I don't have time for tears today.
There's a house to clean. Donations to drop off. Cookies to bake. Smiles to fake. Groceries to buy. Presents to wrap. Laundry to fold. Floors to mop.
All these tasks on my to-do list need doing.
So, I don't have time for tears today.
And yet, they fall anyway.
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Saturday, December 19, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Landry's Big Girl Room Reveal
Nothing.
While I know babies don't need all that stuff and they don't know the difference, that they don't even see color until they're like four months old, I also know that moms do care about that stuff.
Only I didn't.
I couldn't.
I was still grieving the loss of my 9-year-old daughter Addie.
While I still grieve that loss every day and wish the transition from Addie's Room to Landry's Room involved simply moving a tween girl's belongings down to the basement bedroom as planned, that isn't how it shook out. The tween girl wasn't here to set up her new digs, to pick out her new bedding, to sort through her stuff. And so, I've spent the last three years working on that grief and, yes, working toward a space for Landry.
In what a part of me will always refer to as Addie's room.
I won't go into all of the work that went into arriving at a place that we felt we could do this. Notice I said we here. This was a we thing, not a me thing (well, the decorating part was). All I can say is that it was arduous - torturous at times - and I'm proud of the work we've done.
And the room turned out OK too.
It's kind of funny because when I first started this blog five years ago, I'd intended for it to be a way to keep track of our home improvement projects. And here I am kind of detailing a project that sort of involves home improvement, I guess. So, I kind of feel like I need to get all bloggy sounding again. And all bloggy sounding sounds like this:
The first order of business (see how bloggy that sounds) was painting the room. OK, that's a complete load of bull because there was a lot of behind-the-scenes stuff (messy stuff) that had to take place before we got to this point. But anyway, the first thing we did was find a wonderful person to come in and paint the room for us. She was one of Addie's teachers and we knew she was the woman for the job.
Before she could touch the walls, however, we all took our turn writing notes to Addie. Everybody but Landry, of course. I didn't really want to encourage her to write on the walls. Some wrote more than others, but each note was personalized and, in my opinion, perfect.
There were a couple of DIY projects (as DIY as I get anyway). Here's a look at a bench I bought off that garage sale three years ago. I guess you'd call this the "before" shot.
And here's after:
Here's a little pair of owls I picked up for $1 at a thrift store.
Cute, huh? Here they are after:
The pink frame was a thrift store find as well. Only it wasn't pink until I got my hands on it. Notice the A and the L for my two girls. If you look real closely, you might even notice a chevron pattern on that L.
Addie continues to have a place in the space, just as she continues to have a place in our hearts.
Moosey keeps watch atop the bed.
And I'll forever believe that my two girls are in some way connected.
Overall, I'm happy with the room. It's tough enough to withstand Landry's fury and sweet enough to honor Addie's memory. And as with any space in my house, it'll continue to be a work in progress.
Just like I'm a work in progress.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Tell Them
I have a spool of yellow ribbon sitting on top of my dresser.
And I'd like to give a piece of it to you.
But usually it's not my style to put things out there.
To put myself out there.
This is different.
Because I have this yellow ribbon.
And I have something that I care deeply about.
I'll cut up a three-inch strand. I'll find a safety pin and I'll get it to you. If you need me to run it by your house, drop it off at work, drop it in the mail, I will. I promise.
As long as you promise me one thing.
When you wear it and people ask you why you're wearing a yellow ribbon, you tell them.
You tell them about the little girl who had plans to be a vet.
The little girl who was practically a card-carrying member of the ASPCA. The little girl who sold lemonade in the front yard and sold her family on spa treatments in her bedroom. All in the name of animals.
You tell them about the little girl who didn't live to see double digits.
You tell them that kids get cancer too.
You tell them September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. That we're going gold.
And you tell them about that little girl.
You tell them about the mother who tries with all that she can to live her best life each day, but finds herself failing miserably time and time again. You tell them about the dad who says things aren't good again, not yet anyway.
You tell them about two rough and tumble little boys who said goodbye to their big sister one morning and that was it. The last time they saw her. You tell them about the baby sister who knows big sister only through pictures and videos.
You tell them kids get cancer too.
You tell them it's tough to talk about. And it is. But tell them we need to talk about it.
You tell them 43 children were diagnosed with cancer today.* Forty-three. Trust me, their parents don't know which way is up.
You tell them 12 percent of children diagnosed with cancer will die.
You tell them childhood cancer doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care if you're rich or poor, black or white. It doesn't care if you have a slumber party planned for your 9-year-old daughter's birthday next week. It doesn't care about, well, anything you had planned.
