Overwhelming

It's 11:24 PM. Once again, I'm not asleep. I should be; Abby and Isaac have VBS bright and early in the morning. But it doesn't really matter that I should be sleeping; I'm just not.

Life feels utterly overwhelming right now. VBS is hard to take. I remember how much Logan enjoyed the two years he attended. It's hard to see the kids who would've been his classmates. It's hard to see the parents who know what happened to us but don't say a word about it. I guess that sounds weird, but one of my biggest fears is that Logan will be forgotten. I fear the day when people stop talking about him. I fear the time when it'll become commonplace for me to say 'well, I have one more child, too...'

On top of that, Isaac's OT evaluation is tomorrow. At CHO. The OT office is in the main hospital building, not far from the room where Logan departed this life. I've not been back there since that day. I'm honestly not sure if I'll be able to go inside. I remember how hard it was to go inside Logan's preschool classroom for the graduation ceremony he was denied. I remember how the feeling of sorrow was so powerful that it seemed to rip away at my very flesh. And now going back... I just don't know how it'll hit me.

And of course, the impending birthday. I cried a lot today. The first few times, they were random tears. Of sadness, of course. Rooted in missing my sunny boy. But the third happened when I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, flipping through an album containing his artwork. I came across the invitations he'd written to his friends. Invitations to a birthday party that won't happen. I remember snatches of the day that he wrote them out. It seemed silly at the time; his birthday is July 31, yet there he was in October of last year, writing out personalized invitations asking his friends to please come to his birthday party. We'll do what he wanted to do, but there won't be a cake or candles or a happy birthday song. There won't be a birthday boy turning six years old. Nothing makes that any better. But I know that it has to be okay because nothing can change it. It's just... not.

Before I lie down once again to try to rest (knowing full well that I'll probably wind up staring at the ceiling for an hour yet again), I want to take a moment to thank everyone who's reached out to me these past months. Even if I haven't been responsive, I've appreciated the contact. The effort. Because I'm not going to reach out right now. I can't. I'm too busy using my own hands to try to hold the pieces of my heart together.

Mid-Month

I did something a little 'off the beaten path' yesterday. I asked my Facebook friends --at least the ones who were willing-- to share their personal 'Worst Thing' moments or times. The times that were most challenging, heartbreaking, upsetting, life-changing. You get the point.

I didn't do this to be nosy or to pry or to try to out-worstify (sorry, I can't find the word I'm looking for there) anyone else's worst-ever event. No, I asked with precisely the opposite goal in mind: so I'd know that despite how things look on the outside, despite how shiny and happy everyone else seems to me in the wake of losing Logan, there isn't a single person out there who hasn't suffered some sort of pain during this life. It wasn't all about focusing on the bad; no, it was a way for me to look at the bad, and see how it's changed others for the better. To get a small outsiders' taste of another's journey.

I've heard from a good number of people. In a way, the results have surprised me. Some of the events shared broke my heart. Some of them made me gasp. But none of them --not a SINGLE ONE-- changed my view of the person who shared, except maybe to make her (and I can use 'her' here because every respondent has been female) look stronger. Like a survivor. And that's not a bad thing.

If you were one of those gals who took a risk and shared, thank you. I know it can be hard to trust someone else with your pain, but I'm glad you took a risk on me. It's totally cornball, I know, but your story has now become a stone laid down along my path to healing.

At Night

It's a double-edged sword.

I'm a night owl; have been for as long as I can remember. I much prefer watching the moon trace its route across the sky to a bleary-eyed sunrise over the ocean. I like the silence and the stillness of the darkness; the peace that comes at the close of a long day. It feels like a long, relaxed sigh. But it's a double-edged sword, because in the silence, the sadness emerges from where it hides during daylight hours. And that's hard. The quiet stillness used to be my friend, but now it's something different. It's the bearer of tears that I should probably cry but would rather just hold in. It's uncomfortable. Almost unwelcome. Yet it comes every day without fail, just like for me, the memories of Logan's last few weeks return like a flood to inundate me with regret.

