I have been to 6 funerals in my lifetime.
The first, I barely remember. It was my great-grandmother. I vaguely remember seeing a person in a really big box, lots of tall people walking around in dark clothes and people looking sad. I was maybe 3 or 4 years old so my memories are a bit skewed. The third was my great uncle. I was in university at the time. I went back home to bring my grandmother to say good bye to her brother-in-law. The fourth was my friend's father. A group of us brought her home and stayed with her throughout the days of the visitation and funeral.
The second funeral I went to was in the fifth grade. A friend had been killed in a skiing accident. I remember being so scared to go into the church. I didn't know what a dead body looked like. I didn't know a lot about funerals. I didn't know a lot about death. It just wasn't something we talked about in our house. I remember trying to peek in the doorway of the church and I caught a glimpse of my friend. She had beautiful curly hair. I remember that. And she looked like she was sleeping. She seemed so peaceful. We sat near the front of the church, in a pew near her parents. I don't really remember much about the service. But I remember her mom. I was captivated by her. I watched her and saw every emotion. She was clutching a teddy bear and blanket and crying. She would sway with the music and cry out in pain, her hand stretched towards the heavens as if she was asking God to give her baby back to her. She prayed silently, her eyes closed, the bear held tight against her heart. I didn't know, at 10 years old, how profound this memory would be.
The fifth funeral I attended was my son's. I had a dream early into Cam's cancer battle that he was laying a a white casket with a sweet little black suit on. Little did I know that 4 months later that dream would be my reality. I remember walking into the funeral home with my husband. My stomach was in knots. My whole body physically ached. I was exhausted. I hadn't seen my child in three days. We walked to the doorway to the visitation room and I noticed a lady bug on the doorframe. I focused on that lady bug while the funeral director spoke to us- I still have no idea what he said. I tore my eyes away from the lady bug and looked past the director. I saw my son laying in his small white casket in his black suit and blue tie I had bought him the day he died. He was beautiful. He looked so peaceful, like he was asleep. The next thing I realized was that he was in my arms. I don't know how I got across that room. My arms ached so much and longed to hold him. I held his cold body so close and sang to him. I told him repeatedly how sorry I was. How much I loved him. When it was time to close the casket, to say my final goodbye, I sang him our song one last time, kissed his hands, cheeks, mouth and nose. I touched every part of him I could. As they closed the casket, my heart shattered again. When they put him in the car and drove away, I broke. It was the last time I would ever see my son. As a mother (as a parent), that is a memory, a visual and a feeling that will forever be with me.
Today, I drove three hours away to say goodbye to another child. One I had a pleasure of a few brief but lovely meetings while Cam was in treatment. Her mother and I have grown close and bonded while our children fought for their lives. Friday, sweet Lily won her battle with rhabdomyosarcoma and joined my Cam in the skies. Today, I joined her friends ans family as we said our final goodbyes. I walked to the doors of that church and had those same knots in my stomach. I wasn't sure I cohld walk through those doors. But Lily's mom needed someone in the room who knew how she felt. Who knew her pain, her anger and fears.
As I sat in the church, I was brought back to that second funeral. I now know every feeling my friend's mom felt. I feel those feelings too. I have asked the same questions, why did you take my child? Why was it his time? How do I go on in this life without him? I have begged, over and over again for God to give me my son back. And I wake up every morning, wash away the tears, find a smile and live each day.
The day we say goodbye to our loved ones might be one of the hardest of them all. For me, it was the finality of it. One man closed the casket and hid ny baby's face forever. Friends put the casket into that car that drove his body away. I can still remember how the cold pavement felt on my knees as I fell, crying for my child the way my friend's mom cried for hers.
It's been 26 months, 12 days and 9 hours since I held my son. The day I said goodbye is a day I will always remember.
