Rested, Refreshed, and Reset

Last week the kids and I joined my mother on a vacation.  We escaped the cold winter weather for a week in the sun, sand, and ocean.  It was a much needed week “off the grid”. 

While away, I quietly experienced the 2 year anniversary of Tim’s head and neck cancer diagnosis.  It was February 2012 when we received the call that his tonsil biopsy was cancerous.  So much can change in a few minutes on the telephone.  Instead of entering the battle over his 3 year old leukemia diagnosis, as we were anticipating, our lives took a completely new course; a journey unknown to us but known in perfect detail by our Savior.  

I pondered about these past two years on this anniversary day, but didn't mention it to the children.  There are so very many milestones for us to cross over; it seemed senseless to drill yet another date into their young minds.  It still hurt.  The memories are incredibly raw and my emotions are just right there under the surface of my resolve, ready to burst forth at the slightest opportunity.  Alone in the elevator, my mom caught glimpse of a tear and knew the dam was about to break.  I simply said, “Today is the anniversary of his diagnosis” and she knew the depth of my pain.  She and my father walked this road with Tim and me the entire journey.  They never once flinched at dropping everything in their own lives to fill in as parents to our children while we were in various hospitals for treatments over extended periods.  They are incredible individuals and we are blessed to have them as parents/grandparents. 

While I crossed through this anniversary and experienced intense sorrow, something quite amazing happened as well.  I found glimpses of pure joy in the horrible memories that flooded my mind.  JOY?  You might be puzzled by this declaration, which is understandable, so please let me explain.  I have run the gamut of emotions since Tim’s passing last month.  I have had deep depression, sorrow, anger, frustration, and fear; along with peace, understanding, calmness, gentleness, and laughter.  The pendulum of grief swings wide.  This past week, I experienced the joy that puts a smile on your face, a song in your heart and a bounce in your step.  

The main thought that God keeps putting in my mind is focused on Tim’s freedom.  

He is finally free of the mental stress from 26 years of dealing with cancer or the fear of its return.  He is completely free from the frustration of the many changes his earthly body endured throughout this 2 yearlong battle.  He is absolutely without the burden of pain that cancer brought him.  He doesn't have to worry about being brave anymore.  As much as I want Tim back right here by my side for years and years to come, simply knowing that he is in the presence of our Lord brings tears of joy to my eyes!  

I am so happy for him (and a wee bit jealous to be honest).  2 Corinthians 5:8 tells us that, for Christians, to die is to be “present with the Lord” or another translation reads “at home with the Lord”.  I love this!  As much as I treasure creating a comfortable, safe haven within the walls of our home for my family, God has created the BEST home for each of His children.  Tim is at home with his Lord.  {sigh}

 

My Tim was curious by nature.  He always wanted to know the full story.  He liked having all the details and facts.  He was an explorer, always eager to have fun, and full of intrigue and laughter.  I smile thinking about his elation in finally being able to see the whole picture.  The story of his time here on earth has been revealed to him.  He was often puzzled by how some people were allowed to beat cancer and others weren't.  Now, he has the ability to see the purpose behind his suffering and he is no doubt, discussing the ins and outs of the details with Jesus with a fresh, new perspective.  He has had his “aha” moment.  I can almost hear him whispering for me to “Hang on, babe” because heaven is better than we can dream of with our limited earthly minds.  I can see his brilliant smile and know he will be so excited to show me around when it is my turn to join him. 

I have mentioned before that life just keeps going, regardless of the stage of grief one is in.  I mean, I guess I could curl up in a ball and deny its existence for a while if I really wanted to, but eventually I would have to get up, go to work, pay the bills, buy the groceries, cook the meals, etc. again.  So I don’t really see a purpose in shutting down.  However, I believe my mother-in-law stated it best when I was visiting with her on the phone today about my recent vacation.  She said, “It must have been good to get away and reset.  You have been going a million miles an hour and needed something to just reset you, didn't you?”  She hit the nail on the head.  That’s exactly what this vacation did for me.  

It was time away from the constant managing of details, the dealing with death and its aftermath, the juggling of so many decisions.  It was a “reset” button that has allowed me to slow down my pace, breathe deeply again, refocus my attention, and re-prioritize my agenda.  It was needed more than I could have ever imagined.  

