thirty eight dollars

I got the bill for Michael's last day on Sunday. Technically, I received it sometime between Thursday and Saturday. But I was just home from vacation. And it was in the mail box.

$38.23

This is how much I owe the hospital where Michael was taken. This is the amount after our health insurance has paid their portion. It doesn't seem enough. I would pay 1000 times that amount. If only they would have revived him. If only their efforts could have brought him back. From the beat that couldn't fall in line. From a heart that was tired.

$38.23

I would gladly pay that amount. If Michael was still here with me.

But I don't want to pay them.

The amount that I am to pay for their efforts.

$38.23

I'm going to let it sit. And not pay it yet. It seems like yet another step towards closing out the events of the day. To pay for the work the hospital did to keep Michael alive. They didn't. And here we are. I'm not ready to close out that day. I'm not ready to pay a small amount for the failed attempt at keeping Michael's heart beating. I'm not ready.

And so they can bill me again.

Until I am ready.

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.

forever

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.

conversation.

Mommy?

Yes?

I love you.

Love you too buddy.

Mommy?  

Yes?

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

cheated

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.

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.    

three

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.

messy

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.

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. 

Again.

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.

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.

x1600.

one day more...

Michael was born at 6:52 pm on July 1.  In Cincinnati, Ohio. (Where, according to Michael, there are really  tall buildings.  And hot dog vendors.)  Mine was a difficult pregnancy.  So he was to be induced.  To better watch both of us.

I checked into the hospital the night before.  Where I was unable to get up from the bed.  And was not able to eat or drink anything after midnight.  Only ice chips for me.   

That night was a mix of emotion.  Excitement. For this new little bundle of boy-ness to come into my life.   Terror.  At the thought that I was about to be a mother ( I seriously considered asking if we could just wait a week.  I'd come back much better prepared. Right?)  Anxiousness.  About Michael's little heart.  What it would take in the beginning to keep it beating.  To stabilize him.  What the plan would be for the next week.  The next month.  The next year.

That night.  I was a bundle of nerves.  I couldn't sleep - partially because it was my first overnight in a hospital and I was terrified that I would pull the IV out - and partially because of the overwhelming emotions I was experiencing.  

I was meeting my little boy.  For the very first time.  He had been a part of me for 9 months.  I took him on Mommy-Fetus night outs.  We'd go to the movies and eat ice cream and popcorn. (See how Michael's love for movies started out in the womb?  He would say that he peeked through my belly button and ate the crumbs from my ice cream and popcorn.) 

The next day would be my very first time seeing his face.  And to touch his skin.  And to hold his hand.  And to make guesses about who he looked the most like.  To hold him.  and smooch him.  And rock him to sleep.  

That night.  Was a rough one. 

This night.  Will be a rough one. 

For very different reasons.  This is the night where I will only have memories, pictures to see Michael's face.  This is the night where I will only have memories of Michael's skin.  This is the night where I will only be able to touch his marker.  To blow kisses to the wind.

I will be a bundle of emotions again.  Just like I was 10 years ago.  Only with no great reward at the end for the long journey through labor.  I will not be joined in the excitement of my beautiful boy's arrival into this world.

I will be joined in sadness at the departure of my beautiful boy.  From this world.

The birthday countdown continues.  

I just want the world to stop spinning.

So I can catch my breath...

keep breathing.

I am listening to my iTunes library on shuffle today while plugging away at work.  A song that I have not heard in a long while came up.  Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson.  

But all that I know is I'm breathing

All I can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing 

now

This seems to be my mantra of late.  When I am reminded of my devastating loss.  I remind myself to keep breathing.  When I come upon something that Michael had written.  I keep breathing.  When I hear a song that reminds me of him or a lyric that describes this season of my life.  I keep breathing.   

When I mark the days of my calendar.  And when I see that July 1 is only 2 days away.  And when I purchased a new toy to put on Michael's grave.  Because I can't NOT purchase something for my sweet boy on his birthday.  When I think that he will never reach his double digits milestone.  I keep breathing.

This week seems impossible to navigate.

All I can do.  Is keep breathing.

change.

I am a creature of habit.  I like traditions.  Routines.  I like to know that on Tuesdays we will go to the library.  Or on Thursdays we go to Young Actor's Theatre and then to dinner at Atlanta Bread Company.  I like advent calendars and Bingo at Christmas.  I like to watch the same movies over and over again.  Because I know the outcomes.  I go to the same restaurants.  They are comforting to me.  I like familiarity.  

I do not like surprises.   I do not like change.   I do not like to have things sneak up on me.  I do not like to be unprepared.  Or unplanned.

But I find myself right in the middle of the biggest life change imaginable - a life without my son.  The second biggest life change was the birth of Michael.  Now.  That is a change I can believe in.  This is a change that I can't accept.  A change that I do not welcome.  

This is not a change that I anticipated.  Michael had a heart defect.  Yes.  But he was not sick.  He was not ill.  He did not show any of the signs that I look for constantly.  That were on my radar on a daily basis.  

