GRADUATION

 

First Birthday

A photo he loves of himself - probably 1st grade

8th grade graduation!

On to high school...

 So proud of you, Raine.

DEAREST DON RAINE || ED. 5

This is a difficult letter. I feel it is time for me to write it.

We are doing it. We are living without your father. Together.

It is painful to write. To think about. I can only write in a stream of conscioussness to you because it is still hard to organize my thoughts while grieving. We have been grieving almost a year. Almost. In two weeks it will be daddy's birthday. And a month later, there we are. May 8th. A whole year. 

You are 13, about to be 14 this summer. It is 2025. The last time I wrote to you, it was 2020. 

Everything that I hoped for you in that letter has come to pass: you continued to giggle, to cuddle, you still trusted in us--and now, me, alone. I am astonished to see the values in you that we hoped for, and the ease with which you operate in the world with them, as if it is as natural as breathing. You are independent in mind and also tasks! (managing your schoolwork, doing your own laundry, helping with things like the dishwasher, shoveling snow, picking up dog poo... Lol. You especially help with Stormy, your wild dog we adopted during Covid.) 

You are so very kind and respectful. Your sense of humor is growing and taking shape. Your father is in you in the best ways! You share his genes of punctuality, caring for me, loving sports and excelling in school, and a zen-like, laid-back nature. You have spent the last several years growing and learning at school, enjoying basketball, and making more friends. You are much more social! It is fun to see. 

And the last two years you have especially watched and somehow had been processing the disease and break-down of your father's body, and his death. I remember key moments when it all struck you hard. For example, a year ago, we had tickets and plans for a trip to Europe for the summer, and I told you we had to cancel. 

You asked, Then when will we go?? 

I had to tell you with a lump in my throat that I didn't think your father would ever be able to travel again. He was in so much pain, he could hardly ride in a car for 15 minutes. We knew the cancer was terminal and would tell you soon, some evening soon, the three of us -and Stormy- hugging together on our bed. 

But before, I think in your own way in that moment talking about the trip, you were asking me if he was going to die. If it wasn't, my answer certainly confirmed the thought that was perhaps vaguely shifting around in your subconscious mind. You had cried yourself to sleep.

||

And the moment. The moment I came to you at the dining room table where you were eating breakfast. I will always remember it but I want to write to you. The morning sun was already bright and streaming into the living room windows. It was a beautiful day. This is what I think I remember: I told you that you wouldn't be going to school. You asked Why and scooped more cereal into your mouth. I waited for you to swallow.

I tip-toed toward it. I think I reminded you of how sick Dan had been the last two days. How we had our time at the hospital alternating holding his hands, watching him sleep, and glancing around at family - Nana and Papa, Uncle Doug, Aunt Rachel -all of us who had tears we couldn't keep still with bursts of blush to our noses and cheeks.

Tip-toe. I explained we needed to go to the hospital today. I paused. 

There was only one thing to say and I had to just say it.

"Daddy died."

You wailed softly and began crying. 

I hugged you awkwardly across the space between our chairs. After a while, we let go and you hiccupped with tears. 

A long pause. 

Then you looked toward the piano, to all of the framed photos of the three of us together in Europe: You and your dad beaming in the summer heat in front of the Colosseum in Rome, he and I embracing in the pool at our villa in Chiancioano Terme - the smile of laughter on his face! You and him dressed in matching white linen button downs for the ceremony, standing side by side. My handsome boys. 

The photos of him ripped more out of you and you wailed again. You cried more. I held you.

Then you went to our bedroom and lay in our bed and cried. I gave you space. I sat at the table in torture at the gravity of your loss. Your loss of innocence. The gaping wound I had inflicted. 

I love you so much and I hope you felt that through the pain. I am so proud of you for sustaining what I had to tell you. Taking it in, and you have been living it, so strongly and wisely, as time has gone by.

|||

|||

 

More soon, sweetie. This is all I can write today.

Love,

Mama

EIGHT MONTHS

I sobbed as we reached the final hours of 2024. I wasn't ready to leave the year in which Dan was alive.

I have these moments. Weeping and shaking with pain and longing. I always tried to imagine what it would feel like--to prepare myself, but you just don't know until you are in it. I gasp, "Babe!" calling out to him, to the silence.

I have things to write about and photos to share. Eight months of moment by moment living. I want to document my continued life and my grief. But it is too painful to focus my attention and type the words. 

