Pressure, pushing down on me, pushing down on you

Back in my younger days - and those are amassing quickly now - I remember watching some pretty gifted running backs in football. Walter Payton, Tony Dorsett, Barry Sanders, and Emmitt Smith just to name a few. And I can remember the announcers as they would say, "You can't stop him, you can only hope to contain him!" This was usually said after a highlight reel run that would be played over and over. 

I have decided that grief is a lot like those talented athletes. You can't stop it, you can only hope to contain it. Even the best dam built has to allow water through occasionally. Pressure builds behind the containment walls and if that pressure isn't released on occasion the damage could be severe. So it is up to you, dear traveller, to determine how and when you are going to release that pressure and, more importantly I think, how you will hold that pressure back. 

When my most recent grief event occurred I remember thinking that I would be okay if I could just stay busy. My normal work day was a thing of the past since I found it extremely difficult to face my customers. So I began to involve myself with more of the behind the scenes projects. But, when I couldn't take it anymore I would look for more distractions. I bought season tickets to the University's football and both the men's and ladies' basketball games as well as the baseball games. I began working with a little "buddy ball" baseball team. I got even more involved in my church. And I went out to dinner every night with someone different. Male and female. From 6 years old to 81. I just had to stay busy. But no matter what distraction I gave myself I still felt the pain chipping away. And everywhere I turned there she was. Or, more to the fact, there she wasn't. There are few restaurants in my home town that I haven't cried in. I've misted up at several ballparks excusing myself to go to the concession stand just to collect myself (and a large Coca-cola in a souvenir cup).

Movies. Movies would be a good chance to be distracted, right? After all, if I just go to the "movies for men who like movies" I wouldn't be reminded of my loss. The newest in the Planet of the Apes series. Surely that would be okay. What, they mourn the death of someone? Well, who saw that coming? Let's try a kids' movie. Big Hero 6. That should be fun. What, we couldn't get through the first 15 minutes of the movie without someone dying. How about science fiction. Interstellar got good reviews. Let's try that one. Time travel. I'd love time travel. But then, even though the daughter was in her 80's she has to look at her father and get him out of the room because "no one should have to outlive their children." Well, shoot, those distractions didn't work. How about my favorite genre, comic book movies? Guardians of the Galaxy. That seems fun. Well, if you get past the part where (SPOILER ALERT) the mom dies in the beginning. Or when the big guy wants to destroy the being he feels is responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughter. Or especially when the raccoon character looks at the big guy and says, in a mocking tone, "My wife and daughter died, boo hoo hoo." Ok, maybe movies aren't a good distraction. 

Kids. Kids are always a great distraction for me. The hug or the unsolicited smile of a child when they first see you. Children are my number one distraction. They almost always lift my spirits. Even when, much to the dismay and embarrassment of their parent, they begin to ask innocent questions about where my daughter is and why she died. Or what happened to my wife. And, of course, with most innocent small children, one question leads to another. Oddly enough, these statements don't bring the tears. It's comforting to know that they care for me. 

Regardless the distraction, the pressure is always there. I hold it in but I can feel it building. It's like a water balloon that you fill and then think you can put just a little bit more water in it. And then just a little more. And then a little more. Until it bursts in your hands covering you with the water you had intended for your water balloon fight enemy. 

My water balloon usually bursts at night. Just before bed (which is when I wrote 90% of my blogs). As the overwhelming sense of loneliness cloaks you like the night sky. Sometimes I release a little pressure during the day. A little tear here and there. And sometimes it helps. But other times it's like sticking your thumb over the end of the water hose thereby increasing the pressure. It's something you learn to live with. 

An old acquaintance of mine saw me today and, after reintroducing herself, told me she was sorry for my loss - the more recent one I assume. She asked me how I was doing and I told her that I was making it. I have no other choice. There are other choices mind you, but I personally have no other choice. Other people go through trials as well and I never want to discount theirs. So I told her that "it is what it is" and that "we all have to go through a little trial now and then." Shortly afterward another friend who was standing nearby said (and I paraphrase), "No, not everyone has had to go through trials like you have." 

So, I'm taking my medicine and releasing the pressure slowly through the taps of my thumbs on my keypad as I write my blog. This is how I squeeze out a little pressure from this balloon I've been given. And, occasionally my balloon makes a funny sound as the pressure escapes. A high pitched whine or a low pitched "flatulant" sound that the kids all laugh at. But regardless of the sound, I'm just happy to have this opportunity to release this pressure. I hope you don't mind and I hope, more than anything that it puts things into perspective for you when you travel your grief road. Thanks for taking the time to read and, even more importantly, to share with others on this path. You help me through the lonely nights 

I'd rather be a hammer

I'd rather be driving a Titlest. I'd rather be a hammer than a nail. I'd rather be on the beach. Life is so full of "I'd rather's." Throughout each day we all face times where we would rather be doing something else. Recently I was in a similar situation but my "I'd rather" is probably different than yours. 

Two Decembers ago my parents celebrated 50 years of marriage in a sweet vow renewal ceremony and a reception to follow. Looking over the room I saw so many of their friends. Then I looked at my wife and thought to myself, "I can hardly wait to celebrate 50 years with this woman." We were already over half way there and I was working, always, on being the man of my wife's dreams for the remainder of our lives. We had our ups and downs. Fortunately, mostly ups. I deeply love my wife and, having been through so much tragedy in our lives, I was sure we could weather any storm. 

