My dear, sweet Cam,
2040 days ago you were born. You came into this world with an incredible cry. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. You were stunning. You were absolute perfection. I held you in my arms and felt everything fall into place.The day I met you was the day my world began. February 16th was our first (of many) dates. Don't tell Daddy but you were always my favorite date.
1675 days. That's how long I had you. How long we laughed and played. How long we loved and learned from one another. How long I thought I'd have you forever.
I have dreaded this day. This day is November 4, 2017. This day is 365
days without you. This day is one year since I held you in my arms as
you took your last breath and I felt your heart stop beating under my
hand. One year since I saw those beautiful blue eyes look in to mine.
One year since I heard your sweet voice. One year since part of me died
with you.
You were the best thing I ever did in my life Cam. I mess up. A lot. All the time really. I always have. But you. You are the one thing I never messed up. You loved me, with all of my flaws. You never doubted my ability to be your mom. You greeted me every day with love and knew that I would spend my every waking minute trying to protect you from harm. Trying to teach you how to be good and true. To be kind, caring and compassionate. But I never had to teach you any of that. That's just who you were. You were the BEST person I have ever known, with the gentlest and truest heart I have ever been privileged enough to encounter.
I didn't teach you Cam. You taught me. You taught how to give and accept real love. You taught me how to laugh and be free. You taught me how to play. How to ignore all of "the things" adults feel they have to do each day. How to be present and aware of my actions. You taught me how to be your mom.
365 days Cam. Living them without you have been the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I feel like I am living with only a part of my being. Like I'm not whole anymore. You are always on my mind, in everything I do. I now live my life to honor you. To honor your memory.Your time here was short but it was meaningful. You brought joy, happiness and wonder to everyone you met.
And 92 days. 92 days ago you gave me a beautiful gift. You introduced me to your sweet baby brother Matthew. I think you knew that I would need him. I will never have the words to thank you for choosing Matty to be your brother and my son. In 92 days, he has filled the void, brought me back to life and gave me my reason again. He isn't your replacement. He is the perfect addition to our incredible family of four. He has completed the bubble that is our family. And he knows you Cam. He knows you voice and your face. I hope you see how his whole face smiles when he sees your photos throughout the day.
My promise to you, my beautiful boy, is that I will use everything you taught me to be a better mom. To treasure every minute with Matthew. To ensure that he grows up knowing that he has the best big brother.
Thank you for all of the signs you send me. I feel your presence so often. You're never far away and you make sure I know when you're here. I look for those moments every day when I feel your cold touch on my hand or a small chill in the room. When I hear a certain song or see a certain image. When I find a feather or hear the beautiful cardinal's call.
I will love you forever and a day. To the moon and back and all the stars. You and I Cam. You and I, together forever...
Friday, November 3, 2017
Monday, September 25, 2017
Something different....
"Oh Annabelle, don't do it. Don't talk about him again," Caroline loudly whispered when the waitress asked about her friend's pregnancy. Annabelle turned to her friend, slowly so she could hide the bewildered look she knew had appeared on her face. "Excuse me?" At this point, the waitress, who had realized she had possibly asked the wrong question, mumbled something about needing to refill the coffee pot and hurried away. "Why shouldn't I talk about him?" Annabelle was careful with how she spoke, as she was trying to figure out what Caroline meant.
Caroline sighed. She hadn't meant to say it out loud. She had spoken to her friend Hayley about it at length. They both felt that Annabelle was different lately and wasn't dealing with her situation as well as they felt she should. But she never meant for Annabelle to find out her true feelings. "I wasn't going to tell you," she began, "but you really need to stop talking about him. You make people feel so awkward. No one wants to hear about it and most people don't want to hang out with you anymore.You'll probably get over him faster if you just stop talking about it too." Caroline sat back in her chair, feeling slightly pleased that she finally told her friend the truth.
Annabelle looked down at her cup of tea. She could feel the hurt and anger building inside of her. She knew Caroline was trying to be helpful. But she didn't understand. Her life had been so easy. She was outgoing and popular. She was pretty and knew how to get people to pay attention to her. Her life was just her and her husband. Easy, fun and stress free. There was no way Caroline could understand what was now Annabelle's life. Annabelle's heart started pounding. She felt as though the walls of the cafe were closing in on her. She quickly got up, threw some money on the table, told Caroline something had come up and she ran out of the cafe.
Annabelle walked along the quiet downtown street toward the river front. She always found her calm by the water. She thought about calling her husband but decided against it. She needed to be alone to work through what was going through her mind. She found a small bench at the river front, next to a large willow tree. Stop talking about him. She almost laughed at the idea of it. She couldn't stop talking about him. To stop talking would feel like she would be forgetting. As she looked out at the river, the warm sun reflecting off the serene waters, she thought about how her life had changed in such a short period of time.
