On September, Depression, and Letting Go

School has started.  There's a crispness in the air.  Up here the leaves are starting to change.  All this means that September has arrived.  I used to love fall.  But now, as soon as the cool weather starts to come in, my depression begins to settle around me like an unwelcome friend.  I can feel it making itself comfortable like a warm blanket resting on my shoulders, except it's anything but.  It's an unwanted guest making its annual visit this time of year.  

I went on a retreat with a good friend of mine and unplugged from social media for the last week of August and the first part of September.  We started out in the middle of nowhere in Northern Michigan and worked on getting our lives back in order and ended up in the middle of Detroit going to the movies, the zoo, and a Tigers game.  I thought keeping myself busy with a good friend would keep the dementors at bay.  Alas, it was not to be.  They came anyway.  They showed up like clockwork to tell me that the days were ticking down to the anniversary of Patrick's passing.  

Indeed, the last time I was at a Tigers game was 2014, and Phil and I had just visited with the surgeon and I was moving toward palliative care for Patrick.  The memories came flooding back.  The last time I was at the Detroit zoo, we were there with Mira keeping her entertained while Patrick was in the hospital.  And the memories continued to come.  But next time!  Next time I can say, last time I was here with my friend and we ate junk food and laughed about things and had a wonderful time.  Next time I can go to these places and have something else to remember because I was brave enough to go this time.  And so I enter each September wondering what I will be doing so that next year I can try to fight off the dementors with new memories.  Wondering when the depression will not make itself at home quite as easily as it does now.  Sadly, it's not this year, but I hold out hope and wait for next September.

In the meantime, though, I have learned something that might help.  This year, Patrick would have been 4.  I have seen lots of little boys running around doing lots of adorable things this year.  Some of these boys are younger than Patrick and others are around his age.  And sometimes I get caught up wondering what Patrick would have been like.  What would he have been doing?  I know he would have been driving his sister crazy, but would she have been trying to teach him the ABCs like she claims?  Would they play together?  Chase each other?  Would his problems have kept him from developing normally?  

As I contemplated these questions, as I have done in previous years, something different happened this year.  I remembered his heart--his funky, one-of-a-kind heart--and something my dad said to me.  Patrick made it so no one could make him stay longer than he meant to.  And that's the raw truth of it.  Patrick was never going to be 4.  There is no "How would he look all grown up?" because he was never going to grow up.  Imagining what he might have been like is useless because that was never meant to be.  He was not a healthy kid who had his life snuffed out early.  He was a beautiful soul who was just here for a short time.  

I've always known there was nothing more I could have done for Patrick.  I've never felt as though I let him down or that I should have done more for him.  And yet, by allowing myself to let him age in my head, I was doing just that.  I was pretending that there was a life he could have and should have had.  There wasn't.  Patrick didn't miss out.  He lived his life to the fullest, learning, laughing, and smiling to the end.  By aging him, I've been uselessly beating myself up over something that never was and never would have been.  I believed it brought comfort to imagine, but it didn't.  It simply brought home the ache that he wasn't there.  Instead of focusing on the amazing memories I did have, I was focusing on those things that could never be.  That doesn't mean I won't celebrate his birthday, and I'll probably still make the off-handed remark that he would have been able to drive when we reach his 16th birthday.  Heck, we even said that about our marriage when it hit 16 and it's not even a person.  The point I'm trying to make is that I'm ready to let go of the imaginary life I had for him.  It wasn't his.  It was mine.  And it isn't helping me.  So it's time to thank it for the part it played in my grieving process and show it on its way.  I'm ready to grow up and face the truth now.

Patrick was almost 11-months-old when he died.  That's all he got.  That's all he needed.  I need to focus on and remember those beautiful times and those beautiful smiles.

Grief and Letting Go

Here is the text of the sermon I preached today--the anniversary of Patrick's passing.


A little over six years ago, I stood here and preached my first sermon while Phil was on sabbatical.  It was 2009, and we were still waiting for a child.  Still stuck in the darkness of infertility; not knowing if we would ever be parents.  It’s been a full and unfathomable six years, filled with more doctors and shots and surgeries than I ever imagined.  We had Mira and Patrick and life was complicated and crazy and tiring, but beautiful.  But, as most of you know, one year ago today, we lost Patrick to complications caused by his congenital heart defect.  Learning to navigate feelings of grief and anger while simultaneously working to enjoy and celebrate Mira’s life has been difficult.  We have worked hard to find a new normal, knowing that it will only be normal for a while—until another change occurs.

