The Unedited Version

As the season of winter draws near, the theme of loss is being written into the story of my life.   In September, the children's minister at my church died unexpectantly. A week later, my colleague mentioned that one of her dear friends passed on.  I learned on Facebook that two lifelong comrades of friends and family died, one a sudden heart attack, the other a suicide.  Over the phone a parent told me that she hasn't been active in the program because of her loss.  Three days later I experienced the same pain.  

Not all loss is created equal; losing my keys is not the same as losing my job.  No longer working can not be compared to no longer living.  Often language can aid in softening the shocking tremors of death.  It sounds more gentle to say "I've experienced a recent loss," rather than "My baby died."  The word "loss" is more mannered, publicly palatable.  The word "death" is graphic, non-negotiable.  Loss is fall in Florida.  Death is a Russian winter.  Death makes everyone feel naked in the snow. 

Such vulnerability is terrifying and can make one feel terribly alone. More so when surrounded by characters who may not respond in a helpful way.  They can say and do things that exacerbate sorrow and pain.  This is why I often choose to remain silent when someone shares their story about how death has touched their lives.  I don't want to say the wrong thing.  Worse, because of my own past, there are times when I have a discomforting automatic response to hearing bad news: inappropriate laughter.  It doesn't always happen, but since I can't predict when it will, I get very uncomfortable when someone includes me in the telling of their pain. 

Sharing my own pain is also risky, especially when that pain is bred from my own weakness.  When I am weak I fear judgement of others, judgements that come as spears in my naked moments, piercing the flesh and releasing what little warmth and consolation might remain. There have been times in my life when I knowingly walked a path that led to death, and when I met the end I refused to reach out for help fearing judgement: 

"She deserved it." 

"What can a sinner expect?"

"It's God's justice." 

To avoid these assaults, I keep to myself when I stray from righteousness.  If I don't tell anyone about the dark spots in my life, I can't be judged about how I live.  I know God will forgive me, but I'm not so sure about others.  Accordingly, with most people I share an outline of what's going on, presenting the Erica that's washed and processed and will not to offend. My grimey mess is hidden in a place where profanity fits better than honey-coated consolations.  I do this while at the same time believing what is written in James: "Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed."  I want to be healed, but to whom do I confess?  What characters in my story aren't carrying spears?

If I had to pick a sacrament practiced by Catholics, it would be act of confession. Throwing my dirty laundry in a quick spin cycle the shape of a tall wooden box is rather appealing, and there is something comforting about being known, grunge and all.  But I'm not Catholic, so the reality is a bit more like what my daughter shared with me in a conversation a few months ago.  She succinctly stated what was true for her, but what I understood to be true for me as well: "You don't know me." She went on to use a perfect metaphor for how she and I have come to live: each of our lives is a book that is read by outsiders who, for the most part, skip chapters.  They read the good parts - the parts we want to share - but they don't always have access to the darker side of the story, the part that is essential in every good tale.  Without darkness contrasting light, there is no conflict.  Creative Writing 101: no conflict, no story.  No death, no life.

Most of us get along fine skipping chapters of each other's lives.  We are satisfied with the edited version.  When it comes to what's really going on in another person's story, "People are too selfish to care," as my mother once said. They're too busy writing their own stories, which is fair.  Who has time to read between the lines of the exchanges that happen in most daily interactions? The common version is edited to be more concise and convenient:

"Hey, how you doin'?"

"Great, you?"

"Can't complain."

"That's good. It's nice to see you."

"You too, take care."

Both parties go their separate ways, moving on to act out the truth in the real story being written, chapters that are skipped during polite conversation.  Three months ago, a chapter was written in my life that I tried to share, but grief from loss and fear of judgement kept me from confessing.  So when people asked me how I was doing, I gave them the edited version.  If I had been more honest, however, the interaction would have read something like this:

“Hey, how you doin’?”

“Miserable actually."

"Why?"

"I just had a miscarriage."

“What!!  Wait...what'd I miss?”

“I had unprotected sex with a man I haven't married yet.  I didn't tell anyone because I was ashamed.  I knew I’d be judged because at age 42, ‘You should know better.'  And I certainly didn’t want to go to the church."

"Why?"

"I hate spears. Anyway, I decided not to tell anyone, except those I trusted wouldn’t judge me and those who really needed to know, like my youngest child and my fiance. I didn’t want to have the baby, but I didn’t want to have an abortion either; I didn’t want to add to my shame. My fiance responded well and actually convinced me that having his baby would be a good thing so I got attached to the idea.  A day before my second visit to the OBGYN, I started cramping and bleeding.  I was getting ready to leave work to go see the doctor when the fetus fell out of my body."

"Oh, my God!"

"Yeh, that fucked me up."

"What'd you do?"

"I stepped carefully into the bathroom, removed my undergarments but she wasn’t there - she was stuck.  So I had to remove her myself.  I called the doctor, they told me to bring “it” in.  I wrapped “it” up in paper towels.  Got into my car, set “it” in my daughter’s car seat and drove myself to the doctor’s office.  Once there, they told me to leave “it” with the lab.  I did.  I cried.  They did an ultrasound.  My womb was empty.  I texted my fiance and told him, ‘It’s gone.  We lost it.”

