It was almost New Year’s Eve 2000, and the nation was getting ready to celebrate the dawn of a new decade. My husband, Don, and I could care less.

In July of 1999, my husband and I lost our beloved twenty-eight-year-old son when he fell asleep at the wheel. He was our accomplished classical guitarist with a masters in music. He was our handsome, blond-haired treasure that could never be replaced. He was a young man with a fabulous sense of humor, a cherished brother to his siblings, and his bright future was cut way too short.

We never were much for New Year’s Eve celebrations. Oh, we’d gotten together with friends and raised a glass or two over the years on various New Year’s Eves. But the holidays in 1999 and 2000 were some of the toughest days of our entire lives. When you are in early grief, you constantly replay the circumstances surrounding the death of your loved one. It must be nature’s way of making it “sink in” and become real for you, so that you learn to live with this in your life. We certainly were changed forever. We felt far from festive as Christmas faded and New Year’s Eve rolled around.

My husband and I grieved separately in the early years, trying to spare each other, or minimize the pain each of us was experiencing by not sharing it with each other. It took some time before we could come together and share our tears. I remember going to bed around 8 P.M. so that I would not be reminded of happy people lifting their glasses to toast a new year and a new decade. A new year without my son? A future without him in it? It was too unbearable for me to even comprehend or consider.

Each subsequent New Year’s Eve got a little easier, but it was still the policy for me to avoid the group celebrations, the television coverage, and the festivities of New Year’s Eves. Who would want to be around me when my mind was fixed on my terrible loss? How could I celebrate living in a world without my son for yet another year?

At some point in time, it happens. You make the switch. For me it was five years after his death. New Year’s Eve was approaching. Christmas had been a celebration with family that I truly enjoyed. It was the year that I decorated a small tree with his pictures as a memorial, and it felt right. I hung his stocking that I made him as a child and smiled at the memories it brought me.

I had witnessed an episode of Dr. Phil on television where a mother who lost a daughter just could not get over her grief, and it had been TEN years. She was so, so sad and very much STUCK in her grief. I remember Dr. Phil saying to her in so many words, “You had eighteen wonderful years with your daughter, and the only thing that you are dwelling on now is her death. You need to celebrate the wonderful time you had together.” The mother looked up at him and said, “I never thought of it that way.”

I knew that I was also learning to be thankful for the years I had with my child, the blessing of his twenty-eight years. What if I’d never been blessed with knowing him at all? I realized that I could have lost him as a baby, a toddler, a young child, a teenager… but I was blessed with twenty-eight years!

That year, in 2004, my husband and I resolved to celebrate our New Year’s Eve together, remembering and celebrating our Donnie, not mourning him. We looked at photographs and talked about the wonderful times with him.

My husband never made it until midnight, but I did. I stayed awake to welcome 2005, knowing it would be an even better year, because I was learning to go forward with my life. I would always have the sorrow in my life, but it was no longer overwhelming. I could make it my resolution to take forward with me the wonderful memories of my son, the ones that make me smile and subsequently help to soften the pain a little more each year. I raised my glass of wine to God at midnight saying, “Thank you for my wonderful son who blessed my life in so many ways!”

(Chicken Soup for the Soul)

