If we discovered that we had only five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to stammer that they loved them. - Christopher Morley
Oh how true I find this quote. There are many kinds of love: God's love, love of friends, love between parent and child, romantic love, love of the beach. I've thought about love a lot lately.
I've thought about how so many times, I have failed to be grateful for the blessings in my life.
I've thought about how I have judged others too quickly.
I've thought about how consumed I have become before about stupid, petty, superficial things.
And how none of that seemed to matter the afternoon of January 28th.
I've thought recently about how fragile life is. How anyone's next moment could be their last. But we often just don't think about the fact that none of us are promised tomorrow.
Of course, I am only human. I wish I could say I had stopped all these negative behaviors since then. It certainly brings things back into perspective though, and makes me determined to work on them as best I can.
One of my friends told me a story about a friend of hers that lost one of her best friends in college I believe, in a car accident. Ever since then, she tells everyone on the phone before she hangs up that she loves them. This has become quite complicated with her dating relationships! But losing someone you love does make you realize what's important and what's not, and how important it is to love.
I think it's a category many of us have fallen into. You get comfortable. Of course you hear of horrible tragedies, and your heart breaks.
But it's not something that will happen to MY family or MY friends. Even with Evan being in a war zone, even with my constant worry and fear, I am still in total and utter shock that it happened. Not to my family.
I am also somewhat of a stranger to the idea of being "positive". Of course, I think we would all say we would LIKE to be positive, in theory. But sometimes it's not that easy, especially when it's become a habit. I have a horrible habit of always fearing and thinking the worst. They say most of the things that we worry about never happen. I can't remember the exact percentage.
But I can't continue to live my life in fear.
I believe that by worrying, I do not gain a single benefit, and it does me no good. It actually is harmful to my mental and emotional well-being. Worry gets me absolutely nowhere. Do I want to look back on my life in 10, 20, 30 years and realize that I spent the majority of it worrying about things that didn't happen? This is something I am determined to work on.
There are many things that hold us back. Fear of failure, fear of rejection. Focusing so much on the past, past relationships, failures, mistakes-and not on the present and moving into the future. I think all of us have been guilty of this at one point or another. There's a saying called "Be Present". It's pretty self-explanatory what that means. If we continually focus on the past, and what we don't have...then we are going to miss out on what we do have.
I will close with a Rob Bell quote, one of my favorites, from the Nooma series, "Matthew". It's on you tube, if anyone is interested in looking it up.
"I do know that you and I have choices about the kinds of people we are and the kind of people we're becoming. We have a choice whether or not we're going to become bitter. A man named Job in the scriptures loses everything, children, houses, possessions, and his wife says, 'Are you still holding onto your integrity? Curse God and die.' She becomes consumed with her bitterness. If we don't acknowledge this choice, if we let a little bitterness in, it will take over. It seeps in and becomes part of us, and we're not even aware of it. Don't let it happen. There's this ancient psalm where the writer says to God, 'You've made me see troubles, many and bitter, but you will restore me again.'
It's easy when we suffer loss for whatever it is we lost to become the center of our life. We had them and now they're gone, and so there's this giant hole where they once were and it becomes all we can think about. And what happens in the process is our whole life becomes what we don't have and we miss out on what we do have. Your heart-my heart-it will recover. It will never be the same again, but we will recover. The first Christians spoke about a day in the future when God would restore everything-you, me, everything in heaven and on Earth. I find great hope in that.
So may you make the choice not to become bitter and closed, but open. And may you realize that God is sitting with you, fully present, grieving your loss, but also restoring. And in that, may we find HOPE."
Friday, May 30, 2008
I got an email in the middle of the night last night, around 1 AM. Last night was one of those nights that my body was so exhausted, but as is the case many nights, I couldn't turn my mind off. I get my emails on my phone, so I looked at it. It was one of these random prayer chains that I really don't know anyone that is a member.
Nevertheless, I typically read them and pray for whoever is asking for prayer. This was for a girl that had bacterial meningitis and had passed out, unresponsive. They said there would be a 5% chance of death under the circumstances and a 95% chance that she would have permanent damage. He had sent a prior email with details of the initial problem, and asked for prayer. The doctors were amazed and calling it a miracle. Thankfully, preliminary tests showed that no indication that any permanent damage was done. He thanked us profusely for the prayers.
This got me thinking again about prayer. Of course, this is not the first time since Evan's death that I have thought about prayer. It's a big question I have, and one that Dad has grappled with too. I remember picking up a book downstairs one day, maybe one Dad has bought recently, by Phillip Yancey, called "Prayer: Does it make any difference?" I was having a bad day, and when I read the title, I snapped back, "Well obviously not or Evan would still be here" as I walked out the front door.
This is hard for me. My family, along with countless others, prayed for Evan's safety daily. I remember Dad telling me about someone at church that had told him she prayed for Evan every day, and that she wasn't just one of those people that said it-he absolutely believed that she really did. I still have written on my dry erase board in my room at my house, where I wrote my prayers down, "Evan-safety". I prayed often, not only for his physical safety, but his mental health as well. I always worried about what he was seeing over there, especially when they lost two soldiers from his company on his first deployment. The bradley right behind him, about 500 ft away. Evan was one of the first on the scene, and it had a profound effect on him, as it would on any of us. He always visited Flint's grave when he was home on leave. I'm getting sidetracked..
