Big brother

Time heals. So they say. My heart will never truly heal from the loss of my only born son.

But since his loss, I have gained.

I have gained the love and admiration of friends and family for the way I have handled his loss. I doubt this, often, and I tell them so. But they keep it coming, every day, and for that, I am grateful.

I have gained a strength and resilience I would not have not know had I not said goodbye to my sweet boy. Only a mama who can fight off boulders, get hit with a lightening bolt, and be run over by ten thousand trucks, can survive the loss of her baby. I am that mama. And I am not alone.

I have gained a bond with my husband, his daddy, that will never break. We lost our baby. Our only baby. We share an angel in Heaven. An angel that shows us he is with us in the most precious ways, at the most magical times, in only ways the two of us can see. We are broken, but we are bonded together in a way only we can know.

I have gained an angel. That angel on Earth was the mightiest, bravest, sweetest boy a mama could ever know. But that angel in Heaven is one special gift to this world. He works a magic on those of us who love him that not one of us can explain, but each of us treasures in our own way.

And I have gained a son. My beautiful angel is now a big brother. And even though he never knew his little brother on Earth, his little brother knows him. He talks about him, he sees his picture, and he told me, in his sweet, innocent, three-year-old voice, “I love him, Mommy.” He loves his big brother in Heaven.

That sweet son I have gained, and that sweet angel I lost are the two greatest gifts this mama could ever receive. Lord knows, I would give anything to have them grow up together on Earth. But Lord knows, I would not have one without the other.

And I know big brother in Heaven will always be watching his little brother on Earth, and hearing when he says, “I love you.”


Call it what you want

History or legend, fact or fiction, there are millions of stories written in books, told through generations, shared through song, that help solidify beliefs in a higher being and an afterlife.

I read or hear or watch people’s journeys with faith, and to be honest, I often judge. Every person’s belief system is their own, and truly a choice and feeling only oneself can truly know and understand. But when those who choose to make their faith public or make statements about others based solely on religious doctrine, I cringe with distaste.

Call it God, call it faith, call it what you want, but in the end, it’s all the same.

We all want, yearn, need to know that there is more than this. This life, this path we are navigating, this journey full of treaturous obstacles and endless heartbreak just has to lead to something more. This just can’t be all there is.

I have a very good friend who has a very dear mom. They are a source of support and compassion for countless people, and they have a faith that rarely wavers and always leads them to treat others with kindness, follow their hearts, and live their lives with passion and adventure.

They have a saying when it comes to decision-making, and they’ve shared it with me many times when I’ve reached a crossroads or felt my pain had become insufferable.

“This is not a dress rehearsal,” they tell me. We get one chance, one life, one shot. So do it big, make it grand, give it everything and regret nothing.

While I truly appreciate the sentiment, and totally agree with the YOLO craze, I fear my sweet angel in Heaven has me believing something different.

Maybe this is the dress rehearsal. Maybe my sweet angel, your sweet angels, all our beautiful departed loved ones are looking at us from above and laughing, while eating ice cream for breakfast and Oreos for dinner, saying things like, “Good effort, Mommy! You can slip and fall, and make mistakes, and do it a thousand times over. I will still be here, waiting for you, loving you, no matter what.”

So, I will keep practicing. I will keep falling and I will continue failing. I will get bumps and bruises on my already sore and burdened heart.

But that’s ok. Because this is my dress rehearsal. And I’m nowhere near opening night.

I was made for this

I was remembering today all the times someone stopped me in the hospital, randomly on the street during walks, in the middle of the mall, and even on the beach. People, just wanting to stop, look, and admire my sweet angel.

Sure, he was tiny and cute, and started wearing glasses at just ten months old. But there was some kind of magnetism about him that just drew everyone to him. He was also always smiling, and that didn’t hurt.

I’ve concluded that his big purpose in this Universe was evident from the minute he entered this Earth. It was apparent, just by looking at him, that he would make a huge impact, even in just three short years.

And now, I have this new little soul, with big, blue, telling eyes, much like his big brother. He too, is a warrior. He too, faces a world of uncertainty with a warrior spirit I’ve only seen once before. My boys, my warriors, somehow made it into my arms and into my heart.

When I look at him, though he’s so different in personality, no relation by blood, born to another family altogether, I see the same fight, the same resilience, and the same unconditional love I once saw in his brother.

And I think, for just a short moment, between my grief and my overwhelming awe at the blessing that is this life, that maybe, just maybe, some of those wonderful and unique characteristics embedded in my boys, could have come from me.

Maybe, through the heartache and pain, the joy and laughter, maybe it’s true that these two boys were meant for me, and only me. A mama who could get hit with a boulder and somehow still stand to face another day. A mama who knows a sadness that crushes her soul, but will work tirelessly to find the happiness in spite of the hurt.

