Saturday was hard. My 41st birthday. I want to pretend like it wasn't. Birthdays are supposed to be fun and exciting and magical. Just ask my party-loving 6-year-old (who recently celebrated his entrance into life as an official big kid in grand gesture for days and days and days). I tried to fake it and give myself a pep talk. But nothing helped. As people called and texted me to send me warm birthday wishes, I wanted to respond with excitement and stories of celebration and adventure. Or at least send a simple thank you for remembering me on my birthday. But I couldn't. I didn't feel like celebrating.
Last year, I was on top of the world. Marcos and I climbed Mount Timpanogos to celebrate 40 years of life. It was a beautiful day of strength, stamina and togetherness. It was exhilarating and uplifting. A wonderful symbol of newness and possibilities. A memory I will cherish forever.
This year, my birthday would be spent in a valley. A valley of sadness and confusion. A valley of stillness and reflection.
I woke up Saturday morning to find a group text from my mom telling my sisters and me that my uncle had passed away around 2am. On my birthday. It hit me like a ton of bricks, and a wave of sadness and despair washed over my entire body. I couldn't move. The past several months flashed before my eyes. It felt like a long dream - like a nightmare.
On a Saturday afternoon at the end of April, I got a call from my mom.
"Uncle Steve was in an accident. He was found unconscious next to the dump truck he had been driving. The man who found him called 9-1-1. When first responders arrived on the scene, he wasn't breathing. They don't know how long he was lying there or how long he went without oxygen. Say a prayer for Steve and the family. Grandma and Kathy are on their way to the hospital. That's all I know."
My heart sunk.
Steve was a gentle, mellow soul with a knack for teasing. It took me years and some maturation to realize that all that teasing was an attempt to partially conceal his huge heart from the world. He wasn't fooling anyone. The loving, caring, service-oriented side of Steve always managed to shine through whether he liked it or not. Steve had a heart of gold. He loved St. George and was always ready with a list of southern Utah adventures when we were in town visiting my grandparents. My little family was lucky enough to be taken on several desert adventures learning about volcanic rocks, sand, desert flowers, cacti and of course, wild life that included rattle snakes, tarantulas, scorpions, tortoises, and a multitude of lizards coming in many different shapes and sizes. Steve's passion for his home town was contagious and his love of science and history made my geeky science-girl heart beam.
I smiled as I thought about Steve and Kathy riding their beach cruiser bikes around St. George and Steve's excitement about all the new paved trails around the city. A couple years ago, I took a mountain bike down on my solo nature trip (a.k.a. mental health, mama needs a break for real ya'll trip). Steve started spewing out names of trails I could try or might want to check out while I was there. I had to get out a pencil and paper. I think the man forgot I wasn't a local. It was like he was speaking a foreign language. I ended up trying out a couple very low key trails that fit my skill level on a bike and had a blast, but I will never forget the excitement in Steve's eyes as he walked me through all the possibilities.
Steve and Kathy. It's more of a phrase than a set of names. Not Steve. Not Kathy. Steve and Kathy. That's how I've known my aunt and uncle for as long as I can remember. My entire life. Steve and Kathy. My heart hurt for Kathy. And the kids. My cousins. Cousins I played with during our quarterly visits to St. George climbing red rocks and jumping on grandma and grandpa's trampoline until it literally disintegrated.
This is not happening. This cannot be happening.
For the next several days, my sisters and I got updates from my mom who was in contact with Steve's family and my grandma. ICU, intubation, brain bleeding and swelling, emergency surgery to remove part of his skull and allow the brain to swell, another surgery to cut away more of the skull as the brain swelling continued. And then waiting. Lots and lots of waiting. Steve was in a coma. All family, friends and medical staff could do was wait. Pray. Hope. And wait some more.
There was good news. Steve's brain waves were normal. And he started to gradually emerge from the coma. His eyes opened. His arm moved. And so it began. Baby steps. Learning one minute at a time what the next step was for Steve. Traumatic Brain Injury. Steve had a TBI. And only time would tell what Steve's capabilities and limitations would look like.
