A bid farewell

Dear readers,

It took some deep thinking while moving cows to decide how to write this issue’s column. I settled on this format because, in many ways, you have been part of the chaos of my world over the past five years. You willingly continue to read the words I send to be printed when all the feelings are coming to the surface and need to get out of my head. Thank you for that. Thank you for the cards, the prayers, the well wishes. Now, I have some things I need to tell you, because I have been advised that sometimes, writing about the pain helps me process — so I write and write and write. 

My husband is dying.

There is actually no other way to put that, and since I prefer when people are honest and blunt, I choose to write that way today. He is not dying in the figurative sense that we are all getting one step closer to the pearly gates every day we walk this earth. He is dying in the most literal sense of the word. His body has had enough of fighting the cancerous beast and is raising the white flag in surrender. We were told he had “months” not much more than two months ago, and we explained to anyone we told that “quality over quantity” was a priority. The beast that was kept caged and fairly calm with the chemo medications has taken full advantage of the gatekeeper leaving and has been ravaging his body. Now, comfort is our priority. Comfort. Sleep. Love.

When you go through something like this, the last scan to see what is happening, followed by the doctor sitting you down on those slippery chairs in a room that smells like alcohol pads, the doctor opens by asking, “Do you have a good support system? Because you are going to need it.” 

“Yes, the best,” I said.

We already were suspicious of the outcome of the scan. He hadn’t started feeling better after stopping chemo. That was a sign that the cancer was growing too fast.

So, yes, we have an amazing support system. Incredible. Unwavering. Perceptive. I could think of many more words, but talking about that makes me cry, and it isn’t easy to type through tears. I think perhaps the kids and I are being kept upright by others’ love and thoughts. I do not, as of yet, have that debilitating feeling and fear of aloneness. Am I ignorant to think it will not find me? No. I am realistic. I am sure I will experience that, along with so many more terrifying emotions. But I — we — have people that will help us out in about any way conceivable. This thought buoys me, I suppose, keeps me afloat on these rocky waters we call our life. I joke that I know exactly who to call to wrangle children, chase cows, feed the pig — and whose food my kids will eat. It is said in jest, with more than a dose of truth to it.

I suppose I could go all gloom and doom on you about now and get a free pass; spout on about how this is unfair and all that. However, I prefer not to spend my energy that way. Life is not fair, as they say. Bad stuff happens to good people everywhere, all the time. I try to keep the door closed on those thoughts in my head, with a really mean bouncer guarding it, because they do me no good — nor anyone around me.

There have been tears, and there will be more. Some of them are born of laughter that helps them bubble at last to the surface, as if my wires of emotions are crossed. I am supposed to be laughing; yet the giggles and the tears are coming out all jumbled up together. There will be hugs. Those loving hugs that, by force, will me, the kids, all of us to hold onto the strength they try to share in that moment. There will be hushed voices, whispers and vows between couples to live life to the fullest, to do more together, to see more together. Yet, I challenge you to just live. My husband refers to himself as a “simple guy,” finding utter joy in pulling his tractor during the summer, taking his boys hunting or hanging out at home on a Sunday building an impromptu bow shooting competition for the kids. He would tell you that he had no big bucket list requirements. He simply wanted to spend time with his family. Which, even though the past few months haven’t been all that grand, he has spent the past five years since his diagnosis doing.

You see, the twisted, wrapped-up-underneath-layers-of-burning-nettles-blackberry-briars-and-brown-obnoxious-burdocks–gift of his cancer, is time. I have time to be prepared — as prepared as I can be, anyhow — time to plan, time to ask, time to ponder and, at the end, it is a harsh death, but less so than a horrific accident. We have been very forthright with the kids about what is coming, hoping to not “scar them for life” but to “grow better, more compassionate humans.” There are many questions, frequent “I can’t sleep” whines and there is laughter when they listen to friends tell stories of their beloved “Pa” and the wild antics he and the Cabin Boys pulled off in their teenage years.

You may see me smile, or laugh, and wonder why I am not crying. Look closer — the smile rarely reaches my eyes, and the laugh can bring me to tears. This is real. This is life. I am lucky enough to have gotten to share the past 20 years of it with a man who encourages my crazy ideas, supports my dreams, chose me to make some babies with and then became a pretty great Pa. But, above all, he is just a simple guy who happens to be an amazing human.

So, dear readers, I am going to take a bit of a hiatus from writing. I hope to return, but at the moment, my brain is less on cows and more on comfort.

Thank you for understanding, thank you for your kindness.

Jacqui Davison and her family milk 800 cows and farm 1,200 acres in northeastern Vernon County, Wisconsin. Her children, Ira, Dane, Henry and Cora, help on the farm while her husband, Keith, works on a grain farm. If she’s not in the barn, she’s probably in the kitchen, trailing after little ones or sharing her passion of reading with someone. Her life is best described as organized chaos, and if it wasn’t, she’d be bored.