My Greatest Joys

Today will always sting. It will not matter if it has been 12 years or 50 years. When you lose someone you love, the day that marks when that abscence began will always sting. Your heart never forgets.

So how on this day am I writing about my greatest joy? Out of burden comes blessing. Out of burden comes blessing. I wanted to believe this from the first time my pastor said it to me in 2012. I truly did. Out of burden comes blessing. But I didn’t want them. I didn’t want any blessing that came out of the burden of losing Glen. That trade off was not a reality that I wanted. I would have given nearly anything, every future blessing, if it meant I could have Glen by my side again.

Years later, I am able to understand that the burdens themselves, losing Glen and a traumatic brain injury, are not what create my blessings. My nerdy logic and statistical side reminds myself that “correlation does not imply causation”. My greatest joy does not exist as an effect of my greatest burden. However, having felt and experienced burden has truly provided me with the very ability to accept, take in and experience my blessings in a different way.

So, Glen, on this day that marks when this world lost you, I am greateful that it also reminds me to reflect on the thing that truly is my greatest joy in life, our children.

Here I am, 12 years from my greatest burden, celebrating my greatest joys in your honor. Check out the year our kids have had.

Our soccer star. Taking after you sooooo much!

Welcome to Mexico – Senior Spring Break

Look at our beautiful girl!

Played Sharpay in High School Musical! I know you remember her singing these songs and dreaming she would be Sharpay one day. 💗 Well she did it. And she crushed it. 🩷🩷🩷

Prom. Our beautiful princess. I will never forget the number of times you played Pretty Pretty Princess with her 🩵🩵🩵

Cameron turned 14 and was Mr John Brooke in Little Women.

Alana sang Long Live at her high school baccalaureate at the beautiful Fountain Street Church. I am confident that our Sing Star battles helped foster her love of singing.

Graduation!!! Looks almost as cute as when she graduated Pre-K. Alana was so happy to have her Uncle Mike at her graduation!

Cameron’s 8th grade promotion ceremony. The kids really love each other and Cam can’t wait for the day that he is taller than Alana. 🤣

And all the while, your boy is constantly playing soccer!!! Fall, 2 6 week indoor leagues in the winter, Spring, after school, on the weekends!!! He never stops and I absolutely love every second of it. The top left corner picture was when I suddenly realized how much he was growing up! ❤️❤️ The top right corner are the two coaches he had for nearly 8 seasons of outdoor and indoor soccer over 3 years. What they invest in these boys is irreplaceable! And look at your little nephew! As a fourth grader, he held his own (even outplayed) with the 8th graders!!!!!

And that is only half of the year! I will have to make a Part 2.

As I continue to celebrate what I am thankful for this weekend, you will always be one of the people I am most thankful for. To know you, is to have loved you and it is my absolute greatest joy to watch our children grow and become more and more like you.

On this day, I will not not sit in the loss. I will celebrate the life you lived and the legacies that you left behind. You will always be a part of my greatest joys. I love you.

A little unsteady

A little unsteady.

I’m a little unsteady.

Hold on. Don’t let go.

I know you’re trying

To fight when you feel like flying

I still can not watch this without tears stinging my eyes.  This dance is what depression feels like to me.  I feel every move. Every flight. Every supportive gesture. Please watch if you are so inclined.

[https://youtu.be/FioGdNnY_F8?si=_uUOZxGqqvaVDk_8]

Hold on. Don’t let go. I have had to tell myself that more in the past 5 years than ever in my life before.  I have dealt with depression since I was a teenager.  And it’s hard.  It’s not a choice. I don’t do it to myself.  I can promise you that if either of these were true, I would not choose depression.  Ever. To even suggest that is hurtful and demoralizing. Telling me not to be depressed or “to see the positive side of life” or “to be happy” is like telling a person with Celiac disease that it’s all in their head and to just eat the bread. We wish we could. We wish it was that easy, but unfortunately it is not. So while we fight to feel better, to live, to find the right medication and treatment, your support would be so much more appreciated than your judgement.

Being a part of my life, means being a part of a very real part of me, depression.  You can know me without depression, maybe you only know her.  She exists and is around the majority of the time, but when the deep depressive episodes hit, it feels like she never existed and will never be back.

