Another Year

It’s here, another birthday. Another birthday without you. I’ve done this eleven times before – yet it never seems easier. This week of Easter feels like a never-ending birthday week. Although if you were here, how lucky would you be? Multiple days to celebrate you! But reality is it’s a period in time where I wish the world would stop. Where it seems like even the small things are too much to cope with at times. It’s a week where I simply shut down.

No matter how many years go by, there never feels like a “right” way to celebrate your birthday without you here. It feels wrong on every level, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, even my bones ache at the thought of celebrating your birthday without you. It should be a day of marking another year on your tree of life. Instead it marks another year trying to fill the gaping hole you left behind. Another year of wondering who you would have been. Another year of aching for you.

This week you should be turning twelve. TWELVE. Your voice would be just starting to change, it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around how that can be. Because I can hardly imagine what you would look like standing in front of me as a young man.

My son, my precious son; forever loved, forever missed, forever frozen in time. We should be celebrating your birthday – with you, alive. Not sending lanterns or balloons up to the sky, or letters to heaven. Not desperately looking for signs from you, not doing things in your memory and honor. We should be laughing with you, audibly belly laughing, laughing so hard we can not stop crying. I mean really, if you were here, you would know we are really laughing at you, we are just making you think we are laughing WITH you!

Instead, here I am wondering what your 12-year-old arms feel like wrapped around us when you squeeze us tight. We should know.

I can’t even wrap my mind around who you would have been; the growing and grown version of you. It’s your last year before your officially a teenager! I wonder if you would have a head of dirty blonde hair or locks of dark curls. Would you have the same captivating blue eyes that Julianna has, or the beautiful hazel eyes Joey and Jenn have. When I look at pictures, I can never tell.

Unfortunately my pictures of you will never change and grow like you should have. The memories I have of you are finite. And sometimes my memory of that day is fuzzy, it is a day I so desperately want to remember, but its locked away for safe keeping.

My life as I knew it ended with yours. A large part of me died with you. And I am not sure the new me (the me I am now in this new life I’ve built) will ever feel like I am truly whole. There are parts of the old me I liked better, the more focused, more driven me is part I sometimes miss. But this new me the parts that survived the wreckage, the parts I’ve been able to salvage – a whole lot of broken pieces trailing behind, that will never fit back together, no matter how hard I try. In-between those pieces I have finally figured out they are filled with the good parts of what I thought I would never find. Holding all of that broken together is joy, happiness, laughter and the knowledge that we never come out of trauma without scars we come out of it with new perspectives and an unwavering sense of what a gift each day is. The biggest thing bonding all of those cracks is LOVE.

While I don’t know what twelve years-old would look like on you. I don’t know what your voice would sound like, or how your hugs would feel. And that breaks my heart. I do know your love, and I know how big our love is together. I know your love is still here, carrying on, making an impact on me.

Your love is part of me, You’re a part of me. Wherever I go, you go. Always and forever. Nothing can separate us. Not time or space, not even death. You are my inspiration behind finding joy in everything we do, in having kindness and compassion for others.

So on our birthday, and every day, I will focus on just that. Unending love. I will soak it in, breath it in and let if lift me higher. I will continue to let love light the way because truthfully it is where we will find our peace.  

Happy Birthday sweet Jody. You will forever be my greatest gift.

Is there life after loss?

Hemingway said: “Life Breaks everyone, but some people heal stronger in the breaks.”

I heard someone say, grief isn’t a life sentence, it’s a life passage. It’s the one common human experience we all have at one time or another. But, we didn’t expect it to be the death of a child, did we?

Have you ever felt such incredible emotion as losing your child? It’s feared by all parents and an unimaginable loss. Unimaginable, until it happens to you. People refer to it as “the worst that can happen,” and that’s exactly what it feels like.

I have tried to write a birthday letter to Jody, dozens of times, but my attempts have drawn many tears and very few words. I started thinking, “Is there life after loss?” Which in turn got me thinking about my process and where that journey took me.

In the years following his death, I discovered, no matter how great my loss, or how deep my grief, the world does not stop. In fact, it intensifies.

I remember thinking… how can I ever be happy again? I felt as though my pain was visible to others, and I would forever be wearing grief as a mask and a tagline…”I’m Carla Cummins and I’ve lost a child.”

