New Year's has never been my favorite holiday. I always felt pressure to do something big, and then felt like a loser when I didn't have big plans. And as a glass half-empty type person, I never looked at a new year as a new start. Instead, I tended to focus on what I hadn't accomplished in the year before, and lamented that I probably wouldn't accomplish my goals in the coming year.
As I've gotten older, not having big plans hasn't bothered me nearly as much. Last year, being on bedrest, we didn't do anything exciting. We hung out on the couch, watched YouTube videos (my favorites were the news bloopers), and were probably asleep before 10. The year before wasn't much different...though I think that year I woke up just before midnight to get my midnight kiss. Even though the lack of plans bothers me less, I still find New Year's to be a rather depressing holiday.
The last couple years have been especially tough. In 2012, Tim and I were engaged and expecting Brady. I sent out New Year's cards for 2013 that said "The Best is Yet to Come." Then in 2013 we lost Brady and we lost my mom. So for 2013 holiday cards, I was hesitant to send out anything too optimistic. At the end of 2013 we were expecting again, but I had just been put on bedrest, and was not quite to a point where the baby could be born without major problems. So I was pretty hesitant to get too optimistic about 2014. As 2014 moved along, though, things started looking up. We made it to 28 weeks, 32 weeks, and even 36 weeks with a healthy, growing baby. We celebrated Brady's birthday by decorating his grave, and I missed having my mom around, but things were going pretty well. Then on April 14, we met our perfect baby boy. I finally started to think that maybe 2014 would be our year.
Unfortunately, we all know how 2014 turned out. Although I could focus on the bad (and some days I certainly do), I can't say that 2014 was a bad year. It was the year we got to meet our baby boy. It was the year we got to cuddle Henry, and watch him grow. We got to take Henry to the pumpkin patch, to the library, and even just to the grocery store. He was in his uncle's wedding, and he got to swim in the ocean (in mommy and daddy's arms.) So although his death is definitely a defining moment of 2014, it's not the only moment of importance. As we look forward to 2015, we look forward to honoring and remembering both of our boys...some things we have in the works and some will come as the year goes by. So although I still am not a fan of New Year's, I'm going to spend time with my husband and my fur babies, and pretend like it's just another day.
Meet Henry
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Monday, December 29, 2014
In browsing Facebook today I read that another family has suffered the most terrible loss of their little boy. This was a family that we crossed paths with during our stay in the PICU, but not one that we had a chance to talk with a lot. This little boy was not fighting cancer, but was born with a known heart defect. Regardless of condition, from looking at his Facebook page he was another tough fighter!
These stories used to take my breath away as I would wonder how in the world these parents can handle this. Now they take my breath away as my heart breaks for them. I don't know what this particular family is going through...no one can ever know. Even if their little guy lost a short battle against AML, I STILL wouldn't know what they're going through. I might know some of the experiences they may have had in the hospital, or some of the medical jargon they had learned. But each situation is so unique that no one else can know what someone is going through. What I do know is that this family is facing a loss that no one should have to face, and that they are feeling pain that is incomprehensible.
I hope that this family has as strong a support system as we have, and that the love and support will surround them in the days, months, and years to come. I imagine Henry greeting this new little friend, and that he will show him the ropes. We all wish these babies didn't have to leave us, but imagining them playing together, pain-free, does bring me some measure of comfort. Please keep Ethan's family in your thoughts and prayers. (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Team-Ethan/144693805724341)
These stories used to take my breath away as I would wonder how in the world these parents can handle this. Now they take my breath away as my heart breaks for them. I don't know what this particular family is going through...no one can ever know. Even if their little guy lost a short battle against AML, I STILL wouldn't know what they're going through. I might know some of the experiences they may have had in the hospital, or some of the medical jargon they had learned. But each situation is so unique that no one else can know what someone is going through. What I do know is that this family is facing a loss that no one should have to face, and that they are feeling pain that is incomprehensible.
I hope that this family has as strong a support system as we have, and that the love and support will surround them in the days, months, and years to come. I imagine Henry greeting this new little friend, and that he will show him the ropes. We all wish these babies didn't have to leave us, but imagining them playing together, pain-free, does bring me some measure of comfort. Please keep Ethan's family in your thoughts and prayers. (https://www.facebook.com/pages/Team-Ethan/144693805724341)
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Henry's Life
I have spent a good chunk of the last couple days making a photo book of Henry's life. I never expected that my son's baby book would include not only his birth but also his death. I couldn't use most of the embellishments available on Shutterfly...things like first steps, first birthday...those are things Henry will never have. And all of the "life story" photo books are of course geared toward older adults, who have lived a full life. The baby photo books didn't include embellishments for first hospital visit, first IV, or have a space for date of passing.
However, Henry's photo book did include sayings such as "baby boy," "little man," "best buddies," and "we love you." Even better, of the 47 pages in Henry's book (thank goodness Shutterfly ALWAYS has some sort of discount!), only 6 pages chronicle his hospital stay and passing. If you're a numbers person, that means that 88% of Henry's book showcases his LIFE. It shows how much Henry was loved, and how much he was able to do in his short 7 months. 88% of his book shows a perfect baby boy. The other 12% shows a baby boy who is a fighter...a baby boy who made even his nurses fall in love with him. It shows that even in his battle and his death he still touched people.
It was hard to make this book. I had to take a few deep breaths as I got to the last 6 pages. But then, as I looked through the finished project, I felt a sense of pride. This pride was not for the book I created, but for the legacy that Henry created. It made me proud, once again, that I got the honor of being Henry's mama.
Tim and I talked yesterday about our blog and Facebook posts, and how therapeutic these are for both of us. We also talked about how we want to use these outlets to share not only our grief and our journey, but our happy memories of Henry. I think as time passes, we will be able to do more of that. But for now, this book has accomplished a little of that - sharing some of our favorite photos and memories of our little monster. You can (hopefully) use the link below to view Henry's book if you so choose - enjoy!
http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8AbOG7Ns0cs2EY
However, Henry's photo book did include sayings such as "baby boy," "little man," "best buddies," and "we love you." Even better, of the 47 pages in Henry's book (thank goodness Shutterfly ALWAYS has some sort of discount!), only 6 pages chronicle his hospital stay and passing. If you're a numbers person, that means that 88% of Henry's book showcases his LIFE. It shows how much Henry was loved, and how much he was able to do in his short 7 months. 88% of his book shows a perfect baby boy. The other 12% shows a baby boy who is a fighter...a baby boy who made even his nurses fall in love with him. It shows that even in his battle and his death he still touched people.
It was hard to make this book. I had to take a few deep breaths as I got to the last 6 pages. But then, as I looked through the finished project, I felt a sense of pride. This pride was not for the book I created, but for the legacy that Henry created. It made me proud, once again, that I got the honor of being Henry's mama.
