This morning, the leadership team and administrators of Allegiance Health took some time to honor the emergency room and labor & delivery staff members who were on duty on February 5. They allowed me to speak for a few minutes. Below is the text of my short speech. It meant a lot to me to be able to thank these people in front of their administrators and leadership team.
"Everything changed on February 5th. Amidst the chaos and mayhem, decisions had to be made; decisions that I, and my family, could not make. Decisions that changed so many lives forever. Today, I want to make sure you know how thankful I am for the roll you all played in that day, and for the decisions you made.
My wife’s journey on this earth ended on that icy highway, long before she ever made it to the hospital. And yet, facing unbeatable odds, you worked as hard and as long as you could to try to reverse things. For me, the fact that you were still trying to revive her, to keep her here almost 90 minutes after the accident, when I was finally wheeled into her room, strapped to a backboard on a stretcher, means the world to me. It shows how much you cared. It shows me how deep the loss would hurt everyone in that room.
Under those circumstances, no one could have blamed you for giving up sooner. No one could have blamed you for just accepting the inevitable, but you chose to keep trying, long after trying was required. Thank you for living out hope when there was no hope. Your actions, and the decisions you made, helped me as my heart had to reconcile what my mind already knew to be true.
Of course, this story does not end there. Sara was only 18 days away from the expected due date of our first child. My daughter, Miranda, was delivered without a heartbeat, without breath. Her story could have just as easily ended right there. But you chose a different path. You made a decision to revive her to try to keep her here. Today, I want you to know you should never, ever, second-guess that decision. It was the right decision. It was a decision that gave her short time on earth purpose and meaning. It was a decision that meant Miranda was not just a baby, stillborn as part of an unspeakable tragedy. It was a decision that gave me three precious days with my little girl. I never would have gotten to hold her like I did, to kiss her soft pink skin, wrap her tiny little fingers around my finger, or introduce her to so many of my family and friends. It was a decision that made me a daddy, and made her daddy’s little girl. Your decision gave me a priceless gift, and I can’t thank you enough for that.
Today, nearly 6 weeks after that fateful day, I’m still surprised at how my quiet wife and my precious little girl have impacted this community and this world. You are part of that impact, and your leadership team and administrators are, and should be, proud of you. So I say thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my broken heart, thank you for everything you did for them and for me."
Friday, March 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Few words...
Dear Sara and Miranda,
I don't have a lot to say tonight. I just miss you.
It's not hard for me to understand the grief of no longer having what I had. It's triggered by all sorts of daily activities. Seeing your car keys on top of the dresser. Looking at the other end of the couch and staring at the empty space beside me. Looking for something to eat and seeing things in the cupboard I know you bought specifically for me and others bought specifically for you. Getting the mail and finding the This Old House magazine you had just started a 3 year subscription to. Seeing the unwrinkled sheets and blankets on your side of the bed when I get up every morning and lay back down every night. Doing laundry and realizing it's all just my clothes, nothing for the baby, nothing for you.
I'm less sure about the grief I feel for the things that I didn't have. The things that should have been but won't be. I didn't expect that grief to be as strong as it is. Not hearing a baby crying makes the house feel even quieter. Not having a baby seat installed in the truck (or the car) makes driving just about anywhere feel empty. There's no formula or bottles in the cupboards. No crib in the bedroom.
I love you both. I miss you both.
Love,
Chad
I don't have a lot to say tonight. I just miss you.
It's not hard for me to understand the grief of no longer having what I had. It's triggered by all sorts of daily activities. Seeing your car keys on top of the dresser. Looking at the other end of the couch and staring at the empty space beside me. Looking for something to eat and seeing things in the cupboard I know you bought specifically for me and others bought specifically for you. Getting the mail and finding the This Old House magazine you had just started a 3 year subscription to. Seeing the unwrinkled sheets and blankets on your side of the bed when I get up every morning and lay back down every night. Doing laundry and realizing it's all just my clothes, nothing for the baby, nothing for you.
I'm less sure about the grief I feel for the things that I didn't have. The things that should have been but won't be. I didn't expect that grief to be as strong as it is. Not hearing a baby crying makes the house feel even quieter. Not having a baby seat installed in the truck (or the car) makes driving just about anywhere feel empty. There's no formula or bottles in the cupboards. No crib in the bedroom.
