Tag: devastation

The Breath of Life

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God fixed my broken pieces, but He did it by way of a soulmate he grew, hand-plucked and then planted right into my life. Now my pieces are struggling to remain attached to each other.

My mind keeps going back, over and over and over, to the moment the doctors walked down the hallway toward me, the disastrous results of my husband’s code blue evident on their faces. I cannot stop feeling what it was like to pleadingly and raggedly cry out “No…NO…NOOOOOOO!!!” and then slide down the wall in sobs as my legs failed to hold my weight.

I think I “knew” when I left his room. I’m a nurse. Not only was he not breathing but he had no airway. In the back of my mind I knew the statistics. I knew the potential and likely outcomes at that point. I knew my likelihood of loss. But I was praying for a miracle. I was holding onto hope like I was falling off of a cliff where the raveling thread of someone’s threadbare sweater was all I had to hold onto. I spent about an hour, give or take, grasping that tiny thread so tightly that it wore shreds into the skin of my palms. Or maybe that was my fingernails.

And then I drowned.

I could feel myself suffocating as I slid down the wall. As one doctor said “go get her a chair” and then told me to tuck my head and breathe. I had been holding onto the ICU visitor phone asking if my husband had been brought over yet when I heard them coming down the hall toward me and I remember seeing the handset hanging from the cord, the cord dangling, as I sat in a crumpled heap on the cold hallway floor. I remember men who had walked toward me, four abreast, all of their faces dour, the one clearly intending to deliver the news just a step ahead of the rest searching my face as he prepared to end my life as I knew it. And I could not breathe. I don’t even know how the cries for mercy made their way out except for the breath of wind that caught in my throat as they approached.

My chest clenched. I don’t know what happened to my heart but if you told me it had stopped beating right then, it would not surprise me. I wonder if that’s what cardiac arrest feels like. I wonder if my husband felt like that, too.

I read a post the other day where a widow said that her husband had “died” once before, during a heart attack, for several minutes while they resuscitated him. When he “died permanently” several years later he wasn’t afraid to go. He had told her that during that first time, he knew exactly when he left his body because the pain stopped entirely, there was suddenly no fear and a sensation he could only define as “euphoria and complete peace” overcame him. He thought to himself that he was leaving this earth and he was okay with it. He didn’t bewail the fact that he was leaving others behind but just knew he was safe and that it was okay. He was okay and they’d all be okay.

I hope that’s what it was like for my husband. Of all of the people I know in this world, my husband 100% deserved peace. He spent many years of his life not having it.

There’s a part of me that wishes he’d know how much we miss him, how much we mourn his loss, but not when I think of what that would put him through. So I guess I just want him to know how much and how completely he was loved and how important he was to people here. I hope he knows now that he made a difference, left a legacy of goodness, kindness, compassion, empathy. And I wish I could see his sweet face when he realized that. I loved the way his face lit up because someone really saw him. When someone saw him as the person I already knew he was.

We take breathing for granted. Air goes in; air comes out. We don’t even think about it most of the time. I’ve had many days since that night, well, that early, early morning, where I had to force myself to inhale. It truly felt like my body wouldn’t do it automatically. Or to exhale just so new air could come in. I remember thinking, theoretically, if I didn’t breathe right now, how long would it take? It felt unnatural to just breathe. Like it feels unnatural to be here when he isn’t.

I believe my heart shattered into a million, zillion pieces that day so how can it still feel like my heart is breaking? Or does it heal a little and the scabs then get ripped open every time a thought crosses my mind, those hundreds of times a day. That cannot be good for healing but I don’t know how to stop it because I never know from which direction the assault will come barreling toward me. It’s completely indiscernible until it hits, until my heart plummets to the ground again beneath blood and ash.

Four of “Lillian’s fish” (our granddaughter’s) died from lack of oxygen due to the hurricane this past week; I had no generator to power the aerator. Scott named them Lillian’s fish (even though we’d had them since early 2022) because she loved watching them from soon after she arrived on the outside of her mommy. We subsequently picked out even more colorful fish to entertain her. The fact that some of those fish died, ones he wanted her to have (albeit at our house because he thought that would make her ask to come visit more) has made me cry more than once. Going to the store where we bought them to get her a few more tomorrow will make me cry again…hopefully I can hold it until I get to the car. I’d rather lose my bladder in public than fall apart. People “get” medical issues (like whatever they might assume would cause me to urinate on myself) better than they “get” grief. Grief makes people uncomfortable.

