I have had such a compulsion to eat lately and I am gaining weight. Unfortunately I’ve regained most of the 30 pounds I lost earlier this year. I know I need to do something about it and have talked to God but for some reason I just can't let it go. Before I pop that sweet into my mouth I forget how bad it's going to make feel later. How can I forget that I’m going to get a headache and feel shaky, cranky, and depressed???
Last November I knelt down and finally admitted to God that I don't want to give up my eating habits. I fully enjoy the flavors and textures of these foods that are killing me. The only way for me to make any change will be for Him to TAKE from me what I cannot GIVE Him. As I stood up from that prayer, my desire for sweets was gone. And I didn't want any for a few months after. Then one day, at a birthday party in April, I think it was, I thought "It won't hurt to have a little." So I had just a little piece of cake. The next "little piece" of something didn't take much self convincing. By May, I was back to my old habits and now I am worse than ever. I have no idea what is going on, I just want to eat all of the time! I am living proof of free will. God doesn't force His will on us, even when we ask for it.
I know that I’ll feel better when I again let God take this compulsion from me. It’s not mine anymore! Why do I still eat like an addict!?
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
August 29, 2003
Is there an end to Grief? Does mourning ever truly cease? God has promised to turn my sorrow to joy. That promise is solid, but I am not privy to His timetable. My grief seems to be mounting, not abating. Since my birthday my saddness follows me everywhere like a dark cloud that should block all light, yet I can still see that the summer sun shines, though the light does not penetrate my soul. Though I function and go about my daily business seeming fine this burden I always carry feels heavier with each passing hour.
Last night I realized that the time of mourning is a time of stockpiling memories. They come unbidden to me at first, but once one tickles my mind I begin to search them out and organize them into chronological order. I can only go so far in a sitting before my mind is overwhelmed. As I sat there last night I tried to start with my first sight of my newborn son. My Steve, my own five pound-five ounce creation. At first my memories seemed like snapshots of time but as I patiently concentrated on one after another they began to flow more like an old, often spliced home movie. But even these are moments in time and not an even flowing of the years. It’s like big chunks of his life are missing from my mind’s photo album.
I remember that I wanted to nurse him and though I was unconvinced Steve's biological “father's” argument that breast milk was “too impure to cross state lines”(really, he actually used those words!) it was my "duty" to comply. (And did I tell you I was quite naive at the time?) So after Steve was born I was given a shot to dry me up. It didn’t work. Four days later my milk came in. I secretly tried to nurse him but I didn’t know what I was doing. Besides, he was already used to the ease of sucking from the bottle and he refused my breast. I never tried again. Sometimes I wonder if breastfeeding would have made any difference in his life. Probably not. Bottle feeding him did not diminish my love for him one iota.
Like any first time Mom, I made so many mistakes with Steve but he had such a forgiving heart. More than once he told Dave (not his biological father, but his "real" dad) and me that he couldn’t have asked for better parents. What an honor.
Yet at times in these past 5 weeks, 2 days I am eaten alive with “should haves”. I should have tried to help him wash his hands more those last few days, but I didn’t want to treat him like a child. I should have offered to feed him. It never occurred to me…or did I try? I have a vague recollection of holding his protein shake for him. Did I tip it to his mouth? Did he lose his appetite because he was too weak to grasp his fork? Did he see his food there and really want it but was physically unable to reach it and go through the motions? I don’t think so. I know his appetite was gone before he came home from the hospital.
I should have talked to him more, asked him more questions, asked him to tell me about what he was feeling. But in the end I let him lead the way and he seemed not to want to talk about it. I sat with him outside, the warm summer breeze sometimes all that moved betweem us. We were just together, often in a comfortable silence, and at the time that seemed to be enough. But now I long for more to remember.
I should have taken more pictures. I say I don’t want to remember how he looked when he was so sick but I cherish the few pictures we have from the last few months of his life. Each of these "should-haves" are inconsequential bits that don't matter in the greater scheme of things and I really need to let them go before they crowd out the real issue ~ I miss my son.
My grief and mourning have turned into depression. Not the black hole of depression that I went through when I was in my twenties as a young mother in a new town, overwhelmed and hormonally challenged. Now I am numb.
Sometimes I feel “normal” as I go about my day and move among people, but I am joyless, passionless. My breath has been crushed out of me. My arms and legs are heavy whether I am moving or sitting. I plod through the day merely going through the motions. When I have to leave the safe confines of my own home I wear a happy, relaxed face that doesn’t match my heart. I have learned to look people in the eye and lie to the inevitable question, “How are you?” “Fine” or "As well as can be expected" is my reply. But I want to shout “I AM NOT FINE! A PIECE OF ME IS GONE. I AM INCOMPLETE AND WILL BE UNTIL MY DYING DAY!” But that's not what they want to hear. They don't really want to know the extent of my inner suffering. How could they possibly respond to the raw truth?
