Day 119: Almost Home

June 27, 2014

I'm currently sitting in the airport in Dallas/Ft. Worth waiting to board the the last leg of my journey home. The 12-hour flight from Incheon to DFW was uneventful. Lots of napping. The latest podcast of This American Life. Twice woken up to be served questionable food wrapped in plastic and tinfoil. Watched "The Grand Budapest Hotel" and caught myself snort-laughing on more than one occasion. Thank you, Wes Anderson. Thank you, Ralph Fiennes. And especially thank you, Willam Defoe.

I'm overlooking the fact that I wept my way through security and onto the plane. I wept my way past the first class passengers who probably thought I was coveting their spacious chairs, comfy slippers, and free-flowing drink carts, and rightfully so. I excused myself and wept my bag up into the overhead bin and wept my way to seat 27J. There was a considerable amount of weeping.

What was that about? A few things, I think. It started as I sipped a latte and was waiting for my flight out of Incheon. Well- no. Wait. Before that, I think. On the several hour bus ride on the way to the airport. I wanted to nap, but my mind was busy dancing around various memories as though I had no control over what was playing up there. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. But here I was the January before last taking a bus to the airport on the way to Vietnam playing a game of funny text messaging with Gareth. I'm sure my snorts drew attention on that ride. And when the messaging ran its course, one of us called the other and we spoke nearly the whole way there- my voice brought to a whisper so as to not disturb the others on the bus. I thought about this and smiled. No tears.

Our bus drove past some kind of structure that looked like a miniature version of the Space Needle and I thought about the one plopped halfway between Hadong and Gyeongju, near Yangsan. We'd use this as a marker when one was driving to see the other. A text message or call: "At the space needle! Not long now!" This didn't make me cry. I thought about this, too, and smiled. No tears.

I walked through the busy airport, pushing my luggage balanced on a cart with a wonky wheel, and thought about last summer's trip home with Gareth penning a poem for me as we sat and had coffee in the airport before my flight. I have it somewhere. Folded up. Sweet words in anticipation of longing. I found a spot to sit and have a coffee and was aware of the heaviness of being alone. And it's not that I don't love to travel alone. I do. And it's not that I don't love my independence. I do. I was just aware- very aware- that Gareth is not here with me now.

Something about that permanence is what got me today. Gareth will not ever take a plane home with me. He won't meet my family or friends. He won't see where I grew up. We won't tour the U.S. And even in the few weeks before he died when this looked like a slim possibility to anyone else, I know that deep down, against all odds, I had still hoped for and wished this to be potential reality. I grieve the loss of Gareth as much as I grieve the loss of what I hoped could have been in another life with another set of circumstances. I just don't get it. What a great match we were. Other factors be damned.

I floated around in these thoughts, with these thoughts, for a brief moment before the tears came. And here they were again, the sobbing variety. I've become good at it, really- letting it come and watching it go. I'm thoroughly convinced it needs to be done, this release of pain, and if I fight it when I feel it, it will just come back and give it another go. Not a convenient time? No time is convenient, really, is it? It's just not. So I let it happen. This is what grief looks like, and perhaps if we didn't fight it so much, it wouldn't make us so uncomfortable to be in the presence of it. Think of me as your friendly grief diplomat. Shake hands with me and hand me a tissue, if you don't mind.

It shouldn't be a surprise by this point that I looked up in the middle of this particular wave and found myself sitting next to this gate:

There it is again. That magic number. Ok, Gareth. I get it. I'll be ok. Ride this one out.

One I was settled on the plane that wave- or series of waves, really- seemed to have passed. I remembered the words of Megan Devine reminding me "You're doing this right. You can't mess this up" in reference to the grief process. Tears or no tears, waves or no waves, I'm doing it right. Exactly the way I need to be doing it, which may look different from or the same as another person in grief. Megan also said, and I won't get this exactly right, but something to the effect of "Grief is not a falling away from the path. Grief IS the path." That's it. That's exactly it.