Wednesday, January 16, 2019
Sunday, November 4, 2018
A Tale of Two Worlds
I have a son. He is 4 years old. He's smart, kind, curious and gentle. We love to cuddle, sing songs and learn. Right now, we love to play with Paw Patrol and Transformers toys. Today my son and I were playing with his bots. Some were in jail. One was on our team. We had a pretty good team. We sat on the floor for hours playing with the bots and creating some great stories. We went to the park today too. My son loves to swing. I pushed him and his sweet voice yells "higher Mommy, higher!" I gave him one more big push and sat on the swing next to him. I watched him throw his hat on the ground. "Mom! I can feel the wind blowing all of my hairs!" I laughed and replied, "But you don't have any hair..."
I have a son. He is 15 months old. He is happy, energetic, spunky and inquisitive. We love to read, dance and snuggle. Right now, we love trucks and letter sounds. Today we turned over a dump truck and spun the wheels. We talked about the color and shape of the wheels. And he told me the truck says "vroom." I told him we have to get ready to go. It's a big day. He jumped up and ran to the gate. "Mama, ow sigh! Shoes!" He learned how to say 'outside' this week. We went to the park to play outside today. And met lots of friends there. My son played with some while other wrote their letters. I picked up my son and we counted down- 3, 2, 1! We let our balloon fly with our letters attached to them...
I have two sons. My sons are smart, sweet, kind and curious. They are rambunctious and sneaky. My sons have beautiful blond hair and blue eyes. They are tall and so very strong. They love to climb, bounce and jump. They love to read stories and play music. They have lovely friends. They have wonderful family. My sons are brothers...
I have two sons. My sons have never met...
I live in two worlds. I live in a world that has my 4 year old son healthy and playing. We go on walks, tell stories and play with friends. I live in a world with my 15 month old son where we play with trucks and puzzles. We spend time at the beach and I teach him about the sand, the water and the animals. I live in two worlds that have beautiful memories and adventures. That have love, happiness and excitement. That have family, hopes and dreams. I live in two worlds that will never collide. My two worlds will never join. My worlds will always be separate.
I am the mother of a child on earth and a child in Heaven.
I have a son. He is 15 months old. He is happy, energetic, spunky and inquisitive. We love to read, dance and snuggle. Right now, we love trucks and letter sounds. Today we turned over a dump truck and spun the wheels. We talked about the color and shape of the wheels. And he told me the truck says "vroom." I told him we have to get ready to go. It's a big day. He jumped up and ran to the gate. "Mama, ow sigh! Shoes!" He learned how to say 'outside' this week. We went to the park to play outside today. And met lots of friends there. My son played with some while other wrote their letters. I picked up my son and we counted down- 3, 2, 1! We let our balloon fly with our letters attached to them...
I have two sons. My sons are smart, sweet, kind and curious. They are rambunctious and sneaky. My sons have beautiful blond hair and blue eyes. They are tall and so very strong. They love to climb, bounce and jump. They love to read stories and play music. They have lovely friends. They have wonderful family. My sons are brothers...
I have two sons. My sons have never met...
I live in two worlds. I live in a world that has my 4 year old son healthy and playing. We go on walks, tell stories and play with friends. I live in a world with my 15 month old son where we play with trucks and puzzles. We spend time at the beach and I teach him about the sand, the water and the animals. I live in two worlds that have beautiful memories and adventures. That have love, happiness and excitement. That have family, hopes and dreams. I live in two worlds that will never collide. My two worlds will never join. My worlds will always be separate.
I am the mother of a child on earth and a child in Heaven.
Saturday, February 3, 2018
That six letter word...
February 4, 2018 is World Cancer Day.
World Cancer Day is a day meant to unite the world in the fight against cancer, the attempt to raise awareness and research funds and the hope that one day there will be a cure. Cancer affects us all in one way or another...what a bitch.
On June 5 2016 I was just an ordinary mom. I had a gorgeous 4 year old boy who was spunky, rambunctious, kind and generous. He was funny and bright. Basically a mini genius with devastatingly gorgeous blue eyes. He had wonderful friends, loved Paw Patrol and could school even the biggest Transformers fans! He loved life, loved to have fun and be silly. He was, in my eyes, absolute perfection.
