Another First

  Every summer for four years, we have road-tripped to Michigan to visit with my college friends. It was a tradition we began after Waverly died. A way to connect with ever-growing families and complicated schedules. Plus it became more important for us to be together with our children. Last week was our first MI adventure without Oliver.

Oliver's absence was ever-present. We took our new compact car instead of our bulky accessible van. We listened to podcasts instead of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Our stops were incredibly quick and didn't involve wheelchairs, handicap stalls, feeding pump prep. There is often a sense of awe in how uncomplicated basic activities are. That is usually followed by sorrow. And then guilt and shame overwhelm me that I enjoy the simplicity of only worrying about myself. (No one ever promised that grief was simple.)

I struggled on this trip. As comforting as it was to be with good friends who have walked beside us in death, I had an abundance of emotions swirling inside of me. Anger that this is my story. Envy that my kids aren't scootering, swimming and laughing. Deep sadness that Oliver was missing these precious moments. Guilt that what is typically an exhausting visit of caretaking was without work.

Time in nature is usually a balm for my broken heart. As my friends were bathing kids and prepping for bedtime, I laid on the hot cement by the pool gazing up at a cloudless blue sky. The blowing leaves and singing birds provided a soundtrack. Red-winged blackbirds kept flying overhead. Marveling at the world around me brought me some peace and solace. We were fortunate enough to have a chilly summer night and had a fire outside. There is something magical about firelight. It brings openness and honesty to the forefront.

As I said goodbye to my friends, I said goodbye to yet another first. It made me sad. Time is separating me from what was. I will never forget, but I constantly worry others will. That Waverly & Oliver will fade into the background as the years go by.