I know that over time I will grow accustomed to this hole in my being and I will again laugh with gusto someday (soon?).
Last night I realized that the time of mourning is a time of stockpiling memories. They come unbidden to me at first, but once one tickles my mind I begin to search them out and organize them into chronological order. I can only go so far in a sitting before my mind is overwhelmed. As I sat there last night I tried to start with my first sight of my newborn son. My Steve, my own five pound-five ounce creation. At first my memories seemed like snapshots of time but as I patiently concentrated on one after another they began to flow more like an old, often spliced home movie. But even these are moments in time and not an even flowing of the years. It’s like big chunks of his life are missing from my mind’s photo album.
I remember that I wanted to nurse him and though I was unconvinced Steve's biological “father's” argument that breast milk was “too impure to cross state lines”(really, he actually used those words!) it was my "duty" to comply. (And did I tell you I was quite naive at the time?) So after Steve was born I was given a shot to dry me up. It didn’t work. Four days later my milk came in. I secretly tried to nurse him but I didn’t know what I was doing. Besides, he was already used to the ease of sucking from the bottle and he refused my breast. I never tried again. Sometimes I wonder if breastfeeding would have made any difference in his life. Probably not. Bottle feeding him did not diminish my love for him one iota.
Like any first time Mom, I made so many mistakes with Steve but he had such a forgiving heart. More than once he told Dave (not his biological father, but his "real" dad) and me that he couldn’t have asked for better parents. What an honor.
Yet at times in these past 5 weeks, 2 days I am eaten alive with “should haves”. I should have tried to help him wash his hands more those last few days, but I didn’t want to treat him like a child. I should have offered to feed him. It never occurred to me…or did I try? I have a vague recollection of holding his protein shake for him. Did I tip it to his mouth? Did he lose his appetite because he was too weak to grasp his fork? Did he see his food there and really want it but was physically unable to reach it and go through the motions? I don’t think so. I know his appetite was gone before he came home from the hospital.
I should have talked to him more, asked him more questions, asked him to tell me about what he was feeling. But in the end I let him lead the way and he seemed not to want to talk about it. I sat with him outside, the warm summer breeze sometimes all that moved betweem us. We were just together, often in a comfortable silence, and at the time that seemed to be enough. But now I long for more to remember.
I should have taken more pictures. I say I don’t want to remember how he looked when he was so sick but I cherish the few pictures we have from the last few months of his life. Each of these "should-haves" are inconsequential bits that don't matter in the greater scheme of things and I really need to let them go before they crowd out the real issue ~ I miss my son.
My grief and mourning have turned into depression. Not the black hole of depression that I went through when I was in my twenties as a young mother in a new town, overwhelmed and hormonally challenged. Now I am numb.
Sometimes I feel “normal” as I go about my day and move among people, but I am joyless, passionless. My breath has been crushed out of me. My arms and legs are heavy whether I am moving or sitting. I plod through the day merely going through the motions. When I have to leave the safe confines of my own home I wear a happy, relaxed face that doesn’t match my heart. I have learned to look people in the eye and lie to the inevitable question, “How are you?” “Fine” or "As well as can be expected" is my reply. But I want to shout “I AM NOT FINE! A PIECE OF ME IS GONE. I AM INCOMPLETE AND WILL BE UNTIL MY DYING DAY!” But that's not what they want to hear. They don't really want to know the extent of my inner suffering. How could they possibly respond to the raw truth?
I know that over time I will grow accustomed to this hole in my being and I will again laugh with gusto someday (soon?).
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Current
Hi All!
I've been spending several hours a day working on the book. It has been an unexpectedly satisfying experience changing it from a journal format into a memoir. I tried to fight my editor, Bob Yehling, on the idea because I was so certain that it began as a journal it simply had to stay a journal! But after talking to my husband, Dave, I began to catch Bob's vision. The new format allows me to add so much that was missing from my journals and kept Steve and our family hidden among the missing details. So, I have a whole lot of work to do before we are anywhere near offering the manuscript to an agent.
That said, I plan to cut back to twice a week postings for the blog. After today, I'll post on Tuesdays and Fridays.
Thanks everyone for sticking with me on this. I know it's not always easy reading, but it does have a "Happy Ending" and I truly do appreciate your support and you many kind words!
Peace Be With You
Debbie
I've been spending several hours a day working on the book. It has been an unexpectedly satisfying experience changing it from a journal format into a memoir. I tried to fight my editor, Bob Yehling, on the idea because I was so certain that it began as a journal it simply had to stay a journal! But after talking to my husband, Dave, I began to catch Bob's vision. The new format allows me to add so much that was missing from my journals and kept Steve and our family hidden among the missing details. So, I have a whole lot of work to do before we are anywhere near offering the manuscript to an agent.
