silence is a sound. you are really gone. and cancer is still a giant asshole.

Hi Diddy,

I made it back to Wisconsin.

Coming home threw a giant curve ball my way. In my absence, somehow the house has grown exponentially larger, quieter, and lonelier. In hindsight, maybe a part of me was half expecting to come in the back door and find a house filled with all things baby boy: trucks, Legos, puzzles, and books spattered about the downstairs; plastic dishes, rubber spoons, and sippy cups in the sink; the iconic sweet sent of Burt’s Bees Buttermilk lotion in the air. I was snapped out of my trance by the time I reached the bottom of the upstairs staircase. By then I knew even if I ran to the top and lunged into your room – I wouldn’t find you happily kicking about and ‘whoo-whoo-ing’ in your crib.

Every so often, I still have fleeting moments when I forget you are really gone. When they happen, my breath is sucked right out of my lungs, and I swear the world stands still: for.just.a.split.second. Each time they happen, I am positive it will be the last time. I’m always surprised and somewhat embarrassed by them. They also scare me a bit because I feel like I truly may be going crazy after-all. But, then I get pissed and realize I am not the crazy one. Cancer is the crazy one. I think about how very unfair and unacceptable it is that you were cheated from a life which held such promise – and that the world was cheated from a soul which held pure goodness.

I wonder if the day will ever come when I whole-heartedly believe, in the very core of my being, that all of this actually happened. I had a son. He was a miracle. He was beautiful. He was perfect. He was funny. He was brave. He was everything I dreamed of…and more. He was the part of me which had been missing my entire life. Then, just like that – he got cancer and died. No matter how long I wait, or how much I beg, plea and bargain – he is never, ever coming back. I honestly don’t know if my subconscious will ever allow my conscious state to fully digest the gruesomeness of my reality. It defies all logic, reason, science and what is right and fair in the universe. Above all else, it is simply too god damn hard. Anyone who thinks I should simply “…accept my reality” and “move on” – as though losing my son, and then the rest of my entire world (in the span of seven months), is merely an unfortunate kink in plans akin to an unforeseen head-wind on a magic carpet ride to Disneyland – can fuck off. Or they can choose which one of their children they will watch get slowly tortured and brutally murdered by cancer…and ultimately die in their arms. In fact, they can do both. Then we can meet for tea and eat crumpets while they tell me all about how beautifully they’re accepting what life threw their way. And I can apologize for telling them to fuck off.

Despite the echoes I hear as I walk to and fro our rooms, accompanied only by the silence swimming through the air, a part of me feels relieved to be home. I am still comforted by being in your room, among your things. I know you are with me wherever I go. I know your things are merely things. I know your room is simply a floor, with four walls, which not too long ago was filled with hope, dreams, and promise. Yet, I also know memories of you and I are more vivid in that sacred space. Whenever I’m feeling especially far away from you – I retreat to your room, if only for a minute, and I feel just a tiny bit closer to you.

One of the thousands of things we didn’t get to do together nearly enough is read bedtimes stories. I read to you every now and again…sometimes in the middle of the day, sometimes when I get home from work, sometimes right before bed – whenever it is I am able muster the ever-elusive grace to choose a book from your shelves and say the words out loud. When I don’t have the composure to use my voice, I sit in the glider and quietly turn the pages as I imagine you there with me. Alas, some of the most special people in your life gave you the same book for your (non) shower gift. They picked it for you because it was one of their favorites. So, I tend to choose it more often than others. I’m a quite certain it is one of your favorites too. Goodnight Moon is on deck again tonight; it’s been far too long.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight, ‘silence’ everywhere.

Goodnight, Diddy. I’ll look for you in my dreams.

IMG_1118

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

the weekends are slow. your momma is fast. let’s move to france.

Little One,

“Tu me manqués”.  In French, that translates to “You are missing from me.”  I love that – as it is far more accurate than to simply say, “I miss you”.  (Although, also true.) Today is June 2nd…as of today, you have been missing from me for eleven months. You will be missing from me, every single day, for the rest of my life.

“Tu me manqués.” The French are brilliant.  The French are sexy. The French are in love with love. The French also love bread. Best of all, the French drink wine…all the time.  My friend, Lisa, in Los Angeles may be onto something in telling me to take my broken heart to France.

