Two Months

Two months. Two months ago today, Parrish unexpectedly died while our family was traveling for Thanksgiving. He died. I still can’t believe I have to write (or say) these words. He wasn’t sick; there wasn’t an accident; he was 41 years old. It just doesn’t make sense. 

I know now that Parrish died of cardiac arrest due to an arrhythmia (an irregular heartbeat). The studies show that the arrhythmia was a result of scar tissue in two major arteries—scar tissue caused by the high levels of radiation Parrish received during high school to treat his first ‘bout with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. At the time of his death, his heart was only functioning at 40%. Doctors call what he died of “the widow maker” because there is almost no chance of survival outside a hospital setting.

I know now that there are many articles written about pediatric Hodgkin’s lymphoma patients and the increased risk of major cardiac events in adulthood, especially in those that received the specific radiation/chemotherapy protocol that Parrish received in the 1990s. Some of these articles, written by doctors at the hospital where he was treated, state that because of the protocol Parrish received, he was 80% more likely to die of cardiac arrest between the ages of 30 and 50.*

I did not know that Parrish was suffering from a weakened heart. Parrish participated in the long-term life study at St. Jude, and he also received on-going follow-up care relating to his second diagnosis of Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 2013. As far as I know, nothing in these tests and scans and appointments showed any cardiac issues. There was nothing in his everyday life to indicate he was walking around with a compromised heart. Our family recently visited Universal Studios where we walked over 10 miles each day. Parrish didn’t skip a beat. Parrish coached soccer this past fall and chased after first graders in skills, drills and games twice a week. He had just gone on his annual fishing trip with his Birmingham buddies. The weekend before we left town for Thanksgiving, we had taken the boys to Tuscaloosa for an Alabama game. And even that Tuesday, November 20^th, we packed the car, he drove to the lake, we unloaded the car and he built a fire in the fireplace at the house where we were staying.

I do think that most of the time, Parrish walked around feeling worse than most of us do. His body was battered and bruised after fighting cancer twice and being assaulted with radiation, chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant. Parrish hid it well, but on most days, I think he suffered through significant aches, pains and fatigue due to previous cancer treatments. As a result, I don’t think he realized that his heart was failing. I don’t think he realized anything different was going on. I continue to relive November 20, 2018 and the months leading up to it. I want to know what I missed, what signs were there, what I could have done. What the autopsy does tell me is that I couldn’t have helped him more in that moment. It wasn’t an issue of me performing CPR better, or of the paramedics arriving sooner, or of being closer to a major hospital. At some point, I hope this will provide me some peace.

Right now, there isn’t much peace. I am navigating a life that feels so full of loss. I don’t want to call it our “new normal”—that phrase seems so flippant in our current reality. Parrish’s absence is so palpable in our house and in our everyday life. Nothing feels right or good or even close to “normal.” I started dating Parrish just after I turned 19. We had been close friends for years before that. The fact that I just rang in a new year without him seems unimaginable. And yet...we survive. We have survived our first Thanksgiving without Parrish, our first Christmas, our first New Year. The boys have survived their first Christmas pageant without Parrish, the first basketball game, the first Bama game, the first dads’ event at school. In a couple weeks, we will survive our first trip as a family of three.

I started this blog in the summer of 2014, after I spent a year and a half blogging here about Parrish’s battle with recurrent Hodgkin’s lymphoma. In hindsight, I clearly shouldn’t have started a blog a week before we moved out of state and started a new life in Memphis. Writing took a back-burner to getting everyone settled, and when I finally had time to write, I struggled with how to write openly and honestly and yet maintain a sense of privacy in this overly-public world. I still haven’t completely figured that out, but for me, words have always been cathartic. And for now, I feel called to write about our struggle as we learn to survive in the midst of so, so much less. 

*I am sensitive to the fact that there are many people we know who are fighting their own cancer battles right now. So many of these people and so many others out there saw Parrish as the ultimate cancer survivor. He beat cancer in high school and again in 2013, even suffering through a bone marrow transplant. And, he didn’t just survive, he thrived. Let’s face it, anyone who knew Parrish would say he thrived at life. If you are reading this, you can probably hear his laughter and see his smile in your head. He loved life and loved living it with those around him. I don’t write about Parrish’s death to strike fear in those living with cancer. The treatment protocol Parrish received in the 1990s is no longer used. He received the highest level of radiation a person can receive in a lifetime in that one year. Doctors know more now. Treatment is more specific, more calculated and more focused. His legacy is a testament to why we need more cancer research, more knowledge, better drugs, and more people out there committed to finding cures.

The Less Life

My life has a clean dividing line. Life before January 30, 2013, and life after.

In Life Before, as the mother of two little ones, not to mention my full-time lawyer gig, I spent the majority of my time rushing. Rushing out the door, rushing in the door, rushing to make a school program or a work deadline. Rush.Rush.Rush. Like most of those in my social circle, busyness was a badge of honor, and I was the queen of multi-tasking. I had a lot of balls in the air and prided myself on rarely dropping one. I was trying to be it all, do it all and perfect it all. I had unrelentingly high expectations for myself and spent most days trying to hit those high marks. Not all of it was self-imposed. My full time job wasn’t a choice; it was financially necessary. Not all of it was for accolades. I love my two boys more than I thought humanly possible, and I wanted to do, give and be for them in every way possible.

This busy life came to a screeching halt on January 30, 2013 when my otherwise healthy 35 year-old husband was diagnosed with recurrent Hodgkin’s lymphoma (his first diagnosis and remission had come 18 years earlier). Having gone to the doctor for an annoying cough, he was quickly admitted to ICU with a softball-sized tumor next to his heart. The next year would include months of intense chemotherapy, many hospitalizations, septic shock, and finally, a bone marrow transplant. It was a year of incredible shock, unbelievable pain and suffering (for my husband and for our small family), and laser focus. Instead of a variety of things competing for my time and energy, I had one priority and one priority only…my family. I stepped back at work; I no longer volunteered; I gave up on getting just a little bit skinnier; I had no time for lunch with the girls.  It wasn’t necessarily a choice. It just happened. My husband and our two precious boys needed me in a way that left no room for anything else. The trauma that 2013 brought was awful, and there were days when we weren’t sure how the story would end. We hoped and prayed and fought and clawed and refused to give up. And now, we are on the other side. My husband is in remission, and we are learning to live life again. But, our lives look different. They feel different. Last year opened my eyes and broke my heart. I think and feel and love and live differently. In this Life After, I am ever-so aware that the moments…everyday moments…matter, and I refuse to let those moments slip through my fingers unnoticed.

I no longer want to be busy. I no longer want to rush. I no longer want to worry about forehead wrinkles or whether my four year old is in the right play group. I don’t want to stress about having a perfect house or a perfect body or a perfect anything. My Life After has no room for these things (none of which are inherently bad to worry about). This isn’t a judgment on others. It is just too much for me. I want less…less worry, less comparison, less stress, less stuff, less perfect. I want a less life.  

This less life means giving things up. Hard things. It means stepping back—from commitments, from the rat race, from the social scene. It means slowing down—no more rushing through, no more glossing over, no more “in a minute.” It means letting go—of self-imposed expectations, of what-might-have-been, of what others think. It is doing all of these things to make space for what matters most. More presence, more moments, more gratefulness, more laughter, more peace, more time. I am convinced that in the end, a less life ends up with more.

This blog is a journal of my life of less. A place to help hold me accountable, a place to wrestle with hard things, a place to write and think and cherish this life as I know it.