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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

These days and Ruth

I've been reading and re-reading the book of Ruth. I'm feeling much more Old Testament these days and I love strong women. 

I've also been hearing the song "Drag Me Down" on the radio all the dadgum time. It seems no one can drag One Direction down. I'm always surprised when a catchy song that I like turns out to be by One Direction. Oh well. 

Drag Me Down keeps making me think of Ruth and Naomi. Sure there is a level of self-importance that I think Naomi doesn't share with these modern boys, but really it's a song about the loyalty of one person. 

Here is the chorus:

All my life
You stood by me
When no one else was ever behind me
All these lights
They can't blind me
With your love, nobody can drag me down

It's not perfect. But Naomi had no one, except Ruth. Ruth abandoned everything (which wasn't much, but still) in order to be Naomi's person, with no reward or outside influence that we can see. She decided to be loyal to her mother in law in the face of tragedy. Eventually something grand came of that loyalty, through Ruth's marriage to Boaz (which probably saved Ruth's and Naomi's lives), and generations later meant Ruth was part of the genealogy of David and then of Jesus. Oh, BTW, Ruth was a foreigner. So there's a lot going on in those 4 chapters in the middle of the Old Testament. 

Today I stopped by a bookstore because I was going to be a couple of minutes early to pick up Ty, and well, books. I picked up a copy of A Grief Observed by CS Lewis. The guy at the cash register asked me how my day was going. I avoided eye contact and stammered, "Umm, not great." Dude, I'm buying THE book on grief. Small talk is not an option. It's like if I'm buying monistat or immodium or whatever at Walgreens, I really don't want to have a conversation with the cashier. However, I don't think my grief is a reason to be indiscriminately rude to people, so I did look him in the eye and give him a straight faced "thank you" when he handed me my receipt and my book. 

Conveniently, A Grief Observed is a short book of four chapters. After I got home I took my book to bed and fell asleep after the first chapter. Grief is exhausting. Reading a book that mirrors your entire experience of grief is also exhausting. I don't know how long I slept...an hour or two. I was awake by dinner time. 

I figured I'd be up all night, or at least for all of Monday night football, so I could witness my middle school fantasy football opponent drive a nail in my coffin with his kicker. (UGH! Seriously, UGH!) But then a friend texted me and needed me to stay with one of her kids while she takes the other to the ER. I'm happy to do it. If Eli was here I wouldn't be as able to. That doesn't make it okay or give me some magical purpose, but it is an opportunity to do the next right thing. I care about my friend and of course I will be part of her village. 

I guess now I know if I have a hard time sleeping I can just read A Grief Observed and be worn out almost immediately.