Making Room

I wasn’t expecting this.

It’s been nearly a week since we got home from Disney World, and I am still trying to process the emotions that bubbled up during those four magical days (as well as get caught up on laundry and put my house back together). I expected the typical emotions that so often accompany an occasion that should be filled with joy. I knew that even at the happiest place on earth, I would be sad.

Not Eeyore sad.

Just not head over heels happy.

I’ve come to realize that even on the sunniest of days, it’s going to be a bit cloudy in my heart.

So that’s why the feels I was feeling throughout our trip have me a bit perplexed. Yes, I felt that all-too familiar tug as we entered the park that first day. But on the last day of our trip I was overcome with emotion. Ugly cry emotion.

And here’s why (well, my theory anyway):

I spend a great deal of time and energy holding onto my Addie memories. I play them over and over and over again as a way to keep her here. Present. Somehow within reach. I can’t bear the thought of forgetting one single thing about her, so I replay the conversations, the moments (and not just the big ones). Instead, I get lost in the everyday. The way she’d pull her hair up in a ponytail and smoothe out all the bumps. The way her hands would cup the sugar canister as she walked toward the cereal bowl waiting for her on the kitchen table. The way she’d sit on the edge of our living room chair, waiting for the bus to pull up to our house and take her to school. I can’t let one single moment escape me. And so, I spend so much time keeping those memories safe and secure that I have little room for anything else.

As we got lost in the magic of Magic Kingdom, I realized that there were memories to be made here too. In fact, we were making them. And that I wanted to hold onto those memories just as tightly.

Because I realized that these tender moments are just as fleeting.

Life is fleeting.

We may return to Disney someday. We may not. But I know it won't be the same. We will never experience what we did this past week.

A return trip doesn’t promise that my littlest girl will be smitten with princesses. That one of my boys will ask me to hold him tight. That another will reach for my hand. And hold it.

You only get that once.

A Gift

In 2012, I described myself as a mother whose heart was broken and whose spirit was bruised.

I am still that mother.

I had questions; needed answers.

As to why God would take away one of my most precious gifts.

And give me another.

I've been re-visiting this blog post a lot lately.

Maybe it's because tomorrow is Landry's birthday.

And I'm feeling a little sentimental.

I'm taking stock of the years that have slipped by.

Thinking about where I've been.

Where I am now.

Or, maybe it's because my 3 year old said what I've always known to be true in my heart:

God got me to you.

I've told her she was a gift from God.

That she came into my life in my darkest hour.

That mommy needed something to believe in; something to let her know God would not abandon her.

But those words are not mine.

God got me to you.

That particular turn of phrase could very well be 3-year-old speak. Perhaps she meant gave instead of got.

Or perhaps she was meant to find me all along.

I Would've Brought a Casserole

Grief takes your mind to some pretty peculiar places.

Since losing our 9-year-old daughter Addie, I've occasionally allowed myself to build a new reality, one in which my child is still here and this happened to someone else.

Someone else I know.

It's never anyone in particular. And it's not as if I'd ever wish for this to happen to anyone. I just wish it didn't happen to me.

With that new reality firmly in place, I think about what I would've done if I were the friend or the friend of the friend or the mere acquaintance that occasionally said hi in the grocery store. Basically, if I were anyone other than the mother of the child who was diagnosed with cancer and died. If I were this person, this magical person who still had all of her children living and breathing alongside her, what would I have done for this grieving mother and her family? Well, of this I am sure: I probably would've brought a casserole. Something cheesy, delicious, and warm. Something sure to bring comfort in a time of crisis.

And that's probably all I would've done.

Sure, I'd wonder about the family, how they were managing, if they were managing. But I would've done this from afar. Which is why I'm amazed by the people who haven't been afraid to put themselves in the eye of the storm, to get their hands dirty, to walk with us in our grief.

Early on, we were told that our address book would change. That we'd be surprised by the people who would step forward. And disappointed by those who would not. They were right. Relationships have changed, friendships have been lost. But in their place new ones have taken root.

Within a couple months of Addie's death, I received a phone call from a woman I'd met just once before. It was a casual meeting at a Saturday morning youth basketball game. She was standing on the balcony, trying to snap a pic or two of her son. I had moved to the balcony in an attempt to wrangle two very active boys who had lost interest in their big sister's basketball game. She introduced herself, we made a few connections, and that was that.

And then our world turned upside down. And out of the blue, a phone call. From her. I know we don't really know each other, she said, but I'd like to take you to lunch. I want to hear about Addie. I want to learn about you. And your family.

And for some reason, after holing up in the house for weeks, I said yes.

That afternoon I opened up about Addie - what a treasure she was - and I worked through the details of her diagnosis and the road to her death, as a platter of Mexican food sat untouched.

What makes a person do that? Get in, get all tangled up in the complicated yuck that is our grief?

