I loathe witnessing life's milestones.
I admit it's very dark of me to be secretly gloomy at happy events, but I can't help it. I hide it very well…or at least I think I do. Each moment I witness makes me think of Ethan and the milestones that are buried deep in the ground with him. I've been close to tears at recent special events. My baby will never get to do such things.
As his mother, I expected to witness his first steps, first smile, birthdays, graduations, and wedding day. Moments that were never meant to be...
All I can do is daydream now. Sometimes I look at Kev & Boo's faces and wonder who Ethan would have looked like when he was three or five. I stare at John's face and try to visualize what Ethan would have looked like as a grown man. What kind of man was my son going to be?
I guess I'll never know…
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
%
According to my recent ultrasound, there's 60% chance that the baby inside of me is a girl.
My doctor tells me that I have a 90% chance that the baby will be born via c-section.
There is a less than 1% chance that the baby will have cleft lip thanks to all the prednisone they gave me during my hospitalizations.
Lastly, there is a 25% chance that this baby will be FVII deficient.
Despite all of these percentages, I'm 100% sure that everything will be just fine.
My doctor tells me that I have a 90% chance that the baby will be born via c-section.
There is a less than 1% chance that the baby will have cleft lip thanks to all the prednisone they gave me during my hospitalizations.
Lastly, there is a 25% chance that this baby will be FVII deficient.
Despite all of these percentages, I'm 100% sure that everything will be just fine.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Sick...
Sick...
I've been in and out of the hospital since the 21st.
Life officially sucks, but then again…things could have been worse. Ethan's death is by far the WORST that my life is ever going to get. Any struggles I face now or may face in the future are minor compared to the experience of losing Ethan. I suppose life is easier to deal with if I view it in the retrospect, ya know? My health isn't the greatest, but hey…I'm alive right!
Thanks to the heat wave and all of these lovely Cali fires, my birthday week didn't pan out according to plan. My celebration on the 21st was cut short by my asthma attack. I was already feeling the chest tightness at Showgirls, but I was still able to maintain. I didn't want to be a party pooper and miss my own shindig so I kept puffing away on my Albuterol instead. Was this stupid? Maybe, but understandable right?
Eventually my rescue inhaler stopped working for me and we had to leave Butterfly less than two hours after we got there. My asthma attack made me feel like I rained on everyone's parade that night. Loveleen and Melissa followed me after I ran outside for air. They stayed with me to make sure I was okay. (Special thank you to you both!!!) And I felt really bad because Tik, Din, Hen, & Sandy had to leave with us since we all drove together. Nobody complained, but still….I felt bad.
Anyway, John hauled ass on the freeway back to Daly City since Kaiser was located all the way across town. My tightness got progressively worse and I couldn't make it to Kaiser SSF. John took me to Seton instead. After the nursing staff stopped lollygagging and got their shit together, I had about five breathing treatments and I still didn't feel right. My chest was still tight and I was starting to panic. They knocked me out and when I woke up I was on a breathing machine!!! They couldn't intubate me because of my pregnancy (yes, I'm pregnant) so the BiPap machine was the next best option. The BiPap did my breathing for me and forced air in and out of my lungs without sedating me. Sedation associated with intubation is dangerous for babies. (Especially really teeny-tiny ones like the one my belly. More on that later…)
Seton kept me for about two days because I wasn't stable enough for transport. They finally got me out of that urine smelling room and sent my back to Kaiser. I stayed another day at Kaiser and they sent my home on the 24th. I was better, but mos def not fixed. What a weekend!!!
Flash forward to my real birthday on the 26th. My asthma was fine since the doctor wanted me to rest a bit before I returned back to work. I was starting to feel better! I even volunteered at Kevin's school that day since it was his special day too. Later that evening John took me to Bella Vista in Woodside for a surprise birthday dinner. My birthday was pretty good. At around midnight I started to have severe abdominal pain and quickly felt my throat tighten up. My asthma kicked in and my eyes became watery. Within less than five minutes from the onset of my abd pain, my fingers were blue and John had to call 911. South City fire came and gave me an epinephrine shot, but I don't recall much after that. I thought I was going to die and I'm not saying this to be mellow dramatic either. My chest got tight very quick and I started saying Our Father in my head. I looked at Ethan's picture on the mantle and told him to keep me safe. Yeah, it was pretty bad.
I must've passed out because when I woke up I was at Kaiser SSF back on the BiPap again. They were doing an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay and I was completely stripped of my clothing. I must have woke up from the draft. There were two familiar faces staring back at me when I regained consciousness. Two of the nurses who saw Ethan that horrible night in the Emergency room were with me again. Maybe it was a sign? Who knows…
For five years now I've had a condition that my specialist couldn't figure out. I have to carry an epipen with me everywhere I go. These "allergic reactions" always start with abdominal pain and my breathing deteriorates rapidly. This was the 3rd episode that was bad enough for 911 to be called. The first bad one was one month after Kevin was born and the second was one year later at a camping trip @ Lake Berryessa. I lose control so quickly that I am not capable of dialing 911 myself. I have several minor episodes too over the years, but I've been able to maintain with my rescue inhalers and or a quick drive to the ER. For the past five years though I've walked on eggshells and hoped that nothing bad would happen if I were ever alone with the kids. My doctors didn't really investigate, until now.
Well, I guess this must have been a wake up call for Kaiser since this was the first time they saw my immediately after my attack. (The first two times I was seen by other hospitals.) This episode has become somewhat of a blessing because I got hooked up with a really good doctor. When I was finally off of the breathing machine I had to opportunity to speak with him about my symptoms. He suspects my body might be reacting from a histamine release. They did tests to see if I have non-cancerous tumors in my belly. The tumors could release the histamine and create the "allergic reaction" that I've had to tiptoe around all these years. I had all kinds of specialty tests run on me during my two day stay in the ICU and I'll find out the results next week. What a birthday huh?
I was released from the hospital today and I'm finally home. I feel better now that I know they're doing everything they possibly can to figure this shit out. If my "allergic reactions" are caused by tumors, all they have to do is take them out. (After I give birth of course!) Then I'll never have to deal with this shit again. So even though life sucks right now cuz I'm not getting paid for my two weeks of sick leave (I exhausted my paid sick leave when I lost Ethan), there is some light at the end of the tunnel. Life could be worse, ya know? I'm still here. My health issue is finally being addressed. And my baby is fine.
Thank you God & thank you Ethan.
I've been in and out of the hospital since the 21st.
Life officially sucks, but then again…things could have been worse. Ethan's death is by far the WORST that my life is ever going to get. Any struggles I face now or may face in the future are minor compared to the experience of losing Ethan. I suppose life is easier to deal with if I view it in the retrospect, ya know? My health isn't the greatest, but hey…I'm alive right!
Thanks to the heat wave and all of these lovely Cali fires, my birthday week didn't pan out according to plan. My celebration on the 21st was cut short by my asthma attack. I was already feeling the chest tightness at Showgirls, but I was still able to maintain. I didn't want to be a party pooper and miss my own shindig so I kept puffing away on my Albuterol instead. Was this stupid? Maybe, but understandable right?
Eventually my rescue inhaler stopped working for me and we had to leave Butterfly less than two hours after we got there. My asthma attack made me feel like I rained on everyone's parade that night. Loveleen and Melissa followed me after I ran outside for air. They stayed with me to make sure I was okay. (Special thank you to you both!!!) And I felt really bad because Tik, Din, Hen, & Sandy had to leave with us since we all drove together. Nobody complained, but still….I felt bad.
