I Miss My Sunshine ...

... I miss making Josiah laugh.

I have these wonderful pictures of Josiah smiling that cycle through my desktop. Some days I'm too busy to notice; on other occasions - like tonight - it is just as painful to look away as is it to fix a gaze on my beautiful son.

He was in every possible way my sunshine. I can't say that word without thinking about him. It is forever attached to his character, his essence, and his smile. In my world the word 'sunshine' belongs to him alone. It's unintentionally so poetically fitting since his absence is our darkness, our shadow, our grey days of mourning.

The absence has continued to creep along and almost a year has been swallowed. I have no clue what that bitter anniversary will bring. I'm scared, scared of reflecting, scared of forgetting, scared of looking deep into my grief and not being able to see the bottom.

... You know, I wish I had the drive to write here on "up days" - seems like I'm always posting in the midst of days of brokenness ...

I think this blog often takes a somber note because I refuse to whine on Facebook! Speaking of Facebook, I am reminded that I so thoroughly enjoy clicking through photo albums and unexpectedly finding pictures of Josiah. It blesses my soul, in a smiling and crying sort of way that causes my hear to skip a beat and be pummeled all at the same time.

Last month I was reminded again how I love finding scraps of Josiah: pink instill tips, suction catheters, a fiber from his glowing fiber-optic night light. I treasure them. Literally. These little bits often end up in my drawer, or I will leave them as they were found in the van or on the carpet so that for a little while something "normal" has returned.

They remind me of the days when our home was littered with these bits, hand-held relics of happy days. I can't bring myself to tossing these items: when Josiah was with us, we couldn't get these annoying little bits of trash into the garbage fast enough. Now I cling to them, dreading the days when I no longer accidentally discover these little reminders.

It hasn't gotten easier, in that it hurts just the same. The tears are still as hot and fierce, the rhythm of hard days still unpredictable, sometimes in rapid succession sometimes calmly stretched over great distances. The scenes and emotions surrounding his death are still so vivid that sometimes it is all that I can see. I hate how Josiah's lifelessness dominates the vast riches of glowing memories I have stored in my mind. I know there will be a day of relief, when the images of that darkest time recede and I discover happy memories have taken its place. Yet until then I suffer and wait for that time when I can reflect extravagantly, a time when I can let down my guard and let my thoughts wander unbridled because I know the darkness will not crush my spirit nor assault the precious memories that I protect.

Looking back, it feels as though I'm on an uphill trend of functionality, as if my mind and body has been able to pull itself more together and compensate for my broken heart. The few we know who have shared in similar journeys have prepared us - it doesn't get any easier.

Six weeks ago or so, I had a first of sorts: I had a milestone moment as I was starting to wake. It was the first time I had a spontaneous (out of my control) dream that didn't drive me into a deep, raw, unabating sorrow; rather, it was a brief moment of warmth and elation, an untainted and pure reminder of a happy time. This dream - more like a split-second snapshot, really - was of me cleaning Josiah's neck. How I miss taking care of him, the gentle wiping of his neck, the methodical rhythm to the procedure, the playfulness that accompanied all the precision and severity of the situation, the trust, the challenge, the satisfaction that came from completing the task, and the big hug that would follow so that Josiah knew that we were proud of him.

Up to this point, every unprovoked spontaneous memory of Josiah that would appear in my dreams would drive a deep searing pain into my soul. This time, it brought happiness, without the bitter sting of reality that always followed. For that I'm grateful. There will be a day when I will see Josiah not through the fog of fading memories or the distance created by photos: I will see and hold and kiss my son. And that day will be good, the day of sweetest joy.

The first weekend of June brought an unexpected reminder of another broken tradition. Advertisements and testimonial videos for the BC Children's Miracle Weekend flashed on the TV and in an instant we realized that our cycle of participation in that event had unceremoniously come to an end. No interviews over the phone, no ninety-second recording at the golf course, no airtime on the radio. It was a hollow and bewildering realization to know we were no longer a part of the promotion and celebration of this event.

Mother's Day and Father's Day are behind us. Marie and I choose to not dwell on it. For Mother's Day we latched onto a 'tradition' that we started with Josiah last year: A&W in the park. It seems so many of the 'traditions' that Marie and I started in the past 11 months have come because of Josiah's absence, so it was so important for us to embrace a tradition that we had with him. It's simple, but it means the world to me.

Our church continues to take good care of us. They anticipated the sorrow of these two holidays, and blessed us with their thoughtfulness. The gifts didn't matter so much to us - and that's coming from a guy who loves gifts! - the fact that they wanted to stretch out and show their love is what leaves the biggest impression.

It is late. I was hoping that tears and the lateness of the evening would have chased the caffeine out of my system so that I can sleep. It appears that I'm going to have to find a book.


In love.
- Andrew