My mom texted me about a week ago, “17 months today.” I thought to myself, “17 months, are you kidding me?! I can’t believe I’m not even keeping track anymore.”

This was a depressing moment for me.

It hasn’t even been a year and a half and I’ve STOPPED keeping track.

I think the main reason for that is because I CAN NOT EVEN IMAGINE going on for another 40+ years keeping count of the months. If 17 months feels like 5 years, what will 10 years feel like? What about 15 & 20??? This, to me, is the most devastating part.

You know when you keep tracking of you pregnancy and when people ask you say, “I’m at 32 weeks,” or my child is now “21 months old”? Keeping tabs on LIFE is WAY different than keeping tabs on DEATH. With life, you can’t wait for your baby’s 1st birthday or for your toddler’s first day of preschool. With death, you don’t want the time to pass because you feel less close and it’s a bigger gap of time since you saw that person alive.

I have to share this story because it’s proof that DEATH is not the end.

I was driving with my daughter the Saturday before Easter to the store. I noticed a car in front of me with a sticker on the top left hand corner that said “Kelly Lake” – “huh, I’ve never heard of such a lake before.” So I kept driving a bit and then I looked down at their license plate. It read “DLW 48.” DLW are Derek’s exact initials! So the car that caught my eye because of my name had my brother’s name also on it. THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE!

I tend to get these little messages when I’m thinking about Derek a lot. I happened to be thinking about him given it was Easter weekend and usually we’d see him and catch up. I’m not sure what the messages mean. It could be confirmation from him that he acknowledges it’s a time when I’m thinking about him most. Or because a family holiday is coming up and he knows it’s going to be hard for my family and me. Or that he wants me to pray for him. Or that he’s okay. Or all or none of the above.

One thing I know for sure is that this kind of stuff is REAL, it has MEANING, and as mysterious as it appears, it will all make sense one day.

Life is hard. Life with grief is even harder.

My grief journey isn’t really my own. I have others on this journey with me. My mom, my dad and sister. My husband, my kids, my brother-in-law, my niece and nephew.

I often wonder where they’re at with their grief. Without asking them to share, I try to gauge it when I bring up Derek in conversation.

And it’s not that I want to compare my level of grief with theirs, because I know very well that their grief is insurmountable like mine. I guess there’s a level of comfort in knowing that they feel exactly the same way that I do. As much as I used to think we were all so different, we have more in common than ever before.

I watched Brene Brown’s presentation The Call to Courage tonight. About 45 minutes in, she started talking about gratitude and joy. She talked about how we tend to shy away from gratitude and its vulnerability for fear of something bad happening.

This is how I used to think. I used to think about the other shoe dropping all the time. I had a great day at work, my boss gave me a great review, my husband and the kids are good, our finances look okay, we have everything we’d ever want and need and then some…..and then, boom, like a tree hitting the ground, it’s changed in an instant.

That was my life leading up to Derek’s tragic death. That was my fear – something bad happening to me. Something bad did happen to me. It happened to us. It happened to my poor brother. It affected my entire family in an instant.

We are all in the same boat. We’re all grieving everyday in our own ways. We have this experience that rocked us all. And we need each other more than ever.

I don’t have a fancy title or a SME, but I know grief. I know the ins and outs, ups and downs, twists and turns. I know a good day versus a bad day, when to bring it up and when no to, how to express my emotions and who to share them with.

My family knows the same.

As we journey through life with grief, there is gratitude for those moments that we’ll never get back. Memories we’re now recalling from the depths of our brain of the good times. Stories that we wish we could laugh about together. Things we wish we could say to him now. Gratitude keeps us going. Gratitude helps us heal. Gratitude gives us hope. Joy. Shows us how to love in the midst of loss.

And I CAN find joy in things.

I love playing the piano, watching birds, sunshine, warm weather, thunderstorms at night, my girls making me laugh, date nights with Mike. Good stuff still happens despite grief!

I love cooking, gardening, a clean house, CUPS upon CUPS of COFFEE, sleeping, reading, napping, journaling, taking walks, MUSIC, seeing friends and my family. Life is SO good.

My sister told me she heard that Luke Bryan uses the light bulb analogy after losing his brother and sister. Before they died, the bulb was at 100W but after they died, it went to 75W and that’s all it can possibly go up to. So even when you’re having the BEST DAY, it’s only at 75W. I’ll try to have a 75W day each day.

Today, my calendar says this:

But God has promised strength for the day,
Rest for the labor, light for the way,
Grace for the trials, help from above,
Unfailing sympathy, undying love.