Anyway, John hauled ass on the freeway back to Daly City since Kaiser was located all the way across town. My tightness got progressively worse and I couldn't make it to Kaiser SSF. John took me to Seton instead. After the nursing staff stopped lollygagging and got their shit together, I had about five breathing treatments and I still didn't feel right. My chest was still tight and I was starting to panic. They knocked me out and when I woke up I was on a breathing machine!!! They couldn't intubate me because of my pregnancy (yes, I'm pregnant) so the BiPap machine was the next best option. The BiPap did my breathing for me and forced air in and out of my lungs without sedating me. Sedation associated with intubation is dangerous for babies. (Especially really teeny-tiny ones like the one my belly. More on that later…)
Seton kept me for about two days because I wasn't stable enough for transport. They finally got me out of that urine smelling room and sent my back to Kaiser. I stayed another day at Kaiser and they sent my home on the 24th. I was better, but mos def not fixed. What a weekend!!!
Flash forward to my real birthday on the 26th. My asthma was fine since the doctor wanted me to rest a bit before I returned back to work. I was starting to feel better! I even volunteered at Kevin's school that day since it was his special day too. Later that evening John took me to Bella Vista in Woodside for a surprise birthday dinner. My birthday was pretty good. At around midnight I started to have severe abdominal pain and quickly felt my throat tighten up. My asthma kicked in and my eyes became watery. Within less than five minutes from the onset of my abd pain, my fingers were blue and John had to call 911. South City fire came and gave me an epinephrine shot, but I don't recall much after that. I thought I was going to die and I'm not saying this to be mellow dramatic either. My chest got tight very quick and I started saying Our Father in my head. I looked at Ethan's picture on the mantle and told him to keep me safe. Yeah, it was pretty bad.
I must've passed out because when I woke up I was at Kaiser SSF back on the BiPap again. They were doing an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay and I was completely stripped of my clothing. I must have woke up from the draft. There were two familiar faces staring back at me when I regained consciousness. Two of the nurses who saw Ethan that horrible night in the Emergency room were with me again. Maybe it was a sign? Who knows…
For five years now I've had a condition that my specialist couldn't figure out. I have to carry an epipen with me everywhere I go. These "allergic reactions" always start with abdominal pain and my breathing deteriorates rapidly. This was the 3rd episode that was bad enough for 911 to be called. The first bad one was one month after Kevin was born and the second was one year later at a camping trip @ Lake Berryessa. I lose control so quickly that I am not capable of dialing 911 myself. I have several minor episodes too over the years, but I've been able to maintain with my rescue inhalers and or a quick drive to the ER. For the past five years though I've walked on eggshells and hoped that nothing bad would happen if I were ever alone with the kids. My doctors didn't really investigate, until now.
Well, I guess this must have been a wake up call for Kaiser since this was the first time they saw my immediately after my attack. (The first two times I was seen by other hospitals.) This episode has become somewhat of a blessing because I got hooked up with a really good doctor. When I was finally off of the breathing machine I had to opportunity to speak with him about my symptoms. He suspects my body might be reacting from a histamine release. They did tests to see if I have non-cancerous tumors in my belly. The tumors could release the histamine and create the "allergic reaction" that I've had to tiptoe around all these years. I had all kinds of specialty tests run on me during my two day stay in the ICU and I'll find out the results next week. What a birthday huh?
I was released from the hospital today and I'm finally home. I feel better now that I know they're doing everything they possibly can to figure this shit out. If my "allergic reactions" are caused by tumors, all they have to do is take them out. (After I give birth of course!) Then I'll never have to deal with this shit again. So even though life sucks right now cuz I'm not getting paid for my two weeks of sick leave (I exhausted my paid sick leave when I lost Ethan), there is some light at the end of the tunnel. Life could be worse, ya know? I'm still here. My health issue is finally being addressed. And my baby is fine.
Thank you God & thank you Ethan.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Not enough...
Some things will never be "enough".
I have over three hundred pictures of Ethan. I cherish each and every one, but they are NOT enough.
I have his scent carefully sealed away in boxes and bags, but his tiny clothing is NOT enough.
I've held onto the three bottles he used and one canister of 2/3 full Nestle Good Start, but it's NOT enough. I will never hear the satisfying gulp of my baby's swallows ever again.
If my video camera didn't start malfunctioning the day he was born, I'd have more than 20 minutes of footage of my son. I could have hundreds of hours of footage and watching it would still NOT be enough.
Every night I go to sleep hoping that I'll dream of Ethan just so I can fool myself into feeling him in my arms again. This day has yet to come, but even so it still would NOT be enough.
Even when I have another baby, he/she will not be enough to replace Ethan. None of my children are capable of filling the void Ethan's passing has left. Each and every one of my babies has a special spot reserved in heart. No not one of them can replace the other. Having surviving children or "being young enough to make more" is NOT enough.
Nothing is enough to make this pain go away. Faith soothes me, but it's not enough to take my heartache away.
Ernest Hemingway is known for writing a very famous six word story. Yes, you read me right - six measly words. There is a writing genre called "flash fiction" and Hemingway's piece is a famous example of it. So why am I talking about Ernest Hemingway? Well, because the six word story was this:
For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.
Thought provoking, isn't it? I'm sure many parents who have lost a baby find that this story hits very close to home. Hemingway manages to paint the entire picture of heartbreak and closure in six very simple words.
I wish Ethan's death was a piece of flash fiction. If only it were all just a dream - a few minutes in my REM cycle of sleep. The nightmare of losing my baby boy has been more than a flash and I know it's duration will be endless. God, how I wish I that my story was fabricated like Hemingway's! Writing paragraph after paragraph, blog after blog, has NOT been enough.
I miss my son no matter how hard I try NOT to. I miss his smell, his soft skin, his cries. I miss that I will never have the opportunity to see my baby's smile, place my finger in his deep dimple, and hear his laugh. I hate that I sing his lullaby at the cemetery and not in my own home. I hate that I have to kiss the picture on his headstone instead of his face.
I still hurt...every day.
I am his mother, I should have been able to protect him! I know this sounds crazy. Who am I to change fate right? But imagine this and perhaps you will understand why I feel this way....
You are walking with your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew and you see a car speeding around the corner. Your loved one just stepped off the curb. Suddenly...the world appears to move in slow motion, but time hasn't slowed. The accident happens in matter of milliseconds and there was nothing you can do to stop it. You try to run as fast as you can to push your loved one out of harm's way, but the car outruns you. As loud as you try to scream - to get the car to stop - nothing happens. Your loved one dies in front of you. After the impact, the time doesn't seem slow anymore. The rest of the world is still whizzing by as your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew lays lifeless in the street.
That is what it felt like to watch Ethan die. That is why nothing has ever felt like enough. I could not protect my boy. I knew he wasn't going to make it before medicine told me so. Screams echoed in my head, I tried to believe it when people told me that he would make it, but I knew the impact was going to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop his death from happening. Time was ticking even though it felt like it took forever. The three short days we spent in waiting for answers, for medical intervention, for hope, felt like a lifetime. I knew the inevitable. Time slowed, but the world kept whizzing on by. Fate went on as scheduled.
He would have been four months old on Friday. The joy February 20th brought feels like it happened ages ago. I've forgotten what true happiness feels like. February 27th's affect is fresh in my head. The pain that day brought is still here to stay.
The world just keeps whizzing on by...
I have over three hundred pictures of Ethan. I cherish each and every one, but they are NOT enough.