June 9 2016, I became a different kind of mom. I became a cancer mom. Something happens to you when you find out your child has cancer. You feel numb, empty and broken. You feel like you've failed your child. You feel like you've failed your husband. You fear for what lies ahead for your child. Treatments you've only heard of as chemo, radiation an surgery. Hair loss. Sickness. You realize you are beyond naive to all of it because you've never been a part of it before. You become a student. You research the type of cancer and treatment options. You question the doctors about everything you've read- have you heard of this drug, this technique, this doctor, this facility, this new magic pill. You become a nurse, a psychologist, a comedian, a bed and a security blanket. You discover super human powers that help you function on no sleep and in a constant state of distress. You feel like your life is a work of fiction, like it's someone else's world that you can't escape from. And when you realize you're living your worst nightmare you feel the pain, worry and fear all over again. You also realize that you've never known true strength until you've witnessed your child brave the unthinkable with grace and unfathomable courage. You realize you've never known true love, truer even than the moment you met your him, until you've laid with him in that hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and machines, while he sighs with comfort as you hold him. You promise you will spend the rest of your life trying to find a way to get you both to "happy humans town" because that's where he asked to go.
November 4, 2016 I became another kind of mom. A bereaved mom. A mom who held her child and comforted him as he lay dying in her arms. A mom who watched her son's beautiful and short life pass before her eyes as he closed his. A mom who felt a part of her own life end with his. A mom who relives that moment on a daily basis. A mom whose world will forever be marred by that horrible six letter word.
Cancer. You have rocked my world. You have destroyed it. You have beaten me down. You have stolen my baby. But you will not win. I promised my child that I will fight for him and other children like him until the day I die. I have vowed to be my son's voice, his advocate and will create a lasting legacy in his honor.
February 4, 2018 is World Cancer Day. It is also 15 months since cancer took my baby.
Help us fight this fight.
World Cancer Day is a day meant to unite the world in the fight against cancer, the attempt to raise awareness and research funds and the hope that one day there will be a cure. Cancer affects us all in one way or another...what a bitch.
On June 5 2016 I was just an ordinary mom. I had a gorgeous 4 year old boy who was spunky, rambunctious, kind and generous. He was funny and bright. Basically a mini genius with devastatingly gorgeous blue eyes. He had wonderful friends, loved Paw Patrol and could school even the biggest Transformers fans! He loved life, loved to have fun and be silly. He was, in my eyes, absolute perfection.
June 9 2016, I became a different kind of mom. I became a cancer mom. Something happens to you when you find out your child has cancer. You feel numb, empty and broken. You feel like you've failed your child. You feel like you've failed your husband. You fear for what lies ahead for your child. Treatments you've only heard of as chemo, radiation an surgery. Hair loss. Sickness. You realize you are beyond naive to all of it because you've never been a part of it before. You become a student. You research the type of cancer and treatment options. You question the doctors about everything you've read- have you heard of this drug, this technique, this doctor, this facility, this new magic pill. You become a nurse, a psychologist, a comedian, a bed and a security blanket. You discover super human powers that help you function on no sleep and in a constant state of distress. You feel like your life is a work of fiction, like it's someone else's world that you can't escape from. And when you realize you're living your worst nightmare you feel the pain, worry and fear all over again. You also realize that you've never known true strength until you've witnessed your child brave the unthinkable with grace and unfathomable courage. You realize you've never known true love, truer even than the moment you met your him, until you've laid with him in that hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and machines, while he sighs with comfort as you hold him. You promise you will spend the rest of your life trying to find a way to get you both to "happy humans town" because that's where he asked to go.
November 4, 2016 I became another kind of mom. A bereaved mom. A mom who held her child and comforted him as he lay dying in her arms. A mom who watched her son's beautiful and short life pass before her eyes as he closed his. A mom who felt a part of her own life end with his. A mom who relives that moment on a daily basis. A mom whose world will forever be marred by that horrible six letter word.
Cancer. You have rocked my world. You have destroyed it. You have beaten me down. You have stolen my baby. But you will not win. I promised my child that I will fight for him and other children like him until the day I die. I have vowed to be my son's voice, his advocate and will create a lasting legacy in his honor.
February 4, 2018 is World Cancer Day. It is also 15 months since cancer took my baby.
Help us fight this fight.
Friday, November 3, 2017
A Letter to My First Born
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...