I love you both. I miss you both.
Love,
Chad
Monday, March 14, 2011
Lessons learned...
Dear Sara,
The days continue to march by, some better than others, none as bad as the first. I continue to read about grief and the process of it. I find myself identifying with the various authors and the points they make. I often find new ideas and things to think about, too.
“I want her back as an ingredient in the restoration of my past. Could I have wished for anything worse? Having got once through death, to come back and then, at some later date, have all her dying to do over again? They call Stephen the first martyr. Hadn’t Lazarus the rawer deal?” C.S. Lewis wrote these words as he considered his state of crying out for his beloved wife’s return. I’ve done the same, many times. While his was a situation of dealing with a long goodbye, from cancer, the raw sentiment of it rings true. Getting you back is so much more about me, and restoring what I feel is lost, and yet it would be a raw deal for you.
I finished his book last night. I’m not sure how long he wrote for, but I hope that I can get to where he was by the time he filled his 4th, and final, notepad with his thoughts on the process and experience he was going through. He wasn’t past the hurt, but he could look at it in the full light of God’s healing touch.
I’m still at a place where my happiness often makes me sad. Lewis experienced this, too, “Still, there’s no denying that in some sense, I ‘feel better,’ and with that comes at once a sort of shame, and a feeling that one is under a sort of obligation to cherish and foment and prolong one’s unhappiness.” I realize that you would probably want nothing more than for me to feel happy, but happy just doesn’t feel right (beyond the occasional short burst.)
I’ve also come to realize that things can’t just go back to “the way they were before Sara.” Not that I’ve tried to get there, but I can fully empathize with Lewis when he wrote, “Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left? You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared.” This house has been stripped to its foundation. The process of rebuilding, one brick at a time, may take years, even past the point of happiness returning.
One of the things that's changed since you left is what I listen to when I'm driving in the car. My radio used to be locked on ESPN...none of that seems interesting or important these days. Now I listen mostly to Home.fm or to playlists on my phone. Today I heard a classic by Petra from Not of This World. The lesson is that death will be swallowed by the victory of the cross and the resurrection. The hard part is waiting for that victory.
There's a step that we all take alone
An appointment we have with the great unknown
Like a vapor this life is just waiting to pass
Like the flowers that fade, like the withering grass
But life seems so long and death so complete
And the grave an impossible portion to cheat
But there's One who has been there and still lives to tell
There is One who has been through both heaven and hell
And the grave will come up empty-handed that day
Jesus will come and steal us away
(Chorus)
Where is the sting, tell me where is the bite
When the grave robber comes like a thief in the night
Where is the victory, where is the prize
When the grave robber comes
And death finally dies
Many still mourn and many still weep
For those that the love who have fallen asleep
But we have this hope though our hearts may still ache
Just one shout from above and they all will awake
And in the reunion of joy we will see
Death will be swallowed in sweet victory
When the last enemy is done from the dust will come a song
Those asleep will be awakened, not a one will be forsakened
He shall wipe away our tears, He will steal away our fears
There will be no sad tomorrow, there will be no pain and sorrow
Grave Robber
Words and music by Bob Hartman
Based on Hebrews 9:27, John 4:14, 1 Peter 1:24, Romans 8:11, 1 Corinthians 15:26, 51-55, Revelation 7:17
Sometimes my mind needs to be reminded of the things my heart already knows. Songs like this help to do that.
I looked through all the pictures of you on my iPad last night. I didn't cry...much. I smiled more. I still want to touch your face, see your smile, kiss your lips, hold your hand, smell that scent which was unmistakably you, hear your laugh, and just hold you, hold you, hold you.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
The days continue to march by, some better than others, none as bad as the first. I continue to read about grief and the process of it. I find myself identifying with the various authors and the points they make. I often find new ideas and things to think about, too.