I have his scent carefully sealed away in boxes and bags, but his tiny clothing is NOT enough.
I've held onto the three bottles he used and one canister of 2/3 full Nestle Good Start, but it's NOT enough. I will never hear the satisfying gulp of my baby's swallows ever again.
If my video camera didn't start malfunctioning the day he was born, I'd have more than 20 minutes of footage of my son. I could have hundreds of hours of footage and watching it would still NOT be enough.
Every night I go to sleep hoping that I'll dream of Ethan just so I can fool myself into feeling him in my arms again. This day has yet to come, but even so it still would NOT be enough.
Even when I have another baby, he/she will not be enough to replace Ethan. None of my children are capable of filling the void Ethan's passing has left. Each and every one of my babies has a special spot reserved in heart. No not one of them can replace the other. Having surviving children or "being young enough to make more" is NOT enough.
Nothing is enough to make this pain go away. Faith soothes me, but it's not enough to take my heartache away.
Ernest Hemingway is known for writing a very famous six word story. Yes, you read me right - six measly words. There is a writing genre called "flash fiction" and Hemingway's piece is a famous example of it. So why am I talking about Ernest Hemingway? Well, because the six word story was this:
For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn.
Thought provoking, isn't it? I'm sure many parents who have lost a baby find that this story hits very close to home. Hemingway manages to paint the entire picture of heartbreak and closure in six very simple words.
I wish Ethan's death was a piece of flash fiction. If only it were all just a dream - a few minutes in my REM cycle of sleep. The nightmare of losing my baby boy has been more than a flash and I know it's duration will be endless. God, how I wish I that my story was fabricated like Hemingway's! Writing paragraph after paragraph, blog after blog, has NOT been enough.
I miss my son no matter how hard I try NOT to. I miss his smell, his soft skin, his cries. I miss that I will never have the opportunity to see my baby's smile, place my finger in his deep dimple, and hear his laugh. I hate that I sing his lullaby at the cemetery and not in my own home. I hate that I have to kiss the picture on his headstone instead of his face.
I still hurt...every day.
I am his mother, I should have been able to protect him! I know this sounds crazy. Who am I to change fate right? But imagine this and perhaps you will understand why I feel this way....
You are walking with your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew and you see a car speeding around the corner. Your loved one just stepped off the curb. Suddenly...the world appears to move in slow motion, but time hasn't slowed. The accident happens in matter of milliseconds and there was nothing you can do to stop it. You try to run as fast as you can to push your loved one out of harm's way, but the car outruns you. As loud as you try to scream - to get the car to stop - nothing happens. Your loved one dies in front of you. After the impact, the time doesn't seem slow anymore. The rest of the world is still whizzing by as your child/sister/brother/niece/nephew lays lifeless in the street.
That is what it felt like to watch Ethan die. That is why nothing has ever felt like enough. I could not protect my boy. I knew he wasn't going to make it before medicine told me so. Screams echoed in my head, I tried to believe it when people told me that he would make it, but I knew the impact was going to happen. There was nothing I could do to stop his death from happening. Time was ticking even though it felt like it took forever. The three short days we spent in waiting for answers, for medical intervention, for hope, felt like a lifetime. I knew the inevitable. Time slowed, but the world kept whizzing on by. Fate went on as scheduled.
He would have been four months old on Friday. The joy February 20th brought feels like it happened ages ago. I've forgotten what true happiness feels like. February 27th's affect is fresh in my head. The pain that day brought is still here to stay.
The world just keeps whizzing on by...
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Change...
I wish there were a way for me to shake the feeling of being incomplete. To cease from weeping when joyous moments can't be shared with my son. Nevertheless, I realize that this Earth will make me feel this way until I can be with my son again. This is my new life; I must live with it.
There are so many things that I should be happy about, but I find difficulty feeling the true euphoria of "traditional joy". Ethan's passing has changed my definition of personal happiness and I've learned to adapt to it. My face is different. I've looked at pictures and noticed this change. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until Friday, but staring at my commencement pictures made me realize that my smile isn't the same anymore. Naivety has been obliterated and my heartache is here to stay. Sometimes, moments feel forced.
I am convinced that the blemishes of life's hardships alter our souls. Not only do our insides change from emotional pain, but our physical features transform as well. Eyes appear tired. Wrinkles form. Smiles change. This physical effect is even more prominent once the spirit leaves the body. Our loved ones do not look that same when they are laying in a casket. Experiencing grief changes us too. We all change.
When Ethan's spirit left his body, his face was not the same. I can't describe how it changed, but it did. That was how I knew he was gone. There was a moment of peace and the weeping stopped. Calm came over John and myself and I felt my son's spirit enter the atmosphere.
He surrounded us.
John was holding Ethan when this happened. The calm was so soothing that John even drifted into momentary rest. It was at that very moment that Ethan's face changed. That was the instant a piece of my soul left my body. Faces changed for good.
Despite my inability to be "traditionally happy", I wouldn't call myself depressed. I still get up every morning and take care of business. I am still here, it just that my son isn't. Change is here to stay. I still smile. I still laugh. I am still me, but I am not complete. My very own psychological warfare has been prevalent these past few weeks and avoiding this inner inquisition has not been easy. One particular "why question" vehemently echoes in my head…
Why the fuck did this have to happen to my son?!
To drown out this violent echo I have to physically whisper…
Lord, give me strength to overcome this pain.
Over and over and over…
Each and every time, God soothes me. The Lord hears me even when I whisper. He hears all of us. Amazing isn't it? I have come to realize that my missing piece is in heaven with my son. A part of me died, but that part is with my baby. I'm okay. Ethan took a peice of my happiness to heaven and the empty space in my soul has been filled with heartache, incompleteness. It's simple diffusion - high concentration to low concentration - but I am with my baby. Something had to give and this idea is what helps me get through the day. Everything is gonna be alright.
I make a conscious effort to inject Ethan into our daily lives so the boys will never forget. When I walked across stage on Friday, I carried his hat along with me. My portable comfort is back; his scent doesn't make me cry; that part of my wound is healed. Commencement was a happy moment and even though this was "just" my AA degree, accomplishing this task took a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. I was happy, but I longed for Ethan to be there with me. A hat was not enough.
Yet...God continues to soothe me and my revelation gives me comfort. Although a part of me is gone, I am okay. A peice of my happiness, my soul, was taken to heaven by my son and I know that part is enough to cradle my baby. Ethan is with me and I am with him. Sometimes, I even call his name when I holler at the boys to clean their room or order them to stop making so much noise. Sometimes, I mix their names up when I tell people stories about my babies. These Freudian slips fascinate me and this is how I know everything will be just fine.
We are together. Ethan has a peice of his Mom with him in heaven. I couldn't ask for anything better.
There are so many things that I should be happy about, but I find difficulty feeling the true euphoria of "traditional joy". Ethan's passing has changed my definition of personal happiness and I've learned to adapt to it. My face is different. I've looked at pictures and noticed this change. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until Friday, but staring at my commencement pictures made me realize that my smile isn't the same anymore. Naivety has been obliterated and my heartache is here to stay. Sometimes, moments feel forced.
I am convinced that the blemishes of life's hardships alter our souls. Not only do our insides change from emotional pain, but our physical features transform as well. Eyes appear tired. Wrinkles form. Smiles change. This physical effect is even more prominent once the spirit leaves the body. Our loved ones do not look that same when they are laying in a casket. Experiencing grief changes us too. We all change.
