The Price of a Silver Lining

Years ago, I made the decision to change my mindset. I made a choice to be happy.  I made a choice to see the world as 'the glass half full.'  Though it took some practice, I mastered my new approach to life quite quickly. 

When I met my first husband, he called me 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.'  He would often say, "Well aren't you a f@#$ing ray of sunshine" (please understand, he was a city boy, a blues musician, and was born with an unfiltered tongue).  I never took offense.  My positive outlook made him smile.  My demeanor would rub off, constantly.  And so it was.  It was my new normal. 

Since the time of that profound transformation, I have had an unwavering ability to find the silver lining.  Face it.  There is always a silver lining!  Is there not?

At 15 weeks gestation, during our third pregnancy, we were told of the likelihood that our little sprout would be born with Down syndrome.  When suspicions were confirmed at 18 weeks gestation, we were abundantly relieved.  It was easy to spot our silver lining.  Josiah would not be born with Trisomy 18 or Trisomy 13.  The extra 21st chromosome seemed like a walk in the park.  We would be able to take him home.  Our little man would likely survive childhood.  We could plan a future for 3 little boys, who's growth we could witness and enjoy. 

When my oldest brother died, a profound dichotomy came to a crashing end.  He and I were twins, born ten years apart.  He was an addict; I was not.  The stress of being the 'big sister,' 'my brother's keeper,' and his 'safe house' ended in an instant.  I was the big sister; he was ten years my senior.  My Mom would never again have to worry about where he was, if he had food/ money/ shelter, if he was dead or alive.  The profound stress his behavior caused, was now replaced with grief.  Threads of silver linings, everywhere we looked.  No more of this.  No more of that.  Some hope of ultimate peace.

When my first husband died, the instant silver lining was that his pain had ended.  I took great comfort in that.  He would never have to have another surgery.  He would never have to take medicine again.  He would never be near-death again.  He could rest peacefully.  His spirit could soar, unhindered by the physical confines that held his body hostage. 

And so life continued.  There are silver linings everywhere.  I'm always looking.  I always find them.  Some years ago, I heard a saying that I just loved.  Though I don't know who to credit, and I'm paraphrasing here.  The gist was this.....you can live your life as if nothing is a miracle OR you can live your life as if everything is a miracle.  Given my knack for finding silver linings, I could relate so well to that concept.  Silver linings?  Miracles?  They truly are everywhere. 

When i was reunited with my high school sweetheart, I often referred to him as my silver lining, my second chance.  We married.  He took our name with ultimate plans of adopting the boys (whom he loved like his own).  On a Friday night, not long ago, he kissed me goodnight and retired for the night.  He never woke up.  12 hours later, he was cold.

For weeks, I found myself saying "He was my silver lining, my second chance."  Losing my first husband left holes in my very soul.  This reunification and love reignited, had been the happy ending.  I had never before considered that a silver lining might be temporary.  I had never pictured a silver lining being ripped, torn, or taken away.  Every trial, tribulation, and tragedy ended with a silver lining....which, in turn, brought renewed hope, peace, and joy.  Then this profound dichotomy hit me like a ton of bricks.

Silver linings come at a very steep cost!  If you have found a silver lining, you have first endured disappointment, tragedy, or loss.

Since losing my second husband, I was instantly able to recognize all the things for which I was grateful.  We had this amazing 'fairy tale', second chance.  Some never experience the kind of love that I've experienced twice!  I have amazing friends who came running on a tragic Saturday morning.  I have amazing tribes who helped with every single need, for weeks.  I have an amazing family who was willing to do anything, at any time, in order to provide support. 

Silver linings?  Yes.  I have new family members that have become so profoundly important to me.  Just last week, another silver lining presented itself.  It's mere existence gives me peace of mind that we will be ok.

Silver linings have come at a steep price.  Loneliness.  Shattered dreams.  Hopes lost.  Profound sadness.  Anxiety.  Insomnia.  The "why's?".  Looking for someone, only to find their empty chair.  Longing for their voice, only to hear silence.  Memories of a touch you will never again experience.  The finality of loss......

Yes, the silver linings have come at a steep price.

Even in that, there's a silver lining of self awareness, strength, determination, dignity, and grace.  It's all cyclical.  As long as your willingness to find the silver linings remains unwavering, you will always find one.  When you do, hang on tight!!  Sometimes they are temporary......

When the Dust Settles

The Merriam-Webster dictionary refers to "the dust settles" as an idiom.  It's "used to talk about what happens when things become clear or calm after a period of change or confusion."  Example: "I'll call you as soon as the dust settles from the move."  When Josiah had open heart surgery, there was initial chaos (meticulously ordered chaos).  Then the dust settled.  The surgery was over; His risk of imminent death, all but extinct.  He was stronger, as were we.  Fear behind us, hope ahead.  When someone dies....the dust must settle....but when?  How?  What does that even look like?  These thoughts have been permeating my mind.

