The Next Season

We're moving into another season, Fall.  And with it, a whole new set of firsts without Drew.  And the firsts are always hard.

Like when we entered into the Spring and Summer, there were things I know I'll be sad during--like the first visit to the pumpkin patch without Drew.  I'll never see how much he would have grown...

We're having the first cool days with the windows open and the sound of the leaves shuttling down the sidewalk, without his shopping cart wheels running over them. The leaves will pile up in the backyard, and this time only one child will play in them.

But there is also the unexpected things, the things I didn't realize would be difficult firsts.  Like yesterday, the leaf sucker truck came by for the first time without a squealing little boy watching it from the window suck up the leaves out of the gutter.  And with the leaves, it sucked the wind right out of me.

This truck's typical weekly passing is a seasonal occurrence, which gave more thrill than the always-around garbage truck.  We could hear it coming from down the street since it's so loud, and they'd eagerly wait with anticipation by the window and watch it go by. Yesterday I stood at the window alone, as it went by for the first time without any excitement, without any fanfare.  Because now I have one at school, and one in Heaven, so no one is here to get excited with me.  With my eyes closed, but tears streaming, I tried to hear his little voice again, "Here it comes!!" and go back to at time when this first of the fall event would have been met with cheers...


With the new season, though, we have some new things.  Things that Drew was never a part of, which is a little easier.  Like our ISU season football tickets we decided to purchase.  The games have been fun to be a part of, and Molly is really enjoying the atmosphere:

We are watching our first garden finally produce crops--tomatoes and pumpkins that are finally starting to turn their vibrant red and orange colors:

And of course Molly in Kindergarten, which she loves, and I'm finding isn't so bad myself.  Her riding the bus (her favorite part), and being there all day (until 2) is different, and makes our whole day different. 

But even in these new events, it's hard to not try to place him here in my mind.  I stand at the bus stop in the afternoons picturing him sitting in his gator, he'd be able to drive by now I'm sure, waiting to see her bus come over the hill.  He'd get excited, "There it is!".  She'd climb down the steps and most likely push him over so she could be in the driver's seat.  He'd let her do it of course, and they'd drive down the sidewalk together back to our house...

And the football games--how much he would have enjoyed the excitement and atmosphere!  He'd have been on cloud 9!  I'd have gotten him a cute jersey like he had before to wear, and he'd love to roll down the hill during the games.

And as I continue to be active at the Y, I drop Molly off in the childcare room.  I've sometimes scanned the area, which toys would he have played with?  Which children would have been his friends? 

But reality always sets in.  He's not here.  He isn't doing those things, or being with us there.  Through these new activities he was never a part of, I can see the handwriting on the wall, I can feel the shift--we're beginning our new life.  A life that doesn't physically include our son anymore.  I can feel the change, no longer does it feel like he was just here, but just that he was here, can you hear the difference?  My heart can.  And once again, it's crying.  Screaming at us for "moving on" so casually.  It's holding on with it's last bit of energy to the life we had with Drew, not wanting to let go.

But my head is trying to convince it, Drew's not back there in that life where it wants to stay.  It's okay that we're moving forward, because so has Drew.  Someone commented a while back, and I think I finally get it--Drew's not in the past, but in the present, just somewhere else.  I'm not abandoning him, because he's not here.  I can't let my heart believe those lies.  And we have a future together that we are one day closer to each time the sun goes down.  I wouldn't want him to be sitting in Heaven, crying over what was, but enjoying what IS.  And I shouldn't feel guilty about doing that myself.

This space is where I've been sharing ever since Drew's been gone, the day to day struggle, the ups and downs, we've experience after the loss of a child.  What the "unimaginable" actually looks like in real life, how it plays out in just a regular person's everyday, someone just as human as you.  Not sugar coated, hopefully not dramaticized, but also not downplayed.  It has been a hard journey.  And I hope I've shown that one can't get through it alone, but needs the hope, the strength, and the peace that comes from God alone.  So this is just one more phase of the process, another section of the journey.

