Roller Coaster

March 25, 2017

It's been one year since my love passed away. Fifteen months before that we learned the cancer had metastasized. Three months before that she had the last of her reconstruction surgery done, which took several surgeries over 14 months. Before that process started she had been in chemotherapy and radiation treatments for 8 months. That treatment started 6 weeks after the bilateral mastectomy, which was done two months after she was originally diagnosed. That was Halloween, October 31, 2014. If you add it all up, it was three years and five months from diagnosis to death.

Those three plus years were miserable. The worst years of my life. Many people advised me that cancer was a roller coaster with lots of ups and downs. I don't recall any ups. It was a desperate downhill ride. We never found the part where the trajectory became positive. Oh, we had a few moments when we thought the trajectory had changed ... when chemo ended and the hair started growing back cuter than ever ... when the reconstruction surgery provided the cup size she'd always wanted ... when we moved to Sugar Land to reboot and prepare for retirement and maybe some grandkids some day. They were all just foolers, leading you to believe you were somewhere you weren't. It was all downhill. No matter how strong your brave face was, from Halloween 2014 to Easter 2018, it was a slow, struggling descent. The challenge was to stay on the ride, to hang on, because the trajectory might change. Hindsight proves it didn't.

Everyone says you can't put a clock on grief, but we do. We have to, because time is the only thing that heals, or at least makes the grief tolerable. In many ways I think that the grief process has been easier on me than on those who weren't along on the daily descent. I saw Cindy vulnerable, and afraid, and in pain, and hopeless, and helpless. I saw the suffering up close and how much it defeated her, a woman not accustomed to defeat. Yes, her family and friends and co-workers knew she was struggling, and I know they loved her through it. She loved them, too. But to the bitter end she worked to spare them the worst of it, until she just couldn't do it anymore, either physically or emotionally. That was her gift to us all, to be strong, to persevere, to maintain dignity, to live and die on her own terms. She made it as easy for us who remain as she could. It's up to us to learn from that for our lives going forward, and for our own future demise. She will always be my love, but she will also always be my hero. I can only pray that God will give me the strength and courage that my dear Cindy had in her life, but especially in her death.

My family and many dear friends have reached out to me today, knowing it is the first anniversary of my love's departure. I appreciate all of the calls and notes and messages. It helps me to know that I am not alone in my grief, that Cindy impacted everyone she met, that Cindy did not just belong to me. It reminds me that my love was loved by many, and that makes me proud that she chose to go through the dying process with me, that she trusted me to take the ride with her. She will always be my love, and every day I could use her help, I need my right hand, but I also know she intentionally made it easy for me to go on without her in many, many ways. What a heroic thing to do.

It's been one year since my love passed away. I've changed jobs. I've listed our house in Sugar Land for sale. I've purchased a new, smaller home in Fort Worth, and hope to move in the next few months. I've been diligently working on getting a handle on finances, and doing my best to help Griffin on his path forward, though he seems to have it well in hand ... he is his Mother's son. These are all major changes, something psychologists would say are stress inducing and yet, as overwhelming as the details can be, it's all quite invigorating. It's all something that I think Cindy would be proud of me for tackling, instead of climbing into a bottle or dragging everyone into my "woe is me" story.

The major changes include a new relationship with a woman I greatly admire. It began three months after Cindy died. Some might  say, and have said, that it was too soon to have a relationship. All I know is that after my love died the roller coaster continued to descend until Susan changed the trajectory. I'm no hero. I have no answers. I don't know the approved time-table for grief. I know that Cindy wanted me to be happy and that Susan makes me happy. This is a new ride, one that will likely have its own ups and downs. I believe that Cindy would be proud of me for taking the risk, regardless of the calendar, and I am glad that Susan has trusted me enough, so far, to take the risk with me.

It's been a year since my love passed away. I wouldn't be the man I am without her. I want to be a

man she would be proud of going forward. I think I can do that, with just a little help, because as we all know, women make men better. I think I've found one who makes me better, and my intention is to at least enjoy the ride.

This year, will be a good year.

My Big Sister

Dear Whitney and Jessica,

It was an honor to be asked to speak at my sister, your mother's, memorial service. I'm posting my words from the service here, so that everyone knows the love and admiration I had for Jennifer. Your father Dan, but especially your mother, Jennifer, were huge influences in my life. Not only did they teach me ...  they supported me, believed in me, trusted me. Those things are priceless, as you well know.

When we lose someone there are always regrets. The things we didn't say. The things we said that we shouldn't have. The missed opportunities and simply running out of time. I never thanked either of them enough for the things they did for me and there's no making up for that oversight, but they both knew I loved them and that will have to be enough. I love you and your families, too. Holler if you need me.

