a defense lawyer stops me in my tracks. because he knows you.

Paxton,

Tonight I ended what was a very difficult week with a “not-so-happy” hour with two of my lovelies from BCHS. I wasn’t in the mood to be there, but familiar with their persistence in integrating me into the world at-large, I knew it’d be easier to join them. So I did. I made it to about 6:30 before I was ready to leave. As I approached my car, a man parked next to me quickly popped his head out from the backseat of his car where he was putting his child in a carseat. He said, “Excuse me. What does your license plate say?” I knew he was talking to me; but I froze – speechless and paralyzed. He continued, “Does your plate say, Paxlove”? I studied his sincere face and steadfast eyes as I faintly replied, “Yes. Paxlove.” He excitedly persisted, “Is it for Paxton? The baby? The little Peaceful Warrior?” I almost collapsed onto the goddamn pavement.

Before my legs had a chance to give out, he broke into a 40 yard dash in my direction. As he jogged towards me he yielded his “Paxton” bracelet in front of him like a white flag. Meanwhile my friend took over the talking part and proudly proclaimed that I am your Momma. Once in front of me, he put the bracelet an inch away from my eyes and exclaimed (repeatedly) that he wears everyday. He went on to explain how he learned about you and your brave fight. He said he attended PaxFest and donates to your foundation. Most importantly – he told me how he finds daily strength and inspiration through your brave soul.

As I attempted to absorb the scene unfolding around me, I noticed his wife had come out of their car and was now standing just steps behind us. Her hand was over her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face. As our eyes met, we innately stepped towards each other and hugged tightly. Through a tear-filled voice, she told me how you changed the way she mothers her son…and that she marvels at how I find the strength to continue to live without you. These kind-hearted people said so many endearing things to me. All of which I will hold close to my heart for many, many moons to come. The dad ended the conversation by telling me he is a defense attorney and that whenever he is in trial, he rubs his “Baby Paxton” bracelet to find strength and clarity. For he is reminded that whatever he or anyone in the court room is experiencing, or has experienced, pales in comparison to what “Baby Paxton” endured.

The entire time this couple talked to me, I literally did not utter a single word. In hindsight, my inability to speak makes me want to punch myself. I should have taken out my wallet and shown them pictures of you. And told them how everyone who was lucky enough to be in your presence noticed how peaceful (and beautiful) you were. I should have shared with them how (before you were sick and stopped feeling hungry), you would stop mid-suck while eating your bottle, smile right at me – and then happily resume eating. Or let them know your favorite CD is Coldplay’s Rock-a-bye Baby, and that you loved when we would dance around the dining room and sing, “I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas.” I should have relayed the stories of how you’d stare into Mr. Cow mirror and “Ooouuuooo!” so fiercely at the site of your adorable reflection that the entire house would erupt in laughter.

On top of failing to tell them any of the many things that make you incredibly special, I deeply regret that I didn’t think to ask them their names. While I hugged the husband, I did manage to eek out the words, “Please don’t take that bracelet off.” (He assured me that he wouldn’t.) With the exception of one simple sentence, I stood mute as two strangers told me how you have changed their lives. In exchange, they allowed me to embrace them as though they each contained a small part of you. I am sorry if I hugged them too tightly. I am more sorry I didn’t tell them about any one of the multitude of things which make you my uniquely perfect Paxton.

Very early this morning I was overcome by one of the greatest moments of despair I have yet felt. I don’t entirely know why. I guess this roller coaster of grief, bereavement, or grief-that-interrupted-the-initial-fucking grief will never make any sense. I do know that I literally begged you to send me a sign if you were still with me. Anything to prove that despite the emptiness in my stomach and the hollowness in my heart, I am not entirely alone in this world.

I believe with all of my heart, you sent that man to me tonight. You rescued me from the abyss of grief which I must consciously ward off from swallowing me whole. More than anything in this entire world, I would give anything – anything – to be the one saving you. It should have been me. Never you.

IMG_0752

I miss you. I love you. I’ll look for you in my dreams.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox.

Momma

Advertisements

A Gold Out, a heavy happy, and a Princess Warrior hug.

Paxton.

