Breathe in, Breathe out

Sometimes I feel so down, that's all I can do is breathe until I snap out of it.  I received this in the mail today. It was written by Laura Bauer and published in Bereavement Magazine in 2001. I thought it was a good description of how it can feel to lose a child.

You open your eyes, the nightmare is real

Breathe in, breath out - try not to feel

The weight presses down on your chest

Your lost the one you loved the best

You roll from the bed and continue to breathe

How difficult now it is to believe

As you stand, a panic enveloped your heart

It comes from the days of being apart

Breathe in, breathe out, it will subside

As reality hits, and you know that your child died

You shower and dress by pure will

Your life has become one bitter pill

Breathe in, breathe out, and concentrate

Don't think, don't feel, don't contemplate

As you pull the car out and begin to drive,

Slowly you notice that you are alive

Heading east, to your surprise

You see a glorious new sunrise

And you feel something - ever so slight

A lightening of heart - not quite so tight

Day by day you start to see

The things that will allow you to be

A survivor, a fighter, a poet of late,

A leader, a teacher, a healer a mate

You know in your heart the wound will be there,

But you also know that you have your air

And you have life for whatever it's worth

To keep on fighting and showing your mirth (I fight for TY)

You will always remember your child's tenderness

The loving and giving with each little kiss

Your child will be there when you go to sleep

The memories are yours to treasure and keep

So continue to breathe, it is important to do

And eat a good meal, and get some sleep, too (ha!)

For many love you and worry a lot

All we can say is "continue to breathe"

Ty Campbell, April 2009

I am taking teeny tiny baby steps toward coping.  I can't bring myself to clean out his favorite foods from our pantry (the stale fruit snacks, the salty cashews that I bought at the hospital, the blue bottle pop, the half eaten bag of dried cranberries and the box of "Ty lollipops" from the ladies at the bank), but I was so proud when I cleaned his room and put all of his therapy equipment aside for donations. 

There are also the "firsts" that are steps in healing (I guess).  Like the first time I let Gavin play with Ty's toys, or the first time I went to the supermarket without him.  I haven't gone down the candy aisle yet - I avoid it like the plague - but someday I will make that step, too.  Some days I am so strong, and others I am just a mess.  I guess that's the way this works and today was more of a "mess" day.  I was proud last week when Lou and I took Gavin to The Daily Planet (a favorite of Ty's) even though I felt like there was a boulder on my chest the entire time, but I couldn't bring myself to order a strawberry milkshake for Gavin even though I knew he would love it.  That is the very last thing Ty tried to swallowed in his life.  One teeny, tiny sip of a strawberry milkshake. 

I truly miss seeing Ty's doctors and nurses.  Looking back, they were family.  Can you imagine how weird it is to go there every week and visit with the people who were fighting for Ty just as hard as we were, and then we just take him home and walk out those doors for the last time - leaving them all behind after over two years together.  They haven't forgotten about us - not at all.  It's the opposite, really (because who could forget Ty?).  Ty's nurses have all been in touch.  They check in on us, they really care so much.  I am happy they were all a part of Ty's life.  I used to hate being at the hospital.  I hated it so much, because I hated that Ty was sick.  But now, I wish he was sick - that we could go back to the hospital - because I would rather have him sick than have him gone.  I don't always believe that, but when I am missing him and at my lowest like I have been all day today, I feel like I would trade anything to have him back even if we had to live with cancer forever.  I say "we" because all of us lived with the cancer right alongside him.  What an evil disease it is. 

In my heart of hearts, I know that's not what we ever wanted for Ty.  I would say, unless he can get himself off that couch and onto his feet, then this is not the life that I want for him.  That he would be better in heaven.  But, my selfish side wants him back at any cost.  I know it wouldn't be fair, but I want to hold him in my arms like you couldn't imagine.  I want to hear his voice so desperately.

I have a lot on the agenda for the foundation tomorrow, so I am signing off.  Goodnight, and I look forward to updating you on the progress made!  Thank you all so much for loving Ty and for fighting for this cause.