Friend

I looked for you again
an unexpected email
one of your old friends
feeling guilty that you died
she didn’t know in time
didn’t call you back that night
oh, the sorrows and regrets
googling ‘citicow68’ and
there you are, just like that
your name, face
really just a glimpse on the internet
some personal details
almost like reading someone’s journal
your honesty, fears
trusting others to understand
I didn’t know
you wanted to die in your sleep
not something a mother and son would talk about
in everyday talk easier
to reprimand you
for watching so much ‘South Park’
and have you done your Statistics homework yet
both of us in school then
pursuing the carrots we called dreams
pushing you on, onward
never really knowing how far you could go
but what would happen to you, if I quit?
your patronizing grin
trying to rub the anxiety out of my shoulders
you didn’t need pushing, only encouragement
did I give you enough?
tell you how proud I was that you kept trying?
kept going when life knocked you down?
I didn’t realize, until after
how many times you got back up, over and over
with a smile, a kind word, a thank you
so I stare, for the thousandth time, at your picture
the one nearest to what appears when I close my eyes
see the real you just beyond the veil
your love intact
your peace assured
I get your message
return the email
tell her
no regrets, my friend
only happiness
only love
only peace

Brandon's Life in Pictures

My daughter created this beautiful slide show to honor Brandon on the anniversary of his death.
Click here to watch it. Make sure your speakers are on.

First Born and Second Chances

Brandon was my first-born in the wilderness, son of my youth. He gave me motherhood in all its facets. He was my first pregnancy, my first labor and delivery, my first experience with breast-feeding and teething and diapering and loving thoroughly another perfect human being who depended on me completely for his life. On him I practiced, with him I was infatuated, from him I received much love as he was a cheerful baby, but on him I made the most mistakes. I didn't know nearly as much as I thought I did. As he grew up he became more and more independent--sometimes too independent to my way of thinking--and the problems, experiences, the trials, the joys, the successes, and even the mundane, all became more complicated because soon we were a family of four and then five, and Brandon was not just the first-born, he was the older brother, the one we expected to set the example for the others, the one who, no matter how old he became, was always the first child. Whether he was 12 or 22, my experiences with him were always new. Always a trial run. Always a crap shoot if I was doing it right or not. But Brandon seemed to be able to handle it.

Later as I grew in wisdom as a parent, I lamented the fact that I could do a much better job with Brandon if only I had the chance to do it over again. I got my wish July 30, 1998 when Brandon survived a major car accident. Horror. We didn't know it that day, but Brandon was going to come out of his coma a 200 lb infant; we were going to do all the things with him that we'd done the first time around. He had to relearn everything and we were going to re-raise him only this time with an upped ante--magnified personality traits, a man who didn't realize anything was mentally wrong, intense temporal lobe rages that put us in physical danger, an inability to reason, and all with the same strong independent will as before and a physical strength that returned well before his mental capabilities did. God help us all if he stopped progressing at 15! Thankfully, he didn't. But even in the most difficult circumstances we found some humor.

Shortly after Brandon first came home after three months in the hospital, he went from using a wheel chair to walking with a walker. His balance was very poor. The doctor had emphasized how devastating it would be if Brandon fell in the shower or anywhere and hit his head again. For that reason, one of us always followed him to the bathroom to stand guard in case he started to fall. Chantel even put on her bathing suit and helped him in the shower a couple of times. I remember one time in particular, Brandon went into the bathroom and I was close behind him. He was physically progressing rapidly and was irritated when any of us were in there with him. In frustration he turned around and hollered, "Well, you followed me in here-- do you want to hold my penis for me too while I take a piss?" There he was! The old Brandon! Shortly after that, he quit using the walker and we gave him back some privacy.

Another time, Larry, who had became Brandon's full-time-every-kind-of therapist, (fodder for another post) decided that he needed to increase the level of Brandon's physical activity. Brandon had surpassed every physical goal, from being able to walk to the corner and back, to walking around the track down at the school, to walking around the block and up the hill. Larry often brought the wheelchair with them in case Brandon needed it to get home, but one day he decided to sit in the wheelchair and let Brandon push him. That was the day that a neighbor drove by and scowled at Larry as if to say, "What a mean father you are, making that poor crippled boy push you up the hill!"

