Adios Austin. Bonjour Paris.

Beginning our trip in honor of Hanimal.

An Incomplete List of the Places I’ve Cried:

The ‘Since We Left Home’ Edition

1. The Airport (Hobby, Philly, and La Guardia)

2. The Airplane (Every Airplane)

3. The Shower

4. The Weber’s Apartment

5. Our Hotel Room

6. Our Hotel Restaurant

7. Lunch off the Marche de Montorguiel

8. The chapel at Sainte Chapelle

9. The Steam Room in our hotel

10. The Pool by the Steam Room

The three week anniversary of Han’s death passed quietly while we were wandering the streets of Paris. I haven’t bothered to do the time-math of 9 am Alaska time to Paris time. Then I could mark the exact moment the ER Doctor declared Han’s death. A milestone that is either progress or exhaustion.

Why We’re Here

We came to Paris to eat croissants in Han’s honor and to give our grief a new environment. We’ve unfortunately been limited to hotel croissants because I promptly became ill when we arrived. We will fulfill that need soon because it honors Han in two different, very meaningful, ways.

In the last month of Han’s life, I had started giving myself room to dream a little bit about what our future with Han might hold. I had hoped to take our abundantly joyful toddler to Paris and feed him a croissant. Grab a table at a cafe, watch the people walk by, and sit in our bliss as a family.

The second, Mike and Han dropped me off at a Doctor’s appointment earlier this summer and got to go on their first father/son date. Right around the corner from the doctor’s office was a French pastry shop. Han got to pick his very own treat from the display - and what did he pick? A croissant.

One Egg & Cheese Croissant for the Hanimal!

They had a beautiful time sharing food. Han was delighted by choice, sharing, and being with his Dad. He confidently grabbed his own croissant and devoured it meticulously.

It was a moment that we had hoped to recreate in Paris. Paris is full of beautiful display cases full of treats - it’s hard not to imagine him drooling over breads and macarons.

Living in Our Grief

The past week has been a constant exercise between Mike and I on thoughtful communication, intentional reframing, and love. Supporting each other as we move in and out of acute grief. Holding our grief without getting lost in it. Living the impossible task of life without Han.

Thoughtful Communication

One of the hardest parts of grieving the death of my child is that we are grieving the loss of our son. In many ways, Mike and my grief have been good companions - rarely are we both at our worst.

But, I know that my grief has given me barbs that are easier to prick. My patience, easy optimism, and silliness have disappeared. The parts of me that used to come so easily seem too hard to hold on to. Tools that I need to be the loving, supportive partner I want to be are things that I have lost. Mike feels broken in some of the ways that he shines as a partner too. His patience is thin, except for me, and the shield of emotional strength he has worn to get our family through all that has happened, is destroyed.

We are too serious, too anxious, and all too often on the defensive. At the same time, we are forgiving and gentle with each other. There is no one who better understands how unstable I feel and how hard it is to cope with every single moment of living. Existence is painful; physically and emotionally. Time is long, empty, and vacant. The burden of living beyond the life of your child is without description - the only thing that makes is feasible is that I have to do it with Mike.

Intentional Reframing

Our world is impossibly dark - each beautiful moment cast dark by our grief.

We feel compelled to say that every moment (every experience, every day) is beautiful - except for the fact that Han isn’t here to see it. Han is dead so nothing can be beautiful.

Which is true, but a disservice to us in the moments where we might find some respite in the beauty that is Paris. During our (extremely arduous) travel to Paris we made an agreement. We both know we are living through the darkest storm of our life, but we don’t need to point it out. We cannot ignore it, we are not ignoring it, and we are not dishonoring Han by allowing ourselves to not verbalize our shared grief in every moment.

We can see beautiful things like the Sainte Chapelle and be moved to tears. We can enjoy a meal. And we can even allow ourselves to talk about how much Han might like these things. And mentally, we both know that there is a painful caveat at the end of every sentence that can go unsaid.

We both know it’s raining - there is no need to point it out. We can see it in each others eyes.

Except it seems to actually always be raining here in Paris!