Faith & Perspective

Over the last 3 years, I’ve been told countless times that I’m strong. This is a huge compliment. But what choice do I really have? 

I remember being faced with my choice about three weeks after Matt passed. I laid in my parents’ bed, pregnant with a baby, and could hear Olivia downstairs playing. I didn’t want to live. But I also knew I couldn’t die. It wouldn’t be fair to my children to quit on them. It wouldn’t be fair to our families or our friends to force them to face more tragedy. My only choice was to live. 

Throughout the last 40 months, I’ve gained a lot of knowledge. I think what I’ve learned the most boils down to two things: faith and perspective. Along with being told I’m strong, I’ve also been told that I often see the positive. I would say this is challenging, and sometimes it is, but I would also say that there is something positive in every situation. 

My friend Jeff recently sparked something for me. Growing up in a Christian home, I’ve heard time and time again the Bible verse about a mustard seed. It’s Matthew 17:20 “...I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed...nothing will be impossible for you.” Jeff wrote about this verse in a post as he finds himself facing a lot right now. As I read his post, I realized that while I do have faith, it has certainly been tested since losing Matt. Doesn’t the Bible teach us that God performs miracles? So why didn’t He? Why didn’t He heal Matt? Doesn’t the Bible also teach us that God is the ultimate healer? Why didn’t He heal Matt? Why did He let me become widowed at 29? Not only widowed but widowed with two babies? 

Some questions I will never have the answers to. These questions anger me. They harden me. They turn me bitter. But that’s where faith comes in. I can question God. I can be really, really angry at Him. He can handle that. But I can also trust that this life isn’t impossible. I can trust, even just the tiniest amount, that God will care for Olivia, Rylan, and me. Not only will He care for me, but He will also bless me in ways I may not see if Matt were still alive. Does this mean I’m at peace with Matt’s passing? Absolutely not. It simply means I can experience all these feelings at once. It also means that because of this faith, I won’t become harsh or hard or bitter. My faith gives me the perspective to always find the positive. 

One of my favorite tools that my therapist gave me is finding the gains within my loss. I’ve written about this before but I find it so beneficial for all of us. We’ve all experienced loss before. Death. Illness. Divorce. Being fired from a job. Getting in a car accident. Losing friendships. The list is endless. At the onset of our loss, it’s easy to become consumed with all the ways we are negatively impacted. And for a while, that is ok. It’s even necessary. But as time goes on, as the dust settles, we can choose a new perspective and ask ourselves “what have I gained from this loss?” 

I ask myself this question all the time. I lost something huge when Matt passed. I didn’t just lose my husband. I lost my entire life as I had planned. I lost everything I ever knew. I can look back over the last 3 years and see how I have literally had to rebuild my life. And in many ways, I’m still working on it. But I can also see a lot of gains...meaning blessings. 

I can't say I am knowledgeable when it comes to God. I don't have a lot of scripture memorized and I would likely be lousy in an argument if asked for facts to prove that God is real. But I think that is why faith is so amazing. We don't need to be skilled at reciting passages from the Bible. We just need the tiniest bit of faith in God...in a power greater than ourselves...and nothing will be impossible. We will find the strength we never knew we had when life gets unbearably difficult. And from that strength, we will slowly see all the ways we are blessed despite the losses we endure. 

Secret Life of Dad

The New Year

I can't believe Olivia turned five last week! I've written about Olivia's and Rylan's birthdays before and how they are big days that trigger me. Days I wouldn't have unless it was for Matt. But along with the sadness comes a tremendous amount of gratitude for the blessings they each are. Every moment of every day I wish Matt was here. I wish he could be part of the chaos and the mess. I wish he could be part of the laughter and the joy.

The beginning of a new year is when I like to really focus on my goals. I evaluate the year that just ended and think about what I want to change and what I want to keep the same. The beginning of a new year also marks time, which reminds me how long I've been doing life without Matt. The juggle of multiple emotions in any situation is tough and exhausting.

I think mental rest is so important. I also think it is something that most of us aren't very good about doing. I know I have many ways in which I can improve at this. Many of us have hundreds of things running through our head on any given day. Constant to-do lists, people to respond to, relationships that need work, projects that need to get done, kids to take care of, family members that are sick or hurting...the lists are endless. We get to the end of our day and we just crash. It is exhausting.

