Stop All The Clocks

Today It's Your Birthday...

2008-02-17T15:23:00.000-08:00

You would've been 27 today.
Shaylyn would've sung "Happy Birthday, dear Mommy."
We would've called you to wish you a great day.
We would've sent you a fun-filled birthday package.
We would've wished to be with you to help you celebrate.

As we do today.

And always.

We love you, Peachoo.

Unforgettable

2006-05-27T22:00:00.000-07:00

Rachel Elizabeth Scher
February 17, 1981 - May 28, 2005

An unfinished life...

Mother
Daughter
Sister
Granddaughter
Niece
Cousin
Friend

There are absolutely no words to express the sadness we have all felt this past year. We miss you more than we could have ever imagined. In many ways it seems like just yesterday you were taken from us, but it also feels like a lifetime ago.

Twelve months.

1/4 of Shaylyn's life.

An eternity.

But never, ever forgotten.

Love,

Les

Mother's Day

2006-05-14T06:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Rach,

You've been in my thoughts a lot this past week. I keep thinking about what a natural mother you were and how your love for Shaylyn was so apparent to all who knew you. You and I were both about the same age when we became mothers. Other than a few short months, I too was a single parent, struggling with college and work, trying to figure out my own life while raising Amy. As I watched you with Shaylyn, I was constantly amazed by your patience and natural ease with motherhood. I think you were one of the finest young mommies I've ever known and Shaylyn, dear sweet Shaylyn, will carry the love you gave her for the rest of her life. None of us will ever let her forget how much you loved her. We will share with her all the pictures and memories we have of you so that she grows up knowing her mommy loved her more than anything in the whole world.

You're in my thoughts today, as are Debbie and Shaylyn.

Love,

Les

(We'll Remember Always) Graduation Day

2006-05-06T04:00:00.000-07:00

Dear Rach,

A year ago today, we watched you walk across that stage as you graduated from Old Dominion University in Virginia. We were so, so proud of you. Like your dad, I still have trouble with the whole past tense thing. We were (and still are) very proud of all you accomplished in spite of the obvious obstacles in your life. I believe, next to the day you were born, it was the best day of your daddy's life. He couldn't have been happier for you. We all were so happy. And never in a million years would we have ever thought that that visit would be the very last we'd ever see of you.

We miss and love you more than anyone can imagine.

Love,

Les

Easter

2006-04-15T09:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Rach,

Tomorrow is Easter and as usual, I've put this picture of you and Amy out with the other spring decorations. It's always made me smile -- I love the expressions on your faces. And as your dad recently wrote, I can hear your laughter (along with Amy's giggles) that particular Easter Sunday at Nana and Papa's. It must have been raining because I remember an Easter egg hunt inside that small condo! It seems like such a long time ago, but in many ways it almost feels like yesterday.

I miss you, Rach. I think of you every single day. I don't write as often as I did, but you are never far from my thoughts and you're always in my heart.

Love,

Les

It's Out Of My Hands

2006-03-18T07:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

It's been almost two weeks since my last blog entry. Until now, I simply haven't felt compelled to write. Not sure why. I've thought about you just as much as ever, but didn't really have anything specific to write about. Or maybe I did and I just didn't know what to say about it. Let's see where this rambling takes me.

We received an ominous envelope from the Commonwealth Attorney's office in Virginia Beach a couple of weeks ago. Your dad has been subpoenaed to testify in the trial against the man who killed you. I hesitate to state his name here. I don't think there's anything I could say that would jeopardize the trial, but better safe than sorry. Plus, just typing his name (or saying it out loud) is painful. It hurts because we all knew him and welcomed him into our home. I put a lot of thought into the birthday and Christmas gifts we bought for him. I prepared certain favorite meals he'd enjoyed in the past, just as I did for you and Amy. We helped pay for his airline tickets to come out here with you and Shaylyn, and my parents used their frequent flier miles to help fly all three of you to Oregon for a summer visit with us. When we thought of you, we thought of all three of you. All this makes it just that much more painful.

Or does it?

I sit and listen to the parents in the support group your dad and I attend once a month (very similar to Compassionate Friends) and wonder how much more difficult this would be if you'd died a different death. What if you'd taken your own life? Or been killed in a random car accident (maybe due to a drunk driver or falling asleep at the wheel)? Or been killed by a stranger whose identity was never known. Is it easier to be able to point a finger and say "guilty" and know it to be the truth? Or is it even more painful because we trusted this person and now feel an enormous sense of betrayal? Is any death easier??

There's really no sense in asking these questions. None of the answers will bring you back. None of the testimony will bring you back. None of my anger will bring you back. It's going to be extremely painful to sit in that courtroom and actually see the person who pulled that trigger, robbing us of all we'd hoped and dreamed of for you and Shaylyn (and Amy and us). But if Rod's testimony and presence helps the jury to find the defendant guilty, then so be it.

As with everything connected to this nightmare, it's out of our hands.

On the brighter side (which I continue to try to look for these days), we'll get to spend some time with Shaylyn while we're in Virginia in May. How can I not look forward to that? She's all we have left of you.

I love you.

Les

Vogue

2006-03-07T10:06:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

The other day Amy sent me these two pictures which I immediately turned around and sent out in another email with a huge distribution list. I was so excited and proud of her! Your dad sent a quick reply back simply asking, "Is there anybody you didn't send this to??" I laughed and silently agreed that, yah, I did go a little overboard with my gushing pride. But then I stopped short when I realized there was someone I didn't send it to and that made me terribly sad. Of course, if you were still alive, there'd be no need for me to send it -- you would've have seen the pictures long before Rod and I! You and Amy were thick as thieves and always knew what was going on in each other's lives before we did. Oh, how happy and excited you would have been for her!

If I believed in heaven and angels, I could almost allow myself to envision you and Grams sitting up on the ledge of the billboard, smiling at Amy's beautiful face, sharing old stories of when she was little and remarking on how grown up she's become.

I've always enjoyed taking pictures and can remember exactly when I got my first camera (a Kodak Instamatic). I got my first 35mm (a Canon AE-1) when I graduated from high school, made the switch to a digital few years ago and have never looked back. I've been told that I take wonderful pictures, but I think it helps to have a good subject and you and Amy were so easy to photograph. You both grew up into such gorgeous young women with beautiful smiles and twinkling eyes. I'm re-doing all our photo albums and have decided to make one of all the pictures I have of the two of you together. I must have hundreds, but I never dreamed I'd only have 19 years' worth.There were so many more shots I had left to take.

Love,

Les

Every Road Leads Back To You

2006-03-05T12:46:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

This has not been a particularly good weekend. Just when I thought I had a handle on this grief thing, I was blindsided once again. However, understanding the way this apparently seems to work, I know I'll move on and get back to where I was before Friday night. Actually, as I sit here writing, I’m already feeling better. I guess there’s some truth in the belief that writing, whether in a traditional journal or a blog, is therapeutic. It certainly doesn’t seem to hurt.

Your dad is out of town on business (lovely Orlando, Florida which he despises) and gets back very late tonight. I’m sitting at my computer with a cup of lukewarm coffee and a couple (ok, a few) Oreo cookies, thinking about why I had a such a tough time this particular weekend (as opposed to when Rod was in Vegas on business in January). I think it’s a combination of two specific incidents that brought the sadness back to the surface, along with Rod’s absence and not feeling like I need to choke back the tears and keep myself from crying. I know he doesn’t expect me to hold it all in, but I think he and I both try to keep our emotions in check these days, not wanting to cause the other any more pain. For the most part, from an outsider’s vantage point, we probably look like we’re doing ok. And we probably are. Until something comes along to knock us down again. I suppose, eventually, it will get easier and we won’t have so many of these “firsts” but it’s very draining at times.

