Hope Floats With a Good Boob Grab

When Shale died I remember sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, traveling towards the funeral home to make arrangements to bury our son and marveling at all the cars we passed on the highway.

The people in those vehicles carried on like nothing had happened, like no one had died. Their lives were unaffected by the tragedy my family suddenly found itself mired in, and I couldn't wrap my head around that.

Surely the world should stop and take notice of my pain, I thought through the onslaught of tears that poured down my face.

My world did take notice, and I'm forever grateful to the community that held me up and kept me strong through my darkness. But the whole world? It just kept marching on, oblivious to one mother's pain, unaware the vortex of grief and misery created in a whole world of people's lives by the absence of one little boy.

I'll never forget that feeling, knowing life carries on whether I liked it or not.

Yesterday, a friend of mine, a young mother of three, suffered a stroke and is currently in the ICU fighting for her life, for her recovery.

I wasn't going to write about this, because the pain is hard, it brings the scary place back to my door step, a place I struggle to stay away from on the best day.

But then I remembered sitting in a Los Angeles diner, a scuzzy little run down place, having the best brunch I've ever eaten, sitting across from my friend and talking about the scary place we've each had to face.

I remembered talking with her quietly, earnestly about parenting, husbands, life.

I remembered all the joy I shared with her, from boob grabbing and car crashes to standing next to her as she held me up to face my own dark place once again as we said goodbye to a child we loved.

I remembered sitting in that passenger seat on my way to the funeral home, watching vehicles pass by me filled with people  carrying on with their lives as my life screeched to a sudden stop and wanting, needing, the whole world to stop and stand with me for a moment to recognize the pain I was in.

So I am writing. For you my friend. For your husband, for your kids. For every person who knows and loves you.

My world may carry on while yours is at a standstill, but I promise you, I am here for you, beside you while you navigate your own dark place.

I promise to help shine a light as best I can for you and your family until you are back to health, glowing with your radiant beauty once again.

I love you Anissa.

Please come back to us.

Hope floats Nissa. We're all here to help you find it.

Life and Death

On this day, October 21, six years ago, a child was born. He was small, no bigger than the palm of a small woman's hand, weighing slightly more than a few feathers. His entrance to the world was too soon, too abrupt, unexpected.

He fought to live.

On this day, October 21, four years ago, a different child died. He too was small for his almost five years, weighing no more than a few good sized rocks. His departure from this world was too soon, too abrupt, unexpected.

His fight for life was over.

I've written and rewritten this post over in my head from the moment I learned Jumby's birthday fell on Shalebug's death day early on in the adoption process.

Each time I stop, having run into a wall of emotion that is too tall to climb. So I pushed it out of my head, and out of my reality, telling myself I would deal with this mix of emotions tomorrow.

Tomorrow became today and there is no pushing it out of my mind.

There is a little boy, who for the first time in his life, has a forever family to celebrate his birthday with.

There is a little boy, who will no longer have birthdays to celebrate.

We were prepared for the emotional impact of bringing in a new life to our family. As a family we talked at length to each other, to ourselves what it would mean to love another little boy in the absence of another. We knew there would be nothing that could fill the void Bug's death created, no amount of love or time could fill the vacuum created with his absence.

Like the world around us, we knew we needed to move on, to continue, to live. We knew instinctively the only way to heal would to be to keep loving. Jumby has been the miracle medicine this family has so direly needed for so long. This is a family that is meant to share, to embrace and we knew that another child, another sibling was out there waiting for us to find and call our own.

The love he freely gives us with each laugh, each hug continues to soothe the raw edges of our wounds of grief.

But today, on the day of Jumby's birth and Shale's death, it is a cruel reminder of what we have all lost.

Perhaps it won't always be this difficult. Perhaps I'm being too hard on myself, holding myself to higher expectations than any mother can possibly maintain. But I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to wish one son a happy birthday while not remembering how his brother turned cold and blue in my arms.

It feels like a knife through our love. A betrayal to Shale for trying to find joy on the day he was ripped away from us. A betrayal to Jumby for not being able to wish him a happy birthday without wiping silent tears that streak down our cheeks.

My children are struggling with this. They don't know how to cope, how to comprehend, how to compartmentalize their pain alongside their love for their new brother. They look at me with wounded eyes and cry softly wondering if Shale will think they are abandoning him for a live sibling. They weep while wondering if they are betraying this new brother for feeling sadness on a day that should be laced with nothing but joy for the birth of their Jumby.

I'm struggling with this. Deep inside me I worry if Shale is aware of this, if he thinks I've forgotten him for my new son. I worry Jumby will question every cuddle I give him, wonder if I'm nuzzling the soft underside of his neck while wishing it was a different little boy in my arms.

