One of my deepest held tenets is that I believe in abundance, not scarcity. I really do believe there is enough to go around. When I operate in scarcity there is never enough. Not enough for me alone, much less anyone else. When I operate in abundance, there is always enough. So I make it a point to turn back to abundance anytime I find myself off track.
I had an experience a number of weeks back that challenged that tenet, but in the end I think abundance served me well. Jerry heard me talking to my mom about having some kind of memorial jewelry made with a little bit of Eli's ashes. He thought I was offering for her to have some ashes for a piece of memorial jewelry for herself. So then he mentioned to his mom that she could have some ashes too. When he later told me this, my immediate reaction was scarcity. Crap! No! I'm not just giving my kid's ashes out! I was going to take just a little bit for me and leave the rest.
But when I thought about it in terms of abundance, it went a little different. Eli is dead. Nothing is going to change that. We're just going to bury his ashes, and then they'll be completely inaccessible. What happens if I give some ashes to the grandmas? What harm could come with that? And you know, I couldn't think of anything. These are women who love Eli fiercely. They were with him for a good bit of the bad times, too. And plenty of the good times. If some ashes bring them comfort or help them feel closer to Eli, then so be it. There's no reason for me to keep the ashes locked away. That would be of use to absolutely no one.
Everyone hasn't gotten their ashes yet. It's a tough decision, picking out memorial jewelry. But Eli's ashes are in my closet, ready to go. My hand is open. And while Eli's death is as shitty as ever, he's still teaching me.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
All Saints' Day
The night Eli died I stopped being afraid of death. My baby is waiting for me, so anytime I go is fine with me. I'm also not afraid of suffering. I watched some of the most terrible suffering within our first world bubble, living in pediatric oncology and bone marrow transplant units for months. I even had my own very small dose of it when I got my central line in my chest and they gave me shots to stimulate my bone marrow to kick out more cells, and then hooked me up to machines for hours to pull the extra cells from my body. It was freaking terrible. One time Eli's doctor walked into the treatment room to see me while I was hooked up and I burst into tears. Not my proudest moment. But I was in a surprising amount of pain from the drugs, plus the stress of Eli's transplant and basically being a science experiment to try to save my kid. So yep, I cried. But I'm not afraid to suffer. I've seen so many kids do it.
Now the only thing I have left to be afraid of is awkward social situations. But death and what we call the afterlife are real parts of my life that I am living right now. They are much more real than we like to think in our first world bubble, but as a certain pastor I know is fond of reminding people, "We're all going to die. Nobody is getting out of here alive."
The cool thing is that I know some pretty awesome dead people. I know hilarious, fun, make-you-feel-alive kids who happen to be dead.
The other cool thing is All Saint's Day is in a few days.(Halloween actually came from All Saint's Day, but you're going to have to google that yourself.) All Saint's Day is a day in the church (most Christian faiths and traditions) to remember people of faith who have died. Your people who have died. I have people who died.
(The concept of "saints" is just the body of Christ, Christians. Both alive and dead. Hebrews 12 talks about being surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses". The great cloud of witnesses are the people of faith who have gone before us and led the way for us.)
So this Sunday I'm going to celebrate my dead people. I'm going to light a candle to remember each of them and to celebrate the ways in which they paved the way for us. . They've been so generous to me. I've received joy, laughter, wisdom, understanding, and most of all love from them.
If you think about it, remember a dead person or two on Sunday.
Happy All Saint's Day, Eli, Bryant, Wyatt, Maxwell, Nick, Megan, Brendan, Matt, Jeanne, Ray, Daphne, Ransom, Albertina, Mabry Kate, Katrina, John, Kevin
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
The kids are alright
One of the things I've discussed with my grief counselor is the discomfort I have when I interact with someone new who doesn't know about Eli. I struggle with the appropriateness of introducing myself, "Hi, I'm Lisa and my son died." I would feel better if I did that; it would take some of this invisible pressure off me, but it's not exactly appropriate. My grief counselor told me that it's common for kids who lose someone to walk into a room full of people and announce, "My mom died!" and run out. Then a few minutes later they can go back in and it's no big deal. To them. To the people? Well, they don't know what to do because death is so awkward in our society. Anyway, I get these kids. I would like permission to be them. ;)
One of the (many many many) difficult aspects of Eli's death, was there were all these kids who knew Eli and were praying for him. Then he died. As a parent, how do you explain something you can't understand, something that is going to break your child's heart? I'm sorry to all of the parents who had to do that when Eli died. When our buddy Bryant died last November, I couldn't bring myself to tell Eli. He was 3 1/2, how was he going to understand that his friend, who we had played with and prayed for, died? I did tell him several days later that Bryant went to live in heaven with Jesus. Eli asked me several different times about Bryant and I always said the same thing- that he didn't live here anymore, that he lived in heaven with Jesus now. I have no idea what Eli even made of that. I should have done better, but I was heartbroken and scared. Eli probably gets it now. ;)
I'm not sorry that so many kids had to face the hard reality that God doesn't always grant us what we want, or had to experience loss so early in life. In fact, I think as hard as it is to help them navigate it, it's good for them. Life is full of loss. Feeling all those feelings now will help them the next time tragedy comes to visit. Because it always does. It's almost like strengthening a muscle. If they never experience loss or are always shielded from it, what happens when someday they can't be protected anymore? They have no experience to help them wade through.
Beyond just experiencing loss, kids can be so pure and compassionate in their pain.
