thelifeididntchoose

A couple days ago I had the privilege of talking to all my earthbound children.

That doesn’t happen often in the same day. Work schedules dictate limited windows when a quick conversation can be squeezed in. Usually it’s one of them one day and another the next.

It felt good to hear their voices but it was hard to listen to the hurt behind the words. Grief casts a long shadow and it engulfs the entire family. NO one is spared the awful pain loss leaves behind.

My children are walking this path for a second time.

James Michael and his wife as parents and Fiona and Julian as siblings.

The next morning I went to the dentist bright and early for a delayed six month cleaning (my dad’s stroke prevented me from keeping my regular appointment).

It was also the one month mark of the day Holly was gathered into the arms of Jesus.

As I drove the rural roads to my appointment, I replayed that awful morning’s events. Text messages etched forever in my mind and heart. The first time Holly coded. The intervening messages of my always-thoughtful-son making sure his other children and his mom and mother in law had a hot breakfast delivered to the AirBnB where we were staying.

“It’s on the porch.”

Finally the heartrending message that she was gone.

Do I tell the boys? Do you want me to bring them right away? What do you want me to do? I felt SO helpless. So incompetent to do anything. My experience was completely unlike theirs and was useless as a pattern.

Then the hours of saying good-bye.

All that went through my mind and by the time I parked my car I was taking deep, measured breaths to prepare myself to face other humans.

I’m no longer ashamed of crying.

I was-at first-when Dominic left us because that was what had been modeled for me growing up. I was supposed to save my tears for quiet, private moments, not shed them in front of everyone as if I didn’t “know better”.

I got through the small talk, x-rays and telling the hygienist I knew I had a problem with one of my molars. (She’s amazing and kind!)

But lying back in that chair, something broke and the tears just came.

Poor thing, she thought she had done something to bring them on but through my blubbering I was able to tell her about Holly and about the date and about the horror of losing a grandchild and walking again the awful road of loss and pain and knowing, knowing, knowing this was just the beginning.

After a few moments I was able to calm down and she cleaned my teeth. A simple, routine act but a needful one. I asked her if I could hug her when I left. She promised to pray me through this hard day.

And so much of grieving is like this-outpouring of sadness followed by making dinner. Shouts and raised fists followed by phone calls to set up care for my dad. Text messages from family asking impossible-to-answer questions and writing a blog post about faith in the face of doubt and mystery.

I was ignorant of ALL of this before it was me.

I. Had. No. Clue.

That’s why I still write. That’s why I will always, always, always defend the right of a griever (any griever!) to space and grace. That’s why I will shout from the rooftops that grief lasts a lifetime and shapes a life.

I didn’t flinch when they told me I needed a root canal and that the next day they had an opening.

“Sign me up!”, I said. (And make sure you order the anxiety meds for when I come.)

I’ve learned to ask for what I need.

And I don’t apologize for the tears.