Patience to Endure

Tag: suicide

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    “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

    Hope is born from and in despair. That is my truth. Sometimes hope shows up like fireworks against the dark night sky, gloriously and brilliantly. It’s presence is awe inspiring and unmistakable. But other times I feel as if I am looking in a “Where’s Waldo” book.  Though they tell me it is there it takes more work than one would think to find it. It doesn’t matter how it appears, though, I am just grateful it does.

    On February 10, 2011 my husband committed suicide. I think every suicide is a shock whether or not the person has had a long history of depression, addiction, mental health issues, or tragic events they simply could not handle. Suicide goes against every natural instinct in the animal kingdom yet it is chosen by those for whom the pain of living is greater than the pain of dying. However, the pain doesn’t go away. I know it is cliché but the pain is given to those who loved them. The terribly ironic part of suicide is that the pain one feels that causes him to kill himself would have, had he just held on longer, gone away. The pain transferred to loved ones left behind is permanent. It may wane but it never ceases to exist.

    Daughters and sons will always miss their lost parent. Every occasion that should be a celebration is tainted and marred by that person’s absence. Sadness is perpetually intertwined. There will be countless moments the survivor whispers, “you should have been here.” The absence is always felt at every holiday and every birthday. Bittersweet becomes our norm. It does not come alone but is accompanied loyally by abandonment, anger, whys, and what ifs. An entire family is robbed. The past is stained and the future broken.

    Gary’s suicide was not preceded by any of the typical warning signs.  There were no whispers of wanting to die and nothing to indicate he had given up. Sometimes death approaches so quickly the unravelling is hardly even noticeable.

    The trauma of his death was compounded by the fact that I was the one to find him. It was a memory forever planted in my mind and would take years before I did not see that image several times a day every single day. It haunted my waking consciousness and night time dreams for a very long time. For a while there was no escape.

    Two days after he died I still had not eaten a bite. Though friends brought food, I just could not force myself to partake.

    “Please, just eat something,” my best friend Deanne begged.

    “The only thing I could eat right now is girl scout cookies,” I replied.

    Five minutes later the doorbell rang. There had been a steady stream of visitors. I  knew I was blessed to feel so loved at a time I felt so completely alone.

    At the door stood my neighbor, Lori who didn’t know Deanne.

    “I’m so sorry,” she said with eyes flooding from compassion. “I brought you these,” she said holding up two bags full of girl scout cookies.

    There it was. The slightest pearl of hope had been born even in the midst of my despair.

    Lori delivered much more than cookies to me.  She brought kindness and sustenance. She delivered relief to my friend who was worried about me. More than that she delivered the reminder that God was ever so close and that He would take care of me. He would provide my every need. If He cared about something so small as cookies, what would He not give me?

    Thankfully, when my husband died I already had a close relationship with God. I hate to imagine how difficult it would have been to try to find Him in the middle of all the confusion.  I knew He was right there carrying me because I knew where He was before disaster hit.

    Some may think girl scout cookies showing up just after I had asked for them  was a coincidence. My life is full of too many of these moments to be called coincidence. I call it divine intervention. I name it the hand of a loving God.

    God is near to the broken-hearted. I imagine it is similar to how I am when my children are ill. My youngest son, Nathan, just recovered from pneumonia and a double ear infections. During his infirmary, he held on to me as if my  very presence somehow made the illness feel less awful. Even in his sleep he was sure to be physically connected to me even if it was just his little hand on mine. By having me close he felt safe. His heart needed my presence because I am still, in his eyes, something bigger than he is.

    He also knows that if I am near his physical needs will be met . When he is sick he is able to tolerate discomfort much less than when he is well. He knows that somehow I am able to assist in lessening the symptoms by giving him medicine or a cool cloth. He is still at that wondrous age when mommy kisses can actually make it all better.

    It isn’t that I am more attentive but I am eager to do more for him. When he needed something to drink I would get it for him even though technically he could have gotten it for himself. But what would that say about me as a mother who would ask her sick child do something for himself when I could?  I wanted to do all that was in my power to take away that discomfort of his illness by letting him rest and regain his strength. I wanted him to know he is so very loved because that does help even in the worst of circumstances. To know you are loved by another ushers in comfort, peace, and strength unlike anything else.

    I love my children the same whether they are at school or sitting in my lap. The value and intensity of my love does not increase or decrease according to their proximity. What does altar is their need to feel my presence based on circumstances so I draw closer. I am available. I will do anything to help them including watching YouTube on end (a mother’s ultimate sacrifice, I would argue).

    When my husband died I was ill. I was hurt. I was in a new level of despair I did not know existed and I wasn’t sure there was a bottom. For days and weeks it felt as if I was free falling but I was not alone. I had friends and family who though they could not be in that vortex with me, I could hear their shouts of love and encouragement. I could feel their prayers. I would catch an inkling of hope. I had days I only hoped I would be able to hope again.

    Most of all, I had a God who would give me girl scout cookies.

