Those Two Damn Days

Insert great big sarcasm here.  

We're very fortunate to have not just one, but TWO days to commemorate Garrett's death.  He drowned on the 12th, and died on the 13th.  Why rip the band-aid off at once, when you can prolong the agony over more than one day?  Ha.  And it's not just those two damn days, but the days and even weeks leading up to it.  Crazy enough, it's the not the day of his death that's the hardest for me.  The 11th and 12th are absolute hell, because it's all the wonderful events that I remember.  It's all of the good times that we had together, right before...BAM.  Everything went straight down the crapper after that.  One minute, he was healthy and happy and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  And the next?  He was floating face down in the swimming pool.

I barely sleep the night of the 11th.  My brain doesn't let me sleep, but rather it wants me to relive every second of the horror.  I woke up on Thursday the 12th and had so much adrenaline and anger coursing through me, and the only way to counteract it was to exercise hard.  I hit the gym and cycled and ran harder and faster than I had in a long time.  Then I lifted heavier than I ever have, all in hopes that it would take my mind off the pain in my heart.  Yeah, that never works.

But then on the way home, I had the grandiose idea that it would be different that day.  It's funny what a huge dose of epinephrine does to one's brain.  For me, it gave me a little bit of optimism and made me want to be grateful for my life, rather than to wallow and be miserable.  So Devin and I went to the store and got all the makings to make a ton or orange and blue cupcakes.  We came home, and it's like I was high on cocaine.  I baked and baked and baked for hours.  I couldn't stop.  I started thinking about all the good people in my life, and how fortunate I am to have them.  I had the idea that I would spend the next twenty-four hours delivering orange and blue cupcakes to everyone who has helped me along this journey, and everyone who meant something to Garrett.  The list was crazy long, but then again I had a crazy amount of cupcakes.

I contacted my good friend Mike (yeah, for those of you who think it's weird, I'll weird you out again by reminding you that he was my OB for years and delivered my babies.)  He was pulling an all-nighter up at L&D so the kids and I took two plates of cupcakes, donned our orange and blue clothes, decided it was a good idea to spend the actual night of the 12th back in a hospital.  Was it a good idea?  My nightmares that night told me it wasn't a good idea, but before that, I got to have a couple of much needed visiting hours with one of my favorite people in the world.  Mike is one of my life Buddhas, and I'll always need him.  He has a way of calming my soul like a cool drink of water on a sweltering day.  Even if he did miss Garrett's delivery because [I'm pretty sure] he was out getting high with his friends at some ski cabin that night, I still love him to pieces.

*Okay, I don't think he was out getting high.  But he really did decide to head for the hills, and I still haven't forgiven him!

I suppose gratitude is a good alternative to bitterness, but it's short-lived.  I was doing okay, until everyone went to bed and the house went silent.  One of the things Mike and I talked about was my insatiable need to finish that letter to the PICU doctor who took care of Garrett when he was dying.  After a year of conflict within myself, wondering if it was appropriate to write him such a letter, Mike convinced me to do it.  So that night, I sat down to write the damn thing, and I fell apart at the seams in the worst way.  I couldn't breathe.  I wrote, and I wet my keyboard with tears.  Devin came out of his room and climbed up on the couch with me and he rubbed my back and tried to calm me down as I tried to regain homeostasis.  It's not right that an eight-year-old boy such as himself should have to calm his weeping mother in such a way, but I was grateful for that broken-hearted boy.  Unfortunately, he made the mistake of reading what I'd written, and then he fell to pieces as well.

"Mom, I just wish I had a time machine.  I'd go back and I'd change everything.  I'd save him.  I just wish I could have saved him!"

He sat there and sobbed with me.  People are quick to underestimate the grief and trauma that a four-year-old child can experience, absorb, and live with for the rest of his life.  How can a child so young understand and still remember the nightmare almost twice his life later?  I don't know, but he surely does, and it's a horrible pain to witness. 

I take a bare-faced picture each year before bed on the 12th.  It's been an interesting progression.

