Season's End

I was mulling a few truths a little while ago, and it occurred to me that unless you know me personally, you probably don't know that I'm a freelance writer on the side. I do mostly entertainment news and TV show recaps for a few select reality competitions. I know that seems random. But it's important that I start this entry with that tidbit of 411, since the rest of it won't make a lick of sense unless you're in-the-know. So with that out of the way....

It's been an emotional week. Not that I've had what I'd term a non-emotional week for nearly two years, but the past few days have been extra emotional. Why, you ask? Because, and this will sound a wee bit insane, but because Dancing with the Stars and American Idol both ended.

Say what?

I know. I sound totally nuts. But to be cliche, there's a method to my madness. Or at least a vaguely discernibly understandable explanation behind it. Here's the thing. Those two shows, which I recap for a website that shall remain nameless, have been a lifeline for me this year. One began shortly before Logan departed this life; the other shortly after. They gave me something trivial to look forward to every week. They gave me a predictable activity and an escape from a life that I found almost too challenging to live effectively at times. They gave me something normal, something decidedly not painful and something familiar to enjoy. And now, they're over.

That's not to say that I won't move on with other shows. In fact, both Duets and So You Think You Can Dance premiere on Thursday. And assuming I can figure out how to Houdini my way around the DVR, I'll be recapping those two shows, too.

But I'll mourn the end of the shows that carried me through some of my darkest days thus far. Even as I write this, I think it sounds weird. But I guess weirdness is just a part of who I am. And I'm okay with that.

Hodgepodge, Mishmash and all that Stuff

I keep feeling like I should write something here. Anything. But nothing really comes to me these days. It's sad: I'm a writer with no inspiration. Or at least not enough to get my juices flowing.

Mother's Day was, as I'd assumed it would be, hard. It's always difficult to wake up sad and then fight negative emotions all day long. But that's pretty much what I did. And I got through it. I'm hoping that one day, I won't just get through those special days. I'm hoping that I'll find joy in them again. But I don't know when that'll happen. I don't know if it will ever happen. That's one of my biggest fears.

Other than that, I've been in an extended 'crap' mood. I guess that's pretty blunt, but it's the truth. Tired, betrayed, forgotten. It stinks, but I've discovered a painful truth: people forget about you around the 3-month marker. I could stop and apologize to everyone who's stayed present, but the underlying truth still remains: I feel forgotten. I feel like Logan's been forgotten.

It's not that I expect the world to slow down because I lost my son. Okay, well, maybe I do. But I know that's not a realistic desire. No one else will care about what happened to Logan like my family does. It won't ever mean as much to anyone else. Everyone else on the planet will do what they do when something tragic happens to someone else: send a note of condolence (or say nothing at all, which, if I may repeat of the upteenth time, I precisely the wrong thing to do to someone like me) and then move on with life. I get that. But it's painful when the notes stop coming. When the letters notifying us that a donation has been made in Logan's honor become fewer and farther between. When it feels like everyone else feels like it's time to move on. When it feels like others feel like maybe I should just buck up and deal with what happened and... get over it. As if that would ever happen. As Miranda Lambert sings in her hubby Blake Shelton's song Over You, which was written in memory of his brother who passed away as a teen, I'll never get over him. I don't want to get over him. I just want to find a way to incorporate his memory into my life in a way that's not excruciatingly painful. I don't know how to do that.

I guess the only other thing I want to say is this: cut me some slack. I'm pretty much in hell, so I like to think that maybe, just maybe, some of the less-than-smart things I say could be pardoned without comment. I feel judged, and I don't need that on top of my grief. Believe me, I really don't.

Cry a Little

A friend asked yesterday if I cry while type my posts. The short answer is no, but there are exceptions that pop up every now and then; the days when everything feels extra-specially unfair and frustrating. If my allergies weren't so horrible today and if a fresh batch of tears wouldn't certainly seal my sinuses completely shut, I'd probably cry right now.

I used to love holidays with my kids. I viewed them as these intangible, precious little jewels. Carefully capsulated moments when we could all just spend time together in the collective cocoon of family, quietly enjoying the little oddities that make all of us unique and special.

Now? Not so much. At least, not yet. There are a few dates on the calendar that I'm dreading this year (and the beginning of next): Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday. And Mother's Day. Mother's Day may well be the most emotionally taxing and challenging of them all.