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...
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
Monday, September 5, 2016
Back to school....or not.
All of our friends and their littles are prepping for the first day of school tomorrow. Tomorrow school be our son's first day of school too. He's 4 1/2 years old and his first day of junior kindergarten is tomorrow. Instead of going to school, we are going to the hospital to get chemo. As I sit here preparing my home school activities and make my plans, I am reminded of how different my life has become.
Three months ago I was working full time, teaching and working as an educational assistant and planning to have a great summer off with my son. It was to be the last summer off before kindergarten and before I go back to work again. We had plans to go to museums and have play dates with friends. I had already purchased my son's personalized lunch box for school and was getting ready to order labels for his things. As an educator and the mom of a brilliant little boy, I have been looking forward to him starting school for a long time. I was so excited to how he'll flourish within the walls of the school and to see how he'd grow and succeed.
Now, I am planning a home school curriculum with as many games and fun activities as I can, while I try to make up for the fact that my 4 1/2 year old won't get to go to school this year. That his cute personalized lunch box is now the home of many of his robot toys. That I don't have to order the adorable name labels I had picked out. I am trying to make up for the fact that he won't get to meet his teachers and meet new friends. That I am going to be mom, teacher and playmate.
I now have to explain to my son every time we drive by his "new school" that he won't get to go this year. That because of his special medicine and his cancer, he has to stay home because it's not safe to go to school.
While I'm so very happy for all of my friends and their littles who are beginning their school journeys or who are heading back to school, I am heartbroken for my son. I wish things were different for him. My heart just aches for all of the experiences he will miss his year and the friendships he won't get to create.
Three months ago I was working full time, teaching and working as an educational assistant and planning to have a great summer off with my son. It was to be the last summer off before kindergarten and before I go back to work again. We had plans to go to museums and have play dates with friends. I had already purchased my son's personalized lunch box for school and was getting ready to order labels for his things. As an educator and the mom of a brilliant little boy, I have been looking forward to him starting school for a long time. I was so excited to how he'll flourish within the walls of the school and to see how he'd grow and succeed.
Now, I am planning a home school curriculum with as many games and fun activities as I can, while I try to make up for the fact that my 4 1/2 year old won't get to go to school this year. That his cute personalized lunch box is now the home of many of his robot toys. That I don't have to order the adorable name labels I had picked out. I am trying to make up for the fact that he won't get to meet his teachers and meet new friends. That I am going to be mom, teacher and playmate.
I now have to explain to my son every time we drive by his "new school" that he won't get to go this year. That because of his special medicine and his cancer, he has to stay home because it's not safe to go to school.
While I'm so very happy for all of my friends and their littles who are beginning their school journeys or who are heading back to school, I am heartbroken for my son. I wish things were different for him. My heart just aches for all of the experiences he will miss his year and the friendships he won't get to create.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
A Mother's Mind
When your child has a cold, you give them cold medicine. A headache gets Advil. A fever gets Tylenol. A scrape gets a band-aid and a kiss. A bad dream gets a cuddle in bed. You do anything you can to make the aches and pain go away. You keep as positive as you can for your child so they aren't scared but your mind tends to wander. Mine does.
Cancer is a different kind of story. I can't put a band-aid on, kiss it better and make the monster go away. I can sit and hold my son's hand as he gets chemo therapy. I can give him a kiss as he drifts off into a medicated sleep for radiation. But I can't take it away. And as positive as I stay for him, I can't stay out of my own mind.
My mind has been my enemy since we found out our son had cancer. It wanders, it assumes, it expects the worst. It creates scenarios that (I hope) I never have to experience.
Over the last two months, my mind has shown me nightmares. Like I've said before, sleep isn't a common occurrence in my world these days. For a long time, at the beginning of all of this, I would close my eyes at night and see a casket. Every night there was a casket. And in that casket was my baby's beautiful, lifeless body. I would picture myself standing next to it, dressed head to toe in black. I would feel myself in sobs, tears forming in my eyes while I tried to fall asleep. Other nights we would be laying in his bed at home, watching him take his last breath. I've seen myself laying on his bed, holding his blanket and favorite bear, going days without eating or moving because my heart has a hole in it. Or laying at his grave site, telling him stories about the things he's missed. I could feel the emptiness so much that the dream felt real. I closed my eyes and watched my son die more times than I can count. I would lay awake in bed for hours at a time, scared to close my eyes and scared to fall asleep.