Annie Johnson Flint

There’s little things that bring joy and goodness and light and HOPE and comfort throughout the day. I just need to find it. And I need to surround myself with that as oppose to the opposite. That’s why God is so great to follow. God is the definition of life and light and love and hope. I want THAT in my life. I want to run far, far away from the darkness. I’ve been wrapped up in too much of THAT for too long. That was the worst experience I’ve ever had in my 36 years of life. And that’s about all I can handle at this point, to tell you the truth.

 

It’s bad enough that the year mark was during winter, but a week before Thanksgiving and just weeks before Christmas. Really? Really???

The week leading up to the year mark was the most devastating, horrific feeling I’ve had since the day I saw Derek lying in the hospital cold and lifeless.

I cried in the car, at work, at home. The entire week. Shock versus reality is brutal when you have no control over your feelings and all you want to do is lock yourself inside and sleep all day.

There really should be a mourning period of time off around the year mark. I felt numb again. I was depressed. After that day passed, days continued to pass and I kept thinking about how I felt LAST YEAR AT THIS TIME. None of it was good feelings, of course. I guess I would say it all went by kind of fast. I just think life will always be less because of loss no matter what time of year and how much time has passed.

I’ve been all over the map with my vices too. From overeating to working out like a crazy person, not drinking a drip to overindulging, going to mass to missing it week in and week out. I can’t seem to get a routine down because my feelings are never consistent.

And the WORRYING. Worrying about dying young too. Although it’s not top of mind, I still think about that a lot. It’s funny because after Derek died, I thought nothing of dying and being right there with him. But wanting to grow old with Mike and see my girls grow up, get married, have families, I don’t want to go so soon! But I have to think that if he got cancer this young, how could I not?

One thing I wish I could do is talk to Derek and have a conversation with him. I remember that was a question people would ask on job interviews or in school. If you could speak to someone (past or present), who would it be? It would be him. I would give him a great big hug and never let him go! I would tell him I love him over and over. I would hold his hand and tell him I miss him.

Sometimes I put my hand out in the car when I’m driving, in case he’s sitting in my passenger seat. It’s silly but it’s comforting in ways.

When we have dance parties at home, I hope he joins in.

Family parties – he better be there like he always was.

When I visit him at his grave. I hope he knows I go there. I talk to him there.

I hung his picture with each of my girls in each of their rooms and every morning we either wave or say good morning and good night before bedtime.

I really hope he has a glimpse of what’s going on here. It’s SO HARD because we don’t have a glimpse of what’s going on there.

 

 

 

Feels like an eternity now. It hasn’t even been a YEAR and a HALF since Derek left this Earth. I still think about him every day.

And every day I wonder the same questions: What is he doing now? Does he see us? Is he REALLY here with us even though he’s not physically here with us? When we talk about him, does it trigger him to check in and listen? Is he with God? What is God having him do? Is he really at total peace and happiness? Does he feel sad that we’re sad? Does he remember our memories as a family? Is his personality the same?

Some questions I can attempt to answer and others I cannot.

My faith has been up and down; my emotions have been all over the place. The second year in feels hands-down 1,000,000% worse than the first year. The shock has well worn off and now we’re facing the FACT that Derek will never come back again. And it’s an emotional whirlwind.

My life is one great, big DISTRACTION. I don’t mean for it. I work and I am with my kids and my family. I literally have no time of my own to really reflect on my emotions at the time. I feel like I’m wearing a mask and I never take it off.

I was trying out this grief support group but it was too much. Too much baggage belonging to others who were grieving. I left feeling even more sad and empty. Then the ones who’ve been dealing with it longer, the “veterans” as I call them, suck. They’re the ones going off topic, cracking jokes, making it a social outing than a grief support group. On the flipside, going to a counseling 1:1 helped a bit, but it was way too much in that I felt like I wasn’t moving forward. I guess on my own and in time, I’ll be able to move forward. It feels like it’ll take forever to get there, if I do at all.

I’ve been trying to avert my attention to hobbies and things that I used to enjoy. But I also want to focus on the things that were done wrong with Derek to ensure it doesn’t happen to someone else in the future. That OVERWHELMS me so much. I also worry that I’ll never get over his hospital experience if I do something like that. It’s something I have to discern because right now it just seems like a huge chore.

We had a St. Patrick’s Day party at my house with my family yesterday. It was so obvious, again, that Derek wasn’t there and he wasn’t coming. I have a hard time understanding that he was still “with us.” I get signs from him but then I second-guess them for random occurrences that have nothing to do with him or me. I wish there was a way to know FOR SURE. I wish I could hear from him, like his own voice. Or see him and not just in a dream. All of this is completely unrealistic though. Thinking about it just makes me want to cry.

I’m not sure where I left off with my writing.

Right now I feel uncertain and cautious.

