I wish there were words to express my heart at the thought of leaving our Phoenix home.
I feel a hole so deep, a pain renewed, a wound uncovered.
I am heartbroken.
Because leaving Arizona feels like Jake is dying all over again. It is the death of the life we made together. It is the death of the home we created, lived in and loved. It is the end of the life we shared on earth.
I have complete assurance that this move is right for our family. I have full trust that we will land on our feet and be ok. If we weren't moving to be near our parents I would not do it. But just because something is right, does not mean that it is easy.
We bought this, our first home together. I well remember signing the papers and Jake sweating bullets at taking on such a big responsibility, as he was the sole breadwinner for our family. He had only been working for a year and we'd been apartment dwellers until that point. We had our little Lauren and I was due with Ellie in December. We actually moved into our home on my birthday and I remember Jake telling me that he was giving me the biggest birthday present I would ever get.
And last week I went in, alone, and signed the papers to sell our home. To add insult to injury the paperwork stated "Jordan R., an unmarried woman, is selling the home located at (address) to ...... a married couple." Oh the heartbreak at seeing those words on paper.
I can see why conventional wisdom says to not make a drastic change for a year after your loved one has died. After just going through the very hard and traumatic experience of their death, your heart can hardly stand any other big changes. Again, I can see God's wisdom in setting this up well before we knew Jake was going to die. I am overwhelmingly grateful that Jake was part of, rather driving, this moving decision process.
But Phoenix.
It has my heart.
I love completely and intensely and that intensity carries over to my grief at the thought of leaving.
I will maintain the friendships we formed here. I really do want everyone we know to come and visit us in Provo. We will come back often and visit. But the reality of proximity, of being a part of the action, of daily living with people we have come to love cannot be replaced.
We love this desert place. The blistering heat, the plethora of pools, the springlike winters, the succulent beauty, the flaming sunsets, the numberless miles of concrete and strip malls, the royal palm trees, the limitless shopping and dining opportunities, the mecca called Last Chance......I could go on and on.
But mainly it is the beauty of the people, the intense love of the Arizonans that will forever sustain, comfort and warm my heart.
I can see how Heavenly Father prepared a safety net to catch us as we fell off of the tightrope walk called cancer. For years, that net was being weaved with each new relationship, each new experience, each party, phone call, interaction with people all around us. At work, at church, at school, in the neighborhood, at community classes, in volunteering, at the library. He was preparing us to be surrounded, sustained and maintained by the combined love of so many people.
It is overwhelming to see now how intricately He had things prepared to soften the blows that came.
I will be forever grateful for the love and service that was so freely given to us the whole time we lived here, but intensified throughout the course of Jake's illness, decline and death.
That loved saved us. Over and over, again and again that love caught us as we fell. The net called Arizona held fast and sure, strong and true.
And as the kids and I turn towards this next chapter in our lives, I will forever be grateful for this desert state and its beloved people.
For Arizona.
Our home.
Tuesday, June 28
Wednesday, June 15
This is a long one...
I could write for days, but my available time to write is so limited.
Our days are full and by the time I get the kids to bed (late), answer texts and email, and sit with my journal and scriptures I am spent and it is midnight.
Writing is therapy for me, but it does take time to process my emotions and experiences and translate them into something that I can verbally articulate.
My mind is very foggy. I have read several books on grief and many of the people in them describe their mental faculties as a fog or a muck that they are trying to sort out. I can relate. I really feel like I am only operating on half capacity. I can take care of one task at a time or answer a question, but peppered with many tasks to do or many questions I feel my mind become overwhelmed and start to shut down.
I just try and take things one day at a time. I can think through the current week, and even a few scheduled plans for the summer, but have tried to keep my mind from going too much beyond that. It is too empty and broken and difficult to think about anyway.
We have been busy having fun lately.
The day after school we packed up and went to Rosarito Mexico, in Baja California. My aunt Carol came into town to help us, and we wouldn't have made it without her. We met up with my brother and his wife at a beautiful house on the beach. Listening to the waves for 4 days, getting two massages, attending LDS church in Mexico, shopping for souvenirs, and being loved and served by my family was therapy for me.
