In the Absence of Dreams

I don’t dream about you anymore. I haven’t for quite some time. Tonight is one of those nights in which I can’t sleep and I’m thinking about everything that my brain can grab onto. Violet is asleep. She’s been sharing my bed for some time now. As I lay beside her, listening to her breathe (and snore a little), feeling the dog and a couple of cats nestled in around us, you came crashing in. Not as a dream, or as a specific memory. It was the lack of you; the absence if you will. The “memories of George were once here” came in like a battering ram. And then there it was. There you were…but not.

I still miss grieving sometimes. I miss having my body wracked with pain at the sheer enormity of the cavern you left only to have your spirit come in and fill that space, warming the room with that comforting, sweet feeling of loss. I couldn’t make you not-dead but I could have the next best thing. Grief kept you close. It kept you real. Now it seems that you’re not even a ghost, but a ghost of a memory instead and that…THAT. That leaves me hollow. That brings tears.

I miss you so. I am sure you know this and I am sure you want to see me continue to move on. Now that the tragedies that have befallen since you died are healing one-by-one, I am finally looking at living in the “real” world again. It’s a strange place, and I don’t like it as much without you in it but I guess it’s that absence, that vacuous cavern, which keeps me vigilant. I am not without my scars. They are harsh and they are deep but I can overlook those when other things come in to distract me. I’m still here no matter what. But you are gone…so very far gone. I wish I could just dream of you again.

When you Didn't Stay

I know I don’t write to you much these days. Sometimes I fear that it’s because a part of me wants this all to matter less but then I realize that it could never be any less than monumental and permanently altering in its continuous enormity. When it seems like I’ve done all my crying, when it feels like you’re fading into fog…a memory, a moment, a gesture or image so seemingly simple and mundane in the palest of ways, suddenly transforms to the incongruous and I am snapped back to where we were…where I held your hand and the sharp, stark contrast of what had made sense moments before ripped at the places in my chest and under my flesh as we gathered around your fading mortal light. We said goodbye. I told you it was alright. I told you to go. And when we stepped away for what seems like a blink…you did. You went. You filled the whole of everything with your spirit, save that one place; that one small room where we wailed over your shell.

I saw a beautiful film tonight and I shan’t spoil it for those who’ve yet to see it, but the things it brought back hit me like a tidal wave. A character by a hospital bed did exactly what I believe had to do with you. He gave the person in the hospital bed permission to go. And with his words, grief seized me. Not knowing whether the ailing character would pull through was not what held me in that space. It was remembering those words I uttered to you on your deathbed. It was my love for you. My unparalleled, undying love for you, baby brother that allowed those words to come. Your freedom was so much more important than my pain and I knew it even through the loss and fear that screamed through my mind and filled every cell of my being.

You didn’t stay. You couldn’t stay. And not a day arrives in which I think it could have been different. I wish it could have. I wish you were here to bounce your little nieces on your giant knee. I wish we could have enchiladas and laugh as you do your white-guy-dance to Spaceghost’s Musical Bar-B-Que. But as Mom used to say to me, “If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,” and I’m sure you know that it only made me wish that wishes really were horses because I love them so.  Some things, no matter how tragic, how painful, how scarring, just have to happen sometimes. Whether there is warning or not, these things simply cannot be prepared for and even after all this time, though the frequency has lessened, it grips me, it shakes me to my core, and it makes e wish I could have just one more of your gentle-giant hugs. Remember kiddo, it takes a powerful force to make me sob and shake in a movie theater with an audience surrounding. You are a powerful force and my love for you is just as great.

I miss you more than a thousand poetic and descriptive words could ever touch upon but even more importantly, I am proud of you. I hope that one day I make you proud in return. 

No Enchiladas

Written the evening of January 23rd, 2014: George's 28th birthday.

When it was time to schedule today’s surgery I had a gut feeling that the first date I was going to be offered was today. I was right. It took me a moment but then I decided that this was the perfect time because I knew he would be with me. I wanted him here. Even as I type from the comfort of my hospital bed, I feel him. Mom is spending the night with me and George is too.