A friend of mine had to put her dog down recently. She and her family, especially her daughter, have been so loving to my family, despite having never met Eli. When their dog became sick and was suffering, they were heartbroken to have to say goodbye, even though it was the right thing to do for him. Her daughter told their dog that Eli would be waiting for him and would take care of him and she showed her dog pictures of Eli. The sweetness and the love and the faith of that just overwhelms me. I am humbled that this little girl would love and trust Eli enough to take care of her dog in heaven for her.
Another little person has touched me deeply. My friend's niece had a heart transplant some time ago. Through the magic of technology and social media, I followed along her journey and prayed for her while she waited and held my breath when her family announced a heart was on the way. The fragility of life and the unfairness of it all- the donor family, the recipient's family, will affect you deeply. This little girl's mom (my friend's sister in law), then followed Eli's story through social media. When I shared recently that I was struggling with nightmares, I guess this little girl's mom shared that with her daughter. Her little girl was also struggling with bad dreams (it's unfortunately part of life for most medical kids and their parents). When this sweet girl goes to bed she says a special prayer to not have bad dreams. And she started including me in her nightly prayer. The kindness and love that she shares by praying for me not to have bad dreams is almost more than I can take. I don't even know how prayer works and I can't do it right now, but this little one offers what she has wholeheartedly- prayers for sleep free from bad dreams.
Kids are capable of understanding so much more and loving so much more than we ever consider. I have been loved so well by two precious girls who live states away from me. They have made me cry big, fat, grateful, unworthy, healing tears. So many other kids have made me cards or pictures, have prayed for me and my family, have talked about Eli. The kids know what they're doing, if we just let them lead and tell us their truth.
One of the (many many many) difficult aspects of Eli's death, was there were all these kids who knew Eli and were praying for him. Then he died. As a parent, how do you explain something you can't understand, something that is going to break your child's heart? I'm sorry to all of the parents who had to do that when Eli died. When our buddy Bryant died last November, I couldn't bring myself to tell Eli. He was 3 1/2, how was he going to understand that his friend, who we had played with and prayed for, died? I did tell him several days later that Bryant went to live in heaven with Jesus. Eli asked me several different times about Bryant and I always said the same thing- that he didn't live here anymore, that he lived in heaven with Jesus now. I have no idea what Eli even made of that. I should have done better, but I was heartbroken and scared. Eli probably gets it now. ;)
I'm not sorry that so many kids had to face the hard reality that God doesn't always grant us what we want, or had to experience loss so early in life. In fact, I think as hard as it is to help them navigate it, it's good for them. Life is full of loss. Feeling all those feelings now will help them the next time tragedy comes to visit. Because it always does. It's almost like strengthening a muscle. If they never experience loss or are always shielded from it, what happens when someday they can't be protected anymore? They have no experience to help them wade through.
Beyond just experiencing loss, kids can be so pure and compassionate in their pain.
A friend of mine had to put her dog down recently. She and her family, especially her daughter, have been so loving to my family, despite having never met Eli. When their dog became sick and was suffering, they were heartbroken to have to say goodbye, even though it was the right thing to do for him. Her daughter told their dog that Eli would be waiting for him and would take care of him and she showed her dog pictures of Eli. The sweetness and the love and the faith of that just overwhelms me. I am humbled that this little girl would love and trust Eli enough to take care of her dog in heaven for her.
Another little person has touched me deeply. My friend's niece had a heart transplant some time ago. Through the magic of technology and social media, I followed along her journey and prayed for her while she waited and held my breath when her family announced a heart was on the way. The fragility of life and the unfairness of it all- the donor family, the recipient's family, will affect you deeply. This little girl's mom (my friend's sister in law), then followed Eli's story through social media. When I shared recently that I was struggling with nightmares, I guess this little girl's mom shared that with her daughter. Her little girl was also struggling with bad dreams (it's unfortunately part of life for most medical kids and their parents). When this sweet girl goes to bed she says a special prayer to not have bad dreams. And she started including me in her nightly prayer. The kindness and love that she shares by praying for me not to have bad dreams is almost more than I can take. I don't even know how prayer works and I can't do it right now, but this little one offers what she has wholeheartedly- prayers for sleep free from bad dreams.
Kids are capable of understanding so much more and loving so much more than we ever consider. I have been loved so well by two precious girls who live states away from me. They have made me cry big, fat, grateful, unworthy, healing tears. So many other kids have made me cards or pictures, have prayed for me and my family, have talked about Eli. The kids know what they're doing, if we just let them lead and tell us their truth.
Hope
I mentioned recently that I have hope I won't always be in the grips of grief, that it won't always be this bad. I don't have hope because I'm strong (I don't feel strong, ever, I mostly feel like I'm barely hanging on). I don't have hope because I have great faith (I have hardly any faith most days. I have just enough to not be able to deny God's existence, even if I wanted to, which, honestly, I wish I could, but not enough faith to trust God). Before you freak out at me, again, please know that I'm not having a crisis of faith. My kid died and I'm pretty beat down. Just like I have hope that I won't always feel this bad, I have hope that someday I'll like Jesus again.***
These days what gives me hope are people who have survived incredible loss and somehow continued to live. One of the hardest things is the fact that Eli isn't here today, and he's not going to be here tomorrow, and he's not going to be here next week, next month, or next year. How am I supposed to keep living like this? How will I not just fall over and die one day from the weight and pain of it all? One day at a time is a great idea and all, but do you live that way? It is terrible for life to be so overwhelming that you can't even consider tomorrow. How many tomorrows do I have? I don't really want very many. Please.