This weekend was not an easy one. Most of them aren’t. For the first time in my life, I am NOT a fan of the weekend.  (Don’t ask me how I intend to get through summer….which is, in essence, one never-ending-torturous weekend.)  The weekends go extremely slow. Each day is impossibly long – and the nights, well, those are even longer.  As usual, I spent most of the weekend alone. My company basically consisted of my thoughts.  Well, my thoughts and a Milwaukee County Sheriff who introduced himself after pulling me over on Saturday.  “Hi. Not nice to meet you sir. Yes. I know why you pulled me over. You want to make my day shittier than it is naturally.” I was flying, Paxton. But, it was not entirely my fault. There wasn’t another soul on the road…the sun was out…and JT was on the radio. Further, I was driving Nana’s brand new whip. Given it is far sassier than Momma’s car, I couldn’t even tell I was moving – much less that I was going 80 mph. (Yes, I know…a tad excessive.) In addition to accidentally speeding, there was no ‘proof of insurance’ in Nana’s car. So, the friendly Sheriff gave me a ticket for that too.  Truth be told, the Sheriff actually was quite friendly – but only because he found me to be quite amusing.  Ultimately, he felt badly enough that he “gave me a discount”…and only charged me for 19 mph over, instead of 25 mph, which apparently significantly reduces the price of the ticket.  But I’m still mad at him.  Needless to say, despite the fact that Mr. Sheriff and I got along swimmingly, Momma is still out a million hundred dollars, 4 points, and a squeaky clean driving record. To salt the wound, I was racing around town to get to the store to buy food to make a “dish to pass”…for a party I ended up not being able to attend. Quite an expensive dish to pass right into my garbage. But, I did anyway – because, I could care less.

I wonder if they have speed limits in France? I bet they don’t…at least not for moms who’ve lost their only child – especially when she’s en route to a party, which marks the first real plan she’s had in three weeks.  If the Municipale accidentally pulled me over, for accidentally speeding, I bet un policier would’ve given me a hug, a baguette, and a bottle of wine. He probably would’ve told me to screw the appetizer – and advised me to head directly to the party, as fast as I damn well pleased.

So another day, another weekend, another month without you has come and gone. Life without you is so abundantly sad and wholly empty that words will never suffice to explain it.  I know in the very, very depths of my bones that this was not your destiny. You were not supposed to get sick. You certainly were not supposed to die at the age 20 weeks and 1 day.  You were bound for greatness, Paxton. I am your Momma, so by default – I know things about you that no one else in the world could ever know. It’s not their fault that they don’t know; they are not your Momma. Being your Momma is my job, and my job alone.  Part of that job is to follow my instincts….the same instincts that kept telling me something was very wrong with you.  My intuition also tells me that there is something very wrong with many things which have occurred in my life. I don’t care what anyone tries to riddle me in efforts to help make sense of complete nonsense.  I know I am right when I say…all of these “events” are entirely wrong.

lock bridge. paris.

This is a photo of the Pont de l’Archevêché in Paris – more commonly known as the “Locks of Love” bridge. This breath-taking attraction allures visitors from across the globe. Two people, who love each other, inscribe their names on a padlock, attach the lock to the fence on the bridge, and throw the key in the river. Legend has it, that this act solidifies their love as one which will last forever.  Momma needs to get to this bridge. I will get an extra fabulous padlock.  I will write “Momma & Paxton” on one side, and “Danna & Diddy” on the other.  I will lock up our love. I will throw away the key.  It will last forever…and ever…because France says so.

I miss you. I love you.

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

next time a stranger comes a callin’…hang up.

Diddy,

As one of the worst ‘anniversary’ dates closes in on me – the air becomes increasingly heavier by the day. The closer Wednesday gets, the less oxygen Momma seems to be able to find. I was prepared for this week to be challenging. However, I was not prepared for the challenge to exponentially implode. The bomb that was dropped on me this weekend has officially made the first week of May the worst week of all time – ever. Times infinity. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by this unexpected blow; history sure has a funny way of repeating itself. Yet I am surprised…but not as much as I am horrified.

