It is currently two in the morning on May 25th, and I am struggling to get my words together. (One idea might be that it's two in the morning, go to sleep?) Usually I know what I'm going to say by now. But tonight I don't. Five was supposed to be a round number, even things out. If you've made it through all these holidays, all these birthdays, and at least two new transitions in life, you can make it through anything, right? If you are reading this and you are new at grief, let me be the one to break it to you that it is not linear, nor does it pretend to be, nor can you pretend that it is. Grief does what it wants, has it's own plans and ideas. Grief actually has a very similar temperament to a tired two year old.
This past fall I moved to Omaha to pursue a clinical doctorate in occupational therapy. There were exactly zero things about this move that left me with familiarity. I had a new roommate, new apartment, new city, new school, new classmates, and a new curriculum. All of it was new, and all of it was scary. Overall, it's been a good move. But it's definitely had it's challenges. I've never slept less and studied more, and I really think it's been a long time since my grief has been this bad. I don't know if I'm longing for the familiarity, and that makes me think of all those nights right after Brenna died where I felt the same way, or what the deal is. But it's been a rough six months with grief.
This fall one of the things that I found peace in was an organization called Dancing Beyond Limits. It is a dance class for kids with special needs, physical or cognitive, and they were of all ages. Beautifully chaotic is how I would describe it to you. During the semester I was paired with Emma, a four year old currently undergoing chemotherapy for a brain tumor. Because of the location of the tumor, Emma does not walk or stand on her own, and the left side of her body tends to not listen as well. (These are legit her words. Once, I asked if Lefty was doing his job like he's supposed to in dance class and she looked me directly in the eye and told me he didn't want to.) Emma is smart, sassy, and strong, but also humble, kind, and joy filled. Emma loves Starbucks, the Huskers, and Rapunzel. She goes to Boston every few months for scans and she gets excited to ride on the airplane. She likes stickers, watching Mickey Mouse on her iPad, and she can scoot across the room using one hand faster than I can. (I know this because we race at dance when she doesn't feel like walking)
What Emma doesn't know is the impact she's had on me over the last eight months or so. It was probably spring break before I stopped crying on Sunday afternoons when I had to come back to Omaha. Change is HARD. But usually, the drive would calm me down before jumping back into the week again, and I would go straight to dance class to maximize my time at home... and in would come my little princess, hair always accompanied by a ribbon or bow, and she almost always says "Ge Wha?" and she tells me the new and exciting thing in her life from that week, like shoes, her brother coming to watch her dance, or her new baby doll. Emma has no idea how much easier she makes it for me to be in Omaha, and although it's because she's sweet, I think there might be more to it than that.
Four months after Brenna died I went back to my high school to watch the homecoming ceremony for the class below me. Although always a fun ceremony, this year it had a different feel to it - because the queen from the previous year wouldn't be returning to present the crown to this year's winners. Instead, each candidate was holding a purple balloon. I remember watching Brenna a year earlier during homecoming week. She loved to dress up, loved to be in the parade, to wave at everyone. She was a sweet, humble, and kind person who genuinely was in her element during that week. Two days after she died I sat in my high school auditorium with many friends and classmates as my friend Tyler talked about the honor it was to be paired with her for the event. She didn't know how perfect she was.
One of these days, I will get to see her again and we will get to rehash it all - boys, jobs, college, life. I will tell her how the things went that she missed out on, and she will be my tour guide in heaven. I already have a million people I can't wait for her to meet. Unfortunately and fortunately, that day isn't here yet, and I miss her all the more every day. I do my best to be sure that her legacy outlives her life, not that Dustin's actions are able to do the same. Although I think 'closure' is like the stupidest and most insulting term ever, I have found some small pieces of it - like little stitches of it. It's not permanent, and it's not the same, and it actually kind of hurts, just like real stitches would, but it's progress.
In the last five years I have made peace with many things about the awful, awful day where my friend lost her life to someone else's selfish and scary choices. I have made peace with the day that I laid in my bed and cried with my mom when our local newspaper printed every last detail of what happened to my friend before she was pronounced dead. I have made peace with the scene and sounds of watching my friends fall sobbing and shaking into the street when they heard the news. I have made peace with the nine months that followed of court dates. I have made peace (almost all the way, not totally) with the sound of a helicopter over head, the police yelling into an abandoned building for my friend, and even my own ignorance to think that this could be just a normal 'hit and run accident' despite the yellow caution tape around the field and a van that vividly read "Crime Scene Investigation" I have, mostly, made peace with the loss of her. But a lot of days, I still struggle to make peace with the loss of her life.
And maybe that's why moving to Omaha was so hard. I am doing something that Brenna was never privileged to do - earn not one, but two degrees. Live on my own, learn how to be an adult, and have interests and hobbies in all the things that God has provided for me. It seems so unfair, somehow, that that's just how it ended. Loss of life seems unrealistic. I imagine how wonderful of a wife and mom she would have been, all the people who would have been positively impacted her on the rowing team at K-State, and the number of kindergartners who would later graduate high school and remember her as the best teacher ever. It makes me frustrated to think how on earth God's plan could include this. How could anyone think this world would be better off without her?
But in the end, I know that isn't the case. I know that God does not control, He is in control. And that means that sometimes, things don't work out the way you wanted it to, but it opens your eyes to the world around you just a little bit more. I currently hang out with a four year old every week who is going through chemotherapy. She inspires me more than she'll ever know. She has spent much of her life in treatment, but you should see the look on her face when she gets to choose a new baby doll.
My 18th birthday fell two and a half months after Brenna died, and I spent that evening at her house with many of my friends. Her parents invited us over to go through some of Brenna's things and take some to college with us. In grief time, two and a half months is like, five seconds. I look back and applaud the incredible bravery and trust I know this must have taken for them. That night, I got a sign out of Brenna's room that simply reads "Celebrate Everything." It was ironic at the time, because it felt like nothing was really worth celebrating. But over time, the sign has proved itself, and it currently hangs above my door. When I am in a trying time in life, I often see it and remember to be thankful, just like my four (now five, as of yesterday) year old friend. I know that Brenna would have LOVED Emma - and it makes me happy that Emma has slowly filled, in her own little way, the princess shaped hole in my heart.
Pictured below are two of the most influential people in my life. I think the crown fits them both.