That said, I plan to cut back to twice a week postings for the blog. After today, I'll post on Tuesdays and Fridays.
Thanks everyone for sticking with me on this. I know it's not always easy reading, but it does have a "Happy Ending" and I truly do appreciate your support and you many kind words!
Peace Be With You
Debbie
Monday, March 22, 2010
August 28, 2003
I did a terrible thing to a friend today.
I hadn’t seen Wendy since the end-of-the-school-year picnic last June. At that time Steve was sick but we didn’t know what was wrong with him or that he was dying. Many of my friends had been praying for him, including Wendy. Today was the first get together of the new school year for our homeschooling group. We met at the local indoor rock climbing gym. As Robyn and Jae set out to scale one of the man-made rock walls with a dozen other kids, I joined Wendy and Tracy at the chairs set up along the wall for the spectators. As as I sat down, Wendy turned to me and asked, “How’s your son?” “Much better…” I told her but before I could tell her why her face lit up like a beacon. It broke my heart to continue, “…because he passed away” and watch her expression fall.
Actually, he is much better, right? According to the platitudes I am greeted with. According to the messages I hear. “He’s in a better place…” “He’s not hurting any more…” "You'll see him again someday". I know all that and whole heartedly agree. The moment Steve left his body I understood all of that.
But, how can a life cut short be better? He still had so much to do. So much to see. Two young sons he wanted to introduce to a wide world. He wanted to be able to go to work every day to support his family. He wanted to invest in real estate, to own a boat. He wanted to spend a month in the desert riding his Banshee all day or all night, without needing insulin injections or tubes hanging out of his belly that he would use to connect himself to an exchanger each night to clean his blood because his kinneys couldn't. He wanted to eat a banana split without the worry of spiking his blood sugar or overloading his system with potassium. He wanted to stay with his family and grow old with them. But instead he had to die to find peaceful rest from a body that failed him.
So I didn’t really lie to Wendy today. But in hindsight it was a cruel way to tell a friend of my son’s death.
I won’t do that again.
I hadn’t seen Wendy since the end-of-the-school-year picnic last June. At that time Steve was sick but we didn’t know what was wrong with him or that he was dying. Many of my friends had been praying for him, including Wendy. Today was the first get together of the new school year for our homeschooling group. We met at the local indoor rock climbing gym. As Robyn and Jae set out to scale one of the man-made rock walls with a dozen other kids, I joined Wendy and Tracy at the chairs set up along the wall for the spectators. As as I sat down, Wendy turned to me and asked, “How’s your son?” “Much better…” I told her but before I could tell her why her face lit up like a beacon. It broke my heart to continue, “…because he passed away” and watch her expression fall.
Actually, he is much better, right? According to the platitudes I am greeted with. According to the messages I hear. “He’s in a better place…” “He’s not hurting any more…” "You'll see him again someday". I know all that and whole heartedly agree. The moment Steve left his body I understood all of that.
But, how can a life cut short be better? He still had so much to do. So much to see. Two young sons he wanted to introduce to a wide world. He wanted to be able to go to work every day to support his family. He wanted to invest in real estate, to own a boat. He wanted to spend a month in the desert riding his Banshee all day or all night, without needing insulin injections or tubes hanging out of his belly that he would use to connect himself to an exchanger each night to clean his blood because his kinneys couldn't. He wanted to eat a banana split without the worry of spiking his blood sugar or overloading his system with potassium. He wanted to stay with his family and grow old with them. But instead he had to die to find peaceful rest from a body that failed him.
So I didn’t really lie to Wendy today. But in hindsight it was a cruel way to tell a friend of my son’s death.
I won’t do that again.
Friday, March 19, 2010
August 23…one month after
Tonight we had a family dinner for my birthday. Steve’s absence was palpable. It seemed so quiet without Nick and Steve just being Nick and Steve. They always spread so much laughter wherever they went and tonight that was obviously missing. We have so much as a family and are very close but a certain amount of our joy is gone, perhaps never to be fully regained in this life.
For a few minutes tonight after dinner I felt angry. Not at anyone in particular. Just angry at the situation. I miss him so much, sometimes I just want to scream. No. I don’t want to, I need to, and sometimes it just boils out from my gut. Sort of a mutation of a scream and a moan. It happens when the realization washes over me again, like today on my way to Costco to shop for tonight’s dinner. As I drove along the familiar streets I was thinking about the few items I had to pick up and for a moment I had a contented, peaceful feeling as I thought about my family coming over for what has always been a happy celebration ~~~ a birthday dinner. When I realized Steve wouldn’t be there the pain of knowing seized me at my waist tossing me forward. I tightly clutched the steering wheel and screamed, as I continued to drive down the curvy road.