My aunt then flew home and the kids and I stayed another 4 days in San Diego with my friends Toby and Laura, at Toby's condo downtown. It was so fun to be in the city and have things to do right out the front door. We ate great food and rode bikes and went to the beach. Again it was a balm to my worn out heart and spirit and our kids as well.
After four months of very difficult living, I feel strongly that the kids and I can take some time to rest, relax and have fun. Even after Jake died there was so much to be done for the funeral and preparing our house to move that we rarely had a second to breathe. So our vacation ushered in a phase of lighthearted living that we have not experienced for months, even years.
The last week we have been taking in the best of Phoenix before we move. The kids and I created a sort of bucket list of things we wanted to do and we have had such a fun time together. I love our AZ people, and have truly enjoyed seeing, talking to and being with so many people that have meant so much to us. The kids have loved having time with friends every single day.
It has filled my heart to overflowing to feel the love of so many people.
I can say that although there are many feelings that you experience after the death of your spouse, the overarching feeling for me has been gratitude. I did not anticipate that. Looking at our circumstance from the outside you could say there isn't anything to be grateful for, but I feel such gratitude for sensing Jake's watch care, for each of our four children, for manifestations of God's intimate concern and care, for the blistering AZ heat and the cool of our backyard pool, for loving friends and family members who continue to lift, serve, and help us.
For the Savior.
Mostly for the Savior.
I was reading last night in John 14: 2-6.
After talking about His death with his disciples Jesus said, "I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And wither I go ye know, and the way ye know."
Then Thomas asked him, "Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?"
And Jesus answered saying, "I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."
I have more knowledge about the sting of death, the reality of the grave, the finality of mortal separation than I ever had before. I feel it's pulsating existence every single day.
But I also know more about the healing balm, the enveloping peace, the encompassing love of the Savior than I ever did before. And I trust Him completely. I trust that He is preparing a place for me. For my children. For each of us. I so want to be received unto Him because there my Jacob is waiting for me.
I had heard many times the admonition that He is the way, the truth and the life. But now I know it in such real life context, such lived through experience that it is a part of me.
I love Him more than I can say.
But I still cry almost every night. I have had the girls take turns sleeping with me and am grateful for their warm bodies that help our bed not feel so empty. I am grateful to have quiet, reflective time at night where I can be with my thoughts and have space for my feelings. But it is difficult and lonely.
Grieving feels a lot like vomiting. You get this achy, yucky feeling inside and know that it has to come out, but you don't want it to because it is not fun and it hurts. But you let it out because it can't be contained anymore and once it has passed you always feel a bit better.
The kids are each coping in their own ways. There is usually someone who is sad or having a hard hour, moment or day. They seem to take turns and it even manifests subconsciously. The other night Tommy woke up crying, sad, heart wrenching cries, and when I went into his room he said, "Mommy, I'm sad." Although he can't express his heart, it is aching for his Daddy.
And I know we are not alone in aching for Jake.
Yesterday, the kids and I were able to make two visits downtown. First, we went back to Barrow to take some muffins and cards to the team of doctors and nurses who cared for him. I didn't plan to go back, but a few weeks ago had a strong impression that I should go in and take the kids.
It was brain tumor clinic day- the day where Jake would get his bi-monthly MRI and we would learn about the current status of his cancer. Those were heart wrenching days, and last night as I reflected on it I realized that there were people yesterday who either walked out with another two months of stability, went home with a treatment plan, or found out they were going to die. There are people who are still living that hellish, out of control, fear inducing existence this very minute. I feel so much for their sorrow, uncertainty and pain. It is almost unbearable.
But you bare it because the alternative is what we are now living. Grieving the loss of your loved one, trying to carry on, facing the gaping holes their loss leaves in your life. There is no easy way with a GBM.
I realized that the kids had never seen the clinic or met the doctors and staff that worked to treat their dad and were such an important part of his life. I felt like it would be good for them to see those places and people before we leave town.