Then a friend gave me a journal and said, “Write. Just write.” The first blank page was so difficult. I could only put down one sentence, “My son died and my life will never be the same.” The next day, I wrote a paragraph, and each day after that I found words came more easily. My journal became my safe haven to empty the well of my sorrow, pouring tears of ink onto paper. And for a little while, I could let my emotions rest.

I had to survive this. I had two living children who needed a whole mother. I was not willing to sacrifice my role in their lives by succumbing to paralyzing grief. I kept writing. Words pulled me and pushed me. As weeks went on, I’d read back over the journal entries. I began to see something remarkable… I’d survived another day, another week, another month; and I was growing stronger. I’d see words of hope illuminating my way.

There’s no magic secret to the journal. Just pick up a pen and begin with one word or sentence. Keep writing. Healing is not on a timetable. In fact, time doesn’t fix this kind of loss. Healing comes from actively pursuing life again. After awhile, you’ll look back on your words and not recognize the person you once were. You’ll see how strong you really are.

I used to believe the cliché “everything happens for a reason,” but with this kind of tragedy, it seems to be reversed. When a tragedy like this happens, it can be the starting place to give it reason and relevance. When you recognize this, it’s the moment your grieving will shift.

Imagine that. What would it feel like? I used to fantasize and picture my life without the pain by writing out that very question, What would it be like to feel peace around Jody’s death? I would visualize myself without the veil of sorrow and allow the comfort of happiness to flow in. And for a brief moment, I could feel it. As time went on, I was able to reach that peaceful feeling more frequently. I had the power within the pages of my journal to compartmentalize my sorrow. Once you’re aware of what it feels like, you’ll be able to access it more easily.

It’s been 11 years since my beautiful son left this earth and sometimes tears still surprise me. But the work of healing has brought me a harmonious blend of resolution and comfort as my heart joyfully connects with the sweet ballad of his memories. Healing doesn’t mean you’ll never feel the sadness. It means you’ll be able to have memories without attaching intense despair.

I now look at the life of my son and marvel at his time with us. He was the third born. His death was the birth of my new life… learning how to live with his loss, and recognizing who I am because of it. I chose resilience and my journal was a big part of helping me rise up.

The loss of Jody taught me to love harder and appreciate every single day. It taught me to reach out to others and begin sharing my story in hopes it could reassure other wounded parents there is life after loss.

As the years go by, I’ve learned a mother’s love never diminishes; in fact, my love for my son has grown, just as it would have if he was still alive. I am still his mother. No child dies without a legacy and a purpose for those that are left behind. It’s up to you, his mother, his father, his sister Honor your child by healing. They wouldn’t want it any other way.

The beauty of letting go…

I don’t know if it’s an age thing or what happens when you truly start to value yourself, but for some reason, you just stop tolerating bullshit as you grow up. You stop trying to force things that are harder than they should be. You stop being okay with accepting less than you deserve and you avoid people who drain you.

If you reach a point where you reject anything you have to force or anyone who diminishes your self-worth, then you’ve officially matured and learned that anything forced will always be temporary and anyone who diminishes your self-worth will never be the person who brings out the best in you. Okay, well… this is my opinion based on my experiences.

I’ve always been known for being ‘too nice’ or ‘too sweet’ or ‘too kind’ and I think it’s because I was always trying to fill the void inside me with the noise of others because I couldn’t stand the silence, I couldn’t stand the emptiness, I didn’t love my own voice. I was always the person who would try again and again until I get what I want, or be too forgiving and too accommodating to keep people in my life or just try to make peace with people who hurt me so I can always be known as the bigger person.

I always wanted things to go right. I was always afraid of losing. Losing friends, losing exes, losing family members, losing colleagues or losing anything really. I associated losing with failure, especially losing people, I thought that it said something about me, that I’m unloved or that I’m easily forgotten and I would do anything to avoid that feeling because it was my biggest fear. I always wanted to be loved. I always wanted to be remembered.

Until I realized that holding on to certain people out of fear hurts even more than losing them. Holding on to people who don’t love you or respect you just so you can feel loved is the perfect recipe for self-destruction.