This week was chocked full of a shit can of mixed up emotions. By now you know the entire community of Brookfield came together in honor of your bright and beautiful life spark. It all happened so quickly that Momma didn’t have a moments notice to catch her breath, much less time to process all that was unfolding. Unbeknownst to me, Nita and Bruce spearheaded a “Gold Out” to raise awareness for childhood cancer. They chose to have the Gold Out this week because it is September…and because it was the biggest game of the year: the cross town rival football game between BCHS and BEHS. I was brought into the loop after the event had taken on a life of its own. But I’m told that within 24 hours of the suggestion for a Gold Out, BC contacted BE – and both schools were on board, BC vs. BE was named WISN’s Game of the Week, news outlets were calling for commentary, social media was buzzing, t-shirts were ordered, and posters were designed. The crescent tides of what would become a fierce sea of gold, were already swelling around me.

I was honorary captain of the game – and a balloon launch, especially for you, punctuated the Star Spangled Banner. The sweetest moment of all, however, could not have been orchestrated. It occurred shortly before kickoff. The sun, which was just beginning to set, came out for the first time all day. Stunning shades of pink, purple, and best of all…gold illuminated the evening sky. All who witnessed it agree: even the heavens above Brookfield wanted to participate in the Gold Out. (I don’t so much believe in heaven. So, I figure it was you and your flock of angels knocking on the walls of the picturesque fall sky to let me know you were nearby.) Hundreds of gold balloons were released; but I was given a special one. It was a brilliant, rich, purple – to match your birthstone. Bruce decided it’d be easier for you to spot the purple, amongst the blanket of gold, and know exactly which one Momma sent up to you.

The synergy created in efforts to bring awareness of childhood cancer, albeit within the confines of my tiny universe of BCHS, gave me more hope and promise than I’ve felt in a very long time. No money was raised, no promises for change were made. Awareness was generated. And, that is all I have ever asked for.

High off the adrenaline of fighting childhood cancer like a ninja, I made the bravest move yet. I met Emily. Emily is a valiant and beautiful warrior princess who kicked Ewings Sarcoma right in the fucking mouth. She fought the same type of cancer you had for over 13 months, endured 5 surgeries. She travelled between CHW and CHP – to ensure she was in the best of care – throughout her grueling protocol. I first learned about Emily through Dr. D right after your diagnosis. Since then, I’ve kept Emily tucked in my heart. But, I never had the courage to seek her out. In fact, I couldn’t even search for her on Infinite Campus. The mere notion of looking into her eyes terrified me. I still can”t explain some of my fears. Though, I recently read somewhere that grief feels a hell of a lot like fear.

In the meantime Emily silently roamed, like a princess warrior in waiting, throughout the halls of BCHS. All the while knowing who I was, knowing who you were…knowing, most of all, that our worlds would officially collide exactly at the right time. Today was the right time. By my request, Bruce brought her to my room. He did not say a word. Emily did not say a word. I, of course, did not say a word either. Words would’ve only gotten in the way. Instead, I scooped Emily into my arms and held her tightly against my broken heart. I didn’t want to let her go. I felt like she’d be better off in my arms – or in my pocket, for the rest of time. But, I figured her mom would feel otherwise. So I put her down. I took her adorable and innocent face in my shaky hands, and told her she was the bravest little warrior princess. Through tear-filled eyes and a quivering smile she said, “You are brave too.” (Oh, Emily. You really are the best little girl there ever was, aren’t you?) We didn’t talk for long because I couldn’t talk…or say anything of consequence. Yet we quickly realized we are, in fact, kindred spirits. Don’t worry Diddy, I won’t let her out of my sight – poor thing will have me creeping in her shadows from now until the end of time. Thank you for sending her to me.

The high of Friday has sent me crashing so low, that I don’t know how I’ll ever recuperate. The fact that I have to parent the son I waited my entire fucking life for by participating in high school “Gold Outs” to generate awareness of the very asshole who brazenly killed him, is simply impossible to digest. You must agree – my existence is all types of messed up. I do have moments of happiness. But when they occur, I almost always lose my breath. Happiness that exists without you is never guilt free. It is certainly not the kind of happiness I had back when you were here. My new happiness comes with a very heavy price that never goes away. This happiness feels as heavy as the absence of you, which is never far from my mind, heart, body, or soul. This happiness is heavy.

