Real

Nothing can prepare you for the moment a doctor walks up to you, shaking his head. His eyes and mouth both saying "I'm so sorry". I'll never forget his face. I'll never forget that look. Of course, it was kind of him to say sorry, even though he had no idea what he had to be sorry about. He had no idea what I'd lost. He didn't know me, he didn't know Mitch. And yet, here he was. A stranger. Delivering the worst news of my entire life.

That moment. It was if I could feel the earth crack with the weight of the news under my feet. My jaw fell open and nothing felt real. I tumbled into an abyss, where I felt more like an observer than a participant. I had nothing to hold on to. I kept falling. And falling. I struggled to breathe. Finally, the words, "can I see him?" fell out.

I walked into the room where he was. I knew he was gone. But I couldn't. I can't. grasp it. It was him but it wasn't him. He felt so far away. It felt more like staring at the tickets for the trip you took, than the trip itself. It felt nothing like him. So strange. I'll never be able to put that night into words. There was no comfort in what he'd left and yet I couldn't walk away because I knew it was the last time.

I obviously don't know how it goes, the transition into the next life. As much as I wished he could have been with me for those dark hours, I knew he was with them. He was with the people waiting so anxiously for him on the other side. But that's not to say I was alone, I knew the people on the other side who loved me were there in that hospital room with the apologetic doctor and the sound of my beating heart.

I can picture him, being greeted by them. His jaw hanging in disbelief. Am I really...here? And undoubtedly, someone who loves him, approaching him saying, "We are very glad you're here. We've been waiting for you. You're not going back. I'm so sorry." And then my name on his lips, and the quick reassurance from some relative of mine telling him that I'll be fine. And him, half-joking half-serious, "Do you know her? I'm not so sure." They laugh. "Yes, we are sure. We will help her. You will help her." And only with those last four words, he knows he can somehow accept this new situation. So he nods, tears in his eyes and determination in his face. "Ok"

If you observe carefully, you will notice that the grieving pay particular attention to the sky. To the moon, the sunrise, the stars, the sunset, the clouds. Our eyes are fixed upward. This may seem curious to some, but not to us. We are looking for them. And we find them. 

I still can't believe you're gone, Mitch. I love you more and more every day. "I miss you" falls so, so short. I know you're looking out for me and I know you're helping me. I know you love me. I love you. I love you. I love you.

“May I say for the consolation of those who mourn, and for the comfort and guidance of all of us, that no righteous man is ever taken before his time. In the case of the faithful saints, they are simply transferred to other fields of labor. The Lord’s work goes on in this life, in the world of spirits, and in the kingdoms of glory where men go after their resurrection.” 

Joseph Fielding Smith

Plan B

The other day I made a comment to my dad about how sad I was to be missing out on so many beautiful days because I was too engulfed in grief to really notice them, much less get outside and enjoy them. He said something that stuck out to me.

"This isn't a detour from life, this is life."

As much as we wish it were so, life isn't a series of perfect & beautiful days. Some days you wake up energized about life, you go outside and thank God for your many blessings and you soak up every ounce of the sunshine. Other days, you wake up from a nightmare, immediately roll to your knees and ask God for the strength to just keep breathing through another day. Each of these reflect real days of a real life. Turns out it's true what they say, not every day is roses and unicorns. It's been difficult for me to accept this because before Mitch left, I had very few complaints about my life (none?). And now, the pain is deep and feels unending. 

For the past eight years, Mitch has been a part of my life. He was my friend on the dance team, my boyfriend, the guy I was writing on a mission, my fiance, my husband. For the past eight years, I've had him to talk to, to write to, to hug. And now, when I'm forced to face the most grueling challenge of my life, he's gone. When I would do ANYTHING for a conversation with him, a letter, a hug...he's gone. And sure, I know he's not "gone" gone...but it's definitely not the way it used to be. Not by a long shot.

And so, I have to be brave. I have to suck it up and do this life without him, no matter what my feelings are on the subject. I wake up and look at the empty side of the bed. I swallow the lump in my throat and get up. I go get myself new tires. I watch dog training videos and try not to think about how we were going to get one together. I try to come up with a plan for the fall that doesn't feel miserable, one I can be excited about. I distract myself with a million things throughout the day so I don't break down in tears. Sometimes that works, sometimes I can't escape the much needed release. I try not to fight it. Then, I take some melatonin and pray to fall asleep quickly. And I start all over. 

It's getting better, I'd say. It's feeling a little less intense day by day. I've come a long way from those first few blog posts, but I still feel so far away from where I used to be. But my life before Mitch passed can't be my yardstick anymore. I'd go insane. I can only measure myself against the girl who walked out of the hospital on February 25, heartbroken, head-spinning and in complete shock. Without a doubt, I'm stronger than that girl.

I'm not giving up the fight. Life is precious, it's worth fighting for even and especially when it looks like all is lost. I have to make this time without Mitch count so I can return to him without regret.

This isn't plan A. Obviously. Plan A was a life with Mitch, curly haired babies & the house in Seattle. This is plan B. And I'm going to rock the hell out of it. 

"No one has failed who keeps trying and keeps praying."

Jeffrey R. Holland