Grief Activation

You know, I've written about how my grief gets activated, how it comes from out of nowhere. Well, the latest one hit me like a ton of bricks.

I was cleaning at my son-in-law's house, as I usually do on Wednesdays. This past Wednesday, I was cleaning the kitchen cupboards inside and out. This meant emptying the cupboards, wiping them down, sorting out some dishes and food that were not needed or expired, then restocking them. It is a tedious job, but again, I do it for Jess, the kids, and, of course, my son-in-law. 

It was going very well, and while sorting through papers that had accumulated on the top of the fridge, I ran across Jessica's chart from her home care nurses. Having worked as a visiting nurse, I know that these documents are legal and need to be returned to the nursing agency. Fortunately, the phone number was on the front of the envelope. 

The receptionist who answered my call was a lovely lady who was most helpful. I told her about Jessica's chart and that I  wanted to return it to their office. I volunteered to drop it off, but she quickly informed me that the envelope was postage-paid and that all that was needed was to drop it in the mail. 

I told her the envelope looked a little eaten up, and I may not be able to piece it together. It was her next comment that hit me like a punch to the gut. She said that while I could return it by mail, all of the records were on their electronic system and that if I had the means and was comfortable, I could shred the chart myself. With tears in my eyes, I replied that I didn't think I was emotionally able to do that. This lovely lady apologized profusely for being insensitive. I quickly stopped her and informed her she was not insensitive; it was just how my grief showed up today. 

After ending the call, I collapsed in a monsoon of tears, moreso than I had in a few weeks. It was a wailing cry from the pit of a mother's heart. It was clear to me why my grief showed up the way it did. If I sent the chart to the agency and they ultimately shredded it, I would be fine with that, because I wouldn't know. Shredding it myself felt like I was erasing Jessica, or at least a period of her life. Even though that chapter of her life was so painful, it was her final chapter. Erasing it almost made it seem more final, more real. Even though I acknowledge both of those realities in my logical mind. 

When I think about it, I still have two medication containers of Jessica's in my cupboard. The medication isn't anything I would use. They include a vial of vitamin B12 and a bottle of stomach medication, both labelled with her name. While I may get rid of them someday, today isn't that day, and tomorrow likely won't be either. 

I hang on to the tangible, what I can see. I think I'm so afraid of forgetting her, which of course I cannot ever forget my Jess. She is with me in everything I do. She is with me through her children, my grandchildren. I will continue to keep her spirit as alive as I can while I'm here on this earth.

“The memory of the righteous is a blessing.” — Proverbs 10:7

Still Making an Impact

 

When Jessica was going through her cancer journey, she had amazing people caring for her, from the PSWs who were welcomed into her home to the nurses, both at home and in the hospital, plus she had an awesome medical team. That medical team included her oncologist in London, as well as the orthopedic oncology surgeon and his team. Jess loved her team, and it was so evident whenever they walked into the room. Her spirit lifted, and her eyes lit up as she said, "Hello, Dr._____!" She saw them as the answer to her prayers. Even when things were not going well, she still had such love for them. 

One particular doctor on her surgical team, Dr. C., is a US physician who was completing his musculoskeletal oncology fellowship at Mount Sinai in 2023-2024. He was likely about Jessica's age, so they seemed to connect on things like children and family. I truly believe Jess counted him as a dear friend. 

He was amazing during Jessica's surgery, keeping us updated throughout that long 12-hour marathon. Jessica was later transferred back to London for palliative care, and after she died, I sent Dr. C a text informing him and the team that she had passed. 

The response I received back from him, I will never forget. I actually keep it on my phone and return to it from time to time. I shared it at Jessica's service: 

"Kim - I am heartbroken. Thank you for updating us and I have let Dr. Ferguson know. I can’t imagine the grief in your family, and I am praying for you all. Jessica will be in my memory forever, and my fellowship and future career has been impacted by her in a way no other patient has or will. She impacted me on so many levels. Technically - her case was challenging and pushed our skills to new levels, the decision making was challenging but thoughtful. I don’t think any of us regret anything about how things went/decisions were made. But on a personal level, spending time with Jessica and her family has made me hug my kids tighter, be more present and more grateful for my many blessings. I am a better surgeon, husband, and father because of her.

