G
gods_kid
Guest
I spent Easter Sunday going over the details of the deaths of family members with my mom. Her memory is slipping and she gets the details confused and gets in moods where she wants to straighten them all out again in her head. And while I completely understand this, it's very hard on me. Because I find myself discussing deaths I've not dealt with yet. And I find myself discussing deaths I've not gotten over yet. When I have to remind her that her oldest son has passed away, I'm also reminding myself of that Friday night when I got that phone call from his wife. Of how I sat on the bed holding the phone, frozen, while she said words I could not comprehend. Of how when I finally did comprehend her words, I threw the phone across the room like it'd burnt my hand. I thought if I was no longer hearing the words, then she was no longer saying them. Of how the most primal scream came out of me as I heard the words "medical examiner" echoing in my head. Reminded of the midnight drive to my mother's house to wake her up, sit beside her, take her hand, and tell her her son had died. Reminded of the totally blank, uncomprehending look on her face.
When I talk with her about my sister's death, I'm reminding myself of the five a.m. call I got from her, my mom, telling me my sister / best friend / substitute mom / supporter / confidant / cheerleader had passed away. She'd been so very sick, she'd fought diabetes for over twenty years. She was tired. She'd called me one morning to tell me goodbye. I was at work. I took my phone, walked out of the office, and stood in the parking lot, bent double with pain, sobbing, begging her to hold on for just one more day. Just one more. She kept saying she couldn't, she was too tired. But I wasn't ready to tell her goodbye, so I kept begging her. She finally said ok, she'd hold on for one more day, just for me. She held on for exactly one month actually for me. She died on December 1, 2012. Every day I think of something I just have to tell her. Every day I think of calling her, crying on her shoulder about my current circumstances. Every day I think I at least have one person in this world who supports me and sees the best in me. And every day it's like being told all over again for the first time that she's gone.
When I talk with her about my dad's death, I'm reminded of his last three weeks. I never left the hospital. I had a husband and two young kids at home, but I couldn't make myself leave my dad's side. And when I think of that, I start remembering growing up...my dad was an alcoholic. We never had anything. Bills were always late or unpaid. At times, no groceries. We moved a lot. My dad would get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, and come home....about three weeks later. I grew up never being a child, I always, always felt I had to take care of my mother. Five years old and with just a glance at my mom's face, I'd know our world was going to come apart again. I'd put my toys away, and go sit next to her at the window, watching her face as she watched the street for my dad to pull up. I learned at a very, very young age to be vigilant - no, hypervigilant - to where just a small flicker of an eye would tell me all I needed to know. I'm reminded of the night my sister-in-law called me and told me my dad had died. Twenty minutes into his 72nd birthday, he had died. Half an hour after my husband had convinced me to finally leave the hospital and go home and rest.
When I talk to her about my brother-in-law's death, a little over a year after my sister had died, I'm reminded of this wonderful, loud, friendly, goofy man who had been not just my brother-in-law, but my brother, and my substitute dad. And an absolute angel to my sister. He never left her side. He never for one second left her side, as she was getting worse and worse, as money problems hit them time and time again, as their son broke both of their hearts, as her physical appearance changed due to the illness, and as she lay in a hospital bed for four months, dying. He never left her side. He came into my life when I was seven years old. It was my daughter who called and told me he'd died. I thought I was ready for it, he'd been so sick with cancer, but you're never really ready for it. I held the phone and gasped, and cried, and tried to get myself together because I had to walk out of the bedroom into the kitchen and tell my mom that the man she loved as her son had died.
But, also, I'm reminded of love. Love between sisters. Love between a brother and sister. Love between a father and daughter. Love between myself and my dear brother-in-law. The love that helped me make that midnight drive to my mom's house, to sit beside her and hold her hand as I said the words I never thought I'd say. The love that helped her to call me and with just a few words change my life forever, thrust me into a life without my sister. The love that held me in my dad's hospital room by his bed, making my peace with him so that when he did pass on there was no anger or guilt in my heart to battle with. The love in his voice as he said the last coherent words he'd ever say again to me: "tell her I love her", talking about my beautiful little girl who worshiped her PaPa. I think of the love I grew up seeing between my much older sister and her husband. To this day, they are the ONLY proof I have that true love actually does exist between a man and a woman. Everything I know of love personally is painful. To me, love equals abandonment, betrayal, faithlessness, cowardice. To me, based on my own experiences, love has no truth in it. But when I think of my sister and the man she loved so much, who loved her back so much, how strong they remained through all the horrific storms life threw them into, I know there was at least one time that true love existed.
Easter Sunday was difficult for me. I wanted it to stay about life, hope, resurrection, but it was instead focused on death and loss and pain. I find myself seeking out anything that even hints at life, at hope, right down to the movies I watch. Because I need it so badly. I've been so surrounded by brokenness, loss, grief, pain, struggle, and so many times I've cried out to God to just send even the smallest hint of hope to me, only to get up to have another storm hit.