And that’s when I learned the power and beauty of letting go, that’s when I learned that it’s not about quantity, it’s about quality, that’s when I learned that it doesn’t matter who loves because what matters is how much you’re loved and what kind of love you’re receiving; if it’s genuine, if it’s real and if it makes you a better person.

In my case, it was the opposite, a lot of people who supposedly loved me were the ones who slowly made me unlove myself because I used to put them first, listen to their words over mine, trust their vision more than mine and see myself through their eyes and it made me feel ugly. It made me feel like I’m a thousand different characters and it made me lose any self-respect or self-love I had for myself.

When I started listening to myself, putting myself first, saying no and believing in myself, it caused an upheaval in my inner circle because I was always the one who glued everything together and now I’m the one tearing everything apart. They didn’t like it. They didn’t like losing. They didn’t like being in the position I’ve always unabashedly put myself in.

And that’s what happens when your self-respect finds its way back to you, you reject anything forced, you reject anyone manipulative, you reject anyone abusive and you magically find the strength within you to just walk away from the people you once thought you couldn’t live without.

So you start losing people, but in this case, it’s a win-win situation because, on the flip side, you attract people who respect you and appreciate you and see you with new eyes that open yours. You start seeing yourself in a new light, you start seeing life in a new light. You get out of the darkness and you start realizing that sometimes the people who were sheltering you from the storm were only preventing you from seeing the rainbow.

What does gratitude look like to you?

I used to listen politely as people made references to the loss of an aunt, a mother, or even an adult child.  It was an attempt to connect with me, to identify with me about the loss of my son, Jody.   Beneath my smile, I would tune them out and in my mind say “You have no idea what you’re talking about, my loss is so different than yours.”  And, early on, I admit I would also think “My loss is much more tragic than yours.”

There is no question, a loss is tragic.  Losing someone you expect to live with and watch grow for years to come is so backwards, so upside down.  It doesn’t make a bit of sense. It has been 9 years and 323 days since Jody died, or should I say lived and I now see how intertwined loss is from one person to the next.  As a mom who has lost a baby, I can find support from others with very different losses.  After all, the tie that binds is love.

I recently had dinner with an older friend who lost her husband some years ago and she said something that struck a chord.  She told me very plainly “I loved him more than anything.  Do I miss him?  Of course I do.  Do I wish he was here?  Of course I do.  But I can’t change the fact that he’s gone.  Nothing I can do will change that fact.  So I choose to live a life of gratitude.  I choose to be thankful.  I don’t mean I’m thankful that he died.  What I mean is that I choose to be thankful that I know what it feels like to love and I know what it feels like to be loved.”

There it was.  So simple and, oh so, true.  In that moment I realized that losing someone you love is just that…Loss. It is heartache, it is grief, it is awful, and we don’t like it.  What we have in common, the loss of a baby and the loss of a great and loving husband is that we know what it feels like to love and we have a choice to make: to be thankful or to be bitter.

A few weeks ago, I sat in my therapist’s office and she asked if I had ever written letters to Jody.

“Of course,” I replied.

“What is the tone of them?  What do you say to Jody?” she asked.

“Typically, they are letters of sadness and regret.” I responded.

“I want you to try something for our next session together.  I’d like you to write a letter of gratitude to your son.  I’m talking about the bigger picture here.  Do you think you can do that?”

As my foot began to jiggle and I scooted my hands underneath my legs, I bit down on my and contorted my lips, I replied, “I think so.”

So, here we go.  My letter of gratitude to Jody, no apologies, no guilt, no  should- haves, no regret.  Just gratitude for my gift that was taken away.

My dear Jody,

Where do I begin?  It has been 9 years and 10 months exactly since you left this world and my how life has changed.  As a kid I loved to play the board game called “Life”.  You’d get this little car to travel along the twisting roads of life, there were choices to make and unexpected setbacks at each turn; do you go to college or do you start a family?  Medical school or become a teacher?  I think about that now and how if I had been given a choice 15 years ago of two different lives, one where all the difficulties and heartache would be on open display ahead of time and the other a fantasy of the “perfect” no-problem life, I would have wanted the fantasy.  The easy life, no job issues, no family problems, no genetic diseases and, of course, no losing you.

But, with all the choices we make in life we don’t have options with guaranteed outcomes and on the surface I would have never wished to go through what we’ve been through.  But as I look deeper and begin to uncover the gift of circumstances out of my control, I am thankful.  I am thankful that you graced my life.. 

