You loved Christmas

Haven't posted for a while; running out of things to say, I guess, but I miss you every day. Can't imagine how your sister & dad do it, still living in the place you all shared. I don't cry much anymore, but today was a tough one. Every hymn we sang at Church reminded me of you. It started with the opening hymn. I know it's about Jesus, but phrases were so YOU! "He came down to earth from heaven" reminded me of the day you were born. "With the poor, and mean, and lowly" - that house you were born in was ours, but it was humble, indeed! "And our eyes at last shall see him" oh; no explanation needed!! Even the sacrament hymn touched my heart (and eyes) with "Once a meek and lowly lamb" - you were soooo mild, kind & gentle! and, "Once he suffered grief and pain" - I guess your headaches grew unbearably in those last few weeks. "Joy To The World" is, again, about the Savior, but OOHH, how I will rejoice to see you again! "Silent Night" again took me back to the incredible moment of your birth. I remember all five births; documented each one in my journals, but since your passing yours has stayed more in my memory. Then, as if that wasn't enough, I got the distinct impression you had gathered the old Boffey family choir from your side of the veil to sing with me. It was fun, but sooo hard to bear. Keep singing, child; you only did it quietly on earth but I'm sure those Boffeys have been coaching you up to full volume :-)

Unexpected grieving

I surprised myself today. I was in a progress interview at work. Don't like 'em; just want to get on with my job. Don't feel it's my responsiblity to assess myself for them. Anyway, for some reason I got emotional & blurted out how much I miss you; that I have never felt I've taken enough time to mourn. Then I had to admit that even if I spent a year on a Tibetan mountain it probably wouldn't be long enough. I think I probably shocked some people when I recently posted on Facebook that, "Seeing the Savior will be nice, but being with George, now THAT will be Heaven" but it's true. The Savior is always with us; you are not. At least, not the way you were.

We just had a marvelous General Conference. I remember the ones we watched together. Several messages were about hope and there being no room for despair in the Gospel but the one that spoke to me most was when a Seventy described how he was feeling overwhelmed with his new responsibilities & as Pres. Monson saw him looking at the floor he told him, "I always find it's better to look up."

So I will try, dear boy, to look up. Most of the time :-)

Not writing much these days

I live with my new Galaxy tablet (you would have liked it) & it won't let me post anymore, so I rarely sit at the laptop. Anyway, I still miss you and want more than anything to be with you but I have determined I must walk the path I have been given without you. It hurts, but that's just the way it is.

I stopped by with your Aunt Janet a couple of weeks ago. We were on a 3-week trek and now she's home in England. She didn't know you well but loves you, as do we all. We took time to go to Ida's restaurant & talk about you. Ida misses you sooo much. Good people have good friends.

You will never be forgotten by anyone who has met you :-)

Visiting your grave

I stopped by to visit you on my way out of Salt Lake this morning. The only flower I could afford was an orange Day Lily blossom from outside your dad's apartment. I had put it there when Livvie & I went by last night. It was already wilted but I repositioned it defiantly, hoping the sprinklers would revive it a little.

Then I sat in my little blue car and cried for you. For the thousandth time I longed to change places with you; surely your beautiful, funny presence would serve this world more effectively than my failing grace? But that is not our call, so we move on; me back to an increasingly hum-drum life in Oregon and you to whatever tasks await the Blessed.

I love you, not-so-baby boy.

Another month goes by

I keep thinking the grieving is over; then I start to miss the grieving itself! Tonight I was putting some family photos in a new frame because the old, dearly beloved one had fallen apart. I broke one of the pieces of glass and was in tears instantly. I NEEDED to get that one little job done so I could hang your picture back on the wall of our home.

Every time I think I've left you behind I find myself starting all over again at stage 1: Denial. Oh, Gingle, if you only knew; but you probably do. I miss you and am SOOO proud of you for your progress to a life I can still only dream about. I will make it to you; I PROMISE!

Black ribbons

Pink ribbons make me sad. I know I could wear one for 'Rissa's victory over Hodgkins Lymphoma, but what do I wear for George? Everybody gets so all-fired-up about beating cancer or knowing someone who did. Some of us don't feel so lucky. Some of us have to go on empty-handed, with nothing but fading memories of lives NOT lived; at least, not lived long enough.

Survivor's guilt, loss, anger, all those things slow me down. People have told me how brave I am and how well I am handling this.

They have no idea!

I miss your voice

Just minding my own business, working away, when suddenly I find myself craving the sound of your voice. We have no recordings; no home movies; nothing but flat paper photographs. Didn't figure we would ever need them because you would always be there. Why, oh WHY didn't we take the time/effort to preserve more of you for ourselves? What if I wake up one day and don't remember the soft sound of the gentle sibilance you inherited from your father? How can we recapture what is lost? How do we move on without tearing ourselves apart.