"I'm so sorry.  Is there anything I can do?"

"No, I'll be okay.  I took a couple days off.  On the second day I told my youngest child.  She cried.  We cried.  I took her out to dinner and while waiting for our meal, I got a call from DSS; they had a three-year-old foster child, a girl needed a home.  I said yes.  My child and I were both happy, relieved of our sadness. 

"Well, that's noble."

"Not really. After further discussion with concerned characters I realized I was trying to avoid my grief by diverting my attention to the care of a child who needed me, though in reality I needed her.  So I called DSS back and told them, 'Sorry, but now is not a good time.'  After I hung up, I felt like shit.  They came a got her the next day.  My child cried.  I grew cold.   So, that’s how I am now.  Sad and cold.  How are you?”

“Um...................”

Needless to say, I think most folks would rather skip this version.  And the drama of this particular chapter doesn't end there.  My fiance decided it was a good time to revisit something he had mentioned when we first met.  I didn't take him seriously then, it was so unbelievable I thought he was joking. Turns out he was completely serious.  He believes he is being stalked by members of a fraternal organization.  He knows when they've visited because they leave paper clips behind.  It gets worse.  He believes that I've been a part of this torment, whether I knew about it or not.  Accordingly, he will never be able to trust me.  There's more, but I can't go into detail - my facebook is being watched. This chapter ends with me breaking off the engagement.  I didn't have a choice; it was either lose the relationship or lose my sanity.  I've gone crazy before.  Not fun.

People who I consider close friends and family may read this and wonder “Why didn’t she tell me?”  A better question is, how would knowing change things?  For what purpose do we share things like this?   I suppose the intimacy of knowing such details makes people closer.  Though this may be true, retelling a story over and over makes it seem distant.  The details less real.  It becomes just a story.  It’s not mine anymore.  It belongs to everyone I’ve told. 

This could be a good thing.  Maybe it’s me who is being selfish by not sharing.  Maybe I don’t give people enough credit; perhaps they really do care and genuinely want to know how I’m doing.  That sounds great and I hope it's true, but quite frankly, sharing is draining.  In the end I just feel empty inside.  That emptiness gets cold quick.  

Two numbers pop up in my life that always catch my attention, 3 and 7.  I haven't actually documented when they appear, but they seem to show up when I'm feeling lost or confused, hurting or just needing some encouragement.  I was feeling all of the above this past season, which is why it took so long to write about it.  It took even longer to share.  I kept my grief close, between me and God.  He's been guiding me through this.  Sometimes I know He's there.  There are other times, however, I feel so alone it physically hurts.  During one of these times, I looked at a copy of the ultrasound that pictured the dark spot in my womb, an imprint of where the baby was.  I noticed the time on the picture: 10:37:07 seconds.  Probably just a coincidence.

One thing is certain, God's speaks and moves through others. Those who don’t judge me by the mistakes I make but by the darkness I overcome.  Friends and family who are not only interested in reading my story, but want to be active characters in it.  In all honesty, I would not have been able to walk through this valley without these characters working cooperatively to give me the time and space I needed to process my grief.

I am also reminded that this is really not my story.  It never was.  It’s God’s story and it started long before I was born and will continue after I die.  I must be vulnerable enough to let Him write His way through each action played, day after day.  Through the darkness His light can shine.  Thus, I will publish this story as testimony.  To what? I have no idea.  I’ll leave that up to the readers.

The Work in Dying

"For the living know that they shall die, but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten." Ecclesiastes 9:5

There is a laborious process to dying, for the person who dies, as well as those left behind. The work in dying is a job for which few voluntarily apply; it is dirty, painful and without reward.  Nonetheless, every living thing is eventually called in for work.  There are books that describe the duties, stages outlined to assist those who are new on the job. I, however, am an experiential learner; books can only take me so far before I must simply jump in and deal with the work at hand. Such is the case in my grandfather's death.

We all knew his time was coming. My mother had been preparing me for 20 years. Every time I went to visit him, I stepped carefully, thinking This may be the last time I see him. That's what makes my memories so vivid; I was coloring them in even while he was alive. Still, his death hit me harder than I expected.  Most alarming is how the color is fading, time and tears washing out the brightness of his image.

My grandfather died on a Thursday morning. I received the phone call an hour before I was scheduled to work "job A " as a server in a Mexican restaurant. There was no way I could provide good customer service with a smile that night. I called my boss; "My grandpa died, I'm not gonna' make it in." I spent the night with a bottle of wine to depress my depression. For a week following his death my emotional response ranged from snot and slob sobbing to numb indifference. This, too, matched Grandpa’s personality, bi-polar mood swings was his normalcy.