Remembering those times makes me proud of how the Dayley family sacrificed for Brandon and how hard he worked to 'come back.' It makes me marvel at how determined he was to overcome his limitations and to what degree Larry and Chantel and Clayton gave to make that happen. It makes me reflect with gratitude on the power of faith, the hundreds, maybe thousands of prayers that were offered up for all of us, and it makes me hopeful that I will have the opportunity to help the families of other head-injury victims, even if it's just a word of courage to them.

I do feel sad to remember how open ended our grief was in those days. The Brandon we knew had died, but his body had not. Although people sent numerous cards, and offered many prayers and messages of condolence, there was no funeral and no closure. We wore our grief like shackles, with no one to explain to us the grieving process or how to get through it. At the time, Brandon's accident was the worst trial I'd ever been through. I didn't think I'd ever go through anything more difficult than that. I was wrong. But would I go back and change those days? Fast forward over the early years to a place where Brandon was mature and confident and hopeful? Not a chance. I learned so much with him and from him, and from my family also. Those years were a gift, a blessing in the form of adversity. Brandon should have died in that car wreck. The day I stood at his gravesite and spoke was the day I realized that he didn't need to have been here, to struggle like he did these past ten years. It was the rest of us who were given the opportunities to grow. We became more patient, more understanding, more willing to give and do and love, more forgiving, more filled with compassion. And isn't that the idea? To return home with honor to our Heavenly Father and Mother, having received the experiences we came to earth for? Sometimes I ask myself: If I had the chance to relive those years, knowing what I know now, would I? My answer is always the same: You bet your life. And mine too. In a heartbeat.

Caterpillar

The grieving process is personal and solitary, and yet, I am the MOM. And somehow, that means that I should have the answers, or can find them, in spite of my own grief, that I can kiss the hurts and make them all better. I read my daughter's blog entry recently and cried, for her sorrows and mine. I wonder if I haven't been there enough for her, if somehow in our separate journies we've put on a good front for one another when maybe we needed to cry together. Or maybe she is grieving in the best way for her and the fact that she can write about it with such honesty is evidence of strong, emotional and spiritual health. Still, I am shocked to realize that yesterday was the six month anniversary of Brandon's death and I lived the entire day--me--the one who is organized and sentimental and aways starts new endeavors at the beginning of the month or the week, yet, somenow, I missed the day's significance. How did that happen? Lying here in this room three thousand miles across the country from Maryland, I realize that Michele has made a collage of pictures for Rolan, all the people of significance in his life, and I'm grateful. She hung it low on the wall, at his eye level, and mine at this moment; thoughts of Rolan remind me of the continuity of life even when I feel the world has stopped revolving; his sweetness is balm to my spirit. One picture grabs my attention--taken in 2005 when Clayton was moving to San Diego. We had a party for him then, at the Martinez Marina and we posed together, the five of us. Fire and water. Moonlight and sun. I have a copy of that photo in my apartment in Baltimore but today I see details I hadn't noticed before. The uneven slant of Brandon's shoulders after the accident, the minuscle web of lines in Larry's and my faces, the result of full lives--the kind I haven't always prayed for, but began to, perhaps in my thirties, when I began to look back and see not just the expense of adversity, but the gifts I've received in the process. And even though my awareness of the costs grows every year, death and sorrows, divorce and illnesses, it is a full life, the only kind worth experiencing. I know that the faith my daughter wrote about has the power to heal us and our broken bodies and broken lives. It's the same faith that sent a dawn breeze through the open window this morning when only the lower edge of the night sky was turning gray, then lavendar, then pink. It's the same faith that assured me of Clayton's birth long before its reality and I can't imagine his never being here--especially now. The words "my son" have taken on a whole different meaning. The faith that turns the world on its axis is the same faith that causes trees and plant life to reach up, in spite of wind and rain and ice. And I still want that, life in all its raw beauty, even the blackness against which all other lights shine.