I am thankful that I got to hear you cry, to touch your soft little feet, to feel you take a breath, and look into those gorgeous eyes.  So many parents, parents I’ve met in these last 9 years, never got that chance with their babies.

I’m thankful that because of you I know what true love is, this love envelopes me with an awe-inspiring sense of completeness.  I’m thankful that I pushed through the fear of losing you when you were first born, a mere 60 minutes, and allowed myself to fall in love with you.

I feel immense gratitude for God allowing me to see your life through His lenses, to see that you were much more than a baby who would die.  You were meant as a gift to so many people.  You brought people together and showered joy upon them.  Most of the world never got to know you, but for those doctors and nurses in the room, you will never be forgotten.

You alone taught me that gestures don’t have to be sweeping and grandiose to make a difference.  I know, because I’ve loved you, that simply saying a baby’s name and lighting a candle in their memory is all it takes to make a difference in a grieving parent’s day.  Spending an hour of my time having breakfast with parents whose baby is fighting to live, means more than their words can express me, but the gratitude in their misty eyes says it all.

I’ve learned to be courageous, to trust in God, have faith that no matter what happens or which way life goes, what obstacles we may face, He will provide.  Not in monetary ways, but in ways to survive spiritually.  Because I’ve loved you, I love God.  His love has covered me and sustained me these many months.  I don’t have to like the fact that you died, but I can be thankful because I have loved you I know God’s love, I’ve felt it and I’ve lived it.

Because I’ve loved you, I’m a better parent to your sisters and brother than I think I might have been.  I think I might have gotten so caught up in the day-to-day of therapies, appointments, evaluations, and medications that I would have forgotten to stop and be in the moment with Joey and Jennifer. But Jody, as strange as this seems I am thankful for the light that Julianna has brought into our lives. It was the strength of the love I carried for you that allowed me to love her the way I do after losing you. Without apprehension, without the fear of losing her too.

Of course daily life does fog my vision from time to time, but when I’m with them on a perfect fall day and their laughter joyfully spills out of them, I stop.  I stare at them.  I smile and laugh with them and I thank God for them and you.

I am beyond blessed to be your mommy.  Each day I will promise to shed another ounce of guilt.  You soldiered ahead with grace and purpose and that is the example I want to set for your brother and sisters.  I want to show them that awful, terrible, heartbreaking things happen in life, but life does not have to be ruined because of it.  Life can truly be beautiful again and can have meaning deeper than you imagined.  I am thankful I have felt the deepest emotions known to mankind…love, grief, and joy.

Jody, I will always miss you.  I will always wish life had gone differently and that I was holding your hand in the morning as we walk into school.  But this is the life that was given to us and living in the past, full of regret is no way to live.  Thank you for showing me how to live, how to love, and how to find happiness no matter what challenges we face.

Love,

Momma

On your 20th Birthday, Dear Jennifer

“The woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further

than the crowd. The woman who walks alone

is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before.”

~ Albert Einstein ~

 

Dear Jennifer:

Here we are. It’s the getting so close to your 20th birthday. We’re spending it in our typical low-key fashion.  Life’s moving along at its leisurely pace tonight, but I can’t shake the feeling that the slowness of this evening is mocking us. When I take a moment to realize that in a few days you’ll be 20-years-old, I realize that time has raced past us without full appreciation.

It’s taken me by surprise. That’s probably because of that unrealistic notion of time that I have, which you like to poke fun at. You know what I’m talking about. It’s when I say something happened “the other day” when it was likely that it happened two or three months – years – ago. Time is just like that for me. It’s stagnant. Until it’s not. Right now, in this moment, the dam has broken and time’s waves are rushing at me like a tidal wave of epic proportions.

Twenty years ago, I was walking the halls of the hospital waiting for you to arrive. Time control was a power I thought I possessed. Well it turns out the joke is on me because somewhere along the way you went from being a newborn to twenty and I soared from twenty to forty. Just. Like. That.

I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want you to think you’re going to wake up tomorrow and be blowing out forty candles on your birthday cake. But it will get here quicker than you think because we can’t harness time and we certainly don’t have the power to stop it.  As shocking as it is to comprehend that twenty years can go by so fast, I’ve learned a few things that might serve you well during your next two decades. Here I am again, every year giving you advice.