“I want her back as an ingredient in the restoration of my past. Could I have wished for anything worse? Having got once through death, to come back and then, at some later date, have all her dying to do over again? They call Stephen the first martyr. Hadn’t Lazarus the rawer deal?” C.S. Lewis wrote these words as he considered his state of crying out for his beloved wife’s return. I’ve done the same, many times. While his was a situation of dealing with a long goodbye, from cancer, the raw sentiment of it rings true. Getting you back is so much more about me, and restoring what I feel is lost, and yet it would be a raw deal for you.
I finished his book last night. I’m not sure how long he wrote for, but I hope that I can get to where he was by the time he filled his 4th, and final, notepad with his thoughts on the process and experience he was going through. He wasn’t past the hurt, but he could look at it in the full light of God’s healing touch.
I’m still at a place where my happiness often makes me sad. Lewis experienced this, too, “Still, there’s no denying that in some sense, I ‘feel better,’ and with that comes at once a sort of shame, and a feeling that one is under a sort of obligation to cherish and foment and prolong one’s unhappiness.” I realize that you would probably want nothing more than for me to feel happy, but happy just doesn’t feel right (beyond the occasional short burst.)
I’ve also come to realize that things can’t just go back to “the way they were before Sara.” Not that I’ve tried to get there, but I can fully empathize with Lewis when he wrote, “Did you ever know, dear, how much you took away with you when you left? You have stripped me even of my past, even of the things we never shared.” This house has been stripped to its foundation. The process of rebuilding, one brick at a time, may take years, even past the point of happiness returning.
One of the things that's changed since you left is what I listen to when I'm driving in the car. My radio used to be locked on ESPN...none of that seems interesting or important these days. Now I listen mostly to Home.fm or to playlists on my phone. Today I heard a classic by Petra from Not of This World. The lesson is that death will be swallowed by the victory of the cross and the resurrection. The hard part is waiting for that victory.
There's a step that we all take alone
An appointment we have with the great unknown
Like a vapor this life is just waiting to pass
Like the flowers that fade, like the withering grass
But life seems so long and death so complete
And the grave an impossible portion to cheat
But there's One who has been there and still lives to tell
There is One who has been through both heaven and hell
And the grave will come up empty-handed that day
Jesus will come and steal us away
(Chorus)
Where is the sting, tell me where is the bite
When the grave robber comes like a thief in the night
Where is the victory, where is the prize
When the grave robber comes
And death finally dies
Many still mourn and many still weep
For those that the love who have fallen asleep
But we have this hope though our hearts may still ache
Just one shout from above and they all will awake
And in the reunion of joy we will see
Death will be swallowed in sweet victory
When the last enemy is done from the dust will come a song
Those asleep will be awakened, not a one will be forsakened
He shall wipe away our tears, He will steal away our fears
There will be no sad tomorrow, there will be no pain and sorrow
Grave Robber
Words and music by Bob Hartman
Based on Hebrews 9:27, John 4:14, 1 Peter 1:24, Romans 8:11, 1 Corinthians 15:26, 51-55, Revelation 7:17
Sometimes my mind needs to be reminded of the things my heart already knows. Songs like this help to do that.
I looked through all the pictures of you on my iPad last night. I didn't cry...much. I smiled more. I still want to touch your face, see your smile, kiss your lips, hold your hand, smell that scent which was unmistakably you, hear your laugh, and just hold you, hold you, hold you.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The new normal...
Dear Sara,
Has it really been a month since the funeral?! Some days seem so long, how can it have possibly been a month already?
My eyes have done a lot of “seeing” over the past month. I see things I never noticed before, maybe because I couldn’t. I see how much pain and suffering exists in our world. I’m so much more sensitive to all kinds of pain that I used to be blind to. There are so many hurting people out there.
Stevie seems to be adapting to you not being here. He doesn’t look for you as much anymore. He comes over and sits with me on the couch as soon as I pull the quilt up next to me.
I don’t cry as much as I did a few weeks ago. There are usually tears in my eyes, I can feel them there; they just don’t leak out. They sit there, on the edges, perpetually waiting to be called into action.
I find that grief can have time and situational dependencies. The parts of the day when we normally would have been apart go by faster. It’s probably part of the denial process, which can continue for a long time. This provides some emotional relief; but, as soon as I’m heading home, the fact that you’re not going to be there when I arrive settles in quickly.