But now, when I say “Lillian, where’s PopPop?” (she is eight months old now,) she turns her head and looks to his picture. That made me cry the first time but kind of makes my heart smile now. I tell her “PopPop loves you, Lillian. That’s Lillian’s PopPop.” She studies his photograph in a way that makes it look as if he is familiar even though she was only just over four months old when he died. It’s like she is trying to remember where she saw him and can’t quite place it, her face so serious and contemplative. It’s a poignant experience because she usually gets distracted so easily but she stares at his photo for a long time without looking away.

And so I breathe. There are moments sprinkled, however sparsely right now, throughout my days that cause me to breathe.

According to my research, Ruach is the word spoken three times in Hebrew scripture for the breath of God. It’s not described so much as a physical being or an entity but as God’s essence that creates and sustains life. Sometimes it is translated as “Spirit of God”, the Holy Spirit.

However, the actual Hebrew term for “spirit,” ruah (notice the similarity) is used 389 times in the Hebrew Scriptures. Ruah is translated using three different words: wind, breath, and spirit. Context decides the translation, but in Ezekiel it is often used with dual context, like breath and spirit are the same thing.

So the Holy Spirit IS breath. Not all breathe by nature of the Spirit’s breath, although all are invited to, but when my natural breath fails to sustain me, the Holy Spirit can. Yes, at some point my body will fail and the Holy Spirit will leave my earthly domain as my own spirit exits, but when my mind no longer wants to breathe, I have a backup generator as a Christian. I didn’t have to go to Lowe’s and pay a hefty sum for this one as it was bequeathed to me and all I had to do was accept the gift.

If you’ve ever been through a high-force hurricane, you know the value of a good generator. And, oh, have I been living in the eye of a hurricane these past almost-four-months. I’ve been living on the strength of my generator ever since the power went out in May.

I’m just going to keep filling up that generator with fuel because without it my life is so very much more uncomfortable…which doesn’t even seem possible but, alas, it is true. It turns out that the Word and prayer are the only fuel it accepts. The dual power generator I have at home (which spontaneously elected not to function following hurricane Idalia this past week) works on gasoline or propane. They’re a lot more expensive.

As you read this, I hope this week finds you healthy. If you are grieving, I hope you have the generator of breath. If you don’t, I know where you can find one for free.

Grief vs. Fear

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Fear is a very intense feeling. It’s something that I don’t really feel can be accurately described if you haven’t truly experienced it. And there are varying degrees of fear. There’s “oh, no…my keys aren’t in my pocket; where did I leave them?” fear. There is “my child let go of my hand and almost darted into traffic” fear. There’s Halloween Horror Nights fear. There’s also BOO! Hannibal Lechter scary movie fear. And there’s “I’m lowering the bucket; she puts on the lotion” kind of fear. You get me? (If you don’t, go Google the “Silence of the Lambs” movie. It’ll start making sense.)

And then there is 𝘍𝘌𝘈𝘙. Italicized, capital letters fear. A guy just dragged me into the woods to rape me fear. My child has gone missing and there’s an Amber Alert fear. You hear a gunshot from another part of your house fear. These are the 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓 𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘋 𝘖𝘍 𝘍𝘌𝘈𝘙.

And grief feels a lot like that, in its own way. Fear cripples your muscles so you may fall to your knees, unwittingly even, and think later “how and when did I get down here?” It squeezes your stomach…not just squeezes but twists it like wringing out a wet washrag. It literally feels like it stops your heart but also like a homemade bomb filled with nails just exploded and every single piece of metal hit the center of your chest.

I’ve been afraid since I lost my husband, yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Not talking about the fear of living without him here. Not talking about the fear of not being protected by him, or of facing a disaster without him.

I’m talking about the way capital, italicized 𝘎𝘙𝘐𝘌𝘍 feels. Underlined even.

Even grief has levels of devastation. Someone you know: that’s so sad. A close friend: this is awful; why her/him? A parent: I’ve never lived without him/her before; I’m an orphan now.