The day after his death I was longing to be by a river. Fortunately, the Santa Fe is only a 15 minute drive from my apartment. My hibiscus had a new bloom; I picked it and took it with me to the river. I watched it drift in the shallows, wondering if it would be carried away into the slow and easy current or if it would simply get stuck in the slimy muck on the side bank. I imagined Grandpa’s afterlife the same way; was he lifted to heaven or is he arguing even now, cussing out the reaper at the gates of hell?  Rain started falling, so did my tears. I fell to my knees and let go.

I went to lunch afterwards, ordering a bowl of clam chowder cooked with bits of bacon.  I ate the meat in his honor, topping it off with two doses of rum and coke. The server, Christy, comped my meal; I must have looked truly pathetic. By five that evening, I was sufficiently cried out, eyes red and puffy, but went to work anyway. I was glad we were busy; it's hard to recall fond memories of dead relatives when filling up chips and salsa for table six, calling in sides of guac and sour cream for table three, and trying to remember if the woman at table four wanted sweet or unsweet tea. Saturday night was equally busy, though there was a raw moment when the grandchild in a large party walked up behind her grandfather and gave him a loving hug, just as I used to do with my Grandpa. I swallowed the lump in my throat and asked the mom what sort of dressing she wanted on her side salad.

Sunday morning I went to a lively church service but felt dead inside. The Holy Spirit tried to move me, but I didn't feel like feeling. Sunday evening I learned the memorial service would be the next Saturday. I panicked: I have to get there! I want to be a part of the service! I need to say good-bye! I went on-line to search ticket prices that started as high as $2,500 roundtrip for two - I was very insistent that my daughter come with me, for my own comfort and to share with her the significance of her great, great grandfather Franz.

I finally found two tickets for $1,400 - an amount that equaled my entire savings. My aunt offered to help, and I was sure my mother would pitch in, but money woes would surface eventually, something I am avidly trying to avoid, especially given the current recession.  But this was Grandpa, the man of my life. I called my bank to make the transfer. Strangely enough, I couldn't remember my pass code. I was forced to wait and call first thing Monday morning to finish the transaction. I called the airline to at least reserve the tickets. When I hung up, I felt a sense of peace; I was going home.   As I lie down to sleep, however, I was nudged by worry.  What if I need that money for an emergency? What if my hours are cut, how will I make rent? What if….. Financial insecurity is the surest way to attack faith.  I said a prayer requesting the Lord's guidance, as it was clear I was too emotionally attached to think clearly.

The next morning I performed the usual routine, got the preschooler ready, jumped in the car and prepared to leave for "job B" as a writing specialist at the college. The car stalled but started on the second attempt. That's when I saw the warning light reading "security." This advisory didn't make much sense for my car's functioning; I don't have a security system. I proceeded with my morning agenda with the spirit of anxiety sucking on the lining of my stomach.

After I dropped off my daughter, I immediately pulled into the nearest service station. I called into work after learning I would need a new battery, an oil change, and two new tires. "I'll be in tomorrow night," I promised, and would need to be - with one night's work loss from job A, and one day's work loss from job B, I didn't have the luxury of missing much more. Attending the memorial would take me out for a week. What was I thinking?

While waiting on my car, I realized God was working for me. If I'd purchased those tickets the night before, I wouldn't have been able to take care of my car or anything else that may come up in the months to come. All praise be to God, for He can see what is truly needed: security for the insecure, not a memorial for the mortal, a human attempt to fill in hues of what is now like a black and white photograph, absent the colorful life. Besides, Grandpa wouldn’t know whether I was there or not, "...the dead know not any thing." It's more important that I get to work and provide for the living. Grandpa would want it that way.

The next day I went to job B, helping students with their essays. I walked in a few minutes late.  There was a student waiting. I dumped my purse on the designated shelf, picked through the nametags, found mine and attached it to my shirt. As I sat down, I glanced at the student's assignment sheet: Compare and contrast two poems about death. "You've got to be kidding me," I said in defeat. The student looked up at me, questioning my response. I sighed my resignation, "It's been a long week."

I hadn't visited Grandpa at the cabin since my now four-year-old was just crawling.  I brought her home to accomplish a specific mission; baptize her feet in the river.  I took pictures, wrote my thoughts down in a journal, brought a few rocks home.  But how can I ensure she will appreciate the significance of that captured moment?  More importantly, how do I express who Grandpa was to me, to our family?  She’ll never know him as I did, for when I die “the memory of [him] is forgotten."  My only hope lies in a high and rocky place.

If one wants to know God, walk in His love.  I suppose the same can be applied to Grandpa. As the man and the place are one and the same, I will go home to walk in his presence.  My daughter and I will search for rocks shaped like hearts. We’ll take hikes high into the hills and listen as the mountains share their lessons, the kind Grandpa might teach: There are highs and lows on every trail; wear the right shoes, watch out for poison oak, and stay away from the edge.  I’ll cook whatever is growing, I may even add a bit of meat.  When night falls, I’ll tuck her in to sleep on the patio and together we’ll lose count of the stars.   In my prayers, I’ll give thanks for good food, good company, and a good place to enjoy both.  I'll miss you, Grandpa.