It's been over two years...

Where the Healing Needed to Happen

Grief, dance, and the pain I finally understood

A note before you read: this is a raw and very personal piece about grief, illness, and the loss of my father. Please be gentle with your own heart as you go.

June 19th, 2012 was my last blog entry. It's been over a year, and I haven't felt moved to write or say anything — until today.

I knew there was something… something really big… that I needed to face. To deal with. Deep inside. The years had marched on, but the pain only grew bigger and harder to avoid. I kept "doing life" the best I knew how — raising kids, running a business, being a supportive wife, trying to exercise and stay healthy — but it was as if my very cells weighed more and more, changing from something light and watery into something more like molasses, then tar, and then… I would reach a point where I'd tell my husband and a few friends, "I feel like I am dying."

The weight became so great that I could no longer care for myself. A couple of days ago I was sitting up in bed, propped on pillows, my mouth dry because I didn't have the strength to get myself a drink of water — and I realized just how quickly my life was slipping away. I had asked for watermelon. When it was brought to me, I tried to scoop a piece with my spoon. I couldn't. I couldn't even scoop out a piece of watermelon. I placed my other hand over the one holding the spoon, and I trembled. Later, I would tell my husband, "We need to leave for Mexico… today."

I was a dancer. WAS a dancer. I thought of the sculpted, strong, lean bodies of my friends from the dance company. Why was I having such a hard time? Why was my abdomen swelling so much? Over the past two months I had gained nearly twenty pounds — and I would gain another eight in Mexico.

When my sister-in-law and brother came over, my husband told them what I'd said about leaving that very day. My brother didn't hesitate: "If she says she needs to go today, you need to go NOW." My sister looked at the mirror where I keep my dance goals. She began to cry, and told me she'd had a dream that I was dancing at Kingsbury Hall — with silks, and heaven-like lights and scenery. She said it was hard to explain, but she felt like her son, who had recently been killed, was there watching it beside her. She said it was extraordinarily beautiful. We both wept as I told her how I'd been imagining choreographing with silks. I asked if I was dead in her dream. "Oh, no," she said, shaking her head. "It just brought me tremendous peace, watching you. I felt like you were trying to comfort me after (my son's) death — and I did feel peaceful, watching you dance."

Fourteen years ago, when it was being decided who would dance for the Olympians at Kingsbury Hall, I knew I wouldn't be one of them. My father had just died, and I hadn't lost the weight from my pregnancy. I knew I wasn't at that Olympic level of talent — but I knew the other dancers were. The months before and after the Olympics would become a blur. My dance friends — more like sisters — were the ones who knew, and who were there to hold me up. Dance was, and always has been, my therapy. Never could I have imagined the horrifying things that would happen four months before the world arrived in Utah for the Winter Olympics in February 2002.

My father died suddenly in November 2001. My son was barely two months old. It snowed the day we buried him, and I was so grateful for the snow — deep, deep snow. I prayed that the snow, and the dangerous roads that day, would keep the TV reporters away, so we could grieve quietly, without onlookers. It felt as though the heavens had honored our wishes and sent beautiful new snow to cover the ground.

My sisters and I decided to wear white to the funeral instead of black. Dad was no longer suffering in his earthly body; his mind was finally free. We wore white to symbolize that freedom, and the peace we hoped he would find… eventually… once the worst of it had passed. The darker thoughts were too much for me to hold. I had to trust that God would somehow forgive, and that I would see my father again. Years later, our grandfather — my dad's dad — would call to tell us he had finally found peace. The events surrounding my father's death were not his actions alone; they were tangled up with mental illness and the medications he'd been given. The effects were devastating.

Before I got up to type this, I had been sleeping. My husband and I hadn't quite made it home yet, to where our children are. We'd left Albuquerque this morning; the day before, we'd left Mexico. Shane had accidentally driven two and a half hours west instead of north out of Las Cruces — I'd made the same mistake years earlier, on a teaching tour — and it turned a 13.5-hour trip into fifteen. So at midnight, we stopped in Fillmore.

