It Is Well With My Soul

So I thought I was perhaps getting back on track a bit with posting... and then there was a little snag.

A large snag.

A very unexpected death of a good friend of my husband's type large snag. The morning after he spent much of the day out on a boat fishing with him... doing what they loved, laughing and talking life. And then... hours later... gone. But that isn't my story to tell. 

It was only my story to watch and walk beside.

I cried tears for my friend as she said goodbye to her dear husband and comforted her children. I cried tears for my husband as he processed spending his friends last day of life with him. I cried tears for my youngest middle teenager as he processed the memories of time spent with him as a wrestling coach and with him and his son on many trips to Iowa games and to Canada fishing. I watched the memorial video of photos of a life quite similar to my own - family photos at Disney and other outdoor destinations, photos of him in camo with deer and fish and other wildlife, in Dutch Costumes (well, actually the exact same Dutch Costume of my husband to be exact) ... anyway all of that isn't my story to tell.  But it was so very very close to having could have been... and that was so very hard to walk beside and hold hands with.

Not one but two songs that were part of Faith's funeral were sung at his funeral, over ten years later. As much as I wanted to boldly sing those words I could not get the words out.  Just tears... that was all that would come out. Just tears. They are also both already written in the little notebook of instructions for my own funeral (as they have been for the last ten years)...  (songs links posted below)

The moment before ... and the moment after.  Again. Another. Another place. Another phone call. 

This time there were so many more photos, and memories, and moments to recall. There was 48 years of life lived and loved before it abruptly ended. Unlike the zero days, zero memories, zero photos (minus a few ultrasounds printouts) from a stillborn child's life.

But it's not a comparison. It's not a game. Both a tragedy and both a goodbye far earlier than anyone hoped or expected. Both called to Heaven before anyone on earth was ready to give them up.

So... I have been living "there" in my head for the last while. And that's a bit of a hard and lonely place to be hanging out at again.  It's a place that others who have been "there" may somewhat know, but also may not really know. 

It's individual. It's personal. It's different for everyone. It's a void... that's sometimes really really loud and chaotic and intense and complicated and overwhelming. It's also a very very quiet place that keeps you awake all night long while you lay there listing to ... absolutely nothing.

And yes, as I've said before, all of this current loss isn't directly mine, it isn't my story to tell... and yet, those little tendrils of others loss and trauma still seem to find their way in and touch pieces and parts of my own story, my own loss and traumas.  So, while I've tried to stay quiet and not share or make this anything about me, because none of this is about me... and yet... in it's own unique ways, loss apparently does still manage to briefly and unknowingly latch on to tiny bits of our own stories and quietly come inside and stay for a while.  And for each of us the visit and length of stay I am sure is different.  The interaction is different.  We can try ignore it. We can try invite it in and try sit down for coffee and just work through it.

And you know me and my love of coffee and conversations. So yes, that is where I am. I am camped out with some of my grief and trauma and getting through a few sleepless nights and slowly working through a few hard things (not all of my current "hard" is related to this specific grief and trauma, but it has it's big 'ol octopus tentacles pretty wrapped around everything, which I say with a smile and chuckle... It is well, with my soul...)

Also, it's eleven years ago that my Journey to Faith actually started.  Thanksgiving. Eleven years ago. I was sick. So so so very sick. I was pregnant, but didn't know it, and wouldn't find out until February. But the body remembers. We were also dealing with a rotten pumpkin that seeped through the carpet into the subfloor and had our entire living room and dining room tore apart and had to deal with a DHS call (long story short we were fully investigated and nothing was found wrong or filed against us, but never a worst time to need to have your home and life inspected by DHS).

I am going to post a link to both of the songs played at Faith's funeral that I cried through at our friends funeral below - if you would like to take a few minutes to listen and watch.  Maybe even turn up the volume and close your eyes.  It's ok to cry. It's ok to lift up your arms. (It's also ok to skip clicking the links all together, honestly, it's ok).

It Is Well - Bethel Music

Come As You Are - Crowder

Speaking of Thanksgiving I think I will end this with a promise that my next post will be a recap of Thanksgiving 2024 - one year ago - spoiler alert - grand baby #2 was announced (yes yes I know grand baby #1 announcement has not been blogged about yet... perhaps that will be the next post)

Previous Blog Post {  The Silent Question  }

The Silent Question In My Mind

 

This week as I was scrolling I stopped and went back and clicked on a post.  The photo was of a little girl, smiling, happy... but the words weren't as happy.  They told of returned cancer, of possible options, of probable timelines...