I’ve fought it my whole life. I’ve been fighting.  However, since I suffered the brain injury, in the past 5 years, it’s been different. The fight has been different. I have been losing a lot.  Loss is a part of life and I understand that. If you’re human, you understand that.  You teach your kids to understand that truth.  We all love to win, but no one can win all the time. You teach your kids to deal with loss, be a good loser and good sport. Those lessons are all valuable and important but a loss to depression is not even in the same ballpark.  A loss to depression is stunting, paralyzing, dangerous and as I said before, I’ve been losing a lot.

In the initial aftermath of the accident, I had obvious things to work on.  So I fought.  I honestly look back at those first few months and know that only the grace of a loving God got me through them. Fast forward to 10 months post accident and a partial hospitalization in a mental health facility and God was letting me know that the fight was changing in nature; I no longer just needed to survive, I needed to actually live.

So I started on a new journey, a new fight.  Part of that journey has been a medication journey. The Miriam Webster dictionary defines journey as “an act or instance of traveling from one place to another”. I don’t know exactly where I was  traveling to or from, where the beginning or the end of the journey was, but I was traveling. If you know anything about antidepressant medications, changing them, the dosage, anything about it can be a waking nightmare. There is a reason many psychiatric drugs carry this warning:

Antidepressants have increased the risk of suicidal thoughts and actions in some children, teenagers, and young adults. Patients of all ages starting treatment should be watched closely for worsening of depression, suicidal thoughts or actions, unusual changes in behavior, agitation, and irritability. Patients, families, and caregivers should pay close attention to any changes, especially sudden changes in mood, behaviors, thoughts, or feelings. This is very important when an antidepressant medicine is started or when the dose is changed. Report any change in these symptoms immediately to the doctor.

Alongside this warning was the unknown of how my brain injury affected my brain and how my brain would process the medications that had worked in the past.  For literally the next 4 years, due to circumstances beyond my control and a couple of very well, interesting psychiatrists, I have essentially medicated myself.

I have fought to see a psychiatrist who specializes in brain injury, but insurance made that next to impossible. When you’re looking for a niche doctor, there are often not many out there and when the ones who are do not take your insurance, you grow weary. I knew that the medications I was taking were not right for me, but how do I fight all the red tape and make someone understand that? Psychiatrists are not psychologists.  They are not counselors.  In my experience, they have little interest in what is going on in your life and just want to know how you’re feeling.  Well, to put it bluntly, I feel like shit. Okay, well let’s try this medication then. Umm…okay. Thanks. I’d leave. I’d go through hell with the change, level out, function for a little bit.  Be steady for a little bit.  And by little bit, it could mean an hour or a day or if I was lucky, a whole week.  However, the same things would always break me: anger, aggression, mood swings, dark deep depression.  I can tell you, this is no way to live or for those who love me to live.

It didn’t feel right. I kept fighting.  At the request of my doctor at Mary Free Bed Rehabilitation hospital, I did a followup neuropsych test.  Neuropsychological testing  is done to better understand “how the brain and its abilities are affected by neurological injury or illness.” Here is more info

http://www.brainline.org/content/2011/10/a-guide-to-neuropsychological-testing.html

The test is very long and stressful. It involves many cognitive endurance tests and a whole lot of emotional observations and inquiries.  I completed one section on emotional functioning and someone who knows you well completes the same test and the results are compared.  The neuropsychologist goes over your initial findings and then your physiatrist tells you the next step.

Results day: you have no cognitive impairments. I think he anticipated excitement over this news, but there wasn’t.  I was instantly angry. I started crying.  Then why am I still struggling, why can’t I concentrate, remember, organize my thoughts, hell, my life?  He reminds me that the brain doesn’t only control your cognitive abilities.  It controls your emotional response, your emotional functioning and that given the test results, it was clear that the psychological aspect is where I continue to struggle.

Two more months of fighting to get a new psychiatrist and in July, I met the man who would change my life.  I went in prepared to give the normal answers, “not good, depressed, anxious, etc etc,” but this doctor was different. He wanted to know about my whole life.  In the beginning, I was actually a bit annoyed. Why do you need to know all of this? Why do I have to tell this whole story again? Go to all these places again?

He kept asking questions, so I kept answering them. I relived my childhood depression, my first mental health hospitalization, my accident, my husband’s death, my second mental health hospitalization. There I was again. Vulnerable.  Wide open all over again. But instead of feeling afraid, I knew I was finally in the right place.  The first medication try? A major no go. Second appointment, he rehashed everything, making sure he was clear on everything.  Again, I was slightly annoyed.  Then again within a few minutes, I realized that he was doing exactly what every psychiatrist before him should have done.