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  • Just Say Something

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    Before October 26, 2001 I can honestly say I never wondered what it would be like to have child with special needs. Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s there was no such thing as inclusion. The kids with special needs had their own classroom at the end of the hall. We never interacted with them. I wish I could say I was kind but I never had the opportunity to be anything to them.

    I never wondered what those families were like. I didn’t consider what challenges the parents faced and how their siblings coped. I never wondered what kind of adjustment, what paradigm shift, would have to be made physically, emotionally, even spiritually when given a child with special needs. It was the furthest thing from my mind and remained as such until the moment my then husband brought our second born son to me after my cesarean section.

    “Here is our son. He has some anomalies, isn’t he beautiful?” Gary said showing me my barely five-pound baby wrapped in a blanket.

    Gary was a maternal fetal medicine specialist. His practice specialized in high risk pregnancies. He performed ultrasounds for the hospital. In fact, I had four different physicians scan my womb while pregnant with Wesley. Early on they thought there might have been an issue with his heart but it seemed to naturally resolve by the time I was 20 weeks pregnant. We were given the “all clear.” How, I wondered, could there be anomalies and not one of those physicians saw any?

    “Anomalies? What anomalies?” I asked not sure what emotion was speaking.

    “He has a hypospadias, clinodactyly, and these broad thumbs. He is a little small and has central hypotonia. The geneticist will come see him in the morning,” Gary said as if explaining an interesting case.

    My mind began racing. Having worked with Gary I knew the adage MFM specialists used. When doing an ultrasound one anomaly was probably nothing, two might be something, but three was almost always a syndrome.

    “Do his toes and fingers count as one or two anomalies?” I asked searching. “Is that more than three?” I asked as panic settled in my voice.

    I glanced around the operating room. No one was smiling. No one would make eye contact. It was as somber as a funeral.

    “We will see what the geneticist says,” Gary replied.

    When Emerson, my first son, was born my hospital room was filled with flowers and adorable stuffed bears. There was a steady stream of visitors and squeals as they delighted in my perfect little boy. When Wesley was born there were no flowers. There were no stuffed animals. No visitors came.

    At the time it felt much like rejection. It compounded my grief because it felt like no one was happy for me. Yes, he was not physically perfect but he was born and he was mine. Was that not cause for celebration? Yet no one came. No one celebrated for or with me. We were avoided by everyone except one couple who were dear friends and our families.

    When Gary’s father called after we already returned home from the hospital I finally realized why people avoided us.  They did not know what to say. This became painfully obvious during the awkward conversation with my father in law.  After initial stutters and silence he offered, “I am so sad about the baby” as if my child had not been born at all.  His heart was true and his motives kind. However, I wanted to hear “congratulations!” I wanted to hear that my baby’s birth was the reason for as much joy as if he had been born without challenges. I did not want to have to reassure him that everything would all right. At that moment I wasn’t even sure myself. It hurt to hear someone feel sad my child was born, at least that was what my heart heard. Yet I knew even then that what he said was well intentioned and I appreciated his effort.

    It is human nature to avoid uncomfortable situations. As someone who has been on the receiving end of a few very difficult situations I know how silence is profoundly lonely. It is painful. It is a void no one wants to feel.

    On the other hand, people often resort to cliché’s when unsure of what to say. Though those are well-meaning they often end up falling short and end up causing harm. When Wesley was born I often heard, “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” This would always bother me. My intention is not to get into a theological debate but I, personally, believe that life absolutely hands us more than we can handle. While I don’t believe God causes it, He allows it. If we only faced that which we were capable of enduring there would be no depression, no anxiety, no addiction, no suicide, no need for God.

    After my husband died I almost cringed when people would say, “He is in a better place.” Those of us reeling from suicide know our loved one isn’t supposed to be in a better place yet. He is supposed to be here with us. It also brings to the surface the reminder yes, he is where there is no more pain and no more suffering but I am here still, in indescribable pain and intractable suffering because of his absence. It fuels the anger and abandonment we are already trying desperately not to feel.

    I teach my children when they don’t know what to say to not resort to clichés.  There are even times Bible verses can hurt. When someone is in mourning and she hears, “Ya know, the Bible tells us blessed are they who mourn for they will be comforted” it does little to help. While it is true, when one is in the depths of mourning one often does not yet see the blessings. She just sees the darkness and the unbearable pain. It may take a long time before she understands what that verse even means. It may even make her feel inadequate or not spiritual enough because she feels a lot of things but blessed is not one. She may feel exceedingly grateful for the support and comfort received but knowing gratitude and feeling blessed can be two entirely different understandings when deep in the darkness of despair.

    As in the case with my father-in-law, he said the wrong thing but his heart was trying. Silence feels like not trying. It is avoidance during a time when a friend needs anything but. Saying the wrong thing, for me, felt better than saying nothing.

    When Emerson faced a situation and he knew he needed to say something but didn’t know what that should be I encouraged him be genuine. I explained to him that saying something is always better than saying nothing. Most of all, it is ok to say

    “I do not know what to say. I am here for you and I care, I just don’t know what to say.”

    Just say something.