Hard Things

I've been wanting to get back to blogging. I like to share..to connect with others...

These are the reasons that I write...to share and to connect. It isn't that I think I'm a know-it-all, or even that I wish to express myself. It's that I know there's someone else, struggling like I am with something similar. Someone suffering. Someone changing, Someone chugging along, while the blows just keep on coming.  Someone inflicting pain that they're failing to see.  Someone confused... someone stuck, lost, discouraged, weary--fill in the blank-- you get the point. We're all carrying heavy loads. It helps to know we can share the weight. 

If we don't share, it all builds, and becomes too much... 

For me, it can get so heavy that I start to feel unsteady. The worry, fear,  stress, and constant buzzing in my head take over.

I do write on Facebook when the urge hits, but I miss having a space all my own that anyone in the world can find...  

I only stopped because I was overwhelmed, and then, heartbroken. 

Allow me to catch you up... 

• There I was, in 2018, a 31-year-old mom of four, who had just got back with my husband, after leaving him and moving six-hundred miles away back to my home state of Arkansas. It was a hard decision, but it was what I felt was right at the time. 

Fast forward four months later, and we realized we weren't done. Nick and I both wanted to work things out, so we took turns traveling back and forth while trying to put the pieces back together. It worked for us...

I had a job as a waitress, and Nick still worked for the same company he had since Kylie, our oldest, who is now 18, was just a baby. Luckily, our bosses were understanding and allowed us to take time off, as needed. We were keeping visits fairly short, and only seeing each other once a month or so...

That is, until the end of February. I decided to quit my job as a waitress and pursue writing more seriously, while also continuing with my side job, as a remote personal assistant. The kids would get longer visits with their dad since I'd be able to stay in Texas for longer periods of time...plus I'd be able to see if things between us were actually improving or not...

 

Let me just say...getting pregnant with our 5th child was not part of the plan. 😲

The memory of that positive Dollar Tree pregnancy test is still fresh in my mind... 

It was March. The kids and I had been there for almost a month. I'd planned for it to be a two-week stay, but I kept extending it because I wasn't feeling well. I was nauseous and extra tired...Then, my period was late...

I already knew, but that didn't keep me from feeling shocked and in denial when that second line appeared almost instantly. 🙈

I went through a whole range of emotions: joy and excitement, fear, guilt, anticipation, elation, worry-- even shame. 

What would everyone think?

The future already felt so uncertain... and now, we were adding another baby? 

I'd moved my whole life six hundred miles away! I still wasn't quite sure what I wanted, or where I wanted to live! I liked being near my family, and the kids were happy too. But they also missed seeing their dad every day. And I missed the man I'd been loving since I was just a girl...but still, this wasn't what I'd planned! I was trying to be smart... take it slow...

What was I going to do?

I didn't know, but I gathered up all my fear and doubt and decided that I had big choices to make. I returned home to Arkansas a few weeks later, uncertain about the future, but knowing that I had to figure things out.  

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A few days after getting home, I noticed that my dad didn't seem to be feeling well. Not like he had a virus or a cold, but like he really really didn't feel good. Something definitely seemed wrong. He went to the doctor and ended up being hospitalized. At the time, I didn't really ever quite get what was going on with his health, but I thought it was something that had to do with high blood pressure and his heart... 

I was worried on multiple levels and my already spinning world seemed to be unraveling more by the day. 

I longed for some normalcy in my life. 

When Dad got out of the hospital, he wanted to spend more time together. We already saw each other daily, since we only lived a few miles apart, but he wanted to go out and do things, to have adventures together...so we did. 

Nearly every weekend, we would go somewhere new. I'm so thankful for those memories ♡

As my pregnancy progressed, Nick and I continued to work on our marriage, taking turns going back and forth between Texas and Arkansas. Things were going good...but I still wasn't ready to make a move. I kept my little doublewide trailer next to the chicken houses and spent my days making memories with my babies, my family, and my best friend while trying to figure out my next move.

 

By July, I felt good about us moving forward and living together again. Nick moved the kids and me back to Texas, along with my dog, Luna, her 14 puppies, our cat, and our pet pig. For the first few months, we lived in a tiny house. It was where he'd stayed during our time apart. It was maybe 800 sq. ft. Definitely not big enough for six people! Again though, I was committed. So I sucked it up and found ways to stay busy, outside of the house. We spent most days at the pool, park, or splash pad. It was a fun, yet draining summer. There was so much going on...especially emotionally. It was a lot to keep adapting to, and I spent a lot of time worrying about how our kids were handling it all.

