My Longest Year

What Can I Say to My Grieving Friend? (repost)

I am reposting this with the book excerpt by itself.  Having gone through the grief process myself, I wish I had had something like this to pass to well-meaning friends.

I ran across this page in a book that I thought I'd share with you.  If your friend is grieving, this a good example of re-framing your approach to him or her.  If you are the grieving one, I encourage you to give this to your friends. 

What Can I Say to My Grieving Friend?

Instead of: "I know exactly how you feel."
Try: "I can only imagine what you're going through."
 
Instead of: "At least he doesn't have to suffer anymore."
Try: "He suffered through a lot, didn't he?"
 
Instead of: "It's God's will."
Try: "One comfort I find is God's promise to never abandon us."
 
Instead of: "She wouldn't want you to grieve."
Try: "It's hard to say good-bye, isn't it?"
 
Instead of: "You can't be angry with God."
Try: "God understands even when we're upset."
 
Instead of: "At least you have other family members." [or any other "at least," for that matter]
Try: "There's no way to replace the one you've lost, is there?"
 
Instead of: "Don't you think it's time to get on with living your life?"
Try: "Everyone has to grieve in their own way, don't they?"
 
Instead of: "Don't talk about the funeral--it will only make you sad."
Try: "We can talk about whatever you want."
 
Instead of: "Time heals all wounds."
Try: "Time will lessen the pain, but you'll always have a part of him/her with you."

Instead of: "You've got to be strong."
Try: "I want you to know you can be yourself around me"
 
Excerpt from the book Disrupted:  Finding God in Illness & Loss by Virgil M. Fry, Houston, TX

[reprinted with permission]

Peace for M.

If you have kids you might already recognize the scene: Ash with a Strawberry Shortcake boo-boo ice pack, bought in such a hurry it still has the plastic tag on it.

Yesterday I was at Target, with all three munchkins.  And the two oldest ones were carrying on in the store as usual.  Flitting and dancing and twirling about without a thought or care to how far they'd gotten from me or how inconvenient they were making it for everyone else to get around them.  I love that they have imaginative spirits, and that they dance to some music that only exists between them.  But I get totally annoyed - I can't keep track of them, and they need to learn a little self-control.  It's Target, not our back yard.

So when I finally laid down the law and insisted that they return to the cart and stay out of the middle of the aisle, and they came running back to me, I should have anticipated it.  Three feet before she got to the cart, Ash tripped and fell. Right on the slim, shiny bar at the bottom shelf of the cart -a hard metal whack that fit perfectly in the crook of her nose between her eyes.

This picture doesn't do the damage justice.  She screamed and cried and within seconds the space between her eyes was swollen and bruising.  We ran to the pharmacy for aspirin and an ice pack, and she sat in the cart bravely. 

I started panicking.  What if there was some weird detrimental vein in that spot?  Here I was nonchalantly shopping for school supplies and maybe she was about to pass out, or had a brain trauma, or some crazy thing that I was now cursing all those urban legends for putting in my mind.  I had nausea from the anxiety.  I called my friend with the accident-prone child.  She said I should call the doctor.  Now my heart was a little bit quick.  I called my friend and pediatrician.  And as it turns out, God does care about the small things.  Doctor Lisa was in the store.  So a few minutes later, there we were.  An office visit in the baby aisle at Target.

She's fine.  Probably.  We'll know after an official visit in the morning.  But that's not the point of this story.  In fact, I'm not sure there is a point.

Because several hours later, I received word that a childhood friend of mine was watching her daughter die in gut-wrenching, horrific pain from an accidental overdose of medicine used to treat her cancer.   

I tried to convey it to James between sobs.  Ten times the proper dose.  Fried her kidneys.  She's in excruciating pain.  Her mother is watching this.  Can you fathom it, James?  We have to pray for their peace.

From her journal yesterday: "Sweet Lord have mercy on us."

And this morning: "Makiah's spirit left her body this morning." 

She was five.

I panicked at a bruise.

What never-ending ache must these parents be feeling?

