I'm not sure what it is about the number five in our lives.
We were married in the fifth month of May.
It took five long days in the hospital to deliver Darcy... in the fifth month of May... in my fifth month of pregnancy.
We ended up holding her for five hours.
Gavin was five when he died.
And we went home without him after five long days in the hospital.
I don't know what it is about the number five.
But what I do know is this...
Today, it has been five weeks since Gavin was freed to Heaven on my birthday. And still - five long weeks later - it seems like a dream.
Some days I can sit back and feel proud of how well I have handled it - in a way that, I hope, would honor Gavin and make him proud of me.
The hundreds of wonderful acts of kindness, projects, classroom activities and more in Gavin's memory were - and continue to be - so comforting to read. One act of kindness, in particular, was so moving to us. A reader named Christine read the story about Gavin riding the fire truck on the Ocean City, NJ boardwalk for the first time and knew just what she wanted to do. She contacted the Gillian Family from "Gillian's Wonderland Pier" - where that very same fire truck lives - to tell them our story. The owner, Jay Gillian, was so moved that he knew just what HE wanted to do. He noticed in the photo that Gavin was riding his number 8 truck.
So he had an artist come in to repaint the number 8 truck, the same truck that Gavin rode for the first time... and then he named the truck Gavin.
In a month or so, we will be headed down to Ocean City with some of Gavin's ashes to sprinkle in the ocean he loved so much. And we will head to Gillian's Wonderland Pier to thank the Gillian family in person.
Donations have rolled in, too, which is another reason I should feel proud...
Last I checked, The Gift of Life Family House has received $12, 703 in donations in Gavin's name.
The latest update from the Child Life Department at DuPont Children's Hospital is over $8,000 in monetary donations - and countless items from their wish list that are just too numerous to even quantify.
And CaringBridge has received $1,537 in tribute donations for Gavin.
I think I'm most proud of Gavin's trust project. The newest total that will go to the Chester County Intermediate Unit is: $17,801.69.
But there are days when I don't want to feel proud... or strong. There are days when I re-read my eulogy and think, "Did I say that?" The truth is, there have been a couple days where I've read it again and thought, "Kate - you are full of crap."
And there are days when I just want to cry. All day. And night.
But for some reason, unknown to me still, those times are infrequent. I still get up - every day. I still parent Brian - and comfort him in four year old ways. At least once a day, but usually more, he sits down somewhere and pats the space next to him and says, "Come sit down, Mama. Let's talk." And I say, "What do you want to talk about, Brian?" And every time his response is... "Why did Gavin have to die?" And every time my response is the same... calm, factual, loving.
"Ok," he answers.
And then, repeat.
But the truth is... I don't know why Gavin had to die. It's a mystery to everyone, still. As we wait and wait for the final autopsy report to come in, it gets more - and less - important. The part of me that is angry wants to know. I WANT TO KNOW!!!! But the part of me that has accepted and knows I can't live in the what ifs and the angry feelings and the replaying every moment of the day before and morning of... almost doesn't want to know.
The truth is... Gavin is dead. He is gone from this Earth. But he lives on through all of us. Not just those who knew him in real life - but ALL of us. Every beautiful email (and I read them all! There have just been too many to be able to respond to!) that says, "Gavin's journey changed the way I will advocate for my special needs son." or "Gavin has inspired me to {insert something awesome and amazing here}!" or "I'm no longer afraid about {insert something stressful or scary here} because of Gavin." or, perhaps my favorite, "I became an organ donor..." or "I have an entirely different perspective about organ donation..." or "My family understands that I want to be an organ donor when I die." All of those emails and stories and comments - they prove that beauty can rise from ashes.
It has been five long weeks. And one day, I will say it has been five long months. And then five years. And it will still feel like a dream. Because, no matter how much time will pass...
...I will remember Gavin and every detail about his beautiful self like it was just five seconds ago.
