loss

THE GIFT OF LOSS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

 “Six years ago today…” Facebook reminded me, as an old photo of Ala Moana and Waikiki popped up. Curious, I clicked on the memory to see that I’d posted this caption: “Haven’t gotten back into running. Not sure if I will. I’m not mad about all the walks I’ve been taking with Erik.”

Six years ago would have been about five months after having had a heart attack. Running, something that I used to build my days around, was off the table. 

At the time I didn’t know it would stay off the table. But even then, God allowed me to see a glimpse of what could be. 

A peek at a life lived differently. 

Slower. 

With the love of my life by my side.

Before I had a heart attack, I had run four full marathons and several half marathons. 

I was a runner and proud to be one. 

I wasn’t fast, but I knew how to push. I knew how to keep going. Just one more mile. 

Sweat, pain, dehydration. All that could be taken care of later. I needed to finish first. 

There was a lot that I loved about running. I loved talking with God, thinking, praying, and processing as my feet hit pavement. Running gave me a place to leave my frustrations and work though my anxiety. A time to be quiet. 

But even more, I loved the feeling of accomplishment. I loved knowing I had run 3, 5, 10, 15, 26.2 miles. 

I’d build up so much distance that I was afraid to stop or even slow down. I was afraid of what a break would do. I was afraid to lose my stamina. My fitness. The identity I had created. 

And so, I kept running. On vacations, every time we moved. Running was a constant part of my life, until my arteries – and my doctor – forced me to stop. At the time, I believed it was temporary. I thought that my heart just needed some time to recovery and I’d get back to my usual routine. To build up my strength Erik and I walked together. We started slow, with short distances that grew longer as I got better. 

When I felt strong enough, I called a friend to ask her to try going on a run with me. We went and I did fine, but afterwards I had chest pain for days. 

I figured I just needed more time to get stronger, so I kept trying. I tried going even slower, taking walk breaks. Even powerwalking. But the pain kept coming back. 

It took me a few years to finally admit I had lost running. 

There was grief. Frustration. Anger. A deep feeling of weakness. 

But through all that, Erik and I kept walking. 

Slowly. 

Steadily.

Together. 

Now, six years later, we’re still walking. 

I lost running, but I gained hours with my husband. Conversations we may never have had. Experiences and discoveries in nature that we’ve gotten to share. 

A spouting whale. 

A scurrying gecko. 

A chirping chipmunk. 

The day we counted 17 rabbits. 

So today, I’m thinking about the gift of loss. The reality that if I hadn’t lost running, I wouldn’t have gained so many other gifts. 

That gives me hope.

In a season of another loss, I think I’m turning the corner from mourning what was and wondering what gift could be next. 

CLEAN SHEETS

/ jessicaivaska / 5 Comments

sheets

I washed sheets and blankets today. And don’t worry, it’s not the first time I’ve ever done my own laundry. But still, today was different.

As I pulled the blankets off of Jude’s favorite snoozing spot I cried. Hard.

I cried because I knew that once those blankets and sheets were fresh and clean, Jude would never again be able to make them dirty. That’s because after 16 years by my side, Jude is gone.

Even writing those words is hard. There’s a part of me that knows how true it is because I was with him when he died. And yet, there are large pockets of my mind and heart that keep expecting him to lick my feet when I come back from a run. I expect him to put his face at the edge of the couch and wag his tail as his puppy dog eyes look in mine.

I expect to hear his collar jingle when I open the front door. I expect to have to step carefully when I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I expect him to be here.

But he’s not. And while I know that death is a part of life, and a part of owning pets, it doesn’t make it any easier. I’m thankful he lived over 16 years – 121 in dog years – but I still wish he had had more in him.

A good long life is never long enough. At least that’s how it seems to me. Pets, people. When they are gone we always want more.

I’m trying to hope in the day that God sets all things right in this world. I’m trying to believe the truth that He will, because in every molecule of my being I know that death is not right. It’s not how we were created. It’s evidence of how broken this world is.

And yet, it’s hard to hope when you are grieving. It’s hard to wipe the tears as you put blankets into the washer. It’s hard to know what life will look like next. Of course, not everything has changed, but a lot has. It’s a blank slate – a clean sheet – because in some big ways my days will look different now. The friend I’ve had by my side for most of my adult life isn’t here. That hurts. So if that means I cry while I do laundry, I’m going to cry. If that means I have to take a deep breath when I realize I won’t see him sleeping on my couch again, I will.

So as the sheets and blankets spin in the dryer, I’m not entirely sure what’s next. All I know is that the next time I wash them they won’t have dog hair on them. And while I prefer them clean, that reality still makes me sad.