It's Linear

Time is linear.

I've repeated that phrase to myself many times today. If I hadn't, I think my heart would've literally broken into two messy halves every single time I had to stomach someone gleefully chirping Happy New Year! Yeah, whatever.

Some people view 'New Years' as an opportunity to make a fresh start; to wipe the old year's slate clean and make better choices moving forward. But for me, it only means one thing, if I look at the big leap from December 31 to January 1 as something more than a simple tick in time: I'm leaving Logan behind. How can I wipe 2012's slate clean without wiping him out? I know it sounds ridiculous; after all, aren't there pithy sayings up the wazoo claiming that those we love never really leave us? I call BS on that. It's a nice thought, but it's just not true. I can't hold him or hug him or talk to him or ask him questions. He's just not here. That doesn't mean his spirit isn't alive on some plane of existence, but he's not... here.

For now, I can wake up each morning and think "One year ago, Logan was still here with me". Soon, I won't be able to say that anymore. And in less than five hours, I won't be able to say that he's been with me at all "this year".

It's not that I want 2012 to last forever. It's been the worst year of my life by leaps and bounds. It's been a mix of devastation and horror that's rocked my faith to its very core. I still haven't recovered, in fact. I don't know if I will. I know I won't ever be the person I once was. But will I at least be genuinely happy again? Will the sun ever shine as brightly as it once did? Will the brutal physical effects of two years of gut-wrenching stress ever right themselves, or am I doomed to age early? I don't know.

It's more that life just feels so wrong as it is. We float through each day, alternating between feeling 'okay' and 'wretched'. Never really happy or at ease or enthusiastic. I'm sure I hide it well; I've had practice hiding things for a long time. But that doesn't mean that under the layers of me, I'm not heartbroken. Because in a very real way, I am.

I fear that as we move into 2013, Logan will be forgotten. I've begged and pleaded --pathetically, embarrassingly, probably annoyingly-- for people to share my tribute to Logan. And I'm thankful to those who have. But a lot of you haven't. And I know you haven't; I can check the stats. So why don't you do it? Inconvenience? Discomfort? Don't like me as a person? Goodness knows I've not asked for much, other than prayer. I simply don't understand why it's not getting more attention than it is. I want people to know his story and how awesome he was, but I keep hitting walls. And that's hard and frustrating and maddening.

I didn't choose this life; it was given to me. The reality is that it could very well have been given to ANY of you, so how would you handle it? Would the notion that your child could be forgotten sit well with you?

I didn't really start out intending to rant and rave. I've just been feeling frustrated, and well, sometimes we have to get it out. Please forgive me for foregoing the silly hats and champagne and party poppers this year; after the brutal succession of Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas, my heart's just not in it.

So yeah: Time is linear. And it's important that I view it that way, because the leap from year to year is merely a step. And from that vantage point, Logan isn't so far away after all.

Legacy

Anyone connected to me on Facebook is probably totally tired of hearing about this, so you can feel free to tune it out. But I want to get it out there for others, too.

Remember this tribute that I wrote shortly after Logan passed away? (Click the link.) Well, I decided to nominate it for a Yahoo! Contributor Network award. It felt a little obnoxious to go the self-nom route, but I really want this. I don't care about the monetary prize. I want it because I want more people to read about Logan and how he lived his life.

See, the great majority of people like me --moms who fight tooth and nail to save their children for months or years on end, only to have their hearts broken by worst case scenario outcomes-- don't get much attention. We just don't. Our kids die, and most people forget about us and our heartache. (Not that any of you have, since you're still here reading! Don't think THAT.) We're not sensationalized like some, and though I'm not all about sensationalism, I AM about making sure my child is remembered for being the amazing, incredible, fabulous person he was. It's my job to push it and make sure he has the legacy he so much deserved to have in this life.

So do me a favor. Help me out. Click and read the article. It's linked above. I just read it again to be sure I'm not pimping something that's not very good, and I still think it's good. Worthy. If you think it's worthy of recognition -- if Logan and the way he lived his life is inspiring-- please share it with your friends and family. Part of the award criteria involves page views, and I'm truly worried that I'll be lacking in that department.

Okay. I won't mention it again. But he's worth it, folks. He's totally and completely worth it.

The Paintbrush

With Christmas right around the corner, I desperately want to say something profound. Meaningful. Memorable. But I'm just... me. I don't concentrate well, my thinking is scattered and I'm generally here and there and everywhere, mentally. So I'll just do what I can and leave it at that.

