Poor Daddy. Easter 2007

Happy Father’s Day, my love.  You’ve been on our minds all day today.  We’ve been missing you just a little bit more than usual.  You deserve to be celebrated today.  And celebrate you we have.  I just wish you were here to reap the benefits.

A long morning visit to the quiet park, a new plant in the memory garden to mark the day, some time spent out in the backyard, lots of talk about Daddy.  Today is your day.  You may  have only had the chance to be a dad for a little more than 3 years, but you still left your mark.  You and Shane were cheated out of SO much, but your fingerprint is still here.  The groundwork we started together may be finished by me alone, but you were here to setup the foundation, and it’s the foundation that keeps any structure from falling.  Our son will turn out to be the man we always wanted him to be because of the 3 years you had with him.  I have no doubt in that. 

The world lost a top-notch dad last July.  You were one of the world’s best.  It’s a crime you didn’t get more time, but the time you did have mattered.  I am beyond thankful that we lived everyday the way we did and that we never wasted a second.  We did more in our 3 years as a family than some families do in 30.  I’m proud of how we spent those 3 years.  And I wouldn’t change anything about them.  I just wish there were more of them.

I love you.  Your son loves you.  More today than yesterday. 

Happy Father’s Day.

Chris’ 1st Father’s Day - June 18, 2006

Another holiday, another first . . . over.  It’s still unreal to me that he’s missing these events in our family story.  I still fully expect to see him round the corner, step into the room or walk through the door.  I still wonder if not having him here will ever feel normal.  There’s a Kelli Pickler song that I think about often . . . “And it’s just too bad you’ve already had the best days, the best days of your life” . . . the song is about something else entirely, but I often think these words are my truth.  That with Chris gone, my best days are behind me too.

Shane and I spent Saturday night at my mom’s house and the Easter Bunny visited and left Shane a HUGE basket filled with toys and treats.  We slept in my mom’s bed and he woke up at 6:30, looked at me and said “Good morning, Mommy!  The clock says it’s time to get up!”  Then his eyes got wide, you could tell he was putting it all together and he said “Did the Easter Bunny hide eggs?”  And then his eyes got wider still, and that’s when he jumped out of bed, remembering about the possibility of an Easter basket!  Adorable.  Precious.  Totally 3 - the way it should be for him.

Later that morning, after we were both showered and dressed, we loaded the dogs into the car, brought them home and headed out to the quiet park to wish Daddy a Happy Easter.  On the way, we stopped at a florist so that we could get some flowers to bring with us, Shane wanted Daddy to have blue and yellow flowers, but deep purple Iris’ are the closest we could get to blue:

When we pulled up at the cemetery, I grabbed our cards from the from the front passenger seat, walked around to Shane’s door and got him out of his car seat.  He grabbed the flowers from the seat next to him, hopped out of the car, and with his hand holding the flowers up in the air RAN all the way over to Chris’ headstone yelling “Daddy, look!!!  Look, Daddy!”  It broke my heart as I saw the heads of the other visitors turn towards my son.  One woman put her hand on her chest; another woman visibly sighed.  It was heartbreaking to be that family.  The young family visiting our husband and Daddy.

By the time I caught up with Shane, he had already laid his flowers down in front of the stone.    He told me that Daddy was happy now and together, we stood there for a few minutes.  We then walked back to the car and headed back to Nana’s house for more Easter baskets and an egg hunt.

There was no doubt that Shane had a great day.  There’s also no doubt that he misses his Dad something fierce.  I hate that it has to be this way for him.  I hate that it has to be this way for any of us.  I know what the pit in my stomach feels like when I think about things too much, when I realize what the world is like now.  I pray it’s not like that for him, too.  Grief, at times, can be physically painful and I wouldn’t want to wish that on anyone, let alone my own little boy.