Mother's Day, unlike those other special days, is expressly for celebrating the bond between a mother and her child. I'm intensely grateful for Abby and for Isaac and for Brady. It'd be an insult to suggest that I'm not, nor do I need reminders that 'hey, at least you have them'. I'm thankful that I'll be able to get up on Sunday morning and celebrate with them, to whatever degree my heart can take the revelry.

But I absolutely ache for the little lamb who's not here anymore. Mother's Day is, on many levels, just another reminder that he's gone. No class tea party, no special slideshow, no adorably sloppy handmade present woven together with equal parts love and good intentions and presented with equal parts glee and pride. Nothing. In a way, it feels like he's already been forgotten, although I know that's not really the case. Because if nothing else, his mommy won't forget him. How could I?

Logan left us three months ago today. I'm still waiting for the day that I'll 'feel' him with me for the first time; it hasn't yet happened. I saw him in a dream last week; he was several rows ahead of me in a dance class, standing on a chair and shaking his booty. But I didn't get to talk to him or touch him. I could only watch. And then I woke up and the disappointment was almost too much. I'd like to be able to touch him in a dream. But maybe I can't handle that yet. I don't know.

And there's certainly a lot that I don't know. One thing I DO know, however, is that it sucks that writing this made me cry. And that I should stop typing and let my poor sinuses recover.

Today, Today

Today sucked.

There's really not another word for it. I woke up feeling off, then cried several times without impetus other than a gut-busting sense of sadness. Then someone who I'd considered a good friend reacted very badly to something I'd written and let me know about it. Unfortunately, it wasn't a good day to cross me. It's never truly a good day, but today... well, today was extra-difficult. And I didn't appreciate being pushed. Not today, not after I'd shared that today was going to be a hard one for me. I wish I could take the whole 'well screw you, then' tack and not look back, but I can't. No, I can't, because I try to not hurt people or say the wrong things.

It's not that I think I'm perfect or blameless. I certainly don't think I never do anything wrong. On the contrary, I live most of my days feeling like what happened to Logan was my fault. It doesn't matter that it's not supposed to be a hereditary condition. It doesn't matter that everyone says I did everything I could. It doesn't matter because he's not here. Because despite everything I did, I couldn't save him. And for some reason, God decided He wasn't going to let me have my little boy back again. I'll never understand that, not when I see people recovering from trials largely unscathed. I'll always wonder why Logan had to die. And my days will probably always be a little less sunny than they ought to be.

Anyway, I've said my bit and now I'll go lie down. Brady has an appointment next week to have his intermittent eye-blinking issue checked out. And of course, I'm scared about that. I'd pray about it, but the honest truth is that I'm just not into praying these days. I'm too heartbroken to open myself up to God right now. I know that'll sound counter-intuitive to some of you, but look at it this way: I trusted God to heal Logan and restore him to us. And He didn't do that. So no, I don't really trust God right now. I can't. Some day, I hope I will again.

00, One Year Later

One year ago tomorrow, Logan entered Day 00 of his stem cell transplant cycle: the first of two days of infusions. Two infusions of his own stem cells that were supposed to help to save his life. Obviously, given the outcome we experienced, I approach tomorrow with extraordinarily mixed feelings. On one hand, I'm sad. No, that's not a strong enough word. I'm devastated that he's no longer within arms' reach. I'm crushed that I can't hold him and look at him tomorrow and think "wow, we were so close to losing you but we didn't."

But at the same time, I enter Day 00, One Year Later feeling an intense sense of gratitude. Because although things didn't go as we prayed they'd go, that stem cell transplant bought us more time together as a complete family. It bought us a summer of fun for the kids, extra video clips, dance parties and days bumming around the house that we otherwise would've been denied. So even amid the sadness of a day that we wish we could remember without tears, there's still something to treasure.

And that's important, because I can't live only thinking about what I lost or what could have been. No, I have to live remembering the awesome thing I had in him. How special he was while he was here, how much he loved, how he danced, how he laughed, how he sang songs and put everyone at ease with his gentle demeanor. Those things are what matter, and I can't let them get lost in my grief. That would be a disservice to my son and to his memory.

Love you, Logan. Happy re-birthday number one.