O.N.E.

My life has felt like an exposed nerve the last 15 months. Raw, twitchy, and unsettled. I wince from pain often for a variety of reasons that can mostly be traced back to the grenade that blew everything up. Pieces of shrapnel from the blast have lodged into the depths of my being, the need for function often overrides the priority of surgery. But this need for function is surely on a downward trend as the pain gets more and more intolerable and the nerve more exposed. Where to go and who can help? 

Vulnerability was once an easy door to open for me. Now it resembles a broken-down shack whose wooden door is splintered, unlocked, and full of holes from the blast. Hell, the windows are shattered too—granting access to any who dare climb through the broken glass. 

So what was this blast (or grenade) you may ask? 

The unforgiving nuclear force of death. It took the breath out of my lungs and threw me flat on my back. I was altered forever that Monday night. 

For those adverse to graphic detail, proceed with caution…

The phone call came just before 11:00p, after we spent hours calling local ER’s, police stations, and clinics. I picked up that call  only to hear the shattering screams of my sister and the monotone shock stricken voice of my brother in law. “Carrie, Chris died.” To which I replied, “WHAT?” And immediately jumped into rescue mode. Conscious but quickly falling into shock, “Where are you? I’ll be right there.” I woke up my husband, told him the news, and demonstratively requested he get dressed because we had to go to the hospital. Numb from the waist down, ears ringing, hands shaking, and heart pounding—we made our way to the hospital. 

It was a 20 minute drive that I’ll remember for the rest of my life. Parking. Then walking, which felt more like floating, toward those large automatic sliding glass doors. It was late, the doors were locked and we had to be let into the ER. The nice young security guard asked who we were there to see, to which we replied, and by his demeanor you could see just how real this was. It wasn’t a misidentification. He politely apologized for our loss and said, “Man I hate situations like this,” all while escorting us to the red lit sign signaling the ER division. Unprepared and crawling through unfamiliar territory, the nurse brought us to THE ROOM. As she solemnly pushed open the door, there he was. It was clearly him, but I remember saying to myself, “That’s not Chris.”

I’ve never realized how much the Spirit and Soul make a person who they are. 

(Side note: Take care of ALL of you. Your Soul, You Spirit, and Your Body need nourishment, exercise, and rest. One is not greater than the other—they work in tandem. Learn that now, learn that today, because we need all of you. Whole. Healthy.) 

So there I was standing at the foot of a hospital bed that cradled the lifeless body of my 26 year old brother. What now? 

We prayed that he would breathe again, that he would be healed, and rejoin us on earth. He didn’t. He stayed in Heaven. Which let’s be honest, who could blame him? 

This! The most indescribable suffering I have ever experienced. It left and sometimes leaves me feeling wildly out of control.

I held his hand one last time. 

Cold to the touch and a stern reminder of just how fragile life is. 

Leaving him behind in that room—in that place—felt like we were abandoning him. Were they going to take care of him? 

Why, in just an instant, did things have to explode so drastically? 

Was this really the last time I would look him the eyes? 

In the days to follow, the shock grew on me like skin. Sleep was shallow when it came. The surge of questions were in their genesis. 

Yet, there I was. Here I am, left removing the shrapnel from the blast. 

We celebrated his life with friends and family. And in my note to him at his service, I talked about Hope and Heaven. The hope we have in knowing we will get to see each other again. So, it’s a wonder that I have struggled the most with hope this last year. 

For now, let us each rest in knowing that we’re here for a reason. And if you’re still searching for that reason, welcome to the club. Let’s find out together.