February 11, 2012

The following article is an excerpt from my journal. I began writing in it not only as a way to begin processing my grief but also as a means of emptying my mind of all the thoughts that were swirling around. I desire that people know what faith-filled grief can look like for someone in the very early stages and how it progresses over time.


The medical bills have started to come in, and it's a fresh reminder of all that went on during Christen's final few days. One was a 12-page packet detailing her stay in the ICU post-biopsy. I had to pause at one entry - EEG Eval Cerebral Death, it read. I flashed back to those final hours. I had/have tried to soak up as much of her as I could/can, and yet after just over a month (only), I am losing track of her voice, her expressions and mannerisms, the way she smelled and tasted and felt. I sat on the bed fighting to remember - REMEMBER - but found I was losing the battle. I'm disgusted with myself and my memory. I want to fight for every moment to come back, for my memories to be triggered...


(later that day)


I have just spent several minutes simply recalling details of that time in the hospital. I'm realizing just how much pain is still there for me. With all the other things that have been going on, I've been able to compartmentalize my actual grief away from my presentable or public grief. This must stop if I am to successfully and successively move through my grief process. As hard as today has been, this is a good realization to come to.


(end of journal excerpt, start of other thoughts)


As stated in the journal excerpt above, I had not been going to the places in my mind where grief might dwell for well over a week. My brain, frankly, didn't want to get into it. I've compartmentalized all of that, and I like to keep it on a high shelf rather than one that is more accessible. Well, I got in there on Saturday, and it was hard but beautiful all the same. I got to really remember her final moments of full consciousness, for which - praise God! - I was able to be present.


I remember two moments that stand out from the minutes we had together prior to her going in for the biopsy. First, she gave me a longer kiss than I expected just moments before being wheeled into the O.R. You see, I had prayed for her, kissed her, and told her I loved her, but then we stayed there for a few minutes longer. When they came at last to take her in, she kissed me again, longer, and we expressed our love one more time. It was just a moment, not more than half a second I'd guess, but it was she who stayed in it longer, communicating through her kiss, "I don't want to go just yet; I like it right here."


Second, when she was part-way between the me and the O.R. doors, she turned her head back and gave me that famous smile of hers. Those who know her know to what I am referring. For those who don't, I will attempt to describe it. Christen's smile was the kind that you see from across a large room. Her mouth was big, like she-could-put-her-fist-in-her-mouth big. Her teeth were perfectly straight and luminously white. Her lips were full, especially her bottom lip which appeared to be perpetually pouting (though she, herself, rarely did). The aesthetics of her smile were flawless.


Yet it was the effect of her smile that makes it so memorable. Wherever you were and whatever you were going through, when she smiled at you, it was like returning home after months of being away. Love, joy, and peace were communicated through this simple upward parting, and it actually produced those same feelings in you, even though you knew you hadn't been feeling them seconds prior. You felt comfortable, welcomed, understood, cared for, accepted, and loved. You realized that things were not, perhaps, as bad as they seemed, and even if they were it would work out by the grace of God. "This too shall pass," would come into your mind for the first time.


As her husband, when she smiled, when she really smiled, it would feel as though all the cares, concerns, anxieties, frustrations, and stresses of the day/week/month/year could wait for a minute. I could just stop...stare...be amazed at how shockingly beautiful my wife was...and relax. Her smile reminded me of my priorities, and all those other things just didn't make the list when set next to that. It was this smile that I received on that day. That's the final moment I truly shared with my wife. It has been scorched into my heart and mind. It is brutally difficult and intensely sweet.