After about 35 minutes, of listening, asking more questions, consoling my fears, my tears, he said he had a plan.  He started by acknowledging that I have heard many diagnosis and that he’s not just trying to throw another one at me but that he would like to treat what he thinks is an Organic Mood Disorder.  My first thought, “my god, does everything have to be organic these days?!?!” Hey, at least my sense of humor was in tact.   We discussed the medicine options, what my plan for weening off of my other medication would be and I headed home very unsure of whether I was going to make the change.

I took a few days to research before I made my final decision.  I am a knowledge nerd.  So I started researching. My first discovery was that the medication I was prescribed is most commonly used for bi-polar and schizophrenia.  I read the words over and over again.  They are scary and confusing words and the instant denial of them and then subsequent submission to the possibility of them in your life is exhausting.  I wasn’t done learning so I kept researching. And researching. Researching what an organic mood disorder was and why brain injury is a cause of them.  For the first time, I felt heard. I felt understood.  I felt like all the ups and downs all the ugliness and shame and fear was not my fault.  I didn’t do it to myself. It wasn’t my fault.

An organic mood disorder occurs when the moods or emotions of a person are changed due to a physiological problem with the brain or nervous system as opposed to a psychiatric illness. Regardless of medication, psychotherapy, counseling and an abundance of loving family and friends, I could not seem to find a stable, steady place. Reading these five main symptoms of an organic mood disorder was like reading a chapter in the book of my life.

• Extreme changes in personality
• Prolonged depression
• Easy irritability and agitation
• Extreme aggression
• Extreme anxiety

These factors epitomize what I have struggled with post-accident. So with excitement and a bit of fear, I started the medication. I instantly saw an improvement.  Unfortunately, I saw the opposite reaction too.  I spent the first several days feeling the best I had felt in years for about 20 hours of the day and dealing with suicidal thoughts and severely breaking down for 4 of those hours.  As life would have it, the medication took a few days to be filled and when I finally started it, both my parents and my brother were out of town for the week.  They knew I was changing medicines but I did not share what was really happening. I wasn’t about to ruin their vacations.  I realize now that that was not a very sane though but when the major depressive episodes happen, the last thing you want to do is include someone else in them.  When you don’t feel like you deserve to live, you certainly don’t deserve someone to come care for you. It’s a steep, downward slope and the lies you encounter feel so real.  The truth? We all need people who will love us so fiercely and deeply that they can save us from ourselves.  We all need to love ourselves enough to let someone into the darkness that forms us along with the light that we are so willing to share.

The episodes that week were the worst I’ve had since I was a teenager, experiencing them for the first time.  They occurred for hours and they were scary. That week I learned that when you don’t even know who you are and don’t believe you will ever find yourself again, a person who knows exactly who you really are is a game changer. A person who knows that this version of you is not you and loves you enough to say the hard things, do the hard things and fight for it to pass. I have been lucky, blessed to have several people accompany me through this journey, but it is not easy. And I know that no matter how hard it is for me, watching someone you love fall apart and feel helpless to save them can be discouraging. The figuring out, the understanding depression and its intricacies and sticking around to untangle them can be fruitless and exhausting, but every once in a while, the losing turns into a win.  The Hail Mary in the closing minute of the fourth quarter is completed and the win that you never anticipated finally sees fruition.

Over that week my boyfriend, Nick, did the hard work. A Hail Mary by definition is “a very long forward pass in American football, made in desperation with only a small chance of success.” It is done when all other avenues have failed. Nick threw the Hail Mary pass. He caught the Hail Mary pass. Hell, he may have even drawn up the play. He helped the miracle happen. He watched me with confusion, hurt, anger, fear and ultimately a love that I will never be able to fully understand, but would not be alive without. Literally. Thank you for holding onto me, getting me to this point where I can finally heal. Thank you for holding on to me when I was a little unsteady.

Please don’t be afraid to talk to someone about how you’re feeling.  Life is hard.  Along with the beautiful, silly, sunshiny moments are dark, painful moments.  Don’t feel ashamed.  Don’t feel alone. You are loved. You are cared for. Keep the people around who take the time to see you for who you really are and who love you even more for the mess that you are.

When Merry and Happy are not what this season feels like

The world is swirling with words like joy, happy, merry and I’m having a hard time feeling any of them.