The first bout of melancholy was brought on Friday night as I was watching a movie. I usually watch movies Rod has no interest in when he’s out of town (or busy writing a new computer program or a column for the magazine) . You know, “chick flicks.” Last night’s was Elizabethtown with Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst. I didn’t much care for the first half (a little too silly), but boy, it really started to tug at my heartstrings the further along I got. I suspect the whole theme about death and the people who are left behind is what did it for me. I’m trying to remember exactly when I started to cry – had to have been the scene at the memorial service when Susan Sarandon (the widow) started tap dancing to Moon River, with a muted video montage of her husband (Bloom’s father) playing behind her. I think Rod’s absence allowed me to just lose it without worrying about how he’d react to seeing me sob over a silly movie (not that he’d mind, but I suppose subconsciously I’d try to hold it together a little better than I did).

It’s been 9 months since you died, and it’s been quite a while since I’ve cried like that, but that scene really brought back some memories of your funeral – sitting in the front row with Amy on one side and your dad on the other and seeing out of the corner of my eyes each of their shoulders shaking as they both cried endlessly during the entire service. I almost turned the movie off, but decided to take a quick break, grab a piece of cake, dry my eyes and finish watching. I’m so glad I did. I loved watching the finale with Orlando Bloom on his road trip with the accompanying soundtrack at the end (might need to buy that cd!). I wasn’t aware that the movie was a Cameron Crowe production and kept thinking something about it reminded me of Almost Famous. Now I know why.

Your dad and I took a similar road trip back to Lincoln from Virginia Beach after spending those 10 days or so with your mom and Shaylyn right after you died. We decided to drive your car back to Lincoln (we had flown out) and wound up traveling through some beautiful parts of the country: Virginia (we fell in love with Lexington), West Virginia, Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois, and Iowa. We didn’t rush (I think we were on the road for 4 days), but we also didn’t spend a lot of time sight-seeing. The trip was emotionally draining, yet cathartic for both of us. It turned out to be a good means to ease back into reality. The long hours in the car were very conducive for rambling conversations about how we were coping. We shared our thoughts of sadness, anger, shock, worry; validating each other's emotional state of mind. I don’t think we would have been quite as emotionally prepared (such as we were) to return to our former lives in Lincoln had we just gotten on a plane and flown home.

I have no idea if you ever dreamed of taking a road trip with a friend (perhaps Candace or Amy?). I have this vague idea that you mentioned it years ago when you first got your license, maybe talking about making a trip out to San Diego to visit your grandparents. But did you ever dream about doing it as you got older? You certainly loved to travel, but I suspect the demands in your life pushed the desire to the backburner.

The second incident occurred last night. Rod and I had been invited to a small dinner party at Dave and Heidi’s and I went ahead without him. Dave and Heidi are such wonderful people and we love them like family. I knew it’d be a good time. And for the most part, until the last 20 minutes or so, it was. There were a few people there I didn’t know, but that was fine. I had fun chatting over appetizers and drinks, laughing and pretty much having a nice time. I missed having Rod with me, but still had fun in spite of his absence. Then out of the blue, one of the women asked if I had any children. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even look at anyone for fear I’d start sobbing. Poor Heidi looked aghast and graciously tried to help explain the situation to her friend and I was finally able to choke out my response that yes, I have two, but you died last year. Of course everyone felt horrible and I felt terrible for the obvious discomfort everyone else was feeling, especially the poor woman who asked the question. But we all managed to get through the awkwardness and actually talked briefly about how Rod & I were coping and how Community Friends (the support group we attend) has helped and even addressed this exact situation -- and then we moved on to a lighter subject. But by then the damage was done and I knew I needed to go home.

Rod and I have known this specific question would eventually come up (and I’m sure Amy will meet someone someday who will ask if she has any brothers or sisters), but being prepared isn’t the same as actually facing a stranger and groping for the right words (or any words) to answer the question. And there’s absolutely no way I could act as if all was fine and just say, “yes, I have a daughter in college in Texas” and leave it at that. Maybe other parents can do this (perhaps it depends on the situation and who's asking the question), but the only response I could ever give is the one I gave. I am not your mother and I never tried to take Debbie’s place, but I loved you like a daughter (just as Rod has loved Amy) and I will continue to tell anyone who asks that, yes, I have two children – a daughter who attends college in Fort Worth, Texas and another daughter who was killed on May 28th, 2005 at the age of 24.

And now it’s another day. The sun is shining and it’s a balmy 55 degrees. I’m feeling better (writing always helps) and think I’ll take advantage of the gorgeous day and head out on the bike trail for a long walk. Maybe while I’m walking, I’ll start putting together a mental list of all the places I’d like to see across the country and really start planning a long road trip to take with Rod. Kind of like John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. All we need is an old beat-up camper and a standard poodle. And coincidentally a good friend was just trying to convince us of buying one of their labradoodles! Travels with Cosmo. It has a nice ring. I wonder if we could just borrow him for a couple of weeks.

I love you, Rach.

Les

P.S. The blog title (Every Road Leads Back to You) is off the soundtrack to For The Boys, one of your favorite movies back in the mid-90's. Hmmm, maybe I should compile a playlist from all these blog entries and make my own soundtrack for a road trip. Or not. Might just be too damned sad to actually listen to.

A Moment of Forever

2006-02-24T18:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

It’s that time of year when the weather can’t seem to make up its mind, teasing us with heavenly temps as it did today (a whopping 64 degrees in February!), or reminding us exactly where we live with bitterly cold mornings as we experienced last Friday (with a bone-chilling negative 2 degrees). Your dad and I were laughing later in the week as we realized one has lived too long in the Midwest when a morning temp of 10 degrees is something in which to rejoice.

Every year, just about this time, I begin to wonder what ever possessed us to move from beautiful, sunny San Diego to Lincoln where the weather is always the topic of conversation. But just as I start my annual whine to Rod, I see the first hints of spring -- the tips of the tulip & daffodil bulbs peeking out from under the mulch; the ubiquitous gardening catalogs spilling from the mailbox; pitchers & catchers reporting to spring training; and that pesky rabbit who knows exactly where my coral bells and yarrow are planted, eager to nibble at the first sign of any foliage. I don’t recall much of a change in seasons when we lived near the beach (unless you count the Santa Ana winds and brush fires as part of a season). The palm tree fronds didn’t bud out in March; the tarantulas and rattlesnakes ignored any new growth on the oleander bushes and aloe vera plants; and we never worried about snow filling up the basement window-wells. After all, there was no snow, and no basements, either. So, I really don’t mean it when I whine and stomp my feet and say I miss California. But I do get awfully anxious for spring (and then summer... and then fall...) right about now.

I realize we still have several more weeks of winter, with a very real possibility of at least one or two big snow storms, but I can’t help but feel the itch to dig in the dirt and get started on my new shade garden on the east side of the garage. I’ve always enjoyed gardening and spring in Nebraska is so much more exciting than in San Diego. All those perennials that have been lurking beneath the cover of mulch (or snow) slowly emerge, looking fresh and healthy, bringing a smile to my face as I sip my morning coffee and wander around the yard, checking to see what else has sprung forth from its winter slumber. OK, and maybe checking the downspouts to make sure they haven't come loose during the past six months, threating to flood the basement in the first spring downpour.

I don’t think you had the chance to appreciate the incredible delight a garden can bring. You were just beginning to discover the joy of cooking and reading for pleasure, but without a home of your own, a yard was simply a place for Shaylyn to run around in, burning off the boundless energy of two-year-old, chasing the dog, tumbling down a slide, or digging in a sandbox. You might have enjoyed the beauty of someone else’s garden, but you had yet to own your own home and dig your own flower bed. Yet that didn’t prevent you from appreciating the beauty of flowers. Star-gazer lilies were a favorite and coincidentally, last Friday we received a gorgeous bouquet from Dad and June in memory of you on your birthday, and nestled in amongst all the other spring blossoms were four Star-gazer lilies! I found myself smiling every time I walked past the arrangement. Simply perfect.