And now, I feel as though I can make clearer decisions and really drink in my satisfaction with my Lord.  Colossians 1:11, "May you be strengthened with all power, according to His glorious might, for all endurance and patience, with joy,"  

My deepest desire is to glorify His name.  After all, “God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him.” (John Piper)

So I continue on this path trying to walk in obedience to my Savior and trusting Him with my future.  I am a long way still from liking the journey, but with my rested, refreshed, and reset mind I am continuing to move forward and am finding some moments of joy…much sooner than I anticipated, and welcomed just the same.

God is good all the time!

Valentine's Day....My 1st Holiday as a Widow

How does one prepare to celebrate their first holiday as a widow?  Oh the irony of this milestone being Valentine's Day.......

Today marks one month without my Tim.

It was on Valentine's Day 2000 when we found out we were expecting our second child.

This would have been our 20th Valentine's Day together...

...which means our 19 year anniversary is coming closely on its heels (March 11th).  That day will fall on the two month anniversary of his death and will be followed closely by Tim's 46th birthday (April 3).  Talk about "ripping the band-aid off".

OUCH!

I feel paralyzed just thinking about each "first" that will occur this year.  But these three...they are way too soon and spaced entirely too closely together for me to wrap my brain around.  And then boom, our oldest will turn 15 in May.

I read a list titled 5 Stages of Grief this morning and thought, "Stages?????  Really?  I feel like I am experiencing EACH and EVERY one of these in a sharp, jagged-edged, kaleidoscope of jumbled emotions.  They are supposed to be stages???"

Oy vey.

Stages would be nice, then I would know where I am and what to expect next.  I prefer "neat and tidy" in all areas of my life, emotions included. Grief is everything BUT neat and tidy.

It's odd really.  When you stop to think about it.

The fact that life goes on for those of us left behind.  Whether we want it to or not; it    just    does.

There is school and there is work.  There are friendships and activities. There is church and Bible studies.  We have chores and responsibilities. In many ways it is good for us to be busy.  In some ways it isn't.  The balancing of it all is difficult and exhausting and then suddenly another day is over.  Throughout every day I am constantly thinking about Tim.  What he would think.  How he would react.  Sometimes horrible flashes of his suffering enter my minds eye and my heart aches all the more; but there are also thoughts that bring smiles and laughter.  The recent Facebook movie of a friend brought an onslaught of beautiful memories to me.  This (slightly blurry) photo (taken by a kid) of Tim and I going on a date night was in her video.

Our friends had come over to watch our (three at the time) children so we could go on a romantic date to one of our favorite restaurants.  I even remember what we ordered.  (Oh how we loved that lobster bisque and don't even get me started on those button mushrooms!)  We treasured our date nights together where we would sit and visit about our goals and dreams.

That is one of the things I miss most.

Our easy conversations about anything and everything.  The comfortable way we could share our hopes for the future with one another.  The trust we had in each other to be "secret keepers" when sharing our fears, failures, and frustrations.  How he would listen and offer advice or guidance for me when I needed it.  How he valued my input in his decisions.  I miss being his sounding board and having him be mine.  Oh how I long to hold his hand and pray with him again.

When Tim passed away and I began cleaning out drawers and closets, I found three cards that he had purchased to give to me.

He never even signed them, but they made me cry just the same.  I envision him standing at Target with his soft hair growing back over his bald head that was tucked into his Thunder stocking cap; his wool hunting socks pulled up to his knees underneath his blue jeans that were belted tightly (because "fat matters" and he was always cold after losing 80 pounds in the battle).  I see him with his sweatshirt on under his black jacket, perusing the cards for the perfect message to give me, his "bride" (that's what he still called me pushing two decades into our love story).

Regardless of the stabbing pain the tumor constantly caused or how self-conscious he felt now that it protruded from his face and bled often....he took the time to slip to the store, and knowing his days of driving were coming to a close, he selected multiple cards to tuck back and give me in the months to come.

I miss his selfless love.

I miss sneaking encouraging Scriptures onto his pillow for him to find at night.

