Tag: heartbroken

All of the Things…

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June 2nd, 2023

Finances are a big thing for anyone. They’re definitely a big thing in marriage.

When Scott and I were dating, engaged, and then married, we had both been married before. We both had children from previous marriages. We both had financial habits and had suffered financial damage from those marriages/divorces. We each had our own way of doing things as a result of those past marriages. We both were a little gun shy about letting someone else have any control over our financial situations.

I’ve said before that I was fiercely independent. I’d been raising three boys on my own for quite awhile and had found a sort of balance. I had often worked a lot of overtime to make ends meet but I had found a way to make that work. I didn’t want to rock the boat.

Scott had worked a lot of overtime just to stay afloat during his previous marriage due to overspending habits he had little control over. He was more recently divorced and he wanted to maintain his newfound control over money and he didn’t ever want to be in his previous financial condition again.

We overcame that together. Trust was a huge part of it and yet we still had hiccups trying to figure it out along the way. We both made mistakes and we solved them together. Ultimately, because of that trust, I gave over my control to him. Mind you, I still had the ability to use money anytime I wanted to but we talked about things, agreed on how to manage situations, and managed to figure it out together without causing friction.

I confess that Scott spoiled me, a lot. If he knew I wanted something, he just wanted me to have it eventually. His last large gift to me was at Christmas last year. We had a new grandbaby on the way, our first. He knew I love taking pictures and how much I love going through photos of the boys when they were little. He’d comment on what good photos they were. So when Lillian was nearing arrival, he bought me an expensive camera and many setup items to be able to take quality photos of her. (He was every bit as excited about her getting here as I was, so much so that he stood behind the curtain in Patrice’s delivery room and audio recorded Lillian’s first cry and the ensuing elation.)

So allowing him to manage most of our bill payments, frivolous spending money, and big purchases (still with my input on bigger purchases) became easier and I was comfortable letting him “take over.”

But here we are today…

Today he is no longer here to manage things. It’s not that I can’t start doing it again. I just don’t want to. I want him to be here; having to manage the bills and money again is just another reminder that he is not. There is a kind of defiance in me that wants to say “This isn’t what I wanted so I’m just not going to do the things I don’t want to do.” Not a very effective strategy for the future.

There are also issues related to income, obviously. When I say Scott retired me two years ago, I mean that I fought him on it before we got there but relented after awhile, so that’s why I say “he retired me.” He knew the mental trauma of being an empath and a nurse had taken its toll on me in my nearly thirty year career and he hated what it was doing to me. I was miserable. I still had, however, the idea that I needed to provide, too, because I had been a sole provider for so long prior to meeting him. Even though Scott went into the military straight out of high school and went to war soon thereafter, he would say “I haven’t even been a nurse for twenty years and you have been for almost thirty. It just makes sense for you to retire awhile before I do. Plus you can visit me a lot more on assignment and I miss you!” Even though he had worked just as many years as I. A compelling argument, though; I’d get to spend more time with my person. Thus I “gave in” and retired from my nursing career. And I loved it.

Yes, I struggled with “purpose” but then Lillian was on her way and I was going to be a stay-at-home Lolly (my “grandma name.”) while my son worked and finished college and my daughter-in-love started nursing school. So getting used to it wasn’t as hard as I had imagined. My life had somehow become perfect. The best husband ever, best kids ever, best new daughters ever, and the perfect new granddaughter.

It’s a tragic and devastating fall from perfect to now. I still have so many of the perfect pieces but the one that is missing means you can’t ever have the satisfaction of completing the entire puzzle.

Now, suddenly, the debt-to-income ratio feels suffocating and that makes me want to deal with it even less, despite the fact that, in the middle of grief, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰.

When your mind is at its most defenseless and distracted place, it is necessary to find a way to complete tasks that not only break your heart all over again (telling what feels like a gazillion people that my husband has passed away and hearing just as many “I’m sorry for your loss” comments) and that are important but feel impossible.

