A quantum shift of my own
I sat on the airplane, my tender war torn and valiant husband sat next to me. He was hopeful that the doctors at Stanford would have a secret weapon, a cure that our local docs did not have. He was strong, an intent fighter, he had bloomed into an amazing person that was both tender and valiant, wise and faithful. By comparison, I was weak and small and terrified and I wanted to sob and have the biggest break down of my life.
As we were waiting to take off I sat and silently pleaded with my God over and over again, "tell me how to do this? I know that I cannot grieve while the love of my life is still by my side, I NEED you to tell me how to do this". It was a desperate cry, there was a soul-depth need to know how to keep going; how to live the teeter totter of life vs death. There are no instructions manuals for walking to the end of the line with the man you said "til death do us part"; in fact these words are said without any idea what that could possibly mean or what that could possibly involve. I was living it and had no idea how. And in that moment of utter exhaustion and desperation there was an unmistakable still small voice that tenderly lifted my chin and whispered ...
I was surprised that my desperate cry evoked a response but I knew who's Voice I had heard and He had given me unmistakable marching orders. It was calming, it was reassuring, it was THE instruction manual. "Don't look down the road, just stay in THIS moment, in THIS time, in THIS space, STAY in it and revel in the good, the beautiful, that passes you by". I felt like Moses being hidden in the cleft of the rock while God put his hand up to shield him from incomprehensible glory that would overpower him if he saw it. I didn't see the glory, but I FELT THE PROTECTION in the still small VOICE.
The doctors at Stanford did not have THE SECRET WEAPON; we returned home for Brian to go under the knife for a second surgery, an attempt to remove all the warring cancer cells from his body. Less than six months later, Brian was gone from our sight. I walked the road of horror and beauty juxtaposed and our family lived in every war torn moment and found the beauty in it even as he was fading from our sight. And I pleaded and hoped beyond all hope that a secret cure emerge even as I leaned over our bed with the kids gathered round, my hand on his chest wondering just how many more heartbeats we would have together. There is something sacred and horrible about calling your husbands last heartbeat.
And then I was faced with a choice, do I keep going? Or succumb to the desire to crawl into the grave?
There is a certain amount of "badassery" required to walk out from under the ash heap of destroyed dreams. I never have thought of myself as particularly strong, not physically, not emotionally. But there I stood, well curled up in the fetal position mostly, many times, pondering and wondering what was next. And again the still quite Voice reverberates through my soul "live in THIS moment". And slowly, each day, I crawl out of the ash heap and into the world of the living. At first I would spend just a few moments or a a few hours in the world until I started spending eight or ten or twelve hours at work each day before I race back to the safe space I call home. Each morning I wake up and say "what is next" and I often lay in bed until the impulse to do whatever is next presses upon me. That is how I have lived these last three years and almost four months.
I have many times wondered when I would have to go back to living life with a plan. For some time I thought I would eventually have to leave survival mode and start having a life plan of sorts beyond my "What next?" mojo. But as these long months have turned to just a few years, I have come to this quantum shift, this realization, that living in the moment, appreciating the glory that passes us by, that is how we are meant to live. So gone are the days of planning, here's to waking up to a new adventure each day.
As we were waiting to take off I sat and silently pleaded with my God over and over again, "tell me how to do this? I know that I cannot grieve while the love of my life is still by my side, I NEED you to tell me how to do this". It was a desperate cry, there was a soul-depth need to know how to keep going; how to live the teeter totter of life vs death. There are no instructions manuals for walking to the end of the line with the man you said "til death do us part"; in fact these words are said without any idea what that could possibly mean or what that could possibly involve. I was living it and had no idea how. And in that moment of utter exhaustion and desperation there was an unmistakable still small voice that tenderly lifted my chin and whispered ...
"live in the moment, live in THIS moment"...
And so I did.
I was surprised that my desperate cry evoked a response but I knew who's Voice I had heard and He had given me unmistakable marching orders. It was calming, it was reassuring, it was THE instruction manual. "Don't look down the road, just stay in THIS moment, in THIS time, in THIS space, STAY in it and revel in the good, the beautiful, that passes you by". I felt like Moses being hidden in the cleft of the rock while God put his hand up to shield him from incomprehensible glory that would overpower him if he saw it. I didn't see the glory, but I FELT THE PROTECTION in the still small VOICE.
The doctors at Stanford did not have THE SECRET WEAPON; we returned home for Brian to go under the knife for a second surgery, an attempt to remove all the warring cancer cells from his body. Less than six months later, Brian was gone from our sight. I walked the road of horror and beauty juxtaposed and our family lived in every war torn moment and found the beauty in it even as he was fading from our sight. And I pleaded and hoped beyond all hope that a secret cure emerge even as I leaned over our bed with the kids gathered round, my hand on his chest wondering just how many more heartbeats we would have together. There is something sacred and horrible about calling your husbands last heartbeat.
And then I was faced with a choice, do I keep going? Or succumb to the desire to crawl into the grave?
There is a certain amount of "badassery" required to walk out from under the ash heap of destroyed dreams. I never have thought of myself as particularly strong, not physically, not emotionally. But there I stood, well curled up in the fetal position mostly, many times, pondering and wondering what was next. And again the still quite Voice reverberates through my soul "live in THIS moment". And slowly, each day, I crawl out of the ash heap and into the world of the living. At first I would spend just a few moments or a a few hours in the world until I started spending eight or ten or twelve hours at work each day before I race back to the safe space I call home. Each morning I wake up and say "what is next" and I often lay in bed until the impulse to do whatever is next presses upon me. That is how I have lived these last three years and almost four months.
I have many times wondered when I would have to go back to living life with a plan. For some time I thought I would eventually have to leave survival mode and start having a life plan of sorts beyond my "What next?" mojo. But as these long months have turned to just a few years, I have come to this quantum shift, this realization, that living in the moment, appreciating the glory that passes us by, that is how we are meant to live. So gone are the days of planning, here's to waking up to a new adventure each day.
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