True Colors

Yesterday we put Jack's old surfboard sheets on the extra bed in the baby's room, where I sleep from about 3-6 most mornings after I've tended to Andrew. We haven't used those sheets in the three years we've lived in this house, but yesterday the other set was in the wash and our cleaning lady, who helps out twice a month, offered to change the beds for me. I couldn't say no. What a treat it is to have a bed made up nicely rather than in the haphazard way I do it! (Remember when Jack used to make Tim's and my bed every morning for a dollar?)

When our cleaning lady saw the colorful surfboards, she immediately recognized them as Jack's. I didn't think much of it until this morning at three when I crawled under the navy blue comforter and between the familiar sheets. It took me right back to snuggle time with Jack.

Gosh, he loved his old bedroom, the largest in the house, with its built-in bookshelves and big windows. He loved the lime green walls (he called them chartreuse) and the navy and white stripes that Tim and I somehow painted without messing up or even arguing. But Jack was a little concerned about the surfer theme that I "dove" into wholeheartedly as I planned his big boy room.  Surfboard sheets, beach shack signs, little shark and surfboard lights around his windows. "Is it okay to have a surfer room if I don't surf?" he asked. Sure it was. Plus, I thought there would be plenty of times Jack would go in the ocean, at his own pace, even if he never became a surfer. I couldn't know he wouldn't ever leave the sand.

His concerns seemed so cute to me, but not surprising.

Jack always wanted to be authentic.

A few years later, when I bought him a Mountain Dew shirt at Five Below, it sat unworn in his dresser for months. Finally I asked, "Are you ever going to wear that shirt, or should I donate it?" He answered that he didn't feel right wearing it if he'd never tasted Mountain Dew. He said it was kind of like false advertising, since he didn't know whether Mountain Dew was good or not. I replied, "You know you could have asked me, right? We can get you a Mountain Dew to see what you think." He was surprised, but delighted, and it became one of favorite shirts that last year.

I try to be authentic, too.

I want my inner and outer selves to match. I want to live out my values even if inertia, laziness, and  too much comfort try to entice me to do otherwise.

And I want to offer no shocking surprises should Dateline rig up the house with hidden cameras, or record my interactions with anyone from family members to strangers. Sometimes my intentions are really good, but my actions don't show evidence of it. Instead of being loving, generous and expansive, I am cranky, insular, and selfish.

The things that I think about, and how I spend my time and my money do not always reflect what I tell myself my true priorities are.

Plus, there is the risk that if I show my authentic self and people don't like it, I've made a mistake in being vulnerable.

Just some thoughts I have today, sparked by memories of a young boy who made sure his insides and outside matched.

August is the Sunday of Summer

I've been hearing this sentiment crop up all over as summer enters its final stretch. These days Margaret is deep into field hockey practice for high school (gulp) and I'm in limbo-land before the paperback of Rare Bird comes out.

Some attribute this quotation to Ellen Degeneres because of a recent tweet, but not in our house!

You see, Jack made this statement at least 5 years ago, and I blogged about it and other random things the kids were talking about, including Margaret's antipathy for things that started with the letter C.  Note: In posts pre-accident, I referred to Jack as Jake and Margaret as Molly.

Check out that old post to get a glimpse of our family's life.

I hope you are having a great Sunday of the Summer!

One Part of a Whole

When I wrote Rare Bird,  I had a lot of choice in what to include. It seemed overwhelming. I listened quietly and carefully to my heart, and many must-haves bubbled up: raw pain, Bible verses, miracles, Jack's OCD,  humor amidst the heartbreak, and even some curse words.

I was surprised I felt compelled to share about OCD, because although my readers knew Jack well, I had never been specific here on the blog about what his struggles were. I was reluctant to have just one part define him to others, because it certainly didn't define him to us. Jack was a kid with OCD, but he wasn't OCD.

Similarly, I am not my grief.

Nope.

Grief is neither my identity, nor my essence. Certainly, it has given me a story to share, in openness and humility, in the hope that it will resonate with others and somehow foster healing for me and for someone else. But I am not grief, any more than someone else is childhood sexual abuse, anorexia, addiction, or cancer. I am Anna-- loyal, kindhearted, reliable, often lazy, searching, old before her years-- Anna. That's who I was, and who I am.

Of course losing a child has changed me in numerous ways. It has made me more aware of how fleeting life is. It has disabused me of my insular, privileged notion that life is "fair," and it has made room in my heart for more mystery and greater compassion. Grief has softened my heart to a hurting world, while at the same time making me less tolerant of petty concerns and less invested in surface relationships.

To CHANGE after such a loss honors the experience, acknowledges the magnitude of the earth-shift of my child going from here to "there" and says, "this is not something to be sloughed off, tamped down, or ignored. I will mine it for truth, growth, and somehow, for hope."

