While I haven’t been able to make new posts every day, I have found that the few posts I have been able to write have provided a new source of healing for me. Writing has been a way for me to release some of the thoughts that plague my mind, often on repeat, going around and around and around, almost waiting to be dropped off. Having a blog has been a way to “drop them off”, to get them out of my mind, to let my heart breath.
And yet, there are some thoughts that don’t have this roundabout way to them, they can’t be put into words. It’s almost like a black hole – that part of me where my fears and pains run to, where no words can even begin to describe what is going on. I often have difficulty expressing this part of me, this part that almost controls my being, my mind, my strength. I have sat many a times staring at a blank screen, trying to convey what I truly want to express – what grief truly has done to me. Like a thief in the night, it came in suddenly and took everything I was, everything I had known, and disappeared without a trace. Leaving me empty, alone, and dark. I wish my words could even do justice to the impact Nate’s passing has had on me.
Thankfully, there are those out there who have been robbed like I, but have come back into the light. They have found their footing again and are able to look back and laugh at this thief, to take back what is theirs. It is so inspiring to me to read their words of wisdom, to know that one day there will be light again. One book I have been reading recently is Second Firsts by Christina Rasmussen. This book was given to me by another widow and finally, there are words on the page that describe exactly what I am going through now, along with words of hope for the future. Words that I could not even find myself, are there staring at me in black type, explaining every thought, every emotion, every sense of what I am experiencing. I know there is a future for me, I am thankful to God for giving me another new day, as painful as they often might be. While the present is painful, the future is so full of hope – because God gave us his son, he crucified him on a cross so that we might have life. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life grieving. This thief will one day return to me what it took – and not on its own accord – but because I demanded it back. Slowly, surely, I am gaining strength to take it back. To take control of my life again and to make it mine. To live in the present, not the past, but always remembering to live for the future – knowing that heaven is my destination and God is my strength, He is my courage and my provider.
Because I have finally found words that describe so clearly how I feel currently and since Nate passed, I wanted to share some of them with you. So that not only will it help you to understand the pain and loss that I feel, but also to allow you to see into the eyes of others you may one day encounter who have similar loss. The following words have been paraphrased from Second Firsts:
I have lived in the shadow of loss – the kind of loss that can paralyze you forever.
I have grieved like a professional mourner – in every waking moment, draining every ounce of my life force.
I died – without leaving my body.
Loss is devastating.
It’s painful and sad, and it truly stops us in our tracks.
It brings up fears about our safety and abilities.
It makes us question reality. It’s so damn unfair. It’s literally one of the hardest things we ever face – and we don’t get a choice about that.
You see, before your loss, you were one person. You knew who you were. You made sense in the context of your life. But that identity was ripped away in the moment of our loss. That moment did not only bring pain and sorrow, it also brought confusion and fear.
Your brain lost its ability to plan and reason.
There’s a lot of uncertainty at this time. Even though going back to the old life isn’t possible, part of you wants to do that anyway.
In the midst of his death, I lost my life, too. He died on April 1, 2014 at 7:40 A.M. I died with him, at 7:41 A.M. His body was lifeless. My body was numb.
Loss felt like a tsunami hitting me from the inside – my brain, my heart, my arms, my legs – and washing away my inner knowing of what life was supposed to feel like.
There are no words to describe the experience of losing someone you love more than life itself. You cannot know the feeling unless you have experienced it.
It felt like I was having an out-of-body experience or watching a movie in slow motion. I wish I knew how it was for him. I wanted to go with him. But I knew I couldn’t. Our one path split in two. It was time to say good-bye. Forever.
The memory of the realization that my life was about to change is imprinted indelibly in my mind. I knew then that the death I felt within me was something I had never been prepared for, and that it was possible I might not survive this powerful kind of grieving.
I already missed him, in the few seconds I had been without him. I remember looking around me, taking in the room. And then I took my first breath of this new life. Gasping for air, each breath was immense struggle. My body did not feel like my own. It was heavy, and tired, and acted as if it did not want to go where I was taking it.
I was emotionally tormented, mentally deranged from the grief, brokenhearted, and above all else, in love with a dead man.
It had happened.
He had died.
Forever.