Tim and I talked yesterday about our blog and Facebook posts, and how therapeutic these are for both of us. We also talked about how we want to use these outlets to share not only our grief and our journey, but our happy memories of Henry. I think as time passes, we will be able to do more of that. But for now, this book has accomplished a little of that - sharing some of our favorite photos and memories of our little monster. You can (hopefully) use the link below to view Henry's book if you so choose - enjoy!
http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8AbOG7Ns0cs2EY
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Sleep
Sleep these days is a funny thing. I am tired all the time. It doesn't matter if I slept 2 hours or 10 hours, I still wake up tired. And then there are nights like last night, when I am exhausted, but can't quite seem to get myself to sleep. So I lay down to take a nap and can't fall asleep. It's a vicious cycle.
I'm sure being tired all the time contributes to my lack of patience and my cranky moods, and I'm sure it stems from the same problems. I am not physically hurt, but emotional hurt takes just as much energy, if not more, for recovery. I can still do daily tasks, and I'll soon be back at work. My "injury" does not prevent any of this. But my "injury" does prevent me from feeling fully involved in my own life. I feel like I'm watching myself live my life rather than actively participating. And the constant exhaustion just exacerbates these feelings.
As with any physical ailment, healing takes time. Grief is not something that you just get over, but something you have to work through. Unfortunately, there's no set prescription or regimen that will fix this. But things like this blog, the support of everyone around us, support groups, and, of course, time, we will find our way through this journey. We will be different people than we were before, but we will find happiness and peace again.
Friday, December 26, 2014
Patience
I find myself lacking greatly in patience these days. Things that normally wouldn't bother me at all can send me into a near rage. When my dog won't stop barking (which then gets the other one barking)...when another car turns in front of me...when I can't get my iTunes to work the way I think it should...it can be anything, really. I go to bed cranky at night, hoping that I'll wake up in a better mood. And invariably, I wake up just as cranky as when I went to bed the night before. Occasionally, there are brief moments upon waking that I forget that I'm cranky...but it sets in before I can even enjoy the break.
I understand why I'm so impatient and cranky. I understand that I have to give myself time and allow myself to feel everything I'm feeling. That understanding is in my head...it doesn't make its way to my heart. My heart doesn't understand why it's in so much pain. My heart doesn't understand why this has happened (though, to be fair, my head doesn't understand that, either.) My heart doesn't understand, it just hurts.
I understand why I'm so impatient and cranky. I understand that I have to give myself time and allow myself to feel everything I'm feeling. That understanding is in my head...it doesn't make its way to my heart. My heart doesn't understand why it's in so much pain. My heart doesn't understand why this has happened (though, to be fair, my head doesn't understand that, either.) My heart doesn't understand, it just hurts.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Christmas
Today I feel like I'm in A Christmas Carol...being visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, Christmas present, and Christmas yet to come.
The ghost of Christmas past shows me being awakened long before the crack of dawn by my sister, and having to wait until 6:00 to wake up Mom and Dad. It shows us letting the dogs out, putting the coffee on, turning on the Christmas lights and Christmas music, and even fixing Mom's coffee so she would have fewer excuses that would put off the opening of presents. We would gather by the tree and take turns opening presents, excited to see what we got, but also excited to give gifts to each other.
The ghost of Christmas present shows a much more somber scene. It shows Tim and I waking up, letting the dogs out, and puttering around the house. It shows us watching movies and eating junk food (more because we're bored than hungry). We do these things to try to forget the fact that it's Christmas...pretending instead that it's just another day. The ghost of Christmas present shows us not watching Henry "open" gifts by the tree, but instead shows us visiting his and Brady's graves.
The ghost of Christmas yet to come shows glimpses of happier holidays. Hopefully one day we will be awakened far too early by little ones who are excited to see what Santa brought. We will be creating our own family traditions that our children will one day look back on and remember fondly. Christmas yet to come will also include visits to Brady and Henry, so that our kids never forget that they have two big brothers watching over us. It seems so distant...but I have faith that we will get there.
So today, I'm not celebrating Christmas. I'm celebrating the fact that we've survived another day without Henry. I'm celebrating the fact that I have a husband who loves me unconditionally...a husband that shares his feelings with me just as he allows me to share mine with him. I'm celebrating that we have family and friends that are there for us no matter what...no matter when. To everyone who is celebrating this holiday season, we wish you happy times with family and friends! And to anyone else who is struggling, we wish you happier times in the year to come.
The ghost of Christmas past shows me being awakened long before the crack of dawn by my sister, and having to wait until 6:00 to wake up Mom and Dad. It shows us letting the dogs out, putting the coffee on, turning on the Christmas lights and Christmas music, and even fixing Mom's coffee so she would have fewer excuses that would put off the opening of presents. We would gather by the tree and take turns opening presents, excited to see what we got, but also excited to give gifts to each other.
The ghost of Christmas present shows a much more somber scene. It shows Tim and I waking up, letting the dogs out, and puttering around the house. It shows us watching movies and eating junk food (more because we're bored than hungry). We do these things to try to forget the fact that it's Christmas...pretending instead that it's just another day. The ghost of Christmas present shows us not watching Henry "open" gifts by the tree, but instead shows us visiting his and Brady's graves.
The ghost of Christmas yet to come shows glimpses of happier holidays. Hopefully one day we will be awakened far too early by little ones who are excited to see what Santa brought. We will be creating our own family traditions that our children will one day look back on and remember fondly. Christmas yet to come will also include visits to Brady and Henry, so that our kids never forget that they have two big brothers watching over us. It seems so distant...but I have faith that we will get there.
So today, I'm not celebrating Christmas. I'm celebrating the fact that we've survived another day without Henry. I'm celebrating the fact that I have a husband who loves me unconditionally...a husband that shares his feelings with me just as he allows me to share mine with him. I'm celebrating that we have family and friends that are there for us no matter what...no matter when. To everyone who is celebrating this holiday season, we wish you happy times with family and friends! And to anyone else who is struggling, we wish you happier times in the year to come.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Henry
One month ago today I held my baby boy as his heart stopped beating. He passed away in a room filled with love. Tim and I got to hold him for awhile after he passed, yet that wasn't really our Henry. Our Henry, our sweet little boy, was already gone. The Henry that we held had fought so hard, but the body that we held just couldn't take any more. I remember walking out of his room for the last time that day, worried that I would always remember his swollen body, his tired and worn out body, and that this memory would overtake all the memories of my little smiling baby boy.
I do still remember that Henry that I held that day. But even more so, I remember the Henry that smiled when he woke up, that giggled at his puppy, and that would twist his whole body around to see the TV. I remember the Henry that wasn't a fan of cereal or bananas, but that would eat a whole container of sweet potatoes. I remember the Henry that smiled when his mama read him stories, and that gave the best snuggles (even at 2 or 3 in the morning!)
