I usually don’t post twice in one day.  And I never do it on my cherished “flashback friday”; and I’ve been trying to throw myself completely into editing all of the vacation pictures and sharing them here with all of you; and in doing so I’m trying to remain upbeat and positive.  But it’s just not working.  And in trying to do so, I’m being dishonest with myself.

I started this blog 3+ years ago to be a chronicle of our life together as a family.  And of course I never expected our journey to take the road it did, and for us to end up where we are now; but that’s the path that was chosen for us.  I vowed from the very beginning to share both the good and the bad.  The pretty and the ugly.  And I’ve always done just that; sometimes even brutally so.  So today, I’m going back to my roots.

I’m missing my husband something fierce this week.  Maybe it’s the “back from vacation blues”.  Maybe it’s all my beloved vacation photos - not one of which includes Chris.  Maybe it’s the wedding I have to attend tonight.  Maybe it’s seeing the pain on my in-laws faces - the same pain that I know is on mine.  Maybe it’s not being able to spend quality time talking with quality friends.  Maybe it’s from being tired.  Maybe it’s from Shane asking and talking about his dad so much.  Maybe it’s just part of where I am in the journey.  But I’m missing my husband.

I’ve cried more this week than I’ve cried in a long time.  It seems every few minutes my eyes are stinging with tears again.  My heart aches.  My stomach hurts.  I haven’t slept well all week.  I feel like I need to make changes in my life.  I want to be able to spend more time with Shane.  I hate that his early years are almost over; that next year he’ll be off to kindergarten.  I hate that as a single parent, I can’t afford the luxury of taking some time away from my current career to find a new one that will work with the lifestyle that I’m so badly seeking.  And I hate that I have no one to share these thoughts with.

This is not the life I wanted.  The life I wanted was the life I had.  The one that was stolen from me.  From us.  I want that life back.  I want my husband back.  I want Shane’s early years back.  I want the one thing I can’t have.  More time.

The anniversary of Chris’ death was a day that haunted me all year.  The entire year of grief led up to that one day.  I knew I wanted to do something to mark the day, to honor my husband, to gather our family together, but I wasn’t sure what.  In the end, I did what I knew Chris would’ve wanted me to do - we had a BBQ at the house.

Being that this was the first year, I wanted to keep it “small” (small to the tune of 70+ people), but because it was such a huge success, I plan on making it an annual event (though perhaps we’ll move the BBQ to his birthday weekend instead) and we’ll definitely be inviting more people in the coming years!

I know that day was hard for a lot of you.  I know what it’s like to be at our home and not have Chris there.  I know what it’s like to watch the door, waiting for him to walk through it.  I thank all of you for being there.  We are blessed to have such a remarkable family.  That day was important to me.  It was important to me to honor Chris and it was important to me that Shane have the opportunity to be surrounded by so many people that love him, and that love his dad.  Shane will miss out on enough in his life because of Chris’ death, I don’t want him to miss out on anything more.  So thank you for helping me to realize that dream as well.  I look forward to celebrating Chris’ life with all of you - for many,  many years to come.

This post is chock full of photos.  No thanks to me, of course.  Once again, my dusty camera never saw the light of day.  Aunt Trae, thank you SO much for sharing your images with me, so that I could share them with all of you.

Tim & Trae:

Trae & Uncle Charlie:

Trae & Brian:

Timmy & Patrick:

Charleen, Randy & Suzann:

Shawn, Trae & Danny:

Shawn, Danny & Andrea:

Patrick & Shane:

Celebrating a life well lived:

Once again, Sue doing what no O’Connor could that day:

We love you all:

Brady:

Russell:

Me & Jim:

Larry & CJ:

Karen & Trae:

John & Val:

Dina & CJ:

Brian, Jenn & Russell:

Chuck & Diane:

Baseball @ night:

Shane & Jamie:

I know for certain that my husband was with us that day . . . and he was smiling.

I love you all.

