A friend shared this with me and it was so exquisitely written and her experience so sensitively described I felt it was imperative that I share it, here. Ā This is why we do the work that we do. Ā And I thank Ms. Morita for sharing her gift publicly, and being so candid and forthright in her delivery.
http://www.jmorita9179.blogspot.com/2014/08/goodbye-ronnie.html
The Inner Workings
āIām writing this all down in the hopes that it will release me from these feelings before they swallow me whole.Ā Iām writing this down because, if it was hard to read, just imagine what it was like to experience, so please have some patience with me. Iām writing his down because itās inexcusable that the kind of cancer has never seen a survival rate over 0%. Iām writing this all down because I canāt focus on anything else. Iām writing this all down because I donāt know what else to do. Iām writing this all down because I miss Ronnie terribly. Iām just writing.ā
Goodbye, Ronnie.
I sit at my computer wondering where my story should begin. Like so many times before, my memories swirl around me like a flyāall moving too quickly for me to be able to stay with one long enough to grab onto it and let it turn into something more purposeful. My fingertips lightly tap at the keys on the keyboard; I know where to begin. Iām just avoiding it. I think what it really boils down to is that what Iām going to write about will reawaken a disquiet, a melancholy, an uncomfortable, a devastation so deep that simply existing in my own skin feels like a tremendous burden. But, I have long thought that in order for things to change, one needs to feel uncomfortable. Weāll happily, naively, neglectfully let others walk in their shoes that afflict terrible blisters and pain. But, itās not until we walk a mile in those shoes, and feel the pain of their blisters, that we decide things ought to be a bit different.
My name is Jessica, and I am a school psychologist for a small school district in Northern California. I work with kids ranging from preschool through high school. Iāve been a school psychologist for almost ten years now and I remember, in graduate school, one of my very favorite professors telling me that it takes ten years to become a good school psychologist. I donāt know if Iām any good; that doesnāt really matter because itās not the point of this story.
In August of 2013, I was told about a new student who would be on my caseload. He was 11-years-old and in the fifth grade. He had some kind of medical condition that required supervision, and he would also require more than typical accommodations and modifications for the classroom. When I first learned of Ronnie, this was all I knew about him. We hadnāt received formal information about him yet. None of this news seemed too alarming as we often have kids that come with very specific needs. However, this was all about to change.
What I soon learned about Ronnie was thisāhe was living with Diffuse Intrinsic Pontine Glioma, or DIPG. DIPG is a rare form of cancer, afflicting about 200-300 people a year in the United States, and mostly children between the ages of 4 and 10. DIPG is a tumor that is located on the pons of the brainstem, which is the most primitive part of the brain, the part of the brain that is responsible for our automatic functions necessary for survival. This part of the brain controls such critical functions as motor control and ability; heart rate; breathing; swallowing; and consciousness. As DIPG progresses, it slowly takes away each of these functions, one by one, until the only thing left to take is life. DIPG is inoperable, and the treatments available are only intended to slow the growth of the tumor, as DIPG has never seen a survival rate over 0%. While primarily a pediatric cancer, in very rare cases, DIPG has also been seen in adults. The average time a person has left following diagnosis of DIPG before succumbing to its devastation is approximately 9-12 months. In exceptional brutality, the only thing DIPG spares is the childās awareness; he or she is fully aware until the very end of what is going on inside his or her body. Because of its location on the most primitive part of our brain, many believe a cure for DIPG to be the pathway to cure all cancers. But alas, DIPG is horribly underfunded and under-researched.
When I met Ronnie, he was 11-years-old. He was truly spectacular in many ways; one being that he had been living with DIPG for about 7 years. When he was diagnosed at 4-years-old, Ronnie went through a tremendous amount of treatment, and for reasons unknown, his tumor fell dormant. It became inactive. It never went away, he was never in remission, but it stopped growing. Ronnie went on living life as a normal, healthy boy. He loved to get into mischief, he loved to read, he loved to dirt bike, he loved to knit and crochet, and he loved fart jokes. He loved life. And absolutely everyone loved him.
Shortly after meeting Ronnie, however, his tumor began to grow again. For months, we watched his agonizing decline and loss of functions. A family, a school, a community came together to love this little boy and then to lose him well before we were ready to let him go, even though we would never be ready to let him go.
