“Like a heartbeat…Drives you mad. In the stillness of remembering what you had. And what you lost. And what you had. And what you lost…”
~ Dreams by Stevie Nicks
Andrew was with me all night long in my dreams. I can’t remember specifics but I’m all confused again this morning. Woke up scared with the same knot in my throat and tears ready to roll. Why did you have to go? I just can’t understand it and I know I never will. How can there be a “God who loves you so much” yet takes not only your mother when you are 3 and you grow up scared and grieving but then later after you have learned to live with that grief and let your guard down a little bit and love again…and I mean actually love again…this “loving God” takes away your first born child too? I’m 52 years old. I do not believe in a “God who loves you so much…”
Here’s the kicker for me. “Oh you’ll get to see your baby in dreams. But you won’t be able to remember them. You’ll just feel like they were with you all night and there are snippets of the dream you’ll remember but you will just wake up and realize that he’s gone. It was just a dream and you can’t even remember the details”. That’s how much God loves you. No. That makes no sense. I want him back and I don’t want it to be in a dream that I can’t remember.
But that’s never going to happen so I take my dream, my memories and my shattered heart and I carry that life with me here on this floating rock in the middle (or end or beginning) of the universe and I smile through my tears after the screaming stops. I smile because for 22 years he was with me. I carried him. I nursed him. I read to him. We sang together. We talked. We held hands. We hugged. We cried. We learned. We welcomed his brother together. We fought. We disappointed each other. We forgave. We loved. We love. We will always have that because we lived. And all of that, plus so much more, is real.
Andrew came to visit me in my dreams last night and I can’t remember what happened but I don’t need to remember the dream to know that I love that kid and his presence in my life for 22 years is a gift beyond price. I thank the Universe for letting me be a part of that magnificent soul’s life here on earth.
Oh, Andrew. You’re my first baby. (Oh mama. You’re my second mama) He really did say that every time. I wonder.
My dad is the best dad in the universe. No, really. He is. More on him in future talks. Right now I’m still in shock from what I walked into yesterday at his apartment. As I am the youngest of 5 and the only girl I am obviously his favorite daughter and it shows. However, when my firstborn, Andrew, came along you would have thought my dad had completely forgotten about his 4 defenders and 1 shining goalie. We kind of became flat Stanleys for him because when Andrew arrived it’s as though the color came back into his life in an instant. Andrew was the sparkle in my dad’s eyes that had been lost when my mother died in 1971. With Andrew around and 2 years later when my youngest, Alec, was born my dad lived again. He would do anything for those boys. Anything. But Andrew really was the brilliant piercing sparkle. And that sparkle lasted for 22 years, 6 months and 19 days. Don’t get me wrong. He loves his other 7 grandkids and even Alec is so very special but the truth is there was something about Andrew and it is undeniable. Andrew touched him like no one has ever touched him including his favorite daughter. When Andrew died the little bit that was left of my dad’s shattered heart turned into dust. He went downhill quick and exactly one year to the day of Andrew dying my dad had a hemorrhagic stroke and almost didn’t make it. I spent a week sleeping in a chair at the hospital with him. Four weeks later he was back home but this time he went to “The Gardens”. Memory care.
Papi has been in The Gardens since June of 2019 making small progress and I have been visiting him daily, helping with everything. Everything. Hardest thing to live through other than the death of a child is becoming a “parent” to your own parent and watching them fade. To have to endure both things simultaneously is honestly enough to send anyone to the bin. I don’t know how I keep going. But here I am.
Yesterday when I walked into his room I was actually shocked because Bloomberg wasn’t on the TV. He watches Bloomberg 24/7. He was a numbers guy and although he can’t do his math any longer, he knows green is good and red is bad and he watches it all day long. So when I heard music coming from his TV I had to see if it was a commercial or something. It wasn’t. It was Jewel in concert on AXS. My dad doesn’t watch AXS nor does he listen to music and much less to Jewel. He wouldn’t know that I loved Jewel and the song Hands was a favorite of mine and that I played it in the car with both my boys for years when they were little.
