I Refuse

Lately I have been trying not to plan what to write here… instead waiting until the moment I sit down to the keyboard to see what happens. I feel like keeping my head out of it allows my heart to connect to what needs to be said most. So today I'm feeling compelled to share this poem I wrote not long ago. It is the way I have felt about my fiancé, our love, and his death since the very beginning… and how I continue to feel about it all. I gather it's how many of us feel. I hope it grabs you, grounds you, ignites you, comforts you - whatever it is that you need to receive today - I hope it gives you a small piece of that, my dear brave friends.

I REFUSE

The other day

driving home from work

I realized that you did not die at all.

That when your heart stopped beating

and your veins ceased to drink

and your eyes closed upon themselves

you did not die.

You did not die because I refused.

I refused to lay down and

accept that you no longer exist.

I refused to believe that our love

could ever die.

And I will refuse it

until my own heart stops beating

and my veins cease to drink

and my eyes close upon themselves.

-

For all my days ahead

I will stand up tall

and I will fight

the very idea of you being “lost”.

I will question

everything that attempts to disprove

that you and I still exist together.

I will build

a new way of being with you.

Because WE do NOT die.

It is not in the nature of us

to simply cease to exist from each other.

You cannot be removed from me

any easier than

the stars can be removed from the universe

by a human hand.

I refuse your death.

-

Instead

I believe

I know

That we are as if

living in two countries

worlds apart

and we speak two different languages now.

Our new way of being

will be the most difficult challenge

we will ever face.

It will require quietness

and surrender

and acceptance

and an unfaltering belief

in what we cannot see.

It will require the fire of faith

and the courage

to sit with the pain

and give it love.

It will require parts of us

we don’t even know exist yet.

But they do.

-

And in this way

we will begin again

with a new language of love.

One that transcends

all barriers

all fears

all fires.

For we will begin again

with divine love.

I can't remember if I remember

I wrote this post on my personal blog back in April of 2012, but it was ringing in my ears this week, as I was trying to remember details and was getting frustrated about the pieces I couldn't recover. 

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I had a horrifying experience this week:

I couldn't remember.

It started with a drive to meet my sister-in-law in Canada. The drive was a familiar one that I've taken with Jer hundreds of times through the years. Suddenly and unexpectedly, but like a familiar wave of grief, I was struck with tears realizing I would never take the drive again with him. Then I started to try and remember all the different drives I had taken with Jeremy over the years on that road. I remembered very little, which bothered me, but that wasn't the problem.

I then started trying to think about what it felt like to hold Jeremy's hand in the car like I had so many times before. But instead, all I could remember for that little while was holding my brother's hand in the hospital as he slipped away from us, and the second I noticed a change in his hands and knew that he was gone. And like the wave, I was covered in tears. Tears for my brother, who I've been missing so much the last few days (well, ever since I saw my nephew last weekend and his resemblence to my brother was so eery and heartbreaking for me) and tears for the fact that I couldn't get myself to remember was it was like to hold my husband's hand.

I started to go back to all those familiar moments that I think about often. Like the night before he died - him holding my hand on the way home, telling me how much he loved to hear me sing....I tried to remember past what I normally thought about, maybe some other details I missed before and I couldn't. Then I started to doubt the memory. It feels so distant - did that really happen? Do I actually remember it or is it just because I thought about it so many millions of times that it has become a habit instead of a memory? It was truly horrifying to feel like my memories were slipping further away from me just like Jeremy was.

Luckily, it was fleeting. Sometimes, all it takes is a picture of his jaw line or crooked smile to bring all those things back. Or a random hot day where the smell of sweat suddenly made me miss his salty kisses in the middle of the afternoon on a lunch break. Or sitting with Steve, playing with his ears, and remembering how different it felt to play with Jeremy's. I remember with such detail praying every day that I never forget.

Bring On The Rain

Yesterday was my three year sadiversary.

I woke up yesterday and look outside. Of course it was raining, just like it has on July 27^th for the last 4 years.

My brain took me back to July 26^th, 2010.

This memory has been forgotten or locked away in my brain, for my own protection.

July 26^th, 2010 is the day my husband went missing.

The detectives had called me and told me they had pinged my husband’s cell phone, pulled video surveillance, and knew my husband was up at the top of Snowbird (a local ski resort) somewhere. It was early in the day when they sent out search and rescue.

