New Growth

Today, a tree was planted in my backyard.

It was a gift from friends, and I hope it can make it.  It's a little thing right now, and I hope that getting it in the ground, with lots of fresh air and sunshine, will help it grow.

When Connor died, the women with whom I graduated high school worked together and sent us a seedling too.  And one of them, a horticulturalist, also had one planted in Islamorada, FL, where she lives and works, in his honor.  And our next door neightbors gave us an apple tree kit, which is the kind of tree Drew wants to plant when we inter the ashes.  And my Prison Listers - my college friends from our residential college - planted a tree in Connor's honor at Tuckahoe Park about a quarter mile from the house and next to the school where his beloved Ms. Robin teaches (and taught him).  And then another dear friend from college offered to have a tree planted somewhere nearby in Connor's honor.  I told him we were overrun with trees, but suggested that he plant a tree where he lives in Roanoke to commemorate my sweet boy.

And then...an idea started to germinate.

(See what I did there?)

What if we planted a tree everywhere we went, and helped populate the earth with more green in Connor's honor?  Not to a micro-level (or, if I were being hipstery, going meta on this idea...) so it's not as though I am suggesting that each time I drop my kids at school, or go to 7-11, I'm going to plant trees there.  More along the lines of wherever we take family trips, we work in either the planting of a native tree or arrange for that to take place before or after if necessary.  Something we can do as a family and honor our son and brother together wherever in the world we decide to go.  Because we already feel that we need to go further and see more now that we can, and if we can help the earth in doing so, in his name, well, all the better.

So, if the spirit moves you, go plant a tree for Connor. Try to take a picture of it and send it to me. I'm going to start an album of Connor's trees. Including follow up visits too, years in the future.

Looking Back

There are a lot of days where I am focused on looking back at what transpired and thinking exclusively about me.  The movie-like images that are all I can really remember of the day, and how I heard the words from Lee.

Then there are days like yesterday and today, when I look back at the messages I received on email, in facebook, and texts.  I listen to the voicemails that old friends left me.  I tear up, and I laugh sometimes.

I cannot believe how much love is around me all the time.  It is so shocking, and uplifting, and daunting.

This won't be long today.  Just thank you.  And while I'm lacking the capacity to express it properly to you, I love you right back.

Connor(s) to the Rescue!

So last week, I had a business transaction that went sideways quickly and at the very end.  I don't want to go into too much detail as to what happened, but it involved one of Connor's teachers, and it showed me once again how present he is in my life.

When things went south, I started calling around to see if there was a company available to fix things that were needed that same day - like IMMEDIATELY.

First call - we can come tomorrow.  Tomorrow is too late.

Second company - let me check and get back to you but it doesn't look good (they never even called back).
Third company - I think we can, let me place you on hold while I confirm for  you.

It was while I was on hold that I realized that I was on the telephone with Connor's Pest Control, and I knew in that instant that it would all get handled and the deal would finalize.  But I waited/paced incessantly while they confirmed the appointments, and then I went and told Connor's teacher, her husband, and everyone at the table what the new plan was.  Then she and I looked at each other, and I said, "The company that's coming is Connor's Pest Control." and we burst into tears together.

Those poor souls at the table with us.  They had no idea why that made us cry.  As she composed herself, I explained and apologized profusely.  It was so unbelievably unprofessional, and I am embarrassed by it. However, I also recognize that it was meant to happen given how that was going, and so I apologized, explained, and moved on.

Later, I sat in their new home, worked with the engineers and technicians, and prayed hard to Connor, thanking him for helping us out.

And when I got home, I drank ALL THE BEER I wanted to.

The next night, I went to see the new Godzilla movie.  I could have used some Connor in that too.  It was such a boring monster movie!  But I think I had used up all my Connor-karma in the previous day.

Just remember - the ones we love who have gone on are still out there in unexpected, often overlooked ways.  Keep your eyes open.  You never know where you will see them.  In rain when it's hot and dry.  In a good day at school for one of his brothers.  In the Pest Control Company that saves your deal.

All Good Gifts

So it's been a rough week, and rough weeks happen.  I've thought of Connor more this week than in the previous weeks, and not only because Mother's Day is almost upon us and it's making me nervous and sad.  Lots of things have been happening, both inside me and outside me, and life is complicated, so I've done my best to roll with it.

This morning, I saw a post on facebook that I've seen before.  A news alert that a family with a special needs child had their dinner check taken care of by a nameless stranger at a restaurant with a note delivered that read "God only gives special children to special people."

