The old me would shut off whenever I felt like I was about to get too emotional and cry. I would start tuning out whatever was making me sad and stare off into a corner. This was especially true if I was somehow on display - for instance - while in uniform. Today, though, I allowed myself to be fully present. That meant looking at the photos and videos of Michael and listening to the six friends and family members who got up to share their memories about Michael. I learned so much about him. As each person spoke, I thought, "What an awesome guy! We have so much in common. We could have been great friends!" He loved the outdoors. He loved his art. He loved Belmont.
From time to time, I glanced at Mike and saw him wipe a tear or two from his eyes as well. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was. I asked him later and he said he was. I put myself in Michael's place. I imagined the memorial was for me.
Michael died of leukemia - cancer - a blood cancer. I am living with cancer - Hodgkin's - lymphoma - a blood cancer. As they told stories about Michael concerning the cancer, I related. That could be me up there. Suddenly, the memorial became personal and I was overcome with a devastating sense of guilt, shame, and a sharp stab of stark reality.
Michael was a fighter until the very end. He never gave up and tried everything to preserve his life. He kept up his spirit and was a rock and friend to others through the end. He never gave in to cancer until last Thursday when the doctors told them there was no more they could do and that he had two days to two weeks left to live. He gathered his loved ones around him to enjoy fond memories and say goodbye. Two days later, he went home.
Michael went a very long time without having a good day yet he never complained. Here I am enjoying a good week in between every bad week and I complain often. I have become bitter and angry and resentful. Michael was given no hope yet he never gave up hope. I have all the hope there can be for a cancer patient, yet I was acting like a hopeless victim.
Shame on me! I decided I owed it to Michael's memory to finish well since he could not. I owed it to Michael not to let cancer beat me.
I have always been able to feel other's pain. I think that's what makes me such a good writer. I may not (until recently) allow myself to feel or express emotion well, but I can sense it and feel it for and from others. I felt their loss as if it were my own. I heard their deep sobs stemming from the very depths of their souls. You know that sound, that grieving moan coming from somewhere deep inside, the unbearable pain pressing down on the one left behind.
When I found myself staring at a light fixture, I made myself tune back into the moment and gave myself permission to cry, even in public, even in uniform. I made myself hear their sobs. My heart broke and I felt ashamed.
I may not have children, but that does not mean I am not needed or loved. I imagined Mike trying to stand in front of the crowd and share memories of me, possibly that time we were going to teach a RAD class at a church and how he got me laughing so hard I fell out of my seat belt onto the floor of his truck. I don't think he could have done it. If he could, he would probably have to pause like Michael's friend who openly wept in front of us all.
I imagined my mom, dad, and sister sitting in the front row. Michael's mother's sobs, those low moans, became the grief of my own mother. Could my sister get up there and talk about me the way Michael's sister did?
What about all the others? Brad? My in-laws? We may not legally be family anymore, but we all still love each other. What about those I know and who know me at Belmont and at church? Would I be able to fill the theater the way Michael did?
The sounds and faces of those grieving became sounds and faces of people I knew and loved. Stories told became stories told about me. I imagined Bon Jovi songs played. I wondered what pictures they would use for me since I, like Michacel, am usually the one behind the camera and not in front of it.
It became my memorial.
Two things happened. One, it got me to the final stage of grief. I think I have been through all the stages, some more than once. Even though I have talked about death many, many times, I don't think I ever got to acceptance, true, genuine acceptance until today. Looking at those photos, listening to loved ones share memories, I realized how easily it could have been me. Yes, Hodgkin's is highly curable, but it is still a deadly disease. They still give me poison to fight this disease. There is still a 40% chance treatment won't work. If chemo fails and a bone marrow transplant fails, it will be me. Things look more than promising, but the seriousness of this disease still exist. Realizing my own mortality is what led me to start internalizing the memorial.
Two, I felt ashamed. I have gone on and on about how I wish God would take me home. Since I don't have any kids, it wouldn't really matter. People could get on just fine without me. There is nothing I do at work that others could not do. There is nothing I contribute in general that makes that huge a deal.
Personalizing Michael's memorial made me realize how unbelievably wrong and selfish I have been. It's not about what I do. It's about who I am. I am a sister, daughter, niece, aunt, granddaughter, coworker, and friend. How selfish of me to think I didn't really matter and no one would really miss me. How selfish to want to go home and not think or care how my death would hurt others.
I am so sorry, everyone. I weep even now as I type. Please forgive me. I will choose life for Michael and for you. I will beat this and be glad with the second chance God gave me.
We had to leave the memorial early because of a drug violation in progress. As we walked down a busy sidewalk, with cars driving by and people walking by, Mike asked me if I was okay. The old me would have said, "yep!" and just walked on without making eye contact. Instead, I gave in to honesty. I shook my head no and started weeping - in uniform on a busy street for all to see! Once I started, I could not control myself. I shared with Mike these thoughts.
After lunch, we were supposed to go to the gun range. Me and another officer missed our bi-annual re-qualification back in July so we were going to make it up. I told Mike that I no longer felt like going, but also thought it would be good for me! We went and it was nice getting my mind off of the day's events for a bit.
Back at work, I had an interview scheduled. A student wanted to interview me for a class project. He was interviewing several officers about the dynamics that make up our department. He was interested in me because of the article that recently came out.
When he asked me about the cancer, I gave him a brief synopsis, but intentionally made it more upbeat than I would have made it sound had we met before the memorial. I told the student about the memorial and about Michael. "I'm lucky," I said, "Hodgkin's is one of the most curable cancers." My whole attitude about my burden has changed in an instant!
The student also asked if I intended to make a career out of my job at Belmont. I laughed and thought of Michael and what he thought of Belmont - it's a family - my thoughts and words as well.
I told him that I am a Texan "and you know how prideful Texans are!" I said that when I first got diagnosed with cancer, all I could think about was going home once I got over it. A big part of me wants nothing more than to be in Texas with my family. I told him what was said about Michael and how he loved Belmont. I told him how, while at the memorial, I thought about how much I love Belmont and the people here. "Like we talked about earlier, Belmont truly is a family. I want to go home to my family, but then I think, 'how can I leave my family at Belmont?' I always said heaven on earth would be if Belmont were in Texas! As a matter of fact, there is a town called Belmont in Texas!" I stopped and paused. My tone changed from jovial to serious. "I don't know. I just don't know."
Get to know Michael Krouskop:
Photos Michael took for me for security publications:
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