Anniversary of Loss

A year; it's been an entire year since Jerrod left this earth. Some days it feels like a lot longer and other moments it feels like just yesterday. It's been a shit year and a beautiful one. It's still really hard to sit with the reality of his absence and losing him in such a tragic, traumatic way. There's still plenty to process through and to let God heal. I don't have a ton of thoughts to share publicly and mostly created this post to share the above liturgy that was shared with me. Also, including a few quotes from one of the most accurate grief books I've read.

"You are alone in your grief. You alone carry the knowledge of how your grief lives in you. You alone know all the details, the subtlety and nuance of what's happened and what's been lost. You alone know how deeply your life has been changed. You alone have to face this, inside your own heart. No one can do this with you." (We are alone and we are not alone, such a weird experience.)

"Finding your middle way inside grief is about finding friendship with your own heart, making a home inside your own heart. It's in learning to bear witness to your own pain, in treating yourself like someone you love. It's about claiming your right to be in pain, without cleaning it up or making it pretty for someone else's comfort. It's about finding those who can share this path with you, who are not afraid to see your heart in all its pain and all its grace...The middle ground is always a work in progress. It's one that neither asks you to deny your pain, nor be forever engulfed by it. It's one that simply lets you find a home inside the reality of love, with all its beautiful and horrible parts."- It's Ok That You're Not Ok

"It's your life. The one you must make in the obliterated place that's now your world, where everything you used to be is simultaneously erased and omnipresent... The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of grief is making a home there." - Tiny Beautiful Things

Lauren Daigle reminds me so much of those early days of grief. I've connected a lot with her music today.

Thank you to anyone who has followed along this past year. The journey isn't over, but I'm not sure how much more I'll continue to share via this blog. Thank you for kind words, thoughts and prayers for me and my family. It is all truly appreciated. <3

Grief and Covid

https://brenebrown.com/podcast/david-kessler-and-brene-on-grief-and-finding-meaning/

https://www.psychotherapynetworker.org/magazine/article/2438/love-grief

Grief Share

My mom shared this resource with me, which is "A Season of Grief" daily e-mails and I just wanted to make note of it and pass it along to anyone who might find this helpful currently or in the future.

I'm on day 4, which discusses how grief lasts longer than expected. So much of the grief materials I have consumed the past 7 months have acknowledged how grief is not something that we get over, but also how this is an expectation from those around us; primarily those who have never experienced a deep loss. 

Today's e-mail even addresses how people within the church can act as if you lack faith if you're still grieving after some arbitrary amount of time. I get it. I wrestle with the question of do I truly believe the good news and in the reality of Heaven if my heart is still so broken over the earthly tragedy of Jerrod's death. I love the response:

"Knowing the Lord and His comfort does not take away the ache; instead, it supports you in the middle of the ache. Until I get home to heaven, there’s going to be an ache that won’t quit. The grieving process for me is not so much a matter of getting rid of the pain, but not being controlled by the pain.”

We read in the Psalms that David grew weary with the process of grief and cried out to the Lord. Then he left the timing in God’s hands.

“Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am faint; O LORD, heal me, for my bones are in agony. My soul is in anguish. How long, O LORD, how long? Turn, O LORD, and deliver me; save me because of your unfailing love” (Psalm 6:2-4).

“I am weary with my sighing; Every night I make my bed swim, I dissolve my couch with my tears. My eye has wasted away with grief” (Psalm 6:6-7 NASB)."

God is close to the brokenhearted. It is an honest experience to both grieve and feel this pain and trust in the Lord for my healing and the hope of my future.

7 Months

I have continued to take a partial-hiatus from social media. The times I catch myself scrolling through my Instagram or Facebook feed on Safari, I'm aware of how empty and meaningless it feels and I close the window. In the initial wake of losing Jerrod, posting or blogging about some of what I was experiencing and receiving some acknowledgment, encouragement or word of comfort in return felt helpful. And then it didn't. I suddenly felt the need to more privately sit with my grief and tend to my heart alone with the Lord. It's a journey that I will continue to walk, mostly alone, because it's mine alone to carry.

