I'll Try Thanksgiving

I didn't cook my first turkey until I was 35 years old.

Hard to believe, isn't it?

Not if you live in our house.

For 35 years I'd done a pretty good job flying under the radar, bringing the green bean casserole and similar side dishes.

But then I decided to host Thanksgiving and pretend I was all grown up.

This involved getting up at 6 a.m. to prepare the bird (one word: gross).

Since this was such a momentous occasion, I convinced my mom (or maybe it was Scott?) to document it on videotape. I could tell you exactly who was behind the camera if I'd take the time to watch the tape. But, I've been off family videos for about a year now. When you're trying to hold it together for the rest of your family, function at work, and convince yourself you can do this, you do everything you can to keep up the facade. And right now that means not watching family videos. At some point I will. When I can schedule in time to fall into a puddle of tears on the floor and not come out of the house for a few days.

Anyway, back to Thanksgiving 2011.

I'm preparing the bird and Addie stumbles out of her room (it's 6 a.m. remember). She takes a look at the turkey, faces the camera and deadpans, "So I guess mom cooks now."

And I guess I don't need a videotape to remember that moment.

That's one memory fixed firmly in my mind.

I relive it often. And it makes me smile.

Laugh.

Cry.

And double over in pain.

That was the first time I cooked a turkey.

And, the last.

Thanksgiving hasn't been all that great the last two years.

Year one was a complete disaster.

I was one week postpartum and eight months out from losing Addie. I wanted nothing to do with Thanksgiving. My family was fractured.

But my mom showed up with something called a turkey loaf (because that's what moms do). She cooked it up, plus a handful of other Thanksgiving side dishes, all the while taking care of Landry and taking care of me. God. Bless. That. Woman.

The timer went off, dinner was served. I took my spot at the table and tears fell right onto the turkey loaf. This was the first time we'd sat at the table as a family without Addie.

We haven't sat down as a family since.

Year two was a bit softer. We went to my mom and dad's house, a house Addie never set foot into, which somehow makes things easier as there isn't a memory lurking around every corner. We had real turkey. It was nice, uneventful.

Now we're on year three.

And I'm trying. Really, I am.

That's the important thing, right?

I bought a turkey. A teeny-tiny 6 pound bird, but a turkey nonetheless. I bought stuffing. And a box of instant potatoes. Corn. A spice cake mix.

I know, I know. It sounds like Thanksgiving out of a box.

But this is progress.

For me.

And then I got sick. Pre-Thanksgiving diet sick.

Perhaps that was a sign.

Thanksgiving was not to be this year.

But I'd started thawing the turkey two days ago.

Aaaaand, it was still frozen as of 9 p.m. last night.

Perhaps another sign?

The turkey's sitting in cold water now.

Guess I'm still trying.

Because that's what moms do.

They try to give their kids Thanksgiving, this holiday they've been learning about at school all week. Our boys need a frame of reference, they need a story similar to the ones their classmates have at school.

So, I try even though Thanksgiving at our house is nothing like Thanksgiving at theirs.

I'll give them Thanksgiving.

And I'll keep saying it over and over and over again.

So I guess mom cooks now.

Melodies and Memories

It's no secret music can evoke all sorts of memories.

Country music star Eric Church sings about it in his song Springsteen, which, while released in 2011, didn't see much air play until Summer 2012 - after Addie was gone. If you don't believe me on my dates, look it up. After months of not listening to anything but the sound of my own voice asking why, why, why, I found myself driving down the road one day and flipping on the radio and hearing Church sing about the power and pull one song can have.

Funny how a melody sounds like a memory, like a soundtrack to a 
July Saturday Night.

It's true, you know.

Whether it's an opening riff or a refrain we just can't get out of our heads, songs can take us back to another time and another place where, maybe, we were entirely different people.

I know if I hear Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts I'm instantly transported back to 1983. There I sit, wedged between mom and dad in the front seat of our old Pontiac as we wind our way down a mountain road. There's me hitting the rewind button over and over again, listening to the sound of the tape literally spinning and shredding out of control, before giving way to the sweet strums of a guitar.

Anything by the Steve Miller Band and I'm sitting in the back of a bus riding home from a high school track meet. Our faces are sweat-streaked. And wind whips through the windows, stirring up dust and stories that probably shouldn't be repeated.