This was our first family dinner here since Steve died and I dreaded it, though I knew we had to do it. We have so many “firsts” we have to get through in the upcoming year. It hurts so much to do the things we’ve always done, now doing them without him. It feels like somehow we’re being unfaithful to him, though I know that to stop living as usual would be the ultimate insult to him and to his memory.
Dave picked up his Aunt Ada and brought her to dinner tonight. Nick said that though he’s glad to see her it’s also hard because the way she moves reminds him of Steve. During his last several months Steve aged rapidly, becoming an old man before our eyes. His muscles atrophied, shriveling to a bare whisper that hung loosely on his bones. His skin turned a pale grey and his face became deeply lined and craggy. The last shred of his independence, sitting outside for a solitary smoke, was taken from him in his last four days as he lost the strength in his hands to ignite the lighter, and, on a few occasions, to even hold the cigarette between his fingers. It’s also hard to see Ada, because Nick knows that all too soon we will lose her, too.
As quiet as the house felt to me tonight Ada, who never had children of her own, made an ironic comment to me as I drove her home. She said "There’s always so much liveliness with you. You always have children around.” And so I do. I don’t think that will ever change. These children link us to the future, they provide continuity to our lives as we pass our traditions to them, and they show us that time truely is passing as we witness their growth without noticing our own aging.
I like it that way.
PS ~ From today I can safely say that we have regained our joy! Though we still miss Steve at our family celebrations and in our daily lives, God has been faithful to His promises to us to turn our sorrow into joy. He continues to add to our family in ways we never dreamed possible. Annett (Steve's widow and now our daughter) remarried a wonderful man who we love like a son. Jon is everything Steve would have wanted to step in for him to raise Christopher. And last September Jon and Nett added a granddaughter to the family, Shelby, just one day before Amy and Jeremy added a grandson, Jaxon. Our cup truely does run over!
For a few minutes tonight after dinner I felt angry. Not at anyone in particular. Just angry at the situation. I miss him so much, sometimes I just want to scream. No. I don’t want to, I need to, and sometimes it just boils out from my gut. Sort of a mutation of a scream and a moan. It happens when the realization washes over me again, like today on my way to Costco to shop for tonight’s dinner. As I drove along the familiar streets I was thinking about the few items I had to pick up and for a moment I had a contented, peaceful feeling as I thought about my family coming over for what has always been a happy celebration ~~~ a birthday dinner. When I realized Steve wouldn’t be there the pain of knowing seized me at my waist tossing me forward. I tightly clutched the steering wheel and screamed, as I continued to drive down the curvy road.
This was our first family dinner here since Steve died and I dreaded it, though I knew we had to do it. We have so many “firsts” we have to get through in the upcoming year. It hurts so much to do the things we’ve always done, now doing them without him. It feels like somehow we’re being unfaithful to him, though I know that to stop living as usual would be the ultimate insult to him and to his memory.
Dave picked up his Aunt Ada and brought her to dinner tonight. Nick said that though he’s glad to see her it’s also hard because the way she moves reminds him of Steve. During his last several months Steve aged rapidly, becoming an old man before our eyes. His muscles atrophied, shriveling to a bare whisper that hung loosely on his bones. His skin turned a pale grey and his face became deeply lined and craggy. The last shred of his independence, sitting outside for a solitary smoke, was taken from him in his last four days as he lost the strength in his hands to ignite the lighter, and, on a few occasions, to even hold the cigarette between his fingers. It’s also hard to see Ada, because Nick knows that all too soon we will lose her, too.
As quiet as the house felt to me tonight Ada, who never had children of her own, made an ironic comment to me as I drove her home. She said "There’s always so much liveliness with you. You always have children around.” And so I do. I don’t think that will ever change. These children link us to the future, they provide continuity to our lives as we pass our traditions to them, and they show us that time truely is passing as we witness their growth without noticing our own aging.
I like it that way.
PS ~ From today I can safely say that we have regained our joy! Though we still miss Steve at our family celebrations and in our daily lives, God has been faithful to His promises to us to turn our sorrow into joy. He continues to add to our family in ways we never dreamed possible. Annett (Steve's widow and now our daughter) remarried a wonderful man who we love like a son. Jon is everything Steve would have wanted to step in for him to raise Christopher. And last September Jon and Nett added a granddaughter to the family, Shelby, just one day before Amy and Jeremy added a grandson, Jaxon. Our cup truely does run over!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
August 20, 2003
Today I turned 50. I have completed my first half century. All things considered, it was a good day. I woke up very tired, as usual, so after Dave left for work at 6:45 I crawled back into bed hoping for a little more sleep. As soon as I got all comfy my mind grabbed hold of some idea and ran with it.It must not have been a very important idea. I can't even remember now what it was. It wasn’t worth the bother to lie there and work at getting back to sleep so I got up. Besides, I knew that Amy would be here by 8:30 for our morning walk. Today we made the entire two mile round trip to the west end of the flume. We are enjoying these walks and plan to continue even when our schedules are tight. It gives us a chance to talk about our lives and to ponder death. We talk some about Steve but not exclusively.
