Shaped by Grief

Three weeks ago today, a glorious and gorgeous light was taken from this world entirely too soon. This young man was really just starting his life and those of us who loved him like our own, were shocked and devasted by his sudden and unexpected death. It was an honor to watch him grow from a little boy through his tweens and teens and finally into a young man starting to make his mark on the world. As a part of our circle, he had more "mamas" than he knew what to do with, but there were a few of us who were fortunate to spend more time with him and felt even more of a maternal draw towards him. After news of his death, a group of us "mamas" came together as we processed and grieved and cried and raged and tried to wrap our heads around this enormous and shocking void. Unbelievably, five days (five days!) later, one of these dear "mamas" also lost her son. When I say unbelievably, I mean that in the very fullness of that word. My dear friend lost her beautiful son, Luke, suddenly and unexpectedly. Luke was such an amazing young man, also just starting out into adulthood. He loved so fully and completely. His light so bright others could find their way out of the darkness. And it is utterly unbelievable. When I heard about Luke, I rushed to my friend's home and wrapped her in my arms, trying to take away the tragic reality. She asked me if it ever gets better, and I said, "I'm not going to lie to you, it doesn't get better, but you will find a way." In my experience, you never miss your child less, but you somehow find a way to live with a hole in your soul. For these past three weeks many of us have been walking around in a fog. We have surrounded my friend, Luke's sister, his beloved partner, and their family and friends with love, support and service. We have held their hands and held them up. Encouraged them to eat, sleep, and stay hydrated. Tended to as many of their day to day needs as possible. We have done what you do wnen someone you love is in unimaginable pain, we loved them with all we have to offer. And it is hard. It is so, so hard to watch someone ache to their very core. After Hart died, I remember people telling me they felt honored to be by our side as we grieved. Now I know what they meant. It is such an honor, an intimite, raw, personal walk of love. I would be lying if I said this hasn't triggered some really big feelings and unearthed some memories that had been deeply buried. I'm trying hard not to project or insert myself into her grief, but have offered my friend some of my experiences, my mistakes, things I feel I got right (or right for me, anyway), "permission' to feel any and all ways, to change her mind, to not change her mind, to make decisions, to not have to make decisions. I told her that I know there are things that bring comfort to some and deepen despear for others. So much of grief navigation is trial and error and it is constantly changing. What worked yesterday may not work today. Everyone who has walked this walk knows that grief is an individual, solitary, neverending act. It clings to every part of your life, sometimes as a hardly noticible shadow, sometimes as a giant obstacle blocking your path. There are some similarities, "universal truths," of course, but every experience is unique, nonlinear and life-long. The thing is you want people to understand, you want them to say the words that will ease the pain, to offer grace and healing. You want them to know how losing a child impacts every aspect of your life, every decision, every action. You want them to know you are absolutly doing the best you can, even when it looks like a complete mess. You want everyone to understand the weight of life, because it is so heavy and oh so brief-so, so brief. But really, you don't want anyone to understand or experience the unfathomable anguish of losing a part of your soul and you know there is no other way to understand. It's interesting how grief creeps in without invitation, without regard for time or space and before, even, thought can form. In the past few days I've wiped my cheek countless times to find tears I didn't even know I had shed. I've been surprised how fresh and raw grief can feel-even 18 years later. In an alternate reality, Hart should be graduating high school this spring, but instead I feel like it was yesterday that we were saying goodbye. I'm not sure how much of this fresh grief is because I keep thinking of what could be-what should be, and how much has been stirred by the heartbreaking loss of these two amazing young men. It doesn't really matter, it is part of my journey, one that I cannot avoid or protect myself from, but honestly I wouldn't want to, because the joy is always worth the pain.

A Found Treasure

As I was preparing for our annual birthday celebration and homage to baby Hart, I stumbled upon a journal entry from about a month after his funeral. Reading past journal entries brings the beautifully messy gift of transporting me back in time, complete with every emotion I felt when I wrote them. I'm often in awe of what I was able to see or understand through the fog of grief. When I think back about that time, I feel like all I could see was fog, so I would often close my eyes, but these journal entries show me otherwise. (Although they also prove that sometimes I was, in fact, blinded by grief.)