The silence I experienced that early morning had a physical manifestation. The silence of grief attacks your body. It makes its mark. It is so heavy that it is almost like life slows down until everything pauses. Every time you move and every time you speak the silence is amplified.
I never knew that silence was so loud during grief.
It was screaming at me.
It was speaking to me, but I could not hear it. I felt insane.
What I experienced upon my husband’s immediate absence was disbelief. I couldn’t believe I’d never see him again. I was even questioning whether my husband was dead. I could not understand how he could never come back. I was a human being experiencing an inhuman condition. Grief.
I remember the water running in the shower. It was so loud. Even water felt painful.
The pain I was experiencing…my body truly could not endure that kind of experience for long.
Nobody could help me.
Nobody could help me.
Nobody had warned me that I wouldn’t be able to go back to what I had left behind. Not only was he gone, but nothing in my life felt the same. Everything about me changed, and everything about the world around me was altered forever.
Jennifer Trapuzzano
Warrie McBrearty
October 18, 2014 10:27 pmI sit here. Tears streaming down my cheeks. Feeling a tightness in my chest over the mere thought of an event so completely devastating. My heart aches for you. Though I don’t know you personally, like so many others I wish the pain could be taken away. That the reality of what happened, could be undone. That you had no cause to write about a pain no one but those who have suffered it can really understand. I continue to lift you up in my prayers.
artjewl
October 20, 2014 9:52 amDear Jennifer,
I cannot presume to relate to the pain and grief of losing a spouse. But so much in your post today echoes my grief of losing two sons midway through pregnancy, the years apart. If you haven’t already read it, I highly recommend CS Lewis’ A GRIEF OBSERVED. He wrote the book without intention of publishing it as a series of journals after his wife died early into their marriage. It is the most raw and honest reflection on grief and early healing I have read to date.
You continue to be in my prayers.
In Christ’s Hope,
Julie
artjewl
October 20, 2014 9:56 amAlso, I wanted to add, thank you for sharing your journey with us. You’ll never know (here, at least) the ripples you’ll create and the lives you’ll touch through your witness here.
ifyoukeeponbelieving
October 20, 2014 1:53 pmJennifer – as you share your journey (and on the topic of books) – have you thought of writing and perhaps putting your story in print? It may have been something you have already thought about and decided to pass… but after what you shared today, perhaps it would be something that could help you. Using that focus of such a traumatic, unfair thing… and using it towards your healing process. It just came to me when I read about the book recommended in the above comment. With love and prayers…
conceivinghope
November 1, 2014 5:18 amYour description of grief really resonated with me. It is such an individual journey we all travel when it comes to dealing with loss. I recently had someone ask me “if I was done grieving yet”. My loss was in February. So I did the same thing as you – I let it all out onto a blog. I had to put it into words. And though I’ve never been a poet of any kind, for some reason my words took the form of verse. You can read it HERE in case it may resonate with you. “Letting my heart breathe” is exactly what writing has done for me the past couple months. Well said. Praying for you and Nate and Cecilia this cold morning.
Anne DeVries
December 30, 2016 1:18 amI am going to share this with my 17-year-old daughter who has experienced profound loss of a trusted family friend, a father, a way of life, due to selfishness and betrayal. The same selfishness that drove a BOY, a year younger than her, to commit such a grievous act against your husband. Your courage expressed in taking back what is rightfully yours will, I believe, be empowering for my brokenhearted daughter. May you quickly and fully experience beauty rising from the ashes of your grief, restoration as only God can provide it. Bless you.
JEANNE BURNHAM
July 9, 2019 4:05 pmMy son was 47 years special needs child.Who enjoyed life. Sept 27 I2017 I gave hem a hug. We went to bed . Then i was awoken at a little before midnight. He was on the floor. HE had a heart attack. Was gone.It has been the worse. No parent should have to go though this .I see a lot of what you go tho. I wake up he gone. I go to bed he gone. MY heart is just ripped apart. I have other children, that keep me going. But not when the lights go out .His room is like he left it. He was about 3 so he played with toys. His toys are right where he left them .I love the way he would say oh mom.My Sony name was LARRY as he would say Warry. He was Downs Syndrome