I don't have a sweet close to this post.  Just this: I believe in empathy.  I believe it's necessary sometimes to try to imagine someone else's pain.  Not just to remind you to appreciate life or hug your kids tighter.  In fact, I'd go so far as to say - if all you get out of someone else's hurt is a reminder to love your own life/family/blessings, you are missing out on some of what God would have for you.  Not to torture yourself.  But to be an intercessor.  Honestly, I don't even know everything that really means or entails but I know it's part of God's calling for us.  And it starts with empathy.

To weep with the hurting.  To bear some of their pain with them.  For our daily prayers to be only for someone else sometimes, that they might be blessed - whatever that looks like - be it relief from debt, joy in their day, or strength and peace for their dying daughter.  

You don't know little M.  I've never met little M.  But I'm weeping in grief and prayer for all that lies ahead of them...and God would love to hear our prayers for them tonight.

lonely a little

 

It's December 11.  Not 12 or 13, Lora's and my birthday's, respectively.  Sometimes 9,10, 11...they're harder for some reason.  People naturally expect that my sister's birthday, or her homegoing anniversary, or Christmas day - that those days are the hardest.  I'm sure for some they are (I know they are for my mom).  But for me, the anticipation of a thing has always been harder, because I'm a planner, a thinker...I'm always a step ahead, it seems.  So this week in general has been a melancholy one.  I'm sure the hormones don't help.  But, somehow it's in the little things.

Like driving down a main street on a gray day this week, I passed a cemetary.  Little clouds of red flowers dusting the small field of gravestones.  That made me sad.  My sister's grave is not a place I can go, and most times that's perfectly fine.  I do most of my remembering and honoring of her in other ways.  But sometimes it makes me sad, that I'm not there.

Or listening to my youngest boo-hoo tonight at the dinner table because my husband brought her a glass of milk but not sissy.  She actually wouldn't stop bawling until Evyn got her milk.  That made me smile, and miss my sister a little.  She was the same way.  I can't stop thinking of Lora when I watch how fiercely protective and genuinely loving they are of each other.

Or on a bad day, when I want so badly to just reach out to my first "other half."  I'm grateful for my husband, who is my dearest friend and supporter, and who loves me and is encouraging just when I need him to be.  But he is not a girl.  And is not my sister.

I have a surprising number of close relationships with women.  I'm so appreciative of those friends, who are loyal and supportive of me.  And I take great care with those friendships because they are so much like sisters to me.  But in the end, they aren't my sister.  They aren't obligated to me, don't share my history, weren't there for all the good and bad growing up, weren't the ones who wrote me a last birthday letter with visions and promises of a life side-by-side as sisters...there was only one.  And she's gone.  And there are just some days that makes me lonely.

She would be 29.  I don't dwell too long on the "what-ifs" but I do catch myself picturing her chasing a baby or two around the kitchen, calling me for advice (or offering it).  Maybe saying "remember when?" as we joke about our kids and what they're up to.  And then I snap out of it, and instead watch my own girls with fond memories, hopeful they will always be as loving as they seem to be now, and constantly encouraging them to take care of each other, expecting (praying) they'll be able to...well past my own lifetime.

ten

 

I've been wanting to write this since shortly after Mother's Day last year, but I was always waiting for the words to come easily.  This probably won't be as articulate as I'd like, but I think today it's too important to miss saying.

I had a bumpy childhood.  We all have, to some degree.  My mom was a single mom for some years.   I love him, but Dad was and still is, sometimes very difficult.  Which hampered my mom's ability to be the mom she wanted to be.  She was tired, frustrated, and didn't have a lot of patience.  She messed up sometimes.  But she was obedient to God's Word.  And because of that alone, for all her mistakes, she got it absolutely right. 

She made sure that we always knew how very much she loved us, she asked for forgiveness when she needed it, but most importantly - she made sure we knew Christ.  She didn't just take us to church.  She had a relationship with God.  And we did, too.  She wasn't without sin.  In fact, I'd venture to say she messed up with God and with us royally sometimes.  But she stayed obedient, always going back to prayer and worship, and letting us see how important it was to be humble before God.  To not turn our backs on our faith just because we didn't feel worthy or because a Christian life was too hard.

