The fuzzy pieces

Fading memories and grief

It’s been a little over three years since we lost Henry. A day I used to remember so vividly, but has dulled with time. The immediate lose of his physical presence was to put it simply, shattering, but it was the diminishing memories that quickly gathered really broke me.

Moments that used to be clear, became fuzzy. This has been one of the hardest parts of his loss. I struggled so much those first few months, recounting the moments from the previous year, trying to hold on to each memory to keep him alive. Longing for his physical presences.

For me, grief rears it’s head in both ugly and comforting ways. I can recall, by memory exact dates of Henry’s cancer journey. Not just the big moments like surgery or when he started chemo, but little things like times we walked the halls after his white blood cell counts were high enough to venture outside the room, or when he started TPN because he couldn’t keep anything down.

Dates are important to me. After three years to therapy I know that I am a rigid and like routine. So many moments from Henry’s cancer journey will most likely stick with me for a long time whether I want them to or not. But it’s the happy days at home and other small moments that I wish would not fade.

Those first few months after his loss I cried and cried over the loss of these memories. I struggled with letting this go, because to me letting go meant loosing Henry. After three+ years of therapy I know now that, that is not true. It’s how I honor and remember Henry in my every day life that keeps Henry alive, but deep in those first few months that idea was impossible.

In the photo above Henry was 17 months old. It was inauguration day. The TV was turned to CNN because in 2021 anything was possible with politics, but I felt hopeful for the future. Henry was accidentally wearing last year’s sweater, which was a little snug, but still warm and cozy on a chilly day. I missed the actual presidential inauguration because I had driven to drop off Henry’s medical information to apply for secondary insurance. We had put this off because there was a part of us that hoped we wouldn’t need it and a part of us that couldn’t bring us to fill out the paperwork.

As i’ve spoken of before, a mix of grief and joy filled that day as I was hopeful we were moving forward, both with Henry’s treatment and as a country, but sorrow because I knew this new medication was most likely our last hope.

The other details of day that are now fuzzy. I’m sure we went for a walk and played a little outside, but I don’t remember. He looks so happy and I am sure that he was despite his tumor.

Over time the fuzzy memories have softened my grief and made moving forward possible. Things are easier than they once were. Being around similar aged children is easier. Driving past CHOA doesn’t automatically make me cry. Having another child became possible.

For those who have lost a child and later had another, I see you and understand you. Those small moments at home mean so much to me with my daughter. I try my best to remember the little moments. Her wet open mouth kisses, the way she says ‘huh’ like an old man, and even how cranky she usually is waking up from a nap because I know those moments can easily vanish. As a mother, those simple every day moments are some I cherish the most.

I’ll never make new memories with Henry. His life stopped at 19 months. No new memories to become fuzzy over time. Cherish what you can. You never know how quickly things can change.