Selective Memory

I'm starting to find that my memories of Vincent are increasingly divided into three categories: things I remember and recall on a daily basis, things I have already forgotten, and things I remember (and don't want to forget) yet the recalling process is painful because of the very nature of the memories.

Nine months ago this week, Vincent died.  His last few days, weeks even, are burned into my mind, easy to visualize, precious, yet painful.  I don't enjoy recalling these memories very often, I have a file of pictures on my desktop entitled "pictures to never look at" and yet sometimes I wake up in the morning and throughout the day have mini flash-backs of those very moments.

Last time to play outside

Those are also the days I cry constantly and stay in bed.  Don't get me wrong, I never want to forget any of these memories.  But recalling them regularly is painful, costly, exhausting.

Then there are things I can recall easily on a daily basis:  Vincent nursing, playing and taking baths with his brother, going to the park, watching Sesame Street, everyone eating dinner and going to the beach.

First year photo shoot by Luminosity

Sprinkled in here are memories of diagnosis, hospital stays, medical complications.  (Like that d*&% feeding pump!!)  Most of the time I can remember these easily and bring them to mind without great pain, without that sinking, suffocating feeling of overwhelming grief.

And then there are things I have simply forgotten, memories that are lost somewhere in my mind due to exhaustion, inattentiveness.  For years now I've read blogs written by moms of multiple kids, and somehow they seem to manage their farming, crafting, nursing, and mothering pretty well.  I, however, was one of those moms that felt very overwhelmed with having two children under the age of two.  Both children were in diapers, needed more attention than I could give and had difficulty eating (Vincent had GERD).  My husband was gone 3-4 nights out of the week attending grad school, and I was working as well, largely from home.  It wasn't until Vincent turned one year old that I felt I really had a handle on it, raising these two kids, crafting, cooking dinners, cleaning the house, and staying on top of work.  Vincent's first year was a blur for me of busyness, exhaustion, and overwhelming stress.

And then he was diagnosed with cancer, right after his first birthday.

There is so much I'd like to remember from that priceless year we all shared.  I'd love to be able to recall just one week of how we spent our time, loved each other, how we made it to the end of the day in one piece.  I'd love to remember that one Christmas together, that Easter season, any day trips we took.

There is so much I don't remember.

For now I'll keep recalling any memories I do have, painful or not, overwhelming or mundane.  I'll nurture them in my heart like my love for Vincent, ever flourishing.

What TO Say to a grieving parent

My last post (read:  rant) was on the topic of what NOT to say to grieving parents.  Today I've decided to be a bit more helpful and instead give some ideas of what TO say to parents who are grieving the loss of a child.

1.  Acknowledge the depth of the loss 
There are so many ways of doing this, the important thing is to be authentic— you can say something like "This is so heartbreaking" or "I'm so, so sorry for your loss" or "I can't even begin to imagine how terrible this loss must be for your family."

Don't think you are exempt from this point if you haven't seen the griever in question for a while!! Many grievers (myself included) can barely even remember who attended the funeral, we feel so dazed, disoriented.  I'm just emerging out of the fog that was the first few months after our son Vincent's death.  So make sure you do this when you see the griever, even if you sent a sympathy card and/or attended the funeral.

This is also an important point not to forget when you're meeting people for the first time and hear a bit of their story.  Since Vincent's death we've met several different couples at various birthday parties, and the inevitable "How many kids do you have" question came up.  Our answer these days is, "Two, we have a four year old named Theo and another son, Vincent, in heaven."  Believe me, it can be quite the conversation killer.  People often look confused, flustered, some have even said "Oh" and walked away.  I'm pretty ruthless, and for those that haven't yet walked away I usually follow up with, "Yes, he passed away last year from liver cancer."

This is a sort of test for me - if you pass it, we can be friends.  If not, well, then, perhaps not.  Fortunately, most people have the presence of mind to say something conciliatory.  So if you find out upon meeting someone that they have lost a child, please, meaningfully acknowledge the depth of the loss.  "That's so incredibly sad.  I can't even imagine how that must feel."  That can start a decent conversation.  And if you've been that person who walked away without saying anything, well, it's not too late to go back and tell the griever, "I'm so sorry I walked away, I had no idea how to respond, but I just want to say I'm sorry you've had to go through all this."  Grieving parents are happy for any support they can get—I don't think many of us hold grudges, so it's not too late to start over!

2.  Feel free to talk and ask questions about the deceased child.
"How did your child die?  What was his/her name? What was their personality like?" Please note, this is NOT to satisfy morbid curiosity (a parent can always tell) but to let the griever tell the story of their child.  I've heard it said that to most parents, their dead child's name is like music to their ears.  We WANT to talk about our child.  Heaven knows we talked about them while they were alive.  And suddenly, after they died, talk about them stopped as if they had ceased to exist (which they haven't.)

