girl drew

Hi all! I've moved and improved my blog! Please be sure to sign up to receive email notifications when I post: www.drewdotson.com. If you were already subscribed, you should have been automatically moved over. Appreciate you!

Today, when setting up an online account, I was prompted to select a security question. The first one on the list was, “In what city or state did you meet your spouse/significant other?” I automatically moved past it, instead selecting “What street did you live on in third grade?” (and, if you know, shut your mouth!). The spouse/significant other question wasn’t upsetting, but the options didn’t include “late husband,” so it didn’t seem appropriate for me. Tomorrow we enter July, which means that we’re closing in on the anniversary of Ramón’s death, July 20. For me, there’s nothing about that particular day that will separate it from the rest. I imagine people will be reminded — via Facebook memories and the like — and might post updates or send me texts. And, just like other days, I’ll struggle with how to respond. When people say that they can’t imagine my pain, I often feel guilty because, for the most part, I’m enjoying life. Alternatively, when I respond happily, it feels like may...

One day last June while I was staying in the hospital with Ramón, I decided to watch the video of his swearing in ceremony. Since he was minimally conscious, I thought it would be good for him to hear familiar voices, including his own, on what he deemed one of the best days of his life. As I hit play, a nurse practitioner entered the room. Though I was tempted to pause and quickly minimize the video, I didn’t; she asked what I was watching. When I told her, she was curious to see, so I skipped to the ending where Ramón got up to speak. With teary eyes, she told me she’d never heard his voice before. I often think about Ramón’s thank you to everyone who opened doors for him. He claimed that all he had to do was walk through the open doors, but he did more than leisurely strut through them. Ramón nudged them open further — even banged them down if necessary — then caught everyone’s attention with his calm command and charismatic smile. Ramón opened many doors for me too, literally and f...

On my birthday in 2013,  Ramón and I went to a place where we drank wine and painted. For the next several years, Ramón insisted that his painting was better than mine, despite the fact that I’ve never seen a hibiscus with roaches for leaves. We kept them on display (Don’t ask why.) and requested opinions when people came over. I asked simply and directly, whereas Ramón would phrase it more like this: “Which of these do you like better? The one on the right that’s kind of bland — or the one on the left that has more personality and creativity?” One day, when we were getting ready to move from that condo, I came home and Ramón asked me if I noticed anything, gesturing toward the paintings. His was missing, so I asked what happened. He told me that a guy who came by to do some work (which did in fact happen)  complimented them. Though I wasn’t there to witness it, Ramón claimed that he wanted to buy one. The guy chose his painting and insisted on paying him five dollars, at whic...

This day last year, Ramón walked out of our house for the last time. In the days leading up to his transplant admission, he spent more time than usual loving on the dogs. He assured them how much he loved them and said what I deemed – even at the time – to be his final goodbyes. It was wearing on me because I didn’t want to think about Ramón’s mortality; I'd already spent more than my fair share of time thinking about death. Also, after all that I’d learned about acute myeloid leukemia (AML), the cancer itself wasn’t really something to take his life out of nowhere. Instead, in Ramón’s case, maybe in the months or years [or decades] after his transplant, we’d learn that the cancer had recurred, at which point we’d try more treatment options. On one of our many hospital walks during the previous admission, Ramón asked me what actually caused people with AML to die. From what I’d read, the most frequent cause was infection and the body’s inability to fight it due to lack of immune sy...

Check out my latest update:   http://fightcf.cff.org/goto/drew .

In the fifth year of marriage, I'd finally gotten the hang of identifying as "married" after never having envisioned that for myself. Now I find myself checking another box. It took a fraction of a second to create that X, yet the route that it signifies spanned almost 9 years. Sealed with an X.

 “People ask me how you’re doing,” my dad said on a walk one morning. “I tell them you’re doing surprisingly well.” As I nodded in agreement, my dad asked if it was a choice I’d made – to handle Ramón’s death well. I wasn’t really sure how to answer that question because I didn’t consciously decide, “Boy, this sucks, but I plan to handle it well.” Instead, my life has been a revolving door of grief, and, though it never gets easier, it becomes more familiar and less permanent, even in times of deep despair. My grief experience began at a young age when I started living with the anguish that cystic fibrosis would cut my life short. When I was a junior in high school, my first good friend with CF died. The day I moved into my college dorm freshman year, another friend died. Less than a year later, it happened again. On the subsequent go-round (Are you losing count?), I got to go say goodbye at the hospital. The next time was another hospital experience, though we didn’t arrive in tim...