The grief I feel during the time we normally would have spent together no longer feels like a unwelcome invader. Someone commented the other day that it would feel less “foreign” over time. This doesn’t make me feel any better about the way things are, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to either. Is it possible for grief to become something that just feels normal? I suppose maybe it can, at least for a season.
Today was both a really good day and a really hard day. I spent the day with friends. We went to Lansing and visited the Michigan Historical Museum. We went out for lunch. We went to Impression 5. We went to a high school musical. The busyness helped keep me from focusing on what we were doing four weeks ago, which was probably good. At the same time, so much of what we did was so family oriented, especially the visit to Impression 5, and it made me think of you and Miranda. Seeing all those happy families enjoying the museum, all its hands on activities, and each other’s company caused me to think about everything I’ll never get to experience with you. I suppose that’s going to happen a lot, isn’t it?
Just like Stevie, I’m getting used to you not being here. I still think about you all the time. I still hurt a lot. Your absence is still noticeable. But that’s all starting to feel normal; the new normal, where missing you is just a natural part of existing.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Friday, March 11, 2011
Save the last dance...
Dear Miranda,
I heard a song on the radio this morning that reminded me of all the things I grieve in losing you.
Steven Curtis Chapman - Cinderella
She spins and she sways
To whatever song plays
Without a care in the world
And I'm sitting here wearing
The weight of the world on my shoulders
It's been a long day
And there's still work to do
She's pulling at me
Saying "Dad, I need you
There's a ball at the castle
And I've been invited
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"
So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone...
She says he's a nice guy and I'd be impressed
She wants to know if I approve of the dress
She says, "Dad, the prom is just one week away
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"
So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone
She will be gone
Well, she came home today with a ring on her hand
Just glowing and telling us all they had planned
She says, "Dad, the wedding's still six months away
But I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"
So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone
I know that you’re not my little girl any more. All things are made new in Heaven. You are now who God ultimately meant you to be. I probably wouldn’t recognize you if I saw you with my earthly eyes, but I know that I’ll know you when we meet face to face.
I’ll be waiting for my dance.
I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
I heard a song on the radio this morning that reminded me of all the things I grieve in losing you.
Steven Curtis Chapman - Cinderella
She spins and she sways
To whatever song plays
Without a care in the world
And I'm sitting here wearing
The weight of the world on my shoulders
It's been a long day
And there's still work to do
She's pulling at me
Saying "Dad, I need you
There's a ball at the castle
And I've been invited
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"
So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone...
She says he's a nice guy and I'd be impressed
She wants to know if I approve of the dress
She says, "Dad, the prom is just one week away
And I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"
So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone
She will be gone
Well, she came home today with a ring on her hand
Just glowing and telling us all they had planned
She says, "Dad, the wedding's still six months away
But I need to practice my dancing
Oh, please, Daddy, please?"
So I will dance with Cinderella
While she is here in my arms
'Cause I know something the prince never knew
Oh, I will dance with Cinderella
I don't want to miss even one song
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight
And she'll be gone
I know that you’re not my little girl any more. All things are made new in Heaven. You are now who God ultimately meant you to be. I probably wouldn’t recognize you if I saw you with my earthly eyes, but I know that I’ll know you when we meet face to face.
I’ll be waiting for my dance.
I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Most of all...
Dear Sara,
Most of all, I just want to hold you. I want to wrap my arms around you as I’m falling asleep and feel your warm skin pressed up against me. I want to smell the scent of your freshly shampooed and still damp hair.
Most of all, I just want to kiss you. I want to pull you in tight and feel your soft lips pressing against mine.
Most of all, I just want to hear you laugh. I want to see that smile spread across your face and the sparkle of joy in your eyes.
Most of all, I just want you to be near me. I want you to sit beside me on the sofa. I want to rest my hand or your knee, or my head in your lap, while we watch one of our favorite shows together.
Most of all, I just want to run my fingers through your hair.
Most of all, I want to look forward to coming home. I want you to be there to greet me as I walk in the door. To get to the door and open it up before I have time to fit my key into the lock.
