Breathe
- Han
- Jun 24, 2020
- 7 min read
This is for anyone who has felt the fierce pull from the undercurrent of sudden loss. I've written many journal entries on the subject, and I'd like to pull together a few that specifically talk about the feeling of 'drowning' or losing one's breath. In looking through my journal and going back to the spaces of intense grief, I noticed this is a recurring analogy of what those moments felt like to me. This may or may not relate to you, and I'll warn you now, this isn't a post about 'hope' or 'healing'. I promise I'll get to those, but this is an equally important topic that contains some of the most raw and real emotions I've experienced. It's a monumental part of my story, and I have to address it if I wish to stick to my promise of being absolutely vulnerable and honest throughout this blog.
"He, xi". Two words. "Breathe in, breathe out." Sometimes easier said than done. Holding my breath has become a reflex. Hold my breath when they hold theirs. Waiting together for air to fill their weakened lungs. Holding my breath as I read the subject line of an email--as I read the name. Hold my breath when the phone rings. Hold it when I see a pink uniform--when I see any uniform. When their fate lies with a phone call, a word, a smile. When their fate lies with a cough, a feeding, a prayer. Hold it and wait for the stamp. 'he, xi...he, xi...' and wait. Wait for the release. The air to fill their lungs, the end of the email, when I answer the phone, when the uniforms walk by, when they say, "they can stay", when I hear the stamp. 'Let it out, let it go. He, xi...he, xi...'
Will I ever hold it too long? Will I forget to release? Will they? The cycle never ends. So I breathe while I have the chance, until my lungs catch and it starts all over again."
The cycle of holding our breath waiting for something to happen or not happen, is exhausting. You don't realize just how tired you are from holding and releasing your breath until you find yourself lying on the floor or in your bed one day, utterly exhausted from just 'being'. When the things you are holding your breath for, in uncertainty and anxiety happen, and the worst case scenario becomes a reality, you are never prepared for it. Not matter how many times it happens. I was warned about the grief I would face when moving to China. I was asked how I handled grief in the past, and I answered honestly -- I hadn't. I had lost one grandfather at the time of moving there, and it had been over a decade since it had happened, and though sad and confused, I was very young and it wasn't a shocking passing. I didn't know how my body and emotions would react to this kind of loss. So I walked forward knowing I would find out soon enough--and I did. Over, and over, and over again. The interesting thing, is it's affected me differently each time. Still to this day, I don't know how I 'typically react to grief'. It surprises me time and again and I ride the wave of loss in dreadful anticipation like a rollercoaster you can't see the drops of.
Something I wasn't prepared for was the grief in saying goodbye to a child having to return to their guardian orphanage, vs the child who passes away. I don't believe I have words to adequately describe the differences, and I tread lightly as this is an extremely sensitive part of many stories. So I will say this; when you say goodbye to a child, knowing in your gut the darkness they may be walking into, but also knowing you will never see that outcome, that you won't be there with them, that you may never know how their story ends, is an anxiety filled pit in your stomach that never goes away. Saying goodbye to a child who's story ends far too soon, without a mother or father at their side, is an emptiness that is filled with too much sorrow for words. There are moments of relief for a life that will no longer feel the acute pain of suffering in a world that feels so broken, and that relief is filled with confusion and brings out doubt and anger.
Jesus come soon.
Of all the above outcomes, I have experienced the debilitating grief of each one many times. And each time, I'm terrified of going through it again. It doesn't matter how 'prepared' you are--nothing can prepare you for the physical and emotional battle you are about to face. Nothing prepares you for the anger you feel towards all of it. Though each time it has affected me in different ways, they all have something in common: I can't breathe.
"Punched in the gut, pushed down. Lungs restricted, I can't catch my breath. Swimming to the top of a body of water without a surface. Kicking harder--up, up, no stopping. Stopping means thinking, reminiscing, wishing, feeling. Don't get caught. Don't stop. If I reach the top I'm lost. There are storms all around me and I have no where to go. I see my friends and family searching. They call to me but I turn away. I have a voice, why am I silent? I push myself harder. I'm swallowing the water, I can't stop to think, it's so much easier to sink. Help me, I'm drowning. I can't keep on swimming not knowing which way is up. So I'll just lie here sinking, hold my breath, watch the clock, and hope I reach the top. When I do, I pray the air will fill my lungs."
The experience of lungs being restricted, throat tightening, chest squeezing and a rock in your stomach is a terrible terrible feeling. It sucks the energy out of you. When you hear the words declaring the loss, it takes the breath out of you like falling out of a tree as a kid. You're filled with an overwhelming sense of dread and you want to escape your body but you can't. Your knees want to crumble and you don't know how to react. You just do, and you just be...whatever that is, and however it looks. You sit in that awful feeling and try to control your breathing.
Even now, I'm still going back and grieving things I avoided at the time they occurred. It's strange to say I didn't have 'time' to do it then, but it's true. We had to keep going. In our life we weren't always able to sit and grieve. We would wipe each others' tears and soldier on because we never knew when the next hard thing might happen. It could be days, weeks, or minutes, but we knew it would happen and we had to be ready.
Grief isn't something to hide from or be ashamed of. It should never be compared to how someone else is moving through theirs, and it certainly shouldn't be belittled. Each person walks through it on their own, in their own way, and at their own pace. Our China family, who each experienced similar losses and victories, would process them in our own unique way. No one processed it the same, and we learned to give each other loads of grace for that. We knew that the grief we stuffed or avoided would come out at some point, and we made room for it at our table. Sometimes it came out at the mall, or while eating dumplings at a restaurant, or over morning coffee. We didn't judge it and we didn't push it aside, because we knew that it didn't have a chance to show its face at the moment of loss--so we needed to accept its presence when it finally arrived. I learned that sometimes I don't cry. Sometimes I have no words and need to be alone. Sometimes I do cry, and need to curl up in a blanket. Sometimes I'm so furious that I have to take that anger to the gym punching bag. Sometimes I need to go for a walk or play the guitar. Whatever I felt/feel and experience, is okay. So now I'm going back--I'm looking at the loss and grief and I'm unpacking them one at a time, making room for it in my heart and in my journal. It's not easy, but I want to feel it all. I want to work through the things I didn't have the time to before.
“Grief never ends…but it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor lack of faith…it is the price of love”
Something we often did in times of mourning was go up to the roof and sing together. Whether it was a warm summer night, or we were huddled in blankets while the wind blew cold, we knew our hearts needed it. Every once in a while we'd change the lyrics to a well known song and pour our hearts out in an almost pleading way; "When the night is holding onto you, God is holding on". Over, and over again until the words morphed into a desperate prayer, "When the night is holding onto them, God is holding on." "Oh, how He loves us" became "Oh, how he loves them". Over and over again, we sang and prayed for our hearts and theirs to be held, cradled and healed.
Those moments of quiet desperation are engraved into my soul forever. I will always be thankful for those helpless nights surrounded by a community of broken hearts and shattered dreams. Singing words we didn't believe--hanging on to the last glimmer of hope we could find.
So grieve as you will, when you will, and believe in your heart that it is not a sign of weakness. You can't 'do it wrong'. Your body, mind and emotions will do what they do. It is all for the price of love, and though the pain is severe and the emptiness is real, the price of loving wholeheartedly is always worth it. Every minute of pain, every catch in our breath, and every hot tear spilled over will be worth it. Grief will someday knock on our door, but love we must.
We will endure.
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