  And the further we get into it, the more I'm seeing it'll be a lifelong journey.  It's never "gotten over", but becomes a part of you.  You learn to manage it, to deal with the waves of grief.  Sometimes you can see the waves coming, like in an upcoming season.  And sometimes they take you by surprise like songs on the radio and leaf trucks coming down the street.  It's a price I gladly pay, a burden I'll gladly carry each day, for the privilege I had, and have, of being Drew's mom.  I'd rather cry each day and have had the time I did with him, then have not had him at all, but be spared this heartbreak.  It gives new meaning to the old saying, "It's better to have loved and lost, then never to have loved at all"

Each season I go through with all it's firsts, even though its so hard, I see how true that saying is.  It is SO much better to have had you and loved you Drew, even if I had to give you back, then to never have had or loved you at all...And I still love you baby, I always will.

Memories in Music

Funny how powerful songs can be.  How quickly they can bring back a memory, like smells.  Its another thing I knew before--An NSYNC song from high school will take me back to a fun summer night with friends 15 years ago.  Or an oldies tune can bring back a memory from when I was young, riding around in the van when I was the little girl, and Grandma was the Mama (as I always start childhood stories for Molly). 

Songs have been triggering memories since Drew's been gone too.  Songs come on the radio that Drew liked to dance too (probably because I liked to dance to them), or songs from movies that the kids loved to sing along with, like the infamous, Let It Go.

 And certain songs have the power to trigger sad memories too. I have flashbacks to moments that bring me to tears.  One came up this week that always gets me.   A song I remember from the late fall last year as I took Drew over to Rochester one morning by myself.  It was soon after we had been told Drew would "probably" not be a long term survivor, that he'd never grow up.  I was in a place of deep disappointment.  Despair and disbelief.  It was the song, "One Call Away" by Charlie Puth. 

As it came on the radio last week in my van, I parked, and closed my eyes, instantly back to that time, a little over a year ago. That morning I was right by the Menards on South Broadway, just after you go under Hwy 52 when it came on.  And at that time, the words really got to me:  "I'm only one call away...I'll be there to save the day...Superman got nothing on me...I'm only one call away..."

I looked back at him in the rear view mirror, just riding along.  Smiling at me when he noticed I was looking at him.  Then looking concerned as he also noticed the tears streaming down my cheeks-- "What happened Mom?"  he asked.  "Nothing, Bobo," I lied to him.  And tried to keep it together as I drove the rest of the way to the Clinic.  Where he'd be asked to do things no 2 year old should have been asked.  Things that "probably" would be all for nothing anyway.

I continued to sneak glances at him while that song played.  Watching him get excited as he saw that water tower thing that looks like a big ear of corn, "There's the corn, Mom!".  He doesn't even know..I remember thinking.  Which seemed to make it worse that day.  He didn't even know what was going on...that I couldn't save the day.  I couldn't be his Superman, I couldn't do anything.  I felt so helpless.  So powerless.  A Mother's suppose to protect, to come to the rescue for her kids.  I wished with everything I was that I could change things, that I could save him.  I'm sorry Baby, I told him in my head,  If only I could save you...

The song ended on the radio, I open my eyes, and I was back in HyVee parking lot, almost a year later, alone, with an empty seat where his car seat would have been.

Its these triggers that can't be planned, or avoided that convince me I'll never be truly "over it".  I'm almost to the end of a grief book that explains just that.  Grief is never "gotten over", you just learn to deal with it.  The book proposes that we should focus on two scales from 1-10.  The first, how strong your emotions are in your grief; and the second how able you are to deal with those feelings.  The goal isn't to get to a point where the first scale is down to 0 or 1, but to work to bring the second one up to a 9 or 10 most of the time, and let the first slide as it does through time. 

That makes sense to me, because I can see that even after a year, two years, 10 years, there'll always be something that will bring up a memory, and the following emotional reaction.  I do have hope it'll get less frequent, and maybe less intense over time. But I'm accepting that I won't ever be "over it", but only able to handle it better.  I'm beginning to appreciate these sad moments, to almost enjoy them as stinging as they are.  Because as I sat in my car in the HyVee parking lot last week, listening the that song and crying,  I was back with him for a moment, even if it was a sad moment.  He was there, in my mind, in my memory, as clear as day.  I could hear his voice and see his smile, and I never want would want that to stop, no matter how much it hurts.

