Another Trip Around the Son

Dear Jack,

You’d be two today.  Two.  How can that be? It doesn’t seem possible.  None of this does.  It still doesn’t seem real that you came and left so quickly.  I remember thinking that I could never move forward after you went to heaven and, yet, here we are two years later; a second trip around the sun.

As usual, your mama was all about the build up.  Getting myself nice and worked up the days leading up to it.  In my mind it softens the blow.  It doesn’t in reality, and so waking up without you today was just as terrible as every other day these last seven hundred and twenty nine days.  As soon as I opened my eyes, there was no disorientation-I knew exactly what day it was and the first of my tears for today slipped out.  But I told myself that I would hold it together enough to go to your sister who was calling for me.

And you know what, Jack?  The second I opened her door, in her sweet muddled accent that I always wonder if you would have had too, she said, “Hey you know what, Mama?  It’s Jack’s birthday today!”  I know you saw her smile and I can guess how it made you feel because I could feel how excited she was to celebrate you.  And in that one tiny gesture she changed my perspective.  Cry?  Yes, I was going to cry there was no getting around that, but we would celebrate you today.  So we read two books to “send up” to you- I hope you liked them as much as she did.

It was Pajama Day at school today and Kennedy had been so excited that it was the same day as your birthday.  She kept telling everyone they were having PJ day for your birthday and a bounce house too.  I laughed to myself wondering if she was going to tell everyone at school that and what type of details she would add too it-she’s great for an awkward moment, that sister of yours.  So Daddy and I dropped her off and made our way to your spot.

It’s a sloppy snow here and so our footprints tracked mud in front of you.  I hated that we ruined it-everyone else had a fresh coat of snow but it was clear people had been there to see you so I was fine with that too.  It was freezing cold and while I don’t remember much of that day the weather reminded me of the morning we brought you there two years ago and if made me crumble.  I’m sorry-I try not to cry so hard when I’m there but today I couldn’t help it and it was a loud, ugly cry but I had to let it out before Kennedy came back later with us because I hate to make her nervous.  I hope the flowers last more than a night in the cold but it’s January and so I’m not too hopeful.  Flowers seem ridiculous to bring a baby boy on his birthday but we couldn’t go empty-handed.

Your dad was wonderful today.  I know when you look down you can see what a good man he is.  He hates to see me sad but, though it goes against everything he is as a person, he lets me cry when I need too, he doesn’t try to fix it anymore.  There is no fixing this: you are gone from me and that is never going to be something my heart can get right with.  So he hugged me a lot today and he squeezed my hands.  When he said, “Happy birthday, buddy,” I could remember him holding you so clearly and recall how much he loved you already.  He may not talk about it all the time, but he misses you, Jackie.

When we picked up Kennedy from Baba’s house she told us all about her day and how much fun she’d had but when I told her my idea for the night she lit up like the sun and the PJ party was old news.  We made our way to the store to the dessert counter and she walked around and around, carefully deciding what she was going to pick.  I talked her out of the fourteen inch chocolate cake that no one but Daddy would have eaten (we have to help the guy out where be can, Jack) and instead she settled on a big buttercream frosted cupcake.  When I asked the girl behind the counter for one Kennedy quickly and loudly interrupted me and said, “No, two!” and as I started to disagree she said, “Mommy, its my brudda’s birthday, we have to get two.”  And so we did.  On the way out of the store she asked for a balloon and picked out a pink one for herself.  Then she told the lady helping us, “It’s by brother’s birthday today! He’s two!” to which the woman said we had to send one home for him too.  Your sister began to share that you’d died but thank the Lord for the loud helium tank and we avoided the sad, awkward-stranger encounter.

The whole way to the cemetery she talked about she couldn’t wait to send your balloon up to heaven and hoped your friends wouldn’t steal it from you.  I assured her it wouldn’t happen as I smiled to myself at the idea that you have a little squad up there with you.  When we pulled up she was out of the car in record time and could barely wait for me to get my phone out to capture a few moments of it.  Watching her let it go and look towards the sky to you and jump up and down telling you to have fun- my God, Jack, it’s those kinds of things that let me draw my next breath that keep me going.  She loves you so much and so deeply.  And she misses you- I know this in the way she talks about you unprompted, and out of nowhere sometimes; or when she talks about how she would have helped you reach the counter to get you snacks you wanted, and that’s love, little man.  We watched your balloon disappear (I apologize to any animal that this balloon affects or the environment in advance) and we made our way home to finish celebrating.

When we got home, some of our friends, people that love you and your family so much, had sent some things to cheer us up and show how much they care.  Your herd is growing so big, Jack.  So many of them were incredibly generous today in honor of your memory and we are able to help so many people because of gestures like that made all of the time.  We sent you a wish lantern again this year.  I always have to be careful when it comes to wishes because I have to remind my heart that it can’t wish for you to be here but I can wish for you to feel our love for you and for our family to feel peace even in your absence and for you to watch over your sister and guide and protect her like she would have done for you.  As we watched it sail away I sent all of those thoughts out into the universe and prayed nothing caught fire nearby (so far no fire alarms).

