Last week of 7. Kicking off the week with piercings. So proud of this girl. 

July 13. I really miss this kid. Happy Birthday, my sweet boy.

Still here.

   
Yes, the following activities are actually among the most awful things in the world:

-having to go to your deceased son’s pediatric cardiologist for your daughter. 

-sitting anonymously in a waiting room full of people whose ultimate fear–the visceral and panicked thing that has motivated them to come to that office–is your experience.

-sitting in the waiting room reliving every visit, absorbing a decade of the sensory triggers. The elevator, the hallway, the restroom, the play area toys, the floor rugs, the coat rack, the chalkboard, the models of the human heart, the charts on the wall, and the chairs. 

Oh, the chairs. I looked around the room today and realized that I have been seated in every chair in that office. And, each chair is imprinted with my panic and fear. 

Today I looked around the room and saw parents and children in chairs. They were just like us. A pregnant woman on the edge of her seat. Young parents with their young boy, obviously there for the first time. Seasoned pros on smartphones, feigning confidence that this visit will be “routine.” We’ve been all of these people over the past 10 years.

I was in my hell today. No doubt. 

And, yet, in a haunting and warm way, there was a comfort in the experience. Memories of Owen in the plastic planets suspended from the ceiling, and a VCR in the corner that once played melodic visuals that soothed his (and our) anxiety as we awaited test results. Nuanced details of life restored.

My daughter received a clean bill of health today. We sighed. And, we will try to not think about the health of her heart for three years.

And, we’ll be warmed by the bitters and the sweet: 

An EKG is a test where they put stickers all over your chest. Years ago, our  kid’s cardiologist began allowing patients to create pictures with the stickers, autograph their work, and affix it to the wall. Owen was one of the first participants in this wall of fame. His earliest  EKG piece was easily found today, right next to Jupiter. We added Lulu’s to the wall–right next to little O’s.  

What is 18 months? What happens in that span of time? What changes? 

My boy is about 18 months old in this photo. I actually remember that exact day. It was a Tuesday. No special holiday. Just a Tuesday morning with my boy. 

See, today is one of those days of playing grief gymnastics. Here’s a sampling:

Ok, so today it’s been 18 months. Wow, it feels like a lifetime–or an instant. Well, which is it?  Can it be both? I guess it’s both. Pause. No, because right now it feels like it’s been forever that I have felt this void. Yes, forever. But, on the other hand…etc. 

So, it’s been 18 months. How old would he have been? 10 1/2. Pause. Imagine instantly everything you possibly can about what Owen would be like right now. Try to process a micro fraction of the image. Exhaustion.

Yeah, that’s about it.

Keeping time, feeling lost. 18 months.

Wore these through breakfast.  

This is one of those days. I guess I’ve kind of been planning for this. Not surprisingly, the pain is no less intense.

I cried when I saw the trailer for the new Star Wars earlier this year. Owen would’ve loved it. We would have watched, and re-watched, and analyzed, and speculated…together. 

See, Star Wars was one of our things. It was a legacy. I love Star Wars, so he loved it, too. We started early. Probably too early, but who cares. We built Star Wars Legos, read the same Star Wars book cover to cover that I read as a kid, watched all of the movies with regularity, made it through all 6 seasons of the Clone Wars series, played Star Wars card games and board games, rode the Star Tours ride at Disney World ’til I got sick, built our own droids and light sabers, viewed the 3-D version re-release the first weekend it was out, shared inside jokes about Tosche Stations and tauntans. 

You get the point. Star Wars, which is embedded in my DNA (I was born in 1977), was not just my thing. It was our thing. And, I had opportunity to see the magic of Star Wars through him. 

The day Episode 7 was announced we began planning. December 18, 2015. He wanted to go the day it opened. We talked about how old he would be. 10. We imagined together what incredible tale the next chapter would tell. 

So, today I am here. It’s late on a Thursday. Soon I will be viewing this movie with my incredible friends Ty, Craig, and Owen’s best buddy, Cole. And, like much of what we’ve experienced over the last 16 months, it is a fitting tribute that we are together. 
As I sit here my tears well and cascade thinking about how much he would’ve enjoyed this and how sad I am that we aren’t sharing it together.