Good grief

I’ve had a struggle convincing myself to post anything to the blog this week.  I wrote half a post about John Edwards and then I wrote a post about Kim Kardashian and then I just left them both in my files without posting them. 

I have nothing to complain about.  Overall, I have a pretty good life.  But this week I’ve been thinking of my close friend who lost someone so important to her.  The person she lost isn’t someone that it hurts me to lose, except that it hurts my friend so deeply that her pain makes my heart ache with hers.  There’s nothing I can say to fix this for her, and I’m desperate to just fix it.  There’s not much that I can do to make it better.  I wish more than anything that I could erase this last week for her and her family and the person that was lost to all of us. 

Recently I experienced a similar writing block.  My cousin’s fiancé lost someone important to her too.  Again, this isn’t a person that it hurt me to lose but it hurt them so much.  My cousin and his fiancé are at a crucial point in their young lives and a loss like the one they experienced hurts worse now than maybe it could have at any other time.  Then again, maybe it would hurt them exactly the same no matter what.  But the circumstances just crushed me as I stood back at a safe distance. 

I guess the real trouble for me is that when I try to put myself in the shoes of my loved ones, I can’t bear it.  I don’t know how they get out of bed in the morning, how they don’t ask themselves the most crippling existential questions over and over again, how they don’t doubt every single thing they were ever promised in life. 

But now I realize how they did it: FAITH.  I’m not trying to get religious; I don’t necessarily mean faith in God.  I mean, simply, faith in life, faith in the act of living and breathing.  Faith that tomorrow isn’t promised but if we don’t have the strength to get through today, we’ll never see tomorrow.  Just one more breath, in and out, leads to the next breath, in and out, and it’s not okay but it’s bearable.  Livable. 

And despite the excruciating fact that these two are lost to all of us, I truly believe that it’s enough for each of them to have existed and to have touched the lives of my friend, cousin and future cousin.  Sharing even one fleeting moment with someone else is enough because it’s another lesson learned, another breath of life, no matter whether it ends in heartbreak or happiness. 

I wish I knew something more to say than, “I’m sorry.”  I am sorry, truly sorry, to see anyone suffer the pain of loss, to see anyone taken from us too soon.  I want to say so much more in that moment when I hold my friend in my arms.  Hopefully my loved ones feel my love surrounding them, hopefully they can let go of what they feel for those few seconds and hold onto me and allow me to absorb their pain.  I would take it all if I could. 

The beauty of all of this loss, for me, is that the ones that I love are still here.  For now.  It’s enough for me to breathe and breathe again and with each breath reassure myself that soon I’ll see each of them again.  It’s enough for me to selfishly take tomorrow for granted because we’re all here today.  As long as I hold onto faith, basic human faith, I can put off tomorrow and whatever it may hold in store. 

The biggest lesson I’ve learned from all of this is that there’s nothing that can show you the effect of community than when you support a friend in their grief.  I showed up at the first visitation and ran into my friend’s dad.  Then I saw my friend’s dad at his son’s visitation.  In all of this, the most important thing that’s come to light is that you never know how far you’ve reached until you can walk into something sad and heavy like that and come out feeling that there’s still light for all of us to share.  There’s still clean air, there’s still hope. 

I’ll never give up this faith, so long as I live and breathe. 

Mulligan

Today, I’m forgoing the regular theme to honor my husband. 

St. Patrick’s Day is a really special day.  Not for any obvious reason though – not because of green-colored alcoholic beverages or themed parades or anything related to Ireland.  For me, it’s super special because it’s my wedding anniversary. 

On Saturday, March 17, 2007, I married Frank Arnolts III.  Saying “I do” to him on that day was the best decision I ever made. 

From the very first time I laid eyes on Frank from across our college cafeteria, I knew he was perfect.  I told my friend as much.  I made a reference to the men of Greek mythology.  Then I got to know him.  I had never before in my life known someone who was so extraordinary, inside and out.  I still haven’t met anyone better, body and soul, than my husband.  Not even close. 

This Saturday marks our five year wedding anniversary.  We’ve done a lot in five years.  We bought our first home, several cars, lost a baby, had a baby, lost a job (for a little while) and we’ve taken a few vacations.  The best part of all of that was that we were able to do it together.  And we survived. 

That’s not to say every moment of those five years has been perfect.  We don’t always get along.  I’m not always the most likable person.  We’re pretty famous for our back-and-forth (good-natured!) bickering. 

But I always know, in my heart of hearts, that Frank is the one and only choice for me.  I dated plenty of people before I met Frank.  None of them compare.  Any boy who refused to make it “official,” dumped me by email or AOL IM or tried to get away with bad behavior behind my back wasn’t worth my everlasting love.  Frank has proven again and again that he is worthy, if for no other reason than because he’s exceedingly patient with me. 

The returns I gained in this partnership are manifest in our son Auggie.  He is adorable and perfect and special.  He is the best of both of us, truly.  There’s nothing more that I can do to show my gratitude to Frank for the gift of our son than to try my hardest to raise him right, to do well, give my best. 

And I take our marriage seriously.  I want the two of us to walk away together from any situation and be able to say that we make a great team.  It’s very important to me that Frank and I are on the same page in all things. 

I hope that when it’s all said and done, these five years are just small fraction of the time we accumulate as a couple.  I hope that our son always admires us; I hope that we provide him with a shining example to live by.  I hope that we can look back and be happy about everything that has passed, have no regrets. 

I hope that Frank knows that I love him more than I ever knew that I could love another person.  And if he ever doubted it, at least there will always be this – these eternal words saved on the internet, and hopefully, branded into his heart and memory. 

I love you, Frank!  Thank you for choosing me.