Out of the Abyss
Journal Entry
May 20, 2020
We are gradually climbing out of the abyss.
Yesterday was David's birthday. We went to a subpar but beautifully decorated Mexican restaurant.
Without thinking, I asked David what his favorite part of last year had been. The moment I said it— I regretted it. David's eyes immediately misted over— triggering a fierce stinging in mine— and suddenly both of us were consumed with holding back the inevitable. We picked at our subpar burritos, avoided eye contact, and wrestled with the welling emotions— faces red and blotchy. It took several minutes of shuddery, teary breathing and heavy silence before either one of us could speak.
And— we were at the bottom of the abyss again.
“I'm sorry,” I finally said “that was a really, really stupid question. I wasn't thinking.”
In the quiet without Payson (and the accompanying exhaustion) the grief and loss was painfully fresh and raw. We still carried so much. Together with no distractions, I realized my husband was still hurt and vulnerable— a side of him I don’t know. On some level, this made us strangers. In the rush of life, we didn't feel it as intensely. But alone together, the grief was still here, and still sharp.
And that scared me.
What if we never get over this?
“It would have to be Kalea.” He finally said “All of her. I can't even say a specific moment— just her. And the hospital after she passed— not that it was a favorite— it was just—” he paused.
I nodded knowing exactly what he meant. “It was when I felt the closest to you I've ever been.”
“Yeah.”
And we sat there in the moment.
Him, still fighting tears and thinking but not saying anything. Me, grateful that his twenty-sixth year was behind us and hoping that his twenty-seventh would be better. Wanting my own birthday to hurry and pass to put as much distance between her death and myself as possible.
It's hard to celebrate birthdays when you've experienced a loss. It's hard to accept that your family got smaller instead of bigger as the years went on. It’s hard to come home to the house you moved into as a family of four. It's hard to admit that despite your best efforts, you aren't where you would have liked to be at this point in your life. It's hard to know how to move on. It's hard not to feel the empty ache that settles in when she isn't here to celebrate with us. After loss, there is a sad, strange shadow cast over the “should-be” happy moments. It’s like standing in a shadow that no one else can see. All the colors of life are muted and dull. What is vibrant blue to everyone else is now sober, heavy indigo to you. The shadow of death touches everything, changes everything. These are the things you can't understand until you've personally experienced loss. It’s hard to keep living.
On days like today, all I hear are the words from “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” from the Musical Les Misérables— “There's a grief that can't be spoken, there's a pain goes on and on.”
There are no answers for this. The only answer I come close to feeling is when I’m singing in the car— the one song right now that I can’t sing without tears— “And I will build my life upon your love— it is a firm foundation. And I will put my trust in you alone and I will not be shaken.” (Build My Life, Pat Barrett)
And days, milestones, time, and birthdays pass and we are slowly (painfully) building again. Gradually climbing up out of the abyss— tumbling back down— and struggling to climb out of the depths again. “This is the storm before the calm, this is the pain before the balm, this is the cold before the warm, these are the tears before the song, this is the dark before the dawn.” (The Dark Before the Dawn, Andrew Peterson).
Ten months ago after my fifteen-month old son was diagnosed with Dravet Syndrome— a lifelong, severe, debilitating type of epilepsy— I wrote THIS IS NOT A TRAGEDY in huge, bold, all-caps letters across a page in my journal. Ten months later, I now have the words to finish that statement.— THIS IS A FAITH JOURNEY.