One Year

One year.  It's been one year. 

Tomorrow marks the one year mark of Everly's passing, an experience never to be relived, yet never to be forgotten. 

I've been in a period of reflection as of late and have been able to take a step back and cogitate on the past year.  I've not only learned about grief during this time but have seen humanity through a lens as never before.  Looked inside myself with a critical eye to see the good and the bad.  Have reevaluated priorities and refocused attention.  This season has brought about the most significant amount of changes or at least observations that I have experienced so far in my almost 43 years of living.

It has been both humbling and grueling.

Grief.  This constant companion, the relentless roar of torment that resides just beneath the surface. Ready to rear its ugly head at any given moment. Grief can strike you when you least expect it. It can be suppressed no more.  In the grocery store, the library, in the shower, a movie, a store...there's no rhyme nor reason to when the agony opens up.  It just is there...the way you and I just are.

I've seen this line...sometimes memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks...and how absolutely true that is.  Reading at night with my youngest son is a common time that tears just stream down my face.  There's no reminders, no glaring signs from my daughter, but rather, just cherished memories that work their way in and then out as we read.  Silently the tears fall as we continue to read. 

Something I learned during the past year in being physically parted from Everly is that not all tears are the same.  I had always been under the impression that when you cry, you cry and that's it.  But I've now learned that it's so much more complex than that simple idea.  There are moments like I described above that tears stream down when a thought crosses you.  And you may not make one sound as the tears fall.  Other times, tears stream down in the quiet of the night or standing in line watching a mother and her child or in the busyness of cooking dinner.  Then there are yet times you cry in sorrow and sadness for your broken heart.  This cry is much like a child's when they've been hurt or injured. It's loud and present and for all to hear.

But then there's the last cry which really, by definition, isn't a cry at all. 

This cry is a rite of passage of sorts.  A horrible, awful sound that only a parent who's lost a child, an animal who's lost its young, would know.  It's guttural and can only be described as gut-wrenching and from the inner-most depths of a soul.  There is no place deeper.  This cry consumes your body.  It takes control and only when it's done with you can you have it back.  Once you've heard the howl of total anguish, you can never unhear it.

If I am honest, it is the cry I fear the most. 

It happens. It's agonizing.  And it's depleting and consuming. 

But as we all know with loss and grief of any kind, there's no way around it.  We, I, have to just go through it.

Humanity.  Living with and amongst society allows much time for interaction, engagement, relationships, observations, and involvement.  Child loss stripped me of my outer shell, like a nailbed without the nail, raw and tender.  It allows for pain and hurt to enter at will, protection not offered. By in large, humanity tends to lift rather than tear down; support rather than break apart.  But, naively and innocently, some toss massive needlelike darts straight to your irrevocably broken heart.  And without protection, recovering from repeated throws can be debilitating to the point that you pull back.  Way back. 

As I've walked through the year, I have found that I'm now able to identify what I call "safe" people, places, experiences, and the like.  Those labeled safe allow me time time and space needed to learn how to reacclimatize myself within 'normal' society.  Love, support, encouragement is given with each baby step taken and each step towards being a part again.  Humanity is good.  I've experienced the beauty of people as I and my family have walked this road through grief and loss.  The outpouring of love from strangers on social media, the sacrifice of friends and family, the support of those who we just met.  I believe in the good in people and over the past year, I've been able to see it live out over and over again.  For that, I'm eternally grateful and so thankful to be in a position to experience and see that good.

Me.  This has been one of the toughest parts of the past year.  It goes without saying that you experience life-altering changes once you lose a child, a piece of you.  It is arguably every parent's worst nightmare, after all.  So much of 'me' has changed and, many days, I'm not able to recognize or even find the 'old' me.  Quite possibly, she doesn't exist anymore and that's a bit disconcerting, however true it may be. 

While I experience new emotions now that I'm uncomfortable and a variety of seemingly opposite emotions, the overwhelming 'new' self I'm learning about has new qualities and feelings.  Compassion, deep compassion for others and their suffering and their inner thoughts and true feelings, really wanting to get to know others.  Concern and sacrifice are my new companions.  A burning desire to make a change, to do something, no longer able to just sit back and watch.  A new determination to be the good somewhere for someone.

I feel invincible now.  More than that, I know that I am.  I have, with the mercies of God, survived the unthinkable.  There's nothing I can't do, no experience too much, no situation too uncomfortable for me now.  I know that I can survive anything as much as I know that I'm capable of anything now. 


Priorities.  One of the many gifts Everly gave to us and so many others...focusing on priorities in our life.  So many of us have these all out of order and something like a health scare or in my case, losing my daughter, jolts you into refocusing.  While I don't have it perfect all the time, I am worlds away from where I once was and I am grateful.  No longer do I feel out of balance.  No longer do I feel torn and that I am letting something slip away.  That simple gift is life changing but in the best way possible. 

This past year has been exhausting.  It has been eye opening.  It has been renewing.  Nothing will ever change my love for my daughter, just as nothing can diminish the love we shared.  But the take away from this past year, I pray, will help me find my place in this new, vast world I couldn't 'see' before my Everly. 