Give yourself room to grow. Don’t hold on too tightly to the idea of who you should be. Allow yourself to grow into the person you will be. Some days you’ll feel confused about who you are. Other days you’ll see a clear image when you look in the mirror. The you of yesterday won’t always be the you of today. Keep your core values, those standards you’ve set for yourself, close to your soul and the growing pains won’t be so intense or scary. One thing to let go of during this time is expectation. Holding on to expectation will strangle opportunity and you’ll wake up one day wondering how you got where you are. Life is a journey. Make sure you travel, meet new people, immerse yourself in a variety of situations, but remember you are the navigator. You can define the route and choose how you’ll get to the next stop.

Protect your heart. It’s a fragile organ that feels deeply and is susceptible to bouts of unrealistic expectations, disappointment, and pain. Don’t stop loving others, but do so while respecting your boundaries. This is probably one of the hardest lessons to learn and something that I think continues until we die. I feel like I should tell you to love freely without worry or care, but no one has ever accused me of being a romantic. Maybe my 90-year-old self will write a letter to your 70-year-old self with a corrected version of how to love. For now, though, I say love without expectation and love yourself first. When we love ourselves and respect who we are, love gains momentum and flows freely from us bathing everyone we meet in goodness, respect, and dignity. Oh and Peanut, please show people you love them. Because the way you love is amazing, don’t hold back because of fear.

Share your gifts. You may not know what that gift is yet. Some people have tangible gifts like the gift of writing or singing, but I find that more people have gifts that you can’t gather into a box and slap a label on it. Those gifts can be harder to identify, but they are equally as important to cultivate. That’s why you need to give yourself time to get to know you. Eventually you’ll find that one special part of you that’s uniquely yours and you must resist the urge to hide it from the world. Share it openly and proudly.

Learn to work with others. Compromise, assertiveness, understanding, working through adversity, and compassion are skills we must learn as we grow. Working with others can be frustrating at times. Often, you’ll feel like you’re not being heard and you’re being held back. It’s when we figure out how to work through conflict that we move forward – together.

Choose happiness. Life is a series of choices and no matter what choice we make there will be consequences. I think that when we choose happiness, 100% of the time the consequences are favorable to our well-being. We’re not in jobs we hate, friends with people who suck the life from us, and we’re not held prisoner by loathing and self-despair. Find people and experiences that make you happy, not things.

So, I guess that’s it. I think I just gifted you the ultimate card for your birthday. It’s a little cheesy, overly sentimental, and long-winded, but I’m okay with that. 365 days from now, I’ll write you another one that’s just as mushy because as I get older I’m not so afraid of being emotional. Although, I still resist crying in public. Or in front of people.

Happy birthday, oldest daughter. I hope this next decade brings you happiness, fulfillment, and an abundance of love. Let people know who you are because you are magnificent.

I love you always,

Mom

A mothers grief… Where am I nearly 10 years later?

I was 38 when my son died.

Even now I do not think I can describe the endless night at the hospital, our return home, the hours that passed, the collective silence of relatives as they gathered in our room. I wonder if I could even remember.

Its nearly mid-night as I sit here and type. I laid down,  willing myself to sleep… Its been weeks. I just need one good nights sleep, or to just know why I cannot settle. My mind goes back to him every time. My son, 10 years, anguish, silence, sorrow I cannot explain to people; even if you know my pain.

My journey is not unique, but it is mine and I will own every bit of it. After he died every morning I opened the newspaper looking at the obituary page, to examine the only item I was interested in. It wasn’t death, it was life. I would read obituaries, young, old… It didn’t matter. It mattered that each of those names in bold were here, they were loved and in death they would continue to everything. Ghoulishly, I devoured confirmation that I was not alone. I was not the only one grieving.

In the early days, all I could think of was I failed at my most basic duty: I had not been able to protect my son. I could do nothing to stop what happened.

When I returned to work after a few weeks; its not like I had a baby to stay on leave. It was with the slow painful walk of a cripple. My words came with difficulty, presentations and staff meetings presented hurdles I stumbled over.