As you noted, Jessica’s spirit, even in the face of the most trying circumstances was unparalleled and inspiring. I will remember that spirit and turn to it often during the most trying times of my future career."

I was, and remain, so grateful for those words. She impacted his life and those on her care team. She made a difference to them. That was and is my girl. 

The other day, after we were in mourning regarding dear Ellie's departure from this world, I received another text from that same doctor. Note that it has been almost two years since that text after Jessica died. It read:

"Hi Kim. It’s been quite some time, hope all is well with you and your family. I’m a little over a year into my independent practice. I’m taking care of a patient right now who in many ways reminds me of Jessica. It’s a tough case, and I’m not sure if I’d handle it as well without the experience and learning, I gained and caring for Jessica.

I’m sorry to bring up hard memories, but did want to let you know that I think of you guys often and Jessica is still very much having an impact on me and my patients."

I was so moved by his compassion and God's perfect timing. There is nothing that a bereaved parent wants more than for their child to be remembered. This is not just Jessica being remembered, but that her presence on this earth continues to make an impact in the lives of others. Of course, I know that's true in our circle of family and friends, but knowing her further reach made and continues to make a profound difference in people's lives further underscores God's purpose for her life and, yes, even in her death. 

Jessica's positivity and resiliency during her illness were noticeable to everyone around her. It was her faith in Jesus that gave her hope and peace, and she certainly told people as such. 

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of my sweet Jessica and thank you that she continues to light up and impact the world for good. Just what she would have hoped for. 

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven." Matthew 5: 14-16

Ellie

Ellie in 2020

We lost a family member this weekend. Her name is Ellie. Ellie is my son's beloved cat, whom he adopted in 2020 at the beginning of the pandemic. He was away at school, and the companionship she brought him during the lonely lockdown was life-giving. 

Ellie continued to give him life as he navigated life. When he moved back home during the pandemic, she was there right beside him. She seemed to have an intuition that people might only associate with dogs, but our dear feline friends also harbour that characteristic. 

Ellie slept on his bed, beside his head at night and would wake him in the morning with a kiss on the nose. We rarely saw her as she was a one-person cat and rarely left our son's living quarters. 

When Jessica died, Ellie was there for our son, providing him comfort and support during his ongoing grief. She was his "constant and his rock." She provided the support he needed while on his journey through grief, depression and anxiety over the past two years. 

When he went away to Hong Kong to visit his girlfriend's family, Ellie was in our charge. We saw her more, as I think she was lonely on her own in the downstairs apartment. We started to develop a bond like we hadn't before. She sat with us for snuggles while we watched TV in the evening, and hopped up on our bed during the day to nap. 

When our son returned, he had noticed that Ellie had lost some weight. We figured she likely hadn't eaten well while he was away, so we didn't think much of it. When our son noticed her gums were tinged yellow and, the next day, her ears, we knew something wasn't right with our girl.

The vet told us that the yellowing or jaundice was not a good sign, as it meant something was not right with her liver system, indicating some blockage. He said that the prognosis was likely poor. While I thought I had prepared our son that this could be a serious condition and even mentioned the word "cancer" to him, he was gobsmacked. 

Witnessing my 28-year-old, devastated, hurt deep into my soul. While of course, I was upset and worried about Ellie, it was seeing my son in so much pain that pierced my own heart. 

That day, Ellie stayed at the clinic for IV therapy, on the off chance this might be reversible. One day of IV turned into two, and soon we were on the weekend, when she would need to go to an animal hospital for more intense care. Of course, none of this came without cost, but we felt we needed to help, since our son wanted to do everything possible. At that point, Ellie did not appear to be in pain.