I am so thankful to have so many wonderful memories of Henry. I am also thankful to have had those last moments with him. I hope that he could feel the love from every one of us in that room as he took his last breaths, and I hope he can see the impact he has had on this world.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
To-do's
I've made myself a to-do list of things I'd like to get done before I go back to work in January. And I've even been crossing things off. It feels good to be productive...to get some things done that have been on my to-do list for awhile (a couple have been on there since even before Henry was born!)
One of the biggest items is cleaning. We've neglected this task (understandably so.) It does feel good to have a few clean rooms. As I go, I've also been organizing, picking up, and putting things away. This includes some of Henry's things. His little bathtub and toys are no longer in the bathroom. The counter isn't covered with drying racks full of bottles. His car seat and diaper bags are no longer cluttering up the dining room. For someone who really dislikes clutter, this would seem to be an improvement. But I miss the clutter that goes along with having a baby. I miss running into his jumper that hung between the living and dining rooms. I miss stubbing my toe on his high chair. I miss not being able to open the bathroom door all the way because his bathtub is in the way. Clutter seemed so much less of a problem when Henry was alive.
I'll continue working through my to do list, and will continue putting things away. Although it makes me sad to put Henry's things away, each thing I put away brings back happy memories. And those memories will not get put away, but will live on forever in our hearts.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Breakdowns
I haven't cried a lot since Henry died. I cried in the hospital when we found out he wasn't going to make it. I cried as I was holding him when he passed away. I cried later that afternoon when we were at home and everyone else had left. I teared up at the funeral, but wouldn't let myself cry. I tear up when I see pictures, get cards, read Facebook posts...but I still don't really let go.
Today...I let go. And what triggered it? The fact that I couldn't get the freshly washed sheets neatly back on the bed. Was I really upset because the sheets weren't cooperating? Of course not. Was I actually angry at my husband (whom I was yelling at)? Not at all. Instead, so many pent up emotions were coming out, triggered by something so silly. That's the hard part. I can think about Henry, look at pictures, even talk about him without crying, without being extra sad. But then something like making the bed brings on a breakdown. You never know when the emotional storm will hit, nor how long it will last. It's not something you can prepare for...just a storm you have to hunker down and ride out.
Today...I let go. And what triggered it? The fact that I couldn't get the freshly washed sheets neatly back on the bed. Was I really upset because the sheets weren't cooperating? Of course not. Was I actually angry at my husband (whom I was yelling at)? Not at all. Instead, so many pent up emotions were coming out, triggered by something so silly. That's the hard part. I can think about Henry, look at pictures, even talk about him without crying, without being extra sad. But then something like making the bed brings on a breakdown. You never know when the emotional storm will hit, nor how long it will last. It's not something you can prepare for...just a storm you have to hunker down and ride out.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Anger
Anger is today's emotion. Anger that my husband is struggling. Anger that my dad is lost. Anger that I'm unsure of how life goes on. Anger that once again we are having to try to figure out what comes next.
Here I am, waiting at LAX, watching people rush to make their flights, listening to people laughing, watching people smile. No one here knows that I am a mom without a child, that I am dreading the holidays, that the Christmas music playing in the terminal makes me a little sick to my stomach. And I don't know anyone else's story. Perhaps the person next to me traveling alone is facing a Christmas without a loved one. Maybe the man on the phone across from me is trying to find a new job after being laid off. The mom trying to corral three children may be lonely because her husband is serving overseas. We never know the pain others may be facing.
What I do know is the pain I am facing, and the pain my family is facing. Christmas will be nothing like we were planning. In this holiday season, please be a little more patient, a little more understanding. And take time to enjoy the holidays, rather than rushing through them and stressing about things that don't matter in the long run. Time is the one gift that doesn't cost anything to give, but can mean the most. So give freely.
Here I am, waiting at LAX, watching people rush to make their flights, listening to people laughing, watching people smile. No one here knows that I am a mom without a child, that I am dreading the holidays, that the Christmas music playing in the terminal makes me a little sick to my stomach. And I don't know anyone else's story. Perhaps the person next to me traveling alone is facing a Christmas without a loved one. Maybe the man on the phone across from me is trying to find a new job after being laid off. The mom trying to corral three children may be lonely because her husband is serving overseas. We never know the pain others may be facing.
What I do know is the pain I am facing, and the pain my family is facing. Christmas will be nothing like we were planning. In this holiday season, please be a little more patient, a little more understanding. And take time to enjoy the holidays, rather than rushing through them and stressing about things that don't matter in the long run. Time is the one gift that doesn't cost anything to give, but can mean the most. So give freely.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Gone
"You may be gone from my sight...but you are never gone from my heart."
Another Pinterest quote find that just seemed to speak to me. Henry is gone from my sight. I can't pick him up and snuggle him or see him smile. I can't hear his funny little baby noises or feel his soft baby skin. I can't watch the soft rise and fall of his chest or hear his little snores as he sleeps peacefully in his crib.
However, all of this lives on in my heart. It's true that with my eyes open I no longer see Henry. But every time I close my eyes, he's there. Every time I blink, he's there. Henry will live on in the memories we have...the memories of his sweet smile, his happy personality, his awesome mohawk, his fighting spirit.
Eventually I will start to put some of Henry's things away, like his baby tub, playmats, toys. Bottles will get washed and packed away. Crib sheets and changing pads will get washed, folded and put away. But Henry's memory will never get packed away. We will always remember the little monster who invaded our lives and taught us the importance of love, laughter, and living life.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Traveling
Traveling without an infant is a completely different experience than traveling with one.
Traveling without an infant: I arrive at the airport an hour before my flight, already checked in and ready to go with my one small carry on bag. I breeze through security and wait patiently to board the plane while I check Facebook...play games...text my hubby. I board the plane and sit back and relax until we reach our destination...possibly reading, listening to music, playing games, or even snoozing. Upon arrival, I grab my small carry on bag and make my connection or meet my ride. Pretty simple!
Traveling with an infant: My travel day begins hours early as I check, double check and triple check that we have everything we need. If I'm lucky enough and someone is driving to our destination, I've already packed that car with diapers, extra formula, blankets, toys, and anything else we might need. I arrive at the airport at least a couple hours early so we can check in...we have to check in since a lap traveler doesn't get a boarding pass. Then we gear up for security...folding up the stroller and emptying the car seat, declaring the formula, and still trying to take shoes off and get liquids out for screening. Once we make it through security, we make our way to the counter to get the stroller and car seat gate checked. I make multiple trips to the bathroom for diaper checks. In between bathroom trips, I try to keep the infant happy. Then we board the plane, dropping the stroller and car seat off, and settle in for a flight. We stow the important things (bottles, pacis, toys) under the seat for quick access. I feed the baby so he'll be happy as we take off, then hope for a quiet flight. Then said baby poops all over the place, but we're taking off, so I clean him (and myself) up as best I can while seated. Baby, oblivious to the mess he's created, slips into sleep. I spend the flight trying to keep baby happy (which he really is.) Upon arrival, we gather all of our things, stuff them back in the bag, and grab the stroller and car seat on the way out. We change diapers (and outfits) in the bathroom and make our connection or head to baggage claim.