The happiness is almost always accompanied by tears. Tears because all of this is too damn much for one girl. Tears over the thousands of kids who are currently fighting cancer. Tears that so many other parents, like me, are left with a dead child due to this crap shoot of a world. Tears that if you survive it’s only because you got ‘lucky’ in a game of Russian Roulette. But when you lose, you lose big time. There are no “do overs” or second chances. No matter how loudly you scream and cry, or call out your child’s name at the top of your god damn lungs because you think if you scream it loudly enough, he’ll come home. (Not home as in fucking heaven, but home as in back into your arms, where he belongs.) Home: as in where you belong with me and should’ve been with me until I was the one old and dying, not you, young and dying while I sat by and helplessly watched you take your last breaths.

I am so grateful for the Gold Out, and the unyielding support the “Little Community That Could”. But I am not as grateful as I am regretful that this is how your life turned out. It was never supposed to be like this, Paxton. I don’t know what went wrong. I just know it should have been me. Never you. No. Never you.

I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you caught my purple balloon.

Stay with me, sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma

Your spark has spread across the pond…to the wild, wild west, and everywhere else too. But I’d rather you were asleep in your crib.

Diddy,

My little Diddy Bop…how I miss you so. More oft than not, I don’t quite know how to begin my letters to you. Perhaps the only normal part of my existence is the abnormal feeling I get when I realize the only way I can communicate with my son, who was killed over a year ago, is through letters he may or may never read. Good thing for you (because as my child, you have obviously found a way to read these) I’ve never been one to conform and do what others perceive to be normal.

Once I begin writing to you, I feel more normal and most certainly more at peace than I have in days. At the close of each letter, I tell myself, “…just write him one note every day….no matter the reason…no matter how profound or inconsequential the message”. But, most days I am still not brave enough to creak open the lid of “Paxton’s Box” and allow myself to participate in the single most vulnerable act: expressing my feelings through the written word. When it comes to writing to you, there are more days than not when it is simply too difficult to navigate the vastness of my grief, especially in total solitude (except for the companionship of my laptop and Sir Giraffey).

Each week I receive notes, cards, emails, Facebook messages and letters from complete strangers, long-time friends, long-lost friends, and your dearest earth angels who prefer to remain anonymous. Each correspondence serves as a tangible reminder that people, both near and far, are thinking of you, loving you and…holding you close to their beautiful hearts. The notion that I am not the only person in the universe missing you at any (and every) passing moment, often is the very thing which allots me the will to survive another day without you. While I do my very best to at least acknowledge I have received them, I simply do not always have the strength to do so. Ironically, it is typically the messages which mean the most that replying to proves most challenging. (I know it’s ass backwards; it’s just the way my world works.)

This past week, I received two messages which affected me very deeply.The timing could not have proven more critical. Today, with their borrowed strength, I will tell you about the messages and the women who sent them.

The first came from a woman all the way across the pond – in London. She learned of your story through Facebook. By her own admission, she avoided reading any of my Warrior Momma entries when she stumbled upon them via friends’ of friends’ shared posts. She said while she initially told herself it was merely an unconscious choice, she now realizes it was more likely out of fear. She called herself one of the stupid – naïve, uneducated, blind. The other morning, Jessi confronted her fear. She clicked on one of the entries. And as she says, her world was permanently altered. Jessi ultimately blew off an entire day of work to read every entry. She relays that she read every single word, and listened to every single song. Then Jessi wrote me. Among many other things, she said, “…so I’m writing to say ‘thank you’ for introducing me to your Paxton and to tell you that your mission is working because for every person, like me, who moves from the unseeing column to the light there is one more person to help fight the fight. Like so very many people around the world, I am thinking about you and Paxton. I am joining your fight.”

Serendipitously, Jessi is running a Survival of the Fittest event in London in November for an England-based charity called CLIC Sargent. The race benefits children with cancer and their families. Admittedly, the race meant less to her yesterday than it does today and it will mean more tomorrow as she continues to think about more ways to fight. For every pound donated to her race, Jessi will personally donate an American dollar to the Paxton Andrews Foundation. Very best of all, Jessi asked if she could run this race in honor of you! Of course, I said “YES!”

