What Happened? The In Light of Anguish Inception.
In the beginning...
That's how most stories begin. The story of the creation of, In Light of Anguish, is a story that is devastating, yet hopeful. It is a blog that was created to help others connect and possibly understand their process of grief. A word that has more depth than grief–and is commonly used in the Bible–is anguish.
If you were to type, "anguish," into the Google or on Dictionary.com, this is what you will find:
an·guish
/ˈaNGɡwiSH/
noun
- severe mental or physical pain or suffering."she shut her eyes in anguish"
Anguish is used 103 times in the Bible. The first is in Genesis, when God discovers that Adam and Eve have eaten forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden. Eve was promised, "you will bear children in anguish." Anguish covers a multitude of feelings: guilt, pain, bondage, fear, love, and death.
In my personal reference, anguish to me describes the feeling of the loss of my father. I am 35-years-old and today is September 18, 2022. On July 31, 2022, just 49 days ago, I got a call from my sister that my dad was not breathing well, which was very unusual. She then mentioned that my mom was taking my dad to the hospital and she just felt like something was not ok.
The short version of the story was that my dad passed away. Unexpectedly, horrifically, and in a way that created a replay in my head that would remain on a loop until I wrote it all down to release it from my body. I did not want to forget that day, but I needed to have it stored somewhere anywhere else than my prefrontal cortex.
On August 11, 2022, 10 days after my dad passed, my husband picked me up off the floor of my closet because I was inconsolable. He asked me, "What do you need to do for you right now, babe?" I replied, "I think I need to write." I opened my near swollen-shut eyes and shuffled my feet to my home office. I opened my computer and began to type:
How can I paint a picture of grief?
Grief is like an explosion. It is like a grenade. A pin is pulled—and from the time it takes you to realize you need to take cover or control you lose what feels like everything in seconds.
Nothing can be reversed. Nothing can be reconstructed. Everything is just obliterated and you are left staring at the aftermath in complete disbelief.
There is this instant rewind to try and establish what went wrong? Where did the grenade come from? Why was I holding it? Why didn’t I hold it? Why did it go off? I should have stopped it. Why am I still here to witness the destruction.
Chaos rules your mind for days before you are able to make sense of the, "trauma rewind."
The stages of grief are said to be: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
In my particular case I find this to be relatively true. On Sunday, July 31, my father, Chuck Taylor, died of what appeared to be cardiac arrest or a, “Widow maker,” unexpectedly. No warning. No signs. And we were purview to all of it.
“Mom is taking Dad to the hospital. He is having a hard time breathing,” my sister, Meagan said. “You may want to go up to the hospital just in case, I don’t know what’s going on.”
I loaded up my kids in the car and had my husband drive us to the closest local hospital.
I called my mom and she answered a little frantic, "I can't talk." Click. I then began to worry.
Grief is like an explosion. It is like a grenade. A pin is pulled—and from the time it takes you to realize you need to take cover or control you lose what feels like everything in seconds.
Nothing can be reversed. Nothing can be reconstructed. Everything is just obliterated and you are left staring at the aftermath in complete disbelief.
There is this instant rewind to try and establish what went wrong? Where did the grenade come from? Why was I holding it? Why didn’t I hold it? Why did it go off? I should have stopped it. Why am I still here to witness the destruction.
Chaos rules your mind for days before you are able to make sense of the, "trauma rewind."
The stages of grief are said to be: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.
In my particular case I find this to be relatively true. On Sunday, July 31, my father, Chuck Taylor, died of what appeared to be cardiac arrest or a, “Widow maker,” unexpectedly. No warning. No signs. And we were purview to all of it.
“Mom is taking Dad to the hospital. He is having a hard time breathing,” my sister, Meagan said. “You may want to go up to the hospital just in case, I don’t know what’s going on.”
I loaded up my kids in the car and had my husband drive us to the closest local hospital.
I called my mom and she answered a little frantic, "I can't talk." Click. I then began to worry.
Ten minutes went by. My mom called me back. This time her voice had completely amplified, “HE’S CODING! HE’S CODING! HE’S CODING!”
I squeezed my husbands arm so tight and he immediately knew to take it from 55 mph to 85 mph on a bridge from our hometown into the neighboring town that housed a larger hospital.
I squeezed my husbands arm so tight and he immediately knew to take it from 55 mph to 85 mph on a bridge from our hometown into the neighboring town that housed a larger hospital.
I tried to keep my mom calm, “Mama, Mama, Mama, Breath," I repeated. "Mama listen to me. Mama Breathe. Dad is in the best hands at West Florida. I need you to breathe. I need you to pray. I am almost there. Mama, Breathe. He’s going to be ok.”