I have no idea how to survive these upcoming milestones, but I DO KNOW that I will.  By the grace of God, I will walk through these months and come out stronger on the other side.  And somehow, simply knowing that God will guide me (and even carry me if need be) through this season, makes me willing to keep moving forward with my eyes on my Lord and my thoughts on eternity.  Because, you see, life does keep on going and I have to choose whether I will participate in it or lock myself away in this grief.  Tim loved life and lived it large.  He would want me to choose to live for Jesus and to lean deeply into Him for my strength and comfort.  This doesn't mean I can't cry or miss him (which is a good thing, because I could strap a bucket around my neck to catch the unexpected tears at this point).

It means that my grief is intermingled with hope.

It doesn't necessarily make the process easier, but it does make it different from those who grieve without the hope of being reunited with their loved ones in the presence of a Savior.

May I be honest?  It still stinks.  I'm incredibly lonely and longing for my Tim.  I am certainly not at a point where I can paint a rosy picture out of this mess, but I know the One who can!  And truth be told, I am eagerly anticipating what my Lord and Redeemer will continue to create in my future from the love Tim and I shared in my past.  A love that lives on through our children.  A love that I will treasure until the moment I see him again.

The Lonely Ache

I am lonely.  It is a loneliness that having a room full of people surrounding me cannot quench.  It is a deep-in-the-soul aching.  It is an all-encompassing ache that is specifically for my Tim.  Our marriage was based on Biblical principles and we truly took the "leave and cleave" portion of our vows seriously.  

God made us one.  

Death has separated me from not only my Tim, but also from a portion of myself that was interwoven with him.  (I was pondering these very thoughts when I read a devotional this week that shared the same perspective.  It was reaffirming for me to hear other widows share this thought as well.) 

Grief is weird.  Like, really baffling weird.  Tim passed away on Saturday afternoon, January 11, 2014.  My mother or my sister slept with me in our bed for a full week after his passing.  They say my sleep was fitful; full of whimpering and hyperventilating nightmares.  I don’t remember much about that, to be honest.  I only know the ache.  I know this bottomless pit of loneliness and this grief.  I am grieving for the love of my life, my one and only teammate.  At times when awake, my heart physically feels pain and my breathing is labored.  I assume this is what I am experiencing in my sleep as well.  I guess that is when my guard is down the most.  

Because we were joined by God in holy matrimony, I grieve for Tim and I am grieving for the part of Lori that he took with him when he left.  We were so intricately woven together that it was impossible for Tim to be taken without it ripping me in half.  So here I am, 17 days out and still with a gaping hole and loose threads straggled every which way.  And of course, still with the loneliness. 

The kids and I have an amazing support system full of family and close friends; but the only one I want to talk to is Tim, the only hand I want to hold is his, the only hug I want to feel is the one from my husband. 

Taken on Tim's final day.
I had no idea it would be our last photo together.

When the grief grabs hold so tightly that my body is racked with sobs and I cry out to Jesus for comfort, my God reminds me that I am His bride too.  He reassures me that He can and will be all of the things to me that Tim was.  That just as Tim and I leaned heavily on God throughout our marriage, I can lean heavily on Him as a widow.  He is constant, unchanging, solid and faithful.  God is here; right here, where I am.  He is quietly and delicately binding up the loose strings of my gaping hole and rebuilding me into who He has designed me to be.  He alone can fill the empty void left behind in me when He called Tim home to heaven.  Oh sure, I could try to fill it up on my own with busyness, food (I tend to be an emotional eater), bad habits or other human people; but that would never hold in the long run.  For a fulfilled life, I must let God indwell the hole with Himself and tend to the mending of all my loose ends. 

In order for me to get through each day, (and honestly, sometimes it is just an hour by hour surrender) I am focusing on eternity.  Keeping my eyes on the eternal perspective rather than my circumstances is allowing me to put my feet on the floor each morning and take each step throughout my day.  I am brand new to this widow gig.  My heart aches with knowing Tim will never return, but my head is confused and still looks for him to walk down the hall, or be sitting on his chair in our closet, to be standing at his bathroom counter trying to clear his throat.  I awake in the night and panic that I can’t hear him breathing.  I sit up and look for his hospital bed, only to find both it and him gone.  I keep re-living his final breath over and over in my mind.  It is a constant choice to train my mind on Scripture and joy; thankfulness and surrender.    