But grief is not who I am. I can promise you that.

Our experiences and our struggles inform us and shape us, but they did not create us. They did not give us a soul as unique as our fingerprint and as necessary to this world as a clear spring in a parched desert.

Jack was a child with OCD, but he wasn't his OCD.
The creek happened, but Jack is much, much more than a boy in a creek
I am a griever, but I am not my grief.

 What is one part of your story that will never be the whole story of YOU?

Brief Encounter

Sunday night after Margaret's soccer game, we were looking for a place to pick up dinner. We ended up going to Jack's favorite restaurant, a Greek place, where we hadn't gone in a few years because Margaret doesn't like it (we picked up dinner for her at the Taco Bell drive-thru).

Tim went into the small restaurant to order. While he was waiting, an adorable 4 year old boy, eating dinner with his mom, ran up to him and hugged him around his legs saying, "Daddy! Daddy!" This caught Tim off guard, but it was still so sweet. The mother smiled and said, "I guess you really look like a Dad."

We have many memories in that restaurant, centering around our own sweet boy and his love of a good gyro. This is a new memory to enjoy.

I'd have to agree, Tim does look like a dad, and fatherhood has always looked good on him!

Specter

Can we talk?

So here’s the thing. I think Jack looks like Justin Bieber. Maybe he doesn't to you, but to me there is a breath-catching, eye-widening response every time I see The Biebs, which is fairly often.

The slender build, the way he walks (lopes) and his coloring and features are spot on. My breath catches when I see Justin on TV, jutting out his chin, because when he’s moving, the similarities are even more pronounced.

What are the chances the boy we lost would resemble someone famous, so that when we turn on a tv or, to be honest, open a trashy magazine, he could be right there staring at us?

After my mom died, I began to think of her when I saw Princess Diana on TV. The short blonde hair, the strength coupled with sensitivity, and the motherly compassion just made me want to hug her and be hugged by her.

It’s a bit of a blessing, to be able to have a way to imagine what Jack would have looked like as he aged. But it’s also a curse, because as a mama, I just want to say, “Justin, stop with the weird pants that make it look like you have inserted your spindly legs into an upside down sweatshirt. Not one person on earth needs a crotch that hangs that low. And the Malfoy hair? No, just no. Stick with the beautiful brown, please.

What about a nice checked button down? Could we try the preppy thing for a little while? And speaking of a little while, I know you have been struggling for months. People think you’re a punk. And you are at that tough place where if you try to prove you AREN’T A PUNK, it just comes out like, 'Methinks thou dost protest too much.'

I believe your mom, that you are a good person. I do. When we met you in LA, you showed us nothing but class and kindness. You didn’t have to reach out to us in our pain, but you did, and I will always be grateful. Thank you. Growing up in the spotlight can’t be easy. And all that money isn’t doing you any favors either, surrounding you with hangers-on and “Yes” people all the time. I was relieved my kids weren’t prodigies at anything because, well, that would mean a lot more driving around for me, but also because there is just too much pressure when you shine and potentially flame out so young.
Could you just step back for a while, check out, or check-in somewhere or do whatever it would take to get back on solid ground? You have potentially sixty years or so ahead of you. This rough patch could become just a blip on the way to your finding your true self and living a life full of love and meaning."

But then I think selfishly, if Justin loses the bravado, the weird clothes, the bluster, and the hair dye, he might look even more like the one I’m missing. And that might hurt just a little too much.

p.s. After I wrote this I read an article on the same topic from the folks at What's Your Grief? Have you experienced anything like this?

p.p.s. Thank you for your kind words yesterday on Jack's 16th b-day. Please visit the Huffington Post to read my interview w/Melanie Bishop for the occasion.

 

16

Sixteen years ago today I became a mom. It was like coming home.

 

Happy Birthday, Sweet Jack!

 

Love never dies.

 

 

 

Three Years Today

Three years ago today, we weren't perfect, but we had a rhythm; the pieces of our family fit together so precisely, so genuine a complement, one to the other, that to imagine one of the pieces gone would have been an impossibility. 

We felt on the cusp of something good. Was it a great year ahead in school? Was it, with the grueling business of raising tiny ones behind us, that Tim and I could just be in wonder for a little while, really enjoying the neat people our kids had become? 

Instead, we lost Jack that September 8th.

The balance is gone from our family, our lives, but we move forward each day. We eat family dinners. We watch America's Got Talent and the Amazing Race, just as we always did. It has been three long years since we've seen our son, touched him, heard his perspective on things. If he was not a loud kid, why are things so quiet around here? Still, at least once a week, I'll think, "Wait until I tell Jack this!" or "What's Jack going to do while Tim, Margaret and I are at soccer?" as if he has just been in another room all along.