Saturday morning, when I spoke with the vet who had been on duty all night with Ellie, something in me stirred. Until that call, the staff had been somewhat positive that she was stable, eating and peeing, so it gave some hope. This time was different. Her report was not encouraging, so I knew we were in for a rough ride.

The call took me back to 2023/2024 with Jessica. Knowing the news I was waiting for was likely not good, but hoping and praying for a positive outcome. Grasping onto little threads of hopeful comments by medical staff, but inside knowing the outcome would not be good. 

That morning, my insides were churning with a familiar sensation that I wished I would never experience again. I had to get out of the house as I felt like I would self-destruct. I went to visit Jessica's bench. It was not the greatest day to hike on a snowy trail. While the weather was clear and crisp at -20C, with snow on parts of the trail almost knee-high, the trek was worth it. I sat on the bench, prayed, and then talked to Jess, and it seemed to help me organize my thoughts. 

A call from the vet with an update from the day shift so far. Things remained guarded, and when I returned home to give my son an update, I was gentle but truthful. Much of this was bringing back not only bad memories for me but also for him. 

For his protection, I may not always have shared everything with him about Jess, at least not as bluntly. Later, he told me he felt betrayed, even though he understood my reasoning. However, he is an adult, and while I can be gentle, I need to be truthful. 

Later that afternoon, we received word that Ellie was declining. The vet did an ultrasound and found fluid in her abdomen, which she said most likely meant this was all caused by a malignancy. Ellie was not quite six years old and had otherwise been in top health. This didn't make sense. But it was clear that she was not going to return to health, and prolonging her life was only going to increase her suffering. 

We all made the trip to the animal hospital, where we spent time with Ellie. While my son held her close, she crossed the rainbow bridge. I whispered to her that she should go and find Jess. Again, he is devastated, but knows the right decision was made. 

The grief my son has over Ellie is compounded by the grief he feels for losing his sister. In the world of grief, this is called secondary grief, or compounded grief. Whatever you call it, it hurts, it sucks, and it's not fair. 

Jessica was his friend and confidant. In some ways, so was Ellie. She gave him unconditional love and support in the darkest times, but also in times of rejoicing. 

Our pets are not "just a cat" or "just a dog"; they are our beloved family members, and their loss leaves a void in our lives that we cannot "get over" in a succession of days, weeks, or even months. Not everyone understands, but those of us who do will support others in their seasons of pain.

Where did that come from?

Earlier this month, I had a video consultation with an orthopedic surgeon. In September 2023, I fell getting out of the tub at Jessica's house. It was during the time that Jess was in the hospital and I was at her home helping to care for the children. I often didn't have time for a tub bath, but that night I did. I love to soak and relax in a hot tub of water, especially when my day, or rather my life, has been overwhelming. Everyone had gone to bed, so it was a very quiet time. As I was getting out, I slipped, twisted and fell on my right arm. The pain I felt at the time was so excruciating that I thought I would pass out. I didn't want to call out to my son-in-law as I was certainly not "decent" since I was just getting out of the tub. 

I figured I had strained muscles before, and all I needed to do was ice it and take some ibuprofen. I might be sore in the morning, but I was sure I could work through this. 

Well, that night and the days and weeks that followed did not prove to be pleasant. The constant pain I had was sometimes unbearable, but I had to keep going because I felt that my daughter and my grandchildren needed me. I got used to doing any lifting with my left arm, which proved challenging when caring for a 6-month-old baby. I armed myself with ice and ibuprofen around the clock in some cases. I didn't speak about it very much at all. After all, my pain paled in comparison to the suffering my daughter was experiencing. 

That being said, it was over a year after Jessica died that I was able to get to the doctor about it, even though I had managed the pain with medication and exercise, and was functioning fairly well. An ultrasound confirmed the tendon tear, and I was referred to the surgeon, who "coincidentally" was the same well-known surgeon that Jessica had initially seen when she fractured her arm.

