Samantha

I was 17 and looking for a little bit of privacy to go squeeze the mountainous pimple that had suddenly erupted on my chin when I met her.

She was 15 and beautiful. She had long flowing blonde hair and eyes that sparkled with wisdom that belied her youthful appearance. She was sitting on the edge of the white porcelain sink in a small school bathroom, sobbing. Her nose was red and she looked heart broken.

My plan to plunder my pimple in privacy evaporated with one look at her saddened face. I briefly thought about backing out quietly and going to find another washroom, one that wasn't filled with weeping teen girls but she looked up at me and caught my eyes with her tear filled gaze.

I don't know why, but she beckoned to me. I introduced myself and asked if she was all right. I struggled to find the appropriate words to comfort her but in the end I floundered with inarticulate stammering.

I did the only thing I knew to do, something completely out of character for my reserved and bashful teenaged nature. I hugged her. And in those fleeting seconds we became fast friends, sharing the pain of rejection and humiliation and a myriad of other painful feelings teenaged girls are burdened with during their hormonal years.

I didn't expect to see her again as I was two grades ahead of her and wandering the halls of thousands of other angst ridden teens, but our paths crossed again the next day. It was meant to be. Soon we were inseparable, seeking one another out during lunch hours and finding solace in the dark corners of the school's drama room.

She didn't mind that I had a raging crush on her older brother, and I didn't mind that she was two years younger than me. We talked. We discussed everything from our parental woes, poetry and our futures that burned brightly before us.

We would go for long walks in the dark hours of the night, talking endlessly about everything and nothing with a great sense of self-importance as we wandered the city streets under the starry nights. Soon she had a car and our world opened up before us, the two of us driving down ribbons of pavement while listening to music pulsing from the speakers.

I went to my first coffee shop with her in the university area, surrounded by poets and musicians, while drinking cappuccinos and Oranginas. We would lose ourselves for hours in the tiny little used bookstores that speckled the district and laugh ourselves silly in the aisles of the music store.

She loved F. Scott Fitzgerald. She gave me my first copy of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. I gave her an old edition of Alice in Wonderland and a hologram image of the mad hatter's tea party I caught her coveting once in a store. I shared my passion for Henry David Thoreau with her and she rewarded me with an ancient copy of his essay, Walking.

She ignited my imagination and fueled my hunger for the written word by surprising me with books I'd never thought to buy myself. "Here, you'll enjoy this. Trust me," she'd laugh as I looked at her dubiously with my eyebrow arched. William Faulkner's Sanctuary and Knut Hamsun's Growth of the Soil. She was right. She knew me better than I had yet managed to know myself.

We grew older and apart, our nightly walks now limited to midnight pizza sessions at Boston Pizza where she would fill me in on her travels. She was an exotic jewel to my stable of friends, pushing my boundaries and stretching my intelligence.

She'd share her exploits and adventures of travel with me over coffee, while I would wish my life were half as exciting. She would laugh at my wistfulness and tell me not to worry, she knew I would one day see the wonders of the world myself. She would then fall silent and tell me she admired me. My strength of conviction and my complete assurance of what I wanted my future to look like. Hers was like water, she'd tell me, shifting depending on the tide from the moon.

She was the friend I held dearest in my heart and the only person I sought approval from. The day I had to tell her I was pregnant with my first child was the most nervous afternoon of my life. I worried I would break her heart, disappoint her with my choices.

She looked at me, with her long blonde hair pulled back haphazardly and smiled and said I would make an amazing mother. She surprised me days later with a beautiful edition of the Snow Queen and East O' The Sun and West O' The Moon. She smiled when she handed me the books and laughed that I had better make damn sure my baby was well read.

It didn't matter if we saw each other frequently or not, our hearts reconnected instantly the moment we came into contact, no matter the time or distance that had separated us. She was one of those rare once in a lifetime friends. The type that convinces you it is perfectly acceptable to swallow the worm in the tequila bottle and then holds your hair back as you puke it back up in her parent's bathroom.

I didn't get enough time with my friend. She passed away too young, too suddenly while exploring the beauty of Cambodia. She died instantly and in a single heartbeat lives forever changed as her beauty and possibility was extinguished.

I carry her with me in my heart and nuzzle her memory close. She still inspires me to be the writer I dreamed of being and the mother she promised I could be.

Today is her birthday and while she celebrates it in the vast ethereal world, dancing in the wind while holding my son in her arms, I'm sitting on my couch in my cottage, writing for her, to her.