We ate dinner as quick as we could because a certain little lady was rushing the dessert portion of the celebration.  And so we placed the number two candle that we still had in the junk drawer from Kennedy’s second birthday (and I silently thanked Nana for once for passing on her pack rat tendencies to me). And we sang to you.  Loudly and with hearts filled with love (our voices are just angelic- I know) and your big sister took care of the candle, just like I’m sure she would have if you had been here.

I got through today as best I could with a piece of my heart missing.  Like I said, I feel the loss of you in an enormous way every day but, if at all possible, more acutely today.  I told your dad today that it makes me sad to remember how heavy my heart was all that time ago, and almost sadder still to know that there is a bit of lightness to it now.  It's not that I’m less sad, by any means, I think it’s just that my heart figured out how to re-distribute the sadness so I could carry it a little easier.  I miss you terribly, my sweet boy.  Today my heart literally aches for you.  I held your bear today and willed myself back there, not that it’s hard to do, and I breathed you in again.

I’m doing my best to live a life that can make you proud; one that doesn’t cause you to have to watch over me too closely so that you can have fun with those friends and play with your new puppy, Honey (no she’s never going to stop licking your feet-it’s her thing).  You are never far from my heart and like the book we read this morning said, “I wanted you more than you ever will know, so I sent love to follow wherever you go…”

Happy birthday, Jack Holden.  You are so loved.

Love, 

Mommy

The Ones That Love Us Anyway

If there is one unique skill I would say I possess and would readily brag about it’s my ability to acquire a dog.  Granted this has taken some honing over the years, but, there is simply no denying that I can convince even the most resistant of people that getting a dog is a great idea.  I love dogs, even the annoying ones (I’m looking at you, Tucker).  More than that though, I love the love a dog gives.  It’s a hopelessly-devoted, follow-you-to-the-ends-of-the-earth kind of love.  Having a dog, man, the fun is palpable, the cuddles are medicine, and the loss is gaping.  You spend their life making excuses for their mistakes, “He’s a dog, he didn’t know,” cutting nights short, “I have to get home to the dog,” and swearing they are your spirit animal, “no one gets me like she does.”  A dog loves you in spite of your flaws, on your worst days, and especially on your best.  And so, when they go, when you have to let them go, your world changes and there is just no getting around that.

I grew up with a dog for most of my life.  Usually, I’d beg and plead for one, swear my allegiance to my dog chores and hold up my end of the bargain for a solid two months.  While my excitement for ownership would wane a bit over time the feeling of calmness I would feel when I was around them held strong.  If I was mad, or sad, or in desperate need of an ally, the dog was always my go-to.  Their unconditional love and patience was not wasted on me. 

Growing up, our black lab, Tahoe, was a wild man and the only one in the house as afraid during a thunderstorm as I was.  We’d hole up in my room and I’d squeeze him while he shook, feeling comforted by his presence in spite of that.  He was my big buddy. 

When I left for college I’d convinced my parents that it would be a good idea to get a puppy so Tahoe wouldn’t be lonely without me.  Now, granted there were still four kids and my parents at home with him, there was no mistaking he was mine and he knew I had gone.  So that Christmas Santa brought us Honey.  A gentle, yellow lab puppy that became Tahoe’s and everyone else’s best friend.  She was an old lady from the get-go; never in a rush, and never had the wild streak the rest of them seemed to have.  

When it was Tahoe’s time to go she stayed with him until the end and by his side even after he left.  When I came home for my wedding 2 days after he’d died, she let me hug her around the neck and sob about my furry friend for a good long while, never trying to shake me off. 

She loved Sean like he was her own boy and tolerated Tucker, who took to her from the very minute we had brought him home.  And when my own little girl came along, we saw a gentleness and tolerance in Honey that couldn’t have been taught.   And, my God, did Kennedy love that puppy.  When we visited my parents, Kennedy’s permanent location was wherever that dog was.  Her favorite spot was laying on Honey’s back.  

So when my parents sold the house and made their way upstate my dad’s first layover was an apartment.  He could only get a second floor unit and Honey already eleven, couldn’t take too much of the stairs so I said she would stay with us without any hesitation.  Having lost my baby boy a few months earlier, I certainly didn’t mind the extra comfort of having the old girl around me and truth-be-told she was a calming force within the whole house.  

I would be lying if I said there wasn’t a part of me that feared she would pass away while she was with us.  She was old, and arthritic with bad hips.  But maybe it was being around Kennedy and Tucker, running in the big yard again, or the puppy we adopted that she took to “training” right away but she got a second wind in her.  When it was time for her to move to my parent’s new house Kennedy was devastated.  She yelled and carried on that, “Honey is my dog now, Nana and Gramps gave her to us!” and cried for a few days.  

Everything fell back into routine.  We’d see her almost every day even if just for a minute so Kennedy could say hi and lay with her girl.  She loved her new yard and to lay in front of the gas stove. 

