So,,,,,,,Christmas

Up until this weekend you wouldn't have known it was Christmas, at least not at our house.  No decorations (inside or out), no tree, no Christmas cards or the annual Hassett newsletter going out to family and friends, no rum balls - we just haven't had the heart or the energy.  But Friday Alex & Amy came home and Christmas came out, if only a shadow of it's former self.  That's one of the problems with grief, you re-evaluate all your old traditions; which ones do you keep, which do you discard, which do you change or reinvent?  It doesn't feel right to repeat them as if Ian was still here, it's somehow disrespectful; but you don't want to completely disregard those things that are full of memories and brought you so much joy - that seems to negate his life and all he meant to us. So Friday afternoon, we went in search of a Christmas tree - not too big, not too small but large enough to hold most of the ornaments we had collected over the last 23 years.  We found the perfect $20 tree at Home Depot.  The first words out of the guys mouth when we entered the lot was, "$20 bucks - any tree on the lot".  Eric promptly went to the largest tree they had and actually was enjoying himself (nothing makes him happy like a 'deal').  After some searching we found our tree - not too big and not too small.  Then Alex & Amy got the boxes down from the attic.  Two boxes of ornaments full of memories.  I had been dreading this moment; opening up Ian's ornaments and the memories that each ornament brought.  We placed all Ian's ornaments aside until the very end - his firemen wreath, the glass ones we made one year, his baby cradle, the piano, his bowl of udon noodles, etc.  Our new 'red robin' ornament went near the top then we realized that we didn't have our traditional angel for the top of the tree (it wasn't in the boxes that came down from the attic) so a new traditional was born.  A memory ornament that was made for us by my friend Julie became the perfect Christmas tree 'angel' for our tree - it was exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment.

Today was Sunday and all of us were at church together, everyone except Ian but then Ian hadn't gone with us to church for several years.  The last few years of his life he struggled with questions about God and who He is and what role He plays in our lives so he stopped coming with us to church.  But I hold firm to God's promise that nothing can remove his children from his hand and Ian's decision to ask Jesus to be the Lord of his life when he was younger; I also remind myself of Ian's last words of wonder and amazement at the things he was seeing before he died.  Because of those promises, I thought, maybe Ian is with us this morning after all, worshiping the same God together - his surroundings are just more glorious than ours.  Even if I can't see the big picture or the blueprint that would show us why Ian died so young, Ian can and I can be content with that for now. It's so much more important that Ian knows the "why's" of God's plan and he can see and understand why God took him so soon.  I would imagine he is praising God for saving him from whatever his life would have held for him.

Part of the struggle with grieving is the daily battle to become 'better' and not 'bitter'.  You have to fight against the bitterness, it would be so easy to let it take over but I don't want that for myself or my family.  It's our choice and one we have to make daily. 

All roads lead back.....

It seems no matter what I'm thinking about, my thoughts always weave their way back to Ian.  Eric & I signed the papers today to establish a Trust along with Power of Attorneys and Durable Medical Power of Attorney; I'm reading through the medical papers (the usual - don't keep alive on machines, pull the plug, etc.) and my mind went back to when Ian had to sign a Do Not Resuscitate order while he was in the hospital before he died.  I was reading all the stipulations and thinking "these are the things Ian wanted as well" - I start crying at the weirdest times.

Then tonight, I was thinking about a call I got from Dr. DiCarlo about Alex's latest blood test results.  We were talking about sending his notes to our Primary doctor, who we really like and is very thorough and tests for everything.  I thought, I would much rather have a doctor who over-tests than one who overlooks things......leading back to Ian's doctor who didn't ask for a chest x-ray for weeks before he was diagnosed.  I know those couple of weeks probably wouldn't have made any difference but once again, all roads lead back to Ian.....and more crying.  Thankfully, I am blessed with a wonderful husband who understands when I cry at the most inappropriate times.

I thought I had been doing rather well today too, considering it's been 6 months exactly since Ian died.  This morning, I thought "I'm not doing too bad.  Maybe this anniversary won't hit me as hard as others have."  It's an odd feeling, like he died yesterday and ages ago at the same time.  It's just so hard to go through the day missing him so much.

Surrounding myself

I finally closed out Ian's bank account today....the one with all his money from "Ian's Wish" aka the 'Ian Hassett Memorial Art Scholarship'.  We finally got the okay from our CPA to transfer the money out to a separate account.  Do you know how embarrassing it is to cry at the teller's window?  I was doing fine, holding it together but then a classmates of Ian's came to the window to help with the transaction and my self-control kinda bit the dust.  It was just that final act of closing out his account cuz he's not here to use it.  The tellers were very sweet and even brought me a whole box of Kleenex but no matter how hard I tried to stop, no amount of deep breaths could stop the tears rolling down my face.  Such a silly, little thing but that's how it is with grief - the little things will trip you up.  I can only imagine what the other folks in the bank must have thought; I was losing my house, all my checks had bounced, who knows and I can't bring myself to care.

I'm trying to surround myself with things that I know are good for me; christian friends, going to church, bible study, but for me, it's mostly about the praise music.  The lyrics penetrate this fog of grief, almost every song I hear speaks directly to my heart; just like God intended.  Even though my heart isn't in it, I surround myself with these things because I believe they will seep in and one day when I'm not quite so numb, I'll be glad that I continued to feed my soul.

I'm making my way through John Piper's 'Suffering and the Sovereignty of God' (our grief counselor loaned it to us) but this book won't be usable again - the pages keep getting wet.  I found this poem by Martha Snell Nicholson both poignant and full of hope:

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne

And begged him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.

I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart

I cried, "But Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.

This a is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me."

He said, "My child, I give good gifts and gave My best to thee."

I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,

As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.

I learned He never give a thorn without this added grace,

He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.

Seeing hope

We started our new Christmas tradition - donating money in Ian's memory to a non-profit organization that would benefit children in a third-world country.  We got the card today acknowledging that gift ~ is it weird that I sent myself a card?  One of these days I will get together with my scrapbooking friends and work on that scrapbook about all things Ian and I wanted to have a tangible memory of this first donation.  I started thinking about next Christmas and carrying on this tradition.  Then I had the thought - one more Christmas without Ian here, means one year closer to seeing him again.  Maybe if I think of it that way, it would be more bearable.


Eric & I have been talking about whether nor not to have a Christmas Day dinner like we did last year.  It was Ian's idea and he and I worked together to put the menu together.  It was also the first time we had everyone over for Christmas Day dinner, so it was a special event for our family.  I know I wrote down that menu somewhere so I started looking through our CaringBridge entries to see if I had shared it there.  I read those posts and I see such hope even in the midst of insurmountable odds.  I miss that woman.

I finally had the courage to start reading 'Suffering and the Sovereignty of God' by John Piper and Justin Taylor.  So far, so good but I'm only on page 3.  Baby steps towards being that woman again who always saw hope in the circumstances around her.

