Happy 30th Birthday, Evan!

Change is my most inflexible friend. It reminds me every day that it is arriving, whether I want it to or not. It can sometimes come quietly, but lately, it has decided to use its outside voice to gain traction and to stifle my sense of balance. Some of what I've experienced over the last four years is a lot of change. Not just in the present but for the future. It has shifted my ability to pivot quickly to circumstances beyond my control and has caused me to pause. Grief has changed me, and at times it feels like it's not always for my good. November 26th marks a significant milestone for me, and it will come and go without the world even knowing as our world is plagued with lockdowns and canceled plans, it has become much more challenging to navigate. It has layered upon my grief of Evan multiple secondary losses and has tried to take from me what little joy I've been able to conjure up. This time of year is tough for those suffering the loss of a loved one, and you can multiply that by the loss of social connections, business closures, and fear. What remains is a deep sadness and an overwhelming lack of hope. If you know me, I'm a glass-half-full kind of gal, but if the goal in all of this is to strip us of hope, I'm sure for many, the plan has been met, and it wins. For me, I will always be grounded on the side of hope. Hope is walking me through the death of my child; it most certainly can get me through anything this world can throw at me.

Evan would have turned 30 years old on November 26th. Many of his birthdays were spent celebrating Thanksgiving, and as Evan got older, unfortunately, Thanksgiving would be spent serving the retail industry and its patrons. Turning 30 is an incredible milestone for most young adults. As this day has come closer, and as I've walked through several major life events in the last 90 days, I struggle with every ounce of courage to grab hold of hope. It's hard, and I'm trying to see the good in all the depth of sorrow I feel. I'm trying to remember the words Evan spoke to me in the last letter he wrote to me on Mother's Day 2016...He said, "That is one of my favorite parts about you: your ability to remain calm, collected, and positive even in the face of vulnerable circumstances." As Evan's friends also reach these milestones and others like this, such as getting married, having children, purchasing homes, and fully walking out their lives, I'm left on the sidelines with memories and days long gone and forgotten. People like me like to be fully present at every milestone, especially with those we care about. I’m having the most challenging time with the created normal imposed on my life. So I continue to live in yesterday's memories trying hard to be present today and always aware of what could have been. To speak these words is difficult and can appear harsh, but I'm speaking from grief and loss and this voice isn't for everyone; it's the reality of child loss.

So as we gather around our table to celebrate a day set aside for Thankfulness, my thankfulness is connected with the memories of spending 25 years, 11 months, and two weeks with Evan here on earth and the grief that you are not here with us for this birthday and for all of the other milestones in the future.

This reality is my greatest heartache!!

"You need to pull your mask up!" "Oh yeah, let's discuss your diagnosis."

Our family is just a few short weeks from the 4th anniversary of Evan's accident and many other anniversaries that seem to come each year. I've spent a good part of 2020 writing and capturing stories for my work, and with that, much of my grief journey has been done in the background. Busyness has taken the place of sharing my deepest thoughts, and so after so much silence, I thought I'd share what the last few months have looked like. Although I do not know what the future holds for me, I know the One who holds that future, and I continue to trust Him as I stand leaning against a wall for support and taking baby steps towards the next moments.

This has not been an easy season. It has held anxiety, uncertainty, loneliness, and LOVE. I've really had to learn such a hard truth about how much I'm able to carry, and I've come to understand that it's a lot. To be clearer, a lot for me. This is not about comparing as we all have our own stuff, and I've learned about grief; each personal journey is unique, and we chose how that is measured. Throw in this mix a world health crisis and other variables, and well, you get my point. What I’m about to share is polarizing. I’m unsure of any subject right now that isn’t, but most people like me aren’t really saying much. So I will say this is my personal experience.

