Thursday July 31 2008
Lydia spent the day at home. We all four went to the wading pool all afternoon - from 2-5 pm. Just held Harry and enjoyed the sun, blue sky, clouds and watching Lydia swim and play.
Cathy and Dr. Stoffman came by the house in the morning. Examined Harry and gave him a new feeding tube. They are trying to be supportive and are in their own way - but for them this narrative has only one ending.
Feeding Harry with carrot juice continues. Harry is getting better at taking his homeopathic medicine by mouth.
Lydia's most beautiful thing - for all three of us - was spending the afternoon together at the wading pool.
July 31 2009
Harry was really very weak by this time. He was really sleeping most of the time, though he would always perk up and sit up to wave to the Number 10 bus as it went by our house. He just slept in my arms all afternoon by the pool. Well, I should say, Henry and I took turns holding him and alternatively playing with Lydia in the wading pool. I sat in a lawn chair and just held him and told him over and over how much I loved him.
Always, those last two weeks, when I held him, I whispered to him, "You are so strong, you are so brave, my love, you can do it".
In my mind I was telling him he was strong and brave enough to get through the homeopathic detox and beat his cancer.
But I think I was telling him that he was strong and brave enough to jump to the other side when he needed to, when it got to be too much for him and he couldn't stay with us any longer. That he was strong and brave enough to just jump. And he did, but that story is to come.
When Dr. Stoffman and Cathy came by the house, they gave us a letter. It hardly registered at the time. Cathy came with me to the kitchen and handed me the letter. The letter was an official form from Harry's oncologist for the City coroner. It stated that he was expected to die at home very soon, and that an inquest was not needed when he did. Cathy is an amazing woman. She is one of the paediatric oncology nurses and she always knows exactly what to say and how to say it to make you feel better. She managed to give me this letter and explain what it was, but in such a gentle way. Nonetheless, I don't think I really understood what it was. She said to pull it out only when we needed it but to put it away and forget about it until then.
I remember looking at it. There it was in black and white, "Hendrik Venema is expected to die at home of primary rhabdoid tumor of the liver very soon". Signed and dated by Harry's oncologist.
I read the letter and cried and said to Cathy something like, "He can't die, not my baby, I can't lose him, he has to beat this. I don't know how but he has to. I can't give up hope". Cathy had tears in her eyes too and she gave me a big hug.
I was angry too, that they had given up on Harry. But I know they were just doing their jobs to the very best of their abilities.
I put the letter away on the desk in the dining room.
I can't tell you how much it broke my heart to be given that letter and see it in black and white. Hendrik Venema is expected to die at home very soon. But still I didn't believe it.
I believed then and I still believe now that miracles are possible. That we can jump from one path to another in an instant and jump from sickness to health. We are not matter, we are energy. Thoughts, intentions, move energy. Our intentions can heal. But I also believe that we are born into this life with a life mission. And Harry's life mission was to come for a short time, to touch many, many lives, to drop off a whole lot of love, and then to return to God. His life was exactly what it was meant to be.
It was a gift from God. He was a gift from Heaven. I know that. I know that especially because so many other people tell me what an incredibly amazing gift he was to them and how much he taught them and changed them.
My sweet Prince.
Love,
Cynthia
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
July 30 Last Year 2008
I kept a journal over Harry's last 2 weeks of life.
I have wanted to post my entries and write about them, each day a year later, but it hasn't quite worked out.
But here is my entry for Wednesday July 30 2008
Jacquie Olson took Lydia to Lower Fort Garry today. Henry did Level II Reiki with Claude. I spent the day cuddling Harry and just being together.
Harry had a better night sleeping last night - nursed a great deal and drank almost a full sippy-cup of water.
He alternatively cuddled with me or Henry, shifting ~ every hour.
Today we cautiously think his eyes look less yellow - a little bit.
Dr. Hall said an increase in biliruben counts and a decrease in liver function is to be expected from detox. Waiting for Dr. Hall to call back and think about a schedule for IV Vitamin C and Iscador Injections.
Harry slept a lot all day, but I think his breathing was deeper and not as much coughing - hardly at all.
He had more carrot juice not beet and seemed to keep that down better. Just one little spit up with me all day, but a bigger one at 6:00 pm.