Growing up, Annabelle wanted three things- to be a wife, a mother and a teacher. And she became all three. Ten years ago, she met a handsome soldier online and instantly fell in love. Paul was kindhearted, funny and compassionate. He made her feel safe. His love for her made her feel like she could conquer the world. They had everything they could have wanted. A beautiful house, great jobs, and an incredible son.
Annabelle watched the small squirrel scurry up the tree. Fall was coming. The animals were preparing for winter. She smiled as she watched the long tail sway back and forth on a branch. "Dirrel!" She could hear her son's sweet voice in her head. Even at four years old he struggled with certain sounds. But he spoke so well for a child his age. Strangers often thought he was much older than he was because of it. Annabelle tried to fight back the tears as she thought about her sweet son.
Connor. Her beautiful boy. He was so full of life. He was kind and gentle and wise. For a four year old, he was far beyond his years. He could outsmart his parents and keep them guessing. He loved the water, just like his mommy. He loved helicopters, just like his daddy. He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. Connor made Annabelle and Paul feel complete. Their love grew when this boy was born and he enriched their lives more than they had ever dreamed possible. They never expected the nightmare that came.
The previous summer, Connor had been complaining about some pain in his back. Paul and Annabelle took him to see their family doctor and had tests done. Everything was normal. Connor began to limp and his activity level began to decrease. Again, they took him to doctors and test results were normal. Annabelle and Paul were desperately trying to find out what was wrong with their son so they took him to the children's hospital a few hours away. There they would hear the worst news any parent could have.
Cancer. Their sweet baby boy had cancer. Not just any type of cancer. One of the rarest and most dangerous cancers a child could have. Annabelle struggled to understand how her baby had gone from healthy to gravely ill so quickly. Everything in her life changed with the mention of just one word. The doctors started to treat Connor with chemotherapy and radiation right away. Connor had fought hard for the entire summer. Paul and Annabelle had never seen anyone so strong and so brave. They were so proud of their son. As much as they had hoped he would get better, Connor continued to get sicker. And on that calm November morning, Annabelle knew Connor's time was coming. She held her son in her arms. She talked softly to him, telling him he was loved and how proud his mommy and daddy were. She soothed him and chased away his fears as she sang to him. "You and I, together forever." She had sung the song every day of his life. Connor passed away quietly in her arms. When she felt his heart stop beating under her hand and watched him close those beautiful eyes for the last time, something inside her died with him.
It was now ten months after Connor's death. Annabelle and Paul were both back to work. They had begun to go out on dates again. They were trying to live life in a positive way to honor Connor. And to their surprise, they were expecting another baby boy in a matter of weeks. They both knew they were blessed with this new baby and felt for sure that he was a gift from his brother. The pregnancy had been alright so far but the questions from strangers made it so hard. Annabelle thought about the waitress at the cafe. She had asked if this was Annabelle's first child. It's a normal question for any pregnant woman. And Annabelle would have answered it had Caroline not stepped in. Annabelle still couldn't understand why her friend had told her to stop talking about him. Connor was here. He had existed. He had been a beautiful child that Annabelle and Paul had raised to be a kind, generous and loving human being. And she was proud to be his mother. She wanted the world to know him. To know his story and his struggle. To remember him and be proud of him the way she was. In her mind, telling Connor's story was a way to help the world understand that childhood cancer exists and families everywhere are affected by it. She would always tell people about her first born son.
Annabelle looked out towards the water. The sun was beginning to set and the waves were crashing softly on the shore. It was peaceful. As she sat on the bench contemplating how she would approach the next conversation with Caroline, she felt a cold squeeze on her hand. She smiled. She knew Connor was there with her. She felt as though he was thanking her for keeping his memory alive. She knew in her heart she would never stop telling his story. He had a baby brother arriving soon who needed to know him. He had family and friends who loved him. And in his short four years of life, he had touched so many hearts. Annabelle knew Connor would live on through her memories and through Paul's. They would continue his journey for him.
You and I, Connor, she thought. It was always be you and I.
Caroline sighed. She hadn't meant to say it out loud. She had spoken to her friend Hayley about it at length. They both felt that Annabelle was different lately and wasn't dealing with her situation as well as they felt she should. But she never meant for Annabelle to find out her true feelings. "I wasn't going to tell you," she began, "but you really need to stop talking about him. You make people feel so awkward. No one wants to hear about it and most people don't want to hang out with you anymore.You'll probably get over him faster if you just stop talking about it too." Caroline sat back in her chair, feeling slightly pleased that she finally told her friend the truth.
Annabelle looked down at her cup of tea. She could feel the hurt and anger building inside of her. She knew Caroline was trying to be helpful. But she didn't understand. Her life had been so easy. She was outgoing and popular. She was pretty and knew how to get people to pay attention to her. Her life was just her and her husband. Easy, fun and stress free. There was no way Caroline could understand what was now Annabelle's life. Annabelle's heart started pounding. She felt as though the walls of the cafe were closing in on her. She quickly got up, threw some money on the table, told Caroline something had come up and she ran out of the cafe.