However, they told me they considered my sweet husband armed and dangerous..

That they could not use normal search and rescue… they had to use SWAT to look for him.

As the day wore on, no news came. I was hoping no news meant good news.

They called me that night around 8pm and told me it was snowing very heavily at Snowbird and they had to call off the search for the night.

I remember going to bed that night thinking about how my husband was in the mountains somewhere… getting snowed on in zero degree weather.. I was especially concerned because I had seen the video surveillance. My husband was wearing a light shirt, shorts and flip flops and was not carrying anything.. I knew he was not prepared for this weather.

I suddenly woke up at midnight. I sat up in bed, and instantly knew my husband was gone.

As weird as it sounds, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew he wasn't suffering anymore. I was okay with the fact that my husband was gone.. because I had watched him suffer for so long. I felt selfish for asking him to fight for so long.

The next morning around 9am the detectives called me and said they needed to meet me. In my heart I already knew my husband was gone.. but hearing that the detectives needed to meet with me, cemented my gut feeling.

They came to my house and told me they had found his body.

The pain and screams that were released from my body.. scared me.

When the medical examiners report came back they ruled the day and time of my husband’s death midnight on July 27, 2010.

The same date and time I woke up in middle of the night and knew he was gone.

Every year since then it has rained or snowed on July 27^th.

When I woke up yesterday and saw it was raining, I couldn't help but think about how ironic it is that it rains every year.

The rain brought back this memory.

Now I look at the rain on July 27^th with a sigh of relief.

I miss my husband dearly but I do not miss seeing him suffer.

No one should have to suffer that badly.

When the lines blur

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It started out innocently enough...

Just chatting away about nothing really, then it reminded of some memory. "Remember that time..." I said to Steve.

"Um, that wasn't me."

As soon as I realized that it wasn't a memory I shared with Steve, but a memory I had with Jeremy, I was immediately embarrassed, then angry with myself for not remembering something about Jeremy more clearly. How could I confuse that?

But it's happened several times. And not just with Steve. I remember it happening in different forms not that long after Jeremy died. Talking to friends about something that happened and not remembering whether or not Jer had been alive for it. Listening to a song on the radio and not being able to recall if it had been released after he died or before.

These blurred lines between before and after can be so disheartening. It made me feel like I was losing control, and more agonizing, losing pieces of Jeremy. How could the memories I put on such a pedestal be getting fuzzy? What does this mean for the future?

The only comfort I found in all that was also realizing that it was just a sign of life moving forward...and that I was allowing it to happen. I held on so tight for so long, but eventually when you let other things seep into your life, you have to loosen the grip. I don't mean forgetting or letting go, but allowing the things that are here and now to change and grow, and knowing that Jeremy is forever stuck in yesterday. No new memories will be made with him, only in ache for him. No new experiences will happen with him by my side, only made with others or by myself.

The idea that I've embraced this evolution somehow is oddly comforting. Like, I'm finally getting to where I feel like Jeremy would want me to be. I might think harder before I blurt out a memory to make sure I've got the details right, but I know Jeremy would be proud of me for letting normal life seep into my bones a little more each day.

Thunderstorms

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Last night, we got a crazy thunderstorm.

I can't remember the last time we had one like that. I didn't realize how long it had been until Faith came down stairs 30 minutes after her bedtime terrified of the storm like she had never heard one before.

Of course we had heard thunderstorms before...but I had never seen her react like that to it. Over the last 2 1/2 years, we have listened to the storms together and to help calm them down, we used to pretend that God and Daddy were bowling together and we'd cheer when we heard a strike (oh, the ridiculous things we come up with to comfort our children). But Faith had obviously outgrown that theory and she was too scared to go back to bed alone.

So, up I went to lay down with her for a few minutes. It's been too long since we've just laid together and talked one-on-one, at least about life issues. While we tried to tune out the thunderstorm, I got to have a precious conversation with her about her daddy. It went a little something like this:

Me: "What do you miss about your daddy?"
Faith: "Wrestling with him."
Me: "Of course you do, you two loved to wrestle together. What else do you remember about daddy?"
Faith: "Yeah, remember that time daddy got up early with me when I was sick and laid on the couch and gave me an ice pack - it was one of those blue ones - and wrapped it up in a cloth and watched TV with me?"