This surgeon had been so kind to her, and while he saw her just the one time, then referred her on to an oncology orthopedic surgeon, he had called her personally while she was in the hospital to check in on her, which I felt was incredibly kind. Even in her appointment with him, he laid out the possibility of a cancer diagnosis, but he also provided reassurance that it could be other things. I'm sure he knew that the diagnosis was likely osteosarcoma, but he chose not to instill panic in her at that time. I looked forward to seeing him. 

The consultation was actually a year away. I certainly was doing better, so I wondered if the appointment was even necessary, but I kept it. Originally, it was an "in-person" appointment in March, but when the call came for a virtual option in January, I jumped at it. 

The session went well, and Dr. A. essentially assessed that I likely didn't need surgery and that I should keep up the strengthening exercises I was doing. It wasn't until the end of the appointment that I explained who I was and how he had cared for Jessica. You could tell he was trying to place Jessica in his memory; after all, he sees hundreds of patients a year, I'm sure. Then he asked if she had a fracture in her right arm. When I told him yes, you could see he recalled her case. In our conversation, I explained that she had died in March 2024, and there was silence. He explained that he felt emotional over the incredible loss we had endured. He identified as a parent himself, just how unthinkable losing a child must be. 

He was very kind, then he said something that I now believe was the voice of God. 

He said, "Are you thinking you would like to help people going through a similar grief?" Of course, I replied that, yes, I was, but I didn't feel I was able to yet. Then he said, "You need to take time for yourself to work through this. To have some healing before you can support others."

I was blown away! Why would an orthopedic surgeon want to first ask that question and second, speak into my life about my own inner healing? 

To some, it may seem random, but this man obviously has a heart of compassion. I wondered afterwards if he was a Christian, and maybe he was, but nonetheless, to me, God used him to speak to me. 

For so long, I have been busy during Jessica's illness and then since her death. It is my nature to be busy. To fix things so when opportunities came about for this course and that course concerning my grief, I jumped on them. Afterall, creating meaning in all of this pain would have to be helping others, right? 

Well, creating meaning and helping people is a good thing to do, but you can't pour from an empty cup. In Isaiah 40, God speaks to the Israelites in captivity, offering them hope of restoration. 

"He gives power to the weak
and strength to the powerless.
Even youths will become weak and tired,

and young men will fall in exhaustion.

But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
They will walk and not faint."

Isaiah 40:29-31

He also wants us to experience soul restoration in all seasons of life. I am weak, tired, and powerless, so He will give me power. I can fall into exhaustion in body, mind, and spirit, but because I hope in Him, He will find new strength for me.

Will I soar high on wings like eagles? Maybe not literally (although that would be amazing!) Truthfully, right now, I cannot fathom that scenario in my near future. It seems almost impossible to me. 

But isn't God the god of the impossible?  

Well, I guess my answer to some of the plans I was trying to make is to wait. Little did I expect that direction when on a medical consultation about a physical issue. God certainly does work in mysterious ways.

I Was Blind, But Now I See

I have not been able to remember my dreams for some time now. I'm not sure when it started, because I have vivid, colourful dreams from years ago that I can recall in detail. I guess this must have been a gradual deterioration because there is no clear point of transition. 

Since Jessica died, I have had two dreams in which I recall seeing her, and both dreams happened in the early weeks following her death. They both had to do with her illness. One, she was in a hospital with a nurse whom I recall she had when she was a patient. 

In the second dream, she was again in the hospital, and I was running around trying to get her pain medications straightened out. The staff had concerns that she was becoming addicted to the opioids she was taking, and I was trying to tell them that that didn't matter at this point.

In neither dream did Jessica say a word to me, that much I remember. I guess in some ways they were disturbing dreams, because she was sick, in the hospital, and I was unable to help her. Here I was, the nurse, unable to help my own child. That is obviously how I felt about the trajectory of her illness, so it came out in my dream.

Almost every night, I prayed to God to let me dream about her, to talk to her, to hug her, to tell her I love and miss her. I would awaken some mornings with a fuzzy recollection that her presence had been in my dreams, but the more I tried to remember what happened, the faster my dream state faded away, never to return. The "feeling" was all I had.

