1. Catching a stomach bug and being sick, simultaneously with Josh, on last Sunday morning. Which, if you are counting, I was 34 weeks during. If I got dehydrated for even a shirt time, contractions could start and I could have been dealing with a hospital visit to stop labor. Nothing like a little worry to go along with barfing (which is you know ANYTHING about me, you know how much I despise on it's own). Then there is the "who else is going to come down with this" worry that sits with me for days and days afterward.
2. I could also delve back into the worry that comes with Emily being breech at a point where she should absolutely not be able to flip like she did and at a point where it's not likely that she'll turn back.
3. I could also go through the anticipation of Hurricane Sandy which resulted in a loss of power for 4 days, 2 of which we stayed home for and thankfully 2 we were able to seek refuge at my inlaws house.
None of those compare to what's weighing on my mind and heart tonight. Not in the least.
While I was sick last Sunday, I was scrolling facebook and I started seeing statuses about a friend of mine. They were vague. Once I figured out what was going on the truth and severity of the situation hit like a ton of bricks. My friend from my playgroup, Hatsue, lost her husband in the early hours of Sunday. Their kids ages 7, 4 and 1, lost their father. He was involved in a crash on his motorcycle and had passed away before Hatsue could even get to the hospital.
Her husband is gone. Her kids are fatherless. She'll never say anything else to him ever again. She'll never hug him. She'll never again have him to share the burden of financial concerns or decisions regarding the kids. She won't hear "I love you." His things sit in her house, untouched. Permanently. His shirts in the laundry probably still smell like him. There were probably dishes in the sink that he left. Socks on the floor, perhaps. Those things are signs of him, but he'll never again be there, in the house, for his family, doing those everyday things that she probably so badly longs for. Normalcy.
Through the week our playgroup has rallied and is working intensely behind the scenes to make sure Hatsue has help, support, and everything she needs in the coming months. I think it was healing for us to be throwing emails back and forth with suggestions, offers of help, and support in the "what do we do now?" times.
The week ticked away (through the breech news and storm and relocating our family for the time being) and today finally came. The Funeral. I was able to get away to attend it and I'm glad I did. There were a handful of other friends from our playgroup. What a different environment compared to when I normally see them. I was glad they were there. After the service, I hadn't gotten to pay my respects, so I went up to do so. As I walked to the front I spotted Gabriella, Hatuse and Jorge's 7 year old daughter. She was smiling and happy like she always is. She's such a sweet girl. That's when I lost it. Her innocence. Her happiness. She had a notebook that she was asking people to sign, as her own private guestbook. My heart broke for that little girl who has memories of her daddy, but ones that were capped off last Saturday night. She doesn't comprehend the longevity, the severity, the loss. My heart just hurt so badly for her. She stood there, pleasantly, asking person after person to sign her book. By the time I reached her, I was completely broken down and was so mad at myself. She deserves to see strength and I couldn't do anything but fight through my tears to smile at her. She told her grandma, "This is my mommy's friend!" and all I could do was nod and scribble a message in her book. I wanted to give her so much more than my teary smile and a line written in her book.
After I passed Gabby, there was Hatsue. As I approached, she was standing there with a blank look on her face, staring. She looked empty, hollow, numb, but in pain. There is nothing I could do or say in that moment (or ever) to make things better. There isn't a band-aid for this. I want there to be something that I can do to take away her pain. There's not. I got up to her and hugged her. She thanked me for coming and again, I was frozen. All I could do was muddle out "Of course" amid my tears. It's such an incredibly helpless feeling. Nothing will change what has happened to her and her family.
I paid my respects (to a body that didn't look much like Jorge... they never do look the same) and made my way back to the car. Once I got in the car, I just cried. I went back to my inlaws and tried to hold it together while all I wanted to do was curl into a ball and feel helpless. I wanted to just stop and hurt for Hatsue. On the way home, I texted Jim to check in. He gave me the lunch and nap scoop on the kids and said something goofy. I replied with "You are alive, and that's all that matters right now." Talk about being handed perspective. No matter what happened in my day, my husband is alive. He's here. After this week, that's truly a blessing.
This hits so close to home. Hatsue is my age. Her kids are roughly the ages of mine. Her husband was a lot like Jim. We've spoken about their similarities. She got married young, had kids young, and has been a stay at home mom all along. Jorge provided. She has family with her now, but they will all eventually leave. Everyone will grieve and find a way to work back into their everyday lives. Hatsue will be left with an empty space in her house, her life, her heart. She is going to have to parent those children alone. Every aspect of their upbringing is now on her shoulders. The kids won't have their father to shape and mold them, the way that fathers do. Most things in life change with your perception of them. This is so permanent to just change by looking at it from a different angle. When you get married and really agree to "until death do you part," you don't think that will mean 8 years.
So I sit here, aching for my friend... not being able to even comprehend how she feels. Just to talk to him would be the best thing to her. It won't happen. I know more recently, I've noticed a switch where Jim is the one person who understands me more than anyone. More than my parents, which is huge. Unspoken, he knows when something has bothered me. He knows what I'm feeling based on circumstance. If Jim was taken away, I don't know where I would turn. *He* would be the one to really knows how I'm feeling, yet he'd be the one person that I just can't talk to, rely on, and use in that moment. What do you do when the person you turn to in hard times, is the person gone?
My thoughts and prayers are with her and those precious kids. Time will ease the pain and there are friends ready to jump in and help her cope with the coming weeks and months, but the permanence doesn't change. Prayers for my friend, please, and count your blessings. You just don't know what's around the corner.
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