Like Joy, Pain is Holy

I read somewhere recently that like joy, pain is
holy and should not be snatched away from us.

We should lean into it and feel it and let it
help us grow.

The past few days have been filled with endless
streams of tears on my part and no matter how hard
I try and stem the tide--they keep slipping down 
my face.

And so I lean into the pain and the tears and let 
them wash over me.

Grace turned 18 on Tuesday and for 3 days she has
been "quiet" and I have felt a sadness coming off
of her in waves that even she didn't realize.

I kept asking her why she was sad (well duh!) and 
what was wrong--

she kept saying nothing.

Then last night she came into my room and said she
finally realized she had been feeling sadness
surround her but (besides the obvious) she couldn't
pinpoint WHY she was feeling the extra sadness.

She realized that it was her birthday and her dad.

Yes, one of those fabulous "firsts" without him.

He was not here to celebrate 18 with her, and while
we all tried our darndest to make it somewhat special,
her dad was still not here to celebrate that milestone
with her.

We can feel the sadness in the air.

It comes in whispery silver waves that wrap around 
us tightly and squeeze us, holding us in its grasp.

It sinks slowly into our hearts and crushes them,
leaving us breathless.

It sneaks up on us and taps us on the shoulder,
some memory that triggers the pain.

I will embrace it though, for it means that the 
man who we most miss was loved.

And our grief is evidence of that love.

So we take baby steps forward every day and
sometimes we fall onto our beds in a heap weeping...
but then we rise again and take another baby 
step forward.

Kyle always promised me that there would be people
around me to love me and help me when he died.

It's interesting that while he was fighting cancer
and ultimately dying, he had an army of people who
loved and cared for him.

Carrying him on his journey from life to death.

That army has somewhat mostly dispersed now--but again
Kyle promised me that others would step in and fill
the holes that I needed filled when the time was right.

And he was right.  I have been blessed to have people,
some of them new, step into my circle now and help
carry me on my journey from Kyle's death to my living 
again.

I am grateful that even on the darkest days that I 
know I am loved.

I am grateful for 4 wonderful children who, while
they all have their own struggles with this, have
been an anchor for me.

I am happy to see glimpses of their father in them
as we muster our courage and move ahead.

I like to think of all the love Kyle had in his heart
extending outward into each of us so that we can
carry on his legacy of love and service.

I like to think that we WILL know joy again someday
and will be filled with laughter and smiles at adventures
to come.

For if we cannot, and do not--then this is a life wasted.

I am grateful to find quiet moments of peace even
on the stormiest of days.

I am grateful for texts and calls begging me to come
and have lunch, or dinner, or just to check on me.

Thanks for letting me turn you down again and again
and still loving me--this is hard.  Being "out" of 
my bubble is hard.  Please don't give up on me, my
heart is healing and growing while I lean into my
grief and pain.

So for now, we lean into our pain--realizing it is 
healing us in the long run.  We embrace our tears
letting them wash through us and carry away some of 
the grief.  We carry on and we love and feel 
a little more deeply than we ever did before.

I miss him, oh how I miss him....
from the tips of my toes to top of my head and
everywhere else in between I miss him.

And that's what I've got for today.

Reflection: One Month

On the day that Kyle was diagnosed with cancer, the 
sun rising over beautiful and majestic Mt Olympus in my
backyard made the sky literally glow pink.  

Splashes of pink smeared liberally across the already
blue skies and the soft golden light of morning.

I thought of the old saying my mother used to tell
us all the time growing up...

"Pink skies in the morning are a sailors warning"

(The inverse of which would be "Pink skies at 
night are a sailors delight.")

Now I am not one who see signs in anything really
or looks for "meaning" in things beyond what they really
are.

That said, for some reason on that day driving up
for a liver biopsy, the thought flitted through my
mind, "pink skies in the morning are a warning--we're
going to get bad news today."

I already had a deep seeded fear inside my heart that
something was decidedly wrong with Kyle anyway and
for some reason the skies that day nudged me more
toward the bad news that did indeed follow.

It wasn't a magical sign from God or the universe.
It just was.  And it just stuck in my brain that day.

Fast forward to Wednesday December 24, 2014. 

For days Kyle had been defying the odds and living
for "one more day" when all his blood counts were
pretty much incompatible with an actual human being
staying alive.

Somehow he would go to sleep and wake up one more day.