As I slept, I woke suddenly, as if someone had come into the room. I was a little frightened, and I tried to shut the feeling out and go back to sleep. But my mind began to play scenes, as if someone else had chosen the movie and was projecting it into me. The years seemed to rewind, and suddenly I was back at my grandmother-in-law's home, screaming. I was folded over on my knees, arms wrapped around my waist, rocking back and forth, back and forth, refusing to be comforted by my husband or grandmother. "Oh, Steffi," Grandma kept saying, looking at me helplessly. My husband was crying, desperate to know how to help. I didn't care about my screams piercing the night, waking the neighbors. I screamed as loud and as long and as hard as I could, until I couldn't breathe — and then I'd draw in air and scream again, louder and longer each time, as if I could somehow force the pain out of my body. The pain was so dark, so terrible, that I didn't know how I could go on living.

My father was gone. My stepmother, killed. Another man, killed. I wondered if Granddad could hear my cries. I had dropped the phone and collapsed to my knees when he told me. How could it be? My father — my daddy — the one who never once spanked me. The one who never got angry at us. Yes, he'd swear, he'd get frustrated — but never at us. It was always the "damn thing" that had gone wrong, never his children. How could this have happened? My mind raced back to words he'd said weeks, maybe months earlier: "It's really bad this time, Steffi." He had put the Suburban in my name. He'd given things away. He'd quit his job. Oh, dear God — what other signs did I miss? How could I have stopped it? What could I have done?

As I remembered that terrible, black, cold night — when no amount of arms around me could bring warmth or comfort — I thought of my three siblings, who were grieving too.

It was all too much to bear. As I told our concerned Bishopric what had happened, I went numb. Something died in me that night. A piece of my flesh was torn out of my chest.

I paused the movie for a moment, as if I could hit a button. It was a scene from nearly fourteen years ago — and yet somehow it was connected to right now. What was the dream trying to teach me? Somehow, the pain from screaming that night swirled through my memory and landed in my chest — the very same pain I had gone to Mexico for. The same pain. It made me cry out into the darkness. My husband was asleep beside me, but I couldn't hold it in. I cried and cried. He woke and asked what was wrong, and tried to comfort me, but I couldn't explain that I was reliving something — half awake, half still dreaming. I knew he must think it was only physical pain.

Then my husband murmured that he felt like he was floating on top of a bowl of jello — and I was jolted out of my grief and couldn't help but laugh. We were in our unfinished house, on an inflated air mattress, and my sobbing had been shaking the whole thing. I went still, and I told him what I had just been shown: I finally knew the source of the injury — the hernia, the pain. It was from The Scream.

I lay back and let it all settle. A dear friend had told me, "I've been so worried about you… now we understand why." However hard I'd tried to cover it, people could see I was carrying something. It felt big. I could never quite tell whether the pain was spiritual, emotional, or physical. I used to dream of going somewhere warm to detox — to lie in stillness, not speaking to anyone, and figure out what was causing it. I would sweat it out if it was physical; I would pray it out and give it to God if it was spiritual.

With that simple replay of my life — the ending that seemed to take the whole movie, vaporize it, swirl it, and bring it to rest in the exact spot in my chest — I understood where the healing needed to happen. I thought of my youngest sister. We had never really talked about what happened — or if we did, I don't remember it. Maybe that's why I can picture her being escorted by the police, looking out at the scene but unable to take it in. I picture my brother crying alone, with no one to talk to. I picture my other sister, busy with her children and her work and her schooling, helping to arrange the funeral. And where was I in all of it? What was I doing? I remember the blur — canceling our trip to Hawaii, getting copies of death certificates for the collectors — oh, my head swims and I feel dizzy just trying to go back there. I had told our church leaders not to breathe a word of it to anyone. It was on the news, but I wouldn't watch a single report; the inaccurate reporting hurt my siblings deeply. We wouldn't tell a single employee. Our business partner knew, but no one else. I remember counting: fourteen families. Contractors or employees — my husband and I were responsible for making sure there was enough work finished that everyone got paid.

Back to life. Stuff the emotions aside. I'll deal with it later.

