I want to write about my son Bryan. In fact, I think I have to write about him. Just bare with me, cuz it's going to be hard.
On a side note, I now realize one of the advantages to a blog over a handwritten journal...you can't smudge the ink with your tears.
Bryan was born with a semi-rare syndrome that left him developmentally delayed and physically challenged. The name of his syndrome and the specific anamolies are irrelevent to this blog...he was my son; he was a wonderful, precious child who taught me so much about life; about patience and acceptance and kindness and love. I know that I am a better human being because of him.
When Bryan was born, he was whisked away to a PICU due to breathing difficulties. Once past that, there were feeding difficulties and I became familiar with the term, 'failure to thrive.' One ignorant, pathetic excuse for a doctor tried to tell us that we should institutionalize Bryan - that he wouldn't make it to his first birthday - but he was a tough little guy, and after 33 days we brought him home from the hospital, and love was his food; love was his medicine; and he grew stronger and stronger. We found doctors that believed in him and in quality of life, although it meant quite a few surgeries and many trips to hospitals and doctor's offices.
There were several scary moments throughout Bryan's life when I thought I was going to lose him, but I wasn't at all prepared when it really did happen, or how it happened, when it happened, or why.
I suppose you never really are prepared for death. Take my dad, for instance. I was with him when the doctor told him he had cancer and there was no hope - that he should get his affairs in order. I was the one that called hospice and made the arrangements for him to be at home to die; I was there when he went in and out of coherence; I was there when he started to bleed out and I knew he wouldn't make it till morning; I was there when he took his last breath; and still, I wasn't prepared.
But Bryan wasn't supposed to go yet. Things were just looking up for him...he was relatively healthy; we had recently built a house and made it accessible for him; he was in a better school; he seemed happy and content. And then it all came tumbling down, so fast. So fast. He was 17.
I realize that he outlived many with his condition; I've read enough on it to know. And besides that dickwad that said he wouldn't make it to his first birthday, I had another physician tell me Bryan's life expectancy was a mere seven years. Bryan proved them wrong; he proved a lot of people wrong. He was a fighter; he was strong-willed and stubborn (apple doesn't fall far from the tree there). And that's why I wasn't prepared when it happened. That's why I'm having such a hard time accepting it - because when he left this world he didn't leave it kicking and screaming...he just...went. Sometimes I think God called him home so he went willingly; other times when my faith is lacking, I think he just gave up.
I will never forget looking at him through the rearview mirror and watching him leave me...never. I saw the light leave his eyes. I think my heart stopped as well at that moment. I pulled over as soon as I could and his nurse and I performed CPR, but I knew he was gone. The paramedics said they got a rythm back and they rushed him to the hospital, but I knew. Even though everyone in that ER knew me personally and would do everything they could to save him, I knew they couldn't. I didn't understand it, and I wasn't prepared for it, but I knew. They say a mother always knows...
What I don't know is why. Sometimes I think I know - afterall, everything happens for a reason; it's all part of God's plan. Other times...I am just lost, stumbling around in the dark for an answer I know I will never find, at least not in this life.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Monday, December 12, 2005
Happy Birthday to me
Today is my birthday. I'm 22...on each side. :-) My age doesn't bother me - at least not yet, anyway. I'm thankful for the maturity and the knowledge that time has given me.
I woke up to a lovely rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" from my partner this morning, along with a tender kiss on the cheek before she headed out the door to work (late, I might add). As usual, there were several cards, even one in my car (that's probably why she was late). Some were sappy and some were funny, just like she can be.
I went to have my eyes checked today...been noticing a bit of blurriness now and again, especially since I've been doing so much reading for school. My prescription changed a little, not that significant, but my doc put a little extra umph on the reading part of my bifocals (yes, bifocals - got over that vanity several years ago).
When I got to work, my wierdy-wierdo (that's a term of endearment) best friend had left her goofy arrangement of "Happy Birthday" on my voicemail - I was sorry I missed her call. She always, and I mean always, makes me laugh. My mom called, too and my brother sent me an e-mail.
I came home early from work - another hormone related migraine (this is the sucky part of getting old), but I still have a school paper to finish, so I've been working on that while wearing sunglasses. I needed a break, so came here.
Tonight me and the Mrs will have a quiet celebration together. We talked about going out to dinner, but I probably won't feel like it with this head of mine. That's quite alright, anyway - she is the best and only company I need.
Toodles for now,
I woke up to a lovely rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" from my partner this morning, along with a tender kiss on the cheek before she headed out the door to work (late, I might add). As usual, there were several cards, even one in my car (that's probably why she was late). Some were sappy and some were funny, just like she can be.