Thankfulness & trust

On the theme of thankfulness...
"Thankfulness takes the sting out of adversity. That is why I have instructed you to give thanks for everything. There is an element of mystery in this transaction: You give Me thanks (regardless of your feelings), and I give you Joy (regardless of your circumstances). This is a spiritual act of obedience - at times blind obedience. To people who don't know Me intimately, it can seem irrational and even impossible to thank Me for heartrending hardships. Nonetheless, those who obey Me in this way are invariably blessed, even though difficulties may remain. Thankfulness opens your heart to My presence and your mind to My thoughts. You may still be in the same set of circumstances, but it is as if a light has been switched on, enabling you to see from My perspective. It is this light of My presence that removes the sting from adversity. " Jesus Calling

I struggle with several things lately, one of them being thankfulness.  It's funny how just the act of saying, "Thank you Father", even if I don't know what I'm saying 'thank you' for, brings a sense of comfort.  But I also struggle with trust.  I can hear God tell me, 'trust me' but how do I trust someone who has ripped my heart out?  Alex has been having some medical issues along with some issues at school and worrying about these have made me sick to my stomach.  I obsess about making the right decisions, about not missing anything important, about protecting him without smothering him.  Normally, I would try and let these go and turn them over to God but I hesitate.....how can I trust God to look out for Alex and take care of him when His version of 'taking care' of Ian tore him from our lives?  God always rescued us when Alex was sick, we weren't rescued this time.  But maybe Ian was; maybe he was rescued from decisions he would have made, things he would have done.  Even that is of little comfort when the pain of losing him is overwhelming.

I'm working on the trust.  I hope it will come with time.  For now, what can I be thankful for?  The answer I found, at least for now, is the mercy of a God who loved me enough to sacrifice His own son, so He could look upon me.  Look upon me as I meander through this fog of grief, loving me enough to be patient with me, loving me enough to help me heal.......I just have to let Him.

Even Abe understood

I watched Ian's memorial video for the first time.  I don't know if I was trying to torture myself or just wanted to remember all the things that were said that day but it was good to see it.  I remember the day like it was yesterday, but some of the finer details were lost on me that day; jeez, wonder why?

Sometimes I feel like I'm clawing at the air, trying to hang onto Ian; whatever little bit of him is left.  I realized how much worse it would have been if he died at a younger age; my need, my compulsion, to keep him safe, to look out for him would have been overwhelming and my desire to be with him would have been all encompassing.  My dad used to joke that I am a 'lioness' when it comes to my kids.  I will do anything to keep them safe, their welfare and being their protector permeates to my bones and that urge doesn't die, not even when they do.  After we buried Ian, I was glad we decided to have him cremated because I could so easily envision myself tearing into the earth to hold him again, to touch his face, just to reassure myself that he was safe - even if it was in a grave.

We made it through our first Thanksgiving without him - this new normal sucks.  I kept thinking back to previous Thanksgivings when Ian would acquiesce and entertain us on the piano; I will never hear that again and I miss it.  Eric, Amy & I went to see the movie Lincoln today (GREAT movie, by the way) thinking I would escape the constant feeling of loss but even there it surrounded me.  Just before the movie was a commercial for St. Jude's Children's Hospital filled with children battling cancer - I couldn't even bear to look up at the screen.  I have always loved history so I was really looking forward to watching in unfold in front of me.  I had forgotten that even Abe & Mary Lincoln wrestled with the loss of a child - their son, Willie.  I so understood Mary's grief, I understood the freshness of it even years afterwards.  The questions, the 'what if's'....even there I couldn't escape.

Someone very wise shared with Eric his thoughts on our journey through this grief.  When our bodies have suffered a great blow it goes into shock to protect itself - parts of our body will 'shut down' in order to allow itself to heal. He believes the same is true for our spirit; when we have suffered a great loss our spirit goes into a kind of shock.  There are parts of us that goes numb in order to deal with the pain; it doesn't mean that we are less of a Christian but just that our spirits need time to heal......that helped.  Thank you.

Honoring Ian this Christmas

I went to a 'class' today at the Hope Center for those who are grieving a loss on 'how to get through the holidays'.  I had no idea what to expect....I don't usually feel comfortable at 'group' things.  They had some valuable information to help us navigate the holidays but my impatience was getting the best of me.  There were folks going thru all manner of losses....husbands, 'life partners', long time friends, mothers and me.  I just started to get ticked off when they kept saying "all losses are the same"....I have to disagree, from where I'm sitting they aren't.  Somebody grieving the loss of her 85 year old mother after a full life, full of love, marriage, children and grandchildren is NOT the same as grieving the loss of a 19 year old who will not get to experience any of those things.  Yes, it's sad; yes, it's a loss but do not tell me it's the same.

I've been told that suffering a tragedy makes us more compassionate towards others....I guess I'll have to work on that.

I left with a few more tools on how to get through the holidays but still had to answer the question: what to do about Christmas?  Thanksgiving is a given - we sit, we eat, we eat some more, done.  Christmas is a completely different matter.  There are so many different elements wrapped up (excuse the pun) in celebrating Christmas: shopping, baking, wrapping presents, picking out a tree, decorating the tree, decorating the house, Christmas Eve traditions, opening presents.  It just doesn't feel right to do all those things like nothing has happened, like Ian hasn't died.  I wish I could think of some really cool, new thing to do....like flying to Alaska to see the Northern Lights then flying home or spending Christmas in Hawaii, or secluded in a cabin surrounded by snow....but I don't think any of those will help me forget that Ian isn't there to share it all.

We have found one way to honor Ian this Christmas.  During our late night talks, Ian & I would talk about silly things.  We would also talk about the things that mattered to him, things he dreamt of doing 'after cancer'.  His greatest wish was to go away to college, I'm so sorry I wasn't able to help him do that.  I can still hear him tell me, "I just want to go to college mom.  I just really want to go away to college."

Another wish he shared with me was to travel to third world countries with a non-profit organization and work with the people there.  He wanted to give back and experience the world through others eyes.  He especially wanted to work in Asian countries.  Ian will never be able to do either of those things but I can do my best to help honor those wishes.  So, this year, for Ian's Christmas present, Eric & I will be making a donation to World Vision in Ian's name, to provide medicine for children in third world countries.  To our family and friends who would normally have given Ian a present this Christmas, we would like to encourage you to do something similar.  Pick a charity of your choosing and make a donation in Ian's name.  I can't think of a better way to honor him (and I promise to work on the 'compassion' thing).

The fog

I haven't written in a while, not because we haven't been busy, but because there have been no revelations, no light bulbs going off to enlighten me, no monumental moments.....just a fog of missing Ian.  It's pretty amazing how well you can function in a fog; you get up, you get dressed, you go to work, you even laugh at jokes and smile but the fog is still there, lingering.

I took the day off for Ian's birthday; he would have been 20.  Eric made it at work until 9:30am, then he called and said he was coming home too.  The day was harder than I thought it would be.  We took fresh flowers to Ian's grave then we met with a few of Ian's friends at one of his favorite restaurants - IHOP.  We met late (for us) at 8:30pm, ate and shared Ian stories.  Ian had some great friends and it meant a lot to us to spend the evening with them.  It was a good night.

