Sunday morning, I woke up and cried. Deb was gone; there was nothing I could do. No one was with me. I made this uncomfortable cry that sounded a little like I was sick like I was convulsing. It’s shameful to be out of control of my own body. And the crying hurt physically. My stomach was in knots; my body felt like I had the flu with a headache, and my body was achy.
I believe my crying woke up Erin, who was sleeping upstairs. When she came down, I hugged her, and we cried harder than I’d ever cried. I think she struggles with crying too. She lost her mother. She would never have her mom gush over her grandchildren. She’d never see Deb grow old. That was gone now. Forever.
There was no solution, no fixing this problem. We had no control over what happened; we could only be together in grief. And if I had to go through grief, I’m glad that at least I had my children there.
Then something strange happened: I started talking. Erin and I were sitting in the living room, and I poured story after story of our life together, which was several I had never told before. It was like drinking from a firehose. It was almost too much. And we laughed. Hard. It was the first time I’ve laughed since Friday morning.
I decided to stay home from church that morning. I wasn’t sure I could handle my friends’ questions. Besides, I loved sitting and talking with Erin. We drank coffee, told stories, and laughed. Nate showed up a little later and joined in the laughter. I believe laughter was part of the healing in my heart. Things became right-sized. The future didn’t look as nasty as it did. Life without Deb could be possible. And it was all because I had a good God.
I realized I was replacing my two hours of talking with Deb with two hours talking to my children. It was redeeming. I was getting pieces of my heart back. It was like breathing fresh air after being stuck in a closet for a long time.
Looking back on that morning, I realize the pain subsided, just a little, from my awareness. Talking made my fear seem small, less scary.
God Had a Purpose
In the coming days, I realized I lost my purpose. Part of my purpose was loving my wife, helping her when she needed help, and enjoying her when she didn’t need help. Every plan I had involved Deb, either being with her or doing something for us in the future. My fun was tethered to her. I guess I could have had fun away from her, but it didn’t feel right. Why go out to eat? Why see a movie? Why go shopping? Why work on the house? All the things that motivated me before no longer mattered.
According to Jesus, the two greatest commands are to love God and love one another. Louie taught us that everything boils down to love, specifically in relationships. My primary relationship was with Deb, my wife. Now that she was dead, I lost my purpose, my goals, and my center. My fun was connected to her. No more Deb, no more fun.
My future was tied to her, and my retirement was tied to her. My 401k was to help her when I died. But now she’s gone, and I have no reason to retire, to build up my 401k, or to do anything.
It took me a few days of depression to discover this connection. She was my rudder. She kept me balanced. She saw all my sins and loved me anyway. I’m a people pleaser with no Deb to please. Instead of looking forward to doing something she wanted to do (travel, projects, dinners), I have nothing and have no one. Part of my purpose in life died when she did. I feel like an astronaut whose tether to his spaceship had been severed. I’m floating into the big dark space with no way of getting back. It was terrifying because I had nothing to bring me back to reality. And now, I don’t know what to do.
Pressure
I don’t know anyone else’s grief experience, but I’m not good at it. I’m not sure how I experience grief, really. I felt like a cell phone searching for a signal to complete a task. And in the back of my mind, I had the naïve hope that someone would swoop down and take care of me. “It’s gonna be alright Andy, I got it from here. I’ll help you pay your bills, laundry, and cooking.”
I know that this is a lie, but I still wanted that to happen. But it wouldn’t. There was no one to do what I needed to do. I was on my own. I was surrounded by family and friends, but they’d be going home soon, and then I’d be all alone. I left Deb’s pillow on the bed, right where it was, in case she came back during the night. That was silly nonsense, but I secretly hoped there was a mistake.
But the fact was, I was an adult—a single adult. Brooke, my other incredible daughter, was able to get my finances in shape, something I wholly trusted Deb to take care of. I’m ashamed I knew so little about paying my bills. I had to man up and take care of my problem because it was my problem. And I had no confidence I could do it, so Brooke setting this up for me was a lifesaver.
The Fifth Day
In his infinite wisdom, God woke me up at 3:00 am and wanted me to write a prayer. I was trying to make sense of Deb’s death, trying to grasp a meaning I didn’t see. I was lost. But the words to this prayer kept returning to my mind while I lay there in bed. I edited them in my head over and over again. “OK God, when I get up, I’ll write this down,” but he made it clear he wanted me to get this down right then. In full disclosure, I wrestled for an hour before I got up and did it.
I could give this to Don to read at Deb’s funeral. Perhaps this could help others put words to their pain. For some reason, I couldn’t put words to my pain, or at least, I didn’t think I could. I am motivated to help others, but I am not so excited about helping myself. Perhaps God was inviting me into this pain to help others. That was a noble goal. Just helping me didn’t seem worth the time, especially at that hour.
Deb and I spent hours discussing how we individually received God’s love. She was intensely private, while I like to share what God put in my heart with anyone willing to listen. We were different. Sometimes, she was annoyed by my pattern; sometimes, I was annoyed by hers. I’m sharing this because I know Deb would have been upset if I shared this. I can hear her say, somewhere in the back of my mind, “Why do you have to share everything like this?” and would question my motives for sharing.
I share this because most of the experiences in this book would likely not meet her approval. She would like it kept secret and hidden. But God made me different. I’m not after my own glory; I’m after God’s. I honor God by sharing what he’s doing in my heart. Isn’t that what David did? Doesn’t God honor honesty? From my reading of Psalms, it seems that he likes it when his people are honest.
Still, a part of me feels the need to apologize for sharing these things. I just don’t know who to apologize to.