Olivia's Thoughts at the Funeral

I first remember Shannon as the intimidating, opinionated, oldest sister of the man I wanted to marry. It didn’t take long until I was filled with admiration for her sheer force of will. Shannon was like a tornado when she got an idea into her head.

Last November, I remember going to the doctor with Shannon when the concerning esophageal mass that was causing her swallowing difficulties was first discovered.

Ironically, he and I both assured her that her chances of having cancer were next to nothing.

We all know what happened in the ensuing months. Shannon—not one to be intimidated by limited chances—faced her treatments with an iron resolve.

Only the people closest to her know intimately about the battles Shannon had to face this past year--battles that are so hard to talk about--like chemo, surgery, radiation, vomiting, and depression.

The last few months were the hardest, I think. It was like watching a wild and beautiful animal get penned into a shrinking cage. We had invested so much hope into fighting cancer, and hadn’t thought about what would happen when the fight was done. Shannon had outsmarted death, but needed to learn how to live again. Our fierce and determined older sister struggled with the simplest of decisions. The God she knew so well was silent. She had even lost the desire to return to her beloved Russia.

As we watched her life ebb quickly away a few days ago, we joked that Shannon would have gotten a kick out of stumping the world’s best Neurologists with her case. But I had to wonder…

Snatched away from Russia, did Shannon die like a Siberian husky would die if taken away from the snow and ice? Like a wild and untamable animal thrust into the zoo?

Matthew tells me of his pet songbird that he left at home for three months when he backpacked through Kazakhstan with Shannon. Unable to tolerate its master’s absence, the bird died.

Over the past few months, was Shannon unable to tolerate the silence of the God that she had communed so deeply with in previous years?

Did she know, and was she afraid to tell the rest of us?

We have so many questions, but I am reminded today of the beauty of an untamed and free life. I am reminded of the privilege of belonging to a family. I am blessed by the memories of a sister, aunt, and friend. Thank you, Shannon, for the gifts you gave us with your life and now, your death.

Links

here is a consolidated list of links for Shannon

obituary and guestbook

slideshow of pictures in Russia

video prepared by Shannon's team

blog post by Leif & Jami

My Only Words

On our boat from Vladivostok to South Korea, summer 2000

Dear Shannon-

How I miss you! I keep seeing your face in the intensive care – your lips dry and puffed up by the hideous ventilator. Your head sagging to the side because you were so sedated. Your stiff, short hair and all the needles in your skin. I wish I could have picked you up and carried you off and away to some summit in the mountains, or some grand adventurous place, the kind of place that I know would make you feel alive again. I would have laid you on a mountain peak and we would have been sunburned in happiness together.

I comb the mountainsides of my mind
Looking for remembrances of you
I hunt avidly for your memory
So to piece together
Some semblance of you

We sure had some grand adventures together – we sure did. I didn’t realize at the time all the wonderful gifts you were giving me. I’ll miss those times – stomping around those Russian train stations, trying to figure out where and how to go next – getting on an old boat bound for South Korea, not realizing that it was going to pick up 100’s of cars along the way.

Climbing mountains was the best part – they made you so happy. When we got lost and couldn’t figure out the silly maps we had, you couldn’t have been happier. There was no thrill for you like the thrill of challenge and adventure – the thrill of a mountain peak to climb, or a waterfall to find.

We got lost plenty – looking around for the trail and taking wrong turns – but we always seemed to find our way – we always got to where we were going eventually.

Now, this time, I can’t go with you. Before I could even think, you’ve slipped around the corner – so quickly you’ve vanished. There must be a waterfall around the bend that I can’t see yet – to me it just looks like a dead end.

I want to go with you, just like I always did, but I can’t. For now this waterfall is just for you to enjoy. You must be basking in your pleasure – you’ve reached the ultimate summit and the most beautiful waterfall of all. And you’ll feel God’s presence again just as much as you ever longed to feel as you climb around on the rocks and drink up the wildness of it all.

It’s just not the same, hiking without you. But I’ll keep trying to find the way – just like you always taught me. I’ll keep trying to find that waterfall too. And I’ll just keep thinking of you out on some grand adventure – looking back every so often, just to see when we’ll catch up.

Our Broken Beautiful Shell

Dear Friends:

Just wanted to inform you of the incredible whirlwind of activity that we have been caught up in that last 36 hours. Unfortunately, my dear sister Shannon has slipped away from us in an altogether sudden and unexpected way.

She was diagnosed with esophageal cancer approximately 10 months ago and bravely pushed through her first round of treatment and surgery with flying colors. Her cancer was eradicated and her prognosis was good, especially for someone with her relative young age of 37. Post surgery and during her second round of treatment, her personality seemed to shift and her mighty spirit seemed to flag. She gradually became more melancholy, anxious and at times unable to make simple decisions. It seemed she was just really worn down. However, she made it through all her treatments, began a complex eating schedule with her new patched esophagus, began building her strength with short daily walks, and was on the road to recovery. Her blood counts and other tests revealed normal levels.