Two days later I flew off to Colorado for a long overdue, girls weekend with my high school friends, Debbie & Kelly (we all turned 50 this year and needed to celebrate).  I kept waiting for some catastrophe to occur to ruin the weekend; my back goes out, my car breaks down on the way to the airport, our plane crashes....something....but nothing happened. We had a great weekend.  Sometimes there is nothing like old friends who know you, love you and let you be yourself.  Our first night in Breckenridge, Deb took us to her favorite restaurant and we were sitting around the table, having a good time, laughing - then it hit me - I shouldn't be laughing, I've lost Ian.  Then this small voice told me, "It's okay mom, I want you to have a good time." and it all seemed alright.   It was a great weekend and a much needed reprieve.

Yesterday, Eric, my dad and I went to Santa Barbara to make some decisions on Ian's headstone and to see his art work at the Channing Peake Gallery.  It was a very emotional day.  I wrote the woman who organized the show to thank her for such a gripping arrangement of Ian's work and this was her reply: 
"His work has garnered such praise from people who visit the exhibition, the work looks so mature and people are moved by his story. I gave him his own wall because the work was so strong that frankly it might take away from any work that was placed next to it! When I place work on walls it is often a balancing act to make sure one piece does not overshadow the other, but Ian’s is one of those compelling pieces that is so powerful it needs it’s own space; and it’s great that it is on a wall that people see first when they enter the building. They are taken by the image and then they read his story."
How wonderful that Ian's work stands on it's own merit. 

The hardest part of grieving, besides the obvious, of missing Ian, are the questions it raises.  I'm doing what I can to resolve those questions - I attend a grief bible study, Eric & I see a grief counselor, I read books on grief but it's a slow process.  The other night in my bible study we read  from Job (normally I avoid Job like the plaque); "and Job did not sin and he didn't blame God."  That has stuck with me and confused me.  Trying to marry God's sovereignty with Ian's death has been hard.....some people's definition of God's sovereignty would mean because He is in charge of everything, that He caused Ian's death and if He did, then who else is there to blame but God?  But Job didn't blame God, so he must have known something we don't.  I don't think sovereignty means 'dictator' or 'puppet master'.  I'm no biblical scholar, I'm no great mind.   I'm just a mom, trying to figure out God's role in all this loss.  Greater minds than mine have studied and poured over scripture to try and define God and it just seems to me that maybe we spend too much time trying to define Him when we should just be worshiping Him.  Maybe it just needs to come down to simple worship - not debating the 5 points of Calvinism or Free Will.  God is so much more complex than we can imagine.  The truth is usually some place in the middle and I think there are things we are not meant to or capable of understanding.  I know thinking about all this hurts my head.

A season of firsts

We are beginning a season of 'firsts' for our family.......our first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's without Ian; the first scholarship given out in his memory, the first anniversary of his death.  We start all these with Ian's first birthday since he died - this Wednesday, October 24th; he would have been 20 years old.  He shares that birthday with both of his great-grandmothers - Alice and Ardith.  I like to thank that he'll be celebrating with them this year - so he'll still be with family.

It's funny that I remember the day he was born so clearly but then I remember all the births of my kids very clearly.  Ian was my only child to arrive on his due date - Alex & Amy wanted to 'bake' a while longer.  At 8lbs., 2 ozs., Ian was also my smallest baby.  My folks were coming over from Bakersfield for the day just in case Ian decided to make his appearance.  Eric was installing cement walkways in front of our old house on Ronald Place and I decided to take Alex & Amy on a walk (or waddle) around the block to try and help things along (I had already scrubbing floors by hand and other various tasks to try and get him here).  All of that must have worked since my water broke after I got home.  I remember calling Dr. Callahan and telling him my water has either broken or I've lost all bladder control.  Amy made her appearance in under 2 hours from start to finish, so I informed Eric that we needed to get to the hospital (Ian was also my only child born at the hospital - I had Alex & Amy at the, now closed, birthing center).  He wanted to know if he had time to finish the cement - I don't remember my exact reply but it was probably something sarcastic.

Luckily, my mom and dad arrived very soon after that and they were greeted with "Oh good, you're here - we're going to the hospital".  They were thrilled.  Eric & I took off for Marian and the labor pains didn't start until we were on the elevator.  As we were standing at the check-in counter upstairs, we kept hearing these LOUD utterances from the room next to the counter.  Anything you ever heard from a woman in labor in a movie or TV show was coming from that room; "Just get it out!!!", "I can't do this!", "OOOOOOO!" - it was amazing.  We got checked into a room around the corner, but not out of earshot.  I told Eric, I was not making a sound - and I didn't.  Ian was born less than 1-1/2 hours later with this perfectly shaped round head full of brown hair; he was beautiful and completely healthy.

A few weeks after that I was taking Alex to his Head Start class at Adam School around the block from our house and I ran into one of his teachers, who had just had her baby.  We began comparing notes:
"When was Ian born?"
"The 24th"
"Oh, really - my baby was born on the 24th too."
"Oh......really?"
"What time was Ian born?"
"12:26pm.  What time was your baby born?"
"Around that same time."
We both just stared at each other for a few seconds, both of us thinking, "Is she the screamer?"  Eventually, one of us said, "Did you hear that women screaming?"
We both laughed in relief that neither one of us was 'the screamer'.

Ian provided a lot of other funny stories in his short life, those are what I will try and remember as I celebrate my boy on his birthday this year.  I love you Ian and miss you more than you could imagine.

I saw a red robin this morning in our backyard, the first one I've seen since Ian died; I'm thankful for that small reminder that God is watching over us.

Age brings a longing

When I was younger I used to feel guilty because I wasnt' eager to get to heaven.  There was so much to do here; things to see, places to explore and events to experience.  I never understood how people could 'long for heaven'.....I do now.  This world isn't fun anymore, it's full of pain and sadness and loss; always loss.  I know there are moments of fun, jokes to laugh at.  I know that there will be things I won't want to miss like Amy getting married or our first grandchildren, but even those moments, I'm afraid, will be tinged with a drop of sadness because Ian won't be there to experience them with us.

Our counselor was telling us about a theory that in heaven everyone has a job - something they are gifted at that is used to bring glory to God.  I like to think of Ian painting, learning beside age old masters, showing him different drawing techniques or playing the piano - I miss him bringing notes on a page to life.  I walk by the piano every day, his music still there waiting for him and I miss his music so much!

I was thinking back to our trip to Monterrey.  Ian wanted to go, so we just went; one of the best things we've ever done.  What do I remember the most from that trip?  That we went with the moment, we did things on a whim, we didn't plan everything out, we laughed, we did what felt right for us at that moment and it created some wonderful memories.  It made Ian smile.  I look back on the trips we took with our kids, and it was time and money well spent.  You can't replace a month spent crossing the country, cooped up in a 30 foot RV or snorkeling together in Hawaii or exploring a cave in the desert.  Please, please don't get so caught up in the busyness of your life and forgot about the really important things - taking the time to listen to your children tell you about their day, that extra game of Go Fish, a cuddle on the couch, digging in the dirt looking for pirate treasure.  The housework can wait (the dust isn't going anywhere), the phone can go unanswered.  The moments you lose with your children can never be regained.  I saw a dad the other day while Eric & I  walking around downtown SLO and his little girl was energetically walking around him, talking away, telling him some important story that couldn't wait; all while he was entranced with his cell phone. I wanted to shake him. Didn't he know that the day is soon coming when she won't want to tell him her stories, when she'll see that his phone is more important to him than she is, when all those moments will be gone? I was far from the perfect parent.....I missed opportunities, I thought the 'adult' things I needed to get done were so much more important than playing 'choo-choo' or 'tea  party' and in the grand scheme of things, they weren't.  They were my way of making me feel more important.  I didn't realize the most important job I had was two feet tall and staring up at me, waiting for my attention.