When Ethan's spirit left his body, his face was not the same. I can't describe how it changed, but it did. That was how I knew he was gone. There was a moment of peace and the weeping stopped. Calm came over John and myself and I felt my son's spirit enter the atmosphere.
He surrounded us.
John was holding Ethan when this happened. The calm was so soothing that John even drifted into momentary rest. It was at that very moment that Ethan's face changed. That was the instant a piece of my soul left my body. Faces changed for good.
Despite my inability to be "traditionally happy", I wouldn't call myself depressed. I still get up every morning and take care of business. I am still here, it just that my son isn't. Change is here to stay. I still smile. I still laugh. I am still me, but I am not complete. My very own psychological warfare has been prevalent these past few weeks and avoiding this inner inquisition has not been easy. One particular "why question" vehemently echoes in my head…
Why the fuck did this have to happen to my son?!
To drown out this violent echo I have to physically whisper…
Lord, give me strength to overcome this pain.
Over and over and over…
Each and every time, God soothes me. The Lord hears me even when I whisper. He hears all of us. Amazing isn't it? I have come to realize that my missing piece is in heaven with my son. A part of me died, but that part is with my baby. I'm okay. Ethan took a peice of my happiness to heaven and the empty space in my soul has been filled with heartache, incompleteness. It's simple diffusion - high concentration to low concentration - but I am with my baby. Something had to give and this idea is what helps me get through the day. Everything is gonna be alright.
I make a conscious effort to inject Ethan into our daily lives so the boys will never forget. When I walked across stage on Friday, I carried his hat along with me. My portable comfort is back; his scent doesn't make me cry; that part of my wound is healed. Commencement was a happy moment and even though this was "just" my AA degree, accomplishing this task took a lot of blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice. I was happy, but I longed for Ethan to be there with me. A hat was not enough.
Yet...God continues to soothe me and my revelation gives me comfort. Although a part of me is gone, I am okay. A peice of my happiness, my soul, was taken to heaven by my son and I know that part is enough to cradle my baby. Ethan is with me and I am with him. Sometimes, I even call his name when I holler at the boys to clean their room or order them to stop making so much noise. Sometimes, I mix their names up when I tell people stories about my babies. These Freudian slips fascinate me and this is how I know everything will be just fine.
We are together. Ethan has a peice of his Mom with him in heaven. I couldn't ask for anything better.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Gone...
Life…it's so different now. Losing Ethan is "well with my soul", but naturally I continue to feel pain. I must admit….I've been an emotional wreck this week. I've learned to hide it well.
Did I ever mention that my coworker and I lost our "babies" at the same time? Her daughter was in her early 30's when she passed away on March 4th - the same day as Ethan's funeral. (Ironically, her daughter and Ethan share the same birthday – February 20th. )
The other day we "checked in" with each other to see how we were both doing. I was amazed to learn that we are experiencing the same physiological effects of grief. She and I are plagued with sleeplessness, stress pains, and unexpected tears. I never had the opportunity to shed tears with another mother who lost her child and it was oddly comforting. Even though we were at work, our brief conversation gave me comfort. Unbeknownst to her, she made me stop feeling "silly" about missing my son.
Believe it or not, I've heard this phrase about a dozen times over the past few months…
"At least you didn't get too attached since he was just a baby."
Over the past few months, this phrase has secretly haunted me. It had me asking myself…
Was I supposed to get over this quicker?
I'm sure these people meant well and I'm not angry that it was said. But…for a while there I was wondering if I was indeed being "O.A." for being so sad. My thoughts changed after the moment I shared with my coworker. She brought up an interesting point during our conversation – we live for our children.
It doesn't matter if Ethan was "only" here for seven days or seventy years, he was still my child - my flesh and blood! Why would I not get attached? I love Ethan as deeply as I love Kevin and Anthony. But…he will never be in my arms again. No kissing boo-boos, sharing laughs, giving advice, or even scolding. Those moments were never meant to be.
It hurts to love someone so much and not be able to share that love with them any longer. I ache inside every day.
Fighting back tears with my coworker gave me a sense of solidarity. I stopped second guessing my thoughts after my conversation with her. It's not natural to outlive your children, period. My grief is real and equal to someone who had the opportunity to "know" their child. My sorrow is not any easier to cope with just because he was "only" here for seven days. I learned that we're both trying to figure out how to function amongst our pain. Our "babies" are gone. Life goes on, but the hurt will never go away. We must live the rest of our lives with this fact.
God will give me the strength to be at peace with this new life.
Did I ever mention that my coworker and I lost our "babies" at the same time? Her daughter was in her early 30's when she passed away on March 4th - the same day as Ethan's funeral. (Ironically, her daughter and Ethan share the same birthday – February 20th. )
The other day we "checked in" with each other to see how we were both doing. I was amazed to learn that we are experiencing the same physiological effects of grief. She and I are plagued with sleeplessness, stress pains, and unexpected tears. I never had the opportunity to shed tears with another mother who lost her child and it was oddly comforting. Even though we were at work, our brief conversation gave me comfort. Unbeknownst to her, she made me stop feeling "silly" about missing my son.
Believe it or not, I've heard this phrase about a dozen times over the past few months…
"At least you didn't get too attached since he was just a baby."
Over the past few months, this phrase has secretly haunted me. It had me asking myself…
Was I supposed to get over this quicker?
I'm sure these people meant well and I'm not angry that it was said. But…for a while there I was wondering if I was indeed being "O.A." for being so sad. My thoughts changed after the moment I shared with my coworker. She brought up an interesting point during our conversation – we live for our children.
It doesn't matter if Ethan was "only" here for seven days or seventy years, he was still my child - my flesh and blood! Why would I not get attached? I love Ethan as deeply as I love Kevin and Anthony. But…he will never be in my arms again. No kissing boo-boos, sharing laughs, giving advice, or even scolding. Those moments were never meant to be.
It hurts to love someone so much and not be able to share that love with them any longer. I ache inside every day.
Fighting back tears with my coworker gave me a sense of solidarity. I stopped second guessing my thoughts after my conversation with her. It's not natural to outlive your children, period. My grief is real and equal to someone who had the opportunity to "know" their child. My sorrow is not any easier to cope with just because he was "only" here for seven days. I learned that we're both trying to figure out how to function amongst our pain. Our "babies" are gone. Life goes on, but the hurt will never go away. We must live the rest of our lives with this fact.
God will give me the strength to be at peace with this new life.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Interesting...
Taken from my 12/31/07 myspace blog:
"The birth of my third son is supposed to be a good sign. My grandma told me Christmas Day that my third boy will mean that I'll have "Three Kings", my very own little magi! My three boys are supposed to bring me closer to God."
I told you it was interesting. God works in mysterious ways doesn't He? My third son definitely brought me closer to God. This has made me whole-heartedly believe that Ethan's passing was part of God's plan. It made me stop thinking about whether or not there were other possibilities. Although I've never been angry with God for Ethan's passing, my faith has confused me in the past few weeks. Sometimes I wasn't sure if I believed what I believed in. Does that make sense? I suppose this stems back to the fact that I've been approached by people from other faiths. Their theories on death had me question my own.
After I finished reading the excerpt from my blog, I instantly felt better about what I believe in. I feel terrible that I even started to question myself in the first place. Ethan received the sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation before he passed. He did not go to "limbo". I spoke with two seperate priests from two seperate parishes who assured me that Ethan would be "allowed" into heaven despite the fact that he was born out of wedlock. Why would he punished for my sins? My God is a loving God and my son is in heaven with Him. Ethan was always meant to be in heaven with God. That was the plan from the moment he was conceived. It was written in my very own words...