Asking for forebearances while you figure things out. Seeking ways to be creative with expenses. Cancelling unnecessary expenditures like TV streaming services, lawn maintenance service, the highest speed internet plan. Googling what probate even 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 when you really just knew that it was something that happens when someone dies before. Talking to attorneys. It all just adds up to a LOT to think about when you can’t concentrate enough to string sentences together in conversation at times.

This is not a plea for any kind of sympathy. Remember, this is part of the grief journey I’m sharing and it won’t hurt my feelings if you skip this “chapter” of it. It’s a part of my new reality. It’s just another one of the things that I hate about this “new normal” everyone keeps talking about.

“You’ve just got to find your new normal.”
“What if I liked my old normal? Can I return this one without the receipt? Do you allow exchanges?” But this wasn’t buyers remorse. I never agreed to this…it wasn’t my idea…let me speak to the manager…

So now, with a brain full of mush, I’m trying to think straight enough to do all of the things.

And I’m still going to remember that God is in the smallest details. He has a way of giving me guidance on how to proceed even when I least want to proceed and don’t even know how.

I’ve always said that I’m not good at subtlety and God is a master of it sometimes. I’m the girl who wants the neon signs (like the day I met Scott for the first time.) But I’ve also always said that I k͛n͛o͛w͛ God is speaking to me when the voice in my head says something that I would never suggest myself. Today He is saying “You can do this.” And that’s not something I would say right now at all.

Shalom. God’s Peace.

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June 1st, 2023

I constantly wonder how I’m managing this. Don’t get me wrong; I cry, get overwhelmed, lose it sometimes, and feel lonely in a crowded place. I miss him terribly. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I will see him again. This is just one way-too-long travel assignment with no cell phone reception. But I’m going to miss him as long as I’m here. And loving him was 100% worth the pain of today and the rest of them.

But I do have peace. Not peace as the world gives, but Shalom, the peace of God, which transcends all human understanding, guards my heart and my mind in Jesus. Somehow, in a way that I can’t really even comprehend, I have peace even in my sadness. Did you know you can be very, very sad and still have peace?

I get very angry sometimes about some circumstances, but I still feel at peace over the anticipated outcome of that. I am grief-ridden, but I still have peace over the fact that God is carrying me in this storm and won’t ever leave me or forsake me. I worry through finances and what is going to happen in that regard, but I still actually have peace over it because, as I wait for answers and processes and paperwork, I know that God is in the waiting and that He has promised He will work all things together for my good because I love Him. That doesn’t mean it will be the “perfect” scenario (it can’t be because Scott can’t come back) but it will be one in which He’ll keep walking with me, keep giving me peace, keep making it work out in a way I can handle (with Him) until the day He calls me home to be with them, too.

Someone curious and well-meaning asked me, “do you think it’s just that your brain thinks he’s on a contract somewhere and that you’ll suddenly realize it’s real and really grieve then?” I thought about that for awhile because I sure hoped it wouldn’t get worse than this.

I’m really grieving now. I truly am. And it doesn’t matter to me what that looks like to other people. Grieving looks different from minute to minute. I may fall apart in front of you and start sobbing, having to walk away. I may have a full conversation with you and then have someone remind me later that you came to see me. (Yes, that has happened on more than one occasion.) I may look like poop in Walmart or I may have tried to put on makeup and brush my hair. Grief never looks the same even in one person, much less in different people. We all do it differently.

And I know that my brain doesn’t think he’s just off on contract again because literally almost 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 reminds me of him. His toothbrush is still by the sink. His slippers are still in my living room, where he left them. His cologne is on a pillow in the bedroom. Evidence of his various hobbies are all throughout the house. His truck is parked in my driveway. It’s on and on and on. And when I’m not home, every place I go has a memory of him there. My sister mentioned queso to my nephew yesterday; the last time I had queso was when Scott and I went to have Mexican food in Tallahassee about a week before he died. I went for a walk with my daughter-in-love and granddaughter today. I realized a few minutes in that I was constantly responding in conversation with “Scott would have said this…Scott used to…Scott would love that!” 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦. And every reminder is one that he is not just away from home, he is gone from this Earth.