On another note, I just wanted to wish the love of my life a Happy Anniversary.  Our first date was 11 years ago today.  Dive bar and laundry.  Let’s just say the guy had me at “hello”.  I remember, so clearly, standing on the sidewalk outside of the bar, getting ready to call it a night.  It was there that we shared our first kiss.  I knew then it was the start of something special, though  I never could’ve guessed just how special, and how amazing it would turn out to be.  He asked me to go back home with him, and I accepted.  Something SO out of character for me.  But I trusted him.  And there was something about him, about what had started that night in the bar.  A lesser woman would’ve turned and run in the opposite direction upon seeing the dark stairway that led up to their 2nd floor apartment.  And if she didn’t run then, she certainly would’ve when they took the door on the left at the top of the stairs.  The door that opened right into his bedroom, instead of the door on the right that opened into the kitchen.  And if that didn’t do it, surely the sight of a twin sized futon sitting on the floor and an old couch, standing upright, leaning against the far wall, would have.  But not for me.  There was a force pulling me towards the unknown that night.  I couldn’t describe it, but it was unlike anything I had ever felt before.  We stayed up for hours talking and getting to know each other.  I remember not wanting that night to end.  Not wanting any of it to end.  It was magical.  It all just ended far too soon.  Looking back, I suppose you could call that night a gamble, all of these signs telling me to turn and run, yet doing the opposite.  But it never felt like a gamble.  It felt like fate.  This guy was the love of my life.  I knew it then, 11 years ago.  And so did he.  From very early on there was no doubt as to how our first date out at a dive bar would end.  We were in it for the long haul.  It just wasn’t long enough.  I love you CGO.  And I miss you.  Every second of my life I miss you.  Thank you for showing me how to love.  And for loving me so incredibly well in return.  You are my heart.  Now.  Always.

I had planned to write about the anniversary weekend today, but instead I wanted to write about Walk for Hope.

WALK FOR HOPE is a fundraising event sponsored by CancerCare.  CancerCare was a huge help to us when Chris was sick.  They provided all kinds of research materials and resources to us and also provided a little bit of financial support by covering a few copays and some prescription costs.  They are a fantastic nonprofit organization that provides free, professional services for anyone affected by cancer - patient, family or caregiver.

Walk for Hope is a 5k walk at Jennings Beach in Fairfield CT on September 12, 2010.  It’s a walk to help raise money for CancerCare, so that they can continue to help others like they helped us.  It’s a walk to celebrate survivors.  To support people affected by cancer.  To remember loved ones lost.

I’m going to be taking part in the event, as a walker, and I’m wondering if anyone would like to join me?  It’s a $25 registration fee for each walker (age 12 and older) that can either be donated or raised.  Check-in is at 8am on Sunday, 9/12 and the 5k walk starts at 9am.

I’ve created a team named “Remembering OC”, so if you register be sure to register under that team name at http://community.cancercare.org/teamrememberingoc.  We can all walk together, in honor of a man we all love and miss.  I plan on having Shane (and a stroller!) right there with me - even pets are welcome to participate!  I think this can be a great thing.  It’s another reason to get together.  It’s another opportunity to help OC Pay it Forward.  CancerCare helped us when we needed it most, now it’s our turn to help them.

If you’re interested in walking for Team “Remembering OC”, either leave a comment to this post, or email me at rememberingoc@hotmail.com

Additional information can be found at the CancerCare website - www.cancercare.org/walkct

Hope to see you there!

**If you can’t join us in the 5k walk at Jennings Beach, but would like to help support the Remembering OC team, you can do so at http://community.cancercare.org/rememberingoc

With the help, love and support of our family and friends, we made it through the weekend that marked the one year anniversary of Chris’ death.

I know I’ve said this before, but there really is no way Shane and I would’ve gotten through this last year without the support that we’ve seen from our family and our close friends.  So many people have given up so much this past year to be there for us and to help us get through each day.  There’s no way to adequately thank you all for that kind of support.  Being surrounded by family and friends is the best thing for us, and we are beyond grateful for all of you.

I still don’t know how we’re going to keep getting through each day without Chris.  The grief, even after an entire year, can still catch me off guard.  It can still knock me to my knees.  It’s still exhausting and the idea of spending the rest of our lives feeling this way is daunting at best.  But we’ll continue to struggle through.  And I hope our friends and family will continue to be there to help pick us up when we stumble, because stumble we will.  Often.

I still wish I could have our perfect, happily-ever-after, life back.  I want that more than anything.  I still miss my husband more than I ever imagined I could.  It’s a lonely, lonely road, this road of grief.  It’s a long, dark, dangerous journey.  We’ve come this far, but we still have so very far to go.

And here we are.  Welcome to year two.

I can still see, so clearly, that 8th floor when my sister carried Shane down the hallway towards Chris’ room.  The whole floor seemed to freeze.  Tears where sliding down the faces of the doctors and nurses — people who have watched this scene play out far too many times.  It was painfully quiet.  No one moved.  No one spoke.  The only sound left was the sound of the machines.