After taking a huge sleeping pill, I finally fell into a very restless and nightmare laden sleep.  It's difficult to get my mind to shut off on that night, because my internal clock remembers the events minute by minute.  I remember every time the doctor came in.  I remember the beeps.  I remember his skin growing colder.  I remember the meeting with the organ transplant coordinator.  And above all else, I remember the second Cody walked into the PICU room after the taxi dropped him off, and for the rest of my life, I'll never forget the sound that erupted from him.  All of it happened in the middle of the night while everyone on this side of the globe was sleeping.  The sun would rise again, but nothing would be the same for any of us.

Friday morning came, and with it was the need to run.  But before that, I decided to take a plate of cupcakes to one of Garrett's best friends, Graham.  Those friends were less than two weeks apart; Graham being born only thirteen days before.  I vividly recall Audrey bringing her new baby over to meet my new baby when we came home from the hospital.  We sat there and talked about sore nipples and poop blow outs and exhaustion.  But more so, we talked about how those boys would grow up to the best of friends, and they were.  For a whole three years, they were best friends.  In fact, on the way to Texas, we passed a van that was identical to the Beebes' van. Garrett looked out the window and pointed and excitedly declared, "Look!  It's Graham's car!  Graham is going to Texas, too!"

Sometimes, I just have to hug the boy because it lets me know what Garrett would feel like if he was still alive.  I'm sure the day will come when Graham no longer wants me to hug him like that because it'll be too weird.  You know, when he's six foot three and has armpit hair.  But for now, I'm grateful for the comfort he gives me when I need it most.

Some of my favorite kids in the world.  That stinker with the cupcake is Grahamalamadingdong.

Because it's too stinking hot outside, I hit the treadmill at the gym and sprinted four painful miles.  One mile for each year he's been gone, and I ran so fast and so furiously that in the last half mile, I thought my hips were coming detached from the rest of me.  My lungs ached, my sides ached, and my bowels were not happy.  Sometimes I think that if I run hard enough and fast enough, I can somehow outrun this pain.  Somehow, I can escape it if I just go fast enough.  But I never can.  

I never did deliver the rest of the cupcakes.  Truth be told, I didn't have it in me to be grateful for another minute, so I let my kids eat as many as they wanted.  In the evening, Megan came to pick me up because I knew the only thing I wanted to do was sit in Dave's tattoo chair and talk to him while he etched into my skin something beautiful to commemorate another year of painful growth and loss.  Everyone needs a Dave in their life, and I'm thankful for him.  I wasn't sure if he'd know who I was, seeing as how a whole year had passed since he did my "Garrett" tattoo.  On the way to the parlor, the grief was crashing down on me, pressing me further into the ground like a boulder.  I about lost my mind in the car (sorry, Megan) but I pulled myself together enough to walk inside.  And when I did, it was such a sweet release.  Dave came out and gave me a huge hug and he not only knew who I was, but he remembered everything about the three hours we spent together last July.  He remembered details about my life and my story, and it was a fantastic catharsis to have my girl Megan there while Dave tortured my poor arm.

Dave.  Is.  Huge.  I'm 5'8", so you do the math!  Big giant teddy bear of a guy.

I'm in the middle of journaling about Scotland, but for now, I'll say that it provided me with such a sense of home and familiarity and I knew I had to incorporate it into a tattoo somehow.  I know a lot of people have big opinions about inking one's skin, but I don't care.  It helps me cope, and I figure there are far worse things a person can do than mark herself.  The majority of my heritage is from Scotland, and I experienced a sense of strength and camaraderie while there that I've never known before.  And in it, I thought of the hardships my ancestors faced for centuries, and I felt a connection.  And so, after much agonizing over the exact phrase and design, I decided to have "bana-ghaisgeach" permanently imprinted on my skin.  There isn't a perfect English translation, but it is the equivalent of "female warrior" in Scot Gaelic.  Because after all, I am fighting a war every day of my life.

It's difficult to pronounce because of the thick Gaelic accent that must be used, but if you say bahna gosh gee awk really fast and put your tongue all the way at the back of your throat, you'll come close to saying it correctly.

This is what it looks like today after removing the plastic, cleansing, and moisturizing it.

Holy mother of God, did this one hurt.  Dave said anything around the bicep is bad because there's no fat there and the muscle is very dense and full of nerves and vessels.  Yup, this one hurt a lot, but it wasn't too bad.  The worst part is how much it bled after, which surprised me.  Normally I clot very fast, but this one bled off and on for several hours.  The colors inside the mother/child symbol are the colors of my children's birthstones.  Red, blue, purple, pink, and clear diamond (for Garrett in April).  I could not be more pleased with how it turned out!  

