Waves of Grief

I wrote this experience down a few months ago, after reliving a similar scene nearly every day. As time has passed day in and day out, I feel I am becoming more equipped to handle the waves of grief. The sorrow of my dear Jared's passing still comes just as strong each day, but the strength of hope and peace have become stronger too, and I'm feeling more comfortable flexing their muscles regularly. Still, the nearly upon us season of turkey legs and figgy pudding seems to be threatening my abilities to calm the triggers that show up unannounced. Grief is a roller coaster with stomach turning emotions waiting after each hill I've climbed. Highs and lows, joys and sadness, each equally great and surprising. 

So I share this not because I want to expose what some may consider weakness. And certainly not to gain pitty or worry. I share simply because it's real. Despite the fact that reality is a place I mentally avoid often, it is where I live. I want to express that grief is not a weakness, or someplace you simply pass on through to occasionally look back on. The grief over the passing of a loved one, and more specifically the passing of a husband whom your whole life and happiness is wrapped up in, is at it's most basic genetics the mirrored emotion of love. I've come to expect the rolling swells in the sea of grief to be high and deep as a reflection of my great love for Jared.

"When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of sorrow shall not thee o'reflow, 

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress."

 While I feel sorrow, I feel love more. I feel it coursing through me with each tear that falls and each heart string that pulls. I feel love for Jared and love from Jared. Still more importantly, I feel love from God, a God who is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent. I believe through faith in God and Jesus Christ, from whence all love flows, my grief, born of love but now winding through sorrow and heartache, will evolve back into that great love from where it began. 

"Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith... It is the price of love."

Author Unknown 

The water pours over me, running onto my head and catching in my eyelashes. It washes over my body as I kneel on the shower floor, dripping off my nose and chin. It streams down perfectly disguising my tears as they roll along side the hot water and over the contours of my face, the tears finding their way swirling around the drain and in my mind making their way to the ocean to mingle with drops of its their own kind, salty and blurry.

I hug myself, arms wrapped around me steadying, and striving, struggling to feel, to remember what it was like to be hugged so tightly, tight enough to believe nothing was wrong in the world. I’m straining to hear something, my husband’s voice, even just a whisper of my name.

How long has it been? One minute, two minutes, ten minutes. I don’t hear anything. No sound. Nothing.

And I cry, weeping for all the hopes and dreams that no longer exist. I feel grief washing over me as if I were in a pit of dark mud clinging to my skin. I look up and see there is an opening, but no matter how I strain and exert myself I can’t seem to grasp anything or find a foothold. I fall back down to the cold, damp ground.

On the outside, I smile. I chat. I technically function. But on the inside, I stand looking up from this pit of sorrow and I reach. Reaching, the strain of it wears on me.

How long have I been sitting on the floor of the shower? How wrinkled can skin become before it’s irreversible? Although pruned skin never bothered me before, I can’t leave Libby with Grandpa forever. She needs me. So I stand and rinse and get out. Once again, it is my daughter that makes me get up. She reaches to me and pulls me out of the deep well of grief. I also need her.

An Angel Beside Me

I'm not one to sit around and watch PBS, aside from Sesame Street with Liberty on occasion. Yet tonight I was glad it was left on. It started out catching my mother's attention with her highly favored Celtic Thunder singers. It was an old Christmas program PBS was pushing. While beautiful, the Irish group isn't really my thing. 

Eventually it switched to another tenor singer and abandoned by any and all viewers, but the tv was left on. I should note this is a pet peeve of mine, when the TV is left on and no one is really watching it. 

Can't we turn it off if no one is even paying attention? My sister, simultaneously talking with a friend, claimed to be listening to it. So on it stayed. I didn't pay much attention and laid myself down on the sofa with a heated rice bag to relax and try not to think. Despite the long pauses in between performances to ask for donations with the alluring promise of a memorabilia mug in return, the music actually became nice and calming. 

What first caught my attention was the singer describing his next song, Caruso. He described a man who was dying and looking into the eyes of a woman he loved and thinking back over life wondering if it had all been a beautiful dream. I don't speak Italian, but I felt I understood the song because I could understand the feeling. Then I thought, OK, I need to find out who this singer is. Nathan Pacheco everybody. I looked it up on YouTube. 

And that's when I discovered the song that I really want to share: Don't Cry. With a title like that I figured it was gonna make me cry. That's a condition I've frequented often enough that I was going to give it a go. 