For many of us, there is also the complexity that grief adds. Grief isn't just limited to one day. Or even a short amount of time in our life. Grief follows alongside us every moment that we breathe. Why? Because the love we have for the person that has passed is always part of us as well.

As I try to do everything life requires of me, I am often baffled as to why I'm so tired. Sometimes I stop and think, "what did I do today to warrant this exhaustion?" And then I think about the night before and how many times I was woken up by a kid. How I finally got back to sleep and then the kids wake up for the day. The meals that needed to be made, the grocery shopping, going to the gym, laundry, cleaning, entertaining my kids, refereeing them, scheduling birthday parties, etc, etc. Sleep. Wake. Repeat. Over and over. And then there are times when I stop and it hits me like a ton of bricks. Matt. Isn't. Here.

Some of my goals for 2019 are being more comfortable with saying no to what doesn't fill my soul, yes to what does, asking for help, and investing in people who invest in us. I have ways to implement my goals but it boils down to being organized with my thoughts and with my time. I want to look back at every year and be proud of how I pushed through and kept promises to myself. I want to take individual time for myself, for my kids, for my friends, and for my family.

Sometimes You Just Need to Get Away

We recently we away to Arizona with family. How could this not recharge the heart??

I have come to understand that I will live with the grief of losing Matt for the remainder of my life. I know there will be times when I am coasting through life and managing the pain well. And then there will be times when my heart physically feels heavy. Despite knowing this, when the lows hit, I am caught off guard. Thrown down despite my best efforts to work through this tragedy.

I remember shortly after Matt passed and the inability to even get out of bed or off the couch. I remember how simply standing felt impossible. I am thankful that I was able to live with my mom and dad because I don't know how I would have been able to care for Olivia had it not been for us all being together. As time went on, I was able to work with my therapist on tools for digging out of this hole. I was able to see that even the littlest things are huge milestones when trudging through grief. I would applaud myself at the end of the day regardless of what I accomplished. Even if was just moving from bed to the couch, I still did something.

Throughout the course of the last three years, I can be proud of how I haven't let Matt's passing have control over my life. I have recognized the sadness when it's there and I have been joyous without feeling guilty.

But the thing about grief is that it's sneaky. Just when I feel like I know what to expect, something happens, or maybe nothing triggers it at all, and I am knocked backward. I am taken back to that place I was 3 years ago when I can't even imagine lifting my head off my pillow. A couple weeks ago I was in that place. I was in a place that I wouldn't wish on anyone. I woke up wondering how I was going to get through the day. The tears streamed down my face for days. I would look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. The dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping, the swollen eyelids from not being able to stop the tears, dirty hair, the same pajamas worn for days at a time. Grief isn't just an emotion. It can show itself physically as well.

I forced myself to go to the gym knowing the physical release was so beneficial for my mental health. I forced myself to take Olivia to swim lessons and took us to family gatherings. All the while, I felt overwhelmed with the grief that was building inside me. This time around, my grief was centered around being lonely. I have a tremendous support system. I have friends and family that I talk to daily. People in my life, that despite a shower and makeup, can see past it and truly recognize how I am breaking. The ones who know exactly what to say. The ones who know when words aren't enough. The ones who cry when I cry and hurt because I hurt. I am incredibly thankful for them. But even with this love and support around me, I long for the companionship I once had. I can do life alone. I can take care of my kids, my house, and my life without a person. The relationship shared with your significant other is unique and unlike any other relationship. The loneliness from not having that has consumed me and left me feeling overtaken with grief. It triggered my anger that Matt is gone. It triggered reliving those days in the hospital and memories of watching Matt die.

During this time, I had therapy-thank God for therapy! I don't know where I would be in life without it. I sat during my last session and sobbed. She listened intently, as she always does. Towards the end of my time with her, we started talking about vacationing with Matt's family. His aunt and uncle have a vacation home in Arizona and have invited us year after year to come to visit. I have wanted to go but just haven't been ready. During therapy, I was urged to book the trip with the Larimore's and go. Get away. Refocus. Have a distraction. With just 3 days before everyone was already planning on going, I decided to book us and join.

