Journeying

Here I Am

2012-02-17T15:27:00.000-08:00

We continue with our heavy schedule of appointments and physiotherapy and schoolwork and life.

I find it interesting that as we look back at our recent trip, it is the best moments that rise to the top of our conversation. Even Bryn, who had such pain and was hit with the flu, comments on the moments she enjoyed. The negative things have already faded a degree and the things we want to remember have taken precedence.

I find that my life memories have generally followed this same pattern. I look at all the scrapbooks I’ve made throughout the years, and even though there were things I remember that were truly awful, it is the good things I’ve put on paper. And when Myron died, I didn’t sit around thinking, “I just wish I could have taught him to put away his dirty dishes before he left.” I don’t spend much time obsessing about the things that frustrated me or the parts of his personality that at times caused me to look at him and think, “I went into this marriage willingly???” It is the things I appreciate about him that rise to the surface. The good memories, the things I am grateful for. The parts of him that brought us joy.

It is difficult to believe in joy when you are devastated. I can believe in provision; I can believe in God’s goodness; I can believe in mercy. I struggle to believe in the joy of living. Will I ever truly again feel the joy of being alive? Will I ever go to bed at night believing, “Life is good!”? It seems…improbable. From this vantage point. But I know that this vantage point is not the only vantage point I will ever have. So maybe there is hope.

I watched Taeryn and Karson try something they’ve never tried before - downhill skiing. They have lessons through the school we are associated with and have done 2 out of 4 of them. The most difficult thing about it (besides the fear that they might hurt themselves) is that we have to drive by the accident scene both there and on the way back, something I had decided I would never do again. I was planning on cutting out that piece of Canada and pretending it didn’t exist, but that would mean denying the kids the opportunity to try this new sport and that didn‘t seem right either. And so we make the trip out to Hemlock Valley. And I’m glad we do.

I am not a skier. I tried it a few times many years ago, but I could never achieve that graceful, flowing, skis tight together, swooshing down the hill look. I was more the “out-of-control-I’m-so-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-to-run-my-skis-over-your-face” type of skier. When Karson and Taeryn got their little skis and we headed out the door to the bunny slope, I thought, “I am so thankful they get the chance to learn this now.” That was until I got their skis on. First of all, I was trying to get it through their heads that anytime you point a ski DOWNHILL, forwards or backwards, you will slide that direction---its called gravity. Then I explained that the instructor would be out shortly and they would have a lesson, something that Taeryn didn’t hear, because she took one look at the bunny tow and yelled, “I want to go on THAT!!” Karson took that moment to forget the skis-that-point-downhill-go-downhill rule and as I ran to try and stop him from sliding into the wall of the lodge, Taeryn took the opportunity to crawl over to the tow, grab a bar, and begin up the hill. I turned around to see her half way up, hanging on for dear life. Discarding Karson in a snowdrift, I began charging up the slope after her, yelling, “Taeryn, stop! YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO SKI!” Being that I am not an Olympic athlete, she obviously beat me to the top of the slope, pointed her skis straight down and took off, passing me at a breakneck speed, a smile plastered all over her face. As she shot by I turned and began yelling after her, “PIZZA! PIZZA!” (meaning put your skis in a pizza shape to slow down … which meant absolutely nothing to her because SHE HADN’T HAD A LESSON YET!) I watched helplessly as she kamikazied to the bottom, realized that she had no idea how to stop herself, flipped herself on her side and slid to a stop. The tow operator ran over, picked her up, dusted her off, and as I was running back down the hill, I heard her yell, “I want to do that again!”

This time I made it clear she was to wait for an actual teacher, not a mother running after her yelling meaningless food references, and they began their real lesson. And after a few shaky runs and my thinking, “Alright…this is obviously NOT their sport,” they amazed me by suddenly learning to turn, to stop, and the rest was unbelievable. My little ones could ski! And they loved it.

I felt a lot of things that day. To watch children who were once so injured and torn they couldn’t move do something as physical as skiing, was amazing. To watch them do it well, was incredible. To watch them do it well and loving it…heart-soaring. And I felt joy.

A woman I know shared with me her life story of losing a baby to SIDS and a grand-daughter to a brain aneurism and the depression she felt afterwards. “I didn’t want to live,” she said. Even having three other children didn’t do it. She just didn’t want to continue this dreadfully inconsistent thing we call life.

And then her son graduated from High School and she went to the ceremony where she was suddenly filled with such pride and happiness at his accomplishment that she thought if she had ended it back then, walked away from life like she had wanted to, was tempted to, she would have missed all of this. This moment. This wonderful time of watching the son she loved accomplish something that was important to him, and feeling the wonder of it. I remember thinking, if nothing else, Gillian, try to remember all the things you would miss.

Like watching Karson and Taeryn ski for the first time.

Like watching Bryn dance for the first time since the accident at the Remembrance Night we had last month for Myron, and the church full of people that wept with me at the sight of it.

Like watching Lauren perform solo with a Live Band for the first time and blowing me away.

There is joy out there. And I will feel it.

However, I cannot deny the fact that a good deal of my energy is spent trying to find the motivation to keep on living. A friend sat down after church with me and said that every time I smiled it was like a gift to him; that he wanted more than anything for me to be able to suck the marrow out of life…to enjoy what there is. There is probably a place within where I want that too. But it is difficult. And so I am profoundly grateful when the joy is brought to me, like a little gift left on my doorstep, instead of me having to go find it myself. Maybe one day I will have to start searching for it on my own, but for now it feels like God’s grace; rain on a desert spirit.

I was driving home the other night, and the song lyrics, “Here I am to worship, here I am to bow down, here I am to say that you’re my God,” came to my lips. I sang them over a few times and was suddenly struck with the profound belief that God was giving me my “blue-prints”; my directions. I struggle to understand the greater purpose of why I am still here. I heard of a tragic accident last week where the entire family was killed, and I admit, shockingly and horrifyingly…I was envious. Envious that there was no-one to stay behind, longing for something they could no longer have, tormented by a loss of every moment of every day. (Of course I realize that all their extended family and friends would suffer the loss, as would mine. But it is the thought that rushed to mind.) My soul keeps crying out for meaning, for direction, for some sort of understanding that I could hold on to, and I was stranded in a sea of not knowing…until that moment.

Because, I am here to worship.

Because, I am here to bow down.

Because, I am here to say that despite everything, in the midst of my questions, my fear, my anger, my confusion: You are my God. I will declare that You are MY GOD. And if that is all, then that is enough. For now.

Dolphins and Whales

2012-02-01T01:41:00.000-08:00

I am not at my best right now. In fact, I think I may be slowly losing my mind. Or quickly. I can’t keep up to this schedule and all these responsibilities, it’s just too much. And the really sad part of feeling like this, of not overflowing with joy, is that last night we came home from Disneyland.

I was trying to book a trip before the accident, something memorable that we could do as a family. Myron thought Disneyland was the obvious choice. I was more interested in some place exotic. We never got much further than that. Bryn’s surgeon has been urging me to get her having fun before they work on her leg. Once they start, things will get difficult again. So I began the search for something affordable and landed a very inexpensive four day cruise and two and a half days at Disneyland. I have to admit, I was pretty proud of my deals. I think even Myron would have been impressed, especially when I found out I could use my bank points and air miles to cover a significant part of the cost. It gave the kids something to look forward to, something after Christmas, after December 28, that was happy. After all, Disneyland is the “happiest place on earth”, they say. I have to admit, there was a lot to enjoy.

The trip was good in many ways. We rented bikes on Catalina Island and toured the area (Karson ran into the back of a patio chair as we were attempting to find our way through a park that bordered a restaurant. The fact that there was a man in it, trying to eat his lunch made it quite comical…for us; him, probably not so much.) We walked on the beach, ate lots of food, tried to find some sun (I now know that it CAN be cool in Mexico), and watched the entertainment.

What I was not prepared for was how difficult it was to be there without Myron.

The first two days were emotional torture and I found myself thinking, Really? It still hurts this much? I can still be shaken to the core of my being, pulled under by sorrow as reality continues to remind me that he is truly gone? I realized how much the sight of what happened that day has affected me. Pictures float constantly through my mind of his lifeless body, of the children, and I feel so helpless because I don’t know how to stop them. The psychologist wanted me to picture something else when this happens, something to focus on like a mental walk through a park, or sitting in the sand at the beach. Because I love to ride, I chose grooming a horse. That horse has no hair left on it, I’ve mentally brushed it bald.

The second night I went up to the top deck where they had a track. I needed a walk. Every lap I got sadder and sadder until finally I was crying so I stopped and went to the rail. On that last lap, I was trying to picture heaven, trying to believe he was there, but I found myself terrified that maybe heaven wasn`t real. What if it wasn`t real? So I prayed for faith, prayed that God would fill me with the knowledge of what is true. As I rounded that last lap, tears running down my face, feeling like an idiot to be crying while everyone around me was living it up, I kept asking for more faith. Show me, Jesus. Show me something.

And I saw something. Out in the ocean, two spouts of water blew gently up into the sky. I was stunned and looked closer. They were far away, but definitely there were two whales, diving and surfacing in the opposite direction we were travelling.

My school yearbook, oh so many years ago, had us write down something we hoped to happen in life. I wrote that I wanted to see a whale in the ocean. And here were two. But so very far away.

I felt as though God was saying, I will give you the faith, but just a little at a time. I don`t understand this. Why not an abundance of faith? Why just a teaspoon at a time? Why not a breaching whale close up where I could see it, where everyone could see it? The only thing that comes to mind is that maybe God wants me to keep looking. Looking for Him, for where he is at work, for what he wants to show me. There is a journey to be fulfilled, I think, a journey that if handed to me somehow would not do what it is supposed to. Or, maybe, it was just two whales.

The same thing happened two days later. We had a day at sea and I was bound and determined to witness some sea life again. And this time I`d have my camera so I could zoom in on it to see it properly. For three hours I sat by the rail, reading a book, glancing up every few minutes to search the waters for some sign of activity. After several hours I saw a small splash and what I thought was something disappearing under the waves. I reached for my camera and found…nothing. I had left it in the cabin. So up I got, ran down the seven flights of stairs, across to the other end of the ship to where our room was, got my camera and headed back up to the deck. A woman was sitting in the chair next to mine and as I sat down I asked, "So, did you see anything interesting?"

"Weren't you just here?" she asked. "Didn't you see them?" As soon as I had left a large pod of dolphins popped up in the wake of the boat, jumping and playing, circling for fish, babies and all. If there was ever a time I felt like throwing my head back and yelling, ``NOOOOOOO!``, it was right then. In fact, I think I may have done exactly that. Then I shot up to the rail to scan the waters. There, just below, I saw two dolphins in the wake. Snatching up my camera I snapped a shot not realizing it was set on video. The dolphins disappeared and even though I searched for at least another three hours, they were all I saw. I now have a second and a half video of one little dolphin to show for all my time.

It felt similar to the whales. Why not the big picture, Lord? Why not the full view of twenty to thirty dolphins frolicking in the waves? I just got the snippet. Just like the whales, I received enough to know they were there, but not enough to stop wanting more. Not enough to stop looking.

Recently a good friend told how he had learned riding on his motorcycle as a teenager that the reality was he would steer the bike to where he looking. If he looked at the big tree, the bike went into the tree. If he looked where he was supposed to, the bike went there. In life, we move towards where we are looking. So maybe, I need to accept that the very act of searching, of asking, of looking, is part of the plan. Or again, maybe it was just a dolphin.

I know that I cannot see the big picture of life, the view of beginning to end, of how it all works together for the good of those He loves. I can only see snippets, a glance here and there that He is working, that He is real. That He has not left us. I am trying to be grateful for even that, to look in that direction. There are moments when I wish I could just walk away from God, pretend that He didn't exist, that He wasn't real. But I can't. Because he keeps touching me. Nudging me. Making himself seen. To walk away would be futile. He would just walk with me. Loving me anyways.

Disneyland was great, except that Bryn was in some serious pain with her leg. She just couldn`t tolerate the walking. I had to rent her an electric scooter the next day and on the third day we rented a wheelchair which we returned after an hour and a half when the flu bug she, Karson and Taeryn all picked up hit her like a ton of bricks. She spent the final day of Disneyland in bed at the hotel.

Taeryn turned 9, the day we arrived at the magical kingdom. A pretty good thing to happen on a birthday I would think. I let her pick out her presents. She got three princess pins and a water-colour caricature of herself painted by a Disney artist. They gave her a birthday button and Pluto danced a birthday dance. I think. He didn't talk so it was up for interpretation. Our waiter on the ship, a very tall man from Jamaica, had some staff sing to her a couple of days early. Karson asked they could sing at his birthday. "When is your birthday?" the waiter asked in his thick Jamaican accent. March 26, Karson answered. "You come back on March 26 and I`ll sing you happy birthday", the man said. "And you can get me a pony", Karson quipped back. The waiter thought this was hilarious which started a running joke between the two of them. You come back, March 26, the waiter would say every time he saw us. Get me that pony, Karson would happily shoot back. "I hope you`re planning on riding that pony home", I told Karson, "I'm not paying to fly it to Canada." The next night at supper, Karson asked me to butter his bun for him. "Why can`t you do it?" I said. "Its too hard, mom, you do it for me," was his answer. "If you can`t even butter your own bun how are you going to take care of a pony," I remarked as I did the buttering. Smooth as silk, Karson looked at me and said, "l have to butter a pony?"

Smart aleck.

It was hard, being both parents. When we used to go on trips, Myron was the fun guy, and I was the safety net. He`d let them explore and I would yell after them to not climb so high. He thought marshmallows were fine for breakfast, after all, we were on vacation, while I insisted they eat something healthy every once in a while. This time, I had to play both sides. Encourage their fun, reign them in. Get them to risk, put up the boundaries. It was difficult. I missed him in a whole new way.

Especially the night I took them into Encinada. It was dark but the touristy street was open. We had a few hours before the ship set sail so we walked five blocks to the shops. After a while we decided to head back and I came up with the brilliant plan to walk around a different way, instead of merely retracing our steps. After several blocks and Bryn`s insistence that we were going the wrong way, I realized that I had just led my children into the back streets of a Mexican city. There were men sitting in the shadows, dark rooms opening into the alley filled with people drinking, and very little lighting. I stopped us at a corner and looked around desperately in the dark for something familiar. I was so mad at myself. I know my sense of direction is bad, actually really pretty bad, but now I was standing by myself on the corner of a backstreet alley in a foreign country, a directionally-challenged mom and her four children. This was not a good moment. Of course, Bryn turned out to be right, darn it, and the boat was in the direction she had first pointed out. I was leading them the exact opposite direction. This never would have happened if Myron was here, I thought. He would have known which direction to go. I finally asked a man to point the way, praying fervently he wasn`t going to be the type to shove us all in the trunk of his car. He wasn`t. He did treat me like I was kind of slow, which maybe was quite perceptive of him, but in the end we got back to the ship in one piece.

I hate trying to do this on my own.

We landed in Seattle late Monday and I drove home to Canada. I missed our exit adding an extra half hour on to the ride, dropped the kids off at the house and headed to Safeway to get some groceries. I got home close to midnight, stepped over the suitcases the kids had dragged into the house, put the groceries away, tried to figure out why the furnace wasn`t working properly, went up to my room and burst into tears. Sitting on my nightstand was my "to-do" list and my date book with all our appointments listed. Emails from our school pointed out that the kids were behind in their schoolwork. I cried myself to sleep. How long can I keep going like this? Suddenly I felt like I did in that alley, confused, bewildered, and like I was leading them all in the wrong direction. How can someone just getting home from Disneyland feel like that?

Today I woke up and began all over again. I opened the mail. A lovely letter and a gift card to Dairy Queen from a family who are praying for us. A tag on the end of a business email saying he was still praying. A gift card to a grocery store from friends who used to work with Myron. Dolphins and whales. Just enough to make me keep looking, to lift my faith. You have no idea how much it meant.

I think I may cry myself to sleep again tonight. But I know there is more to look for. Maybe someday the whales will be closer. Maybe they won't. But they're there. I know. I've seen them.

(I made myself write this out tonight, needed to, actually, and it helps. Knowing someone is reading helps. Thank you for reading.)

Remembrance Day

2012-01-03T22:08:00.000-08:00

On January 11th, 7:00 p.m., we will be having a remembrance service out at Camp Luther, Shook Rd., Hatzic Lake, Mission. It will be a time to remember, to reflect and to recognize the provision provided over the past year. It will be a time to remember and acknowledge the man we loved, to recognize the value he had in our lives, and in the life of his community. It will be informal. Just a time to remember. All are welcome.

Gillian, Lauren, Bryn, Taeryn and Karson

A Year Tomorrow

2011-12-27T22:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Myron,

Tomorrow will be one year. One year since we talked. One year since we hugged. One year since we held hands. One year since my life ended and a new one began.

So much has happened. We're making it, slowly. For me each day is a struggle, a milestone. I go to bed thinking of you and wake up wishing you were here. Although we still live in the same house, the same city, I feel displaced. You were home. And I feel homeless.

You would be so proud of the children. They are doing well but they miss you. They are so brave, hon, and some of the things I have seen in them are what we prayed for, what we hoped our children would grow to be. I see so much of you in them. They talk about you all the time, so many "daddy stories". I know you miss them too.

Karson danced in his first performance. He joined hip-hop and he was so cute up on stage, groovin' it. I told him I could hear daddy yelling from heaven, "That's MY boy! Woohoo!" He liked that and asked me to say it over and over again. He learned to swim in physiotherapy which was a big step. He misses your superhero stories, though. I've had to tell a few and I'm not sure if I live up to his standards, but I'm trying. He has decided he is taking your place as the Canucks number one fan and is quite proud of his team paraphanalia. One day he had to wear an old Oilers jacket that Kim gave us. He was horrified and would only wear it if he could put on his Canucks mittens and hold one hand over the Oilers logo. You'd have been proud. I finally just gave it away.

Taeryn has worked so hard to get back on her feet. She has a few challenges ahead of her yet, but she is still our bubbly, cuddly, courageous little girl. Can you believe she's turning 9 in January? She so wants to write songs like you and has been working on a few. We had to stop piano this year, I just couldn't fit it in, but she still sits down and picks out tunes. I remind her how much you loved to hear her sing, to keep singing, that you're still listening.

Bryn also has had to work hard to get back on her feet, and she too has many challenges ahead of her, but if anyone can do it, she can. You wouldn't believe how well she has handled her injuries. I know! We would have thought she'd have struggled the hardest, but instead she rose to the challenge and did most of it with a good attitude and a smile on her face. She hasn't been able to dance yet but it's coming.

Lauren turned 15, of course. She reminds me so much of you in so many ways and yet is her own person too. Before the accident, I would say, "You're just like daddy!" and she didn't like it. But after your memorial she said, "After hearing what everyone had to say, all those stories, who he was, I'm really proud to be like dad." She is really trying to be responsible and is such a big help to me. Bryn is too. They are all trying to fill the gap, but it's just too big. The hole you left is so immense.

Christmas, of course, has been so hard. We are moving through the traditions, the experience, but it's like we're just going through the motions. Kim and Jeff have worked hard to make it as nice as possible but I see you everywhere. I hear your voice at every meal, in every conversation. I miss seeing you light up at the sight of a turkey dinner, how you would laugh and joke around, how you were a gentle presence, enjoying the chaos, talking hockey and sports and telling stupid Seinfeld jokes. I miss you, Myron, I just miss you so much.

I've spent the day thinking about our last moments together at Harrison. What we were doing, how you looked. Playing with the kids in the hotsprings, ordering pizza and a movie, sitting in the lobby in front of the fire. And I keep thinking, what if I had been told that in just a few hours, we would be in a horrific car accident and you were going to disappear. Vanish. And it rises up in me a sense of panic, of wanting to hold back time, to halt the inevitable. I feel the urgency to stop the next day from dawning, from bringing on its tragedy, it's crushing reality. But it's already happened. That day was a year ago. I couldn't stop it then, just as I cannot stop tomorrow. Or the next day or the next.

In just a few hours it will be my day of mourning, the day everything froze in time. All my memories, everything we shared. It just froze, in an instant, from something I was in, experiencing, to something I could no longer have. You went from a living, breathing, loving man to a photograph. In an instant. And I am still reeling.

I am struggling to know how to spend this day, this horrible day. At first I thought I should try and celebrate the fact that the children are here, doing well, that you saved their lives, my life, but it didn't feel right. Instead, tomorrow I will mourn. I will grieve my loss. We will look at your pictures, our frozen memories, and cry that there are no more. And the day after that, I will try going back to being grateful.

And so I just wanted to tell you, once again, how proud I am of you. How happy you made us. How much I enjoyed you. That I am so grateful to have been loved by you. I am so grateful I had a chance to live life with you and wish I could have done it better, had a chance to do it better.

I just wanted to tell you again, that I love you.

Your wife,
Gillian

The Parade

2011-12-07T22:47:00.000-08:00

As the holiday season approaches, so do many of the traditions we have established over the past twenty years. I find myself reluctant to enter in to these sacred moments, and yet knowing how important they are to the kids has me remembering to give them their due diligence. While hiding from those events may be easier for me, it would cause my precious children pain to do so.

Last Friday night we went to the Mission Christmas Parade, a long-standing tradition in our household. After many years of standing in the freezing rain, shivering, trying to hold umbrellas over the kid’s heads, the parade became for me less of an anticipated event and more of a chore. As soon as that wind and rain started up, staying comfortable suddenly seemed the better option and there were years when I would hang back and let Myron brave the elements and the hordes of children straining to see what they could from underneath their hoods. He, however, wouldn’t have dreamed of missing the parade. “It’s tradition!” he’d say disapprovingly as I’d scramble to find reasons to stay warm and dry.

And so we’d walk the kids to the parade. The start of the route is just down at the bottom of the steep hill we live on and the children would be all excited to get there and stake out their piece of cold concrete. We’d schlep down the hill laden with blankets and thermoses of hot chocolate and every few years the night would turn out dry and crisp, a minor miracle here on the west coast.

Last year was a bit different. For the first time we were not part of the crowd, but part of the parade. Lauren was asked to sing atop the Fast Pitch float. Myron ran the sound system and the other kids sat with him or handed out candy. I was the designated driver, waiting at the other end of the route after finding a precious and very scarce parking spot for the family van. I remember suddenly realizing that I would have an entire hour to myself and sitting contentedly in the car with a book until it was time to find a spot in the crowd. Who could of known it would be the last photograph I’d ever have of Myron and our children together. They finished the route and posed for a picture on the float. Myron was beaming. Lauren had sung her heart out, had stunned me with her poise and beautiful singing and the pride was written all over his face.

Myron and Lauren have always shared that trait, that inner urging to get up in front of as many people as possible and start entertaining. From the time she was a baby, Myron would get her performing: In the grocery store line-up, at church, at the park. It was like he could wind her up and off she’d go into one of their routines while I’d smack him in the arm and say, “Why can’t you just stand in line like everyone else!” One year when she was three, she had asked to be a chicken for Halloween. I sewed her a chicken costume and later that evening went to the church where Myron was performing some of his songs with a band. He was particularly pleased with the attentiveness of the crowd but was a little confused when they started laughing; confused until he turned around and saw that Lauren had climbed up on stage and was doing a “chicken dance” right behind him. I think I have a picture of that too.

As she was asked to perform in the parade again this year, I found myself again facing that too familiar predicament…facing a family tradition without him.

I sat by myself at the end of the route, waiting for her to come down the road. All the kids were on it, just like last year. Lauren’s best friend took care of the sound system. As I watched float after float pass by, I realized how difficult it was to not speak my thoughts out-loud, to not point out to the kids or to Myron the different things I saw. I felt a tad foolish, saying to no-one in particular, “Look at that one!” or “Wow, those belly dancers must be freezing!” Finally Lauren’s float came down the road and just like last year she did great, got the crowd singing along, waving like Miss America and belting out the Christmas tunes.

Karson got off and joined me at that point, to watch the rest of the parade that followed, and I cannot adequately express the simple joy and comfort I had in his company. Suddenly there was someone to talk to, to point out the donkeys and the men following the horses with wheelbarrows and shovels. To wave at the Muppets characters and laugh at the dogs dressed up like reindeer. And I thought of how grateful I was to be able to hold someone, to have them snuggle on my lap, to see things through their eyes. I don’t know what I would have done if that had been taken away as well. And so I sat with my boy, snuggled in our blankets, on our staked out piece of cold concrete, simultaneously crying at the difference a year can make and giving thanks for the laughter and delight of a six year old child I can call my own.

As I held my son and thought of that last picture it occurred to me that my children will always be known as Myron’s children. His brother can always be introduced as “Myron’s brother” or his parents as “Myron’s mom and dad”. But somehow I’m different. I cannot say, “I’m Myron’s wife.” Instead, it would be, “I was his wife.” I know that is true because every form I fill out has that inevitable box I must check: married, single, divorced, widowed. Maybe that is why they came up with the terms widow and widower. To replace the irrevocable past tense that permeates everything I do. I can say, “I’m his widow,” but no longer legally say, “I’m his wife.” A small technicality to some. A source of awkward sadness for me. I still, however, check ``Mrs.`` when I can, for no matter what the law or the form reports, I still think of myself as Myron`s wife. And in some way or another, I believe I always will.

Thinking about the picture, of how his face looked that night, of the kids gathering in close to him and posing, is almost unbearable. We have pictures of Myron scattered around the house, some that have been there for years, others that are new. There are some rare moments when I can glance at them in passing and smile. But more often than not, I find myself catching sight of his face, and the incredible familiarity of it, his eyes, his grin, and it is too much to take in and I have to look away. To have to look away from the man you love is devastating in itself.

The days are counting down to Christmas, to the 28^th, to the reality that an entire year has passed and I still miss him as much as I did the first week. There is so much I want for Christmas and not a single thing can be found in a store or on sale.

Furniture, Curtains and Other Important Things

2011-12-03T22:49:00.000-08:00

Tonight I sit in my living room looking at the new lights my brother-in-law spent the day putting in for me. It is a nice change, the gentle glow against the wood grain of the floor, the warmth it adds to the room.

I have made a few small changes to our home over the past year. Some were ones Myron and I knew had to be done at some point. We had a sectional couch set that simply had to be taken to the dump but the knowledge I would have to pick out and pay for something new was overwhelming. I finally instructed the kids to push it up the stairs and out into the rain so I`d be forced to take action. Karson did almost all of it himself. Pretty good for a six year old. I had the furniture moved around in my room. I put in a new table and chairs. Looking at Myron`s seat during supper, at where he stood at his dresser every morning and night was so painful, I needed to buffer it somehow. This helped. And so most of the furniture is shifted or re-arranged and I often wonder if Myron could suddenly come back, what he would say. Would he say, "Hey, I like the new couch!" or would he think it's silly that his dresser is now in the living room. Just things I wonder.

Being a creature of habit, it was incomprehensible to him that there would ever be a need to move anything. And yet in the first year of our marriage, I must have re-arranged our house at least every two weeks. Myron would come home to everything piled up in the center of the room while I tried to decide if I wanted the armchair in the corner or by the window. Or over by that plant. My theory was I wouldn’t know until I saw and the only way to see was to try. So I did. He’d come home and the piano would be in the living room. The next day it would be in the spare room. "How in the world did you move a piano by yourself," he'd ask. "Where there's will there's a way," I'd exclaim, popping a tylenol and re-wrapping the bandages around my shin. The walls might be grey one night and the next day green. Pretty soon he’d just come in with the mail in his hand, pause long enough to find a spot he could sit down, and ignore the fact that the entire house was now completely different than when he left.

At least he’d give me feed back. “I like it,” he’d say. Or tactfully, “It’s nice but…isn’t it kind of awkward to have to climb over that chair to get into the room?” I don’t know what it was, but for years I just had to move everything…somewhere else. And then when I had tried every possible configuration AND painted the walls a different colour, we’d be sitting down or lying in bed when he’d suddenly realize I was staring at something on the other side of the room, my head to one side.

"What are you looking at," he'd ask fearfully.

“I was just thinking…” I’d begin.

“No!”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!” I’d counter.

“Yes, but I know that look,” he’d reply. “That look is going to cost us money and my Saturday afternoon.”

“But if we just took out that wall over there…” I’d argue.

"A wall! Are you crazy? We can't take out a wall!"

“You wouldn’t even have to help! I could do it myself, it doesn’t look hard!”

My pale Norwegian husband would get paler yet and say again quite emphatically, “We are not moving any walls.”

“Well, I can dream,” I’d say, “dreams are free you know!”

“But your dreams never seem to stay dreams, hon,” poor Myron would say with great wisdom. “Somehow they seem to walk out of your head and onto our visa bill.” Or something to that effect.

So, I’d go out and find something new and inexpensive to add a little colour and then drag him into the room to look at what I’d bought or what I’d made. “What’s it for?” he always asked. “What’s it for?! It’s not FOR anything. It’s looks nice,” I’d respond indignantly. “Just look at the way the colour ties the room together! You see how just the shape of it directs your attention to that wall…Myron! I can see you! You're rolling your eyes!” as he’d leave the room, not nearly as impressed as I thought he should be.

I think he began to suspect this appetite for re-furbishing could be the sign of a mental illness when he came home from a board meeting to find me in tears. "What's wrong?" he wondered. "Is Lauren okay? Are you hurt?" "No...," I wailed, "I've...I've...I've wrecked the hallway!" "What do you mean," he asked confused. When he left the upstairs hallway and stairs were carpeted, the walls white. He looked up the stairwell.

"Um...exactly what colour do you call that?" he asked.

"Its not a colour," I sobbed. "I got the sudden urge to paint and Lauren was in bed and I couldn't leave her to go buy paint, so I got all the bits of paint left over from other projects and mixed them together and just started...painting! Its awful! And I ran out of it and now there is no way to mix more and make it the same shade. I'll have to start over!"

He gave me a hug and then said gently, "And what happened to the floors?"

"Well," I gulped, "first I decided that the stairs would look nicer if the carpet was gone and the hardwood sanded down and stained so I ripped up the carpet on the landing and tried sanding it but all I had was a piece of sandpaper and there's no way I can do it! This is your fault, you know!"

"My fault?" he said, completely flummuxed. "How can this be my fault? I wasn't even here!"

"You left me!" I wailed. "I have PMS and you left me to go to that meeting and suddenly I had to decorate and I couldn't stop myself!" I collapsed into his arms in total despair. The hallway floor stayed like that for 14 years, no lie. The paint was taken care of two days later when I was a bit more sane.

Our biggest disagreement was esthetics over function. If it didn't look nice, what was the point, was my philosophy. If it wasn't functional, who cared what it looked like, was his.

"Why is my dresser shoved up against the closet door?"

"It leaves more room for the bench," I'd say with the kind of logic only a woman of great wisdom could muster.

"Why do we need a bench in the bedroom? We don't sit around, we go to bed!"

"Because that space needed something and your dresser was too tall. It overpowers that space. The bench looks nicer."

"Can I keep my underwear in the bench?"

"Of course not, that's what the dresser is for," I'd say, shaking my head at his complete disregard of common sense.

"But I can barely get into my dresser...you've shoved it into that corner," he'd point out.

"But Myron," I explained again...for the second time. "It looks better over there. Now help me turn the bed completely around so this trunk fits better."

As usual he'd go along with it, easy-going...until the great-curtain contraversy. These were the curtains I hung over the cubby holes in our bedroom. Being that our house was built in the late 1930’s/40’s, we have almost no closet space. The previous owners had made two cubbies in the master bedroom but they never put doors on them. I couldn’t stand looking at our stacks of sweaters so I made curtains to cover their openings. You would have thought I had built steel doors that he had to crack the combination to every morning…he hated them. “I have to push them to the side and hold them while I find my clothes,” he complained. “You can’t seriously think that’s a hardship,” I said with conviction. After all, this was a man who would sacrifice his body to block a slap-shot while playing floor hockey, who could run for hours on blistered and bleeding feet, leap tall buildings in a single bound to get to the stadium on time for a Canucks game…surely he could hold a flimsy piece of material to one side while simultaneously picking up a sweater. Apparently not. Every few days the curtain would be taken down and ten minutes after that I’d hang it up again. “When you build me doors, I’ll let you take them down,” I insisted. They’re still there. And I will admit…I still don’t get why they were such a problem.

I do wonder what he’d think now. All the time, in fact. It is a challenge to figure out what you want when you are used to thinking about what “we” want. The reality is I don’t think I can do any of these things without wondering, without asking in my head, “What do you think, hon? Do you like it?” And always wishing I would hear his answer.

Tipping the Scales

2011-11-16T11:25:00.000-08:00

It is humbling to be challenged by your own children. I am supposed to be the grownup. I am supposed to be guiding them. And yet, there are many moments in life where I am being led by people a fraction of my age…led to think differently; led to a new perspective; led, at times, to truth.

We were driving home one day when Lauren blurted out, “I think I’m glad the accident happened.” The wave of disbelief and fury that rose up in me was so immediate, I had to fight to keep it in control. “What do you mean by that,” I asked through gritted teeth. It turned out that she wasn’t glad it happened, she was just becoming aware of what God was doing in the aftermath and appreciating it. I suggested she rephrase her initial statement and yet, I found myself still struggling with anger. How dare anyone say that this could in any way be good?

Lauren began listing the things she had noticed since last December, things that made her believe that God was at work. “People have become Christians because of this, Mom,” she said. “They can find another way,” I shot back. I fought my tears. ``I’d still trade it all to have him back,`` I choked out. Lauren looked at me. `` I know you would, Mom,” she said.

We were quiet for a while. I was beginning to wonder if I had been too honest, offensive even, when suddenly with amazing gentleness she turned to me and said, “I would too. I would trade everything to get dad back. Except the people who got to meet Jesus. Mom, we have to give up maybe 30 years with dad, but we’ll get to be with dad again and be with him forever. Those people would never get a single day with Jesus. I just feel selfish to want to trade that away.”

I turned to rebut her…and came up empty. And it was then that I felt a crack. A crack in the wall that stood between me and whatever it is that God wants to do with all of this. She was right. Thirty years versus eternity. Somehow, that perspective seemed more … bearable.

I am not ready to say that this year was “good”. I am not ready to tip the scales in the direction of “Yes”, the side that says Yes, there is purpose. Yes, God changes ashes for beauty. Yes, blessed are those who mourn. For me it still weighs heavily on the side of “No!” No! This shouldn’t have happened. No! It’s not right. No! I want it all back. No! This burden is too heavy.

However, that day, Lauren placed a tiny weight on the “Yes” side. I felt it. And it felt like truth.

I do not begrudge myself this time of pain. This time of struggling to make sense of things, of frustration, even anger. It is normal. It is necessary. But as I have said before, I pray it is leading towards something. Something that will one day bring light back into the darkness. Something that will serve a purpose. Something that I can rejoice in.