College brought an eclectic mix of Ace of Base, Offspring, George Strait, and just about any song that was released on a Jock Jams CD. I can call that eclectic, right?

And motherhood? That was marked by Elmo's Favorite Songs I and II, Sheryl Crow, and me and Addie belting out Jackson along with Johnny and June as we drove down Highway 6.

Picture this girl singing I Don't Feel Like Loving You Today
by Gretchen Wilson.

These days my iPhone serves as a time capsule of sorts. I haven't added a whole lot of music since Addie died, partly because, well, how dare the music industry keep cranking out hits when my daughter is gone? And partly because the only reason I even had money in my iTunes account was because Addie didn't have a chance to spend all of the $15 on the iTunes gift card I'd given her for Valentine's Day.

So, as I plug in my ear buds and head off for a run, it's either a pleasant stroll down memory lane or a harrowing walk through a minefield, depending on which songs come up on my playlist.

If I hear the boom, boom, clap, boom de-clap, de-clap of Hannah Montana's Hoedown Throwdown, I'm reminded of a much, much simpler time when Addie and her friends Adiah and Olivia worked through their school talent show routine (and also of a young lady who was known more for her best of both worlds TV show than what she can do with a foam finger).

This is the girl I picture when I hear
anything from High School Musical
or Hannah Montana.

Anything by Adele and I'm running, running, running down the road or on a treadmill when my only reason for running was to shave off a few pounds and stay in shape. And that's what I opted to do on March 19, 2012, the day before Addie's cancer diagnosis. She was getting better. Her fever had gone down. She was going to go back to school the next day, certainly it was OK to steal away for 30 minutes at the fitness center.

So I did.

With ear buds in, I revved up the treadmill. One of Addie's friends came in and joined me. We talked about how Addie was coming back to school tomorrow, how her reading group had made it through the fourth grade book and were ready to move up to the fifth grade one. One of Scott's friends stopped by. We talked about how we really need to get together.

The next time I saw him was in the hospital. He and his wife were one of the many people who came up to offer support, prayers, and whatever it is you offer in times like these. And then, he's in my kitchen, the morning Addie died. He's carrying two sackfuls of bread and everything you would possibly need to make a sandwich and doing whatever it is you do when you don't know what to do.

Music triggers something in each of us. Suddenly everything's crystal clear.

We really need to get together.

We're moving up to the fifth grade book.

She's going back to school tomorrow.

I'm on a treadmill, my daughter - my girl -  is dying. Only I don't know it yet.

Will we ever truly know the impact
of this loss?

My God, skip to the next song.

***

Music, melodies, memories. What song does it for you? And where does it take you?

Up then down

My morning routine goes a little something like this:

Feed the baby.

Put the baby on her play mat, enjoy a gummy smile or two.

Put a few toys in front of her and pop two pieces of toast into the toaster.

Wait.

Fire up the iPad, crack open a Mountain Dew and read through the obituaries.

Because that's normal (the daily reading of the obituaries part).

I think we all know I bid normal adieu 15 months and 1 day ago. Read more about that here, here, here,  and here.

Today when I reached for the iPad something was different.

I picked it up and staring back at me was this beautiful picture of Addie.

Certainly this must be a sign from my sweet, little girl (because looking for signs from your child is totally normal too). We pick up pennies on the street. We pay special attention to the skies. We relish the dreams featuring our children front and center because for that half-second we can see them, hear them, touch them again. For one brief moment, they are ours.

But I didn't intend this post to be about signs.

It's more about how something as sweet and beautiful as a picture of your child can make your heart soar and crumble at the same time.

Because that picture quickly faded to this one.

And then this one.

That's when I realized the slide show was rolling through picture by picture. In chronological order.

We received the iPad as a Christmas gift in December 2011. Addie died in March 2012. For three months there's no arguing it, that iPad was basically Addie's.

And I get reminders in the form of iPad updates all the time.

Scarlett misses you.

Scarlett is Addie's virtual horse, "purchased" the week before diagnosis.

Still listening? Pandora doesn't like playing to an empty room.

The last time we listened to Pandora was in Addie's hospital room the day before she died. According to Pandora, that was 458 days ago. Thanks. Like I needed the reminder.

But this slide show, this chronological record of events that comprised the last three months of my 9-year-old's life, really, really cut deep.