We flew into the ER carport 5 minutes later and I jumped out before Trent even came to a stop. I was wearing a bathing suit with bandana print button down shirt and matching shorts and flip flops. I had planned to go to a children's pool party when I initially received my sister's call. I sprinted into the ER and asked everyone, “My Mom is here, my dad just came in. He’s coding. Please, can someone help me find her right now?”
After about 45 seconds, I was taken into a hall where I could see my Mom, hysterical and confused on what was happening.
DENIAL.
“This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.”
A few nurses and doctors came in and it was hard to read them at first because we had so much hope that everything was going to turn out ok. After all, my dad was healthy. We had just gone night fishing 8 days before.
I had called a nurse in cardiology at the hospital that I personally knew, Monica. She came down and pulled me outside of the room where my mother was.
“Bri, it’s not looking great,” said Monica somberly.
“Yeah, but he’s really strong Monica, I think he is going to be ok. Anything you need to tell me, I want you to say in front of my Mom also.” She agreed, but it she was not wrong in her prognosis.
DENIAL.
The next few minutes are very blurry. It became apparent that things were spiraling and prayers were not miraculously saving his life.
My mother, my grandmother, my grandmother’s husband and I were all escorted to where my father was.
This next part is notated in my brain as images and smells. The "trauma rewind." As we were escorted into this ER trauma room, there was utter mayhem. Eight or so nurses and doctors were doing a variety of things.
There was one man in particular that I will not forget. The frighteningly muscular man on top of my father’s body performing CPR. He was sweating profusely as he dedicated every ounce of strength to the man below him. That man was my dad. There were monitors making all kinds of noises. My father was naked with the exception of a folded sheet they’d placed over his privates to maintain decency. There was this smell I will never forget.
At this time my sister came in and we were all standing in complete shock that our rock, our Dad, was helplessly reliant on everyone else to save his life.
I held his calf and I remember it being a skin shade of yellow, like he was slightly jaundice. He had strong calves. I am always complimented on my calves and I have always replied, “I get em’ from my daddy.”
I whispered endlessly, “Come on Daddy. Come on Daddy. Come on Daddy.” His arms and legs were splayed to the side. They had this tube down his throat and his eyes were wide open but they weren’t moving.
I started to pray, “God, please. Please don’t take him. I’m not ready. We are not ready. Please God. Please!”
As I continued my whispers of encouragement, the trauma crew checked for a pulse. It looked like it had returned and he coded again. They continued CPR for what felt like an eternity. It became apparent that even if they were to bring my Dad back that things would be very dismal.
It was at that moment I truly understood the gravity of his fate. I dropped to my knees and cried so loud that I am certain those in the nearby hallways and rooms mourned with me. My mother sat in a chair in disbelief and my sister and grandmother were in complete shambles.
A nurse who was in the room was also sobbing, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.” I hugged her neck and thanked her for trying so hard to keep him in his body. Everyone almost immediately exited the room.
Everything became very still. I walked over to him and closed his eyes. I remember them being yellowish and bloodshot, almost foggy. They wouldn’t shut all the way even when I forced them closed.
I asked for the nurses to remove his tubing. When they did his mouth was ajar just enough to see his bottom teeth. His ears were a shade of blue and purple. I still don’t understand why.
I held his hand tight and it was clammy. Not like the usual warmth of him. I moved my thumb across all his fingers. His hand landed in a position where it felt like it was holding mine. We wept and wept and wept.
My mom just kept saying, “ I don’t understand. I can’t. What am I supposed to do?”
We all sat with him. I am not sure for how long. We stroked his hair, his beard and it was like we could feel our hearts shattering into a trillion pieces.
This brought me to my second stage of grief very quickly.
ANGER.
“It is happening. Why? Why me? Why now? Why in this way. I am close to Christ. I pray. I go to Bible studies. I am a youth leader. Why would God let this happen, in this way? To this man? To my dad.”
“Bri, it’s not looking great,” said Monica somberly.
“Yeah, but he’s really strong Monica, I think he is going to be ok. Anything you need to tell me, I want you to say in front of my Mom also.” She agreed, but it she was not wrong in her prognosis.
DENIAL.
The next few minutes are very blurry. It became apparent that things were spiraling and prayers were not miraculously saving his life.
My mother, my grandmother, my grandmother’s husband and I were all escorted to where my father was.
This next part is notated in my brain as images and smells. The "trauma rewind." As we were escorted into this ER trauma room, there was utter mayhem. Eight or so nurses and doctors were doing a variety of things.
