Leo,
Late at night I wake up and just lay in bed thinking about you. I can hear your sisters softly snoring (and your dad loudly snoring) and it breaks my heart because I don’t hear or see you. People say that you’re always near me and I want to believe that, but I don’t feel it.

I just don’t understand why you had to go. I don’t understand why I’m left with only memories and why I’m faced with being pregnant all over again, having a baby all over again, trusting all over again. I’m certain that my heart has enough love for baby Zoe but the truth is, I just want you. I didn’t really have the chance to be your mom. I didn’t have time to mess up, to make you happy, to disappoint you, to dress you up, to scold you for being a rowdy little boy, to teach you not to pick on your sisters, to hug you when you were hurt.

I have 26 days worth of memories and a lifetime of pain, suffering, and searching for peace. I mean, honestly, that’s not what people want when they leave the hospital with a healthy baby. They trust that they have begin their journey raising their child and they will get to watch them grow old. They dread the reality that someday their child would have to say goodbye to them, not the other way around.

How do I do that? How do I renew my faith that my children, including Zoe, will get to grow old one day? I can’t. I know the reality of losing a child and I know that life isn’t promised. Yes, eternal life, blah, blah, blah…but I was really pretty set on having at least 40 years with you.

Late at night, when my mind is wandering through the shadows of my world and yours, I find doubt in every crevice. I’m searching for hope, trust, faith, and most importantly, peace.

I love you baby boy.

Always,
Mom

Leo,

Today I drove your dad to work. Because of his surgery, he isn’t allowed to drive himself anywhere for the week. On my way home, I thought about visiting you at the cemetery but decided against it. I instantly felt guilty so I took the rest of the drive home thinking about why I didn’t want to go visit you. I wish I could say it is because I’ve healed and moved on as so many well-wishers say I will do in time. The truth is, I was putting my head in the sand…I had an Ostrich moment, if you will.

You are simultaneously one of the most beautiful and utterly painful parts of my life. On days like today I realize that I don’t have the energy to face our reality. I don’t have it in me to visit the spot where I laid your sweet beautiful body to rest. I don’t have it in me to draw up even more memories of the life we had, the life we could have had, the life we should have had.

I talk about you without crying and people tell me how strong I am. I laugh silently to myself. I go on living each day, trusting, hoping, praying, that your sisters get to outlive your dad and me and people tell me how happy it makes them to see me moving on. I silently die a little more inside. They say I’m one of the strongest and most composed people they’ve met, but you and I both know that’s not true.

I’m a total mess. I’m not strong because I was born this way, I’m strong because God gifts me the strength to live on without you. I’m composed because I can only cry so many tears before I’ve dehydrated myself. I talk about you because you and I are one, we always will be. Just as I tell stories of your sisters, I will always tell your story. You are not nor will you ever be forgotten or become a memory lost in my grief. I speak proudly of you, my son who left us too soon.

It’s days like today when I realize how far I’m keeping God from my heart. I let my fear of facing reality dictate my actions. I didn’t visit you because I thought I didn’t have the strength to face this reality today. If I let God lead my way, there would be no fear. He has and will continue to give me the strength and composure to accept that you are gone. Not a single moment passes that I don’t have you on my mind and in my heart. No matter if I visit you at the cemetery or not, or if I doubt the strength God gives me, I carry you with me, in my heart, forever.

I love you and I miss you,
Mom

Leo,

Well, much to my chagrin, the anxiety is creeping back in. I find myself awake at night wondering how I’m going to tell your dad that the girls have stopped breathing. At the same time, I somehow both hesitate and rush to check for the tell-tale rise and fall of your sister’s backs and chests. So much runs through my mind in a split second. I can’t believe we lost another child. How am I going to tell zach? How are we going to survive this? This can’t be happening again! And then, when I realize that they are still alive and well, I completely break down.

I was completely traumatized by your sudden and unexpected passing. I will never be able to sleep soundly again. I’ve lost my innocent trust that kids gets to grow up and grow old.

I miss you even more at those times because the pain is so raw. I wonder how I will be able to cope with this anxiety when your baby sister arrives. I can’t even quantify how many times I’ve woken up in a panic that I’ve lost the baby growing inside my womb. There is so much fear and disappointment swirling around me, particularly at night.

I have trust that I will get through all of these scary moments one at a time, but I really don’t like being under emotional attack. These are the times that I pray a little harder. I pray that God protects me from these attacks, that He protects my children, including the one in my womb, that He gives me peace and rest, and that He continues to remind me that He is good and that His plan is better than mine.

I miss your sweet face, Leo.

Love you forever,
Mom

Leo,

Yesterday your Dad and I went to an event at church called “Night of Music”. I wasn’t overly excited about going, but we were here, your dad wanted to go, so I said, “what the heck”, and went. As we were listening to these musicians and watching some of them dance, move with the music, some turn inward and become shy and reserved, I started to have this feeling well up inside my heart.

It started as a feeling of pride. I was proud of these young students who were putting themselves out there, proud that they had passion for music and weren’t afraid to share. I started wondering what your sisters would look like of it were them on stage. Would Alyssa get shy or would she start dancing on stage? Would Lily play the guitar wearing a dress and no shoes?

These thoughts stopped me in my tracks. You see, when you died I had to bury my hopes for the future right along with you. I’ve been struggling a lot in the past several months with picking through the hopes I had to let go of because you were gone and the hopes i accidentally gave up that didn’t involve you directly, but still should have existed for your sisters. I realized a few months ago that I couldn’t imagine your sisters in college, as grown ups, as mothers, and I was really saddened by that.

