Sometimes you read about or hear sad stories and cling to the words as the heavier the situation becomes the more you hope distance carries away the ugliness, the unbelievable, the tragedy, the disparity of it all. It seems too overwhelming to be real or fair or bearable. And then, when you have traveled nearly too far with the sadness, when it seems as though the worst has come on shore and terrified everyone involved enough, it sinks deeper. The sadness swallows life like space disappearing into the nothingness of a black hole, never to return or recover.
People were beginning to call. Friends and family were showing up at the hospital. I was disappearing deep within the sadness. In these times, you want people near and you want them away all at the same time. Them being there reminds you that something is terribly wrong, enough to keep them there in waiting. Their presence is also comforting and reassuring that for the moment, you will not float away alone into a dark night. Each one of them looked at me a particular way. Sadness was seeping through their smiles and words of comfort and gentle positivity. I felt pity in each hug. And I felt a growing loneliness in the company of those I loved the most. Faith didn’t lift me. It didn’t support me. It set precariously between one life and the other, like a collapsing wooden bridge. One life and the other. I didn’t know which one I was really in.
When I realized it was the day after, I knew it was real. It is like I woke up from a stare or a daze. I woke up in two. I felt like two people existed inside of me, like I was separating from myself. Part of me was hiding while the other part only wanted to be close to the pain and sadness because that was the only place I still felt close to her. I still felt connected to her. Hope existed in the love that connected us. Fear was constantly consuming this hope like a mold which left my hope feeling a day old. I knew where I was, I remembered what happened, and I knew I had never been this sad before. I did not know sadness could be like this. It wasn’t a sadness that cried out or wanted to escape. The sadness wrapped tightly and coldly around my heart and just stayed still. My body was growing tired, but I didn’t want to sleep. For the most part, I couldn’t. I would dose off for moments, each time to wake up feeling like I had just been staring, not sleeping. Everything was a bit fuzzy and people’s words were echoing. I lost a few hours that I can’t seem to remember or find. I am not looking for them. For whatever reason, my mind does not want me to find them. Nothing. No recall. No recollection. Just empty hours that are lost. I was floating and sinking both at the same time. My good friend John rarely left me. He smiled warmly and spoke softly. When I was sinking, his voice was one of the few I could still hear. It would help me find my way back. He doesn’t know this, but I saw God in him and it saved me. He drove me home that day, the first full day Marianne was in the hospital, to get a shower and some clothes. I didn’t say much at all. He knew I was hiding. “It’s okay,” he kept saying. I didn’t feel like everything was okay, but those words gave me courage that lasted and would reappear in my heart, but not just yet. I was still hiding and sinking more than I was even floating. I was taking on a lot of water.
I walked into my house for the first time in almost two days. Everything was the same as when I left it. The coffee mug that I drank out of the morning before with Marianne was still in the sink. The house looked normal but felt like someone else’s. I walked into our room to take a shower. Again, I don’t remember much. The only thought I can remember clearly was thinking, “I want to die.” I felt like coward, but I couldn’t help it. My mind was crushing beneath the weight of it all. I didn’t want to leave my house and go back to the hospital to watch her die so slowly. I couldn’t handle it. I just wanted to die. But then I remembered John said he was coming back for me in ten or fifteen minutes. “It must be at least ten minutes by now.” The next thing I remember is the drive back to the hospital. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. This time I felt his words cut through my sadness and find me like the smallest light in the darkest night. It set my heart on fire. I didn’t feel as cold. I didn’t feel as lost. I didn’t want to die.
Walking back into her room, I felt as though I was at the bottom of a mountain disappearing into the sky. It was a long way up and I wasn’t sure I could make it to the top, but I knew I had to. I didn’t know what I would find once I got to there, but it was the only way to go. Staying at the bottom meant sinking and coming apart even more. I hoped that I would find Marianne there at the top. I hoped that her eyes would open slowly and her smile return to her face. In the back of my mind, I knew I might never see that again. But I had to go. I had to climb, to escape, to win, to reach the top and to see what would be waiting. In each heartbeat, I felt different. In one beat, I felt like I could take it all. In the very next one, I crumbled again. Then the next heartbeat and the one after, and again and again...standing and falling again and again.
