Forever seventeen - Deanna Santana

I have a pet peeve – people who bemoan and complain about growing older.  The ones who live as if they are twenty-one despite the two extra decades they’ve celebrated because they think people will think less of them at age 55.  Don’t mistake that for not liking to have fun and occasionally acting like a silly teenager or trying to stay fit so my body is more like it was decades ago.  I also totally understand being sad that stages of life have passed or being sad that without a bottle of hair dye my hair would be grey- those aren’t my issue. I’m talking about the ones who fret and worry about growing old all the time.  They refuse to tell people how old they are or they completely lie about it as if the number more important than the experiences they’ve had.  It drives me absolutely nuts.  Guess what, I’m 50 and proud of it!!!

Why does it bother me so much?  Because I’m stuck with the most amazing son who will forever be seventeen.  His friends have gone to college, found jobs, some have gotten married and had babies.  However, he is still in high school, a bagger at the grocery store, and his biggest worry is prom and finals next week.  He and I have been stuck there for almost seven years when he died.  I’ve done all the things I think I was “supposed to do” – his room and our house are no longer shrines, we celebrate each holiday and milestone with renewed vigor and appreciation, I’ve even followed his lead and changed careers.  But each May, as we approach our “hell week” I’m reminded of all the things we’ve missed.

I used to curl up in a ball and sob my way through May and thankfully, I'm rarely in the fetal position  but now I’m befuddled by a new stage.  The stage that my memory isn’t exactly what it was and neither is anyone else’s.  In the early days and years of grief, I could close my eyes and it was as if he was right there.  Now, I have to really think about it and it doesn’t come easily.  I know his spirit his here and his legacy is here- but his voice isn’t as easily recalled. Few people tell us stories we haven’t already heard about him because we’ve heard most of them- there are no more new ones.

 No. More. New. Ones. I'm not going to lie, that reality stinks worse than his football bag ever did! There are actually some stories that I’m beginning to hate- I’ve heard them too many times and I’m not even really sure if they are accurate anymore or if they’ve become larger than they were. But, if you do remember something- please tell us because they bring us joy.

This year, May has started with the annual angst and dread.  I don’t want to remember our “hell week” because I like to think it doesn’t define me.  In the past seven years- I’ve changed careers, watched my family expand by two -a son-in-law and granddaughter, watched my husband lose his passion for work and find it again, and I’ve even developed a Faith deeper than I’d ever imagined.  But yet, there is one facet of my life that is the same – Scott is forever seventeen and I hate that.  I’ve tried to imagine him as a 24-year-old.  I’ve tried to imagine him holding his niece and loving her like only Scott could.  I’ve tried to imagine what girl-friends he would have brought home.  But, none of these images work because he is forever seventeen.  I guess “hell week” does define part of me and I will embrace it.  But, I will never like it and my heart will be forever wounded with a six-foot hole in it.  Thankfully, hearts grow and expand with love so there is plenty of room for new loves.

If you are reading this then you are aging- well or not – embrace it because it isn’t a luxury afforded to all.