I have always lived by the adage that “knowledge is power”. However, I am not sure I agree with that any longer. Maybe there is such a thing as too much knowledge. Maybe ignorantly floating through life, even one riddled with deceit, would prove to be the ‘wiser’ existence after all.

Unfortunately, you only find your limit of how much ‘knowledge’ you can handle after you’ve already learned far too much. You find it in the call that should have been left unreturned, or the meeting that should have been left unattended. You find it in a story that twists your tummy into tiny, nauseating knots – and leaves you with a dry heave you honestly may never shake. You hear this story in its entirety. A story that can’t possibly be real: from the very beginning, throughout the twisted middle, right down to the bitter end. Not even two hundred and twelve Sazeracs could have dulled the blow. You walk away absolutely empty. All you can feel are the shards of a heart that used to beat in your chest. The contents of this story, the “knowledge”, causes those shards to methodically slice away at your insides. You cross into an entirely new plane of suffering – which seems impossible given you’ve already been treading water in a life seemingly determined to drown you in heartache.

Paxton, you were taken from me without my permission. Our little family began to crumble without my permission. The shards of what used to be my heart rake through my soul without my permission.

But learning the intricate details of the most unconscionable story of all time was my decision. I returned that call. I agreed to that meeting. I listened to that story. I choked back the lump in my throat as more and more unimaginable information was divulged. Now, here I sit – with an abundance of “knowledge” I wish I could unlearn. I replay the words in my head over and again. I am unable to bear this load. So maybe, just maybe, knowledge isn’t all so powerful after all. I really don’t know anymore.

Here is what I do know: Losing you shattered my heart into slivers of a whole. Gaining knowledge of a premeditated and soulless betrayal used those slivers to cut the rest of me into pieces. I also know that I will never be okay again. It is simply no longer possible.

Puke my heart out.

I miss you desperately. I want you back. I am so sorry you got sick.

Please stay with me, Sweet Boy. (I need you now more than ever.)

xoox,

Momma

the world is insane. i’m just mad.

Paxton,
I am currently donning my pink (PINK!) hoodie…complete with hood up, and tied so tightly that the only thing exposed are my swollen, tired eyes. Only your Momma would be freezing cold on April 21st. I guess I will always be the biggest freeze baby in all the land. I still think you were “coldie” more often than not too – even when others would argue you were fine…I’m pretty sure you had your Momma’s blood. (I apologize for the few times I accidentally made you super-sweaty on those walks when I snuggled you with one too many blankets. I was just making sure.)

I am sitting in your bedroom, in our glider, with your little teal pillow propped underneath the computer. The ‘just right’ pillow positioning is both traumatizing and comforting. I can remember exactly the way you and I needed to be ‘situated’ both here in our glider, as well as on the couch with your boppy – leopard pillow – red pillow combo. Of course, it all makes perfect sense now why it hurt your tiny little body so much anytime Momma made even the slightest move. I can’t talk about it in detail…because doing so would make me puke. All the little signs continue to fall into place. Just when I think I’ve thought of them all, another one pops up: like tonight, as I instinctively resumed the “glider teal pillow arrangement”. I will never forgive myself for allowing anyone to talk me out of my gut instinct. I’d do anything to rewind time and be a stronger-willed Momma. I would force someone to listen to me…not simply hear me. If I needed to, I would scream at the top of my lungs, “No…I am not a neurotic, hyper-sensitive, first time mom. No…I am not going to keep a god damn journal to document on paper what I am telling you right now. No…I am not going to bring him back tomorrow if he doesn’t ‘turn the corner’. What I am going to do is stay right here, holding my son against my chest ,while you figure out what the fuck is wrong.” I am so sorry it took me too long to say all of those things.

On top of being cold, and sad, I have officially decided the world is insane. This weekend sealed the deal, Diddy. The more people I encounter, and the more knowledge I acquire…the more convinced I am that the entire universe…at least my corner of the world…well, minimally my street…is completely twisted.

Go away - except Diddy.

One year ago tomorrow marks my first day back to work after my 13 weeks of bed-rest + 10 weeks of maternity leave…totaling 50 weeks and 1 day of completely unseparated time with you. Dream come true.