I honestly swear each year that the holiday season isn’t going to hurt as much. That it will still have all the emotions but the pain won’t be as deep. I face the season thinking my instincts will be good and I can protect myself and others from the hurt.

And then grief appears. It comes hard, it’s blinding, and impossible to ignore.

I’m trying.

Do you hear me, world? I feel so small. I’m trying.

I’ve been spending days, weeks really, telling myself, “I can do this” and “you are okay” and “just keep moving”. But I can’t. Grief is exhausting.

The fight to maintain is a struggle. So I give in. I have to. I let my body embrace the grief, or perhaps it’s more of a releasing. I weep, cry out and shake as the tears and emotions free themselves from the strings in my heart which I have wound them around so tightly. But it’s never enough. Grief sleeps in the nooks and crannies of my heart. It is a part of me now. Forever. Grieving is never over. It presents itself in the simplest ways, a look from a stranger, a card, a song, a smell. Instantly, without warning, you are detached from the moment that you are in and transported somewhere else. And wherever that somewhere is, it hurts. Memories hurt sometimes. Even the good ones.

You know that you should be happy. You know that you should be thankful. You know that you should be smiling along with your children, feeling the excitement and joy of the season. And you want to be, but your grief is so demanding of your time, your mind and your energy. It’s impossible to be present when you are grieving.

Your heart is heavy. So heavy. Still broken. It misses him. It misses the feeling of joy that used to come so easily. It wants to live “before”. Before the accident. Before the death. Before the brain injury. Before you had any idea that what used to feel like a season of joy could actually feel like a season of loss and heartache. This year, I have said more times than ever before, that I can’t wait for Christmas to be over. I just want quiet. And to be alone. Four years later, much like that first Christmas without him, I want to sit in my closet and cry into his clothes which linger with the aroma of his life. And nothing else. Just that. Fall asleep in that soft pile of his clothes, wake up and have Christmas be over.

Everything heals with time. People honestly think that is true. It is a lovely saying, but it’s a complete fallacy. Everything does not heal in time. I am not healed. I am functioning. The difference is massive. Time has allowed me to function, despite my deep wounds. I still miss everything about him. I still miss the life we had and the life we dreamed of together. I miss the sight of him walking towards me. I miss the man he was, the friend he was. I miss the way his forehead scrunched up between his eyes when he laughed hard. I miss seeing him scoop up our children like fatherhood was the job he was built for. I miss laughing with him and him giving me a hard time, the way only he could. I miss how serious he was about our SingStar competitions. I miss the way I always knew he was close by when our feet would touch under the covers at night. I miss the intentional way that he loved me. Each and every day he lived to love me. To show me how much he loved me and show me that I was all he could have ever wanted. It was the everyday things. Coffee in the morning, a new magazine by the bed on a hard day, him fixing Alana’s hurt feelings when mommy wasn’t doing it right. It’s those millions of minute details that I grieve each day as I face them alone. That is why grief never completely goes away.

When I fall this hard into grief, I need space. Space to mourn and not pretend like everything is fine.  I need to process and to feel. And I need grace. The grief does not come from an ugly place or a hurtful place, but it makes me feel ugly inside and hurt. I wish the coming out of that was easier, but it’s not. It takes more work to make it through these days then all the other days combined. I work to remind myself that grief comes from the memory of all those moments that I enjoyed. Perhaps I was not appreciating those moments as much as I should have. I don’t really know. So do me a favor, create moments for each other and appreciate those moments. The seemingly mundane ways that you share your companionship with one another. Do not overlook the handwritten note, their hand in the small of your back, a place next to someone in bed each night, the mail always being brought in or the lawn being mowed or the meal being prepared, the clean towels. Those are the moments that you may not think much of now, but they will be the memories whose beautiful simplicity you will miss the most.

So appreciate each other.  Laugh more. Love each other well. Every day. There is no better gift that I can think of than to give love to others.

 

The Graceful Griever

Graceful

adjective

1. characterized by elegance or beauty of form, manner, movement, or speech; elegant:

Griever – noun form of grieve

Synonyms of grieve

1. lament, weep, bewail, bemoan; suffer. Grieve, mourn imply showing suffering caused by sorrow. Grieve is the stronger word, implying deep mental suffering often endured alone and in silence but revealed by one’s aspect: to grieve over the loss(or death) of a friend.

Grieve. It’s a word you think you know, even understand. 

Until it’s yours. 