So why do I have peace that lies under this cloud of grief. Peace is synonymous with tranquility or stillness in the dictionary. It doesn’t mean I’m “happy”. It doesn’t mean I’m without concerns, emotions, or grief. But it means there is a kind of tranquility, a calmness in my spirit that is only there because of the presence of Jehovah Shalom. “I am with you always; even to the end of the age.” Matt 28:20 Shalom.

Desperately Wanting What I Cannot Have

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***Grief Trigger Warning***

Guys, this post has some pretty graphic imagery about how this season is making me feel at times. You know how sometimes you’re in the mood for a happy movie because you’re not in the mood for something sad? If today is that day, please don’t read this post right now.

If you ARE sad already and you’re trying to figure out if it’s “normal” to feel this bad, this lost, this overwhelmed, this some-kind-of-word-that-“sad”-doesn’t-do-justice, read if you’re looking for confirmation that this season messes us all up for awhile. I’ve talked to other survivors a lot lately. It’s going to get better (reminding myself AND you.) Don’t give up trying to go through it instead of sitting in it (at least not forever.)

Oh, and this one will not be in order because, even as I am trying to upload my older posts in order of their occurrence, this one I feel the need to throw out there today. I don’t know why…I just need to. So maybe I’ll post this one again when I get to the right chronological place. Okay, here goes:

July 21st, 2023

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.

Postscript Edit: the photo from this post is not from today; that wouldn’t have been possible today.

I Worship…so I will go take a shower.

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May 31st, 2023

I need to take a shower. I need to wash my hair. I need to shave my legs, it is summer now and my leggings are getting too hot. It became summer this past weekend. The first full season without you and I hate it. I hate it…I hate it…I hate it…

I need to, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to get up, get out of bed. I don’t want to face another day when you’re not here. I don’t want to cook or clean the house or feed the dogs or…or breathe if it’s not the air you’re breathing, too. I don’t want to…I don’t want to…I don’t want to…

Somehow I’m doing it. Somehow I am still breathing when you’re not here. I don’t want to leave here. I just want you here 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 me. I want to feel like anything I do matters when you’re not here to cheer me on, encourage me, remind me of my worth. I want…I want…I want…

I picked out the footplate for your grave yesterday. The military is honoring you with one. It will have your name, your war, your medals of valor listed on it. It will have your birthdate and the day you left us. It will say you were a loving husband, son, father, and a doting PopPop. I still have to pick out our headstone one day. I don’t want to…I don’t want to…I don’t want to…

I worship. God hasn’t given me a spirit of fear but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. My only comfort comes from Him. He is in the music. He is in the lyrics. He is in the pain. He is in the heartache. He eases them a little more, I’m sure a little more each day but it’s like watching the kids grow: you can’t see the changes day-by-day…only in retrospect. But I worship…I worship…I worship…

I worship. And so now I will go shower…

Dreamweaver…

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May 31st, 2023

Dreams…

I keep wishing, praying, hoping I will see you in dreams. Hear you say you love me again. Hear you say “it’s okay, we’ve still got this.”

I want to see your face again when it’s not in a still picture. Hear you laugh. Watch you take care of things…all the things: the plants, the dogs, the boys, the yard, the pool…all of the things you did because you just wanted us to be taken care of.

I remember being in the kitchen, last year, I think, looking out toward the pool from our picture window. I said “Look at how much pollen is on the window. It’s like a coating and it’s only March.” I kept doing whatever I was doing and then went in the living room, thinking you’d gone back in there. You weren’t so I thought you’d gone to the bedroom or bathroom. A few minutes later I got up to see where on earth you’d gone. Walking into the kitchen, I saw you outside, scrubbing down the window. I walked outside and said “Honey, I didn’t mean for you to do that. I was just commenting on the allergens!” You said “I know, but I wanted you to be able to see out. I know you love looking out this window. Your kitchen is the main reason we wanted to buy this house.” I never even had to ask for things like that. And you just did them for me.

