Tonight's picture was taken in April of 2007. Around the time of Mattie's birthday. You can see that Mattie decided to decorate this bedroom door with ribbons, which acted like streamers! Also hanging on Mattie's door was a tracing he did in his second preschool class. It was a tracing of the perimeter of his entire body, which he then colored in. Above that tracing was a sign with his name on it and a symbol. It was the symbol of a Magnet. In Mattie's second year of Preschool, he was "Mattie magnet." The children were assigned a symbol that started with the same letter as their names! This would help them learn the connection between sounds and spelling. In Mattie's first year of preschool, his symbol was the moon. Which is why so many of us still refer to him as "Mattie Moon!"
Quote of the day: There's nothing more inspiring than the complexity and beauty of the human heart. ~ Cynthia Hand
I came across a website today called Griefwatch and on it is posted articles written by people who have experienced the loss of a loved one. Clearly there are different forms of grief and loss, and I honed in on the category.... the loss of a child. I saw an article entitled, How the gifts arrive, and I was intrigued by the title so I clicked on it. I posted it below because I found it very meaningful. It is written by a father who lost his eight year old son. Not only can I grasp that loss all too well, but the scene he is writing about captures the heart of any parent who has lost a child.
This dad describes the anguish he feels over buying a Valentine's day gift for his son. A tradition that he had each year, except of course now his son is no longer alive. Yet this is a tradition that is a part of him and though he doesn't verbalize this.... what would happen if he did not buy the Valentine's day gift this year? What would that symbolize?! How would that make him feel? Would that be dishonoring his son, dishonoring his memory, and make him feel less of a dad? Yet the torture of going to a store and having to pick out a gift for your child, followed by waiting on line to check out with other parents and children fearing that they could ask you at any minute about your deceased child is beyond overwhelming. I remember it well!
It takes years of dealing with grief to know how to handle this question...... do you have children? I suppose I could tell people I have no children and spare myself having to explain the story or what happened. But in reality that would make me MUCH MORE UNHAPPY. Mattie was my child and is a part of my life and he is my story. So yes I always report I had a child, to anyone who asks me. I really feel if someone should ask me whether I have children then one should be prepared for the reality of the answer!
As grieving parents, we all have our own traditions and ways in which we need to remember and honor our children. This Valentine's Day gift story touched my heart and I really felt this dad's anguish and admired his decision to do what he felt was in his heart to stay connected to his son. In the end it is what helps us keep the memories alive and to remember that ultimately counts!
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http://www.griefwatch.com/how-the-gifts-arrive
How the Gifts Arrive by Mike Kleiman (mikekleiman@cs.com)
Buying Valentine’s Day flowers for my eight-year-old son is always terribly difficult. There never seems to be an arrangement suited for a young boy that also expresses profound parental love. My heart is naturally drawn toward the pink, red and yellow flowers but they certainly don’t speak the same way to my son. He’d be more satisfied with an arrangement involving a monster truck. I look at each flower arrangement that touches my heart and I think of my son; would he like this, does it shout-out his name? Most of them don’t shout-out his name so I pick something bright, sunny and cheerful...
Picking a balloon will be far less draining than the flowers. No other object better represents a child’s spirit than a helium balloon. Helium balloons - happy and fearlessly dancing excitedly above our heads - lost in an imaginary world. They bounce and sway and play innocently above our world while yearning to be set free - to fly as high, as high can be. Helium balloons come in all shapes and sizes and they are so much like our children. Selecting a balloon is easy - they all work.
Buying his valentine card tends to be a repeat of the flower episode with an added emotional twist. The loving poetry strikes emotional surges in my heart and throat. I desperately struggle to suppress my sentiment but my eyes threaten to announce my secret. The urge to become disconnected is overwhelming; like a marathon runner whose body conspires for a rest, I feel the overpowering need to settle for the next card. But the card must be true. I have to find the right card. I have to stay together long enough to find the right card.
The truly difficult quests are now behind and I just have to decide whether to get a gift or not. I’ve given him one every year since he was born so it just wouldn’t feel right to stop now. He’d love something electronic but I don’t want to buy anything too elaborate. I truly can’t endure another difficult decision so I settle for a teddy bear like I did the previous year.
Standing in the checkout line with the other parents always threatens to destroy my delicate façade. If I actually allow myself to connect with them, to think about their love, to envision them giving these gifts to their children; I will definitely explode in an uncontrollable emotional meltdown. To sidestep this catastrophe, my mind has to lock into a mantra - pay the bill and get to the car; pay the bill and get to the car... I get the balloon safely into the car and prop the flowers so they won’t tip. I don’t need to sign the card until I’m with my son. That’s the way we always do it.
The shopping trauma transforms the drive into a complete blur. I go into a trance and rely on my mental autopilot to safely deliver me to my destination. I arrive physically intact and am relieved to be alone because I desperately need solitude to salvage my senses. The first thing I do is tidy the place up a bit. Then, I arrange the gifts. I place the flowers on the ground and make sure they won’t easily tip. With the balloon fastened to the teddy bear’s wrist, I nestle him near the flowers leaning him comfortably back. There’s a bench near my son where I sign the card.
An eternity of extreme emotions passes as my face goes from lapped hands to the sky and back to my son. I search for the words from so much to say... there’s so much to say. Emotionally drained into a calm, I prop the card upright on the slab and touch a kissed finger to his picture, which is forever sealed on his stone.
When you see the gifts adorning the stone fields, please know, “this is how they arrive.”
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