Waking up at one point during the flight, I realized I was wearing a shirt that Gareth bought me to make me laugh (it reads "animal party- maybe the zookeeper forgot to lock the door. The park isf illed with animals"), an eye mask he gave me last December on my birthday in Seoul, and I was wrapped in a soft, navy travel blanket he'd gotten me because I'd frequently get cold. Gareth is everywhere with me. It would be hard to purge myself of reminders, even if I wanted to.

last December in Seoul- Gareth surprised me with several birthday gifts during lunch at a Mexican restaurant. My favorite was this animal sleeping mask. Look at my happy face!

The same mask and the blanket he got me accompany me on trips.

Gareth was always on the lookout for little gifts that would fuel my joy. I'm wearing this on the flight home.

 Wearing the same shirt in happier times.

So, I'm just a few hours from being back home. The feeling is, of course, different from last time I came through here. I'm no longer in awe of all the English being spoken around me or of all of the restaurants I recognize. This airport is merely a stop on the way home. The world seems smaller.

I was worried Korea (and Gareth) would feel so far away. But it's not. It's here. And here. And here. Things become woven into our fabric and that is what we are cloaked in. And when I go home I will weave some more. More friends. More family. More love.

Day 117: The Funny Thing About Going Home

June 25, 2014

I fly home to St. Louis in 37 hours. Two sleeps. Tomorrow I'll pack my bags, pick up a few souvenirs, exchange some money, pay a bill, and drive 2 hours west to Daejeon where Philopena will stay with a friend while I'm away. I'll spend the night there and then head for the airport the next morning.

"Aren't you excited to be going home? That will be so good for you!" It will. And I am. Beyond the excitement of a trip to Target or filling a plate at Whole Foods salad bar (both things of dreams and distant wonder while I'm here in Korea), I'm looking forward to being with family. With friends. Being in the presence of a whole safety net of people who love me beyond my ability to comprehend and who I love back in equally big ways.

I'm looking forward to reacquainting my feet with familiar running paths. I'm looking forward to swinging in the park next to my parents' house and tilting my head back to see fat Midwestern clouds against a painfully blue sky. I'm looking forward to smelling the earthy paws of my old dog, to standing next to my niece and seeing how tall she's gotten, to walking the neighborhood streets early mornings with my sister. I'm looking forward to tea with my mom and spaghetti dinners with my dad. I'm looking forward to the hugs. Hug after hug after hug. Happy hugs and weepy hugs. Back patting hugs and long hugs. I'm looking forward to them all.

Like with almost everything in recent months, I'm aware that I hold the excitement in one hand while balancing the heavier reactions in my other hand. The sadness of packing a bag and leaving the heart of where so much has happened. The fear of being far from those who knew Gareth well and who understand on a deep level when I talk about missing him or when I try to process the tougher times. They get it, because they were here, too. They saw it. Here my support system is smaller, but it's concentrated with people who saw Gareth and I together and recognized both the deep connection and love they saw and later the struggles Gareth had. I'm comforted by talking to people about both of these things. Not all of the time, of course- but when it comes up, they're here, and we talk about it with the backdrop of Korea, where it all took place.

In one hand is the belief that going home will be a really healing thing for me. In the other hand is the fear that changing environments and freeing up my schedule will open the gate for a large wave to come through and swallow me up. "Do you think this could happen?" I asked my grief therapist the other night on our call. "Do you think I might get hit with another dip into a low place before coming up again?" She assured me it could...and probably would. "Ok, well....dang it. I can do it. I can. I'm ready!" I had just gotten back from a hike that included a lot of steadfast climbing and pulling myself up and I think I was still riding high on that metaphor.

I'm afraid to unplug from Korea and unplug from Gareth and our common friends. I'm afraid I'll become untethered and float away up there to who knows where. Something about being here, as much as I also want to be home, is keeping me connected. Going home will be a lesson in letting go and holding on. And right now I need to do both.

Going home also brings up some "firsts" that I didn't anticipate. Packing for a trip (the first since Gareth died.) Going to the airport to go home (he drove me there last time and walked me to the gate- I remember turning around to see him standing there, smiling at me, and waving a little wave.) Being back in the U.S. (we would skype regularly and I remember sitting in my parents empty living room late at night with my laptop on my lap and my boyfriend tiny and animated on my computer screen.) Returning to Korea (I remember coming through the gate and seeing Gareth standing there, smiling like it was Christmas, with his trademark red roses wrapped in simple brown twine.) A year is full of firsts. Some I see coming and some I don't. Going back home seems to have a lot of them.