This is the first year since he died that there were no cheese enchiladas on his birthday. It bugs me a little but not too much and I feel that this, right here, is important. Check-in time was 7:45am so I had to get up early and gather the things I would need. The morning was foggy with a mystical sort of glow within it. I didn’t have anyone else to drive me to the hospital, so I drove myself and I asked George to come along. I even cleared off the passenger seat. Even if it wasn’t necessary, it was the polite thing to do. It was the loving thing to do. As I made my way, I could feel him there right next to me, even as I was blasting Melechesh on my stereo, his presence was strong and I felt so at peace. I liked the fact that it was just the two of us. I liked that no one else was around to distract me from his spirit.

George sat with me in the waiting room. He was with me as I was being wheeled into surgery, his presence taking up all the space in the halls. He is with me now. I wanted to bring his little red iPod with me but it no longer works unless it is plugged directly into a wall and my ear buds are no more. That’s okay. I’m enjoying the sounds of the room and the gadgets. I’m enjoying his warmth on my shoulders.

You would have been 28 years old today baby boy. It is so strange that it’s been almost four years since you left that giant body and stretched the enormity of your soul to fill every surrounding space. I don’t know what it is but lately, when I mention how old you would have been, it puts a tiny pinprick in my heart. I guess it’s true that the grieving never stops but my grief for you is more intricate and beautiful than just sadness. Sometimes it still comes in like slivers of ice moving though my veins but it also comes like a warm, soft blanket. It embraces me like your hugs and it always keeps you close. That’s the secret side of grief and I am so glad I tapped into it. I love you George. I love you and I miss you.

The Last Word

I can't remember what day it was, but it's been rather recent since I received the email stating that your memorial page was about to expire. In fact, I think I've received more than one email. Today was the day. I texted Mom yesterday, just in case she didn't know (although I was certain she did). She said it was time to let it go. I'd had the same thought, but part of me wished she wanted to keep it going even though I know that it really is time to let it go. It's time to let you go. I know that this doesn't mean the reminders will stop. There will always be snapdragons, music and Tabasco sauce. I know I will always be the big sister to three brothers and a sister. I know there will always be five of us, even though one is gone. You will always be my baby brother, and my daughter will always be your niece. It doesn't matter that you never got to hold her. She is still your niece and you will always be Uncle George. Letting you go isn't as painful as it is scary. It's so scary. I haven't looked to see what exact time the sight expired but that's not what it's about, anyway. It's about the fact that the last words entered are exactly that: the last words. Part of me wonders if I should give up this blog since I hardly ever write in it these days. No. I don't think I could do that. Not yet. Even if it's only once in a blue moon, I want the option to write to you, or about you will be there. I do not wish to be the one to enter the last words. You deserve more time than that.  

Were You Afraid?

It's been a while, since I've written. I suppose that's probably normal...even though it bugs me a bit. Today, was Spring's first beautiful, warm Saturday. We took your niece to the park, to play under the sun. She ran through the grass, explored the jungle gym, and of course, got to go on the swings. I even did some swinging, myself.

You were in my dreams, last night. You were dying, but not in a hospital. We got to have you at home. For some reason, instead f a bed, you had some cushy bedding on the floor, and you lay there peacefully, not being attached to machines, waiting to go. I asked you if you were afraid. You said no. I wonder if that's true. Were you afraid? I know you said you wanted to die, as we were gathered together in that hospital room. We told you we loved you, and that it was okay to go...but was it scary? Maybe when my time comes, I'll find out what you knew...or maybe my journey will be different. I guess there are some things we'll never have the answers to, and I guess we just have to be okay with it.

Stopping in...I miss you

Well, kiddo...I had my last chemotherapy treatment, last Friday. I'm glad to be done with it, but I still have a long way to go. Of course, it's nothing compared to the battle you fought. Five years was a long time to remain so strong. I love you, baby brother, and I miss you every day. I wish you could see your niece! Last night, while I was playing with her, she rolled over, looked at me, and smiled between giggles. In that instant, looking at my daughter, I saw you. I have no words for how that felt. There was a little sadness to it, but overall, it made me feel warm. It made me smile in that soft silence, that comes when something so beautiful and meaningful comes to you. She is a beautiful gift, and so are you.

