Five weeks and life is strange

Things have gotten better to be sure.

I think it's progress that I don't instantly get a tear in my eye or a lump in my throat every time I see one of the pictures of Ollie in the living room. What I do feel is a little sensation of falling - sort of what you get when you catch a bit of air driving over a small rise or first begin the long dive after cresting the hill of a roller coaster.

Usually, it's just that little bit of sensation. Usually.

Sometimes it's the beginning of a no-holds-barred emotional thrill ride and you pray to God that the brakes on the coaster/train/car are working. If they aren't, sometimes you collide with a brick wall, sometimes it's a "soft" landing into a sand trap. Sand traps mean you might have to close the door to your office and sit quietly a few minutes, brick walls mean you probably need a lot of Kleenexes and a dark room.

But there are positives moments now.

More and more frequently, when I think of Ollie, I can think of good times and not be filled with a terrible regret that we aren't still creating new stories and new moments. I can enjoy the many beautiful memories for what they are - a precious little gift from a special little boy that reminds his daddy that there were indeed some very good times.

The beginning of football season has been hard. Last fall, our little man would sit quietly for HOURS in the crook of my arm watching those funny men run across that green field. He only made noise when the commercials came on - or someone changed the channel - smart boy, that one. That is one of the fondest memories I'll carry forward of Ollie and it really makes the fall a bittersweet time. Right now, he should be throwing that little mini-football (probably backwards over his head, of course).

Recently, someone who had also lost their son far too early described the feeling as having a stomachache that doesn't go away. I've thought about it and can come up with no more apt description of what we are going through. A mass is sitting in the core of your gut and it just sits there gnawing. You feel it lessening, but sometimes the best you can do is be distracted. (Thank you friends and family) At anytime, Bekka and I might be having a moment of quiet (or not so quiet) desperation.

A couple of weeks ago, the good memories were the hard memories. The bad memories, save for that final horrible night, have been in many ways easier to block out. Who wants to remember having to stick a plastic tube down their little boy's windpipe? Or hooking a tube up to his stomach to feed him every few hours, or using a machine to try and make him cough 8 times a day?

That's not what Ollie's life was about. Ollie's life was about loving every moment BETWEEN the painful events. He did this without fail, and now his mama and I are trying to do the same.

As we try to figure out job situations, medical bills, COBRA payments and all the other debris left over from a short but complicated life, we try to take a little time to love each other and each moment just a little bit more.

The challenge is that we now have many more free moments.