That morning I left the hospital in the neighborhood
of 3:30 a.m., hesitant to leave lest he should die, yet
my poor body was screaming at me after 5 days with pretty 
much no sleep to go and get "some rest".

"Some rest" meant two hours of sleep and then a shower
and a drive back to IMC and the 8th floor where Kyle
lay in his hospital bed.

As I got in my car at around 6 a.m., the skies across
the valley were once again a breathtaking pink hue.

Shimmering with the promise of a new day and all it
would bring.

I sighed as I drove the now familiar route to the
hospital, Christmas music playing absurdly in the back round,
and thought again, "pink skies, sailors warning....
Kyle will indeed die today."

Now not to give myself too much credit for "predicting"
his day of death, I had had this thought almost every day
for the days leading up to December 24. 

We all had.

We all wondered what day would be "the day."

But signs of his impending death were coming swifter
and faster and his body was shutting down and he
was slipping away slowly, but surely, from us the 
people who loved him most.

I will always treasure those last days in the hospital
as some of the most beautiful days of my life. 

There was a love that filled every corner of his 
hospital room for every moment he was there.

He was constantly surrounded by people who loved him

He was always being touched and held by family and friends.

He made us laugh and he made us cry and those memories
are most tender in my heart.

I will not lie (have I ever?) and say it's been easy.

In fact, Kyle's death has knocked the wind out of my
sails.  I am more sad than I ever thought possible.

Kyle always told me "Dor there is NO way to prepare for
the time when I'm dead."

In that, he was right.

However, I will say that in all the darkest fears about 
how this would be in my heart (his death and my 
continuing life) I am right.  I was right when I told
him how hard it would be.

It is hard.

The degree to which we ALL miss him in our home and family
is beyond description.

CS Lewis writes that "the death of a loved one is like
an amputation" and how very right he is.

There will always be the ghost of the limb that was once
Kyle in our lives. We will grasp for it and him, only to
have it be just beyond our reach and be that phantom limb
that we can feel and see in our hearts, but not in our
reality anymore.

There is no good answer, we know.  There is no magic pill
and no easy way out, but through.

Through all of this messy stuff called living 
and dying and grieving.

And so we wake up each day and try to get through.

Some days are easier than others and some days we
lay together on my bed and just weep and weep.

And both of those, the "okay days" and the "weeping days"
and anything else we feel, are all okay.

Today when I woke up, remembering it was the 
one month anniversary, the skies were not pink.  

In fact they were the typical Salt Lake City
hideous awful gray inversion post apocalyptic Utah winter
skies, with no sun in place at all and no pink or blue
or anything at all other than shades of gray.

How perfectly fitting on this day I thought.

And that's what I've got for today, reflections.

You went to a funeral...

People ask how we are.

We say "okay" when in reality we (I am, I can't speak
for my children or extended family and friends that
lost Kyle as well)  I am drowning in grief and sadness
and depression.

And who really wants to hear that?

Or be around that?

Or listen to me cry or whine or be sad?

It makes ME depressed.

It sucks, plain and simple, it sucks to lose your husband.

The overwhelming feelings that wash over you.
again and again.

It takes so much energy just to function every single
day. 

I shared this article on Facebook and I will share it here
as well, since it is a great write up of how I think
we feel.


You went to a funeral.  I also am not saying everyone 
else is not allowed to go on with their lives, so don't
read it that way.  But pretty much, life goes on very
quickly except for a select few of us.  You're all 
allowed to (and should!!) go on with your lives--but
just because YOU are?  It doesn't mean WE are.

We are, but we're not.

And again, it just plain sucks!

We miss him more than words and feelings can describe.

You went to a funeral, and then you went home

You heard some bad news from a friend, relative, social media, church, or maybe in a gossip circle.  However you heard, you immediately felt bad, asked how to help, donated time, food, money or prayers.  Whatever you did, the family was grateful, even if they didn’t say it.  They were blessed by your gifts.

Life goes back to normal.  The family sits on your heart.  You pray, you ask, you follow the updates.  You did what you could.

One day, you heard the really bad news:  Death won and a family lost. Forever.

Once again, you prayed, you helped, gave what you could.  Even if you didn’t know it, the family was thankful for you, your help, your prayers, your love and your support.

You attended the funeral, cried some real tears, laughed some real laughs, enjoyed the memories of the one who is gone.  Finally, you hugged the ones who lost the most.

Once the funeral was over, and the day was done, you went home.  Back to life, back to love, back to those who make your world complete.  You went to a funeral, and then you went home.

