On Grief

It's the phone call we're all dreading. The one that comes early in the morning while you're lying next to your loved one, running your fingers through their hair to gently bring them out of slumber. The one that beats the alarm clock and beats the daylight, the one that comes in the dark and feels heavy and cold. The one with MOM on caller ID.


"Ron died," I could hear her say. I saw Wes go limp as he relayed his condolences and comfort while trying to wrap his head around what he just woke up to. You know that phrase, "It's always darkest before the dawn," I felt like darkness just came and it sat there. It camped out there. Made a home for itself. And dawn never came, not for a while, not for months after those two words were uttered.

Jeanne recounted the story with bright memory, how Ron, her husband and the man who raised Wes, woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, laid down to sleep, and had a seizure that his body wouldn't recover from. It was our impression from that phone call that he had passed, but through talking to others we found out he was still on life support and between hospitals until his daughter could pay her respects. He was pronounced dead the next day, Friday, November 3, at 12:03 am.


The truth is, right now I’m still grieving. But not for Ron—only because we’ve felt emotionally and mentally prepared for him to pass. No, this isn't about grieving Ron; rather, it's about grieving the loss of the life we used to have. As quickly and unexpectedly did he pass, so did everything we knew about our everyday life—our normals, our routines, our constants. As with Ron, we never had the chance to say goodbye.

Without hesitation, we bought bereavement flights to Alabama, kicking into a gear what might be the most stressful two weeks we've ever had to experience as individuals and as a couple. How do we deal with funeral costs, or lawyers and the estate, or outstanding bills, and life insurance, and medicare? And no one knows where the security deposit box key is to even find out what his will says, or if the will is even in the security deposit box. And where's the deed to the house? And one of their horses is dying, and who's going to put it down the day of the funeral? And Wes hasn't seen his blood sister in 20 years but she's crossed states to be here; where and how to begin with conversations? And with a limited amount of time, we are having to plow through files and emotions and anxiety and phone calls and confusion, waiting for death certificates, waiting for banks to blow open security boxes, waiting for a chance to breathe, waiting for the dawn. And I don't have cellphone reception, and there's no wi-fi, and the carcass of that horse makes this property smell like sour death.

We need to get out of our heads.

================

There's a story Jeanne proudly tells about how Ron used to work for FEMA, so he would leave her home alone for days or weeks, and she was fine living on her own. In fact, she'd tell us (and others) about the revolver she keeps under her mattress. When she'd say all this, Wes and I would consider: perhaps she's ok on her own? Perhaps we could hire caregivers in the daytime to keep her company, and have video monitors to check on her at night? But in the days following the funeral, we realized her memory had deteriorated drastically. Her fears became a little more irrational. Her questions were repetitive and more frequent. She was not okay by herself, and Wes as a loving son could not leave her alone. And I as his wife, and about to mother a son, I understood—she is the woman who sacrificed for him, loved him, raised him. Wes was her final remaining anchor, and a nursing home was not an option. Our home was the only option. Wes was her home.

Being six months pregnant, we were already anticipating a change, but it’s different with baby: we know he’s in there, we're granted (God-willing) nearly 9 months to prepare for his arrival. We could take classes or do thorough research. People surround us with wisdom and support. We start dreaming of nursery spaces and expecting sleepless nights, knowing—fully aware but never fully grasping the total scope—that everything WILL change. But nothing could prepare us to fly across the ocean to a funeral and come back with a roommate.  There were no preparatory classes on how to suddenly deal with someone with memory loss, diabetes, and other health issues. There was no checklist on what administrative task to do next, no guide to tell us the best decision.

When we left our apartment, we didn't envision coming back to a twin bed in our living room. We didn't anticipate that our house would be wallpapered with notes and reminders, like "Knock first, do not enter" on our bedroom door, or "wash dishes with soap and water" because used plates were always found in the cabinet.  We didn't know how to meal prep for a diabetic with teeth issues and a limited taste palate.  We didn't know how to deal with the same question being asked every five minutes.  Wes, as a grown man, didn't know what to do with the incessant phone calls, "What time will you be home?" Or worse, when she didn't want him to leave because "What if you die in a car crash?"  Sometimes he would say, "Well, what if I died here in this apartment?" And she'd respond, "At least I'd know where you are."  This wasn't our dream. This wasn't the plan. We weren't ready for this drastic change.