And then there is losing a soulmate spouse (because I realize not all spouses are the same) or a child. That’s on a whole ‘nother level.

Yes, when I read the picture I’m posting with this, it hit me that some grief feels a LOT alike bone-chilling fear. It stops you in your tracks. It paralyzes you. It makes you lose consciousness for weeks – everyone else thinks you’re wide awake but you’re really not. It makes everything going on in the world around you n͛o͛t͛ m͛a͛k͛e͛ s͛e͛n͛s͛e͛. And it’s timeless; you don’t know if you’ve been terrified for a minute or an hour or for days.

I’ve found it difficult to explain, to paint a picture of, to validate what this grief feels like. But if you have ever truly been afraid, and I mean TRULY afraid, then just imagine that feeling, the way your body feels and your mind cannot think, continuing for months on end and then think of never being able to determine when there may be a point at which you do not feel that feeling hundreds of times a day. That gut-wrenching feeling of fear is very similar to the agonizing, heartrending, tragic, harrowing feeling of deep grief. Especially if it comes out of nowhere. At least in a suspenseful movie there is music that lets you know “look out….something bad is coming…something scary…” Sometimes with great grief, there is no warning. No cautionary tunes. No “Hey you! Look out!” No. Just an MMA style kick to the gut when you weren’t looking. BAM! And there it is.

Yes. Grief feels a lot like fear…in case you didn’t know.

The Cemetery

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July 21st, 2023

***Trigger Warning*** This post has some graphic imagery related to being a widow at the cemetery. Please read with discretion regarding your own sensitivities in this area.

The cemetery is hard.

People tend to think you should go there a lot, “spend time” with him, maybe that will make you feel closer to him.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it does the opposite.

When I am sitting propped up on pillows in my bed at night, I can close my eyes and listen for his breathing, wait to feel the covers rustle on his side of the bed, catch a smell that reminds me of date nights because I sprayed his cologne on a little throw pillow.  It’s an elusive feeling, almost ethereal – like you can almost see him there or, if you close your eyes, turn away and turn back, maybe it never happened at all.  Sometimes, I fall asleep now trying to listen, wait, smell….  

The cemetery, though…

Everything around me screams that he is gone.  All the way gone.  No mulligan.  No do-overs.  No rewind button.  No, no, no…

I know that he is not there.  Not his spirit.  I hope today, when I was there at his grave, that he was deep-sea fishing in beautiful turquoise waters, with a sailfish (the bucket list fish he never caught here) on the end of his line in the great ocean in the sky.  I feel sure Heaven has oceans, somehow.  Since there must be beaches or us Florida people might be slightly disappointed. (I kid, I kid…)

No, I know he is not there…but I do know that his body is.  I saw him in that wretched casket that they want you to think of as having a “beautiful finish” when you’re looking for one to lay them in…so you can put them in the ground inside of it.  (Mind you, I know that these people are doing a very difficult job in the very best and kindest way that they know how.  The people I dealt with were full of compassion.  But nothing in the world would have made me think that any casket that would be “laying him to rest” was beautiful, in any way.  I think they would all understand me saying that.)  I know this is a lot of imagery.  Sorry, not sorry.  It’s stuck in my head every single day and you’re reading to find out where my head is these days or because you’re looking for answers as to whether what you see, hear, feel, smell during grief is “normal.”  Well, here it is.

As I kneel on the ground beside the place where a few random weed-looking leafy things have begun to sprout up over the dirt that still sits, too recently disrupted to contain grass (note to self:  bring grass seed and watering can next time), I know his body is approximately (if folklore is correct) six feet beneath me.  He was six feet even.  If they’d stood him up in there, he could reach me. 

The body, his body, that I used to wrap my arms around and he’d kiss my forehead then rest his chin on my head as his arms, so much physically stronger than my own, wrapped me up in a safety that made me feel as good as the forehead kiss.  The body, his body, his chest that I would lay my head on at night and his chest hair would tickle my face but I didn’t want to sit back up.  The body, his body, that was the keeper of his voice as he would tell me how much he loved me, that I was the only woman in the world to him, that I was beautiful, that I was smart, that I was talented…and all the things that I felt that day that I was not.  He always gave me back things I thought I had lost.  He also gave me things I had never even thought to have.  Some memories that I will hold like glittering treasure within me.

