A Dangerous Thing

image via http://www.bradleygauthier.com

I am starting to believe that Frank Darabont might have been right:

"Hope is a dangerous thing.  Hope can drive a man insane."

Being a natural planner (read: control freak), I like to be prepared.  This creates an ongoing struggle between me, hope, and faith.  Focusing on hope and faith do not allow me to focus on control.  It means I can't have control of my own agenda.   

I will grant you, it is nice to consider that I could make my own choices in all things.  I could choose to make my family healthy.  I could choose to make the struggles in my life and in the lives of those that I love go away with a simple wish.  And that might work if I remain altruistic through my entire life.  And if that was available to everyone, what if altruism went out the window and greed and retribution were allowed to seep in?  Yeah, not so nice to think about it that way.

As of late, hope has failed me. There are new aspects of my life where I can no longer cling to the hope that things might be different. What I want to happen will not, and I must accept my new reality and move forward.

After suffering both a heart attack and stroke, my grandfather is vastly different than he was just over a week ago.  The strong, independent, outspoken man I have always known is now in need of help and patience.   While I could hope that one day he will heal and be exactly like the man I have known my whole life, reality says that while he may get better, he will be changed.  We all will be.

A few days prior, I was forced to face another new reality.   That wound is still gaping and raw around the edges.  The pain of that reality is so fresh for me that it is hard for me to speak of it outside of my close circle.  Even then, I struggle with the words.  Each time I try to reassure those who love me that "I'm going to be fine,"  I wonder if I really am.  I know that I will have to be eventually.  I will have to accept what is and move on and make adjustments.  I know it will take time and patience, and patience has never been one of my strengths.

And this leads me to why hope has been and could continue to be dangerous.

I want to cling to what was, to a time when I didn't have answers and hope was still feasible. Hope allowed me to imagine a different reality. It allowed me to envision a different future for myself and my family.  And while that hope allowed me to function at that time, it didn't prepare me for the reality that was to come. 

So now, when I would normally be moving solidly into Plan B (or C or D or...you get the idea), I'm not able to do anything.   There are no plans that I can make or lists I can check off that will change the reality for my Papa, my family, or myself. 

And I feel lost.  

I know that in time I will take the lessons learned and be stronger for them.  My brain can logically tell you all the steps, all the motions, and the eventual outcome.  Because, for all my realism, I am still an optimist.  I still count on God and those I love to get me through and to provide me strength when I am at my weakest. 

And some day soon I will have the audacity to hope again.

Just not today.



 

Five

Today, Aidan turns five.  He is hopping, skipping, and jumping.  He knows his colors, the alphabet, and can recite his address.  He is getting ready to start kindergarten.

All of which he is doing in Heaven.

Five years ago today, I said goodbye to my son.  I said goodbye to all of those dreams of watching him grow, of walking him to class on his first day of school, of blinking back tears as I wondered at how he had managed to grow up so quickly.

I still remember waking up on July 25, 2005 and wishing that it wasn't real.  I remember thinking that God wouldn't hand me a dream just to snatch it away.  I was so...angry.  I wanted to lash out.  I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.  And at the end, I wanted to crawl up in a hole and disappear.

But I couldn't.  As much as I wanted time to stand still, it wouldn't.  As much as I wanted life to stop, it didn't.

Life and time are funny that way.  No matter how much you think you need time to stand still, however briefly, it doesn't.  And now, five years later, I look back with amazement.  I am amazed that I survived, when I didn't think I would.  I am amazed that I write this without a resurgence of resentment towards the Almighty.  And I am amazed that God would give me a second chance when I spent a great deal of time lashing out at Him for taking away my first.

And I am amazed that I can breathe.

The pain is still there.  I know it will always be there.  I will never fully recover from losing Aidan.  Five years later, I cannot look at his first pictures.  They are stored away; a box of memories that I will one day be able to open.

When Z is old enough, I will share that box of memories of his big brother with him.   I will tell him how sad I was to lose Aidan, but that it was in that loss that I found the strength to move forward.  In that loss, I found compassion and understanding, and in the end, hope.  

So today, five years later, I think back on my son and realize that he IS hopping, skipping, and jumping.  He knows his colors, the alphabet, and can recite his address.  He is getting ready to start kindergarten.

He is just doing it in Heaven.