Sometimes it seems like only yesterday since Brian died. And yet other times it feels like so very long ago. So here it is, a New Year's Day . . .the third time that I have started a new year, knowing he'd not be in it with me. 2023 has been an eventful year in many ways. Probably the most significant was the loss of my sister-in-law, Pat, in Colorado. At the request of my brother, I traveled there to be, as he put it, "emotional and moral support" . . . because "You get it." I was, he said that I was one of the few people he knew who could really understood what he was going through. His wife was dying and didn't have long to live. About a year ago, she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, the same insidious disease that took her mother, at far too young of an age. What made this even sadder was that Pat had fought both colon and stomach cancer in the last five months of her life as well. Like Brian, her family brought her home on Hospice. And, like him, she lasted for just four days, quickly declining more and more each day. Even though she was heavily sedated and, for the most part unresponsive, she spent her last days on this earth in the place that she loved, surrounded by the ones that she loved. And in the quiet hours of the early morning, she peacefully slipped through the veil and crossed from this world to the next, leaving behind her disease and her suffering . . . and those who loved her dearly.
I'm going to be honest: When my brother asked me to come, I was hesitant. And scared. I knew I would find myself mentally stepping back in time 2.5 years ago to Brian's death. That I would again be waiting for death to knock on the door, for one earthly life to end and a heavenly one to begin. I was afraid of how I would react. I wondered if I could mentally handle this . . . again. I tried to convince myself that I shouldn't go, but I couldn't make it work. As afraid of it all as I was, as much as I wanted to leave all of those memories behind me and not relive them, I still went. I went Because my brother asked me to. Because I knew the drill. And, because of all those things, I had gifts that I needed to share. It felt to me like maybe helping others through grief has somehow turned into "my thing." And, though it's still confusing to me, in the end, I decided that if God thought I could do it -- which He must because he keeps sending me to things like this -- then who was I to question my ability?
Over the past two and a half years following Brian's death, I have been doing the hard work of carving out a new path for my life. Of navigating the grief ambushes and finding my way out of the darkness and into the light. I'm getting better at finding smiles, laughter, new friends, and a sense of purpose. I know that I am moving forward. However, doing things like this are still hard and make painful memories bubble slowly to the surface, still causing tears to fall. But I have noticed that the tears have changed from the early days of my grief. Instead of floods of tears that are coupled with heartbreaking sobs, they are quiet tears now, gently tracing cherished memories of days gone by down my cheeks. They come and they go, and they don't stay for long.
All of this is not what I imagined my life would be like, and it's nothing I ever wanted, much less thought I'd be capable of doing. Still, here I am, doing it. I'm paying it forward. I'm making a difference, and that helps me find meaning and acceptance where once there was only disbelief and denial; smiles where there was once only despair; and peace and comfort where there was turmoil and discontent. I'm grateful and honored that my brother requested my presence at such a sacred moment in his life. It's something I will treasure forever.
I don't know where I am going, and may not even know when I have arrived, but I Know that I am on a new journey and making a difference along the way. And, for now, that's good enough.
Time in a Bottle 