Tag Archives: Cancer

To Have Memories

27 Saturday Apr 2024

Posted by in grief, Reflections

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“To have memories, happy or sorrowful, is a blessing,
for it shows we have lived our lives without reservation.”
~ Tan Twan Eng, The Gift of Rain

I remember the smile you wore when I first came to your door.
I remember our first embrace, so full of yearning.
I remember our first kiss, so full of delight.
It was a tender time, wasn’t it? 
The sweetness held us, even as we revealed the pain that we each had known.

I remember lazy walks with you among pine and cypress trees,
the ocean’s soft roar in the distance calling us.

I remember deep conversation interspersed with comfortable silences,
as though our two souls needed time to breathe –
to breathe in the fullness, the beauty, and the terror,
of all we had experienced before meeting,
all we were experiencing now with each other.

I remember quiet days and sleepless nights.

I remember worrying I might not be enough for you,
confident you were everything I needed.

I remember you always being there for me,
with a fierce and tender loyalty and love.

I remember making mistakes and being forgiven.

I remember the long waiting hours 
for the doctor to return from the operating room 
and invite me into a private space to talk.
And I remember the distress I saw in her eyes 
as she delivered the awful news –
your abdominal cavity was riddled with a rare form of cancer,
they didn’t yet know its origin,
but they had done their best to get all of it.

I remember the years of oncology visits and the many tests and scans 
and invasive procedures the medical world inflicted on your body 
to save you for another day, another month, another year.

I remember the silent toll it took on you, 
even as you wholeheartedly embraced each day of living.

I remember time – 
measured, sifted, scattered —
that we received as gift and blessing.

I remember your hand slipping into mine whenever we walked.

I remember the places we still wanted to go together,
the life we imagined living together. 

I remember the times we were apart,
wanting only to return to you.

I remember joy and sadness mingling so often as one.

I remember being deeply humbled and grateful to have you in my life.

I remember not being able to imagine your absence.
And now, there is no need to imagine it.
It meets me unwanted around every turn.

Mark Lloyd Richardson
In memory of Dallis
April 2024

Attending to the broken places

10 Wednesday Mar 2021

Posted by in grief, Reflections

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Eight years after her initial stage-4 breast cancer diagnosis, my wife Dallis, the love of my life, succumbed to this horrible disease. She made a valiant and determined effort to live, and thoroughly enjoyed all the remaining days and years she was given, and yet on January 27 of this year, she breathed her last breath with me and her daughter Wendy by her side. Since then, my emotions and frame of mind have been swinging wildly all over the place, and I write to give voice to the internal struggles I feel and to try to make sense of my place in the world now that she is gone. Here is something I wrote a few days ago, and then let sit for a while before sharing. I wouldn’t read it if I were you!

Attending to the broken places
(Just when you thought it was safe to read my writings)

Among the questions that grip me and won’t let go are:
How was it possible for her to leave me?
How could she say goodbye to our shared life?
How was she able to give up on our future dreams?

The very questions trouble me, 
for they sound like accusations.
They also sound unanswerable, 
and yet not considering them hurts too.

My intellect tells me that my beloved 
needed to choose personal agency
over the constant intrusions of medical necessity.
Her quality of life had deteriorated so much
that no other path seemed tolerable.

In a sense, she had no choice but to say to everyone, 
including those dearest to her,
enough is enough:
I don’t want to do this anymore.
I feel more like a bundle of problems to be tackled
than the living, breathing human being
who once found so much joy in being alive!

Still, the questions haunt me:
How was she able to pull it off?
Was my love for her too little to hold her here –
at least long enough
to bring her nearer to a time a healing,
to tip the scales toward life and wholeness?

And lamentably there are other unanswerable questions:
How did she think I would feel when she was gone?
What did she suppose would be left of me without her?
Did she not imagine how abandoned I would feel?

In case there’s any doubt,
this is me stumbling around 
in the murky land of self-pity and blame.
This is me doubting myself and the adequacy of my love.
This is, in other words, 
the ugly, petty underside of grief
where it’s all about me,
all about my struggle to breathe again,
all about my pain,
my sorrow,
my emptiness
palpable in every room
every movement
every decision
every discarded dream
every flood of tears.

So, I urge you to avert your eyes.
This is the pathetic, needy portion of grief.
There is nothing lovely here,
nothing beautiful,
nothing worthy of admiration.
Only sad proof of all the broken places 
where my wounded heart now lives.

~ Mark Lloyd Richardson
March 7, 2021

No one way to be

27 Wednesday Mar 2013

Posted by in Reflections

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Pismo Beach. Photo taken with my iPhone.

Pismo Beach, CA. Photo taken with my iPhone.

“Life on earth is a whole, yet it expresses itself in unique time-bound bodies…. So there can be no one place to be. There can be no one way to be, no one way to practice, no one way to learn, no one way to love, no one way to grow or to heal, no one way to live, no one way to feel, no one thing to know or be known. The particulars count.” ~ Jon Kabat-Zinn, Wherever You Go, There You Are

Our lives can change in an instant!

Four weeks ago today, my wife Dallis had surgery for a tumor that was discovered on one of her ovaries. The surgeon was fairly confident going into surgery that the tumor was benign. There had been no symptoms, and the only reason it was even found was because of an MRI done for a completely different medical condition.

The surgery went much longer than anticipated, and as I waited with friends in the hospital’s waiting room, the feeling that something wasn’t right began to sink into my bones. Hours later the surgeon came to meet with me in a small consultation room, and the first words out of her mouth were, “It’s not good. We found cancer. We’re not sure yet where it came from.” After she uttered these words, I struggled to remain present, to listen carefully in the hopes of remembering something, desperate to grab hold of words or phrases that sounded encouraging – “She came through surgery well;” “She’s recovering, and will be able to see you in a little while.”

I was the first person to receive this life-altering news, and for several moments I simply tried to catch my breath. Dallis was not yet alert enough to be told. She and I had both been encouraged by the doctor’s gut instinct before surgery that the tumor was benign, and at the same time I think we both retained a cautious concern that maybe it was not. Speaking for myself, throughout this ordeal I have preferred to hear facts first and then decide how to process my feelings, instead of hopping on board the already bumpy roller coaster ride of speculation.

A lot happens very quickly when a person receives a diagnosis of Stage 4 breast cancer – PET/CT Scan, MRIs, blood work, mammogram, biopsy, and more. Dallis attests that she has begun to feel like a guinea pig because of all the poking, prodding and invasions of privacy. Most of the doctors and nurses have been wonderful – caring, sensitive, responsive to individual needs, and good at communicating human warmth. Even so, the indignities of constant medical procedures and a disease that invades one’s body eventually take their toll.

I have not written anything for my blog in the intervening weeks because my focus has been on being present and available to Dallis. Close friends, family, and our church have also provided practical support and caring. Our mental/emotional/spiritual wellbeing hinges on being able to recognize our blessings and to believe in the healing potential of the prescribed treatment.

There are moments though … moments when fear grabs hold of you and you’re not sure how to shake it!

The other day Dallis wanted to get out of the house but she didn’t want to ask me in one of the busiest weeks in the church year to go with her. So she said that she was going to drive to the beach and take a walk by herself. I didn’t want her to have to go alone unless that was what she preferred, so I said to her, “There is no more important place for me to be than with you.” I assured her that I was okay with her going by herself, but that I didn’t want her to think that she couldn’t ask me or that I wouldn’t want to go.

So together we enjoyed a long walk on a stretch of beach with our dog Bailey!

It was a reminder that each day is to be prized for the gift that it is!

Words (c) 2013 Mark Lloyd Richardson