We all lose, but someone that day, went to a funeral and didn’t want to go home.

Someone that day, drove home to the couch, the bed, the house that is forever empty. Life is not like it once was and never will be again.  Where there was once laughter, sits an empty chair.  The couch is bigger, the blankets and pillows are extra.  There are empty shoes, clothes, toiletries that might never be used.  Bags sit. Drugs disposed.  So much to do and SO MANY MEMORIES left to be remembered, processed, and grieved.

Time passes and the wounds are not healed.  Sometimes, life feels normal and OK.  Then a birthday, holiday, celebration occurs and the loss is real all over again.  Sometimes life is normal, and for no reason at all, the LOSS comes right back, like it happened again.

There is loneliness, emptiness, and tears.   “Public faces” put on a show, and comfort the ones who interact.   “Home faces” are real, raw, and honest.  There are headaches, stomach aches, and countless mistakes made all because the grief lives in place of the person who completed a family.  Not to mention the questions, the hurt, the anger that sits because it is hard to face.

Days pass, holidays pass, milestones completed the grief lives, despite how the family looks in public.  Remember, it’s a face, a show, an act, it’s not always real; however, it’s not always fake.

When you go to a funeral, and are allowed to go home to life, remember that at least one person goes home to a new life that was NOT asked for, but handed to them.  Give those people more than sympathy or judgement; give them an endless amount of time to grieve in their own way.  For that one act of kindness and grace, they will be forever grateful for you.

(More) On Grief

 A darling friend (that I've actually never even
met in real life--though we connected because of this
awful cancer--) sent me this thing on grief that I 
found so truly wonderful.

It is so great I wanted to share it.

It described things so well. It's from that popular 
Facebook page "Mitchell's Journey".

And it so clearly says what I feel and cannot yet find
a way to put into words.

I especially like the part that I've underlined.  It is
NOT a choice to simply rise above it, grief and sadness
STILL exist, it is not something we can will away, pray
away, hope away....it simply is a part of our souls
because we loved the person who is gone so deeply.

I've said it before and I will say it again, the 
LONELINESS is unreal for me.  I feel more alone than
I've ever felt in my life.  Despite ALL the hugs and 
kindness, my "go to guy", the one who held me close in 
my darkest hours, the one who whispered in my ear it 
would "be okay", the one who loved me despite the way 
I looked or acted, that guy?  He's gone.

I said to my kids last night through a multitude of
tears, "I'm truly alone in this thing."  
Olivia (my 11 year old) looked at me and said, 
"Yup you are mom!"

Now before everyone gets their panties in a wad and thinks, 
"well I have been a friend, I've helped, I've called/texted/
messaged/emailed, brought food, sent a note....."

YOU'RE RIGHT!  You have all (so so so many of you!!)
done so so so many kind and wonderful things.

Of which I am 1000 times over appreciative of....
Please don't think they don't matter to me--
THEY DO!!!!!

But still, not one of you can come hold me at night
when I weep.

Not one of you can let me lay in your arms and comfort
me and tell me I'll be okay.

Not one of you can fill that hole, that hole that feels
bottomless to me right now, that hole that was once
Kyle.

It aches.

I ache.

There are things that I do that LITERALLY make my heart
hurt, like its coming apart inside my chest.  

A real physical pain that is awful.

I'm sorry to be "Dorien Downer"....but man oh man
loosing your best friend is hard. 

I told my kids I was jealous that for the most part
everyone else that is missing Kyle has a spouse to go
home to, a shoulder to cry on, someone to hold them
tightly in bed at night when the hour is the darkest
and the saddest feelings come.

I've tried holding myself in bed at night, and it's 
just awkward and doesn't really work.  My arms don't 
wrap around tightly enough, I guess.

I will leave you with this tidbit for today 
from the author of Mitchell's journey.

It seems grief is universal in it's feelings honestly.

I have spent the last (almost) 2 years posting about my grief and my love, my faith and my flaws. Though I write of grief, I do not live in a constant state of grief. I used to live in a constant state of deep sorrow, but not today. Each day is a little sunnier than the day before. To be clear, I have hard things yet to share; stories of grief and sorrow that come from the darkest corners of the soul. I will share them not because I am there, but because I was there. I hope that in sharing it helps others who are drowning in a sea of grief – for I know those dark waters and they are scary beyond belief. To all of you that hurt, I want you to know how much I care.