Yet I know people who have lost children and eventually were able to function and even thrive in life. There are even more people in history and currently alive well known folks who have lived well on the other side of disaster. There's not a clear path there, and these people still grieve for the ones they've lost, but they found a way to live and find joy. Their stories encourage me and give me hope, that someday I can be in that place. At least as long as I have to keep waking up and breathing.
I was watching a documentary about President Abraham Lincoln the other day. Did you know he had a 4 year old son that died? And then over a decade later, while he was president, he had a 12 year old son that died. I think that's why he was able to bring our country through the civil war. He was a grieving dad and masculine grievers tend to be task-oriented and therefore work a lot. (Feminine grievers seek out support.) There's a determination unlike any other that comes with controlling something when you know that ultimately you can't control anything. That's my opinion at least. On the flip side of Abe's grief was his wife, Mary Todd's grief. She was not well. She and Abe became a bit estranged. Then after Abe was assassinated she really wasn't well. She holed her herself up in a room. She didn't go to Abe's funeral. Then their youngest son died when he was 18. After that she was institutionalized for the remainder of her life. Seriously. Poor Mary. So much loss.
Vice President Joe Biden is another famous griever. His wife and daughter were killed in a car accident decades ago. I'm sure it was terrible for a long time, but he's been able to build a life after loss. Now his son died from brain cancer a few months ago. He just announced that he's not running for president and part of his reasoning is that he doesn't think he has enough emotional reserve for a presidential campaign (I'm paraphrasing). And you know? God bless him. It's a subtle statement on grief, but it's an important one. Losing someone you love takes a lot out of you and you don't just get over it or go on with your life.
Someday I might feel like living and experience joy. It won't be anytime soon. But I am thankful for the hope of grievers who have walked through the pain and made it to somewhere better, closer to whole. I'm not the first grief-stricken parent and I won't be the last. But man, humans can bear a shocking amount of pain and not die.
***When I say things like this, a lot of Christians and even friends get very threatened and/or have a crisis about it for me. This looks a lot like trying to convince me to think or feel differently. Even though I hate that with every part of me, I'm not going to let it stop me from being honest about my grief. I am not the only one that has had, is having, or will have this experience. There are so many people who in their grief are told their feelings are wrong, are told their faith isn't enough, that they should just pray and trust and they'd be better. That is a lie. Grief is a natural part of life. While soul-crushing, there is nothing extraordinary about my grief. If God is love, and grief is love with nowhere to go, then I think God knows a thing or two about grief. Also, the bible is filled with people who questioned God and expressed anger and sadness toward God, and they are our examples of faith. But when a currently living human who also tries to have faith expresses the same laments, it's somehow wrong. Let me gently suggest that some unconditional love will move me along in my journey far better than trying to convince me (or another grieving person) of something I'm not sure of.
These days what gives me hope are people who have survived incredible loss and somehow continued to live. One of the hardest things is the fact that Eli isn't here today, and he's not going to be here tomorrow, and he's not going to be here next week, next month, or next year. How am I supposed to keep living like this? How will I not just fall over and die one day from the weight and pain of it all? One day at a time is a great idea and all, but do you live that way? It is terrible for life to be so overwhelming that you can't even consider tomorrow. How many tomorrows do I have? I don't really want very many. Please.
Yet I know people who have lost children and eventually were able to function and even thrive in life. There are even more people in history and currently alive well known folks who have lived well on the other side of disaster. There's not a clear path there, and these people still grieve for the ones they've lost, but they found a way to live and find joy. Their stories encourage me and give me hope, that someday I can be in that place. At least as long as I have to keep waking up and breathing.
I was watching a documentary about President Abraham Lincoln the other day. Did you know he had a 4 year old son that died? And then over a decade later, while he was president, he had a 12 year old son that died. I think that's why he was able to bring our country through the civil war. He was a grieving dad and masculine grievers tend to be task-oriented and therefore work a lot. (Feminine grievers seek out support.) There's a determination unlike any other that comes with controlling something when you know that ultimately you can't control anything. That's my opinion at least. On the flip side of Abe's grief was his wife, Mary Todd's grief. She was not well. She and Abe became a bit estranged. Then after Abe was assassinated she really wasn't well. She holed her herself up in a room. She didn't go to Abe's funeral. Then their youngest son died when he was 18. After that she was institutionalized for the remainder of her life. Seriously. Poor Mary. So much loss.
Vice President Joe Biden is another famous griever. His wife and daughter were killed in a car accident decades ago. I'm sure it was terrible for a long time, but he's been able to build a life after loss. Now his son died from brain cancer a few months ago. He just announced that he's not running for president and part of his reasoning is that he doesn't think he has enough emotional reserve for a presidential campaign (I'm paraphrasing). And you know? God bless him. It's a subtle statement on grief, but it's an important one. Losing someone you love takes a lot out of you and you don't just get over it or go on with your life.
Someday I might feel like living and experience joy. It won't be anytime soon. But I am thankful for the hope of grievers who have walked through the pain and made it to somewhere better, closer to whole. I'm not the first grief-stricken parent and I won't be the last. But man, humans can bear a shocking amount of pain and not die.
