Remembrance and hope

In the last few weeks, I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to “deal” with the upcoming Christmas holiday. And really what I have discovered is that I am actually trying to figure out how to deal with other people…not so much with my own experience. I think a LOT of my time has been spent doing that without me consciously understanding that I was doing it. What will others say or do that will trigger my next breakdown? Will they include Benton? If they do, how will that make me feel? If they don’t, how will that make me feel? Does it really matter if I can’t handle the expectations, both my own and theirs? The one thing I want, I can’t have. So, what can I do to honor Bennie’s memory that won’t feel forced? How do I explain to people that the “merry” is lacking this year, though in many ways the joy is present? The joy of being Bennie’s mom. The joy of my time with him. The joy of looking at his pictures. But, that is different than the “merry” of Christmas. How do I explain that?…or maybe I can’t. I know that the holiday traditions that used to be comforting no longer are…at least right now. So, I started some new ones. And those felt OK. I have surrounded myself with Bennie’s things…his pictures…music that makes me think of him…and that feels good. A beautifully kind woman who lost her daughter said to me that after she died she hung photos up everywhere and kept her room for years…and if anyone said anything about it, she simply stated, “well, you don’t have to live here”. That made me feel like it made sense. And wasn’t crazy, which it feels sometimes. Another said that what she most remembered in those early months was how lonely she felt, even surrounded by people. Because, as with all loss, after the initial shock, people do stop. They stop calling. They stop dropping by. Because, they don’t know what to do. Or say. Or they think you need time or space or privacy. Or, because you don’t respond and they think you want to be left alone. I think, sometimes, that is true. But I can’t tell you how often I have gotten a text or an e-mail or a letter or a message that I don’t respond to that has gotten me through the day. I hope people know how much I appreciate them, even if I don’t say so. Those moments of support, even from a distance, help so much. More than anyone can ever understand. Please don’t stop if I don’t answer. I will, someday. I will.

I watched a webcast about remembrance during the holidays. Parts were helpful. Parts weren’t. But, the one thing I really found important in it was the many times the parents said, “Don’t forget…please remember…please include…” I think this is the key. My child, his life, his death…they are all important to me. They all changed the person I am, right down to the molecules. He changed my understanding of love. He changed my understanding of life. He changed my understanding of strength. He changed my understanding of peace. He changed my understanding of sorrow. He changed my understanding of joy. All of it. My whole worldview. SO, please don’t forget. Please don’t dismiss. Please don’t tell me I will “get over it” or I should “move on”. Please tell me you are thinking of us. Please tell me you are thinking of Benton or remembering something about him. Please understand that he is my family, whether or not he is here on earth. For that reason, please include him in our holidays. Please light a candle for him. Please ask me to share memories of him. And if (ok, when) I cry, please know that it is not all sadness. So much of it is joy. And all of it is love. Please buy presents for him and donate them to a local hospital or charity. Please share his story by doing something kind for someone else. Please help us to pass along his goodness.

I like to sit in our dining room, which has become a gathering spot since Benton’s death. We have pictures of him here. And his candles. And his ashes. We have spent hours here, reading cards and writing responses, writing blogs, lighting candles and remembering, crying, smiling, trying to pick up life again. It is a room we very rarely spent time in before. Strange, how that happened. But now, it is a comforting place. I like to sit here, like I did tonight, and light Bennie’s candles and eat dinner with him. Sometimes I talk to him. Sometimes, I read e-mails or work on grades for my class, or work on paperwork that needs to be filed after his passing. I pay bills. I read. I add to his scrapbook. I hug the cats. It’s a nice feeling in this space. It lets me work through life without the pressure that somehow builds when I am not here. Our Christmas “tree” (ficus plant) is here as well. I bought new ornaments this year…I couldn’t bring myself to pull out the old ones, so many of which have a memory attached. I think maybe I can’t focus on those memories this year because I am working to not lose those of Bennie. Or at least that what it feels like sometimes. Anyhow, I started fresh. Felt garland. Warm lights. A cute little mushroom. Some sparkly ball ornaments. And a pretty silver B. It’s nice. I like it. It is something new, as we move through this first holiday season that was to be a beginning…and I suppose it still is in many ways. A beginning of a new life, with a new set of traditions and a new, hope filled purpose. To honor Benton. To carry on his light. To count our blessings while we grieve our loss. There are moments when I think I wish I never had to know this sadness, this pain. But then I think if given the chance I would most certainly go through it again. Because the pain and sadness came from a place of such perfect beauty and love. In this holiday season, that’s what I want to remember. And I hope you will help us. I hope you will give us space to grieve but also help us fill the world with the hope that Bennie taught us, however you can. This Christmas, I hope. I hope. I hope.