Two totally different experiences. Today as I wait in the airport, I'm excited to visit my sister. But my heart hurts a bit remembering my last trip through airports. Yes, there was a lot more hassle and worry. Yes, it's easier to travel alone. But I look at the mom struggling with the infant carrier with a bit of envy. I see the dad trying to corral an unruly toddler and I kind of wish that were me. We had so many plans for Henry and it hurts to know we won't get to carry out these plans. So instead, I will relax and enjoy my music and my book, and dream of the next time I can struggle to get through the airport rather than breezing through.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Luck
"How lucky am I to have something that makes saying good-bye so hard."
A somewhat wise bear named Winnie-the-Pooh made this statement. I found it today as I was perusing Pinterest, and it hit home for me. I rarely consider myself lucky. I've never won the lottery, I usually don't win big in drawings or raffles, I don't find much other than pennies in my laundry. As a glass-half-empty type of person, I have a hard time sometimes seeing the positive in situations. Especially in the situation in which I currently find myself. I lost a baby...my child. I lost the baby that I worked so hard to get here safely. I lost the baby that I was almost afraid to let myself love. I watched my husband's heart break for a second time, just as I felt my own heart breaking. Where is the luck in that?
Yet...I am lucky. I am, and always will be, Henry's mama. I got to hold him, snuggle him, comfort him. I got to watch him smile and giggle and laugh when his daddy was being silly. I got to get up with him each morning as his smiling face greeted me. I saw him grow from a helpless newborn to an infant who was almost sitting up on his own. I got to watch him learn how to play...at first just with his soft Mickey blanket, then with rattles, and even with his musical turtle. Even as he got sick, I got to snuggle him and comfort him. And when he passed away, I got to hold him and rock him.
As horrible as I find myself feeling...as awful as the pain is...as hard as saying good-bye was...I am still Henry's mama and because of that I AM lucky.
A somewhat wise bear named Winnie-the-Pooh made this statement. I found it today as I was perusing Pinterest, and it hit home for me. I rarely consider myself lucky. I've never won the lottery, I usually don't win big in drawings or raffles, I don't find much other than pennies in my laundry. As a glass-half-empty type of person, I have a hard time sometimes seeing the positive in situations. Especially in the situation in which I currently find myself. I lost a baby...my child. I lost the baby that I worked so hard to get here safely. I lost the baby that I was almost afraid to let myself love. I watched my husband's heart break for a second time, just as I felt my own heart breaking. Where is the luck in that?
Yet...I am lucky. I am, and always will be, Henry's mama. I got to hold him, snuggle him, comfort him. I got to watch him smile and giggle and laugh when his daddy was being silly. I got to get up with him each morning as his smiling face greeted me. I saw him grow from a helpless newborn to an infant who was almost sitting up on his own. I got to watch him learn how to play...at first just with his soft Mickey blanket, then with rattles, and even with his musical turtle. Even as he got sick, I got to snuggle him and comfort him. And when he passed away, I got to hold him and rock him.
As horrible as I find myself feeling...as awful as the pain is...as hard as saying good-bye was...I am still Henry's mama and because of that I AM lucky.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
"I don't know what to say!"
Today we had our #HopeforHenry celebration of life pancake feed. To say the event was a success would be a gigantic understatement. I believe we had over 1,000 people attend. It was great to see so many familiar faces, but also so many faces that we didn't know but who have followed Henry's story. Our planning committee did a fantastic job - I got comments throughout the event about how well everything was set up, and how well organized everything was. It was humbling to have so many people gather to celebrate the life of our little monster.
We loved every hug, smile, and conversation. Throughout the day I had so many people tell me, "I don't know what to say." It's perfectly okay to not know what to say. Don't feel bad that you don't know what to say. Don't feel bad that you asked, "How are you doing?" It's uncharted territory for most of us. We can understand losing a grandparent, or a parent. We can even understand losing an adult sibling, cousin, aunt or uncle. It's much harder to understand the loss of a child, especially such a tiny child. It just goes against the natural order of things. So why would we know what to say? I'm not offended if you ask me how I'm doing. I'm not offended if you don't know what to say. Things like, "I'm thinking of you," or "I'm sorry," mean so much. It's the thoughts and prayers of those who care that help us keep going.
To everyone that helped organize today...to everyone who volunteered their time...to everyone who donated an item for auction or for breakfast...to everyone who sent positive thoughts our way...to everyone who came and celebrated with us...thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Now I'M the one who doesn't know what to say! :)
We loved every hug, smile, and conversation. Throughout the day I had so many people tell me, "I don't know what to say." It's perfectly okay to not know what to say. Don't feel bad that you don't know what to say. Don't feel bad that you asked, "How are you doing?" It's uncharted territory for most of us. We can understand losing a grandparent, or a parent. We can even understand losing an adult sibling, cousin, aunt or uncle. It's much harder to understand the loss of a child, especially such a tiny child. It just goes against the natural order of things. So why would we know what to say? I'm not offended if you ask me how I'm doing. I'm not offended if you don't know what to say. Things like, "I'm thinking of you," or "I'm sorry," mean so much. It's the thoughts and prayers of those who care that help us keep going.
To everyone that helped organize today...to everyone who volunteered their time...to everyone who donated an item for auction or for breakfast...to everyone who sent positive thoughts our way...to everyone who came and celebrated with us...thank you from the bottom of our hearts. Now I'M the one who doesn't know what to say! :)
Friday, December 12, 2014
Mornings
Most mornings I wake up, check Facebook, play a couple games of Bubble Witch, and I'm ready to get up and face the day. Today, I woke up at 5:00. I checked Facebook, ran out of lives on Bubble Witch, tried and failed to go back to sleep, checked Facebook again, played another game of Bubble Witch, tried and failed again to go back to sleep, checked Twitter, checked Timehop...and so on. Now it's almost 8:00 and I am still not ready to get out of bed and face the day.
That's the trouble with grief. There's no road map or early warning system. There's no red flag saying, "Warning...today will be tough." There's no siren that signals an impending hard day. It just appears, seemingly at random.
To be fair, we're still at the point where most days are tough. But then why am I able to get myself out of bed most days, but today I don't even want to move? Nothing feels different today. There isn't something I have to do that I'm dreading. Today seems about the same as yesterday, and tomorrow. I don't know if a road map would make it easier, but it would be helpful to know what to expect... For the time being, I'll try to get myself out of bed and on with the day...