Our contractor messaged me after you were gone and told me that, when he was walking around our new house with you to talk about the things we wanted to do, you told him “It’s very important to me that Jennifer feel safe and be happy in this house; whatever it takes to do that, that’s what we need to do.” 😭 That’s always who you were for me. He said he was so impressed by you and that it made him really think about things, even after he left the house. Both of those things were who you are. Someone who is just always taking care of people, especially me, and someone who makes an impact on others. You’re still making impacts today, baby; I hope somehow you know that now.

I’m still taken care of. You made an impact on our boys, too. They’re still looking back, observing who you were, and I see them being the kind of man you were in so many ways. Even when I wish they didn’t have to, they’re still picking me up after I fall apart again. And I know that will also translate into how they treat the other women in their lives. They were watching and it shows.

And God is taking care of me, too. I don’t know how I am getting out of bed every day, doing the things. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to. But even when I can’t feel Him, I know He is there, gently nudging me to move. He reminds me that I still have a purpose (even if I’m not fully aware of what that is yet.) I’m trusting that He will show me when He knows my body, my mind is ready.

I’ve tried bargaining with Him. Telling Him that if you would just come to me in dreams, I could learn what I’m supposed to be doing. That I would do a better job of going on without you here if He could just let me have “visits” with you. Even inmates get visits…why not me? But I also know that’s not how this works. This temporary separation for us is on His timeline. I told you that I was always told never to pray for patience but to pray for grace, because if you pray for patience, He’ll give you a reason to need it so you can learn it. (You use to joke that if you pray for patience, you may get more admissions…😂)

So I pray for grace. Grace in all circumstances. There’s a reason my middle name isn’t grace…I’m not very graceful. So I pray all the more.

My prayer life has been difficult lately. I have so many things I want to beg, plead, ask, and beg again. But the Bible says to praise Him in all circumstances and worship music comes with pre-written lyrics that I can feel when I listen, when I sing. So I’ve been trying to start there, even if I’m crying in the shower when I do. Salt water is good for the skin in moderate amounts, right? I’ve been thinking of buying a book with prayers in it for when you can’t pray, for prayers in times of grief and heartache and pain and loss. All of the things. Maybe that will help. It won’t be like some liturgy. I think that, if the right words are there, I’ll be able to feel them enough, like the music, to reach out to Him with my whole soul because my soul is wrapped around you right now.

I’m not praying to see you sooner (other than in dreams). Our kids and sweet grandbabies still need me here. I’m still just praying for grace, even when “God, give me grace in all circumstances. Help me to praise you in ALL of these circumstances” are the only words that make it out.

So, you see, it’s back to the dreams. Will you just come meet me there? Could you let me wake up, even one morning, with the feeling that your arms have been wrapped around me in the night? I feel like that would make all of the tomorrows more bearable. Even one last time until I see you again.

I love you more. I miss you most. ♥️

”Fly me high through starry skies

Maybe to an astral plane,

Cross the highways of fantasy,

Help me forget today’s pain.

Oh, Dreamweaver,

I believe you can get me through the night.

Ohh, Dreamweaver,

I believe we can reach the morning light.”

Dreamweaver by Gary Wright

The War Doesn’t End When Deployment Ends…

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May 30th, 2023

Yesterday was Memorial Day. 🇺🇸

My husband was a war veteran of the United States Air Force. He served two deployments during Desert Storm, also known as the Gulf War.

But the deployment doesn’t end…when the deployment ends.

We use to talk about how many people don’t understand the difference between Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day. That Memorial Day is for the fallen, the ones who sacrificed their lives for our freedom, the ones who died while they were serving. Veteran’s Day is for the Veterans who served and whom we honor, as they live, for their service.

But yesterday, all day, I contemplated something else.

There are men and women who did not die prior to their honorable discharge date. But some spent the rest of their lives living out the consequences of that service.

