Valley of Shadows

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Leo,

It’s been a little over 2 years since I held you, kissed you, smelled your sweet baby smell, or heard your deep cry and still, I struggle. 

I struggle to breathe when I try to remember what holding you felt like, I struggle to think when I try to remember our last moments alive together, and I struggle to go on when I remember what it felt like to place my hand on your ice cold arm. 

I find myself rolling the question “why?” around inside my head more and more these days.  It’s like a bad song that you can’t get out of your head; an “ear worm” as your sisters would call it. 

There aren’t words in our vast and colorful vocabulary to appropriately describe the depth of my sadness and resentment surrounding your death.  I just want you back. One simple request but an extremely complicated desire.  

I look at pictures of you and every single time I do, there is an earthquake inside of my heart.  I see you and it reminds me of your absence, I feel sad, I feel grateful, I want to die, and I want to live a life so full that it’s plain to see why I had to stay here without you. My broken heart continues to fracture and shift, creating mountain peaks and valleys. 

Today, I sit at your feet…above your feet, really, and my heart is deep in a valley filled with the shadows of your death. I do fear evil but I also know that God is with me.  

So tonight, I’ll say a prayer, asking God to shine down on me, to remind me that He didn’t cruelly rip you from my arms, that He didn’t leave my life in shambles, that my broken heart can be put together again but that He will have to fill in the gaps. 

I love you my sweet boy. I owe so much of my faith to you and I can’t tell you how blessed I feel to be your mama. 

All my love,

Mom

Close to You

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Hi Leo,

I was driving down the road alone one day (I know, how did I pull that off with three kids?) when suddenly I was overcome with intense sadness.  At first I thought it was me, missing you. It was but a brief moment before I realized that the feelings I had; my breath catching in my throat, my longing for a snuggle, my deep overpowering desire to see you again; all of that…it wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t missing you. 

I realized that it was your spiritual presence visiting me and I was so gripped by the feeling of you so nearby that I was overwhelmed. 

Overwhelmed by sadness, longing, joy, love, and reminded of the gaping hole that the absence of your physical presence has left behind.  But it wasn’t just emotions. It was you. It’s actually you visiting me.   

So my sadness has transformed. I’m accepting that all of those feelings are associated with your presence, not your absence.  And it’s been so healing! And I feel you more often and in different ways. 

I love you my boy!

Always,

Mom

It’s a Boy

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Leo,

I went to visit you this morning and when I arrived, I felt something I haven’t felt since you were alive. 

Death isn’t gender specific. I don’t think I would grieve the loss of a daughter differently than the loss of a son. I call you “my son”, I know you were my only boy, but it isn’t often that I remember that feeling of having a son. And so, when I walked up to your grave to place a kiss on the soil, the way I always do, I was more than surprised to feel that your grave looked like a little boy’s grave. I remembered what it felt like to have a son. Oh, what a feeling that I didn’t even know I missed. 

Your grave was decorated with some strangely beautiful wilted rusty orange tulips, two skateboarding figurines, a toy race car, and someone left you a well-loved baseball. The kind of baseball that little boys have the most fun with. 

You could tell that it had been thrown, rolled, tossed in the mud, and hit with a bat.   I wondered if maybe it was a home run ball, a perfectly pitched game ball, or just an extra that was rolling around a minivan somewhere.

We were so excited when we found out we were having a boy. We had two gorgeous girls and we were adding our little blond boy to the family. Losing you meant losing out on having a son. 

But if given the choice to do it all over again and this time to know you would die before I barely knew I was pregnant, would I keep you?  Would I do it all over again?  Would I choose you?  Yes,  I’d still choose you.  I’ll always choose you. 

The world cries out that it wouldn’t make sense. Why carry a baby for 9 months to only have 26 days?  Truth is, it only took me one single moment to love you for a lifetime. And your life only took 26 days to change the world. 