Most of all, I just want to stand beside our little girl’s crib with you at my side. I want to marvel at her beauty and appreciate all of you that I see in her.
Most of all, I just want you back. I want things to be the way they were. I want things to be the way they were supposed to be. I want my eyes to dry out, and to not feel like I could burst out crying at any given moment, even when I feel in control.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Most of all, I just want to hold you. I want to wrap my arms around you as I’m falling asleep and feel your warm skin pressed up against me. I want to smell the scent of your freshly shampooed and still damp hair.
Most of all, I just want to kiss you. I want to pull you in tight and feel your soft lips pressing against mine.
Most of all, I just want to hear you laugh. I want to see that smile spread across your face and the sparkle of joy in your eyes.
Most of all, I just want you to be near me. I want you to sit beside me on the sofa. I want to rest my hand or your knee, or my head in your lap, while we watch one of our favorite shows together.
Most of all, I just want to run my fingers through your hair.
Most of all, I want to look forward to coming home. I want you to be there to greet me as I walk in the door. To get to the door and open it up before I have time to fit my key into the lock.
Most of all, I just want to stand beside our little girl’s crib with you at my side. I want to marvel at her beauty and appreciate all of you that I see in her.
Most of all, I just want you back. I want things to be the way they were. I want things to be the way they were supposed to be. I want my eyes to dry out, and to not feel like I could burst out crying at any given moment, even when I feel in control.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Monday, March 7, 2011
Missing Miranda...
Dear Miranda,
I'm not sure where to start. You've been on my mind all day long.
I cried in public today. It wasn’t just a few tears I could quickly wipe away and hope no one noticed, this was actual crying. I’ve cried in public plenty of times over the past month, but not like this. I lucked out. There was a bathroom available that I was able to duck into rather quickly.
I had a chiropractors appointment this morning. While I waited in the lobby there was a lady there who had a beautiful little girl with her. The little girl was simply being a little girl. It was the simple acts of being that got to me. She wanted a drink from the water cooler. She played with some stuffed animals she’d brought with her, even giving one an adjustment on the table in the middle of the lobby. It was a happy scene, but it overwhelmed me in a way I haven’t felt very often.
The grief I feel for you, because of you, over losing you is so different from what I feel for your mother. She and I had 15 years together. We should have had 40 more. My grief for mommy is so complex and deep it’s difficult for me to comprehend, much less explain. My grief for you, while no less painful, is so very different. We never got to know each other. We have so little history for me to grieve. Our time together was brief, so incredibly brief I worry about what I’ll forget.
My grief for you often feels empty, like a blank sheet of paper. It’s about unrealized potential. It’s about all the things that will never be. Grieving the loss of that which might have been feels so different than grieving that which was and was supposed to be.
Needless to say, I miss you dearly. I see you, and everything you’ll never have a chance to be, in every child I see.
I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
I'm not sure where to start. You've been on my mind all day long.
I cried in public today. It wasn’t just a few tears I could quickly wipe away and hope no one noticed, this was actual crying. I’ve cried in public plenty of times over the past month, but not like this. I lucked out. There was a bathroom available that I was able to duck into rather quickly.
I had a chiropractors appointment this morning. While I waited in the lobby there was a lady there who had a beautiful little girl with her. The little girl was simply being a little girl. It was the simple acts of being that got to me. She wanted a drink from the water cooler. She played with some stuffed animals she’d brought with her, even giving one an adjustment on the table in the middle of the lobby. It was a happy scene, but it overwhelmed me in a way I haven’t felt very often.
The grief I feel for you, because of you, over losing you is so different from what I feel for your mother. She and I had 15 years together. We should have had 40 more. My grief for mommy is so complex and deep it’s difficult for me to comprehend, much less explain. My grief for you, while no less painful, is so very different. We never got to know each other. We have so little history for me to grieve. Our time together was brief, so incredibly brief I worry about what I’ll forget.
My grief for you often feels empty, like a blank sheet of paper. It’s about unrealized potential. It’s about all the things that will never be. Grieving the loss of that which might have been feels so different than grieving that which was and was supposed to be.
Needless to say, I miss you dearly. I see you, and everything you’ll never have a chance to be, in every child I see.