These "almost" nightly prayers continued for some time, until I read in one of my devotions something along the lines of "chasing" the experience rather than seeking our Saviour. While I can't remember the devotion itself, I remember the conviction I felt. Psalm 37:4 says, "Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart."  God knows my heart, and I believe I need to wait on Him. 

While I may not have had the dream I desire, God has shown up in so many other ways through nature with butterflies, birds, deer, and the like to carry my heart, especially because every day seems to begin with that "lack of joy." 

Lately, I felt like I was in a spiritual wasteland. While my spiritual life and my relationship with the Lord are improving, I haven't had the eyes to see God's blessings as clearly as I should. Perhaps the dead of winter and lack of sunshine have played a part, but even if there was something in front of me, I wasn't seeing it. My eyes were closed.

So, I prayed to see a blessing. I didn't feel I was chasing an experience, but a genuine connection with the Lord. This was just on Saturday night, and to be honest, by Sunday, I had forgotten the prayer. That is, until we dropped in to visit friends after church. They live in the city but have a lovely nature trail beyond their property line. 

As we were visiting, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, out of the patio door. There it was, one, then two, then three young deer walking casually through their backyard on the side of the trail. Their tails were down, so they were not afraid. 

I knew, because I knew that that sighting was sent by the God who loves me, who knows my heart, who carries every tear I've cried. The delight in my heart warmed my soul. I thought afterwards that the three deer could even represent my three grandchildren that God cares for and loves far beyond what I can imagine. This gave me peace. 

Even though I still haven't had that "dream," God is providing the signs of peace and love that He knows I need to carry this heavy heart, especially over the Christmas season. God's signs of love are all around us; we just need to look for them. My eyes were closed, but as the blind man that Jesus healed said in John 9:25b, "But I know this, I was blind, but now I see."

Photos courtesy of Pexels

Seeds of Compassion

 

As a grandmother, I find joy in everything related to my grandchildren. Now that I live closer, I can be more involved in their day-to-day lives, at home and at school. I have become a (grand) parent volunteer, so I get to know the staff and other parents, which makes me feel more connected. It's something Jessica would certainly do, so I sense her stamp of approval. 

Last week, the school held a Christmas Market where the children either sold some of their toys and books from home or their crafts they had made for the event. All the money raised goes to the parent council, who provide much-needed projects that are not fully covered by the school board. It's a great cause, and I have even attended some of the parent meetings, so I have a handle on what is going on. 

Families were encouraged to attend the event, so my son-in-law, his mother, and I arrived when our children would be out "shopping."  Children were hurriedly running from vendor to vendor in the market, both indoors and out. Our (grand)children were given some money to spend on whatever they wanted. When my grandson was given two five-dollar bills, he immediately gave one five-dollar bill to his friend, D. It warmed my heart to witness this selfless act of caring. 

D is a young boy whose family moved here from Africa. My grandson has told me that D's family does not have a car. When I replied to him that when you live in the city, you don't always need a car, my grandson said, "That's not it. They can't afford a car." He also prefaced his comments with, "Please, Grandma, don't laugh when I tell you this."

My grandson has also shared that D often goes to the office at lunchtime to pick up his lunch, as he does not bring one. He again would preface with "Don't laugh." He is very protective of D, and it is evident that he is a good friend. 

It is beautiful to see my grandson's compassionate heart, and it reminds me so much of Jessica. As a young child, she would often give away the coins she found in the car or one of her toys to a friend. I even remember one time she came out of her bedroom crying when she saw one of those World Vision commercials showing the children from third-world countries, who lack basic needs. 

Even as a teenager, she brought home a young, troubled girl into our home to live with us for a few weeks. She felt such compassion for this girl who didn't have parents to live with, and the relative she was living with was moving and wouldn't take her with her. 

Jessica's heart of compassion was in her DNA, and, obviously, she has passed it on to her own children. I see it in my granddaughter as well and even in my youngest grandson, in toddler ways, of course. Now it's up to us to foster the giving spirit in all of the children as they grow and mature. 

