Every
life has its challenges. Those that my
husband and I have overcome together have been some of the toughest, starting
with the day we received our genetic diagnosis for our two precious sons some
27 years ago.
I
believe it’s no coincidence that we live in Colorado, allowing us the splendor
of living among some of the highest peaks in the world. Our life has
forced us to become involuntary hypothetical mountain climbers when it comes to
facing and overcoming those challenges, so being in Colorado makes it
ever-so-convenient. In climbing terms,
we could be considered what are called Alpinists, those who practice many
different types of climbing, due to the fact that we’ve scaled mountains,
boulders and sheer cliffs, all requiring a different skill-set. I know very
little about real mountain climbing,
sport climbing, bouldering or even free solo climbing—in reality I’ve never
(and never will) do any of these. I am way too cautious to attempt such a
feat….besides, my vertigo wouldn’t like it. My husband, Chris, might like to
try, but I suspect he has many other things he’d like to try before that.
I
clearly remember the day 27 years ago, when that diagnosis was laid in our
laps. It was like Chris and I were standing at the base of a sheer cliff,
looking up and wondering how we would ever begin; if we would have the strength
to make it even halfway; or if we would cascade to our deaths? How could we take step one when our grief was
so immense? Even if we took the first step together, how could we manage to
stay in tandem? Would we have what it took to climb as a team? Could we finish
together and still love each other at the summit?
Just
as John Gray suggested in the ethereal Venus and Mars scenario from his book,
Chris and I did not follow the same path when it came to the actual grieving
process. We were each very different in our phases of grief and our behavior as
a result. There are parts of the actual
stages that I don’t remember well, or choose not to remember well (leave it to
selective memory retention). We are
quick to remind each other about some of the more memorable days, grimacing at the memories, while simultaneously bidding them a fond adieu.
In
my own journey of grief, whenever I felt angry, I would find myself crying over
the smallest thing, like when Joe bit me for the first time—he was only one. I
questioned whether this boy that was born from my womb actually loved his
Mother. It seemed so vindictive at the time. I blamed the gene. Crying was my
way of showing anger.
It
was easy to get through denial since I was engrossed in my corporate job
working 60 hours a week, while a caregiver took on the role of
moment-by-moment--a role I would later take on full time as a
corporate-Mom-goes-stay-at-home.
I
waffled between anger and denial for a few years, throwing in some bargaining
tactics. I was convinced that if I spent
enough money, if I toted the boys to enough therapy appointments or “Mom and
me” classes, that they would somehow be cured. We wrote checks with the promise
of a cure and banked on those organizations’ success to help us tackle that unattainable
sheer cliff. Suffice it to say that the bargaining tactics didn’t erase one
single genetic footprint or cure our sons.
Day
after day, week after week, month after month, somehow Chris and I kept going.
Some days it was like scaling a small foothill with occasional boulders and a
gradual slope—other days it was excruciating mini steps up a wall that pointed
in a backward direction. During those more difficult days, I was alone. I was
forced to use my fingertips to try and place the next foothold or hook in order
to lift myself up. Chris could not be with me.
I was far ahead of the place where he was and there was no way for me to
help him catch up. He was physically on a more gradual track. I had to move ahead at a faster pace since I
was with the boys in what I like to call the full-emersion program. Chris was on the part-time track, working
full-time outside the home.
His
progress through anger and denial were so much slower than mine. Little things
seemed to set him off, like when a tool wouldn’t cooperate just so, he’d yell
and curse. He’d blow off my frustration by saying things like, “Oh, he’ll (one
of the boys) get over it”. I knew they wouldn’t, and I knew this was his own
denial showing through. I also noticed his lack of acceptance (denial) in the
way he would respond to others about the way our son did this or that in
public. His anger was outward and palpable, unlike my own. He never cried like
I did.
There
were evenings when he would return home from a long day, only to hear me
complain non-stop as I broke into tears of exhaustion. He was often at a loss
for words, and emotionally unsure about how to feel. I believe he was at a loss
on how to support me, too, which made it even more difficult as a couple. He
couldn’t be in the same phase as me when it came to emotions. In his defense, and in hindsight, he did an
amazing job based on the tools he had to offer. Somehow I made it through to
acceptance and I thank God every day that I made it.
For
Chris, on the other hand, like many men I know, he was not as transparent in
his feelings. Small things would incite a larger-than-deserved angry spell. His
temper was much shorter, and frustration was sitting just on the surface of any
activity. Sometimes, the words flowed out of his mouth in angry phrases,
causing me to question his love for our precious sons. Then,there were times
where his utter silence caused me to wonder how I would cope. I was in no
condition to help him cope when I was struggling myself. It was a very
difficult time with no real end in sight. We just kept climbing and climbing, pausing
at times for emotional gridlock, then going on almost at a turtle’s pace.
As
a couple, we teetered between an attempt to comfort each other in our shared
grief, and resisting a pull that forced us to back away from any constant
reminders of our inevitable reality.
Then,
years into the grieving, one real day of helplessness came to pass.
Chris
arrived home as usual. I had dinner ready, so we sat down to eat as a
family. The boys finished at their usual
lightning speed and left the table. Chris and I reviewed the moments of the
day, pausing in between bites. Silently, Chris placed his fork on his plate,
took a drink of water, and dropped his head.
I
asked, “What’s the matter?”
He
raised his head and I saw tears in his eyes that I had not seen in years. My
heart sank into my stomach. I stopped eating, too. Chris sat for a moment in silence,
collected himself, then he began to speak. He was ready for me to help him. I
was afraid I wouldn’t be there to hoist him up when he needed it most.
He
talked about his real fears for us, for the boys and for our life. The words
poured out slowly and steadily, telling me that he had been thinking about
these things for quite some time. It had been roughly five years since our
diagnosis.
The
most excruciating thing for me was to not be able to take the pain away for
him. This was the one man I dearly loved. I wanted desperately to hand him a
pill or an antidote that would help him speed ahead to the place of acceptance
where I was. I needed him to be beside
me….but, it wasn’t possible. That’s not the way grief works.
As
he spoke, I realized exactly where Chris was on our journey up this
mountain. He was following the same
exact path I had taken, but now I knew without looking down where he was—I recognized
the signs from my own experience. He
wasn’t lost….just taking it at a slower pace than I was. I was able to see signs of where he had
been…..I also knew where he was headed. Seeing
these things allowed me to ask him some important questions that I had already
resolved in my own mind. I was able to
offer some comfort knowing that he, too, would make it through. We hugged and I held him in my arms. He was on the trajectory of acceptance.
There
is no time since that I could point to that was more poignant in our marriage or
that would define our future together. Prior to that time I often wondered if
we would be able to get on the same path or wavelength—if we would even make it.
I questioned whether we would be able to support each other in our climb and
our journey. I know had real hope that we could.
Over
the next several years (yes, years) we came together on many things, including
decisions, day-to-day approaches, discipline and what our future looked like.
It was so liberating…that mountain became a clearly marked path that contained
two lanes wide enough for both of us. Yes, there were still boulders to dodge
and some steep slopes, but the sheer cliffs had disappeared.
We
haven’t reached the summit yet, but acceptance is a part of our every day life now.
There has been no tougher climb than the one we have traversed together, and I
wouldn’t have made it without him, nor he without me. It’s been the best lesson
ever…learning to climb, and the best partner to do it with. I think we are
prepared now to take on whatever obstacles come our way; foothills, high peaks,
sheer cliffs or gradual slopes….hand-in-hand.
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