Traveling...

Well George, it looks like I get to do it again. I start chemotherapy on Tuesday, and today was my MRI. I thought about you as I was passed through that noisy machine. I can't help but find it fascinating. This all began at the Kearney Breast Center, where I was tested and diagnosed. Did you know they have snapdragons at the entrance? They do...and they make me feel less alone in this. You make me feel less alone in this. I won't make the same journey you did, but as I travel this road, I will feel closer to you.

Beloved Son and Brother

Two years ago, you left this world. On that day, our lives and ourselves were permanently changed. It's been a strange journey, since then. As it began, I wandered aimlessly through an agonizing haze with little breaks of light occasionally seeping through the cracks in a changing reality. Over time, the cracks began to widen, and more light came in, illuminating pathways that I hadn't been able to see before. The pain never left, and is with me to this day, but I learned how to navigate through it, accepting it as a permanent part of my life. I accepted your death right away...not because I was okay with it. I accepted what I knew I could not change. I believe that the acceptance is what has allowed me to learn the things I have. I miss you every, every day, but I also thank you for being who you were, and what you are to me now...a gift.

Your headstone arrived earlier than we thought it would. I took your little niece to see it and you. I know she doesn't know what it's about and I know it's just your body in there, but it was the best way I knew how to introduce you to her. Violet is so beautiful and such a light in my life. You would love her, I know you would. And she would love her Uncle George, as everyone seems to. I mean, what's not to love? You were so wonderful. You were so good and so thoughtful. You were so kind and so laid back. Our very own gentle giant. Our George...”Beloved Son and Brother”.

I miss you, baby boy. As I am writing to you from Daddy's dining table, in the place where you lived, I feel you near. As your niece watches Sesame Street with Aunt Wiggy and Grandpa, and the air thickens with your memory, I feel such a strange mixture of sadness and warmth. I hope I never lose these moments with you. I hope you will visit to see my baby grow. I hope to dream of you again. It's been a while. I love you George. Always and forever.

A Strange Sort of Comfort

Each time I had to check my email today, the first thing it showed me was the reminder that it's your birthday with a little suggestion to send you an e-card. I'm pretty sure I don't have the right e-mail address for where you are now, though I did leave a message on your Gaia profile.

You would have been 26 today. This was the second birthday celebration we've had without you. I dusted off your iPod and attached it to the wall charger (which is the only way it works, now), then plugged it into my little desktop speakers. For the first time, I had your favorite music playing right from your little shiny red device out loud for the world to hear. I made cheese enchiladas again...no sour cream. We had Tabasco, Barq's and re fried beans. This time, we invited friends to join us for your birthday dinner; Kris, his girlfriend Bri and her son Hugh. They brought side dishes and conversation. It was nice to have a little get together for you. Even now as your almost three-month-old niece plays happily on her little floor mat beside me, your songs are still playing and the warmth of it all surrounds me, with the chill of grief nestled somewhere in my center. It's okay. The grief is supposed to be there. It's a part of me now and I'm comfortable with it because it also shows me how wonderful the wonderful things really are.

As I write less and less frequently in this blog, I sometimes worry that I'm running out of things to say because you've moved so far away from us now. There's an odd sort of comfort that comes with grief. I felt it momentarily last week, a week ago today to be precise, when I received news of the death of someone I look up to. I was sad, and that chill in my center was notified, but for a moment on the outside, I was warm. I was at peace. Is it the knowledge that the suffering is over or is it something more selfish? In the months that followed your death, I was in so much pain, but you felt closer. Perhaps that's it. When someone dies, for a little while, there's the feeling that the person you are missing is still there, even if they can't be physically seen or heard. Does time bring distance or just disbelief? Are you any less here than you were during the days just after you died or have I just grown doubtful? I miss feeling certain of your presence. Sometimes, I even miss the pain as it was. It's madness, I know, but it's true. That's not to say that I really WANT to be grieving forever. I don't. That would be counter-productive and silly. Besides, I have my little Violet, now. As I've written before, in many ways, I consider her to be a gift from you. Your leaving has been such an immeasurable loss but the gifts you've left me with are also without measure.