Last Saturday, approximately two months after her last treatment, my mother became concerned by Shannon’s lethargy, fever and trouble with memory loss in the afternoon. Shannon was taken to the local ER and admitted. She was also coughing up some blood. A GI assessment was planned for Monday but as the family was about to leave on Sunday night, Shannon had a seizure and was intubated. This prompted her helicopter ride up to Cleveland Clinic where she was admitted for a battery of tests. On Monday morning they lost Shannon’s pulse for about five minutes but were able to resuscitate her.

Olivia and I received word of Shannon’s “turn for the worse” on Monday morning. I was in the middle of a 17 mile run so I ran obliviously for over two hours while Olivia made frantic arrangements for a possible emergency trip out to Ohio. When I arrived home I called my Dad and we made made the decision to pack up the family and head out.

We arrived at Cleveland Clinic around 7:00 where family and some friends had congregated. It appeared that Shannon had some faint response in the morning on Monday, and was able to wiggle her toes in response to visitors. However, this response as well has her basic neurological function appeared to continue a rapid decline over the course of the day. She was never to regain consciousness after her after her initial seizure on Sunday night.

The doctors were scrambling for information but it was clear that the inter-cranial pressure in Shannon’s head was climbing to dangerous heights and was difficult to control. She also continued to experience periodic seizures, fever and swelling despite sedation and strong medication. Theories included some type of aggressive infection such as meningitis as well some type of trauma to the brain. Neither were ever confirmed although there was evidence of a “fatty embolism” or large blood clot in the brain. The origin of this clot remains a mystery.

I stayed overnight at the hospital with my brother Marty on Monday night. The rest of my family had been up most of the previous night so they tried to get some sleep at a nearby hospital. I checked in on Shannon periodically and about 3:00 in the morning, the fellow doctor on call continued to reiterate that everything they were trying to do to treat the “symptoms” was simply not working and that the underlying cause of Shannon’s condition remained outside of their grasp of knowledge, and therefore, untreatable. A second CAT scan that night further confirmed that there was continued, extensive swelling throughout Shannon’s brain and it was very clear that there was already extensive brain damage. It was time to begin making decisions regarding how aggressive they were going to continue treating Shannon.

As a family we agreed to begin backing off of the “medical care”. Mom, Dad, Marty and I gathered around Shannon for two hours from 4 to 6 in the morning – we sang, prayed, reminisced, cried and said goodbye. As the medications stopped, Shannon’s vitals, blood pressure and inter-cranial pressure reached critical levels and we felt that she had “spiritually passed”. All that remained of Shannon was her beating heart and a ventilator’s raspy breath.

A conference with the attending doctor at 11:00 a.m. confirmed that Shannon’s brain activity was likely gone and he felt she had passed some time during the night. The ventilator was removed around 12:00 and we said our final farewells to Shannon’s body around 12:30, her technical time of death.

Our sister Dawn was en-route from China and we picked her up later that night at 11:00 at Cleveland airport. She had missed being able to see Shannon by about 12 hours.

The suddenness and mystery surrounding Shannon’s death are terrifying and stunning. Sometimes it is hard to breathe. It is difficult to comprehend how the her 9 month struggle with cancer in her esophagus and apparent victory, was to end in a sudden whirlwind of neurological breakdown lasting only a few days. We had grown accustomed to and accepted her battle with cancer. But none of us could expect or be ready for this.

This is my first experience with this kind of loss. It is a deep, deep chasm of pain and darkness that feels unable to be crossed. I don’t know the way across, and I simply don’t want to do it. Yet it must be crossed – and we must cross without Shannon.

Beach

we took our vacation to Assateague Island - saw a few ponies and played on the beach alot. Lyric danced with the waves and I bought a boogie board and hoped for the time to come when I might try surfing. Maggie ate sand and skipped 90% of her naps. I realized while being on vacation with two small children that being on vacation has changed since I was a wee lad. I don't remember there being so much sand in the car, or so many things to carry to and from the car, the motel room or the beach. I don't remember there being so much stress to try and forget about in order to enjoy the vacation. I don't remember babies screaming in their car seats. But when it's all said and done, there are priceless memories - worth a million trips to and from the car, hours of driving amidst chaotic and bored children, and a million soggy diapers changed hurriedly on the run. Bravo to all you young parents out there for braving the elements with your children! It's not an easy job.

Maggie turns 1

so Maggie turned 1 year old in June. it's probably been the fastest year of my life. she's walking like a little pro now and is growing quite the crop of curly hair. she can say da-da, ma-ma, woof-woof (dog), bo-bo (bottle) and loves to grab Lyric's craft supplies.