By October, we moved into a bigger house, and life began to feel more settled.

As far as my pregnancy?  I'd grown so bonded to and excited for the little baby girl growing inside of me that any negativity I'd felt in the early days, disappeared completely. 

I longed for November, and to meet my newest daughter. ❤ The summer months quickly ticked by. I talked to my family often, and stayed busy with work, the kids, and getting ready for sweet Acelie Kae's arrival.

 

Finally, on November 27th, 2018, she came into this world, with a fighting spirit, and a head full of dark hair.  We were instantly in love.

After her birth though, things at home were rocky. There was a lot going on that I had no control over. Resentment, tension, and exhaustion were building.

I struggled through 2019. It was a mixture of self-realizations, hard lessons, and blessings in disguise.

In 2020, things got better... life evened out. We found our groove. Nick and I were getting along great, we started several new projects together...the kids seemed to be thriving... and things were finally starting to feel normal-ish again.  

  

But then in November, right before Acelie turned 2, my Grandpa passed away. He died at the age of 78 from complications after brain surgery to remove a tumor. I went to Arkansas without Nick but took three of my five kids along.  The trip home felt so different. Knowing that I wasn't going for a happy visit, realizing that my Grandpa wouldn't be there... it was surreal and sad.

But what was harder, was seeing my dad once I got there. I'd been home in August, just three months prior, and knew that he hadn't seemed to be getting around very well. Now though? It was much worse. He couldn't even get out of the vehicle at my grandpa's (his dad's) funeral. He was swollen all over, but especially his stomach. He didn't look, or even sound like himself. It broke my heart. What was worse, is he refused to go to the doctor. I committed myself to stay until he would agree. There was no way I was going to go back to Texas with him in the shape he was in.  It took a lot of begging, but eventually, he agreed. 

He was immediately hospitalized.

The diagnosis? Stage 4, cirrhosis of the liver, with ascites. 

*side note: My dad was a good man, a great dad, a loving brother and son, a friend to many, and my hero-- but he struggled with alcoholism. It wasn't something he was proud of.*

 

I immediately went to googling and researching. I found out everything I could about his condition so I would know what to expect. The prognosis wasn't good, but despite the grim outlook, I still had hope. My dad wasn't old enough to die. His life wasn't done. He couldn't, I reasoned. It wasn't his time... 

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That first night after researching-- I laid awake in the spare room in a bed that had been my dad's as a boy, and I talked to God. I asked him to help my Daddy.

To heal him...

And the Lord answered me. As plain as day, I heard him whisper to my heart: "hard things."

That phrase rang in my mind near constant for the next several months...

December 2020 

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 I told myself  I'd go home more. Be around to help. I'd pray harder... I'd research and find solutions, new doctors, new treatments... new medicines... It would be okay. 

As time went on though, it seemed to be anything but okay.

Every glimpse of hope we'd get would soon be shadowed by a new or worsening condition. 

It was the same routine... go to Arkansas for a visit, and accompany Dad to a doctor's appointment. His bloodwork or something would be off, then he would be admitted for a long hospital stay. My brother, Granny, and my dad's wife were handling everything when I wasn't there, but I felt a ton of guilt for not being there to help more. I always tried to stay at least a week once he was released to be with him, and get him used to any new meds or routines...then I'd head back to Texas.  I adapted to it quickly, making three trips home between November, and February. I did my best to not become discouraged.

But then in March, I found out I was pregnant again...with baby #6. 

Disclaimer: In case you're wondering, no, we aren't catholic, and yes, we do use birth control...we are just obviously really good at making babies...not that that's any of your biz, but I'd be wondering too, so there ya go, you nosy Nancy 😁  

I was excited.

But...

I worried how the pregnancy would affect me being able to go back and forth often. 

I worried about how the stress would affect the baby.

I worried about how I was going to handle my overflowing plate.

I worried about my brother, having to deal with things alone.

I worried that I worried so much.

Worrying seemed to be the theme of my life. 

I spent the whole month of March stressing. I didn't want to tell my dad over the phone. I wanted to tell him in person. 

So in April, I went home, and the second morning, while we had breakfast in bed together, I told him. He thought I was kidding at first. He laughed and told me I was too old. Then he realized I was serious, and he was happy for me...he always was.

