Grief

Grief is so weird. I knew that before, having been through some tough things in life, and just from reading about it and watching others go through it. Experiencing grief after the loss of my Mom, though, is just plain weird.

I guess I thought that I would go through the stages in a linear fashion, maybe with some hops forward and back along the way. I did not think I would experience all the stages of grief at the same time for months and months and months. I wonder if it will still be this way years from now.

Granted, in the first few weeks I felt like I lived in an alternate reality, and I cried all day long. I couldn't even count how many times in a day I would cry. It's not like that now, though: some days I do cry several times, but some I don't cry at all.

In some ways, it feels like she's still here and I just haven't heard from her in a really long time, so then I will feel kind of irritated at her, but then I'll remember that she's NOT really here and I can't talk to her now and not EVER, and then I feel devastated, and I cry though it, and then I feel a little bit of peace that yeah, she's not here because she's in Heaven and I wouldn't wish her back even if I could, because I couldn't bear to see her go through pain like that again, to watch her waste away, to feel her pulling away from me - but then again I would, because I am so very desperate to feel her near me, to have her advice, to laugh with her, to go on trips with her, to just flat-out KNOW SHE'S HERE.

Yeah. That's what my brain looks like.

Grief sucks. And I miss my Mom so much I can't hardly stand it.

Two years.

Two years have gone by since Alif's illness. It sounds weird to put it that way, because it's not like it was an event that happened and passed and life is back to normal now, but then again it was one of the biggest events of our lives.

Today is Alif's Birthday. It's impossible to celebrate his Birthday without remembering this day two years ago. We decorated his hospital room, read him cards (looking exactly as he did in that picture above, no response at ALL), a nurse bought him a cupcake (which sat, untouched, for well over a week when we finally had to throw it away).

But that night the neurologist had sobering words: Alif would not survive.

There's no way I can explain what that night was like. I knew then that I needed to gather up my courage, trust in the Lord like never before, and make the most of my last weekend with my husband. The neurologist said we would reevaluate on Monday, and that at that time we would need to make some decisions. Basically, he was saying that we would turn off his life support and he would not be likely to live after that.

It boggles my mind that my expectations for my husband went from everything to nothing in no time flat - I mean, the idea that he could live at all - even as a vegetable - was so hopeful. So coming from that point of view, it is amazingly, breathtakingly remarkable to see the man that he is now. He can do so many things! In fact, if you don't know him very well, you could probably spend quite a bit of time with him and not notice any lingering effects from the strokes that he suffered.

But they're there.

There's no need to go into his deficits here and now. It's his birthday, after all! But I ask that if you think of us, please pray. There is so much missing for Alif, and so much pressure on me, that life is definitely not easy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Alif. I love you so very, very much.

Things have changed and that's for sure

August 12, 2012 was my last post. That was also the end of life as I knew it and a harsh introduction to the most heartbreaking time of my life.

One of my last posts was about Malachi's 8th grade graduation. That was kind of a milestone day in my Mom's health because though she was hosting his graduation party at her community center, and though she attended his graduation, she was unable to come to the party. She didn't feel well, and I think most of us very close to her knew that something wasn't right. And deep down, if we knew something wasn't right, we knew that it had to do with cancer. After all, for the last 18 years, that word has been in the back of our minds, if not at the very forefront. It just never felt like something that was Over and Done With. It lurked - both figuratively and, as we now know, literally.

We tended to symptoms long before we knew that cancer had taken over. Many, many trips to doctors, surgeons, emergency rooms, urgent care, all in the name of pain management, never facing the real problem, because the real problem was too big to face. Finally we knew, though. It was back, and it wasn't curable. Still, we were pretty hopeful at first (well, perhaps it was really all denial). God was so gracious. Things moved only as fast as the three of us (Mom, Megan and I) could handle them. For a disease that had taken over so much of her body, she functioned well at first. Then not so well, and finally, not independently at all, until on January 9, 2013 at 6:15am, she took her final breath and traveled home to her Father - and her mother and father and so many others who had gone before.

It's been almost two months now and it still doesn't feel quite real sometimes. I can again see God's grace, because there have been a few times that it's all felt SO real and SO permanent that I literally have to catch my breath; panic threatens to consume and I cry out to God. Which, let's face it, is what I should be doing every moment of every day.

Writing is therapeutic for me, but what's in my heart is so raw right now. It's not full of optimism and gratitude, though those things exist alongside the darkness, loneliness, panic, desperation, self-pity, sadness. I'm just warning you, those few who may see this, that I want to track what's going on so I can look back on it all someday, but I don't want to have to censor my thoughts, so it's gonna get real up in here. You've been warned. ;-)

Quiet Time

We have always had a well-established napping routine in our home. I worked hard to get my second child into a one-nap-a-day routine as quickly as possible so that both of my boys would sleep at the same time each day. I needed this to happen so that we weren't stuck at home all day with one boy or the other sleeping, but I also needed to have a couple of hours alone. A couple hours of NOT nursing someone, changing someone's diapers, answering questions or cries.

Those boys went on to nap solidly into their sevens, as did their sister after them. Then came Canaan. By the time Canaan was born, I only had one napping child. The oldest children were well out of naps, but I'd kept the routine going anyway, calling it Quiet Time. At 1:00 every SINGLE day, all children filed into bedrooms, and they stayed there quietly until 3:00 (or later, if they'd fallen asleep).

