Garrett

It happened today.  Today was the day I had to tell my children that one of their peers, a boy they knew from acting class, liked, and considered a “buddy”, died tragically in a car accident. And despite the fact that our family is more versed in the ideas of death and dying than the average, I was not prepared for this.  We were not prepared for this.

I don’t believe you can prepare for this.

Reading his pocket bible before class. Photo by Anesa Beilfuss

Garrett turned 11 years old today.  Yes, it was his birthday.  And while, no matter what, an 11 year old dying is simply awful - the idea that he died on his birthday makes it so much more painful.  So much more gut wrenching.  Because I can’t get away from the thought that, instead of planning a birthday party with balloons and cake, Garrett’s mother is planning a funeral. 

When I was talking to Quinn, this seemed to make things so much worse.  So we talked about how great birthday mornings usually are: you get to pick what you want for breakfast, and you maybe get to bring treats to school, and maybe everyone has to be nice to you, and you have presents and games and fun to look forward to. So we decided that Garrett went to school today with a smile and happy thoughts. And we are going to hold that in our hearts and not think about his last moments. We hope his last thoughts were good ones. We pray that they were. We cannot allow ourselves to fathom any alternative.

My kids knew Garrett from acting class.  He was a bright, sensitive, adorable kid that Quinn took to right away.  Quinn doesn’t take to a lot of people, but perhaps it was their shared love of all things zombie that bonded them.  Garrett, I’m told, wrote a hilarious skit about how zombies shouldn’t be feared - they are simply misunderstood. It ended with Garrett commenting that he was hungry, and then exclaiming, “Oh look! A fat guy!” and running off-stage.  I’m not exactly sure that I got the whole story, because my almost 13-year-old who refuses to cry about anything, was sobbing so hard it was difficult to understand him. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to make it better.

When Quinn was five, his beloved great-uncle passed away suddenly late on Christmas day. We had spent the day with Great Uncle Ken and the rest of the family, and I thought it would be a difficult concept for Quinn to process - that one moment Uncle Ken was there, and the next he wasn’t (Claire, at three, was oblivious).  

When I sat down to explain to Quinn, a cherubic five year old, how his adored Uncle Ken had passed on, the first death in the family for Quinn... he began to smile.  I was concerned that my abnormally bright son was just not quite grasping the idea of death and dying, worried that he was confused, having just seen “the Greats” the night before, so the words tumbled out faster. Quinn smiled brighter. And brighter. Eventually, I ran out of words, and breathlessly asked him if he understood what I was saying.

Quinn, with the most beautiful smile on his dimpled face said, “Yeah! Now I have an angel in Heaven who knows me!”

I reminded Quinn of that story tonight. And he remembered. And he looked up, and said, “Hey Garrett. I’m not going to kill zombies in Minecraft anymore. Because maybe you’re right, and they’re all just misunderstood.”

Rest in peace, sweet boy. You will be missed.

Faith

From that moment, nearly a year ago, as I sat in a sterile doctor’s office waiting to hear news I somehow instinctively knew was going to be bad, to the moment in another doctor’s office today, this journey has never been easy.  

We have received multiple diagnoses (lesions on the brain, intracranial vascular disease, Moyamoya) to multiple prognoses (great, good, not so good), and it’s definitely been up and down.  

Today was just another day in our new version of normal.

First, let me say, Claire is doing well.  Surprisingly well. Remarkably well.  Curiously well.  You see, Claire’s surgery is not working yet.  So the new neurosurgeon that we met with today... well... he’s a bit perplexed at how great Claire is doing.

Wanna know something? It never feels good when you read your surgeon’s body language as “perplexed”.  Just an FYI.

Now surgeons - they are a rare breed.  They never, never like to admit their work is anything less than successful.  NEVER.  So even if the surgery is only making stuff work, say, 5% better than it was before surgery... they still consider that a success.  So, Claire’s surgery is still considered “successful” - but when you pin them down, they will admit, it’s not very successful. At least, not yet.  But all indications are the indirect bypass Claire had in December will work... someday.  So we are going to focus on that.  It will work... someday.

The fact that Claire continues to have TIAs (also known as mini strokes) isn’t unusual, but it’s not the best news in the world.  The fact she is doing so incredibly well despite them is pretty great news.  And we are going to focus on that.  She is doing well, in spite of.

Today was spent discussing “options”.  There are a few of them, but I can’t say as I like any of them. Neither did the surgeon.  So, we are going to wait and see what her next MRI study shows in December (which we hope shows progress), or until she starts having more TIAs (which we hope she won’t), or until they are more severe (which we hope never happens).

It was scary for a few minutes there, as the doctor looked concerned, as he laid out our options, and as he answered our questions.  Then, right in the thick of it -  when I was trying to swallow past the growing lump in my throat - Claire reached over, grabbed my hand, squeezed it and gave me a smile. And I realized...

She’s good.

So I am okay.  We are okay.  Because, while I don’t have faith in much anymore, I have faith in my Warrior Princess.

She’s got this.