the Lanfords

Dear Chad,

There was definitely something missing yesterday, as the girls were opening their gifts and we shared fun with family and friends.
It was strange this year, no doubt.

All last week, I kept thinking about this time last year.
You had surgery on December 16, 2009 to reroute one of your shunts.
You had such a hard time with the pain and once you got home, your energy was just zapped.
Somehow, I knew it my heart it would be your last Christmas with us. And you thought so, too.
I hate that I was right; that we were right.
It just seems so long ago, yet not.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I missed waking up to your famous pancakes.
Technically, this is our second year with them, as you didn’t feel up to your chef duties last year.
I even missed cleaning up after you – pancake mix dust all over the counter and sticky syrup faces on two sweet little girls.

Last year, you were awake and out of bed just long enough to see the girls open gifts; which isn’t very long.
They had everything unwrapped in record time this year, I’m sure you know.

The girls received some gifts you would have despised; noisy toys.
I can remember how those noises would aggravate your headaches, so we just never bought them – or the girls had to play in their rooms quietly, headphones and reduced volumes.
The girls were so excited. You should have seen the look on their faces when they realized the electronic piano has a microphone that allows them to sing along with their melodies. I think I will be hearing their remakes of Justin Beiber songs in my dreams for a while to come…

Part of their childhood has been stifled; I’m trying to make up for it.
They’ve been noisy.
They’ve been loud.
They’ve been what kids should be at Christmas; loud and often crazy on a sugar high.
It seems to make the quiet a little more bearable for me at times.
And at other times, it makes me crazy. And I wish I had never purchased toys that make noise.
But they are happy. And that’s all I need right now.

We followed our traditions, for the most part.
We went to the annual Christmas Eve party at Shannon’s house.
We came home and I let the girls unwrap one gift; new pajamas.
We went to bed and I hurriedly set up Santa Claus’ goodies – hoping the rustling of paper and bags wouldn’t wake them up.
Funny how we always worried about that; because they never budge.
They did, however, wake up around 3:30am to check out what Santa brought — then they went back to bed. I had to make them get up at 7:30. You would have liked “sleeping in” on Christmas morning this year.

We went to my aunt’s house in the afternoon and visited with family, just like every year before this one.
It was so good for me to be surrounded by so much love.
The girls had a lot of fun, laughing and playing with their cousins, aunts & uncles.

We had a good day.
The girls were exhausted when we finally got home.
And when it was quiet, when I was alone with my thoughts, I just missed you.
I sobbed, which caught me by surprise. I seemed to have myself together yesterday for the girls’ sake, but the quiet got to me.
The quiet exhausts me.
It doesn’t seem right and it doesn’t seem fair.
I’m so tired of the quiet.

Life is never perfect, I understand.
And it’s not promised to be fair.
I get that. I truly do.
Life is such a precious, precious gift.
I just hate that it was us; that it was you; that it was me; that it was our family.
I wouldn’t hope for this to happen to anyone else; I would just wish it away all together.

You seem to be sending me little messages here and there, putting people in my path that I would never have met without this unfortunate situation.
It’s humbling.
And it’s tragic.
And it’s also so beautiful.

We woke up this morning to a winter wonderland.
You would love it; snow and snow and snow.
Large fluffy flakes are still coming down – you would have been out with a snow shovel this morning so you could take your truck out and survey the snow outside of our neighborhood.
You would have been bugging me to get the girls dressed to go out and play.
You would have been dressed in your bright yellow Columbia parka, ready for fun with your girls.
I really miss seeing you in that coat today.

Merry Christmas, Chad.
I love you.
And I miss you.

xoxo
Skye

It’s so hard for me to believe that Christmas is right around the corner. The last month has been a fog. A self-induced, busy fog.
I’ve been keeping myself busy to focus on other things, to give my mind and body something to do other than cry and reminisce.
After the New Year, I will slow down. I think. I plan to, anyway.

The girls and I headed to Asheville for a quick trip to Biltmore with Shannon, Chad’s cousin and one of my best friends.
We had some wonderful travel companions, too.
We had planned a weekend to visit with Chad’s sister and niece, but she wasn’t feeling well and we didn’t get to see her. I hate that. But I also want her to take care of herself — so I hope that you are, Melynda!

We were a bit disappointed that there was no snow. A few remnants here and there, but nothing for the girls to play in. They were a little upset, but were excited to see the Biltmore — even though they did get a little tried of all the walking.
It’s a beautiful, magical place – especially at Christmas.

I think I’m done Christmas shopping.
I hope I am, really.
I made myself shop this year – to give me something to do.
And I may have gone a little overboard.
Oh, well.

