Usually the word new implies something fresh, wonderful, and even desirable. But there was a moment in time when that one word effectively obliterated everything that I had ever known; everything wonderful and good in my life. Let me take you back a bit; pre-obliteration...
It was the end of seventh grade. Our family had just moved to town four and a half months earlier so I was still the new girl at school. Although my picture wasn’t even in the yearbook, I still wanted a copy because even then, I was nothing if not sentimental. I wanted to be able to look back at it one day and remember the faces of the people who made me feel welcome in a new school, who graciously took me under their wings and called me their friend. I took the yearbook home and spent all evening looking at every picture and reading every word. The summer before I moved to town, one of the students had been tragically killed in a motorcycle accident and the yearbook staff had dedicated a section in the yearbook to his memory. I never knew this boy, but reading about him and seeing his smiling face on the page in front of me stirred something deep within me. I was 13 and couldn’t really put a name to what I was feeling, but now, looking back, I know that it was grief. I was unexplainably sad. It made no sense to me because I didn’t even know him. I remember thinking that he was cute and had a bright smile. His eyes looked sparkly and full of life. The fact that he was robbed of his chance to live and share his charisma with the world threw me into a funk of epic proportions. Okay, maybe not “epic”, but I was 13 and everything felt epic at the time. This whole experience made me consider the reality of death and it caused me to reflect on my own mortality. I fell asleep that night with a heavy heart.
The next morning, I glanced over at my mom as she drove me to school. She could always tell when something was bothering me. So, I opened up to her about all the thoughts that had been plaguing my mind.
“I don’t know why this is bugging me so much. I didn’t even know him, Mom. It’s just so sad… his poor family,” I rambled as my mom let me unload my mind. “What would I do, I mean, if someone close to me died? Like, what would I do if I lost you?”
Taking her eyes of the road for a brief moment, she glanced at me and said, “you would get through it. You’re strong, God is stronger, and He would give you the strength to handle it.” She said this like it was a simple math equation. She had as much faith in this as she had in the fact that 1 + 1 = 2. “Try not to let this weigh on your mind all day. Oh, here’s your lunch money, baby. Be good. Love you,” she said as she leaned over for a kiss on the cheek.
“Love you too, Mom,” I said as I shut the car door and headed to class.
Little did I know that a week later, I would be in the middle of a nightmare that I couldn’t seem to wake from; that I would need access to that very strength that my mom promised God would give. I really hoped that it was just as simple as 1 + 1 = 2.
Apparently, my mom had forgotten something and had to turn the car around and go back . If she had just remembered. If that single mom who waited tables to provide for kids hadn’t been in a hurry and hadn’t ran that red light. If it had been on another road with a big open field to the side instead of a ravine. If my mom had any other choice but to swerve into oncoming traffic. If the kindhearted man driving the 4x4 truck hadn’t been headed her direction. If I could change any number of those things, life would be dramatically different.
Nine days of praying that she would wake up and prove the doctors wrong, because if anyone could it would be her, even if only out of spite to prove them wrong. Nine days of waking up, trying to figure out how to function through the chaos. Nine days of bargaining with God and begging him to make everything better. Her best friend, who was sitting in the passenger seat on that fateful day, was laid to rest during those nine days and I knew that when my mom woke up she would feel so guilty and so devastated at the loss of her partner in crime.
Looking back on that ninth day, it seems like a dream; like I’m watching some movie play on a big screen. I have always had more faith than really should be allowed. I mean, at times it seems as though God accidentally gave me my share and someone else’s – maybe even a few someone else’s. So, during those nine days I refused to even say “if she dies…” The closest I could get was “if the worst of the worst happens.” Because even though I had tons of faith, I realized that I wasn’t God and I didn’t get to make the final decision.
Day nine started out like the previous eight. Someone would pick me up in the morning and take me on some fun excursion to try to keep my mind occupied while my dad stayed by my mother’s bedside at the hospital 2 hours away. My older sister had friends that were trying to keep her occupied as well. My friend and I had just gotten off the boat and put our feet on the dock when I saw my dad walking towards me. This was rare because he never walked down to the dock at my friend’s house; he always waited up by their house while I walked the steep pathway up.
“Dad I was just about to go tubing one more time. Just once more, please?”
