Mourning Mornings
Then Heidi died. A new phase began.
I did not expect that. From the time came when I knew she was going to die, I thought I was already experiencing all that I would experience.
But while Heidi was in the hospital, there was still the chance to be with her, physically, next to each other in space. In spite of all pain, thanks to the generosity of work and family, there was at least one joy I had each day: coming back to her every dawn. It was with a spring in my step each day that I got out of the parking structure, hastened to the elevator, and walked speedily, but softly, into her room on floor 7. I was home.
All in spite of her apparent lack of consciousness. All in spite of the prospects for the future. For these days, there was only the present. Being at my wife's side was, I am quite sure, the most living-in-the-present-moment that I have ever done in my life. She was present.
I was able to hold her in her last minutes.
Then it all changed.
My life's mission that had gone on for 12 days stopped. There was no more going back to her side each morning. There was no home.
The mornings became very hard. Now my sorrow—sorrow for myself—began.
The mornings are still the hardest part.
Each day has an arc. Each day, there are steps forward. Home routines get more settled. Recreation time in the evenings with the kids brings laughter. With the help of so many generous people, pieces of a new life are being put together. It seems we will manage. Evenings are tinged—just tinged—with hope.
But then the nightly forgetting of sleep comes over me. For a long while, my subconscious did not know that Heidi was gone. I had to relearn it all every morning, like a band-aid being ripped off.
Two steps forward and one step back? Or the other way around? I don't know.
About a week ago, I dreamed that Heidi and I were walking in a city by night along a riverbank. In the strange way of dreams, it was a combo of past walks. The river was the Tiber, the Arno, and the Mississippi rolled into one.
Then I woke up. No Heidi.
Three nights ago, in a sort of dream state, I recalled that Heidi and I had not had a date for a while. I actually woke up to talk to her about scheduling a date.
She wasn't there.
In the days after her death, the absence began to sink in fast.
The next time I saw Heidi's body was the visitation at the church. I thought it would be different from the hospital experience, and I guess it was. But still, here was something. Here was something of Heidi. I was allowed to be alone with her body for an hour before the visitation and the funeral. I relished that time. It was back to living in the present. Back to being with "her" as best as I now could, poor sensate creature I. In silence.
But then came the awful time when they had to close the casket for the last time. Forever. It was the end of my being able to do the main thing that had supported me ever since January 3rd: being next to Heidi. I was surprised at myself, at how hard that last closing was.
I was surprised at how hard it was to visit her grave for the first time after the actual interment. Now even the casket was closed in a pile of earth. Closings, closings, closings.
Now both the present and the future were absent.
And so it is each morning. It is temporary. Each day's work, each day's associations bring me out of it. The kids keep showing me that life is going to be ok.
In fact, I know I will actually feel like I have lost something when the mournful mornings end. Already, I can see that my subconscious is catching up and cycling through my own history. The other night, I had a dream of visiting Heidi's grave. A time may come when the morning re-learning ends, and the morning is no different from the evening. And I am pretty sure that I wish that day would never come.
In the meantime, I have recently learned that one of my most prized possessions is the braid that Betsy cut from her hair shortly after she passed. One of the kids was playing with it, in an innocent way. Gently, but quickly, I said, "Don't play with that. That's daddy's." It caught me off guard a little. I didn't want it to become undone and lost.
It's at least one thing that I have from her, by my side, every morning.
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Thank you for another post. Your writing is such a gift to me. My first thoughts in the morning are prayers for you, for grace for each new day.
ReplyDeleteKeeping her braid felt like an unexpectedly urgent mission - a part of her for you to see, touch, and keep (and without knowing at the time how years ago her hair had caught your eye.) I'm so grateful for the nudge of the Holy Spirit in the nurse who first braided her hair, which led to the prompting to keep it. Praise God.
I much appreciate your reflection. It helps me with my own grief.
ReplyDeleteI wish I had a lock of my parents hair. I once saw an envelope with reddish hair from my father’s youngest sister.
We shall all be restored to resurrected-perfect bodies. Meanwhile the tangible gives consolation. I am glad you have it for your comfort.
Dear Kevin I am so profoundly touched by your writings and deep reflections of the situation of loss you are in.
ReplyDeleteAlthough no way comparable to yours in my personal situation I experience much loneliness and I try to offer it to God for His faithful priests who are struggling and lonely.
My continued prayers for you and your precious family dear brother in the faith!
Luciano
Thank you for sharing your journey with us. Your writings touch my heart and my soul. Prayers continue each day for you and those dear children....and I'm so glad you have that braid. What a gift. Peace, Teddi
ReplyDeleteHi Kevin. This is one of those "you don't know me" comments.
ReplyDeleteMy wife knows two women who knew and loved Heidi -- Jenn Bergman from UCO, and Alexis Love, who I think is a friend of Betsy's. I just caught up on all your posts - my wife has been reading them as they come out.
Your writing (which is beautiful and powerful) reminds me of another book you might want to read if you haven't already -- "A Severe Mercy" by Sheldon Vanauken. If the title sounds "Lewis-ish" it's because it comes from a letter Lewis wrote to Vanauken. It's a pretty stunning book on another "great love" and another grief observed.
We pray for you and your family and for Heidi's soul every day and will continue to.
Kevin, you are putting words to the different parts of your grief. They are exactly the parts I felt when my 6 year old son died. Reading your blog, as strange as it sounds, has wonderfully made me feel those parts all over again. The parts I was afraid of loosing over time. There is a strangeness in grief that causes a desire for the pain to stay. We think that when the pain goes away it will mean we have forgotten our loved one. But there is great goodness and consolation in feeling this pain again. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteKevin,
ReplyDeleteI was particularly moved by this whole paragraph:
“In fact, I know I will actually feel like I have lost something when the mournful mornings end. Already, I can see that my subconscious is catching up and cycling through my own history. The other night, I had a dream of visiting Heidi's grave. A time may come when the morning re-learning ends, and the morning is no different from the evening. And I am pretty sure that I wish that day would never come.”
The connection to Shakespeare’s “King John” leaps right out of there. Constance is lamenting the loss of her son, and King Philip accuses her of loving the grief as much as her son. You have reason to be fond of grief, my brother.
CARDINAL PANDULPH:
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
CONSTANCE:
He talks to me that never had a son.
KING PHILIP:
You are as fond of grief as of your child.
CONSTANCE:
Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head,
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure!
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ReplyDelete