The girls and I are going to NYC to celebrate the New Year with my dear friend Christelle and her hubby, Chris.
We are taking the train — which is a new experience for us all; should be interesting. The girls are very excited about it!
Being in NYC is something that was on Chad’s Bucket List, so I figured it was a perfect time to go.
My dear friends are also expecting their first baby and I couldn’t be more excited to watch their family grow. I am so excited for that; babies are such perfect little reminders of all things good.

Chad wasn’t really into Christmas.
He didn’t enjoy the commercialization of the holiday – but he did enjoy watching the girls open gifts and the excitement that filled our cozy living room on Christmas morning.
He enjoyed having time off from work to spend time with us and our extended families.

We have traditions, places we go and people we see, each year.
And this year I plan to keep those traditions.
It was a hard decision. Part of me wanted to forget the past and start new traditions.
But that’s not what it’s about.

It’s about family.
And having a good time together. Making memories to look back upon for years to come.
And celebrating the birth of a Savior that loves us unconditionally.
These are traditions I wish to keep.

It feels very strange to me that Chad is not here.
Sometimes it feels completely surreal.
Sometimes it feels like it’s always been this way.
Sometimes I wish I could go back, unsay things I said, undo things I did, unthink thoughts I had.
But it wouldn’t change anything.

I ran into one of Chad’s hospice nurses last week.
It was so good to see him, even though I didn’t quite recognize him without scrubs and the hospice environment.
Small, small world it is.

I plan to visit hospice after the New Year.
I consider each of those folks a part of our family and I really do miss talking with them and learning more about their lives outside of work. They are a phenomenal group of people.

Also after the New Year, I’m making some changes and decisions.
Some small, some large.
I’m not moving – just in case you’re wondering!
I do have some ideas about what I want to do next and who I want to be. I just need to focus on that for a bit before I unveil the master plan.

I’ve rambled.
Sorry about that.
I haven’t felt like writing and haven’t had much to say; but I thank you all for checking in here every day to see how we’re doing.
I promise we’re doing well.

And we hope that you all are, too!

My dear sweet Carys,
I put you to bed last night, turned on your nightlight and whispered “I love you…”
We both finished the sentence in sync: “as high as the sky, as deep as the ocean.”

I can’t believe it’s been seven years since your tiny body was given to me; swaddled in a hospital blanket, crying, cooing.
I was awestruck.
And so very thankful.

Each year on the night before your birthday, you ask me to tell you the story of the day you were born.
And each year, I can clearly recall your newborn smell and the way your Daddy & I laughed at your first meek cry.
There is nothing meek or mild about you; and we always thought that your first cry was so full of uncertainty.
You, my child, are anything but uncertain.
There is a great plan for you when the time is right; and only God knows what this is.
You are so very, very special.

What a year you’ve had, sweetheart.
A year filled with laughter, tears, fun, heartache, gratitude and pain.
You’ve experienced so much in your little life, and this past year was definitely one you’ll always remember.

You’ve, unfortunately, learned what it feels like to lose someone you love so dearly, to open your heart and mind to new experiences and to move forward in this great big world of ours.

I admire your humor, your sympathetic heart and your unbridled energy.
You exhaust me most days, but the perpetual bags under my eyes are worth the journey we take each day.

I adore the way you look at things; the way your mind works to figure something out.
You may not always get it ‘right’, but you don’t stop until you think you’ve found an answer.

I love the way the sun dots your face with freckles and your hair gets white streaks in the Summer.
My water girl, you are. Summer is definitely your favorite.

I love the way you try to hula hoop – jerking your body in a hilarious circle as the hoop falls to the ground.
You keep dancing, though. You always keep dancing.

I love the way your little hand writes your name and mine, the cards and letters you make for no special reason.

I love the way you love; with everything you’ve got.
You wear your heart on your sleeve (sometimes literally if I don’t hide the Sharpie markers fast enough).

When I look at your sweet face, I see so much promise in your bright blue eyes – so much hope for all things good.
You are an old soul in a young body. I’ve always felt this way about you. This past year has only confirmed it.

You truly care about other people and how they feel; when they are sad, you are sad.
When they are happy, you are happy.
When they need comfort, you give it to them.

You are going into the New Year as a seven-year-old; bright, sweet, loving and full of determination.
I am so very proud of you and I am thankful, every day, for the privilege of being your mother.

xoxo
Mommy

Chad finished a birthday card for Carys in July.
He knew he might not be here to celebrate with her, but felt it was important to let Carys know how much he wished he could be.
His handwriting doesn’t even look like his normal penmanship, and his grammar isn’t as perfect as it normally was.
But he wrote it.
And he loves you so much, CareBear.