What I know......

What began as a hunt for carbon paper (I know some folks won't have any idea what that is but I remember it fondly) in Ian's room yielded much better results - papers Ian had written. I found this in one of Ian's comp books, it's so Ian:
    "I like playing Baroque chamber music really loud while driving.
     I like seeing what people looked like as children.
     I like touchscreen phones that vibrate when you touch them.
     I like names that have a 'V' in them.
     I like going to sleep while listening to the rain hit the roof.
     I like Spanish accents
     I like the sound of an orchestra getting in tune
     I like driving when there's lots of stuff in the car so it slides around when I make a turn.
     I like spinning around underneath a ceiling fan and looking up.
     I like social experiments.
     I like it when everyone shares their dishes at a restaurant.
     I like laying on the carpet right after it's been vacuumed.
     I like it when people eat out of their friend's refrigerators without asking
     I like very small squeaking noises."

I also found a story Ian had written about our cross-country trip describing something I had no memory of.  Then there were the poems that he wrote....remembrances of his wit and glimpses into what was important to him.  All of them allowing me to know Ian a little bit better.

I started thinking about what I 'know' because things I thought I knew have changed.  Things that used to bring me comfort leave me feeling empty, things that were familiar are now foreign.  There a lot of things I don't know - why Ian had to die so young, why he'll never get to do the things he dreamed of doing (like going away to college), why our children have had to suffer so much from medical problems, why nothing we tried worked to save Ian, why God did this. 

So what do I know:
I know that God is sovereign.
I know that He is in control of all things, including Ian's death.
I know this hurts.
I know this will take a long time to heal.
I know that God has made promises I can cling to. 
I know that He says He loves me. 
I know that this will change me, hopefully for the better.
I know I can choose whether I allow this to make me bitter or better. 
I know my life will be different from now on.
I know I will miss Ian for the rest of my life.
I know I will see Ian again.

Ponderings from an untrained mind

This 'trust' thing is hard.  It's easy to trust someone who is leading you down a smooth, level path framed with bright flowers and the proverbial birds are signing.  It's much harder to trust someone who is leading you over a rocky path with twists and turns, where logs continually trip you up; there are no flowers, only small glimpses of color peaking through the gravel and the birds are no where to be seen - all you hear is deafening silence. You wonder what lesson is there to be learned in all this sadness, all this loss? 

Then you start to ask yourself, "If I had learned this lesson (whatever it is) earlier, would my son still be alive?"  All of the trials we've been through before, was I too stubborn to understand what God was trying to teach me?  If I had paid more attention then, would it have saved my son? ~ did my sinfulness somehow cause God to resort to one more trial?  This one so horrendous, so devastating that I had no choice but to pay careful attention to what He was trying to teach me?  If I had been a better Christian, would Ian still be alive?

I spend most of my time trying to make sense out of something senseless.  You want answers but there aren't any.  My mind is at war constantly - how do I fit all the pieces that I have believed and known about God up until now to fit into a picture that is recognizable?  It was always very easy for me to picture God as my loving, heavenly Father because I have such a wonderful example in my own dad.  My dad listened to the rantings of a hormonal 13 year old, he was always ready with a hug and an encouraging word, he was fair but kind and he has never stopped loving me - that's my impression of a father and I envisioned God to be the same kind of father.  But my dad would never purposely do something to hurt me, to cause me so much pain - he would never tear my own son away from me; God did.  Now how do I reconcile the God who would take my son with the God who loved me enough to sacrifice His own son for me?  My mind becomes cloudy trying to formulate the answer.  In the midst of my pondering, God surrounds me with subtle messages - from songs on the radio, from books, from scripture ......all pointing to reminders that He loves me, to cry out to Him in my sorrow, to cling to His promises.  Maybe there are no answers, there is only the journey.

Receipt memories

One of the things that doesn't get done when your son is battling cancer is your checkbook or your taxes.  I am now working to rectify that and entering all of our checks/debit receipts for 2011 into our Quicken account.  The unexpected effect of that is seeing receipts from the last 16 months of Ian's life and re-living every one of them.  I'm already up to September 2011 and I came across a receipt from Blick Art Supply ~ we stopped there after our first meeting with Dr. Pinter-Brown at UCLA.  I remember the whole trip in my head and I find myself saving the receipt instead of throwing it away.  Each receipt is a memory - a breakfast before chemo, a dinner out; things we all do everyday and things I'll never do with Ian again.  Who would have thought that balancing your checkbook could be so painful.


So what memories were brought to mind while balancing October 2011???  Ian's white, super-plush throw rug.  He wanted a white rug for his room.  We had torn up the carpet and replaced it with wood flooring  a few months before and he thought a white rug would look really cool in his room.  Never mind that it would get dirty; we got him one.  It must have been 2 inches high and so terribly soft - you should have seen the grin on his face when we brought it home.  Who cares that every time I tried to vacuum it, my vacuum would start overheating and you could smell burning rubber - he loved the rug and it was worth it (it cost almost as much to clean it as it cost to buy it!)

Then, there were the grey suede shoes.  I remember so clearly sitting with him on the couch and him asking if he could get some nice dress shoes.  What am I goin' say?  He looked online for days.  Most of the ones he found were outrageously expensive (the boy had expensive taste) and he would show me all of them - I loved that part.  'Hey mom, what do you think of these?' - how I wish I could hear him say that just one more time.  He finally found some really cool, grey suede, pointy shoes with white soles (what is it with this boy and white?).  So we ordered them last October and they were exactly what he wanted and they looked so modern and cool; they looked like Ian.  He wore them to Hancock one night and told me that he was walking by some girls in the quad when they suddenly stopped their talking while he walked by.  He had gotten a few feet away when he heard one of them whisper, "Did you see those shoes?".  Ian was soooo stoked!

I was actually looking forward to balancing November.  What I saw were lots of receipts for food and drugs; lots and lots of drugs.  December brought better memories - our last Christmas dinner as a family.  Ian and I had sat one night and planned out a family Christmas Day dinner, something new for our family.  We usually did most of our big family celebrations Christmas Eve and had a quiet day with just the five of us at home Christmas day.  I would make a special breakfast for us but the rest of day was spent relaxing.  Ian wanted to do something different that year - he wanted a  big family dinner on Christmas Day; grandparents, uncle Mike and great-aunts Betty & LaVerne too - everybody - so that's what we did.  We tried all new receipes, some turned out great, others not so much but it was wonderful.  I also found the receipt for Holloway's Christmas Tree Farm - the last time we would all be together to pick out a tree.  These were better, bittersweet memories.

