This Post's For Me

How do you transition from a post about "Mamma Mia" to a post about grief? Not gracefully, that's for sure. I hesitated to write about this at all but then remembered that this blog is about me and for me. Yes I tap dance like a trained chimp just to entertain you at times. But then something happens and the sadness crashes over me like a wave. That's when I just have to get it out there. Even if it's just for me. So here goes.

Sometimes little things remind me of my sweet girl and make me smile. Other times they make me cry. Often these little things come in rapid succession and morph into one very big thing. I'm at the tail end of one of those times. I hope.
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We took Ian to the play class at Gymboree for the first time a couple of weeks ago. As I pulled off three name tags adorned with that loveable clown, I started to write Lillian's name. I had barely gotten the down stroke of the L before I realized my error. Sucking the air through my teeth, I finished the name tag with an A and an N for Lillian's little brother. The class opened with everyone introducing their child. Easy enough. Then the teacher asked us if we had been to Gymboree before. "This is Ian's first class but we have been here with our daughter," I responded. No big deal. Later in the class the teacher dropped by and asked how old our daughter was. Again, the wind was knocked out of me as I quickly muttered that she passed away last year. Ugh.
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Fast forward a few nights and Ian was a very cranky boy. His acid reflux continues to plague him. The acid blocker he is on typically does the trick. But our big boy has a tendency to out grow his dosage before his next doctor's appointment. So every few months, he gets atypically cranky and we know it's time to up the dosage. This was one of those times. Unfortunately it takes about 24 hours to really kick in. We tried everything but he would not be consoled. An hour past his bedtime, I finally decided to rock him to sleep. I watched as he slowly transformed from screaming to whining to silence. His little bald head once flailing in defiance now released in exhaustion. I felt the weight of his tense body turn limp as sleep overtook the fight. Without warning, I was suddenly back in the hospital room holding my angel's lifeless body and kissing her sweet bald head for the final time.
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Before Relay I decided to download Randy Pausch's "Last Lecture" audiobook on my ipod. Listening to the wisdom of a man dying of pancreatic cancer seemed like the perfect accompaniment to the many laps around the track. I barely scratched the surface at Relay and have been listening to the book on my commute ever since. It is filled with humor and intelligence and common sense wisdom. It's about dreaming big and breaking down walls that stand in your way. It's a summary of everything he wants to pass on to his three young children. And we are privileged enough to share in it as well. Get it. You won't be sorry.

Last Friday on my way home from work, I glanced down at the ipod and was saddened to find I was nearly at the end of this little treasure. The rest would have to wait until Monday. A treat to brighten my commute to work!

As I was turning off the television later that night, I saw Randy Pausch's face light up the screen. At age 47, Randy died of complications from pancreatic cancer. Obviously I never knew him. But hearing his words fill my car each day somehow made this loss personal. Maybe I was still reeling from the earlier blows. Or maybe my heart was aching for his wife and kids. Or maybe his death is a reminder that life can change in an instant. Whatever the cause, it hurt.
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It's the little things that get you. They don't add up, they multiply. As quickly as the flood rises around you, it recedes into normalcy. I don't know which is harder. The flood or the aftermath.