Related

The other day an old lady tried to touch my face at the DI (thrift store).  Somewhere between the abandoned Health Riders and vintage suitcases our paths crossed.  She slowly shuffled toward me in her red house dress, and I noticed her wispy gray hair and the almost transparent nature of her skin.  She seemed too fragile to be wandering such a junk cluttered aisle.  I pressed myself into the exercise equipment so she could pass by me, but instead she reached for me.  Not in a creepy way.  Her hand gently moved toward my face in a slow, loving way; as if I were her child. 

What should I do? I thought. My brain tried to process the appropriate reaction to being touched by a stranger at the DI.  Honestly, I'm surprised it has never happened before.  Anyway, before her hand reached my cheek it was caught and gently retracted by the young woman who walked beside her, and apologies followed.  No need to be sorry, I said and they continued their tedious journey.

I instantly felt a twinge of regret, really strange regret.  If only she would have said something to me, I thought. 

When Jonah was a few months old I had a similar moment while we waited in a hospital.  I wrote the following about it in my journal:

We went to see Dr. M today and had to wait for a long time in the hospital hallway.  This elderly woman was wheeled by and it was clear she had some dementia.  She kept asking if she knew the people in the hallway and her son said "no mom...you don't know any of these people." 

Then they went further down the hall.  A few minutes later while her son was distracted she made her way back down towards us, slowly using her feet to move the wheelchair forward.  She stopped right in front of us and smiled at Jonah.  He gave her a big smile.  I told her his name and asked her what her name was.  She said "Beverly." 

Then she said, "Does he (Jonah) have a hole in his mouth?"

A little taken aback I said, "yes...he does...how did you know." 

She said, "Because I know him, he is my relative."

It was pretty crazy.  I don't know how she would know that or even ask about it.  You can't see it from the outside.  I like to think that Beverly does know him! 
 
As I continued my search through second-hand clothes and mismatched dishes I thought, What if I missed a Beverly moment?  What if this seemingly senile woman in her red dress had something important to tell me; something that she could see that I could not.  I wondered if she could have given me a message about Jonah, or about God, or about my life.  I find that in my grief I am constantly looking for experiences to reinforce my belief in an afterlife...some sort of evidence that can transform my hope into faith and understanding.  

I like the idea that those who seem to lose their grasp of this life have a greater understanding of the next.  I loved that even if she did not have a message for me, this sweet old woman felt moved to reach for a stranger.  Perhaps she craved the softness of human touch.  Maybe she could see the invisible heartache that is buried in me and felt compassion.  Or maybe she knew me...like Beverly knew Jonah.  Maybe we are related.
 

Hard Things

Last week I made my way north to Salt Lake, curved around the east side of city, and arrived in the foothills of the Wasatch Front.  It is a familiar drive for me.  My grandparents lived in those foothills for most of my childhood, and the neighborhood still reminds me of picking warm summer raspberries, and enjoying my grandpa's homemade apple juice.

But last week as I drove through the familiar, the warm sun seemed to melt my nostalgia leaving me with the underlying uneasiness it temporarily masked.  I arrived at Primary Children's Medical Center for an unexpected interview, and felt afraid.

Whenever I visit a place that is charged with memories of Jonah I feel nervous. I just don't know what to expect, or how I will react.  The pain I feel is so lightly buried.  I never know what breeze of memory will uncover it.  

Our last visit to Primary Children's was when Jonah had his cleft palate surgery.  He was 9 months old.  I felt prepared and relatively calm as we entered the hospital as a family.  Jonah was as curious and energetic as ever.  We laughed as he charmed the pre-op nurses with his dimpled smile.  We took pictures of him in his baby-sized hospital gown.  Then we tried to entertain him - and ourselves - as we waited and waited for his surgeon.

The doctor and our anxiety arrived together.  We looked at each other as if to say, "this is really going to happen."  Jordan and I gathered Jonah and his things: blanket, binky, and diaper bag.  Then we slowly made our way down the long sterile corridor. When we could go no further, we squeezed him and kissed his sweet cheeks as we handed our precious child to the anesthesiologist.  Jonah didn't seem to mind.  He always loved new people.  He smiled and admired this new face, while we tried to maintain our brave ones.  As the doctor walked through the operating room doors she said, "don't worry, we will take care of him."

We did worry.  What if he was scared?  Would he feel abandoned and alone?  At the time it was the hardest thing I had ever done.  We stood for awhile peering through the flapping doors, until they finally shuttered closed and came to a rest.  Jordan and I immediately fell into each other's arms and wept.

So last week as I sat in the parking garage of Primary Children's - working up the courage to walk inside - I thought about that moment, and all of the others we experienced within the walls of the hospital; the helplessness of watching our child in pain; the joy of his quick recovery; the carefully considered follow-up visits and consultations.  This place represented for me a physical manifestation of our plans for Jonah, of all the heartache of ever having to make such plans, and the pain of a future that would not be. 