When I think about my son I smile and my heart swells with love and longing. Sometimes, and sometimes often, when I think of Mitch I cry. I shut my door to my office and I weep a million and ten tears. When I’m done heaving in sorrow, when the emotional storm has passed, I then wipe those tears away and I face the day the best I know how. That is all I can do sometimes, and I think that’s okay.

One of the many things I admire about Natalie is she always seems to find a reason for joy. Though her heart aches in the worst way, she makes the best of every single day. And that is contagious.

In my own grief journey I've discovered heartbreak and grief exist despite the choice to remain in or rise above it. The best way to help others out of grief, I have learned, is to love those that hurt and give heavy hearts time to heal. It is an exquisitely personal and individual journey.
Grief hurts because we love and miss our dear ones. It hurts because they are gone and we want them back. There is nothing wrong with hurting … and it will always hurt. The more I contemplate my own grief journey I'm beginning to wonder if the key to finding joy while living with chronic grief is learning to not mind that it hurts.

By: Mitchell's Journey

Grief

I'm not sure how long I'll keep writing, but sometimes
words just need to come pouring out of me. 

It's how I do this, and it's how I've done this
and I don't know any other way.

Mostly it's always been for me--to record my feelings
and this journey...

Grief is exhausting.

Life after Kyle is exhausting.

A few people have said to me, "It must be nice
to have so much free time and just relax now."

To which I laughed (somewhat manically) and said, "relax?"

Who are you kidding?

Do you know how much work has to happen when your 
spouse dies?  How many things have to be done?
And changed? And fixed?  And life---it just keeps
going on.

Life insurance and social security and long lines
and phone calls and more calls and changing bills
to my name and getting death certificates and
mailing them off to prove Kyle died and on and on and on.

I thought when Kyle died I would wake up with a shock
of white hair, because of grief.

Or I thought I would not wake up at all, since half
of my heart had stopped beating.

Or I thought that everything in time would freeze
and be stuck in that one moment when he breathed his
last breath.

But, I was wrong on all counts.

Life keeps going.

There is beauty in that.

There is also pain in that.

Grace came home from a High School basketball game
last night and laid down on my bed and said, "That was
EXHAUSTING!"

This is my social child, the one who likes being with 
other people.

That's the thing about grief...

IT. IS. EXHAUSTING.

It takes all of ones energy to just get out of bed
each day and put one foot in front of the other.

There is not much left over for anything else.
Or anyone else.  We're in survival mode.

Being in crowds of people is exhausting for us
right now (and I thought it was just me).

Part of our souls, and hearts, and bodies just need
to be nourished in our own little family--the rest
feels too overwhelming.

But on the other hand, we need to know people love
us and care--so it's a funny balance right?

I'm not sure what I'm saying--but maybe don't be
offended if it's too much to be with people right now
and we can't be with you.

But in the same breath ---don't forget about us--
we need to know we're loved and cared for, so sometimes
we will WANT to be with you.

I guess it will all just take time, and it depends
on the day.

I miss Kyle so very much--the biggest hole in my life
is his touch.  Just a hug or his hand on my back or
laying by him watching TV and feeling his breath.

It's amazing how utterly lonely, alone, one can feel
even surrounded by lots of people.

I would give a million dollars to hold him one
more time and hear him tell me he loves me.

I have had lots of hugs (all of which are great!--
so PLEASE don't stop giving them to us--they're the best!)
but it's still not the same....as his.

I'm rambling now....

But rambling and grief all go together I guess.

And it's what I've got for today.

One More Thank You

I hope enough people look at my blog read this

THANK YOU.

I won't have the time or energy for probably years
to write all the Thank You cards I should be writing...

but I don't even know WHO to thank for so many of 
the things that have been done for my little family.

But sincerely from the bottom of my heart
thank you for the following:

Supporting the kids through the college fund.

Donating to help us fight cancer--monetarily or otherwise.

Loving us.

Cards.

Gifts.

Dinners.

Notes.

Food.

Gift Cards.

(No Flowers!)

Texts.

Treats left on steps.

Checking on me.

Hugging me and the kids.

Money.

More Hugs.

Cookies.

Kind Words.

Sarah Sample

Lower Lights

James Wood and company

Family and friends

Etc

etc

Etc.

There is no way for me to every thank all of you
personally, or in writing--so I am doing it here in
hopes you will forgive my grief infused mind that
forgets to eat and sleep and feed my poor children.

(I'm trying to remember that one--the feeding the
kids one)

So one more huge big giant sincere Thank You
for demonstrating so much love towards our family.

