Change

Change is coming. 

And Breathe. 


So.  Life has been a big whirlwind and I just haven't had the time to form the words to actually share.  I'm still not sure I do, but if I don't just start writing at night, after the homework and the dishes and the laundry and the bedtimes, I'll never write.  Okay, you caught me, I didn't do the dishes...what fun would that be?! 

But here I am, short on sleep, short on time, short on brain power, once again with an overflowing brain ready to burst out onto the page.  This time I'm just going to dive right in and get it all out so I can hopefully start writing real writing without all this news and catch-up stuff getting in the way.  Sorry for the lack of eloquence here.

Hubs is graduating from medical school in May. After that is will be Dr. Hubs to you.  Right before St. Patrick's Day, we celebrated a med school event known as Match Day, which is the day everyone finds out where they are off to for residency.  And we are off to Oregon.  For real.  Oregon.  With the mountains and the ocean and the weird people.  We'll fit right in. 

I can't even begin to tell you how excited we are about this move.  It has been bubbling up for the past month and we are just over the moon.  Last week we went out to Oregon to see if we couldn't find a place to live.  We took the kids.  We hiked.  We played at parks and had ice cream before dinner.  We had sushi.  We went to the beach.  And we found a place to live.  It was an awesome week.  The entire time we were there, we just kept saying we can't believe we get to live there.  Amazed at the blessings that continue to flow into our lives.  God truly does give immeasurably more. 

And now we're back in Minnesota.  And the driveway has a few inches of snow on it.  And Little Lady cries when she looks out the windows because she misses grass and playgrounds.  And Little Man wants to have more sushi.  Soon enough. 

First there is the waiting and the purging of more stuff and the job hunting and the packing and the cleaning and the driving!

And then the settling in.  We get to live in our dream location for the longest we've ever gotten to live anywhere.  No more moving.  For a long time.  Ahhhh.  I may have gypsy blood in me, but I'm looking forward to this.  Big time.

But I'm not there yet.  And at this moment, my to-do list is longer than I can handle all in my mind.  I'm in "GO!" mode and trying to tackle too much all at once.  And I'm not super-woman by any stretch.  But it'll get done. 

I suppose I should start with those dang dishes...

The Scar From When We Were Shiny

I've been sitting here watching the cursor blink for a long time. Blink.  Blink. Blink.  The past two weeks have been overwhelming with newness and busyness and excitement and people.  All the time.  Match Day.  St. Patrick's Day.  Spring Break for Little Man.  Grandparents in town.  Hubs home for a full month before graduation.  It is all awesome and fun and wonderful, but people give me writer's block big time.  Virginia Woolf wasn't kidding when she said you need a room with a lock. 

But here I am.  Finally.  Little Man is at school.  Little Lady is sleeping.  And I just kicked Hubs out for an hour in the hopes that this dam of stuff up on my brain can start to trickle down to the page before it blows.

But here I am.  Finally alone.  And there is so much up there and out there and in here.  And I'm lost with where to start yet again. 

It is finally starting to warm up in Minnesota.  The sun is shining today.  The birds are singing.  The snow is melting.  Thank God the snow is finally melting. 

I was warm enough to hang out barefoot for a while this morning.  Loved it.  I got out of the world's longest and hottest shower and waited a full hour before strapping on the wool socks that have been saving me since October hit. 

I sat on the bed talking to Hubs about upcoming plans, enjoying the freedom to wiggle the toes and not actually be shivering.  I looked down at my feet and smiled.  I have freakishly long toes and I love them.  And on my right foot, I have this little scar right on the top in the middle of that hard bone.  I love this scar. 

I was cooking dinner.  In Florida.  It was August and Little Man was one.  He had his own cabinet full of old camping cookware and random tupperware with missing tops and bottoms.  I was seven months pregnant.  Fat and happy.  And cooking dinner for my little family, thinking on how it was getting bigger in such a short time.  I was so happy.  Everything was still so bright and shiny. 

I remember being in front of the sink washing vegetables.  And I stepped on something.  Which happens all the time with dogs and kids and moms whose priorities don't include vacuuming every single time a crumb lands on the floor.  I was barefoot.  Without even thinking, I picked up my left foot and rubbed it across the top of my right foot to brush off the crumbs.  Only instead of being a crumb, it was a piece of enamel from one of the old camping mugs.  It sliced deep and the red ran.  It took a long time to heal and left a nice little white crescent on my foot. 