I miss you, George...now and always. Life continues and so do I, knowing that there is no other option. My tears are less frequent, but there will always be moments for you, and your birthday will always be remembered as well as the day you died and the day we placed you in the ground with your teddy bear and bottle of Tabasco. Happy Birthday, baby brother. I love you so very much.

A Gift of Violet...thank you, George.

Violet was born almost a week and two days ago. Thirty hours of intense contractions...an epidural for about half that time. I endured hours and hours of pain I never knew before, only to result in a cesarean leaving me with lingering pain from that as well. For my first several hours of recovery, I couldn't even hold my baby girl but I was able to have her rested beside me. As I first came to after the operation, I heard a baby crying, I heard word of a little girl (we had kept her sex a surprise) and I heard my husband's voice as he cooed over our inconsolable little one. I heard that I had a daughter and I immediately began to cry. The love I carried inside for thirty-nine and a half weeks was now on the outside, screaming to the world that she was here and I was in tears from the pain and the confusion but mostly, my sobs were brought by joy mixed with disbelief. My baby was here. Violet Phoenix was here.

She came home with us on October 31^st, our six-year anniversary. This past week has been physically and emotionally taxing. Even with my wonderful husband helping me around the clock, recovering from a major abdominal surgery while caring for a newborn is no simple task. However, I am in constant awe at the amount of love I feel for this tiny person and I often fear that this is all a dream. If it is, I hope to never wake from it. She is everything to me. I look at her beautiful little face, I run my hand gently across her silken hair and I often weep as this incredible love bursts from the fragile shell of my being.

Knowing that she almost never was, mystifies and frightens me. We weren't going to have a child. We didn't think we should. We're broke and struggling. We have health issues. We had a million excuses as to why we shouldn't, even though being a mother was what I wanted more than anything in the world. There were countless times when I would find myself sneaking out to the kitchen in the middle of the night to secretly cry tears of longing and regret, thinking the greatest gift in all the universe would never be mine.

Last night, as she slept, I gently caressed my beautiful baby's face, listening to one of the CDs I made for our stay in the hospital and one of the song's from George's iPod came on. I looked down at my lovely daughter and was filled with a combination of heart-wrenching loss and soul-igniting gain all in the same inward breath. The cycle of life, love, pain and death all moved with a bitter-sweet grace all about me and I sat at the center of its light. It was George's death that made us realize the frailty of it all and how nothing is guaranteed. It was George's death that gave us the courage to take hold of what we want. Fear should never keep us from life's gifts and losing my baby brother made it so crisp and so clear. Were it not for my greatest loss, I would not be experiencing my greatest joy. Humbled, dizzied and weak, I marvel through my tears at this incredible cycle of events and I hope that from wherever he is, George can look down at his tiny niece and be proud knowing that he helped bring her to us. Violet will surely grow up with stories about Uncle George and how large and full of love he was.

Thank you, baby brother. Thank you for this gift. I miss you more than I could ever fully express but I am eternally grateful for what you have given me. I will cherish this always, I promise.  

Congratulations, George

Just a few short weeks until the baby comes, although it could be at any time, really. We're having some issues with fleas, which has prompted me to get rid of all the boxes and clutter. I've been sitting here at my computer, going through boxes of old papers, shredding and tossing what we don't need. I found this toward the bottom of the box I'm currently working on. I'm guessing it was from his first round of treatments when he was still living in Oregon. Back then, we were naively optimistic. We were sure a cure was possible, blissfully unaware of the true nature of that beast.

