The orthodontist's office is packed. Ryan and I just arrived for his 5pm appointment. We found the last two seats, a padded bench against the wall. It looks like it's going to be a long wait.
Ryan pulls out his math homework and I crack open a book that has been sitting on the shelf for years. Although I can tell from the introduction that the book is very well written, I can't seem to get past page one. Maybe it's because the author, a mom, has written about Disney and the Tower of Terror ride in particular. I remember this ride. Christopher went on it with Rich. He was six at the time. We had SUCH a fun time in Disney. The boys had smiles on their faces the whole time and for many days thereafter.
Yet still, whenever someone mentions Disney, I cringe inside. I shutdown and try not to hear what they are saying. I think it's because I know I can never go back with my two boys. Others might say, "But you can still take Ryan back." And yes I can. But Disney is about the kids and the kids feeding off the magic of the park and the excitement of each other. We parents are just the spectators. I sometimes wonder if children, especially siblings, have a secret language as they can see and even hear things that we adults just can't. We are just lucky that we are here for the ride.
"Stop!' a girl shrieks across the waiting room. I look up and see a teenage boy sitting next to her with a smirk on his face -- obviously her brother. I look back down and think sibling fighting is such a normal part of life. It's almost like fighting with your sibling offers kids an outlet to release the stress of the day. It's not okay to yell at your mom or dad or even a kid at school, but annoying your brother or sister can feel pretty good if you are in a bad mood or even just bored as these kids across the room seem to be. So now I sit here and marvel at my younger son, Ryan, as to where he puts all of that extra energy.
He's not an only child. He was raised as the younger of two boys. Yes, some people may think he is an only child because he is the only child living in our house right now. And his brother is not just away as I sometimes lead people to think. Not people I know, but strangers who ask the most normal, yet difficult question for someone in my situation:
"How many children do you have?"
Other parents who have lost a child may only refer to their living children as the possible follow-up questions are too painful. For me, the answer will always be "two." If we are traveling, I'll often add, "Only our younger son is traveling with us." No one ever asks beyond that.
"Stop putting your stickers on me!" the brother across the room yells out. I look up and see that the brother now has white headphones dangling from his ears. It seems that he's moved on from annoying his sister to listening to music. I guess it's her turn now. Their grandfather who is sitting across from them suggests, "You would be much better off doing your homework, you know." Beside me sitting on the bench, I look at Ryan who is almost done with his math sheet.
If Christopher were here, I wonder...would they also be fighting? Or might they be watching each other try to beat a tough level on their DS -- as they often did together. If Christopher were here has become my question of the day and sometimes my question of the hour. If Christopher were here, maybe Ryan wouldn't be so lonely at times. If Christopher were here, he and Ryan could walk to school together. If Christopher were here, Ryan could just....fill in the blank.
Ryan looked up to Christopher for everything like most little brothers do. When he was only four and in a family CCD class, a priest asked Ryan, "In whom do you trust?" His answer: "My brother."
They were only 23 months apart and very close, yet like all siblings, they did fight. So now, I wonder, how Ryan has gotten used to not having his brother to fight with. The bigger question of course is, how has Ryan gotten used to not having Christopher physically in his life. I don't think he has gotten used to it, or ever will. He does what I do, I guess, just try to stay present to the moment since we don't really have a choice.
But I do remember the bickering and the shouting. Sometimes I could be very yogic and remember what one of Christopher's nurses said when he was only three, "You have to be healthy to fight." It's true. If you are too sick from chemo, you don't have the energy to fight with your brother.
Other times, like other parents, I just wish it would stop. Obviously not this way.
"Ryan," the nurse calls out from beside the counter. Finally, it's his turn to be seen.
What I wouldn't give for some sibling fighting between Christopher and Ryan -- just one of the many things Ryan has to grow up without.
Life is A Journey. In 2007, writing became a "tool" to survive the tragedy of my life -- my oldest son Christopher died at the age of 9 from leukemia. This is a space to heal and to reflect on experiences that at times sadden me, but also inspire me. I hope that you too will be inspired. Tom and Luke were Christopher and Ryan's beloved pet turtles.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Fed Ex Box
The Fed Ex box, tall and narrow, has leaned against my bedroom wall now for nearly four years. Inside is the poster that Toby Maguire -- "Spidey" -- signed for Christopher. This was a gift that the studio had sent to Christopher the day they let him view the newly released Spiderman 3 movie.