During your last summer visit to Lincoln, we decided to wander around the Sunken Gardens, hoping to take advantage of the beautiful setting for our annual Christmas card photo. We’d done this once before, many years ago when you and Amy were still fairly young. Could it have been almost ten years ago?? In any case, you had been to the Sunken Gardens but never had the chance to see it after its major renovation last year. As a matter of fact, I have yet to visit the newly renovated Gardens and am anxious to see it this coming spring. And thank to some truly wonderful friends, your memory will live within the beautiful landscaping for years to come. Quite literally, forever. Linda, Bob, Scott, Cindy, Cami and Chad touched our hearts with their loving birthday remembrance of A Flower Forever in the Sunken Gardens. I don’t believe you ever knew any of these friends of ours, although both Linda and Scott worked with your dad at Cliffs Notes and Class.com, so you may have met them at some point in the last 12 years. However, I think they all feel like they’ve come to know you over the years, and most especially this past year, as they’ve helped us deal with our loss -- listening to us when we needed to talk, hugging us when the tears flowed, and consoling us over these dark, dark months. These are the folks who make up what I often referred to as our “gourmet dinner club.” I don’t know where we’d be today without the loving support of this special group of friends. Quite honestly, it has been the unending support of all of our friends, near and far, that have given us the courage and strength to go on with our lives.

A Flower Forever. Forever. That’s a long, long time!

Yet spring is just 24 days away and I can’t wait to wander around the Sunken Gardens. It just better not snow!

Grandpa (tell me ’bout the good old days)

2006-02-19T05:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Today is Papa Bill's 75th birthday. Until our mass exodus from California (me, Amy and your dad to Nebraska; you and your mom to Virginia; and Nana and Papa to Oregon), the two of you celebrated your birthdays together. I'm not sure how many candles we put on the cakes!

Thinking about those birthday celebrations, not just yours and Papa Bill's, but all the cousins' and aunts' and uncles', brings back such happy memories. Sure it was noisy and chaotic, but that was part of the fun. Even though we all lived in San Diego County, we often didn't get together until it was time to celebrate the next birthday. Of course, with a big family, that didn't take too long. I think we had every month covered!

Nana and Papa welcomed you (and your daddy) into our family with open arms, never once thinking of you as a step-granddaughter. They loved you and mourn your death with deep, deep sadness.

I wish we could all be in Oregon to help Bill celebrate his milestone birthday, but we'll be there in spirit.

All of us.

Love,

Les

Forever Young

2006-02-17T13:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

Today is your birthday. You would've (should've!) turned 25.

This week has been pretty awful for us. It feels like a dark cloud has been hovering, casting a pall over everything we do (or try to do). It feels like depression, but then that's what grief feels like. It feels like we're back to those early days when emotions were close to the surface and all we wanted to do was hide away from the demands of everyday life. I want to crawl back in bed, pull the sheets over my head and stay there until the sun comes out again. Which it will. And I will. But for now, I'm just going to think about you and remember your smile and allow myself to miss you, even though it hurts so damned much.

Your mom mentioned that she's had a tough week and I suppose Amy has, too. Hell, anyone who knew you and knows what today is must be feeling pretty sad. This is such a more difficult day than Thanksgiving and Christmas (and those weren't exactly easy). This is your day. And a milestone to boot. But you won't be out celebrating with your friends tonight. And from here on out, you will remain forever young in our hearts and minds.

I've had a tough time trying to figure out what to do for your birthday. Obviously it's not a day we feel like celebrating, but we do want to celebrate the life you lived for 24 years. Some people like to release balloons or have a party with cake & ice cream to mark the birthday of a loved one who has died. Neither of these appealed to us, but I hated the thought of not doing anything. So we'll have a quiet dinner with friends and raise our glasses in your honor.

As far as a gift, we decided to make a contribution to a local women's shelter. Your murder was the ultimate example of domestic abuse and we felt it only appropriate to make the donation to Friendship Home in your memory. It's the least we can do.

Happy Birthday, Peachoo.

I miss you.

Love,

Les

Frosty the Snowman

2006-02-11T10:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

It snowed this morning. Pretty wimpy storm, though. I doubt we even got an inch. We really haven't had much of a winter this year. I shouldn't complain, but I'd really like a bit more snow. Just 3-4 inches. Preferably on the weekend so I can enjoy it from inside. Not too cold either. Not too much to ask, right?

We get a daily newsletter (via email) from Shaylyn's preschool and yesterday her teacher mentioned that it had snowed. I don't think Virginia Beach gets a lot of snow, so Shaylyn must've been very excited. It reminded me of how much fun you and Amy used to have when we go to Nana and Papa's cabin in Big Bear. Growing up in San Diego, you didn't get to see much snow so a winter trip to the cabin was always lots of fun. After making a few snow angels and the obligatory snowman, you and Amy would slide down the hill on saucers (your dad and I even got in on this!). I think at some point Amy decided to skip the saucer and went down on her tummy instead.

Those were fun times.

Maybe we'll get a heavy snow in another winter or two when Shaylyn is visiting. I'm sure her Aunt Ammy would love to help her build a snowman and teach her how to make a snow angel. Not sure about sliding down any hills, though. This is Nebraska. ;)

Love,

Les

The Day the Music Died

2006-02-03T13:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Last weekend your dad sold his electric guitar on Ebay. Made more than he originally paid. Wonder why this never happens when he sells a car (or house!).

It's been over eight months since the music died at the Scher's house. FatBlueCat ceased to exist on May 28th. After more than a dozen years of standing in a kitchen, listening (and occasionally singing along - hoping nobody could actually hear me) to Rod and his band practice classic rock for a couple of hours once a week, the band packed up and gave me back my laundry room.

I miss hearing Brown Eyed Girl, Tiki Bar, Give Me One Reason and Better Things. I miss sitting out on the porch chatting with Rod, Steve, Ray and Kim before practice and joining them for a beer during their break. I miss the thrill of watching your daddy lose himself to the joy of drumming before a real live audience (sometimes even getting paid to do so!). I became the unofficial band roadie, but I felt more like a groupie. These guys were really good! And I always hoped you and Amy could manage to time one of your visits so you could hear them play. Who knows. You might have even recognized a song or two.

We got up early on the morning of your murder. We'd loaded the drums the night before and planned to have a light breakfast before heading down to the Farmers' Market for the gig we'd all been looking forward to. After a couple of disturbing phone messages and a call to your mom, we'd learned that something was terribly wrong, but at that point didn't really know anything specific. We didn't know where you were. We were both desperate not to utter a single word that might tip the balance of fate and simply hoped you were safe and unharmed, merely scared and possibly in shock after witnessing the horror of that early morning nightmare. A nightmare we had yet to learn of.

Rather than sit and wait for the phone call that would forever change our lives, we drove downtown, prepared to keep our original plans with the band. Who were we kidding?? Rod simply couldn't allow himself to think the worst. Maybe he felt if he could go along with the original plan, he could keep the nightmare from unfolding. I wasn't as brave. I had a terrible sinking feeling, somehow knowing we'd need to be on the earliest flight out to Virginia (hoping the worst case scenario would be a rush to a hospital bedside, not wanting to even imagine anything worse than that). I even went so far as to look up some flight options on Travelocity, shaking my head and muttering to myself, "You're such a worrier. Be optimistic!"

I wish that's all it could take to keep that awful news from coming our way.

It was a beautiful morning. Summer was just around the corner. The sun was out and I had originally hoped to bask in its warmth as I listened to the music with some of our friends who planned to join me.

I don't remember what we said as we drove downtown to the Haymarket. I may have been silently saying, "Please, please, please, please, please" while Rod was focused on simply getting through the each minute without falling apart.

We never even unloaded the drums. The call came from the detective just as we pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. It still breaks my heart to think of all that died in that single moment.

I have no idea how we managed to drive back home, but we did and the band (and various friends) appeared on our front porch to comfort me yet allowed your daddy the privacy he so needed as he wandered back and forth from the house to the back deck. I finally got a hold of Amy. I hated having to call her with such terrible, terrible news. My heart broke all over again. God, what an awful, awful day.