So I thank you, my daughter, for pointing me in the right direction. For speaking to that wall of mine. For your hope and beauty. Thank you for leading me towards truth. You are precious.

The waves of grief are becoming more like the tide. Where once without breaking the waves rolled in, one on top of the other, the tide now creeps in until it covers everything, then washes back upon itself, away from me. Grief will flood over me, leaving me choking and gasping, fighting for air. But, I know that soon it will also retreat for a while, leaving an empty expanse of sand and sky. The beach is lonely, barren, until I realize that if I take the time, it is filled with treasures, ones I can look for and examine. A starfish of people`s love for us; a perfectly intact seashell of help with meals and errands; a lovely piece of driftwood, carved with the brutal force of the ocean; a sand dollar of His provision. They are everywhere. I look out to the horizon and see that as far as the water has retreated, it is still there, and it is set to wash back in, the tide of sorrow. But I am grateful that I am now given more time, time between the tides, to catch my breath and look around. To see the beauty of His creation; to know and remember His love. To ponder the goodness of others. And eventually I see that the beach is not as empty as I think it is.

Voids

2011-11-09T22:09:00.000-08:00

Months ago I listened to and read the words of several people who were working through their grief. And it scared me to death. They had all experienced the loss of a spouse. They all said the first year was hell. They all said that the second and/or third year was harder still. And I remember thinking, “If that’s true, I’ll be dead. I don’t think I can handle hurting more than I do right now.”

They gave various reasons: One was that during the first year they were in shock; numb. As the shock wore off, the pain was felt. A couple of people said that because they were so focused on the well-beings of their children, they didn’t get to their own feelings until much later. Others didn’t have a reason. It just hurt more.

Maybe part of the reason is once the shock wears off, once the group of supporters have largely gone back to their own lives, once the sympathy cards stop coming, once the paperwork and legal work and packing away is done, once the children are settled and you think that just maybe they are going to be alright, there remains only the disturbing, sad and unnerving reality that there are great sections of your days and nights that feel utterly and painfully meaningless.

Losing someone or something you love leaves a void. Not just a symbolic or metaphorical void. An actual void.

Part of it is physical. The person no longer fills the space around you. Their chair is empty. Their side of the bed is not slept in. They do not stand beside you at church, or take your hand as you go for a walk. They are never at the other end of the phone or taking a nap on the couch. The space is empty. And I find myself walking around those spaces, aware of their emptiness, their lack of him.

Part of the void is emotional. Not only have I lost the one person I confided in, the one I shared my concerns, joys and thoughts with, I have lost the chance to have him continue to share his life with me. I am no longer his sounding board, his confidante. I have lost one of my most meaningful roles. And those things took up space. They took up time. And that time now sits empty.

As the children heal, as they regain their physical independence, the voids become more and more obvious. There are no date nights, no after-dinner talks, afternoon phone calls, or pillow talk. There is just me. Me and that awful, empty space.

I suspect that part of the healing process will be the ability to find something meaningful to fill those voids. Something to put energy into. Something to delight in, to find joy in. I suspect it will have to be something that creates a sense of accomplishment, of purpose. I can’t imagine what it could be. And there are many moments where I find myself trying to will something to appear from inside of me, something that I can do or create. But right now there is nothing. There is no music, no creativity. There is little passion and less energy. Which is probably to be expected. But at times it unnerves me and makes me wonder about my future.

There are moments where my mind wanders off and I begin to picture myself years down the road. Where once I imagined Myron and I travelling, being grandparents, or exploring new interests, I now wonder if I’ll be a crazy old lady who lives alone with her cats and parakeets, clipping coupons and calling talk shows to complain about the government and the price of milk. Or will I be the odd soul that has no-one around to tell her that her skirt is on backwards and that her shoes don’t match. Will my children move away to different parts of the world, leaving no-one to help me muddle through the new technological gadgets, leaving me messages on the hologram-answering machine they sent me for Christmas but that I don’t know how to turn on? Or will I be the old soul who keeps telemarketers on the line for hours, telling them about my bunions and back pain, as they are the only ones who ever call? I assume, with great hope, that there are other options, and yet I wonder.

Last year I was at Costco and passed a very elderly couple making their way to the parking lot. He had a walker and shuffled along slowly, his wife holding his arm, helping him keep his balance. The were so sweet. White hair, grandma and grandpa sweaters, stooped shoulders and peaceful faces. I went home and said to Myron, “I just passed us forty years from now!” It was kind of a shock, realizing in that moment that one day that would be us. Myron was six years older than I, and I took great pleasure in assuring him not to worry, that when the day came I’d make sure his scooter was revved up and his diaper clean. He didn’t find it as amusing as I did and always retorted that there was no way I’d outlive him, he was in way better shape.

I miss that picture, that image of us shuffling down the sidewalk, our skin wrinkled and hair grey. Or gone. Myron would have been one of those old guys who always had a cheerful hello, who would have loved to stop and chat, talk up the waitress or the kid on the bike, who would enjoy saying, “When I was your age….” He would have spent time at the ballpark cheering on his grandkids, talked me into sitting on his lap and giving him a kiss, wanting to tell me yet again how the Canucks could do better if they’d just listen to his advice. He would have been a great old guy.

Those voids are not easy. And there are many of them. I have nothing meaningful or fulfilling yet to fill them with. Sometimes I use them to hide. Sometimes I use them to cry. Sometimes I use them to write on this computer or think of something I could teach my kids when school time comes in the morning. Some times it is a dvd that fills the space and sometimes it is a few moments talking with God. I’ve used my treadmill to fill it, and make my children and their friends move my furniture around. I don‘t know what I‘ll end up filling them with. Hopefully not cats. Or telemarketers. (No offence to either of them.) Hopefully I will eventually find what and where I am suppose to be. Because as much as it pains me, my story isn’t over yet. So something has to fill those pages.

Superheroes and Superpowers

2011-10-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

Taeryn and Karson told me a superhero story the other night. Myron used to do this at the children’s bedtimes. They’d each pick their superhero powers (apparently Taeryn’s hair would grow instantly to as long as she wanted, she could change shapes and I think, be rubber; Karson’s was super-speed, super-strength and the ability to fly). He’d ask them to name three objects and then weave them into a story where they were the heroes. It was bittersweet, as so much is these days. I was happy to listen to their memories. The more they tell them the stronger those memories will remain. But in doing so I could hear Myron’s voice; picture him lying in bed with them, giggling and tickling, winding them up more than settling them down.

The concept of superpowers has stayed with me over the past couple of days. What would I have chosen, I wondered? I remember the kids asking me that question a couple of years ago and I think my answer was jokingly to eat as much as I wanted. However, my answer would be different now.

Wisdom. I have always begged for wisdom. St. Paul says that “all is permissible but all is not beneficial”. I thought a lot about that statement. I do not want to choose only what is permissible. I want what is beneficial, for me and for my children. I ask for the wisdom to know the difference, now more than ever.

Trust. How I desire the ability to trust in God’s goodness no matter what. In His ability to provide. In His promises to bring life into any situation. Trust does not come naturally to me. It did to Myron and I envied it even though I did not understand the simplicity of it.

Grace. The grace to allow others permission to be who they are, while giving them room to grow into who they will be. The grace to allow myself the same opportunity.

Hope. The word “hope” has come to me on many occasions. And yet I have to admit I am at a loss as to what it is I am to hope for. What I desire can never be returned and yet I know that something within me is crying out to hope…for something. And so I hope for that my children will be restored; that joy will come in the morning; and that someday I will be able to look beyond my own pain and step more fully into the pain of others and make a difference. It occurs to me that perhaps the true desire is less to hope FOR something and more to hope IN something.

These are what I ask for now. I am sure there will be more, are more, that I could use, but I would settle for these.

We go back to the surgeons on Wednesday for Bryn’s second interview. We hope to learn more about the timeline and the specifics of the surgery. In the meantime, Christmas draws nearer as does the one year anniversary of the accident. Tomorrow it will be 10 months. I continue to struggle to truly comprehend all that has taken place. The procession of time and the procession of the heart truly do not move at the same pace.

Choices

2011-10-11T23:49:00.000-07:00

We have just passed the nine month mark. Nine months since Myron died. I cannot wrap my head around it. I cannot bear to think that in only three months we will be facing Christmas. How is it possible to think of Christmas and feel dread? I am at a loss as to what to do, how to celebrate. Do we stay here? Do we try and leave? What do you do when there is no place you want to be.

The past month has been increasingly difficult. I knew the fall would stir things up. It was easier to pretend in the summer…he’s at work, on a trip, at a meeting. Now, as we struggle to implement even a fragment of our previous routine, it only serves to highlight where he is not. He is not here. The kids are feeling it, though to some degree trying to ignore it. Some have been reliving the accident, re-processing it and its details. Some are having nightmares. Some are quieter, even a little angry. Some are purposely trying not to think of daddy…it just hurts too much.

And yet they are living life where they can. It amazes me, their determination to keep living, their need to stay positive, their belief that good will come again. It comes from a well that I just cannot drink from right now. So they drink for me.

We had our trip in to meet with the leg-extension specialist for Bryn. It was a gruelling day, 13 hours in total. We were given new information: the length difference is larger then what could be measured from the outside, more than 3.5 cm rather than 2.5 cm (2.5 = 1 inch); secondly, the knee is compromised as the knee cap is displaced and the bottom of the femur not sitting properly. As we already suspected, her knee will not work properly the way it is now; and thirdly, the growth plate at the bottom of the femur appears to be damaged. This is still being investigated. We are probably looking at a leg-extension surgery which will require the surgical implantation of an Ilazarov frame, a large, outer series of metal rings that hold the bones in place with metal pins going from the outside of the leg, through the skin, muscles, etc and into the bone. The leg is re-broken and by twisting the pins four times a day, the bones are forced apart in minimal increments so that the body can fill in the space with new bone to make up the difference in length. It is imperative that the pins sites be cleaned every day (would take approx. 1 hour) and the gapping done at the same times every day which means waking her in the night and early in the morning to do so. It is a huge undertaking and although we were thankful to get the preliminary process started, it hit me the next day what we were facing yet again. What she is facing. The weight of it felt heavy, I have to admit, and I so longed for Myron’s help, his strength and perspective at that moment. But I have to focus on what this could mean for her. Five months in the frame and a new physio regime that would add on another year before she could dance and be free of all this. I see the determination in her eyes to get it all back. But at times, I also see the fear.

It feels monumental to start all over again and yet there is hope. I know so many are living with the reality that there is little hope for healing and as we walk this walk I am struck as I have been so often in life at how little I know of the pain of others. How often I have thought of those dealing with pain and death, hoping and praying that it would never reach into our home, never steal any of our joy, our peace. And yet, as for countless others, it did.

I have been struggling to write anything these past weeks. It is difficult to find different ways to say, “I am hurting. I am scared. I want my husband.” I am at the stage where I am nervous to say too much, to burden others with my pain, to ruin their days or make them uncomfortable just because they happened to ask, “How are you?” I want desperately to have another answer ready, something that will uplift them, uplift me, and yet all I feel is longing and despair, and a burning need for my husband, my friend, my children‘s father.

People have said, “I guess you have no choice, you have to go on.” They are right, I do need to go on, if only for my children. But I do have a choice. My choices began sitting in the gas station when I had to decide if I was going to dissolve into hysterics or pull it together and minister to my children who were lying in pieces all over the floor. The choices have continued every moment of every day. Do I do what I want to or what I need to? Do I go on or give up? Do I take another step or turn and run? There is no such thing as having no choice, at least not in my mind. And that is in part what makes this journey so exhausting. The constant need to keep choosing. The reality that decisions that were once meaningless because they were easy, are now monumental. The only thing I actually have no choice about, is that I do have to make a choice. Every day.

Right now I choose to remember. Not eloquantly, I do not have the energy for that. Just silly memories. My kids reminded me the other day of some daddy stories. “Remember when dad used to make me go for training runs for baseball,” Lauren reminisced. “I hated that. One night he insisted I go with him and I was so mad because I was too tired.” Yes, you weren’t happy until you thought of a plan to make it interesting. She poured some salad dressing into a container and ran out to the road in the dark, hiding it behind the wheel of his truck. Then when they were getting their shoes on she began complaining that her stomach hurt. Myron kept telling her she’d feel better once they got started and wasn’t giving in until they reached the truck. She had let him get ahead of her, pretended to double over, grabbed and dumped out the bowl onto the road and showed him where she had thrown up. He was so sorry and kept apologizing over and over until she started laughing and told him what she’d done. He laughed then made her run the route twice.

I remember almost giving him a heart-attack when we were living in Yakima. I convinced him to take us on a shopping trip a few hours away. Grumbling (Myron hated shopping and detested the VISA bills that followed it even more) he drove us down and morosely followed us around for a while before taking the two younger kids off somewhere to play. Lauren, Bryn and I continued on in the mall when the girls got the brilliant idea of playing a trick on poor daddy. At every store we asked for two to three extra shopping bags until we had twenty or so extra ones. We spent a few minutes stuffing them together until each of us appeared utterly laden down with full bags and then hauled them off to our meeting point. When Myron saw us coming down the hall with our enormous quantity of purchases he almost keeled over. We let him gasp for air while talking a mile a minute about all the wonderful sales we had found and then let him in on the bluff. I seriously think it took an hour or two for the shock to wear off.

Our all time favourite, though, was the time Bryn was eating chocolate when she was four and how it looked disgustingly like something else on her fingers. We hatched the fantastic plan to freak out their father at dinner. Sure enough, part way through supper, Bryn excused herself and went to the bathroom. She came out minutes later with a brown finger which she held up in front of daddy’s face and said, “Look daddy, poo!” She then proceeded to suck it off.

I will never forget the look or the colour of his face at that moment as he stared in pure horror. Bryn held it in for three or four seconds before announcing gleefully, “It’s just chocolate, Daddy! We got you!” He could barely finish his meal. But really, he deserved it.

Just ask his poor mother. She had a group of ladies in for tea one afternoon when Myron was still living at home. Myron visited for a few minutes than excused himself to go to the washroom just a few feet away where he had hidden a large jug filled with water. Leaving the door open to increase the sound effect, he began pouring the water into the toilet. And pouring, and pouring. And pouring. The chatter got quieter and quieter as time went on until all the ladies stopped talking and just sat listening. Finally someone said quietly, “Joan, are you sure he’s alright?” Well, that was debatable, wasn’t it.

When Myron wasn’t purposely setting us up, he came up with plenty of ways to keep us laughing. While most men suffer the event of their vasectomies in quiet and relative anonymity, Myron announced his. World-wide. He was told by the doctor that the patients were encouraged to bring in a CD of their favourite music to be played during the procedure. Apparently, it served to soothe the men during what Myron claimed to be the “worst two minutes of my entire life”. Myron thought this was brilliant, went on to the internet where he was a regular on numerous international music chat sites, announced to the world the time and date he was going under the knife and asked for musical selection suggestions. We received quite the list but our favourite was “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands”. No, Myron didn’t keep much a secret. He liked to laugh at himself and he didn’t mind admitting his mistakes. It was one of the hundreds of things I appreciated about him.

I needed to remember tonight. It hurts. It makes me cry. But it also makes me smile. For a moment.

I’m struggling. Struggling to bear the pain. There are moments when I think that maybe time has made a difference, that maybe its not quite as difficult. That may be true. But it is also not any easier. And maybe you have to be walking this journey to know how accurate that paradox is. There is a panic that I feel thinking about having to live with this pain for the rest of my life. What if it doesn’t get easier? What if it is a life sentence of grief and torment? And I beg God to please continue to nudge the hearts of those who have been praying for us all these months. Not because we deserve it, but because it has been the thing that has made the difference, the love and prayers of this community of healing. And so I humbly ask anyone who is listening, please keep praying for Lauren, for Bryn, for Taeryn, for Karson and for their mother. And I thank you for it.

Snowflakes

2011-09-18T23:36:00.000-07:00

I drove to Hope today, to pick up two of my girls. They were at a grief camp for children, organized by the Hospice Society. It was a wonderful weekend for the both of them and I was so grateful for the efforts of the volunteers to provide what they did. I sat at the closing ceremonies, my heart aching for the roomful of children whose lives have been altered by death. Beautiful, energetic children who are facing at their tender ages losses monumental enough to change who they are. Who they will become.

I was sad. I was sad for all of them, for their families, for the very fact that there was a need to send them there, despite the beauty of a weekend shared. It wasn't until I had loaded everyone up and was heading for home, fighting yet again the tears that never end, thinking about the unalterable events that shape the lives of so many, that I remembered the snowflake.

I recently read about an Englishman, Wilson Bentley, who is given the credit of coining the phrase, "No two snowflakes are alike." As an obsessive analyzer, I have always been annoyed with that statement. How can anybody really know if two are alike? Has someone actually caught and studied every snowflake? How is it possible to definitively make that statement? But as usual, I realized while reading, I was missing the point.

It was the beauty of the ice-crystals that fascinated him. During his lifetime, Bentley caught on glass and photographed more than five thousand snowflakes, studying them, comparing them, drawn in by their delicate and intricate beauty. Imagine the patience that must have taken, the skill and the appreciation that would have driven him to do such a thing, over and over again. Despite my admiration for a man who took the time to explore the beauty of something we take for granted every winter, it was the explanation of how a snowflake was in fact created, of what made them so beautiful, so individual, that stirred my heart. A snowflake is birthed, if you will, as a tiny lump of ice, a crystal that falls from its height in the sky to the ground below. Thousands of factors affects its appearance: wind trajectory, changes in temperature, the height from which it falls, the other crystals it collides with. And everything it encounters serves to sculpt and chip at it until the once unremarkable lump of ice becomes an exquisitely, intricate design. The scars of the journey are what makes it extraordinary. The real mystery doesn't lie in whether or not two are the same. The mystery lies in how something so ordinary becomes something worth looking at.

My children will bear scars. They will bear physical scars and they will bear emotional ones. I have found myself fearful, wondering what these scars will do to them. How has this shaped them? How has this accident knocked them, us, off of our intended pathway and what will the repercutions of that look like. But then I remember the snowflake. How if you look closely, its scars shape it into something beautiful and individual. How the hand of God designed something as insignificant as minute lumps of ice into works of art. And I think that surely, surely, our scars could serve to do the same.

I am sure it is the desire and hope of every parent to see their children grow characters of beauty. It would also be their desire to shield and protect their children from tragedy, from pain and suffering. Nobody chooses the childhood cancer. Nobody prays for autism. Nobody chooses or prays for a life-ending accident and injuries. Not every person will need to suffer in order to be extraordinary. But some will. The reality seems to be that some will be as flowers, planted and blooming in the soil of stability and good circumstance. And some will be, I remembered today, as the snowflake, made beautiful by the force of the journey and the grace of God. As a parent, I must be thankful that both are possible.

The Land of Disbelief

2011-09-14T15:30:00.000-07:00

We`ve begun homeschooling again and while it is taxing, there is some consolation in the familiarity of it. I am finding the girls doing well, but Karson is having difficulties concentrating.

Each time one of the children exhibits new behaviour, I find myself wondering if it is ‘normal’, or istead indications of grief, anger and confusion. I realize that I am still on high alert, still trying to monitor and assess if they are healthy enough, healing enough, whole enough. Will I ever know? I am sensing that they are becoming more aware of Myron’s absence. The fall schedule seems only to highlight what is missing. And what is missing is agonizing.

I continue to live in the mystifying land of disbelief. There are no words to accurately describe the difficulty of pressing into something you cannot understand. To comprehend the incomprehensible. One night I lay in bed struggling to sleep, struggling to understand why the pillow next to me was empty. Suddenly I had to know it was real, had to prove it to myself again or go crazy. I got up and found a stack of photos taken by a relative, pictures of the kids in the hospital, pictures taken at the funeral home, a picture taken of Myron lying in the coffin. He was lying in the coffin. Not beside me. I sobbed over that picture, because it was true. And at that moment I hated the truth even though I was desperate to know what was real and what wasn’t. Sometimes it is hard to know what is real.

A couple of wonderful men took the time to spend a few minutes with my younger kids, throwing them up in the air and catching them, making them giggle and beg for more. It was wonderful to see them having fun, but later I couldn’t help asking Karson if it reminded him of when Daddy used to do that. It took him a moment. As the memory floated back, of how daddy would throw him spinning into the air at the pool, of how daddy would say, “Hey Karson, you want a swirly?”, of how he would catch him only to throw him up higher the next time, I was sucker-punched with that hated truth once again. The truth that he would never play with them again. They will never feel his arms around them again. The opportunity to be their daddy, to do the daddy things, the things he loved, the things I have pictures of him doing for the past 14 years, is gone. He’s gone. And inside I began to scream in pain at the injustice of a man being torn away from the family he loved.

But as I well know, life is not about justice.

Why are some days bearable and others so incredibly painful? How can his picture make me smile one night, and tear me apart the next? And what do I do with all this pain?

I could say, “Give it to God”, but I don’t know how to do that. Not in a practical sense. I wish I did. I wish I knew how to hand it over and not have it hurt so badly, but I don’t. Yesterday I came home from physiotherapy and attacked our front cupboard, emptied its contents and began reorganizing. Then I emptied out the cupboard below the sink, and then the Tupperware drawers. I sorted and threw away, tidied things up, put everything back in perfect order and realized that this is often what I have to do with the pain. I need to distract it. I push it away from my heart to the outer edges of my mind where it serves only to remind me instead of debilitate me, and then I wait for a time, like right now, when I can let it wash over me in a swamping, defeating wave of truth and sorrow. It is all I know how to do, especially when I am with the kids.

Time may be healing the physical scars but the emotional wounds continue to bleed profusely. It is difficult not to feel utterly alone when the one person you depended on is no longer there.

A Movie

2011-09-10T23:38:00.000-07:00

I watched a movie last night, only the second one since the accident. Somehow watching movies by yourself after years of watching them together is not what it used to be. But I had a copy of “The King’s Speech” and finally popped it in last night.

In this true account, King George V has died and his son, Prince Edward, abdicates the throne in order to marry Wallis Simpson, a soon-to-be second-time divorcee. Edward’s younger brother, played by Colin Firth, who struggles with a debilitating speech impediment, realizes that now by default, he must now reign as King of the British Empire. There is a scene in which he sits at his desk, a mass of paperwork before him, none of which he understands. His wife enters to check on him and he breaks down, overwhelmed with what lies before him. Stricken that a life he did not want has now forced itself upon him, the full weight of his future stares him straight in the face. He has no choice but to walk this agonizing journey, feeling inadequate and unprepared. Trapped by the reality of his position. Chained to circumstances he knows he cannot run from.

And although I will never rule an empire, his tears were my tears.

I cannot run. I cannot ignore. I cannot pretend. I am where I am and there is no changing any of it. I, like so many others in so many situations, are chained to circumstances not of my choosing. And in those circumstances I find myself faced with two choices: I can allow it to soften me, to change me for the better, or I can allow it to harden me. And so I pray, Lord, wherever I can be better…a better parent, a better friend, a better person…allow it to be so. Do not let me waste these circumstances. Even as I grieve and question you, even as I long for my husband, my friend, for the father of my children, do not let me miss what you have to say next. In this darkness, do not let me miss the beauty of your stars.

It would be so easy to miss the beauty.
　
　
　
　

September 4th

2011-09-04T23:54:00.000-07:00

Eighteen years ago today, Myron and I got married. I have struggled all day how to say this:

"Today is our anniversary."
"Today would have been our anniversary."

Its was difficult to say it either way. Is it? Or would it have been? How could it not be when I still feel married, still feel committed to someone, still feel the spiritual connection of two flesh living as one.

I took the kids for a walk along the river. Myron often took us there on Sunday afternoons. He loved having us all doing something active, something outdoors, something together. It was good to be there. It suddenly struck me that we were all walking. Some were limping, some were slower than others, some limbs were still swollen, but all were walking. No wheel-chairs, no crutches. Just ten feet meeting the earth. Something I have for years taken completely for granted, suddenly felt magical. We were all walking.

Every couple of hours throughout the day I checked my watch and told the kids what we had been doing, eighteen years ago. Driving to the church, taking pictures, arriving at the reception. And then at supper I lifted my glass and toasted the day we began our marriage, began the journey that produced the four beautiful children that sat next to me at the table. To Myron. To Gillian. To our life together and all that it produced.

Afterwards, Karson asked, "Mommy, what if I get married and she doesn't cheer for the Canucks?" He looked very concerned. "What if you get married and she doesn't even like hockey?" I asked him back. "Do you like hockey?" he asked suspiciously. "Sometimes," I replied. Karson gasped. "SOME...TIMES??!" His look of horror made us all burst out laughing. As we continued on eating I studied his face, looking for Myron. And I couldn't find him.

Today would have been our anniversary.

Defining Moments

2011-09-02T00:12:00.000-07:00

I have travelled through a good part of my life relatively uncertain about who I am. It is apparently too late to backpack around Europe trying to “find myself", or at least it would be difficult with four children tagging along. And so in my moments of uncertainty, I end up relying upon those “defining moments” of life…moments or snippets of my past upon which I have built my perception of who I am.

Defining moments are not always pretty.

I was thinking today about summer camp. I loved my summer youth camp. It was full of Jesus, horses, the outdoors, and counsellors I looked up to. I began at 13, I think, as a camper, and worked there at 19. Last year, for the first time, Myron and I took our kids out for family camp.

Back in my camper days, at the end of every week, each camper was given a verbal award. Every night we’d have a campfire chapel time where we sang songs, drank hot chocolate and listened to a short message. The final night was different. That night we each were given The ____ Award, the summing up of what ever it was that the camp staff had noticed about us individually over the week. Each camper had to stand up while it was announced. Most were humorous: The Trick Riding Award to someone who‘s saddle had slipped off; or maybe The Bareback Award to the one who managed to fall off during the late night bareback ride. I really don’t remember what the others were given. I only remember mine.

It was the “I Can’t Do That!” Award.

I was devastated. It felt so negative. I remember I was sitting at the back of the circle, thankful to be in the shadows where no-one would see my flaming face. I quickly reviewed the past week. Did I actually say that often? Often enough that it was now the definition of who I was? Was that the way others looked at me, as someone who didn’t feel they could try anything, that they would surely fail? I felt branded, and although undoubtedly nobody else remembers it, for me, it was indeed a defining moment. And I hated it.

Thus began a new journey of what I now look back upon as the “foolishly setting out to prove otherwise” stage. Fine. If people thought I was afraid or too insecure to attempt things, I would do the opposite. I would be fearless. I would try everything (within my moral code). I obnoxiously insisted that if someone said I shouldn't...I instead would. I couldn't? Let me prove you wrong. It was stupid. I even insisted on playing on all-male sports teams (TACKLE-FOOTBALL for Pete’s sake! And not the kind where you put on gear…the kind where a group of guys meet out in the rain, in the mud, and set out to inflict pain on each other. For fun. It was idiotic.) I’d find myself in the most awkward situations, all because I was trying to disprove my award. Once in high school, a guy I barely knew asked me if I cut hair. I heard myself answer that yes, of course I did. After all, how difficult could it be? Actually, in the end and sadly for him, fairly difficult.

When I was 21, I went skiing with some friends. I didn’t ski but again was too stubborn to admit that maybe I needed some time on the bunny hills. No, instead I headed straight up to the Black Diamond runs. It was halfway down in a particularly treacherous stretch that I came to another defining moment. This was stupid. What was I hoping to accomplish? Realizing that I was close to breaking my neck, I sat down, undid my skis and slid down on my rear-end. I realized that it could possibly be okay to admit that there were SOME things I couldn’t do. Or at least shouldn’t.

But now I find myself in what is possibly the most difficult period of my life. As we head into the fall I am fighting the rising panic that I just cannot do this. I just don’t think I can. How can I raise four kids, manage their educations, their activities, their ups and downs, their needs and wants by myself! How can I possibly drive them, cook for them, look after the house, the finances, the medical needs, the appointments, the shopping, the discipline, the birthday parties, the leaky pipes, the gutters, the spiritual needs, the learning…alone? How? I don’t know how.

And so today I panicked. I felt it rising up and gripping my throat, my thoughts, until it was everything I could do to not just put the kids in the car and drive away. But I can’t run from it. And yet I don’t think I can do it. I just don’t think I can.

Which voice is right? The one that says I can’t do that, or the one that says of course you can, you can do anything. They fight for position in my thinking, swirling around in the panic, highlighting the pure reality that this just feels like too much. And I’m afraid that I’m going to mess it up, make things worse for my kids, destroy what little we have left. Or create defining moments for them that will ruin who they really are.

I am scared. Terrified. I know the verses that say otherwise, but I have to admit that I find myself thinking, will even God be enough? I know, deep down inside of me that He has to be. But today that knowledge is not seeping into the rest of me. The parts of me that cry out saying this was a two-person job! This was supposed to be something we did together, Myron and I. Never alone. Never alone. We were never supposed to do this alone.

I can only hope that in the end this too will turn out to be a defining moment, but one that is real. Not one that I've taken too personally or one I've created out of pure stubbourness. It will take humility. It will take me asking and then asking again for someone to help me. It will take me relying fully on something I cannot feel right now. It will take perseverance and the desire for something good out of all this pain. But I am struggling to find the ability to believe in all that. Right now, I just hear those voices. And I don't know which one to believe.
　

A Step Backwards

2011-08-16T23:28:00.000-07:00

The flashbacks have come back. I guess they have never really completely left, but had subsided to the point that it was only when I closed my eyes that I saw. Saw the things that no one should have to see. But now they are hitting me again throughout the day and I find myself haunted and shaken by what I wish never happened, even though time is passing. How does one forget? How does one erase what they no longer wish to see? The car, the slamming stop and everything that followed. An unending mental movie that I cannot seem to unplug.

I came across a picture of a camel in the Sahara Desert and suddenly had an incredible urge to pack up the children and travel the world. To get as far away from our life as I could get us. I wonder if such an adventure would add energy and joy, or would I just find that I was dragging myself from country to country, as exhausted and empty as I am here? I am so lonely, so incredibly lonely for Myron. I find myself sliding back into shock that he is truly not here. How can that be? How can he be gone? It just doesn’t seem possible. How can this be my life? I realized this week that I will now never have a golden wedding anniversary. Why that hit me all of a sudden, I do not know. Why everything is hitting me all over again is a mystery.

Maybe it is because I have recently waded through some disappointments. Bryn will not be ready to dance in September. It has been a goal date for so many months, and to hear that it is not going to happen really tore at me even though I remember wincing when the surgeon told Bryn that by September she’d be dancing again. Even then something inside of me wasn’t sure that would be the reality. Its not even my reality - it is hers, and yet seeing the look on her face, the brief flash of disappointment, roused my grief. She, on the other hand, immediately followed the disappointment with, “I’ll just have to shoot for January then.” I could see her choosing. Choosing to hope, to believe. I was amazed at her attitude and yet accutely aware of how much I need to see her dance again. How I long to see her dance.

Taeryn had a private MRI done. It was a specialized one designed to look closely at the brain. I have had a few concerns over the months, wondering whether everything was alright. I received the news that she does indeed have a brain injury. Thankfully, it is a grade 1 injury and she is young which increases her chances of rerouting neuro-pathways as needed. Again, I wasn’t surprised and yet devastated at the same time. Her brain! What will this mean for her? I guess time will tell. I cried for two days and then woke up with the realization that she had been spared what could have been so much worse. Infinitely worse. So I am thankful, but I admit that another weight was added that day. As concerned as I had been, I had so desired the results of the test to be normal.

And so I am struggling to give it all to God. To leave it in His hands the best I can. But even that takes work. It takes strength to not worry, to think of the positive. I miss Myron in times like these, times when he would be my sounding board, offering his strength where I was lacking. I’d probably be angry that he wasn’t as worried as I, it usually frustrated me, but it would also help me. Now I am just more aware of how alone I feel.

And yet we continue to have so much to be thankful for. I have so much. I watch my kids and see them growing even closer, see the compassion that is increasing within them, and I’m thankful that they are here, for their characters, their light. I continue to give thanks for those who feel led to help us. But I am sad. Very sad. Some things have gotten easier. Some have remained the same. And some, it seems are simply getting more difficult.

Someone Else's Dad

2011-08-08T23:08:00.000-07:00

A friend recently remarked, “Your children talk about Myron as though he is still here.” At first I thought he was indicating a problem, but he went on to say that he thought it was a good thing.

And its true. They don’t talk as though he is still alive…but they do speak of him as though he is with us. I think that distinction is important.

I have struggled over the past months to remember to use the past tense. I find myself talking as the past eighteen years have trained me to: I keep saying 'we' instead of 'I'. “We brought her home from the hospital,” I heard myself saying a couple of weeks ago, referring to Taeryn. No…I brought her home. Alone. “Myron likes…” is another common one. I hate having to change ‘like’ to ‘liked‘. Hate it. And so I find myself forcing the words out because they are accurate. Painfully accurate.

My heart broke today. Again. Some days it just cracks, or groans under the weight of reality. And some days it feels as though it splits wide open. Today was one of those days.

Karson has been missing the father presence. He doesn’t speak of it very often, but it is reflected in his actions. Whenever we are around a male presence he is drawn to them like a moth to a flame. Thankfully, we have a score of wonderful friends and family who unlike that proverbial flame, does not harm but nurtures. So I guess it would be more accurate to say, ‘like a moth to a warm light.’ I am so grateful that they so willingly take the time to play with him, talk and wrestle with him. People who genuinely care about him and love him. But it never fills him up. He just wakes up the next morning empty again. Or so it seems to me.

Yesterday he asked a family we know if he could come sleep over. There were two main reasons he wanted to go there: They have a giant dog named Copper that Karson sits and talks to for hours. And they have a dad. A dad that he likes to be with. (The rest of the family is pretty wonderful too.)

He’s been wanting to learn to ride his bike without the training wheels. Has been asking all summer, but I can’t do it with him. Due to my own injuries, I cannot run alongside and hold it up. I can barely get it out of the garage. So he asked Mike. And Mike said yes, of course he would. So they made arrangements for Mike to come pick Karson up today after work, so he could bring his bike and his pyjamas, sleep overnight at their house, and hopefully, work on riding his bike without the extra wheels.

Karson was packed by 9:00 a.m. All day he asked, “When is Mike coming?” At 4:30 we got the call that he would be there shortly to get him, so Karson got his bag, his helmet, his carseat and his bike. And he put them out on the road outside our gate. And he sat in the carseat waiting. Waiting for someone else’s dad. Waiting, in his heart, for a dad who could never, ever come to get him.