“If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we’re all ok
And not to worry because worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I will not be made useless
I won’t be idled with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear”
I don’t believe it was an accident that I walked into this yesterday. This song, back in the day, used to make me cry and I would think “heartache came to visit me but I knew it wasn’t ever after” and felt so much sorrow that the tears would just flow. I would think about the sadness of losing and not ever really knowing my own mother yet also knowing that the immeasurable love I felt for my beautiful grandmother and my 2 precious children was a true blessing and the tears would flow. How true that heartache can visit but it doesn’t have to stay there all alone forever. We can allow love and happiness to come in again and I did. Not knowing that the universe had this other future sorrow in store for me just a mere 16 years (or so) later that would bring me to brink of wanting to die myself. Not knowing that I’d be tested again on my belief in hope and internal balance. I knew even back then that every little thing we have, feel, touch and smell is a fleeting thing but back in those days I would cry because I knew at that moment that I was blessed to be able to love again. I was a mother and my children allowed me to truly love again. Not knowing how devastating a loss I would meet again. I have been talking a lot recently about my frustration with having to take care of my dad and not be able to just run away to the beach for a couple of days for some grieving time. I know this may sound selfish and it may offend some but I feel completely robbed. Robbed of my beautiful child. Robbed of my happiness again. Robbed of my time and lastly robbed of my memory of my dad who was the strongest man I ever knew. I feel robbed of my time to grieve. I feel horrible. All. The. Time.
And then Jewel is singing her songs on AXS in my dad’s room yesterday and he’s just sitting there with his eyes on the TV and I know exactly what is happening here and why. I smile to myself and proceed to talk.
“Hey Andrew. I feel you. I know you want me to pay attention to the song again Andrew-baby. I know you see how I am slipping these days and turning towards the numbing agent of vodka again and you, of all the souls out there, know where this leads. I see you, Andrew.” (Mama! Live your life that the fear of death can not enter your heart.)
“We will fight, not out of spite for someone must stand up for what’s right Cause where there’s a man who has no voice there ours shall go singing”
Those lyrics never touched me until yesterday. It’s as though Andrew were in the room talking. That was him. Andrew’s soul was the “Stand up for what’s right and sing for the ones who have no voice” kind. He was there to remind me what I already knew and was beginning to lose focus of:
“My hands are small, I know, But they’re not yours they are my own But they’re not yours they are my own And I am never broken In the end only kindness matters In the end only kindness matters”
How could I not do the most for the dad who did the most for me and my children? How. I am not cut from that type of cloth. I will live my life that the fear of death will not enter my hear because in the end only kindness matters.
“Thanks, Andrew-baby. You’re my first baby!!” (Oh mama. You’re my second mama)
No. “No more pets” I had said after our big Yellow Lab and best friend, partner in crime, the drooler, Cooper passed in 2011. The boys and I agreed. Cooper had been with us since Alec was 1 and Andrew was 3. He grew up with the boys and was, in essence, their sibling. He went through the divorce with us and somehow knew to stick by the boy’s side just at the most needed times. He made messes and made us angry and made us laugh and we loved him deeply. He was our Coops the doops. We were all heartbroken when his time arrived and knew that was it. No more pets.
This morning I’ve been up listening to a cat which has learned to come in to our house in the middle of the night to eat and then it leaves. I’ve seen it hanging around outside on a few occasions and it is getting more comfortable being close by. Our other cats don’t seem to mind it too much either. This morning it has been crying outside and I just wish I could hold it and make it feel better.
Like it’s one of my kids.
While I try to figure out what to do I, of course, think of Andrew and how all of this personal crazy cat lady business began. I blame it all on his stubbornness and downright disregard for my wishes. “Jesus, Andrew. Now I’m up at 4 AM worrying and taking care of a cat which I can’t even pet and I’m not even sure if it will ever let me!” (oh, mama. YOLO *insert goofy laugh here*)
Kids. They know which buttons to push. Andrew met Katie in high school through a serendipitous event and those two ended up dating for years after. Those two were always at our house when they weren’t either at school or work doing all their we’re so happy together things and life was just rolling along with it’s usual twists and turns. And then that fateful day in the early summer of 2014 arrived.
