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!!