It absolutely shattered me. When I realized that he was sitting out on the road, next to his stuff, I came out and sat with him. My son ran to bring me a garden chair and we waited together. Mike came and picked him up and off they went. And then I went inside the house and cried. Cried my eyes out for a little boy who misses his dad. His dad who will never again have the chance to teach him to ride his bike, or play baseball, or put him on his shoulders. I’m still crying. Am still consumed with the sight of my little boy sitting on the road. Waiting for someone else’s dad.

One night, shortly after getting home from the hospital, Karson said, “I want a new daddy.” You have a daddy, I reminded him gently. A daddy who loves you (and I felt the weight of the unspoken past tense). You will always have a dad, even if he’s not here. He will always be your dad. Karson teared up and said, “But I want one I can touch and talk to. I want to be able to feel his hugs.” Of course you do. We all do. And I could see the incredible sadness in his eyes. Because it wasn't that he wanted a new daddy. He wanted his daddy.

I thank God for the men in Karson’s life. For the time they spend with him. For the love they show him. And I know that he had a great time tonight. But it tears me apart. Every time, it tears me apart. Because I keep thinking, it’s not supposed to be someone else’s dad. Its just not.

Each day I am so thankful for the light I see in my son. For his humour, his cuddles, his energy and his love. I am so thankful that he will grow up to be Myron’s son. That he will always be Myron’s son. I look forward to seeing more of my husband in this little boy as he grows older and wiser. But I suspect that even as a man, I will have moments where I look at him and will still see the little boy on the side of the road. And it will always hurt that it wasn’t Myron that came to pick him up.
　

New Fears

2011-08-04T01:02:00.000-07:00

I have been struggling to find the energy or time to write lately. Taeryn is recuperating and doing well. I am so nervous that she is going to bump into something, fall or do something to hurt herself but realize that it is partially the fear inside of me speaking, the fear that all will not stay well, that there is more to come. Instead, I try to relax my thoughts and enjoy the sight of her using her legs, of the incisions healing, of the swelling decreasing. Of healing.

There is a new fear that has risen up. As time creeps onwards I have noticed a few changes. Actually, I wouldn’t call them changes exactly, more like visitations. I visit a place where I do not cry everyday. I visit a place where for a moment it feels normal to wake up and begin my morning. I visit a place where I lose myself in a discussion about something that has nothing to do with the past seven months. To refer to these as changes would be inaccurate as I then revert back to the depths of grief in a heartbeat. But to ignore these brief interludes would also be inaccurate. They are there. Subtly, I am beginning to feel them.

It scares me.

Which seems strange because who does not want to stop feeling pain? Who does not want to be at peace, feel joy, breathe without crying? And yet I sense a reluctance, a trepidation to move anywhere near this new place, a place I can only imagine is in the realm of acceptance.

I once was consumed with the fear that I could not live without him. I now am now beginning to fear more that possibility that I can. That with God's help, with the compassion and support of others, we will be able to continue on. I cannot express adequately the amount of sadness that comes with such a statement.

There is a terrifying reality in acceptance. When I am in my deepest moments of grief, it is because I can literally sense who Myron was, sense what it felt like to be with him, hear his laughter, his voice, see his smile. It is so incredibly painful and yet it is at those moments that I remember him most clearly. In these new places I am visiting, these places of acceptance for lack of better word, it is as though he is behind glass. There is a distance. His voice is not as clear, his image not as sharp. He begins to blend into the millions of other things that I store in my heart, that I retrieve in my mind. And while it may ease the pressure or intensity of the grief, it is in itself devastating. I feel at times as though I must choose which place to pause in and I know that sometimes the right choice, the necessary choice will be the one in which he is faded. And yet to do so is in itself an unbearable decision.

Where for the past seven months the full burden of pain and grief was inescapable, it is now, for a brief moment here and there, at times a choice.

I picture two paths, the road of death and despair and the road of life and healing. At first I thought they would be far apart, that I was going to have to step off the road of grief to travel the other, the one to healing. Looking behind me, I can see that they have been up to now largely the same path, one lying atop of the other. But in the present, I see that in places they run side by side, or at times begin crossing over each other, at other times intertwining. And up ahead, there are places where they suddenly veer off in different directions and it is here that I am presented with what sometimes feels like an impossible choice. A choice to move towards healing or to stay where I am. Moments where I can feel the nudge to step on to the path towards life. But then I have to leave behind what I now know so intimately. And part of being close to him feels wrapped up in all that pain.

Sometimes the knowledge that I have to choose that other path, the one with the road signs that say, “This way to peace,” and “This way to acknowledging that your life will continue on,” makes me angry. I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to admit that maybe there are moments when the suffering is not as intense. I do not want to face the awful truth that I am going to make it, despite his not being here. So there are days when I stay firmly planted on the road of intense suffering, sitting in its dust or stamping my feet thinking, “There is no way I am willing to leave this road, this place of despair! This is my spot! Try and make me!”
From an outside view it is absolutely illogical. From the inside, it is the fear that only here can I feel him any longer. Be close to him any longer. I am almost certain it is not true. But it is the fear.

I remember as a child going sailing with my parents and my sister. The lake seemed massive, an ocean really, to my little mind. We were out in the middle of it when the boat tipped over. I can still remember the shock of hitting the cold water, of my dad pulling me out of the way so the edge of the boat didn’t hit me, of being terrified that we were going to drown, or of the even greater possibility that a great white shark would rise up from the depths of the fresh water Ontario lake we were in and eat me from the bottom up.

The lake must have been fairly small as I remember a lifeguard lying on a surfboard, paddling out to us to offer his assistance. We were all hanging on to the boat and there came the moment when I had to let go of the only thing that felt solid and swim to the lifeguard. That was not a comfortable feeling, shark or no shark. It was difficult to release my hold, even though the way to safety was with him.

Another incident comes to mind, which is not surprising as my immediate family has brought it up at least once a year since I was 7. We were living in Ottawa and had gone for a walk along the Rideau Canal. There was a stretch of trees with long, low branches, perfect for climbing. My sister got a boost, scampered to the end of the branch and jumped off into my dad’s arms. I then got the boost, scampered to the middle where I made the mistake of looking down, wrapped my legs around a section of wood and refused to move an inch for what was probably close to two hours. Nothing my parents did was going to convince me to let go of that branch. My sister climbed up again, stepped over me, and jumped off again and again to prove how easy it was, but I knew better. I let go…I fall down. No way. I was there for life. Yes, this wasn’t the ideal existence, clinging to a tree branch, weathering the seasons, having my meals delivered three times a day by my mom. But it was better than the certainty that I might fall and hurt myself. And at that moment, to me, it was the most solid, stable, and safest spot to be.

People passing by asked if they should call the fire department (primarily because I was in fact screaming for the fire department). My parents tried bribing. They tried threatening. My mom climbed up and tried to peel my fingers off while I clung on all the while screaming like a banshee (whatever that is) and fully convinced that without a ladder or someone with super powers, I was there to stay. I can’t remember what the solution became, maybe I had to pee, only that eventually I did finally let go, allowed myself to drop down in dad’s arms and got my feet back on solid ground. My sister and I visited this same spot a few years ago on a trip back to Ottawa. The branch is barely six feet off the ground.

There is a fear of letting go of something I know, be it a boat in the water, a tree branch, or the pain of feeling the presence of someone who no longer accessible. Even if it means I will be in a better place. I can only imagine that at some point, the desire to be in the better place will outweigh my fear and sense of comfort in feeling the pain. Perhaps then I will find it easier to choose the other road when it presents itself. Maybe even just being able to see that it exists is enough for now. But it must exist for a reason. It must be where eventually I am meant to go.

I battle the added fear that by admitting I am at moments “okay”, or eventually even “good”, is to diminish our tragedy. Is to diminish the daily reality that we now have to live without someone who meant the world to us, someone who was absolutely essential to our happiness, our well-being. I try to acknowledge those short visits to someplace “better” yet find myself wanting to make it very clear that it is only in part better. That there is a piece of me where it will never be better. That the word “healing” will never be accurate because there is a wound, a profound disappointment and longing that will never fully heal. That just because I am able to take a shaky breathe now and then without falling apart doesn’t mean “I’m over it” or have “moved on” or am “normal” again. Why do I fear that? Why do I fear that the world around me is going to want to pretend things are fine again when they are not? Why can I not trust in others to continue their compassion, to cry with me, to be gentle, to recognize that we are still so fragile? I don’t know. But it is something I am recognizing and trying to be honest about.

And so I am now aware that there are now times where I need to make the choice to step off the path of death and despair, to let go of a place where Myron is crystal clear yet unbearably unreachable, in order to experience new ways of feeling close to him. New ways that are hopefully not quite as painful but more joyful, ways that bring life instead of haunting me with his death. Better ways, I pray. Ways that perhaps I won’t be able to find, but who will in their own time, find me.

Taeryn's Surgery

2011-07-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

It is nearly seven p.m. and Taeryn is settled comfortably in her room at BC Children's. The surgery went very well. It took an hour and forty minutes to remove the wires and quite a bit of effort as they had been in her legs for almost 7 months. The surgeons x-rayed the femurs afterwards to make sure they hadn't re-fractured them in the process, and all looks well. She has four very large holes in her femurs which will take up to a year to fill in and heal. However, just a few minutes ago, she was already able to tolerate some weight. She has a high pain-threshold, but I know from experience that it can catch up with her, so the nurses and I are trying to watch and gauge her carefully. Bed-rest will be challenging, accentuated by the fact that within minutes of being woken from the anaesthetic, she was asking to get up and try walking. Um...no.

I was not prepared for the emotional turbulance that assaulted me this morning. I was asked to come into the operating room while they put her under the anaesthesia. The anaestheologist happened to be the same physician that was on-call the night of the accident and had been a part of the surgical team that had worked so hard on Taeryn. He told me this as he gently stroked her hair as she lay on the operating table, a mask on her face, the anaesthetic taking hold. He looked at me with emotion in his eyes as he talked about seeing her that first night in December. "Amazing to see her now," he said softly. "A completely different little girl."

Being led out of that operating room today was painful. It hurt to sit alone, waiting. It hurt that Myron wasn't here to hold my hand, to assure me as he would have that she was fine, everything was fine and not to worry. I couldn't hold back the tears and finally slipped out, not wanting to sit and cry in front of the other parents.

After speaking with the surgeon and hearing that all was well, I was sent back to the chairs to wait some more. A volunteer was being sent back and forth to retrieve parents as children came out of surgery. Every once in a while I'd hear her say to a mom or dad, "Is it just you?", indicating she was able to bring in both parents. I cringed each time, knowing that when it was my turn, I too would be asked that innocent question. And I was. Again, I had to hold back tears as I had to nod yes. It's just me. It will always now be just me.

I was taken to recovery where she was struggling to wake up from the anaesthetic and in my heart I was suddenly back in the ICU. The sounds and smells, seeing her disoriented, murmuring and asking the same questions over and over felt crushing. It was all I could do to stay by her side, to stay calm as I reminded myself over and over that she was okay, that we were past that time of terror, that this was a good step in her physical journey of healing. I kept waiting for her to ask for daddy, like she did that morning in December, but thankfully she seemed to remember better than I where we were in time. As she slowly became more lucid and more herself, I was able to relax. An hour later she was more chatty. Suddenly she looked at me, tears in her eyes, and said, "I did it! I was scared to do it, but I did it! They're out!" I so unbelievably love this little girl!

The pain has been well-controlled by medications in her i.v. and at the moment she is very comfortable. A surprise delivery of flowers and a stuffed animal by a Vancouver fireman who has been following the blog lit her up. "I must be special," she said in wonder. You are, Taeryn. Very, very special.

Thank you for the prayers. I believe they surrounded her and gave her strength. They will rock her to sleep and lift her head in the morning, as they do mine. It will be good to go home tomorrow. I miss my children and being together. But for now, one more night in hospital and the hope that Taeryn's rest will be comfortable and peaceful.

Taeryn

2011-07-21T00:11:00.000-07:00

Taeryn and I are in Vancouver. We are staying in a motel as she has to be at the hospital early tomorrow (or rather this morning) for her next surgery.

Up until a week ago she has been asking random people if they think the surgery will hurt. Whenever she brought it up I could see the concern in her eyes. Is there going to be more pain, she wondered? And how bad will it be?

We visited the hospital last week while doing a full day of doctor's appointments. First we went back to the ICU to say hi to the staff. Taeryn remembered nothing but Karson pointed at a bed and said, "That was my bed. Taeryn was in that one and mommy, you were lying in that one there." He was right. I was amazed that he could remember, especially standing from the viewpoint of the other side of the room.

We then visited floor 3R where we had spent the first two weeks. The nurses were so excited to see the children. The children were so excited to see them. It was good to stand back and just watch. When they found out Taeryn was to be admitted the next week, several of them said they were going to request her room for their shifts. It made her smile.

Tonight, she sleeps in our rented room. It took her all of thirty seconds to fall asleep. We had walked to McDonalds for a late night treat, then watched a movie on the laptop in bed. Precious alone time we don't often get. It reminded me of another night when she was four.

I had been telling some friends that I had wanted to have some one-on-one time with my little four year old Taeryn, but couldn't seem to find the time apart from the other girls. As the house filled up it was getting harder to find both the hours and the energy to make it happen. I was frustrated. Life was just too busy.

That night Taeryn had asked to sleep on the top bunk of the beds she and Bryn shared. They were in an L shape and Lauren and Bryn had decided to sleep on the floor below the top level, campout style. I allowed Taeryn to sleep uptop which was fine until about 2:00 a.m. when we heard a huge thud and then a scream. Myron and I rushed into their bedroom, flipped on the lights and found Taeryn lying on top of her sisters on the floor. She had fallen out of bed and hit her chin on the corner of a drawer on the way down. The chin had split open and there was blood everywhere. Taeryn was screaming and I could see that this was going to require stitches. Normally Myron did the late night emergency runs, but he had to get up extra early the next morning for something so I took her in instead.

We were put into a bed immediately but the doctor on call was napping and the nurses were having trouble waking him up which meant that two hours later we were still there, waiting to be stitched up. Taeryn had stopped crying but was wide awake, so I had found a stack of children's books and we sat in the bed and read. And read and read and read. Then we talked and giggled and read some more. I was getting frustrated at the delay. When was he going to come, I was thinking, when it suddenly hit me. Here was our time! Here was the time I had so desperately wanted to have with her, just the two of us. Of course, I hadn't imagined it would be in the emergency room from 2:30 to 5:00 a.m., but the ward was quiet and we just spent the hours...together. I remember groggily getting her home and back into bed, painfully aware that my early-riser, Lauren, would be up to start her day in about an hour, but I also remember climbing in next to Myron and being so thankful for the time that had been carved out for Taeryn and I. It amazed me that my hope and desire had been answered.

What amazed me even more is that throughout this entire episode, despite having a child fall on top of them from the height of a bunkbed, despite having the lights switched on in their room in the middle of the night, despite a four year old screaming, parents consoling, cleaning and dressing the screaming four year old in their room, Lauren and Bryn didn't wake up. They didn't even move. In the morning they were astounded that their sister had not only crashed down on top of them and covered their blankets with blood, but had been to the hospital and was now the proud owner of four stitches.

And so here I am once again, my Taeryn and I, carving out time in an unusual and unpredictable way. Which is kind of appropriate as Taeryn is somewhat of an unpredictable child. Except for her courage. And her faith. Which tonight show themselves as being wonderfully predictable as she sleeps here so peacefully. Earlier tonight she said, "I'm so excited!" For what, I asked? "For my operation," she said, her eyes shining. "I get to have my legs back and soon they won't hurt anymore!" Apparently somewhere in the last week she has placed the fear aside. After we prayed together, she blew kisses up to heaven, to Jesus and to her daddy, then snuggled down with her blankie and fell asleep.

The motel is horribly noisy as I sit here typing. I am not resting quite as easily as my eight-year old. I shudder to think of her in any more pain and yet I again am strengthened by her strength. And tomorrow, if needed, hopefully she will be strengthened by mine. And her dad's. "Daddy will be watching me, right?" she asked before falling asleep. I was shocked to realized that I had momentarily assumed he'd be there, that for a flash had forgotten that he had died, that he wasn't coming. It sucked the air out of me as reality hit once again. I am glad she rests in the knowledge that Myron is still a part of our life. So very, very glad.

And so if you have a moment, please pray for my little Taeryn that all would go smoothly, that she would be kept comfortable and at peace. I thank you in advance for them, and will write an update tomorrow when I can. And tonight I will wish for the ability to sleep as soundly as Lauren and Bryn did that night years ago...but just until the alarm goes off. If we're late I doubt that the surgeon will be quite as impressed with it as Myron and I were that one night when even Taeryn failed to wake them up.

This is the Way

2011-07-12T00:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard it said, “Don’t look back; keep moving forward.” I understand the reasoning, but disagree somewhat with the philosophy.

It has been six months. Since December I have been doing three things: ignoring the future, facing the present, and in my times of solitude and pain, standing stock still staring at the past. The past, where everything used to be, where we can never return.

I have had no option but to face the present. There has been too much that had to be faced head-on, too much that simply couldn’t be put aside until I was stronger, until I was able. It is as it was that day on the road in December…unavoidable.

The future is and remains a blank. A fathomless space with no points of reference. No more anniversaries, no more dreaming about retirement, of deferred adventures, of life together as he and I. I believe those points will one day again begin to materialize, new points in different places, marking out a new course. But today it is blank. It is just a painful reminder that nothing is as it should be. It is the constant truth that we can trust in nothing in this life but the grace and love of God. Everything else can be altered in a moment.

And the past. The past has been both a source of retreat and a source of unbearable torment. One moment it is something I speak of easily: the memories, the laughter, the “remember when-s“; the next a stabbing reminder of all I have lost, of all we and those we love have lost, moments that grip me with their talons and squeeze until I cannot breathe, squeeze until I have nothing left with which to give thanks. Moments that cause so much pain that I have to turn from it, run from it or be destroyed.

And yes, I cannot live in the past. I cannot stay where the pain is so brutal it shakes me in its grip, removes any possibility of hope for anything more than what I feel in this very moment, what I’ve felt since day one. And yet…

I have recently been listening to the past. To the stories of ancestors who left behind all they knew in hopes of something good. Something they could rejoice in. Something that would feed and nurture them. Ancestors who rebuilt their lives, their passions, their families. Generations who learned new languages, changed their names, broke land and gave thanks. I listened. And I heard.

I heard the message to remember to look back. Because what has happened behind us shapes what is ahead of us.

One of the post-secondary schools I attended happened to be in the same town my grandparents lived. Until the age of 14, I hadn’t grown up near my maternal grandparents, and other than a brief stint in the vicinity of my paternal grandparents, near any family really. My dad was in the military and we were generally moved every 6-12 months to a new location, internationally and all over Canada. But for this one short school year, I was within walking distance of my mother’s parents, a retired pastor and his wife of fifty years.

One of my regrets in life is that I didn’t spend more time visiting with them. I always meant to and the year just slipped away. But there were one or two times when I was able to go for dinner or stay the night. One such time I sat down to breakfast with them after which Grandpa opened up his bible and took out a list. On it were their eight children, the spouses, and all the grandchildren. Grandma explained that every morning, every single morning, they sat down and prayed through this list, for each and every person, lifting them by name to God, asking for His provision, His guidance, His love.

I was stunned. Primarily because as I quickly began using my fingers under the table to add up how many people we were talking about, I realized that I was going to be sitting there for some time. And yet it soon became apparent that something very special was happening. Something I was privileged to know and store away in my heart.

I have thought back many, many times to that moment, none more often then during the past six months. I have thought about all those mornings of being lifted up by name by Grandma and Grandpa, of the path that they were by faith laying out years before I would need it the most. I have thought about the many, many family members that have spread across the continents over the centuries, family and friends that passed the mantle of faith and prayer from generation to generation, people that now have earnestly been praying for me and my children, for my family and for Myron’s family as we weather this storm. It means something to me. It is as though God was drawing a line, connecting pinpoints of light to create a pathway to this moment, and I was hit with the realization that the path is not to stop here. It is meant to continue, through me, through my children, as it has with every family member. As it does with everyone.

I am thankful that I have had to chance to write during this time, to work out my thoughts. I began as a way to provide information to those who desperately needed to know how we were, what had happened, and to ask for prayer. As time went on it became a way to organize my thoughts at night, to sort through the avalanche of emotion and despair, of hope and confusion that buried me throughout the day. It became a way to feel connected to something, to someone, anyone, somewhere else outside of us, a need perhaps to be heard, to know that someone was aware of the tears that soaked our pillows, of the fears and uncertainty we faced. And now, maybe, it is an opportunity to be accountable. I am often surprised at what flows through my fingers and onto the screen. My mandate, my goal each time I write, is that before I click on “publish”, before I place my thoughts in the hands of others, I am satisfied in that moment that what I have written is true. For me, in that moment. The next day I might feel the exact opposite. Moments of faith might be replaced with moments of uncertainty; moments of joy with anguish; moments of illumination with pure drivel. But it is what makes sense to me now. Today. It is, I hope, if nothing else, real.

Because someday I think I will be looking back. And I hope that once again, I will see some more of those tiny lights connecting. I hope to see where we have been and possibly even know where we are. Although I will never again pretend to believe I know where we will be, I believe there is value in looking behind, if only to realize that just as Isaiah wrote thousands of years ago, “Although the Lord gives you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, your teachers will be hidden no more; with your own eyes you will see them. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, “This is way; walk in it.”
　

Cheesecake

2011-07-07T00:34:00.000-07:00

My sister was telling me about a study she read on grieving. In past generations, (I didn't read it but I would guess mostly in European cultures), there was the mentality that you didn’t stop to explore emotions. Instead you soldiered on, did what needed to be done. Little was to be achieved by living by or giving in to your emotions. Maybe in today’s vernacular you could say that they “sucked it up”. Today’s psychology focuses more on the importance of allowing yourself to emotionally grieve, to feel and weep and go where the emotions take you. I was surprised to hear that after studying both styles of grieving, they found little difference in the progression of resuming a productive lifestyle and sense of acceptance.

I do not know what most counsellors would think of these conclusions. I know that our psychologist has emphatically expressed the importance of dealing with grief in the present, of doing the “work” now, as grief if unexpressed, unexplored has a way of hiding and presenting itself in some fairly ugly ways years down the road. I myself think of these two diverse ways of dealing with grief and wonder if maybe the reality is you need some of both.

I made myself eat cheesecake last night. I didn’t want it. In fact, I have found little pleasure in food, little pleasure in most things that I used to find enjoyable. I basically didn’t eat for two months after the accident. First there was the issue of literally no time. I didn’t sit down, I didn’t stop moving. I was constantly called into meetings, consultations, to phone calls and attending hurt children. I would be asked throughout the day, “have you eaten?” No, not yet but I would. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not only did I not have a moment to sit, the act of putting food into my mouth, of trying to chew and swallow it, made me feel physically sick. There was nothing in me that desired nutrition. Nothing had taste or felt nurturing. It was just another chore, and both my stomach and my taste buds rebelled at the thought of eating. After almost collapsing several times, I realized that what my loved ones were saying had validity and that I had to eat whether I liked it or not. It was not easy. A few mouthfuls were all I could manage, but it gave me enough to make it through the day. That and God’s grace.

I have always loved food. I loved to cook. I loved desserts and appetizers and main courses. I have always struggled to keep my taste buds in control. It didn’t help that my husband loved food even more than I did and for most of our married life could eat and stay the same size.

When we were dating I suddenly noticed that Myron seemed awfully flirty with the waitresses when we went to restaurants. I’d point this out and he’d deny it profusely but it seemed to me he’d get pretty friendly. Once we were married I worked largely out of our home teaching music and usually had a meal going when Myron arrived home. If I was cooking, Myron would immediately wrap his arms around me, give me a kiss and tell me he loved me. I’d finally have to shrug him off and say that I couldn’t cook with him hanging all over me. After several months it finally dawned on me that he hadn’t been flirting with the waitresses. He had been flirting with the food.

Over the years I would often hear Myron say, “The best part of my day is getting into the car to drive home from work knowing that there is a meal waiting for me. I think about it all the way home. Its something I am really grateful for.” It is much easier to cook for someone who is grateful to have it although it often seemed a chore. But knowing how much it meant to him would spur me to get something on the table.

Myron wasn’t a fussy eater. He’d basically eat whatever was put in front of him. A few times something would burn or I’d over-spice and I’d push the plate away complaining that it was inedible. But he’d always eat it. “It’s fine!” he’d say and polish his plate. We once were recruited to play a newly-wed game at an anniversary party. One of the questions was, “What would your husband say was the last meal you ruined?” I was so embarrassed because I had to put down, “None.” Not because I had never actually ruined a meal. Because I knew that Myron would never in a million years recall one. He would just recall being happy to eat. When the question was posed to him, he paused, thought hard and said, “I can’t think of anything. I’ll have to say she’s never ruined one.” We won the game.

The kids loved their dad’s fondness for food. It didn’t take much to convince him to stop and grab a bite somewhere, especially around suppertime. In the past few years I’d occasionally put supper in front of them only to have them say, “I can’t eat, I’m full.” “You can‘t be full,” I’d counter suspiciously, “you haven’t started yet!” They’d insist they were full and then guiltily tell me they couldn’t say why, but finally it would come out that Dad had bought something on the way home to supper. “Seriously, Myron,” I’d say, “you couldn’t wait 15 minutes? You only had to drive them ten blocks!” “I got hungry!” he’d defend. “I’m still hungry. What’s for supper?” Maybe if I had exercised as much as he did it would have made more sense to me.

Yesterday I walked through the grocery store. It is incredibly difficult to shop for food when nothing appeals to you. I find myself passing by the same foods I used to pack my cart with, stop to pick them up, then just leave them on the shelf. Not a great way to keep food on the table. Rounding a corner I found myself near the dessert counter. I have passed it many times over the years and learned to quicken my pace as I reached the cheesecakes. I love cheesecake which is funny because it is one of the few foods that Myron didn‘t really care for. I on the other hand believe that the manna God dropped from heaven must have actually been cheesecake because there is little else I can think of that would worth eating day after day. As I passed it yesterday something insisted, “Stop! Today, you are going to eat some cheesecake.” I pondered that voice. Why? I still didn’t want it. I didn’t crave it. It didn’t even look good to me. But in that moment I ordered myself that whether I liked it or not, that night I was going to make myself eat a piece. So I bought it. I brought it home, hid it in the back of the fridge (my kids like cheesecake too) and after they were all in bed, forced myself into the kitchen and took it out. Why was this so important, I wondered? Its not even good for me. And yet, it was. Somehow I needed to push myself to try and enjoy something, to taste something and possibly think “now that was good.”

I made myself eat it. It was small, thankfully, and not the best cheesecake in the world. My taste buds rebelled, refused to enjoy it until the last morsel where suddenly something woke up and said, “Wait a minute. I think I liked that bite.”

I don’t know why this was important. But it felt important. I have had to make myself do things, things that I know in my head I must do because they are healthy. I get dressed, bathe, drink water, try to exercise, get out of the house. I don’t want to do any of them. They don’t make me feel any better. I do them because I want to be healthy for my children. I do them because I know I have to if I want to be able to get up the next day, and the next, and the next. I’m not saying the cheesecake itself was healthy. But I think, somehow, the act of admitting it existed, that I might one day even enjoy it again, made it so.

I am definitely feeling my grief. But there is also truth in the need to keep moving. To keep trying. Some days it might be a big thing, like taking the kids to the park even though I know it will sap every ounce of energy I have. Some days it might be as small as a bite of cheesecake. I need to cry. And I do. I need to mourn. I do that too, in abundance. But the reality is I also need to do what must be done. If not for me, for them. Yesterday it was a dessert. Tomorrow, it might be infinitely more important.
　

Philosophizing in Safeway

2011-07-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

Life crawls slowly forward, some days speeding by, others inching their way towards another sunset.

Karson and Taeryn are attending a kids camp this week. I drive Karson every morning and pick him up before supper. When I originally broached the subject he was dead set against going. “Do they sing songs?” he asked suspiciously. Yes, every morning. “Then I’m not going!” Some kind of six-year old logic I couldn’t understand.

However, he went Monday and loved it. Tuesday morning I woke up to a little boy standing at the edge of my bed. Fully dressed, shoes on, bag packed, he was nudging my shoulder and said, “Mommy, get up! You’ve got to take me to camp!” I looked at my watch: 6:30 a.m. From one extreme to the other. I endured close to two more hours of “can we go now, can we go now, can we go now?” and finally left twenty minutes early.

Another busy day full of therapy appointments, 10:00 to 3:30. Tomorrow will be just the morning but Thursday will be most of the day again. We are inching towards Taeryn’s July 21^st surgery date. I have been anxiously wanting to fast-forward there, to get all this metal hardware out of her legs so she can leave the swelling and painful knees behind her, but as the day grows closer I find myself somewhat jittery. What will it be like back on the same ward, in the same place we began this journey six months ago? What will it be like to watch her being wheeled into surgery once again, to wait for updates, to pray and hope all stays well? I find myself drawn back to that horrible afternoon where I sat alone in a hallway, wanting to know if they were alll going to live, signing endless pieces of paper that somehow meant something important but not really caring what. I didn’t know if she was coming back out again, if I’d be burying two precious family members or one. My sweet Taeryn, so little, so full of life. How far you’ve come. What a road still lies ahead of you.

I stopped at Safeway for milk and realized it felt good to do something normal, until I glanced at a newspaper. To read or hear the news of another tragic death, of more people facing life without those they love tears my heart apart. To know of the pain that is tormenting them, destroying their peace, their lives. I find myself holding my breath as I pass magazine stands, see the paper, hear people talking. Who else is now suffering? What family is now holding each other numbly trying to process the disbelief of circumstance? Why must we have so much pain?

It was then that the dichotomy of life stared me head on. It is perhaps only the pain that reminds me that I am still here, able and needing to feel, to be present. It is the pain of what is lost that reminds me of what I was blessed to have had. Accepting the reality that I cannot both have the gift of experiencing immense joy without also facing the risk of immense pain. Holding on to the hope that if and when God nudges or stirs me I might actually be able sense Him, that hopefully I haven’t yet hardened into something completely unyielding, for I believe it would be easy to do so, and at times could easily beg for it. To never feel joy again, to ask to be numb to the point that everything is held at arm's length is to risk more than I'd be willing, for who would share in the joys that must surely await my children in the life ahead of them? Who would have the compassion to suffer alongside of them as they continue to experience the disappointments of life? That is the true angst of living: that the bad and the good can at times be the same thing. It may just depend on the circumstance.

And in the next breath I stop philosophizing and just admit that I hate where I am standing. That I’d give anything to be living a different life, blissfully unaware of what it feels like to hurt as fiercely as I was once able to rejoice. That having to endure both sides of the same coin is if not unfair, unbearable. Wondering why I bother to write anything down, if I am making any sense or even believe what I say. Maybe that too changes as easily as a six-year old's desire to go to camp.

But now to bed. For morning approaches, and if Karson is as equally excited as he was this morning, it may approach far more quickly than I am ready for.
　
　
　
　

A Bigger Box

2011-06-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

This week has continued to be an emotional one. I am struggling to accept where I am and where I’m headed. I am feeling burdened, burdened with grief, with the weight of life. And yet I walked outside the other day and felt the warmth of the sun, heard the breeze sighing in the trees and remembered to breathe. To look around and breathe.

It is a strange thing, a sad thing, to think back seven months. How different the challenges were. It was like I was living in a different world, with colours and music, a time where my biggest frustration was getting the kids to finish their math, or Myron to put his guitar away. Perception and perspective are so fleeting.

I laid in bed last night and thought again about holding on to God. I wish I could, but I’m not able to. I still lack the strength to even reach out an arm. But the knowledge that He is holding me helps. It helps a lot. There are moments where I say, “This is too much, Lord. I can’t do this. You’ve asked too much of me.” I say this even knowing that many, many others in this world are enduring far worse than I. And yet pain is pain and despair is despair. I know that He is as concerned about the child who has fallen and scraped a knee as He is the victim of a violent crime. Knowing what people endure makes me feel more like the child. But I don’t think it matters to Him. He just keeps holding on.

In would be logical, I suppose, to view hardship as a test of faith, of endurance. As though God has thrown me into the wilderness, blinded and maimed me and said, “There, now try and find me without giving up. I’ll hide and you crawl around, and with great difficulty fight your way back to me so you can know that your faith was sufficient.” What a terrible thought. I am finding, thank goodness, this not to be the case. My faith, I keep saying, has seemed to be irrelevant. What is relevant is how He has kept Himself visible. I look behind me and see where He’s been. I look beside me and sense Him by my side. I have looked ahead and seen Him in my path. It has been remarkable. He is remarkable. I am nothing. And I am reminded that He has already assured me, “My grace is sufficient for you.” Not “your faith”. His grace. Which is a relief because my faith feels incredibly inadequate.

I recently heard my children telling each other that they would trade anything to have daddy back. “I’d trade our house,” Karson announced, “I’d trade our truck and everything we have.” I’d trade it too, I thought. I’d live in a cardboard box if it meant having us all together again. But I wonder, sadly, if after a month or so I’d turn to Myron, my Myron whom I was so desperate to have back, and say with a whine, “I’m glad you’re back, but couldn’t we get a bigger box?”

I have often wondered what it would take, really take, to actually make me appreciate what I have. To not be fixated upon what is out of reach. I was helping Bryn out of the pool after her therapy today and was suddenly struck with the realization that she could easily have broken her back rather than a leg. That the car could have caught fire and Taeryn could be covered in burns rather than just facial scars. It was a sobering thought. It was a grateful thought. Today, I realized, I just want to be thankful for my box, whatever size it is. And I want to be grateful for who’s in it. It doesn’t make it any easier, doesn’t change the longing, or the sadness, but I do not have to give in to the thought that I have been maimed and blinded. I have been given eyes to see what remains. And with that I must choose to be thankful. Or at least choose to try.
　
　
　

Father's Day

2011-06-20T01:02:00.000-07:00

So much pain. My poor children. They did so well today, until the evening when they broke down, fell apart in their immense desire to be with their dad. I don't think I have heard a more heart-wrenching sound. Our eyes are swollen. Our hearts hurt. Our thoughts haunt. I have always known that these occasions do not mean celebration for everyone. But I never realized how much it hurts. How painful these days could be. There is suffering, here and elsewhere. We are suffering. I am sorry for all those who likewise, suffer in their own situations. I am so very, very sorry.

I celebrate my own father; the man who raised me, walked me down the aisle, who loves me. I celebrate my father-in-law who's pain I cannot fully fathom, who spent the better part of the day with my son. I pray it brought some joy to his wounded heart. I celebrate my Father who remains the only strength I have left, who sends friends to hold me, to cry and pray over me. And I choose now to celebrate the father of my children, who would crumple in the knowledge of our sadness, of our grief. Who rejoiced with the birth of each child, who in so many of our photographs wears the pride and joy of being a father in his expression. We suffer because you are not here. We suffer because you are the only thing we need to make our lives whole again. We suffer because we miss you.