I didn't want my sister to notice I'd become interested in the singer from the PBS special I had just so recently complained about. I think my exact words were, "Who's this guy singing anyway?" So I turned the volume down way low on my phone and held it up to my ear to listen to what this song was all about. I'll have to swallow some more pride when she finds out I've already purchased his latest album. Thanks to Jared insisting we get Amazon Prime two years back, it will be here 
Wednesday. 

As I lay still listening to the words and the music, Instead of crying so began to feel added hope and peace rise within me. Every line seemed to hold a special meaning written just for me. I imagined the Savior speaking the words and telling me to hold on and take His hand... "...you've got the angels by your side." 

I just have to tell you... Last night as I was savoring every snuggle and rocking Libby in "our chair" getting ready for bed, she was mumbling and rubbing her eyes. We had already said "goodnight" to daddy- Jared's picture. I should say pictures. We wave and blow kisses to at least a dozen around the room before nie-nie time. As we rocked, Libby suddenly looked up and started waving and said Da Da. And kept waving. I asked her where daddy was. She usually points to one of the many pictures. But instead she pointed up to where she had waved, then waved one more time before going back to what she was doing before. And  I knew our angel Jared was beside us. The song seemed to being a confirmation to me of that experience, that so was being told Yes, he stands beside you. 

            Blessed Art a Thou Among Women

                          By Walter Rane

"...for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up."

D&C 84:88

And now as I share this the tears have come. But instead is sorrowful tears, they are grateful tears. I may not have the eye to see, but I am grateful for my sweet baby girl who does. I am grateful for God's spirit that whispers through a song  that what my eyes can't see my heart can know and feel. I know Jared is our angel and he's so often near. My husband is involved in raising our daughter, watching over and protecting us from harm, and adding his own strength to mine lifting me up when my knees are feeble and my hands hang down. He gives me encouragement to take the Savior's hand. I believe it is through the grace and Atonement of Christ, Jared is lent the power and enabled to be the angel that stands beside me. I know Jared is still existing in the sphere of paradise and while I can't yet see him, if I continue to follow Christ to the best of my ability I will one day be able to see the angel who stands beside us. 

Light Cometh in the Morning

It seems most nights I spend just waiting for morning to come, since sleep often doesn't. I sigh each time I glance at the clock, realizing only very minutes have actually passed and sunrise is still far away. And the mischievous first of the month was once again no different. 

Waking up to the crying sound of "ma ma, ma ma!" is hard to ignore. Especially when little tiny hands are outstretched towards you hoping to be held. When I picked Libby up sometime after 2 o'clock, her clothes were wet as she had leaked through through her diaper yet again. I usually keep spare pajamas with the diapers and wipes next to the crib, but I had relapsed on my preparation this time. She whimpered as I removed her soiled clothes and changed her, quickly wrapping her up in a blanket as we ventured foggy-eyed upstairs to find more pj's. 

Not wanting to wake her anymore, I kept lights off using only my phone flashlight as a guide. Pj's in hand, the crying increased and it became apparent my little girl had passed the threshhold where simple rocking would put her back to sleep. We headed to the kitchen where a bottle was waiting in the refrigerator. For a moment I felt proud I had actually remembered to prepare something. That moment was quick in passing. I put the new clothes on my little one who focused on the warming milk, begging to have it already. In near slow-motion as I attempted to put the bottle lid on, while balancing Liberty on one hip, it tipped sending milk spilling in every direction, including over the counter, down my clothes, across the floor, and everywhere in between. 

I'm sure I'm not the only one who has cried over spilled milk, but I truly began to sob as I had to set my sleepy baby down on one side of the floor so I could clean up the milk. But of course, in the dark I couldn't see the entire lake of milk and had to flip more lights on, sending Libby to sob herself. There I cried, on hands and knees sopping up her bottle's entire contents while she cried, attempting to shield her sleepy eyes from the light. 

It was an obvious slap from single parenthood, which practically mocked me as my tears mixed with the milk. 

"Help!" I plead. "Jared, please comfort our baby so I can clean this up. Please, please help me!" 

I could hardly complete the task at hand as waves of loneliness and inadequacy crashed down over me. My hands hung down and my knees felt feeble. All the while, those tiny hands stretched out to me as I had to ignore more cries of "Ma ma, ma ma." Where was morning? Would the wretched night ever end? Then I wondered; was Jared standing near, weepy softly alongside his girls wishing he could wrap us both up and shush our crying? Or was he smiling kindly, knowing one day this experience would make me strong and durable?

