In the Now

I feels like ages have passed since I've been here. That's not entirely true. Occasionally, I start to write an entry, lose inspiration, and stop. And then two more weeks pass and the process repeats itself. I think these days, if I'm going to write, it will take deliberate effort. So here I am. Being deliberate.

We're a few weeks into summer vacation. The last day of school was a sketchy one for me. Though I celebrated Abby's completion of third grade, it was gut-wrenching to walk by the first grade classrooms as we left campus. I couldn't look at the classroom door that should've been Logan's without intense, painful pangs. Or without the cry that my heart makes every time I allow it to ruminate over what should have been. The near-unbridled wail: God, it's NOT FAIR. I wondered who his friends would've been. Which subjects would've been his strongest. What he'd look like.

The 'what he'd look like' is often the most painful for me. What would he look like at almost seven years old?

And then that phrase blows my mind:

Logan should be almost seven years old. I can't imagine. I'm sure he'd be wonderful and beautiful and smart and kind. But not being able to see him is like a knife digging and twisting in my heart.

Otherwise, we're getting by. Adjusting. Figuring out how life is supposed to be now that things have gone how they shouldn't have gone. I miss him every single day. I fight the urge to smack people who say things like 'wow, you must be busy with three kids.' I have four. Logan will always be part of our family, even if his physical needs are no longer mine to meet. But I'll be honest: It's tiresome to repeatedly remind people that he exists and should be counted. I'll go as far as saying that although I realize no one means ill when they say it, it's a hurtful remark. A deeply hurtful remark, in fact.

So that's where I am, for better or worse.

From Beyond

I just had an intense Logan wink. Not a God wink per se; I write about those every day and more often than not, I have to look to find them. No, this was something of an entirely different breed.

I was driving home from our Mother/Daughter dance class a little while ago. I'd just gone through the McDonalds drive through for a coffee (for me) and a McMuffin (for Abby) and was a few minutes from home. My mind wandered a bit, and despite the absolutely gorgeous day about to unfold itself, the prevailing emotion was sadness.

As I drove along, I wondered about my life. My surviving kids' lives. Adam's life. Our life together. I wondered: Is my life just ruined? And if it is, is that okay? Will I learn to live with it?. I thought it might make a compelling blog entry, if I were ever able to fully answer those hard questions.

And then as I turned at a stop light, Lee Brice's I Drive Your Truck came on the radio. I turned it up. A lot. (So loud, in fact, that I almost turned around to apologize to Abby.) If you read my other blog, you know I wrote about it a month or two ago; how I relate to the message and the heartbreak and the need for release that it expresses so well.

So I sang the words with my heart. And I cried, like I usually do when I hear that song.

And then I saw our friends and neighbors at a stop sign, driving in the opposite direction. I stuck my arm out the window to wave hi.

At the next stop sign, a golden retriever, leash firmly in mouth, trotted by. And I smiled.

Then I heard a weird revving and rumbling from my back seat, but didn't think much of it.

And then a strange sensation came over me. I can't really describe it. But along with it came a chipper message:

Hi Mommy!.

And then the song ended. And the feeling faded. But it was Logan.

Why do I know? Because of the song and its timing; how it came just when I was wondering if my life would ever mean anything again. Because the neighbors across the street? They lost their mom and grandma not long before Logan passed. She was a wonderful woman and when I think about Logan, she's often there with him. And the dog? When Logan was young and overflowing with happiness, we called him our golden retriever. And this golden retriever was free, no leash holding him back. Like the choking leash that is cancer no longer holds Logan back.

And that revving and rumbling from my back seat? It came from a toy Lightning McQueen that one of the little boys left on the seat. I have no idea how long it'd been there because it'd been silent until this morning. And if there's one worldly thing that defines my sunshine, it's Cars.

I don't really have any good closing words for this so I guess I'll just end... here.

Remember

I've felt compelled lately to point out what feels like a glaring truth:

I love to talk about Logan.

I get the feeling from some folks that he's a taboo subject, never to be brought up. That couldn't possibly be further from the truth. He's one of my favorite subjects. I like to talk about who he was, what he loved, where he is now, what I think he'd be doing if he were still here... all of it.

It's painful when I say his name and other people go silent. I see their eyes dart around uncomfortably. Then they usually change the subject, or just leave it up to me to fill the airspace. He's not taboo. He's not this untouchable thing. He's my kid. He's alive in my heart. And knowing that other people remember him... well, that's like gold to me. I don't get the dance recitals or little league games or report cards or playdates. All I have are memories to keep him alive.

That was rambly, huh? I haven't felt as poetic as usual lately. I've felt decidedly more... blunt. I love pretty words, crafting sentences and manipulating the musical ebb and flow of the written word. But sometimes, things just need to be said --and understood-- with no other pretense.

Don't Blink

Sometimes I feel like I blink and I miss an entire month. But only sometimes. Because Heaven knows, there are other times that I feel like time is completely frozen. Like I'm trapped in a bizarre kind of, well, for lack of a better word, hell.

That's all a drawn out precursor for the obvious observation that I haven't written here in a while. It's not that I don't want to or that I don't have much to say; it's almost more that I have too much to say. And it's hard to boil it all down to a few pretty paragraphs fit for public consumption. So it's easier to not write at all. But ultimately, that doesn't feel right. Sooo, here I am.

How am I? I guess "okay" works, because most of the time, I am indeed "okay". Not really "good". Not "terrible" or "awful" or "miserable". Not "great" or "wonderful" or "marvelous", either. Nope. I made up my mind a number of years ago to always tell the truth when people ask how I am, and as odd as it seems, "okay" is honestly the best response I can come up with these days.