But it was another holiday without our guy, and we made the most we could of the day.  I have a few pictures I’ll share later in the week, but I wanted to post today so that I’ll remember Shane’s excitement on Easter morning and so that I’ll never forget his eagerness and sensitivity when bringing those flowers to his dad.  He is so very much like his father, in all the ways that matter, in all the best ways, and in that respect, it’s nice to have my husband shining through from my son.  For that, I am grateful.

Easter 2007 - Our first family Easter

Coloring Eggs - Our Good Friday tradition:

We ALWAYS had so much fun together.  EVERYTHING we did was a good time.  I miss those days.

Easter morning:

Easter 2009 - Our last family Easter:

I love reading blogs online.  It’s one of my “things”.  Decorating blogs, craft blogs, photography blogs, mommy blogs, and now, widow blogs.

Reading these blogs makes me feel connected.  I get comfort from the blogs of other widows.  It helps me to feel not so alone on this awful journey.  These women write so honestly and it’s obvious the pain that they’re in, and I often think that I could’ve written those same words.  There’s comfort in knowing that others are walking this horrendous road with you.

But lately, maybe it’s because the holiday is quickly approaching, the other blogs are making me sad.  All these decorating ideas, craft ideas and photography skills to try.  All of these things that I would’ve done in a second if this was 2 years ago.  But now, so many of these things seem pointless.  What’s the point in creating beautiful Easter centerpieces when no one is there to enjoy them with you.  Shane certainly isn’t going to care how clean and “breathy” an all white centerpiece makes the table look.  He would never notice if I took the time to sew new slipcovers for the pillows on the couch in the family room.  And maybe most men wouldn’t have either, but Chris - he would’ve.  In a second.  And while he may not have always said something right away, I would overhear him telling someone about the pillows months later.  He’d say “she’s always doing things like that”.  I used to overhear him talk about my pictures all the time.  The talent he thought I had, even though I have SOOOO very much to learn.  He was my biggest supporter.  My number one fan.  He gave me reason to believe I could do anything.  And now, now I barely even pick up that camera any more.  The same camera he fought so hard for me to have.  The same camera he was SO excited to give me 2+ years ago.  I guess in a lot of ways I’m buying into the “why bother” attitude.  Those things, things I used to love to do, just don’t hold the same meaning anymore.  I used to want nothing more than to create the perfect home, the perfect holidays and the perfect memories for my family.  THAT was what I wanted my purpose in life to be.  This big, beautiful family that Chris and I were going to have.  And I feel like all of that has been torn away from me.  Ripped out from underneath me.  Stolen.  I feel like this family of just Shane and I is SO sad compared to the family we were supposed to have.   Now, instead of that picture perfect mom/dad/3 kids family we had planned, it’s just Shane and I.  His father is dead and he doesn’t have any siblings to share his life with, his struggles with, his successes with.  To go from having everything you wanted in life, and the hopes and dreams of having so much more, to being where we are now is just heart wrenching.  It’s a torturous, daily, painful struggle.  And it’s our life.  Our reality.  And it makes me angry.

All of this over an all white table centerpiece.  It still amazes me how my “widowed mind” works so differently from before.

I’m being bombarded with memories lately.  Memories of another life.  A different time.  A time when life was good.  And happy.

This past Sunday was Palm Sunday.  Everywhere I turned someone was mentioning the day and each time I heard “Palm Sunday” I felt my body cringe and I wanted to run to the nearest hiding spot and take cover.  Chris was obsessed with the Grateful Dead.  LOVED them.  And one of their songs was a song titled “Palm Sunday”, and in true OC fashion, he would reference the song a lot on each and every “Palm Sunday”.  If I close my eyes I can still hear him singing “. . . must be Palm Sunday again”.

It was on Good Friday, in 2002, that we first painted the first room in what would become our first (and only) home.  Currently, the room is Shane’s playroom, but 8 years ago it was our formal living room.  It was the first time we had non-white walls.  We painted that room “Honey Moth” by Behr.  It’s a gorgeous, non-offensive, yellow color.  Chris repainted that room 5 years later when Shane was an infant.  Same color, same finish.

