My Year of Grief and Gratitude

A couple weeks after our son passed away I bought a wooden sign that now hangs over my kitchen sink. It reminds me every day that even though we suffered shattering heartbreak, we still have much.

It reminds me that in the tragic realm of losing one’s child, we were extraordinarily fortunate. After his diagnosis of Stage IV cancer, we still had months and months to converse with Carey. To go out to dinner. To watch movies. Cheer the Cubs. Boo the Cardinals. Have family reunions. To laugh. To hug. To cry. Hug some more.  To have long soft talks in the middle of the night. And then finally, with everything spoken that could be spoken, to peacefully say good-bye. 

The sign above my sink reminds me of the onrush of family and friends who, with zero hesitation, stood close during two years of shadow and chaos.

That our strong and loving son Cody is only an hour down the road, healthy and in love.

That our amazing daughter-in-law welcomes us with open arms and keeps a big comfy bed waiting for us in her sweet North Carolina home.

That when our grandsons visit they ask for Play-doh as soon as they bound across the threshold.

It reminds me that my grief and gratitude are not mutually exclusive, but two sides of the same coin.

And now, as this first year without Carey comes to a close, I’m grateful that some of the very last words I whispered in his ear, were the same ones I whispered 28 years earlier when the nurse first laid him in my arms: Momma loves you.

There’s no denying the wretchedness of watching your loved one’s life slip away. But, try as I might, I can’t fix that. I can’t undo it. What I’m left with then, is the ability to be grateful for and appreciate what once was and what still is. And what I hope to keep: a thankful heart.

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.