You have seen it displayed in the movies. It may even bring you to tears. The person’s pain becomes palpable. In the early days, I remember going into Glen and my closet, surrounding myself with Glen’s things and weeping with large gulps of air and no sound, making sure that no one could hear their echoes ricocheting off the walls of my hallowed out heart. One particular time, Christmas day of 2011, in the midst of weeping, I remember suddenly smiling to myself thinking, “this would make a great, powerful, moving scene in the movies.” That was all I had known of grief at this level. Suddenly it was mine. And I didn’t really know what to do with it.

And I didn’t want it.

You quickly learn that there are all of these ways that people think you’re “supposed” to grieve, most of which are so impossible. You want to be all of those things. You want to grieve quietly, peacefully, with grace and beauty, with a sound mind and rationale but three years and eight months out, I’m still finding that grief is messy. Grief truly has no rules until you set them. We have all been in situations where we just wished we could set or change the rules.(I know I’m not the only one.) 🙂 In grief, the last thing you want to do is make the rules and then subsequently follow them. Let me tell you, that no one wants to write the “How to Grieve” manual.

For two reasons.

One, it means they have known grief. Intimately.

Two, It means they have grieved long enough and hard enough to feel like they are starting to understand grief.

There are many things I have learned about grief. I will share the the one thing that I have found to be the most important: it’s good, even necessary to set some rules for yourself.

No rules, means so boundaries.  No boundaries is a very dangerous place to live. It allows us to make our grief way more powerful than we ever should allow it to be. You can only justify the bad choices and behaviors resulting from grief for a short time. Then you have to own it. It’s good to say that I know that grief makes me do this thing that is not good for me. (That “thing” may be one certain thing or many things and it is different for all people.) I know that thing is not good for me so how can I not do that thing? What can I do to prepare myself when I feel that coming, when I know that is what’s going to happen? Once you’ve done that one thing, whatever it may be, enough times, at what point can you really say that you’re not responsible for that behavior.

My “thing”? Pushing people away. Saying things I regret. Not allowing people to help me. And trust me when I tell you that this “thing” has happened more than I’d like to admit. I suddenly feel embittered, perhaps cynical is a better word. Don’t try to touch me. Don’t try to comfort me. You don’t know how this feels. You don’t know the depths of the pain I am feeling. Just leave me alone and return to your “perfect life”.

Ha. My grief is not graceful. It is not beautiful or elegant. And yet, I have to grieve. It looks ugly sometimes and from the outside in, I am sure it looks confusing. I want to be in charge when it comes. I want to follow my own rules. Then grief hits and it is so raw when it comes. It’s so raw and much of the time it feels like warfare. That is the part of grief that is so difficult; you never see it coming and all the sudden you feel a way that you haven’t felt for months or maybe years. It is overwhelming. Alienating. Combative. Despite those feelings, I don’t want my grief to hurt other people. My grief cannot become a weapon. My grief is not a tool to use, I have come to understand that. However, it is a process which I must go through.

This past week the grief monster reared its ugly head. And for one of the few times ever, it started in my son. We got ready for bed. We read our book. He sang along as I sang the same two songs I have been singing to him for years. We prayed. And then he looked at me with such hurt in his eyes and said for the second time in his life, “it’s not fair. Alana has two dads. And one of them is still living.” And he began crying. Tears that I could tell hurt. The kind of tears that had been welling in his eyes for a long time.

“Yes, Uncle Mark is still alive. And we keep daddy in heaven alive in our hearts as much as we can. We talk about him, tell stories and look at pictures and videos of him.”

Silence. Silence that I let sit and didn’t fill.  And through tears, he said, “but, mom, I don’t remember. I don’t remember him. I want to remember.”

In that moment, my chest imploded. I mean, seriously?!? I didn’t want to be the strong one who had to help him grieve. I didn’t want to keep the smile or cheeriness in my heart. I certainly wanted nothing to do with being graceful. I wanted to get angry. Angry at God for making my son have so much hurt in his 6 year old heart. Angry at God that he had to take Glen before Cameron could remember his touch, his smell, his laugh. At this moment, in the midst of my deep sorrow, I realized that graceful and griever can in fact exist together. This moment is when graceful grieving has to appear. For my children, I can, in fact, be a graceful griever. I can let them grieve wildly and as needed, while I can keep it together with a grace I never knew I had.