Thank you.

That's what I've got for today. 

Josh's Talk....

Here is my oldest son Josh's talk from 
Kyle's memorial service.

I have to say I am so proud of each of my children.

They all wrote their OWN talks/tributes to their 
father without ANY help from me (even the 11 year old).

They ALL did such a fabulous job.

Josh is my oldest, he is 21 and a wonderful human
being.  Here is his tribute to his father.

-----------------------------

It’s hard to know where to begin but I think a story, or maybe a parable, involving the Subway is a good place. Many of you had the privilege of joining my dad on one of his Subway trips. For those that didn’t, or don’t know what it is, the Subway is a hike located in Kolob Canyon, a small section of Zion National Park in Southern Utah. Photographers and outdoor enthusiasts travel from around the country and world just to hike this nine mile stretch that winds its way through forest, slick-rock, slot canyons, swimming holes, and switchbacks. The Nielson family actually led a trip through the Subway years ago with the outdoor expert from a local news channel who did a feature on the hike and since then, it has grown massively in popularity, requiring a reservation months in advance. And if you ask anyone in the Nielson family who the Subway master was, they would without a doubt tell you it was Kyle. He helped countless people who were probably too old or maybe too young to make it through because he knew that the people he loved deserved a chance to witness the beauty. I had the chance to join my dad on this hike three times, once as a kid, once as a young teen, and once right after I graduated high school, with some of my best friends. One thing you need to know about the Subway is that if you’ve never hiked it, or don’t have someone with you who has, it can be difficult to navigate. You need a guide. And for so many, Kyle was that guide. Even on my latest trip, I remember leading the way, knowing the route better than most, but every so often forgetting the next step and waiting for my dad to catch up and point us in the right direction. He wasn’t always at the front, he let us explore and try to figure it out ourselves, but even when we couldn’t, we always knew he would be there to patiently guide us in the right direction. I took the whole group the wrong way down a hill and we ran into a dead-end, which in the Subway meant we came up to a sheer drop the was completely untraverseable. I called out my dad’s name, he shouted back and once again led us in the right direction. Not mad, not even a little annoyed. He was happy he was there to show us the way.

I think one of the single greatest things I learned from my father was subtly illustrated on hikes like this and gently throughout my life. He didn’t teach by barking commands or giving orders. He taught by doing. By doing things with you, on his hands and knees, in the dirt and snow, under the house or on the roof. He taught strength by being strong, not by telling you to be strong. And I think that something he was afraid of at times was that this method of teaching wasn’t working. But to teach by doing requires patience, a gift he had in abundance. So he continued through his life, doing instead of talking, hoping that the people he loved saw what he did, and took something from it. Not always receiving accolades, money, or recognition, he carried on; at times I’m sure, with frustration, like we all feel. I think, though, that in dying my dad was given the greatest gift of all back from all those he had served. He was reminded that the good he had done had made a real difference in the lives of so many. I watched him weep on his last days with us as guest after guest, and text after text came in expressing how much he meant to them. To all of you who said or sent kind words, he truly was touched. And I think the best explanation for it, along with his giant heart, was that it meant the world to him to see that all the amazing things he did, often without thanks, did not go unseen or forgotten. It was sort of a Big Fish moment, if you’ve seen the movie. To sum it up, at the end of the main character’s life, he is reminded by his son of all the good he had done and all the people’s lives he had touched and how through these monumental acts of goodness, he had become larger than life to the people that knew him. A big fish.

My dad believed the world is a good place. Unlike many, he didn’t blame the next generation for the problems of the world but rather, as a Scout and youth leader, chose to love them and teach them to love and serve others. I remember as a kid, worrying that my friends from church liked my dad more than they liked me, but now I see how amazing he was as a leader. Kind, patient, loving and accepting of all. Anyone who learned under him can second this. So to anyone who wants it, my advice to you, taken from the life of my father, is to love and respect everyone. Do your best to avoid the natural inclination to judge and instead choose to serve. Don’t be afraid to lead by example. Life is hard and we will make mistakes, but that’s okay. Forgive quickly if possible. In the words of Tolkien, “There is some good in this world, and it’s worth fighting for.” Nothing in this world is promised, life can come and go in an instant, but the love we shared and the people we reached out to can transcend death, as Kyle has shown us all. No matter where he is now, his love and his lessons live on through each of us. It’s not always easy, but he knew that the good in this world was worth fighting for, and so do I. Thank you.