I can still see Christopher sitting on his hospital bed holding the promotional poster for the movie. It is identical to the one that still hangs on his bedroom wall above his bed. "Mom, look how much richer the colors are in this one," he tells me. "I guess that's because it came directly from the studio," I say.
His eyes brighten as he examines the scene -- Spiderman studying his night-time reflection in the window and seeing only the black suit and a potential evil power within. "This is definitely the best movie of the three," Christopher exclaims. "It has the most action, the most fight scenes." I would later learn from Christopher's taekwondo teacher, Michael, that Christopher also felt a connection to Peter Parker's struggle to contain a dark side. "Christopher told me he felt like he had his own 'dark suit' -- the leukemia and a lot of anger -- and he needed to contain it so it didn't control him."
Christopher had seen Spiderman 3 with his friends for his 9th birthday in the theater just a few weeks before. Like all movies, he and his younger brother, Ryan, loved, he wanted to see it again. If he had been home, he would have just gone to the theater three or four more times. But he was stuck in the hospital and emphatic that he not watch a bootleg copy of the movie. "Mom, don't ever let me see an illegal copy of Spiderman again. It ruins the movie." Someone had given him a bootleg copy that must have been recorded inside the theater because it was dark and hard to make out the characters. Then a friend had convinced a company executive to share with us the original movie. A rep had walked the movie over to the hospital and stayed at a nearby coffee shop while Christopher watched it. That was when she brought the Fed Ex box with the signed poster for Christopher.
Christopher couldn't wait to get home to hang his poster on his bedroom wall. In a pad that his Nanna had given him, he had sketched out different designs to redecorate his room when he got out of the hospital -- Spiderman was one of a few themes.
This Fed Ex box leaned against the wall in Christopher's hospital room much like it leans against my bedroom wall. Every now and again, Christopher would take the poster out to admire it and to show visitors. Every now and again, I look over at the box and remember how much fun Christopher had the day it arrived.
The night Christopher was transferred to intensive care -- to the hospital across the street -- some things got lost when my mom and siblings cleared out his room. A prized LEGO Pirates of the Caribbean pirate ship that Christopher had built was among the lost things. Christopher and Ryan never cared for the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, but they did love LEGOs and that ship Christopher built had entertained him for days. This Fed Ex box fortunately didn't get lost in the chaos.
As I sit here, I wonder why I can't separate the poster from its box. Seeing the box as merely clutter, a friend tried to throw it away soon after I brought it home. I stopped her and said, "You need to leave the poster in the box. It's Christopher's." She didn't ask. But now, I ask myself what my connection is to this tall narrow box.
I tell myself that the box is Christopher's and therefore offers a connection. Those who know me will validate that my house is filled with connections. This box however is a more recent connection to a time when Christopher was here. Still I wonder if the attachment goes deeper. Then I realize that this box not only offers safety and protection for the poster, it helps me to keep certain feelings at bay.
I couldn't save Christopher, but I can save something that has a connection to him -- hence the reason I still have the broken spatula that he cooked with and the baby clothes that he wore. And if I take the poster out of the box and place it a frame, I have to accept that Christopher will never get to see it. I also have to accept that my precious child never got to come home or even live past the age of nine. This is why his poster has sat in its box for four years.
Three days ago something clicked for me. On July 23rd, it was four years since Christopher died. Four years? I'm not sure how that is possible, but the calendar says it is. I decide it's time -- I have to let go of some things including the Fed Ex box. After four years, I realize that Christopher is with me in ways that his things never can be. And if he could talk to me now, I know he would say, "Mom, it's just a box!"
I'm still now sure what we'll do with the poster, but as my 11 year old tells me, "Mom, don't worry. We'll figure something out."
