deeper grief and new hope

Grief.  I have had a few different perspectives on grief these past few weeks.  When the norovirus struck our house, I grieved in a different way.  I was SO sick that Thursday night, throwing up, body aches, chills, just being so miserably ill from 10pm until 6am.  I do not think I had been that sick in years. But this time it was such a lonely sickness.  I missed having that person who takes care of me be there, to bring me the glass of water, to hold my hand, to just comfort me.  Sometime around 2 or 3am that morning, sitting on the bathroom floor by myself, weak from vomiting, I just started to cry.  An ugly cry, from exhaustion and illness and a deep new layer of grief.  My kids were both asleep (their vomiting did not start until sunrise), so I was just alone all night.  And thinking.  And overcome with sorrow.  Ryan used to say that he loved how I will always tell him to stay away when I am sick (so he doesn't catch it too), when we both know I just want him to hold me.  And I did do that - and I was always glad that he didn’t listen to my request.  He knew I never liked to be alone.  I would follow him around like a shadow when he was home, just to be in the same room with him.  He could be watching tv and I reading a book, but I would read in the same room just to be near him.  He knew that and would keep the volume low on the tv (even though the noise didn't bother me, I could read over the sound of the tv).  Or he would go out of his way to come home for breakfast after PT or home for lunches, whenever he could because he knew just stopping by to see me, home with the kids, would put a smile on my face.  And I got a text almost every single morning that said, “good morning, wife” or “I love you.”  Those went away June 24, 2016.  I know I am venting a whiny, lonely vent here.  But I am now missing that companionship of a beautiful marriage more than I ever knew.  The longest Ryan and I had ever been apart was seven months (his deployment to Iraq), but even with that, he was checking on me almost daily.  Ryan has now been gone from this earth almost eight months.  So this is no deployment.  This is my companion, my person, gone.

Earlier this week I was putting together tax documents.  It is that time of the year.  I found an amazing tax advisor that will help me navigate what I need for 2016 – a year in which I went from married to widowed, sold a house, bought a house, moved from one state to another, saw the end of regular earnings, and received a barrage of government benefits.  It’s a huge mess to navigate – and I am thankful I have someone to do that for me.  But in explaining how I would file she said, “This will be the last year you file as ‘married, filing jointly.’”  The last time.  I know she meant well but those words stung.

As I was going through my computer files to gather tax forms and financial documents, I forgot I had scanned and kept a copy of Ryan’s last letter to me in my computer documents (as a back-up in case anything should ever happen to the original).  So I was flipping through documents and Ryan’s letter unexpectedly pops up on my screen.  I had not read it for probably six months now.  I had read it over and over and over again the first month after Ryan died, grasping to it like I could somehow hear his voice or understand what happened or even bring him back.  Then I tucked the letter away, because it was too painful and haven’t looked at it since.  Now, over half a year later (yes, it has really been that long) the letter pops up and I find myself re-reading it.  And I see his letter in a whole different light now.  A few quotes from his letter: “I don’t want you to be alone.  I would give anything to hold you one last time.”  “I love you.  I know I say it a lot.  I have always meant it.  As time went on, it just grew deeper and deeper.  It was enough to make me hold on for a lot longer than I would have otherwise.”  “I have loved and cherished our life together.  I just wish the rest of my life had even a tenth of the appeal and contentment as I feel on my way home to you every day.”  Every time I read those words, I cry.  I am sobbing uncontrollably right now as I type this. 

As I re-read Ryan’s letter now, after almost eight months of healing, I see Ryan’s perspective differently though.  I am not going to share a majority of his words here on a public blog, but I now realize Ryan knew for a while that he could not go on living.  And as he made plans, he went out of his way to say things to me to make sure I knew I was loved and to comfort me in the only way he could.  He planned everything so that I was with family when it happened, that I would be cared for.  He even shook my dad’s hand the last time he saw him and said, “take care of my family for me.”  At the time, we had thought that meant for the week and a half while he was away, we did not have any way of knowing he meant it forever.  Ryan hid his deepest pain, his internal struggle, and when he had absolutely nothing left, he still found a way to give to me and comfort me, with his last words.  His letter to me was the last one he wrote, with what he had left, loving me and caring for me.  I grieve in a whole new way because that person in which I was his world – and he was mine – is gone.  How lonely it is to know that kind of love and companionship – and to lose it.  It has dawned on me that no one currently on this planet knows me like Ryan did.  Others may know me well, close friends know a lot, some people may even get to know me to that level in the future – but right now, in this moment, the one person who made it a priority to put me first and learn all about me for 15 years is gone.  That reality hit me like a ton of bricks, in the midst of my sorrow and sickness this past week.

But another reality hit me too.  I hesitate to even begin to process these thoughts onto “paper,” but I am going to attempt to anyway.  I want that companionship again.  I know I will not see Ryan again on this side of heaven, but recently I began to pray that God prepare my heart for that unconditional love again someday.  In His timing.  In His perfect timing.  Ryan and I used to joke about how when we were both really old and our kids would try to put us away in nursing homes, we would escape together.  That we’d probably end up driving off a cliff or something, because we would be so old.  But that we would die together.  It was our “plan.”  But a month or so before Ryan’s death, our silly old age plan came up, as we occasionally joked about over the years, and Ryan said something about if anything ever happened to him, he would want me to find someone else and be happy.  And I got mad at him – because that was NOT the plan.  I wasn’t REALLY mad at him, just that “play-mad” where I told him that was ridiculous, we were going to die together, escaping the nursing home, end of story.  That had always been OUR plan and we were sticking to it, because I would not want life without him.  I don’t know why that conversation pops in my head now, but I can see it clear as day and in hindsight, he was telling me then that it was okay to live my life.  Another quote from his last letter is, “Please do not stop living your life.  Yes, focus on things that need doing right now.  Get the kids into a new routine.  But eventually, live for yourself as well.”  I am understanding that Ryan knew for quite a while longer than I realized that he was not long on this earth and he was slowly preparing me and comforting me, as that unhealthy reality grew in his head.  And, oh, how I wish I could just go back and shake him and fix him and drive those enemy-given lies from his head!!!  I would give anything to go back and stop him.  To have known and prevented his death.  But I cannot.  I cannot go back.  And since I cannot, I sit in awe of Ryan’s strength and love.  That he would find a way to put me first, when he himself was in the worst pain of his life.  I love him with all my heart.  I always will.  And I want everyone I know and care about to know how much I love them.  I do not want to be stingy with my love.  I want to be an open book, letting God’s love flow right through and out onto everyone I know.  Kind of like Ryan showed me while he was alive – and I know he still does from heaven.

And as I started to say earlier, I hesitate to put these thoughts into words, but I want that love and companionship again, here on earth.  I pray that it be God's will to place that one person who makes it their goal to know me better than I even know myself and vice versa into my life, that person who sits with me when I am sick and shares their day with me and allows me care for them and prays with me and lets me love them with every bit of love that God has given me.  I think seeing Ryan’s example of unconditional and unending love somehow makes me a stronger person, a person who does not take one second of life for granted.  I have never had the personality to be alone.  When I was lonely, God gave me Ryan.  I married young (Ryan and I were just babies when we got married) and I LOVED every moment of it.  We grew together and learned about unconditional love together.  And then somehow in these past few months I have learned even more about what God’s love looks like in action.  And I want to share it.  In my loneliness, I pray that God use me to pour out His love to others.  And that He provide me the companionship, in a different way and in His way, that I so desperately miss.  In HIS timing, whether that is next week or ten years from now, it is my brave prayer.