Then there's the underlying and deeper (and harder to acknowledge or even look at) trigger of feeling like I'm leaving him. That's a big old ball of emotional twine right there, and I unravel it a bit at a time, usually with the help of my counselor. Intellectually it's been sorted and neatly filed away. But emotionally it's all a mess in there in regards to this topic. Somehow I've made the groove in the thought record that leaving = bad, even if it seems like it's for a good reason, like going home for a visit or giving someone the choice to get better. If I leave, when I leave, very real and irreversible bad things will happen. That's what my subconscious is whispering to me now. Leaving = bad. Don't do it. Do it and you'll be sorry. You'll regret it. Don't...leave.

Grief is messy, right? Indeed, it is. And it's not to be intellectualized. It's to be felt. The logical and illogical are to be acknowledged and allowed to sweep over us. Because that's how the room for good is made. That's how the space for healing happens. At least, that's how it works with me.

I'm wearing one of Gareth's t-shirts as I type this- the grey one with the plane schematics on it. I four of his shirts, and upon smelling each one deeply tonight, I found this one was the only one that still had the faintest scent of him left on it. I smelled the armpits. I held the armpits up to my nose, closed my eyes, and took in the deepest inhale I could handle. There- just barely- there is Gareth on a warm day after a walk up to the observatory and back with me. It's almost gone, but I can just pick it up.

It's odd, this letting go and remaining connected. And I suspect not everyone back home will understand where I am with this or why it's necessary. I anticipate a few people may even judge me for what could be seen as a lack of "moving on" or only looking at small parts of a bigger picture, ignoring aspects that were less pleasant. I'm worried a bit about that. I'm worried it will be easy to judge without having been here and having been witness to all of it- good and not so good. I feel like people here really get it, and I'm worried that I'll get home to the people I love most and find that not everyone does.

The reality is I don't really know what to expect. And neither do the people who love me. My mom said something really profound to me the other night. She said, "You know, last August, I sent my daughter off to Korea and she was the happiest I've ever seen her. That's who I saw leave and I now I don't who who's coming back." That's honest. And fair. And I really, really get that. I'm not the person who got on that plane to Korea last summer. I'm not predictable in my emotions. And the joy that I exuded last year that was so contagious has been frequently replaced by intense and deep sadness. And that's hard to watch.

I'm not sure how people will react to that. Certain friends and family aren't sure how they'll react to that. I don't know if I'll put pressure on myself to be happy to satisfy others or if I'll feel isolated in my grief. Maybe I'll have long periods of lightness and happiness and maybe that will come with some surprise guilt. Who knows. This part is uncharted territory for me and for most of us.

But it's do-able. This, I know. And it's necessary. Whatever part of the process I'm ready for is about to happen and I will give it everything I've got. Here is what's coming back, and here is who is returning: the Bridget that is able to be faced with some pretty big stuff and get through it. The Bridget who says "f- this s***, I'm DOING THIS!" when she's climbing rocks when hiking or freezing on a mountain during mile 12 or approaching the hill on Ladue Road on a run. I can be flattened. And I was absolutely flattened in the past few months, no doubt. But I'm standing now. And even if my knees buckle and I go down for a bit again, I can say with all assurance that I will get up.

I've got this thing. I really do. I'm going to go home and take in all of the love I can, and I'm going to ride the waves that may or may not toss me about there, too. I'm going to share stories about Gareth and laugh. I'm going to miss him deeply and cry. I'm going to get angry. I'm going to have moments of almost forgetting and living right smack dab there in the present. I'm going to be up and I'm going to be down. And I can do this.

My friend Jennifer is flying in from D.C. to visit me in early July.

Some of my favorite ladies in the world. And great partners in growth.

I plan to do some bikram yoga with these ladies.

My friend Heather (we met when I was 2) will hopefully be making a visit from Boulder.

So much healing from being with Mom and Dad.

I'll fly up to Portland for a week to spend ridiculously good times with my friend Maud who I've known since high school.

I'll likely spend time in the Botanical Gardens with my friend and former teammate Aimee and her two girls, who I love like family.

I can't wait to take this kiddo out on the town- my niece Rose!

