Grief

A Life Turned Upside Down – Part Two

/ Nicole Bartell / Leave a comment

Coming home from the hospital was overwhelming. I was still in a whole lot of pain and needed precise medication dosing. I slipped pretty hard in my codependency recovery during this season. It was just so much easier to become passive and let others take care of me when I was in the hospital. When I got home, though, reality sank in. My illusion of safety in my life had been shattered, and I was terrified all the time. I didn’t like to leave my house at all, but even at home I faced the fear of someone coming in and attacking. I don’t think I had ever been this aware of my own mortality. One of my ways of dealing with my lack of control in my life was to try to hyper control everything and everyone else. I fanatically managed my own medication schedule and really wouldn’t allow my husband to help me, even though he was willing. I became very particular about how I wanted things. I only have vague memories from this period, but I am certain I was a bear to live with.

I turned 50 three weeks after I came home, and I was very disappointed that I couldn’t have the ’80s party I had envisioned. I was cleared to eat a soft (read: pureed) diet on my actual birthday and so my husband and friends planned a small get-together for me on the Saturday I had originally planned to hold my party. It was another example to me of Dad’s love through others, and I was struck again by how these people He had put in my life cared for me. And the blessing of actually being able to eat a little bit instead of taking nourishment through a PEG tube was amazing, even if it did have the consistency of baby food.

I found great comfort during that season just sitting on my front porch. I would sit there and listen to the breeze and the birds and pretend that Jesus was sitting in the chair next to me. And I would talk to Him. A lot. Out loud. I think I grew even closer to Him as I began to process my terror of life outside my haven, and the fact that I did not recognize the face I saw in the mirror. At the same time, Scriptures kept coming to mind about how I was supposed to rejoice in everything and give thanks. The one that really hammered home a lot was Hebrews 12:2 (CSB): “…for the joy that lay before Him, He endured the cross, despising the shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” I agonized over these verses because I knew I was not rejoicing or being thankful. One morning, I poured out my heart to Him because I could tell that the old fear of not measuring up and being rejected by Him for being disobedient was rising in me again. He showed me the Garden of Gethsemane, and Jesus crying out there before He went to the cross. And Dad asked me, “Do you think He was rejoicing then?” Having that visual and recognizing that Jesus also wrestled over doing Dad’s will renewed my hope. It showed me that it is okay to wrestle with Dad. He welcomes my wrestling. If I am wrestling with Him, then I am not giving up. My faith was strengthened and settled in my relationship and security with Him again.

Until March. I had been struggling with a persistent infection for a number of months. I was receiving hyperbaric oxygen therapy in the hopes that it would heal the infection, but by late March it was clear that it had not accomplished what my surgeon had hoped, and I was looking at another surgery. It was also becoming apparent that my initial custom-made hardware had failed on one side so I was going to need either an internal replacement or an external one. I burst into tears when she told me. I already felt so uncomfortable in my own body. The idea of having an external frame outside my jaw to hold it in place was so devastating. I had also learned a bit more about the details of what happened the day I was shot, and I was suddenly hit with this internal question: was this allowance or causation? Did Dad ALLOW this to happen to me or was I CHOSEN for it? I was the only other person hit besides the original target, and I realized later, from reading the report and doing some deductive reasoning, that I was actually hit by the first bullet. This threw me into a tailspin. There were a lot of other people around that day. Why was I the one shot? I was back to wrestling.

Here is where I am very glad for recovery. I am glad that recovery has taught me that it is okay to be angry at Dad. He is big enough to take it. And He wants honesty most between us. No one else could answer this question for me, so I went to the only One who could. No answer. That hurt. I was hoping for an easy answer. Years ago, when processing through my sexual abuse as a child, it was so healing for me when He told me that He gave us free will, and He wouldn’t violate my abuser’s will any more than He would violate mine. But He did show me all the ways that He showed up and provided for me in that season, even though I didn’t know Him yet. I was asking the same here…tell me something that will make this easier to understand and accept.

Crickets.