Dave and I planned to go out to dinner tonight with the kids for my birthday but didn’t get out of the house till almost 7:30. We went to IHOP because I like pancakes for dinner! Amy, Kirstie, Kyle, and Jeremy joined Dave, Janiece, Robyn and me there. We spent the evening talking and laughing together. It almost felt like any other normal family birthday dinner. Amy told me that she was thinking about having a party for my birthday but she feels it’s too soon since Steve's death. Maybe for my next milestone. This one has been overshadowed and is probably best kept low key.
Jae gave me quite a compliment this morning. “You’re too young to be fifty!” It made me remember a time when my Grandma Toll was in her seventies and she told me, “When I close my eyes I’m still the same girl I was at twenty-one.” I was twenty-two years old at the time and I couldn’t understand what she meant. But now I do. Now when I close my eyes I’m 120 pounds with long, shiny-brown hair (not my current dull brown and silver) and I’m about twenty-five years old, yet tempered with experience.
Now that I’m fifty I’m OK with it. I thought it would bother me, but like I told Steve when he was queasy about turning thirty ~ “It sure beats the alternative!”
Dave and I planned to go out to dinner tonight with the kids for my birthday but didn’t get out of the house till almost 7:30. We went to IHOP because I like pancakes for dinner! Amy, Kirstie, Kyle, and Jeremy joined Dave, Janiece, Robyn and me there. We spent the evening talking and laughing together. It almost felt like any other normal family birthday dinner. Amy told me that she was thinking about having a party for my birthday but she feels it’s too soon since Steve's death. Maybe for my next milestone. This one has been overshadowed and is probably best kept low key.
Jae gave me quite a compliment this morning. “You’re too young to be fifty!” It made me remember a time when my Grandma Toll was in her seventies and she told me, “When I close my eyes I’m still the same girl I was at twenty-one.” I was twenty-two years old at the time and I couldn’t understand what she meant. But now I do. Now when I close my eyes I’m 120 pounds with long, shiny-brown hair (not my current dull brown and silver) and I’m about twenty-five years old, yet tempered with experience.
Now that I’m fifty I’m OK with it. I thought it would bother me, but like I told Steve when he was queasy about turning thirty ~ “It sure beats the alternative!”
Monday, March 15, 2010
August 6, 2003
Robs and I were invited to a get together with some of our home school friends at Helen’s home for today. I got up at my usual 6:15 to make Dave's breakfast and lunch, but I really wasn’t ready to plunge into my day so I went back to bed, “to sleep, perchance to dream” as Hamlet said. And I did dream. I had another house dream, but this one was different than the recurring "house dreams" I've had over the past thirty years. Usually in these dreams, I find myself in an unfamiliar house that we are considering buying or we are moving into. As I walk around in the house I discover a hidden room or rooms, often including an old fashioned bathroom. This time it was our house I found myself in and as I walked into our bedroom, on the south wall I found a door to a large walk-in closet. As my dream self tip-toed to the open door of the closet I peeked in and saw that it was empty. Now as I look back on the dream I remember being so happy to find this newly discovered space.
I finally got up at nine o'clock and Robs and I slowly got ready to go to Helen’s.
As we were driving down the freeway Dave called to ask me if we have any plans for tonight. I’ve been worried about him lately. He seems so down but not ready to "let it out". Yesterday, when I asked, he admitted that he is “on the edge”.
We’re going to Nevada this weekend for Amy and Jeremy to pick up Kirstie and Kyle from their Dad and have decided to leave a day early. We’ll just hang out in Stateline, relax, and do nothing. It’ll do us both good.
Robs and I got to Helen’s a little after eleven. Our long-time friends Tracy and her daughter Rob’yn were already there and everyone greeted us with warm smiles as we came in. As I walked through the door I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay long. My heart really wasn’t into being out for a social call. It was my first nearly normal day in two months, maybe even longer. Since December helping Steve had become my normal. It felt good to sit with friends and talk about a wide variety of things. We talked a little about what my family has been going through but we also talked about regular stuff, too, like home schooling, gardening, and what to make for dinner when you’re just too tired to even think about cooking. Robs and I stayed till 3:30 and then ran a few errands before heading home. It was a good day.
The loss of her big brother finally hit Jae full force today, but the cry did her good. Until now she’s been going on about her usual life (school, outings with friends, church youth group, work) trying to hang on to a sense of normalcy. But grief will not be ignored. One way or another it will be there. Tears, anger, ulcers, broken relationships ~ grief will have its due. So what looked like a breakdown for her was actually a step forward. Dave and I discussed not going to Nevada, to stay to help Jae through this but she’s doing better now, and she has her siblings Nick, Marisa, Amy, and Jeremy, and her close friend Will and his mom Carolyn (who is like a second mom to her) to call on if she needs someone.
