Grief Dates

"Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim."

~Vicki Harrison

Not sure why I was feeling sad on this Friday.  I went through the usual check list. 

Kids?

They are okay as far as I know.

Parents?  Getting older, but healthy.

Friends?

Finances?

My health?

Carl?

It all showed up good.

I carried on, packing orders for our in-home business. Carl and I talked about Memorial Day weekend plans. I worked on a newsletter, did laundry, texted my kids, What was wrong with me? I felt as through I could burst into a puddle of tears. I made a cup of hot tea. Tea is soothing.

By 3 PM when Carl and I went on our daily trek to the local post office to mail orders, I was still unsure what was making me sad.

And then, as we sat in Friday Memorial Day weekend traffic, I realized today is the 24th, Could it be . . .?

With the help of Google, I found out.

"Google," I said into Carl's phone (I'd left mine at home), "What day of the week was May 24, 1996?"

And Google said, "It was a Friday."

And then all mysteries were solved.

Today is Friday, May 24th. Twenty-three years ago May 24th was also a Friday. Twenty-three years ago our pediatrician called to tell me that my three-year-old had cancer. Daniel spent that night in the hospital with his daddy as tests were done. Shortly after that, his week of chemo started. And nothing let up, no breaks, no good news, and then he died.

Obviously, I haven't sealed this date in my mind by remembering it; I've always associated his diagnosis with the Friday of Memorial Day weekend. Since every year the 24th of May doesn't fall on on a Friday, I just recall a little or a lot of that particular weekend. Some years I remembered how the hospital staff decorated his hospital room with Barney because Daniel had on a Barney T-shirt. They didn't know that Daniel only wore the shirt because I'd gotten it on sale at a consignment store. Other years what jumped out was that vivid scene of seeing another family headed in their van to a church picnic while our family was headed in our van back to the hospital.

The thing for me is the realization that even after all this time, Memorial Day still makes me sad. I can't hide it. You would think that time would take away sadness. It has reduced some of the intense heartache. But the sadness this day holds never fades. This was when I heard that my son had neuroblastoma. This was when I realized how one moment can change the course of a life and there is no going back to how things used to be.

We learn to swim in the waves of grief. We discover how to adapt to our new lives. I think we spend the rest of our lives navigating grief.  It really is learn to navigate or sink. There isn't any other choice.

Memorial Day Weekend is a time to remember those we have lost over the years. I know the holiday was created to honor our servicemen and servicewomen, and I do that. But I also honor the memory and life of Daniel. He fought hard through every treatment. He was A Brave Cookie.

~*~*~*~*

Do you have certain dates that are sad for you because of the diagnosis or death of a loved one?

How do you handle the emotions? Does grief ever surprise you?

The Battle We Lost

It can make you feel that you're sinking or suffocating, or going through a little of both.

Eighteen years have passed and you'd think the damage would be over. Battle complete. Troops moved out. Rebuild. On to business as usual.

If only we were made that way.

As the holiday weekend approaches, I watch the men and women in uniform being honored, the waving Red, White, and Blue, read the grocery store specials on ground beef and chips, and feel this overwhelming ache. There stands what only I can fully see---a little boy in a Barney T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The boy needs a hair cut. His Mama wishes she'd taken care of that.

But in one second, a hair cut is forgotten. Because the boy needs so much more. He needs immediate surgery, a Broviac catheter inserted into his back running to his heart for chemo. Later he will need radiation. And stronger chemo. And prayers.

After the first week of chemo, hair falls out in clumps, sprawled out on the back seat of the dusty green van. A hair cut is not needed. His five-year-old sister cries when she sees his blond strands and balding head. "It's so sad," she whispers. We buy him a red ball cap to wear, one with dinosaurs. We buy him a blue one, too. He wears them for a few days, but when his head is smooth and shiny, he goes cap-less.



I recall how friends from church were driving in their van and passed us. I saw their smiles and knew that they were on their way to the Memorial Day church picnic. They turned right; we veered left toward the hospital. That image remains.

Every year for me, Memorial Day marks the beginning of the end. Eighteen years later and it feels just like yesterday when I sat on the sofa the Friday of Memorial Day weekend in 1996. The cordless phone was in my hand. The pediatrician told me that my son had a malignant tumor in his neck. The war raged from that day on, and on February 2, 1997, it ceased. All the surgeries, the chemo, the fight, the hope, the prayers-----over.

There was no victory; we lost.

Every year on Memorial Day weekend I am reminded of how much we lost.

Pushing it aside does no good. I have to acknowledge my heartache-----own it, for it is mine.

That's how we mamas are made.

And so I write on my blog and for some reason, that helps. Writing unleashes some of the ache so I can go to the picnics, hear the bands play, watch the fireworks. Writing keeps me from shattering like a bullet fired in the dark night.

For me, Memorial Day honors all of our soldiers---those here and those here only in the delicate arms of memory.