I love you, my son. And I’m glad you’re participating in baseball season!  Forever yours,

Mom

Drowning

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Leo and mommy

leo 2

Lately I feel like I’m drowning.  Drowning in grief, in sorrow, in deep ice cold water with sharks circling around me.  I’ve never felt so alone…or at least I can’t remember the last time I felt so lonely.  I’ve got people all around me, complimenting me, loving me, hugging me, praying for me, and yet, here I am, completely submerged, wishing I could find my way back to the boat that I fell off of.

I’ve been treading water for two years now.  “Look how strong you are,” they say to me, “you’re doing great!”  But I’m getting tired and I’m feeling weak, and frankly, I’m scared.  I’ve been wondering how long I’ll have to keep this up.  How long will I be sad?  How long will I wonder if I could have saved my son’s life?  How many times do I have to fight off the “Why”?  How many times should I pray for answers, for comfort, for my life back!?  Those questions are sharks that circle around me, waiting…waiting for the right moment to claim victory over me.

I was talking to someone yesterday who asked me if I’ve found peace, if I’m learning to live with my sorrow but not be defined by it.  Her words were a life raft.  They shifted my perspective and my energy instantly.  All this time, I’ve been trying to get back on that boat, and at some point, I accepted that I had to be in the water…that my ship had sailed, so to speak.  But yesterday; yesterday was the first time I had the realization that I could learn to breathe underwater.

Part of being a bereaved mom, part of surviving SIDS, part of accepting this loss, is learning to live in it.  I want to learn to have joy again, to let go of guilt when I don’t mention Leo, to calm my anxious heart that is crying out for Heaven, for Leo, for the end.

Yesterday, I stopped treading water.  I sank into the ocean and let it become my new home and I watched as the sharks swam away.  I know they’re still in the ocean with me but they aren’t circling anymore.  I’m not tired anymore.  Now I’m learning…now I’m REALLY learning, not how to survive, as I had been the past two years, but to LIVE again.  There is life without Leo, there is GOOD life without Leo.  It’s not what I wanted, I would never choose this, but so it is, and it’s high time I learn to live again.

I would be devastated if I also lost Alyssa, Lily, or Zoe, so what makes me think that I can go on living a life of misery and sadness when these girls are still here with me?  It’s like I lost all of them if I were to continue only treading water.  They deserve to have an exciting, robust, crazy happy life with their vibrant mother.  We can all be mermaids together, living in the ocean that we never expected to be in.  And for those who know Zach, just picture it, he would be the most handsome mer-man out there.  I’d even let him grow his beard out.

Leo,

I wish it didn’t have to be this way.  All I ever wanted was you.  I want all 4 of my kids here with me and I’ll forever be filled with a deep emptiness where I carved a piece of my heart, my soul, my being, just for you, as I did for my other children.  I know you’ll understand and encourage me as I move forward.  I’m letting go of what was and taking hold of what is.  I’ll make you proud of how recklessly I throw myself into living this life for the short time that I have left.  I’ll teach your sisters to live with wild abandon.  And I’ll grab your dad’s hand and we will run, and play, and laugh, and love, more truly than ever before.  I know you’re here with me.  I feel you.  I know you lived for me the way that I live for you.  I am me because I had you.

Forever loving and missing you,

Mom

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Don’t get the wrong idea

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Leo,

Today I just want to die. I titled this letter “Don’t Get the Wrong Idea” because I don’t want anyone to think I’m suicidal but the truth is that I just want to die.  I miss you so much that it hurts and the pain is so intense that I wish I could lay down, go to sleep, and wake up in heaven with you. 

I’m plagued by this dense fog of sadness and despair that keeps me wondering if it’s my fault that you died.  I wonder what would have happened if I had been a different kind of mother to you.  A stricter, more vigilant mother who truly understood safe sleep…not the stuff that they teach you just to put you at ease, but real safe sleep practices. What if I had really understood the consequence?  What if I hadn’t felt exempt from tragedy?  

