3/20/16: And I Thought I Loved You Then...

"They...They wh--*sob* wh-what...? No...no...oh...no..." These were the words that escaped Dave's lips two Sunday mornings ago almost involuntarily in between sobs as he collapsed onto the side of our bed--his face wet with immediate tears and contorted in agony and grief. His Dad had just called to give him the news that his 27-year-old brother, Bryan, had been found by his faithful home teacher and bishop dead in his apartment that morning and that was all we knew. I was in the middle of waking Remus up for the morning at the time and mentally running through my 3^rd hour combined lesson for the day on marriage and pornography for the ward. In a matter of seconds, nothing else existed for me but my husband’s tortured face and his heaving sobs. As soon as I ran to physically support him, he relayed his dad’s message to me and my heart stopped for a few terrifying seconds. I couldn’t breathe and I didn’t know what to do, but I felt my hands instinctively reach for Dave’s and pull him into the strongest embrace I could muster. When the smothering was too much (after just 30 seconds or so), Dave began to pace—fervently. He walked back and forth from the tissue box on my nightstand to Remus, to his phone, looking expectantly at it as if if he looked hard enough, his dad would call back to tell us this was all a horrible mistake and his brother was actually alive and well and we could go back to our happy Sunday without a second thought about our mortality. 

But the call never came. I propped myself up against the wall of our bedroom, shaking slightly, aware of silent tears streaming down my cheeks, mindlessly petting Remus, to keep him occupied long enough so he wouldn’t have an accident, as Dave kept pacing the room. Painful thought after painful thought kept intruding and we both spoke them aloud as they came, to no one in particular. “Oh Lysa...She’s alone in Italy, this is going to destroy her.” “That poor home teacher and Bishop…I can’t even imagine.” “Your poor parents…they’ll have to call everyone one by one and relive this conversation so many times today…” “Stasi…Oh Stasi…I don’t even want to think about how she’s feeling.” “Chris is alone in Jersey right now. He doesn’t have anyone to process this with.” And on and on, until we realized it was 8:55 and we needed to decide if we were going to church or not. We decided it wasn’t a good idea to try to handle sunbeams and a lesson about emotional regulation while experiencing major shock and grief with no time to process anything, so while Dave began working on a way to get in touch with Lysa’s mission president for his parents, I began making the calls to let the bishopric and primary presidency know what was happening and we spent the rest of the Sunday just holding each other, crying, and letting ourselves do whatever we needed to do to get through this at home.

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Two weeks later we’ve had time to begin to process and grieve and we feel more stable about the situation, but it wouldn’t be honest to say we’re not still in shock and disbelief. We held the memorial services this weekend in Rigby, Idaho and we were surrounded by family and friends who loved Bryan and love the Rackhams. I sang a song titled “My Little Child”, which was essentially the soundtrack to Merrilie and David’s journey to adopting Stasi and Bryan from Russia so many years ago. It was one of the most difficult performances I’ve ever given, because looking over to find Dave’s father trying with all his might to hold back sobs almost broke my heart right then and there, but with the help of the Spirit, and by some miracle, I actually got all the words out without tears and almost did the song justice for Merrilie. Dave spoke not too long after I sang and he was the picture of emotional vulnerability as he taught about Christ’s beautiful example of mourning with those that mourn how they need to be mourned with through the story of his teaching Martha, and weeping with Mary when their brother Lazarus had passed. It was a beautiful and inspired talk that brought peace (and tears) to us all, I think. I was so proud of him as I watched him proclaim his love for the Savior and his faith in the Savior’s love for Bryan and each of us while standing next to his brother’s earthly remains. What strength and courage.