Back to prayer. Some of the questions the book addresses are, "Is God listening? Why do so many prayers go unanswered? Why does God let the world go on as it does and not intervene?"Some difficult questions. One of our friends, in an email to my Dad, wrote this:"I, like so many others, prayed for Evan constantly as he served as a soldier. I could never comprehend the anxiety you must have dealt with on a daily basis, being the parent of someone who is constantly in harm's way, hoping for the best and fearing the worst. God did something extraordinary for these past couple of years by keeping him safe and strong each day, answering our prayers and granting him safe returns on each of his visits home.
It's so hard to understand why God granted our prayers for his safety all these months, then changed it all. For some reason it became God's will for Evan to give more than just his time and strength. He gave everything he possibly could, and though it hurts us all here, I know that he gave it proudly and willingly. God has a purpose for everyone in the world and Evan has fulfilled his.I wish for your sake God could have let me make this sacrifice instead of Evan. God has a reason for each day he grants us. Let us all honor him by making each day we live a gift to God and to each other."
It is SO hard to understand why some people have prayers answered, and ours became unanswered. I have never prayed so much in my life as when Evan was deployed, because that's all I could do. I hated that out of control feeling of being over here, while he was over there in harm's way. Another one of dad's friends wrote that he had gone to war, and also had a son that went to Iraq. That Dad was living his worst nightmare, and that it was so much easier for him to go away to war than to have a son over there that he worried about all the time. It's a helpless feeling.
I don't understand why God granted Evan safety on his first deployment, answering our prayers, then changed it all in a second. One moment in time.
I don't know if I ever will.
However, I do believe that when we pray, God hears us. And I believe that there is no possible way I could have made it this far in my new "normal" had God not been carrying me every step of the way.
Nevertheless, I typically read them and pray for whoever is asking for prayer. This was for a girl that had bacterial meningitis and had passed out, unresponsive. They said there would be a 5% chance of death under the circumstances and a 95% chance that she would have permanent damage. He had sent a prior email with details of the initial problem, and asked for prayer. The doctors were amazed and calling it a miracle. Thankfully, preliminary tests showed that no indication that any permanent damage was done. He thanked us profusely for the prayers.
This got me thinking again about prayer. Of course, this is not the first time since Evan's death that I have thought about prayer. It's a big question I have, and one that Dad has grappled with too. I remember picking up a book downstairs one day, maybe one Dad has bought recently, by Phillip Yancey, called "Prayer: Does it make any difference?" I was having a bad day, and when I read the title, I snapped back, "Well obviously not or Evan would still be here" as I walked out the front door.
This is hard for me. My family, along with countless others, prayed for Evan's safety daily. I remember Dad telling me about someone at church that had told him she prayed for Evan every day, and that she wasn't just one of those people that said it-he absolutely believed that she really did. I still have written on my dry erase board in my room at my house, where I wrote my prayers down, "Evan-safety". I prayed often, not only for his physical safety, but his mental health as well. I always worried about what he was seeing over there, especially when they lost two soldiers from his company on his first deployment. The bradley right behind him, about 500 ft away. Evan was one of the first on the scene, and it had a profound effect on him, as it would on any of us. He always visited Flint's grave when he was home on leave. I'm getting sidetracked..
Back to prayer. Some of the questions the book addresses are, "Is God listening? Why do so many prayers go unanswered? Why does God let the world go on as it does and not intervene?"Some difficult questions. One of our friends, in an email to my Dad, wrote this:"I, like so many others, prayed for Evan constantly as he served as a soldier. I could never comprehend the anxiety you must have dealt with on a daily basis, being the parent of someone who is constantly in harm's way, hoping for the best and fearing the worst. God did something extraordinary for these past couple of years by keeping him safe and strong each day, answering our prayers and granting him safe returns on each of his visits home.
It's so hard to understand why God granted our prayers for his safety all these months, then changed it all. For some reason it became God's will for Evan to give more than just his time and strength. He gave everything he possibly could, and though it hurts us all here, I know that he gave it proudly and willingly. God has a purpose for everyone in the world and Evan has fulfilled his.I wish for your sake God could have let me make this sacrifice instead of Evan. God has a reason for each day he grants us. Let us all honor him by making each day we live a gift to God and to each other."
It is SO hard to understand why some people have prayers answered, and ours became unanswered. I have never prayed so much in my life as when Evan was deployed, because that's all I could do. I hated that out of control feeling of being over here, while he was over there in harm's way. Another one of dad's friends wrote that he had gone to war, and also had a son that went to Iraq. That Dad was living his worst nightmare, and that it was so much easier for him to go away to war than to have a son over there that he worried about all the time. It's a helpless feeling.
I don't understand why God granted Evan safety on his first deployment, answering our prayers, then changed it all in a second. One moment in time.
I don't know if I ever will.
However, I do believe that when we pray, God hears us. And I believe that there is no possible way I could have made it this far in my new "normal" had God not been carrying me every step of the way.
I couldn't sleep last night, and picked up one of the many books now in our "grief library". We've had countless people give us books on grief, and some we have bought on our own. This is the first in a series sent to me by my church. I happened to turn to a chapter that talks about shock, and how this is why some people seem so calm and composed at funerals. That the shock serves as an emotional anesthetic during a time of unimaginable pain. One mother in the book describes that she found herself comforting other people at her son's funeral. She explains, "It was almost as if the funeral was for someone else's son, not my own."
This is such an interesting concept to me, I guess because I didn't know much about the whole grief process before. It's like our bodies kick into survival mode. We are in shock, so we detach ourselves.
My parents and I were a thousand miles away at the funeral. We stood downstairs in the fellowship hall and greeted more than 800 people that came to the funeral (According to the paper). Ask me if I remember a single one of them.