Statistics say that twenty-two veterans die each day in the U.S. as a result of suicide. Thankfully, that was never my husband. But didn’t those vets pay the ultimate price for service, too? The loss of peace, the night terrors, the pain, the fear until they didn’t know how to manage it anymore?

Scott lived with PTSD for the rest of his life after the war. As long as I’ve known him, he has had terrible nightmares and I’ve had to gently wake him, many, many times, to lift him from the darkness of them.

He lived his entire life after that war with the consequences of his service.

So, while Memorial Day isn’t for veterans like Scott, I will remember him and honor his service and his life every year on that day, too. Because he was still fighting a war inside his own head for as long as he lived.

When “We” Became “Me”

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Three weeks ago today, I drove you to the hospital. We waited for three hours in the waiting room and complained about how ridiculous it was that they told us to be there at 8:30 when they weren’t taking you back until 11:30. Oh, how I would love to have those three hours back again.

How has it been three weeks? It seems like you’ve been gone forever but, at literally the same time, it feels like I was holding your hand yesterday, alive and well, the only worry on your mind: getting this surgery out of the way so that you could go home with me and then get back to work soon. Back to feeling like yourself. Back to “normal.”

It should have been soon…if we’d have had the surgery on the original date, April 19th, things would have been so different. You’d be getting to take the neck brace off tomorrow and you would have been so excited to be free of it. The original surgery date was six weeks ago.

Instead, you were free of it much earlier but in a way none of us ever even imagined, never wanted…couldn’t stop. And now I look over at your side of the bed every night and say I love you and I miss you so much, to a blank space.

You’ve always filled in my blank spaces before. I didn’t want to ever get married again; you filled in a blank space I was trying to delete. I felt alone and worthless, ruined and a failure; you reminded me who I am and what I was worth, to you, to the kids, to God, and to the world. I didn’t know what my purpose was after kids graduating and retiring from nursing; you made me excited for all of the things that would now live in that blank space. There were no blank spaces when you were here. No matter what the challenge, the worry, the task at hand, you always said “We’ve got this, baby. Together, we’ve got this.” And then I always believed you. Simply because we were together. So…what happens now that “we” became a “me”?

All in all, the highs were worth the pain. You were worth it. We were worth it. I don’t know how “I’ve got this” without you but I do know that we always believed and knew that God was part of that we. It was never just us because, although it is obvious now how a strand of three cords can be frayed, it cannot be broken. And we cannot be broken because I’ll see you one day in Paradise.

I just didn’t think that would be the very next time I’d see you, three weeks ago today.

Losing You, Piece by Piece

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May 29th, 2023

I lost Scott’s wedding ring today.

Spoiler Alert: I found it later; don’t panic (like I did). And Godwink ahead if you choose to keep reading.

I have been wearing it on my thumb since the last day that I saw him. He gave it to me for safekeeping prior to surgery. I didn’t know I’d be keeping it safe for him forever.

It’s been a “worry stone” of sorts for me since I began wearing it. I use my other hand to twist it round and round nearly constantly. It’s a reminder of him. It’s something I have left of him, of us. He was so proud of it because I chose it for him and it has deer antler embedded into it. I chose it because it spoke to me, it said a little something about who he was. And he loved it because I chose it thoughtfully, specifically for him and likened to him and his tastes.

It’s really heavy. I wasn’t expecting that when I ordered it. Many times I have offered to buy him one of those silicone bands to wear while at work and he would always say, “No, I want to wear this one; you chose it with your heart and I want it with me.” He never took it off. But that day he had to.