I said to him, “do you want to look at the Disney book?” About 5 months before the accident, the kids and I surprised Glen with a trip to Disneyworld for his birthday. After he passed, I made the kids a book of our Disney trip. Cameron and I have “read” this book a countless number of times. There are very few words in this book, but he has the stories I tell memorized. “Mom, that’s where you lost your glasses… Aww look at me and sister… daddy had me on his shoulders…look at me jump to daddy.” Every time we go through this book, it’s almost more than I can take. However, the joy in his face, makes it all worthwhile. When we were done, he wanted to see more pictures. I grabbed the ones from his dresser and we talked about them. Then all of the sudden, I had an idea. Cameron has slept in his daddy’s t-shirts for the last 3 ½ years. They are all University of Georgia ones that I had pulled out right away for him. When I eventually went through Glen’s clothes, I saved a bunch of shirts to maybe make a quilt one day. I don’t know why this idea occurred to me at the time, but by the grace of God, I specifically saved all of the shirts that he was wearing in the pictures I had of him with the kids. Those tubs are one of the things I have always carefully moved so I would always know where they were. I told Cameron I wanted to go get him something very special, hoping that I would find it. I went in the basement, opened the first tub and was shocked, once again, by how his smell could still be that strong after all this time. I dug a little, and there they were, the shirts that he and Cameron were wearing when we visited Disney. I cried a little. I knew I couldn’t let myself feel all that was happening yet. I had to grieve gracefully for my son, for his mind, for his heart.

I walked in his room and pulled his shirt out from behind my back. A tiny little tie dyed shirt and told him that it was his. “It’s so small,” he said. “I know, love, you were two,” I said with a smile. “Do you think daddy’s was bigger?” He shakes his head yes. “A little or a lot bigger?” He smiles and does his arms far apart. Then I pull out his daddy’s shirt from behind my back and say, “who do you think wore this one?” A smile spreads across his face. “My daddy”. There is no amount of money that could buy that smile, that moment, that peace. I will remember that moment for as long as I live. There was the book that we had looked at so many times with daddy wearing the red and black tie-dyed shirt and now that same shirt was in his hands. Daddy became real in a way that I can’t explain. I know he will never remember, but there is a fine line between remembering the trip and remembering him through all of the stories. He put his own shirt on one of his stuffed animals and put Glen’s shirt on. I sang to him for a little while longer and he was out.

It was a wonderful moment, but it would be dishonest of me to say that night ended there and we all woke up happy and shiny the next morning. That night didn’t end for me in a “unicorns and rainbows” kind of way. Hence, MY first rule of grieving was defined: process the wave of grief alone. Do not just shove it down. Express that sorrow by yourself. Cry until you just can’t anymore. Then allow other people back in. Here is why I have defined this rule for myself.

I walked out of his room, sat down on the stairs and let out everything that had been building in my chest. You don’t even know you can weep that violently or loudly until it is happening. I kept it together for almost an hour and I had to let it out. My mom and best friend were sitting on my couch and I know that it is not easy to watch. My mom was completely right in loving me and telling me to come there and not wake Cameron. And I didn’t want my son to hear, so I took a deep breath and pushed it all down. I shut down really. Which is NOT what my mom was saying. She was saying to come sit with her and instead of realizing I should just go spend a few minutes alone, grieve on my own, I pushed it all down.  And as I have said before, anything kept under pressure, is bound to explode.

And explode I did. Verbally. To my boyfriend. At my boyfriend. He tried to give me a hug. “I’m fine.” “Everyone’s life is better if I just don’t grieve.” “Everyone’s life is better if they think I’m fine.” “I shouldn’t hurt this much anymore.” “I’m fine.” “You don’t need this.” “You don’t deserve this.” Combative. Cynical. Embittered. There is total loss of control in that feeling and you want to know why you can’t do better and why you still feel that way, and why you don’t feel better.

My rule: Your own grief is not felt gracefully. It’s okay. Your grief is okay. Feel it on your own. Experience it on your own. Don’t take it out on others. Process it and don’t wallow in it. When you are ready, receive the love that so many are wanting and willing to give to you.

I am not a graceful griever.  But for moments of time, for my children, I will always be a graceful griever.

