The Harrowed Heart

Tag: grief

  • The light died

    I saw you today; actually, I’ve seen you a few times in the last few weeks, but today, there was an actual conversation. 

    I did what I do; asked how I could help; directed you as needed, and tried a hold a very ‘normal’ conversation with you.

    I didn’t want to bring up painful memories from that day that changed your world. Not even to ask how you were doing; I didn’t even want to imply that I was asking about that day.

    I know how tedious and exhausting it can be to have every conversation be about that.

    I didn’t want details, I didn’t need them; too many live in my head as it is.

    What I wanted was to provide a space where you weren’t defined, reminded, or reduced to the worst moments of your life. I can’t even say they were your worst, not knowing what you’ve lived through outside of that day. So, maybe… not defined, reminded, or reduced to one of the worse moments of your life. 

    And it was harder than I thought it would be… the careful phrasing of ‘how are things’; the avoidance of asking after one child for fear of bringing up the one who is gone, unable to recall either of their names-or wondering how the third child I do remember is, not knowing if you’re still in touch with him; and the words you chose with care as well; to not define or reduce yourself to those moments. And it felt awkward, so, very awkward. But I hope you understood it came from a place of compassion and empathy…we’re kindred, in a way. Marked by things that destroyed us, before we could find or try to rebuild who we are. 

    And I saw it. The light you carry is different, almost like it’s died, almost like it died with him. Something substantial changed for you that few, even me, could understand. We’re never the same again once something so soul shattering changes the core of who you are, or were, or worked to become. You can’t go back, you can’t undo, you can’t un-feel, or unknow that kind of presence on your soul. 

    But slowly, you begin to bring pieces back together, stitching them together with grit and grace, with the tears that no one saw and the screams that no one heard. You move forward past one day, a week, a month, a moment. You survive the first anniversary’s, the first birthday’s, and the first moments where life went from before this happened to after this happened. It’s all split in two some days.

    On my youngests’ graduation day, I cried for the woman who thought her husband wouldn’t see any of their children graduate and wept for the one who stood beside him and watched him see them all.  It’s a jest, that grief can and will pull you in two directions even when all you want is to feel the joy. 

    But I know what its like for the light to dim. And I know what it takes to find it again. 

    And I hope one day, you will.

    For now, feel what you feel over the next few months; I know in 6 months, you’ll feel the pain of that day again, you’ll feel the pain of having one year without him. You’ll try to hold onto the lighter moments, to only feel them with happiness instead of the grief that hit you in them; and you’ll stumble, and you’ll pick yourself up again, because that is who you are. You try to light up for the joys that are left in your life even as you fight the grief and bury the scars you carry. 

    And know that it’s ok if the light goes out, even if it’s just temporary. Someday, you will light up again.

    The light always finds it’s way.

  • I just miss her

    It’s my grandma’s birthday today; she would have been 89.
    This is the first birthday without her, and it sucks.

    I always hate these types of first; they’re always the hardest. The first birthday without being able to call her-it reminded me of the last birthday I got to spend with her. The first and last time we went to a baseball game together. The last call we had where she asked when I’d be back to take her to another one.

    I’ve been thinking about her all day and I struggled to keep it together at work. I made it to mid-morning before I started crying. That’s me. I’m the cry-er in my family. Always have been. Always will be.

    I used to hate that I was always so emotional. It seemed like a burden that my anger or my sadness would always result in tears, and I couldn’t help it. But now I see it as a strength…my compassion lets me do my job and do it well.

    Kevin said he could feel my heart breaking as I cried over the enchilada’s he made for me tonight; they were grandma’s enchiladas. I remember the first time I ate them after she was gone… I was crying in the grocery store, in front of the Mexican food section, asking my Kevin if he would make them for me. I sobbed through every bite; he said it’s because I love so deeply. And it was the same tonight, but I couldn’t let her birthday pass without her enchiladas.

    I knew today was going to be hard but what I didn’t expect is that it would feel as if no time had passed since I got the news that she was gone… it hurts every bit as much as it did then. Maybe a bit worse since it’s been almost a year since I last spoke to her. I can still her soft voice calling me “mija” and telling me I eat like a bird.