It would be hard to pinpoint what I miss most. Because in my mind's eye, Jack is no longer 12, but is now 15, so I also miss things that I don't even know how to recognize or name. Glimmers of a teenage boy and early manhood that were just an idea when we lost him.

I guess the thing I miss the very most is the way I could just grab him, whenever he walked by me and give him a hug or a kiss, and he'd let himself be pulled close, let his hair be ruffled. Perhaps he'd be balking at that by now, twisting away from my gentle grasp. But I don't know.

It gets easier. It does. One truly can have hope and joy and laughter and growth after such a loss. Tim, Margaret, and I are walking, living, breathing proof.

But that doesn't mean I don't still wonder sometimes if all of this has just been a bad dream.

Jack,

We Love You. We Miss You. We'll Never Forget You.

Ragnar Relay

This weekend a team of 12 people will be running a 200 mile Ragnar Relay in Jack's honor. They will run through the night from Cumberland, MD to Washington, DC in a collision of athletic prowess, sleep deprivation, body odor, and hysterical laughter.

The team includes Tim, his sister, my sister, his cousins, family friends, Jack's baseball coach, and an EMT from the night of the accident who has become a friend. They call themselves "Jack's Lanterns" and they race to bring light out of a dark situation. I thought you would like to read this awesome article my sister wrote about the team and why she runs.

Scroll down a few pages and you'll see a familiar face.


Go, Jack's Lanterns, Go!

September 11, 2011

Sunday morning I sit at my desk trying to put into words what kind of kid Jack was. I am hoping to write something worthy enough to be read at his memorial service tomorrow. This desk is where I write my blog, recording the funny things the kids say and detailing my latest thrifty home projects, most of which involve spray paint. It’s been two and a half days since our lives were turned upside down, and I try to be inspiring, honest and positive when all I really want is to turn back the clock.

Beside me is Chris, my high school friend and college boyfriend. He has dropped everything, and with the blessing of his wife and three kids, has flown in from Wisconsin to be by our sides. “I’ll do anything,” he says. “Clean the gutters, take care of Shadow. Read at the funeral. Anything.” He has learned a lot about grief since his best friend dropped dead at 40. He has learned about showing up. So this is what he does, shows up and sits next to me as I try to describe my boy.

Chris and I were dating when my mom died. I had flown back to Virginia from attending a dance with him in Colorado, and the next day my mother died while I held her hand. I had to call Chris and tell him. When he said he’d fly home to be with me, I told him to stay to take part in a wedding where he was a groomsman. I said it, and I meant it, sort of. This was long before I had heard the term “passive-aggressive,” but on the day of the funeral, I really wish I’d asked him to be there. I didn’t know I’d need him, but I did. So now, even though we’ve seen each other only a handful of times in the past 20 years, he sits next to me, and I run different phrases by him.

After a while he says, “Um, Anna, I feel like you are glaring at me like I did something wrong and you want to murder me.” He’s treading lightly, but he’s brave and says it anyway. And he’s right. “I’m glaring because I’m so damn mad that Jack is dead! But I’m not mad at you.” And he’s cool with that, and calmly suggests that maybe I glare at a point on the wall slightly above his head from here on out, and we both know he’s the perfect person to be with me right now.

I get something down that captures a little slice of Jack’s home life, and hopefully gives comfort to those who will be at the service. I describe Jack’s interests, his homebody personality, his humor.  I don’t know how to capture his humble nature, his generosity of spirit, his laughter, or the way his world became our world. Chris says, “I know you aren’t sure you can read this. And people will say you don’t have to, because they want to protect you. But I know you can do it and I think you should.” He’s right. I mean what the hell do I need protecting from at this point? I want to be the one speaking for Jack. I am his mother. So I will.

I look at Chris and think of the sacrifice he made just to show up for us. I don't know if I'd have the guts to do that for a friend separated by such time and distance. I think of his wife and kids who are juggling so many things at home so he can be here. I realize I have something to learn from Chris today.

And I inwardly make a note to myself to share with Margaret that it’s certainly a lot easier for exes to show up for each other in times of crisis if they’ve never slept together.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts, Can't Lose

Look what I found while cleaning our office this week. It's a note Tim wrote for Jack when Jack was 2 1/2. I don't think Jack ever saw it because it was tucked inside a notebook.

October 2001

Every night we would read books to you and say your prayers before you went to bed. Twice this month after we said your prayers, you put your hands on my face and said, "I'm filling your heart with life." I'm not sure where you learned that, or if you made it up, but it was very touching. You do, indeed, fill my heart with life.

How beautiful is that? Here's hoping your heart is full of life this weekend.