Dad. Dog. Divorce.

It is a bitter cold week in Minneapolis.

We moved my father in to a lovely facility, how surreal it was to walk in to a space knowing that my father will not walk out of this place with breath in his lungs. Just that thought was enough to feel all the breath pressed from my own lungs, a long slow exhale of agony. How cruel and overwhelming life can feel sometimes.

The timeline for the last two months is a blur , but I know this: I gave my dog a big hug the day after my dad turned 74, I cried and held him while he licked my face - internally knowing this was our last time together-, and then I left to go see my father and head south for a much needed break from the chaos of navigating divorce. My sweet Bacon, my best friend of 14 years, lied down the next day and never got up. I was not there for his final breath. I have not been to where he is buried, as I am somehow still waiting for him to run up the steps and bark at the door.

So many endings. Too many at once.

My father’s diagnosis came to us that same week. A very late diagnosis after months of unknowns, and in the 8 weeks since he was told he had terminal cancer, his decline has been shockingly swift. We have barely had a moment to process the diagnosis as we tried to navigate the onslaught of doctors visits, while watching the rapid decline in his weight and wellness. It has been a daily battle to try to get calories in to his cancer ravaged stomach, a battle that he was never meant to win. I have known a few people to lose their battles with cancer in one form or another, but I have never witnessed the ravages so intimately.

Cancer is a thief, it steals life from bodies, hope from loved ones, robs you of time, of years, of memories that will never come to be. I have watched it steal the pounds off my dad horrifically quickly. There has been no time to process the diagnosis. No time to research if there was any possibility of beating this disease, of prolonging his life. Just chaos. A whirlwind of appointments and hard conversations, and visits from friends and family, of medication lists and tubes and poking and prodding his sweet body. Of 4 hour car rides between my home and his where I sob so uncontrollably I have to pull over to let my body and emotions calm down.

It is easy to be mad about things. Easy to be mad at the doctors for not knowing what was wrong sooner. To be mad at the cancer itself for ravaging my father’s body. To just be mad. But what I truly am is soul crushingly sad. Helplessly sad. Agonizingly sad.

Navigating so much tremendous loss at one time, so many endings, so many deaths. I feel as though I am standing in the middle of a vast space completely stripped of all my clothes. Facing the harsh winter days with the bare bones, spinning in circles trying to find anything to hold on to, trying to steady my bare shaking legs and gather strength to take a step towards whatever new beginnings surely must be on the other side of so many harsh endings.

Despite the sadness and overwhelm, I feel immense gratitude and have had to lean in on that to pull me through the darkness.

Thank you to everyone who has sent messages or called or stopped by. Or simply thought of my family. Thank you to the staff at all the hospitals- especially North Memorial Cancer Floor, to the oncologists and their work in this world. To the staff at St Therese… so kind and wonderful. Thank you to my mom and sister for holding down the fort at home while I am back and forth so much. Thank you to my sweet kids for just being. Thank you to the remarkable man whose path crossed mine at the perfect time, your presence and grounding are beyond words.

Thank you to my Dad, Glenn Joel Olander-Quamme, for being one hell of a human being and the best father and Papa G anyone could ever imagine.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my Daddy you’ll be. ..”

Robert Munsch, from the book I’ll Love You Forever