Growing in the Grey

There are situations in my life that I have processed very publicly, such as the death of Levi in 2015. But there have been far more situations that I have had to process privately, mostly because of the nature of the event. When public processing would adversely affect the others involved, one must be circumspect.

But I’m still an external processor. I’m so very grateful for the trusted friends and family members (especially my spouse) who have allowed me to use them as my sounding boards over the years, even when they may have been walking their own road through grief alongside me.

This situation with my dad is one of the latter. However, I think my own personal record here deserves to be marked with some of my thoughts and feelings at this stage of the journey, even if I must remain evasive about what brought me here.

I’ve been doing a little decorating at Dad’s place.

And, once in a blue moon, I even make myself presentable.

Today marks thirty-one days since Dad went into the hospital, and thirty since I drove away from my familiar and comfortable life to start this new chapter so I could help him. I would never have made it this far if it weren’t for my amazing husband, who whole-heartedly supports the work I’m doing here; my kids, who are all basically adults and are missing me far less than I’m missing them, I’m sure; and the extended family network here in Red Deer area who are helping with Dad’s care and who are also supporting me however they can.

Even still, it’s been hard. I’ve been dealing with symptoms of perimenopause for the last two years that have been greatly exaggerated for my age due to stress and burnout. While I’ve been on the road to recovery and have been managing better for the last six months or so, this past month and its stress created a perfect storm for a regression.

This stage of a woman’s life is not talked about nearly enough, in my opinion. Trying to deal with this situation while also being mired in brain fog, volatile emotions, and extreme pain for a week and half, and feeling like I couldn’t be clear about it with the male relatives who are my support team here because it would make them uncomfortable, only added to the stress that was also what precipitated the extra little “blessing” in my month.

(Men, I love you. But more of you need to become un-squeamish about women’s life cycles and step in when they show they could use the extra support. After all, how many man-colds have they nursed you through?)

However, in the last several days, we’ve seen hope for Dad’s recovery. I am once again (meaning, we’ve been at this point before) cautiously optimistic that he will recover enough to leave the hospital on his own two feet, it’s now only a matter of “when”, not “if”.

No matter which way this ends up, though, I’ve been trying to come to terms with the fact that my life as I knew it until recently is over. Of course, we can’t see the future. But it seems likely that even a “full” recovery for Dad means he will continue to require regular assistance from here on out. What that assistance looks like is vague and formless at the moment. We won’t know until we know more.

Now that Dad’s life seems to out of jeopardy, the most difficult part about all this for me is that I don’t know what the end date is. When will I get to go home to stay? I didn’t get married so I could live apart from my husband. We’ve done it for several months at a time in the past, but there was always an end date I could look forward to. This? This formless future is one of the hardest parts.

Remember the early pandemic when no one knew what was going on and everyone felt adrift, so they just washed their hands a million times a day and learned to make sourdough bread from scratch? Yeah. It’s like that.

However, I’ve also seen God’s hand in this from the very beginning. Not that he caused this to happen, but he’s showed his loving care in guiding events.

God is the god of second chances. And third, and fourth, and fifth. And, as I have learned through the many things that have come my way in the past, grief is his greatest tool for affecting change in our lives. His entire mission is to bring us closer to him, and he won’t waste a single thing that happens to us.

“His entire mission is to bring us closer to him, and he won’t waste a single thing that happens to us.”

I know he’s got lessons for me in this valley, and I’m actively seeking them. But I’m also not so sure this valley is entirely meant for me. I think, in a strange way, he’s been training me for this so I can help the others who are in here with me.

I don’t mean that to sound pretentious. I’m no saviour. But I’ve learned a few things about hard stuff. Things that have trained me to see multiple sides of issues and recognize the beauty in all people… and to help others without that gift of perspective to do the same.

I’m not sure if that gift will be useful as we move forward into the foggy future or not. (It can be tough to find perspective in a cloud bank.) But God gave it to me to use, and I intend to use it, even if the fruit isn’t immediately obvious.

It’s not my job to grow fruit. It’s only my job to plant seeds.

Because even in fog, seeds still grow.