Harry is frail and thin - but who said detox would be easy? We can do this - we just have to stay so strong for Harry - keep the faith for our little boy. My mantra is, "I am Cynthia, mother of Harry, a miracle cancer survivor". [I repeat it to myself all day long, as I hold Harry].
Lydia's most beautiful thing today was going to LFG with Svava, Freyja, Jacquie, Kristin & Saskia.
Mine was having Toni come and sit with me and Harry and her offer of help with laundry today.
Henry's most beautiful thing was getting his certificate for his Level II Reiki.
Love Cynthia
I have wanted to post my entries and write about them, each day a year later, but it hasn't quite worked out.
But here is my entry for Wednesday July 30 2008
Jacquie Olson took Lydia to Lower Fort Garry today. Henry did Level II Reiki with Claude. I spent the day cuddling Harry and just being together.
Harry had a better night sleeping last night - nursed a great deal and drank almost a full sippy-cup of water.
He alternatively cuddled with me or Henry, shifting ~ every hour.
Today we cautiously think his eyes look less yellow - a little bit.
Dr. Hall said an increase in biliruben counts and a decrease in liver function is to be expected from detox. Waiting for Dr. Hall to call back and think about a schedule for IV Vitamin C and Iscador Injections.
Harry slept a lot all day, but I think his breathing was deeper and not as much coughing - hardly at all.
He had more carrot juice not beet and seemed to keep that down better. Just one little spit up with me all day, but a bigger one at 6:00 pm.
Harry is frail and thin - but who said detox would be easy? We can do this - we just have to stay so strong for Harry - keep the faith for our little boy. My mantra is, "I am Cynthia, mother of Harry, a miracle cancer survivor". [I repeat it to myself all day long, as I hold Harry].
Lydia's most beautiful thing today was going to LFG with Svava, Freyja, Jacquie, Kristin & Saskia.
Mine was having Toni come and sit with me and Harry and her offer of help with laundry today.
Henry's most beautiful thing was getting his certificate for his Level II Reiki.
Love Cynthia
Almost a Year
I can't quite put into words what I am feeling these past few weeks.
A lot of anxiety, fear, panic, tears. But also, always, moments of joy and happiness too. And hope. Harry taught me how to always live in hope.
When Harry was sick, I promised him I would live in hope, hope that he was physically healed and that he had beat his cancer, until we knew otherwise, that is, until he drew his very last breathe. I promised him that I would fight for him, and never give up on him, until he drew his last breathe.
So that is what we did. Until his very last breathe. We were full of hope, right up until that very last moment.
That is one of the gifts of going through an experience like this with your child. You're pushed to the limits of your experiences. Each experience you have with a critically ill child is pushed to the maximum - maximum joy, love, hope, happiness. But also maximum grief, sorrow, pain.
One of the things that gets me throught the pain is remembering what it felt like to live so presently and daily and fully in love and joy and hope. It is a gift to have experienced those emotions so fully and deeply and completely.
As we wade through these last few days, far far too fast approaching the first anniversary of Harry's Angel Day, I try to reach back to that feeling of hope and take that feeling of hope with me forward into the future.
It is hard to feel safe enough to have hope for the future, when you first hand know that bad things do indeed happen to good, unsuspecting people. But the alternative? To live in fear and pessimism of all the things that *could* go wrong.
I know that to do that fails to honour Harry and the promises I made to him.
So we trudge on in hope. Hope that our hearts will find healing and true moments of joy will grace our lives again.
Love,
Cynthia
A lot of anxiety, fear, panic, tears. But also, always, moments of joy and happiness too. And hope. Harry taught me how to always live in hope.
When Harry was sick, I promised him I would live in hope, hope that he was physically healed and that he had beat his cancer, until we knew otherwise, that is, until he drew his very last breathe. I promised him that I would fight for him, and never give up on him, until he drew his last breathe.
So that is what we did. Until his very last breathe. We were full of hope, right up until that very last moment.
That is one of the gifts of going through an experience like this with your child. You're pushed to the limits of your experiences. Each experience you have with a critically ill child is pushed to the maximum - maximum joy, love, hope, happiness. But also maximum grief, sorrow, pain.
One of the things that gets me throught the pain is remembering what it felt like to live so presently and daily and fully in love and joy and hope. It is a gift to have experienced those emotions so fully and deeply and completely.