I don't remember crying much at the service. I think I shed most of my tears that day trying to somehow drag myself out of the house to go. Mom and Dad seemed relatively calm too.
Again, I asked my Aunt Claire if this was "normal", because it didn't feel normal. We couldn't be any more devasted over Evan's death. But she said when Bob died, she had many days like that. You just cry until you can't cry anymore. It's impossible to feel all the pain at once, so you feel it in waves. It's a process. She said she was thankful for the days she could be numb.
Those first few weeks, it was like an out of body experience. It's like everything is moving, yet perfectly still. Everything is a blur. It is the most unnatural thing I have ever experienced.
This is such an interesting concept to me, I guess because I didn't know much about the whole grief process before. It's like our bodies kick into survival mode. We are in shock, so we detach ourselves.
My parents and I were a thousand miles away at the funeral. We stood downstairs in the fellowship hall and greeted more than 800 people that came to the funeral (According to the paper). Ask me if I remember a single one of them.
I don't remember crying much at the service. I think I shed most of my tears that day trying to somehow drag myself out of the house to go. Mom and Dad seemed relatively calm too.
Again, I asked my Aunt Claire if this was "normal", because it didn't feel normal. We couldn't be any more devasted over Evan's death. But she said when Bob died, she had many days like that. You just cry until you can't cry anymore. It's impossible to feel all the pain at once, so you feel it in waves. It's a process. She said she was thankful for the days she could be numb.
Those first few weeks, it was like an out of body experience. It's like everything is moving, yet perfectly still. Everything is a blur. It is the most unnatural thing I have ever experienced.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
I feel the need to explain something with a little more clarity, so let me give it my best shot.
As I said before, grief is an up and down thing. It comes and it goes.
Without a doubt, there are days that drag on, that seem impossible to get through.
That I miss my brother desperately, so much that it physically hurts.
But I do have hope.
I have hope that I will choose not to be a bitter and sad person because of this, when the smoke clears, but to be an open, loving, more compassionate person.
That I will be restored.
I believe that I will make the right choice.
That I will choose not to let this destroy my life, but to live my life in honor of my brother.
I have hope that I will also choose to be thankful for the blessings I do still have in my life.
And I believe that I will emerge a stronger person with a deeper faith.
I also trust that on those bad days, which I will inevitably have, I can rely on God to give me strength, and the huge network of support that I have from my amazing family and friends.
Signing off for the last time today.
As I said before, grief is an up and down thing. It comes and it goes.
Without a doubt, there are days that drag on, that seem impossible to get through.
That I miss my brother desperately, so much that it physically hurts.
But I do have hope.
I have hope that I will choose not to be a bitter and sad person because of this, when the smoke clears, but to be an open, loving, more compassionate person.
That I will be restored.
I believe that I will make the right choice.
That I will choose not to let this destroy my life, but to live my life in honor of my brother.
I have hope that I will also choose to be thankful for the blessings I do still have in my life.
And I believe that I will emerge a stronger person with a deeper faith.
I also trust that on those bad days, which I will inevitably have, I can rely on God to give me strength, and the huge network of support that I have from my amazing family and friends.
Signing off for the last time today.
I guess I've had a lot to "vent" about today. Maybe it's just that I had the day off, which has granted me more time to think than usual.
One sentiment that I've noticed, and others who have been through sudden loss have confirmed, is that people don't want you to grieve. They don't understand. They think there is a certain timetable that you are allowed to grieve, and then it should be "over". It makes them uncomfortable. I can't tell you how many times I have brought Evan up in conversation, just because something reminded me of him, or it related to whatever was being talked about, only to have people change the subject as quickly as possible.
This is frustrating. Evan is a part of me, of who I am. I need to talk about it. This is one reason I have created this blog, at the urging of some of my friends, because I NEED to talk about it, and because I want to try to help people understand to the extent they can, without going through it.
As I look back, I see how the Lord placed people that I would need in my life at just the right time. Last year, I just happened to be working with TWO women who had both lost brothers, and both of which were their only siblings. I don't think that's any coincidence. When I went back to work, they were my biggest source of support. Because unlike those fortunate enough to have never been through this type of thing, they DO know. They do understand. One of them told me that it has been 15 years since she lost her brother, and she still cries sometimes. It's not something that's going away. I will most definitely miss Evan until the day that I die. I do continually remind myself that this is temporary, and I believe with all my heart that he is the first one that I will see when my last day here on Earth is complete.
And I think of what Evan would want for me a lot too. I know without a shadow of a doubt that he would not want this to destroy me or my life. He would want me to pick myself up on those days that I can't seem to go on, and live my life in honor of him. And that's what keeps me going on days that seem hopeless.
One sentiment that I've noticed, and others who have been through sudden loss have confirmed, is that people don't want you to grieve. They don't understand. They think there is a certain timetable that you are allowed to grieve, and then it should be "over". It makes them uncomfortable. I can't tell you how many times I have brought Evan up in conversation, just because something reminded me of him, or it related to whatever was being talked about, only to have people change the subject as quickly as possible.
This is frustrating. Evan is a part of me, of who I am. I need to talk about it. This is one reason I have created this blog, at the urging of some of my friends, because I NEED to talk about it, and because I want to try to help people understand to the extent they can, without going through it.