We have lived so much life in the past 7 months, more than I would have thought possible with how much we have simultaneously been mourning. There are moments when I have been so consumed with joy, singing and dancing with my children, it feels like my heart could burst.  And just as quickly there are tears streaming down my face. It is an exhausting yin and yang. My heart aches that there was a last moment of Jerrod delighting in Jackson and that there never was nor ever will a be first moment of delighting in Avery.  My heart breaks for the future he will not have and the future we have without him. I said to Bret at Christmas, “we made it through the first one without Jerrod, but it’s just that: the first; the first of the rest of every Christmas without him.” We haven’t made it through and now we’re done; we’re only just beginning.

My blogging has also decreased because the reality is that it feels impossible to regularly and accurately convey what the process of living with grief feels like; words fall short. I start to type or post something and then I stop.  Mostly I just read other people's stories and experiences of grief and loss. They are tragic and beautiful: the love that we carry and the depths of grief and pain we can survive.  While they don't fully reflect my experience, I feel connected to a community of mourners finding their way through the impossible.  And because I have also used this blog to share resources, one community I'm in the process of getting connected to is called The Dinner Party.  I'll get the opportunity to meet with other 20-30-somethings who have also experienced a significant loss.  I'm hopeful of raw and authentic conversations with other individuals who have an understanding of the weight I carry. Books are great, but people are better. I'll try to update how it goes.

Last Day

Currently listening:


I have found myself emotionally consumed by this memoir. I didn't know Harris Wittels, though I unknowingly loved his work as a fan of Parks & Recreation. So his death was not something I became aware of until the death of my brother. I first heard his sister and mom sharing their story on Nora McInerny's podcast: Terrible, Thanks for Asking.  I remember sharing that podcast episode with my mom because I connected so much to their experience of finding out about Harris's death.  While my brother technically took his own life, he and Harris battled the same demon: heroin.  Since the tragic death of her brother, Stephanie Wittels Wachs has started a podcast that I'm just discovering and diving into after internet stalking her upon listening to half of her book on audio.  The way our brother's died and the circumstances following their death are very different, especially given the fact that my brother was not famous, but I connect so much to her emotional experience. And I LOVE the raw, real way she writes.

Be Kind. Always.

The other week I cried while getting a massage. To be fair, it was a few tears and my masseuse didn't have a clue. She assumed I asked for a tissue because lying on my stomach had stuffed up my nose, but it did not.  As soon she has began to massage my shoulders it was like the weight of the grief I have been carrying for the past 4 months began to loosen and the tears just started coming.  I had no idea how much I needed all of the emotion to physically be worked out of my body, nor entirely aware of the physical stress it was taking on my body. When the massage was over, I had gotten dress and began walking down the hall to the lobby, I literally felt like I was floating. No joke, my masseuse made that exact comment, as I almost stumbled my way out the door.

During the massage, we made small talk at different points talking about my kids and her grand-kids. I think she must've mentioned having twin-somethings because I shared that I "had" a twin, but she did not pick up on the past-tense. I'm not entirely sure if I wanted her to. It's a strange thing though, walking into any interaction with a complete stranger and feeling like I'm wearing this invisible wound.  It reminded me of the quote above and the fragility of this world.  I suppose that's why loss tends to make us more empathetic, because our hearts are softened to the pain of others and our eyes are more keenly aware of the brokenness around us. This doesn't mean we always get it right or say the right thing. I think we are all capable of forking* it up when unexpectedly faced with someone else's pain.  It just always feels like a loaded question when someone who doesn't know about my loss asks "how are you?" It's rarely an appropriate situation to share the truth, which just leaves me feeling alone and disconnected in these seemingly normal interactions.  At the same time, it also leaves me wondering how many times I have encountered someone unknowingly suffering; probably far too many.