In early spring, I had health issues that I thought were due to stress and other things. I chatted with my doctor, and she said if this continues, you really need to be seen. Well, it did continue, and if you've had any health issues during this crisis, the health crisis has taken over any thought about "other" health issues. Every appointment took 30 days to attain cause of COVID. After nearly 6 months of different appointments, it was confirmed that I have cancer. Yes, cancer, which in my opinion, is a health crisis for me. For anyone reading this who is thinking of wearing the mask for others...be about others, I'm wondering what your feeling is about people who are having true health issues that aren't COVID. I'm finding that MANY have strong opinions about masks but aren't advocating as much for those experiencing health crises that aren't COVID related. This has been especially eye-opening for me. Even my experience with a medical professional who was going to do my surgery, who was more concerned about how high up the bridge of my nose, my mask was than my diagnosis. Please spare me the essential worker lecture. I get it. They are exposed daily. Goodness knows that everyone based on ALL of the data is exposed daily. But my anxiety is not eased when you lecture me more about COVID exposure and give my diagnosis less time or understanding, along with the lack of compassion and care. In this, we have lost our way. We will suffer the consequences of this lack of compassion, trust me, and the mask will be the least of our worries as a society and a nation.

Today I am nearly one-week post-op. The first few days were hard, but I'm feeling stronger, and although I'm unsure of any of the pathology, I will continue to trust the team of doctors who have cared for me during this time and, ultimately, the Great Physician, Jesus. I want to acknowledge the care given to me at Sutter Health at Mission Bernal Ambulatory Surgery in SF, my oncologist, Dixon Family Medicine, Burlingame Women's health for your care over me. Thank you for arranging appointments, finding places for blood draws, and CT Scans. I want to thank my family and friends for being with me through this crazy time. Your texts, flowers, food, and Peet's have been such a blessing. I also want to thank my husband and son, who especially saw this challenging when they had to leave me at the surgery center's front door and not be with me during any of my appointments or my surgery. Just another aspect of COVID that is invisible to the public when other health issues arise.

Grief, Coffee, and the missing of Community

The last month I’ve been busy writing stories for work. It is by far one of the things I enjoy most about the work that I do. Yesterday while working on content for my stories I came across some old photos from many years ago. Old photos have a way of bringing to the forefront those things that have been hovering just below the surface, and today, those feelings came rushing back. It’s hard to express with any understanding of how the pandemic has brought with it the pain of loss and grief but multiplied to the 10th power. I was sharing with a friend recently that one of the difficult things about grief is that nothing is ever the same. Now, of course, that can be said about many things really, and that’s not to diminish how others feel. But I can say that one of the things that I needed was routine after Evan died. I needed to have something that got me up every morning as sometimes sleep was fitful, and my heartbroken.

One of my routines is getting up and going to Peet’s every morning for coffee and to see the carousel. Sometimes I can catch a sunrise or chase the moon as it sets. But Peet’s is the place I could go and oftentimes think about Evan. When I went in for my coffee in the afternoons, he’d sometimes sneak up behind me and say, Hey Mom!. It’s a place I could always find Evan or Alex back in the day, and it is, without a doubt, a memory keeper. It has always been a place that lets me know I am home. For me, it is essential not only for coffee but for my emotional and mental health. In the first few weeks of SIP, I remember going in and being teary as I thought about how they stayed open and how for me, it was a lifeline. Peet’s never closed. When sleep was fleeting, and I was up at 5 am, I’d go and wait for them to open. The first few months of this shutdown were hard for so many reasons, but the fact that something stayed the same was comforting. I know it sounds silly as we are in the middle of a global crisis, but as many are learning, much about this SIP has to do with grief and loss. The pandemic made grief that much more intense, and it continues to feel that way.

Peet’s holds memories of past employees who have moved on to other jobs or cities. It’s a place where I’ve made friends, and it’s a place where community happened every day. It’s something I REALLY miss. I miss the community. I wonder about some of the older folks I met who came to Peet’s for connection. I miss seeing them, and in the missing, my heart longs for Evan and for days that are long gone and fading. Just to write that is heartwrenching. Grief is not always gentle. It can come at you like a freight train or like a gentle breeze, but I can tell you that it’s not made this SIP easy or manageable. Thanks, Peet’s, for providing for this grieving, heartbroken momma.