The mind is an interesting thing. For me, as a mother, I want nothing more than for my child to be happy, healthy and alive. I want to take away his hurt and his sickness and let him be a regular, four year old little boy. I want to do everything I can to keep him safe. My mind wanders. It creates terrible, scary and horrifying thoughts. I can push them out now, write them down for everyone to see and be ok. And when I can't, I watch my son and I get a glimpse of his mind instead.
A child's mind. It is beautiful, playful, innocent. Powerful and contagious. It is in my son's mind that I can find comfort and happiness. His mind doesn't see him being sick and in pain. It doesn't see the stress he is going through every day. His mind sees playfulness and joy. He wakes up everyday and wants to play. He can spend an entire day playing with his Transformers, playing the smelly foot game and giggling with us. He can walk in to the hospital playroom or to the "skating rink" and be ready to play. He can talk about going home his numbers go up and do it all with a smile. He lives each day for the moment, that precious moment where he learns to transform a certain bot or takes an extra few steps down the hall. He lives for his trips to the toy store and eating gummies. He doesn't look ahead with distain or fear. He looks ahead with wonder and curiosity.
My son's mind. It's innocent. It's powerful. It's contagious. His positivity and optimism are incomparable. His strength and stoicism are magical. His mind is the reason my mind has allowed me to see past the dark. To see past the terrifying. To see past the hurt and the scared. His mind lets me see the light, the happy and the proud. His mind lets me feel hope.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Our New Normal
It's been a really long time since I've posted. And since I've been completely unable to sleep and have felt the urge to write about why. Sleep hasn't been something that comes easy over the last couple of months but tonight is one of the worst for some reason.
I have a beautiful family. I'm not just saying that. I have a husband who treats me like the most important woman in the world. He's loving, caring, compassionate, funny, handsome and kind. He listens to me and puts up with my silliness. He's strong and is my rock when I need him to be. And he's someone I am proud of and proud to be with. I have a son. I have the most incredible son. For 4 years old, he's brilliant. He's sweet, funny, beautiful with his blond hair and blue eyes. He's smart, compassionate and wise beyond his years. He is the epitome of an "old soul" and is my absolute hero. I am, because of these two boys, the luckiest woman in the world. My world with my boys has been nothing short of my version of perfect for as long we've been us. Until now...
Cancer. Just typing the word is hard. It's a scary word. It's sinister and depressing and unforgiving. It's the last word anyone expects to hear. Ever.
Cancer. Your four year old has cancer. These are words my husband and I were told 63 days ago. We brought our son to the hospital with what we thought would be arthritis and we were told he had cancer. A malignant rhabdoid tumor to be exact. This is a very rare, very sinister, very aggressive, very lethal type of childhood cancer. And our baby boy has it. He has a large tumor on his tailbone that spread to two more places in his tiny body. Which puts it at Stage 4 cancer. Our initial meeting with the oncologist was horrifying. She told us this type of cancer is so rare that it only has a 25% survival rate. Because of it's rarity, there isn't enough information out there to come up with a solid treatment plan so she gave us two treatment options and we had to decide between them. We are not doctors. We're trying to come to terms with the fact that our baby has cancer. How do you even begin to do that? And now we're being asked to choose a treatment plan. I asked what would happen without it. At that moment, the idea of putting my baby through any more pain was just too much to bear. So I asked. And was told that without treatment, my son wouldn't live more than a few months. With treatment, at that time, we have maybe a few years. Neither answer was what I wanted but we chose what we hoped was the more aggressive option.
