Days of Darkness

I have debated on whether or not I should record the dark and despairing thoughts that I have been plagued with in the days since Jacob’s death.  Although I want to avoid dwelling on such thoughts and emotions, I think that I should include some mention of them here.  I want to do so for two reasons:

One—to remind myself at a later date that I know what darkness is, and that I have successfully passed through it before (assuming that I do, by the grace of God, navigate my way through this).

Two—to help me be grateful for God’s help in surviving this. 

So with that background, I will share with you a little about the struggle…

I know that God lives.  I love the Savior.  I have a tremendous and ever-increasing appreciation for the Atonement.  I have faith in God’s plan and believe that the Gospel provides the only path to lasting happiness.  I believe that families can be together forever through God’s covenant blessings.  I am immeasurably grateful for my amazing wife and each and every one of our beautiful children.  I have been blessed with loving family members that willingly sacrifice their time, money, and comfort in order to serve us.  I am eternally grateful for the exceptional people that God has placed in my life—selfless people who love and strengthen and even carry me on occasion. 

Still…

Sometimes the darkness is so heavy that I find it difficult to breathe.  Getting out of bed and taking a shower seem like herculean tasks.  I have anxiety about being sleepy (because it increases the fogginess in my mind), but I fear going to sleep because of the endless nightmares. 

It is hard to envision ever being truly happy again in this life.  Jennifer (my wife) and I used to plan dates, holidays, vacations, getaways, and other exciting events in an effort to ensure that we always had “something genuinely fun to look forward to”.  We have always believed that the anticipation of such events helped us trudge through the grind of our daily responsibilities.  Since Jacob passed, however, I find that I dread “fun” events.  Laughter and fun just make it more obvious that Jacob is missing.  Activities that he would enjoy fill me with guilt, and sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of loss.

People want to tell me things that will make everything okay…”He’s in a better place.”  “Families are forever.”  “You’ll be with him again someday.”  “He’s celestial now.”  “You’ll get to raise him after the resurrection.”  “You’ll make it through this.”

I know they mean well, and they are trying to bind my wounds.  However, in my mind the responses tumble back quickly…

“I didn’t think that our home was that bad of a place.  Jacob seemed happy there.  And if he wasn’t happy with us…why should that make me feel better?”

“Families can be together forever.  But we aren’t together right now—and that hurts more than I can begin to express.”

“I hope to be worthy to be with him again someday.  However, someday could be 40 or 50 years away, and that doesn’t help much when hours often feel unbearable.”

“He is celestial now.  But please understand—my unconditionally loving, instantly forgiving, light-bearing little boy was celestial before he left.  That is part of what makes his death so excruciating.  In addition to losing our son, we lost a piece of Heaven that resided within our home.  I know that such a blessing is rare and that I certainly didn’t deserve it, but that knowledge doesn’t make living without it any easier now that I have experienced it.”

“I am grateful for the gift of the resurrection and the knowledge that I may one day have the opportunity to raise Jacob to manhood.  That doesn’t change the fact that Michael (Jacob’s brother who also has Trisomy 21) will have to grow up without Jacob.  Jennifer and I had always taken comfort in the fact that Jacob and Michael would have each other as companions throughout their lives—someone to play toys with when they were 30 years old and someone to provide them day-to-day companionship when Jennifer and I pass away.  Additionally, I fear that Jacob’s resurrected body won’t be gifted with Trisomy 21—something that gave him many of the traits that are near and dear to my heart.  I also imagine that he will no longer have his nystagmus—a characteristic that absolutely melted my heart when he would hold my cheeks and gaze into my eyes.  I anticipated being blessed with those traits for decades, not years.  Losing them equates to loss, and that loss carries with it tremendous pain.”

“I probably will make it through this.  However, I am not ‘through’ this right now.  I am in this. And from my current vantage point, I will be in this for a very, very, very long time.”

I don’t mean to imply that no one ever says anything to ease our pain or make things a little better.  It is simply impossible for them to make “everything okay” with a few words (or even many words).  The Gospel doesn’t promise us freedom from sorrow or pain—certainly not in this life anyway.  In fact, we know that there has to be opposition in all things—bitterness so that we can recognize the sweet.  Unfortunately, doctrinal knowledge, faith, and even love will not provide us immunity against suffering.  They may speed healing to some extent, but they don’t make us invincible or make healing instantaneous.

I am hopeful that with God’s help the darkness that I am currently battling will eventually be put “into remission”.  Right now, however, it seems to have matasticized.  The darkness and pain are no longer weighing on me—they seem to have become part of me.

I remind myself, though—Jesus healed lepers.  He cast out evil spirits.  He cured the woman with the issue of blood.

Therefore, I stand back and fight with what strength I have, eagerly anticipating the day when my heart ache is healed, when this darkness is cast from me, and when I am cured from the debilitating sorrow that has taken over my life.