Slippers, Stocking Stuffers and Moving Furniture

Last year during our annual poetry slam that we have to celebrate Evan's love of poetry, we had a time of just hanging out in our family room. Not much about our family room had changed since Evan and Alex would hang out with their friend here back in the day. We chatted a bit about how we wanted to change things a bit and possibly get some new furniture and change the room's configuration. For me, this was a tough change, and even to talk about it welled up feelings that made me weepy.

As a grieving parent, it's impossible to explain the impact changes like this make. I feel like changes like this bring about the thought that if it changes, Evan won't be here anymore. Like somehow, the position of furniture holds his presence. It is probably why Evan's room is still in the same condition as the day he left for class, never to be occupied by him again. It was comforting for me to know that one of Evan's friends felt the same about changing the room, and although I know it was for different reasons, it was very similar to how I was feeling. That evening that same friend mentioned that his feet were cold or something like that, and I remembered something that helped me heal a deep yearning.

It was always part of the fun of the season for me to get the stocking stuffers every Christmas. I start looking for stuff early on and put stuff away that I later forget where I put them, and that's a story of its own, lol. So the Christmas that Evan passed away, I had purchased slippers for everyone that I put away. We didn't spend Christmas at home that year, so I forgot that they were hidden. Fast forward to 2019, and I found the slippers while searching for some other things in my closet. It was a hard find—a treasure but yet such a feeling of deep sorrow and sadness. I couldn't take them back as so much time had passed. So as we sat in my family room talking about changes to that room and the difficulty of those changes, I remembered the slippers. So when Evan’s friend said his feet were cold, I thought this is the best possible way to give something meaningful and it was satisfying a real need. So the slippers found a home, and my heart rested, knowing that I was giving them to one of Evan's friends.

The holidays are tough. Oh, they are happy too, but so much expectation we place on ourselves, and sometimes we just have to lean in and let the emotions fall as they will. It's hard to tell people just how much life changes when you suffer such a great loss as this, but you never truly understand until you suffer it yourself. I often feel melancholy for the sweet days of old. They weren't perfect, but they are days where Evan was here, and my parents were younger and alive, and life was full. My heartaches for those days.

Happy 30th Birthday, Evan!

Change is my most inflexible friend. It reminds me every day that it is arriving, whether I want it to or not. It can sometimes come quietly, but lately, it has decided to use its outside voice to gain traction and to stifle my sense of balance. Some of what I've experienced over the last four years is a lot of change. Not just in the present but for the future. It has shifted my ability to pivot quickly to circumstances beyond my control and has caused me to pause. Grief has changed me, and at times it feels like it's not always for my good. November 26th marks a significant milestone for me, and it will come and go without the world even knowing as our world is plagued with lockdowns and canceled plans, it has become much more challenging to navigate. It has layered upon my grief of Evan multiple secondary losses and has tried to take from me what little joy I've been able to conjure up. This time of year is tough for those suffering the loss of a loved one, and you can multiply that by the loss of social connections, business closures, and fear. What remains is a deep sadness and an overwhelming lack of hope. If you know me, I'm a glass-half-full kind of gal, but if the goal in all of this is to strip us of hope, I'm sure for many, the plan has been met, and it wins. For me, I will always be grounded on the side of hope. Hope is walking me through the death of my child; it most certainly can get me through anything this world can throw at me.

Evan would have turned 30 years old on November 26th. Many of his birthdays were spent celebrating Thanksgiving, and as Evan got older, unfortunately, Thanksgiving would be spent serving the retail industry and its patrons. Turning 30 is an incredible milestone for most young adults. As this day has come closer, and as I've walked through several major life events in the last 90 days, I struggle with every ounce of courage to grab hold of hope. It's hard, and I'm trying to see the good in all the depth of sorrow I feel. I'm trying to remember the words Evan spoke to me in the last letter he wrote to me on Mother's Day 2016...He said, "That is one of my favorite parts about you: your ability to remain calm, collected, and positive even in the face of vulnerable circumstances." As Evan's friends also reach these milestones and others like this, such as getting married, having children, purchasing homes, and fully walking out their lives, I'm left on the sidelines with memories and days long gone and forgotten. People like me like to be fully present at every milestone, especially with those we care about. I’m having the most challenging time with the created normal imposed on my life. So I continue to live in yesterday's memories trying hard to be present today and always aware of what could have been. To speak these words is difficult and can appear harsh, but I'm speaking from grief and loss and this voice isn't for everyone; it's the reality of child loss.

So as we gather around our table to celebrate a day set aside for Thankfulness, my thankfulness is connected with the memories of spending 25 years, 11 months, and two weeks with Evan here on earth and the grief that you are not here with us for this birthday and for all of the other milestones in the future.

This reality is my greatest heartache!!

Touch of Heaven

This morning at maybe 3:30am you entered into my dreams, and that has not happened to me since before the accident. I hung between waking and sleep just because the realness of your presence was tangible. When I finally had woken up I wanted to write all of it down. I’m weeping cause the nearness of you was so real. I could see you and sense you as if you genuinely were here. You were whole. I saw you just like you were before you left to go out with your friends. Nearly clear shaven and haircut like the first photo in this gallery. Your eyes had a smile in them. You held me in the hug that always brought comfort and understanding. You had on a black sweatshirt I remember that you wore and black jeans. I heard you downstairs in the bathroom you were looking in the mirror. You saw me and said I know you don’t think I’m here, but it’s me. You came to me, and you gave me the biggest hug, and you said I know you miss me. I couldn’t speak. I wish I could have said more to you although it didn't seem necessary. You seemed to understand. You seemed to know that I miss you. That all of us miss you. I honestly have not cried as much as I have in the last few days as I have since you died. These aren't just tears this is guttural crying from the depths of my soul. My soul cries for you. Thank you for reaching out from eternity to let me know you understand our longing for you. That you see the longing, your brother has for you. That you know how much you are missed. The ache in my heart is without quenching, but I also am so thankful that you came to me. Thank you for such a great hug. I wish so much that you were here and although I know that cannot be I'm grateful Evan that you reached out from eternity to give your mom a hug and hold me close. Grief has a strange way of showing up in the time and space that you least expect it. Today it took my breath away and I am still trying to make sense of all of the feelings that it brings.