Child Grief

I keep learning in all of this.

With time, the full weight of the loss seems to grow less heavy. It falls away a bit. Or maybe it just becomes easier to bear. For me.

But for my little one, it is quite different. With each new developmental stage, Erika seems to uncover more of what this loss means for her. More of her life and her future is touched as she grows. Age brings understanding. And with it, new grief.

My grief is old grief. A feeling and re-feeling of the many aspects and reaches of the Chris' death. Healing comes bit by bit--and sometimes even in bunches.


But for my baby girl, grief is a new and different thing. A growing brain discovering and feeling new aspects of the loss at every turn.

It seems to come about every 4 months or so. Conversation about Daddy heats up. Lots of questions. Lots of pretend play and phone calls to Daddy.

This week she is grappling with the finality of death.

"When Daddy comes back, we are going to play hide and seek."

And I don't know what to do. I probably say the wrong thing. I tell her Daddy is not coming back--he can't come back. We will see him when we go to heaven, but he will not live here with us again.

Maybe I should just let it go. Let her talk. Let her pretend. Because when I tell her the sad news, she runs to her room and won't come out. Won't let me touch her or hug her or even talk to her.

I--along with every other parent in the world--can't bear to see my child in pain. I want to rescue her. Stop the hurt. But there is nothing I can do.

Pray for my sweet girl?

Family Vacation

"Is that our lake, Mom?"

It's everybody's lake, Baby.

Here we are again--in Bayfield for the week for the annual Seifert family vacation. And the kids love it. Maybe because their parents love it so much.

What a perfect way to end the summer. State fair, work, and preschool await. But for now, we are soaking up "our lake." And wishing Daddy could be here too.

Family

Two nights ago, I took Erika on a date to the little local restaurant after I got home from work. This new full-time schedule of mine seems to be a bit of an adjustment for her (and me too!). She needed some one-on-one time with me.

She, of course, charmed every last one of the servers and customers on that patio. And I felt so proud of her.  She has this magnetic personality that draws people to her. And last night she was joyful and sweet and polite. And she finished the last of her dinner snuggling on my lap. And I wished in that moment—more than I have in a long time—that her daddy could be there with us. That we could smile at each other across the table—so happy with our little family.

Sometimes it’s hard to feel like “family” with just Erika and me. I find that now when I say “my family”, I mean what I meant when I was a teenager. Erika is “my daughter”, but I rarely refer to the two of us as “family”. Chris seems to be the missing link to the “family” chain. I know it’s not true. But it feels true.

I’m not sure if it is because we are only TWO, or if it is because the loss of him makes such a void that it is hard to figure out what we are without him. And our car conversation on the way home deepened the ache.

“What’s my last name?”

Drager. Just like Mama’s. And Daddy’s.

“What’s Gus’ last name?”

Seifert. Just like Uncle Matt and Auntie Julie.

And so we went through the family names for most people in her life. And I explained to her that families share the same last name. We have Daddy’s last name. And then she reminded me.

“But Daddy’s not here anymore.”

No, but we are still a family, Baby. (I’m saying this to myself mostly.)

We miss him, don’t we?

“Yeah”

So the two of us cuddled up in the chair in her room and watched “Daddy movies” for a while. To hear and to see and to remember. And Erika touched the iPod screen at one point when she saw her Daddy on it and whispered,

“Come back”

My silent tears fell into her beautiful blonde hair; and I held her soft, sweet body a little tighter. Family.

Pour your heart out before Him; God is a refuge for us.

(Psalm 62:8)

Time Away

My room's sunrise view

At a very wise woman's urging (my dear mother), I am away for a couple days in my beloved Bayfield (Wisconsin). Change is on the horizon (the very near horizon), and it seems I needed some quiet reflection and relaxation time.

On Monday, I accept a promotion and begin working full-time. It feels a culmination of my career pursuits and a perfect fit for me. Yet, this life does not look the way I imagined. The way I dreamed. All this mixture of sweet and bitter things have come together to make up this life I share with my best girl.

And I feel filled with emotion. Gratitude. Grief. Hope.

Anniversary

 July 26, 2002 (11 years ago today):

I wore white. It didn't seem real. I wondered if I was dreaming. Had this day really come? I held my dad's arm and was glad for it. There was a quivering inside me. He gave stability as we walked down the aisle—to my beloved waiting expectantly for me. Everyone watched me. With a tear and a smile.

 
I listened to sober words—words about love, fidelity, respect. My heart leapt within me as I held Chris' hand. We promised things to each other. We promised to love. As long as we both lived. Sickness. Health. Good times. Bad.
 
And we soaked in this moment. This very good, very happy moment. We kissed. We were granted the titles for which we longed—husband and wife. Side-by-side, we greeted the ones that love us. We thanked them for coming—to celebrate with us.

March 5, 2012 (nearly 17 months ago):

I wore black. It didn't seem real. I wondered if I was dreaming. Had this day really come? I held my dad's arm and was glad for it. There was a quivering inside me. He gave stability as we walked down the aisle—to a chair and Kleenex box waiting for me. Everyone watched me. With tears but no smiles.
 
I listened to sober words. About death, hope, love. My heart nearly failed me. There was no hand to hold, no arm around my shoulders. We had promised to love. As long as we both lived. Sickness. Health. Good times. Bad.
 
