Obituary, celebration (viewing), and funeral information

 Time for bed but I wanted to share a little information:

LeeR's Obituary can be viewed by clicking here: Obituary

Tomorrow, well, actually today, I guess, we will be having a celebration of LeeR's life at our home in Midway from 6-8 p.m. Bring a sweater. Hopefully you won't need an umbrella. If you would like to bring a finger food to share, please do. If you need directions to our home or our address, please email us at LeeR.Lambert@gmail.com.

Thursday at 11:00 we will hold funeral services for LeeR in the Midway Stake Center (165 N. Center Street, Midway, UT 84049). A viewing will be held one hour prior to the service. ALERT: you may want to carpool and plan on arriving 15-20 minutes early because preparations for Swiss Days will be in full swing and parking may be a problem. Our stake president, bishop, and leaders are taking lots of precautions to make sure there is room to park and that we will not be disturbed during our service, but we are all concerned. One of those precautions is asking us to notify our friends and family of this concern and asking them to carpool and arrive early. Done.

Our family is looking forward to seeing many of you tomorrow, oh, yeah, actually today (Wednesday) or Thursday. We love you and cherish our relationships. Thank you for your support and your sweet comments on this blog. We are so blessed to have you in our lives. Much love! (and keep smiling...)

I miss him so much!

Forever sweethearts

My sweetheart went home yesterday surrounded by loved ones on both sides of the veil. Sadness and joyfulness at the same time. Oh how we miss him. I'll write more later but wanted our blog friends to know. We will have a celebration of his life on Wednesday at our home from 6:00-8:00 and the viewing and funeral will be Thursday at the Midway Stake Center at 10:00 and 11:00, respectively. Thank you all for your support, prayers, and love.We are truly blessed.

What A Glorious Day!

We went to the temple today. It was glorious.

A week or so ago when one of our daughters said that after a seven-year hiatus she was hoping to return to the temple again soon, LeeR said, "even if you have to pull me in a wagon with broken legs and broken arms hanging out over the edges, I'll be there." His arms and legs weren't broken but are pretty much immovable and we didn't need to use a wagon but instead rigged up his lounge chair in the back of another daughter's van, but, as promised, he was there. Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles.

The three of us were joined at the temple by all of LeeR's siblings, a daughter and son-in-law,  two sisters-in-law,  nieces and a great niece, and an amazing visiting teacher. And we were greeted at the door of the temple by the temple president, who wanted to shake LeeR's hand and welcome him to the temple. Did I say the entire experience was glorious? LeeR was able to go through the session, thanks to wonderful accommodations made by the temple presidency and workers. Then we reunited in the Celestial room--a glorious reunion. I'm sure it pales to the glorious reunion that will take place for us in a few years and the glorious reunion LeeR will have with loved ones soon, but glorious it was, nevertheless.

Here we are with LeeR's three brothers, sister, and sister-in-law after the temple and in the car ready to return home:

I haven't updated the blog for a week, I guess. Time is just kind of standing still for me. I really didn't realize it had been that long. So here is a little capsule of the past week:

• We are now on hospice
• The hospice doctor and nurse feel that we probably only have a week or two left
• LeeR's pain is under control, thankfully
• His body appears to be shutting down: kidneys, loss of appetite, periods of confusion, fluid in his lungs, inability to focus or even open his eyes sometimes, very deep breathing, muscle contractions, vomiting, and, of course, extreme and debilitating fatigue
• He hasn't mentioned playing his alphorn at Swiss Days for a few days
• He went to the temple! 
• He still smiles and makes jokes and thanks us and tells us how much he loves us--LOTS!
• He is loved more than we can express, but we do try--LOTS AND LOTS!
 

The prognosis

As we arrived home from the doctor's today, LeeR's brother Gordon met us in the driveway to help us into the house. When he asked how the visit with the doctor went, LeeR said, "Well the prognosis is that I have 0 to 50 years left to live." Yup. It's true.

I guess the shadow of good news is that every problem that the doctor is treating has gotten better, except for the overwhelming, debilitating fatigue and weakness, and, of course, the cancer.  Other good news is that the nodules in LeeR's lungs have remained about the same, showing that the chemo was not all in vain. Other good news is that the red blood levels are not plummeting like they were a few weeks ago. They are low still and going down, but at a much slower rate than before. And the platelets and white blood cells are all in a normal range.

The bad news is that since everything looks good and is responding to treatment, the only cause of the fatigue and weakness is the cancer.  And that appears unstoppable. Thankfully, it has slowed down from the original path but seems to have picked up speed the past few days as LeeR's weakness has increased noticeably.