I went to have my eyes checked today...been noticing a bit of blurriness now and again, especially since I've been doing so much reading for school. My prescription changed a little, not that significant, but my doc put a little extra umph on the reading part of my bifocals (yes, bifocals - got over that vanity several years ago).
When I got to work, my wierdy-wierdo (that's a term of endearment) best friend had left her goofy arrangement of "Happy Birthday" on my voicemail - I was sorry I missed her call. She always, and I mean always, makes me laugh. My mom called, too and my brother sent me an e-mail.
I came home early from work - another hormone related migraine (this is the sucky part of getting old), but I still have a school paper to finish, so I've been working on that while wearing sunglasses. I needed a break, so came here.
Tonight me and the Mrs will have a quiet celebration together. We talked about going out to dinner, but I probably won't feel like it with this head of mine. That's quite alright, anyway - she is the best and only company I need.
Toodles for now,
Saturday, December 10, 2005
Still no urn
My son Bryan died this past March. Okay, so I know the first thing anyone reading this will think is why the hell haven't I gotten an urn yet?
It's not totally my fault. Someone that works with my partner volunteered to make an urn for us and at the time, it seemed like a good idea. But as of yet, no urn. Tell me, how do you ask someone, "Hey, how's that urn coming along?" Not an easy subject for anyone.
But at some point, we did give up hope of getting a handmade urn - and even realizing this, have neglected to get one on our own. Here comes the psychoanalysis: Getting one would put some sort of finality to things...and apparently, I'm not ready to do that. Secondly, I just can't seem to find an urn that is suitable for my son. Of course, could I ever? What wood/metal/ceramic/porcelin thing could ever be good enough for my son's remains?
So half of my son's ashes (the other half are at his dad's, in an urn I helped his dad pick out and purchase and put the ashes in, believe it or not) sit in his room in an ugly brown plastic box compliments of the Crematory.
I' m sure some reading will think that's despicable and I wouldn't disagree. But oh, how the psyche can do terrible things to your head sometimes.
As a matter of fact, my latest renewed search for an urn came out of another psyche mind-game over this coming Christmas and everything that goes with it: shopping, getting a tree, decorating, celebrating, merriment in general.
Bah Humbug.
Christmas shopping used to be about shopping for Bryan. Getting a tree was a family tradition; Bryan was always there to see me pick out one that ended up being waaay too big for the living room. Watching his fascination over the lights and ornaments was the true joy of decorating. Without Bryan, what possible celebration; what merriment?
"Ah," the psyche said, "Get Bryan an urn for Christmas! It will be like old times! You'll be shopping for him!"
But just moments later, the psyche replied, "No, no, no. Can't do that. Too much! Too much! Runaway! Runaway!"
And so I created a blog.
It's not totally my fault. Someone that works with my partner volunteered to make an urn for us and at the time, it seemed like a good idea. But as of yet, no urn. Tell me, how do you ask someone, "Hey, how's that urn coming along?" Not an easy subject for anyone.
But at some point, we did give up hope of getting a handmade urn - and even realizing this, have neglected to get one on our own. Here comes the psychoanalysis: Getting one would put some sort of finality to things...and apparently, I'm not ready to do that. Secondly, I just can't seem to find an urn that is suitable for my son. Of course, could I ever? What wood/metal/ceramic/porcelin thing could ever be good enough for my son's remains?
So half of my son's ashes (the other half are at his dad's, in an urn I helped his dad pick out and purchase and put the ashes in, believe it or not) sit in his room in an ugly brown plastic box compliments of the Crematory.
I' m sure some reading will think that's despicable and I wouldn't disagree. But oh, how the psyche can do terrible things to your head sometimes.
As a matter of fact, my latest renewed search for an urn came out of another psyche mind-game over this coming Christmas and everything that goes with it: shopping, getting a tree, decorating, celebrating, merriment in general.
Bah Humbug.
Christmas shopping used to be about shopping for Bryan. Getting a tree was a family tradition; Bryan was always there to see me pick out one that ended up being waaay too big for the living room. Watching his fascination over the lights and ornaments was the true joy of decorating. Without Bryan, what possible celebration; what merriment?
"Ah," the psyche said, "Get Bryan an urn for Christmas! It will be like old times! You'll be shopping for him!"
But just moments later, the psyche replied, "No, no, no. Can't do that. Too much! Too much! Runaway! Runaway!"
And so I created a blog.
