The Gift of Grief
Last spring, when my grandson Sami died after six days of struggling to survive outside the womb, I told you that in the future I would write about grief. At the time I knew nothing of it. At least not this grief.
Both of my parents died after living long, good lives and grief did not seem like an appropriate response. Mother died peacefully at age 81, several months have suffering from a stroke. For five years before Daddy died in my arms on a cold, January night, I had heard him pray daily, “Lord take me home to be with you!” That was a plea God had finally answered. The expression on Daddy’s face as he reached out for the arms of Jesus was one of joy. Certainly, I could not grieve for him. When my beloved older sister Rodema died after struggling with ovarian cancer (and the treatments) for three years…I was sad for the family who would have to learn to get along without her…but I could not grieve. Just the night before, as I leaned over her bed at the Hospice Home, we sang Mansion Over The Hilltop. My sisters and I used to sing that old hymn in the car on the way home from church on Sunday nights.
And some day yonder we will never more wander
But walk on streets that are purest gold
Rodema sighed, looked up at me, and in a faltering voice confided, “I miss Mama and Daddy.” That was her way of saying, “I can go now.”
When baby Sami (as I suppose we will always refer to him) died, it was as if someone had cut my heart in two. I could see that the grief Amy, Hoyt and their other children were carrying was crushing. They had looked so forward to having this precious son and brother join their close-knit family. Seeing (and feeling) grief through their experience was excruciating.
I have come to understand that my grief was more intense because of my experience in the hospital with Amy. Because of COVID, patients were allowed only one visitor and I had not anticipated being able to stay with her. After her emergency C-section and the decision to transfer baby Sami to the NICU at the UNC Medical Center in Chapel Hill, Hoyt called and asked me to stay with her so he could go with Sami.
I threw some essentials in a bag and Randy drove me as fast as he could. Amy was still in recovery; she had lost copious amounts of blood. Although four units had been transfused, she was still in distress. Her vitals were erratic. About midnight, she was moved from recovery to her own room. Hooked up to monitors and with tubes running in and out, she was barely coherent. She didn’t even get to see baby Sami before he was whisked away but was aware of his serious condition. When the nurses came in to massage her uterus, she screamed in pain, begging them not to do it (unusual for her). Her vital readings continually set the alarms off, and the nurses would come in and reset them. Finally, about 5:30, the doctor was called in. Lab tests had revealed that her hemoglobin was very low. He concluded she was hemorrhaging and the blood was pooling internally. As he sat on her bedside and I stood across from him, suddenly her eyes went back in her head, and she seemed to lose consciousness. I remember saying, “Amy, Amy come back to us!” I thought she was dying. She seized; the doctor called a code and chaos ensued. About 30 seconds later, she opened her eyes. He ordered, “Cancel the code; get her into surgery for an emergency hysterectomy. Now!” She looked at me and said, “Tell Hoyt I love him; tell the children I love them.” God’s strength must have held me at that point; I had none.
I called Rachel and asked her to let Randy (he was staying with Amy’s other children) and Emily and Ben know. They all prayed. Rachel later told me I had said, “We might be losing Amy” although to this day I have no recollection of that phone call. For the next two hours, it was me and God – I tried to read scripture and prayed for God’s will, yearning with all my heart that it was to let Amy live.
After two hours (the estimated time I had been told it would take for the surgery) I ventured out to the reception desk. Explaining I was seeking information about my daughter, I was taken back when it seemed no one had any idea who she was. One of the staff even muttered, “I can’t find her in the system.” I almost panicked. The receptionist made a phone call and turned away from me in her swivel chair. After a few minutes, she instructed me, “Go back to the room; the doctor will be in to see you soon.”
The next few minutes were agonizing. I was trying to prepare myself to receive – and accept – his news. I sat down on her bed and bent over the Bible on her table. I tasted grief. Ten minutes seemed like an eternity. When I heard footsteps in the hallway, I forced myself to look up. The surgeon stood in the doorway, and I could not see any emotion on his face. I pleaded, “How is she?”
“She’s going to be okay!” was his reply.
“Thank you Jesus,” was my heartfelt response.
When the nurse escorted me to the surgical recovery room an hour later, Amy was on the phone with Hoyt, had rosy cheeks and had begun the process of healing from a near-death experience…in fact, 24 hours later she was well enough to be released so she could be with baby Sami.
I tried to erase that entire ordeal from my mind, but after Sami died it was as if the scenes kept playing in my mind, always followed by …” what if, what if, what if…”
Grief – deep sorrow, especially that caused by someone’s death. From Old French grief, from grever ‘to burden’. Synonyms – Sorrow, misery, sadness, anguish, pain, distress, agony, torment, affliction, suffering, heartache, brokenheartedness, woe, despair, mourning. Antonym – joy!
So, how dare I entitle this conversation The Gift of Grief?
Because grief is a process that allows our emotions to go through the seven “stages of grief” from shock and denial – to pain and guilt – to anger and bargaining – to depression – to the upward turn – to reconstruction – to…wait for it…acceptance and hope. Yes, the overwhelming grief that hits you in the pit of your stomach when you first suffer the death of a loved one, will not remain forever. It is not the loss that is a gift. Never. But it is the ability to recover – slowly but surely – from the loss. I have always heard that losing a child is the greatest loss a person can endure and during my children’s childhoods, it was my greatest fears. I believed I would never be able to cope if one of them should die.
I remember the first time I heard Hoyt laugh after baby Sami died. Randy and I looked at each other and with a sigh, Randy commented, “It’s good to see him laugh again.”
Amy was so strong and steady just after Sami died (in her arms) and held herself together well for about a week. Her faith in God was strong. Then the loss suddenly threw a powerful punch. Her faith had not collapsed; but her emotions did. She was surrounded by so much love as she went through the process. Hard days; not so hard days. Piercing pain. Cautious cheerfulness.
One day, in late summer she called to tell me something that Havilah (who turned four years old in September) had just said. Havi had discovered Amy crying in her bedroom.
“Mommy, are you crying about baby-Sami?”
“Yes.”
Havi was off to retrieve a photo of the sweet baby boy. “Here you go, Mommy,” she thrust the photo at Amy.
“Mommy, do you still miss baby-Sami?” Havi whispered.
“Yes, I do…”
“Well, I don’t miss him anymore!” she confidently proclaimed and ran off to play.
In unison, Amy and I tittered at Havilah’s ability to process grief. Children usually have an advantage over adults in their unique capacity to overcome loss.
God, is His infinite wisdom, gave us the gift of grief so we could live through and prevail over the devastating heartbreak of the death of someone we love. This process is so clearly explained in His word: Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.
I Thessalonians 4:13 NIV
Of course, we grieve – but not as those who do not have the hope of eternal life in Christ.
Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us there is a time to mourn and a time to dance. When a loved one dies, you feel as if you will never dance again. Time passes.
While we would have never chosen that baby-Sami be taken from us, his short life and death have changed us forever. It is heartwarming to hear his big sisters talk about heaven and how their little brother awaits them there. That is our hope.
If you are grieving during this season – a fresh grief – a recent loss – know it will not last forever; for those whose hope is in Christ, there is eventually healing, even joy.
That is the gift of grief.