I took Shane into my arms and I held him.  I turned to Mimi and together she and I took Shane in to see his Dad for the last time.  Chris never opened his eyes when we were there, in fact he would never open them again, but I like to believe he knew we were there with him.  Sitting next to him.  I held his hand and balanced Shane on my lap.  I explained to Shane, as best I could, and with Mimi’s help, what was about to happen.  I don’t know that Shane understood what we saying, and really, I’m not sure that it matters.  What’s important was that he was there.

I asked Shane if he wanted to touch his Daddy’s hand, or give him a hug or a kiss.  Shane shook his head no and we respected his decision.  Mimi and I walked him out of the room and my sister then walked in.  I remember Mimi giving Shane a cup of chocolate ice cream out of the freezer and I remember how happy Shane was to have it.  The smile on his face so out of place, so unlike the faces around him.  But when you’re 3 and you don’t understand the meaning of an ICU or death, chocolate ice cream is all that matters.

Shortly after Shane finished his ice cream, my sister started the process of trying to get Shane to go home.  He was an unwilling participant to say the least, but I think when you’re 3 years old, and your life has been turned upside down, you’ve barely caught a glimpse of your mom in the last 6 weeks, and you just saw your (unresponsive) dad for the first time in as long, that the last thing you’d want to do is leave.  But by some miracle (at least we got one that day) she was able to get him to go, though not easily.

I remember being panicky.  Mimi kept telling me it was going to be quick and that I should be there with Chris.  And in the next breathe she was telling me that she didn’t know if he would “go” with me present in the room.  She told me if we reached a point where we felt he was just hanging on to hang on, that I should consider taking a walk and let the pieces fall where they may.  I’m thankful that we never reached that stage.  I don’t know that I would have been able to leave that room, knowing that I may never again see my husband alive.  If he was breathing, if he was still living, I needed to be there with him.  I knew in my heart that he knew I was there, and that he could hear every word that I whispered into his ear.  If nothing else, I had that.

Our close knit group of 8 stood in a circle around Chris’ bed for the next few hours.  Waiting for what, I’m not sure.  A sign maybe?  A signal?  A change?  Every once in a while Sue’s cell phone would ring.  It would be Jamie.  Calling both to give and to receive an update.  He was making the drive of his life that night.  Trying to make his way from PA to CT during rush hour.  Hoping against hope that he would get there in enough time to wish his best friend a proper farewell.

Each time Sue hung up the phone, she would whisper another message from Jamie into Chris’ ear.  We would all take turns whispering into his ear.  Messages of love.  Of hope.  Of gratitude.

I sat there in that ICU room that awful night, holding my husband’s cold hand.  Trying desperately to keep him warm, and knowing at the same time that a warm hand wasn’t going to change anything.  I kept telling myself that I could do this.  That I could watch him leave me if I had to.  I knew in my heart there was no where else I wanted to be.

We spent the next hour calling and texting family and friends - those who needed to know, despite our best efforts and countless prayers, what was happening.

A Chaplain came in and prayed over Chris and for all of us.

I, always sitting with my back to the monitors, had a view out into the hall.  And I was waiting for Mimi.  Over the last 2 weeks, Mimi had become an angel for me.  She was the Pallitative Care Nurse and was called to help manage Chris’ pain, but she quickly became a source of comfort to me in those last weeks.  She was always honest and she was always sincere.  She said things in a way that helped you to understand.  She became my safe place.  I could confide in her, I could cry with her and I could trust her.  So I was waiting for her that day.  I was hoping she’d have something different to tell me.  Something better.  But inside I knew better.

She appeared not long after the Chaplain left.  She sat at the desk outside Chris’ room, looking at the screen that held all his medical records.  I knew by her face that things really were bad.  And that’s when reality REALLY started to set in for me.