I know I will see you again, but I want you back, NOW.

Grief and Love

I read this in Desert News online today:

"Grief is love's shadow. If you are going to love, you have to put up with grief sooner or later, but grief intensifies love. Grief drives love into the deeper parts of your soul and being." S.Michael Wilcox

Amen, Bro. Wilcox!

A friend of mine has joined you

A friend of mine, Wiremu Peeni, joined you in Heaven last week. I knew him in High School & met him again for the first time since then when I came to Salt Lake for your surgery, two years ago. I had SUCH a crush on him in school but he never knew. Thought I was a terrible snob because of that darn shyness I passed on to you. We sang in the choir together and shared the stage in a couple of school musicals. He went on to become a music teacher in Alaska, then moved to Salt Lake a few years back. He was living in St. George when he died, trying to save the money to go home to Aotearoa. If you meet him, give him my love. He was a Very Good Man, indeed. Wish I could be there; it's getting to be a fun place!

Another week away from you

I don't know what to write anymore. That makes me sad. Perhaps there are no more words, just feelings. Perhaps I'm healing. Mostly I'm just living, trying to find sufficient joy in life on earth to warrant a place at your side when it is done. Can't wait to meet your baby nephew/niece. Go by and warn him/her about us, will you? :-)

Mummy

Rain and Sunshine

Couldn't help thinking of you last night as an amazing ray of sunlight shone through the light, refreshing rain shower falling around our house. Is your leaving a burst of sunshine or a drowning, drenching rain? Rain for us; sunshine for you; coping with both requires a balance I don't always find, but this photo reminds me that one brings beauty to the other, whichever way we feel.

I love you beyond words, worlds or eternities.

Mother's Day

Yesterday was another Mother's Day. Not so hard as last year, just after losing you, and also not so hard as the years spent away from you and your siblings living so far from me when you were young, but still a little hard. I heard from everyone but you, and felt your large, warm presence a little throughout the day. We went out through Sisters, past the Subway store you worked at so proudly, and out to Suttle Lake, where you, Livvie & I had been together a few times. Scott & I built a fire by the lake and sat reading aloud together. Then we came back through Sisters & splurged on dinner at a restaurant we hadn't tried before. It was delicious, but I didn't go anywhere near the Habanero sauce you would have guzzled down; I'm not THAT brave ;-)

Hope you're busy being happy & happy being busy. Think of us all; we need your prayers so much more than you need ours, now.

A quiet spot for you

It's a beautiful, modest spot by the back fence of an old cemetery in the Mill Creek area of Salt Lake. You're right where you like to be, on the edge, observing. I actually thought my grief was over today but then we went downtown to a festival for Cinco de Mayo and got into the crowd. Remember how I said last year I don't like crowds anymore? For some reason that's when I feel the most alone; the most vulnerable, as though the people around me should know what I'm feeling! Now I miss you all over again. It's become a familiar, almost comforting ache. It's good to know you're still close enough to touch.

Further & Further away from you

'Rissa is right; we are moving further away from that dreadful day. That ought to feel good, but it doesn't. I so desperately want to hold onto you and I feel I can only do that through pain. It's that "selfish" thing again (see my first post). I think it made me feel important, being there with you to help you bravely soldier on.

"Bunkum!" You were right to object to us "taking over your illness" as you once stated. We're just hangers-on left with only a bright star of memory to cling to; and cling we will, whenever we feel you slipping away from our immediate memories. You gave us a rallying cry of togetherness that is slowly drifting back to normalcy. After you left I determined to call your siblings every week, and I did for a while. Now I try to remember they have lives & don't need to hear from me so much.

That's why I had stopped calling you every Sunday; then you were gone. Now it's been a year and I think I'm supposed to move on.

I don't WANT to!

The first anniversary of your leaving

I slept in, today. I'll be thinking of you constantly but not particularly sorrowfully, perhaps because other cares have intruded - life actually DOESN'T stop for our personal tragedies - but mostly because I'm choosing to feel numb, like I did a year ago. I'm in Washington at Larissa's home, but I had planned to be in Salt Lake, putting a fresh pile of snapdragons on your still unmarked grave. I'll be walking/sitting there in my mind today. I'm sure Livvie will come by. We know you're not there, but we're still physical beings and places matter to us. Most likely I will feel your large, warm presence from time to time throughout the day.