It looks like we have had our last visit to the doctor. He was so compassionate and understanding and is hopeful that LeeR will be playing at Swiss Days--he may even try to come that morning. He gave us both hugs and told us to go home and enjoy the time we have left.

We'll stay on home healthcare for a while longer so that LeeR can have his blood tested each week and have another transfusion next week to help him through his alphorn performance. After that, we'll rely on hospice for comfort. I gained such an appreciation for hospice services when I volunteered for them a few years ago. The slogan of the hospice company I worked for was, "We come into this world surrounded by love; we believe we should leave the same way." I believe that, too, and fully intend to surround my sweetheart with love every minute of every day we have together.

So if you wonder how the day went and how the night is going, please read the end of yesterday's SOS post. That's how it was, how it is, and how the night will most likely be. Love to all!

Saying goodbye, why is it sad? Makes us remember the good times we've had.

We've had a wonderful few days filled with old friends--some really old old friends.  Hehe.  Love you all, old friends.

On Thursday we were able to have brunch with LeeR's friends from high school--over 50 years now of dinner groups sharing each others journey and all that entails. We were with them the night we got engaged and they have welcomed me into their circle of 12 or so wonderful people. We were reminiscing about how our dinner topics used to be centered around who was pregnant, how to toilet train, and the challenges of young parents. Then we went through the teenage years. Whew. We celebrated when the oldest of the group turned 50 (that seemed really old then). And now here we are saying goodbye to the second of our group to graduate from this life. Seems like goodbye's such a hard thing to say.

Saturday night our old friend from LSU and his sweet wife dropped by on their way home from Washington. We haven't seen Al for 42 years, but it's like we're young struggling students again wondering what the future holds for us now. It was wonderful to see them and again reminisce about the "good ol' days." Such fun to reconnect with Al and his beautiful wife. Touching a hand, wondering why, it's time for saying goodbye.

Today "half" of my best friend from childhood and her wonderful husband came by for a visit. She and her twin (whom my five-year-old mind seemed to consider one person) and I were inseparable. As Rosemary said today, "we were sisters--triplets, really." That's how it felt. My little sister was part of the group a lot of the time, too. We had so much fun growing up together. And I'll be eternally indebted to them and their family for taking us to church and helping me understand the promise of eternal families. I believe they were the single-most (double-most?) influences on the choices I made as a teenager and, consequently, on my life. I love them so. Much more to say, foolish to try--it's time for saying goodbye.

The muppets said it best:

Saying goodbye, going away
Seems like goodbye's such a hard thing to say
Touching a hand, wondering why
It's time for saying goodbye

Saying goodbye, why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we've had
Much more to say, foolish to try
It's time for saying goodbye

We've been blessed to walk through life amidst these giants. Thanks to old friends who came from near and far for putting their lives on hold for a few hours and dropping by to remember the good times, lighten our load, share our burden, have a few laughs, shed some tears, and say goodbye. We love you all!

• • • ⎯ ⎯ ⎯ • • •

Yesterday LeeR was practicing his flugelhorn in bed in order to get his "chops in shape" for Swiss Days in a few weeks.  (Although he'll be playing the alphorn then, the flugelhorn is a bit easier to play right now since it requires less wind and the mouthpiece is almost the same). When he practices any of his horns, he usually is doing exercises--long notes, short notes, scales, attacks, intervals, crescendos, decrescendos, etc. Once in a while we are privileged to hear a beautiful melody, but definitely not often enough. Usually it's exercises that fill the air. So for forty-five years I have kind of tuned out to these diverse notes and blasts of sound. This was the case yesterday. But when I went in the room to check on him, his face lit up as he said, "Oh, you heard my SOS?" Uh, sure. Guess I better stop tuning out.

In other news, LeeR wakes up every day celebrating the fact he has another day to live. I do, too. Every moment is a gift it seems. He also inevitably says, "I feel better today! I'm getting better." It's only after we try to get him out of bed to shower or join us for breakfast that he discouragingly says, "I wasn't this weak yesterday." And it's true--every day is a new level of weakness.


