Starts with an A

I am so tired. My head feels like it is filled with sand. I want to think profound thoughts, meaningful thoughts, but the sand prevents me. So instead my thoughts flit around like birds with broken wings, trying to fly, trying to gain momentum only to crash back to the ground in a heap of frustration and bewilderment.

I was recently thinking about how I have at times been accused of being too analytical…but due to the sand, I couldn’t remember the word “analytical”. I knew whatever word I was searching for began with an A but I couldn’t grasp it. I finally went online and began searching synonyms for “think” and “ponder” but didn’t find what I was looking for until I started searching sites on personality traits. It was such a relief to find the word I was looking for. Analytical. To analyze. I wasn’t crazy, I knew it started with an A.

I think that I have always been this way. In fact, I remember many years ago taking a personality test and coming to that very question: “Do you consider yourself to be analytical?” I was stumped. Turning to Myron I asked, “What do you think they mean by “analytical”? Do they mean a logical thinker, because I don’t think I’m necessarily always logical. Or do they mean someone who thinks everything through? Do I think a lot? Is wanting to know “why” about everything considered analytical? Or, do I just get into conversations with other people to hear myself talk? What do you think I should put down?” Myron was trying to fill out his own survey and with a patient sigh said, “I think that would be a “yes“.”

Reaching for that word and not finding it is how I feel all day long. I keep reaching for something that is not there, something that is familiar and necessary, something I can still sense and almost grasp, but keeps eluding me. So I find myself searching for something to replace it, but nothing does. Nothing ever does. All day long I hold back tears. All day long I try to be present when what I really want to do is disappear. All day long I wonder when the part of me that has simply disappeared will stop stealing my breath and start to heal.

It has been five months. A lot has happened in those five months…an awful lot. I am sure that to many it seems like it has been a long time since the accident. But to me it was yesterday. It always seems like yesterday.

I put Karson to bed tonight and minutes later he began to wail. Really wail. Taeryn came in and said, “Karson needs you.” “What’s the matter,” I asked. She got tears in her eyes and said, “He misses daddy.”

They reach out and find me. They reach out and find their faith. They reach and find each other. But there are those times when they reach and all they find is empty air. He is supposed to be here. He is supposed to be within reach. But he’s not.

We have been discussing dreams. Bryn shared that she has been having a series of dreams where she is talking to daddy on the phone. In the dream she knows he has died, and she finds herself thinking, “This is cool! I’m talking to him!” We pressed her to tell us what he said. “In one I asked him what heaven is like,” she relayed. “He said, ‘It’s so wonderful, I can’t even describe it. I’ll just have to show you when you get here.’ Another time I told him that I miss him and he said, ‘Oh, Bryn, I miss you too. I love you!’ He said it just the way dad would have said it. Last night he told me about Jesus. ‘He’s just so amazing, Bryn!’” The rest of us listened, I believe, jealousy. We all wanted to hear from Myron. We all wished our actual phone would ring to hear his voice on the other end. Oh, how we wish it.

I have had only one dream myself. I came down the stairs and Myron was there, packing. I assumed he was getting ready to go on some kind of business trip, maybe to the offices in Yakima, something he would do every few months or so. I remember feeling sad that he was going, not really wanting him to leave. He was standing near the door and as I looked into the piano room, I was startled to see that all his stuff was lying on the floor, sorted but not packed. I whirled around and stared at him, realizing that this was a different sort of trip. And then it hit me that he wasn’t coming back. Sinking down onto our stairs I began to cry, telling him that I couldn’t do it. ‘I can’t do this alone,’ I sobbed. “I can’t! Please, Myron, please don’t go. Don’t leave me to do this alone!’ He just stood there, looking at me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just looked as serious as I’ve seen him and said, “Yes, you can. You can do it, hon. You can do it.” And then it was over.

There are dreams that are hazy and strange, and then there are dreams that stick with you. That seem as real when you wake up as they did while you dreamt them. I do not know how much significance I am to put into them. But they mean something to us. How can they not? Maybe I am just analyzing once again. Or maybe I should just rest in the belief that they are gifts. Gifts to a group of people that are desperate for someone, for something they can no longer have.

Either way, we hope for more. More of him. More memories. More healing. And I think we all hope, deep inside, for the day where we find ourselves reaching for something that brings peace and finding it, instead of just the empty disappointment of his absence.