What We Had

A lot of things have changed for me. 

And yet, so many things refuse to change.

I feel as though I consistently attempt to find like minded people and to strive for openness only to realize that the person opposite me is almost always the venus flytrap of humans. Any stimuli shuts them down. I’m left blaming myself for other people’s inconsistency and refusal to come to terms, to be open, to be willing, to hear me. 

I’m constantly met with the frustration that comes with the newfound hole in my life. Sometimes it feels like grief is a misnomer. It’s not just grief, it’s being lonely for your person.

I wish I had the ability to shut things off the way others seem to so effortlessly. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so isolating to just harden up and let the hurt solidify my cynicism. 

But I just think that refusing to accept it is more pathetic, destructive and narcissistic than anything on the planet. Face it—one day, someone was here, and the next, they weren’t. It’s not missing a flash sale on your favorite site. 

I wish I knew one single person who believed in expression as much as I do. I just want to know there’s someone out there who can match me on this one thing. To know that other people believe that there’s a reason God gave us pain. To know that someone else wants to accept, process and discuss the things that eat at them. I’m lonely for the person who always knew what to say. I’m lonely for the person who never shut down a conversation, who sought me out when I was hurting, who committed unconditional love to me when I felt unloveable.

The kind of Christlike love that never goes away and only seems to leave something worse than a gap or a hole when it does. It’s more like a geyser, a never-ending eruption that comes from pressure and heat.

My life feels smaller without her. And bigger at the same time.

Without her.

Without her, there is less planning. Less framing. Less timing. Life feels bigger.

Without her, there is less camaraderie. Less listening, understanding. Less love. Life feels smaller.

Without her, it feels like everything could change in one single moment, and not only would I not care, I would probably welcome it in some ways.

I have always wanted a small life. I want a life that is precious and private and present. I want a life that is an investment, not a splurge. I want people who are commitments, not company. I want things around me that make me smile, not take up space. 

The weird balance that follows loss is hard to explain. Part of you wants to be surrounded by a bunch of new people who don’t know what happened. Part of you wants to only be surrounded by people who know exactly what you’ve been through over the last two years. Ultimately, you just want people who can look you in the eye on a bad day, and not pity you, not belittle you, but just see your hurt and continue to look you in the eyes and show you gentle respect.

Certain things feel good. They pacify. Other things are harder to wake up for, but they promote healing.

I have always believed in treating symptoms if you can’t treat the illness. Nothing solidified that for me more than watching the horror that comes with chemotherapy, radiation and overtly invasive surgeries. You have to treat the patient, even if sometimes, the thing they need isn’t what you want to give them. Doctors squirm at prescribing pain killers but never bat an eye at digging a hole into a vein in your chest through which they can inject poison. Maybe patients need both. Maybe people need both—solutions that hurt but also the acknowledgement that they do. I believe in treating symptoms, but I also believe in admitting that you have a condition that you cannot predict, ascertain or control.

Grief works much the same. Some days, you need to accept that you hurt too bad to push it. Other days, you need to talk about the fact that your ribs are the only things that hold you together and why. 

The worst part of all of it is that sometimes the only person you want to talk to is the person you lack. 

When I started missing the privilege I had of taking care of my mom, I realized that I don’t feel my age. I don’t feel like I’m on the brink of life. I feel like life happened to me, and one day I’ll get to try a different version of it.

I love the people in my life, and so many of them take way too much time out of their weeks to listen to me. There’s no “but” to that. I truly do.

Some days, I feel like I can’t go home until I stop by to touch her headstone. It’s ritualistic and damn near pointless. I mean, there’s truly nothing in the action. But sometimes, I need to go and trace her name with my fingers, just like all the melodramatic teen fiction characters do, and say “thank you for what we had.”

Some days, I need to acknowledge her in a world that will slowly forget her. To show respect. To honor her. To give her a piece of my day. To tell her, and God, thank you. Thank you for what we had.

I don’t believe that mom is looking down on me as I type this. Mom didn’t believe in that version of heaven. But still I carry her with me.

Mom had a charm bracelet. For every milestone in her cancer treatment, I gave her a bead to add to her bracelet that included a message of encouragement or empathy. The last one read: “What’s the bible verse for ‘this sucks.’?” The day I tried giving it to her, there was no particular reason. There wasn’t a procedure, a hard treatment or any of the other things that would have prompted me to give it to her. I just wanted to encourage her. She gave it back to me, and instructed me to give it to her when she had gotten through her first treatment for the tumor in her liver, when we had more answers, when there was something to recognize as a milestone. 

She never got that charm. 

The days following her death, I put it on a chain and hung it around my neck.

I still can’t help but think that she knew all along. 

Maybe God was calling her home while we were begging for more time.

And that’s okay. He knew what we couldn’t have foreseen, the reality ahead of us that we wouldn’t have been able to look in the eyes at that point. 

Sometimes, I just have to remind myself that it’s okay to have a bad day. That I’m not unloveable because of the way my heart hurts. Sometimes I have to remind myself that God sees me trying just as much as he sees me stumbling.

There are so many things I can’t think about just yet. The holidays, football season, the rest of my life—I still have to wake up to remember that she won’t be here for it.

It’s all I can do to be thankful that she’s still alive in my dreams.