Before I continue, I need to be clear: I’m not mad at her, I definitely don’t blame her, and I do love and care for her. It's not her, it's her condition—and that condition is out of her control. She's not shifting our lifestyle intentionally, she's probably not even aware.  I'm not mad at her.  I’m not even mad at God. I do get frustrated at her condition, but the bottom line is, it’s just a HARD situation. Can I reiterate that enough? It's just a hard situation. I don’t want to be misunderstood as accusing her for changing my life—life changes whether we foresee it or not, and usually we don’t foresee it at all. When it boils down, hard things happen, and the sorrow comes from not feeling strong enough, or capable enough, or even willing.. at all.

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Sentiment #1: If you have depression, you're living in the past. If you have anxiety, you're living in the future. If you are grateful, you're living in the present.

Please allow me be vulnerable: I have not yet reached gratitude. I've come to acceptance, but that's it. I'm not even close to contentment. I fight depression, longing for what used to be. And Wes fights off anxiety, fearful of what is to come. We learned that we are resisting the present, we are resisting change. And what a shame to admit that sometimes, I cannot look into the eyes of change. It isn't her, I constantly tell myself, it's her condition, and the change that her condition brought. The change that I cannot accept. The uncomfortable sacrifices I'm required to make.  The new normal that isn't mine.

I miss it being just Wes and me. I was looking forward to a final trimester in the little apartment where our marriage first bloomed. I miss our morning routines of coffee and chit chat. I miss our evening routines of late dinners and switching between our favorite TV shows. I wanted Thanksgiving, and Christmas traditions, and a New Years repeat of last year where we made and ate unhealthy amounts of dairy and carbs and sugars and champagne (nix the champagne this year). I want to walk around half naked in my own home.

These days look a little different. My house hasn’t really felt like home. The living room is not where I live, it's where she lives; I’m banished to the bedroom at 8pm. My dreams are haunted by the countless rape victims portrayed in Law and Order, since it's on repeat from morning until bedtime at high volume. I feel bad eating whatever I want. Wes works from home a little longer, I stay at work a little longer. And we’re still trying to balance all our aspects of health—emotional, mental, physical, spiritual—while carrying the weight of new financial and legal responsibilities, and I'm still gaining weight with this unborn child.

But what I really miss?  Not having tension case my body.  I miss having conversations outside of this situation.  I miss laughing! And I mean really laughing.  I miss rest.

And I feel SO selfish, and SO guilty for feeling selfish, and guilty for missing my old life. And I get really sad, and I want to feel better, and I want to embrace this new normal. I want to be full of gratitude. I want to be able to rejoice in my sufferings, to have contentment in all circumstances. I want to say I'm better than how I'm reacting to everything... But right now, I'm just dealing.

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Sentiment #2: we can see transitions as divorces to grieve, when we should see them as graduations to celebrate.

Sometimes I think that Wes and I would have been okay if we just had time. Typically speaking, I need time to let go of something and slowly close the door before I walk on the new path, and Wes needs time to learn as much as he can about the things ahead of him before he can embrace it fully. Wes needed time to say hello, I needed time to say goodbye.

It feels like a terrible breakup. The kind where you're up at 2am looking at old photos and pining for the happiness you felt in photo-worthy moments. The kind where you keep repeating conversations in your head, wondering what you could've said better, or where things went wrong, and where things could've been so right. The kind where you start to beat yourself up with regret—should've been more grateful, should've been more present, should've loved more selflessly.

But I want to move from grief to anticipation. From all the things that are lost, to all the possibilities and opportunities that can happen. From looking back to looking forward. No, not even looking forward—to looking at now. I want to stop WISHING I loved more, I should just LOVE MORE.

