An unfinished post from 7/7/19
An unfinished post from 7/7/19...
It's been a while. My last blog was written as we approached Haddon's birthday on May 7th. Mother's Day and Father's Day were right on it's tail, and then, Dooms Day, the 4th of July would be the grand finale for finishing off the dreaded year of firsts. It's the day we all have feared since July 4th, 2018, the day that held our worst. How would we ever endure that day? Our children echoed our own sentiments and often. It's just awful. Everything about it feels awful.
Honestly, I didn’t think I could endure it, any notion of celebration surrounding the 4th of July left me spinning. Last year broke me, shattered beyond recognition. This kind of grief changes you to the core, heart, soul, mind, and strength. Nothing is untouched in the wake, the aftermath of the death of my son. I know I’m moving, through grief, through life. I’m thankful to be moving. I’ll never be the same. My parents, siblings, husband, and children can all attest this to be true. I fear sometimes the impact of this new version of me on their lives the most.
I have limitations that I didn’t have before, anxieties and fears that leave me reeling. I have requirements to be capable of functioning, lists of things to do in order to be available. Eat right. Exercise. Sleep well. Leave yourself enough quiet time for reflection. I know that doing them doesn't gain me righteousness or anything. Simply, it takes a whole lot in order to think straight, to pray, and to be. I want so desperately to offer my husband and children a heart that has the capacity to live, to see outside of my own pain. So, in an effort to live, I have committed to holistically fight for my own health and well-being. The truth is, most days it takes a whole lot of discipline, the thudding of my feet on the ground, to come to a place where I can pray. When I can finally get quiet with God, I can hear that still, small voice when I open up His Word. It comes alive again and the words jump off the page. It's there that I can stay for a while, clinging to the promises made and the promises kept. It's there, in my weakness that I find His strength.
It takes so much to get there though on some days. So much so that sometimes these requirements, they make me angry. I wasn’t so dependent before, so utterly needy that I could feel undone so quickly. Sometimes I can preach truer things to myself in the midst of hard things, the mundane events of normal life like navigating busy streets with four children in tow. Other days, I make demands, I yell too much and become agitated easily. My mind keeps telling me I can’t take another loss. I’ll unwind completely. It's there that I have the propensity for doing more damage to the ones I love the most. This new dance with navigating all of these seemingly endless lists of issues and problems surrounding grief and loss can send a Momma straight on to crazy. Yet, they also leave me with perhaps the sweetest realization of all. It's true that we all have great need. It's true that each of us will struggle to navigate the treacherous waters of grief. It's also true that we can rest in the One who called Peter out onto the water. He made a way in the impossible. He laid down His own life to make a way for the impossible. He will not leave me stranded and shattered. He makes all things new. He doesn't promise that we'll be without pain. He promises that He is with us in it, making us like Him. Having endured agonizing pain, He made a way for eternity without any pain for sinners, for me.
It's been a while. My last blog was written as we approached Haddon's birthday on May 7th. Mother's Day and Father's Day were right on it's tail, and then, Dooms Day, the 4th of July would be the grand finale for finishing off the dreaded year of firsts. It's the day we all have feared since July 4th, 2018, the day that held our worst. How would we ever endure that day? Our children echoed our own sentiments and often. It's just awful. Everything about it feels awful.
Honestly, I didn’t think I could endure it, any notion of celebration surrounding the 4th of July left me spinning. Last year broke me, shattered beyond recognition. This kind of grief changes you to the core, heart, soul, mind, and strength. Nothing is untouched in the wake, the aftermath of the death of my son. I know I’m moving, through grief, through life. I’m thankful to be moving. I’ll never be the same. My parents, siblings, husband, and children can all attest this to be true. I fear sometimes the impact of this new version of me on their lives the most.
I have limitations that I didn’t have before, anxieties and fears that leave me reeling. I have requirements to be capable of functioning, lists of things to do in order to be available. Eat right. Exercise. Sleep well. Leave yourself enough quiet time for reflection. I know that doing them doesn't gain me righteousness or anything. Simply, it takes a whole lot in order to think straight, to pray, and to be. I want so desperately to offer my husband and children a heart that has the capacity to live, to see outside of my own pain. So, in an effort to live, I have committed to holistically fight for my own health and well-being. The truth is, most days it takes a whole lot of discipline, the thudding of my feet on the ground, to come to a place where I can pray. When I can finally get quiet with God, I can hear that still, small voice when I open up His Word. It comes alive again and the words jump off the page. It's there that I can stay for a while, clinging to the promises made and the promises kept. It's there, in my weakness that I find His strength.