Don't worry that you will accidentally offend the griever in question by speaking about their child.  If you ask questions in a respectful, sensitive way, you can do a great deal of good.  If you knew their kid and have a nice story to share (emphasis on NICE, I've heard horror stories of bereaved parents being told of naughty things their kids did) then by all means, please share it.  If you cry or get teary-eyed when hearing the story of their child's passing, or by sharing a story about the child yourself, you get bonus points.  And if a grieving parent doesn't feel like talking about their bereavement at that moment, believe me, they'll let you know.  

  

3.  Ask how the grieving parents are doing.
Some people have told me that it's a little scary to ask a grieving person how they're doing as they don't want to bring up bad memories and make it worse for the person in question.  This is my answer to that— I have yet to be offended and/or hurt by someone who asked me how I was doing and sincerely wanted to know.  I always carry the wounds of losing Vincent in my heart, they are such a huge part of who I am that you don't need to be afraid that somehow asking that question will be a trigger for me to remember something bad and then feel worse.  I already remember all the bad things that happened. If you ask me these questions I'll then have someone with which to share the darkness.

And don't be afraid if the grieving parent cries while speaking about their child.  They're already crying on the inside.  Sometimes it's a big relief to have the permission to manifest it on the outside.

4.  Be a good listener.  

Part of being a good listener means engaging your heart and mind with the person speaking.  I mean, just think about it.  It's totally rude to ask a very deep personal question like "How are you doing?" if you only have a few minutes of talk time, or if you're in a large impersonal group of people.  Instead, say something like, "I really want to hear how you're doing.  Can we go out for coffee/cupcakes/a drink?"  (And you have to MEAN it!) Or you can call ahead and show up at their house with a meal. You could do this anytime from a few days after the death to a few years later.  You can also send online messages or little gifts in the mail.

Oh, and if you don't have time to adequately hear how the parent is doing, then don't ask. I'd rather you not ask me how I'm doing than be looking at your watch every minute as I attempt to explain.  That's really not cool.

5.  Keep the focus on the bereaved parent  
This is not the time to start talking about your dead aunt, grandma, cousin or pet. Nothing, that's right, nothing is the same as losing a child.  Psychologists put losing a child as the most stressful life event ever, right over losing a spouse.

If conversation with the grieving parent naturally evolves into talking about past losses and they show an interest in your story, then please share tastefully.  But don't use the occasion of the bereaved parent's loss to talk about your own, unless it is really similar or unless you and the grieving parent are connecting well.  You might have felt devastated when your pet mouse died, but really, it's not the same as losing a child.  Not to the grieving parent, at least.  (Quick side note:  I've received e-mail messages from people who've lost loved ones or encountered deep loss and none of these offended me in the slightest!  I'm talking about people who come up to you out of nowhere and start talking about their loss as soon as they've heard of yours.  I know I've done this before.  But it's not a good idea.)

6.  Resist the urge to "solve" their pain  
It can be easy at the end of the conversation with the grieving parent to want to "put a bow on it" —basically wanting to neatly tie up the conversation.  People do this by using hurtful "solving" statements like "Well, God can make all things good in the end" or "At least he/she didn't suffer" or "Well, hopefully everything works out."

I think this happens because after delving into the world of the griever, acknowledging and conversing about their loss, asking good questions and being a mindful listener, you're emotionally exhausted.   As a comforter, you've shouldered a bit of the pain from the grieving parent, and now you want to give it back or dump it somewhere.  From my experience, this is where all the abominable dismissive one-liners are usually used.  People are now feeling a bit overwhelmed.  They want to make their life manageable again, and they do this by neatly "fixing" your pain for you.  "Well, at least they're in a better place" or "Maybe God was keeping you from something worse."

We grievers understand the need to find a quick exit from the painful world of child loss.  As much as we long for it, we know the only solution to our pain will be when we reunite with our children at the end of our lives.  For most of us, that's still a long time away.  Bereaved parents aren't on a day-trip pass into the chaotic world of grief.  We live there, all the time.  So believe me, we understand the need to distance yourself, to "solve" our pain, "fix" our anger and confusion.

Resist this urge and instead exit gracefully from the conversation.  Say something like "Thanks for sharing with me how you guys are doing, I'll be holding you and _____ (name of the child) in my heart"  or "I'm feeling overwhelmed by the amount of pain you deal with every day, I'll be praying for (or thinking of) you" or "I appreciate the trust you showed by sharing some of your grief with me." These are just a few ideas to wrap up the conversation while showing consideration for the griever. (You could also cry and give us a hug.  That works too.)