But I felt so guilty about the timing. My dad needed me. My family in Arkansas needed me. I wanted to be there for them...

How would I make it work?

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The next time I went home, it was July. Three months since I'd last seen him. He wasn't him.  I know now that the encephalopathy (complication of liver disease that affects the brain) was setting in... clouding his mind, and confusing him. It had happened before, but this time, it was much worse...at least to me it was. I hadn't ever seen it that bad. I didn't know what to make of it, or how to feel. My dad, who was usually so welcoming any time I came home, barely spoke to me. When he did, it was something negative.

At this point, I was six months pregnant with my sixth child, and I was becoming more stressed, tired, and sad by the day--but more than that, I was growing resentful. I was mad that I was losing my first love--my Daddy. The man who I measured all other men by.  He was more than just a dad to me... He was my friend, my confidant... a shoulder anytime I needed one. We were close. We got each other. To say I love my dad is a huge understatement. I NEEDED my dad. He had to live.

But like this? my conscience whispered.

How can you be so selfish?

It wasn't fair, and I was angry.  

One morning, over coffee, my dad said, "This is no way to live... it's a way to die." 

The harsh reality of that truth made my heart hurt.

With every passing hour, after breakfast that same day, he grew more and more distant. Less himself. More sleepy. Less talkative. He wouldn't eat, or drink... and he didn't seem to really know what was going on. His eyes didn't look like his eyes...it was like he wasn't there behind them. Everything was off. He wasn't him... and it made me not act like myself. I wanted MY DAD. Not this new person, sitting in his place. The sadness and truth I'd been trying to deny for months, were turning into fear and anger. 

Time drug on that visit... each day, Dad seemed to slip away, more and more. I started staying away more, getting out of the house to go visit friends or my mom... just trying to stay busy. Busy is how I cope.

But one night, after crying and praying myself to sleep, I woke up to help my stepmom with changing the sheets on his bed and found my dad completely unconscious. We couldn't wake him. I immediately called an ambulance. To my surprise, I stayed completely calm. I was scared inside, but I was beginning to feel numb. The constant chaos and turmoil of the last three years was taking its toll-- everything was out of my control.

This was the beginning of me accepting that as fact.

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My dad was, of course, hospitalized again, and was in a coma-like state for several days.  I'd been, away from my home in Texas for nearly three weeks. I was worried about how the stress was affecting my baby boy growing inside of me. 

I wanted to be with my dad, but I wanted to go home, too.  I called my husband and asked him to come, for support. It was all becoming so much...and I didn't know how to handle it.  Nick came the very next day and helped keep the kids busy, while I scrambled to try and figure out what I should do. Should I wait? Should I go home? I had a doctor's appointment for the baby coming up. The kids were missing their sports and activities... but did any of that matter? "What am I supposed to do???", I'd scream at myself, inside my head. I was frustrated. I felt torn... and I felt angry. Angry that my dad's choices were taking him from me. Angry that God wouldn't heal him. Angry at myself for not being able to be present for my own family like I needed to be.

Angry.

I decided I'd stay longer, at least until I knew he would be okay.

I spent most of my time at the hospital. 

I tried to will him better-- with my thoughts, with my prayers, with my tears, with music, by speaking memories out loud...anything. 

My faith was fading. I was weak.

At one point, the doctors gathered all the family together and said he might not make it, but that wasn't the first time we'd heard that. And just like the times before, he gradually came out of it. And although he wasn't himself, he was alive.

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That last morning...before we headed back to Texas, I went to be with him. We talked some, but not like we usually did. He was different, and so was I. I thought maybe he was mad at me, too. I hated it. It all felt wrong.

I waited for him to fall asleep. I kissed his forehead. And I left. 

I left my dad laying in that hospital bed.

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The teardrops fell like raindrops from my eyes as I made my way alone, down those cold hospital halls. Memories and emotions flooding my mind. The last song he'd ask me to play, singing in my ears. "I'm looking at you through the glass, I don't know how much time has passed, all I know is that it feels like forever." 

Every step felt heavier than the last...  

My heart burst and then hardened all at once.

I walked out the doors, to my husband and my kids, and we headed back to Texas.

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Life went on, as it always does. My dad ended up getting to go home just a few days after I left, which was upsetting to me... because I would have waited. I liked to

end our visits on a good note. I'd never left like that-- while he was still in the hospital. I struggled every day with the guilt I felt, for being angry.