He was playing with magnets.  With his very best friends.  And then he wasn't.  

He was happy and laughing and making up fun stories.  And then he wasn't.  

His heart was beating.  And then it wasn't.

In an instant.  My whole world changed.  My whole identity changed.

I didn't get a say.  I didn't have a vote.  Or a choice.

I do not understand.  

Nor do I accept it.

As I was leaving the cemetery today, I was overcome.  With grief.  I laid my head against my steering wheel and cried.  Big tears.  Racking sobs.  I let myself feel.  And it overtook me.  I am good at hiding my emotion.  I am good at holding back tears.  But not today.  Not by myself.   And I let them sweep me away.   

I just want what I had.  I want to give back this change.  I want to check No.  

I want Michael.  Complete and whole.

And ready for Atlanta Bread Company. 

Because it is a Thursday.  And our family tradition.

birthday countdown

Michael's birthday is coming up in one week and one day.  I am simultaneously pushing it away and pulling it towards me.  I am not ready for it.  And yet, I just want to wake up and find myself on the other side of it.  Of course, the other side of it is where exactly?  I can't imagine a time where I will wake up and not feel the hurt of not being able to spend my baby's 10th birthday WITH him.  I will celebrate it FOR him. But he will not be there.

He will not be there to blow out his candles.  On the cake that Nana will make for him.  He will not be there to tear the wrapping paper off of his gifts.  He will not be there to watch a Star Wars movie with close friends and family.  He will not be there to participate in the annual birthday scavenger hunt.  Or pick out the special birthday dinner.  Or countdown the days until he is double digits.

But I am here to do all those things.  And all I want to do is crawl into a ball and cover my head with my covers.  To sleep through this momentous occasion.

I wonder if Michael will always remain 9 in my memory.  If he will age.  

I feel a bit like the movie Groundhog Day.  Where the same events keep happening.  With the same results.  Every day, I have the same realization.  That Michael is not coming back.  It is like I process the information over and over again.  Praying ... hoping for a different result.  Praying ... hoping that this is the day the cycle is broken.

I am unfocused.  I am sad.  I am weepy.

I am here.  Waiting.  Steeling myself. 

Trying to stop the cycle.  And failing.

Miserably.

daddy's day

Happy Daddy's Day to my sweet husband.  Michael's daddy.  The man who played countless games of Stratego, Yu-Gi-Oh and Bakugan.  Who created fun hideaway tents and large army battles.  The daddy who took Michael to history museums and forts.  Science centers and exhibits.  The guy who taught Michael how to throw a football.  Kind of.   The dad that would take Michael to Fun Station and stay for hours.  Who would play countless games of Laser Tag.  And Putt-Putt.  And bumper boats.  Who taught Michael how to play video games and the strategy involved.  Who introduced Michael to YouTube.   The man who encouraged our son to make friends.  To step out of his comfort zone and to not be shy.  The man who I liked to say contributed to the nerdiness of our house.

Michael was a lucky little guy to call you his daddy.  I love you.

neighborhood.

I visit Michael every day.  Usually around the 5:00 or 6:00 hour.  Even on the weekends.  This just seems to be my time to go to the cemetery.  I don't stay long.  Just long enough to tell him how much I miss him.  And how I would do absolutely anything to get him back.  And I mean anything.  Or talk about the day.  Recently, I have been telling him about the many photos that people have sent spelling out his name.  

The cemetery is such an odd place.  I talk about his "neighbors" - Patricia and Joseph.  How they were buried in the 1980's and don't have flowers on their markers.  I was thinking that I should get them some.  How it would bring more color to Michael's spot.  When a new person "moved in", I gave him (Ed is his name) one of Michael's pinwheels.  I believe that Ed's family returned the favor by putting an angel statue on Michael's grave (I don't know if this is true ... I just don't know who else would have left it).

For 9 weeks, Michael's spot has had a temporary marker.  With his name and dates.  And it was surrounded by Star Wars figures and a Star Wars vehicle;  some Army men;  a Spiderman;  two pinwheels, a flower vase, and a gerber daisy. And the aforementioned angel statue.  I held my breath in recent weeks.  I knew that the time frame for the arrival of his permanent marker was soon.  I dreaded that day.

Today.  Was that day.  

I drove up and knew instantly that something was different.  And instantly I had a knot in my stomach.  Michael's marker had arrived.  He became a permanent resident.  In the cemetery. Another reminder that this is not a nightmare that I will awake from.  He is, in fact, all moved in.  To this neighborhood.

I took pictures.  I will upload them when I am ready. 

Today.  Is not that day.

The marker is nice.  It lists his name and his dates.  We added a star.  Because that was Michael.  A star.  And then we were able to add a description.  This was a tough choice.  What do you add to your son's marker that will sum up all that his life was ... and all that he could have been?  In one line?  

We chose:  Love you to the moon and back.

Because it's true.  For now and for always.  It is what Michael and I have always said to one another.  We usually added  - times 1600 (Michael's favorite go-to number).  I would say it as we said good night.  When I tucked him in.

