Leo,

Yesterday marked the one year anniversary of your death. Leading up to that day, I found myself confused and filled with fear. Fear that I would feel the pain of this loss afresh; fear that I would re-live that night with a renewed sense of memory and detail. I’m so relieved to say that yesterday wasn’t like that at all.

Yesterday, I felt sad, of course! But it was more of a dull ache than a fresh wound. I reflected a lot on how far we have come and on the losses that accompanied you. I lost my son, first and foremost. But I also lost out on precious time with my girls, your sisters, because of my grief. I lost family members, I lost the vision for my life, for my family, for my career…I lost my way.

But somehow, in all of this, I got somewhere, I got where I am today. So was I lost or was I just disoriented? God propelled my life forward and I couldn’t tell where I was going because it was somewhere I never dreamed of going, especially without you.

I’m so grateful and thankful that I was able to trust in God and Jesus amidst this trying time. I’m so elated that my faith has lasted this long, that I’m closer to your sisters than ever before, that my marriage to your dad didn’t fall apart but was strengthened. And now, baby Zoe is on her way. A new chapter in our tragic and beautiful story.

It would be easy to lay down and never get up again, to deny God and Jesus, to curse them for our misfortunes. But I personally find a lot more comfort in waking up every day and really living my life. I find so much more beauty in praising God for being so good to us. After all, I got to be your mother! I’m blessed to have spent 26 days with you. You were, and frankly still are, so amazing.

I miss you and I sing my love to you and your sisters with every breath that I take.

My everything,
Mom

Leo,

A year ago today I was the happiest mom of three beautiful and healthy children. I felt that I had everything, that I knew where life was headed, and that it was all your dad’s and my doing. We were on top of the world. When I kissed you goodnight, I had no idea that would be our last. April 10, 2013 was the last day of my innocence. April 10, 2013 was the last time I ever saw you alive. It pains me to look back at the person I was. Not only did I lose you, my handsome son, that night, but the person that I thought I was, the family that I thought I had, the path that I thought i was on, all died too. It was all ripped away from me with one goodnight kiss. I never did get to say goodbye…just goodnight. For the best, I suppose, since I know I will see you again when I wake up one day and find myself in heaven too.

Your dad and I have given ourselves space to grieve tonight and I find myself sad, confused, regretful, and literally sick to my stomach at the thought of how different we are today. We are better people now, but the price we had to pay…seems like too much. Not only do I want you back, but I want all of last year back. I missed out on so much of your sister’s lives just trying to muddle my way through the grief. I look at videos from last year and I wonder where the time went.

I can no longer say “oh,I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child.” My innocence is gone. All that I thought I knew is gone.

I lost a child, I am a bereaved mother, doing her very best to find a new path with her family. I am a Christ follower, doing her very best to trust that God is good and that your departure wasn’t a punishment, but a promise fulfilled. I am a wife, doing my best to keep her husband happy and feeling supported. I am a mother of two beautiful, lively daughters, doing her best to make sure they know and feel how much they are loved, adored, and wanted. I am an employee doing her best to hold it together at work to provide for her family. I don’t know a lot of things, but what I am sure of, is that I will wake up every day and live my life the best way I know how, in God’s bright light. I might not know where the staircase leads me, but I will faithfully keep taking steps, one at a time, until I get there.

I am so sad and so lost without you here, but your passing brought me a faith in Jesus that I’m not sure how i lived without before. I know the reasons for your death have not been fully revealed to me yet and that I’ve got some exciting lessons to learn in the future. Until then, your dad and I will do our best to honor your short but meaningful life the best way we can. Tonight, it’s by remembering your life and letting ourselves remember your death. Stay close to us tonight, son. I miss you.

All of my love,
Mom

Leo,

As I inch closer to the anniversary of the day you left this world, I find myself filled with fear, confusion, and somewhere deep inside; hope.  Friday seems so far away and yet I’m thankful for every single day between now and then.  Each day that I have to “wait” to get past the hurdle of your first anniversary means that I got to enjoy one more day of life with you.  On this day last year I had no idea that you would pass away in the next 3-4 days.  I was so innocent, so unaware, so blissfully, stupidly happy.  I wouldn’t trade a moment of it for anything in the world. 

Thank you for staying with us for 26 days.  I love you and I miss you so much.