I was already planning for the next time I'd see him though. I busied myself and tried

hard to push past my emotions. I spent my time caring for my kids and preparing for my newest bundle of joy, as my ever-expanding belly grew. It was my hardest pregnancy, without a doubt. Nothing too bad, but the sheer exhaustion of life, combined with extremely low iron levels, and carrying a big baby with worn-out stomach muscles, left me depleted most days.

 

Our son, Riggin, was born three months later, in October.

He was born at 9am on the dot. I sent everyone pictures and texts, but my dad was the first person I called. He didn't seem as

peppy as I'd hoped he would, but I knew he was struggling even more since he'd been put on dialysis three times a week. It made him so tired he said. He hated it. I felt so sad for him that this is what his life had become. 

I told him I'd come home soon, when the baby was a few months old. I wanted them to meet. For my dad to get to hold his grandson. To be able to snap a picture. To have one last visit, that didn't end, feeling unfinished.  

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I struggled through the next few weeks. Adjusting to life with a new baby was harder this time. I was past feelings of sadness, or anger, or guilt-- even exhaustion. I mostly felt quiet inside. It was as though everything had raged about so much, that my worries and fears, my anger and sadness, had finally become--calm.

Although my dad never drank another drop afrter finding out his diagnosis, even though he did what the doctors told him, despite the fact that he wasn't a drunk, or a mean man, even though he worked hard all his life-- looking past the fact that he was a good dad and son and friend-- God said it was time for him to go. 

He passed away in November of 2021, about three-and-a-half weeks after my son was born. One year after he started treatment to try to get better.  My dad was only 61. His life wasn't done in my eyes. It shouldn't have ended. He should still be here.

In the days leading up to his death, I was dealing with complications from infection in my c-section. The morning before he was admitted, I'd been headed to the doctor and told him I'd call him when I got done. I called, but it was too late. He'd suddenly taken a turn for the worst, and was taken to the hospital. I thought he would be okay... I thought I would at least get to hear his voice one last time... to tell him how much I love him, and what a good dad he was--just one last time. But I didn't get to. Three days after he was taken to the hospital, he passed. He left this world. And I wasn't there.

I wish every day that I'd have gone to him. That I'd been by his side. 

Losing him has been the hardest thing that I've ever gone through. He was my biggest fan, and I was his. He was my friend. He understood me in a way that most people don't. He loved music. He loved the thrill of life....he liked motorcycles, and feeling the wind in his hair. It made him feel free.  When I was a little girl, he played the guitar and he would learn songs I liked, so I'd sing. He took me for drives, and we would roll the windows down and turn the music up, and he would just listen to me talk.  We went on motorcycle rides, too. My dad never hesitated to spend time with me, not ever. When I was 8, we started going "frog hunting" in the spring. This consisted of gathering as many toads as we could find, and putting them in an old mailbox, before setting them free. I liked frogs-- and he loved me-- so we did that together. He taught me about fitness, and how to detail a car, and shoot a gun. He kept every note or piece of paper I ever wrote on. His hugs make everything better. His hands always felt safe and strong. He gave good advice. He was a good dad. My daddy, and I was his little girl. He let me know I mattered, that I was important, wanted, and loved. 

That's a bond that doesn't die. 

 There isn't an hour that goes by that I don't think of my dad. He's always on my mind. 

How I handled my emotions at the end of his life is also always on my mind. 

The sadness, the anger, the guilt and the grief has eaten me up. Consumed me. 

It has kept me stuck-- distracted, angry, sad, frustrated, heartbroken--repeat. 

 It doesn't go away. 

For months, I couldn't bear to look at recent pictures of him, or even listen to music.... everything was a reminder... a reminder of the last years we had together... of my own choices of the past few years...  

Thankfully though, lately, finally-- I can think of my dad and not let the sadness of him being gone, outweigh the happy memory... I'm able to smile or laugh when I think of him. 

I'm not angry anymore. 

I'm starting to see the light, but I know that losing him won't ever feel fair, or right, or okay in my eyes. I don't know if I will ever have "peace" about it.  

Time marches on though... it waits for no one. 

So, I'll treasure the ones I love that are still here on this earth. I'll write when the hurt gets to be too much. I'll share the happy, too. I won't let hardships silence the words that need to come out.

I'll write...

the good. The happy. The beautiful moments. But especially the ugly. The ugly is where we grow. Where we find we're not alone. In the trenches is where our souls give up...then come back... Hungry.  

See you in the trenches, friend❤ -Laurel