When we first moved to Lincoln in '92 your dad happened to mention that he'd always wanted to learn how to play the drums. He also said he'd always asked his mom for a pony for his birthday. I encouraged him to buy a drum kit and take lessons (notice how I wisely ignored the pony hint?). That's all it took. A friend introduced us to an incredible guitarist and from that moment on there was always a band in the house. As with all bands, I suppose, members came and went depending on their own life circumstances (and of course we moved to Texas, but Rod was able to find a group of guys to play with for the short time we were there). But through all the changes, Rod and Steve stuck together, even practicing when they were between bass and rhythm guitar players.

The drums were never unpacked from their travel cases. A friend bought them last summer. The electric guitar was shipped to a stranger in Las Vegas. However, an accoustic guitar remains in the living room and every so often Rod will pick it up and play a song or two (as I type, I can hear him playing it right now). And just the other night, as we were driving home from having dinner out with some good friends, Rod began to sing the first few lines of song that I hadn't heard him sing in over a year. It almost made me cry, realizing the music will never really die. Just as your memory will never die. It's a part of who we are and of who we've become.

Maybe some day Shaylyn will decide she wants to play the drums. I'm sure Debbie (or any sane grandmother) wouldn't appreciate Nanny and Grandpa sending her a drum kit for her birthday. But if Shaylyn ever decides she wants to pick up some sticks, I know someone who'd be more than happy to give her a few pointers. Hmmm, maybe we can find a digital kit on Ebay...

Love,

Les

Brown Eyed Girl

2006-01-26T15:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

So many people have commented on how much Shaylyn looks like you. I hadn't seen it until today when I came upon this recent photo I took and was instantly reminded me of one your dad took of you when we lived in Texas. At just three-and-a-half, Shaylyn appears to have a lot of your mannerims. It's no wonder Rod had such a difficult time when we visited her earlier this month.

Love,

Les

Colors of the Sun

2006-01-24T03:50:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

I wonder if you ever read the poem that inspired me when trying to come up with a name for this blog. You might have studied it in school, but I'd be willing to bet you heard it recited in Four Weddings and A Funeral (unless you avoided that movie, sharing your dad's aversion to anything with Hugh Grant). I think that's when I first heard it. I'm not much of a lover of poetry, but this has always been one of my favorites.

As your dad mentioned in his blog, your old bedroom is full of sun & moon decorations, many of which I bought for birthday and Christmas gifts. I wonder if your mom will ever "pack up the moon and dismantle the sun"...

I kind of hope not.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden

Love,

Les

So Far Away

2006-01-18T18:57:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

We’re home. We spent four days in Virginia Beach with Shaylyn and your mom. As I expected, it was pretty rough returning to VA. We’ve only been there three times. The first was for your high school graduation. The second for your college graduation. The last for your funeral. It was tough. But I so loved spending time with Shaylyn. She is such a joy to be around. Well, for the most part. She is three and knows very much what she wants (and doesn’t want). I don’t know how Debbie manages, but in some ways it must be a good distraction.

As Rod said, I don’t know how I could live in that house. It’s filled with all your things. Your mom was kind enough to let us stay with there so we’d have more time with Shaylyn, but oh, there were some rough moments. Especially for your daddy. Everywhere we turned, there were pictures of you. You as a baby, you as a young girl, you as a mommy. Your room is now the guest room, but the armoire, dresser and closet still contain a lot of your clothes. Your makeup is still on the bathroom counter. Debbie has done a lot, but you’re still there. I don’t know how she does it, but then I have no idea what I’d do in her shoes.

We spent a few hours at Shaylyn’s preschool. You did a great job selecting it! She seems very happy there and her teachers are wonderful. We got a full tour and then stayed for a Shabbot sing-along. Shaylyn didn’t feel like singing and I didn’t push since she preferred curling up in my lap to snuggle. Pure bliss for this Nanny.

Shaylyn and I read dozens of books, played with her toys, did a little shopping and helped Grandpa make his delicious buttermilk pancakes.I took over 180 pictures! Deleted quite a few, but still wound up with far too many. She’s a beautiful little girl and very, very bright. I wish we lived closer. Not just to see her, but to help Debbie out when she needs a break.

Debbie invited a few of your friends over for a casual dinner party on Saturday night. Leena, Chad, Eric, Teri and Candace all came. I spent a long time talking with Candace and am absolutely amazed by her strength and courage. I feel like I have some answers but none that will change what happened on that awful day last May. Even if I did, you’d still be gone. Nothing can change that.

I know it was very difficult for your dad to take this trip, but I’m glad we did. I think it was important for all four of us.

More than anything, I wish you'd been there, too.

Love, Les

Leaving on a Jet Plane

2006-01-12T08:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

We survived the holidays and now we're heading out to Virginia to see Shaylyn. Returning to your old house will stir up some memories I'd rather not think about, but I'm anxious to see Shaylyn. It's been almost 8 months.

I can't speak for Rod or Amy, but I thought Christmas went better than I anticipated. Not great, mind you, but not nearly as horrible as I thought it would be.

We spent a lovely evening with Chris, Jen and the girls on Christmas Eve. As I thought, the kids made me laugh and it was very nice to be with family.

Christmas Day was spent with our wonderful friends, Dave & Heidi Schneider. They had quite a houseful, but we knew almost everyone there and had a very nice day. It was the next best thing to being with family.

You were never far from my thoughts during either of these gatherings, but I kept busy and didn't allow myself to start wallowing in grief. As a matter of fact, I spent a good chunk of time both Christmas Eve and Christmas morning baking shortbread cookes and rugelach to deliver to friends the following week. Busy is good.

Amy was here for her visit last week and we had a very nice time with her. Instead of opening our gifts in the morning as we've always done, we did it after dinner the night after she arrived. There were a few times I choked up with emotion over your absence, but for the most part it was enjoyable and we actually found ourselves laughing a couple of times. We were even brave enough to mention your name once or twice and none of us fell apart. At least not on the outside.

Last night I found myself thinking about where I am in this whole grief process. I feel like I'm mentally checking items off a list of "events" to get through in order to move forward with my life. Last month I realized I hadn't "acknowledged" the anniversary of your death on the 28th. I was surprised and a bit sad that I'd forgotten - not you, but rather the significance of the date - but then it's not really a date I want to remember. Anyhow, we've gotten through the six-month anniversary, Thanksgiving, my birthday, and Christmas. We still have your birthday, Rod's, Mother's Day, and the one-year-anniversary to get through. And the trial. 2006 may be a new year, but we still have a lot of hurdles to overcome. I may be doing a lot more baking in the months to come.

I can't wait to kiss your baby tonight.

Love,

Les

Photograph

2005-12-31T10:04:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

Just some random thoughts today....

It's the last day of the year. The worst year of my life. The worst year of many, many people's lives. I've only had a couple of really bad years - the year my mom and dad divorced and the year that Steve and I divorced - but they don't compare to 2005. Mom & Dad both remarried wonderful, loving people who have enriched many lives. Steve and I both remarried and I truly believe we're both living our "happily ever after." In spite of the pain endured in these two examples, life did get better and there were happy endings.

I honestly don't see what good can ever come from your death. And while I'm thankful this terrible year is just about over, I know we still face a lot of hurdles in the year to come. It has to be a better year. I don't think any of us can take much more. We'll start the New Year with a long-anticipated visit from Amy and then a visit out to see our Little Princess in Virgina. Nice to have something to look forward to.

I heard an old George Harrison song today and thought of you.

"Every time I see your face
It reminds me of the places we used to go
But all I've got is a photograph
And I realize you're not coming back anymore"

I'm forever thankful for all the beautiful pictures we have of you.

Love,

Les

Hearts in Armor

2005-12-25T19:35:00.000-08:00

'Twas the Day Before Christmas

2005-12-24T11:41:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

Well, now it's sunny and a balmy 40. Almost feels like one of those San Diego Christmases when we'd turn on the air conditioner in order to have a fire in the fireplace!

I have a couple more favorite pictures I wanted to post.