As we drove down I talked to them about how Jake and I would go to different appointments, pointed out the buildings where Jake was radiated, infused, operated on and Gamma Knifed (and was humbled again by how many treatments he endured to stay alive and with us as long as he could), and told them about how we would talk to each other and decide how to tell them the news after each visit.
They seemed to listen with rapt attention to this part of their dad's life that they had not fully experienced.
We waited in the waiting room and I showed them our favorite spot where we liked to sit and told them about the paperwork that Jake would fill out. I told them how we always tried to guess who the other GMB patients were and how we waited with such anxiety to be called back into the office.
I had to remind myself a few times that I wasn't there to get any news, as I felt my anxiety return just upon entering the building and taking in the smell. Those memories are so potent in my mind, but at the same time they are twinged with reverence because they were experiences that Jake and I had together. I do not regret being by his side as much as I possibly could through his illness, because now when I look back Jake is by my side in memory.
We were so warmly invited back to a patient room, one where we got some of the best and worst news of our lives, and spent several minutes talking with Dr. Smith, Charlotte and Bonnie. They were so gracious and good with our kids, asking about who went on football trips with dad and who got baptized and saying Tommy is a mini Jake. I know the kids felt out of place, like they were breaking the rules by being there, but they told me they were so comforted by the kindness of the doctor and nurses. We snapped a few photos together, gave them some cards I had written, and thanked them again for all they did to help Jake. I told the kids that although their dad got a disease that has no cure, everything the doctors and nurses did extended his life and gave them more time with him.
After that visit we went over to Perkins Coie to have lunch with some of Jake's former co-workers. They are such lovely people, and had a whole spread of food for me and the kids to eat. Like when we cleaned out his office in December, I felt so keenly of their interest in our family and their sorrow at losing Jake. I know that they mourn his loss and wish he were still going into the office with them. As we talked to Bea about one of Jake's cases that is going to trial, she said they have often wished he were still there to help them sort out the facts and understand the details he knew from working on it for nearly a decade. I wish he were here to help them too. They surprised each of the kids with a backpack full of things to do on our long drive up to Utah and I was so touched by that gesture.
Again, as we were in the office so many memories came flooding back to me of Jake working at Perkins Coie. I remembered a holiday party on the 20th floor where we won some amazing gift cards. I remember forcing Jake to take me to work on a Saturday for a tour of the office because he didn't know if it was proper to let family in during working hours. I remember talking to him on the phone at all hours of the day and night and picturing him up on the 21st floor with a view of downtown Phoenix. I remember taking the kids monthly to meet him during the day for lunch at one of the local haunts. We would try a different place each time and I loved seeing where he would go to eat with his friends from work. I remember picking him up downtown to attend a concert or baseball or basketball game and then going back to the parking garage to drop him at his car for the drive home. I remember one year hiding Easter eggs on the lawn outside his building and making him hunt for them with the girls because his birthday was that Friday before Easter. And I remember walking with him from his office to the hospital for his first series of MRI scans. He always felt comforted in knowing that his office was just blocks from the hospital where he would be treated.
It was a poignant day, but as I sit here and write it all out I am so comforted by the memories that came back to me and that I was able to share with our children.
I continue to feel the strength of our sealing covenants and recognize that through them Jake continues to work in behalf of our family. I'm learning that I can still draw on his strength, faith, and love. Those did not disappear when he died. I cannot describe it completely, but the guidance I receive and comfort that comes feel so familiar to me. It feels like Jake and is the best feeling in the world.
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
Our days are full and by the time I get the kids to bed (late), answer texts and email, and sit with my journal and scriptures I am spent and it is midnight.
Writing is therapy for me, but it does take time to process my emotions and experiences and translate them into something that I can verbally articulate.
My mind is very foggy. I have read several books on grief and many of the people in them describe their mental faculties as a fog or a muck that they are trying to sort out. I can relate. I really feel like I am only operating on half capacity. I can take care of one task at a time or answer a question, but peppered with many tasks to do or many questions I feel my mind become overwhelmed and start to shut down.