This is how it is going, two days away from 8 months out.  I am doing better at handling the waves.  I can have these moments, and then still go into the store.  Come home and prep dinner for my family. Smile as I spend time with friends.  Be engaged with my daughter when she comes home from school.  Its starting to be balanced, or at least sometimes it can be.  And I think that's probably pretty good.

The next song that came on was Journey, "Don't Stop Believin".  Now I've talked some about how I'm on the fence about signs, but it was just the song to make me smile as I dried my tears, blew my nose, gathered my list and headed into the store. 

Don't stop believing....hold on to that feeelin'...

Where is God?

There is always so much devastation in the world, and in America right now, it seems obnoxious.  The aftermath from Hurricane Harvey and now we begin to see the aftermath of Hurricane Irma.  The wildfires not getting as much coverage, but creating just as much devastation in the West.  As we see the shocked faces of the people who have lost all their worldly possessions, and the sorrow of those that have lost even more...

...its easy to wonder where God is.  Just like I've been tempted to wonder as I see the suffering of another innocent, brave child who fought this beast that is cancer. Whose family I've followed over the last year and quoted on my last post, and this week had to say, "see you later" to their precious baby girl.  And another family in my church experiencing the sudden death of their 14 year old son and brother. Both joining our family in the longing for a member that is never coming home. 

This kind of stuff shakes us all, the human suffering, from things totally out of their control, and it should.  It should make us all evaluate our priorities and examine our beliefs.  Because any one of those things could happen to us, and there's nothing we can do about it.

But what we also are seeing in these troubling times, is the outpouring of love.  The "helpers" as Mr Rodger's famously points out: "If you look for the helpers, you will know that there is hope"

People seem to be blown away by the kindness of others.  By the self-less aid given to those that are truly in need.  I've heard multiple times now what seems as surprise in the tone of the news reporters at the good still left in the world, despite the politics going on in this country.  Some are even in tears!  They seem just as astonished that in some, there is still a sense of joy, which is not the same as happiness, which overcomes such dire circumstances. 

But I'm not surprised.  I have seen--experienced--this outpouring of love during a very different, yet equally devastating time in my life.  I've watched as my friends rearranged their lives to help.  Friends and family came, leaving their own families, from across America to stay with us and help.  From Iowa, Michigan, Colorado, New Orleans, and Kansas City.  To be with Molly or Drew, clean my house, organize my cupboards, and fill my freezer...

Not to mention those local that would welcome Molly with open arms at minutes of notice, sometimes indefinitely, as we rushed Drew to the ER or St Mary's...

My eyes have filled up with tears as people generously gave us the money they'd saved all year for charitable giving at Christmas time.  Or organized fundraisers and benefits with their own time, energy and resources.

I've seen the concern in the eyes of mere acquaintances who could honestly have brushed me off without it being too socially awkward, but chose to listen, to care.  People who threw home business parties to benefit our family, or participated in meal chains for us (which went out for months after Drew died) or brought food to me for long hospital stays...

We thoroughly enjoyed fun things people put together for us-- like organizing a 12 days of Christmas drop off each morning before December 25th, or bringing gifts over for the kids Christmas week, and even arranging a sleigh ride and visit from Santa himself!

Instead of watching the imagines, listening to the stories these last couple weeks in wonder, what I'm really wondering is why, why, it takes such tragedy for the good to come out??  Why do people have to be at the end of their rope, completely helpless before people help, and we care about each other?  Unfortunately, I think it takes the tragedy to break through the veil this world has over the eyes of so many.  It uncovers the light of God in so many of us, that for whatever reason we've allowed to be covered.  It gets us angry enough, determined enough to not let this world win, to get into the fight.

Where is God?  He's right there.  He IS the light, the goodness that comes out in others.  In the love and the care; in the joy and the hope in the survivors and helpers. Through the tragedy we see Him and what he has to offer--Love.  Joy.  Peace.  Care.  We just have to accept it.

I have never felt more at peace, more loved, more cared for, than this last 18 months.  And I think maybe that could be one reason why God allows all the disasters.  How God can stand to see His children suffer in this fallen world.  Because of a lot of theology that I won't get into, but also because He knows He can use it to show Himself to others.  To save people from an eternity without any of the good.   He can fulfill His promise to us that He'll use all things for good, even things as ugly as childhood cancer, catastrophic storms, and blazing forest fires.  It wasn't His plan, and I believe He cries with us at the tragedy.  It breaks His heart more than we know.  But in His wisdom, He uses this fallen world to gather more to Himself.

