Things that still surprise me after four years of child loss.

Four years. We are on the other side of the fourth anniversary now, we observe from September 27th through October 4th as a time of being especially gentle with ourselves. We each walk alone those days, remembering Justin’s death, the preparation for burial, the funeral. I remember the last mass we attended together before Ryan had to return to Washington state after Justin’s funeral, it was the Feast Day of St. Francis, October 4th, at the Shrine of St. Anthony. My heart made a memory of being together on those narrow wooden pews and cool stone floor of the shrine, so still and simple, so aware that we were three not four. It may seem odd that I say we walk alone, but each one of us carries our own grief, and yes we stand shoulder to shoulder, but at our core we are still alone in solitude, deep solitude. As I was mopping off my face in the Safeway parking lot today, I was struck by the things that still surprise me after four years of child loss and how much I still have to learn about grief. Here are some of those things.

I am surprised that I can still melt down in the two tenths of a mile that it takes me to drive to Safeway. Fine when I leave the house, list prepared, and then the beauty of the fall leaves wrench my heart, and the longing wells up inside for my child and spills out my eyes. Why the car? I have no idea, I often get my best crying done in the vehicle, alone.

I am surprised how the spark for the holidays has not returned, the stores are quickly becoming danger zones, you try not to look but to just focus on making a strategic strike for what you came in for and then to get out as quick as you can. Perhaps the holidays are the hardest hurdle to achieve, maybe a new plan needs to be put in place, something different this year.

I am surprised by how little memory I have of Justin’s life, flashes, bits and pieces, but honestly I can’t retrieve much at all. I feel like I had seconds with him, not years. And it scares me so, how fleeting time is, how many opportunities did we miss for memory making?

I am surprised at the pain when I do remember his smile, his laugh, when I imagine him in my head, and bring back those details and look on that much loved face and eyes. I am surprised that my endurance has not built up, I can hardly spend any time at all with my memories. Seconds, moments, but then I have to leave them.

And I am surprised by how quiet we continually grow, not in a withdrawn bitter sense, but in a deep quiet. I wouldn’t call it a passive quiet, for there is listening going on, just an economy of words used. I have found it surprising, not unpleasant, just different.

The question often gets put to me if the loss of a child gets “better” or easier after some years, it gets neither actually, it becomes different. And I think it is good to reflect on what surprises us, what is different, to acknowledge the continual evolution that is taking place within ourselves. We find we need to make room for all that is different. I am surprised how often I have to go back to basics, to count all the small victories of the day. To stop, breathe, and be grateful that we have never once ran out of Kleenex in the last four years, that we have always had food and running water, to be even grateful for all the pet fur because that means we have the great luxury of companion animals to make us laugh.

Justin, I am surprised after four years without you we are still standing. But you know, I just laughed out loud at a memory. I suddenly thought of being awakened in the night after one of your surgeries, you were an old hand at being cut by now and despised using crutches. You would hop on one foot through the house, holding up that heavy, bulky cast that stretched from your toes to your knee behind you, your  balance was amazing and you never fell – but oh did I want to call down and tell you to use your crutches. But I didn’t. I knew that it was your way of not being defeated, of not allowing your feet and surgeries to dictate to you what you could or could not do. For all your gentleness, you had a backbone of steel, such a will and determination to overcome any obstacle set before you. And with that thought, that memory of you, I will introduce a new word – legacy – that our surviving and thriving will be part of your legacy and memory. One hop at a time.