I began writing this particular blog post one year ago today and was never able to publish it for whatever reason. Maybe at the time I didn’t feel like celebrating, understandably. Or maybe I had something else I wanted to get off of my chest. Either way, it’s something I wanted to post about today, on the two year anniversary of the celebration of life we had for Quinlan.
It’s something I know I’ve talked about it before but it was such a special day. People from every corner of our world were there, more than at our wedding. Friends, family, co-workers, friends of family, family of friends, doctors, therapists, nurses. Everyone came together to share in the celebration of the amazing, all too short, life of our little superhero.
I suppose it has been questioned by many: why would one, when your child passes away, want to have a celebration? Who would think that you’d be having a conversation with caterer’s and function halls, getting balloons and decorations a week after your child passed away? Who would know what music to play? Who would grab fun activities for all of the kids who will be running around? This all sounds more like a birthday party than a memorial for a toddler. Talk about abnormal. Shouldn’t we be contacting funeral parlors, arranging a burial plot, picking out a black dress to go with the black suit my husband would wear? Maybe it was the journey of the previous 2 years. Maybe it was the spirit of the happy little boy we wanted to memorialize. Or maybe it was the need to smile that lead us to celebrate instead of mourn for one afternoon on a sunny February day.
We had asked people not to wear black because it was a day to shine for everyone. We wanted bright colors, and even Superman logos to be worn if people had them. It was an exceptionally warm February day. I remember that part distinctly when needing to go out for air a few times and being so grateful that it wasn’t 20 degrees and snowing. Yes, it was a celebration but, damn, it was completely overwhelming. A memorial for a 2 year old typically isn’t something that is a joyous occasion, but we did our best to bring light to what can be very dark. You would think all of this is not okay to do. Or it SHOULDN’T be okay to do, and I wouldn’t blame you. But in our case, and I can only speak for our own personal situation, we felt that it was okay, and even more importantly, it was necessary. It was necessary to bring all of these people who supported us, helped us, and saved us in more ways than one together, not only to thank them, but to let them share in the memories of Quinlan.
So many pictures were shared, laughs were had, and tears were shed. It was exactly what we wanted.
I will admit one thing. In the midst of everything going on (aka grief, shock, anxiety, the loss of my son, just to name a few), I don’t think I was able to fully take in the exceptional experience of what was going on in that room on that day. If I could go back and relive it, I would. I would stand back and take it all in. The love, support, and hope we were given can only be experienced on a day like that.
So, to everyone who was there that day, we continue to thank you. We hope you were able to feel the same light that Bear and I felt on that day, a day we celebrated the life of our Super Q.