And now what. . .

On July 2nd, 2006, my stepfather gave a sermon about baptizing his grandsons a week apart, and in between, learning that he had a newer, deadlier cancer.

We hoped the next year would be better.

On October 1st, 2007, I stood at my stepfather's bedside and watched him draw his last breath.

I hoped the next year would be better.

On December 30th, 2008, I buried my grandfather. He suffered a stroke before Christmas and the indignity of not dying from it right away. Our family gathered, sat vigil, and watched him die.

I hoped this year would be better.

On March 6th, I lost a pregnancy. On July 29th, I lost a second pregnancy. In the meantime, my husband's father's company closed its doors. My in-laws are preparing to move away, leaving us with no immediate family here.

Some days it hurts to breath. And I get it. Good things have happened too. My husband is running his own company now - and feels in control of his fate. We aren't homeless, jobless, or on the street. I raised $2,000 for the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life. Some of our friends moved into the neighborhood. All of these things are good. My children package up small miracles in their laughter every day, they say goofy things, and they give me the most amazing gifts. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for these amazing moments. In fact, the truth of the matter is that small things have pulled me through these dark days.

But being grateful for them does not mean that our days have not been dark. And it doesn't mean that we haven't thought more than once that 2010 *had* to be better than 2009.

But the truth is, I'm tired of hoping for better years. It doesn't mean I'm hopeless. More pragmatic, maybe. I don't know. I'm thinking more of this William James quote:

"Give up the feeling of responsibility, let go your hold, resign the care of your destiny to higher powers, be genuinely indifferent as to what becomes of it all and you will find not only that you gain a perfect inward relief, but often also, in addition, the particular goods you sincerely thought you were renouncing."

So fine. I give. You win, 2007, 2008, 2009. You win. Let 2010 be as it may. I'm tired of holding out for better years. And to be quite honest, every time I think "Next year HAS GOT TO BE BETTER", I reflect on this line from a Bright Eyes song:

I spent the best years of my life waiting for the best years of my life.

ETA: Someone just told me my pain was palpable and they were worried about me. Here's the deal: my pain *IS* palpable. And should be, because it's, you know, pain. And the past few years have brought a lot of it. It's neither good nor bad, it just is. I'm fine. People around me know I'm fine. People who've grieved understand that grief isn't something that's surmounted, it's something you learn to walk with. So it's all good. Please don't worry about me. I'm OK. I'm sometimes bitter. You know what? That's OK too, so long as I'm not always bitter. Sometimes I cry. Also OK as long as it's not all the time. And while I'm doing those things, I also have days where I laugh so hard at and with my children that I can barely breathe. There's nothing inconsistent with grieving a palpable pain and living a good life. I know that. I live it. Strong women around me live it as well -- my mother, my friend Heather, every woman around me has some private or public grief that they shoulder along with very good lives. Just because I talk about my grief doesn't mean it's pulled me under. Remember that.