Because there we were - mugging for the camera, cracking ourselves up with the distorted pictures of ourselves, and loving every minute of it.

There was Addie on the couch. Addie by the door. Addie with Bailey. Addie with my mom. Addie with Virginia. Addie with a friend - the day before I took her to the ER.

I looked at each of those last frames carefully, searching for some trace of the monster that came in and took our daughter from us.

There was nothing.

Yet I couldn't help but look beyond the goofy smiles and think about the cancer coursing through her veins, tricking her little body to turn on itself. While oncologists can't pinpoint exactly when this seemingly perfect little girl's cells began their mutation (there is no Stage I, Stage II, Stage III, Stage IV with AML), I have to think that on that afternoon - an afternoon where two girls rode their bikes to a friend's house, lounged lazily on the grass, and returned to our house to dink around on the iPad - the cancer was there.

And that makes me sick.

So while we continued on just like everyone else, enjoying unseasonably warm weather, sorting through the past year's summer clothes, and trying on Easter outfits, we were deliciously unaware that the world that turns so slowly we can't hardly feel it, was going to turn completely upside down (for us anyway).

And sad to say, the iPad is a reminder of just how far our world has tilted.

Because Addie isn't the only one whose pictures are on it.

I see Tripp and Isaac in their brand new superhero costumes, compliments of Santa Claus the same Christmas we received the iPad. Today, Isaac's Spiderman costume is literally hanging on by a thread and Tripp's Captain America costume actually fits. The pants were at least a half-foot too long in 2011, a gross reminder that time has passed and life, no matter how painful, has continued. Kids are growing up, growing out of their clothes.

I see Tripp and Isaac recording messages to Addie in the hospital; Isaac telling her he was going to get her a pretty dinosaur for her birthday, Tripp simply saying, "I love you, Addie."

I see me in the background of those recordings with a smile on my face and hope in my heart.

I remember playing those messages back to her, hoping so desperately that she would hear them and maybe, just maybe.

I realize today I don't hardly recognize the person I once was.

That person is gone and selfish as it may seem I mourn that loss too.

Don't get me wrong. The person left in her place has good days.

There are smiles. Laughs. Superheroes.

And there are days like today.

Where my heart soars and crumbles at the same time.

A Promise

Eleven years ago today I celebrated my very first Mother's Day.

With a baptism.

Exactly 11 years ago today.

I know this because around 7:20 this morning I found this:

When I was looking for this:

I was rummaging around for that beautifully crocheted blanket because, well, we had scheduled Landry's baptism for today and every single baby I'd birthed had been wrapped in that blanket on the day they were christened. Well, not so much wrapped in the blanket; more like accompanied to church by the blanket because, let's face it, the blanket kinda smells. 

That's because it's old. My mom actually wrapped me in the blanket 30-some years ago for my baptism.

On Mother's Day.

And 11 years ago I'd wanted to do the same thing.

So we did.

And it was a super-big deal.

Family galore. A gathering afterward. Pictures. The whole bit.

Six short days ago I'd gotten this crazy idea that we should do the exact same thing for Landry (minus the gathering and the pictures and the whole bit).

Why?

I don't know.

It just felt right.

And when so many things feel just plain wrong, if something feels even a little bit right, we jump on it. We know Landry deserves the exact same childhood that the other three have had. We know that. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things.

Doing is hard.

But lucky for us, it doesn't take a whole lot to set up a baptism (on our end anyways).  It might be a different story for the church. Lucky for us, we have a very understanding pastor.

We just had to dial up our moms and dads, search for something to wear that fits, and find that blanket.

Except I totally forgot about the blanket until 7:20 this morning.

That's when panic set in.

And I had to dare myself to sift through a tote or two in our storage room.

Like this one:

It was marked "Addie's Keepsakes" and I'd started it years ago. Among its contents are her going home outfit, her first swimming suit, a handful of sleepers, a handprint, and a book titled I'm a Big Sister. So yeah, basically a time bomb waiting to go off.

And it did.

Especially when I pulled out her baptism banner and realized my daughters were being baptized on the exact same date. Of course I'd planned for it to be on Mother's Day (what with the stinky blanket tradition and all), but the same date?  That wasn't planned (as evidenced by my desire to crawl right back into bed this morning).

But, like always, we put ourselves back together, got to church on time, and got it done.