And here's the most important part: ten years ago, on May 22, 1999, at 11:00 p.m., shortly after getting off the phone with airlines and funeral directors and our home church pastor, I went to bed lonely but at peace.  My sister had died.  But I knew where she was and Whose she was.  My sister was young.  But she was ready.  In the days leading up to her death, Lora emailed my mom about her maturing relationship with God.  How, despite some trials she'd suffered recently, she was leaning on God, sure he was lifting her up.  She was so in tune to Him that she called my mom one day in April to say that she was driving along that day and she could almost feel Jesus in the  passenger seat.  She was at perfect peace that day.  She had no clue that in a few short weeks she'd be in her final place, alongside Him.  None of us knew.  But for all our grief and sorrow, my mom and I cling to the promise that we will see her again one day. 

Here's the thing.  To date I have not lived a worse nightmare than getting that phone call in the wee hours of May 22, 1999.   We hadn't expected it.  Couldn't have imagined it.  We couldn't possibly have been prepared for that kind of shock and tragedy.  But thanks to my mom's continued obedience to God's will, my sister was prepared for it.

My mom's legacy will not be the shouting or short temper.  Among a multitude of her other awesome attributes, it will be that she introduced her daughters to Christ.  I am grateful for my mom's obedience, my sister's faithfulness, and God's promises.

"Therefore you now have sorrow; but I will see you again and your heart will rejoice, and your joy no one will take from you."  John 16:22

loss and life

**Update at bottom**

It was an average afternoon at the bookstore with my girls and husband today.  Evyn browsed the princess sections, I sat and flipped through gossip magazines (oh, the Jon and Kate fodder...).  Then the phone rang.

Ginger is one of my best friends (pictured, center).  She knew my sister.  She was there when I got the phone call at midnight.  And when I got the phone call at 4 a.m. confirming her brain dead.  She was there when I prayed over my sister's body.  She was there when I went limp at the airport, watching my sister's body being carried away from the plane.  She knows the pain and grief that I went through...the raw emotions of those first hours, days, weeks...and even now, she knows the grief I still endure living without her.

But what Ginger can appreciate about my sister's death - what she is touched by on a personal level - is my family's choice to honor what would have no doubt been Lora's wish had she had the choice herself: to give her organs to someone who needed them.  It was the reason my mom couldn't keep her technically alive long enough for me to kiss her goodbye.  If our family was going to give the hope of life to someone else, my mom needed to give the doctors permission to take her off life support...even though to do so would mean she would be absolutely gone by the time I arrived to say goodbye.

Ginger has had diabetes for years.  And shortly after giving birth to her son several years ago, her kidneys went downhill fast.  To the point that her kidneys are now barely functioning.  She went on the donor list for both kidneys and a pancreas several weeks ago.

She was on the other line tonight.  Last night a 23 year old woman - still a girl, really - was thrown from a car in a horrible accident.  At 4 a.m. she was brain dead.  She's a stranger to Ginger.  But she's giving her life.  Her organs are being recovered as I write this.  And now, God willing, Ginger is going to live to watch her son grow up. 

I was immediately excited when she told me she would be receiving organs.  And almost as instantly, I was struck by a familiar pain.  Right now, a family somewhere is grieving the loss of someone who died decades younger than she should have.  Right now they are grasping the fact that the person they loved and lived for - a person they may have talked to just hours before she was killed in a wreck - is now gone.  And through all the raw shock they were able to  think of others.  My friend, and several others, will receive a gift of hope tonight.

I was elated for Ginger, but I couldn't help crying on the phone.  Not just because I have an overwhelming sense of empathy for the donor family.  But because, ironically, this week is 10.  It was ten years ago this Friday that my own baby sister was killed in a car wreck.  Ten years ago we went through the same shock and loss that this donor family is experiencing.  The anniversary has been on my mind for a while, but nothing could have brought it all to the surface like this.

It's bittersweet.  Ginger is incredibly grateful and is no doubt going through a rollercoaster of emotions herself.  She watched what we went through.  She knows that someone has to die in order for her to live.  And I know she's overwhelmed by that. 