Thursday, December 11, 2014
#HopeforHenry
I'm not feeling anything in particular tonight, so I decided I'd share a little about the upcoming pancake feed. This pancake feed has been in the works since the day after Henry was first admitted to the hospital. A group of friends have really taken the event and run with it. Every day I continue to be amazed at the generosity of friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers. Every day, I continue to see the impact Henry had on so many different people. The pancake feed has changed from an event to support Henry's fight against cancer, to an event to celebrate Henry's life and all he meant to everyone his story touched.
For anyone who doesn't know, the event will be held this Sunday from 8:00-2:00 at Papillion-LaVista High School, 402 East Centennial Road, Papillion, Nebraska. You can enter the school on the north side of the building, and this will bring you right into the cafeteria. We will have pancakes, sausage, juice, and coffee. You can eat for $5 per person or $20 per family. There will also be a raffle and silent auction, and we have some amazing things to bid on! You can finish up your Christmas shopping (or start it, if you're a procrastinator like I am!) In case you're looking for businesses to support, Village Inn donated the pancakes, Hy-Vee donated sausage and juice, and Starbucks is supplying the coffee. Many other businesses, large and small, have donated items for the raffle and silent auction. We will have these names available at the event.
Tim and I plan to be at the pancake feed for the entire event, and we look forward to seeing everyone that can make it! Feel free to share this event on Facebook, Twitter, or any other media you have access to! If you do, don't forget the hashtag - #HopeforHenry!
For anyone who doesn't know, the event will be held this Sunday from 8:00-2:00 at Papillion-LaVista High School, 402 East Centennial Road, Papillion, Nebraska. You can enter the school on the north side of the building, and this will bring you right into the cafeteria. We will have pancakes, sausage, juice, and coffee. You can eat for $5 per person or $20 per family. There will also be a raffle and silent auction, and we have some amazing things to bid on! You can finish up your Christmas shopping (or start it, if you're a procrastinator like I am!) In case you're looking for businesses to support, Village Inn donated the pancakes, Hy-Vee donated sausage and juice, and Starbucks is supplying the coffee. Many other businesses, large and small, have donated items for the raffle and silent auction. We will have these names available at the event.
Tim and I plan to be at the pancake feed for the entire event, and we look forward to seeing everyone that can make it! Feel free to share this event on Facebook, Twitter, or any other media you have access to! If you do, don't forget the hashtag - #HopeforHenry!
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Fear...
Tonight I'm thinking about fear, and how life changes and molds our fears. When we are young, we fear monsters in our closets, thunder, getting coal in our stocking for Christmas. As we go through school we fear not fitting in, failing, not making the team. Then comes adult fears...not getting a job, bills that are bigger than a paycheck, moving out on our own. These are fears most people face at one time or another.
Since losing Brady and especially Henry, my fears have changed. I still fear bills...medical bills especially. But we have wonderful people helping us ease this fear. I don't fear not getting a job, but I do fear going back to my job. I'm afraid I will have a hard time caring a lot about my work, and I'm afraid an innocent kiddo will ask an innocent question that will hurt. I'm afraid of having to be a functional adult.
One fear I am working very hard to avoid is the fear of being happy. Over the last couple years it seems that every time I'm happy about something, life intervenes. I met Tim, then found out Mom had cancer. I got engaged and married, then lost Brady. I got pregnant again, then lost Mom. We had a happy little family, then lost Henry. I haven't let myself dwell on this too much, because it's a fear I don't want to acknowledge. I have faith that we will be happy again, that someday our family will grow. I can't live a life where I'm afraid to be happy! And even if it is scary, I definitely won't let these fears control me.
Monday, December 8, 2014
We get a lot of mail these days. We get bills just like normal, Christmas cards, sympathy cards, and even a few packages. Today we got copies of Henry's death certificate. This particular mail felt like a punch in the stomach. This clinical document gives Henry's basic information, and his cause of death...multi-organ system failure...septic shock...acute myeloid leukemia. These are the clinical terms. His death certificate doesn't describe how he fought...how he put everything he had into trying to win the battle. It doesn't describe how he brought so many people from different walks of life, different cities and states, and even different countries together...how he got all of these people to care about one little boy. It doesn't talk about how much this sweet seven-month-old taught his mama and daddy about life and living. It doesn't state that in our eyes, he died a hero. For us, his life can't be captured by any single document, any single image, any single description. He will always be our little Henry, our monster, and now our angel.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Football Sundays
Here it is, another football Sunday in the Seretta household. Like so many other things, football Sundays just aren't the same anymore.
This is what football Sunday used to look like...We woke up by 6:00 in the morning. This wasn't because we were so excited for a day filled with sports, but because Henry was ready to get up and eat! Henry would get his breakfast bottle, and then (depending on how his night had been) either nap or play. Tim and I would finally get put together enough to get groceries, which we did during Henry's morning nap (though he still usually woke up to look at the lights at Wal-Mart.) By the time football started, we were settled in for the day. We'd watch games in the basement, while Henry played on the floor...or in his exersaucer...or on his playmat. Then we would usually take a mid-afternoon nap, with Henry snuggled up with one of us, Sebastian snuggled up with the other. All of this was interspersed with bottles and diaper changes. By the time Sunday night football began, Henry was bathed, fed, and tucked into bed and we followed suit shortly after.
This is what football Sunday looks like now...We wake up around 7:00, because we went to bed early the night before. We don't worry about groceries, since we have wonderful people making sure we have good food to eat. We eat breakfast, not because we're hungry but because that's what we're supposed to do. I don't bother updating my fantasy lineup...what I used to enjoy seems like too much work now. Football starts, and we turn it on because there's nothing else to do. We try to take a mid-afternoon nap, but usually pain and memories keep us from falling asleep. By the time Sunday night football starts, we've spent a day trying to keep busy, so that the pain and memories don't consume us. We have no reason to go to bed early, but no reason to stay up late. Eventually we go to bed, because again, that's what we're supposed to do.
I miss the way football Sundays used to be...I miss our monster...
This is what football Sunday used to look like...We woke up by 6:00 in the morning. This wasn't because we were so excited for a day filled with sports, but because Henry was ready to get up and eat! Henry would get his breakfast bottle, and then (depending on how his night had been) either nap or play. Tim and I would finally get put together enough to get groceries, which we did during Henry's morning nap (though he still usually woke up to look at the lights at Wal-Mart.) By the time football started, we were settled in for the day. We'd watch games in the basement, while Henry played on the floor...or in his exersaucer...or on his playmat. Then we would usually take a mid-afternoon nap, with Henry snuggled up with one of us, Sebastian snuggled up with the other. All of this was interspersed with bottles and diaper changes. By the time Sunday night football began, Henry was bathed, fed, and tucked into bed and we followed suit shortly after.
