Joy is Deeper

You don’t know this, but this is blog attempt number four today. I have been trying to bandaid the gash of Heyma’s death with writing all day, but nothing has come. No words of consolation to myself or therapy can take away the thoughts piercing my mind.

I decided to finally just sit down in Heyma’s old purple Hawaiian moo moo with a cup of coffee and some chocolate and see if anything came out…and it did.

I wish I had some special sentiment or specific memory that I could tell about Heyma. I have about three thousand and twenty-five to be exact, but none surface long enough to dwell upon to write about. I think that is the thing about grief: so many thoughts ricochet in your mind that to try to pin one down to dwell on seems impossible. They almost start blurring from a rainbow to a brown blob of emotions, which can’t be pinpointed either. So here I am, a mass of confused understandings with no direction of grief or clarity.

I knew this day was coming. She would have been 98 this St. Patrick’s Day. While I never expected it to happen today, tomorrow, or this year or the next (she was supposed to live forever, you know), I knew the day was approaching. I thought I would be a ball full of misery and crying and anger and bitterness, but surprisingly, I find something else.

My first reaction at 11:23 am, when I heard she died at 11, was fast and steady tears, the steamy type that don’t stop coming…so fast and so steady that even your vocal cords chime in. Maybe that’s called a wail? I must have looked hysterical as my two year old tried to give me his toy french fries to cheer me up; he sat there with a handful of them, looking at me with a crumpled face of perplexity. Olivea was hushed. Sarah was hushed. They all just stared. In that moment, in that selfish, Manda moment, I grieved. I didn’t grieve for Heyma, but I grieved for selfish old me. I grieved that Heyma left me.

As the tears dried, the world moved on. It didn’t stop for me or anyone else that recognized that Heyma died. In my mind, her life was so epic that I felt as if FOX News or Facebook needed to report that this perfect woman had expired and a second (or a month) of silence was in order. But of course not. This is not the case with anyone special.

But it wasn’t long until I envisioned Heyma in her twenties, like the photo from her wedding day. She was slender wearing a belted dress, her red thick hair curled back and her grin glossed in a strawberry hue. There Heyma was, floating through my definition of afterlife, laughing her operatic laugh, embracing the many that had gone before her, chattering, singing, giggling, and going on like it was the biggest, best party ever. And you know what, it was. It was (and is…I’m sure it’s still going on, knowing Heyma) the best party Heyma had ever been to, and she didn’t even have to lift a finger.

That’s where I am. I’m not lost in my grief. I’m not crying anymore. Not that I won’t cry again, because I will, but I see Heyma as being more free than any other day in her life. Reunited with those she loved most and waiting for all the rest of us, which really isn’t that long from now. What, like fifty years? Seventy? Man, that’s like nothing compared to the infinite amount of years we’ll spend together in heaven!

And heaven? How on earth can we forget about heaven? Do we understand the concept of heaven? No. I know I don’t. I know God’s there. That in itself is worth every breathing second to get there. I know you can only get there through Jesus and nothing else. Thank you, Lord, we don’t have to skin up our knees to convince you to let us in…otherwise I wouldn’t have a chance! I mean, heaven is so magnificent that God’s presence alone is so bright it lights the sky! There’s no crying or pain. Only peace and bliss and freedom and love and joy and everything you can tie into those sentiments. That’s the place for Heyma! And she didn’t get there by her good deeds, although through my rose-colored glasses, Heyma was perfect in every way. No, Heyma got there because she loved Jesus. She exuded Jesus and could give a Sunday sermon without a word and on any day of the week. She lived redeemed by the blood of Jesus and that’s the only reason she went to heaven.

That’s the kind of woman I want to be: redeemed by Jesus, but live like a saint to onlookers. I’ve already failed that pitifully, but I can start today, right? Maybe tomorrow.

From her first inhale to her very last exhale today, she was a woman of great legacy. Enduring more sorrow and brokenness in her lifetime than the average person, yet taking the broken pieces and sewing them back together to make something beautiful. She was a phoenix that rose from the ashes time after time, the catalyst for love and acceptance and change, the sugar that sprinkled over every sour situation, the words of hope over every impossible feat. She was the epitome of selflessness and I find myself dumbfounded by how I could be in lineage of such a woman. But I am. And I am grateful.

