They say the first year after losing someone is the hardest. You're hitting all of the "firsts" without the one you love, and you're learning what grief looks like. It often catches you in the most random moments. You think you're getting a handle on it, and then it knocks you a new one again. But the more milestones that you face without the one you love, the more the reality and permanence of their loss sinks in. The reality that life really is moving on without them: the years are going to keep ticking by, and somehow all the events and memories are going to happen without them. In some ways, that just feels heavier.
As I look back over the past 8 months, I think back over all the times I was going about my day and randomly thought, "oh, I should check on Michael and see how he's doing. I should send him a text. Tell him I love him, am praying for him." Only to remember that I can't anymore. And that wave of emotion hits: the grief of missing him, the regret of not calling him more, the desire to hear his voice one more time.
Or I realize that as I watch my kids growing, there's a heartache there, knowing that they won't remember their beloved Uncle Awesome. We share the photos and the videos and talk about him. But if I am honest with myself, I don't have many memories in my own life before the age of 6, so they likely won't remember him. It was hard living in different states; he was already not a part of their every day life. But to not have any memories of him or have him in their life at all...that just feels extra sad.
Or there's the hurt when my kids fight with each other, like siblings do. When I hear, "I wish I didn't have a brother!" and my heart just can't take it. I know their little hearts don't understand the weight of their words, both from a parenting standpoint and from a stomp-on-my-grieving-heart standpoint. I have to hide my horror and not put the weight of my grief on them as I parent them through their conflict. While I know they don't truly mean it, the tears have already started falling, because of how deep their words cut. If they only knew. We do talk about the weight of their words as it relates to each other and people in general, and maybe I will press them more on the value of their relationships as siblings, but man, it's not a fun one to parent when your heart is broken.
Over the past 8 months, I have relived that fateful phone call and that solo plane ride to Texas and the hospital and the funeral home. Over and over. The events of those days are ever present with me, and are as much a part of the memory of my brother as any of the others. And I wonder when {or if} the memories of that time will fade. I know I likely won't ever forget, but I do wonder when the memories of his life will outweigh the memories of his death.
I wonder when the songs will stop triggering tears. The song we sang at his funeral. The song that played while we said our goodbyes in the operating room. I'm grateful for music and how the Lord uses songs to meet us where we are. And I even love these particular songs. But I still cannot hear or sing them without going right back to those moments in time, reliving the goodbyes.
And then there's today. 8 months is not typically a milestone for grieving. But for me, today marks 1 year since I last got a hug from my brother. I was visiting my grandparents in San Antonio {ironically enough because I was worried about their health, worried about losing them}. Before heading back home, I was able to have dinner with Michael. At the time, I was grateful for the chance to see him, as I always was, since we lived in different states. But I took it for granted. We had been talking about everyone coming out to Virginia for Christmas, so I just assumed I would see him again then. I just assumed there would be another visit, another time. Another hug.
We all do it. We all take our time with loved ones for granted, and it's not because we don't care. Life gets busy, we get distracted, or a hundred of other reasons, I don't know. All I can say is this. If your loved one comes to mind, just send the text. Make the phone call. If you're with them, take the picture. Give the hug. Say "I love you." I promise you won't regret it.
While I am still so sad, and wish there were more...I can't tell you how grateful I am for that last hug.
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