There was one man in particular that I will not forget. The frighteningly muscular man on top of my father’s body performing CPR. He was sweating profusely as he dedicated every ounce of strength to the man below him. That man was my dad. There were monitors making all kinds of noises. My father was naked with the exception of a folded sheet they’d placed over his privates to maintain decency. There was this smell I will never forget.
At this time my sister came in and we were all standing in complete shock that our rock, our Dad, was helplessly reliant on everyone else to save his life.
I held his calf and I remember it being a skin shade of yellow, like he was slightly jaundice. He had strong calves. I am always complimented on my calves and I have always replied, “I get em’ from my daddy.”
I whispered endlessly, “Come on Daddy. Come on Daddy. Come on Daddy.” His arms and legs were splayed to the side. They had this tube down his throat and his eyes were wide open but they weren’t moving.
I started to pray, “God, please. Please don’t take him. I’m not ready. We are not ready. Please God. Please!”
As I continued my whispers of encouragement, the trauma crew checked for a pulse. It looked like it had returned and he coded again. They continued CPR for what felt like an eternity. It became apparent that even if they were to bring my Dad back that things would be very dismal.
It was at that moment I truly understood the gravity of his fate. I dropped to my knees and cried so loud that I am certain those in the nearby hallways and rooms mourned with me. My mother sat in a chair in disbelief and my sister and grandmother were in complete shambles.
A nurse who was in the room was also sobbing, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.” I hugged her neck and thanked her for trying so hard to keep him in his body. Everyone almost immediately exited the room.
Everything became very still. I walked over to him and closed his eyes. I remember them being yellowish and bloodshot, almost foggy. They wouldn’t shut all the way even when I forced them closed.
I asked for the nurses to remove his tubing. When they did his mouth was ajar just enough to see his bottom teeth. His ears were a shade of blue and purple. I still don’t understand why.
I held his hand tight and it was clammy. Not like the usual warmth of him. I moved my thumb across all his fingers. His hand landed in a position where it felt like it was holding mine. We wept and wept and wept.
My mom just kept saying, “ I don’t understand. I can’t. What am I supposed to do?”
We all sat with him. I am not sure for how long. We stroked his hair, his beard and it was like we could feel our hearts shattering into a trillion pieces.
This brought me to my second stage of grief very quickly.
ANGER.
“It is happening. Why? Why me? Why now? Why in this way. I am close to Christ. I pray. I go to Bible studies. I am a youth leader. Why would God let this happen, in this way? To this man? To my dad.”
At some point we exited the room. I stood just outside. I leaned against the wall and slumped down to the floor. A nurse came up to me and so sweetly put her arm around me and asked me questions about my dad and about his grandchildren. I remember answering but I can't remember the exchange. I just remember how kind she was.
Then there was the male ER nurse that wrapped his arms around me to help me stand as he asked someone to get me a chair. "We are going to get you a chair so that when someone comes flying around that corner you don't end up in here too." He continued to hold me as I barely spoke the words, "He's gone. Dad is gone," on the call I made to my best friend.
I found my sister, mom, grandmother and her husband in the room where I found my mom the first time. My best friend sped to the hospital. I walked out of the ER and found her in the hallway looking for me. She wrapped her arms around me and we just cried.
She went in and talked to my family about what happened. I couldn't hear my mom tell the story.
I went alone, back to see my dad, and I sat with him just a little longer. I promised him I would take care of Mom and Meagan and that I loved him so much. I told him I didn't know how I would be the same without him. I squeezed his hand three times. It was always something he did to me as a little girl and even an adult. It meant "I love you," in our own language. Like a morse code. I set his hand back down, I stroked his hair. I kissed him on the forehead. I began to walk out of the room. It was then I threw a chair in the room.
I offered to drive my mom home. It was the longest and most excruciating ride of my life. I felt such deep sadness for her, yet I was also fighting internal turmoil. The kind where you want to hide in a dark room and cry for hours.
“I should’ve called an ambulance,” my mom said quietly.
I went alone, back to see my dad, and I sat with him just a little longer. I promised him I would take care of Mom and Meagan and that I loved him so much. I told him I didn't know how I would be the same without him. I squeezed his hand three times. It was always something he did to me as a little girl and even an adult. It meant "I love you," in our own language. Like a morse code. I set his hand back down, I stroked his hair. I kissed him on the forehead. I began to walk out of the room. It was then I threw a chair in the room.
I offered to drive my mom home. It was the longest and most excruciating ride of my life. I felt such deep sadness for her, yet I was also fighting internal turmoil. The kind where you want to hide in a dark room and cry for hours.