I look at the photo again. Brandon on one end, body language defying his limitations. A strong arm around his smiling sister who appears to be almost bursting in the joy of being with her brothers. Brandon pulls her against him, while her upper body leans slightly against Clayton. Clayton in the center, deep smile, arms wide with one around Chantel and the other around me. Larry standing on the other end, leaning into me and suddenly, I see it. We are the caterpillar. Parts that move independently, but dependent upon one another. Together in spite of our seperateness, coming together to make up the whole, even if just once in awhile. Brandon is close by. Chantel and Clayton are loving and strong. Larry is a part me. Forever. And for today, it is enough.

I found out

yesterday that Paul, a friend of Brandon's, died recently. I was devastated, especially for Paul's aunt and her family who are cherished and long-time friends. I've tried several times to write about all the feelings that emerged as a result of this news, but there's a limit to what should be shared in a blog. Sometimes life's most sacred events call for privacy and intimacy between friends and this is one of those.

I wrote this last night in the middle of the night, not as poetry, but trying to define the experience which was too real to call a dream, and too wonderful to say it wasn't.

realm skipping again
in my sleep
Brandon and Paul are laughing,
making puns of human vocabulary
suddenly archaic and unnecessary
here
in this ivory twilight between rest and dawn
more laughter between them
brown eyed boys to men and
I hold my breath,
and love this place, this interaction,
and whoever gave me permission to see it,
thank you! Oh,
if I could linger just a bit
longer pretend
I belong here too but,
too late
I have returned
to where moonlight embellishes
these periwinkle walls
and a mound of pillows cradles
this mortal frame
I will sleep now
even though more laughter,
the kind that only men can make,
deep chested and uproarious
continues to echo
my return

My Cousin, Jean,

I found out, was a remarkable woman with an indomitable spirit and a zest for living equal to Brandon's. I think they would have liked each other very much. It was a great pleasure to get to know Jean through Aunt Claire and Uncle Dick. I had the privilege of visiting her grave site with them on the anniversary of her death. Thank you for including me that day.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Easter Memories

Brandon's first Easter, 1977. He wasn't interested in his basket at all...at first...

With cousin Ardell eating shells and all.

With their rabbits from Grandma Dayley.

Easter 1979

Chantel and Brandon Easter 1979 with the bunny rabbit.

Clayton, Easter 1984. Oakley, California
Chantel , Easter 1984. Oakley, California
Brandon, Easter 1984. Oakley, California.Chantel and Brandon, Easter 1984. Oakley, California.Clayton, Brandon and Chantel, Easter 1985. Oakley, California

Mother's Boundless Love

It didn't occur to me just how much Mother loved me, and how good she was at showing that love, until after I became a grandmother. When my children were born, the center of my world was them. No child had ever been born that was as beautiful, smart or adorable as mine. (The adorable part waned during adolescence, but that's another story). Mother agreed with me, or I believed she did. So over the span of eight years, while I was having children, I telephoned Mother frequently about "firsts." First steps. First waves bye-bye. First words.

"Mother! Guess what? Brandon said "Dada!"
"Mother! Guess what? Chantel sang the alphabet to us backwards in Spanish!" (Just kidding Tel, but you were a quick-minded little thing).
"Mother! Guess what? Clayton is sitting up by himself, right now!"

I was so thrilled with every little accomplishment and I never tired of sharing the news with her. It never once occured to me that perhaps she wasn't as thrilled as I was. Never mind that she had already raised her six siblings, a couple of cousins, a nephew, five children of her own, and by the time Clayton came along, was the grandmother of thirteen and the great-grandmother of at least three more. Oh, no, she had seen her share of many firsts, yet she always responded the same to the announcements of mine:

"Ohhhh? Well, isn't that special?"

I always heard the smiling in her voice. And I always hung up marveling at how amazing my children were. Now as I look back, I wonder that she loved me that much. Because I truly believe that she did know how I felt, because she had felt it too and yet she never tired of the wonder of little ones. Her love was boundless. When I called to share my happiness with another woman, she of all the women in my life, knew how I felt. Unlike I who laughs at the wrong things and doesn't always have the right words, Mother always knew what to say. I was blessed to be her daughter-in-law those many years. Someday I will see her again and I'll tell her once more how much those years meant to me. And with a smile on her face, she'll look me in the eyes and say, "Ohhhh? And wasn't that special?" And I'll reply with a smile too, "Indeed, Mother. Indeed it was."