For 16 years my home and family have been my full time job and I took my “stay-at-home” wife/mother responsibilities extremely seriously.  I worked hard at making a comfortable home for Tim and our children, desiring for them to be able to be at complete rest when they entered this sanctuary.  Now I am adding sole provider to that job description, as well as sole parent, sole Spiritual adviser, sole everything….and it is overwhelming.  Yesterday, after a long 9 hours in the office and then a few hours cheering on our girl from the basketball stadium seats, I started preparing dinner (still in my heels) at 8:40PM. 

 

Sauteing veggies for homemade chicken noodle soup.

It made me laugh.  I felt like such a failure, knowing that I intended to have several steps of the meal prepared in advance, but never got to those items on my weekend to-do list.  The old Lori would have been better prepared and organized.  Do you want to know how my children responded to this “monumental failure” in my book?  

With grace. 

With thankful hearts that I was cooking a healthy meal for them. 

Apple pie didn't come out of the oven until well past bedtime.
Another "fail"!

These kids of ours are something else.  Their Daddy modeled grace and gratitude every day of their lives together and seeing them respond so kindly to me was as if God dropped a tiny droplet of love into the gaping hole of loneliness that is myself.       

Be Still...

Lord, You want me to “be still”….

"The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still.” - Exodus 14:14

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”- Psalm 46:10

I know what You want for me, but at times I am incapable of “being still”.  My mind wants to race off on its own rants of fear and confusion.  My heart wants to shatter into millions of tiny shards of pain.  My emotions feel like an ocean storm tossing to and fro.

But then, You already know that I am not able to remain still on my own.  Your command for me to be still has more to do with surrender and less to do with my own ability (for apart from You, I have no good thing-Psalm 16:2). 

“You answer us with awesome deeds of righteousness, O God our Savior, the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas, who formed the mountains by your power, having armed yourself with strength, who stilled the roaring seas, the roaring of their waves, and the turmoil of the nations.  Those living far away fear your wonders; where morning dawns and evening fades you call forth songs of joy.”-Psalm 65:5-8

“You rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them.”-Psalm 89:9

“He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.”-Psalm 107:29

It is not my responsibility to be still but to simply humble myself before You and depend on You to create stillness within me.  For with the stillness You provide, comes the joy You have promised.

 “The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy…Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.  He who goes out with weeping, carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.”-Psalm 126:3,5-6

“They will celebrate your abundant goodness and joyfully sing of your righteousness.”-Psalm 145:7

“Indeed, you are our glory and joy.”-1 Thessalonians 2:20

“Splendor and majesty are before Him; strength and joy are in His dwelling place.”-1 Chronicles 16:27

Thank You, Lord for creating stillness and a joy within me.  “Even if” the journey I am on is hard.  “Even if” my dreams didn’t fit within Your will.  “You have made known to me the paths of life; you will fill me with joy in Your presence.” (Acts 2:28) and I trust You! 

 

 

 

 

 

Hospital Bed and Love

There is a hospital bed….IN MY HOUSE.  This is real.  Like the baldness made us realize the effects chemo was having throughout Tim’s body even on the non-hospital weeks.  This bed slaps me in the face with the rapidly approaching end-of- life reality.  It was no fun in the hospital; it is less fun in my home.

 

Cannot think of a better use for the quilt my mom made
me last Christmas out of Tim's shirts!

“Awkward” and “out of place” don’t even sum up the appearance of this contraption in my bedroom.  Tim wasn’t even able to gain consciousness as the bed was being constructed a mere 3 feet from him.  I stood there watching, with my dad by my side (as he has been throughout this entire journey).  I may have had a minor emotional moment as the bed was being assembled.  I may have let a tear slip down my cheek and may have had to bite my lip and take a deep breath to stave off the ugly cry, all while internally begging God to calm me so I could maintain composure. 

He did, because He is good like that...and He LOVES me. 

I know I have said it before, but this hospice stage is difficult.  We have spent nearly two years fighting hard every single day to not end up right where we are at.  And it stinks.  And it is weird to be expected to suddenly change brain gears into one where we aren’t fighting to survive anymore.  Our minds know that there is nothing more to be done, but our hearts still hold out hope that someone will step in with a solution. 