It was bright and sunny here yesterday, but today it is cloudy and grey, just like last year. I'm not sitting beside you, holding your hand, trying to figure out how to fix this hurt and knowing I cannot. A sweet young couple came by to offer the Sacrament to us and it was wonderful to share that sacred time with you, even though you couldn't partake. You had no need of purification, ritual or otherwise, by then. I still expected you to be around a while longer, especially when the hospice coordinator came by to discuss moving you the next day, but it wasn't what you wanted. The last thing I asked you was, "Are you bored, son?" and you whispered, "Yes!" I knew then that you would need to go. We ADHD types simply can't do NOTHING, that would be a living hell, and you needed no part of it.

So we let you go. We have our own journeys to complete. May they pass swiftly.

Today is my sister Janet's 65th birthday. Poor girl, she barely gets a thought from me this weekend as I prepare for the 1st anniversary of my son's death. I did call her, briefly, and wish her Happy. Tomorrow I may try to write more, but for now if you want to follow along, click on George's older sister's blog. She has captured the journey down and the time at the hospital perfectly. If you can't find the link, it's www.snapdragons4george.blogspot.com

Almost a year ago

A few hours from now I will pass the moment when, one year ago today, I received a call at my work in Oregon from the University of Utah Critical Care Unit trying to reach George's dad because is was time for someone to start making decisions for George. I didn't even know he was worse - thought he was happily starting his next round of treatment; radiation to add to the oral chemotherapy he had already begun. I hadn't called him the previous Sunday just to allow him his adult space. I think my last conversation with him had been along the lines of, "Are you getting on with your life? Have you thought about school? You know, you could serve a special Mission (for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints) while you recover."

He wasn't recovering. He was dying. He just wanted to keep it to himself, either to not bother us or just because it was his own, private journey. I'm going to spend the weekend in Vancouver, Washington with two of my kids & my grandkids. It's going to be a rough few days.

I miss you, Gingle!

Comfort from my faith

The week after I returned from George's funeral we studied 1 Samuel and one of those incredible "tender mercies" touched my soul: 1 Samuel 1: 28 says "I have lent him to the Lord". That's how I try to think of my son, too.

A perfect description of my son

"In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night . . . And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend."
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (The Little Prince, Chapter 26)

August, 2010

My son died in May. He was the youngest and the biggest, my father’s height – 6 ft 5 in – but blonde like his father, with my hazel eyes. I have wanted to write about it since that cloudy day, but found myself practically unable to think for several weeks; reading was impossible, all I could do was knit for hours at a time. Crying still happens in spurts and at the most unexpected times. I went to a poetry reading today and when one woman talked about her son surviving 4 tours in Iraq the tears just started to spill. I let them fall then quietly wiped them away. I don’t think anyone saw. I certainly didn’t want to explain them; didn’t want to steal her joy and cover it with vituperative sorrow, you know, “Why mine and not hers?” I don’t like crowds anymore. Never knew I did, actually, but now when I find myself in a large group, particularly of happy people, I just quietly leave. I am not known for quietness. Last night we went to a live symphony, and I realize now that for the first time I didn’t mind being among so many people. Of course, Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto would soothe any soul, particularly when so brilliantly played.

It’s time to write.

When George was born in January of 1986, I spoke with the midwife and doula about the broad stairway linking us to heaven, with souls travelling up and down. My child was coming down, and someone else’s loved one was climbing back up. The midwife’s grandfather died that very day. George was a large baby; three weeks early and still a hearty 9 lbs 11 oz. His head didn’t mold as it was supposed to so it was a bit tricky getting him here, but he made it. A few days later he started to show signs of jaundice and would have had to go to the hospital unless we could get some sunlight on him. We put his crib by the window and, lo and behold, we had several days of clear skies that allowed the winter sun to bath away the yellow pigment as his body finally took up its new responsibilities.

We had already decided to call him George; my mother, who was also there at his birth, said she never knew a George who wasn’t lucky. His middle name was to be Raymond, his father’s grandfather’s name. Being huge Beatles fans, his father and I also read a biography of the group that stated of George Harrison, “George, the youngest of four, was the family favorite.” That settled it; we were sure he would be our last child and he was – for 2 more years.

His early childhood was unremarkable. We moved from Utah to Oregon when he was six months old and he fit in happily as the baby, then the youngest boy when his little sister came along. His older sister, the first-born, became a second mother to him as my workload increased. We all worked together to be happy and united until his father and I ended our marriage and he was taken back to Utah. I only saw him on holidays and in the summer from then on, except for the one delightful year when his dad was unemployed and I got to have him with me for 3rd Grade. I remarried that year and my father died, over in England. I remember him putting his arms around my waist while I cried. I also remember my mother being with us for a time and coming home one day to a furious little tow-head, hands on hips, firmly declaring, “Mom, grandma is turning us into SLAVES!”