When I realized it was missing from my thumb, I did panic. Owen said “Try not to panic, mama. It’s in this house; we will find it.” I knew I had been wearing it just beforehand, within the hour at least. I had cleaned out the fridge, putting some things in a large, black trash bag for garbage pickup tomorrow. I had loaded the dishwasher. I’d sat on the couch. I had fed the fish. And, as I cried, I searched each place, over and over again. I emptied the entire trash bag, piece by piece, onto my kitchen floor and searched and shook the entire thing, turning the bag inside out. My sweet Owen came and helped me turn over the couch and search between cushions. As I got discouraged, I said a few times “It’s okay. It’s lost, son. There’s nothing more we can do. Hopefully it will turn up soon.” But he kept searching and trying to help me retrace my steps, keeping me on task. I searched the trash bag two more times because, as heavy as the ring is, it should have made a loud noise if it hit the floor and rolled so falling in the trash bag made the most sense. All to no avail.

We finally stopped looking and I sat on the couch, staring into space and realizing that I had now lost another piece of him, even though it’s not actually him. A memento? A reminder? None of these seem right because it was chosen just for him. It belonged on him.

I agonized over whether to put it on his finger prior to the funeral. He never wanted to be without it. He wanted to wear it always. He would have wanted it on his finger. But ultimately I decided that my husband, above all else, wanted me to feel safe and happy. He was no longer in that body but I could keep this one little piece here with me and he would want me to if it brought me any measure of peace in his absence. And then I lost it. I lost his ring that he loved.

I’ve lost quite a bit of weight since May 9th. This morning I had been washing my hands and it nearly fell off. I thought, even my thumbs are getting skinnier…crazy. I nearly took it off then but I have become accustomed to having it on and I didn’t want to be separated from it. It’s strange how important tangible things are in the absence of love lost.

I rose from the couch, probably an hour later to go to the restroom. And, lo and behold, the ring was IN MY PANTS (not a pocket, INSIDE). Apparently, when I had gone to the restroom earlier and had used my thumbs to pull my leggings back up, the ring had gotten trapped by the waistband and just pulled right off, resting just under the waistband. When I completed the same action this time but to pull them down, my thumb slid right into the ring again. (Don’t ask me how I didn’t feel it there. I suppose my skin had warmed it and it was being held snugly by the elastic waistband.)

Such a long time of searching, just to find that it was with me all along but I couldn’t feel it because I was in a panic, fretful over my loss and despair.

Isn’t God like that, though? I can’t feel Him near me these days. I try to pray. I try to worship. I try to sing. I try to search for Him so that He will come near. I try the most likely places (like church) that He should be (although I know full-well that He is everywhere). I’m so distracted by my searching, in a manner of speaking, that I forget that, even though I can’t feel Him, He is still here, so close to me that His warmth feels like my own. So, maybe I am feeling Him but I’m just looking for a more tangible way to realize it. I feel like I need to SEE the evidence to know it for sure. But the real evidence is already there. The real evidence is that He has been there every other time, without fail.

Pain is for Sharing

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May 28th, 2023

Do not feel worried about me. I appreciate it and I’m thankful to have so, so many people who care for and love me. I am alright. I’m not having the time of my life right now but I will be okay at some point.

The things is, secrets die in the light but are dangerous in the dark. I have hidden grief and pain, tried to keep it to myself, to keep from making others uncomfortable before and it 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 turn into a monster. And that monster will eat you from the inside out. Ravenously.

Perhaps I could just keep these writings for myself, but I won’t. Why? Because maybe someone else who is grieving a huge loss is reading and now knowing they’re not the only one who feels this deeply pierced by it. Or maybe someone who is trying to support someone else who has experienced such loss is reading and will suddenly understand what that person is really feeling, that they’re trying hard to keep inside, in the dark. Maybe you’re looking at someone, never having gone through such a deep loss before yourself, and thinking “it seems like they should be over this by now; gotta keep on living…chin up, buttercup” but now you’ll realize how paralyzing it can be, how utterly shattering.

I’m beginning counseling soon, waiting for my appointment date to arrive. I am seeking help with the anger, the pain, the sorrow, the grief. I’m reaching out this time because I didn’t before and it nearly killed me. I’m talking to a select few people because I really don’t want to keep telling the story over and over and over. And I don’t want to talk about it often because it hurts. I want to talk about him. About who he was and how he changed lives and how he loved me and how he was silly and goofy and funny sometimes but serious about so many other things. I want to do whatever it takes to withdraw from this place of despair and rise into a place of comfort, happy memories, and purpose.

