I do not know the journey–frightening, exhausted, unchosen, rescue desired–no rescue, just tears and love…

I have always enjoyed words and stories and have used journaling as a way of processing my life. This is my story.

My husband of 58 years died in June. He had Alzheimer’s, I cared for him  as he slowly faded away. At his services I wanted to tell the story of this good and wonderful man who had lived life well… 

Beside writing a good story I, also, wanted to speak without wavering and without tears. I felt I did. I was proud of myself. 

Relieved to I’d accomplished my goal,  I turned quickly…missed the step and crashed to the ground. My friend said you were there then you weren’t, everyone gasped, I waved my hand as I lay on the carpet, yelling I’m  OK, got up in a less than graceful manner and returned to my seat. 

That is what grief does to you, one minute you are strong and feeling together and the next you are lying on the ground needing to get back up on this journey of life.

My first encounter with deep grief was when my father died when I was twelve. I awoke in the early morning hours listening to soft voices murmuring in the living room. I felt a sense of foreboding. My mother came in and told my sister and I that our father had been killed in a car accident. He was only thirty-nine. I didn’t recognize the tragedy of the accident as much as I just knew my daddy was gone. This began my lifelong struggle with sleep. I was allowed to listen to my brother’s transistor radio to help me go to sleep, it had a leather cover and to this day when I smell leather I remember listening to music until I fell asleep. 

My mother, in a desire to protect her children, rarely expressed her grief. I had no idea what to do with my emotions. I felt a sense of shame about my feelings so I locked my grief in a little box and finished growing up. 

I was twenty when I was, again, smacked hard by grief. I came home from my second shift nursing job, went into my four month old son’s room to admire and kiss him before going to bed and found him dead of SIDS. The horror of that moment and the crushing grief that followed forever changed me. I would carry the loss of innocence and sorrow for the rest of my life.  The pastor who spoke at our son’s services suggested God was crying as well. That was a comfort to me. I did my best to lock my grief in a bigger box feeling guilty for the big grief I tried to hide. I spent the next couple of years trying to use platitudes to keep functioning. It didn’t help. 

Fifteen years later we were burying our second son, a fourth grader, who had died of cystic fibrosis. This time there was no box big enough for the grief I felt. We had two daughters, 11 and 6, who needed a mom so there was no box to be put away. We all muddled through our grief and tears. I didn’t feel confident in anything I said or did I simply kept going forward because I had no choice. God often met me in my struggle but generally at the last moment when I felt I had nothing left. I think there is a lesson

Learning to lean on God earlier rather than when you have reached desperation.

People often did not acknowledge my grief. I understand they were uncomfortable. I remember driving in the car and my daughter saying, “If I say something about Rod are you going to cry.” I think that depicts a universal feeling we share. We don’t want to upset someone. The grieving 

God, in his wisdom, has allowed me to use my grief in a positive way. I am an action girl. I wanted to use the hard earned wisdom from surviving the losses in my life.