This simple conversation struck me for a number of reasons. First of all, it was another testament to the wonderful father Jeremy was. He would drop everything to lay with his babies if they were sick. The second thing that struck me was Faith's impeccable memory of her daddy, which I have always been grateful for. She was probably 2 or 3 when this occurred. I only know this because I remember that day...I had to go to work, so Jer stayed home with her and sent me pictures of her pathetic little face and a cloth wrapped ice pack on her forehead. So it wasn't one of her more recent memories of him...how does she remember that stuff?

Even when they can't always put it into words, it's never ceases to amaze me how love transcends through childrens' hearts even in the most abstract of ways. Through memories, through feelings, through art, through behavior....even through thunderstorms. I'm so thankful that love wins, and love defeats death.

I'm also thankful I got to hold her sweet little hand while she fell asleep during the thunderstorm and I prayed she would never lose that wonderful gift.

seasons of grief

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I laid in bed the other night, eyes brimming with tears, threatening to overtake me at just the thought of Jeremy's smile or to hear him laugh just one more time. Ultimately, I couldn't shake it and balled at the overflowing grief that seemed so prevalent. 

It's weird that lately, my ache for his personality and presence is so strong. The way he got excited about things, his voice when he was happy, the way he brought life to a room....I miss that. More than I think I ever have before. 

It struck me the same evening that my grief goes through different seasons. In February and March, while my children were celebrating birthdays, I was really grieving the loss of their daddy in our lives. It was hurting me that Jeremy was missing them reaching new milestones and getting older and bigger, and he wasn't seeing any of it. I couldn't seem to turn a corner without feeling a stab of bitterness that he wasn't here for our kids. 

Now that I think back, I can remember going through different seasons of grief. Not just the stages of grief like anger, denial, or depression....but grieving different specific pieces about the man that I loved. I went through a long phase of grieving not being able to experience Heaven with Jeremy, or constantly wondering what it will be like and yearning for the experience. Anything that was different than life without him. I went through a phase of really missing his knowledge of being able to fix anything, answering the questions I couldn't, and figuring out every electronic in our home. I remember for weeks in a row focusing on the absence of his physical presence - the feeling of holding his hand, the physical space he took up in the bed next to me and how empty it felt without him there, the comfort of his embrace. Then, it was smells - I missed his cologne, and the smell of his deodorant could have sent me on a downward spiral of tears....I even missed the smelly work clothes wreaking of cut grass, sweat, dirt, and body odor!

Has anyone else experienced these different seasons of specific pieces of grief? I call them seasons because they inevitably come back around. I will eventually grieve those pieces again in different situations along the way. And I also wonder what other pieces of him I haven't fully grieved yet.

Ultimately, it's all pieces of the same whole. All the parts that made up the man that I fell in love with. I grieve him completely, and apparently separately for all the different voids he left in my life. Different views of the same heart. Seasons taking affect on the same tree. But, oh, that tree sure was beautiful. I will miss it in every season.

4:34

My mom used to tell me that whenever she saw 7:28 on the clock, she'd make a wish. 7/28 is her birthday, and she thought it was lucky. I thought it was silly until I started paying attention and then I started noticing the time when I saw it on the clock too.

Now, though, I always seem to notice the time at 4:34. I don't know why it became so significant to me, but that's what time I sent Jeremy the last text before he died. I only know that because he sent a text at the same time to his buddy and boss, Mark. Only, I never heard back from him so I know he died within minutes of that time. And now, I see that time on the clock constantly and my heart skips a beat every. single. time. I always wonder....did he get that text from me? Did he read it? And right when all this was going through my head today I looked at the clock only to see it again. 4:34.

When I hit the six month mark and saw this time on my clock, I couldn't hardly stand it. It represented the beginning of the end for me. An unknown moment that will forever plague me. The unknown is a horrible place to be. And I think it may haunt me forever. And even when it subsides and I don't think about it as much, every time I see that time on my clock, it will take me there no matter what. 

It's odd that 4:34 is the piece that has manifested itself as a symbol of my grief. Surely this must happen in different ways to different people....but I know I will never again be able to put those numbers together and not think of Jeremy.

