Tonight's picture was taken on July 4, 2006. Mattie, Peter, and I were invited to spend the fourth of July on Zachary's family's boat. As many of you know, Mattie and Zachary were very close buddies in preschool and were practically inseparable. Mattie loved seeing the fireworks from the boat and talked about it for many years later. It was a memorable experience to actually be so close to the fireworks and to have the Washington monuments as our back drop.
Poem of the day: Beginning by Karen O'Leary
The pain rolled
over me knocking
me off my feet
like a tidal wave.
The dawn came.
The heavens opened,
bringing the light
of hope.
Under His guidance
I stood, taking
one shaky step
ahead.
It was the beginning.
Now that we are firmly into July, I find that my feelings about the month have changed. In the past, I always loved this month. July means summer to me, and I love the warm weather. My birthday and wedding anniversary also fall within July, so in the past these occasions made the month quite festive. Now however, July signifies the month Mattie was diagnosed with cancer, July 23, 2008 to be specific. I will never forget that day, or the traumatized feeling I had on that day, a feeling that only continued for many weeks thereafter. The feeling of shock that I felt back then remains entrenched in my mind. So much so, that while Mattie was in treatment, the seasons obviously changed. His chemotherapy went through the summer, fall, winter, and spring. However, in my mind, I was trapped in the summer of 2008. The seasons and temperatures were changing around me, but not in my head. It is like time stopped for me when Mattie was diagnosed. Not sure how to accurately describe this, other than once the crisis began, everything else for me stopped. Life, seasons, time, eating, and the list goes on. Everything was dispensible to me as I was caring for Mattie.
I woke up this morning exhausted. It isn't a good feeling to start the day off this way. My flu symptoms have improved and practically disappeared, but the fatigue and achiness are still with me. Peter and I had hopes of walking today, but I simply wasn't up to it.
We saw our neighbor, JP, today. JP was out walking JJ, our resident jack russell terrier. JJ and Mattie were good buddies and practically grew up together. JP let me know that JJ and Lola, JJ's "significant other," will be having puppies very soon. I know this news would have brought Mattie great joy. Mattie always wanted one of JJ's puppies, and JP always told Mattie if he worked hard at regaining his strength and learning to walk again that he would give Mattie one of JJ's puppies. It was an incentive Mattie really liked! It is a sad commentary that Mattie left us before he got a puppy of his own.
Peter and I ate dinner outside on the deck tonight. We were surrounded by our flowers, tomatoes, herbs, lemon tree, and the of course Mattie's fountains. We are in the city, but our deck makes us feel disconnected from city life. While eating, Peter pointed out how as the sun was setting, it changed the hues on the building in the distance. He had me stare at it and we talked about how the colors were rapidly changing and in the process the building looked quite different with each color change. I told Peter that he is a real impressionist at heart, not unlike myself. Afterall the founders of the impressionist movement valued the use of light at capturing the depths, movement, and complexities of simple objects and scenes. It was a very unplanned dialog, but we both got a kick out of it.
I would like to end tonight's posting with a message from my friend, Charlie. Charlie wrote, "I understand your anger at the phrase "new normal" but as you said, it doesn't disturb everyone the same way. Everyone who is walking in grief seems to have their own phrase that sets them off when they hear it. The best thing we can do is to be sensitive to others and their feelings about how they wish to express what confronts them. I think that your crying when you heard what Tanja said was to be expected. It is one thing for someone to say they remember your loved one and another to remember and honor something about them. That brings it to a whole new level. To clarify it for those readers who might not understand, some time after my mom passed away, a friend said he had gone to watch Jai Lai (my mom loved that) and that he bet her numbers (4-1) when he noticed one of her favorite players in the game wearing one of the numbers she liked. I found my eyes filled with tears not just because he remembered her but that he had given me the gift of a specific memory that might have gotten away from me. That's the difference. What I love about children (Abigail in particular) is that they freely share what they are thinking without all the censors that often remove the love and caring from what we say in hopes of making things less painful (which doesn't work). I am glad you and Peter finished out the day by sharing your experiences and feelings; that's so important in staying close through the grief process. As I practice this weekend I will send you my energy to help you get through the holiday; I know you will see those fireworks and miss Mattie's reaction to them. I firmly believe he is running his own show elsewhere and it is far beyond what any of us can imagine. I hold you gently in my thoughts."
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