"My three boys are supposed to bring me closer to God."
That's exactly what happened. Ethan made my "three" possible.
"The birth of my third son is supposed to be a good sign. My grandma told me Christmas Day that my third boy will mean that I'll have "Three Kings", my very own little magi! My three boys are supposed to bring me closer to God."
I told you it was interesting. God works in mysterious ways doesn't He? My third son definitely brought me closer to God. This has made me whole-heartedly believe that Ethan's passing was part of God's plan. It made me stop thinking about whether or not there were other possibilities. Although I've never been angry with God for Ethan's passing, my faith has confused me in the past few weeks. Sometimes I wasn't sure if I believed what I believed in. Does that make sense? I suppose this stems back to the fact that I've been approached by people from other faiths. Their theories on death had me question my own.
After I finished reading the excerpt from my blog, I instantly felt better about what I believe in. I feel terrible that I even started to question myself in the first place. Ethan received the sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation before he passed. He did not go to "limbo". I spoke with two seperate priests from two seperate parishes who assured me that Ethan would be "allowed" into heaven despite the fact that he was born out of wedlock. Why would he punished for my sins? My God is a loving God and my son is in heaven with Him. Ethan was always meant to be in heaven with God. That was the plan from the moment he was conceived. It was written in my very own words...
"My three boys are supposed to bring me closer to God."
That's exactly what happened. Ethan made my "three" possible.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Mother’s Day...
Mother's Day is tomorrow and I have work. (Well…at least only until 3pm anyway.)
I suppose Mother's Day isn't going to be too bad. Of course it could have been a billion times better if Ethan was still here but, I work with what God has given me.
After work I plan on spending some time with the boys at the cemetery.
I was terrified of the cemetery as a child and I'm glad the boys aren't afraid. Holy Cross has become somewhat of a refuge for our little family. The kids play as if we were at a park and that's fine by me. I don't ever want them to feel sadness over losing their little brother. John and I plan on making Ethan a part of our lives always. After "family time" at the cemetery, John and I are heading off to the Arco Arena to watch Alicia Keys. Most of you already know why, but I'm pretty sure we're going to bawl like babies once she starts performing.
I've been especially weepy these past few days. Our very good friends had their second child two weeks ago and we went to visit them yesterday. I hadn't seen their little girl yet and I thought I was ready to be around a newborn again. John already saw her and he was fine. I figured I would be okay too. Then again, he is a guy so he's had years of training in his ability to hold back his emotions. After holding her for about 30 seconds I started to feel my eyes burn. I fought desperately to hold back my tears and quickly gave her back to her Mommy.
That new baby smell gets me all the time. She was beautiful and holding her made me miss my son terribly. I forgot what it felt like to hold a baby and I felt horrible.
Shouldn't these memories still be fresh in my head?
Before we buried Ethan I spent most of my time next to his casket. I wanted to absorb every single thing about him.
Has time erased the small details already?
I hope not and I refuse to let it happen. I think this means it's time for me to watch our home videos again.
I suppose Mother's Day isn't going to be too bad. Of course it could have been a billion times better if Ethan was still here but, I work with what God has given me.
After work I plan on spending some time with the boys at the cemetery.
I was terrified of the cemetery as a child and I'm glad the boys aren't afraid. Holy Cross has become somewhat of a refuge for our little family. The kids play as if we were at a park and that's fine by me. I don't ever want them to feel sadness over losing their little brother. John and I plan on making Ethan a part of our lives always. After "family time" at the cemetery, John and I are heading off to the Arco Arena to watch Alicia Keys. Most of you already know why, but I'm pretty sure we're going to bawl like babies once she starts performing.
I've been especially weepy these past few days. Our very good friends had their second child two weeks ago and we went to visit them yesterday. I hadn't seen their little girl yet and I thought I was ready to be around a newborn again. John already saw her and he was fine. I figured I would be okay too. Then again, he is a guy so he's had years of training in his ability to hold back his emotions. After holding her for about 30 seconds I started to feel my eyes burn. I fought desperately to hold back my tears and quickly gave her back to her Mommy.
That new baby smell gets me all the time. She was beautiful and holding her made me miss my son terribly. I forgot what it felt like to hold a baby and I felt horrible.
Shouldn't these memories still be fresh in my head?
Before we buried Ethan I spent most of my time next to his casket. I wanted to absorb every single thing about him.
Has time erased the small details already?
I hope not and I refuse to let it happen. I think this means it's time for me to watch our home videos again.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Ladybugs...
I adored ladybugs when I was a little girl. When I was a kid I could catch ladybugs (and butterflies) with my bare hands. This was not an easy task to accomplish since both insects spend a majority of their time flying. Catching bugs was an unusual talent (admittedly kinda weird), but I was quite proud of it. As a child I was infamous for displaying my catch in empty Goober & Grape jars. I used to think that they were so pretty and "owning one", even if only for a short while, made me feel like I had my own little slice of heaven.
I lost interest in bugs as I got older. My definition of beauty changed and insects were not on that list. As womanhood steadily approached, ladybugs slowly entered extinction in my little world. Ladybugs are tiny creatures and I simply stopped noticing them as I lost interest in bug catching. Like most pre-teen girls, I started to spend less time outside and more time indoors listening to love songs & thinking of boys. After all these years, ladybugs have slowly started to reappear from "extinction". They have re-entered my world.
This might sound strange, but I'm convinced Ethan has something to do with it. Let me reiterate – ladybugs are TINY – so I find it very odd that I'm seeing them everywhere these days. For some reason, the ladies are always within arms each. I haven't been "catching them", but we've started to develop a relationship again.
They fly to me.
I've had a ladybug hang out on my hand on three separate occasions at the cemetery. (Including today.) So maybe, just maybe, my son is trying to give me a little slice of heaven again. I don't know. Or perhaps my eyes just see differently now. The darkness of death has shed light on how beautiful life is. The purity of nature has a different meaning to me. Appreciating it has makes me feel closer to God and in turn, makes me feel closer to my son.
Perhaps the ladybugs are there to remind me that I should allow myself to relive my innocence once more. I spend so much time "growing up" that maybe I have to allow myself to "be a kid" sometimes. Life is too short to be so serious all the time.
Then again, maybe they're just bugs & I have to stop finding a "meaning to things" all the freaking time. I have no clue.
If only there were answers to all of life's mysteries.
I lost interest in bugs as I got older. My definition of beauty changed and insects were not on that list. As womanhood steadily approached, ladybugs slowly entered extinction in my little world. Ladybugs are tiny creatures and I simply stopped noticing them as I lost interest in bug catching. Like most pre-teen girls, I started to spend less time outside and more time indoors listening to love songs & thinking of boys. After all these years, ladybugs have slowly started to reappear from "extinction". They have re-entered my world.
This might sound strange, but I'm convinced Ethan has something to do with it. Let me reiterate – ladybugs are TINY – so I find it very odd that I'm seeing them everywhere these days. For some reason, the ladies are always within arms each. I haven't been "catching them", but we've started to develop a relationship again.
They fly to me.
I've had a ladybug hang out on my hand on three separate occasions at the cemetery. (Including today.) So maybe, just maybe, my son is trying to give me a little slice of heaven again. I don't know. Or perhaps my eyes just see differently now. The darkness of death has shed light on how beautiful life is. The purity of nature has a different meaning to me. Appreciating it has makes me feel closer to God and in turn, makes me feel closer to my son.