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You know what the ironic thing is? Even before we were married, Wes and I would talk about having kids and agreed that yes, we wanted them, as long as we had our first full year of marriage to ourselves. And indeed, we had only one year. On our first anniversary, although "our family" was just the two of us, I was pregnant, and then Ron passed away a few days later, kickstarting this cycle of events. When we asked God for that one year, we thought it meant one year before having to care for a baby; we didn't think it meant one year before having to care for his mom.

I suppose we never really realize the things we pray about, or the way God answers prayers. Sometimes I think, what if God wanted to take Ron sooner? What if the timing of his passing was an act of grace? What if God wanted to take Ron in the middle of our first year, or the first trimester, when emotions are high, and Wes and I were still navigating love and sacrifice for each other? We needed that one year to build a strong foundation, to fight and get over hurdles, to celebrate and make the most of of small moments. We needed that one year to fall in love. That one year, the year that I am still grieving, was the grace of God.

But to this day we remain questioning God. Why us, why now, why this way? And I don't think He'll answer us, just yet. I think we still have a lot to learn about patience, about grace, about being able to compassionately look into the eyes of the ones we are called to love. About being okay if the answers never come. About choosing joy every day, and finding the buoyancy that brings us back to the surface. And there's still a lot of healing that needs to be done in my heart, the kind of full healing where I can look at this situation and it doesn't hurt anymore.. where I can say that grief was a season, not a definition.

I know that embracing feeling when the sun kisses your cheeks after being in the cold for so long... the way the warmth bites at your skin, causing the tension to subside and melt off your shoulders... the way the Light gently wakens the world around me and the world inside me. I know what it's like when Love gently takes you out of slumber and welcomes you with a sunrise that spans the horizon. Surely it's always darkest before the dawn, but if I have a sprig of hope, it is that dawn still comes. Morning still comes. The Son still comes.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
to the voice of my pleas for mercy!

If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness,
that you may be feared.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with him is plentiful redemption.
And he will redeem Israel
from all his iniquities.

- Psalm 130

xo

On Weekday Mornings

I write to remember: Weekday Mornings.

5:30—Wes wakes up to embrace the quiet with a cup of coffee, and he reads, catches up with finances and selectively socializes (aka social media).

6:20—He comes into the bedroom, turns off the air conditioner, pulls the covers away, and gently rubs my back until I waken. Apparently I have a series of grunts and groans in my lucid state. I reach for him to pet his arm. Sometimes he’ll come into bed with me for a cuddle; if we're short on time, he'll slowly raise my body upright. With the latter, I typically collapse back into bed. I hate waking up. 

6:30—I'm finally out of the room. I climb onto his lap. Right now I have a growing belly, and this stage of our morning will possibly be eliminated for sometime, maybe indefinitely once we have a little one vying to be held by him too. I embrace him jealously.

6:30.42 because I am heavier with baby—I get off his lap. 

6:31—I drink his coffee. He already anticipates this. We stopped caring about whose coffee mug is whose—cat mug, Nepalese mug, mugs with identifying initials... I'll end up drinking some of his anyway. I only need a few sips.  I scroll through my phone.  Wes tries to tell me his new stellar financial plan that will pay off our debt in 6 months, afford baby's college tuition, and gift himself with a Toyota Tacoma AND a Ferrari 458... or bankrupt us indefinitely and we die of scurvy.  I smile tenderly, "Nope, not now, booger."

6:40—I prepare my lunch. If I was smart, I already took care of that last night. I'm not usually this smart. Wes always makes himself available: if it's a sandwich, he's already heating up my lunch meat. If I'm running late, he's cutting up my fruit. If I'm EXTRA late, he puts my lunch in my bag with extra snacks. If he doesn't know what's happening, he'll ask me, "What can I do to help?" I am probably spinning in circles when he asks me this. I quite literally mean spinning in circles.  "Wellps, I guess you're eating at 7-11 today," he says.  I concur.