This morning I placed the box at the curb with the other recyclables. I almost grabbed it and ran back in the house, but refrained as I remembered I don't need that crutch anymore. I will always be connected to Christopher as his mom and he will always be Ryan's big brother. This just is and always will be and material objects have nothing to do with it.
I can still see Christopher sitting on his hospital bed holding the promotional poster for the movie. It is identical to the one that still hangs on his bedroom wall above his bed. "Mom, look how much richer the colors are in this one," he tells me. "I guess that's because it came directly from the studio," I say.
His eyes brighten as he examines the scene -- Spiderman studying his night-time reflection in the window and seeing only the black suit and a potential evil power within. "This is definitely the best movie of the three," Christopher exclaims. "It has the most action, the most fight scenes." I would later learn from Christopher's taekwondo teacher, Michael, that Christopher also felt a connection to Peter Parker's struggle to contain a dark side. "Christopher told me he felt like he had his own 'dark suit' -- the leukemia and a lot of anger -- and he needed to contain it so it didn't control him."
Christopher had seen Spiderman 3 with his friends for his 9th birthday in the theater just a few weeks before. Like all movies, he and his younger brother, Ryan, loved, he wanted to see it again. If he had been home, he would have just gone to the theater three or four more times. But he was stuck in the hospital and emphatic that he not watch a bootleg copy of the movie. "Mom, don't ever let me see an illegal copy of Spiderman again. It ruins the movie." Someone had given him a bootleg copy that must have been recorded inside the theater because it was dark and hard to make out the characters. Then a friend had convinced a company executive to share with us the original movie. A rep had walked the movie over to the hospital and stayed at a nearby coffee shop while Christopher watched it. That was when she brought the Fed Ex box with the signed poster for Christopher.
Christopher couldn't wait to get home to hang his poster on his bedroom wall. In a pad that his Nanna had given him, he had sketched out different designs to redecorate his room when he got out of the hospital -- Spiderman was one of a few themes.
This Fed Ex box leaned against the wall in Christopher's hospital room much like it leans against my bedroom wall. Every now and again, Christopher would take the poster out to admire it and to show visitors. Every now and again, I look over at the box and remember how much fun Christopher had the day it arrived.
The night Christopher was transferred to intensive care -- to the hospital across the street -- some things got lost when my mom and siblings cleared out his room. A prized LEGO Pirates of the Caribbean pirate ship that Christopher had built was among the lost things. Christopher and Ryan never cared for the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, but they did love LEGOs and that ship Christopher built had entertained him for days. This Fed Ex box fortunately didn't get lost in the chaos.
As I sit here, I wonder why I can't separate the poster from its box. Seeing the box as merely clutter, a friend tried to throw it away soon after I brought it home. I stopped her and said, "You need to leave the poster in the box. It's Christopher's." She didn't ask. But now, I ask myself what my connection is to this tall narrow box.
I tell myself that the box is Christopher's and therefore offers a connection. Those who know me will validate that my house is filled with connections. This box however is a more recent connection to a time when Christopher was here. Still I wonder if the attachment goes deeper. Then I realize that this box not only offers safety and protection for the poster, it helps me to keep certain feelings at bay.
I couldn't save Christopher, but I can save something that has a connection to him -- hence the reason I still have the broken spatula that he cooked with and the baby clothes that he wore. And if I take the poster out of the box and place it a frame, I have to accept that Christopher will never get to see it. I also have to accept that my precious child never got to come home or even live past the age of nine. This is why his poster has sat in its box for four years.
Three days ago something clicked for me. On July 23rd, it was four years since Christopher died. Four years? I'm not sure how that is possible, but the calendar says it is. I decide it's time -- I have to let go of some things including the Fed Ex box. After four years, I realize that Christopher is with me in ways that his things never can be. And if he could talk to me now, I know he would say, "Mom, it's just a box!"
I'm still now sure what we'll do with the poster, but as my 11 year old tells me, "Mom, don't worry. We'll figure something out."
This morning I placed the box at the curb with the other recyclables. I almost grabbed it and ran back in the house, but refrained as I remembered I don't need that crutch anymore. I will always be connected to Christopher as his mom and he will always be Ryan's big brother. This just is and always will be and material objects have nothing to do with it.
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