We hope that kids dying from cancer, and hurricanes drowning people in their homes, and wildfires consuming all that a person has on Earth wouldn't be a part of our reality.  But it is.  And again, there's a lot of theology as to why, but the good news that has been trying to spread for two thousand years, is that we can overcome this world.  We just have to choose Him. There is hope for a day when the goodness we see in others during the storms of this life will be all that exists.  Won't that be the day!

And once you get that, once it truly sinks in who God is, and what he has to offer--that's when the thankfulness, and then the true joy comes.  When you realize your place in life, how much control we don't have, you developed a trust in the One that does have control--and due to your trust in Him, you experience a peace, a joy that goes beyond what your mind can understand.

One news person reported with almost confusion a lady pulling a floaty with the last of her possessions,  with a smile on her face.  How can she be smiling?  She said because she's alive.  It could be worse.  She's found true joy that goes beyond her circumstances.  The same kind of joy that I had, even as my son's hand grew cold in mine, on that last day we had together.  I wasn't happy, obviously, and I doubt that lady pulling her possessions was either.  But it is possible to have peace because you know it'll be okay.  It won't be easy, but there is hope for better days ahead.

Until those days come, we can be the light for others.  During these tragedies, and in our everyday.  How much of a difference would that make?  How wonderful would it be if we didn't need the devastating events to expose the goodness, the helpers, but we just did it instead?  Like God showed me last week--helping others is a way to not only aid those that need it, but to help ourselves feel real joy, and have peace too, whatever is going on in our own world.

After first hand experiencing a catastrophic loss myself,  I have been shown exactly where I stand in life, and how much control I really have. I'm grateful that I have seen, and therefore know the goodness in the world.  I can look forward to a forever of that warm feeling I've felt as food was dropped off at my house by people I barely know, as friends said, "I'll be there, I'll make it work" on a day I couldn't face alone, and the undeniable love transferred from a good, genuine hug (I'm coming around ;) ). 

And I can be so thankful today that my Drew already exists in that forever.  He will never feel the hurt, the disappointment, the fear and the grief of this world another minute, but only feels the good.  He, and the children of those other families, will never have to endure a disaster like the ones we've witness in this country over the last couple weeks.  Or feel the devastating blow of disappointment like I have felt.  He can laugh and run and play and sing all day long, doing all the things he loves to do.  Praise God, and I can't wait to join you buddy!

The Story of Molly and Me

Tomorrow morning, Molly will get on the school bus at the end of our street, and begin a new phase of her life.  And with her, so will I.  My first to start school has also become my last to start school.  It's a big transition for me as a Stay-at-Home-Mom.  It was the short term goal I kept my eye on in those tough years when I had little ones with me all day everyday.  And just like other things that I looked forward to and now am arriving at, I'm not feeling as I expected to.

I knew this day was coming all Summer, but have been pushing it away from my mind.  Not wanting to think about another change, another adjustment.  Molly has been with me through so much in the last 5 and a half years.  I've been reflecting on just how much... 

From the beginning she's been a constant force, a  strong willed lady that has pulled me through when I've been weak. 

Looking back, I definitely struggled with some post-partum depression, and even as an infant, Molly was there to keep me doing the next thing.  Focused on the job at hand, until I felt like myself again. I guess she has always been so great at just hangin' steady in the background during difficult times.

And we had such a great time together after I came back, after I started feeling like myself again.  My Molly and I.  People called me "Holly" a lot because Molly and Heidi just became one and the same.  I joked it became our entity name--like celebrity couples. We did everything together. 

As cliché as it has become, she "made me a Mom" by definition, but also by process.  That time of struggle as I adjusted to being a mother really prepared me in so many ways for what I've had to handle.  For getting over myself and my feelings, for trusting God would get me through, even when I felt so lost and alone.  And it showed me even during the darkest chapter I had experienced up until then in my life, it did get better.  She made me the mother I needed to be this last 18 months, without even knowing it.  And I was never really alone, I had my Molly.


And then Drew made our pair a trio...

