Dear Ginger

Dear Ginger,

It's been four months since we lost you. Does it get better, because so far it doesn't feel better. It's hard to imagine it getting better. We hear a lot about time, all the things that will change with time. I've noticed that time rarely feels like a friend. It's unreliable. Elusive. Brutal with its forward motion when you're desperate for it to stand still for just a minute, painfully slow in its churning during heartache. I'm grasping at air.

Ben turned three earlier this week. Early in June I realized how unbearable it would be to be here, celebrating without you. I remember you at his family party last year, bundled up in a brown leather jacket because you were cold all the time during chemo, and as a result of your weight loss. We were so scared but also so glad that you were doing well, all things considered, and could be there. This year I thought being home might be too much for the Husband to handle. He misses you and is grieving so much. I suggested a vacation. Let's get out of town for Ben's birthday! Escape from our lives for a good chunk of time, and then celebrate away with my family, who I knew would rise to the occasion to make Ben's big 3 so special, and they did.

Ben saw his first movie at the theater on his birthday. Toy Story 4. Watching his face as he watched the movie (and plopped jelly bean after jelly bean into his mouth) was more fun for both of us than watching the actual film, and it was a good one. I took pictures so I could just look at that face later and remember. I wanted to tell you about it. I wanted to post the pictures to Facebook so you could comment and share.

Do you know when Ben tells us he forgot something he says, "I got forgot that..." I want to tell you about that and laugh together. He says so many funny things these days. His vocabulary has gotten impressively large. We think he seems pretty smart. Of course, he can tell me the number of times he's pooped in one day, but he still refuses to potty train. I can imagine the conversation you and I would have about that -- my bitterness at having to change his man poops, and his cheerful "no thanks!" when I suggest giving the potty a whirl. Maybe tomorrow, he says. I know you'd get a kick out of it.

He's moving into the preschool room at school. The toddler is now a preschooler. He's excited and proud.

Leaving Sunriver at the end of our vacation, Ben's little voice from the backseat suddenly said, "Hey guys, do you remember that Nana died?" We exchanged a look and said, yes, of course we do. He replied sounding a little wistful, "Yeah...but it's ok." It is ok, and it is so completely not ok. Your pain is over, and we all wanted that. The memory that can bring me to tears every time is us pulling up to your house on a sunny weekend day for a visit. You weren't sick yet, so Ben was still pretty little. You came out to the porch to greet us, and I opened the door to unstrap Ben from his car seat. I said, are you ready to go see Nana? He rushed to scramble out of his seat and run to the door to see you. So excited and joyful. You were waiting at the top of the stairs, and I can still see you leaning forward and smiling at him and hear your voice saying hi to him, mirroring his obvious joy at being with you. That small moment feels like it holds all the beauty of having you as a grandma and all he lost when you died.

Do you know how much I miss you checking in with me every few days on Facebook? As your cancer and treatment progressed, I'd feel apprehensive if I hadn't heard from you or seen a post in a little while, and I'd breathe a sigh of relief when you'd pop up there or respond to a post. Now sometimes I log on to my computer in the morning and stare at the monitor, feeling heavy and wishing so hard for an IM from you. I can open our chat window and see our conversation history, but the pain of both the before and after is still too real and raw. I just can't bear to look. But I want to save that history forever.

Explaining cancer and death, something I can't even wrap my own head around, to a two year old/now three year old really sucks. While his daddy spent time with and helped take care of you those last few months, Ben asked questions, and sometimes my own grief made it hard to think straight. As hard as it feels sometimes, we make a point to talk about you with him to keep your memory alive. I bring up photos and those videos we have of your last visit to our house in October. Ben's obsessed with the picture of you from the funeral. He remembers it and that his auntie took it home. I need to have one printed up for him, because I think he associates it with you being present, alive. When he asks me about you being dead, I tell him that even though he can't see Nana here any more, he can visit with you in his dreams. Tonight he said, "Yeah, I do dat already." He told me a dream he had about being at your house, and there were dragons (mean dragons, he clarified). He told me that Nana held him. I told him that you would always hold him and protect him from dragons, that you love him forever.

Do you know that I chose Fleetwood Mac's Gypsy to add to your celebration of life playlist? In my mind, the words matched the freedom and return to your real self after life gave you such an unkind and drawn out ending. I'm still so pissed about that. Fuck cancer. I will always remember taking you to the Stevie Nicks concert when Ben was a baby. Your first concert! It was around Christmas time and it was hard to find parking near Key Arena with the ice skaters and holiday shoppers and Nutcracker viewers.  After circling around for a bit, I scrambled to get us one of the last spots in a weird garage nearby. You were such a good sport. We had fun. Now whenever I hear a Stevie song I think of you. I've heard Gypsy a few times out in the world since you died, and I stop what I'm doing so it can tear at my heart a little. I wonder if your energy is nearby. I've listened to it alone in my car a few times and cried.

That night of the Stevie concert, you rocked Ben to sleep on your shoulder while sitting in Ruth's old recliner. I took a picture, the colorful lights from our sparse mistake of a Christmas tree glowing in the background. It's a little blurry. I love that picture. You had the magic touch of rocking Ben to sleep. He'd settle in and relax into you in a way he never did with me. I'd marvel at it.

God, what I wouldn't give to be in that moment again. Or any of the thousands of everyday moments we had with you. Just for a minute. But it's gone. How can you be gone forever?

You made your house feel like home, and you brought and held the family together. Now we're trying, but we're drifting in our sadness.

I won the mother-in-law jackpot. Before I knew you, I had no idea that was possible.During the year you were sick, I tried to tell you in different ways how much you meant to me, but was I able to make you understand? I don't know. I hope so. In the 10 years I knew you, you were always so great to me, but I felt your love and support the most during my pregnancy and after Ben arrived.

New motherhood was beautiful but hard for me. You understood. The nights you stayed up with Ben so we could catch up on desperately needed sleep. The summer olympics were happening when Ben was born, and I remember you sat with me on the couch one night in those early days, watching diving competitions while Ben marathon fed. The TV flickering in the dark living room through the July heat. When he finished I handed him over to you and went to bed. The days you spent with Ben when I reluctantly went back to work and grappled with terrible anxiety. You taking care of him one day each week, and sometimes more, eased my mind and made leaving him feel bearable. The dinners you brought for us to make and eat together, and the evenings we spent hanging out together with Ben, talking and watching Homicide Hunter because you liked crime shows. All the thoughtful gestures, all the time you gifted us to breathe and adjust to new parenthood. You gave so much to us and seemed to find such joy in that without wanting anything in return. You just seemed happy to be there and to be with us. You taught me so much about love in a way that I never expected or could have ever predicted. I don't know that I could ever fully express the incredible gratitude I feel, because it's greater than any words I have.

I wish that losing you was just a terrible flash of the imagination. But it really happened. I love you, Ginger. I miss you every day.

Megan

Cancer is the worst. Pancreatic cancer is particularly devastating because it's usually detected really late in the game, when the cancer has already spread to other organs. At that point, it's already stage 4 and terminal. This was the case with Ginger. Research funding for pan can has lagged compared to many other cancers, which is crummy because it's so tough to detect and treat. Pancan.org is a great place to learn more about the disease and how you can help.