Will, Murray, and Ben at Cannon Beach, Oregon (end of July 2010)
August 16, 2013 (818 days)
Dear Willy,
Dad and I and Finn didn’t make it to Cannon Beach, Oregon as we’d planned because your brother became quite ill and ended up in the hospital with viral myocarditis. The last day of our vacation in Hood River was full of telephone calls and texts from Ben and Justin keeping us abreast of what was taking place back home. When Ben ended up being admitted to hospital, Dad and I knew we needed to come home. I know you get this and I’m even thinking that you already know the whole story… as I am quite certain that in some special Willy Angel way you were watching over Ben whilst keeping us safe on our long drive home.
Once home and when we learned that Ben was going to be fine, I was trying to make sense of all that had happened and I think maybe I wasn’t yet ready to visit Cannon Beach again. All summer, I was guardedly looking forward to that part of our holiday but as the day crept closer I found myself welling up with tears at the thought of being there without you. It is a beautiful and special place as it was where you saw the ocean for the first time and seeing the ocean was something that you always wanted to see. Just thinking about it made my stomach feel shaky and my heart feel heavier than usual.
Knowing that we needed to go North back to Canada instead of West felt right as I knew that home was where I needed and wanted to be. Next summer we will try again to get back to that special place on the ocean; and maybe in another year it’ll be easier. We still take baby steps, Will, trying so hard to move forward when all we want is to go back to when you were with us here. If only we could… you know we would.
Waiting their turn to play volleyball… Jordan, Sam, and Will
Thursday, August 18, 2011 (89 days)
Dear Willy,
Today I met with Mrs. McLaren at your school and mine, too. She kindly bought me a latte and we shared a piece of banana bread while we talked about you and all the things that made you so special to Banded Peak. I have decided that I’d like to return to the school for a couple of days a week and so we talked about that too. To be there everyday would be just too difficult and as I explained to Mrs. McLaren I have some work to do on me. I have to grow that new appendage… remember the starfish story? When a starfish loses one of it’s “arms” it grows a new one and I was telling her that when I lost you, I lost one of my “arms” and that arm will always be with you… you, being only twelve, still needed your mom and, gosh, as your mom I still needed you too. I don’t know what my new appendage will look like but I am on a mission to grow a fabulous one because it will be for you. One could also call it finding my new purpose here on earth; finding a reason to live out my days until I am reunited with you. I think she understood what I was trying to say. We discussed that I will not work in your grade grouping as that would be torturous really. But I think being at the school in a lower grade might be good for me. Another bittersweet, Will… and boy oh boy, my world is filled with those.
I explained to Mrs. McLaren that sometimes my eyes will well up with tears while at work but that maybe my tears didn’t have to be a negative; that maybe the kids would see that being sad is part of being human — that even adults have tears sometimes and that it is ok. Maybe my emotions would bring out their emotions and maybe, just maybe, bring down their “walls”; especially the kids that come to school and hide amongst the turmoil of anxiety, the ones that have tummy aches and tears and sadness and behavior issues, etc. I told her how great it might be for them to see that they are helping me too and that it wouldn’t be just me helping them. Life is a two way street and working together could help them and me all at the same time. I know that there will be times when it will be overwhelmingly sad and I will have to excuse myself and maybe leave for a few minutes, but she told me that would be ok and completely understandable. I am so grateful for the school and the support I have there.
You have impacted so many, Will, and I will need you to help me through this. Help me understand that it is right and good for me to go back. Give me the strength I will need daily and the courage to show that being human has all kinds of faces; some happy and some really sad. Sit proudly on my left shoulder where the boy angels sit everyday I am there. I will need you there WITH me…. because that is where you should be. And, by the way, Willy, when I grow my new “arm”, this starfish Mom of yours will still always need you.
