The passing of time.

Today marked 6 months.
The passing of time feels different now.

Learning how to grieve is a challenge.  Not a challenge like learning how to waterski or to paint.
There is no right way to do it. Noone is teaching you or giving you pointers. Noone shouts out to you that you can do it. Half the time people probably forget that it is something you are doing at all.You can't quit. You can't take time off.
It sounds weird, but it is like a new skill. It's something you have to learn. It's work, it takes commitment and time. It's tricky too, because you have to do it to feel better. Do it too much though and you feel worse.
So I'll keep working at it. Right now it feels like something that I'll be working on for awhile.
Deuteronomy 33:27 The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.

Reality

Camryn's death came as such a shock. I remember going through each day the first couple of weeks with the words, "My daughter died, my daughter died, my daughter died” repeating in my mind. That phrase literally stuck in my head, like a mantra. I even Googled it, desperate for something that I could relate to.

I wanted to say it to strangers near me in the grocery store, or at the gas pump next to me. It was like the suffering was too much to hold inside; the enormity of the loss too much not to mention.

It's a strange phrase to have anything good come from. I realize that now. It is a phrase not many mothers have to even think about saying.

On particularly rough days, the phrase comes back. I don't know why. On these days it feels like thinking these words is much like when I was a child and scared of the dark. I needed to check under the bed before climbing in. Whatever might be under there was hard to face, but somehow facing it and knowing I was courageous enough to look and see that nothing was there was comforting. Other times it works to protect my mind from wandering deeper into the  memories, into the overwhelming sadness and grief. The questions about the life I gave her, the choices she made, and the desperate truth that I wish she was here and I can't do anything about it.

I have noticed that some people don't like the word died. They say the words “passed away” or “went to be with the Lord.” Parents at my grief group will say, “We lost(insert name).” At the hospital they avoided the word, too. Saying things like “There’s nothing else we can do” or “She’s not going to make it.” Some don't even brave saying anything about her actually being dead. They just say they are sorry.
To me the reality of death is important. All of the pain, the shock, the feelings, the enormity, that in this lifetime, I will not see my daughter again. Those things are real, and hard, and make you feel so desperately sad. The reality of its finality deserves to be said.

My Grief is Unpredictable

There is something about grief. It's sneaky and unpredictable. It's weird how it's something you have to do if you ever want to recover, if you ever want to have a chance at some sort or normalcy again.  You can be minding your own business and it just shows up, uninvited, literally squeezing your heart and making it hard to catch your breath and impossible to hold back the tears. I suppose it's the risk we take, loving someone so much. I know having her was something that I wouldn't trade for anything, but when the grief rolls in, like a storm, it makes me think about how, at one point in time, she didn't exist and how it wasn't painful then, and how now she's not here and it hurts so much. It's just so strange. It's strange, too, how most things in life we can have some say in. We can work extra hard and make something happen. We can change our perspective and at least make the best of things. We can be, in some way, in control or at least feel like we are. But when someone dies, there is just nothing you can do to change it. Nothing. You just have to grieve, and get through the days and nights and move along with a hole in your heart.

You know that I don't like to say goodbye
I didn't know that we were out of time
I'm sorry that I couldn't save your life

I go to pick the phone up every day
And imagine conversations we would say
But I'm always hanging up the same way

And I'm dreaming of you tonight
I miss you all the time
All the stars are calling out your name
Ever since you went away
There's no sleeping you off my mind
I miss you all the time

I miss you all the time

I know that you were only passing through
In a moment you were lighting up the room
There will never be another like you
And I try to keep my eyes up on the road
And remember all the stories that you told
But I'm sorry that you'll never grow old
So I walk, yeah I walk

Song by Derek Fuhrmann, Gregg Wattenberg, and O.A.R.

There should be 4

I rode with Cami in the ambulance. They were doing CPR, she had a heartbeat so I thought she would be okay. I had to prepare myself for the possibility that she might not live, but it also felt impossible that she could die. I'm not sure if anyone can relate to that, but it's how I remember feeling.

     I couldn't ride with her in the back. I felt helpless and wanted to be close to her, to hold her hand. I told the ambulance driver that I  couldn't see her. He turned his head to look right at me and he said,"You can talk to her." I said that I didn't know what to say. He said, "You can tell her not to go." So I called back to her to stay here. I told her I loved her and that I didn't care what she had done that I just wanted her to be here with us. I told her I would forgive her no matter what. Over and over I told her not to go. I think she could hear me. I hoped that she could.

