In the Darkness

It's strange. Psycologists say your heart doesn't forget traumatic anniversaries. Even if you aren't intentionally thinking about the anniversary, your body remembers. As the anniversaries of some of the darkest days of my life roll around, I have to say that is true. 

Four years ago, life was full of promise. I'd just returned from an amazing month in Africa, first delivering medical supplies to schools, then as part of a residency for the Master's program I was beginning. Tired from jet lag and emotionally wrung out because of the focus of the residency (studying the genocide in Rwanda), Memorial Day was quiet; we enjoyed slow time in the backyard, where I dozed in a lawn chair beside the fire pit. It was the calm before the storm. 

The following Monday was supposed to be my parents' 52nd anniversary. Mom was too sick to celebrate; we found out why two days later when she was diagnosed with metastatic pancreatic cancer. 

Nine days later, my daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumor. For the next ten days she was a patient in the Peds' Oncology unit at the local
children's hospital, waiting first for brain surgery and then for results of the biopsy; thankfully her tumor was benign. Five weeks after that, my mom was dead. 

Even as the days get longer, the flowers bloom and leaves fill out all the trees, my heart is struggling. It's been four years since Mom went to Heaven. So many milestones she hasn't been able to celebrate. So many things I haven't been able to talk to her about. Somehow one of my favorite times of year has also become one of the most painful. Little things like sitting around the fire pit in our backyard, though still something I love to do, is also so bittersweet. I can't sit by the fire without thinking of how life has changed. 

A few memories stand out in particular. I can remember exactly where I was when my sister called to tell me about Mom's cancer diagnosis. I can see the whiteboard in my mom's hospital room, the stark news of all the places where cancer had taken up residence written in black and white. The moment when the doctor's office called to tell me my daughter had a brain tumor, and the beeping of the monitor as I sat by her bed in the ICU after the tumor was removed. Working on homework as my mom was sleeping. Visiting her at various locations as she first sought treatment for and then comfort from the cancer. The privilege of being with her when she died, and seeing (I think) the joy as she caught her first glimpse of Heaven. 

Good memories are woven in with the painful ones. Having just started grad school, I needed an exception to submit assignments late. It was granted, quickly and generously. Friends stepped in to take care of everything, even reminding me to eat and drink as my ability to remember even those essentials was lost in the chaos and confusion. A hug from a stranger when the pain and shock of everything was too much and my mom wasn't available. Beloved friends driving from three hours away to sit with us as we waited for the neurosurgeon to explain what was going on for the first time. God's hand of grace is evident all along the way. It does not, however, take the pain away. 

In some ways, to be brutally honest, the pain is getting worse. Each year adds new milestones and major life events that my mom has not been a part of. As joy-filled as this season can be, it is tainted by the heartache and trauma of 2018. The joy is tempered and once-favorite activities that I took for granted are now bittersweet.

Don't get me wrong. Summer is still fun, beautiful, and defined by happy memories. I still spend time with friends and savor the bounty of our garden. It's just that the delight is tempered. In some ways, I want it to be. If life just went back to normal, then it would, at least to some degree, diminish my mom's memory. I don't want her to be forgotten. And in the midst of the grief and pain, in the midst of the darkness that was 2018 and the darkness that continues to influence life since, the precious presence of Jesus holds my heart. He holds me when I weep. In fact, Scripture suggests He weeps with me. Even in the darkness. And that is something I can hold onto even when the grief of my mom's death is overwhelming.