Over the past year, I tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore my grief and shove it away in the name of functionality.  When it refused to be shut out any longer, I struggled with depression, anxiety, and panic attacks.  When I allowed myself to feel the grief and anger, I became easily overwhelmed—crying profusely and unable to complete even the simplest task.  I experienced word recall problems and memory lapses, making work impossible.  I even had brief moments when all I wanted was to have Patrick back in my arms, no matter what it took to achieve that.  This is grief.  And it’s ugly.

Grief makes us uncomfortable.  We don’t want to see people in pain.  We want to fix it.  Soon after a funeral, lives return to normal, and we just sort of expect everyone else’s lives to go back to normal as well.  Have you noticed that the Gospels don’t really deal with grief?  Jesus dies.  Then what?  How do you imagine Mary got through the day?  Her son is dead—considered a criminal; murdered by the state.  Does her community help her, or shun her?  Nothing tells us how she moves forward.  Or we’re supposed to move forward.  How do we go on?

People would ask how I was doing, but there were no words to explain, so I lied and said I was fine, or sad, or “just hanging in there.”  Most people did not want to hear the truth.  I felt the anguish of the psalmist:

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress
my eye wastes away from grief,
my soul and body also.

For my life is spent with sorrow,
and my years with sighing
my strength fails because of my misery,
and my bones waste away.

Because of my [grief],
I am the utter contempt of my neighbors;
I am a dread to my friends
—those who see me on the street flee from me.

I am forgotten by them as though I were dead
I have become like broken pottery.

And it hurts.  We discover that there are some who cannot bear witness to our grief and others, usually those we least expect, step up and sit with us and help make life bearable while we learn how to pick ourselves back up and do the small things like breathe or shower or eat.

During grief, time passes in this strange fashion of quick and slow all at the same time, and I suddenly found myself nearing this one year anniversary of Patrick’s death with no idea how that year had passed.  And I’m not done grieving.  I’m not sure I ever will.  But.  I’m on the road to acceptance.  Acceptance doesn’t mean no more hard days, or angry days, or sad days.  It doesn’t mean that I’m done.  It just means that most of my days are good.  In the language of my day job, it is more likely than not that today will be a better day.

As I have emerged from the fog of grief, I have begun to figure out what I’m supposed to do now.  Different ideas have percolated, but most of them have made me anxious because they all fall outside my comfort zone.  “I can’t do that!” I tell myself.  But if I’m honest, it’s that I don’t want to do it.  The ideas would require more work, more discomfort, or expenditure of more time and energy than I feel ready for.  I’m scared.  The ideas involve risk, and I am a risk-averse person.

In my fear and discomfort, I have been reminded that everyone feels that way.  Jonah was clearly called to be a prophet, but he made himself miserable trying to avoid doing the work God called him to do.  Moses was called to guide and care for others in a new place, feeling unsure of himself, but having to be the adult to an entire nation.

Like Jonah and Moses, we are all called to do God’s work.  Like Jonah, we hide.  We run.  Like Moses, we fall short or fail.  We misunderstand.  Moses even tells God, “Oh my Lord, please send someone else.”  It is a comfort to me that even Moses, one of the best of God’s people, was imperfect and felt unworthy and not up to the challenges to which he was called.  And yet, ultimately, Moses goes.  Even Jesus submits to God’s will.  “Not my will, but thine be done.”  We, too, must try.  We must let go.  We must submit. 

Now, here’s a dirty little secret.  People will tell you to let go and let God.  I just did.  And we mean well.  Because the truth is, when you’re ready to let go, it will be freeing.  But if you’re not ready to let go, don’t.  Letting go before you’re ready means spending a lifetime trying to pick it back up.  So hold on.  Hold on until you know that letting go is your best option.  Even then it won’t be easy.  Letting go is still a huge leap of faith.  No matter when you do it, it is likely to feel scary.  But, more often than not, when something feels scary—if it requires you to leave your comfort zone—God is calling you out because He is doing a new thing.

So this is me—doing the scary new things God has called me to do.  I am turning my blog into a book in the hope that my journey will help make someone else feel less alone or make their path a little easier.  And today.  This sermon.  This sharing of my journey with you.  See, preaching—any public speaking really—is not my thing.  I’m a writer.  But through all of this, I have been called to share my story.  So this is me—taking my leap of faith—letting go and letting God.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.