This is a lovely sentiment.  In my experience, it is also the cause of a LOT of anger and hurt.  And I know that this post may upset my friends who have said something along those lines to me/us, or my friends who are special needs parents, and that's not my intention.  But I've been holding this in for a really long time and I don't want it inside me any longer.

My first point - aren't the teachings of Christ (who, as a person raised in the Roman Catholic faith, is the standard bearer) that everyone is special?  In which case, every family is special, and every person within them is special.  This includes special needs (allergies? manageable blood disorders? sensory concerns?  CHECK CHECK CHECK).

My second point - do you know that when you tell me that God "gave" me this because I am particularly strong enough to handle it, it makes me want to lash out?  How unfair a God to settle this on my shoulders.  I am a good person - a rule follower, a nerd, I studied hard and performed well.  So, my adult life repayment for my hard work and strength is to be "given" a son whose needs are so great that people feel the need to tell me that it shows them how strong I am?  Guess what?  I ALREADY KNEW I WAS STRONG!  I don't need anyone else's affirmation of my strength by laying the blame at the feet of an entity not everyone even believes in! Those who have known me since my very young adulthood can tell you that I was unnaturally strong in high school, a time when being alive is already fraught with overwhelming emotions and irrational behaviors.  My reaction - well, I am who I am and I like me, so who cares what the rest of you think?

The thing is, I really do care what you think.  I want you all to think that I am a good person - the rule-follower, the nerd, the girl who studies hard and performs well.  It colors, and always has, everything that I do.  But on my terms. My success comes from inside me.  And if you don't like me, well, your loss.

Now, to get back to the idea that God gave me an extra-hard situation to showcase my strength to the world.  I don't think that God is like that.  I think He (sorry, Mom) already knows me, and knows that I don't need other people's affirmations.  I think that Connor was ours because that's just the way that things work.  Sometimes, crappy things happen to good people, and here I am talking about what Connor "got".  He was good, as I've always said, and he did nothing to deserve the life he was forced to live.  I will always be grateful that he was mine, and that I was already strong enough to take what he was given and make it a seamless and integrated part of my life, and the lives of my other children, just as Lee was able to.

If you want to acknowledge anything, acknowledge that it's a terrible shame that an innocent child was dealt a difficult fate, and let the parents know that you see them all.  But don't bring God into it.  Saying that God gave this specific situation to you feels like blame to me, and we've never had something or someone to blame.  We just are.  Our strengths rise and fall, just like everyone else.  If anything, I am most grateful that Lee and I fought through all the BS and nonsense of dating to keep trying hard for each other, because without his strength behind me (and hopefully, mine behind his) we never would have gotten as far as we did.  My bad days, strength-wise, were backed by his good ones.

Connor was my gift.  I'd be just as strong if he'd been completely healthy and was still with us.  It would just be showcased in a different way.

Turning 5

Last week, during  Spring Break, Tucker turned five, and what a glorious transition it has been.  He's still struggling with his temper and wanting to make all his own decisions, but it's getting better.

He was pretty exhausted after 5 days of non-stop gogogo with our friends the Croteaus and us.  I kept him home on Friday from the activities so he didn't fall asleep during his own birthday party. So instead of being cultured like his big brother, he did this:

He said, "Mom, I'm going to draw a picture of all of us."  As he drew, he explained that he and Daddy and Drew would be blue.  Because they are boys.  I would be pink, because I am not a boy, and Connor (short falter in his sentence) would be...green.  Granted, it's not the greatest representation, and I'm not sure which one of the boys he drew to look like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family.  But I like it.

When he was done he brought it to me and I told him how good it looked and that I could tell he worked hard on it.  He said, "Yeah.  You have to remember to take it with me when I go to the hospital."

Hm.  Why are you going to the hospital?

"When I die, Mommy.  I need it to come with me so that I can show it to Connor."

Well, knock me over with a feather.  I stopped washing dishes (see, Anne, even I did some dishes!!), dried my hands, and went over to him, explaining that we'd have to keep it safe for a long time because he wasn't supposed to die until he'd lived a good, long, exciting life.  He seemed fine with that.  I took a picture of the drawing in case it got lost/erased/etc, but I also knew that he was really growing up.

