Painfully Beautiful

October 26, 2021 — 4 Comments

Life’s most messy moments, are often the ones we learn the most from, aren’t they? Do you ever think about that? Those moments that we were certain would break us, or maybe they did break us, are almost always the defining, most memorable moments of our lives.

I’ve pondered this in the last month, as nostalgia has over swept my heart and soul. Without avail, those beautiful Southwest Missouri hills turning burning red, majestically yellow, and fiery orange as the leaves change, brings an overhaul of emotions to my heart too. Today marks seven years that my husband passed away at the very early age of 37 due to colorectal cancer. And each year, as I think that grief won’t return with its forceful blunt edge because “time heals”, grief does indeed blow in like the leaves of fall. But in the windswept of fall leaves and emotions, so too, does the beauty of it all.

*Just days before Joe lost his life to colorectal cancer.*

What are life’s most beautiful moments? Are they the perfectly coordinated birthday parties, the magazine-worthy wedding events, or even the staged moments captured on vacation? Or, if we are being honest in this filtered-centered world we live in, are the most beautiful moments quite the opposite in the most unscheduled, most unpredictable, uncaptured/non-filtered moments of life? The moments you are so engaged in you don’t have a camera, let alone social media, to document it. Those painfully beautiful moments are literally the best of our lives, and most talked about memories: Labor and delivery of your children; no make-up, sick-as-a-dog, nine months of carrying a healthy, beautiful, child to term; step-momming (or any parenting for that matter) and not knowing if anything you say or do is right or wrong, but trying your best anyways. But do you know what I have discovered, and accepted? The other most painfully beautiful moments are these moments too: a terminal cancer health diagnosis; chemo appointments every other week with a new-born infant that you are nursing, while you sit next to your spouse watching them in pain; and even the final moments of one’s life where they struggle to breathe, and attempt with every weak ounce of energy to hang on so they don’t leave you or your children from this world.

I know many of you can relate to how painfully beautiful being pregnant (or your spouse being pregnant) and expecting a child, no matter how rough pregnancy, labor, and delivery may be. And in that moment where you don’t think it is possible to love your spouse any more, but then you watch them hold your child for the first time, your heart literally feels like it could burst because love oozes out of your heart more than it did just a second before. That feeling–that feeling we all share with newly-expectant parents that none of us can begin to describe of how much more we love our spouse/partner, when we didn’t think it was possible? That exact feeling happens when the doctor comes to tell you that your spouse has cancer, and that they aren’t sure how long they have. My heart, although inexplicably shattered in that moment, oozed and gobbed with more love for my husband when I had already declared there was no way I could love him more. And only a short 16 months later, as I lay in our bed, watching him take fewer and shallower breaths, until he gently took his last, my heart did it again. It shattered into a million more pieces, gripping my breaths in pain that didn’t even have words. And my heart, while breaking, overfilled with the surplus of more love I didn’t think I could possibly feel.

You see–life’s most painful moments really does hold the most beautiful moments too. Likewise, our most beautiful moments are quite often painful. Although some moments reveal their beauty quite instantly (holding our child in our arms after giving birth), some take time to see the beauty that was/is embedded in them. For me, today–seven years out–I can see beauty that is so abundant I can’t articulate all of it. To be loved until one’s dying breath; to GET to be the caretaker of my sweet husband, the father of my children; the intimacy of love that most don’t get to experience until the end of a long life, of how you can love your spouse more when you don’t think it is possible; to grow from your own grief, to help others in theirs; to not give excuses, but rise to the highest level of expectations for you and your son–THAT is painfully beautiful.

Would I wish my life circumstances on anyone? No. No, I absolutely would not.

Would I wish my life perspective on the world? Yes, Yes, I absolutely would.

The only way to have this perspective, is through pain, loss, and grief. It truly is painfully beautiful.

Keep going in grief. It’s so worth it.

Kristina

Kristina Smith is a widow, mother, Special Education Administrator, Colorectal Cancer National Advocate, Blogger and Amazon Best-Selling Author of “What I Wasn’t Expecting, When I Was Expecting: A Grieving Widow’s Memoir”

You can purchase your personal copy of Smith’s memoir here.

Grief’s Greatest Gift: Loving What Was and What Is

July 1, 2021 — 1 Comment

I wish I could describe it–grief, that is. I wish I could tell you all the rules, the step-by-steps of how to navigate the tricky, messy, crazy, painful beauty of grief. I wish I could tell you how, because I wanted the same manual. I read blog after blog, story after story, testimony after testimony. And with a choke hold I couldn’t swallow, tears burning my cheeks, I just wanted to know “How?” How do I get THERE from HERE.