As we wade through these last few days, far far too fast approaching the first anniversary of Harry's Angel Day, I try to reach back to that feeling of hope and take that feeling of hope with me forward into the future.
It is hard to feel safe enough to have hope for the future, when you first hand know that bad things do indeed happen to good, unsuspecting people. But the alternative? To live in fear and pessimism of all the things that *could* go wrong.
I know that to do that fails to honour Harry and the promises I made to him.
So we trudge on in hope. Hope that our hearts will find healing and true moments of joy will grace our lives again.
Love,
Cynthia
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
July 8
After writing last night, I realized quickly that I needed to do some energy work to clear myself and re-focus on my intention of healing my heart. So I went upstairs to the attic and did another amazing Light Integration on myself, something I learned recently at a course in Chicago. I am always a little amazed at just how centered and balanced and cleared I feel after doing an energy integration.
I have always wanted to learn how to meditate. But despite week-long retreats to Ashrams in India and attendance at a variety of different yoga centres, I have not been able to even sit still and concentrate, let alone move into any sort of centred connection with the Divine Ground of Being. I suppose yet another gift from my journey with my wee Prince Harry has been that, having had my heart cracked open with love and grief, I have finally opened my heart and can sit in the quite of the night and feel my heart sing with love and light. I can't quite explain it.
And so last night, I sat still, immobile really, after my integration, and opened my heart and simply sat in peace and love, not sure for how long, half an hour, an hour maybe. It is in those really quite moments, I can feel Harry sitting right next to me. I can feel him place his hand on mine and lean his head against my arm. And we talk. He reassures me that he is okay and that we, Henry, Lydia and I will be okay too. I asked him to stay close to us, this next month, that we really need to feel him close, to help us get through this time.
I went to bed at 1:30, but I slept solidly and deeply until 7:30 and awoke feeling refreshed.
Then this morning, a good friend J can by and I did a light integration on her. We were working in our attic, and just when we were starting, J suddenly noticed that there was a perfect rainbow on the ceiling in the alcove by the front attic window, just behind where I was standing.
I smiled, and said, "Well hello, Harry".
I knew it was him. And he will be close to us this month. Giving us the love we need to walk through the pain.
Love,
Cynthia
p.s Happy Birthday Sarah!!!!!
I have always wanted to learn how to meditate. But despite week-long retreats to Ashrams in India and attendance at a variety of different yoga centres, I have not been able to even sit still and concentrate, let alone move into any sort of centred connection with the Divine Ground of Being. I suppose yet another gift from my journey with my wee Prince Harry has been that, having had my heart cracked open with love and grief, I have finally opened my heart and can sit in the quite of the night and feel my heart sing with love and light. I can't quite explain it.
And so last night, I sat still, immobile really, after my integration, and opened my heart and simply sat in peace and love, not sure for how long, half an hour, an hour maybe. It is in those really quite moments, I can feel Harry sitting right next to me. I can feel him place his hand on mine and lean his head against my arm. And we talk. He reassures me that he is okay and that we, Henry, Lydia and I will be okay too. I asked him to stay close to us, this next month, that we really need to feel him close, to help us get through this time.
I went to bed at 1:30, but I slept solidly and deeply until 7:30 and awoke feeling refreshed.
Then this morning, a good friend J can by and I did a light integration on her. We were working in our attic, and just when we were starting, J suddenly noticed that there was a perfect rainbow on the ceiling in the alcove by the front attic window, just behind where I was standing.
I smiled, and said, "Well hello, Harry".
I knew it was him. And he will be close to us this month. Giving us the love we need to walk through the pain.
Love,
Cynthia
p.s Happy Birthday Sarah!!!!!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
July 7
I feel sick and achy. Both Henry and I are weepy and frequently one of us is in tears these days. The picture of Harry on this blog site was taken a year ago yesterday. He had just learned to climb our stairs all by himself. How could that have been a year ago?
My memories of last July are overwhelmingly sad. The month started with such promise. We thought we were going to beat this thing. We were so hopeful that we were going to be able to move onto the next step in Harry's treatment - going to Toronto for a liver transplant. Were we ignoring the signs of recurrence? The signs were so like the signs of the original tumor - so minor as to be mistaken for normal growing pains. Harry was getting a bit more fussy in the beginning of July - but he was clearly teething new molars. I could feel the hard nubs on his gum just under the surface. See the red spots where the tooth was shifting, preparing to break through the surface. He was drooling more, I think, just like all of his other normal teething episodes. Little cheeks red with the flush of teething. How could a body be both shutting down and growing new teeth at the same time???