7.  Be honest
If you have not had the occasion to grieve deeply, or if you have no idea what to say, please feel free to say just that.  Be honest.  Most grievers don't know what to say or do either.  We're heartbroken, devastated, shocked, angry. We're in uncharted territory, and because of it we respond well to honesty, to people who say, "I want to help but I don't know what to do."  That's a wonderful, beautiful, and very constructive place to start. One of the best things our pastor did when Vincent was dying was to tell us that he felt helpless, unsure of how to help best, and wishing he could do more.  He is now one of my favorite pastors of all time because of that beautifully heartfelt message.

These are just a few ideas of what to say to a grieving parent, there are so many more. Fellow-bereaved-readers, what are your suggestions?  

What NOT to say to a grieving parent

It being over eight months since Vincent passed away, most people we know have already had the "condolence" conversation with us.  Overall, I've been impressed with people's empathy, love and thoughtfulness.  One particularly precious memory is of watching Vincent's video together with old friends.  Afterwards a classmate from high school (now a doctor) choked out a tearful impromptu a-capella version of "See."  Our hearts have been broken.  And many of our friends have entered into our sorrow with us. For that we are grateful.

There have been some well-meaning people, however, whose remarks were rather unhelpful, even hurtful.  I've found that when people DO say or write hurtful or un-helpful things, it's usually because they are not allowing your pain to enter their heart.  It's easier to hold someone else's sorrow at arms length where it can be easily dismissed, waved away, forgotten.  To truly empathize, you must be willing to hold the other person's hurt in your heart, letting their reality become real to you and opening your mind to the awfulness of their situation.

This is truly difficult, perhaps even impossible for some people, even when you are friends.  After all, who wants to imagine their own precious child slowly wasting away, eaten alive by cancerous tumors?  Who would want to imagine life without that same precious child?  These are thoughts too horrible to be borne, so people often close mind and heart and instead regurgitate little phrases they've heard without realizing their utter unhelpfulness.  (For us Christians there exists yet another category of people who are self-appointed God-protectors, determined to squelch any hint of disappointment with God.)

That quick vent aside, here is a list of the most common blunders we've experienced:

1.  "Your child is in a better place."
My internal response:  Well, I wish I was there with them.  Thanks for reminding me that I'm stuck in this crappiness for the rest of my life.  I'd rather they be with me, thank you very much.

2. "At least they're not suffering anymore" (or with sudden deaths - "at least they didn't suffer.")
My internal response: ....ummm, but I am.  And I wish they were still here.  Alive. Preferably not suffering, but at least alive, in my arms.  (Quick note:  Some awesome people have said this while simultaneously sobbing.  I'm totally OK with that.)

3.  "At least you still have your other child."  OR "At least you're still young."
ARGH!  Both of these really get my gander up.  Children are not expendable objects!  No kid can "make up" for the loss of another!  They're not like glasses that break and then are replaced.  Sure, I still have my other child.  That does NOT help me get over the loss of this one.  Can you imagine saying to a little kid who lost their mom that "at least you still have your dad/uncle/brother."  Can anyone replace a mom? Heck no!  And as for my age, yes, it's true I'm still "young."  That simply means I have more time here on earth to grieve the loss of Vincent.  Even if I had dozens of children, none of them would be him.

4.  "It could be worse."  (There are a lot of variations to this one, usually along the theme of "At least xyz didn't happen"  or "Maybe God was keeping you/him from a worse fate").
Yeah, heard a lot of this one, in all its glorious variations.  I don't find it helpful for several reasons. At the drop of a hat I can think of dozens of horrifyingly terrible situations, and someone could easily dismiss them by saying "it could be worse." The terrorist attack on 9/11 was bad, but it could have been worse, right?  Or it's evil what the LRA army in Uganda is doing to children, but it can always be worse, can't it?  That statement is just a dismissal of the awfulness of the situation because "it can always get worse." Ugh.  Not helpful.

And last time I checked, God doesn't have to kill you to give your life a good ending.  He IS altogether-goodness-itself, so most of us believe.  I don't for one second think he let Vincent die because it was the lesser of two evils.  Most people who say this didn't sit with Vincent week after week, watching the tumors steal his nutrition, take over his body, watching him shrink, thirsty, day after day until his heart stopped beating.  It wasn't a good death, but hey, I guess it could have been worse, right? (Side note:  It's totally alright if my husband says this.  But it's preferable not to hear it from anyone else.)

5.  "God's ways are perfect" (Similar to this would be "God makes no mistakes" and "God is always good.")  
Thankfully, I only heard this once but it was so awful I had to include it here.  Please don't use it. Ever.  It is not the job of a comforter to instruct on theology.  Last time I checked, it was Job's comforters who tried to use his tragedies to "teach" him right thinking.  God said he'd only forgive them for what they said if Job offered a sacrifice (which he did).   Honestly, I'm not so sure I would have been as quick to forgive as Job was!  Even Jesus in his hour of deepest need cried out to his father, "Why, why have you forsaken me?"

