It's not what you take when you leave this world behind you...
It's what you leave behind you when you go.(Randy Travis, Three Wooden Crosses)
Final Thought
For Ken
In addition to the poem I included in "Watching Him Go (Part Two)", I have written a couple other things for Ken since he died. They were written for Ken, but God has used them to comfort me in my sorrow.
This one was for Father's Day. It was written in June, 2007.
The Christmas after Ken died, I searched and searched for some sort of memorial Christmas card to send. Since I couldn't sign Ken's name on the cards anymore, I wanted to be sure and include his memory. I found a couple of memorial cards, but they were not really what I wanted. I had almost given up, but one sleepless night, in the wee-hours, God gave me the words to the following poem. It was exactly what I wanted to say.
I made the mistake of entering this one in a poetry contest a couple of years later. The judges sent it back and said that it was "trite and predictable". Maybe it is, but it comforted me tremendously when God gave it to me, and it still does.
This one was for Father's Day. It was written in June, 2007.
Father's Day
I remember your first father’s day.
Your present that year was a sweet little boy—
all wrapped in blue blankets,
with a round little face.
Just right for all the kisses we put on it.
I remember the way you looked at our son
as you held him in the hours after his birth.
The pride in your voice as you said, “It’s a boy!”
I remember your fifth father’s day.
You celebrated then with another
sweet baby boy, born the past winter.
Your love multiplied to embrace this son,
as much as you ever loved,
and continued to love his big brother.
I remember your twelfth father’s day.
Our hearts were broken with the news
that you would have to leave us too soon.
Celebration was bittersweet.
Pain and confusion mixed with love.
This father’s day I watched one son reach a milestone
without you here to share it with him.
I watched the other son cry as he heard
others talk of fun with their fathers.
Celebration only in the fact
that you gave me these two precious
children before you had to go.
I wish I had paid closer attention
to the rest of your father’s days.
I didn’t know we’d have so few,
I miss you so much.
Happy Father’s Day.
The Christmas after Ken died, I searched and searched for some sort of memorial Christmas card to send. Since I couldn't sign Ken's name on the cards anymore, I wanted to be sure and include his memory. I found a couple of memorial cards, but they were not really what I wanted. I had almost given up, but one sleepless night, in the wee-hours, God gave me the words to the following poem. It was exactly what I wanted to say.
THE CHRISTMAS TEAR
The bells were all ringing, the lights all aglow.
The night air was crisp with the taste of new snow.
Santa was smiling from store windows bright.
The sweet sound of carols rang out in the night.
Greetings were given, “Great Tidings! Good Cheer!”
But the cheek of one held a small Christmas tear.
The tear had escaped from a sorrow-filled heart.
Mourning a loved one who had to depart.
Wondering how such joy could abound.
When in this poor heart such sadness was found.
Then a voice kind and gentle said, “Child, listen here.
Don’t you know that I cried the first Christmas tear?”
“The first tear was shed at a sweet baby’s birth,
that brought down the glory of Heaven to earth.
The joy of His coming was spread through the land.
Jesus–My Son–was My love gift to man.
His life here on earth was short–a mere breath.
But the cross that He bore gave you victory from death.”
Then the tear was wiped dry and the voice softly said,
“My child, do not cry. Your loved one’s not dead.
My son came to meet him with arms open wide,
and took him to Heaven when his body grew tired.
He’s waiting there now with a smile on his face.
And until it’s your time, he’ll be saving your place.
When you miss him, remember that he’s not far away.
And I’ll comfort your heart for the time you must stay.
When you go up to Heaven your loved one will be
running to meet you, to bring you to Me.”
Then peace filled the heart. There was nothing to fear.
It had all been washed clean by that sweet Christmas tear.
Written in Memory of my Sweetheart, Ken - 2005
I made the mistake of entering this one in a poetry contest a couple of years later. The judges sent it back and said that it was "trite and predictable". Maybe it is, but it comforted me tremendously when God gave it to me, and it still does.
What Is Left
When I started writing this account of Ken’s illness, I wasn’t sure how far I would go with it. Wasn’t sure when it would feel like “enough”. I considered continuing on with how life has unfolded following Ken’s death because so many things have been affected because of it. But I think I have told the story that I needed to tell. I wanted Jesse and Benjamin to have a record of those two years because they were so young when it was all happening and it was a very tumultuous time. I wanted them to know how hard we fought for their Dad to stay with us and how very badly Ken wanted to stay. Above all, I wanted to remind Jesse and Benjamin what a wonderful and loving man their father was and that he loved them with all of his might until his very last breath.
When Ken and I were dating, I told him that I would like to write a book one day. He always encouraged me to do that. I guess Ken’s story could be considered a “book”. I hope it is something that he would have been proud of.
And so I ask myself...”What is left?” In the beginning, what was left was a huge hole filled with pain, fear, anger, and loneliness. It was a very dark place to be and I didn’t like being there. But when I was finally able to look past that dark place, I realized that Ken left the best parts of himself in the two precious sons he gave to me while he was here.
In Jesse, I see Ken’s beautiful curls, his logical thinking, and his tender heart. He has grown into a strong and dependable man since his father died. I have leaned on him a lot, probably more than I should have. But Jesse has always been there to prop me up when life made me unsteady on my feet.
In Benjamin, I see Ken’s build, his crooked little smile, and his ability to make people laugh. He is tender with little children and lovably silly, sometimes to the point of distraction. I get frustrated with him at times, but his antics have cheered me on many dark days and I love him for that.
Together, I see two brothers who are very different in form and personality. They often disagree, but deep down, they depend on each other just the way their Dad and I wanted them to. And even though they are in a stage of life that they don’t always feel it and won’t say it, I know that they love each other. I believe that their bond is stronger for what they’ve had to go through together.
So, what’s left is not the life we planned, but it is the life we have. And together, with God’s help, we are living it the best way we know how. We will always miss Ken, but we will go on, because that is what he wanted us to do.
When Ken and I were dating, I told him that I would like to write a book one day. He always encouraged me to do that. I guess Ken’s story could be considered a “book”. I hope it is something that he would have been proud of.
And so I ask myself...”What is left?” In the beginning, what was left was a huge hole filled with pain, fear, anger, and loneliness. It was a very dark place to be and I didn’t like being there. But when I was finally able to look past that dark place, I realized that Ken left the best parts of himself in the two precious sons he gave to me while he was here.
In Jesse, I see Ken’s beautiful curls, his logical thinking, and his tender heart. He has grown into a strong and dependable man since his father died. I have leaned on him a lot, probably more than I should have. But Jesse has always been there to prop me up when life made me unsteady on my feet.
In Benjamin, I see Ken’s build, his crooked little smile, and his ability to make people laugh. He is tender with little children and lovably silly, sometimes to the point of distraction. I get frustrated with him at times, but his antics have cheered me on many dark days and I love him for that.
Together, I see two brothers who are very different in form and personality. They often disagree, but deep down, they depend on each other just the way their Dad and I wanted them to. And even though they are in a stage of life that they don’t always feel it and won’t say it, I know that they love each other. I believe that their bond is stronger for what they’ve had to go through together.
So, what’s left is not the life we planned, but it is the life we have. And together, with God’s help, we are living it the best way we know how. We will always miss Ken, but we will go on, because that is what he wanted us to do.
This is not where we planned to be...when we started this journey...but this is where we are...and our God is in control. (Steven Curtis Chapman - Our God Is In Control)
Marked for Life
Grief is a crazy thing. It can make you do things that are totally unexpected and out of character. I know this for a fact, and this is why.
When Ken had been gone about six months, it started feeling like the world was just whirling on by, having forgotten that my sweet husband ever existed. People were going on with their lives and everything (for them) was back to “normal”. Well, our “normal” was GONE! I wanted to jump up and down and scream, “Did you forget that my husband died?! Have you forgotten that Ken Lunsford was here and that we loved him?!” It hurt my feelings terribly to think that the place Ken occupied on this earth could be swallowed up in the hum-drum of every day life. I started looking for some way that I could say to the world, “Yes, Ken was here! He loved me and I loved him. He was IMPORTANT!” Here is the crazy part...I got a tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. Me, middle-aged, grey-haired, fat woman, got a tattoo. It is a heart with wings (my “heart” is in heaven now) with Ken’s name on a sunburst behind it. When people see it, they always ask me the same two questions: 1) “Is that REAL?”, and 2) “Did it hurt?” To which I reply, “Yes, and yes”.
I can understand people being surprised by it because it surprises me as well. But, now, when it feels like the world has forgotten Ken existed, I can look at the tattoo, and touch it and say, “He was here...I remember, even if the world doesn’t”. I guess I needed my body to be marked for life because Ken’s love marked my heart for life.
When Ken had been gone about six months, it started feeling like the world was just whirling on by, having forgotten that my sweet husband ever existed. People were going on with their lives and everything (for them) was back to “normal”. Well, our “normal” was GONE! I wanted to jump up and down and scream, “Did you forget that my husband died?! Have you forgotten that Ken Lunsford was here and that we loved him?!” It hurt my feelings terribly to think that the place Ken occupied on this earth could be swallowed up in the hum-drum of every day life. I started looking for some way that I could say to the world, “Yes, Ken was here! He loved me and I loved him. He was IMPORTANT!” Here is the crazy part...I got a tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. Me, middle-aged, grey-haired, fat woman, got a tattoo. It is a heart with wings (my “heart” is in heaven now) with Ken’s name on a sunburst behind it. When people see it, they always ask me the same two questions: 1) “Is that REAL?”, and 2) “Did it hurt?” To which I reply, “Yes, and yes”.
I can understand people being surprised by it because it surprises me as well. But, now, when it feels like the world has forgotten Ken existed, I can look at the tattoo, and touch it and say, “He was here...I remember, even if the world doesn’t”. I guess I needed my body to be marked for life because Ken’s love marked my heart for life.
After
The week after the funeral was busy. I had a lot of stuff that needed my attention. Had to go to Social Security office to arrange for the boys’ survivor benefits, pick up death certificates at the funeral home, change bank accounts into my name, change car titles into my name, make arrangements for the medical equipment to be picked up, and on and on AND ON. It was a very “teeth-gritting” time because everything I had to do underscored that Ken was dead and I was alone.
Strangely, the hardest thing that happened that week was when the medical supply company came and took “Bill” and “Baby Bill” (Ken’s feeding pumps) away. None of the other medical equipment leaving the house bothered me a bit. But when they came for “Bill”, I sat down on my porch steps and SOBBED!!! “Bill” had been instrumental in keeping Ken alive for two years and even though it was a just a piece of equipment, it was like losing a piece of Ken. I guess the driver that day thought he had stumbled into the nut house by mistake.
I guess I was experiencing all of the stages of grief at pretty much the same time (with heavy emphasis on anger and depression). Even now, I find myself slipping in and out of the various stages. And, since I knew ahead of time that Ken was going to die, I did a lot of my grieving before he actually died. I think the “experts” call that “anticipatory grief”. It is not as raw now, but I still don’t know if I could say that I have reached the point of complete acceptance. I just can’t fully accept that Ken had to die. I don’t ask God, “Why?”, because I know that there is no answer that would make me say, “Okay, God, that’s a good enough reason to make my husband suffer horribly and then have to leave the family that loves him so”. Don’t get me wrong... I have felt God’s presence with me every single step of this sad journey. I’ve never felt forsaken. His Holy Spirit has been my comfort, just like He promised. And I believe Him when He said he would be the “defender of the widows and orphans”. I trust Him to do just that. But, I am human. I miss Ken with an indescribable ache that just won’t go away. I hurt for my children that they have to finish growing up without their Dad’s guidance. I hate that Jesse and Benjamin won’t get to see the pride in Ken’s eyes at their achievements and as they grow into the men they are going to be. I accept the life I have now, because I have no other choice. I have to keep moving forward for my sons’ sakes and because it is what Ken expected me to do. But accepting that Ken had to go? I still struggle with that. I think, on some level, I probably always will.
Strangely, the hardest thing that happened that week was when the medical supply company came and took “Bill” and “Baby Bill” (Ken’s feeding pumps) away. None of the other medical equipment leaving the house bothered me a bit. But when they came for “Bill”, I sat down on my porch steps and SOBBED!!! “Bill” had been instrumental in keeping Ken alive for two years and even though it was a just a piece of equipment, it was like losing a piece of Ken. I guess the driver that day thought he had stumbled into the nut house by mistake.
My heart is broken. I’m so hurt I can’t function. Mama was here until this morning, she was such a big help. Now, though, it’s just me and the boys and I’m scared to go to sleep. I never intended to be that “W-word”. I can’t even bring myself to say it or write it down. (Melinda’s Journal, November 20, 2004)
Now I’m a single parent. Every time I come home with my boys, no one will be waiting for us inside, except the dog. Ken is the one who took away my loneliness and now he’s gone. How will I make it without him? Why do some couples get to spend their lifetimes together and we only got 15 short years? I DO NOT UNDERSTAND!!!!! (Melinda’s Journal, November 20, 2004)
All I can think about is that my best friend and sweetheart is gone and my children are fatherless! What am I going to do now that Ken is gone?! I intended on us getting old and gray together. I remember how lonely I was before God brought Ken and me together. Now the feeling is back and I HATE IT! (Melinda’s Journal, November 21, 2004)
We’re celebrating Benjamin’s birthday tomorrow. I’m trying to be upbeat for him, but all I can think is that his Daddy isn’t here to celebrate with us. I keep remembering how Ken looked, holding Benjamin just after he was born. How is it right that this precious little boy only got to have nine years with his Daddy?! How can I be all my boys need all by myself?! They need their Daddy! I need my husband! (Melinda’s Journal, November 24, 2004)
I HATE being a “single parent”. Never aimed to be that. So lonely. I have the boys and that helps, but my sweetheart is gone and my heart feels empty. (Melinda’s Journal, November 26, 2004)
I guess I was experiencing all of the stages of grief at pretty much the same time (with heavy emphasis on anger and depression). Even now, I find myself slipping in and out of the various stages. And, since I knew ahead of time that Ken was going to die, I did a lot of my grieving before he actually died. I think the “experts” call that “anticipatory grief”. It is not as raw now, but I still don’t know if I could say that I have reached the point of complete acceptance. I just can’t fully accept that Ken had to die. I don’t ask God, “Why?”, because I know that there is no answer that would make me say, “Okay, God, that’s a good enough reason to make my husband suffer horribly and then have to leave the family that loves him so”. Don’t get me wrong... I have felt God’s presence with me every single step of this sad journey. I’ve never felt forsaken. His Holy Spirit has been my comfort, just like He promised. And I believe Him when He said he would be the “defender of the widows and orphans”. I trust Him to do just that. But, I am human. I miss Ken with an indescribable ache that just won’t go away. I hurt for my children that they have to finish growing up without their Dad’s guidance. I hate that Jesse and Benjamin won’t get to see the pride in Ken’s eyes at their achievements and as they grow into the men they are going to be. I accept the life I have now, because I have no other choice. I have to keep moving forward for my sons’ sakes and because it is what Ken expected me to do. But accepting that Ken had to go? I still struggle with that. I think, on some level, I probably always will.