For most people, vacationing to a warm destination in December seems like a no-brainer. But for me, there are so many variables and reasons not to go. Ever since losing Matt, I have struggled with being around his family. It isn't at all because I don't want to. In fact, the opposite is true. I love being around his family (and friends) because I feel him with them. Having known them for 16+ years, they have become my family as well. But again, grief is complicated. Matt's family and friends bring me joy but also pain. I become more aware of his absence when we are all together. We create memories with each other but these memories will never include Matt. It doesn't matter what I am doing with them; watching a movie, attending a sporting event, or taking the kids to visit Santa. Whenever I am with them, I find myself looking around for Matt and realizing he will never be with us. His absence is strong and my heart is heavy.

Over the last three years, I have had to ease myself back into family functions that include Matt's family. It took me a long time to even go to Matt's childhood home after he passed because it was so painful to be there without him. Vacationing seemed like it would never happen. And yet just last week, going away seemed like the very thing I needed the most. I am so glad we went. So proud I took the step to try it. We had so much fun together. We played outside, did some fishing, went to the zoo, even participated in a boat parade! The kids were so well behaved and wonderful to be around. And I believe the entire family came home with a lighter heart because of our time together.

Coming back home and trying to get back in the swing of a routine is always rough. Any vacation that I've taken since Matt's passing leads to anxiety when I know I have to come home. I can feel the anxiety rising the closer I get to being back in my own space. This comes from knowing that my reality is still waiting for me when I get home. It comes from the loneliness waiting for me when I get home and don't have him here to talk to about the trip. It comes from knowing that eventually the distraction from the trip is going to fade and I will be back to where I was before I left.

Despite these feelings, I am really glad we went. I was indeed able to refocus and dig out of a really dark place that I was in prior to leaving. The heaviness is still weighing on me but the intensity is less. The depression, the grief, and the sadness are all still strong but I am able to navigate it better than I was prior to going to Arizona.

Night rides on Kevin & Jennie's boat

Boat rides and naps

Kevin & Jennie's community park held a Christmas event. They even brought snow! We got to visit Frosty, go on a train ride, and decorate Christmas cookies! 

Visiting the Phoenix Zoo

Out to dinner with the family.

We all wore ugly sweaters for the boat parade we were in. A highlight of the trip was throwing candy to the people on shore. So much laughter! 

Olivia loved fishing with Papa Larry. She always squirmed and squealed about holding the fish but eventually did it. 

Olivia's New Curiosity

This year's anniversary felt so much different. Seeing an idea come to life was truly impactful. We, as a family, are always trying to make sure Matt's memory and legacy live on. And because of the #toastMattLarimore idea, we all felt like that happened. Over the course of the day, I received countless texts, videos, pictures, and messages from friends and family. Even people that Matt didn't know personally, participated. It was incredible. Each message brought a smile to my face. Every time I was able to see the impact that my sweet husband made, my heart was touched. It felt good to feel connected to everyone. It felt special to know that we aren't alone in our grief. October 15th is such a hard day. But this year it was different. There was a sense of connection because of everyone who took part in toasting Matt. Thank you.

I have been struggling with how I want to write my blog. I feel like this is such a cathartic way for me to process my grief. But I also wonder about the frequency of it. I am debating on writing monthly, every other month, every 6 months, or once a year. I feel like after 3 years I am still learning and evolving in my grief.

I have seen a shift in Olivia and until yesterday when I had therapy, I didn't realize what that shift was. I talked about how lately she is very jealous of Rylan. Anything he has, she wants. She doesn't like messes at the house and she is constantly arguing with Rylan. We talked about how these are signs of boredom in Olivia and how she is searching for new relationships of her own. I found this perspective to be incredibly helpful as I have been desperately trying to navigate motherhood and the challenges it brings. That is what I love about attending therapy. We cover everything from grief to parenting and beyond. Every time I leave, I realize I have learned something new.