I remember how phenomenally scared I was to be away from you for ‘an entire day’. Grammie slept over to make the transition smoother for Momma. But it didn’t work. I did not sleep the night before. I could not make myself leave when it was time to go. Just as I headed for the door, I was compelled to write you a letter. Even though she was anxious to have you to herself, Grammie let me write in silence. Knowing it’d make me even later, I insisted I take the letter up to your room and put it on your dresser. I asked Grammie to read it to you when I was gone, so you would’t go too long without “hearing” from me. And she did…that Grammie of yours is a spoiler. I did not do a single, meaningful thing at work that day. I did not concentrate for two consecutive seconds. I did not make it more than one hour without calling home to check on you. I thought about you every.single.second. Above all, I missed you terribly.

Nothing about tomorrow will be different while I am at work. Everything else will be; starting with the fact that I can no longer rush home, scoop you into my arms, breathe in your sweet smell, and whisper in your ear how very much I love you…and everything else thereafter too.

I miss you so much it hurts my tummy. I hope you are warm enough.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

two precious, miracle, blue-eyed boys…together forever.

Sweet Boy,

Tonight I am short on words, but not on tears.

When Bradan’s Daddy contacted me with the news of his baby boy’s passing, I was instantaneously transported back to July. I remember those days with such pristine precision, it seems as if it were yesterday: the suffocating grief, the overwhelming fear, and the pure and unrelenting love…which was all around. At the same time, given how drastically life has changed since you left, July feels like it must have been a million years ago.

Upon Bradan’s arrival, I see you reaching out for his hand. I imagine you holding it tightly and assuring him that he need not be afraid. I believe this because even in the ‘highest layer’, I know you are the bravest litte warrior – with the kindest heart, and most inviting smile.

Both of you precious, miracle, baby boys – with eyes as blue as the sky – belong here with your Mommas and Daddies. I have no doubt every angel would agree that children are meant to outlive their parents. Period. Because we cannot be together, I need you to remember this part of our forever-and-ever-pact: hold onto your angel (the one with the biggest wings) until Momma comes for you. Hold onto Bradan and to the other boys and girls who cross your path too. Most of all, please hold onto my love. And always, always know that you are not alone.

Close your beautiful blue eyes and sleep peacefully tonight, my love; Momma is right here.

I love you. I miss you. I hope you are safe.

Stay with me sweet boy.
xoox,
Momma

Be Peaceful.

Sweetest Diddy,

An early morning trip to Target proved to be far more significant than Momma’s run-of-the-mill trips to Target. With only a few things to pick up, and a surplus of time to spare, I began to amble mindlessly through a store which, once upon a time, was as familiar to me as our backyard. Ultimately, I found myself in the middle of the “happy home” isle. I almost screamed out loud, (but didn’t – so don’t be embarrassed) when I found the candle I have been searching high and low for since last April. To the rest of the free world, it would seem there is nothing extraordinary about this candle. It is a typical Target something-or-other-brand aromatherapy candle. The name however, a bit more special, ‘Be Peaceful’…which is what compelled me to initially buy it. I found it on my first “away from home” trial in very early March. I wonder if it were exactly one year ago today? At any rate, I remember your Daddy making me leave the house without you in tow. He said I could go wherever I wanted, but that I had to be gone a minimum of twenty minutes. Prior to you becoming a part of my life, a twenty minute errand was nearly laughable, given my trademark ability to turn a five minute errand into a two hour escapade. Nonetheless, I took the challenge.

In lightening speed, I secured formula, a double pack of Dr. Brown’s bottles, and a tube of “Butt Paste” (recommended by Dr. D.). I turned to head home, but realized I had been gone about 7 minutes. I anxiously made a quick right turn down the “happy home” isle….where I spotted the ‘Be Peaceful’ candle. I instinctively, and giddily, added it to the must-haves-for-Paxton basket. Unwilling to suppress my angst of being away from you, away from my family, a minute longer – I headed to the Express checkout, paid for our stuff, and drove home…without stopping to look both ways. I burned that candle, almost daily, until approximately the middle of April. When I noticed it was almost gone, I began my search for another one. I checked multiple Target locations, Target online, and eBay; but was unable to find another one anywhere. Knowing it was ‘running’ low – and with no replacement in sight, I began to burn it more sparingly. Then May happened.

