Sunday was my birthday.

I turned 36.

I wasn’t the only one to turn 36 that day.

She did, too.

She’s my identical twin sister.

She’s been around as long as I can remember.

And, obviously, much before that.

We don’t talk.

Ever.

For reasons too private and painful to get into here, we have always had a very difficult relationship.

Very.

Though we did have ‘a language’, we have never been the best friends that society pressured us to be.

It can be tough being an identical twin.

The unintended pressure from society is huge.

You’re thought of as a unit that should dress alike, look alike, think alike, be alike, and be rooted magically in each other’s psyche and soul because you share DNA and parked in the same womb-space for 9 months.

You’re not an individual to most people.

And if you chafe against that expectation or don’t fit it, it can get rough.

It doesn’t help when you get birthday gifts like a Hello Kitty notebook with the declaration that, “it’s for both of you”.

Whee.

But those are things that are small and trivial.

Our issues are neither small, nor trivial.

It’s like a never-ending competition that I’m not even participating in and certainly didn’t sign up for.

We have struggled with our relationship as long as I can remember.

Then my son, Matthew, died.

Between things that happened during that time and our past, it pretty much broke our already-fragile-relationship into so many pieces they really can not ever be put back together again.

Even if it all the stuff over the years could be mended, I’m not sure either of us would even want a relationship at this point.

Still…

36 years.

On Sunday I thought of her.

I thought about us.

I sat staring at my phone.

Wondering.

Vacillating.

Torn.

I didn’t pick it up to dial.

Neither did she.

Dear Matthew,

Every year I make a pact with myself and swear that the anniversary of your death will be easier to deal with. And every year I usually sit here in the still hours of the night realizing that I am such an idiot for thinking this could (or should) get easier.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen your sweet face.

You would be 7 this year.

James was 7-years-old when you died.

He looks so little.

Your casket looks littler.

A casket should not be that small. It’s so very…wrong.

I know that I never talked to you like this when you were here, but it’s nice, every so often, to do. Because I have to believe that you are here somewhere. No matter how bitter, how filled with rage and despair and anger I have been, I have always believed that you still exist.

I refuse to believe otherwise.

Refuse.

You were too wonderful to just end.

So, here I sit.

Alone in the middle of the night with a lake of tears on my keyboard.

Aching to talk to you.

Hold you.

Kiss you.

7 years have passed since that horrible night I held you in my arms in a trauma bay and broke into more pieces than I will ever be able to put back together.

I feel like I have lived several lifetimes since then, held completely still and gone around and around like a broken record all at the same time.

I look at other 7-year-olds and think about what you would be doing, how many teeth you would be missing, how you should be going to school next door and how I should see you from our kitchen window waving at me from the playground at recess. You should, and would be doing all the things other 7-year-olds are doing. (Only you would be much better looking and talented than them all. What can I say? You were utterly adorable, son. I am just speaking the truth, here.)

I try to picture what you would look like and I am usually at a loss because I keep picturing you as my sweet little baby.

I miss you so much it physically hurts, Matthew.

I’ve been ok, really. Most of the time it is doable.

I laugh a LOT.

Ask anyone.

:)

I just…I feel so tired tonight.

Just worn to bits.

The things I think about and remember would make anyone tired.

Sometimes, not often, I look at photos from then.

In some ways it was easier right after I lost you because how I felt is obvious just by looking at me. I see my face in these photos and see a girl who could crumble to pieces with a gust of wind. Raw emotion is all over me. (And usually everyone with me. Especially your dad. He loves you so.)

When we were at the Mortuary with you–

During your funeral–

And the day after your funeral and I went to help your cousins get ready for Homecoming–

We all carried the weight that was your loss in every inch of us.

We still do.

I still do.

I am still this–

Whether I want to or not, I still carry this woman around with me every single day.

I probably always will.

(For the record, I think she could stand to lose a pound or two to give my back a break. And can someone tell her that the cast of Friends called and they want their hairstyle back. Just sayin’.)

I have found small ways to cope, though.

(Like inappropriate humor, for example. ;P)

Little things that don’t seem like they would help comfort anyone and yet they do.

I’m such a tangible person.

‘Things’ matter deeply to me.

I don’t know why this is and often, well, it kind of makes me feel shallow.

Even though I know I’m SO not that way.