Ian at graduation June 2010

This month, the 13th hit me harder for some reason.  I've had a difficult week, needing to take our oldest son, Alex, in to see Dr. DiCarlo for testing because of some high blood cell counts we've recently discovered.  Taking Alex in for a bone marrow biopsy on the 13th, was especially ironic.  Then today, blessings to help heal my soul.  Ian's former art teacher asked if we would consider having a show of  Ian's art at the Foxworthy Gallery next spring - another wonderful remembrance of Ian to look forward to.  Then tonight I got an email from a friend of Ian's; she had found some pictures of Ian and thought we might like them - she was mistaken - we LOVED them.  One of the pictures was of Ian at his high school graduation - this is our only picture of Ian that day.  After the graduates walked off the field, we were supposed to meet with Ian so we could take pictures together as a family but he took off.  He was in his 'I hate my parents' phase and he didn't want to be with us so he left for a friends party instead.  I was so embarrassed, angry and hurt that day - it brought home just how strained things had become between us.  I always regretted that we wouldn't have any pictures of that day with Ian but I can throw those regrets away now - thanks Gabby!

Then Gabby gave me an even more wonderful gift - relating a conversation she had with Ian shortly before he died:

"I also wanted to tell you something Ian said to me and Heather when we visited Ian at your home in June. You had just found the chapstick that he had been looking for and when you left the room he told me and Heather "One of the good things about all of this, is that I got to get really close with my mom." I had been wanting to tell you about that conversation but I really hadn't had the chance to yet."

 What a wonderful way to end the day - thank you Lord for using Gabby to bless my soul.

Do's & Don'ts

Right now, I think this part of losing Ian is the hardest.  The missing him is agonizing and the saddness can be overwhelming and at times paralyzing.  Fighting the cancer was a constant emotional 'wild ride' but at least then we had a goal, we had a mission, we had a purpose and we had Ian; I've lost all that.  My goal now is just to get through the day.  Some things make it easier and some things make me think 'really?' as I try to reach my goal. So I thought I would compile a list of, what I hope will be helpful, Do's and Don'ts for what helps someone grieving the loss of a child ~ my own personal observasions so take them with a grain of salt.

Someone loses a child and you don't know what to say - you want to be supportive and helpful and you want to avoid putting your foot in your mouth and possibly making it worse (but really, how much worse can you make it - they've already lost their child; they're already experiencing what will probably be the greatest pain in their lives).

DO share stories of Ian with me - I love to hear them.  Most of them are humorous and may be stories I haven't heard or have forgotten.  Mostly, they help me know that you have not forgotten him and that's the greatest gift you can give me.

DON'T tell me God needed another angel.  I could be mistaken, but I think it's just theologically wrong - angels are created beings just like we are and we don't transform into angels when we die; God already has angels, thinking that God 'needed' another angel doesn't help me.

DO understand that I'm going to cry and I can't help it.  Just be patient with me while I try and regain my composure.  It may have been something you said, but don't feel bad - everything makes me cry.  You don't need to say some magical words to try and comfort me, just a pat on the back is fine.

DON'T talk to me about the 'joy of the Lord'; joy is the last thing I'm feeling right now.  I'm doing good just functioning, joy is not in my DNA right now.  I know it will come later, when the pain has decreased but right now, hearing people tell me I need to experience joy is the same as telling me to climb Mt. Everest.  I am fighting just to find God's peace in all this and that peace is enough for now.


There is a war going on and peace is the prize.  I fight against my own fears and worries trying desperately to trust God in what has happened and where this journey will lead me.  I have silent conversations with God:
     "Why are you doing this?  Haven't we gone thru enough?  Haven't we endured enough?  You've taken my beloved son, isn't that enough?"
     "This is about trusting Me.  I loved you enough to sacrifice my own son for you..... just trust Me"

And when I start to worry and am anxious about my other kids, I think "but I'm not there with them, I have to keep them safe and healthy."  I start to see a pattern - me...me...me.  I'm reminded of my own pride because I hear God respond, "But I am here with them......trust me."

So I will continue to fight this internal battle but always with the help and support of my friends and family and those who love us.  And if you happened to see yourself in any of the "Don'ts" please remember that I know that every word spoken to me has been from a place of love and support and that is how I have taken them.  And Lord knows, I have inserted my foot into my mouth (usually up to my knee) in my inept attempts to 'say the right thing' when I had no idea what to say....we're all in this together and it's a learning curve for all of us.  Thanks for caring enough to make the journey with me.

It's the little things...

It's funny the things that remind me of Ian, like a Senakot commercial (if you've known anyone getting chemo you know how important those little pills can become).  Before Ian died we needed to access his laptop and we didn't know the password so we asked him what it was......"constipation"; that's was so Ian.  A lot of the time it's a show he liked or one we would watch together like 30 Rock or Arrested Development or The Good Wife - I could yell 'Good Wife' when it came on and he would come scurrying into the room and we would watch it together.  The first time I went to Costco after he died, it was seeing the Pub Mix on the shelf.  Tonight it was the jar of peanut butter in the cupboard - he liked to eat sliced apples with peanut butter as a late night snack.  I will never look at a lemon without thinking of Ian; he had 'invented' his own simple, special lemonade that we would make up for him - the juice of one lemon, 2 packets of Splenda, water and ice.  He loved to drink that and now it's just referred to as "Ian's lemonade".

You left us with so much Ian.......you just left us too soon.

Hanging by a rope

I had some unsettling dreams a few days ago.  I don't usually remember my dreams and these were no exception but I woke up in the morning crying; I only remember having this overwhelming feeling that my heart was breaking.  In my dreams I can fall apart and crumble to the ground or scream.....things I don't do in real life but feel like doing when missing Ian physically hurts.  But this morning was different; I still didn't remember my dream, but I knew Ian was in it - and this morning I woke up smiling.  Smiling is good; it's better than crying,


Is it normal to talk to somebody that isn't there?  I talk to myself often (which can be a little scary for the folks around me, I know) but lately I find myself talking to Ian.  The weird thing is, I can hear him respond. I know exactly what he would say and how he would say it.  I can't remember what his voice sounds like anymore, but I can hear his sarcasm and wit. 

And how long does a person's scent stay on their clothes?  Not some perfume that they might have worn, or the smell of the soap that they used but the smell of them - that scent that was uniquely theirs.  The one, that the minute you smell it, your mind relaxes and your body goes a little limp and you think, "that's him, that's my boy."  For now, I keep Ian's chemo hat, the one that still smells like him, tucked away in his dresser drawer, trying to protect it from the elements, trying to hold on to that scent just a little longer.  I inherited my grandmothers buffet a few years ago, the one that always stood next to her favorite chair and when I opened one of the doors to put my treasures in the cabinets that once held hers, I  was overwhelmed by the scent of my grandma....it was her!  Decades after she died, a part of her lingered in that old buffet and I smiled at the memory.   Maybe I'm hoping for the same thing with that chemo hat, that decades from now his unique scent will somehow survive and I'll open that drawer and be flooded by memories of him.

