Murphy Ian - Eight twenty eight: when love didnt give up

Copyright 2014 by Larissa Murphy

All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-4336-8182-0

Published by B&H Publishing Group

Nashville, Tennessee

Dewey Decimal Classification: 306.872

Subject Heading: LOVE \ MARRIAGE \ MENTALLY HANDICAPPED

Scripture references are taken from the English Standard Version ( esv ), copyright 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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dedication

We know that for those who love God
all things work together for good, for those
who are called according to his purpose.

Romans 8:28

Written for our dad and teacher, Steve Murphy, who has gone before us and now knows that all of this is worth it.

8/28/6010/8/09

With courage we write this, in hopes that we all move forward together in loving God more than loving comfort.

prologue

October 9, 2006

From Steve Murphy, Ians Dad

Its been remarkable to me how much Mary and I have been at peace through this difficult experience. The Lords grace has been present, even while grief overcomes us at different points. I had to talk to the insurance people about the car today, and for some reason I was really emotional talking to him about taking away the car that Ian was driving. I can tell that Mary is overcome at points, too, but I can tell shes also at peace.

We really are in faith at this point for whatever God has, but like you were praying for an extraordinary miracle for Ian. God gives life and sustains life. God breathed new life into me when He saved me and made me a new creature. Its nothing for Him to raise Ian up from this coma. Thank you for the faith you have exhibited for a miracle. Its humbling, and were grateful for your prayers.

originally posted on prayforian.com

a note from Ian

I just want to say that I love Larissa. God gave me a great thing in her. Larissa is my brain for book-writing, because I dont remember the years after my accident. It would be hard trusting Larissa to write down our story if I didnt love her. But I do, so all is well.

My hope is that you walk away from this book with something to think about. Because I want God to use this to make us better peopleand strengthen relationships.

Trust God. Hes bigger than your story. Hes bigger than ours.

one

I sank down into my nap, covering my tired feet in the white down comforter, aching from another high-heeled day. The cloud settled over and in between my toes, legs, waist, and body, as its goose feathers warmed my skin. My husband wasnt home yet, and I was intent on making full use of this half hour of quiet. I glanced toward the unopened mail, the dirty sheets on the chair, and the half-full cups on the table, but allowed my eyes to drift shut before dwelling on what else I should be doing. All I could think of was rest before I would be forced to swing my legs to the edge of the mattress and out from under my little cocoon of heat.

As tiredness overcame me, my mind slipped in and out of sleep, thoughts rattling around in my groggy head until I couldnt distinguish between dreams and reality. I started feeling like I didnt remember him anymore. I couldnt remember his smile. I couldnt hear what his laugh sounded like or picture the way he walked. I couldnt find that place in me anymore that knew him, the part of my mind that stored the tone of his voice and the way he grabbed his stomach when he laughed hard. The thoughts I counted on to keep me going, to keep me in love, had left without asking my permission first. I couldnt grasp them. They felt like they were stuck somewhere in the very back corners of my mind, too far tucked away. Perhaps they were fighting from deep underwater to reach the surfacethose memories and sounds and smells that kept him close and warm in mebut something was keeping them submerged. A flashback of sitting together on his patio or a note from him singing on a voicemail would start to break through, but before I could feel and grab it, the memory would sink back in, away from me.

Have I really forgotten him? my semi-awake brain begged as I awaited his arrival. Have we been this way for so long that all of his old words and sounds are gone, that my memory cant keep them locked inside anymore? Is this all Ill ever be able to remember of him? This? This Ian?

Then... the familiar thud of the van door, scattering even these thoughts into thin air.

I hopped up, brushed sleep out of my eyes, and peered through the bathroom window. In a few minutes, he and his wheelchair would be clattering through the door.

Hi, wifey! he shouted from the mud room once hed made his way inside, driven from behind by his youngest brother, Devon. Ian couldnt control the volume of his voice anymore, and sometimes his speech was hard to understand. But wifey was usually LOUD and clear. Rolling into the bedroom, he saw me and hugged me. How was your day? I asked.

I dont remember. So it mustve been good!

A typical responsebecause his short-term memory left when his brain injury came in. As a result, I was the only one of the two of us who was able to carry the detailed memories of our marriage, or of our ten months of dating before his accident, or of anything that reminded us of what life had been like before September 30, 2006.

The day it all changed.

The date that continues to roll around every year, whether I want it to come or not.

In the quiet of night before the most recent September 30, I had snuggled up close to him, unloading my heavy heart.

Ian, Im so sad. Im sad for your brain injury. Im sad youve had to go through this.

Thats why I love you, he said. It makes you sad because you care about me so much.

There are very few anniversaries that I like anymoremost particularly this oneand I dont want Ian to recognize that Im keeping count. But for me, theres no erasing the memories of that horrible September 30.

The most unwelcome anniversary of all.

two

W e met in the spring of 2005, under a chance meeting between friends. I had spent the previous semester living in Australia as an eighteen-year-old American, a then-virgin to the clattering life of bars and clubs. Soon they and I had become regular friends, and most of the settings for my stories from that semester occurred inside their walls or spewed out on their sidewalks.

I had journaled my way through those three months, and it was clear from beginning to end that something was shifting in my heart, giving in. Darkness and emptiness had taken up root and grown wildly off the nectar of shot glasses and boxed wine. The nighttime had turned me into an angry young woman, the alcohol settling in and fogging my thought processes. The thick, tall sketchbook my sister had given me groaned with late-night words as each sentence I scribbled onto the paper recorded my sadnessand confusionwhich all sort of crystallized around one question coming from my new friend Tracey while we sat on a Contiki tour bus, riding through the snow-capped mountains and green fields of New Zealand during the last month of our semester.

You know that when you die, youll go to heaven, right? We were filling out paperwork to choose which adventure wed undertake when we arrived in Christchurch. I committed myself to skydiving, and hours later would be gasping for breath as I somersaulted tandem out of the puddle-hopper plane. Thus the springboard for her question, I guess.

I hesitated.

I dont know, I said, a first-time confession.

That moment, and Traceys simple question, propelled itself backwards through months of bad decisions and guilt. It was an uncomfortable question to me. When you die, youll go to heaven, right?

The only thing I knew for sure was that I was afraid of going to hell.