Archive for July 2010

Getting back to us…

20 July, 2010

The upstairs back bedroom has had it’s door(s) shut since December 2009. That is the month that our things arrived back ‘home’ to my new house with our son. That is the month that I began living in a house that was not ours but mine. That is the month that I began realizing a life that was not ours but mine. That is the month I put our things in the back bedroom…your things in the back bedroom. Flight logs, helicopter magazines, pictures, books, our desk, our computer, our lamps, the sticky notes you had things written on still tucked inside the basket that used to hang in our entryway, matches you had used, half pieces of tums, change from your pocket, the chalkboard stickers that still had your writing on them, the birthday party stuff from Liam and my birthday the day before you died – still in the bag I had used to carry them in from the car, two roses from the bouquet you brought me that day.

Small things.

Reminders of you.

Reminders of us.

This is why the upstairs back bedroom has had its door(s) shut since December 2009. It has taken me several attempts to get this far. To unpack, repack, set our things out, set your things out. I’m sitting here in this new room with our things right now. I had always planned on using it as an office. I wanted to be surrounded by our things that we’ve always had out in our office, in our house. I just couldn’t do it until now. I’m not sure why today of all days I marched up the stairs after 1pm and just did it. There were several times where all I could do was just sit on the floor next to an open box and cry. I got out the things that we’ve always had out. Surrounded myself with them. Surrounded myself with our things.

It’s not like the rest of the house is bare of you. It isn’t. Our things are all around us. It’s just that there are new things to go with the our things. Sometimes I wonder if I should have stayed where we were and not moved. To live surrounded by us and by the familiar. Would I be better off? Would we be better off? I’m not sure.

I do know that today was the right day, the right moment to do this. It made me face all of this head on once again even though last week was a stark reminder. Maybe that is what pushed me to face this. Face that you really are not coming back. Face the many many little things that remind me of us, of you.

I have a candle burning in here. It smells of patchouli. It smells of your one bedroom flat in Lawrence when we first met so many years ago. It smells of laying in bed with you, sitting in the same room with you reading a book. It smells of beginnings. Of hope.

I guess that is proper since I am beginning a new venture. One that is because of you. I am starting a public charity that will provide scholarships to helicopter pilots. Scholarships that will make a difference in their training. Make things a little easier financially for struggling pilots. Help people achieve their dreams – the dreams that you had. I’m doing it so that our dream and your dream will always live on. I so wish that we could be on this path together still. To work towards achieving our dream, your dream. That feeling is what I loved about us. We were a team. We had each other. It was easy, you and me. So for you babe, this is part of your legacy.

Today. Today I brought us into this house. I brought the memories that have been so hard to face back into my life. It is almost like one of your hugs. I’m not ready for a new beginning but I am ready to…live.

Especially with your love with me.

I love you in this life and the next.


22 Months

18 July, 2010

My Dearest Son,

You are growing and growing and there is no end in sight. It is amazing to watch how in one week you gain so many words and more understanding of the world around you. You love jumping and have been jumping around the house the past few months. I have to hold your hand while walking down the stairs and at each step you ask ‘jump?’ and at each step I tell you not until the bottom step. When that bottom step comes up you give it your biggest jump. Friends are becoming more a part of your world now. You have your little group at MGs right now and they love you and get excited when I drop you off in the morning. We had a play date with some other friends and you did pretty well there too. Over the past month we’ve had a lot of kids over and I think you are a little more used to having to share your toys. Especially after spending a week with your cousin here. The two of you had a lot of fun and it was wonderful to see how the two of you really got along. He is a sweet little boy and you are too.

Words, words, words. You are full of words and full of words that you like. All colors right now are either black or yellow. They are black because you have a pair of black tennis shoes that you love and they are yellow because I think you just like the way it sounds. You love the hard words. Easy words – you still have not time for. Tonight you said metronome several times while watching baby Einstein and there was no prompting from me either. I usually say whatever it is that is on the screen and tonight you beat me to it.

Lately I have had to work hard on keeping things clean because you like it when things are clean and picked up. Lucky for me, you like helping me pick up.

