This is a pretty old blog post that I never posted — who knows why, I just got busy or something. With the 4th year mark after Steve’s bike accident about to pass in June I went back to look at this and decided this is something I need to share. It’s about my own experience that first year.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Steve and I often comment that our experiences of June 2014 are so vastly different from each others'. I have a solid week of vivid memories, poignant moments, sharp-focus. Steve has a very fuzzy blur of severe pain, exhaustion, people coming in and out, worry, grief, loneliness, thankfulness. Almost 16 months later, I have a very personal story to tell about my own trauma and recovery. I'd like to tell this story because I think it is an important story to tell, and perhaps for some of you to hear. And because for the first time, I feel like a renewed woman.
When Steve had his accident, I found that my mind could only take in so much. I could get from one day, one hour to the next without losing it, but no further. I allowed myself to experience things as they came without denial of my feelings, and truly trying to soak up what I needed to learn. But I think I knew even then that I would have work to do later. I knew that it was a deep wound that would need very particular care at some point. I remember telling Søren the day after Steve's surgery that Dad would be coming home tomorrow. Somehow I wasn't able to fully take in that this was going to be a very long haul. Even after Steve had gone to rehab and come home, I remember feeling sheepish for accepting help and even sympathy. It was like, well, we're doing okay, I don't want to intrude on your life. The return to just a bit of normal can be a dangerous place. It gives you a security in something familiar and an assumption that you can continue everything you have always done.
What this looked like for me was not allowing as much help as was offered. And not shedding responsibilities when I had the opportunity. I focused more on the tasks of caring for Steve and my home and my family and didn't recognize the importance of prioritizing rest and down time and space. I had a vague understanding that those things were important and I must be intentional about them, but still allowed myself to believe the lie that self-sufficiency and productivity are more important.
As the year went by, because of the the combination of my allowing this pattern to develop and the strange plateau-land Steve was living in, I continued to put off the work I knew I needed to do for myself. By May, I had depleted my reserves so fully that the thought of packing one more lunch for the kids seemed daunting. I wanted to just crawl in a hole and not have to talk to anyone again. I knew some time was coming up for me to sort things out and I started to make plans to disengage myself so I could do the work I needed to do.
Then the anniversary of Steve's accident arrived. Seeing it coming was just... sad. We both realized we'd been expecting him to recover fully by then. And he hadn't. We wanted to acknowledge the day and originally wanted to plan a party for so many that had loved us well during that time. But somehow we just couldn't seem to manage it. In the end, we went to lunch with the Geringers, with whom we'd most closely experienced that day. Both of them read things they'd prepared for us, which touched me deeply. We shed some tears but were mostly so grateful for how God had cared for us this last year. We visited the accident site. I thought this would have been traumatic or emotional for me, but it wasn't at all because it didn't look like I'd pictured it in my head. (Strange--I just this minute realized I can no longer see my original "head picture" of the place. Can't even conjure it up.)
And then I was off to a baby shower. And that was the day. Some appropriate tears, but not really that hard a day. But toward the end of the baby shower, I felt myself sinking into a strange fatigue. I saw my friends helping clean up the tables and put away leftovers, which I would normally jump to help with. But I felt melted into a chair like a blob of goo and found that I didn't want to talk to anyone. I headed home and went to bed.
Suddenly as I lay there, I discovered that tears were coursing down my cheeks and I had no idea they'd even started. I thought, perhaps I just need a short cry and then I'll get to sleep. But the tears wouldn't go away. I got out of bed so I wouldn't disturb Steve, and I wept. And wept. This heaviness descended over me and I couldn't shake it. I knew then that the time had come. It was time to find out what I needed to deal with and get to the work of dealing with it.
No comments:
Post a Comment