Sometimes it is easier to be low so when the blow makes contact, it isn’t that much of a fall. And then she said it, “As of 11:02 our Munchie has gone to heaven.He was in our arms. It was peaceful.” I fell with the greatest of impact despite my attempt. Deepest of depths. I am falling still.
I don’t have the right the to cry. This isn’t about me. This is about them and her and her pain. And I couldn’t, even with this knowledge, hold back the sobs. Moments like these you must refrain from sobbing hysterics because the person who is in the MOST unfathomable pain, the one who this IS about, may feel the need to console you. I was amazed and honored she wanted to tell me in person. Amidst this great tragedy, she thought of me. I dare not cry. I tried my hardest and I failed.
Krissy sounded amazingly even and good. She was admittedly in shock. She was so kind and comforting as I fumbled for the words to say. Maybe when she got home it would hit her. What would she do now? Every waking hour was consumed by this battle for Mikey. On her end of the phone, she was working it out. Trying to understand. Thinking aloud. On mine, I was trying to muffle the cries, searching for anything in my classroom to act as a makeshift tissue to contain the tears.
I didn’t give her any great hypothesis into why she seemed so graceful, but maybe something in me knows why Krissy is still standing and so seemingly OK. While the mother in me knows I cannot fathom such pain, the observer in me has some hunches as to how she might be 'OK' right now. Yes, I agree some of it is shock, but a huge part of this is habit. It has been almost two years of her refusing to fall. She does not know how to buckle.
Her life has exemplified otherworldly unrelenting strength for TWO years. These weren’t years that were joyous, where the time just flew by. These were years of constant anxiety. Minute to minute. White knuckling it. Sleepless nights. Tick. Tock. Will he. Won’t he. Make it? In children’s cancer years, two years is a lifetime.
That, and Joey. She will not fall for his sake. I haven’t ‘known’ Krissy since grammar school. Facebook brought us back together. That is us at Caterina (braids) Ponteraro's birthday party in 3rdish grade. Krissy is in the pink sweater on the left. Her twin Karyn is behind her. I'm the Punky Brewster look alike on the right in grey.
Our 20 year reunion was at Beth Israel Hospital in Newark. The children’s ward. Munchkins and transformers and Mikey. Maybe I don’t know Krissy as well or as long as some, but if they say a person’s true character is how they handle themselves under the greatest of pressure. I know her well. I entered at a time of insane turmoil. She let me in. She didn’t turn to dirt or dust. I can rightfully say she was diamonds.
Krissy is the mom we all hope to be and yet pray to never have to be, in that way. Most of us would crumble. She is diamonds and smiling. She is Michael and Joey. She is large quantities of coffee. She is loving and snuggling. She is diamonds and Legos. She will always be Joey and Mikey, even if they are separated for now.
Joey doesn’t know yet. And Joey and Mikey were inseparable. They had a closeness that wasn't determined by the proximity of their years. It was written in the stars. Pray for Joey. I will spend my life praying for them all and working for Team Brothers, a nonprofit that Krissy started with her dear friend Kathie Coates to support families that are threatened by Leukemia.
It was monsooning outside today. To the point where I thought someone was banging on my classroom window. It was dark. After the news, all of this felt comforting to me. Me and mother nature cried it out.
And then, the sun came out. It was blinding. It caught my attention. I stopped my lecture and walked to the window. A hole in sky. The sun. The heavens opened up. I stuck my head out and cried. Then laughed at what this meant. I did that messy mix of both again, ‘Craughing’, because I believe in angels and heaven. I believe in signs. I tried to capture with my camera and couldn’t.
My heart is beyond broken. I drove home in silence. I would do the sign of the cross at stoplights and pray in between. Rays of light were coming down. Bending on the buildings and the in betweens. Again, it was Mikey. It was brilliant. As broken as I felt, for the first time in a long time I felt unafraid.
For the last year, since my diagnosis and all this talk of wheelchairs and spinal chord injuries, I have been incredibly afraid. Kind of like the ticking that Krissy must have felt. Anxiously aware of every minute and questioning if it was a countdown or not.
I stare at my children constantly and there is always this layer of fear. It is behind every happy moment. What will I be here for? Is something else wrong with me? I stare at these beautiful momets and try to capture them. To hold them still. Impossible.
I think people who are diagnosed with chronic illnesses feel this way-like hypochondriacs. For a long time you knew something was wrong. They said there wasn't. Long story short, you were right. After that, every little ache is questioned. I'm always dancing between two worlds. Like the edge of the ocean where it meets the beach. Skipping and playing chicken with it. Holding hands with my family. But aware of the possibility I might be swept away.
I shed that layer of fear today. Mikey did something to me. You know how many people question God when tragedies strike little kids? How could God let this happen? Something in me takes this as proof that there is heaven. There is no way he is gone. No way is that little light DONE. No fucking way. I feel so much lighter now. So much stronger because of him. I am not one for organized religion. I have a very innate, private relationship with God. On my Facebook wall our relationship status reads, "It's Complicated". But it is here, nonetheless, and I feel it now more than ever because of Mikey.
I am forever in debt to that little light of mine. Your victory Mikey is MY victory. Thank you. I will pay it forward, I promise. Wait and see.