Days turned into weeks which turned into months. He was transferred to SLC after needing a tracheotomy because there was no trach unit in the hospital in St. George. My mom and Aunt Carol were at Steve's bedside the entire time he was in Salt Lake City, both during his time in the hospital and as he started the long, arduous process of rehabilitation - walking, talking, learning, remembering.
People throw around the term rollercoaster, but there is no other word I can imagine to describe this process. Progress and setbacks. Frustration and tender mercies. Ups and downs, ins and outs, around, about and through. My heart has ached for Steve's wife and children, for my sweet grandma - his mother - who lost her husband only eight short months ago. My heart swells with gratitude and appreciation when I think about my mom and aunt who set aside their own lives, families and needs to stand by their brother in his time of need.
A week and a half ago, Steve suffered a seizure and his brain waves changed. This past week has been one of coming to terms with a long fight and the reality that Steve's time on earth was coming to an end.
And yet the reality of his passing still sent me into a tailspin. Was it because it happened on my birthday? Or had I been holding my breath all these months? Now I was gasping for air. We don't get to choose how grief hits us. It seems a personal matter. For some, it starts as numbness. For others, composure. Keep yourself together. Just keep yourself together. Others crumple and collapse under the pressure. A million different points collided and my uncle's death found me sobbing. In my room under a blanket. I couldn't celebrate my birth or my life that day. I just couldn't. So I allowed myself to grieve.
Life is so fleeting. So fragile. So unpredictable.
Six years ago, when I was pregnant with Caleb, I lost my Uncle Bill. He, too, suffered a TBI due to a fall down a flight of stairs. A freak accident. I hate that phrase. Freak accident. Freak doesn't seem like a word that should be used to describe a traumatic life incident. I throw the word "freak" around when I'm joking or angry and don't want to be too crude, but need my message to come across stronger. But that's the only way I know to describe what happened. A random, extremely unlikely accident that could not have been predicted or prevented.
My brain wants to make sense of it all. My brain wants to organize and compartmentalize and explain it all. But there is no explanation. No understanding. Not for Steve. Not for Bill. Not for freak accidents or TBI's or cancer or chronic illness or life or death. There just isn't.
Steve is no longer suffering in his mortal body. The difficult struggles of his brain and body the past several months have come to an end. For that I am grateful. But grieving and mourning and adjusting to life without Steve will be a long journey for those closest to him and that hurts my heart over and over again. Thoughts and prayers for his close loved ones would be greatly appreciated from any who see fit to do so.
On another note. Thank you to those who love me and reached out to wish me well and celebrate my life last Saturday. All I can say is thank you. I am more loved than I deserve.
I've reflected on the song "The Climb" many times and found myself struggling with my recent decent into a valley from a high peak that I never wanted to leave. Am I sliding backwards? Am I falling? From a very trusted friend and confidant came a beautiful response using my very own mountain analogy. You're still moving upwards. Your mountain path goes around and around up a gradual slope. There isn't a direct climb to the top with a rope. It isn't a straight shot. You wouldn't be able to handle the change in elevation if that's how it worked. It's a gradual climb moving around and up and down and across. And sometimes you drop down off your place on the mountain. It's a temporary valley or gully or tunnel or cave. But it doesn't mean you've fallen off of the mountain. You're just not experiencing a peak. And that's okay.
I've thought a lot about my personal mountain the past few days. I tend to CELEBRATE the peaks and DREAD the valleys. But I'm learning that both are part of this journey on earth.
Sometimes life finds us on beautiful peak. We're on top of the world. It's beautiful, exhilarating and exciting, and we never want it to end.
Other times, life finds us at the bottom of a valley, tucked away in a protective little cove.
Confused. Afraid. Lost. Tired. Sad.
Right now, I'm in a valley. And that's okay.