The next message came from a woman, named Bree. She lives a little closer to home – only 2,000 miles away in Arizona. Bree sent me a link to a song, named “How?” by Regina Spektor. She explained that while she never had the good pleasure to meet you, and hasn’t seen or spoken to me in over twenty years, she thinks of us daily – most especially when she hears this song. She also said her life has been changed by your story…and she promised to carry you in her kind heart for the rest of time. I promised Bree I’d put the song on your special playlist; the one I play for you on days, like today, when it’s exceptionally difficult to be so far away from you.

Bree has a baby boy of her own. He was born about a year after you. He is perfect. He is adorable. He is happy. He does not have cancer. Although she’s not said as much, I get the distinct sense Bree’s appreciation of her beloved son has been enhanced through your brave fight…through your beautiful soul. l just have a gut feeling about this. But, you know how I feel about trusting my instincts.

Paxton, I am so grateful that you continue to find ways to send me signs and messages of love and strength. I am extremely proud of the way you use your life spark to change peoples’ lives in ways so profound they cannot even explain…and evermore proud that you you allow your soul to shine so vibrantly, that even complete strangers can’t help but to fall in love with you…even when they are afraid to. But, never mistake the fact that I would trade the awe and wonder of of these intangible forces to have you back in my arms where you belong. I would far rather the only people who knew your name lived in the confines of my (now empty and sad) home. Simply put, I want you back.

Here is your lullaby tonight, sweet boy. I promise I will never forget one memory. Let’s close our eyes and find each other in our dreams.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are happy.

Stay with me, sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma

the drugs don’t work…and they didn’t cure cancer either.

Paxton,

Five weeks…that’s all we had left together. Memorial Day, last year, marked five weeks until cancer stole you away from me.

My flashbacks are flaring up again. Is that a possible condition: flashbacks flaring up? Like a case of hemorrhoids, arthritis, Tourette’s? I guess I could look into it. But, I don’t really care what any medical books have to say. These flashbacks are so very clear and so very real, that I have to dig my fingers in between the bones in my arms to bring myself into the present time and space. I need to feel the throbs in my arms to serve as proof that I am “here and now”, not “there and then”. Without the physical pain to ground myself, I float away to some ‘still-frame’ at Children’s Hospital and unwillingly follow the reel through the next five, seventeen, two hundred and twelve frames. I watch you disappear through two narrowing doors, after handing you off to a lady in a white jacket to be carried away to another surgery. I feel the snap of the blue gloves against my wrist as I prep to change your tiny diaper. I hear the humming and beeping of the monitors attached to your little toe. I see the cage-like crib, the fold-out-couch, the egg crates, the heavy curtain, the desk, the plastic non-rocking chair, the tables littered with empty bottles and styrofoam cups…I see the darkness. I hear myself think out the conversions of ounces to mL and squint at the scale, with every diaper change. These details are critical as they serve to accurately report your I/Os at the morning rounds. I look at the clock, I check it again. I reach for the nurses’ button to tell them they are 10 minutes late with your medications that can’t be taken late. I ask question after question, and answer a few hundred in between. I taste the stale air, the metallic suffocation, the charred helplessness. I carefully study every single person who walks through the door of your room. I concentrate on their body language, facial expressions, and word choice. I hear every word they say. But, I pay attention to what they don’t say.

No matter where they start – my flashbacks always end in the same place…where I accidentally left you: on a bed – one thousand times too big – for your tiny, precious body, in the NICU, wrapped in your yellow fleece blanket, wearing your grey and blue “Mamma’s Brave Guy” snap-in-front. I see your plump ruby lips, and your pretty pink cheeks. I watch myself kiss your baby face everywhere there is surface area. I feel your silky hair, and your soft skin for the very last time. As I memorize every last detail from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, I place “Little-Tiny-Bear” under your long, beautiful fingers. I sense your Daddy gently guide me away from you, and put me on the couch where, just moments before, we all sat intertwined as we collectively willed time to stop. I watch your Daddy go back to you one more time…and then another; I hear him whisper in your ear; I watch him snuggle your blanket around you, and tuck it gently under your chin; I see him kiss you over…and over again. I play this scene in my head, but it can’t be real. It wasn’t real then, it certainly could not be real now. The scene starts again, but before I watch it one more time, I heave myself out of bed, press my back against the cold bedroom wall, and dig my fingers into my arms all over again. I do this – “dig into my arms” routine – because it has been the only thing that keeps me from busting out the back door and running to CHW to get you. There are times, Paxton, that these episodes are so vivid I know you are still there – waiting for Momma to come back and get you. In these moments, I am not having a vision, a memory, or even a flashback…rather, a feeling so deep in my soul that I can’t possibly be imagining it. If I could make my way to CHW, I would find you peacefully waiting for me in the NICU. Nurse Renee would tell me you loved your bath, your diaper is fresh and your outfit is changed. She would be sure to have put on your Jordan socks and wrapped you in your potato blankie. She’d tell me not to worry, she loved holding you while I was gone…and, that my timing was impeccable because you were just starting to look for me. Just when I’m about to start for the door, I feel my fingers and thumb almost meet as they lift my biceps off my bones…and reality quickly ensues. No matter how far, how long, how fast I run ~ I will never get to you. You are gone.