We had no room for anything but hope and faith that our son was going to beat this cancer.
We went for his last CT scan on July 14th. All four of us went together. Harry seemed so alive. He was so alive. I can still see him, so close to walking on his own, pushing a wee plastic shopping cart from the waiting room at paediatric CT scan down the long hall, past the CT scanner itself, the technician's room, the examination room, the family washroom. Laughing. Curious. A 'normal' 15 month old boy.
He cuddled in my arms as we talked with the anaesthesiologist, going over his case, his weight, how much he would need to be given to put him out just long enough for the scan. Lydia and Henry went to Tim's to get doughnuts. Lydia, wise beyond her 4 1/2 years, asked the doctor, casually, as she finished the last licks of her chocolate dip doughnut, "Will you inject the sleep medicine into a vein or will you use Harry's central line?"
I was so focused on the positive. That these results would be positive.
I stayed with Harry for the CT scan, draped in a leaded robe. He was very upset and did not want to be strapped to the table. I had to hold him down and soothe him while the doctor administered the first dose of the sleep medicine and wait for it to kick in. I felt terrified. I completely understood how scared he must have felt, lying strapped to that table, wrapped up to keep him immobile. He screamed in protest. Harry rarely cried out like that, it made it all the more heartbreaking to hear, because I knew just how scared he was, to cry like that. He seemed to be out and they started the scan, but the table had barely moved into the tunnel, when Harry woke up. The sleep medicine didn't seem to be working. I remember wondering if she had calculated the dose correctly. She had to administer a double dosage. Was his body fighting going to sleep for the scan because it knew the results?
I can't remember if I held his hands. Were they strapped by his side or above his head? I had to hold his hands above his head for chest x-rays. His tiny naked body, clad only in a diaper, sitting on this little bike seat like stool. I would have to hold his hands, his arms pulled above his head, as they strapped him, crying, into this clear plastic tube to hold him immobile for the x-ray. But this was not the x-ray. Funny, I thought I would never forget such a detail. But I can't recall if his arms were strapped in by his side or over his head for the CT scan. I do know I always put his Lovie underneath his head so he could feel it so close.
He was out for the scan - but never really completely under - despite the double dose of sleep medicine. I stood right beside the table, at his head, as the scanner whirled around him. I told him how much we loved him. How brave he was. How strong. How everything would be okay. It would be over soon. He just had to stay still while they took the pictures.
Soon enough it was over and I was able to pick him up and take him back to the exam room to recover and wake up from the drugs.
The technicians don't give you any indication about the results of the scan. While I can't recall exactly what she said. The anaesthesiologist made a comment before she left, something to the effect that maybe she wouldn't see us again, or that she would maybe see us again if we needed follow up scans. I think that was it. We felt so hopeful, thinking that it meant that the scan looked so good we wouldn't need another scan soon, because we'd be off getting Harry a new liver.
We went shopping at Winners after the scan. Lydia's pink swimsuit had, just the other day, completely lost its elastic all at once and was now no longer staying up! So we bought her a new 2-piece bikini. I bought 2 summer dresses. I think we bought Henry some shorts. We bought Harry a bath toy - a set of happy hippos that floated in the tub. We were a normal family, doing normal family things.
I remember waiting for the CT scan results. We felt so positive that week. We felt so strongly that Harry was done his chemo and would not need another round. We felt so sure that the scan would tell us that his lungs and lymph nodes were clear and the liver tumor was small enough that we could go for a transplant.
In retrospect, I suppose we were crazy to be so optimistic. Rhabdoid cancer does not work that way. But we could not be any other way. It was unthinkable that we would give up on Harry. We could never do that to him.
So in early July, until that horrible, horrible day on July 18th, when we got the CT scan results. We were happy, joyful, full of love and so optimistic for the future.
But it is hard to remember those last happy days. July 18th and all that happened so quickly after that day are what looms and lurks and overshadows all my memories. I can feel it stalking us.
The memory of the end.
I don't want to do this.
Oh God. I don't want to do this. I don't want to go through this anniversary. This hurts too much.