I Did Not Die When the Year Did Even Though You Thought So You Thought Wrong

I've had several ideas on my mind lately, regarding the New Year, the Washington DC/Baltimore temple, the doctrine of faith and works, and other things, but I just have not had the time to do justice to any of those subjects. At night I'm thinking, thinking, thinking, but too tired to blog and soon it's the next day and a new opportunity. Disclaimer: Tonight's entry is straight from the hip. Don't be surprised if you see changes later. For now, I'm making amends and getting to it.

I took some great videos of the boys playing recently--Owen "performing" for the camera, Soren talking to the camera and Chantel and Austin dancing. I lost all of it during download from my flash drive to my laptop. pth@$$!%@*^$hhh! That's a raspberry in case you didn't know.

I have finished unpacking and organizing. I even hung pictures. Chantel took a huge box of mostly clothing to a donation station for me. I'm getting my computer work space set up with shelves etc, but I know that some days I will go to an internet cafe somewhere and do my work there instead. It's too easy to play with the boys when I should be catching up on my writing. Of course, catching up is a ridiculous phrase when it comes to writing; there's always more to write about. Lately, I've been thinking about the daunting task of transcribing my personal journals. Yikes. The upside is that someone would probably have to do it anyway as parts of mine are in pencil which won't last. Another upside is the opportunity to do take-backs and do-overs. I'm not so sure that the way I thought 30 years ago would hold any water today. Surely I'm a different person. The downside is I don't know if I really want to read what I wrote so long ago, and the job is a big one but, 'bird by bird' as writer Ann Lamont says.

Brandon has been visiting since the 29th. Tomorrow is our last day with him as Friday he takes the train to New York City for a friend's wedding.

Rolan Andrew Dayley, 4 days old

In honor of Owen's 1st day of kindergarten

Chantel's 1st day of kindergarten and Brandon's 1st day of 3rd grade.Picture day at school. Can you find Chantel? (hint below)

Catching Up is Hard to Do

Graduation weekend--fantastic. Rates right up there with Chantel's wedding and Owen's and Soren's births. The day was gorgeous. The energy I felt, (once I stopped crying and before we marched) was amazing. Such an honor to walk with my good friend Sarah. And what a sweet surprise to see Larry and Clayton making their way past the line in search of me--hugs and and a last minute, "We're proud of you," before the campanile began to ring for a solid minute, announcing the approaching graduates. Chantel and Brandon had found the best seats; I got to walk right past my family and even give Soren a kiss on the way. There isn't one part of the ceremony that stands out as the best part--it was all wonderful. But I will always remember waiting for my turn to cross the podium for my diploma, looking out across the audience and seeing my family--Larry, Brandon, Chantel and Soren, Clayton, my brother Marty, Mike and Rachel, and my friend Marilyn, all smiling and cheering me on with such joy in their beaming faces. I felt so much love from them. I'm a Mills woman! A graduate of the class of 2007. Wow. A long time for this dream to come true, but worth every bit and more. Truly, I am a blessed woman.

Put a Fork in it. We're Done.

The title of our senior thesis reading event at Mills on April 30. Everything I've written so far about that night sounds cheesy or dull, and then...and then...and then... The experience was too big for words. So this is my last attempt. I can't do justice to it, I know, but to say nothing doesn't feel right either.

The words flowed: I knew how to modulate, when to pause, what tone of voice to use.
The room was mine: When I looked out, which I did, often, every eye was on me, with interest.
My family looked expectant; they also looked proud of me. Even before I read.
The applause was great, and the cheering. Zen.
Even my professor was crying.
At the end of the night, strangers were shaking my hand.
Someone said, "Book tour..."

Thank you, dear family, for coming to support me, and for classmates who encouraged me to keep going, especially Sarah Tannehill who is an amazing writer and now, a dear friend. To Gloria who believed in me and believes in me, still. To Brandon who listened to me read aloud and didn't mind his story being told. And to my Telly who has been a constant source of love and support, and who didn't seem to mind doing a long-distance critique at the last minute. Hugs, everyone.