Love,

Les

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2005-12-24T08:49:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

It’s Christmas Eve. Cold (37) and drizzly - no snow in the forecast. We'll head over to Chris & Jen's later this afternoon for dinner and gifts. It’ll be nice to spend the evening with them. The little girls are apt to provide the humor we all so desperately need right now.

I'm going to do some baking this morning. I find a lot of comfort in my kitchen these days and want to get some treats baked to take to a few of our friends early next week.

I keep looking at all the pictures I took last Christmas and remember how much fun we all had. These are a few of my favorites.

Love,

Les

Please, Mister Postman

2005-12-20T14:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

There’s been quite a flurry of Christmas cards arriving this past week. Until very recently glossy, thick catalogs were crowding our mailbox (it never ceases to amaze me how many we receive between Halloween and Christmas!), but it’s been days since I’ve seen one and I’m sure our mailman is breathing a huge sigh of relief.

I’ve always loved getting mail, smiling to myself when I discover a hand-addressed envelope in familiar writing buried amidst the bills and junk mail. It’s such a rare treat these days. Grandmommy and Miss Leslie (my godmother, whom you never met) both kept in touch with me, sending long, newsy letters all in pretty cursive writing on gorgeous stationery. Mom and a few of my closest friends used to send long, chatty letters, but then email became the norm, and to be honest, it’s just too easy and immediate to avoid. I rarely write letters by hand anymore.

But Christmas cards still arrive via snail-mail and every December I look forward to sitting down each afternoon with the daily stack, savoring the letters (I know a lot of people complain or joke about these, but I love them) and admiring the photographs, always surprised at how much older the children look. I don’t feel that much older, so how can they be college graduates or married with children of their own??

This year’s Christmas cards evoke bittersweet feelings in the Scher home. It feels irrational to find myself not being happy for everyone else’s good news, but I suspect it’s quite normal for bereaved parents to have this almost uncharitable feeling when they look at the photographs of happy, smiling families or read about all the wonderful events that took place during the past year. It boils down to pure envy. I wish we were writing about the great times we had this past summer, proudly showing off pictures of our girls. And there were good things to write about (your college graduation… Amy’s return to TCU, majoring in Fashion Merchandising… her upcoming trip to Paris… Shaylyn’s achievements in her new preschool… and the incredible love and support from family and friends for not only our loss, but for Chris & Jen with their terrible scare with Chris’ cancer). But all this is overshadowed by your death and no positive thinking and “chin up” attitude is ever going to change the fact that you are gone. Even your little princess knows you’re never coming back. Ever.

In spite of my mixed emotions, I am very grateful to all those friends and relatives who sent Christmas cards to us this year. We are very fortunate to have so many people who care about us.

And who miss you, as well.

Love,

Les

I Think About You

2005-12-18T14:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Christmas is a week away and you’ve been in my thoughts a lot today as I tackled some neglected housework. I found myself thinking about previous Christmases spent with you, Amy, Shaylyn and your daddy.

I came across this picture recently and while I don't remember too much about that specific day, I do know that you and Amy had a lot of fun decorating those gingerbread cookies.

Love,

Les

Call Me

2005-12-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

I've come to the conclusion that try as I might, I have no control over my grief. It's one thing to intellectually understand that certain objects, conversations and events will bring me sadness, but it's another to know it emotionally.

I've been preparing myself for the holidays ever since we returned from Virginia last June. Every book on death and grief mentions the difficulty families and loved ones face during the first year, particularly during the holiday season. I was fully prepared to fall apart as I hung your ornaments on the Christmas tree last week, but surprisingly I was fine. No tears, just nice memories of you and all the Christmases we spent together as a family. I was also expecting to fall into a blubbering mess when I hung your stocking with the others. Nope. That emotional landmine blew up in my face back in June when I came across the picture of you pointing to your stocking. Christmas carols don't pose too much of a problem since I decided early on to avoid the radio until after New Year's Day. I broke with tradition and wrapped gifts listening to Tom Petty, Lyle Lovett, Alan Jackson, and Van Morrison. This was not the year to listen to George Winston or Nat King Cole (your dad would say every year is not the year to listen to George Winston).

See. You just have to plan and prepare. Mind over matter. Complete control.

Wrong. Yesterday my guard was down. I hadn't prepared. It was my birthday. 44 years old and for the first time in my life I feel every bit my age.

I had a lovely day. I got to sleep in and go to work a bit later than usual, thanks to my very considerate and thoughtful brother and sister-in-law. I had fun playing with Miss Maddie and Emily, both of whom were perfect little angels for their Auntie's special day. I had several phone calls, messages and birthday cards from friends and family, helping make my day extra special. I treated myself to an hour-long massage which was pure bliss (so much so, I booked another for next Friday). Your daddy took me out for a quiet, romantic dinner followed by cake and gifts at home. It was one of the nicest, most peaceful birthdays I've had in a long time.

And then it hit me. As we were getting ready for bed, I was overwhelmed with uncontrollable sadness. I know you're dead and I know I will never hear your voice again, but in my "year of magical thinking" (to borrow from Joan Didion's book of the same title), I so wanted to hear you wish me a happy birthday - on the phone - as you always have, year after year. I don't think I really expected you to, but the absence of your call was lurking behind every corner of my day, waiting to catch me unaware and prove to me that I am not in control.

This morning, swollen eyes and achy head, I thought about the unbearable sadness that came over me last night. And then I thought about Rod. You and I talked and emailed fairly regularly, but not nearly as often as you and your daddy. He spoke with you several times a week (and much more frequently in the last year, as you were gearing up for graduation and a job search). I can't begin to fathom the agony he must feel every single day when those phone calls don't come.

And then I thought of Debbie. How she must feel, after almost seven months of waiting for you to walk through the door and shout, "Hey, Mom! I'm home!"

Didion states, "Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be." I don't know what I expected, but this is so much harder than I ever imagined.

Love,

Les

Light One Candle

2005-12-11T15:34:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Tonight, all over the world, parents are lighting a candle in memory of a child that has died. From the Compassionate Friends organization:

The ninth annual Worldwide Candle Lighting, held the second Sunday in December around the globe, is an opportunity for bereaved families everywhere to remember and celebrate the lives of children who have gone too soon. Families are invited to attend any of the hundreds of formal services throughout the United States and the world or to light a candle in the privacy of their home. You do not need to be a member of The Compassionate Friends to participate.

I Googled "candle" and "lyrics" trying to come up with a title for this entry and came upon a song I've never heard of. Many of the lines brought tears to my eyes so I decided to simply include the song in its entirety.

Light one candle for the maccabee children
With thanks that their light didn't die
Light one candle for the pain they endured
When their right to exist was denied
Light one candle for the terrible sacrifice
Justice and freedom demand
But light one candle for the wisdom to know
When the peacemaker's time is at hand

Chorus:
Don't let the light go out!
It's lasted for so many years!
Don't let the light go out!
Let it shine through our love and our tears.

Light one candle for the strength that we need
To never become our own foe
And light one candle for those who are suffering
Pain we learned so long ago
Light one candle for all we believe in
That anger not tear us apart
And light one candle to find us together
With peace as the song in our hearts

(chorus)

What is the memory that's valued so highly
That we keep it alive in that flame?
What's the commitment to those who have died
That we cry out they've not died in vain?
We have come this far always believing
That justice would somehow prevail
This is the burden, this is the promise
This is why we will not fail!

(chorus)

Don't let the light go out!
Don't let the light go out!
Don't let the light go out!

(Peter, Paul and Mary)

At 7:00 a candle will be lit in Lincoln, Nebraska in loving memory of you, the light of so many lives. At 7:00 EST another candle will be lit in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Your mommy and daughter are attending a service to commemorate their love for you.

We love and miss you.

Love, Les

Hello, It's Me

2005-12-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

I talked to Amy a few hours ago and it sounds like she's having a good birthday. She had over 7 minutes of voicemail messages when she woke up this morning and guess what? Her favorite of all came from your baby, Shay Shay! She was so surprised and happy to hear Shaylyn's voice. Probably the best gift she's received all day.