Perhaps the ladybugs are there to remind me that I should allow myself to relive my innocence once more. I spend so much time "growing up" that maybe I have to allow myself to "be a kid" sometimes. Life is too short to be so serious all the time.
Then again, maybe they're just bugs & I have to stop finding a "meaning to things" all the freaking time. I have no clue.
If only there were answers to all of life's mysteries.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
It's here!
Ethan's headstone came in yesterday. Seeing his name and picture reaffirmed that it is indeed my son's body down there. I try very hard to forget the morbidity behind this fact and sometimes I forget that the biological part of my son is in the ground.
Call me anal, but I'm only 99.9% happy with his headstone. I was not pleased with the way they cropped his "signature picture". The photo people cropped out the entire background and all you can see is his face. I'm a stickler for perfection and I plan on replacing his photo in the near future. I don't care if I have to drop more money on his headstone. Aside from flowers, I will never have the opportunity to buy my son anything ever again. I want to make sure his headstone feels right.
Aside from my personal beef with the cropping, the placement of his headstone was oddly comforting. It brings me one step closer to closure. I only have two more things to do before the "grieving chapter" of my life can be closed. I need to muster up enough emotional energy to start writing thank you notes and I have to finish his scrapbook. Once I complete those tasks, I will be completely done mourning
…sort of.
I know that I losing my son will always be sad, but I gave myself a deadline to stop holding onto my sorrow. Lagging on doing "Ethan stuff" only prolongs the pain.
Call me anal, but I'm only 99.9% happy with his headstone. I was not pleased with the way they cropped his "signature picture". The photo people cropped out the entire background and all you can see is his face. I'm a stickler for perfection and I plan on replacing his photo in the near future. I don't care if I have to drop more money on his headstone. Aside from flowers, I will never have the opportunity to buy my son anything ever again. I want to make sure his headstone feels right.
Aside from my personal beef with the cropping, the placement of his headstone was oddly comforting. It brings me one step closer to closure. I only have two more things to do before the "grieving chapter" of my life can be closed. I need to muster up enough emotional energy to start writing thank you notes and I have to finish his scrapbook. Once I complete those tasks, I will be completely done mourning
…sort of.
I know that I losing my son will always be sad, but I gave myself a deadline to stop holding onto my sorrow. Lagging on doing "Ethan stuff" only prolongs the pain.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Robert Frost...
A poem by Robert Frost...
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leafs a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
This poem has been imbedded in my memory for 13 years. Out of all the poems I have ever read, this has been the only one. (Thank you S.E. Hinton.) I never knew why it remained stuck until yesterday.
I've come to the conclusion that my son was gold.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leafs a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
This poem has been imbedded in my memory for 13 years. Out of all the poems I have ever read, this has been the only one. (Thank you S.E. Hinton.) I never knew why it remained stuck until yesterday.
I've come to the conclusion that my son was gold.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Faith...
Ethan was my gift. Despite the fact that my son was called to heaven before me, I do not perceive God as an "indian giver". Cynicism has no place in the heart of a person who truly has faith.
As I helplessly watched my son's condition deteriorate, I refused to be angry with God. Though, there were times when I felt like I was staring the devil directly in the face. As we approached Ethan's final day, I could feel the devil testing my faith in God's plan. Yet, I stood firm. Losing Ethan brought me closer to God even though I would have expected the complete opposite. Having my baby in heaven has made me a better person.
I maintained my strength when an elderly gentleman in the hospital laboratory looked me dead in the eye and told me "it didn't matter" that my son was dying. My encounter with that pitiful man in the lab was the first time I became aware of the devil's presence. Although the natural evil inside of me (inside all of us) commanded me pummel him with my fists, I resisted the temptation. I wasn't even angry. I felt sorry for him and openly forgave that man for being so heartless to a mother who was losing her child. The devil walked away. May God bless that horrible man on his judgment day.
I desperately clung onto my faith even though a demon on my shoulder silently urged me to spite God for taking my son back. Ethan was my gift and he was sent down to me with for a reason. There was a purpose to his life. Not once did I look up to the sky and despise God's will for my baby's life. God's plan hurt, but I embraced it. Oh Lord did it hurt to embrace, but.... losing my son will always hurt.
When the day came, my knees didn't buckle when Ethan's spirit left his body. I did not beg for a miracle. I let go and I kept my faith in God. After my sweet Ethan was gone I found myself broken, but repairable. Tears still flow from my eyes, but each tear that I shed helps me see light at the end of this dark tunnel.
I like to think that I've learned a profound lesson about life after my encounter with death. With death, I learned the capacity of my own inner strength. I also learned the extent of my faith in God. By no means am I a straight-laced Catholic. I never was and I never will be. No one is perfect, but I know that maintaining trust in God is what we need to live life successfully. If we allow ourselves to incorporate Him in our lives, the hurdles life throws us will be easier to jump over.
I didn't learn this important lesson until I met and ultimately lost Ethan. Before I was blessed with my gift, I metaphorically placed God on the back burner. God was in my heart, but I did not allow Him into my life. "Life" took over and I found excuses for why I couldn't go to church. I was "too busy" to be with God, but I expected Him to be with me at all times. Even though I knew God was with me always, I didn't honor Him. I should have focused on maintaining my relationship with God. Despite my ignorance, He still stood by me and kept me strong. Wow. God is good and He continues to carry me through my anguish.
I am sharing this with you not because I feel like I am "holier than thou". I chose to share this because I believe Ethan's legacy was to remind me (and to remind those who are near and dear to my heart) that we shouldn't forget about God. I know that Ethan didn't die in vain and because of this I'll continue to adhere to my 2nd chance with God. Ethan was given to me and taken back for a reason. I thank the Lord everyday for my gift, my son.
There is something to be learned from Ethan. Maintain your relationship with God and the rest should come easy. Continue to thank God for whatever gifts He has bestowed upon you. Appreciate everything that He has given you and that includes the struggles you may face. Life is precious.
Cherish every minute of it.
As I helplessly watched my son's condition deteriorate, I refused to be angry with God. Though, there were times when I felt like I was staring the devil directly in the face. As we approached Ethan's final day, I could feel the devil testing my faith in God's plan. Yet, I stood firm. Losing Ethan brought me closer to God even though I would have expected the complete opposite. Having my baby in heaven has made me a better person.
I maintained my strength when an elderly gentleman in the hospital laboratory looked me dead in the eye and told me "it didn't matter" that my son was dying. My encounter with that pitiful man in the lab was the first time I became aware of the devil's presence. Although the natural evil inside of me (inside all of us) commanded me pummel him with my fists, I resisted the temptation. I wasn't even angry. I felt sorry for him and openly forgave that man for being so heartless to a mother who was losing her child. The devil walked away. May God bless that horrible man on his judgment day.
I desperately clung onto my faith even though a demon on my shoulder silently urged me to spite God for taking my son back. Ethan was my gift and he was sent down to me with for a reason. There was a purpose to his life. Not once did I look up to the sky and despise God's will for my baby's life. God's plan hurt, but I embraced it. Oh Lord did it hurt to embrace, but.... losing my son will always hurt.
When the day came, my knees didn't buckle when Ethan's spirit left his body. I did not beg for a miracle. I let go and I kept my faith in God. After my sweet Ethan was gone I found myself broken, but repairable. Tears still flow from my eyes, but each tear that I shed helps me see light at the end of this dark tunnel.