Groceries

Today, after many days of numb, grief came to me
like a heavy weighted blanket.

It wrapped me up tightly and every move I tried
to make took more energy than I had to spare.

I tried to finish cleaning my house, did some
laundry and put the last scraps of Christmas away
until next year.

Kyle would be proud of me and the kids, we
did it, we got it done.

Then I lay down in my bed and pulled my covers up
to my chin.

And felt the weight of grief, and my blankets, 
crush me.

After a while, or a few hours, who can tell?
I crept into my dark living room and sat...
just staring at the mantle--full of pictures of
Kyle.

And I sighed deeply.

Then unexpectedly my doorbell rang and I thought
I didn't even have the energy to get up and answer
it...but I did.

And there sat 2 bags, full of "back to school" 
lunch food for my children on Monday.

And my heart wept at the goodness of people who
care.  

I don't even know who you are.

I saw a car, that didn't register in my mind,
and I saw bags of love in the form of food on
my steps.

So whoever you are?

Thank you.

I didn't have the energy to do what you just
went and did for me today.

And that simple thing?

It made my day and filled me with hope of 
a better tomorrow.

Thank you.

That's what I've got for today.


EDITED TO ADD:  There have been SO many acts of kindness
done, I don't mean to single this one out and not mention
everyone else who has done kind things....so in a way
I am saying Thank You to EVERYONE for ALL the kind
things done.  You have ALL lightened my load with every
single good thing....Thank You ALL!

My Talk from the Team Meeting.

I have had a few requests to post my talk from the 
service honoring Kyle.

So here it is, full of typos and all. 

I will post the kids talks in the next few days
as well.

---------------------------------

Some of you may be wondering why we are here instead of sitting in a church with pews, so I am going to give you a little bit of the back ground story in hopes that you will understand Kyle’s wishes.

When we first got married Kyle informed me that when he died he wanted his body to be eaten by wolves, in the mountains.  Our good friends, the Thatchers, were pretty sure they could swing a body in the mountains being eaten by wolves sort of scenario for him. In my heart, I like to pretend Kyle was joking—but I’m pretty sure he was not since he mentioned wolf eating to people at least once, or 75 times, in our married life.  He wanted the wolves and he wanted the mountains. His heart has always belonged to the mountains and the outdoors, and he saw no more fitting way to go when he died then returning to where he came from.  You know the ashes to ashes, dust to dust, sort of thing.  When cancer came along and death was more eminent, we had to reach a compromise somewhere between wolf eating, and well, reality.  He has always been a big believer in cremation and after cancer came along he wanted nothing more than to have his body donated to the University of Utah to be studied for medical research and then cremated.  Sadly, cancer would ravage his body beyond what was acceptable for donation, so we moved past Plan A (wolf eating) and Plan B (donation for medical research) and on to Plan C.   (and here we are)

I will read, in his own words, the note he sent to me before he died about funerals, “Let it be noted that I hate cemeteries, funerals and especially viewings.  (For myself, if someone else chooses to do this, it is fine, it is just not what I want). If you want to remember me, go to the places I loved and you will find me there, I promise.  If we could NOT call it a funeral I would appreciate that—call it a party or a celebration or perhaps the final meeting for Team Kyle.  At this gathering it is my hope that you can all smile and laugh and try and say some nice things about me. I want talks about my life from my wife and kids and if I’m lucky enough I would love Sarah Sample to sing.  I don’t want Sunday School lesson or missionary moment talks. I want people to remember me and be happy and remember the things I loved.”  So there you have it, here we are at the final meeting for Team Kyle, honoring our husband, son, father, brother and friend in the way HE wished to be honored. 

What do you say about someone who has been your best friend for 27 years?  How do I narrow down the scope of my talk?  Usually words are something that come easily to me, this time it has been much harder.  I met Kyle when I was 21 years old and he immediately became one of my very best friends.  Dave Davis, his best friend, likes to tease that we are the perfect pair.  Kyle is the eternal optimist, and even laying on his death bed in the hospital he would say “I’m good” to everyone who came in and asked how he was doing.  Seriously, “I’m good.” I am much more of a realist and like to have things in order and planned out.  Cancer was hard for me like that.  Kyle, who always liked to take the path less traveled, seemed to adapt better at living life day to day with cancer than me.  There was a saying he found right at the beginning, which accurately reflects how he lived his life, and ultimately, how he battled his cancer.