I read a verse last night that reminded me of God's goodness to us as a family:

"....has God forgotten to be merciful?  Has he in anger withheld his compassion?  Then I thought, 'to this I will appeal; the years when the Most High stretched out his right hand.   I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.  I will consider all your works and meditate on all your mighty deeds.'  Your ways, God, are holy.  What god is as great as our God?  You are the God who performs miracles......."  Psalm 77.
 It helped remind me of all the ways God has intervened in the lives of my children.  He saved Alex from a deadly heart condition and gave him a new heart, He saved Alex from a cancer that most thought he would not survive and even though we didn't get the 'miracle' we hoped and prayed for in Ian's life, He did work a wonder in Ian's heart before he died.  I can't forgot those things in the wake of our loss and sorrow.


I can't talk to Ian anymore, I can't see him or hug him but I can continue to preserve his memory and spirit.  Eric & I do that by fulfilling his requests to make use of the things he loved, in this case, his violin and the Cintiq drawing system he was given before he died. Things are moving forward as we deal with these.  He had wanted us to donate his violin and the Cintiq system we bought for him in the weeks before he died (the Cintiq was the reason for 'Ian's Wish' and the fundraising BBQ).  We've found a young boy, Joe, through Ian's violin teacher, Lynne Garrett, who needs a decent violin so he can continue to practice and play.  Ian's Great-Aunt Betty had been Ian's patron in his desire to learn to play the violin and had actually paid for his lessons and bought the violin for him, so it was only right that we consulted her before donating it to someone else.  Her only request was some sort of plaque to remember Ian.  We weren't able to have a plaque placed directly on the violin, as that would have affected the tone, but we did have a plaque placed on his case.  We decided to include a quote that we found in some of Ian's papers that he said had a great impact on him.  So, Ian's plaque reads:

"Never try, never fail"

 Ian M. Hassett

1992 - 2012

Lynne came to pick up the violin this week.  It was sad to see it go, one more thing of Ian's leaving our house, but it felt right; I knew we were doing what Ian would have wanted.  Joe, we hope you enjoy this violin for many years to come.  And when you're done with it and move on to something nicer, I hope you pass it on, as Ian has done.

We're also in the beginning of donating his Cintiq to Allan Hancock College to use in the classroom.  Ian wanted an artist to use the Cintiq to further their artistic work and now many students will be able to benefit.  An additional nice touch is that the plan is to use it at a recently installed desk for disabled students - how perfect is that?  The art teacher at Hancock suggested that they would like some kind of plaque be installed near the Cintiq in Ian's memory.....we were very touched by their desire to honor our son. One day, we'd like to visit the classroom and see exactly what is possible with the Cintiq system; Ian had only just begun to play with it when he became too ill to use it, so we'd like to see what may have been possible had he lived long enough to create art with it.   Ian's sphere of influence continues to grow and ripple out touching more people than we could have ever imagined.  That makes saying 'good-bye' to him just a little easier.

How do parents without hope say good-bye to their children?  Without the hope of seeing Ian again I couldn't cope; without the hope that God's promises are true, I would never get out bed.  I wouldn't be able to act like life is normal again; I would be consumed with missing him.  My fears for his safety and well-being would be unrelenting.  But God's promises are true and those that believe in Him can not be taken from His hand, so I trust in that promise because my son's eternal future (and my sanity) depends upon it. Sometimes, I feel like my faith is in the middle of a deluge with the storm raging around me and I'm hanging onto a rope, suspended from the sky, and that rope is hope.  I hold onto that rope like my life depends on it, only in this case, my faith depends on it.   During worship in church this morning, I closed my eyes while we were singing, and I could see Ian hovering behind me, joining us in worship.....part of a larger worship that we can't see.

Really God?

My life is a cotton-pickin' soap opera!  I'm starting to feel like Job; what's a female version of the name Job?  Joby - just call me Joby.  The day I had been dreading arrived....Amy left this morning so the house is empty of kiddies.  I was counting on work keeping me busy since I would be working full-time for the next two weeks because our Administrator is on vacation and that was working out pretty well until Eric called from San Jose to let me know he was in the ER having tests done because of some back pain that had radiated around to his chest and he was having pain breathing.  Ok, deep breath.....wait for test results.  Then Amy called to say her off-campus (owned by the school) apartment had been trashed by the previous student and was unliveable so they had no place to live tonight.  Begin banging head against the wall....talk thru her options then call the school and raise some good old-fashioned ruckus like only a mother can do when looking out for her child. Begin using all my texting abilities to keep in contact with Eric in the ER and Amy, my homeless daughter in Costa Mesa.   Did I mention Alex had to visit Urgent Care on Friday in Taft because he was starting to get sick??????

Last night I started to read Job because I wanted to see what his reaction had been to trials and testing (of which I think I have almost reached 'expert' status) but I think I'll stop.  I don't think I want to reach the 'boils' section of the story, I'm afraid of what will happen.

This did give me a chance to reflect on how selfish I have been.  I've been thinking so much about how all the kids being gone and Eric being away would affect me - poor Stefanie - empty nest and empty home.  But then I realized how hard this must be for Eric; still in the beginning of grieving our son, away from home (he doesn't like to travel and he likes his own bed), not able to be here to say good-bye to Amy and separated from each other.  We have relied on each other so heavily since Ian's diagnosis and especially toward the end of his life and after his death that to be separated now is painful.  It's surprising how much a simple hug can heal.  There's just something comforting holding someone you love; your breathing slows, your head clears and you can breath again.....I think God designed them to help us heal from heartaches and loss.  I miss our hugs.

But through all this God continues to be in control.  I wander what He's doing, but my priority is to not fail Him in my faithfulness - He has never failed me.  I will not let the devil take away my hope.  All of Eric's test results have come back negative; it's not his heart (wounded as it may be), his lungs are clear, he doesn't have an aneurysm or a blood clot - it looks like a strained/pulled muscle that is pinching a nerve.  Amy's room is being cleaned and scrubbed, the oven fixed and she has a roof over her head tonight thanks to her roommates Aunt AND she handled herself so well - I am so proud of my girl!!

For now, I will plan on pruning my ferns into oblivion, then I will my veg in my chair, watch some Hallmark movies, pet Emmett (who likes me now) and probably eat ice cream - and continue to miss Ian.  The Pity Party is over for today.

I knew I'd hate this......

For several years I've been dreading the 'empty nest'.....I knew it was coming but I was NOT looking forward to it.  I have a wonderful husband, who I love very much and there are some aspects of the 'empty nest' that are quite appealing.  There are also those parts of it that I know will be difficult and will take a lot of adjustment.  For so long I've been somebody's mom (I'll still be their mom, but you know what I mean) and a lot of my identity has been wrapped up in being that mom.  First I was the mom of a transplant kid, then I was the mom of three little ones under the age of 4 who didn't get to sleep through the night for six years (my kids were the ones who didn't sleep all night till they were two years old), then I was the mom of a cancer survivor, now I'm the mom who lost her child from cancer.  I still have all that history but there are no little ones to take care of, to hug good-night, to go to battle for.  Being that 'mama bear' was such a huge part of my life - I'm not quite sure what to do now.

Now, Alex is away at college and flourishing, Ian was suddenly ripped from our lives and gone much sooner than we every expected, and Amy leaves tomorrow to return to college after spending her last summer home.  I've done what I set out to do - raise my children to honor God and be productive, independent, loving adults.  Maybe I was too good at my job - I worked myself right out of a position.  With Eric out of town on business I'm having to jump into this 'empty nest' stuff with both feet - right up to my waist.