All of my love,

Mom 

Leo,

Right now is the time of year when you were alive and what we perceived to be well. I struggle with these alternate realities that play through my mind and heart. There’s the memory of last year; of holding and kissing you, and welcoming the final piece of our family puzzle into our lives. We were so very happy and felt so complete. Then, there’s my current reality, living without you…which leads to the second alternate reality ; the one where I imagine what life would be like if you hadn’t passed away. It’s all so overwhelming and confusing. What do I believe in? Do I hold onto the memories? Do I let go of dreaming about you? Do I stand still and suffer because my arms are empty? Which of these realities are actually mine?

I’m sure God will guide me through this and I’ll figure it out in due time.

I love and miss you. I wish I could kiss your sweet cheeks, see you smile, or hear you cry once more. Goodnight my sweet boy.

Love,
Mom

Leo,

I know I promised to write you on 2/18/14, but I just couldn’t.  I haven’t been able to sit down and write to you since then.  Not for lack of want or words, but out of fear.  My beautiful boy, my eternal 26 day old son, not a moment goes by that I don’t think of you.  Sometimes I think of how much I miss you, other times it’s a fond memory of a beautiful moment, sometimes my thoughts drift to the unfairness of all of this, and other times, I think of the day you died and how it felt. 

I’m 11 weeks pregnant with my rainbow baby; the baby that we are gifted with after the storm of losing you.  I know that’s why I’m not writing down my thoughts anymore.  I know you’re aware that I still talk to you, I whisper “I love you, Leo” every night when I kiss your sisters goodnight, because I should be kissing you too. 

This Sunday is our birthday.  You would be turning one.  You would be toddling around the house, throwing your big boy food all over the walls and floor, growing teeth, mumbling and chattering, smiling and laughing, and throwing fits when you don’t get your way.  You would have been the little prince of the household and your sisters would have bent over backwards to make you smile…we all would have. 

I want you back.  I’ve changed, I’ve grown, you would be a part of an even better family now; a stronger family who knows how to love others, to give and ask for help, to lead by example.  Your death changed me, and I know that was part of your path.  But how do I get you back now? 

I’m pregnant with another child and, impossible/crazy/wrong as it may seem, I want it to be you.  I want your beautiful soul back on earth with me. 

I’ve been running away lately.  Running from my feelings.  I am afraid that, celebrating this new life (which is a huge risk for your dad and I because I don’t know how I’ll take it if I lose another child) would somehow minimize your life.  I don’t know how to manage the joy and the pain that I’m feeling as I begin to build up hopes and dreams again.  I know exactly how painful it is to have to give them up, which makes it really scary to dream again. 

But one truth I must face is that, not writing to you; running away, as I call it, isn’t helpful.  I know you want us to have this baby…I know you were there when this soul entered my womb.  It was quite an amazing and physically overwhelming experience.  I’m sorry i’ve been hiding.  I’m sorry I’ve been letting fear dictate my path.  I promise to try to follow love and allow myself to enjoy this journey with your new baby brother or sister.  I know my love for another child takes nothing away from who you were, who you are, who you would have been. 

It’s just hard to strike a balance sometimes and no matter how fast I run, the tears, the fears, the sadness, always finds me.  Today is a flood of sadness and tears over the ghost of who you would have been today.  I’m mourning the loss of my 11 almost 12 month old son, my birthday buddy, your Dad’s Buddy Bear, you sisters’ Prince Charming.   We miss you, Leo.

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.”

Yours,

Mom

Leo,

My sweet sweet boy, it’s been a while since i’ve written you!  I have to say that it wasn’t unintentional, I have been in a period of transition and felt it would be best if I lay quietly for now.  So much of the pain and despair that I was feeling on a daily basis has changed.  It’s still there, don’t get me wrong (!!), but it’s different.  I’m filled with your presence in a way that I hesitate to share with anyone.  The whole crux of my blog and my letters to you has been to share my most uncensored thoughts and feelings as I go through my grief journey, but this one, I cannot yet share.  Though you already know.

The other day I caught myself admiring your sleeping sisters.  Notice I said “admiring” and not something along the lines of panicking or checking to make sure they’re still alive.  They were beautiful, peaceful, and my heart didn’t doubt that they were breathing.  I did give in after about 2 minutes to check for breathing, haha…I couldn’t help it.  Paranoia got the best of me. 

Tonight, I will blog again, and I know that i’ll be on a different path when I do.  I’ve already started down this road, but it will be “real” tonight.  Please stay near me as I go through this eventful day riddled with hopes and fears of all shapes and sizes.

I love you with all that I am, with all that I ever will be.

Yours forever,

Mom