This is what football Sunday looks like now...We wake up around 7:00, because we went to bed early the night before. We don't worry about groceries, since we have wonderful people making sure we have good food to eat. We eat breakfast, not because we're hungry but because that's what we're supposed to do. I don't bother updating my fantasy lineup...what I used to enjoy seems like too much work now. Football starts, and we turn it on because there's nothing else to do. We try to take a mid-afternoon nap, but usually pain and memories keep us from falling asleep. By the time Sunday night football starts, we've spent a day trying to keep busy, so that the pain and memories don't consume us. We have no reason to go to bed early, but no reason to stay up late. Eventually we go to bed, because again, that's what we're supposed to do.
I miss the way football Sundays used to be...I miss our monster...
I don't know how you do it...
Originally posted on CaringBridge on December 6, 2014 3:21pm
It's what we hear all the time..."I don't know how you do it." To be honest, we don't know how we do it, either. Before we lost Brady, I couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose a child during pregnancy. Once we learned that we were going to deliver him, and he was not going to survive, I had no idea how I was going to survive. As we drove away from the hospital, no longer pregnant and with no baby in the backseat, I didn't think we'd ever recover. Yet somehow, we did. I don't know how we did...time, love, and support were all important factors. We joined a support group where we could share our stories with others, and that helped as well. We made some donations in Brady's memory that made us feel like we were carrying on his legacy. Somehow, we began to heal.
As I was pregnant with Henry, I feared every day that we might lose him too. I couldn't imagine losing another pregnancy. As I spent day after day on bed rest, all I could do was hope and pray that he would arrive on time and healthy. And he did! He arrived perfectly healthy looking almost exactly like his big brother. I was almost afraid to believe he was real! I would hold him, and see Brady's face. Then I would put my head to his face to make sure he was breathing, to make sure he was real. Over the first minutes, hours, and days I fell more and more in love with this perfect little boy.
As Henry grew, he continued to be our perfect little baby. I would read stories on Facebook of families and parents losing children. I would wonder, "How do they survive??" I couldn't imagine losing a child...one that we actually got to know, interact with, watch learn and grow. I'd even read stories of parents losing babies during pregnancy, and though I'd been through that, I still wondered how they managed to go on. These stories seemed to catch my eye more and more often...I just couldn't imagine.
Then Henry got sick. And sicker and sicker and sicker. And admitted to the PICU. We saw a neighboring PICU family lose their baby girl. I wondered, "How do they do it??" We met moms who had lived in the hospital for months, even more than a year, and I wondered, "How do they do it?" I tried very hard not to let myself wonder, "How would I do it?" I didn't want to acknowledge the possibility that Henry may not get to leave the hospital with us. I couldn't picture us driving away from the hospital without our son yet again. I couldn't picture us surviving that.
Yet somehow, here we are. Somehow, we get out of bed each morning. We eat three meals a day (thanks to the support of our family, friends and community.) We do laundry (grudgingly) and the dishes and take out the trash. We go through the motions of everyday life. I don't know how long it will be until the motions become living again, how long until the pain begins to ease (though it will never completely disappear.) I don't know how long it will be until the memories are fond rather than painful. I know we will get there, we've done it before. I know it will take time, love, and support. I know that finding a support group may help, and making donations and doing things to carry out Henry's legacy may bring some peace. But I still can't verbalize the answer to the question, "How do you do it?" The only answer I have is that we just do...
It's what we hear all the time..."I don't know how you do it." To be honest, we don't know how we do it, either. Before we lost Brady, I couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose a child during pregnancy. Once we learned that we were going to deliver him, and he was not going to survive, I had no idea how I was going to survive. As we drove away from the hospital, no longer pregnant and with no baby in the backseat, I didn't think we'd ever recover. Yet somehow, we did. I don't know how we did...time, love, and support were all important factors. We joined a support group where we could share our stories with others, and that helped as well. We made some donations in Brady's memory that made us feel like we were carrying on his legacy. Somehow, we began to heal.
As I was pregnant with Henry, I feared every day that we might lose him too. I couldn't imagine losing another pregnancy. As I spent day after day on bed rest, all I could do was hope and pray that he would arrive on time and healthy. And he did! He arrived perfectly healthy looking almost exactly like his big brother. I was almost afraid to believe he was real! I would hold him, and see Brady's face. Then I would put my head to his face to make sure he was breathing, to make sure he was real. Over the first minutes, hours, and days I fell more and more in love with this perfect little boy.
As Henry grew, he continued to be our perfect little baby. I would read stories on Facebook of families and parents losing children. I would wonder, "How do they survive??" I couldn't imagine losing a child...one that we actually got to know, interact with, watch learn and grow. I'd even read stories of parents losing babies during pregnancy, and though I'd been through that, I still wondered how they managed to go on. These stories seemed to catch my eye more and more often...I just couldn't imagine.
Then Henry got sick. And sicker and sicker and sicker. And admitted to the PICU. We saw a neighboring PICU family lose their baby girl. I wondered, "How do they do it??" We met moms who had lived in the hospital for months, even more than a year, and I wondered, "How do they do it?" I tried very hard not to let myself wonder, "How would I do it?" I didn't want to acknowledge the possibility that Henry may not get to leave the hospital with us. I couldn't picture us driving away from the hospital without our son yet again. I couldn't picture us surviving that.
Yet somehow, here we are. Somehow, we get out of bed each morning. We eat three meals a day (thanks to the support of our family, friends and community.) We do laundry (grudgingly) and the dishes and take out the trash. We go through the motions of everyday life. I don't know how long it will be until the motions become living again, how long until the pain begins to ease (though it will never completely disappear.) I don't know how long it will be until the memories are fond rather than painful. I know we will get there, we've done it before. I know it will take time, love, and support. I know that finding a support group may help, and making donations and doing things to carry out Henry's legacy may bring some peace. But I still can't verbalize the answer to the question, "How do you do it?" The only answer I have is that we just do...
Lost
Originally posted on CaringBridge on December 5, 2014 6:56pm
Someone who loses a spouse is called a widow/er. Someone who loses their parents is called an orphan. Someone who loses a child is called... There is no name or label for someone who loses a child. Yet it is just as life-altering as losing a parent or a spouse. Every part of our day has changed. We sleep in (slightly.) We can go to the store whenever we want, without regard to nap times or feeding times. We don't schedule our evenings around which night is bath night. We can go get ice cream at 8:00 without one of us having to stay home because the baby is in bed. On paper, life seems more convenient without a baby in the house. And logistically, perhaps that is true.
However, I now feel like I'm missing part of myself, like part of my identity is gone. For 7 wonderful months (plus the nine months I was pregnant) my life revolved around Henry. I was a mom. Now, many would say that I am still mom, and I certainly don't disagree. But I'm a mom without a child to take care of, and that's not quite the same. I do take solace in knowing my two boys are playing together, and that Nana (my mom) is watching over them. I have to think about things like that to get me through the day. And though that gives me comfort, I still selfishly wish that Henry were still HERE, playing with ME, snuggling in MY arms.