Invisible

 I made a note this week after watching a rerun of "Call the Midwife." In the episode, Sister Julienne is challenged by a patient who is clearly depressed. Of course, Sister Julienne is trying to encourage this woman, as only she would do. This woman, likely in her late 50s, tells Sister Julianne that she has no idea what she is going through. How, as a middle-aged woman, she is invisible to the world, and that the sister would have no idea what that feels like, because she is recognized and respected. This woman felt neither.

Sister Julienne returns to Nonnatus and changes her Habit to the dress of a 1960s Poplar woman. She walked the streets and went to a movie theatre to watch the new movie, "The Sound of Music."  She was not "noticed," and indeed, you could see that she blended into the crowd. Certainly, having the freedom to go to the movies unnoticed may have been a perk of the Habit-less nun, but nevertheless, she now had a slight idea what this woman meant. 

When I thought about this later, it's sometimes how I feel in my grief. It's been almost two years now, and while getting "through" a day is "easier" than it was a year ago, I do feel unnoticed in that grief. It's not that I want attention or pity, but it's the avoidance of even talking about Jessica or our family. 

Sometimes my insides are screaming about the pain, the loneliness and unfairness of it all that I feel, but when I open my mouth, platitudes come out. People will ask how the kids are doing, but sometimes I feel like maybe they really aren't ready or willing to really hear. I often respond with "they are doing, okay,' to which they reply, "Oh, that's good." It almost seems like they breathe a sigh of relief that they didn't get further "woes" in the response. But it's not "good." It's anything but good.

If they really understood that "ok" doesn't mean "good, great, or bad," it's just "okay." It means I know you really don't want to get into the nitty-gritty, because I'm not sure you want to hear. Hearing means responding, and the responding may be too difficult for you.

Anyone who truly knows me knows that I don't relish in idle "chit chat" about the weather or how the Blue Jays did last night. I like to "share from the heart," as an old friend used to say. I don't get much of that these days. Having moved away from "my people," it takes time to develop those kinds of relationships in a new community. 

In another post, I shared the story in Genesis 16: "The God who sees me." When Hagar felt all alone in the desert, banished by the cruel Sarah. Hagar felt invisible, like Sister Julienne, like me, like anyone walking the grief journey. But our God is the one who sees us. He sits with us in our grief; we are not invisible to Him and never will be.

Pennies from Heaven

 I can't believe it's been almost a month since I last posted a blog. It's not because I don't have anything to write about, that's for sure. I guess it's having the time. My son is currently out of the country on a three-week holiday, so it seems strange not having him around, but I'm happy for him, especially if this trip is a positive event for his life. That's a topic for another time. 

My mom and dad are in the process of packing up their home (my childhood home) to move in the new year. They are 80 and 84, respectively, and have lived in their current home for all of their married life, which is 64 years in January. You can imagine there are lots of things to go through and get rid of. They have been doing that for the past few months, knowing they were downsizing, which is a good thing.

Because they have never moved and I have moved several times in my 63 years, I feel like I can offer not only some help sorting and packing, but some tidbits of wisdom about moving. My dad, however, seems to think I'm still 12 years old, so when he receives the same advice from someone else that I'd previously given him, at least he may get an idea that I know what I'm talking about, or not.

This past week, my mother and I were going through books, photo albums and other pictures. There were several momentos concerning Jessica in the bunch. Pictures of her as a newborn and as a young child. There was the artwork she did for my mother, who was putting on a fundraiser for the local camp for children with cancer. It was a penny drive called "Pennies from Heaven."

My mom's sister, Ann, had recently died of cancer, and the lake where this camp now sits is one my aunt, who was an avid swimmer, used to swim most of the day every summer when she was young. So, the camp and Jessica had a special place in my mom's heart. 

I remember the picture, the fundraiser, and how proud Jessica was to be part of it. My mom told me she told Jessica that this drawing would be good to add to a resume, to which Jessica replied, "What's a resume?" 