Among staff I spent my time staring dully out the door of my office, I resented the kindness, peoples determined advance upon my space, anything said to express solidarity, the slightest reference to what had happened. I was thankful for Janell, she sat beside me in those days. She was my bits of normal.

I remember thinking, the day I came home from the funeral, the first time you put food into your mouth, that is the moment you have decided to live.

I sought solace in people like me. We talked about our losses, we talk about marriage break-ups. Couples separate – they cannot take the burden of grief- their own and their partners. They want to get on with life.

I was there… I wanted to get on with life.

The time before, the time after –

There are some things we never do again. I have never since stuck a photo in an album, never put a rosary in my hands. My husband… well he’s not my husband. He quit being happy, forgot what normal was and lived a life filled with anxiety. There were places we didn’t visit because they were associated with him, songs we didn’t listen to, drawers that remain shut. Unbeknownst to anybody, we continued with our pointless statements. Even as we welcomed a new baby into our lives.

The years that followed were muddled in a bitter divorce. Another unexplainable loss. There are parts of us we leave behind though, the things we put into a compartment for later…

I turned on my old computer the other day. Looked at the pictures I took with my camera the day he was born, the day he had died. Remembered the little swirl on his head, his perfect jet black hair. I scrolled through the files, opening each one, page after page. I can barely understand what I had written, let alone relate to it.

I closed the computer.

Writing had once meant a lot to me, and now I wonder whether it too has collapsed along with so much else. My hands move over the keys. Uncertainly, I begin to jot down some of what I have been going through.

Its useless, words cannot do justice to what I feel. So I stare, in the blank screen I see my dim reflection. The reflection of a 38-year-old-woman.

To feel peace…

I still go to church. The one he was in, where our friends, family and strangers gathered over his casket.  I look around the people appear happy, content, calm and serene. I have spent days sitting in the pew over the years, looking for something. The answers to my sadness.

Tonight as I laid in bed, I thought its not the place is it? No place can free us from our suffering. Not a single place in the entire world. But I still prayed, it was my crutch.

I gradually stopped feeling like a victim. I stopped asking why me? Why him?

It been nearly ten years now. Ten years- with all my subsequent life.

The way I think now is deeply influenced by what I practice. For years I have tried to change myself into the person I was. I tried to regain my faith in Him. To hand EVERYTHING over like I had… Do I believe? Through everything I still diligently try to be the person who possesses wisdom, courage and compassion. A person who recognizes with the depths of her being that you cannot hold onto anything, not even your children. That if I manage to accept this basic fact I will not feel so violated, so alone in my waves of grief.

A spiritual journey is difficult to explain in words. Words seem tired, old, self-evident, obvious and simple. My faith is intact, its just different. Its not the same as it was when I was 28. Its changed and that’s ok, I have changed.

Miracles – I have said this over and over again…

Whenever I hear of parents whose children have died I think of the long, long road ahead of them. I want to rush out and hold their hands, assure them that their darkness will lift, that though their lives have changed irrevocably, they will be able to experience light again, a different light from the one they thought they would live in earlier, but light nonetheless.

I want to present with a smiling face. See, this happened to me. It happened, I thought nobody could help, but that was not true. I was helped, by many, many – even though it did not feel like help at the time.

Through my loss I was taught to love my children differently, to cherish what’s simple. So I hold their hands… I look at their fingers… tiny 7-year-old ones, dirty 13 year-old boy fingers and 20 year-old fingers that are just a little more experienced. I love harder, forgive easier and let go of what isn’t good.

Sometimes I struggle with knowing where we go… what is next? Have I done everything just right, have I taught my kids the important lessons. I believe they know the greatest gifts are love, forgiveness and compassion… They know to weather a storm with grace and to find the beauty after.

We were all there…

I was so lucky to spend nearly two weeks the kids in Hawaii…I am always thankful for how close these three are even with the separation in age.

On our first day sitting on the beach, all three kids were yelling. Julianna screaming that Jody was there with us!

This to me is EVERYTHING!

It’s your birthday!

Dear Jody,

Wow… It’s your 9^th birthday! You would be so mature right now! I can just imagine what you would be like. I walked around the house last thinking about what your birthday letter would be about.  Is there something I haven’t said a thousand times before, something that’s not given knowing everything in the last 9 years.