***When I say things like this, a lot of Christians and even friends get very threatened and/or have a crisis about it for me. This looks a lot like trying to convince me to think or feel differently. Even though I hate that with every part of me, I'm not going to let it stop me from being honest about my grief. I am not the only one that has had, is having, or will have this experience. There are so many people who in their grief are told their feelings are wrong, are told their faith isn't enough, that they should just pray and trust and they'd be better. That is a lie. Grief is a natural part of life. While soul-crushing, there is nothing extraordinary about my grief. If God is love, and grief is love with nowhere to go, then I think God knows a thing or two about grief. Also, the bible is filled with people who questioned God and expressed anger and sadness toward God, and they are our examples of faith. But when a currently living human who also tries to have faith expresses the same laments, it's somehow wrong. Let me gently suggest that some unconditional love will move me along in my journey far better than trying to convince me (or another grieving person) of something I'm not sure of.
Community
I would like to run away. I would like to be somewhere people don't know me and I can just be. I don't think that place really exists. I don't think I can really just be right now, but it's a nice escapist thought.
I have known people who tend to run away from things that get hard. It's just the way they cope. I would very very much like to be one of them. I know myself though. I would always end up with the same problems because I could never run away from me. You know, where ever you go there you are. What a pain in the ass truth.
I really want to run away from my faith community. A lot. I have enough issues with God right now, I don't want issues with his people. It's complicated because it seems like some weird things are happening simultaneously in my community. Eli died. There was so much prayer, love, and support from our church throughout Eli's illness and death. I understand that Eli's death really did break peoples' hearts and leave them scratching their heads at God. Only a couple weeks after Eli died, Abigail was born. She was supposed to be born and die. But she lived. And recently she had brain surgery and it turns out she really is going to live. So there's a lot of praising going on about that. Which, of course there is. As people of faith it is a natural and fitting reaction. I just don't really want to be a part of it. Not that I don't love Abigail's family or that I'm not happy for them. They are wonderful, gracious people. Of course I'm glad they get to keep their daughter. Everyone should get to keep their kids. I just don't understand how God works or how prayer works, and I'm not feeling particularly celebratory.
It would be easy to run away. I know exactly which faith community I would (eventually) plant myself in. I love a good plan. But is that the best thing for me?
Is it the best thing for my community?
Jesus was pretty big on community. Nadia Bolz-Weber points out in Accidental Saints that over and over Jesus heals people and then sends them back to their community. I think it's an important detail of God's character and intention for us.
It would be easy for me to leave my community. But I have this lurking thought that won't leave me, that perhaps if I left, both myself and my community would miss out on something bigger than either one of us. That this weird, unwanted tension is somehow holy.
There must be something otherworldly that can happen in a community when they deal with the hard stuff and wade through it together. It's fairly nauseating to me that in my community we have the depths of Eli's suffering and death and the height of Abigail's miracle. (I'm not entirely sure it's a miracle, but I'm probably the wrong person to decide that. It was definitely an amazing turn of events.)
I guess what I'm saying is we have these two contrasting events involving innocent children and real lives. People have been engaged in prayer and service to our two families. And they went so differently. So what do we do with that? Where does that leave us with God? If I left, like I want to, it would be easier to brush Eli's story under the rug and move on. I know many people wouldn't, but as a whole that would be likely to happen eventually.
But what if I stay, like I feel nudged to? I get to be the physical reminder all the time that we do not understand how God works. I get to be the one whose simple presence reminds others that God will not move mountains just because you prayed for him to do so. Sounds so great, right? Just peachy.
Truthfully, I feel exposed. And scared. I don't want to face this hideous holiness. It's too much to bear. It hurts.
There's something about the humanity in my life that always makes me think of women just like me in developing countries. Thinking through my situations in terms of how they might deal with it always brings me back to earth and often reveals wisdom to me. Not because I think I have it so much better, but because I think we're really all the same. A woman whose child died in a developing country does not have the opportunity to run away and find a new community. She has to stay in her community. I'm sure much of her experience is similar to mine- her grief, having friends who hold her up, having awkward interactions, dreading going to certain places, trying to avoid certain people. But if she can't leave her community and she has to let them walk through her pain with her, does something powerful happen? Is there growth that happens in her and in her community that is greater than any growth that might take place if she escaped her community in her grief? I kind of think so.
If I'm called to anything right now, it's to be true to my experience and to stay put. That probably means I should show up on Sunday sometime. No promises this week. But I'll think about it.
As far as Abigail's mom and I....we're trying. We have real love for one another, but there's almost a pit of pain between us. We didn't sign up for this. We don't know how to do this. It's just hard. We communicate a little bit. We're honest. I think there is enough grace for us. We're trying.
I have known people who tend to run away from things that get hard. It's just the way they cope. I would very very much like to be one of them. I know myself though. I would always end up with the same problems because I could never run away from me. You know, where ever you go there you are. What a pain in the ass truth.
I really want to run away from my faith community. A lot. I have enough issues with God right now, I don't want issues with his people. It's complicated because it seems like some weird things are happening simultaneously in my community. Eli died. There was so much prayer, love, and support from our church throughout Eli's illness and death. I understand that Eli's death really did break peoples' hearts and leave them scratching their heads at God. Only a couple weeks after Eli died, Abigail was born. She was supposed to be born and die. But she lived. And recently she had brain surgery and it turns out she really is going to live. So there's a lot of praising going on about that. Which, of course there is. As people of faith it is a natural and fitting reaction. I just don't really want to be a part of it. Not that I don't love Abigail's family or that I'm not happy for them. They are wonderful, gracious people. Of course I'm glad they get to keep their daughter. Everyone should get to keep their kids. I just don't understand how God works or how prayer works, and I'm not feeling particularly celebratory.