So all these mismatched thoughts and hodge podge of emotions come down to a single thought: she’s free. She’s free from her confusion, from her failings and sins, from the broken parts of her life, and free from the unanswered questions. She is running, skipping, giggling, dancing, singing, embracing, and filling herself with what brought her the most joy from the beginning: those she loved the most. The most precious reunion of her family and friends, and most importantly, her Creator.

So, Heyma, I can’t wait to join you. I have waited for so long to reminisce with you and recall all the times we’ve shared. I can’t wait to reintroduce the love of my life, Tyler, and my babies. I can’t wait for you to show me my little redhead girl, Rohan. I cannot wait to hear those piano keys dance again like when Kathy used to play on earth and to hear your enchanting laughter of amusement at her bouncing to the music. I can’t wait to remember everything and forget everything at the same time! I can’t wait to kiss your forehead and walk hand in hand to see our Savior. There is no greater delight than to know you are with the one whom I love the most, Jesus.

Oh, the sorrow is deep, but the joy is even deeper.

Somewhere In Between

“Heyma, it’s your little princess!” Mom said with an upbeat tone as we walked into her room at the Broen Home. I smiled and bent next to Heyma who was covered in one of her polyester pieced quilts. I haven’t been called that name for so long that it drowned my mind in a million memories. Though she had been sleeping, her green eyes opened and her face lit up in a smile.

Heyma’s smile is unlike any other. The wrinkles of almost 98 years of life gathering around her grin, her green eyes twinkling under her heavy lids, and her soft pink cheeks raising as if every wrinkle in itself was sagging a smile. I brushed my fingers through her coarse white hair and gave her a kiss on her forehead.

In my mind, I felt like I had to record every word. Every emotion. Every move and action and sound. I wanted to hold onto everything.

Once I started rubbing her arm and combing my fingers through her hair, she closed her eyes in complete comfort. I whispered “I love you” and gave her another kiss on the cheek. Her mouth opened, but only a groan came out.

I don’t need anyone to tell me what she can and cannot understand, so I said, “I know you love me too, Heyma.”

What do I know about Alzheimer’s and aging to 98 and getting closer to death? Nothing. I have no clue what it feels like to lose my parents and siblings and husband and even a grown daughter. I don’t know how it feels to forget names and memories. I don’t know how it feels to forget who I am or what I am to others. And I am not about to assume anything about Heyma…because she’s still Heyma. She could forget her name yesterday but remember “Amazing Grace” today. She may recall the endearing name “Little Princess” she called a chubby, blonde-haired little girl today and forget tomorrow. Her nurses and science and even my family can tell me she doesn’t understand much of anything, but she’s still my Heyma. So I’ll still talk.

While her eyes were cracked open, gazing at me, I thanked her for her love. For teaching me to bake and cook and sew and for all her yummy Lefse. Her eyes became big as cherries at the utterance of Lefse. I smiled. I soon followed with telling her memories about having grot for breakfast, hoping I’d get another response. Nothing. I guess Lefse was the winner today. I wish I had a roll of the stuff, buttered and brown-sugared, not that she’d eat it.

I saw her wiggling toes peeking from beneath the covers. I remember spending nights with Heyma and being abruptly woken by her in the morning doing leg exercises in bed, followed by massaging each of her feet and each little toe. I decided to rub her feet. She began to shift, her face crinkling, followed by a relaxed sigh.

I remember Heyma doing all these things for me when I was her Little Princess. She’d shower me in affection every opportunity she could, giving me hugs and kisses and brushing my hair with her fingers. I couldn’t but help feel like we switched roles, which we did. And for the first time in a long time, I was okay with that.

I had become so selfish as I became older. I couldn’t handle seeing her as she aged and changed and when she really couldn’t remember me. I’d visit her every few months, but it was nothing like every weekend or every summer day growing up.

When she was healthier, like just months ago, she’d laugh her operatic laugh at silly things, lick her lips from a little chocolate, and always said “yes” to a cup of coffee. She got to meet and even hold Tosten and Olivea, and I can’t but help grieve each future Hegseth that may never get to meet this bigger-than-life woman.