I like to think that I've learned a profound lesson about life after my encounter with death. With death, I learned the capacity of my own inner strength. I also learned the extent of my faith in God. By no means am I a straight-laced Catholic. I never was and I never will be. No one is perfect, but I know that maintaining trust in God is what we need to live life successfully. If we allow ourselves to incorporate Him in our lives, the hurdles life throws us will be easier to jump over.
I didn't learn this important lesson until I met and ultimately lost Ethan. Before I was blessed with my gift, I metaphorically placed God on the back burner. God was in my heart, but I did not allow Him into my life. "Life" took over and I found excuses for why I couldn't go to church. I was "too busy" to be with God, but I expected Him to be with me at all times. Even though I knew God was with me always, I didn't honor Him. I should have focused on maintaining my relationship with God. Despite my ignorance, He still stood by me and kept me strong. Wow. God is good and He continues to carry me through my anguish.
I am sharing this with you not because I feel like I am "holier than thou". I chose to share this because I believe Ethan's legacy was to remind me (and to remind those who are near and dear to my heart) that we shouldn't forget about God. I know that Ethan didn't die in vain and because of this I'll continue to adhere to my 2nd chance with God. Ethan was given to me and taken back for a reason. I thank the Lord everyday for my gift, my son.
There is something to be learned from Ethan. Maintain your relationship with God and the rest should come easy. Continue to thank God for whatever gifts He has bestowed upon you. Appreciate everything that He has given you and that includes the struggles you may face. Life is precious.
Cherish every minute of it.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Fun...
For nearly two years I did nothing but spend my days at work, nights at school, and "free time" at home with the kids. Most of you know that the phrase "I'm going out" rarely escaped my mouth thanks to my seven day work week.
After Ethan passed, people convinced me that I should "go out and try to have fun" because I "needed" it. They felt that I deserved to have fun not only because I've struggled for so long, but also because I lost my son. To some degree I agreed and thus I reluctantly obliged.
In the past few weeks I've made some attempts to have conventional fun. I haven't declined invitations for "party time". Although I find myself increasingly capable of slowly moving on, I've still experienced waves of guilt and self doubt.
This Sunday will be two month mark of Ethan's passing. I've gone out to "let loose" three times since Ethan's death. All three times I've thought of Ethan inbetween drinks and giggles. The same two questions continue hit me at the most inappropriate times.
Should I really be going out and having fun? Isn't this a little too soon?
It always happens when I'm in mid-drink and I'm convinced that the echo from within the glass is responsible for bouncing thoughts back to me. Guilt-ridden thoughts come flooding back as I stare at smiling faces through my glass. Like I said, I've gotten very good at putting up a facade. Unfortunately, alcohol can't impair me enough to stop thinking about my baby.
No matter how much I try to drown out my sorrows and "stop thinking", I can't. I don't want to end up being a "weepy drunk" so I limit my intake of "fun". GUI (grieving under the influence) can be a dangerous game. I have to resist the temptation to get fully intoxicated. God forbid I have an "emotional accident" and spoil the fun.
Then again if I allowed myself to "get wasted", at least then I can stop thinking. It's a catch 22 really. Although I'll admit that I do indeed have fun when I'm out, I'm sad at the same time. I should win an Oscar for Best Performance.
Will fun ever be the same again?
After Ethan passed, people convinced me that I should "go out and try to have fun" because I "needed" it. They felt that I deserved to have fun not only because I've struggled for so long, but also because I lost my son. To some degree I agreed and thus I reluctantly obliged.
In the past few weeks I've made some attempts to have conventional fun. I haven't declined invitations for "party time". Although I find myself increasingly capable of slowly moving on, I've still experienced waves of guilt and self doubt.
This Sunday will be two month mark of Ethan's passing. I've gone out to "let loose" three times since Ethan's death. All three times I've thought of Ethan inbetween drinks and giggles. The same two questions continue hit me at the most inappropriate times.
Should I really be going out and having fun? Isn't this a little too soon?
It always happens when I'm in mid-drink and I'm convinced that the echo from within the glass is responsible for bouncing thoughts back to me. Guilt-ridden thoughts come flooding back as I stare at smiling faces through my glass. Like I said, I've gotten very good at putting up a facade. Unfortunately, alcohol can't impair me enough to stop thinking about my baby.
No matter how much I try to drown out my sorrows and "stop thinking", I can't. I don't want to end up being a "weepy drunk" so I limit my intake of "fun". GUI (grieving under the influence) can be a dangerous game. I have to resist the temptation to get fully intoxicated. God forbid I have an "emotional accident" and spoil the fun.
Then again if I allowed myself to "get wasted", at least then I can stop thinking. It's a catch 22 really. Although I'll admit that I do indeed have fun when I'm out, I'm sad at the same time. I should win an Oscar for Best Performance.
Will fun ever be the same again?
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Mouring...
After Ethan passed away, the hospital directed me to several "Infant Loss" support groups online. I tried to be open-minded and searched for another mother who fit my "demographic". I had no success because I suppose not too many young Moms lose their babies. I quickly abandoned that potential outlet and tried to make sense of my feelings by my damn self.
Although I share this grief with John, the pain I feel inside is something only a mother can feel. Other young Moms have sympathized with me, but no one could really empathize with my situation. There's a huge difference and frankly, my isolation pisses me off. Even though I have all of this support, I still feel alone.
I've gotten very good at putting up an "I'm okay" façade. On the outside I appear to be doing well...same old Tiff. I still initiate risqué conversation for chuckles and my spirits seem to be "back to normal". Oh, but I am far from it.
My friends...this is simply my coping mechanism!
I miss my son and still deeply bleed from losing him. My heart feels ripped apart and I don't have very many options to grieve. I don't share my feelings on such a public space for pity. I share because blogging has been the only thing that HAS helped. I revert to things that are familiar (blogging, pretending to be the same) because I have no other choice. This shit hurts, but I have to lie to myself and pretend like it doesn't. If I knew any other way to make it stop hurting, I'd do it.
For now, this will have to suffice.
Although I share this grief with John, the pain I feel inside is something only a mother can feel. Other young Moms have sympathized with me, but no one could really empathize with my situation. There's a huge difference and frankly, my isolation pisses me off. Even though I have all of this support, I still feel alone.
I've gotten very good at putting up an "I'm okay" façade. On the outside I appear to be doing well...same old Tiff. I still initiate risqué conversation for chuckles and my spirits seem to be "back to normal". Oh, but I am far from it.
My friends...this is simply my coping mechanism!
I miss my son and still deeply bleed from losing him. My heart feels ripped apart and I don't have very many options to grieve. I don't share my feelings on such a public space for pity. I share because blogging has been the only thing that HAS helped. I revert to things that are familiar (blogging, pretending to be the same) because I have no other choice. This shit hurts, but I have to lie to myself and pretend like it doesn't. If I knew any other way to make it stop hurting, I'd do it.
For now, this will have to suffice.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Light...
Many people ask...
If God loves us, then why do we suffer?
We should be safe. We shouldn't feel preyed upon. We shouldn't be subjected to scary medical conditions. We shouldn't die!
But...we do. And that is life.
I heard an interesting quote on Catholic radio the other day...
"The light of Christ shines even brighter during times of darkness."
And...ain't that the truth? Believe it or not, God is present when devastating things happen to us. In fact, He is even more present when we suffer. He did not leave us or forget about our existence. The suffering did not occur because God neglected us. God continues to watch over us through our suffering.
I believe in this because I have lived it.