Yesterday LeeR fell while we were going to the shower. So scary! We have this system devised where we use his 4-wheeled walker to get near the shower--sometimes I push him as he rides on it and sometimes he walks with it. Then we switch to the two-wheeled walker to manipulate into the shower and on to the shower seat. Well, yesterday was no different. He was feeling strong at the moment and wanted to walk. I was right behind him with my hand on his arm to help him balance. Then he decided he wanted to weigh (oh, vanity!). So I stupidly let go of his arm and turned away a little to bend down, get the scale, and put it on the floor in front of him. At the same time, he stupidly decided to take off his shirts (vanity, again--we wouldn't want to weigh a few ounces more because of a t-shirt and underwear!). So while I was turned away retrieving the scale, he let go of the walker and raised both hands over his head to pull his shirt off. Not a good idea. He ended up falling into the bathtub and landing on his back with his legs up on the side of the tub. Thankfully, nothing was broken and the fall seemed to be as gentle as it possibly could have been.

I called neighbors to see if someone could come help me lift him out and was able to reach our sweet neighbor York who was starting his morning getting Timp Freeze ready for the day. He ran right over and we were able to get LeeR out of the tub and back onto his walker to ride back to bed, where he spent the rest of the day. Lessons learned.  I'm sure we'll do other stupid things but letting go of him and/or him letting go of the walker won't be on the list again.

Tomorrow is our doctors' day. We will have an x-ray of LeeR's lungs to see what the nodules are up to at this point. Then we will see the oncologist. At our visit 2 1/2 weeks ago the doctor said that, although it was highly unlikely and not something that he thinks will happen, if the nodules have finally responded to the chemo and have shrunk in size and number, and if LeeR is stronger than he was at that appointment, which hasn't happened, then he might consider chemotherapy again. But he also posed the question, "If having another round of chemo were to give you another month, but you were sick 2-3 weeks of those 4 weeks, would you really want to go through it?" Definitely not. No, thank you anyway. Thanks but no thanks.

So tomorrow is a big day. I'm preparing myself to accept the fact that, at least if things are as they appear to me, we will "graduate" to hospice care. We'll come home together and cry for awhile together then LeeR will practice or sleep while I fix dinner and we'll pretend that life is normal. I know we'll continue to feel the peace we have been blessed with throughout this journey. We'll continue to feel the love of our friends and family. We'll continue to be administered to by angels. We'll be grateful for the wonderful "ride" we have had (as LeeR reminds us almost every day).  We'll gird up our loins and fresh courage take, knowing the Lord is in charge and will never forsake us. We'll cry (yet again) as we say our prayers together and go to sleep in each others arms. We'll probably wake up in the night and cry (yet again), but then we'll sleep, wake up in the morning, and be grateful for the gift of another day. Yet again.

Roller coasters

I've really never liked roller coasters. From my first ride on the Lagoon roller coaster when I was just tall enough to reach, I really didn't find them amusing. Roller coasters really are well-engineered designs in emotions, fear, anticipation...I don't know--everything, really. (First you pay for the "thrill," then you get on and buckle up, then it starts slowly...click, click, click..picks up a little...clickity, clickity, clickity...then slows down while you climb to the top so you can anticipate the horror that is coming...swoosh!...and then that part is over...but is it really?...just when you start to enjoy it a little...click, click, clickity, clickity, swoosh... then, thankfully, it stops just when you feel you can't take this anymore.) How is this fun? Honestly, I just don't like them. Never have. Never will.

When Kendra was four and finally tall enough to stretch herself up to the you-have-to-be-this-tall line, she could not wait to ride the roller coaster at King's Dominion. I explained that I needed to stay with the baby and could not possibly accompany her on the ride. (Mothers do fib). But her older and much-loved and trusted sister came forward and told her she would take her. She would keep her safe. She would hold on to her. She would whisper in her ear and soothe her. She would stay by her side, even (or especially) when it was scary.

So after some motherly coaching and an explanation of the hills and valleys and, more importantly, the need to stay calm because it really would come to an end and she would be just fine with her sister by her side, and I would watch the whole time and be there at the finish, I watched an excited little girl climb the stairs to her journey. Oh, what joy on that little face. And tears on mine.

I positioned myself to see her as she came over the crest of the first and biggest hill. Oh, what sheer terror on that little face. Or at least, as much as I could see of that little face--her mouth was open so wide (picture The Scream magnified) I could barely see her bulging eyes. But her big sister was there, just like she said she would be. She was whispering in her ear and pointing at the path they were going to now take.

I missed most of the other parts of the ride since I couldn't run fast enough to catch more than a glimpse here and there. But I'll never forget her little triumphant face as, once released from the beast and unaware of her proud sister standing in the background, she ran toward me with her arms outstretched and her face radiant. When she came in for a big hug and lots of "I'm so proud of you, brave one," she said, "I DID IT! I DID IT! AND I ONLY CRIED A LITTLE."

