With the many flyers and newsletters we receive from the cemetery and our Hospice counselor, I've read a lot about grief. One thing that is always said is that the mind will kind of safeguard itself by only allowing you to think about things when you're ready. I have physically felt times when my mind kind of shut down over the past few months, when I started to feel such intense emotions, that my mind just stops working. I know that, to some degree, I have felt my brain safeguard against total meltdown.
Over this last weekend, we drove up to Ashlee's house to support and cheer both her and Russ on as they ran Ragnar. We left on Friday morning, made it there in time to make posters with all of the kids, see her run through her hometown, have dinner with my Mom (who is there to watch their girls for Ragnar and while they go on an anniversary trip this week-- so fun!), cheer Russ on as he began one of his "Legs," and then drove home on Saturday morning. It was perfect!
Their team name was R.O.U.S-- Ragnarians/Runners Of Unusual Speed. A fun spinoff from The Princess Bride.
As we were driving up through Seattle, I put on a pair of headphones and seriously concentrated as I listened to a book. It wasn't an earth-shattering book, but you'd think it was a lifeline, I was concentrating so hard. I kept my eyes down, and tried as hard as I could not to think about where we were. I just didn't want anything to mar the reason we were driving up North. But the way home was a little different. The family wanted to listen to music on my phone, so I didn't have my book. Because I didn't have something new to concentrate on, I didn't look down, I experienced Seattle. It wasn't as hard as the first time going through, but it opened up the remaining 3.5 hours to reflect on some of the horrors that we survived both in Seattle, and after Seattle was no longer an option.
Grief is weird. Sometimes I can look at something logically, yet feel so differently about it in my heart. I remember why I did/thought/prayed for some things, yet when I look back on it, through my grief, I feel such warring emotions about certain instances. One of those was because of my fear.
I never had fear about seeing Caden again in Heaven, or that this was our Heavenly Father's Plan for my Caden, but I did fear for Caden's pain. I feared for myself as I watched my son go through pain that I couldn't even imagine. And that's saying something, because the pain he'd felt over the past few years was mind-blowing. But none of that pain had ever taken his life. And we were steamrolling towards death pain, and I was out-of-my-mind scared. I reminded myself that when our Savior was in Gethsemane, He, too, was a little scared.
Luke 22:42 Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.
I perceive this as Jesus showing his faith that he would do what His Father asked, but that he, too, was
(maybe) scared of the pain.
*I am not a scholar. I don't know if that's really what he meant as he prayed, it is just what I think he meant.
I remember the phone call from Sue on June 7th, 2017, saying "It's not good, sweetheart," and the wracking sobs that I had for the remainder of the day. I remember talking with Randy that night, while laying on our pillows, dazed, hurting, and beyond scared. We both commented that we wished it was all over, already. And then we stared at each other, wide-eyed and white-faced, asking, "
How can we wish he was already gone?!" We didn't wish he was gone, we knew we were just freaking scared, but we did wish it to be over, to be finished watching him suffer, to have him free of pain forever.
Trying to capture how much the tumors were pressing his belly out. He looked pregnant, they were so big.
I will always remember how he asked to be tickled to distract him from the pain.
Again, when Caden started to feel pain and started throwing up more and more, I remember many times on October 3rd praying, "Heavenly Father,
please, take him right now!" Over and over, I'd look at my son and just pray for his death, pray for his release from the pain. And when he finally could feel no more pain, I wished with my whole soul I could have him just one more minute, to tell him just one more time that I loved him. I will never forget how it felt to run into our room after hearing that he was gone, and feeling this
immense, crushing sorrow, wanting to scream up to the heavens, "CADEN, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!!!" Heavenly Father had answered my prayers exactly-- He took my son soon after his pain came in earnest. It was the most beautiful heartbreak.
Dressing him.
Now, as I remember through my grief, I am having those warring emotions. It seems that the entire drive home was filled with self-loathing. I miss him so, so much, exacerbated by our drive through memory lane, how could it ever have been possible that I actually prayed that my son should die? How could I have almost wished away his life? What kind of mother begs for her child to die? Logically
I know that what happened back then was completely justified, that what I have been feeling since Saturday is wrong, and sad, and not the right frame of mind, but in my heart, in my very soul even, it feels heavy and real and raw right now. I got the exact answer to my prayers, but my grief looks back on it in surprise and devastation-- "Stephanie, how could you do that?!"
I am still in my ocean of grief, where I have been fighting the current and storms since October. Maybe since June 7th. Maybe since January 31, 2014. These last few weeks have felt easier to swim, almost like I've been floating on my back without exerting as much energy, unsure where to swim to for an escape, or if an escape is even near. But a storm has started up again, pouring difficult memories into my mind, drowning me in confusing and hurt-filled emotions, threatening to swallow me up. I am swimming with all of my strength right now. Swimming for my family. Swimming for my son. Swimming for my Heavenly Father. Swimming for me.