 

Flowers for Addie in the background.

Even though we kept this one a little low-key, I have to say that this baptism really meant something.

Not that the others didn't, but when you have someone (and a child at that) who is living the eternal life promised during baptism, you kind of pay a little bit more attention. After all, it's not just words on a page. It's a promise.

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.

So This Is Normal

I've spent much of the last week playing back the final moments of normalcy in our lives. Rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. Trust me, if I had a pause button I would've pressed it by now (and quite possibly would've lived in the memory of tucking Addie into her own bed for the rest of my life).

For me, normal ended at about 12:23 p.m. on March 20 when I called Scott to see how Addie's appointment went. Normal ended as he struggled to string three words together.

"Addie has leukemia."

Normal ended with a punch to the gut and a cry I've never heard come out of my mouth.

Normal ended with a little girl looking up at her mom and dad and saying, "So I have cancer?"

It came to a grinding halt as that little girl grew quiet and her mom and dad considered the road we had ahead.

I was ready for that road. 

Not this one.

I've written long and hard and late into the night, but I've chosen not to share much of that here. 

Today this is all I've got.

Quote: Dwight L. Moody

Because spending the day talking to my little girl sounds like what I need to do. And so totally normal. 

A Year Ago Today Part 2

This is the second in a collection seemingly mundane events that proved that, for a time, life was deliciously normal. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just life. Normal life. You can read the first entry here.

March 12

A year ago today I hit No. 2 on speed dial as I walked toward my van after school.

It was 4 o'clock. The bus had dropped off Addie 15 minutes earlier and I liked to think she was waiting for my call. She probably wasn't. Too busy catching up on one of the shows she'd DVR'd or fiddling with the iPad.

"Hello?" she said.

"Hey, Ad. How was your day?"

"Fine."

This is where I envision her pressing pause on the remote and humoring me with the same conversation we'd have each and every day.

"What was your favorite part?"

"Ummm," she'd pause, taking a lick of the cream filling inside her Golden Oreo. "Probably math."

"Yeah, what did you do?"

"We played this review game."

Like clockwork, I'd find myself rounding the first curve south of Eagle and I knew our conversation would soon come to an end.

"OK, Ad. I'll be home in about 15 minutes. Love you."

"Love you too."

And that was pretty much it.

Five minutes of the exact same conversation day-in and day-out.

Five minutes of nothing.

And everything.

A Year Ago Today

This is the first in a collection seemingly mundane events that proved that, for a time, life was deliciously normal. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just life. Normal life.

March 11

A year ago today I taught Sunday School. It was the 3-year-old class and three students showed up. Two of the three were named Addison. I remember this because I told them how easy it was going to be for me to remember their names because I had an Addison too.

I don't remember much about the lesson. OK, I don't remember anything about the lesson. I wasn't the regular teacher. Just a sub who filled in from time to time. I do remember we played with Play-Doh. At the last minute I shoved a bunch of it into my purse because I had a sneaking suspicion the two-page leaflet I was supposed to cover wasn't exactly going to take us a whole lot of time. So we rolled rocks and boulders and pancakes and snakes. Yes, snakes.

After Sunday School it was church. Isaac came out of his classroom. Then Addie. Scott and Tripp arrived a few minutes later. We grabbed a bulletin and a seat. Like always, one on the right side, one that provided easy access to an exit in the probable event that someone would need to go pottie or take a time out.

"Can I sit with my friends?" Addie asked.

You might think I spent a whole lot of time debating this question. I didn't. I just gave one of those looks that said, "you better behave, be quiet, or else (horrors) you're going to have to come back and sit with us."

A year ago today I watched as Addie settled in next to two of her friends. I watched as one friend's older sister (the one who had been put in "charge" of the trio) gave them a look that mirrored mine.  I watched them giggle and I watched them scribble notes and pictures back and forth. I watched the older sister try to keep her composure.

And now I really want to know:  what were they giggling about?

I remember wanting to ask that day, but I didn't. Nine years old. Almost 10. Time for a little independence. Privacy. This, I thought, is just a preview of what's to come.

What's to come?

As if we had any clue.

Every once in awhile I'll come across a sheet from a
Scribble Card for Little Lutherans note pad shoved deep
into the pockets of the diaper bag or hidden at the
bottom of one of Addie's drawers.