I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The perfect marriage...
Dear reader,
I was looking through my photo library last night, focused on pictures of my beautiful wife. I came across the above photo and I noticed something I've never noticed before, Sara and I are wearing the exact same colors, just in reverse and, believe it or not, it's a pure coincidence. It got me thinking about our marriage, about this blog, and some of the comments and emails I've received from people. More than one person has made the observation that we had the perfect marriage. Perfect may be stretching it a bit. We had a great marriage, a wonderful marriage, and a blessed marriage; however, I could fill pages with all the things I did wrong that kept it from being a "perfect" marriage.
Much as we are dressed in this picture, Sara and I were opposites, even in our sameness. We really didn’t share many of the same interests; our passions were often very divergent. The colors of our lives may have been the same, but the layers were definitely different.
- Sara loved gardens and flowers…I always felt like grass was easier to maintain.
- I love to ride my motorcycle…Sara had no interest in feeling the wind in that way.
- Sara liked HGTV…I like ESPN.
- If we went somewhere on vacation, I wanted to see the sights...Sara wanted to curl up with a good book in the warm sunshine.
- I argued…Sara listened.
The list is a lot longer than that, but you get the idea. So, what was it that worked for us? We both believed the other was a gift from God. That the most important part of love was choosing to love each other, even when we didn’t feel “it.” Even when we got angry at each other, couldn’t stand to be in the same room, couldn’t even talk to each other, it was the choice of love that would eventually bring us back together. Love fueled not by some chemical reaction in the brain, not based solely on physical attraction, but by the simple belief that we could choose to love each other because God loved us.
Did we ever get bored…yes; but, we could change it with a choice.
Did we ever fight…yes; but, we could fix it with a choice.
Did we always see eye to eye…no; but, we could choose the common ground.
It’s no big secret, it’s not out of your reach, it wasn’t out of ours…and for 15 years it worked wonderfully.
Sincerely,
Chad
Saturday, March 5, 2011
I hate snow...
Dear Sara,
It's not as if I, and anyone who has followed our story, haven't been acutely aware of what today is in terms of your passing. Today, Mother Nature seems determined to do her part to try and break me. It snowed. Just like it did on that day 28 days ago. Unpredicted, unexpected, unwanted. Almost four inches fell on a day when everyone thought we were getting ready to be done with snow.
Maybe it's not Mother Nature. Maybe it's Satan trying to stab at my heart. Trying to get me angry at something, at anything, trying to get me to curse God and the natural world he created. Admittedly, I now hate snow. It wouldn't hurt my feelings if it never snowed in Michigan again. I see no beauty in it. I see no wonder, or grace, in it. This isn't just the feeling all Michiganders have about snow at this time of year...I hate snow. Snow is where the buck stops when it comes to you and Miranda not being here. It's the only thing I've been able to get angry about; but, it's a hollow anger, an empty anger, the kind of anger you know doesn't do any good, because it's not about something you can control or change. It's the kind of anger I don't even care to acknowledge. Sorry, Satan...you're the only one I really feel expressible anger towards, and when I see the snow I think of you and what you're responsible for, so stab away.
I put some pictures of you up today. We've never had pictures of ourselves or other family members hanging in the house. That's going to change. I'm ready to see your face around the house, to see your smile when I walk from room to room, to keep them fresh in my mind. I'm ready to stop crying (even though I probably won't, not for a long time) and start smiling when I see you. I want to smile through the tears.
One month. So short. So long.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
It's not as if I, and anyone who has followed our story, haven't been acutely aware of what today is in terms of your passing. Today, Mother Nature seems determined to do her part to try and break me. It snowed. Just like it did on that day 28 days ago. Unpredicted, unexpected, unwanted. Almost four inches fell on a day when everyone thought we were getting ready to be done with snow.