Over the last 63 days I have watched my son. I watched him stop walking. I watched him stop being able to control his own bladder and bowels. I have watched him stop playing, talking and eating. I have sat next to him in countless hospital rooms, wishing I could take his place and take his pain away. I have prayed to whoever is listening to me to trade places and to help him find the strength to get through this. And to give me the strength to be the mom he needs me to be. I have cried myself to sleep night after night, have had to walk out of the room so he can't see me upset. I have had to give him medicine that no four year should have to take, let alone know how to pronounce. I have watched my husband, my strong and amazing husband, give our son countless catheters to help him empty his bladder when he couldn't. I have watched my son be put to sleep for surgery, MRI, CT scans and radiation. I have watched my son be fed through an NG tube. I have watched my son, my beautiful four year old boy, never stop fighting his fight. And I have watched my family grow stronger and closer than we could have ever imagined in the darkness days we could have ever imagined.
Over the last 63 days I have watched my son endure extensive chemotherapy and 25 radiation treatments. Twenty five treatments on his tiny little body. And I have watched him do it all with a smile on his face and a positive attitude. He has more strength at his age than anyone I have ever met. He has gone through these days, having endless tests, bloodwork, doctor visits, catheters, and medications without asking why. "Why did this happen to me, why do I have to do this?" Instead, he says ok. "Ok Mom, let's go to radiation." Yes he has cried, but only when the nurses take the tape off of his port-a-cath and when his tube bothers his nose. He has cried because his back has hurt him where the tumor is or when his feet hurt because of the chemo. But it never lasts long and he always finds his happy.
Though we don't know what is happening on the inside and won't for a few more weeks, we are watching our son exceed expectations with his treatment and are watching new milestones every day. Just last week he started walking again and this week, without holding our hands. He has regained all bladder/bowel function and we are happily changing numerous daily diapers again. We are watching him be more playful, happier, more alert and a bit friendlier to the medical staff (but who can fault a kid for being mad about getting pokes!). We are watching him grow and blossom into an incredibly strong little boy.
Cancer. No one ever expects to hear the word. No one expects a doctor to tell them she thinks it may take their son's life. It is the most terrifying and traumatic experience in any parent (or person's) life. It brings out the worst feelings, a certain darkness that can't really be explained. But in that darkness, my family has found hope. We have found strength and support. We have found love and friendship. We have found ourselves and each other. And we have found a little boy who will hopefully continue to exceed expectations and continue to fight his incredible fight with the same grace, strength and stoicism he has had thus far.
#caringforcam
https://www.gofundme.com/28wgxczg
http://www.caringforcam.ca/
I have a beautiful family. I'm not just saying that. I have a husband who treats me like the most important woman in the world. He's loving, caring, compassionate, funny, handsome and kind. He listens to me and puts up with my silliness. He's strong and is my rock when I need him to be. And he's someone I am proud of and proud to be with. I have a son. I have the most incredible son. For 4 years old, he's brilliant. He's sweet, funny, beautiful with his blond hair and blue eyes. He's smart, compassionate and wise beyond his years. He is the epitome of an "old soul" and is my absolute hero. I am, because of these two boys, the luckiest woman in the world. My world with my boys has been nothing short of my version of perfect for as long we've been us. Until now...
Cancer. Just typing the word is hard. It's a scary word. It's sinister and depressing and unforgiving. It's the last word anyone expects to hear. Ever.
Cancer. Your four year old has cancer. These are words my husband and I were told 63 days ago. We brought our son to the hospital with what we thought would be arthritis and we were told he had cancer. A malignant rhabdoid tumor to be exact. This is a very rare, very sinister, very aggressive, very lethal type of childhood cancer. And our baby boy has it. He has a large tumor on his tailbone that spread to two more places in his tiny body. Which puts it at Stage 4 cancer. Our initial meeting with the oncologist was horrifying. She told us this type of cancer is so rare that it only has a 25% survival rate. Because of it's rarity, there isn't enough information out there to come up with a solid treatment plan so she gave us two treatment options and we had to decide between them. We are not doctors. We're trying to come to terms with the fact that our baby has cancer. How do you even begin to do that? And now we're being asked to choose a treatment plan. I asked what would happen without it. At that moment, the idea of putting my baby through any more pain was just too much to bear. So I asked. And was told that without treatment, my son wouldn't live more than a few months. With treatment, at that time, we have maybe a few years. Neither answer was what I wanted but we chose what we hoped was the more aggressive option.