Final Tribute
What I remember about the day of Ken’s funeral is scattered and crazy. For example, I remember that my cousin, Kenneth, came down and agreed to be a pall bearer and when he arrived at the house, I was still in my nightgown. Now why would that be something that I would remember? Anyway, I don’t remember getting my boys ready, so I am assuming that Mama took care of that for me (as usual).
We went to the funeral home for a final viewing (I had decided to have a closed casket at the funeral) and to follow the hearse to the church. I had reserved two family cars, but for some reason, nobody wanted to ride in them. I think Mama and Daddy and maybe Michaelann rode with the boys and me (and maybe Ken’s mom – I can’t remember). Everyone else went in their own cars. As we followed behind the hearse, all of the cars on the other side of the road stopped for the funeral procession. I remember thinking to myself, “Yes, it is fitting that they should stop. It feels like my world has stopped too.”
Going into the church is pretty much a blur. I remember the funeral director telling us to wait until they got the casket straight in the aisle before we came down...something about having to make a “tight turn” around the back pew. (Again...why would I remember something as trivial as that?!) My sweet Daddy walked down with me and held my hand and Mama walked down with Jesse and Benjamin. I think the church was full – again, it’s a blur.
The service itself was very touching. Our music minister, David Marshall, and our pianist, Pat Boatman, sang God on the Mountain and What a Day That Will Be. I remember Benjamin crawling up in my lap at one point. It was so hard for my sweet boys to have to face the future without their Daddy. Keith did a wonderful job. He talked about what a good man and what a loving husband and father Ken was. It came from his heart, because Keith wasn’t just our pastor, but he was our friend. I had asked Keith to be sure and present the Plan of Salvation because Ken and I both had unsaved family members who would attend the funeral service. I even told him he could extend an altar call if he felt led. The service honored Ken the way I wanted it to and it left people with a message of hope.
As the final part of the service, I had asked them to play Fly Again by David Phelps. Such a beautiful song about one of God’s saints going home. I had first heard the song shortly after Ken had been diagnosed. It became a huge comfort to me because it was almost as though it had been written with Ken in mind. I wanted it to be the last thing people heard before the service ended. Even now, when I’m missing Ken or having an extra sad day, I will play that song as a comfort and a reminder to myself that Ken is okay.
The graveside service was brief. I remember that the sun was shining. When the service was over, people kept hurrying me to the car. I think they didn’t want me to see the men set the lid on the vault and cover the grave. I guess that is another one of those things that some people are bothered by. I can’t see that watching them cover the grave would have been any worse than seeing the backhoe waiting and the guys with shovels leaning against the trees a few graves over.
Following the graveside service, we went back to Boynton Baptist because our church family had prepared dinner for us. After that we had to go back up to the sanctuary and decide what to do with all of the plants and flower arrangements. I gave either one or two big peace lillies to the church. The rest, I was going to divide up between whichever family members that wanted them. One person, not even a family member–but a “significant other” of a family member was laying claim to just about every single arrangement there. I finally had to tell her that she could have what was left after Ken’s family (specifically his mom) and my family had chosen the ones they wanted. SIGH...people can be so thoughtless sometimes.
That’s about all I remember about funeral day. The most important thing I remember is that I was satisfied with the way we had paid tribute to my sweet, darling husband. He would have probably laughed at all of the fuss and “hoo-hah”, but I think he would have liked the end results.
We went to the funeral home for a final viewing (I had decided to have a closed casket at the funeral) and to follow the hearse to the church. I had reserved two family cars, but for some reason, nobody wanted to ride in them. I think Mama and Daddy and maybe Michaelann rode with the boys and me (and maybe Ken’s mom – I can’t remember). Everyone else went in their own cars. As we followed behind the hearse, all of the cars on the other side of the road stopped for the funeral procession. I remember thinking to myself, “Yes, it is fitting that they should stop. It feels like my world has stopped too.”
Going into the church is pretty much a blur. I remember the funeral director telling us to wait until they got the casket straight in the aisle before we came down...something about having to make a “tight turn” around the back pew. (Again...why would I remember something as trivial as that?!) My sweet Daddy walked down with me and held my hand and Mama walked down with Jesse and Benjamin. I think the church was full – again, it’s a blur.
The service itself was very touching. Our music minister, David Marshall, and our pianist, Pat Boatman, sang God on the Mountain and What a Day That Will Be. I remember Benjamin crawling up in my lap at one point. It was so hard for my sweet boys to have to face the future without their Daddy. Keith did a wonderful job. He talked about what a good man and what a loving husband and father Ken was. It came from his heart, because Keith wasn’t just our pastor, but he was our friend. I had asked Keith to be sure and present the Plan of Salvation because Ken and I both had unsaved family members who would attend the funeral service. I even told him he could extend an altar call if he felt led. The service honored Ken the way I wanted it to and it left people with a message of hope.
As the final part of the service, I had asked them to play Fly Again by David Phelps. Such a beautiful song about one of God’s saints going home. I had first heard the song shortly after Ken had been diagnosed. It became a huge comfort to me because it was almost as though it had been written with Ken in mind. I wanted it to be the last thing people heard before the service ended. Even now, when I’m missing Ken or having an extra sad day, I will play that song as a comfort and a reminder to myself that Ken is okay.
Fly Again (Lyrics and Music by David Phelps)
His trembling hands held the church pew that day…
Struggling to stand when they asked him to pray.
With wisdom and strength his words were spoken.
But his body grew weary for his wings were broken.
But he will fly once again. He will soar with his wings unfolded.
Hear the angels applaud, as he rides on the wind to the arms of God.
And he will fly, he will fly again.
And on that day when he left for the sky,
I saw him smile as he told me goodbye.
No more would he weep for missed tomorrows.
No more would he suffer in this land of sorrows.
But he will fly once again. He will soar with his wings unfolded.
Hear the angels applaud, as he rides on the wind to the arms of God.
And he will fly, he will fly again.
I know that he’s in a better place.
I still dream of the day when I’ll see his face.
then we’ll embrace, and...
We will fly once again. We will soar with our wings unfolded.
Hear the angels applaud, as we ride on the wind to the arms of God.
And we will fly, we will fly again…we will fly…again.
The graveside service was brief. I remember that the sun was shining. When the service was over, people kept hurrying me to the car. I think they didn’t want me to see the men set the lid on the vault and cover the grave. I guess that is another one of those things that some people are bothered by. I can’t see that watching them cover the grave would have been any worse than seeing the backhoe waiting and the guys with shovels leaning against the trees a few graves over.
Following the graveside service, we went back to Boynton Baptist because our church family had prepared dinner for us. After that we had to go back up to the sanctuary and decide what to do with all of the plants and flower arrangements. I gave either one or two big peace lillies to the church. The rest, I was going to divide up between whichever family members that wanted them. One person, not even a family member–but a “significant other” of a family member was laying claim to just about every single arrangement there. I finally had to tell her that she could have what was left after Ken’s family (specifically his mom) and my family had chosen the ones they wanted. SIGH...people can be so thoughtless sometimes.
That’s about all I remember about funeral day. The most important thing I remember is that I was satisfied with the way we had paid tribute to my sweet, darling husband. He would have probably laughed at all of the fuss and “hoo-hah”, but I think he would have liked the end results.
Portrait painted by Jolee Shelby: artist, friend,
and fellow Boynton Elementary Media Center Volunteer
Visitation
The visitation was set from 6:00 to 9:00. I figured three hours was plenty of time. The family was supposed to get there at 5:00 so we could have a private, family visitation prior to the public one. I told them that I wanted to see Ken first, by myself. Then I would take Jesse and Benjamin in, if they wanted to view Ken’s body. After that, I would take his parents in. When we had all been in, then the rest of the family could come in as they wished. I got several questioning looks when I told everybody how it would be, especially when I said I would go in alone to begin with. I just wanted it to be quiet and respectful. I was afraid that if the whole family went in together, it would turn into something less than I thought Ken deserved.
It is hard to explain how I felt when I saw Ken’s body again. They had dressed him in blue jeans, his “Five Star Dad” tee shirt, and a long sleeved shirt, just as he had dressed while he was alive. He was, of course, bald from the chemotherapy. And, since I forgot to tell the funeral home that those whispy little whiskers on his face were the remnants of his beard, they had shaved him smooth. I remember making mention to someone, “Awww, they shaved his beard.” Whoever I told went straight to the funeral director and must have kicked up a fuss, because she came rushing in apologizing over and over, asking what they could do to make it up to me. I told her that it wasn’t their fault – I forgot to tell them. If you hadn’t known that Ken usually wore a beard, there was no way you would have known that the whiskers he had left weren’t just from not shaving while he was sick. She told me that they would give me some memorial book marks with Ken’s picture and obituary on them. I said, “Sure, that would be fine”. They ended up giving me a dozen book marks. I think I still have at least half of them in the cedar chest.
I had told Jesse and Benjamin that they could go in and see their Dad’s body if they wanted to, but they didn’t have to. I explained that he wouldn’t look the same as they remembered him because his spirit wasn’t there any more. They both said they wanted to go in, so I took them each by the hand and we walked up to the casket. I told them they could touch their Dad if they wanted, but that his body would be cold, and that wasn’t anything to be scared about. I told them that they could talk to Ken if they wanted to. Jesse said, “Why would we do that, Mom? That’s not Dad.” As young as they were, both boys “got” that what was left was only a physical shell and that the Dad they knew and loved had already left and gone to Heaven.
When it was time to start the public visitation, there was already a line of people out the door of the funeral home. I have never seen so many people come to a visitation. It was a constant stream all night long. So many people came, in fact, that they had to add pages to the back of the guest book. A couple of times, Ken’s mom tried to get me to let her sit up there so I could go in the back and rest (as if anyone could rest in the midst of the “funeral party” that was going on). While I wouldn’t have minded her sitting up there with me, I told her, “No, if these dear people thought enough of my sweet husband to come to see me, then I am going to speak to every single one of them”. And I did. People had come from all over. Many from our extended families, dear friends, our church family, our former church family, teachers from Benjamin’s and Jesse’s schools, even some of Ken’s renters came. It was a very touching tribute showing just how much Ken was loved. It was a great comfort.
It is hard to explain how I felt when I saw Ken’s body again. They had dressed him in blue jeans, his “Five Star Dad” tee shirt, and a long sleeved shirt, just as he had dressed while he was alive. He was, of course, bald from the chemotherapy. And, since I forgot to tell the funeral home that those whispy little whiskers on his face were the remnants of his beard, they had shaved him smooth. I remember making mention to someone, “Awww, they shaved his beard.” Whoever I told went straight to the funeral director and must have kicked up a fuss, because she came rushing in apologizing over and over, asking what they could do to make it up to me. I told her that it wasn’t their fault – I forgot to tell them. If you hadn’t known that Ken usually wore a beard, there was no way you would have known that the whiskers he had left weren’t just from not shaving while he was sick. She told me that they would give me some memorial book marks with Ken’s picture and obituary on them. I said, “Sure, that would be fine”. They ended up giving me a dozen book marks. I think I still have at least half of them in the cedar chest.
I had told Jesse and Benjamin that they could go in and see their Dad’s body if they wanted to, but they didn’t have to. I explained that he wouldn’t look the same as they remembered him because his spirit wasn’t there any more. They both said they wanted to go in, so I took them each by the hand and we walked up to the casket. I told them they could touch their Dad if they wanted, but that his body would be cold, and that wasn’t anything to be scared about. I told them that they could talk to Ken if they wanted to. Jesse said, “Why would we do that, Mom? That’s not Dad.” As young as they were, both boys “got” that what was left was only a physical shell and that the Dad they knew and loved had already left and gone to Heaven.
When it was time to start the public visitation, there was already a line of people out the door of the funeral home. I have never seen so many people come to a visitation. It was a constant stream all night long. So many people came, in fact, that they had to add pages to the back of the guest book. A couple of times, Ken’s mom tried to get me to let her sit up there so I could go in the back and rest (as if anyone could rest in the midst of the “funeral party” that was going on). While I wouldn’t have minded her sitting up there with me, I told her, “No, if these dear people thought enough of my sweet husband to come to see me, then I am going to speak to every single one of them”. And I did. People had come from all over. Many from our extended families, dear friends, our church family, our former church family, teachers from Benjamin’s and Jesse’s schools, even some of Ken’s renters came. It was a very touching tribute showing just how much Ken was loved. It was a great comfort.
Arrangements
After we said good-bye and Ken breathed his last labored breath, the Hospice nurse asked everyone to leave the room and let me have a little time alone with Ken. They all left. I found myself in a place I had never imagined I would be...standing at the bedside, looking down on my dear husband’s poor, battered body. I tried to talk to him, but it was so obvious that “Ken” wasn’t there anymore. It was only what was left after what made him who he was had gone. I kissed his face, closed his blue eyes and told him, again, that I loved him. Then I went into the living room and began the process of “making arrangements”.
I am not sure who called the funeral home...it must have been either Mama or Ken’s mom. The house was FULL of people. There were many family members from both sides, as well as people from our church family. I honestly don’t know just who all was there. I just remember feeling like I was stuck in one spot with all of this frenzied activity swirling around me.
The paramedics came, which I think is a requirement whenever someone dies at home. They asked me if I wanted any “heroic measures” done. I blinked at them, trying to figure out why they would try and do anything to resuscitate someone who had already died. When I realized that they were waiting for an answer, I shook my head and said, “No, leave him alone. He’s been through enough.” They went in, confirmed that Ken had no vital signs, and pronounced him dead. {An interesting side note...I had absolutely NO memory of the paramedics coming until almost four years after Ken died. I had always assumed that the Hospice doctor had pronounced Ken over the phone. I’m not sure what triggered the memory, but when it came back, it was clear as day. Funny how the minds works.}
Pastor Keith arrived just prior to the men from the funeral home. He said he would stay in the bedroom with Ken’s body while the men prepared it for transport. I was glad he was there to make sure they treated Ken gently and with dignity. For some reason, everyone tried to keep me from seeing them wheel Ken’s body out on the stretcher. I guess that bothers some people. I remember looking out the front window and watching the hearse pull away. “Bye, Baby”, I whispered.
Pretty soon after that, people started leaving. My family had to get back to Alabama so they could all make arrangements to come back for the funeral. Ken’s family, I guess, went home. Mama stayed to help look after the boys. Jan, my best friend, stayed with me that night so I wouldn’t have to sleep in my bedroom all alone. We talked most of the night, not much sleep for either of us. It was good to have her there with me because if I wanted to talk, she would listen and talk to me. But if I wanted to just be quiet, then she was a loving presence in the stillness.