I don't want to go through those last two weeks of Harry's life. When he was so sick and dying. Though even then, right to the very end. We couldn't see it. Wouldn't see it. Couldn't see it.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want these memories.
I don't want this pain.
I just want my Harry back.
My memories of last July are overwhelmingly sad. The month started with such promise. We thought we were going to beat this thing. We were so hopeful that we were going to be able to move onto the next step in Harry's treatment - going to Toronto for a liver transplant. Were we ignoring the signs of recurrence? The signs were so like the signs of the original tumor - so minor as to be mistaken for normal growing pains. Harry was getting a bit more fussy in the beginning of July - but he was clearly teething new molars. I could feel the hard nubs on his gum just under the surface. See the red spots where the tooth was shifting, preparing to break through the surface. He was drooling more, I think, just like all of his other normal teething episodes. Little cheeks red with the flush of teething. How could a body be both shutting down and growing new teeth at the same time???
We had no room for anything but hope and faith that our son was going to beat this cancer.
We went for his last CT scan on July 14th. All four of us went together. Harry seemed so alive. He was so alive. I can still see him, so close to walking on his own, pushing a wee plastic shopping cart from the waiting room at paediatric CT scan down the long hall, past the CT scanner itself, the technician's room, the examination room, the family washroom. Laughing. Curious. A 'normal' 15 month old boy.
He cuddled in my arms as we talked with the anaesthesiologist, going over his case, his weight, how much he would need to be given to put him out just long enough for the scan. Lydia and Henry went to Tim's to get doughnuts. Lydia, wise beyond her 4 1/2 years, asked the doctor, casually, as she finished the last licks of her chocolate dip doughnut, "Will you inject the sleep medicine into a vein or will you use Harry's central line?"
I was so focused on the positive. That these results would be positive.
I stayed with Harry for the CT scan, draped in a leaded robe. He was very upset and did not want to be strapped to the table. I had to hold him down and soothe him while the doctor administered the first dose of the sleep medicine and wait for it to kick in. I felt terrified. I completely understood how scared he must have felt, lying strapped to that table, wrapped up to keep him immobile. He screamed in protest. Harry rarely cried out like that, it made it all the more heartbreaking to hear, because I knew just how scared he was, to cry like that. He seemed to be out and they started the scan, but the table had barely moved into the tunnel, when Harry woke up. The sleep medicine didn't seem to be working. I remember wondering if she had calculated the dose correctly. She had to administer a double dosage. Was his body fighting going to sleep for the scan because it knew the results?
I can't remember if I held his hands. Were they strapped by his side or above his head? I had to hold his hands above his head for chest x-rays. His tiny naked body, clad only in a diaper, sitting on this little bike seat like stool. I would have to hold his hands, his arms pulled above his head, as they strapped him, crying, into this clear plastic tube to hold him immobile for the x-ray. But this was not the x-ray. Funny, I thought I would never forget such a detail. But I can't recall if his arms were strapped in by his side or over his head for the CT scan. I do know I always put his Lovie underneath his head so he could feel it so close.
He was out for the scan - but never really completely under - despite the double dose of sleep medicine. I stood right beside the table, at his head, as the scanner whirled around him. I told him how much we loved him. How brave he was. How strong. How everything would be okay. It would be over soon. He just had to stay still while they took the pictures.
Soon enough it was over and I was able to pick him up and take him back to the exam room to recover and wake up from the drugs.
The technicians don't give you any indication about the results of the scan. While I can't recall exactly what she said. The anaesthesiologist made a comment before she left, something to the effect that maybe she wouldn't see us again, or that she would maybe see us again if we needed follow up scans. I think that was it. We felt so hopeful, thinking that it meant that the scan looked so good we wouldn't need another scan soon, because we'd be off getting Harry a new liver.
We went shopping at Winners after the scan. Lydia's pink swimsuit had, just the other day, completely lost its elastic all at once and was now no longer staying up! So we bought her a new 2-piece bikini. I bought 2 summer dresses. I think we bought Henry some shorts. We bought Harry a bath toy - a set of happy hippos that floated in the tub. We were a normal family, doing normal family things.
I remember waiting for the CT scan results. We felt so positive that week. We felt so strongly that Harry was done his chemo and would not need another round. We felt so sure that the scan would tell us that his lungs and lymph nodes were clear and the liver tumor was small enough that we could go for a transplant.
