Unfailing Love

I’ve mentioned before that when I was pregnant with Jay, our 20-week sonogram was not quite the exciting moment we’d imagined. We went into it with high hopes of learning the gender of our firstborn child and never a question as to its overall health. While there, though, things took an unusual turn, from excited commentary from the technician about all the images we could see on the screen – these are his toes, his hand, his little nose - to eery silence as she moved back and forth over the same spots repeatedly and then suddenly and awkwardly excused herself from the room.

She returned with a doctor who stepped right in to provide an explanation for her technician’s abrupt departure. She seemed ready to reassure us and the technician that everything was just fine. But once her wand landed on the spot on my belly where Jay’s brain could be seen, she too struggled to mask her concern.  She began to explain what her technician saw and she now could confirm.

Numerous cysts ~ Bilateral  ~ Disorder ~ Days to live ~ Weeks at most

All of this was followed by one big caveat –the symptoms we observed could be perfectly normal and our baby boy would be just fine. But by the time it was spoken, that hopeful message was barely audible – a mere whisper amidst the loudly screeching sirens that warned of doomsday due to a fatal chromosomal disorder.

I was paralyzed with fear. I sat motionless for many moments trying to process the information. I delayed looking at Tim, knowing somewhere in my soul that the moment our eyes locked, this heavy reality would be ours to carry. I wasn’t ready to take it on. So I kept staring at the screen. At some point, though, I felt compelled to look over. I needed to check in. I needed to acknowledge this information with him.

Tim is a rock. I am moosh. I get ramped up with worry and he eases me back down with reason and logic. It’s not very often that I see him flinch. And that’s perfect for me. He is the anchor to my ship that is prone to be swept away by every turbulent tide.

So when I finally turned to him in that moment on that day, I needed to see his strength. I needed to see his resolve. I needed to see confidence that the caveat was the truth. I needed to be reassured that everything was going to be okay.

Instead, I saw in his eyes a look of sickening sadness that unnerved me even more than the doctor’s words. My heart sank to depths I’d never known. And for a flash – just a flash, I swear – I. Was. Pissed.

How could you do that to me? I gave you extra time! I needed you to be MY husband, MY rock! I’m the weak one. You’re strong. You’re supposed to reassure ME that everything is going to be okay!

And just as quickly as that hit me, my anger was supplanted (thank goodness) by an epiphany that came to define this experience for me more than the terrifying diagnosis (which, ultimately, turned out to be a false alarm): this is how couples who lose a child wind up divorced.

In that moment, so much knowledge and understanding washed over me. It caused me to feel deep empathy for the couple from our church who’d divorced some years earlier after their child died in a senseless accident at college. I’d never understood how that could happen. After all, your spouse is the one person who knew and loved your child as much as you did. He’s the only person that can understand the depth of your loss and your sadness. In my mind, that meant he would be the only person who could truly relate to you. He’s your best support!

But what if that person lets you down in your grief? What if today you want to wallow in the depths of your darkness and your spouse insists a walk in the woods would do you all some good? Or you’re resolved that this week will not be lost to tears and pointless puttering but your husband emerges from bed on Sunday morning looking shrunken and hollow with hopelessness? What if your spouse has decided to move in the direction of healing while you're still replaying the past in hopes of forcing a different outcome? Or what if your loss causes you to reach out to God for comfort and healing, while your spouse turns away from Him in anger and disappointment? I saw so clearly in that moment the myriad of ways a marriage could unravel because our spouse fails to be what we need or want them to be in crisis and its aftermath. And I never forgot it.

I also never really understood why I was given that knowledge and why it was etched so sharply in my memory. Until Jay died. Then I was reminded of the lesson from 19 years earlier. And I knew. It all made sense. I experienced that then so I would know now. We needed to steer clear of moments like the one I’d had in the sonogram room if we were going to be okay.

Our therapist shared with us a practice that could safeguard our marriage in the wake of this tragedy. Two simple words: Radical Acceptance.

As I look up the concept now I see that it is something that anyone can employ at any time in their life. As a well-developed personal practice, it can help us avoid unnecessary suffering in this world. But, in these trying times, I took it to mean something very specific to us: Radical acceptance of ourselves. Radical acceptance of one another. Radical acceptance of situations, emotions, reactions, even non-reactions.

If you think about it, Radical Acceptance is the living out of lines 4-7 of 1 Corinthians 13, scripture we had read at our wedding 22 years before. What we once appreciated as idyllic verse, we now needed to hear as an urgent directive to love one another completely. 

Be patient with one another.
Be kind to one another.
Do not insist on your own way.
Do not be irritable or resentful.
Bear all things.
Believe all things.
Hope all things.
Endure all things.

This expression of love never fails. This is what would get us through the most difficult trial of our marriage. But we had to be committed to the practice. No conditions. No standards. No expectations. No judgements. No exasperation that he’s over there and I’m over here. No demands. Just Radical Acceptance and Unfailing Love.

Go Forth in Love + Remember Jay