You turned eleven yesterday. We sang, had a cake, and talked about the day you were born. Even though you are forever three, a toddler, a sweet little man, I like to picture what you’d be like today. You would have been the greatest big brother. Your brother misses you. I know you never met … Continue reading Happy birthday, baby
Tag: pediatric cancer
Diagnosis
Seven years ago today I was told to get to the children’s hospital with my son as soon as possible. The ultrasound he had earlier in the day had revealed there were lesions on his liver and a biopsy was necessary. That night, I would sleep on a faux leather futon next to my sweet … Continue reading Diagnosis
Space
After nearly six months, we are still in quarantine. We are working from home, going to school virtually, and I couldn’t tell you the last time I walked into a restaurant. We are isolated, and alone. But, I am never alone. My son, and my dog, and my husband, are always here. We are all, … Continue reading Space
The stuff inside wants out
I had a terrifying moment about a week ago. Technically, nothing happened. But I was more scared, more emotional, and more sure that something had, that I damn near lost my mind. I’m an emotional person. I cry when I feel sad. I yell if I’m really angry or passionate. And I bite my tongue, … Continue reading The stuff inside wants out
Funeral for a child
Have you ever pictured your child's funeral? Of course not. No one--no one--wants to think about their child dying. For almost five years, when I referred to our three-year-old son's funeral, I said 'service.' I could not bear to admit that we planned, attended, and welcomed friends and family to gather because my son had … Continue reading Funeral for a child
The sadness still happens
I make a conscious effort to be happy, despite the fact my only born son is in Heaven. I made a promise when his body remained but his sweet soul found a new home, that I would remember just that. And a lot of the time, it is enough. I find beauty in this life … Continue reading The sadness still happens