Though if it were up to me, I would stay home.
Today I’m grateful for a new beginning that does not deny the other beginning’s end.
I finally got up at nine o'clock and Robs and I slowly got ready to go to Helen’s.
As we were driving down the freeway Dave called to ask me if we have any plans for tonight. I’ve been worried about him lately. He seems so down but not ready to "let it out". Yesterday, when I asked, he admitted that he is “on the edge”.
We’re going to Nevada this weekend for Amy and Jeremy to pick up Kirstie and Kyle from their Dad and have decided to leave a day early. We’ll just hang out in Stateline, relax, and do nothing. It’ll do us both good.
Robs and I got to Helen’s a little after eleven. Our long-time friends Tracy and her daughter Rob’yn were already there and everyone greeted us with warm smiles as we came in. As I walked through the door I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stay long. My heart really wasn’t into being out for a social call. It was my first nearly normal day in two months, maybe even longer. Since December helping Steve had become my normal. It felt good to sit with friends and talk about a wide variety of things. We talked a little about what my family has been going through but we also talked about regular stuff, too, like home schooling, gardening, and what to make for dinner when you’re just too tired to even think about cooking. Robs and I stayed till 3:30 and then ran a few errands before heading home. It was a good day.
The loss of her big brother finally hit Jae full force today, but the cry did her good. Until now she’s been going on about her usual life (school, outings with friends, church youth group, work) trying to hang on to a sense of normalcy. But grief will not be ignored. One way or another it will be there. Tears, anger, ulcers, broken relationships ~ grief will have its due. So what looked like a breakdown for her was actually a step forward. Dave and I discussed not going to Nevada, to stay to help Jae through this but she’s doing better now, and she has her siblings Nick, Marisa, Amy, and Jeremy, and her close friend Will and his mom Carolyn (who is like a second mom to her) to call on if she needs someone.
Though if it were up to me, I would stay home.
Today I’m grateful for a new beginning that does not deny the other beginning’s end.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
August 5, 2003
This is my first full day alone since Steve died. Every day since Nett and Chris left I’ve been occupied with kids, appointments, or errands. Amy planned this whole day for me. She has taken Kirstie, Kyle, Robyn and the Knowles kids to the beach for the morning. After the beach she plans to take Sam, Toni, Alex, and Dominic home, but keep Robyn with her for the afternoon. She said she'll bring her home by dinner time.
My daughter Amy thinks that in all my busyness I’m doing the one thing I don’t want to do, pushing Steve aside. In her opinion a full day of crying in bed will do me good. So I have had some of that this morning. Still am, I guess. But I desperately feel the need to get moving. To move on. But I don’t want to move on because that means leaving him behind! But what else can I do? I can and will always carry him with me but right now the weight of it is crushing the breath out of me. I feel I have to push it off.
But I don’t want to.
My daughter Amy thinks that in all my busyness I’m doing the one thing I don’t want to do, pushing Steve aside. In her opinion a full day of crying in bed will do me good. So I have had some of that this morning. Still am, I guess. But I desperately feel the need to get moving. To move on. But I don’t want to move on because that means leaving him behind! But what else can I do? I can and will always carry him with me but right now the weight of it is crushing the breath out of me. I feel I have to push it off.
But I don’t want to.
Tue, July 29, 2003 10PM
This last week has been like living in a haze. I go on about my days with a vague understanding of my loss, then like a kick to the stomach, it hits me again. The pain washes over me like an ocean wave that pulls me under, threatening to hold me there and then it eases back. I am standing in the water, wave after wave, knocking my feet out from under me as I look toward the shore, wishing I can stand on the solid ground again. I have been told that I will get there but right now I don't see how that is possible. Right now I just want to let the waves pull me out to sea....
Sometimes it feels like he’s sitting right outside on the porch having a smoke, then my mind flashes on the blue sheet pulled up to his chin. I see myself watching all color fade from his lips and face. I can still feel his cool forehead on my lips the last time I kissed him goodbye.
Sometimes I remember, but sometimes I KNOW. He has gone away so many times before only to come back ~ Iowa, Colorado, Tennessee, the hospital. So why should this absence be any different? Well, we all know it is. Our next reunion will not take place on this familiar ground. This time it is we who will have to go to meet him.
Sometimes it feels like he’s sitting right outside on the porch having a smoke, then my mind flashes on the blue sheet pulled up to his chin. I see myself watching all color fade from his lips and face. I can still feel his cool forehead on my lips the last time I kissed him goodbye.
