Thursday, July 23, 2009

the beach.

Every last week in July, my parents and my little family go to the beach. Our family best friend's own a house on Crescent Beach. This house is gorgeous and they are so generous to let us use it for the week. Our own swimming pool. Our own beach access. Our own celebrity sightings (I should tell that story one day). The biggest decision of the day is beach or pool. My kind of life.

Michael loved going. And this will be another first. Our first time being there without him. I imagine the pool will be more still. It will not be filled with shouts of glee. There will not be any "Mommy, watch mes" or "Come swimming with me (Pa, Nana, Stu or Mommy)".

It will be quiet. Each of us with our own memories. Of other summers. These are some of my favorite photos from those memory filled, happy times.

I will be glad to be there. But so sad that my favorite swimmer, jumper, sand castle maker will not be by my side.

Sunday, July 19, 2009


An old friend sent the lyrics to a song that he thought might ring true for me.  Does it ever.  I read the lyrics.  I cried.  I purchased the song from iTunes.  And now I play it on repeat. 

 I quote song lyrics a lot in this blog.  I do it in my scrapbooks as well.  I find myself  drawn to songs that have meaning.  Songs whose lyrics speak to me.  Don't get me wrong - I love a good pop song too.  It's just the songs that sustain the longest time on my playlists are more meaningful.  Like the soundtrack to my own life.

Here is the song.  Forever by Rascal Flatts

I miss you so much
Your light, your smile, your way, and everything about us
Though you're gone, you're still here
In my heart, in my tears
Yeah you sure left your mark and we were just getting started

It wasn't long enough, it wasn't long enough... Together...
But it was long enough, yeah, it was long enough... to last forever...

Sometimes I get so mad; I scream and swear at this
Cuz' this, isn't how we planned it
I sit here, in a cold room... Prayin'
Waiting on you
To run back through that door, the way it was before

You left, it wasn't long enough, it wasn't long enough... together
But it was long enough; yeah it was long enough to last, forever...

I feel Cheated (I feel Cheated), defeated (can't believe it)
Can't believe that you're gone (your gone, your gone)

It wasn't long enough.  
But it was long enough.  That my memories will have to last forever.
My memories stop.  At 9 years old.  
I will never know what he might have looked like at 15 or 20.
Or the look on his face when he graduated.  Or got married.  Or made me a grandma.
It wasn't long enough.

Saturday, July 18, 2009


I love you.
Love you too buddy.
Sometimes.  I forget what I am going to say. So I say I love you.  Because I know that's always true.

Thursday, July 16, 2009


Today I feel cheated.  

I feel cheated that I am not preparing for back to school time.  I feel cheated that I am not online purchasing new clothes for him.  In preparation for his last year of elementary school.  I feel cheated that I won't buy a new pencil box.  Or a new backpack.  Or markers and protractors.  Or to go see who his new teacher is.  That Orientation day will be just another day.   To get through.  

I feel cheated that I will look at holidays not with glee.  But as more days to brace myself against.  That holidays will never again have the same feeling of wonder.  Of joy.  That I don't get to experience them through the eyes of my child.  My sweet boy who still believed in the power of magic.  And of a jolly old man in a big red suit.  

I feel cheated of the tween years.  Of the teenage angst years.  Of the college years.  

I feel cheated that I have to contemplate the what could have beens.  Instead of the what is.   I feel cheated that I will never hear the sound of his voice again.  Or his laugh.  Or see his smile.  I will never receive another random note on my work space from him.  

I feel cheated.  Because he was cheated.  Of life.  And all those future years.
And I am angry.
Because I was cheated.  Of his life.  And all those future years.

Monday, July 13, 2009

the question

I have been waiting for this question. Dreading it.  Wondering where it would come from ... who would ask it ... would I be prepared for it?

Do you have any children?

It was asked very innocently.  Off the cuff really.  I was in a tennis tournament over the weekend.  I walked past one of my opponents (who we had just played).  I thought she was talking to me when I passed by.  She wasn't but said she could include me, if I would like.  We laughed and then she said ... Do you have any children?  I assume this is what she and the other person were discussing.

I mumbled something about needing to get my water and walked away.

How do I answer that question with someone that I probably will never see again?  Is that answer different with someone I just meet?  My answer will always be yes.  I do have a child.  To say no seems to dishonor Michael.  And his memory.  But to say yes.  To a virtual stranger.  Seems to be asking for more questions.  Like ... Boy or Girl?  How old is he? What grade?  Where does he go to school?

I have thought about the day that this question would be asked.  I don't put myself into situations, at the moment, that require me to talk about myself with someone that I do not know.  I stick with what I know.  I stick with the people I know.  

And so, I dodged the question the first time.  It allows me the opportunity to keep pondering my response.  

Or to keep avoiding those situations all together.    

Thursday, July 09, 2009


It has been three months today.  Three months.  Three.

We were a family of three.  When we went to restaurants, we asked for a table for three.  We could all fit into one big bed (michael in the center of it all, of course).  Rides for two always were Michael and I in one;  Stu in the other.  It was just the way it was.  Always.