Here’s the ONLY ANSWER that exists: THROUGH! You get THERE from HERE, by going THROUGH it all. You have to go through the pain, the raw, fresh, take-your-breath-away grief, by going through it. You can crawl, tiptoe, run, walk, sprint, take a time out, but you still have to go through it all. There is no way to go around grief, over or under grief, you have to go through it, in order to heal.

*Happiness **CAN** come after grief. But first–you have to do the work to heal your heart.* *No one can do the hard work for you.*

Many people questioned my grief journey (and likely still do). We are approaching 7 years in October that my husband has died. I no longer am in active grief–the kind where at any given moment you can’t help but tears spilling over your eyes, down your cheeks, and that silence you from talking because it hurts so bad. I am not there, and I haven’t been for some time. I can talk about him, laugh, smile, share memories with our son, without the tears streaming. Yet, there are still days that I miss him terribly, our life together, and what should have been. Even so, I have lived–truly lived with our son, never allowing his dad’s death to be a reason we didn’t make memories.

And as time shifted my heart from the severe, take-your-breath-away pain, and began to heal, so too did my prayer that God could send someone into my life to allow me to love what was, and what is. It was a non-negotiable. I knew there was no way my heart could stop loving Joe, that my soul still had to breathe by sharing memories of the incredible man he was to our son, and acknowledging that because of him, I am who I am today.

Do you know what loving what was, and what is, looks like?

An engagement proposal:
I get to love what was and what is.

It looks like still talking about your husband to another man that eagerly wants to know more about him. It looks like you pushing a man who is full of patience and grace away because there is no way he could accept your love for two men, all at the same time. It looks like that man you prayed to God for, reminding your son of the stories you have shared about that little boy’s daddy when you aren’t even around. It looks like that man wanting to help, wanting to do nice things for you, even when you demand that he shouldn’t because your trauma has you imprisoned that you can do everything yourself and you DON’T. WANT. HELP. And then, he shows up again, without fail, because that’s what you need.

It looks like a man full of humility, zero ego, ten truck loads of patience, even more grace that pours down on you, to let you still love the man that was taken from you too soon, and allow you to love him too. Loving what was and what is, is beautifully painful. It is bittersweet. It is humbling. It is duality. It is the highest high, with the sadness that seeps in because of how you got here. It’s appreciation, a deep, deep appreciation, for the most tragic loss of your life, because it has molded your heart to love so much deeper. It takes forgiveness, permission to love both worlds from yourself, and a boat-load of compromise.

Loving what was and what is…it’s hard. Really, really hard. It takes so much time. It takes ZERO unsolicited opinions from friends and family, and ESPECIALLY social media. I have earnestly ensured I didn’t seek out opinions from anyone because I wanted to know the opinions I had, were straight from my heart and soul–and no where else.

And loving the duality of both worlds, certainly does not have a how-to manual. Loving what was, and what is, requires you (no one else) to crawl, tiptoe, run, walk, sprint, sometimes take a time out, to get through it. There is no way to go around grief, over or under grief, you have to go through it, in order to heal. And it takes someone else to be able to do this tango dance, armored with grace, humility, patience, and grace, too.

Keep going in grief. On your own time. Without other’s opinions. And allow your heart to beat again. It is SO worth it.

Kristina

You can purchase your personal copy of Smith’s memoir here.

Dear Friends, I Forgot You Were Grieving Too

October 20, 2019 — 1 Comment

Sometimes our lens that we look out of is so narrow, so confined that we are unable to see everything and everyone outside of it. Grief has certainly narrowed my lens and vision of what I am able to see and not see. Five years out in grief and just in the past year have I started to see just how much grief my friends were/are going through too. I want to say “I’m sorry”: I’m sorry I couldn’t see it, I’m sorry I only had eyes for my own grief, I’m sorry that you were hurting too. Maybe, though, maybe a letter to my friends is what I can do in order for them to see that I can see some of their grief differently.

Dear Friends:

You stood by me, you picked me up out of bed, literally, and cried with me. You drove over an hour to sit on my front porch and hold me like a small child while I cried my eyes out to you and told you I couldn’t do “it”–life without him, and all that entailed. You took me to dinner, checked on me frequently, you showed up to help with house repairs, you text me back when I asked for a simple story of my late husband, just because it made me feel like I was closer to him. You watched my baby, you went to the pumpkin patch with us, cooked us dinner, bought me a bottle of wine. You let me cry and blubber on, and you never said a word, you just cried too.