One of the hardest parts of losing you is watching time pass. The world keeps turning; days turning into weeks and then to months and when I note the date or have to write it on something I shake my head – still not believing that its been two years (actually, 2 years, 52 days). It seems like yesterday and forever at the same time. I carry-on (somehow) most days but it isn’t without you on my mind every minute of every day. I guess it is true that you are a part of me; a part of me that will be forever, and I find comfort in believing that as a mom and a son we are inseparable always. Innately, I look for you everywhere I go, like I have special invisible glasses that can see you in the smallest of things. Yesterday while walking through the woods I stopped and took notice of all the different hues of your favourite color, green, that surrounded me; so many trees, tall and short, big and small, both deciduous and coniferous, the bushes abundant with leaves of all shapes and colors of, yes, green. The forest floor, also green, was covered with plants of all types, new shoots, moss… like a green carpet covering the dark brown fertile soil that provided a rich contrast to all the greenery. It was beautiful; Mother Nature at one of her finest. You’ll like this part, Will, for in the next heartbeat, I shuddered to think how many insects (for me, just a nicer sounding word for bugs) there were all around where I stood and instantly I thought how that wouldn’t have bothered you at all. On the contrary, for surely you’d have looked for the bugs, the spiders, the creepy crawly things, and found the “ickyness” written all over my face quite entertaining. I felt you with me in that green world and I laughed to myself knowing that while I was noticing all of the green stuff, you’d have been looking at the forest quite differently. You’d have been looking at the tree trunks, and the branches, wondering how and where you could get up in there and climb, wondering how high you could go without a worry in the world.
As my eyes were diverted back down to the ground, they were drawn to a little white flower that sprouted up and out of the soil. It was small with feathery leaves; bowing its head in my direction… and through my special invisible glasses I saw you. I frequently notice the little things now – like this little white flower, little blue butterflies, even the beauty in a single raindrop; things I’d have not really thought twice about before. Somehow these invisible glasses also give me a double vision; I see things through my eyes and then through yours. When I stop to look at the beauty in little things, I see you looking back at me and for a moment time stands still. Then when I blink, you’re gone. I used to cry, straining so hard to find you, to see you, but now I trust that you are there and that I will see you. It’s a lesson I am happy to have learned for when I tried to see you in the big picture I could never find you. I know you are never far from me, Will. We are inseparable, held together by an invisible thread. You will always be my Will and I will always be your mom. No one can ever take that away.
Love you little son/sun… like a bus and a little white flower in a green world.
Momxo
The Cord
We are connected, my child and I,
By an invisible cord not seen by the eye.
It’s not like the cord that connects us ’til birth,
This cord can’t be seen by any on earth.
This cord does its work right from the start
It binds us together, attached to my heart.
I know that it’s there, though no one can see
The invisible cord from my child to me.
The strength of this cord is hard to describe
It can’t be destroyed, it can’t be denied.
It’s stronger than any cord man could create
It withstands the test, can hold any weight.
And though you are gone, though you’re not here with me
So much has happened since I last wrote to you, but that didn’t mean that you were not in my thoughts. On the contrary actually, for through the tragedy of the flood that ravaged much of Bragg Creek and the rest of Southern Alberta, we miraculously dodged it. For those days when we weren’t sure if the berm would hold and save our homes, it was you that consumed me, you that gave me hope, and most of all, you that sealed my belief that you really are looking out for us, and that it was you that kept our home and us safe.
When we were served with the mandatory evacuation order last Thursday evening, the first thing I packed was you (your ashes), your favourite plaid shirt, and my macbook that holds all of our treausured photos. I couldn’t imagine leaving you behind with all the uncertainty that lie ahead. As I watched others in our community anxiously trying to move things up from their basements to higher ground and listened to their stories and watched their stress levels climb, it was clear to me that what I left behind was just “stuff” and that I didn’t have the emotional energy to put into things that were replaceable. Losing you has given me a different perception on life events and what is truly important. It is the people that I love, that I cherish beyond anything else that matter the most. What was most important was that I had you and that Dad and I and Ben were on our way to the Schneider’s home in Elbow Valley where the threat of the river was nil. I knew Justin was safe at his home in Calgary and what I drove away from last Thursday evening was just stuff.
I have said it before – that what I know for sure is that nothing in my life going forward will ever be as difficult as losing you. Of course, I felt a huge relief when we were given the go ahead to return to Redwood on Sunday and to see that things here were good. We were lucky, Will; our home was dry and all of the reminders of you were still here; dry and intact. Some of our friends and neighbors were not so lucky; wet basements and lots of work to remove wet carpets and drywall and “stuff”, negotiations with insurance companies and the inconvenience of cleaning and rebuilding and the stress that goes with that, but no loss of a loved one. We all have much to be grateful for in the aftermath of what happened in our part of the world last week. Some lost their homes, their businesses, their financial security now in jeopardy, but all those that we know have each other and that is most important. We are ever grateful, Will; to a God that heard our prayers, to ALL that worked tirelessly to repair and reinforce our berm when the river was relentless, to the miracle that kept our community safe and to YOU for keeping it all in perspective and keeping me sane.
