Or will I?
Obviously, the biggest life event was tragic. On Oct. 9th, it will be the one year marker of the death of my only nephew. Nephew. It sounds so distant. He wasn't distant to me. He was very important to me, and his mother is one of the most important people in my life. I've known her all my life, so to watch someone you care for so deeply go through something so big is, well, it's hard. It's too big for the right word. I can't come up with the right word. I have decided against: terrible, unbelievable, sad, tragic, horrible, unfathomable. It's all of those, obviously, but really, it's none of them. It's beyond words. It's beyond Webster.
So in a way, that has been the marker of the passing of time for the last year. Usually it's a birthday, or an anniversary, or something joyfully monumental. But for my family, we have thought of all the months that have passed since the last day with DJ, all the moments he missed, all the milestones he lived without passing. And now, it's been just about a year. I have said that "I can't believe it's been a year since..." so many times in my life. Since graduation, since we moved, since I got married. It has been true each time. A year seems to pass as a mere moment in time, and we look back, and realize all we've done and felt and thought. We come to the sudden realization that we aren't the same as we were just a short year ago. Many times we have known someone who has passed away. It's so raw, but so common.
And yet, this time, as I say "I can't believe it's been a year since DJ died", it has such a different meaning, an all-together different typeset in my book of life. It seems longer. I remember the events of last October with such vivid clarity. I remember thinking of "next year". I recall the precise time I left the hospital to begin my long drive home. Without the aid of a calendar, I would promise that 12 months had not passed.
And yet, this time, as I say "I can't believe it's been a year since DJ died", it has such a different meaning, an all-together different typeset in my book of life. It seems longer. I remember the events of last October with such vivid clarity. I remember thinking of "next year". I recall the precise time I left the hospital to begin my long drive home. Without the aid of a calendar, I would promise that 12 months had not passed.
But it has.
And we're all different. I'm different. A dear family friend talked with me as I struggled to process the events the unfolded before me. As I watched, for days, the life drain out of this beautiful boy, I had so much turmoil and grief and sadness that I didn't know how to cope. I had no tools to deal with this mess. I walked into a gas station one morning, it was the first step into public I had taken in days, and I felt overwhelmed by the normalness happening beside me. People were stopping for their morning cup of coffee and their pack of smokes. The clerks were at work. They were working today. My daily routine had morphed into wandering between a Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, it's waiting room, and the cafeteria of the hospital. I had spoken to nurses, family, doctors, my children over the phone, and a few strangers. But I was overwhelmed by this gas station clerk who asked me how I was as I placed a granola bar and a ridiculously large cup of coffee on the counter. I didn't know. I wasn't good.
So I spoke with the family friend on the phone after the coffee buying experience. He gave me the insight to go to Church, which I did and it helped tremendously. He told me that God could do something great out of this, even though he doesn't create pain or tragedy or death. He told me I could learn from this baby, and I could be a better person. I could grow. He could change the world through the people he touched. It sounds cliche, I know, but it's really true. I don't want to be the person who took the little things too seriously. I don't want to be the person who misses the moment, who forgets who she loves for a few days, who ignores the important things in life to dwell on the petty. I want to be the person who strives to live my life with the goal of being ok with the way things worked out when it's all said and done. Because as I sat in a downtown hospital for a week, with no distractions, watching as death inched his way forward, I received a dose of perspective I'll never lose. Nothing really matters like we think it does. The extra five pounds, the clean kitchen floor, my latest failings as a mom. I'm going to spend my days trying to love my extra self, walking upon bread and cheerio crumbs, and forgiving myself for not being perfect.
I can't fathom the loss of a child. He wasn't mine. Part of the grief process for me was grieving without guilt for grieving. How could I be this sad, or how could I wear the cloak of mourning, when I know his mom and dad have it so much worse?
I felt terrible guilt because as I watched them suffer, I knew that I would never offer to take their place. People say that sometimes, and maybe they mean it, in certain circumstances. I would take my spouses pain, I would take the place of a young cancer victim. I don't know. You empathize and wish you could take it away for that person. But as much as I hurt and as much as I love my nephew's mom, I would never, could never, take her place. The love of a mother is more than anything else I know of, and nothing could make me give up a child. I love many people, but the sacrificial protecting life-giving love I have for my children is in a different category. I felt so guilty because I knew that I would never sacrifice my child so hers could live. The mere thought of doing so took the breath out of me. And in the same breathless moment, I understood with painful clarity that her love was just as strong as mine. And yet, here she was, watching her son die.
And although it took many, many months, I finally thought about this from the perspective of Christ. I had thought of it before, but recently, my heart was able to digest the meaning of DJ's death in the larger picture. I have spent my whole life hearing of God's sacrifice of his son. I would feel safe to bet that I have heard of it more times than of anything else in my life. But realizing how much a mother and father love their son, and knowing what is lost with the death of him, I had an overwhelming understanding of God's love for me. He loves me more than I love my children. I now know how much I love my kids, not because of the day to day life I have with them, but because I watched a mother lose a child, and I was able to stare through the window into her grief with just enough clarity to be terrified of walking through her shoes. My love pales in comparison to God's.
I think of DJ often. I think of meeting him when he was this itsy-bitsy dude. I recall dressing him and feeding him and telling him how happy I was to welcome him to this world of ours. I remember watching my own children meet him, and becoming mesmerized by him. I have the pictures of my daughter watching intensely as he was bathed in the kitchen sink. I have all those memories. I remember my last days with him. I remember his little body slowing down, his movements stopping, and his eyes ceasing to open. I remember clutching his chubby hand and bidding him farewell. I remember wondering what life was like with all the angels and saints, and wondering about all the wonders of the life to come. I remember the great spiritual events that happened in my life in the days following his death, and the certainty I had that these were raindrops of proof and hope from heaven, wherever heaven is.
So now, as I prepare to meet my own new baby, in less than a week, I pause and remember the baby that I said good-bye to. As many cliches as I have come to understand during the last year, none is more true than "lost, but not forgotten."
