A couple months ago, I remember a weekend morning that I spent lazily in bed longer than I usually do. I probably had a Premier League match on the tv (duh, because starting a weekend morning off with soccer on TV is fantastic). I may be 28, but I still live with my parents a. because they’re so great and treat me like an adult, not their little son, b. because I never want to pay rent when I have a viable place to live, and c. because from time to time, having my parents around to be quasi-nurses for me is still helpful. When I finally decided that I was too old to lay in bed all day, I went downstairs to get my glass of orange juice and take my morning medicine. My mom was standing in the kitchen (her favorite place in the house, seriously).
Then, out of nowhere, I blurted out, “I really wish I didn’t have to take this medicine.”
It wasn’t a defiance against modern medicine, it wasn’t a reluctance to take pills that I knew were necessary to help harness control over parts of my brain, it wasn’t even anger at doctors for telling me I had to take them. It was simply a *sigh*, here we go again.
You see, before having seizures that displayed a brain tumor, I had never been prescribed medication in my life unless it was to quickly ease a sickness. It was never a prescription of permanence. And while I understand what the medicine I’m on does and I’m very thankful that God has created some brilliant people to come up with how to make those little pills, those words still came out of my mouth. I thought in the back of my head right when I said it, huh, something is up if I’m saying that.
Fast forward a couple weeks. I was at a lake house with some of the great friends that I get to lead high school students alongside with at church. On that Saturday morning, we were discussing periods of waiting. I don’t remember all that was said, but I remember reclusing away after we met as a group to spend some time just to hear from God. I knew I had been off the past couple weeks. I knew something was wrestling in my head. I knew I was kind of just… sad.
While I was laying on the floor with my journal in front of me, it hit me: I am waiting for grieving to be over. And I felt immediate peace.
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I am grieving over the loss of my Grandmother June back in the summer who was just buried at Arlington National Cemetery a couple weeks ago. I am grieving for the countless issues happening across the world, dividing us more and more by the second. I am grieving over the loss of my final grandparent, Pop Pop, who had a shocking and quick decline, even at the age of 91. I am grieving as we are in the first holiday season with no grandparents to celebrate with. I am grieving watching my parents as they struggle through losing their parents with all their might. I am grieving with baseball being over (kidding but not kidding). I am grieving with a special friend of mine who lost his dad recently. But the root cause of my grief isn’t any of these things, though all would be warranted…
I am grieving over having cancer.
After two and a half years, sadness and angst and emotions that I don’t know what to call have finally hit me. I’m still so thankful for how God has brought me through this nasty disease. My mind is still blown (literally and figuratively) at how incredibly my doctors and nurses were and how they helped me defeat cancer. I still can’t believe how my friends and family carried me through surgeries and treatments that I wouldn’t pass off to my worst enemy. I refuse to let that gratefulness slip. But at the same time, I am now overwhelmed with mourning.
Before the last couple months, saying I am a cancer survivor made me proud… but lately it has felt a lot more like shame. Not in an embarrassment kind of way, just in an ugh I have to say this again kind of way.
But even in a lot of heartache, I have also felt a lot of heart-contentment. I haven’t felt once that I needed to rush through this grief. Sure, I don’t want to stay in here forever, but I also don’t want to blow past it and ignore it. I am patiently waiting for grief to be over. And I’m trusting and surrendering that this wait will end in the right time.
So since that lake trip, I have been resting in grief. That sounds kinda weird, right? And it is kinda weird. But that’s ok. I don’t have an end to this because the end isn’t here. And maybe when it is I’ll write more about it. Maybe not. Who knows. But writing this is much more for me than it probably is for you, though I do pray that you find it helpful to read in one way or another.
With that being said, I do want to end with this encouragement, especially to men: be honest about your grief! I know you have it at times. And it is so freeing to just tell people about it. Not only that, but it helps those around you understand your frame of mind. You will always gain much more respect by revealing your honest heart than by creating a character to cover it.
i’ll let the branches fall… so what You want can stay, and what You love can grow