It seemed fitting.  In his final resting spot.  His final tucking in.  To say it again.

Love you to the moon and back.

buddy. boopy. boo-bear.

I grew up with the nickname of BoBo.  I probably shouldn't put that out on the internet for fear that it will come up in strange places.  I go by BoBo, or Bo amongst family and friends.  Honestly, I kind of lucked out on my nickname.  Our family's best friends also have a daughter named Jenn.  Her nickname became JuJu.  I win.  

I think that the nickname came from being told it was "Bedtime for Bonzo" by my mom and dad.  And the Bonzo evolved into BoBo.  My parents loved the name so much that they named their dog after me.  They insist that his name is spelled Beau.  But we all know it is the same thing.

Anyway.

I love nicknames.  I love to call people chicken or sunshine buckets or sugar booger.  I think nicknames are fun.  And personal.  And sweet.

Michael was no exception to my love of pet names.  I am surprised that he ever knew his name.  He had many.  I was most consistant with Boo, or Boopy or Buddy.  Sometimes Boo-bear.  But had been known to call him any of the following (in no particular order, other than typing them as they come to me...):

• Captain Crankypants
• Sweet Pea
• Scooter Poot
• Stinky Pete
• Mighty Mike
• Doofy-Doo
• Love Bug
• Love Muffin
• Michael Michael Motorcycle
• Stinker Pie Poopie Pants
• Snuggle Bunny
• Cutie Pie Butt

There are many others.  The above is but a sampling.  I always expected that there would be a time when he would ask me to not call him anything but Michael in front of friends ... or girlfriends.  

He had not yet asked me to stop.  

ride it out.

Sometimes my sadness comes up and punches me in the throat.  I can't breathe.  I can't function.  I just sit.  And cry.  Things that used to make me crazy are no longer a big deal.  I don't care about the cleanliness of my house.  I don't care how the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher.  I don't care if the laundry is folded right away.  

The finality of Michael's passing hits me daily like a ton of bricks.  I open a closet and see our Christmas advent calendar.  I am struck with the thought that we will not do that again this year. I will not put little notes of fun activities for us to do together.   I am reminded of him as I feed the dog - one of his daily chores.  Or when the recycling bucket is full - it is on the tip of my tongue to call him to take it out.

I think of the ways that I could have prevented this.  I know I couldn't.  But it doesn't stop me from feeling like if I had only been able to hold his hand, he would have come back.  Or if I had been in the room with him while they were working on him, that he would have sensed it.  Known that he wasn't alone.  Known that his mommy was right there waiting for him to open his eyes. To breathe on his own.  Or if I had only prayed harder.  

I know intellectually that I couldn't do anything more.  But my heart constantly wonders what if.  It is the what ifs that hurt daily.  We used to make what ifs a game ... what if Star Wars was really true?  What if cars could fly?  Now what ifs haunt me.  Shake me to my very core.

Weekends are difficult.  I don't have a set place to be at a set time.  I have freedom to do what I want.  But I can't leave the house except to visit the cemetery.  I just sit.  And cry.  And remember.  And long for my sweet little boy.

Our grief counselor shared that when you are on a runaway train, all you can do is sit.   You can't stick your foot out to stop it.  You just ride it out.  Hold on tight.  

And so that is what I do.  I am gripping the seat rest.  Closing my eyes.  And riding it out.

misquoted.

Michael and I made a CD of some new music and some of our favorite songs for a road trip to Atlanta in January (the very same trip where we saw snow).  I'll post that story (complete with video) in the next couple of days.

Anyway, Michael asked me (from the back of the car), "Mommy, why would anyone need to say sandwich?"  Umm ... how does one answer that? 

 So I ask, "What?"  See how articulate I am?  I'll just make him ask again while I come up with something brilliant.  

And then he says, "Why is this person singing about needing to say sandwich?"

We were listening to Say What you Need to Say by John Mayer.  Michael heard "Sandwich - You Need to Say".  Funny.  Kid.

It was then that I realized he is a duplicate of his mother.  Me.  I got through life thinking that many songs were something completely different than what they really were.  Like I Want a New TRUCK.  Right ... Huey Lewis was actually singing about wanting a new DRUG.  Totally different meaning.   Or Stop in the Neighborhood.  When really one was Stopping in the NAME OF LOVE.  Not the same.  I imagine that Michael would have had the same leanings as he got older.  See ... we liked music for the beat.  Without so much a care for the lyrics. If we didn't know it, we just made them up.  Filled in the blanks with other things.

I passed down my knack for mistaken lyrics to my child.  The rest of the trip and everytime we heard this song, Michael and I would sing the wrong lyrics.  We would also sing it when we ate sandwiches.  But we would point to the sandwich.  We are clever.  And choreographers. 

How thankful I am for fun memories with my funny kid.  I just wish that we were making more of them.  Today.  And every day.

rock superstar...

Mommy, Mommy ... you need to take my picture.  

Yes, yes I did.