Now though, now five years out, my heart breaks a little more because I look back and see how much you were grieving too. Yet, you held your grief in, so my own grief could soar. I see it now. I see so much of it. And I am equally as thankful as my broken heart.

Those tears that streamed down your face while I talked out how much I missed Joe: I know they weren’t just because I was crying too. You were crying, because you were watching one of your best friends hurting so badly, and there was nothing you could do. I see how much you grieved your friend who used to be happy, upbeat, full of life and laughter. You wanted her back, and you lost a piece of her when her husband died too. I am sorry I didn’t see that.

Those dinners we met for, as you shared stories of you and Joe in high school and the early days of adulthood, I now know were for you too. I am sorry I couldn’t see how much your heart was broken when your best friend died. I am sorry that I was so consumed in my own grief that I couldn’t see how much of a piece of your heart was missing when your best bud, someone that was in your life far longer than mine, was no longer here for you to come hang out with. I am sorry I never validated that your entire world had changed too.

Friend that came the very next morning to tell me I had to get out of bed, and hold my baby: I am sorry I didn’t see the grief you had sitting on your heart. Those tears weren’t just for me when I begged you to believe me that I couldn’t do this life without him. I know you were grieving for my pain, but also my son’s. I know you were broken that a sweet baby would grow up without his Daddy, that there was nothing you could say or do to fix this. I know your grief was doubled when I couldn’t even talk to get out any words.

Life-long friends: I am sorry I didn’t see it. I didn’t see how much you truly loved me. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and you came. You came to the funeral, you hugged me tight, but no words could do our life long friendship justice. No words could explain how bad your heart was broken, and how much you not only lost a friend in death, but you just lost a piece of the girl you have been friends with since we were in elementary school playing pick-up basketball on the playground at recess. I see it now: I see how much you love me, how much friendship multiplied by all the years, and the good and the bad of life can only make you love someone more. I see how you lost a friend that I brought into your life, but you lost me too when I wanted to close everyone off and demand that no one could possibly understand.

I am sorry friends. My grief has consumed my vision, my sights to only the pain my heart has experienced. Now, my heart feels more because I know just how deeply we are loved. I know you were grieving too at the loss of your friend, at the grief you couldn’t fix for us, for the part of your life that was lost that October day, five years ago.

What I can say is “Thank You.” Thank you for loving me through the storm. Thank you for loving me even when I was not lovable. Thank you for being a friend that sacrificed their own grief to validate my own. Thank you for having patience, grace, understanding. But most of all, thank you for being our friends. There’s no way I could have made it without each of you.

I genuinely hope you will always keep going in grief. It’s so worth it.

Kristina

Smith is a mom, widow, education administrator, Colon Cancer Advocate, and an Amazon Best-Selling Author of “What I Wasn’t Expecting, When I Was Expecting: A Grieving Widow’s Memoir” You can purchase your copy HERE.

How I Know My Dying Husband’s Nurses Played Cards

April 23, 2019 — 513 Comments

This past week Washington State Senator, Maureen Walsh, proclaimed that nurses in smaller hospitals “probably played cards for a considerable amount of the day, ” (CNN). What she was specifically referring to, is rural hospitals with smaller number of patients/beds to take care of. What she underestimated in her ill-planned statement though is a true caregiver’s perspective.

True Love

You see, I was seven months pregnant with my first child, when my husband was diagnosed with Stage IV Colon Cancer. We were blindsided by the diagnosis, let alone the late stage, and even the detrimental words “terminal.” We live very rural, a small lake-town that thrives off of tourism in our service industry businesses. And, I have to tell you, Senator Walsh was right: those chemotherapy infusion nurses, those post-surgery, seventh floor angels, those pain-control, specialty oncology nurses, they did play cards. I watched, observed, cried, thanked, and even begged them to keep playing cards to save my husband. Let me tell you about those cards they played:

When those masked, and scrubbed-in angels pushed my husband out on his hospital bed, down the corridors, and into his new “home” for the next 10 days–they played the card of who they should take care of first–their patient or the patient’s wife. They struggled if they should take care of the man wincing and crying out in pain, or if they should take care of the seven-month swollen expecting momma that was beside herself as she hovered over his body in his bed. They played the cards of wondering what they should convince that desperate wife and expecting mother of first: should she eat and feed that small babe growing inside her, or do we tell her she needs to sleep for the first time since they checked in four days ago?