Without

2011-06-18T22:28:00.000-07:00

I sat across the room and watched my six year old son pick up a picture of his father. He couldn't put it down. I couldn't help but cry as I watched him stare at the picture, caress his daddy's image with his finger, then kiss the face over and over again, his eyes filling with tears, his face with longing. How can we face tomorrow? I don't know if I can bear the sight of my children without their daddy. Its too hard. It just feels too hard.

A difficult, emotional week. No Myron on his birthday; no daddy on Father's Day. The reality of his absence is breaking me apart all over again. I miss him! Oh God, to have him come home, to come back to us! I cannot stand the thought of doing this over and over again. Today, it just feels too difficult. Too incredibly difficult to be without him.

Happy Birthday, Myron

2011-06-16T00:39:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here in horror, watching the tv as the riots take place on Vancouver streets. I was easily able to bear the loss of the game but the violence is so distressing. It reminds me again of the reality of this world we live in: good and evil; the joy and disappointment that seem to constantly be at war with each other.

We’ve had a long and unexpected day. We began by going to Whonnock Lake to do some canoeing with our home school group. It is one of the few activities Bryn can do, and it was wonderful to be with the other families. We have missed being a part of our regular classes and activities.

We hadn’t been there long when I received a message from a relative-of-a-relative who lives in Calgary. She had contacted CBC News in Calgary to share a bit of our story. They in turn contacted their offices in Vancouver who gave me a call and asked of they could do a news story on Myron, his birthday and Taeryn’s flag, to be run immediately before the hockey game. They drove out from Vancouver and interviewed the children and I at the lake, airing it on both the radio and on television. Meanwhile, another radio station had found an email I had written a couple of days before, in response to their wanting to know what kind of fans were out there, and read that on the air today as well. I wasn’t aware of either of the radio spots, but we did get home in time to catch the news. I was so happy that Myron’s parents were able to watch it as well. It was a nice tribute to their son on a day that couldn‘t have been any easier for them as it was for me.

I have been anticipating Myron’s birthday for weeks. I have assumed that there would be overly difficult days to bear, special days that accentuated our loss even more deeply. What I didn’t realize is that the lead-up to those days, the time beforehand knowing that they were up ahead, looming, bearing down on you and needing a response, would be even harder.

I didn’t know how to make this day significant. And I wanted to. I wanted to do something that would remind us that he continues to impact us, continues to affect us, speak to us. I tossed ideas around for months. Should I have a get-together? Lots of people or just a few? Family or friends? Here or somewhere else? Do we visit the cemetery? Do we go away? How do you handle something like this, something so meaningful and yet so painful at the same time?

I asked the children and I think they were stuck as well. We could have ignored it. We could have passed over this day and made it like any other. But as I think of June 15^th this year, and June 15^th all the years to come, it strikes me how important it might be to provide an opportunity for my children to grieve. To revisit the reality that he is not here. Because I think (in my limited experience) that grief will learn to hide itself over the years only to reveal its presence when it wants to. That although the grief we feel now might soften, might eventually evolve into an accepted and familiar part of our being, I suspect that later we will have times when it will wound us afresh all over again and possibly in a completely different way. And I think it might be important to set aside specific moments in life if only to feel our grief once more. To acknowledge that although we continue to live and breath and love, something important has been painfully altered, and it remains altered.

And so, it was important to me to do something today, something we felt was significant. Something to acknowledge the man we missed and desperately wished were here. Something to set the stage for years to come.

I have seen people releasing balloons. When we were in the hospital someone had suggested it. Karson and Taeryn immediately replied, “They’ll just pop, you know. The air pressure will break them if they go too high.” I remember shaking my head in apology. Sorry, they’re homeschoolers. We’ve talked about that before. Plus, I wasn’t sure if it would be the right choice - for us. But as the day grew closer, I was drawing a blank. How could we make this day meaningful?

The hockey game, as previously mentioned, an event that seemed to land on this day not by chance, was meaningful. Not the loss, although it would be tempting to focus on that instead of the fact that we spent the evening doing exactly what he would have wanted. He would have said, “I don’t care if you invite everybody or nobody…as long as I get to watch the game!” So watching it, all of us along with his brother’s family and a close family of friends was very meaningful.

The interviews were meaningful. They made public the loss of a very important person. An unusual way to remember him, but very appropriate. Myron would have jumped at the chance to be interviewed. He loved to be center-stage. We were at a company Christmas banquet years ago and they had an entertainer who was wandering through the crowd, forcing individuals to stand up and do musical Elvis impressions. Everyone was ducking down, afraid of being picked. Myron was sitting ramrod straight. I could see him trying to control his hand from shooting up into the air. Sure enough, the entertainer spotted him. Before he could get the words out of his mouth, Myron had jumped up and taken the microphone, proceeding to belt out a perfect Elvis impression that brought the house down. When he sat back down the smug look on his face was priceless…and oh, so Myron. He loved it. Today just seemed so…him. (As for me, being on camera was not a comfortable feeling…but the girls must take after him, they seemed completely at ease. Karson was much more interested in looking through the lens of the news camera than standing in front of it. Which he refused to.)

And then, we bought the balloons. Six of them (in case one of them popped…due to that darn air pressure). I asked where we should release them and Lauren said it had to be the ball field. We drove there and spent time writing notes, notes of love and sadness, notes of birthday wishes and gratefulness which we tied on to the ends of the strings. Then we gathered on the third baseline where he had stood during games, coaching his girls into home, held hands and prayed. Each of the kids took a position around the bases and on the count of three, we let go.

We let go. Letting go of those balloons was hard. In fact, we had to count several times before we were all willing to do it. Watching those red and blue balloons float up through the air, away from us, through the clouds until we couldn’t see them anymore, made us feel our loss all over again. I cried, watching those balloons, watching my children. But there was significance in the act of opening our hands, of allowing the wind to take them from us. I could feel it. I didn’t like it, but it meant something.

Thank you for all the meaningful comments, the encouraging emails and phone calls. Thank you for loving us. Thank you, Myron, for being who you were. For being the kind of man that leaves a massive hole in the lives of those around you. I love you. Happy birthday, my friend.

Hockey

2011-06-14T22:28:00.000-07:00

I find it amazing how a single event can mean one thing to one person, and something completely different to another. To one, a coincidence, to another a miracle. To one merely interesting, to the other profound.

My husband was a hockey fan. A big hockey fan. As a child, Myron grew up watching, playing, dreaming, drawing and debating hockey with his brothers. As our family grew, he found that he had less and less time to devote to the NHL, but I always knew which nights the big games were on; they were the nights he got the kids to bed in hyper-speed, running up and down the stairs, groaning when I’d remind him he had forgotten their blankies or to brush their teeth. The nights where he‘d practically toss them into their beds to rush back downstairs before the commercials were over. The nights where I‘d come home later to find them asleep on the couch next to dad who had let them come down in their jammies just to watch “for a few minutes“.

Hockey was the conversation he had with every male he met. I can picture him now meeting someone new, making small talk. Inevitably he’d ask if they were fans and if they said, “I’m not really into hockey,“ I would see his shoulders slump just a bit. One summer we met a gentleman who only spoke French. Myron tried talking through hand gestures but wasn’t getting anywhere. Finally he said, “Montreal Canadians?” “Ahhh!” the man replied with a big smile. They proceeded to ’converse’ merely by saying the names of Montreal players aloud and making slapstick motions to each other.

I remember years ago we were trying to make a decision about churches. We had visited a few and were somewhat unsure which we should make our home. One night Myron and I went out for dinner and as we sat discussing this very thing, the pastor of one the churches we had been drawn to walked by our table. Myron recognized him right away and pointed him out. The pastor made his way to the men’s room and on the way back to his table had to pass through the lounge area where the hockey game was showing. He stopped in front of the t.v. and stood watching for some time, obviously getting into the game. I was watching Myron who was watching the pastor. “You do know we can’t pick a church based on whether or not the pastor likes sports,“ I warned. “I know,“ he said still watching. “But it sure tilts the scale.“ (We did end up making that particular church our home church. And for different reasons. I‘m almost sure.)

All this to say, my husband really loved hockey.

The NHL playoffs have been set for weeks. I’ve followed which days the games were scheduled. They could have won it by winning four straight. Then they could have won it in game six. But they didn’t. Which didn’t surprise me because I knew they had to go to the seventh game.

Tomorrow night, the Vancouver Canucks play their final game, game seven, in the Stanley Cup Finals. Vancouver has never won. Ever. Every year I would watch Myron bear the disappointment of his team failing to get the prize, only to raise his hopes again the following season. Now, just five and half months after Myron’s death, for the first time in the 40 years of their existence, the Canucks might win the Stanley Cup. They are tied with Boston 3 games to 3. Tomorrow’s game is the tie breaker which is exciting enough, Vancouver and the lower mainland are literally at a fever pitch. There are more people crowding the streets to watch outdoor television screens than there were at the Olympics. But what makes this event so profound, so uniquely personal for me and each of the children, is that tomorrow is Myron’s birthday.

The Canucks will play for the cup on Myron’s birthday.

Somebody asked me the other day if I have experienced a crisis of faith during this painful journey. As my mind flashed back over the months since December 28^th, my faith seemed irrelevant. What seemed relevant to me, was how visible God has made himself to us over and over again. And just as I weakly begin to wonder if He is still holding us close, He does it again. And again. And again.

When the Canucks first began winning games, I was angry. I couldn’t believe it. They had a shot at going to the finals and it had to be this year. It felt like a kick in the teeth, a twist of the knife that Myron was not here to watch it. And I couldn’t tell anyone because I would have been mobbed in the street.

One day, as I was relaying to God how cruel I thought this was, I suddenly had a flash of what Myron would say to me if he had the chance. No, not say…holler. “Are you crazy?!! Don’t stop them! Let them win! For pete’s sake, I've been waiting forty years: LET THEM WIN!!”

I finally worked up the courage to share the fact that at first I was hurt that the team was winning. My friend thoughtfully said, “I’ve actually been having the exact opposite thought. Each time the Canucks have won, each time they’ve advanced, it reminds me of Myron. It makes me think of you and the kids. Its like it is being won in memory of him! It feels like God is reminding me, “Don‘t forget them!” And I felt His hand.

Just yesterday, I received an email from a relative of a relative who said, “Watching the game, thinking of Myron!” And God made himself visible again.

On Monday I listened to the beginning of the game on the radio, and I knew, I just knew, it was going to go to the seventh game, that they would play here in Vancouver on the 15th. It felt inevitable. Like it had been planned all along. Win or lose, we will spend Myron’s birthday doing exactly what he would have done. I will cry, I have been for two days. My sorrow at not being able to be with him, to honour him, to wish him happy birthday and love him feels like pure torture. It is indescribable. But how can I not see Jesus in this? It is not possible.

To some, a coincidence. To me, a miracle. To some, merely interesting. To me, a profound reminder from God: I know you. I love you. I will never leave you. I made Myron. He will always be a part of you. Let me show you. Again.
　
　

Noises

2011-06-09T23:27:00.000-07:00

I believe that I have been asked at least once a week, “How are you sleeping?” In the days immediately following the accident, the answer was simple. I didn’t. I just couldn’t physically fall asleep. It took almost a week and the help of medication to enable me to get through any part of the night. Eventually I was able to get a fairly consistent 6-8 hours. Lately, however, it has gotten difficult again. I lie in bed and try to will my mind to shut down, but it doesn’t seem to know how.

The night before last, however, I did manage to lose consciousness around midnight. For an hour and a half. At 1:20 a.m. I started awake after hearing a noise outside the house. I was literally frozen in fear. The neighbour’s home had been broken into several nights before. The fact that we had an alarm gave me some comfort, but didn’t stop me from shaking which was even more obvious when I finally convinced myself to get out of bed and creep to the top of the stairs. Did I really have to go down there? Really? Was checking out scary noises now exclusively my job? Unfortunately, yes.

It took a while to make my feet move. The front porch light was on, but I flicked on every other light I could find, hoping to make the intruders aware that someone was home. I tried to convince myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, that my home was as safe now as it had been in the light of day, and yet something inside wasn’t falling for it. Everything is scarier in the dark.

After quickly looking out the windows, making sure the alarm was activated and the doors locked, I went back up to my room. What do I do? Call someone else’s husband to check it out? Call the neighbours? Arm myself? I didn't want to wake the kids, so getting them up to check on things probably wasn’t the answer. Another small rattle and I had made up my mind. There was no way I was going to be able to sleep without knowing we were all safe. It just wasn’t going to happen.

I called the police. Not 911. Just the local office where I explained that I was home alone with my four children, that a robbery had recently taken place next door, and I was hearing noises. If there was a patrol car close by, could they take a quick drive past the house? Of course, they said. They’d send out the call immediately.

I felt kind of silly but found myself waiting at the upstairs window for car lights to round the corner. I had almost talked myself into going back to bed when I heard some more noise. Nope, I’d wait for the cavalry.

There was a knock. The police had arrived. I realized as I was going down the stairs that I was in my fuzzy pink pyjamas and had a neck collar on. I opened the door anyways. An officer stood on the porch and must have seen worse because he didn’t hesitate before announcing, “I think we’ve found your noise.” Really? I wasn’t dreaming it? “You had two giant raccoons on your porch. One shot up a tree, the other around the side of the house,” he added with a grin. “I think your safe.” After apologizing profusely and accepting his assurances that they were happy to come, I watched as he made his way down the walk back to the cruiser and his partner inside. It was then that I realized something was beeping somewhere behind me. Beep, beep, beep. What was…? No! I’d forgotten to turn off the house alarm! I raced down the hall but didn’t make it. The noise was deafening (as it should be) and I found myself frantically punching and repunching in the code but getting it wrong. Finally, silence. Good thing I was trying not wake the kids.

After relocking doors, resetting the obviously effective alarm (MY heart was still pounding) and assuring Lauren all was well, I dragged myself up the stairs just in time to answer the phone. Of course it was the alarm company asking if they needed to send the police. No, I answered wearily, they’re already here. There was a confused silence and then she asked, “Did we already send them?” No, I called them, I said. They came to arrest the raccoons.

Happy to have been able to provide the alarm company with a good laugh at my expense, I turned off the lights and laid back down. If nothing else, the alarm should have sent the raccoons running. Maybe that was the upside.
　

Within the Journey

2011-06-04T23:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight, the city of Mission is celebrating. The Canucks won their second game against the Boston Bruins. From my home I can hear car horns blaring, air horns blowing, people shouting. They are celebrating an accomplishment, another step in the final series for the Stanley Cup.

Today, we too celebrated. But in an entirely different way.

We had been at Children’s Hospital eleven days when three of the volunteer firemen who had helped us at the accident scene arrived for a visit. Later, as they prepared to leave, they invited us to a pancake breakfast at their fire hall on June 4^th. It was only January 8^th, but I went to the calendar I had hung above my cot and flipped it open to June. On the day of the 4^th I wrote in black marker: Pancakes with our Heroes! “This will be our goal date,” I told them. “We have something to aim for now. To be well enough to have pancakes with you.”

Today is June 4^th. And this morning we drove out to the Dewdney Volunteer Fire Hall and had pancakes with our firemen heroes.

What an indescribable honour. I watched my children talk, answer questions, climb in the fire truck, try on jackets and helmets. I watched as these men and their families surrounded us, hugged us, served us and encouraged us. We made it. We made it to June 4^th. I can hardly believe it.

I remember writing that note on my calendar. I remember flipping through the months: January, February, March, April, May…to June. It was an eternity away. At that moment I had no idea what would fill all that time, no idea what it would take to get us through to this goal date. Looking ahead was impossible. Looking back is just a blur. And yet, here we are. June the 4^th.

I am not a patient person by nature. It has never been a gift of mine to break things down into small steps. I tend to jump into things expecting to land right where I want to when I come down. Myron was much more the planner, the detail person. Whenever I found myself landing short of my desired goal, he was the one who would remind me of the steps I had overlooked. Being impatient, I found it difficult to acknowledge the importance of each of those steps. If nothing else, I have now learned that there is as deep a journey going from step 1 to step 2, as there is going from step 1 to step 10.

We have made many journeys these past months. Each tiny step has become a journey in itself. Each day faced, each inch of progress, even the times we have slid backwards have been important. The entries I have logged on this blog testify if to no-one else but myself the enormity of the stepping stones. I hope I never forget that, the value of the journeying within the journey.

We made another pilgrimage today. After breakfast we drove to the crash site. It was only a couple of km down the road from the fire hall. Two of our firemen friends offered to go with us. I appreciated the strength they provided.

As we neared the crash point, I felt my hands shaking. It was the first time we had come anywhere close to it since that day in December. I thought of all the times we had travelled that road in the past, all the trips to Kilby Beach, all the drives up to Harrison. I thought of that day we drove it home, the innocence of believing our drive would end as easily as it had begun.

We stopped and parked. The men showed us the pole we had sheared, how it had been moved solidly two feet through the ground by the force of the impact. There were still remnants of glass lying in the roadside. It was just a small piece of earth and yet to me it was hallowed ground. My husband died here, on the side of the road.

We went into the gas station, into the building where each of my children had been carried. The men pointed to places on the floor, reminding the children where each had lain. It was just a gas station…but it wasn’t. I stood at the spot where Taeryn had been placed, where I had knelt beside her and begged her to live. Today, Taeryn stood beside me, healthy, alive, and I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her head. How much more would I have been suffering had they not been saved.

The owner of the station stood respectfully aside. I was so grateful for his quiet compassion. I was so grateful for his daughter-in-law and employee that had rushed to our aid that day. Taeryn could remember nothing, Karson little, but the older girls and I knew. We knew what had taken place there.

As the children headed back to the truck, I stood again on the spot where I had last seen my husband. My wonderful, strong, humorous, loving husband. The man who drove me crazy, the man I never wanted to live without. And as the firemen gave me a moment alone, I found myself thanking Myron, thanking God for the opportunity to have been loved by such a man. And by such a God.

It wasn’t an easy day. But it was a significant one. An important step in the midst of our journey. I will never stop loving you, Myron. I will never stop hurting for what we’ve lost. And I will never stop being thankful for what I had to lose in the first place.

Starts with an A

2011-06-01T23:11:00.000-07:00

I am so tired. My head feels like it is filled with sand. I want to think profound thoughts, meaningful thoughts, but the sand prevents me. So instead my thoughts flit around like birds with broken wings, trying to fly, trying to gain momentum only to crash back to the ground in a heap of frustration and bewilderment.

I was recently thinking about how I have at times been accused of being too analytical…but due to the sand, I couldn’t remember the word “analytical”. I knew whatever word I was searching for began with an A but I couldn’t grasp it. I finally went online and began searching synonyms for “think” and “ponder” but didn’t find what I was looking for until I started searching sites on personality traits. It was such a relief to find the word I was looking for. Analytical. To analyze. I wasn’t crazy, I knew it started with an A.

I think that I have always been this way. In fact, I remember many years ago taking a personality test and coming to that very question: “Do you consider yourself to be analytical?” I was stumped. Turning to Myron I asked, “What do you think they mean by “analytical”? Do they mean a logical thinker, because I don’t think I’m necessarily always logical. Or do they mean someone who thinks everything through? Do I think a lot? Is wanting to know “why” about everything considered analytical? Or, do I just get into conversations with other people to hear myself talk? What do you think I should put down?” Myron was trying to fill out his own survey and with a patient sigh said, “I think that would be a “yes“.”

Reaching for that word and not finding it is how I feel all day long. I keep reaching for something that is not there, something that is familiar and necessary, something I can still sense and almost grasp, but keeps eluding me. So I find myself searching for something to replace it, but nothing does. Nothing ever does. All day long I hold back tears. All day long I try to be present when what I really want to do is disappear. All day long I wonder when the part of me that has simply disappeared will stop stealing my breath and start to heal.

It has been five months. A lot has happened in those five months…an awful lot. I am sure that to many it seems like it has been a long time since the accident. But to me it was yesterday. It always seems like yesterday.

I put Karson to bed tonight and minutes later he began to wail. Really wail. Taeryn came in and said, “Karson needs you.” “What’s the matter,” I asked. She got tears in her eyes and said, “He misses daddy.”

They reach out and find me. They reach out and find their faith. They reach and find each other. But there are those times when they reach and all they find is empty air. He is supposed to be here. He is supposed to be within reach. But he’s not.

We have been discussing dreams. Bryn shared that she has been having a series of dreams where she is talking to daddy on the phone. In the dream she knows he has died, and she finds herself thinking, “This is cool! I’m talking to him!” We pressed her to tell us what he said. “In one I asked him what heaven is like,” she relayed. “He said, ‘It’s so wonderful, I can’t even describe it. I’ll just have to show you when you get here.’ Another time I told him that I miss him and he said, ‘Oh, Bryn, I miss you too. I love you!’ He said it just the way dad would have said it. Last night he told me about Jesus. ‘He’s just so amazing, Bryn!’” The rest of us listened, I believe, jealousy. We all wanted to hear from Myron. We all wished our actual phone would ring to hear his voice on the other end. Oh, how we wish it.

I have had only one dream myself. I came down the stairs and Myron was there, packing. I assumed he was getting ready to go on some kind of business trip, maybe to the offices in Yakima, something he would do every few months or so. I remember feeling sad that he was going, not really wanting him to leave. He was standing near the door and as I looked into the piano room, I was startled to see that all his stuff was lying on the floor, sorted but not packed. I whirled around and stared at him, realizing that this was a different sort of trip. And then it hit me that he wasn’t coming back. Sinking down onto our stairs I began to cry, telling him that I couldn’t do it. ‘I can’t do this alone,’ I sobbed. “I can’t! Please, Myron, please don’t go. Don’t leave me to do this alone!’ He just stood there, looking at me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just looked as serious as I’ve seen him and said, “Yes, you can. You can do it, hon. You can do it.” And then it was over.

There are dreams that are hazy and strange, and then there are dreams that stick with you. That seem as real when you wake up as they did while you dreamt them. I do not know how much significance I am to put into them. But they mean something to us. How can they not? Maybe I am just analyzing once again. Or maybe I should just rest in the belief that they are gifts. Gifts to a group of people that are desperate for someone, for something they can no longer have.

Either way, we hope for more. More of him. More memories. More healing. And I think we all hope, deep inside, for the day where we find ourselves reaching for something that brings peace and finding it, instead of just the empty disappointment of his absence.
　

Circumstance

2011-05-23T23:43:00.000-07:00

It was almost midnight. Being newly married and without children, we had stayed late at a friend’s house, chatting long after our home group study had ended. The ride home was short, just a few minutes. We drove it every Friday night and every Friday night Myron would slow down at the stop sign where we had to make a steeply curved left hand turn. We usually had a bit of discussion around that stop sign. I’d nag that he didn’t do a proper stop and he’d defend himself by saying it was close enough. But this night was different.

As we approached, Myron suddenly braked ten feet or so before the turn. Having anticipated his usual “yielding” type of stop, I was surprised and confused as to why he hadn’t driven right up to the corner. I turned and began to ask, “Why are you stopping here?” when we both heard a loud screeching sound to our left. Before he could answer, an out-of-control car came careening around the bend towards us. It was going so fast and had turned so sharply that its two right wheels had lifted off the pavement and sparks were flying up along its side as it half drove/half slid in the dark, diagonally passing between the front of our car and the stop sign that sat just a few feet ahead of us. The vehicle shot over the ditch on my side, went through a fence, bounced through a field and came to a stop as it hit the fencing on the other side.

We sat frozen. It had happened so quickly but it hit us both immediately what we had been spared. Had we not stopped short of the stop sign, the careening car would have slammed straight into Myron’s door. At the speed it was travelling, the result could not have been anything other than fatality. Shaking, we backed up onto the shoulder and ran out to where the car sat partially under the fence, lights on, driver’s door open and no-one inside. Obviously a drunk driver who had had the capacity to think self-preservation. The car was running so I reached in and turned it off, taking the keys with me. The thought of the driver returning to drive again was too much to bear. We drove back to our friends’ house and called the police who met us back on the road, took our statements and address and sent us home.

Of course, I had asked Myron again, “Why DID you stop there? You were so far back from the stop sign!” And Myron had said, “I don’t know. It was like something was pushing down on my foot, some kind of weight. And the car just stopped moving. I was as surprised as you that we had stopped so short. It wasn’t intentional. Something braked the car.”

Both Myron and I remembered that night vividly from that moment on. Every once in a while we would be driving down the same road and come to that same corner and we’d discuss again the miracle of that night, of how close we had come to losing one another. Over the years I have heard him tell others the story of that event, and it was always with the same amount of awe and thankfulness that he felt the night it happened. Something had stepped in and saved our lives. It didn’t take a rocket-scientist to figure it out. God had intervened. Myron and possibly myself would have died that night except for the fact that for the first time ever, we had braked far before the turn.

I have looked back at this miracle many times over the course of our marriage and wondered why? Why did God intervene? Why did he save us? Over the years, in my times of fear and worry where I would think about all the things that could happen, all the ways our family could be torn apart by tragedy, I’d think back to that event and take comfort in the fact that for some reason God had a purpose for us. He had protected us. I thought it a relief to know that God obviously wanted us alive and together.

It is difficult to think of the two events, that night so long ago and our recent accident, and not ask why He couldn’t have intervened again. Why not this time as before? Why save us once only to allow tragedy at a later date? But as usual the questions go unanswered and I am faced again only with the choice to trust or deny.

There was a time when I was going through a very, intense illness while pregnant with Bryn. All my pregnancies sent me to the hospital where I would be kept hydrated as I threw up continuously for months. Bryn’s pregnancy and the one we lost before her, were the two most difficult. I spent almost two months in hospital, throwing up so hard that I tore my trachea. I was losing my hair due to the dehydration, had shrunk to 101 pounds and didn’t have the strength to walk. It was an incredibly difficult thing to endure and when a doctor recommended that we think about aborting her, I felt like I was hanging by a thread.

The days were so bad, I just couldn’t summon up any joy. Lauren was three and I’d save up any gumption to be positive for her short visits. Most days I’d lie retching, asking God for help and fighting despair when nothing changed. But, there was the occasional day where I'd feel a bit stronger, when the pain and nausea eased just enough to feel a difference and I could actually sit up and talk for a while. Those days were amazing. They were few and far between, and yet I would feel such joy and faith on those days, thanking God for His blessing, for being with me, for His love. Then the next day would be horrible again, and I’d sink back into my despair that God had somehow left the room, had forgotten to extend any mercy or love, that I was on my own.

One day, I woke up knowing that it was going to be another horrible day when I was hit with a painful realization. The day before had been more tolerable, the first in a long stretch and I had felt hope. I had felt His love the day before. I had believed He was true to His word that He would never forsake me, and yet here now I lay, feeling abandoned. What had changed? I realized that the only thing that was different was how I was feeling physically. That was when the sad truth made itself known: A great deal of my faith had been based upon how I was feeling, and not on who I was believing in.

God hadn’t changed. He wasn’t any less real, any less loving, any less understanding on the bad days than He had been the better ones. The only thing that had changed was me. God remains God in every circumstance. The question I faced was could I be as thankful on the unbearable days as I could on the bearable? It was a question I have asked myself over and over again. Do I worship the real God? Or do I worship good circumstances?

I face that question again now. Myron and I praised God for His faithfulness and mercy the night he stopped our car. I now have a new circumstance, one in which He chose for whatever reason, a different outcome. Can I believe He is the same God today that He was when the circumstances were good? Can I know that He hasn’t changed, that His love and goodness are just as strong, just as available as I did when Myron lived?

One of my children asked me recently if I was mad at God. I answered honestly that at times yes, I did feel angry. Can you still be a Christian if you are angry at God, they asked? I pondered my response. Maybe, I said, being angry actually shows more faith than we think. Maybe it takes more faith to believe He is real, to believe He is good, faithful and loving even when you are angry and disappointed in Him.

In the end, I do not know many things. I do not know why then and not now. I do not know the future. I do not understand the reason for the present. The only thing I do understand is that God doesn’t change just because my circumstances do. He is God. And as I try to trust him as much today as on any other day, I have to keep reminding myself that He has not forsaken me. He has not abandoned me. My question then becomes, will I abandon Him?

Hope

2011-05-19T23:45:00.000-07:00

I am currently reading “Three Cups of Tea”, the true story of a man who while trying to climb K2 got lost and stumbled onto a hidden village in the depths of Pakistan. After being welcomed by the poorest of peoples, he was inspired to find a way to build them a school and has proceeded to raise funds to build many schools for those who have nothing. It is inspiring.

I am only part way through the book. The short section on his being lost deep in the icy depths of the glacial mountains somehow seemed…familiar.

It saddens me that I am about to make this inspiring man‘s story more about me than about him, but the truth is I feel lost. Every morning I wake up on my side of the bed, in my room, to the same children, the same home, town, friends and family as I did before Christmas. I come down to the same kitchen, look out the window at the same yard, eat off the same dishes. Everything is the same and nothing is the same.

I feel like a fraud, as though I’ve tried to step into someone’s life; tried to live as they lived, do what they would do. Except that its not someone else’s life I’m imitating; it’s mine. I feel as though I am imitating my own life. I’m playing the role of me.

And that confuses me. I’ll find myself responding to something by instinct…be it tickling Karson’s belly or talking with a friend when suddenly the overpowering knowledge that something is wrong overtakes me and I have to either sink into it or fight it off. It is exhausting. It is the tug-of-war between pretense and knowledge; emotional honesty and self-control.

But, in the midst of it all are moments where there is no struggle. Some are really bad moments. And some are really, really wonderful.

Bryn walked today. No crutches, no brace. Just seven or eight shuffling, straight-legged limps at the end of her physiotherapy session. Her therapist brought me over because “Bryn wanted to show me something”. I felt like I was watching a miracle, which in many ways, I was.

She was as surprised as I. Bryn didn’t know she would use that leg today. She didn’t know that today she could. She was suddenly inspired to put weight on it and despite the feeling that it was collapsing beneath her, took that first courageous limp. The bone remains incomplete. Her muscles barely perceptible. The knee is shaky and can barely bend. But she did it anyways.

It will take weeks and weeks of therapy to actually walk, but witnessing those first steps today…there was no confusion about who I was or what I was feeling. Pure joy. I was overwhelmed. The only thing I had to hold back was from shouting it out right there at the pool. I stopped five people just walking back to my bag. “Bryn walked,” I said each time. At least that is what my mouth said. What my heart was saying would have taken much longer to get out.

I think I felt hope. I am like that leg. I think the children, though they may not know it, are like that leg. We have holes, great missing gaps within us. My heart is torn, my faith shaky. I am barely holding it together. I would never have thought it possible to function like that. To bear any weight on the shaky legs of my reality. And yet, somehow, we stand. We move. The children are doing well. I am not doing quite as well but I haven’t given up yet. Moments like today’s certainly help.

The pain in my joy is that Myron is not here to see it. He should have been here to watch her. We should have been able to turn to each other, to see the hope and joy in each other’s eyes, to feel as only parents can feel the immense relief at another milestone being achieved. Of moving towards something good. But he wasn’t. It was just me. The hurting me and the rejoicing me. One day they might be the same person.

Bryn is exhausted and sore but I think she feels hopeful. Hopeful that maybe there could be an end to the long process of healing this leg. It is becoming very apparent that the difference in leg length is significantly more than what we had hoped. She will have to have special shoes made for the left leg until December when the surgeons will make the decision as to how to resolve it. It will probably mean more surgery, possibly re-breaking the leg to lengthen it. But that is then. Today we will just look at the fact that we are moving in the right direction.

Hopefully, we are all moving in the right direction.

The Proposal

2011-05-15T23:00:00.000-07:00

We were privileged this weekend to attend the wedding of my cousin and his lovely bride. It was beautiful. What an amazing thing, to be at the beginning end of life together. I am happy for them. It is something to be grateful for, the ability to be both sad and happy simultaneously. There are some events where joy is a must, and this was definitely one of them.

To be at a function that did not revolve around us and our sadness was refreshing. Of course our pain came with us, we couldn’t leave it at home, but it was good to taste happiness again, to witness joy, to be a part of a celebration. I cannot say that the weekend was not without pain, but it was also not without rejoicing.

I have to admit, travelling home was difficult. I knew what was waiting there for us. An empty house. A schedule filled with physiotherapy and counselling sessions, doctor’s appointments and business meetings. There was a part of me that wanted to turn the truck around and drive in the opposite direction, to find a new town, a new home where we could make new memories, ones that didn’t hurt so much. But of course, living without our memories would hurt just as badly, maybe worse. So instead I drove back to where we belong, at least for now. As we crossed the bridge over the Fraser River and into Mission, Karson looked out the window and said, “We’re almost home! Yay! We’re almost home!” That helped. It reminded me that the house is empty but that joy can still enter. It can still be a roommate.

Being at the wedding did what weddings do, brought back memories of that day so many years ago when I too walked down the aisle towards the man I believed would stand beside me the rest of my life. Towards Myron who could barely hold back tears, who couldn’t sing during the first song because his emotions were overpowering him, who pledged in his vows to always pay attention to me during Hockey Night in Canada, who when it came time to kiss his bride, snapped his fingers as a secret signal to the ring-bearer to come and hand him a tiny aerosol can of breath spray which he theatrically used before taking me in his arms. To the day when my dad looked at me before we left for the church and asked, “Are you sure?” And when I answered, “Yes, I‘m sure,” I did so knowing without a doubt, within every fibre of my being, that I was marrying exactly who I was supposed to be marrying.

There had been many days over the years where I had banged my head against the wall, probably just below the spot where Myron was banging his as we wondered how we were going to make this work. How would we shape these two stubbourn, imperfect souls into one. And every time I did, I would find myself going back to those days leading up to the wedding, to that moment where my dad asked if I was sure, and remind myself of the perfect peace I had felt. And that if I was sure then, I could be just as sure now.

The day Myron proposed was a complete surprise. Not that I was unaware of his intentions. Just of his timing. And his delivery.

It had been a difficult week at work and Myron had asked me over for dinner at the apartment he shared with his brother. February 10^th, a Wednesday. What ever happens on a Wednesday? I don’t remember what he made but it must have been edible and he had ice-cream, my favourite, for dessert and a video he had picked up from the store. Three quarters through the show the television screen went snowy and a voice said, “We now interrupt this show for a very special announcement.” Not clueing in, I said in frustration, “I can’t believe someone did this! Who rents a movie and then purposely wrecks it for everyone else? We need to get our money back!” Just then the screen resolved but instead of the movie, it was Myron standing at the front of our church. He had filmed himself proposing and inserted it into his own copy of the movie. I was absolutely shocked and for a moment couldn’t comprehend how he could be in two places at the same time. On the screen he made his speech, then went down on one knee, opened a ring box and looking into the camera, asked me to marry him.