In retrospect, I suppose we were crazy to be so optimistic. Rhabdoid cancer does not work that way. But we could not be any other way. It was unthinkable that we would give up on Harry. We could never do that to him.
So in early July, until that horrible, horrible day on July 18th, when we got the CT scan results. We were happy, joyful, full of love and so optimistic for the future.
But it is hard to remember those last happy days. July 18th and all that happened so quickly after that day are what looms and lurks and overshadows all my memories. I can feel it stalking us.
The memory of the end.
I don't want to do this.
Oh God. I don't want to do this. I don't want to go through this anniversary. This hurts too much.
I don't want to go through those last two weeks of Harry's life. When he was so sick and dying. Though even then, right to the very end. We couldn't see it. Wouldn't see it. Couldn't see it.
I don't want to do this.
I don't want these memories.
I don't want this pain.
I just want my Harry back.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
More from July 1 2008
Here are a few more lovely pictures of Harry from July 1, 2008. In the evening, we went to the White Ridge Community Centre for a goodbye party for our dear friends, The Shuttleworth's (Leanne, Rolly, Lauren, Brooke and Abbey) - it is hard to believe it has also been a whole year since they moved to Vancouver - we miss them so much!!!!
Harry had a delightful time crawling on the grass with Daddy and playing with a ribbon with Mummy and Daddy.
Harry had a delightful time crawling on the grass with Daddy and playing with a ribbon with Mummy and Daddy.
July
July is going to be a difficult month; there is no way around it. Spring has been okay. We have wonderful memories of Harry last spring – from the time we brought him home from the hospital until early July, we were so full of hope for his full recovery and he was so full of joy, laughter and love. Except for his feeding tube, it was difficult to tell that he was even sick. I remember people asking me in late May or early June, if he was done his treatments now. Oh would that that was true. Our days settled into a rhythm of normalcy – yes, which did included twice-weekly visits to Cancer Care Manitoba for check ups, blood work and transfusions, and hospital stays for up to a week every three weeks. However, that just became our new normal and was just a part of how we lived our lives. The memories of last spring are all wonderful memories – of living and laughing and loving with Harry.
Most days, Henry, Lydia and I are doing really well. I would say we have many more joyful days than sad days. Though those still visit us regularly. We laugh, we joke, we remember Harry. I suppose we have settled into a new equilibrium. That said, Henry and I have both been feeling a sort of exhaustion of late. It is a fatigue from carrying our grief, from having to walk with this burden on our shoulders. Fatigue as much from carrying the burden as from the knowledge that, while the burden will shift and ebb and flow, it will never, ever go away. Many days I feel really good, very balanced and centred. But nearly every day there is something that will remind me of Harry. Or we’ll have another experience – like Lydia’s final Kindergarten school concert – and the experience is always tinged in sadness – because we so keenly sense Harry’s absence. As we go forward in life, every major event (and many minor and seemingly inconsequential ones too), while joyful, will also be marked by sadness that Harry isn’t here with us physically. That he isn’t here to experience it with us and us with him. When these feelings of sadness come upon me, I try to send them away with love and stay focused on the present; the what is, not the what could have been. I send Harry love, wherever he is, what ever he is doing at Angel school.
I feel it most acutely when we are doing things with other children Lydia’s age. Many of her school friends, if not most it seems, have younger brothers just around Harry’s age. Lydia always looks so little and alone – lost and alone in a sea of other kids’ siblings. I can always just imagine wee Harry beside her – see his blond tousle of curls bob beside her, see him running with her, holding onto her hand, Lydia putting a protective arm around his shoulder. When we’re alone, Lydia always talks about Harry and includes him in her daily activities. It is at the same time comforting, as it breaks my heart.
July is going to be a difficult month of memories, because July is a month of memories of last times. All of the last times we did things with Harry. All of the times that we didn’t know were last times.
It started today. Today is July 1, Canada Day, and the day Lydia has been waiting for for months – the day the Vimy Ridge Park Splash pad and wading pool opened. I have been dreading today. We took Harry to the wading pool and splash pad for the first time a year ago today. We have lovely pictures of him and Henry and Lydia, testing out the sprinklers. Harry was excited, but cautious too. It was one of those precious days when we felt like any other normal family, taking their kids to the park.