    But I also remember the last trip to California before her death; we took a day trip to Yosemite. Grandma told me about the trips she and grandpa used to take my mama and my uncles on when they were younger; how they would leave early and make camp by the river and cook up breakfast. She must of told me that story about 9 times on the way to and from Yosemite. I remember not minding…knowing I wouldn’t have many more opportunities to hear them. Knowing that she just wanted to talk with me. Know that we loved each other so much. Not knowing that would be the last time I heard that story. I didn’t mind.

    Man do I miss her.

  • That’s Pretty Good

    I just read something that essentially said, with all the therapy I’ve been getting, I’m not learning how to handle the trauma, pain, anxiety, or depression I’ve been through, rather, I’m healing to enjoy and love all the good things that come my way, to allow happiness to resonate in my soul again. I felt that.

    On the one hand, there is no way the experience of Kevin’s accident is ever going to fully fade into memory; there will always be a trigger I don’t anticipate. Or a memory. A sound. A feeling. Tonight for instance, I watched a movie in which a husband lost his wife: the scene showed the husband crying and trying to curl into the wall of the hospital where he was waiting with family and I was transported to November 19, 2022, when I tried to curl into the hospital walls myself…when I was so scared and so overwhelmed that curling into anything else for comfort was all I could think to do at the time. Just to stop thinking, to stop feeling. I’ll never forget that moment, the one where my comfort was fighting for his life and I had no one else to tell me it was going to be alright, to offer that comfort, and tell me it was going to be ok.

    That comfort did come, eventually, in a coworker I was familiar with but didn’t know well. As soon as she opened her arms to hug me, I fell apart and allowed the grief to take me, knowing someone was there to help piece me back together, to help me navigate this terrifying situation, and to tell me it would be ok, even when we weren’t sure it would be.

    But I digress. The last few years of therapy have been exceptionally helpful in helping me manage those triggers and emotions, so while watching that scene did bring up extreme emotions and memory for me, I was also able to let slip the tears that managed to break through, remind myself that what occurred in the scene was not the outcome we had, and that Kevin was fine. We are fine.

    But then I think about the second part of what I had read…that I’m healing to accept happiness in again and that made so much sense. You see, when Kevin had his accident, and even though he’s fine now and I did not lose the love of my life, there was a period of time that I grieved his absence, and our future, not knowing then what would happen or that he would survive. Honestly, the trauma to his heart…I didn’t know if he’d make it; I’d been told to bring the kids, to prepare for the worst, to call our family. So yeah, I grieved a future we had planned, even if only for a few hours: trips we wanted to take, golf excursions, Florida for a wedding, our children’s graduations-our eldest child graduated from high school 7 months after Kevin’s accident-and so many other plans. I felt like I lost it all, all our future memories, even if they hadn’t happened yet…gone.

    The first year following the accident was exceptionally difficult: the wedding anniversary I thought I’d face alone, Father’s Day, my birthday, graduation, a wedding, a visit to my grandmother. I honestly thought it was all lost to me and so reaching each of those milestones, while amazing in their own rights, were bittersweet to me. They were tinged with memories of what we almost lost and a sense of relief that Kevin and made it this far. The first anniversary of Keivn’s accident brought on its own set of anxiety inducing memories and emotions for me. But we made it.

    And with therapy, I was able to face that I was afraid to fully embrace those times because they were almost stolen from me once. I was afraid of facing that I had almost lost them; afraid to believe that they did happen, that Kevin was here and celebrating with me. It took some time, but I’ve gotten better at being present in those moments now, in letting myself feel the joy and happiness that radiates in them.

    We just dropped our son off at college a few weeks ago and it was bittersweet for all the right reasons. Kevin and I, we only ever wanted to give our kids every opportunity we could, to allow them to be children for as long as they could, knowing what it was like to have to grow up early, and not wanting that for them. We wanted to keep them free from the burden of being an adult before their time.

    So dropping off our son at school, leaving our baby behind, in a place he worked so hard to get to, knowing that we had given him every tool we could to help him be successful; knowing that he had reached the first step of his dream, and knowing that Kevin and I could do that for him, that was pretty amazing. So, while I was crying for a whole different reason, I was also so incredibly happy, and that is pretty good.