Gifts make me feel like I am important to someone. It doesn’t matter overly what it is, it could be as small as a letter or a pack of my favorite gum. It’s what is behind it. Objects make me feel tied to someone. It’s almost like all my memories of them in something I can hold, touch and smell. In high school, when he was at one of his endless rehearsals or football practices, I used to spray my boyfriend’s sweatshirt with his cologne and wear it while slow dancing with a pillow in the dark to a mixed tape of “our songs” before writing poems about my pain.

(For the record, I am aware that I was a total tool in high school, son.)

Things can bring me a lot of comfort.

I went to a conference this week. It was a big change for me. I’ve never been away and around a lot of people near your anniversary. It was actually very helpful. So many people were kind and listened to me mention you a bit. They were all so lovely.  After confessing to everyone how much I loved her handmade ruffled bags, a lovely lady told me to come by her booth and pick out any bag I liked. It was a good thing she did, too because your father would have hit the roof if I purchased one. more. handbag.

(Somehow, Bug, I know if you had been given the opportunity to grow into a man and marry a wonderful girl with a penchant for red hair you would have been TOTALLY understanding about a girl’s need to buy fabulous handbags. Because you are awesome.)

This is the one I picked.

(Photo courtesy of The Fancy Farmgirl)

It made me so happy when I saw it.

I bet you know why, don’t you?

And why I chose this particular bag this particular week?

Yup.

It’s orange.

Or as I like to call it, “Bug Orange”.

It reminds me of you, Matthew.

I could never find an orange outfit to dress you in and it was frustrating, but I would have dressed you in orange every day of your life if I had the ability.

There was so very little I cared about after you died, but I knew that I wanted orange at the funeral. And as I look at the photos from that day, I see it peeking out everywhere-from flowers, to clothing to your little things that we brought with us to hold and love on as we said goodbye to you.

It’s kind of like that book and movie, Pascal and the red balloon when I look through your photo album, only with orange.

Even the bag piper that we had play the pipes in Celtic tradition to guide your soul off to heaven wore his plaid with orange in it (though it looks more red here, it.was.orange.)

I know it seems like such a small thing, but I am so tangible and this color has given me so much comfort over the long years here without you.

I buy orange as often as possible.

When I wear or use something orange it is like having a little bit of my sweet Little Bug with me.

And I always, always, ALWAYS think of you when I see it.

The same goes with ladybugs because well…that was your nickname.

We put lady bugs and orange all over where you are now.

Because they are YOU to me.

And they have brought me a lot of joy.

And so have the people that loved you.

And if they didn’t know you, they love you through me.

Those people loving you has helped save me, Bug.

I love them.

It’s why I sobbed my eyes out today when I opened a package and reading the sweet note enclosed from a dear, sweet, lovely friend. She is lovely and listened to me talk about you and orange and lady bugs this weekend. And then she flew home and made this little bug I can wear with “Always” stamped on the bottom.

And it’s true.

It is for “Always”.

Because you will always be here with me. I may be the most tangible person alive, but I don’t need one single object to remind me of my unending love for you, Matthew. You are my son. My little one. My light and life and love that will never stop being a part of me and a part of the people that love you so very, very much.

I miss you.

I think about you.

I love you.

ALWAYS.

Love,

Mama.

This is probably not the “return of Loralee” post a lot of you were hoping for. The title is indicative about what the focus is. It is not funny. It is not pretty. There are a few disturbing mental images. It’s also very long and not the best thing I’ve written. This is one of those posts where I just write and give the middle finger to the editing process.

You don’t have to read it.  You don’t have to comment although you are more than welcome to. I certainly don’t expect it. People can only say they are sorry so many times, you know? If you do though, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. People and their kindness is why I have gotten through to the point that I have.

I’m writing this for me, because I need to.

September 23rd marked five years since my son, Matthew passed away.

Obviously, today is Thursday, the 25th not Tuesday, the 23rd. I didn’t write a post about it on his anniversary.  There are a lot of reasons why, but what it came down to is that I needed to write a post about it today.

Many people think that September 23, 2003 was the worst day of my life.  They aren’t far from correct, but if you get down to the nitty gritty, the most horrible day of my life was Thursday, September 25th.

That probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, does it? I don’t blame you. I would have made the same assumption. Continue reading →