I don't think Little Man will ever be the kid with perfect attendance in
school. We are having another sick day; this time due to a stomach bug
or something. Saturday night and Sunday morning were full of puke and
empty of sleep. Always a stellar combo, but at least he is recovering
nicely. He is totally loving his diet of gatorade, jello, and toast
with apple butter. He smacks his lips and says, "Yes! Sugar!" as if
he's a complete addict. I seem to have been spared; whether a result of
antibodies or hand washing and lysol, I don't care. I'm just so glad
this bug passed over me. Fingers and toes are all crossed as I knock on
wood and hope it stays that way.
Last week I had some extra time to kill in town before picking up Little Man
for swim lessons and I went to library. I am there a few times a month,
usually with a list in hand; but this time I just wandered up and down
the rows of books, trying to not get dizzy from reading sideways. I
ended up lingering in both the coping and religion sections, picking up
books here and there to bring home. I ended up with a stack of books
all about coping with the loss of a child, what heaven will be like, and
one book written by a hospice nurse about the end of life. I've spent a
lot of time thinking about Jameson and our lives last year at this time
while reading. I've read many stories about other parents learning(or
not) to let go, about young and old hospice patients filled with peace
and joy at the end of their lives, about perspective. I'm still
processing a lot of it and not able to share much more than that, except
to say that I'm glad I'm reading through this stack of books on my
coffee table at this time in my life.
It is so strange, trying to reconcile the holidays with this upcoming
anniversary. Celebrating thankfulness and the birth of Christ with joy
while mourning the death of my son almost one year ago is confusing,
painful, weird. I'm somewhat at a loss for words here.
Saturday morning, Little Man and I went shopping to pick out presents for
all of his cousins. We were pulling into the Walmart parking lot when
he told he he hadn't yet decided what to get Jameson. I responded with
silence, trying desperately to not crash the car, start sobbing, or say
the wrong thing. I mentioned to him that I'm not quite sure how we'd
get a present up to heaven. He asked if Santa couldn't pick it up and
bring it there on his way through town? Well, I don't see why not, I
replied. So, Santa will not only be dropping off, but picking up a
special delivery at our house this year. It is heart breaking, but
genius at the same time. He is still thinking about what he wants to
get J.
I'm thinking about what J likes, which leads me to wondering who Jameson
is. Who is my son? Is he 3, like he was when he died last year? Or
does the aging process stay the same, making him 4? Or do we maybe just
have one perfect age in heaven and he could be 22 or 35 or 16? Will he
still be J with the same irresistible smile and gorgeous red hair?
Will we recognize each other in heaven someday? Will I still get to be
his mom? I look at his pictures and strain to remember his little
quirks. The sound of his laugh, the feel of his soft, creamy skin, the
way he fit into me perfectly when sleeping. I have to really work to
hear him running down the hallway to jump in bed with us in the early
mornings, to picture the way he rode a bike, splashed in the tub, played
with his brother. It can be such a struggle to hang on to who he was.
To remember. To make him real again. To wonder who he is takes my
breath away in an overwhelming, painful, and awesome way. Who is my
son???
Patience, I hear in my mind. The answer almost makes me laugh, because
the joke is on me. I want so badly to hit the fast forward button and
just be there. Just be there and see him and have all the pain and fear
and confusion of this world over. Why can't we just skip the mess and
get to the happily ever after already? But we can't. So I try to
breath deeply and I can't tell if the breath won't fill me full because
of my grief or if it is from the baby pushing on my lungs, reminding me
of my future here, my life here. Patience, my mind says again. This
time it isn't funny at all, but I know that it is true.
The Lord's Prayer comes into my mind and I feel a smile pulling at my
corners thinking about how I don't need to worry about getting through
this whole life. We get to take this one day at a time. Give us this
day our daily bread. Give me what I need to just make it through this
day. And tomorrow I need to ask again. And the next day I need to ask
again. It can be so overwhelming when the big picture is all I'm trying
to see.
Sigh. I just need patience. And maybe a nap.
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