No father or mother should ever have to bury their son. No brother or sister should ever have to bury their brother at such a young age. But bury him we did yesterday, and I couldn’t help but reflect on how this all has affected me as an in-law of a few years to the family. I was lucky in that my relationship with Bryan was uncomplicated, sweet, and simple. My experiences with him have always been pleasant and he has always been very complimentary and kind to me ever since I joined the family. He struggled with addictions of many kinds, mental health issues, and past traumas from his childhood in Russia that would affect even the healthiest of individuals. I never knew him pre-drugs and alcohol, but what I knew of Bryan was endearing, inspiring, and joyful. The rest of the family was not so lucky. They were with Bryan through the good, the bad, and the ugly of his integration into the family at age 12. There was trauma that Bryan inevitably brought into the family because how could he not? As such, their relationships are a blend of incredibly joyful memories and horribly painful ones, and this makes the grieving process infinitely more difficult, I’m sure.

Yesterday, I missed Bryan, and I was grieving that he was no longer with us, but even more difficult for me was watching my husband shovel a scoop of dirt gently into his brother’s grave as his shoulders heaved with sobs and he looked up to the sky with a face that seemed to plead, “Why?”. More difficult than realizing that I would never see Bryan again was hearing his brothers speculate about what more they could have done and wonder if they had put more effort into the relationship how things would have been different. Watching Dave’s parents wrestle between the pain of losing their son and the relief that his physical suffering had come to an end here on this earth was equal parts heart-breaking and tender.

I titled this post, “And I Thought I Loved You Then…” because I thought I knew what loving Dave was after almost 4 years of marriage, but these last two weeks have taught me that I have more capacity to shoulder my husband’s pain than I ever thought was possible. His contorted face from that first phone call has haunted me every day for two weeks now and it visited us in person again yesterday at the burial, and I couldn’t help but want to run to him and completely take this burden from him. Of course, I could only hold him while we cried together, but there was something comforting in just that small gesture for both of us, even if it didn’t relieve the pain completely. I imagine this is how the Savior feels towards me when I’m struggling to find peace, too—he would rush to me and take the pain away if it would help, but we know that part of this life is to “learn, grow, and come to be”, as my song yesterday said. So as painful as the last few weeks have been for us, I’m grateful I’ve had the opportunity to love Dave as I’ve never loved before, and to feel his (and his family’s) pain more intimately than I thought was possible, because it has reassured me that I love this man I call my husband more than anyone in the world, and reminded me that I will do anything I can to ease his pain. And in knowing how I felt towards him this weekend, I got a brief glimpse of what he feels for me when I’m in pain (physical or emotional), and I think I got a sliver of the Savior’s unconditional love for me and his perfect empathy for my pain and these are all wonderful things to be feeling as life moves forward.

Rest in peace, Bryan Sergei Rackham, you were so loved and will be sorely missed. <3

In The Spirit Of Authenticity...

Guys, I have tried to start this post like a hundred times.  It's been 9 months since I last blogged and I feel like I'm a completely different Erin now than I was then.  I share relationship posts on Facebook at least 2x a week, but I'm sad that I haven't found the courage to really share my personal thoughts and feelings with everyone over the past 9 months.

It's been the hardest year of my life (#understatement) even though the pelvic pain has gotten miraculously better with the help of my new medicine.  It sort of feels like God gave me a reprieve from the chronic physical pain so I would have the energy and strength to tackle the emotional upheaval to come.  And tackle it I did, haha.

I really want to get on with blogging about the here and now and sharing what's happening in my life with you all, but it feels inauthentic because I really feel like before I do, I need to share the most vulnerable and painful experience of this last year.  It's changed me, and it's important to me that I don't pretend that it didn't.

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In February of this year, we found out we were pregnant.  I was immediately overwhelmed with mixed emotions.  I was excited and surprised, but also filled with a huge sense of foreboding and fear that I might miscarry, or even if I didn't miscarry that I might be in chronic pain again as I'd have to stop my medicine.  And it definitely didn't help that I didn't feel at all ready to be a mom!

