Month

Month.

It’s been a month and I’m shocked by the sheer physicality of missing you. 

I knew I would miss talking to you. And I do. But I also miss just being in a room with you. Sitting next to you. Being around you and all that entailed. It’s not at all just your voice. Its your presence. It’s all of you I miss. 

I’m homesick for you. My whole body feels a little sick. Low appetite, low energy, low motivation. Teary eyed a lot. Thinking of memories a lot. A dull ache. Sometimes a sharp pain when triggered. Homesick. Momsick. 

We made it a month. This is the only way we would ever make it a month not speaking or seeing each other. 
We had June’s party last weekend. We did just what she wanted. I can remember her talking to you and Dad about it at Thanksgiving. A Pokémon party at the bounce house with a cake for Papaw too. “Six and sixty!”, she said. It hurt badly not having you there. I like to think you saw and were so happy to see her happiness, to see that we did it! We got her party done. It gives me strength to know it’s what you would want. You always wanted the focus to be on the kids. You always wanted each one of us to feel so special. 

I can remember the last day I felt I was really talking to you and you weren’t confused. It was Tuesday evening. You were sleeping a lot, but when you woke, you were yourself. You were sleeping and I was sitting next to you holding your hand and you opened your eyes and saw me and smiled and immediately said “I love you!” and then went back to sleep. That is a wonderful memory for me. 

I spoke to you again the next day when you woke, but your brow was furrowed in confusion. I can’t remember the last thing I heard you say with certainty, but I do remember one of the very last things. It’s all a bit of a blur around that time. 

Blake, Dad, and I were standing around your bed Wednesday evening and talking and not sure if you would speak again. You had slept all day and you seemed different than the day before. Less alert. You woke confused and we rushed around you and Dad stroked your face and said,

hey sweetie.

“What’s happening? Was I crying?” 

Yes, sweetie, last night you were crying but you are better now.

“Oh.”

You gave a very confused face followed by a determined face. You looked at all of us.

“That must have been scary. Y’all are being so strong.”

To which we all smiled and told you,

no, YOU are being so strong. We love you so much.

And you smiled and went back to sleep. You talked the next day to Blake and Dad but not to me because I was with June for her sixth birthday, a decision I made knowing it’s what you would want me to do. Then you stopped responding. Two days later we lost you here on this earth. 

I know the last thing I said to you. I said it so many times as you slept and repeatedly when we were alone or before I would leave. We said it hundreds of times those last months, as we held hands. 

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you so much. 

I do remember you saying I love you as being the last thing you said just to me. It was a happy I love you. 

When you stopped speaking those last couple days and would just open your eyes and look at me for a short time, I would say “I love you” and then eventually added “I love you and I know you love me” because there were times it seemed you wanted to speak and couldn’t and I wanted you to know I know. 

And I still know. You love me so much. 

I love you so much. I miss you. I ache to be with you.

Erika

Real

It feels more real tonight that you are gone.

I know that you are in heaven. But you are gone here, where I am. Where I may be for what feels like a very long time to me and I am hoping will feel like a short time for you. Or maybe when you are heaven, you don't have to miss people. Or maybe everything just makes sense, so you are OK with waiting. There are no tears there. There are so many here.
My friend, Lori, the one that lost her husband, encouraged me to start writing down memories. At least once every day I think of something about you and think, I should write that down. I told Lori that I hadn't written down a thing, which wasn't like me. I told her that it all seemed too horrible for anything to be down in black and white. That it felt like writing down my memories was too hard because it meant it all really happened. It meant you are gone. It made it more real.

I can't believe I'm expecting a blog to help me remember instead of you.