I just try and take things one day at a time. I can think through the current week, and even a few scheduled plans for the summer, but have tried to keep my mind from going too much beyond that. It is too empty and broken and difficult to think about anyway.
We have been busy having fun lately.
The day after school we packed up and went to Rosarito Mexico, in Baja California. My aunt Carol came into town to help us, and we wouldn't have made it without her. We met up with my brother and his wife at a beautiful house on the beach. Listening to the waves for 4 days, getting two massages, attending LDS church in Mexico, shopping for souvenirs, and being loved and served by my family was therapy for me.
My aunt then flew home and the kids and I stayed another 4 days in San Diego with my friends Toby and Laura, at Toby's condo downtown. It was so fun to be in the city and have things to do right out the front door. We ate great food and rode bikes and went to the beach. Again it was a balm to my worn out heart and spirit and our kids as well.
After four months of very difficult living, I feel strongly that the kids and I can take some time to rest, relax and have fun. Even after Jake died there was so much to be done for the funeral and preparing our house to move that we rarely had a second to breathe. So our vacation ushered in a phase of lighthearted living that we have not experienced for months, even years.
The last week we have been taking in the best of Phoenix before we move. The kids and I created a sort of bucket list of things we wanted to do and we have had such a fun time together. I love our AZ people, and have truly enjoyed seeing, talking to and being with so many people that have meant so much to us. The kids have loved having time with friends every single day.
It has filled my heart to overflowing to feel the love of so many people.
I can say that although there are many feelings that you experience after the death of your spouse, the overarching feeling for me has been gratitude. I did not anticipate that. Looking at our circumstance from the outside you could say there isn't anything to be grateful for, but I feel such gratitude for sensing Jake's watch care, for each of our four children, for manifestations of God's intimate concern and care, for the blistering AZ heat and the cool of our backyard pool, for loving friends and family members who continue to lift, serve, and help us.
For the Savior.
Mostly for the Savior.
I was reading last night in John 14: 2-6.
After talking about His death with his disciples Jesus said, "I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also. And wither I go ye know, and the way ye know."
Then Thomas asked him, "Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?"
And Jesus answered saying, "I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me."
I have more knowledge about the sting of death, the reality of the grave, the finality of mortal separation than I ever had before. I feel it's pulsating existence every single day.
But I also know more about the healing balm, the enveloping peace, the encompassing love of the Savior than I ever did before. And I trust Him completely. I trust that He is preparing a place for me. For my children. For each of us. I so want to be received unto Him because there my Jacob is waiting for me.
I had heard many times the admonition that He is the way, the truth and the life. But now I know it in such real life context, such lived through experience that it is a part of me.
I love Him more than I can say.
But I still cry almost every night. I have had the girls take turns sleeping with me and am grateful for their warm bodies that help our bed not feel so empty. I am grateful to have quiet, reflective time at night where I can be with my thoughts and have space for my feelings. But it is difficult and lonely.
Grieving feels a lot like vomiting. You get this achy, yucky feeling inside and know that it has to come out, but you don't want it to because it is not fun and it hurts. But you let it out because it can't be contained anymore and once it has passed you always feel a bit better.
The kids are each coping in their own ways. There is usually someone who is sad or having a hard hour, moment or day. They seem to take turns and it even manifests subconsciously. The other night Tommy woke up crying, sad, heart wrenching cries, and when I went into his room he said, "Mommy, I'm sad." Although he can't express his heart, it is aching for his Daddy.
And I know we are not alone in aching for Jake.
Yesterday, the kids and I were able to make two visits downtown. First, we went back to Barrow to take some muffins and cards to the team of doctors and nurses who cared for him. I didn't plan to go back, but a few weeks ago had a strong impression that I should go in and take the kids.
It was brain tumor clinic day- the day where Jake would get his bi-monthly MRI and we would learn about the current status of his cancer. Those were heart wrenching days, and last night as I reflected on it I realized that there were people yesterday who either walked out with another two months of stability, went home with a treatment plan, or found out they were going to die. There are people who are still living that hellish, out of control, fear inducing existence this very minute. I feel so much for their sorrow, uncertainty and pain. It is almost unbearable.