For the record, if someone you know is grieving the loss of a loved one and asks you questions pertaining to faith and God, by all means, prayerfully answer them.  But don't use dismissive one-liners in hopes of comforting the griever.  It doesn't work.

6.  Say nothing at all
I am not referring in this point to individuals who, after crying with you and giving you a big hug, say nothing.  I am talking about people-you-know-pretty-well-but-haven't-seen-in-a-while that one day start talking to you like nothing ever happened.  This one is almost worse than the other five.  If I was standing in front of you with an amputated limb, blood gushing from the open wound, would you pretend nothing was wrong?  Would you talk about the weather or would you call 911 and get some kind of tourniquet on my stump? Come on folks, don't be immobilized by fear.  Just don't get caught uttering one of the five previous gaffes.  Tricky, I know.

OK, the rant is over now. My next post will be on what TO say to grieving parents.

Thirty

Saturday Dan I arrived home from a short outing to be greeted by a houseful of friends yelling "Surprise!"  Together we shared a lovely afternoon noshing on food, catching up, and laughing.  I found it deeply meaningful that all in once place I could see friends from different areas of my life— individuals from various churches, our cancer connection group, family members.

at the party Saturday...Theo and I are so sweaty!  

Did I mention I'm turning 30 today?  Well, I am.  I am glad to embark on a new decade, but am also fully cognizant that I will not be sharing this one with Vincent.  I knew him, held him, kissed him and nursed him when I was my twenties.  Last year on my birthday Vincent and I were sharing a hospital bed and recording videos of us playing together. That will never happen in this decade—or this life, for that matter.

my 29th birthday with Vincent

Turning 30 feels bittersweet (at this moment, rather bitter) but Saturday while talking with friends, eating, drinking and opening presents, it was pretty sweet.  Thanks to all of you who sent messages, prayed for me, and/or e-mailed.  You rock! (Can I still say that now I've hit the semi-big 3-0?)

Heart Pain

This past week I've been "working out" (I'm using that term rather loosely) every day at the gym down the road using time I usually spend blogging and reading.  Boo to the latter.

I have noticed, however, some benefits to daily exercise.  I can keep up with my son Theo at the park without getting out of breath, sleep deeply at night, and not feel guilty about eating that extra whole wheat chocolate chip cookie.  My "fat"pants aren't so darn tight.  

Treading on that @$%* elliptical for 30 minutes every day has definitely put me more in touch with my physical body.  In the past week I've experienced cramps, shooting pains, numb toes (apparently my tennis shoes are too small) and sore muscles.  I've sweat enough liquid to fill a small swimming pool, and every afternoon on that darn machine my face and body turn bright, beet red.  (This attractive coloring lasts for several hours past the workout.)  I've known since middle school that my face turns red after running and that sore muscles are a result of working hard, but I have experienced something else I never, ever expected.

Grievers often find that their inner pain exhibits itself through their physical body - studies show that people in a prolonged stage of high-stress grief are at increased risk for heart attacks, heart disease, ulcers, and kidney stones (among other things).  One of the best and most difficult pieces of advice my spiritual director gave me was to "make friends" with my inner pain, and during my daily workouts this week I made the initial steps toward doing this.  How, you may ask?

Well, I have finally found my pain's physical location.  It's in my heart.  My heart hurts so much.  It feels constricted, broken, aching, throbbing, heavy, so, so, heavy it can be difficult to breathe.  In the last eight months since Vincent died, my whole body has felt heavy all day long, sluggish, unresponsive, numb, unhappy.  But now, now all this inner pain is all centering itself in my heart where it throbs at odd moments every day, triggered by memories, songs, pictures, words, images. 

Now that I have discovered the location of my pain, all that remains is for me to simply "make friends" with it.

...I'll let you know how that goes.  

Walk On

This week I joined 24 Hour Fitness, located just down the road from our house.  It's been several months since this post, and I'm glad I finally got up the nerve to do something about it.  Plus my 30th birthday is rapidly approaching, adding to my motivation.  

Each day this week I broke out of my normal pattern of study/reading while Theo's at preschool and have instead been working out, slowly burning calories that largely accumulated while sitting in bed holding Vincent.  Considering my last intentional exercise was well over six years ago, I'm not as sore as I anticipated.

But the thing is.... I don't really feel any better inside.  I'm still tired, exhausted, angry, sad.  Perhaps there is no golden ticket—no one specific thing that will make my life more bearable.  I guess I should know after eight months of grief work that the only way to feel (minutely) better is to keep walking, moving forward (wherever and whatever that is).

       Lord, strengthen me.
       Let my hands be adept to serve,
       feet quick to follow,
       eyes sharp to see.
       My heart, steadfast, be Yours.

Friday Prayer

God,
I'm exhausted—
body, mind, spirit, soul.
In weakness make me strong
that I may stand with you on the high places.
Amen.