And then as if an angel himself, my father appeared in the kitchen doorway asking what was going on and if I needed help. I looked up at him from tearful eyes. "I spilled all the milk," I sobbed. He looked down and saw Libby and immediately scooped her up and began to comfort her. I still had to change clothes myself and prepare a new bottle before I could have her back. I listened to my dad sooth my crying daughter, which soothed me in return.  I thought back to stories of him walking me up and down the halls as an infant, lulling me to sleep. He seemed to still have the calming touch, as Liberty calmed and I was able to wipe the floor clean from my clumsiness. 

Safely back in our plush rocking chair, I draped Liberty with Jared's blue baby blanket. I smoothed it over her as she hungrily drank, eyes almost immediately drooping closed. I was content to hold her as she nestled against me. Still, the night's stress was not all the way gone from my sweet, tiny girl as she continued to sigh and turn and whimper for the next hour. Again I thought, where is the morning? Where is the sun to break over the mountains and stream light in through the window? I just needed to survive the night. As I continuously swayed the both of us forward and back, I searched for an old general conference talk that had brought me comfort in the early months of my husband's passing. 

"Fourteen years ago the Lord took my wife beyond the veil. I love her with all my heart, but I have never complained because I know it was His will." 

Elder Richard G. Scott

As I thought on these lines, the same lines that struck me months ago, I realized I needed to focus more efforts on not complaining. As Elder Scott also shared the tender stories of losing a daughter, and a son six weeks later, my eyes welled up again with salty tears. My own broken heart seemed to break a little more for him. 

"We should never complain, when we are living worthily, about what happens in our lives." 

I needn't complain about spilled milk, or lack of sleep, or anything really. I sat there with my beautiful baby in my arms, finally peacefully sleeping. I know my husband and I have both strived to live worthily of God's promised blessings. I then felt my dear husband, whom I love with all my heart, close to both of us and smiling. And then as if right on cue, sun rays began to warm up the sky behind the blinds, gradually bathing the dreary night with warm and hopeful light. 

A Wife's Wrist Band...

I realized today I still had my wrist band on. The paper kind with the sticky end you get at concerts. Only the black skeleton silhouettes dancing across this one was evidence of the corn maze I had been to with the ward's young women a few nights before. As I went about needing to find scissors to cut it off a reminder of another wrist band came flooding back without warning.

Another wrist band. Same style, only hot pink. Without Halloween clip art. Simply, my husband's name, DOB, and hospital room number jazzed it up. When I returned back to Primary Children's Hospital after Jared had been admitted, I had to get a security band so I could just walk back to his room without checking in each time. As I talked at the security desk, I had to explain I was the patient's wife, not mother. Especially with the silly faces he was making all the while. 

"In 25+ years, I've never given one of these to a patient's wife," he said. And I would suppose not. It was a children's hospital after all. That was evident by the coloring book, crayons, and animal themed menu in my husband's room. In fact, there wasn't even an option for "wife" at the security check-in. I joked then that I sometimes felt more like a mother, since Jared was always a kid at heart. Despite not having wife as an option, hot pinkness still came to symbolize my "wife's" band. When I pulled into the parking lot after going back and forth between the hospital and my parents that first day, the guard asked who I was there for. I held up my wrist, flashing my pink band, and he waved me on. "Ah, you have a kiddo in there," he said and smiled. I smiled back. Yes, I had a big kiddo in there.

Even after we soon transferred hospitals and the band was no longer required, I kept it on. I liked seeing my husband's name around my wrist. It signified I was there for him.

After Jared's passing and the band was no longer required, I kept it on. I liked seeing my husband's name around my wrist. It signified we were still connected.

And even after we laid my husband to rest, all through the viewing and the funeral and the band was no longer required, I kept it on. It signified that I was still his wife.

I debated taking it off when I went to the temple the morning of Jared's viewing, but I just couldn't. The neon peaked out from under the sleeve of my dress; the same dress I wore when we were married. In fact, I wore that hot pink wrist band through that month, and the next, and then a little longer. To me cutting it off signified he wasn't there, and I couldn't bear the thought despite it running through my mind over and over. I wore it in the shower, to sleep, watching it get folded over and somewhat tattered. Then I noticed Jared's name began to slowly but surely fade. Eventually worries I would wear it out to the point of not being able to see my husband's name there, I took a pair of scissors and somewhat ceremoniously snipped my wrist free of the hot pink. I've put it in a safe place, along with other momentos of my husband. Forever reminding me that I was there for him, we are connected, that I am his wife. 

As I stare at the red and black band on my hand now, I can envision see the hot pink "wife band" that signified I was at the hospital for Jared, and tears well up. I would proudly wear anything that shows I am his wife.

A Merry Heart Doeth Good Like A Medicine...

