where I am now

Two years ago, deep in the misery of loss, I wished for some kind of how-to. I wanted to know how long, how hard, what to do. I felt so      lost.     The task of recovering, or regaining my balance seemed entirely out of reach. Sometimes even just breathing was simply, very hard. Life hurt. I didn't know how to manage myself let alone how to help my husband, my children, my friends. 


For the last few months I have debated this post. I write it not in a bid for attention or sympathy but because of that wish for guidance. Perhaps someone, somewhere, sometime, will need to know. A little bit. And find some hope.

Summer is full of Merin for me. Perhaps that is because the last precious memories of her are summertime - a July bride, a first home, a sweet baby, family time at the lake, learning to be a mom. And then of course, the accident. And a funeral.

Merin was our youngest child. My last offering. Not more loved than any of the other four but the last and so we spent a different kind of time together. She was a daughter after two sons - the distance between Merin and her sibs seemed greater than the 2 1/2 years that separated her from her next older brother because Mark and Thomas were always a pair. She was simply always with me. We liked being together - a good thing as she homeschooled for grades 8 - 12 to accommodate her ballet training. We worked well together - most of the time. I knew her. She knew me. When she died we were having so much fun. The same fun that I had learned to love with Eden. Relating in a different kind of mother/daughter stage - as adults, friends, mothers together. The three of us (Eden, Merin, and I) were having such a good time. Hannah (Thomas's wife) made the mix even sweeter. 

I miss the particular mix. I miss Merin's voice each morning on the phone when she would call. I miss her. When I drive by the street they lived on I feel a tug of sadness. One day not long ago I realized, as I drove by that street and felt that tug, that I was missing the fulfillment of so many plans that Merin and I had made together. Some of those plans were explicit (finishing their kitchen renovation for example) and others were simply expected - summer afternoons watching kids play in the sprinkler, shopping trips, Christmas baking afternoons - all that and more. I wasn't finished having fun.


Even though two years have now passed I find it hard to believe that although I know she is gone I still have a hard time really believing it. It remains surreal. I dreamed of her again a few weeks ago. It was kind of fun - she was just playing with me, laughing and teasing in her sweet, gentle way that made me feel loved. I miss her. I wasn't ready to stop playing with her. And like a two year old that is called to bed when in the middle of fun play, I could dissolve into frustrated tears over it.

So where am I now? And how could this help anyone? Realizing that every journey through grief is intensely personal and that there really is no timetable, no plan, and therefore no how-to I would like to offer that it does get better. As I write this with tears on my cheeks and a lump in my throat, I know that it is so much better than it was. There is still sorrow but no longer the raw, tearing pain that took my breath away. It is more an ache. No longer a constant presence, it is like an injury that manifests when probed - I feel it when something reminds me. At other times just because. Memories are sweeter and so welcome. I can honestly say that I have been blessed with peace and I have hope for even greater peace as more years pass.

I am intensely grateful for my loving and strong husband, for my incredible children, for the concern we have for one another and the fun we have together. The prayers that have been offered on our behalf have taught me much about faith and the real, tangible effect it has - I want never to forget. The comfort of the blessings of the atonement of Jesus Christ. The grace of my Father in Heaven. Friends. Service. Work. All of these things have helped me. But what helps and has helped me is for another day, separate from where I am.

The joys in life are now a little sweeter in contrast.

8 months ago I wished daily for a how-to manual. 'How to Grieve and What to Expect' with a subtitle of 'Mothering the Grieving Family'. I didn't know how to do what I had to do and frankly wasn't terribly sure that I could do it. Some days were harder than others but of course even those days ran out of hours and usually when the next new day began there would be a little more sunshine. Gradually I began to become accustomed to our new reality. One day I was putting something away and realized - totally out of the blue - that I felt like I could do and had been doing what needed to be done. That I had been blessed with the ability to do it even though I was uncertain that I could. And then, smack! I was blindsided by grief. Again. 


One thing I have learned is that there is no rhyme or reason to grief. 


I woke this morning to find that Eden had shared this quote on her blog*. It is one of my favorites from Merin's journals. 

"Life is so crazy and unpredictable. Kinda nerve racking but exciting. The important thing is to be humble, to try to follow Heavenly Father's will, to use my agency wisely. Life only happens once and I need to remember to enjoy every minute of it! To be positive." 

-Merin's Journal Entry  June 9 2008 

The quote is the essence of Merin. I think of it often - grateful for her sweet wisdom, grateful for her. Grateful too, to know that she would want us to be happy here and now. And grateful that I am...even though I miss her.