Reality is there’s nothing unsaid…  April brings such sadness… it carries a weight I cannot explain. It’s a month where I feel suffocated by grief that cannot be shown. Because who understands? I am still grieving you, a baby that died 9-years ago. People who haven’t experienced a loss think, “She should have gotten over it.”… Others who have experienced a loss quietly grieve with me. I think it’s a show of silent support, honestly, I don’t have any idea. I know this… April is a month that feels like I have a marble in my throat from swallowing back my tears, a month where there’s the weight of an elephant on my chest as I try to breathe through the panic attacks, a month where the smile you see is hallow and my laugh comes slower.

In all that Jody, 9 years and 4 months ago I laid in bed praying for your diagnosis to be wrong. I begged over those months for you to be OK, I hoped for a miracle. Over the next 5 years… I carried anger, frustration, hatred and so many other things thinking “what did I do to deserve my baby to die” It wasn’t until this last year I realized the miracles after your diagnosis, after your death and still after these years. You were one of those, but there were so many more.

People always ask about your foot print I had tattooed on mine… I never tell them you have passed away. I just tell them it’s yours, because you walk with me. My wish for your birthday is for you to know that I walk with you too. In a very earthly way… In my heart you are here, your spirit is celebrated and your memory is always honored.

The kids and I are celebrating your birthday this Friday… we are going to light 60 lanterns in the preserve to remember your 60 minutes. After our flying lanterns last year this may be overly ambitious and quite comical. So help your mom out… Give us a cool night with no breezes on Friday and bless us with your spirit as we remember you.

Always remembering,

Momma

Dear Jody,

It’s been 8 years… There are days I sit and think about holding you and there are those other days where I feel like it was the life of a whole different person. I can’t remember the weight of you in my arm. I don’t remember what you felt like.

I never thought I would be that mom who had to remember her son who died. Or that there would be this emptiness I had to struggle with for the rest of my life. There have been times I ached to be with you. To just know as your mom I did everything I could for you. To know you were not in pain, that you felt the love that surrounded you the day you left us. I think about the anguish in Uncle Mitch’s cries as he stood at the foot of the hospital bed holding you… He could barley stand… At the time I didn’t think about it. You had just died and we were all there to just accept what time you had and to love you. Now, I watch the video Angelina made… the images take me back to the moments where you were the most important thing. Where I waited, praying you would be born alive… Praying your sister could meet you…

I tell people you are my greatest gift. Your brother and sisters have each individually taught me so much. My biggest lessons as a mother have come from you and ironically some of the largest life lessons were formed while I carried you… and later after you died.

8 years later Jody, I am still so very thankful for you. I am grateful to have been your mom. You were my miracle and you will always be my son. My love for you does not waver… Over the years I don’t talk about you as much in terms of your loss. I have gotten to the point where I can talk about you as though you were here and you lived because you did.

The most beautiful thing is that you continue to live through your brother and sisters. Julianna talks about you all the time. Nearly everyday… She is always a reminder. At times I get frustrated when she wants to look at your things. She sits next to your chest touching everything in it. The first time I showed her I panicked when she touched your blankets, hugged the bears and coughed so close to your locks of hair. Now though, her excitement and the way she admires the tangible things that were yours is so special. When she holds your outfit against her chest and remarks about how small you were I smile. You weren’t small…. You weren’t large… You were simply perfect with the softest feet, amazing lips, my nose with a sweet little smush and when you grabbed my pinky your hand wrapped it tightly…

Happy Birthday in heaven sweet Jody! I will always celebrate you and cherish the small window of time we were given to love you. This year I am celebrating being your mom even more so then other years. As I close my eyes and breathe in the smell of orange blossoms in the air I can feel you with me. The smell reminds me each and every year of you.

This year give me a gift! Come visit me in my dreams so I can hold you…

I love you for always…

Mom

Some gifts only God can give.

Dear Jennifer,

Eighteen years ago you came into my life. I wasn’t trying to be a mom, I didn’t have any idea about being a mom. But I could never forget the first time I held you in my arms. I loved you even more from that moment. I taught you to believe in yourself… and look at you today! You’ve blossomed into a beautiful young lady with wings spread so wide.

In you I see all my hopes and dreams. And as you navigate the phases of life, I watch you dream big and work hard to achieve them. I watch you create memories with more friends than acquaintances. I watch you hold your standards high without compromise.