Maybe it's not Mother Nature. Maybe it's Satan trying to stab at my heart. Trying to get me angry at something, at anything, trying to get me to curse God and the natural world he created. Admittedly, I now hate snow. It wouldn't hurt my feelings if it never snowed in Michigan again. I see no beauty in it. I see no wonder, or grace, in it. This isn't just the feeling all Michiganders have about snow at this time of year...I hate snow. Snow is where the buck stops when it comes to you and Miranda not being here. It's the only thing I've been able to get angry about; but, it's a hollow anger, an empty anger, the kind of anger you know doesn't do any good, because it's not about something you can control or change. It's the kind of anger I don't even care to acknowledge. Sorry, Satan...you're the only one I really feel expressible anger towards, and when I see the snow I think of you and what you're responsible for, so stab away.
I put some pictures of you up today. We've never had pictures of ourselves or other family members hanging in the house. That's going to change. I'm ready to see your face around the house, to see your smile when I walk from room to room, to keep them fresh in my mind. I'm ready to stop crying (even though I probably won't, not for a long time) and start smiling when I see you. I want to smile through the tears.
One month. So short. So long.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
Regret...
Dear Sara,
I'm finding I have one major regret in life. I never took the opportunity to make a video of you. I could have easily picked up my phone and made a simple recording of you walking in the door after work one day. I could have captured the sweet smile on your face and the beautiful sound of your voice saying, "I'm home!" I could have...but I never did. I'm sure I have some video of you some where. Maybe the tape from when we did our home tour 10 years ago, on the day we closed on our house. Maybe some random footage from some random family event. It's the one thing I've missed most the past few days, and the one thing I know I'm going to have the hardest time finding. It's a needle in a haystack situation.
The ability to see you in motion, to hear your voice; I don't know if it would bring comfort or if it would send me back to the early stages of grief where crying was so physically painful that I could only manage it for a few minutes at a time. Photographs are nice...but they start to seem lacking when I realize they are only a reflection of your life, a beautiful reflection, but somehow empty, too.
In a few short hours it will be exactly 28 days since you departed and began the eternal part of your journey. I find that the flavor of grief I'm in right now is changing in subtle ways every day. When I cried during the first couple of weeks, the physical pain that accompanied my grief was almost unbearable. It felt as if all the muscles, tendons, and ligaments in my body were trying to move in their own individual directions, tearing me apart at the seams. There are several flavors of loss that make me cry now, but none of them compare to the physical pain of my initial grief. There is still hurt, emotional hurt, raw hurt, more hurt than my heart can bear at times and it's randomness catches me off guard.
There is a specific flavor of grief when I think about the loss of everything we had together. Fifteen years of shared life have been ripped from me, and this produces it's own bitter sting. There is a specific flavor, or lack of flavor, when I think about the loss of everything the future held for us. An empty chasm exists where a road waiting to be traveled once spread out to the horizon. These griefs mix together, but do not become homogenous ("Welcome to Baskin-Robbins, would you like to try the double fudge swirl of sadness today, or maybe a double scoop of chunky monkey with sprinkles of sorrow on top?") They each maintain their unique ability to make me hurt, along with several other flavors that accompany them, a gang of grief, wreaking emotional havoc wherever they roam, whenever they feel like it.
Your dad sent me a quote by Mark Twain this week. It's from a piece he wrote about a year and a half after his wife had passed away. I can relate to what he says when he writes, "The mind has a dumb sense of vast loss—that is all. It will take mind and memory months, and possibly years, to gather together the details, and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss." Twain goes on to detail just how long he expected this to last with an analogy, "A man’s house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And, when he casts about for it, he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential—there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost. He did not realize that it was an essential when he had it; he only discovers it now when he finds himself balked, hampered, by its absence. It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster."
I try to celebrate what we had, even when it hurts. I try to remember how soft your cheek felt against the palm of my hand, your lips against my lips. I try to remember the warmth of your body, pressed up against me as we slept. I try to remember your scent, clean but earthy, infused with aroma of a day spent in the flower shop. I try to remember...but find that sifting through the rubble of my burned out house often produces a only a cloud of ash. I worry, as CS Lewis worried in A Grief Observed, that my memories of you will become mired together in an almost unrecognizable form, "We have seen the faces of those we know best so variously, from so many angles, in so many lights, with so many expressions—waking, sleeping, laughing, crying, eating, talking, thinking—that all the impressions crowd into our memory together and cancel out into a mere blur."