The reasons for my ‘flashbacks’, ‘night terrors’, ‘panic attacks’ are plentiful. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard them all: PTSD…trauma…anxiety…depression…psychosis. I think they are all a bunch of b.s. There is no canned diagnosis which could appropriately define my symptoms. No diagnosis exists for the symptomatology of a mother whose only child was brutally murdered by a mother fucker named cancer at the age of 20 weeks and 1 day. Look that up in the DSM-IV.

That being said, over a month ago I decided to stop taking all the crazy ass medications those doctors, who couldn’t save you, prescribed me. I took all those pills because I was a shell of myself, and didn’t know my name – much less what I was supposed to do after my baby died. I was a shell of myself, with a hand tremor and a glazed over look in my eyes; I could barely inhale & exhale, much less realize my pill cocktail was more radio active than Kryptonite. I was a shell of myself who bought into the doctors’ alarm when they said my suicidal ideations put me significantly at risk. No shit I was suicidal. I probably still am. Far as I can tell, I will be for the rest of my life. What type of mother could watch her child die, be forced to carry on in a world without him, and NOT think (a hundred times a day) of a way to be reunited with her beloved baby?

Now that I’m in “recovery”, I see and feel things my salad bar of drugs numbed out. Most of which are not pleasant or uplifting – I should be so lucky. But, I feel them no less. The world is more vibrant and more alive…which is mostly annoying to someone like me living in the land of “My Baby Died”. Nonetheless, I feel things. Albeit these things consist mostly of pain, heartache, and a longing that can’t be fulfilled, I’m no longer numbing out the world. In fact, I am letting the world back in…one day at a time.

I have five weeks, Diddy. This time, it’s my life I am going to try to save. I have to see if I can save my life, because my life is all I have left. For the next five weeks, I am going to fight for me; strangely, a phenomenon I have never before considered. I am going to take every possible measure to get myself in a place where I am strong enough to look July 2nd in the face and give it the finger. In fact, I’m going to do my best to declare July 2nd as, “National F U Cancer Day”. It will never be the day you “…grew angel wings,” or “…went to a better place.” Fuck that ridiculous nonsense. You belong here with me; anybody who says otherwise is a brainless dickbag. My heart may be unequivocally broken, but my spirit is somehow still fierce enough to refuse to go down without one last rally. If I come through on the other side – cancer better start running. Your Momma ain’t never been a punk…but this “no drug” thing is unleashing a whole new level of bad ass. (At least this is what I am telling myself in the spirit of trying to make my five-week plan a success.)

This is absolutely the opposite of what I sat down to tell you about tonight. It’s quite bizarre, actually, that any of this came out. But, deep in my soul it must be what I needed you to know. The other stuff I have brewing in my head, can wait until tomorrow. Apparently, I needed to throw a “Hail Mary” to my Sweet Boy to let you know Momma’s in a whole new fight mode. I know it is selfish, as when we had five weeks left together I wasn’t able to save you. And, here I am with five weeks until “the day I don’t ever want to face again”, and I am asking you to help save me.

I am sorry, baby. I am sorry for all of this. I hope you know, that I will be okay either way. I just want to make you proud to call me your Momma. At least today, I feel like the best way to do that is to be okay and alive, instead of okay and living.

This conversation made me think of one of the most beautifully heartbreaking songs of all time. My favorite version is, of course, by Ben. It’s your lullaby for tonight. It is from your Momma…your #1 fan of all time.

