Once again, its the 15th

Nine months ago today, I sat in an operating room at Mercy Hospital.  I was head-to-toe PPE (before PPE was even a thing we talked about).  The only thing that wasn't covered in PPE were my hands; I got to be bare-handed for those last precious moments.  I couldn't tell you how many surgeons were in the room, or how many nurses.  I really only recall clearly one of each.  Both were women; both had dark brown hair (that I could see under the scrub cap); both had kind eyes that communicated the depth of what was about to happen.  I held Andrew's hand; I rubbed his head.  Jim rested a hand over his heart.  To be honest, I don't often think about those final moments.  I've written them down in detail, and one day, if they wish, I'll share them with my children.  As a mother, one of the most incredibly precious moments in my life were the moments I met my children for the first time.  I was given the gift of ushering a life into this world.  There is absolutely nothing I have ever experienced that compares to that.  After nine months of nausea, discomfort, kicking, rolling, and expanding; after hours of labor, pain (and that's putting it lightly), and the actual delivery, there is that moment when your child is placed on your chest.  Both times, as I was holding my minutes-old children, exhausted, emotional, and awe-struck, I felt as if I had been given access to one of the most holy and pure moments in life.  Sitting next to my husband, the human being I loved more than any other in this world, as he took his final breaths; holding his hand as he met his Savior face-to-face for the first time, in that moment I was exhausted, emotional, and yes, awe-struck.  Once again, I had a front row seat to one of the most holy and pure moments in life: the final moment of life.  It is an experience that will remain with me the remainder of my days.

Over the last nine months there has been Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, our wedding anniversary, Easter, Mother's Day, Mr. M's birthday, Little Miss's birthday, Father's Day, and, in three days, Andrew's birthday.  For me, each holiday was like a domino being knocked down.  Andrew's birthday will be the last domino before the big finish: the one year mark.  We are rapidly approaching the point where my life without Andrew will be marked in years, not months.  My heart feels the weight of that differently than any of the other milestones we've marked this year.  It's been a busy nine months, but, as my therapist says, that's the work of grief.  

When I began my Leave of Absence from my job at the end of March, Minnesota (and the US) were just dipping a big toe into the massive ocean that is COVID.  I had completed a two-week quarantine with my children due to a potential exposure.  In-person schools were closed, and a full shut-down of basically the rest of the world was on the horizon.  March in Minnesota isn't known for its balmy weather, therefore, I was pretty much isolated to my house.  I started cleaning.  Not your run-of-the-mill cleaning, no, I was in full-on Cleaning Betty Syndrome.  Betty was my grandmother, and in our family, when you set out to clean a small area lightly, but seven hours later find yourself taking apart the stove to clean the inner hinges, that is called Cleaning Betty Syndrome (shortened to CBS).  It started with my kitchen.  I was just going to clean up my kitchen, something it definitely can use more often than I do it.  In cleaning, I remembered I hated the door pulls on my cabinets.  So, I was going to change them.  If I was going to change the door pulls, I might as well scrub down the cabinets with oil soap.  If I was going to go to the trouble of scrubbing cabinets with oil soap, then I should wash down the walls.  You can see where this was going.  The kitchen took 8 hours.  During those 8 hours, I wasn't playing music.  I wasn't talking on the phone.  I was having an 8-hour-long reckonning session with God.  I felt a lot like Noah building his ark.  Alone, working to a level most would consider crazy, I cried out to God.  I talked to him.  I yelled at him.  I cried...a lot.  I relived, processed, and healed the various memories in that kitchen.  I came to a sense of peace with that space, and I began reorganizing it in a way that made sense to me and worked for me.  Over the last six months, I have done this in every space in our house.  When the weather got nice, my uncle came down and tore out my front yard.  Awful, overgrown, ugly, and tacky really only touch the surface of what my yard looked like.  My dad spent hours on the hottest days of June painting the front of the house, and the three parents in my life (my parents and my father-in-law) painted the doors, trim, and windows of my house.  From the outside, and on the inside, my house does not look like it did nine months ago.  Neither do we.

In the last nine months, Mr. M graduated pre-school.  He learned to ride a two-wheel bike about 3 weeks before his 5th birthday.  He played soccer on a rec league, and is taking swimming lessons.  Little Miss turned 3, and is now potty trained.  On any given day she is a kitty cat, a mermaid, Princess Elsa, or Princess Isla Mermiad.  She never stops talking (I have no idea where she gets that), and she almost has enough hair for a single pigtail.  We talk about Daddy, and thank Jesus for Daddy.  They're going to pick out balloons to send to Daddy up in Heaven for his birthday.  They miss their Daddy.  So do I.

Amidst all the cleaning, rearranging, and updating I did to the house over the last nine months, there's one thing I haven't changed yet.  On the door leading to the garage, there is a dry-erase calendar.  It is quite large and it is anchored into the door.  Whereas I love planners, calendars, and organizational tools, Andrew...well...didn't.  Once, in a moment of pure exasperation, I asked him what it would take for him to organize his own life.  Offhandedly he said, "I don't know.  Maybe put a calendar on the door so I have to look at it every time I leave."  With the help of Amazon Prime and some heavy-duty screws, mission accomplished.  Every month I would update the calendar with our activities, and each person had a color.  Andrew even learned how to put his own information on the calendar.  It was a proud moment.  I haven't changed the calendar.  It still says October/November.  It still has Andrew's illegible scrawl on different dates.  The calendar still shows November 15th.  I don't know when I'll be ready to update the calendar.  I still have two planners and an iPhone calendar to keep me organized.  Every time I go over to update it, I just can't.  And that's ok.  Just like with the house, I'll know when it's time.

And so, today I will remember my Andrew though laughter and tears.  I'll relive the moment at 10:22pm when I handed him back over to his Heavenly Father.  On Tuesday, we'll send him some balloons and enjoy his favorite dessert: tiramisu.  We'll honor the day, 39 years ago, when Andrew joined us in this life.  And on that day, and every day inbetween, I'll thank God for that man, the one who loved me completely and unconditionally, who made me laugh hysterically, roll my eyes endlessly, and, in the good times and the not-so-good times, changed my life for the better.