She walked into the room, sat down on the arm of my chair, but her arm around me and said “I think we’re going to lose him today”.  I remember asking her if she thought I should take him off the vent - would keeping him on it give him, give us, a few more days.  She turned me towards her, looked into my eyes, and said “I think, no matter what we do today, that we’re going to lose him”.  It was at that moment that Chris turned his head toward me.  I could tell he was aggravated.  I put my hand on his head and ran my fingers through his hair (something I had done SO many times before in our short 10 years together) and I told him he was okay.  He opened his eyes to look at me, so badly wanting to say something, and then he shook his head no.  The look in his eyes was one of complete agony.  He was done.  He had fought SO hard for SO long and he was done.  That was all the information I needed.  I swallowed hard, I turned and looked up at Mimi and I told her I wanted him to be comfortable.  I wanted him off the vent.  It was the most difficult decision I’d ever had to make; and as much as I didn’t want to let him go; I knew it was what I had to do.  I had to do it for Chris.  And I hope to never have to make a decision like that again in my life.

We all left the room and went down the hall to the waiting room while the ICU nurses took Chris off the ventilator and made him comfortable.  It was at that time that I called my sister.  I knew, even though it wasn’t what Chris had wanted, that Shane needed to see his Daddy that day.  In the years to come, I needed to be able to tell Shane that he saw his Dad on the day he died.  Whether he would remember it or not, I needed for it to be true.

It was also during this time that my Aunt’s showed up.  I remember hugging each of them, still not fully believing or wanting to accept what was about to happen.  My mom was there.  My brother was there.  Jerry, Zita and Tracie were there.  My best friend was in the waiting room down the hall.  She would eventually come into Chris’ room.  She was “my person”.  I needed her.  Sue & Jamie were on there way, driving (separately and quickly) from PA, trying to beat the clock.  Everyone dropped everything for us that day.  They dropped everything for Chris.  They went out of their way to be on the 8th floor of that hospital with us.  It was a feeling of helplessness I’ve never had before, and hope to never have again.

There are 5 days from my 32 years that I can recall with absolute certainty; the day my mom sat us down and told us she had breast cancer (and she’s now a survivor!), the day I found out my dad died, our wedding day, the day Shane was born and the day Chris died.  July 16, 2009; after a far too difficult battle with neuroendocrine/carcinoid cancer.

I can tell you the most insignificant, smallest details from those days - I can even tell you what things smelled like on those days.  But it’s the last one of these days that keeps me up at night.  That day is on a loop that replays itself over and over again in my mind.  I hate that it’s there.  I hate that it’s the first memory I have of my husband - the one that sits so predominantly in my mind.  It’s my hope, that writing about that day; telling his story from my point of view; and sharing our journey with you will act as some sort of release.  I want my mind filled with all of our good moments; which consist of every single moment we shared until the day he died.

******

It was a Thursday morning.  It was supposed to be just another day.  Tracie and I got into the car that morning and drove up to the hospital like we had so many times before, she behind the steering wheel because driving was something I had little interest in doing.

We parked the car in the parking garage next to the hospital; made our way down, across the street, and through the sliding glass doors that bring you into the lobby.  The lobby was a very peaceful and serene place.  Often times there’d be someone playing the piano in the corner.  Doctors, patients, and visitors would be on line at the “cafe” for a coffee or a snack.  People would be sitting in the chairs spread around the lobby chatting with a friend, reading a book or just contemplating life.

We made our way past the security desk and towards the elevators which resided at the back of the building.  Just past the security desk, to the right, was the hallway that led to the Chapel.  A long hallway.  One I walked every night on my way out of the hospital.  It’s where I would sit for a few minutes.  I’d pray for my husband, for our family.  I’d regroup and try to get myself to switch gears; to go from feeling exhausted from work, from worry, from illness to feeling ready and able enough to go home and be a mom to a little boy.  All my nights in that Chapel didn’t give me much for a return.

We reached the elevator; stepped inside; and hit the button for the 8th floor.  The ICU.  I remember commenting to Tracie that I never thought I’d be anxious to press the button for “7″ again.  7East.  The oncology wing.  The floor that had been our home away from home for 5 weeks.  Our comfort place - where the nurses knew us, knew Chris, and where they understood.

We stepped off the elevator into the bright and sterile ICU waiting room.  We waited for a moment to be “buzzed” in and we walked down to Chris’s room to see how the night had went.

Jerry was standing alongside Chris’ bed when we walked in.  I can imagine the thoughts that were going through his head as he looked down at his son.  His very own flesh and blood.  With a tube down his throat that was allowing him to breathe, surrounded by monitors on both sides.  The sounds in that room were anything but comforting.  The entire week we were there, I don’t think any of us ever got used to those sounds.

Tracie left the room a few minutes later to take a walk; use the bathroom; to take a few minutes to breathe.  It’s something we all did regularly while we were in the ICU.  It was a necessity.