Fourteen years later, I will get the call today — to find out whether the biopsy is cancerous. If the dream, and everything I just experienced, are true, then all that screaming, that night, is what stretched the space between my esophagus and stomach. The doctor said, "You've had this ten years or more… maybe longer." There's bleeding, scar tissue, and a pint of bile flowing backward into my stomach instead of into the intestines.

I pictured my siblings and me, sitting together to talk it all through. Even if we never do, I understand now: the injury is from all of the above. Spiritual. Emotional. And physical.

Cancer. I'm ready for the phone call. I will work through this — with the Lord by my side.

I love you, Dad. I miss you SO much… it hurts. xoxo

A note to readers: I'm publishing this exactly as it is, in its very raw state. If I read it over too many times, I know I'll never hit "publish."

• • •

Here's what I posted on Facebook while I was in Mexico…

Getting real here.

Many of you know the health trials and triumphs I documented on my blog over the years, and many have wondered why I took it down. Honestly, for several years I've felt there was something big I was dealing with — something that food, herbs, essential oils, enzymes, probiotics, chiropractic, physical therapy, acupuncture, colonics, and so many other approaches were helping with, but never fully resolving. This past year I've seen specialists, doctors, ER doctors; I've had scans, blood tests, ultrasounds — and no answers. My health kept declining. Honestly, when I went to Israel, part of me felt it was a way to be near the Savior before I actually met Him in person. (Bear with me here.) I was growing weaker and weaker, less able to care for myself, with no explanation why.

A couple of months before a dear friend passed away — before I even knew her cancer had returned and metastasized — I had a very vivid dream that the two of us were in Mexico together, receiving treatment. Two days after that dream, she emailed a group of us to share that her cancer had spread, and about a fundraiser to help her get to Mexico for treatment. She wasn't able to make it in time; she passed away quickly. The dream troubled me deeply — I'd felt I was meant to be there with her, she'd asked for an escort, and then losing her made me fear for my own life. Two other dreams gave me more insight and direction. Long story short (okay, here come the tears): my incredible family stepped in to help with the children, and… I am in Mexico.

The good news — we finally have answers. I need surgery, and the doctor says that once this heals, about 80% of the other issues should resolve quickly. He believes I've been struggling with this hernia for over ten years. The severe inflammation, bleeding, and infection can lead to stomach or intestinal cancers, so they've taken a biopsy of the dark areas. The hernia has been pushing bile up into my stomach — which is exactly why everything I've been doing helped, but never resolved it. I'm scared, but I'm also relieved. My family wants me to go back to the USA for the operation, but I trust this doctor completely. Tears. I've searched for answers for so long, and finally… I feel hope. I had almost given up — but my amazing family stepped in.

Joey (not on Facebook), I love you so much. You and Tara are angels — you were the one who said, "Go. Now." Thank you, Martha, for being here in Utah instead of Maryland to watch the big kids. A big thank-you to everyone who has rallied around our family — and to my husband, who has carried both homemaker and breadwinner on his shoulders, caring for me more and more since the last time I taught in Canada. The doctor said no amount of the right food, herbs, or supplements would have cured this. They may well have kept the "c" word away — everything I've been doing — but the surgery is what's needed to correct the source. The goal had always been to "get to diamond" before I came for treatment (I've been asking to come here for over four years). We're almost there, but I couldn't wait any longer.

Here's to an amazing God, an amazing family, and amazing friends. So many of you have overcome things far harder than this. There is a painting here of Christ's hands guiding the physician as he operates. I know the best physicians and surgeons are the ones who — despite their own brilliance and training — are humble enough to be guided by the Master Physician. Because of the peace I feel here, I know, finally, that I am exactly where I need to be.

With much love,

Steffanie

A gentle note from my heart: this piece holds some of the heaviest things I've walked through, including the loss of my father. If you're carrying a pain like this — or if you ever find yourself having thoughts of harming yourself — please reach out to someone you trust. In the US, you can call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, any time, day or night. You are not alone, and there is no weakness in reaching for a hand to hold.