The question “Why?” and the Faith not to know

This post is a semblance of things that have been going on over the last few weeks. Last night I read an incredible chapter from a grief book entitled Experiencing Grief by H. Norman Wright. I read Chapter 8, The Questions of Grief, because last night I had about a million questions most of them beginning with “Why?” Here are some excerpts of this chapter:

“Why?” is saying “I need some explanation. I need some answers.” Having no answer can feed our anger. … Answers don’t always make the pain go away. But don’t let others keep you from voicing your pain. Don’t be offended by their answers. Even though they don’t know the answer, they may be trying to help you.

Keep asking because in time a transformation of your questions could occur. One day your why will turn into “What can I do to grow through this experience?” and “How will my life be stronger now” Faith is involved in this process. On one hand you will ask why and on the other hand say, “I will learn to live by faith.” Faith is many things. It is not knowing the answer to the why and being willing to wait for an answer.

Acceptance comes in realizing that we may never know the “why” of what happened.

“In times of upheaval, a voice from heaven says, ‘Be still and know that I am God.’ It doesn’t say, ‘Be still and know why.’

Accepting the silence could be one of your steps in moving on.

According to Craig Barnes, “God is often silent when we prefer that he speak, and he interrupts us when we prefer that he stay silent. His ways are not our ways.

Ultimately this all speaks on faith. The church I attend, 12 Stone, is doing a series on faith this summer. I was contacted by my church and asked if I would do a testimony on what my faith has meant through this tragedy in my life. Just days before they contacted me, I had posted this to Facebook on Glen’s birthday:

Glen, there are definitely not words to express what experiencing this day without you feels like. Yet I amazed at how well you are still taking care of us. I am encouraged that in our time together our faith was deepened to an even stronger level. For “faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Hebrews 11:1 Sure and certain, what an amazing God we have because I am able to be sure of the hope I have for our children and our future and certain that you are safe and in no pain while rejoicing with our Heavenly Father. And as Alana put it “mommy that is so awesome that daddy got to go to Jesus’ birthday party and now Jesus gets to go to daddy’s.” Awesome indeed. We all love you so much and miss you every day. Happy Birthday, babe! 🙂

From the three loves of your life ♥ ♥ ♥

I certainly felt overwhelmed with the idea of sharing my story, but after discussing it with them, felt ready to attempt it. So unbeknownst to them, on my first wedding anniversary without him, they came and spent the day with me and my family. It was an emotional and exhausting day, yet it was the perfect thing to do on what would have been a very hard day to handle. Instead of missing him on our wedding anniversary, I got to talk about him, our faith, and our marriage the whole day.

I wanted to share the video with all of you who have been supporting me and the children through this whole transition. I desire for people to know that with my faith in God I am at peace with my questions not being answered. That doesn’t mean I never hurt, I never cry, or I never have questions. But with my faith I am able to work through those difficult and trying times. I am able to close my eyes and remember to “Be still and know that I am God.”

https://www.dropbox.com/s/xhk4fixyd67wqrx/Sandra%20Interview.mov?dl=0

A Dream Come True; Nearly 10 Years in the Making

I have some kind of big news. And I haven’t really allowed myself to celebrate. I haven’t told many people, some family and just a few friends. I’ve protected my excitement, feeling like people won’t think it’s as exciting as I do.  So I’ve held it close to my heart, not wanting to share it. I’m not sure why I didn’t want to share that other than a bit of fear and a resistance to celebrating something that hurt to lose so much before.

 I am so excited to say that for the 2021-2022 school year, I will be teaching Young 5’s. I was able to meet my sweet students yesterday and I cannot wait for this new journey to begin.

When I tried to return to teaching in August of 2012, I had a heart full of optimism and sheer determination.  It was a mere nine months after my accident and at that point in my life I was desperate to feel “normal”.  Teaching was my normal and I needed to feel like myself again and to distract me from all of the losses my kids and I were dealing with.  Shepherd Center gave me the clearance to return to work. Surely if I could just teach, everything else would feel better. I was ready to take teaching on. That optimism, however, did not bring success. What I imagined is not at all how it turned out. I was nowhere near ready from a brain injury standpoint to take on the demands of a full-time teaching position. Almost three weeks in, I stepped down and ended up in a partial mental health hospitalization. Writing that feels like ages ago and also feels as raw as it happening yesterday.

This time is different.  This time, I don’t just want teaching to distract me, to make me feel normal.  I want it, because I have fought for it.  I have imagined being right where I am standing. And this time, I have earned it.  I have been patient. I have walked the line, waiting patiently as my brain and heart have continued to heal, loving all of the different parts of this journey. I have loved all the children I have worked with as a paraprofessional and substitute teacher and all the teachers who believed in me, believed I was meant to do this.