I packed a picnic lunch for Lydia and I and we were at the park by noon today. The brave families with young kids, who need to be home for afternoon naps, were out. (I say brave because while sunny today, the high is only about 21 or 22C). We parked our red wagon and her bike, set out our chairs and towels in a grassy spot in the sun. I blew up Lydia’s pink floatty ring. Lydia dashed in the cold water. I gasped as the cold bit into my ankles. I preferred to sit in the sun and read and watch Lydia play in the water.
Of course, it never fails, a family with two young boys parked beside us. The two boys looked to be around one and two and a half – the younger a stark reminder of what Harry was like when he was first diagnosed and the older a stark reminder of who Harry would be now.
I feel so sad for Lydia, as she plays alone in the wading pool. Waiting for me to finish reading a page of my magazine to play with her. Waiting for Daddy to come from work to play with her. Alone and waiting for someone to play with. Alone and watching all of the groups of siblings playing together.
When Harry was born, people always asked me if that was it, now that we had our boy and our girl, were we done having children? I am not sure if it was prophetically or morbidly, but my response was always the same, a cautious, “No, I don’t think so, I think I want three children.” In my head, I continued, “What if one dies? I don’t want the remaining sibling to be an only child.” I always sensed, somehow, that it was Harry that might die, and it was always Lydia I envisioned as the only child left on her own when I said that. And there she is now, on her own, just like I never wanted for her.
She played with a school friend (who was there with her one year old brother) for a while. She played with some other kids from her school that she knew. When Henry came from work, we phoned up two of her best friends Svava and Freyja, and they and their Dad, Geir (one of Henry’s best friends) came and played with her. They are still there now.
We’ll get through today. We’ll survive Friday – July 3rd – which will mark 11 impossibly long months since Harry passed over. I think I’m just going to feel slightly nauseous and off-balance all month, as August 3rd approaches. It’s going to take a lot of prayer, meditation and energy work to stay balanced and clear. I don’t know what we’ll do or where we’ll be for that day. It is a holiday here. It won’t be much of a holiday for us.
On the joyful side, however, I do know that Harry was with us at the wading pool, crazy as that may seem. Harry has sent us rainbows a number of times since he passed over. The most striking of which was a double rainbow that we saw in our front yard exactly 24 hours after he passed over, that hung in the sky for an impossibly long time, over 10 minutes – despite the fact that it hadn’t rained and the sky was blue. When Henry came to the wading pool, the three of us, Henry, Lyddie and I, joined hands and ran through the sprinklers, laughing and squealing in delight as the freezing cold water pricked our sun-warmed skin. All of a sudden, after our first run through the sprinklers, Henry and I saw a rainbow – on the ground – we were standing in the middle of it – it was a perfect circle of a rainbow, surrounding us. It was Harry. He was here to play with us. We ran through the sprinklers and danced in the rainbow. And I know it was Harry, telling us he is right here with us, playing with us in the splash pad, running with us, laughing with us. It was one of those gifts of a moment, when time seems to stand still, when I know he is right here, we just can’t see him or touch him, but we can sense him so close. The moment passed, and the rainbow disappeared, but it is those gifts of moments that help us to keep walking on.
Love, Cynthia
Harry, Henry and Lydia at the Splash Pad, July 1 2008
Most days, Henry, Lydia and I are doing really well. I would say we have many more joyful days than sad days. Though those still visit us regularly. We laugh, we joke, we remember Harry. I suppose we have settled into a new equilibrium. That said, Henry and I have both been feeling a sort of exhaustion of late. It is a fatigue from carrying our grief, from having to walk with this burden on our shoulders. Fatigue as much from carrying the burden as from the knowledge that, while the burden will shift and ebb and flow, it will never, ever go away. Many days I feel really good, very balanced and centred. But nearly every day there is something that will remind me of Harry. Or we’ll have another experience – like Lydia’s final Kindergarten school concert – and the experience is always tinged in sadness – because we so keenly sense Harry’s absence. As we go forward in life, every major event (and many minor and seemingly inconsequential ones too), while joyful, will also be marked by sadness that Harry isn’t here with us physically. That he isn’t here to experience it with us and us with him. When these feelings of sadness come upon me, I try to send them away with love and stay focused on the present; the what is, not the what could have been. I send Harry love, wherever he is, what ever he is doing at Angel school.