It's July. I know that's an obvious observation, but July is rife with meaning for us because the final day of the month marks Logan's sixth birthday. The one he mapped out for us before his last hospital admission. The one that he wanted to celebrate with lunch at Outback, dinner at Chuck E. Cheese, a chocolate Cars cake, a pinata and blue sprinkles. I never got to ask him precisely what he wanted to do with said sprinkles; I just knew that they were on the list. So when the 31st arrives, we'll do and have those things. Even if my heart should completely shatter, we'll do and have those things. Because he wanted them.

I haven't written much because my thoughts are painfully --frustratingly-- disjointed. When I start writing, I'm never sure where my mind will go, or whether I'll even be able to hold a thought long enough to make it make sense to myself (much less anyone else).

I'm not in a horrible place. No, some days, I feel almost good. When Abby, Isaac and Brady --I can't say 'the kids' anymore; no, I have to name them because 'the kids' will forever include Logan, even though he's not here-- are well-behaved and cute and in good moods, I feel like life could be 'right' again some day. But then the moment fades and I remember that my life will never be 'right' ever again. It'll never be okay that Logan isn't here. It'll never be okay that he was taken from us. That doesn't make life unlivable or without purpose; it just makes it... hard. Chore-like. Passable at times. Even happy at times. But never truly okay. And I know that eventually, I have to be okay with that.

I haven't said much about God. It's a sore spot, despite my previous assertions to the contrary. I think it's impossible --right now-- for me to not blame God for what happened. It's impossible for me to not feel a sense of betrayal so deep and so sharp that it takes away my breath. I don't understand God. I don't understand the way the world works. I still don't believe that He wanted this to happen to our family or that He planned it. No, suggest that to me and you'll still receive a written (or if you're lucky, in-person) tongue-lashing.

Still, it breaks my heart to know that I poured my entire existence into praying for healing yet it didn't matter in the end. I can't explain that. So I push God --and at times, the very notion of God-- away. It's a silly thing to do, really, because all I want is proof that Heaven is real and that Logan is there. At my core, I long for proof that I don't --and probably can't-- have. After all, I believed Logan would be well and a physical part of our family for a long time to come, yet he died anyway. I had faith. And it wasn't rewarded. And amid the racket from people who are well-meaning but truly have no idea what they're talking about, I have no idea where to go from here. Not a clue.

And so I roll with the waves. I get up every morning and go about the business of the daylight hours. Then after the sun sets and Adam turns in and the house is silent, I think and I cry and I hope for something. For proof that he's still out there, even if I can't see him now.

Paradise

Today was remarkable and wonderful for several reasons. But the one that's most important to me was also today's most substantial --and definitively unexpected-- surprise.

After dropping Abby, Isaac and Brady off with Adam's parents yesterday evening, we returned home and got up before the sun to catch our long-awaited flight to Kaua'i. Just the two of us. It's the first time that we've had a getaway involving just us since a friend got married when Abby was 11 months old. And the time before that? Our honeymoon, almost 10 years ago. We were, to be terse, quite overdue.

The frustration of having our original seat assignments wiped out was erased when we found ourselves in the coveted exit row, and the trio of small boys behind us were stunningly well-behaved. I sat playing a game on my iPad as the plane ascended. It was quiet. It was calm. The hum of the engine nearly lulled me to sleep. And then, after we'd been airborne for an hour or so, I heard it:

Mommy, I promise I'm fine. Really, I'm fine.

When I first heard that voice, I quickly convinced myself that I'd imagined it and went back to my game. But then it came back again, repeating those same words, and the tears just... came. Out of nowhere at all, it seemed, until I was almost completely overcome with emotion.

I poked Adam and told him I think Heaven is... and I looked out of the window... UP. And he said he'd been wondering the same thing.

I don't know why I felt like I did or why my sense of Logan was so strong on that airplane, but I do know that I felt closer to him than I have since he passed away. I felt like he was up there somehow. Like somehow, we were passing through his home and he took the time to say hi.

And I know that no matter how many wonderful things we see while we're here, those minutes high over the ocean will remain my best memory of all.

Wednesday

Sometimes, it amazes me that it's been more than four months since I last saw my Sunshine. And it takes my breath away to realize that I won't see him again at all; at least, not here.