But yesterday, watching those middle school students perform, I began to rebuild hope. I hadn’t thought about your sisters as adolescents, as teenagers. Watching those kids gave me back some hope. And i had the overwhelming sense of “rebuilding hope” being spoken into my heart. God showed me the first step to dreaming again. How do I go on hoping and dreaming when I’m not in control of outcomes? I finally know, I need to start small. It’s okay to hope, to dream, to desire but It’s not okay to count those hopes as promises.

Just like your passing was not a broken promise, but a promise fulfilled! Your life was never meant to last longer than your 26 days, but your impact, your ripple effect, will last a very long time.

Yesterday I began to dream again. To dream for the future of our family and of your sisters as individuals. And you know what? It felt really good. I know it might not happen the way I might dream and I’m okay with that.

I don’t know why God put you and these amazing girls in my life. I do know, however, that I’m so very grateful for it and that His will will be done. I trust wholeheartedly that God’s will is a good will that should be done, even if it isn’t what I would have chosen or what I dreamt would happen.

So to those young performers from last night: thank you for inspiring me to rebuild hope. Thank you for giving God the chance to work in me, to further his will.

I love you my handsome Leo.

Always,
Mom

Good morning Leo,

Today I’m missing you so very much. I miss you every day, but today is one of those days that you’re first in my thoughts. Everything I see seems to remind me of you, and every time your baby sister kicks inside my growing belly, I’m reminded that time moves me forward.

With each passing second, I’m closer to seeing you again. I love you and I still promise to make my time here memorable and worthwhile.

Always,
Mom

Leo,
Today is my second Mother’s Day without you. If I sit down and think about what I’m missing out on with you, I wouldn’t be a very functional or reasonable person. Losing you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Accepting that you’re gone is the second hardest.

As I navigate my way through this day, surrounded by ads, cartoons, and mothers filled with unrealistic and forceful expectations of their offspring and spouses, I can’t help but feel this resigned sense of deeper understanding. I don’t want my kids making a big production out of one day. The greatest gift they can give me isn’t a gift certificate to the spa, or brunch, or flowers, it’s their love that I need. That’s really it.

Do I miss you a little more today than other days? No, I actually don’t. That’s the truth. I know I’ve got your love. I’ve got it forever and you have mine. I’ve accepted that I am the mother of a deceased son. It’s become a part of who I am. It’s been woven into my future already.

Last year was so hard, but it’s because I hadn’t accepted my fate, I hadn’t accepted your death. I still longed to have you around me in the way I had expected. This year, I guess it really marks how far I’ve come. Of course I want you back! But I know that’s not going to happen. I’ve accepted my relationship with you as it is now, not as I dreamed it would be. I know that you’re always around me and that, when I need the extra reminder, there is a lovely patch of grass at the cemetery with your name on it, with your body in it. That’s the extent of our physical closeness, and I’m okay with that now. I had to be.

I love you and I know you’re with me as your sisters and I enjoy Mother’s Day weekend.

Always your loving mother,
Mom

Leo,

It’s been a little bit since I’ve written to you. I think and talk about you constantly. I’ve actually been wondering about something lately. I talk to a lot of people at work and am obviously pregnant now. I don’t know most of the people I speak with, so they don’t know our story. But being pregnant seems to be a conversation starter for most people. They often start a conversation by asking which number this baby is. So I tell the truth. I say,”This is our fourth.” Then, they proceed to ask more questions, making polite conversation, I’m certain. “Four? What do you have?” Again, I answer honestly, “We have two girls and a boy. This one is another girl.” Hoping the conversation isn’t about to get awkward, the next question inevitably follows, “wow! How old are they?”

Here it is, just like that old Robert Frost poem, you know, the one where two roads diverge and the person has to choose which one to go down. Well, your dad and I are on the road less travelled, and if I’m being honest, which I feel very strongly about, I have to continue down that path. After all, they asked the question, right? Who am I to decide they’re too fragile to hear about infant loss? I don’t know their stories either.

So I reply,”My oldest is 4, our second is 2, and our third would be 1.”

I wish I could video people’s reactions. It’s almost as if I can hear the record scratching, brakes on rubber screeching sound that I’m sure plays in their heads, out loud.

“He would be?” And so out comes the story. I tell different versions. Some longer, some shorter, some more gentle and sugar coated than others. In the end, I always have to make the awkward transition back to the reason these people and I are meeting.

If you’re anything like your big sisters, you’re probably hoping I will get to my original point sometime soon. You’re right. So what have I been wondering? I’ve been wondering if it will ever be less awkward to bring you up to strangers. Will I always feel a little guilty for reminding people how fragile life is? Will I always feel a little bit bad when I steal a little bit of a stranger’s innocence by being that one person that they know who actually lost a child to SIDS?

The more I think about it, the more I realize that, yes, it will always be awkward. Not awkward for me, because I had to come to grips with your death a long time ago. I can talk about you all day and night.

But to strangers, it is awkward. I’m a living version of their worst fear. They look at me in awe and wonderment like an animal on display at the zoo. They usually look at me apologetically and say something like “How can you live on?”, or “oh my God, I would actually die if that happened to me”, or ” you are so strong”, etc.

Let’s face it, that makes for a really awkward first meeting.

Nevertheless, I won’t act like you didn’t exist. I don’t think people would want me to do that anyway. You were one amazing little baby boy and I miss you.

Love you forever,
Mom