Church

I have been reading about “care giver crash” lately. It isn’t a medical diagnosis but is a psychological and physical collapse that occurs when prolonged caregiving suddenly stops. I guess my body was in chronic survival mode. It helped me to stay alert, sleep lightly, and wake quickly so I could care for you. The adrenaline, hyper-alertness, cortisol, and purpose I had for twenty-four years are cruelly and abruptly no more. Apparently it is my nervous system’s way of finally saying “It’s safe to stop now” and years of exhaustion surface all at once. I detest it.

Then the collapse… exhaustion, bodily heaviness, trouble concentrating, waves of grief, headaches, muscle aches, sleep disruption, feelings of disorientation. Unbeknownst to me, my nervous system was carrying a huge load for a very long time. It didn’t feel like it because it was all in the care of you and it was my honor.

Add grief over losing you and gravity is much more than 9.8 meters per second squared. Even the weight of my body in the world is different. Steps are heavier. Sitting up feels like exercise. Everything is a challenge.

When your big brother Emerson was little I remember watching an anime with him where the hero went to another planet to train. The gravity was much heavier so when he went back to his original planet he was stronger, faster and could jump higher. The extra gravity worked to his advantage. Perhaps that will be my case. I hold on to hope still yet.

But I went to church today. Gravity made it hard to stand. The music started. I lifted my chin and sang the words. As if enveloped in thick mud it took all my strength but I did it, sweet boy. I raised my hands in worship. Worship isn’t an emotion. It is not a feeling. It is a necessity and I felt better for it knowing God is worthy and realizing you are on the other side of eternity singing praise. For a moment, once again but altogether different, together we sang.

We were going to go out to eat with Grandma and Aunt Dolly later but I just couldn’t. We never did that before because the few times I did go to church I always had to go straight home to catheterize you. Today wasn’t the day to start that tradition. It just didn’t feel right yet. It may never feel right but, I hope, it will eventually feel less wrong.

On the way home Aunt Dolly started coughing. I still said out loud “Aunt Dolly coughing. Better do something!” even though you weren’t in the car to laugh. Do you remember how I started that game because you would get scared sometimes when you started coughing? Whenever you were scared we would make a game of it and suddenly the fear was replaced with laughter. The unintended consequence was every time you heard someone cough you would laugh.

I came home and collapsed to the couch. The doorbell rang and it was a friend who has traveled this road. She gave me a book and told me it helped her on her journey. There is something profoundly beautiful when someone who has walked through hell comes back, holds out her hand, and shows you the way.

I am so lost without you, my sweet boy. It is an agonizing pain worse than anything imaginable. I find solace that you don’t feel this pain and you are where it is never dark and all you know is comfort. And someday, my child, you can find me there.