Full Circle

I had never known more anguish, never known more sadness, and never known more loneliness than the day I lost Ryan.  I remember those early days clearly, although I hesitate to bring myself there fully. It’s an indescribable feeling.  Helplessness and nausea are the only words that come to mind. In the moment all I could do was concentrate on lifting my foot and then positioning it in front of me. One feeble footstep at a time. One minute at a time. Everything baby steps. Everything frightening.

The process of losing a beloved spouse is a horrifying one, and one I only bring up because a dear friend lost her husband last week. Our correspondence brings me back to those helpless, nauseous moments. I continue only to glance at the memories though; I won’t completely succumb to them.

Looking back at myself just a couple years ago, and then seeing me now, I wonder how I got here in one piece. It was a process. Surviving wasn’t achieved by anything special inside of me. It was my ability to endure that was my best quality; getting up in the morning my best talent. I remember vomiting every morning from anxiety and then pulling myself together enough to leave my bedroom to be a mother to the boys. It was their faces that gave me purpose, and ultimately got me through the worst of it.

And now here I am, a few years later, engaged to another man, and embarking on a new adventure that should have me terrified, but instead brings me only waves of peace and joy.

I suppose I just need to publically acknowledge the miracle. How I have been blessed with two men who love me fully, for who I am, warts and all…how?

Miracle. It can only be that.

My fiancé thinks he was sent to care for me, but I feel like I was sent to care for him. We have both been through hell, it’s only by the miracle that we’re able to account for the peace we feel when we are together. He is my rest. When I am with him my worries disappear and I’m able to bask in a happy glow of sureness.

Life throws curveballs. Losing Ryan was a brutal one. Finding Doug was a brilliantly surprising one.

I guess Forrest Gump was right.

But my heart tugs tonight for my dear friend, Tara. The ache. I’ll never forget the ache.

Tara is a fellow D Mama. Dov, her husband, had many super powers, one being a badass D Dad.  His long battle with colon cancer at such a young age seems so tragic, but Dov made it anything but that. He made it magic. It sounds ridiculous, but he did…and I’m forever in his debt for showing me that magic lies within our own selves. No one, and no disease, can take that magic away from us.  It’s a lesson that can change lives. Ponder it for yourself, I beg of you.

If you would like to help Tara and her children, send her some love via this link:

http://www.gofundme.com/pd8f1k

There is so much worry on Tara’s plate right now. If we can take away some of that weight, I’m sure we’ll feel some of that ol’ Dov magic start to stir inside of us. I ask you, which one of us couldn’t use a little more magic in their life?

God Speed, Dov Siporin.

You are loved.

And Tara, I hope through all of this you will find as I did, that same nagging feeling in your heart that says, yes, everything…some day…some way…is going to be ok.

CFD.

Poke.

I’m not sure how the most optimistic person in the world can have nights like this, but it stands to reason that even the strong have their Achilles heal, and mine seems to be fear of failure.

Which is hard for me to wrap my head around when I have a solid belief that everything is going to be ok.

Maybe my problem is I’m fretting about the details and failing to stand back to see the big picture.

Perspective. Haven’t I written about perspective a million times?

“Yes, Meri. You have.” Say every single person reading this right now.

How do I escape the fear? It haunts me, it eats at me, it pokes me like a stubborn child.

Poke.

Poke.

Poke.

Maybe it has always been poking, and it’s just taken one moment of weakness, one step closer to the cliff for the pokes to effect me?  Everything seems more perilous the closer you are to a cliff.

That isn’t insanity, that’s science.

So how is it that crying makes the cliff so much less daunting? I’ve had my good cry and I feel so much better. Scientifically, I’ve heard that crying releases stress hormones and toxins from the body. Unscientifically, maybe taking all that bottled up emotion, turning it into tears and then throwing it outside the body is cathartic.

Whatever the case, I’m here trying to figure it all out. Writing usually helps me get to the heart of the matter, and in this case, my heart is scared.

Of failing.

Of failing school.

Of failing my kids.

Of failing the ones I love.

Right now, I'm trying so hard, I make things a million times harder than they have to be.

Right now, I worry so hard, I make things a million times more complicated than they have to be.

I’ve let things fall to the wayside to put all my energy into school, and what if all this wayside-ing is just my way of failing without actually saying the word “Failing.”

I’m such a hypocrite.

“You are enough”

“Your best is enough”

I’ve blogged that a million times.

I just can’t fathom failing while doing my best. And yet, it seems as though it could be a possibility.

I’m capable, and I need to trust in that. I need to trust in my knowledge that everything WILL be ok. I need to trust in the peace in my heart, even when the vessels around it pulse with insecurity.

I need to trust in a loving Heavenly Father who has taken such good care of me, and isn’t going to stop now.

I’m on the right path. I just want to kick this path’s ass, you know?

I know that experiences like this are for my own good. They will make me stronger.

I’m just ready to be strong enough.

I need to believe in my kick-assery ability.

And I need sleep.

And I need to stop thinking at night.

And I need a hug.

And maybe, I need some ice cream.