It rained a lot today. A friend joked that she saw the Ark go by this afternoon, and I could totally see why, between the puddles in the yard and the standing water on the patio. But it wasn't just rain. It was much more than that. It was intermittent rain; driving torrents interwoven with bright beams of sunlight. Which, of course, meant rainbows. Big, beautiful ones that arched across the sky. When we (yes, we) left for church this morning, I saw my first of many on the day. If not for the line of houses on our street, I could've seen the whole thing, end-to-end. It was sort of like being on Kaua'i, just... colder. And less tropical.

The bright bands of color were comforting. I haven't been really into the whole God-thing lately, but I could see Him painting a picture. And I like to think that He let Logan hold the brush now and again.

Then later, despite the rain, we stopped by the cemetery to check on the flowers and wave hello to our Sunshine. I think Adam and I were both touched to find a pretty potted plant sitting there, keeping his space looking fresh and alive. So thank you to whomever left it for him. Those gestures mean a lot.

Okay, I think that's enough for now. I can't muster the energy to really write. But I wanted to say hi and Merry Christmas.

Thanks and Stuff

Thanksgiving was much harder than I'd imagined it would be.

I mean, all of the holidays since Logan went Home have been challenging, but yesterday... different level. And I'm not entirely sure why. It's probably because of the meaning and intention behind Thanksgiving. Maybe I'm an ingrate, but it's very hard for me to be grateful this year. It's hard to look back and remember the hell we've suffered and express gratitude. It's hard to wake up crying in the middle of the night. It's hard to remember how it felt to hold Logan as he drew his last breath. It's trauma. It's not something I'm just going to move beyond right now; maybe not ever. But definitely not yet.

I don't know. I guess that's not fair of me. But it's my life. My reality. And no amount of preaching by others or reflection on all that I DO have can outweigh our tremendously painful loss. Unless you've been where we are... no, you don't understand and you can't really relate. That doesn't mean I don't want you to talk to me. Not at all! It just means that it doesn't help to hear things like 'oh, I totally get it' when no, you don't.

But anyway. We had a nice dinner with Adam's extended family. But if I'm honest, my heart wasn't in it. I wanted to be at home, wearing pajamas, cuddled in my big comfy recliner, wrapped up in my plush heated blanket, watching something completely trivial on TV. Maybe it's hiding, though I'm more inclined to call it surviving.

On the bright side, I took Abby out for a little Black Friday shopping this morning. At Bath and Body Works, I picked up some sparkly Twisted Peppermint Shimmer Spray, not because I want to smell like candy, but because Logan loved it. I remember him watching me get ready in the morning, and can still hear him chirping 'use the sparkly stuff!' He'd take the bottle, spritz it on my forearms for me, and then happily note my shimmering skin. The memory fills my heart with warmth. And that's just what I need these days.

9 Months

Nine months.

It's hard to believe it's been nine months since I last saw my Logan-ey take a breath. In a way, it feels like it's been less time; in another, it blows my mind that I could've gotten pregnant and produced another child in the time it's been since he left us.

But time is a funny thing. I think it betrays us, in a way. It's the taker of memories and experiences and youth. I suppose that's a little cynical. But as I told a friend recently, after the year I've had, I'm fortunate that I'm merely cynical.

So how am I? I struggle mightily with that question. Some days, I feel almost normal. Others... not so much. Sometimes I just start crying and have no idea why. But I'm trying to maneuver through this life that has been gifted to me. Because it's important to remember that despite our circumstances, life is still just that: a gift. Right now, I don't know how to make the best of it. I don't want to just roll with the punches and float along; I want to make an impact. I want Logan's life to make an impact. But I don't know what those things look like. At least, not yet. Hopefully some day I will.

Part of me is dreading the holiday season. The other part of me is grateful for a chance to celebrate. When Logan was still here, I once asked him to name his favorite holiday. His response? "Easter. And Christmas. And my birthday. And Halloween, and Thanksgiving. And Valentine's Day..." He loved them all, he really did. So I need to honor that. And in the process, hope that doing so doesn't break my heart even more.

Under a Rainbow

I don't think I could make this stuff up if I tried.

When I got up this morning, it was pouring down rain. The grey skies coupled with the cold air and the rain did nothing at all to help my already-sour mood.

I trudged through the lunch-making --if you can call stuffing a pizza Lunchable and a bag of baby carrots into a backpack 'lunch-making'-- and the getting-dressed and the diaper-changing. Then I wasted a little too much time on the computer and had to scoot more quickly than I'd have liked to get Abby to school on time. But we managed. And then I dragged myself to preschool to drop Isaac off for the morning.