Nine years ago, to the day, I met this guy for our first date. Five years ago, to the day, I married this guy. Five months ago, to the day, I said my final goodbyes to this guy, thanking him for everything. If I could do it all over again, I would. Ramón made my life better in countless ways, and he often reminded me how lucky I was to have him. I balked at his remarks, but I knew they were true. Others might view today – and the coming holidays – with sadness for me, knowing things look vastly different. Though it’s true that life is unrecognizable this year, the past nine years (and counting) have affirmed Ramón’s viewpoint: I am pretty dang lucky. 

Last week, after checking my temperature, the dental hygienist led me to my exam room.  “How’s your husband doing?” she asked with the best of intentions. “He died,” I responded nonchalantly, voice as steady as can be. It’s impossible to know when the words will come out casually or when I’ll be caught off-guard – as though I’m the recipient of the news leaving my mouth. Grief is finicky like that.   Thanksgiving was the first big holiday without Ramón. The pandemic made things just unusual enough that his absence wasn’t as detectable as it might have been another year. However, based upon the quantity of leftovers, it was clear that Ramón and his appetite were missing. Despite the outrageous surplus of pumpkin pie, it was a good day.   I checked Ramón’s email today to see if anything important has trickled in, and I stumbled upon an email he sent while hospitalized in February. I am going to copy and paste a portion of it without editing anything, as much as th...

A friend gifted me this leather bracelet in August. She conspired to get a sample of Ramón’s handwriting, and my mom had a note from Ramón thanking my parents for everything they’d done to help us since his diagnosis. I first opened the bracelet the day we got back to Atlanta after scattering Ramón’s ashes in Michigan. Seeing his handwriting made me pause at first. It reminded me of when I went to clean out his office in August and saw notes to himself on his desk. When he wrapped up work that day in February, nobody had a clue that was the last time Ramón would wear his “judge outfit” (a term I used to be annoying) or the final time he would exit the building.  I used to incessantly tell Ramón he wrote like a serial killer. I haven’t been in many written exchanges with serial killers, but something about Ramón’s handwriting looked so calculated and methodical – like he had a strategy. And you know he usually did. Mr. Particular. I would often try to mimic his handwriting by adding...

How am I doing? Well, I’m exploring new places through travel, music, and books. I’m sitting on hold with countless financial institutions and utility companies. I’m enjoying the cooler weather while walking the dogs, running, and sitting on porches. I’m partaking in adult-like phone calls and signing documents, much to my dismay. I’m doing freelance work and napping when inspired. I’m enthusiastically watching baseball and miserably watching football. I’m catching up on appointments I’ve neglected since Ramón’s diagnosis in May 2019. I’m snacking on Starbursts and seaweed (separately).  I’m routinely looking up at the sky and the clouds, admiring the beauty of it all. I’m wearing comfy sweatpants, festive shoes, and even a bona fide smile. I’m draped in acts of love and kindness from people and animals alike. I’m constantly wishing I had the bandwidth to thank everyone who has said, done, or sent something thoughtful. I’m reminiscing about the last nine years and channeling my ene...

When home between hospitalizations in late March, I heard a song that  resonated with me. As my anxiety about COVID-19 a nd transplant steadily escalated, I kept wondering why life couldn’t be easier. The song, “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves, is about believing things will improve despite the storms that enter your life. In those unnerving days of vulnerability and despair, the lyrics reminded me that, though my feelings were entirely valid, they were also transient. When it rains, it pours, but you didn't even notice It ain't rainin' anymore, it's hard to breathe when all you know is The struggle of staying above the rising water line Well, the sky is finally open, the rain and wind stopped blowin' But you're stuck out in the same ol' storm again You hold tight to your umbrella, well, darlin' I'm just tryin' to tell ya That there's always been a rainbow hangin' over your head I listened to the song many more times that night, sometimes wit...

A few weeks ago, two of my long-time cohorts stopped by to enjoy drinks and conversation – and bring dinner (Yum!). My friend Amanda helped me and Ramón buy our house in 2018, and we were reminiscing about how painfully easy we were as clients in that we had no real must-haves or dealbreakers. When looking at houses, Amanda suggested we narrow our search, but Ramón and I insisted we’d be happy anywhere as long as we were together. This was a far cry from every buyer on HGTV; somebody’s usually demanding a house with a dedicated hot yoga space while the other is hellbent on finding a kitchen that cooks meals by itself. Ramón was in Michigan visiting family when Amanda and I decided on a home. To my surprise, the house that interested me the most needed a lot of work. I remember getting Ramón on the phone and telling him that it was going to be quite a project, to which he responded, “Okay, let’s do it.” And we did. In our short stint there, we renovated the entire interior and planned t...

