Hello. Chris here. I’m going to use the first person a lot here, because Nancy wrote a post just a few days ago.

This is the last posting to Geoffrey’s Caring Bridge site. We’ll leave this site open to look at pictures (and youtube to look at videos) because I like to know that wherever I am I can always sign onto the internet to look at pictures of Geoffrey but I don’t think we’ll post anymore.

I’m working on this on Monday, January 5 (it took me a while to let this go). Until the morning of August 16, I thought that this would be Geoffrey’s first day back at school after winter break.

So with that said:

I posted some Christmas pictures of Geoffrey, and I added a new video to YouTube (http://ca.youtube.com/user/86hoyas). I wanted to do it before Christmas, and then before year end, but I didn’t quite make it.

Thank you for being my eyes and ears these past 6 months (less than 6 months ago he was a healthy appearing boy with an unexplained fever). During this time, when I posted to the Caring Bridge site, it helped me keep Geoffrey a little closer because you were reading and responding. When he was sick, I was able to report little steps that made him seem less sick. By putting my hopes onto the site, it increased my hope for his future. After he died, writing about him, and knowing that others were reading about him, brought him a little closer back to me. But he’s gone, and no post is going to bring him back. Accepting that he’s gone has been a big problem for me; it is so unreal that I figure it can’t be real. But it’s real…I know that.

Also, thank you for all of the tributes that have been done for Geoffrey. Nancy has told you about what has happened at church, at school, in the newspaper and on the basketball court. I just want to say that although the tributes can really blow the hole in my heart wide open, I appreciate the effort that everyone has made to create things on earth that we can see and touch.

How am I? I wish I knew. I’m easily distracted, and when I’m distracted I can seem a lot like the person I was before August 16: smiling, excited to greet each day, glad to have a job that I enjoy, starting each day with running and ending it with something that makes me laugh.

When the distractions are gone, though, and the world is quieter, grief quickly fills in the spaces. In a single heartbeat I changed…from someone who wouldn’t trade my life with anyone to someone who wouldn’t wish my life on anyone. I miss Geoffrey so much. I miss him in the present, because he was the best part of every day, and I miss him in the future, knowing that the rest of my life won’t include hearing his voice, holding his hand, watching him grow.

I really can’t answer “How are you?” with just a few words. I’ve tried to think of the right words, but I haven’t found them yet even though I have thought a lot about the perfect way to answer this question. Maybe this helps:

• You wait 5 years after marriage to start trying to have a family
• Within 2 months of trying – pregnancy, followed by miscarriage
• After 5 more years of trying, with a whole lot of medical intervention, On May 24, 1999, Geoffrey is born. A tiny beautiful boy
• He’s worth the wait. Everything about him is perfect, and every minute spent with him is a treasure. From the first moment of waking with him at 4:45 AM (his whole life we negotiated how early he was allowed to wake up) to the last word of the last story you read to him before turning out the lights and singing to him, you realize what you were called to do--be a parent to Geoffrey. Regularly over the next several years, you give thanks for the life you are given.
• About 18 months after Geoffrey is born, you learn it’s very unlikely there will be other pregnancies. But because Geoffrey is so wonderful, you are still thankful for the exact life that you have, and you wouldn’t change a thing.
• As Geoffrey gets older, you realize that in addition to being talkative, he’s smart. He loves to read, he loves to learn, he is creative, and he is proud to be a musician. Each day is a discovery of new talents, and you are looking forward to learning what he will do with them. He wants to be an architect, an engineer, or an inventor. Maybe a veterinarian. About the only thing he had crossed out so far was a player in the NBA. He asked me if he kept playing basketball, did that mean he had to play in the NBA when he grew up? I told him no, and he was relieved because he really liked playing basketball, but he didn’t want to do it when he grew up.
• Skip forward. After several years of remarkably good health, with great eating habits, great sleeping habits, and far fewer infections, bugs or other illnesses than most children, one day he starts getting fevers each day around 5PM. He’s fine all day, but 5PM comes and the fevers come and the energy goes. The next day, he’s fine until 5PM, and the cycle starts again.
• Everyone thinks it’s mono, but the first, second, and third tests all come back negative. An infection is suspected, but the MRI to find the infection discovers something much worse.
• Geoffrey has a diagnosis of cancer, and unfortunately it is a cancer so rare children that the treatment plan is an educated guess. But because the thought of a world without him is unimaginable, you are confident that he will not only defy the odds, but create a new story of recovery that doctors can learn from.
• You set a calendar in your head: Beat the tumor in the fall, get the liver transplant in the winter, live the rest of your life with even more enthusiasm, energy, and joy (if that’s even possible) starting in the spring.

You know the rest of the story. That’s how I am. Everyone says I’ll get a little better each day. I hope so; I’m ready for it to start.

How was Christmas Day? Honestly, no more or less difficult than every other day. We were in Key West, and other than the midnight service that we went to, there’s not much difference between Christmas and every other day down in the Keys. Waiters and cashiers said “Happy Holidays” when they gave me change, but that’s about it.

Am I still running? Yes, but with a lot less motivation. Early in the summer Geoffrey was riding his bike with me while I ran. Geoffrey asked me what my favorite thing to do was. I hadn’t really thought about a favorite thing to do because I liked nearly every single minute of my life, but I told him that if I had to choose one thing, then it would be running with him next to me. I was running to stay healthy enough to be an active parent and, one day, an active grandparent. I loved that we played without limits – charging down the soccer field, carrying him up Rock Mountain, kayaking in the Intercoastal Waterway. Now I run just because there’s no good reason not to. Plus, I think Geoffrey would be disappointed in me if I stopped.

Will we stay in Birmingham? We still have our friends, family, work, and community here. Most of our memories of Geoffrey are here, and the kids that we want to watch grow up are here. Birmingham is a very different place without a child, but we’ll find our way.

What can you do for me? Be yourself. Ask me what you want to ask, say what you want to say. You couldn’t possibly make me any sadder. You might put tears in my eyes, but they were right there anyway, and they dry quickly.

One final thing to share, and then I’ll go:

I’m thinking of Geoffrey’s first and effectively last words: You probably won’t be surprised that his first words were a fully formed question: “What is it?” Geoffrey was the most curious and smartest child I’ve ever known (I know a lot of you feel this way about your own children). He delighted people with his ability to provide a thoughtful complete answer to a question where a child’s one word answer was expected. On more than one Friday-morning walk to school he spent the entire time talking with me about the perfect spaceship, the perfect robot, or the perfect animal (he never tired of any of these subjects). Although I sometimes wished we could move on to other subjects, I always let him run with his idea until he was satisfied. I really miss those conversations.

Most of Geoffrey’s last 48 hours were about trying to meet his physical needs and boost his spirits. But other than those conversations, Geoffrey’s last words were to ask about the health of a friend. He was listening to Nancy’s half of a phone conversation with a friend of hers who was not able to come to the hospital because her own child, one of Geoffrey’s best friends, was sick. When Nancy hung up the phone, he asked what was wrong with the child, and said he hoped that the other child felt better soon. It was just about the last thing he said—other than repeatedly mouthing “thank you” to the nurse in the ICU for everything she did for him on his last night.

Geoffrey was great to have as a friend, and when I think about what those who lost Geoffrey as a friend, cousin, nephew or grandchild are going through, it takes me to my limit of what I can handle, and I need to pull myself back together. I am thinking of you though, and if there is anything I can do for you or your children, please ask. I’ll give you an honest answer, and you might even make my day a little better because you gave me the chance to do something for you.

Chris