Today marks 51 weeks since Libby died. I know that number not from looking forward and knowing the one year anniversary is next week, but because every Sunday, usually while sitting in church, I remember the Sunday that she died, and mark how many weeks it's been. How many weeks since we begged the doctors to keep her alive until June 28 so she wouldn't die on her sister's birthday (June 27) and so that she could be an organ donor. We got one of the two. Libby died in our arms, as we shared funny memories about her, shortly after 12 a.m. on the 28th.
So surreal, so wrong to walk out of the hospital minus one child. As we turned in our badges in the lobby before heading to our van (with the car seat that was suddenly rendered useless), the people we passed didn't know what had just happened minutes before. Even now, no one can look at me and know the most important thing about me, that my daughter died. And isn't that true for all of us? We have to dig and discover to get below the surface of one another. We each have our own stories that are often surprising and not what one would expect. I remember listening to a fellow mom's testiony a number of years ago. I didn't know her well, but perceived her as one of those moms who just has it all together, has had a good life. Beautiful and kind, a happy loving family, organized, stylish, a strong faith, the whole package. But in high school she came home one day to find her older sister murdered by her brother-in-law who had then killed himself. I often think back on the experience of hearing her story, a story I never would have expected in a million years, and I'm reminded, once again, that there is so much more to each of us than meets the eye.
I'm always so appreciative of people who have the willingness and ability to take the time to really see and hear other people. I like being on the receiving end of that but struggle with finding the right ways to engage others. These days I'm grateful when I have the chance to talk about what I'm always thinking about. A dear friend visited me a few months ago and we were able to spend one day together. It was one of those perfect days. One of the things she did that meant so much was that she read my Bible, the Bible I've journaled in this past year. And she didn't just thumb through it looking at the pictures. For probably close to two hours she read every word and feeling I had written in there. I can truly say my heart and soul are in that Bible and it was such an honor to have someone so interested in it, in me.
I wish there was an easy way to get to the heart and soul of people. How nice it would be if everyone came with their own book, or video that just got down to the business of who they truly are. Even before Libby died I have always been shy, unsure of what to say, what I had to offer, how to truly engage people. And now it's even more of a struggle. My brain is still not as it once was. The large majority of my thoughts are about Libby in one way or another, and I find it difficult to carry on varied conversations, even with good friends. How do I engage and learn about the people I interact with every day? Are there Pinterest pages about easy tips and topics to use in conversation so you can focus on others? Sigh. My struggle is real.
It's been four months since my last blog post. I'm trying to think about what to say to sum up that time. My absence here isn't because there was nothing worth saying. The previous posts I've done felt important, experiences and feelings I wanted to record and remember, if only for myself. So many of you have been so kind, not only in taking the time to read what I write (even though brevity is clearly not my strong suit), but to also praise my writing. It's so very flattering to hear that, but the truth is, writing is not easy for me. Yes, a lot of the writing I have done this year has flowed and been very therapeutic, but even then there's still lots of detail work in the editing which can be a lot on my brain. In short, these past months have been a time when the thought of writing a blog post just seemed very intimidating and exhausting. I went through a pretty bad episode of depression as well. Everything in life felt overwhelming. The really bad days, which previously had never been more than one at a time, were now much more consistent and it was increasingly difficult to maintain a good mood. Everything was overwhelming and hard. Everything irritated me, especially if it was said or done by someone to whom I was married. And my sweet husband, he put up with me beautifully, stepping up and filling in all the areas I was leaving empty.
Grief mixed with depression was a whole new beast. I described it where Grief is your bad roommate. You don't like them, but you've gotten used to them, you know their habits, and generally what to expect. But then all of a sudden their evil-er twin shows up and everything is different and you have no idea what to expect, only you know none of it will be good. That's grief plus depression and let me tell you, it bites. I met with a new doctor and after 15 minutes of talking to me she suggested I see a psychiatrist for anti-depressants. And in the meantime she would just write me a prescription so I could get started on something right away. Excuse me? I was a bit shocked. This was a doctor who had gotten many of my friends
off of their anti-depressants. And she had just met me! How could she know after a brief conversation with me? It's not like I sat crying in her office (well, not much anyway). I was still able to get out of bed. I got the basics done. Where do you draw the line to say what's grief and what's depression? I recounted this to my therapist who
knows me. To my surprise she also applauded the suggestion of medicating me. Well, I started on the meds and things just got worse. Another month, another medication, but still things continued to worsen. My therapist sent me back to my psychiatrist immediately. He didn't change the medication but upped the dosage a bit. I'm telling you, after one full dose, I woke up like a new person. It was amazing. It was as if the final number of the combination had clicked into place and the vault was opened, with the treasure being my sanity, getting my self back. All of a sudden life, my emotions, my family, were all bearable. I could still feel sad and cry and grieve, but I could also be happy and experience joy and take interest in life again. To see how my brain reacted to the medication, it was clear there was a chemical imbalance going on. How grateful I am to live in a time where there are treatments when our bodies can't fully regulate themselves and need a little assistance.
So I'm doing better now and that is such a relief. I didn't have any clear direction as I sat down to write tonight, but I thought I just needed to get something down, for my own well-being so I can show my brain it's not as bad as I make it out to be. I know I'm all over the place here and I know when I post it there will still be typos and and it won't be very tightly written, but it will be written and sometimes it doesn't need to be perfect, it just needs to be done. There's accomplishment in simply doing something, finishing something.
So tonight, after just one round of proofreading (instead of at least three), I'm calling this done. This was a good warm up for me, because with the impending anniversary, there are more, harder things to write. Maybe my brain will start believing it's not so hard. Or maybe I will realize I can do hard things and sometimes just getting through it is hard enough and I don't need to expect more than that.
