Anniversaries
Twenty-four years ago, email was new, there was no gmail or yahoo, group emails were difficult to send, and there was no such thing as a blog. But I was desperate to communicate so I did the best I could. For those of you who knew me then, you know I’m talking about my son Forrest who was two when he was diagnosed with a liver cancer that would ultimately end his life. The week before diagnosis, he and I had been in San Francisco visiting friends. The following Tuesday, he was in the ICU at Albany Medical in upstate New York. For the next eighteen months, and for years afterwards, I wrote to anyone who was interested to let them know how Forrest was, and then how I was as I figured out how to live without him. That writing and the community it started saved my emotional life.
Yesterday, I was taking a long walk through open land on the far side of Oregon State University’s campus when a little boy, about four, came riding towards me on his tiny scooter. His Dad was running along beside him while his pregnant mom walked with an older brother and their bikes ten feet behind. I smiled big at all of them. The little boy said hi as though he’d always known me. I’m not usually rattled by little boys that aren’t mine. It’s usually the opposite. I love seeing them. But yesterday, the sight of the four of them triggered one of those surprise attacks of sadness. When that happens I talk out loud to Forrest. I told him I was missing him, but then I told him that the other thing I was missing was being a mom, having a family, and doing the things families do together. I realized there was deep grief in that loss too.
I had a little cry with myself, grateful for these moments when I’m reassured that love is still there. I kept walking to the bridge before I headed home.
Every year around this time memories surface. Today, twenty-two years ago, Forrest and I went to Kingston to get new tires for the car, and tomorrow morning is the anniversary of his last strawberry. He died this Friday all those years ago.
People often say that losing a child is the worst thing that could ever happen. I’ve never liked that assessment. It’s difficult and painful, of course, but there’s nothing about Forrest’s life or his death that I would describe as the worst. His life is the central story of mine. The before and the after. I’m better for his having been here. And I’m still incredibly grateful for all you who were listening back then…and now.
Thank you.
When my child was an infant (I was all of 22), I knew a girl with a baby boy, who was just a few months older than my son. He had a very rare and fatal blood disease. They spent a lot of time at City of Hope in California. He was so compromised that a small cold would turn into pneumonia and he’d be in an oxygen tent in the hospital.
I had a chance to hold this dear babe in my arms for a while, while his mother was making arrangements to get her small, sick baby to the hospital once again. I remember holding him, looking at my son, and thinking, “my baby is healthy.” Why?
I learned so much at that moment about a mother’s love, compassion and understanding the shoes that others walk in.
Dustin also died at the age of 2. His mother said to me, “He chose me to be his mother. He was put on earth for a short while and it was my job to make that lifetime the best it could be for him. That’s why he chose me to be his mother.”
I’ll never forget the life-changing wisdom that came from such a young woman.
I bow to these mothers and, in my heart, share their grief- even though my son was healthy.
I love this and I love you. Your beautiful stories of Forrest have been on my mind since last week because I saw the upcoming anniversary on my calendar. Thank you so much for sharing Forrest with us, amazing mama. xOOOO