Dear Mark,

A year has passed since you died and I can’t help but wonder where we would be today if you were still here. Would you still be sick, would you be in remission, would you have had the bone marrow transplant we both desperately hoped for? All these questions seem to hover around me as February unfolds.

I can’t decide if time has stood still or flown by? It varies with each day and with each emotion that makes itself comfortable inside of me without asking permission first. I overflow with sadness at times when I least expect it. It creeps in and floats with me for a while, then slowly softens as my tears dry upon my cheeks. One of the hardest parts of living without you at my side is the emptiness I feel when these waves of emotion flood over me. I miss having you to cry with, laugh with and talk to. Our long afternoons at B4 seem like heaven to me now. What I would give to spend a few hours at your bedside knitting, sipping on our coffees, chatting while you do the crossword or doze. (I still haven’t finished that scarf!)

I think about all that has happened and I wonder how we got through it. How did we get through those long nights knowing you were fighting a disease that would ultimately steal you away from us? I try to think about your courage each day when I feel overwhelmed. The day to day challenges have been wearing me down and I wish I could be stronger for you, for Audrey and for Noah.

This new identity of mine is a tough one. I am no longer half of the everyday “Mark and Leslie” that everyone has come to know me by, I am Leslie, the young widow. How sad... It’s hard not to feel the pity ooze off of those around me, but as time goes on, I am getting practice with dropping the truth in a way that doesn’t make people immediately want to run. I think I’m pretty honest and open about it. It’s not as though it’s a secret to be ashamed of. It’s just terribly sad. Audrey usually breaks the ice too, she loves to talk about you. She is able to remember you and the moments you shared without the complexity of reality hanging over her. She remembers the moment with fondness, not sadness. You would be so proud of her.

Noah is doing all sorts of things that would amaze you. When I think about all the new tasks that he has mastered in 12 short months I try to force myself to pause and appreciate the moment. It’s hard to do when I ache for you to be the one running alongside his bike, but I pause... once for you and then once for me. This summer, Noah learned to swim with his lifejacket on, ride a two wheeler and drive Grandpa’s boat. He can use the mouse on our computer and navigate to any website, check email and load up Daddy slide shows. Noah and Audrey have experienced a true Grand Lake summer and we are now under a blanket of snow for probably the 20th time since November. All these things are “firsts” that I wish we could do together as a family. It’s hard to watch them grow before my eyes without you .

As for me? I think about how losing you has changed me. It’s hard to put into words. I definitely have a finer appreciation for life, our children, friends, music, nature...the list is endless. Everything just seems more important and real to me now. I catch myself watching large snowflakes drop from the sky. I stare at sunsets and look for stars each night. The beauty of clouds in the sky and the way the sun reflects on the water makes me want to soak it in for as long as I can. I drag the kids out for walks just on the off chance that we might see a deer. Maybe it’s an escape for me, I don’t know.

I’ve been listening to all your CD’s and rediscovering some great music that you shared with me the year we met. I’m beginning to remember the good times we had before your illness and it is a welcome discovery for me. For so long, all I could remember were the last few months and how much pain you were in. Music has been a bit of a trigger for me to think back to our Cathcart/Frank Street days. You were so passionate about music and so eager to share your newest album(s) of the week with me. Now I understand. The late nights at The Black Tomato after close, listening to the latest off the beaten path sort of stuff (and having chocolate peanut butter pie!) hardly seems like over 10 years ago.

As delighted as I am that I can remember some good times now, there is still a part of me that longs to feel your presence. It feels almost foolish to want something so impossible, but the heart is far from logical. I stand in front of the family collage I made you for Christmas and look at your pictures. Your smile looks so real I want to reach out and touch you. You always had a way of looking right into the lens of the camera. I guess no matter what, I would always want one more moment, one more chance to look into your eyes again.

I’d like to think that you’d be proud of us today. Looking back over this year I am amazed at myself really. It’s hard to believe that I’ve held it together enough to move us across Canada and get the kids settled into this new life that you and I discussed so many times on our drives home from VGH. Back then, it seemed impossible that we talked about such things, so surreal. But, here we are today. You would be so proud of the kids.

Audrey and Noah have been pretty amazing. We went out to the mall to do some fun stuff to celebrate rather than be sombre today. We made teddy bears full of your “love”, looked at some pictures and video and topped it off with a fancy dinner at a restaurant. Audrey chose her clothes based on what Daddy likes and hugged her new bear throughout dinner. No tears, just long thoughtful hugs. She told me that when she closes her eyes and hugs her bear, she’s thinking of a Daddy memory. Noah bopped to the music in the car and never failed to remind me how each song was one of your favourite songs. He’s so cute that way, tries to be like his big sister remembering things about you.

My brain tells me that this is what it’s all about now, keeping you alive in our hearts. I won’t say today was easy (it was far from it), but the kids helped me to see how lovely a memory can be if you untie the sadness from it. Like Audrey often reminds me, our invisible strings will keep us all connected. Forever.

All my love,
Leslie