Sam's wife called after I hung up with fresh perspective so I filled her in and caught up on their week. Then, I took a nap. A long nap. The first of several.
I feel better today. More like myself. But only after spending most of yesterday laying around, wondering why I couldn't conquer the heaviness in my soul.
It's been several years since the month of October has stirred angst. For years after Jason died on November 3, 1996, I relived the month date by date, memory by memory. In time, however, colored leaves signified seasonal change rather than his bittersweet journey to heaven's door.
But memories are messing with me this year. Which makes sense. Before I left the neuro-opthamologist's office at Emory in mid September, a receptionist scheduled me to see their orthoptist (who would measure me for prism lenses) on October 16th, Sam's 21st birthday. I took the appointment for two reason. The next available one was over a week later and I hoped to more easily connect with my son on his momentous day.
It wasn't until I was sitting on my screened in porch a few weeks later, right after the calendar page flipped to the new month, that memories collided and I thought, "Oh no. What have I done."
When Jason was originally diagnosed with a brain stem tumor in 1984, it was deeply embedded so that surgery was never an option and a biopsy never discussed. Radiation and the Hand of God extended his life for over ten years.
But as the end approached, in early fall of '96, Jason chose to try another round of chemotherapy. Since the tumor had grown into the cerebellum at that point, our oncologist recommended a biopsy to better match the chemo with the tumor pathology.
As we discussed scheduling, our doctor encouraged us to go ahead with a planned get away to a mountain cabin in early October. What we didn't expect was when they called to offer a date, the surgery would coincide with Sam's third birthday.
Back then I didn't think to question the scheduling. So instead of celebrating Sam's day, Jason and I woke early and drove through the dark to Emory for his brain surgery.
When I realized I'd be driving the same direction to be fitted for prism lenses - on the same date years later - the file opened, the memories spilled over, and they've tired me a little more than in recent years. Adjusting to my new frames and visual changes has probably added to the load. And two days in a hospital this week with Jason's mom who's battling heart failure, most certainly wore me down as well.
As I recover and write, I wish I could tell you something amazing happened last week as I sat in my car on the top of the parking deck, overlooking the Emory hospital. I wish I could explain why the dates collided. But no epiphany occurred.
When I left the hospital, however, I drove back to Atlanta and picked up Sam's wife, Courtney. We enjoyed a simple lunch and then stopped at a Publix to purchase 21 helium balloons and a decadent cake... to celebrate Sam. To embrace the day. To live in the now.
Maybe it was orchestrated to simply remind me of how far we've come. My boys are grown. Our family strong. In spite of a brain tumor, mito disease, and ten years with this formerly single mom.
And there's still more to come.
My heart may be heavy for the next week or so as the anniversary approaches. But I'll close with a video link I just watched on FB. I may be way behind on this. You may have seen it months ago. But this grandma reminded me to stay strong, to look forward, and to live to bless others who are still on the journey, trying to figure it out.
She dances.
I write.
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Praying for you this week, and always, Susan. As beautiful as it is, fall is kind of a sad time anyway, what with all the dying going on. But we have SPRING to look forward to, and I pray that will be your focus as we head into winter. Blessings on your day!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Deb. I appreciate you pointing out that underneath all the vibrant beauty is the reality of dying. I've never looked at it with that clarity. But how true it is. Always thankful for your prayers!
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