Happy birthday Sam, my sweet Samantha. Thank you for enriching my life so. Thank you for believing in me when I couldn't believe in myself. One day I will have you over in my castle in the sky.

Until then, friend, know that I miss you.

A Banquet of Tears

If one doesn't count all my trips to the liquor grocery store, the soccer fields or my best friend's house to beg for a decent home cooked meal, I don't really get out that much.

I'm a bit of a homebody. Always have been, most likely always will be. I take refuge in my house, mainly because I'm too damned lazy to slap on the ole war paint and shimmy into a bra to go play nice with other human beings.

It's imminently more fun to sit in my own house, half dressed with wild hair and boss my little slaves around while sitting on my maternal throne, enjoying the fruits of my kingdom.

Tomorrow, that will all change.







No, a fairy God-mother hasn't swooped down and waved her magic wand to sprinkle fairy dust on my head, bestowing money, looks and a winning personality on me.

An invitation arrived in the mail a bit ago, followed by a commanding phone call, demanding my presence tomorrow night for a banquet.

Not a fancy dress type of banquet requiring support hose and Spanx, but a banquet nonetheless. I'll still have to put on underwear and a bra. Dammit.

Tomorrow is the dead kids banquet and thanks to my beautiful son, I've got a ticket. I'd rather he endowed me with a winning lottery ticket, but I suppose I can't hog all the luck. Damn.

Tomorrow, I have to dress up to walk into a room filled with 300 plus grieving parents and try not to let the morbidity of the event get me down.

Who's gonna take the bet that I'll be the one standing next to the punch bowl with a silver flask in hand?

I wouldn't normally attend such a gala, but on this special occasion (read: my pediatrician twisted my arm and threatened to physically drag my sorry arse to the event guilted me into going) I'm pulling up my boot straps and forcing myself to attend. I will even be speaking to this room filled with wet eyes and heavy hearts.

Nothing like a little public humiliation speaking served with a side of grief to really make for a good time.

So I'm going. By myself. With no Boo. With only a handful of kleenex to fortify myself with. And maybe a flask hidden in my purse.

I try not to define myself as a grieving mother. It irks me when I meet new people and they automatically say, "Oh, you're the mom who's son up and died in her arms." (And yes, people actually do say this. Dumbasses.)

I prefer introducing myself to people as Tanis, writer, wife, mother and internet porn star. It's way more fun to watch their eyes pop out of their head as they picture me twirling around a pole in my bedroom in front of a computer camera than it is to see them stare at their feet and trip over their tongues wondering what to say to a mom with an angel hanging over her shoulder.

Tomorrow I won't be the only mom in the room who knows what it is like to walk that lonely walk out of the hospital and into a cemetery.

I won't be the only mom who masks my pain with inappropriate humour and low cut shirts. I will be surrounded by others who harbour the same weight I shoulder daily.

I'm so not excited to go.

But tomorrow will be an opportunity to reach out to other parents who have just lost a child and are new to this dead kid club. Parents who are floundering in their own sea of pain and wondering just what the hell they did to deserve this special honor.

I remember with a vivid clarity, the first days, weeks, months I wandered around wondering if life will return. I was desperate to talk with other parents who knew of my pain, people who could tell me that one day I would no longer want to hurl myself into my sea of grief and never swim back to shore.

I can't ignore those parents, as painfully easy as it would be for me to do. Because I was once them. Scarred permanently by a loss so devastating that most people simply can't comprehend it, wanting answers, seeking relief from the constant cracking of my heart.

Plus, I have a really cute low cut purple top to show off my *assets* that has been sitting in my closet collecting dust, just begging for an opportunity to be worn.

There is another reason I'm going. A more true and real reason.

I get to talk about my Bug. I get to breathe life into him for the duration of my five minute speech and watch him dance in the eyes of everyone who is listening.

I get an opportunity not to retell his eulogy, but to speak from the heart about all I have learned about my son and myself in the two years since his passing.

I once struggled to understand how life could so quickly go south, how the clouds could roll in without any warning and block out any rays of light for months at a time.

I once wondered how I could ever live without the love my Bug bestowed on me with every touch, every kiss, every sigh breathed into my neck while I cradled him.





I ache with missing him. Still.

It's not that I know the answers to any of these things. I don't know how the darkness of pain and grief didn't swallow me whole. I don't know how I survived seeing my son, lifeless and cold, and not go screaming mad.