So I want to say thank you. In a way that will never capture the vastness of my gratitude. Thank you for fighting alongside me, cheering me on, fighting for me when I didn’t even know I needed it.  Thank you for holding my hand, hugging me, praying for me, letting me cry when I just didn’t even know why or how to stop.  My heart and mind have lived an entire lifetime in these last ten years and I am eternally grateful for the love that my children and I have received.  I don’t know what the meaning of life is, but I can honestly say that part of it has to be loving others the way we have been loved and cared for over these last 10 years.

Leaving Kindergarten behind in a haze of grief and confusion and longing was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. Over the last 10 years I have held teaching in the recesses of my heart. I have wanted it. I do believe it is what I was created to do. It took a ten year journey of ups and downs, doubts and certainties, failures and successes to find my way back to where I always wanted to be.  Returning to this sweet age group, has my heart on fire for teaching again. 

Almost done setting up the new classroom before Open House.

Being goofy as always! Being serious is REALLY hard work. 😉

The REAL reason my room is ready for kids on Monday! Mom, you are absolutely incredible!!! I love you so much! Thank you for always supporting my dreams.

When I Was 34

The current political climate is bringing up many things that are often pushed under the run and not talked about.  Although they are horrible, they are real and the dialogue is beautiful.  I recently blogged through Huffington Post about one of these issues.  Here is the link: When I was 34.

Thank you for reading.

Inspiration at just the right time

Life has been, well…life.  About every 8 or 9 months I seem to go through another “my brain injury isn’t that bad” or “surely I should be back to normal now” phase.  I take on more then I can handle and haphazardly fall back into the “your brain injury is that bad” and “this is your normal” realization. I wish I could say that these realizations hit with less force each time, but that would be a blatant lie! 🙂 I remind myself, however, that I do navigate these phases and realizations with better ease each time.

This phase kind of came to a head after Spring Break.  We went back to Georgia for the break.  As most vacations are, it was wonderful and exhausting.  It’s a long drive and when we arrived home, I could tell that we all felt good. That Michigan felt good.

School started right back up and we were back into the full swing of things, but I wasn’t there yet.Visiting Georgia invoked a plethora of feelings and processing my thoughts and feelings is just so much harder post brain injury.  I inevitably end up in the same realization but before that happens, it will feel like the first time I am processing something. The recovery from the vacation had me pretty laid out, exhausted and uninspired.  It was like reprocessing the whole move again.  Alana, my 10 year old daughter, came home from school and tells me about this writing competition that they can enter and I’m all for it. I happen to like writing a little bit myself. I ask her about it and she says something along the lines of “well, we each got a picture of a playhouse and then we need to write a story about it. We can use 100-150 words.” She shows me the illustration and it is a playhouse called Never-Shipwrecked and has a “Lost Boys” flag hanging on the outside.  I smile because I know that she loves Peter Pan and can only imagine the story she will come up with. I’m imagining her telling a fun story of Tinkerbell and Peter Pan and maybe throwing herself into the adventure.  I start asking her questions about what she is going to write about and she tells me that she has already written most of it.

I’m super excited to hear it and tell her to read it to me.  She does.  She finishes, looks at me and I am misty eyed and completely transfixed with what she has read to me.  I suppose she had the same feeling I did when we returned to Michigan from Georgia: we were home. As I wrote in 2012, I continue to be amazed at how much I learn from my children and how living with a parent with a brain injury affects them.  I am quite certain that for every struggle I have with them, I have about a million beautiful moments where they teach me something new. What did Alana teach  me this time? What did she put into words for me? Life is magical and although it is always nice to visit where we used to live, there is no place like home. It is my pleasure to share, for a second time on my blog, Alana’s amazing writing:

I stand in my playhouse trying to decide between all the wonderful and magical things I could do. My playhouse is a place.  A place where I can escape from the real world. In the real world, there are people that say magic and fantasy is just in books, but I know better. I stare at the dark brown panels of the wall, remembering the times those walls have been lit with laughter. I go out on the deck.  I see our “lost boys” flag flying on the tower. Seeing the flag, unlocks the feeling of victory. I climb up to the roof where the old tiles lay. I sit there watching the sun coming up and for just a second, I close my eyes.  I take a deep breath and I relax.   Home is not just a place, it’s also a feeling.  A feeling of safety and comfort.  When I am here, I am home.