Bitter > Sweet

Hello World.

Today is December 20, 2012.  My son, Seth, would be 6 years old today, and though I think on him often, (as in every waking moment that I breath), today's thoughts on him were bittersweet.

Bitter because I miss him. A lot.

Sweet because I gave, selflessly.

I will explain.

After Seth passed, I found myself searching...for myself.  Searching for something spiritually tangible that would fill the now overwhelming part of me that was gone.  

What could I do?

How could I heal?

And ever so softly did God whisper to me, "Give".  It was an unction.  A feeling in the core of me that said to give.  Give to children, like Seth, who may have to spend occasions like Christmas or their birthday in the hospital.  Give to these children whose parents may be facing an overwhelming mountain of medical bills and may not be able to give as they would on those occasions.  Or even more, who could care less about a Christmas or a birthday as their sick child may not see the next one.  Those families aren't thinking about gifts.  

They are thinking about life.

And so I thought, how do I give?  Where do I give?

So I created a foundation in memory and honor of my son, The Seth Aaron Wright Foundation.  

Every year, from November to the last Sunday in December BEFORE Seth's birthday, we host a Holiday Toy Drive.  We collect toys and baby items like blankets and hats, and we donate them to the children at The Maria Fareri Children's Hospital @ Westchester Medical Center in Valhalla NY.  This year, our Toy Drive was held on Sunday December 16 at a gym in Middletown NY.  The owner of the gym is a giver, selflessly.  He allows us use of the space to collect for our drive. He is a beautiful spirit.

Today is Seth's birthday.  It is our delivery day for the toys.  It is a bitter and sweet day for me.

One of my besties, Ginny, my daughter, myself, and Ginny's sister Patty.

As we arrived at the hospital to make the delivery, I was on line at the reception area waiting to give my information. There was a lady on the line giving her information and I don't think all of her marbles were in the same jar.  I say that to say, she took a while.  And the longer she was there, the longer I had to stand and wait.  And do nothing.  And wait.

Then it dawned on me.  It is the 'nothing' that leads me to ponder, to think, to remember.

This is when I cry.

The longer that lady tried to figure out how far back she was supposed to stand away from the camera to take her photo for her i.d., the longer I had to ponder.  I gazed around at the lobby as I waited.  I saw the Au Bon Pain where I would go and get my coffee and bagel in the morning when Seth was in the hospital.  I looked behind me at the amazing aquarium that is in the center of the floor, at the fish that had once fascinated and captured Seth's attention.  I looked at the elevator door.  How many times had I gone up and down that elevator with my Seth.

Arriving.

Discharging.

Going for a test.

Going home.

I am now in full tear mode.  And I cannot stop.  

The security guard hurries the lady along so he can get to me.  I pull it together and announce myself and I am back in function mode.  

No more crying.  Though, always remembering.

Once the Toy Drive was over, and I got back home.  A dark sense of natural reality came over me.  I thought about my daughter, how she didn't go to school today and would have to make up her homework before the Winter Recess.  And then I thought on Seth.  

He would be 6 today.

He would be in kindergarten.

He would have homework.

He would be doing it right now at this kitchen table asking me for help, yet I am here alone and that hurts.

He is not here and I miss him. A lot.

This made me cry.  Uncontrollable sobbing.  And I thought about the recent tragedy.  Most of those children were 6.  They were all in kindergarten.  They too had homework.  And next Christmas their mom's and dad's will ponder and think and remember and say, 'my boy would've been 7, in the first grade', and it will hurt.  And they will cry and maybe find themselves where I found myself still one year after my loss.  

Searching.

Our Toy Drive was a tremendous success.  It usually is, whether we collect 1 toy or 1000 toys.  It feels so good to give because no matter how hurt and broken you feel, there is always another soul experiencing a fragment of their loss, and receiving warmth and love from another, especially someone who does know exactly how they feel, is precious.

See you soon!

Always,

Me.