As I look back, I see how the Lord placed people that I would need in my life at just the right time. Last year, I just happened to be working with TWO women who had both lost brothers, and both of which were their only siblings. I don't think that's any coincidence. When I went back to work, they were my biggest source of support. Because unlike those fortunate enough to have never been through this type of thing, they DO know. They do understand. One of them told me that it has been 15 years since she lost her brother, and she still cries sometimes. It's not something that's going away. I will most definitely miss Evan until the day that I die. I do continually remind myself that this is temporary, and I believe with all my heart that he is the first one that I will see when my last day here on Earth is complete.
And I think of what Evan would want for me a lot too. I know without a shadow of a doubt that he would not want this to destroy me or my life. He would want me to pick myself up on those days that I can't seem to go on, and live my life in honor of him. And that's what keeps me going on days that seem hopeless.
I think often of whether I will go out to Colorado Springs when Evan's unit redeploys back to the United States. I always said that I would go-and there may be no way out of it, as I have already told several soldiers from his unit that I would be there. But I wonder how I will bear that day. I lose it completely when I see pictures of homecomings on the internet or facebook-happy pictures of fiancees, husbands, sons, brothers, finally reunited with their loved ones. That day I dreamed about on his first deployment, and his second. I feel physically ill when I see these pictures, because that moment will never come for me or my parents.
I wonder how I will be able to sit there, alone, and watch those reunions. I fantasize that Evan will be there all the time, at that homecoming. I still think sometimes, in my totally nutty moments, that I will go out to Colorado Springs, thinking he won't be there, and he will get off that plane. Mom and I kept asking the two officers at our house, are you sure there's no mistake? Are you sure it's Evan? It has to be a mistake...
I told my Aunt this one day, when I was feeling crazy, because I wasn't used to this grief stuff. She knows all about grief-she lost her husband suddenly, in a car accident. I told her that it was weird, because we were used to Evan not being here for the last 4 years he was in the military. He wasn't supposed to be here, which made it that much harder to accept. I wonder if I go out there, and he's not there, and he doesn't come home-if that's when it will finally hit me with full force. Aunt Claire told me that I was far from crazy. She expected Bob, her husband, to walk in the door every day for years. And he never did.
Evan was coming back to go to college. They said in his memorial service in Colorado Springs that he talked all the time about how he was ready to be done with the Army, and go to college, but he was fulfilling what he committed to do. This makes me crazy too, especially when I think about the people that go AWOL. That don't complete their commitment. Evan was ready to do something else, but he was determined to complete what he had signed up to do. This says volumes about his character. But he sure had a whole lot of living left to do.
I still have plenty of time to decide, as Evan's unit isn't scheduled to redeploy until December. Of course everything in the Army is subject to change, which we realized when he joined. Maybe by then I will just know whether it's good for me or not. Sometimes I think it would help, to be with people that were with him, to talk to them, to answer questions that I need for closure. But as I said before, the thought of watching others reunite happily with their loved ones is sometimes more than I can bear to even think about.
I wonder how I will be able to sit there, alone, and watch those reunions. I fantasize that Evan will be there all the time, at that homecoming. I still think sometimes, in my totally nutty moments, that I will go out to Colorado Springs, thinking he won't be there, and he will get off that plane. Mom and I kept asking the two officers at our house, are you sure there's no mistake? Are you sure it's Evan? It has to be a mistake...
I told my Aunt this one day, when I was feeling crazy, because I wasn't used to this grief stuff. She knows all about grief-she lost her husband suddenly, in a car accident. I told her that it was weird, because we were used to Evan not being here for the last 4 years he was in the military. He wasn't supposed to be here, which made it that much harder to accept. I wonder if I go out there, and he's not there, and he doesn't come home-if that's when it will finally hit me with full force. Aunt Claire told me that I was far from crazy. She expected Bob, her husband, to walk in the door every day for years. And he never did.
Evan was coming back to go to college. They said in his memorial service in Colorado Springs that he talked all the time about how he was ready to be done with the Army, and go to college, but he was fulfilling what he committed to do. This makes me crazy too, especially when I think about the people that go AWOL. That don't complete their commitment. Evan was ready to do something else, but he was determined to complete what he had signed up to do. This says volumes about his character. But he sure had a whole lot of living left to do.
I still have plenty of time to decide, as Evan's unit isn't scheduled to redeploy until December. Of course everything in the Army is subject to change, which we realized when he joined. Maybe by then I will just know whether it's good for me or not. Sometimes I think it would help, to be with people that were with him, to talk to them, to answer questions that I need for closure. But as I said before, the thought of watching others reunite happily with their loved ones is sometimes more than I can bear to even think about.
I got to thinking just now about those "trigger" moments. By that I mean that you just never know when a certain song or conversation will trigger a memory-maybe a happy or funny memory, maybe a sad one. I had one of these moments a month or two after Evan's death. I had finally decided that I had to enter the "real world" again, so I was eating breakfast with two friends of mine. This is around the time that I was finally able to look at food again. I had taken about two bites when I overheard a conversation at a table near us. It was the waitress asking a little girl, around 3, if the baby with them was her baby brother. I was around 3 when Evan was born. Mom said she was afraid when she was pregnant with Evan, that I would be jealous when he was born, but she said I was like a little Mommy to him-that I just loved him so much. After two bites of my food, I put my fork down and I just couldn't stop the tears. I told them I would be waiting in the car, and I quickly made my exit.
The girl that was waxing my eyebrows the other day asked me if I had any brothers or sisters. How do I respond to that question now? I have never been an only child. I've always had a brother. Evan EXISTED, so I don't want to say it's just me. I told her that I did have a brother, and that he was killed in Iraq. She promptly offered me a discount on any service I wanted to have done there (My aunt, who lost her husband 10 years ago, jokes that she took advantage of the grieving widow as long as possible).