Annabelle walked along the quiet downtown street toward the river front. She always found her calm by the water. She thought about calling her husband but decided against it. She needed to be alone to work through what was going through her mind. She found a small bench at the river front, next to a large willow tree. Stop talking about him. She almost laughed at the idea of it. She couldn't stop talking about him. To stop talking would feel like she would be forgetting. As she looked out at the river, the warm sun reflecting off the serene waters, she thought about how her life had changed in such a short period of time.
Growing up, Annabelle wanted three things- to be a wife, a mother and a teacher. And she became all three. Ten years ago, she met a handsome soldier online and instantly fell in love. Paul was kindhearted, funny and compassionate. He made her feel safe. His love for her made her feel like she could conquer the world. They had everything they could have wanted. A beautiful house, great jobs, and an incredible son.
Annabelle watched the small squirrel scurry up the tree. Fall was coming. The animals were preparing for winter. She smiled as she watched the long tail sway back and forth on a branch. "Dirrel!" She could hear her son's sweet voice in her head. Even at four years old he struggled with certain sounds. But he spoke so well for a child his age. Strangers often thought he was much older than he was because of it. Annabelle tried to fight back the tears as she thought about her sweet son.
Connor. Her beautiful boy. He was so full of life. He was kind and gentle and wise. For a four year old, he was far beyond his years. He could outsmart his parents and keep them guessing. He loved the water, just like his mommy. He loved helicopters, just like his daddy. He wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. Connor made Annabelle and Paul feel complete. Their love grew when this boy was born and he enriched their lives more than they had ever dreamed possible. They never expected the nightmare that came.
The previous summer, Connor had been complaining about some pain in his back. Paul and Annabelle took him to see their family doctor and had tests done. Everything was normal. Connor began to limp and his activity level began to decrease. Again, they took him to doctors and test results were normal. Annabelle and Paul were desperately trying to find out what was wrong with their son so they took him to the children's hospital a few hours away. There they would hear the worst news any parent could have.
Cancer. Their sweet baby boy had cancer. Not just any type of cancer. One of the rarest and most dangerous cancers a child could have. Annabelle struggled to understand how her baby had gone from healthy to gravely ill so quickly. Everything in her life changed with the mention of just one word. The doctors started to treat Connor with chemotherapy and radiation right away. Connor had fought hard for the entire summer. Paul and Annabelle had never seen anyone so strong and so brave. They were so proud of their son. As much as they had hoped he would get better, Connor continued to get sicker. And on that calm November morning, Annabelle knew Connor's time was coming. She held her son in her arms. She talked softly to him, telling him he was loved and how proud his mommy and daddy were. She soothed him and chased away his fears as she sang to him. "You and I, together forever." She had sung the song every day of his life. Connor passed away quietly in her arms. When she felt his heart stop beating under her hand and watched him close those beautiful eyes for the last time, something inside her died with him.
It was now ten months after Connor's death. Annabelle and Paul were both back to work. They had begun to go out on dates again. They were trying to live life in a positive way to honor Connor. And to their surprise, they were expecting another baby boy in a matter of weeks. They both knew they were blessed with this new baby and felt for sure that he was a gift from his brother. The pregnancy had been alright so far but the questions from strangers made it so hard. Annabelle thought about the waitress at the cafe. She had asked if this was Annabelle's first child. It's a normal question for any pregnant woman. And Annabelle would have answered it had Caroline not stepped in. Annabelle still couldn't understand why her friend had told her to stop talking about him. Connor was here. He had existed. He had been a beautiful child that Annabelle and Paul had raised to be a kind, generous and loving human being. And she was proud to be his mother. She wanted the world to know him. To know his story and his struggle. To remember him and be proud of him the way she was. In her mind, telling Connor's story was a way to help the world understand that childhood cancer exists and families everywhere are affected by it. She would always tell people about her first born son.
Annabelle looked out towards the water. The sun was beginning to set and the waves were crashing softly on the shore. It was peaceful. As she sat on the bench contemplating how she would approach the next conversation with Caroline, she felt a cold squeeze on her hand. She smiled. She knew Connor was there with her. She felt as though he was thanking her for keeping his memory alive. She knew in her heart she would never stop telling his story. He had a baby brother arriving soon who needed to know him. He had family and friends who loved him. And in his short four years of life, he had touched so many hearts. Annabelle knew Connor would live on through her memories and through Paul's. They would continue his journey for him.
You and I, Connor, she thought. It was always be you and I.
Saturday, May 6, 2017
As time goes on
This week was one of the biggest "milestones" we've had since losing our precious Cam. This week, on May 4th, we marked six months since we lost him to cancer. Six months since we've heard his voice, given him a hug, held his hand, played with him and his Transformers. Six months since we said our final goodbyes to our incredible 4 year old son.
A lot happens in six months. As newly bereaved parents, you learn a lot. You learn how to live through the new quiet in your house. You learn how to walk past your son's room without crying. You learn how to get out of bed everyday and somehow put a smile on your face. You learn how to cover how you're really feeling, because even if people come to you and say "how are you today," you know they're just hoping you'll say you're fine and they don't have to talk to about it. You learn to live through the excruciating pain you feel on a daily basis.