A mama, who works to be the best wife, the best friend, the best daughter a woman could be, but above all else, strives to be the very best mama to her baby in Heaven and her baby on Earth.

Maybe, just maybe, I was made for this.

How can I not be?

I am a neurotic parent. I worry about everything. I take the phrase ‘helicopter mom’ to a whole new level. I am a psychotic, overbearing, strict, insane parent. How can I not be?

I’ve been trying to figure out another way since the day I was blessed with my second child. He is a beautiful, healthy, smart, and independent three-year-old. And I am driving myself absolutely nuts trying to be the perfect parent.

I push him to use manners, because I want a polite child. I encourage him to dress himself, brush his own teeth, use the potty, even if he is not quite ready, because I want him to learn independence. Yet, I get angry when he disobeys. Sometimes I raise my voice and sometimes I lose my temper. I am a strict and often unforgiving parent. How can I not be?

I want him to understand that life isn’t always fair. That we all have to do things we don’t want to do. I want to teach him all the tough lessons, so he doesn’t have to learn them any other way, or from anyone else. But sometimes, I feel like I am too tough. How can I not be?

He tests me. He pushes and I push back. He is learning to fit into our little world, with an insecurity and fear I know I will never understand. He is a determined child. He has never know stability and he has only experienced abandonment. I will never leave him. But I am terrified of him leaving me. How can I not be?

I am a lucky parent. I have had two beautiful boys, one I carried, and one who was gifted to me. They will never be brothers on Earth. I will always be sad for that fact. How can I not be?

I am exhausted. Half of me grieves while the other half parents. I am in constant turmoil over trying to appreciate my blessings while grasping to understand my tragedies. I dream of an easier life. I want to become stronger from these challenges, but oftentimes I am just angry, and tired, and scared. How can I not be?

I want to be better. I want to know that what I am doing is right, and just, and good. I want my boys to appreciate the mother I am trying to be. I don’t want to be this person full of self doubt. How can I not be?

I am the mother of a son on Earth and a son in Heaven. I have an angel to guide me and a child to help me learn the way. I may falter, and I may fail, but at the end of every day, I am a loving mother trying her best. And I am happy. How can I not be?



Loss vs. longing

For a bereaved parent, loss is a suffering, a burden, a fact of life that will never change. Losing a child is an event that constantly haunts, nags, and weighs on the heart like no other ache in this world.

But the loss itself is something that can be acknowledged, accepted, and even appreciated for how it changes you, what it teaches you, and how it helps you grow.

But for me, it’s not the loss that gets me. I know in my heart that I will see my baby again someday, and in some way we will be together again. The loss, I can accept, it’s the longing that tears at my soul and crushes my heart.

The longing to feel him lay against me. The longing to hear that sweet voice. The longing that I will never know what he would have been like at five, or fifteen, or twenty-five. The longing to have him here, with me, to see that he is good and happy. The longing to understand why it was his purpose to touch my life in the most amazing way, then have to go away.

I long for a day where I find a way to appreciate this longing. The loss I will accept. The longing is what hurts the most because I know there is no way to fill that void and cure the ache inside my soul.

Changing wallpaper

Five years, four jobs, three phones, two numbers, one sweet face has served as my ‘wallpaper’ and I see it every time my phone rings with a call, alarms to wake me, chimes with a new text or email.

But today, a new kind of mom-guilt set in when I was talking to a coworker about our new addition, and it took me several clicks of my phone to find a photo.

Maybe, after two years of living without him, it’s time to change the wallpaper. Time to put his little brother on the ‘front page.’ Time to turn this page.

The mere thought of removing my dear, sweet angel from the front of my phone brought a chill over me. But simultaneously I felt the yearning to give this beautiful, new, precious gift of mine the spotlight, the shine, the attention, he also deserves.

It’s my phone, for Heaven’s sake!

Yes, this is the tearful internal debate I have with myself after a three-minute conversation about daycare and potty training. But, how on Earth, do I make such an impactful decision that will weigh on my grieving heart and distracted mind? It’s as impossible as parenting a son in Heaven and a son on Earth.

For now, I’m going to take a page out of my mom’s playbook. When my sister and I were young and shared bunk beds, we would argue over who got to sleep on the top bunk. Mom’s solution was rotate. Each week one of us would get the top bunk, then, at the end of the week, we’d wash the sheets and swap beds.

So, that’s what I’ll do with my wallpaper. One week will be my angel in Heaven. The next week I’ll swap and display my angel on Earth.

Thanks, Mom!

Another year

Two years ago, tomorrow, I received a phone call that I had prayed would come for five terrifying months. It was a phone call that would change my life, my family, my entire being, more than I ever could have imagined.