I pulled up to the house with Rick and I see Andrew and Katie come outside to greet me. I was smiling and waving hello and they were smiling and saying hello when I noticed Andrew was carrying something. Small. Very small. I stopped in my tracks and knew.
There, in his arms, was a tiny little kitten.
“Take it back, Andrew” I said with a stern face. All the smiles ran away. Then I actually saw the little kitten. Looked at it. My eyes saw and my brain processed. And my heart. And I knew. The kids saw my eyes at that moment and they knew too. All the smiles came running back. And Gizmo became family that day.
Gizmo was the kind of cat who hung out at all the neighbor’s houses. He was adventurous, friendly, smart and very loving. He came home every day. We would call him and he would come home to our calls. Until he didn’t. October of 2015 he went out to play and never came home. We looked everywhere. We had to go pick him up at different places in the past. People would call us from his tag and we would go get him. He was never too far away. He is chipped and once we got a call from the pound because someone found him after he lost his collar and tag and turned him in. He was known all over town. The local police officer who lived in our neighborhood loved him. She took pictures of him inside her cruiser and would send them to me. He was a rock star. We have our suspicions of where he might be but we can’t be sure. I still look for him. You never know.
Gizmo was the first of three cats we ended up with and right now there’s a 4th cat who is quickly becoming “ours” albeit from a distance but still. Here I am at 4 AM figuring out how to get some food into it’s belly. All thanks to Andrew. My lover of nature and animals and sea life. Funny to think I actually said “Take him back”. No. It doesn’t work that way, does it? Not at all. Andrew knew I would never let Giz “go back”.
I don’t even know how I missed it or if it was really there that long but yesterday I had another freak out.
Many years ago when we lived in Maryland and I sold real estate there my team switched over to gmail so we could use Chrome and make our realtor lives “easier”. Ha ha. Anyhow, I picked my gmail address and life went on. I still have that account since it’s so interwoven into everything I touch and I’m afraid if I nuke it the last thread of my past will be gone forever and I won’t know what life is any longer. So there it is.
Yesterday, as I do kind of regularly, I logged in to that account so I could “clean things up” a bit. Went and deleted more old files in that drive that will not be needed, backed up certain things and checked to see if anything other than my subscriptions to old things were in that email. Nothing out of the ordinary. Everything looked pretty much as I left it. Except my hangouts had a little green notification on the icon. “Funny. I haven’t seen that before.”, I said in my mind in my own surprised voice. I clicked the icon. A “new hangout invite” from my Andrew-baby from August 17, 2016 at 3:23 PM. “Let’s chat on Hangouts!” Ignore or Accept.
How? August of 2016 was literally years ago. Years. How did I miss this? Was it always there? Freak out mode begins and the following is a run on display of what it sounded like:
“Oh my god, Andrew! When did you send me this and why didn’t I ever see it? It wasn’t there. I know it wasn’t there. I’ve been to this exact page a million times since August 2016. I was just here a month ago. Why would I not see the little icon notification? I have to accept. I’m accepting. You’ve asked me to hang out and I’m going to hang out. Of course I am. Oh god. Please. Why?”
This talking went on for at least a minute that felt like a year and my heart shattered some more from the crystal clear realization that he’s gone but was right there on August 17, 2016 at 3:23 PM and I can’t handle this shit anymore.
The tears won’t stop. The uncontrollable screaming won’t stop.
I accept the invitation and proceed to write him a message because that is what we do as parents. I accept the invitation and proceed to write him a message because that is what some of us parents do when one of our kids die and we’re still their parent and we still behave like a parent because we will always be their parent. I accept his invitation to hang out and I write him a message. Because he might read it. Because he needs to know how much I love him. Because I still feel like I failed him even though I know I didn’t. And I write the message because I know that by doing so and letting the tears and screams flow it will help to heal me somehow.
Oh Andrew. How did all of this happen (Oh mama. Live it up because YOLO. Live your life that the fear of death cannot enter your heart, mama.)
