Groundhog Day Resolutions

Happy Groundhog Day...um, plus one.  It's an exciting time, for those of us in the minority who maintain that Groundhog Day is a much better day to start resolutions than January 1.  It's perfect, really.  The gym has cleared of all of those "January oners" who vowed to exercise.  The Super Bowl is over, so you can safely swear off hot wings. And the cold weather is closer to gone (at least in South Texas), so you can commune with nature more, if that's on your list. 

The other advantage of implementing your resolve on February 2 instead of January 1 is that you have a whole month to hear others' resolution lists, giving you the fodder to think about yours carefully while you pay off Christmas and get back into the post-holiday groove of normal life.  January is the hunkering-down month, the nothing-special month, perfect for reflecting and making notes. Much better, really, than trying to reflect while the frenzy of holidays and relatives clouds your judgment.  I wrote a little down almost every day, allowing myself the luxury of time to think about my priorities. 

So, after a month of rumination, here is my list:

Look up.  This was inspired by an acquaintance and fellow alumni of my graduate English program.  It means to keep your eyes and your heart open and ready for "amazing little discoveries."  This acquaintance, writer and designer Alyson Wagner, sent me a wonderful New Year's e-card that she designed with this image, an uplifting discovery she made on a winter walk.  It was perfect medicine for my lost feelings of "what is next?" 

 

 

1) Keep writing.  As I mentioned, I have felt so lost lately without my little one to write about.  It's ironic that once my grief over his death started to subside, a deep grief for the loss of the words that Dylan helped me create has overtaken me.  But I've always been a writer, of different sorts (persuasive and informational)--I was just too afraid to let the good stuff out, the stuff that doesn't garner a paycheck but pays so much more.  And the subject matter--unconditional love, loss, having your soul refined by a traumatic experience--is still relevant, will always be relevant.  I just need to render it through the lens of my life going forward. Part of this resolution is changing the name of the blog to stop dwelling on the disease that no longer exists.  I am in the next part of my life, informed by all that I have experienced and mindful of his spirit as a source of deep strength and love.  And the blog's name needs to reflect that while honoring him, since it was him who changed me.  It's coming soon.    

 

2) Read my friends' books.  Nothing is better than keeping good creative company if you want to keep your own creativity flowing.  I am fortunate enough to know a few wonderfully creative and fearless people who have written books, and I plan to read them all--and share information about them here--throughout the year. 

 

3) Finish reading David and Goliath.  I started reading Malcolm Gladwell's latest book last year and have been too addled with the details and drudgeries of daily life to complete it.  But, as a mother of a child who is wrangling the challenges presented by ADHD, auditory processing disorders and developmental language issues (not to mention the loss of his little brother), I really need to consume and live its message. Gladwell proposes that the adversity that we tend to associate with the underdogs of the world--deaths, learning disabilities, discrimination, physical disabilities and other less-than-desirable poker hands--should be interpreted not as disadvantages but as powerful keys to potential greatness. Which leads me to my last resolution...

 

4) Stop feeling sorry for Colin.  I struggle desperately with this one, as any mother would.  I see him struggle with bullies, isolation and poor grades at school (see aforementioned learning issues listed in #3) and I want to hug him constantly just to squeeze out the uneasiness and frustration he feels.  These issues were starting to arise when Dylan was still with us and have worsened as Colin advances in grade levels.  Maybe the trauma of losing Dylan exacerbated them.  But, as much as I want to cradle that big 8-year-old in my arms and rock him every day for hours, I can't just make these things go away.  My job is to get him the professional help he needs, encourage him to work hard, cheer him on to success and insist he stick with it. I already know that overcoming these obstacles will build a character as strong as steel in him.  He will know the meaning of excruciatingly hard work by the time he graduates high school, unlike those kids who never struggled with their schoolwork. He will know about loss and sadness more than most others his age, and that will make him especially tender and compassionate toward those he loves.  He will be an amazing man for these things--unless I get in the way by coddling and pitying him.       

 

5) Oh, yeah--and try not to drink too much beer, as it makes my midsection all mushy. 

 

So, I'm holding myself to these things and will talk about them throughout the year.  Especially the resolution to look up, become aware of everything around me, and make those little discoveries that change your life.  That's the difference Dylan made. 

Moving on

Those words are hard to see on the screen. But it is happening.

Incredibly slowly, like a glacier melting, I seem to have moved into a phase that lies just a hair, a drop, beyond grief.

The episodes of being ambushed by sadness are infrequent, almost non-existent.  It's not that I don't miss Dylan, but I am just removed enough that I can call up those feelings when I want to think about him.  I can look at pictures and videos and choose to cry, to laugh, to miss the sound of his sweet voice.  When I do look at them, it feels slightly surreal.  We had this beautiful child, and now he's gone from us. But the sadness that this activity generates is still prompted by me, instead of it surprising me.

