The First Holiday

 


A year ago I had them together. The twin blonde heads that for so many years bent together over a newfound wonder, bobbed side-by-side in a shopping cart, knocked against each other as only siblings can and then looked out for each other.  A year ago they talked and laughed together, and then I never saw them together again. 

Thanksgiving was the same as ever: Grandma's golden bird and fluffy mashed potatoes. The steamed carrots the grandkids like - the ones Ryan once ate until he started turning orange on a diet we hoped would help him heal. The same dog with silky ears that grounded him when he could stand to be with us. The same two cats that kept him company when the people were too much for him as the dog was for them and they all retreated to the back room. 

I knew he wasn't well, but I didn't know how to give him the help he claimed he didn't need, and I didn't know how urgently he needed it. 

Ryan was still here a year ago, still laughing, still smiling, still making the occasional witty comment. 

This year he wasn't. If anyone noticed, they didn't say it to me. I didn't say it either. I just blinked back the tears and put one foot in front of the other to get through the day. Then I came home and in the quiet of my own bed, sobbed as I haven't sobbed in months. I cried for the child I've lost and for all the holidays that ever were and that will never be the same again.  

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

48 hours

48 hours ago I did not know that my son was lying cold in his bed. I did not yet know the gut-wrenching pain that restricts my chest, twists my insides and empties my bowels.  2 days ago I did not yet know that his pain had exceeded his tolerance or that he wasn't in pain any more.  The day before yesterday, I knew whether I wanted a cup of tea and what I would do tomorrow. I took pork out of the freezer for dinner and I knew what would become of the stack of frozen pizzas sitting next to it. Today I suspect that neither the pork nor the pizzas will ever be eaten by anyone. In the life before, time passed in a predictable way. Hours felt like hours and a day lasted 24. Now a minute can last for eons, an hour disappears like fairy dust and the day after tomorrow is an unimaginable mystery too distant to touch.  Tuesday I only knew his sweet face that so easily broke into the most infectious smile I've ever known. I hadn't yet seen it contorted in death. I only remembered the
Read more

What's Next?

 For 18 years I've been thinking about what's next for this beautiful, challenging child. The next milestone, the next need, my next mothering task. The next ultrasound The next bottle His next nap A new toy A speech therapist The next exercise A more challenging puzzle His next birthday party Longer pants - again so soon The next Calvin and Hobbes to keep him reading Set up the sensory gym to keep him moving The next playdate  Prepare myself for the next tantrum Sign up for clay camp Find him a school Therapy exercises Foster a dog Gluten free baking Outdoor Adventures His next computer A new phone His driver permit, and practice times Look at colleges Make pancakes tomorrow Call 911 Answer the questions and questions and questions Call his dad, his sister, his grandma with the worst news of their lives. Choose a funeral home Wait for the coroner to call Take him an outfit Say a final goodbye Set a date for the service Plane tickets Rental car Fly Hug my daughter Ask for help
Read more

About

I’ve been working for days on a website about my son, who chose to end his life last week. It feels like days. Grief time. It might actually be true that that site originated less than 24 hours ago. Either way, that’s the place I will share my memories of Ryan, celebrate his life, extoll his vibrant smile.  This space is for something different. This space is about grief, and about me, and about how I walk this journey that far too many have walked before me. A journey that is very much like all the others and also entirely unique to me.  I'm writing as a way to move through grief, not to the other side, but to the next part. It's a way to know what I'm thinking, to release what isn't useful, to remember what is precious. I'm sharing because it feels less alone, less pointless. I tell myself that maybe there is something in grief and the way I find to move through grief that might be helpful to someone else.  It's a story that is itself helpful to me.   I expect
Read more