In the months that I knew Ronnie, I got to know him and his family very well. I spent hours and hours with Ronnie at school, and later, at his house when he was too ill to come to school. I organized fundraisers, I worked to raise awareness, and I did whatever I could to bring some comfort to Ronnie and his family. I grew to love Ronnie and his family very much.
Ronnie lost his battle with DIPG on Monday, January 20, 2014. A little over a week after he passed, I found myself paralyzed by grief and trapped in the memories of Ronnieās last week of life. So, with robotic automaticity, I just sat down and started writing and crying and didnāt stop until I felt like I could breathe a little bit again. Not deep, cleansing breaths, but just shallow enough breaths to keep going on a little longer. I really didnāt know its purpose when I wrote it, but now I feel like I do. Below, youāll find the most personal and intimate thing I have ever written, and will probably ever write. My agenda is simple: I want people to read this and take from it whatever resonates with them. Whether its to raise awareness about childhood cancer and DIPG, or to advocate for greater research and funding for DIPG treatments, or to simply love and appreciate the people in your life and the time you have with them, however perfect or imperfect. Or, even just to appreciate more and complain less. Like I said, however it resonates, that is the purpose. But, as you read, I do want you to get uncomfortable with it. Get upset by it. Donāt put it down and walk away in ignorant bliss. Let it change you so that you, yourself, can create change.
Let us begin.
Goodbye, Ronnie.
When a child dies, it goes against the natural order of things. It just isnāt supposed to happen. And yet, it does. Everyday.Ā And it is just as awful and terrible and crippling as you would expect it to be. Actually, itās worse than you would expect it to be. Nothing can prepare you for it, even when you see it coming at you like an ambulance with its flashing lights and ear-piercing sirens. It will take you down with unforgiving cruelty and agonizing venom. Your pleas for mercy against this torture will go unheard and ignored as you replay his death over and over again in your mind, desperately searching for some loophole to disprove this reality. Your mind simultaneously tries to makes sense of this tragedy while vehemently refusing to accept it. You are in a constant and unrelenting fight against a violent and restless tide. It feels like you cannot endure.
Ronnie died on a Monday. But, really, he started the dying process on the Thursday before. I mean, Ronnie had been dying for months as his tumor slowly raped his body of automatic functions necessarily for survival. In fastidious brutality, it spared his awareness. He got to slowly, painfully, degradingly die with full knowledge and understanding of it. But, the actual dying process that, once begun, was irreversible began on a Thursday. Hospice assessed his vitals: heart rate 120, oxygen 80. Ronnie was not expected to last the night.
The day before, I had gone to visit Ronnie and his family in the afternoon. When I had arrived, it was a quiet, warm, sunny afternoon. Ronnieās parents (Ron and Jen), his brothers, and Jenās mom and wife were all there. The windows were all open and the sun poured inside the house drenching everyone in a light, yellow glow. In typical fashion, I was greeted with hugs and kisses from the family before I took my natural place beside Ronnie. With his warm hand in mind, I gazed into those clear eyes. Once crossed from tumor pressure on his optical nerve, Ronnieās eyes are now fixated straight ahead; apparently, a side effect of around-the-clock morphine.Ā A moment later, Jen is sitting on the side of his bed and we fall into effortless chatter.
Jenās mom, Linda, is a self-taught guitarist. She hadnāt played in years, but often strummed tunes of classic rock. For whatever reason, on this particular day, Linda brought along her acoustic guitar and I remember hearing her tune it while Jen and I continued our catching up. Then, all the sudden, with the sun pouring in, the entire room just went silent, as if on cue. Nothing summoned our silence; it was just one of those times when all natural conversation seemed to come to a halt naturally. It was one of those times where it might have felt awkward to go from the low, busy rumbles of conversation to total silence. But, the silence was broken as Linda started strumming the notes to āDust in the Windā. Iāll never forget seeing her, with the sun shining on her like a spot light, strum away with automaticity a tune she had played so many times before with benign intention. But this time, not really realizing until the first notes had already been played, she was playing the song of our hearts, thus illuminating our sorrow. I looked over at Jen as she quietly stroked Ronnieās hand and I felt a wave of sadness rise in my throat like an inferno. Linda hadnāt played in years. In what would be our last pardon from heartbreak, she forgot the chords and stopped her playing. The room remained silent.
The next day, Thursday, I could not shake that experience. I felt a heaviness in my heart that clung to me in the same way that the moisture of a thick fog permeates your hair, your clothes, and your skin until you canāt get warm no matter what you do. So, I was not entirely surprised when that night I was asked back to Ronnieās, perhaps this time to bid him his final farewell.
