I learned how to swim

"Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim." – Vicki Harrison 

I sat there Friday night in Michigan with my family, on the beach just like one year ago and Dad said, "So, how are you feeling tonight vs. a year ago." It had occurred to me already the stark contrast. Over the last year, I learned to swim.

A year ago I felt like a broken person. My husband was dead, which still felt completely unreal as it had only been 5 weeks. And I had found out the day before that I had melanoma on my neck. I was terrified and pissed. All I could think was what in the hell is going on with my life. My kids just lost their Dad, are we now really going to deal with cancer. My melanoma wasn't a death sentence, but more of a reminder of our fragility, cause I really needed one of those, apparently.  I had barely found my footing and someone pulled the board out from under me. It was total crap, and the one person who should have been there with me to walk through that valley was dead. I couldn't talk to him about my paranoia, and this time he couldn't say, "It's not a tumor," in his best Arnold voice, cause it kind of was. 

I walked onto that beach last year to watch the sunset and everything I was holding inside came pouring out of me. I had to walk away from everyone because I wanted to scream, about how unfair it was. I wanted to yell and punch and let someone know this wasn't what I signed up for, but I couldn't because I have three children. These girls had no clue what extra I was going through, and hiding from them. They just lost their Dad, and there was no way I was adding this to their load. Chloe's separation anxiety was in full alert at this point, and I wasn't going to add to that worry. So, I walked down the beach and sobbed and wondered how we would get through this, too. 

I stumbled through that weekend and the next and then the one after that. I had the melanoma removed and then found out it was gone and that the lymph nodes closest to the spot were also clear.  I now wear a swim suit with sleeves, coat extra sunscreen all over me, and frequently hide in the shade with my hat on. I have not had a sunburn all year. I have been to three skin checks since last June and all of them have been clear. 

I knew that getting past the year anniversary of Justin's death wouldn't be a magical fix. But I will say that a year's worth of perspective, grieving and healing does make a difference. I have said it before, and I will say it again, I am not the same person I was last year on August 4th.  As I sat there, watching the water on the lake come in and out with the tides, I thought about how appropriate all those metaphors about waves and grief are.  Most of the time these past few weeks, I am really good. The girls are really good, even though I am really tired of them being home all day, and of course there are small issues and general frustrations of children and having two teenage girls.  My job is really good. I just feel really lucky to be in the environment I am in with people who are genuine and caring. Our day to day lives are good. I have been enjoying my garden this summer and lots of bicycle rides.  I have made so many great friends over the last year, and have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know new people and rekindling some old friendships. 

Most days I feel like I can now ride on top of those waves like a warrior. I can do things like take my dishwasher apart and put it back together. I can kill wasps and fill holes with expanding foam to keep them out. I can do all the things. However, I can also feel like I cannot even get out of bed and don't get me started talking about how overwhelmed I can be about the smallest things. Sometimes I feel so good and so on top of things that I feel guilty. Am I getting over this? Am I forgetting? 

My life is full with family, friends, church, and work, and I like where we are. I wish Justin was here to do this with us, but he isn't, and this is now more normal than it was. I can talk about him without crying, and I can think about what we lost without feeling like I am breaking in two. It is still unfair and it is still not right that I have to raise these girls without him. It is still surreal that after 19 years of being married, that I am single, and still I hate not having another adult living in this house with me. On most days though, the waves bring with it gifts of memories and laughs, and take back out into the depths, the sadness. On most days now, the hurt and emptiness are not pulling me down with the tide. I can breathe. I can look back on a year ago and wonder how I did that. How did I survive all of those crushing waves? The answer is the same, I put one foot in front of the other. I took it one minute, one hour, one day at a time. All the while God held me tight and my people held my hand, as I learned how to swim.