Over the last 63 days I have watched my son. I watched him stop walking. I watched him stop being able to control his own bladder and bowels. I have watched him stop playing, talking and eating. I have sat next to him in countless hospital rooms, wishing I could take his place and take his pain away. I have prayed to whoever is listening to me to trade places and to help him find the strength to get through this. And to give me the strength to be the mom he needs me to be. I have cried myself to sleep night after night, have had to walk out of the room so he can't see me upset. I have had to give him medicine that no four year should have to take, let alone know how to pronounce. I have watched my husband, my strong and amazing husband, give our son countless catheters to help him empty his bladder when he couldn't. I have watched my son be put to sleep for surgery, MRI, CT scans and radiation. I have watched my son be fed through an NG tube. I have watched my son, my beautiful four year old boy, never stop fighting his fight. And I have watched my family grow stronger and closer than we could have ever imagined in the darkness days we could have ever imagined.
Over the last 63 days I have watched my son endure extensive chemotherapy and 25 radiation treatments. Twenty five treatments on his tiny little body. And I have watched him do it all with a smile on his face and a positive attitude. He has more strength at his age than anyone I have ever met. He has gone through these days, having endless tests, bloodwork, doctor visits, catheters, and medications without asking why. "Why did this happen to me, why do I have to do this?" Instead, he says ok. "Ok Mom, let's go to radiation." Yes he has cried, but only when the nurses take the tape off of his port-a-cath and when his tube bothers his nose. He has cried because his back has hurt him where the tumor is or when his feet hurt because of the chemo. But it never lasts long and he always finds his happy.
Though we don't know what is happening on the inside and won't for a few more weeks, we are watching our son exceed expectations with his treatment and are watching new milestones every day. Just last week he started walking again and this week, without holding our hands. He has regained all bladder/bowel function and we are happily changing numerous daily diapers again. We are watching him be more playful, happier, more alert and a bit friendlier to the medical staff (but who can fault a kid for being mad about getting pokes!). We are watching him grow and blossom into an incredibly strong little boy.
Cancer. No one ever expects to hear the word. No one expects a doctor to tell them she thinks it may take their son's life. It is the most terrifying and traumatic experience in any parent (or person's) life. It brings out the worst feelings, a certain darkness that can't really be explained. But in that darkness, my family has found hope. We have found strength and support. We have found love and friendship. We have found ourselves and each other. And we have found a little boy who will hopefully continue to exceed expectations and continue to fight his incredible fight with the same grace, strength and stoicism he has had thus far.
#caringforcam
https://www.gofundme.com/28wgxczg
http://www.caringforcam.ca/
Monday, April 18, 2016
Baby Blog #3- A Whole New World
Baby Blog #3- A Whole New World- 03/23/2012
"Having a baby is like falling in love all over again- both with your husband and with your child." A friend of mine wrote this after the birth of her first child and I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I'd read. And now I know what she meant.
I went to the hospital on February 16th and was a jumble of nerves. I was having a planned c-section so I was nervous about the surgery. I was scared that I might have done something wrong while I was pregnant and the baby wouldn't be healthy. And I was just wondering the entire time about all the of things that were about to change in my life. I tried to keep how I was feeling under control because I knew my husband was just as worried and scared as I was and I wanted to be strong for him. When the nurses brought me into the operating room, away from my husband for a few minutes, the emotions really started to show. I just couldn't believe that the moment we'd waited 38 1/2 weeks for was finally here.
I've had a few surgeries in the past but was always asleep for them so the whole idea of a c-section was a little odd to me. I was so scared I was going to feel pain and discomfort. All I felt was this wonderful sensation of being warm. I was laying on the operating table with a big curtain in front of my face, my arms out to the side, looking up at the big lights and the hospital-white walls and wondering if the baby was a boy or a girl, what he or she would look like and really how the whole process worked. And when my husband came into the room and sat next to my head I was thinking about how weird it was that I was already cut open and they were letting him walk around. I'm so glad he was able to be there for the delivery though- I don't think I would have been able to do it without him.
