A Hiatus Explained…

I’m sitting on a park bench in the south of France on the outskirts of the city of Monaco. The motivation to explore this new city is eluding me. I’m more attracted to the slow enjoyment of a café au lait on a small street corner, and to this shaded, quiet spot on a back street, half-way up a flight of steep steps rising from one twisted and narrow street to another above me.

My drive to explore has been temporarily dampened. I suspect this is not permanent, but rather a side effect of the terrible loss I’ve endured this year.

In mid-December 2016, while happily floating across the Indian Ocean from east to west – from Burma to Zanzibar – I got the news from home that you never, ever want to hear; “There’s something wrong with Dad.”

I flew home right away, rising above the Maldives’ endless shades of blues and greens, into the grey twilight of the unknown and onwards to my family’s home in the frigid, stark white of a New Hampshire winter. It was here, and after two tortuous biopsies, that we found out my father had Stage IV brain cancer.

Brain Cancer.

Let those words soak in for a moment. Think of the devastation and the sorrow and the heartbreak they carry. Think of the uncertainty, the fear, and the unknown consequences that they rain down onto a family.

And it did rain. It was a monsoon of stress and worry wrapped up in the management of time, and radiation treatments, and chemotherapy drugs, and patient care, and doctor’s visits, and eventually long-term nursing homes. And all this for a 72-year old man, the anchor of our family, who was riding 50 miles on his bicycle without batting an eye, who went to the gym without fail every morning at 5:30 am, and who hiked with the dog every weekend.

There was no apparent explanation for this torrent of raining misery, and no reason for the deluge, but it robbed me of my father in a slow, tortuous way that left us with nothing more than a shell of a man, half paralyzed in a hospital bed, unable to form sentences or follow his thoughts, unable to reflect on his life and his loves, and fixated on his last enjoyment in this world – food – namely ice cream and smoothies delivered by his doting adult children.

The experience of caring for my dad and watching him leave us, side-by-side with my family and close friends, has changed me forever. It’s brought me closer to my siblings and extended family, and it’s dragged me to the edge of my own capabilities.

Before this happened, I thought my strengths and abilities were near limitless. I take away from this experience the knowledge that strength is an illusion and ‘grace under fire’ is the ultimate resilience. It is courageous and human to ask for help, and bold and admirable to accept it when offered. I know intimately now that even the most fortified of walls will crumble.

And so now you know, dear reader, why I have been negligent in writing and have abandoned my travel posts and photos for some time. It’s taken me these four long months since my Dad slipped away in April, with a final whispered exhale, to find the space in my rain-soaked heart to write about his passing.

I owe him so much. He is the main reason I find joy in discovery and travel. From an early age he led me to understand that our lives are acted out on a stage that stretches beyond what we can see, to the far corners of the globe. Always growing up he told me, “Expand your horizons my girl.”

He is the main reason I depend without hesitation on my inner moral compass, and find confidence in my gut feelings, and resilience to changes in my life. In large part it’s because he always trusted me, always knew I’d find my way, and never hesitated to give me every assurance that things play out the way they are meant to.

It is frankly strange to travel without him now.

Who do I share my stories with when I come home? Who will sit with me and watch the videos of wildlife encounters and far-flung cultural performances? Who will laugh with me about the sagas that played out on board the microcosm of the ship and the colorful characters involved? Who will be that unfailing, reliable landmark in my life?

Of course, it will always be my dad.

The conversations just take place in my heart now.

And I will continue to make him proud, and bring him stories, and he will know that my horizons are broad and only getting wider.

12 thoughts on “A Hiatus Explained…

  1. Lindsay Poetz

    This is such a beautiful tribute to your father. I know Mark had many of these feelings after he lost his dad. I think they will never leave him. We love you and are thinking about you!

  2. Diane Van Wagner

    I love this Kit and I am in tears. So beautifully written. I feel the emotion.
    I went downstairs a couple of mornings ago to Wayne in tears. He had just finished reading Whitney’s text about scattering Bill’s ashes.
    I am so glad that he and Bill got so close over the last few years. It’s so sad that they can’t grow old together. And of course… that all of us don’t get to enjoy being with him physically anymore. He will forever be in our hearts.♥️

  3. Deborah Hoft

    My sincere condolences to you and your family. Similar losses this year,
    and my heart aches for your and yours.
    Dad, A gift.
    Thank you for your lovely words, and photos, and sharing courageously
    We are blessed to have you to share the wonders of our planet with compassion.
    Thank you for all you do, and who you are.
    “Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle.
    Everything I do is stitched with it’s color.”

  4. JoAnn Rapsis

    What a beautiful tribute to your father Kit., and so very sorry for your loss. My sincere condolences to you. JoAnn

  5. Claudia

    Oh Kit, I felt the same way when my mom passed away. My mom will always be with me, as I am sure will your dad. Don’t be hard on yourself, it takes time and you need to be kind to yourself, take a break if necessary, work will always be there. Just remember that you are amazing and you have friends all kver the world. Lots of love, Clouds

  6. Andrea Souter

    Kit — Truly one of the most beautiful tributes, real life experience, raw description I have read in a long time. How powerful to be loved so much – how deep is the loss. How true you are that he will be with you on each country, continent that you travel! <3 xo

  7. Holly Faithfull

    Such sad news, Kit. I’m so sorry for your loss. I still miss my parents, but the memory of a wonderful and happy relationship with your parents is priceless. xx

  8. Margaret

    So sorry for your loss Kit. I hope you find joy in your memories of your dad. He lives on in your heart and in your spirit. Your writing of him is beautiful.



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