Hope is an old friend

Hello dear readers. I'm sorry for my absence the past few weeks. My last blog post was incredibly hard to follow and I needed a minute to process it all. These weeks since Miss Joyce's passing have been flooded with a myriad of emotions. I find myself being extra introspective - considering the beauty, fragility, and fleeting nature of each moment that we are allowed here on this earth. I think about how much Miss Joyce believed in me and wonder so often if she would be proud of the choices that I'm making everyday. And, more than anything, I ponder the complete and utter randomness of life. The bad and the good are doled out to us with no rhyme or reason. Some people skate through relatively unscathed and others seem to never get off the doomed Ferris wheel. I learned a long time ago that life isn't about deserving. But there does seem to be something so utterly unfair for people to lose multiple loved ones in a single lifetime.

One of the points that I have stood firm on throughout my entire grief journey has been that so many of us are applauded as being strong in situations where strength was the only option. About a year after I lost my daughter, I was speaking to a woman who was adamant that if she lost one of her children she would simply pass away. But, more often than not, reality doesn't allow for that scenario. We have other people who love us, who are counting on us, that we cannot leave behind. I ran across a post from my first blog that I wrote almost exactly 3 years ago. It exemplifies how grievers are forced to trudge through everyday life knowing logically that someday they will have hope again but emotionally unable to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I'll include a portion of it here so you can see what I mean:

"You know, in that moment, in that dark ultrasound room, I never asked why. I never said “why god why?” Because the why didn’t matter. Not in that moment. In that moment I only ever said please. As if asking to have her back was a wish that could ever be granted. Please wake me up now. Please end this nightmare. Please ease my pain. Please bring her back to me. Please, can I start over? Please, can we turn back time?

On the drive home that night, you know what thought kept popping into my head? I wondered if everyone would want their gifts back. I genuinely sat there contemplating if I should return everything that everyone had given to us for Lily Rose. As if that was the only part of the trauma that my brain could process at that moment. I could think about others. I could think about what other people might want. I could consider them. But I couldn’t think of myself. Or my trauma. Not that anyone would EVER ask for anything back. Or even want it. But for some reason, that was a main concern of mine in that moment. I think it was the only way my brain could cope with what I had just been told.

I don’t know how we made it home from the doctor’s office. Genuinely. Debbie had asked me if I needed a ride, but I told her Dallas was there to drive me, as if he was in any better shape than I was. I really should have taken her up on it, driving in that state was probably one of the most dangerous things we’ve ever done. But somehow God guided us home.

I will never ever forget the looks on my parent’s faces when they walked in that night. The pain was clear in their tear filled eyes. We hugged so tight. First mom hugged me and dad hugged Dallas. Then they switched. Then mom and dad both hugged me. We stood there. The original three amigos. Me and the two people who love me most in the world. I could tell they were trying to surround me, shield me, block the pain. But the pain was already there, deep inside of all of us.

I sat down on the couch and just stared. I couldn’t watch tv. I could hardly speak. I just sat and cried silently. First mom sat next to me. Then dad. Then mom again. Dad would make this little joke and say “look how strong your mom and I are being for you.” But I could tell, on the inside, they were just as shattered as I was. The next morning, we got up, silently got ready, and loaded into the car. My parents drove us, and Dallas and I sat in the back seat, clutching onto each other for dear life. We pulled up to the front entrance of the hospital and hugged goodbye. It felt as though my parents were sending us off to war. We didn’t have to say it, but we all knew that the next time we saw each other, none of us would be the same.

As we walked in, we were told congratulations by the security guard, the lady screening people for covid, and the lady at the information desk. I wanted to scream. Scream at them, scream at the universe, just scream. But my voice died in my throat. Because, what good would screaming do anyway? There was only one way forward. And no way back. It brings to mind “The Charge of the Light Brigade” by Tennyson -

   Theirs not to make reply,

   Theirs not to reason why,

   Theirs but to do and die.

   Into the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

So we charged ahead. We charged ahead in that moment and we’ve charged ahead every moment since. Now, I wouldn’t ever try to make it seem like what I went through was exactly like going to war. I couldn’t imagine what that experience is like. But the idea of pushing forward when you have no other choice, the concept of not giving up - that part I’m familiar with. At the end of the poem, Tennyson calls on the reader to honor the noble six hundred. Maybe, just maybe, I should be proud of myself for the strides that I have made, for pushing through, for making it to this point. Grief is a journey with no end. But I’m still moving forward, and I can be proud of myself for that."

Gosh I wish I could wrap that girl up in the tightest hug and tell her that one day the pain won't be so fresh. That like a tree in a thick rainforest that stretches, leans, and contorts to find the sun, you will learn to grow around your pain, searching out the hope that you once thought was lost to you forever. And everything will mean a little bit more to you now that you know the real price of living and loving. I came across this Homer quote the other day that has been stuck in my mind. Forgive me if I'm taking this out of context. By no means am I a classics scholar. But there is a line in the Iliad that states, "Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed." I believe there are only a select few of us who know what it means to feel truly doomed. Cursed and forsaken. As though we are living out a prison sentence for a crime we didn't commit. But we also know the power of hope. Not the type of hope that you feel when you "hope you passed your math test" or "hope the McDonald's ice cream machine is working." I mean the type of hope that gets you out of bed every morning. Believing deep in your heart that there is a reason for you to keep going. Having faith that it never rains forever. And you WILL see the other side of this storm. It is experiencing this hope that allows us to see the most extraordinary, remarkable aspects of this life. Not because life is unfolding any differently around us, but because we know exactly what it means. The monumental nature of each fleeting moment. The cry of a newborn baby. The warm sun on our skin. A tight mom hug on a bad day. A college graduation. A family dinner spent laughing around the kitchen table. An inside joke with a best friend. Butterflies on a first date. Each of these moments is precious when you're faced with the harsh reality that none of it is guaranteed. So although I have experienced deep, painful, and profound grief, I am grateful to call hope an old friend. She's opened my eyes to more than I ever thought I'd see, and for that, in my own way, I am thankful.