Originally published Mar 15 2021
Funny how I decided to start a blog because I had a lot to say and then I didn't come back to it until three months later! I promise I will try to be more consistent about writing for two reasons: one, because I do have a lot to say, and two, because I think that what I have to say is important.
It's been five months to the day since Joy died from an accidental drug overdose. During that time, we've celebrated Thanksgiving, St. Nicholas Day (December 6, which is when we open our stockings), her birthday on December 7, Christmas, New Years' Day, Al's survival day on January 5, which marked 10 years since his first stroke, and my 51st birthday. Everyone says that the holidays will be the hardest time after you lose someone close, and yes, there were moments that involved uncomfortable sobbing. But it wasn't until after all the hullabaloo that I really, really started to miss her.
It was the everyday life that just didn't seem right without her. Days when she would normally ask to use the car to run to Michaels for their next big sale, or to Petco to get live crickets for her bearded dragon, Fido, or to just hang out with friends. To be honest, when she was alive, I found it annoying that she always wanted to use my car to just go and hang out with friends because it happened daily, often several times a day. After she died, she had friends coming out of the woodwork telling me what a good friend she was and that she was always there for them any time of day or night. What made her so loved by all her friends was a mere irritation for me.
In early January, I started to remodel her room. I needed an office and her room was vacant. My oldest daughter helped me to pick out paint colors and paint most of the room. I got new flooring because the carpet was truly an artist's carpet - paint and ink stains everywhere. I bought a desk and an art table so I could actually work there and escape the dank darkness of my former office in our leaky, moldy basement.
I didn't feel bad about changing the room. We had gone through her art work and claimed everything we wanted to keep. We also claimed some of her clothing, her two sisters and me. We have reminders of her all over the house. So, after the office was finished, I was completely blindsided when I sunk into a deeper sadness than I'd experienced before.
It wasn't specifically the process of turning her bedroom into an office that triggered it. I eventually realized that what the process meant was that we were moving on without her. I was thinking about going back to work, I was using her space and moving on with ordinary life.
I didn't want to go on with normal life without her. My life wasn't normal without one of my babies.
I've recently had a few opportunities to answer the question, "How many kids do you have?" I still have four children, but one of them is now in heaven. I am not shy about saying that my daughter died because it's a very, very real part of me. How can someone possibly understand me or know me without knowing the huge, devastating loss that I've just experienced? You can't see it in my person like an amputation or some kind of disability, but it has changed my life drastically; changed who I am.
I used to make a point to tell people about Al's stroke. I mean, if I was getting to know someone and it seemed like we might share some level of friendship, not the cashier at Meijer or the receptionist at my doctor's office. But if you wanted to know more than the cursory question of "how are you?" I was going to tell you that my husband was a stroke survivor and therefore, we were a family of stroke survivors. Now, ten years later, it's not as important to me to add that detail when I meet new people. I am now a very different person from the one I was ten and a half years ago. That process - of hobbling through the first days, months, and years with a husband and father who became a vastly different person, physically, emotionally, and psychologically - is pretty much over. I basically know how life is going to be with my husband's current condition, although I expect we may still get a few curve balls.
But now, the trauma of losing my child, the one I bore and prayed for and with, has completely pulverized me once again, and when God is finished putting me back together once more, I'm sure I will be another new version of me. Maybe Jen 3.0.
I'm doing better now that the days are (sort of) getting warmer and the sun is out more often. I still have moments of sheer nausea and panic when I remember that she is really, really gone, and I still have the occasional day when all I want to do is lay in bed and sob. But over all, I'm doing better.
You can probably expect my first few posts to be like this, like a meandering stream that's kind of telling a story but sort of changing as it goes. Also, I didn't really edit this, so if I have a few errors, please look past them.
As I get back in the habit, hopefully more of my writings will be clear and have sort of a point. Until then, thanks for sticking with me.
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