Sometimes the memories are vivid and you don't know why.  I have not idea why I've held this picture so clearly through the years while so many others have slipped away.  But it is there and like yesterday in my mind.  I see the scar and I can feel the day.  I can feel the happiness and anticipation and the ignorant bliss of the happily ever after that was our life.  I can feel the round stomach, full with my Jameson.  He was a part of me.  Growing within me.  He was real.  And here. 

It has nothing and everything to do with him, this little silly scar on my foot. 

Go Green

I bought new socks.  I couldn't help myself.  They were there.  I was all alone.  I glanced to the right while walking from the baby formula aisle to the frozen vegetables aisle.  And they spoke to me.  They said, "Meghan!  Buy us!  Wear us!  Be proud of your inner-Irish!"  And I looked at those socks and their price tag and I said, "Yes, yes, I will buy you.  And I will proudly wear you Saturday." 

I've got the hats and the socks and the beads and the buttons and the Roo's all set to go for the parade on Saturday.  If you have to ask what is going on this Saturday, you need to check you calendar.  It is March, people.  Mid-March.  And the Madness in this house extends well beyond basketball. 

St. Patrick's Day is on Sunday, but the celebrations and parade are Saturday.   That means we get to celebrate twice!  How does life get better? That is maybe where the new socks come in.  Who doesn't love new, fun socks?  Seriously. 

So.  Here we are again, with St. Patrick's Day fast approaching. This is the annual reminder to GO GREEN! 

Jameson was my Irish baby to the max.  With all that red hair.  And all that fiery laughter and love spilling out of him all.of.the.time.  Every time I hear the song "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" I think of my boy and his joy.  My Irish Prince.  

We're having our annual trek to the Cathedral for a full Celtic Mass put on by the Hibernians.  Then we'll head to our favorite brunch place with the entire extended family, where we may or may not drink Irish coffee.  With extra whipped cream.  And then we will head to the parade.  And it will be cold.  And crowded.  And LOUD.  And it will be awesome.

And we will think of him.  All day. 

Which is pretty normal, actually.  But we will smile and laugh and wear our crazy green and orange and fake mustaches and blinking hats, and lime green sneakers that haven't fit since before babies.  We will stop and smell the shamrocks.  There can be so much sadness in the memories and emptiness.  But there is so much joy.  Always joy.  This day is one more way of seeing and celebrating the memory and joy of our Jameson.

Slainte!

Meeting Her

Last weekend I had a chance to go to the Set Apart Conference.  It was an amazing day and I'm still trying to process it all.  I went with a Bestie, which made the day that much more special.  We started off the day in the auditorium singing.  I had just finished taking inventory of the registration bag and made a comment to my friend about the tissues they included and how I won't need them because I have such tough skin.  She raised her eyebrows in disbelief and smirked at me.  She thinks I'm an emotional creature.  Humph.  As a matter of fact, she calls me The Mascara Wrecker.  I still haven't figured out if it's a compliment, but I'm going to roll with it anyway.  But I digress.  I may wreck other people's mascara, but please.  I'm not going to cry at a women's conference. 

Yes, I seriously did think this, people. 

So we're singing.  People are getting into it.  I've got the beat in my legs, people have their hands in the air, the girls on stage sound awesome; it's good worship.  And then.  There's always a then.  Then they start playing the song Revelation.  Amazing song.  But about half-way through, the chick on the piano starts talking while she's playing, about how when we sing to God, everyone is Heaven joins in with us.  And here is where it starts my friends.  A deluge.  I'm standing there, picturing Jameson rocking out in Heaven with me and wring my hands and doing yoga breaths so I don't sob so loudly people start looking.  This is where you get to laugh at and or with me.  Whew.  It was a moment and then some.  The Bestie gave me a hug and laughed a little when I commented on how that didn't take long! 

The rest of the day was a little like this experience over and over.  I listened to so many amazing people, was wow-ed and humbled and inspired and then some.  All day long.  

The absolute highlight of my day was getting to hear her speak and then meet her. 