It was during that time that Dr. Reznikoff came into the room.  I remember how my stomach dropped when I saw him.  I remember wishing for Dr. Dressler, but it was a Thursday and Dr. Dressler wasn’t in the hospital on Thursday’s.  We exchanged a few pleasantries among the 3 of us, and then Dr. Reznikoff asked Jerry and I to join him in the hallway.  I knew at that moment that my life was about to change forever.

He explained that Chris’ lab numbers were declining.  That he was now going into multi-organ system failure (liver and kidneys) and that it wouldn’t be long now.  I remember Jerry being brave enough to ask the question we had all been asking ourselves the last few days - “How much longer did he have?”  Dr. Reznikoff looked at us, put his hand on my shoulder, and said “Hours to days; most likely days”  My eyes immediately stung from the tears - hours??? - how could that be?  9 months ago; at diagnosis, we were told (by 4 different doctors) that Chris would live a long and normal life.  2 weeks ago Dr. Dressler had told me that if something didn’t give soon; if the chemo that we were about to start didn’t work; Chris likely wouldn’t make it until Christmas.  I couldn’t understand how we went from a long normal life, to  6 months, to hours.  It was all happening so fast.  I needed to talk to Chris.  I needed to hear what his thoughts were.  I wanted him to reassure me; to tell me it would be okay.  I wanted to hear him tell me he loved me.  But looking at him through the glass window, with the ventilator tube down the back of his throat, I knew those things weren’t possible.    It was that moment that I realized I’d never hear my husband’s voice again.

It’s amazing that in 10 days, we will mark a year since Chris left this world.  I still expect to wake up from this nightmare any minute now.  But, oh, how very real it is.

Pulling from the archives today.  I wrote this to be read at Chris’ funeral, and shared it here the same day.

*******

90% of the time I write these blog posts minutes before I share them with all of you.

But sometimes, sometimes I write them early and schedule them to post on a certain day or at a certain time.  There are times when my heart just needs to explode.  So I write.  And I save it for another day.  And there are times when I know a post will be difficult to write, so I write it when my heart can handle it and I schedule it to post when I need for it to be shared.  That was the case with the post for Chris’ birthday.

We were SUPPOSED to be in PA for the weekend.  Sharing an incredibly difficult day with friends.  And I wrote yesterday’s post on Friday morning.  By Friday evening, it was confirmed that 3/5 Buesing’s had bacterial pneumonia and I couldn’t knowingly suscept Shane to that kind of illness, no matter how much we all wanted to spend the weekend together, so our plans changed.

Instead, Shane and I spent the weekend held up in a hotel 30 minutes from home!  My mom and my aunt unselfishly gave up their weekends to spend it with us at CocoKey Water Resort in Waterbury.  I knew I couldn’t just sit around at home and pretend like the weekend was like any other, so I do what I do best.  I ran away from it.  And in many ways, it worked.  It provided some fun for all four of us and it provided a distraction.  Mom and Aunt Kathy, the weekend was EXACTLY what we needed.  Thank you for offering to share it with us.  Thank you for giving up previous plans to come along.  Shane and I would’ve been fine on our own, as I’ve been forced to learn this year, but it sure was nice to have your company.  We love you.

Everything else I wrote about in yesterday’s post was true, and did happen.  Shane and I did visit the quiet park yesterday afternoon and we brought Chris a balloon that we tied to the shepherd’s hook next to our headstone.  We brought some cupcakes with us and we lit a candle and sang Happy Birthday.  We “cheers’d” to Daddy, we left behind some birthday cards in our plastic bin and, as we do with each visit, we left behind another little piece of our hearts.

Crappy cellphone pictures -
Cupcakes and balloons:

Signing Daddy’s card:

I have been saying all along that his birthday and the anniversary would be the most difficult days out of the whole year, and I was right.  Yesterday was a hard day.  Harder than I had even imagined it would be.  But I was reminded by a wise woman, that yesterday was a beautiful day because it gave us Chris.  And without yesterday we all wouldn’t have each other, I wouldn’t have Shane and I wouldn’t have the best 10 years of my life in my memory bank.  Thank you, Sue, for reminding me.  Thank you for ALWAYS reminding me.

Thank you all.  I know a lot of people have given up A LOT and have made A LOT of sacrifices this past year to be there for Shane and I.  Don’t think it has gone unnoticed.  We notice.  And we appreciate it.