Olivia has also shown new curiosity about Matt. Having just celebrated Halloween, she saw tombstones everywhere. She is a smart kid and made the connection with tombstones on TV and real tombstones that she sees at the cemetery. The tombstones on TV are often associated with zombies or mummies coming out of the ground. So when we would drive through the cemetery and she would ask me about them, I wasn't sure how to explain it to her. Olivia has also been very curious about what happened to Matt. Since his passing, I have never explained to her that "Daddy died." I have said things to her like..."He's in Heaven with Jesus." Even as a family, when we talk about Matt, we say he "passed away" or "we lost him." I have noticed lately that these explanations aren't sufficient anymore for Olivia. She wants to know specifics. She wants to know what happened to him.

Two nights ago Olivia experienced grief for the first time. She was upstairs playing and came downstairs and sat on the couch. As she sat there, I noticed she was sobbing. I calmed her down enough to ask her what happened. She finally explained to me that she was upstairs and was looking at all the pictures of Daddy (I have a large collage of pictures in my office-many which include Matt). She kept crying and telling me "I miss Daddy. When is he coming back? Can we visit him in Heaven?" She told me that "Jesus can bring him back" and then looked right at me and said, "what happened to Daddy?" I cried with her as I tried to explain that his heart got sick and stopped working. I waited for her to ask more questions but she never did. She just kept crying. Just kept missing him.

It was the first time I have seen her grieve in this way. I was thankful to have therapy the next day to try and navigate this new curiosity in her. I don't want to hide facts from her but I also don't want to give her too much information since she's not even 5 yet. I want her to get age-appropriate information. My therapist explained to me that although it will be painful, I need to start preparing Olivia with the tools and dialogue about what happened to her dad. She emphasized the importance of this since Olivia will be going to kindergarten in the fall. She said kids are going to (innocently) ask about her dad. If she doesn't have the tools, the story, the dialogue to explain confidently about Matt, it could hurt her more. We talked about how it feels like as an adult to be caught off guard. How we can feel anxious and out of control. And the same can happen to children.

Once again, I am amazed by grief. Prior to losing Matt, I didn't realize that grief is a lifelong jurney. I didn't know that there would always be new stuff to learn about how to deal with such a significant loss like losing my spouse. Even after 3 years, I am still presented with new challenges and obstacles. I am, once again, thankful for therapy. I am grateful that I have people in my life that I can openly communicate with in a transparent and healthy way. 

Three Years

Three years ago marks the worst day of my life. And I can say for certain that it wasn’t just one day that was terrible. It was days leading up to today. It is days that have followed. That’s the thing about loss. It’s not just one moment that sucks. It’s many. And now, more than ever, I see that. 

We recently took another devastating blow. Matt’s cousin, Joe, was recently killed in a motorcycle accident. He was 33. The same age as Matt when he passed. This family is facing another death at such an unexpected time. These people, the ones I love so much, are broken in a new way. But also in a way that’s so familiar.

Why Matt? Why Joe? Why October? Why 33? Why? Why? Why? We will never have these answers. We may never find peace. And right now, I’m not looking for any of that. Right now, I’m sitting in the pain. I, along with so many, are feeling the wounds ripped open. Wounds we thought we would only experience once. 

On Saturday we gathered to celebrate Joe’s life. I stood against a wall next to my parents much like I did when Matt’s service was over. Familiar faces hugged me and cried with me. Each person showing pain in their faces despite trying so hard to be strong. Broken again. 

Today my words escape me. Today the pain is familiar. Today the pain is new. Today, each time I look at the clock, I think back to exactly where I was 3 years ago. I can feel the ache, the emptiness, with the same intensity as I did three years ago. 

Terrible Twos & Facing October

Summer ended without warning. I woke up one day and it was gone. The stores are full of everything pumpkin and the leaves have started to change. I'm not ready. I am not ready to face fall.

In the past, the fall used to be my most favorite season. I loved that it meant slowing down a little, staying home more, and eating soup. I love soup. But obviously, now fall holds an entirely different perspective. Over the last (almost) three years, I have tried really hard to change my outlook on October. But despite my best efforts, I can't do it. I try so hard to be strong and cope and deal with the grief that runs throughout my life. It's frustrating to find myself feeling weak, crying almost daily, and reflecting on the worst season of my life. A season that has turned into three years of hardships and heartache.