After the tattoo, Megan and I went a few blocks down the road to my favorite Irish-American pub.  The Piper Down, and they make the most fantastic shepherd's pie and they hate all things English there, which makes for a great time!  Since it was Friday, they had live music and it was a good ending to an otherwise terrible two days.  The good news is that I don't have to do it again for another year.  The bad news is that I have to do it every year for the rest of my life.

Left the sweet waitress a hefty tip!

I don't know where I'd be without wonderful friends who continue to lift and support us.  Neighbors do little things to show they care, like putting in blue and orange exterior lights, or wrapping orange and blue ribbons on their trees.  Or how cookies mysteriously end up on our porch, or someone brings in dinner because they know I just can't.  It's the smaller things, too, that mean a great deal.  It's the texts and the phone calls and the social media pictures and messages.  I remember walking through the desolate halls of the PICU after going to the restroom, really and truly believing I would die.  My heart would give out, and I'd die.  I couldn't do it.  I couldn't face what my life would look like after that day.  I couldn't do any of it, and I remember a moment when I prayed to God for strength, saying I needed help.  I needed angels to lift me up and make me live, because I couldn't otherwise.  

And you know what?  I've received help all along the way.  Angels don't have wings.  They have minivans and casseroles and funny distractions when I need it most.  My heart is so full, and these tears are tears of grief but also tears of gratitude.  I'm sorry I never got cupcakes out, but each of you know who you are and that I cannot repay the kindness you continue to show me and my family.  I love you!!

Cub Scout Day Camp

Knowing this is the last Cub Scout I have on earth, knowing this shouldn't be my last boy to go through the program but accepting that he is, I decided to seize the opportunity and chaperone both days at Day Camp this year.  Even though it was extremely hot and dusty and the regional forest fires severely exacerbated my asthma, it was absolutely worth it to go and see Devin in his element.  

The first day, I drove these cute little monsters.  Zoram, Carson, Kade, Chase, and Devin.  As soon as they got in the car and we pulled away, the poop and fart talk started.  Yup, I'd say they are definitely eight-year-old boys!  Day one at Camp Tracy was in the section they've turned into the "Shire", and they even named it "Cubshire."  The theme was all things knights and swords and magic and adventure having.  Right out of the shoot, all Devin wanted to do was visit the trading post so I humored him, and he bought a coon-skin cap and [another] pocket knife.  Come to find out, boys were only allowed to purchase pocket knives IF they had a parent there to sign a waiver.  A Scout leader didn't count; it had to be a parent.  Needless to say, most of the boys did not have a parent with them, so they were bummed and super envious of the boys who got to buy knives.  

Learning to fence with PVC

Getting knighted at the end of the day

 Day two was at another section of the camp; a place I'd never been in past years.  Day two was all about frontier life, trapping, shooting, etc.  It was like a mini rendezvous, which was perfect for me!  At the end of the day the kids did leather working right by a great big tipi, but by then I needed a break from the boys.  I sneaked inside the tipi and lied down on the cool dirt floor, but it took no time at all for the boys to find me inside.  They piled in and soon started kicking up the dirt, and I knew it would wreak havoc on my lungs that were already struggling because of the nearby smoke.  Sure enough, I couldn't get out because the boys were blocking the tiny door, and my lungs started constricting right away.  This asthma thing is NO JOKE, and I had an attack before I could get away from the dust storm.  Luckily, two puffs on my inhaler opened things up enough, but I was struggling the rest of the day.

Overall, both days were a lot of fun, and I had a great time getting to know the other chaperones a little better.  On the second day, I was lucky enough to partner up with my good friend, Audrey, who always makes things more fun!  I'm sad that next year will be my last year to go to Cub Day Camp.  I'm sad that Garrett won't be there, when he's supposed to be.  I'm sad that those two brothers will never be Scouts together.  I'm sad about so many things, but I sure am grateful that I got to spend quality time with one of my favorite boys and his stinky friends.

The Hardest Thank You

Dear Dr. Gelvez,

I’ve wanted to write this letter a hundred times in the last year, and I’ve started it at least as many.  We met four years ago today, so I guess it makes sense to finally write this on the anniversary of our meeting under those dire circumstances.  We’ll see if I can actually get through it this time.

