6 Months with Sis & the Advent of Joy

I recently took, what felt like, another blow to add to the shit storm of grief and immediately deleted my Instagram and Facebook apps. For whatever reason I knew I needed to be fully present with this new onset of emotions and that these two things would shortchange that; turning to the numbing and distraction of scrolling through posts mindlessly.  In all honesty, I still try to resort to those places but the inconvenience of going through Safari limits the frequency.

It’s also strange and a little embarrassing that there was some fear of being forgotten or even people not recognizing my absence. My motivation in sharing online is often about not wanting to feel alone and also hoping to feel more normal in my struggle through validation from others. It’s ridiculous, and again a little embarrassing, that a ️ or  can play even the smallest part on my feelings of self-worth or that I need any kind of validation from those places. I mean here I am even using another social media avenue for the illusion of connection. But this one’s audience is small; maybe even nonexistent (unless shared to FB), so I justify...

And for what? To share my daughter’s six month picture...because I guess otherwise the past six months of her life didn’t happen? (I know it also functions as a digital "baby book" of sorts and is nice to be able to click on her #ouraveryfaith hashtag and instantly have access to our memories.)  I know it is a public celebration of sorts and way of documenting gratitude for these milestones. And, again, also to not feel alone in the struggle that the past 6 months has been. I could just post my pretty picture of a smiling Avery and lead you to believe that this represents life for us.  It does represent some of our life to be sure, and it is not the whole picture.  I know that's the reality of any person's Instagram or Facebook presence.  Even when I post the hard stuff you're not REALLY seeing the whole picture. You're getting a glimpse into the hard, but not what it's like on a day-to-day, moment-to-moment, up and down, all over the place roller-coaster that we are living. 

The past six months have been full of joy and immense heartache. I am so grateful for my children and they also make it hard to grieve on a regular basis.  They need me to show up and I need them to remind me that life is still beautiful in the midst of the brokenness and pain.  I don't know what state I would be in without them.  Avery could not have come into our lives at a more complicated and perfect time. The warmth of her smile, which radiates constantly, is a daily reminder that light shines brightest in the dark. 

We've been going through Advent at church this year, which is something entirely new to Crossroads. It could not have come at a more perfect holiday season for me. The past week was on the Advent of Joy and talking a lot about how the Christmas story takes place at night; Night representing spiritual/emotional darkness. We are living in a season of Night and the only thing that I really connect with this Christmas is the desperate need for the return of our Savior. Chuck also talks about having joy that defies the night, our past and our present pain. While I have joy with my children, I have yet to fully access the joy and hope as it pertains to Jerrod's death and the grace and freedom he (and we) receive through Jesus' birth, death and resurrection.  So we mourn and we wait. And we cling to the little bits of light breaking through our night.

A sad and grateful heart

In the interest of sharing the good along with the bad, I bring you this post:

My spiritual mentor/“mama” (if you don’t have one of those, get one. And fast!) has long preached and modeled the practice and gift of gratitude. Admittedly this is one of those things I just did without question or much discussion because when Mama M tells you to do something, you do it; she’s wise and I never have to question where her heart is. So I’ve been at this practice of gratitude on a daily-to-sometimes-nonexistent basis for the past, approximately, five years. I don’t know that it has always, if ever, felt earth shattering. I am also notoriously bad at being in tune with myself on a regular basis. Unless the emotion is strong, I don’t give it much attention, so it’s likely that I don’t notice the little shifts. I think that’s definitely been the case with the impact of gratitude in my life. It’s like a muscle I’ve slowly been trying to build over the years and until I actually go to do some abnormal, test-my-limits lifting, I don’t really see the growth or impact. I think in some ways that’s what has come to light in the midst of this loss.  I didn't see or fully experience the transformation gratefulness has to offer, but I'm beginning to recognize it now. I believe it’s the reason I’m not scared to feel all the big, painful feelings and have any amount of strength to do so. I've been keenly aware of the ways I have been loved through the hardest experience of my life and have been sustained by. Granted, some days it’s still hard to identify anything I’m grateful for, but when the dust settles on an emotionally hard day, the gifts start shining through.

I think I previously expected that the practice of gratitude would make the painful/hard things not hard and painful; probably part of the reason for my inconsistency. I’m experiencing more the reality of gratitude as something to carry me through the pain. If I was unable to see any good, any hope, any joy, then the sadness would overtake me; it would simply be too much to face. However, God reminds me everyday, when I choose to see it, that He’s always at work doing something; bringing new life and hope. There is beauty to come from the loss of my brother, not because what happened was good or ordained by God, but because God is good and He doesn’t waste anything. He will bring forth some sort of redemption and I want the eyes to see it.

Something else to ponder...

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.

it's ok that you're not ok

I recently started reading It's Ok You're Not Ok and have been bookmarking various parts. This morning I've really been contemplating something she says about grief not being a tool to help you become a better person resulting in knowing what's "truly important in life," as if grief is the only way towards interpersonal growth.  She makes the argument that:

"if intense loss is the only way to make a person more compassionate, only self-absorbed, disconnected, shallow people would experience grief... You didn't need this experience in order to grow. You didn't need the lessons that supposedly only grief can teach. Learning happens in a million different ways. Grief and loss are one path to depth and connection, but they are not the only path... On the contrary: life is call-and-response. Things happen, and we absorb and adapt... You didn't need this... Life-changing events do not just slip quietly away, nor are they atonements for past wrongs. they change us. They are a part of our foundation as we live forward. What you built atop this loss might be growth. It might be a gesture towards beauty, more love, more wholeness. But that is due to your choices, your own alignment with who you are and who you want to be."

Her ultimate point is that grief is not a problem to be solved. "Some things cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

"This is really as bad as you think. This sucks and you don't need solutions. There is nothing wrong with grief. It's a natural extension of love. It's a healthy and sane response to loss. That grief feels bad doesn't make it bad; that you feel crazy doesn't mean you are crazy.  Grief is part of love. Love for life, love for self, love for others. What you are living, painful as it is, is love. And love is really hard. Excruciating at times... Because the truth is, in one way or another, loving each other means losing each other. Being alive in such a fleeting, tenuous world is hard. Our hearts get broken in ways that can't be fixed. There is pain that becomes an immovable part of our lives. We need to know how to endure that, how to care for ourselves inside that, how to care for one another. We need to know how to live here, where life as we know it can change, forever, at any time."

I think there's part of me that believes(d) that God orchestrated this loss as some answer to prayer I've made desiring to be more dependent upon him or as some tool to help me look more like Jesus through suffering.  In that sense this can feel like a punishment and if I really stop to identify the truth I don't actually think this is the way God works.  Yet, when I just coast through my grief and questioning of God without considering his word, I can easily start to believe things that do not align with the bible.  I don't think this is accidental; I think it is the reality of Satan's presence in this world and his desire to create distance and distrust of God. 

I had been reading through the book of Job right after Jerrod died and haven't read any further in the past couple weeks, but I'm reminded of his story this morning.  Job's friends try to suggest that his circumstances are a result of his sin.  However, at the beginning of the book we get a glimpse into a conversation between God and Satan that let's us know that the awful loss and pain Job undergoes is about proving Job is righteous and faithful, not a result of his sin. I have to admit it still really pisses me off that God allowed Satan to torment Job to prove a point; it's a real WTF move. It's one of those things I will never fully understand about the way God works, but just as God is not dismayed by Job's questioning and anger, I know he isn't about mine either. I trust my relationship with God will only grow stronger because of my questioning, because of my honesty. And as best I can, I will trust his wisdom and sovereignty.

Below is a really good summation of the book of Job.