Pain. When you lose your child pain becomes one of the biggest constants in your life. You feel pain in everything you do. In every breath you take. Every time you open or close your eyes. The pain is always there. And you try to do whatever you can to overcome that pain. You become really good at hiding it and trying as hard as possible to not let it show.
When we arrived at the dreaded six month mark, my husband and I took to social media to write our messages to Cam, expressing how much we miss and love him. How we are, still, in complete disbelief that he is no longer with us. We write these messages to him in hopes that there is some way that he'll see them and know he is never far from our hearts and our minds. And in some ways, we write them so our friends can share their thoughts, feelings and memories about him. These little notes to him are a way for everyone to come together and support one another.
Among all of the beautiful thoughts and memories shared, one comment stood out. And for the wrong reasons. It read, the pain has subsided but the memories are still there. The pain has subsided. How I wish that were an accurate comment. For me, as the mother is missing her child, the pain has yet to go away. The pain has yet to subside. The pain has yet to be anything but gut wrenching and at times uncontrollable. And for someone to say the pain has subsided, for me, was awful to read. It felt like someone was telling me hey, it's been six months, get over it, I have. It felt like I was alone with my pain and my grief.
As I mentioned, you learn a lot when you become a bereaved parent. You experience a lot. Every day brings new emotions, fears and challenges. Each day is filled with moments of joy, grief and sorrow. You realize that this new life and journey is something that cannot be navigated alone. You lean on your spouse and your friends. And you often wonder who you can lean on or reach out to. There's a strange thing that happens after a child dies. The people in your inner circle change. We've learned that the hard way, with friends and family. There are those who stood by us from the moment we notified everyone of Cam's illness. Those who called, visited, texted or emailed nearly on a daily basis to check on him and us. Those who have stayed with us since his passing, still contacting us almost daily to make sure we know they are there for us. Those who have exhibited unwavering support and love. There are some people we knew, but not well, who have become wonderful friends to us throughout this process. There are others who were there while he was sick, while we went through the funeral service and then slowly lost contact with us, only to become more of acquaintances than the good friends they once were. And there are others who have stayed away from the moment Cam got sick, with little to no contact whatsoever since. I can appreciate that this is not a common or usual situation and that it may make some quite uncomfortable. But never did I think that we would be grieving the loss of friendships as we grieve the loss of our son.
As we near the one year mark to the start of this journey (June 6th will be one year since the day I took Cam to the children's hospital), I feel compelled to tell the people who have stood by us how much their love and unwavering support has meant to us. My husband and I have been, at times, treading water to get us through the days and I feel we wouldn't have made it this far without you. You have made us feel like our feelings and grief our valid. You have helped us learn how to go on with our lives by honoring our son and his memory. You have been comfortable with us when we feel we need to talk about his and share his stories. You have held our hands and been our shoulders when we needed extra strength. You have been our family when we needed you. And for all of that, we are forever grateful.
A lot happens in six months. As newly bereaved parents, you learn a lot. You learn how to live through the new quiet in your house. You learn how to walk past your son's room without crying. You learn how to get out of bed everyday and somehow put a smile on your face. You learn how to cover how you're really feeling, because even if people come to you and say "how are you today," you know they're just hoping you'll say you're fine and they don't have to talk to about it. You learn to live through the excruciating pain you feel on a daily basis.
Pain. When you lose your child pain becomes one of the biggest constants in your life. You feel pain in everything you do. In every breath you take. Every time you open or close your eyes. The pain is always there. And you try to do whatever you can to overcome that pain. You become really good at hiding it and trying as hard as possible to not let it show.
When we arrived at the dreaded six month mark, my husband and I took to social media to write our messages to Cam, expressing how much we miss and love him. How we are, still, in complete disbelief that he is no longer with us. We write these messages to him in hopes that there is some way that he'll see them and know he is never far from our hearts and our minds. And in some ways, we write them so our friends can share their thoughts, feelings and memories about him. These little notes to him are a way for everyone to come together and support one another.
Among all of the beautiful thoughts and memories shared, one comment stood out. And for the wrong reasons. It read, the pain has subsided but the memories are still there. The pain has subsided. How I wish that were an accurate comment. For me, as the mother is missing her child, the pain has yet to go away. The pain has yet to subside. The pain has yet to be anything but gut wrenching and at times uncontrollable. And for someone to say the pain has subsided, for me, was awful to read. It felt like someone was telling me hey, it's been six months, get over it, I have. It felt like I was alone with my pain and my grief.
