"When there is no wind, row."

While Erin was in the hospital after very low platelet counts caused her to bleed into her brain, the result of which was the inability for her to move the left side of her body from her shoulder down, I sent an email out to update everyone about this latest and most brutal assault on her poor little body.

At the time I was confounded by the atrocity of this event that came on the heels of the removal of a brain tumor just two weeks prior (a totally unrelated event) from which she had rallied in typical Erin-fashion by coming home three days after surgery as though nothing monumental had occurred, with her will to keep moving forward as strong as ever. I can picture her sitting on the couch after arriving home from the hospital just that morning having had the post-surgical, fashionable turban removed, eating the barbequed ribs dropped off by friends who'd shared their dinner with us, and watching the day's NFL games on TV like it was simply the traditional Sunday before Thanksgiving; where football games dominate the channels, and the house fills with the usual game day sounds ~ "What do you mean holding? I can't believe he threw another interception! That was not clipping! What a bogus call!"

Normalcy. Skewed, cancer-world normalcy.

Still shaken by the tumor's dramatic emergence after three years of the many other outrageous events faced and overcome, with its physical effects on Erin and the resulting surgery to remove it still threatening my sanity, I was not yet steadied with any sense of equilibrium when the bleed occurred just days later, on the Friday after Thanksgiving; the term "Black Friday" forever securing new meaning. I was astounded that this nightmarish event could happen, just when we thought things couldn't possibly get worse. NEWS FLASH ~ that line of thinking is so painfully NOT true!

I was beside myself, in a state of shock, exhausted. One initial reaction was to question the existence of that proverbial "open window" that is promised when God closes a door. I was gasping for air, feeling as though any avenue of a breeze had been sealed tight with weather stripping. Nothing was moving. I was suffocating from the fall-out and consumed with grief over what finally, after three years of a spirited and unyielding attitude toward this adversary, forced my daughter to say "I can't" do this anymore. Those words, "I can't" cut me to this day as I sit with the memory of this event, because I can look retrospectively now with a semblance of sanity over her life, and truly say I never heard her utter those words with that conviction during her eighteen years, including any time during the three years with cancer.

In my email I had asked people for advice, and soon after, a very perceptive friend sent this card to us. I love the image; the empty canoe, only one paddle, the calm waters that stretch to the horizon, the rocky banks, the towering trees in the distance...and the practical words.
When there is no wind, row.

Throughout that week when Erin was hospitalized, we all slowly began to come up for air. The exercise of regrouping had become a common practice during the previous three years because our hope and expectation of the course of the cancer was often heartbreakingly in conflict with its actual path, as it often took abrupt and unscheduled detours down avenues that were not of our choosing. Each time this happened, we had to let the dust of the impact of the disease again grabbing the upper hand settle, readjust our attitudes, let go of those things over which we had no control and trust that God had his plan that was not always our plan. It was hard work each time.

Often painfully during those three years I learned the sacrifice of giving over control let a tiny breeze begin to stir, because when my focus shifted from fighting the impossible (changing God's plan) to tending to the task at hand (caring for Erin in whatever way was appropriate at the time), the air gradually began to move again. When I could stop holding my breath in frustration, which often only resulted in sucking all the oxygen out of the atmosphere around me and possibly depriving others of its benefits, the surrounding air could gradually begin to follow its natural sustaining tendencies.

So, as the winds took their prevailing course, our courage and determination to "do the right" became the sturdy oars of strength fueling us to move through those final weeks. The paddles of our family boat began to row in a developed, well-honed rhythm that propelled us to take Erin from the hospital, safely home with us where she belonged, where we could offer comfort and a peaceful passage. In simplest form, what was most important at that time was for us to synchronize our paddles in the waters about her, quietly treading; being fully present with her, remaining at her side and loving her to pieces.

And, in typical Erin-fashion on her own, she ultimately chose to pick up her own oar during those last weeks and gently paddle, still directing her course as best she could through the days to her final destination. The witness of that is an INTEGRAL piece of what inspires me now as I walk this earth without her.

As I gasp for air now, on the days the winds stagnate with the all-consuming grief, it's that memory that urges me to row. If someone offers to spell me for a bit by taking charge of the paddles through words of advice or company, the respite can be a welcomed relief, knowing it's not always wise to navigate these waters by myself. Even so, there's often a preference to drift alone for a time ~ attuned to the steady panting of Keenan as we match strides over the miles (endorphins - my drug of choice) while listening to the songs of the birds, the music of the wind chimes, the splash of the rain and the rumble of thunder ~ feeling Erin in all of it through that sustained, though at times slight, movement of air.

Then, there are the days when the winds whip in fury, in attempt to blow me off course, and I have to muster the strength to row against the currents of doubt and frustration; as I look at the empty corner of the couch where she comfortably sat eating those ribs that Sunday, as Dave & I stare at the vacant chair at the dinner table wondering what else to talk about, as I will my phone to beep signaling an incoming silly text message from her, when we cut the white ribbons from the trees because they were tired, when we chose a headstone for her grave...

The above card is framed and hangs on the wall in my favorite room next to my favorite chair; where I sip my morning coffee, where I stare out the window to my garden, where I work through my crosswords, where I compose, where I cry, where I talk to God, where I gather myself, where I lace up my shoes signaling Keenan of my need to move...

Row.
Row forward because I want to.
Row.
Because Erin showed me how.