My heart is racing.  I can't speak without crying.  I can't type without crying.  I didn't expect to be overwhelmed myself.  It's an incredible moment for Ginger.  She's been waiting and praying.  And now it's here.  And I am just so very...sad.  Grateful.  And sad.  It's all so very personal and close to home.

So be in prayer.  For Ginger's surgery, to take place in a few short hours.  For this girl's family, who has a very long road ahead of them.  Pray for their strength.  For a peace about their decision.  Pray for their willingness to open their hearts when Ginger is finally able to reach out to them to say thank you (something she has always insisted she would do when the time is right).

And, on the off chance that a donor family is reading this: know that whether or not the recipients ever thanked you formally, you made the right decision.

****************

UPDATE: I have been receiving brief updates from Ginger's husband.  Besides her kidney function, one major change is that she should no longer have diabetes because of the new pancreas.  The "numbers" that indicate her overall health have already drastically improved.  Thanks for your thoughts, emails, prayers...concern.  I appreciate it so much that you all take the time to care.

it started like this

It all started with this picture:

It's my little sister Lora and I.  Nothing spectacular about it.  It was taken in a Shoney's parking lot.  On a very overcast day.  The weekend of my graduation and just a short couple of hours before she boarded a plane to go back to school.  No, it doesn't look especially amazing.  But it was special. 

Because as fate had it, it was the last picture I'd ever take with her.

What stands out to me about this picture, besides it being our last, is that we almost didn't get it.  We'd just finished breakfast, and my out-of-town family (including Lora) was in a bit of a rush to get to the airport.  I don't remember who suggested it or insisted.  I think maybe me.  But we took them.  Pictures of my family.  And this last squishy-sweet one that is so us.

My best friend Ginger and I hopped in a car, Lora in the back seat.  And we scooted her to the airport. I asked if she wanted me to wait with her in the airport (back when you could) but she said "no;" Grandma and Grandpa Hernandez were going to be there.  She wanted to spend a little time waiting with them.  We exchanged a hurried hug and kiss good bye.  I promised to meet up with her to get those matching tattoos when she went on a college singing tour and would be in close-by Kentucky that summer.  One more hug.  And she was gone.

She was killed in a car wreck and taken from us just two weeks later.  That summer is the first that I remember photography and pictures - capturing moments in time that you can't really get back - became important to me.

My mom couldn't believe I was willing to fly a photographer friend to Evyn's first birthday party in Nashville.   But James was deploying to Iraq a second time days after that party.  A particularly dangerous mission.  And for all I knew I wouldn't see him again.  I wanted someone who understood me and my passion for good pictures; who was willing to exhaust himself to capture that trip.  Just in case.

Then James left, and besides me wanting to express myself creatively, photography became about capturing time not just for posterity, but for James.   Half a world away from his baby girl.  A year of her life he would never fully understand or experience or remember.

And now.  Now it's important to me for so many reasons.  And I'm growing and learning and getting better at it every day, thanks to a number of factors I hope to share with you in future posts. 

I'm not the only one.  Who appreciates fantastic pictures.  Who imagines myself ten years down the road flipping through a shoe box or album or coffee table book of images that remind me of the way we were.

 

 

So I've started a little journey.  With the thought that maybe, maybe I can do this for other folks, too. 

to be continued...

peace for luke

Last Monday I grinned as I watched little Luke toddle up the path to preschool, his oxygen tank in tow.  I sighed some relief that he'd pulled through another hospital stay.  Evyn and I had prayed for him, prayed for his health, prayed for his family, sure that they were weary with every trip to the hospital.  And here he was, grinning, happy to join his class again.  I smiled to myself and went on my way.

I wasn't surprised when I received an email from his mom that he was in the hospital with trouble breathing again. We often received emails like this.  And he always got better in time. But this time each email update was worse than the last until.

Until Friday morning when I woke up to the news that Luke was gone.  His three year old little body had taken as much as it could. 

There was the predictable scurry of phone calls among preschool moms. And I did my best to remind people that what this family needed right this second was probably being taken care of by church and family.  I knew having been through my sister's death that people hurry to make meals, call with concern, send flowers...but you really need them - you really start grieving - weeks later.  When the flowers die, and the cards stop coming.  And people move on with their lives, while you're left with a gaping hole in yours.  So we're all standing ready, knowing we can't fix this or make it any better.  Hopeful that we can be of some comfort down the road, when the hurt sinks in and Luke's mom needs a shoulder to cry on. 