It was really the first time since all this happened that Dad went silent. And here I was again, wrestling. I reached out to the therapist I had been seeing before all this and made an appointment. I was angry that this was my lot. I was angry that my face had been irrevocably changed. I was angry that all the work I had done to learn to love myself was for nothing because now I didn’t even feel like me anymore. I was furious. This wasn’t fair. And here I was, facing another major surgery when I had JUST gotten to the point where I could do normal things again like sleep on my right side and chew actual food. This would put me right back to the beginning again, and I was not happy. My therapist encouraged me to create a “Book of Remembrance”: a single place where I could record everything Dad has ever told me, taught me, provided for me, and all the ways He has shown up for me-a record of Dad’s faithfulness TO ME in the past so that I don’t have to go digging through years of journals to find it. I did NOT want to do this exercise. I wanted to be angry. I wanted Him to know I felt this was very unfair. And then memories started flooding in of other times I had felt similarly and Dad came through. Not on my schedule, but He always delivered. It didn’t always look like what I wanted or expected, but it always ended up being better.

The more I wrote, the more I realized it didn’t really matter which it was. I am following Jesus to the Celestial City, and whatever difficulties and hardships I bear along the way in this life are opportunities for me to see Him better, to know His love more deeply, and to be able to share with others what He has done in my life because the hardships and struggles have never been the end of the story. The end of the story is that I am His and He is mine and nothing and no one in this life can ever take that away. I say with Simon Peter, “Lord, to whom will we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and KNOW that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6: 68-69 CSB; emphasis mine). He is my Rock. My refuge. My Safety and Security. When everything else gives way, He is the One to whom I run and find shelter and rest.

Charlie was really happy I was home.
A little hint about what is to come.

Growing Pains

/ Nicole Bartell / Leave a comment

When children are little, the days seem consumed by cooking, cleaning, playing, snuggling, managing, redirecting attention, and discipline. They are exhausting, and the parent wonders if they will ever end. But, the joy of watching that little person grow and mature, try new things, embrace new hobbies and passions, even test the waters and limits of what they are allowed to do…though it was hard to see in the midst of it, those were great times. I missed some of it because of deep depression. I contributed to some of the angst and pain because I was too harsh in his early years. But Father was so very faithful. He showed me the mistakes I was making and gave me the courage and the determination to do whatever it took to change, even face the pain of my own past. We’ve weathered some pretty hard storms, my boy and me. And we have come out the other side with a relationship that is priceless, and that I would not trade all the money in the world for.

When my son was 16, Father laid on my heart that I needed to start letting him go, needed to start letting him make some of his own important decisions, so he could learn to do so while still under our care and support. As hard as it was as a control-freak who was not yet in recovery, I began to slowly loosen my hold and let him go. To be a Hannah and let her Samuel go (there’s a story behind that reference that is for another time). He made some mistakes, but for the most part, he was incredibly mature. It is hard to not be mature having gone through all he had at such a young age. He has made so many wise decisions. And I have rejoiced as he learned the very hard lessons of being consistent to take his anti-seizure medication without reminders, especially as the day came this year for him to finally be able to drive, three years after his peers. We were overjoyed in his success.

Then came the inevitable. The term “empty nest” is such a trite thing to me. I mean, birds have such a short time, and they push their children out of the nest. I know that what is best for him is to encourage him to take those hard steps, to risk pursuing those big dreams, to strike out on his own adventure, and I am trying to do that consistently while also grieving the fact that those choices are taking him further and further away from me. I know that is a good thing. I know it is important, necessary even. But knowing those things to be true does not make my sadness at his absence any easier. I stayed home with him. I homeschooled him. I have spent the majority of every day of his almost 20 years with him. His absence now leaves a big hole. I am thankful that when Father led me to start giving him some independence when he was 16, He also led me to start pursuing my own interests outside of him. I am so glad He did. I don’t know how I would be now if I hadn’t started recovery, if my entire world still revolved solely around my boy. Thankfully, it doesn’t. I have grown, just as he has. I am embracing new challenges and experiences. I have grown and matured and healed in so many ways. I have discovered new hobbies and passions. I am growing. And this is just another part of that. It is GOOD! And it hurts.

So, I am allowing myself to grieve the changes. I am allowing myself to feel sad as my husband and I eat dinner without our son sitting there at the table with us. I am allowing myself to feel the loss as I am in the house alone working on the new things I am learning to do as he heads off to learn new things. And I am also being intentional about being grateful. Grateful for the time I’ve had with him. Grateful for the man he is becoming who is chasing hard after God’s heart. Grateful that he is still walking this earth, even with a disability because he has a medicine that works well. Grateful that he has been able to overcome SO MUCH and is finding healing at such a young age. Grateful that I get to watch this beautiful young man stretch and grow and become everything I’ve always known he could be. Grateful that I got chosen to be his mom, and I always will be. Grateful that we are both growing, even as we grow in different directions.

