Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Tuesday, November 29, 2011 -- Mattie died 116 weeks ago today.

Tonight's picture was taken in October of 2008. Mattie was visiting his close kindergarten buddy Campbell. Campbell and Mattie had a good time together that day and as you can see they were very proud of their Halloween cookies! While Mattie was with Campbell, Christine (my friend and Campbell's mom) gave me some time to myself. These precious moments to regroup were not only needed but were priceless. Christine gave me several times like this, in which she invited Mattie over to play with Campbell and his sister, Livi. She even had Mattie over when he couldn't walk or do much for himself. During those times, Christine carried Mattie around the house, and when she retells her experience doing this we usually both land up in tears. Because by that point in time, Mattie was barely eating. While her children were eating up a storm, Mattie would sit there and watch them, but he really couldn't eat. He couldn't eat because the cancer had taken over his body. Yet being with his friends was important and also playing with children his age was also crucial, since Mattie spent most of his days and hours with Peter and I. There was something very angelic about holding Mattie when he was so sick. He was full of pain, and yet usually never made a peep about it while you were carrying him. He would hold onto to you very tightly, like a monkey wrapping himself around you. I can picture it as I am writing this, and even the thought of these fragile moments bring me to tears.

Quote of the day: Every action in our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity. ~ Edwin Hubble Chapin


As it is Tuesday, it marks another week we are without Mattie. Each season brings about its own sources of pain regarding this loss, but somehow Christmas magnifies these feelings. Peter and I haven't decorated for Christmas since December of 2007, it seems so long ago, I can't even really remember what our home was like pre-cancer. To me Christmas must be felt within one's heart, and to me, that portion of my heart died in September of 2009. I know Christmas is coming because I can see the calendar and I am surrounded by visual signs of the holiday at malls, people's houses, and the ringing of the Salvation Army bell at most grocery stores. Yet for so many, not just Peter and I, this is not a happy holiday season. Whether it be because of a loss, an illness, or financial hardships.

Fortunately on Tuesdays, which are hard days in general, I attend a zumba class. If I could go to this class everyday, it would probably be good for me. It gets my body and mind working, interacting with people, and it gets me out of my home. Our instructor introduced us to a new routine today! The routine itself was great, but that isn't what caught my attention. What caught my attention was the dance was choreographed to ABBA's Dancing Queen. For my faithful readers, you know that this was Mattie's favorite song to do physical therapy to at the Hospital. I can't hear that song without thinking about Mattie, and when I heard the song, I told Jenny, our teacher, that Mattie would have approved. Keep in mind that Jenny was a mom I met when Mattie was in kindergarten. Her daughter and Mattie were in the same kindergarten class. Here is another person Mattie has connected me with. The connections are overwhelming if you start adding them up.

After class, I met up with Ann. Those of you who have been reading this blog since its inception, know that after Mattie died, I spent most of my days with Ann. In fact, from 2009 to 2010, I practically lived more at her house than my own. As more time lapses since Mattie's death, it becomes harder for me to sometimes integrate into Ann's life because, like how I used to be, she is very invested in raising her children. As such, it can be hard to absorb what an intact family is like, the excitements of children typically developing and growing, and the joys and frustrations that parenthood can bring about. Naturally Ann and I have been through a great deal together and I always want for her happiness. Yet I am only human, and at times I get upset that I too can't share in the life that I once led. That I can't have what she has, a healthy and an alive child. These emotions can be very intense and they can also impact my friendship. Certainly these feelings aren't easy for me, but they also aren't easy to be the recipient of either. However, when I get locked down in my feelings, I make certain assumptions, assumptions which do not always match reality. Whether Ann realizes it today or not, she said enough for me to realize that she is aware of my pain, and yet misses our time together. Our friendship is different from most because we are very tied and linked together by Mattie, his battle, and his death. These are huge emotional ties that bind us, but they can also be huge weights all at the same time. I realize my life is different from Ann's and yet despite these differences she reaches out to me to decorate for Christmas and in other ways. Christmas is so far from being a part of my life, however, finding a way to connect with my friend in a meaningful way is important to me.

I would like to end tonight's posting with two messages. The first message is from Mattie's oncologist and our friend, Kristen. Kristen wrote, "I hope you are both doing well, and that you are finding joy in little unexpected things. I miss you both. Thinking of you this Tuesday and everyday."


The second message is from my friend and colleague. Nancy wrote, "I spent time reading and making notes of those particular items which touched my heart. Your combination of thoughts, feelings, descriptions, and pictures bring a vividness to your writing. I often imagine myself walking down Roosevelt Island's paths with Peter and you. I imagine Mattie feeding the ducks, an occurrence that my Cindy and Dad used to do when my parents lived at their house in Manhasset Hills. She was so in to ducks that one time when we lived in Laurel, Maryland and friends had come for a visit, I decided to make a duck for dinner. It was a favorite of her father's and I wanted to try something different. She never asked what the bird was until later when she overheard us talking. We lived in a first floor apartment, at the time, with access to the playground right outside our door. Anyway, she heard the conversation, began crying and said, "You killed my friend" and ran out the door. It was so authentic! It is a shame that so many never experience this feeling and its depth or they lose it because of life's happenings. Mattie attempted this authenticity each time he pushed ahead during his illness. I was often amazed at how he tried to minimize his pain and experience by giving a smile to the camera. Your descriptions of the times then make it all the more poignant to realize the strength (of course, Mattie would love the color red, as that is what it symbolizes) of this brave little boy. Your recounting of the rules of non profit status with the post office system brought back memories. I remember sitting in our synagogue when I was younger, making sure that we had our bundles properly sorted and tied. We used a meter machine and then it was off to the post office. This may have been a grueling process, however, there is power in your education. Now you are armed for the time when the Foundation will be sending 200 pieces of mail at a time and it will be worthwhile to use this accommodation. For so many, they tend to give up when something requires spending more time and it not working out. It reminds everyone that many a success came on the heels of many failures. We usually focus on the success and forget about all the work involved in getting to that point. That is what makes Peter and you so terrific. You don't give up! You never did when Mattie was alive, healthy or ill and most definitely, you didn't give up after his death. You do go on, no matter what. Even with Peter not feeling well or you having a migraine, work is constantly happening for both of you. Your commitment to Mattie is that sincere and complete. That is why Mattie picked you for his parents. He knew that he would need two very strong and committed people to help him on his journey."