Aimee, the boys and I just returned from spending a glorious Labour Day weekend at the cottage. We laughed and splashed and played from sunup to sundown. We made wonderful memories and enjoyed each precious moment of the long weekend. Then, this afternoon we packed up and headed home with hoards of other people clogging the highways on the pilgrimage back to the city. Normally we would take tomorrow off to avoid the traffic but, this year, for the first time in our lives, we had to get home on Labour Day because we have a child starting school. Almost three years ago our little girl died in our arms. And with her last breath also came the death of so many of the dreams and hopes we had for her and our lives. But tomorrow, our oldest boy Samson will be the first in our family to head to Junior Kindergarten. And Stella will not be there to show him the ropes. She won’t be there to hold his hand and march him into the school and boss him around. But we are lucky because he will be going to the same school as his older cousin Gracie, and will even have the same teacher that she did when she was in kindergarten. Gracie will step in where Stella is not able to. She has already shown him where the library is and explained to him how lunch and recess works. Even without his big sister to boss him around, he is ready. Sam has a Ninja Turtle backpack with a Stella Star attached to the zipper and a Spiderman lunchbox that he intently filled this evening with yogurt, pita and a cheesestring.
Sam, ready for school:
Big-girl Gracie will look after our boys for Stella:
Heather and Aimee and I threw a little “first day of school” party for the boys. We ordered pizza and Poppa and neighbour Ken came over too. We had an ice cream cake with candles and Xavier, Sam and Hugo sang “Happy School Days” to the tune of Happy Birthday. Xavier is starting JK tomorrow too.
Xavier and Sam are excited to start JK! Hugo is just excited to eat a lollipop (o;
Both boys know that it is a big deal that school starts tomorrow, but they don’t fully understand what it means for Aimee and I. Sam hears us talk about Stella all the time and he knows that’s she is his sister, but he has no way of knowing how her death shook us to the core and yanked the foundation right from under us. He will not understand why beneath our smiles and words of encouragement for him there are tears and heartache as well. This moment means more to us than most people will ever understand. We are standing on the brink of what could have been, what SHOULD have been, and what is now. Sam is older than Stella ever lived to be. He is going to be four in October. Stella will have been dead three years this October and by her birthday in April, she will have been dead longer than she was alive. Hugo is three now as well. We are beginning to live the promises Stella’s death so cruelly took away from us. Soccer lessons and swimming lessons and learning to ride a bike. We have been thrust back into “the real world”. After spending 16 months sheltered with Stella in the nest we created that was full of Timbits and family/friend visits and books and puppet shows and walks and ice cream it’s sometimes hard to re-enter the outside world. I was commenting to Aimee last week about how “normal” everything is now. We go grocery shopping, talk about work, bicker about how many vegetables the kids need to consume before dessert, read bedtime stories, order pizza, get stuck in traffic, have mundane conversations at work, fold laundry in front of the TV and have intense discussions about what brand of dish detergent to buy. On the surface it looks as though we are just like all the other people walking to the park with our kids, but we still carry the scars of Stella’s short life and death. We are forever changed by it all. It is subtle sometimes though, manifesting itself in the way we let the boys splash in puddles and get muddy without trying to stop them. The way Aimee and I leave dishes piled up in the sink so we can sit in bed together and read the paper before we go to sleep. Our refusal to let lack of money stop us from having a cottage, going to Great Wolf Lodge and buying ice cream. Our fierce loyalty to those who stood by us when Stella got sick. My lack of frustration when I order a tea and get a coffee, or wait in line for 10 minutes because there is a cashier in training who can’t figure out the buttons. Things other people might not notice or comment on, but that have become an important part of who we are.
The biggest change for me, of course, is the fact that I am now a Licensed Funeral Director in the Province of Ontario. When I got the news over the phone in July that my official license had been issued, I broke down in sobs. Aimee and I happened to be off that day and we had just finished a delicious lunch on the patio of a local restaurant. It was eerily similar to a lunch we had shared the week before Stella was diagnosed…where we toasted each other and said aloud how life couldn’t get any better than what it was. 4 days later our world fell apart. This time we finished our lunch and talked about how far we’ve come. Then I got the call about my license and Aimee and I stood at the side of the road together and cried. My Funeral Director’s license is so much more than a piece of paper for me. When I look at it I remember two years of sacrifice for myself and my family. I remember setting my alarm clock for 4am so I could study for my exam before the kids woke up. I remember missing Christmas with my kids to work. I remember them crying at the screen door as I left for work, yet again, them begging me to stay home and take them to the park. I remember the fear and frustration of my internship. I remember how I almost quit several times because it was too hard. I remember the doubts I had and the struggles Aimee went through trying to single parent while I worked and studied at all hours. And I also remember the feelings of pride I had when I felt like I really made a difference in someone’s life. Most of all, becoming a licensed funeral director is something that means I am living my life in honour of Stella. Every single time I get up now and go to work, every time I work on a funeral or meet with a family I am doing it for Stella and with her in mind. And when someone asks me how or why I do what I do, I look them in the eye and I tell them about my little girl. I work at a funeral home in Scarborough now. For the first time in my life I wake up each day and I’m happy and excited to go to work. I am fully licensed, fully employed and, most importantly, fulfilled.
I did it! Class 1 Licensed Funeral Director in the Province of Ontario!!!
A co-worker of mine came up to the cottage for a few hours on Sunday. It was a beautiful late summer day. The sun shone down and the kids had an amazing time. Sam and Hugo jumped off the dock and swam around. They played in the sand. They paddled around in their kayak’s. In between jumping into the water with the kids, we sat on the beach and took it all in. As my co-worker was getting ready to leave he and I stood on the deck of the cottage and looked down at the dock where Sam and Hugo sat next to each other, heads close together, talking about a fish they saw. Aimee was busily getting dinner started in the kitchen and he turned to me and said simply, “You have a great life”. Without hesitation, I responded, “You’re right. I do”. I felt no anger or bitterness or guilt when I said it. Even though my little girl isn’t here, I do have a great life. It’s not perfect. I wash darks and whites together, bite my nails, give my kids too much candy, watch The Bachelor on TV, drink Pepsi for breakfast and wear mismatched socks. I’m not a perfect parent, not a perfect Funeral Director, not a perfect daughter or sister or wife or neighbour. But I wake up each morning and find JOY in the day I have been given. Stella taught me that life doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be lived.
Living life with our boys each and everyday!
Our inspiration each and everyday…