I remember Shane’s first Easter, he was almost a year old - it was his last “first” before he turned 1.  I remember Chris and Shane sitting on the floor in the playroom going through the Easter basket filled with puffs, bath toys, a bathing suit and matching hat.  I remember that year we spent Good Friday coloring Easter eggs, and that quickly became our new Good Friday tradition.  Who know that tradition would only last 3 years.

I still have a hard time believing that he’s really gone.  That the three of us will never again make a new memory.  Our life together is all in the past.  It still doesn’t seem possible.  I still miss him every second of every day.  I love him even more today than I did yesterday, and I know I’ll love him even more tomorrow.  It’s hard to realize how quickly your life can change.  How it can end up being SO very different from where you started or from where you thought you’d end up.  I feel like we deserve so much more than what we got and that makes me angry.  I’m angry for all of us.  For what will never be, but should’ve been.

I’ve been feeling a bit lost this last week.  I haven’t really known how to put into words what I’ve been feeling.  The holidays were difficult, but I expected them to be.  The lack of a schedule also proved to be difficult, that was surprising.  Being home with Shane was the best medicine, but these last few days, with just the two of us in the house, Chris’ absence has been painfully obvious.

I’m feeling like I’m full of fresh wounds again.  Not that my original ones were healed, I don’t think they ever could be.  But it’s like I’ve had all kinds of NEW thoughts, emotions, feelings and understandings about what his loss really entails.  All these new wounds that I have to contend with now.  Grief is a tricky thing.  It’s a monster of a journey and there is no guidebook on how to get from one point to another.  It’s a freefall and you just flap your arms as fast as you can and hope you don’t really hit the bottom as quickly, or as hard, as you feel like you’re going to.

Life has been painfully non-stop since Thanksgiving.  With Christmas, my birthday and New Year’s shortly after (and our anniversary shortly before), it’s been a difficult time for me.  I’m ready for a break from it all.  But that’s just the thing - there is no break.  You can’t call a time out from grief.  It’s a leech that’s attached to your heart and just sucks you dry 24-7.  I busy myself with household projects and crafts to keep my mind occupied, but physically, I’m drained, too.  And my husband, the one I’m supposed to turn to when I need a break, is the very person I’m busying myself from thinking of.

I’m just so painfully tired of being sad.  And scared.  I’m tired of feeling like no one understands what this is like.  How long of a process this really is.  How our life will never be the same again.  How I will never be the same again.  How this has changed the very makeup of me.  My DNA.  When you experience a loss like this, you carry it with you for the rest of your life.  Every choice you make, every decision you’re faced with, this even will effect all of that.  There is never any pretending like it didn’t happen.  There is no “do over”.  There is no happily ever after.  Ignorance is no longer bliss.  When you lose a spouse, especially under our circumstances, you lose a large piece of yourself too.  You lose your future.  You lose your dreams.  You lose half of what was keeping you alive.  Which makes the desire to continue living all the more difficult.  I thank God for Shane every. single. day.  He is what keeps me going.  I see so much of my husband in my son - it actually makes my heart want to sing, while at the same time making it want to break because Chris isn’t here to witness any of it.  Chris would SO love the little boy that Shane is becoming.  He is turning into exactly who we wanted him to be.  I know how proud that would’ve made him.

I realize this post is all over the place; but that’s where my head and heart have been lately, too.  It’s been almost 6 months since he died and this grief thing is just getting more and more complicated.  There’s so many avenues that you’re forced to explore and so many dead ends to endure.  It’s a painful, painful journey.

Such a long long time to be gone and a short time to be there . . .

It’s finally over.  2009.  The worst year of our lives.  A year I will never be able to forget no matter how hard I try.  And while I’m glad to see a new year on the calendar, I do have mixed feelings about leaving 2009 behind. 