I'm jealous of people that have siblings now. I get upset when I see someone that I don't perceive as "appreciating" their sibling. I guess that's just part of it. Maybe it's not right, but it's how I feel.
Evan and I didn't always have the best relationship growing up. We had your typical "sibling rivalry". I am so thankful that over the last two years, we finally had a close relationship. Totally different. He told me he loved me every time we talked on the phone or through email. He changed completely when he joined the military, in a good way. It's difficult, because I am SO glad that we finally had that relationship. It would even more difficult now if it hadn't been mended. But we were finally friends. I finally had my brother back, and a sibling to go through life with me, that would always be there. That would be there to see me get married, and have children, and to help me take care of my parents when they got older. And all of that has been taken away from me. If I think about it all at once, it's overwhelming. The future. I guess that's why they say to take it one day at a time, one moment at a time.
The girl that was waxing my eyebrows the other day asked me if I had any brothers or sisters. How do I respond to that question now? I have never been an only child. I've always had a brother. Evan EXISTED, so I don't want to say it's just me. I told her that I did have a brother, and that he was killed in Iraq. She promptly offered me a discount on any service I wanted to have done there (My aunt, who lost her husband 10 years ago, jokes that she took advantage of the grieving widow as long as possible).
I'm jealous of people that have siblings now. I get upset when I see someone that I don't perceive as "appreciating" their sibling. I guess that's just part of it. Maybe it's not right, but it's how I feel.
Evan and I didn't always have the best relationship growing up. We had your typical "sibling rivalry". I am so thankful that over the last two years, we finally had a close relationship. Totally different. He told me he loved me every time we talked on the phone or through email. He changed completely when he joined the military, in a good way. It's difficult, because I am SO glad that we finally had that relationship. It would even more difficult now if it hadn't been mended. But we were finally friends. I finally had my brother back, and a sibling to go through life with me, that would always be there. That would be there to see me get married, and have children, and to help me take care of my parents when they got older. And all of that has been taken away from me. If I think about it all at once, it's overwhelming. The future. I guess that's why they say to take it one day at a time, one moment at a time.
I received an email earlier today from the wife of Evan's best friend in the Army. Every time she writes to me, she tells me what an amazing friend he was to herself and her husband, Tyler (who Evan referred to by his last name, "Daly"). She said there was never a time that they ever needed something that Evan didn't come through, and how much they loved him. We kept hearing stories like that-about how Evan would always offer his car, or money, to anyone in need. About how he loved to give out dollar bills to the Iraqi children. And about how he always made everyone laugh with his off the wall comments.
Someone else recently wrote to me, another soldier in Evan's company. He said "Marshall was more than just a soldier. I was proud to call him my friend. He is missed daily. Not a day goes by that we don't talk about our fallen brothers. It's amazing when you think about how much someone has touched your life."
It provides some comfort to know that Evan is talked about daily over there. I desperately want people to remember him, and as many soldiers have confirmed for me, their fallen brothers are never forgotten. They are remembered every day.
Someone else recently wrote to me, another soldier in Evan's company. He said "Marshall was more than just a soldier. I was proud to call him my friend. He is missed daily. Not a day goes by that we don't talk about our fallen brothers. It's amazing when you think about how much someone has touched your life."
It provides some comfort to know that Evan is talked about daily over there. I desperately want people to remember him, and as many soldiers have confirmed for me, their fallen brothers are never forgotten. They are remembered every day.
I just got home from a visit with one of my friends who has recently had a baby. I am now referred to as "Aunt Alice" in their household. I get to thinking so often about the fact that I am never going to be a real Aunt. I hope to get married one day, and have my own kids. And maybe I will be an Aunt by marriage, provided I don't marry an only child. But it's not the same, and it's not by blood.
I do however, in the same breath, think about how I have made it this far. I think about the fact that I am still here, and how the Lord must have me here for some purpose. I fully believe that the Lord is going to put babies and kids and friends in my life to fill the voids I feel in my heart, and those longings that I have. It is hard, but I have to choose to trust him with that.
I had to drive by the airport on my way home from my friends house. Driving by the airport makes me a bit crazy. I will never be able to drive by there again without the mental image in my head of picking up my brother's body there. This day was worse for me than the funeral. Of course the funeral was not a good day-I practically had to be carried out of the house. I guess I was trying to delay the finality of it. If I didn't go, it didn't happen. I remember my friends trying to blow dry my hair in my bathroom that day(I couldn't do anything on my own at this point), when we were waiting on the limos to get to the house. That must have been quite the sight. I collapsed in hysterics on the floor, and they quickly called for my Aunt Claire (I guess they didn't know what to do!) Somehow I made it out of the house that day, I'm not sure how. Yes, I am--God carried me.
But here we were at the airport that horrid day. It took us about a week to get his body flown in, because he went to Delaware first. I think about all the times we went to greet him at the Atlanta airport when he came home on leave, and here we were, picking up his body. We watched the plane land. Right as it came into view, my Dad totally lost it. That was one of a few times he lost it that day. It was a very surreal feeling. So surreal, in fact, that I pretended it wasn't really happening. I think that's called "denial". Detachment. When you can't handle the reality of something, you pretend that it just didn't happen.
Nevertheless, I will never be able to drive by that airport without remembering that day.
I do however, in the same breath, think about how I have made it this far. I think about the fact that I am still here, and how the Lord must have me here for some purpose. I fully believe that the Lord is going to put babies and kids and friends in my life to fill the voids I feel in my heart, and those longings that I have. It is hard, but I have to choose to trust him with that.
