PRE-FALL HEARTS

 "God never intended death at all before the fall, our hearts were never designed to handle it, so I don't think there's any age at which loss becomes sensical. Of course, the hope of Heaven makes it easier for Christians, and the natural world teaches us that death is a normal part of life. But death is only a normal part of fallen life - and our hearts are still pre-fall 1.0 designs without the software upgrade to process death." - Me

I'm realizing I never really processed the loss of my dad and being his caretaker during the last two months of his life...

My dad refused hospitalization, and initially vehemently refused hospice care. It was only the last couple of weeks he allowed a hospice worker to come to provide basic oral pain meds like morphine, which I administered to him, or my mom. 

This was a bad decision on his part but we obviously respected his wishes at the time, without anticipating the emotional repercussions of witnessing a dying process that was very inadequately supported by modern medicine (his choice, perhaps an attempt at strength in the face of impossible weakness). Those last few weeks were grueling, ugly, dehumanizing, and brutal - nothing like the peaceful cancer death we see in movies. Not even close. 

I was initially okay (shock and "get 'er done" mentality), but am realizing that the flashbacks I still experience probably deserve some balm and massage (scenes of his death and the painful days leading up to it, when I wish those could be replaced with scenes of his life). Him practically drowning in his bed at home in what I now know was malignant pleural effusion, or his lungs filling with cancerous fluid (nobody told us that at the time, hospice help was inadequate, and doctors were not on hand), and just flashing back to memories of placing my hands on the ribs in his chest and almost feeling ocean-like waves of liquid under his skin and pain in his eyes. 

In hindsight (it really is 20/20), I shouldn't have been the one caring for him, but at the same time, am glad I could serve him the way I did. He accepted Christ three days before he died, so I know there was value in being hands-on and bedside. But value at a searing emotional cost.  

My dad did not want a funeral (which might have also offered some closure), so I think I compartmentalized my own wellbeing, and transitioned into "save the day" mode. Immediately after he died, I had two days on the ground in Texas which were warp speed and robotic: cleaning out his stuff, moving my dependent grandparents into the home that weekend, ordering Sonic chili cheese fries and Ocean Water like nothing had happened, and flying back to Hong Kong to jump back into ministry and winning at life. 

I talked to a couple of others (mostly older than me) who'd lost a parent, or walked through cancer - and they seemed to be doing fine. So I thought I should be doing fine too and convinced myself I was, because it's "natural" to lose a parent eventually, many people have lost loved ones to cancer, and I didn't think there was anything special or unique about my experience. Who was I to take the loss of my dad "extra hard" - he was 72 after all, right? People fight in wars, whole villages are bombed, hello African genocide... and I just lose my aging father? I mean, I've read C.S. Lewis's "A Grief Observed", I've worked in ministry almost my entire adult life and know all the platitudes and God-talk, I know we'll never be able to answer the problem-of-pain, or "why suffering" questions and that living in the mystery of this with trust is the nature of our walk. 

What I gained through my own experience was the ability to quickly and deeply enter into others' stories and walk with them. I'm great at bedside help now. You want me on your team. And I will never, ever, ever ask a person "how old" their loved one was when they passed away, as if a certain age makes death any less hard. I vividly remember people asking me how old my dad was, and nodding when I said 72 - as if it somehow made sense?

God never intended death at all before the fall, our hearts were never designed to handle it, so I don't think there's any age at which loss becomes sensical. Of course, the hope of Heaven makes it easier for Christians, and the natural world teaches us that death is a normal part of life. But death is only a normal part of fallen life - and our hearts are still pre-fall 1.0 designs without the software upgrade to process death. Jesus overcomes that old software in us when He makes our hearts His, when He died to overcome death for us. But there's still a hard mystery in all of this, and I still don't like singing the Easter lyrics, "...death where is your sting...", because the lyrics make me feel like, as a Christian, I shouldn't feel the sting of death. But my goodness, my dad's death stung something fierce. 

At that time, I was self-aware enough to realize that I actually wasn't fully "okay" despite my outward countenance, and that grief (and to be honest, trauma) counseling might be helpful. But my personality is "power through", I've got church after all, and then only a couple months later my mom was diagnosed with cancer. So counseling took the back burner as we faced my mom's own rare and aggressive diagnosis. The complexity of the emotions here - fear of a similar fate for her, needing to set aside the loss of my dad, and the burden of knowing the weight on my mom's shoulders with her own diagnosis and subsequent treatment - all caused me to steel myself once again and dive into "help mode". 

