Dear Mr. G

You have a way of sneaking back into my everyday when I am just fine. Really, really, fine. It irritates me and corrupts my joyful mood, with a thump. (Ask Audrey and Noah, they are my unlucky, innocent bystanders.) You have a way of doing that. I am growing to resent your sneaky ways. I used to be thankful in the early days for the relief from you. I’d have a few consecutive days where I realized that you were not a constant and I smiled at this. I could operate and be “un-grief-like”; I’d go so far as to say, downright chipper.

This process of shedding you unconsciously came about at it’s own pace. No amount of willing it would do any good; I learnt this lesson early on. I felt triumphant when I did more than just muddle my way through the conversation that makes most people stare at the floor when you answer “No, I’m not married…(long pause)…I’m widowed" I filled the silence and made it okay that they asked an innocent question.

Today…
You crept back in and I’m sick of you. I’m sick of your little reminders that make me feel alone when I am not. I tire of the surprise visits and the popping in when I’m doing regular mom stuff. Carving pumpkins, making dinner, mediating the relentless bickering of children, you know…regular everyday things. Why do you need to pinch me just to hang out for the afternoon and leave that bitter, ripped off taste in my mouth? Enough already.

I don’t need any reminders that you are still here. I was there, remember? Grief has no finish line. Jerk. I’m rebuilding my life and I don’t need to feel thankful that you’re not my everyday anymore. Just give it a rest and let me nudge myself forward when I want to.

Got that??
Beat it grief.

I didn't need you today, come back some other day if you must.

Yours truly,
Leslie

Ps. Sorry I called you a jerk.

Nightlights

It’s been nearly a week since we attended the Light the Night Fundraiser and the last few days have been filled with memories from years past. Our team, “Just Keep Swimming” was very successful in raising money for the Leukemia Lymphoma Society this year, we nearly reached our ambitious goal of $2000. The messages I sent seemed barley adequate to express my gratitude to those of you who supported our fundraising efforts.

I couldn’t find the right words to express all that I have been carrying in my thoughts these last few weeks. I watched proudly as Audrey and Noah got excited at the prospect of raising money for leukemia research. Their loss and sadness was not tied to these efforts. They didn’t pair this event to a sad day in their lives; they pounced on the opportunity to find something fun and positive about it all. I was amazed at their enthusiasm.

I was reticent to even propose such a thing to them. Thinking the whole time, how do I expose them to such an emotionally loaded situation? Most kids in our neighbourhood are selling chocolate bars for the local bowling league while mine are soliciting donations in memory of their Dad?? This seemed wrong on so many levels. I began to feel angry and sad that this was their reality and questioned my involving them at all. Wondering, and again doubting my judgment as to whether they were ready for something like this.

As this week has unfolded, I have come to think that maybe it was my own vulnerability that I was afraid of exposing, not so much theirs. I am afraid to see my kids hurt, they have had a lifetime worth of pain in their little lives. I am afraid to see my kids cry and miss their Dad; it breaks my heart to watch and feel it unfold. I feel helpless at times knowing that my hugs are not enough to fill the void

Thankfully, in true Audrey and Noah style, they surprised me. They walked and laughed and embraced an evening that was devoted to helping other people touched by this disease. Yes, we had some tears late that night but the general spirit of why we were there was not lost on them. I should know by now that they are my little nightlights when I need them the most. Their Dad would be proud of them.