Photo by Theo (4 yrs)

The Last Day

Today is our last day here in the Philippines. The last six weeks have been a fun ride, a great time of spending time with family, sightseeing, and stuffing ourselves silly with my mom's scrumptious food. We enjoyed seeing old friends both here and in Singapore, and Theo got to use his US passport for the first time.

Since this is not the first trip we've taken since Vinnie died, I'm somewhat more prepared for what it feels like to return home. It'll be great to be reunited with our wonderful family in Hawaii, but I know as well I'll be experiencing many mixed emotions once we arrive and get back to normal life.

My plan is to breathe deeply, take mini-time outs from whatever I'm doing to read, blog, bake, spend time on facebook, visit Vincent's grave.  I'm also attempting to daily practice centering prayer in the morning while Theo's at preschool.  We'll be OK.

It's the Little Things

In grief work, it's always the little things that trip you up.

People who have lost a loved one often talk about how they'll be someplace innocuous like the grocery store, when suddenly as they're picking out produce or rounding a corner they catch a glimpse of an individual who looks like their lost loved one.

Of course, it isn't, it never is, but in that split second of almost-recognition, the emotions are so strong they can make your heart skip a beat, make you sob out loud. In a heartbeat you go from being OK as you're picking out milk to being close to losing it, throwing the milk, yelling and howling. Most of the time this doesn't happen. People shove their emotions into some hidden inner place, catch their breath, and continue on as law-abiding citizens, which I guess is often a good thing for the rest of us.

But sometimes the grief can sweep over you with such force that you can't not cry, right there in the shopping mall, library, gym. I have friends who throw plates when things get bad. They all go outside and toss them through the air in their yard. I can imagine that would be pretty cathartic (except for the cleaning-up process!)

Unfortunately in our society, people who are grieving don't have many opportunities for public mourning. Sure, our culture has rituals like holding a memorial service, a viewing of the body, and a burial/scattering of ashes. But that's about it. Most of those activities take place within a few weeks of death, sometimes up to a year. That's pretty short considering you still have to live the rest of your life without the person you lost.

Or what about people who are grieving the loss of a relationship, job, health, the loss of status or safety or the death of a dream? There is nothing, no rite, no standard method of grieving through these losses, much less an acceptable way to publicly broadcast grief. Even many of our churches view grief as something to privately finish, to overcome, to get through. By in large, we are left to fend for ourselves.

I've noticed that for many individuals, including me, observing people exhibit "negative" emotions in public is unsettling, scary. We don't feel safe. Why is this? Is this because we are so afraid to face our own inner darkness, our own sadness, our own disconnectedness that we don't like to see it in others? Do we not want to be reminded that it could be our turn next? It's tough because those of us who are grieving have to mix with the rest of society—we still have to get out of the house and do basic things like attend school, go grocery shopping, and show up to work. We usually look pretty normal until almost anything, anywhere can become a portal to a painful or precious memory, a vivid reminder of what we've lost.

I was talking with some people in the car the other day about what happens when you sleep—how your eyes physically roll up back into your head. My sister remarked on how she's developed some mild sleep anxiety due to this semi-disturbing fact, I can agree that it's definitely not the prettiest mental picture to have as you're drifting off to sleep.

Then I thought of Vincent, how as he died his little eyes stayed half-open for days, how they never rolled back, but just gradually lost their sight as he drifted further and further from us. I cried in the car on the way to the shopping center, then pulled myself together when we got there.  Because you should never cry in public. People might think there was something wrong.

-------------------------------------------
Why do you think it isn't acceptable for people to show emotions like sadness or anger in public? Have any of you had an experience where you saw an otherwise normal looking person exhibit some strong emotion? How did it make you feel?

Frustrated

I'm so over grieving.

I wish there was something else for me to talk about, think about. I'm tired of hearing myself talk about the same things, go through the same emotions, replay the same tapes in my head.

Frankly, it's annoying me. I'm bored with myself.

But every morning I wake up and realize that our family is still short one person. I freak out at the airport when I can only find 3 passports until I remember there are only three of us here now. I cannot escape or move past this grief. I am fully aware I will live with it for the rest of my life. It is as if I have an amputated limb -- it will never grow back, but with help, I can learn to walk again.

Is there a new song I can sing? A song that embraces my pain yet moves beyond it, a song that doesn't deny my feelings of loss but instead utilizes them, a song shaped by fear but filled with faith?

Hopefully the cavernous hole my son's death left in my heart will become a lake teaming with life.

It needs to happen soon, because my patience is running out.