 I remember after Drew was born being sad for the loss of just "Molly and Me".  Sad that our "thing" would never be the same again.  I remember when Drew was months old and still not feeling like I knew him the way I knew Molly.  I wondered when I'd feel as connected to him as I did to her.  There's just something about that first child, you have a special bond with them because you grow so much together through the process.

But Molly adjusted well to being a big sister.  A true first born, she took charge right away and helped with Drew...

The doctor noted after we explained our choice for "Drew" instead of the full "Andrew" that we'd always say "Andrew" anyway when we'd say we have "Molly ANd Drew"--they'd become kind of their own entity.  Watching my two littles grow together, even if it was for too short of time, was a pleasure.  I will always treasure the memories of Molly and Drew.  We really became our own crew, a new feeling of identity set in.  Mama and her two little ducklings.  I'm so thankful I got a taste of siblings and being outnumbered...

And then, the ball dropped.  The last 18 months of our time as the Becker crew was a whole different chapter.  During those dark weeks before diagnosis when Drew was so bad, we all felt the weight.  After diagnosis, Molly's first response when we told her that he was really sick but we were going to make him better was, "so he won't cry all night anymore?"--right Molly.  And as we did all that we could to make him all better, my Molly held steady in the background, once again.  Kept herself remarkable together, and made things easier than we even still probably realize.  She cared for him, and for us.  She's seen, felt, and experienced things no one should have to at any age, but has handled it all with a grace that makes me so proud.

Molly wasn't always happy about our family being apart so much, but only a handful of times do I remember her getting upset as she and Josh left from visiting Drew and I at the hospital.  Only a handful of times??  At 4 years old??  Oh dear Molly, you are stronger than I was!  Stronger than we know.  I tried to keep her away from the hospital as much as I could--for her sake.  I never wanted her to feel like 2nd fiddle to Drew.  Never to be shushed or ignored while Drew was being seen.  I'm sure it happened despite my efforts, but the thought of my Molly feeling like she wasn't cared about broke my heart, and drove me to do all I could to avoid her feeling that way.

And so brings us to now.  Oh Molly, I hope that if/when you read these blogs, and the CaringBridge entries, that you know that my love for you is just as much as it is for Drew.  That I'd be just as sad, just as broken, if I had to say "see you later" to you too.  Believe me, because even today as I think about seeing you off to your first day of school, and starting a new chapter of your life without me, I'm in tears.  And today, the tears are all for you.  For my rock, who's endured far to much for your 5 years.   You've seen me through so much, and now, I'll be on my own.  I hope I can be as strong as you have been.

I'm really not upset about school starting for you, because I know you'll be fine--awesome--at it.  You'll take Woodson by storm, and show everyone what we already know, how amazing you are.  But I can shed a few tears that after over 5 1/2 years of having you all to myself, I now I have to watch you start out on your own.  I have to hope that I did things right, that the last 18 months have made you a better girl, not left you damaged.  I can be sad for a time of life that all these pictures tell the story of, which is coming to an end.  The end of an era.  My days with Drew have ended, and you'll see that I've spent a lot of time being sad about that.  But for the time being, I'm sad my days of "Molly and Me" during the day, that we've found ourselves in again, are coming to an end too. 

I hope that you never hear me say I "just" have one, or that I "only" have you now, and think for a second that means you aren't enough.  You are more than enough. I was blessed to be Drew's mom, and I'm just as blessed to be yours. It is possible to love more than one baby with all your heart at the same time.  I didn't understand that until I had two babies, and somehow I bet you won't either.  But someday I pray you will, and will never question whether I love you as much as Drew.  Because I love you both with all of my heart, at the same time.

Have a great year of Kindergarten Molly. I can't wait to hear all about what you learned, who you've met and what you did.  I am excited for the things I plan on doing while you are at school too, and honestly, am looking forward to some of the solitude.  We'll make this next adjustment, and just like all the others, we'll be just fine.  But it may not be without a few tears (from me).  And I've decided that's okay.  You can be sad about what will never be again, at the same time you are looking forward to the future.  I can't wait to see what you do Ms. Molly--where God will take you in this life.  I'm looking forward to watching, and my heart swelling with even more pride.  Go get 'em Molly!!!