Saturdays were always busy in the Randle house. Brooke with dance rehearsals and Blake with the sport of the season. Today was opening day for basketball and, with Brenn as assistant coach, both boys were up and out for a morning practice followed by a game later in the day.
From the moment I woke up, I wondered how we would make it through something so normal when it most certainly was not. Our lives have literally been cut in “half” now that we are without Brooke. But rationally, the remaining half needs every bit of us – maybe even more – so I made a big breakfast for my boys and sent them off to practice. Cleaning and laundry were supposed to happen, but I took some coveted time alone to reach out to friends. There are so many phone calls to return and I remain compelled to tell the story again and again. Somehow it helps me process things and make sense out of something so senseless.
All the while, I kept my eye on the clock recalling what was happening four weeks ago:
8:45 a.m- that was the time we placed the 911 call
9:30 a.m.- numerous frantic calls and texts as we tried to find childcare for Blake and tell family members to get to the hospital.
Saturdays – mornings in particular – will never be the same, yet we have to go on. Brenn is so much better at it than I – at least he pretends to be. But somehow, we made it through.
The basketball game was a nail biter and we won in the final seconds. It provided a great distraction for others so the hugs and “I’m so sorrys” were minimal. Blake had a play date after the game and Brenn and I made a trip to Costco. We made a lovely dinner and played a few games of cards with my brother who is still with us and providing much support.
Just a regular Saturday. Until it’s time for bed. And just like every night, the wave hits hard. It crashes down and it screams, “Nothing is regular and it never will be again. Your daughter is gone forever.”
I walk Dudley up and down the street crying softly, looking up at the stars and saying her name over and over again because I love the sound of her name and I miss saying it. “Brooke, Brooke, Brooke.” Dudley’s ears pick up each time. He’s looking for her, too.
My boys are already snuggled in our big bed and I kiss them and hold on tight to them both. Sleep comes so easily to them and that is a true relief. I doze for a bit and return the sofa… to read, to write, to ramble.
Four weeks. Seems like yesterday and seems like forever. Sweet Angel Brooke, I miss you more each and every minute.
9 thoughts on “Four Weeks”
I will be listening and reading your journey. My heart is here for you.
Thank you for sharing these beautiful words. My heart breaks for you and Brenn and Blake and I only wish we could all take some of your pain and carry it for you. You remain in our thoughts and prayers every day.
Thank you for letting us know your pain, sweet Sandi. Four weeks only/already, time seems bent long and short since that hard Saturday. I’m so glad your brother has been able to stay. xo
Sandi, so many times I wanted to reach out to you. I’ve been waiting for time to pass, just to say that I have been thinking of you. I wish I could bring you some comfort and alleviate some of your pain. But, I know that for me, acts of sympathy by others sometime trigger so much more pain. I don’t want to be the cause of your tears, even if it’s to say that I care. I just want you to know that no words I could ever say, nor any hug that could ever be long enough, would be able to comfort you. You’ve experienced something so unimaginable, yet you have shown such courage in the ability to be there physically and emotionally, especially for Blake. It would be so easy to crumble under such circumstances and justifiably so. Just know that I am here. I may not run up to you, but it’s my intention to give you some space and to let you heal. Know that if I throw you a smile, it goes so much deeper than that.
Much love to you and the family.
Thanks for your kind words, Shari. I think I write more to say the things I can’t say at school or if I bump into people in town. Writing is an outlet for me and also a way to document this time.
You are so courageous. I know you don’t feel like you are, but you are. I am in awe of your strength and your honesty. When you are overcome by the grief and the loss, remember that you are not alone. Praying for your family and for Brooke.
Thank you. Trust me, I’m far from courageous but it helps to write.
Write, beautiful Sandi, write. I wish that you did not have to mourn the loss of your beautiful Brooke. May peace and sleep eventually find you. Your new normal will never be the same. But you’re right that your new normal needs you. I’m proud to know you. You are there for your son and husband and they are there for you. But I’m glad you are also taking time for yourself to cry and miss her. You wouldn’t be human or the amazing mom you are, if you didn’t feel this way. I so hate this for you. Hugs to you.
Sandi what a beautiful blog honoring our sweet Brooke. You are an amazing writer and I am in awe of the way you are able to put your emotions into words. I love that you and Dudley have your quiet walks enjoying nature and saying her name. When I say Brooke I smile because that is what I think of when I think of her. I had the honor of being her 4th grade teacher and each and every day she blessed us all with her beautiful smile and positive spirit. She always made a point to walk over to me and say “Good morning mrs. Cummins, how are u today?” Or “have a great lunch” or simply thanking me at the end of the school day as she was packing up to go. This may sound simple, but I truly treasured these moments. This is Brooke and she has touched my heart now and forever.
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