I have no idea why I often wake up thinking about the time we took Andrew and Alec to the Keys for the first time. Andrew was 4 and Alec was 2. We drove. From Maryland. This was about 7 years before the divorce but things were already going sour. The place we stayed in was a small little efficiency in a community with a fishing dock. Their dad only wanted to fish. At night. *my eyebrows are raised again*
I, of course, was taking care of the boys while their dad was fishing. I always took care of the boys while their dad was fishing or hunting or working or drunk and passed out. I was a single parent who happened to be married. Whatever. I figured it out.
The boys finally fell asleep and I’m just sitting there thinking about stuff when the largest “palmetto bug” *nice way to say cockroach* walked up the wall behind our bed. I’ll never forget thinking “what the actual fuck do I do now? and why do I have to do this shit alone yet again when I technically have a husband”. That was a regular thought in my life. Of course, I took care of it and fell asleep in the bed my boys were sharing.
Andrew and Alec loved that trip to the Keys. They had a blast and it was the beginning of our yearly Florida trips which eventually became “our future home”.
I am not sure what the palmetto bug has to do with anything. I just always remember that night and I remember my frustration was second to my excitement at how my boys soaked up their Florida surroundings. The anoles, the coral, shells, water, fish…
Andrew grew up and went off to college to study Biology and I truly believe it all stemmed from that first trip to the Keys. I miss his sense of wonder.
“When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”
I normally wake up in shock and scared and it’s usually 4 or 5 AM when it happens. This blog is going to be a diary of sorts. I’m going to try and write down these conversations I have with myself every day since my Andrew died. It’s my grief voice doing it’s grief talks. We’ll see where this goes…
That poem was Andrew’s favorite poem and he truly lived in such a way that the fear of death never entered his heart. He lived that way since day one. The poem found him much later and he really felt a homecoming when he soaked it all in.
My first baby. (My second Mama)*
*Things I write in parentheses are things Andrew would actually say to me and I still hear him saying them.
I’ve lived a life with grief but nothing could have prepared me for the journey I’ve embarked on since the death of my first-born son on May 25, 2018. Andrew James Lefevre lived 22 magnificent years on this earth. He lives on forever in the space that we feel around us.
Quick background: I am a mom of 2 boys. Andrew and Alec. My babies. My guys. I’m also the youngest of 5 and the only girl which makes me my dad’s favorite daughter. My mother died in a car accident in Colombia, where we are from, in July of 1971. She was 38 years old. I was 3 and a half. That’s when my life with grief began. That’s when I started talking with me, myself and I. Silently yet: Loudly. Daily. Sanely. Insanely and always emotionally. My paternal grandmother moved in with us right after our mother died and stayed with us for the rest of her life. She even moved with us to the States in 1975 even though she had to leave everything she ever knew behind in Colombia. She became our rock. She saved my life with her blanket of love and compassion. She lived 98 magnificent years on this floating rock and died peacefully in my arms on December 12, 2007.
Why am I doing this now? Because my son was an unbelievable force on this earth and he made a fatal mistake one day because 22 year olds are still prone to acting impulsively. Andrew died from an accidental overdose of Fentanyl/Xanax/Alcohol combo and since his death I’ve met countless moms and dads and siblings and families who have lost their kids to the same thing and I’ve seen so many people fall apart completely and lose hope. When I lost Hope at the age of 3 and a half years my grandmother stepped in and let me cry and talk while she made me rice pudding or soft boiled eggs or pancakes or scrambled eggs. She wrapped me in her blanket of compassion and love and those things she did allowed hope to sneak back in. She brought a smile back to my face and softened my falls along the way. She was a giver. She raised me with a giving heart and I hope I can give to others a little bit of what she gave to me. I hope my gibberish will soften someone else’s fall.
Some say, “Hope anchors the soul” and I believe that. Hope is beautiful. My mother’s name is Esperanza. Esperanza is Hope in Spanish. The truth is: Hope never died. Hope lives eternally in the space we feel around us. Hope is always with us.