And I thought of the losses of children - losses that happened beyond birth. The parents that have buried their children after having them in their arms and in their homes and lives for a period of time.  Perhaps months, or years.  Perhaps to toddlerhood, perhaps to teenager, perhaps even longer.

And I heard the silent question in my mind ask for the millionth time... wouldn't it be worse to lose them AFTER you have them for a while?  Surely that has to be worse than having them born sleeping... worse than never having them at all.

And I don't know the answer of this.  And I'm sure every person, every family, every story is different.  But I'm sure that it will forever be a silent question I will carry with me for the rest of my days.

Over the past ten years I have seen parents, families, caring for a child with a disability.  The wheelchairs, the tubes, the determined exhaustion.  I can't help but wonder if having them live, but need so much forever care, would that bring more joy, or more burden to my life... if we're to be totally honest with ourselves.  Because my honest self is the one asking myself these questions.

And I completely admit, this is something I currently do not know the reality of firsthand, and it's also something that I realize is not probably even supposed to be talked about, admitted to... and yet... here I am.

Now, I am the parent of a child with high needs due to factors known and unknown, from things like trauma and brain damage, from a spectrum of neurodivergence.  The high need things that are less outwardly visible at a glance, less understood, less tolerated.  It's drowning in a sea of "societal normalcy" bc so much of it all is so against the normal, against the tide of what the world expects and demands.  School, rules, standardized "anything" ~ it's all supposed to fit into such a tight tidy little box, but that just isn't the reality, isn't a possibility.

But alas, that is a bit of a different subject than that which I originally started this post about.  And one I am well aware of that someday, I do need to circle back to and begin sharing more openly about.  But not today.  Not yet.  I'm still floundering too far down to begin to try go there.  And, I guess I'm still battling the whole "not probably even supposed to be talked about" thing on that subject yet.

We lost faith before she was born.  She did not breath, she did not cry.  She was born sleeping and immediately was welcomed through Heaven's gates rather than into our arms.  And we knew this was going to be her reality from almost the day we found out about her little existence.  Trisomy 18.  No life expectancy outside the womb.  We knew.  We were prepared.

Well no one is ever "prepared" for death, what am I even saying.  But logically speaking it's the "right thing to say" in that kind of circumstance.

We grieved only what wasn't. We grieved only what wouldn't be.

We didn't have to grieve all that had been, and already was.  There was an ultrasound photo in a frame, but there was not scrapbooks full of the passing of time, the smiles, the milestones, the holidays, the normal every days.  There wasn't video clips or live photos on our phones. There wasn't Facebook memories to pop up.

And I know the loss of a child is the loss of a child, no matter how or no matter when, the how and why's do not matter, so I'm not even sure why this whisper in my mind whooshes through every now and again.  Surely I cannot be the only one that hears this inside their head...

When I hear of the tragic accident, when I read about the horrible diagnose, when I see the mom loving and caring for her child with special needs and extreme disabilities... when there is also the small answering whisper trying to answer that question - I think I'm glad we lost her before we actually had her, then losing her after having her alive and in our arms on this earth.  

We didn't have any clothes, or toys, or books.  She didn't have a room all decorated and ready to come home to.  Surely having to take care of all those details after the loss has to just be so much worse than not even needing to have any of it at all in the first place.

But I don't know the other reality, but oh the souls I see through the eyes of their mama's is just so raw and so overwhelming to me and I can't help but think surely their pain has to be worse than what my pain is / was.  

But it's not a comparison game.

None of us are looking to be awarded loss mom of the year awards. Not one single one of us asked for this, wished for this, hoped for this. No one. No matter how or when we got this cursed title of "loss mom" it's each and every one of our own worst of the worsts.

I am only carrying my story and my loss within me... but Lord I pray I am able to somehow walk well beside all the others who are also carrying their own stories of their own losses within themselves. I pray that somehow, some way, all our broken hearts can help hold each other together as we walk forward in our own journeys, filled with our own questions, and our own battles and sorrows.

Our stories and our losses are all our own yes, but may we also simply allow ourselves to be stronger together.

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