Something has always bugged me about the morning that Joshua died. I was standing in the ER – and we knew by the way the Dr took him away from us that something was very wrong. Everyone in the room was moving very fast and talking quietly. I was holding my coat in front of me and … just watching. I don’t know where Eric was, but I know he was there. I could only watch the bed where Joshua laid.
But I was not upset. I was just standing there. At one point a nurse tried to get me to sit down, but I couldn’t take my eyes away even for a moment. To be honest, I was a little insulted that she thought I was that weak. I wasn’t going to faint. I had never been so focused.
Today I was listening to a story on NPR’s “This American Life” podcast where a young man was in an accident – he was driving and a bicyclist swerved in front of him and he hit her. He described a moment after the accident like this:
I had the strangest feeling that everyone was responding appropriately to what have been an emergency. But I still didn’t have a feeling there was anything to freak out about. This was something that was being fixed.
That struck a chord with me. I was so sure that the Drs could fix Joshua. I think 90% of my earliest grief was simple shock. I had taken my child to the ER and they were unable to fix him.
It has always bothered me that I didn’t somehow worry more about Joshua. That I didn’t wail….cry….faint. I just stood there and watched. I watched him die. I will never be able to get rid of those memories. And, I’ve been ashamed that I didn’t respond emotionally. In fact, at some point in the ER I shut everything down emotionally – I put it in the box. The box that 5 years later I can just barely peek into.
I know this won’t make sense to most of my visitors….and I pray you never will understand.
I think I sort of understand what you mean… There are some things that you just can’t let yourself feel. The pain would be so deep… Hurt too much… That, as a defence mechanism, you have to block it out…
I have noticed something about myself… When I am watching something sad on TV, or reading something sad in a book… I cry like crazy. I think it’s because I know it’s not real, so I can let myself go through the emotions… But when something bad happens to me personally (like when my Dad died, or Jared had his surgery, or when I attended the funeral of a dear friend)… I barely shed a tear. I stand there in silence… And don’t let myself feel the hurt…
I think I understand Amy.
Everything happened so fast that it seemed so unreal – like a nightmare that you kept expecting to wake up from… When I heard them give some of the blood oxygen level numbers and I saw how he wasn’t responding to their efforts to regulate his breathing I became extremely alarmed and very worried. I started calling people to pray because the doctors really had already failed him. It never occured to me to try to comfort you – I just knew we needed people to pray.
Part of us will always be stuck right there in that room, watching it over and over again. Part of our life ended that hour. It is gone and will never come back and we must tarry awhile longer with this diminished capacity until it is our turn and some poor person has to watch us exit this life.
I too, don’t often look into the box but sometimes the wierdest stuff punches a hole in the side and it comes rushing out anyway. But it empties after a time and I find I am still able to carry on. In fact, it seems to get a little easier each time – how wierd is that!
Was trying to figure out what to say then I read what Eric and Julie said and they put it much better than I could anyway. Just know I’m praying hard!
Amy, I so love you and I appreciate your raw honesty. I have felt this same way in similar situations, in some things that happened to me growing up – the frozen snapshots of time that we wish we could mentally or emotionally “photoshop” to alter our decisions or actions or the outcome. When I read what you wrote, it doesn’t strike me that you had an abnormal response. You shouldn’t react like someone else, only like you. Working in peds I saw a lot of different responses to emergencies (usually much severe, but at the moment still an emergency) and honestly it was not unusual to see a response like you had. Many of us are calm until everything is over. It would not have helped Joshie if you had wailed and become hysterical. In fact the opposite is often true and can interfer with appropriate medical care. The other thing that popped into my head while reading, is that God created shock. He created it to protect us and in that very moment He was protecting you. He may not have chosen to heal Joshie this side of Heaven, but He was present in that room with all of you. I have faith (and hope) that each time you and Eric open that box, He will also be there. I think He gave you this moment while listening to the podcast to see, both that you are not alone in your response and that He is walking through the process with you. I’ll pray for your grief journey and your journey back to joy when I pray tonight. You are such an awesome encouragement! Thank you!