I really do dislike roller coasters. I want to go slow in life--enjoy the scenery. I want little surprises, not big twists and turns and drops that literally take your breath away--and not because they are beautiful and breathtaking.

Right now my life feels like this:

 

Somewhere on that roller coaster is a little girl silently screaming her lungs out, crying more than a little, and holding on to everyone and everything for dear life, especially the One who promised to protect her and stay by her side.  

Life is like a roller coaster, so is cancer. So is loving and longing. Big turns. Loops. Rushing forward. Slowing down. No chance to catch your breath and there you go again taking a turn you didn't want to take. Will it stop? I guess eventually. 

And what will I have learned along the way? These things and more: The Lord knows. He really KNOWS. We are loved. Families are forever. Marriage and love are eternal. Children are God's greatest gifts. Friends and family are cheering us on throughout the entire ride. Angels exist on both sides of our experience. And these angels love us. And these angels cheer for us, hold us, whisper in our ear. And these angels wrap us in blankets of peace and calm our souls. And these angels never let go.

I feel in my heart that the ride with my sweetheart on this earth is almost over. This ride really is not amusing or fun right now. It's not the least bit exhilarating. But, even with the bumps, loops, turns, terror, screams, and tears, I really don't want it to end. Not now. Not ever.

I hate seeing my sweetheart in pain. I hate seeing my beautiful family and our cherished friends in pain. I hate watching him struggle to move the smallest part of his body even a little bit. I hate listening to him breathe and hoping another breath will come.  I hate hearing the home healthcare nurse tell him he needs to say the things he wants to say because soon he probably won't be able to say them.

I don't like this ride one bit, but, oh, how I do love him. He's promised he'll stay near me. I know there will be times when I wonder if he is there, and other times, hopefully often, when I'm absolutely sure he is. We've relied on each other for 45+ years (can't we take that cruise for our 50th, please?). I know we'll go on loving and relying on each other as we always have. But forever. I know I will someday run back into his arms and triumphantly tell him what now seems impossible, "I did it! I did it! And I only cried...well, a lot."

Taking Care of Dad

Guest post by Kourtney

I am not the primary caretaker of Dad. Or even the secondary caretaker. I don't know just how he likes his pillows situated or what foods he might be craving like Mom does. I don't know all his medications by heart like Kami does. That said, I have learned a few basics: how to move his legs to the edge of the bed, but let him sit himself up; how to set his walker close enough that he can grab onto it but not so close that he doesn't have space to slowly drag his legs over inch by inch; how to spot--but not fully support--him as he falls into his reclining patio chair; also to remind him to eat and drink, empty his urinals, and turn the TV to the right setting to watch either the 1992 movie Last of the Mohicans for the upteenth time (TV goes to HDMI2, Apple TV goes on, and then it's first in the Netflix queue) or watch an old Sci-Fi or other comforting, familiar movie on DVD.  I also have taken on the task of trimming his mohawk to just the right thickness and length, gently moving his head around as needed to get the right shape as well as to razor the non-mohawk parts.  I am learning to hold his hand whenever possible, to look into his eyes (even when it makes both of us cry), to kneel by his bedside at night and wait for family prayer, and to just periodically check on him even when he doesn't call or ring his bell.

During the more mundane tasks, I sometimes feel like a hospital nurse, walking in while rubbing sanitizer into my hands, asking him how he's doing, attending to emptying or filling bottles as necessary while we chat. But most often I feel like his daughter, wanting to help but most of all just wanting to be with him. He asks and of course I will lie next to him and watch Last of the Mohicans. In my mind, I find and analyze all the inaccuracies, biases, and just plain silliness of the movie (the main 'Mohican' is actually an adopted white guy?!), but then I look over at him and my heart fills with the same sympathy and respect that he feels for the father of the dying tribe, who will stop at nothing to protect and defend his children, and I can't help but squeeze his hand and wipe my tears.

As I look at Dad, I feel honored to be part of his tribe, to be able to care for him, even as I care for my small children. I certainly did not imagine that I would be attending to a fatally ill parent between sessions of nursing my baby, but this is what life has given us and we deal with it. We face it and we "keep on keeping on," as dad has always said. I hope to spend many more hours with my dad, taking care of him but also just hanging out with him. I don't mind at all when he pauses the movie to give me a fifteen-minute explanation about the history of cannons and other firearms in warfare, or just to give a recap of the last twenty minutes of the movie (that I just watched with him). He is talking, and I love that. I don't want him to die, but that seems irrelevant at this point. So I cling to what I can and try my best to move forward.

