The mist will clear soon

Today I had a day off of my internship, so I decided to take care of some business. Business that included death certificates and insurance policies. Too much business for me.

This was the first time I saw the death certificate. How eerie. To see her name in that black type, her full name, Gail Susanne Hahn, printed under "deceased." How surreal. You can see your hands grasping the paper. You can feel it between your fingers. You can see the official seal and the official signature. It’s all there. It’s all legit. But it just doesn’t feel real at all. I keep saying to myself, “Well, it had to happen sooner or later.” I just didn’t think it would be this soon.

All I really wanted to see was the reason for death. They labeled it as "septic shock" and in the secondary cause line they noted "leukemia." Cause of death: Septic shock as a consequence of leukemia. I hate that they said she had leukemia, since she was in remission. She needed to be in remission in order to get her bone marrow transplant. She worked so hard to be in remission, she endured five rounds of chemo, being stuck in the house or hospital day after day, c-diff, pneumonia, exhaustion, dehydration, weakness, a mild stroke. She was separated from her husband, her daughter, her sisters, her friends, her family. For months. She was in remission. She deserved at least that title, I think, after all of her hard work and dedication to keeping her life. I don't think it was fair that "leukemia" was her reason for death. It sort of feels like it erases the remission out of the picture completely. All of her hard work. For nothing. Not just because she died, but because she wasn’t even given the title she deserved. Cheated out of her deserving title, by her own death.

I am afraid, though, that all of her hard work really was for nothing, since she actually did die. I sat and wondered and worried for so long about all of this. Every time she was sick from chemo, every time she cried about being away from home, every time we checked her back into the hospital. “I hope all of this isn’t for nothing.” We all know that cancer causes death. We all know that leukemia is even more severe, in most cases. We all know that bone marrow transplants are dangerous and can also lead to death. All of these things. I like to think that I wasn’t being negative, that I was actually being realistic, yet hopeful. But I worried all the time. I know how much she would have given to be cancer-free. I watched her struggle for so long. And after all of her tears, all of her efforts, her brave faces, her “I’m fines”, I just can’t believe she’s gone. Still. I’m still completely jolted.

Every time something comes up about my mom that shocks me, I think to myself, “Jolted.” Just like that. I called my house the other day to talk to my dad and the voicemail picked up: my mom’s message. Jolted. I touched the wrong button on my cell phone and it brought up my mom’s speed dial, 8. I saw the word “mom” on my phone, a word that it hasn’t seen in a long time, from a number that hasn’t been pressed in a long time. Jolted. Every time I have to tell someone else she died. Jolted. I am starting to wonder if this will ever go away. If, before too long, it will be sad, and it will be understood, but it will no longer be jolting. I hope so. It really is such a shock to your system when you are reminded all over again that she is actually gone. I am told that things get easier with time. While I am still jolted, they are, in fact, getting a little easier with each and every day that passes.

My psychologist says that the most important thing is to “not let her die.” Meaning, I have to do things to keep her memory alive and to keep her alive in me. I am still running. I am running a second 5K on Sunday and a third on Thanksgiving morning. She was excited for me, seeing how much I enjoyed running and how driven I was to make it a hobby of mine. She told me she had no doubt that by next year I could run a half-marathon. We talked about getting a treadmill, so she could walk to build her strength in her legs and I could run while it was snowing outside. I dreamed about her watching me run across the finish line of the Akron Marathon next year. She will still be able to see me, just not in the way I wish she would. So I will keep running, for myself of course, but for her too.

I will continue to pursue my career goals of working in wellness and becoming a pioneer for the field, and for dietetics too. I really believe that wellness is where I belong and dietetics will help me get there, and she believed that too. She was so encouraging, and she believed in me and my career even when I didn’t believe in myself. I will definitely continue to work for this career and to work to touch lives through nutrition and wellness. She really believed I could, and I do too.

I am writing about her and aunt Polly in Heaven. I want to write about what I think they’re doing, what I hope they are enjoying together up there. It is surprising how much joy I find in writing about them, dreaming about them, and putting my thoughts together and onto paper. It is so uplifting and brings me so much hope, I think writing itself is actually working as a therapy for me and my heart. I will continue to write and continue to picture them together, playing and having fun in Heaven, focusing on fond memories and the love I have for both of them.

After all, when someone leaves us behind, what are we left with but the pictures and memories and love that remain? The jolting fades with the pain. The mist clears, and all that’s there is peace. People say they are praying for me and my family to “find peace.” I am resistant of people’s sadness and pity, but I would love to find peace in my life, especially after all of the loss and hurt I have watched over the last seven months. I am sure the mist will clear soon, and all I will be left with is love and peace.