter that Dad wrote explaining how everything was going at home, and that we wanted to bring you here.
Dear Trish,
I just miss you.
I do not have much more to say.
If you want to stop reading now, please stay alone with how much I miss you. (I know that deep down you think that all this dueling is a bit annoying for you).
When I listen to a new group or see a new country or hear a new joke, I want you to be there to experience it. And to see the girls, I always want you to be to see your girls.
No, it doesn't matter if I'm broken because you left. I can stand it. I just want you to feel it and to be able to experience life more and see how things change. You deserved that. And you didn't have it.
It's been more than three years since you crossed the line, in your bed, surrounded by your mother, sisters and daughters, while holding your little hand (your hands and feet were so small). Those last days and hours were beautiful, but you left without more. Thanks for letting you go. We could not have endured it anymore. You died the way you lived: quickly and intensely.
Only much later did I realize that my pain began long before the day you died. I lost you as my partner, friend and equal years ago. The cancer is cunning and stealthy. He took us both before he took you. He denied us the equal conditions necessary for a normal relationship, and you the opportunity to be yourself. Already in 2010, maybe before, I was taking care of you physically and emotionally, just as if you were a disabled person.
You hated it. I know. But you left me. Thank you for that privilege. Towards the end, while I was giving you my last goodbye, you told me: "You are the only person I could have let love." It is an honor that I will carry with me forever and loving you was something I owed you for fighting with me for so long.
And I felt helpless anyway. I still feel guilty for that trip back from Africa the year you died. I begged the flight attendant to allow you to sleep on the floor, under our seats, but said he was going against the rules. You were writhing in pain from cancer, which already affected your bones. We both knew what it was, but you didn't want the girls to know it, so I didn't get up to talk to him and protect you. And you suffered.
Sometimes I even wonder if you didn't know before you were going to die young. Maybe unconsciously? You always talked about your own death. It is what made you be little intrusive and patient. Did you know? Or was it all the result of post-traumatic stress, of that night when you were near death from a car accident when you were 22 years old?
That moment made you have a dark side. Not evil, but simply calculator. It was not easy for you to decide to be a mother because of being suddenly responsible for another person. I still remember the day Emma was born, and while you were holding her, bewildered and tearful, you told me: "Yesterday I didn't want to be a mother and today I would throw myself in front of a bus if I needed for this little sack of skin and bones."
You were a patient mother. Lily couldn't hear enough about how you took her for two years, almost without rest. I think I never heard you complain about it. You just kept catching it constantly. I'm not sure I realized until years later when you referred to it, by chance. You never looked for admiration or thanks, just acceptance (and a little space).
We often joked about the way Lily asked you to take her, "up, up, up," and Emma "barked" orders to Lily, a Nazi Disney princess: "Lily, you're not doing well! I'm Cinderella and you are the fairy godmother. " Lily and I laughed the other day remembering that horrible zebra sofa that the girls had. There they watched Disney movies without stopping until we tried to build our little home. And then, cancer.
Lately Lily has been working more with the pain of your death. Being nine years old when you died, he struggled to understand what it means. Of course, Emma does it too (we all do it), but those three years of development between the ages of nine and twelve are enormous. Emma could cry and have her own emotions and thoughts, at least to some extent. Lily was sad, of course, but she was not very capable of handling her own pain, the one who is now hitting her and forcing her to grow rapidly at 12 (the two are maturing prematurely). He is doing very well. I couldn't be more proud of her in the last six months.
At the end of last spring, she and I were sitting on the terrace of the new ice cream shop in Takoma Park and we talked about how important she is to this family. She felt a little lost, she no longer wants to be a girl, but she still wants to be the smallest and youngest. With the help of her therapist, she wanted to talk to me to help her understand her new role in the family.
So we talk. We decide that she is the bravest of the family, because she is the youngest and we always follow her. We can only go as far as she lets us go. We love his humor and how affectionate he is and how much he values the family.
You wouldn't be surprised to see that it has become a fashion diva. No one in this family comes close to Lily in that sense ... maybe not even you (she has started wearing your shoes, which is a size 6).