Good-night, love bug. I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox

Momma

Sorrow: masqueraded with a smile.

Little Diddy,

Momma is bursting at the seams with pride, thus needing to talk far too fast for Daddy to keep up. So I need to bend your ear to tell you about all the wonderful things that have been happening. (If you are busy, just smile and nod while you pretend to listen. I understand.) The past few days I have received so many unexpected messages which have made me smile. Each one of them were about you. It takes a whole lot of super-packed power to make Momma smile…especially on the outside, these days. You have managed to do the trick, at least three times in three days.

On Monday Ms. Sara told me about an extremely kind donation, accompanied by an even more endearing message, Team Paxton received from a man named Nick. Nick has a heart of gold. Momma went to high school with him, but he graduated with Lala. (My guess is it won’t be long before you notice the trend in people reigning from Cudahy and this heart-of-gold quality…just saying.) To remind you, Nick sent a bucket of goodies to CHW in June when we were inpatient. I was stunned to learn he knew of your diagnosis, but more so that he took the time to find, purchase, and send a goodie bucket filled with nuks, squeaky duckies, and crochet hats all the way to Wisconsin just to let you know he was thinking of you. Over the weekend, Nick made a generous donation in honor of your upcoming 1st birthday. He has a beautiful daughters of his own, lives out of state, hasn’t seen me in 20 years, and never had the good fortune of meeting you. Yet, your indomitable spirit has impacted Nick in ways I am certain he could not even explain. When you have a chance, can you please watch over Nick’s beloved little girl and see to it that good things come her way?

Yesterday I received an email from Lisa, the Patient Care Manager at CHW. She wrote to let me know that the hangers Team Paxton purchased for the floor have served as a tangible, and cherished, example of how ‘…little things make such a big difference’. She too is moved by the way in which your impact on this world continues to persist, despite your far too abbreviated time here with us. She and I have a plan in place to help purchase a (much needed, highly coveted) blanket warmer for the HOT unit floor. Do you remember how much you loved those warm, toasty blankies…especially after imaging, transfusions and surgeries? As you already know, there are no blanket warmers on the HOT unit. The warmers are only downstairs by the CT scans, ultrasounds, MRIs, and at the MACC Clinic. Momma always did her best to sweet talk the nurses into getting you one when proximity allowed. Or when Nurse Renee was on hand to hold you tight, and keep you safe, I would go on a commando mission and find a warmer unit (tucked in some secret cubby, in a dark hallway, behind a “Staff Only” door) and ‘borrow’ one for you. I didn’t mean to be defiant; I just needed things to happen faster when it came to making you comfortable. Nonetheless, once we were trapped on the HOT unit – no warm blankets were available. I know you agree – that was some serious bullshit.

Tonight may well be the most touching message I’ve received yet. It came from a complete stranger. She learned of you, your brave fight, and your beautiful soul through an interview Ms. Sara and Ms. Kate did on Morning Blend earlier this fall. Unable to shake the impact you made on through a t.v. screen, and a few still-shot pictures – which encapsulated your contagious smile – she contacted Team Paxton. She is a mother of a precious little girl, Clare, who was born on February 12th, 2012. Just like you should be, Clare is turning 1 next month. Her request: permission to ask the guests coming to Clare’s 1st birthday party to make a donation to Team Paxton, in honor of YOUR 1st birthday, in lieu of buying her daughter a gift. I cannot yet articulate the array of emotions this gesture bought to my soul. Among them – honor, endearment, jealously, sadness, joy, love, spite, curiosity, anger, resentment, happiness. For tonight, I will focus on the most positive of all – which only your life spark can continue to bring me – unexpected and uncanny pride…accompanied by a smile.

Sad Smile

I am so humbled and honored to be your Momma, Paxton Bowe Andrews. I do not suspect I will ever understand how I got to be lucky enough to have you as my son. I wish there were some way I could have protected you from cancer – not to mention all the inhumane, unacceptable, torturous procedures I allowed to happen to you in your brave fight. None of it is right. Not one single thing. Thank you for loving me despite all of my many flaws. I promise to love you until the end of time…and forever and ever after.

Thank you for making me smile, My-My. Though it is merely a temporary mask for my pain ~ it is still a smile. And it is for you.

I will look for you in my dreams.

Stay with me, sweet boy.

xoox

Momma