It would be easy to run away. I know exactly which faith community I would (eventually) plant myself in. I love a good plan. But is that the best thing for me?
Is it the best thing for my community?
Jesus was pretty big on community. Nadia Bolz-Weber points out in Accidental Saints that over and over Jesus heals people and then sends them back to their community. I think it's an important detail of God's character and intention for us.
It would be easy for me to leave my community. But I have this lurking thought that won't leave me, that perhaps if I left, both myself and my community would miss out on something bigger than either one of us. That this weird, unwanted tension is somehow holy.
There must be something otherworldly that can happen in a community when they deal with the hard stuff and wade through it together. It's fairly nauseating to me that in my community we have the depths of Eli's suffering and death and the height of Abigail's miracle. (I'm not entirely sure it's a miracle, but I'm probably the wrong person to decide that. It was definitely an amazing turn of events.)
I guess what I'm saying is we have these two contrasting events involving innocent children and real lives. People have been engaged in prayer and service to our two families. And they went so differently. So what do we do with that? Where does that leave us with God? If I left, like I want to, it would be easier to brush Eli's story under the rug and move on. I know many people wouldn't, but as a whole that would be likely to happen eventually.
But what if I stay, like I feel nudged to? I get to be the physical reminder all the time that we do not understand how God works. I get to be the one whose simple presence reminds others that God will not move mountains just because you prayed for him to do so. Sounds so great, right? Just peachy.
Truthfully, I feel exposed. And scared. I don't want to face this hideous holiness. It's too much to bear. It hurts.
There's something about the humanity in my life that always makes me think of women just like me in developing countries. Thinking through my situations in terms of how they might deal with it always brings me back to earth and often reveals wisdom to me. Not because I think I have it so much better, but because I think we're really all the same. A woman whose child died in a developing country does not have the opportunity to run away and find a new community. She has to stay in her community. I'm sure much of her experience is similar to mine- her grief, having friends who hold her up, having awkward interactions, dreading going to certain places, trying to avoid certain people. But if she can't leave her community and she has to let them walk through her pain with her, does something powerful happen? Is there growth that happens in her and in her community that is greater than any growth that might take place if she escaped her community in her grief? I kind of think so.
If I'm called to anything right now, it's to be true to my experience and to stay put. That probably means I should show up on Sunday sometime. No promises this week. But I'll think about it.
As far as Abigail's mom and I....we're trying. We have real love for one another, but there's almost a pit of pain between us. We didn't sign up for this. We don't know how to do this. It's just hard. We communicate a little bit. We're honest. I think there is enough grace for us. We're trying.
Monday, October 26, 2015
The unfixable
How hard it is to sit and watch a loved one suffer.
In the unenviable position of having a dead kid, it turns out there are all these other, secondary and tertiary losses and pains. Some are more obvious, like I don't get to watch my kid open presents this Christmas, and one hundred million other similar scenarios that I guarantee you can construct in your head without me. Another one of them is watching people I love try (or sometimes not) with various levels of success to comfort me. I hate that we even have to have that interaction, that we even find ourselves and our friendship in this place. No matter how well or how poorly it goes, no matter how unresponsive or bratty I seem, thank you for being brave enough to try. Thank you for being brave enough to say Eli's name. Thank you for risking awkwardness and pain to reach into my pain.
(BTW- there is a level of awkwardness at least 95% of the time when someone talks to me about Eli. So don't feel bad. Thanks death, for being so awkward.)
I am sorry if/when I don't respond appropriately to your engaging me. I have no idea what I'm doing, either. But I can promise that even if I'm distant/bratty/awkward/whatever, I appreciate your effort, your intention, your kindness. Thank you for thinking of me and for remembering Eli.
Remembering Eli is the very best thing anyone can do for me. You wouldn't believe how a quick "Thinking about you right now" text or a note "Saw _________ today and it made me think of Eli" can keep me going just a little bit longer.
Recently a dear friend of mine had a bit of a crisis within her family. I would probably commit a crime for this friend, my love is so fierce. (I am terrible at breaking the rules, so I hope she doesn't ask. We'd never get away with it.) I felt real pain for her, and I had extra anxiety just for her. ;) When things somewhat resolved, at least for the time being, I realized I had been almost holding my breath for her for over a week.
Believe it or not, during this time all I wanted was to fix things for my friend. Me, the one who is intimately acquainted with the understanding that many problems cannot be fixed (and no one really wants their problems fixed anyway). I just wanted to fix it. Because I love my friend.
The truth is, if *I* of all people could have fixed things for my friend, she never would have experienced that situation to begin with. What I mean is, if SHE and her family couldn't fix it, what in the world would MY 'fixing' do? How could I possibly make it better? More than likely, it would hurt her, or show her that I couldn't handle her pain.
But that human urge we have to 'fix' things when we see suffering, that is strong, huh? I think that surprised me more than anything. That it was so strong, I had to continuously redirect myself in order to love my friend better. Me, who knows exactly what it's like when someone wants to fix this unfixable thing.
I don't know that I did a good job. I checked in with her daily-ish. Together with another friend, we reached out to a friend who was more of an expert with that pain. Kind of a, "We love you and have never lived your pain, but here is a trustworthy friend who has." I didn't judge any decision that she made or give her any guidance ( I hope. I tried not to). One day when she was feeling overwhelmed and said she had to do something later, I offered to do it for her immediately. That seemed to help.