I love you more and more each day, little one. So very much and like a bus. That’ll never change and no one or no thing or no river can ever take that away.
Yesterday we celebrated an amazing event in honour of your Foundation and it was a huge success. Much bigger than we thought it would be and I am still in awe and overwhelmed at the
Even Nana!
generousity of our community and our friends. This place we call home is so very special and I believe that there may not be another place like it on this earth. I am exhausted on all fronts; physically, emotionally, mentally, etc. and yet my heart, though so broken, is swelling with pride. Pride for you and the impact that you had on so many and pride for our Village; the Village that helped raise you. You are missed by so many, Willy, but remembered too, which is all I can ask of anyone and is all I can hope for.
During the Silent Auction, I bid on a purse full of goodies and ended up being the winning bidder. In it was a book titled How Many People Does it Take to Make a Difference? I thought it quite a statement that I would be the recipient of that book because it was another reminder that you made such a difference in your short life. And it made me think that everyone that participated in the Bike Ride and the Silent Auction last night made a difference too. The preliminary calculations are looking like $40,000+ will go to your Foundation! I can’t find words to explain what that feels like; such a bittersweet thing. If only you were here with us at home where you should be, enjoying the gifts of the ordinary days I long for. Oh, what I’d give for that to be true… But, sadly that will never happen. Instead, I will remind myself of the good that came out of this weekend; the many friends and family that supported us through your Foundation and I will remember how we all came together to remember you and to help our community heal. You’d have loved it, Will. But I think maybe you were there; looking down on us with a big Willy smile and giving us a big thumbs up with both hands. You definitely are the little big man.
Last night I was reminiscing about your favourite number. Eight. Kathleen and I had chatted on Monday about why you loved the number “8” so much and the obvious reasons, of course, where that, for one, it looked like a snowman and we all know how much you love snow. Secondly, it was Ben’s favourite number and it was no secret that whatever Ben liked, you liked too. Thirdly, Powder 8’s came to mind and one of Dad’s favourite memories is of you and him skiing fresh powder in Fernie; he crossing over the fresh turns you’d already made in the snow in front of him to make an “8”. Then, we remembered that in all of the sports you played, if there was a jersey and a choice of which number could be worn, you always chose a number that had an “8” in it.
Last night as I stood in the driveway saying goodbye to Kathleen, I turned around to walk back into the house and staring at me was our house number. Number 8! I stopped and stared, unable to move, and thought that perhaps the most beautiful reason of all, was that home was number 8. Beautiful tears filled my eyes and at that moment I thought that maybe you were telling me something; that maybe “8” was your favourite number because it was your home. Our home. Because of that, I have never loved our home more.
I love you WillBilly. Like a bus and to infinity. (Which Mrs. Fischer reminded me today is an 8 turned on its side). Another Wow.
The long weekend is here and it’s the one that I dread more than anything. I have gone right back to the weekend that started out being so much fun and ended so tragically two years ago. As I type the words “two years ago”… I think how long two years sounds and then in the same breath it feels like it is all playing out like no time has passed. I remember this day so vividly; where we were, what we were doing, and how much fun you were having. It was a PL day so no school for you (oh, how you loved those PD days!). I was taking a CPR certification course at school learning how to use CPR in the event that I would someday need to administer it in an emergency. Not ever in this whole, wide world did I think I would be using it on you two days later. A mom’s worst nightmare? Yup. And that’s just the beginning. 725 days and the nightmare just won’t go away.
This night we were at a friend’s home celebrating a birthday. Many of your friends were there and you were having such a fun time playing outside with all of them. Instead of coming home with us you were invited to go have a campfire in a campground in the Kananaskis with our friends who have camped their annually every long weekend in May. Kale’s mom and dad delivered you home later that evening and I remember how happy and tired you were, smelling of a campfire and energized on marshmallows. When I tucked you into your bed that night your whole room smelled of campfire – from your clothes that were laying on the floor to your hair. You were tired and I had to tell you (more like order you) to brush your teeth and wash your hands and face. Eventually you did but it wasn’t without a little Willy battle. Oh, we had a few of those, your strong “Will” showing its true colors. All such normal “twelve going on thirteen” negotiations that ended way too soon. All in all, it was such a fun evening and a great way to begin the weekend that until 2011 always kicked off the promise of summer fun.
