March 29, 2016. Just another date on the calendar. Clocks shift from 11:59 pm to 12:00 am. And it’s here. Another day. Except this particular date forever marks my child’s death.
Likewise, the years on my calendar march on. 2012 has somehow become 2016. You would think at this point, four years later, his loss would be a settled aspect of life, yet sometimes it still feels so… unreal.
I often think about those last minutes with him, the only evidence of his life revealed by a monitor. That final beep… it was the last beat of his heart.
If you can believe it, saying goodbye to our boy wasn’t the worst part of March 29th, 2012.
The worst part of that day was putting one foot in front of the other as we trudged out of the hospital carrying boxes of our son’s belongings, climbing into our car, and driving away for the final time.
To go live the rest of our lives. Without him.
And with those finals – his final heartbeat, our final goodbyes, and our final walk out of Hopkins – the myriads of firsts began.
Going back to our empty house for the first time. Curling up on his empty bed. Waking up that next morning, and, for the first time in 7 months, not heading back to the hospital. Writing our son’s obituary. Making “arrangements” at a funeral home.
Getting a call from the funeral home the next day to please return because I hadn’t thought to add underwear to his burial outfit ensemble.
Firsts, so many firsts. The first time stumbling over a response when the casual greeting is tossed out, “How’s it going?” The first time facing the question, “How many children do you have?” The first time calling his dentist/eye doctor/orthodontist/allergist to inform them their patient has died.
The first time walking past those favorite aisles in his favorite stores. The first time commuting to work without the added stop of dropping him off at school. The first Mother’s Day. The first back to school sale. The first birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year.
The first time it hit that it has been x days, months, years since I last saw him, held him, heard his laugh, was enveloped in his arms.
Four years later, I’m still experiencing firsts. See, here’s the thing. When Tyler’s heart stopped on March 29th, so did mine, yet somehow, I was supposed to go on living.
When my boy’s heart stopped beating, his soul soared to be with his Lord, embraced in love incomprehensible. For him, that moment was beautiful. For me, that moment rendered the life I was living into one big “yesterday” that spanned from 1996 to 2012.
There would be no more todays with him. They were permanently and irrevocably gone.
I’ve come to realize in these past four years that surviving Tyler’s loss has little to do with the actual moment his life ended.
All I wanted to do in those initial stages after losing him was to live in those yesterdays. But with every day, month, year, as long as my own heart keeps beating, I must learn to live out each new today.
Life four years into Tyler’s loss is… ok. I don’t really have any complaints. I experience happiness, friendship, love, fun, work, enjoyment. I am blessed – oh, how I am blessed – with deep, rewarding connections and bonds. And I daily wonder at the close relationship I have with my God. I feel His spirit in me.
Yes, my heart is still beating. But because Tyler’s heart no longer beats, even four years later, I also live with something I can only describe as an unceasing pull. It’s a constant tugging on my soul to be where Tyler is.
I can no more control this than I could my love for him while he lived under my care. This perpetual pull to be with him requires me to make a conscious effort to push back, to push through the days, the months, the years I must remain here.
Maybe this push/pull concept is a way to describe surviving loss. When the loss is new, the pull is a palpable thing. The effort it takes to push back against the pull leaves very little energy left for functioning. Then time passes. And then more time passes.
The pull, the tug on your soul, it’s still there. Through trial and error, you learn how to expend as little energy as possible to resist, to push back, to push through. So you function. And you live your life. And your life isn’t over. And it’s a real life, even a life of fullness.
But you learn as the years pass that this isn’t going to end. The pull is now part of your life and will be until the day you die. The day you’re finally able to run right into those arms. And until that day, you will always be a little physically exhausted, a little emotionally drained, a little soul weary. From the effort it costs you to push through.
It is different as time passes. I no longer need my husband to stay on the phone with me during my commute to work. But I do sometimes find myself repairing my make-up in the office parking lot after one of those “I just can’t” moments overtakes me on the way to work. I no longer look like a deer in headlights when asked how many children I have. I have a few different responses up my sleeve that I can pull out when needed. But it still sometimes alters my mood for the rest of the day. The buzzing, the incessant buzzing in my head, of new grief is gone. The pull is there instead. Just the mostly gentle, constant tugging on my thoughts.
For me, this push/pull means that whether I am at home, at work, at church, or even receiving kisses from my precious grandbaby, the pull to be elsewhere, to be with the missing part of my heart, is a perpetual force I must struggle against. It takes energy.
I’ve just come through the worst month of the year for me, and it was coupled with Easter, which I find to be an especially difficult holiday. So even four years later, the pull returned to new-grief strength. It weakened me. I had a plethora of “I just can’t” moments.
But for me, as a daughter of the Author and Giver of life, I never have far to reach for the strength and resources I need. They are supplied by my loving Father, by His comforting Spirit. With His help, I push through.
If you find music speaks to your heart, click on this song. Its lyrics, which describe the goal of the griever, resonate with me: “Yesterday’s a closing door; you don’t live there anymore. Say goodbye to where you’ve been. And tell your heart to beat again.”