Of course by this time I was in tears. Myron was sitting beside me, completely enjoying my shock and emotion. As the t.v. froze, the question hanging in the air, I turned to him and said, “Show me the ring!” I wanted to know that this wasn’t some elaborate joke (seriously, I really thought it might have been). He pulled out the ring, it was real, and of course the rest speaks for itself.

I still have the tape somewhere. How many people have their proposals recorded?

We decided we wanted to keep it a secret until Sunday when we could announce it at church but called our families (Dad already knew as Myron had called earlier. Apparently when Myron asked for my hand, Dad had replied, “Well, its about time!”). We talked about the wedding, where we would live, basked in the moment for hours…and then watched the end of the movie which he had thoughtfully recorded after the proposal, a good thing as we were both kind of wondering how it was going to turn out.

Unique. But then, Myron was unique. He always had to put his own spin on things, make whatever he was doing memorable. I am glad for that.

I am so glad we went this weekend. Paul and Stacy, may your life together be rich in memories, in trust and in beauty as you walk out what comes easily and what does not. I love you both.
Gillian

Logic

2011-05-10T00:04:00.000-07:00

Just as we were making strides forward, we’ve had a step backwards. Bryn had a fall on the stairs Saturday morning. Her crutch wasn’t securely on the step and when she put her weight on it, it slipped off causing her to fall down a step onto her bad leg. The ankle is badly sprained and there is possibly a new hairline fracture in the fragile femur. I am hoping and praying that they won’t have to recast her. There is a possibility the break was an existing one, so we are waiting on the prior x-rays to be sent from Children’s hospital before we know anything definitive.

On a completely unrelated topic, we’ve been experiencing our seasonal spring downpours here in the lower mainland. I was lying in bed last Sunday night listening to it pound on the roof, stood at the window on Monday morning watching as it rained non-stop throughout the day…and felt like a complete idiot Monday afternoon when it was discovered that I had left the truck’s sunroof open throughout the entire storm. (To be fair I should note that I’ve never had a sunroof before, although to be equally fair…specifically to my kindergarten teacher…I am fairly certain I was taught that the opposite of “to open” is “to close”. Fairly certain.)

I do have a bit of a history of faulty thinking. I don’t know how it happens, but at times information enters my brain where it is immediately attacked by the illogical, and it comes out my mouth convoluted. When we were first married, a friend told me about an island in the Maritimes where there are no vehicles. We discussed how interesting that was, how it would feel like Lucy Maud Montgomery's storybook version of Canada's Prince Edward Island in the novel “Anne of Green Gables”. Somehow I got mixed up and later announced (in front of a large portion of my extended family mind you) that to this day P.E.I. has no vehicles. Everybody protested but I stuck to my “fact”. “No,” I insisted, “my friend was just studying about it.” As my parents sat staring at me with their mouths hanging open (undoubtedly wondering what the point of paying my tuition had been) my husband turned to me and said, “So how do they get the potatoes off the island?” The answer stuck in my throat as I realized that it wasn’t P.E.I. but some other obscure island near P.E.I. and later had to admit that the teasing was in fact appropriate. I can’t count the number of times over the years when I would be arguing about something and Myron would turn and say with his grin, “And there are no cars on P.E.I., right hon?”

Myron wasn’t immune to his own sense of the illogical. I remember being hospitalized while pregnant with Lauren. I had sent Myron home with a list of items I desperately needed for my stay. When he returned that night he had only my toothbrush. I was frustrated and shocked when he announced that it wasn’t his fault that he had forgotten the other things.
“HOW is it not your fault?” I demanded.
“You had a lot of things on there,” he countered, “I couldn‘t remember them all.”
“That's why I gave a you list,” was my response.
“I didn’t look at the list,” he explained.
“Why not?”
“Because I forgot I had it. Its not my fault I forgot stuff!”
“But that’s exactly why I made the list,” I said through gritted teeth, “specifically to stop you from forgetting things!”
“And I wouldn’t have forgotten anything if I’d remembered to look at it,” was his argument.
“So then its your fault!” I yelled.
“No, because I didn’t look at the list!” he shot back. We went round and round with this until visiting hours were over. He went home and I lay fuming in my bed, wondering if all men were this illogical or was it just him.

I have to admit, however, that if the tally was known, he outweighed me in the logic department a thousand to one. I had come to depend on that logic. Its amazing how marriage was able to blend our personalities together to make one new one, yet still leave room for us to grow as individuals. Now I walk entirely as an individual, but an individual partially shaped by the personality and character of my husband. I sense this as I deal daily with detail after detail due the fallout of the accident. I can hear Myron's voice, anticipate many of his responses, and often find myself stopping to think, what would Myron say? What would we have decided together? My hand still reaches for the phone to call him at work, my head still turns to ask him his thoughts before it hits me all over again that all I now have is what I think he'd say. Life could be a little scary being that I now have to make all the decisions. And if one day you receive a postcard from us letting you know that we have been stranded on P.E.I. because its too far to walk to the ferry, you’ll know why.
　
　
　

An Update on the Physical Healing

2011-05-06T00:38:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, Bryn finally had the last cast removed from her leg (at least for now). The bone is not healed but is making progress. While the shattered pieces at the top and bottom of the femur have knit themselves back together, there is a large gap running lengthwise between the two longer pieces of bone in the middle. The x-ray showed that a small bridge of bone has made its way at one point from one side to the other, but there is much to fill in. The way to increase the laying down of new bone is to apply weight and pressure to the broken one. (There’s a life lesson right there.) The more she can stand on it, the faster the healing. She has a full length leg brace and after more than four months of being immobilized in plaster she literally has almost no quad muscle left. Thus the knee is unstable and very painful but after just two days, we are already seeing progress in her ability to shift her leg. Ortho lifts have been made for her left shoe to try and make up for the difference in leg length.

Bryn amazes me, as do all my children. Each new step brings uncertainty, and yet within a couple of days of each new challenge, she has mentally taken control of the situation and forges ahead with determination and an incredible attitude. Her courage inspires me.

Taeryn’s legs are healing well. In July she will have surgery to remove all the hardware that has been keeping the broken bones in place. She is walking better every day thanks to the hard work in physiotherapy. The hip flexors had shortened pulling her upper body forward and creating a large sway in her back, but we’ve been working on them and this week see a lot of improvement in her posture. The knees still swell and at times she is forced back into the chair, but most of her day is spent on her feet. I even saw her run today.

Taeryn’s neck is still sore but healing, and her wrist still swells which they expect to last for approximately a year. The scars on her face are starting to lose their deep red colour and due to the massage and creams we administer daily are flattening and looking better all the time. When I think of where she was in December and look at her now, swimming and playing, laughing with Karson…I can’t even describe how thankful I am.

Karson’s pelvis is fully healed and he is back to running, jumping, and anything else a six year old little boy can find to do. The tiny scars on his face do not match the scars in his heart, but there is a bit more happiness in his spirit than when we were having to be in Vancouver. It encourages me.

Lauren is having some difficulties with her elbow and hand, although she has made good progress with the physiotherapy. The elbow is still locked at 10 degrees (significantly better then the 45 degrees we began with) and her hand swells up with use, so they are booking her in with a specialist to investigate any more hidden damage. We are praying it is something that will continue to heal with time and rest.

My injuries revolve a lot around the C2/C3 vertebrae of the spine which is causing difficulties in my left arm, left hand, shoulder and back. I often wake up with pain at the base of my skull and deep into the left side of my neck.

We have been blessed, I believe, with an incredible group of therapists. They are loving, encouraging and talented. I cannot say enough about them and their clinic here in Mission. They too are becoming a part of the massive group of people who are helping us in our stumbling journey of pain and recovery. So many strangers who have now become family. So very, very grateful.

The physical healing is slow. But every so often I catch a glimpse of an improvement, see progress, and it reminds me that we are inching our way towards whatever it is that God has in store for us, even though it often feels as though we are standing still. I think that the important things, the things that bring life, that enable us to breathe life into others, do not often fall upon us suddenly. They are born out of countless hours, days, and years of tiny steps. I cannot see or foresee a single day ahead of me anymore. Life has changed too drastically, is too uncertain, but in some ways that is a good thing. Not an easy thing. But possibly a good thing. I am forced to focus on today.

The Myron I miss the most is not the Myron I got married to so many years ago. It is the Myron of late, the one who had deepened, who had inched his way over the years to become the man he was. It took time, as it does for each of us, to learn how to give of himself, to breathe life into the people around him. And yet I nor he were able to see it clearly along the way. There were glimpses, but it is only looking back that I see the real changes. Which is good as it reminds me that although it often feels like we are not moving much today, one day we’ll see the journey.

We are not standing still.

Two of our friends ran the Vancouver Marathon in Myron’s honour last week, Frank and Walden. Frank came to our home with the participant’s medal which he presented to Karson. It now hangs from the shelf by Karson’s bed.

I Lived

2011-05-02T00:33:00.000-07:00

I have just finished saying goodbye to a group of friends who at the invitation of my children, came to sit, eat and not say “happy birthday”. It was difficult to allow this get-together to happen. My children so badly wanted to give me a party. And of course, that makes perfect sense. They wait all year long, salivating at the thought of their own birthdays, the days where we celebrate them, their birth, the joy and life that they bring to this world of ours. After objecting that it was just too painful, I could plainly see that it was important to them, and what is important to them is important to me. So I stood back as they planned and prepared, hating the thought of having to go through with it, hating even more the thought of denying them more joy.

I long for wisdom and patience. I beg for it. Today my children sent me to my room as they prepared for company and it struck me that they were trying to provide something for me. As difficult as it was for me to enter into a celebration without the one who knew me the best, the one who has loved me so deeply, I felt nurtured by my children‘s efforts. And I was thankful that I hadn’t taken that opportunity away from them.

I was also made aware of something that has not occured to me in any significant way. As strange as it may sound, tonight I realize that I lived.

Just writing those words makes me cry. There are so many days where I wonder, often in frustration, why God didn’t just take me too, why he didn’t take all of us. It is a selfish thought. I know that it would have increased the pain of my loved ones, and yet in my weakest moments, in my deepest longings for my husband, it is what I want. To be together again. To not have to suffer this unbearable longing that can never be fulfilled. I will never again have what I desire. It is no longer an option and that is the most painful part. To recognize the fact that I survived is to remind me again that Myron did not. And the reality of that truth continues to devastate me on a daily basis. It has rendered me helpless to see much beyond my gratefulness that I do not have to mourn the loss of my children as well as my husband.

However, in the past two days I have been written some beautiful things by some very beautiful people. And as I read these words of love, I was suddenly able to briefly glance at our situation through the eyes of those who love me, who care for me, who would miss me and hurt if I was gone. I think that for the first time I realized that I, not just my children, not just my husband, was in a horrible, traumatic car accident…and I lived. I am alive. And though that does not feel like a gift, I realize that somehow it has to be. For others are rejoicing that I am still here. Others are grateful at the reality that they can still walk life with me, spend time with me, continue our relationship. They are thankful. And in their thanks, I see more purpose to my continuing on.

There are different ways of seeing things. Sometimes it is through the eyes of our intellect. And sometimes it is through the eyes of our heart. It is a strange thing to suddenly see how things might have been. For a brief moment I saw that I too would have left a gaping hole just as Myron has. I saw that my loved ones would have had to bear the burden of losing not just one, but two people in their lives. I see that this situation is not just about me and my grief, or our pain and healing. There is so much more to it than that. My life is interconnected with everyone around me. As soon as I interact with others, as soon as I allow myself to be known by someone else and vice versa, I either add to their lives or take away. I have been grieving the loss and giving thanks for the survival of each of my children, but I have not rejoiced in the sparing of my own life (other than for the benefit of my children). I have not rejoiced that my parents, my in-laws, my sister and friends have been spared more pain. I have not found a way to rejoice that I am alive.

I think that this will take time. But to hear that my loved ones are so grateful to have me alive has touched something within me; for how grateful would I be if Myron had lived? It has shifted my focus ever so slightly. It has again taught me that I need to look beyond myself. How difficult it is to do that, especially when I am in such agony, and yet it is life-giving. It sounds self-absorbed to say that I need to realize that I am important to the lives of others, but by doing so my attention actually moves towards them and in turn releases some of the torment of my own burden.

Tomorrow I may read this entry and wonder what on earth I was talking about. I may sink back down into the depths of my pain where none of this makes any sense. But tonight, at this moment, I am reminded that I lived. And maybe I have more to learn about the importance of that than I have realized.

"Grateful Birthday"

2011-04-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is my birthday.

I was born on April 30: Tax Day. The day our yearly Canadian taxes are due. And, I was married to an accountant. An accountant with a procrastination problem. I spent many a year waiting for attention while he frantically tried to get our tax forms filled out and into the mail. Somewhere around the third year of our marriage I had had enough and made a rule that taxes had to be completed by April 29^th, whether they were ours or one of the many others Myron did as a favour to friends and family. There was a new tax day declared. And he stuck to it. I can’t remember the last time he did our taxes on my birthday.

Tomorrow will be difficult. The saying, “Happy Birthday” doesn’t really apply to me this year. It doesn’t feel happy. But I can be grateful. Grateful for the many things God has done in the past four months to show us he cares. Grateful for every year I was able to celebrate with my husband. Grateful for every child that will still be here to give me a birthday kiss in the morning. For friends that love, for strangers that care. I’m grateful. This year, I will say to myself, “Grateful Birthday”, Gillian. It doesn’t have the same ring to it, but it is far more accurate.

And today I had much to be grateful for: Another beautiful dinner delivered; neighbours checking in; a dvd that was made using years of footage of Myron and I; a message left on my machine; a friend who stayed to talk; a brother-in-law who shared a piece of our story in the Alberta Legislature; an eleven year old who has spent two days making me a cake; a fourteen year old who hugged me and told me she loves me; an eight year old who prayed earnestly for strangers to know that God loves them; and to top it all off, a marriage proposal from my six year old son.

And thanks to a very kind gentleman, the taxes are even done. 　
　
　
　
　

　

Sorrow or Sorry

2011-04-25T23:35:00.000-07:00

I have been so incredibly sad this week. My tears are unending and I am convinced there is no such thing as a truly waterproof mascara. My children are watching as I struggle to keep my composure. Maybe it is because of my upcoming birthday. The thought of growing another year older without Myron impedes any desire to even recognize it let alone celebrate it.

We had such beautiful worship on Easter morning. I was singing and was suddenly overwhelmed with happiness for Myron, happiness that he is able to truly experience the resurrection, happiness that he is where he is. I thought about the fact that my husband has now possibly met and spoken with Adam and Eve, with Moses, with John the Baptist. What an incredible thought, to actually sit down and have a conversation with the first created man. Unbelievable.

However, as the emotions continue to rise up and overflow, I find that my thoughts will revert to the reverse. How can he be happy when I am so broken? How can he feel joy knowing the huge vacuum his leaving us has created? He never would have abandoned us had he the choice. It seems impossible to believe that his experience is negating the reality he must surely comprehend. My only reconciliation is the thought that with heaven’s perspective of time, he has perhaps barely yet been able to comprehend his moving on to new life. Maybe he’ll have just arrived only to turn around and find us right behind him, years later in our perspective, mere minutes in his. I don’t know. I won’t know. I can only imagine.

I cry every time I drive. Because of the flashbacks? Because of the inability to distract myself? I don’t always know. We went to see “Soul Surfer“ at the theatre yesterday…the emergency scenes brought me right back to the day of our accident, with its panic and fear and desperation. I began to cry, to weep in the darkness of the theatre as I relived what that felt like. I found myself watching the events of that day in my mind as though I were a witness rather than the participant. It brought me great sorrow for all we were forced to see, to live through.

As I think about that event, that innocent day that changed everything for so many people, I have been wrestling with the difference between the following: feeling sorrow for ourselves and feeling sorry for ourselves. A difference of two letters. But what results from one versus the other I am finding is profound.

I am saddened to say that there are times when I feel the temptation to feel sorry for myself. And why shouldn’t I, my inner voice reasons? Look at the circumstances. Do I not have the right to do so? But what flows out of that mindset is ugly, at least I am finding it so. Suddenly I start thinking that we deserve better, that the world owes us, that God owes us. Instead of thankfulness, instead of the ability to see the incredible kindness and generosity of God, of those around me, I could easily begin to see everything as an act of duty. But if it is required, it is no longer a gift. I hate those moments when feeling sorry for myself tries to creep into my being and taint my thoughts. It brings no peace, no love, no joy. It is cancer.

However, I am finding that as I look to the pain, that of others and my own, there is a real and necessary place for sorrow. I am sad. I am sad that I have lost such a massive part of what was good in my life; I am sad that my children have had to endure this trial; I am sad that I as a wife and mother had to witness what I witnessed that day, to live with those memories, to endure this unbearable pain. It sorrows me to the core. But this sorrow does not seem to lead me down the same path as the self-pity. God seems to know this kind of sorrow and meets me in it, if only to sit quietly next to me and be sad alongside. This sorrow seems to lead me to a desperation for comfort, for peace. The self-pity seems to lead me towards an anger that feels bitter and ugly. Clear waters versus mud. Pure grief versus my demand for retribution. It is yet just another of the battles that I find myself fighting. My path is not very straight, I find it slippery and sometimes it is just easier to rest in the pity. But I feel myself constantly being nudged away from that deception, that belief that because life has been unkind to us everyone should take notice and fix it. For that is just a lie, another tragedy waiting to happen.

I worry about whether or not my children will know the difference. Will they grow up in bitterness, demanding that life repay them for its cruelty? Or will they grow up knowing that their sorrow is genuine and necessary, something that will deepen them and fuel their compassion. I can only pray for the one over the other, both for them and myself.

And so the journey continues, some of it in battle, some in rest, most in exhaustion and confusion. I go to bed wondering what I will be able to endure the next day. Will I wake with the will to keep moving, or the relentless burden of tragedy? I never know. I just keep waking

Thank you...the vehicle has been bought.

2011-04-24T18:32:00.000-07:00

Thank you, thank you, thank you all those who have so lovingly and generously donated money to our family. Yesterday I finally bought a vehicle to replace the van that was destroyed in the crash. It is big and safe and big and filled with airbags and big and has a good safety rating and oh yes...did I mention it was big?

This would not have been possible without the community of people that have provided for us over the past four months. Every time I drive I give thanks for those who made it possible. Each time I check to see that the children are belted in, I give thanks to those who gave money they could have used elsewhere to bless my family. Every time that we arrive home safely I am humbled that we have been cared for. You are beautiful, precious people. And I cannot thank you enough.

The truck is five years old and I'm almost fairly certain is nicer than our house. We might just live in it. I can fit the wheelchairs in the back and there is room for Bryn's leg to be stretched out comfortably. It is a relief to have the task of purchasing a vehicle off of my plate, such a relief. I apologize to the environment, but some day maybe we will be far enough removed from the accident to feel safe in a smaller vehicle again...at least I hope so.

So again, my heartfelt thanks to all who made this possible. And may you be blessed in return time and time again.

With love,
Gillian, Lauren, Bryn, Taeryn and Karson

Saturday

2011-04-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

It is the eve before Easter. I have been drawn into the Easter story like never before. It is personal now. This time I am not only reading about it, I feel as though I am experiencing Easter‘s procession.

Yesterday a good friend arrived at my house and said in tears, “I keep thinking how the people chose Jesus over Barabas. How they took the wrong man. I’m angry because Myron should not have been chosen.” I knew exactly what she meant. It does feel as though God has allowed a horrible mistake, that he has watched as the wrong man, a good and decent man, my husband and the father of my children, was chosen to die. Every day I struggle to comprehend it, feel my heart break over it. The wrong man. Lord, somehow you took the wrong man.

A wise woman wrote me today and reminded me that at Easter we tend to jump from Friday to Sunday. From the death of Jesus to His resurrection. But what about Saturday? We forget about Saturday.

My family and I, we are experiencing Saturday. We are hanging in the balance between death and life, despair and hope, anguish and joy. We are told that there is an end to this awful day, a time when we will get to move on to the Sunday and the life that comes with it, but for now all we feel is the darkness of death, of broken dreams and promises. Of love extinguished and a future without the one we desire.

How His family and disciples must have mourned that Saturday so long ago. How they must have anguished at the thought that they would never again be able to talk with Him, touch him or see His smile. How they must have longed to hear His voice and hear him speak words of love and comfort. How they must have suffered.

They too had been told of a new day, one that would turn their tears into joy, their mourning into dancing. I am assured that one day our joy will return as well, that the pain of what we are enduring, are longing for but cannot have, will dull with time and hope will arise. It seems impossible, and yet the message of the resurrection insists in its truth. We too will again, one day, experience Easter.

The actual Easter is not about me. It is not about Myron or his death or what we are living through. The pain of feeling as though the wrong man was chosen does not indicate that another man should have been chosen in his place. But it has drawn me into its story in a way I have never been before. We live in the resurrection and yet deep in our hearts is the knowledge that death must come first. And we hate death. It hurts and bleeds and tears at everything we want to believe is safe and good. But eventually death reaches us, by literal means or symbolically as our dreams, our plans, our health and relationships, or what we thought we could count on suddenly disappears and we find ourselves walking in the Saturday of life, be it short or unbearably long. And as I experience this in a magnitude that astounds me, I realize that life here on earth is in essence entirely Saturday. We begin to die the moment we are born, long for something that is not yet tangible and will not experience Sunday until we reach eternity. We are people of Saturday.

Thank God that He gives us glimpses of Sunday. Thank God that we have seen, heard and felt enough to know that this day will end, that we can rejoice in the hope of that next day, that our God is not a God who wishes to leave us stuck hanging between death and life forever. He is a God who has a plan to move us forward, to taste life, to see where we have come from. But first we must experience the burden of Saturday. Some of us more than others, others much more than myself, but experience it yet all the same.

How I long for Sunday. Thank you God that there will be Easter. And I hope that one day I will be able to thank Him in some sincere and meaningful way, for Saturday as well.

The Game

2011-04-22T18:52:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what to do with my time. I used to long for days with nothing to do, days to be lazy, to putter around the house, to lie on the couch and read a good book. Now time is something that burdens me.

Every morning I wake up and realize that I have another day ahead of me. Another day of trying to meet needs that cannot be met, another day of hurting, another day of decision making. My energy is spent just trying to fill the hours until I can go back to bed, take my pill and enter the dreamless sleep where I cease to exist.

It’s not depression…it’s the sense of being lost. Of having my life rearranged beneath me with no clear guidelines as to how to live it anymore. Tasks are merely ways of pushing ahead the clock, hours to days, days to weeks, weeks to the moment when I too am called home.

I keep asking God, what now? What do I do with my life? What are my goals, my dreams? The world Myron and I designed together had a balance. His work was supported by my work. Mine by his. Now his career, his ministry, his work in the community have vanished, taking with it my part in it. My world has suddenly shrunk to a very small space, filled with four very beautiful children who need me. But the shock of having the world reduced to these rooms, these few tasks that take up so much time, is difficult.

I am longing for creativity. I am longing for purpose. I am longing to look outside of ourselves and yet I have neither the time nor the ability to do that right now. I ask God, What do you want from me, how do you want me to use this situation, and I hear only the word, "Wait". But waiting takes patience. Waiting is hearing silence when I want words, direction, help. I am not good at waiting.

One of the most difficult things I now do is to drive past the baseball fields. It is spring. The teams are out, warming up, practicing, playing games. Myron loved baseball. He loved coaching. He was good at it. Each time I drive past I see where he once played as a boy, then as a man, and most recently as a coach.

It feels as though the children and I were playing a game of baseball when suddenly, without warning, our pitcher disappeared. They look to me for help but I am as confused as they. I too am looking out at the empty pitcher’s mound. I played back-catcher. My glove was designed to take his pitches. It was well broken in, the leather soft, the pocket deep. I knew how to play from here. I don’t know any other way.

Lauren knew how to play first base. Now I can see her hesitating, wondering if she as the oldest is to walk to the mound, but I look at her and shake my head. She needs to stay on first, although neither of us knows what first base is anymore. Karson was just learning. His glove is still new, needing time to break in, to play catch with daddy, to learn. Taeryn and Bryn have played but barely knew the game and now the rules have suddenly changed. What are the rules? What is the goal? How can we continue to play when a team member is suddenly gone? There is only the knowledge that we cannot step off of the field. We must wait to be taught. It makes us feel stranded and alone. We all stand on our bases, staring numbly at one another, wanting to encourage each other but not knowing how.

So we just keep mouthing the words, "I love you," and suddenly the pitcher's mound becomes a mound of dirt, a grave, and we realize that he will never again be standing there, throwing his pitches, walking to the bases to whisper something in our ears, giving us his crooked smile or saying something to make us laugh. The game as we knew it is over. We need to learn a new one.

Fight or Flight

2011-04-17T23:46:00.000-07:00

I haven’t felt like writing lately, I just don’t have much to say. Everything revolves around the same issues: our health, our healing, our grief. I get tired of hearing myself, of having nothing new to say, nothing new to contribute to those around me. At times I feel ashamed that I cannot be braver, stand stronger. So I fight the shame and tell myself that it is what it is, and yet what it is never seems to change.

I read recently that when confronted with adversity, the natural human response is “fight” or “flight”. We will either choose to battle or to run away.

I want to run away. As we got off the helicopters that day and I was sat down in the empty hallway of Children‘s Hospital, I remember thinking, “We need to go away. We need to go on a trip, just leave.” My instinct was to get out, out of the situation, out of the reality that was screaming its horrible truth. I’d pack up the children, we’d get on a plane and go exist someplace else. Someplace where this wasn’t happening.

The trouble is, it was happening everywhere. The truth travels.

But I cannot run. I cannot pack them up and leave, they cannot be moved from their appointments and therapists and specialists. There are times when my world is spinning so fast I can barely think, and then other times when everything grinds to a sudden and painful stop and I am left sitting alone, the tape of what I saw that day, of what I felt, what I heard playing over and over again in my head until I want to bang it against a wall just to make the movie stop. And I think of all the people out there who are themselves fighting the urge to flee, or fleeing the urge to fight; who have their own movies they want to stop reliving, their own lonliness, their own pain and I feel helpless for them as I feel helpless for us. And yet it is the process. The process, I suppose, of grief, of loss.

There are days when I get up ready to fight: fight for the children, fight for hope, fight for faith. And then there are the times when fighting seems impossible, when my mind just wants to think of things that don’t hurt, when my sword lies fallen limply by my side and I am too weary to pick it up. Too wounded to want to stand my ground in the battlefield of pain and uncertainty.

There is no rhyme or reason to these hours, these days or months. What is real to us at the moment is our reality, and we face it one moment at a time, each in our own way. At times I see some of the children running though they do not leave the room. In the next moment I see their fight, the battle to believe that they can be normal again, that God is still good, that we will be alright. I see myself in them and them in me and I pray, I pray, that one day the fleeing and the fighting will not take up every ounce of our effort, and that we will just…be. Just be.
I was reminded today that Jesus faced this same issue as he contemplated asking the Father to take away the task that lay before him. He too had the compulsion to flee from pain, and yet he did not. He walked into it knowing fully what he was going to have to endure. And he endured it for us. Maybe it is a good thing right now that we are not able to flee as my instinct had told me to. Maybe one day I will see that yes, at times we did have to fight...but that we did not fight alone.

Homesick

2011-04-14T23:29:00.000-07:00

I was released from the hospital last night and am home again. I am sore and tired but it is good to be back with my children. I am stricken at the extra trauma they had to endure. I saw it in each of their faces when they finally came to see me. Each wore it differently but I could read it well. I hated that they and so many others were having to walk another day of anxiety and uncertainty. I am grateful that the outcome is one of relief instead of more pain.

Although home, I continue to be homesick. Homesick for my heavenly home. Homesick for my husband, my friend. Homesick for my old life. Karson is longing to go to heaven. He keeps asking, “When do I get to go? I want to go!” This morning he looked me straight in the face and said as earnestly as I’ve heard him say anything, “Tell me how to go to heaven! Mom, tell me how to go to heaven when I’m still little!” I’m fairly certain that had I answered, “Well, take 1^st Avenue until you get to Cedar Street, then turn right on Elm…” he would have been out the door like a shot. I hate having to tell him that he needs to wait, because like me, his little heart is longing to be there, to escape this pain, to see daddy and taste what is waiting for him. The more he hears about heaven, the more he pictures daddy being there, the more he wants to leave this life and go.

The night of the accident, I had to face the excruciating task of telling my children that daddy had died. Other than having to face it myself, I have not ever had a more difficult duty. I was devastated not only at the loss, but at having to walk into each hospital room and shatter the hearts of my children.

I waited almost two days to tell Taeryn. She was still in the ICU and hadn’t been conscious or well enough to be given the news. But at 4:00 a.m. on the second day, as I sat by her bed in intensive care, she was finally awake enough to ask, “Where’s daddy? Is he at home?” And again I had to form the words that still made no sense to me. I will never forget her wail, her face as the tears poured out of her. Because of her condition I was unable to hug her, to lift her or hold her as she broke apart. I could only hold her hand and kiss it and tell her over and over again that I loved her, that daddy loved her, that I was so sorry.

Taeryn grieved openly and painfully over the following few weeks. I would never have imagined having to hear my seven year old child say that she wanted to kill herself and be with daddy. She cried, she moaned, she called for him. Every time she woke up she’d ask me again, “Is it true? Did daddy die?” I too wanted it all to be a horrible dream, something to wake up from, but each time I had to break her heart again, had to tell her that yes, it was true. He was gone.

Now, more than three months later, she still grieves, but it is different. The anguish is softer, gentler. Today she said, “If I could, I’d go to heaven and bring daddy home again.” When I explained that it was actually he that was home, she asked, “Do you think he could ever come here and visit then?” I see that she is finding reasons to stay here, reasons to be patient. It brings me hope to watch her, hope for me, for my own anguish.

And yet we must wait. We must wait until it is our turn to go home, our turn to see him again. The good news is that we will one day. And likewise an immeasurable gift, eventually there will be reasons for all of us to be patient. To love life. To look forward to things we will experience here.

Loving life. Being homesick. Both gifts. Both important. Both difficult for me right now.
　
　
　
　

Another Update

2011-04-12T19:04:00.000-07:00

I am so grateful for the prayers.

On Sunday I was experiencing pain in my chest that over the day grew quite severe. I was loathe to return to a hospital of any kind, but I finally convinced myself (with the help of a friend) that I should at least have it checked-out.

We were fully expecting to be told it was a non-issue but the blood tests came back with elevated heart enzymes, indicating it was a heart issue. It was another of those frozen in time moments. This could not seriously be happening, not now. What about the children?

They transferred me to another hospital and did bloodwork through the night. I didn't sleep well. The next morning they did a stress test which I failed so they scheduled an angiogram to be done in Vancouver the next day, which was today, and I am happy to say that it ruled out just about everything that would require surgery or fear of heart failure.

They think that I am experiencing aortic spasms. There is a medication that I will begin and it should make a difference. The condition is often seen in people who have experienced high stress. I am hoping to be released from hospital tomorrow.

Every day since Dec. 28th, I have told God that my heart is broken. The Japanese name for this heart spasm condition is "Broken Heart Syndrome". And I think, "Yes. That's it exactly."

Thank you for praying. Thank you to those who were able to step in and take care of the kids. I am once again, so very grateful.

Gillian

Please Pray

2011-04-10T20:58:00.000-07:00

Gillian was admitted to hospital tonight with some heart issues. She is staying there tonight for observation and more tests. There is no other information available at this point.

The children have someone staying with them at home, they do know their mom is in the hospital.

Gillian has asked for prayer for her and her children during this time.

Please, please, please pray for Gillian and her family.

Thank you,

Anthony Forstbauer

Being Ridiculous

2011-04-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

I have been given a reprieve from the unrelenting pain of grief. I do not know why the numbness has returned or how long it will stay, I am just grateful for it. It is like being in labour. I know that the next wave of immeasurable pain is coming, that it is inevitable. But there are also times of rest that seem to happen in between these unbearable contractions. I wonder if I can anticipate the times of rest, of protection, as surely as I can anticipate the times of torture?

The contractions focus me on the pain of our loss. The numbness enables me to focus on the memories.

We had been married for two years when we decided it was time to enter the land of home-owners. I think this was our first major purchase as a married couple. The thought of taking out a mortgage made our knees weak. Was this the house for us? Could we afford it?

Those questions were difficult. But not as difficult as the decision of who would work the video camera.

In 1995 we had found a house. Our first visit with the realtor ended badly. The doors were self-locking and as we stepped outside to look at the yard, Myron close the front door out of habit. It locked us all out and the realtor’s keys in. After she called a friend to come over and break in we sheepishly slunk home to crunch some numbers. Sufficiently interested we decided that we’d video tape the inside of it to show our family and friends. Our realtor kindly took us back for a second look. As she unlocked the door Myron reached for the video camera. I snatched it back. “What are you doing?” he asked, “give me the camera so I can tape it.” “I wanted to tape it,” I said stubbornly opening the case. “It was my idea.” “But I’ll do a better job,” he insisted, reaching out to take it back. We then entered into a full-out power struggle over who was going to run the camera. The poor realtor stood awkwardly by as we argued back and forth until Myron said something that in retrospect he regretted for a very long time. He said, “Men are better at running technology.”

The fuse had been lit. Not only did I react to his ridiculous statement, I stomped off to the car, got in and drove off leaving him stranded at the house. With our realtor. Who then had to lock up the house and give him a ride home. By the time he arrived I had sufficiently cooled down, he retracted his statement, and we apologized profusely not only to each other, but later to our realtor for our ridiculous behaviour.

And I was often ridiculous. When it wasn't exasperating, Myron actually found it amusing.

I once overheard him instructing someone on the phone to email him some information. This was years ago and we hadn’t yet bought a home computer so all this business about emailing and the internet made little sense to me. Myron had a computer at work, but now also an email address? I hadn’t realized this and asked if I could use his address to receive email as well. “Sure,” he said. As he dictated it for me I froze at the words “hotmail.com” then immediately reacted by tearing a strip off of him. “How could you possibly have thought it appropriate to pick an address like that?” I stormed. “You are a professional! This is a work address, what is your boss going to think? Of all the dumb addresses to make up…HOT MALE??!! Who in there right mind uses an email address to say they are a hot male?!!”

Myron waited until I had to take a breath then broke in and explained that hotMAIL was the email server, and that no, he was not advertising himself as some sort of stripper.