Don't Be Afraid...Promise!

"What brought you here today for the pet therapy handler training?" the instructor queried. 

As that questioned was answered by student after student, I contemplated my own response:  tell the truth or tell the answer that would be easiest for the class to hear.  I opted for a combination of both.  I shared that my daughter was the inspiration behind wanting to visit the pediatric ICU and how, though short, her life brought much meaning and motivation for many.  I kept it short, sweet and upbeat. 

However, as our class took a couple periodic breaks and then we headed to lunch, I noticed that people avoided making eye contact with me.  It was quite the mixed group of students but I kind of knew right away why they weren't looking at me. 


Her death.

You see, I get it.  It makes people uncomfortable.  It isn't the way the world works, a child's death, and it just plain and simple makes us uncomfortable. 

Except when the death happens to your child.

For us, we must speak about our child, my Everly, just like I must have air to breathe or food to eat.  Whether it's just the mere mention of her in my count of "how may children do you have" (which I was asked for the first time this weekend) or I expound on her life and Trisomy 18 diagnosis because someone is truly interested and this is new for them. 

I survey the lay of the land, the situation, the person or persons I am addressing before I speak.  I try to temper my statements based on all of these pieces of information.  When asked at my training class, I wanted to answer the question as to why I attended the class honestly but keep it upbeat and moving. 

But even though I did that, I still was received politely but almost with a bit of avoidance. 

It just boils down to the fact that we, as a society, have a hard time reconciling an event that seems almost is out of balance with nature.  Children don't die.  They just don't. 


But, alas, my friends, they do.  And we have to help make those people in this awful, lonely, isolating club feel okay and loved.

But we have to take it one step further.  Please.  We must help our children, too.

I know what you're thinking because I did, too, at one time.  I can't tell my child about xyz event (death, divorce for example) because it will shatter them, scare them, on and on.  I know the drill.  I did it, too.  I wanted my boys to think nothing bad would ever happen.  That there was nothing scary out there. 

The only thing is that it's not real life.  Bad things will happen.  While I don't think that making all the details known or giving out a scary impression is the right way to go, I do promote that sharing certain events with your children is not only appropriate but healthy.  Obviously, each child is different so maybe this isn't feasible for all.  But you know what I mean, I hope.

Why?

Because my 8 year old son needs kids his own age.  He's told us that he doesn't want to go to the park because there's no one ever there that he can talk to.  I asked why and he said because when he tells them that his sister passed away, they either run away or ignore what he says.     

Now keep in mind, this is a MATURE 8 year old who attends youth grief counseling bimonthly, lives in a house where Everly is openly and frequently spoken about and understands how others may not grasp the gravity of his situation.  If you know my son, you know he's open and honest.  He's also  super proud of being Everly's brother.  However, he must want to share with these particular children but, unfortunately, these children weren't prepared to respond. 

Understandably so. 

It's not in our parenting manual for "how to teach your child what to say when his/her friend's sister passes away."  But it doesn't mean we couldn't equip our child with a sentence or two for tough, general situations.  And even more important, how to be empathetic and show compassion.  That running away or ignoring his statement is very hurtful and saying almost anything (I'm sorry is an easy response) is better than nothing.

That brings me back to my training class.

At the end of class, one brave lady approached me and engaged me in conversation about what I had shared and our dogs.  I'm so thankful she did! 

As we've counseled Kendan on these experiences, which I might add have caused him to avoid one park in particular because it's happened more than once, we've shared with him that so many people, including adults, just do not know how to handle this type of news.  That most parents haven't taught their children how to respond and handle difficult situations when confronted.  Ourselves included.

Until now.

It's happened to me a number of times now since Everly's passing; it also happened to my mom, Jimmy, Garren and my dad.  We've all had similar scenarios to Kendan's. 

Folks might see us out but are fearful of approaching, engaging or just mentioning Everly or anything regarding our grief in general.  

Don't worry.  We understand.  We get it.  I know this awkwardness exists. 

But it doesn't have to and we want to help. 

I've had three braves souls tell me personally that they haven't reached out to me sooner because they didn't know what to say.  How I appreciate the honesty! 

So, here we go.  Below are 5 statements that might help:

1.  I'm sorry.  Short, simple and truthful.  Just knowing you acknowledge and that you care goes, oh, so far!

2.  How is your day today?  Each day for us is different so this question allows us to answer better than just how are you...but, honestly, that question is okay, too. 

3.  My favorite picture of Everly is _______.  Something that never gets old for us. 

4.  What are your plans to continue to keep Everly's memory alive?  This gives us a chance to share something positive and something that gives us joy.

5.  What do you think Everly is doing right now?   This type of statement does make us smile.  We love to think about her being tube-free, happy and not confined by earthly constraints.

Please know that the only question that hurts is the one that is never asked. 

I have an article here that we think is well-written and offers helpful advice.  If you aren't sure how to approach a situation like ours, how to help, what to say...this is a great resource. 

My prayer is that this post will help.  Please know that we try to meet you with a smile and are ready to connect and visit.  Don't worry about making us sad, or that we will cry the minute you mention her name. 

We may cry if you don't.