I hope that as I move beyond the deep, deep sorrow to a place where my heart isn't perpetually aching, that my heart can continue to remain soft to the pain of others and the reality that we are all carrying some form of pain however big or small.  I hope that I will continue to learn to stop and engage wholeheartedly in a way that communicates that whatever they're going through, they matter and they're not alone. 

*The Good Place, anyone?

Halloween

I'm so angry that this is the only photo I have with you in it from last Halloween and that there are so many other memories I don't have physical evidence of you being with us. I hate that I have to scour through hundreds of photos for the tiniest glimpse of you or sound of your voice in the background of a live photo. I hate that I have such little proof that you were once alive and a part of our lives. I know all the pictures in the world wouldn't make it any easier to have lost you, but at least I would be less likely to forget all the moments you were a part of.  I don't really even care that much about Halloween, but you were a part of our first Halloween in our new house and I know you would've been with us again this year. I'm so angry that you won't be.

“Happy” Birthday

The past 48 hours have been the most difficult since the 48 hours directly following the news of Jerrod's death.  Since August I have been trying to prepare for our birthday, knowing that the first one without him was going to be especially hard.  I asked Bret to take off work to be home with me since it was on a weekday and he readily agreed. I had been contacted randomly on Instagram by a woman who lost her twin brother to suicide last August and had asked her how she handled their birthday. She mainly suggested acknowledging the loss, not expecting it to be a normal celebration and stated that she made a point of talking out loud to her brother that day. Sounds simple enough.

I had gone into our birthday with the intention of visiting the grave alone to have that conversation. I don't think this is the only place this could have happened, but it felt like the most practical given that doing this at home would be challenging with two children and also wanting to be in a place that felt safe and fitting for whatever amount of tears may come. The days leading up to our birthday I didn't feel much as far as additional sadness; it sort of felt like the calm before the storm.  I went to bed Wednesday night somewhat in denial that the next day was our birthday.  I had created a birthday post on Instagram a week or so in advance and posted it during my early morning pumping session and this got the ball rolling on the inevitable heartbreak I was to feel that day.  As texts, Facebook and Instagram messages rolled in, it felt like those first few days after Jerrod had died with everyone checking in and reaching out.  This is both good and really hard, as it brought back the intensity of that early grief, which was also riddled with both tremendous joy (birth of my daughter) and pain (loss of my brother).  As much as I wanted to just ignore my birthday this year and not engage with both emotional extremes, I was encouraged to try to celebrate or at least allow myself to be celebrated.

And so I planned activities for both. I sat and watched the memorial video from the funeral and sobbed.  I smiled and enjoyed hugs, birthday singing from my son and my traditional pumpkin pie with coffee.  I exchanged "I'm so sorry's" and "I love you's" with my mom over the phone before she came down to spend the afternoon with us. I received my favorite flowers from my dear "sisters" along with delicious coffee cake and chocolates.  I did what felt like the impossible: trying to celebrate life and love with a tremendously broken heart.  I allowed myself the freedom to change my mind and plans at any point throughout the day; so instead of visiting the grave by myself, I went with Bret and my dad. Instead of asking all the "why" questions I have for my brother, I just told him I loved him and hoped he was at peace and not feeling the pain of leaving us in pain. When we pulled up to Jerrod's grave site, I spotted purple flowers. I instantly felt like they were for me, as they are my favorite color. It felt like God or someone, likely both, knew I'd need a sign of love and hope being there that day.  I skipped my grief group that I had intended on going to that evening in order to just  be home and loved on by my family. We watched the premiere of the final season of one of our current favorite shows and we enjoyed some more treats.

