August 7, 2018

Something in me this morning had a feeling that today would carry bad news. The way the rain poured this morning, it was like that morning after. The way rivers rushed out my eyes last night.

As I spent the first hour before the hospital visit, working from home, I asked God if this was Him mourning with/for us. I wondered if this was Him telling me to brace myself.

How unreal it feels, watching my parents spring into immediate action with funeral arrangements. My mom’s driving to my grandma now to pick out clothes for my grandfather. I’m waiting for Kevin to get off work so we can go to the hospital together… I’m not ready.

They told us that yesterday, they deemed my grandfather to be brain dead. There’s no point in keeping him on the machines now, since they’re not doing anything for him.

Before our meeting, my mom and I waited in his ICU room. His hands were even more swollen. His body looked unnatural, like his arms and legs have shriveled up in the past week.

None of this feels real. The fact that starting tomorrow morning, my grandfather is officially gone from this world doesn’t feel like reality.

My chest feels like it’s been violently torn open and my heart is being pulled out in chunks. I already abhor the thought of forcing myself up tomorrow morning to say goodbye. I want to stay in bed and grieve all day. I fight every urge to grab those scissors.

I tried not to break in front of my mom, but as I stood there, knowing I have very little time now with nothing but regret and apologies that his ears cannot hear, I can’t restrain myself.

And, instead of mine, her faith is the one that shines through. I’m the one being comforted by her with reminders that God’s scooping His son into His arms to take him home, that he’s moving on to be with His creator in an eternity where he will no longer suffer.

I know this should comfort me. No more will he have to suffer the frustration of his poor eyesight, weak legs, dentures, and diabetes. No more keeping track of a bazillion pills. I’m reminded of a sermon from earlier this summer. My pastor spoke of how God answers every prayer. He answers requests for healing, though it is not always in this life. But there is no suffering or pain or illness in heaven – those requests for healing are guaranteed in another life, even if not in this one.

I should be comforted. But I’m not.

I am glad that he doesn’t have to hurt anymore. I am glad that he doesn’t have to hurt ever again.

But all of me feels like it’s on fire. And what I long for most right now are cooling arms to comfort me.


I want things to make sense –
time and air and heartbeats and skies.
I want hours to be hours, days to be days and
I want to breathe without the sting of loss and
I want heartbeats to be reliable and
I want the skies to be less blue when I only see dark clouds.
I want things to make sense –
space and laughter and food and sleep
I want to understand how people can be here and then not and
I want to know where laughter comes from when you are also grieving and
I want my appetite back, not just hunger and
I want to know how one person awakes and another never does again.

Things have stopped making sense.


The viewing is on Wednesday evening (7PM). If you are free and would like to come, you are more than welcome to talk to me. The funeral will be Thursday morning, but I currently don’t have details for that.

If you have been asking or wondering how to help me, what you can do for me, and if you’re able to come, just hold my hand, pat my head, wrap your arms around my shoulders and let me weep.

 

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