Posted on by Julie Deziel

A Hard Season

*click on song below to play while you read*

The perfect home for the long awaited season. My husband has enjoyed deer hunting since he was a young child. He has passed on his passion to his oldest son who is passing it on to his sons. For many in our neck of woods it is a tradition that is planned meticulously for months. Lists made, food planned, the perfect spot picked out, and the stand put up. The hours of sitting and waiting for the perfect “one” and the talk of the big ones that got away. The season will go on for approximately two weeks and the venison will be packed in the freezer and those lucky enough to get the trophy buck will have it hung on the wall much to the chagrin of the spouse.

I have watched my extremely strong, independent daughter build the life she wanted with the perfect fit for her. They shared twelve years together with most of them laughing and cementing the strong marital bond that many would be jealous of. They brought their long-awaited son home and the perfect home was laid out with the three of them. Their little home was set…until tragedy stuck like a bullet cursing through the fall air on opening deer hunting.

We as parents take our children through maybe trials in life; potty training, that scary first day of kindergarten, first loves followed by the first breakups. We kiss their ownies, love them through the long nights of high fevers, chase the monsters out of the bedroom and hours of horrendous homework. We are there to make it all better no matter what. What do you though as a parent who cannot make your children better when major tragedy hits? How do you fix it for your child whose grief is so heavy?

I have entered that long, hard season with her. The loss of her husband is the one horror that cannot be chased out of the room. I have no kisses to make this pain go away. I sit here at a complete loss. I feel as if my hands are tied behind my back. I am at a complete loss because I cannot mother away her pain. My baby hurts immensely and my instinct is to run immediately every day to her and just rock her and make it better. I can sit with her and wait with her but her love will not return. Her love will not be anticipated for supper at the end of the day. His stories will not be shared anymore. Her trophy hangs on the wall never aging, always young.

The season will not end after two weeks. It will last for an eternity. I will always want to make her better but I will not be able to. I will climb the mountain with her and sit beside her in silence waiting and wishing there was a way for a mommy to make it all better.

Grief is a hard season and I cannot save her. Plain.And.Simple.

Posted on by Julie Deziel

Did That Really Happen?

Ten years ago at this time of year we had supported our mother’s decision to end treatment against ovarian cancer and enter hospice. We did not know a time frame that we would be blessed with her earthly presence and treasured every moment we had with her, every conversation, every touch, simply her presence. Ten years ago I was turning 45 years old and facing the actual reality that my mother was not going to be in my life much longer. I remember asking myself during those days “Is this really happening?”

I consider myself a nostalgic person. I am “that” kind of mom that has Christmas ornaments made from my young children saved in my Christmas stuff. I have birthday and anniversary cards tucked in my hope chest that my daughters would say, “Why did she save these?” if they have to go through my things one day. I am certainly not a hoarder (that would involve having a mess and chaos in my house and God forbid we have that haha) but there are those things I just cannot find within me to take to the garbage can just yet.

Besides holding onto those material things I tend to take and heap many occurrences in my life into my imaginary backpack and carry them along my journey in life. I would assume many have the same backpack; some lighter, some much heavier. I am very territorial about my burden I carry. I do not want to give it to anyone to carry for me and I certainly do not want to leave it behind for anyone to open up and see what I carry inside. The contents come from past and present relationships, normal day-to-day happenings, and the ever present voices and sounds from very difficult 911 calls from nearly 20 years of service in that line of work. As much as I and maybe yourself wish that rock labeled with the name of a past relationship or a difficult situation could simply be taken out of the backpack and thrown out and pretend it never happened. They are the most difficult. Struggles in our daily life may lay on the top of the pile that we can pull out and pitch. Those are the easy ones.

I trudge through life carrying my backpack just as every other person carries their own burdens through theirs. We each do it in our own unique way. I have through life looked through it and taken out heavier burdens and have been able to whittle them down so they are not so big. Some of them simply do not get easier and just like on the day of the original struggle looking at that rock; that burden it is a step back in time. I hear the pain. I hear the loss. Those voices of the 911 caller do not hang up. They fall within the backpack and take a permanent place within the empty spaces in the load upon my shoulders. Just as I said when I suffered a breakup and said, “I can’t believe this is happening” or taking a horrific 911 call whispering in my mind, “This cannot be happening,” and now looking to the 10-year anniversary of my mother’s death and the enormity of that and it truly seems just like yesterday, “Did that really happen?”