“I should’ve called an ambulance,” my mom said quietly.
“Mom, the trauma nurse said he works in the ER and still drove his brother to the hospital when he had a stroke. There’s not a single guarantee that calling an ambulance would have made it better or worse.”—I am paraphrasing because this part of the timeline was also a blur.
We cried quietly and focused on getting to her house. We walked around relatively aimlessly. Not sure what we were supposed to do next. I stayed with her for a few hours and then she said she was going to take a shower. I told her I would come back that night to stay with her.
My husband drove me to the only place I thought I would be able to find my Dad and talk to God about what had happened. Our family grew up on a, "point." This was a piece of land on Escambia Bay that was surrounded by water. We grew up fishing and watching countless breathtaking sunsets. Trent drove me there, which is also across the street from my best friends house. My parents sold that property years ago but the couple living there now agreed to let me sit there to talk to God.
Ashley had set out chairs for us. She met me out there with open arms. We talked for a bit and then she left me to be with my feelings. The sunset was beautiful. Deep oranges and purples. The wind was just hefty enough to put a light chop on the bay. I moved from my chair and hung my legs over the side of the pier as I had done thousands of times before. I sobbed. I looked out to the sky and screamed in anguish.
My husband joined me on the pier. I told him I was mad at God. He said he used to be mad at God once when his grandfather died. He was in college. He said, "I learned that God takes the good ones so that we have an example to live up to when they are gone. They are our conviction."
I cried. I mustered the strength to stand and then he drove me through Whataburger and then back to my mom's.
I sat with my mom as we half picked at our french fries and burgers. We then sat on the couch next to one another in silence. She flipped on the TV and we saw America's Got Talent. I randomly asked, "what's that guy's name again, Terry Crews?" She replied, "Yeah, I almost started watching White Chicks the other night." I perked up, "Oh, mom, let's watch that." She turned to it and we giggled at a few of the scenes. It was senseless and unusual, but it kept up from thinking of the next worst thing.
She finally went to bed and I turned on shark shows until I finally went to sleep.
And just like that, I felt at peace enough to stop the, "trauma rewind." I knew I could close my laptop and revisit it anytime I needed to relive and recall that day. In that moment, I could finally close my eyes and sleep.
This blog is going to be an update on my healing and the process of grief; of anguish.
I came to write this after hearing a sermon on trusting God through tragedy. My pastor pulled scripture from Job.
There for I will not keep silent;
I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit,
I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
Job 7:11
Jesus knows the anguish that we feel. He does not minimize our suffering. Job lost his wealth, his health and members of his family was murdered. He cried out to God in anguish.
The Instagram Reel
On August 27, 2022, I posted an 8-second video of my dad that I took 8 days before he passed. It was of us on a boat at sunset. We were coasting at about 20 miles per hour across Escambia Bay, his happy place. We were night fishing with a friend and my 6-year-old daughter. The sunset and temperature were perfect. In the video, I film the pink and orange painted sky, then slowly pan to the left. At about 6 seconds you see my dad, his hair blowing in the wind and he looks at me and smiles with his whole face. He is happy.
The words on the video say, "Put this sound over a memory you didn't realize was so special until you watched it back." The sound was a slow, melancholy piano song with lyrics that sang, "I don't wanna talk, about the things we've been through."
The caption read:
Dad was gone eight days later. I'll never forget this sunset and how happy you were that day. I miss you every minute of every day. 11/28/1957–07/31/2022
Today is September 18, 2022. It currently has 4.9 million views, 278,433 likes and 2,029 comments. I am not a social media influencer. I had merely 1,500 followers before this video was posted. I mainly posted it because it was a beautiful song and a beautiful memory. The response has been shocking to say the least.
The comments included people from all over the world who have lost their father, mother, brother, children, etc. etc. There were people who called their father's because they watched it. Some who came back to Jesus and others who were in pain because they never met their father. So many people that had one thing in common:
anguish.
So, in light of anguish, I am putting this process into the universe. I will be ok. I will survive. I will find joy again. I do, even on days when I struggle with crippling sadness.
They say you can never really relate unless you've been through it. This is a place where someone can find empathy, even if it doesn't affect them directly. This is real.
Tomorrow is my one-year anniversary of being baptized on Pensacola Beach. My dad was there the day I was baptized. I will talk more about that tomorrow.
If you'd like to be notified when that comes out, visit this page tomorrow night. Or you can opt-in to get notified via email when I post it.
With gratitude and your loving sister in Christ,
Bri
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