“No, baby. We need to go.” The look on his face and the solemn tone of his voice caused my world to stop spinning.
“Did the worst of the worst happen?” I whispered.
With sad eyes, he slowly nodded and wrapped his arms around me as we started to walk up the path. I was experiencing a moment of shock as I looked back and mumbled to my friend “I don’t have a mom anymore.” It seemed as if I could just voice it out loud, then it would sink into my brain and it would make sense. “Oh Dad, are you okay?” I immediately asked. For some reason, my 13 year old brain was able to grasp the fact, in that moment, that he had just lost the light of his life, his wife, the only woman he had ever loved. My heart broke for him. Even now I can’t recall the words he spoke in answer. I do however remember the look in his eyes. He was lost but I had no doubt that he would find his way. If anyone knew how to access God’s strength, it was him. My next question was about my sister. “How is she handling this?”
“Not well.”
“Drive faster Dad. I need to be there with her.”
I will never forget the scene before me as I walked into the house. My eyes danced around the room trying to take it all in. I am wired to always be considering everyone’s feelings in a given situation. It’s a blessing and a curse. It’s as though I feel what someone else is feeling. I carry their emotions as I try to balance my own. Sometimes it’s a heavy load to carry. The weight I felt in that moment was intense and overwhelming. My heart broke for the tough, 300 pound man sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands as he cried like a baby, for the woman sitting across from him staring off into space as tears kept falling out of her eyes, and for the countless other people in the room that were in pain. I felt the need to apologize to everyone in the room for causing them added grief and pain because when they set their eyes on me, it was apparent that not only were they dealing with their own grief, they were saddened for me as well. Some sat in silence with tissues dabbing at their eyes. Some paced as they pulled at their hair in frustration. People were everywhere, grief was heavy, and tears were abundant.
My sister was lying on the couch, with her head on someone’s lap as she cried. I immediately went to her and wrapped her in my arms. I did my best not to cry that afternoon or really much at all, at least in front of people. I didn’t want to add to their grief. I didn’t want my dad or sister to have to worry about me when their own hearts were breaking. I comforted them as best as I could all while counting on the fact that my mom’s faith formula for strength and God, really was as simple and true as a basic math equation.
As the sun was setting on that day, and the house was still filled with people, I stepped out on the front porch with my dad. I needed to verbally process some things and he was always the best listener.
“This hurts so bad, but I want you to know that I’m gonna be okay,” I said. My 13 year old self was somehow able to understand that this was a defining moment in my life. This had the power to make me or break me. This could be an emotional stumbling block for the rest of my life or a stepping stone. I made a definitive choice in that moment to use this horrific tragedy as a stepping stone in life...to grow from it. My mom would expect no less than me rising above the circumstance. She wouldn’t have wanted my circumstance to define my peace, my joy, or myself. I truly believed that she was in heaven and I was going to see her again. This fact alone gave me an unexplainable peace. I don’t understand how I could have such peace in the midst of so much grief and pain, but that was my reality in that moment.
Thinking of the emotional upheaval of the previous 8 days, I said, “I can’t wait for life to settle down a little and get back to normal, Dad.”
My dad wrapped his arm around me, and looked down at me with concern in his eyes. “It will never be normal again, baby. We can never go back to our old normal. We will have to make a new normal.”
In that moment, the C.D. playing the soundtrack to my life began skipping. His words “new normal” kept repeating in my mind. My whole life I have wanted the latest thing: a new bike, a new pair of the trendiest shoes, the newest album from my favorite band, the newest style of clothes…the list goes on. Always the new. Never the old. In that moment I realized that not only did I lose my mother, but I also lost the normal day to day life that our family had. I didn’t just lose her, everything was lost. New normal. What is that supposed to look like anyway?
In the days, weeks, months and even years ahead, I would find myself grieving over and longing for the old normal. I would trade the new for the old in a heartbeat. Even now, there are moments where the longing for the old normal catches me unaware and I have to take a deep breath to steady my emotions and wipe the tears. Sometimes I think about how much was stolen from me and it makes me mad. I feel robbed of so many experiences with my mom that I wish I could experience with her.
New things, new places, new beginnings. These are all things that are usually desirable. But sometimes I think that new is overrated.
