Tonight's picture was taken on Thanksgiving of 2002, Mattie's first Thanksgiving. Mattie was only 7 months old. I remember buying Mattie's puppy dog hat for him and I also recall how cute he looked in it. It is hard to believe that Mattie was once a part of our lives and is now no longer here with us. It is a surreal and very upsetting reality.
Thanksgiving by Charlie Brown
On Thanksgiving Day we remember
With many smiles and tears
All the loved ones that we treasure
And those we've lost along the years
Aunts, uncles and grandparents
Sometimes good friends too
But for us, your parents
All pale beside the loss of you.
So on this day of Thanksgiving
We are both grateful and very sad
That your time with us was so very short
But that we had you made us glad.
I received this beautiful poem from my friend Charlie today. Charlie's poem does capture my feelings for the day. As Peter and I reflect on all our loved ones who are no longer with us today, we are acutely aware of the fact that the loss of any loved one is painful. But the loss of Mattie, a child, is unnatural, and therefore, it produces a pain that is indescribable. A pain that seems to become intensified when I am around parents and their children. Peter experienced this and had these insights months before me, but now we are both on the same page at times with being around children. This feeling doesn't hit me all the time, but when it does, it is upsetting. It is upsetting because on one hand I realize the loss that surrounds us, we are not parents, we are not nurturing anyone, and at the end of the day there is no one to hug and to love in this special way. On the other hand what is also upsetting is that I feel having these feelings further isolates me and separates me from those who are parents. They can't relate to me, and I can't relate to them, and at times I admit to feeling conflicted and jealous of the fact that others have healthy children. Jealousy isn't an easy thing to admit to, especially since this is a trait I am not particularly wild about.
Peter and I reflected back on Thanksgiving of 2008. It was simply a horrible day. Mattie was released from the Hospital to have the holiday at home. However, keep in mind that Mattie was recovering from all of his limb salvaging surgeries. He was in terrible pain and the psychological impact of cancer and its treatment had hit him hard at this point. He was battling depression and anxiety, and frankly medical post traumatic stress disorder. Peter and I were already strung out, but the aftermath of surgeries just about put us over the top. The whole day at home was so painful that I honestly do not know how we survived the day and the many days thereafter. Now that is it two years later, Peter and I are faced with the memories of 2008 and 2009, and now the reality of Mattie's death. In fact, some days, when you think of the whole picture, it is rather daunting and hopeless.
We spent a good portion of the day at Ann's house. Mary, Ann's mom, was there, along with Bob's brother and sister-in-law. Mary has become an important component of my life, and having her at Ann's today, made the day bearable. In fact, as we said good night to each other, we both acknowledged how happy we were to be together, and how the loss of our sons has made us simply unhappy people. At dinner tonight, we each went around and had to reflect on a high and low of our day, along with what we were thankful for during this year. Highs and lows are things Ann typically does at her table with her children, and she is nice enough to include us in the process. However, some days reflecting on highs and lows are impossible, and don't get me started on reflecting on what I am thankful for. Cognitively I can rationalize that Peter and I have a lot to be thankful for.... we have each other, our health, the memories of Mattie, and a wonderful supportive network. However, if I said that I am happy and thankful today I would be lying. Losing a child and surviving that process is like riding on an out of control roller coaster. It is out of control, because we haven't elected to go on the ride, and we aren't always sure what the next move is going to be or how it will make us feel. I managed to say something at dinner but it most likely wasn't what was really on my mind or in my heart. Most likely because what I have to say on certain occasions simply isn't appropriate.
I read a posting tonight from Karen, another Osteosarcoma mom who lost her son, Keaton in 2009. As I read her reflections on Thanksgiving, all I could say is..... I understand. I truly get what she was saying. How can you have your son with you one minute, and in the next he is gone? When I feel lost, confused, disgusted, and isolated, I think of Karen and two of the other moms who I have gotten to know who lost their children to Osteosarcoma, and I realize we all understand each other quite well. We are speaking the same language and we are experiencing a level of pain that doesn't seem to ever go away. This is a pain that I rarely talk about now, and certainly I do not bring it up in conversations. Unless by rare circumstance someone starts talking to me on this deep level. This pain is hard to hear, it leaves others feeling stymied and not sure how to help. However, here is the key to grief work. The key is patience and allowing someone to talk, to be heard, and perhaps this maybe a repetitive process. But feeling understood and feeling empathy are crucial I believe for survival.
My friend Tanja, who is on a family trip in Florida, was thinking of me today, and sent me some creepy crawly pictures of things Mattie would have absolutely loved. She sent me a picture of a huge snake, an enormous frog, and a frightening looking lizard. Mattie would have most definitely gotten a kick out of this and I see others who knew him well can't look at these things without thinking of him either. Nonetheless, these creatures brought a smile to my face!
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