February 6, 2005

We went back to church for the fist time since Hart's funeral. I cried when I took Felix to Sunday School class and spoke to the always fabulous Miss Anne. Over the summer I told her about Hart. This was, of course, after we decided to let God prevail. She said, "What a strange thing to know." With the simplest of words, our beloved Miss Anne struck upon such a deep truth. It was a strange thing to know.

I am so grateful we knew. Because of this, we were able to garner so much support, information, knowledge and some understanding.

To know a child is going to die, would many people decide not to have that child, to protect their hearts from unbearable pain, meanwhile missing out on a great, beautiful love? What if that child had 2 months, 6 months, a year, 16 years to live? How long of a life is a life worth allowing? We are all going to die, none of us has a guarantee.

I feel as though, for our family, knowing Hart's entire life would be brief was a blessing. Had you asked me before, I would have insisted that I would rather not know. But knowing enabled us to make a decision. A decision that no parent should have to make, yet everyone should have the right to make.

Hidden Treasure

The other night the moppets suggested that we watch home movies. I've got to be honest, watching hours of recorded school projects, Steadfast Husband telling everyone to, "Say, 'Hi'," and various moppets' firsts* is not my favorite thing to do.  But the other night watching reenacted memories just felt right. So when they asked, I agree, née encouraged the home video bender to commence. (*To be clear, we have never caught an actual first on camera, but have done an awesomely mediocre job of enthusiastically recording recreated firsts).

At The Cottage, watching home movies is quite an ordeal and truly requires perseverance. We still haven't converted our VHS tapes to DVDs and our VCR is 138 years old...so after 45 minutes of finagling (by Steadfast Husband), hundreds of queries of "is it ready, yet?" (by the moppets), lots of unsolicited advice "just hit play!" (also the moppets) and endless heckling (by me- I believe in the motivational powers of heckling), Fall of 2004 came to life in full blurry black and white.

Snippets of Oldest Son, at age 13, skateboarding, Oldest Daughter, then 10, doing an interview-style book review, with her 7 year-old sister serving as the hard-hitting interviewer and middle and youngest sons showing true brotherly love as only a 4 year-old and 2 year-old can- hugging each other- with the acumen of professional wrestlers, with huge teeth-gritting smiles on their little faces, (there may have been some mooning as well, but I don't want to embarrass anyone).

I must admit to losing interest- a little (and by a little, I mean just a smidgen shy of completely), and was weighing my desire to flee with my lack of desire to move, when the sound of my nasally narrative roused me from my debate. "Okay, let me finish changing him, then you can hold him," I heard. I looked up at the screen to discover the most precious treasure ever! Crackling video footage of sweet baby Hart, he was lying on a blanket on the floor and I was zipping up his romper. I had never seen this footage before! I felt like one of those people who discovers an original Picasso hidden behind a painting of a leprechaun.

Watching the video, it is clear that we were aware that it was being filmed, but none of us had any memory of it, nor could anyone recall ever watching it. We all sat there and watched in silent awe. It was so amazing. And beautiful. And mundane-a diaper change, youngest son patiently waiting, then holding his baby brother-which held his interest for exactly 17 seconds, after which he scooted out from underneath our tandem baby holding fun and started climbing on the furniture. The beauty of the moment was in its complete ordinariness.

“I've seen and met angels wearing the disguise of ordinary people living ordinary lives”
                                                                                                                    -Tracy Chapman

It was the best feeling ever! Like that one perfectly magical Christmas morning that you experience once (even if it only exists in rewritten memories) and hold as the standard for every Christmas morning after!

I might still be sitting there now, lost in my reverie if I wasn't olfactively snapped out of it twenty minutes later when one of our adorable dogs had a smack-down with a skunk.

In my heart it still feels like Christmas morning! (Like an old-fashioned Christmas morning 'round the rendering plant, but Christmas morning all the same!)