I need to see life. I need to be reminded that a seed cannot become anything truly alive until it dies. Until it's buried deep down in total darkness, until forces both outside of it and inside of it split it open, until it fights its way up to the surface and to the light, until these things happen, it remains just a seed. And if it's not buried and split and made to find its way to the light, then it remains a seed. Closed up. Wasted. Useless.
Just as Jesus cried out "It is finished" on the cross, I need to hear Him whisper those same words to me about my own battle. I can't wait to see the light again.
When I talk with her about my sister's death, I'm reminding myself of the five a.m. call I got from her, my mom, telling me my sister / best friend / substitute mom / supporter / confidant / cheerleader had passed away. She'd been so very sick, she'd fought diabetes for over twenty years. She was tired. She'd called me one morning to tell me goodbye. I was at work. I took my phone, walked out of the office, and stood in the parking lot, bent double with pain, sobbing, begging her to hold on for just one more day. Just one more. She kept saying she couldn't, she was too tired. But I wasn't ready to tell her goodbye, so I kept begging her. She finally said ok, she'd hold on for one more day, just for me. She held on for exactly one month actually for me. She died on December 1, 2012. Every day I think of something I just have to tell her. Every day I think of calling her, crying on her shoulder about my current circumstances. Every day I think I at least have one person in this world who supports me and sees the best in me. And every day it's like being told all over again for the first time that she's gone.
When I talk with her about my dad's death, I'm reminded of his last three weeks. I never left the hospital. I had a husband and two young kids at home, but I couldn't make myself leave my dad's side. And when I think of that, I start remembering growing up...my dad was an alcoholic. We never had anything. Bills were always late or unpaid. At times, no groceries. We moved a lot. My dad would get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, and come home....about three weeks later. I grew up never being a child, I always, always felt I had to take care of my mother. Five years old and with just a glance at my mom's face, I'd know our world was going to come apart again. I'd put my toys away, and go sit next to her at the window, watching her face as she watched the street for my dad to pull up. I learned at a very, very young age to be vigilant - no, hypervigilant - to where just a small flicker of an eye would tell me all I needed to know. I'm reminded of the night my sister-in-law called me and told me my dad had died. Twenty minutes into his 72nd birthday, he had died. Half an hour after my husband had convinced me to finally leave the hospital and go home and rest.
When I talk to her about my brother-in-law's death, a little over a year after my sister had died, I'm reminded of this wonderful, loud, friendly, goofy man who had been not just my brother-in-law, but my brother, and my substitute dad. And an absolute angel to my sister. He never left her side. He never for one second left her side, as she was getting worse and worse, as money problems hit them time and time again, as their son broke both of their hearts, as her physical appearance changed due to the illness, and as she lay in a hospital bed for four months, dying. He never left her side. He came into my life when I was seven years old. It was my daughter who called and told me he'd died. I thought I was ready for it, he'd been so sick with cancer, but you're never really ready for it. I held the phone and gasped, and cried, and tried to get myself together because I had to walk out of the bedroom into the kitchen and tell my mom that the man she loved as her son had died.
But, also, I'm reminded of love. Love between sisters. Love between a brother and sister. Love between a father and daughter. Love between myself and my dear brother-in-law. The love that helped me make that midnight drive to my mom's house, to sit beside her and hold her hand as I said the words I never thought I'd say. The love that helped her to call me and with just a few words change my life forever, thrust me into a life without my sister. The love that held me in my dad's hospital room by his bed, making my peace with him so that when he did pass on there was no anger or guilt in my heart to battle with. The love in his voice as he said the last coherent words he'd ever say again to me: "tell her I love her", talking about my beautiful little girl who worshiped her PaPa. I think of the love I grew up seeing between my much older sister and her husband. To this day, they are the ONLY proof I have that true love actually does exist between a man and a woman. Everything I know of love personally is painful. To me, love equals abandonment, betrayal, faithlessness, cowardice. To me, based on my own experiences, love has no truth in it. But when I think of my sister and the man she loved so much, who loved her back so much, how strong they remained through all the horrific storms life threw them into, I know there was at least one time that true love existed.
Easter Sunday was difficult for me. I wanted it to stay about life, hope, resurrection, but it was instead focused on death and loss and pain. I find myself seeking out anything that even hints at life, at hope, right down to the movies I watch. Because I need it so badly. I've been so surrounded by brokenness, loss, grief, pain, struggle, and so many times I've cried out to God to just send even the smallest hint of hope to me, only to get up to have another storm hit.
I need to see life. I need to be reminded that a seed cannot become anything truly alive until it dies. Until it's buried deep down in total darkness, until forces both outside of it and inside of it split it open, until it fights its way up to the surface and to the light, until these things happen, it remains just a seed. And if it's not buried and split and made to find its way to the light, then it remains a seed. Closed up. Wasted. Useless.
Just as Jesus cried out "It is finished" on the cross, I need to hear Him whisper those same words to me about my own battle. I can't wait to see the light again.