When someone dies, it is like a dust storm.  In our case, it came without warning.  It presented in the middle of the night, whilst we slept.  It's results were swift and mighty.  It left, in its wake, unimaginable destruction, and silence.

Since John's death, 15 days ago, layers of dust remain.  We clean but the dust has settled into places we haven't yet touched.  Imagine entering a room covered in a layer of dust.  You dust the top layers and think, "Great! I'm making progress."  Then you move one item.  Dust falls to the floor.  There is dust underneath the item you move.  It is cyclical.  It is repetitive.  It's a constant reminder of the storm that blew through.  It's a reminder that despite your effort, the dust remains.  Even when you can't see it, it is there.

When the dust settles, the dust may never truly be gone.  Your life remains the same, but oddly changed.  The world continues to move about, blissfully unaware of the storm you have endured.  You continue to go about your day; others may not see the difference.  You know.  You are forever changed.  You are dirty.  You are tired.  You wonder.  You question.  You cry.  You persevere.  You are you but you are different.  The dust is a part of you.

My perception of things "becoming clear or calm after a period of change of confusion" has been forever altered.  

Nothing about John's death, or how we experienced it, is clear.  Things are calm but only because we have a schedule that we do not divert from.

I don't know why I fell in love the first time, only to have to say goodbye.

John and I reunited because we still shared a love for each other.  We believed in second chances.  We believed in fairy tale endings.  We believed we had endured our own struggles to arrive at this happy ending.  We believed.

I don't know why my beautiful boys had to lose their Daddy.  When John entered their life, he was their second chance, too.  He confirmed that something beautiful can come from tragedy.  John had stepped up to be their Dad, without question or hesitation.  John was going to adopt them in the Fall.  I don't know why my beautiful boys had to lose their step-Dad, too.  Life is truly a mystery.  It can be sad.  It can be unfair.  Just like a dust storm, it can come in and permanently alter every aspect of your life.

I don't know when dust settles.  Maybe it never truly does.  Maybe we just adapt to it.

  

The Staircase of the Unpredictable

I wish I could tell you that a divine writer's inspiration brings me here.

I wish I could tell you that Josiah accomplished something so asounding, that I'm here to share.

This blog started as a way to share our life with our 3 boys, the youngest whom happens to carry an extra chromosome.  Our dreams of a diary, of sorts, in the day to day happenings of a family raising a child with Down syndrome.

In the formative years, there was daily inspiration.  The newness that Josiah brought was note worthy.  Heart defects.  RSV.  Hospitalizations.  Open heart surgery.  Early intervention.  PT.  OT.  Speech.  Milestones - mostly delayed, yet spectacular.

Preschool introduced new things to share.  In time, we discovered Josiah was more alike than different.  There became less things to share.  Milestones became further apart, but none-the-less stellar.  Life became slow but steady.

Then Daddy died.  That was 2015.

The boys and I recovered from our loss.  I returned to work.  I reunited with my high school sweet heart (John).  He vowed to raise my boys, as his own.  We played.  We danced.  We sang.  We laughed.  We lived.  We loved.

October 2018, we married.  It was our second chance at love.  It was our fairy tale ending.  It was proof that out of tragedy, comes something amazing.  

On Friday, August 30th, John became tired.  It was nearing midnight.  He had worked many hours that week.  We were preparing for our glorious 3-day weekend.  He said, "Well, I'm getting tired.  I think I'll go to bed."  We spoke of our love for each other.  He kissed my head & retired to the bedroom.

Little did I know that our fairy tale was over.  Little did I know that our second chance had come to an end.  Little did I know......

When I went to wake him up, at nearly noon, on Saturday morning, he was already gone.  He looked like he was sleeping.  He looked at rest.  He looked at peace.  He didn't respond.  He didn't move.  I took notice of how quiet the room seemed to be.

The tactile sensation is what bothers me the most.  Of the nightmare that played out that day, it's the tactile sensation that I can't shake.  He was cold.  "That's impossible," I thought.  "He can't be cold."  "He's never cold."  "This can't be happening."

It is surreal to say that I've been widowed twice.  I'm not yet 50.

That was 9 days ago.

I've continued to work.  The boys have continued to attend school.  We are ok.  We have each other.

I wish I could understand why this has happened; it is not for me to understand.

By getting up each day, I teach the boys the need to carry on.  By speaking John's name (and Carl's), I teach the boys the importance of remembering....the importance of carrying our loved ones in our heart.  With my tears, I teach them the value of sharing and expressing our feelings.  I hope when my children are old, they are able to look back and remember their Mama as facing life's trials and tribulations with compassion, fortitude, dignity, humility, and grace.

I pray my own reactions, expressions, behaviors, and attitude continue to be a positive influence in the lives of my children.

Up the Down Staircase.  It's all about perspective.  When you're at the bottom, you can always climb up.....

Don't ever lose hope!  Things always get better.

<3