THAT day

I will never forget that day.

Not the day he died. That day I remember, but it is broken into sharp fragments and bits of memory by shock and pain. Shards I can pick up and examine, but like pieces of a puzzle, no overall meaning or emotion connected to them, really.

The day I am referring to is the day that came shortly after the first anniversary of his passing. As Emily Belle Freeman put it, "Some days are harder than others. And perhaps you only know how hard the one year mark is if you've lived through one. There's something permanent about the not coming back that settles in just now."

Permanent. No more the first Thanksgiving, or the first Christmas, or the first 4th of July, his favorite holiday. In a matter of a single day, it went from 'the first' to 'for the rest of my life.'

Let me back up just a bit. During the first year after my son's passing, I cried every Sunday at church, without fail, during the sacrament hymn. These weren't simply tears of missing, but also tears of gratitude. The Atonement of Jesus Christ and what He made possible - that the dead would live again - became immediately and deeply relevant to me on a level I had never experienced before. I became used to these tears and even welcomed them.

Then the first Sunday after July 27th, 2017, the sacrament song began, and the tears started as usual. Only this time, they didn't stop at the end of the song, or even at the end of the passing of the Sacrament. I thought, "What is going on with me?" I felt a tidal wave of grief pick me up and carry me far out to sea. I couldn't stop. My eyes became red, my tissue shredded in my hand, and it was all I could do to hide my crying from those around me. Who sobs uncontrollably for an entire hour in church?

Somehow I made it through the meeting, yet even after a quick escape from the chapel and arriving home, the sorrowing continued. I texted my dear neighbor - a woman who personally knew my same grief - and said, "I don't need you to come over. I just need to understand what is going on. Is this normal?" She answered with her usual sensitivity, and helped get me through that afternoon.

And then that evening, it dawned on me. So often the body remembers things that the mind would rather forget. My body knew on a cellular level that the passing of this date meant something new for me. More mortal terrain to be traversed. More of my grief journey.

No more firsts, but for the rest of my life.

I wish I could say after four years, that I don't still cry here and there. That all the holidays and family get togethers are easier. They're not necessarily what they were, they are just ... different. And that's as it should be. Why would I expect my life to feel the same when my child feels gone?

But there is also hope. And the hope grows and increases every year, maybe because of the cleansing tears, and because I'm not counting firsts anymore. Maybe because we let ourselves feel the missing. Even Jesus wept.

"I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged ... how we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again."

It's all so amazing, this life.

I'm doing my best to live life, relying upon the time when we will see each other again. And that is faith. I'm grateful for those who have carried us through and continue to remember. It's amazing the difference it makes. And that is love.

With each year we are here and fulfill whatever mission we have, we are all getting a little closer to home.

This IS Happening

What a year. And what a time we live in. I started this blog to talk about codependence (my own), and then my oldest son gave me a book called "List Yourself" and I thought that a good frame of reference. But I can be honest - sometimes I talk about deep and personal things here, sometimes I use the list book, and sometimes I just want to write. This post is in between all 3. And how ironic I can hear my husband in the background saying to his aunt, 'We'll all leave this earth with nothing,' which makes this post all the more relevant.

You see, I have spent the last hour downstairs going through a box. A box of things my mother saved. A lot of it is stuff that meant something to HER - cards from my long-divorced step-dad, ship launching announcements they would go to together (my dad and step-dad were both Navy), balls they attended at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I remember the lavish costumes they wore. I remember going to New Orleans and watching the parades. I was too young then to be afraid of the crowds, or of strangers. So when a young man offered to lift me on his shoulders so I could see, I was grateful. I'm also sure my parents were nearby. I remember seeing people on the balcones looking down, and I remember being entranced by the romance of those architecturally pleasing balcones.

I didn't save the cards or the announcements. You see, I have a box I keep in my closet. It contains cards from my friends and children. It is full of MY memories. I feel I need to put a note in the top of it saying, 'Feel free to discard everything in here when I die.' It's not like I'm John Adams's wife.

But I do feel I want to mark the memories that have washed over me today, or the things I have learned. For example, I already knew one relative came from a difficult home life, but I came across one letter that shared details of that, and reading that made me have even more compassion for that person. I think it's true most of us are all wounded individuals in one way or another. For me, we can choose to heal from those wounds, or not.

I found another page where my mother was working with someone - maybe a counselor? - and she wrote down the things she wanted to let go of. That I saved. That I will scan. There's power in that piece of paper. There is a greater knowing of her. There are lessons to be learned. Am I stuck in the patterns she wished to be free from? A good question to consider.

Then, I came to items in the box that were about me. Old report cards, little notes from friends in jr. high and high school. Several wishing me luck as I tried out for officer of our drill team. (I didn't make it.) But the notes were super fun to read, and I was reminded of how blessed I have been to always have good friends. Then a choral evaluation. I remember that day clearly. The song I greatly enjoyed singing. That was the year before I became afraid to sing. The year I still sang soprano and everything was fun and I didn't think too much about my tone or what needed changing. It was interesting to read the comments from the judge that day. I could apply those comments to my singing today! As soon as Covid is over, I want to take voice lessons again. I only have so long before my voice will age and begin to crack a bit.

Anyway, I understand my mother saving things. And I understand her saving my things, even after I had moved and started my own family and now my kids are grown. My sons are more minimalist. DS#2 has everything he owns in his bedroom closet downstairs. DS#3 has one box downstairs, and the rest at his apartment. DS#1 left his things very neatly organized when he passed. (I remember how he could not understand how I could forget things or not take care of things on time.) But DD - I have at least 6 boxes of her things out in my garage, including a box of dolls! (I also have a box somewhere of my dolls.)

So, today has been a different part of my Covid life today. I miss going to the gym, but ours is full, and I refuse to go when it is so full. I only go out mainly to grocery shop. I try to work out at home, but our air quality is not good right now so no walking out of doors. I really hate winters here. I hope next year I am better prepared to travel to someplace warm. That is part of why I am working with decluttering. Time to get this stuff off my plate!!!