It was too bad we couldn’t harness my energy to over-react. We could have possibly invented a new power source. Even so, Myron usually took my reactions with patience and that even-temper that used to drive me crazy. He just didn’t get riled up easily.

I, on the other hand, did.

Our first married Christmas is a good example. I had pictured the two of us hiking through the snowy woods to cut our first tree, bringing it home to hot chocolate and cookies and listening to holiday music as we decorated it together. But alas, it was not to be. First of all, Mission, B.C. doesn’t have Christmas snow, we have Christmas rain. Secondly, Myron thought paying three times as much to choose a tree at a tree farm was ridiculous so he bought it in the parking lot at Safeway, and thirdly he had no interest in spending a night decorating when a perfectly good hockey game was on t.v. I was so frustrated. This was not the romantic holiday tradition I had planned. Suddenly it felt like it was me doing the work while my husband sat on the couch.

I looked at our pathetic tree. I looked at my husband. Fine. I’d do it myself. Stringing the lights took a very long time and then I carefully put on the decorations. It was looking nice, but Myron didn’t seem to notice. Standing back, I saw that some of the branches were not symmetrical and got out the scissors. It just needed a little trim to be perfect. I reached in through the branches to even it out and …zap! cut right through the Christmas tree lights. The tree went dark. I stood in absolute horror at what had happened and proceeded to flip out. Grabbing the tree by the middle I had a temper tantrum, shaking the thing back and forth in frustration, ornaments flying, needles exploding, and me yelling, “Stupid, stupid tree! You stupid tree!” When I finally got a hold of myself, the place was a mess. I turned around to face my husband who was frozen on the couch, hockey forgotten, eyes huge. I could read it all over his face: Who is this crazy woman and what is she doing to that tree? I burst into tears. Myron, not knowing what else to say, said, “Maybe we shouldn’t have a tree this year?”

I can think of many occasions where that temper of mine flared. Myron, being stubborn to the core, was at times the fuse to my ticking time bomb. It made for some pretty good fireworks over the years. But we each began to change, a little bit here, a little there. Myron was not nearly as stubborn as he used to be; I was not as volatile. I don’t think our current realtor would ever have had to drive one of us home after being abandoned. I learned not to decorate during a hockey game and Myron learned that it was important to me to participate. Our last Christmas together was spent decorating as a family, complete with hot chocolate, cookies, and Myron playing songs on the guitar. It was quite perfect. It was our last.

During this past week, my anger has again flared heavenward a few times. God, how can you possibly expect me to do this? How could you take away my husband, my marriage? The father to my children? I truly just don’t understand! To be angry with God is not an easy thing. Does it mean my faith is weak? Does it mean I doubt his existence? And then one night I realized that I can’t be angry at something that’s not there. If I’m angry with God, it’s because I know He’s real. I know He’s listening.

I was reading a poem the other day that spoke of death being a natural part of life. It was strange, but for a tiny moment, like an unexpected blip on my flat-lined monitor of happiness, was the thought that this experience, this time of having to say goodbye to the man I love was something I was facing from the day we met. Although the timing and the circumstances should and could have been very different, whether we were 90 or 40, there was always going to be a day when one of us would have to say goodbye to the other on this earth. And it would have always been incredibly painful. I don’t know why, but for a tiny moment it lessened the horror and I felt a breath of peace. But only for a moment. The enormity of what has happened rushed back in, a tide of an ocean that could not be held back, the trauma, the injuries, the life I still have to live. But I often reflect on that tiny moment, that small moment of peace. And I long for more.
　
***We spent the afternoon at Children’s Hospital today. All the children had x-rays and appointments. It was a long afternoon.

Bryn was hoping to have her cast removed but sadly there remains an open space between the broken shafts of the femur where the bone has not filled in and she was instead re-casted again from groin to toe. This one is expected to stay on for another four weeks. The experience was not pleasant and she needed some strong pain medication which made her throw up. Lauren is also having problems with her hand but stays positive. I am concerned about it, but then, what am I not concerned about? The three youngest have been battling fevers and head colds. I guess regular germs do not take a holiday from more serious injuries.
　
　
　

　
　
　
　

A Question for Karson

2011-04-01T23:39:00.000-07:00

We were driving home from one of our countless doctor’s appointments today when I heard 8 year old Taeryn say to her six year old brother, “Karson, when I get married, will you walk me down the aisle?”

Two things happened in that moment. The first was the great sadness I feel all too-often these days. The awful reminder that Daddy will now never walk them down the aisle on their wedding days. All three girls have mourned over this. It has at times surprised me what has risen to the surface in their grief. Taeryn said one night in tears, “He’ll never get to meet his grandchildren! Daddy won’t get to be a grandpa!” I don't know why this struck her so intensely so early on, but it was something she thought of very soon after the accident. So while it now didn’t shock me that Taeryn was today thinking about this, it did surprise me that she had already come up with an alternative plan. And a beautiful one.

The second thought was how wonderful it would be for my son to stand in for their dad. The realization that maybe the girls won’t have to walk down the aisle alone surprisingly provided a brief flash of hope. I could almost picture Karson all grown up, standing proudly beside a radiant sister. There could still be beauty in that moment, as far away as it is to us right now.

Karson’s response was, of course, “What’s an aisle?” We tried to explain but it wasn’t making any sense to him, so he switched the question to, “Who are you going to pick to marry, Taeryn?”

We have a book on our shelf entitled, “Interviewing Your Daughter’s Date”. It was given to Myron by another dad who would also one day encounter THE moment; the moment their little girl announces, “There’s a boy I want to go out with.” I believe they each had a copy of the book and the CD and were planning on comparing notes…and possibly coping strategies. Our own girls had often asked us, “When would we be allowed to date?” Myron’s answer was, “Never.”

My oldest daughter has some fairly remarkable opinions on the dating process. She has made some in-advance decisions that I think are very wise, especially for a 14 year old. She and her dad also had a running repartee on the subject. I loved how Myron would often take on a mock-serious tone when the subject of boys was brought up, however innocently. “What‘s his name? Where does he live? He didn‘t try to kiss you did he? Where‘s my baseball bat!” to which she would roll her eyes and say, “Daaaa-aad!“ This banter began at the age of five, and although it was obvious he was joking, I believe she also took a lot of comfort in the knowledge that daddy was and would always be watching out for her. I remember one summer Myron had taken the girls to a rollerskating rink. The d.j. announced a “couple’s dance” and immediately a young boy asked Lauren if she wanted to skate it with him. Lauren, age 11 at the time replied, “You see that man standing over by that doorway? That’s my dad. I’d skate it with you but if you came within twelve inches of me you wouldn’t like what he’d do.” The boy quickly asked someone else while Lauren smugly skated on. The funny thing was, Myron was the least menacing individual I’ve ever met. “Marshmallow Myron,” we used to call him jokingly. But in her mind he was her defender, her safeguard. And I loved it. I know without a doubt that he did as well.

I don’t know how that is going to work now. Who is going to take on that role, who will step in to provide that guidance. Taeryn said innocently, “I guess now we can date whenever we want to.” “Um, hello…?” I countered. “You still have a parent around, so don’t get any ideas!” She laughed and I think possibly looked relieved. Or maybe it was disappointed, I guess time will tell.

Three girls to raise. Three possible future son-in-laws to meet. One son to encourage to respect and love the women in his life and hopefully a special woman in his future. The need for wisdom has just doubled. And yes, they have been robbed. Robbed of something very, very special. Something precious that they were already dreaming of, picturing in their heads. But not of everything. Taeryn’s question to Karson today reminded me of that. Nothing will be the same, but hopefully, possibly, some things could still be beautiful, in a new and entirely different kind of way.

And girls, you are beautiful. Daddy believed in your beauty, each one of you, inside and out. He was already talking about the day he'd have to walk you down that aisle, how he knew he'd be a mess, an open book of emotions. He cried everytime just thinking about it. And there is no way he will miss those wedding days. He will be there. Remember, the veil from heaven to earth is thin. He will witness, he will probably cry, and he will announce to all who can hear, "There, the bride! That's my girl! Look...that's my beautiful daughter!"
　
　
　

Stories

2011-04-01T00:17:00.000-07:00

“Sit down, Mom, I have a lot to tell you!” Lauren had just come home and was bursting with things she wanted to share. She is so much like her father. He too would come in, filled with stories from a trip or event, wanting me to sit and listen.

Myron was full of stories. He often couldn’t wait to share his day. It helped that like me, he was someone that seemed to encounter the unique and therefore had interesting things to talk about. Like the day he used the public washroom at the Osoyoos campgrounds.

In the fall of 2009, we rented an R.V. from Myron’s work and spent a week in southern B.C. We were all walking down to the dock when Myron decided to stop to use the bathroom. And came out with a story.

Apparently he had been using his stall when he noticed that someone was watching him. A man was standing on the other side of the door and Myron could see his eye pressed up against the slit between the door and the wall. Somewhat perturbed, Myron finished up, exited the stall and moved to the sink to wash his hands. The man followed and positioned himself up against my husband’s shoulder, his face mere inches from Myron’s.

“I like your shoes,” the man said.

“Thanks,” replied my husband, frantically trying to rinse off the soap. “Actually, they’re sandals.” The man then sat down on the ground, and began pulling off his own shoes with the full intention of trying Myron’s on. Myron didn’t give him the chance. He beat it out of there and rejoined us near the dock where he gleefully announced, “You’ll never guess what just happened!” And we wouldn’t have. Rarely could we have guessed what happened to Myron.

Like the time he came home from a trip to Costco after work. He had gone to pick up some copier paper and had purchased two enormous boxes of it. At the time he was driving a small Ford Ranger pickup. The tailgate was sticky and difficult to push up so thinking that the boxes were extremely heavy and therefore wouldn‘t slide, he loaded them in and drove towards home.

Just up the road he had to cross under the Trans-Canada highway. It was somewhere around this point that he realized the back was empty. Stunned, he tried pulling over but several massive semis had just exited the highway and were right behind him. By the time he found a shoulder both boxes had been run over, spilling thousands of pieces of paper. Being that it was the middle of rush-hour and there was not much he could do, he drove all the way back to Mission where he tried to eat supper, but couldn’t stand the thought of leaving all that paper on the road. Finally he decided he had to go and try to clean it up. I offered to go with him. We called his parents to baby-sit and off we went.

We always regretted that we hadn’t brought a camera. By the time we returned to the highway, at least a full square kilometre was blanketed white. It looked like a freak blizzard had hit, and I say that with absolutely no exaggeration. It was early July and the B.C. Junior Games were scheduled to begin in Abbotsford the next day. This was not good.

We picked paper from 6:00 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. They were everywhere. EVERYWHERE. We dodged cars, hiked up embankments, ran out to medians, and cleaned up vast areas of parking lots. Several cars stopped long enough to yell out encouragement. One lady stopped to thank Myron for being civic-minded. “It’s so nice of you to help clean up the city,” she called out. “Not really,” yelled Myron. “I’m the one who messed it up!”

It was a night we never forgot. The car was so packed with filled garbage bags we couldn’t see out the rear window on the drive home. Our backs were aching from all the bending over and we couldn’t count the paper cuts, but we had picked up every piece we could find. And Myron said what he always said: “Some day this will make a great story!”

Now all I have are the stories. There are some good ones, though. They make me smile. They make me cry. And they are ours. His and mine. Mine and the children's. I hope, I pray that I won't forget the stories.
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　

　
　
　
　

My Son

2011-03-30T00:38:00.000-07:00

My son stood beside me today as I cried. And I cried all day. It began last night with the devastating reality that my husband was never coming home. After three months you would think I had come to understand that, but apparently not, for the empty side of our bed, the burning desire to talk with him, the need to be held, the longing to hear his voice, to see him laughing, the visual reminders of the life we had built together descended upon me in a crushing burst of reality. And the reality was too much to bear. Too much. He was gone. In a single moment he disappeared from my life, just vanished. I couldn’t breath. The grief unleashed its power, pushing in and around me physically until I was sure I would hear bones snap under the weight of it. After hours of unrelenting crying, I finally picked up the phone and called my sister, woke her at 1:30 in the morning, and sobbed. We cried together until I could finally breath enough to drink some water and take the pill that would help me sleep the night.

Today continued in torment. I just could not stop the tears. I couldn’t stop the images. I didn’t have the strength to do anything other than allow the pain to pour out of me.

I was thankfully not alone. My sister, mother and two friends were interspersed throughout my day. But it was my son, who has just turned six, that was my rock today. All day long he checked on me. And all day long he ministered to his grieving mother. At one point, he silently went and got a roll of paper towels, tore one off and handed it to me. A few moments later, he handed me another. “I’ve got more,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got more.”

At the pool, when even in front of strangers I could not stop the flow, he went to his bag, took out his swim towel and offered it to me. I don’t want to get it wet, I said, you’ll need it for when you get out of therapy. “It will only get a little wet," he answered. “Take it mommy. You need it for your tears." When I continued to sob he then crawled into my lap and just hugged me. He held me the only way a six year old child knows how. He rested his head on my chest, put his arms around me and just held on. From the outside it might have appeared that I was holding him. The truth was, he was holding me.

And on through the day he continued to minister. Coming to find me, asking in his little-boy voice, “Are you crying, Mommy?” Each time I had to admit that yes, I still could not stop. And each time he’d stand or just sit by me, waiting until I could speak again, waiting until he felt he could leave for a while, only to come back later and check on me again, bringing me tissues or giving me hugs.

This both horrifies me and profoundly moves me. The weight of the responsibility of being the parent pushes me to be stronger, to be an anchor for them. But today I was anchored by my son. My little, blond, Myron look-alike son who just quietly let me know he loved me, that he cared that I was hurting, that it was okay.

As I struggle to make it to a day where breathing is easier, and those days do come, I see movement in Karson’s own little journey of grief. Where once he could not handle the sight of his mother in tears, he now ministers to her. Where once it frightened him to sense the grief, he now is beginning to understand that the tears are one way of allowing the sadness to be released. “Its good you are crying, right Mommy?” he said today. “Its letting some of the sadness out.” Yes, my love. You are beginning to understand. We are not created to hold this much pain. Our spirits cannot bear it. They were not created to bear it. But they must learn to endure as The Father shows us how He will bear it for us. He too has a Son who ministers. He too has a Son who loves. We will learn, the five of us and all who surround us and share our loss, to allow him to slowly, tear by tear, begin to hold the pain for us until we can breath again, great gasps of hope and peace.

Thank you, my son, for your love. I hope tomorrow is a better day. I pray for the numbness to return if only for a while, just enough to get my feet back under me, to take a quick breath of air before the weight of the grief comes back to crush me once again. And I pray for mercy, Lord, mercy on us as we try to bear what we are facing. Please God, have mercy.

My Birthday Boy

2011-03-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

It was Karson’s birthday today. My little boy turned six years old. He started the day by throwing open my bedroom door and announcing, “Yeah! It’s my birthday!” As he hurled himself onto my bed, I demanded a hug during which he asked, “Do I hug any older?” As we lay there, his little blond head against my chest, his little body in my arms, he said simply, “I wish daddy could be here.” No tears, no fuss. Just a simple statement that sums up what we are feeling every minute of every day. We all wish daddy were here. Everything would be good if daddy were here.

But I hope it was good anyways. I have celebrated the birthdays of three children now without their daddy’s hugs and kisses, without his yearly ritual of begging them not to grow any older, of placing his hands upon their heads and pretending to press down to slow their growth. Three birthdays where he wasn’t around to do the games, or pray over them or ask them if this was the best birthday ever. For some reason Karson’s has been the most difficult for me. Maybe because I’m getting worn down. Maybe because he’s so little. I don’t know. It was just really, really difficult which made me sad because a six year old should be surrounded only by happiness on this day. Not by this. Never by this.

The reality of life without him is getting more and more difficult to bear. Life without Myron feels worthless, meaningless. I know that eventually God will help me find new purpose, new meaning. But right now everything takes effort, so much effort. And I am so tired and so broken it feels too difficult. The shattered pieces of my life are beginning to slice, creating new wounds, new areas of pain. They have not even begun to heal. Everywhere I turn, every step I take cuts me open so that I long to stand perfectly still, frozen in a place so nothing new will hurt. I don’t want to have to keep moving.

But life doesn’t work that way, at least a life where four children are watching and needing help with their own open wounds. I cannot stay suspended, I must endure. Somehow, I must endure. It won’t be with my own strength, though, as that is gone. It will have to come from somewhere else. Jesus, give me strength.

The highlight of my day was when Taeryn told Karson she had his present ready for him. As he waited, she turned and gave him a big hug then kissed him on the cheek. “There,” she said, “that’s for you!” “Thanks, Taeryn,” said my boy. “That was a good present!”

I have reasons to love the past, reasons to love the present. The future is more difficult to appreciate from this position, more difficult to see as possibly being meaningful. I guess every day in my future will one day become both the present and eventually the past. Maybe I will appreciate it more when it does.

Happy birthday, my funny, adorable, little Karson. You bring me so much joy. A hug in the morning from you is what fuels me with purpose. I hope that somehow, you enjoy being six.
　

5.3 vs 6

2011-03-25T00:47:00.000-07:00

I went car shopping tonight. How do you buy a car when you don’t know anything about cars? As a matter of fact, how am I going to do any of the things I didn’t know I’d one day have to do?

The last time we bought a car I was one week short of giving birth to Karson. Myron had been researching vans but due to his meticulous need to procrastinate, we were now in a panic to get it bought and brought home before the baby came. Our current vehicle sat five. We were now going to be six and the clock was ticking.

Car shopping at 39 weeks gestation is not enjoyable. Actually, nothing is enjoyable at 39 weeks. We drove into the Vancouver area where Myron had several picked out to test drive. They were used but we were trading in our 1992 car for something in the next century and that in itself seemed luxurious. He finally narrowed it down to two, each in a different city. Back and forth we drove, discussing the merits of each, debating whether buying the newer model (still four years old) was worth losing the storage space in the older one; whether we could talk the dealer into a warranty (we could); and whether or not we were really prepared to spend $16,000 on a van. Now that I’ve seen the cost of a newer vehicle, I’d say we should have been jumping up and down for joy, although that could have meant Karson would have been born in a used car lot. Anyhow, as we sat in the first dealership for the third time, I looked down at my swelling ankles, noticed the ravenous hunger that pregnant women feel when they haven’t eaten in the last thirty minutes and said, “That’s it! We’re getting this one! Take me home!”

And so we did. As we said goodbye to the car that had brought home children numbers two and three, my husband hoisted me up into the seat, gave me a milkshake and we headed back to Mission.

At that time, I had only three conditions for buying a different vehicle: it had to have air-conditioning, it had to have sliding doors on either side, and it had to be a nice colour. Isn’t that all that’s important? Surely everything else is just implied.

I found out today, it’s not. In the models I was test-driving, the 5.3 L engine is more fuel efficient than the 6 L. The 6 speed transmission is also more fuel-efficient than the 4 speed which is an update that pertains to the 2009 models and newer, and all of the models I looked at are built on the same platform as well as have v-8 engines. The newest ones use continuous four-wheel drive while the 2009 models can switch from two to four at your convenience which also affects your fuel economy and the price for any of these could have purchased a small country in some parts of the world.

I now have to know. I have to know how to choose a car, or at least choose a friend that can help me choose a car (thanks, Irv). I now have to know how to create a budget when my past method was to spend until Myron’s face began to twitch at which time I’d hold off until the next pay period. I now have to know which accounts will produce the least charges, what my credit card limit is and whether or not boosting the thermostat to 21 degrees will cost too much. I have to know because I have no one to know it for me. Its up to me.

Karson has said on three occasions, “Now you’ll have to do ALL the work, Mommy,” which seems to be a fairly astute observation for a five year old. I also sense he feels this reality is unfair and that it saddens him. Or maybe it worries him, which could be a sign of his intelligence.

It does seem unfair. Unfair that the few areas I could leave to someone else have now landed squarely in my lap. Unfair that I have to set aside the things that brought us pleasure to make room for the things that bring us survival. Unfair that I have to make these decisions alone, decisions that at least in my world, were designed for two.

But life isn’t fair, is it? Not for me, not for anyone. Life is not about justice or what makes sense. Life is a gift that we unwrap a moment at a time and then choose to deal or not to deal with what lies within. And yet, it is still a gift, whether I can comprehend that or not.

And so I continue to wade through mountains of new information on rsps and mortgage penalties and the lifespan of a water heater and the difference between a 5.3 and a 6 L engine. I haven’t bought a car yet, but I will. And just like Myron made sure of, it is going to be a safe one. Maybe not brand new, but safe.

And despite all that I now need to know, despite all that makes sense and does not make sense, despite what I have yet to learn, I’m determined that in the midst of it all, at the end of the day, ridiculously, its still got to be a nice colour.

A Divine Exchange

2011-03-24T00:27:00.000-07:00

My mind constantly needs something to focus on. Working with the kids, sorting through closets, re-arranging rooms…anything and everything to distract it from the pain.

I am told that the brain has its way of shutting down the stimulus of physical sensation in trauma. It’s a protective mechanism. Shock. I felt no pain at the accident, even though my left side was blackened with the impact and my neck, shoulder, arm and hand were injured. Nothing until after Taeryn was well out of surgery the first night, until Lauren was out of surgery the second, until Karson began talking, until I knew they were all going to be okay. Only then did I begin to feel the physical effects of my own injuries. I wish my brain could do the same now, could just shut off the ability to feel what hurts. Because everything inside hurts. There is a feeling of hysteria that sometimes sits in the pit of my stomach reminding me that all is not well.

Taeryn was definitely the child to turn our hair gray. From not breathing at birth, to throwing up thirty times a day for eight months, to having to call poison control three times before she was three (child-proof and “Taeryn-proof” were two different things) she was the equivalent of three monkeys packed into the body of one charming and adorable little girl.

I know, we sound like terrible parents. But to be fair, this kid was quick. And smart. Her natural combination of too much curiosity and too little fear finally drove us to buy a baby-leash. But only after we’d lost her for the third time.

The first was on the ferry from Vancouver to Vancouver Island. Myron had the kids in the boat’s playroom. It was small and crowded but there was only one doorway, so Myron bought a paper and sat down against the door jam, his legs stretched across the opening. I had gone to change Karson and on returning noticed that we were short a tot. “Where’s Taeryn?” I asked. “In there,” he said, looking at the sports section. “No, she’s not!” I returned, beginning to panic. She had walked right over daddy’s legs and disappeared. Panic. Pure, uncontrollable panic began to well up in me. Myron could see it all over my face as we rushed down the seats calling her name. An announcement was made and it seemed like forever until finally a steward appeared carrying our little explorer.

The second time was at Science World. I had brought all four kids. Karson was in a stroller, and Taeryn had been great. At two and a half, she stuck with me through the science shows, through the exhibits, the Lego Room and through the hands-on zone. We then stopped to see the animal room. I was showing the kids a turtle when suddenly she wasn’t there. Having been through this once already, I lengthened my ability to remain calm to a full three minutes and then began fighting the hysteria. It took twenty minutes for the staff to find her, twenty minutes of searching through 27 school-buses of children. When they led her back I burst into tears and hugged her hard. She began to cry as well, patting my back and saying, “Why are we crying, Mommy?”

We bought the leash. I know, not suave, not sophisticated. But absolutely and totally necessary.

The third time she disappeared was at home. We just couldn’t find her. The girls and I searched the house, then the yard, and finally the neighbourhood. People came out of their houses to help and finally someone said, “You’d better call 911, its been 15 minutes.” The operator told me to keep calm and begin searching from top to bottom. “They’re usually asleep somewhere,” she assured me. Yeah, but Taeryn’s not usually anything. She’s usually unusually doing something. I searched through every room as the operator worked to keep me calm. There was a sudden burst of screaming as the girls stumbled over her curled form tucked behind the kitchen counter. Fast asleep, thumb in her mouth and blankie under her head, how we missed her I have no idea, but there she was. Lauren and Bryn were borderline hysterical in their relief. I knew exactly how they felt.

That helpless feeling, the one that says, “Something in my world is not right and needs to be fixed immediately,” is the one I feel when my mind has nothing to do. When I realize again that there is no fix for this. No way to make it better. No way to wake up to a different reality. Myron used to step in when I hit this wall, with his calm and logical manner. Myron used to help by taking over. Now I am alone, with thoughts I do not want to think, trying to find something I have no energy to do. But its how I survive my day until suddenly I am in the bathroom, or driving the car or packing up something trivial like used cheques with both our names on them, and that horrible feeling of “this is not right” bursts forth once again.

Last night I told God I hated him. Three times I told the Creator of the Universe that He had done something wrong, had made a terrible mistake and that I hated him for it. I felt a hand place itself on my head as He quietly said, “I know. And its okay.”

He owes me nothing and yet I feel like promises have been broken. And in my heart I know that I do not truly hate Him. I just hate this.

There is no comfort right now, only the bleak reality that I will continue to wake up, continue to breath and continue to learn to love Him despite it all. My children will continue to be an inspiration and hopefully, prayerfully, I hope to one day be able to reflect the strength and beauty of the community around me.

For I am in the same breath, thankful to a loving God who has supplied me with people of great compassion. People who minister. I have been surrounded by so many communities of love. My family, my friends, the church, my neighbourhood, Myron’s work, and our Summit staff who took their time and love and created an event purely to bless my family, the details of which astound and mystify me, as does the fruits of their labour.

And in the next breath, the first being “I hate you,” the second, “I thank you,” I am filled with an inexplicable sense that there is a divine exchange in the works. That heaven is opening and that something is being offered. Maybe to me, to my children, or maybe to all of us. And despite my desperation to be given back what I was not owed, I am compelled to raise my trembling hand and receive. A Divine Exchange. I know what has been taken. I sense that I know little of all that will be offered in return.

A Few Links to Share

2011-03-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

I am constantly amazed at the resilience of children. My girls love to sing, dance and act. It has been particularly difficult for Bryn and Taeryn to not be able to dance, and yet they found a way. Like most parents, Myron and I had the pleasure of many, many original performances over the years. Friday nights were often "theatre night" where we were given tickets, a time, a seat and then a performance. Anyone who has spent any time with our kids knows that at some point they will be held hostage as an audience. I won't hold you hostage here, but I have included several links for those who have been asking.

Taeryn (8) and Bryn (10) wrote and performed this song for me in their wheelchairs. I've written out the words in case they aren't easily heard:

Even though its hard
Everything we have been through
Being hurt and scarred
Now I feel like we’re brand new
I want you to know
I love you

Cause when you fall down
I’ll help you to stand
And if they push you down
I’ll give you my hand
I love you…you

Forever and ever
Forever and ever
I love you
I love you
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtube_gdata_player&v=AKUrQn8R05Q

Lauren (age 14) had the opportunity to record these two songs, one she wrote with her dad shortly before his death, the other a song she appreciated the words to.
Our friend, Greg Norlin, an amazing pianist and musician, accompanied Lauren at the studio:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWm5z53pK7g

and

http://www.youtube.com/user/ThePG38#p/a/u/0/zNelLiM1P8A

I hope the links are accessible this way.

Once Myron and I were driving through some spectacular countryside. As I looked out the window, I sighed and said, "My heart is singing." Whenever we drove by something particularly beautiful, he would always ask teasingly with a smile on his face, "Is your heart singing, hon?" When I listen and watch the beauty in my children, I can honestly say, that yes, my heart is singing.

　

One Hour at a Time

2011-03-20T23:46:00.000-07:00

I went to church today for the first time since Christmas Eve. It was, like so many things, both a source of comfort and a source of pain.

Sunday mornings were Myron’s domain. “Everybody up,” he’d holler around 8:00 a.m. “Time to get ready for church. Come on kids, we don’t want to be late!” I am not a morning person and could easily have chosen to miss the occasional 9:00 a.m. service in exchange for a few hours of much needed sleep. Myron, on the other hand, stayed up late and got up early. A few minutes later he’d peek into our room where I would be trying to postpone the inevitable. “Are you coming?“ he’d ask, positioning himself to dodge something I might throw at him (but never did). And as dragging myself out of a warm bed took me considerably longer than necessary, we would often be in a rush to make it on time.

Going to church was something he really hated missing.

Our church is divided into two halves of seating and each face the other straight on while the speaker uses the space in the middle. I was always a second row kind of person, close enough to the action to not miss anything, but buffered by a wall of those in the first row. Myron liked the front. If he ever beat me in to find seats I knew we’d be right up there (or to his disappointment in the back row, depending on how late we were). But this morning I didn’t want to be anywhere near the front. I wanted to hide. Because I knew this was going to be hard.

Hard because I could see him. I could see Myron standing in the front, hands raised, singing from his heart. I could see him talking to people, listening as they’d tell him something about their week, offering a word of encouragement or just an ear. Church was one place we could count on being together, side by side. It was torture seeing that empty spot, that space where he should have been standing. To know that I would now sit alone.

After lunch at home I sat on my couch and watched the clock. All four children were miraculously occupied. I sat there and realized that without the immediate focus on my children, I had nothing to plan for, nothing to anticipate. I had a meeting at 5:00 that evening and all I could do was wait for the clock to move ahead five hours until I should go.

A major part of my purpose in life has vanished. I was a wife. I still want to be a wife but not just any wife. I want to be his wife. Weekends were a time to connect after our busy week, to talk, to cream him in our Sunday afternoon scrabble game, to watch a movie or go for a walk. Even family outings were different because on weekends Myron could go with us. And even in my individuality, even in my walk as Gillian the person, my walk as a wife influenced everything I did. And so I sat and wondered, what now is my purpose? I still have my mother hat, but I had worn another for almost 18 years. We had goals. We had direction. We had things we wanted to accomplish together.

The cliché “one day at a time” is often too difficult. Today it was one hour at a time. Get through this hour to move on to the next, and the next and the next until I can fall asleep only to wake up and do it all over again.

I’ve not only lost him, I’ve lost me. Who I was, who I was functioning as. And while there are similarities to my life before the crash, I will now have to find a new direction, a new purpose, new goals. I will not be the same person. I will not be the same mother. I will not have the same future. It has all changed and right now it feels blank and very empty. I know it will take time, time and energy. I know that God will direct me in finding new purpose, but today it just feels like more death. The death again of all I believed would happen. The death of the old me.

During the meeting tonight a young man stood up and shared of a time where he felt directionless. A time where he was questioning where he belonged. And then he said a beautiful thing. He told the crowd that it was actually Myron who made it a point to ask him every few months how he was doing until at last he found his place. I was immediately in tears, partially because of my great pain that he was not there beside me, but even more so because of the unexpected tribute that marked my husband as someone who cared about others. I continue to be blessed and proud of the man he was and the small ways he impacted the people around him. And if I have nothing else to aspire to today, I have that. To be kind. To be generous with my encouragement. To hope for others when they have lost their hope.

The rest will have to come later.

　

My Mosquito

2011-03-20T14:41:00.000-07:00

One day years ago, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor in the bathroom. For some reason I can only chalk up to pure boredom and perhaps too much time teaching kindergarten, I began to wonder which animal I would be if one were chosen to match my personality. This turned into a brainstorming session on assigning animals for the personalities of every member of my family.

Myron’s was a mosquito.

This sounds very unflattering but to be fair mine was an elephant so I’d say we were even. There were many choices I had for Myron, but I chose the mosquito that day for one particularly ridiculous personality trait of his: just as a mosquito finds a way to remain annoyingly out of reach, making enough noise to get you to swing at it, he loved to get people to react. It was never done in a mean way. Nothing rude or disrespectful, nothing to cause pain (except maybe to himself after I’d smack him and tell him to smarten up). Just enough to entertain himself. That was another thing about Myron. He had no problem finding ways to do just that.

My mother was a particularly good candidate. Myron learned quickly what to say or do to get a rise out of her. He found it very entertaining. And of course she fell for it every time. I, on the other hand, would glare at him making “cut it out“ signals but he just couldn’t help himself. If someone had an idiosyncrasy and Myron noticed it, out came the stick to poke at it until he got what he wanted.

Yes, self-entertainment came easily to my husband. In the beginning, grocery stores used to be a particular weakness.

One of the advantages of marriage is the bride’s directive that the groom run to the store when something is needed. Myron didn’t mind, even when the list contained items pertinent to women only. In fact he relished it.

Off he’d go armed with a list so detailed that I practically included the box labels. But where was the fun in that? Finding the feminine aisle he would begin walking up and down, looking perplexed, shoulders slumped and sighing out loud until some poor, unsuspecting female, usually older, would walk by and take pity on him. Out came his sob story: He’d been sent to the store by his wife but wasn’t sure what it was she needed. Could they help him figure it out? Of course, they always said, patting his arm, and soon he’d have two or three women explaining the merits of one item over another, searching the shelves for him as he’d ask stupid question after stupid question (my favourite being, “Does ‘maxi’ and ‘regular’ have to do with how much your wife weighs, because I‘d hate to bring the wrong one home and insult her!”), all the while keeping my list deep in his pocket and enjoying the scene he was creating.

I have no idea why this was so entertaining. Usually in life I try to keep from being conspicuous. Myron’s intentions were often the exact opposite. But home he’d come, enjoying not only the reaction he’d gotten at the store but the one I would give him as he would gleefully recount his adventure.

Mosquito.

Maybe this particular scenario had to do with a near childhood trauma involving the same products. Finding them in his mother's cupboard as a child, and living in a household of all boys, Myron had no idea what he was looking at. Finally he concluded they must be neck collars for of course, injuries to the neck. Coincidentally, the next morning he woke up with a sore neck and knowing now just what to do, peeled off the back and affixed the pad around his throat. He was heading down the driveway to school when his mother spotted him and made him take it off. He was furious. This story was told at our wedding and really any other opportunity it could be brought up. I could never decide if I was disappointed he hadn't made it to school or relieved. Had he done so I have no doubt it would have made for an even better story. However, the trauma of living through such an event could have maimed him for life, so I guess relieved is the better option.

However, the mosquito was just one part of his varied and complex personality. If I was to choose another animal to portray who my husband was, it would be the Saint Bernard. He was so loyal and so often my rescuer. “Here comes Myron,” I’d think to myself. “Its going to be okay, Myron’s here.” The sense of relief I felt when I spotted him coming towards me was huge. Friendly. Willing. Loyal. And he often told me of similar thoughts when he’d look up and see me coming towards him. Last summer he had taken the children to our camp’s anniversary weekend. I had stayed home to have a break, but on the Monday morning felt a need to be with them. I saw him talking with a couple of men across a field and made my way over. “I looked up and saw you coming and my heart jumped,” he said with a hug when I’d reached him. “I felt so happy. I thought, there’s my wife! I am so happy to see my wife.”

