Oh What a Beautiful Mourning (see what I did there?)

If you've ever lost a loved one then you know there are days that are tougher than others. Some are explainable such as holidays and birthdays and some are just what a friend of mine called "blue days." In many cases I would rather face the special days than the blue days because you are prepared. As a matter of fact, the preparation for those days are often worse than the actual days themselves. That's why, sometimes, the second year is worse than the first because you think, "I've been through this before. I've got this." But then the day hits you and, because you didn't spread the pain out over several days, it becomes a huge load. Then there are days that you know will be bad and no amount of preparation is enough. 

If you've ever lost a loved one then you understand. But if you've lost a loved one and then lose the one who shared your grief... This is tough. The emotions flood over you and the one person that you had to hold and cry with is no longer there. You want to scream. You want to kick, hit, scratch. Angry Me shows up and he ain't leaving for awhile. Prayer helps. Both mine and those praying for me (thank you). But prayer doesn't hold you in tangible arms. Prayer doesn't kiss the tears away. Prayer doesn't snuggle up and fall asleep in your arms. So, what do I do? I pray. I pray because it's all I have left. 

This evening I wanted desperately to not attend my church small group. Angry Me wanted to be halfway through a bottle searching for the worm. But I couldn't. God only knows why, but I had volunteered to help pick up one of my little ones and bring him home while his mom prepared for a bunch of adults seeking The Case for Christ. God only knows why, but I invited friends to join us and I couldn't very well not be there when they showed up. Well, maybe God isn't the only one to know. Tonight I got to hold a little one for much of the evening. I got hugs from a dozen friends that wanted to make my pain all go away. And, while it didn't go away, it at least dropped to a dull throb. 

Tonight I'm hoping the sandman finds me early. I'm hoping that the morning sun will help me rise and get my chores done. I'm hoping that my trip to the cemetery, and to another special place to honor my daughter who has not been by my side for 8 years, will not overwhelm me. I'm praying that my getaway to see her friends and mine will be just what I need. And I'm praying that a good time will be had by all. 

Please don't misunderstand me. I know that others will also mourn the day tomorrow. My daughter left an incredible legacy for one so young. Her friends have already begun to contact me. So have my friends. And my wife's friends. And I love them all and appreciate that they still remember the significance of February 5th. And the friends who will be occupying my long weekend, both new and old, will be doing so because they recognize the pain and share in it. And I know my in-laws and my family will also be mourning the loss of their grand-daughter, niece, and cousin. And their grief adds to mine, as mine does to theirs, as we all wish we didn't have to remember February 5th as having any significance. 

The pain will be greater this time during my day. I know it will. I've accepted it. My wife, while we were going through struggles that married couples face told me that she never wanted to be separated from me because I was the only one that would know the significance of February 5th held in her heart. That no one would ever appreciate the struggle she went through the way I would. Well, now it's my turn. I get to face the struggle without her by my side and it does threaten to overwhelm me. I don't know how I'm going to do it but I am going bring flowers to my beautiful little girl alone. And, while my wife won't be there I know that the prayers of my friends and my family will be. And I know, thanks to them, Angry Me will stay at home this time. 

I am a rock. I am an island.

Life has become a never ending game of chutes and ladders. I climb toward the finish line only to roll the dice and slide down again. Each climb up is difficult. Especially when I am climbing the same ladder for the umpteenth time. And each slide down is on that blazing hot piece of metal. And I'm wearing shorts. And not just any shorts, but the ones from the 1970's. If my buns weren't burning from the climb they were burning from the skin peeling slide back down. I decided that today I would direct this blog to the one that I have been writing about. That is to say, this one is to my wife, not just about her. 

The pain grows as the day approaches. And this is how I see it going: Hand in hand we approach that slab of granite that includes the beginning and end of the incredible life of our daughter. You do realize she would be 23 by now. Yeah, I know. Pretty incredible. Time has crept by in a flash. This crawl of years has taken forever as it proves the theory that time flies when you're having fun. When you're not having fun the finish seems so far away. Across the grass we amble, our grip on each other tighter with each step. I don't know at this point who is holding who up. Eight years. Eight long years. From the road we cannot see her name but we know it's there. We've traced it a thousand times with our fingers. The branch. The butterfly. The words letting everyone know that she was Our Angel. The dash. So much resides in that dash. Such a short dash but so full while it was being etched on this earth. Rounding the corner we find our places on the concrete bench and sit with our fingers intertwined. The sun glints off the diamond I put on your finger 27 years ago. Our interlaced fingers becoming one. My fingers dwarfing your perfect, short, stubby little ones. 