This is a picture that my granddaughter, who is now nine, could have done. She has the same creative ability as her mom did at that age. Jess loved to draw, and most of her drawings had the sun, hearts and rainbows; that's part of who she was. She brought illumination and riches wherever she went. 

Going through some of Jessica's memorabilia was heartwarming, but heartbreaking, all in the same sentence. Remembering who she was as a child, seeing the same characteristics and gifts in her children, yet grieving the future she will never have with them, with us. 

Then there is the coming Christmas season. Thinking about what we are going to do and what I am able to do has suddenly become overwhelming again. I really thought I could do it this year, having family in my home, but I don't think I can.

People may think that it's been almost two years, I should be ok by now, but any bereaved mother that I have connected with tells you that is not so. A mom I know who lost her daughter many years ago said it took her eight years before she felt she could really handle having Christmas. She had young children, and I have grandchildren, so we need to do something, but it's what we can do within our current ability that is the key. 

Last year, I knew I couldn't handle a meal. I had some great advice from someone at a GriefShare group that made the difference. I ordered a full turkey dinner from a local caterer. It came ready to heat up in the oven on Christmas Day. That helped, for sure. 

Just this morning, when I texted my son-in-law's mother to confirm that she was having Christmas dinner on the 25th, so I could coordinate my gathering. She said she was, but that we were also invited to come. I almost cried. That lifted a weight off my shoulders. I will still likely have my parents and the kids over for a small gathering, but we will order takeout. 

Needless to say, it has been an emotional few days. Just when I think I'm doing better, the silence of Jessica's absence from this world is loud and clear. But we must carry on. This will be the second Christmas that Jessica won't be with us, but I will endeavour to keep her joyful spirit as part of our Christmas celebration.

So Jess is still giving us sunshine, rainbows, hearts, and pennies from heaven. Those treasures, those memories that travel down from heaven every so often, to keep her alive in our hearts. 

Let the Little Children...

 

Over the last few years before her diagnosis, Jessica had returned to the foundations of her early faith. Having children seemed to reignite this desire. I also believe that Mike's coming to faith prior to my granddaughter's birth factored into that spark as well. 

While Jessica often talked about going back to church, she longed for her children to know God. She researched Christian schools when they were preparing for our granddaughter to start kindergarten. They ultimately decided to send her to a Catholic school. However, in order for her to attend the school, she needed to be baptized in the Catholic church. 

It was a lovely ceremony, featuring scripture readings and a heartfelt message from the priest. My granddaughter understood as much as a 6-year-old could at the time, and her excitement was precious. I was made one of the godparents. While I am not Catholic, Jessica wanted me to help teach the children about Jesus in their lives. 

The subsequent baptisms of the two boys took place in October 2023, following Jessica's return home from the hospital. Jessica was not strong enough at the time to make the trip, but she watched it from home on livestream. Again, I was given the role of being a godparent. 

The Catholic school that the two older children attend has been such a blessing. The principal and teachers have been a wonderful support over the past two-plus years. I believe the children have fared better due to their faith-based education and the school family. 

I speak to the children about faith whenever the opportunity arises, and they understand that their Mama is in heaven with Jesus. However, I have been feeling guilty that I haven't been honouring Jessica's wish to have a stronger spiritual influence on her children. We have been attending a London church primarily because we hoped to bring the children with us one day. They have attended a church summer day-camp there, and we have invited them a couple of times, but it hasn't ever worked out. 

With the Christmas season on our doorstep, the children's program at church is preparing for their nativity skit. I presented the option to my son-in-law and later to the children about their being involved in the play. While I was having doubts they would come, they did attend this past Sunday. They had fun, and I hope and pray they will continue to attend, but it's all in God's timing.

What really blessed my heart was last evening, when I went to babysit my youngest grandson while my middle grandson attended soccer practice. The past couple of practices had been a challenge, as my grandson seemed uninterested and not paying attention to his coaches. Rather than engage in the drills, he was "goofing around." This was very frustrating for my son-in-law, who is overloaded on the best of days, raising three children on his own. 