6:48—The worst timing. I probably HAVE to go to the bathroom (for a while, if you know what I mean). "Pray for me!" I blurt out as I dash to the bathroom. "Godspeed!" He yells back.

6:53—I still don't know what to wear to work today. Wes says the yay or nay to color schemes. I can't fit my pants, or I forgot to iron something, or I forgot to shave during last night's shower. I hate wardrobe decisions.

6:57—Still don't know what to wear to work today. A load of tried-but-“no” backwards shirts and pants and empty hangers cover the freshly-made bed. "Hey.. hey.. hey!" Wes tries to interrupt my frantic and scurried thoughts, but fails. He gets a hold of my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. "I can see you panicking. STOP panicking. You'll get to work, even if I have to drive you there." He picks a cardigan that ties my outfit together. He gives me a kiss on my forehead and tells me to breathe. I give myself a second to pause and kiss him back.  He's so nice to me.

6:58—I flurry trying to lock the back door and shut off the electronics. "Never mind, it'll turn off automatically!" he says. "Not the coffee pot!" I say, trying to reclaim my analog dignity. His smart home changes make me feel less human.  My spastic state reminds us both that I am human.

6:59—He picks out my shoes.

7:00—I dash downstairs while Wes locks up the apartment and unlocks the car from above. I hurry inside and quickly put on eyeliner before he comes in and gets the car moving. I forgot to tweeze my eyebrows.

7:01—We head for the bus stop. We wish it was 6:55. But it's not. And somehow this routine repeats on the daily.

7:02—We're driving. He holds my hand. And I love him more every morning.

7:04—We hope for pedestrians at strategic intersections to block the flow of traffic as we turn. We also look for human landmarks, like the lady at the bus stop who always looks so well-put together, sometimes she has a fan, sometimes she has sunglasses, but she always has makeup. And 5 bags at her feet. "What up, landmark!" We both weirdly say in unison.

7:05—We are running out of time.  "ECO: OFF," Wes yells at no one.  In a Fast and Furious world, the closest we'll come to turbo with our base model Honda Fit is to turn the Econ-mode off.  We're hopeless.

7:06—Wes: “Check the Bus app.” “7:12,” I say, not looking at my phone. “Are you sure?” He doubts. I bring out my phone and look anyway. “7:12,” I say smugly. He shrugs.

7:08—Wes gets annoyed at people who slow down as they merge onto the freeway. “God bless America!” he exclaims, and then proceeds to instruct the masses on how to drive.  He is fond of yelling at no one.
 
7:10—We're stopped at a red light.  My hands are sweating.  “Stop panicking,” he says. Naturally, I’m still panicking.

7:12—Two scenarios happen: either we have a second to park and I tell him "thank you and have a good day at work and I love you more than anything," or the likelier scenario, I action-movie jump out of the moving vehicle OKLOVEYOUBYE-littlehug-littlekiss-BIGHUG-littlekiss and head dive into the bus before the closing doors bite my ankles off.

I love remembering this. I love remembering the little routines. I love remembering the little beginnings, the way we begin our day, the way we began our marriage. And I hope I always remember these beginnings with a fondness for what made our marriage beautiful to us: beginning with loving each other in the middle of the frantic moments. Beginning with laughter even while I'm panicking.  Beginning with gentleness and affection. Beginning with grace.


7:14—I start to doze on the bus.  I wake up when he texts me he's back at the apartment, or I get a notification from the stupid non-analog smart home. 

We miss each other already.

xo

PS. Analog over digital 4ever.  Except this blog I guess...

On First Reactions

You can't take back first reactions. Especially if you're like me and have a face as honest as a mirror.

I already knew I was pregnant, and so did Wes (the hormones do not lie, people!). But there was a strong resistance to seeing it on paper (read: on a stick). We had just made seven months of marriage, still trying to figure out how to merge our daily lives, still trying to understand a life of love and sacrifice, and the lines between introvert alone time, and being together forever. By no means is it a perfect marriage, but it's our marriage, and it's our story. And I didn't want to let go of the time when "our family" meant just the two of us: killing time wandering every aisle of the grocery store but walking out with just coffee creamer, being lazy on Saturday morning making omelettes and watering the plants and watching animal documentaries, having people over on a weeknight whim to play Settlers of Catan, drinking wine and eating stovetop popcorn. I fell in love with our small but meaningful life. Like a dream, it was a little weird, often nonsensical, at times frightening, but coated in bliss. I didn't want to wake up. I didn't want to open my eyes. I didn't want to look at that stick.

