A Note On Dying

So what do you do when your friend is dying?

What feels like a lifetime ago I wrote a little note on what I felt when my friend, my person, my sis, had cancer. So once the hope is gone, what do you do, with your friend who is dying?

I would never admit this at the time, but my first thought, and my always thought since then has been, “I don’t want to live in a world without Katie in it.”

Katie had her first real diagnosis on my 32^nd birthday. Katie was admitted to the hospital, a little over three years later, on her 32^nd birthday. 

Katie died ten days later on a Friday.

When I lived in Springfield, and before cancer, we had a scheduled Friday lunch date. 1pm. A date that has never left my calendar. I calculated it has probably been 176 weeks since our last Friday lunch, but I still have the reminder for every Friday on my phone. When Katie got cancer, we moved our Fridays to Wednesdays for chemo treatments, and then, I moved away. The reminder on my phone stayed. Some Fridays it was a reminder to call or text her. Some Fridays it was just to remember us. It is always there.

After a few years away, thousands of texts, a handful of phone calls, and only a couple of face-to-face visits, I got the call, it was near the end, and Katie wanted to see me.

Her husband had let the world know it was not good. The pictures showed what I felt in my heart Katie would not tell me because she believed with her whole being, she would be healed. I wish with all my life that was true. So much that I would never acknowledge a thought that was not in line with Katie’s truth. I would serve her purpose and her belief. It had kept her alive more years than her doctors believed, there was no way I was not believing in her.

In recent months, the responses to texts were less, the voicemails were not responded to. I remember leaving her a message that I was going to be an aunt again. She knows how much I adore my niece and nephew. I knew she was SO excited. But I never received a response. I felt it then, but my belief in Katie never waivered. Whatever boat she is riding, I’m on.

Then the day happened. Katie was dying. It was the end. And with every being in my heart I needed and wanted so badly to be with her. I am so lucky that her mom (Momma C) sent me the text that Katie wanted to see me. I drove to Springfield the next morning.

I knew Katie wouldn’t look like how I had remembered her. I knew her organs were failing. I knew she was on a lot of medication that made her in and out of lucidness. I knew all I wanted was to be near her.

I remember thinking, “I don’t want to go to Springfield.”, but it wasn’t because I was scared or didn’t want to see her, it was because I didn’t want to ever live in a world where this was happening.

And so I went unsure of what to expect.

Now is the part of the story that I find silly. The same way I felt silly thinking Chemo Katie was something different than regular Katie and now realizing Dying Katie was no different than Living Katie.

If you missed it, our whole relationship is built on laughter. We love each other and we love to make each other laugh. And, dang, did she make me laugh. I went to Springfield that day not knowing how long I would be staying or how it would be, but I had outbursts of laughing all day. Ask me and I will tell you the stories. We have so many stories. Even on our last day together, we made each other laugh.

People have asked “Was it hard to see her like that?”, and while I didn’t want to see her “like that” because I didn’t want “that” to ever be happening, I answer with a resounding “eff no.”  I saw nothing but my Kady. My person. My friend. And if I was afforded to, I would have spent every second of this week with her. I never wanted to leave her side.

So, what do your do when your friend is dying? You be there. You love them. From afar or near. Via text or call that isn’t answered. You try as hard as you can to make them laugh. You love their family. You respect their space. You LOVE your friend. You never stop loving them.

The biggest privilege of my life thus far is getting to take care of my friend, my sister in her last days. I was only able to do small bits, but I was able to serve her. She deserves to be served. 

Near the end of the day, I looked at the clock, over and over and over again, knowing it was nearing the end of me being with Katie. Every glance at the clock made me tear up. I just wanted to snuggle her a bit longer.

I could write a million lines about all in the world who will not be whole without her in it, but for now, I can only think that the day ends. The sun sets. Every colloquialism you can muster. But here we are. In a world I dreaded. A world without Katie. How lucky I am to have you love me.

“I want the world to stop and everybody be quiet. Something terribly important has happened.” - JB

KCKG: An Update on Living, Working, Family and Friends - Living

I have been living in KC for 18 months. I think it's about time for an update, don't you think?

The short version:

• January 2016: Move to KC and begin job at UMKC
• April 2016: Get accepted to Ph.D. program
• July 2016: Freak about about being accepted to Ph.D. program and fly to Aruba
• July 2016: See this incredible opportunity at MCCKC, interview twice, don't get it
• August 2016: Start a Ph.D. program 
• October 2016: Move exactly one block east in my same neighborhood
• May 2016: Leave UMKC, go back to the community college at MCC

The long version:

Living

When I moved to Kansas City, I fell in love with my neighborhood, Columbus Park. Like I LOVE it. It's the old little Italy of Kansas City and now has a huge Vietnamese population. I should be shamed about the amount of pho I have eaten in the past year. My neighborhood is adjacent to River Market so I can walk to City Market every Saturday morning. I can walk to the street car. When I worked at UMKC, I was 10 minutes from work. Now my commute is about 15 minutes longer, but I have learned to love the commute. (Plus my previous walk into work took 8 minutes, so really, it's not that much longer). 