Transitions

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Transition: (noun)

  1. a) a change or shift from one state, subject, place, etc. to another
  1. b) a period or phase in which such a change or shift is happening

Change is inevitable. Everything changes. Some changes are easier to weather than others. We change when we age but most years just blend one into another. There are only a few that are truly significant and impact our lives in important ways. Change is a constant fact of life. If we aren’t changing, we aren’t growing, and if we aren’t growing, we’re dying.

The process of change is the difficult part. It isn’t a quick progression from point A to point B. That transition period is affected by many factors. How easily I embrace the process. How quickly I am willing to trust that this season of change is for my good. I have been finding my ability to do both of those to be easier the past few years, which speaks tremendously to the work I’ve done in learning how to trust Father in small things so that the big things become less daunting. However, I still have not reached the point where I don’t initially balk at the prospect. He knows me. And I can’t count the number of times He has graciously given me a heads up about change coming so that I would be prepared when I stared it in the face. I wish I could say that I embraced those warnings and bravely launched into the transition. That would be a lie. I still balk when it is before me, just for a (slightly) shorter time than I once did.

When my boy was 16, Father spoke to my heart and told me it was time to begin transitioning from parent/teacher to counselor/advisor. I needed to let him start making some of his own, more serious, decisions and allow him to do so while still safe under our care. As a codependent, that was hard enough, but I did recognize from my own experience how important it was for him to have the freedom to make mistakes while he was still within the shelter of home. With a plan in place of how I would manage this, I proceeded to do exactly that. I stepped back and let him begin to make big decisions. If he asked for my advice (and even sometimes when he didn’t), I would give it, but other than that, I was learning to let him be responsible for himself. That was especially hardest to do when I knew his decision would cause him pain, but I also knew my head-strong boy needed to learn some lessons on his own. This was the hardest when it came to letting him learn the hard way about not taking his anti-seizure meds. It took a few years, and a couple of seizures, for him to learn those lessons but learn them he did. In our state, the law is that an epileptic must be seizure-free for an entire year before they can get their driver’s license. That year was over the end of 2022, and after jumping through some bureaucratic hoops, he finally got his license last week. I am simultaneously thrilled and terrified by this prospect. I am so happy he will finally be able to experience some of the freedom and independence he has longed for (for three years longer than his peers). He has gained a great deal of wisdom, and he has some very wise people speaking into his life, so I am not overly concerned about really bad decisions being made. My main concern will always be the specter of epilepsy. This is the hardest to let go of. Will he remember to take his medicine? What if he has a seizure, and I’m not there? What if he has a seizure while driving? So many things I cannot control. Things I have already been letting him manage for quite some time, but it was easier to do that when I was his sole source of transportation. Even when he was with his friends, they knew and were extra cautious. Now, it is time to cut the strings and let my baby fly. And though I have been preparing for this season for almost four years, now that it is here, I am having a really hard time just letting go. I know what this means. I know the changes that are immediately before my family. He will get a job. Eventually, he will move out. And I know these are all good things and necessary for HIS continued growth (and mine, I know). But I’m struggling with the fact that this will change our family dynamic. He won’t be there at home with me for much longer. With very brief exceptions, he has been with me every day for the last almost 20 years. Soon, all those things I’ve been so used to, that time I was able to spend with him, will fade as he pursues the future Father has for him. And I know this is good, and I am thankful he has such a good relationship with the One who made him. At the same time, I am left trying to figure out what this means for me moving forward.

Which brings me to the next big change. I have spent the past few years preparing for this time. I’ve learned to pursue my own interests and have sought the path Father has laid before me. I’ve had some stops and starts along the way. Fear of failure is a beast to overcome. But He has been patient with me and has lovingly pushed me to take small steps of faith, one at a time. My first sponsor once told me that it is normal to be afraid to embark on something new, but that the more I grow in competence, the more I will grow in confidence. I have found this to be a true statement. I am still overcoming the damaging core beliefs of unworthiness and incapability, and most things I’m faced with trying, those are the leading beliefs, and I have to allow Father to talk me through each one, to speak truth to me in the moment so that I can keep replacing those lies I’ve believed with TRUTH. Unlearning is probably the hardest part of recovery, and I have a lot to relearn. He led me to take a step of faith in accepting a position with more responsibility than I have ever had before. I confess, I am terrified of messing up, of failing at this. I recognize that it is a great opportunity to learn more in preparation for the next big change coming later this year, and I also know I’m not alone. There are others I can rely on and turn to for help. And I am thankful, both for the opportunity to learn and also for the faith others have put in me. It’s just a lot of change all at once.