I will try. Here are some memories.

I am now Stormy's bestie.

Summer sitting in the back yard at Gillman, where he sat. Stormy at my side. Listening to and watching the sparrows, doves, and the occasional cardinal, reminding me of my mom.

To be read.

The book I was mysteriously gifted in the mail. I have yet to read it because I haven't been able to find the time to sit still and read. I did read Letters of Note: Grief almost immediately, and it helped me reflect on my pain and disbelief in order to write his eulogy. 

I couldn't hang his stocking. It was too painful and felt awkward.

Not only the holidays and anniversaries--His absence was felt everywhere throughout the house all the time. There was no respite from that jarring reality. During the inital shock (a month or so?) it felt like he was on a trip and would be home any moment. It hurt immensely to realize over and over again this was not the case.

A sweet gift from Annalisa

Family and friends are a lifeline, though it is wispy and hard to see, it is strong like a spider thread. I have made so many phone calls and texts while crying, reaching out for them to fill the void in my heart, the emptiness in my stomach, the hollow challenge of being alone. They have each been present in some small way-- mail, gifts, and flowers, sharing their memories and moments of memorial, and coaxed me through the blizzard of my path. I long to be with them all the time, as if being in the same room with someone who also knew and loved Dan can bring me relief.

Kristi carries her coaster with her everywhere and sends me photos.

 

Tobin's LP featured a DAN FOREVER tribute.

Le Fleur delivers a bouquet from April and family on the 8th of every month. My mother also died on the 8th in December. 

8th grade night -- "The late Dan Herzing and Leah Herzing," announced for Raine's parents.

I don't know if I will ever write about the moment I had to tell Raine that his father died. It is not only my story to share. I do want to write more about how incredible Raine is and how his grief is healthy and not destructive. I hope it will always be that way. I am his guide as a grieving wife and I do my best to show Raine myself as a kindred spirit of Dan's---Positive, funny, kind, strong but also vulnerable and comfortable with that.

Tax season 2025.

Everything is a reminder of Dan's death and in each moment, I challenge myself to move through it, letting it be what it is no matter how painful, and remain standing after. My sorrow connects me to humanity and I try to honor it as I would any other person's.

 

TREE PLANTING

 

Tree planting in honor of Dan

Rees Farm, Grand Ridge, IL

September 28, 2024

CHRISTMAS 2024

 

Grandpa Don and his teenage grandchildren! Logan (The Nef!) and Lexi (Lil Sis!)

Christmas at Accolade, his nursing home in East Peoria

Love these two.

My favorite person.

Special t-shirt from Stormy!

Another Christmas visit at Accolade.

A sweet gift from Kristi in memory of Dan.

Nana and Papa Herzing with their grandsons, Nate, JD, Raine

So grown up..

MOVING THINGS

his aldi stocking cap. turquoise, orange, red, the logo, you know, completely obnoxious!

work boots still covered in dirt.

this travel pillow I bought for him when his neck hurt from having to sleep in chairs because laying flat in a bed was too painful.

a 24 oz jar of homemade tea by jess, aptly named the fuck cancer tea.

the waxahatchee vinyl. i don't know why but i didn't get into listening to them until after he died.

a bucket of coffee beans. i can inhale part of his smell.

the book from grant that he was about to read. "60 songs that explain the 90s."

his gray wool flat cap he got when he was in scotland with doug. 

his candy stash in the top kitchen corner cabinet. especially all the peeps he liked stale.

the elvis costello poster that wasn't my decor vibe so i never let him hang it up in our homes. lol.

a comb with beard hair.

his faithful pruners.

the wood block stamp for his japanese name he got in okinawa. "advancement," "worship."

his titanium wedding ring.

the tree of life crystal i had hung next to his hospital bed.

a cute narwhal card he wrote in and gave me for our last christmas together, unknowingly. 

    Wifey - Merry Christmas! We made it through another year. I know this time of year is hard, but just to let you know that hugs & snuggles are free and unlimited (to a point). I didn't get you any massage certificates, so maybe this $ can get you one or two. Or spend it anyway you would like. I just want you to get something that makes you feel good and happy. Can't wait to see our son's face when he opens his gifts. He is probably the best gift you ever gave to me. :) Love, Dan

rocks from the nestucca river in oregon where we spread his ashes.

his beautiful urn. it is so beautiful but so sacred i feel like i can't even share a photo of it.

....

all of these things to take with me to our new home.