Overcoming....

I should be doing our taxes since our extension is almost up, but I'd rather share with you some thoughts from today.

How extraordinary that when we start the day with God, when we spend time in worship through song, when we listen to His word preached, when we fellowship with other Christians and spend time together in prayer, God meets us where we are and reveals more of Himself to us.  I'm being a bit sarcastic because this should all be a 'no brainer'....no time spent with God is wasted.

I always start the day reading 'Jesus Calling' because on more than one occasion it has served as a personal message from Him to me; today was no exception.  "Come to me child when you are weak and weary.  Rest snugly in my everlasting arms."  Today in church we sang "Overcome" which talks about God ability to overcome everything and that all authority and power are His.  It would have been easy to think, "no He didn't, He didn't overcome Ian's cancer."  But I realized He DID overcome Ian's doubts in what was possibly the only way He could have, by showing Ian heaven and what lay ahead of him.  I've mentioned in Caring Bridge Ian's last conversation before he died.  Coming out of a drug-induced stupor, with a voice filled with awe asking, "Is this place for real?"  I will forever remember the delight in his voice and the sheer amazement of whatever it was he was seeing.  Then ending with, "I need to find Michael"  I asked him who Michael was and he replied, "I don't know but I have to find him."  Then I told him to go find Michael; those were my last words to my son.  I believe Michael was sent by God to show Ian the wonders of the heaven he had heard about and believed in as a young boy; to prove to my stubborn son that it was all true and waiting for him.  I think God knew the only way to overcome Ian's doubts was to show him the truth.  So God did overcome.

Then tonight during the evening service, I looked across the church and saw Ashley.  Our association with Ashley is multi-layered.  Ashley had been one of my Starbucks girls while Ian was battling cancer, her mom works with Eric, she had the exact same cancer as Ian but she survived and she helped take care of Ian his last day in the hospital (obviously she wasn't serving him Starbucks, she had started working at Marian as a Nurses Aide) so we obviously had various interactions with Ashley over the last 16 months.  I saw her and she gave me hope because she is a living, breathing symbol that someone CAN beat mediastinal NHL.  I didn't think, "why her and not Ian" which I guess would have been normal but God just filled me with thanksgiving that it is possible for someone to beat this horrible disease.  I thank God her mom didn't have to tell her good-bye.

I can't take the credit for any of this....this is God allowing me to think and understand things I normally wouldn't and rejoice in the parts of my life's tapestry that I can see.  I just have to trust Him for the parts that are still fuzzy and unclear.

It started...

It started two nights ago, I saw the Blick bag on Ian's bed and the first thing I thought of, was how much we enjoyed shopping there that day.  I remembered Ian seeing the store while we were stuck on Santa Monica Blvd (we moved 3 blocks in 30 minutes) and we all said, "heck with this - we might as well park, eat and shop", so we did.  Ian was in artist heaven....so many supplies and so few projects to work on.  Then we found that little hole-in-the-wall  Asian restaurant (Vietnamese, I think?) and in typical Ian style, he had to try it out.  I remembered all these things first, before I remembered we were in Santa Monica in the first place for his first appointment with Dr. Pinter-Brown.  I remembered the happy memories first, I think that's a step in the right direction.

We had some good things happen the last couple of days - I almost felt normal.  I got a call from a publishing company about possibly publishing my Caring Bridge posts.  I was so excited, I was practically bouncing off the walls - and I haven't bounced for years!  Then suddenly I thought, 'I wish Ian was here to see this' and that was all it took; I lost it.  I went from ecstatic to blubbering in 5 second flat.  I just keep saying,  "I wish Ian was here, I wish Ian was here".  And somewhere, in my heart, I could hear him shouting in my ear, "I'm here mom, I'm here".  How silly am I?  But it helped.  To think he might be seeing this, knowing that I'm trying to do my best to honor his request to get it published.....I'm trying sweetie.  Mostly, I'm leaving it up to God; He's gonna do, what He's gonna do.

Ian's room is all painted, now we begin to hang his art. But the room is still his, his shirts are hanging in the closet, the shelves are filled with his books and his clothes are still in the dresser; one step at a time.

Still missing you Ian.

Dear Ian

Dear Ian,
I miss you sweetie, every minute of every day but I keep putting one foot in front of the other and thinking of you while I walk.

We're (I should say Amy and Dad) are almost done painting your room (let's face it sweet boy, your were an extremely talented artist but couldn't paint a room worth beans - probably because it just wasn't that important to you - and I get that).  We're getting your room ready to hang your art; our own personal art gallery in our home filled with memories of you and your talent.  I'm going to try and clean up that white, thick rug you loved - it's not all white anymore and it's so plush I have no idea how to clean it, but I'll do my best and try to keep the aesthetic you loved.  I found your hanging wood piece you did, so we'll have items hanging from the ceiling as well.  I may even buy some stands to display your small ceramic pieces.  I remember I did this after Alex's cancer too - redecorating stuff.  I told dad it was cheaper than paying a therapist.

It was really hard for me the night before Amy started painting your room.  I laid on your bed for a long time looking around your room - Emmett even joined me; how surprising is that?  So many times, having to do things like taking you off our insurance, notifying Social Security or getting rid of your meds felt like we were trying to erase you from existence, but this time it feels more like transforming what was yours into something that can be enjoyed for a long time to come.  It feels more like preserving your memory rather than erasing you.

We're also having a quilt made with your t-shirts, socks (gotta include those socks!) and some of your friends are making squares for it as well.  Karen, from dad's work, has volunteered to make it for us and we can't wait to see it finished.  I know you weren't much of a quilt guy, but I think you would appreciate the artistry that combines the clothes that you loved and fabric.  You always appreciated different forms of art.

I know you hated all the sadness you would leave behind, but there's no way to fight that sweetie.....there's no way not to be sad because you're gone.  I try not to think about the last week of your life but when my mind goes there, I remind myself how much pain you were in and how long you had fought it and how ready you were to have it end.  I try to think about all the wonderful moments we had the last 16 months of your life - yeah, it would have been better if you hadn't had cancer but the cancer was what brought us closer.  The cancer was the reason we got to spend so much time together; it was the reason why we had all those late night talks, why I got to read your text books to you, why I got to tell you 'I love you' every night, why there were so many hugs exchanged, why I would sit next to your bed holding your hand.  Cancer was a horrible thing but it brought us closer and I have to be thankful for that; for allowing us to see how much we loved each other before we lost you.  I can only be thankful for that.

I love you Ian.

Love Always,
Mom

Blueprints

Sunday was helpful.  It helped a lot.  Our church is blessed with a great pastor/preacher and Sunday he talked about suffering, which is right up my alley.  There was one thing he said that really hit home for me.  He talked about the fact that we may never know the 'why' of the things that happen in our lives or those that we love, but one day God will show us the blueprint of our lives.  He will spread it all out before us and show us the 'why' we suffered this hurt or were afflicted with that disease and we will see His wisdom in it all.  We will understand all of it and give Him the glory.  I kept thinking of Ian, wanting to believe so badly in things he couldn't see and finally being able to understand the 'why'; why he had to get cancer, why he had to suffer, why nothing we did worked, why he had to die so young.

