Sara Laughed

This post may contain affiliate links. Please read my affiliate disclosure for more info!

When it comes to relationships, our culture likes to focus on firsts. First kiss. First love. First time. You hear about them from your friends, and see them on TV. You wonder how they'll be when they happen to you.

But here's a first I never heard much about, or expected: first diagnosis. First breakdown on the eleventh floor of a hospital, followed by a call your mom, and the first time you give the news to someone else. First big conversation about specialists and treatments and more scans.

I never wove those firsts into my story when I imagined my future. It never occurred to me.

My partner, Ken, was recently given the very likely diagnosis of Relapsing-Remitting Multiple Sclerosis. After a whirlwind few days in the hospital, followed by a week at his parents' house, I am home. My classes start soon. Life is, on the outside, returning to normal.

But on the inside, I feel so far from normal. I feel like a snow globe that's just been shaken, swirling with flurries of fear and anger and sadness. Every time they start to settle, something shakes the snow globe again an appointment with a specialist, a prayer said for me in church, or the harmless question “How are you?” from a friend. I don't know how to answer that question. And responding “I AM A SNOW GLOBE OF EMOTION” seems vaguely inappropriate.

This is my first time dealing with grief. I'm grieving a lot of things: certainty, stability, and a particular vision of the future that Ken and I always thought we had.

Grief is new to me. And I am so bad at it that it's almost funny.

For example: since the diagnosis, I keep wanting to get a tattoo. I want the words “Micah 7;8” over a watercolor splash, with a semicolon instead of a colon. Because I am a 22 year old woman living in 2016, I want them on my wrist. On some level, though, I know that having a tattoo will fix nothing. So my brain goes, “How about some new sheets?”

Yes, perfect! New sheets will surely do the trick. Maybe a really colorful quilt for my dorm room. Surely, if I owned a quilt like that, the grief would be no more. Because despite all the medicines and diets that have been tried to treat MS, no one has ever explored the potential healing power of quilts.

I spend a half hour or so shopping for quilts online. But after a while, the high starts to wear off. None of the quilts really look like the grief-fixing quilt I had imagined. I should probably try something else.

I know! Maybe I should give up processed foods. Or maybe, I should eat a half a block of mozzarella. Would this situation be any better if Ken and I were married? I'm going to start taking vitamin supplements.

All these thoughts are me flailing. I am grasping at any possible thing that will fix this situation or bring me some peace. But to my deep frustration, at my core, I know the only thing that will being peace is time. It takes time for the dust to settle. It takes time for the shock to wear off. It takes time to figure out what we're dealing with, and how we're going to move forward.

This evening I went out with my godmother for dinner, and we talked about my tattoo/sheets/time dilemma. We talked about Ken, and the diagnosis, and all the fear and anger and sorrow that comes with grief. And then we talked about other things. We talked about Hamilton, and friendship, and the Himalayan salt lamp I want to buy for my room. And we laughed. I really laughed, for maybe the second or third time since I got the news about Ken.

And for the first time in weeks, I thought, okay. Okay, we can do this. Because this may be the worst “first” I've ever encountered. But if we can have moments of relief and laughter in the middle of all this mess, then we can get through.

8 Comments

  1. Reply

    Beth

    January 21, 2016

    Hi Sara, I just stumbled across your blog. Can’t imagine what you are going through but thanks for sharing! You are truly wonderful.

    • Reply

      Sara

      February 2, 2016

      Thank you, Beth! I really appreciate it.

  2. Reply

    Rebecca Lindenbach

    January 21, 2016

    Sara, you and Ken are an inspiration. I have tears in my eyes just thinking about what you must be going through. Thank you for sharing your story.

    • Reply

      Sara

      February 2, 2016

      This is so kind, Rebecca. I love your blog and I really appreciate your support.

  3. Reply

    Dörte Keßling

    January 25, 2016

    Hi Sara, I’m joining your “Advents Illustrated” Group on FB and today I read about your Partner Ken – I’ve diagnosted with MS in March 2015 and I can imagine how you feel about everything. I love your Idee of the tattoo … it’s a wonderful verse! Trust in God … HE gives you the strenght to handle all! Be blessed!

    • Reply

      Sara

      February 2, 2016

      Thank you so much, Dörte!

  4. Reply

    Kristen T.

    January 27, 2016

    If you can laugh during grief then you will be okay. One side of the equation is grief. The other side is humor. Humor is a delightful gift from God reminding us that we will persevere in dark days. After my parents died there were buckets of tears, but also some super silly moments that healed my family, and I heard laughter. After my father-in-law died the same thing happened. Be sad. Grieve. But, never stop enjoying humor or realizing the healing potential of a good, old, silly laugh.
    Love you,
    Kristen

    • Reply

      Sara

      February 2, 2016

      Kristen, I love this. Things are actually going much better for both of us and I am learning ton find the good in every day. I love hearing from you and seeing your comments on my posts. Lots of love.

LEAVE A COMMENT

RELATED POSTS