I had no idea I even had this. I barely even remember seeing it in the first place. How it ended up in my care is beyond me. Needless to say, I was caught way off guard and for a few moments, it tore me wide open. I set it down, accidentally getting a little water on it and sobbed uncontrollably for a while. It's these surprise memories that always hit the hardest. There's just no way to be ready for them. I think I'm okay, now. I can look at it and hold it with minimal shaking. The water has already dried and I can look at the names on it. Everyone who treated George seemed to love him. Gentle giants have that way with people. I wonder if anyone went back and told them that he didn't make it. I wonder if any of them already knew what we couldn't begin to fathom.

  

On the importance of looking up

I guess sometimes Mom has a difficult time keeping her head up. I do too. I know she's trying not to look down so much, trying to keep that chin elevated to acceptable levels where view of the sky is much more attainable. I heard somewhere a long time ago that it's been scientifically proven that looking up actually does elevate mood and makes it harder to cry. Not sure if it's true but I guess it makes sense. However, knowing this doesn't always keep us from looking down. Some days, it seems that your head is so heavy and your neck so weak, that you can hardly look above where you're standing. Then sometimes, a black hole opens up beneath your feet. Then the madness of grief calls, threatening to suck you in. It's so hard to look away.

I remember last winter in my Saturday astronomy class. George hadn't even been gone a year, yet. I can't remember whether his birthday had come and gone. I remember my disinterest in smart phones up until that time. They were entirely too much phone for me. Then Mary showed me the most incredible app on her droid...Google Sky. Here we were, in the basement of the cold science building, the same building in which I had stood next to the vending machine the previous spring, shuddering and sobbing because my baby brother had just died. In this place that seemed far away from the sky, all I had to do was look at the screen on this marvelous little piece of technology and point it somewhere. Wherever I aimed it, it showed me the stars that were there beyond my own sight right at that moment. Amazing! I pointed it in multiple directions, searching the constellations, not bothering to catch all their names, just delighting in the fact that they were there. I pointed Mary's phone at the ground and lo and behold, below my feet and through the Earth, there was a sky on the other side, too. It showed me its stars from all that way, making down up and dazzling my perception.

I remembered this as I was standing in the shower today, thinking bout Mom's heavy head. One of my two favorite VNV Nation songs came onto my phone...yes, it's a droid. It reminded me that the whole Earth is surrounded by sky and that no matter where our eyes are pointed, in a way, we're looking up. The trick is remembering that. Mom is right, it is better to physically lift our eyes and marvel at the sky that is immediately over our heads. However, on those days when it's just too hard and the black hole is sucking us down, beyond it...and on the other side of the planet, there is still a sky we can look up to.  

I've posted this song before...one of my two favorites from George's iPod

The meaning I give it

Grief doesn't just go away. It doesn't stop...at least, it hasn't so far. I don't expect it to ever fully leave, really. How could it? How could something that massive ever vanish completely? It's been almost a year and five months, now. A long time but not. Enough time so that I can get up and function without living in that constant haze. Enough so that my body no longer hurts and I can talk about it openly with anyone. Many parts of life have returned, but the loss will always be in the background and I will always be keenly aware of how I've been changed forever. Even on a seemingly normal day, it can sneak in and without warning, I'm a shuddering, sobbing mess in the shower or at my computer or wherever I happen to be where no one's watching. At least breaking down in front of people no longer happens. But even in solitude, when it hits, it hits hard. The memory of saying goodbye, of standing over his corpse, of watching his casket go into the ground...it will always haunt the back of my mind as will his ever-looming absence. I know he's gone. I watched him dying and then I saw him dead. Still, on some days, it crashes down as if it was something I hadn't been fully aware of before that moment. George is dead. My baby brother is dead.

Do I dwell on it every day? No. It's there as a constant but I'm not actively suffering on a continuous basis as I was for the first few months. To let the sorrow swallow me whole would be the wrong thing to do and George would not approve. I would not approve. There are things happening that are to be celebrated. Even with the loss of George and then my most loyal companion of nineteen years only a month or so ago, there are gifts coming that I can't ignore. It's a strange place to be...somewhere between life and death, watching spirits leave while others come in. I was still almost mad with grief when I found out I was pregnant, despite being able to laugh and continue. It was bizarre. Even more strange was holding my precious Phoenix and feeling her die as new life was literally stirring within me. Yes, it's definitely where I am...between life and death and the view is indescribable.