I had an appointment the next morning at the funeral home. Mama went with me (I don’t remember who stayed home with the boys.) When we arrived, I was surprised to see most of Ken’s family–his Mom, Dad, both brothers and at least one of his brothers’ wives. I didn’t mind them being there, but I wondered why they felt the need to be there since I was the one planning and paying for the whole thing. I wondered if they didn’t trust me to give Ken a proper funeral. I realize how bad that sounds, but all I could think was, “Why now?” Their denial had kept them at a distance for two years, but now that Ken was dead, they all wanted to be there at the end. I didn’t understand...still don’t, really.
Anyway, we all sat around this table and listened to the lady talk about what services they offered and what my choices would be. In all honesty, I had already planned the service in my mind. It was during those endless nights when Ken was so sick and my mind would not stop. I remember feeling guilty about those thoughts as they were happening, but now I see that it was God’s way of helping me out with tough decisions when the time came. So, the only real decisions I had to make at the funeral home were when to have the visitation and funeral, the kind of guest book I wanted, and which casket I wanted Ken to have.
Moving from the dim, hush-toned conference room into the insanely brightly-lit casket room was, for me, the ultimate exercise in the ridiculous. It almost felt like a television commercial, where they open a door and a halo of light comes spilling out. All it lacked was the “ta-daa!” music. When I got to the door, I started to hyperventilate. I remember Mama saying, “It’s going to be alright”, to which I snappishly responded, “No, Mama, there is NOTHING alright about this!” It is a good thing my Mama loves me so much, because that was mean of me to say to her after she had done so much for us. They ushered me into this roomful of caskets, all with the lids raised, and lists of specifications inside. It reminded me of a new car showroom – everything bright and shiny, saying “pick me!”. The lady started telling me about each casket, listing all of its qualities and warranties. She said something about a “life time warranty against leakage”. I’m thinking to myself, “Whose lifetime? Ken is already dead. Besides, if the casket does leak, who’s going to tell us it is leaking?” Craziest thing I’ve ever heard.
I walked across the room, laid my hand on a wooden (either oak or walnut) casket and said, "I’ll take this one". It didn’t have anything to do with its appearance, its price or its qualities - it was simply because it was made of wood. Ken never could abide any furniture in the house that wasn’t made with solid wood. I guess, since that casket was going to be Ken’s final “bed”, I needed it to be solid wood.
We set the visitation for the next night, and the funeral was to be the morning after that, at our church, Boynton Baptist. I wanted the service to be in one of the places Ken loved the most. I also did NOT want his visitation and funeral to turn into the three-day family reunion thing where everybody camps out at the funeral parlor and laughs, visits, and eats non-stop the whole time. I guess it is a regional thing, because that is the way every funeral I ever attended while I lived up there was. The funeral parlors even have full-sized refrigerators for each family because instead of bringing food to the family’s home, people bring it to the mortuary. Darndest thing I’ve ever witnessed. And, in all honesty, to me it seemed disrespectful. I always had a hard time reconciling the party in the back room with the dead person laying in the front parlor.
We had to make one more stop, at the cemetery. I had to buy burial plots and a vault. I chose plots close to Ken’s other family members. I bought two, so I would be able to be beside him when it is my time. Do you know that they give you a deed with a legal description and everything when you buy burial plots? I guess I had just never thought about burial plots being considered “real estate”.
I am not sure who called the funeral home...it must have been either Mama or Ken’s mom. The house was FULL of people. There were many family members from both sides, as well as people from our church family. I honestly don’t know just who all was there. I just remember feeling like I was stuck in one spot with all of this frenzied activity swirling around me.
The paramedics came, which I think is a requirement whenever someone dies at home. They asked me if I wanted any “heroic measures” done. I blinked at them, trying to figure out why they would try and do anything to resuscitate someone who had already died. When I realized that they were waiting for an answer, I shook my head and said, “No, leave him alone. He’s been through enough.” They went in, confirmed that Ken had no vital signs, and pronounced him dead. {An interesting side note...I had absolutely NO memory of the paramedics coming until almost four years after Ken died. I had always assumed that the Hospice doctor had pronounced Ken over the phone. I’m not sure what triggered the memory, but when it came back, it was clear as day. Funny how the minds works.}
Pastor Keith arrived just prior to the men from the funeral home. He said he would stay in the bedroom with Ken’s body while the men prepared it for transport. I was glad he was there to make sure they treated Ken gently and with dignity. For some reason, everyone tried to keep me from seeing them wheel Ken’s body out on the stretcher. I guess that bothers some people. I remember looking out the front window and watching the hearse pull away. “Bye, Baby”, I whispered.
Pretty soon after that, people started leaving. My family had to get back to Alabama so they could all make arrangements to come back for the funeral. Ken’s family, I guess, went home. Mama stayed to help look after the boys. Jan, my best friend, stayed with me that night so I wouldn’t have to sleep in my bedroom all alone. We talked most of the night, not much sleep for either of us. It was good to have her there with me because if I wanted to talk, she would listen and talk to me. But if I wanted to just be quiet, then she was a loving presence in the stillness.
I had an appointment the next morning at the funeral home. Mama went with me (I don’t remember who stayed home with the boys.) When we arrived, I was surprised to see most of Ken’s family–his Mom, Dad, both brothers and at least one of his brothers’ wives. I didn’t mind them being there, but I wondered why they felt the need to be there since I was the one planning and paying for the whole thing. I wondered if they didn’t trust me to give Ken a proper funeral. I realize how bad that sounds, but all I could think was, “Why now?” Their denial had kept them at a distance for two years, but now that Ken was dead, they all wanted to be there at the end. I didn’t understand...still don’t, really.
Anyway, we all sat around this table and listened to the lady talk about what services they offered and what my choices would be. In all honesty, I had already planned the service in my mind. It was during those endless nights when Ken was so sick and my mind would not stop. I remember feeling guilty about those thoughts as they were happening, but now I see that it was God’s way of helping me out with tough decisions when the time came. So, the only real decisions I had to make at the funeral home were when to have the visitation and funeral, the kind of guest book I wanted, and which casket I wanted Ken to have.
Moving from the dim, hush-toned conference room into the insanely brightly-lit casket room was, for me, the ultimate exercise in the ridiculous. It almost felt like a television commercial, where they open a door and a halo of light comes spilling out. All it lacked was the “ta-daa!” music. When I got to the door, I started to hyperventilate. I remember Mama saying, “It’s going to be alright”, to which I snappishly responded, “No, Mama, there is NOTHING alright about this!” It is a good thing my Mama loves me so much, because that was mean of me to say to her after she had done so much for us. They ushered me into this roomful of caskets, all with the lids raised, and lists of specifications inside. It reminded me of a new car showroom – everything bright and shiny, saying “pick me!”. The lady started telling me about each casket, listing all of its qualities and warranties. She said something about a “life time warranty against leakage”. I’m thinking to myself, “Whose lifetime? Ken is already dead. Besides, if the casket does leak, who’s going to tell us it is leaking?” Craziest thing I’ve ever heard.
I walked across the room, laid my hand on a wooden (either oak or walnut) casket and said, "I’ll take this one". It didn’t have anything to do with its appearance, its price or its qualities - it was simply because it was made of wood. Ken never could abide any furniture in the house that wasn’t made with solid wood. I guess, since that casket was going to be Ken’s final “bed”, I needed it to be solid wood.
We set the visitation for the next night, and the funeral was to be the morning after that, at our church, Boynton Baptist. I wanted the service to be in one of the places Ken loved the most. I also did NOT want his visitation and funeral to turn into the three-day family reunion thing where everybody camps out at the funeral parlor and laughs, visits, and eats non-stop the whole time. I guess it is a regional thing, because that is the way every funeral I ever attended while I lived up there was. The funeral parlors even have full-sized refrigerators for each family because instead of bringing food to the family’s home, people bring it to the mortuary. Darndest thing I’ve ever witnessed. And, in all honesty, to me it seemed disrespectful. I always had a hard time reconciling the party in the back room with the dead person laying in the front parlor.
We had to make one more stop, at the cemetery. I had to buy burial plots and a vault. I chose plots close to Ken’s other family members. I bought two, so I would be able to be beside him when it is my time. Do you know that they give you a deed with a legal description and everything when you buy burial plots? I guess I had just never thought about burial plots being considered “real estate”.
Beauty From the Ashes
The night before Ken died, the most amazing thing happened. It involved his father and can only be described as miraculous. Ken’s father was unsaved. He never felt a need to go to church. Various ones through the years had witnessed to him. Even his grandchildren pleaded with him to come to Jesus. He would always listen politely, but would never admit his need for salvation. Sadly, most people had just given up on him ever being saved.
There were only two things that Ken cried about when he was sick. One was having to leave his boys and the other was that his father was lost. The thought of his dad not going to Heaven broke Ken’s heart. He talked to Pastor Keith about it, and being the godly man that he is, Keith took it as his personal mission to witness to Ken’s dad every time he saw him. He would listen, and even got to the point of admitting he was a sinner, but he always stopped just short of asking Jesus to save him.
Well, the night before Ken died, while we were gathered around his bed, Keith looked at Ken’s dad and told him he felt God leading him to witness to him one more time. Keith told Ken’s dad that Jesus loved him so much that he died on a sinner’s cross to be the sacrifice for his sins. Then Keith asked if he was ready to pray the sinner’s prayer and ask for forgiveness and salvation. I never would have believed it would happen, but that crusty, crochety old heart was finally touched by God’s everlasting love and Ken’s dad asked for Jesus to come into his heart. It was nothing less than amazing.
I leaned over and whispered in Ken’s ear, “It is okay now, Baby. Your daddy is going to see you in Heaven one day”. I don’t know if Ken heard or understood me. I believe with my whole heart, though, that when he told me earlier that he “wasn’t going anywhere”, it was because he couldn’t let go of this life until he knew his dad was alright.
I have often wondered if this was the sole purpose for Ken’s illness and death—his dad’s salvation. If it was, even though I would have preferred for God to find another way to accomplish His will in this situation, I praise Him all the same.
There were only two things that Ken cried about when he was sick. One was having to leave his boys and the other was that his father was lost. The thought of his dad not going to Heaven broke Ken’s heart. He talked to Pastor Keith about it, and being the godly man that he is, Keith took it as his personal mission to witness to Ken’s dad every time he saw him. He would listen, and even got to the point of admitting he was a sinner, but he always stopped just short of asking Jesus to save him.
Well, the night before Ken died, while we were gathered around his bed, Keith looked at Ken’s dad and told him he felt God leading him to witness to him one more time. Keith told Ken’s dad that Jesus loved him so much that he died on a sinner’s cross to be the sacrifice for his sins. Then Keith asked if he was ready to pray the sinner’s prayer and ask for forgiveness and salvation. I never would have believed it would happen, but that crusty, crochety old heart was finally touched by God’s everlasting love and Ken’s dad asked for Jesus to come into his heart. It was nothing less than amazing.
I leaned over and whispered in Ken’s ear, “It is okay now, Baby. Your daddy is going to see you in Heaven one day”. I don’t know if Ken heard or understood me. I believe with my whole heart, though, that when he told me earlier that he “wasn’t going anywhere”, it was because he couldn’t let go of this life until he knew his dad was alright.
I have often wondered if this was the sole purpose for Ken’s illness and death—his dad’s salvation. If it was, even though I would have preferred for God to find another way to accomplish His will in this situation, I praise Him all the same.
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13 NIV
Watching Him Go (Part Two)
It has been five years since Ken died. I wrote this to him two years ago, when it had only been three years...same feelings this year--just substitute the word "five" for "three"...same sadness...I still miss him so much. I am including it here because it depicts exactly how Ken's last moments on this earth occurred.
Dear Ken,
Three years ago today I watched your final struggle
against that monstrous disease
that took your health and your dignity. . .
and ultimately took you away from us.
Holding your hand, I felt your fingers begin to grow cool
even as your heart pounded valiantly,
in a futile attempt to keep
your poor battered body alive.
You called out to me, but your eyes didn't see me
when I told you I was beside you-as always.
What a precious gift it was to me that
your final word on this earth was my name.
I put my hand on your chest,
and felt your heart begin to slow.
I called our children and told them
it was time to tell you good-bye.
Your heartbeat stilled and we watched
your eyes grow dim,
as you finally let go of this life
and flew into the outstretched arms of God.
I held our sons in my arms as we watched your body
reflexively draw in and then push out one last breath.
Our baby asked if you were still alive.
I pulled him close and whispered, "No, Daddy's in heaven now".
I thought that time stood still that day.
But now I see that it has raced on
at a dizzying pace.
Three years - gone- in the blink of an eye.
I know that your pain and sorrow are gone.
I know that your life now is peace and joy.
But do you ever think about us?
Are you proud of the young men our sons are becoming?
Do you know how much we miss you?
11/13/07
Watching Him Go
I arrived home just as the ambulance crew was taking Ken in the house. Our hallway to the bedroom was too narrow for them to swing the gurney around, so one of the attendants had to pick Ken up, like a baby, and carry him to the hospital bed. About the time they got him all settled, the lady from Hospice got there. She came in and did an intake interview to determine what our needs were going to be. I do not remember her name, but I do remember that she was very empathetic and compassionate. She was, herself, a widow of a cancer patient, so she knew first-hand what we were facing.
I don’t remember whether it was that night or the next morning that a Hospice nurse came and started Ken on morphine. It was the liquid form – the kind only used for patients who are dying – and VERY strong. Its effect on Ken was immediate and frightening. He only got a couple of drops under his tongue every several hours, but each time he got a dose, his eyes would sort of roll around in his head and when he tried to talk, it sounded as if he had a mouth full of marbles. I now understand how some people believe that the morphine “killed” their loved ones. Ken certainly behaved differently after he started taking it. Mostly, though, it made him sleep.
Specific details about the rest of that week are difficult to recall. I know I spent most every minute in the bedroom with Ken, so he could see me whenever he woke up. I stayed on the foot of my bed most of the time, laying beside his hospital bed and holding his hand. My Mama was taking care of Jesse and Benjamin, so I could stay with Ken as much as I wanted. Unfortunately, once again those sweet boys were pushed to the side while I took care of their Daddy. It pains me now to realize that at that point, Jesse and Benjamin probably needed me more than Ken did. I pray that one day they will be able to understand and forgive me for not being with them more.
Even though Ken slept most of the time, he did have moments of complete clarity. They were fleeting, but when they occurred, he was absolutely lucid. He would usually “wake up”, tell one of us that he loved us, and then drift back into the morphine fog. I believe that God allowed those moments as gifts that we could tuck back and treasure in the dark days to come.
