A harsh reality.

Dearest Ian,

Yep. It has been a while since I wrote you, but as you know, hardly a moment has passed when you haven't been on my mind. 

A harsh reality hit me last week and as the harsh weather hits today I find myself sitting by the fire thinking only of you, of our last conversations and still praying that all of this is a nightmare I will wake from come morning. Reality is a gut punch that travels through every fiber of my being and frequently brings me to my knees. In the past nine months you have heard me say to others and to myself (and others have said to me) - "Now, Ian is with you always." The new reality is that you were always with me even before April. You are my baby. You have been with me since mid April of 1992 when you were conceived!! (Another new reality as I count back the weeks...) 

The reality of life is that you saturated ours so completely that everything is a memory of you. Last week as I was driving my cruise control glitched. It does this very infrequently, but instantly I recalled the first time -- as we were leaving College Station the weekend after you started your first year in Fall of 2012. ... The little (very little) bit of snow on the ground tonight reminds me of countless memories. ... One of my favorites was during the freak three day snow storm the winter after we moved here and us walking up to Pok-E-Joes to get some lunch. There were icicles hanging all over the place and you grabbed a really long one and stuck up to your nose like a giant booger. I snapped a picture and then attempted to use said picture for your birthday announcement. A few days later I found a large stack of the pictures, torn from the invitations, in your backpack because you were embarrassed. Not less than two years later I am not sure anything could embarrass you as you entered high school, but at 13, well...enough said.

This past Sunday it has been nine months in our new reality. It hasn't gotten easier, it is just very, very different...wrong in a way that is permanent. That said, I did go 9 or 10 days without crying by keeping really busy with work and school. Instead of crying though I had a deep nagging sadness that had me angry at the world. However, on Monday I reconnected with my tears as you helped welcome Lisa to her new Home. She, like you, was not ready to go, but was Ready. I am jealous. I know that I am not suppose to be, but I am. We weren't meant for this world to begin with and now I feel the tightrope on which we walk. 

Have you been watching the progress on our quilts? Yes, Dad is doing the ironing! (Even for the quilts, I was not excited about the ironing - you know my "no ironing" policy.) He is doing well, if you take out some of the words he uses when the sticky stuff is turned the wrong way. Caylea is designing our last t-shirt to go into it-one with a picture of each of our tattoos. And, last night I asked four of your frisbee friends if they have an old frisbee shirt they could donate hoping to find one and they all jumped on it and I think I have three or four coming. Their response reminded me of the sermon I heard this morning - that when you are gifted by God and anointed by His Spirit that you will be used even if you don't realize it (although it is best to be proactive). Well, you were gifted with the gift of gab, the gift of listening, the gift of being a friend to all. Yet again, your friends have responded to us in the same way. Amy even found a (dirty, gotta wash) Starbuck's apron with your signature on it for me to include as part of the border. We all agree that the t-shirt quilts will be a priceless gift for us each, but they are also another reminder to us of your absence. 

Reality - we all miss you more than we can say, more than we can feel, more than we ever thought possible. Reality - you have always been with us and will always be with us.

I love you,

Mom

It isn't fair.

Ian,

In so many ways you leaving is so damn unfair.

My heart, what is left of it, is hurting. I miss my baby. And it seems lately I have become the person to contact when others are experiencing tragedy. Maybe because I understand and can hurt with them...experience empathy in the way you always did. But it isn't fair, I am already hurting!

But then I was thinking I am fairly sure people told me of tragedies before, I just didn't get it. I would "pray for the family members" and go on about my day, my life. Now my heart weeps for them over and over and breaks all over again for you. It isn't fair to feel this much pain over and over and over again.

And on a daily basis, sometimes hourly, and sometimes with every breath I take feel sucker punched, out of breath and nauseous as I recall that I won't see you this weekend, that you won't be texting about your activities, that I can't call you and tell you about new happenings. It isn't fair. It isn't fair. It isn't fair.

And sometimes I am angry at you or God or you both because the pain feels so unbearable and I know it will be with me my whole life, which already feels like 264 days too long. It isn't fair Ian. It isn't fair God.

So, that's it, that is all I wanted to say--it isn't fair, life that is.

I love you Ian.

Mom