My Eyes

My eyes have seen enough for right now.
Actually about as much as I think they can handle at the moment.

I look at my eyes and where I used to see laugh lines, funny freckles I've had since childhood, and the inherited "family circles," I now see grief, hurt, exhaustion, worry.

It's been a month since losing my dad in a hospital very much like the one I sit in now with my son. The sounds, the smells...down to the bed that is so very much like the one where my dad took his last breath. Ultimately I know that we will work through this with my little boy, but it doesn't make the "getting there" any easier. And being "stuck" here doesn't make my desire to run around like a crazy person, screaming at the top of my lungs and kicking things, any less so.

My eyes have not seen real sleep since March. The "family circles" have become dark, sunken in pools of sadness and anxiety.

Just two days ago my eyes got to watch my beautiful little girl, my amazing first born, become a school girl. The day was compounded by so many layers of emotions. Immense pride, nervousness for her, sadness over seeing my "baby" grow up too soon, and hurt that I couldn't share this moment with my dad.

After her class began, I left the school. I began to tear up as I walked to the car. I called my mom to tell her about the event, and after I did that, I called my dad's cell phone because in that moment I wanted more than anything to tell him about "Kiki Haye's" first day of school.

As I listened to his voice tell me he was unavailable, I began a conversation with him in my head. My eyes let the waterworks run as this conversation unfolded. I could hear the excitement and pride in his voice back to me. I could hear him say like he has so many times before, "She'll be gone before you know it. It's sometimes hard to see it right now where you're at, but these really are the best times of your life - what you're living right now."

And in so many ways these truly are the best of times as I have the ability to be astounded every day by my little ones. And to be blessed with my friends and family. And at the same time, the continually compounding issues, losses and hurdles can sometimes cloud that vision.

I'm trying really hard to keep my eyes clear through all of this. My ability to do that made my dad proud, and it is what my kids need from me. Just two weeks before dad died he said to me, "I don't pray for Kaitlynn. She's just like you and she's going to be fine. I do pray for Grady, because I think he's going to need a little help."

So even as I sit here listening to my son's breath as he sleeps and watching his oxygen saturation levels with hope, I feel like dad is here, too, because like he said, Grady needs a little help.

My eyes are about to take a much needed rest, if possible, in a few moments.
As for everything I see in and around my eyes at this time in my life, I'm so thankful I don't have time to look in a mirror very often. Pity parties suck.

21 Days

Twenty-one days ago at this time I was speeding in my husband's car to Grand Forks, with my infant son sleeping peacefully in the back.

Twenty-one days.

Is it possible that much time has passed?

When I got off of work today at 3:00 p.m. I thought to myself, "Three weeks ago at this time I was debating about calling mom and dad." I was dealing with a lot of "grown-up, parent things" at the time. I really, really wanted to call them. But I had just talked to mom the day before and gave her a somewhat unhappy update on health possibilities of my son and I just didn't want to be "Debbie Downer" two days in a row.

I wanted to call them a couple times more from that time until I finally got a call from mom at 7:15 p.m. Funny, I thought, because so often my parents and I would call each other and say, "I was just thinking about you..."

It was the call I've been dreading basically my whole life. I think when you grow up in funeral service, and live half of your childhood above a funeral home, you get an amazing perspective on the frailness of life. I can remember saying from the time I was little that I wanted to go first because losing one of my parents or brothers might just do me in.

I realize now that the urge to call them was God giving me those nudges I get pretty much every day. He talks to me that way, but sometimes I just can't understand what it is that He's telling me. While I thought I was protecting them from my mood, I was really losing out on one last chance to hear his voice and laugh with him about anything and often times nothing.

I hear him: "Jamie Lynne! What do you know?..............Thank you so much for calling me."

I am profoundly sad, along with my mom and my siblings. Rightfully so, I guess. I've experienced a lot of difficult life lessons and even dealt with a lot of loss, but this is so different from it all. It's a hurt that is everywhere and in everything.

I just now finally made it through the hundreds of cards our family received. It was so heartwarming, but yet I still sit here with a swollen face and a tear-soaked shirt. It's overwhelming. It's so amazing to read all of the adjectives that friends, family and even just aquaintances used to describe my dad: sparkling eyes, unforgettable smile, fun, funny, compassionate, professional, well-liked, respected, charismatic, generous, one-of-a-kind, "good, good" man, huge heart...

It's heartwarming to hear such nice things. And I do agree with all of them. I'd add to the list: stubborn, sometimes selfish, talented karoake singer and story teller (even if the stories got bigger as time went on), sappy (cry more at happy stuff than anything!), interesting, prankster, fair, devoted, honest...

Another thing I read over and over is how my dad LIVED his life. So true. Sometimes as a little kid he seemed bigger than life to me. It's incredible, thanks to his line of work, how many people he touched over the years, and how his passing affects so many. And just how many people considered my dad their friend. It is so amazing.

I never truly understood that before now, mainly because he was "my dad" before anything else to me. And as my dad I saw his pride in us kids and my mom, his love for speed and motors and tinkering with anything that was loud, his need for symmetry and straight lines, and so many, many "dad-like" things.

Seeing dad through others' eyes is maybe part of the silver lining to all of this madness. He was special, not just to us, and his memory will live on in many.

The past 21 days are a total blur. In all honesty, I'm not looking forward to the next 21 as I continue to wish I could fix all of this for everyone. It does seem so unfair, to all of us and those who haven't yet joined the family, but especially my Mom who should've had more time for adventures with her best friend.

In the same token, I am thankful that none of us has to get through the next 21 days alone. We have each other, and an unbelievably wonderful collection of family and friends.

"If it hurts you to look back, frightens you to look ahead, then just look beside you. . .he is there."