Before my grandson left yesterday, I stopped him and prayed over him. It was a simple prayer that Jesus help him to listen to his coaches and pay attention to the game. When he returned later, I asked him how it went. Both he and my son-in-law said it went very well and was much different than the past couple of practices. My grandson also piped up and said, "It was because you prayed for me, Grandma!" 

Of course, that blessed my heart. It was a reminder that God uses all different situations to reveal Himself to people and, more importantly, right now, to my grandchildren. A spontaneous prayer was something I used to do from time to time, and I'm glad that God reminded me in that moment. Will my grandson remember in later years that Grandma prayed for him as he went out the door? Perhaps not, but maybe it will serve as a stepping stone in his faith journey. We can't dismiss even the smallest of our actions in the name of Jesus. 

But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.” Matthew 19:14 NLT

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Bursting Heart

I've had a bit of an epiphany lately, and I'm having a difficult time putting it into words, so here goes. 

Since my first grandchild was born, I have had a different experience of love. I love my children very deeply, but the arrival of my granddaughter awakened something new within me. The joy of being with your baby's baby is unique in and of itself. It evokes a sense of marvel at the wondrous work of God and who He has created us to be. He has created each one of us with our own unique traits, paths, and purposes that add to the miracle of life. 

I had the great honour of being in the room when each of my grandchildren was born. While certain moments stand out in my memory, it was how the experience made me feel that was amazing! 

When Jessica was diagnosed with cancer, her youngest child was just three months old, so attention to him was needed due to his high needs as an infant. At the time, the other two children were 4 and 7 years old. Their lives, however hard we tried to make them feel "normal," was turned upside down when. Their mother, who was a full-time stay-at-home mom, often had to be away, either going to appointments or lengthy hospital stays. 

Don't get me wrong, Jessica worked hard at staying connected with her children. When she felt well enough, she would video call them from her hospital room once or twice a day, often to read or tell them a bedtime story. Being a devoted mom was part of her character and identity. Her children meant everything to her, and her love for them was what kept her fighting to stay alive as long as she possibly could. 

During that time, I often felt  overwhelmed. Caring for my youngest grandchild took a lot of my energy, and the older children also needed attention. The summer was difficult keeping everyone attended to, and I felt isolated. Perhaps I wasn't truly alone, but that is how I felt. I was in survival mode, navigating their care, while grappling with my dispondence over my child's diagnosis and likely prognosis. I did everything I could out of love for Jessica and her children. 

These past two years have been incredibly challenging to say the least. As I navigated through the grief of losing my daughter, I felt like I was running on an empty tank of sorts. I grew to be able to manage my day-to-day activities, but there was little left within me to offer to anyone else. 

As I started to regain some normalcy in my life--such as attending church and getting involved in volunteer efforts in our new community--an emptiness remained. Indeed, being with my grandchildren brings me great joy, and it still does. Making their world as normal as possible in this new reality became a priority for our family. 

Attending to my own needs seems not to be a priority for me. I'm not blaming anyone else, but I think that being in "survival mode" does that. You put yourself on the back burner I'll get to "me" sometime in the future; now there is so much to do. 

Fast forward to now. I honestly feel I have a greater capacity for love in my heart towards my grandchildren. I've always and will always love them with all of my heart, but it seems there is now increased capacity, if that makes any sense. I feel like I'm bursting with it. 

I notice it when I snuggle with my middle grandson after he has had a difficult practice at soccer, or when my granddaughter needs that extra-long hug before I leave. Then there is my youngest grandson, now 2 1/2, who lights up the room and my world every time we are together. 

I believe God is showing me that while He is still carrying me in this journey of grief, bringing healing to my heart, He is also expanding my capacity to love and enjoy my family. In some ways, it is a tiny glimpse of the tremendous love He has for us. Whatever this feeling is, I love it!

"And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God." ~Ephesians 3:18-19 NLT

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