One step at a time.

My mind feels like the inside of a rundown car’s dashboard. Every warning light is on and it is lit up like a Christmas tree… but not the pretty kind. Check engine, empty tank, oil leaking—and I feel helpless to try and fix it. Trying to grieve and keep up with the pressures of life feels impossible. I am overwhelmed by both the spoken and unspoken expectations. I feel defeated before I even put my two feet on the floor in the morning. I am my own worst enemy. I wear my heart on my sleeve and I care deeply to please and live at harmony with others; it is both my strength and weakness. Brock was the perfect counterbalance…he pushed me to be gracefully confident and to stand up for what I believe. I miss him now more than ever. I find myself in an impossible situation with too many unknowns and three extra hearts to carry. I don’t like who I am becoming; there is a dark cloud of grief that entangles me. I am consumed with regret, anger, and self doubt. Constantly wondering when I will have it all together and find my oasis.

I felt the most alive last week at the beach alone with the kids, living in blissful ignorance. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, yet it was the first step towards trying to live with a bleeding heart. To grieve is to start the journey of acceptance, while taking steps towards healing—but how can you begin to process what daily penetrates the heart? This world has never felt so unjust. I am failing to see the way. I have more questions than answers and I’m struggling to sort through it all. Someone recently shared a quote that stuck with me: “maybe faith isn’t about certainty, but learning to ask—and sit in the complexity of—good questions.”

I wrestle with the fact that I have no manual…I am anchored in choppy, uncharted territory. There is so much more depth to my reality than just Brock’s memory loss. There is a lot that I haven’t shared because I just assumed that people would read between the lines. It wasn’t until I was recently talking with a friend who said: “I don’t think you can read between the lines because your story is just so crazy, the things you tell me constantly leave me speechless.” For example, Brock can have a completely normal and believable conversation, and while none of it is true, he truly believes it to be. He genuinely believes he is enrolled in high school, and regularly stresses about not graduating, even when he is shown proof that he graduated ten years ago. Or, how his whole personality has changed, and he isn’t the man I married eight years ago. The very essence of him is gone. Life came to a halt when it was no longer a choice of whether or not Brock should move out, but an absolute must for the safety and wellbeing of the kids. Everything I knew, dreamt of, and built my life around has crumbled. I can’t begin to count the amount of times I have heard how unique his case is. Surgery is scheduled for July 6th. We will head to Pittsburgh on July 4th to be ready for a day full of pre-surgical appointments on July 5th. After surgery Brock will remain in the hospital anywhere from 3-5 days until they can get all of his hormone levels balanced again. Mentally, I am preparing for at least 7 days, as the last surgery I was told 5-7 days, yet it ended up being 14 days. After he is discharged from the hospital he will be admitted to a rehab hospital. I am in contact with a rehab facility in Philadelphia who has been helping oversee some of Brock’s current care. I ask for prayers as surgery approaches, and specifically for the day of surgery. There is a lot of fear and anxiety, particularly with him coming out of anesthesia. He struggled to wake up after his first brain surgery; it was a very scary 24 hours. I was informed that secondary resections are more complicated and risky. Putting the brain to sleep for multiple hours, not to mention physically manipulating around the brain is going to cause setbacks, but it is unclear to what degree. The kids will be joining part way through our stay in Pittsburgh, as I want to have them close by to care for their hearts as well as to bring peace to my own heart. I have compared this trip to California, and explained to them that it will be another treatment for daddy—specifically avoiding the trigger word of surgery. They have nothing but blissful memories of California. They didn’t feel the stress that treatment brought but felt the love and security of being close by. I am praying for the same to be true. There are a lot of unknowns following the discharge from the hospital in Pittsburgh, and what life will look like over the next couple of months. We are still praying and hoping for supernatural healing of Brock’s mind, but we have to be prepared for our next steps in case the healing we long for isn’t part of the Lord’s greater plan. I have heard the phrase “true wisdom is knowing that we know nothing at all,” but for me, acceptance has been the most difficult part. We are called to have faith in a God who can heal, but also to have trust in a sovereign God who doesn’t always answer the way we like. It feels contradictory. It is a surrendering process as you let go of what should be and learn to seek the joy in the misfortune. I want to conclude again with gratitude towards each and every one of you reading our story and carrying us in your hearts. I have never felt more loved. Words continue to be inadequate to describe how much it means. Without your support and love we would of lost everything—but because of you, our family is finding beauty in the desert.