It's been a month...soon it will be two, then three, then twelve, then the count will tick to years. It seems so vast, yet so compressed, I can't fathom the passage of time yet to come when the past 28 days has felt both eternal and only a breath in this life.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
I'm finding I have one major regret in life. I never took the opportunity to make a video of you. I could have easily picked up my phone and made a simple recording of you walking in the door after work one day. I could have captured the sweet smile on your face and the beautiful sound of your voice saying, "I'm home!" I could have...but I never did. I'm sure I have some video of you some where. Maybe the tape from when we did our home tour 10 years ago, on the day we closed on our house. Maybe some random footage from some random family event. It's the one thing I've missed most the past few days, and the one thing I know I'm going to have the hardest time finding. It's a needle in a haystack situation.
The ability to see you in motion, to hear your voice; I don't know if it would bring comfort or if it would send me back to the early stages of grief where crying was so physically painful that I could only manage it for a few minutes at a time. Photographs are nice...but they start to seem lacking when I realize they are only a reflection of your life, a beautiful reflection, but somehow empty, too.
In a few short hours it will be exactly 28 days since you departed and began the eternal part of your journey. I find that the flavor of grief I'm in right now is changing in subtle ways every day. When I cried during the first couple of weeks, the physical pain that accompanied my grief was almost unbearable. It felt as if all the muscles, tendons, and ligaments in my body were trying to move in their own individual directions, tearing me apart at the seams. There are several flavors of loss that make me cry now, but none of them compare to the physical pain of my initial grief. There is still hurt, emotional hurt, raw hurt, more hurt than my heart can bear at times and it's randomness catches me off guard.
There is a specific flavor of grief when I think about the loss of everything we had together. Fifteen years of shared life have been ripped from me, and this produces it's own bitter sting. There is a specific flavor, or lack of flavor, when I think about the loss of everything the future held for us. An empty chasm exists where a road waiting to be traveled once spread out to the horizon. These griefs mix together, but do not become homogenous ("Welcome to Baskin-Robbins, would you like to try the double fudge swirl of sadness today, or maybe a double scoop of chunky monkey with sprinkles of sorrow on top?") They each maintain their unique ability to make me hurt, along with several other flavors that accompany them, a gang of grief, wreaking emotional havoc wherever they roam, whenever they feel like it.
Your dad sent me a quote by Mark Twain this week. It's from a piece he wrote about a year and a half after his wife had passed away. I can relate to what he says when he writes, "The mind has a dumb sense of vast loss—that is all. It will take mind and memory months, and possibly years, to gather together the details, and thus learn and know the whole extent of the loss." Twain goes on to detail just how long he expected this to last with an analogy, "A man’s house burns down. The smoking wreckage represents only a ruined home that was dear through years of use and pleasant associations. By and by, as the days and weeks go on, first he misses this, then that, then the other thing. And, when he casts about for it, he finds that it was in that house. Always it is an essential—there was but one of its kind. It cannot be replaced. It was in that house. It is irrevocably lost. He did not realize that it was an essential when he had it; he only discovers it now when he finds himself balked, hampered, by its absence. It will be years before the tale of lost essentials is complete, and not till then can he truly know the magnitude of his disaster."
I try to celebrate what we had, even when it hurts. I try to remember how soft your cheek felt against the palm of my hand, your lips against my lips. I try to remember the warmth of your body, pressed up against me as we slept. I try to remember your scent, clean but earthy, infused with aroma of a day spent in the flower shop. I try to remember...but find that sifting through the rubble of my burned out house often produces a only a cloud of ash. I worry, as CS Lewis worried in A Grief Observed, that my memories of you will become mired together in an almost unrecognizable form, "We have seen the faces of those we know best so variously, from so many angles, in so many lights, with so many expressions—waking, sleeping, laughing, crying, eating, talking, thinking—that all the impressions crowd into our memory together and cancel out into a mere blur."
It's been a month...soon it will be two, then three, then twelve, then the count will tick to years. It seems so vast, yet so compressed, I can't fathom the passage of time yet to come when the past 28 days has felt both eternal and only a breath in this life.
I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.
Love,
Chad
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