The pieces in between

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There are those moments that repeatedly roll around in my head. They're the staples I held onto the moment Jeremy died, the ones that epitomize our relationship and bring me peace about the last few days of his life....the sweet exchanged I shared with him in the car, not knowing it would be my last, holding hands with him the night before, going out to dinner as a family just days before he died. These are the pieces I remember vividly because I've held them so tight.

I think after someone dies, your brain automatically scrambles to try and hold onto every important piece you can retain from the last minutes/hours/days/weeks of their life. We grasp onto these pieces to remind us of life, to make sense of the chaos and to store them in our hearts. These are the pieces that, whenever I think about the last days of Jeremy's life, I think about most.

But then there are the pieces in between. The pieces of simple, every day things that we may have forgotten about until something comes up to remind us. A random conversation I forgot we had, a silly joke he told to the kids I couldn't remember, or a song that sparks a memory. These aren't the moments I think about most regularly, but when they come up, they bring another piece of him together.

These little moments, these in between pieces, have come up here and there for the last two years, and I know they probably will continue to for the rest of my life. And even though they aren't the staples I run back to or the moments I hold on tightest to, they're just as important. I'm always grateful when these little pieces come back to me.

Slipping pieces

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This past weekend, we finally made a trip up to Canada to see Jeremy's completed grave stone (I may blog more about this later). It's been done for a month and a half now and we haven't been able to get up there before now and it's been tearing at me. I'm so glad we finally got to go see it. It doesn't feel right for something to be done for/about/in honor of him and not be a part of it, because he's a part of me.

I'm always so glad to get up there. Not just to Jeremy's grave (although I strangely look forward to going, perhaps because I know I can't just go anytime and I feel Jer there) but I really ache when I'm away too long. I miss Jeremy's family. My family. I miss his presence that's always in the midst of whatever we're doing there. I miss the familiar smells, faces, and places that are just him. They are not associated with anyone else.

I noticed something happening this trip though. It's happened once or twice before, randomly, but it always catches me off guard and leaves me frustrated and on the verge of tears.

I started to forget.

It's small things. This weekend, while sitting around during our ritual late night conversation filled with inappropriate jokes and bodily sounds (very Jeremy-esque), I suddenly heard in my head the sound of Jeremy burping. Ya know, that manly burp that's loud and obnoxious - he was always so proud of it. Well, he used to try to burp the alphabet and see how far he could get, or more often, he would burp "Ralph Forfar" - don't ask me why. But for a split second, I couldn't remember that name. His sisters had to help me remember, while I choked back tears for forgetting.

It seems trivial and silly, but anyone who has lost someone close understands how scary it can be when pieces of the ones you love start slipping. You suddenly forget the feeling of them next to you, just for a moment, and it scares you half to death. Or you can't remember the name of that one place you went to together, or exactly what started that inside joke. Or for me, not remembering the exact phrase that Jeremy used to repeat all the time from a french cartoon he watched as a kid. It was the only french he could remember and he recalled it anytime someone asked him if knew French (cause apparently all Canadians are supposed to). I can hear the inflection in my head. I can see his facial expressions. But the piece left me for awhile and made me angry with tears every time I tried to remember it.

It taps into my biggest fear: people forgetting Jeremy. If I can't remember a detail about Jeremy and I was closest person to him, who's to say others won't forget things too? Obvious, that's an irrational thought, but grief is not rational. It plays with your every emotion, every insecurity, every fear. It sneaks up and rearranges every puzzle piece you've tried to put back together in your life only to change the picture that was on the puzzle to begin with. The pieces never fit back together like they used to and when the pieces you've held onto the tightest start slipping, it threatens the very breath and life of you.

My only comfort in these moments are focusing on the things I do remember. The things I will NEVER forget. And the things that are only mine. Ours. I'll carry those with me in my heart wherever I go til the day I die.

I can't remember if I remember

 

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I had a horrifying experience this week:

I couldn't remember.

It started with a drive to meet my sister-in-law in Canada. The drive was a familiar one that I've taken with Jer hundreds of times through the years. Suddenly and unexpectedly, but like a familiar wave of grief, I was struck with tears realizing I would never take the drive again with him. Then I started to try and remember all the different drives I had taken with Jeremy over the years on that road. I remembered very little, which bothered me, but that wasn't the problem.