I know the next 2 months will suck. I’m already reliving the times I texted Derek and saw him leading up to November 13. I remember being on maternity leave through mid-October and seeing him twice at Mom and Dad’s for lunch. He got to see Shea and Ari. I got to talk to him. It was so nice. He was so ALIVE and so seemingly HEALTHY. Even that nagging cough he had for weeks wasn’t really even present. We didn’t even talk about it. This is what makes it all so much more difficult to accept. That he was staring death in the face and he didn’t even know it.

Last year, celebrating Mom and Dad’s 70’s birthdays was so important to us. The
“70 things” list we created for them was so special. I’m so glad Derek was able to partake in that by telling Mom and Dad what he loved most about them. It’s not everyday you say those things to people. He was able to tell them before he died. Truly, how God works in mysterious ways.

This year, going to Horse Thief for lunch was something I felt I had to do in order to sort of honor Derek in a weird way. And being sat at the same exact table as we were last year for Mom’s birthday was a sign that Derek was there with us. Chatting about football. Enjoying the drinks. Having a good time. We miss him so much.

In a way, I can’t wait for the first year to pass. I hope it passes quickly. I still can’t believe it’s been 10 months. Feels like 10 years. I can’t believe the fall is right around the corner, and then winter. The months WITHOUT him will start…..and that’s when it’ll hurt even more.

One thing I’ll miss about it not being the first few months is my perspective. My perspective after Derek died in the months that followed was the way I want my perspective to be for the rest of my life. It was about family, about love, about peace, about caring for one another, no jealousy, no comparisons, no animosity, no judgements, no pettiness, no pride, no arguments. How quickly that changes when you go back to life as you know it. But the reality is that life isn’t the way I knew it. My life has changed so drastically over the last 10 months. I need to live the life I was handed. And that means I mustn’t give in to the life that leads me to those things I mentioned.

I’ve always prayed to God so that I may do His will for me. Thy Will Be Done (Our Father). To present His will to me. Please dear Lord, show me what you want me to do with my life. I’d pray that over and over again.

We know the trees but God knows the forest.

God knew Derek was going to die. God knew our lives would be forever changed. Now that 10 months have passed, I’m wondering if I’m doing God’s will by sharing Derek’s story. It could be part of it. I do know that loving my children unceasingly is absolutely God’s will for me. I need them just as much as they need me right now.

My head is all over the place. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed. Trying to keep busy with tasks. Being “normal” again for what it’s worth. But I’ll never be normal. I’ll never be able to do anything without thinking of Derek. Every single day I think about him down to every hour almost. Still thinking about his condition and how he was essentially dying last year those handful of times I saw him. I would text him pictures of Shea and he would always respond with, “how cute” or “is she sleeping through the night yet?” He was dying inside and still supportive of me. His body was shutting down and he still responded to my many texts about MY children. How selfless he was toward me.

I hate those phrases people use after someone close has died. This “life lesson” has “humbled” me to “do good” and “live out his legacy.” It all sounds great in theory, but it takes a long time to get to that point. It’s not something that just switches in your head to do overnight. Even if it does and then switches back, that’s how grief operates.

I still can’t tell Derek’s story without crying. I’m still trying to make sense of it all. He was here and then he vanished. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. And it’s only been 10 months. Feeling like 10 years, what will 10 years feel like? 20 years? 30 years? 40 years? 50 years? I was just telling Mike the other day how he could’ve lived another FIFTY (50) years. That’s a really, really long time. For those years to be taken from him is purely unfathomable. For him to be gone like this is even more unfathomable.

I sometimes feel guilty feeling this way. Selfish feeling. But the logical side of me knows that’s totally false, and given the circumstances, I’m pretty darn good for it only being 10 months in. Tomorrow is September 11. I remember exactly what I was doing on this date in 2001. Same with November 13. I’ll never forget those details until the day I die. Survivors of 9/11 have to feel the same way. I can now completely understand how they feel on this day. I can understand how people feel on Memorial Day. I’ve never felt the amount of empathy as I do now. I will mourn on those days for those people who suddenly lost their family members just like I lost Derek on November 13. I wonder what 17 years really feels like to them?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another sucky part.

The dreaded week after.

NOW WHAT? How do we get back into the WORLD after THIS?

I went back to work that Monday and I cried at work, pretty much the entire day and all that week. I talked to many people who gave me lots of hugs and showed they cared about me. But I look back now and I CAN’T believe I showed up that week. The routine was only broken for a week when life was completely broken for the REST OF IT?

That is just so messed up.

I recently emailed my coworker who lost her son even younger, 24, of an overdose. This happened a month ago. She said she couldn’t get out of bed to go to work one day last week. HOW could ANYONE even EXPECT her to? She said she doesn’t feel like a mom anymore because he was her only child and now he’s gone. To feel normal again will NEVER happen. To feel happy again, depending on who you lost, may never happen again.