Because she didn't have to.

But I'm sure glad she did.

Because even now, three years later, I can count on her to check in on me from time to time and show up on my front porch - fried chicken in tow - just because she knew I was probably having a rough day.

And there have been others.

Those whose hugs have held me together at back-to-school nights when I was almost certain I was going to break right apart. Those who've listened to me tell the same stories about Addie over and over and over again, smiling and nodding because they know the stories are numbered. Those who know I'll never quite get back to the way that I was, but love me just the same.

How do you grow a heart like that?

I wish I knew the answer.

Because I'm trying awfully hard to work on mine.

A Good Life

Two days after we lost Addie I stood at the end of our driveway with my childhood minister. There were others there of course, stopping by to offer comfort and casseroles - but the words she shared with me that day, well, those are the words that have stuck.

"Life will be good again," she said, placing her arms around me. "It will be different, but it will be good."

Life will be good again.

I can't remember if I believed her then, but I knew her words were important. Because she was speaking to me not as a minister, but as a mother.

A mother who knows.

I think of her often.

She was, after all, the one who, despite living halfway across the state, agreed to marry us 17 years ago.

I think of that hot July day often too.

Of course we knew there would be challenges, but we were banking on life's normal challenges. But we made promises that day. That we'd stick together when everything else fell apart.

And when it did, there we were making promises again in a hospital waiting room. Promises to stick out this life, to keep breathing even though both of us just wanted to stop. Promises to live for and to love our children with what was left of our hearts.

Although I can't pinpoint exactly when, I do know that somewhere along the way to making good on our promises, I began to realize my minister was right.

Life will be good again.

There are basketball games in the driveway. Walks around the loop. Cuddles before bed. And water fights.

Glimpses that life will be good again.

But there will always be a catch in my throat. A child missing. One less plate at the dinner table. And one less kiss goodnight.

Still, I have to believe it'll be good again. Different, but good.

(Almost) Home

You might say I'm a sucker for signs. Especially those that are painted and a little bit primitive. I have them all around my house.

See:

And, at various points in my life, each sign - with its simple message - has served as a mantra of sorts.

So when it came time to finally cover up an enormous nail hole select the perfect piece to go above our fireplace, I just knew a sign was the way to go.

But, considering all that's happened, what's my mantra now?

Life was good. And then it wasn't.

Don't worry. It'll all be over soon.

I'm kidding. Sort of.

Obviously, I needed something a bit more, um, inspirational, something that wouldn't make guests do a double-take when they entered our home. And, I needed something that said this is our family.

And what worked for us before just doesn't cut it anymore.

Sigh.

So, I spent a weekend tossing around a few ideas (nothing really worth mentioning here) and one in particular just stuck. It was this idea of home and what home should be.

Before all of this, home wasn't half-bad. Sure it was loud and it was messy. You can read more about that here and here. But it was also beautiful because everybody that I loved was right here, within arm's reach.

Without Addie, I'm not sure it'll ever quite get back to the way that it was.

It's home, but it's not.

The noise has resumed. The messes too. In fact, I'm not sure either ever really went away. But, there is a voice missing. There's one less baby to tuck in and kiss goodnight, one less plate at the dinner table. We smile for the camera, but it'll never be quite right.

It'll never be home.

So, we settle for what we have in our almost home. And we realize this place where we live and work and love really isn't our home at all. Never has that been more apparent to me than it is right now.

I could try to put into words exactly what it is I'm talking about, but I'm not going to do that. What I've realized (and I'm really trying to avoid going all Mary Katherine Gallagher on you now) can best be summed up in the song Blessings by Laura Story.

What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life is

the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?

I have a deep-seated need to have my family all good and whole again. And, there is no substitute for that. I do believe things will be good again (they are at times), but I know our lives will never be right until we're Home.

So, until then, we're almost Home.

Plus, that sounds so much better than that it'll all be over soon stuff.

So, about the actual sign.

I contacted Deb from Deb Hrabik Designs and gave her the scoop on what I wanted.. We tossed around a few ideas, traded a few emails. She painted. I waited. And within a couple weeks time it was here. 

What can I say? I. Love. It.

And here's why:

It's beautiful (obviously). It's big. And it's bold.

It says and does everything I wanted it to. It even hides the incredibly large nail hole, so that's a bonus.

But here's the best part: there's a piece of Addie in that sign. 

That, my friends, is Addie's handwriting (and all Deb's idea) taken from a story she had written in fourth grade.

We are well-aware of the huge, gaping hole that's been left in our hearts and our lives, but seeing that little piece of Addie on my wall every day makes me feel like she's saying, "It's OK, mom. You're doing alright. You're almost there."

Almost.

'The Best Vacation Ever'

According to 5-year-old Tripp, last week's little jaunt to Colorado was, in fact, the best vacation ever.