Somehow, seeing this hospital bed within the sacred space of our master bedroom feels like another failure…another inability to conquer…another realm of giving up. 

It hurts.  It hurts in a way that takes my breath away and pierces my heart.  It hurts in a way that courses hot tears down my face in the privacy of my home office while my children play upstairs.  Silent sobs rack my body. 

I tell God that I want to yell “It’s not fair!  Take someone else.  Take someone who isn’t good.  Take someone who doesn’t love his family so well; someone whose presence won’t be missed every second of every day in a crushing way.  Don’t take this man!  Don’t rip apart THIS family.  We work so well together.  We have such joy.  We truly cherish each other’s company.  We aren’t perfect, but we were doing life well, serving You.  Please, don’t take him!  Take someone who has lived their life, not this 45 year old man who has made plans with me to travel in retirement and spoil our grandbabies together and host big holidays.”  And then after I blow my nose for what feels like the thousandth time, and I dry my eyes and sit in the stillness of my Lord’s presence,

He reminds me.

This earth is not our home.  This life is not what we were created for.  He is here.  He is Immanuel, “God with us”.  He will never leave us.  He is faithful and He is true.  He is big enough for me to lean into; He is strong enough and patient enough to listen to my rants and to calm my aching heart.  God loves me with a love the depths of which I cannot understand.  It is unconditional, it is un-overwhelmable, it is non-fluctuating, and it is indispensable.

His love for me….

               is patient and kind.

               does not envy, nor does it boast.

               is not prideful, it does not dishonor others, is not self-seeking.

               is not easily angered and keeps no record of wrongs.

God’s perfect love for me…

does not delight in evil but rejoices with truth.

always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

never fails.

 

So, in this moment, on this eve of Christmas Eve, and yes, even with this hospital bed in my home…I choose to remember that I AM LOVED.  I am loved by a God who is Himself Love.  I am loved by the Great I Am. 

And that is enough.

HE is enough!

Roller Coasters

We are a fun-loving family.  I wouldn't necessarily call us "thrill-seekers"
(unless we are skiing down a mountain....then some of us are definitely more seekers-of-the-thrill than others)...

a favorite ski run of Tim and the kids

 

But we all do love a good roller coaster. 

 

 

We have often referred to this cancer journey as a roller coaster.  It is an unwelcomed roller coaster that does not induce joy.  This end time with hospice is no different.  My Tim will have days where he is awake and alert for 6-7 hours.  We call these the "good days"; he recently had three good days in a row.  Was even strong enough to leave the house on short errands with me.  Mixed in with the good days are what we call the "sleepy days".  Sleepy days come on suddenly and without true warning.   He may wake up mid-morning to early afternoon, go through the tedious process of clearing out his throat, taking his meds and administering a feeding through his tube; only to find himself too exhausted to stay awake.  This process could repeat two or three times throughout the day.  Some sleepy days allow him to take a few business calls in the minimal, sporadic hours he is awake.  Some sleepy days find him only moving from the bed to use the restroom and clear his throat.  On average, a sleepy day finds him resting 20-22 hours our of a 24 hour period. 

 

It is this constant up and down that sometimes feels unbearable.  

 

 

 

 

When the sleepy days are linked together three and four at a time, we begin to think that the end is imminent.  Then, just as we are preparing ourselves for the inevitable and teetering on making the calls to our family and friends, he rebounds remarkably with a good day.  It is a crazy roller coaster with unexpected dips and turns, steep climbs up and stomach-lurching, full-speed drops.

 

Quite frankly after nearly two years of this constant ride, we are beginning to experience whiplash and nausea.  So this last week, when Tim had a string of three good days followed by a full 22 hours in bed; he mumbled to me that he can't make his body wake up anymore.  I would go to check on him often and he would state that he was trying to get up, but just needed a few more minutes.  (This happened roughly every 2 hours.)  I could tell he was scared that he couldn't get himself awake.  I assured him that this was his normal cycle and we weren't going to worry about this sleepy phase quite yet.  If he couldn't rebound in another 3 days, then we would allow ourselves to begin to think that this really was the end of life process that we have read and been counseled about.  But until we reached that point, he should just let his body rest and store up some energy for his next round of good days. 

