The Last Month (or so)

Marie and I were saying again last night that it has felt like forever since we last held our Josiah, played with his hair, saw his smile, or felt his fingers. It's been just over a month, but it feels like a year has past. I waited 25 years to finally meet our son. How long will it be until we see him again? Another 25 years? 50? I can't wait that long. It's just so long ...

After Josiah's memorial we were able to have a couple more days of being with family before they all dispersed for home. We had a somber but heartwarming gathering of respite workers and nurses at our home one afternoon, and Marie and I took a couple of days to go through Josiah's things, and organized what supplies needed to be sent back to their respective companies.

There has been a lot of "emptying" and "undoing", and it's all been with pain. It's amazing how conscious you become of the "lasts" along the way: the last bag of dirty diapers you throw in the garbage, the last load of his laundry, the last time you handle his equipment. His stroller has been taken apart and the wood carriage underneath that held all his supplies has been recylced. His carseat has been moved to the trunk. His bed will be taken a part some day - who knows when it will be put together again.

The shelves and corners of our home have been emptied of his medical equipment: oxygen tanks, suction machines, ventilators, cables, his chair, batteries, food cans, and boxes of unused medical supplies. Silly in a way, but this hurts more than folding his clothes in a box. All have been shipped off back to their companies or to other families who can use them. His medicine container has been emptied. His drawers have emptied of clothes we've borrowed from other families. And really, the house is empty - it's just a shadow and shell of what it was 6 weeks ago: a warm, welcoming, loud home has become cold, silent, and lonely, a mocking reminder of what was.

Marie and I took a few days to be by ourselves on Vancouver Island. We did what we could to distract ourselves by taking in sights, walking, and shopping, but most of the time it was just about wasting hours until the next day. Josiah would have loved the ocean and the walks, and it felt like we were taking a holiday without him, that he would be home when we returned. After the Island, we went out to the Okanagan for a few days to be with my parents and connect with close friends. The trip and the time was difficult because we had just been there with Josiah a month earlier and things had never been happier.

We haven't spent a night at our home yet, and so we've been enjoying the hospitality of my aunt and uncle. We go to our house for a few hours at a time to get things done, but the absence of Josiah and the memories of his death are too crippling for us to be there long. I returned to work about two weeks ago, trying to maintain a pace that is healthy and sustainable. It has been slow, exhausting, and difficult to focus, even the simplest of tasks can wear me out. But each week I'm able to accomplish a little bit more so I remain positive.

This past week had Marie's parents join us, and it was good to be around more people again, especially for Marie when I had to work. They were able to be here for Marie's birthday, but there was nothing happy about it. September 2 is now Marie's birthday and the month anniversary of Josiah's death, and while it was good to be around White Rock and be with family it was a day packed with sadness and tears.

We've been by Josiah's graveside three times now. On his plot we've put a small tin that holds a few memories: a tie, a trache, a nose, and 2 bibs: "daddy's little helper" and "mommy's little monster". We wanted to post the collage of pictures that I had made, so our uncle made a beautiful signboard for it and we placed it there last week on Marie's birthday. Last week we also made the final decisions with his tombstone and it should be completed within 4-6 weeks.

There are still a lot of tears. We weep without warning and most of the time it feels like we could never stop. Days are filled with lots of sighing and drooped shoulders, and often we catch ourselves staring into nothing with glazed over expressions as try to understand and come to grips with our loss. Grief is an expression of love, for if you love someone you will always grieve their absence. And for that reason, we've discovered, grief is never a burden nor does it end, but it becomes a part of your life's rhythm, as regular as breathing, eating, sleeping, and loving.

Thanks for the prayers, the notes, and the hugs along the way.
- Andrew & Marie