I know that you see hundreds, if not thousands of children come in and out of the PICU in a year.  My child may have gotten lost in the numbers, but he was a patient of yours on July 12, 2014. 

His name was Garrett, and he turned three that spring.

He was life-flighted to Cook Children’s after drowning in my parents’ swimming pool, and he was under your care in those sixteen hours until he finally slipped the bands of mortality the next morning.  Our lives changed forever in an instant and while my dreams have been plagued with horror these past four years, your face always come to mind and ironically, it’s the only thing that gives me any comfort.  And so, I’m compelled after all this time to thank you for doing all you could.

I don’t know if you remember every child who passes away on your watch, but I remember yours being the kind of eyes that truly grieved when our little boy didn’t make it.  I remember those magnetic glasses you wore around your neck, and how you put them on the bridge of your nose each time you examined him.  I remember your eyes being full of hope, but how they'd quickly fill with dry tears and how you'd rub that place between them in aguish.  It was pain.  I knew that you felt the grief and despair but even though you were exhausted after a long shift, you never left. 

Garrett epitomized the three-year-old boy.  He loved Lightening McQueen and Thomas the Tank Engine and tigers and pancakes and hotdogs and all things blue and orange.  His life was short, but he left a mark on all who had the chance to know him and see the light in his eyes.  I regret that those who met him in his final hours, those who cared for him and loved him as he left this life, never had the chance to know him.  I assure you, he would have been your favorite, as he was the favorite of so many. 

As I sit and write this with a heart so heavy that it may fall right through the floor, I’m also overcome with a sense of gratitude for people like you.  Your job is often times a thankless one, and I know work for you does not end at the close of day.  It becomes part of you, and you carry it with you always; both the victorious and the tragic cases.  How I wish I’d had the chance to know you under completely different circumstances, and how I wish things had been different that day.  However, I must thank you for putting your heart into it for us, as I’m sure you do every child and every family.  Even on days when you’re too tired to stand up and your soul is weary, thank you for loving children like my son.  Thank you for your kindness and your compassion and the shoulder you lent us when we were faced with the unthinkable. 

Thank you for doing all you could do.  You may have been plagued that night, wondering if you did enough.  Wondering if your best really was your best.  Wondering if you’d been too tired, too overloaded, or too distracted.  Garrett was a very sick little boy when he came to you, and I’m certain above all else that if you’d been able to save him, you would have.  Even if you don’t remember him, I know that there have been instances since then wherein you’ve wondered these things, and I hope this gives you a sense of contentment and a sense of peace, to know that this mother appreciates all that you do. 

There.  I finally said it, even though I don’t think it came out right.  So after four years, I’m finally saying thank you for your best effort to help my son live.  I will never forget you.

Sincerely,

Garrett’s mommy, Veronica Andrew

A Pain Unbridled

You wore a size 8 shoe.  

I know that because tonight after coming home from a late run to the store, I opened that bottom drawer of the dresser.  That drawer that holds a few of your things.  The drawer typically beckons to me, begging me to open it and feel it.  I'm sorry that I don't do it very often, but it hurts too much.  Am I afraid of the pain?  For certain, I am.  But maybe not so much of the pain, but what will happen if I allow it to take hold of me.  Sometimes, I let it.  Tonight I let it, but I couldn't do it for long.

It washes over me like hot acid and rips me to pieces.  Four years, and I'm forgetting things about you.  Do you know I'm crying as I write this?  Do you see me?  Do you still exist in any corner of the universe?  People say that time heals, but that's a lie.  Time is nothing but a deceitful bitch who wants me to think she's helping, but really, she does nothing but prolong the misery.  Tonight I held your little shoes in my hands, the brown sandals you wore to Texas, the last pair of shoes I'd ever buy you, and the strangest thing happened.  I usually feel like I'm trapped between two dimensions, and tonight was no different.  

I held your little sandals and I wept, but it was like I was looking at myself in third-person.  I thought to myself, how queer that the saddest and worst and most horrific thing that can happen to a person, happened to me.  Wow.  This is heavy.  This is weird.  How am I still breathing?  That heart that keeps me alive and kept all of my babies alive in utero, has not failed to beat in these four years.  How is it possible?  How can a heart keep beating, keep pumping blood, still keep perfect time and synchronization with every other faculty, when it is thoroughly broken?