Maya Angelou once said, “We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.” I think of the caterpillar, ensconced in its cocoon, its body dissolving into slime and wonder that somehow, that formless goo comes back together to become something truly beautiful. I guess I feel like I’m in the cocoon again. I wonder if the caterpillar knows what it will become? I am so thankful that the One who designed it to form that chrysalis knew exactly what that larva was destined to become and built into it the insatiable desire to fulfill its destiny. No fear of change for the butterfly. I seek to trust the One who created me for a unique purpose, one that He alone sees, and continue to work on surrendering completely to that vision.

Recovery During a Season of Grief

/ Nicole Bartell / 1 Comment

Recovery is hard. I’m not going to sugar coat it as anything other than hard work and tenacity. There are seasons of rest and joy and celebration when the work pays off, but there’s also a need to be honest with myself about the pain that has driven me to do the things I do and make the choices I make and a willingness to work through the pain I’ve spent decades avoiding because the only real way out is through. But those times I get that victory, and those hurts get healed…it makes every step of the journey worth it.

And then, I suddenly find myself an orphan. And the one person who had been there from my first memory isn’t there anymore. Suddenly, recovery becomes like trying to drag a 50-lb. boulder tied around my waist up a steep mountain on a path I can barely see anymore. It takes concerted effort just to put one foot in front of another. It takes a lot of setting aside time just to sob uncontrollably in a safe environment so I don’t lose it in a public place. It takes relapsing and running back to food to find some comfort when there’s none to be had. And then it’s shame because I feel like I failed, and I’m right back to step one…again and again and again. Recovery is hard. Recovery in the midst of grief is a battle. I lost a few skirmishes along the way. But I kept fighting. I’ve been bloody and bone-weary and felt like giving up. But I kept fighting. I’m still so very sad, and I miss my mom so much sometimes it is a palpable pain. But I keep fighting. I keep taking one step at a time, even if it is just an inch, because I know the fight is worth it. I know there is still hope and healing in honesty. I keep trusting the process. And I put my hand into the hand of the only Parent I have left because I KNOW He cares for me, and He will never leave me. And the journey continues.

Recovery is hard. Grief is hard. But I do not walk through either one alone. I have a team. I have encouragers. I have those who just sit with me and let me cry. I have people who pray. I have a coach who tells me the truth even when I don’t want to hear it and never gets upset when I say I’m not ready to talk about something. I have mentors who have walked the path before me. I have those who reach out when they haven’t heard from me in awhile because they know my tendency to isolate and shut down when I’m hurting. And I have a few friends that stick closer than sisters. I am not alone. Because I know I’m not alone, I know I can keep fighting. I can do the hard, “one day at a time, one moment at a time”.

Firsts

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Firsts. There are happy firsts and difficult firsts. My son’s first smile, the first time my husband told me he loved me, the first time I realized I was no longer depressed; those were all great firsts that brought an immensity of joy. The first time my son had a seizure, the first time I was rejected by someone I loved dearly, the first time I realized I was repeating unhealthy parenting patterns; those are incredibly painful memories. Those firsts, the ones I wish had never occurred, those are embedded. The pain associated with them makes their memory rise to the surface so much easier than the happy ones, as if they are permanently tattooed on my brain so I can NEVER forget, no matter how much I might want to.

Grief is a little different. I remember that first Christmas, just three weeks after Daddy died. It was hard, but there’s a film over it, like I’m looking at the memory through a clouded window. I was still numb. I feel the same way about the dinner we had for Mom’s birthday just one month after she’d gone. I remember it, but it’s hazy. And maybe that’s a blessing of grief. It causes the one experiencing the loss to be numb enough to not feel the full weight of all those firsts. They are hard enough.

This is my first Mother’s Day without my mom. In looking through some pictures to share with a family member, I found a Mother’s Day card from Mom and realized I would never receive another one. I would never again receive a card from her telling me all the things she found it hard to verbalize. So, there are also lasts. But we don’t recognize the importance of those until after they have passed and those firsts bring them to our awareness.

I am thinking anew of what it means to live each moment as if it were my last.