When Memories Must Suffice . . .

Memory is a funny thing.  What is it about our brain that causes some memories to stick like a dart on cork board, yet others we reach for and they slither through our fingers like we're grasping for a cloud? In the 33 days since our precious Thomas died unexpectedly in his sleep, I've often been perplexed at my inability to recall certain things, which no doubt would have stuck previously.  At the same time, there are particular details of the past month that are so vivid it's almost like I shot video that continues to loop in my mind.  There's no stop button . . . not even a pause.  It just keeps playing.  I'm not sure I even want to stop it.  It demands my attention.  It steals my focus.  I'm constantly distracted.

I don't know much about how memory works, but I know memory is most often tied to the senses and to emotion.  Smells, tastes, sounds and emotions can all elicit memories which would otherwise be vague or even nonexistent.  How many of us can hear a song that reminds us of a Jr. High dance or a smell, which reminds us of a Jr. High locker room!  Just being in certain locations can bring back memories--both good and bad--that happened in that particular place.

Memory is a funny thing, and I'm not sure how much control we have over it, especially when certain ones are eternally linked to emotion.  Who doesn't remember where they were when they watched the World Trade Center towers crumble, the Challenger shuttle explode, or heard the news about Kennedy being shot.  At the same time, I remember vividly the details surrounding my marriage proposal to Amy, each one of my kids being born, and when the Jayhawks won the National Championship (at least the two times they did it in my lifetime).

Fear, embarrassment, humiliation, exhilaration, love, accomplishment, pain, suffering . . . all emotions that cut to our core and seem to etch memories on the tablets of our soul.  These emotions are so powerful they distract us from everything else and our memories can't help but focus on them.  They have made us who we are and will continue to shape us as we forge ahead.

I have lots of memories of the past 33 days.  But what's even more intriguing to me is the clarity with which I can recall the days and moments leading up to the morning of December 12th, 2012.  Perhaps my brain has worked hard to hold on to them.  Maybe God has allowed me to remember more vividly.  More likely, the memories are more clear when you can look back through the lens of losing your own child.  Either way, the images are incredibly vivid.  They are so real.

I remember driving to my kids' basketball practice on Monday evening, December 10th.  I help coach the team and I received a text from one of the parents warning me that their son may lack some focus because they had just revealed to him the news that one of his grandparents had passed away.  I remember telling Amy, "Our kids have never had to deal with someone close to them dying.  It must be tough giving your own kids news like that."  No kidding.  I really said it.

On Tuesday, December 11th I worked most of the day before going to my chiropractor, followed by a deep tissue massage.  After the massage I was getting in my car to go home when Amy called and asked if I would stop by the store to get some dog food.  When I got home we ate dinner.  Following dinner we built and decorated a ginger bread house as a family.  We then got the kids ready for bed, read a story, prayed together, and then put them to bed.  I decided to go to the gym for the first time in several months.  I ran on the treadmill for 32 minutes.  When I got home I took a shower and then made a pitcher of sweet tea.  I finished just in time for Thomas to wake up crying.  He and I cuddled in the recliner until he asked for a snack.  Amy brought him some Whales (WalMart's cheap version of Goldfish) and Thomas took turns feeding himself and feeding me--and laughing the entire time! Finally he fell asleep on me and I put him back to bed.

At some point earlier that evening I looked at my phone and realized that the next day was December 12th, 2012.  I told my kids, "Tomorrow is 12/12/12.  I wonder if something memorable will happen to help us remember 12/12/12?"  No kidding.  I really said it.

Nothing that happened those few days leading up to December 12th would be remembered if not for the events on December 12th.  When you look at it through the lens of December 12th, everything has new meaning.  I'll never forget the last time I held him as he put whales in my mouth.  I'll never forget building that ginger bread house while he ate the candy.  Every time I've run on the treadmill since that night, every time I make sweet tea, every time I go to the chiropractor, and each time I sit down in the recliner (where I sit now as I write this), I think about our last day with him.

It was about this time of night (9:57pm Central time) that I sat with him for the last time.  It was the last time he laid his head on my chest while cuddling his "baby."  It was the last time I heard him laugh.  It was the last time I heard him say "'nack," the last time I heard him say, "Night, night," and the final time I heard him cry for "Da Da."  Man, it hurts . . . bad.  

But it's not the last time I'll remember those things.  As much as it hurts to long for one more hug, one more cuddle, one more Whale, one more "night, night," and one more "Da Da," I thank God that we have the memories and that we don't have to reach too far for them.  He was a special little guy.  He was so special and so unique that the images of him are always within reach.  They are forever etched on my soul. Although the painful memories loop in my head, there's also a second monitor where the good memories loop.

When memories are all you have, all you can do is hold on to them for dear life.  Please excuse me if I seem a bit distracted.