* I had been awake for a long time last night and during that wakeful time thought a lot about what I have just shared. It is uncanny how frequently Eden and my thoughts and emotions coincide as we have shared this experience of grief. Uncanny but very comforting.

Pointe Shoes

"There's something beautiful and very circular about passing by something that was important to the person you loved, or touching something that once meant something to him - that brings me some peace." - Nate Berkus*


I read that and think "yes!".  Nate's statement articulates how I feel about some of Merin's things. Certainly not everything or anything that was hers but a few things. These things still tug (or poke) at me - sometimes quite sharply, depending on the day. But I want them, want to keep these things, as if I could keep her by doing so. 


Unless you have a fairly close relationship with a dancer you would probably be astounded at the number of pointe shoes they go through - and the rate at which they do so. I have no idea of the total number Merin consumed (there is no better word to describe the fate of pointe shoes) over the years she danced but I do know that it would have been pointless (Ha!) to keep track because it was either consume or stop dancing and the stopping option was not to be considered. Suffice it to say there have been many bags and boxes that have left the dance shops in her hands or mine. Many times over those years I would suggest to her that perhaps it would not be....unwise (?)...to send at least a few pair of the worn-out, smelly, and never-again-to-be-worn shoes to a final home in the dump. Because she had very literally bags of them. Bag s ! And every time she would think about it carefully - for a second - and say with regret that she really couldn't. I didn't understand her reasoning but I did respect it. How could I not when she was so sweetly regretful to disagree and so obviously attached to the smelly, worn-out items?


As things have transpired I am totally in harmony with her now. I don't believe there are many objects that I treasure more highly than those same smelly, worn-out shoes. They are a tangible and visual reminder of Merin in many ways. The times we drove home from class, late at night after hours of class, with her tired (very ) smelly feet propped on the dashboard of my car, both of us laughing about the stink. Pointe shoes hanging to "dry out" on closet handles or chair backs. Her devotion to, and passion for, ballet. The hours spent together trying to find the perfect fit for what are, in the end, objects of torture. Her joy in expression that dance was to her. Shoes carefully wrapped in their ribbons and tucked heel into toe, neatly ready - so very Merin. That she was partial to Freed ribbons - hard to find here and so used and reused on multiple pairs of shoes until they were too short to tie. The sweet way she thanked me for ....a new pair (or pairs), sewing on the ribbons and elastics when she was overwhelmed with her university studies, teaching, rehearsing, reaching for perfection. 


Of the bags and bags of pointe shoes I found among her possessions as I cleaned out and boxed up the little home she and Mike shared, I have only a few left for myself. It seems that those worn-out pointe shoes say 'Merin' to those who knew her well and love her so much. I am happy that there were so many pairs to share. I am happy that I have a basket of what is left in my sewing room - where I see them daily - reminding me and bringing me comfort. And I agree with Nate - there is something beautiful and circular about passing by them.

*In the March 2011 issue of "O, the Oprah Magazine"

Time Out

Last week David and I went to Fairmont. My brother Mike and his wife Michele have a time-share condo there and they ever so kindly invited us to join them. The holiday that they outlined when they extended the invitation sounded lovely but the reality exceeded the expectation, at least for me. It was - simply - quite blissful. We did only what we wanted to do. Period. 

Mike and Michele have both experienced loss that has been profound - his wife and her son - so they truly do know. It is both comfortable and comforting to be with them because there are no demands, no expectations - just  understanding and companionship. They have been an incredible source of help and love not only to David and I but to all of our family. They have had Eden's little ones overnight. Mike has worked at Mike and Merin's for hours and hours. Michele (a nurse in the NICU at Rockyview Hospital) spent several nights with us at the Children's Hospital helping with Ysa - and that after a 12 hour day in the nursery. Food, help, love. So freely offered, so generously given. 

Mike is two years younger than I. When we were children and would bicker as all children do, I remember my father teaching me that it was important to treat my brother with love because he would be one of the best friends I would ever have. We were great friends as children and then, indeed, best friends as teenagers but it is only now that I truly understand what a tremendous blessing that friendship is. In Fairmont as Mike worked on the puzzles that he loves to do, I remembered his absorption in dismantling a clock or building with Meccano - his round cheeks flushed, little boy eyes sparkling - and I felt such a surge of love for him and gratitude for the years of friendship.

The relaxed pace of a holiday where we slept late, ate well, went skiing - or stayed in and read, or watched old movies (in the afternoon!!!!), or worked on sewing projects - that was lovely. But the bliss was being with one another and with others we love who also love us. Thanks Mike and Michele for all of that. It was the perfect time out.