I was home alone with my daughter, Lily, when I got the summons. My husband, Marc, was at a meeting for school and was not going to be home for a couple more hours. Even though I knew his cell phone would be turned off, I desperately tried to call him over and over again, hoping that he would sense a disturbance in the universe and check his phone, just in case, just this once. When my calls went unanswered, I vehemently blasted half a dozen texts off into the universe that would not be read for hours.
I found myself standing in the kitchen, desperately trying to slow my thoughts, control the violent shaking in my hands, and steady my trembling voice. It was a manipulation I was totally ill prepared for as I attempt to convince my small daughter that she was going on an impromptu play date at her friendās house, as if that had been the plan all along. She didnāt buy it, not for one second.Ā Kids are way more perceptive than we give them credit for. She knew something was gravely wrong; she felt my fear and she sensed my sadness. And with something so incredibly terrible on the horizon, why on earth was the person she loved the most leaving her suddenly and without warning?
My sweet child, who does not fare well with change, found herself in a spiral of panic and dread. This was no play date; why was she being dropped off at the neighbors? Didnāt I know it was almost bedtime? Why is Mommy leavingā¦she hasnāt even had her dinner yet? None of this makes sense. With crocodile tears streaming down her face, she begged for me to tell her why I was leaving to see Ronnie with such urgency. Her pleas for me to stay ripped at my already breaking heart. In defeat and fully aware that Lily would see through any dishonest excuse, I tried explaining that Ronnie might be going to Heaven tonight and that his family needed my help because they would be feeling so very sad. It felt like an act of spectacular cruelty. Here is my daughter, crying and devastated, trying to understand how I could leave her in this state to ease someone elseās sadness. Couldnāt I see that she was sad? She asked me how that was fair, for which I had no answer other than telling her that her sadness will dissipate, whereas their pain will never lift from their hearts. That when Ronnie becomes an angel, they will never be able to cry enough tears to feel better again. A few minutes later, with Lily still crying but accepting my need to go, I was on my way to Ronnieās.
When I arrived at Ronnieās, the house was filled with people. Some friends, some family; all walks of life were present. Some people were gathered in the kitchen, some conversing quietly on the couch, others huddled around Ronnieās bed. Above all the chatter was the constant hum of the oxygen machine, interrupted only by the louder and more ominous labored breathing of Ronnie. The death rattle, we were told.
Just like any other visit, I was greeted with hugs and kisses from the family. But, the mood was clearly different tonight. I saw Jenās other mom, Vivian, and went to give her a hug. We embraced longer than usual, thus causing the lump in my throat to release the tears from their ducts, which had so far been imprisoned and not allowed out. Unable to speak louder than a whisper, I confessed to Vivian the heaviness I had felt in my heart all day as if this was somehow the catalyst for the beginning of his end.
In an effort that was as much about comforting me as it was convincing herself that what had been put into motion was going to release Ronnie from his prison, she looked at me with misty eyes and the palms of her hands face up as if to show me something grand and magical,Ā and she said to me in her bravest shaky voice, āThe angels are all around us tonight. That canāt be all bad, now can it?ā I just bit my lip and looked away. I tried not to cry. I remember being so cold that I couldnāt stop shaking.
I found myself standing next to a giant of a man. Enormous and menacing, he was tattooed from head to toe with tribal tattoos. Some tattoos were intricate and beautiful, others were haunting and dark; they illustrated every inch of his visible skin. From his hairless scalp, to his cheeks and chin, his arms, and hands. His name was Octavio and we stood silently beside one another for a long time, our contrasting and divergent features somehow seeming to compliment one another. Fitting that it was another example of how Ronnie had a way of uniting the unlikeliest of people.
I was told that Octavio is part of the Pomo Nation. He still visits the Round House and dances and performs Native American chants across the country. He sang for Ronnie several times throughout the night. I later learned that he was summoning the Spirit of the Bear for Ronnie. His chants and songs were intense, and his voice boomed. I oscillated between feelings of awe and fear. Around 11pm, Octavio performed his last chant over Ronnie, then bent over, kissed Ronnie on the forehead, said, āGoodnight, little brotherā¦sleep wellā and then dropped a thick stack of hundred dollar bills on his chest. Then he turned without saying another word, without looking back, and walked out the door. I havenāt seen him since. Not in the days that followed. Not at Ronnieās memorials. Not since his passing. Apparently, I am told, he had just showed up that day. He said something drew him there.
