Ghosts of autumn

Some parts of our lives are just hard and unavoidable. This September column has proved the most difficult so far.

For previous columns, the stories and memories found me. This installment is now in its eighth draft, each one completely different from the others.

Why so difficult? Because the end of September haunts us.

Sept. 29 marked 11 years since Andrew Boyd Howard entered our lives and our family. Celebrating his birthday without him has become oddly easier than we imagined. We plan a family trip out of town. Last year, Beaufort provided waterfront restaurants, shelling on Shackleford Banks and a quiet town for daily walks. This year, we just returned from another adventure in our nation's capital. We revisited D.C. sites that held memories and created new ones for our new family of four.

A fall trip may not sound so challenging emotionally, and it really isn't. It is a blessing to buffer us from the truly hardest day of all: Sept. 28. Sunday marked the second anniversary that Emily, Kathryn, my husband and I were forced to watch as a strong, husky voice became silent, long active legs lay motionless, and a healthy heartbeat disintegrated before our eyes.

Drew died the evening of Sept. 28 just before his ninth birthday. Forever we will join these two days at September's end. They come with a dread, a heaviness, anxiety and tears. We cannot avoid them or run from them.

The final days of September bring a darkness to remind us that impossibilities sometimes become possibilities. They remind us of happy birthday celebrations with Drew. They also remind us all too clearly of that hopeless night when four Howards came home together having left one behind at WakeMed alone.

My goal for this column has been to show that we can find joy and happiness even in our family's tragedy. I always want to leave my readers with hope for solid and meaningful relationships despite pain. But for us, September means we have to work harder to smile, to laugh, to find a reason to go to school, work and church. Our September magnifies Drew's silence.

As we've now survived our second sad September, I can say gratefully that through God's goodness, friends' generosity, care and compassion, and our renewed determination, we have survived 731 days without Drew. Closing out another September helps our grief move forward.

During the past two years, many have wished us comfort through our memories of Drew. After a child's death, though, pain comes from the memories. They ignite the ache, magnify the void, and create confusion. The onset of our pain was sudden, blindsiding us in every way. Drew's virus evidenced itself suddenly Monday after school, went dormant on Wednesday, and returned with a fury on Thursday. One week later I held my son's hand as it changed from warm to cold. The shock created what most grief books call a "fog" that is torture itself. I spent all of last year still hearing my son's footsteps run up the back porch steps, still seeing him at swim meets, still reaching for his favorites at the grocery store. The fog magnifies the confusion and fails to allow my mind to reconcile the truth of our tragedy.

Completing the second year brings a measure of relief as my mind now understands the events and allows me to accept what has been obvious to others: Drew will never return to our home. He will never grow taller than me. He will always be a 9-year-old boy, regardless of how I wish that weren't true.

As September ends today, I want the fog of confusion to lift so I can better parent Kathryn and Emily. As teenagers, they are smart, interesting, beautiful, fun and challenging. We have a few short years before they leave for college. I pray the dark fog lifts so I don't miss any more of their wonderful changes.

As I continue to live out and chronicle our survival story, I hope to enjoy every precious moment with my daughters and my husband. The determination to live fully is the only gift I can offer today in honor of Drew's 11th birthday.

I challenge you, my reader, to choose the same with those in your life.