Road Trip! Again!!

Leaving for Memphis, folks. Driving again. Love to see unexplored country, take backroads I may never take again. Just my music, me and wide open spaces. The cool part is having an open ended return. I'll stay until it's time to leave. Well, not exactly. I have an appointment on May 9 that I have to be back for, but I am relishing the idea of being spontaneous and coming home when the time is right. Hope to do some more genealogy research while I'm there. I look forward to being with my family though, my aunt and uncles certainly, and some cousins too, if I'm lucky. I'll go see my dad's grave and visit some of the old places, but other than that, we'll see what happens. Because I'll be driving, I'll take my laptop, so look for a post or two while I'm away. See you from the road!

Backyard Fun

April 25, 2008

Potty Mouth; Same Stuff, Different Generation

I was responding to Chantel's recent post about Owen's potty mouth when I realized that I was creating an entry worthy of its own space. So here goes.

Living with the Calders is wonderful, interesting, happy, and safe, but sometimes with a little bit of "Oh, no!" thrown in. I'm referring to the things I see Owen doing that Brandon did 25 years ago. A part of me says, "No. I'm not going there. I already raised my kids. Now I just want to be Grammy." But living with grandchildren creates another whole dynamic that I didn't think much about when I was just visiting. The discipline role is mine by default along with all the other roles that being a grandmother offer. Tel and Austin and I have had talks about what works and what doesn't and I think we do a pretty fair job of being consistent. At least we keep trying. And Owen keeps trying us to make sure that we're always learning. One 'parent' might be stronger or more consistent about bedtime, or table manners, or disrespectful behavior than another, or one may ignore a little more than another before 'counting.' One really doesn't want to be "Monster Grammy" so that one finds herself giving little warnings before counting, but I won't mention which one that is. But no matter what's happening with Owen's growth (and Soren's too, although Owen tests more often right now), there's always the surprise reminder that as much as I learned as a parent, I still fall right back into the old patterns, even though it's been 19 years since I've had a 6-year-old, and almost 26 years since Brandon was one. I always thought if I had it to do over, I'd be such a great parent and so incredibly consistent and wise. Humph! I'm aware of when I'm being less than perfectly consistent with Owen. What keeps surprising me is that the older I get, I'm still just me--imperfections and all. Now having said all that, I'll get to what prompted all this to begin with.

Owen's potty mouth is slowly getting better. But progress is never made in a perfect upward line. It's always two steps forward and a step or two back. Most of the time I either ignore Owen's mouth, or I count, and he's getting better about stopping at 2 instead of going to his room at 3. But once in awhile he catches me completely off guard and I have to turn away so he doesn't see me suppressing a laugh. Once in awhile he even unknowingly creates a situation wherein the best response is to laugh.

For example, a couple of days after coming back from California, Idaho, and Brandon's funeral services, I was feeling pretty dazed. Owen and I were at the table together doing art. Chantel and Austin were outside or down the hall and Marti, Austin's mother, was somewhere in the house too. She had come for a visit. Suddenly, Owen, out of the quiet blue says, "Grammy? My Mom farts. Do you think my mom farts? And I think her farts stink. Don't you think so? Grammy? Grammy? I'm sure my Mom farts--a lot. My mom farts every day. Grammy, are you listening?" Now I didn't think this was funny, but this was one of those weird moments when I was completely ambushed by his quick little mind. I didn't say anything, nor did I even hint at a smile. In fact, I didn't even look up. I just continued to work on my painting. But I quickly realized that this one-sided conversation was getting out of hand. Just like ignoring a situation never worked with Brandon, it doesn't work with Owen either. He became more determined than ever to get my attention. And now that I'm thinking about it, given the terribly sad state of affairs at our house, perhaps he wanted me to laugh right then more than ever. But I didn't. And right about the delayed-reaction moment that I opened my mouth to say something I hoped would be effective, Marti steps around the corner and says something to the effect of, "Owen, you will stop what you're saying immediately and you will talk about something else, do you understand?" It was not only the statement, but the way it was delivered, with the perfect cadence, the precisely perfect inflections in her voice, and the slight but oh so effectively placed pause. I couldn't look at Marti, but I'm certain she had her eyebrows positioned perfectly as well. There's no way one can say something like that without having mastered the technique of precision eyebrow positioning. Owen was stopped in his tracks, while I sat there and wondered if I could have made a delivery with as much authority as Marti did.