I lived in this adorable, exposed-brick, third-floor apartment with gorgeous views of the sunset and sunrise. The outside was so historic I had a stone lion on the front. It was gorgeous. However, it wasn't really practical for me. There was limited storage. The management was meh. The kitchen was meh. The bedroom was up a spiral staircase, which isn't the best decision for a sleep walker (no, I never fell down those stairs).

Those top right windows were mine. 

On the day I moved into the apartment, ever the retail-hound, I was still looking at Trulia, and another apartment had just been renovated and opened that day. I loved it so much that I told my dad while I was moving and his response was, "Well, we can just quit moving you up here and move you over there." Obviously not a real choice, but secretly, I loved the other place. 

Cue eight months later, I have grown less enchanted by my current apartment and I'm month-to-month on my lease. A unit opens up in the other apartment. I go and look. I can't decide. Of course. After a day of thinking, I text the owner and say I don't know. He says that he is there and showing someone else if I want to pop over. So I walk out my back door, cut through the alley, and walk over in 2 minutes. It's that close. 

And guys. This kitchen. This kitchen kills me. I love it. It's so beautiful. It won me over. The apartment as a whole is smaller, it's ground level, and has street parking, but it has more storage, all updated appliances, two patios... and this kitchen. The pics don't do it justice (I took these when I was looking at it for the second time). And I love it. 

All the cabinets. 

Granite. Subway tile. Stainless. Swoon. 

Yes, my washer/dryer is in my kitchen. But again, ALL the cabinets. 

So, I take it. 15 days later, I move one block away. My pretty subway print I made no longer shows my current address, but it's still a timestamp of my move. 

The prints have found a new home that isn't so shabby.

And with that, I'll split up my next chapters on working, family, and friends in KC. 

A Note On Failing

Again, I begin a blog to say I have been terrible at blogging. It has been 1.5 years since my last blog. That bad. And then, I went and read my old unpublished blogs. I have tons of these that I never publish. Like my private journal. Not only did I not publish this blog once, I went back, wrote a prologue and didn't publish it again.

Now is the time. 2.5 years later in 2017. Looking back, the funny thing about this prologue, that I wrote in 2015 about my thoughts in 2014, was that, at this time, in 2015, my life was getting ready to change. When I wrote this blog in 2014, it was the first time I admitted to myself that I was ready to make a change. I started the mental process. In October 2015, I had just applied for a job in Kansas City that I would end up getting. That was me. I would think about any semi-large decision and think about it for years (it could be as simple as buying a TV... or dresser as documented), but then once the decision was made, I moved fast. Since that time and since my move to KC, I have been less scared of the big decisions. In 16 months since I originally moved to KC I have moved apartments and moved jobs. But more on that soon (I promise not to wait another year). For now... here is my post from 2015 describing my post from 2014.

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October 2015


I wrote this in October 2014. I never published it due to fear of someone realizing they 'had me' and realized I was a sham. Today I reread it and, then realized, it was my exact October from 2015 and it needed to be published. I needed to put this out there. It reminded me of a great quote. "You can't live the same year 75 times and call it a life."
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October, 2014

Failing.

Probably my biggest fear. Failing at accomplishing my goals. Failing at being a good friend. Failing at being a good daughter. Failing at being a good employee. Failing to living up to the expectation. That big 'ol expectation, I have created, of being Kim Greene. I have a million fears of failing.  Honestly, recently I have failed at most of them.

The funny thing about failing is that it didn't look like I expected. It didn't just come all at once like the winter in Missouri. When a 75 and sunny day turns into a freezing winter overnight. It came slow. It didn't take my breath away.

Getting overwhelmed is a process for me. I am convinced I can do all things. I am a problem solver. I pride myself in customer service. I constantly say to my students I teach and who are in my program, if you ever have an issue, contact me, if I don't have an answer, I know someone who does. I will fix the issue. I do not want to burden anyone else because, I know, everyone is as equally overwhelmed. I want to be the one contact for the student. I will not give anyone the runaround. However, I what I think I can handle is much higher than I expect of everyone around me. I can take on more. No problem. It's not factual. It's not even the truth. I just really would rather put myself out than anyone else. Then, the gradual slope becomes slippery, and I hit bottom.