As I mentioned, you learn a lot when you become a bereaved parent. You experience a lot. Every day brings new emotions, fears and challenges. Each day is filled with moments of joy, grief and sorrow. You realize that this new life and journey is something that cannot be navigated alone. You lean on your spouse and your friends. And you often wonder who you can lean on or reach out to. There's a strange thing that happens after a child dies. The people in your inner circle change. We've learned that the hard way, with friends and family. There are those who stood by us from the moment we notified everyone of Cam's illness. Those who called, visited, texted or emailed nearly on a daily basis to check on him and us. Those who have stayed with us since his passing, still contacting us almost daily to make sure we know they are there for us. Those who have exhibited unwavering support and love. There are some people we knew, but not well, who have become wonderful friends to us throughout this process. There are others who were there while he was sick, while we went through the funeral service and then slowly lost contact with us, only to become more of acquaintances than the good friends they once were. And there are others who have stayed away from the moment Cam got sick, with little to no contact whatsoever since. I can appreciate that this is not a common or usual situation and that it may make some quite uncomfortable. But never did I think that we would be grieving the loss of friendships as we grieve the loss of our son.
As we near the one year mark to the start of this journey (June 6th will be one year since the day I took Cam to the children's hospital), I feel compelled to tell the people who have stood by us how much their love and unwavering support has meant to us. My husband and I have been, at times, treading water to get us through the days and I feel we wouldn't have made it this far without you. You have made us feel like our feelings and grief our valid. You have helped us learn how to go on with our lives by honoring our son and his memory. You have been comfortable with us when we feel we need to talk about his and share his stories. You have held our hands and been our shoulders when we needed extra strength. You have been our family when we needed you. And for all of that, we are forever grateful.
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
...another one begins
I remember only bits and pieces of the long drive home from the city. It had been 24 hours. Only 24 hours since my world was shattered beyond repair. My husband and I were in the car, loaded with all of Cam's belongings from the hospital and an empty car seat, struggling to maintain any ounce of composure I had left. I felt empty and felt a longing for my son. I felt like there was a bungee cord attached to me that was trying to pull me back to the room in which he died. To bring me back to June and start the whole process over again. I didn't want to see my child suffering anymore. I just wanted to see him. To touch him. To hear his voice. To see him happy and smiling again. To hold him in my arms. To keep him safe. Somewhere along that two hour drive, the bungee cord snapped. I snapped. I felt like I had truly lost him and that I was leaving him behind.
It was hard. It had only been 24 hours. I sat in the passenger seat, quiet, trying to understand. I couldn't. In some ways, nearly 20 weeks later, I still can't. I sat, with my hands folded tightly in my lap, wondering how I was supposed to go on living without the person who made my life whole. Who gave me my purpose. Who I had spent the last 4.5 years loving, caring for, teaching and raising. As a mom, I had forgotten who I was as a person. I had spent so long being a wife and a mom and I forgot how to be me. Without my Cam, I felt lost. His death had left an incredible hole that I feared would never be filled. While I sat, holding my own hands in some attempt to comfort myself, I relived the previous day, wondering what I could have done differently, if I was able to comfort and reassure my son, if he felt how much he was loved by both of his parents. I thought about how badly I wanted to be with him again, how desperately I needed my son. I felt like there was no way I could go on without him. I had lost my purpose.
At some point during our long drive home my husband broke our silence. He said, "Do you want to have another?" I immediately said yes. And then immediately wished I hadn't. As soon as the word left my mouth, I saw Cam's life flash before me. I saw him at birth, growing as a baby, learning to walk, his smiles, his laughs, his playfulness. I immediately felt like having another would make Cam feel like we were replacing him. Like his life and death meant nothing. Like we could start over as if he never existed. I didn't say anything aloud because as soon as I said yes, my husband's face softened. I sat next to him and chatted about the possibility of having a new baby and the joy a new baby would (hopefully) bring to us. At no point did we discuss when and if we should start "trying." There was no rule book on timelines. We had to be focused on trying to move on with life in a positive way, a way to honor Cam's memory.
December 6th. Only 32 days after Cam passed away. My husband and I were both back to work, trying to navigate our "normal" daily routines mixed with our grief and emotions. Our had become eerily quiet and neither of us knew what to do there anymore. That night, on the 6th, something told me I should take a home pregnancy test. I don't know what made me do it. I took a home pregnancy test and it said "pregnant: 2-3 weeks." I dropped the test on the floor and stared at it in complete shock. I couldn't believe it had happened so soon. And I didn't know how I felt about it. I called my husband at work and told him. He was equally as shocked but I could tell he was excited. I could hear the smile when he talked to me. It crushed me.
A baby is supposed to be a happy thing. A positive thing. But in the initial days and weeks of my pregnancy, I felt remorse, guilt and regret. I felt like I was being pulled in so many different directions. I was missing my son. Missing everything he was. And I was regretting that I was pregnant. I wanted my first pregnancy to be my only one. To have it be something special that was just for Cam. I didn't want to go through it again. I felt guilty. How does a mother get pregnant so soon after losing her only child? How could I possibly do that to him? How would he have felt about it? Did he think I was trying to replace him and forget about him? I spent so many nights crying. Crying because I felt like I was betraying my child and crying because a small part of me wanted this baby. And crying because Cam used to ask if Mommy would have a baby in her belly again. The answer had always been no, that when he was born he was everything we wanted and our little family was complete. I cried because I felt like I had lied to him. I cried because I will never get to see what he would have been like as a big brother.