All the things that I did (or didn't do) for my friend were a reflection of the things that people have done and are doing for me. Sitting in someone's pain with them and not trying to make it better is maybe one of the hardest things to do. But it's also one of the most important.
In the unenviable position of having a dead kid, it turns out there are all these other, secondary and tertiary losses and pains. Some are more obvious, like I don't get to watch my kid open presents this Christmas, and one hundred million other similar scenarios that I guarantee you can construct in your head without me. Another one of them is watching people I love try (or sometimes not) with various levels of success to comfort me. I hate that we even have to have that interaction, that we even find ourselves and our friendship in this place. No matter how well or how poorly it goes, no matter how unresponsive or bratty I seem, thank you for being brave enough to try. Thank you for being brave enough to say Eli's name. Thank you for risking awkwardness and pain to reach into my pain.
(BTW- there is a level of awkwardness at least 95% of the time when someone talks to me about Eli. So don't feel bad. Thanks death, for being so awkward.)
I am sorry if/when I don't respond appropriately to your engaging me. I have no idea what I'm doing, either. But I can promise that even if I'm distant/bratty/awkward/whatever, I appreciate your effort, your intention, your kindness. Thank you for thinking of me and for remembering Eli.
Remembering Eli is the very best thing anyone can do for me. You wouldn't believe how a quick "Thinking about you right now" text or a note "Saw _________ today and it made me think of Eli" can keep me going just a little bit longer.
Recently a dear friend of mine had a bit of a crisis within her family. I would probably commit a crime for this friend, my love is so fierce. (I am terrible at breaking the rules, so I hope she doesn't ask. We'd never get away with it.) I felt real pain for her, and I had extra anxiety just for her. ;) When things somewhat resolved, at least for the time being, I realized I had been almost holding my breath for her for over a week.
Believe it or not, during this time all I wanted was to fix things for my friend. Me, the one who is intimately acquainted with the understanding that many problems cannot be fixed (and no one really wants their problems fixed anyway). I just wanted to fix it. Because I love my friend.
The truth is, if *I* of all people could have fixed things for my friend, she never would have experienced that situation to begin with. What I mean is, if SHE and her family couldn't fix it, what in the world would MY 'fixing' do? How could I possibly make it better? More than likely, it would hurt her, or show her that I couldn't handle her pain.
But that human urge we have to 'fix' things when we see suffering, that is strong, huh? I think that surprised me more than anything. That it was so strong, I had to continuously redirect myself in order to love my friend better. Me, who knows exactly what it's like when someone wants to fix this unfixable thing.
I don't know that I did a good job. I checked in with her daily-ish. Together with another friend, we reached out to a friend who was more of an expert with that pain. Kind of a, "We love you and have never lived your pain, but here is a trustworthy friend who has." I didn't judge any decision that she made or give her any guidance ( I hope. I tried not to). One day when she was feeling overwhelmed and said she had to do something later, I offered to do it for her immediately. That seemed to help.
All the things that I did (or didn't do) for my friend were a reflection of the things that people have done and are doing for me. Sitting in someone's pain with them and not trying to make it better is maybe one of the hardest things to do. But it's also one of the most important.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
This is grief- am I sick?
I've only come to realize in the last couple of weeks what an impact grief has, physically. I am frequently nauseous and I am exhausted all of the time. Because grief is kind of an asshole, I'll forget to eat for many hours. Not long enough to suffer malnutrition, but long enough to feel completely sick, like I suddenly just can't go on. My whole body aches, the thought of food is nauseating. It's tricky because I'll have never felt hungry and food will sound revolting. So I start wondering if I'm pregnant? (Nope.) Do I have cancer? (Nope.) Is it the flu? (Nope.) Oh, I haven't eaten in nine hours, maybe I should just try a cracker. I do this at least a couple times a week. I guess it just always surprises me because I am generally an emotional/stress eater. There are no rules with grief, though. It is so overwhelming and inescapable, you may or may not respond to it the way you have other stressors throughout your life.
Speaking of stressors, do you know what has been a super fun and new grief symptom? Headaches. Headaches for days. I don't typically get a lot of headaches (I know, I have counted my blessings on that many times.), so usually there's a reason- minor dehydration, illness, etc. I've tried all the things- more water, nutrient-dense food, less junk, I'm not addicted to caffeine or fake sugar, so it's not that, it's not allergy-related. Then I wonder am I pregnant? (Nope.) Is this the lead up to a brain aneurysm? (Not yet and probably nope.) It turns out it's due to the stress of grief. Ugh.
My physical symptoms of grief are exhaustion, nausea, sensitivity to noises, and headaches. And the brain fog. Is that a physical symptom? It's hard to know. There might be a few more, but those are the main ones. How fun for me that most of those coincide with pregnancy symptoms. Right? (Dude, we are not about to have a baby. The end.) It's super annoying, but when I think about it, it kind of makes sense. When you're pregnant, there is another living thing attached to you, basically draining you of life, not all the way, just enough for it to grow. When you're grieving, your grief is like a parasite, sucking the life right out of you. I mean, one is a good thing and the other is soul-crushing, but they have a similar effect.
