Snapshot of a Grief Moment

(Italicized portions written June 7, while sitting next to my sleeping Hyrum and looking out at a beautiful beach.)

"Oregon! The travel day was beautiful. I’ll write more on that later! It spent all of his energy, though, and today he vomited several times. Low fever. Tired. We watched Spidey together then he fell asleep on the couch. I wanted the quiet time with him, so Michael ceded his spot and let me stay while Hyrum slept. The fam is flying kites on the beach. 

I answered a couple messages and caught up on emails. I’ve already studied scripture today… With no obvious task next, my feelings come creeping in. I scroll social media for a while, then take a deep breath and put down my phone. 

My mind bounces between various thoughts. Will Hyrum be capable of tide pooling later? Will Disneyland next week be too much? Do we need to travel to Utah sooner so he can say goodbye to people and places? Was there something we should have done yesterday or this morning to make this physically easier for him? I listen to Hyrum’s fevered breaths. Does he need more Motrin? Should I check his fever now even though it might wake him?"

At this point, I: Cried. Breathed. Remembered: sleep will solve as much as an immediate Motrin. I can wait to check his temperature when he wakes up. 

Sighed. Looked outside. Remembered: This just ISN’T physically easy for him, no matter what we do. 

Cried. Breathed in the quiet. Remembered: My Utah and Disney questions (and most of my other questions) don’t have answers right now. 

Breathed. Allowed time to pass without mental chatter. With a finally quiet brain, I remembered: My urge to plan and have answers is one way I deflect my attention from feeling difficult things.

Prayed. Cried. Wrote down feelings/this experience. Felt better.

"So much of this is waiting. Wait for him to wake. Wait for a doctor to call back. Watch how Hyrum tolerates today. Wait for a quiet moment to discuss things with Michael. Wait for inevitable symptoms to recur. There are plenty of ways to stay busy planning, fussing, drowning, deflecting… But Hyrum needs peaceful parents. An interesting irony I’ve learned recently? I can hurt and still find peace. Sadness can coexist with calm. Anger, anxiousness, and false “It’s fine” apathy cannot. To be what Hyrum needs me to be, I need quiet spaces to peel back the ever-returning layers of distraction and deflection. I need to be sad. I need to be held. I need to believe. 

Sometimes people fill those spaces for me: coming to help me clean when I call, crying with me in brief moments, bringing me food, hugging me tightly. Often, that pattern is something I do with God. Praying through tears. Pleading for strength. Asking for angels. It’s exactly what a Savior does: hurt with you, heal for you, and make heaven seem more real."

But I don't always remember that when I'm busy fussing... I've still gotta notice the physical/mental frenzy, slow down and ask "Is what I'm doing preventing me from feeling?" "Am I rushing because I'm resisting the urge to ask for help?" "Right now, am I doing what I think a grieving person "should" be doing, instead of doing something more unconventional, hopeful, or true?"