I hate that my children have to grow up doing this.  I hate that I have to, but I really, especially hate that they do.  As they grow up, they'll be asked about their family, and I hope they never stop answering about both of their brothers.  One day, the person asking will be special, and I hope they know that being a brother to Connor, for 4 years or 7, made each of my boys really, honestly special people too.

Break

This isn't our first Spring Break, but it's the first one where we've tried to really do something. My dear friend Anne, who dropped everything and rode the train down to be with us that terrible week, has returned with her family in tow. I've known Anne since 1995 - she was my one shining light in a long summer away from all I knew in a beautiful but alien land. To think - it was really just luck. I mean, if she hadn't been out on her porch, and me walking in, how long would it have taken for us to actually meet?  Too long to establish the bond, really.

Anne's first child was born within 24 hours of Connor. Her brave, smart daughter, who said to Anne, "Mom, I want to come with you to the funeral. I feel connected to him because we share such close birthdays."  She and Connor met a handful of times, and all well before her memories started to gel.  What an amazing person she is.

Anyway, Anne and her husband and children are all here, and we are running around, seeing sights, visiting museums, having fun. The boys love having new friends. Honestly, I don't know if Drew will recover from their departure.  I mean,who will play Minecraft with him? (Hopefully no one). And Tucker - finally 5, finally a big boy included in the games.

It's nice to have this break, and to share this place we love with friends who live 7 hours away.

We planned this break together last September. Connor's gift to us all is that we are getting to go places and do things that we couldn't have done with him.  Every day, I have to remind myself that taking advantage of the freedom we have now doesn't dishonor his memory. To the Air and Space Museum, the  Zoo, Mount Vernon. Stuff I wish my boys already felt were rote, boring ideas.

A lot of fun was had this week, and for me, a little more healing. I'll post soon about Tucker's artwork he created today. It deserves it's own place.

The long road back to "normal"

For the last 9 and 11/12 years, we have craved "normalcy" in our lives.  We are few weeks away from the anniversary of Connor's diagnosis.  Having an infant created a shift in our normal, but his diagnosis was a seismic shift into many unknowns - neurology, health insurance, therapies, early interventions, specialists - the list could go on for quite a while. Let's leave it at this - it was the best workout my liberal arts mind had since college.  A BA in History doesn't necessarily prepare you for medical terminology and advanced neuroscience.

In any case, we find ourselves craving some stability in this current state of normal.  As I wrote earlier this week, this extra time has thrown us off, and feels abnormal.  Recently, the boys had their first sleepover at their friends' home, and they did great.  SUPER great.  I couldn't be prouder of them.  I couldn't be more grateful to our friends who invited them over, but also treated them to ice cream (and frozen yogurt, as Tucker insisted he go to Tutti Frutti) and then one of them spent the night in their guest room on the same level as my boys in case they woke up in the night scared and in need of some grown-up reassurance.

It was just such a normal thing to do.

While they were busy being normal boys, Lee and I got dressed up and went to the 80s-themed auction for Tucker's preschool.  For the last 5 years, this is the premier event at the preschool, and I've volunteered some borrowed sound equipment and the music for the night.  Last night was my favorite though.  Music is it for me; it allows me to emote things I have never actually felt.  It's very evocative and creates an intense empathy in me, and sets my head aright again almost every time.  Going back into the bosom of my formative years, hearing some terrible and some fantastic songs from 1980-1989 just made me feel so good.  And at the end of the auction, people said, "No, we want to dance, can you leave the setup for longer?"

It was hard to say no.  It felt normal to keep playing music.  It felt normal to Rickroll everyone (and that should never feel normal).  I think it may be hard for people to see me singing along, or dancing, or laughing, or smiling even.  It's still intensely difficult to go out and be social for long periods.  After a while, our stamina gives out, and we just throw in the towel and go home, climb into bed, and let the sad wash back over us.  Are we acting "normal" when we are out so that other people won't feel so sorry for us?

A few years ago at my old work, after the bubble burst of late 2008, the new head of Administration introduced the overused phrase, "The New Normal" into our professional lexicon there.  In general, I hated it.  HATED IT.  But here I am again, with a new New Normal.

I hate it still.

But here's my new normal: Every day, I wake up and remember that I don't have three sons to care for any more.  I have three sons to care about, but in the day to day, I have two sons to care for.  And they get the very best care I can give them.  Food.  Clothing.  Cleanliness.  Education.  Fun.  Cuddling.  Lots of cuddling.
Some days, extreme amounts of cuddling.  Because the cuddling totally helps assuage the sadness that comes from my first realization every day.