I feel it most acutely when we are doing things with other children Lydia’s age. Many of her school friends, if not most it seems, have younger brothers just around Harry’s age. Lydia always looks so little and alone – lost and alone in a sea of other kids’ siblings. I can always just imagine wee Harry beside her – see his blond tousle of curls bob beside her, see him running with her, holding onto her hand, Lydia putting a protective arm around his shoulder. When we’re alone, Lydia always talks about Harry and includes him in her daily activities. It is at the same time comforting, as it breaks my heart.
July is going to be a difficult month of memories, because July is a month of memories of last times. All of the last times we did things with Harry. All of the times that we didn’t know were last times.
It started today. Today is July 1, Canada Day, and the day Lydia has been waiting for for months – the day the Vimy Ridge Park Splash pad and wading pool opened. I have been dreading today. We took Harry to the wading pool and splash pad for the first time a year ago today. We have lovely pictures of him and Henry and Lydia, testing out the sprinklers. Harry was excited, but cautious too. It was one of those precious days when we felt like any other normal family, taking their kids to the park.
I packed a picnic lunch for Lydia and I and we were at the park by noon today. The brave families with young kids, who need to be home for afternoon naps, were out. (I say brave because while sunny today, the high is only about 21 or 22C). We parked our red wagon and her bike, set out our chairs and towels in a grassy spot in the sun. I blew up Lydia’s pink floatty ring. Lydia dashed in the cold water. I gasped as the cold bit into my ankles. I preferred to sit in the sun and read and watch Lydia play in the water.
Of course, it never fails, a family with two young boys parked beside us. The two boys looked to be around one and two and a half – the younger a stark reminder of what Harry was like when he was first diagnosed and the older a stark reminder of who Harry would be now.
I feel so sad for Lydia, as she plays alone in the wading pool. Waiting for me to finish reading a page of my magazine to play with her. Waiting for Daddy to come from work to play with her. Alone and waiting for someone to play with. Alone and watching all of the groups of siblings playing together.
When Harry was born, people always asked me if that was it, now that we had our boy and our girl, were we done having children? I am not sure if it was prophetically or morbidly, but my response was always the same, a cautious, “No, I don’t think so, I think I want three children.” In my head, I continued, “What if one dies? I don’t want the remaining sibling to be an only child.” I always sensed, somehow, that it was Harry that might die, and it was always Lydia I envisioned as the only child left on her own when I said that. And there she is now, on her own, just like I never wanted for her.
She played with a school friend (who was there with her one year old brother) for a while. She played with some other kids from her school that she knew. When Henry came from work, we phoned up two of her best friends Svava and Freyja, and they and their Dad, Geir (one of Henry’s best friends) came and played with her. They are still there now.
We’ll get through today. We’ll survive Friday – July 3rd – which will mark 11 impossibly long months since Harry passed over. I think I’m just going to feel slightly nauseous and off-balance all month, as August 3rd approaches. It’s going to take a lot of prayer, meditation and energy work to stay balanced and clear. I don’t know what we’ll do or where we’ll be for that day. It is a holiday here. It won’t be much of a holiday for us.
On the joyful side, however, I do know that Harry was with us at the wading pool, crazy as that may seem. Harry has sent us rainbows a number of times since he passed over. The most striking of which was a double rainbow that we saw in our front yard exactly 24 hours after he passed over, that hung in the sky for an impossibly long time, over 10 minutes – despite the fact that it hadn’t rained and the sky was blue. When Henry came to the wading pool, the three of us, Henry, Lyddie and I, joined hands and ran through the sprinklers, laughing and squealing in delight as the freezing cold water pricked our sun-warmed skin. All of a sudden, after our first run through the sprinklers, Henry and I saw a rainbow – on the ground – we were standing in the middle of it – it was a perfect circle of a rainbow, surrounding us. It was Harry. He was here to play with us. We ran through the sprinklers and danced in the rainbow. And I know it was Harry, telling us he is right here with us, playing with us in the splash pad, running with us, laughing with us. It was one of those gifts of a moment, when time seems to stand still, when I know he is right here, we just can’t see him or touch him, but we can sense him so close. The moment passed, and the rainbow disappeared, but it is those gifts of moments that help us to keep walking on.
Love, Cynthia
Harry, Henry and Lydia at the Splash Pad, July 1 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