In my defense, I claim environment and perhaps even genetics. I was the middle child, the peace maker, the "good one," and the one my younger brother dubbed "Polly Pure Heart." Talk about living up to a standard! Therefore, I have never associated myself with words like "authoritative" or "strict." Even "consistent" had a rather mean sound to it. "Sweet" is the adjective I've most often heard, in fact, as recently as last night on the telephone with my mother! I think it's too late for me. I was the kind of child that an adult had only to raise his or her eyebrow a certain way--and a single one at that--or lift a pointer finger in a silent warning, and I would cease and desist any thing remotely resembling bad or even improper behavior. I never got a spanking. I never had my mouth washed out with soap, and I can't remember even being sent to my room (unless it was for do-overs since shoving everything into a neat pile in the middle of the floor didn't constitute cleaning my room). Probably most of my biggest infractions were laughing at my brothers' potty mouths--partly because they were funny, and partly from the excitement of living vicariously through my them. But I never got in trouble for laughing.

Fast forward 40 years. Owen had just pulled a fast one. I remained stoic at the table that day, but my mouth was probably still hanging open when Marti turned around and left the room after the perfect delivery of the perfect one-liner. I wondered for a fleeting moment if I should feel embarrassed-- a six-year-old getting the better of me, and I think he had been just about to realize that if he hadn't already. Instead of putting myself down though, I felt grateful--grateful that Marti grew up as the oldest of seven children, including a set of twins. Somebody had to do it! And as fast as Owen was on the draw, Marti aimed to kill, and she didn't miss. She comes by her skills naturally just like I do. Mine just don't happen to be in the consistent parent realm. Unlike me, Marti did not grow up with illusions of the power of the eyebrows. She came. She conquered. She left. Just like that! And she made it look easy! But for me it really isn't.

In the future, for serious infractions, like the one Owen made by disrespecting his mother, I hope I'm a little bit faster in speaking up and a little firmer at how I sound. If I pretend to be someone else, I may just pull it off. If, on the other hand, you happen to be visiting and see me turn away from Owen as I try to hide a smile, know that I'm not laughing so much at what Owen has said, although every potty mouth little boy seems to think he's come up with something original. No, I'm smiling because I'm looking back over the years and realizing, potty mouth may be squelched but it will never die. It was around long before either Marti or I came along and it will be here a long time after we're gone. And yet, as parents and grandparents, we're obligated to do our best to at least keep it to a dull roar.

Potty mouth doesn't begin at six even though we continue to hope that we might have it controlled by 6 and 3/4. Unfortunately, it doesn't end at sixteen either, although it does seem to be less prevalent during the dating years, but after that? Well, you tell me. Does potty mouth ever end? Really? How many males do you know who never, ever resort to some comment about body parts or body functions as a source of humor? And I'm not saying that women don't use it too (nor am I talking about filth or abuse of the sacred masquerading as humor). It's just that in my experience, I can't think of a single male, either close friend or family member, who doesn't slip into the old funny once in awhile.

So for those of you who feel righteous indignation that I sometimes laugh at the improper, or the little boy crude I can only, in my defense, tell you that I grew up with an older and younger brother, raised two boys, and heard plenty of potty mouth from other adults (all males mind you) all in the guise of "Oh, boy, isn't this hilarious?" and age was never a determining factor. I heard it throughout my life and given certain company, I hear it still! I'll bet money that even you who don't laugh now, laughed plenty when you were a kid and you're still tempted on occasion. See if you can find someone who never slips up. But asking your boss about this when he's in a three-piece suit doesn't count. Try asking your girlfriend about her ex-husband instead. She might even tell you about the time they were playing this game called "Revenge of the Rotten Eggs"... And I don't care how old you are. When she tells you the truth--you're gonna laugh.

Brandon's Life Sketch

Written and given by long-time friend, Janet Nelson, April 2, 2008.