I had to drive by the airport on my way home from my friends house. Driving by the airport makes me a bit crazy. I will never be able to drive by there again without the mental image in my head of picking up my brother's body there. This day was worse for me than the funeral. Of course the funeral was not a good day-I practically had to be carried out of the house. I guess I was trying to delay the finality of it. If I didn't go, it didn't happen. I remember my friends trying to blow dry my hair in my bathroom that day(I couldn't do anything on my own at this point), when we were waiting on the limos to get to the house. That must have been quite the sight. I collapsed in hysterics on the floor, and they quickly called for my Aunt Claire (I guess they didn't know what to do!) Somehow I made it out of the house that day, I'm not sure how. Yes, I am--God carried me.
But here we were at the airport that horrid day. It took us about a week to get his body flown in, because he went to Delaware first. I think about all the times we went to greet him at the Atlanta airport when he came home on leave, and here we were, picking up his body. We watched the plane land. Right as it came into view, my Dad totally lost it. That was one of a few times he lost it that day. It was a very surreal feeling. So surreal, in fact, that I pretended it wasn't really happening. I think that's called "denial". Detachment. When you can't handle the reality of something, you pretend that it just didn't happen.
Nevertheless, I will never be able to drive by that airport without remembering that day.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Grief is such a tricky thing. I will have an ok moment, or day even, and think, you know, I am going to get through this. I am strong. I got through today without sobbing hysterically. I'll even be able to laugh, or smile at a funny or pleasant memory of Evan, without all the pain, for that split second.
And other moments, I feel as though I am right back to where I started. I am so overcome with grief, that I find it difficult to breathe. I am gasping for air. I don't want to live without my brother. I want him to come home, to walk through that door, and just make this nightmare finally be over.
It's a roller coaster. I didn't know much about grief until I experienced it first hand. When I saw someone in public that had just been through loss, I always thought to myself, they are doing so well. I would think about how big of a wreck I would be, and that there was no way I could handle myself in that way if I had been through what they had. Now I know what happens behind closed doors. I am here to tell you: the fact that someone that has been through a sudden loss can put on a face while in public means nothing. We are basketcases, in fact, all of us that have been through it, just many times, in the comfort of our home. All of us know that's the farthest from how we really feel. We scream, we cry, Mom and I will meet in the kitchen at 2 AM when neither of us can sleep. Many times we'll be in different rooms, and I'll either hear her crying from another room, or she'll hear me crying. Just because we have the ability to hold it together in the outside world doesn't mean we don't come home and close the door and collapse in tears. That's precisely how I got through the first few weeks I went back to teaching, every single day.
Nothing seems normal in those first few weeks. It's a lot of firsts. I literally had a panic attack the first time I went in public. It's the weirdest thing I have ever experienced. You walk into a grocery store, or a bank-what seem like normal activities. And it doesn't make any sense, because everyone else is going on like nothing has happened, and your whole world has been turned upside down. My world is in stand still mode, and everyone is acting normal. My brother is gone, forever, and you are acting like nothing has happened. Of course, these are people that don't know I just lost my brother (unless they recognized me from my picture on the front page of the paper-believe it or not, this has happened a couple times from complete strangers) But it really is the most bizarre, uncomfortable experience ever.
I still wake up in the middle of the night, quite often, and check my phone to see if Evan called. You see, he always called in the middle of the night when he was in Iraq, so I always tried to keep my phone on at night, because if I missed it, that was it. There's no calling someone back in Iraq! I was always so upset when I missed a phone call from him. In fact, anytime he called, I saved his voicemail until my phone forced me to delete it, because I thought to myself..what if this is the last time I heard his voice. I always had this feeling..
Call it a premonition, or maybe it is just every military family's worst nightmare, but I always had a feeling it would happen. I made a point to write Evan often, and every time, I told him how proud I was of him, that he was my hero, and how much I missed and loved him. I can never doubt that he knew how proud we all were of him and how much we loved him, because we told him all the time. I guess it doesn't matter whether or not I "knew", but..
We also got an email from him, the day before he was killed. He wrote that he knew Mosul, where he was stationed, was on the news, and that it was a little more dangerous than he thought, but that he still felt relatively safe. He also wrote that he had a nightmare-this would have been the last night of sleep he had-and he said he woke up jumping on his bed, screaming. That he was ok, but it had scared him. He ended with his standard, "I'm fine. Tell Mom and Alice not to worry. Look forward to seeing you guys in April". He knew us all too well, and was always concerned that Mom and I were worrying about him too much.
But this nightmare haunts me. This is what I think about every night, when I put my head on my pillow. I'm sure many of them have nightmares-I cannot imagine what they see over there and go through. I know many come back with post traumatic stress disorder.
But I cannot help but wonder if he somehow knew. I cannot help but cry hysterically when I think of Evan being scared. The thought of this makes me so overcome with emotion that I feel physical pain. I don't know how to deal when these thoughts enter my mind. I don't know what to do. Nothing changes it. Nothing changes the fact that he had this nightmare right before he died, and that he told us about it.
For now, I will try to rest, and hope that tonight is a night that sleep comes.
And other moments, I feel as though I am right back to where I started. I am so overcome with grief, that I find it difficult to breathe. I am gasping for air. I don't want to live without my brother. I want him to come home, to walk through that door, and just make this nightmare finally be over.