Love,

Les

My Sister, My Friend

2005-12-10T03:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Today is Amy's birthday. I can hardly believe it's been 22 years since she was born. Three days after her birth I turned 22. So young, yet so happy to be her mommy. Sound familiar? You were close to that age when you had Shaylyn.

You helped Amy celebrate 19 birthdays - some in person, but the majority from across the country via telephone. I remember when Amy turned 3 (you were not quite 6). We had a birthday celebration at Nana and Papa's house in Carlsbad and Amy had yet to master the art of opening gifts. She'd tear off a little piece of the wrapping paper and hand it to me to throw in a trash can. You were so patient and made us all laugh with your contagious giggle as you tried to explain how to get to the actual gift more quickly.

You two formed a quick and solid friendship, much more than most sisters at that age. And as you got older, the bond became even stronger. Your dad and I were pleasantly surprised to learn that you'd started calling each other on a regular basis. We were so happy to know that you could turn to each other for help or advice...What should I do about this guy who keeps calling? Do you think Dad and Les will be angry about such and such? Should I buy the shoes AND purse?

You flew out to Fort Worth to surprise Amy (and your dad!) when she graduated from high school (that was so much fun to plan with you) and she flew out to visit you and Shaylyn for her 2nd birthday. I knew you'd always be close in spite of the geographical distance. I even envisioned you living in the same big city some day. Or at least taking trips together, as you both loved to travel.

One of my proudest moments as a mother was watching Amy stand up before hundreds of mourners and talk about her love for you, her sister, her friend. She reminisced about the times you two would sneak down to the kitchen and eat ice cream straight from the container. You both thought you were getting away with something but we knew all along and let you have your fun. I wish I could remember that entire eulogy, but I was so wrapped up in her grief as well as my own (and Rod's and Debbie's) that part of me was mentally holding her up as she spoke, hoping to send her some strength and courage to finish without breaking down completely. It was the proudest, yet one of the most painful moments in my life. Oh, how I wish I could've have protected her from such pain and sadness. And how I wish I could have done something, anything, to protect you from the danger that brought us to where we are today.

I find that I can't think of you without thinking of Amy. I must have hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures of the two of you, bringing to mind just as many happy memories, making me smile. So today, on your little sister's birthday I'm thinking of both of you and the love and laughter you shared. Sisters and friends.

Love,

Les

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas

2005-12-04T07:36:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Only 3 weeks 'til Christmas. This would have been my 20th Christmas with you.

December has always been my favorite time of year. Amy's birthday on the 10th and mine on the 13th. Yet the biggest thrill has always been the excitement of our girls coming home. Christmas was especially meaningful to me and your dad since it was one of the two annual visits you were able to make to Nebraska.

By now the Christmas cards would be addressed and stamped, waiting for the final editing of the letter and selection of the Christmas photo. I'd turn into a nagging wife, reminding Rod that the outdoor lights still weren't up and it wasn't going to get any warmer. I'd have bags and bags of gifts (since at least July) stashed in the guest room, ready to be wrapped and shipped or put under the tree. Remember the year I color-coded the gifts for you, Amy and Rod? I picked out a different wrap for each of you and left all the tags off. You and Amy didn't know what to think! How in the world were you supposed to guess what was under the tree for you? ;)

We're not sending any cards this year. How could we possibly choose a picture? Every year we've used one of you and Amy (and more recently, you, Amy and Shaylyn), usually taken during your summer visit. I can't imagine what I'd pick this year that wouldn't bring sadness to those on our mailing list. Amy without her big sister? Shaylyn without her mommy? A picture of you taken at your college graduation (never in a million years could I have guessed that those would be the very last pictures I'd ever take of you). No. I don't want to even try to find a suitable picture, let alone a card with an appropriate sentiment for a grieving family.

Several months ago I was prepared to skip the whole Christmas season. No cards, decorations, baking, and only minimal gift-giving. Yet complete denial of the season can't be healthy. It's obvious it won't ever be the same, but we can try to get through this one with the least amount of pain and work toward creating new traditions in the coming years. I am so glad Amy will be here and I look forward to future visits from Shaylyn as well.

So the tree goes up tomorrow. One of my best friends is coming over to help decorate, share a bottle of wine, and keep us from getting too sad. Miss Maddie came over yesterday and helped bake chocolate chip cookies for Uncle Rod (not exactly Christmas cookies, but I was out-voted). With the cookies in the oven, we starting in on some decorating. We had such fun! Nothing like a 3-year-old to help get one in the spirit of the season. I honestly can't remember the last time I had such a nice Saturday.

We received our first invitation to a Christmas party and have decided to go. I plan to start wrapping presents this afternoon and will get going on a mental list of Amy's favorite meals. And who knows, if it warm up enough to melt the snow and ice maybe your daddy will get those lights up after all. This is Nebraska, you know. We could jump from the current temp of 7 to 60 by lunch time.

I believe this is the right thing to do. Ignoring the holiday would be too depressing (not to mention a little difficult when everyone else is in a festive mood). It'll still be very, very sad, but we'll do the best we can.

You would've wanted it this way. It was your favorite time of year, too.

Love,

Les

Baby, It's Cold Outside

2005-12-01T15:18:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

It's the first of December and winter has arrived with snow and bone-chilling temps. As I bundled up this morning, getting ready to brave the cold and scrape ice and snow off the Mini, I reached for my scarf and was flooded with memories of last Christmas. Amy had recently learned to crochet and was busy making scarves for everyone she knew. You were quite impressed.

So off in a whirlwind, Shaylyn in tow, you dragged Amy out to Hobby Lobby to buy all the necessary materials so she could teach you. I remember sitting back, nestled in our cozy living room, watching with pride and joy as you two sisters spent the evening giggling, chatting, and simply enjoying each other's company, making "scurvies," as Shaylyn called them. "Make me one, Aunt Ammy! Make me a scurvie!" (Ammy rhymes with Pammy). The room was filled with warmth, love and excitement.

Every time I reach for my scarf, I'll think back on that fun-filled evening and the love between you and Amy. No longer little girls, but beautiful, confident young women.

Love,

Les

Time Passages

2005-11-28T14:14:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

It's been exactly six months since you died. I remember that day (every little detail) as if it were yesterday. Hardly seems very long ago, yet in some ways it feels like I've been carrying this grief around forever. How are the next 50 years going to feel?

I know it's normal for time to pass quickly, the older one gets, but these past six months have had a strange sense of telescopic movement. The other night we were commenting on how we both continue to look at the phone table, checking to see if we have any messages. Old habits die hard, I suppose. There isn't an answering machine on the table. We dropped our land line back in July! But the strange thing is that Rod said something about how we'd dropped it several months ago and I honestly thought it was just last month. Where has the time gone? Not only does it feel like we didn't have much of a fall, but I have no idea what happened to our summer. It really is a blur. I think we spent most of it either numb or crying.

After your death, I remember deliberately keeping track of the days, thinking it's been four days since you died... five... ten... Soon it became the number of weeks and then months. Each milestone gets further and further apart from the last, somehow making this new existence for us seem oddly normal.

The first couple of months after you died, I'd wake up every Saturday morning and re-live all that happened to us on May 28th. I'd look at the clock as I'd get dressed or fix my coffee, thinking about what we were doing at that exact time on that awful morning. And then one day I realized Saturday had come and almost gone and I hadn't looked at the clock! I'd let that particular anniversary of your death go by unnoticed! That scared the hell out of me. I was terrified that I'd slowly begin to forget not only the details of that day but the details of you as well.

I don't think we'll ever get over losing you, but we will learn to live with the emptiness and sorrow. Time does help and I do see that Rod & I (and Amy) are beginning to heal - to have some sort of regular life together again. It's certainly not the same as it was, but it's not filled with the agonizing pain we felt in those early months. We're joking and laughing with friends and each other and we've begun to get out more, enjoying dinner parties and new restaurants. Amy has Paris to look forward to next May. Rod's mind wanders to the pile of nuts & bolts (oops, I mean motorcycle!) in the garage, anxious to get it cleaned up and running. I'm beginning to think about the new perennial bed I want to plant next spring. And maybe we'll finally get the wallpaper stripped from the kitchen!

