Stumbling Towards Perfect

Dear Jadrian, Somehow, without really understanding how, you just turned 18 years old. Today. No offense, but there's no way you look 18. When I think of you, my mind pictures you as a 2-year old toddler. Me and you, hanging out in our no-cable-here low-income apartment. You dragging out every single one of your dolls and stuffed animals; me wondering how the hell I was ever going to buy food and pay the electric bill. You were always so smiley. So happy. So oblivious. My birthday wish for you this year is that you make it a priority to be smiley and happy -- and that you will forever be oblivious. Oblivious to the temptation of stress. Because, the truth is, you're an adult now and adults tend to get sucked into this vacuum of stress and anxieties. Too many of us forget how to let go and laugh things off because we've been convinced the way adults should operate is by being unbelievably neurotic when it comes to stress. And stress is not fun. It also accomplish...

Grief can be so... ironic . I don't know how else to describe it. Only that half the time I'm left shaking my head wondering what just happened. There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to when I'm struck and left in a puddle of tears. People are left bewildered and I try to explain I'm just as shocked as they are, not to mention confused as to why now I'm struck, as opposed to the obvious time the other day when I should have been struck but wasn't. Grief isn't like a broken arm that heals itself in six weeks. It isn't something you get cleared by a doctor and then come back to work. It isn't something where you set the timer and once it goes off you're done and ready to face the world. There is no magic off switch. The pain and anguish from loss sneaks up on you, blindsides you at a sunny picnic and sucker punches you when you're walking down aisle 13 at Target. I tell you this because I don't want anyone to be mistaken:  grief has...

There are anywhere from 5 to 7 to 10 stages of grief and loss depending on who you ask and what website you click on. There's denial and anger and bargaining and depression and all sorts of terms that range from  makes sense  to coldly technical . And, overlapping all that grief and loss, is the normal emotions that any normal person experiences on any given day: hunger, love, sadness, happiness, stress, confusion, frustration, giddiness, goofiness, and, well, I could go on and on. I guess I tell you this because I need you to know I feel like a fish playing a crazy game of Emotional Twister. Imagine, if you will, a floor of painted circles, each labeled with a different emotion. Now, go grab a carp from the lake and plop him down in the middle of the playing field. That fish is going to flop this way and that way (and never in any logical direction). Just when you think it's headed towards happiness it flips on over to anger. In the blink of an eye it has flopped ...

I have a secret. It is an image ingrained on my eyelids; with each blink I am reminded by the vision of her face. My skin is covered by the flesh of another, yet you cannot feel it. There is a stone in each lung; huge, blocking, rough edges beginning to wear smooth with each labored breath. And yet, I stand in front of you and smile sweetly. Nod my head accordingly. Pretend I hear the words you speak. But inside, where your eyes cannot see, my seams are coming apart. The thread unraveling. I try so hard to break the thread off with my hands but it refuses to snap. I hold on tighter and tighter, fingers gripped white, shoulders aching because I cannot catch a break . I cannot rest. Or, rather, I cannot find the time to fall apart. Grief - traumatic or not - has been described as waves in an ocean. Some days those waves are manageable, almost compellingly soothing. There is a comfort of sorts in the gentle lull of grief. Closing your eyes and remembering a s...

Even when everything is different, some things stay completely the same. Unchanging. A well-worn security blanket of sameness, if you will. And by that, I mean Big V. Or Matt. Because that's how we all know him now. But he was always known as Big V in my pre-10/24 posts and somehow, well, somehow this post is deserving of reverting back to Big V status. You'll remember we were blessed to have a real Christmas Tree donated by a local company (Hugs and Thank You's, Geneva Trees!) to put by Avery's grave. This was important to me because (1) she didn't have a headstone and I was afraid I'd be talking to a random clod of snow covered earth when I'd go to visit, and (2) she had made us promise to get a real tree this year, so I was able to keep my promise. Also, it was super cool to see how Avery's classmates, the neighborhood kids and families decorated it. It was so beautiful I didn't want to think about taking it down. I wanted some way to ...

It is so hard to comprehend that Avery, my sweet, smiling, climb on my lap even though she's in 5th grade and all arms and legs, precious little girl is gone. Gone. Never to come back. There is no waiting for summer camp to end, no picking up late night from a friend's house, no after the semester ends or training is over or mission completed. I walk into her room like a thousand other times and ... what? What do I really think is going to happen? I touch the top pillow, the one with the self-decorated pillowcase she brought to gymnastics camp. I run my hand along the top of her dresser. I think about how a 3-year old mind can't possibly remember all the giggles and the way a big sister wiped his chin. I look at the clothes hanging in the closet; think about her favorite shorts. And mine. They weren't the same. She looked beautiful in both. Today, I was looking across the living room to a shelf that held a framed photo of Avery. She wasn't yet two. So incredibly i...

I went to a fundraising event at Avery's school tonight. They showed a slide show presentation that included pictures of all the students doing different events throughout various random school days. All those kids with smiling faces. Playing on slides and studying out of math books. But not Avery. Avery's face wasn't in there. Avery started 5th grade in September and by the end of October she was gone. Just gone. In the most final, absolute way imaginable. She was gone. And although everything I was and everything I had ever known ceased to exist in a matter of the blink of an eye - everything else around me continued on. The sun rose. Seasons changed. Students moved on to the next lesson. And yet, Avery was in that slide show... just not in the way I would have imagined. Pictures of students decorating Christmas ornaments to hang on her tree by her grave. Pictures of her name. Picture after picture that showed she was not forgotten. That she was ca...