Brandon Scott Dayley was a bicentennial baby (his birth certificate even has a special seal on it) born in Twin Falls, Idaho, on a Wednesday summer morning—June 23, 1976. He was born to young parents who were very much in love with him from the start.
Three years later a baby sister Chantel, joined the family—and four years after Chantel, Brandon’s brother, Clayton, was born.
Brandon’s earliest years in Burley Idaho were spent as close as he could get to his paternal grandfather. He worshipped his Grandpa Dayley and spent as much time as possible with him in the garden working and watering.
In 1984, the family moved to California. They lived in Oakley for a year and a half. During this time, Brandon was baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
His uncle, Dan Dayley, felt very close to Brandon and once took young Brandon on a trip back to Idaho where he wanted to go pheasant hunting. Brandon was to stay in the car while Dan, just outside, managed to quickly shoot down two pheasants. The car window was rolled down, and Dan said he could hear Brandon yelling, “Hooray for my Uncle Dan—hooray, hooray!” Dan said Brandon was always his best cheerleader.
In 1985, Brandon’s family moved to Martinez where they started a tree farm on four acres. Brandon’s beloved grandparents spent several months each year down in Martinez helping out with the tree farm. This absolutely delighted Brandon as he could then ride the 4-wheeler and shoot guns with his Grandpa.
Brandon attended the Martinez schools and spent his high school years at Alhambra High. He especially enjoyed playing football all four years with the Bulldogs. In fact, his senior year he played both offense and defense. His football coach remembers Brandon’s enthusiasm and love for the game.
Brandon had lots of friends. He was gregarious, had a bit of a swagger in those days, and was very interested in being actively involved in life, sometimes too much so.
Elwon Lance tells the story of coming into Brandon’s Sunday school class where he found the teacher hadn’t shown up, so he proceeded to instruct the class. Brandon happened to mouth off in a very disrespectful manner, and Elwon pinned him up against the wall and “counseled” him. Later in the hallway, Brandon challenged Elwon again, and Dane Lance, (Elwon’s son) calmly said to Brandon, “You really don’t want to mess with my dad—he doesn’t fight fair.”
About a year and a half later, Brandon apologized to Elwon and they became good friends. In fact, Marci remembers that it was Elwon whom Brandon asked to ordain him to the priesthood before his mission.
Brandon enjoyed the out of doors. He went on numerous camping trips with my sons. When my son, Chad, earned the Eagle rank in Scouting, it was Brandon whom he asked to speak at his Court of Honor. And Brandon did a fantastic job.
Growing up in Martinez, Brandon was close friends with Elise Bendixen. Elise says they were best friends for over ten years. She appreciated his non-judgmental attitude, his willingness to listen endlessly, and his loyalty. Elise’s little sister remembers Brandon coming over to fix her broken down bike and how nice he was to her.
After high school, Brandon was in a very transitional period. He moved up to Chico to room with his Dad who was attending school there. This is the time when Brandon dove back into church activity. The key was Shane, whom you’ll hear from shortly. Another friend, Ian Farr, had recently returned from his mission and spent time talking with Brandon.
Brandon received his own mission call in 1998 to Argentina. That’s when he took his fateful July road trip to Utah to see his grandparents and Uncle Dan. He also went on a long day mountain hike with my son Dan.
Afterwards, Brandon and his uncle Dan went up to Idaho to see Grandpa and Grandma Dayley. They worked hard all day long trimming pine trees on the property. Dan then returned home to Utah, and Brandon continued into the night to finish the tree trimming project. Then he left for California.
You know the story of the horrific car accident. Brandon was not expected to live, and his uncle Dan called Bishop Renshaw who then called Paul Maughan to go and administer to him. Paul said it was the most stressful blessing he’s ever given. An hour later a nurse called back Dan to report, “Well, two men from your church gave Brandon the last rites, and he’s actually taken a turn for the better!”
During his recovery period, Brandon received numerous letters from friends recounting all their mutual good times. These letters were read over and over to Brandon to stimulate his memory. Some of you letter writing friends are probably here today continuing your support. Chantel was an incredible help at this time also, totally devoting herself to Brandon’s recovery.
Two years later, Brandon was out on a mission—to Dallas, Texas. Yesterday when I spoke with his mission president, I was told the story of how Brandon wanted to spend time in a nursing home as his weekly service project. One day Brandon fell and hit his head so was taken to the hospital. The mission president’s wife said she received a call every hour on the hour from the nursing home as they wanted continual updates on their special friend.
This compassion for older people naturally extended to Brandon’s grandmother. For the last three years of her life, while she herself was in a nursing home, Brandon called his grandmother almost every single day.
When Brandon returned home from his mission, he started attending DVC. His math tutor (Shirley LaFevre) told me that Brandon was ever the missionary—sometimes she would just have to say, “Now Brandon, this is a math class.”
Brandon had to take several classes over, but Marci said nobody could keep Brandon down. He just willed himself to persevere.
As you read in the obituary, Brandon had hoped to gain enough education to work with and help other victims of head injuries. Now, we believe Brandon will be made whole and will be able to use his outgoing, friendly nature to assist others.