     When we got to the hospital, a social worker met me at the ambulance. Brad and the girls weren't there yet. The hospital staff  took Cami into a different room. I was in an adjoining room, or behind a curtain or something. I was filling out the intake form, answering questions. Did I know what she had taken? Did she have a history or drug use? I could only catch a glimpse of her. The staff hurried around her. They wanted and needed answers so they could be most helpful. The hospital chaplain showed up. His prayer was appreciated and comforting, but he was awkward and young.

     Finally, we were brought into a room with her. Brad and Peyton and Reese were there. Bailey, Cami's oldest sister, wasn't home. She was in Idaho, volunteering for six months. Her sisters connected her to us with Facetime. My sisters and their husbands and my niece were there, along with Camryn's friend and her mom, who had helped move Cami to the floor and started CPR when we first found her. Some dear friends from our church came too, and they stayed in the waiting room.

   God was there too, and we were surrounded with his never ending love. But, I guess he didn't want what we all wanted and I had to make the decision to let her go. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, but it was what happened.

There was no hysteria. There was pain and heartache. There was also strangely a sense of peace, but also disbelief. I didn't understand why God in his omniscience didn't just save her. He could have. There was a thunderstorm and there was a beautiful pink sky. We had to say goodbye.

     We were surrounding her bedside, holding her hands, stroking her hair. I whispered in her ear one more time our song, "I have a little baby, her name is Cammer Doodle, and everytime I see her, I kiss her on the noodle. Cammer Cammer Doodle, I kiss her on the Noodle."

     We walked out in the dark to our van in the parking garage and we drove home. Now we were a family of five. I never wanted a family with an odd number of people. Who would have to ride alone at an amusement park? I always wanted four kids so we would be an even number.

   

Gratitude

September 4, 2019

Tonight as I sit here attempting to complete thank you cards, what I am feeling is gratitude. I'm so thankful for all of the love surrounding us throughout our loss of Camryn. As soon as word started to travel, people just started showing up. They (you) brought drinks, casseroles, desserts, snacks etc. The number of people that came for the visitation and  memorial was overwhelming. The food, the cards, the flowers and gifts, the calls and texts,the hugs, the words of encouragement, the prayers. All of these things have been coming and just haven't stopped. This love, it warms our hearts, gives us peace and sustains us as we struggle from day to day to get through the pain.
I know not everyone signed the guest book. I certainly can't remember everyone that has shown up and is with us and sending us love, but I am so thankful for each of you.

Camryn would be 18 today

I know she's not here. I miss her. I don't even know how to talk about her right now, because this is all so new. Can I even wish someone who isn't here a happy birthday? I know all the things I need to think to comfort myself, and they work from time to time. But oh the loss, it's just so so big. I wish Camryn was here for me to love. She should be here, but she isn't. For like the second time ever I actually had a gift planned for her birthday. She would have liked it.

My daughter died

Sunday, August 18,2019.
   
     She came home in the middle of the afternoon. I didn't think she was acting strange. Brad joked around with her, asking her to help us move some things around in the dining room. We had just tore our kitchen out on Thursday. Really, my sister and I barely helped, as she and her cousin did most of the work. Brad and I had bought a piece of furniture in Shipshewana and we were moving it in. She gave a courtesy laugh and said "Nooo, I already helped enough the other day." I am sure we talked a bit more, meaningless chatter. It was probably about what she was doing that night and other things I can't remember. Then she went into her bedroom and those ended up being the last words I ever heard her say.

     I walked right past her bedroom door. I heard her sleeping and I didn't want to bother her.  I was going  to say goodbye, but I didn't. Brad and I had some errands to run. Neither of us can recall now exactly what we were going to do. Maybe we were going to Costco for groceries.

    On our way out we saw her best friend with her mom in the driveway. It was her friend's birthday. Cami had told me they were all going out for dinner. We didn't think anything of them being there. Our cars passed each other in the driveway. Brad stopped to chat and wish Ella a happy birthday. He or I asked her about going out to celebrate. Her response was strange when she said she had forgotten her phone cord. Then she said something else,  I can't remember what, but she was answering the question about going out to eat. She got out of her mom's car and headed inside as we drove off.

     We were about 2 miles from home when Peyton called, Brad handed his phone to me. Peyton told me that Camryn was unresponsive and that we needed to come home.

It is with broken hearts we share this. We celebrate the life of Camryn Marston with a memorial service on Saturday the 24th of August at Milan Free Methodist Church at 11:00am. AT 950 E Arkona rd, Milan MI. Visitation will be Friday, August 23, 2019 from 6:00 PM - 8:00 PM at Ochalek-Stark Funeral Home, 218 E. Main Street in Milan