View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

As the date approaches, I fall into severe anxiety and depression. How do we deal with milestones now? Now that all has changed. Now that the world has changed. I have changed. Milestones and anniversaries are supposed to be celebrated. They denote going forwards. Towards the future. A future that I haven’t figured out yet. Maybe I never will.

When you read this the date will be over, the date I dread and wonder how to tackle. Do we celebrate or just go on in silence? After a year of grief, does the fog suddenly lift and life goes on as normal? Do people expect me to be my old self again? And do I care? Really. After all that has happened, do I really care what people think of me? Of my bottomless grief. Should it not have magically disappeared now, one year later? Do I spiral down or do I resume my old life?

I still can’t believe it. We lost Erland, our healthy and young son. From a cancer that affects old people. I know I can’t ask why. I know God didn’t cause Erland to die. For a long time, I didn’t want to live. I felt part of me died with him. My baby. But then, I decided one day to choose life.  First because of my family. They didn’t need any more deaths. I also have connected with my eight grandchildren during this year more than I thought possible. We have had so many deep conversations, one on one. And they hug me and we do things together, like go boating or play games. And when I say, I didn’t want to live, I didn’t mean I wanted to commit suicide. That was never on the table. I had just lost my will to live, because I couldn’t really picture the future. A future where so many tragedies unexpectedly occurred. I also felt a great disconnect to people. And, of course, I chose life because life can be good. I have my husband, a very good man who is hurting too and two more children who lost their baby brother. And I have nature. Sunsets and sunrises and lately, so many butterflies that flutter around creating peace and beauty. And to me, a butterfly also connotes hope.

So I have chosen to live, to try to be healthy and also positive. My grief comes in huge waves that crush me so I can hardly breathe. I become dizzy and my heart feels like it is broken. But afterwards, I do recover. I can laugh and feel joy. I can marvel at a tiny mommy wren who feeds her babies who live in the mouth of a sculpture in my garden. I smell the freshly mown grass and enjoy watching how the summer breeze makes the prairie grasses sway.

I try small steps into the future. I am able to have short conversations with people again. I can sleep at night. And I also can connect with you; people who read my articles. And I remember the hugs and letters from friends and also those I hardly know. People who say my articles matter to them. And I am reminded of all of us, how our lives are full of hurts and tragedies. How we fail and fall. How our hearts are broken again and again. But most of us go on. Maybe we don’t really recover. Maybe that is not the point. What happens in our lives define who we are; change us. As we grow older, if we are lucky enough to not have our lives torn from us, we will experience losses. Our lives are made with love and scars, but also of healing and grace. For us, as the anniversaries pass without Erland and Patrick, the scars of losing them will remain as will our love for them and the beauty that is life lived.