Grief and my Gingko

As we turned down our tree lined driveway after coming back from another week at the Mayo Clinic, I was anxious as we got to the bottom of our drive.  I was so excited to see my gingko tree with its brilliant yellow leaves.  When we left earlier in the week its fan shaped leaves were just starting to turn color.  Bill and I planted my ‘gingko biloba' last year so it is still small, just a big stick really, nothing compared to the giant it will become.  As I turned and looked across the lawn searching for my gingko, I couldn’t see it.  Where was it?  I realized that the tree was blending into the background because all of its leaves were gone.  I started to cry.  One of the main reasons you plant a gingko, besides it being a prehistoric tree specimen dating back to the day of the dinosaurs, is for its spectacular fall color.  I had missed it. I had missed my gingko in its glory.

I chided myself, “It is just a tree, why are you crying?”  But I love my trees.  I drive hours to special landscape nurseries so I can buy just the right variety of Japanese maple.  I read, study and attend seminars about trees.  I can give a tree tour around our yard with extensive facts that most normal people find boring.  Give me a diamond or a tree for my birthday?  Tree all the way.

I sat in the car, trying to compose myself before I went into the house.  As I sat there grieving my gingko, I realized the gingko was really a symbol, a symbol for all I had lost.  It wasn’t just the tree I was grieving, I was grieving my old life.  I have lost hours, days, weeks and months with my loved ones.  I crave to be normal: running errands, fixing food, shuttling kids to piano and violin lessons, helping with homework, serving at church, and working in the yard.  My days of endless energy have morphed into considering taking a shower a success.  I ration my actions, completing only the things that are truly necessary…like planting tulip bulbs.

I am not unique in my grief.  Grief, a deep sorrow over loss, is something most of us have felt.  We grieve for loved ones who have died, we grieve over divorce and the loss of a family unit, we grieve for a disabled child and an unrealized future, we grieve our failing health, and we grieve over unfulfilled dreams.

I have felt guilty about grieving, I have so many blessings despite having cancer, yet I still feel sorrow.  I have realized it is o.k. to grieve, I can grieve and still be grateful.  It is o.k for me to go into the darkness, as long as I choose not to live there.  In the darkness I process my pain, I grieve.  I also find hope, peace and the light of Christ in the darkness.  Christ resides in both.  As Isaiah said concerning the Savior, ‘Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows;…And with his stripes we are healed.’  Christ carries my grief and sorrow in the darkness and the light.

The past few weeks I have both grieved and felt gratitude.  I have incredible family and friends.  My sister driving me to Rochester and my brother driving me home, staying with me during treatments and taking care of me while I am sick.  My brothers, my sisters-in-law, my niece and nephew, all flying out, taking turns to care for me and family.  The blessings of life and access to heath care.

I have been given a gift.  Through grieving, I am coming to appreciate all that I have and experience.  I see the beauty of everyday moments: the hum of the dishwasher, the joy of celebrating William's 9th birthday, the dialogue between Sam and Andrew on the virtues of Star Wars, and the beauty of the not yet fallen leaves from the other trees in my yard.

Gingko leafMy gingko tree

Family working in the yard

Happy Birthday William!

Heidi with me at Mayo getting treatment

Alex my niece taking care of the boys

I didn't get pictures of the many other people who came..Arianne, Dave, John and Christy.  

Send me your pictures!