What I Have Re-Learned in Grief

On Tuesday, March 25th, around 2:45 p.m., my uncle Jon passed peacefully after being hospitalized for three weeks due to sepsis.

When I received a call from Columbia, Missouri, on March 7th, I was shocked. I had no idea that my uncle was sick or feeling so bad that he was rushed in for emergency surgery. The first surgery removed two infected vertebrae from his neck. Little did we know that the first surgery would lead to around 8-10 more procedures (surgeries, washouts, emergency procedures, and more). I’m still in disbelief that his body could endure the surgeries, the tubes, the medication, and the trauma for three weeks.

Jon was the youngest of three brothers: my dad, Jim, and my uncle Jerry. The unique quality of these three is that they are all ten years apart, which makes my dad, Jim, twenty years older than Jon. When they were growing up, some folks even thought that Jim was Jon’s dad. This became more relevant when my parents had my sister, Amy, as Amy and Jon are only 14 months apart. My brother, Brett, came along, and as he has said, “they were mean to me, mean when they were together.” I guess I need to thank him for taking the brunt of the “sibling” meanness before I arrived in 1980.

Over three weeks, I watched my dad and Uncle Jerry navigate the unknown. Grim prognoses were given more than once, and it became clearer within the last week that Jon’s recovery would be slim, given the circumstances of the infection. Sepsis caused a domino effect, so to speak, which affected many organs in Jon’s body. The kidneys were the first to cause problems, which meant dialysis was used to clean out infection, clean blood, take the bad blood out, and put good blood in. We were hopeful. However, Jon’s body did not tolerate medication and dialysis well, and he began to bleed. Jon lost four units of blood.

Over three weeks, my life changed. I am honored, overwhelmed, and impacted by Jon’s decision to allow me the opportunity to be his voice. Before his intubation, he asked if I could keep a notebook of what was taking place, writing down information from the doctors and nurses, and eventually, we would discuss that. He also indicated he would like me to be his medical power of attorney; however, when he became intubated and things with his diagnosis became more complicated, I filed for emergency guardianship and conservatorship, which was granted to me by a court before his passing.

Can you imagine stepping into someone’s daily life, a life they have maintained in another city, with a full-time job and obligations for over thirty-two years? Can you imagine trying to call an employer, settle insurance, and figure out steps going forward when you cannot communicate with your family member? If I’m being completely honest, when Jon came to visit back home, these were not conversations that we had- “what’s your life insurance like?”

Can you imagine being told that you and your family will have to make a decision? Or have you been asked to honor someone’s wishes?

It is not easy.

Grief is a full-body experience. Truth be told, I feel like I’ve been beat up, kicked down, and I hurt. My heart hurts. I watched my dad and uncle say goodbye to their little brother. That is not the natural order. He was the youngest. He should still be here. Grief feels heavy. I’ve looked for normalcy when I can find it. Simple things: listening to some of my favorite podcasts, being with my family in Illinois, trying to work.

Memory is both a gift and a thief. I sorted pictures. Jon collected a lot of photos from his childhood, our family, and over time. I was frustrated there were not more digital photos, there were not more photos of holidays with my family, there were not more photos of Jon with all of my kids. Seeing football photos of Jon from high school and reading that he was a helluva player makes me remember I had a special shirt made with his name and number on it (and I know there’s a photo of that somewhere).

Love after loss does not disappear- it is transformed. There is pain in missing someone, especially if you have lost a parent. I lost my mom in 2022, Sam lost his mom not long before my mother passed. We live with that every day. The pain of missing those that we love is proof that their presence in our life did something to us; it made an impact, and it made a difference. The same is true with Jon. I have realized that there is something oddly comforting in this: love does not dissolve in death, it lingers, it transforms, and reshapes, yet it deepens at the same time.

Grief rearranges reality. Nothing looks the same after a loss. Time stretches and warps. This I know first hand because on that Tuesday, March 25th, time stopped briefly. Trying to describe this would be like suggesting one gets new eyes after a loss; that’s grief. You see things differently; people are different. My life at home did not stop, work did not stop, the emails kept coming, my kids still had school, and my husband still had work. But this loss impacted all of that.

Grief is not something to be solved but it is something to be witnessed, honored, and lived through. We’ve been through it, so to speak. Jon’s body went through it in a short amount of time. I think throughout some of the procedures we saw how strong he was to endure so much in so little time.

In three weeks, I learned a lot about medicine, the body, and healthcare. I still stand by my statement that nurses are angels on this earth. Jon had many. Jackson, Audrey, Tiffany, Hannah, Wes, and Lindsey, who was with him in the end. Doctors who took time to listen to our concerns, explain things in a way that made sense: Dr. Moore (who called to offer my dad his condolences), Dr. Ingram, Dr. Pino, Dr. Skahur, and Dr. Cowboy Boots (yes, he wore cowboy boots with his scrubs)–his actual name escapes me now.

There were moments where being at MU Health Care was like being in an episode of “Grey’s Anatomy.” The teams of nurses, doctors, interns, and such came in, scary moments where life and death were quite literally the name of the game. I can tell you several good places to eat in Columbia, local shops, where the mall is, and how to find peace in the Zen Garden. I can tell you that you have friends who become family in times like these. The Cram’s and The Loyd’s have special places in my heart and I’m forever grateful to them.

Some days, you will want to slow down and remember. Other days, you will want to keep busy and forget. But I am here to tell you that both are necessary in grief. Some people will never understand the complexities, the commitments, and the words you made or kept to others during sickness (and health). Some people will expect you to act as if nothing happened. Grief is not linear. The grieving process ebbs and flows, and that is okay.