But you bare it because the alternative is what we are now living. Grieving the loss of your loved one, trying to carry on, facing the gaping holes their loss leaves in your life. There is no easy way with a GBM.
I realized that the kids had never seen the clinic or met the doctors and staff that worked to treat their dad and were such an important part of his life. I felt like it would be good for them to see those places and people before we leave town.
As we drove down I talked to them about how Jake and I would go to different appointments, pointed out the buildings where Jake was radiated, infused, operated on and Gamma Knifed (and was humbled again by how many treatments he endured to stay alive and with us as long as he could), and told them about how we would talk to each other and decide how to tell them the news after each visit.
They seemed to listen with rapt attention to this part of their dad's life that they had not fully experienced.
We waited in the waiting room and I showed them our favorite spot where we liked to sit and told them about the paperwork that Jake would fill out. I told them how we always tried to guess who the other GMB patients were and how we waited with such anxiety to be called back into the office.
I had to remind myself a few times that I wasn't there to get any news, as I felt my anxiety return just upon entering the building and taking in the smell. Those memories are so potent in my mind, but at the same time they are twinged with reverence because they were experiences that Jake and I had together. I do not regret being by his side as much as I possibly could through his illness, because now when I look back Jake is by my side in memory.
We were so warmly invited back to a patient room, one where we got some of the best and worst news of our lives, and spent several minutes talking with Dr. Smith, Charlotte and Bonnie. They were so gracious and good with our kids, asking about who went on football trips with dad and who got baptized and saying Tommy is a mini Jake. I know the kids felt out of place, like they were breaking the rules by being there, but they told me they were so comforted by the kindness of the doctor and nurses. We snapped a few photos together, gave them some cards I had written, and thanked them again for all they did to help Jake. I told the kids that although their dad got a disease that has no cure, everything the doctors and nurses did extended his life and gave them more time with him.
After that visit we went over to Perkins Coie to have lunch with some of Jake's former co-workers. They are such lovely people, and had a whole spread of food for me and the kids to eat. Like when we cleaned out his office in December, I felt so keenly of their interest in our family and their sorrow at losing Jake. I know that they mourn his loss and wish he were still going into the office with them. As we talked to Bea about one of Jake's cases that is going to trial, she said they have often wished he were still there to help them sort out the facts and understand the details he knew from working on it for nearly a decade. I wish he were here to help them too. They surprised each of the kids with a backpack full of things to do on our long drive up to Utah and I was so touched by that gesture.
Again, as we were in the office so many memories came flooding back to me of Jake working at Perkins Coie. I remembered a holiday party on the 20th floor where we won some amazing gift cards. I remember forcing Jake to take me to work on a Saturday for a tour of the office because he didn't know if it was proper to let family in during working hours. I remember talking to him on the phone at all hours of the day and night and picturing him up on the 21st floor with a view of downtown Phoenix. I remember taking the kids monthly to meet him during the day for lunch at one of the local haunts. We would try a different place each time and I loved seeing where he would go to eat with his friends from work. I remember picking him up downtown to attend a concert or baseball or basketball game and then going back to the parking garage to drop him at his car for the drive home. I remember one year hiding Easter eggs on the lawn outside his building and making him hunt for them with the girls because his birthday was that Friday before Easter. And I remember walking with him from his office to the hospital for his first series of MRI scans. He always felt comforted in knowing that his office was just blocks from the hospital where he would be treated.
It was a poignant day, but as I sit here and write it all out I am so comforted by the memories that came back to me and that I was able to share with our children.
I continue to feel the strength of our sealing covenants and recognize that through them Jake continues to work in behalf of our family. I'm learning that I can still draw on his strength, faith, and love. Those did not disappear when he died. I cannot describe it completely, but the guidance I receive and comfort that comes feel so familiar to me. It feels like Jake and is the best feeling in the world.
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
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