A couple of times throughout the night, it seemed like Ronnieās time to cross over. Weād all gather around his bed and watch him struggle to breathe; the pauses between breaths extending ten or more seconds. At one point, Jen was lying in bed with Ronnie and I was sitting right next to them at the head of the bed. Ronnie seemed to slip into a deep sleep. His breathing took a longer than normal pause, and when he didnāt do his usual gasp following the pause in breathing, Jen called his name over, and over, and over again. With a hint of anger, not at him, but at the situation, Jen took his face in her panicked hands and turned his face directly to hers and hollered his name with such commanding authority that a roll of thunder would have sounded like a purring kitten. Ronnie took a giant, rattled breath. This is how it would go on for some time.
After a couple of hours, Ronnieās condition remaining delicately stable, people started moving back to the couch, back to the kitchen. Coffee was brewed and people started to converse amongst each other. It was so odd, so surreal. An hour earlier, I was listening to the sobs of parents who were about to watch their child take his last breath. Or, the cries of friends and family who were coming face to face with his imminent demise. And now, Iām finding myself sitting with Jen and family and weāre laughing. I was listening to stories about the time Ronnie and his brother locked the babysitter out of the house and then proceeded to wreak total havoc for hours inside the house, all the while photographing their every misbehavior. Or the times when Jen would take Ronnie shopping at the thrift store and tell him to pick out whatever books he wanted and heād come back with every Danielle Steele novel he could find. He liked the covers, he said. I thought about how he could never remember that those little mandarins are called āCutiesā, calling them āSweet Heartsā instead. We were getting lost in these happy times, and it was a nice reprieve.
Other times throughout the night, I would find myself huddled together on the couch with Vivian or great grandma, Gigi, with our foreheads almost touching as we shared stories of our lives. In some ways realizing shared experiences, while in contrast being totally unable to relate to one another, but always with the sincerest of sympathizing. It felt like we were creating a Venn diagram of our lives, with the overlap about to get larger, like a wound opening up. Because at 1am, all barriers have been broken down. Weāve long ago been stripped of our defenses and whatās left is just a raw and vulnerable honestly and total acceptance. I think when people are about to face something together as horrible as a child dying, there isnāt any room for judgment or caste systems. Everyone is defeated equally.
By about 3am, those who hadnāt left had fallen asleep. Ronnieās dad, Ron, was sitting alone in the kitchen keeping himself busy by responding to messages on his phone. Jen was lying in the hospital bed with Ronnie. I was sitting on the couch between Vivian, great grandma Gigi, and the wiener dog. Jen was afraid to fall asleep for fear of missing Ronnieās last breath. By this time, Ronnie had seemed to fall into a restful and silent slumber. The rattle in his breathing had subsided and he seemed truly comfortable. So, in near darkness, illuminated only by the light of the cartoons from the TV, Jen and I stayed up talking. I donāt know if we had been in this state of waiting and fearing Ronnieās passing for so long that self-preservation took over, but all of the sudden, it felt more like a slumber party than sitting vigil at a death bed. Jen and I had hit it off from the first time we met, and tonight was no different. We talked about all sorts of stuff in those dark hours, just like two girlfriends gabbing at a sleepover, each afraid to fall asleep for fear their bra would be put in a freezer.Ā Seems so strange that four days later I would be sitting quietly beside her while she cried in an all too quiet and empty house. But for the next couple of hours, we admitted our strange quirks, we teased one another about embarrassing experiences, we discussed celebrity relationships. I had been up for over 24 hours at this point, I had yet to eat dinner, and I was still freezing cold. But, Ronnie had exceeded medical expectations yet again. My sweet outlier, Ronnie had made it through the night.
I headed home around 5:30am to get Lily off to school, get an hour or so of sleep, take a shower, and then back over to Ronnieās. Each of the following days before his death, I found myself back at Ronnieās house. Miraculously, he seemed to be holding on. His oxygen levels had gone back up to 92, his pulse back down to 80. He was more lucid.
For the next couple of days, Ronnieās condition remained unchanged. Not better, not worse. I visited for several hours on each of the days that followed. On Sunday, Jen and I decided to wash his hair. It had grown dirty with residue from so many people running their fingers through his hair. So, ever so gently, we washed and blow-dried his hair while he lay in his hospital bed. His golden locks soon to return with shiny luster and silky texture. It had grown so long in the months since he lost his ability to walk and sit upright.