On that Friday (it was November 12, 2004), Ken’s dad came over. He said that he would sit with Ken so I could try to relax in the living room for a little while. I don’t know why I agreed, but I did. I had barely gotten settled when Ken’s dad came into the living room and said, “I think you had better come here...Ken’s eyes ain’t right”. I ran in and called Ken’s name. He opened his eyes, but there was absolutely no focus there. His breathing was very rapid and shallow. I ran to the phone and called the Hospice nurse and our pastor, Keith, and asked them both to come. Then I went in and prayed by Ken’s bed. It was one of those wordless prayers – groanings so deep that no one but God could understand. I believed that in that moment, I was witnessing my sweet husband’s final breaths.
God evidently had other plans. By the time Keith and the nurse arrived, Ken had relaxed some and was sleeping. His heart was pounding so hard that it shook the mattress. I asked the nurse if it would be soon. She nodded her head. But the evening stretched into night and there was no change. It was after midnight when Keith and the nurse left, both promising to be back first thing in the morning.
Ken’s heart was still pounding furiously. I knew it couldn’t continue like that much longer, but for some reason, Ken kept hanging on. I remembered some of the Hospice materials I read said that sometimes the dying person needed to hear their loved ones say that it was “okay to go”. So, even though my heart and soul were both screaming “Don’t go!!!”, I leaned over Ken and said, “Baby, if this is too hard for you, you can go. It’s okay for you to go.” At that moment, Ken opened his eyes, completely lucid and said, “I am not going anywhere!” Then he went back to sleep.
I don’t remember whether it was that night or the next morning that a Hospice nurse came and started Ken on morphine. It was the liquid form – the kind only used for patients who are dying – and VERY strong. Its effect on Ken was immediate and frightening. He only got a couple of drops under his tongue every several hours, but each time he got a dose, his eyes would sort of roll around in his head and when he tried to talk, it sounded as if he had a mouth full of marbles. I now understand how some people believe that the morphine “killed” their loved ones. Ken certainly behaved differently after he started taking it. Mostly, though, it made him sleep.
Specific details about the rest of that week are difficult to recall. I know I spent most every minute in the bedroom with Ken, so he could see me whenever he woke up. I stayed on the foot of my bed most of the time, laying beside his hospital bed and holding his hand. My Mama was taking care of Jesse and Benjamin, so I could stay with Ken as much as I wanted. Unfortunately, once again those sweet boys were pushed to the side while I took care of their Daddy. It pains me now to realize that at that point, Jesse and Benjamin probably needed me more than Ken did. I pray that one day they will be able to understand and forgive me for not being with them more.
Even though Ken slept most of the time, he did have moments of complete clarity. They were fleeting, but when they occurred, he was absolutely lucid. He would usually “wake up”, tell one of us that he loved us, and then drift back into the morphine fog. I believe that God allowed those moments as gifts that we could tuck back and treasure in the dark days to come.
On that Friday (it was November 12, 2004), Ken’s dad came over. He said that he would sit with Ken so I could try to relax in the living room for a little while. I don’t know why I agreed, but I did. I had barely gotten settled when Ken’s dad came into the living room and said, “I think you had better come here...Ken’s eyes ain’t right”. I ran in and called Ken’s name. He opened his eyes, but there was absolutely no focus there. His breathing was very rapid and shallow. I ran to the phone and called the Hospice nurse and our pastor, Keith, and asked them both to come. Then I went in and prayed by Ken’s bed. It was one of those wordless prayers – groanings so deep that no one but God could understand. I believed that in that moment, I was witnessing my sweet husband’s final breaths.
God evidently had other plans. By the time Keith and the nurse arrived, Ken had relaxed some and was sleeping. His heart was pounding so hard that it shook the mattress. I asked the nurse if it would be soon. She nodded her head. But the evening stretched into night and there was no change. It was after midnight when Keith and the nurse left, both promising to be back first thing in the morning.
Ken’s heart was still pounding furiously. I knew it couldn’t continue like that much longer, but for some reason, Ken kept hanging on. I remembered some of the Hospice materials I read said that sometimes the dying person needed to hear their loved ones say that it was “okay to go”. So, even though my heart and soul were both screaming “Don’t go!!!”, I leaned over Ken and said, “Baby, if this is too hard for you, you can go. It’s okay for you to go.” At that moment, Ken opened his eyes, completely lucid and said, “I am not going anywhere!” Then he went back to sleep.
Ken had steadily declined since they sent us home with Hospice on Monday. He couldn’t walk or sit up without help and was in so much pain. The morphine we gave him made him so fuzzy; it was hard for him to talk. He got really bad Friday night. I called Keith and Ken’s mom called everybody else. Before I knew it, we had a whole house of Lunsfords. Ken made it through the night, but it was obvious that he was getting weaker with every passing minute.
The next morning, the Lunsfords all came over again, and my family too. I spent the day laying beside Ken on the bed, holding his hand and telling him that I love him. Sometimes he was able to respond, sometimes not. I made sure someone was holding his other hand all the time. I told people to talk to him. Ken drifted in and out. Once, he leaned over and kissed me. Another time he told me he loved me. Every time he saw Jesse he would say, “I love you forever and ever”. It was so precious, it broke my heart. One time, Ken looked surprised and said, “Look at all of these people. Someone must be dying… Oh! I must be the one dying – I have cancer!”. Another time, when his niece was holding his other hand, Ken said, “Help—her”. I asked if he wanted me to help her with something. He shook his head, pointed at his niece, then at me and said, “You—help her—she’s going to need it. It will be hard for her.” Precious man. Worrying about me to the very end.
Ken’s heart had been pounding non-stop since Friday night. It pounded so hard that it shook the mattress on his bed. When it finally started weakening, I called the boys into the room. I told them that Daddy was going to heaven and they needed to say good-bye. They told him good-bye and Ken stopped breathing a couple of minutes later. I wanted my heart to stop too. He took his last breath on Saturday, November 13, 2004, at 1:42 in the afternoon.
Ken was surrounded by family and friends when Jesus called him home. That’s the way it should be. So many people loved him. (Melinda’s Journal, November 20, 2004)
Last Time at the Hospital (Part Two)
Journal entries written at the hospital...
Ken is dying. There is no way around it. We've been in the hospital since Friday afternoon. He started coughing up blood -- bright red blood. It scared me, so I called Dr. Schlabach and he said to bring him to the ER. When we got here, they took an x-ray of his chest and said he had fluid in both of his lungs. Further tests revealed that it isn't in his lungs, but in his chest, compressing his lungs, making it more difficult to breathe. Ken's O2 level was low enough that they put him on oxygen and he's been on it ever since.
Dr. Schlabach said that Ken's symptoms indicate that the cancer is not controlled. He's set up a procedure for tomorrow morning to try and drain some of the fluid out of Ken's chest, but basically gave us no more hope. Suggested that we call In Hospice to help with his last days. It breaks my heart. He's so sick. I don't want him to suffer, but I'm not ready for him to go yet. How can I look my boys in the eyes and tell them that Daddy is going to heaven soon? What will we do without him? How can we tell him good-bye when all we want is for him to stay? I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'M NOT READY!!!!!!!!!
Ken had lots of company today. I think it overwhelms him. He kind of retreats into himself and doesn't talk much. The information Hospice gave me said that it is one of the ways he's getting ready to go. Why did this have to happen? It took so long for Ken and I to find each other. Why do we only get fifteen short years together? We were supposed to grow old together and hold our grandbabies on our laps and spoil them together and tell them embarrassing stories about Jesse and Benjamin when they were kids. Why can't we have that? What did I do wrong? (Melinda's Journal, November 7, 2004)
Last night was horrible. Ken was restless and agitated the whole night long. He is struggling more and more to get enough oxygen to keep the alarm from sounding. A couple of times he seemed incoherent. Kept taking his oxygen mask off and getting it all twisted up. When I finally convinced him to let the nurse give him something to help him sleep, about 3:00 a.m., the only effect it had was to make him relax so that he wet his bed. By the time they got him cleaned up and the bed sheets changed, he was riled up again. I was up at least once an hour, every hour, all night long. I know it's not so, but at times it seemed like Ken would just wait 'til I had just enough time to drop off to sleep and he would start acting up again. I finally told him if he took off his oxygen mask one more time, I'd have the nurse tie his hands down.
I am so tired. I don't know what to do. Ken's father stayed all night, but he doesn't have a clue what to do when Ken gets so upset, so he basically sat and watched while I went back and forth from my bed to Ken's bed a million or so times.
Dr. Schlabach came in a little while ago. Told Ken not to try and exert himself in any way while his oxygen level is so low. Left orders for them to give Ken some morphine to see if it would help him stop struggling so to breathe. I wish it would put him to sleep for a while, but so far, NOT! I'm trying not to be impatient with him, but I am so worn out. Such a sad time. (Melinda's Journal, November 8, 2004)
Last Time at the Hospital
Ken was in the hospital from Friday until Monday (at least I think it was Monday). Following the initial tests and x-rays, Dr. Schlabach came in and told us they had “done all they could do”. Then he looked at Ken and said, “I’m really sorry”, and he left. How crazy was that, to have to listen to the Dr. apologize to my husband because he knew Ken was about to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it?!
Before Dr. S. left that morning, he made some mention of Hospice. But that’s all I thought it was...a mention. And then he went on to talk about the thoracentesis and stuff like that. I did not realize it, but what he had been asking me was whether I wanted Ken to stay in the hospital or go home with Hospice. I guess my brain was still in fighting mode. I knew Ken was dying, but I honestly didn’t realize at that point that he was in his last days. I was thinking it was just another trip to the hospital – they’d fix what was wrong this time, we’d go back home and everything would be okay until the next thing cropped up.
The chest x-ray showed that Ken had fluid in his chest cavity. That is why his oxygenation level was so low. They decided to send him down for a thoracentesis, which is where they insert a long needle into the chest cavity and draw out fluid. I was so bone-weary and exhausted that I was going to stay up in the room while they took Ken down for the procedure. But he got a look of absolute panic on his face and said, “You are going down with me, right?” So I did. I remember having to rest my arms and head on his bed rail while we were waiting because I was unsteady on my feet. Finally, one of the nurses took pity on me and set a chair right next to his bed for me so I could sit right beside him and hold his hand.
When they took Ken in, they sent me to a waiting area that was really for outpatient procedures. I sat there with tears pouring down my face and dripping onto my shirt, listening to all of the other “waiters” chatting and laughing, acting as though there was nothing in the world wrong. I remember thinking to myself, “How can these people be laughing when my dear husband is dying?” I know they didn’t know, but it seemed disrespectful and it hurt my feelings. One lady must have realized my distress, because she stopped chatting and laughing at one point and asked me if I was alright. I shook my head and said, “My husband has cancer.” She said how sorry she was and asked, “Is he going to be okay?” “No”, I said. “He is going to die.” She asked our names and promised to pray for us. About that time they told me that Ken was on his way back up to his room. When I got back up there, the nurse told me that they had drawn almost a liter and a half of fluid out of Ken’s chest cavity. He should be able to breathe a little easier now.
Later that day, a nurse or social worker came in. I was laying down, trying to rest while Ken slept. She came over to my bed and started talking about Hospice again. I listened and nodded my head, wondering why she was telling me the same things Dr. S. had already gone over that morning. I guess the combination of exhaustion mixed with a little bit of denial was making me rather thick-headed because she finally said, “Dr. Schlabach says you need to make a decision.” HUH?! “What decision?”, I stammered. Her reply stunned me – “You need to decide if you want Ken to stay in the hospital for his final days or do you want to take him home?” Several seconds ticked by...I kept blinking my eyes and shaking my head as if doing so would clear my mind and allow me to absorb the enormity of what she had just said. I finally whispered, mostly to myself, “Ken would want to be home.” Then I looked up at the nurse and said, “But I don’t know how I would be able to get him home, he’s so weak and he can’t walk.” She said, “Hospice will arrange to take him home in an ambulance, if that is what you want.” I must have nodded my head, because she got up and said she would start making the arrangements.
I got up and went to Ken’s bed to tell him what was going to happen. I said, “Baby, the doctor says there’s nothing else they can do, so they’re going to get an ambulance to take you home.” Ken’s reaction was a look of incredulous anger. Somehow he had gotten the idea that they were going to do another thoracentesis the next day and that it would help him get better. I don’t know why he thought that, because a second thoracentesis was NOT discussed and was NEVER a possibility. As I was trying to explain to him that a second procedure would not be helpful, he looked at me with pure anger and shouted, “YOU ARE JUST TAKING ME HOME TO WATCH ME DIE!” (Whew...it still feels like a sledge-hammer to my heart when I remember it.) I couldn’t answer him...because I knew what he said was true. I finally managed to tell him that if he wanted to stay at the hospital we would, but they would not be doing any additional procedures on him. Ken turned away from me and muttered, “Take me home.”
Things kind of started going in fast-motion then. The nurses were coming in, removing Ken’s IV, giving me discharge papers to sign, getting our address and directions to the house for the ambulance drivers, telling me someone from Hospice would meet us at the house. I had barely had enough time to gather up all of my stuff and call to let Mama know we were coming home when the ambulance crew got there. They started getting ready to load Ken on the gurney when he looked up in a panic and said, “You are going to ride in the ambulance with me, right?” He was just so frightened and didn’t want me to leave him alone that he forgot that he was mad at me. I stroked his forehead and said, “No, baby, my car is here. I have to drive home. But these guys are going to take really good care of you and I’ll be right behind you.” I leaned over and kissed him and said, “I’ll see you at home.” He nodded his head and closed his eyes.
Before Dr. S. left that morning, he made some mention of Hospice. But that’s all I thought it was...a mention. And then he went on to talk about the thoracentesis and stuff like that. I did not realize it, but what he had been asking me was whether I wanted Ken to stay in the hospital or go home with Hospice. I guess my brain was still in fighting mode. I knew Ken was dying, but I honestly didn’t realize at that point that he was in his last days. I was thinking it was just another trip to the hospital – they’d fix what was wrong this time, we’d go back home and everything would be okay until the next thing cropped up.
The chest x-ray showed that Ken had fluid in his chest cavity. That is why his oxygenation level was so low. They decided to send him down for a thoracentesis, which is where they insert a long needle into the chest cavity and draw out fluid. I was so bone-weary and exhausted that I was going to stay up in the room while they took Ken down for the procedure. But he got a look of absolute panic on his face and said, “You are going down with me, right?” So I did. I remember having to rest my arms and head on his bed rail while we were waiting because I was unsteady on my feet. Finally, one of the nurses took pity on me and set a chair right next to his bed for me so I could sit right beside him and hold his hand.