You would be surprised to see that he has become very responsible and capable. The summer you died, he stole at least a thousand dollars (yes, large-scale theft) from friends and family; most of it went to buy makeup. He was with this for a while, but not now. Now I could trust her for anything. It is an incredible achievement. (And you know that I was also a bit of a thief in adolescence. And I did it for longer than Lily. But it's painful to see her make my mistake.)
Emma is a magical girl. She is a teenager, sensitive-but-not-emo who, like you, loves her TV and is firmly loyal to her friends and family. Emma is imperturbable and surprisingly wise. How many teenagers are wise? I don't know where he got it from, not from me. I think you should have something to do with it.
And she's so cool ... People just want to be near her. He is slowly coming to life as a teenager, enjoying being young instead of trying to grow up too fast. You should have seen her answering a friend worried about choosing the "right" institute. "It doesn't worry me," he said. "I'm just going to try to get good grades, go to a decent institute and be happy."
Both girls and I have signed up to get on the trapeze in a way you couldn't imagine. At least one of us is there every day of the week. Emma is our most advanced flyer, with Lily following her closely. I flew so much the first year that I needed a shoulder intervention. I liked this so much that now I am stronger than I have ever been (I am not sure you could recognize me). There are still some on the platform you knew personally, but most know you just by telling them your name.
Later this year they will tear down the old tent, and we will release more than a couple of tears remembering the last time you flew here. The new platform will be close and the girls will continue to perform their shows. I hope to do my program this fall or spring.
We still travel. I have not forgotten the promise we made to each other, to travel a whole year with the girls. We think of you every time we board a plane together. We went to Brazil, Iceland and Scotland, just the three of us. It was very difficult to make the first trip without you.
Every night, when we go to bed, I relive the night when the girls discovered that they would lose their mother. Sometimes it's unbearable, but you were a fighter. We both were. Today, while taking the girls to the theater rehearsals, we were laughing about that first trip, to Iceland. It was my first big trip without a second adult, and I did some really stupid things, like buying flour instead of salt for girls' pasta. Even more fun, they ate it, grimacing.
By the way, um, I've remarried.
Stop laughing. Yes, I remember the time we talked about it, just before I died. I told you: "I may not remarry," and you laughed and said, "No, you will. You love too much." It was sweet, but also a little hard for me. I know you would have preferred me to be a little less intense (yes, I would prefer it too). And, of course, you were right.And indeed, I am madly in love. We are a family, now. Amanda is great for me, and she loves Emma and Lily deeply. It is good for them to have a woman nearby. She has accepted the challenge of living in a house with a ghost. This is not a story situation for any of us. We have all had to strive to make it work.
I think she would like you, unless you think she is too enthusiastic. Surely she appreciates you too. He knows you endured my toughest years.
You would have liked our wedding (it was themed AC / DC). Mandy officiated the ceremony and it was amazing. Emma, Lily and Ingrid played "Good Riddance" from Green Day.
Your whole family from California came to support us and welcome Amanda into the family. It was funny and generous ... you would have been proud of them. We will see you in Tahoe this winter again. It is one of Emma and Lily's favorite trips and there are only a few years left before her cousins start college.
I feel fortunate to have met you and to have loved you. He would choose to endure the pain again, despite knowing what would end up happening. But I would try to be a little less critical and much more patient (more like you were with me).
Life is too short. I had to lose you to really understand it.
We have not forgotten you. We keep going because we have to do it, not because we want to.
Love you
David
Yes. I know that many of you will think that there is no point in publishing something like that ... that this is thought, but it is not made public on the Internet because it seems that there is only the intention of attracting attention.
Well, I don't know about you, but I'm drying my tears after transcribing the letter. I can not imagine that there are many worse things to the loss of your partner, your love, your travel companion in life, and I could almost thank you for making it public because sometimes it is worth knowing a little how this is lived as time goes by, to understand that, that Life is too short, and that we would have to do the possible and the impossible to enjoy it, to give it intensity, to see the days go by and instead of thinking that they are all equal and boring, to be able to say a good day that we live giving our best, and savoring life. Ours and that of our children, that many parents are missing.
