There’s Purpose In the Pain (Reflections a year later while navigating grief)

This month is going to be hard.

One year ago this month was the start of our whole lives changing forever; the month that marks a year of extreme highs and lows, fierce hopes, devastating blows - immense faith, change, growth, and heartbreak.

It is also the month Griffin would have turned 3 years old.

There are quite a few anniversaries in these next two weeks that hurt to remember and know now how it ended. But, I want to share for those who joined us later to know the story, for my own benefit and healing, to be a small part of easing the discomfort centered around grief and talking about it, and to maybe offer some hope and healing direction to those walking similar roads.

While I am heart broken and deeply, deeply sad, and this chapter is not one we ever wanted to be in his story…I want you to know there’s light here too. There was a lot of beauty, joy, and wild hope before this, in the middle of it, and even still. There’s purpose in this pain. There is purpose in your pain. You just have to find it. I hope by sharing the memories of these days that you get to see it all, and that you can find your own hope, spots of light, and purpose somewhere in them too.

March 2nd, 2023:

We had finally gotten the word that you would more than likely be finally able to go to Stanford and get the surgeries you needed so desperately. I excitedly and anxiously was working on letters to ensure the request to the medical director and board would receive final approval, and I was calling everyone to tell them the good news and upcoming dates.

This is the last day I remember you being honestly happy here at home, your symptoms manageable and we weren’t worried every moment you wouldn’t be able to hang on until your appointment in April. I remember so vividly taking these photos and videos of you. We had been practicing loud and quiet. Marveling at your progress, delighting in your joy and curiosity, wishing I could see inside your thoughts and know what you were thinking as you played.

We were getting ready to plan your birthday party for the big 2. Trying to be creative since you didn’t like cake (or food in general), large crowds, or lots of noise (unless, of course, it was music or your favorite movies/shows), we were brainstorming ideas for your very own sensory cake. Nana was nice enough to take the reins on that since mama was kind of overwhelmed with letters and appeals.

I had no idea that in a couple days you would get to that dreaded point where your symptoms were no longer manageable and I would take you to the hospital. No idea that when I packed your diaper bag and loaded you into the car, it would be for the last time. I could not have fathomed I would never bring you back home to this space, your pets, your toys, us. I wish I had known in the midst of my panick to get you to the hospital quickly that this would be our last car ride. You loved riding in cars, watching the world rush by as we listened to the radio. I wish your last few days at home had not been filled with so much discomfort and angst for all of us, but most especially you. I wish you were here now, whole and healed and happy, still taking photos of your every moment until you growl at me in annoyance…I wish so,so much, I can’t begin to tell you.

But I still tell you every day, all day…and how dearly I love you; and every night and morning I ask Jesus to give you a giant hug for me and tell you how much I love you again. Then I look for your giant, beautiful, joy-filled, crinkle-eyed smile in that part of my memory reserved only for you, that warmed up every bit of my soul to look at, and I remember we’ll see it in realtime again one day. I imagine you then probably run off to play with all your friends, all our family and beloved pets, surrounded by love and able to do everything you couldn’t here - and my heart doesn’t hurt quite as much.

I still have so much of you here, still have purpose and all your great-big-giant love to still spread for you. It often doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s not something I ever take for granted: those sacred and irreplaceable truths, that part of you and promise that can’t be taken away. So I wipe the tears away and I do the next right thing, the thing that will honor your memory and keep your legacy alive, and I try to do what you always did so beautifully well: defiantly choose joy.