Though I’ve been writing regularly, I haven’t posted much lately. This is mostly for good reason. For example, my friend Elaine came back into town over the weekend, and we had a bit of a staycation at a lovely Airbnb in Midtown Atlanta. I did some normal-people things such as enter a grocery store (masked) for the first time since February. I even got in a swimming pool, enjoyed a comedy show at an amphitheater, and paddle-boarded on a lake. Watch out, world; the Drewdle is loose! So, what are my days looking like lately? Well, for one, it’s crazy not being confined to a hospital room: something I realize was a luxury in terms of the virus, yet it was also torturous because all I wanted to do was fix a completely irreparable situation. Since most of my time spent at the hospital resulted from my aggressive legal speak (#judgewifelife), I was never able to leave Ramón’s room when I was there due to visitor restrictions. Practically speaking, I was in solitary confinement, handcuffed by...

It’s been one week since we said goodbye to Ramón, and it’s been more than 14 weeks since I said farewell to the version of Ramón I’d known since December 2011. In many ways, I’ve been grieving since April, but the sorrow has taken a different shape now, knowing that the possibility of recovery no longer remains. At times, this materializes as feelings of relief, since the clarity for which I’d longed has arrived and is indisputable. However, other times I miss the ambiguity of where we were because it included space for potential and opportunity. And hope. Although the past week has been heavy, it’s also been magically light due to the outpouring of love. I’ve connected with friends from many walks of life, I’ve heard from people whose lives were better off because of Ramón, and I’ve even linked up with strangers who happened upon my posts online. Despite the irrefutable absence that unexpectedly reveals itself throughout the days, the moments have been woven together by undeniable fe...

Many of you have followed our story and its constant ups and downs, particularly since Ramón’s chemo/radiation/transplant complication-induced cardiac arrest on April 19, 2020. Though it felt like we’d finally settled into an “up” after a tumultuous three months, Ramón died yesterday at 10:52 a.m. Things were going well [enough] until suddenly they weren’t. A respiratory event yesterday morning led to yet another cardiac episode and, though we hoped to sustain Ramón’s life long enough for his family to get to town, it didn’t unfold that way. So, lying in an ICU bed with Ramón, I held onto him as tight as possible until they said I had to go. Every muscle in my body aches today, but that’s the price I paid to send him off in the midst of a massive hug. Ramón’s family in Michigan joined us via video as we reminded him just how much we loved him. As we finished saying our goodbyes, he was clinging to life with the help of very advanced life support. When we told the medical team it ...

Holy Day +100 since Ramón’s transplant! Exactly 100 days ago, on April 10, Ramón received his stem cell transplant. From 11:25 a.m. to 12:10 p.m. ET, we quietly watched YuSun’s stem cells slowly assume residence in Ramón’s body, ready to evict his leukemia once and for all.  I’d heard about the coveted Day +100, and now we’re here. We have taken some major detours, but we made it! When a transplant recipient hits Day +100, the window of greatest risk closes, and the donor stem cells should be forming new blood cells. Leading up to transplant, I recall a moment when Ramón looked me straight in the eyes and said, with absolute conviction, “I just know this transplant is going to work.” I could tell he believed it with every ounce of his body, and I did, too. So far, he’s been right about the transplant.  Tests around Day +30 and Day +60 indicated that the transplant was successful. Did you know that Ramón’s blood DNA was replaced by his sister’s? So, if he were to get a...

A good day, from morning to sunset Yesterday was Ramón’s 100th consecutive day in the hospital. Though each individual day has felt exhaustingly long, the days have merged together in a way that seems like no time has passed. Despite all of the twists and turns that led us here, it was a good day. Some days feel like setbacks, and I find myself actively inventorying what’s wrong with this situation. However, day 100 was the best day I’ve had in quite a while; instead of focusing on what’s absent, I concentrated on what’s right here in front of me. In the early hours of the day, when I should have been sleeping, I checked on Ramón and was taken aback by how beautifully peaceful he looked. Excluding the headband, he looked just like he always does at home when I stare at him in the night like a total creep. The moment felt significant for reasons I can’t explain; something just felt very perfect. Then, when I got up for the day, I asked the nurse to bring me coffee (not because ...

*Full disclosure: I'm backdating this post because I was too tired to post it the day I wrote it. Then I completely forgot.* “I’m not going to wear my ring, okay?” I remember Ramón asking that as we did one last sweep of the house before departing for the hospital on April 3. Now, 90 days later, Ramón’s left hand remains ringless; instead he’s wearing a pulse oximeter. Above his wrist, there’s a peripheral IV. Above that, there’s a PICC line that’s being removed today. On a whim one afternoon in May 2015, Ramón asked if I wanted to go ring shopping. We had this conversation often, and I finally agreed that day. After looking at a few antique stores, a cashier suggested a family-owned jeweler that was nearby, so we headed that direction. We sat in the car in the jewelry store parking lot while I unhooked my IV antibiotic from my PICC line. My lungs were acting up, so I was doing a round of two different IV antibiotics to whip them into shape. When we entered the store, the...