As you grow into adulthood, my heart is filled with great joy because there is no question you’ll follow the song in your soul. And you’ll have the courage to grab every opportunity that comes your way.

Life will never be easy but it is too short to wake up with regrets. So remember that genuine success comes from true fulfillment and happiness. It is however, without doubt I know you have the strength to persevere, and the confidence to take you through this journey called life.

But Jennifer, today I have to tell you my heartaches. I am anticipating the moment you leave, because you are my forever person. You are etched in my heart so differently then anyone, you’ve impacted me in so many ways.

What You Have Taught Me, Jennifer:

• You taught me unconditional love.  As parents, we discover unconditional love when we have a baby. This love is a fiery protective, all-encompassing love I developed for you soon after you were born. What really has astounded me is your unconditional love for me.  I have messed up time and again as your Mom — sometimes in the BIG TIME ways that sink my heart and leave me thinking, “Oh crap, I’ve really blown this whole parenting deal.”  Yet you still love me and forgive me without question. You have taught me about God’s east-to-west forgiveness for me. Thank you.
• You taught me perseverance. I have watched you struggle through challenges most adults would buckle under the weight of carrying. Life as the oldest kid in our house is not easy. We have serious issues that go on here, and as the oldest you become first mate to my piloting many times! You manage with grace. You’ve had personal and emotional issues you haven’t denied but faced head on. I see your hard work and am so proud of your determination.
• You taught me joy. You have a zany laugh and the most beautiful smile! From you I’ve learned a quiet person can be an extrovert. I would want you in my life even if you weren’t my daughter, because you are one gorgeous woman. You shine light.

So today as your mother I can say I did it! You are this wonderful woman because of me. I know though, that you are your very own person and I am so proud of you. Happy 18th Birthday to you my wonderful daughter!

Love you always and forever…

Mom

February brings sorrow…

It was 7 years ago on this day, February 4^th I received the worst news imaginable. After weeks of bed rest, praying and bargaining there was no hope. Jody would be born, most likely he would be sleeping… I would never have the opportunity to be his mom. To hold him… I remember driving out of the parking lot of the doctors office so hysterical I couldn’t drive.

And moments later sitting at the park with Jennifer explaining that even though we thought things would be ok… that her brother would die. I have sat and had coffee at that same picnic table for the last 6 years alone. Recalling those moments of sadness. The early years that followed I did so in a way to mourn him… To cry without judgment…

Its these days that I sit back and feel humbled by Jody being in my life. I don’t know how to explain it but I have believed that I was chosen to be Jody’s mom. The why’s I could never answer…. maybe because my heart is strong enough to hold on to the hope that his spirit was chosen for me to celebrate and learn from. To know that in the days, weeks and months I carried him knowing he would die I would be required to embrace the fact that my job was not to nurture his earthly form… it has been my job to love him despite not knowing him as a person, to love him beyond the relationship and attachments that are formed when we raise our children….

I honestly don’t know what I am trying to convey… I do know that today is a day that most people will walk not knowing that 7 years ago I learned the hardest lesson of my life…

In some cases it is what it is… We do not have a choice, there is nothing we can do to fight for a change. We can embrace the role we have been chosen for and walk forward not knowing where the path will take us. But knowing that in life there are some things that are out of our control.

The realization that no amount of anger, hatred, bitterness, begging, pleading, bargaining, praying, sadness or resolve will change the outcome.

On this day 7 years ago I had a precious life growing in me… his weight I remember was 16 oz, his heart rate was perfect and he wiggled as the doctor told me he would die… He kicked when termination was offered…

In that moment all 16 oz of his little person told me… I am here… Without hope from anyone… You will keep me alive.

In 7 years this has been my hardest task. To keep a child I loved and prayed for in my heart without being given the opportunity to be his mom, to hold him and love him the way I do the other kids.

I have learned many things though him… The biggest has been as it was stated so clearly by Dr. Wolfson “It is what it is.”

I look back and for that simple lesson I am thankful I was chosen to be Jody’s momma… To love a child long since forgotten by many… To know his spirit walks with me even though his earthly form no longer exists…

So today… I hope you will hug your children tight and know that in and of itself is a gift that many people do not have.