Burn

I don’t think the agony of grief is ever “less” or “more,” “better” or “worse.” People very much want it to be better. They want to believe that the pain lessens. Some of that desire is for me but a lot of it is for them. It’s horrible to face the reality that someone you care about will never ever spend another moment purely happy. No one wants to believe that, but it’s true.

At Damon’s funeral I clung to another mother who many years ago had her daughter torn from her life. I moaned “Will it ever get better? Does it get better?” I was desperate. She didn’t answer. It’s very possible that she didn’t hear me and entirely likely that my words were just guttural noises of pain but even if she heard it wouldn’t surprise me, now that I am over a year out, if she just didn’t answer.

How would you tell a newly bereaved parent no?

What would I say?

Some of my favorite days are when Will and I spend the afternoon lazing in bed. Raz dozes on my chest while I read and his daddy plays a video game. Our bedroom is one of the brightest rooms in the house and the sunlight lightens my heart. It’s peaceful and there is a large measure of happiness and contentment here but there is still intense, profound pain. Always.

Rather than less or more I would say the pain is a slow deep burn or a shallow raging flame. Neither is easier, just different. The shallow flame is so much easier to see. I’m sure it seems worse but in some ways when the pain and anger a raging out of control it’s easier. When the tears come until there are none left there is a moment of release, of emptiness, of honesty. The deep burn is like an ulcer of agony living in my soul. Sometimes I get to the end of the day and stare at myself, astonished. Now, some of my worst days no one would know. I just keep going. I converse. I function. I move… and I burn.

Until next time…

My mess

I’m writing from under my favorite quilt with my youngest snuggled in my arms. The quilt was my great-grandmother’s. It’s tattered and falling apart but I can’t bring myself to stop using it. It was an unusually cool night here last night and being the cold-natured thing that I am I’m certain that it’s below zero in this house. Thus the quilt in the middle of June.

Raz is breathing softly as I peck away at the keys and the house is quiet. My newest little man pretty much insists on being held, all day, every day. He insists on being held by either mom or dad. While we haven’t let many people attempt to hold him he usually cries when we do.

Every once in a while I look around my messy house (and I mean truly messy, not like when you go over to your friend’s house and they’re like “excuse the mess” and you’re thinking “seriously, where’d you stash the ten person cleaning crew?” No, seriously, my house is a mess and sometimes it’s a complete disaster) and I think that we should really start teaching him to be content on his own, to not be held because I mean, look at this place. Then I look at him and I remember that the pile of clean laundry that constantly rotates on the kitchen table, the stacks of books on the floor by my man’s chair, the toys strewn all over the place, and even the floor that desperately needs to be swept really just plain don’t matter.

He wants me to hold him. What an incredible privilege. He knows me. He knows it’s me and he wants me. Who cares if the house is a mess?

A few nights ago I took Isaiah on a date. He opened doors for me like a gentleman. We are trying to teach him how to treat women. He takes to it like a fish to water with his willing little heart. We went to dinner and played tic-tack-toe while we waited for our meal, then we went to the movies. He held my hand and rested his head on my shoulder while we watched.

In the midst of the busy and the expectations of this world I have to remember what is important. In a flash they could be gone. People say this all of the time but most don’t know what it’s like. They really could. One day we were playing at the park with Damon, three days later he was dead. I would give anything to have him back. He's gone, forever.

So, when you come over know this: my house will be a mess, it may even be a disaster and I’m ok with that because I hope against hope that my kids will be able to say “My house was a mess growing up cuz my Mom was too busy hanging out with me.”

Until next time…

Growth and Grass

I mowed the lawn this morning then went for a run. On the way back I noticed that many of the neighbor’s yards are recently mowed and I heard a lawn mower droning somewhere in the background. It suddenly hit me that the stabbing pain that usually accompanies that sound and the smell of fresh cut grass was conspicuously absent.

The day Damon died we were driven home from the hospital to my grandparents’ house. I remember almost nothing, flashes of moments here and there, but I do remember someone was mowing their lawn. I remember thinking “how could someone be doing something so normal?” The sound and the smell are burned into my memory.

Much of my life fresh cut grass was one of my favorite things. My Papa is the kindest person I’ve ever known. He loves his lawn. It has always been lush and green and unbelievably soft.  A commonly repeated story in my family features my little blonde self searching his flower beds for snails to rescue them from the exterminator. He would always laugh his big beautiful open laugh as I worked my way through his perfectly groomed yard searching for the slimy things. His home almost always smelled of fresh cut grass and often he did, too.