Sometimes I remember, but sometimes I KNOW. He has gone away so many times before only to come back ~ Iowa, Colorado, Tennessee, the hospital. So why should this absence be any different? Well, we all know it is. Our next reunion will not take place on this familiar ground. This time it is we who will have to go to meet him.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Friday July 25, 2003
Lori and her friend Jamie came over today to help us clean up around the house and get ready for the memorial tomorrow. I know we could find a church or someplace more traditional to have the service but I just want to send him off the way he lived. Nothing artificial. Steve was about family, friends, laughter, and food! One of the hardest things for him after his kidneys failed, even harder than the dialysis, was the restrictive diet he had to follow. He wasn't allowed to have the friuts, vegetables, cheeses, and chocolate he loved. Once he was put on Hospice all dietary restrictions were lifted, but by then he had lost his appetite for any food. He could barely finish a small smoothie.
As much as Steve wanted to stay I know he wouldn’t want us to have a mopey funeral. I think a pot luck lunch and a short memory time is the best way to honor him. Oh, how my boy loved pot lucks! Also, we’re asking everyone to wear shorts and tank tops or T-shirts. Nothing fancy. That’s Steve. Some have balked at the idea of such a casual "funeral". They're lucky we haven't asked them to wear a t-shirt that has had the collar and sleeves cut away. Very 80's. Steve's favorite summer shirts, usually accompanied by a pair of boxer briefs and sometimes a pair of shorts! Often worn with a pair of steel-toed boots...go figure.
As I busied myself with the cleaning today, I almost forgot the reason. We had a happy, energetic mix of music playing loudly and we were singing along. I was even dancing to the B-52's Love Shack as I moved furniture and vacuumed the floor. It’s almost embarrassing. My son’s body is cold, in a box somewhere in Vista, waiting to be cremated and there I was dancing in my living room having a good ol’ time.
That was hours ago. Looking back, I’m grateful for the short respite from the gravity of my present.
I’m grateful, too, to Lori and Jamie for coming to help me and my girls today. We could not have gotten as much done without them. Jamie, bless her heart, cleaned the bathroom from top to bottom. And Annette has been surreptitiously cleaning since she got here. I must admit that I have let things go around the Haasienda these last eight months or so. All of my focus has been on Steve and his many doctor appointments, or homeschooling and chauffeuring Jae and Rob...not much on house work.
I just want to get through tomorrow. I feel this need pressing physically on me from all sides. In my head someone is urgently whispering, “Don’t delay! Get it done! Get it done!”
One foot in front of the other.
God please carry me through.
As much as Steve wanted to stay I know he wouldn’t want us to have a mopey funeral. I think a pot luck lunch and a short memory time is the best way to honor him. Oh, how my boy loved pot lucks! Also, we’re asking everyone to wear shorts and tank tops or T-shirts. Nothing fancy. That’s Steve. Some have balked at the idea of such a casual "funeral". They're lucky we haven't asked them to wear a t-shirt that has had the collar and sleeves cut away. Very 80's. Steve's favorite summer shirts, usually accompanied by a pair of boxer briefs and sometimes a pair of shorts! Often worn with a pair of steel-toed boots...go figure.
As I busied myself with the cleaning today, I almost forgot the reason. We had a happy, energetic mix of music playing loudly and we were singing along. I was even dancing to the B-52's Love Shack as I moved furniture and vacuumed the floor. It’s almost embarrassing. My son’s body is cold, in a box somewhere in Vista, waiting to be cremated and there I was dancing in my living room having a good ol’ time.
That was hours ago. Looking back, I’m grateful for the short respite from the gravity of my present.
I’m grateful, too, to Lori and Jamie for coming to help me and my girls today. We could not have gotten as much done without them. Jamie, bless her heart, cleaned the bathroom from top to bottom. And Annette has been surreptitiously cleaning since she got here. I must admit that I have let things go around the Haasienda these last eight months or so. All of my focus has been on Steve and his many doctor appointments, or homeschooling and chauffeuring Jae and Rob...not much on house work.
I just want to get through tomorrow. I feel this need pressing physically on me from all sides. In my head someone is urgently whispering, “Don’t delay! Get it done! Get it done!”
One foot in front of the other.
God please carry me through.
July 24, 2003 11:15 PM
As bad as I feel, Thursday night is always shopping night. Dave insisted that this Thursday is no exception. I suppose it could have been put off if it weren’t for the memorial service we’re having here in two days.
Dave had to practically drag me out of the house, though. I think he’s afraid I’ll grow roots to my bed and never move again if he doesn’t push me. Maybe I would. Walking through Costco I felt like I was slogging through molasses. “One foot in front of the other” I kept telling myself. But God can use the most unlikely of circumstances for His good will.