You were the keeper of so many memories and you had a really, really good memory, right? I don't know if I ever told you that. You would never interrupt when I was telling a memory but would just smile and then sometimes add a nod and a little laugh and an "oh, yeah. I remember." and often add more detail to the memory.
I was just sorting laundry and thinking about this weekend and how we all spent time together as a family and we are trying to figure out the ridiculous "new normal" thing and how brave Dad is being. You would be SO proud. You know you ARE so proud. And amazed. At one point when he was starting to cry this weekend, he said that he didn't want to be touched. He said that because I wanted to hold him while he cried. And that was fine. But it reminded me of how you always wanted to be held when you cried. Just like me, I thought, as I sorted and sprayed stains. I thought of a time I held you while you cried. And you held me while I cried. We were at the radiologist getting your last brain radiation and were going to lunch after. It was me, Paige, Dad, and you. You were getting a rash from the breast cancer in your breast again and it was starting to get more severe. You had been through so much.
So. Much.
I started to type some of it out but gosh it's just too sad.
You were so brave.
At your last brain radiation for the cancer in your brain, the doctor told you you had to start radiation on your breast. You already knew you were dying. You wanted some freedom from the doctor's office before you died. The radiologist told you and Dad you had no choice because the cancer was growing in your breast at the skin level so quickly. The radiation had to continue. Dad came out and told Paige and I and then went back to talk to the doctor and somehow you missed each other because you walked out alone and saw us and immediately started crying. I ran to you and held you and we cried and Paige put her arms around us and we all cried. You rarely cried with us kids. You mostly only cried with Dad. You stayed so positive.
But that day you cried.
And I was remembering you crying and the way my feet were moving before my head even fully made sense of what was happening. The way I didn't have any hesitation to run to you. There was not a moment of decision making. The way our arms rose together and we embraced with no thought or words needed.
Like an extension of each other. And that memory hit me so hard that I started to cry and had to sit on the laundry room floor and weep. And as I cried I thought, this is real. She had cancer. And it was unspeakably hard. And then she died. My mom died. My mom died. My mom died. And she is in heaven. And she isn't on earth anymore.

And I know this. But my mind will not accept this. It keeps tossing this information around, trying to make sense of it. Trying to find a spot it fits. But there is no spot.

Because we had been together my whole life. From my first breath.
You've known all the different mes. And I've known all the different yous. And there has always been an us. And we went through this life together.
Until now. Now you are in heaven. And I don't know what that looks like at all. And that breaks my heart.
But I know that heaven is real. I know that God is real. So real. I know I will see you again.
I know I love you. I know you love me. I know God love us. There is an us. Because God loves us. Present tense. Both of us present tense.

I miss you so much that my whole body aches with the missing.
I want to call you and hear, "hey sweetie" or "hey baby' and be able to tell if you are doing something with your other hand or not. I want to eat Chinese Food with you and laugh about ordering Dr. Pepper- our tradition since I was in kindergarten. I want our arms to rise as we embrace and hold each other as we cry about how ridiculous all of this is.
I want us to sigh as we say "gosh, I'm glad that's over." I want this to be over.
And even now I question why I am writing this at all. It is incredibly sad. Will I ever really want to remember this sadness?
And yet...and yet. There are so many happy memories I want to write about. And if this is where it needs to start than so be it. I need to not judge my writing or I will never get the memories down.

A few weeks before you died, I was sitting by your bed and we were holding hands the way we always did those last couple months and you told me,
"You know how I keep seeing myself running in a pasture?"
No.
"I haven't told you? I thought I had told everyone. I'm sorry. I can't believe I haven't told you! Its a vision I've been having since way back when I started chemo."
Wow. Tell me! (Laughter)
"I am running. Kind of skipping. Kind of running. Joyfully, and with excitement. Running across a pasture toward something. I can't explain it. Like....like the beginning of The Sound of Music. Do you remember at the beginning, where she is running? But no mountains. Definitely a pasture. Like a country pasture. And I'm holding a girl's hand. We are holding hands, running together toward something...And for a long time I thought it was June. That I was running at our land with June and it was a vision of my future at the new house. But I'm getting to see the girl more and more and it's not June. The girl is older...More around your age."
Wow...
"And we are very excited and very happy. Gleeful."
Wow. Do you think you are running toward heaven?
"I've wandered that."
Who do you think she is?
"I don't know."
The baby you lost comes to mind.
"I've thought that too, but I really don't know. I can't see her completely."
Wow.
"Well, anyway. Sorry I hadn't told you. That's my vision! Tell me about the kids..."

And I told you stories about the kids. And you smiled and laughed through your pain. So inspiring and strong. I know you missed them. You missed them so much your whole body probably ached with the missing.

I'm so glad you're not in pain anymore.
I love you so much. I miss you so much. I know you love me.
This is too hard.
Thank goodness you helped me get to know Jesus so young. I can't wait to see y'all together.
Erika