Somehow I survived all my What-if's. Despite the fact he is no longer here, laughing and slamming cupboard doors and driving me mad, I survived.

That is as important as remembering every small detail of my precious son's life.

I survived to see the light shine around my other children's hearts, to feel the love for them that was once blocked out by the raging pain I carried.

I no longer worry about remembering my son. He comes flooding back to me whenever I need him and he is as close to my heart as a person can get. I still carry him with me where ever I go, he just tends to hover about with his angel wings instead of drooling on my shoulder.

I no longer worry the tears that leak out of my heart and down my face will drown me.

I have come to an understanding, a peace with his passing. One I never thought possible. For all the pain and disbelief we endured, a new strength has emerged and forged our family, stronger than before.

When I speak tomorrow about my son, his sweet giggle and the way he would stoop over as he walked as though his head were too heavy for his little body and he always looked like he was about to topple over, or the way he would bang spoons on my floor like he was trying to dig a hole to China, I will speak about surviving the fire of loss.

I will tell people that there will be joy once again, a bitter sweet joy to be sure, but joy nonetheless. I will tell my story, my family's story about how we once worried we wouldn't survive this horrific cycle of grief, that our love for Bug, for one another would be decimated by the overwhelming pain we carried in our souls.

I will remind myself, once again, that love grows even in the darkest places. Love can find a way to survive even if the heaviest of weights is thrown over it, smothering it like a damp wool blanket.

I will remind myself that it is okay to grieve, to feel this pain. Because like a coin, grief has two sides. Pain on one side and the joy of the love on the other side.





Every scuff is a memory tucked in my heart.

I will tell tell myself, and others that it is okay to bear the wounds of loss proudly. We are all scarred with the loss of a beloved child. A lost promise, a vacant seat in our family portraits.

But our scars are beautiful. They are forged out of love.

A love that will always endure, even if one fears it won't.

That is the message I will speak of tomorrow while I intertwine tales of my funny little man to dance in their heads.

Of course, I'll do it while wearing my spanky new purple top.

Who says a grieving momma can't be a cute momma?

In Case You Were Wondering...

I've been getting quite a few emails asking to know what is happening on the adoption front. I have have been reticent to publicly address this as I have worried it may impact any chance of bringing home a child.

After all, the adoption peeps, they know about Redneck. While my case workers have been surprisingly cool about it (even when I've made the dumbass move of openly mocking the process thereby shooting myself in the foot) I worry that the case worker(s) to any future child we are interested in calling our own may not be so happy to read my public rants about this process.

It's been a difficult balance in trying to maintain the integrity and honesty of my own personal feelings and what I want to say on this site while trying to protect any future chances of having a new child lovingly drool on my shoulder and call me Mom.

So I've tried to play it quiet, and safe. Having had to pluck my bloodied foot out of my mouth more than once, I've learned my lesson.

The truth is, there is not much going on in the adoption front and yet a whole bunch of stuff that I'm dying to share with you all, but it will have to wait at least a few more weeks. But I swear, as soon as I can legally get away with it, I'll be shouting the news from my virtual rooftop with a bull horn.





I'm hoping a stork will drop one into my open arms. I'm a great catcher.

What I can tell you, is about six weeks ago, Boo and myself, along with the kids, put in an official request to adopt a little boy who is seven and has some severe disabilities. After much family discussion, we decided we could easily love this little boy as if I had squeezed him from my own loins. It wasn't a very difficult decision to tell the truth. This boy is beautiful and in dire need of a forever family. We all believe he would be a great addition to our family and we really believe we are the family this child needs.

However. Because there is always a however when you are dealing with a government bureaucracy. This special little boy happens to be in limbo. Meaning he is with out a case worker of his own at the moment to review any adoption requests. So our paperwork is sitting on someone's desk, waiting to be reviewed and our plea to adopt him silently waits to be reviewed to see if his case worker feels we are a good match with this boy.

I'm taking it all in stride, because I firmly believe if this boy is meant for us, he will come to us. If it doesn't work out, read: his case worker decides against us for some reason, then it wasn't meant to be. And there could be a variety of reasons his case worker could chose NOT to place him with us. Until we hear some news, I am just exercising my patience muscles and trying not to tear my hair out with worry and anticipation.

All of this waiting is made easier because there are other wonderful things going on as I type this; things that make me smile and will surely bring a sliver of sunshine to your lives when I'm finally able to announce the details.