As awful as the year was, it was also the last year we got to spend with Chris.  Watching 2009 go out, and trying to welcome 2010, was a bit more of a challenge than I had anticipated.  It’s tough to welcome in a new year that Chris will never get to be a part of.  2009 may have taken him from us, but there were also 6+ months of that year that I got to spend sitting next to him holding his hand.  That simple pleasure isn’t a possibility in 2010 - and that is heartbreaking.

So, it’s with a heavy heart that I bid farewell to a year that I never thought I’d see.  A year where we battled cancer and lost.  A year when I lost my husband and Shane lost his daddy.  A year where parents lost a son and a sister lost her brother.  A year when far too many friends find themselves with an open slot on their speed dial.  A year of heartache.  Sadness.  And far too many tears.  But it was also a year of love.  And of determination.  A year of courage.  Of bravery.  A year of fight.  A year of amazing support and strength. A year of family.

It’s difficult for me to be excited about the new year that lies ahead.  The idea of facing it alone is daunting.  The knowledge of never again celebrating a new year with Chris being far too prevalent.  I don’t know that I’m ready to welcome a year that doesn’t include Chris, but I do know we have no choice.  So I’ll open the door to 2010, grab Shane by the hand, and together we’ll step inside.  I’d like to think it can’t be as bad as the year we’re leaving behind.

And to my husband, wherever you are, Happy New Year, baby.  We’re loving and missing you every second of every day.  And we will continue to do so for the rest of our lives.

Christmas 2006. A much happier holiday.

Chris’ cousin Laura set this up for Shane.  When he watched this little video tonight, and when I saw his face light up when Santa mentioned him by name, and when I saw his eyes fly open when he saw his picture, it reminded me that I still have a reason to live, a reason to get up everyday, a reason to believe.

Chris left me the best parts of himself in Shane.  And I’ll be damned if this little boy doesn’t get to have the life that his daddy and I so badly wanted for him.

Laura, thank you SO much for doing this.  Thank you for giving Shane and I both a reason to believe.

Message to Shane from Santa

A year ago I never imagined that Shane and I would be spending this Christmas without Chris.  I never thought the cancer would take him from us this year.  I never expected to be living the life that we’re living now.  But it did, and we are.  And I’m more than eager to leave this year behind us.  I know a new year won’t change anything, but it’ll be nice to see a different number on the calendar.  2009 wasn’t exactly kind to us.

I like to think that he’s still with us.  That his LEON sign on display, his stocking hung by the tree, his Mets santa hat on Shane’s bedpost - those things are all him.  Here.  With us.  And as always, he’s in our hearts.  That will never change.

I’m thankful for the new relationships that were formed this year.  The existing ones that were strengthened.  Even for the wisdom to know which ones to let go of.  I’m thankful for the support group surrounding us.  I’m thankful to all of you, for being there for us - even when I know it’s impossible for you to understand what we’re really going through.  My best friend reminded me recently that I’m not alone in loving or missing Chris (she always knows just what to say, and when to say it.  Thank you, Catherine!) and that knowledge is comforting.  Literally.  So I thank all of you for missing him with us.  For not letting him be forgotten.  For not letting us be alone in our grief.  For being there to guide us through our dark moments (and there are plenty of them).

I’d like to think that 2010 will be a better year for our family.  But I’m afraid to be hopeful.  One thing I’ve learned this year is how much it hurts to fall.  Shane and I wish all of you a very, merry, Christmas - whatever that means for you this year.  It means something very different for us.

Shane and I have some big plans for the next week and a half.  A lot of cuddling and snuggling ahead of us.  We’ve learned just how important the important things are this year - and we’re taking full advantage of the time we have to spend together.  No daycare.  No work.

I don’t plan on posting much this week.  It’s going to be a difficult road.  I’ll check in from time to time and regular posting will resume in the new year.

We’ll see you on the other side.