Heather Shtuka - Missing from Me

Missing from Me

Heather Shtuka

Missing from Me

Copyright 2022 by Heather Shtuka

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-8030-1 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-8029-5 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-8031-8 (eBook)

To S cott,

Perhaps the greatest success a person has can be measured by the legacy they leave behind. Loving unconditionally and being loved equally in return will be yours, my love.

To Jordyn, Julianna and Max

For all of eternity, both the moon and the sun have danced across the sky, casting light and chasing darkness away. My beautiful children, your love radiates and fills the dark spaces around me. You are my univ erse.

To Ryan

It was written in the stars, my destiny to love the little boy you were, to the man you would one day become. I wish I had held you tighter, my son, so that I could have filled the rest of my days with nothing but sweet memories of you.

Table of Contents

The Family Ye ars
Beaumont, AB
1997February 17, 2018

The Sea rch
Sun Pe aks
February 19, 2018June 18, 2018

Coming H ome
Beaumont, Albe rta
June 18, 2018February 20, 2019

I want Ryan to be forever k nown.

More importantly, I want to do what he may have been able to accomplish in his life if he had the chance. If there had been enough time. If he could have taken the lessons life gives to us and learned from them.

To change the world in some small way.

Even if it is just for my husband Scott, myself or the g irls.

But maybe a year later, he has changed other lives as well.

What if Ryan was the reason for joining? For volunteering? For putting themselves out there intentionally and with kindness? For taking moments and enjoying them with a little more sweetness? For embracing this beautifully tragic life.

I want Ryan to be remembered by each and every person who has felt a shift in the way they view the world and themselves because of his s tory.

Ryan will forever be their re ason.

And forty years from now, people will ask themselves how they came to be who they are.

And they will say, Let me tell you a story it all began with a boy named Ryan.

The Family Years
Beaumont, AB
1997February 17, 2018

Grief comes in waves. Unexpected, fierce, uncontrollable and without exception. The waves batter and bruise me continuously until I think I cant fight them anymore. But like with all storms, eventually they subside, coming less often and perhaps not always as strongly. Then comes the days where the skies are clear, nary a cloud to cover the bright blueness. Grief gently laps at my toes as I feel its serene, unmistakable undercurrents reminding me that it will never really l eave.

Grief is the acknowledgment of the loss of someone you love. But grief is an acceptance of the loss of self. Fractured pieces that no longer fit together perfe ctly.

I was at a loss when the nurse handed me my new baby. Looking down at this precious newborn, the fear of what to do next was paralyzing. The sense of responsibility to protect, love and nurture Ryan overwhelmed me. I had to get it right. So, I turned to those who had gone before me and relied heavily on the experience and wisdom of our mothers to see me through my uncertainty. I meekly handed my power of motherhood to others so I didnt feel alone. So I wouldnt screw it up. But giving up what was mine to claim did not necessarily provide relief. Respite, perhaps, but not relief. What I did not know could be learned. Where hesitancy existed, certainty could prevail if time allowed me to make mistakes and correct them. But that is another le sson.

It did not take long for Scott and me to grow more comfortable with parenting, and we felt like experts with our own children in short order. Our confidence seemed unshak able.

Until there was a loss.

Now I feel like that new mother all over again. I dont understand the grief I have been given. Im awkward, plodding forward, fearful of how I am perceived. My gravest concern is balancing the love and pain I feel for one child with the love and joy I feel for my girls. Is there a right way? I look to others who are suffering similar burdens for cues that might offer insight, but, like my early days of motherhood, this journey is unique. To move forward, I can only honour the individual pain. My hope is to find peace in a journey that cannot be learned but only experienced. It is a reminder of a love that cannot be diminished by grief nor loss.

Ordi nary.

That is how I would describe my life. Ordinary. Routine. I suppose that could sound boring and dull, but I often think about the simple pleasures that I used to enjoy: ice cream on a muggy day, the fresh smell of rain that brushes away the dusty coating of all things stationary, or the great passion that comes wrapped in the arms of someone who loves you. Simple, perhaps, but filled with such emotions that you could never confuse ordinary with a lack of. Ordinary. Not filled with dastardly deeds or epic heroism, but the sort of life that one craves. Normality and the very realness it represents. Life as flawed and imperfect as the people who inhabi t it.

I was a daughter, a sister, a wife and then a mother. In between all these titles, I went to school, played sports, made friends, skinned knees, had a first kiss, experienced butterflies, broken hearts, adventures, a career, a wedding and three uneventful but deeply moving births. I stayed at home, volunteered, went to work, helped with homework and cheered from the sidelines with a frenzy that can only come from being a proud parent. There were mortgages, car payments, sick days, holidays, unending laundry and picking up toys. There were days I felt strong and pretty. There were days I felt grouchy and uncomfortable in my own skin. It was an ordinary that I took for granted. It was an imperfectly perfect life that was of my own making, until it was not.

We never mark the moments when everything is the same until the terrifying realization that it all has changed irrevocably. How could we? And yet we will spend an extraordinary amount of time in the aftermath wondering where it all went wrong and what we could have done to change the tides of for tune.

Love is infinite. Life is not.

February 17, 2018, in Edmonton, Alberta, was as mercurial as my mood: icy and irritated with a daytime temperature of - 1C. How I detest winter at its coldest. The days seem dreary, night comes early, and the temperatures take your breath away. Even a holiday in late winter that is focused on love cannot diminish the long and bitterly cold days. It is only the expectation of an early spring that allows me hope that the season will come to a close soon.

Scott and I spent the day driving our oldest daughter, Jordyn, to and from her ringette games in a weekend tournament that is over an hour away. Despite the distance, I so enjoyed watching Jordyn play defence. I admired her skill, speed and an aggressiveness that is completely out of character in her everyday life. The team finished the day, and with back - t o -b ack losses, it seemed the tournament was over as well. By eight oclock, I was back at home settled in the living room with a glass of wine and cozy fire, intent on catching up my friend Nancy, whose daughter played with Jordyn but could not attend. It was in between our texts that I received one from Ryans friend J ames.