People were beginning to call. Friends and family were showing up at the hospital. I was disappearing deep within the sadness. In these times, you want people near and you want them away all at the same time. Them being there reminds you that something is terribly wrong, enough to keep them there in waiting. Their presence is also comforting and reassuring that for the moment, you will not float away alone into a dark night. Each one of them looked at me a particular way. Sadness was seeping through their smiles and words of comfort and gentle positivity. I felt pity in each hug. And I felt a growing loneliness in the company of those I loved the most. Faith didn’t lift me. It didn’t support me. It set precariously between one life and the other, like a collapsing wooden bridge. One life and the other. I didn’t know which one I was really in.
When I realized it was the day after, I knew it was real. It is like I woke up from a stare or a daze. I woke up in two. I felt like two people existed inside of me, like I was separating from myself. Part of me was hiding while the other part only wanted to be close to the pain and sadness because that was the only place I still felt close to her. I still felt connected to her. Hope existed in the love that connected us. Fear was constantly consuming this hope like a mold which left my hope feeling a day old. I knew where I was, I remembered what happened, and I knew I had never been this sad before. I did not know sadness could be like this. It wasn’t a sadness that cried out or wanted to escape. The sadness wrapped tightly and coldly around my heart and just stayed still. My body was growing tired, but I didn’t want to sleep. For the most part, I couldn’t. I would dose off for moments, each time to wake up feeling like I had just been staring, not sleeping. Everything was a bit fuzzy and people’s words were echoing. I lost a few hours that I can’t seem to remember or find. I am not looking for them. For whatever reason, my mind does not want me to find them. Nothing. No recall. No recollection. Just empty hours that are lost. I was floating and sinking both at the same time. My good friend John rarely left me. He smiled warmly and spoke softly. When I was sinking, his voice was one of the few I could still hear. It would help me find my way back. He doesn’t know this, but I saw God in him and it saved me. He drove me home that day, the first full day Marianne was in the hospital, to get a shower and some clothes. I didn’t say much at all. He knew I was hiding. “It’s okay,” he kept saying. I didn’t feel like everything was okay, but those words gave me courage that lasted and would reappear in my heart, but not just yet. I was still hiding and sinking more than I was even floating. I was taking on a lot of water.
I walked into my house for the first time in almost two days. Everything was the same as when I left it. The coffee mug that I drank out of the morning before with Marianne was still in the sink. The house looked normal but felt like someone else’s. I walked into our room to take a shower. Again, I don’t remember much. The only thought I can remember clearly was thinking, “I want to die.” I felt like coward, but I couldn’t help it. My mind was crushing beneath the weight of it all. I didn’t want to leave my house and go back to the hospital to watch her die so slowly. I couldn’t handle it. I just wanted to die. But then I remembered John said he was coming back for me in ten or fifteen minutes. “It must be at least ten minutes by now.” The next thing I remember is the drive back to the hospital. “It’s gonna be okay,” he said. This time I felt his words cut through my sadness and find me like the smallest light in the darkest night. It set my heart on fire. I didn’t feel as cold. I didn’t feel as lost. I didn’t want to die.
Walking back into her room, I felt as though I was at the bottom of a mountain disappearing into the sky. It was a long way up and I wasn’t sure I could make it to the top, but I knew I had to. I didn’t know what I would find once I got to there, but it was the only way to go. Staying at the bottom meant sinking and coming apart even more. I hoped that I would find Marianne there at the top. I hoped that her eyes would open slowly and her smile return to her face. In the back of my mind, I knew I might never see that again. But I had to go. I had to climb, to escape, to win, to reach the top and to see what would be waiting. In each heartbeat, I felt different. In one beat, I felt like I could take it all. In the very next one, I crumbled again. Then the next heartbeat and the one after, and again and again...standing and falling again and again.
I can identify with this statement: "In these times, you want people near and you want them away all at the same time." So true.
Is this the John I know from Dream Year or a different John? In our crisis, we came out more than anything knowing that we were rich in friends.
Prayers for you on this tough week.
The same John. He's a tremendous friend.
Of all places to learn of your sorrow, I discovered a picture of yours on Instagram under#longweek. It's been one of those for me although your grief has brought my week into perspective. I am ministered to by your honesty and am comforted on your behalf to know that we do not grieve as someone without hope. Although our grieving leaves an indelible mark on our lives here, it is but for a brief "season" when a tearless eternity is our promise in Christ. I'm grateful to have found your story and humbled by the opportunity to pray for you and your family even now.
Lara Sullens Chapel Hill, NC @aslaraseesit