One day, my dad was holding little Olivea Jamae. She was smiling her toothless grin, having nothing to be happy about but the air she was breathing. Dad said, “I bet Olivea is just like what Heyma was like when she was a baby.”

I didn’t know what to say. I love Heyma so much that I couldn’t even begin to compare the two. One that was approaching 98 years of life and the other only five months.

As I looked in Heyma’s eyes yesterday, I saw Olivea. I dont know if it was a physical attribute or just the feeling of that drowning affection. I thought about the legacy Heyma has left. She being the oldest Hegseth, Olivea being the youngest, and me sandwiched somewhere between the two.

I want to hope a part of her will live on no matter when she leaves this earth. It’s cliché to say she’ll leave a part in each of us, but I need that today. I WANT to hear that today. I want to look at my daughter and believe she’ll be just like Heyma. I don’t want Heyma to go. I don’t want one single part of her to go…

But then I realize, when she lets go of this world, she’s free. Letting go allows her to be more Heyma than ever!

By this time, my tears were streaming down my face on the quilt over her. I whispered, “It’s okay, Heyma, if you want to go. You worked so hard here on earth. Your whole family is in heaven and the rest of us will be there soon.”

I sang “Jesus Loves Me” and rubbed her arm. She was so warm. Her hands have always been warm. I gave her one last kiss on the forehead.

I put my coat on and took one last look back, she was sleeping soundly. Drifting back to a world where she doesn’t have to be so confused.

I’m not saying this was my last time seeing her alive, but I’m not saying it won’t be either…so I must remember. And I do.

I love you, Heyma.

Mister Quiet

It’s too quiet. I don’t mind quiet. After a day of running from kids to meeting to kids to work to meeting to lunch to kids and work and blah and blah, you’d think the quiet is nice. And it is. It is nice.

It’s almost two hours to midnight and I just opened a fresh can of Diet Coke. I just finished an oatmeal chocolate chip muffin and a few (who am I kidding, a few handfuls) of leftover Christmas cookies from Trader Joes. My stomach is bloated and my eyes itch in exhaustion and I’m still watching for lights to roam down the driveway.

No one is coming, you know. Tyler got home at an early hour from delivering Coke all over eastern Otter Tail County and quickly escaped to a men’s retreat. This is great, but it leaves me with an eerie feeling. A feeling that apparently makes me feel anxious and has caused me to stuff my face with foods that don’t even appeal to me at bedtime.

So it’s quiet. A very different, relaxing, anxiety-provoking quiet.

It takes me back to my single days. Friday nights were usually movie nights. I’d stay up late and allow myself to not even bat an eyelash at homework, well, unless my love was visiting for the weekend. I’d eat junk and gorge myself in chocolate and caffeine and sleep deprivation. It was quiet, too. Kind of like this type of quiet.

I feel alone. I feel disabled.

Before they went to bed, I found myself snuggling Olivea more, tickling and smooching Tosten more, and just feeling like a part of me was missing.

I wonder. Does it only take five years to attach to someone? Does it only take a half a decade to weave so much with another that when you’re apart you feel disjointed? You feel incomplete? I’m not talking about new-relationship-gitty-infatuation feelings, I’m talking about an amputation of a leg or my arm or perhaps my right ventricle (is that even a part).

I say that’s a good sign. I say that my prayers in tears and my utterances in frustration and my plain Jane list of requests for a healthier and happier marriage are being heard. I say God has been listening and perhaps this doomed couple that was once deemed as a “bad example of marriage” is transforming into something beautiful.

My “bad” marriage was my fault. It took me only a year of disappointment and anger and frustration to realize the problem in my marriage was me. My selfishness. My pride. My arrogance. My illogical expectations. My stupidity. I was the problem.

In this quiet, it makes sense. Children sleeping, Tyler probably half asleep at Inspiration Point because of his long day, and me urging my eyes to stay open with some caffeine. The quiet reveals the lines of truth that normally would be tangled in the messiness of a busy household. But when all is quiet, I can see those lines straight, tight, and strong. I can see our marriage straight, tight, and strong. I can see our family straight, tight, and strong. And I can see a grinning God delighted that He has made us straight, tight, and strong. I see answered prayers.