He proclaimed this from a mountain top.

After bouncing up and down on a bungee trampoline at Peak 8.

The best vacation ever, huh.

Compared to what?

You see, this poor guy has spent half his life on the after side of death. Gosh that sounds awful, doesn't it? But, anyone who has ever suffered the loss of a child knows time is divided in two parts: before and after. And these parts are not equal. Not at all.

The last great vacation took place in June 2011. And it was just that: great.

But little man was only 2 years old.

So we started planning this vacation a couple of months ago. There was no intention of making it the best vacation ever. That was an added bonus, I guess. We simply wanted the boys to know that mountains exist. Seriously.

And so, we headed to our old familiar Summit County, knowing full-well the trip would pretty much plan itself.

It did.

There was swimming.

A little hiking.

Chipmunk feeding.

Sliding and jumping.

As well as general lounging around, shopping, playing air hockey, and introducing the boys to the classic film The Sandlot.

And Isaac, of course, asking, "Why do those boys say so many mean words?"

Stay innocent, Isaac. And don't you ever call your brother crapface (or any other name you picked up while watching that DVD not once, not twice, but three times in three days).

So, was it the best vacation ever?

There was more good than bad.

And that's something.

One Year (and one week in review)

Time's a funny thing when you're dealing with a loss.

It's been 410 days since I last heard my daughter laugh, felt her hand in mine, twirled her hair between my fingers. On one hand it feels like it was just yesterday. On the other, well, it feels like it was a million years ago.

And I hate that.

I hate everything about this actually.

And every day for the past 35 days I've hated that I've been in such a downward spiral that it's been all but impossible to share the wonderful ways so many people remembered our daughter a year later.

Wonderful. Ways.

Here's just a few:

Letters and cards to let us know you haven't forgotten.

You still love us. Pray for us. Ache for us.

A birthday candle.

A birthday cake.

A package of Golden Oreos.

An angel pin.

And more.

Letters from Addie's classmates.

A scrapbook filled with memories.

And a beautiful balloon release to mark what should have been Addie's 11th birthday.

As blue and green balloons filled the sky, two little boys led a gaggle of 10 and 11 year olds across our yard and into the alfalfa.

Together we watched and watched as the last of the balloons disappeared from sight (and presumably into the hands of our little girl).

And we watched as groups of three, sometimes four, girls broke off into groups around our yard. To talk. To cry. To remember.

Later that night we celebrated Addie's birthday as a family.

And what about that run?

More than 600 of you came out that day to remember Addie, support two wonderful causes, and show us once again how much you care.

I'm not sure words can describe that day, so I won't even try.

I'll just leave you with this video and two words.

Thank you.

Just Have to Wait

No words today.

Just memories by us and music by Stephen Curtis Chapman, a man who also knows the pain of losing a sweet, little girl.

Hug your babies and hold them tight.

Asked & Answered

Why?

Why Addie?

Why our family?

Why me?

These are the questions a mother - with a heart  broken and a spirit bruised - asks her God.

In the morning. At night. On a run out in the country. In the car on the way home from work. 

Questions.

And there were more.

Why a baby? Why now?

It just didn't make any sense.

Until.

Now.

As I looked into little Landry Olivia's beautiful blue eyes, I realized this 7 pound, 14 ounce being was sent to save me.

Without her, without this pregnancy, I don't know where I'd be. I don't even know if I'd be at all.

Grief took me to some dark, dark places and some days left me devastated and down-right despondent.

I'd be kidding myself if I thought I wouldn't see those days again.

But for now I can lose myself in the sweet sounds and smells of this little baby who is completely and totally dependent on me.

And hope that maybe, just maybe, big sister Addie and little sister Landry met somewhere between here and the here-after. Maybe.

***

Here are a few pictures from the hospital...

Just a few minutes old.

Mom, dad, and Landry.

Brothers checking her out.

Sweetheart. 

Addie's favorite stuffed animal Moosey keeps
Landry company.

And here are a few photos from home...

A Gift

It's no secret I've struggled to come to terms with this pregnancy.

Struggled.

I'm set to be induced in a few hours and can honestly say I've moved to a little bit better place.

(Collective Sigh of Relief)

That's not to say I didn't cry at school today or on my way home or at the cemetery, but something happened this afternoon that brought me some peace. It was a gift really.

And I'd been begging for it, well, forever.

This is what I found tonight while straightening up the basement.

Well hello to you too.

The handwriting is unmistakable; the feeling, indescribable.

A simple little note laying right by the leg of the couch.

I opened it up and -

Nothing.

No matter.

Do I think Addie buzzed down and delivered this message while I was at school today?

No.

That'd be crazy, right?

Was there a perfectly good explanation as to how it got there?

Ummm, sort of.

Do I think I ran across this note at the exact moment I was meant to?

Absolutely.