Saturday, May 21, 2016


Today is 4 years since Kol died. I thought I had some ideas for a blog post - talking about a legacy, the grand piano we bought with Kol's life insurance payout, the headstone that we finally got for him - but I just can't seem to get them together right now.

This seems to happen to me a lot. I'll have something moderately complicated that I want or need to do (like building a web site, getting my taxes done, filling in a census form, cleaning my office), but my mind just can't focus and get it done. It feels like there's this giant whirlpool of grief inside my mind, and I have to work so hard to keep from getting sucked into it that I don't have the energy to deal with anything non-trivial. This isn't every day, mind you, but it can feel like it is, especially when I'm tired.

This scatter-brained-ness, this tiredness, this is not Kol's legacy. This is the aftermath of grief, the wake of disruption that permeates our lives (and will for years to come). As it is with a boat's wake, the first waves are large and loud as they crash on the shore, and the waves continue to come - sometimes just a ripple, but other times almost as large as the first waves. The shoreline is changed by the waves, in some places so much you don't recognize it, and it continues to change as the waves continue.

Kol's legacy is in our memories of him. It's in the pictures we have of our family together. It's in the videos of him. It's in those moments where I see an echo of him in his sisters - in a smile, a laugh, or something they say. It's in the laughter we share when we're talking about the goofy things he did. It's in the tears we share when we talk about how much we all still miss him. It's in the hugs we share after the laughter and the tears.

His legacy is love, and while subtler than grief, the waves of his love and our love for him will also continue to change the shorelines of our lives.

Huh. I guess I did make the legacy thing work after all.


I couldn't find a way to integrate the piano and the headstone into this post, but here they are anyhow:

We bought a Yamaha grand piano with some of the money from Kol's life insurance. We wanted to get something that would be substantial, that would bring us joy, and this piano fills that role very well. I wouldn't say that playing piano was Kol's favourite thing, but he did enjoy it, especially playing duets and trios with me or his sisters.

I've often thought that if it were up to Kol to choose something to spend that money on, he probably would've picked a giant TV screen, with one of every kind of console, and a stack of video games a mile high. As tempting as that would be to me as well, the piano does seem like it would hold it's value (both in terms of money and usability) over the years. :)


We also finally got a headstone for his grave this past year. It's different than pretty much any other headstone we've seen - at the very least, different than anything else in the Outlook cemetery. The base is wider than normal, and there are two rectangular areas (on either side of the "pillow" stone) that are etched out and have Lego plates attached. So, instead of (or in addition to) putting flowers to his grave, we can put Lego there.

Stormtrooper honour guard...

...and a miniature AT-AT lying down. It was the only way to make it stay in place.

We're planning to swap out the Lego there on a regular basis - some purchased specifically for this (like the stormtroopers and the mini AT-AT), and some built from our collection at home. I don't think Kol was much for flowers, but Lego was definitely one of his favourite things - I think he would approve.


Thank you to everyone who was thinking of us and praying for us today, and for all the support you've continued to offer us.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Three years

And here it is, May 21st again, the third anniversary of our hearts being broken and our lives being changed. I'm not sure what to say about today - there's so much emotional baggage, so many memories tied to it. It's the kickoff to a series of anniversaries over the next couple of weeks - 3 years since his funeral, 5 years since that fateful headache that sent us to the ER, since a CT scan found "something", since his surgery and pathology results. It's a day that I can't forget, and as much as it pains me, I don't want to forget it.

Mari recorded some of her memories of Kol, called 21 Things You May Have Forgotten About Kolbjorn, and with her permission, I'm sharing it here:
  1. Kolbjorn had a cough for most of his life
  2. He would often be awake before six am
  3. He would wear the same pair of socks for weeks 
  4. He'd wear the same shirt for a week
  5. In the summer, his footwear of choice was dress shoes
  6. He had a dance for everything 
  7. He liked clothes shopping
  8. He wanted to go to Denmark 
  9. He'd have one toy that never left his side 
  10. He was visited by the 501st Legion 
  11. Some of the meds he was on made him the worst person to be around 
  12. Some of his other meds smelled terrible 
  13. He never cut his hair after chemotherapy 
  14. When he was little, he said he would marry his cousin 
  15. He didn't mind playing Barbies
  16. He would say the full name of books and movies 
  17. He'd play video games standing up, right in front of the screen 
  18. He'd watch movies over and over until he had them memorized
  19. He wanted to play the oboe or trombone
  20. If he could not find clothes of his own, he would wear his sisters'
  21. He once fit seventeen grapes in his mouth
Today will be a mostly quiet day. I've taken the day off work so I can spend it with my family (and honestly, I don't think I'd be able to do much of anything that requires concentration). We've been playing some Mario Kart and Super Mario Bros games, we'll visit his grave and do a balloon release, we'll likely watch some Star Wars or Clone Wars - these are our new traditions for the 21st, if you can call doing something three years in a row a "tradition".