You tell them about 1 in 285 children will be diagnosed with cancer by the time they reach age 20.
Yes, you read that right.
You tell them childhood cancer isn't all that rare.
You tell them research for childhood cancer is grossly underfunded.
You tell them how much that hurts your heart.
How much it hurts mine.
You tell them about the little girl - my little girl, the one who was diagnosed on a Tuesday and died six days later. Tell them what her 9 years on Earth were made of and think about what her life would've been like had she been given 60 or 70 more.
And you tell them that kids get cancer too.
*Statistics taken from curesearch.org, stbaldricks.org, and cac2.org.
And I'd like to give a piece of it to you.
But usually it's not my style to put things out there.
To put myself out there.
This is different.
Because I have this yellow ribbon.
And I have something that I care deeply about.
I'll cut up a three-inch strand. I'll find a safety pin and I'll get it to you. If you need me to run it by your house, drop it off at work, drop it in the mail, I will. I promise.
As long as you promise me one thing.
When you wear it and people ask you why you're wearing a yellow ribbon, you tell them.
You tell them about the little girl who had plans to be a vet.
The little girl who was practically a card-carrying member of the ASPCA. The little girl who sold lemonade in the front yard and sold her family on spa treatments in her bedroom. All in the name of animals.
You tell them about the little girl who didn't live to see double digits.
You tell them that kids get cancer too.
You tell them September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. That we're going gold.
And you tell them about that little girl.
You tell them about the mother who tries with all that she can to live her best life each day, but finds herself failing miserably time and time again. You tell them about the dad who says things aren't good again, not yet anyway.
You tell them about two rough and tumble little boys who said goodbye to their big sister one morning and that was it. The last time they saw her. You tell them about the baby sister who knows big sister only through pictures and videos.
You tell them kids get cancer too.
You tell them it's tough to talk about. And it is. But tell them we need to talk about it.
You tell them 43 children were diagnosed with cancer today.* Forty-three. Trust me, their parents don't know which way is up.
You tell them 12 percent of children diagnosed with cancer will die.
You tell them childhood cancer doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care if you're rich or poor, black or white. It doesn't care if you have a slumber party planned for your 9-year-old daughter's birthday next week. It doesn't care about, well, anything you had planned.
You tell them about 1 in 285 children will be diagnosed with cancer by the time they reach age 20.
Yes, you read that right.
You tell them childhood cancer isn't all that rare.
You tell them research for childhood cancer is grossly underfunded.
You tell them how much that hurts your heart.
How much it hurts mine.
You tell them about the little girl - my little girl, the one who was diagnosed on a Tuesday and died six days later. Tell them what her 9 years on Earth were made of and think about what her life would've been like had she been given 60 or 70 more.
And you tell them that kids get cancer too.
 |
| Behind my yellow ribbon is an orange one that Addie's friends distributed three years ago. |
*Statistics taken from curesearch.org, stbaldricks.org, and cac2.org.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
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.
"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.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
My Other 'Middle' Child
Two years ago I took the time to write about Isaac, my middle child. Isaac had nearly five years with Addie before she died. Because of this, he was the one I was most concerned about, so he was the one who did the grief groups with me. He was the one with the late-night talks. The extra hugs. The extra attention.
Meanwhile, Tripp was left asking me who was going to fill his sippie cup as I lay crying on the kitchen floor.
It's Tripp's turn now and this post is long overdue.
***
 |
| Happy Birthday, Tripp. |
I remember his birthday quite well, which is nothing short of amazing considering the fog of grief and all.
Maybe I can remember the details of that day because, well, it was excruciating.
There, I said it.
My 3-year-old's birthday was excruciating.
Maybe I can remember the details of that day because, well, it was excruciating.
There, I said it.
My 3-year-old's birthday was excruciating.
I remember sitting on the edge of the fireplace with a video camera in my hand, watching it all unfold on my two-inch screen. He opened not one, but two Captain America action figures, and I sat there waiting for it all to be over. Waiting for an acceptable amount of time to pass so I could go back to my bed and pull the covers over my head.
I spent most of the summer like this.
I spent most of that year like this.
Oh sure I took the boys places. To the park. Swimming lessons. Museums. Even on horsey rides.
But I wasn't there.
It was like I was a spectator to my own life. I watched it; but I didn't live it.
It was like I was a spectator to my own life. I watched it; but I didn't live it.
