Today we are headed back to The City of Hope to visit. Sounds odd, I am sure, but it happens to be the mid-way point for a fellow widow and me. Her husband was treated there, as well. She has two young boys who have also spent quite a bit of time at the facility. I think it will help our boys see that other kids have also lost a parent... they aren't the only ones. I figured that if it helped me to see I wasn't alone, then Tyler could benefit, too. Since we don't know many divorced couples, he thinks he is the only child on the planet who doesn't have a dad.
When I told Tyler we were going back to visit, he was confused. I reassured him that we weren't visiting doctors, but meeting other kids who also lost their dad. I could see his wheels turning, and his next question was, "Could we PLEASE go to the cafeteria? I miss it SO much." Go figure...
Camp Widow was this weekend in San Diego. It was coincidentally also my wedding anniversary. I figured it would either be really good to spend it with other widows, or it would be REALLY bad... Luckily, I took the chance, because it turned out to be the best situation possible (in a really crappy one).
I had the most amazing time at the conference and never once thought, "Gosh it's really hard to be here." For once, I didn't feel like "THE Widow" in the room. I actually felt a little normal. No one whispered, "That's the one who lost her husband," when I walked into the room. No one did the tilted head nod when I spoke to them. It was the proverbial happy place for a group of sad people. Only we weren't sad... Not. One. Bit.
It was a powerful weekend, and I left a better widow. I finally met some online friends and gained a few new ones along the way. It was like an exclusive club meeting where the dues are outrageously high and the initiation is life-changing. Even though not one of the 150+ attendees chose to join, we have a common sisterhood that is instantaneous and will bond us forever. The best part of the weekend (besides things already mentioned) was the ability to joke about death and the dying process. I know it sounds morbid, but there are a few things that only a fellow widow(er) can understand about this whole situation.
I am mentally writing so many different blog posts derived from the weekend. I guess my bout of writer's block is gone. ;)
Stay tuned...
It has finally happened...
I knew the questions were coming, and the first few broke my heart, but as with anything, you get used to it. Tyler consistently asks questions like, "Where did I do that when Dad was here?" and "What did I say when Dad was here?"
I never expected his memory to recall the little things, but deep down inside I was hoping that he would have a vague recollection of Bill before he was sick. I am afraid that isn't going to happen. Recently he saw a picture of Bill in his healthy state and didn't recognize him. I hate the fact that he won't remember the dad that Bill truly was.
No one ever said that life was fair.
Last year, Father's Day was a mere six days after Bill died. I so badly wanted to set up a ritual for Tyler to do each year on this holiday that was once shared with his dad. I struggled to find the perfect idea that would be permanently placed in his memory. I wanted it to be something visual that Tyler could possibly understand better than, "Dad lives in heaven now." Thankfully, I don't think he will ever remember my not-so-brilliant plan.
I decided to get a balloon that we would let go and send up to dad in heaven. It seemed like the perfect plan that we would recreate each year. We could gaze in wonder as the balloon drifted up into the blue sky. Memories would flood our minds as we reminisced about "Our Dad." Let's just say that it didn't really go as I had planned.
Me: We are getting this balloon to send to daddy... since he lives in heaven now.
Tyler: We are getting balloons???
Me: Well, just one. We are going to let it go in the backyard and dad will be able to get it. You can even watch it drift up to the sky.
Tyler: (silence)
At home...
Me: Let's tell dad that we love him before we send it.
Tyler: Can I water the flowers?
Me: No, we are telling dad how much we love and miss him.
Tyler: I don't want to... Can I hold the balloon?
Me: Sure. Do you want to say, "I love you," before you let it go?
Tyler: I am NOT letting the balloon go. NO WAY.
Me: You have to, it's for dad... it's not for you.
Tyler: It's MINE! Why can't I have it? I can't let it go. Dad doesn't want it.
Me: YES HE DOES! NOW LET IT GO!!
Tyler: (Crying) NO!!!!!!! (Crying)
Me: YES!!! GIVE IT TO ME! (Said as I took the balloon and forced him to let it go.)
Tyler continued to sob and jump after the balloon as it lifted to the sky. He cried, stomped, kicked, hit... you name it... he was slightly upset, to put it mildly. I realized at that moment that I wasn't going to be able to "create" the perfect moment. It would have to just transpire on its own.
I am one to stick to my guns regarding parenting and consistency. I believe in following-through and saying what you mean. This being said... I also believe that (in life) the big picture is vital and battles should be chosen wisely. Six days after Bill's death, the balloon war was NOT the battle I was willing to fight. So, we hopped back in the car, went to the store, and got Tyler a new balloon. Hopefully Bill got the first one, because I don't think we will be sending many more up.
It's Father's Day, and although we had a wonderful day... it's just not one of my favorite holidays. It starts at the beginning of June when all you see in the stores is Father's Day reminders, dad gifts, and an abundance of tee-shirts that refer to some sort of, "My dad is the best," mantra. There was time when I mulled over the adorable boys' clothing pieces proclaiming the utmost pride for a father. Those days are gone for us, and I can't even fathom going near those shirts in the store. I hate to admit it, but I am relieved Father's Day is (almost) over.
Luckily, this day does not bother Tyler one bit. He still says Mother's Day is his favorite holiday... but I think he might be a little biased. ;) He just assumes that Father's Day is when we celebrate Papa (Bill's dad)... and he is absolutely correct. Today is Papa's day, and he has earned it. From the bottom of my heart ~ THANK YOU, Joe, for all you do and all you are for my little boy. Tyler is so very lucky... and so am I.
Today marks one year. I can't believe it has been a full year... and I can't believe it's only been a year. The past few weeks have been rough. The anticipation and reliving the memories have not been easy on the emotions.
I'm unclear how I should feel today. Obviously the wound is reopened, but I am not sure if I should be back at square one with grief, or if I should be slightly happy to have survived the first year. Today I feel a little bit of both. I am proud of how we are doing, and I can't help but smile when I look at my four-year-old who is growing up faster than I would like. Bill would be proud of us, too.
While I don't feel today should be any type of "celebration," (and part of me wanted to curl up in the fetal position) I do feel that I need to honor him and do something in his memory. So, today I went to the dermatologist and had an all-over skin check. Every year I will have an emotional reminder to head to the doctor and get checked.
Melanoma does NOT discriminate... the color of your skin does NOT matter... protect yourself and your loved ones. Even if you think you "tan easily"... you are at risk. EVERYone is. It IS genetic! If anyone in your family has a history, you have a far greater chance of getting melanoma. PLEASE protect yourself!
One year. On Tuesday. I'm dreading it. My heart hurts.
There... I said it.