New traditions. Our "new normal" (I still don't like that term). Life goes on, even when it seems like it can't. Our hearts are broken, but they are healing. And even though our family doesn't feel whole, we are still a family. Thank you for being with us on this journey, for your support, for your prayers, for your encouragement. May God bless you all.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

February Numbers

The beginning of February is a precious time for us.  Mari, Julianna, and Annika have birthdays on the 2nd, 8th, and 12th.  Kirk's mom and sister also have birthdays within those 10 days.  This year, there are some more milestones in February.  

Three thousand, five hundred and twenty four days = 9 years, 7 months, and 24 days = 115 months and 24 days, = 503 weeks and 3 days = how long Kolbjorn lived = the age Birgitte was on Annika's 5th birthday.

On February 12, 2015, Annika turned 5 years old.

On February 12, 2015, Birgitte was exactly 3524 days old.  The same age that Kol was when he died.

Birgitte is now older than her big brother will ever be. 

On the day Annika was born, I noticed that Kol's headaches were more frequent than I thought they should be, and I started looking for patterns, and possible causes.   

Annika will be 3524 days old on October 7, 2019, just 12 days after what should have been Kol's 17th birthday.

One thousand, eight hundred and twenty six days = 5 years = 60 months = 260 weeks and 6 days = how long it has been since Birgitte's first Grand Mal seizure

On February 12, 2015, Annika was 1826 days old. 

Today, February 15, 2015, is 1826 days since Birgitte's first Grand Mal seizure.   

One thousand days = 2 years, 8 months, and 25 days = 32 months and 25 days = 142 weeks and 6 days = the number of days since Kolbjorn died.

Today, February 15, 2015, is 1000 days since Kolbjorn died.

It's interesting to me that so many of these milestones overlap.  Maybe it's God's way of making it easier for us.  All I know is that the last two weeks, and especially the the last few days, have been full of bittersweet moments, and lots of tears.
I wish I could say that grieving gets easier over time.  The second year after Kol died was harder than the first.  Everyone talks about how the first Christmas, the first birthday, the first anniversary of a person's death (some say "angelversary", or "angel day") are hard.  They are, but for me, the second year was much harder than the first, and the 3rd year has been even tougher emotionally.

I think the 2nd year was harder because the shock had worn off, and I dealt with the reality that my son was dead, and would never be around to celebrate any more special days with us.  Now, in the 3rd year, I see our other kids continuing to grow, developing new abilities and accomplishing more, and I don't know what Kol would be doing or what he would be interested in as a 12-year-old.  It's hard sometimes, to see other 12-year-olds; how accomplished, tall and mature they are becoming as they begin to look like teenagers, instead of little kids.  We feel his absence so very strongly on on special occasions, and even on plain, boring days.  Family dynamics are so different than they were with Kolbjorn around.  We feel so strongly what Kol is missing out on, and by extension, the myriad of possible experiences WE are missing out on, because Kol's not there to add his unique touch. I know Kol isn't having headaches any longer, that he's not in pain, that he's probably happier than I could imagine, but I guess I'm selfish.  This hole inside me will never go away.  The grief will never go away.  Some days, I can't wait to see him again. 

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Two years

It's May 21st again. Two years since Kol died. Almost four years since we took Kol to the ER. And like last year, we spent the day together as a family (except for a couple piano lessons that we couldn't reschedule). We watched Star Wars while eating Kraft Dinner and wieners for lunch. We went out to his grave, wrote messages to him on helium balloons (green of course - not his favourite lime green, but as close as we could find in town), and had a picnic supper. We watched more Star Wars after we came back home. And we cried.

I think in many ways, the second year has been harder than the first year, and many of our friends at Compassionate Friends say the same thing. And life is still changing for us. We're still getting used to being a family of six, not seven. We're still all dealing with emotional aftermath. But some days, it almost feels like things are getting better. Not a lot better, and not quickly, but a little bit now and then.

