It's been 10 days since you left this world. Ten days your wife and children have grieved your absence. Ten days that this jokester, this gal who always has something to say, has been silent. Someone asked me to write a few words about you and I was struck by my inability to do it. I was rendered silent by my inability to define what it is that you and your wife mean to me. I still struggle to speak about you in past tense.
On Sunday, I went to Mass angry. I hope that you can relate to occasionally carrying a heavy bag of emotions to our Savior. When Father held up the Body of Christ, the image of you seeing it all in front of you, in real time, in heaven, rendered me speechless. It was crystal clear. And I sobbed. I sobbed so heavy and so hard. I sobbed because I was so happy for you to be there. I sobbed because I am so sad that your family has to miss you. I sobbed because I can only imagine the experience, and wait for my own. I sobbed because I found myself pouring out requests. Pray for Matthew. Pray for me to be faithful. Pray for Love. Pray for my Dad...
You asked me why he was better and you were dying, once. I remember standing in the hallway after CWOC. You were pacing back and forth and we ended up talking. I love our talks. What a treat it was to hear what was going through your mind. Anyway, on Sunday, I suppose that I understood why you had to go first: so you could pray for us. I find bizarre comfort in the knowledge that you understand that better than us all.
My dear friend, you and your bride are our family. You are our great friends. You welcomed us in this vast universe that is the military and you sheltered us with laughs, wisdom, advice, encouragement, support. I will miss seeing your Ranger hat and pin. I will miss your laugh. I will miss how you never stopped asking questions, no matter how silly you thought they sounded. I will miss how you made everyone who encountered you feel simultaneously like the most awesome person in the room, and driven to be a better version of themselves. I will miss how you made my son feel ever so slightly a part of the organization for which is holds such high regard. I will miss you teasing me about being embarrassed to kiss my husband at the giving of the peace in Mass (and I will think of you laughing in heaven each time it comes). I will miss going to lunch and talking about everything under the sun. I will miss how desperately you sought to understand God's Love and Mercy in all moments. I will miss your honesty about your faults with me, and your drive to be better. I will miss teasing you about running when you should be resting. I will miss the expression of awe and wonder our Savior brought over you with each new discovery.
Thank you for allowing me and my family to be a part of your life. Thank you for sharing a tiny piece of your big heart with us all. You will never be forgotten. I know I join so many others when I say: I look forward to seeing you again, in the physical presence of our King.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Sunday, February 17, 2019
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Chocolate
Moments come where the sucker punch is so intense you can barely see through it. The sting of grief overwhelms and your whole self is broken. This grief, this heart devastation, manifests itself in different ways. Sometimes it's crying in the shower, sometimes it's curled up on the floor staring in to space. Sometimes it's lost in silent pain, holding hands with your best friend.
Goodbye stings deeper than almost any sting. The memories become ghosts, haunting your thoughts. They randomly launch you into a happy moment, only to leave you with the grieve of the harsh reality: they are gone.
I am sitting here trying to say goodbye. Goodbye to what I envisioned, goodbye to what I wanted, goodbye to something good to look forward to. Good bye to you.
I feel sick to my stomach. I find myself alternating between functioning and disconnecting. Trying to disengage myself from the ghost of your presence is practically impossible. And I hate you for that. I hate you for hurting me. I hate me for hating you. Which leads to anger, and helplessness. Is that really the root cause of it all? Being utterly helpless?
I am so helpless. I can't do anything! I can't make anything happen, or prevent anything from happening, or keep anyone here. I can't make death go away, or the sting of loss, or eradicate grief. I am like a grain of sand, tossed around by the whims of the Ocean and His will. I feel battered and bruised and defeated.
I miss you.
Goodbye stings deeper than almost any sting. The memories become ghosts, haunting your thoughts. They randomly launch you into a happy moment, only to leave you with the grieve of the harsh reality: they are gone.
I am sitting here trying to say goodbye. Goodbye to what I envisioned, goodbye to what I wanted, goodbye to something good to look forward to. Good bye to you.
I feel sick to my stomach. I find myself alternating between functioning and disconnecting. Trying to disengage myself from the ghost of your presence is practically impossible. And I hate you for that. I hate you for hurting me. I hate me for hating you. Which leads to anger, and helplessness. Is that really the root cause of it all? Being utterly helpless?
I am so helpless. I can't do anything! I can't make anything happen, or prevent anything from happening, or keep anyone here. I can't make death go away, or the sting of loss, or eradicate grief. I am like a grain of sand, tossed around by the whims of the Ocean and His will. I feel battered and bruised and defeated.
I miss you.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
4
They told me it would get easier, having multiples. They say time heals all wounds and that life goes on and you get over things and you accept them and they get easier. In some ways that's true. In some aspects it is easier. I get to sleep at night. I'm not constantly changing diapers or feeding an infant who never. stops. crying. But that's not unique to a set of triplets. All mothers endure the same agonies: exhaustion, sleep deprivation, physical and emotional fatigue...