I ended the day feeling exhausted in every way. I anticipated a day to come with just Avery and hopefully lots of rest and quiet time for reflection. And then Jackson woke up at 1 a.m. burning up, sounding hoarse and asking for water. I rushed back into mommy mode, filling his humidifier, administering Tylenol, rocking and comforting him until he went back to "sleep."  I laid awake as he continued to cough, talk and cry out at multiple other times during the night. My mind raced with worry, which it has done more often since losing Jerrod. I guess that's the thing about an unexpected, terrible loss; you feel exposed and vulnerable to it happening again at any time. This has manifested in occasional thoughts or daydreams of something happening, primarily to Jackson.  I don't know if it's because my dearest memories of Jerrod involve Jackson or simply because he is such a source of joy in our life.

I think we managed another hour of sleep before he woke sobbing around 5 a.m. He was making a horrific noise as he gasped for air in between sobs. We almost rushed to the ER, but his breathing became less labored as he calmed down. Bret took another morning off work to help me monitor Jackson while we waited to get into urgent care or our pediatrician.  He was ultimately diagnosed with croup, given a steroid and instructions for Motrin around the clock and to take him to the ER if his breathing labored while at rest.  It's the most sick I've seen him, as he normally maintains activity and feeding/drinking as usual. We spent the day trying to force the smallest sips of water, milk, juice, etc.  Needless to say, it became anything but the rest I was needing and the fact that this unexpected stressor was so challenging to manage for both of us illuminated the deficiency at which we've been operating. Friends have lovingly stepped in to care for Avery and bring food, but the well is so dry it feels like the tiniest sprinkle. Or as I said to Bret, it feels like we're putting a BandAid on a gushing wound.

This season of life is overwhelming simply to do the daily tasks of living amidst grieving. I desperately want to fast forward. As I contemplate things that would bring reprieve, I'm fighting accusation of what it says about me as a person and a mother. Shouldn't counseling and the daily help of my mother in caring for my children be enough? How can I pay someone to do my "job" when I'm not even working? I feel like I'm failing at so many things. I couldn't maintain breastfeeding and I'm barely holding on to pumping. I haven't managed to get my daughter on a sleep schedule and the progress we had seemed to make with the tongue and lip tie release feels like it's reversing.  This also feels like my failure because I haven't been as diligent with all the stretches and exercises we were to be doing 3 times a day for 6 weeks. I haven't done my own physical therapy for my postpartum body that certainly doesn't heal in the 6-12 weeks our Western culture seems to expect. Everything feels unnecessarily hard and the lie I'm often believing is that it's my fault; that I'm not enough - not doing enough. The evil comparison leaks in and reinforces my feeling of inadequacy.  It all becomes an awful, vicious cycle. And my cycle often becomes: strive, strive, survive... fall apart... contemplate doing something different... maybe start doing something different... return to strive, strive, survive and repeat.  It has "worked," but it's not working.

I share all of this I guess primarily not to feel alone and somewhat for accountability purposes.  I felt alone in motherhood since Bret first returned to work after Jackson was born, and I have felt alone in grief after those first few weeks following Jerrod's death. Those aren't blanket, daily statements, but an overall feeling.  When I dissect either of those statements, I also know they are not true.  But when I'm alone in my house with my children, often struggling to just get by, it's easy to feel forgotten and to feel like I'm the only one who is struggling.  It's part of the reason I blog or I post about Jerrod. In those moments that I'm hurting, I don't want to feel alone and sometimes it's easier and simply more convenient to do that virtually, until I can find the strength to actually say the words out loud.  Bottom line, I need to out the lies that I'm not enough and act in agreement with what I say I believe about asking for help. I need to document the good days as much, if not more than the hard ones.

birthday twins

I think this is the last photo of just the two of us from our birthday, I think, 3 years ago.  That fact makes me really sad. And makes me want to be better about photographing my loved ones. But dang are you hard to get on camera. I think you always reluctantly took a picture with me and that's usually where the silly grin came from; giving you a hard time about shutting up and pretending to like me!

*click the photo for a link to my Instagram birthday post.