Please say a prayer for them.  For their strength and peace and "patience with the living," as I like to call it.  And for wisdom for those around them.

****

A few weeks ago Evyn started asking about her Aunt Lora.  How she died ("Did she fall out of the car?"), why the doctors couldn't fix her, etc.  I explained to her as simply as I could that two cars had collided.  Lora was broken.  The doctors tried their hardest, but she couldn't be fixed here on earth.  And now she lives in Heaven, perfect and healthy with Jesus - in a place prepared just for her.  Evyn was satisfied with that answer.  We went through the explanation all over again when we told her Luke wouldn't be coming back to school.  She was frustrated that she wouldn't see him again, but was okay with him being in Heaven with Aunt Lora.

After a long weekend of worry and sadness for Luke's family, this afternoon I am picturing  him cuddled peacefully in Jesus' arms.  No longer broken.  Perfect and happy, in a place our Father prepared. Just for him.

John 14:2-3 (King James Version)

 ²In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.

 ³And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.

life goes on

It was Lora's birthday yesterday.  I didn't write a post honoring my sister.  I always do - on her actual birthday.  But our entire family was getting over a major stomach bug and I had gotten behind on laundry etcetera and the words just didn't come. Every time I sat down there was another phone call or thing to do, diaper to change, Evyn-story to listen to, and the words just never came (not that I wasn't thinking of her, mind you).  Somewhere in yesterday, in the twinge of guilt I felt for not writing, marks a lesson I have learned: Life goes on.  And I can't be afraid of it.

I joined a Sudden Loss group not long after Lora died.  Everyone there wanted so badly to be rid of the pain.  Not me.  I wanted to always have it there as a reminder.  To me, the extent to which I hurt, that her name was raw pain--that was a measure of how deeply I loved her.  What I didn't know was that whether I liked it or not, time would curb the hurt.  Because life does go on.  I was sad to lose it.  The intense pain, that is.  I felt guilty, wondered if I was somehow betraying her by not crying on every birthday, by coming to enjoy mine again.

I was afraid time would take her away.  It wasn't too long after she died that I started forgetting just a little.  Exactly how she laughed, what she looked like.  The mannerisms, the memories.  It worried me.  And then along came the girls.  Those serendipitous little girls. 

  

I always imagined having two boys.  There were a lot of boys on James' side of the family so it seemed inevitable.  And then we had two girls.  Three years and a month apart.  I wanted to avoid the obvious trap of bestowing all of my memories and expectations of sisterhood on them, so I have been conscious to not compare them too much to Lora and I, and to nurture their individuality as they reveal themselves.  But the effort to not compare is sometimes a little hopeless.  I see Lora in each of them - Evyn's passion and appreciation for every little detail of life, Ashlyn's pillowy pudge feet and affinity for the forbiddenest corners of the house.  And watching them is like watching the two of us.  Maybe it's birth order, but Evyn is smart, capable, well-spoken, argumentative, and overly-responsible (yes, she's only four).  Ashlyn (so far) is fiesty, mischievious, loves to cuddle on a whim, fiery mad when she doesn't get her way, and follows Evyn around like a puppy.  They are Evyn and Ashlyn, but on some days, in certain moments, they could be Crystal and Lora. 

There is a lot of pain and sadness in the fact that Lora, my little sister who adored babies and children, who would have spoiled these two to the moon and back, who would probably already have two of her own by now, is not here.  But if there is redemption, if I want to enjoy my life, to respect and honor our loss but have a fulfilling life nonetheless, I only have to listen at the door when my girls are giggling and screeching and squealing in their rooms. 

There is a caveat. I do realize it's almost a burden for them to bear - to remind me so much of my happiness with Lora.  I'm conscious of it, and I'll toe the line carefully.  But my girls will probably pay for that driver's negligence for the rest of my life--when they ask for their license, when they're gone four minutes longer than they should have been, when they go off to college, when they reach Lora's age.  That's a consequence of our free will.  Good people sometimes pay for others' mistakes.  I'll cross those bridges when I come to them.  For now I'll pray for their safety, and that they will be blessed by each other as much as or even more than Lora and I were.