“When a wave comes, go deep.  There are 3 things you can do when life sends a wave at you.  You can run from it, but then it’s going to catch up to you and knock you down.  You can chose to fall back on your ego and try and stand your ground, but the wave is going to clobber you anyway.  Or you can use it as an opportunity to go deep,  dive in and transform yourself to match the circumstances.  And that’s how you get through the wave, by going deep.”

Kyle went deep in a big way.  He changed the lives of people who knew him in a profound way.  He was a quiet man with a big heart who genuinely loved and cared for all those he met.  He always treated those who cared for him while battling the evil cancer, with great respect and rarely complained through countless chemo treatments, radiation beads, needle sticks, surgeries and long hours in hospitals and doctor offices.  He never did anything he did for recognition or glory, he just lived in his simple, quiet way and let his example shine as a beacon to those who knew him.  He always told me that so much of how he chose to live this cancer journey was for his children, so that they would remember a dad who kept going and didn’t complain at whatever it was that life, and this cancer, threw at him.  I would say that he did a mighty fine job and set the best of examples for our children.

AA Milne said, “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

I could not agree more.  I am so lucky that I loved so deeply and shared my life with someone who was truly my best friend for 27 years. I think that there are many people’s lives that have been touched by you Kyle and it makes it hard to say good bye. So how about if we just say “see you later?”

I am a better person for having had Kyle in my life.  He always said this to me “Dor you can do this!”  It somehow seemed easier when he was here to remind me of that.  I found another quote in Winnie the Pooh that mirrored what Kyle told me for 22 months of fighting cancer….”If ever there is a tomorrow when we’re not together---there is something you must always remember.  You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.  But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart….I’ll always be with you.”  Kyle always believed in me, even when I didn’t want to believe in myself.  He always had a kind word of encouragement, a soft touch that would calm my troubled soul and a warm embrace that would comfort on the darkest of days.  I think he would tell all of us the same thing.  To believe in ourselves and remember how strong we are and most importantly that he will “ALWAYS BE WITH US.”

My thoughts since his passing are very disjointed and so I would like to share some snapshots of Kyle, perhaps offer you some insight as to who he was, in the best way I can right now,  in simple phrases that look into his heart and life.

*Kyle washing his 17 year old daughters long red hair in the kitchen sink, tenderly, gently, lovingly as only a father can with some kind of crazy loud music inevitably playing in the back ground.

*Kyle standing over the kitchen counter making lunches and smoothies for us before we all left

for school and work every day.  Even on days when he was green, vomiting, or gray from chemo—he always got up to make these things for each of us.

*Kyle bringing me and my co-workers Diet Cokes, just because.

*Kyle and Josh talking songs, music and sports while I listened on, thinking I will never be able to do this when Kyle dies.

*Kyle telling us his decidedly awful jokes from “Fun Joke Friday” in his best Ruby voice, making us all laugh, despite our circumstances.

*Kyle getting up at 3 in the morning after an 8 hour day of chemo to take Eliza to meet some famous You Tube star at the mall.  Needless to say they were first in line. He was exhausted and worn out, yet he still put the wants of his daughter over the needs of his own.

*Kyle dressing up in a turkey costume, as a terminal cancer patient, to hand out treats to OTHER cancer patients and staff at the Huntsman the week of Thanksgiving, because he could still serve and nothing was going to stop him and, why not?

*Kyle encouraging me during 40 hour work weeks and 30 hour school weeks to keep going and telling me he had faith in me and that I could do it.

*Kyle not dying until I finished my math class—I begged and begged him not to die until I finished that class.  I hate math.

*Kyle gently telling me to breathe in and out while I was freaking out during a math exam.

(And Josh laughing at me in the back ground).  Have I mentioned I hate math? 

*Kyle folding laundry and cleaning bathrooms until the very end because he could, and wanted to.

*Kyle hugging doctors and phlebotomists and nurses and front desk staff at the Huntsman cancer institute and watching everyone cry as he said “goodbye” because he loved them and they loved him.

*Kyle telling us he was tired, and ready to go, and holding all of our hands in the hospital while we waited for him to die (the first time)….only to have him sit up 5 minutes later and ask for chocolate pudding and Panda Express.  I think he was testing us to see if we would be sufficiently sad when the REAL time came.

We were.

*Kyle driving up the canyon at 11 pm one night to “rescue” his daughter who took a wrong turn on the freeway. She was weeping, but he found her, had her follow him and brought her safely home.  We all had a good laugh about it the next day.