Over the past few months and years, I have told everyone, I was fine. I know everyone says they are 'busy' when asked a question about work. I did too. I knew my load was too much. I knew I was barely keeping my head above, but is my busy anymore than anyone else's workload?

Like I said, it happened slowly. I knew I was slowly drowning, but I didn't want anyone else to see. You know when you trip or slip and don't want anyone to notice? I did that every day. For hundreds of days. Every semester worse than the last.

And this is where my failure became my fault.

I would reach out for help in a meaningless way. I would say I needed help, but still put in the hours to accomplish what needed to be done. No balls dropped. I would constantly be checking my email on my phone, to not miss an email and leave a student or parent in stress. It started slowly with working over every lunch. NBD. I can totally eat at my desk if it means I don't come back after 30 minutes to 35 actionable emails and 8 voicemails (I hate checking voicemail). Then, there were months during registration periods where I would come in for a few hours on Saturdays to catch up. Seriously. No big deal. I kept comparing my life to an accountant during busy season. Then, the last registration period hit. I did not leave my office before 7p and worked at least four hours every Saturday and Sunday for four weeks. But it was 'busy season.' I can do this was my mantra. It will be over on September 15th (again, just like an accountant).

And then, in the fall, my slow season, my to-do list grew longer. Items never getting checked off.

I would spend my days trying to make my life easier. Automate and teach others. Plan and project. Constantly interrupted by day-to-day student issues. Nothing ever finished due to constant interruption. I was sinking. Holding my head above, but slowing sinking.

Today, it happened. I failed. I felt so great about what I accomplished Monday. And yesterday. And last week. I worked so hard. So diligently. I accomplished so many giant tasks on my to-do list. I listened to students. I advised them and, I did what I love to do so much, solve their problems and frustrations. And then I looked down at my checklist, that I had built daily for myself, and noticed items that were past their deadline by two weeks. I solved a student's issue but then asked, 'Can we count him?' like a number.

So how do you feel when everything that you needed to do is left unfinished, but you helped a ton of students?

I looked at the next six weeks of my life and realized there is no way I can do this again. I realized my program had has doubled every year I have been coordinator. The thing about growing 100% for four years, is eventually doubling a number becomes an exponential and you have not multiplied yourself.

Everyday my checklist has grown and my voicemails and emails are getting returned more slowly. I realized today that I will not be able to assist my students with the service I expect from myself. I will create more frustration with my students, counselors, parents, and principals. I have prided myself on having a frustrated student come to me and I solve their problems, and now I realize, I am creating their problems.

That was me today. It hit me. It's my fault.

A Mindful Detour Indeed

Before I left OTC, one of my pals kept asking if it had hit me. That I was leaving OTC. I was leaving Springfield. I was leaving the life I had created in the place I had lived for the past fourteen years. I remember more of my life in Springfield than I do growing up in my hometown.  

He kept asking.

“Has it hit you yet?” – On my last day of work at OTC.

“It still hasn’t hit you yet? You are standing in an empty house.” – On my moving day.

My last day came and went, my first day began at UMKC and I snapped him a picture of my new email signature. The signature looked amost identical to my OTC email signature. Same name, different college. 

And the caption of the pic read, “Still hasn’t hit me.”

And it still hasn’t. I kept thinking I would write this goodbye to Springfield. I thought I wouldn’t just close the chapter, I would write the epilogue on the book that has been such a large portion of my life in Springfield. And days just keep going by, and I don’t feel the sadness I thought I would feel. I haven’t grieved the way I thought I would over leaving that part of my life behind. 

I think I had possibly prepared myself so much for the move that if anything, I was able to breathe. I was able to sleep without the weight of the whole life I created, the whole job I created, the whole stress I created weighing over me. 

And I know I did all of that to myself. In Springfield, it’s easy to be a big fish in a small pond. I entrenched my life so much in that town my handle is 417Kim and now, that identity is gone. It’s just gone like it never existed. And that was a bit hard to swallow. When I walked out of OTC the last night and I realized, the ship will keep sailing and remembered all my coworkers who had left who get replaced and forgotten. I too will be one who is forgotten soon. Everyone is replaceable echoed in my mind. That felt so depressing, I think I just blocked it out. Tonight I read this line and it resonated: 

In order to leave something significant behind, you have to leave.

And I did leave something significant behind. I created and developed programs at OTC and in Springfield that helped so many and will continue to help. I did good, meaningful things. I may never be remembered for that. That is more than okay because I did leave something behind. 

If anything, I feel like I am on a break. 

I feel like I will get in my car and drive back to my house at any point and it will be the same. I know my furniture is in a new place. I know my old house is empty. I know I am driving to a new job. My coworkers are different. I’m learning an entirely new job in a new work culture. As I learned in Thailand, it’s same same, but different. 