Running Scared

Being here in the Philippines for these last few weeks has been refreshing, rewarding, relaxing. Having time to not do anything, especially with one's own family, is a hard-won luxury. Yet in spite all this free time we've been having, I don't feel that I've made huge bounds in my grief work. I'm still afraid much of the time. I'm willing to go on medication if that will really help, but I'm also hestitant to add another chemical to my already volatile body. I don't want to choose a medical answer if I really have a spiritual problem. I know most of the time things can't be separated that easily, we are bodies as well as spirits and sometimes our bodies need a little bit of help. And some form of medication may be the final solution, especially if I have PTSD which is highly possible. We'll see.

Too often I feel as if the soundtrack to my life is frightening, foreboding, dark. When that happens I just want the music to stop, or to start playing a Bach minuet or a Mozart piano concerto instead. And then my imagination kicks in with a random thought that ends at the gravesite of another family member. Or something worse. It only takes a few seconds for these vivid thoughts to play themselves out in my mind. It happens so quickly that by the time I realize what is happening and give my fear to God, I'm already viewing something terrible.

How do you trust God enough to let go of your fears, especially when something truly horrible has happened to you? Fear is a hard master. But when you keep your guard up and don't expect much, at least you have the option of being somewhat prepared for when the next bad thing happens. You're not surprised. You saw it coming. (So the argument goes in my head.) I know it's a ridiculous argument. Fear does not prepare for you for anything. The very nature of fear debilitates and disempowers. I know that.

So even though God and I are on speaking terms, I still find it hard to trust Him. After all, how can you trust someone as dangerous as God? He didn't hesitate to send himself to die for our sake. He gives freely, loves extravagantly. It cost him everything to offer us a relationship and the hope of heaven. I'm not like that. I love my own skin more than my neighbors'. I don't want to love everyone extravagantly, just my friends and family. And giving freely - forget it! What if my family needs that? Giving freely requires sacrifice, self-denial, risk. I give stintingly, and that's when I feel I can afford it.

There's a big part of me that just wants to be left alone to grow lazy and complacent. I don't fully trust someone who will love me enough to change me, love me enough to give me his eyesight, perspective, wisdom - his very life. That all comes at a cost, a very high, high cost. It demands of me more than I really want to give. And yet He still calls me, compels me beyond my fears to come and lay down my life in order to find it. To surrender my will for his. And to allow myself be worked into the fabric of his glorious future.

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.

Two

Hi Vincent!  Today is your 2nd birthday.

I know you don't age in heaven the way we do here, but I do know that you still mature, that your mind and heart gradually fill and expand with knowledge and love.

As you continue to grow in heaven, know that our love for you here on earth keeps expanding and growing as well.

And tonight when we blow the candles out on your birthday cake, I'll be counting down another year until we can be together again.  Forever.

Grief Journal, Night Owl

These days I've been staying up way too late.  Sometimes I sew or work on writing.  Mostly I read or occasionally watch TV.

Even when Vincent was alive I was a night owl.  I'd put him and Theo to sleep, then sneak out to read, study, or sew, usually until the wee hours of the morning.

The day before Vincent went into surgery I stayed up the entire night sewing a bag.  It seems so ironic that I can, at this moment, see it through the open closet door in our room, hanging next to articles of clothing I've owned for years.  How can I still have the same clothes as last year, the same ipod, the same hardly-functioning cell phone, and not have my child?  Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

Right now I'm sick again.  Coughing, swollen glands, sore throat.  I'm exhausted.  But I just cannot get to bed.  It's not that I can't sleep.  Sleep usually comes pretty quickly, and when it doesn't, I play solitaire on the ipad until my eyes blur.  Falling asleep isn't a huge issue for me.  What is incredibly difficult is simply the act of getting to bed.  I. just. can't. seem. to. do. it.

Perhaps what I am afraid of is that Vincent will somehow come back, but I'll be sleeping when he knocks at the door. Or perhaps I'm subconsciously dreading the advent of the next day, so I'm staying up super late to prevent it from coming?  Maybe I don't want to have nightmares about his last moments.  Or perhaps I enjoy staying up late and want to have some fun before the next day arrives with all its responsibilities.  Maybe the real reason I find it so difficult to go to bed is a little bit of all of the above.

So I'm off.  To bed.  Before I cough up a lung.

Or maybe I'll watch The Amazing Race instead.  Hmmm....

Conflict

I need...

to hide yet also be seen
to be understood yet not have to speak
friends, but am unwilling to be friendly
a promotion, but am unable to work for it
attention, yet don't want to stick out

On this Dreadful Anniversary

(a prayer written for children)

When his body couldn't work anymore
thank you for taking care of him,
for keeping him entertained with playful angels,
for giving him happy dreams.
When the morphine took over, thank you that his spirit was safe-
he was never lost or alone or confused.
Thank you for the drugs that helped his body cope,
for the peace that covered him like a blankie.
Thank you for the joy he got when he opened his eyes
for the first time in heaven.
On this dreadful anniversary, thank you he had a place to go
when his body couldn't work anymore.