When I am with Jason and Colin nowadays, it feels complete.  It no longer feels as though someone is missing, for whatever reason.  I never thought it would feel that way again.  In the 2008-2009 time period, Jason and I tried on and off for several months to conceive a child.  Eight different inseminations, some without fertility drugs, some with.  I even underwent acupuncture.  (I figured it couldn't hurt.)  But the practice of unsuccessful conceiving can wear on you.  We made a conscious decision to give up around Thanksgiving 2009, after so many cycles of disappointment.  We decided that the three of us were perfect, that we would joyfully embrace our family as it was. And here's the thing: we really were joyful about accepting this life as perfect.

Then Dylan surprised us by being conceived successfully just a few months later.  He also survived the platelet/antibody issue we have when we conceive (which we learned about when Colin was born) that can be fatal to a newborn. But within his first six months, we inevitably learned that he was only supposed to be with us a short while, at least physically.  Two years and 18 days, to be exact. I still marvel at the ride the three of us we were on with him.  Those two years reshaped our lives completely.

Now, he binds us three even closer in a shared experience.  It was as if we were meant to be completely changed through this experience, and then pick up where we had left off in 2009--the happy three. But different.

As I move beyond grief, there are still parts of my life in which I still feel terribly lost.  To be blunt, I am not sure what to do with this blog.  I have always loved to write, wanted to write something important.  One of the greatest by-products of our life with Dylan was the opportunity to choose a brushstroke and a canvas and paint his story.  I wrote not just about a dying child, but about living with Dylan, caring for him, watching his little, fleeting successes, witnessing his decline, and how much love and pain it etched onto my heart.  How deeply amazing this journey was. How he made all our lives matter so much more.  How for me, he was evidence of God's hand on us.  Then I wrote for many months about losing him, learning to live without him.

But now I wonder, how could there be anything else to say that was so important, so enriching, so tragic and beautiful all at one time?  What would I ever write that would be so meaningful as that?  I used to feel a physical void, a void of time, that was left after I did not have my youngest baby to care for anymore.  Now I feel the terrible void of feeling that nothing I could contribute now would be nearly as important as that wonderful story.

Now, what?

Go back to living without writing, as I did before Dylan?  It doesn't feel right. Writing equals awareness, awake-ness, for me.  Dylan opened me up wide, and I prefer the opened-up me, the changed me.  And the blog exemplifies that version of me.  But I also know that I cannot continue to write in a blog titled "Dylan, diagnosed."

So, much like the process of grieving and finding a "new normal" after the death of a loved one, I must find a new purpose for this blog, and a new title.  I am overwhelmed by the task.  But I am compelled to try.

The Spirit of Dylan

Last year around this time, I'm sure I was terribly sad.  But I don't remember it that way.

I recall feeling a wealth, which is to say tidal waves, of gratitude.  I don't know if it was because I still felt freshly full of love and gratitude from the outpouring at Dylan's memorial on November 15.   But I do remember those two things.  Love and gratitude. 

And it wasn't just me.  The typical Christmas for us includes Jason, my mom, my mother-in-law, and Colin.  And we all seemed different. It felt as though we collectively gave ourselves a buy from all the normal holiday stressors.  Of course, we made sure to buy gifts for Colin and each other, and we had a nice dinner, and we did pretty much every tradition we were used to doing. But what didn't seem to occur was the normal tension over giving too many/too extravagant/age-appropriate/likable gifts, or saying something wrong, or the worry over the potatoes being perfect, or if the food was prepared smoothly or if the timing was messed up, leaving something cold, or burned.

We've always had nice Christmases. But last year felt like an elevated state of peacefulness and calm.  Relief that we didn't have to see Dylan suffer on another holiday.  Cognizant of how lucky we were to have had him at all.  Grateful that we had each other.  Blessed in so many ways.

The true, and often forgotten, spirit of Christmas prevailed.

But a lot happens in a year.  Time actually does erode the sharpest pangs of grief, dulling the pointy parts just enough to provide some comfort. I noticed that, after I crossed the year mark, I felt the story of Dylan being nudged, slightly, from the forefront of my own life story to perhaps a volume of a larger set, albeit a big, thick volume.

With that, I feared that we would lose that special peace that Dylan brought.  I'm talking largely about myself here.  I feared that my slow reprieve from pain and return to "normal life" would also return me to worrying about petty stressors. Was everyone getting along, happy?  Did we spend too much?  Not enough?  Did Colin get too many presents?  Why aren't my scalloped potatoes getting thicker? 

But it occurred to me this past Christmas Day that Dylan changed me, and everyone else close to him, permanently, and not just over one year.  He came to us in 2010, a dream that we never thought would happen after failed attempts at conceiving.  We almost lost him to aspiration pneumonia in 2011, then got to bring him home from the hospital two days before Christmas--and what a gift that was. In 2012 we mourned him but also breathed in the peace, love and gratitude that he left us.

Once again, the true spirit of Christmas prevailed. Thank you again, Dylan, for changing me.