When they took Ken in, they sent me to a waiting area that was really for outpatient procedures. I sat there with tears pouring down my face and dripping onto my shirt, listening to all of the other “waiters” chatting and laughing, acting as though there was nothing in the world wrong. I remember thinking to myself, “How can these people be laughing when my dear husband is dying?” I know they didn’t know, but it seemed disrespectful and it hurt my feelings. One lady must have realized my distress, because she stopped chatting and laughing at one point and asked me if I was alright. I shook my head and said, “My husband has cancer.” She said how sorry she was and asked, “Is he going to be okay?” “No”, I said. “He is going to die.” She asked our names and promised to pray for us. About that time they told me that Ken was on his way back up to his room. When I got back up there, the nurse told me that they had drawn almost a liter and a half of fluid out of Ken’s chest cavity. He should be able to breathe a little easier now.
Later that day, a nurse or social worker came in. I was laying down, trying to rest while Ken slept. She came over to my bed and started talking about Hospice again. I listened and nodded my head, wondering why she was telling me the same things Dr. S. had already gone over that morning. I guess the combination of exhaustion mixed with a little bit of denial was making me rather thick-headed because she finally said, “Dr. Schlabach says you need to make a decision.” HUH?! “What decision?”, I stammered. Her reply stunned me – “You need to decide if you want Ken to stay in the hospital for his final days or do you want to take him home?” Several seconds ticked by...I kept blinking my eyes and shaking my head as if doing so would clear my mind and allow me to absorb the enormity of what she had just said. I finally whispered, mostly to myself, “Ken would want to be home.” Then I looked up at the nurse and said, “But I don’t know how I would be able to get him home, he’s so weak and he can’t walk.” She said, “Hospice will arrange to take him home in an ambulance, if that is what you want.” I must have nodded my head, because she got up and said she would start making the arrangements.
I got up and went to Ken’s bed to tell him what was going to happen. I said, “Baby, the doctor says there’s nothing else they can do, so they’re going to get an ambulance to take you home.” Ken’s reaction was a look of incredulous anger. Somehow he had gotten the idea that they were going to do another thoracentesis the next day and that it would help him get better. I don’t know why he thought that, because a second thoracentesis was NOT discussed and was NEVER a possibility. As I was trying to explain to him that a second procedure would not be helpful, he looked at me with pure anger and shouted, “YOU ARE JUST TAKING ME HOME TO WATCH ME DIE!” (Whew...it still feels like a sledge-hammer to my heart when I remember it.) I couldn’t answer him...because I knew what he said was true. I finally managed to tell him that if he wanted to stay at the hospital we would, but they would not be doing any additional procedures on him. Ken turned away from me and muttered, “Take me home.”
Things kind of started going in fast-motion then. The nurses were coming in, removing Ken’s IV, giving me discharge papers to sign, getting our address and directions to the house for the ambulance drivers, telling me someone from Hospice would meet us at the house. I had barely had enough time to gather up all of my stuff and call to let Mama know we were coming home when the ambulance crew got there. They started getting ready to load Ken on the gurney when he looked up in a panic and said, “You are going to ride in the ambulance with me, right?” He was just so frightened and didn’t want me to leave him alone that he forgot that he was mad at me. I stroked his forehead and said, “No, baby, my car is here. I have to drive home. But these guys are going to take really good care of you and I’ll be right behind you.” I leaned over and kissed him and said, “I’ll see you at home.” He nodded his head and closed his eyes.
You Should Never Stay Alone at the Hospital
On Friday, November 5, 2004, Ken actually woke up feeling a little stronger. He got dressed and went to sit in the living room. We watched some TV, talked a little and held hands for a while. I don’t remember who got there first, but early that afternoon, Ken’s dad and his mom both came over – not together, of course – they never go anywhere together. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen – they’ve been married and living in the same house for well over fifty years, but they NEVER speak to each other or go places in the same car. So I guess it was just a fluke that they ended up at the house at the same time.
Anyway, we were sitting and talking with Ken’s parents, having a fairly pleasant visit, when Ken called my name. When I looked over at him, he was holding up a tissue stained with bright red blood. Now, he had been coughing up phlegm tinged with a tiny bit of blood for a couple of weeks, but this was pure blood – and a lot of it. It scared me, but I don’t remember panicking. I called Dr. Schlabach’s office and they told me that I should take Ken to the ER. I called Mama and told her I needed her to come. Then I TOLD Ken’s mother (this time, I didn’t ask – I didn’t give her a chance to give me an excuse) that she would have to stay at the house until the boys got home from school and she could leave as soon as my Mama got there. I asked Ken’s dad if he would help me get Ken out to the van. He got the wheelchair and we put Ken in the van. Ken’s dad said he would drive us to Erlanger, so off we went.
When we got to the ER and told them what was going on, they of course, admitted Ken to the oncology floor. Ken got so mad. He always got mad, even though he knew that every time we went to the ER they would end up admitting him. They scheduled him for a chest x-ray and blood work, as usual. Different this time was that Ken had to be put on oxygen because his blood oxygenation level was too low. They told him to take deep breaths, because if his level dropped below 85, the oxygen machine would alarm. He became so worried that the alarm would sound that he almost hyperventilated, trying to keep it above 85. I wish they hadn’t told him about the stupid alarm, because he got all stressed out trying to keep it from going off.
By the time we got all settled, it was dark. The room they put us in that time was one of the smaller rooms and it shared a bathroom with the room next door. A little inconvenient, but nothing we couldn’t work around...or so we thought. Well, the fellow in the adjoining room didn’t have anyone staying with him that night. I don’t know if he was heavily medicated or just plain nuts (or some of both), but every time he would go into the bathroom (which was about once every 15 minutes or so), he would get turned around and come into our room when he finished. That, by itself, was a little unnerving, but what made it CRAZY was that when he came into our room, he was NAKED –NOT A STITCH OF CLOTHING!!!! This happened about four times before Ken got so upset that I called the nurse and asked if they had another room they could move us to. She checked, and to our good fortune, the “Rock-Star” room Ken had been in after his first surgery had just become available. They had us moved within the hour. I got Ken settled in and laid down in my bed to rest.
I was purely exhausted and I guess it got the better of me, because it is one of the few times while Ken was in the hospital that I actually fell asleep. I remember being jolted awake a while later by Ken calling my name with a sense of urgency. I sat straight up and asked him what was wrong. Ken looked at me very wide-eyed and said, “I need you to come and help me pull up in the bed.” It was an unusual request...even though Ken was weak and his back was hurting, he always had enough upper body strength to pull himself up in the bed. But I got up and crossed the room over to his bed. When I got there, he grabbed hold of the front of my shirt and whispered in a frenzied voice, “There is somebody in our bathroom!” Now, I’m thinking that he had either been dreaming or was having a reaction to one of his meds, but he said again, “There is somebody in our bathroom! Go and get the nurse!”
I stepped outside the room and a male nurse was standing beside the nurses’ station. I told him that Ken said someone was in our bathroom and was very upset. I asked him to please come and check it out for us. He looked at me like I was crazy, but came on in the room. He opened the bathroom door and there was NAKED CRAZY MAN, standing in our bathroom, just looking around. The nurse asked him what he was doing. He said, “going to the bathroom”. Nurse replied, “That’s fine, but this isn’t your room, man!” Anyway, he ushered the guy out of our room and back into his own. I asked if there was some way they could either restrain him or at least keep a closer eye on him. They said “no”. So, I pushed the pull-out couch in our room up against the extra door so I would at least hear him if he tried to come back in. Ken told me that the guy had been in our room for at least ten minutes, going into our bathroom, coming out and looking at me, going back into our bathroom, coming out and looking at me. I am not sure if he even realized Ken was there watching the whole thing.
Anyway, the next morning, when I got up and went over to the sink to brush my teeth, I stepped in a big puddle of PEE!!! Evidently NAKED CRAZY MAN had been “going to the bathroom” like he said, only instead of going in the bathroom, he went in our floor. I was SOOOOO mad!!! I guess that’s what I get for actually going to sleep for once!
Now, any time someone I know is in the hospital and says they will be alright staying by themselves and that they don’t need a family member to spend the night in the hospital with them, I tell them my NAKED CRAZY MAN story. People always laugh when I tell it – I guess it is a funny story, now. Not when it was happening, though. When it was happening, it was just one more thing in two solid years of CRAZY!
Anyway, we were sitting and talking with Ken’s parents, having a fairly pleasant visit, when Ken called my name. When I looked over at him, he was holding up a tissue stained with bright red blood. Now, he had been coughing up phlegm tinged with a tiny bit of blood for a couple of weeks, but this was pure blood – and a lot of it. It scared me, but I don’t remember panicking. I called Dr. Schlabach’s office and they told me that I should take Ken to the ER. I called Mama and told her I needed her to come. Then I TOLD Ken’s mother (this time, I didn’t ask – I didn’t give her a chance to give me an excuse) that she would have to stay at the house until the boys got home from school and she could leave as soon as my Mama got there. I asked Ken’s dad if he would help me get Ken out to the van. He got the wheelchair and we put Ken in the van. Ken’s dad said he would drive us to Erlanger, so off we went.
When we got to the ER and told them what was going on, they of course, admitted Ken to the oncology floor. Ken got so mad. He always got mad, even though he knew that every time we went to the ER they would end up admitting him. They scheduled him for a chest x-ray and blood work, as usual. Different this time was that Ken had to be put on oxygen because his blood oxygenation level was too low. They told him to take deep breaths, because if his level dropped below 85, the oxygen machine would alarm. He became so worried that the alarm would sound that he almost hyperventilated, trying to keep it above 85. I wish they hadn’t told him about the stupid alarm, because he got all stressed out trying to keep it from going off.
By the time we got all settled, it was dark. The room they put us in that time was one of the smaller rooms and it shared a bathroom with the room next door. A little inconvenient, but nothing we couldn’t work around...or so we thought. Well, the fellow in the adjoining room didn’t have anyone staying with him that night. I don’t know if he was heavily medicated or just plain nuts (or some of both), but every time he would go into the bathroom (which was about once every 15 minutes or so), he would get turned around and come into our room when he finished. That, by itself, was a little unnerving, but what made it CRAZY was that when he came into our room, he was NAKED –NOT A STITCH OF CLOTHING!!!! This happened about four times before Ken got so upset that I called the nurse and asked if they had another room they could move us to. She checked, and to our good fortune, the “Rock-Star” room Ken had been in after his first surgery had just become available. They had us moved within the hour. I got Ken settled in and laid down in my bed to rest.
I was purely exhausted and I guess it got the better of me, because it is one of the few times while Ken was in the hospital that I actually fell asleep. I remember being jolted awake a while later by Ken calling my name with a sense of urgency. I sat straight up and asked him what was wrong. Ken looked at me very wide-eyed and said, “I need you to come and help me pull up in the bed.” It was an unusual request...even though Ken was weak and his back was hurting, he always had enough upper body strength to pull himself up in the bed. But I got up and crossed the room over to his bed. When I got there, he grabbed hold of the front of my shirt and whispered in a frenzied voice, “There is somebody in our bathroom!” Now, I’m thinking that he had either been dreaming or was having a reaction to one of his meds, but he said again, “There is somebody in our bathroom! Go and get the nurse!”
I stepped outside the room and a male nurse was standing beside the nurses’ station. I told him that Ken said someone was in our bathroom and was very upset. I asked him to please come and check it out for us. He looked at me like I was crazy, but came on in the room. He opened the bathroom door and there was NAKED CRAZY MAN, standing in our bathroom, just looking around. The nurse asked him what he was doing. He said, “going to the bathroom”. Nurse replied, “That’s fine, but this isn’t your room, man!” Anyway, he ushered the guy out of our room and back into his own. I asked if there was some way they could either restrain him or at least keep a closer eye on him. They said “no”. So, I pushed the pull-out couch in our room up against the extra door so I would at least hear him if he tried to come back in. Ken told me that the guy had been in our room for at least ten minutes, going into our bathroom, coming out and looking at me, going back into our bathroom, coming out and looking at me. I am not sure if he even realized Ken was there watching the whole thing.
Anyway, the next morning, when I got up and went over to the sink to brush my teeth, I stepped in a big puddle of PEE!!! Evidently NAKED CRAZY MAN had been “going to the bathroom” like he said, only instead of going in the bathroom, he went in our floor. I was SOOOOO mad!!! I guess that’s what I get for actually going to sleep for once!
Now, any time someone I know is in the hospital and says they will be alright staying by themselves and that they don’t need a family member to spend the night in the hospital with them, I tell them my NAKED CRAZY MAN story. People always laugh when I tell it – I guess it is a funny story, now. Not when it was happening, though. When it was happening, it was just one more thing in two solid years of CRAZY!
Letters From Dad
(WARNING...tissues required.)
As Ken began to grow weaker, I worried about what would be Jesse’s and Benjamin’s memories of their Dad’s final words to them. I asked Ken if he would like to do letters for them. At first, he shook his head. But about twenty minutes or so later, he said that he would like to do that. So, I brought the laptop into the bedroom and typed, with tears pouring down my face, as he dictated. We did the one for Benjamin first.
Ken was absolutely exhausted when we finished Benjamin’s letter, so we put the laptop away and said we would do Jesse’s letter later. Unfortunately, “later” came at the hospital a day or so later. Ken’s mind was very muddled and he was in severe pain, so Jesse’s letter is shorter and a little “fuzzier”. The sailboat picture Ken refers to was something Benjamin painted for his Dad at his appointment with the counselor. I put it up on Ken’s hospital wall so he could see it whenever he was awake. Now, it is framed and on the mantel in my office.
I saved the letters to give to the boys later. Would have probably saved them longer than I did, but Pastor Keith mentioned the letters during Ken’s funeral. I think I gave them to Jesse and Benjamin at Christmas, the month after Ken died. They are heartbreakingly sweet and tender, and I am so glad that Ken did them for his boys.
As Ken began to grow weaker, I worried about what would be Jesse’s and Benjamin’s memories of their Dad’s final words to them. I asked Ken if he would like to do letters for them. At first, he shook his head. But about twenty minutes or so later, he said that he would like to do that. So, I brought the laptop into the bedroom and typed, with tears pouring down my face, as he dictated. We did the one for Benjamin first.
To Benjamin from Dad("Scooter" is what Ken called Benjamin when he was a baby.)