Does it “get better”? No. No, it never gets better. To think that it ever would just seems wrong. “It” does not get better, I just get better at living with it. I get better at taking the good things that were left for me. I get better at giving it meaning. That's where things get twisted, I think. People expect to find some sort of meaning behind these tragedies. Maybe there is meaning but I'm not one to sit around and wait for it. Instead, I choose the meaning. It's my grief, my tragedy, I own it. MY meaning. Each of us harbors the power of creation. We create when we speak, think, act. We can create meaning, too. To some, this might seem strange or daunting, but I find comfort in it. George and Phoenix's deaths were out of my control but the meaning is something that I have full power over and I have chosen to learn some incredible things. Do I like it this way? No. I want my brother back. I want my cat to sleep purring behind my head. I want to hear another “Just So” story from Can'ma. It's not going to happen, though. That part is over. This is the part where I grab the colors of my universe and shape them into pictures with meaning. I do it for me and I do it for them. I hope they're watching and I hope it makes them proud.

We all have our own “language of grief”. This is mine and I choose to speak it.

I sent you some company...

After 19 years, what I knew was going to happen, happened. Phoenix had been suffering for three days. I was hoping that when I told her she could go, she would. That cat didn't listen like you did. They wouldn't let us in the room where they put her down. I hope you were there. I hope someone watched over her before her body was handed back to my sobbing shell. I hope she found her way to you. 

I have some of your iPod songs on my computer. I'm listening to them right now, sitting in the cool of late morning, thinking of you both. I thought that losing you would make death easier. It didn't. It's still hard. It's still gut-wrenching and my body hurts. One thing you did teach me though, was that I'll survive it. 

I love you and miss you, George. Tell my baby I love her. Take care of her for me.

George came to me in a dream again, last night. I can't remember all the details, just that he was a little boy again. It probably came from my last night's reminiscing on the old days of Daddy's house in Utah. George was a little boy, then.


My mom's last post reminded me of how people say things like, "I couldn't imagine losing a sibling". Neither could I. Then it happened. Poor woman. She lost her son. I'm sure she gets a similar line. She watched me make it past Hodgkins Lymphoma and about 12 years later had to watch him die from brain tumors. It's got to mess with her. It messes with me, sometimes.


I'm glad I survived Hodgkins, but it's never felt like a huge victory. I had something that modern medicine has figured out how to fix. It's that simple. I was never going to die just like George was never going to survive...not from what he had. It makes me crazy and sane at the same time because it completely removes all "what if's" and "if only's". There was nothing else that could happen. I COULD have died if I ignored it, sure. But there was no other option for George. I guess that's where my acceptance comes in. There was no other option.

Heard this Yesterday...

It takes me back to Daddy's living room. There were hundreds of records and CDs against the wall. There were those comfy gray chairs that spun. There was a large window facing 9th East, through which we watched the cats play in the front yard. There was Daddy and there was Dickie, Ian, Wiggy...there was me. There was you. Taco nights and root beer. Quiet evenings with the Hardy Boys. Tetris, Frontier Pies, Chili sizes. There was you. 


A few years ago, I heard this song for the first time since those days and it brought back a flood of memories and emotions. I sobbed at the computer desk like a child with my hands over my eyes. So much that I had forgotten came back. I don't cry as much when I hear it these days, but of course, I think of you. I think of us. I miss you. I miss the five of us and Daddy's living room filled with the music that helped to shape our lives. I wonder what you're listening to now...

