The Kids Are Alright

Today would be your 44th birthday Jules. Another year without you. I wonder, what would 44-year old you look like? My mind struggles to picture you a decade older than the last time I saw you.

Aunt Julie with her nieces and nephews

Your birthday always makes me reflect on the passage of time and the changes in our family since you left us. I keep thinking about the kids, your nieces and nephews. The loves of your life you said in your last message to us. The one I never read, but others told me what you wrote. The kids are alright Jules. You would love the people they've become. 

Aunt Julie, Gillian, Regan, Mason

They miss you. We all do. 
I think of you whenever one of them has a birthday or a big life milestone. I remember what a special aunt you were to each of them. You loved them so deeply. You were so much more than an aunt. You were a confidante and friend to them, loving each of them as the unique individuals they are. 

I've tried to fill the hole you left in their lives by being a better aunt to each of them. It's a big hole and I'm not you. I'll never be able to take your place. I'm trying to give them enough love for both of us.

Aunt Keicha and Leon

We have a new nephew that you've never met, little Leon. He's the sweetest little person. You would have adored him. It makes me sad that he'll never know his Aunt Julie except through pictures and stories. He's close to the age his big brother was when we spent a week together with him in Boston. I loved that trip and that time with you! 

Julie, Atticus, Keicha at Cheers in Boston

Julie, when you left I worried so much about the kids. How would your death affect the trajectory of their lives? They were all so young and impressionable, just a few years away from their turbulent, often confusing teenage years. 

Nieces and nephews in Colorado the week of Aunt Julie's funeral - 2010

They're grown up now. They're resilient, smart, talented and making their way in the world. They're survivors. We all are. 

You're in all of our hearts Julie, forever. Today you'll be on all of our minds as we celebrate and remember your life. 

Happy birthday sis. I miss you.

Gillian and Aunt Julie

Julie and Gillian at the zoo.

Aunt Julie with nieces at Grandma French's 90th birthday

Bridger, Atticus, Mason, Hannah, Gillian - 2016

Parker, Regan, Gillian and Bridger

Hannah and Mason with Aunt Keicha

10 Years

So much changes in a decade. Ten years ago today I woke up in my mom's house in Pueblo, Colorado. My daughter and I were spending Easter weekend there. 

It was a perfect, warm, sunny April day on that morning ten years ago and we were having a party! Before the party prep started, we enjoyed a lazy morning together around the kitchen table. Oh how I loved mornings at mom's table with my sisters.This photo shows Aunt Julie with her nieces and nephews. They were never far from her side. Her evil eye was probably directed at me for taking her photo when she wasn't ready for the day.

While the party prep happened, Aunt Julie gave some driving lessons to Mason. I don't remember why anyone thought it was a good idea to let an 11-year old behind the wheel! I think he was backing the car out of the driveway for Julie. Of course we all assumed this would be the first of many driving lessons she would give him. We didn't know it would be the first and the last.

There was lots to do to get ready. Soon there would be 12 grandkids swarming the house hungry for food, Easter treats and fun. Grandpa Jim had made sure there would be plenty of eggs full of candy for everyone. We hid 116 eggs in the backyard for our Easter egg hunt! 

The kids went off for a walk with Grandpa and Julie while the rest of the adults hid eggs. This will forever be one of my favorite photos from that day.

 

Happily, we were able to get all of the kids and the two dogs together for a photo before they headed off for their walk. 

 The kids made quick work of finding all the eggs we'd hidden for them.

Here they are showing off their bounty. This photo is a reminder of how quickly time flies. It's shocking to realize the young adults I know now are the same children in this photo. Today, several of them are either in college or already college graduates, and more than a few are married.

Grandpa Jim made sure everyone had enough sugar that day! After we all ate grilled hamburgers and hot dogs he passed out dessert.

  Then it was off to the trampoline to burn off some of the sugar energy. 

These three cousins, Hannah, Mason, and Gillian, took a break from the action to sample their Easter egg hunt bounty.

We also had a red velvet cake that day to celebrate our April birthday babies. Here are the birthday honorees together so the family could sing Happy Birthday to them.

The rest of the afternoon was spent enjoying the sunshine. Julie didn't like to have her picture taken, but she did let me snap a few photos of her that day. She's wearing my orange shirt. For some reason, whenever we were together she like to borrow my clothes. 