This last week has been incredibly exhausting. I hate complaining about my kids. It's been 6 years since my first miscarriage. I remember it vividly. I remember the months and months leading up to finally getting pregnant. The struggles, the tears, the negative tests. And then it finally happened. And then we lost the baby. During that time, I told myself over and over to remember how badly I want to be a mom. I told myself that someday I would be a mom. I know there are many people who struggle with their own fight of getting pregnant or having a family. I know there are many people who have lost their own children. I know there are many people who would give anything to be expericing the "terrible twos." I am cautious to express how hard this has been but I also think it is vital because of the uniqueness that comes from my situation as a widow. A very young widow.

Rylan has been an absolute terror lately. He wakes up whining and doesn't stop until he's asleep. Everything I ask of him gets a "NO!" shouted back at me. Everything is an arugement. Everything requires my patience and guidance and discipline. Rylan naturally has a very grating cry. Even as a baby, the sound of his cry has worn on me. And lately, it is all I hear from him. It's exhausting.

I have faced a lot of really, really hard moments over the last 35 months. Watching Matt pass, picking out his casket, burying him, and giving birth to Rylan without Matt beside me come to mind as some of the hardest moments of my life. But single parenting, as a widow, is by far the hardest, constant, thing I have ever done.

I have always had really wonderful support from mine and Matt's parents. I have found it incredibly beneficial to attend therapy regularly. And I have friends who love me. I have a village. But despite the size and support of this village, I am still, ultimately, doing this alone. The parenting falls soley on me. I can't expect anyone but me, their mom, to raise them and discipline them. I can't expect anyone but me to make sure their behavior is in check. And of course they are well-behaved for everyone except me. That's how most kids are.

This last week I have literally felt trapped in my own home. Trapped with my kids and no escape. I think of when I was growing up and when my mom would reach her limit with us kids. She was able to leave. She was able to say to my dad that she needed to go on a drive or take a walk. She was able to hide upstairs in their bathroom with a glass of wine in the tub. And my dad would make sure we didn't bother her. My mom could decompress, refocus, and chill out.

I have had countless offers from friends and family saying they will watch my kids anytime I need them. They have told me they would be happy to take my kids off my hands so I can go to the store alone or get a massage. And beleive me, I appreciate the offers so much. The problem is scheduling. The problem is thinking ahead. It's the moments that I need a break the most, the situations I need someone the most, and I don't have him. I don't have Matt. I don't have him walking through the door in the evenings and knowing I can leave the house and just breathe.

This week has tested me. This week has worn me down.

We are just a month away from the 3 year anniversary of Matt's passing. I thought time passing would make things easier. But it doesn't. Time doesn't heal. Time changes. The heaviness in my chest is the same today as it's been over the last 35 months. I don't miss Matt any less. I don't think of him less often. I still wish every single day that my life was different.

I am constantly trying to find ways to honor and remember Matt. I have expressed the importance of this before. I especially want Olivia and Rylan to know and remember their dad. But I also believe that Matt is worth that. He's worth us crying, he's worth us mentioning his name, he's worth us raising a glass and toasting him. This year, I want to try and bring that to a bigger place. I want all of us, the people impacted by Matt's passing, to remember Matt. I want us to think of him on October 15th. I want us to raise a glass, alcoholic or not, and honor him. Matt's time of death was 5:50 AM on October 15, 2015. My idea is this: wherever you are, whatever you're doing, at 5:50 PM on October 15th, raise a glass to Matt. If you can, take a picture and send it to myself, my family, or Matt's family. We want to feel the love, the support, and know that we are together, we are connected, because of this incredible person.

"Grief is not an event. It is a permanent alteration."

Just when grief feels manageable, the rug is pulled from beneath my feet. It leaves me face down and startled that I'm back in a low. That's the thing about grief. It's unpredictable. Right when it starts to have a rhythm, suddenly it doesn't anymore. Suddenly I'm drowning, gasping for air. Wondering how I will ever surface again.

I've had a lot of lows lately. And this time, I find that I am internalizing them rather than reaching out to my family or friends. Until now...the 15th...when I force myself to sit, reflect, and write.

