West Side Story and climbing fences.

credit

On Wednesday, Jacob brought me out to dinner after both our first days back in our respective workplaces. After over a month of being together almost 24 hours a day, seeing him after being apart for a day felt like a first date. We ate Vietnamese food, talked about tackling discrimination, and took a bus to the cinema to watch the new West Side Story film. On the way home, we realised that our usual path was blocked by a steel fence for  a new construction site and so instead of walking to the detour path, we decided to climb over it. There was a rickety ladder which we propped up against the fence, Jacob used his gym clothes to cushion the sharp top edge and did a pull up to see if it would take his weight, and then climbed over. I passed out bags to him and climbed over too, landing giggly and shaky because it felt like such a naughty thing to have done, and so exhilarating.

When we got home it was late, almost midnight, and so naturally because of our exertions we decided to have a midnight snack, eating milky cereal out of a tea cup in the kitchen. 

I loved the night so much - it was so free, and fun, and adventurous. It made me feel like a child again, when the last month has felt like I've had to grow up differently.

After Dad had a stroke

 

"Grief is existential testimony to the worth of the one loved. That worth abides. So I own my grief. I do not try to put it behind me, to get over it, to forget it… Every lament is a love-song." - Lament for a Son, Nicholas Wolterstorff

On December 17th, midway through dinner with Jacob’s family and two friends in Oxford, I received a phone call. It was my Mum, and she told me to prepare myself, which meant she was about to tell me something you can never prepare yourself for. She told me that Dad had had a stroke in the early hours of the morning, that he had fallen, that my brother had found him and that he was in hospital now and was about to go into surgery. “So please pray,” she said, her voice breaking, “because Dad is in the valley of the shadow right now and there’s a chance he might not get through.”

So I prayed. I knelt on the carpet floor of the staircase landing and asked God to save my Dad. I cried and prayed, and cried, and recited Psalm 23 with Mum. 

Dad had what is known as a hemorrhagic stroke caused by an aneurysm, which means that a blood vessel burst and blood flooded the surrounding areas of the brain. The blood in the brain causes brain cells to die. There can be warning signs of an approaching stroke - including a headache, problems with vision, problems with balance and coordination, and slurred speech. Before Dad went into hospital Mum noticed that someone had been taking painkillers, but assumed it was Hannah or Tim since Dad never takes pills if he can help it. Neither Hannah nor Tim had taken any. 

When I put down the phone, I stayed on the landing for a while in shock. In some part of my mind I saw myself on the landing and below me the family, Jacob’s friends, unaware. A decision lay before me - do I go downstairs with my grief, or do I go upstairs to our bedroom and hide? I drank some water from a glass that I don’t think was mine (grief is thirsty business) and went downstairs, told them what happened and asked if we could all pray together.

Over the next few days I went through various iterations of grief. First, there was the anticipatory grief of possibly losing Dad. Then, there was the grief over everything changing, and grieving who he was and how that might no longer be the case. There was also denial, where for moments of the day I wouldn’t believe that Dad had the stroke. Not him, so active, a non-smoker, a vehement denier of canned food and “processed junk” and daily walker. And then (and this one made me feel ashamed of myself) irrational anger. Why did Dad have to have a stroke? Now life would be different, and we’d have to make a decision about flying back early, and we wouldn’t be able to spend Christmas in England. 

Three beloved friends came to stay that weekend, all of whom had lost someone (for one of them it was a cat, which is arguably a something but was a someone to her) that year. We talked about our grief openly, and I was grateful that they didn’t shy away from asking me about Dad. They were generous with the wisdom they’d gained from their experiences with grief and healing. I witnessed the grief of Jacob’s family as well as they faced saying goodbye to Jacob earlier than anticipated. I saw Jacob’s grief at things changing so suddenly and as he confronted losing Dad as well and wrestled with the decision of staying with his family or flying back with me.

I also saw love as if someone had magnified it a hundred fold in those fragile days. My loving friends prayed with me, let me sleep on the comfy bed in the attic while they were on the airbed, and stayed up late for dinner and games. On a walk to see the local church carol service, which Jacob and his Mum were both in, Jacob’s Dad turned to me and said “I’ve been thinking about it. Jacob should go with you.” This man gave Jacob a bear hug every night before bed; I could see the sacrifice in him telling me that. Jacob’s sister brought me a cup of tea and a Moomin book with the inscription on Jacob’s ring on a post-it note one morning when I was finding it hard to get up. Jacob’s Mum made the entire Christmas day happen early on the 22nd so we could celebrate together before we had to go. Jacob held me every night. Jacob lovingly told me when my grief was pulling me away and made it safe for me to return to him. And Jacob chose to fly back with me.

 

Now we are back. How do you return to a world where everything has changed? Something we say to Dad over video calls, as he drifts in and out of consciousness, is "慢慢来", or take it slow. It is a mantra for us as well. So we go slowly, holding space for generous lament and generous love.