I Dreamt of You

You came to me in a dream. They are rare, but I covet them so. You were yourself, just as I remember you. The dream was so detailed, so strange, so comforting.   Grandma was there too – my family intact.

In the dream, Grandpa didn't like where I parked my truck, so he moved it. (He stills tells me how to drive). We were on Litchfield Avenue, we grabbed a pizza at the old Dominos location, and he was concerned our food would get cold. He parked the truck so well, so close to someone’s house, that we couldn't find it!  We told Grandpa we lost the truck and he said, "I parked it at Lavash's", a name I've never heard of, but how odd. Also in the dream, a friend gave me a card announcing the opening of a salon – it was very much in color. It was so blue - as if you took a piece of the summer sky and mixed it with the opalescence of seashells. I'll never believe the "experts" when they say you dream in black and white. Anyway, John, you backed the truck out with only an inch on either side, and went back to Grandma and Grandpa’s – when I was finished, I called you to come and get me before the rain started, and there you were. 

John,  it brought up your loss in such vivid details. Waking up to the knowledge, again, that you are gone,  Time spent with you in a dream, a beautiful time, but a trigger. A trigger of those memories of the last day together. You stopping me in the hallway and asking for a hug. Us cooking that Hello Fresh meal together. How will I ever forget that, especially after reading the autopsy report and having them describe the contents of your stomach - of our last meal together in vivid detail. How we enjoyed making those meals – how well it turned out, how I never want to eat that combination of food together again. 

The traumas of your loss are not forgotten. They are as vivid today as the day they happened. How do you explain to someone what we carry? The suddenness of your loss, the image ingrained in our minds forever. The heartache of not being able to help you, of not getting to say goodbye. The way you were dissected. The reviewal, the funeral, the months of court visits, and the education we received about a world we knew nothing about. The lights and sounds of emergency personnel, the devastation, the finality. It’s all too much to comprehend – you find yourself grasping at anything else, the color of the walls, the nick on the floor tile, thinking of all the mundane things you should get up and do. But no, sit here and accept these “I’m sorry’s”, try and eat something . . .it’s just all so wrong and you don’t know how to act, who to be, you don’t understand it. How can you? You want to crawl into your bed and not come back out.

I’ve been listening to a few Kristin Hannah books, and in them, she explains grief so well. How a child is a part of the mother. The day we lost you, my heart tore in half. You grew inside this body, a miracle and a gift. How I treasured my swelling belly, talking to you and dreaming of who you’d be. Your birth – that foggy day in January, you with the linebacker shoulders, stuck tight – so different from your dainty sister, the doctor pulling with all her might. Watching that birth changed your dad, he was as white as a sheet, afraid he might lose us both that day.

How do you nurse a child, comfort him when he wakes up mad at night having lost his precious pacifier, rocking him, holding him, pacing the floor to George Strait songs, and staring into those gorgeous hazel eyes. How do you reconcile that with a cold body - the life gone, the spirit gone – just a vessel that no longer holds your baby. 

It rearranges everything you thought your life would be. Everything your life is now. The sudden finality to your life as a boy’s mother – for that boy is no longer here. Twenty-four years of worry culminating into a single moment – a defining and permanent moment where that sweet child has moved to Heaven and you will not see him again on this side unless it’s in a dream. And those dreams are not enough. 

It's been a week - a tough week.  Maybe it's cabin fever, boredom, sadness, cancer. . . but these cold winter days are getting too long. The pandemic, masks, all of it. After so many housebound days, I have to get out, but with the weather, what are the options? I miss the sunshine and the annual seed trip. I’m so thankful for Kate and Jason and the kids. Seeing them is our joy. The grandkids are little rays of sunshine that infect my soul with laughter and love. They fill my tank. Having the little one call me “Amma” this last weekend lifted my heart. Their hugs and enthusiasm are capsules of joy. 

The Grandkids love a show on Netflix called Masha and the Bear. In one episode, Bear rockets up to the moon and captures a star for his girl. Brian has done that for me. Tried to capture the sunshine for me to wear, to be reminded daily that he would do anything to see me smile, if even for a few minutes. I’m so lucky to have him to do life with. 

I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, it’s just the long days and all the time to think. I have to say though if you have to do cancer treatments, it’s been a great winter for that. After losing John, this cancer thing is just another hurdle to walk through. I’m always a little surprised at the labels one receives – warrior, strong, brave . . .you’re handling it so well. Here’s the thing – what choice do we have? You show up, take the poison, go home. Go to all the appointments, get the CoVid tests, whatever you are told to do, you just do. There is nothing brave about that.  I'm looking forward to being done. I’m not brave or strong, I’m just following the rules of my new journey as a cancer patient. Adding that label to the grieving mother. 

I understand so clearly now the verse – in this life you will have trouble. I just didn’t think it would all be at the same time. If anything, it hardens you, shows you what is truly important and what to let go of. You just don’t have space for a lot of the “little things”. I’m not sure if that’s the same thing as being strong. You just play the cards you are dealt, always keeping the big picture in mind. This is not our home. We were made for more. To live in the presence of the Lord, and that my friends, is what keeps you putting one foot in front of the other. 

I hope you have that faith to see you through whatever it is your dealing with. Life is hard – we need Him, and we need each other. Having cancer sucks. No matter how you handle it. Yesterday Dad and I were at the Cancer Center together. I’m glad he didn’t see me react to the chemo – that would have scared him terribly. When someone yelled out “she’s crashing”, (allergic reaction) I have to admit, it scared me a little too. But they got me back on track quickly and my face went back to winter pale – my throat back to normal. That was a “hot flash” for the books!  The staff is so great at the Cancer Center.  I had a test today that I'm concerned about.  It's the first time it's occurred to me that maybe this crap could pop up somewhere else.  That pit in the stomach feeling . . .

I am grateful that I rarely have to shave my legs. I miss my hair, but I can get ready really fast! I like switching up my hats - having found that the wigs are just not comfortable. Occasionally I wear one, but I don't enjoy it. Dad is doing much better with the fluids. He had a meeting with the “quality of life” doc, and I think that worried him. He’ll have a scan in the next few months to see if the chemo is doing anything. Pray it does. I’m not ready to lose him too. 

He came out to see the great-grandkids last weekend. Even after a few weeks, they didn’t miss a beat. The little guy ran right over and threw his arms up to be picked up. He was shaking with excitement, a huge smile on his face. Then Daveney grabbed her purple “Frozen” ball and said come on Papa! She sits at the top of the stairs with him at the bottom, and they play catch. It’s so sweet – I’m glad he also has that joy to lift his heart. If the smile on his face was any indication, I say they filled his tank as well. 

 Thanks for joining me – I needed a little therapy this week. Hang in there everyone – It’s supposed to be close to 40 degrees next week – to us crazy Minnesotans that will feel like summer. I can’t wait. I’m holding on to the joys in this life. A visit from a friend, a hug from a little one, the thankfulness I feel for my spouse, the sunshine, and the knowledge that I am never alone. HE is always with me and HE is always with you.  Bless you dear ones.