 

Today is my birthday.  The tenth without a phone call from Lora.  James and Evyn are making me a cake, and later we'll take the girls to the bookstore for coffee and the train table, where Evyn will introduce everyone to Ashlyn and remind the children to not step on her, and Ashlyn will throw trains and look for coffee to spill.  It will be a good day.  Because the very fact that life goes on has been what has brought my sister back to me.  Sometimes the pain, but always the depth of love.

Other Lora Posts: Galations 2:20; Love, Sissy; Little Sister (I remember waiting Ashlyn's arrival almost like waiting for a gift from Santa just for Evyn) 

with sympathy: what can I say to my grieving friend?

Thank you for your kind thoughts and words about the loss of my sister.  I always appreciate it that you take time to read my thoughts, ponder it and use it in whatever way you can - whether it's identifying with loss and grief yourself, having a moment of gratitude for the people in your life, or just sympathizing with a pain you have never had to deal with before.

I have been asked, on occasion, what one should do or say when their friend is dealing with grief.  I'll share some thoughts with you in case you ever need them. 

When my sister first died, I was in a place in my life that was entirely non-conducive to grieving (which begs the question, what situation IS conducive?).  I had just had a serious breakup with my boyfriend, I was living with my best friend and her family, and I had to start my first post-college job just days after the funeral.  I was grappling with an intense pain and had almost no where to go to be alone with my grief.  And when I was with my friends, I was surprised at the way they reacted to my grief, and the things even my best friends would say.  I was surprised at the expectations they had of me just a few months after it all happened.  People were frankly impatient and uncomfortable with the broken version of myself and really wanted me to sort of, well, get back to normal.  They had their own ideas of how I should be, what I should do, how much or how often I should cry, and what activities I should resume and when.  I just wanted solitude, and time, and for people to quit trying to make a permanently bad situation better. 

Grief is not something you can fix, or even understand, or plan out.  If you're going through it, you just have to go through it.  And if a friend is going through it, you just have to let her.  Call her to check in.  Be there with a box of Kleenex and a listening ear and be prepared to feel uncomfortable at times.  You may not know what to say.  That's okay.  Don't stress yourself out trying to make it all right. As long as your friend is not spiraling into destructive behavior (excessive drinking, suicidal thoughts, etc), then let her deal with it her way.  As my spinning instructor always says, "This is YOUR ride."  If you're dealing with a grieving friend, remember - this is her ride.  And it may be a long one.  Hang in there.  She really does need you.

If you're one of the grieving ones, here's my best advice: Have patience with the living.  One of the biggest tragedies of grief is the broken relationships it leaves in its wake.  That's because grief is a necessarily self-absorbed process.  The grieving person is going through an intense number and range of emotions.  And the friends of the grieving are looking for a day when its not "all about you." Your friends and family are probably trying their best.  They may say the wrong thing or rub you the wrong way.  That's because it's a tough thing to be the friend of someone in such un-fixable pain.  They want to make it better, and they can't.  So have some patience with them, too.  And keep this in mind: the hole in your heart cannot be filled by any friend, family member, or addiction. This is LOSS.  The only one who can truly help you heal is God.  So don't look for His mercy and grace in any person or thing on this earth.  You will only be disappointed. 

I ran across this page in a book that I thought I'd share with you.  If your friend is grieving, this a good example of re-framing your approach to him or her.  If you are the grieving one, I encourage you to give this to your friends. 

What Can I Say to My Grieving Friend?

Instead of: "I know exactly how you feel."
Try: "I can only imagine what you're going through."
 
Instead of: "At least he doesn't have to suffer anymore."
Try: "He suffered through a lot, didn't he?"
 
Instead of: "It's God's will."
Try: "One comfort I find is God's promise to never abandon us."
 
Instead of: "She wouldn't want you to grieve."
Try: "It's hard to say good-bye, isn't it?"
 
Instead of: "You can't be angry with God."
Try: "God understands even when we're upset."
 