Eight Months Pregnant, in for another surgery for an infection that developed.

Those blue-scrubbed Mercy Angels played the cards of wondering if they wrap their arms around that depleted wife when she was on her hands and knees begging God to relieve the pain her husband gasped for help with–or do they hold the small nine-month old chunky baby that was in the hospital floor playing with his toys to give that devoted wife a moment to just be her husband’s best friend and saving grace.

Those chemotherapy and infusion nurses–the real heroes in our story–they juggled the most cards of all. They juggled do we take care of the expecting momma, and later the momma of a five-day old, or do we tend to our patient’s every need. Do we take food, baby toys, or any of their needs to their overnight hospital stay, or do we stay home with our own families that we need to spend time with? They juggled whether they got to cry in front of us, or escape to the backroom to relieve emotions, when the oncologist said there was nothing more we could do. When those champion card players saw that frail, bony husband of mine disoriented, unaware of everything going on around him, and a momma carrying him on one arm, and their sweet year old baby in the other out of the chemo clinic–they played the card of what emotion they got to show that day.

Our “spot” at our doctor’s appointment every other Thursday. All day infusion, meant juggling lesson plan writing, grading papers, and a sweet baby taking a nap in between me and his Daddy’s chair.

Senator Walsh, you are correct. Our rural, country, small-town nurses do play cards all day–in fact, a considerable amount of the day. Wait–no– all day and all night. They play cards when they go home, when they are supposed to be with their families, when they are supposed to take care of themselves. They are master card players, the real poker faces in this game of healthcare. They play the cards of taking care of patients, taking care of patient’s caregivers, families, dying wishes, egos, dignity, and every single basic need in between. And while they are playing those cards, they are card sharks at playing their own cards of emotions, family, vulnerability, and juggling their personal time that they devote to their patients and their families. They attend funerals, they hold that wife and that brand new baby in their arms while they weep because they are standing at the coffin of a patient they loved.

They are card sharks. Poker faces. True Vegas-style card players. Yes, Senator Walsh, my husband’s country, rural-small town nurses play cards. The very best cards there are to play. And I couldn’t be more thankful.

A Champion for Nurses,

Joe Smith’s Widow

You can purchase your personal copy of Smith’s memoir here.

Coincidences Do Not Exist, Here’s How I Know

February 15, 2019 — 5 Comments

I have had a lot of things, actions, “weird stuff” happen since my husband passed away, that I simply cannot give a rational reason or explanation for. All I could tell anyone is that these things happen, and the instant they do, I know it is Joe. I have had friends look at me with “the look” of pity, as if they think I am crazy, and only clinging to believe that it could be Joe, since I miss him so desperately. I have even been told I have a “good imagination.” I used to get upset by such measures, and then I realized most people don’t know. They don’t know the unbearable, immeasurable loss I took, personally and for my son, over four years ago when my husband, and Porter’s Daddy passed away. And since people don’t understand that loss, or that love, I realize they wouldn’t get how many unexplained things happen. I do not believe in coincidences, and the death of my husband has only solidified that. Here’s why: maybe, just maybe, one of these instances could mean a coincidence, but all of them, in combination together, there’s just simply no way. God tells us multiple times He sends us signs, we just have to look for them. And sometimes when I feel like God, and Joe, are furthest away and I can’t feel them, it’s because I am not searching for them.

The first time I knew Joe wasn’t far away, was less than one month after he passed away. Putting laundry away in our bedroom, I heard our sixteen-month-old baby in the living room cackling–you know that baby belly laugh, where you can’t help but laugh too? Knowing no one else was home, I slowly peeked out my bedroom door to see what was so funny. There, I saw that sweet little bald-headed babe watching intently if someone were sitting right in front of him, and he was anticipating what was going to happen next. That look on his face with the smile already there, but waiting for the punch of hilarity, and then the red-faced, belly-laugh ensued. The laugh only stopped long enough for him to pause for the next motion of funniness as he watched whatever it was in front of him, and then the cycle of laughter continued. That moment in time, where what I could see was only a child and no one else, but there was clearly someone there entertaining him….Well, I guess unless you were there to see the pure happiness of that child as he interacted with someone I could not see, was the moment I knew his Dad hadn’t gone far.

