When I was a senior in high school I had a calculus teacher whom everybody loved. He threw erasers at people who gave stupid answers. He also used to give a long-suffering look when asked a stupid question before responding with a sigh and a, “okaaay … moving right along at a very rapid pace.”
He made people laugh. If I remember correctly, I got an A- in that class, which shows how much I liked the teacher and was willing to actually apply myself. I am no mathematical genius by nature.
There was no comparing him to my Physics teacher Mr. Mulvehill. This teacher had the true mad scientist look about him with buck teeth, coke-bottle glasses, thin hair combed over a shiny scalp and the impossibility to discern one word he was saying. If I were not so full of myself and my youth, I would have felt sorry for him. But instead I spent the whole year waving to him from outside the window as we skipped his class.
My senior year in high school was a happy time. Our close-knit group of friends piled into the twins’ VW van and drove around the city going to the movies, the mall, parties, each other’s houses, and just willing the future to come. What was waiting for us? College. More freedom and fun, more parties, more adventure, more growing up. We wanted to keep absorbing and living it all.
We were moving right along at a very rapid pace.
But now … sometimes I wish I could completely stop life until I felt ready to live it. When my brother died and I flew back to Taiwan to start teaching again, I walked into school on my first day back and the kids and teachers alike erupted into cheers to see me again. This was not the reaction I needed or welcomed and I immediately stepped back outside the gate to try and control my sobs. The last thing I wanted to do was to interact with people and focus on anything other than my grief.
This week was as safe as we could make it. I didn’t leave the house from the minute I got home from the hospital on Tuesday until we forced ourselves to go out for New Year’s Eve on Saturday. We did it for the kids. I didn’t really want to go to some fancy dinner, even if it was with friends, and even if we didn’t plan to stay until midnight. But I know enough to know that it’s not healthy for kids to sit around at home for a week straight with a weeping mother and nothing to do. The decibel level in our house rose steadily throughout the days in direct proportion to their insecurity.
So we went. And I made it through and cried every time someone was kind to me.
The next day we forced ourselves to go to house church. This is normally held at our place, but playing hostess and cleaning the house was out of the question. It was the end-of-the-year celebration for our Bible Talk, complete with holiday food and a gift exchange. As soon as I walked in and people enveloped me in their hugs, the tears started again. I hate crying in front of people, especially when the tears are for me and not for them.
We started with a little service (message and communion), and I foolishly thought that I could participate by offering to read one of the Scriptures. You know, play it cool like everything was fine. Then I got to the part “The Lord is close to the broken-hearted; his ears are attentive to their prayers” and Sir had to finish reading it for me because I was sobbing loudly.
Foolish lady.
I was doing fine earlier on in the week – really. I was focusing on the children and the fact that I made it to the hospital before there was even more blood loss. I was focusing on the hope instead of the loss. And then on Friday my husband went to his appointment with the dermatologist and came home with the news that he had to have a suspicious-looking spot removed from his face as urgently as possible.
My mind leapt from 0 to 100 in a minute. I already knew it was cancer and that he would die before the year was out, and then I would have to raise the children alone and I didn’t even have a full time job. Plus, who was going to take care of this high-maintenance house? Who was going to take care of me?
That’s when the waterworks started. Suddenly everything made me cry – the threat to my husband and family unit, the miscarriage, the loss, the lack of hope and a future that engulfed me. I wanted to stop time and stop life and stay in my safe cocoon of a house, surrounded by my husband and (quiet, please) children, and just wait until I felt ready to face things again.
In a year or two.
But everything keeps moving right along (at a very rapid pace) and I have no choice but to be swept up in it. Today my husband went back to work. Tomorrow the children will go back to school and I will have break the news to all the mothers who know about my surprise pregnancy. Next week my English classes will start back up and I will have to put on a brave and cheerful face for the children and their parents.
Then in two weeks’ time my husband will go into the plastic surgeon’s to have the spot removed from his face. (He finds humor in the fact that it’s on Avenue Montaigne, across from where he used to work, where all the rich old ladies come to have their faces stretched. He’s not afraid of cancer – he’s afraid that when they’re through he’ll look like a carp). And in a month we’ll know the results. There is no possibility of staying in my cocoon because things will move forward whether I am ready for them or not.
All this comes in the new year when we naturally question where we’re headed. If we think about it at all, we ask ourselves what we want for our lives out of this new year. What will this year bring? If we’ve suffered at all, we ask ourselves if the new year will bring us some respite. Will 2012 end with more hope than 2011? I’m asking myself both of these things.
I suppose I won’t actually have my answers unless I’m willing to leave the house.