It takes so much to get there though on some days. So much so that sometimes these requirements, they make me angry. I wasn’t so dependent before, so utterly needy that I could feel undone so quickly. Sometimes I can preach truer things to myself in the midst of hard things, the mundane events of normal life like navigating busy streets with four children in tow. Other days, I make demands, I yell too much and become agitated easily. My mind keeps telling me I can’t take another loss. I’ll unwind completely. It's there that I have the propensity for doing more damage to the ones I love the most. This new dance with navigating all of these seemingly endless lists of issues and problems surrounding grief and loss can send a Momma straight on to crazy. Yet, they also leave me with perhaps the sweetest realization of all. It's true that we all have great need. It's true that each of us will struggle to navigate the treacherous waters of grief. It's also true that we can rest in the One who called Peter out onto the water. He made a way in the impossible. He laid down His own life to make a way for the impossible. He will not leave me stranded and shattered. He makes all things new. He doesn't promise that we'll be without pain. He promises that He is with us in it, making us like Him. Having endured agonizing pain, He made a way for eternity without any pain for sinners, for me.
While booming lights filled the night sky last night as our neighborhood put on their annual firework show, I realized something. I may never be okay again. My first question at that thought was for Jason. Through sobs, I muttered the question, “What if I’m never okay again? What if I am sad for the rest of my life?” His tender answer, “I’m with you babe.” Losing a child introduces an agony that never goes away this side of heaven. I know I’m moving through, but I will never move on, not from Haddy. I can’t do that. It isn’t within my capability. So, I’ll have to learn to live with agony in my midst, always. The rushing thoughts, agitation and irritability, and the constant attempt at navigating what will trigger me to the full-body fight or flight response, well, I hope they diminish even more as the years pass. You see, as I sat watching that all familiar sky display, I considered I might be triggered. I suppose much of the dread moving toward the 4th of July was that. I wasn’t, not in that space. You know what it did? It brought me the realization that I had survived an entire year without the small, sweet touch of my boy’s hand on my shoulder. No rocking or drooling. No defiance. No growth in his language or potty training. No tickling. No belly laughter. No good-night songs. No ornery charm with those twinkling blue eyes. I survived that. I still hate it. I want to arrive at a place where I accept this lot, Haddy’s death. I’m not there. I still wake up every single day with the same anguish, often thinking, “Oh dear God, this is really my life. I can’t do this. Please help me.”
When I thought I would be triggered, stuck in the swirling toil and angst of the flashing pictures in my mind, I had none of that. I had grief, a chasm of grief but my heart was calm. I am thankful for that, more than most may realize. You see, when my remembering collides with a trauma reaction, my heart and mind quickly will attempt to avoid the remembering. That is scary, so scary. About six months ago at about midnight, Calvin came rushing downstairs with anguish and fear in his eyes. He was sobbing and he couldn’t get any words out. When he finally did, this is what he said, “Momma, I forgot Haddon’s middle name for just a second.” It came out through sobs and with wild eyes as if to silently ask, “What if I forget more?” I pulled him to myself with so much anguish in my heart and at first I just held him. My son was bringing to me one of my worst fears. What if these memories slip into oblivion one by one until what I have left is just a meager trail of remembrance. You see, 788 days just isn’t very many. As I laid there, the Lord brought to me a very precious thought. I said something like this, “Calvin, as you grow you may forget many things that happened while Haddon was here, but no one can ever diminish the bond between you and your brother, not even death. We are hopefully going to grow old, and we will forget things, but we will never forget the love that God has given to us that we share with Haddy.”
All together, we survived the 4th of July.
When I thought I would be triggered, stuck in the swirling toil and angst of the flashing pictures in my mind, I had none of that. I had grief, a chasm of grief but my heart was calm. I am thankful for that, more than most may realize. You see, when my remembering collides with a trauma reaction, my heart and mind quickly will attempt to avoid the remembering. That is scary, so scary. About six months ago at about midnight, Calvin came rushing downstairs with anguish and fear in his eyes. He was sobbing and he couldn’t get any words out. When he finally did, this is what he said, “Momma, I forgot Haddon’s middle name for just a second.” It came out through sobs and with wild eyes as if to silently ask, “What if I forget more?” I pulled him to myself with so much anguish in my heart and at first I just held him. My son was bringing to me one of my worst fears. What if these memories slip into oblivion one by one until what I have left is just a meager trail of remembrance. You see, 788 days just isn’t very many. As I laid there, the Lord brought to me a very precious thought. I said something like this, “Calvin, as you grow you may forget many things that happened while Haddon was here, but no one can ever diminish the bond between you and your brother, not even death. We are hopefully going to grow old, and we will forget things, but we will never forget the love that God has given to us that we share with Haddy.”
All together, we survived the 4th of July.
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