Then my grandmother's progressive dementia, my aunt's progressive cancer, my grandfather's hip and femur breaks making him 100% dependent, my uncle's death a couple months ago, my brother's health challenges, and much more. There is actually nobody in my family that is just sailing along and doing "okay" right now. And, the reality is, my grandparents will only get worse until death, and that just sucks. 

Again, my tendency is to coach myself that there's nothing unusually challenging about my life, that things are pretty great overall. Everyone goes through hard experiences and loss. I tell myself that these things enlarge my capacity to have deep empathy for others (and this is true!), that these things give me opportunities to "be weak so God is strong", that I must be doing powerful things for the Kingdom because the element of spiritual attack is heavy. 

But no, obviously these things I tell myself aren't working for me. 

I'm beginning to see [not so great] patterns in myself: I don't just try to help my dad, I try to save him. I don't just try to help my mom, I get myself certified in Integrative Oncology Patient Advocacy and now Nutritional Therapy in the hours I'm not working at church and leading worship (how do I manage to do this - pure, crystalized adrenaline?!), consult with doctors around the world, take too many 3am calls to count, and try to make sure everyone is above the surface of the water. I don't just pray for my grandfather when he falls out of a hospital bed due to malpractice and breaks a femur, I schedule conference calls from Hong Kong to speak to the head of the department and write "legalese" letters to entire hospital staffs. 

I'm a really great person to have in the ring with you. This is why I scored so highly as a #2 Helper on the Enneagram Test. This is a downfall as well, because I think the unhealthy side of this is that I don't feel like I can let go of the reins.

I have this tendency to want to take all of the hard and sucky and make sense of it, and place meaning on it by overcoming it and learning from it, being "the best in the world at it", writing a book about it, a song, or getting certified in it (ha!). To the nth degree, to the extreme. Is there a personality test or type for this? Lion, otter, golden retriever... what about Komodo dragon? ;) 

Practical example: I saw a counselor twice over the past two weeks (the first one I've seen in 14 years) and haven't really gotten much out of it other than the opportunity to cry and the affirmation that what I've been through has actually been "too much". But, as far as progress, I don't really understand her process. She's using a technique called Somatic Experience, and keeps asking me to talk about my experiences, and then describe my "body sensations" as I talk about them. She'll ask if I feel "tense" when I come in (um, yes), then how my physical body sensations have changed after talking about stuff, and although I don't want to disappoint her, this hasn't helped at all. And I don't lie, so I tell her that. 

So what do I do? I spend a few hours last night researching "Somatic Experience Therapy". I research the methodology (because she hasn't explained it to me), I watch a couple YouTube videos from US counsellors who use SE techniques. I try to figure out my counselor's approach and what I can do to improve the counseling sessions and make them more worthwhile for me... I practice SE techniques on myself. 

I am trying to save or improve the very space that is designed for me to rest in the care of someone other than me. #Komododragon 

Another practical example: Even as I write this now, in a separate part of my mind, I just saw the cover of a book I'll write called "Komodo Dragon: Embracing Your Inner Strength", so I stopped typing this and researched Komodo dragons to see if there is any sparkly significance to them that would make for good social media. There's not. They're venomous carnivores that can kill humans. Maybe another title. ​​

[If you are a counselor reading this, don't try to analyze me or label it. Just let me be a little messy. You're probably messy too.]

These past few years have been full of so much beauty. Trips to Alaska to sail past glaciers and watch sunsets over the northern, icy waters. Road-trips across Spain and Portugal for our dear friends' destination wedding. Clinking champagne glasses in California as we honor my grandparents' 70 years of marriage. Albums and songs written, projects launched, healthy and deepening friendships, serving at a church we love. Paris. Laughter that was 100% laughter. Putting on a brave face because I am actually brave. Good dreams. Hundreds of wonderful nights and days, thousands of moments of joy that were fully felt and in no way clouded by sorrow. 

So I am becoming okay with a very unpolished story right now. And okay with a counseling session that solves absolutely nothing, and leaves me less fixed than before, but planning to go back again. 

I'm learning that good doesn't always need to outweigh bad. Sometimes they just co-exist, and sometimes it's more bad than good, but that it's good to not pretend one way or another. That doesn't make us basket cases, or "diagnosable", or depressed, or wayward Christians, that makes us flesh and blood, and dirt and bones. 

What a mystery, sorrow and joy living under the same roof. Sometimes joy takes extra long naps. 

We're resilient little things. Humans.