Back on the 25th, Rylan had surgery for urethral meatal stenosis. When I first spoke with his pediatrician about the situation, he was confident that Rylan would need surgery. Right away I had anxieties. Any surgery involving your children, big or small, is stressful. This was no exception. The day prior, I got a call from Mary Bridge with the check-in instructions, where to go, and day-of plan. I was told to check in at the main entrance of Tacoma General, the hospital where Matt passed away. I asked the woman on the phone if there was another entrance I could use or another way to check Rylan in for surgery. I briefly explained the situation but unfortunately, there was nothing she could recommend to make it any easier. I was forced to face the fear.

Prior to surgery. Such a good boy! 

Waking up afterwards. Sleepy and snuggly. 

Arrival wasn't as difficult as I expected. The triggers showed up later when Rylan was wheeled back to the operating room and the nurses told my mom and me where we could wait. We got off the elevator on the 6th floor and made our way to the surgery waiting room. I froze. My mind was racing. Is it the same waiting room? The same one we waited in for 14 hours while Matt had open heart surgery? The same phone that rang with updates from the operating room? The same waiting room that was full of family and friends for 4 days while we prayed, cried, supported, and hoped for Matt's life? The same waiting room? Was it? I couldn't figure it out. Surely it wouldn't be the same. We were at the children's hospital. I tried to articulate to my mom what I was questioning. Thankfully she already knew and guided me to a table to sit and wait. My legs trembled with anxiety, I cried, and I thought I was going to vomit. Once the fog settled a bit, I came to realize it was the same waiting room. The same, dreaded, horrible place. I tried not to look around. I tried to not remember. But it was impossible not to. Triggers. Intense and impossible to avoid.

Olivia and Rylan picked the colors of their balloons. 

The 29th we celebrated Matt's 36th birthday. The week leading up to his birthday I try really hard to focus on the beauty of Matt's life instead of the ache that comes with his passing. Most of the time, this approach is successful. I find joy in remembering the hilarious stories that come from knowing Matt. But it's also impossible to pretend that the grief isn't there. At 4.5, Olivia loves birthdays. All week we talked about Daddy's birthday, the dessert, the balloons, and the swimming. She was so excited when she woke up on his birthday. It pains me when she asks, "Is Daddy actually going to be there?" or "What about a present for Daddy?" She hasn't grasped yet what happened to Matt. She knows he's in Heaven. She knows he's with Jesus. But until she starts asking me for more, I keep her knowledge simple. She has the rest of her life to grieve. We celebrated with Matt at the cemetery. We wrote on balloons like we've done in the past and sent them to him. Prior to everyone getting to the cemetery, I sat with Matt and cried. I looked at the dates on his grave marker, as I have so many times, still in shock and disbelief. Following the cemetery, we spent the day at Matt's childhood home. We swam, we had a BBQ, and we gathered together as family. I know Matt celebrated most of his birthdays the same way. Swimming with his friends and family on the beautiful July day.

The next morning I was at the gym and the reality of Matt's birthday sunk in. It was during warmup that I started thinking about the day prior and what it was. I started thinking about how we had a good day. How we celebrated Matt, we sang to him, we toasted him. But then I found myself angry and sad. I hate that we have to celebrate Matt without him here. I hate the fact that we have to spend the morning at the cemetery or that we aren't creating new memories with him here. I fought back tears, ran to the bathroom a couple of times, and tried to escape the thoughts that were in my head.

Of course, it isn't just two days over the last month that has been making me feel low. Grief runs parallel with life. Forever it will be right beside me. Even during the times when life is flowing nicely, grief is still right there. My lows are from the reminders that are everywhere. The stores are already selling stuff for fall. A huge reminder that another anniversary is almost here. Fall means so much navigating and processing. The lows come from the trials and stress of parenting. It's the added weight of single parenting. It's the constant demand of being "on" at all times. It's the loneliness that sits on my chest every single evening. It's the pressure of feeling like I'm not doing enough. There are so many layers and elements to my feelings lately. Some I can't even process yet. 

I try and face the lows with how Matt would. I try and think about what our conversations would sound like. How would he encourage me? What would he tell me to take off my plate to make my life easier? I also think about what he would tell me now as he sees me navigate life without him. If he had a chance to talk to me now, what would he tell me? Would he say he's proud of how I make it through each day? Even the days that are really hard, would he think I've done a good job? 

"Grief is not an event. It is a permanent alteration."