Other quasi-physical effects are the ways anxiety manifests itself. For me, that's anxiety or grief attacks. Anxiety attacks and what I call grief attacks feel similar, but one is my brain focused on something present or in the imminent future that I cannot handle (anxiety attack), the other is the direct response to pain of the past (Eli's suffering and death). Sometimes I can practice grounding strategies and sometimes I'm just sobbing on the floor, trying to breathe. Grounding strategies are using your senses to basically prove to your brain that even though you feel swallowed up, you are physically okay. I know there are specific recommendations on what to do, but it's hard to remember that when you feel like you are swirling in a tornado, so I just name one thing I can identify in my surroundings with each of my senses. Example: I see the blue sky, I hear the a/c blasting air, I smell old food someone left in the car, I feel the bumpy road under my tires, I taste the coffee I drank an hour ago (wow, I should probably brush my teeth). See, it doesn't even have to be good stuff. And yep, it happens a lot in the car. But not always.
For the record, all of this sucks. Every time. And it's not getting better. Actually, it's gotten worse in the last month. There's no avoiding or escaping it. It doesn't let up or go away. I do have hope that it won't always be like this. But I still ask my grief counselor every time, if it will always be like this and if it's going to keep getting worse. It really might get worse. That has been the trend since Eli died. I have hope that someday I will wake up and be glad that I'm alive. I have hope that I won't always feel like a home to a parasite. I do know that in some way grief will always be with me because I will always have love for Eli. And that's all grief is, is a response to love with nowhere to go.
Speaking of stressors, do you know what has been a super fun and new grief symptom? Headaches. Headaches for days. I don't typically get a lot of headaches (I know, I have counted my blessings on that many times.), so usually there's a reason- minor dehydration, illness, etc. I've tried all the things- more water, nutrient-dense food, less junk, I'm not addicted to caffeine or fake sugar, so it's not that, it's not allergy-related. Then I wonder am I pregnant? (Nope.) Is this the lead up to a brain aneurysm? (Not yet and probably nope.) It turns out it's due to the stress of grief. Ugh.
My physical symptoms of grief are exhaustion, nausea, sensitivity to noises, and headaches. And the brain fog. Is that a physical symptom? It's hard to know. There might be a few more, but those are the main ones. How fun for me that most of those coincide with pregnancy symptoms. Right? (Dude, we are not about to have a baby. The end.) It's super annoying, but when I think about it, it kind of makes sense. When you're pregnant, there is another living thing attached to you, basically draining you of life, not all the way, just enough for it to grow. When you're grieving, your grief is like a parasite, sucking the life right out of you. I mean, one is a good thing and the other is soul-crushing, but they have a similar effect.
Other quasi-physical effects are the ways anxiety manifests itself. For me, that's anxiety or grief attacks. Anxiety attacks and what I call grief attacks feel similar, but one is my brain focused on something present or in the imminent future that I cannot handle (anxiety attack), the other is the direct response to pain of the past (Eli's suffering and death). Sometimes I can practice grounding strategies and sometimes I'm just sobbing on the floor, trying to breathe. Grounding strategies are using your senses to basically prove to your brain that even though you feel swallowed up, you are physically okay. I know there are specific recommendations on what to do, but it's hard to remember that when you feel like you are swirling in a tornado, so I just name one thing I can identify in my surroundings with each of my senses. Example: I see the blue sky, I hear the a/c blasting air, I smell old food someone left in the car, I feel the bumpy road under my tires, I taste the coffee I drank an hour ago (wow, I should probably brush my teeth). See, it doesn't even have to be good stuff. And yep, it happens a lot in the car. But not always.
For the record, all of this sucks. Every time. And it's not getting better. Actually, it's gotten worse in the last month. There's no avoiding or escaping it. It doesn't let up or go away. I do have hope that it won't always be like this. But I still ask my grief counselor every time, if it will always be like this and if it's going to keep getting worse. It really might get worse. That has been the trend since Eli died. I have hope that someday I will wake up and be glad that I'm alive. I have hope that I won't always feel like a home to a parasite. I do know that in some way grief will always be with me because I will always have love for Eli. And that's all grief is, is a response to love with nowhere to go.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Seashells
We went to the beach this morning to avoid life. Or maybe we were embracing life, I don't know.
The tide happened to be out and the shell lines were huge. It was a satisfying sight. (Shell lines are the swaths of shells left on the beach when the tide recedes.) Seashells are just evidence of where there once was life. I walked through the shell lines for awhile and was overwhelmed at the amount of life that no longer existed.
I thought about how many human lives have ended this year, last year, in the last decade, in my lifetime, in the history of the world. It was actually comforting, the idea that Eli was in such good company.
It has become evident that after a couple of months, a lot of people have moved on from Eli's life and death. That feels especially cruel, even though I know that's about them, not me. There are a number of friends who have not and their remembrance, their compassion, their gentleness is a hand pulling me out of the ocean I'm drowning in.
I wish I could say it made me feel better, going to the beach. It was nice to get some sun, feel the sand and the water, watch the birds and the clouds, collect a few shells, watch Ty and his buddy play. I don't feel particularly better. I'm glad I went.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Today was a terrible day
Today was a terrible day. In my early morning sleep I was having anxiety for a friend whose daughter was to have surgery today. I got up to get Ty dropped off. I was so exhausted. I came home and crawled back in bed, only to have multiple nightmares of Eli being sick and me not being able to do anything to help him. I woke up screaming a few times. (Geez, that doesn't sound familiar at all, I wonder why I would have nightmares about that.)
I was exhausted and rattled and sad all day. I did and have been doing a terrible job of taking care of myself. And everyone else.