A few weeks before, I had organized a fundraiser for Ronnie and was planning on baking about 1000 cupcakes with my friend on that Monday. After a pretty stable weekend, I was just sure that Iād be able to do so and everything would be okay if I didnāt come for a visit that day. But, on Monday morning, just as I was getting ready to leave, I got the following text from Jen:
His temp is 105. His pulse is 180. He wonāt wake up. He gasps for air every three breaths or so.
The violent and familiar trembling from four nights ago returned with alarming intensity. And just like that, I was out the door and something in me knew this time Iād be returning home a different person than when Iād left. Itās unsettling to know that and go anyway. I prayed for strength so that I might be able to ease the pain of others, I prayed for mercy so that Ronnieās suffering might end, and I prayed for this not to be happeningā¦as if I could have all these prayers answered simultaneously.
When I got to Ronnieās, it was deafeningly quiet. The only noises being emitted came from the whir of the oxygen machine and Ronnieās labored, shallow, intermittent breathing. The crowd of people from four nights ago was gone. Jen had a flat and hollow affect. Ron had his bravest face on. By the time the hospice nurse arrived, it was just Jen, Ron, a friend of Jenās, and myself there with Ronnie. The nurse came in, just as he had so many times before, to confirm news of Ronnieās decline. But, this time there was no refuting what was happening. Ronnieās pulse was 183. His oxygen level was down to 59. His fingers were blue, his face ashen. Just like me a few nights earlier, the nurse could only muster out a whisper when he reported, āProbably just a few hours nowā¦ā We already knew it, but still the worst thing you could hear anyone say about a child.
Jen crawled into bed with Ronnie, kissed him over and over and kept repeating, āAre you going to be mamaās angel now? Itās okay, baby. Iāll be okay.ā And then I saw a single tear fall from her eye and land on the very tip of his nose and I, silently, came undone. Within the next hour, the head of Hospice of Lake County arrived to sit vigil. Jenās mom and wife arrived, as did her brother and Ronnieās aunt. For the next two hours, we watched Ronnie struggle to breathe. I spent most of that time counting the seconds between gasps. Five seconds would stretch to seven, to ten, to thirteen. Just before 1pm, with Jen in bed with Ronnie and Ron standing on Ronnieās other side, stroking his hair, Jen silently removed the oxygen from his nose. By the time she brought her gaze back to Ronnie from placing the tubing behind his head, literally no more than a second or two, she simply said, āHeās gone.ā And he was. Not another gasp or breath was taken once she removed the oxygen, and just like that, his heart had ceased beating. I had just watched this sweet, brave, incredible child die. She may have been telling him it was okay to go, but until she removed the oxygen, he must not have felt he had her permission. The transformation of a body once encapsulated with a spirit to one without is hard to explain, but you could see the life leave his body. One moment it was there, and the next it wasnāt. Itās an image I canāt get out of my head.
The howls that followed from parents who just lost their child were indescribable, but so devastating that they were also totally unmistakable.Ā Itās a cry so mournful and primal and sad that it strikes you to your very core. It permeates everything in you. It echoes in your eyes and your head and your heart and you cannot escape that sound. Itās the sound of a dying animal that will never be granted the mercy of death, swift or slow, but left alone to suffer indefinitely. It is, without a doubt, the worst sound you could imagine. If one were to be damned to hell, I imagine in the deepest and darkest corners, in the coldest and dampest pits, one would be left alone to suffer these howls for all eternity. They are that hard to hear.
I went over to Ronnie after he died, picked up his hand, which was still so warm, and held it to my cheek and cried. I leaned over and kissed his cheek and forehead. I could still smell the shampoo from the day before. Itās the same kind I use on Lily and this connection felt like a white-hot poker being pushed further into my breaking heart. I whispered to Ronnie that I loved him; that he could rest now; assure him that his pain was over. I just stood back, not sure what to do. How do you console the inconsolable? With a loss this profound, what do you do? I still donāt know.
