He turned 30 and then stopped. Just 3 months before his 31st birthday, he passed away. Actually he celebrated his 30th birthday in the ICU. I remember waking to 15+ ICU nurses and techs singing to him. I laid on my cot, facing the window and cried.
Garrett's last birthday celebration was in the hospital. 30 is supposed to be a mile stone, a moment in one's life he will always remember. I guess in someways it is...just for me, not him.
Each year, the girls and I get a Boston Cream Pie (his favorite dessert) and have a piece in his honor. The first year without him, many friends and family member joined us for a big celebration...we called it his "Forever 30" party. The second year, it was just me & the girls celebrating. Now the past two year, we have cake with our family and though it's weird for Ryan and the kids, the kids secretly look forward to having Boston Cream Pie.
This year, I couldn't eat one bite. We had the cake twice and I served everyone else. I couldn't even get it to my plate. I laid in bed and cried. I cried, "He should be 35 but he's not." I was supposed to grow old with him. I was supposed to have a lifetime with him. I laid there and just cried...because he should be 35!
Over the past several years, I have grieved so many losses. I lost my husband...and his family. Then I started loosing our friends one by one. Most of his friends have moved on. I woke up one morning and realized I have very few people around me that remember him, not the sick him...HIM. My girls don't seem to really remember him anymore. They parrot back the same stories I have told over and over. There are so many stories... So many stories that are just lost. We have a couple dozen pictures of him (that aren't our wedding pictures). We have a really short video he made in the hospital. Most of my last pictures of him got stolen on a disc. He's fading and I can't seem to hold on to him for them.
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| Celebrating his 27th birthday with friends at Gunther Toodies in Denver |
He should have been 35. We should have had Boston Cream Pie together. We should have been talking about our future. We should have been celebrating the girls milestone. He should be 35.
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| This is our last picture together before he got sick...and it's not even focused! |
I know that I haven't been the best at keeping in touch. Quite frankly I suck at it but know that as a friend I'm still here for you and I will always remember Garrett. The stories I have may need to be saved for later with the girls but I am more than happy to share them with you anytime you want.
ReplyDeleteAmy, I feel your grief. Sometimes grief-inducing episodes become twisted together like the strands on a rope so that in grieving one episode, you are actually grieving all of them.
ReplyDeleteMy mother's death became like that for me: every funeral I attended, every loss I experienced, every disappointment in my life was a time for intense deep belly-wrenching grief. The rope added strand after strand until it had the strength to hold a battleship. That's what my life felt like: dragging a battleship everywhere I went, every problem adding to the burden.
Then a few years ago at a funeral for Bro. Lightbourne's mother, the family did a home-going service for her in the most magnificent way. It was worship to God for the time they had had with her. I found healing there -- The rope unraveled, and I was free to experience life without that choke hold on me.
Griefs can be experienced one at a time. My depression in November, December and January lightened. (She died January 13, 1962; the house burned December 30, 1961; we moved to that house in November, 1961) I carried the grief/anger/regret/disappointment of her death for more than 30 years. I still remember the anniversaries of her death, the house burning and her birthday: October 1, 1926. On special occasions, I wonder what she would have said, how she would have been. I was 13 when she died. Her memory is in old pictures--my memory of her is faded like the pictures. But I remember. I remember with peace. I remember with the joy that I had such a marvelous person in my life. I still plan to write a book that will celebrate the life that was hers.
I guess what I want to say is: it is possible to find peace. It isn't quick in coming. Grieve as long as you need, as deeply as you need. I love the way you allow your girls the freedom to grieve or not. The ceremony of Boston Cream Pie is precious. It gives them the opportunity to talk and feel...or not. I wish we'd done something like that for my mom, but my dad was too defensive to go there.
You've reminded me, though, that the first year, Dad refused to put up a Christmas tree. We went to my Grandmother's (his mom) a few days before Christmas and she read him the riot act AND went out and got a tree for her house right away. In a way the Christmas tree is for me what Boston Cream Pie will be for your girls...a signal of freedom and a reminder of a parent that was taken way too young.
Love you. Love the way you can write about your struggle. Praying for you, for peace, for freedom to remember without the remembrance becoming a hindrance to the enjoyment of life!