Anticipating Grief
From when we first found out that Zach had masses in his liver to when we had a confirmed diagnosis, it felt like such a long time. November 2 - December 15, 2022. During that time, information would trickle in pointing to cancer. That Thanksgiving was the worst. We all sat in silence, not knowing what the future held.
I dreaded going to bed because nothing could distract my thoughts. I was running through all the possibilities, the good and the bad, but the bad always kept me awake.
The good - it wasn’t cancer at all - if it were cancer, he would be healed of it.
The bad - it was cancer, and he would die. We wouldn’t raise Silas together, grow old together, or see Silas mature into a man. We would turn into I, and my eyes would burn as the tears welled up.
As the months went on and he had surgeries and chemotherapy treatments, the fear of bad news would come back with every scan, every surgery.
When the bad news came, I would share it with Silas, his parents, my family, and friends. Seeing the pain on other’s faces is excruciating for me. I can feel it so deep in my chest as I write this.
Over the last two years, I have learned so much about grief. It’s not linear, at least not for me. Sometimes, you can anticipate when you will get hit with another wave of grief, but other times, it comes out of nowhere.
We were at sea between ports for 4-6 days on our cruise to Australia. Nothing was in sight but the horizon line around the ship, surrounded by the ocean and the movement of the swells. Think of life as the ocean; it ebbs up and down. Some days, the sky was blue with the most beautiful puffy clouds; other days, you could see the storms in the distance and the rain pouring down, but you couldn’t tell how far away it was. Think of those storms as grief. We sailed into some of those rain storms, and the rain melded with the ocean as if they were meant to be together. It’s oddly beautiful and sorrowful at the same time.
I see those storms in the distance - being told there isn’t anything more they can do, or doctors recommending hospice, or the worst - Zach passing.
I don’t know how far away those clouds are, or how big the storm will be — only that we continue to sail toward them.
The grief that I haven’t been able to anticipate - Zach’s initial diagnosis and Silas asking me, “What happens if Dad never feels better?” There are more scenarios and questions, but I can’t think of them now.
Anticipating it doesn’t make it any better, I don’t think, but we have had the blessing of being able to grieve together. We don’t take that opportunity for granted, nor the support that so many of you continue to give our family.