And so, I missed Year 3 for Tripp. One of my most favorite years. That year when everything that comes out of their mouths is cute and sweet and lovely. That year when Addie couldn't say tomorrow and said 'tah-mah-wer' instead. That year when Isaac called hot dogs 'dah-dahs.'
I missed it.
Today Tripp is 6 years old and I feel like I'm just getting to know him and how remarkable he is.
I don't mean for this to be a Braggity McBrag post. I'm simply trying to capture what it's like to live within the same bubble as this little guy.
He's actually what you might call scrappy. Just ask Isaac.
And while he has 27 t-shirts in his closet (seriously, I counted them), he never seems to have one of them on. And yet, he produces at least three "dirty" shirts each day.
He's out there. Definitely. I mean out there.
I'm not sure if he can't hear me half the time or chooses not to.
Regardless, I find myself falling deeper and deeper in love.
And here's why:
Tripp can't wait to grow up and be a chef.
Tripp can't wait to grow up and be a chef.
At Subway. He plans on working Mondays and Tuesdays because that way he can have a bunch of days off. He's more than a little concerned about being fired, so he plans to become a dog trainer if he ever gets canned from his cooking gig.
He loves the Royals and sweets. Stuffed animals too. He's up for just about anything that involves a ball. Basketball, baseball, golf, you name it. He swears he's better at Isaac at certain things. He's certainly better at throwing a cheap shot or two.
 |
| I can't remember if this was the 1st, 2nd, or 3rd time he broke his collar bone. |
His favorite color is orange and his second favorite is green. Brown comes in a distant third. Somebody has to love brown, I guess.
There's a lot of emotion in that little body. In fact, he can't hardly contain it. It bubbles out at times for better or worse.
There's a lot of emotion in that little body. In fact, he can't hardly contain it. It bubbles out at times for better or worse.
Sometimes I have to ask him if he needs a little extra love - usually after he's done something like touch little sister Landry's arm. Repeatedly. Like to the point of that sweet little girl letting out an ear-piercing scream that would be an indication that perhaps he should stop. Just stop. Touching her arm.
He's quick to laugh.
Uncontrollably.
Especially if bathroom humor is involved.
Especially if bathroom humor is involved.
 |
| You can just about guess what he thought of this word coming up on the iPad. |
He's quick to stomp off when things don't exactly go his way.
Quick to dance.
And quick to love.
In fact, Tripp's the one who tells me on a nearly daily basis that I'm the best mom he's ever had.
Yes, you read that right.
The best mom he's ever had.
Hmmmm.
Our Next Move
Note: This is the 13th and final update I made to Addison's CarePages site.
Posted Jul 30, 2012 10:25am
Four months and four days have passed since we joined the club no parent ever wants to be a member of.
Birthdays have come and gone.
School dismissed for the summer.
We survived Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Barely.
And yesterday Isaac and I went on our first back-to-school shopping excursion. By excursion I mean a trip to Amigo's, Target, and Famous Footwear. (Soooo different from Addie and my annual event)
That must mean school is right around the corner.
Four months and four days have passed.
Time marches on. But how?
Today I realize it’s time for me to move my writing from the CarePages site to the blog I created when we first started our country adventure two years ago. After all, nobody visits CarePages to find out how a family is doing after the hospital stay comes to an end.
So, if you want to see how our story develops, feel free to follow us at www.halfwaybetweenhopesanddreams.blogspot.com. If you take the time to peruse previous entries, you’ll notice a much different picture of our family emerges.
My last post was December.
My last post was December.
Before.
As a former English teacher I spent time teaching kids about the tone of a story and the voice of a writer. It doesn’t take an A+ student to realize the tone of our story has changed as has my voice.
After.
Hopefully I can provide a little insight as to how one family is handling the worst life can throw at them. I can’t promise it will always be pretty. Grief can be a dark, dark place. So, if you’re not up for it, I understand.
In time, however, I look for a story of hope to emerge. I cling to that possibility.
I can't promise I'll be the most consistent about posting either. Some days I write at a frenetic pace. I couldn't stop the words if I wanted to. Other days? Nothing.
If I understand correctly, you can subscribe to that website and email notifications will go directly to your inbox much like they do on CarePages. You’d have to ask one of my three followers for the details on that. (insert smiley face)
For now, I do want you all to know how much we appreciate the support you’ve shown us thus far. Whether it was a visit in the hospital, a note to Addie, a donation to the humane society, a meal, a hug, an ear, we are so grateful to have each of you in our lives.
www.halfwaybetweenhopesanddreams.blogspot.com
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