Wes wanted to. He wanted to get the inevitable out of the way. "When you gonna find out, when your water breaks? When you think you're 'peeing yourself' and a baby falls out?" But he'd also ask me to take the test at incredibly inopportune times—before a family gathering, before church, before meeting up with friends. "I can't pee on a stick and look my family in the face 15 minutes later!" I know me. I can't take back first reactions. I can't fake the feelings.

A Monday holiday came, and I had no excuse. No one to see for another week, besides work. And I already had a pregnancy test on hand (thanks to bridal shower gag gifts). "Just get it done, babe," he'd urge. I whined with resistance as Wes drug me to the bathroom. His nonchalance to the matter might as well have been a heavy pat on the back, "Get on the field, slugger!"

Unnecessary descriptive paragraph: the test wasn't one of those pee on a stick deals. Nope, you pee in a cup and use a fancy dropper to dispense your goods into a little tester. But with no disposable receptacle in our home, the cleanest vessel was an empty jar of Better Than Bouillon, lined with a ziploc bag (classy way to pee, I know). I didn't want to see the results alone. We set up the test so the lid of the bouillon jar covered the results. I waited for him to finish showering--the longest 8 minutes of my life.

"This is it," we thought out loud, looking at the bouillon lid that separated us and our future, thinking of all the meals we made with that bouillon. Thinking of when "our family" was just the two of us. "This changes everything." This changes the way we make decisions. The way we operate in community. The amount of sleep we get, the places we choose to live, the way our resources are used. We're don't have control of the parts of ourselves that replicate into the next generation. We don't get to choose what this person will be like. We only get to choose a name. Oh the pressure.

Like ripping a bandaid, we interrupted our thoughts and lifted the lid—

You can't take back first reactions. I melted in Wes' arms, trembling, facing away from the results--which also meant that the results were all HE had to stare at. "You're going to be a dad," I whispered. "You're going to be a mom," he said back softly. And with that, I buried my face into his chest and wept. "I'm so.... scared,” I sobbed.

I’ve heard people say that in a near-death experience, their whole lives flashed before their eyes. And in this new life experience, our whole future flashed before my eyes—and it was blurry. I could see shapes and colors and movement, and I couldn’t grasp it because I couldn’t tell how far away or how close I was. I could see small vignettes of fears and anxieties and questions, and they blended together into more sobs and cries, “I’m so, so scared.” But in my mind, as distorted as my vision was, the sound of a newborn baby’s cry was sharp and endearing.. and I suddenly wanted to comfort it. “You’re going to be a mom,” Wes whispered.

A few Sundays before that moment, our pastor preached about the fear of the Lord. Inasmuch as God can be terrifying, the fear is a reference to awe and wonder, the kind of awe and wonder that makes one aware of His glory and simultaneously indebted to His greatness. With breath returning to my lungs after minutes of crying, this is the fear I had. Wonder of the unknown, concurrent with the awe and yearning to meet this unknown. If the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, then the fear I feel about this pregnancy is the beginning of an uncharted journey towards finding and knowing and loving God in an absolutely brand new way.

Maybe my first reaction was to be scared, and I can’t take that back. But I’m making my second reaction courage, and my future reactions joy. Wes is going to be a dad. I’m going to be a mom. We’re having a little one. And we’re waking up from our dreams to find out that life is still a little weird (and gets even weirder), often nonsensical (and full of laughter), at times frightening (and never hopeless), but coated in bliss (and undoubtedly, baby poop).

There is new life within me, two fold; God had a dream, and placed it in a second beating heart inside of me.

Our first ultrasound

xo