Hard Times

I've started this post a dozen times or so, over the course of the past few days.  I keep hitting the delete button and starting over.  Kind of like wishing I could change things, I guess.  Kind of like wishing I could stop time, or pass over the next month.

December is coming, whether I like it or not, and I'm fighting an uphill battle with my emotions.  For the past six years I've had a love/hate relationship with December. I've been crying for weeks, it seems.  Not continuously, in fact, no so that most people would even notice.  I just tear up, impatiently wipe my eyes, and march on, doing what needs to be done.

Yesterday, I was crying before I got my coat off in my classroom.  It started with my neighbor teacher asking me how my Thanksgiving was, and I replied cheerfully, "Great!  Well, mostly great.  Well, actually, sometimes it was kinda hard."  And I looked at Bob, and just teared up.  I could, because Bob knew what I meant.  

Thanksgiving was great. Jessica came home and we had a lovely two days with her.  Thanksgiving morning, I got deep satisfaction and a few chuckles listening in as Jess bantered with her sister Kailyn via skype.  With Kailyn in France, we made the most of modern technology, Jess and I puttering in the kitchen, with Kailyn virtually on the counter. It was a good weekend, too.  My nephew was home from Texas, and it was so good to see him, even though telling him good bye I got teary and he said in his deep voice, "Now Aunt Sandi, don't you cry." Wrapped in his bear hug, I swiped at my tears, then held his face in my hands and told him I loved him. He reminds me so much of my son.

December kills me, little moments at a time, gobbles up my laughter, freezes my smiles, strangles my gaiety. I can be perfectly "normal" one minute and sobbing the next, with little warning. I can't overplan enough, and even doing that, I'm still caught unaware. This is not to say I don't love the spirit of Christmas, the lights, the smells, the beauty of December.  Like I said, I have a love/hate relationship with December.

Most nights I wake in the dark, and my thoughts are on events that are out of my control, and chained to the past.  Sleep eludes me. I chase it around the room, but just when I get close enough to touch it, I remember.

Tonight at my regular counseling session,  I told Terry that I have a sub next week for a "mental health" day, and just knowing that helps me get through this week. And, she already knew I have a sub the following week for one day, so I can get through that week. We talked about grief, and how I am often frustrated that I can't seem to let go of what will never be. That what I miss most is not so much what I had, but what I will never have.  

I don't want to let go of my memories.  I want to remember.  My memories are what make me smile, and rejoice in what was.  Memories are warm apple pie, birthday candles, peanut butter and honey kisses.  Memories sustain me.  Terry tells me that I honor my son with my memories, and writing about the impact his life had on me, and others also honors him.

This Sunday is my son's birthday.  He would have been 36.  The last time I saw him alive was at his 30th birthday, a surprise party his wife and I planned.  I made him a quilt, with 30 squares, and I remember teasing him about the fact that the 30 squares represented his age.  Never in a million years did I expect my words to be prophetic, and that he would be gone in 12 days.  I also had a journal I had been keeping for him, but I didn't give it to him that day, because I wanted to write about the party, and planned to give it to him for Christmas.  

I still have the journal.  I still write in it sometimes.  I don't know who, other than myself, will read it.  Maybe someday one of his sisters will.  And, I will read it on Sunday, and write.  His whole life is in that journal, from his birth to his death, and all the milestones in-between.

I've also been working on a "birthday post" but, I'm not sure if I'll finish it.  Just in case I don't, I'll link last years post here. (I hope this works. Deb showed me how after we got back from our antiquing trip, but I may not have followed the directions correctly.  If it doesn't, I meant it to link to Dec 4, 2010.)

One of the reasons I hesitated to write tonight, is that I don't want people who read this to think I am seeking sympathy.  I'm not.  I write because it helps me think, and yeah, I cry, but, it's ok.  I miss my son every day, but like the old saying, "That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger".  I am a stronger, wiser, deeper person than I was before my son died.  I have lost much of my urge to control my world.  I know that I can't.  (That doesn't stop me from trying on occasion, but I do know now that I can't.)

Every blessed, stinking day is a gift. Even in December. Especially in December. I write to keep my perspective. And, to remember.