Me and Jesse talk about you having all the energy you do, clapping and jumping, can’t sit still. It makes us tired to watch you. You’d be on the couch sleeping and I’d get up and go by and look at you and I can’t think how I could ever leave you. And I tell the Lord so. I tell the Lord that I’ve got to stay and take care of y’all. You and Jesse and your Mom. And I believed at the time that the Lord was going to let me stay. But God knows best. It’s not what I want, it’s what He wants . I prayed many days, that the Lord would leave me to take care of you, knowing that Mom could take care of you too, but it just wouldn’t be the same. Selfish that I wanted to be here for us to all be together, but it’s not always possible. Maybe God has other plans, I don’t know as of yet. But it doesn’t look too good. As time goes on, the doctor said the treatments were not doing much good. And I still believe, but sometimes it gets me down. My faith is not as strong. I can’t pray. But there are thousands of others praying for me. I was sitting on the couch and remember you clapping your hands, like an almost nine-year-old would be doing, with all that energy. But I didn’t feel good. I really felt bad. And I think I hollered at you and it made you cry. That’s when Mom reminded that you were just a little one, but I was thinking about myself. So since then, I’ve tried not to holler at you. Let you do what a nine-year-old would do. And I had you scared to do what a nine-year-old would do. And I wanted to say “I’m sorry”. I do like that because you don’t know what to do and I don’t know what to do. You can’t comprehend what I’m going through. And I don’t know how to do with you, so we kind of withdraw. You feel funny coming up to me and hugging me and I feel funny saying things to you, so we are kind of growing apart. I don’t know if there’s any way to change that or not. We may be lost in outer space. I hurt a lot. You know how it is when you hurt. But I love you, Benjamin, and I know you love me. We just don’t know what to do—there’s a gap. We can say “I love you” and we do, but we can’t express it, at least I can’t. I love you and I’m proud to be your Dad. And I love Jesse and I’m proud to be his dad. And I’m proud that y’all get along so good. He’s your only brother. I’m proud that y’all look after each other and he takes care of you and you take care of him. You can’t do some of the things Jesse does to take care of you and he can’t do some of the things you do to take care of him. You take care of each other’s needs. I don’t know what Jesse would do without you. So if it’s up to God to take me, as bad as I hate it, then He can have me. It’s His choice. Though we don’t know why. He’s the one that’s created us, and He knows the best things to do. We may never know why, but you’ve just got to keep on going. Keep on bowing down to worship our God through Jesus. Help your Mama. She’s going to have it hard. I know you are going to have it hard. But time will go on. Things will be better. Y’all gotta keep on living. Life goes on. I love you, little Scooter!
Love, Dad
(Dictated by Ken Lunsford, November 4 or 5, 2004)
Ken was absolutely exhausted when we finished Benjamin’s letter, so we put the laptop away and said we would do Jesse’s letter later. Unfortunately, “later” came at the hospital a day or so later. Ken’s mind was very muddled and he was in severe pain, so Jesse’s letter is shorter and a little “fuzzier”. The sailboat picture Ken refers to was something Benjamin painted for his Dad at his appointment with the counselor. I put it up on Ken’s hospital wall so he could see it whenever he was awake. Now, it is framed and on the mantel in my office.
To Jesse from Dad:
Jesse, it’s been a long time. We thought that everything would be okay, well I did, anyway. Not knowing which way the Lord was going to take us. I remember Benjamin running off and leaving us and he’s a hot shot on that bicycle. Me and you, we couldn’t keep up with him. I remember he’d get away ahead of us. I can only tell you things that happened in a short distance back. You know I love you and how glad I am to be your dad. You have a good dad and I have two good sons and I have a good dad. You have a good Mamaw and Papaw and Grandmom and Granddad. You’re the one to be strong. Time goes on—life goes on. I know you won’t ever forget me, but you must go on. Talk your Mama into keeping some of our things. Try to keep our blue van—it’s a good one. Try to keep some of our houses, but it doesn’t really matter. If you can’t, you can’t. I know they make trouble for your Mom. Just do what you have to do because I won’t be around to help you. It will be up to your mother. And an extra house or so may not be in your blood. Me and Mom thinks differently. It don’t mean she’s right and I’m wrong. Just different. We’re typing this up here at the hospital and I don’t know exactly where my mind is. Try to look after your brother. Your brother loves you. He needs you like I told him, he needs you and you need him. Y’all always gotta stay close. Looking at little Benjamin’s picture he brought up. Must be from Sunday school. Picture of a sailboat. You know I love you and if I could change things, I would. The Lord let us be together longer than we suspected. But it’s God’s will—God’s purpose. I’d like to be around to watch you grow up, but it don’t much look like it will be like that. I can’t tell you how much I love you. I don’t have the words. There’s no way to describe it. I would have liked to go to the lake and go swimming more this year and go bike riding, but we didn’t get to go. I love you forever and ever.
Love, Dad
(Dictated by Ken Lunsford, November 8, 2004)
I saved the letters to give to the boys later. Would have probably saved them longer than I did, but Pastor Keith mentioned the letters during Ken’s funeral. I think I gave them to Jesse and Benjamin at Christmas, the month after Ken died. They are heartbreakingly sweet and tender, and I am so glad that Ken did them for his boys.
Difficult Days
By now, Ken was spending most of his time in the hospital bed. He wasn’t able to stand or sit for long, so I would either bathe him in the bed or let him sit on the shower chair and I would shower with him. He was so weak that he couldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom. The fact that he had to use a urinal didn’t bother me, but the day I had to go and buy my husband diapers was one of the saddest, most soul-crushing days of my life. This was what that terrible disease called cancer had reduced Ken to. It took a vibrant, self-sufficient man and took away his ability to even care for his own basic needs. Not only did it rob Ken of his health, but now, it had also robbed him of his dignity. STUPID CANCER!!!!!
The hospital bed was in our bedroom, at the foot of our bed. When we put the hospital bed back in, I had to push all of the regular bedroom furniture around so Ken would have a path from his bed to the bathroom and to the living room if he felt like getting up. It was a tight squeeze – especially when he was hooked up to “Bill” (which was most of the time, now). I guess that was another reason he didn’t try to move around much. It was pretty difficult to navigate around all of his medical equipment. One night, as a matter of fact, I got up in the middle of the night to empty Ken’s urinal and I kicked the wheel of his walker and broke my toe. One more thing...
During this time, Ken couldn’t stand to have me out of his sight for even a minute. He was so afraid that he would need something and I wouldn’t hear him call for me. I was always close enough that I could hear him, but he was scared, so I spent most of my daylight hours sitting in a chair in the bedroom. I guess the boys were riding the school buses to and from school...I surely don’t remember leaving Ken to go and get them, and I know that no one picked them up for me or came and stayed with Ken so I could go. Anyway, I would sit in the bedroom all day unless he dropped off to sleep. Then I would dash downstairs to do a load of wash, or run out to the mailbox, and pray that Ken didn’t wake up before I got back. I really did not mind sitting in the room with him so he wouldn’t be scared, but all he wanted me to do was “sit”. He didn’t want me to watch TV or read a book or talk on the phone. And some days, he would gripe and growl orders at me in rapid-fire succession and them complain that I wasn’t doing them fast enough. His voice would take on a purely hateful tone that was so out of character for Ken. I know he was frustrated, worried, scared and hurting, but SO WAS I – and exhausted besides. I don’t remember sleeping during those days. I do remember jumping up every few minutes or so to take care of something Ken wanted or needed. I don’t remember taking care of Jesse and Benjamin much...poor kids. I wasn’t the best Mom right then.
The hospital bed was in our bedroom, at the foot of our bed. When we put the hospital bed back in, I had to push all of the regular bedroom furniture around so Ken would have a path from his bed to the bathroom and to the living room if he felt like getting up. It was a tight squeeze – especially when he was hooked up to “Bill” (which was most of the time, now). I guess that was another reason he didn’t try to move around much. It was pretty difficult to navigate around all of his medical equipment. One night, as a matter of fact, I got up in the middle of the night to empty Ken’s urinal and I kicked the wheel of his walker and broke my toe. One more thing...
During this time, Ken couldn’t stand to have me out of his sight for even a minute. He was so afraid that he would need something and I wouldn’t hear him call for me. I was always close enough that I could hear him, but he was scared, so I spent most of my daylight hours sitting in a chair in the bedroom. I guess the boys were riding the school buses to and from school...I surely don’t remember leaving Ken to go and get them, and I know that no one picked them up for me or came and stayed with Ken so I could go. Anyway, I would sit in the bedroom all day unless he dropped off to sleep. Then I would dash downstairs to do a load of wash, or run out to the mailbox, and pray that Ken didn’t wake up before I got back. I really did not mind sitting in the room with him so he wouldn’t be scared, but all he wanted me to do was “sit”. He didn’t want me to watch TV or read a book or talk on the phone. And some days, he would gripe and growl orders at me in rapid-fire succession and them complain that I wasn’t doing them fast enough. His voice would take on a purely hateful tone that was so out of character for Ken. I know he was frustrated, worried, scared and hurting, but SO WAS I – and exhausted besides. I don’t remember sleeping during those days. I do remember jumping up every few minutes or so to take care of something Ken wanted or needed. I don’t remember taking care of Jesse and Benjamin much...poor kids. I wasn’t the best Mom right then.
Restless night for Ken last night. Not much sleep for either of us. I gave him a shower this afternoon and he stayed up most all afternoon, so maybe he’ll sleep tonight. So far, NOT! He’s still restless and hurting. Just took some Lortab – maybe it will kick in soon. He wants me in the room with him, but he doesn’t want me to watch TV or read. Won’t let me go in the other room because he’s afraid I won’t hear him if he needs something. He doesn’t go lacking for what he needs or wants, but he acts like I’m ignoring him. Only seems to ask for things when I’m busy doing fourteen other things. If I don’t drop what I’m doing and do what he wants (even if what I’m doing is something he asked for earlier), he gets all in a snit. He is running me CRAZY! Feels like I’m chasing myself around in circles. (Melinda’s Journal, November 2, 2004)
Ken seemed a little less demanding today. Could be he was just worn out. I hope he can rest tonight. (Melinda’s Journal, November 3, 2004)
Ken has seemed a little more relaxed today. Hasn’t had to have me in sight every minute. His sister brought us some walkie-talkies. As soon as they’re charged, I’ll be able to move around the house more freely. He’ll be sure I can hear him if he needs me. (Melinda’s Journal, November 4, 2004)
Living in the Land of Denial
I have struggled with myself for a while over whether or not to include this. It is about a frustrating situation that occurred during the entirety of Ken’s illness. I do not want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but it is a situation that I think a lot of families of terminally ill patients probably deal with. It is called “DENIAL”.
Now...I have always been a very realistic person. I look at each situation that comes my way, even the horrible ones, as clearly as I can and then I deal with it. That is what I did when Ken got sick. After the initial panic, I researched Linitis Plastica to see just what kind of a monster we would be fighting. The information I found was absolutely grim. Said that even with total stomach resection (removal), the chance of long term survival was less than 4 percent. At that point, Ken’s doctors were not even considering resection because they truly believed that he would only survive a couple of months.
So, after getting a clear picture of what we were facing, I begged God to heal Ken if it was in His Will to do so. Then, I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and vowed to help Ken fight this thing as hard as he could for as long as he could, no matter what it took.
All during Ken’s illness and treatments, certain of his family members just didn’t seem to “get” how gravely ill he was. When he outlived the doctors’ original predictions for survival, it was as if life for the rest of the Lunsfords went back to normal. Word started spreading that “God was going to heal Kenny”, or that God had, in fact, already healed him. In the mean time, we were still battling this monstrous disease on a daily basis. It didn’t seem to occur to Ken’s family that he was a bit different than he had been before he got sick. One family member called and asked him to climb up on her roof and fix something. Another called and asked if Ken would come and help him shovel a load of chicken manure. Ken was missing major body parts, was sick and weak from surgeries, chemo and radiation treatments, and had to be sustained artificially through a tube into his intestines, and they thought it was perfectly reasonable to ask him to climb up ladders and wade around in chicken poop!!
Their denial also kept most of Ken’s family from being as helpful as I needed them to be during that time. ( I say “most” because one of our nieces was EXTREMELY helpful and supportive.) Remember, in addition to managing Ken’s care and treatment, I was also trying to care for our two young sons. Ken’s illness effected Jesse and Benjamin profoundly and unfortunately, sometimes it manifested itself physically. Jesse began having breathing problems and severe headaches. Benjamin complained of more tummy-aches and even began having “sinking spells” where he would go pale and pass out in the floor. Ken had so many doctor appointments, tests and treatments, we were usually at Erlanger Hospital at least two to three days a week. So when Jesse or Benjamin would call, needing to come home, I couldn’t leave their Dad. I would have to call family members and ask them to go get the boys from school and stay with them until Ken and I could get back home.
I can understand already having plans, but the “reasons” I was being given as to why Ken’s family members couldn’t take care of the boys for me included such important things as “I have to get a haircut”, and “I’m going out to eat with some other family members”. And it didn’t just happen once or twice, but it seemed to be the same, every time I called. It was as if they didn’t realize how sick Ken still was so it didn’t occur to them that WE NEEDED HELP! It absolutely made me want to SCREAM!!! I wanted to say to them, “I’m really sorry that Ken’s terminal illness is such a burden for you that you would have to consider changing your plans to take care of HIS CHILDREN!!!!!” Instead, I would tell them “never mind” and call either friends from our church or Benjamin’s school and ask if they could help until my Mama could get up there. (I never had to ask “if” Mama could come. She rearranged her life for us on many occasions during those two years. God Bless my Mama!)
Sadly, it wasn’t until the last couple of weeks of Ken’s life that I think they finally realized how seriously ill he had been for the past two years. I am still amazed that it took so long. Maybe if it had been one of my children, I would have lived in denial too...I doubt it, though.
Now...I have always been a very realistic person. I look at each situation that comes my way, even the horrible ones, as clearly as I can and then I deal with it. That is what I did when Ken got sick. After the initial panic, I researched Linitis Plastica to see just what kind of a monster we would be fighting. The information I found was absolutely grim. Said that even with total stomach resection (removal), the chance of long term survival was less than 4 percent. At that point, Ken’s doctors were not even considering resection because they truly believed that he would only survive a couple of months.
So, after getting a clear picture of what we were facing, I begged God to heal Ken if it was in His Will to do so. Then, I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and vowed to help Ken fight this thing as hard as he could for as long as he could, no matter what it took.
All during Ken’s illness and treatments, certain of his family members just didn’t seem to “get” how gravely ill he was. When he outlived the doctors’ original predictions for survival, it was as if life for the rest of the Lunsfords went back to normal. Word started spreading that “God was going to heal Kenny”, or that God had, in fact, already healed him. In the mean time, we were still battling this monstrous disease on a daily basis. It didn’t seem to occur to Ken’s family that he was a bit different than he had been before he got sick. One family member called and asked him to climb up on her roof and fix something. Another called and asked if Ken would come and help him shovel a load of chicken manure. Ken was missing major body parts, was sick and weak from surgeries, chemo and radiation treatments, and had to be sustained artificially through a tube into his intestines, and they thought it was perfectly reasonable to ask him to climb up ladders and wade around in chicken poop!!
Their denial also kept most of Ken’s family from being as helpful as I needed them to be during that time. ( I say “most” because one of our nieces was EXTREMELY helpful and supportive.) Remember, in addition to managing Ken’s care and treatment, I was also trying to care for our two young sons. Ken’s illness effected Jesse and Benjamin profoundly and unfortunately, sometimes it manifested itself physically. Jesse began having breathing problems and severe headaches. Benjamin complained of more tummy-aches and even began having “sinking spells” where he would go pale and pass out in the floor. Ken had so many doctor appointments, tests and treatments, we were usually at Erlanger Hospital at least two to three days a week. So when Jesse or Benjamin would call, needing to come home, I couldn’t leave their Dad. I would have to call family members and ask them to go get the boys from school and stay with them until Ken and I could get back home.
