It's been a while I think. Since I've written.
And writing used to be helpful to clear my mind and soul.
But somewhere in all of this I lost my words and my
ability to write for a while.
We, the remaining Nielsons, have passed through a painful
and lovely summer all wrapped up in the same fabric of life.
We traveled back to Oceanside with Kyle's family for
a healing and hard trip to the beach.
The waves were peaceful, as usual--but the hole of Kyle's
absence ached inside each of us as it rolled in and out
with each wave. Our souls longed for his presence
and we sat reflectively on the beach aching for a glimpse
of our Superman somewhere on the horizon.
I took my oldest daughter to Portland, Oregon and Cannon
Beach and fell in love with the Pacific Northwest.
That trip was also peaceful and yet the deep ache remained
inside my soul...ever present in the background tapping
at my subconscious mind.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
School started and the familiar routine of life had a way
of helping to pass the long days and weeks, until they
became months again and here we are on the thresh hold
of December...
...we've almost circled through the entire first year
without Kyle.
A friend asked me recently, "Do you ever look in the
mirror and say to yourself, 'How am I still here?' ".
To which I replied, "Every single day, my friend.
Every single day."
It is an amazing testament to me of the resilience of
the human soul.
We CAN go on.
We can CHOSE to go on.
As hellish and hard as some days are, I have made
that choice. To go on.
For Kyle, at first.
For my kids, always.
And slowly I am doing it for myself.
The holidays are unbelievably hard.
I cried my way through my first Thanksgiving
without Kyle. My heart felt heavy and the sadness
just kept rolling over me in waves.
Wave after wave.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
I know that as we go through what were the last
few weeks of his life last year, my mind will reflect
on so many memories.
Holy, sacred memories of love and living and dying.
Friendship and family and sacrifice.
And also painful, excruciating memories of aching and
sadness and sickness and decline, and well, dying.
I am only going to do what I can this year.
That won't be very much.
I long to hide away inside my house and sadness
and cry and cry. It hurts to be around "happy" and
"holidays" and "family".
If you don't understand, I am glad.
In honor of Kyle I wanted to DO something, he would've
chosen action. So I started a "blanket" drive.
You see the Huntsman Cancer Institute where he lived
the last two years of his life was in need.
They take donated blankets and give them out to
cancer patients who need them during chemotherapy.
I hoped for 50.
So far we have now exceeded 100, perhaps we will
reach 200 blankets.
Thank you so much to all who have helped with
the blankets for Huntsman.
It would make Kyle happy to see how this blossomed.
It makes me happy during the holidays to see
good cheer being spread.
I already don't have enough room in my car to
take them all up, and for that I have never been happier.
And so, we slowly gather the pieces of our hearts,
and our life, together.
Some days have been marvelous blessings.
We have smiled and laughed and found new joy.
Some days have been hard, harder than I could
have ever imagined...and boy oh boy did I imagine.
I guess for BOTH kinds of days I would say I am
grateful. They are teachers to my soul, these days.
I am a new and changed person, never to be
who I was before this all happened.
My heart has expanded, it is bigger.
For that I am glad. I will always cherish
and remember the lesson of love Kyle taught me
in his living and dying.
I am grateful for my children who have been
amazing beyond words in so many ways.
I am so glad for family and friends who have
stuck by my side during the darkest days -- without
them (you) I would not have survived the depth of this pain.
And so here we are, standing on the brink
of coming full circle.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
And that's what I've got for today.