I don’t have to “sit there and think about” his body being beneath me in the dirt, lest you’re saying, “Try not to think about that part; think about those memories.”  As my tires crunch against the gravel when I pull into the gates by the road, these thoughts, the unbidden and unwanted ones, are already coiling around me, squeezing the breath from my lungs.  I was here in May and there was a flag laying over him…it’s in my house now.  So, as I actively try to think about good things.  About where he really is right now, about his smell, his sound, his touch, his face, his eyes….I’m trying…I’m trying…I’m trying…nope.  There’s the dirt again.  Still there when I open my eyes.

Today I had AirPods and my iPhone.  There is zero cell service where he is but I have all of the important songs downloaded so I can listen offline.  I played music and, although it made me cry, with harsh sobs that hurt my throat and squeezed my chest and weakened my knees until, there I was, down on the ground with them in the dirt beside him.  I stay there so long that my legs begin to have pins & needles from kneeling so I pull them around front and cross-cross them, always ready to leave but never ready to leave.  So more music.  More memories.  More crying. But maybe distracted from the dirt a little bit.  I look up to the sky, knowing God sees my tears and counts them, saves them.  I feel a tear slip off of my chin and watch it drop to the mound of dirt below me.  It makes me think of the movie Tangled.  It reminds me of when Flynn Rider died in the end and, as she cried, Rapunzel’s tear dripped onto his chest which began to glow as he returned to life.  I randomly think that if his chest started glowing, I couldn’t see it from up here and I wouldn’t even know…at the same time that I remember that cartoon movie are cool but the caricatures can do things we never can.  Not ever, ever.

The sobs have stopped.  The dirt is still there.  But, I feel, somehow, maybe a strangely odd bit better.  Like all of those tears, all of those rib-racking sobs, had been hidden away in a pressurized compartment which was becoming too full, the compression becoming too much for the steely outsides.  Now that they’ve been released there is room to store them up again for awhile, I guess.  I lean back with my hands on the ground behind me and haphazardly wonder whether anyone was in the cemetery witnessing my display.  When I walked from the car, I could only see one grave…now there are others all around.  I glance furtively around, not because I care if anyone saw my ugly crying, but because there may be someone else who needed their moment of depressurization.  No one.  But still, it’s time to go.

I had felt dread coming here.  I know what it means to be here.  I know how it feels to be here.  I know he’s here but he’s not here.  But now it feels as if I don’t want to leave because I’ll be leaving him again.  (Yes, I still know he is not actually here; I cannot control the inert thought pattern.  As I said, they do their own thing, coming and going as they wish and I do not own the key to the lock that would keep them out.)  When we left my sister’s house after my nephew passed away so that we could drive to a place to stay for the night while the police finished their necessary plundering, she began to cry and said “I can’t leave him here alone.”  All I could say was, “Julie, he won’t be alone. They’re going to take care of him.”  Because he wasn’t fully gone in her mind yet, and being taken care of was important. 

This makes me wonder when I will really, fully believe that he is gone.  Gone, gone.  The for real, this is it, never going to change, like it or not, imaginary breathing beside you in bed is GONE, gone.

There are times when I fall apart because I think I’ve just realized it, that this is all really real.  And then my brain throws out flares and pulls the rip cord that inflates the rescue raft and there’s some kind of chance, theoretically, that this is all just an awful dream.  *pinch*pinch*sighhhh*

Driving across the crunchy, loose gravel is just as hard going out as it was coming in.  It’s for a completely different reason but I can’t describe it.  I’ve not said one word to him while I was here.  Because he’s not here even though he’s here.  And if I want to talk to him, I’ll do it in our bedroom at home because it feels more likely that, if there were holes in the floor of Heaven, that would be the place he’d most likely hear me from.  I hope he only ever hears the “I love you”s and “I miss you so much”s, not the sobs.  I would never want him to be as sad as I am, not ever.  I guess now he never, ever has to be.

I love you, baby.  I miss you so, so much.  One way or another, we’ve got this, K?  See you later.