And so we bid farewell to Brandon Scott Dayley and remind ourselves—

That life is fragile, and must be treated with prayer. In the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Owen's Powers of Deduction

We're still on the make believe trail, but today we added a new creature, a beaver, which required that we go onto the internet to retrieve some beaver facts: An adult beaver weighs between 40 and 60 pounds.

How much do you weigh, Owen?

I think 55 pounds.

Then you're the size of a grown up beaver!

Well, Mommy picks me up and holds me. And I'm the size of a beaver, so Mommy can hold a beaver!!

(And I'm sure she would if she needed to!)

Our Trip Home to Idaho

Most people don't realize that we had the privilege and blessing of taking Brandon's body back to Idaho ourselves. When we found out at the mortuary that this could be done, I saw Larry's face and I knew that there was no question whether he wanted to do it or not. Clayton's face had the same resolute look. Larry and Clayton returned to the mortuary after the funeral and helped load the casket into the back of Larry's truck. It was well protected from the elements and tied in place. Chantel and Austin and I with the boys drove separately in a rental car. We met up that evening in Winnemucca, Nevada and stayed in the same motel. The next day we drove the rest of the way to Burley and went straight to the cemetery to pick out the plot. The grounds keeper was expecting us. Chantel and I got there first and enjoyed walking around the cemetery that mother had taken us to so many times. It's a beautiful cemetery near a few small acreages and lots of farm ground. We had our choice of plots with flat headstones only, or plots that allow the uprights. We preferred the uprights and found the ones we wanted with a view of the mountains. When Larry and Clayton arrived we showed them the plots and they liked them, too. Then we went together to city hall to pay for them. Larry bought not just Brandon's but three other plots next to his. One of those is mine and I'm very grateful for it. I have always wanted to be near Mother and Dad and being interred next to my first born goes without saying. Brandon's final trip. Pleasant View Cemetery, Burley, Idaho Near side: Clayton Dayley, Colten Dayley, John Bruch, Austin Calder. Far side: Dan Dayley, Larry Dayley, Kevin Neiwert, Justin Echols. A sweet graveside service was held on Friday afternoon April 4, 2008, a windy, blustery day. The city had set up the site with two heavy tarps as wind breaks, but they did little to help. Larry said that Brandon made a lot of noise and it was appropriate that he left us by making noise as well. About thirty people attended including friends from Salt Lake City and Martinez, California. Austin conducted the service and sang two verses of the hymn "Nearer My God to Thee." Brandon's Uncle John (my brother) gave the opening prayer and his Uncle Dan was the main speaker. Austin singing "Nearer My God to Thee." His clear tenor voice and willingness to sing acapella helped bring the spirit to the service. I was more than happy with how well everything went. Dan talked about Brandon's amazing ability to keep getting up after being knocked down so many times. He also praised Brandon's good humor and his determination to reach his goals no matter what. Dan identified Brandon not only as his nephew, but as one of his "very, very best friends." Members of the congregation were then invited to speak impromptu. Chantel praised Brandon for being such a wonderful uncle to her boys; she also mentioned how safe she always felt with him and referenced an experience she had taking the train to Chico to see him when she was younger; I talked about the example Brandon set for me in facing adversity and how much I'd learned from him these last ten years. My brother John shared a funny memory of a comment Brandon made at his mission return. Then Brandon's very good friend, Justin, spoke about their long-term friendship. He said, "I'm a better man for having known him." Austin shared some personal thoughts and explained the reason we dedicate or set-apart grave sites. Most of us included in our remarks our anticipation of a happy reunion with Brandon someday, as well as joy on the day of resurrection. We buried Brandon with a view of the mountains in the same cemetery as several generations of his ancestors, including his beloved grandmother and grandfather Dayley. Chantel and Clayton with their Bruch cousins: Jantzen, Queston, Kolsen and Garrett. Savanah wasn't able to come because she was ill. A family of four After the graveside service, we went to Beverly's house where she had prepared a delicious meal for all of us. She has been such a wonderful sister and friend. Beverly took care of Dad and then Mother, all the while taking care of her son, Ken, and often her granddaughters Camrai and Katela. I love you, Beverly, and I appreciate your unfailing selfless service to your family and to us these many years.