Notice my eyes.  I'd say notice her eyes, because I made her cry, too, but she obviously has better makeup than I do.

This beautiful lady embracing me is Ann Voskamp.  I've talked up her book, One Thousand Gifts, many times on the blog.  If you haven't read it yet, go get it!  Right now!  I read her book right after J died and she changed the way I was thinking, grieving, seeing the world.  It was a lifeline at the time.  And it was an honor to get to share with her how her writing impacted my life. 

I have more to share, but I need time.  Time to think and time to write.  I'll be back soon! 

The E.R

She is finally sleeping in her own bed and I've caught up on at least half of the homework that was due yesterday.  And I am sitting here with more homework to do, more housework to do, more everything to do.  But I can't do it.  I'm so tired.  Physically from holding my Little Lady 24/7 since Sunday.  Emotionally from having to take her to the ER yesterday for IV fluids.

I had no idea how hard it would be, going back to that place.  Parking in that parking ramp.  Pushing that elevator button.  Walking past that coffee shop.  Seeing the Dinosaur book in the gift shop and thinking that if he were still here I would buy it.  He was only there for two weeks before the most horrible ambulance ride from hell across the cities.  But it was a really crappy two weeks.  And I felt it all.

When they were putting the IV in her arm, I remember when he got his first one.  I left the room.  That was when I was still a major wuss with that kind of stuff.  So I left Daddy to take care of it.  We still didn't know he was sick then.  We didn't know anything.  And she sat in my arms in the bed not unlike he did.   And she thrashed around and tried to pull the tubes out just like him, too.  And she tried to climb me with cries of "mamamama" not unlike his.  And we watched PBS Kids just like we did with him.  He loved Martha Speaks and said "doggy" as clear as day.  I was so proud.  He didn't say much after that.  And then nothing ever again.

 And we waited on test results to see what was going on; although that was very different and yet not so much.   We know too much for anything to be taken for granted.  So while it was expected, we both felt sweet relief wash over us when the doc said her kidneys are fine.  And Daddy looked over her labs the same way he used to pour over J's.  Only this time instead of fear and anguish in his eyes, I saw satisfaction.  And I knew it would be okay this time.  The opposite of what it was like last time.

So we waited for the fluids to drip, drip, drip into her arm and hydrate the sassy little girl who still won't drink.  And this time when we left, we got to bring our baby with us.  Instead of packing up cards and broken dreams, we packed up a crabby girl and walked out to our cars.  And when we left the parking lot, we pulled out into the alley where that dreadful ambulance picked us up the other time we left that hospital.  It was the eve of his birthday and cool and starry and late.  And it was the last time he was ever outside.

I never want to go there ever again.  These are not the memories I want washing over me.  I don't want to picture the fish tank in the waiting room and remember how I was watching the dead fish, belly up when they were talking to us about lymphangiomatosis and how we were going to treat him.  All I could think was they should really get that dead fish out so parents don't have to look at that dead fish and think about their kids belly up down the hall.  But how can you not think about that when you get handed the death sentence? 

I don't want to remember how the coffee tasted there.  And the way babies smell once the sterile room gets into their hair.  And the way the waiting feels, how it weighs you down and tears your brain apart. 

There is damage there that cannot be repaired.  And I pray over and over again to please never let my babies get sick ever again.  Because one day in an ER undid me.  She is the one with pneumonia, but I am the one unable to breathe.  She doesn't even have a bruise from the IV.  And my bruises from 2 1/2 years ago are still black and blue and sore to the touch.  She is feisty and playful and stubbornly refusing to drink again already.  And I am on the verge of weeping at every second, waiting for the black hole to swallow me whole.

X-Rays

I'm typing with one hand because I'm holding a sleeping baby in the other.  Little Lady is sick.  I love the snuggles but mostly just want her better.  She wants me 24/7.  Last night she slept on my chest.  I'm caffeinated to the max this morning. 

We went to the doctor this morning after Little Man got on the bus because she won't drink and we're a little worried about her dehydration.  She's not great, but not bad enough to get an IV yet.  My job today is to continue to force feed her pedialyte with a syringe so we stay safely dehydrated, if you will.  Not fun for anyone.