Carys,
Hope you have a fun
birthday. love you
very much. I hope
I am their to celebrate
with you. I love you
more than you can imagine.
Love
Daddy

Dear Chad,
Today I decided I had the emotional stamina to clean our bedroom.
There were piles of boxes and bags I brought home from Hospice the day you passed away, along with items I used for the memorial service.
They have been sitting there, untouched, since the day I placed them there.

I was doing okay. Deciding what to keep and where to store all the things that reminded me of you.
And when I came across your neck pillow, the one we used to help you hold your head up when you couldn’t do it yourself, I dissolved into a puddle on the floor.
It wasn’t the pillow, really.
It was your smell.
It filled the room when I pulled it out of the box.

I think I sat there for a good fifteen minutes, crying and sniffing the pillow.
I hate to say it, but I have almost forgotten what you smelled like.
It was a nice little reminder I was given – even though it shocked & delighted me at the same time.

The girls asked me what I was doing, as the cleaning project took a good part of my afternoon.
I showed them the pillow and told them it smelled like you – and they both wanted to take a whiff, too.
We all just sat there, Indian-style, on the bedroom floor and took turns passing the pillow around.
Then I put it in a ziploc bag and stored it in the top of the closet.

I put a lot of stuff in the top if the closet; clothes, shoes, hats – more things than I thought I would want to keep.
I went through your toiletries from Hospice and had to throw most of it away.
After all, I don’t think I’ll want to use man-scented bodywash or shampoo.
I did save a small bottle though, because it reminded me of the way you smelled right after a shower, which was one of my favorite things.

I took some links out of your watch – the one I saved money for six months to buy you for Christmas the first year we were engaged, 2000.
I plan to wear it. You would have wanted someone to wear it – not to collect dust in a box on top of the closet.

There is an ornament on the tree that refuses to stay put.
It keeps falling, even when no one is in the room.
I hear a loud thud at least once a day – and it’s always the same one, no matter where I move it.
Your favorite pewter NC State Alumni ornament.

I almost didn’t put the alumni collection on the tree this year; but I did.
And I’m thankful to pick it up each time it falls.

I went to church this morning.
I hadn’t been in over five months because I was always with you.
I wasn’t sure, before now, that I was able to handle it – emotionally.
But it was good. I was good. I had a pack of tissues just in case – and I was shocked that I never had to reach for one.
We sang my favorite songs and so many people seemed genuinely happy to see our family, even though they expressed how sorry they were that you were gone.
It was good to go.
I have missed it.

Cailyn has had a  hard day today.
She woke up in a funky mood, which you know is quite normal for her.
Not a morning person, much like me.
I was getting her dressed for church and needed to unravel the tangles in her hair.
The best brush for doing that is yours.
She saw it and fell to pieces.
And she cried for a good part of the morning, telling me how much she missed you and wished you were here with us.
She has been very clingy today, which I understand.

All I can do is hold her, tell her how much I love her, express how much I miss you too and promise her that she will see you again one day.
I don’t know how much that helps. But it’s the only thing I can physically do to mend her little broken heart.

Carys had a great day; we talked about you a few times.
She is so excited about her birthday coming and told me that she knew it would be great day because you’ll be here for her party as an angel.

We made chocolate chip cookies last night and she insisted that we set one aside for you.
So, we did.

Now that the phone calls, cards and emails are slowing down, it’s getting more difficult to pass my time.
I find myself doing anything and everything, just to stay busy and keep my mind focused on moving forward.
I knew it would be this way; that the newness of your death would lessen a bit eventually and things would be quiet.
I don’t necessarily mind the quiet. But it gives me too much time to think.
Especially about the future.
And the past.
And the present.

I do my best to put on a happy face and smile through all of this.
After all, I do still have so much to be thankful for.

This morning at church, the pastor said something that really hit home to me. Personally.
He was talking about how much sadness and heartache can come to us; to ‘good’ people.
And how some people can’t grasp that – how can such a loving God allow his children to face such pain?
Just imagine what it would be like if we didn’t believe, if we didn’t have hope in something Greater – how much pain there would be! For everyone. Everywhere.
We all have to go through trials, and I’m sure that losing you is my greatest.
But how much harder would this be for me, for our girls, if we didn’t honestly believe that you are in a better place and that we will see you again?
How much more difficult would this be if I didn’t have God’s grace to carry me?
I can’t imagine.

I sent out some Christmas cards this week – and it took me a while to find the right scripture to use.
When I stumbled across this one, it felt right.
I think you would like it, too.

May the God of hope fill you
with all  joy and peace in
believing, so that by the power
of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.
– Romans 15:13