Sometimes it's like getting kicked in the stomach by a horse

There, I've done it. You see this happened to me about a week before my dad died. I was downstairs working in my basement, and it was like my breath was taken away. I doubled over, cringed my face and then the tears began. I sobbed. For a few minutes. Then I pulled myself together, stood back up, wiped off my face, and went back to work. I had no idea what brought that on. It's almost as if your brain spends a lot of energy blocking out the knowledge that you don't have your loved one with you, and every once in awhile it needs a break. And while the blocking out feature is busy re-booting, you are left with pain. Intense pain. My mom says it's called a grief burst. And we all have them. Always at different times.

My computer isn't working. It completely freezes up, sometimes after only a few minutes of using it, sometimes only once a day. I'm pretty sure it's a simple fix. But my daddy is gone. So he can't fix it for me. It's like this constant reminder to me that he's not here. It's not fair. I'm gonna buy a mac.

I was thinking the other day that there are so many good, old people. Who are so sick, and could accomplish so much more on the other side. I just wish the Lord would have taken one of them, instead of my healthy dad, who is so needed here, and who was still accomplishing so much on this side. I still would like to dispute the death. Submit the paperwork, and see if they could find that it really wasn't fair. I'd go to court. I'd hire a really expensive attorney, and spend weeks in court with witnesses and flowcharts and spreadsheets, and I'd prove that we really need him here. Or that we really want him here. That he has a wife and 5 kids here, and two kids still living at home who need a dad. I bet I would win.

It's been a harder week for my mom and Kate too. We need to be closer. Will someone please buy my mom's house?

Every time my mom calls, her facebook profile picture of her and my dad pops up. And I want to ask her if he's still gone. If it really happened. But I don't have to, because I know.

I will NEVER forget that phone call. I was sitting at my kitchen table with Dave. We were putting together the mount for our projector downstairs. It was tricky. I almost called my dad to ask him a question about it. He ALWAYS answered. My cell phone was in the car. So my landline rang. Caller ID said "BIADA, LAUREN." But when I answered it, a man said "Hello." Which was strange. He said, "Erica, this is Ken Romney. I think you know who I am, right?"

Of course I do. Then he said those words. The words that you never want to hear over the phone. Those words that cannot be reversed. The words that are so final, you never get to hope, or pray, or exercise faith to change them. You cannot give a priesthood blessing, nor can you consult with doctors on what your options are. It's too late.

"I just spoke with the Wyoming State Coroner's Office and they confirmed that your dad passed away today."

And just like that, your life is forever changed.

And now I look at family pictures and see three people who aren't here anymore. And I look at pictures from when I was little, ones that my mom took of my dad and my sisters and I. I'm the only one left.

And I'm sorry, but that is just not normal.

And if given the chance, I would give back all the blessings and miracles that have/will happened because of this trial if I could have them back and healthy.

But since that isn't an option, I'm VERY grateful for the blessings and miracles that we have been given to help us through, because I do recognize that we cannot make it through this alone.

So most of the time I am really happy. I am usually very thankful to not have other people's trials, I see that lots of other people have much harder things in life. Every once in awhile I'm mad at him for leaving us, and I glare at him when I see his picture. And then very rarely, out of the blue, it's like getting kicked in the stomach by a horse. Thank Heavens that doesn't happen often.



(The picture that pops up when my mom calls)