 

We have always been very open with our children about Tim's diagnosis and prognosis.  Bless them.  They have endured this roller coaster right along with Tim and I.  They have juggled the ups and downs and still maintained their grades and their extra-curricular activities.  On the way to school this week I was repeating the conversation I had had with their father.  Our daughter looked at me and with the funniest attitude inflection of her voice she paraphrased my message to Tim, "Oh no, honey-child.  We are NOT gonna get on this roller coaster to-day.  We are just gonna stand at the gate and watch it for a while.  We can get on later if we need to."  She cracks us up!  She also summarized our situation perfectly.  

 

Tim rebounded for a long day out of bed (struggled to stay awake the whole time, but was determined to stay in the living room or home office most of the day.)  We are back on the sleepy days again now.  This is day two of this round.  The kids are home for Christmas break.  I find myself realizing that it is possible their daddy will pass away while they are home instead of during their school day.  The logistics of it make me feel as though the pit of my stomach is dropping again.  But, then I hear my girl's voice in my head telling me, "Oh no, honey-child.  We are NOT gonna get on this roller coaster today."  Out of the mouths of babes, huh? 

 

 

 

While we have no choice but to be at the gate of the roller coaster ride.  We do have the ability to refuse to get on with every single fluctuation this disease brings to the death process.  We don't have to become panicky over every tiny detail of the end.  We can focus on remaining calm and loving towards each other.  We can be encouragers to Tim and to one another.  We can follow the guidelines of Scripture and trust that God has Tim's days written in His book of life and that His timing is perfect.  We can cling to the peace Christ offers us and we can rest under the shelter of the Almighty's wings.  And we can hope for more good days to peek through the clouds.

 

The good days tend to make us willing to jump right back on the roller coaster and create beautiful memories in the process.

 

 

 

 

            

 

 

(the good) The Bad and The Ugly

Some days are just harder than others.  I can’t change that fact.  There are days when I accomplish everything on my to-do list with a smile on my face and a pep in my step and then there are the days when I can’t even find my to-do list.  Currently, I typically have strings of “okay” days (just keeping it real) with a scattering of really tough ones in the mix.  Recently, my days are comprised of a long string of hard days with mere glimpses of good moments.  It isn’t very much fun.  I am beyond weary; I don’t even think there is a vocabulary word that could fully describe my level of exhaustion and sorrow.  The stress that I carry around every waking moment is unbearable.

Two characteristics of the old Lori were that she didn’t cry very often (maybe a small leaky eye from time to time, but hardly ever a good bawl fest), and she was hyper-organized.  Oh how I miss that girl!  Right now, I am so far past the point of being organized that I cannot even form a semi-organized thought.  And the crying…..oh for the love of all things purple….it comes without warning and I crumble into a heap of tears and snot.  Twice last week alone, I had to excuse myself from the dinner table to try to regain my composure.  It's the ugly cry too, you know?  The one that contorts your face and is impossible to hide.  Beautiful, I tell you. 

This journey has stretched me into a better person in many ways.  I have grown.  I have changed.  Oddly, I have become softer.  I used to think I was a fairly strong woman.  Now I don’t know if I ever was strong or not, but I do know that I am somehow evolving into a kinder and gentler person.  I am far from strong in this moment.  I am weak, angry, sad, scared, confused, bitter, frustrated, exhausted, and overwhelmed.  I know that the healthy thing to do is to let each of these emotions fully wash over me; to experience them deeply so that I can cross through them into healing.  To hand each and every emotion over to God so He can cleanse me of the negative and nurture the positive.  I KNOW these things, but these past few days I have had to fight this odd desire to just cling to the negative. 

Sitting in a deer blind on the eve of Thanksgiving, I was in tears of gratitude for how God had carried us through these horrific months and all the lessons He has taught me.  Then Thanksgiving dawned and I was M A D.  Dare I say I am mad at God?  Might as well say it, it’s not like He doesn’t already know.  Oh, I have told Him of my anger.  He is a big God and He can handle it.  He forgives me.  I think it is okay to admit being mad at God, we just can’t allow ourselves to get stuck there.  We cannot allow ourselves to sin in our anger. 