We only knew I was pregnant for a couple of days before I went and had a blood test done to make sure everything was alright.  As I'm sure you can guess, everything was not alright.  My numbers were incredibly low--too low to really hope that this would be a viable pregnancy.  But we just watched and waited for almost 10 days because they were slowly rising.  Dave and I were on the biggest emotional roller coaster we'd ever been on (which is saying something after the last couple of years we've had) alternating between feeble hope that everything might be okay, and suffocating fear that I might be miscarrying.  Once the numbers seemed to plateau (still in a nonviable range), my doctor did an incredibly painful ultrasound to make sure it wasn't ectopic and finally ordered a D&C.  This all happened within the span of about two weeks, but felt like a lifetime for us.

After the D&C, it was impossible to ignore the intense feeling of loss and I didn't know what to do.  I wasn't that far along because I'd found out pretty early that I was pregnant, so I felt dumb feeling the grief so intensely.  Was this even considered a baby this early?  My best friend had just had a miscarriage a few weeks earlier and she'd been MUCH further along and I didn't want to add to her pain, so I didn't tell her.  I've hated myself ever since for not telling more people.  I needed support, but there was a strong feeling of, "It wasn't that big of a deal, you were only so many weeks along, and you don't want to make it uncomfortable for everyone around you."

So I pulled back.  I told my family, one of my professors, one other friend and then I shut off my emotions so I wouldn't burst into random tears throughout the day.  I completely lost all motivation to go to class, to be present when I actually made it to class, to be present with my clients, to emotionally engage in their pain, to attend choir rehearsals which I usually LOVE, etc.  It wasn't until about 2 weeks after the procedure that I fully let myself grieve the loss.  It was one of the most painful, yet bonding experiences Dave and I have ever had as a couple.  We had so many questions:  Was this considered a baby yet?  Will this baby be part of our family in the eternities?  Does this mean miscarriage is going to plague our childbearing years?  Was this because of the endometriosis?  Is it normal to feel this much pain and feel it so intensely about this? And there were so many feelings:  Sadness mixed with peace, relief mixed with guilt, fear mixed with love, anger mixed with hurt and confusion, and the list goes on.

I just sort of channeled my pain into really really working hard on my thesis so I could graduate in April and have a break as soon as possible.  It worked.  I got my thesis done, and it was a miracle, but I was broken.  I was so broken when I graduated.  I felt like a champion that day.  Like I had overcome so much and grown and changed as a person like I never believed I could, but I was hurting inside, and I was still healing.

When Mother's Day came around, I couldn't do it.  I really thought I'd be fine, but just an hour before I was supposed to run a choir practice, I fell apart--I couldn't stop sobbing.  I felt the loss so intensely--all day at church I was weepy and sad and confused about still feeling pain about this 3 months later.  Luckily Dave is super tuned in to my emotions and was able to just hold me and remind me that it's okay that I was still hurting and I didn't have to go to church if it was going to be too painful, and that there's no time limit on grief.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

It's been 6 months now since the miscarriage and I regret every day that I didn't tell more people when it was happening.  Even before I was pregnant, I was personally against waiting to tell people until your 2nd trimester because it doesn't make sense to me.  Don't we need support the most in the first trimester when we're vomiting all over ourselves and can't keep saltines down?  And don't we absolutely need support if we're in the process of losing a baby?  Anytime I've shared that I had a miscarriage since then, most women have responded with their own stories of miscarriage and how it was difficult for them too and how they understand the pain and grief.  It's SO comforting to not feel alone in this, so why did I keep it to myself for so long?

I said that this has changed me and I believe it has.  I think I'm exponentially more empathetic--meaning I understand better what it means to hold someone's pain with them and show them that they aren't alone in it.  I'm more sensitive to infertility and issues surrounding motherhood in a religious culture that celebrates motherhood.  I also took the time for myself to heal, which required some intense therapy and soul searching about how I want to be as a mother and how I can love fearlessly in this terrifying world.  I worked to surround myself with people I knew I could be vulnerable with because I trust that they love me and will support me.  I feel like I'm in a good place right now thanks to Dave, Heavenly Father, and other people who have loved me through this, as well as reading a WHOLE bunch of Brene Brown :).  But I still struggle to understand what exactly has kept me from telling my closest friends about the miscarriage until I felt like I could present it all tied up in a neat little bow through a blog post.  Any thoughts on what holds us back from being vulnerable with those we love even when we know they'll be there for us?