5 Months

Today is Vincent's 5 month "angel" anniversary.  There are no words.

But my hubby Dan uses them pretty well.

You can check out his grief journal here.

Oh Brother!

In this past week Theo's been crawling into our bed every night around 3:00am.  On Friday night I had a fever of over 101 with aches and pains everywhere.  Theo got into our bed, kicked, thrashed and wiggled, but we gladly put up with it as it was evident that he really needed to sleep with us.

I tend to forget that Theo's been greatly traumatized.  He's been such a resilient child, learning his letters, excitedly making new friends at preschool, happily playing and reading with me during the day.  I can easily forget how wounded he really is.  Theo's been especially needy these last few weeks, having a hard time going to sleep at night, being fearful during nap-times, talking about how he misses Vincent during the day (it used to just be part of his night-time routine).

Today we visited Vincent's grave, and Theo talked the entire way there about Vincent.  "I wish I could see Vincent."  "I really miss Vincent."  "I wish I could play with Vincent." "I wish we could be with Vincent."

It seems that the finality of Vincent's removal from our family has really sunk in.  Theo misses his brother.  I miss him too.

Mystery (The Problem of Pain)

Because I'm a person of faith, people often ask me if I'm mad at God. Couldn't he have done something to stop Vincent from dying? As Christians, we believe that among God's many attributes are both absolute power and absolute goodness.

The question of how God's love and power relate to each other is one that all theologians and sufferers have wrestled with over the millennia.  If God is good AND powerful, why doesn't he stop horrible events from happening?  Why are there child soldiers, rape, famine, cancer?  Why do kids die?  Why do bad things happen to good people?  Why do bad things happen at all?

Some people think that God, although powerful in nature, sort of ties his hands behind his back by giving us humans free will.  At the end of human history God's powerful enough to win the war against evil (using us, his followers) as we break powers of darkness and evil and incarnate God's power and love to our broken world.  He can be prevailed upon through prayer to change events, but only if the powers of darkness are broken first.  He's absolute goodness, only wanting us to thrive and be full of good things.  He weeps with us when we encounter evil, when we are wounded from the fault of others' free will choices.  From this perspective, it would never be his will to let Vincent die.

Critics of this view say it compromises God's omnipotence (power) in a manner inconsistent with the biblical description.  He can't be a truly all-powerful God if he's wringing his hands over situations he cannot at this moment change without our help.  God ceases to be God if his hands are in any way tied.

Proponents of this next view remind us of our utter sinfulness as humans.  As completely flawed beings who first introduced sin to the world, we deserve whatever the perfect God metes out to us.  We deserve nothing from him, although through his son Jesus we've recieved everything we really need, promise of redemption, the sure hope of eternal life.  God is completely powerful over all world events, he presides over everything that occurs, and though not evil himself, allows evil to exist for a time being for reasons we do not understand.  His goodness is always complete, even when we cannot see it.  From this perspective, it could have been his will to let Vincent die.  (This is usually the point where the discussion veers toward further theological splicing between God's prescriptive will and his decretive will... but I don't want to go there.)

Critics of this view say that God seems to be a cosmic meany.  He's able to change horrible events, able to eliminate all evil, but instead allows it to exist.  (Of course, these views can be nuanced much better than I've stated.  I'm sure I've left many important details out of each one, but then again, I'm much better at ranting then reporting.)

So, the argument goes, either God is completely powerful (and not fully good), or he's completely good (and not fully powerful.)  In the face of deep suffering, it's difficult to believe that God can be both simultaneously. 

Where do I stand? Part of me would like to think that what happened to Vincent was a terrible injustice caused by living in a messed up world.  God would like to have stopped it,  only wanting goodness and wholeness in our lives, but his hands were tied.  But I don't really believe that.  I do believe that Vincent's death was a terrible injustice.  But I believe that God didn't stop it for some reason(s) unknown to me at this time.  I believe he is powerful enough to do it, but for some reason he didn't.

I would like Vincent's death to have as much meaning as possible.  If it was just a random event that occurred, how meaningful is that?  It's like winning the crappiest lottery ever.  Even though I don't believe God specifically ordered in his perfect will for Vincent to get cancer and die, I believe that he did foresee it and let it happen anyway to us.  I believe he could have stopped it, and yet he didn't.

Over the years I've grown to accept this fact:   our world is pretty awful.  It's in the process of being fixed and redeemed, and one day all suffering will cease, and our earth will be renewed.  Until then all sorts of bad stuff happens, largely a result of what we do to each other.  Large corporations want more money, take shortcuts, pollute the water and people get cancer.  We want more power and oil so we go to war.  Kids get killed.  Women get raped, the environment gets exploited, stuff gets stolen, we die, awful, awful evil happens and gets thrown our way.  It's the way of this world.