The emotional swings have never been as great for me as they are in this particular period of the journey.  I am suffering.  The constant stress of knowing death is approaching and yet trying to keep my children involved and active in their own lives while juggling protecting them from experiencing too much of the death process has worn me slick.  I am irritable.  I catch myself being hyper-sensitive, ungrateful, and selfish

…often. 

People private message me from our support page or this blog and they say how they “loved every second they had with their spouse as he was dying”, how they “were grateful for each and every moment”.  That is lovely for them.  Maybe, (giving them the benefit of the doubt here) their spouses’ journey didn’t stretch out as long as our “terminal” has.  It is possible they didn’t have to wait for the inevitable death quite as long as we have been waiting.  Did they really lie through sleepless nights counting the long seconds between their husbands’ breaths with joy in their hearts and smiles on their faces?  (We have made it past 19 seconds now; it is agonizing waiting for that next breath.)  Or is it that they live in a false reality of their own memories? 

(See, now I am being crazy mean.  What is it with my emotional outbursts?  Why can’t I just let people have their experiences and allow them to be better than or different from my own?)

I find myself desperately hoping that they have altered their memories to fit the bubble they want their grief to fit inside of,

because right here,

in the midst of my grief, fear, and exhaustion,

I don’t love every minute. 

I don’t love it much at all. 

Am I grateful for the fact that Tim saw our daughter’s 13^th birthday?  You betcha! 

Am I humbled that God gave us her first hunting season with her Daddy?  I am deeply humbled! 

Am I thankful for every good day he has with us?  I truly am. 

Does my heart skip a beat each time I hear our son say “Love ya, Dad”.  Absolutely! 

But there are also a whole lot of “seconds” and “moments” that are ugly and horrible.  I am not grateful to watch him suffer.  I do not love watching him grow weaker and more confused.  I do not enjoy smelling the tumor 24/7.  I am not a fan of having to sneak into our room every hour or so to make certain he hasn’t passed away in his sleep yet.  This isn’t “blissful” or “wonderful” for me.  I instead find it stressful and paralyzing.  It is as if I am stuck in this limbo of in-between. 

So truthfully, I really am not entirely a crazy-mean lady.  I do “get” that widows loved caring for their spouses.  I certainly consider it a true honor to serve Tim in this way.  But I don’t love the individual specifics of the situation I am in.  I don’t enjoy every moment of the day-to-day stress of this period in our lives.  I just don't.  And maybe I am nit-picking others comments.  Let's just chalk that up to the new hyper-sensitive Lori that I am not the biggest fan of.  But when people say, "enjoy every moment" and they "would gladly take the hard moments to have their husband be able to hold their hand again", a part of me wants to sweetly and tearfully understand the anguish of their expressions.  And another part of me wants to scream, "REALLY?"; because it is scary for me to attempt to comprehend the fact that missing him will be more painful than watching him suffer 98% of the day.  The fact that this will only get tougher terrifies me.  I am already at my breaking point.  Lots of cracks going on over here, people.     

I just think maybe someone else needs to hear that life isn’t always peachy-keen here in my world.  It’s a lot of heartache and struggle.  It has been a long period of just being stuck in the same place. 

And the frozenness of it…
grieving for and fearing what is to come;
trying to live in each moment knowing it could be the last;
playing all the different death scenarios in my mind and planning how I will protect the kids from what they see and hear

…it is crippling. 

My love for my husband is so deep and so selfless that on his bad days, I wish he were already with Jesus and not having to suffer through the wait.  And on his decent days, I feel guilty for wishing he were with Jesus for the three days before.  This roller coaster is making me nauseous.  I trust God’s timing.  I trust God’s plan.  And I also, at times, find myself mad at the process and confused by the whole situation. 

So there you have it; the current bad and ugly truth of my life.  Thankfully, God’s mercies are new every morning. 

And evidently, so are my emotions.  Wonder what new gems I'll find tomorrow? 

In the meantime, I will just keep
bringing my weariness to the One who can give me rest;  
laying my bitterness at the feet of the cross;
begging for eyes to see the blessings and forgiveness for my negativity;
and asking for His strength to fill me as I face each new day.