Six Years of New Normal

It has been six years since we got the call. My in-laws were out in Colorado on vacation visiting us. They liked to stay with us a few days, do some traveling on their own to see the surrounding area, and then return to end their trip with us. There is just so much to see and do out there. They left around 9 am to head down to New Mexico. I was at a splash park with the kids. Brent was home working. The call came mid-morning. It was the hospital; Brent’s dad had been in a car accident. He was okay and gave them Brent’s number, but we needed to come to the hospital immediately.

I met them in the ER as soon as I could drop the kids with a neighbor. I was standing in the room, surrounded by shuffling doctors and quick-handed nurses working to salvage my father-in-law’s foot, when the procession solemnly walked through the door. They were doctors in scrubs with face masks around their necks, shoulders sagging with the weight of human life, hands trembling from unexpected, uncharted surgery. The last man in line was wearing a suit and carrying a Bible. It was the most telling sign. He was the chaplain sent to bring comfort and spiritual support. My knees gave out.

The first doctor in line leaned over my father-in-law and delivered the blow. “We did everything we could. We were not able to save your wife.” There were shouts, cries, moans, a cacophony of sharp pain and anguish. The room was spinning. There were nurses grabbing us and telling us to sit down. I saw it in Brent’s eyes. He would never be the same.

Trauma and tragedy change people. When we are cracked open and broken down to our most elemental parts of human heart and soul, we must eventually begin the process of clearing out the wreckage and rebuilding a new life, a new way of seeing. There is no denying that it changed us. Gone were the days of, “That would never happen to me.” We were instantly aware of a world of misfortune out there that could happen to us and our family. Cancer, sickness, disease, tragedy, violence, accidents - they all became real possibilities. We had no choice but to carve out a world in that new harsh reality. In the absence of invincibility and security, we began construction of a post-trauma life.

We moved our family across the country back to North Carolina. We returned to Brent’s childhood home with his dad to help the family take care of him as he recovered and started piecing together a world without his wife of almost 30 years. Soon we un-settled in Charlotte, halfway between my parents and his family.  A new family identity was not immediate. There was so much baggage to clear out: grief, anger, pity, loneliness. There were a million questions without answers.

After a few months, we were able to tentatively exit survival mode. We had a house, the kids had a school, and on paper we were now official NC residents. In our hearts we were nomads, desperately grasping for a new foundation to put down roots. Like tumbleweed blowing across a desert landscape, I was lost, never knowing when a gust could come and sweep me away or take my family. If there is a filter for fear and uncertainty, it would taint every picture from that era of my life.

Rumi captures the process: “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” We clung to each other and discovered that below the wreckage and devastation, there was a clean slate for rebuilding. The human instinct to create a life for our kids beyond the clouded grief and anger forced us to break down the land, and painstakingly, roots did take hold. The blueprints of our new life were appearing. Our new normal was coming into focus much like an image slowly emerges from a polaroid.

Now it has been six years of our new normal. Six years of new construction. CrossFit Jane’s slogan “Building Better Versions of Ourselves” reflects our process of actively working towards a new life and self. But our healing has not happened in isolation. An army of people stood by our side and helped us create beauty from the ashes of our loss. These people have become our medicine, numbing the pain, provoking laughter, stimulating growth and reflection. Many of these people now walk around wearing Jane’s name on a t-shirt or on the back of their cars. They have become part of the fabric of our lives, contributors to our family’s narrative.  

One of these people, a close family friend and CFJ athlete, recently lost her dad. She sent me a nugget of wisdom in this text: “I realize when we lose one source of love in our lives, there are others that come swooping in to fill that void.” To say that we no longer have a void would be untrue, but it is much harder to focus on that void when our life is full of so many shining people who want to join in our labor: renovating, remodeling, stripping and refinishing this life of ours.

On July 12, 2016, it will be exactly six years since the call. As we have done the past two years, our CrossFit community will join us for “Jane,”  a workout Brent wrote in her honor. We will push our bodies and “suffer” momentarily to honor her life and all the love and relationships grown and thriving in her absence. With our community beside us, we will acknowledge the void while basking in the Light and love.

Jane used to ask when I would write something she would want to read. The answer is now, Jane. We are all writing this beautiful, messy life story as we go. You would love it. You have a starring role.