Did you see me crying on the floor, holding your little shirts and pajamas in my hands, clinging to them for dear life, but afraid to breathe them in because I thought I'd find you there?  How odd that I'm afraid of your memory.  How odd that I walk around every day, pretending that I'm okay, when I'm anything but.  How odd that a person who I only knew for a little over three years, has the ability to completely shatter me.  It's been longer without you than time with you, and yet, nothing has balanced out.  How unfair that I should go through the remainder of my life with such a hole inside of me.

You were just here, and yet, it's as though you never were.  Your story ended, and mine still goes on.  How sad a story it is, but I keep on writing it.  I write it for you, Garrett.  I write it for your brothers and sisters and your daddy.  I write it in hopes that one day, they will look back and know how hard I fought.  How I waged a battle each and every day, and how I made the choice to keep fighting.  Four years ago tonight was the last time I would ever cuddle your sweet warmth against me.  How I wish I'd known our time was so short and that your breaths that remained were so very numbered.  I would have held you longer.  I wouldn't have slept that night, but rather I would have memorized every fraction of your soul.  

The world has moved on, and this planet has made four revolutions around the sun.  And here I am, mourning you and loving you with the greatest amount of love and pain that one could ever conjure.  I hope that if you still exist, that you have not forgotten me.  Perhaps this pain inside my heart and every atom that makes me who I am, is what connects me to you.  The hurt in me cannot be measured, for there aren't numbers big enough to account for this kind of anguish, or this kind of love.  You are my child, and my heart is still the house of pieces of you.  You were here.  You lived, and I love you forever.  

National Day of Treason

This was the first year since Garrett died that we stayed home for the 4th of July.  We normally go to Idaho but that week 2014, Paul was with us and we stayed home.  I remember that day with such clarity.  I remember the picture I took of Garrett passed out on the couch in his little blue striped bear PJs after a long day.  July is bad enough, but getting to escape to Idaho for a few days always makes it a little better.  However, this year Ethan was invited to be in the Centerville parade with his theatre company, so we stayed here.  Luckily, good friends made it bearable and we got through the otherwise difficult "first" pretty unscathed.

Cody was kind enough to wake up early and get Ethan to the parade by 7:00, then scout out a place for us to sit for the parade.  When the kids and I got there, he had donuts and juice waiting for us.  Such a good guy of mine.  It was great watching Ethan in his element, walking, singing, and handing out fliers and candy to parade goers.  Never is he so at home than he is with his theatre company, and they sang songs from The Greatest Showman and Beauty and the Beast, for which they are advertising and trying to solicit new theatre clientele.  

Angus surely represented the red, white, and blue!

These guys were so much fun to watch and listen to.  Parade music is the best!

Loved this float.

After taking an hour to locate Ethan through the end-of-parade mob, we headed out to waste a ton of money on fireworks.  As much as I love fireworks, something in me gets all queasy when I think of burning so much money like that!

In the evening, we went a few streets over and crashed Rothbury Court's fireworks festivities.  It was great to be out with friends, and we met a lot of new neighbors.  In fact, Cody ended up walking home with Angus and the kids and I didn't mean to stay so long, but we didn't get home until 1:30 in the morning!  Too much fun playing and visiting with friends.

Yeah, my blue shirt from earlier in the day got dirty, so upon deciding on what else to wear, I landed on this Union Jack shirt.  Why would I wear such a thing to pay homage to our nation's birth?  Well the way I see it, America gets all the credit for winning the war.  However, England gets no credit for LOSING the war.  Sure it was great that we won, but we couldn't have won had England not lost.  Right?  

Cody and Mike have a very disturbing bromance that dates me years.

For all our problems, I absolutely love this country and I truly am grateful to have been born under the freedoms and liberties that the flag provides.  I can't listen to the National Anthem or America the Beautiful or The Battle Hymn of the Republic without getting a lump in my throat, and the debt I owe to the men and women who gave me these rights can't ever be paid.  This country is not perfect, but we try.  Our government tries.  Our military tries, and the citizens try every day to make it the place that our forefathers envisioned.  We stumble and fall, but we keep getting back up.  I love this land.  I love the people.  I'm proud to be an American.