They are so much older now. Their conditions have become "normal". So normal, in fact, that when a physician diagnoses your son with one of the world's rarest gastrointestinal condition it doesn't even phase you. How completely screwed up is that? You don't even blink an eye...
My children are about to be baptized next Sunday. In the process of this experience, there was a discussion about their Catholic names and who their patron Saints would be. It was discovered that all of my children are named after saints. All of their names accurately define their personalities. And I couldn't help but wonder about our dead baby. What was that baby's name? What was their personality? Who would they have been?
It was a silent agony. It was something that I didn't share because at the time I was immersed in the circumstance of keeping the other three alive. The fourth child is something the triplets talk about constantly. I hate that. I wish they wouldn't. It hurts like hell. But then there's this part of me that knows it's incredibly selfish to prevent them from talking about and remembering the fourth member of their group. The four of them, collectively, attached to my body. The four of them heard my heartbeat and knew each other from the very beginning. The four of them experienced this endeavor from the beginning...
But three were born alive, for a reason that I will probably never know. One went to heaven, before ever seeing the light of day, or feeling the sun on their face. One went to heaven before feeling my kisses, or knowing my touch. One went to heaven, possibly so that others could live. Could that one child have been so self sacrificing so as to give their very life up, for the other three?
The triplets function as one. They talk constantly about feeling each other, knowing what they're thinking, and the agony they feel when they are apart. They function with one brain, or soul, or being that I can't relate to and I don't understand. But maybe they function as quads. Maybe there's one aspect of themselves that's in heaven, calling them to Christ and waiting for the four of them to be together. Maybe there's one who prays for them in a realm that I can't see.
I ache for that child. I ache for the remains that I gave birth to when the three were born. I ache that I wasn't strong enough to handle the situation before me, at the time. I ache that I didn't honor that child, or grieve for them adequately. I ache that we didn't give that baby a name...
They say that time heals all wounds. They said this would get easier as the years passed. But I tell you, that in the five years since I gave birth to my four children at once, only three of which had beating hearts, the ache has not disappeared. The guilt I carry is everlasting.
I wish I could have known you, known your quirks, known your face. I wish that our relationship would be deeper than the-four-that-never-were. I wish I would have talked about you and shared about your existence. I wish they wouldn't talk about you and miss you as much as they do. But most of all, I wish that it wasn't necessary for you to go to heaven before the rest of us... I wish we weren't here without you.
They are so much older now. Their conditions have become "normal". So normal, in fact, that when a physician diagnoses your son with one of the world's rarest gastrointestinal condition it doesn't even phase you. How completely screwed up is that? You don't even blink an eye...
My children are about to be baptized next Sunday. In the process of this experience, there was a discussion about their Catholic names and who their patron Saints would be. It was discovered that all of my children are named after saints. All of their names accurately define their personalities. And I couldn't help but wonder about our dead baby. What was that baby's name? What was their personality? Who would they have been?
It was a silent agony. It was something that I didn't share because at the time I was immersed in the circumstance of keeping the other three alive. The fourth child is something the triplets talk about constantly. I hate that. I wish they wouldn't. It hurts like hell. But then there's this part of me that knows it's incredibly selfish to prevent them from talking about and remembering the fourth member of their group. The four of them, collectively, attached to my body. The four of them heard my heartbeat and knew each other from the very beginning. The four of them experienced this endeavor from the beginning...
But three were born alive, for a reason that I will probably never know. One went to heaven, before ever seeing the light of day, or feeling the sun on their face. One went to heaven before feeling my kisses, or knowing my touch. One went to heaven, possibly so that others could live. Could that one child have been so self sacrificing so as to give their very life up, for the other three?
The triplets function as one. They talk constantly about feeling each other, knowing what they're thinking, and the agony they feel when they are apart. They function with one brain, or soul, or being that I can't relate to and I don't understand. But maybe they function as quads. Maybe there's one aspect of themselves that's in heaven, calling them to Christ and waiting for the four of them to be together. Maybe there's one who prays for them in a realm that I can't see.
I ache for that child. I ache for the remains that I gave birth to when the three were born. I ache that I wasn't strong enough to handle the situation before me, at the time. I ache that I didn't honor that child, or grieve for them adequately. I ache that we didn't give that baby a name...
They say that time heals all wounds. They said this would get easier as the years passed. But I tell you, that in the five years since I gave birth to my four children at once, only three of which had beating hearts, the ache has not disappeared. The guilt I carry is everlasting.
I wish I could have known you, known your quirks, known your face. I wish that our relationship would be deeper than the-four-that-never-were. I wish I would have talked about you and shared about your existence. I wish they wouldn't talk about you and miss you as much as they do. But most of all, I wish that it wasn't necessary for you to go to heaven before the rest of us... I wish we weren't here without you.
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