Sometimes It Still Levels Me

I’m not sure exactly what I expected of the death anniversary this year (many call it an angelversary, although for some reason I’ve never loved that term). This wasn’t our first go around, after all. With all of the health-related issues happening in our household lately, I didn’t plan ahead as carefully as last year. I may not have taken the entire week off of work this year, didn’t have my amazing “grief doula” friend flying out, or have the same type of extended family gatherings honoring Kendall, but I had talked to the kids about what they wanted to do. They requested some extra fun activities that Kendall would have loved, like going again to the trampoline park, eating special foods, etc. We talked about the day being one of celebrating their dad, rather than one of morosely wallowing in despair. It was just a day, after all, and we could remember, and miss, Daddy any day of the year. We do remember and miss him, every day.

We were surprised to wake up and discover a snow covered world outside (it was 57 degrees earlier this week!). In one sense it was discouraging having to deal with so much snow and cold, but there was no denying that it was beautiful, and created a sort of hush over everything that fit with my general mood. In a way it helped set the day apart, seemed to make things slow down, which I welcomed.

You may have noticed that I like to look for meaning in things, try to notice and appreciate those little (or not so little) evidences throughout my day that God is aware of and loves me. I want to be regularly feeling awe and gratitude in my life. I’ve tried to model and teach my children to do the same (we still do the “What are you grateful for today?” exchange in the car driving to school in the morning), and it’s something we talk about often.

We had one such little “Sawyer miracle” yesterday. C was so excited to show me that one of our plants in our living room had flowered overnight, the first time that had ever happened since we have owned it. I didn’t even know it could flower. You may remember that something similar happened with a poor, neglected plant in my bedroom when my mom died. Especially with everything outside so cold and dead feeling buried under the snow, that little blossom really did seem to represent hope and brought a smile to our faces.

Then with all of my children at school (I’d given them the choice and they’d all opted to go for the short day), and no clients scheduled for me (I never do on Fridays), I used my “free” time to spend about four hours at the temple. It was my first time ever doing an endowment session, sealings, and initiatory all in the same day. I had some sweet and tender experiences in the temple, and shed plenty of tears (especially during the sealings), and I was glad I had prioritized being there. I even met and connected with another widow while in the temple (how was I not aware before of how very many widows and widowers there are out there?), was able to share with her some sources of support she was unaware of. I find that such a rewarding experience, every time.

So why the title of this post? I have noticed that I’ve had a few more grief-y moments this past week than I typically do, but I wouldn’t say they leveled me. It has felt a bit surreal realizing that Kendall has now been gone longer than he was on his mission. And that this time there’s no anticipated “end” of that separation. At least not for what I expect to be a very long time.

I was completely steamrolled yesterday, guys, after leaving the temple and getting home from picking up kids from school. We had plans, I wanted to connect with my children, create happy memories from the day.

And I. Just. Couldn’t. I was suddenly so exhausted, completely and utterly drained, both physically and emotionally, it was like my body was made of lead. I used the snow and the treacherous roads as an excuse to not drive to the trampoline park (we did go today, though, so there’s at least that) or the cemetery. It was like it all crashed down on me at once, and I couldn’t shake it the rest of the day and evening. The acute pain of loss. The compounded grief. Likely the stress and fight or flight experiences of the past few weeks catching up to me. Whatever it was, it was awful. I was definitely wallowing. Pulled out the wedding ring(s), slipped on some of Kendall’s clothes that I sometimes sleep in, and then I slept for several hours.

How appropriate that I wrote recently about how grief isn’t linear. I certainly wasn’t expecting the grief to feel so fresh yesterday. Wouldn’t have thought I would have an overwhelming desire to pull back and away from people, not answering texts or calls, and for it to feel like such a monumental effort to merely interact with my children (I did force myself to do so, though). That I wouldn’t be able to sleep that night (although the crazy big time difference did come in handy when I was able to have a middle of the night video call with a certain friend in New Zealand – thanks, Liz). That I would feel so tired of, well, all of this. Tired of being a widow. Tired of parenting alone. Tired of carrying it all, all the time.

That’s really not like me, and is a pretty clear barometer of when I’m not doing great emotionally. I love being around people. I don’t want to complain and marinate in some woe is me attitude. That’s not what I choose. Even in the worst of it, there in the middle of the night, I knew I wasn’t going to stay there, consumed by those feelings. And I haven’t. But yesterday really knocked me down, reminded me that grief truly can’t be planned for or accurately predicted. Those waves may not come nearly as often as they did, but I can’t say that they feel any less painful when they do.