What would have been could not have been

It's nice to finally be able to find a little time to write. It's been a hectic few weeks. As of this past Monday, I am now 4 months pregnant. I had an appointment Friday morning. It was a long wait. I had my phone to keep me occupied, so I wouldn't have minded. Then I looked up...and there you were. A few years older but not much and with a beard. You had a baby girl on your lap, clearly your daughter. You talked with her and played with her. Then your wife sat down near you. A perfect little family. A swell of agony crashed against my psyche as I watched this you that wasn't you. I tried not to wonder how accurate this picture would have been. But there was no “would have been”. There couldn't be. Seeing you but not-you with a family tore me wide open. Fortunately, you got up just as the tears were promising to come. I saw then that you were too short to be you. I think it helped a little. I sat reeling for a few moments, then the world snapped back into focus just in time for my name to be called. I made it. That is, I made it until the trip home. We had one more stop. At the corner by the apartment complex, I saw you again. You were crossing the street. You were an old man. Surprisingly, I didn't tear up. I think it sent me too far from reality to let that happen.

We know now that there was no way you were going to live. There is no technology or medicine that could have possibly saved you. You were not meant to survive it...that part was left up to us. Surviving your death is an everyday thing, now. I'm not sure if that's a forever kind of thing but it's definitely still where I am. I keep forgetting that while a lot can happen in a year, it's not really a terribly long time. I'm doing so much better, but some days it still feels like it just happened. Some days, a lot of days, I feel like you are sending me messages. Was this another message or just a bizarre and painful coincidence? I'm not typically one to dwell on the alternate realities we don't get to see. You're dead. You were single and only 24 years old. You were and are my baby brother. You were never a husband, a father, a grandfather and you won't be...not in that body. Not in this life. It was not meant for you to spend any more time in it. Whether it's an act of genetics, some form of higher power or just coincidence, honestly makes no difference to me. It is what it is. It hurts, and that's that. The meaning behind the event is for me to find and decide. It is my meaning and no one else's. It belongs to me and I have chosen to own it. I own the pain, I own the lessons and I own the changes it has brought. But most of all, I own the gift. It's the gift that gives it meaning. None of the other things could exist without that part.

Thank you for that gift...my brother, my son. My gentle, sweet, funny giant.  

Putting you in my garden...

I got you some snapdragons, today. We planted them in the garden on the patio...three different kinds. I hope you like them.

Nowhere to run...nowhere to hide...

This definition was stolen from my mom's blog:


astrocytoma : n a primary tumor of the brain composed of astrocytes and characterized by slow growth 


Why do I care to remember this now? I wonder...when it exploded and killed him, did they change the name to something else? Just curious. I've had cancer/tumors as many people have, but it seems to me that something growing inside a person's head has got to be the most intrusive thing of all. I mean, where do you go? It was in his head!


"Is it an horrific dream?" ~Tears for Fears

Sad day for a mother...

Today was my first real Mother's Day. Baby is still in-utero, but the knowledge that I finally get to be a mom for real, has been a most sacred gift.

I thought a lot about my mom yesterday and today. I called her today, of course. She seemed to be doing well...better than last year. Last year has been the theme running through my mind and heart all week. Monday the 2nd was the anniversary of George's death. The 5th was the day we buried him. Last year, my mom lost her youngest son a week before Mother's Day. It still breaks my heart to think about.

I have often marveled at the sheer magnitude of my own grief and have written on the affect it has had on my every-day way of seeing, thinking, feeling, dreaming. Now, as I carry this blessed little life within my being, I can't imagine what it's like to go through the whole cycle. It seems wrong and twisted to carry a life inside, painfully bring it into the world (that boy did a number on her body, I tell ya), love it, teach it, nurture it...watch it die. Even once my child is no longer within me, I can't imagine him/her being any less than a part of me forever. We are sharing my body, which will never be the same again. My heart, my soul, my thoughts...permanently changed. What a magnificent and monumental gift! To lose that gift in the way my mom lost George...I just can't fathom it. A mother shouldn't have to go through that. Not ever.

So, I'm thinking about my mom and all the moms who have ever suffered the loss of children. Happy Mother's Day, all of you. May you heal in knowing that your babies are still a part of you (even if it was through adoption) and they are watching over you.