Love,

Uncle Dexter

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I am number five of the seven children of Billy and Winifred Turner, almost exactly halfway between my oldest sister, Jennifer, and my youngest brother, Neil. Though I'm number five sequentially, I am, by age, the middle child*. Neil is 12 years younger and Jennifer was 13 years older, which means she was an adolescent when I was born, and she was leaving home at the time of my earliest memories. It's disorienting when you lose a constant in your life. It's like "home base" in a game of tag or kick-the-can has been moved. You're still in the game, but not quite sure where "safe" is.

Dan & Jennifer - summer visit to Pampa

One of my earliest memories is moving Jennifer into a dorm at Texas Women's University. I had never been anywhere with so many trees, and so much humidity! It was an odd thing for a young boy, to see his big sister, a person he idolized, be so excited about moving away, leaving Mom & Dad & brothers & sisters. To this day I can't drive by the oaks on the TWU campus without thinking of Jennifer and the gratitude and excitement she had at the opportunity to learn and add to her life experience.

I also remember parking myself for hours in the branches of a tree in our front yard, waiting for Jennifer to come home for holidays. Until Christina arrived, I was the baby, and I just knew she would be bringing me a special treat, that she would be happy to see me and show me she was thinking of me. She never disappointed. Whether it was a TWU sweatshirt, that I proudly wore to school despite their lack of a football team, or a cassette tape player, complete with The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour tape, she always let me know she was thinking of me, that I mattered, that I was good enough to deserve those gifts.

Jennifer & Thanksgiving dessert

I spent many summers with Jennifer and Dan. I learned a lot and that, I think, was a primary motivation for Jennifer to put up with me those summers. We went to museums and libraries. We wandered around downtown Fort Worth, the biggest buildings I'd ever seen! We visited Fort Concho in San Angelo and the Frank Buck Zoo in Gainesville. Jennifer wanted me to have experiences I couldn't have in Pampa, to see new things and gain a bigger perspective on the wider world. She did everything in her power to do that for me, to instill in me a sense of adventure and a desire to learn.

When I headed off to college Jennifer was always there in a supporting role. My freshman year I broke the rules by living off campus with a friend. Jennifer let me use her address in Haltom City as my residence so the school thought I was commuting and I wouldn't have to pay for a dorm room and meal plan. She coached me on writing research papers. She fed me on weekends and paid me for doing chores around her house, including baby-sitting Whitney, so I could have some extra cash. The summer before my sophomore year, when she was pregnant with Jessica, she spent a long, hot day in Denton finding an affordable apartment for me while I was working in Pampa. She gave me counsel and guidance and, more importantly, confidence in my own choices and decisions. Getting that validation from someone you truly respect, well, it's priceless. I am eternally grateful for that.

Jennifer getting Cindy & Candy ready for a ride

As I grew older and married and had my own family we had fewer opportunities to connect. Throughout my life she was always the older sister, the one who lived elsewhere, the one I knew from a distance, just like my brother Bill. I looked up to them. I admired them. I still do. So many of the characteristics and strengths of my brothers and sisters are things that I use today as standards, as benchmarks. Jennifer was the first born, the leader, the trail blazer. We would all be different people without her example, her influence, and I have no words to express my gratitude for being fortunate enough to be the "middle child" in this amazing group of siblings. None of us are the type of people who are "in your business." All of us are the type of people who will do whatever we can for each other, for family, for friends. For me, Jennifer set that standard.

For years I have cautioned my son, Griffin, that at some point we all have to overcome our parenting. Though we do our best, parents are imperfect. The hope is that love will fill in the imperfect gaps. Fortunately, for me, I have my brothers and sisters. Each of them - Jennifer, Bill, Loretta, Nelda, Christina, Neil - have helped to fill in those gaps in some way or another. As I mentioned before, losing Jennifer is disorienting. There is a part of me that I cannot touch, that I cannot visit to reassure myself about who I am and what I am about. There is, however, comfort in knowing that the gifts she gave me, the important gifts like love of adventure and learning and being supportive of others, will always be a part of me, and a part of our family. And there is peace in knowing that despite the differences of age and circumstance and distance, she loved me. I loved you, too, Jennifer. Rest in that peace, knowing we all loved you.

Dan & Jennifer ... and me, hiding from the photographer behind Dan!

* Nelda, the actual middle child, took some offense at this statement so let me correct the record. She is the middle child. I am simply the child that was equidistant in age between Neil and Jennifer!