You are essential to me!

Walking the streets of Malta

A year ago we took a cruise on the Adriatic Sea. I’ve posted a blog or two about this trip but now these photos and memories mean so much as we are unable to travel around and these memories are precious to us. Malta was the one location that we were able to sample the nightlife and it was by far one of our favorite stops. I've always loved the doors I've found on our travels to the other side of the world and Malta had so many with vibrant colors and rich character. We had an amazing dining experience and the streets came alive with music and families enjoying gelato and the lovely fountain in the center of the city.

Walk with me down the streets of this beautiful city. It may inspire you to think about a visit.

Making Space

Recently I met with a friend, and one of the things that I love about our time together is she helps to complete my circle of grief. I'm not saying that because it completes my circle that my grief is linear or circular. It's just that when we talk, she makes space for my tears. When we chatted, we talked about all of the new things that seem to be happening within our group of people. She also lets me verbalize that my writing about my journey had tapered off. My words that once had jagged edges had begun the process of being smooth, and with that smoothing comes a sadness.

Raw grief is edgy. It's vocal. It gave me a voice, but now it has grown quiet. For the most part, the world around me is grateful for the quiet. Yet there are others that are on the front end of their grief. They don't have a voice of their own. I believe that I give them a voice.

So that brings me to my friend. The grief she carries is similar to mine. She sees the devastation of a future without our person. She is reminded of others within our circle who, although it's not spoken, the loss and emptiness left behind are fresh and new as each birthday is celebrated and each wedding attended. We can see the love of our person in each of the people that have been left behind, and we can see how very much we miss him. So inevitably, when we are together, tears are freely shared. The language of love, grief, and longing are the words spoken.

I'm grateful for these coffee dates, for they give us both space to feel all that is within us that doesn't have room in the large crowds around us. I believe they are an oasis for us both. Thank you for making space for me. I miss Evan every day, and I'm so thankful for the days that when I miss him, and I'm with you, I don't have to cry alone.

Empty Arms

Recently I started a birth and bereavement doula course, and I'm currently in the last two modules. The particular module I'm in now, we are talking about the emotional experiences of having a baby in the NICU. One of the exam questions is to choose from the list of 10 experiences one that could have a similar feeling if a child is born sleeping. So much about these emotional experiences are similar to the loss of my almost 26-year-old son. I've learned not to compare losses as when you do that; someone will always have something less or more of what you've experienced. Each loss is unique, as each person is unique. Give space for each loss and hold the heart and hand of that person so that they feel heard, understood, and valued. 

While reading through these experiences, I felt like I could identify with nearly all of them, and yet the question asked me to choose one. I decided on the word derealization, which for the parent of a NICU baby the emotional experience can be so overwhelming for them, that they find themselves in denial, forgetting, or suppressing important information that was spoken to them. Even if they appear to practice active listening, repeating things often can be helpful, along with keeping a journal of things mentioned and questions to ask. (reference from StillBirth Day)

This module, in particular, really has me thinking deeply about the painful process of birth, loss, and bereavement as it feels so very real. It had me thinking back to our days in the hospital and all the information that came our way that I heard but did not process. So much of my time in the hospital was spent with all the people: Evan's friends, Alex's friends, our friends, fielding Facebook messages so much of the processing of vital information was processed by John and Alex cause honestly, it was too much for me. The entire process of it was too much. It's hard to understand unless you’ve walked that long lonely hallway. I can never truly articulate to my husband or my son how much love I have for them. They showed me during that time, what unconditional love looks like as it was walked out during the darkest of days. It wasn't easy for them either. My husband never left Evan's room the entire time he was in the hospital. Alex always was caring for us. Both of them handled the most challenging parts of those days.

Life and death are fragile and fleeting. Whether we are talking about a baby born sleeping or a nearly 26-year-old son whose brain has stopped working but whose organs help save the lives of 5 people. Say your words — even the hard ones to those you love. Reach out to that momma who's arms are left empty because of her loss. Be a light in a world that so desperately needs it.