Then our pastor gave us four things to remember when we suffer (because won't we all suffer in some form or another in this life?):

1. Tasks - take it one day at a time, one task at a time.
2. Tell - tell people, share with them, don't pull away from people.
3. Take - take notes, journal; remember how you deal with the suffering then pay it forward and help others who are going through the same thing.
4. Trust - keep trusting God.

I've decided to skip the 'anger' part of grieving.  I've been there, done that.  I was mad at God after Alex's cancer and lived there for almost a year; it did me no good and made nothing better.  For me it's distracting from what's important to me...remembering Ian.  In those moments (and they happen often) when missing Ian physically hurts, I chose to believe that God's plan is better than mine.  That Ian has seen the blueprint of his life and understands it, that he is rejoicing in heaven, that he is charming the great-grandmothers he never knew but with whom he shared a birthday and that God's arms are holding me tight when the pain of missing Ian seems too much to bear.

The struggle with worry

Every day is a struggle....but not with my grief.  I accept grieving; I know that every day something will make me cry.  I know that I will miss Ian every moment of the day.  What I struggle the most with, is worry; or rather, trying not to worry.  Just because I believe that God has a plan doesn't mean that I'm happy with the plan or nor afraid of His plan.  I've seen both sides of God's plan - the elation when things work out the way you had hoped and the pain when it doesn't.  I truly believe that God was doing what was best for Ian when He took him away from us, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt and I'm afraid of feeling that pain again with my other kids.  I used to say that God knew I couldn't survive the loss of one of my children but I guess I was wrong; I was hoping if I kept saying it, God wouldn't make me find out.  So, by my logic, that means that God could do it again, if it was part of His plan.

But, I've also seen God protect my children, namely Alex, from extreme circumstances that should have killed him.  This week a routine blood test showed that Alex's red blood cell counts were elevated.  Come to find out, they've been elevated for the last four years but his new doctor is questioning them.  When the doctors office called to say they were referring Alex to a hematologist, Dr. DiCarlo, my stomach sank.  I love Dr. DiCarlo but I never wanted to see him again.  So far, the docs are leaning towards Alex's sleep apnea causing the elevated  levels but there's always that nagging possibility that it's something more devious, more complicated, more life threatening that is the cause and I can't let it go.  I keep having this dialogue in my head with God; me worrying about Alex and God sending me reassurances.  They work for a while, but then I slide back into worry and doubt; then God sends more reassurances....I fight my doubt and worry and even pride, daily - hourly.
I have the reputation of being 'The Mom", tenacious, the Mama Bear protecting her cubs and I fought for Alex.  I trusted my instincts and they were usually right.  With Ian, I was all wrong.  I fought just as hard, I was just as tenacious but this time my instincts were all wrong and Ian died.  I realized how prideful I had become...my instincts, my tenaciousness could save Ian but nothing I did could save him.
It's easy to be thankful when your prayers are answered the way you wanted, hoped for.  What's hard is being thankful in the middle of a nightmare, when your greatest fears have come true.

Hallmarks

I'm discovering that the path of grief is full of hallmarks; those moments that stop you in your tracks and suck the air out of your lungs.  Moments like watching Ian's body being wheeled out to the van (since they don't use a hearse anymore, it's a nondescript white van), finding out that his body had been cremated, seeing his death certificate for the first time, reading his obituary in the newspaper, cancelling his cell phone and the other day it was the check for his life insurance arriving in the mail.  Those are moments that tear your soul. 

There are also those moments that turn into treasures like finding a project that Ian had made in school called "The first 3000 lives of Ian M Hassett" filled with his comments about his life, kind words for his friends and what he looked forward to in the future.....it was very Ian.


Every night before I go to bed, I visit Ian's room.  I smell his chemo hat because, for right now, it still smells like him.  Then I start rummaging through his things; I look in his bookshelves to see what other hidden treasures I might find.  Maybe a paper he had written, or his thoughts on a book he read, or a poem or a sketchbook I hadn't seen before.  Last night I realized I go there looking for bits of Ian that I didn't know.  I look for ways for Ian to continue to reveal himself to me, I look for a connection to my son.  Then I realized, I will soon run out of ways to get to know my son better because there will be nothing left to discover.  There will be no more thoughts for him to ponder, no more ideas to sketch; he's done everything he was meant to do here on Earth and I will simply be left with what was and the hope that I will see him again.  For the first time in my life, I understand the phrase, 'yearning for heaven'.  I yearn for a life that is free of pain and suffering and only contains joy and rejoicing.

I don't know if I'll always be sad.  Sometimes I feel like I've been sad for such a long time; I've been crying for almost two years, every since his diagnosis.  Will I remember how I was before?  Cuz I'm sure I was happy a lot more than I was sad.  People tell me it gets better, that your happy memories start to replace your grief - I'm think I'm a long way from that yet.

I don't know if every parent is consumed with the idea that their child not be forgotten.  I would imagine there are more parents like me who feel that way, which is why we hear about parents who have found a way to keep their child's name alive via a memorial fund benefiting some cause. Don't we all want to be remembered after we leave this earth, don't we want our time here to have made a difference somehow, to someone?  Our way of keeping Ian's memory alive is his Art Scholarship.  The donations have come in and all the 'Thank you' notes have been written....what do I do now?  Maybe it's time to keep my promise to Ian and contact that publishing company about publishing Ian's Caring Bridge...he wanted that to happen.  And it's one more way for me to stay connected to Ian.

whisper My name

My thoughts are all over the place.  There's a lot going on this week - today marked one month since Ian died, which brought back lots of memories and a resurgence of the sadness of losing him.  I wish we could take a snapshot of some of the memories that we hold; that those images wouldn't be be diminished by time or age.  Then, there are other memories I wish I could forget.  But, in honor of Ian today, we visited a place for dinner that we had never been before and someplace he had wanted to try - we had Basque food!

 Last night we took his sculptures to the gallery for the show that starts this weekend.  I almost made it through that without crying, but not quite.  I could see that his large piece (not pictured here), which was finished just the day before he died, was very different than the rest of the pieces in the show.  It's more organic than the other pieces, so it was kind of 'iffy' whether it would be included in the show.  Part of my brain understands this, and we know Ian would be the first to pull the piece if it detracted from the overall look of the show,  but the mom part of me was cracking.  By the time the owner was asking for titles to the pieces and then asking what I wanted to say about Ian, I lost it.  What do I say?  That he was brilliant? That he showed such great promise?  That we will never know what he could have accomplished if he had lived?  Luckily, Autumn was there and she agreed to write something up about Ian.

I read something the other day that helped get me through the day.  "Whenever you feel distant from Me, whisper My name in loving trust.  This simple prayer can restore your awareness of My Presence.....When you trustingly whisper My Name, My aching ears are soothed....The power of My Name to bless both you and Me is beyond your understanding."  It's been hard to feel God's presence lately; I believe He's near, I believe He's watching over us.  I'm trying to see through the holes that have been ripped in the tapestry of Ian's life, to see God shining through but this sadness makes it hard to see.  So in those moments when things are hazy, I whisper 'Jesus', and I know He understands my heartache.