The doc was kinda hard because she had to get a chest xray.  The last time I had to help hold down a screaming child for an xray was the day Jameson got sick.    It was after his surgery and his sats just wouldn't pop up and the anesthesiologist was convinced I lied and brought a sick kid to surgery so I didn't have to reschedule.  He quickly changed his tune when we saw the xray with two collapsed lungs and fluid everywhere.  That was the very beginning of the end.  That one xray.

It was so easy to remember that day today.  To look down and see both my babies on that table.  To feel how familiar the lead apron felt.  It was so easy to be scared today too.  After all, we weren't expecting J's disease either.  We had no clue that deadly disease was lurking and growing inside his sweet little body.  None.  We found out a week later and it all went downhill so fast.  As I've said before, we have no illusions of invincibility anymore, so it was easy to be a little scared. I even packed a small over night bag before heading to the doctor, just in case. 

She has pneumonia.  That's all.  Nothing scary right now.  Pneumonia, ear infections and dehydration.  All of which require mom to stay calm, love, love love, and push those fluids.  And she's gonna be just fine.  And I say that, thinking of the irony.  How can I have no illusions of invincibility but still be sure of her health?  Because I choose to.  I know bad things can happen.  I've experienced bad things happening.  The worst.  But I've also experienced loads of good things.  And I can look at the statistics and see what an anomaly J's illness was.  So yes, I know bad things do happen and can happen, but I also know that that doesn't mean they will happen.  And I also know that even if the do, I will survive.

And so we go on.

The doc showed me her chest xrays.  It was the first time I've seen any of those since J was sick.  Her ribs are cute, too.  I was amazed when I saw her pictures.  "Healthy" lungs with no collapsed lobes and chests with no picc lines and chest tubes are just beautiful sights to behold.  I sat in that chair and patiently nodded as he explained what I already could see so plainly and thanked God for those beautiful images.  These gifts are sometimes so bittersweet with this perspective I've gained. 

Alas, I need to awaken sleeping beauty and forcibly inject some Pedialyte down her throat.  May you see gifts everywhere you look this week. 

Stranger

Yesterday as I was walking through the living room, I looked at a picture on the digital slide show of my sweet Jameson and I just went blank.   I didn't feel happy.  I didn't feel sad.  It was like seeing a picture that comes with a frame.  I stopped in my tracks and started at that picture and wondered who he is.  He used to be mine.  I used to know everything.  Every.little.thing. Every thing.  He is my son.  I spent three years with him as the center of my world.  He grew inside of my body.  I love him with every molecule of my being.  And yet.  And yet yesterday I looked at his picture and he felt like a stranger. 

The heart find news way to break, I guess.

How can I see one of our precious memories and not feel something?   How can the connection get lost, even momentarily?  I was so appalled at my inability to feel in that second that I've spent much of the past day looking back at pictures, remembering fun times, reading the old CaringBridge updates.  And I've completely flooded myself with pain.  It is somewhat of a relief; the nothingness is much scarier, much worse.

Only now I just can't breathe.  

The thing is, there is no way to keep this kind of thing from happening without stopping.  Unless I freeze myself here in this spot and never take another step, it will happen again.  Because every step I take is a step away from the past.  And he belongs to the past, at least on this side of eternity.

It is just so strange.  I feel like I've looked at all of the pictures of him much that I don't know if I'm remembering real memories or remembering pictures.  And then I search my being for memories that don't have Kodak attached to them to see if I actually even remember him alive.  Real. 

The memories are there.  They are just so distant.  Every once in a while, something will trigger a memory and the recall is so sweet as it washes over me.  Ah, I do remember him.  I haven't forgotten or lost it all.  And of course, there is no way I could lose it all, but even the little things are everything when there is nothing else left.   And sometimes I can't remember how he looked in his sleep.  Or how he felt on my hip.  Or what his sweet voice sounded like when he laughed.  And how can I not remember those things?  What kind of mother forgets that?

My heart is broken today because he feels so wholly lost to me.  Oh my God, my son is gone.

I don't know how to move today.  How to be.  I keep trying to think about all the promise in this life and the next and it just isn't working today.  I just want to freeze and be with him.  Even if just for today.  Can't I please have him back, just for today?

But there is no pause.  No rewind.  There is only this present shoving me forward.