But as Canaan grew, the older kids got older. They didn't need quiet time any more. They were mature enough to manage their needs on their own. They knew to seek solitude as necessary. And at the same time, I didn't need quiet time either. My children weren't asking nonstop questions. When the baby cried, a big brother tended to him at least as often as I did. The household was running itself pretty smoothly and the demands on Mommy were fewer, even though there were twice as many children.

Around four or so, Canaan stopped needing daily naps. He is not an introvert and does not need time alone like my older boys did. He functioned well throughout the day with no nap and no quiet time. Our 13-year Quiet Time tradition tapered off and finally came to a stop altogether.

A couple days ago, my house seemed too quiet. We were finished with schoolwork, so the dining room table was cleared off and wiped down. I looked around and didn't see any children at all. I started to wander around, wondering where everyone had gone. I found each one doing something either on their own or with a sibling - one listening to music, a couple watching a movie on an iPod, one reading. I gazed at my brand-new high school freshman and thought about how many of those Quiet Times I might like to have back now that I only have a few years left with him under my wing. I considered how valid that need was at the time, how poignant it had been to realize that we were all doing fine without it, and how bittersweet it is to know that now, I truly do not crave "me time". I have a different perspective now. If my 5-year-old climbs on my lap at the exact moment I was hoping to do something alone, I guide his little head back onto my chest and whisper how happy I am that he's mine.

Because in a very few short years, I'll wish I could do that just one more time.

Malachi's 8th Grade Graduation

 I've always kind of wondered what the big deal is about an 8th grade graduation. Well, maybe not always - I mean, I did really like my Jessica McClintock lacy pink dress when I graduated 8th grade - but as a Mom, watching my friends' kids graduate, I didn't understand all the fuss. It's not the end of anything, you know? They're just moving up a grade. No biggie.

 Until tonight. We've been planning Malachi's 8th grade graduation party all day, trying to get everything ready, and it's been a busy day. I'm tired and I have a headache. And once everyone went to bed and I was alone with my thoughts, I realized: it is indeed a big deal. My son no longer needs his pull-toy dog on the desk and he no longer plays on nickjr.com. When he sits down with a book he actually knows how to read it. He doesn't point at the pictures and tell a fantastical story any more.

He's well-equipped, this young man. He's ready for high school. His heart is sold out for the Lord and he's going to make a mark on the world, wherever God leads him.

The thing is, after tomorrow he'll officially be a high school student. He'll be a for-real teenager. And yeah, he'll always be my son, but he's growing his wings a little more every day. In a few short years he'll be ready for liftoff.

"I'll have tears as you take off
But I'll cheer as you fly."

I love you, son. Happy graduation.

Anniversaries

I'm not usually big on anniversaries of life events. I mean, I love celebrating birthdays and wedding anniversaries and things, but when it comes to some big life happening, I don't usually remember that such and so happened on such and such a date.

But there are a few dates that are engraved on my heart for all time.
April 13, 2011 - Alif came home sick
April 16, 2011 - took him to the hospital
April 17, 2011 - intubated and sedated
April 19, 2011 - 1st surgery
April 21, 2011 - told he would not survive his strokes
May 5, 2011 - 2nd surgery
May 26, 2011 - trip to USC
June 2, 2011 - 3rd surgery
June 21, 2011 - home!

Today feels huge to me. To picture life one year ago, to know that on that morning I said goodbye and good day to my husband as he drove off to work, had lunch with him a little later, and then welcomed him home as a very sick man within just a few hours - it's unbelievable. We just get so used to life as we know it, and though we know intellectually that it could all change in the blink of an eye, we sure never expect that to happen.

This past year has been the hardest of my life. I have never experienced such anxiety, worry, fear, desperation, longing, loneliness, instability, panic.

But it's also been the most rich year. I have never experienced such closeness with my Father, love from family and friends that was absolutely unending, dependency on God that was literally moment by moment some days, an almost physical covering of prayer. I have had a front-row seat as a witness of God's miraculous power. I have seen him carry us through days that felt like they would never end.

I love you, Lord. I love you, Alif. And to my family and friends who walked every step of it with us, and especially to those who continue to walk this insane path with us, I literally cannot thank you enough. I have tears in my eyes as I write, because there is a depth of gratitude that I feel physically but could not possibly put into words. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I watch my baby

I stand out in the beautiful springtime sun and watch my baby, and he's five. He's five and he's running lap after lap around the yard, stopping each time to leap over a toddler slide toppled over. He's wearing the same outfit he did yesterday and the day before that. Skinny jeans, "because some of my pants are weird, Mama, but these pants are cool." and a lime green hooded shirt, and headphones. He brings me the headphones every time one of his favorite songs come on because he loves it so much he wants Mama to hear it too. But not right now. Right now he's running, and his arms are swinging, and he looks five. He presses his lips together in work and concentration, eyes on the grass in front of his feet.

Then he catches my eye, and I'm smiling proudly at him, and - there it is! That precious-boy smile starts from the middle and stretches out. His sparkly brown eyes crinkle and the dimples crease deeply. And he runs again, and again, looking each time to see if I'm watching, and of course I am. I open my arms wide and he runs and jumps and there he is, my little baby boy, cuddled in my arms with his face nuzzled against my neck. "Am I a good runner, Mama?"

"Yes, son. You sure are!"