Fast forward to this more recent event. My parents were in attendance while their best friends celebrated their 50th Anniversary. The room was packed with their friends and family. And, having had this wonderful couple as my other set of parents for so many years, most of those friends were friends of mine. The celebration was wonderful. Good food, good music and dancing, and, best of all, good company. Smiles were on everyone's faces. Including mine. I was very surprised at how much I was enjoying myself. And I know, having been on grief's road for quite a few years now, that it's okay to find happy moments in the midst of grief. 

Four times I found myself on the dance floor. And I enjoyed it each time. But then I would step back and have my "I'd rather" moments. I danced and enjoyed my time dancing with the ladies who each danced with me. But I couldn't help but think, "I'd rather be with my wife." I didn't want to be somewhere else at that moment. But I wanted my wife with me. I wanted to share this experience with her. It wasn't that I didn't want to be around these people, it's just that I wanted even more to have my bride by my side.

There have been many experiences these last ten-plus months that I wish my bride had been able to walk through with me. I enjoy my time with others, no less than I ever did, but I would've enjoyed it so much more if she had been there. I also know that there will be moments in the future that will be the same. 

To reach that intersection of the roads of grief and of joy, I'll have to endure several of these moments. And, as I continue to focus on the good memories and good experiences and less on the bad or on the things I don't have or won't have, the closer I get to the merging of those roads. I will never get to celebrate 50 years with my bride. Even if God blesses me with a future Mrs. Harrison. But I did get to celebrate 26 years. I never had the opportunity to walk my daughter down the aisle to the man that would hopefully make her happy for 50 years. And I'd rather it were different. But I did get to experience so much of her life and the little victories she had. As hard as it may be, I will continue to try to focus on what I have been blessed with rather than what is missing. 

One day in the future I may be able to look someone else in the eyes and tell her that I'd rather be there with her than with anyone else on the planet. And I would be telling the truth. But I hope that she recognizes that I am who I am because of my first "I'd rather."

Playground in my mind

I remember when I broke my ankle several years ago. The swelling was so great they did not cast it at the ER. Instead it took a couple of visits to the doctor before it was finally in a position to where it could be plastered up. In the meantime the ankle was wrapped tightly to keep it as immobile as possible. The permanent fix had to wait and a temporary one had to be applied. That can sometimes be the case when it comes to matters of the heart. 

Where do you find your healing? What is it that is the salve you need for the wounds you have endured? For some of you the fix may be temporary. And, for a season that might just be okay. Sometimes you may need a bridge to cover the gap between pain and real healing. Sometimes that bridge is poorly built and will collapse if we aren't cautious. It would be so easy to erect a bridge of straw and sticks that falls in a heap at the slightest huff and puff. Support beams made of beer bottles. Paved with shallow relationships. Trestles made of poor choices. And after each breath from the wolves of pain we try to rebuild it thinking maybe we need a few more bottles, a few more poor choices. 

But eventually the real healing must take place. For me that healing comes from the Lord. But that healing doesn't come from an instantaneous touch. A cast has to be applied while the healing takes place from within. 

Each of us experiences grief in a different way. Some of us travel our road of grief slowly but deeply. Others travel it more quickly. Just as we experience grief differently we also differ when it comes to what heals us. The Lord will not necessarily heal you the way he heals me. Work may help heal you. Spending time with family might be the balm. For me it has been obvious over the years as I've had this path of grief grow from a dirt road to an interstate. I need time with the children. 

Children treat you the way you treat them when it comes to helping after a hurt. They help pick me up, dust me off, and try to take my mind off the pain. When I hurt the most I find the healing in the laughter of a child. The smiles are contagious. 

I recently spent an evening with a friend who has two children. She explained to them that she was going to a dinner with Uncle Kevin and they would get to stay with a sitter for a little while. One of her children looked at her and said, "That's that man we like, isn't it?" And then followed that with, "When he gets here, he will come inside and give me a hug won't he?" You bet he will!

The next evening I decided to go out to the ballpark and watch my team play. I had an extra ticket but took no one with me as I'm working through trying to learn to be okay with being alone. But God knew I didn't need to be alone. I knew I would see some of my regulars at the park. And I look forward to seeing them and the ritual of hugs and handshakes that must occur before I climb the steps to my seat. But I didn't realize how much I needed a little bit more. Within about thirty minutes I saw some friends and their children and went to say hi. I got hugs from everyone and bright smiles from the kids that had to mirror mine. I said goodbye as I moved on to yet another group of friends and their children (working the room as my wife used to call it). As I sat down for a minute I looked up and the first group of friends came over also. My plan for a temporary visit ended in several innings of laughter with the children, as the adults took advantage of the very willing baby sitter! At one point one of the mothers reminded her child that Uncle Kevin might want to watch the game he paid to see. But she was mistaken. I was where I wanted to be. Playing with the littles and listening to the sounds of the game in the background. Playtime was the event I was there for. The ballpark was merely the setting. 

As I return home I recognize that I have come home to an empty house. Soon I will shower and climb alone between the sheets and pray for a dream about my wife and daughter. I will probably shed a tear or two but, thanks to a group of children my pain became less than it would have been. Healing has begun and I'm overdosing in the merry hearts of those little ones.