Today, for one of the very first times somehow I was able to hold both feelings, both memories at the same time. I didn’t immediately run. I didn’t double over with agony.

The few authors I’ve read who I feel have been genuine in their writing about grief talk about how devastating grief grows you. It’s not a comfortable growth. It’s excruciating. It’s growth I don’t even want. I would give it back in a heartbeat but it’s true, you grow. I’ve grown and I’m slowly becoming able to occasionally hold both pleasure and pain, each becoming more intense with the effort.

Today grass is a marker of that growth.

Until next time…

forgiveness, the flip side

I read a post today written by someone who was seemingly deeply deeply sincere in her desire to help. She seems to have put her heart as deeply into the soul tearing pain of others as someone who is not being buried by the avalanche can. I imagine her words touched deep places that desperately need to be acknowledged in some very broken people. A few short years ago they would have pulled a river of tears from my eyes but no more.

She spoke of forgiveness. She spoke of the healing power of God’s forgiveness, of the sacrifice of Jesus’ blood, of the human inability to right our own wrongs or forgive our own sins…

What if I’m not the one who needs forgiveness?

Yeah, you might want to stop reading now.

What if this time I’m the one who would have to forgive? Yeah, I said it. It’s what’s in my head, what’s tearing at the walls of my shattered heart.

This isn’t my only issue with God, with faith, with Christianity. I have some serious foundational questions but I won’t get into those here. Here I will drop this bomb. What if I can’t forgive God for what he has done to me?

Here’s the thing. The way I see it (and this is only my perspective and by no means the whole story) there are three possibilities.

1.    God doesn’t exist; therefore, there was no one on the receiving end of my agonized, desperate prayers for my son.

2.    God is weak, he was there but he couldn’t do anything to save my child.

3.    God purposely and knowingly allowed Damon to die, despite my trust, despite my cries.

Quite honestly, I’m not sure which it is and I’m not sure I want to be in league with any of the above. But if he is who I have long believed him to be, if he was there on the floor with me every morning and every evening while we discussed everything from dinner plans to deep wounds. If I wasn’t just conjuring a presence I desperately wanted to be real then it is number 3. Number 3 requires forgiveness. Not from him, from me.

Undoubtedly others have felt this way. It’s irreverent, it’s certainly not “religious” but it’s true.

 If I manage to sort my way through 1 & 2, and apparently I think I will, then that leaves me with the question of can I and will I forgive?

I don’t know…

I don’t know.

Crisis of faith

Faith… what the heck is faith?

Warning, if you’ve had me on a pedestal I’m about to come crashing down.

Webster’s definition: Definition of FAITH

1a : allegiance to duty or a person : loyalty

b (1) : fidelity to one's promises (2) : sincerity of intentions

2a (1) : belief and trust in and loyalty to God (2) : belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion

b (1) : firm belief in something for which there is no proof (2) : complete trust

3: something that is believed especially with strong conviction; especially : a system of religious beliefs <the Protestant faith>

Christians like to turn to Hebrews 11:1  confidence in what we hope for and assurance in what we do not see.

… What does that mean?

See, the thing is I’m about to get real honest in a really public way and the words I would use to do so aren’t even entirely clear to me in their definition.

Crisis of faith

Crisis:

Noun 1.    A time of intense difficulty, trouble, or danger. 2.    A time when a difficult or important decision must be made: "a crisis point of history". That one I’m all over. I’m in a crisis, without a doubt. The faith word is where I run into difficulty. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Yep, she is. I’m tired of fighting this battle in silence. I’m tired of questioning in secret so here goes. I think God absolutely, completely, and totally sucks. I’ve been afraid to say it. I’ve felt like the faith of so many is riding on my convictions, convictions I firmly believed… until I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of judgment, losing the people I love, my support system; people of faith are my world, my heart, my friends, my family, my everything… and of having to endure more “advice” from people who know absolutely nothing about the kind of torture I walk through Every. Single. Minute. So don’t. If you just had a scripture or saying or platitude pop into your head, just don’t. My anger is generally reserved solely for this one I’ve called “Father” and I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire. Trust me, it’s vicious. I loved Him, truly, truly loved Him. I walked with Him, closely, Most importantly I trusted Him. (don’t you dare talk to me about trusting when he says “no” because I will likely hunt you down and you do not want to see me crazy) I know the Bible people, probably much better than 90% of Christians. I know what it says, there is no comfort there, only more confusion. I’ve read until my eyes go blurry. I’ve studied. I’ve sought answers. Nothing. I value honesty. Highly, highly value honesty so here I am being honest. I realize I’m doing this in an incredibly public forum and as a result am inviting abuse, abuse that quite frankly I cannot endure. But I’ve sought kindred spirits. I’ve desperately searched for someone who would say “I had the same struggle” but there is no one so it will be me. I don’t know where this will go but as of this moment I’m in crisis and it is going to take a long, long time to sort things out. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord!" But he said to them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe."