I remember feeling that way just hours before he died. Sitting in the restaurant at Harrison with Karson, waiting for him to come from the room where he was on the phone with work, trying to sort out some difficulty they were having. The girls had finished and were in the pool squeezing in one more swim before leaving. And suddenly, there he was, striding across the crowded floor of the dining room, and I remember thinking once again with a full heart as I watched him make his way over to us, “There’s he is. There’s my husband. Everything’s good now. Everything‘s good.”
　
　
　　
　
　
　
　
　

Grieving Properly

2011-03-19T01:20:00.000-07:00

I found myself driving into town today to attend one of two meetings. The first one went smoothly and as I set off to the next, I suddenly realized I had no idea where I was or where I was going. I knew who I was heading to see. I had been there many times. But my mind suddenly became a blank. For the life of me I could not remember where that office was or how to get there. I had to keep driving, there was no place to pull over and the pure inability to pull my thoughts together felt ridiculous. I tried to force myself to think…where was it? What direction did I need to turn? After several blocks of what felt like pure mental blindness, the facts began to rise out of the mist, and I could navigate my way again.

A moment of joy, then complete mental fog. I made it to the office, dropped off what I needed and headed for home. Moments later something random swam into my thinking and suddenly I was weeping.

I don’t know what “grieving properly” means. I don’t know. As I drove today, the emotions kept switching from one to another, with no warning, no logic, as they often do. One thought comes to mind and I smile. Another floats in right behind it and I burst into tears. I have found myself suddenly expressing frustration over something and realize that it’s my anger talking. I walk past his picture on the piano one moment able to look at it, and on the next sweep by I’m crippled by sorrow. Is this the definition of grieving properly?

I know that everyone grieves differently. I also know that it is essential to do so. To be real. To be honest.

I can say, honestly, I don’t know how to do this. I do not know how to be there for the kids and have time to fall apart myself. There are days where I am just numb, and I am often grateful for those moments, moments when the searing pain of reality has been held back for a few hours. It feels like a time to catch my breath, to look around and see what needs to be done, to see how I can support my family in whatever challenge they have to meet this day. And then there are the days where I wake up and the tears just start flowing. Where I look at my son, just turning six, and think about all that he has lost. Where I see him quietly ask every person who enters our home, stranger or not, “Will you play a game with me?“ when what he is really saying is, who is going to be my dad? Where I look at my girls, so courageous, yet knowing that the birthday was in part painful; that the anticipation of a new season of fastball means that for the first time she isn’t the coach’s daughter and that he won’t be there to hug her and brag about her great play; that the stories he used to make up for the younger ones as they lay in bed at night have ended.

And I have times where I am overwhelmed with the injustice of it all. Why him? Why not the 80 year old who had the chance to watch his kids grow up, or the guy who was doing terrible things to the people in his life? And then the guilt hits because I know I have just wished for the death of another person to replace my own terrible loss.

One after another, the waves of emotion can roll and swamp my heart until I have no energy left to think. The so-called stages of grief melt into one another, like the paints my children use, colour infringing upon colour, mixing and running together until it all just seems like mud.

And then I wake up to begin it all over again.

There are good days. Days where I feel grateful almost all the time. Days where I am overwhelmed with how completely unworthy I am to receive what people are giving. Days where I can remember him and laugh, tell the kids stories and share silly memories. And there are the days where it feels like this is an impossible task. And I think people must be sick of hearing about my hurt, of witnessing our life that right now seems to be always about us, even when we don’t want it to be.

And so what is proper grief? Pain, anger? The comfort of holding a child, the sobbing on the shoulder of someone who cares? Finding yourself smiling and yet feeling your heart crumbling simultaneously? Thanking God, yelling at Him?

I guess it all is. I suspect there will be much more as time drags me with it.

The children have added aquatic therapy onto their full physio schedules. Lauren’s arm is progressing well. She has been so diligent in her therapy and today she threw a softball for the first time since pitching clinic in early December. She even tried an easy pitch and was thrilled that it hit the strike zone. (I was waiting for it to come through the window as I imagined what her aim would be like after such an injury, so we were both very pleased.)

Bryn is also working hard and I continue to be amazed at how gracefully she accepts her condition. There is no complaining that she has to work, that her leg remains immobile, that she is dependent on her crutches for everything. She is so determined to not use her wheelchair that everything else seems like a gift. I suspect that having been wrapped in a body cast for two months is harder than it looked. Her only frustration is the boredom she fights being so limited in activity.

Taeryn swings back and forth between amazing progress and non-threatening but painful setbacks. I sat and watched her pool therapy yesterday and the image of her lying lifeless in the wreckage of the van tore at me once again. How can it be that she has progressed back into this vibrant, energetic, walking little girl? It astounds me over and over and as I watched her move and work her little arms and legs, I was again so profoundly grateful. It gave me strength to again promise myself that I would not give up on this journey. I would not do anything to rob them of more. She is, however, experiencing frequent pain in the injured area of her neck where the ligaments were torn and has had to wear her neck collar on and off again. (She had insisted on bringing it home from the hospital, as well as pieces of her casts, and now regrets it as it was handy to put back on.) Her knees were so swollen last night that she couldn’t bear any weight on them and had to use a wheelchair for part of the day, as well as her hand continues to swell and turn black with use. But she is walking well on her good days and I see so much improvement.

Karson is also working with a kinesiologist in the pool and is fully functional. His emotional status grieves me but I am hoping that the counselling we have all began attending individually will be of good support.

You would be proud of them, Myron. I think often of how you would be as amazed by them as I have. How you would be calling and writing, stopping people on the street to tell of the four incredible children that call you dad. Keep watching us. Keep interceding for us, hon. I’m counting on it.
　

A Living Love

2011-03-16T00:25:00.000-07:00

I think my view of love is changing. I am beginning to see it in a new way.

Tonight I found myself wondering how to comprehend a love that allows loss. That allows pain. I found two messages on our answering machine that Myron had left me in the week before our crash. The sound of his voice, so normal, so familiar, opened up a new flood of anguish. I am again in disbelief that I will never hear that voice again. Will never again receive a call as I did so often during my day. Will never hear him again call me “Hon” or Karson “buddy”. The voice that started my days and ended my nights is reduced to a few words on a machine. It breaks me.

Many wonder why a God who loves us allows us to hurt. Even in my knowledge of His grace, I find myself challenging the parameters of His promises. This love hurts. In fact, it can be torturous.

So now that the man who loved me, whom I loved for so long is no longer here to receive it, to give it, what do I do? Because the part of me that has soaked in that love remains saturated. It doesn’t just begin to seep out, to drain away as if his death has pulled out a plug of some sort. It remains. It lives. It cannot be removed.

The love that I once benefited from is now causing me pain. Myron carried all that I had given to him, just as I carry all that he had invested in me. We held a part of each other. And now that this love is in part wounding instead of nurturing, I find myself looking to it as one would a sliver that hides itself in the flesh, invisible, but making itself known at the slightest touch. What is it? Where is it? What do I do with it?

I have had the chance to invest in people. Every day I receive more of those chances, people I know, people I live with, people I pass on the street. This was both true before the accident and since. I do not always use those chances. Many I pass up because I am too busy, too selfish, too ignorant. Sometimes I am just too tired. But I recognize that Myron invested in me, daily. Not perfectly by any means, but continuously. By sharing himself, whether in encouragement or failure, in sacrifice or faithfulness, he was able to help create something good. Something we called love. Something that became a part of me and began to live inside of me.

I see now that love is a living thing. When I receive love it roots within me. It grows. It makes a home. I see his love, my love, rooted in our children. I now witness the love offered to us, invested by those around us, rooting itself in my family. Making its home. Curling its vines around our hope, our character, our beliefs.

And I see that Myron’s love has not ended. It lives. It is invested. It hurts because I now have to receive from elsewhere and there is a very sad and desperate part of me that does not wish to exchange that source. However, God is granting, despite this reluctance, infinite new investments from countless others. And now that I know that love is a living thing, I am more aware of not only the blessing of receiving it, but the gift of planting it.

This did not make hearing his voice any easier this evening. It is not abating the hurt that will sleep with me tonight. I will never stop longing to hear his voice spoken from beside me instead of being reduced to replaying a few words on an answering machine. But if I remember to take stock of what he has invested in me, in our family, if I hope to continue to invest of myself in others as they have in us, it helps. Only a little. But it helps.

Happy 11^th birthday, my darling and courageous Bryn. I pray you would sense the deep roots of the love your dad invested in you, the love that I wish to daily contribute towards and that God unendingly offers.

Week One

2011-03-15T00:30:00.000-07:00

We have been home just over one week and I am unable to think coherently, to write anything that makes much sense. In our first week we have experienced a stomach flu that left Karson throwing up for 9 straight hours, three vicious head-colds, a backed-up toilet, two flooded bathroom floors, a gas leak, lost three nights of sleep and I’ve missed garbage day twice. We have had seven visits from therapists, gone to four appointments, have had six servicemen work on various parts of the house, seven different assistant care workers (all good) and I’ve answered more necessary phone calls than I can count.

But...we’ve also had meals pre-prepared for every evening, received baking, cards, friends who have rushed over at a moment’s notice, a teacher who spent her morning encouraging us, a family outing for the kids, and the love of a friend who flew here to walk the challenge of this homecoming with us.

Week one. No time to write. No time to think. The numbness is back but I know the pain will ascend again. It is a bit unnerving not knowing when. Will I wake up tomorrow in agony or in auto-mode? Will I have to deal with something new that will distract or have the unwanted moments when all I feel is loss? Will I have the patience to love, or will I speak out of fear? Every day is a new challenge. A challenge to choose thankfulness over bitterness, hope over despair. To see the children’s progress instead of the scars. A challenge I am not always up for but always facing.

My prayer life has dwindled down to one thought: Help us. In everything, please help us. Help me not to feel guilty for receiving from others. Help me not to choose bitterness. Help me not to miss the important things, the moments where I need to pay attention. Help us to not fear but to love. Help them to survive. Just, help us. Please.

And then help comes. The doorbell rings and it is a neighbour with soup, a cake, muffins. Family arrives to lighten the load. My freezer is suddenly filled with food made by hands who want to give. Someone calls late at night to ask if they can do something for me just as I sit staring at a grocery list, not knowing when I can get to the store. It just comes.

Thank you all, for answering my prayers, for loving us. I glimpse the news, of Japan who’s land has been shredded, who’s people live in the fear of another wave of disaster, and in my own small little world I realize for the moment how safely we are actually being held. Not to remove us from the circumstance, but maybe to support us in the aftershocks. And I think, that for this day at least, we will face the challenge.

It was our first week home.
　
　

　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　

Just A Sad Day

2011-03-09T00:18:00.000-08:00

The children seem to be settling back into their home life but it has been hectic. I guess the fact that life was hectic before the accident possibly makes this seem somewhat normal, but I am tired. Tired and broken-hearted.

There are so many decisions to be made, important decisions about physiotherapy and medicines, homecare and renovations, how to rearrange things and how to handle finances. Then there are just the everyday choices that have not receded to make room for the new ones. They have just compounded. Today I found myself standing in Canadian Tire staring at the towel hooks. I just needed a hook, nothing special. But I found myself unable to choose. So many important decisions to make on a minute-by-minute basis, and I cannot even pick a hook for the bathroom door. I feel incapable of making a decision about even the simplest of things without first struggling to find the focus to do so.

It is difficult to function as one when you are used to functioning as two. Myron and I were opposites. Every personality test we ever took rated us as far apart as it could. He logical and detail oriented, I spontaneous. He calm and easy-going, I fiery and passionate. We balanced each other, like two people on a teeter-totter.

That see-saw was often in motion. We’d teeter back and forth between each other’s strengths and weaknesses. And although at times that was frustrating, I am reminded that there is something important that happens in the process. There is a vulnerability. We each had to learn to leave the security of the ground to allow the other side its chance to sink or soar. And that meant trusting the other to do the same. Sometimes it tipped on my side, sometimes on his. And sometimes we learned to hang in the balance, each providing what was needed to stay horizontal. We were learning more and more how to make it work.

Now the weight on the other end has vanished. I sit in the dirt after having crashed to the ground, staring up at his empty seat suspended in the air. There is no-one to balance me now. No one to provide the strength to help keep it in motion. Just me, looking up into the sky at the spot where my husband used to sit. And I mourn not only the man, but the process. The life we had experienced together. The vulnerability we had shared. There were many moments in our seventeen years where I wanted things my way. Now everything is going to be my way. And there is a horrible emptiness to it. The process of sharing that responsibility, of teetering back and forth, of balancing and soaring is a precious and valuable thing. And I miss it.
　
I began the process of packing up his clothing this week, sometimes efficiently, at moments sobbing as I tried to sort which items could possibly be meaningful to me or to one of my children in the future. How do I do this? How can I go through what remains of him and pick and choose what is important? Everything feels important. His weights in the basement, his baseball cleats and uniform, jerseys and dress shirts and his music collection. Each object brings on a new wave of pain and loss. I had fooled myself into thinking I was feeling acceptance. Now I suspect what I thought was acceptance is actually still shock. And in the moments where the shock subsides, there is only pain. Deep and debilitating pain.

I had moved my wedding band to my right hand the day we came home. I had decided to do it as a symbolic gesture that we were beginning a new life, but I cannot leave it as such. I confessed this tonight to my friend and my oldest daughter who said, “I don’t think you should ever have to take it off. It doesn’t matter what other people think if in your heart you still feel like you’re married.” She may be right or in time it might feel right to remove it. Today, I cannot. I’ve moved it back to my left hand. Right now I guess it is just symbolic of what I still long for. What I feel inside.

Someone gave me a quote from a novel. In essence it challenged me to not live in anger about the future I have lost, but to be thankful for every moment I was given. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to focus on those memories. But not today. Today was just a very sad day. A day where it felt like he should have come home for dinner. But the door never opened and he never came. It was just a very sad day.

Home

2011-03-07T01:47:00.000-08:00

We're home!

After being cautious and a bit anxious about returning, the children did a complete reversal and were beside themselves with excitement about returning to Mission. They drank in the familiar sights and at one point Bryn said, "I don't want to talk right now, I just want to look. I haven't seen our city for so long. I just want to look."

After the memorial I decided that I would redecorate their rooms for their homecoming. I wanted to give them a reason to be excited about returning, a new space for them to enjoy, something to mark this next stage. An incredible group of people helped to make this possible and I want to thank you, Rick and Hilary and friends, Nathan, Dale, Shane, Rod, Ron, Crystal, Cathy, Randy, Frank, Walden, Rick and especially Mike and Anthony (amongst others whom I am sure to have missed naming) who poured countless hours into our home. How can I thank you? I cannot. But I know that had Myron been here, he would have been as overwhelmed as I at the generosity of time and effort you have blessed us with. We are underserving, but so very grateful.

The children were so excited to see their rooms and every hour of driving back and forth, working late into the night, of shopping online and rushing into stores, of budgeting and being blessed with financial generosity was made worthwhile. Screams of joy, tears and hugs. They were astounded and honoured to receive such a thing. It was a treat to watch their reactions, to see the excitement and disbelief after so many weeks of difficulty.

They have done remarkably well this first 24 hours. Sleeping continues to be difficult for some as the nightly terrors descend as quickly here at home as they did at the hospital, but the day was spent unpacking and organizing as they settled in. Taeryn had a fall within the first two hours and I honestly do not know how to keep her from hurting herself in her exuberance. She overdid things today and was in considerable pain this evening, asking for the first time to be back in the wheelchair which I brought in from the truck for her. Her arm and hand are swollen again and her knees and legs hurt from the amount of walking she is doing around the house. I hope to have her in the chair more tomorrow. Bryn is managing well in the home with the crutches and cast. She was able to have a real shower tonight which I imagine felt quite wonderful. A friend is staying with us and has cooked and helped entertain. Such a blessing. So many blessings.

But it is late now and I have had little time to just be still. I stayed up through the night with those struggling to sleep and hope to now sleep some myself.

Thank you all for your prayers.

Gillian

Four Days

2011-03-01T22:14:00.000-08:00

Today was another milestone day. We have been given the green light to go home on Saturday morning. It is something we have been working so hard towards and today it was written down as fact. Every member of the hospital team was in agreement. We are almost ready to go.

Four days.

We have been longing for home. Longing for the familiarity and comfort of what belongs to us. Longing to be back in our own community surrounded by familiar faces and landmarks. Longing to be told that our bodies are beginning to heal enough to release us back into the world of everyday living.

We are longing.

But it is sinking in that our longing will be disappointed. The girls are now hesitant about returning home. After weeks of looking forward to it, the reality of what we will be returning to is making itself known. An empty house. For Myron is not there, just as he has not been here. We are wanting something that will hurt us. Returning home will hurt.

In four days we will begin the first day of a new life. And I find myself shrinking away from it and succumbing to a new wave of tears and disappointment. I don't want to hurt anymore. My children do not want to hurt. But the only way to stem the hurting is to heal. And the only way to heal is to step into what will hurt. And so we are stuck. Stuck with a situation that has trapped us and made us feel powerless and vulnerable. We can either run from it or step into it. There are many moments I just want to run. But in four days, we will instead step forward into the pain.

Four days.

A Boy

2011-02-28T22:33:00.000-08:00

“It’s a boy!” Myron’s yell could be heard down the hospital hallway and into the waiting room. I had just delivered our fourth child and at the doctor’s direction Myron had caught the baby and held him up. His delight was unmistakable. “For Pete’s sake, he’s looking at the umbilical cord!” I groaned as the labour pains began to die away. I was sure it was a girl but on closer examination I realized he was indeed looking in the right location. After three beautiful daughters, we had a son.

Of course, I have no doubt that had it been a girl, Myron would have been thrilled. He loved his girls. Being one of three brothers, the world of Barbie dolls and makeup was completely new, but he entered into it all. I have a picture of Myron and Lauren when she was three, sitting on the floor in the bathroom painting daddy’s toenails blue. I couldn’t believe he let her. The guys in the ball hockey dressing room couldn’t believe it either. He didn’t care. It was important to her so it was important to him. But I also knew that there was a piece of him that also wanted to have a son. Not instead of…as well as. And the desire of his heart had been granted. Karson Neil, 9 lbs of chunky, chubby delight was, as the girls had been, an incredible gift.

I read last night the story of Jesus feeding the crowds with only the lunch of a child. He prayed, gave thanks to the Father, and fed thousands. And then his disciples gathered twelve baskets of leftovers. And as most things do these days, it made me think of Myron.

A few years ago I remember a late night discussion about life and faith and Myron told me that something had changed for him the day Karson was born. “I’ve always believed that God loves me,” he said. “But that day he gave me something that he didn’t have to. I already had three wonderful girls and a fourth one would have been just as wonderful. That day I felt like God was saying, “It’s important to you, so it’s important to me,” and suddenly there was Karson. I didn’t NEED a son, I just really wanted him. It really meant something to me that God heard that.”

My view was somewhat different. For the first time in years it would be Myron taking a little person to the bathroom in the middle of a restaurant meal, inevitably just as the food arrived, or rushing a toddler out of a warm pool to the change rooms before something happened that would shut the pool down. It was fun to be able to say, “He’s a boy, you’re the dad…you take care of it!” But for my husband, it meant much more. And every time I look at my sweet little boy, I think about that discussion, that revelation of Myron’s that God cared not just about our needs, but our desires. God didn’t just feed him, he provided the basket of leftovers.

I am praying for leftovers. I can barely find the words, to be honest, because very little makes sense to me right now, but I want so much for my children. So many things have been taken away: life with their dad, their innocence, the simple belief that days end well, Christmas being purely a time of joy, even just the excitement of travelling. I feel like I have so little to feed them with. But I want the banquet for them. I want baskets of leftovers that they can go back to and eat from and remember what God has done in the midst of this, in the aftermath. I want to eat from those baskets too.

The hospital is filled with families wanting the same, whether they are currently seeking it from God or not. I have sat and watched parent after parent giving up their lives, sacrificing their own dreams and wants in the hopes that there could be something better for the child they love. A ten year old paralyzed from the waist down after a ski accident; a young boy working to restore one half of his body after a brain aneurism on Christmas Day; a beautiful girl hit by a car and re-starting her physical and mental life as from birth; an endearing Down’s Syndrome girl learning to walk again after yet another hip operation. Parents who want abundant life not for themselves, but for their children. Who are willing to believe when others don’t. Who are willing to give up their lives, their money, their jobs, whatever it takes to build something meaningful for their son or daughter. Amazing people, people I admire and hope for. Children that shouldn’t be having to face these kinds of obstacles, and yet are. Baskets of abundance, Lord. I pray for baskets of abundance for each one of them.

My children are delighting me. They are finding ways to make life meaningful, even there in that hospital. Everyday they roll themselves around, meeting someone new, finding something else they can be involved in. First they met the therapy administrator and took over her mail route. Every morning they deliver the mail to all the offices in the building from their wheelchairs. Next they made friends with the receptionist at the hospital’s front entrance. I stumbled upon them one day, in her booth, headsets on, answering calls to the switchboard. “Gooooood morning! Sunny Hill Children’s Center! How can I direct your call?” I’m sure there has been many a caller shocked to hear an eight-year old’s voice on the other end of their phone. One day Bryn stumbled upon a gentleman who works in one of the lower basement offices. They started up a banter and Bryn ended up daring him to wear Taeryn’s play tiara for the day. Of course he refused, so Bryn challenged him that if she could get 10 signatures on a petition he would have to wear the crown. She got 57. To his credit I was told he did wear the tiara, but drew the line at the online conference he was speaking at later that day.

Children are amazing human beings. They see abundance so much more easily than most adults. Faith like a child. That saying makes more sense to me every day.

Taeryn walked completely on her own for the first time today. She is so excited and I am so very, very thankful. We continue to work towards the day when we can pack up our things and head east to the house that holds so many of our memories.
　
　
　

Planning

2011-02-26T00:15:00.000-08:00

The days are running together as we make plans to head towards home. So much to get done. Each day I fall into bed exhausted but thankful that more has been accomplished in order to make that possible. Each day I give thanks for my lovely friend who has been staying with me here this week to help fill in the gaps of where I cannot be, for my sister who came out before her and for those who want to come in the future.

I decided after the memorial that the kids needed something to welcome them, so I've been trying to redo their bedrooms (with their input of course). There is an amazing group of people who are attending to the details, painting the rooms, clearing out furniture, putting up safety equipment and many doing other tasks to make this happen. Every week I am told of another individual or group lending a hand. Someone else offering their time and talents to make our house safe for the children to use their walkers and crutches, to make their own spaces inviting and fresh, to initiate the new start we need to face. It is both humbling and amazing. Bryn and Taeryn will be confined to the main floor, Bryn for two months, Taeryn probably for less. We have cleared out the dining/school room and made a new bedroom for them. Just one of the many changes needed to make this move possible.

It is hard to anticipate which of these changes will be welcomed and which will cause more pain so I am trying to move cautiously. The reality is that no matter what we do to our rooms, to our home, no matter what we buy or create or fix or change, nothing will fill the void that makes each day that much harder to face. Nothing will make it easier to see Myron's face in the family pictures, or his shoes in the closet or his shaver by the sink. It will all hurt and I hate the thought of new pain invading the hearts of my children. But like everything else, we try to temper the hurt with hope. And I think that is what the new bedrooms symbolize...hope for us as a family, for each of us as individuals. The paint and furniture will be nice, but the love that went in to creating it all...that will help nurture the hope that we are not alone.

It is not easy though, knowing what is ahead. I was in a store yesterday trying to find some things to touch up the bedrooms. In each of them I wish to place some pictures of daddy and as I was looking at the assortment of frames I was suddenly hit with such a sense of frustration. I'm trying to give them a picture, when what they need is the man. I wanted to smash the frames against the floor and stomp on them in anger. The flesh and blood is what we long for, not the image. His flesh and blood. Him and only him.

But the frames stayed untouched and unbought and I simply left. Left the store that couldn't provide what we needed, only what we could have, and drove back to the hospital, to my children, to my flesh and blood. This is hard. Every day is hard.

However, within our harsh reality there are moments of joy. Moments when I remember the resiliance of the human spirit and the simple pleasures of children.

Bryn was given a new wheelchair to accomodate her new leg cast and body position. The chair did not suit her which she was quick to point out. Emphatically. It was uncomfortable and the wheels were small and farther behind her making it difficult to maneover. As they stressed that it was her leg that was most important she became more irritated, and I could see that the thought of being stuck in a chair that felt bad and didn't move well was making her steam. The therapists left and I tried talking her into sticking with it for a couple of days, that maybe she'd get use to it. Besides, there were no other chairs, there was a shortage and none with the type of leg rest she needed. Just when I was about to throw up my hands and find a new family to adopt her, the therapists returned with a different chair, one they had quickly modified and altered for her needs. It was perfect. I was so grateful that they had taken the time to hear her and had the patience to keep trying. The look on her face when she got into it and realized it fit made it a great moment, and when she thanked them I could see it was with huge relief and real gratitude. Just when I thought I was at my wits end, something showed up.

Taeryn has been progressing so well and so rapidly. She is working hard on the walker. It is strange to walk behind her and see her legs move stiffly and awkwardly, yet she is improving daily. The day before yesterday the therapist tried something new. I was standing in their hospital room talking to someone when a flash of blue and red streaked past the doorway. I stopped and began to laugh and as it flew past in the other direction I had to bend over I was laughing so hard. They had put her on a giant tricycle, one that reminded me of the first old-fashioned bikes they first made a over century ago with the huge wheels on the back and the high pedals. There was Taeryn, helmet on, huge smile on her face literally flying down the hallways on this thing, the therapists running behind her trying to keep up. It was so funny and so Taeryn! In she wheels to the room, triumphant on her therapy bicycle, and as I laughed some more she did a tight turn and headed out again, nurses leaping out of the way, flattening themselves against the walls as she blew by them, face in the wind enjoying her freedom.

My favourite, however, goes to Karson. All week long he has been practicing a new talent. Practicing, perfecting, performing. Today I met my sister-in-law in a parking lot so she could take Karson home to spend the night with his cousins. All day long it was practice, practice, practice, and "when is it time to go? When do I get to go?" When their van drove up I held his hand as we crossed the street and helped him into the back where two of his young cousins were waiting in their seats. In a flash, Karson immediately announced with huge excitement, "Look what I can do!", whipped off his jacket, stuck his hand up his shirt into his armpit and proceeded to emit a string of armpit flatulance that would have made his dad proud, not to mention any dairy cow on the planet. Practice does indeed make perfect.

And so pain and joy, dancing around each other yet again, making themselves both known. Going home will be a commitment to each. I pray that Jesus will go ahead of us, will walk through the rooms in their stillness as they await our arrival, that he will wait to meet us as he did on that road over two months ago, wait yet again to hold us and stand beside us as we enter into what is both comfortable and excruciating. And that we will be able to find moments of joy as we live with our pain. For that is the new challenge, the new reality. And we will begin it all again when we go home.

New Update

2011-02-22T22:21:00.000-08:00

Today was a very big day for us. All the girls were taken to Children's Hospital for x-rays and evaluations. It is a day we have been anxiously waiting for.

And the news is good.

Lauren: had her final cast removed from her arm and is now ready for some physiotherapy. She was so happy to finally have it off, but was disappointed when she immediately went to try the piano at the hospital therapy room. It will take some time to get the hand, arm and elbow back in shape and full motion, but it will come.

Taeryn: was cleared to have her neck brace removed (two months in a neck brace with no complaints!) She will be re-evaluated in 6 months. She has also been given clearance to begin full weight-bearing physio on her legs. The physio session today was very difficult. I had to hold myself back from telling them they were being too hard but she did not waiver. The most difficult task was to walk up a steep hill while leaning on an elbow walker...outside. Her left foot drags a bit, so she has to focus on lifting it up as well as she was pushing the walker uphill through grass. She did it. She was so determined, so focused on the task. I was astounded at her progress. She was pretty proud of herself and had a good rest afterwards. She is making unbelievable strides, mostly due to her optismism and the gift of pure stubbourness. I've decided that she could be absolutely anything she wants to be, she lets nothing stand in the way of her reaching her goals.

Bryn: so very, very thankful here. The x-rays showed more improvement than we were expecting. The surgeon was very pleasantly surprised. She pulled me aside and showed me the films and then told me that today Bryn would be cut out of the body cast and put into a single long leg cast. Then she said, "I get to tell her!" If anyone deserved to break that good news, it was this marvelous surgeon. Bryn was estatic! To be freed of the prison and able to begin to bend and sit up. What an amazing thing to see that happen. The shock for her was that she is unable to move much. Because she had learned to roll, stand up and shift herself in the body cast, she now has to learn all new methods and work new muscles to lift, roll and shift this leg. She looked a bit down as she realized this, but I know that within a day or two she will have figured it out and worked hard on strengthening the necessary muscles. She is so focused. The leg cast will stay on for another two months and then the real work begins. It will be a long road, but she can do it.

I am so proud of them all, at what they've endured, at what they've accomplished. They continue to inspire me.

We are now looking at what could be our final leg of hospital stay! What a joyful thing to think about going home. There is much to do: the children need to have reached several physio goals and the house needs to be made ready and safe for them, but the idea that we could soon be living in our own community, in our own house, is pretty astounding. We left for two days...we will return after more than two months.

There will be follow up surgeries, one is already booked in July for Taeryn, and more physio, more hurdles, but today was a good day. A promising day. A day of hope.

Thank you doctors, staff, nurses for helping us get to this point. Thank you friends, families, strangers for your support and help. Thank you to all who continue to pray. Each prayer lifted has made a difference. Please do not stop...we will need it more than ever as we try to return to our memories, our home, our lives. There is so much more to go through, but looking back and seeing where we've come from is unbelievably encouraging. Thank you all for sharing in the progress.

Love,
Gillian, Lauren, Bryn, Taeryn and Karson.

The Wisdom of a Clockmaker

2011-02-20T23:18:00.000-08:00

I remember reading “The Hiding Place” to the children, several years ago. It is the true story of Corrie ten Boom and her family who hid as many Jewish people as they could from the Nazis during Hitler’s invasion of Holland. I remember being struck by the wisdom of her father, a clockmaker by trade. As his little girl fretted about the future, he wisely told her that God is not in the habit of providing what we need until we need it. I thought that very profound back then and have pondered that statement over the years. Last night, I pondered it again.

My children are dealing with anxiety and the after-effects of trauma. It is one thing to suffer pain yourself, it is quite another to have to watch your children suffer. Some of them are blatantly showing their fear and shock while others are trying to hide it, but I see it slipping out in subtle, or at times not-so-subtle, ways.

I had a conversation with one of them last night. She asked for prayer and said, “I have been praying and praying for God to help me to stop being afraid, but it doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything! I am always scared that something else is going to happen. Please pray something that will make it stop.”

I was silent for a minute, trying to gather my thoughts. I too have felt moments where my prayers are not being heard. I too have felt at a loss as to what to pray, what to hope for.

As I looked into her eyes, I saw my own helplessness, my own lack of understanding. It hit me right then that God, in His power, was probably not just going to make this simple. He wasn’t going to instantly remove our pain, our fears, or our discomfort. My heart felt certain that part of this healing was going to be up to us.

I have watched as my children have worked to gain physical ground. When I was eleven I injured my knee and was put into traction for two weeks and then had surgery. Not the simple laser surgery we have today (yes, I am ancient). It was an invasive surgery that left me on crutches for months and having to endure physical therapy for weeks. I vividly remember that therapy and the therapist, Jean-Paul, who made me work my way through those gruelling and painful exercises. I hated it. I wanted to just leave it alone, to let it be and maybe the knee would just heal itself. But cruel Jean-Paul knew better. He knew that I had to work to make the joint healthy again. That it would be painful and tiring and at times discouraging, but totally necessary if I wanted to use my leg to bike, run or play.

Now I watch my own children endure their battles with physical therapy. Working to strengthen their muscles, to build more bone, to be able to bear their own weight on legs that were broken into pieces, ligaments torn, knees and bones wired and swollen. And while I can easily remember the challenge of enduring such a thing, I know I whined much more and gave up much more easily than either of them have in a situation that is much more difficult.

Last night, as my daughter asked for help, begged for prayers that would take her fear away, the fear that something else might happen, the fear that she is still in danger, I realized again that like the work needed to heal the physical wounds, there was going to be gruelling work needed to heal the emotional ones.

We, each one of us, will have to choose to stand slowly, painfully upon the limbs of our broken dreams; to endure the attacks of relentless discouragement of working towards something new; to fight for something better, something healthier.

“God is never going to leave us,” I said, “this I know. But I think that while He is with us, while His strength and His compassion is unending, we too have work to do. When you are scared, instead of letting the fear take control, what can you tell yourself that is true?” She immediately answered, “That I’m safe.”

Right. You are safe. The sirens you hear in the distance are not for you. The helicopters that flew over the building late last night, were not rushing to your accident. At this moment, you are lying here in this place, in this bed, surrounded by people who are taking care of you, and yes, you are safe. Tell yourself the truth: Today, in this moment, I am safe. Mom is safe. My siblings are safe.

What if something horrible happens again, she wanted to know? What if we have another accident?
Then we deal with that moment when it arrives. But that moment is not here. We cannot prepare ourselves to deal with something that is not happening. So do not let yourself look ahead to what those moments may be, it does nothing useful. Now, right now, you are safe. Say it out loud, “I am safe.” And rest in what is happening today.

As I was speaking, I thought it might be good to try and take my own advice. Can I try to stand in this moment, knowing that the next moment is out of my control, that I cannot prepare myself for something I am only fearing, not facing? Can I believe that God is providing what I need for right now? Do I believe I am safe? Oh, for the wisdom and faith of the clockmaker all those years ago. All I can do, all we can all do, I suppose, is endure the therapy of daily living, choosing again and again and again to stand on what is broken in the hopes that it too will one day become strong.
　

Bullied

2011-02-18T12:09:00.000-08:00

Myron told us a story of a period in life where he was bullied. When he was in grade school there was a group of boys who noticed over time that Myron never swore. Never. They took it upon themselves to change that. During lunch hour they would wait in a classroom until he passed by in the hall, grab and pull him in and proceed to beat on him until he said a swear word. The problem was he never did. He never gave in to them, it was too important to him to hold on to his convictions. Eventually they realized that it was hopeless (which I, decades later, could have easily told them. Myron was not only conscientious but stubborn) and not only did the bullies give up trying, but over the years would recount their admiration for the kid that could never be made to swear.

I am finding that grief has a personality of its own.

I recently pictured it as if it were an entity filling a container of some sort, maybe a packing box that someone has unceremoniously dumped in the home of my heart. Where once it was the very blood that ran through my veins, now it seems to have become more of a “thing”, an actual tangible object with its own set of characteristics. There are many days where I feel that I am just shifting that box, filled with grief, from one place inside of me to another. Some days it is directly in the way and I have to climb over it, around it, in order to deal with whatever is essential at the moment: a medical decision, a meeting, making arrangements for one thing or another. Some moments I find myself trying to push it aside only to have the lid suddenly fall off and the contents burst out, overtaking me. Some times it is so heavy that I cannot budge it. It just sits there, taking up space, overwhelming every breath and consuming the very air around me. No matter what I am doing, where my thoughts are or what my hands are busy with, it is there. Taking up space.