I am so thankful for the seven wonderful months we had with Henry. I'm thankful that we spent as much time with him as we could, that we enjoyed every moment. I'm thankful that even when he would be fussing at 3 a.m., I thought to myself how wonderful it was that I got to rock my baby and soothe him. I'm thankful that we took opportunities to share time with family...whether that was enjoying the Italian festival or pumpkin patch locally, or the beach in Florida. As thankful as I am for the time we had together, however, I will always wish we had more.
Someone who loses a spouse is called a widow/er. Someone who loses their parents is called an orphan. Someone who loses a child is called... There is no name or label for someone who loses a child. Yet it is just as life-altering as losing a parent or a spouse. Every part of our day has changed. We sleep in (slightly.) We can go to the store whenever we want, without regard to nap times or feeding times. We don't schedule our evenings around which night is bath night. We can go get ice cream at 8:00 without one of us having to stay home because the baby is in bed. On paper, life seems more convenient without a baby in the house. And logistically, perhaps that is true.
However, I now feel like I'm missing part of myself, like part of my identity is gone. For 7 wonderful months (plus the nine months I was pregnant) my life revolved around Henry. I was a mom. Now, many would say that I am still mom, and I certainly don't disagree. But I'm a mom without a child to take care of, and that's not quite the same. I do take solace in knowing my two boys are playing together, and that Nana (my mom) is watching over them. I have to think about things like that to get me through the day. And though that gives me comfort, I still selfishly wish that Henry were still HERE, playing with ME, snuggling in MY arms.
I am so thankful for the seven wonderful months we had with Henry. I'm thankful that we spent as much time with him as we could, that we enjoyed every moment. I'm thankful that even when he would be fussing at 3 a.m., I thought to myself how wonderful it was that I got to rock my baby and soothe him. I'm thankful that we took opportunities to share time with family...whether that was enjoying the Italian festival or pumpkin patch locally, or the beach in Florida. As thankful as I am for the time we had together, however, I will always wish we had more.
Highs and Lows
Originally posted on CaringBridge on December 4, 2014 6:12pm
This journey they call grief is filled with highs and lows. Some of the lows are pretty obvious...when a loved one passes...the funeral...trying to get back to "normal" life. And there are the highs...especially for our journey...seeing a packed Buffalo Wild Wings with a line out the door - all filled with people wanting to help Henry's family...seeing an article about Henry in the local paper...getting new tattoos to honor Henry. These are things that make us smile, warm our hearts, and ease our pain.
Some of the lows, though, are not so obvious. Such as tonight...I have an overflowing laundry basket but can't seem to find the motivation to take it downstairs to wash it. The counters that are filled with "clutter" and drive me crazy, but not quite crazy enough to do something about it. The growing and growing to-do list, which rarely gets anything crossed off. These are the things that remind me that "normal" life still seems like it's on a distant horizon, or maybe that it's really a mirage. I can't quite picture "normal" life anymore. I can picture going back to work, but am afraid I'll take the route to daycare instead of straight to school. I can picture going to the grocery store, but will plan my route in order to avoid the baby section.
I know that our "normal" will come in time. I know that no one is rushing us to get there. And in the meantime, we will ride this tide of highs and lows...
This journey they call grief is filled with highs and lows. Some of the lows are pretty obvious...when a loved one passes...the funeral...trying to get back to "normal" life. And there are the highs...especially for our journey...seeing a packed Buffalo Wild Wings with a line out the door - all filled with people wanting to help Henry's family...seeing an article about Henry in the local paper...getting new tattoos to honor Henry. These are things that make us smile, warm our hearts, and ease our pain.
Some of the lows, though, are not so obvious. Such as tonight...I have an overflowing laundry basket but can't seem to find the motivation to take it downstairs to wash it. The counters that are filled with "clutter" and drive me crazy, but not quite crazy enough to do something about it. The growing and growing to-do list, which rarely gets anything crossed off. These are the things that remind me that "normal" life still seems like it's on a distant horizon, or maybe that it's really a mirage. I can't quite picture "normal" life anymore. I can picture going back to work, but am afraid I'll take the route to daycare instead of straight to school. I can picture going to the grocery store, but will plan my route in order to avoid the baby section.
I know that our "normal" will come in time. I know that no one is rushing us to get there. And in the meantime, we will ride this tide of highs and lows...
Aching Heart
Originally posted on CaringBridge on November 30, 2014 6:28pm
Sometimes heartache means physical pain. Tonight my heart physically hurts. I can pretend that Henry isn't really gone...that he'll wake me in the middle of the night and I'll stumble into his room to soothe him, thinking about how many hours are left until I have to be up for work. I walk by his room, and I can pretend that he is napping in his crib. I walk into the living room and can picture him babbling in his Mama Roo. Everywhere I turn there are physical reminders...so it's easy to pretend he's still here.
It's been easy to ignore these reminders for the past week...we were busy getting ready for his services, spending time with family...but now as things settle down the pain settles in. I know the ache will never fully disappear. It's a reminder of the wonderful little monster who invaded our lives, who taught me what is truly important in life, and who showed me what a wonderful blessing it is to be his mom.
Sometimes heartache means physical pain. Tonight my heart physically hurts. I can pretend that Henry isn't really gone...that he'll wake me in the middle of the night and I'll stumble into his room to soothe him, thinking about how many hours are left until I have to be up for work. I walk by his room, and I can pretend that he is napping in his crib. I walk into the living room and can picture him babbling in his Mama Roo. Everywhere I turn there are physical reminders...so it's easy to pretend he's still here.
It's been easy to ignore these reminders for the past week...we were busy getting ready for his services, spending time with family...but now as things settle down the pain settles in. I know the ache will never fully disappear. It's a reminder of the wonderful little monster who invaded our lives, who taught me what is truly important in life, and who showed me what a wonderful blessing it is to be his mom.
Thanksgiving
Originally posted on CaringBridge on November 27, 2014 7:51am
We are boycotting the holidays this year. However, the holidays still happen. Today Facebook is filled with Thanksgiving wishes and lists of things people are thankful for. So although I am "boycotting" the holiday, and although I am beyond angry that we are not busy celebrating Henry's first Thanksgiving, there are things I am thankful for.
I am thankful beyond words for my amazing husband. Even in the depths of his grief, he wants to make sure I am ok.
Our family has not left our side since Henry was admitted to the hospital. Our parents spent the night that first night in the waiting room, and most of our family was there when Henry passed. Even though they too are grieving, we can lean on them for love and support.
