sadness – beatingcowdens

I cried today. Yep. That was it. Couldn’t hold it in one second longer so I pulled the car into a lot. Thankfully I was alone. And I rolled up all the windows, locked the doors – and sobbed.

It only lasted about 10 minutes, but I caught a wicked headache, and a bit of stress release from that good old-fashioned hissy fit.

I generally make a habit of not allowing them. I am a look at the bright side of life kind of girl. I like to remind myself about others who have it worse, and try to put myself in other people’s shoes. It usually works.

Today the emotion got the better of me. And its OK.

Work was stressful.

Supporting my dear husband while he works his tail off three nights a week at school is well worth it, but stressful for all of us.

Homework. Constant. Ever changing. Tests that need to be studied for. Worry about things not yet complete. Yep, its only 4th grade. The teachers are lovely. The stress is really almost unreal.

Today we went to the Urgi center for X-rays of a foot and ankle that has been bothering Meghan since dance class Monday. She limped for 2 days before I thought – negligent mother should have a doctor take a look. Sprained. Takes time. (Besides the 2 hours out of the afternoon.)

In addition to Cowden’s Syndrome, Meghan has a few other neat things. One of her diagnoses is “Benign Hypermobile Joint Syndrome.” Great – if you can manage your flexibility. If you can’t it leads to all sorts of random injuries. We keep a really good PT around… just because.

But, if I am really really honest – I don’t think any of these things pushed me over into that screaming sobbing cry I so desperately needed. I think it was sadness. Sadness, mixed with raw fear.

Last night I sat with a friend and her 7th grade son at the wake for the little boy who died last week. I couldn’t for a minute imagine that any more sadness could fit in that one room. I had a lot of time to think while we sat. Maybe too much.

I looked first at his family. Mom and Dad poised, and carefully greeting each on the never-ending line. Big Brother and Little Sister, beautiful, supportive, composed. I told you. They could have been any of us. And I am sure they never in their worst nightmare imagined they would be standing there.

And I looked at the police officers, standing in honor. Each one with red eyes as they tried so hard to remain stoic. Undoubtedly they had kids of their own, or they knew the young man well – or both.

Children. Everywhere. Out of order for a wake. Except this time it was theirs. It was their friend. The kid they sat in class with. Young preteens – so many of them former students. Faces raw with emotion. A night they will never forget.

Tomorrow my friend and I, we will go to the funeral mass. We will represent our school. We will try to keep ourselves composed. But, her thoughts will wander to her boys, and mine to my little girl. I will think of the “close calls” we have endured, and the many the Cowden’s Syndrome has on the horizon for us. I shudder at the horror… at the potential.

And yet, if I let it consume me, what life will that be for my girl; my beautiful, generous, compassionate young lady?
If I let the tragedy overwhelm me with the reality that at any moment, any of us could be this family, I will lose track of what I have.

If I lose track, if I stop cherishing the blessings I have, I do not give any honor to the memory of this little boy.

Instead, I hug tighter. Try to strengthen the duration of my patience. Smell the flowers. Say I love you. Believe in angels. Remember what really matters.

I can not comfort this family. My words are useless. They have to find their way.

But, I am quite sure now why I cried, and why I had to cry, and why I continue to cry. I can weep and mourn, with them and for them.

I can hug my little girl, and then hug her again. I can make memories that matter.

Maybe if we all take some time to show some extra love. Maybe then we can find a way to keep his memory alive forever.

God, hold them in the palm of Your hand – tomorrow, and forevermore. Amen.

Tonight it’s not about us.

No matter how hard I try. No matter how much I trust. No matter how much I pray. There will be some things I will never understand. Ever.

Today a generally healthy 11-year-old boy, a 6th grader from the neighborhood died. A few days ago he stopped breathing, and today he is gone.

The details leading to the tragedy just don’t even matter, as much as the fact that it happened at all.

When I began teaching, his mom taught with us. It wasn’t long before she would take childcare leave to build her family of three. We were not close friends, but colleagues still the same, and close enough that I am absolutely sickened by the loss she and her family are enduring.

Years later the children would come, first through my school, then another local elementary school. The two boys are in Junior High. The 8th grader, the oldest, is just two years ahead of the little brother who passed. Their sister is a 3rd grader.

The family is just like any of ours. The mom was a teacher, dad a police officer. They were the “regular” family.

This is the stuff nightmares are made from.

Even though we live in a “big city,” our borough is a small town. There is so much interconnection in this area it seems everyone knows someone.

I was not “friends” with the family. We chatted when we saw each other, but our kids didn’t play together. We weren’t “close.” Yet still I am heartsick.

I know families who have lost children. I know mothers who continue to function after burying their babies, and fathers who get up and one day go back to work. I am in awe of their strength. I can not imagine the depths to which the loss of a child changes you.

And we seem to hear of it all the time. There are tragedies, school shootings, traffic accidents, and the like. There is cancer and its far-reaching effects. There are countless rare diseases that I learn more about each day, that rob parents of their children way too soon.

Chronic illness is not fun. It can be downright difficult to bear at times. But tonight again I will thank God for Cowden’s Syndrome, because despite the headaches and trauma it can cause us, it is a blessing. We have a warning system. We have constant screenings that will likely protect us from the ominous cancers looking to attack. We are blessed.

I do not by any means think that any type of loss is easy to bear.

The loss of my cousin shaped my existence as a person, but even I never fully recovered. I still pray for her parents and her sister.

I was in the 6th grade when a friend from my church was hit by a car and killed on the school bus stop. No criminal charges. Just regular kids playing. And then they weren’t. I remember the whole experience vividly 30 years later.

A few weeks ago I stood by the side of a work associate whose 39-year-old daughter had died of cancer. No words.

One of these parents told me there is a reason there is no word to describe a parent who has lost a child. The grief can not be contained in words.

I just can not for even a moment imagine the shock and trauma when you put your healthy 11 year old child to bed, and he doesn’t get up.

Tonight my heart is with the family. The mom and dad, the brother and sister, as well as all the extended family and close friends whose lives are forever altered.

I will pray that God holds them all so tightly, and that He binds them close together, and showers them with His love.

There are just no words.