I took my crew out of town for a much-needed change of scenery. We left the house an hour later than planned, and still forgot things, but were too giddy with excitement to care. We all piled in the car and headed North on the 101 to Cambria.
This part of the Central Coast is special to me. I used to come here with my mom when I was a kid. A few years ago we started making it an end of summer tradition. The area has a nostalgic, old-California feel to it, part artsy-hippy, part don’t-tread-on-me-conservative. There is a rawness to the place that feels a little dangerous like at any moment nature will decide we’ve stepped too far and take back this beauty for herself.
We were in the middle of planning our annual trip last summer when our 17-month-old son, Aiden was diagnosed with a brain tumor. So strong was our denial, we thought we might still make the trip happen after his surgery. Aiden didn’t leave the hospital for 45 days and he would be gone within months. Almost a year after his death we are still in shock.
This was our first vacation since Aiden died and his absence was felt by us all. The last time we were in Cambria was our first trip since Aiden was born. Back then, we were just getting used to being a family of five, and now… What? We are a family of four again? I know that’s not right, but this is the mental game of pinball I play in my head on a daily basis.
About 15 minutes into our drive, and right on queue, the kids asked for their iPads. Determined to keep them off technology as much as possible this trip, Nick suggested we play the license plate game where we try and see how many different state license plates we can find. We each made a guess. Peyton and Owen both blurted out 100 and 200 respectively. After we explained how that was impossible Peyton guessed 10, Owen guessed 20, Dad guessed 14, and like the true California-centric person I am, I guessed 4. I lost about 30 miles into the trip.
I told the kids about the “trucker’s salute.” The game where you pump your fist in the air to try and get a trucker to blow their horn. I told them how I read an article that said kids don’t really do this anymore and when it does happen all the truckers get excited and brag to each other about it. I caught the eye of one trucker in a bright pink cab and we all started pumping our fists. He gave me a big smile as he pulled his horn. The kids and I squealed with laughter. I think I was having more fun than they were.
For the rest of the drive, we told knock-knock jokes, listened to music, stared out the window, and I answered the question, “How much longer?” about 20 times.
In the time of COVID, we spend a lot of time together, but there isn’t too much togetherness. I’m home with the kids 24/7, but it’s far from quality bonding time. The kids are distance learning and every 15 minutes or so they need help or a snack or another alarm is going off on my phone signally the start or end to some call they are supposed to be on. Meanwhile, Nick is working long hours and I’m trying to keep up with my never-ending list of things to do.
We needed a break. Something to shake up the monotony of our semi-quaranteen life. We got to be silly and excited, lazy, and content. We played in the ocean and looked for seashells. We saw the zebras at Herst Ranch and laughed at the elephant seals. one morning we saw a bobcat on our front porch. The kids slept in. I sat outside and journaled while Nick went fishing. We played Uno and one entirely too competitive game of Throw Throw Burrito. More than anything, this trip reminded us how much we like each other.
As we were finishing up dinner on our last night, we went around the table and each said what we liked doing most together as a family. Nick, Owen, and I all said the typical things like going to the beach or watching movies, but when it came time for Peyton to share she said, “Well, Aiden is part of our family and he’s not here so I don’t know.” My heart swells and breaks all at the same time. It swells to hear her talk so freely of her baby brother and breaks to know this is her reality. She wasn’t sad or mad, just confused. When I said, “together as a family” her 7-year-old brain had as much trouble understanding the concept as I do.
The other day Owen was writing a personal narrative for his class and we were trying to figure out when something happened. I said, “Well, it couldn’t have been 2018 because Aiden would have been born already.” He said, “No, Aiden was born in 2019.” I said, “No, he was born in 2018.” His face fell as he realized 2019 is when Aiden died. He crumpled in on himself as tears started to roll down his cheeks. I asked him if it was hard to remember Aiden this way. He just nodded and said, but I don’t really want to talk about it. He loves to talk about Aiden, but only the happy stories. I told him I understand, but I just want you to know you are not alone and that I have those punch in the gut moments of grief too.
When you are grieving, it’s not just remembering they died that hurts so much; sometimes, joyful moments hurt worse. Joy is a reminder of what’s missing. When I say things like, “The whole family,” or “Everyone get in the car,” or “We’re all here,” it feels like a lie. When I see my husband and two older children sitting on a rock looking out at the ocean, I can no longer say things like, “All of my heart, all in one place.” We aren’t all here. My heart isn’t all in one place. Sometimes the length it has to stretch seems too far, and I fear I might break. Maybe I already have.
I hate that this is our reality. I hate that my children are learning these lessons so young. I want to protect them from all of it, but I can’t.
This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.