As with any pregnancy, my emotions have been all over the place. Sometimes uncontrollable. I have been struggling to come to terms with my feelings towards this pregnancy. Somehow, I finally started to feel positive. I started to feel like this is ok. That Cam would be happy. That he wouldn't feel like we were replacing him. Deep down I know and understand that no one can ever replace him but it took a long time to remind myself of that. I still worry all the time. I worry that I will miscarry or end of having a premature delivery. I worry that this baby will have cancer. I have nightmares of going through it all over again. Logically I know it is highly unlikely, but I worry. The farther along I am in this pregnancy, the more I become comfortable with it. I still have days where I felt guilty or regretful but not nearly as often.
We're now 19 weeks in to this pregnancy. We have been fortunate enough to have a few ultrasounds and have been able to see baby moving. We have seen and heard the heartbeat (which makes us breathe a sigh of relief every time). I have been feeling wonderful movements and my husband is starting to be able to feel them as well. Aside from a lot of morning sickness, we have been very fortunate to have a healthy pregnancy thus far and to know we are growing a very healthy baby. We wonder what this baby will look like, if it will have similar features to Cam's, what the personality will be like. As bittersweet as this experience is for us, we know this baby is truly as blessing. We feel this baby is a gift from Cam. His way of telling us we were meant to be parents and that he wants us to keep going. It is his way of giving us back our purpose. Our beautiful family of three will become a family of four this summer. And this new baby has the gift of having the strongest guardian angel.
It was hard. It had only been 24 hours. I sat in the passenger seat, quiet, trying to understand. I couldn't. In some ways, nearly 20 weeks later, I still can't. I sat, with my hands folded tightly in my lap, wondering how I was supposed to go on living without the person who made my life whole. Who gave me my purpose. Who I had spent the last 4.5 years loving, caring for, teaching and raising. As a mom, I had forgotten who I was as a person. I had spent so long being a wife and a mom and I forgot how to be me. Without my Cam, I felt lost. His death had left an incredible hole that I feared would never be filled. While I sat, holding my own hands in some attempt to comfort myself, I relived the previous day, wondering what I could have done differently, if I was able to comfort and reassure my son, if he felt how much he was loved by both of his parents. I thought about how badly I wanted to be with him again, how desperately I needed my son. I felt like there was no way I could go on without him. I had lost my purpose.
At some point during our long drive home my husband broke our silence. He said, "Do you want to have another?" I immediately said yes. And then immediately wished I hadn't. As soon as the word left my mouth, I saw Cam's life flash before me. I saw him at birth, growing as a baby, learning to walk, his smiles, his laughs, his playfulness. I immediately felt like having another would make Cam feel like we were replacing him. Like his life and death meant nothing. Like we could start over as if he never existed. I didn't say anything aloud because as soon as I said yes, my husband's face softened. I sat next to him and chatted about the possibility of having a new baby and the joy a new baby would (hopefully) bring to us. At no point did we discuss when and if we should start "trying." There was no rule book on timelines. We had to be focused on trying to move on with life in a positive way, a way to honor Cam's memory.
December 6th. Only 32 days after Cam passed away. My husband and I were both back to work, trying to navigate our "normal" daily routines mixed with our grief and emotions. Our had become eerily quiet and neither of us knew what to do there anymore. That night, on the 6th, something told me I should take a home pregnancy test. I don't know what made me do it. I took a home pregnancy test and it said "pregnant: 2-3 weeks." I dropped the test on the floor and stared at it in complete shock. I couldn't believe it had happened so soon. And I didn't know how I felt about it. I called my husband at work and told him. He was equally as shocked but I could tell he was excited. I could hear the smile when he talked to me. It crushed me.
A baby is supposed to be a happy thing. A positive thing. But in the initial days and weeks of my pregnancy, I felt remorse, guilt and regret. I felt like I was being pulled in so many different directions. I was missing my son. Missing everything he was. And I was regretting that I was pregnant. I wanted my first pregnancy to be my only one. To have it be something special that was just for Cam. I didn't want to go through it again. I felt guilty. How does a mother get pregnant so soon after losing her only child? How could I possibly do that to him? How would he have felt about it? Did he think I was trying to replace him and forget about him? I spent so many nights crying. Crying because I felt like I was betraying my child and crying because a small part of me wanted this baby. And crying because Cam used to ask if Mommy would have a baby in her belly again. The answer had always been no, that when he was born he was everything we wanted and our little family was complete. I cried because I felt like I had lied to him. I cried because I will never get to see what he would have been like as a big brother.