A

 day, a week, a month. Why do we keep track of time when it really all just rolls up on top of itself and folds back over into one giant experience? Does it help or hinder us to mark stretches of time? As the first day of a new month rolls around yet again, I feel the pit of anxiousness swell up inside me. With the beginning of a new month and season, it's a reminder of the ending of the life I once had and loved. The 1st marks 8 months since Jared’s spirit was finally able to leap up and run. And oh, how I miss him! 

Sometimes I still count back to add up the number of days since his passing, although it always just makes me feel sad. Some hours it feels as if just yesterday we were talking and holding hands, living our beautiful life. Other times it seems light years away. Time is so warped to me now and seems to stretch on and on, and on and on. Yet, while each day is one more added to our length of separation, it also means one day closer to our reunion. 

When I first started this blog with Jared's encouragement, and then didn't really start it, my intention was to keep everyone updated on my husband's health, and how he was doing so great. And mainly, how his merry heart was what I felt was keeping him so healthy and happy. 

I anticipated creating a blog full of heart healthy recipes I had tried for Jared, ways I would make our home cute and crafty to reflect our family's love, and all about how Jared was defying the doctors' predictions. We both knew his merry heart was doing more than medical treatments could ever do. But now, none of that is valid and I have anything but a merry heart of my own. 

I feel I am being held together by sloppy yet faithful stitches, yet they can't seem to hold closed the tender wound in my own aching heart. I'm sure if doctors were to open my chest, they'd find an actual gaping hole where all my emotions, abilities, and confidence are pouring out. 

A few days ago I found myself gripping my steering wheel while I cried the kind of crying that makes your body ache and your head numb. Maybe it was the gloomy clouds or the rain pouring down that day, the same as on the morning we laid my husband to rest. Or maybe it was how the clouds lingered lower over the foothills above where I live; where we lived. But the tears began to fall as I drove back from a simple run to the post office. Sometimes the emotions fill up inside and have no where to go but overflow. They tumble out of my eyes and down my face. 

As I parked along the curb in front of my parents' house, I stared out the window. Everything was blurry; the neighbor's leafy trees, the black pavement, the late summer flowers. Even if I wasn't crying, the rain streaking across the window pane blurred all the greens of summer together into a sort of new gray hue. There have been times like this that I cry so hard I can't catch my breath. I continued to grip the steering wheel, seeing my knuckles turn white and almost shake. The emotional pain becomes physical and I have no particular thoughts, just everything rolling together through my mind. And then almost as sudden as it began, the tears stopped. I took out the keys, and I went inside. 

Moments of anguish come and then they go. Life goes on. The mail gets delivered each day, the phone rings with sales pitches, breaking news still gets reported by 5 o'clock each evening. Even though my own world has come to a screeching halt, a continuous halt that has lasted 8 months now, the rest of the world carries on. 

I know I need to get back to that place, to have a merry heart. This blog is my journey back to that now. The truth is that my grief, while more than skin deep, isn't all-encompassing. There is happiness. At first those moments of gladness seemed fleeting and spread far apart. Or was it just me keeping them from coming and not opening my eyes to know happiness is truly there constantly just waiting for me to grab on and hold tight? Within my soul past that wounded heart of mine, my spirit is happy and has reason to rejoice! 

I've heard others ask to those who have been traveling this journey of grief how long until the hurt goes away. Some same "In time," some say "Never." The truth is, I don't want it to go away. At least not completely. I feel my grief is only as equal as my love for Jared, and I fear if I feel less sad it would mean I feel less love for him. And that will never happen. I love Jared with all my heart, broken or not. While part of me has gone with him, I think I can still have a merry heart and happiness. There is happiness for the life we shared, the life I have and will still need to live for our daughter Liberty and her eyes full of light. There is happiness for that eternal bond I share with Jared, one that began eons ago and continues even now. Most importantly, there is happiness in the Atonement of the Son of God that enables me to have hope for a merry heart once again. 

Lady Liberty...

We welcomed our beautiful daughter into our family during the wee hours on July 31, and she immediately became my whole world. Liberty Eden takes after me in the punctuality field, being 6 days late from her EDD. I was beginning to feel like she'd never arrive! I was really starting to get discouraged waiting yet another day for the signs of labor. Each day dragged on as family would call or text to check in, always getting the same answer, "No news." I was really anxious to meet my daughter since I felt like we'd been cultivating a relationship for so long already. 