A lot of the initial searing pain of losing Logan is gone. Or maybe gone is the wrong word; it's more that it's morphed into something more manageable. Because I can assure you, your dog and your mom that the pain never goes away entirely; it just changes shape. Some days, the pain is like a tsunami, so big and forceful and blinding that all I can do is batten down the hatches and weather the waves. Those days are less common than they were before, but they still sneak up on me every now and then and smack me upside the head and take my breath away and batter me against the shoreline. Some days, the pain is like a flea. Annoying, but nothing that I can't get rid of with a flick of my finger. (Or a good flea collar.) Some days, I wake up feeling it. Some days, it lies dormant until the least convenient time, only to rear its head at the worst possible moment.

But such is life, as my dad used to say.

I'm here. I'm getting up in the mornings and making lunches and driving the mommy taxi and going through the motions. But I'm also dancing. And spending a lot of time looking up at the sky and noticing how the clouds gleam at sunset and feeling the wind on my face. I'm making a concerted effort to see God every single day. (If you're not aware, that blog is here.) I'm keenly aware that I'm not who I once was.

And I'm trying not to blink too often, because my other kids are growing and I'm getting older and life continues on. As it ought to do.

Rambling

I've been staring at my computer screen for a long while now. I feel compelled to say something; I just can't figure out what. So scattered ramblings are on the menu.

Sometimes I can't believe that I'm a grown-up. I guess that sounds a little crazy given that I'm 35, but... I really can't. I can clearly remember being in high school and then in college. I remember having plans and hopes and dreams. I remember having perfect, wrinkle-free skin and knees that didn't snap, crackle and pop when I walked. I remember feeling like I knew everything.

And now... I'm 35. I've gotten married, bought two houses, driven multiple cars, given birth to four babies and said see you later to one. I've done a lot. But at the same time, I still feel like I'm fresh out of college. Unsure of what's next. Scared sometimes.

I guess the one big difference is that now, at 35, I'm painfully aware that I most certainly do not know everything. And I never will, at least not during this lifetime.

And I'm also aware that I can't derive a sense of self-worth from my successes and failures, though of course I do it anyway. I went to a college that placed a high value on success, defined on a narrow spectrum: gaining influence and earning money. Of course it was nice to be kind to others, but it wasn't a true priority for the real go-getters. No, the goal was to build the portfolio, network and generate cash.

Maybe that's cynical. After all, I loved college. It's where I met Adam. It's where I met a handful of lifelong friends. But it is, to a degree, the truth. And it's hard to not look at myself, as a product of that environment, and not feel like a failure. After all, I'm a writer who's never published a book. I have friends who are, by comparison, extremely successful. Me? I'm a mom. And I wasn't even mom-enough to save my own flesh and blood.

I guess that sounds pretty harsh, doesn't it? When I sit in the dark, sometimes I have dark thoughts. I suspect we all do; most of us just don't share them.

Anyway. Valentine's Day is about 20 minutes away. Last year, Adam and I spent our Valentine's Day looking at cemetery plots. It was surreal. That's the best word for it by leaps and bounds: surreal. I'm thankful that we've survived the first year.

But I miss him so.

Remembering to Breathe

In just a few short hours, it'll be February 11. The first anniversary of Logan's passage from this life to the next.

Lots of people have asked me what our plans are for commemorating the day. I still don't know for sure. We have bits and pieces to the puzzle, but the whole picture... it's not there yet. Adam and I are going to donate blood in the morning, and at some point during the day, we'll plant new flowers on Logan's grave to replace the ones that've fallen victim to our recent cold snap (and, based on some strategically located hoofprints, a deer or two).

But my primary goal is, very simply, to remember to breathe.

I worried, a year ago, that by the time tomorrow rolled around, I would've forgotten a lot of the nuances that made me love him so dearly; the things that made him my sunshine. I can say with great confidence that those fears were unfounded; I haven't forgotten much of anything. And when my memory feels like it may wane, I watch a video or two, and everything comes flooding back. That huge, beaming smile of his that Adam and I could never really understand, given our own serious collective demeanor. The moments of unbridled silliness. The freely given --and joyfully received-- unsolicited I Love Yous.

Yeah. I could try to be ambitious tomorrow. But I think I'll just remember to breathe.

Fifty-Two Weeks

Fifty-two weeks ago, my life was forever changed. In a way, it's a mercy that 2012 was a leap year, since it means we have an extra day to reflect --and prepare-- before the 11th arrives. THE date.

But today... it all happened 52 weeks ago today. A Saturday.

It's only late-morning, but my day has already been punctuated by fleeting flashbacks that shadowed my actions. Waking up tired... the drive to dance class... the quick trip through the McDonalds drive-thru on the way home... all of it.

Only now, of course, despite engaging in some of the same activities, things are... different. Instead of being at CHO, helplessly watching as Logan drifted off toward Heaven and the reward that awaited him there, I'm sitting in my family room. Writing. And the McDonalds bag isn't in the passenger side floor of my car, contents uneaten and getting colder by the second. No. They've been consumed and the trash stowed away in the bin. And in place of the rain-saturated clouds that loomed overhead 52 weeks ago are clear, beautifully blue skies. No tears in today's sky. No clouds to hold them in -- or let them fall.

I'm remembering just a fraction of how it felt to say good-bye... or maybe just see you later... I always have to remind myself that it was see you later and not good-bye... because I can't open the flood gates... yet. After all, there are still two more days. But the memories still come like little leaks in a dam. I could just jam my fingers into the holes, but there wouldn't be much of a point, would there?

And so the day continues.