I'm still awaiting the magic moment when I just know he's with me. Not the moment when I hope he's there or feel like he might be there. I'm talking about the moment when I know he's there. I got a vague taste of the moment over the weekend, but the sense was more of sand trickling through my hand rather than something to grasp fully. Not the 'real thing' yet.

This past weekend was devoted to dance recitals. Three of them, to be precise. Isaac performed Saturday afternoon, Abby performed Sunday afternoon, and Abby and I performed during all three shows, as members of the Mother/Daughter class. We were country girls, shakin' it for... well, Luke Bryan, I guess.

The whole 'return to the stage' thing was important to me for lots of reasons. I grew up dancing. Though I dabbled in jazz, ballet and pointe, I am and always have been a tapper at heart. There's something utterly freeing about being on stage, performing a routine that I know by heart (even if it wasn't, in this weekend's case, tap). I don't usually think of myself as being particularly good at much of anything, but I was a good tapper.

Anyway, given my Logan's love of dance during his time on this earth, it's no surprise that I felt closer to him while I was on stage. It's not so much that I could feel him, because I couldn't. It's more that I knew that if he were still with us in a physical way, he'd be totally enthralled with seeing his mom on stage. And that meant something to me. It's like a little pearl of delight that I can hold in my heart.

So that's that. I've been chronicling our summer on a different blog, located here: One Summer of Fun.

A Really Big Wave

I no longer spend a lot of time thinking about the future. Taking each day as it comes is how I survive, which is probably why I was a month late ordering dance recital tickets and still have yet to sew the elastic bands onto the cowboy hats for the mother/daughter dance. (I now have approximately 24 hours to get it done.) In a way, it's maddening, because in my previous life, I was punctual. I did things way ahead of time just so I wouldn't have to stress over them as the deadlines approached. But it doesn't work that way anymore. At least, not right now.

As I got up this morning, I could feel an epic wave looming overhead. Today and tomorrow are easily two of the most emotion-laden days we'll have to face this year. Why? Today, Brady is 18 months old. A year-and-a-half. I still think of him as my tiny baby, and though he is indeed on the small side, he's far from an infant. He's bubbly, perky, energetic. He's also one of the most pleasant, patient toddlers I've ever known. Today, however, is also the anniversary of Logan's homecoming following his BMT cycle. Hs went through so much during that 50-day stay at CHO, yet we were quietly, hold-your-breath hopeful that he had come home healed once and for all. I remember him getting out of the car exactly one year ago. I remember how he took a moment to silently --but still gleefully-- admire the banner and Cars-themed decorations and bunches of balloons that welcomed him back to a semblance of a normal life. I could tell he was overwhelmed, but pleased. Gratified. Happy.

And there's tomorrow. Tomorrow, Isaac will be four years old. Birthdays are blessings through and through, but four will be hard for me. It was only two weeks after Logan's fourth birthday that we discovered that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

So much emotion, so little time to feel it.

In the Silence

I've been quiet. I've spent a lot of time holding my tongue, mostly because it does no good to annoy people who can't possibly understand how it feels to be, well, me. I guess that sounds a little self-involved, but that's me right now: utterly self-involved. I think it'd be impossible for me to be just about any other way. So I have to be okay with it. And by extension, so do others. Maybe that's not fair. I don't know.

I went by Logan's preschool class graduation a few weeks ago. It was incredibly difficult. I can usually stifle emotion, but as I sat outside waiting for the ceremony to begin, I couldn't contain the overwhelming sadness. And once I went inside, I couldn't help feeling like I was raining on someone else's parade; the special day of kids who lived long enough to officially graduate from preschool and enter kindergarten. I've heard a lot of friends lamenting the end of their children's final days in preschool lately, but I can tell you this: it's such an unadulterated blessing to get to watch your kids finish a year of school. And it rips my heart out to hear and see those complaints. Sorry, but it's true. It's hurtful, though I fully acknowledge that no one probably thinks that the words are hurtful. And all in all, I guess that's okay. It has to be. My pain and loss are at the forefront of my own mind, but I know it's not fair to expect anyone else to be thinking about them. Especially not in the face of what are major life events for them. Major life events that I'll never have with my Logan. But anyway.

I just wanted to check in for a moment since it's been a while. Abby's last day of school is tomorrow, so the summer is upon us. I just need to figure out, eventually, how I feel about that.