It's a roller coaster. I didn't know much about grief until I experienced it first hand. When I saw someone in public that had just been through loss, I always thought to myself, they are doing so well. I would think about how big of a wreck I would be, and that there was no way I could handle myself in that way if I had been through what they had. Now I know what happens behind closed doors. I am here to tell you: the fact that someone that has been through a sudden loss can put on a face while in public means nothing. We are basketcases, in fact, all of us that have been through it, just many times, in the comfort of our home. All of us know that's the farthest from how we really feel. We scream, we cry, Mom and I will meet in the kitchen at 2 AM when neither of us can sleep. Many times we'll be in different rooms, and I'll either hear her crying from another room, or she'll hear me crying. Just because we have the ability to hold it together in the outside world doesn't mean we don't come home and close the door and collapse in tears. That's precisely how I got through the first few weeks I went back to teaching, every single day.
Nothing seems normal in those first few weeks. It's a lot of firsts. I literally had a panic attack the first time I went in public. It's the weirdest thing I have ever experienced. You walk into a grocery store, or a bank-what seem like normal activities. And it doesn't make any sense, because everyone else is going on like nothing has happened, and your whole world has been turned upside down. My world is in stand still mode, and everyone is acting normal. My brother is gone, forever, and you are acting like nothing has happened. Of course, these are people that don't know I just lost my brother (unless they recognized me from my picture on the front page of the paper-believe it or not, this has happened a couple times from complete strangers) But it really is the most bizarre, uncomfortable experience ever.
I still wake up in the middle of the night, quite often, and check my phone to see if Evan called. You see, he always called in the middle of the night when he was in Iraq, so I always tried to keep my phone on at night, because if I missed it, that was it. There's no calling someone back in Iraq! I was always so upset when I missed a phone call from him. In fact, anytime he called, I saved his voicemail until my phone forced me to delete it, because I thought to myself..what if this is the last time I heard his voice. I always had this feeling..
Call it a premonition, or maybe it is just every military family's worst nightmare, but I always had a feeling it would happen. I made a point to write Evan often, and every time, I told him how proud I was of him, that he was my hero, and how much I missed and loved him. I can never doubt that he knew how proud we all were of him and how much we loved him, because we told him all the time. I guess it doesn't matter whether or not I "knew", but..
We also got an email from him, the day before he was killed. He wrote that he knew Mosul, where he was stationed, was on the news, and that it was a little more dangerous than he thought, but that he still felt relatively safe. He also wrote that he had a nightmare-this would have been the last night of sleep he had-and he said he woke up jumping on his bed, screaming. That he was ok, but it had scared him. He ended with his standard, "I'm fine. Tell Mom and Alice not to worry. Look forward to seeing you guys in April". He knew us all too well, and was always concerned that Mom and I were worrying about him too much.
But this nightmare haunts me. This is what I think about every night, when I put my head on my pillow. I'm sure many of them have nightmares-I cannot imagine what they see over there and go through. I know many come back with post traumatic stress disorder.
But I cannot help but wonder if he somehow knew. I cannot help but cry hysterically when I think of Evan being scared. The thought of this makes me so overcome with emotion that I feel physical pain. I don't know how to deal when these thoughts enter my mind. I don't know what to do. Nothing changes it. Nothing changes the fact that he had this nightmare right before he died, and that he told us about it.
For now, I will try to rest, and hope that tonight is a night that sleep comes.
It is a day that will be remain in my memory for as long as I live.
January 28, 2008.
It was a quiet afternoon, a typical Monday. I was keeping Jack Durham, the precious 3 year old that I have kept on and off for the last several years, that day. It's funny how distinctly I remember it, even before I was to get the news. I had a staff meeting after school, and then Jack and I went to lunch with his Mom, then to Hodgsons to get ice cream. I made the mistake of letting him get an ice cream cone to eat in my car, and we had a huge mess on our hands! It literally took about 20 minutes to get him cleaned up. We got in my bed and cuddled up to take a nap, and I drifted off into peaceful sleep. I awoke an hour later to several missed calls from my Dad, which was somewhat unusual. The second message said that he needed me to come to the house, which is when my heart sank. I called right away, and he repeated those same words, that he couldn't tell me over the phone but that he needed me to come over.
I remember asking several times, Is it Evan? Is it Evan? He said the same thing-just come to the house. I knew. Deep down, I knew. It was my gut reaction because it is what I have feared every second that my brother was deployed. Anyone that has a family member deployed will tell you that you live in constant fear for that phone call, for that government car in your driveway...
I called Jack's Mom, and told her I couldn't meet her at the office, I was in a panic, and crying at this point, and she would have to meet me somewhere on the way to my house. I don't even know how I got him to her without wrecking my car. I called my Aunt, and I told her I knew Evan had been killed, to which she told me to calm down and that it could be anything. Maybe he was injured? I kept hoping it wasn't the worst, praying it wasn't, not the big nightmare we all feared. I called two friends, Carrie and Robin, and told them to pray. That I didn't know anything yet, but I feared something horrible.
I pulled into the garage at my parents new house. I noticed my Mom's car wasn't there, which was odd for the time of day it was. Then I thought-has something happened to Mom? I proceeded in the back door and into my worst nightmare.
Dad was walking towards me with his arms extended to give me a hug. He was crying. I don't even think he said anything, I just knew. I gave him a hug, and as I did, I noticed two military officers standing behind him. I literally collapsed on the hardwood floor, and the only words that came out were, "I can't do this."
Evan, my 21 year old brother, my only sibling, had been killed in Iraq. Even now, typing those words, it's so unreal. I still can't believe it. A little over 4 months today, and I woke up this morning, and my first thought was, I cannot believe this has happened.