Friday, December 09, 2005
First things first...About the "i" thing...
My legal, given name is Cynthia. Hate it. Want to tick me off, then call me that. My immediate family calls me Sis; always have, always will, and that's fine. Even my thirty-something nephew still calls me Aunt Sis. When I was a kid, the only time I got called Cynthia was when I was in trouble for something - usually with my parents. There was a name progression, based on the level of trouble. "Sis" on a Trouble Scale of 1 - 5, didn't even register. "Cindi" meant they were a tad bit irritated. "Cynthia" meant turn around and pay attention or else. "Cynthia Sue!" meant my ass was grass. Maybe therein lies the trouble with my hatred for the name; I don't know. I just know I don't like it.
In my rebellious teens, in an effort to be different (although I didn't realize how different I was yet), I started spelling my name "Cindi" with an "i" instead of a "y". Much confusion ensued. Teachers and friends got it wrong all the time, but I really couldn't blame them, now could I? Still, I'd get miffed if they continued to spell it wrong after three or four courteous corrections. And this continued into adulthood - right up to today. When people have to write my name in front of me, I always politely say, "That's Cindi with an "i" at the end." (Wish I had a quarter for everytime I've said that.) Still, they muck it up. In letters and cards, I sign them "Cindi," yet, if I get a return letter or card from that person, nine times outta ten it's addressed to "Cindy." Ugh. My e-mail addy at work has my legal name, and is the standard "Cynthia.blahblah@blahblah.org" but my signature line is a bold "Cindi BlahBlah." Can't mistake it, yet...you got it...return e-mail comes back with "Dear Cindy."
Every once in awhile, someone thinks they've got it all figured out, and sends me something with "Cyndi" on it. Now I suppose that could be considered the correct shortening of "Cynthia," but if these nitwits were paying any attention at all they would see there are no freaking y's in my name. So that' s why my blog is titled "It's Cindi with an i Dammitt."
PS. When my son was born, we named him Bryan. Not the standard "Brian" with an "i", but "Bryan" with a "y". I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I?
PSS. My closest friends, including my partner, call me Cin. I used to think it was a term of endearment...now I'm wondering if they are just trying to avoid the whole i vs. y thing.
In my rebellious teens, in an effort to be different (although I didn't realize how different I was yet), I started spelling my name "Cindi" with an "i" instead of a "y". Much confusion ensued. Teachers and friends got it wrong all the time, but I really couldn't blame them, now could I? Still, I'd get miffed if they continued to spell it wrong after three or four courteous corrections. And this continued into adulthood - right up to today. When people have to write my name in front of me, I always politely say, "That's Cindi with an "i" at the end." (Wish I had a quarter for everytime I've said that.) Still, they muck it up. In letters and cards, I sign them "Cindi," yet, if I get a return letter or card from that person, nine times outta ten it's addressed to "Cindy." Ugh. My e-mail addy at work has my legal name, and is the standard "Cynthia.blahblah@blahblah.org" but my signature line is a bold "Cindi BlahBlah." Can't mistake it, yet...you got it...return e-mail comes back with "Dear Cindy."
Every once in awhile, someone thinks they've got it all figured out, and sends me something with "Cyndi" on it. Now I suppose that could be considered the correct shortening of "Cynthia," but if these nitwits were paying any attention at all they would see there are no freaking y's in my name. So that' s why my blog is titled "It's Cindi with an i Dammitt."
PS. When my son was born, we named him Bryan. Not the standard "Brian" with an "i", but "Bryan" with a "y". I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I?
PSS. My closest friends, including my partner, call me Cin. I used to think it was a term of endearment...now I'm wondering if they are just trying to avoid the whole i vs. y thing.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
What am I doing here
So I got on the internet tonight to look for an urn for my son's ashes - and ended up creating a blog.
Not to worry. I promise not to make you feel sorry for me or put you into a deep depression. I just need a place where I can do a little venting, a little questioning, a little psychoanalysis on myself, k?
It should be interesting...I'm a once-married, fortysomething lesbian with a partner, a full time job, an old dog and a puppy - and I just went back to school to get a degree. Sounds like fun, eh?
Stay tuned.
Not to worry. I promise not to make you feel sorry for me or put you into a deep depression. I just need a place where I can do a little venting, a little questioning, a little psychoanalysis on myself, k?
It should be interesting...I'm a once-married, fortysomething lesbian with a partner, a full time job, an old dog and a puppy - and I just went back to school to get a degree. Sounds like fun, eh?
Stay tuned.
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