As the summer wound down, Olivia became nervous about going to a new school. I tried to reassure her and told her about the kind teachers and supportive environment at the middle school. Still looking to her siblings for guidance, Olivia asked me "Did Brent like sixth grade?" I had an emotional hiccup. I explained that Brent loved going to school, but didn't actually attend sixth grade more than perhaps 10 days. It was late August in 2011 when Brent was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. All of our lives shifted in that moment, and to be honest, that is when our grieving and incremental losses began.
The emotional potholes are always waiting, but I do not always see them before I have fallen into them.
Lauren has just begun her final year of high school, a busy one filled with all sorts capstone activities: senior nights, photos, dances and dinners in addition to college applications, scholarship deadlines and AP courses. Lauren is our third child and this process should be old hat for us. However, we were in the hospital with Brent for much of Alex's senior year and were only minimally involved at the school. Dan and I even had to postpone Alex's graduation party (which he had organized himself) because Brent landed in ICU with necrotizing fasciitis.
My second opportunity to be the parent of a senior was sidelined when Brent relapsed with AML, derailing his efforts to graduate with his class. There were so many things that he was looking forward to doing, or sharing with his friends, but illness and death prevented him from experiencing any of them.
I am trying to enjoy these events with Lauren, but they often evoke hazy distracted memories of Alex's final year in high school or equally difficult imagined experiences (the things that might have been for Brent). I am so glad that Lauren is healthy and starting from a strong position, but my feelings beyond this foundation of gratitude are often complicated.
Like with the hummingbirds, I am trying to remain grounded in the present moment and focused on the wonderous gift in front of me. I have to pay attention, because I am all too aware that this darting aerial dance is fleeting and unpredictable. I try to focus, but am not always successful.
The girls are not the only ones starting a new school year. I have begun a Masters in Public Health program. When I returned home from the first day of orientation, Olivia rushed to my side and peppered me with questions: "How was your first day? Did you get lost? Did you make any new friends? Did you sit with your classmates at lunch? I am so proud of you for asking your teacher for help!" Her genuine enthusiasm (and touching bit of role reversal) swept away the lingering mix of feelings which are difficult to articulate- excitement and nervousness but also an emotion that lies somewhere between regret and guilt, about the fact that I am attending college instead of my brilliant son.
I know that Brent would be as proud of me as Olivia is. I will use the things that his experience taught me, and work for policies that will help others. While Brent never wanted to be defined by his illness, he definitely wanted to help other young people who faced the same challenges. He especially wanted to make it better for Lauren.
Brent's hard work is done, but mine has just begun. I am torn; I am drawn to the past even as it propels me forward. I try to honor my son as I take my next best step, just as he always did. Sitting at his desk, now strewn with my books and papers, I imagine that Brent smiles, and whispers encouragement to me.
I hope that he whispers louder during Biostatistics.
The emotional potholes are always waiting, but I do not always see them before I have fallen into them.
Lauren has just begun her final year of high school, a busy one filled with all sorts capstone activities: senior nights, photos, dances and dinners in addition to college applications, scholarship deadlines and AP courses. Lauren is our third child and this process should be old hat for us. However, we were in the hospital with Brent for much of Alex's senior year and were only minimally involved at the school. Dan and I even had to postpone Alex's graduation party (which he had organized himself) because Brent landed in ICU with necrotizing fasciitis.
My second opportunity to be the parent of a senior was sidelined when Brent relapsed with AML, derailing his efforts to graduate with his class. There were so many things that he was looking forward to doing, or sharing with his friends, but illness and death prevented him from experiencing any of them.
I am trying to enjoy these events with Lauren, but they often evoke hazy distracted memories of Alex's final year in high school or equally difficult imagined experiences (the things that might have been for Brent). I am so glad that Lauren is healthy and starting from a strong position, but my feelings beyond this foundation of gratitude are often complicated.
Like with the hummingbirds, I am trying to remain grounded in the present moment and focused on the wonderous gift in front of me. I have to pay attention, because I am all too aware that this darting aerial dance is fleeting and unpredictable. I try to focus, but am not always successful.
The girls are not the only ones starting a new school year. I have begun a Masters in Public Health program. When I returned home from the first day of orientation, Olivia rushed to my side and peppered me with questions: "How was your first day? Did you get lost? Did you make any new friends? Did you sit with your classmates at lunch? I am so proud of you for asking your teacher for help!" Her genuine enthusiasm (and touching bit of role reversal) swept away the lingering mix of feelings which are difficult to articulate- excitement and nervousness but also an emotion that lies somewhere between regret and guilt, about the fact that I am attending college instead of my brilliant son.
I know that Brent would be as proud of me as Olivia is. I will use the things that his experience taught me, and work for policies that will help others. While Brent never wanted to be defined by his illness, he definitely wanted to help other young people who faced the same challenges. He especially wanted to make it better for Lauren.
Brent's hard work is done, but mine has just begun. I am torn; I am drawn to the past even as it propels me forward. I try to honor my son as I take my next best step, just as he always did. Sitting at his desk, now strewn with my books and papers, I imagine that Brent smiles, and whispers encouragement to me.
I hope that he whispers louder during Biostatistics.