You second angelversary is on Saturday and I’m filled with fresh sadness. I wonder when I’ll enjoy the 26 days between our birthdays and your last day on earth.  I wonder when I’ll find peace.   I have no idea and my only real option is to put one foot in front of the other…

I love you.

Mom

Happy 2nd Birthday

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Leo,

Happy birthday; to you and to me!!  As my life moves forward without you and I’m forced to celebrate my birthday alone, I find myself feeling like today is meaningless.  It’s your birthday, yes. But you aren’t here anymore.  I don’t know why I feel this way. 

I suppose it’s because today kicks off the season of your presence and then of your absence.  I hate my birthday because it marks day 1 of your short 26 days.  What’s to celebrate about that?

I wish I didn’t have to celebrate my birthday either. I wish we were still together. I’ve got this crazy cute little family and this really supportive community….but I don’t have you.  How is it that your death had the power to make everything else in my life insignificant.  I think that’s wrong…

Not wrong in the sense of shame, wrong as in, it shouldn’t have happened. Since I’m stuck here without you, I should enjoy my other treasures…your sisters, your dad, my own life. 

It feels impossible to enjoy my life without you but that is the life I was given. This is the life I am meant to lead. You would not have wanted me to be so sad. So today, on your second birthday, my 33rd, I promise to keep moving forward.  I promise to keep seeking connection, comfort, love, and a passion for life that burns like a fire inside of me. 

I love you baby boy. 

Happy birthday to us!

Love,

Mom

I’ll always miss you

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Hi Leo,

Today I broke down crying because the feeling of missing you overwhelmed me. I have been thinking of you even more strongly than usual. I had a dream about you…you looked a lot like Lily.

As your second birthday approaches, I find myself feeling weaker and weaker.  I’ve been so busy that I haven’t written you but you know how often I think of you and try to connect with you. 

I just miss you and I wanted to take the words from my heart and send them out to you.  I am broken. I am scared. I am scarred. I am still so sad that you’re gone. I want all 4 of my kids with me. 

Alyssa told me that you came to her in a dream and told her that you wanted to come back. I wish that were true but I have no way to know.  I want you back. I want to hear your voice. I should have gotten to raise you. 

It’s all so unfair and so heartbreaking. 

I love you, son. 

Yours,

Mom

Blessings

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Leo,

I could do a million things to try and distract myself from thoughts of you, but I wouldn’t be successful. As consistently as I think about your sisters, who are alive and well, I also think of you. You are my son. Your death didn’t change that.

It did rob me of the opportunity to live a lifetime with you, to teach you about life, to watch you reflect upon the world what your dad and I could have taught you. But your death, oh, how much I have learned from it, from you. I reflect upon the world the lessons you have taught me.

I know you’re there…right there, next to me, in front of me, asleep with me, comforting me when I cry, calming me when I think your sisters have died too. You’re this presence that I feel often. And when I don’t feel you, somehow, you remind me that you’re near.

Yesterday at la vista, Zoe and I were walking around and I was introducing her to her grandpa Augie and great grandparents. I kneeled at your grave and through choked back tears, I whispered, “Where are you , Leo?” And I kept on walking with Zoe.

As I approached the road, this young boy, around 10 or 12, wearing black jeans and a black hoodie with some smart ass comment disguised as the Jack Daniels logo, who was walking through the cemetery toward his home tells me how cute my baby is. He said he remembers when his brother was that small. This boy, who looked like he was up to no good, reached out to me. I wasn’t sure why.

Maybe he wanted me to write him off based on his looks so he could justify some questionable choices. Maybe he felt vulnerable seeing a mom and being alone…like he could relax and be himself for a minute. Maybe he thought I looked vulnerable and wanted to take advantage of that or comfort me. I didn’t know why he reached out; regardless, I offered him some dignified human connection.

