Dancing & Dying

My scheduled alarm tone rang out. It was time to check on Ryan. He had a horrific grand mal seizure that week and his speech began to fail shortly thereafter. I moved my mattress to his bedroom floor in what would end up being my new home for the last few weeks of his life. I managed to slot each waking moment around whatever chaos brain cancer threw at us.

I had unsuccessfully tried to stay awake to watch a movie in his room with my mom. The credit music whirred in the background as I sat on his bed in an exhausted fog. I did what I always did. I ran my fingers through his hair, kissed his forehead, and held his hand as I prayed the same desperate prayer over him. After 'amen,' he abruptly squeezed my hand back, with his eyes still closed, and swung my arm in the air. Confused and trying to interpret his movements, I asked if he was okay and what he saw.

"You," he whispered.

Still unsure, I shrugged as I looked over at my mom. Her eyes welled up as she realized, "Renee, he's dancing with you." 

Ryan smirked, nodded, and promptly fell back asleep.

Being unable to hear enough of Ryan's words to understand what he tried to communicate is still a painful memory to recollect. But I thank God for the sweet moments we shared through his physical cues. Glimpses of his presence and seeing his heart outside his chest again was pure sunshine when we no longer had his voice. Losing him was losing a part of life that I recognized as much as the hand squeezing back. My childhood, my spousehood, my parenthood, he was in all of it. Yet, what we started isn't finished yet. A paradox. A dichotomy.

Sharing about Ryan and recalling all he was is like exhaling. I had no presumption or expectation of what life without him would be like. I'm still hobbling around without half of me. But I can say grieving him, much like his cancer, hasn't taken the shape I thought it would, or moved in a pattern I anticipated. It much less resembles peeling back an onion's defined layers, and is much more synonymous with paint colors running together and dripping down a canvas. The speed at which it falls and the valleys it carves is all at mercy to whatever gravity dictates. For someone that has grown wary of surprises, that is all grief has been: Unexpected.

Unexpected when I froze at the doctor's office as I had to write a new emergency contact.

Unexpected when I sat at a 'STOP' sign and realized, with no forethought, that day I had officially outlived my husband.

Unexpected when I kept a random piece of mail because it was the last letter addressed to both of us.

Unexpected when I saw a red, 90's Jeep Wrangler on the road and felt guilty that I don't remember what he taught me about driving stick shift.

Unexpected when I boiled with anger staring at Ryan's urn, hating that the cancer that killed him was still mixed in with his body.

Unexpected every time I wish he was here to help me grieve his own death, knowing he would crack the perfect joke to turn the tears to laughter.

Unexpected when I feel genuine joy at celebratory events while simultaneously wanting to go home, put on his big t-shirt, and crawl into bed.

Unexpectedly remembering, as our sons turned thirteen, that I knew Ryan at thirteen and wishing they could too.

As I remember Ryan on his birthday today, I can't help but think of his mom recalling the day he unexpectedly arrived. It was snowing and there was no time for pain management before he came a stepping into this world. Much like his arrival, his cancer diagnosis was unexpected, the battle was long, and his life here, while full, was too short. When the line between this world and the heavenly realm was thin, Ryan somehow had one foot firmly planted in both. He was dancing and dying at the same time, and still found a way to pluck me out of my reality to sway along with him in his. Another paradox. Another dichotomy.

"My heart and flesh may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever." Psalm 73:26

This verse resonates with the leap that was Ryan's life. From the moment his heart began to beat to the moment I saw it stop, from the moment his body was formed to the moment it was dust, God was and continues to be the strength of Ryan's heart as it beats again within flesh that no longer fails. He moves in rhythm with the firstborn from the dead, Jesus Christ. On his birthday, we celebrate and ache in the beautiful contradiction of knowing Ryan's faith is now sight, while still longing to see him again. We miss hearing his voice, but know it's now strong enough to praise his Creator and portion forever.

Copyright 2025->Renee Sunberg