This post is for

my friends who don't click on the link to Chantel's blog. You should! I live with her and half my life is represented there sometimes.
Look at this gorgeous baby! I think he could pass for mine! Chantel took these pictures on March 31 when we were in California. Rolan was just shy of six months old.

Baby kisses! I love this age, slobber and all.














I've never seen a daddy so enamored with a baby as Clayton is with Rolan. That little guy gets more face, tummy, and feet kisses than any baby I've ever seen. He's got a great little laugh too. And Michele is an in-tune and sensitive mother with a lot of common sense--a great combination for raising a child. I sure miss you guys!

Who are the Poor Among Us?

The last few years of his life Brandon developed a great sensitivity to and concern for the homeless, the down and out, and people with disabilities. Every day at school he made an effort to talk with the disabled on campus at DVC and LMC. He used to tell me how bad he felt that many of them didn't seem to have any friends or anyone to talk to because they were 'different.' He made it a point to try to change that. Brandon talked with people everywhere he went--on the BART, on the bus, on the street, at the grocery store. He loved the interaction. He had picked up a little Spanish and liked to practice that when he could. He was also taking his third semester of American Sign Language and had developed a close relationship with a deaf woman and other friends in the deaf community as well. Unlike many of us, Brandon was comfortable with everyone and in any situation. Frankly, he worried me with the way he trusted others until they did something to destroy that. He had been mugged, robbed at knife point, slapped in the face, kicked, and probably some other experiences that he didn't share with me. I finally had to accept the fact that no matter what happened to him, he was not going to stop reaching out to other people. In his attitude, the world was full of people less fortunate than he was and if he could make their lives even a little bit better, he wanted to.

The poor have been in our midst in every dispensation. In the Book of Mormon, King Benjamin counseled his people on this very subject: "Ye yourselves will succor (Latin: run to) those who stand in need...you will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain and turn him out to perish." I know that this is the right thing to do, but I have to question how actively I follow through.

Brandon's death has made me aware of my own thoughts and feelings about the homeless population and those who ask for handouts. King Benjamin's people apparently had some of the same attitudes we have today: "Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself his misery. Therefore, I will stay my hand and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just." How easily I think this and justify my decisions to ignore others! Perhaps sometimes I've done so out of fear. Or I can tell that the person really does have a substance abuse problem, but that does not relieve me of my obligation to help another.

I"ve been in meetings and discussions before when others say that they never give the homeless money because they're sure that the person will just go spend it on drugs or alcohol. I used to feel that way too, until one day it occurred to me that even drug users get hungry, need food, and clean water, a place to lay their heads at night. I decided that if I felt impressed (or inspired) to give another person money, then that was the right thing to do regardless of the doubts that might assail me just then. It isn't up to me what the person spends the money on, nor is it my responsibility, just for giving it to someone, to make sure that that person spends it in a way that I think he should.

King Benjamin continued, "But I say unto you, O, man whosoever doeth this [judgement on others] hath great cause to repent...For behold, are we not all beggars?" It's been said that most Americans are only three months away from being homeless. We have way too much debt, not enough savings (if any), and we live paycheck to paycheck. So who's to say that the next man on the corner didn't have a respectable job and a nice house just a short time before? "And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of your substance one to another." Brandon didn't just believe this principle. He was one of those who could have said (quoting King Benjamin again), "I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give." Instead, Brandon found ways to give anyway in spite of his very limited income. He lived this principle like no one else I have ever known. In that way he was a great example.

The other day I took an exit from the freeway and saw a man at the corner holding up a sign. My first impulse was to judge his appearance--Did he look as though he was getting enough to eat? Was he thin and showing signs of drug abuse? Did he look like an alcoholic? I ignored those thoughts and reached for my wallet. Generous. That's what Brandon was and in his honor, I did what I thought he would have done. I reached out the window and pressed a bill into the man's outstretched hand. He looked down and then his face registered surprise. "God bless you!" he said. I had done the right thing. That was for you, Brandon. And I felt like he was there beside me in the car, cheering me on. I could still hear the man shouting, "Bless you! Bless you!" as I drove away with tears coursing down my cheeks.