I asked how old his brother is now. This boy stopped in his tracks and I knew we connected. He wasn’t expecting me to talk to him or to care about his family but that one simple question lit up his face. He told me his brother was three now. I commented on how crazy three year olds can be and we shared a little laugh.

Then, his face grew concerned. I think he realized why I was at la vista. He asked me if I have a child buried nearby and I said yes, I do. He was saddened and said, “you know, my mom had a baby when she was 17 and she died, my sister, she died. Then my mom had me at 19.” With a smile, I informed him that he was a rainbow baby and he agreed with me. I couldn’t help but stare in wonder at this tender hearted kid who knew what a rainbow baby was. I told him that he would never understand completely what a true blessing he is to his mom. Tears filled his eyes and he breathed “yeah, I am.”

Then he asked me about my baby. I told him about you, about your 26 days, about SIDS, and he put his hands in his pockets and said “that is so sad.” I agreed. Then, I turned Zoe to face him and I said, here is my blessing. And as tears streamed down his cheeks he said, “God bless you. Seriously. God bless you and your family.” I said it back and, feeling weak, I sat on your bench and cried. I looked up a minute later to see the boy by the fence getting ready to go home and I watched him stop to turn and look back at us before he left.

I hugged Zoe tight, left a kiss for you on your grave, and I could feel, deep in my being, your energy vibrating. I asked where you were, and you brought me a boy whose life was changed by our story.

Thank you. Thank you for those moments of pure love and human connection.

Love,
Mom

A letter to my early grieving self

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Instead of writing a letter to Leo tonight, I feel like God has placed it on my heart to try and bring some order to the tornado of emotion that has surrounded me this past week. If you know me in person or on facebook, you know that some friends suddenly and unexpectedly lost their son about a week ago.

Watching our community mourn this loss brings back so many emotions from the beginning of when we lost Leo. I’ve been doing my best to push the emotions aside, but I know that isn’t what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to write a letter to myself. The Angela that just lost Leo.

This scares me because I don’t want this to come off like I’m pretending to be some sort of expert on grief. I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist. I’m an HR professional, I know classification , compensation, and how to train people. In any case…I’m just stalling now. So here goes nothing.

Angela,
Right now you are standing in the epicenter of a 10.0 earthquake, a category 5 tornado, an insurmountable tragedy so heartbreaking that you can’t even fathom existence any longer.

Breathe. Breathe mama. And cry. Cry as many tears as your body can produce. Cry whenever you need to. At the store, in the car, at work, in Zach’s arms, laying face down on top of Leo’s grave, in the arms of your daughters…just cry. And when you’ve run out of tears, drink some water and cry some more. Don’t pretend to be okay.

How could you anyway. Right now, there is no pretending. Life just got real. There’s nothing like death to remind us how real life is. It’s okay that you don’t want to live anymore. I know that, if you could be assured that the girls and Zach would be well taken care of and would be able to live their God given destiny without you, you’d lay down and die right now. That’s ok! I understand that you’re not suicidal, you’re just not afraid to die. It’s ok!

I want you to know that SIDS is not your fault. It’s not your fault, it’s not Zach’s fault, it’s not your fault, not your fault, not your fault. Keep saying it until you can believe it. Everything is pointing to this being your fault, but it’s not. It’s just not! You couldn’t have done anything differently. Why would you? You didn’t know that Leo was going to die! And if you did, what would you have done? Babies die of SIDS in hospitals too.

Your trust in God is incredible. In the face of this pitch black darkness, your heart, your faith, your absolute trust in God and heaven, is shining so brightly that even we are lifted up just being in your presence. God is vibrating through you so strongly that even we can feel it.

You are inspiring people around you. I know, crazy, right? At your very weakest, you are your strongest. God has taken complete control at your surrender.

Friends, old and new, are surrounding you with the purest love. People are filling your broken heart with pearls of wisdom. Words that you’ll learn to live your life by. And all you’re doing is listening to what God is telling you. Going where God is leading you. Trusting what God has given you.