I’m having some internet connection problems at home, so unfortunately Flashback Friday has to wait until next week.  Good old Cablevision came out to replace the cable in my bedroom and in true Cablevision fashion, apparently did something to the internet in the process.  I can access the pictures, but I can’t upload them to the blog at home.  Sorry about that.

Today marks 4 weeks until the one year anniversary of Chris’ death.  Just four.  It’s crazy to think about.  And with Father’s Day on Sunday and what would’ve been his 41st birthday next Sunday, I have a feeling it’s going to be the longest, most difficult four weeks of the entire year.  I’m very eager to have this anniversary behind us.  If for no other reason than just to know that it’s over.  Oh, how I’m dreading that day.

Today is the last day to order t-shirts/cause bands for round 1.  I’ll be placing the first order for t-shirts tomorrow morning.  A second order will be placed at the end of July.  If you’d like t-shirts in this first round, just email me at rememberingoc@hotmail.com and let me know how many t-shirts you want and what sizes (Youth small, all the way up to Adult xxxxl).

Many of the posts this month will be reflective of what was going on this time last year.  I’ve actually spent most of the year writing a “recap” post of that last day.  I can only work on it for a few minutes at a time, reliving that day is so painful, but it’s important to me to have that day in print.  As awful as it was, I don’t ever want to forget the moments of that day, my husband’s last.  I also hope having that day “logged” will help me to move forward.  So often I’m still stuck in that hospital.  My images of Chris are still from those last six weeks. I still need the help of photographs to remember him as I want to.  A part of me is hoping this will help solve that problem.

We’ll see, I suppose.  Just like every other step on this grief journey.  The answers reveal themselves eventually.

“Pay it Forward”. That was Chris’s mantra throughout his 9 month battle with cancer. He was beyond touched by the love and support he was shown not only from our families, but from friends, colleagues and strangers alike. We both were. Unfortunately, it’s usually not until you’re inflicted with such a horrible disease that you realize how much of a community exists around such things. We were welcomed in with open arms.

Chris would always say that he couldn’t wait to get better; he couldn’t wait to start passing on the good, the gracious, the support that we had received from day 1. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to pay it forward himself, but I promised I’d do it for him, and now is when I start making good on that promise.

The Caring for Carcinoid Foundation believes that a cure IS possible for carcinoid cancers. But it takes research to find a CURE and it takes MONEY to fund research. I plan on spending a lot of time throughout the rest of my life raising money to help fund the research that will find that cure. If I can help prevent even just ONE family from having to go through what our family went through, and to do it in the name of my husband to boot, well, that’s a no-brainer.

So, this, this is the first step. I designed these t-shirts in OC’s memory. All proceeds will be given to the Caring for Carcinoid Foundation to help their efforts in finding a cure for this horrible disease.

(Be sure to hit the “rotate” button to see the back of the shirt as well)

In case it’s hard to tell from these pictures, the front says “OC” and underneath are the date of his birth and the date of his death - 6/27/69 - 7/16/09. The back carries his mantra - “PAY IT FORWARD” - and under the picture it says “Chris may have lost his battle, but together we can win the war”

So, here’s how it works:
IF you’re interested in purchasing a t-shirt (and please don’t feel obligated. Chris NEVER would’ve wanted that, and neither do I) they’re $20/each and come in the following sizes:
YOUTH - S, M, L, XL
ADULT - S, M, L, XL, 2XL, 3XL, 4XL

1) Send an email to rememberingoc@hotmail.com with the following information:
-Number of shirts wanted
-Size of each shirt
-Address to which we can mail you the shirts after they come in

2) Send payment:
-You can either mail me a check (email me at rememberingoc@hotmail.com if you need the address) or
-Sumbit payment via Paypal (to email address rememberingoc@hotmail.com).

3) I will mail out the shirts once they are received.
*Do NOT order from Customlink.com directly. I need to place one, bulk, order to receive the fundraising discount. Thanks!*

First order will be placed this Saturday (6/19) so that they come in prior to the one year anniversary of his death on 7/16. The second order will be placed at the end of July.