Bittersweet; April 2, 2008

Pallbearers leaving the Pittsburg, California chapel.Left side: Marty Bruch, Colten Dayley, Clayton Dayley, Dan Dayley
Right side: Larry Dayley, John Dunn, Mike Dunn, Nicholas Dunn

Martha, Marty and Rachel

Me with Michele and Rolan--Sweethearts both!

Brandon's good friend Traci, Martha, Soren, Chantel and Austin. Traci and Austin were conversing using American Sign Language. Brandon was becoming fluent in sign before he died.

Other Posts I Found About Brandon

Posted by Shane and Nikki.
Posted by a friend, Amber.

How I am is Relative

An often heard question has been on my mind lately--the one Chantel wrote about recently: How are you? I have two responses to that every time someone asks me. First, there's a certain deliberateness with which they speak, a slight inflection in their voices that isn't there when they're saying, How are ya? "How are you?" are the first words to remind me that someone loves me. Someone is reaching out and genuinely wants to know how I am and I'm touched by that, even more now that the funeral is over and most people are getting back to their normal lives. But the question always takes me by surprise, maybe because I'm functioning so much on auto-pilot. It's like a little shake of my body that says, Hey, your son died and how do you feel now? The second response to the question "How are you?" provides a brief window of opportunity to stop and do an emotional/mental check in--healthy for someone who is determined to do the work of grieving no matter how difficult, and I know that the person who has just asked the question is waiting for a real answer from me which prompts me to stop and consider. But the answer is more important to me than to them, because it keeps me in the experience of grieving and hopefully moving forward. What surprises me is how suddenly I go from thinking I'm fine to crying deeply--like the flip of a light switch. Isn't the answer to the question, "How are you?" relative to what life is dishing out at the moment? If judging by what I'm doing or not doing, I probably appear to be doing well: I don't stay in bed. I don't hang around in my pajamas, although I wouldn't hesitate to do that for one day if that's what I needed. (So far, I haven't needed to.) I'm not binge eating, drinking, or playing hours of mindless computer games to 'numb out,' and I'm not putting Brandon up on a pedestal as a guy who was the perfect son. He wasn't. In addition to daily activities and being Grammy, what I am doing is a lot of writing, a lot of crying, talking about him when the opportunity presents itself, and googling Brandon's name, (you get a different list if you google 'Brandon S Dayley or Brandon Scott Dayley compared to Brandon Dayley). What I've come to realize over the past week is that those who check in with me help to keep the grieving process moving forward, but nothing makes the pain go away, and no remembrance of the difficult times make the sorrow lessen either. Just like the birth of a new baby doesn't 'make up' for the infant who died, there's no earthly happiness that can compensate for the hole in my soul either. The only way over grief is through it--and that's fodder for a later post because 'getting over it' is a myth. Getting through it is what I'm attempting to do and honestly, it still sucks out loud and probably will for a long time. There's no timed grieving process that I have to adhere to, no right way to do it, no goal in mind and for that I'm thankful. I'm taking it one day, sometimes one hour, at a time. Keep asking me how I'm doing. I need your love and I welcome your concern. Just don't be surprised when I answer truthfully: not very well.

Ten Reasons Why You Should Have a Great Birthday

You make my daughter laugh
You gave her the lowest 'dip' I've ever seen on a dance floor (at your wedding)
You're an expert pasta cooker
You read books to your boys and play with them
You're willing to (and do) use your priesthood to bless others
You do your own taxes
You taught me to play 'Settlers'
You are sensitive to others needs
You played lots of chess with Brandon and he loved that
You made all the difference in his graveside service
Happy 30th Austin!

First Day Home

My sorrow threatens to overwhelm. I vacillate between sobbing, that grief that only another parent who's lost a child would recognize; actively working to help my daughter deal with her own loss in the only way I know how; and functioning with a numbness that borders on the edge of crossing over.

My grandsons don't understand, only that their routines are non-existent and their elders are sad and quiet. Owen asked me how long I was going to cry about Uncle Brandon. I did not have an answer for him.

The ward here is ready to help however they can, with childcare, meals, and anything else we need. One would think the first days are the worst, and certainly I have experienced moments--making funeral arrangements, seeing Brandon's lifeless body, the closing of the casket--but now that we have done all that our Mormon and American cultures require, it feels that I am expected to carry on as before, but I do not know what that looks like or how I'm supposed to feel. I don't know for sure, but I think the real grieving is yet to come, something I both welcome and reject. I had a very strong son in every way and his passing has left a hole larger than the man that he was--and that's saying a lot.