Instead of: "At least you have other family members." [or any other "at least," for that matter]
Try: "There's no way to replace the one you've lost, is there?"
 
Instead of: "Don't you think it's time to get on with living your life?"
Try: "Everyone has to grieve in their own way, don't they?"
 
Instead of: "Don't talk about the funeral--it will only make you sad."
Try: "We can talk about whatever you want."
 
Instead of: "Time heals all wounds."
Try: "Time will lessen the pain, but you'll always have a part of him/her with you."

Instead of: "You've got to be strong."
Try: "I want you to know you can be yourself around me"
 
Excerpt from the book Disrupted:  Finding God in Illness & Loss by Virgil M. Fry, Houston, TX

[reprinted with permission]

Links of Interest:  A Reluctant Griever, Prayer of Grief

Galations 2:20

For most of you, today is just May 22, 2008.  For me, for my family, for those who love her, it's nine years.  The first few years after she died I approached this day with dread, and I couldn't help but count back the hours as if they were happening again (right about now I was getting the first call...right about now I was on a plane...right about now I prayed over her body in the hospital).  Every time I saw a LifeFlight helicopter in the air, every time I had to re-pack my "Lora boxes"  for another move and rifle through the sympathy cards and newspapers and other paper memories, every time I heard the words "car crash" and "fatality" in the same sentence on the news, I would cry. 

Time has healed a lot of that raw pain and for the most part I have moved past the tragic-ness of it.  The crash, the coma, the fact that it was such an abrupt end to a life full - full - of love and joy and youth and hopes and promise.  I have finally accepted my life without her.  And I cling to the things I can do, hold, remember - to still feel connected to her. My daughters carry her names, her pictures are peppered around the house, I still wear her hat on bad hair days, and I carry this Bible she gave me for graduation just two weeks before she died.

Isn't that something?  It was her last gift to me.  A Bible that she had pored over to highlight favorite verses, organized by category.  Can you tell she wanted to be a teacher?

You see that last category - "Hope; comfort; courage and strength"? 

I read it at her memorial in Ohio, the day after her death.  It was one of her favorites. It was her way of life, and her hope for her future after death.  And its my peace and comfort now that she's gone.  For years this page was bookmarked with a Kleenex tissue from the service. 

I cling to memories, often reliving them as I think to the years ahead with my girls.  One of my favorite "things" besides the Bible is this envelope from the card she gave me that same day.

They're some of her favorite memories as a kid, scribbled out for me to laugh at.  This one is hilarious.  Sometime during the elementary school years, we got to pick out the carpet for our rooms.  Lora picked green. Kelly green. Why? Because she had a Cabbage Patch Kids comforter and she thought it would make a nice "grassy lawn" for them.  I loved to chide her about that one.

I told you I used to make up "assignments" for her.  I loved playing "Teacher."  She mostly hated it, but endured it nevertheless.  Actually, it was during one such assignment that she discovered a hidden talent for poetry.  In fact, as a teen she wrote a beautiful poem for the family of a dying father who could not speak.  Someday I'll share it with you.

Do you get the feeling I was a bit, er, bossy growing up?  We loved to pretend the sidewalks were actual roads and I had an assortment of rules for the road, none of which she cared to follow.

Anyway, it all makes me laugh and cry at the same time.  There's something about losing a sibling - the person who was there all your life, who could remember and commiserate or commemorate all those moments.  She was my other half for eighteen years. I won't ever be over it.  But I've learned to live with it. 

And while I'm pausing to talk about her life and her death, I should note here that this was a big day for several families.  Today nine years ago four ailing people and their families got the news that their long wait was over.  They would receive an organ.  Her heart, her kidney, her liver - all went to help save lives.  It was a tough decision that my mom was forced to make on her own while waiting for me and my father to get to the hospital.  And it was a decision we are proud of and encourage others to make as well.  Lora was, above everything else, a giver.  She would be ecstatic to know that such painful circumstances bore life and happiness for someone else.

I miss you, Sis.  Deeply, terribly, painfully miss you.

  

Other Links:  Organ Donor Information, Lora Love Grief, Lora's Website