Royal blue cause bands (think of the yellow “LIVESTRONG” wristbands you see everywhere) are also available. They, too, carry the “PAY IT FORWARD” mantra on the front and have “OC” (along with the dates) on the back. They are available for $5, and again, all proceeds will go to the Caring for Carcinoid Foundation. Both adult and youth sizes are available. I already have these bands in my posession, so there is no deadline for ordering the cause bands. Same process as above applies for ordering the cause bands.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you ALL for your support over the last (almost) 2 years. You will truly never know what that kind of warm embrace feels like unless you’ve ever had the unfortunate circumstance of being there yourself. You will never know what that love meant to my husband, and to our entire family. I feel blessed to be able to pass on some of the good that was shown to us, and I’m honored to do it in OC’s good name. Thank you again for helping us on our journey, thank you for helping me prevent other’s from having their own, and thank you for helping me remember, and honor, a one of a kind man. He is missed every single day. That will never change. And though we can’t bring him back, we can insure that his name, his legacy, lives on. Thank you for that gift.

xoxoxo

May 31.  This day last year was the day of Chris’ benefit.  The day where so many people, many of whom we had previously never even met, showed so much love and support for our family.  It’s the day that would end up being the last day that so many of you would see him alive.  It would be his last time at any kind of event.  It would be his last time at Chuck’s.  It would be one of the last days he got to spend with his son.

Four days later he would enter the hospital for the start of the last six weeks of his life. 

It’s here.  The beginning of the end.

Shane and I had a great family, fun-filled weekend - despite the fact that Sunday marked 10 months that Chris has been gone.

Saturday we drove to upstate NY to celebrate the communion of two of Chris’ cousins kids (confusing, I know!) and Sunday we went to a carnival that happened to be in town for the weekend.  I plan to talk more about those things tomorrow, for now I want to talk about Friday night.

Friday night my sister and I drove down to Chuck’s to have a drink with Sue.  She was in town for the weekend and was working at the restaurant.  LOVE Chuck’s.  It’s the kind of place you walk into and immediately feel at home.  Kind of like slipping into your oldest pair of worn, perfect jeans.  Chris and I spent SO many weekend nights at Chucks when we first starting dating and anyone that was lucky enough to know him knew that he didn’t have a personality that could easily be forgotten!  Memories and stories of happier times were told around that bar Friday night as they always are.  Always were.  And it was during one of those memories that I was reminded of another oc-ism:

Chris LOVED the margaritas at Chuck’s.  LOVED.  He was never really anything but a beer drinker, but at Chuck’s they knew to keep the margaritas (always on the rocks, never frozen) coming.  I had forgotten that Chris used to call them “monkeritas” - named after one of his favorite bartenders at Chucks!  The memory brought a smile to my face and I was immediately taken back to 1999.  Many of the faces of those around the bar where different back then, but the heart of those moments, and the stories that they’ve created - they are the same.

TEN.  Double digits.  Longer than it takes for a baby to be born.  Longer than it took for OUR baby to be born.  Impossible.

Every day is still more of the same.  We’re still stuck in this same place.  A world without you.  An unfamiliar world.  A world I don’t think I will ever get used to.  A world I’ll never come to call home. 

It’s painful, this world without the one you love.  It’s lonely.  It makes you want to go running to the safest place you know, except it’s the very loss of that safest place that leaves you seeking for it in the first place.  There’s fear everywhere you look.  Fear of time.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of one day forgetting.  It’s a paralyzing fear, and that paralysis has been the one constant throughout this ten month journey.

I still long for you at the end of the every day, and at the start of each new one.  I still force the brave face, but really my exterior is in no way a reflection of my interior.  How could it be?  Half of me is missing.  Half of me left with you.  The better half, too, I think. 

I still fear the idea of moving on.  The very thought of it makes me feel guilty.  The idea of accepting a world in which you don’t exist just doesn’t seem like a possible task.  It’s daunting.  The journey is difficult.  And unlike what was promised, the passing of time doesn’t seem to be making it any easier.

I long for that break.  A break in the pain.  A break in the constant work involved in getting through another moment.  I yearn to be surrounded by family.  By friends.  By anyone that knew you.  Knew us.  I long to be held.  To be in your embrace.  To feel you hand on my waist.  Within my own hand.  I long to feel your feet next to mine in bed at night.  I long for companionship.  Not any companionship, but your companionship.  You were not only my husband, you were my best friend.  My heart.  My life. 

I still long for another day with you.  That’s not something I ever see changing.

We had such a nice 3 day weekend celebrating Shane’s birthday with all of our family and friends.  In fact, while getting Shane dressed for pre-k this morning (he hadn’t been since last Thursday!), he looked at me and asked if there was more presents and “happy cake” in store for him today!  He’d been looking forward to his birthday for MONTHS and the three day celebration certainly didn’t disappoint!