And maybe it is just that, a break. I am sure I will put the same pressures on myself in the future. I will take on too much and work myself into exhaustion, because that is just what I always end up doing. But for now, for now I like to be anonymous. I like that no one expects much of me. No one knows to ask me for help.

And I’m sure soon something will happen and it will hit me, but for now, I’m enjoying the detour.

So... Cancer

I have a tradition. Every birthday since I was 19 years old, my best friends from my hometown and I get together for a float trip. This is absolute joy to me. To hang out with my closest friends who know me better than anyone get together to sit on a raft, drink some beers, tell the same stories we always tell about all of our memories we have had since we were pre-k.

This year, I woke up on Saturday, ready for the float. Phone in the car, packing gear for the float, and our ride to our float is late. I go and check my phone and have a text from my old co-worker.

"Call me when you wake up."

I get in my car, make sure I have service, and call my dear friend. The only parts of the conversation I remember are this:

"So, how are you? ... It's your float trip? ... Crap...  I found this bump. I went to the doctor. It's cancer."

The rest of the conversation happened in tears and hope and talking about steps and what was going to happen. And Katie was still worried about me.

Monday happens. Tests and more tests. I'm going to go ahead and say that Monday is my most prized day. My birthday. And it was one of the most stressful and worst days of my life. I'm not saying this to make my beautiful friend feel bad, but that day, will always be engrained in my head as the day the miracle started.

Before I go on, I have to explain this relationship between Katie and I. My Kady.

There is pretty much zero reason we should be friends. We are so incredibly different. At some point, while we worked together at OTC, we came to this realization: We make each other laugh. I remember the exact time Katie said to me, 'I like you because you laugh at my jokes.' And almost immediately, I responded, 'You laugh at my jokes!' Something clicked and there was nothing but unfiltered friendship since that point.

After years and babies and beaches and too many memories to count, Katie moved on to MSU and she put on my calendar a weekly Friday lunch, that we have rarely missed.

So what do you do when one of your most favorite persons tells you she has cancer? Seriously. As a bystander, how do you deal with cancer?

First, I think I went into complete shock. Besides crying on that first call with Katie, I just didn't emote. I didn't know what to do. I had some migraines. I had some shakes. I had a lot of stress. But I didn't freak out.

Then after a few long weeks of not having our weekly lunch, I went to sit at chemo with her. WTF do you expect at chemo? How will she feel? What will it look like? I have dealt with cancer in my family, but I have never done this.

And you know what I found when I got there? My friend. My beautiful, always optimistic, smiling Kady. Just sitting there, with an IV looking just like Katie. Are you kidding me? I immediately felt so stupid for thinking some other version of Katie would be waiting there for me.

After 14 weeks of chemo and having the absolute opportunity to sit by her side for a few hours each week - these are our new lunch dates, Hence, Wednesdays are the new Fridays. And it seriously is the normal lunch date we have had for two years since she left OTC and seven years of friendship (plus some Benadryl induced napping that I may or may not have taken advantage of). Sure, my questions are over labs and results, and then it is over organizational charts (which we love), stupid gossip, BKB and BTB, my niece and nephew, family, stupid stories, and everything we always talk about.

And then you have those absolute superficial moments. The conversation goes like this: You have a beautiful bald head. Look how perfect it is. Just like you. So freaking perfect. ... Dude. You still have your eyebrows. *weeks later* DUDE. You still have your eyebrows! ... You are wearing jeans today! Holy cow!  ... And all of those moments seem normal. Because this is the new normal.

Getting to know the chemo nurses. Getting to know the other women killing cancer in the same room, week after week. And I'm just a bystander.

But there are HUGE moments where I think I failed at being a friend of someone who is dealing with this whole terrible, bad, no good, cancer thing. I think, I literally just texted her about something so small. She has cancer for goodness sakes. We just looked over the OTC org chart to see who was doing whatever. And I feel bad. But then. Then I realize, that is what we always do. That is who we are. Cancer or not. Kady and Kimmers are two ridiculously funny human beings who might only think we are funny but we are really funny. This is what our friendship is based on. A person who will text me the most hilarious thing that makes me laugh out loud, and I have a pretty stupid story to tell her right back that makes her laugh.

She has changed my life. And cancer has changed her life and will forever change our lives, but with change, the constant of our friendship is right there.

And so that. That is what you do when your friend has that big ol' C word. Cancer. You make each other laugh. You send too many emojis. You take really unflattering pictures. And you continue to be friends. Just freaking hilarious friends.

I am so incredibly thankful that years ago the Coulter family took me in and I get to go on this crazy, stupid, unexpected journey with my Kady. I'm so glad we make each other laugh. And most of all, I am so glad she is getting ready to junk punch this cancer into submission. Pow.