I took a moment and said a prayer that God would give me strength and I stepped out of my car.

I smiled when I walked past the garden where we wandered last summer as we waited or an appointment.  I read the familiar plaque above the doors.  It reads, "the child first and always." I breathed deeply and walked through the revolving doors.

Once inside I instantly felt the pain of memory. But I also felt the peace of being in such a special place.  I felt gratitude for the kind people who helped us.  I felt proud for choosing to face my fears instead of avoiding them.  I felt brave and reassured that I can do hard things.

In the last two years I have done so many hard things; some that are very public and some that happen within the sacred space of my heart and mind.

I never thought I would have a child with a genetic disorder. I never thought I would have to learn to feed him in a special way and help him learn sign language and put him through painful surgeries.  I never thought I would watch him die in my arms.  I never thought I would sit in a mortuary discussing the details of my own child's funeral.  I never imagined I would have to dress his lifeless body.  I couldn't anticipate that I would have to try so hard to be happy.  I never thought I would have to work so hard to preserve my marriage.  I never imagined how hard it would be to answer the question "do you have any children?"  I never thought it would take so much courage to visit my friend Katie in her home (we were at her home when Jonah choked), or to go see my mom in the hospital, or to have a simple meeting at Primary Children's.

And yet, in the past two years I have found the strength to do hard things.  I have found it in the generosity of my family and my friends.  I have found it in the kindness of my husband.  I have found it in the charity of my neighbors.  And most of all I have found it in the knowledge that I am a child of God.  I am his daughter, and he loves me as much as I love Jonah.  He is my strength, and I believe I can do all things through him...even hard things.

I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me. Philippians 4:13

Simple

One afternoon last fall, after Jonah passed away, Jordan and I sat quietly eating french fries among the red and white palm trees of our local In-and-Out.  We didn't have much to say to each other.  Both of us still felt quite shattered and tired, so we just ate in silence and listened to the energetic conversations of the people around us.

Near us two young couples sat and discussed the details of a recent engagement. The description was theatrical; full of dramatic pauses and hyperbole. The new fiance started with a comprehensive synopsis of important events and dates in the couples dating history. Then she began a step-by-step description of her boyfriend's clever deceptions and misdirections, and finally she shared her astonishment when she was led to the very park where they shared their first kiss. The excitement in her voice intensified as she described the candle-lit path, her kneeling boyfriend, the enormous glittering ring he brandished, and the hidden photographer hired to capture her reaction.

As I listened I thought about my own engagement six years earlier.  It was so simple.  After two years of dating - and breaking up - Jordan finally asked me to marry him.  It was a cool summer evening, and we sat talking and kissing on the grey weathered wood of his mom's back porch.  There were no fireworks or surprises, no elaborate plans, and no eloquent speeches.  Just the words, "I really love you, will you marry me?"

I thought about how scared I was to say yes.  I was afraid of divorce and disappointment.  I was afraid of heartache and instability.  I worried about making the right decision, or rather making the wrong decision.  I was afraid of the pain a poor decision would carry.  I wanted my happiness guaranteed, and yet despite all my fears I said "yes."

My understanding of pain was so naive six years ago.

As I listened to the bubbly couple beside us, I thought
"Do you know how hard it will be?"
"Do you realize what you are doing?"

Then I looked across the table at my silent heartbroken husband.  I thought about the day we were married and how peaceful I felt as I stood beside him.  All of my worry and apprehension seemed to melt away when he held my hand in the temple.  I thought about all the times he drove hundreds of miles to work in cold and dusty and dirty conditions to provide a comfortable life for me.  I thought about the first time he held Jonah; how he radiated love instantly despite Jonah's complications.  I remembered the beautiful moments we shared together as a family; the walks up the canyon; Jonah's first time in a swimming pool; giggly chases around the living room couch.

When Jonah died, and I was waiting for Jordan at the hospital, I wondered what would happen to us.  Could our relationship survive something so devastating?  Would Jordan blame me for Jonah's death?  I could not bear the idea of losing Jonah and Jordan.  I wondered how we would ever recover from such sorrow.  But when Jordan arrived, and he realized Jonah was gone, I was overwhelmed by the love he showed to me.  There was no contention, no accusations, only pain and tears.   

All of this flooded my heart and mind as I ate my french fries, and I thought about this newly engaged couple.  I thought about how at one point in my life I may have been jealous of such a romantic story.  But instead I wondered if they understood how simple love can be.  It can be as simple as saying "I really love you, will you marry me?" It can be as simple as forgiveness and kindness.  It can be as simple as holding hands in the midst of intense pain.  Did they know they should be jealous of us?...a silent heartbroken fry-eating couple beside them.

Probably not.  But I knew.  I thought about the complicated package of beauty and joy and pain that arrived in my life when I said yes six years ago.  I would say yes again today.  I am so grateful that I was brave enough to walk into the unknown with Jordan.  How blessed we have been to learn to love in the simplest of ways.