The first time we went to a restaurant as two, I felt my stomach drop as they asked if there were just two of us that night.  And we said yes.  It felt like an admission.  That yes.  We have moved on.  Yes.  We are just a family of two.  Yes.  

But it is not true.  
No.  There is no moving on.  No.  We are a family of three.  Only one is not here physically.  Any longer.

Three months.  Many lifetimes have passed in those three months.   We have missed our first birthday together.  Two birthdays really.  Stu's was April 17.  We will celebrate his birthday on another day.  Our first Easter.  Our first wedding anniversary.

This coming month, we will see our first trip to the beach without.  My birthday will be on the fourth month.  Of Michael's passing.   We will miss all of those moments of the mundane tasks of the everyday.  Michael has missed over 90 days of feeding Nellie.  Of taking out the recyclables.  Of me asking him to pick up his room.  Or to pick up his figures from the living room.

I miss hearing him sing in the shower.  Or to see his sopping wet hair as he brushed his teeth.  I miss his grin.  I miss his voice.

I miss him.  
Three months without the center of my universe.
And I still do not have a better understanding of how this goes.
Of how we keep going.  But we do.
This family.  Of Three.

Monday, July 06, 2009


Grief is messy. 
In public, I have a very different face from the face that I see in the mirror.  In public, I can laugh.  I can joke.  I can seem as though my life is on track.  That it has some sort of normalcy to it.  

In private, I do not sleep.  Or I sleep too much.  I am a juxtaposition of sleep.  I cry.  A lot.  I zombie walk through the day.  I frown.  Deeply.  There is nothing normal about this life.

I am struggling with work.  Work is struggling with me.  Tasks that used to be easy.  And would take minutes.  I take more time to complete.  The Jenn that I was in March is not the Jenn that I am now.  I can not accomplish as much as I used to.  I can not motivate myself to care.

And the guilt that comes with that is crushing.  The thought that I am letting people down gives me a stomach ache.  I pressure myself.  And by doing so, I shut down.  I am unable to cope.  I don't know how to make it easier on myself.  I don't know how to make it easier on others.  I am unable to balance.  

Because this grief is messy.  And I am working my way through it.  
Because this grief is messy and I don't care about cleaning it up.  

Because time is ticking away and deadlines approach.  And pass me by.  Because those deadlines are gone.  And the only thing I can think of is the deadline of Michael's life.  That he had a deadline.  That passed us by.  That I didn't know about it.

I am doing my best.  I am trying.  It might not be up to others standards.  I wish I could say that it didn't bother me.  That not meeting someone else's standards was not important to me.  That as long as I was meeting my own standards it was OK.  But it I can't say that.  And so the messiness continues.

Oh.  This grief is messy.
And as much as I might try to clean it up, the dust will continue to come.  
It is a process.  And so I will take continue to dust it.  One knick knack at a time.
Being very gentle.
To not break anything.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

this day.

I have made it through the first birthday.  I feel a sense of relief and sorrow at the same time. I braced myself to get through the day.  To be truthful, I slept through most of it.  I didn't stray far from my bed.  It seemed easier to face it ... behind my eyelids.  To just get through it.  

Stu and I went to the cemetery early this morning.  We purchased 3 green balloons to let out into the heavens.  We wrote notes to Michael.  Tied the notes to the strings.  And let them go.  We brought gifts.  Stu brought a Clone Trooper from Star Wars.  I brought a Transformer (Bumblebee because that was Michael's favorite).  Opened the gifts ourselves.  Left them at the grave.  

Stu brought home dinner.  And we went back to the cemetery.  I needed a few more moments there.  It seems as though quite a few people had been by Michael's spot that day.  His marker was filled with flowers.  And balloons.  And his name spelled out.  My sweet parents had been there. Friends has also come.   It was so sweet that so many came out to say hello to him.

Today has been quiet.  I kept the TV on even as I was sleeping just to fill the house with sound.  Stu went to work.  He needed to do something.  To keep his mind occupied.  So it was just me.  And Nellie (our dog).  Holding down the fort.  I didn't answer the phone.  Or e-mails.  

This day is over.  And I am sad.  What should be a day of joy.  Is not.  And will never be. 

I am a better person because I was Michael's mom. The world is a better place for having had Michael in it.  The world lost a good one.  I lost the best part of me.  

And I, more than anything, want him back.

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

gone too soon.

the day that you were born

a lucky world it was

a hundred billion years all leading up to something


you are my gravity

the motion and the rest all at one time

keeping all the universe aligned

you are gravity

binding and loosening

there are countless things, you're all the space that's in between


the day that you were born

creation heard the sound

a hundred billion years just might amount to something


you are the fingerprint of life's own betterment

(from the song:  A Hundred Billion Years - Chris Castle)

born to amuse, to inspire, to delight

here one day

gone one night

like a sunset

dying with the rising of the moon

gone too soon.

(from the song:  Gone Too Soon by Michael Jackson)

Happy Birthday, my sweet funny boy.

Oh, how I wish we were celebrating together. 

I miss you.  So very much.

Love you.  To the Moon and Back.