One Year Ago Today

One year ago, I got a phone call from my daughter. That wasn’t unusual. We talked or text weekly, at the very minimum. She got married at the age of 18 to a young man who joined the Air Force right out of high school. Her husband decided early on that armed services would be a career choice. They married September 26, 1992, and within days they were gone to a duty station in Las Vegas, Nevada, Nellis Air Force Base. That’s only a six-hour drive from our home and we visited a couple of times, but within a year, they got orders to transfer to Lakenheath Air Base in England. Five years later, they moved to Florida, Eglin Air Force Base, and then on to the McChord Air Base in Washington state.

Robyn was our youngest child. One older brother had married the year before, and the other two brothers were independent. An empty nest loomed with Robyn’s departure, and for the next 27 years, communication meant lengthy hand-written letters and phone calls and then coming of age using technological advances like emails, cell phones and text messaging. Thankfully, I had flight privileges with my job and so we were able to add regular personal visits.

I loved being with her, my best friend whom I had given birth. I’ve never been one to share secrets with anyone and didn’t do that with my daughter either, but I felt comfortable with her. Comfort I’ve never felt with anyone else. She loved to be on the run, always doing something. She didn’t like sitting around the house. She wanted to go and do and see and participate and create and I gloried in how she would revel life. I enjoyed watching her enthusiasm. I have many memories where I felt completely content, just watching my children play and embrace the joys of life.

Turning back the clock five years, another phone call. “Mom, I have breast cancer.” I dropped everything and flew to Seattle then drove on to Puyallup to her home. As always we hugged, but this time, she fell in my arms and we both cried. When my children were little and having a bout of illness, I’d hold them and tell them, “Give me that old cold, I’ll take it and you won’t be sick anymore.” We would laugh at the absurdity of such a thing, but I would be miserable truly wishing I could take the burden from them, but realizing that all I could do was to make them comfortable until their little bodies could fight off the demon cold. Now my little girl has a burden and I can’t lift it from her.

How can this be? I’ve always been the mom who makes everything better. You tell me what the problem is, and I’ll figure a way to release you from it.  How can there be a problem I can’t fix? I search but have nothing in my arsenal of fixes to take on this problem. All I can do is hold her. There’s a part of me silently screaming, “she’s going to die.” You see, my experiences with cancer in the lives of my family have always ended in death. But wait, great strides have been made with this cancer and many women are living long, productive, happy lives by following the lead of medical authorities and she could be one of those.

Back to the phone call, I received one year ago today. Robyn’s doctor advised her to gather her family because her prognosis has escalated and the disease has become unmanageable.  She says those words and I’m stunned. “We’ll be there as soon as I can make some arrangements,” I tell her. Her father and I packed and left.  I think we flew out, but honestly, I don’t clearly remember those days. Often, we would drive to Washington for our visits with this family. For the next three months, Robyn’s life consisted of doctor appointments, procedures, and whispers. I was the designated driver for those appointments and made an effort to keep the children’s schedules somewhat normal and I assumed kitchen duties keeping everyone nourished. Members of our church community helped on a regular weekly basis in this duty immensely. My little girl spent that time navigating her way through the most abnormal life there could be. Brian, my son-in-law, started a new career as a nurse after retiring from the U.S. Air Force with 24 years service. He also managed to be a part of every appointment and procedure. He was tireless.

Robyn’s condition deteriorated, but not before the two of us went Christmas shopping. She spearheaded the shared purchase with her brothers of a beautiful red jacket for me I admired. She had ideas to make the holiday special for the kids. Her spirit was willing but her vitality sorely lacked. She tried to put on a brave-faced façade, but her clarity of thought waned. She didn’t always say the right thing, but that wasn’t too far off from the old Robyn. Friends and family described her as goofy and silly. It was part of her charm.

Starting today and for the next 80 days, I’ll be marking times when I’ll be saying “this time last year,” knowing that my Robyn was alive but descending into the throes of death.  In many ways, those days were brutal as we watched our beautiful girl being slowly engulfed and then being fully encompassed on March 5 at 12:53 pm PST. Technically, she probably died a couple of hours prior, but her heart stopped beating and her lungs stopped expanding at 12:53 pm PST.

One year ago today, I still had a daughter whom I could embrace. I had a daughter whose greeting of “Hi Mom,” brought a flutter of happiness to my heart. I had a daughter who would record a Marco Polo video where she would laugh that special laugh. She would make a silly face and proceed to tell me of her comings and goings and funny things the kids were doing. She would tell me about the house she had seen on a real estate site and her desire to be closer to family the coming summer. She would tell me about an old piece of furniture she had picked up off Craig’s List and how she was going to refinish it. She would tell me about a new health habit she wanted all of us to try. She would tell me that she loved me and to be sure to tell her Dad that she loved him. One year ago today she was full of life even though cancer’s rampant rampage was slowly eating its way through her.  One year ago today we were still hoping for the promised miracle. One year ago today, she still reassured me she was feeling well and still had energy. One year ago today, she spoke of adopting a baby as soon as she got a clean bill of health. By no means was she finished actively mothering little ones. She also had a goal of finishing her schooling and working with other cancer patients. One year ago, she still wanted to plan outings for the kids where they would go to the lake and enjoy time on the paddle-boards and all the other watercraft they had accumulated. They would take a picnic lunch and there was a trail nearby to walk and she could roller-blade on the paved part of the trail.  She insisted she would feel better if she could get outside.

It all came to a screeching halt on March 5, 2019, and forever her earthly life would be over. Life on earth is temporary. Mortality is a stopping off place, part of something bigger in the eternal scheme. I know all that, but this life is all to which I have any personal reference. I have to depend on faith for everything else and today all I can think of was one year ago, she was still with me. I could still embrace her. I could still feel her softness and her warmth. I could still hear her words. Now, I watch old Marco Polo videos, look at 350 pictures on a digital frame, tend to her dog Skamp, and remember her 45 years of existence, beginning with her birth on the first day of spring in 1974. One year ago today.