I long imagined that I would someday care for him in a similar way to how he cared for me, but I never considered that mohawk trimming would be part of the job description. And it is such moments--the unexpected moments of peace and happiness during an unexpected period of such tragedy--that stand out. Even though we are all shattered to have to go through this, it's hard not to smile when you see him now. His body reveals the tragic tale of a battle with cancer and chemotherapy, but his smile and mohawk reveal the uplifting tale of a life well lived. As it turns out, I am happy to be part of both tales.

Tidbits

 Not much to report. LeeR seems great one moment and then the next is tired beyond words and often in a lot of pain. The roller coaster ride continues.

So I thought I'd just take a minute to reflect on this-and-that moments in time during this ordeal. In no particular order, here are a few things that come to mind:

 

LeeR woke up the other morning and, as usual, said, "Well, I made it to another day." But then he also commented on how he slept pretty well even without morphine. I sheepishly admitted that I did slip him a morphine, because I desperately needed some sleep. He laughed and said, "Sweetheart, you can give me anything you want to."

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A quote sent from a dear high school friend:  Do not fear what may happen tomorrow. The same loving Father who cares for you today will care for you tomorrow and everyday. Either he will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings. St. Francis de Sales

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LeeR has a bell in his room to ring vigorously if he needs help and we don't hear him call. Everytime it rings our 2-year-old granddaughter stops what she is doing and runs full-speed-ahead to his room, yelling loudly, "I'm coming, Grandpa, I'm coming." She then sanitizes her hands, runs in the room, and says, "Do you need me to help you, Grandpa?" Of course, he always does.

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Oldest daughter:  "Poor Dad has to watch us break down and cry all the time."

LeeR:  "Poor Dad?  No, poor you guys.  All I do is sit here and get waited on hand and foot and treated like a king.  I don't have to lift a finger and have all these wonderful people loving and helping me."
 

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At our plan of salvation family home evening, I demonstrated the spirit leaving the body by using the hand-in-glove example from Elder Packer. So to reinforce, I said, "What part of us goes on after our body dies?" One of our little 6-year-old grandsons vigorously raised his hand and answered with complete confidence, "Our loving heart!" Intended point missed but a more important point definitely made.

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From LeeR's older brother, referring in part to the time when LeeR was running through smoldering leaves and his jeans caught on fire. He was four and his legs were severely burned. "I'm brokenhearted that you are called upon once more to go through undeserved suffering. I wish I could do it for you. It's my turn you know. It's amazing that after almost 70 years you are heading back into the fire. I keep thinking about our conversations in St. George. The next decade, I'm afraid will bring the rest of us face to face with some of these same problems. Who better to show us how it's done than the one who has been there before...my gutsy little brother." 

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One night when all the children and grandchildren were at the house we were gathered around LeeR's bed for family prayer. One daughter was in the bathroom so we called her to come join us. She said, "I'm coming." In perfect unison and unscripted, everyone in the bedroom responded as they quoted their Dad, who for their entire lifetimes has responded to "I'm coming" with: "We don't want you coming, we want you here!"

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Maybe a little too dismal, but typically LeeR. While driving down the canyon soon after receiving a difficult prognosis:

Me: maybe I should just drive off this cliff so we can die together.

LeeR: Nope. It probably wouldn't work. Keep driving. 

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Two of our little 6-year-old boy cousins after having a bit of a tiff over something. One to the other: "But, we're still cousins, right?" The other: "Yup, we're still cousins." (Followed by a hug and then walking away with their arms around each other)
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A text from LeeR's oldest brother who was not able to post on the blog from his phone: "we send our thanks and love this way (instead of on the blog). Watching and listening, even from afar, is a life changing experience for us. As we meet our children and grandchildren on the outer banks of NC tonight, we see them and our world through different eyes. Your experiences have given us a truer perspective of the things that really matter in life. Our hearts are heavy, but they beat much closer to yours."

 

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 From one of my dear childhood friends: "I truly believe in prayer and know that you can literally "feel" the prayers of others.  I also can feel your testimonies padding the blow this gives your lives.  There is that underlying peace from both you and LeeR.  This is what we have been filling our lamps for, is it not?" Yes, yes it is.
 

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AMEN to one and all. Thank you all for the smiles, the tears, the reminders, and, most of all, the love and prayers. Xoxoxo f & e & e(for non-Lamberts that means hugs, kisses, and lots of love forever and ever and ever)