As with any pregnancy, my emotions have been all over the place. Sometimes uncontrollable. I have been struggling to come to terms with my feelings towards this pregnancy. Somehow, I finally started to feel positive. I started to feel like this is ok. That Cam would be happy. That he wouldn't feel like we were replacing him. Deep down I know and understand that no one can ever replace him but it took a long time to remind myself of that. I still worry all the time. I worry that I will miscarry or end of having a premature delivery. I worry that this baby will have cancer. I have nightmares of going through it all over again. Logically I know it is highly unlikely, but I worry. The farther along I am in this pregnancy, the more I become comfortable with it. I still have days where I felt guilty or regretful but not nearly as often.
We're now 19 weeks in to this pregnancy. We have been fortunate enough to have a few ultrasounds and have been able to see baby moving. We have seen and heard the heartbeat (which makes us breathe a sigh of relief every time). I have been feeling wonderful movements and my husband is starting to be able to feel them as well. Aside from a lot of morning sickness, we have been very fortunate to have a healthy pregnancy thus far and to know we are growing a very healthy baby. We wonder what this baby will look like, if it will have similar features to Cam's, what the personality will be like. As bittersweet as this experience is for us, we know this baby is truly as blessing. We feel this baby is a gift from Cam. His way of telling us we were meant to be parents and that he wants us to keep going. It is his way of giving us back our purpose. Our beautiful family of three will become a family of four this summer. And this new baby has the gift of having the strongest guardian angel.
Thursday, March 9, 2017
As one life ends...
I keep going back in my mind to the day we took our son to the children's hospital. To the day we got his cancer diagnosis, to the day he started chemo, the day he started radiation, the day the oncologist said chemotherapy was no longer an option. All of these days and events play over and over in my head like a horror movie or a bad dream. These days have been playing over and over in my mind for months on end. And one day, one horrific day, plays the most.
Friday, November 4, 2016. Our son, named Cameron by the way (I realized I have never shared his name before), woke up screaming at 3 am. He had been having a really tough few weeks, spending 18 days in the ICU with a fungal pneumonia and being hooked up to oxygen and a c-pap machine. Most nights he woke up crying because he hated the mask. This was the same in the early hours of November 4th. Cam woke up, crying and screaming about his mask. Nurses came in to help us figure out how to help him feel better. Because he was on constant oxygen, he was also hooked up to a machine that read his heart rate and blood oxygen levels. This machine kept beeping. His heart rate kept rising and his oxygen levels kept lowering. The nurses kept raising the oxygen levels, giving medications to help his heart rate and to help his pain control. No one slept that night and Cam was scared. By 9 am, after six straight hours of trying to get the situation under control, the doctors and nurses came in to talk to me. They told me what I already feared. That they were out of options to try to save him and my son was dying.
Those words hit like a tun of bricks. My son, my beautiful sweet Cameron, was running out of time. In this moment, his whole life flashed before me. I saw his first smile, saw him say "mama" and "dada" for the first time, saw him walk and play. I saw him showing his father every autobot ever made and teach him how each one worked. I saw him loving his family and friends. I saw him being incredibly strong for each poke, each test, each chemo treatment and each radiation. I saw him, so wise beyond his years, laying next to me in the bed. I asked him if he was scared and he nodded. My heart broke. I tried so hard to find a way to take his fear away from him. The only thing I could come up with, while holding back my own fear and tears, was to pick him up and hold him. I asked him if I could and he nodded. I carefully picked up my sweet 4 year old and held him. I held him and rocked him and talked to him. I told him how much Mommy and Daddy loved him. How proud and honored we were to be his parents. How incredibly brave and strong he was throughout his five month battle with cancer. How much we would miss him but promised that we would someday be ok. I told him it was ok to let go. That he'd done everything he was put on this beautiful earth to do. I held him, and rocked him and loved him with everything I had. I kissed his beautiful bald head, held on to his hand and tried to sing him our song as he slowly closed his eyes. At 11:30 am, on November 4th, our son took his last breath in my arms.
The days that followed are a bit of a blur. Our families had flown or driven into town to support us. We held a visitation and funeral. We had our baby cremated. We waited so impatiently to be able to bring him home. Being a military family, we couldn't bear the idea of burying him and leaving him behind when the next posting message arrived. So we brought him home. It felt right to keep him home with us. Somehow it took a small amount of the pain away. My husband and I (with the help of my mom and stepdad) cleaned up all of Cam's toys and home school things. We carefully packed everything in boxes to be stored. Packing up the things that brought him so much joy and gave him such an imaginative outlet felt impossible. How do you take all of these physical reminders of your child and pack them away? But we didn't know what else to do.
Tomorrow it will be 18 weeks (126 days) since our Cam passed away. We have tried to move on with life and honor our son as best we can. We talk about him to anyone who who will listen. We look at his photos and watch his videos. We sit in his room (which was left untouched) and talk to him. We search everyday for signs that he may be here with us in some spiritual way. We have cried, we have yelled, we have wondered why this had to happen to our son, to us, to our family. We have asked ourselves how we could have caught the tumor sooner, what we could have done differently with the treatment. We have questioned our parenting and our time spent with our son. We have blamed ourselves for what happened to our child. We have begged ourselves and each other for forgiveness for something that was completely out of our control.