This past week you got your two bottom molars and was not a happy camper for a few days. One afternoon you threw a temper tantrum that you would not get out of. I knew you were a bit hungry as well and tried giving you cheerios and you threw the bowl down scattering all the cheerios. I picked those up for you because I knew you were just mad – I’m okay with you venting your frustrations even when that means (right now) that you just need to toss something (as long as it is cheerios). Then I gave you a ziplock bag full of cheerios and you sat yourself in timeout ate one of them then threw them all on the floor. This time I told you that you had to pick them up…so you took the little hand vac and stood over them crying your eyes out and vacuuming them up. It was pretty funny because I knew that you were upset but thought that it was cool that you were using the vac. I’m sure you didn’t know what to think or do at that point.

I still look at you and am just amazed. I have to remind myself that you are indeed my son. That I am your mother. It is just wonderful. I also see so much of your Dad in you as well. I don’t know if it will ever get easier, the heartache of your Dad not seeing you growing as you are. Not being here to share these moments with me. Not being here to do fun things with you, teach you funny things to do or say, to hold you, to love you, to rock you to sleep. I just always want you to remember that he loved you more than anything. That he was so excited to be a father to you. He was so proud. god he loved you so much.

I love you to my dear son. I miss the family that we were but I think that we are doing okay right now. There is love. There will always be love.

Always your Mom (or Momom)

Unca, not Dadda…

15 July, 2010

This week Doug’s brother and nephew came to visit.

I has really been looking forward to it. Just some time around his family again. Getting to know my nephew a little more. Having both boys spend copious amounts of time with each other. It has been fun.

It has also been very hard.

My reaction to situations like these is to supress the emotions as best as I can. To not cry every single moment. The ‘putting on a good face’ has become my main mask that I wear.

This week has been especially hard.

You see, Doug’s brother and him look like family. They have their differences physically but you can tell that they are related. This week it hasn’t been about the differences, it has been about the similarities. LiDo thinks that this is his Dadda. C walks out of the room and LiDo runs and yells over and over ‘dadda dadda’. It’s a word that I have longed to hear him say and now it has become a word that is like a red hot poker to my heart. We try and try to get him to say Unca, Uncle, anything besides Dadda. We say Unca, he says Dadda.

But LiDo is not the only one. As I lay on the couch the other night in my usual spot, C was sitting in Doug’s spot. I was drifting off to sleep and looked at his legs wrapped under the blanket Doug used to lay under, saw his hand and arm resting on his thigh. The similarities hit me. There was Doug’s hand, his strong hand sitting there on my sofa again. His legs crossed under the blanket. There he was. He wasn’t gone. He was here beside me again where he should be, with his son calling him Dadda.

Then I noticed the differences. Doug’s wrist was thicker. His nails were different. His legs were different around the ankles. He wore beat up shoes where the toe rubber was always flipping off and coming apart. The differences. The differences remind me that Doug is indeed gone. I am face to face with his death. I try to look away but because the similarities are here it is impossible to look away.

Not being able to look away and shove everything back…shows me once again that I am not dealing with his death. That I am not facing it head on. I don’t know how to. I don’t want to. I cry, I scream, I keep busy. After this week though I don’t know that I can face it head on. I am more worried about LiDo. What his reaction will be once Unca leaves. I know he will search for him in the house. He will look at his Daddy’s pictures and point and say Dadda while at the same time thinking he was just here. He is too young to notice the differences. He is too young to know the differences. I just don’t want him hurting again. I don’t want the dreams and sleepless nights to start again. They have gotten less and less over the months but they are still there. Now, I know it will start up again. A hard part too is trying to figure out how I help myself, help him, help us.

He has been so happy while Unca has been here. He is always happy but just to have this person here, this person that reminds him of his Dadda, the fun that they had together, the laughter. I see that in his face. I see the face that is in the pictures of him and his Dadda laughing and playing. It’s been 9 months since I saw that face. My heart hurts. I hurt. What little air is left in my room has been taken out again. I can’t breath.