It's complicated and absurd and the irony makes me cackle out loud like a crazy lady inside a padded room.

I can't change the past, I can't undo death, nor rearrange time to make birthdays unto their own, unmarred by the fog of loss. I can only wrap the love of my little boys around my heart and put one foot in front of the other while hoping desperately that the example I'm setting is not doing more harm than good.

Today, on October 21, I sit here and marvel how six years ago, my child was born and I never even knew it. A boy who should never have had the strength to live a day has somehow managed to live 2190 days and counting. My beautiful son with dimples so deep you can lose yourself in them.

Today, on October 21, six years ago, our family was given the greatest gift we have ever known, even if we didn't know it then. A fourth son, a brother who can't stand or speak or see yet somehow has the ability to allow us to soar to heights of love we had all forgot was even possible.

Today, on October 21, I sit here and remember how four years ago, I said goodbye to my boy and sang to him his last lullaby. A boy who lived longer than anyone thought possible but not nearly long enough for those who loved him. My beautiful son with his bright blue eyes and lashes that touched the sky.

Today, on October 21, four years ago, our family endured the greatest loss we have ever known, a pain we never knew existed. A son, a brother who couldn't talk, or eat or smile yet somehow had the ability to show us the meaning of unconditional love as he gave us enough love to last a life time.

I will light a candle for one son while I help another blow out his own as he makes a wish.

Today I will gather all my children around and hold them dear to my heart and know that no matter what the day is, whether a birthday or an anniversary, it is a day to celebrate the heart. No matter how fractured it is, the pieces will always expand to love another.

I love you both so very much, my beautiful boys.

Happy Birthday Jumby. We love you so very much.

(Identity concealed to appease the governmental gods while the adoption is finalized.)

We remember Bug. Always and forever we love you little man.

Stretch Marks and Stones All in A Box

I buried my son in a 36 inch long coffin.

Shalebug was 37 inches tall.

I buried my son in a coffin one inch too short.

I am haunted by this.

I know, heck I knew at the time, it made no difference. Bug's feet were twisted and curled and even in life he preferred to have his little legs curled up instead of stretched out, but I can't stop fretting over the fact I crammed my son into a box one inch too small for his wee body.

What kind of mother does that?

Grief is a funny thing. It's a palpable emotion that will consume every ounce of joy and happiness if you let it. It's the monster that lives in your closet, a parasite feeding off your love and memories and always looking for your soft underbelly of pain, the chink in your armour.

This week, through a series of events I have had no control over, the monster rattled at my closet door and managed to find a way to slip through a crack to rip my shirt up and expose my garishly pale underbelly.

With it's plaque covered pointy teeth, this monster leaned over me during my emotional weakness and ripped through my defenses so that I am once more bleeding tears of pain and sadness and loss.

There is no bandaid for this oozing wound, as all the joy I have managed to harvest since my son passed seemed to quickly seep out of my soul and into the monster's foul, gaping mouth.

Which leaves me struggling with the knowledge once more that I crammed my little boy into a box too short for his small body.

Today I feel broken and hollow as the monster once more recedes into the darkness of the closet I wrestle to keep locked.

Today I exam the past and savour the what-if's as they roll around my brain.

Today, I try to remember that at the time, it seemed like the right choice. We didn't have the money to have a coffin custom sized for our boy, and there were only two options available to us. A three foot coffin or the next size up, at five feet.

The thought of my son lying in an adult sized box for all of eternity seemed ludicrous to me. What did he need all that space for? So I chose the smaller version, thinking I would find comfort in knowing he was snug as a bug as he lay beneath the soil.

I can't for the life of me shake the image of that tiny oak box covered in white daisies being lowered into the ground.

I suppose I would be haunted by this vision still, even if I did choose the larger coffin.

I buried my son in a box because I couldn't handle the idea of cremating him and the flames surrounding him.

The truth is, today, I can't handle the knowledge I ran out of tomorrows with my son.

I'm grieving the fact he never had the chance to grow taller, get smarter, become more.

I'm struggling with the fact the only tangible evidence he once existed are the stretchmarks on my body and the stone marker on the ground.

The monster won last night as he terrorized my hard fought peace and bound me tight in the cloak of sadness once more.

Today I grieve; for tomorrow I will have no time to as I once more set out to find joy that is not lost, but eclipsed by this eternal darkness that rolled in like the fog on a gloomy day.

But today, today is for knowing I buried my boy in a box too small.

Stretch marks and stones, reminders of how I miss you so, Shalebug.