Finding the ‘Be Peaceful’ candle today, initially, seemed so very serendipitous. It is, after all, March 2nd. Today marks 8 months since I rubbed my lips across your perfect head and silky hair, held you against my chest as we slowly breathed in tandem, and felt the warmth of your gentle – but steadfast – fingers circled around my thumb. To my surprise, the more aroma that fills the room, the more sadness fills my heart. Our sense of smell is 10,000 times more sensitive than any other of the five senses. The recognition of smell is immediate. While other senses (touch and taste) must travel through the body via neurons and the spinal cord before reaching the brain: our olfactory response is immediate, extending directly to the brain. The emotional connections and the memories attached to a smell are always deeply personal; it seems a familiar smell is oft intrinsically enmeshed with the individual experience.

As the scent of the candle replaces the air in the room, I can almost teleport myself back to last year on this very day. Although smell is the strongest of the five sense, I can remember them all. I hear college basketball steadily as a fixture on our t.v. – but not too loud – because we were listening for the coo of your voice. I see you contently asleep, while swaddled (extra tight, like a cigar) in my arms, or in your bassinet – which we moved upstairs and downstairs depending on where “camp” was determined to be for the next several hours. I taste the sweet flavor of your formula, as I test a drop from my wrist to make sure it is just the right temperature. I feel the unabridged happiness, unexplainable contentment, (no doubt the newborn induced sleep deprivation); most importantly I feel the good, sweet love that filled every last inch of our home.

Needless to say, since ‘Be Peaceful’ has permeated throughout our home, the scent has evoked an unanticipated array of emotions. The sadness and yearning which have flooded my heart are not only due solely over the loss of you – but also over the loss the family who lived here – just last year. It does not seem plausible that the only thing that remains the same about our little family, about our quaint home, about our happily-ever-after … is the familiar scent of a candle.

Sweet boy, I do not know how all of this has happened. What I do know is that if I could fix even one part of it, I would…in a heartbeat, I would.

Momma. Alone.

I hope you are safe. I hope you are peaceful. Please be happy, little one.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox
Momma

A sign. A sigh. And I just miss you.

Sweet Boy,

Thank you so very much for the sign you gifted me the other night. It was one of the most special, endearing, and distinct ones you have so graciously sent to date. (It was no baby giraffe drinking from a bottle…but, it was pretty damn close.)  And, of course, I so appreciate that you made sure to save it for a time when I needed it so very, very much. Not only are you good, kind, brave and funny…turns out you also happen to be quite bright to boot.

Each time I come to the edge of all the light I have, you find a way to reassure me that I am not alone. You find a way to let me know that you are, in fact, right by my side. Diddy, with the dawn of each new day, I draw a bit of strength, fight, hope and grace from you. Though it pales in comparison, I will continue to conduct myself in a way I hope makes you proud to call me your Momma. I will continue to carry you in my heart, my bones, my blood, and my soul through all of eternity.  I will continue to believe in you…I will continue to believe in us…I will continue to believe in our indomitable bond.

Littlest Warrior

I miss you. That is all. I miss you.

Stay with me, sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma

Two hundred and twelve steps back. And the other shoe dropped too.

Diddy,

I think I have taken 212 steps back. I knew your birthday would be a force to contend with; needless to say, it far surpassed my expectations. Yesterday and today, however… well, I guess it could all be nicely summarized by saying, “the other shoe has dropped”.

Despite the fact it felt like someone cut my eyes open and rubbed lemons on them, and my head ached from an entire day & night of a “hard-cry” hangover, I got out of bed yesterday morning. I did so because I had every intention to resume going through the motions of life without you. (I continue to do this, hoping that if you are watching, I just may make you proud every so often.) I repeated the mantra I said over & over throughout those first several weeks I returned to work. “Your pain is nothing compared to his. Your pain is nothing compared to his.” As I silently chanted my battle-cry, I used all my insides to put one foot infront of the other and make my way to your room. I simultaneously concentrated on containing the tears pressing against the back of my eyes, and holding down the vomit rising from my tummy up to my throat. I made it to your changing table to say good-morning…but somehow I ended up across the room in our glider. In an instant, I came undone. I couldn’t breathe, much less move. I truly didn’t feel this panic attack coming – which scared me a bit. As you know, at this point, it is somewhat of a challenge to rattle Momma. I tried all my well-versed tricks to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Ultimately, I gave in…and unleashed a primal shit show.