I react similary in a real crisis. I get very calm and just do whatever I must do, like anything is not an option. Only much later, when things are “normal” again does the full impact of the situation hit home. Maybe…if I let it….
(((Amy))) I don’t really know what to say, but I wanted you to know that I read this. I think it makes total sense what you said. I also liked what Eric wrote. I’ve had sad losses and scares in my life, but nothing that could compare to losing a child. I pray that the Lord lessens your pain each day…each minute…
wow Amy I was listening to that SAME podcast and thinking about you and Josh.
I WILL always pray for you during those times.
If it’s ok I am going to send this post link to my friend Mike, I think he would really appreciate it.
I love you.
{{{Amy}}} Your response doesn’t sound very unusual to me at all. I’ve spent too much time in various emergency rooms with family members to count or in other crisis situations and my emotions almost shut off at the time. I just do what I need to do and close the “box” when it is all over. Later, I might peek in the box and feel some of it….. some boxes I’ve never reopened. If I did I don’t know if I could stand it.
I reacted much the same way when my elderly parents began their descent in 2006. Dad spent six months on the health rollercoaster and suddenly took a turn and died the day before he was to come home to resume life. Mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer a month later. Within four months, I lost them both.
Talk about shutting down emotionally. I still am, two years later. But I was uber efficient, calm and sharply focused during every crisis that year (and those were multiple) to the point where I look back now and wonder if people thought I was cold-hearted? I’m anything but.
I simply could not afford to breakdown emotionally when my parents (and the rest of my emotionally distraught family) needed me to handle *everything* (because they could not). The only way I could do that was to shove aside the emotions and focus on the business at hand. To everything there is a season, and that was not my season to grieve just yet.
However, I think Theresa’s right, I think God created shock to protect us, and He was protecting you then. Perhaps something deep inside knew that the only one who could heal him was God, and when God is in control, we feel at peace regardless of the circumstances. Only those who know God would understand that.
I pray for your healing. God Bless.
I think you reacted very normally. I remember when my sister-in-law called me to tell me that my dad was killed in a plane accident. She was sobbing. I was calm. I listened – I asked a few questions. I didn’t cry. Not for hours. I told my children and my husband. I packed for the long trip home. I didn’t cry. Friends and loved ones came to our home to help us get ready to leave. Many of them were emotional. Not me.
Looking back I always wondered if I was weird – if something was wrong with me because it took so long for the tears to come. But I think I was reacting to grief in my own way. I needed to be in charge. I needed to organize. I needed to tend to the needs and tears of my children. I needed to get us on the road that night. I needed to be strong for what was ahead.
There was nothing wrong with me. And there is nothing wrong with you. You have nothing to be ashamed of. There is no right or wrong way. It just is what it is. We live it and we survive it. And we learn from it and we go on with life.
My dad described something similar to that when his first wife died. She was pregnant with their first child and had a heart condition. He said that when he took her to the hospital, he just thought that she’d be ok. He was so shocked when they told him that she was gone that he didn’t even ask about the baby.
He held it all together (that’s just the way he was), but the hospital staff seemed to think he was hard-hearted, ignorant, or uncaring.
That day stayed with my father all of his life, but I think he was so private about it all that others really never had a chance to let him know that how he reacted was normal. And that they knew how much he loved his wife and their unborn baby.
Hey, Amy, I’m a friend of your brother, and I’m moved by what you’ve written here. You’ve captured the essence of what it is to love and long for someone, even after they’re gone. And you’ve described perfectly the awful gift of shock.
When my son stopped breathing, and the doctor called the ‘code blue’, do you know what I did? I moved effing furniture. I hate myself for that sometimes… but I too expected the room to fill with people who would fix everything. So I moved the furniture out so that they could work, and then rattled off vital stats to the Doc in charge when he ran in. Even when someone walked me out of the room, I paced in the hall, waiting for some good outcome so that I could call my wife and tell her that the worst had happened, but that it was better now. But that’s not what happened. I never said goodbye to my Will, because I didn’t realize that I needed to until later.
So thank you for so honestly sharing your journey, Amy. My prayers are with you as you continue to open up this box and make some peace with what’s inside.