I can understand already having plans, but the “reasons” I was being given as to why Ken’s family members couldn’t take care of the boys for me included such important things as “I have to get a haircut”, and “I’m going out to eat with some other family members”. And it didn’t just happen once or twice, but it seemed to be the same, every time I called. It was as if they didn’t realize how sick Ken still was so it didn’t occur to them that WE NEEDED HELP! It absolutely made me want to SCREAM!!! I wanted to say to them, “I’m really sorry that Ken’s terminal illness is such a burden for you that you would have to consider changing your plans to take care of HIS CHILDREN!!!!!” Instead, I would tell them “never mind” and call either friends from our church or Benjamin’s school and ask if they could help until my Mama could get up there. (I never had to ask “if” Mama could come. She rearranged her life for us on many occasions during those two years. God Bless my Mama!)
Sadly, it wasn’t until the last couple of weeks of Ken’s life that I think they finally realized how seriously ill he had been for the past two years. I am still amazed that it took so long. Maybe if it had been one of my children, I would have lived in denial too...I doubt it, though.
Lots of company for Ken yesterday. Too much, really. I think Ken’s mom is FINALLY beginning to realize how sick Ken is. I caught her holding Ken’s hand and crying. Then she cried again when she hugged me good bye. Even Ken’s dad, in his own strange way, sort of hugged me when he left. I guess its hitting home with all of them. About time... (Melinda’s Journal, October 31, 2004)
Confession and a Scared Little Boy
Confession may be good for the soul, but for me, it was simply heartbreaking. Toward the end of October, I was sitting in the bedroom while Ken was in the hospital bed. He had gotten to where he didn’t want me to leave the room he was in anymore. He was afraid he would need something and I wouldn’t hear him. ( I always heard him...was never more than a few steps away.) Anyway, I think I was reading or something because when he called my name, I didn’t look up, but just answered, “Hmmmm?” Ken said, “I need you to look at me.” I put down whatever I had been looking at and looked at him. His poor face was a mixture of fear, exhaustion and sorrow. “What is it, Baby?” I asked. He then began “confessing” to me things he felt he had done or said during our marriage that were unfair and unfaithful to me. The things he confessed were very minor transgressions and most were done or said in response to something I did or said that upset him. At this point in our lives, none of what he told me even mattered anymore, but he was almost frantic to get it out of his mouth. I told him that I forgave him and I apologized for my part in it. He nodded his head and drifted off to sleep.
It was around this time that Benjamin began acting out. I think I mentioned earlier that Benjamin dealt with the stress of his Dad’s illness with perpetual motion. Well, the sicker Ken got, the more Benjamin amped up the motion. He started cutting his clothes with scissors and wiggled, ran and rolled all over the house, to the point of distraction. Unfortunately, Ken felt so bad that he started snapping and yelling at Benjamin. My heart broke into tiny little pieces when I saw that Benjamin was beginning to avoid his Dad and seemed scared to be in the same room with him. Yes, Ken was terribly sick, and yes, Benjamin was noisy, but he was just a little boy! A little boy having to deal with a grown-up problem in the only way he knew how.
Ken is preparing himself to leave us. Last night he “confessed” to me... (I’m not going to list the things he told me. The conversation was private, between me and my husband, and that is where it will remain.) It seemed very important to him to confess to me. I asked if he was asking me to forgive him and he said “yes”. I told him I forgive him. He’s trying to set things right before he goes. (Melinda’s Journal, October 22, 2004)
It was around this time that Benjamin began acting out. I think I mentioned earlier that Benjamin dealt with the stress of his Dad’s illness with perpetual motion. Well, the sicker Ken got, the more Benjamin amped up the motion. He started cutting his clothes with scissors and wiggled, ran and rolled all over the house, to the point of distraction. Unfortunately, Ken felt so bad that he started snapping and yelling at Benjamin. My heart broke into tiny little pieces when I saw that Benjamin was beginning to avoid his Dad and seemed scared to be in the same room with him. Yes, Ken was terribly sick, and yes, Benjamin was noisy, but he was just a little boy! A little boy having to deal with a grown-up problem in the only way he knew how.
Benjamin has cut holes in his shirts for the past two days. Not sure what’s going on with him. I told him if he did it because he’s upset about his Daddy to ask his teacher to let him go and talk to the school counselor. Don’t know if he will. He sees the private counselor Sunday. Maybe it will help. (Melinda’s Journal, October 22, 2004)
Ken stayed in the hospital bed all day today. Keeps telling me stuff that needs to be taken care of before he goes. He’s been very snappish – yelled at the boys a couple of times. He’s got Benjamin scared to come in the bedroom. I know he’s scared – but so are we – and him hollering at us doesn’t help a bit. This is so hard. I’m afraid it’s going to tear us apart before it’s over. (Melinda’s Journal, October 24, 2004)
Second Bone Scan
Ken’s second bone scan was October 18, 2004. Its purpose was to see how the chemo had affected the cancer and to help us decide whether or not to continue the treatments. Ken was much weaker for this scan than he had been for the first one.
The scan lasted longer than last time. Don’t know why. Ken felt so bad – there was no way he was up to going for lunch while we waited for the dye to work its way through his bloodstream. Thankfully, they had a stretcher they let him lay on while we waited. About the time they finished up with him, Jesse called with a headache, wanting to come home. Then Benjamin came in from school all puny, complaining of all kinds of aches and pains too. Here we go...
Didn’t let anyone talk to Ken on the phone this afternoon – not even his Mama. He was just so exhausted and in so much pain.
When I got up this morning, Ken told me he doesn’t think he’s going to make it. I didn’t know what to say. It is so sad – my heart is breaking. I want to comfort him, but I’m not sure how. Words don’t work – they get stuck in my throat. (Melinda’s Journal, October 18, 2004)
Tomorrow we see Dr. Schlabach to see what’s next. I’m afraid to find out. Ken has been through so much – his poor body can’t take much more. Ken's dad is going to bring the hospital bed back over. Jan said we could use her wheelchair. Mama is bringing the shower seat and bedside commode. Things I never ever wanted to have in my house. It makes me so sad. (Melinda’s Journal, October 19, 2004)
The scan was unchanged. No better, no worse. But the pain is an indication that the cancer is progressing. Dr. S. gave Ken the choice of whether or not to continue chemo but said that the chemo could be doing as much harm as good at this point. Said there was fluid in Ken’s chest cavity – could be caused by the chemo or the cancer. We decided to stop the chemo for a month to see if that will clear up. The Dr. gave us a prescription for stronger pain meds and more Lortab. Ken won’t be getting better this time unless God sends another miracle. So discouraged... (Melinda’s Journal, October 21, 2004)
Happy Anniversary...Not So Much
Tomorrow is our 15th wedding anniversary. I wish Ken felt like celebrating. Blood work was okay -- WBC was a little high, but that's not unusual. He talked like he was going to church tonight, but the later it got, the worse he felt. He even asked for Lortab once today. The pain just gets worse and worse. NOT FAIR!!! :(
(Melinda's Journal, October 13, 2004)
The above entry actually ends with a HUGE frowning face drawn in lime green ink. Can't duplicate it here, but the little frown I put just didn't seem to convey the same depth of feeling as the actual one in my journal.
Happy Anniversary to us! The most exciting thing that happened was that I finished reading the Old Testament all the way through -- first time in my almost 46 years.
Ken had some errands to do, so I ran him around all morning. I had to stand pressed against his back to make sure he wouldn't fall. If I stepped one step away from him, he would start to sway. Ken was so tired when we got back home. I was hoping he could rest.
Ken's dad and uncle came over -- I thought to visit with Ken, so I made the mistake of leaving them all here while I went to the library for a while. Well, they took Ken and ran around ALL AFTERNOON. I think one of them must be buying a trailer and/or lot and they were running around trying to get that all taken care of. Put three Lunsfords in one room and they don't have a brain between them! I can't imagine why they thought keeping Ken out all afternoon was a good idea! And since they were gone all day, it looks like they could have taken him to the store to get me an anniversary card. But no -- only think about trailers and lots -- not your WIFE! (Melinda's Journal, October 14, 2004)
The last part of the above entry sounds so mean, doesn't it? I was just so frustrated with them keeping Ken out all afternoon when he was so terribly weak and sick. And, all through our marriage, even though I knew Ken loved me, he always put his business before me unless it was something major like having his children or surgery or something. He didn't do it to be mean to me...it's just the way he was. I finally came to accept it, but it still hurt my feelings.
Gritting My Teeth
This post quotes several of my journal entries. It makes my heart hurt to try and explain them or to give a frame of reference as to what was going on during those days...so, I will just let them speak for themselves.
Chemo went okay, but Ken’s back has been hurting worse today than usual. He won’t take anything – STUBBORN MAN! He should have stayed home, but he insisted on going to church. He’ll probably feel fairly rotten the next couple of days. They’ve scheduled his next bone scan for October 18. I’m afraid if the results aren’t any better than the last one, Ken will just give up. (Melinda’s Journal, September 29, 2004)
Ken is getting worse. Now, in addition to his back, his leg has begun hurting. He can barely walk on it. He felt so bad that he passed up one of his cousin's legendary cook-outs. Not sure if he’ll be able to go to church in the morning – too many stairs. (Melinda’s Journal, October 2, 2004)
Ken had a really rough night. Up and down all night. He finally asked for some Lortab around 5:00 a.m., but had to crawl to the bedroom because he could not walk on his leg. He finally slept for about 3 hours. Stayed home while the boys and I went to church. It broke my heart to go without him. David Carlock brought him a walker. It seems to help. Ken asked again tonight for some Lortab. He hurts – he’s discouraged – he’s scared – I’m scared. Things are moving too fast. I’m not ready. (Melinda’s Journal, October 3, 2004)
Ken is still not able to bear weight on his leg. And now he is coughing up phlegm with traces of blood. We went for blood work today and when I told them what was going on, Dr. Schlabach sent Ken for X-rays of his chest and leg and then an ultrasound of his leg veins. There is no blood clot now, but she said his blood is “sluggish”. We’ll have to watch carefully for any signs of swelling or red streaks. Haven’t heard the results of the X-rays, but Dr. S. went ahead and prescribed some antibiotics. More and more stuff to look after.
Both boys cried about their Daddy tonight. Think it’s just sinking in that Ken is getting worse. Poor kids – this is so hard for them. (Melinda’s Journal, October 6, 2004)
Ken had another horrible night last night. So much pain and despair. He’s trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s not getting better. Is wearing a kind of hopeless look these days. Took ‘til 3:00 a.m. to convince him to take some Lortab. I didn’t want to leave him alone, so we didn’t go to church. By this afternoon, he was feeling some better, so I left him long enough to take the boys to their counseling appointment. It seemed to help them both. Ken’s seems a little better now – maybe he’ll be able to rest. (Melinda’s Journal, October 10, 2004)
Chemo went okay, but Ken’s back has been hurting worse today than usual. He won’t take anything – STUBBORN MAN! He should have stayed home, but he insisted on going to church. He’ll probably feel fairly rotten the next couple of days. They’ve scheduled his next bone scan for October 18. I’m afraid if the results aren’t any better than the last one, Ken will just give up. (Melinda’s Journal, September 29, 2004)
Ken is getting worse. Now, in addition to his back, his leg has begun hurting. He can barely walk on it. He felt so bad that he passed up one of his cousin's legendary cook-outs. Not sure if he’ll be able to go to church in the morning – too many stairs. (Melinda’s Journal, October 2, 2004)
Ken had a really rough night. Up and down all night. He finally asked for some Lortab around 5:00 a.m., but had to crawl to the bedroom because he could not walk on his leg. He finally slept for about 3 hours. Stayed home while the boys and I went to church. It broke my heart to go without him. David Carlock brought him a walker. It seems to help. Ken asked again tonight for some Lortab. He hurts – he’s discouraged – he’s scared – I’m scared. Things are moving too fast. I’m not ready. (Melinda’s Journal, October 3, 2004)
Ken is still not able to bear weight on his leg. And now he is coughing up phlegm with traces of blood. We went for blood work today and when I told them what was going on, Dr. Schlabach sent Ken for X-rays of his chest and leg and then an ultrasound of his leg veins. There is no blood clot now, but she said his blood is “sluggish”. We’ll have to watch carefully for any signs of swelling or red streaks. Haven’t heard the results of the X-rays, but Dr. S. went ahead and prescribed some antibiotics. More and more stuff to look after.
Both boys cried about their Daddy tonight. Think it’s just sinking in that Ken is getting worse. Poor kids – this is so hard for them. (Melinda’s Journal, October 6, 2004)
Ken had another horrible night last night. So much pain and despair. He’s trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s not getting better. Is wearing a kind of hopeless look these days. Took ‘til 3:00 a.m. to convince him to take some Lortab. I didn’t want to leave him alone, so we didn’t go to church. By this afternoon, he was feeling some better, so I left him long enough to take the boys to their counseling appointment. It seemed to help them both. Ken’s seems a little better now – maybe he’ll be able to rest. (Melinda’s Journal, October 10, 2004)
Sweet Sunshine in the Midst of the Storm
Several of the next journal entries mention a very important person in my life that I haven’t introduced yet, so this part of the story is dedicated to her.
Sometime during the time that Ken was sick and having treatments, my brother, David, and his wife became foster parents. Their very first foster child was a tiny little four-month-old girl with enormous brown eyes and the smile of an angel. Her name was Kaylie. Unfortunately, since Ken was so sick and we were so busy with his appointments/surgeries/treatments, we didn’t get to spend as much time getting to know Kaylie as I would have liked. Now, whenever I see pictures from when she was a little baby, I’m always surprised and saddened because I don’t remember much of it.
Kaylie came to David’s family as a “medically fragile” baby. She was on oxygen and would require at least one surgery on her heart. I think she was actually in the hospital the first time they met her. She took one look at David and smiled. The sitter from DHR said he was the first person since Kaylie had been taken into state custody she had ever smiled at. Of course, David was immediately and absolutely smitten.
Towards the end of Ken’s illness, Kaylie did have her heart surgery.