This visit is different. This is the most difficult yet. As each blade of grass bent under the weight of my feet I acknowledge the fact that this time there is only one set of footprints. And the approach is to two slabs of granite. Both etched with the stake that went through my heart. This stylus of death has ripped me in two. The bench has been moved to the other side of our daughter's spot in the earth. It now resides above the last patch of earth my body will ever own. We had to move it from the other side to make room for you. Just like you said I would have to do. I place myself on this bench made for two but there is only one now. No one to hold me as I sob. No one to lock her fingers with mine. No one to mix her tears with mine on the grass beneath our heads that hang heavy. This time when I rise I will wipe the dirt off of two markers. I will trace my fingers along two dashes and realize how short those dashes are. I will walk away and trace that single row of footprints back to the road. I will glance back to the markers and know that one day I too will have my wish just as you did. 

Somewhere out there, if you listen for it, there is a loud crack. My heart is breaking in two. It is being sliced and shaped into a block roughly 8 inches thick, three feet wide, and two feet tall. And on one polished side of this stone is being etched a date. Followed by a dash. You, my sweet dear, filled over half of that dash. Your daughter made it wider. And that dash will stop one day and be followed by another date. That date will not mark the end of the dash. It will mark the beginning of the greatest reunion ever. Open your arms wide and brace yourself because I'll be running full tilt! 

I know you will be with me next week as I face another dreaded first. And, although I can't mix my tears with yours I will cry enough for us both. Although I can't lace my fingers with yours I will squeeze my fist tight. And although I can't place footprints next to yours I know mine will be deeper than ever before. Because I will carry the weight of my love for you as well as that of your family and mine. And, when we are all putting an end to our dashes you will know that my final dash will be to you. 

I'm Alright. Don't Nobody Worry 'Bout Me

For the last seven months or so I have focused my blog on the loss of my wife more than the loss of my daughter. Today, as I approach the 8th anniversary of my daughter's passing I thought I would change the direction a little bit. I also want to change the angle at which I approach this so if I seem to be scattershooting a bit, bear with me please. 

Let me begin by answering a couple of questions you are probably afraid to ask:

1. Which was harder, losing my child or losing my spouse? 

My answer may surprise you. And this may not be the typical answer of someone who has gone through both losses. Losing our child was the toughest thing my wife and I ever had to face. I would not say that we had marital bliss from the moment we made our vows until the day she left for home, but the daily troubles seem quite minuscule in comparison. Women are very relationship based. It is in their nature to nurture. As a husband I knew that whatever I gave my wife she returned to me in a greater abundance. I gave her my love and she gave me a child. I gave her grief and she gave it back, good measure, shaken together, and running over (but not nearly what I deserved). This nurturing nature made her an incredible mother. It also meant that, being relationship driven, she developed an extremely strong bond with our daughter. The kind that a child can only develop with their mother. That being said, when she passed away she took the life out of her mother. The grief and pain slowly killed her. Her mom died of a broken heart that just took seven years to manifest itself. It is for this reason that I believe that, had I been the one to go, leaving my wife behind, that she still would've grieved the loss of her daughter more than me. I, on the other hand, miss my wife more. Yep, I said it. Then again, had the timetable been flipped, I might miss my daughter more than my wife. But I doubt it. Most of the reason behind this is because we faced our firsts together. Our first childless Mother's Day. Our first childless Father's Day. Thanksgiving. Birthdays. Christmas. All of these we faced together. A conversation my wife and I had weeks before her passing centered on how she couldn't bear the thought of going through these events without me at her side. Well, that nightmare became mine, not hers. My relationship with my child was based around the one thing that almost all guys base relationships around - activities. I miss going places and doing things with her. This is why I am so blessed when a friend entrusts me with their child as I take them to a movie, ballgame, or some other event that my daughter would've been at my side. I miss her most when I am at activities that she would join me at. My wife missed her all of the time. I know it was tougher for her than for me.

2. How do I feel when other people mention their children and how proud they are of them when I don't have a child to be proud of?