*Kyle sitting in his chemo chair, breaking ALL the rules EVERY SINGLE WEEK with the amount of visitors allowed during chemo sessions—giving me anxiety because I’m a rule follower.  He always had more than the “2 person limit” surrounding him with love and laughter and food and stories.  Joan, from the Huntsman, always said you knew where Kyle was sitting because it was always where the party was at.

*Kyle, surrounded by love, as he made the exit from this mortal journey.  He constantly had 8 or 10 or 25 people in his hospital room, holding him, talking to him, loving him.  There was not one moment that he was not in the middle of love. 

*Kyle snuggling with his dog and his baby girl, Olivia.
*Kyle, getting back what he gave out during his whole life, Love. 

Here are a few lessons Kyle taught us along the way….

1. Love.  That’s what this life is all about.  I cannot emphasize this enough.  It's all about love.

   It just is.  If you learn nothing else from Kyle’s life, learn this.  This entire mortal journey is about love. In the end not one other thing matters.

2. Forgive quickly.  If it really really doesn't  matter?  Let it go.  And even if it does?  Let

   it go anyway.  We ALL need forgiveness.  And we all need to forgive

3. Judge Less.  Guess what?  We all do stupid things.  ALL OF US.  Learn to just

appreciate the GOOD things in others around us. Hopefully we will get the same kind of leniency in return.  Because we ALL need it.

4. Make time and spend it with the ones you love. Tell people you love them.  Even when you don't want to.  You won't be sorry. Do something fun or something dumb-just spend time together.

5. You are stronger than you think you are.  You CAN do hard things.  We were not superhuman, or super-anything, as we travelled this cancer road.  We were just regular people

   surviving a really hard thing, because we HAD TO. What other choice did we have?  We cried, we fell down, we said we're quitting...but then we rose again each day and dusted ourselves off and TRIED AGAIN.  That's ALL that really matters.  Getting up each time you fall. You can do it.  Believe in yourself.

6. It's OKAY to cry and hurt and be sad and FEEL THINGS.  As much as we like to think it's NOT?  IT IS!!!  It's healthy to let those feelings flow in and around and through and out of us.  Holding it all in and pretending doesn't do anyone any good.  Learn to feel.

7. Laugh.  Just laugh.  Give cancer, or other hard things, the bird!  It's okay to laugh and find humor in darkness.  Don’t take yourself so seriously all the time.

8. Back to #1....It's ALL ABOUT LOVE.  It just is.  Never. Never. Never. Forget that.

Kyle lived a life of service and love.  That is truly the essence of who he was in a nutshell. There is literally no way for me to encapsulate 46 years into a talk.  No way at all.  If I could leave just a last few things with you, they would be to know that he was one of the bravest human beings I have ever met.  He faced life, and cancer, with a quiet courage—one that meant getting up every day and moving forward. He loved his family more than life itself. My 4 children and I (and anyone that knew him) are the luckiest people in the world to have been loved by him as husband and father. (and friend and brother and son, etc).  He loved everyone he met, in his quiet sweet way.  He was never the loud life of the party, but he was the quiet guy in the back ground watching and waiting to help when he was needed.  He was the first person in line to help ANYONE and everyone who needed help in any kind of way—whether it be moving people in the neighborhood, helping a friend, co-worker, parent, grandparent or sibling.  Kyle was first in line and last to leave when there was hard work, or any work, to be done.  He told me at the end to be sad and grieve and miss him, but to also honor him by finding happiness again in this life. I’m not sure how hard that task will be, I imagine that some days it will be brutal, but I plan on digging deep inside myself and finding some light in this life again to honor him and his last request of me.

In closing I want to publically thank the Huntsman staff who treated Kyle with kindness and respect during countless hours spent in their facitility.

I want to thank our Oly 3 Ward friends for countless meals and acts of kindness. Countless.

Thank you to sweet Sarah Sample and The Lower Lights—you’ve made him so happy in honoring his life with your music that he so loved.  This music surrounded him in his last days and hours of his life, and brought tears of true happiness and joy to his heart, and ours.

Thank you to family and friends too numerous to name, and if I started naming names I would surely leave someone off the list and make them feel bad—so I won’t.  You all know who you are.  Thank you.

Thanks to my wonderful children for honoring their dad so wonderfully today.

Thank you for honoring Kyle today and for surrounding us with love.  He would want that.

Thank you all.