Kaylie has surgery tomorrow. I know David is a bundle of nerves. I’d go down and hold his hand, but Ken has blood work at 10:30. He’s also not been feeling well enough lately for me to leave him. I hope they understand. (Melinda’s Journal, September 21, 2004)
Kaylie’s surgery turned out to be more complicated than they had anticipated. One of the holes had closed by itself, but the big one was bigger than they thought. They repaired the other two, but during surgery, pressure built up in her little lungs. They decided not to close her chest – are leaving her under sedation tonight and will finish up in the morning. It sounds horrible – I’m trying not to worry. Praying lots. I’ll bet David is a big pile of mush. (Melinda’s Journal, September 22, 2004)
Kaylie is much improved. They’ve removed all but one of her chest tubes and her blood oxygenation is good. If she continues to improve, she could go home tomorrow or Tuesday. PRAISE GOD!! (Melinda’s Journal, September 26, 2004)
I am happy to say that the precious little angel baby we met as “Kaylie” is now my gorgeous, happy, healthy, snaggle-toothed six-year-old niece, “Kaileigh Elizabeth” (spelling changed at her adoption). I thank God every day for the joy she has brought our family. I love you, Kaileigh-Bug!!
Sometime during the time that Ken was sick and having treatments, my brother, David, and his wife became foster parents. Their very first foster child was a tiny little four-month-old girl with enormous brown eyes and the smile of an angel. Her name was Kaylie. Unfortunately, since Ken was so sick and we were so busy with his appointments/surgeries/treatments, we didn’t get to spend as much time getting to know Kaylie as I would have liked. Now, whenever I see pictures from when she was a little baby, I’m always surprised and saddened because I don’t remember much of it.
Kaylie came to David’s family as a “medically fragile” baby. She was on oxygen and would require at least one surgery on her heart. I think she was actually in the hospital the first time they met her. She took one look at David and smiled. The sitter from DHR said he was the first person since Kaylie had been taken into state custody she had ever smiled at. Of course, David was immediately and absolutely smitten.
Towards the end of Ken’s illness, Kaylie did have her heart surgery.
Kaylie has surgery tomorrow. I know David is a bundle of nerves. I’d go down and hold his hand, but Ken has blood work at 10:30. He’s also not been feeling well enough lately for me to leave him. I hope they understand. (Melinda’s Journal, September 21, 2004)
Kaylie’s surgery turned out to be more complicated than they had anticipated. One of the holes had closed by itself, but the big one was bigger than they thought. They repaired the other two, but during surgery, pressure built up in her little lungs. They decided not to close her chest – are leaving her under sedation tonight and will finish up in the morning. It sounds horrible – I’m trying not to worry. Praying lots. I’ll bet David is a big pile of mush. (Melinda’s Journal, September 22, 2004)
Kaylie is much improved. They’ve removed all but one of her chest tubes and her blood oxygenation is good. If she continues to improve, she could go home tomorrow or Tuesday. PRAISE GOD!! (Melinda’s Journal, September 26, 2004)
I am happy to say that the precious little angel baby we met as “Kaylie” is now my gorgeous, happy, healthy, snaggle-toothed six-year-old niece, “Kaileigh Elizabeth” (spelling changed at her adoption). I thank God every day for the joy she has brought our family. I love you, Kaileigh-Bug!!
That "Hair Thing" Again
Well, Honey, I don't care. I ain't in love with your hair. And if it all fell out, I'd love you anyway. (Randy Travis, Forever and Ever, Amen)As I have mentioned in previous posts, I would always get upset when Ken’s hair fell out. I know it’s just hair. In most cases, it grows back. Heck, the first time Ken lost his hair, I even suggested that the boys and I could all get buzz cuts so we would all be bald together. And we would have too – if that’s what Ken had wanted. It’s just that when the hair disappears, it just screams out, “Hey! I am sick! I have CANCER! I am fighting for my life!!!”. And this time, coupled with the “hollow-eyed look” Ken was wearing, it seemed to also scream, “This time I am losing the battle!”
Ken’s hair has started coming out again. He’ll probably be as bald as an onion in a couple of weeks. It just depresses the heck out of me. It’s only hair, but when it’s gone, he looks so much sicker. (Melinda’s Journal, August 30, 2004)
I’d say in another couple of days Ken will be bald again. His hair is coming out in clumps. He’ll be bald for Christmas again. If I could only remember where I put all of his toboggans. I was hoping he’d never need them again. (Melinda’s Journal, September 1, 2004)
Ken is very tired and peaked-looking. I’m worried about him. His hair is getting thinner and thinner. He’s not washing it as often as usual because he knows it will make it come out faster. (Melinda’s Journal, September 2, 2004)
Ken’s blood counts were higher this time. He feels better. He asked me to go ahead and cut the rest of his hair off. It looks better, but it breaks my heart to see him bald again. (Melinda's Journal, September 22, 2004)
Ken finally lost so much of his hair that he asked me to go ahead and cut the rest of it off so it wouldn’t look so scraggly. It was sunny that day, so we sat out on the front porch as I gave him what would be his last haircut ever. I didn’t keep the hair this time...somehow it just didn’t seem like I should.
Sadly, Ken wasn’t bald for Christmas that year...he died the month before Christmas.
Lying by Omission
I guess that is what you would have to call it when I started sneaking doses of pain medication and/or anxiety medication into Ken’s feeding tube bag at night. It made me feel horribly guilty–I was not in the habit of lying to my husband. But Ken was in such pain and stayed so upset all the time, I felt I really had no choice. If only he hadn’t been so ornery about taking the meds he needed, it wouldn’t have to come to that point. I never told Ken before he died that I had been sneaking the meds into his system. I didn’t want to upset him. And sometimes, even to this day, it makes me feel sad and guilty when I think about it. But you know what? I know God has forgiven me for not being truthful, and I’m pretty sure Ken has too.
Life during this period was definitely surreal. The world was forging on around us. We were living as “normally” as we could...going places with the kids, dealing with school work, going to church...but it was like all of that stuff was swirling around us and we were stuck in the middle of a vortex, standing still. I have often wondered it that’s what it feels like in the eye of a hurricane.
Ken is trying to tie things up so his properties will be taken care of after he’s gone. He’s got that “giving up” look. He barely speaks to anyone. Such despair. (Melinda’s Journal, August 23, 2004)
Life during this period was definitely surreal. The world was forging on around us. We were living as “normally” as we could...going places with the kids, dealing with school work, going to church...but it was like all of that stuff was swirling around us and we were stuck in the middle of a vortex, standing still. I have often wondered it that’s what it feels like in the eye of a hurricane.
Ken’s eyes look like someone has hit him hard. He just looks sicker and sicker. I’m so worried that things are moving faster than we think. I’m scared – SO scared. (Melinda’s Journal, August 26, 2004)
Too Sad for a Title
Ken was getting weaker. I knew it and he knew it. The chemo treatments were much shorter this time, but just as destructive to his body and spirit. Within two weeks, the exhaustion set in and his hair started coming out in clumps. During this round of chemo, even some of his fingernails and toenails began to darken. The Dr. told us that Ken would likely lose the nails that turned dark. Fingernails/toenails and hair are made from the same type of protein, so if the chemo can make the hair fall out, it can make the nails fall out too.
As usual, Ken wouldn’t take any pain or anxiety meds, so he was hurting and upset most of the time. Such a disheartening time for us. This time, though, there was one big difference. This time, Ken started telling me what needed to be done before he left and what I should do after he was gone. We tried to remain hopeful that the chemotherapy would help, but it was obvious that Ken’s body was breaking down, little by little, bit by bit. So much pain....such despair.
I don’t remember the exact conversation with Jesse and Benjamin when we told them Ken’s cancer was back. But I do remember the day that it “hit” Jesse that his Dad would not be recovering this time. We were in the car, either on the way to school or home from school and I was telling him about the various appointments we had that week. It was kind of like a “lightbulb moment”, because Jesse stopped me in mid-sentence and said, “Mom, is Dad getting worse? Is that why y’all have had so many more appointments lately?” With my heart in my throat and tears streaming down my face, I looked into the precious eyes of my 13-year-old son and said, “It doesn’t look like your Dad will get better this time.” Jesse just looked at me with the saddest face and nodded his head. “I thought so”, he whispered.
The stuff that comes next is all pretty heartbreaking and is very hard to bring back up to the surface. My journals from that time say things pretty much the way I want it said. For that reason, much of the content for the next pages will contain large portions quoted directly from my journals.
As usual, Ken wouldn’t take any pain or anxiety meds, so he was hurting and upset most of the time. Such a disheartening time for us. This time, though, there was one big difference. This time, Ken started telling me what needed to be done before he left and what I should do after he was gone. We tried to remain hopeful that the chemotherapy would help, but it was obvious that Ken’s body was breaking down, little by little, bit by bit. So much pain....such despair.
I don’t remember the exact conversation with Jesse and Benjamin when we told them Ken’s cancer was back. But I do remember the day that it “hit” Jesse that his Dad would not be recovering this time. We were in the car, either on the way to school or home from school and I was telling him about the various appointments we had that week. It was kind of like a “lightbulb moment”, because Jesse stopped me in mid-sentence and said, “Mom, is Dad getting worse? Is that why y’all have had so many more appointments lately?” With my heart in my throat and tears streaming down my face, I looked into the precious eyes of my 13-year-old son and said, “It doesn’t look like your Dad will get better this time.” Jesse just looked at me with the saddest face and nodded his head. “I thought so”, he whispered.
The stuff that comes next is all pretty heartbreaking and is very hard to bring back up to the surface. My journals from that time say things pretty much the way I want it said. For that reason, much of the content for the next pages will contain large portions quoted directly from my journals.
Laughter Through Tears
Before Ken got so weak that he couldn’t go places, we were able to make a few really good memories...
David Carlock, a sweet man from our church, gave us free passes to Lake Winnepesaukah, which is an amusement park in Ft. Oglethorpe.
Now, you must understand – “Lake Winnie” holds a very special place in my heart. Ken and I went on our first “date” to a concert there. And a couple of months after that, Ken Lunsford kissed Melinda Kendrick for the very first time!!! It was the 4th of July and we were there to watch the fireworks. And I guess you could say that we made some fireworks of our own that night. Anywhooo... Mr. Carlock brought us the free passes and we decided to take the boys. We had to take it slow and easy so Ken wouldn’t tire out too easily, which was no easy feat with a 13-year-old and an 8-year-old. But even in their excitement, Jesse and Benjamin realized that their Dad was weak and toned it down as much as they could.
Ken and the boys rode almost all of the rides together. Knowing my tendency towards motion sickness, I mostly kept my feet on the ground and took pictures of my guys as they flew past. I did ride the carousel a time or two and the train once. We stayed until early afternoon. Though I knew Ken was hurting, he was having such a good time with his boys, that I didn’t mention going home until he began to stagger some. Watching them all together having so much fun brought tears to my eyes – and still does when I remember that day. I got the best picture of the three of them that day. They were riding the antique cars (Benjamin was “driving”). When they came around the last time, they all looked up at me and smiled just as I snapped the picture. It was as if God Himself framed the picture and gave us a perfect memory. I guess He did.
Another day, we went on a train trip. Ken had always wanted to take a long train trip, the kind where you sleep on the train. We didn’t get to do that, but right after the Lake Winnie trip, I saw a two-hour trip advertised in the local paper. The train (pulled by a steam locomotive, no less) would leave from Chattanooga and travel to the airport in LaFayette, GA. (Who would have guessed that LaFayette had an airport?!) Anyway, once at the LaFayette airport, we could watch the air show they were having. They had all kinds of private planes doing stunts and stuff like that.
I think the neatest thing about the train trip was that the train car we rode in had been used in the movie “Some Like it Hot”. We had our own little compartment where the seats faced each other on either side of a huge picture window. We got to eat our lunch in the dining car too. It was lots of fun. Ken was a lot weaker on this trip than he had been at Lake Winnie, but luckily, most of the trip was sitting down, so that helped. Being out in the sun at the air show really took a lot out of Ken, so we had to find a place in the shade and sit until the train was ready to go back to Chattanooga. Ken did, though, get to ride a helicopter while we were at the air show. It is something he had always wanted to do. He would have liked for me to have ridden with him, but since I am afraid of both heights and closed-in spaces, I didn’t really think it would be a good idea. So, I stayed on the ground and smiled and waved at him when he went over. I’m glad he got to take that ride.
On the way home that evening, I took the last picture we have of Ken before he died. He was smiling and looking at me with those precious blue eyes that I loved so much. It is a precious picture and a precious memory.
David Carlock, a sweet man from our church, gave us free passes to Lake Winnepesaukah, which is an amusement park in Ft. Oglethorpe.
Now, you must understand – “Lake Winnie” holds a very special place in my heart. Ken and I went on our first “date” to a concert there. And a couple of months after that, Ken Lunsford kissed Melinda Kendrick for the very first time!!! It was the 4th of July and we were there to watch the fireworks. And I guess you could say that we made some fireworks of our own that night. Anywhooo... Mr. Carlock brought us the free passes and we decided to take the boys. We had to take it slow and easy so Ken wouldn’t tire out too easily, which was no easy feat with a 13-year-old and an 8-year-old. But even in their excitement, Jesse and Benjamin realized that their Dad was weak and toned it down as much as they could.
Ken and the boys rode almost all of the rides together. Knowing my tendency towards motion sickness, I mostly kept my feet on the ground and took pictures of my guys as they flew past. I did ride the carousel a time or two and the train once. We stayed until early afternoon. Though I knew Ken was hurting, he was having such a good time with his boys, that I didn’t mention going home until he began to stagger some. Watching them all together having so much fun brought tears to my eyes – and still does when I remember that day. I got the best picture of the three of them that day. They were riding the antique cars (Benjamin was “driving”). When they came around the last time, they all looked up at me and smiled just as I snapped the picture. It was as if God Himself framed the picture and gave us a perfect memory. I guess He did.
Another day, we went on a train trip. Ken had always wanted to take a long train trip, the kind where you sleep on the train. We didn’t get to do that, but right after the Lake Winnie trip, I saw a two-hour trip advertised in the local paper. The train (pulled by a steam locomotive, no less) would leave from Chattanooga and travel to the airport in LaFayette, GA. (Who would have guessed that LaFayette had an airport?!) Anyway, once at the LaFayette airport, we could watch the air show they were having. They had all kinds of private planes doing stunts and stuff like that.
I think the neatest thing about the train trip was that the train car we rode in had been used in the movie “Some Like it Hot”. We had our own little compartment where the seats faced each other on either side of a huge picture window. We got to eat our lunch in the dining car too. It was lots of fun. Ken was a lot weaker on this trip than he had been at Lake Winnie, but luckily, most of the trip was sitting down, so that helped. Being out in the sun at the air show really took a lot out of Ken, so we had to find a place in the shade and sit until the train was ready to go back to Chattanooga. Ken did, though, get to ride a helicopter while we were at the air show. It is something he had always wanted to do. He would have liked for me to have ridden with him, but since I am afraid of both heights and closed-in spaces, I didn’t really think it would be a good idea. So, I stayed on the ground and smiled and waved at him when he went over. I’m glad he got to take that ride.
On the way home that evening, I took the last picture we have of Ken before he died. He was smiling and looking at me with those precious blue eyes that I loved so much. It is a precious picture and a precious memory.
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