Now where does God fit into this?  Well, I believe that whatever transpires in our life, whatever events in life we go through, they have to pass through God's hands first.  He doesn't cause them, but he makes sure that whatever they are, they are something that we are able to triumph over, if not in this life, than the next.  He makes sure we get justice, if not now, than later.  And in the meantime, all the awful things that happen that would try to destroy us, he can transform into scars of beauty, into something useful for helping someone else's pain.  God is very economical.  He doesn't waste our pain, our wounds.  If we let him, he as the ultimate alchemist transforms our tragedies into something beautiful, useful, something that brings him glory.

I've always known that God does not keep us "safe".  That's not his ultimate goal.  And from the viewpoint of eternity, what does being "safe" really mean?  Are you safe if you have a comfortable home now, happy relationships, a good bank account, and yet who you truly are deep inside is conflicted, without peace?  Are you "safe" if you've never been deeply hurt or in a debilitating accident, but your inner soul is isolated from the one Reality that can offer transcendent living, real hope?

The apostle Paul in Colossians 3 says this:

"...For you died to this life, and your real life is hidden with Christ in God."

My Real life, who I truly am and am becoming, my real beauty, my real strength is all hidden with Christ up there in heaven.  It's kept truly safe with God and with Vincent who is one of my greatest treasures.  It's out of reach for now, but it's part of a greater Reality that I cannot see, a Reality that goes far and beyond what think is "real".

I watched Toy Story III just a few weeks before Vincent died and it gave me a useful analogy to describe the way I feel about his death.  In the movie, Mrs. Potato Head loses one of her eyes somewhere in Andy's house.  She can't find it, and after different events transpire, she, along with all the other toys, wind up in this horrible daycare where they are mistreated and are trying to escape.  They need to know what is happening back at home, and Mrs. Potato Head is able to channel her vision through her hidden eye, the one back at home, to see what is happening and to be connected to what was going on there.  She didn't have that eye physically with her, so she was blocking out what she could see right in front of her face, and instead, "seeing" with her missing eye.

I have to use my "missing" eye, the one that is hidden in God, to see the greater Reality there in heaven as opposed to just what is in front of me at this moment.

My spiritual director lent me her copy of Susan Howatch's book "Glamorous Powers."  Here the main character, Jon, an Anglo-Catholic ex-monk, is comforting his wife after their baby son Gerald has just died.

"...Look at the world from yet another angle.  Look at it as an idea in the mind of God, a brilliant dynamic idea which we ourselves can't fully grasp except that its dynamism ties us to the change we can't escape.  But beyond the idea, beyond the mind of God, is God himself, the unchanging perfection of ultimate Reality.  In other worlds, this cage we live in, this prison of time and space isn't ultimately real. Gerald may have slipped out of the cage ahead of us, but that doesn't mean he's ceased to exist.  As part of the ultimate reality his existence is reflected back into the world of time and space in the form of absolute values, the values which can never die, and the value in which we can most clearly see him reflected is love..."

I will see Vincent again.  But right now I have to use my other eye to see the ultimate Reality beyond this prison of time and space.  And until I see Vincent again with both my eyes, I'm going to try and reflect his life, and the life of God who is the ultimate Reality, back into this world.

My Will be Done

Our Father in Heaven,
Hallowed be your name
Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
Forgive us our debts, as we have also forgiven our debtors
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil
For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever
Amen.

A few weeks ago Dan and I went to the annual HIM conference held here in Hawaii.  We look forward to it every year as we get to see friends from other churches as well as hear from pastors, speakers, authors, and musicians who wouldn't otherwise come to our state.

During one of the main sessions, Pete Greig, founder of the 24/7 prayer movement and author of quite a few books, including God on Mute, was speaking about "Worshiping When It's Hard."  His wife was diagnosed with a debilitating brain tumor after their second child was born, and I found myself earnestly listening to him, impacted by both his story and faith.  Towards the end of his message he brought us through the Lord's prayer, and I was surprised to find myself unwilling to repeat it.

After he was speaking we were given a chance to pray or write, so I tried to "fix" my earlier reticence to speak the prayer, and to my horror, found myself repeatedly saying "My will be done" instead of "Your will be done."

Talk about a Freudian slip!

It makes sense because I always want my will to be done.  I wanted Vincent to be wholly healthy, to live a long life.  I want to feel safe in my home, not wondering if someone's going to break in and steal something priceless.  I want everyone to cater to how I'm feeling, to what I need, to share in my grief.  I want Dan to be happy in the social work field and not have to go to seminary, I want to own a little house somewhere with a basement that doesn't flood, I want to have another child, a blossoming career, a bank account stuffed with money, a craft room filled with cute fabric.

I want a lot of things.  Do you?

I'm praying that we may find the grace to embrace what we have as well as what we don't, and through our embracing of God's will, be pulled into His future.