This journal is a product of “blood” and tears as every word used to describe what we went through as a family cut through our hearts into pieces but eventually are held back together by God’s love.
This is one of the bravest, heart-wrenching episode since I started writing. It does not only include my own but my children as well. My children have shown strength of character since our loss, but human as they are, they finally let their guard down and found themselves in the dark, rough tunnel with me. We never wanted to go through this journey. We tried our best to escape this part of our story because we know what is ahead; it exposes our vulnerability to different emotions that can make or break us. It is facing a giant and an elephant in our room.
After six weeks, we finally decided and went back “home.” The time seemed so long. The road is winding (literally and figuratively) and endless. It was the toughest ride ever. Our anxiety level was up, and the butterfly feelings are all over us. Our heart is telling us not to go back home yet, but again, sooner or later, we can no longer hide and avoid but face reality. We have to step up in faith the place of fond memories where there is love and respect, our refuge, and where we used to be complete as a family for recent months.
Our feet were heavy as we climb up the stairs to our house. Upon entry, we were welcomed by the two big photos of my darling that were displayed during his wake, left untouched. I was caught off-guard and felt as if my body froze; I cannot move. I told my son to turn the photos backward to contain myself from any emotional breakdowns. I cannot describe how my children felt at that time. All I can remember was, they were numb and weak, they did not say anything for a while, and eventually wept, and I was crying with them too—no words in between. We just let go of our emotions. We did not know what to do and how to begin with and how much time it took us to be in that situation. Eventually, we were on our knees begging for God’s grace and mercy. Our prayers calmed us down and gave us the focus we needed. We started to fix our things with the help of my niece and her husband—one room after the other, leaving our bedroom as the last one to be opened on purpose. I need sufficient courage because I know what is in there, an “elephant” waiting.
I took a few deep breaths to prepare myself as our room is being opened. I cannot exactly remember how I felt. Ordinary life events trigger significant pain; how much more is the pain when you see all tangible memories at one time? I just felt that tears flowed instantly from my eyes as memories of my darling flood my soul. My children and I felt our world stopped again for some time. There was heavy breathing, heart racing, all-consuming ache. It was more than the pain I felt in the grocery store or our first few days of loss. I felt a knife that cut through my heart and wounded my soul. The scariest experience that I have been avoiding and wanting to forget was right in front of me, the “elephant” that wants to devour me and cut me to pieces. I saw ALL that was left off from the hospital, used and unused; there were so many. (We were ready no matter how long it will take his treatment going to be). I found myself embracing everything that I can hold on to that belongs to him—literally smelling what is left of him, his used, unwashed clothes, his wide collection of warm sweaters and jackets all over the wall. I want to feel and see him again.
As my emotions waned, I felt exhausted and slept. I snuggled into our warm fur blanket with a lot of stuff still on our bed. What surprised me was, the sleep was the calmest, peaceful sleep that I ever had since my darling passed away. Even my children felt the same way when we slept together that night. There was peace, quietness, rest, and comfort for the first time. We are surviving, after all. We tried to escape from the giant of fear and the elephant in our room by avoiding our home, avoiding the tangible things that remind us of our loss, but the giant of fear was broken, budding faith, hope, and healing await.
We found safety and comfort within the four walls of our home the following days. There were moments of emotional outburst, especially when we remember my husband’s favorite food, his never-ending coffee session after meals while he is playing chess passionately against his virtual opponent. You can see and feel his excitement and frustration if he is winning and losing, and the worst memory was the event before his hospitalization. Nonetheless, we savored more good memories during our stay.
We wished we could have stayed on the condition that we lock ourselves within because thoughts of going out still scare us. O, it was just a wish because we know it is not possible. We need to leave for the time being. We need to press on and go back to the city where we used to live—a place where we have more good memories, friends, and “family” waiting for us. I need to go back to work, earn a living to support my children, especially my son, who is struggling with his studies because of this experience. My daughter also needs to return and focus on her work as our loss greatly affected her performance. I know God did not leave us, especially when a good friend told me of the story of her friend who suffered the same case as mine. Her condition was more complicated because she lost both her husband and mother, barely three days apart with two little children left behind to take care of. She was reportedly found inside the restroom, unconscious, and was brought to the hospital. I was also told that she has to go through a blood transfusion and needs psychological counsel. Along the way, I know God is with us. I can see His goodness through stories like these and the kindness of Christian family and friends who randomly checked on us.
I know God would pull us out of our situation and give us peace and comfort amid our pain with the passing of time. He didn’t promise to protect us from pain and loss but to bring us through it. Our family was crushed was but not destroyed after all. As impossibly hard as that is, the pain of remembering is outweighed by the beauty of their being. Agapi mou s’agapo.
