Seeking joy and laughter on bittersweet day

Today is my nephew’s birthday. We would likely be gathered around Ryland sitting in his high-chair with his face and little hands covered in cake and celebrating his first year – had we not lost him in May.
Those who read my column regularly know his story, as I wrote about his birth, as well as his death at 7 months of age. For those who don’t, Ry was born with Wiskott-Aldrich Syndrome, a rare auto-immune disorder that made him highly susceptible to illness and disease. Following a bone marrow transplant, he contracted a form of pneumonia and was unable to fight it off.
As Ryland’s birthday approached, I could feel the dread creeping in and I knew I had to find an outlet, had to find a way to push beyond those feelings. I considered taking the day off to spend some time at the beach or a park, reflecting on the past few months.
But I don’t really want to dwell on what could have been, what should have been.
Instead, on a day that’s guaranteed to bring a little heartache, I’ll do something that will help me remember and bring a sense of fulfillment – and hopefully bring some joy to others as well.
One of my great loves is photography – specifically, studio photography. A favorite thing to do is pack up my portable studio and head to a home that’s recently welcomed a newborn baby – as I did when my nephew was born a year ago.
As I considered how I wanted to spend the day, I realized that although Ry had only a short time here, there are many who’ve lived long and fascinating lives – and I could honor him simply by offering a little joy to them. And so I gathered my studio, a few props and my camera and today will take photos of folks who have what Ryland never did: Life experience.
I’ve been wanting to photograph area seniors for some time, and a few weeks ago, when offering to do so for Live Oak Adult Day Services, schedules happened to land perfectly on today, Oct. 4, my nephew’s first birthday.
So, today, as members of my family continue to grieve recent losses (Few know that just 10 days after the death of my nephew, my 27-year-old cousin died following an asthma attack), they will also celebrate – each in their own way – the day Ryland was born and the limited time he was here.
And so will I.
Perhaps as I set up my lighting today, I’ll reflect on the day I took his newborn photos, how squirmy he was, how he insisted on being awake for the entire shoot. I’ll remember how the light hit his wispy brown hair just so.
As folks go through props to choose feather hair clips, hats or boas, I’m sure my mind will picture the photo of Ry in a wicker basket with large faux sunflowers; sunflowers that now lie on his grave. I’d used those sunflowers for other shoots, but after his death, couldn’t imagine using them again. They belong with him.
As I look through the viewfinder of my camera and focus my lens on the storied faces, perhaps I’ll think about the day he died; holding and squeezing my brother’s hand as he held Ry’s in his other; whispering a secret message into my nephew’s ear; standing there helpless as that baby boy let go.
When I pack up my things and prepare to leave, perhaps I’ll think of Ryland’s funeral, the tiny blue and silver casket. How unreal it felt to be there, to stand in front of a crowd of hundreds, attempting to honor him with my words.
But most of all, as I snap photos of each face, of each wrinkle that tells a story, I want to celebrate his life. Even though he’ll never have a face like the ones I’ll photograph today, he brought so much joy, so many smiles during his time gifted to us.
Life is uncertain, fragile. I hope that today I find some peace remembering Ryland on what would be his first birthday. I hope for lots of smiles and laughter and a feeling of joy for everyone.
And I hope that – by looking into the aging eyes of experience and wisdom – I grow my appreciation for every day I have left.