Time will pass, but you won't be forgotten. You're forever in our hearts and minds. Not just on Saturdays or the 28th, but always.

Love,

Les

Skipping Christmas

2005-11-25T11:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

It's a beautiful, balmy day in Lincoln. We've just hit 60 degrees and the sun is shining. Of course this means that all across the city people are outside taking advantage of the unseasonable weather and getting their Christmas decorations up before the snow arrives (tomorrow night). Rod and I puttered in the yard, raking leaves, cutting back perennials, ran the lawnmower (to drain the gas tank), and topped off our windshield wiper fluid tanks. I think we're basically ready for winter, but we're definitely not ready for Christmas. I have no desire to put up lights or wreaths or garland. I wasn't planning to put the tree up, but Amy would like to see the inside of the house decorated. She said it's going to be a very hard Christmas without you (and Shaylyn) here, but it'd be even worse if we ignored the whole thing. I suppose she has a point, but today as I see our neighbors out on ladders, cheerfully calling out to one another, I'd just as soon leave everything boxed up until next Christmas when the pain isn't (hopefully) quite so intense.

I have no idea what I'll do when I open the storage container that holds our stockings....

Love,

Les

Joy and Grief

2005-11-25T11:23:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

Yesterday was tough. Much more so than I imagined it would be. We know the holiday season is one of the toughest milestones to work through and all I can say is I hope next year is a lot better.

I found the following passage in a book I've been reading and keep turning back to read it again and again:

"It used to be, on many days, that I could close my eyes and sense myself to be perfectly happy. I have wondered lately if that feeling will ever come back. It's a worthy thing to wonder, but maybe being perfectly happy is not really the point. Maybe that is only some modern American dream of the point, while the truer measure of humanity is the distance we must travel in our lives, time and again, 'twixt two extremes of passion - joy and grief,' as Shakespeare put it. However much I've lost, what remains to me is that I can still speak to name the things I love." (Small Wonder, Barbara Kingsolver).

I remember not too long ago telling Rod that I was very happy. Maybe even perfectly happy. Life was good. (Both of us even have t-shirts with those exact words - wonder if we'll ever wear them again.) You were about to graduate from college. Amy had returned to Texas and was settling back into her college career. Shaylyn was 99% potty-trained. ;) All was right in our world and we had no complaints (well, except for the Bronco that kept leaking oil or something all over the street and garage!).

And in the blink of a moment, our lives were shattered.

While I didn't really experience any joy yesterday, I did find some enjoyment in the distraction of being with Maddie and Emily (and their parents - whom I am very thankful for!). The girls made me smile and laugh and for a few hours I wasn't feeling as sad as I had been during the day.

I can still speak to name the things I love:

My best friend and husband, Rod.
My beautiful, intelligent and funny daughter, Amy.
My sweet, genius-baby granddaughter, Shaylyn.
My wonderful, loving, generous and supportive parents, Mom & Bill and Dad & June.
All of my family and friends - so many who have done so, so much for me this year.
A beautiful, warm home in a great community.
Books, music, fresh ground coffee, chocolate, wine, flowers, the laughter of children, a letter in the mailbox.
Smiles and hugs from my nieces.

And you.

Even though you're not here, you're in my heart and I love you. Always will.

I know that one day all the memories I have of you will bring me joy rather than sadness. And while I may never feel perfectly happy again, I will strive to find joy in those things I love and cherish and never take any for granted.

Love,

Les

Shower The People (You Love With Love)

2005-11-23T11:16:00.000-08:00

Dear Rachel,

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. I can't remember the last time you celebrated with us. Certainly not since we moved from San Diego to Nebraska in 1992. You always came out to see us for Christmas, but either spent Thanksgiving with your mom & grandparents in San Diego or out in Virginia Beach. So tomorrow really shouldn't feel any different than any other year. Except, of course, it will. It already does. The holiday season has begun and not surprisingly it's affecting my mood.

I think of you every single day and almost every waking moment of the day. It's not an obsessive feeling, but you are always in my thoughts. More so than Amy. Or Shaylyn. Or my parents. Or even Rod. It's as if you've taken up residence on my shoulder, gently nudging me to get my attention. A presence, some would say. Are you there? Are you making sure I don't forget about you? Trust me, that will never, ever happen.

Yesterday was a bad day. I was out running errands and decided to stop at a little gift shop that I used to take Maddie into when she lived in that particular neighborhood. The woman who owns the store is just the nicest person. About my age and someone I've always felt would be a good friend. She always takes time to chat with me, asking about Maddie & Emily if they weren't with me. She met Amy one Christmas and has asked about her every time since then. She never met you or Shaylyn, but she knew of you and never failed to ask to see the latest pictures of The Little Princess and her mommy.

I've driven by the shop several times since last May and just wasn't ready to venture inside and have to explain the sad news. Rod and I both struggle with this issue - at what point do we just say hi and respond to "How's it going?" with "OK, how are you?" rather than spend the next twenty minutes talking about you. If it's someone I know, but not well enough to already know the sad news, it can go either way. By not saying anything about your death, it feels like I'm ignoring the past 24 years of your life, wiping your existence off the board. But do I really want to bring it all up and go through the emotional drain that always follows? Is it cathartic or self-inflicted torture?

I had decided not to say anything, but of course my feeble attempt to be in control failed when she asked about Maddie & Emily. I wound up telling her about Chris' cancer and after a heavy sigh, went on to talk about your murder. We both cried and she hugged me and it was emotionally draining, but it felt like the right thing to do -- to be honest with someone who's a bit more than an acquaintance, yet not a friend (I don't even know her last name). I don't feel compelled to tell a cashier at the grocery store or a waiter at a restaurant, but in a situation like this I think I made the right choice.

Probably ruined her evening, too, but she did say that she was going to go home and tell her two daughters how much she loves them and give them both a hug and kiss.

I wonder if she truly realizes how very lucky she is.

All my love,

Les

We Can't Come To The Phone

2005-11-16T11:07:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

You spoke to me yesterday. It wasn't in a dream and it wasn't simply your voice inside my head. And, no, I wasn't imagining it. I honestly heard your voice loud and clear with my own ears. Actually, it was with one ear. I happened to be calling Shaylyn to tell her about our first snowfall this winter, but she and Debbie weren't home yet.

So I got you. On the answering machine.

Debbie hasn't changed the outgoing message and I can hardly blame her. I can't bring myself to remove your name and number from my cellphone listings. I can't erase your name, address or phone numbers from my address book. I can't delete your email address in my computer any more than I could throw away the dozens of emails, letters and cards you've written to me over the years. I still have gift ideas jotted down in a little notebook (things like a Henkel Santoku Knife, amethyst earrings, vanilla-scented lotion from Bath & Body Works). Things I'd planned to buy for you for Christmas this year. I even have a birthday card I found late last winter that I thought you'd find funny and have it stashed in my desk drawer.

Everywhere I turn, there you are. I'm surrounded by beautiful pictures of you by yourself. You and Shaylyn. You and Amy. You and your dad. Even you and me (a rarity since I'm usually the one behind the camera). You and your gorgeous smile and dark brown eyes which remind me so much of your daddy's and Grams'. Not only can I not bear to remove those pictures from the refrigerator, but I've added more recent ones taken at your graduation and the days following -- when we saw you for the very last time. Ever. Will these pictures remain on our 'frig for the next 40 years, as Amy & Shaylyn's get updated? How can I bring myself to ever take them down?

I am constantly reminded of your love for me and your dad in the gifts that help make this house a home. A wooden plaque with a simple drawing of a cat to symbolize a kind-hearted woman lives here (oh, how your kindness touched me when I opened that gift!); a small ceramic birdbath that sits on a bookshelf; the "My Grandma Loves Me" frame with Shaylyn's 2nd birthday picture; the Russian nesting dolls that Maddie loves to play with ("Uncle Rod's people"); your dad's pocket watch engraved with "I'm thinking of you all the time. Love, Peachoo".