I am thankful that we enjoyed every moment that Henry had with us, and we took advantage of opportunities to do things as a family. We loved being his mom and dad, and I believe we gave him a happy life. He will never know sadness, he will never struggle. In his short life he knew only love.
The support of our friends and the community has been overwhelming. I wish more than anything that Henry was still here with us, but in his death he has shown us the good that is in the world. He has brought people together in a way that only he could do.
So although I am boycotting the holiday, I am still thankful. I hope that those that read this are enjoying a day filled with family, friends, and good food!
We are boycotting the holidays this year. However, the holidays still happen. Today Facebook is filled with Thanksgiving wishes and lists of things people are thankful for. So although I am "boycotting" the holiday, and although I am beyond angry that we are not busy celebrating Henry's first Thanksgiving, there are things I am thankful for.
I am thankful beyond words for my amazing husband. Even in the depths of his grief, he wants to make sure I am ok.
Our family has not left our side since Henry was admitted to the hospital. Our parents spent the night that first night in the waiting room, and most of our family was there when Henry passed. Even though they too are grieving, we can lean on them for love and support.
I am thankful that we enjoyed every moment that Henry had with us, and we took advantage of opportunities to do things as a family. We loved being his mom and dad, and I believe we gave him a happy life. He will never know sadness, he will never struggle. In his short life he knew only love.
The support of our friends and the community has been overwhelming. I wish more than anything that Henry was still here with us, but in his death he has shown us the good that is in the world. He has brought people together in a way that only he could do.
So although I am boycotting the holiday, I am still thankful. I hope that those that read this are enjoying a day filled with family, friends, and good food!
We're "okay"...?
Originally posted on CaringBridge on November 25, 2014 10:08pm
It's the question everyone asks...how are you doing? It's a hard question to answer. When the employee at the store asks, I say I'm good. When an acquaintance asks, I say I'm hanging in there. When a friend asks, I say I'm okay at this particular moment. When my husband asks, I say I'm pissed off.
The truth is that the answer changes day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment. At one particular moment I may be just fine - smiling, laughing, enjoying time with family and friends. At another moment my heart may be torn apart as I watch a dad (or uncle or cousin or friend...I shouldn't assume!) play with his young infant at the store.
In my new reality, I am riding a roller coaster of emotion, and I'm riding it in the dark...never knowing what's around the bend. So don't be offended if I say I'm fine. It doesn't mean that I'm brushing you off or lying. It just means that at the moment you asked, I am fine.
It's the question everyone asks...how are you doing? It's a hard question to answer. When the employee at the store asks, I say I'm good. When an acquaintance asks, I say I'm hanging in there. When a friend asks, I say I'm okay at this particular moment. When my husband asks, I say I'm pissed off.
The truth is that the answer changes day by day, hour by hour, moment by moment. At one particular moment I may be just fine - smiling, laughing, enjoying time with family and friends. At another moment my heart may be torn apart as I watch a dad (or uncle or cousin or friend...I shouldn't assume!) play with his young infant at the store.
In my new reality, I am riding a roller coaster of emotion, and I'm riding it in the dark...never knowing what's around the bend. So don't be offended if I say I'm fine. It doesn't mean that I'm brushing you off or lying. It just means that at the moment you asked, I am fine.
Making Arrangements
Originally posted on CaringBridge on November 24, 2014 7:13pm
We met with the funeral home on Saturday afternoon, not even 12 hours after Henry passed. It was just as surreal this time to walk in there, with the intention of making funeral arrangements for our baby boy. Unfortunately, we already knew what to expect, having done the same thing just 18 months ago for Brady. Today, we continued working through details for the weekend. Brady is buried at Evergreen Memorial Park Cemetery, and that is where we wanted Henry to go as well. Since Brady was buried, five or six more babies have joined Babyland. Evergreen was kind enough to let us have the plot directly in front of Brady, rather than the next open plot down the current row.
Knowing what to expect doesn't make this process easier. It's more like a bad sense of deja vu. I try to imagine our two boys romping around the heavens, playing together and getting into trouble. It is a comforting thought, but selfishly I'd much rather have them both doing that here. One day we will all be united, and I can once again hold these precious angels in my arms.
We met with the funeral home on Saturday afternoon, not even 12 hours after Henry passed. It was just as surreal this time to walk in there, with the intention of making funeral arrangements for our baby boy. Unfortunately, we already knew what to expect, having done the same thing just 18 months ago for Brady. Today, we continued working through details for the weekend. Brady is buried at Evergreen Memorial Park Cemetery, and that is where we wanted Henry to go as well. Since Brady was buried, five or six more babies have joined Babyland. Evergreen was kind enough to let us have the plot directly in front of Brady, rather than the next open plot down the current row.
Knowing what to expect doesn't make this process easier. It's more like a bad sense of deja vu. I try to imagine our two boys romping around the heavens, playing together and getting into trouble. It is a comforting thought, but selfishly I'd much rather have them both doing that here. One day we will all be united, and I can once again hold these precious angels in my arms.
Why?
Originally posted on CaringBridge on November 23, 2014 2:54pm
I've spent a lot of time over the last couple days looking back at pictures of Henry. He really was a happy, easy baby. He was up for anything, almost always smiling (even when he didn't feel well) and brought joy to so many people. It makes me wonder why...why was this little guy taken? What purpose does his loss serve? When will the physical ache in my heart ease? Why did such a wonderful baby have to suffer from such a horrible disease?
I don't know the answers to any of those questions. I may never know. What I do know is that Henry showed strength that I know I don't have. He brought so many people together, and showed us that there is good in the world. He is my baby boy, my son, my monster, my hero, my angel.
I've spent a lot of time over the last couple days looking back at pictures of Henry. He really was a happy, easy baby. He was up for anything, almost always smiling (even when he didn't feel well) and brought joy to so many people. It makes me wonder why...why was this little guy taken? What purpose does his loss serve? When will the physical ache in my heart ease? Why did such a wonderful baby have to suffer from such a horrible disease?
I don't know the answers to any of those questions. I may never know. What I do know is that Henry showed strength that I know I don't have. He brought so many people together, and showed us that there is good in the world. He is my baby boy, my son, my monster, my hero, my angel.
Another Angel
Originally posted on CaringBridge on November 22, 2014 8:42am
We are sad to say that Heaven gained another angel this morning around 8 am. He passed peacefully in his mama's arms, in a room filled with love. Henry is now playing with his big brother, while Nana watches over the two of them.
Thank you to everyone for the prayers, love, and support. Please keep them coming! We will keep everyone updated as we make arrangements.
We are sad to say that Heaven gained another angel this morning around 8 am. He passed peacefully in his mama's arms, in a room filled with love. Henry is now playing with his big brother, while Nana watches over the two of them.
Thank you to everyone for the prayers, love, and support. Please keep them coming! We will keep everyone updated as we make arrangements.
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