I'm a duck

I’m a duck…

One of the very few days Will was home while Raz was still in the NICU Raz had to have a minor procedure done. We knew it was coming but we didn’t know it would be done that morning. I was there, alone. Will is the strong, stoic one. His catch phrase should be “it’ll be fine.” I, however, am the emotional one.

During the procedure Will text to ask how I was doing. “I’m a duck” was my response, meaning I look calm but under the surface there’s all sorts of insanity going on.

I’m a duck.

Last night after one of the baby’s feedings I laid in bed for what seemed like forever. I couldn’t sleep. My insides are all in knots.

Until a few months ago I couldn’t see or feel anything beyond my own ache. The pain was so big, so loud, so all consuming that quite frankly I didn’t care what was happening to the rest of the world. In recent months that has changed. Raz’s birth has propelled me into a new season of mourning. The pain is no less but it feels as if this precious new life has allowed me to unbolt some of the locks confining it to a single chamber in my heart. My missing for Damon has been given more space inside me. I think I may be mourning more fully now. The pressure is less, the missing is becoming more of who I am.

I’m sad. I’m so so sad.

I have to resist the urge to stop being honest about how deeply sad I am. It seems that my world is consumed with celebrating our new child. That is good. Raz is good. Raz is beyond good. Damon is still gone. So, I’m a duck.

A few days ago Will and I sat helpless in our living room and watched an F5 tornado form just a few miles south. We watched it rip through a town and destroy an elementary school. The bile rises as I write this. Shortly after we watched parents race down a debris strewn street toward what used to be a school.

I know…

I know.

Last night as I lay watching the lights blink on my son’s monitor, telling me his heart was beating, telling me that he was breathing I couldn’t get those images out of my head. Then I wondered why I was trying to dismiss them. They shouldn’t be dismissed. They should haunt me.

So now I’m searching for a way to incorporate this new pain into my life, this pain that aches with every story of lost life, this sickness that wont go away.

I don’t want Damon forgotten. I don’t want to feel like I need to look like I’m ok when I’m not. Good after horror does not negate the horror.

I will not look away. 

NICU

Raz was born 15 days ago, six weeks premature.

I don’t think I’m ready to write about it. The abject terror is still far too near with ECG leads, oxygen monitors and a feeding tube all seemingly permanently affixed to my newborn. I need him to be out of the NICU then maybe I can write about that night, not yet.

We’ve been here for two weeks, living in this tiny room, watching monitors flash his vital signs and celebrating each small victory when a tube was removed. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t let the memories of the last time I was in a room like this surface. I was in survival mode… until last night.

Last night for the millionth time his alarms screamed, his heart rate dropped and he stopped breathing. I was trying to feed him at the time, something so simple. I was just trying to feed my baby. Except he’s a preemie and he’s still figuring out how to breathe, eat, and keep his heart beating. The sixth or seventh time his alarms went off and I had to desperately rub his tiny little back to get him to breathe I broke.

I stood in his room completely paralyzed as the tsunami hit and I was suddenly aware of how incredibly warm and wet my face was. I sat in the lobby of this hospital and cried and cried and cried. I finally let the memories come. I mourned Damon and I hoped for Raz and I cried.

I don’t usually let people see me cry, like almost never. It’s not a pride thing. I’m not ashamed of my tears. They are necessary. I’ve figured out that I don’t let people see me cry because people want the crying to stop. People think that the crying should stop, as if that is some measure of the comfort they have given. When I cry no amount of comfort will make it better, no words will heal, no presence will soften the ache. I cry because I need to cry and I need to cry until I stop. So, I usually cry alone so I can be free to hurt, to be exposed, to be pissed, to be so deeply wounded it cannot be explained.

Last night there was nowhere to go. So, I sat in the lobby, while people came and went, and cried.

Today, as always after I’ve let myself look at the gaping Damon shaped hole in my heart, I’m raw. I’m ragged. I miss him so much.

When Raz was born a warm new light bloomed in my heart. It sits next to the icy hole of pain created by Damon’s death. Before, I never would have imagined both sensations could coexist, but they do. My happiness and love for each of my guys lives with the horrifying pain of Damon’s loss. They influence each other but they are each independent and unique entities. Raz’s birth, his life, is good and beautiful and in no way lessens the ache for Damon.   

From the NICU, until next time…