I’ve realized in the last few days that while I feel like overall I am processing my grief and coping fairly well (all things considered), there’s still a part of me that lives in denial. Denial that my Benny is actually gone. I sincerely feel sometimes that he’s just with a friend or family member and he’ll come back. Like we’ll wake up from this dream (nightmare) and he’ll be back with us. That at any moment I’ll hear his little noises from his room letting me know he’s awake. And at some point I’ll be able to just pick him up and cuddle him again and see my little boy smile.
In my rational mind, I know none of that is true. I know my sweet Benny is gone. But there’s a part of my heart and my emotional mind that I’ve recognized are still processing the magnitude of what has happened and learning to accept that he’s not coming back.
This morning we spent some time at our good friends’ home so Isaac and Zoey could have a little break from being stuck at our home. (We felt to keep them home again from preschool today.) This is one of our closest friends, so on the day Benny passed away, I asked her and a few others to remove certain items from our home that I knew would be too painful for me to see (his bouncer chair, jumper, car seat, etc.). I knew that if I saw them empty, and continued to see them empty, it would be too much.
Today while we were at our friend’s home, we were cleaning up the toys the kids were playing with and as I took them into their toy room to put them away, I noticed all of Benny’s things. The bouncer chair he loved to sit in while mommy and daddy worked. The jumper that he loved to jump in while his brother and sister cheered him on. His car seat that he so patiently rode in and, without fail, spit up in every time we fastened the buckles. His BYU blanket that he was gifted from President Worthen and that we took pictures on the day before he passed away. So many memories in these “things” that otherwise seem insignificant.
At first I thought, “Well of course. His things are here because our friends are just watching him and when they’re done, they’ll bring him and all his things home.” But then my heart broke (and the tears started flowing) when I realized none of that was true. Benny’s things were in their home because Benny is gone and we don’t need them in our home anymore. Benny is not coming back. For some reason it’s a fact that I’m just not sure I’ve fully processed yet.
This afternoon it was starting to snow, so instead of taking a walk, I went on a drive. It was actually quite nice because I felt like I could speak to Benny out loud without anyone thinking I was crazy (which they might if I appeared to be talking to myself while on a walk outside).
As I drove, I noticed just how yucky the air is in Utah right now. I honestly can’t think of any other word or more eloquent way to describe it! Because of the winter inversion, the valley is covered with this thick haze of brown smog. This morning, a dear friend forwarded me an article from the Ensign magazine many years ago that talks about the joy and peace found in Christ at this time of year, but the article begins by mentioning Utah’s winter inversions. This statement from the article stood out to me as I listened and read:
“There are times in our lives when we figuratively find ourselves stuck down in the valley, under the gloom of the dark, smoggy haze. Because of…the painful and stretching decisions and challenges common to mortal life, we feel mired in thick, smothering fog. We can’t see clearly, we feel confused, and we sense that we have moved ourselves away from the light and warmth of our Heavenly Father’s love. We forget that the pure light of the Lord awaits us, beckons us, and is only a few steps of faith away. We must recognize that we have the power and capacity to take ourselves out of the filthy air of the valley and into the bright sunlight of the peace and hope that is found only by coming to the Savior. At this Christmas time of year, we rejoice in the birth of Jesus Christ, the Light of the World, who has invited us all to come unto Him and into the light.”
Over the past few weeks, I’ve definitely felt stuck in the dark, smoggy haze. I found myself there again today as I saw Benny’s things and recognized the denial my mind is engaging in to protect my heart. Sometimes it’s just hard. But, I’ve found myself in “the bright sunlight of peace and hope” over these past few weeks as well, especially as our family has been served by so many good people and reminded daily of the Lord’s love for us. I’m grateful for those moments because they really do get me through and help me rise above the smothering fog that at times I worried would overtake me.
This evening as I was getting our kiddos into the bath, I looked out our bedroom window (which faces west) and noticed the sunset. I love sunsets, so when dusk comes around, I always try to pay attention to the colors being painted in the sky. As I looked out, I noticed the sun was setting brightly behind the yucky, smoggy air, but from where I was standing, I could also see the sun’s rays shining brightly up into the perfectly clear and blue sky above. I tried to take a picture of it, because it intrigued me the way you could so clearly see the different qualities of air in the same frame:
In looking at the picture after, I felt like my sweet Benny was the bright blue sky and I was the murky dark air below. I felt like my angel boy is happy and beaming, but I’m stuck in the hazy inversion that has been his loss. I then realized that it’s all the same sky. That sounds silly, but it really hit me. And just like the sun can shine up through the smoggy inversion, my Benny can shine down on me to help get me through the times when I’m struggling. He can do that because his sweet, perfect and tender spirit lives on. It lives on because of the grace and glory of our Savior, and I love that we we’re reminded of that so much as we celebrate His humble birth this time of year.
(I actually had a friend send me this similar picture today of the sky and inversion with a similar thought. And another dear friend text me that she’d seen “Ben and Jerry’s” ice cream three times today, which reminded her of our Benjamin Jerry. And another friend text me that they were thinking of and praying for me. And even two other friends stop by with some incredibly thoughtful gifts for our family. Goodness, it’s always so comforting to be reminded you’re not alone.)
As I’ve been writing this and pondering throughout the day on what I feel is some of the denial I’ve been facing (the “first stage of grief” as developed by Elisabeth Kubler Ross), I think I’m starting to realize that while I do think denial is playing into my thoughts and emotions, perhaps part of the reason I don’t feel like Benny is really gone is – because he’s not.
I know he’s gone. Or at least that his body is gone. I know that in this life, I’ll never again have the chance to hold my baby boy, or see his sweet smile, or hear his perfectly wonderful laugh. But those things are all temporal. They’re all part of our mortal experience. My faith and everything in me believes our lives are more than that. That my sweet Benny is more than that. I’m grateful to have given him his physical body, but I’m even more grateful that our Father in Heaven gave him his spirit. His physical body has been taken away, but his spirit is eternal. And that sweet spirit I feel near me and with me every single day.
I’ve heard that denial is a common defense mechanism that buffers the immediate shock of loss, numbing us to our emotions in order to protect ourselves from the pain. I believe that’s true and through this experience, I’ve seen—and felt—how that happens. Perhaps it may still be some of what is happening in my heart and mind as I process a loss that no parent should ever have to face. I think it is.
But maybe, just maybe, some of what I thought was denial is actually something deeper in me that recognizes our loved ones are never truly gone. Because of the grand and divine plan set forth by our loving Heavenly Parents, this life is not the end. Death is not the end. I didn’t lose my sweet Benny three weeks ago – at least not entirely. I may have lost the joy that can be found in our earthly life experiences, but I haven’t lost the hope and faith that assure me I can continue to feel joy with Benny as part of my life now and well beyond this life throughout the eternities. For that I am grateful beyond words and even more so that it’s something I never ever have to deny.
Beautifully written! Benny is always close by, he lives!