The Inversion of Joy

Nine months gone now.

I remember being pregnant with Carey, all the excitement and nerves as the weeks flowed along. I read books, rented videos, talked with other young moms. There were baby showers, and old women patting my arm at the bank. I got the nursery set up, onesies washed, diapers stacked and rocker set. But all the preparation did not really ready me for the first moment my baby lay in my arms.

Sure, people reminded me about poopie diapers and midnight feedings. But they neglected to mention the joy - the absolute joy - of seeing my infant yawn for the first time. That sweet little mouth and soft round cheek. Because, hands down, there is nothing more adorable in the world than seeing that first precious calm of your baby. And I mean nothing. 

And the first time I made my baby laugh? Oh, sweet heaven! If they could hook me up to a seismograph my emotions would be off the chart. 

And the second and third giggles are just as good! So is the tenth. But then . . .

. . . Gradually, somewhere around the thirty-fourth time it's not quite as wonderful. Still cute. But not the thrill it once was. Over time, the adorability became less and less marvelous, and more and more part of my day in day out life.

In a lot of ways, Carey's death is very similar. Only it's the exact opposite on the seismograph. Instead of exhilarating highs, there are sharp ravines. Instead of rippling giggles, there's a long, long piercing silence. 

It's the inversion of joy.

Now instead of joyful firsts, I face their tragic inversion. The first Christmas without Carey. The first Mother's Day with no phone call from him hoping he beat his brother to the punch. The first Cubs win of the season. The first time I had to refer to him in the past tense. 

It's been nine months now. 

As it was with my baby's first milestones, these tragedies too will fade, the edge will dull and gradually be absorbed into my day in day out life. And next year will be a tiny bit easier. 

At least I hope so. 

Grief on the Frontier

I had a history professor once ask, "What exactly is the frontier?"

Our class came up with several muddled and vague definitions. But in the end our professor gave us this: the frontier is that thin strip of land running between civilization and wilderness. It is a buffer between what is established and what is yet unknown.

For almost three years I have lived on my own frontier of confusion, anger, exhaustion and grief, a narrow land of unlivable territory spanning between life and death.

The minute I learned Carey’s cancer had spread, I stepped away from all that I knew and out onto this barren frontier, with nothing but wilderness as far as the mind could see. Forced here by the chance ricochet of cancer’s bullet.

And here I have lived on that unrelenting edge with my eye fixed on my family, unable to go back to what I knew, petrified of staying for what it meant. There were days on the frontier where I watched my son cross a brutal terrain of chemo treatments and radiation, braving his way with dignity, calm, and even humor. And then, finally, when all hope of survival here had failed, I watched him travel on without me, further into the wilderness. Into the unknown.

My time on the frontier territory is drawing to a close. I can’t stay here. There’s no point. I need to return to my loved ones, to my new home, to all that is still familiar.  But there will be days when I look back over my shoulder to catch one more glimpse of Carey. To see if, by chance, he passed that way again, even if for a second. 

An Honest Day

It’s a day like any other day.

I plan this week’s meals, make a grocery list and finish my coffee.

I put on galoshes and drive to the store, 10 miles in the rain. 

I check the eggs, weigh the apples, and decide against salmon. Maybe next week.

It’s a day like any other day. Only sadder.

After I put away the groceries

and drive 14 miles to the gym, I

work up a sweat and wait for the endorphins to kick in.

They don’t always, despite the hype.

I get home and pull the condolence cards out of the mailbox.

Reading through them makes me feel better and
Worse at the same time. 

So I cry.

I cry and wonder how my daughter-in-law is and 
what my grandchildren are doing.

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past

41 days since my son took his last breath,

Since I felt his skin grow cool under my hand,

Since I kissed his forehead for each of his grandparents, his uncles, his aunts,

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past

41 days since I finally let go of hope.

Crying is now part of my daily routine.

I take time for it.

It’s a day like any other day, only sadder.

And dinner still needs to be made.