Julianna posted something to Facebook late last night (or early this morning, depending on how you look at it), and with her permission, I'll share it here with you:
For most people, today is just like any other day.
Wake up, shower, eat breakfast, go to work or school,
Come home, eat supper, go to bed.
To most people, it's just a Wednesday.
Middle of the week.
Nothing too special.
The month, May, doesn't matter too much, aside from implications of warm weather.
The date, the 21st, isn't much of a concern either,
Aside from its reminder that June is nearly here.
To almost everyone, it's just another day.
But not to me.
To me, it is Wednesday, May 21st.
To me, it is sadness and pain.
To me, it is grief and loss.
To me, it is memories and tears.
To me, it is an anniversary.
The two year anniversary of the end,
The end of hospitals and doctors,
The end of needles and tubes,
The end of nurses and drugs,
The end of sickness and suffering.
The end of life.
But it wasn't the end.
Not for me.
For me, it was a beginning.
The beginning if grief and sorrow.
The beginning of questions without answers.
The beginning of unstable emotions and bursts of tears.
The beginning of painful memories and inability to cope.
The beginning of a new life, but a life that feels wrong.
A life without you.
A life without your smile.
A life without your laugh.
A life without your jokes that made no sense, but still made me chuckle.
A life without your hugs.
A life without your competition in Star Wars trivia.
A life without seeing how proud you are because you beat a level on your video game.
A life without the sight of you on the couch with your nose in a book.
A life without your excitement over your new LEGO creation.
A life without lightsaber fights in the backyard.
A life without seeing your love, shining through your eyes and spreading over your whole face.
A life without my brother.
And I don't know how I made it this far
Without you.
I love you.
I love you so much.
I always have.
I always will.
Keep On Loving.
Kolbjorn Lloyd Obert Friggstad Sept 27, 2002-May 21, 2012
Thank you all for being with Kol and with us through this journey. It's been a long while since we last posted here, and I don't know how long it'll be until our next post, but thank you for being here, for reading this post, for remembering Kol, and for keeping our family in your thoughts and prayers. May God bless you all.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Happy Birthday, Kol

My dear son:

Today should have been your 11th birthday. It's the second time we've had to celebrate your birthday without you around. Last year, your sisters helped organize a big party at the church with lots of friends and family, but this year, we're keeping it simple. We'll just be at home, eating some of your favourite foods (at least as well as we can remember, since it's probably been three years since you had much choice over your diet), and doing some of your favourite things (like watching Star Wars, playing Wii games, and reading together). We'll probably cry, but we'll also probably laugh and enjoy our memories of our time with you.

We keep asking ourselves how you would be different now. Would you still like the same things? Would you still be a voracious reader? Would you still be building LEGO contraptions? What games for the Wii would you have begged us to get? Would you have loved the Hobbit movie as much as your sisters have? What new things would you be into that we couldn't guess at now?

We love you, and we miss you terribly. We talk about you every day, and you're always in our thoughts. Happy birthday.

With all our love,
Mom and Dad, Julianna, Mari, Birgitte, and Annika

Monday, September 2, 2013

"Poor kid"

Kristen was just telling me about another kid we know of fighting an SPNET, about all the surgeries and treatments he has been through, and all the complications arising from them, and the only thing I could say was "Poor kid."

I meant it sympathetically, not sarcastically, but I found myself recoiling at the shallowness of my response. I know something of the hell that this kid and his family have been through - the uncertain future, the painful present, the longing for the trouble-free past. This - "poor kid" - is the best I can give them? They deserve more than that.

But then I realized that I don't have more than that to give right now. That if I let myself feel more than that for him and his family, it'll bring all my grief crashing down on top of me, burying me, destroying me. That saying "poor kid" isn't a sign of callousness or lack of sympathy, but a survival mechanism.

There are too many "poor kids" out there that we have met or become aware over the past three years. There are too many families simply trying to survive the journey of a sick child. The oceans are not enough to contain all the tears that should be shed on their behalf. All I can offer to them now is "poor kid", and a promise to myself that someday, when I no longer need all my tears for myself, to shed some for them.

Monday, July 1, 2013

To the parents we never met of the children we never knew

There are so many of you. We found your blog online, or someone sent us a link to your CaringBridge page, maybe you found our blog and sent us an email, maybe our kids met your kids at Camp Circle of Friends. Your child was sick, likely with cancer, especially a brain tumour or something similar. We've never met in person, but possibly we've talked on the phone or maybe exchanged emails. We've been part of the unwilling fellowship of "parents of sick kids."