I’m still not sure how, or when, I finally managed to bring myself around. Maybe a text message came in from Daddy – inadvertently providing a sense of saftey? Or, perhaps Lucas came into your room to stand by my side? (Although, he never comes in when Momma or Daddy are in your room. It is the strangest, yet most endearing, phenomena. He knows exactly what has happened; he misses you too. Lucas visits your room on his own, and even sleeps in front of your changing table every so often.) By the time I was semi-functional again, I realized I simply would not be able to get myself to work on time. So I called in ‘sick’ again…this time, for a half day. I wonder if they’d consider adding the option of calling in ‘broken-hearted’ to my queue? Those good and kind kids of Momma’s were so relieved to see me. When they saw I had returned for the afternoon, a few of my most ‘belove-lies’ charged into my room and pounced on top of me and hugged me but good. One of my favorite, sassiest, girls planted a kiss right on top of my head. They knew why I was gone; better yet, they knew not to talk about it. It makes me sad to know they worry about me. I love them all so dearly. You would too, Paxton…and they’d have protected you to the end’s of this earth. Momma’s crazy-daisy kids: thank goodness for each of them.

Today is the day we brought you home from the hospital last year. I remember thinking, “There will never be another Valentine’s Day that can top this one.” Little did I know how very true that statement would prove. I keep picturing you in the beautiful outfit Nana made for your “coming home” extravaganza. Given we all operated under the guise that you would be born early, Nana made each part of your outfit smaller than those she had made for your cousins. Nonetheless, you still were drowing in it. Daddy was so irritated that I had you wear it anyway; I couldn’t be swayed – you were just too dang cute in it. Your toes barely passed where your knees should have hit – and I had to cuff the sleeves on your sweater, not once, but twice. My favorite part, however, was the way the hat kept falling down – nearly covering your sweet little face. Oh, Diddy-Diddy, how did this all happen?

Momma? Are you there?

It’s not that I shouldn’t be missing your itty-bitty newborn days; every mom misses those days. After all, they are the very moments we have patiently, yet anxiously anticipated for the previous 9 months. Sweeter yet, they afford the unique opportunity to fall in love 100 times a day, with the same little person. The sleep deprivation, hormone fluctuation, and punch-drunk love state, result in a blissful blur of some of life’s finest moments…which, in hindsight, slip away before you’ve even had a chance to realize they were real. Yes, I should be missing those days. I should be missing those days as I watch you across the room and marvel at how you’ve transformed before my eyes into a one-year old baby, with plump cheeks and locks of blonde hair. I should be missing those days as I gently clean the lint and baby food out from the crevices of your chubby fingers, which match your Michelan-baby body so perfectly that it looks like someone screwed your hands onto the ends of your arms. I should be missing those days as I shriek in excitement because you just took two, maybe three, steps on your own before teetering over right onto your dupa. I should not be missing your itty-bitty newborn days, along with everything else about you. I know I say it all the time, but I just want you back. It is that simple: I want you back.

For some reason, earlier today I recalled one of the songs I sang to you on our first night at home together. We were tucked away in Momma & Daddy’s room as the lyrics started to stream from my mouth…seemingly on instinct. I had never sung them out loud before that moment. I can still feel how very petite and fragile you felt in my arms. I can still feel my cheek brush along yours – which was so soft that it felt like it was made of clouds. Truth be told, I still remember every nook and every cranny of you, sweet boy. My memories of you are so detailed and so plentiful that I have to remind myself more often than I should, that no matter how intricate and abundant my visions remain, I will never be able to reach out and scoop you up into my arms – where you belong.

Alas, in honor of our first night at home together, and the very best Valentine’s Day there ever will be…here is your lullaby tonight, Paxton.

Stay with me sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma

February 12th.

My Sweetest Paxton Bowe,

One year ago today, you were born. It is a known fact that you completed our family. Everyone feels that way. Ask them; I promise they’ll agree. You are the link that was missing from our entire family for far too many years. You are, most certainly, what was missing from Momma’s life. My entire life, I have felt a little lost, a little incomplete. I would never have been able to put my finger on the feeling – that is, until I held you in my arms. To sweeten the pot, you turned out to be the VERY best version of me that I could never have dreamt to be, and the very best version of Daddy that he could ever have hoped to be.

