For nearly an entire year, I’ve worn a simple blue bracelet on my scarred left wrist. It’s never been removed, though It has been touched and twirled; the writing on it has been read and pondered by strangers who have asked about its significance.
Today it will come off. I suppose I could continue to wear it, as over the past 52 weeks it’s almost become a part of me, an extension of who I am. But something tells me now is the right time to remove it and place it in the shadow box that holds a photograph and a copy of a eulogy I spoke at a funeral.
One year ago today, I stood in a hospital room alongside my brother, his wife and our parents as we were forced to say farewell to my 7 1/2-month-old nephew, Ryland. Longtime readers know his story because I’ve shared it in previous columns, as writing has always been healing for my heart. It was the good people of South Valley, along with coworkers and friends who lifted and carried me and my family through a trifecta of grief (three unexpected deaths all in May) in a short period of time.
Ry Ry was born with a rare autoimmune disease that required a bone marrow transplant, which he received from his older sister. Following a successful transplant and a feeling of joy that our little guy would soon be home, he contracted pneumonia and couldn’t fight it off.
It was devastating. Thinking about the anniversary recently, it occurred to me that Ryland’s been gone now longer than he was with us.
Just days after his death, a couple of my brother’s friends hand-delivered a box of blue band bracelets they had made to honor Ry, inscribed with his name and birth and death dates on the outside, and a special message only seen if you flip the bracelet inside out. I immediately put one on—and it hasn’t come off since.
Hundreds of those memory bracelets were passed out in the days following his death, more at his funeral and some even shipped around the world to strangers who heard Ryland’s story or families with little boys battling the same rare disease—which only affects males—who reached out to my brother and his wife.
What happened to all of those bracelets, I have no idea. I’m sure some were taken off long ago, maybe some were thrown away, lost, broken, maybe some remain on wrists today. But for me, it felt natural to leave it on, not knowing when—or even if—I’d ever want to take it off.
Recently, as I looked at the blue band encircling my wrist, I felt the time was nearing. The time was coming when I would pull it off, remembering Ry Ry our little guy as I did.
So I thought about it; I wanted to choose a day with significance, a day I could remove it and feel like I’d hit a milestone. A day I wouldn’t forget. It may be just a blue bracelet to those who don’t know the story behind it, but for me it represents so much more.
And then I knew. I knew the bracelet would come off May 16, the day my nephew died one year ago.
A month or so after his death, I printed out a copy of the eulogy I spoke at his funeral, along with a photo of him and placed both in a shadow box that hangs on the wall in my stairway. That’s where my blue bracelet will find a new, permanent home.
I imagine my wrist will feel naked for a while, as I get used to not having Ryland’s band encircling it. But that sensation will fade. And as it does, I know memories made during the time I had with my nephew will fill the emptiness and continue to replenish my soul.