Throughout my entire pregnancy I was constantly in awe at the little miracle growing inside me, as I'm sure all mothers to be can relate. When I was first pregnant, it was a little strange as my mind kept playing scenes from alien sci-fi movies Jared loves to make me watch. You know, the ones where aliens come bursting out of peoples bodies where they've been incubating and invade Earth. Yes, those were my thoughts.  Needless to say I was a little freaked out when the time for labor finally arrived. 

I woke up that day feeling pretty crummy, more like I had food poisoning. And that's how I'd describe labor, cramps and food poisoning. Something for you future mommies to look forward to. My doctor had scheduled for me to be induced the very next day, and it was seeming more and more like that was inevitable. After a short nap, my water broke, only, I didn't really know that's what was happening. Of course I called my sister right away to get her opinion and advice. She had just given birth to her third child and by all accounts was an expert in my eyes. I told Jared I thought I was in labor but that I wanted to "get ready" first. So he napped while I did my makeup and hair! I spoke to the doctor on call and next thing you know we were on our way to the hospital. We got into a room right away and things went pretty quick from there.

The anesthesiologist was great. So great in fact that my husband later told me that I apparently blabbed on about how he was my new best friend and that we should make friendship bracelets. I do remember saying something to that effect, but also thinking that is was a perfectly normal thing to say to someone who just took all my pain away. My husband on the other hand was rather embarrassed and tried to get me to shut-up. 

Needless to say, the epidural was fantastic. I didn't mind that my legs kept flopping off the bed and my husband had to keep putting them back, because the food poisoning feeling was gone and we were on our way to meeting our little baby! My doctor was unable to make it to the hospital, but the doctor on call turned out to be the same doctor who had delivered 3 of my nephews. I wouldn't have wanted anyone else other than my own OB, so it was a blessing to have someone who we already knew. 

Turns out that extra week in the oven made my little bun extra big. It was just a few minutes under 3 hours of intense labor before she finally arrived, all 8 pounds 5 ounces of her, straight from heaven. Of course I cried tears of joy, and probably exhaustion. I was just so glad to finally have our little baby here with her perfect ten fingers and perfect ten toes. 

Throughout my pregnancy I was amazed each day at the miracle going on inside me. I suddenly had this feeling that not only was my baby growing and becoming an entire human being one cell at a time, but that I was becoming something new myself. Something that was somehow more special, more holy. While reading a book the other day to my sweet baby that I was given as a shower gift, Errand of Angels, I found a quote that explains my sentiments. 

"She who can paint a masterpiece or write a book that will influence millions 

deserves the plaudits and admiration of mankind. But she who would 

willingly and anxiously rear successfully a family of beautiful healthy sons and daughters 

whose lives reflect the teachings of the gospel, deserves the highest honors that man can give, 

and the choicest blessings of God. In fact, her high duty and service to humanity, endowing 

with mortality eternal spirits, she is a co-partner with the Great Creator Himself. "

-David O. Mckay

The last line is really what struck me - I felt like a co-partner with God. I know that's a lofty place to put myself, and I in no way want to imply I am on the same level as Diety. It's just that I felt while I was becoming a mother I was also becoming so much more, somehow even godly. As I've spent the last 6 weeks caring for my precious angel, I've felt more like I'm remembering how to be a mom rather than learning for the first time. This may sound strange to most people. No, I don't think I was a mother in another life who's now been reincarnated. I guess I just feel that the drive to be a mother and love my daughter nearly to the point of smothering has been part of who I am all along and I'm just now growing into it. It's more than just maternal instinct. I feel God has instilled this within me and given me all the godly characteristics needed to be a mother. Because I think the characteristics of a mother, those of patience, compassion, caring and selflessness, and most notably love, are all godlike.

I may not be perfect and need to continually grow into this role. My baby makes me want to be a better wife, friend, and neighbor; I feel like I owe it to her. She deserves the best mom - butnot just someone who makes great chocolate chip cookies and has snacks ready everyday after school, or drives her around from musical lessons to sport events. There are enough women in the world who are beautiful, smart, sophisticated, successful. I want to be all those too, but more than that I want to fulfill my eternal potential and role as a mother.

Liberty is beautiful and precious and as I stare at her tiny perfect features, I see her daddy so much. The eyes especially. I'm there too, and even a hint of both grandmas is apparent. She sleeps in my arms with all the hope and potential the world can offer. And then I see it, a glimmer of godliness and holiness all her own. Did she bring it with her from Heaven? After all, she came from the presence of God and his angels. Or perhaps, did she inherit some of that from me? The seeds of what I am now becoming have been passed down from God to all the mothers in the world and are planted in the hearts of our daughters. As I think this, I can't help but cry tears of joy. 

Original Writing: September 12, 2013