Mend.

This blog isn’t meant to be a Hallmark card for coping with loss. I want to share how I’ve dealt with grief, and how I deal with it every day, in hopes that someone might read something I’ve written and think, “Wow, I’ve never thought of it that way. I guess you can be happy again.” Honestly, though, some days hurt. A lot. Some days the sadness consumes you and all you can think about is the series of events in your life that has brought you into this sadness. It’s not like you really have a say in the matter. The sadness just consumes you and the tragedy of life consumes you. I had spent every day of 18 months finding ways to conquer this sadness and to heal my heart after my mom died. And then my dad died.

Every patch on my heart was ripped open that morning. Every stride I’d taken to heal, I thought, was wiped away in an instant. Sadness consumed me. Grief consumed me. Disbelief consumed me. My dad wasn’t sick. He wasn’t suffering from a gut-wrenching sickness like cancer. My dad was so focused on how to be happy after my mom died—and how inconceivable that was—that he forgot to mend his broken heart. He couldn’t control having a heart attack; essentially, he couldn’t control his broken heart. The events surrounding that day are still surreal to me. It was an oddly familiar feeling. People flooding to my house. My home—my dad’s home—filled with mourners and food and sadness and food. I didn’t eat for an entire day. Isn’t that odd? Well-wishers bring so much food you don’t even know what to do with, and I couldn’t make myself have a desire to eat one thing. In my eyes, no amount of food or hugs would bring my dad back. My mind was consumed with one thought: I was at home. I put myself in charge of my dad’s happiness and well-being, and I let him down. I let him die. I could have done something. Could have heard something in the middle of the night. I could have saved him. I let my brother and my sisters down. I let my uncle down. I let my dad down. I let my mom down. For all of the happiness I found in my mom’s light and love, the only emotion I let consume me that day was guilt.

And then I realized something. I use the word I way too often. Me me me. It’s my natural instinct. I didn’t blame my dad—even though a doctor’s visit could have prevented this. It was easier for me to blame myself. I knew there was nothing I could have done. Being a logical, intellectual, adult, there was nothing I could do to save my dad. But that same little girl who never expected to live life without her mom surely never thought she would live without her dad too. I made it my mission to make my dad happy again after my mom died. His happiness mattered more than my own. His grief mattered more than my own. He never asked for it. I simply decided that it was best for him. And I think that he was happy—sometimes. I think I wanted him to be happy so that I could feel okay to be happy too. Writing that sounds a lot more selfish than I ever meant it to be. I wanted him to be happy so I worked as hard as I could with my school and with my assistantship. I wanted him to be happy so I called him twice a day. I wanted him to be happy so I talked about the wedding as often as I could. And he was happy. For me. He was happy for the direction my life was taking. He was happy I was happy. But at nighttime, after the phone calls, and after a day of work, he came home to an empty house. His happiness—true and real happiness—was gone. He loved one girl his whole life, and he did everything he could to save her. There’s that hero syndrome again. Nothing my dad did or didn’t do could make my mom’s cancer go away. And when it didn’t, he blamed himself. He blamed doctors, but mostly he blamed himself. Seeing a pattern here? My dad loved his family more than his own life. Seeing another pattern here? He wasn’t ever going to truly be happy again until he was with my mom. And now he is.

He in no way knew that this was going to happen. His heart was irrevocably damaged and only a doctor’s visit—which he was so against since my mom—might have predicted it. But those are all muddied details. Once again, we’re left with pieces. How do you mend your heart twice? This goes back to the whole breathing deal from yesterday. I want so badly to protect every person I love and to never let anything bad happen to them. As long as they are okay, I am okay. But I’m not. Not really anyway. I have to mend myself and not dive headfirst into protecting others. There is a peace that comes each day in this new life without my parents. I have to learn how to be okay with them not being here. And I think that stems from knowing that they are together. I am still learning and praying and striving for answers about “where they are.” Are they in heaven? Are they asleep? But does it really matter? My parents are no longer here. In a physical sense. But they are alive in each of us. In our laughter, in our tears, in our accomplishments, in our strength, in our weakness. In that sense, they are together and they are happy. There is no more hurt for them, there is no more pain. They are alive in the promise of Jesus Christ. In His sacrifice for our sins that we might have a hope for a better day. They are waiting for that better day. It is coming. And it will wipe away all of my selfish fears, desires, and tendencies to lean on the word “I”. I am not alone. I have the peace that I love my parents with a whole, mended, broken, mending heart. And, no matter how I may lose sight, I have always had the peace that I am loved. I am loved by two parents together at rest, and above all, I am loved by the One who conquers all fear and all death and who brings ultimate happiness.