Somewhere in High School he grew past his older brothers into a large, warm-hearted young man. It wasn’t really a surprise as his pediatrician had told me when he was two, “Helen, you don’t need to be an MD to know George is going to be tall.” He wasn’t athletic, though I’m sure someone at his school watched & hoped. He was quiet and gentle, shy and introspective. He enjoyed a private and eclectic taste in music – his big sister has his iPod now and she is constantly surprised at the selection. The only games he enjoyed were video games and, with an inherited tendency to clinical depression, he had few friends and never dated. Despite this, he was a Very Funny Man! His quick mind and verbal acuity easily brought quips to his lips that had those around him in stitches. It’s a family thing, but he was the best at it. We managed to gather the brood for two or three group portraits, but the last real photo we have of him is his High School Senior picture. It sits in my living room now.

After High School, George and Olivia came to live with me while their father took a job in Europe. Olivia was a Sophomore and spent the rest of her High School years with me. George took a job at Subway and worked hard to be the best. He had been troubled with migraines for several years and occasionally staggered under severe episodes of déjà vu that left him disoriented and nauseous. When we took him to a doctor to renew his depression medication, the visual aspect of these events concerned him and he suggested we get an MRI as soon as possible. He made the appointment himself. We had the picture taken and the neurologist said he would get back to us in about a week. Two days later he called and asked us to come in at 4pm the following day. When we arrived I chose to stay in the reception area as I had a bad cold, but the receptionist soon called me over and said the doctor wanted me in the room. He turned his laptop around and showed us what he had found. A large area of George’s right temporal lobe was a different shade of grey from the rest of the image and he told us it was a tumor about 6 centimeters across. We would need to consult a neurosurgeon about a biopsy, so we could see what we were dealing with. He said Dr. Belza was about to leave on a one-week vacation to Poland with his father, but he would be happy to cancel the trip if we wanted the surgery done the next day. George and I decided we needed time to absorb what was happening and we planned for the following week.

astrocytoma : n a primary tumor of the brain composed of astrocytes and charterized by slow growth . . .

It had been growing for years, possibly even since birth. The hospital’s cancer board felt targeted radiation was the best option, as the tumor was growing too slowly for chemotherapy and this treatment was designed to damage the cells’ DNA without killing the cells themselves, unless they divided. After six weeks of treatment, the mass had shrunk 25%, indicating we had just caught it on the verge of a growth spurt. We were assured this should take care of the problem, and it did – for a while. George returned to Utah a few months later and continued under observation for three more years, when the tumor started growing again and it was decided to attempt to remove it. They got as much as they could but some was now in the brain stem and couldn’t be reached. Since the growth rate was now fast enough to respond to chemotherapy he was given oral treatments that should have worked, but it seemed we had woken a sleeping giant, and just ten months after the surgery the worst thing happened. From an initial diagnosis of Grade 2 to the more rapid Grade 3, in April 2010 it became Grade 4 – and now I see the rest of the definition cited above:

. . . often followed by the development of a highly malignant glioblastoma within the primary tumor mass.

The doctors said they had never seen any tumor this aggressive. He was scheduled for radiation treatment to augment the chemotherapy but he collapsed at home on the day he was supposed to start the regime and was admitted to the hospital, where he died four days later. We were all there except his oldest brother, who arrived with his new bride early the next morning. We all had jobs to get back to so we buried him three days later and then came home.

These are the facts. The feelings are almost indescribable. One of the most surprising is the feeling that no-one has this grief. As I said to my brother-in-law, I know I’m not the only mother to have lost a son, but I sure feel like it. He pointed out that I’m the only mother who has lost George; that no one can experience my grief, anymore than I can experience theirs. I also learned that the stages of grief are misnamed; they are really a cycle that goes around and around. I even catch myself in the so-called First Stage, Shock, followed by Denial. You would think those would go away, but they don’t. Anger comes and goes and varies in its target from the doctors to God to George himself for not telling us what he knew was happening. I don’t really understand Bargaining; seems kind-of pointless to me, since nothing will bring him back. Depression is obvious and fortunately, for me, tends to yield to sleep. Acceptance? There is more and more of it as time goes by, but it’s still rather soon, I’m told. The thing I battle the most probably belongs under Depression and is tied in with my religious beliefs. If Heaven is so good that my Georgie is happy and useful there, why do I have to stay behind? Why can’t I be allowed to join him? My children are raised, there may be good I can do, but I honestly struggle to find value in this life for myself. Frankly, I just don’t want to be here anymore. See any anger there? Maybe some Bargaining? My life for his or, since that can’t happen, couldn’t we just end this excruciating separation?

My friend, Jai, whose late wife was my dearest friend, put it clearly when he said, “Grief is a very selfish thing. It’s not about anyone but ourselves.” He’s right, but I’m still mad!

There's no tragedy in life like the death of a child. Things never get back to the way they were.

Dwight D. Eisenhower