I am very proud of my child. My daughter had such a profound effect on those around her that that effect lingers to this day. And that effect is multiplied exponentially by the way those that she reached are now reaching others. Her best friend told me just the other day that she would not be as strong in her faith had it not been for Beth. How incredible a legacy that is! But, in better answering the question, it doesn't bother me in the least to hear of your child's exploits. I'm proud for you when your children and grandchildren make you proud. A friend once mentioned to me that she didn't want to hurt me. I told her that it would be hard to hurt me more than I already have been. But that was just the point. She didn't want to add to my hurt. And, while it was very sweet of her to worry, I think the decision to be hurt is mine to make. Too much of life is unlived if we let the fear of being hurt get in the way of life's experiences. As a parent you allow, and even encourage, your child to take her first steps. You clap when she falls, walks, and wobbles her way into your arms as she puts one foot in front (or slightly ahead!) of the other. But, as she learns to walk she is going to fall. She is going to get bruised and possibly bloodied through the learning process. But we don't discourage her from walking. In the same way, I may be hurt when I realize that my child's adventures have ended. She never saw her sweet 16. She never had her heart broken by a boy. Never had her first date, first holding of sweaty hands, first kiss. Never got the chance to walk the aisle as a bridesmaid or a bride. But I don't focus on these things. I focus instead on what she WAS able to accomplish. And, as I was able to do for a young man who recently walked the aisle with his beautiful new bride, I like to encourage and bless those that do get to accomplish those things my daughter only got to dream of. I don't get to do it for my child so I want to be able to do it for another child. Regardless of how old they are. 

Life with my daughter, just like life with my wife, is now relegated to memories. I miss them both more than those of you who haven't experienced such loss would ever even imagine. But, I must go on. I must place one foot slightly ahead of the other. I must fall down. I must get back up. I must hurt. I must learn my lessons and move on. And in moving on I will continue to set myself up for more pain. But that is my choice. Please don't take it away from me. 

Grieving aimlessly

After three months of grief you find yourself in a different place than you were the few weeks after your grief event. Your friends are all still there, but it's unfair to ask them to give up their lives and their happiness just because you no longer have yours. They have a life and you must let them live it. But that's not always easy to do. And, unfortunately for you, the numbness has just worn off and now is when you really need your friends. But this is now going to cause you to start working your way out of the grief crater. Prior to now you had people carrying you out. Now you are going to have to do some of the work on your own. And it's painful work. Now you are going to have to ask for help. For a guy, especially, that is a very tough thing to do. Asking for help means, in our minds, that we are not strong enough to do it alone. Admitting we can't do something is tough enough. Admitting we can't do something we could always do before, that's purt near impossible.

I have been blessed with friends and family that have hung in there past the numbness point. But it doesn't mean I can force myself to ask them for help. Yesterday, during the tsunami of grief that struck me, I found myself driving around in my truck aimlessly. I didn't know where I was going. I drove through the cemetery to see if they had put up my wife's headstone yet. They had not. But I couldn't get out of the truck. So I just found myself involved in a drive by grieving. After leaving there I started to think of where I wanted to go. Where I truly wanted to go was home to my family. Only I have no family to go home to. So I just drove and felt like Forrest Gump when he just decided to run. Only my carbon footprint was a little larger. Finally I found myself sitting in my truck in my garage (Although I closed the garage door, I did turn the engine off) and, in the front seat of my truck, with no one else around, I simply sobbed for a few minutes. Not crying, but that ugly, face contorting, snot running, shoulder shaking sob. And then I emerged. I came in the house and, unable to focus on anything, went to the living room and sat on the couch and watched nothing. No TV. No games. No DVD's. No iPad or iPhone. I just sat there not knowing what to do. And then it happened. A friend text me and asked me if I was going to the Men's meeting that night at church. I had already decided that this party of pity was going to keep me in for the night but, before I could stop them, my thumbs responded that they would be there. And, since I'm rather fond of the digits, I thought I would go too. 

Sometimes climbing out of the crater takes some effort of our own. And sometimes that effort comes when you feel at your weakest. But in my weakness, He is made strong. 

A very wise friend has asked me if I'm ever going to write a book. I told her I would be considering it once I get a little further along. Then she said, "wouldn't it help if you had more followers on your blog?" I hadn't given it some thought but she's probably right. So, this time and this time only I will ask that you follow me by clicking on the button in the upper right hand corner of the page. You will probably have to view this as a web page rather than from your mobile browser but there is a link also that allows you to do that. That's it. No more self-advertising. The rest is in your hands. If I can get enough followers I will consider writing the book. Thanks in advance.