Among the blessings of love there is hardly one more exquisite than the sense that in uniting the beloved life to ours we can watch over its happiness, bring comfort where hardship was, and over memories of privation and suffering open the sweetest fountains of joy.

George Eliot

For Good

This summer has been unusually musical for us...well for me at least.  I have been immersed in the kindness of friends with artistic connections, and as a result I have seen more than my fair share of plays and concerts.  I say for me because I have, for the most part, charitably spared Jordan from the agony of attending the theater.

The first year Jordan and I were married I was finishing my graduate degree and working with the Utah Shakespearean Festival.  As a perk I got a few free tickets to the festival each semester.  One summer evening when my parents were in town I thought it would be fun to see a play.  I should have been more selective.  We saw Johnny Guitar, a campy western musical with singing cowboys and melodramatic showdowns.  Honestly, Jordan has never been the same.  Every time a pair of theatrical tickets comes our way I see the fear in his eyes and sense the flashbacks of dancing cowboys joined in song. His relief is visible when I say "I'll call a friend."  Shortly after the Johnny Guitar incident I realized that musical theater wasn't our thing.  Hiking is our thing.  Going to thrift stores is our thing.  Eating delicious cheese is our thing.

Anyway, I have seen a lot of great plays this summer and been reminded why I love the theater.  When I was at BYU, studying humanities, a professor told me that we were really studying the good, the true, and the beautiful.  I feel like my year of heartbreak has made the good, the true and the beautiful even more poignant to me, and as a result I have cried at some point in almost every performance I have seen this summer.

I know it is super cheesy, but I secretly cried into my program as Mother Superior told Maria to "climb every mountain."  I wiped a single tear from my cheek when Eliza Doolittle could have danced all night.  I choked back tears when the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang "He Has the Whole World in His Hands," because I really believe that He does.

The only performance I didn't cry in was Phantom of the Opera, where I felt like screaming at the star-crossed lovers, "You don't even know each other!!!"

My musical summer ended last Saturday when I saw Wicked with Jordan's mom.  I didn't know much about the play before we went.  I could have spouted off a few impressions: witches, green, Oz, etc..  All I knew was that other people - musical theater people - love it.  I heard a few song snippets out of context, and didn't really expect the whole experience to live up to the hype.  But it did, and I discovered that I really loved the whole thing.

I loved the message and the music and the humor.  But most of all I was moved to body-shaking sobs when I heard the song "For Good."  The lyrics really struck me...

It well may be  
That we will never meet again 
In this lifetime  
So let me say before we part  
So much of me 
Is made from what I learned from you  
You'll be with me 
Like a handprint on my heart

I couldn't help but think about Jonah.  About how his short life has shaped me and changed me for good.  I know that I am better because I had the opportunity to be his mother. I am also better because I have experienced the excruciating pain of losing him.  There was so much that was good, and true, and beautiful in that song.  I left feeling so grateful that I have been changed for the better by the unique life of my sweet Jonah.

And...I was grateful that it was better than Johnny Guitar!  Thanks to Sara K., Sara S., Melanie, Mike and Dave, and Logan and Linda for giving me so many opportunities to cry this summer.


 

Black-eyed Susan

Ten months without Jonah came and went without a single written word from me.  The pace of my mind has slowed dramatically.  I used to have so much to say, and now my mind seems to be resting and recuperating.  I hope that is normal and natural.  Sometimes I wonder if I'm repressing something; if I have created some sort of impenetrable emotional dam.  I once described grief as a river, full of rapids and eddies.  Now it feels like I have reached a vast reservoir, an expanse of flat water where I can drift for awhile.  Honestly, it is a nice change.

I have noticed this month that I am considerably less philosophical and much more nostalgic. The subtle changes of fall are reminding me of my final weeks with Jonah. 

This time last year Jonah had mastered the art of walking...and running.  He was always a busy boy and curious beyond belief.  But when he started walking he was unstoppable.  I felt so content (and exhausted) as I spent my days chasing him, and climbing to the highest parts of the playground. 

One day in particular keeps coming to my mind. My parents have a sinuous walkway that leads to mustardy-yellow front door.  I sat at the top of the winding cement ramp and watched Jonah tip and toddle down the path through a forest of Black-eyed Susans.  He loved to turn and look at me.  The pride of his accomplishment radiated from him.  He would pause every once and awhile and wait for me to chase him the rest of the way.  I remember his sweet giggle; his blue eyes;  his curious smile and adorable dimples.  My arms can almost feel the motion of catching his little body, and twirling him in the air.  I remember the soft warm light of a fall afternoon, and how grateful I felt. 

My parents Black-eyed Susans are in full bloom right now.  They have infiltrated every available inch of soil.  When I walk up that winding walkway, through the maze of yellow flowers, I am reminded of my beautiful boy, his rambunctious spirit, and how blessed I was to spend my days with him.