This week Costco is hosting a special booth in the main aisle displaying and selling candles. Standing at the display was a very tall man ready and waiting with a smile to package up your order. As much as I like them it’s hard for me to find candles that are free of the fragrances that give me migraines, so I stopped to ask the salesman if the candles contained any artificial ingredients. He told me no and as I perused the display we chatted for several minutes about the various natural ingredients the company uses to create their product. Then for some reason this man I’d never met before asked me, "Are you alright? You seem really down about something."
I looked up into his eyes and said, “My son died yesterday.”
His entire face changed, but it wasn’t a look of pity that overcame him. More a look of realization. "If you don't mind my asking, how old was your son?"
"He was thirty-one. He died of complications of diabetes" I added before he could ask.
"I have a thirty-two year old son that I haven't talked to in more than three years. He's called me three times in the last year and each time I refuse to talk to him. We had a big blow-up about something bad that he did and I just don't want to have anything to do with him."
I chose two candles to purchase, and as he handed me the bag he said, "Next time he calls, I'm going to talk to him."
I hope so. Seems such a sorrow to lose a son that’s still alive.
I managed to finish the shopping but every time I saw a flat of canned goods, a comfy looking sofa, or a pallet of paper I had to fight the urge to sit on it to rest my weary soul.
Tonight I feel so numb. My head seems to be buzzing with the numbness.
Dave had to practically drag me out of the house, though. I think he’s afraid I’ll grow roots to my bed and never move again if he doesn’t push me. Maybe I would. Walking through Costco I felt like I was slogging through molasses. “One foot in front of the other” I kept telling myself. But God can use the most unlikely of circumstances for His good will.
This week Costco is hosting a special booth in the main aisle displaying and selling candles. Standing at the display was a very tall man ready and waiting with a smile to package up your order. As much as I like them it’s hard for me to find candles that are free of the fragrances that give me migraines, so I stopped to ask the salesman if the candles contained any artificial ingredients. He told me no and as I perused the display we chatted for several minutes about the various natural ingredients the company uses to create their product. Then for some reason this man I’d never met before asked me, "Are you alright? You seem really down about something."
I looked up into his eyes and said, “My son died yesterday.”
His entire face changed, but it wasn’t a look of pity that overcame him. More a look of realization. "If you don't mind my asking, how old was your son?"
"He was thirty-one. He died of complications of diabetes" I added before he could ask.
"I have a thirty-two year old son that I haven't talked to in more than three years. He's called me three times in the last year and each time I refuse to talk to him. We had a big blow-up about something bad that he did and I just don't want to have anything to do with him."
I chose two candles to purchase, and as he handed me the bag he said, "Next time he calls, I'm going to talk to him."
I hope so. Seems such a sorrow to lose a son that’s still alive.
I managed to finish the shopping but every time I saw a flat of canned goods, a comfy looking sofa, or a pallet of paper I had to fight the urge to sit on it to rest my weary soul.
Tonight I feel so numb. My head seems to be buzzing with the numbness.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Current~ March 2, 2010
Tonight my daughter-in-law, Marisa, asked me what scriptures I found most comforting as I was muddling throught the early days after Steve died. Now, I learn more by my gut than by my brain, so I tend to FEEL what I learn more than remember.(That's why I can never try out for Jeopardy!) I could only tell her that there were two promises that got me through~God will never give me more than I can bear (1 Cor 10:13 ~No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it) and He will turn my sorrow into joy (among others~ Jer 31:13 I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow) (OK~ I cheated. My granddaughter, Kyle, gave me the Jerimiah and I Googled the other scripture!)
In my situation, the "temptation" that could have seized me might have been losing faith (God couldn't heal my son) or being angry with God (why didn't God heal my son?).
On a map of life these are endless traffic circles that get more and more congested as time goes by. Eventually you run out of gas and have gotten nowhere. Sometimes faith is hard but in the big picture, it's so much easier than any other option. Which leads me to the other other pin that held me together...
The other thing that helped me more than anything was knowing that I did not have to be strong. In my weakness Christ would be my strength. He is the only strength I needed then or will ever need. God's promises are sure. I still miss my son, but I have newfound joy in the knowlege that I will see him again in a bright, healthy (spirit) body!
Back to the tough stuff tomorrow...but it gets better. I promise!
In my situation, the "temptation" that could have seized me might have been losing faith (God couldn't heal my son) or being angry with God (why didn't God heal my son?).
On a map of life these are endless traffic circles that get more and more congested as time goes by. Eventually you run out of gas and have gotten nowhere. Sometimes faith is hard but in the big picture, it's so much easier than any other option. Which leads me to the other other pin that held me together...
The other thing that helped me more than anything was knowing that I did not have to be strong. In my weakness Christ would be my strength. He is the only strength I needed then or will ever need. God's promises are sure. I still miss my son, but I have newfound joy in the knowlege that I will see him again in a bright, healthy (spirit) body!
Back to the tough stuff tomorrow...but it gets better. I promise!
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