One of my coworkers recently asked me what the hardest part of this is. At the time, I told her it was grief coming in waves. Coming when we would least expect it. Since she asked me, I have been thinking it over. The waves of grief are hard, yes. But the pain of knowing my son is gone and I will never get to hear his voice, hold his hand or play with him again is harder. Knowing the my son will be forever 4 years old is harder. Never getting to watch him grow up and become a pilot. Wondering what he would have been like in school, who his friends would have been, what activities he would have chosen to be involved in is harder. Never getting to see him graduate from high school, fall in love, get married and become a father is harder. Knowing that his life is forever frozen, 4 short years after it began.
Mommy and Daddy love you Cam- to the moon and back and all the stars.
Friday, November 4, 2016. Our son, named Cameron by the way (I realized I have never shared his name before), woke up screaming at 3 am. He had been having a really tough few weeks, spending 18 days in the ICU with a fungal pneumonia and being hooked up to oxygen and a c-pap machine. Most nights he woke up crying because he hated the mask. This was the same in the early hours of November 4th. Cam woke up, crying and screaming about his mask. Nurses came in to help us figure out how to help him feel better. Because he was on constant oxygen, he was also hooked up to a machine that read his heart rate and blood oxygen levels. This machine kept beeping. His heart rate kept rising and his oxygen levels kept lowering. The nurses kept raising the oxygen levels, giving medications to help his heart rate and to help his pain control. No one slept that night and Cam was scared. By 9 am, after six straight hours of trying to get the situation under control, the doctors and nurses came in to talk to me. They told me what I already feared. That they were out of options to try to save him and my son was dying.
Those words hit like a tun of bricks. My son, my beautiful sweet Cameron, was running out of time. In this moment, his whole life flashed before me. I saw his first smile, saw him say "mama" and "dada" for the first time, saw him walk and play. I saw him showing his father every autobot ever made and teach him how each one worked. I saw him loving his family and friends. I saw him being incredibly strong for each poke, each test, each chemo treatment and each radiation. I saw him, so wise beyond his years, laying next to me in the bed. I asked him if he was scared and he nodded. My heart broke. I tried so hard to find a way to take his fear away from him. The only thing I could come up with, while holding back my own fear and tears, was to pick him up and hold him. I asked him if I could and he nodded. I carefully picked up my sweet 4 year old and held him. I held him and rocked him and talked to him. I told him how much Mommy and Daddy loved him. How proud and honored we were to be his parents. How incredibly brave and strong he was throughout his five month battle with cancer. How much we would miss him but promised that we would someday be ok. I told him it was ok to let go. That he'd done everything he was put on this beautiful earth to do. I held him, and rocked him and loved him with everything I had. I kissed his beautiful bald head, held on to his hand and tried to sing him our song as he slowly closed his eyes. At 11:30 am, on November 4th, our son took his last breath in my arms.
The days that followed are a bit of a blur. Our families had flown or driven into town to support us. We held a visitation and funeral. We had our baby cremated. We waited so impatiently to be able to bring him home. Being a military family, we couldn't bear the idea of burying him and leaving him behind when the next posting message arrived. So we brought him home. It felt right to keep him home with us. Somehow it took a small amount of the pain away. My husband and I (with the help of my mom and stepdad) cleaned up all of Cam's toys and home school things. We carefully packed everything in boxes to be stored. Packing up the things that brought him so much joy and gave him such an imaginative outlet felt impossible. How do you take all of these physical reminders of your child and pack them away? But we didn't know what else to do.
Tomorrow it will be 18 weeks (126 days) since our Cam passed away. We have tried to move on with life and honor our son as best we can. We talk about him to anyone who who will listen. We look at his photos and watch his videos. We sit in his room (which was left untouched) and talk to him. We search everyday for signs that he may be here with us in some spiritual way. We have cried, we have yelled, we have wondered why this had to happen to our son, to us, to our family. We have asked ourselves how we could have caught the tumor sooner, what we could have done differently with the treatment. We have questioned our parenting and our time spent with our son. We have blamed ourselves for what happened to our child. We have begged ourselves and each other for forgiveness for something that was completely out of our control.
One of my coworkers recently asked me what the hardest part of this is. At the time, I told her it was grief coming in waves. Coming when we would least expect it. Since she asked me, I have been thinking it over. The waves of grief are hard, yes. But the pain of knowing my son is gone and I will never get to hear his voice, hold his hand or play with him again is harder. Knowing the my son will be forever 4 years old is harder. Never getting to watch him grow up and become a pilot. Wondering what he would have been like in school, who his friends would have been, what activities he would have chosen to be involved in is harder. Never getting to see him graduate from high school, fall in love, get married and become a father is harder. Knowing that his life is forever frozen, 4 short years after it began.
Mommy and Daddy love you Cam- to the moon and back and all the stars.
Cameron
February 16, 2012- November 4, 2016
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)