But there was definitely a marked oldness in her now.  She didn’t move so great and she seemed to bark at nothing and have a restlessness about her.  And so when my brother texted me and said he was worried about her last week, I gently reminded him that she was so old, she was thirteen now and she’d lived a good long life.

When the next call came a few days later that she wasn’t doing good at all, it was myself I had to remind.  I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her.

And yet the time had come.  Friday night I drove over to my parent’s house, laid down on the floor next to her and pet her, and hugged her and held her head in my lap.  And when it was time for me to leave, I told her I loved her, what a good puppy she had been, and told her to go find my boy- that he’d be waiting for her with Tahoe.

 

My family said goodbye to Honey the next morning and it was time for me to do the one thing I was dreading the most; it was time to tell Kennedy. And so, after dance class I told her I had some sad news.  She looked at me, dead in the eye and said, “Tell me, Mama.”  When I told her Honey had died, her eyes filled with big tears that spilled over the brim when she said, “Not my friend, Honey. I just want to be alone.”  Listening to her cry in her room broke my heart in places I didn’t realize were still whole.  She was sad all day and the next day too.  We talked about how much we loved Honey, and missed her, and how baby Jack got a puppy just in time for his birthday this month.  We said goodbye.

So I can acquire you a dog.  I can show you how to love one.  I can tell you how to spoil one.  I can even tell you how to coexist with one that is a wacko and drives you crazy most days (Yeah, still looking at you, Tuck).  One thing I can’t do?  I can’t tell you how to let go.  I don’t think you can.  I believe dogs fill a void in places that, maybe, you didn’t realize there was one and when their gone I think we just have to understand that there will always be this space where they once were.  Even if you get a new dog-they’re not going to fit in the Honey-sized hole in your heart.  And that, my friends, is the price we pay for love a dog gives. 

Finding the Right Words

As a mama there are just certain things you will constantly tell your children; stop that, don’t run, sit still, stop yelling, that won’t happen, and don’t worry.  In fact, I sometimes contemplate playing a drinking game where every time I say one of those things I’d take a gulp of wine.  But, then I remember that I have to adult and being drunk all day could become problematic.  So that list of ever-repeated phrases has become so commonplace I don’t even hear myself say it half the time.  It wasn’t until this past weekend that I said it, actually heard myself say it, and saw the painful doubt in my four-year-old’s worried eyes. 

We were getting ready for her nap and she touched my cheek and started crying, “I’m going to miss you if you die!” I gently but quickly said, “I’m not dying,” dismissing it as a stall tactic.  She cried a little more but then settled down.  When she woke up from her nap she was still out of sorts and whiny so I had her sit with me on the couch for a bit.  She seemed to rally until she asked, “Does everybody die?” I faltered for a moment, ready to say ‘don’t worry, that won’t happen’ yet I couldn’t form the words and force them out of my mouth. 

You see Kennedy knows that it’s not true. She knows death. And I’m not just talking a fish, though we have recently lost her beta fish that we tried our damnedest with (two years, we managed!) and she had a good cry over him.  No, I mean the kind of actual death that leaves a gaping absence in your home.  Her baby brother died almost two years ago.  Though she never saw him in person, her little heart had already carved out a place for him and so when he didn’t come home with Mommy and Daddy, but in his place a grief that overpowered our lives, she felt the loss.  Even if at times she couldn’t understand what it was, she felt it.  We never lied to her, we explained in terms she could understand yet never anything abstract- “Jack died and when you die you don’t come back anymore”-knowing things like heaven would be lost on her.  We weren’t sure she got it, but as time went on she would fact check on what dying meant, whether all babies died or just ours, did that still make her a sister, or whether you still miss people when they die; all of these made it very clear she understood he was gone.  I often doubt whether we handled any of it the right way, especially when she goes on a tangent talking about dying at inopportune times like birthday parties or playing with her cousins.  But I have to remind myself that this is part of her life experience and to ignore it is to discount it and even if that breaks my heart, it will help shape who she becomes in this life.

And so, when she asked, “Does everybody die,” I had to say ‘yes, eventually everyone dies,’ and just hug her as she cried.  And she did cry.  Real, sad tears. I grasped at straws saying, “But don’t worry, not for a really, super long time!” As she calmed a bit from that, I, inside my anxious-mother-mind, desperately pleaded with whoever is in charge of that sort of thing for it to be true; ‘Please don’t take anyone else this little girl loves too soon, her little heart needs to mend.’  Death was then the subject of the night and it took a while for me to get her to change the subject.  I thought we had moved on until I was tucking her in again for bed and she said, “Don’t worry Mama, because even if you do die you won’t really go away, I’ll just keep you by Jack in my heart.” I managed to choke out ‘Okay’ passed the lump in my throat, kiss her, and leave the room.

I will not lie to her about death and dying. I will always to my best to help her make sense of the losses she faces as best we can.  I myself struggle to understand why certain people die when they do, why my baby boy couldn’t stay with us in this life and I tell her that too. I tell her so she understands that she is not alone in her sadness and that some days we may just feel a little sadder than we do other days and that that’s okay too.