I helped Jen clean Ronnie up. We got him out of his diaper and into real clothes again. We smoothed his hair and straightened his blankets. She crawled silently back into bed with Ronnie and closed her eyes. Knowing this would be the last time she would ever be able to cuddle with Ronnie and feel his warmth, I left her to this sacred time and made the appropriate phone calls, each more difficult than the last. I dried my tears, swallowed my feelings, and tried to console those still reeling from what just transpired. I stood by Ronās side while the hospice nurse confirmed Ronnieās death. I assumed duties for Ronnieās memorial service. I watched with pain and ache as the owner of the local mortuary arrived. All of us hanging on every detail, we listened to what was to come of Ronnie next. I forced myself not to look away when Ronnie was placed on the gurney, still wrapped in the quilt that an aide at my school made him, along with his favorite stuffed frog to comfort him. The maroon canvas body bag was left unzipped just enough to keep his face uncovered. Jen and Ron kissed him one last time, and just like that, I watched his spirit and his body be taken away all in the span of an hour. And I found myself wondering how people survive this kind of loss everyday.
Jen oscillated between the howls and total despondency. She lay in Ronnieās now vacant hospital bed in the fetal position with her back to everyone. She was the carrion that cancer left behind. No one was talking. The TV was off. For months I had heard to sound of the oxygen machine and Ronnieās raspy breathing, and now it was gone. All of it. I donāt know what was worse. The howls or the silence. I couldnāt take it and I couldnāt escape it.
I decided to leave. Jen needed time alone. She was unresponsive in an almost catatonic stateā¦Self preservation, Iām sure. I went over and sat on the side of the bed and told her that, unless she needed anything, I was going to let her have some space and some time. She sat up and gave me a hug, thanked me for being there, and started to cry. Just totally howled in my arms. She was begging for answers, pleading to go with him, raging against a God who would take a child. At one point, she asked me to take her to her boys. She wanted to get them and take them to the school that Ronnie attended so they could all play. It was, after all, the last place Ronnie ever played. They would play and have a good time and remember how happy Ronnie was. When I told her we could do that, but first we needed to tell the boys that Ronnie had passed away, she was soberly returned to reality, too exhausted to fathom how she was going to tell two little boys that their brother had just died. āI canāt. Not nowā, she said, and lay back down after turning on Ronnieās favorite cartoons. I got up and walked out.Ā I said my goodbyes to her family, gave loving embraces, and got in the car to head home.
As I drove home, I thought about how far my friendship has evolved with Jen. I met her as the school psychologist and, clearly, we are beyond that now. When you are asked to be present at the birth of a child, itās quite an honor. New parents are vulnerable and disarmed, but filled with such elation and joy. But, what about being asked to be present at the death of their child? Thatās something that binds people together forever. Itās a shared experience more intimate and private and fragile and raw than any birth. And just like that, I am humbled and honored that they would invite me so closely into their lives. The thought takes my breath away and I have to pull the car over and cry.
A fool myself, I thought the worst part of this was over. But it was just the beginning. The grief that takes a hold of you doesnāt let go. The day after Ronnie died I had to go to work. I had to deliver the news of his passing to three classrooms. I had to sell cupcakes. I had to not fall apart.
Later that day, I went to see Jen and Ron. Their sadness and grief were glowing just as brightly and painfully as the day before and the days still to come. Jen pleads for answers that I donāt have. My sleep is littered with confusing and upsetting dreams. My own sobbing wakes me up. I am profoundly disquieted. I canāt concentrate at work, and feel anger at the people around me who seem to be functioning when I am so clearly not. I am enraged at the people who think I am doing okay because either 1) they think I am actually okay and canāt tell that Iām not, or 2) they think I could get over something so tragic so quickly, even though it is a conscious and deliberate effort on my part to appear okay. Or worse, those who expect me to be better so quickly after a loss of this magnitude. It is all just so completely wrong.
Ronnieās services were last weekend and they were beautiful. Over 400 people attended the public service, and the chapel was filled to the gills for the private service. Wonderful stories and memories were shared, colorful lanterns were released into the sky, and once again the community was united by this sweet and amazing kid. I left the services feeling no sense of closure or relief. When I run, I donāt feel any better afterwards. The only part of my day that I look forward to is when I can go to bed and be alone in the dark. I sit alone in my office for hours unable to produce any kind of real work. I just feel like this goes on and on without end.
Iām writing this all down in the hopes that it will release me from these feelings before they swallow me whole.Ā Iām writing this down because, if it was hard to read, just imagine what it was like to experience, so please have some patience with me. Iām writing his down because itās inexcusable that the kind of cancer has never seen a survival rate over 0%. Iām writing this all down because I canāt focus on anything else. Iām writing this all down because I donāt know what else to do. Iām writing this all down because I miss Ronnie terribly. Iām just writing.
