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TeeTaa

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  1. I'm sure some of you remember my dear brother TBone, who passed away in July 2004. I wanted to give you an update on our family, although it's certainly not good news, as we've suffered two losses in the last week or so. Our brother-in-law, Bobby Swint (ViVi's husband) fell a week ago, and suffered severe brain damage, resulting in his death on Friday. His obituary is at http://www.legacy.com/ledger-enquirer/O ... D=94515342 Additionally, our first cousin, Susan Hall, whom I mentioned on the message board more than a year ago, finally lost her battle with lung cancer a week earlier, on Friday, September 7th. Please keep our family in your thoughts and prayers. This whole thing seems surreal right now ... but we're holding each other close and know that we'll get through it. Our hearts are broken yet again, but we've got some mighty special angels looking out for us. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  2. TeeTaa

    two years

    It's been two years tonight since that beautiful blue moon took TBone away, ending his suffering. I don't have words to describe how I'm feeling today, but wanted to share an article someone sent to my husband earlier this month (ironically, it was published on the one-year anniversary of his father's death). I'm sure many of you can relate to the author's words. Praying for us all, TeeTaa The River of Memory by Patti Davis (daughter of Ronald Reagan) In the back of my address book, I keep a list of birthdays and anniversaries. Beside it is another column of names and dates—a much shorter list with only the most basic marker of time recorded. These are the dates when loved ones of close friends died. The name next to each date is not that of the dead but of the living—the person who will wake up to a day that feels different from all others and who will feel a little better if someone else remembers too. So I call or e-mail to let them know I do remember. Not every relationship or friendship is close enough to warrant a gesture of this kind, hence the brevity of the list. But I have a small group of friends who, even if we haven't touched base in a while, do so on those dates. I am occasionally forgetful about birthdays and wedding anniversaries, despite my list and best intentions. Yet those other anniversaries are ones I don't forget. They are tender and complicated days—ones that nobody wants to go through alone. As anyone who has lost a loved one knows, we tend to define and measure ourselves around that one point in time—who we were before, who we became after. The loss of a parent, a child, a partner, or a spouse redefines us and does so year after year. It's a strange and haunting alchemy. That he grew up near a river was one of my father's last enduring memories after Alzheimer's wiped away the others. Because I came to see the river as emblematic of life's currents and death's undertow, I find myself meandering back to that metaphor. I imagine those of us who have been left here to mourn sitting along a riverbank, tossing stones into the water, studying the predictably concentric ripples, and talking freely about the unpredictability of our feelings. The heart always surprises. It's more willing to crack open than we expect it to be. And what floods in is never under our control. We feel isolated in our emotions until someone else listens and says, "Me too." June 5 was the second anniversary of my father's death. In ways I don't fully understand, the second year was harder than the first. The days leading up to it felt sodden, weighty; tears were always just under the surface of my composure. I didn't ask my mother if this year was more difficult for her—I didn't need to. At the end of May, when I asked what she wanted to do on June 5, she hesitated and said softly, "I don't know. I guess I haven't let myself think about it." Which said to me that she'd been thinking about it a lot. We did the same thing we'd done the previous year. We went to the Reagan Library and put flowers on my father's grave, stood quietly, each of us lost in our own thoughts. The wind always seems to blow on that hilltop. To some it will sound strange that I feel my father in every gust, hear him in the movement of leaves as the breeze sweeps through the trees. But there are those who know exactly what I'm talking about. "The second year was harder for me," a friend of mine said. He lost his son to a drug overdose three years ago. "Why is that?" I asked him, grateful for the wisdom of someone who is farther along this trail than I am. "The first year it still feels new," he answered. "By the second year, the reality of the loss just sits inside you. The permanence has hit you. It takes you to a deeper, darker place." He continued, telling me that last year he relived every minute of his son's death—almost torturing himself with the memories but unable to stop. I did remember that last year was particularly hard for him, but I didn't know the details until now. The third year, he said, has been more peaceful. Another friend lost his mother two days after my father died; she, too, had been ill for years. We spent hours on the phone that June talking—about how death always feels surprising, even when you've been anticipating it. About all the emptiness that's left behind—the places once filled up by a life. My friend also found this second anniversary harder. He'd been looking through photo albums again and again, needing to remember, he said, but knowing he would never forget. I could hear in both our voices that we felt lighter by the time we hung up. They are lifelines, these conversations—these acknowledgments of what we go through when we miss someone so terribly and know that we have to integrate the loss into our lives. There are things I can talk about with these friends that I wouldn't discuss with my mother because she's living with her own grief, the reality of her loss. It isn't that she and I don't discuss our feelings—we do but it's different. Out of respect, I tread more carefully around the edges of her grief. Like everyone else, I tend to be freer in what I reveal and share with friends. Death is an awkward subject. It's a language none of us feels fluent in, no matter how much experience we've had. We reach for words and hope they're the right ones. What matters, though, is the effort. It matters that someone else is thinking about you on a day that might, over time, get easier but will always be heavier than the rest. It matters that a friend shares how he’s gotten through his own sad anniversaries. It's how we look out for one another, help one another across rough terrain. The world moves on; we all know that. But anyone who has lost a loved one knows you never move on from missing that person and marking the day he left. We want someone else to remember, too, so we're not sitting by that riverbank alone. JULY 14, 2006
  3. Yep, Mama knows. She called me yesterday (ViVi had called her as soon as she got my email) and told me to send Susan a message RIGHT THEN that she was thinking of her. And I did exactly what you'd have done if you'd gotten that call - I obeyed those orders!! Thanks to all of you for your support through this. Heck - I'd posted a message in the Newcomers forum, cause I felt like that's where I belonged after all this time!! Hopefully Susan will join us here soon. I can't imagine a better place to be. TeeTaa
  4. Hey there, Frannie. I guess it's appropriate that our first contact with each other after Susan's diagnosis is through this site. I wanted to call you today, but knew I couldn't have that conversation. July really sucks, don't you think?
  5. TeeTaa