As weird as it was to be awake during surgery, it was amazing to be able to talk to my husband and to know what he was thinking and how he was feeling throughout. He has always been my biggest comfort, so having him there made me a lot less nervous. I ended up just being really excited about it all, more for him than me even. I was lying on the table with the doctors working away on the other side of the curtain and we were talking about all of our thoughts and our excitement about becoming parents and a nurse poked her head over the curtain. She asked if we wanted to see the baby first before knowing the sex or if we wanted the doctor to tell us. We didn't realize we had a choice but decided the doctor could tell us and within 30 seconds, we had the announcement.
Tears started to flow from us both and then we heard the cry- the most amazing sound I have ever heard! A nurse brought the baby around so we could see and I had this overwhelming wave of feelings and emotions come over me- I was looking at the most beautiful person I had ever seen. And couldn't believe that this little person was a part of me and my husband. I had no idea that it was possible to feel that much love for someone in such a short amount of time, without having any physical contact. I looked at my husband and watched him as he got to touch his baby for the first time. I saw this tiny little hand reach up and grab on to his finger and saw a look of awe on my husband's face. Again, the wave of emotions came over me and I found out what it was like to fall in love with my husband again but to love him in a different way. For five years I have loved him as my boyfriend, my fiance, my husband and really my best friend. But now when I look at him I see all of that, love all of that, but I also love him as the father of my child and the man who has made my life whole.
We brought our baby home on February 18th and it has been fun, stressful, exhausting and wonderful all at the same time. We have finally gotten a routine in place and have been able to enjoy seeing as our baby grows and discovers the things around us. Our lives have been forever changed but in the best way they could be.
Sharing a Moment
Sharing a Moment- February 10, 2012
So as you all know, my husband and I are expecting our first child, literally any day now. The last 38 weeks have been such a whirlwind between work and school. Honestly, it's amazing how fast time goes when you've got something exciting going on, but slow in a way too. I don't really know how to describe it. Anyway, we decided in January that we wanted to do a professional maternity photo session so we could have something to us remember this time. I did the typical photo of myself in the mirror that every expectant mother does but I really wanted some nice photos with my husband too (any of you who know what military life is like know why that is so important).
Before I share some of the pictures, let me explain something. I really don't like getting my picture taken. Actually, I completely hate it. It's one of the most uncomfortable feelings in the world to me. My mom tries to take my picture when she visits and she always ends up with either a picture of me running away, hiding behind someone or something or one with my hand in front of my face. So the fact that I have now done three professional sessions with my husband (our wedding, our pre--deployment and now maternity) is a really big deal. And I have to say, I feel bad for the poor photographers that get stuck with me. I'm pretty sure I'm the most awkward person out there. I giggle. The entire time. Maybe because I'm embarrassed or nervous but I literally giggle in every picture. I never know what to do with my eyes, my arms, whether or not I should smile. The entire time I'm getting these photos taken I'm thinking "Wow, there isn't going to be a decent picture here and I'm wasting this poor girl's time." But I stay, keep having these wonderful people take my picture (feeling bad for ruining each one) and then go home embarrassed and sad that none of them are going to turn out.Then comes the waiting. I sit and wait for that one sneak peek, hoping that in all of the pictures taken that there is one, just one that isn't completely horrible and that I won't be humiliated to show off. And then, after a few days, that one picture shows up. And it's great! I get so excited, so happy that just one turns out ok and then I don't care about the rest.
This maternity shoot was no different then any other time I get my picture taken. I was awkward, nervous, felt like I was messing up the pictures. And at 35 weeks pregnant, I was feeling all of the things any other pregnant woman feels by that point- fat, uncomfortable, unattractive, and really insecure. And I felt like all of that would show in the pictures too. I felt so bad afterward because I really enjoy our photographer and I really felt like I was wasting her Sunday afternoon.
I got the photos in the mail this week and remembered why I like this photographer so much. She's amazing! She has such an awesome way of making people look good in their photos, no matter how bad they may be feeling about themselves. She has, once again, given us something beautiful to look back at and to really help us preserve memories. So, here are a few of the photos :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)