In Loving Memory...

I don't think I've ever really deconstructed this phrase. I've surely said "In loving memory" about someone or something off-handedly before, but never have the words meant more than they do now to me. I really do want to express my love for Mark in respecting his memory.

I can't understand the facebook notifications telling me that everyone is celebrating the life he lived. I just can't bring myself to "celebrate" yet. I need the time to grieve the loss of someone so special to me.

Mark Spencer Wooldridge:

To most, he was known as that quiet kid in class who made lessons bearable with his underplayed snarky (one of his own favorite adjectives) comments about the ridiculousness of life. Or maybe the genius who had a perfect score on the SAT and frequently set the curve on all the physics tests.

Others may remember him for his outstanding acting debut as the awkwardly hilarious Willard in our high school musical, Footloose.





Or possibly when he was crowned Mr. Mustang in 2009 after he stole the show at the mangeant our senior year with his performance of an original comedic monologue he wrote which had the entire crowd in tears we were laughing so hard.

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But I feel like I personally knew a Mark not many people got to see.

I knew the Mark who sincerely wanted to know what life was about and loved to spend hours having deep conversations about things that really mattered.

I knew the Mark who finished his Eagle project partially (and he'd deny that this had any sway with him at all) because my mom once told him she would never let her daughters marry anyone who didn't finish their Eagle Award in scouts.

I knew the Mark who understood me. He could just sense the days I was exasperated and ready to give up on everybody. All I had to do was make eye contact with him during class or in a rehearsal and he knew exactly what I was thinking--without fail.

I knew the Mark who struggled to find a place for God in his life. There was a time I watched as he went from extremely confused and hurting, to full of faith and happiness. It was amazing to discuss the things that transcend this life with someone so brilliant.

I knew the Mark who spent the majority of his weeknights skyping with me when we both went off to college. He could always find something humorous in life's situations, even in the worst of times.

I knew the Mark who had an amazing way of lending support. He had a gift for instilling confidence in others, and he was so sure of his own gifts and abilities, it was refreshing.

I knew a Mark who doubted he'd ever find anyone who'd completely understand the way he thought about life and made a pact with me that if we both turned 3o and were still single, we'd just elope and get married.

I knew a Mark who was brilliant. He could do anything he put his mind to. He was truly incredible.

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As I sit here pondering the loss of such a great person and close friend, I struggle to define my emotions. My first thoughts are of sadness and grief at the idea I will never be able to call him up to chat again. Then my thoughts turn to his mom and brother. My heart aches for them more than I can explain. I just want to pour all the love I have out to his mother and assure her of the many times Mark told me of his love and respect for her. I want to hold her and let her know that I am praying God will help her find peace and comfort through this awful experience.

Once I muster up the energy and courage to look past the immediate pain, I can't help but think of the implications. What would have been different had I taken more time out of my life to check in with him more frequently in the past year? Why did I lose contact with him? He was struggling emotionally, I knew that much. What in the world was I so caught up in that I let one of my good friends go months without hearing me tell him how much I appreciated and cared for him?

It would be presumptuous to assume that I alone would have changed the outcome of his story, but I can't help but feel like I neglected one of God's greatest commandments: "Love one another, even as I have loved you." I hate that it feels too late for me to show Mark my love for him, but I simply have to pay my respects to his memory. I wish he had known how much each conversation, each sarcastic remark, each "look", each day with him had meant to me. I wish I had told him more often how frequently in the past few years there was no one I wanted to talk to more than him.

I hate to diminish this entire experience to a simple didactic message. But I think the only way to cope with my emotions here is to resolve to do better at telling those people in my life I love that I really do love them. I'm not even close to accepting the fact that Mark is really gone, but I think all we can do in this situation is do as Proverbs says and, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding".