One Month

One month.

It's hard to believe Brendan has been gone from us that long.  In some ways it's gone fast.  Sometimes it seems slow -- like he's been gone longer.  Days are a mixed bag.  Days start out great, then some memory is triggered and the tears come.  Sometimes the tears are gone just as quick, and sometimes they stay longer.

Yesterday there were lots of memory triggers.  It all started when I walked into the Budge Clinic with one of the kids for their eye exam.  I saw the line of wheelchairs outside the entrance.  In my mind I heard myself say to Brendan, "You want a wheelchair? Or do you want to walk up?"  Then in memories mind I heard, "Wheelchair, of course!" with the characteristic eye roll.

Moments later I walked past the door to the Infusion Center.  One month old memories of trying to get that wide wheelchair (with wiry Brendan trying to brace himself in the middle of that broad seat) through the door with only an inch to spare on either side.  Then the hour spent gratefully watching the cream colored platelets drip into his port line and the bleeding stopping.

All those memories, feelings, smells, sensations here and gone in the moments I passed the door.  I had the urge to go through that door and thank the nurses once again for all they did for Brendan.  But I didn't.  I wasn't sure I could squeak out the words.  And I wasn't sure they would remember Brendan.  But my heart was full.

An hour later, coming out of the nearby store, I watched Life Flight land at the hospital.  Exhilaration and sadness swept over me in waves like cold and hot air when a front moves through.  I loved the ride I took with Brendan on Life Flight just 5 weeks ago.  That was an experience I will always treasure.  It was breathtaking.  Brendan told me, "It was for you, mom!"  Of course, Brendan was in so much pain he wanted to be sedated for the ride.  And he almost was.  He didn't even remember most of it.  But he remembers his first ride.  So today, when Life Flight flew low over the house once again, I had to go out and watch them fly over and remember what it looks like from the top down.

I've realized that the most difficult memories are the ones associated with his treatment, not his death.   Those 9 and 1/2 months took a toll indeed.  Dealing with those fears, anxieties, and traumas are what has taken the most time for me to process.  And I'm sure that will continue for a long time into the future. The hardest thing now is just missing him. And the fatigue.  I didn't know grieving was so exhausting.  But it is.

As the month has gone along, so many more kind and thoughtful things have been done for us by others.  More delicious meals, more thoughtful cards and letters with wonderful sentiments shared.  And more wonderful gifts--chimes that sing with the breeze, a music box delivered with hugs and tears, and home bottled pears -- left on our doorstep . . .

Notebooks with handmade covers for each of the family to write memories and thoughts in. . .

A flower left on Charlie's grave. . .

And a picture memory texted me to remind me of happy days.

The love never ends.  We know Brendan still shares his love, and we are still being shown great love and kindness by so many.  My faith continues to grow and strengthen in the inherent goodness of people everywhere.  Thank you!