And I felt the full weight of the moment. This very hard, very sad moment. I hung my head and looked down at my empty hands. I had been granted the title I so dreaded—widow. Alone, I greeted the ones that love us. I thanked them for coming—to grieve with me.

July 26, 2013 (today):

I contrast these two days in mind. Over and over again. I remember our 9+ years of living out those vows—being stretched more than we ever thought we would. And falling deeper in love with each other. And finally being torn from each other. Companionship. Fellowship. And then sudden aloneness. No partner—the one to whom I told all my secrets. The one who held my heart. And I ache for him.

I look at his picture on my shelf. And at times, I feel I could reach out and touch him. I remember the feel of his hand holding mine. I remember his scent. I remember the soft place below his collar bone and the little gray patch in his goatee. The bump behind his ear. His broad, muscular chest.

And other times, I look hard at that picture and I can’t quite remember what it was like to be with him. I can’t quite hear his voice. I can’t quite remember the comfort of living with him and being held by him. He seems almost a figment of my imagination. A separate life. A lifetime ago.

Today there is a deep ache that seems may never really go away. So I do again what I have done countless times these past two years—through all the illness, the pain, the dying, the separation. I remind myself of the One who holds me up. The One who will never leave me truly alone. And in this I can rest—no matter my past and no matter my future.

Summer Fun!

Minnesota has very few warm months; but when it does finally get warm, it gets REALLY warm. And we have to get outside! So there is a lot of swimming, ice cream, and sprinkler running. Here are some photos from the last month.

Smiles on the 4th of July

Nana & Papa with their little people

waiting for ice cream!

she chose Zanzabar Chocolate--her Daddy's favorite

Hangingout at a friend's cabin (check out that skin! Can you say "peaches and cream"? And those eyes!)

Erika with her little buddy, Carter

ice cream with Carter & Dillon. Chocolate all around! (stains are being treated as I post this)

Life for us has some heavy burdens right now--but many sweet joys too. And I'm striving to focus on the sweetness. The gifts. It's pretty clear what mine are, isn't it?

Purposes

Life is not at all how I imagined it. It’s not the way I planned it. And I am a planner. A pretty good one, I think. And for much of my younger life, things seemed to have fallen into place just how I planned them. Looking back, I suppose I felt sort of like the conductor of an orchestra. 

A successful and beautiful harmony of events produced in me a self-confident, independent, leader mentality. And it has often served me quite well. But it has also produced this ugly, proud streak. After all, who needs God when I am so competent? 

And it stings bitterly to consider that perhaps a predominant purpose of my sufferings of the last several years was to bring me to the very end of myself. Surely not the only reason for them—God is kind and gentle in His dealings. His ways are numerous and past finding out. And I know He speaks through His sufferers to manifest Himself to this dark world. Chris was one of His sufferers. And how he manifested his Savior! But perhaps the only way to make me wholly and completely His mouthpiece was to plunge me into the deepest depths.     

So in 2002, I marry my best friend. And three months into our adventure, the road gets really steep. Cancer. First Christmas together—our last too? I hear a whisper:

Emily, you can’t control this.

Surgery. Treatment. Two years of reprieve. Health? No. Devastation. Recurrence. Metastasis. He’s 33! I’m 24…

Emily, trust me.

Life plans become survival plans. More treatment. No jobs. No house. No future? And then! Four beautiful remission years! Hope restored.








 
We want a baby. For seven years, we pray for a baby. No. No baby.

Emily, you cannot accomplish this.

Loss after painful loss. And then… adoption! Ah yes, our baby girl. Our great gift. Hope restored—yet again.

Oh, Emily! Look!  I have done this!

Baby girl is seven months old. Daddy is 39. Mommy is 29. Daddy has cancer. Again.

Emily, run to Me!

Deep, dark fears surround treatment. The news gets worse. And even worse. And then a wife watches while her beloved—her girl’s Daddy—suffers more profoundly than she could ever imagine. His body is eaten alive in front of her very eyes. She cannot stand. She cannot move—or even talk.

Emily, lean into Me! I will be you’re your Strength and your Song. 

And then there were two. Family is severed. And where is hope? It’s dark, but hope burns still. 


Sanctification has no arrival point here. Yet, somewhere in the baby-less-ness, I was taught surrender. I learned how to throw myself onto a God who not only controlled all of my life’s events, but onto One who loved me with an everlasting love. This I know: sovereignty without love is a fearful thing. Ah, but sovereignty and love… that is supreme comfort!

And daily, I re-learn surrender. Humility. A re-discovering of this Almighty God who pulls me close to Him when I can do nothing but reach desperately for Him. 

I look at my two-person family, my life that is so very different than my friends’ lives (and I often think—in my darker moments—of the many people who must surely say, “I’m so glad I don’t have her life!”), my changed life course. I throw plans out the window. I take the next step.

And those next steps look so glaringly different than my old plans. So different than my friends’ plans and lives. But somehow, they hold hope. They hold promise of beauty from ashes. Joy in the morning. Sweetness. How can this possibly be? Can life go on? Can hope be restored? Again and again…yes.

Emily, I will hold you up. You are My very own.