Often, grief is a bully. Every little thing reminds me of my husband, of his life with us. Everything. Driving by Queen Elizabeth Park where we had one of our first dates; seeing a Canucks logo; eating at a restaurant and knowing exactly what he would order; remembering going to this or that place; driving the route that would take him to his work, the baseball field, the church. Hundreds of moments a day when he springs to mind and grief takes out its long, pointed knife and stabs. It is relentless.

But I discern that there will be a day when that un-welcomed, over-flowing box taking up so much room within me will begin to get a bit smaller. That I will be able to move it around a little more easily. A day when there will be more space for other things to enter that room, to consume thought and time. And then, I wonder, if grief will become not just a bully, but maybe also a friend. I don’t know, I just wonder. As I do about so many, many things.

There is fear that accompanies the thought of healing, as crazy as that sounds. A fear that with each step towards acceptance, towards life, I am leaving more and more of him behind. I cannot always remember so clearly the feelings I had those few weeks. And it is partially the intensity of those feelings that keeps me so aware that something is very wrong, that something and someone is missing, has been torn from me and that I am bleeding from the brutality of it. And that feels appropriate. Because it is true. But as the wound begins to clot, ever so slowly, there is a sudden panic that it is the intensity of the grief that is in fact keeping me close to him. Maybe a danger in believing that the grief and my love for Myron, my missing him, are one and the same. And I wonder if part of this nightmare is going to be learning how to differentiate between the grief and my love of the man. Between the loss and what I get to retain. Between the bully and the friend.

The un-poetic part of Myron’s bullying story is that for an entire year he was too nervous to be caught in the restroom at school, in case he was jumped again. So every day he kept a lid on his bodily functions and as soon as the bell rang he would sprint for home and to the comfort of the bathroom. One day he realized he wasn’t going to make it. There was a field he used to pass (now covered in houses) and in the middle of it, for some reason, stood a lonely outhouse. That day he took advantage of it but while inside the outside latch slipped down and he found himself trapped. After an hour of yelling for help, a gentleman passing by heard him and freed the poor boy from his temporary prison. Myron was very embarrassed but even so much more grateful.

I think, metaphorically of course, that we will find ourselves dealing with our pain in similar fashion. There will be days when we will be able to withstand the bully of it and others when we will hold it all in until we reach someplace safe to deal with it. And probably quite a few days where as a result of the thing that tears at us, we will find ourselves trapped somewhere we do not want to be. I have to trust that God will hear us in each situation. That He will provide the strength to overcome. That He will guide us to our safe place. And most importantly, when we are trapped, that He will be the gentleman coming at just the right time to free us.

　
　
　

Standing

2011-02-14T22:37:00.000-08:00

A beautiful thing happened today. Taeryn stood.

She has been waiting and waiting for the chance to try her legs. Last week she was told that Monday she would begin the process of weight bearing. All she heard though was, "on Monday you will walk!"

"I'm going to walk today," she told the surgeon this morning during one of Taeryn's appointments. Oh no, I thought, she thinks she is just going to get up and walk down the hall. I tried to explain to her that she wouldn't be walking today, that today was just the first day in a very long process of walking again. I wasn't sure she was listening until she turned to me and slightly exasperated said, "No, mom! Today I get to walk."

It seemed to take forever to get to 3:00 p.m., the appointed physio-therapy hour. My stomach was in knots. What if it was too painful? What if she got scared and didn't want to keep trying? What if she was so disappointed her little spirit would be crushed? I waited across the room. Taeryn sat at the edge of her bed, a therapist on either side. Every few seconds she would start to slide towards the floor and they'd pull her back with a gentle, "Not yet! We're not ready." I could see that she was doing all she could to hold herself back, to be patient.

Then the big moment. She was lifted up and set gently down as they bore most of her weight themselves. Crutches were tightened around her arms and slowly, slowly she began to move one leg. Then the other. She couldn't stand straight up, her hip flexors had shortened and she was having trouble not bending over, but she didn't stop. And when they put her back on the bed, she said, "Let's do it again!"

So they did. Bearing her weight, they slid her off, fastened the crutches and moved her forwards, one leg inching at a time, just about a half metre or so. And every time they moved her back to the bed she'd look them straight in the eye and say, "Let's do it again!" They wore out before she did. Finally she insisted that once, just once, they let her stand fully on her own. Carefully they released her weight until yes, she was standing on her own legs. I couldn't hold back the tears. She was standing.

Back in her bed, I kissed her cheeks and told her how proud I was of her. "I told you mom," she reminded me, her face lit with a radiant smile. "Today I was going to walk!"

A flood of thoughts crowd my mind as I review this scene. The faith of a child, the unquenchable spirit, the ability to believe in herself. But I think what hits me the hardest is a lesson of perspective. I was afraid she was expecting too much. She showed me that no, the reality was that I was expecting too little.

The Chance

2011-02-14T01:13:00.000-08:00

When I was at the University of Alberta, I heard often about the Bachelors to the Rapture. A group of guys out in B.C. had created and joined this unofficial club, presumably to publicly announce that not having a girlfriend was of their own choosing. Myron was a proud member. I hadn’t met him as of yet, I just remember hearing about it and their smug insistence that it was the way to live. Of course, every one of those guys was desperate to be dating. I know because I met and married the founder. And he told me.

And back in the day, we as single females had our own way of dealing with a dateless Valentine’s Day. The Rotic Club was formed by taking the “man” out of “romantic”. I’m not sure who came up with the term, I personally thought it very clever, and we had all sorts of ways to keep ourselves busy when we realized that we would be without a romantic interest on the 14^th. Or at least a mutual romantic interest, as we too, probably every one of us, also wished that we had someone special in our lives.

Valentine’s Day is here. I have been watching the date on the calendar getting closer and closer. The hospital is decorated with hearts and cupids and everywhere I go I am reminded that for the first time in almost 19 years, I will not be spending this day with Myron. That I will never spend it with him again.
I miss him. I miss his cards, his simple words of “I love you”, his big, showy kiss he would give me in front of the kids and his insistence that we go out to celebrate. Myron was not one of those guys who brought home flowers on a regular basis. But he told me that he loved me, I think, almost every day. And often when we got too busy, he would say, “I don’t think I’ve told you today that I love you. I love you!” I will miss that the most. Just his simple words, “I love you.”

We are fickle beings we humans. We are not very good at retaining things. I’ve found that the lessons I have so called “learned” seem to have to be repeated over and over, until sometimes it feels like God has to lean down and say, “You know, I’m getting tired of this one. Could you just get it through your head this time?”

This whole situation has reminded me of how easily we get distracted in life. Many have told me that they are driving more carefully, appreciating their loved ones more, remembering that every day is a gift. I think that is one of the benefits, for lack of a better word, of hearing about or dealing with terrible things that happen to others. It causes us to pause, to stop and think and re-evaluate what is important to us. Pausing in life is uncommon. Right now I have been brought to a dead stand-still, but I can remember many times in the past where I was brought to a pause. Where I too was reminded of the sanctity of life, and how I should treat the gift of it.

But then we forget. Inevitably the play button is pushed and we move back into our busy lives, our concerns and misunderstandings. The daily tasks and the challenges that come with them. It is human nature, I think. There seem to be a few special people out there who are better at pausing frequently, who remarkably know how to keep their finger off of the play button. But very few, I think. Most of us struggle to focus on the essential; we focus instead on the immediate.

When I was a teenager we drove to Ontario for my Grandmother’s 79^th birthday. My grandfather had died years before and she had stayed in their apartment, not socializing with anyone much, just reading and watching t.v., or writing the occasional letter. I remember looking for something in her bedroom, some task she had sent me on, and pulling out her night-stand drawer. An envelope laid inside, with the word WILL on it, and underneath that, FINAL INSTRUCTIONS. I remember how much that impacted me, the thought that everything was settled, sitting in her drawer just waiting for the day she passed away and someone would have to use it. It left me cold and a little shaken. Grandma lived to 103. I think she was just too stubborn to die, but I always remembered that envelope, cold and white, waiting, waiting for the day when someone would have to open that drawer and find it.

I recently had to be home for just a quick stop. I cannot even remember what I was doing, something in our bedroom I think, when suddenly I was so overwhelmed with the desire to have Myron speak to me, to tell me he loved me, to hear just once more of his feelings for me and our relationship that I searched. I searched through his drawers, through a desk, in some keepsake boxes. I know I have tucked away a card here and there, a few where he wrote something that had really touched me, but that day I could find nothing.

There were many, many times I thought about writing him a letter and one to each of my children, just to make sure that if something happened to me, they would always have those last words, that last message of how I felt about them, how I loved them. I thought it every time we left on a trip, every time I knew I wouldn’t see them for a few days. Just in case, I told myself. But I haven’t done it. I was never able to press that pause button long enough to do it properly, to give it enough credence.

It is now past midnight and officially the 14^th of February. If I could be forgiven for speaking out, for telling another person how to live their life, to have the opportunity to say anything to anyone who was interested, I would say this: Don’t let another day go by without writing that letter. It doesn’t have to be long. It doesn’t have to be eloquent. Write to your parents, your spouse, your children. Tell them how much you love them, what you admire in them, how much they mean to your every day. Then fold it up and put it somewhere they would find it should something happen. In a sock drawer, a bible, a safety deposit box. Someplace that when they have to look, when they are desperate to hear, they will. So that there will be more than that cold, white envelope waiting with its instructions. There will be your voice with your words. Because they will be desperate to hear it just one more time. Believe me.

And then, sometime today, take the face of every person you love, every person that means something to you, and look into their eyes and tell them from the depths of your heart that you love them. Pause the button. Don’t just do it because it’s the 14^th. Don’t just do it because I’ve spoken it. Do it because you have the chance. I want you to have the chance.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Myron, my friend, my love. Thank you for telling me often. Thank you for letting me know. Remember, please remember, for all eternity, that I love you too.

The Marathon

2011-02-12T00:33:00.000-08:00

I feel dry, parched in my spirit. The week has been an unending blur of starts and stalls, complications and frustrations. I keep wondering how much more will I be able to handle. When will I just break, fall to the floor and not get up again?

Every part of me just feels tired.

I knew from the beginning that I could not sustain myself on my own efforts. For weeks the prayers of others lifted my feet and cleared my head, enabling me to make it through to the next minute, the next crisis. But inside I always knew, always anticipated, that there would come a time when I would no longer be purely carried. A time when I would have to start using my own feet and begin to face the reality of how I was going to endure each day of this unanticipated marathon.

Myron once wrote a song about just such a thing. The chorus read,
Don’t give up hope
Don’t quit the race
Keep on running down the road at a steady pace
The end’s in sight, so keep pressing on
Life is not a sprint, it’s a marathon.

Myron was a runner. He ran before I met him and early into our marriage he decided he wanted to run the Vancouver Marathon. He had done plenty of 10 km races, a couple of 20’s, but never the full thing. Not being one to just jump into something, he read books and articles, researched the best training methods, made spreadsheets to log training hours and times and began his running schedule and meal regime. Although I spent a lot of time rolling my eyes, I was amazed at how far he could jog. He’d work through the back hills of Mission, a city that is basically built on the base of a mountain range. Twice a week he ran home from work, which wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t worked in Abbotsford, not Mission, and Saturdays were devoted to the “long run“. The night before, he’d drive the route, measuring out his distance (exactly). The next morning he’d drive it again to stash water bottles along the way. Then he’d warm up, stretch, and begin. Two and a half hours of running. He never stopped, just made himself take step after step, until finally he’d come panting into the driveway, dripping sweat, eager to record his latest effort, somewhere around the time I was getting out of bed (some of us are born to run, some to sleep.) Then of course he would re-drive the route to pick up the bottles. I remember once sharing how I found it remarkable he could run for so long. His eyes lit up. It meant something to him that I was impressed. And I truly was.

Eight weeks before the big day, Myron came down with the worst case of tonsillitis the doctor had ever seen. He was so swollen he couldn’t swallow, talk, eat or barely drink. One doctor decided to insert a syringe down Myron’s throat into the infected tonsils to try and draw out some of the pus. Without any freezing. He tried it twice. The training schedule got more and more behind, he just couldn’t shake the illness. Finally, just 9 days before the marathon, he felt well enough to run long distance again. And he was still determined to finish his goal.

The May weather on the day of the race was beautiful. We had driven into Vancouver the night before to register, receive his number, and look at the route. Studying the map I realized for the first time what he was setting out to do. I literally felt faint. 42 km/26 miles. I looked at him and said, “Are you sure you want to do this?” He was sure.

His brother Ron met me near the start line. We had planned to drive to different locations along the route to cheer him on. As the gun fired and the mass of people began their push, we jumped in the car to beat him to the next checkpoint. It was fun to pick him out in the crowd. He was doing well, calling out to us as he passed, double-checking that we would indeed be going up ahead to meet him again.

As Myron continued to run, I found myself noticing an elderly Chinese gentleman lagging some distance behind Myron. By his style, I couldn‘t believe he was attempting the race. One arm was held tightly against his chest, the other swung by his side. He’d take great strides with one leg but the other kind of dragged behind him. I hoped that there were paramedics along the route, because this guy was never going to make it.

Myron was basically hitting his anticipated times. The last time we saw him before waiting at the finish line was just before the final leg. A long, long incline began this section of the race. We parked and raced to the finish lane where runners were making themselves known. Arms pumping in victory, some literally crawling the last half block, the participants streamed in. But where was Myron? We waited and waited, and began wondering if we had missed him entirely. Maybe he had done so well on the climb that he had finished before we’d arrived? Ten minutes, then fifteen went by. Ron and I weren’t sure what to do when I looked up and saw the Chinese gentleman, with his awkward dragging gate, round the final corner. Well, no doubt about it, if that guy had just finished, Myron was surely waiting for us somewhere on the grounds. We had a look around and were discussing our options when I caught sight of Myron. On the route. Finishing his last quarter mile.

He looked awful. White as a ghost (which for a pale Norwegian boy was pretty white) he tried to make a final sprint for the end but didn’t quite have the energy. As he stumbled through the gateway we caught him, one on either side, and held him up. “I lost it on the hill,” he mumbled. “I just didn’t have anything left.” We got some fluids into him, half-carried him to the car and drove him to a friend’s house where he threw up and soaked in the tub for a good two hours.

His time wasn’t what he had hoped but still respectable for a newby. Especially a first timer who had endured a 7 week long infection. “I’m never doing that again,” he kept insisting. “Never again!” “Yes you will,” I said. “One day you’ll do it again.” For the next twelve to fifteen years I never heard another peep about running a marathon, although he completed several half-marathons, one of which involved a run-down to the finish line against an 80 year old military man who could have bench-pressed a horse. Myron squeezed by him just before the finish and told him, “There was no way I was letting an old guy beat me, but you sure gave me a run for my money!” My dad later told me that this particular gentleman was something of a legend in the military world for his athletic ability and boxing matches. Myron was determined to be in that kind of shape at 80. At the memorial a friend told me that he and Myron had recently began discussing entering the Vancouver Marathon this year. I was right. I knew he would have to try it again. I just knew it.

Tonight, desperate to moisten my spirit, I was reading John chapter 4 and I read these simple words: “Eventually he came to the Samaritan village of Sychar…Jacob’s well was there, and Jesus, tired from the long walk, sat wearily beside the well.” I don’t think I have ever pictured Jesus being weary. Of course, as I think about it, I can recall several instances where scripture alludes to his being tired, but I guess I’ve just never pictured it in my head. Reading this verse tonight was somehow…comforting. Jesus had been weary. He had been tired after his journey, needed rest, needed sustenance. It had been a battle, not just to the cross, but at times just in his daily living. I realized again, that there is really nothing he hasn't endured, no feeling he hasn't felt. He too felt the loss of his best friend, Lazarus. And he too, has felt the weight of weariness.

I have been weighed down today as I think about my future. It’s Friday, a day where normally I’d rejoice because Myron had two days at home and I could rest. But there are no weekends anymore. There is no-one to take over at the end of the day. To take the kids for a walk or on errands so Mom can have a break. Its just me now. Just me. And while of course I have those who continue to support and love me, who want to help in any way possible, while I know that I must find times to rest, to pray, to rely on His strength and sometimes on the strengths of those around me, I guess I am just trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I am now the only parent of these four amazing kids. The single parent. There is a world of them out there, facing this challenge, and I am now one of them, struggling to understand how this will be possible, how I will find the strength, the patience or the endurance.

And then I see him. Myron. Running, running, running. One step and another and another. His commitment to finishing. His endurance despite the pain. And I realize that I am no longer born to sleep. Now, I must run.

　
　
　

Maybe

2011-02-11T00:27:00.000-08:00

I am feeling scattered these days. Everything is demanding attention and I am struggling to keep so many details organized in my mind. I am so grateful for those who continue to step in and rescue me, sometimes before I realize I need it. Very, very grateful.

It has been a difficult day. Lauren, Karson and I needed to move out of the hospital as they do not medically need to be there. We were devastated not to be able to all stay together. Karson cried as we left, not wanting to abandon his sisters. However, true to the nature of children, as soon as we arrived at the rented suite, he began to explore and immediately got out his camera to take pictures of…the food in the refrigerator. Thank goodness a kind hearted co-worker of Myron’s had filled the fridge for us that day. I’m not sure what would have happened had my son opened it and found it empty. He proudly showed me his handiwork. His favourite shot was of the jugs of juice in the door.

It is interesting to me that his first thought was of provision. I was too busy looking for pyjamas and toothbrushes to think about food. It wasn’t even that he was hungry. But once he had his pictures of the inside of the fridge he seemed to be able to rest more easily in his spirit. That and knowing exactly which room I was in at all times.

I have been pondering that this evening as I sit here, that need to feel secure. That natural desire to know that all is right with our world.

I used to go to bed at night comforted by the thought that all my children were safe, tucked in their beds, breathing, dreaming, growing. That my husband was beside me, the sound of his snoring inevitably keeping me awake, the rise and fall of his chest beneath my hand a comfort as I’d reach over just to touch him, to know he was there. I’d think about our kitchen, stocked for the coming day, the fact that I didn’t have to worry about having to look for work, that I was able to stay home and teach my children, watch them grow and learn, that the doors were locked, that there was gas in the car, that the vacuum worked should I need it, which I would. I’d ponder the trust I felt knowing that every night Myron’s footsteps would be heard at the front gate, that there would be the sound of his key in the door and that the children would run to greet him with their tales of the day. It was security. It was the relief I held on to in the darkness as I pondered all that could go wrong, while resting safe in the knowledge about all that was right.

I do not rest in that place right now. Now I reach in the dark and find nothing. Now I cry myself to sleep each and every night, as the pressures of not knowing what is safe mixes with the certainty that everything is not alright. What will it take for me to feel safe again? To sleep without medication, to review my day knowing that all is good? That all is as it should be.

It feels reversed. I used to go to sleep resting in the comfort that all was good, knowing that things could change. Now I lay in bed at night, alone, knowing that all has changed yet trying, desperately trying to believe that one day, somehow, in can again be good.

Karson felt comforted that there was food. It was one tiny piece of his upended, incomprehensible, mutilated world. One tiny thing. Yet knowing that he was provided for in that one tiny area, brought a bit of peace. A place to rest.

Maybe I will one day be able to look at my world in terms of tiny pieces. The little things where there have been provision. The big picture has been smashed, broken into something that can never be restored. But maybe there could be moments of rest in the fragments. Maybe each one can somehow be a picture in itself, something I can believe in, something I can take comfort in. Something I can see the hand of God in.

Maybe one day that will be enough.

Quick Update

2011-02-08T22:47:00.000-08:00

Monday was a big day for some of us. Lauren, Taeryn and Karson were taken to Children’s Hospital for follow-up ex-rays and exams.

Taeryn’s ankle and arm casts were removed. The stitches in her heel laceration were taken out (I heard her screaming from down the hall and thought, “Who’s child is that? Oh no, I think its mine!” The last stitch was deep and covered with layers of skin so it took quite a while to dig, pull, numb the area and then convince her to allow them to try again. An hour later she was the proud owner of a stitchless heel.
The true joy of no casts means that she is now allowed to begin pool therapy. Taeryn has been drooling over the in-hospital swimming pool since the day she arrived. Today was her first day and she will be in the pool every day this week. Next week they will begin trying to weight-bear and over the next weeks will be using walking bars, a walker and finally crutches. I was a bit nervous after her casts were removed. Taeryn is a child with an abundance of energy and very little fear of …just about anything. I was so scared that we’d wheel her back into Sunny Hill, only to have her jump out of her wheel chair to try walking. I told the nurses, KEEP AN EYE ON HER! As it is the pool workout made her ankle and knees quite sore, so I am hoping she realizes she is still broken. We’ve taped bright red tape around her right arm to remind both her and the staff that it is not ready to use yet, even though the cast is off. Her next appointment will be with the spine specialist for her neck, then another doctor for the liver laceration, and then another trip to the plastic surgeon. Then its back to the ortho surgeon for more ex-rays and updates.

Karson’s ex-rays were good and he was given the thumbs up to continue on. He has been complaining of soreness in his leg the past two days and what I think may be heart-burn type of symptoms, but otherwise is doing well. Its very important to him to know where Mommy is at all times, and he likes to keep tabs of his sisters as well.

Lauren’s day was disappointing. Her arm has not healed yet and the anticipated freedom just didn’t happen. They removed an eight inch long rod from behind her elbow, without sedation, which was very painful and not at all pleasant. Even though she was quite anxious about this procedure, she stayed strong and stayed still as he wrestled it out. I was so proud of her, especially when I couldn’t even watch it nonetheless think of enduring it. She has been recasted and will be re-ex-rayed on the 22^nd. She is swollen and sore today.

Bryn is accomplishing amazing feats. She can now, in her body cast, swing herself out of bed on her own, crutch over to her wheel-chair where she lowers herself backwards and slides herself up into it. She can also put herself back into bed (all this is done with spotters and balancing help, of course!) She is very proud of herself. I’ve noticed that Bryn now knows all the staff by name, organized the student nurses to have a surprise “thank you, instructor” card party, and basically runs the entire ward. She is becoming accustomed to the other more severely impaired children, and is often seen sitting beside them in her chair, stroking their arms or patting them softly. Taeryn introduced herself to one of the administrative assistants and soon convinced her to let her deliver the morning mail to the offices and staff. Bryn has now joined her, so every morning at 10:00 they roll themselves down to the office, get the mail and help distribute it. Its quite cute.

I shudder to think what it will be like when they are finally all at home. They’ll be reaching for non-existent call-bells. Karson actually buzzed the nurse one day and when she came he said, “I’d like some hot chocolate, please.” I said, “This isn‘t Boston Pizza, Karson!” Another time he buzzed and when the nurse came in he said, “Will you play with me?” He was so cute that she said yes.
　
　
　

The Crater

2011-02-05T19:40:00.000-08:00

Myron struggled with the concept of anger. We had many discussions in our marriage on whether or not it was alright to be angry. For the longest time he believed that anger was a sin. He wasn't prone to it, didn't give in to it very often, although having four children made it somewhat easier. Children have a way of doing things that create very intense feelings in their parents, things like breaking expensive electronic equipment, locking keys in running vehicles, or refusing to stay in bed while the hockey game is on. Even when he did feel anger it was so mild and so out of character that the kids often thought he was joking.

I was thinking yet again last night what would it have been like had Myron survived and I had died in the crash. In the first few days after the accident, I kept thinking how much better he had been at handling crisis, how I had leaned on him in difficult situations as he didn't feel as passionately about things as I did and could stay calmer. I often find myself trying to imagine the reverse scenario, what it would have felt like for him, how he would have handled all of this. I don't know the answer. Who does until you are in it? But at one point I was hit with such a profound thankfulness that he didn't have to. The emotional toil it would have dealt him would have been so devestating. The thought of him having to deal with pain and grief and guilt and anger, of having to juggle work and the children and their injuries along with his own loss was too much for me to bear thinking about. I am not any better at dealing with this, but I am just so thankful he didn't have to.

Anger is a scary feeling. It has a power to it. I was thinking about anger, thinking about how it is the situation I am angry with, how necessary it is to acknowledge it, to vent it, yet also how easily it can harden the heart. For a while today, I found myself evaluating everything around me, making judgements, mentally chastising those walking by me for not knowing my pain, not bowing to my grief, though they were but strangers and unaware of my thoughts and situation. It didn't feel good. It didn't feel healthy. It had the aroma of bitterness. There is a difference, my spirit told me, between anger and bitterness. Yet the line is so narrow. I need to appropriately acknowledge the anger. But I must turn from the weight of bitterness. More choices. Everything right now is about choices: to be honest, to be open, to be angry but not bitter, to be thankful in the midst of the anguish and frustration.

And yet I want to run from this grief. It is like a crater, a vast, deep and black hole that sits where my marriage once did, where my husband once stood. I wish there was something to fill that crater so I would not have to see it, to know its presence. But I suspect that there is nothing. I do not think I am supposed to fill it. And I don't think Jesus will fill it for me. I think He will just sit with me beside it, maybe even at times crawl down into it with me and feel its emptiness, its vastness. I don't think he will fill it, but I think he will eventually teach me how to live with it. How to walk paths around it or build bridges over it so that it no longer stops me from living, no longer stands in the way of experiencing joy. But I know it will always be there. Always.

I feel swept up in a storm, in something that has grabbed me and my family and won't let us go. It is happening all around us, making decisions for us, not giving us a vote in whether we want to be a part of it or not. Every day I think, what if I don't want to do this? What if I don't want to eat? To live this life? To be this person in this circumstance? But the storm around me, encompassing me, ignores me. And I am dragged behind it while events dictate themselves upon us. It is a scary and uncertain situation, not being able to change anything that has happened, not being able to fix it or find a solution or bring him back. It is unnerving knowing that I have no control over how my children's bodies heal, or where we are allowed to stay, or how we will pay, or what the next weeks, months or years will look like. Everything has been torn from my grasp, or rather my imaginary grasp, for I see now that I never did have the control I subconciously believed I had.

In talking with a dear neighbour, I was recounting that at one point I felt the need to relive the details, to remember and recount the horror of that day. Somehow, I said, it felt like I had to keep saying it to make it real. To make my brain understand that this was not a dream, not some nightmare from which I could ever wake up. She responded that maybe it would be important some day to be able to own this situation, and then was concerned that she had used the wrong word. But I think she was right. I think at some point, this has to stop being something that is happening to us, around us, and eventually it will need to find a place in the deepest part of us where it then becomes a piece of who we are, as a family, and as individuals. Some day we will stop merely being the characters in the story. Some day the story will become part of our character.

I have had another picture, a picture in the midst of my anger, my questioning. It is of Jesus, standing in the middle of that road, at the spot where the two cars met that day. Sometimes he is alone, in the road, in the silence. There are tears on his face. Every once in a while a car flies by him, the wind it creates pushing at his hair, his clothing, spraying him with the rain on the road, and still he waits, unmoving, knowing we are almost there. Knowing what is about to happen, what this world is about to do. And when I was pulled out from that wreckage, screaming for my children, screaming for my husband, he was there to put his arms around me and begin this new, horrible leg of my journey. He was there as they lay on the concrete floor, shaking and crying in that gas station, there to hold Myron in that twisted, heap of metal when I could not. There to climb into the helicopters and push the gurneys and lay down beneath the children as the surgeons operated. There to place his hands upon me as I sat alone in that hallway, the blood on my face, my children rushed away from me through swinging doors, a daughter driven in another direction, a husband left behind. I see Him there. And I am on one hand so thankful for his presence and on the other so utterly confused as to why he didn't stop it all from happening. I don't know why he didn't. All I know is that he was there.
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I am not noble. I am struggling. In all honesty, if Jesus came to me tonight and said, "Gillian, it is your choice. If you wish, I will trade all the blessings, all those who have come to know me through this, all the treasures that I promise will come in the midst of your pain, so Myron could be returned. You just need to choose," I'd choose Myron. I would. I can't say otherwise. I'd trade it all for him. The only thing that even gives me pause, that stops the selfishness of that intense desire for even a milli-second, is that I know Myron would be so sad if I did. Because more than anything in life, he just wanted to make a difference for his Lord. And if I took that all away, he would be so disappointed. But right now, I'd still do it. In a heartbeat. And I'm not sure, just like the crater, that that will ever change.

So no, I am no saint. I had those thirty minutes of pure anger, but its not over. I know that I will have many moments of anger, frustration, feeling like God has betrayed me, made a terrible mistake. But even as I rage and ask why, why, why, I can't help but see Jesus standing in the middle of that road, waiting for us that day. Waiting. Arms outstretched, silent, tearful...waiting.

Anger

2011-02-03T00:08:00.000-08:00

When I first set up this blog I found that in order to provide information to friends and family, I had to first name it. I think it was day four or five after the accident and every time I put something in the Title box, it was rejected. I didn’t have the brain power at the time to come up with something creative, even my name didn’t work, so I used the only word I could think of, Journeying. The title has always bothered me. I don’t feel like I’m journeying. I feel like I’m decaying.

I was angry tonight. Angry and broken. Angry that it was Myron who died. Angry that there is no relief for my unyielding pain. Angry that the lives of my children have been marred and scarred. Angry that the magical elixir, time, which I am told will help, feels instead like an enemy that taunts instead of heals.

Anger is apparently one of the many aspects of grief. I have felt its breath on occasion. I do not know why it chose to reveal itself tonight. Maybe because today I had to go to Myron’s office and face the fact that like home, he is not there. Maybe because I had to meet with a financial adviser to start figuring out how I am to raise four children with no income. Maybe because of the bright, red, mass of scars I see on the beautiful face of my seven year old. Maybe, just because. And so for thirty minutes, I was angry. Really, really angry. And I cried and demanded why and told God that he had made a terrible, terrible mistake. I might have been angry for longer, but I didn’t have the energy.

Afterwards I walked to the door with my dear friends, friends who had listened and given me permission to be angry, friends who agonized along with me. Then I went back to our room and to our life, as it is. And Bryn, my wonderful Bryn, 10 years old and imprisoned in her dreadful cast, who has suffered and persevered and fought said, “Mom, did you know that most of the children in this hospital have brain damage from car accidents? Isn’t it amazing that none of us have brain damage? That we are all going to be okay? Isn’t that amazing, Mom?”

It is. It is amazing that we are alive. It is amazing that none of us have permanent brain injuries or spinal injuries. It is. But what is more amazing is that my 10 year old saw this. Recognized this. Appreciated this.

It is okay to be angry. But how much better to be thankful in the midst of it.

Frank Funk

2011-02-02T00:02:00.000-08:00

I had to tell four strangers yesterday that my husband had been killed in a car accident. Every time I did it took a little more out of me and I couldn't help but stand in front of them, in their respective offices, and cry as I said the words. For it still does not seem possible. The truth continues to slaughter my perception of reality.

I was so desperate to be close to him today, to be able to talk to him, touch him, tell him something I found amusing or puzzling. I walk around in public, talking, listening, functioning, all the while feeling like I'm holding my breath, because what I really want to say, to cry out in response to everything relevant, or not, is that I simply and desperately want my husband. I want Myron. There is a part of me that is utterly alone, even with the children, even with the love and support of so many, even with the knowledge that God stands with me, within me. A very special place, a place that belonged only to us, is empty and raw and desolate. And I realized again today that I am now alone. Alone at night, in the decision making, in brushing little teeth and cutting up dinner meat, in driving long-distances and reviewing visa bills, in planning birthday parties and celebrating anniversaries and Valentine's Day, and one day, when all my children are grown and away, alone in life. Everything is now just me. Where it used to be us, it is now just me.

I walk around feeling like there are two of me: the one responding outwardly to all that needs to be done or said, and the one inwardly screaming in anguish, longing for something that I can never have. They take turns surfacing, but both are there.

I needed to think about Myron, something to make me smile, and the thought of two people living in my one body reminded me of Frank Funk.

When Myron went to Bible School (CLBI) back in the 70's, he took a class taught by an older woman. I don't remember her name or what she taught, but somewhere in that creative, ridiculous mind of his, Myron decided to create an invisible student and see how long he could get away with it. So when assignments were due, Myron would hand in two, one by Myron Berg, and one by a student by the name of Frank Funk.

Each class the teacher would take attendance and when she called for Frank, Myron would answer, "Here!" from behind a book or his hand and she was never the wiser. When tests came, he took two. He wrote two, making sure the answers were completely different (sometimes Frank's would give some elaborate theological answer, sometimes his answer would merely say, "I don't think this question is important.") The tricky part was handing them in. The teacher sat at her desk during the tests and watched as each student came up and placed their finished exam on the pile. Myron said he had to sometimes wait a long time until she got distracted by another classmate, would quickly slide up to the desk, slip both papers under the pile and hightail it back to his seat.

He even added a student mailbox with the name "Frank Funk" and while at a water fountain overheard the teacher asking another teacher, "Have you ever met this Frank Funk? He's in my class but I'm not sure who he is!" One day she asked Frank to answer a question in a class discussion but passed on her good wishes when Myron informed her that Frank was quite ill and not able to make it to class that day. This lasted the entire semester. Frank received his marks, turned in his papers, assignments and tests and eventually finished the class. At graduation, Myron felt he owed it to the teacher to confess that Frank in fact did not exist. I wish I had asked who had made the better grade, Myron or Frank? All I've ever laughingly said when Myron told that story was that I wondered how far he would have gone in life had he put all that wasted brain power towards something that was actually productive!

Sometimes when we were trying to figure out who was to blame for some kind of disaster in our house, someone would yell, "Frank did it! It's Frank Funk's fault!" prompting Myron to tell the story yet once again. And so the legacy lives on. The legacy of Myron's imaginative mind, and the infamous Frank Funk.

An elementary school in Mission, Central Elementary, held a fund-raiser for the Berg family last Friday. I'm told it was a bake sale, organized and run by the students. I'm also told that a little girl came to school that day, carrying the contents of her piggy bank. This child who had no parents to love her, who lived with her grandmother, gave the coins to her teacher and said, "This is for Taeryn, for her birthday. To get her a present." I told my children this story yesterday, and we all cried. Cried for the generous spirit of a sweet little girl who gave everything she had just because she wanted to help; cried for the efforts of a school of children and their parents who decided to try and make a difference; cried that we would be the receivers of such an amazing gift. So we thank you, parents, teachers and especially the children of Central Elementary. You have touched our wounded hearts with your love. And we are better for it.