Waves
I was recently asked what the following expression means to me...
It's a shortened version of a quote from Vicki Harrison...
"Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim."
When asked the question a was taken back to when I was about six or seven years old. We were somewhere on the Washington coast. It was late fall and very stormy weather. I grew up in Eastern Washington State. My dad grew up in Western Washington State and absolutely loved the Washington Coast. I have many memories of hanging out on the beach near the cold water. Well this particular trip we stayed in some sort of hotel(ish) place with our cousins. It was a fun family trip. One the last day my dad and his cousin Tami came up with a challenging game for us all. By us all I mean my dad, my uncle, cousin Tami, her two daughters, and the six of us Hillman kids. I honestly have no idea where my mom was at this point. She was definitely on the trip but not on the beach at this time. Anyways, the game had to do with the waves. The goal was to keep your feet firm as the waves rolled in. Don't run away and don't let them knock you over. Simple concept. Physically challenging. The waves were small at first. Just touching our toes but as waves do they got bigger. I can't tell you when or how long we had been out there but all of a sudden a massive wave came in and knocked my sister and I off our feet. I remember seeing the rolling waves and the massive clouds in the sky. The kind of clouds that look like whip cream but not pure white. They had a tan tint to them. There seemed to be no space between the clouds and the ocean. Remember I was a young child at the time and I thought I was going to die. I thought I was going to meet Jesus. Spoiler Alert, I did not meet Jesus. The next thing I knew my dad was pulling me up out of the water and booking it to a safe place. He kept saying how sorry he was. Oh and my uncle grabbed my sister so no worries there. That twin thing really just keeps us bonded from birth to scary ocean stories. It was scary. I was wet and cold. In the end we were safe. We didn't drown.
When we stood on that beach we knew the waves were coming. We thought we knew what was waiting us. We did not anticipate having anyone swept away. After we found out Rory (my oldest brother) died we head straight for Othello, Washington, to where he lived and my parents. On the drive I remember looking out the window and thinking
"this isn't going to be the worst of it. There are even more difficult times to come."
That thought was much like when we thought we knew the waves were coming. We thought we knew what to expect. I thought I knew what to expect in my grief. I thought I could predict the waves. I could not. Still can't. Just today I was driving and a song came on the radio that brought me to unexpected tears. My heart filled with sorrow. I learned through counseling that is referred to as a grief burst, or wave.
See like the waves that only touch your feet, like it did on that beach many years ago, our grief can be that way. Short moments of deep sadness. Moments that are fleeting. That you can pull yourself out of. Recently Elias was sitting on my lap and being such a goober. He was making himself laugh with his funny noises. It was moment of silliness and joy that was intruded by a thought that flashed across my mind like a news headline, "Rory would have got a kick out of this crazy kid." My heart squeezed, I squeezed my boy and told him exactly what I had just thought. Then I got up and started making dinner.
Not all moments in our grief journey are that neat, uncomplicated. No, other moments feel like those big waves in the ocean that suck you under. That when you peak your head out you can barely tell the difference between the ocean and sky. That moments where you fill like you have swallowed too much water. Where you can't breath. Every breath feels like you've been running in freezing temperatures. The moments where you can't believe that this is your life. That if you dwell to long on the fact that you will never see your older brother again, you might not make it out. The thought that older brother's aren't suppose to die. Older brothers are suppose to be here for you. They are suppose to see you become a mom and be a loving uncle to your babies. I shouldn't have to tell my kids about their uncle Rory, they should know him. I shouldn't have to tell his daughters stories about when we were younger because he should. Those moments are the waves that feel like you might not make it.
But then the moment has passed. The wave has subsided. You can breath again, worse for the wear but breathing. Like the quote "all we can do is learn to swim." How we learn to swim is our own decision. How we learn to survive and move through it all is up to us.
Despite it being difficult for my personality I have surrounded myself with people who would like my dad pull me up when I just did not have the strength. People who listen to my endless stories about Rory, people who let me send simple texts that say "I miss Rory." and still other people who came along side me who gave my grief a voice I wasn't letting it have. Professors who told me that it was okay to be angry with God. It was okay to feel betrayed. That is was also okay to ask for help from other professors. To let them know the journey I was on. That I didn't have to keep my grief a secret. I would not recommend losing a brother plus being pregnant your senior year of college. Since one of those things was not my choice I am beyond grateful for my time at Whitworth. The professors who cried with me. Who gave me grace when I missed yet another class because driving from CDA to N. Spokane was just terrifying for me that day.
My swimming looked like surrounded myself with people who became my life raft. There are moments that I have to swim on my own. Which if you know my I am not a great swimmer. I did a sprint triatholon and pretty much doggie paddled the whole way but I did it! Where I have to step away from motherhood and recenter myself and get back to work. So it doesn't matter how "graceful" you swim.
But I believe those moments have only been possible because I know that I don't have to do every moment alone.
Everybody's grief journey looks different how we handle them is different. However I believe one thing remains the same in all...we have to face the waves. At times the moment not be right, such as I knew if I let this wave take me right now I will be of no help to my children who are just toddlers who want to eat, even if it's cereal. But when we face the wave and feel the impact of our grief we know we can survive it. That we can come back out. May take minutes, hours, days, weeks. But we can. We just need to learn to swim in our own ways. I just hope you have someone to pull you up when your legs grow tired
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