She was quiet that weekend. Present, but not. She seemed distracted and far away at times. I wish I'd asked her more questions about where her head was. I wish I'd known what signs to look for.

 

Phoenix, her faithful Yellow Lab, was never far from her side. 

 

  

Mom took these photos of Julie and I, and the three of us sisters. I remember my happiness that day.The sun was shining. Spring had arrived after the long, dark cold days of winter. We were laughing and enjoying each other. Life was good.   

 

Julie playfully took my hat from me and put it on. Mom captured the moment right after. 

That night Hannah, Mason and Gillian colored eggs while the rest of us relaxed.

 

The next day was Easter. It was a leisurely morning. I was training for the Ogden Half Marathon later that spring and needed to get my Sunday long, easy run in. Julie joined me for my 6-miler. We ran through the streets of Pueblo, a place she'd moved to in high school, the new girl at a new school. She shared stories of her life from that time that I'd never heard before. I learned things about that period of her life I'd never known. The miles went quickly with her by my side. The memory of us stretching out together on the front lawn afterward is still so vivid for me. I miss her so much. I'd give anything to have her join me for a long Sunday run again. 

We all shared an early Easter dinner together before Amy, Julie, and the kids and I drove back to Erie, Colorado together. I loved my mom's cheery yellow kitchen in her house in Pueblo. It always felt like home to me, despite having never lived there. I never would have imagined it would be the last time we'd all share a meal together there.

Just six weeks later Julie was gone forever.  

Ten years. A decade without my sister. I don't know how many days add up to a decade. I do know I've missed Julie every day for the last 10 years. 

I'm still amazed sometimes that I've survived. Losing her shattered me. It took away my hope. Since then I've had to rebuild myself one tiny step at a time. Luckily, there were so many people who lifted me up and helped me find the way. They helped me see there is light at the end of the darkest days. They showed me there is always hope.

Easter will be full of memories and emotions for me this year, as it has been each Easter the last ten years. As the years go by, my memories of our last Easter together are beginning to fade. I'm thankful I can look back on photos of that day to help me remember. 

I miss you Jules. Thanks for the memories.

 

A New Normal

Hope*writers journey – Day 1 

Writing prompt: New

I’m trying to adjust to a new normal in my life.

Just over a month ago my daughter became unwell and was hospitalized. She was diagnosed with a serious, chronic mental illness. Suddenly, we were thrust into a new, unknown world. I was despondent after hearing her diagnosis and nearly paralyzed with fear and worry about her and her future.

How does a mother accept hearing such news about their child? How do I learn to live with this new normal?

More importantly, how can I best support her as she learns to accept and live with this new diagnosis? My instinct is to protect and to take charge. I’m the mom and I’ll make this better for her. But I can’t. This isn’t something I can control and take charge of. I don’t like feeling so powerless. I feel cheated, sad, angry, and guilty. So much guilt. It’s a disease with a genetic basis, after all.

I’m in mourning. For her. For me. For the life I hoped and imagined she might have. She’s on a new, more complicated path in life now, and not one she chose. As scared as I am, she must be even more so. My feelings of loss and fear are nothing compared to what hers must be. My overwhelming emotions are nothing compared to what she is going through. She is trying to learn how to live with a brain that isn’t always going to function in ways that will make life easy for her.

I do know this is her journey and her path to walk, not mine. My job is to be there to hold her hand when she needs support and guidance along the way. Supporting her will require a level of wisdom and patience I don’t yet have. Those are new skills I will need to acquire. I’ll also have to work on building my own strength and emotional resiliency.

We both have our work cut out for us. There will be some bumps and detours along the way, I’m sure. There already have been. There are many new things to learn and absorb. I know things will get better. It is a very treatable illness that can be managed quite successfully with medication and therapy. My daughter is strong, smart, creative and capable. I have confidence she will learn how to take this new, unasked for gift (the word she prefers to use rather than disease) and manage it in a way that allows her to continue on her path to a bright, fulfilling future.

New, unexpected things in life aren’t always asked for or well received. Surprises aren’t always pleasant. Time, experience and perspective can bring acceptance. Eventually, what was once new and unwelcome can become something familiar and appreciated, as well as a source of strength and happiness.