I can remember every single detail about February 12th, 2012, so vividly, that the harsh reality that I can’t rewind time, and have it back remains impossible to accept. I watched the clock all day long today, starting when Daddy inadvertently woke me from of a non-sleep. He rolled over, wrapped his strong arms around me, and let out a soft whimper. I’m sure he was as dreaming of you again. He cries in his sleep too often since you have been gone. And, he can only fall asleep if he holds onto a pillow like a life saver in rough waters. As long as I have known him, he’s never done either of those things. I decided to open my eyes to see how many hours I’d been lying in bed; the clock read 2:12. (Promise.) I had my first contraction at 3:06 a.m., so I patiently watched for the numbers to read 3:06. I then watched for them to read 4:15, which was when I finally went to stir Daddy who had fallen asleep on the couch. Next, I waited for 6:55 a.m., which was the precise time we checked into the hospital – Room 4. I reeled through the snapshots in my memory and saw the arrival of Nana, Grammie, and Lala. I heard the rattle of the hospital bed as my ‘shakes’ became worse and worse. I could almost taste the the ice chips Daddy placed in my mouth, hear the songs which played softly in the background, and feel Daddy’s warm hand rub my forehead or my back…depending on what I needed in that very moment. I waited for the clock to turn 3:43 – the time I began to push. Daddy recounted all the crazy-daisy things Lala told me to do, and how they worked like a charm. He reminded me how the leg he was holding was cranked almost past my ear, while Lala held my other leg just above my tummy. (He was a fish outta water, Diddy. It would’ve been funny; had it been funny. But, it wasn’t…it was just sweetly annoying.) And, of course Daddy and I both watched for the clock to read 4:21 – the exact time you were born. I wondered if either of us would exhale as the clock changed to 4:22.

In between watching the clock, Daddy and I read all of the beautiful, heart-felt, creative notes and wishes that most all of your guests brought to your 1st birthday non-party on Saturday. I asked everyone to bring a note or letter recounting their favorite memory with you, or a wish for you in the year ahead. It was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had – even Daddy said so; and he doesn’t hand out false accolades. We also received an array of cards, letters, and gifts from many earth angels throughout the week – which we saved for today to read to you. Reading through the stack of cards, letters, and notes brought back some very, very loving memories. I hadn’t forgotten one of them, but it had been awhile since I called some of them into my active memory. It also gave us a deeper appreciation of the profound impact you have on so many peoples’ lives. And although we already knew as much, the myriad of letters served as tangible proof that you are, in fact, a miracle.

Long before you were placed in my arms, you and I had a symbiotic existence. It is so unbelievably strange to not have you here with me. I literally feel as though someone cut out half of my soul. In essence, that is what happened when I lost you. I have come to realize this feeling will never go away. The more time which passes, the more I miss you. Nobody tells you that part about being childless mother. Time does not make anything easier; in fact, it makes things harder because I keep getting further and further away from the last time I was able to kiss you, hold you, watch you, hear you, smell you. The pain of missing you grows stronger everyday, Paxton. I wonder if you miss me just as much? I wonder if you can see me? I wonder if you can hear the things I tell you? I wonder if you can feel the unceasing love I hold for you? I wonder if you ache to be held in my arms? Sometimes, I imagine you above me, trying to reach down to me with your long, beautiful fingers, and tiny perfect hands, but you can never quite get to me. The thought of this makes me sad. So very sad.

One year ago today, you were born. Without a word, and without warning, you proved to me that dreams really do come true. I will love you forever and ever…and then a little bit longer. I will always be so very proud of you, and infinitely remain your biggest fan. As I told you within moments of your arrival, and many times there after, “I am so glad you are you.” That will forever and always remain my truth. The reasons my love for you is so deep and so profound are limitless, sweet boy. However, the greatest reason of all is, simply put, because – you are you.

Family Completed

On your first birthday, my wish for you is this: May you be happy always.

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

Stay with me, sweet boy.

xoox,

Momma