I remember every detail of the conversation, and I have replayed it in my memory thousands of times. If it had gone differently, if it had come sooner, if we had made different choices, would the end result have changed?

But the call will never change. My response will always be the same. And the result will always be that he is gone.

It was early afternoon and we had just come home from a walk to the playground. It was unseasonably warm and my sweet little man was feeling good since we had decided to take a break from chemo before starting a different approach to treatment. I have beautiful photos from that day of him smiling at the top of the tiny toddler slide. But looking at them now, I see how fragile and sick he really was.

That day there were no fevers, no tummy aches, and he felt good enough to crawl around a little. It was a good day. We were home, not in the hospital, and we were feeling good. My cell phone rang right as I finished changing him and hooking up his afternoon g-tube feed.

“We have a liver and two kidneys from a healthy infant donor.” The transplant surgeon on the phone said to me.

This was it. After too many rounds of chemo, countless trip to the ER with fevers and threats of sepsis, multiple stays in PICU, the waiting, the worrying, the heartache. We were finally going to be able to cure our baby.

He transplanted the following day on my thirty-fifth birthday. He went to Heaven eight days after that.

In two days I will turn thirty-seven. My phone will ring with well-wishes from friends and family, who all know their “happy birthdays” are more condolences than they are celebrations. My birthday will never quite be a true celebration again, because a part of me was also lost that day.

But getting older has also gotten just a little bit easier knowing a small part of me is already in Heaven, and there is nothing but good stuff waiting for me on the other side.

No one would know

I am the proud mother of a sweet angel in Heaven, taken from me two years ago at only three years old. I am the busy mother of a three-year-old angel on Earth, gifted to me from the Heavens through foster care.

No one would know, just by looking at me.

I am in constant turmoil over the grief I feel and the joy life gives. I treasure every moment of this beautiful life while simultaneously hating every moment I have to continue living it without my baby.

No one would know, unless they ask.

I still cry, every day in the car, when I’m alone. I feel like balancing grief and parenthood is an impossible task. But I know my grief is selfish, because my dear sweet angel is happy and safe and waiting for me in his beautiful paradise. And parenting, though exhausting and terrifying, is the only job in my life worth the amount of effort it requires. So I balance, because I choose this life.

No one would know, if I didn’t share.

I am a mess. But I am a solid, strong, confident, and beautiful mess.

No one has to know.

The hardest thing

For everyone grieving, everyone struggling, everyone surviving, there’s usually one thing that’s harder to do than anything else. One time of day where you can’t help but cry. One day of year when getting out of bed just isn’t an option. One memory that will always bring that tightness to your tummy, and slowly close your lungs.

There are a lot of hard things when you’re a grieving mother, living without your baby. There are a lot of ‘firsts’ you miss, a lot of days you dread, a lot of ‘what ifs’ that roll around your mind.

But for me, the hardest thing, from the day I lost him and every day since, has been driving. Driving alone, without my baby in the backseat. No handing sippy cups over the seat. No hearing “mom, mom, mom” from behind me. No silly laughter when I sing too loud or off key. Just me. Me alone.

But what I’m realizing on this journey of parenting an angel in Heaven, is that the hardest thing can become the most comforting.

I still cry when I’m in the car. But now I choose to take this time and talk to him. And I know with every ounce of my heart and soul, that no matter my destination, no matter how fast I’m going, or what is on my mind, my sweet baby is listening.

I tell him all the good stuff. I tell him all the exciting and wonderful things that Mommy is doing here on Earth while he plays in Heaven. I tell him how much I miss him every minute and how much I still, and will always, love him.

I talk to him, and that eases the burden of the emptiness. I don’t like driving, or being in the car alone. But it’s getting just a little easier knowing my baby is with me, even if there’s no carseat behind me. And having him there, in any way I can get him, helps make it just a little less hard.

Because once you’ve mastered the hardest thing, everything else is just gravy.


I’m good on the inside

I was looking at a recent picture of myself and realized how focused I was on that picture. The attention I was paying to my appearance. Noticing how I’ve aged in the months since I’ve become a grieving mother.

My eyes are puffy, red, a little dark.

I cry more now.

My shoulders hang a little lower.

 The weight of life is just a little heavier. 

And there’s a little furrow line between my brow from that worry I can’t seem to shake. 

All signs that the past eighteen months have worn on my body as much as they’ve worn on my soul.

But there’s a beauty to grieving. An unexpected perk. Losing my child, my only child, whose life was so brief and so beautifully purposeful and triumphant, has shown me how insignificant this weathered, worn appearance of mine truly is.

I know, with every breath I take and each day that passes, I am aging. But I am also growing.

Growing in the knowledge that we are each so much more than our bodies. That our actions, our words, and our treatment of others can make us beautiful.

No matter what the photos show, I know, I am good on the inside.