Lost of morning walks will be had with my sister, Amy.

A tiny portion of the largest group of supportive friends a girl could have. And they all make me laugh.

Day 114: Find Your Peace and Go There Often

June 22, 2014

"Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.  Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.  The winds will blow their freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like falling leaves." 

-John Muir
 

“Jumping from boulder to boulder and never falling, with a heavy pack, is easier than it sounds; you just can't fall when you get into the rhythm of the dance.” 

-Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

My friend Paige has called me up and invited me to go hiking with her several times since Gareth died. And she gets the grief. Paige was Gareth's friend, coworker, and office mate for the entire time he was at Dongguk University. Among other things, Paige is an avid hiker. When Gareth and I were together, Paige and I had always talked about going hiking, but it never quite seemed to happen- mostly due to the fact that Gareth and I were off traveling or spending time alone on the weekends. 

In those rough days of early February, before Gareth's accident but not long before, Paige made the 3 hour trip to Hadong to get me out of the house for a hike. A different and earlier grief had set in during those days, and Paige sensed that urging me out of my apartment onto the snowy trails of Jirisan would do me some good.

And it did.

There was a rhythm to that hike. A laboring that gave way to ease of spirit.  Being in the company of someone who knew Gareth well and could help me try to make sense of the sudden crash of those few days in early February was the lifeline that I needed. We walked and she let me play my grief like a broken record.

I just really miss him.
I know you do.
I mean really, really miss him.
I know you do.
I can't help him.
I know you can't.
I miss him.
I know you do.
I want him to get help.
So do I. We all do.
I miss him so much.
I know you do. 
I love him.
He loves you, too.

And this is much of how we made our way up the mountain, across the ridge, and back down, punctuated by periods of silence. In small doses, there was even laughter. Underlying it all, there was certainly fear. 

Perhaps 3 weeks later Gareth was gone.

What can we do with such heaviness? Where can we go with this loss? At the same time that one part of me wanted to be plucked straight from this life and as far away from the pain as possible, there was another part of me that in some way was seeking that which would give me peace.

Make a list of the things that give you peace. I mean really sit down and think about it. And then write it down. Because when you are plunged into the depths of great sadness, you will not have the energy to move your pen across the page, but the list will be there. And on it are the things we can carry the body to do in hopes the mind and spirit will get some small relief.

This is what hiking does for me. And it is only because I've had Paige, who has time and time again called me up and arranged a hike, who has reminded me how much I love it even when I feel like I'm not possibly up to the bus ride, the car ride, the packing of the backpack, the filling of the water bottles, the making of the trailmix- she reminds me that I can do this. And that it will be worth it.

Make a list of what brings you peace and then go there. Often.

Here's what I know- hiking is for me equal parts therapy, communion with God, physical release, endorphin-building, relationship-tending and solitude-seeking. The metaphors on a hike are seemingly endless, from the difficult ascent to the worth-it view at the top. From the inability to see the path beyond the fog to the gratitude for hearing a fellow hiker's voice ahead on the trail, knowing you're headed in the right direction. Hiking hits me with scenes so breathtaking I have no choice other than momentarily setting my grief down at my feet so I can open my arms up to God's grace.

In the past few months I've hiked through knee-deep snow, climbed over rocky ridges, mirrored the paths of streams, walked past the thunder of waterfalls. My feet have made rhythms over rock-hard dirt, slippery mud, soft fallen pine needles, metal bridges, stone slabs, and shallow pools. I've held my finger in the air and traced the sweeping hills, snow covered and then lush with spring leaves. I've closed my eyes to better take in the sound of wooden temple bells, monks chanting, water fighting its way downstream, birds trying out every sound they know to make. My upturned face has felt salty sweat, fine mist, bitterly cold wind, warm sunshine, fat rain drops. My legs have trembled at the end of a long day.

For several hours, with the fine thread of all memories, feelings, and questions Gareth-related woven into conversations of every other imaginable topic, I am present. I am alive. I am in my body and I am grateful.

Because the photos I have from these hikes can do more justice than any words I could write, I'll leave this post with a sampling from the hikes I've done with Paige in the past few months.

Thank you, Paige, for taking care of my spirit in this way. I found my peace and you continue to bring me to it.