    Too much pain

    There are no words . . . Just hold on, my friend. Just hold on and get through RIGHT NOW. You know that's what Keith would want for you and your baby.
  6. Thanks, Becky! Seeing that dragon slayer of yours makes me feel a lot better, and seeing that you're still doing well is even better.
  7. My heart goes out to you, Carleen. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  8. Those of you who've been around a while might remember me, although it's been quite some time since I've been active on the board. Just found out yesterday that a first cousin has been diagnosed with lung cancer, and I've referred her to the site and hope she comes here and finds it as valuable as my siblings and I did two years ago. I honestly don't know what I would've done without my friends here to get me through TBone's death. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  9. TeeTaa

    To Betplace

    The world is a much better place because you're a part of it. Peace be with you as you enter this new phase. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  10. Here's a link to Angie's Dad's obituary: http://www.legacy.com/huntsville/Legacy ... Id=3301872 TeeTaa
  11. Angie in Alabama called and asked that I post that her father, Billy Saint, passed away this morning at 4:30, surrounded by his loving family. He'd gotten progressively worse over the last few days, and went to sleep last night after telling her goodnight and that he loves her. Another family member, who has worked with hospice and has stayed with them for the last few days, woke them up at 3:30 so they could be by his bedside as he peacefully passed on after having fallen into a deep, deep sleep. Angie is going through the many emotions familiar to so many of us, but is comforted by the fact that he was not in pain and is now in a better place. She'll be on to post in a day or so, but right now is busy with funeral arrangements, etc. Visitation is scheduled for tomorrow (Thursday, 3/17) afternoon, and the funeral is at 1 o'clock on Friday. I will try to post a link to Mr. Saint's obituary as soon as it's online. Please keep Angie and her family in your thoughts and prayers. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  12. TeeTaa

    It's BAD

    It breaks my heart to read your news, and I can only imagine how scary this is for you. Many good vibes and prayers are being sent your way. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  13. TeeTaa

    Jim is gone

    Peace to your family. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  14. Welcome back to you too, Joe. Congrats on the house - it's spectacular. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
  15. Okay, okay, okay. Send in the tar and feathers, cause I deserve it. Figured I'd better post in this forum, cause y'all may have forgotten who I am by now. Ry, I think I lost my hall pass, but I'll replace it - perhaps with a big set of lips for kissing up. Will that work? So sorry for the long absence . . . I was busier than a one-armed paper hanger with Holiday Extravaganza and Christmas, then the tsunami disaster hit me hard, and I headed up a school fundraiser for it, and other "just life" stuff made it hard for me to come back. And then the longer I was away, the harder it was. But wouldn't you know it . . . good ole DeanCarl brought me around. I talked to him yesterday and Gay today. Not once did either of them try to encourage me to post. But hearing his voice made me realize how important this board has been to me - both before TBone's death and since it happened six months plus six days ago. I can't say I'll ever be as active as I once was . . . in some ways, I've simply had to move on, and need to continue to do so. I know that's what TBone would want. But all of you are a part of me and my healing, and I needed to let you know that tonight. As far as Holiday Extravaganza is concerned - it was nowhere near as successful as I'd have liked, but I was able to sell some things after the fact and have sent Katie more than $400 (plus the leftover "stuff") to add to the LCSC coffers. I know it's not much, but at least it's something. Thanks to the many of you who were concerned about me, and thanks to all of you for being my friends and fellow warriors in the lung cancer battle. And Cindi O'h - I can't believe I missed that virtual cocktail party celebration you had recently. While reading through those posts, I considered a belated celebration with one of those "orgasma" drinks, but I didn't have the ingredients. Not to worry, though. I just faked it. It's good to be back. Praying for us all, TeeTaa
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