And then, despite the driving rain, I drove to the cemetary. I don't really know why, since I usually go to water the flowers. But I was in auto-pilot. With sheets of rain streaming down my windshield and an equally impressive sheet of tears streaming down my face, I pulled up next to Logan's grave, and cut the engine. And I sat there, listening to the rain pounding on my roof and the sounds of Brady singing his ABCs in the way-back seat. I told God that I felt abandoned. I asked, for the thousandth time, why He hadn't saved my baby. I asked how He expected me to believe in anything after the horror that was watching my son die. I asked, point blank, why He didn't love me.

It didn't feel good, sitting there in the car parked next to my son's grave, living out a scene from a nightmare most people never even have to imagine.

After a minute, the sky directly ahead and up brightened a bit. The sun didn't break through, but for the first time this morning, I saw a ray of light so subtle that I questioned whether there truly was any light at all.

I started the car, but quickly cut the engine after a feeling came to me that simply said 'wait'. I can't say it was a voice. It was more of a feeling. And I don't know why I listened to it. I just did. I sat in the silence again for a moment, and then I felt something else: 'get out'. Grumbling, I opened the door, and stepped outside. I whirled around, muttering (aloud -- if you'd been there, you would've heard me) something along the lines of 'okay, so why am I wasting time getting out of the car? Just so I can get wetter than I already am? And then I stopped. And I mean dead-in-my-tracks stopped. Because right there in front of me, stretched all the way across the sky in an end-to-end perfect arc, was a rainbow.

Of course, I whirled back around and took its picture, because that's what I do.

I don't know what to make of it. But it brought me a small amount of peace in the moment. And it brought to mind lyrics from a song I've rehashed many times over the past 8 months, including earlier this morning:

Lord, make me a rainbow
I'll shine down on my mother
She'll know I'm safe with you
When she stands under my colors.

For non-country music fans, the lyrics are from The Band Perry's "If I Die Young". I hated that song for a long time, but now... well, now it speaks to me. Especially when I'm standing under those colors.

Misfire

I tried to go to church today.

I guess that sounds a little strange. After all, I either went or I didn't, right? Not exactly.

Feeling emboldened, I quietly slipped into my purple 'nice' dress and my dress boots this morning and then quietly slipped back downstairs to join the others. Part of me wanted it to be a non-event. I wanted to just get into the car and take the short drive like I had every single Sunday for many years before my world fell apart. Who cares that I hadn't been since before Logan passed away? It's not as if it should be a big deal to go to church.

But on the other hand, it was a very big deal. Huge, really. It felt like a step of faith. And I haven't taken many of those lately. So it felt like a good time.

But in hindsight, I don't think it was.

We arrived. I got out of the car. I remember wandering sort of blindly along. A few people noticed me and said hi. A lot of others... didn't. And that was okay. I didn't want to be a spectacle. But at the same time, I wanted to feel... important, I guess. Not that I'm any more important than anyone else. It's more that I'd hoped that people would think 'wow, she's here. After all of that shit she had to deal with, she's finally here.'

I guess that's a little vain. But if I weren't me, it's the way I'd look at someone who was me. If that makes any sense. Maybe it doesn't.

So I went in. A few more people said hi. And then the music started and I had to leave. I can't cope with music yet. I can't deal with the way it seeps into my core and throbs and moves through me like mercury. I'd planned to sit outside and sip my coffee for a few minutes, but it didn't turn out that way. No, I sat outside and cried for a long while. A very long while. Every time I'd start to collect myself, the tears would start all over again. And I didn't want to be seen sobbing. Not after everything. I didn't want to be that pathetic person who's life went to hell a few years ago and just can't seem to get past it. At least, not publicly. I can be her in private, but in public, I can't cry. I especially can't sob uncontrollably.

So I sat outside by myself in the cold, trying to figure out if I was still angry with God after all. And I don't think I am. I think I'm just profoundly sad. I know that people want to say Oh, I've had awful things happen to me and I know how it feels but, well, you don't. Not just because you haven't lost a child, but because you're not me.

I don't say any of this to alienate anyone else. Though I fully realize that it's precisely the kind of effect this kind of statement has on others. It's just a feeble attempt at putting myself out there (sans the sobbing hysterically in public part, of course).

So, yeah, church. It wasn't really what I'd hoped it would be. I'd hoped to feel like I was home again, but I didn't. If it's possible, I think I felt angrier and more alone and more sad than I've felt in a long while.

Of course, it's probably my fault. It must be, after all, because it's probably me who's changed, and not anyone else. I lost my child. And I have to live with the fallout. And being there reminded me of how much the past few years have changed me. Of how much innocence and faith and trust I've lost. And I was profoundly jealous of the people who walked by; the people I used to know whose lives haven't been transformed --ripped to bits and pieces, really-- by a maelstrom.

I have six more days to decide if I want to go back. Or if it's time for me to find a new place to meet God. One that isn't marred by painful memories.