Until then, hang on to your undies and practice flexing your patience muscles. We can do it together. It's not fun, but hey, misery really does love company, no?

A blogging daddy whom I adore and must publicly urge you all to wander over and say hello to if you haven't already (cuz he's really cute and says he's got Ryan Reynold abs...heh) asked me a question that hasn't been asked on this blog before, but is one my husband and I ask ourselves all the time.

Backpacking Dad wants "to know what you fear most about successfully adopting a child."

If my husband were to answer this I believe he would tell you that he fears a reprise of Bug's demise. Shale's death took so much out of us and hurts us still so very deeply that none of us ever want to go through that again.

Yet, none of us choose to be shackled with 'what if's' and fear of the worst. So we plunge ahead with our quest to bring home another medically fragile child, knowing the worse case scenario is always a possibility and we are opening ourselves up to the worst type of pain.

But the flip side to that coin is we are also bringing with that fear, the best and most wonderful type of joy and love into all of our lives. It is a sweeter and more pure love than any other type of love Boo and I have ever experienced.

Even if it is a thousand times more heartbreaking and frustrating and painful. To us, the trade off is worth it.

However, since this is my blog, I have a different answer than that of my husbands. What I fear the most in successfully adopting a new little person is not in losing this child. I tend to worry more about my extended family, my friends and my community not bonding with our new child.

I worry that because this child will look different, act different, be different that maybe our friends and family won't be able to open themselves up to loving this child as they would have if we had given birth to him or her.

The damage of Bug's sudden death was and is far reaching. It wasn't only our family who was devastated by his loss. So many of our community of loved ones put so much love and energy and effort into our Shale's life that his death hurt them deeply and lastingly.

I worry my friends and family won't be able to see past Bug's demise and get to know the beautiful light of our new child in fear of feeling the same horrible hurt all over again if the past should repeat itself.

However, that is mostly an irrational fear of mine since I have the greatest family, extended family, friends and community a person could ever wish for. The people in my life have some of the biggest and greatest hearts I have ever known, which is why it has been so easy to want to adopt such a special child to begin with.

Because I know they will be surrounded with love.

I also tend to worry if my children's hair isn't combed or what people will think if I show up to soccer practice drinking from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, so I try not to let my worries run my life.

Heh.

A reader named Sara asked if "I ever wonder where you would be in life now if Bug hadn’t died?"

Every damn day.

The pain I feel two and a half years after his passing still takes my breath away and pricks tears in my eyes. There isn't a moment I don't think about him and wonder what he would be doing if he were still with us. Would he approve of getting a new sibling? Would we already have adopted by now? Would the adoption process have been easier if we hadn't had to jump through hoops of fire because we buried one child?

I wonder who Fric and Frac would have grown to be if they hadn't had to face the cyclone of grief that tried to swallow them whole. Who would they be if they didn't have to wrestle with an almost five year old ghost every time they walk past his picture or start to think about him in the quiet of the night.

I wonder if I will still remember his scent and the rough pads on his fingers from constantly having them in his mouth when I'm a frail old woman. I wonder if his memory will still mean as much to then as it does now or if time will soften the grief that still rages inside of me.

I wonder if I will be able to ever hold a blonde little boy with wavy hair and not think of my son and wish for a single second that it was my son I was holding in my arms.

I wonder if he were alive if he would still give sweet high fives to anyone who would ask and if he'd allow me to snuggle with him on the couch and breathe in his scent while nibbling on the soft spot in the crook of his neck.

I wonder if he'd still be walking or if his height and weight would confine his poor broken feet to a wheel chair. Would he be able to communicate with us beyond shaking his head no or hitting out in frustration?

Would I ever have discovered blogging and would it mean as much to me as it does now?

There isn't a moment I don't wonder about what life would have been like if my son was still alive and I wonder if the moment will ever come when peace truly settles in my soul.

The one thing I don't wonder is, if given the opportunity, would I do it all over again with Bug even if it meant repeating the same fateful night and reliving this nightmare of pain and tears all over again?

Absolutely.

Because the love he gave all of us was worth every tear I'll cry in my lifetime. Every laugh he giggled and every hug he squeezed is more than enough fuel to last myself, my husband and my children for the rest of our lives.

His short life inspired us and his memory continues to grace us with love and gratitude.

We are so very blessed.

And we can't wait for a new little duffer to join our family and feel the blessings with us.