Pieces of Me

I believe in the small moments. Our lives are a sum of all its parts. All too often, I think about the sum, the number of years. Recently, I’ve discovered that my life is not made up of how long I live it, but what I experience along the way.

My friend Pam died in December. She was thirty five and cancer robbed her of her life. It didn’t rob her of her memories, but it stole some precious moments. It spread quickly, poisoning her body but never her spirit. I’ll never forget some of our last conversations, visiting with her in the hospital and rehabilitation center. I hated going there. The cold, clinical setting that had become my friend’s home was hard to enter on a beautiful spring day. She smiled often, self conscious of her balding head and bruised arms. She talked about the mundane parts of life in the hospital and funny stories about the other patients and in the next breath she spoke of the uncertainty that lay ahead of her. One day, she talked about her seven year old daughter. That week she learned to ride her bicycle without training wheels. Her face fell when she said “I missed it.” The silence in the room spoke volumes. None of us needed her to say anymore. All of us there visiting were mothers. We all understood the complexity of a statement so poignant and so simple. What she said struck a chord within me so deep that it still resonates today.

I missed it because I’m in here. I can’t walk. I can’t be a mom anymore. I can’t see them grow. I’m going to miss so much more.

The other day, my son rode his bike for the first time. As I watched his clumsy initial attempts transform into confidence, tears welled in my eyes. I stopped jogging alongside of him and watched his bike going away from me, and all I could think of were Pam’s words. I tried to burn his image into my mind to make sure I wouldn’t forget what he looked like. And I cried. I cried for my friend and all that she will never witness. I cried for her daughter and son who didn’t have a Mom waiting at the end of the road. I cried for her husband who will experience these moments alone.

As my son turned the corner and came back to me, a funny thing happened. I wiped my tears away and smiled. I needed to enjoy this moment because she was never able to. She would want me to. She would tell me to cheer him on and wave my arms like a lunatic as he looped around the block. I needed to remember this moment for her, not despite her. Grief can encompass many stages and one is acceptance. I know that life isn’t always fair and that sometimes bad things happen to good people. I don’t always have to like it. I can’t change it. But if I fail to change myself and learn from these experiences, I am rendered helpless by fate itself.

How often do I get caught up in the small things in life? Making lunches, doctor’s appointments, laundry. The list is endless. Some call them chores, but now I realize they’re life. The minutia that seems endless is now okay. I don’t want it to end. I want to be there to give my kids a bath after a day of playing outside in the mud. I want to scrub the grass stains out of their worn out, thread-bare jeans. I want to wander the isles of a grocery store looking for a last minute dinner ingredient. I want to cram a haircut in between soccer games and kissing a scraped knee. I want to scramble for a babysitter so my husband and I can have a “date night.”

I appreciate my chaos. Because it’s mine. It’s what is making up my life. My moments. I don’t want to miss them.