Remembering

This week, really these past two weeks, are some of the most difficult days of the year. These are the fifteen days that mark the beginning of the end. These are the final days that TJ walked this Earth. Though he was not walking for any of them, less maybe a few hours on that first and fateful day.

Many of you know the story. Many of you don’t. It was December 26th, 2015. We had had a great Christmas the day before. So much so that I have barely any pictures. I was so in the moment, enjoying my family, the day, soaking in every minute. We never knew if any occasion would be the last “fill in the blank” we would have with TJ. Just over two weeks later we would know the horrible truth: that was in fact the last Christmas with TJ.

It was a tortuous journey from that first seizure under my mom’s Christmas tree the night of the 26th until we had his funeral on the morning of January 9th. MRIs, EEGs, drips, ICU beds, helicopters, ventilators, good nurses, good doctors, bad doctors, hospital food, hospital showers, hospital everything, amazing staff, photo walls, hand holding, singing, praying, hoping, friends, pastors, strangers, fighting, disagreeing, more hand holding, crying, screaming, running….It all happened. It was all a blur and yet I remember every last detail from the bumpy ambulance rides to the food in the cafeteria; from the breath-holding during tests to the final hand prints; from friends traveling hours to say their goodbyes to our son, to so many helping us bring together his funeral & celebration of life.

And yet…and yet, that is not what this is about. This is about one little brother who brought a sweet tear to my eye tonight. We were riding home from a movie and dinner with friends and Little Man asked, “You know how Mimi (our cat) is buried outside? Why didn’t we do that with TJ?” I explained that you can’t bury a person in your back yard. It’s not allowed. And of course, since TJ was cremated, I went on to explain what DID happen with TJ’s body and the reasons someone would choose cremation over burial. He was quite fine with the explanation. But it gave me pause to know that his young mind has to think about these things. I was his age when I lost my brother, but I hadn’t known there was any other option besides burial. My Little Man had seen both. He then went on to say, “You know what three things I hope happen in my life?” I thought he meant either something that happens in his lifetime that he would be around to see or something that he personally would be able to do. He meant neither. I made some meager guesses and was told I was wrong. Finally after admitting I had no idea what he was talking about he said, “I hope that Mimi comes back to life and I hope TJ comes back to life.” Wow! “What is the third thing?” “I hope that people can be revived.” He clearly has his big brother on his mind. Maybe it was due to the witnessing of his mother having a good old fashioned cry on the kitchen floor the other day. “What’s wrong, mom?” “I miss TJ.” Or maybe he just senses the time of year as we all do. It was only two weeks ago that one of his sisters, staring at the Christmas stockings, mentioned that TJ being gone is like a part of our timeline is missing. We all get it. We all feel it. But when an eight-year-old mentions it out of the blue…..

So the conversation continued with a gentle turn in the path, but not straying from the topic. “Mom, is it ok that I showed my friend TJ’s picture? It came up on the tablet & I wasn’t sure but then I just decided to show him.” From there we talked about what it means to keep someone’s memory alive. I shared with him about all the friends who have thanked me for introducing them to TJ through my stories and that while they never did and never will meet him, they feel as if they know him. We spoke of the happiness and satisfaction it brings to our own heart when someone asks about him or is simply willing to listen, to look, to attend, to be present.

I posted a memory of TJ on Facebook today. He was at CHOP during those last days. It was not an easy picture to look at. But the picture was for me, not for them. No one is obligated to look, to attend, or to be present. But for those who were today and every other day, I thank you. Being present in someone’s pain is perhaps one of the hardest things to give to someone. It accentuates your own fears, your own anxiety, and your own awkwardness. There’s nothing simple about showing up for someone’s pain. And yet….and yet, it’s the simplest thing you can do.