I just wanted to say that I was overwhelmed by your support and love. I gave up trying to express it individually, but please know that each and every comment, text, tweet and e-mail was appreciated and poured over more than once. Thank you.
It all moves along at a very rapid pace no matter how hard we hit pause. Sending you mental strength and love for the jump into life this week.
One step in front of the other, that is the only way to do it….
Sending you so much love across the miles.
We love you Jennie, keep putting one foot in front of the other. You will laugh again. Xxxxxx
Love and hugs…and why does France have to be so far away…
It’s not easy for me to understand everything because i’m your stupid french sister in law (don’t laugh i can see you). But i understand that you’re so brave even if you think that you’re not.
Tu m’as dis un jour que dieu avais surement de bonnes raisons…pour moi le temps a passé et je peux te dire que tu avais raison. Je sais qu’il en sera de même pour toi.
You’re not stupid beautiful sister. 🙂
J’ai été très touchée que tu aies pris le temps de me laisser un commentaire – et en anglais, en plus!! Merci ma très chère soeur.
My heart still hurts for you, Jennie. Take it one day at a time.
“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
Khalil Gibran
Again, I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. It brings tears to my eyes to read this.
I know how difficult it is because I went through two miscarriages and with the first one I couldn’t do anything but lay in bed because of how I felt. Life continued on around me though and like you said you get swept up into it.
The pain disappears but there isn’t a day that I don’t remember the child I lost.
Hugs.
Yes, this.
The fast move, the need for pause, the want for okay.
I feel your heart {and it hurts}.
Mine is with yours.
xo
Oh, dear lady.
Soak us up.
Bask in our care and love and genuine concern for you.
Know that not one night has passed that we haven’t prayed for you.
The pain in your heart, so sharp…too sharp to put words to.
I can promise you that your baby is being held in God’s arms until you’re home to do it yourself.
you will see your baby…you will.
Please remember that, in the darkest times in the middle of the night, when you’re alone with your heavy heart…cast your eyes on the truth that He will hold your baby in His arms until the day you are able to.
And you will.
You will see your baby.
Much love to you, my dear J.
xo
xoxo
What a beautifully written piece – at times, all of us have to figure out how to move right along.
Even if it’s not at a rapid pace.
Unfortunately the world does go on even when we are mourning. Make sure you let yourself mourn. It is very natural and not selfish. Talk with someone if you need to. I know talking really helped me when I had those same feelings. I wish you all the best and know that there are people you’ve never even met, thinking of you and your family. God bless!
Sometimes when it rains, it pours. Last year was that year for me. But this year I know that things are going to be good. So much better. And I hope the same goes for you.
Thinking of you, thinking of your husband. Thinking of Avenue Montaigne. And I’m thinking of the fact that you liked high school. Really? I’m impressed.
Oh wait, let’s just clarify. I liked my last year of high school. The rest of my scholarly career was pretty much a wash.
Oh Jennie, I think we all know that feeling of wanting to press pause and things just keep flying by. You are in my thoughts, and now I will be thinking of Sir as well.
I still don’t have the right words.
But I’m still thinking about you.
So.
XO
Dear Jennie,
I know that feeling when, filled with grief, you don’t want anyone to be kind to you, as it unlocks the gates to the flood of tears. Wanting to move about tasks invisible, without comment, to be able to hold it all together.
But you are surrounded with kindness and loving people. The irony. 🙂 Definitely seek your time alone for healing (and for your Sir’s). And all that love and kindness waits for you, reaches out for you, surrounds you.
Much love from too too far away,
C
It does move right along, even when we need things to pause, to stop.
Thinking of you and sending my best wishes to you and your family.
Sending you strength and love. Thinking about you always.
I am so, so sorry Jennie, I wish there was something I could do to take the pain away. I know our situations are different but the best advice I was given in the depths of the worst time in my life was to just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, because that is all you can do, just keep going. And sooner or later it will get a little bit easier to move forward and you will forget how hard it was to take that first step. Sending hugs.
Take all the time you need and know you are loved and appreciated.
Give yourself time to mourn, Jennie. Otherwise the pain will double up and hit you even harder.
I’m praying that Sir’s skin cancer will be completely removed by the surgery. I’ve had it twice and still look like a human being. [smile]
This was so beautifully written. I know that’s because there is a lot of your heart in it. This made me cry when I read the part about you and yours going to home church. God does indeed hear our prayers, even when we find it hard to believe he does.
I hope your 2012 is bright with renewed hope and God’s grace.
Don’t feel you have to put on a brave face always. The world can handle a little more melancholy as you heal.
And, sometimes the frightening sweep of time going forward actually helps. Even when it is utterly overwhelming.