By Christina Coruth

A CD player headset drowned out the background noise as I worked in the living room at my computer. My fingers rushed over the keys as fast as my mediocre typing skills would allow, and my unblinking eyes stared at the monitor. Working in the living room of a small house that is home to three adults and two young children has forced me to develop a new level in my ability to concentrate. I was busy, very busy with my work. I had achieved that state of concentration that allowed me to block out just about anything, a tornado vacuuming up the room around me, if need be.
Then it happened. A tiny rift opened in my concentration as my eye caught a glimpse of an object flying upward through the air. I pulled my mind back to my work. I didn’t even look to see what the object was, or what became of it as I sealed the rift. No sooner had I resumed my work, than laughter opened another rift in my concentration. Now I was getting annoyed. My seven-year-old grandson, Zach, was sitting across the room on the couch. His smile faded as I gave him my most stern, “Hush, I’m working” look.
Although I couldn’t hear him, I could see that he said, “Sorry, Nana.”
Success – another rift sealed and concentration restored. Sometimes children don’t understand that there is a time for play and a time for work. This time is work time and I must get back to it. Clickedy, clickedy over the keys my fingers raced.
Another object whizzed past my peripheral vision, and the music wafting through my headset was no match for Zach’s hearty laughter. Now I was really annoyed. Zach was too busy to see my sternest “Hush, I’m working” look. I followed his gaze to the ceiling as he launched another object, a hair scrunchy. With a quick slingshot motion, the hair scrunchy was airborne – whiz, bump, stuck to the popcorn ceiling. Some people like popcorn ceilings. To me, they look as if someone forgot to smooth out the Spackle. I never had any use for a bump-filled ceiling. Zach, on the other hand, had found a use for the ceiling, which now was adorned with a half a dozen hair scrunchies.
Red, purple and green circles clung to the ceiling, some flat up against it and some hanging down.
I lightened up my stern look a bit. “That’s very funny but you have to stop now. Scrunchies don’t belong on the ceiling.”
“But why not? It’s fun! I won’t break anything.”
I was about to tell him to go get the broom so that I could remove the scrunchies, when his words sunk into my head and reminded me of a time when I would have said, “why not?”also. When had I gotten so serious and so busy that I couldn’t revel in the joy of a moment? What happened to the woman who would send her young children’s friends into fits of giggles upon meeting them for the first time by asking them what they did for work and if they were married and had any children? What happened to the woman who laughed herself silly when her children and husband got into a snowball fight in the kitchen with cookie dough? When did I become so rigid? When did I forget, “Why not?”
Why not indeed! I looked at Zach and couldn’t help but smile.
“Can you show me how to do that?”
His face lit up as he showed me how to launch a scrunchy. His laughter filled the air and his eyes sparkled. The ceiling never looked so colorful and happy with all those red, green, purple and yellow circles, some laying flat and some hanging down. I have to admit, Zach was better at it than I. Most of his attempts hit their mark. Most of mine ended up on the floor.
The following morning, I sat at the computer, ready to begin my work. I looked at the scrunchies still clinging to the ceiling and smiled. I certainly had enjoyed our time putting them up there. I decided I would take them down later. That is, until the ceiling lost its grip on one, and it fell, bounced off my shoulder, and onto the floor. Zach’s smiling face flashed in my mind’s eye. I smiled again. I felt like that woman of years ago who laughed at the cookie dough fight. I picked up the scrunchy and plopped it into my pocket.
When Zach came home from school that day, I was ready. He had given me a precious gift, now it was time to show him that I appreciated it.
“Zach, I’ve been waiting all day for you. Look what I found on the floor. It’s no wonder I can’t find these scrunchies when I need them. Please put this away.” I handed him the scrunchy and he headed toward the door.
“Zach,” I called out to him, “where are you going?”
He turned to me, “I’m going to put the scrunchy away, Nana.”
“Please put it where I can find it.” I shifted my gaze from his sweet little face to the ceiling. A broad smile spread across his face as he realized what I was asking him to do. Whizzzzzz, bump – up it went. It was perfect!
If you come to my house, beware of falling scrunchies. You may wonder why I keep my scrunchies on the ceiling. Zach knows the answer to that question, and now, so do I – “Why not?”

God, please do not let me miss those moments that I could have spent with my child. Let me carry him more often and feel his tiny body gently wrapped in my loving arms. For someday I will not have the strength to pick him up anymore.

Let me hold him close to smell his freshly washed hair and breathe in that wonderful baby scent that covers his delicate skin, for surely he will not smell this deliciously sweet for very long.

Let me enjoy changing his diapers for this gives me the chance to play with his miniature toes, tickle his tummy and make him feel comfortable. Someday he will ask me to leave and shut the door behind me claiming he can manage by himself.

Let me take more walks with him in his stroller while I can look down at his little face that is staring in wonder at this new world all around him. Let me do this often, for soon he will be able to walk on his own and leave the safety of his carriage.

Let me stand beside his crib at night for longer than a moment to watch him surrender to his peaceful slumber. These nights spent in a crib will be replaced soon enough by a much less cozy place for dreams.

Let me make him laugh every day. For I am sure the precious sounds of his first giggles are apt to change with time.

Let me delight in each and every milestone he reaches. Before I know it walking, drinking from a cup and other small miracles he has learned will seem ordinary.

Let me tell him how much I love him. Since there are bound to be times when he will not want to sit still to hear this.

Let me continue to listen attentively to him even after he has mastered the art of talking. Since people tend to listen less closely to a child once language becomes fluent.

Let me make time for peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake and other baby games. There will come a day when he will no longer want to participate in such childish antics.

Let me learn to enjoy the sound of him calling me “Mommy” even if it is yelled through the dripping of tears. For one day I will no longer be “Mommy” to him, but rather just “Mom.”

Let me be the world to him right now because as every mother sadly comes to realize, their babies soon discover the world outside of their mother’s arms.

Let me do these things and so much more, despite being busy, tired or overwhelmed because I would hate to look back and harbor regrets of times gone by that were lost to less important things than my son.

Yes, dear Lord, I want my son to grow up to be a strong, loving and intelligent man, but please Lord do not let this happen overnight because someday memories will be all I have.