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