Less than two weeks later, sitting in my bedroom closet, that wobbly, big-headed baby looked at me knowing he was going to take his first steps to me. You see at sixteen months we still weren’t walking yet, because he had grown up in hospital floors, being held more times than put down, because of Daddy being sick and always in the hospital or the chemo chair. As I stretched my arms out for him to take two steps to me, he excitedly reached out with a smile, and when he fell into my arms, he immediately without a second of hesitation screamed Daddy, as he looked over my shoulder. Flabbergasted, I pulled him away so I could look at his face, and he was set on the image behind me that I couldn’t see–with known intent of who he really took his first steps for. His Daddy.

As I went to speak to Congress for the first time three years ago, I was sat with a group of states. Missouri advocates sat with South Carolina. Significance? That is the state we were married in. And South Carolina sat right next to me. I knew Joe was there, affirming what I was doing.

Missouri and South Carolina advocates were pre-planned to sit next to each other.

My first wedding anniversary without him was in June 2015. From October 26, 2014 until June I had searched my house high and low. I knew, I just knew, in my heart that Joe had left me a message, a note, something, somewhere in our house. I emptied drawers, closets, searched his shop, looked everywhere–and I found nothing. I was in desperate need to find something, because Joe and I could never talk about dying. Ever. There were prime times to talk about, times I knew we were both thinking about the conversation about what I should do if he passed, but physically I could not choke the words out. I just needed something. Three days before our first wedding anniversary with him in Heaven, I was looking for a card that a friend sent. In the middle of a stack of baby shower and birthday cards for our son, I found a card with the words, “Love of my Life” scribbled across it. Inside that card, he wrote, “There is nothing more I want then to spend the rest of my life with you and our family. Love Always, XOXO, Joe.” So tell me, how, after intentionally searching our home for months, did I find this three days before our wedding anniversary? More importantly, I have no idea when he would have went to get this card, I was always with him, he could never drive on his own, and yet I still have no idea when he placed that card for me to find.

To see his handwriting again…to see his last wish written and know that I gave that to him–tears of joy and longing for what was.

Most recently, I turned thirty. A birthday I am thrilled to get to celebrate, and more time with our son and my friends and family. As the day approached though, the thought hit me that my husband would never know me in my thirties. It hit hard too. Approximately two and a half months before my birthday I had submitted a proclamation request to Missouri’s Governor to declare March as Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month. Since I had not heard anything, it was vaguely out of my thoughts. But only three days before my birthday, a signed proclamation was in the mail. How did the perfect timing of this happen–a reminder from someone that he wasn’t far as my big birthday approached? I think so.

Happy 30th to Me!

I’ve written our memoir and have worked over three years on it. At times, feeling as though I may not make this dream a reality, I had a friend step in. As I joined them in their office, and they turned around their computer to say “Happy Birthday” there a revised draft of our story, our struggle, our blessings is a book cover that could only make me scream, laugh, cry, but no words come out. That friend? I only met him through Joe–without Joe, I wouldn’t have the chance to know him. He then volunteers to help get everything set up, going, and ready to make the book live, because he believes in me that much. Why? Coincidence? Coincidence that so many years ago, Joe introduced me to this person, and now they are my champion? Again, I don’t think so.

You see, the list goes on. It goes on and on and on. The cards from friends I haven’t heard from in years, on the days that I can’t hardly get out of bed. The songs that I haven’t heard in forever, and yet they play at the most opportune times. The people–THE PEOPLE that years ago, seemed like they were just an acquaintance, and they are the ones that have completely changed my life in pivotal ways. The “random” chances of “just the right people” hearing my story, that spurs leading me to go speak to Congress, that then “just the other right person” hearing my story, and asking me to model and represent caregivers under the age of 50 in an advocacy colorectal cancer national magazine, that “just the right time” I am led to write a book.

Coincidences don’t exist. They are far more explained when you start connecting all of them and how they play a much bigger picture in your life. Coincidences are really God at work, in His ever-mysterious, never fully-explained or understood way. They are all around us, and I know that God, and Joe, send me these signs to know neither of them are very far away.

Keep going in grief. Find the sings, not the coincidences, and know that God and your loved one are right there with you. It’s so worth it.

XOXO–Kristina

Firsts Beyond the First

Experiencing Grief Beyond the First Year of Loss

colorectal cancer

Painfully Beautiful

Grief’s Greatest Gift: Loving What Was and What Is

Dear Friends, I Forgot You Were Grieving Too

How I Know My Dying Husband’s Nurses Played Cards

Coincidences Do Not Exist, Here’s How I Know