I love seeing him so happy.  So full of life.  And joy.  Watching him run around with his friends and his cousins on Saturday and watching him on Sunday with the Buesing and Muldowney crew - just totally turns me to mush.  Shane would’ve been an awesome big brother.  Just one more thing that cancer stole from us.   Chris would’ve loved to watch his son running around the backyard with his friends kids.  All 6 of them playing on the swing set that he, painstakingly, assembled for his son last April.  He was missed this weekend.  Even more so than normal.

I think birthday’s have that affect on families like ours.  Young families who have experienced of loss of this magnitude.  You realize that time really does go on.  And it sinks in that loved ones lost really are missing out on these huge milestones.  Days like Sunday, when family is gathered out in the backyard, part of me fully expects that at any time Chris will walk out the slider onto the patio and join in the fun (and the cleanup afterwards!)  Yet at the end of the night, it’s almost like being let down all over again, realizing he really isn’t coming back.  It’s amazing how many times you learn how permanent death is.  You’d think that would be a “once and done” kinda lesson.

Jamie came over early that morning to help out with the setup and to help keep spirits up around the house (again, Jamie, THANK YOU) and as I’m walking around in circles inside the house trying to figure out what to do with myself, I hear the familiar sound of the lawn mower out in the backyard.  I look out the window and Jamie is out there mowing the grass.  And Shane is following right behind him pushing his own bubble mower.  I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of my little boy wanting to be like his Daddy’s best friend.  I’m so grateful that Shane has people like that in his life.  These great men who have stepped in and are being the role model that Shane needs.  Together, they’re helping to fulfill a loss and to prevent that loss from becoming a void.  And as happy as that makes me, it stills tugs at my heart to know that should be Chris that Shane’s out there mowing the grass with.

At the end of the day, Chris is still gone.  And the more time that goes by, the more real it all becomes.  But just as important, Shane’s birthday didn’t suck.  And aside from the HUGE absence, it might have just been his favorite birthday to date.  It’s just too bad his Daddy couldn’t be here to share it with him.

Lots of pictures and video to follow.  Promise.

My beloved photo wall.  My wall of memories.  Moments I treasure.  Even more so now that new ones can’t be made, not in the same way anyway.  While these photos weren’t taken with the phone on my camera (Yeah!), they still weren’t taken with my dSLR, so they are still a long way from being good photos - but it’s enough for you to get the idea.  The wall is in our family from, a room right off the kitchen that once upon a time used to be a carport.  My grandfather transformed the room into a livable space back in the 70’s.

Welcome to our past.

Out of focus, but it gives you an idea for the space.  It’s a long wall.

Still out of focus, a different view.

Baby pictures of our little guy, a snap of my husband serenading me at Jay & Jenny’s wedding, and a snap of us after our own wedding, outside of the Marriott hotel where all of our guests were staying for the night.  I still have my headpiece in.

A couple of my favorite wedding pictures, a few treasured family photos, some more snapshots of our baby boy, a soccer picture of  ”young Chris”, a canvas of Shane and I on the ferry in Hyannis (Cape Cod - 8/08 - what would be our last family vacation), a canvas of Shane on the beach from that same trip, and some photos of Jamie, Sue, Chris and I at a wedding on Block Island.

Some more photos of our little guy, one of our first family photos, my beloved “hat” canvas, another wedding photo, and the picture of Chris and I next the lamp is from our honeymoon to Disney World.  This shot was taken in Epcot.

Quite possibly my favorite section of the wall.

One of my all time favorite pictures of Chris.  Taken during that famous last trip to Cape Cod.  He looks so healthy here.  2 months later he’d be diagnosed with incurable cancer.  These photos are some of our last truly happy memories.  LOVE this canvas.  16×20 and still looks so small on that wall.

LOVE.  This canvas is my heart.  My boys.  My entire world.  Same Cape Cod trip.  20×30 and still dwarfed on this wall.

Treasured memories.

A few more shots of the entire span of the wall.

A recent Etsy purchase, from a great photographer - Susan O’Connor.  LOVE this print.  Love the 2 birds.  Love the pop of color.  Reminds me of our marriage.  Pure.  Simple.  Just the two of us.  The way it should still be.

Dylan Michael
Born 3/17/10 at 9:11am
7lbs 9oz
19.5 inches

Congratulations to Kate, Jim and Big Brother Brady!