And now your own dear child has died. Maybe it was a short journey, only weeks or months since their diagnosis, or maybe it was years. But now they're gone, and we don't know what to say.

We wish we could tell you that we understand how you feel right now, but we can't honestly say that. Each person is different, each family is different, each circumstance is different. The pain and grief that you go through isn't the same as what we have gone through. To say "we know how you feel" seems naive at best, and trite or cliche at worst.

So what can we say? Only that we feel sorrow at your loss and the pain you are feeling now, and we hope and pray that you and your family are able to find solace and healing over the coming months and years.

P.S. One thing that has been helpful for us this past year has been the Compassionate Friends support group of parents who have lost children. It's been helpful to share the story of our loss and our grief, to hear other parents' stories in return, and to celebrate the lives of our lost children.

Friday, May 31, 2013

Spring Sprint 2013

Kristen and I, along with our daughter Mari, will be walking in the 2013 Spring Sprint in Saskatoon next Sunday (June 9th), in support of the Brain Tumour Foundation of Canada. Please sponsor us at, and if you're in Saskatoon on the 9th, please come out and be a part of the event - we'd love to see you there!

And for a little trip down memory lane, here's Kol giving his speech at the 2011 Spring Sprint:

Off to a running start (with our friend and brain tumour survivor Gary):

See you at the Sprint!

Tuesday, May 21, 2013


Today has been on our minds for the last little while. It's hard to believe it's been a year, although I can't quite decide if it's hard to believe it's been only a year or if it's hard to believe it's been a year already.

We kept today pretty low-key. Tuesdays are normally pretty busy around our home - it seems to be the day that everything happens, like band, piano lessons, voice lessons, youth group, quizzing, bible study - but today we skipped out on most of those activities. We had pancakes for breakfast. We watched some Star Wars movies. We packed a picnic supper and went out to Kol's grave. We wrote messages to Kol on helium balloons and let them fly. We came back home, played some Star Wars Trivial Pursuit, and watched some Star Trek. And we cried.

Picnic at Kol's grave

Thank you all for your support over this past year.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

"How many kids do you have?"

I've been dreading this question since Kol died, hoping no one would ask it, yet knowing that someone would.  How would, should, could I answer?

When Kol was sick, we got asked that question often.  We saw many different nurses, social workers, psychologists, doctors, interns, etc., most of whom were meeting us for the first time.  Often at some point during the initial meeting or exam, Kol would comment about what his sisters had done recently.  Then they would either ask Kol "How many sisters do you have?" or ask us "How many kids do you have?"

We learned quickly when we were expecting Annika that there is a big difference in people's perceptions between 4 and 5 kids.  When we had 4, people would say something like "You must be busy." but they weren't surprised.  When we said 5, eyes widened, jaws dropped, and most didn't quite know what to say.  After being annoyed or surprised ourselves the first few times we got that response, Kirk started to enjoy watching the responses we got. 

It took a little while to get used to our identity as parents of five, but it is who we are.  When we go places now, with our four girls, it feels like someone is missing.  Someone is.  Even when we are sitting together at home, playing a game or watching a movie together, I'll look around me, around the room, and it feels wrong.  It takes a few moments to realize what the problem is.  There aren't as many bodies around me as there should be.  It's an instinctive reaction.  I think, that after years of keeping track of where all the kids are,  most moms (and probably dads, too) start to know intuitively how crowded the space around us should be.  We don't need to do a head count to see where everyone is, we just know.  I feel that there is too much space in my space now.  It takes another moment for me to remember why there is too much space.   

When we do something as a family now, o the rare occasions when all of us are together at a movie or shopping, and strangers see us, they see six people.  They see what looks like parents with four girls.  Rationally, I know that most people who see us barely even notice us, but I have an intense desire for everyone to know that what they see is wrong.  I want to scream it out, for everyone to know, that we are not a family of six, we do have a son, too, and we are seven.  I am a mother of five, not four.   THAT is who I am, who I should be, who others should be seeing.  Yet, in some ways, I am not.  I need to learn to accept, that from now on, that is what others are going to see. 

How many kids do I have?  How should I answer that?  I am, and will always be Julianna's, Mari's, Kolbjorn's, Birgitte's, and Annika's mom.  Always.  But Kol is no longer here for me to take care of.   So, then do I say I had five?  This doesn't really work, for two reasons.  One, it opens the door for people to ask why I said had.  I don't necessarily want to explain everything to a stranger.  Two, it feels like I'm denying Kol's existence.  He is an important part of our family.   Still.

I will say I have five children.