Grief can make a person do things that may seem a bit odd. Like laugh or cry uncontrollably at inappropriate times.
Or buy a tiny house on the shores of your favorite get-away lake; then spend as much time as possible relaxing and, yes, working, in a place that doesn’t hold so many memories.
We weren’t looking for a park model home, but we knew we wanted to get our RV into a particular RV Resort on Indian Lake. After our oldest son, Evan, died in June, our summer plans sort of died with him. Suddenly, spending every weekend in the camper we tried to make as Evan-friendly as possible didn’t seem like such an enjoyable way to pass the time.
That’s when my husband found a park model home in the RV resort we had hoped to move our camper to. We’d be set up in the place we wanted, on the shores of the adult pool (no one younger than 25 is permitted). And the home even came with a Party Shed, complete with big screen TV, stereo system, refrigerator/freezer and mood lighting.
And no memories or expectations.
(FYI A park model is a 399-square-foot glorified RV on wheels that you typically park on a lot and permanently hook up to utilities. Once you get it set in place, you typically don’t move it.)
I'm drawn to the peace of the place
I find myself drawn to Indian Lake and Lakeview, Ohio, like a cat to an opened can of tuna. Hoping I can escape home without anyone noticing I’m gone. Trying to forget that a significant person in my life is no longer in it. Praying the sadness would stop feeling like it’s going to pull me under and I’m going to drown.
We all do it. Try to escape our realities and pretend that everything is right with the world.
Some of us do it with work. Some with shopping. Others with food or alcohol. Alcohol was my chosen method of forgetting. The numbness felt comforting and the headache the next day was my punishment–what I deserve for losing control.
The pain and sadness hasn’t lessened much. I still cry when I talk about Evan. And we’re starting to get into the Firsts Season–the first birthday without him (today November 3rd), the first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year. Before we know it, June will creep up on us.
And I won’t be able to believe that he’s been gone an entire year.
June will be very different from now on. The middle of June is usually celebration time in the Taylor house. My husband’s and my wedding anniversary is the 18th and my birthday is the 21st. Throw in Father’s Day, and we used to have one happy, fun multi-day event. But next June, and every June thereafter, will bear another significance. Evan died the morning of our 38th wedding anniversary.
We are still heartbroken, devastated, beyond sad.
Will the tears and ache never end?
The silliest things make me cry. When will the dogs barking not bring an ache to my heart? I always imagine Evan’s laugh after the dogs bark. He loved listening to them make noise. Geese flying overhead, the vroom of a dirt bike, windchimes.
When I walk through what used to be his bedroom, I still expect to hear the soft whisper: “Mommy?” I’ll never hear that again on this side of heaven.
I don’t feel alone in my grief. My husband shares it with me. We’ve each reacted differently, but I know he understands why I sob when I go to sleep at night. I’m using Evan’s pillow, and I still imagine I can smell him.
My faith has been a great comfort. During his illness, our pastor visited with us at the hospital and prayed with us and Evan. He anointed Evan and read from the Bible for him. One of my sisters gave Evan an audio children’s Bible that Evan listened to for many hours those last few weeks.
I remember hearing the story of King David after the child he fathered with Bathsheba became ill. How he moaned and cried and prayed for the child’s recovery. But after the baby died, David bathed, and changed his clothes and went along his typical way. Others asked him how he could just act as if nothing happened, and David assured them that he was still in mourning. But the Lord had answered his prayers and taken his child to heaven. What good would his agony do now?
At Evan’s funeral, a dear family friend approached me and said he wanted to share a scripture with me. It was the same story of David that Evan and I had listened to about a week before. Maybe it’s just me trying to make myself feel better, but I believe that was a message from Evan telling me he was healed.
Just a normal house now
I remember being surprised at how grown up he looked while lying in the casket at the funeral home. We bought him a new shirt and tie – the one and only time he’d ever worn a tie in his short life. He was a man – 28 years old – but he will always be my boy.
We’ve donated his hospital bed, his feeding supplies, syringes, diapers and pads, his wheelchair, even the track system we used to move him from his bed to the bathtub. Our house used to look like a hospital, with all the medical equipment, medications and other supplies. Now it just looks like a regular home.
It feels empty, in a way. I wrote several weeks ago that there will always be an Evan-shaped hole in my heart. I can’t imagine I’ll ever find anything to fill it. But I hope, eventually, it won’t feel like such a stumbling block or a pothole and will feel more like a place to lie down and rest.
I don’t know how long I’ll cry. Maybe for the rest of my life. There’s a song a friend recently shared with me by the Christian group Casting Crowns titled “Scars in Heaven.” You can listen to it on YouTube. Every time I hear it, I sob, but I keep listening. Eventually, I hope, the loss won’t be so painful.
I’ll warn you all right now, everything reminds me of Evan. I can’t guarantee that my posts won’t be about him for the foreseeable future. I’ll try not to bore you all. But I have a feeling you’ll be my therapists for the next few months.
The world is still a good place
And while I am sad and feel lost, I still believe there is good in this world and that it’s our place to share it. We all can make a positive difference in our communities. And I’ll continue to look to Evan as my purpose for continuing the direction of this blog. Before he got sick, he was happy and enjoyed almost everything he experienced.
He was a great example to me and others that he mattered. Even though he couldn’t see, or really talk, or explore the world like “normal” people did, he still had a purpose and impacted so many people’s lives in a positive way.
He changed me and I believe he changed others. And, if I had the opportunity to do it all over again, knowing the pain and sorrow we would experience, I would. In a heartbeat.
Until next week,
Susie from Stix-N-Stonez
P.S. Trying to continue to work and meet my obligations has been a struggle. I imagine it is for many of you. That’s why I started the Stix-N-Stonez Facebook group. I want that group to be a place of safety and rest. A place where you can get and give support to others. Won’t you join us?
3 thoughts on “Are My Reactions To Grief Appropriate?”
Don’t be hard on yourself. Your wounds are still fresh and deep. It will take possibly a lifetime to heal and that’s ok. Continue to see and hear Evan throughout your day, week, year. He didn’t disappear. He’ll be with you always. Like all kids, he just moved on to greater things. Can’t get much greater than heaven. We’re all born to die, unfortunately the living have to wait for their turn.
I love you and I feel for you. I think of you often!
My sweet Susie I sob along with you this morning. Please don’t ever stop talking and sharing Evan. My Gold Star Mother friends say they fear their sons and daughters will be forgotten. They ask us to speak their name every day and never forget. Keep sharing. Love and prayers for you, Terry and your family every day.
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