I remember Dad told me a story about his aunt or great aunt who left a cemetery and died in the car. Grandma Mary died two weeks after Pepsi was put down. Grandma Theresa died 6 months after Aunt Joy died. The heart is such a delicate organ.

At work that week, I couldn’t STOP thinking about Derek.

I wondered where he was.

What he was doing.

If he could see us?

Then I became obsessed with researching the medical side of things. OBSESSED. It kept me up at night, until about 1 or 2 a.m. I was working 5 days a week and I had a 4 month old. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep knowing his death was still a mystery. I thought I could figure it out. I thought it would give me some peace. It didn’t give me peace – it make me anxious. I thought I was going to be the next to die. I thought I had what he had. I convinced myself I wouldn’t live to see my girls get married and have kids of their own. I was spiraling out of control.

 

 

This process just sucks.

It’s grueling.

It’s emotional.

It’s creepy.

It’s a must.

I HATE the fact that we will all be planning for this one day or our loved ones will be doing it for us.

The picking out the casket, flowers, songs, readings, plots, marker wording….grueling.

The viewing of the body…emotional.

The face looking NOTHING like him…creepy.

Another thing I realize now, looking back, was how HAPPY I appeared at the wake. Happy to see old friends, neighbors, coworkers, family and friends. There’s NO reason to be happy at that time. There’s NO reason to feel like I need to be ON for them. There’s NO reason to engage in ordinary conversations while my 39 year old brother is lying in a casket without a pulse.

Maybe that’s why they think you CAN move on. Because you don’t appear to be sad. Because the shock and adrenalin help you get through. Because the tears are kept in to avoid a scene. Because everyone expects you to BE STRONG.

What does STRENGTH have to do with it anyway? I’m strong but I still LOVE and therefore I GRIEVE. Strength has nothing to do with it. People just don’t know what to say so they make up some hokey phrase that you see in cards and hear in those types of situations.

Another thing I realize now is how horribly I acted at previous wakes. I was the one who avoided the obvious reason why we were all gathering there. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to upset the person. But they probably wanted me to say EXACTLY what I was avoiding saying. They wanted me to address their feelings at that time, because they were feeling completely BROKEN. My inane conversation likely infuriated them. NO distraction is good at that time. The grief doesn’t step aside for distractions. It seeps through like liquid. It’s perpetual and constant.

 

The stunned, shocked, sickened feeling overpowered all of us that night.

Stories were shared but it was WAY too soon to be at that point.

The main question that was repeated over and over again was, “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?”

Today, 9 months later, the question remains, “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?”

9 months went by in a flash. We’ve almost closed to loop on the first year without him at holidays or birthdays. But the first year blues will continue year after year after year after year.

Grief doesn’t dissolve over time. Time doesn’t heal. Healing doesn’t occur. Grief is now a lifestyle. The love for my brother is immense. We all loved him so dearly and STILL do. He is missed more than words can express. Our eyes well with tears on a regular basis.

Life as we know is has completely changed. We will NEVER be the same.

The stories we tell are fond and we are at the point where we can at least laugh about him in memory, or joke that he is laughing at us.

But it wasn’t easy to laugh in the beginning.

And it wasn’t out of guilt, it was due to the fact that physically our hearts split into two. The pain was so great. The loss was SO profound. The unfair reality was setting in.

Moving on is NOT inevitable.

A NEW normal is in order; however, it doesn’t mean rainbows and butterflies. We may never see rainbows and butterflies again. And I’ve learned that that’s OK.

People who haven’t been through it will NEVER understand. NEVER. Those same people tend to be the ones to get over it first. AND expect that you will too, eventually. There’s no getting over profound loss. Period.

I remember the night of, I just cried in bed for hours. Woke up in the middle of the night and cried, then fell asleep. Cried when I woke up in the morning. I don’t remember any significant dreams about him, but I’ve had many since. You can look at all the outpouring of love and support on social media, but that feeling of void, the loneliness that settles, overshadows those who reach out whether in person, over the phone or through the internet. It’s one of the weirdest feelings I’ve ever experienced in my life. All of the attention at a time when all I wanted to do was crawl up under a blanket and sleep my life away.

My mind replays the day of A LOT.

Especially now that months have passed.

I now know what it feels like to have PTSD. Reliving the awful moments when your life completely shatters.

That feeling of helplessness.

Hopelessness.

Upon seeing him, I screamed “NOOOOOOO,” over and over and cried and held my parents to comfort them while I was in my own state of hysterics.

We had JUST seen him the night before.

How could he have been SO critical and NO ONE knew?

I wanted to scoop him up and hug him right then and there. But he was so cold.

This LIFE, this young man with so many years to go. The wedding we’ll miss, the kids we won’t ever know, all of the things we looked forward to FOR him were wiped away in an instant.

WHY? WHY him? WHY now? WHY us?