My mom wasn't home yet. She didn't know. I remember watching her car wind down the street heading towards our house, and--there are just no words for what she is about to walk into. This is the last moment of peace, of normalcy, that she will ever know. Yes, she will get used to it. She will grow accustomed to it eventually (and it is what people who have been through sudden loss tell us). But none of us will ever "get over it". Through it, because we have to, because, as Dad reminds me whenever I tell him I can't do it anymore, we don't have a choice.
Dad met her in the garage. I cannot describe to you her reaction. I have tried hard to block it out, but it is in my memory, forever.
There are no words. Nothing anyone can say, whoever they may be, to make anything one bit better. Oh how people tried-I could write a book on what not to say to someone who has gone through sudden loss. One of my friends encouraged me to write them down. And I concede fully to the fact that these people simply don't know what to say because they don't understand, and that's not their fault. I have been to countless visitations and funerals before this, and thought to myself, I just don't know what to say. God knows it's a club I never wanted to join. No one in it wants to be a member. Nevertheless, it is now a reality in my life that I am slowly working towards accepting.
Sibling loss is hard, because everyone seems to focus on the parents. Of course-I grieved not only for myself, but for my parents, because a parent should never have to bury a child. That is something I cannot understand, and pray that I never experience. Many times, though, friends will ask constantly, how are your parents? Are you taking care of them? Sometimes people don't even ask how I am doing. And I want to ask them, who is taking care of me? Because I sure can't take care of myself right now.
I want those people, those siblings, to know that if there is any comfort at all, maybe it is in the fact that we are not alone. We need not suffer alone.
January 28, 2008.
It was a quiet afternoon, a typical Monday. I was keeping Jack Durham, the precious 3 year old that I have kept on and off for the last several years, that day. It's funny how distinctly I remember it, even before I was to get the news. I had a staff meeting after school, and then Jack and I went to lunch with his Mom, then to Hodgsons to get ice cream. I made the mistake of letting him get an ice cream cone to eat in my car, and we had a huge mess on our hands! It literally took about 20 minutes to get him cleaned up. We got in my bed and cuddled up to take a nap, and I drifted off into peaceful sleep. I awoke an hour later to several missed calls from my Dad, which was somewhat unusual. The second message said that he needed me to come to the house, which is when my heart sank. I called right away, and he repeated those same words, that he couldn't tell me over the phone but that he needed me to come over.
I remember asking several times, Is it Evan? Is it Evan? He said the same thing-just come to the house. I knew. Deep down, I knew. It was my gut reaction because it is what I have feared every second that my brother was deployed. Anyone that has a family member deployed will tell you that you live in constant fear for that phone call, for that government car in your driveway...
I called Jack's Mom, and told her I couldn't meet her at the office, I was in a panic, and crying at this point, and she would have to meet me somewhere on the way to my house. I don't even know how I got him to her without wrecking my car. I called my Aunt, and I told her I knew Evan had been killed, to which she told me to calm down and that it could be anything. Maybe he was injured? I kept hoping it wasn't the worst, praying it wasn't, not the big nightmare we all feared. I called two friends, Carrie and Robin, and told them to pray. That I didn't know anything yet, but I feared something horrible.
I pulled into the garage at my parents new house. I noticed my Mom's car wasn't there, which was odd for the time of day it was. Then I thought-has something happened to Mom? I proceeded in the back door and into my worst nightmare.
Dad was walking towards me with his arms extended to give me a hug. He was crying. I don't even think he said anything, I just knew. I gave him a hug, and as I did, I noticed two military officers standing behind him. I literally collapsed on the hardwood floor, and the only words that came out were, "I can't do this."
Evan, my 21 year old brother, my only sibling, had been killed in Iraq. Even now, typing those words, it's so unreal. I still can't believe it. A little over 4 months today, and I woke up this morning, and my first thought was, I cannot believe this has happened.
My mom wasn't home yet. She didn't know. I remember watching her car wind down the street heading towards our house, and--there are just no words for what she is about to walk into. This is the last moment of peace, of normalcy, that she will ever know. Yes, she will get used to it. She will grow accustomed to it eventually (and it is what people who have been through sudden loss tell us). But none of us will ever "get over it". Through it, because we have to, because, as Dad reminds me whenever I tell him I can't do it anymore, we don't have a choice.
Dad met her in the garage. I cannot describe to you her reaction. I have tried hard to block it out, but it is in my memory, forever.
There are no words. Nothing anyone can say, whoever they may be, to make anything one bit better. Oh how people tried-I could write a book on what not to say to someone who has gone through sudden loss. One of my friends encouraged me to write them down. And I concede fully to the fact that these people simply don't know what to say because they don't understand, and that's not their fault. I have been to countless visitations and funerals before this, and thought to myself, I just don't know what to say. God knows it's a club I never wanted to join. No one in it wants to be a member. Nevertheless, it is now a reality in my life that I am slowly working towards accepting.
Sibling loss is hard, because everyone seems to focus on the parents. Of course-I grieved not only for myself, but for my parents, because a parent should never have to bury a child. That is something I cannot understand, and pray that I never experience. Many times, though, friends will ask constantly, how are your parents? Are you taking care of them? Sometimes people don't even ask how I am doing. And I want to ask them, who is taking care of me? Because I sure can't take care of myself right now.
I want those people, those siblings, to know that if there is any comfort at all, maybe it is in the fact that we are not alone. We need not suffer alone.
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