What we didn’t know/couldn’t know was that that Friday would be your last. The pain that comes with that reality is paralyzing. I spent most of today in my pajamas. I remember how much you loved “pajama days” and well today was one of those for me. I did manage to get out of bed for a bit but found myself back in my pajamas and under my covers wondering how it was possible that I was still alive and that I hadn’t died in my sleep from the heart break. Two years and I am still here but still hurting. It doesn’t feel any different, not any less painful and in some ways it is worse because I miss you so much. Watching life go on for so many when my world is still shattered and broken is difficult. But I look for you everywhere. And I see you in the most beautiful things. Yesterday, it was the little blue butterflies that appeared out of no where and fluttered around me while I was looking for a stick to throw in the river for Finn to fetch. I knew it was you, Willy. No one can make my heart flutter like you.
So here I go again… another long weekend in May to live through… minute by minute, breath by breath. I miss you Will. More than anything and everything. And I always “Will”.
It’s not an easy day for me. I woke this morning and tried a couple of times to get out of bed, but I just couldn’t do it. I took the Kleenex box back to bed with me and stayed there all morning. I am trying to find happiness in remembering all the Mothers Day’s I had with you; the breakfasts in bed, the dinners you and your brothers and Dad prepared, the handmade gifts you made at school and the most beautiful handmade cards that I loved more than anything. I have saved them all. I considered them treasures always but now that I will never have another from you they are more precious than anything I own.
As I write you this letter I am sitting on a blanket beside the rock and your tree at Heaven’s Gate; the place where we lost you forever almost two years ago. It is both so very sad to be here but in some ways, comforting too. Memories of that day and the fun you were having here are as crystal clear as if it were yesterday and in the quiet times in between the birds chirping and a squirrel behind me in the forest chattering away I can hear your laugh and your voice. But, in the next breath as the tears trickle down my cheeks I, too, remember how it all came to an end and our world was changed forever.
Before I sat down I opened a bag of wildflower seeds that I brought along with me and sprinkled it all around the rocks and the base of your tree. In a month or two from now I am hopeful that I can sit here amongst the wild flowers; this spot already beautiful but a little closer to heaven I think with a mix of wildflowers shining their faces up towards the sun during the day and bowing their heads at night as if praying for another day to keep you company.
I am in no rush to leave this little place of heaven on earth. I will finish up the cup of tea that I also brought along before I pack up the blanket and my iPad and head back home. Dad and your brothers are going to put together dinner for me this evening. We will talk about and remember the Mother’s Days when you, too, were at the table with us. And we will all miss you so very, very much
I got a new bike today. And I parked it right beside yours. Side by side they stand next to each other like a mom and a son… mine taller than yours, but not by much, just like the height of you and me. I am reminded of how important it was that you and your brothers had your bikes; a boy and his bike went hand and hand, like peanut butter and jam. It always made me so happy that we chose Redwood to call our home; a rare place in a world that is so busy; and a place where boys and bikes could be best friends. I think back to the freedom that came with being able to ride your bike to the park with your friends without a parent. What a right of passage, a momentous adventure it was for each of you. And then to be able to ride to Bragg Creek for ice cream or candy (or both!?)… well, that was the ultimate in freedom at twelve years of age and, in fact, was what you did on that Saturday afternoon of your last weekend with us. You and Matt rode into Bragg Creek returning with a bag full of “sugar” from the candy store; the little white bag still sits on your desk with the candy you were saving to enjoy later. You were funny that way; always spacing out the candy consumption – saving bits and pieces for another time, another day. There were times, Will, (cover your ears!) when I had to throw out some of that candy for fear of it going bad. For a long time the chocolate Easter bunny that you received last Easter sat on the floor beside your desk, package open and one ear missing because you liked to eat it that way, and I had to throw it out. You never noticed… or you never said anything and well, I have a hard time believing that you’d have let me throw it out without making a kafuffle. I can hear it now, “Throw away candy! Why, Mom, would anyone ever do that!? That should be against the law!” Hmmm. I did win that time… because, like I said, I don’t think you knew.
So, now I have a bike too. Wheels to freedom for me? Well certainly not in the same way as it was for you, but it will be nice to ride to Bragg Creek along the path to freedom that you enjoyed and then beyond to the beauty of our bigger backyard west of Bragg Creek. I will always take you with me on my bike, Will, and when I stop for ice cream it will be for you. I’ll order mango; your favorite.
Love you like a bus and all those bike rides to the candy store and for ice cream.
