How Are You Doing?

“How are you doing?” is a question that I was asked more times than I can count within those initial days and weeks after my dad passed away. It’s just what people say and it was completely expected, but it was hard to answer. I had never really thought about how hard it is to answer until I was the one being asked. Sometimes it can be hard to tell if someone is asking for the deep, vulnerable answer or if they’re looking for the quick “I’m fine” or “I’m okay” that I often resort to. It was also a more complex question than I realized because the real answer changed so frequently. There would be moments when I truly was doing okay and then there were moments when I really was not — and it could change from one to the other within minutes. It was such a weird feeling that I don’t even know how to adequately describe it. My oldest would do something cute or my baby would develop a new skill and there would be such a mix of joy and sadness — there still is.

There was a peace I had while simultaneously feeling deep sadness and shock. There was a part of my brain that felt constantly aware that my dad wasn’t here anymore no matter what else I was doing or thinking. It was so weird because I didn’t talk to my dad everyday while he was alive, but I found myself wanting to talk to him everyday after he died. I don’t have any idea how long it took for it to not be a constant thought, but it isn’t anymore — it’s still a daily, nearly constant thought, but not completely constant. I still see or hear of things and want to tell him or ask him if he heard about something. My kids will do something or I’ll take a really cute picture of them and want to send it to him, but I can’t. It will never be normal to me that we already have one baby that he never knew about and only God knows how many more family members there will be that only know of him through pictures and stories they hear — it’s so strange.

I thought that eventually it would get easier after all the “firsts” were completed, but honestly — every day that exists is one that he doesn’t exist in, so in a weird way they’re all “firsts.” Like our first baby that we lost to a miscarriage, my dad is someone that I think about every day. It can be such a bag of mixed emotions because neither of those losses are anything that I would’ve chosen and yet I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for those two big losses in my life. It’s one of the most beautiful things that God can bring good out of such pain. He can bring healing out of tragedy. He can take the most unimaginable circumstances and still use them for His glory and our good — which blows my mind and makes me eternally grateful.

I have a bookmark that has a picture of my dad on it from his memorial service that the funeral home made up. I keep one in my Bible and my boys will often ask to see “Papa” which means they want to see my bookmark and it’s so sad to me because that’s what they know of him. His picture on a bookmark. Raising kids that don’t remember and/or never met my dad is not something I ever imagined I’d be doing. Raising kids knowing that I never got to meet their first sibling isn’t something I ever imagined myself doing. That’s the thing about living in a fallen world — we’re often called on to do things that we never imagined we’d be doing because of sin.

The thing about loss and grief is that there is no playbook for it. There isn’t a “This worked for me, so it must work for you” type of thing. So often people say, “If that were me I would/would never…” which is absolutely foolish because even if you were in the exact situation as that person, you would honestly still have no idea how you’d act because you have your own personality, temperament, life experiences, etc. that would make it different. I’ve had people tell me how I should feel and act after both our miscarriage and my dad dying. I’ve had people imply when I should or shouldn’t be bothered by it. Some of them were well meaning and others were quite harsh — both ways were somewhat foolish because everyone’s experience is different. There’s also a tendency to compare pain and then attempt to minimize someone’s because “so and so” has it worse. This is also foolish because just because someone else might have it “worse” that doesn’t mean whatever your hard is isn’t hard. There is no medal for whose pain is “worse” and there is no reason to hide yours because someone else’s situation is “harder” than yours. It’s okay to admit your pain even if others are going through a seemingly more difficult thing than you. God gives each of us grace we need for our situation — He doesn’t give us the grace that others need because He gives that grace to them. It’s okay for someone to be hurting even if things “could be worse” because you can always find someone “worse off” than you just like you can find someone “better off” than you. We need to allow space for people to grieve their situation without trying to minimize it by telling them they should just be grateful and not allowing them to also grieve.

I can be healing and still hurting and that’s okay. I don’t have to grieve the way anyone else does and I can enjoy my sweet boys while forever remembering our sweet first baby. I can be fully invested in my family and yearn for the day when all the tears will be wiped away and there won’t be any more death. Describing grief as a wave or a roller coaster always made me imagine it being somewhat predictable after you experienced it once. Hah! There is nothing predictable about grief — at least not from my experience. I will be hit with a wave of deep sadness out of nowhere or get in an unexplainably funky mood for days and only after they’ve passed am I able to point to grief as the culprit. Sometimes sleeping even brings it on because I am a dreamer — like every single night I have dreams while I’m sleeping. While some find it comforting to dream about someone they’ve lost, it’s hard for me because I wake up and realize that it was just a dream — and that sucks.

So, while I don’t get the “How are you doing?” question as often as those initial days, if you were to ask it to me today – I would probably say that I’m okay. I miss my dad far more than I ever thought I would and I cry far more than I ever used to. I don’t talk very deeply about it with others most of the time because I do not like crying in front of anyone. I become frustrated at myself when I take life for granted because I know better. I don’t like when I lose my patience with Marc or our children because I know that I don’t want to create those types of memories. Our first baby is on my mind every day and I can vividly remember the day we lost our baby and the day we lost my dad. I have learned so much about myself and the power of empathy, compassion, and asking questions — I still have work to do in each of those areas, but I’m growing in them. I’m eternally grateful for my relationship with Jesus and have no idea how anyone makes it through life without Him. I’m filled with deep joy and gratitude while simultaneously feeling deep sadness and grief. It’s both at the same time. I remember hearing deep losses related to having an amputation — you’ll heal, but you’re never the same. That’s how I feel, I’m healing, but I’ll never be the same — which is okay, but doesn’t mean it’s easy by any means. I’m reminded of 1 Thessalonians 4:13 which says, “But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.” I’m so grateful for hope!

Song(s) of the Week: This week I chose “Firm Foundation” by Cody Carnes and “Better Because of It” by Danny Gokey. I know I’ve shared both of them before, but they’re so good. Enjoy!