So you see, I can hardly blame Debbie for keeping you alive on her answering machine. While you were brutally taken from us on May 28th, we all refuse to erase any single part of you that remains for us to hold on to. Tightly. Forever.

I may just have to call Shaylyn in the middle of the day more often (even though I know she's at preschool). I wonder if I'll ever stop catching my breath the minute the answering machine starts to play.

Before my brain realizes it is the machine and not really you after all.

Before I realize I can't say, "Hey, Rach. Give me a call as soon as you get home. I have a couple of questions about booking your flights for Christmas. Oh, and I want to ask you about gift ideas for Shaylyn. Love ya! Bye."

Love,

Les

Happy Anniversary Baby, Got You On My Mind

2005-11-06T11:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Seventeen years ago today your dad and I were married. I can't imagine being with anyone else. Rod is truly my better half. He laughs more easily. He's much more generous and forgiving than I. He's a kind, gentle soul and I find such comfort in the life we share. I constantly fall in love with him over and over again. He's the best friend I've ever had and I love being his wife.

I've been thinking a lot about Rod's blog entry from the other day. He said he'd give back everything he's ever owned and everything he might ever own, just to have you back. And you know what? In spite of what I just wrote in the previous paragraph, if I could (and I truly mean this), I'd trade places with you right now, just so he could have you back in his life. I know how much he loves me and I know he'd miss me terribly, but you were the light of his life, his pride & joy, and I wish I could do something, anything, to bring you back. After seventeen years, it's difficult to think of gifts for each other. We tend to buy what we want or need when we see it. And all your daddy wants and needs this year is you. So instead of the cards and nice dinner out, I wish with all my heart that my gift to him could be you.

Love,

Les

Tell Me 'Bout The Good Old Days

2005-11-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

As I was walking yesterday, I thought about how much you enjoyed music. Not unusual. Most people do.

Remember singing along with Grams? Oh, you must've been a beautiful baby, cuz baby look at you now....

And with your daddy? Had an old dog and his name was Blue. Betcha five dollars he's a good dog, too...

Remember when we took you to see the Judds at Sea World? You had to be around 8 or 9. I'd planned it for weeks and couldn't wait to see the look on your face when you realized the surprise. Remember walking around, wondering why in the world so many attractions were closed? It was early evening and the only thing open was the kid's area where you played in the plastic ball pit. No Shamu show. No seal show. Nothing. And why were there so many people wearing Judd t-shirts (maybe I noticed and worried that you would, but you didn't - you were just having a good time with Dad & Les). I even remember walking through the parking lot toward the entrance and noticing a gorgeous bus that obviously belonged to someone famous. I can't remember if you noticed, but if you did, you had no idea who owned it. I don't think there was any signage to give away our secret. If there was, we managed to distract you.

I remember how you squealed with joy when you learned the secret and how you stood on your chair, singing and dancing along with Wynonna and Naomi. You knew the words to every single song! Definitely a fun and memorable night.

I will always think of you when I hear a song by the Judds - if I can ever listen to one again, that is.

By the way, your genius baby is singing Hebrew songs in preschool these days. Of course that shouldn't surprise you. It's in her blood.

I love you.

Les

Pomp and Circumstance

2005-11-02T10:34:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Today your dad wrote about how proud he is of you (damn, I still have trouble using the past tense! Is that denial? Or perhaps it's because I think Rod is still proud, as am I).

I think of that beautiful day in early May (almost 6 months ago to the day) when you graduated from ODU and how proud I was of you and your fierce determination to succeed in spite of the many obstacles along your way. I knew you could do it! I cheered you along from the very beginning and tried to keep you motivated each month with my little gifts of encouragement. I so wanted you to acheive what I never managed to do when faced with those same obstacles.

Do you know how much it meant to me to discover my first note of encouragement to you in your wallet? It made me feel like I had made a difference in your life and wasn't simply your dad's wife that you grew to like and not simply tolerate. And I know that it was even more than that. You and I actually became friends during the last couple of years of your life, talking about books, famous artists, potty-training, recipes, etc. You even helped me, telling me that Amy would eventually come around and be close to me, as you had with your mom.

I miss you so much. Every time I go into the kitchen to fix a nice dinner I think of you, remembering how you'd ask me for recipes for your favorite dishes. Or chatting with me about Rachel Ray. Or sharing dieting tips from the South Beach Diet. Or simply hanging out with me while I cut up stuff for salad, keeping me company when you could've easily stayed glued to the tv or up in the guest room (what a difference from that awful summer when you were 13 or 14!).

I miss your chatty phone calls where you'd gush on and on, proud mommy that you were, telling me all about what Shaylyn had done or said, feeling your happiness in motherhood. You were such a damn good mommy. I told you that constantly and I hope you believed me. You were a natural. And yet, in spite of your ability and confidence, you still let me make suggestions and even called me that one night when Shaylyn had a high fever, wanting to know if you were overreacting (or underreacting). You have no idea how nice it was to feel needed by you.

I miss being able to talk to you about Amy. It's been so hard on her, losing you, and if it'd been anyone else, I would be able to call you and ask you how she's coping and trust you to tell me what I need to know without you breaking any confidences with her. You two were so close and could lean on each other as sisters should.

I'm rambling and need to go start dinner. As always, you've been in my thoughts all day, especially during my walk a little bit ago. I was listening to my IPod and heard Don McLean's *Vincent* and wondered if it was a sign. I want to believe in that possibility. I wish I believed in Heaven...

Love,

Les

Funeral Blues

2005-10-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

Hey Rach,

It's ten 'til six and I've just gotten dressed for a memorial service for a former co-worker of your dad's. I never knew Glen, other than maybe meeting him once or twice at Cliffs Notes and Class.com, so I'm not overwhelmed with grief. However, I've just put on the outfit I wore to your memorial service and it's all I can do to keep from crying. I know tonight will be difficult, not because of the loss of Glen, but because of all the memories of your funeral and how terrible every single second of that night was for so many people.

You'll be in my thoughts tonight. As always.

I miss you, Step-Brat.

Love forever and always,

Steppie

The Gift Of A Letter

2005-10-30T09:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Rach,

Your dad recently started keeping a blog, essentially of letters to you. I wonder if you ever knew about blogs. I have a feeling that once you figured out how to get one started (with the help of Dad's Tech Support), you'd have one up and running - probably focusing on Shay Shay.

I like the idea of your daddy's blog for a few reasons. I think it's good for him to put his thoughts to paper (he's such an amazing writer) and I hope it helps him deal with this whole grief thing. He and I talk quite a bit about you and our sadness, but I'm sure there are things he'd rather not say out loud for fear of making me more sad (or of him breaking down and crying).

So the blog provides him with an outlet for his thoughts & emotions and gives me a glimpse into the depth of his heart and mind. What wife wouldn't give for that opportunity?!

I started writing to you back in May right after you were killed. I stumble on that word. The brutal honesty is that you were murdered. I'm not sure why I hesitate to use "murder" instead of "killed". Anyhow, I began writing in a small notebook at night in the hotel (the very same one we stayed in when we came out to meet Shaylyn for the first time when she was only 10 days old!), writing page after page, unable to stop the torrent of emotions that needed to be said, if only to that tablet. I've always felt that writing is therapeutic and I was so full of anger, sadness, and confusion during that first week (still am after more than five months) that I needed to put my feelings down on paper.

Being the Luddite I am, I wasn't sure I'd want to have a blog of my own. However, after writing several of these letters to you and sharing them with family and friends I've reconsidered. I figure this way people can peruse the site at their leisure and not feel put upon to read my sad emails as they fill up their in-boxes. I still plan to put them together in some sort of a book for Shaylyn to have when she's older. She'll want (and need) to know every little detail of who you were in this world and I hope I can help her discover the mommy who loved her more than anything else in the world.

I think of you constantly, every single day, every single hour, and miss you more than I could ever imagine.

Love,

Les