But for now, I will write. ✍🏻

One is the Loneliest Number

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May 28th, 2023

GRIEF TRIGGER WARNING (If you’re not in the mood for sadness this holiday weekend, continue to scroll, please.)

Loneliness is an odd sensation.

It can be ubiquitous and unwelcome while in a room full of people who are charming and kind. One can strongly desire to be rid of the feeling, but also have an aversion to speaking to anyone. It is not that you wish to hold onto it, but that you are unwilling, perhaps unable, to engage in the task that would alleviate it.

I don’t even actually know if this is truly loneliness or just an extension of the long arm of grief, a missing piece, a dark shadow. I feel as though I am alone, however, it may just be that the other half of me is absent, the part that made me complete.

Sometimes I think I feel “okay,” which is followed by intense guilt. It hasn’t been a month yet. How dare I almost feel “okay?” But then I realize it’s not actually okay, it’s that the numbness has returned, a quick-footed, protective guard in impenetrable armor who speeds in to the rescue when the dark gets…too dark. And then it feels a bit lighter again. That’s the “okay”.

Scott has been my best friend and partner for so long that my gait feels unsteady without him here. I’ve lived without him here, in this house, for periods of time. But this time I mean without him existing here with me in the same “realm”, on the same “plane of existence”…on Earth. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven… I wish you could still be here on earth as you are in Heaven. But after experiencing what it is like there, I’d never bring you back here, even if I could. It would be cruel to make you suffer the pain in this world after you’ve been there. But, oh, how it hurts for me, for all of us.

I know you’d hate it that we are sad. I know you’d be worried about me, your mom, the boys. So, I’m still glad there is no sickness, no sorrow, no pain where you are. That eases my mind when I think of it.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4:8)

I keep trying to redirect my thoughts in this manner but the days are long and most times the nights are longer. And my heart can still feel that you are…missing. People keep saying you are with me, you live on in my heart, your spirit surrounds me, you’re watching over me. As much as I appreciate the attempts at kindness and compassion, such people have likely not experienced the gravity of such a loss as this. You do live on in my memories of you. Memories are of the past. They keep popping up in Facebook so you’ll keep being there, too, until some other social media overtakes the world’s attention.

But my heart knows you are no longer here. We cannot dream of the future together anymore. We cannot go together on the belated “honeymoon” we have already reserved for next year. We cannot plan out the wonderland our back yard was going to be for all of our grandchildren. I can feel your absence there, right in my heart. The fact that I love you is there but it feels like a balloon that has deflated and is devoid of air, of oxygen. It feels there, yet empty, barren, unoccupied, desolate.

Love is also an interesting thing. I remember wondering, when I was pregnant with Luke, how I would ever have room to love a child as much as I did Austin. By the time I was pregnant with Owen, I had it all figured out; you just grow more. And more again when you begin to love daughters-in-love and grandchildren. So, now I just need to figure out how my heart can be so full of so many and yet feel so destitute, so bewildered, so uninhabited, at the same time. I feel like an emotional amputee, learning how to function again in “normal” circumstances. And yet there is a part of me that just doesn’t even want to function. And there certainly is no normal.

I will. I will figure it out. I’m not a quitter. I’ve had to live much of my life as a warrior in one battle or another. The sound of swords clashing in spiritual warfare is not foreign to me. And make no mistake, this is spiritual warfare…all of it. I am mighty only because my God is. He lets me rest on the journey…or perhaps wallow…for awhile and then He always rouses me to my feet…from His arms.

I know where my help comes from. My help comes from the Lord, the maker of Heaven and Earth. Today seems like a good time to wave my white flag (to Him, not the enemy, ever.) I give up. I can’t do this alone. I’m terrible at it. Fight for me, Abba. You fight the shadows. And I will fight beside you, under the shelter of your wing.