My friend whose daughter had surgery got her miracle. She already had hospice care and it turns out hospice is no longer needed. My friend is no longer on a oneway train to my club of moms whose kids have died. That is so wonderful. This club does not need to get any bigger. I truly, truly am glad for my friend. But somehow it makes my lack of miracle echo even louder in my head. It leaves my inner six year old crying, "Why did she get ice cream and I got raisins?" I guess it just makes me human.
I cooked dinner for Ty and I, even if it was just frozen burritos. I spent almost an hour reading a book I've been carrying around with me for awhile.
I went to target to get an attachment for my garden hose. I've been preoccupied with how stinky my backyard is. Stinky like dog pee. Huge dog + tiny backyard = stink. It's not a complaint, just a fact. I've made lots of progress.
A weird thing happened at target. There were two women standing outside with a sign when I left and they said something to me in heavily accented (perhaps Eastern European-ish?) English. I didn't even pay attention because I've been in such a mood today. But when I drove out of the parking lot I had Ty read me their sign, "Help my for food". Not my typo, that's what their sign said. Ty and I talked about what to do. All of our experiences with folks asking for money for food end in the person turning down actual food. Every single one. But they have also all been men whose native language appeared to be English. We talked about what the chances were that these women were scammers or drug addicts. We have no actual idea. We do know that it is tough to be a foreign person in a foreign land. We know that regardless how we feel about God, Jesus welcomed foreigners in less than welcoming environments. So we decided to go back and give the women some money. Who knows if that was the right thing to do.
This evening I made my way through a few more boxes in my bedroom. After awhile they start to blend in as decor, so progress feels good.
I could have come home from picking up Ty this afternoon and gone to bed until tomorrow. I made myself do things. It did not make me feel better at all. That's how grief is. But I got a few things done, so I guess that's good.
Tomorrow is another day and all signs point to me waking up tomorrow. Hopefully it will be less miserable.
I was exhausted and rattled and sad all day. I did and have been doing a terrible job of taking care of myself. And everyone else.
My friend whose daughter had surgery got her miracle. She already had hospice care and it turns out hospice is no longer needed. My friend is no longer on a oneway train to my club of moms whose kids have died. That is so wonderful. This club does not need to get any bigger. I truly, truly am glad for my friend. But somehow it makes my lack of miracle echo even louder in my head. It leaves my inner six year old crying, "Why did she get ice cream and I got raisins?" I guess it just makes me human.
I cooked dinner for Ty and I, even if it was just frozen burritos. I spent almost an hour reading a book I've been carrying around with me for awhile.
I went to target to get an attachment for my garden hose. I've been preoccupied with how stinky my backyard is. Stinky like dog pee. Huge dog + tiny backyard = stink. It's not a complaint, just a fact. I've made lots of progress.
A weird thing happened at target. There were two women standing outside with a sign when I left and they said something to me in heavily accented (perhaps Eastern European-ish?) English. I didn't even pay attention because I've been in such a mood today. But when I drove out of the parking lot I had Ty read me their sign, "Help my for food". Not my typo, that's what their sign said. Ty and I talked about what to do. All of our experiences with folks asking for money for food end in the person turning down actual food. Every single one. But they have also all been men whose native language appeared to be English. We talked about what the chances were that these women were scammers or drug addicts. We have no actual idea. We do know that it is tough to be a foreign person in a foreign land. We know that regardless how we feel about God, Jesus welcomed foreigners in less than welcoming environments. So we decided to go back and give the women some money. Who knows if that was the right thing to do.
This evening I made my way through a few more boxes in my bedroom. After awhile they start to blend in as decor, so progress feels good.
I could have come home from picking up Ty this afternoon and gone to bed until tomorrow. I made myself do things. It did not make me feel better at all. That's how grief is. But I got a few things done, so I guess that's good.
Tomorrow is another day and all signs point to me waking up tomorrow. Hopefully it will be less miserable.
Friday, October 2, 2015
This is grief, getting lost
Yesterday I went to Walmart and when I got to the checkout I could not find my debit card. I could not remember the last time I used it. I had no other way to pay. I had no checkbook, no cash. I usually have at least one, if not both. I had to abandon my items at the checkout because I had no way to pay. Then I got in my car and I drove around the Walmart parking lot for a few minutes in circles and I could not figure out how to get from the parking lot to the road.
I am an adult human being of at least average intelligence. I have been navigating parking lots for 16 years. I have a keen sense of direction. I always know where I am going and exactly how to get there. Except not these days.
I am a person who knows how to navigate. If not life, at least spatially. I can find my way anywhere and I can tell you three ways to get to a given destination. Except not these days.
It is hard for me to even understand how I spend so much time trying to find my way, turning around, doubling back because I missed my turn, changing course because I am not on the path I thought I was. I am constantly losing my way. Of course I have lost my way in life. But on the road? I have been driving these specific roads in this specific city for 14 years. And yet every day I get turned around, lost, unsure of how to get from where I am to where I am supposed to be.
I did not expect this out of grief. It is surprising and disorienting.
Now that I am writing about this aspect of my grief I am shocked at what a metaphor it is for grief itself.
I'm lost, I'm disoriented, I feel like I'm going in circles. I can sometimes see where I want to go, but I do not know how to get there.
Sometimes I don't want to live, but since I'm still alive there are some things I know I want to do. How do I get to those things? It's so confusing, it doesn't make sense. I'm in the Walmart parking lot and I'm driving in circles and I know where the road is but I can't seem to find the path to the road.
Besides being disorienting, this is maddening. I'm so frustrated that I can't do simple things. That I can't see where I'm going. Both in the Walmart parking lot and in life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)