Friday, January 29, 2010

Friday, January 29, 2010

Tonight's picture was taken when Mattie was one year old. Mattie wasn't crawling, walking, or standing independently by this point. Nonetheless, he was full of energy, and I could tell he wanted to learn to walk, and three months later, did take his first steps. I particularly love this picture, because when Mattie was five or six years old, we had him pose for the same picture. Clearly you could see the amazing growth in Mattie within a few short years and Mattie always loved to compare these pictures.  

Poem of the day: I Can Almost By Victoria Walker

I can almost see you smile
In the shadows of my mind,
Bringing to me the peace
I have struggled so hard to find.
I can almost hear your voice
Telling me "Be not saddened nor afraid,
Just remember all the good,
How we loved and laughed and played."
I can almost feel your touch
Wiping away my every tear
As I stand among my shattered dreams
Letting me know you both are still near.
I can almost hear you say,
"One day, you'll be here too.
Live the life you have before you
For (I) will be here, waiting to welcome you."

I want to first acknowledge our blog readers. Mattie's blog gets a consistent 300 or more hits each day. Thank you for your support, it means more to us than you probably ever could know. In addition, today I received a lovely e-mail from a woman named Lana, who lost her only daughter three years old. I do not know Lana, but she reads Mattie's blog. I appreciated her e-mail a great deal, and also appreciated her honesty, that the pain doesn't go away after losing a child. It confirms my gut instinct. Lana's message is below, so you can all read it. In the midst of great sadness, I am humbled and honored that people continue to check in with us, and most importantly continue to remember my dear Mattie.

It was a busy social day for me. I met Christine (Campbell's mom) and Ellen (Charlotte's mom) for lunch to celebrate Christine's birthday. We had a nice time catching up with each other, hearing about one another's lives, and talking about the upcoming March for an Osteosarcoma Miracle. The lovely part about the three of us, is we are able to pick up our conversations from when we last met. I also appreciate their willingness to talk about Mattie, and the fact that they do not shy away from these moments. I have a feeling, we have now established a tradition with each other, to celebrate our birthdays, and also to work at getting together more often. This is definitely something that has changed within me. Prior to Mattie's illness and death, I would always think I was too busy to get together with friends, but these personal connections with those around me have become crucial in my life. This is just one of many priorities that have shifted for me.

Despite it being frigid in Washington, DC this afternoon, after lunch, I went for a walk. Definitely not typical for me, because I despise the cold. But when I have a lot on my mind, walking does help to clear it. I spent the evening with Ann's family. Her daughter, Katie, was in her school's performing arts show. I had the pleasure of hearing Katie perform Fur Elise on the piano, and I also heard some of her friends (who I have met over the past several months) perform pieces on the piano, sing, and even dance. I simply like to hear music and love dance, so I enjoyed this opportunity to see the next generation embrace the arts. Learning core subject matters is definitely the focus of schools today, but the beauty of learning and appreciating the arts are crucial. Expressing one's self creatively in and of itself is therapeutic. I have certainly learned this the hard way. While Mattie was ill and even in his death, I find that I turn to some of my creative talents to get me through. Therefore, I am happy to see this vital component celebrated in Mattie's school. I think it takes a great deal of courage to perform in front of other people, and these middle schoolers did a wonderful job in front of their school community.

While I was at the show, Peter got together with Tad. Tad is Junko's husband (and I know many of my faithful readers know who Junko is, she is our friend who would give me massages in the hospital). Peter and Tad are both New Englanders and have a ton in common. I am happy Peter has this social outlet, and I think it is so important to be able to talk with those we feel close to about thoughts and feelings.

I would like to end tonight's posting with three messages. The first message is from Mattie's oncologist and our friend, Kristen. Kristen wrote, "I ran into the grocery store near my house last night a little after six and couldn't help but notice the "Mattie Moon" staring down at me from the sky. The moon will never be the same. I think of you often, although I may not write you as often as I would like. I still can't help but reflect on your strength and your abilities to move through each day. I know it is not easy for you but from the outside, looking in, you continue to bless those around you simply by giving us your time and your thoughts, and continuing to share your Mattie with us through your words. He is ever-present to so many of us."

The second message is from my friend, Charlie. Charlie wrote, "Thank you for the story about the fish tank. Every time I see a tank (many restaurants I frequent have them), I always think of Mattie and the fish that would not live on without him. Now I will look a little deeper and see if I can find a Mr. Aggressive or a Nervous Guy or see what else may strike me as interesting or funny behavior. It is clear to me from your blog that you shared so much with Mattie about nature, people and all sorts of things that he will never be far away in your thoughts or your heart. In today’s practice our instructor reminded us to be patient and that changes can only be seen over time and sometimes only in retrospect. What holds for my practice holds for grieving as well. As you look day to day, I am sure it seems as though often you are where you were 20 weeks ago and then a day will be a little better and another one worse. However, when you get a year or two out you will look back and see a difference from where you were to where you are. The loss will still be there, the scar will still be there but you will be a survivor. I wish you the strength and the endurance to continue the journey; you have the courage. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers."

The third message is from Lana, the person I told you about in the beginning part of this posting. Thank you Lana for writing to me today! Lana wrote, "I am so sorry for your loss. There is nothing worse than losing a child. And no other child can take the place of the one we have lost. I have hundreds of grief poems. My daughter...my only child...was killed more than 3 years ago...and the pain never goes away. We simply learn to live with it like we live with arthritis. I wish so much I could take your pain away. Please contact me if you wish. Hugging you tightly .....and knowing Mattie is shining his light overhead for all of us to see and to follow!!"