Don’t stop. The idea of being in control has been ripped from your being…don’t go looking for it. Keep making friends, I promise God will connect you with other bereaved parents when the time is right.

Hold on. Hold on to anything that feels real, anything that feels like God.

People think life is hopeless, that God is horrible for taking your only son from you, that you’re being punished somehow. But you and I know that’s not the case. There is a peace that fills you and you just know that God has a plan much greater than yours. Anyone who doubts that doesn’t know the truth.

All you have to hang onto is a deep knowing that God knew this was going to happen, that Leo knew this was going to happen. You are going to blossom in ways that you never imagined because of how open your heart is now.

I know you didn’t ask for this. I know you would trade anything to have Leo back. I know life feels thick and heavy right now. The pain isn’t going anywhere, Angela. Learn to live with it. You’ll learn to harness its power to bring others to Christ. It’s never going to be okay, but you’ll endure and the pain will find a place in your life.

Darkness is going to keep trying to make you get over this pain. Don’t do that! Let this pain be a part of your experience. And be filled with peace knowing that one day, when the time is right, you’ll go to sleep and wake up in heaven. Leo will turn around and say,”mom, how did you get here so fast?” And you’ll hug and kiss him and be together for eternity. And before you know it, the rest of your family will join you. And you’ll have all lived out Gods will for your life.

You have a lot ahead of you. Take life one step at a time. That’s it. No more, no less. You’ve got this. It might not feel like it today, but with God, all things are possible.

I love you.
Angela

Waves

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Leo,

I was sitting in a quiet room with a womb-like feeling. It was dark but comfortable and you were asleep in my arms. I snuggled you into my chest and sighed the sigh of a happy mother in love with her newborn son. I smelled your head – that sweet baby smell, and tried to take the moment in. I felt embraced by love, I felt Heaven. And then suddenly I realized that I was inside of your casket with you. I wasn’t scared but I was so heartbroken that you were gone. I was on the outside looking in, as if traveling in a backward direction. I could see you, then both you and me, I could see the wooden box, I could see the earth surrounding us, the grass, then the cemetery; and in an instant, I woke up.

I’m usually an astute dream interpreter but I can’t seem to wrap my mind around this one. Watching our community grieve the loss of another child brings back a lot of unresolved emotions. Watching other people, who haven’t lost a child, grieve the loss of this baby is challenging at times. It’s hard for me to hear or read their doubts, their anger, their sadness.

I’ve built a foundation to grow from since losing you, and being back at the beginning, seeing someone else’s grief journey start, seeing the community shaken and mourning another loss, is quite confusing for me. Watching well-wishers stumble through trying to support their friends, trying to understand this loss, shakes my foundation. As I’m seeing and hearing people muse the purpose of child loss it’s creating cracks in my foundation. I already went through this; my heart already came to terms with this. Why am I back at the beginning again? Why am I seeing their negative, raw emotions and allowing them to create sadness in me? Those are not my emotions, they’re theirs. Those are not my feelings, they’re theirs. They haven’t been through this, I have.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers, let alone some of the answers, all I know is how I felt, how I feel, what I’m scared of, what I need. I’m back at the beginning, having to give grace to strangers for their feelings on someone else’s loss that is so sadly reminiscent of the loss I had 1 1/2 years ago…not long ago at all.

God give me a sea of grace from which I can continuously drink. I cannot be overtaken by the waves of grief crashing over my foundation. I won’t allow it, I can’t allow it. But as the ocean waves so notoriously promise to ware down the sharpest glass into a beautiful rounded pebble, so to do waves of grief ware down the strength of my foundation. Perhaps it will be worn down into something more beautiful than I knew possible.

All I have is hope. I love you and I miss you in ways that words, that minds, cannot comprehend.

Forever,
Mom