Faith Academy

Today Dan and I visited our alma mater, Faith Academy, where we graduated from high school back in 1999.  It's an awesome school, swarming with students from around the world, and the campus itself has been drastically remodeled in recent years. It was exciting to walk around, chatting with old teachers and friends.  Here's Dan and I in their new Fine Arts building.... it's huge, air-conditioned, and equipped with state-of-the-art acoustics.  Awesome!

I also felt sort of crazy. (Those of you who know me are probably thinking, "She finally figured it out!")

As I've mentioned before, one of the most difficult aspects of grief work is the sudden wash of emotions, the kind that take me from being a friendly, caring person to being a sobbing mess within moments, though not usually in public.  I can turn on a dime from acting like a "normal" person (whatever that is) to being pretty scary.

No, there were no crazy blow-ups today.  I didn't do anything nutty.  I don't have any new tattoos.  Instead, I felt really cheerful and happy up on campus, as if I were a carefree 17 year old again.  But I'm not.  I wonder how I can be doing "so well" and yet feel so crappy.  How is this possible?  How am I still functional?

Perhaps I shouldn't ask "how" I'm still functional and just be thankful that I am.  I can get up in the morning, I can cook food for my family.  I can smile and chat, at least some of the time.

Part of the problem is that when I do feel fine, (like today) I experience such guilt afterwards.  How can I be so cheerful (and even happy) when I've lost the apple of my eye, my beautiful baby Vincent?  How can I act as if life has been favorable to us when I've seen my child slowly die before my eyes, the cancer literally eating him away?  After valiantly fighting the aggressive cancer cells for months, he lost the war, exhausted from his chemo treatments, engorged with tumors.  I remember bringing him home from the hospital for the last time. I can still see his little body slowly shrinking for 11 horrible freaking days on hospice, living quietly without food or water, surviving solely on love and morphine.  How in God's name do I "get over" that?  That is NOT OK.

And yet, somehow inside, I find myself still loving God, experiencing feelings of hope and even—dare I say it— joy.  I should be excited about that, but I'm not.  It makes me feel that somehow I'm cheating Vincent as well as the deepest part of me which seems to be locked in a very long primal scream.

What's difficult too is that there are no visible signs of grieving in our culture. We don't wear black or put sackcloth and ashes on our heads.  There is no immediate way for people to know when something horrible has happened to you.  You look somewhat normal on the outside.  And if you talk to me for a few minutes, you might think I'm fine.

And sometimes I am.  I would call that a small miracle.

When I am Angry...

I am angry, God.
In these moments help my words and actions
not wound myself or others.
Grant me the grace of listening before speaking,
of pausing before yelling.
Give me the patience to wait these feelings out.

Then, let me praise you.

Lost

Do you ever feel lost?

These past few days after returning home from Chicago I have been struggling to find my equilibrium. I'm not functioning at a high capacity, I can barely get things done, and living in our house is getting increasingly hard for me.  I might need to move.  I'm angry.  It's hard to breathe without crying.

I need to get away.

That's funny, I just got back!

Lava Flow

Today was not a good day for Theo.  He got upset over the slightest issues, wasn't happy even when he got what he wanted, and whined when he didn't.  

Of course, it didn't help that we woke up late this morning and had to shove food in his mouth before preschool AND finish his homework (tracing the letter B).  Theo didn’t feel like eating breakfast, and was taking tiny bites while absentmindedly “tracing” the letter B.  And he can write the letter B just fine.   

So I was angry.  Really angry.  I was so frustrated I yelled, “Theo, you are NOT a good eater.”  But then he looked up at me with his sheepish little face, looking slightly confused and a little bit sad.  So I quickly yelled, “But you are a VERY GOOD BOY.”  (in the same tone of voice as the first statement.)  No wonder Theo’s acting crabby and weepy today.  I’ve never yelled at him before.  It can be very confusing to live with an angry adult.  

Later in the morning, something hit me (which of course you all know by now.)  I am angry.  Too often.  I think my anger is like lava flow on the Big Island, slowly streaming under what looks like hardened rock, yet sending tell-tale sky-high plumes of thick steam when reaching the ocean. 

Especially since Vincent died (actually, since he was initially diagnosed,) I find that my frustration erupts at odd moments.  Sometimes I don't even realize that my anger's just there, always there, slowly rising, ready to surface at any moment.  And I find myself and the ones I love innocently stepping where we think will be rock, only to find red-hot lava licking at our feet.     

That really stinks.  For everyone.

Of course, that leads to the question why.  Why am I so angry?  (Sorry, that’s just a rhetorical question folks! :)  I can’t address that question here because it has simply too many answers.  

Some of you have wondered whether or not I’m angry at God.  Surprisingly, I’m not.  But I am trying to take all my anger and express it to God, because I know that if anyone can handle my anger, it’s him.  If anyone can handle my feelings of frustration, of betrayal, of disappointment, of victimization, it’s him.  If anyone can handle raging, fury, crying, wailing, cursing, it’s him.  He’s seen all that before, carried all my pain and anger before I was even born.  These emotions are not new to God, nor is he easily fazed or surprised.    

In 1881, Hawaii's King Kalakaua visited Thomas Edison in New York to discuss the idea of harnessing volcanic power and channeling it between islands via underwater cables to create electricity.  While it wasn't feasible at the time (they ended up using hydropower), the Big Island now uses the volcano's geothermal energy to help power the island. 

Apparently, boiling magma can be harnessed and used for constructive possibilities. 

For someone carrying this much heat beneath the collar, that's great news indeed.  

Rant: February 15

A year ago I had two children, a decent job with good career developing opportunities, and a stressed marriage.  Here I am now, almost 30 years old, with no job, one less child than a year ago, and a frazzled marriage (I guess some things don’t change easily).  I’m “supposed” to be enjoying the rise of my career, the development of my children, and the fruits of my marriage.  At this point in my life I’d love to own something larger than my Nissan Altima, like a little condo or house, or at least have a masters degree.   

I feel like I’m getting older, but not getting closer to achieving anything.  My favorite authors are around the same age as me, and what is happening to my career?  Where are my opportunities?  I feel like God owes me something after taking Vincent (and I guess my job too) from me.  (I know he doesn't, my theology isn't that bad, it's just what I FEEL like.) 

What am I supposed to do now?  Read mystery books all day long?  Write journal entries that no one is going to read?  I’m mad and frustrated and lonely.  And frickin‘ devastated.  

God, please open an window for me before I suffocate in my own crap.