I then started trying to think about what it felt like to hold Jeremy's hand in the car like I had so many times before. But instead, all I could remember for that little while was holding my brother's hand in the hospital as he slipped away from us, and the second I noticed a change in his hands and knew that he was gone. And like the wave, I was covered in tears. Tears for my brother, who I've been missing so much the last few days (well, ever since I saw my nephew last weekend and his resemblence to my brother was so eery and heartbreaking for me) and tears for the fact that I couldn't get myself to remember was it was like to hold my husband's hand.

I started to go back to all those familiar moments that I think about often. Like the night before he died - him holding my hand on the way home, telling me how much he loved to hear me sing....I tried to remember past what I normally thought about, maybe some other details I missed before and I couldn't. Then I started to doubt the memory. It feels so distant - did that really happen? Do I actually remember it or is it just because I thought about it so many millions of times that it has become a habit instead of a memory? It was truly horrifying to feel like my memories were slipping further away from me just like Jeremy was.

Luckily, it was fleeting. Sometimes, all it takes is a picture of his jaw line or crooked smile to bring all those things back. Or a random hot day where the smell of sweat suddenly made me miss his salty kisses in the middle of the afternoon on a lunch break. Or sitting with Steve, playing with his ears, and remembering how different it felt to play with Jeremy's. I remember with such detail praying every day that I never forget.

But every once in awhile....I can't remember if I remember.
I hate those moments.

What hurts the most

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The lyrics to the Rascal Flatts song were bouncing around in my head as I sat down to type out this post....

This past weekend, I spent some time in Canada visiting with Jeremy's family. I always look forward to spending my time with them, not only because I love them so much and they don't even know how incredible they are, but also because they keep me close to Jeremy. What I didn't expect was how emotional the trip would be for me. 

I grieved a lot this trip. Steve came with me and we were able to talk about wedding stuff and they allowed me time for my heart to be happy and share good news, but I still ached and I know they did too. It's hard to move forward without feeling like I'm letting pieces of my past go. I want to take it all with me.

I took Steve to Jer's grandparents house. He hadn't been there yet, so we went over for dinner. And suddenly, the hole felt bigger and the knot in my throat grew tighter - the entire time we were there. We had a lovely visit, but I walked around the house looking at all the pictures of Jeremy, wondering why this wave of grief was following me around. Then, we sat down to dinner and ate Jer's favorite dinner EVER (grandma's lasagna) and talked about all of the things he loved to eat at their house and I heard the heartbreak in grandma's voice as she told me she couldn't keep chocolate chip cookies in the cookie jar anymore, and I suddenly knew. I felt closest to Jeremy there at his grandparents house - it was one of his favorite places to be. We spent a week there every Christmas, we traveled there many times throughout the year, I had listened to countless recalled memories from Jer about growing up there, and I knew that such a big piece of his life and his heart were there. I hadn't spent a whole lot of time there since he died, so I guess I had never taken it all in. Even through their joy for Steve and me, I felt their heartache for their oldest grandson. My heart was so heavy for them. And I felt myself lose Jeremy all over again. I lost my future of making more memories with him in that house.

What hurt the most....was being so close...

So close to Jeremy I could almost see him. Standing in the door frame, sitting on the floor wrestling with the kids, sitting at the table licking the blueberry pie plate clean. I can feel him there in his pictures, like they were just taken yesterday. I heard him laughing, felt him breathing there. 

I realized that the places I feel Jeremy closest are also the places I grieve hardest. I felt similar when I took Steve to Jeremy's grave for the first time the following day. Knowing he's there is so overwhelming for me to face sometimes. Feeling close to Jeremy means so much to me, but it lingers for days and sits in my heart.

I know that so much of my day to day looks different than it did before Jeremy died. In a new house, driving a new car - they're not places that Jeremy touched or made a mark in so they don't have that affect on me. But when I go back to those places where I feel him most, something comes over me. 

I was thankful for the sweet man by my side who held my hand while I cried out and grieved the other man that I love. His tender heart held mine as he thanked me for sharing pieces of Jeremy with him, and understood that no matter how much I love him or am thankful for his presence in my life, sometimes.....this grief thing just really hurts.