I have been in this darkness. Among other hardships, I have lost a child. And I am raising a child who lives with a potentially fatal condition. Life isn't easy and my heart has been hurt. Numerous times. Words cannot even come close to describing what I feel on a daily basis. And quite frankly, I have been traumatized by the hardships that I have faced. It is impossible to conquer pain. Scars are here to stay. Wounds heal and pain subsides, but the healing does not take away the fact that the trauma occurred. But, what gets me through the day is this...
I know that God does not punish. God loves.
It is God's love that brings forth comfort during times of darkness. Our Father lights our paths with his love. God's guidance teaches us to derive invaluable wisdom from any despair we may face. He will show us the way if we let Him. Let Christ be your guiding light through whatever darkness you may face. You will feel God shining upon you if you open your path to Him.
Do not allow the darkness to make you lose your way.
If God loves us, then why do we suffer?
We should be safe. We shouldn't feel preyed upon. We shouldn't be subjected to scary medical conditions. We shouldn't die!
But...we do. And that is life.
I heard an interesting quote on Catholic radio the other day...
"The light of Christ shines even brighter during times of darkness."
And...ain't that the truth? Believe it or not, God is present when devastating things happen to us. In fact, He is even more present when we suffer. He did not leave us or forget about our existence. The suffering did not occur because God neglected us. God continues to watch over us through our suffering.
I believe in this because I have lived it.
I have been in this darkness. Among other hardships, I have lost a child. And I am raising a child who lives with a potentially fatal condition. Life isn't easy and my heart has been hurt. Numerous times. Words cannot even come close to describing what I feel on a daily basis. And quite frankly, I have been traumatized by the hardships that I have faced. It is impossible to conquer pain. Scars are here to stay. Wounds heal and pain subsides, but the healing does not take away the fact that the trauma occurred. But, what gets me through the day is this...
I know that God does not punish. God loves.
It is God's love that brings forth comfort during times of darkness. Our Father lights our paths with his love. God's guidance teaches us to derive invaluable wisdom from any despair we may face. He will show us the way if we let Him. Let Christ be your guiding light through whatever darkness you may face. You will feel God shining upon you if you open your path to Him.
Do not allow the darkness to make you lose your way.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I miss him...
I miss my son. Whenever the weather is gorgeous like this, I look forward to visiting Ethan at the cemetery even more. I visit him every day, rain or shine, but the moment is even more special when I'm not shivering. I love sitting on a blanket and simply talking to my son.
The cemetery is a beautiful place this time of year. There are flowers everywhere. Spring also brings the ground to life and I've been watching daisies slowly carpet his plot. The grass is starting to heal alongside with my heart. Although, I must say the grass is making much better progress mending itself together.
My heart on the other hand, is a different story.
On days like this, I miss Ethan the most. Beautiful, get-out-of-the-house days are rare. I planned on taking a trip to the park when Ethan got a little older. Taking pictures is my "thing" and I couldn't wait to take a million shots of my three boys playing at the park.
I would have made PB&J sandwiches and brought a blanket to spread out on the grass. I envisioned Ethan squinting his newborn eyes at me as I shielded him from the sun. I imagined that I would tickle his toes with a blade of grass just like I did when the boys were small. He probably would have cooed with delight just like Kevin and Anthony did. I can still visualize this moment, but this moment will never happen.
I never thought his first experience with grass would be at the cemetery.
God, this hurts.
The cemetery is a beautiful place this time of year. There are flowers everywhere. Spring also brings the ground to life and I've been watching daisies slowly carpet his plot. The grass is starting to heal alongside with my heart. Although, I must say the grass is making much better progress mending itself together.
My heart on the other hand, is a different story.
On days like this, I miss Ethan the most. Beautiful, get-out-of-the-house days are rare. I planned on taking a trip to the park when Ethan got a little older. Taking pictures is my "thing" and I couldn't wait to take a million shots of my three boys playing at the park.
I would have made PB&J sandwiches and brought a blanket to spread out on the grass. I envisioned Ethan squinting his newborn eyes at me as I shielded him from the sun. I imagined that I would tickle his toes with a blade of grass just like I did when the boys were small. He probably would have cooed with delight just like Kevin and Anthony did. I can still visualize this moment, but this moment will never happen.
I never thought his first experience with grass would be at the cemetery.
God, this hurts.
Monday, April 14, 2008
25%...
Once insomnia hits me, there is nothing I can do about it. Unfortunately, I have to wait it out because quite honestly, sleeping pills scare me. I'm exhausted, but my mind is congested with too many thoughts. I'm blogging in hopes that my mind will be cleared of all of this traffic so I can finally sleep. I can't stop thinking a lot of things, but lately "25%" has consumed my mind.
I want another child. There...I've said it. I want another baby.
By no means am I trying to replace Ethan because my son is simply irreplaceable. I can't find the words to explain why I want another child, but I know something inside of me is telling me that Ethan was not meant to be my youngest.
Upon learning of "Another's" impending arrival, I began mentally preparing myself to raise more than two children. For months I prepared the boys for the arrival of their little brother. For months I worried, fantasized, and eagerly anticipated what it would be like to be outnumbered by three kids. I still have three children and the boys still have a little brother, but we just can't be with him right now. Once Ethan was gone and we learned that his deficiency was definitely genetic, I debated heavily about whether or not I wanted to have more children.
Ultimately I decided 25% chance or not, I am putting my faith in God that this won't happen to us again. There is a 75% chance that we'll have a child that isn't Factor VII Deficient so why should I obsess about 25%? That would be pessimistic. If I decided that I was too afraid that I'd lose another child, then I'd be a hypocrite for saying that I trust God.
Who am I to anticipate what God has planned for me? Who am I to say that Ethan was meant to be my last born? Who am I to say that losing my son was truly suffering?
Yes...it hurt to lose Ethan, but that would be looking at the glass as half empty. I find solace celebrating that Ethan was given to me in the first place. Glass half full right? I feel that I would be doing myself and the boys a great injustice if I called it quits due to fear. What message would that be sending the boys? What message am I sending Ethan?
God willing, Ethan will not be my last child. God willing, Ethan will be the first and last child I will lose. I have a feeling that my son is acting as my advocate up there in heaven. He is making me feel something that I can't possibly describe, but whatever it is...
I am not afraid.
I just have to wait and see what God's plan is for me.
I want another child. There...I've said it. I want another baby.
By no means am I trying to replace Ethan because my son is simply irreplaceable. I can't find the words to explain why I want another child, but I know something inside of me is telling me that Ethan was not meant to be my youngest.
Upon learning of "Another's" impending arrival, I began mentally preparing myself to raise more than two children. For months I prepared the boys for the arrival of their little brother. For months I worried, fantasized, and eagerly anticipated what it would be like to be outnumbered by three kids. I still have three children and the boys still have a little brother, but we just can't be with him right now. Once Ethan was gone and we learned that his deficiency was definitely genetic, I debated heavily about whether or not I wanted to have more children.
Ultimately I decided 25% chance or not, I am putting my faith in God that this won't happen to us again. There is a 75% chance that we'll have a child that isn't Factor VII Deficient so why should I obsess about 25%? That would be pessimistic. If I decided that I was too afraid that I'd lose another child, then I'd be a hypocrite for saying that I trust God.
Who am I to anticipate what God has planned for me? Who am I to say that Ethan was meant to be my last born? Who am I to say that losing my son was truly suffering?
Yes...it hurt to lose Ethan, but that would be looking at the glass as half empty. I find solace celebrating that Ethan was given to me in the first place. Glass half full right? I feel that I would be doing myself and the boys a great injustice if I called it quits due to fear. What message would that be sending the boys? What message am I sending Ethan?
God willing, Ethan will not be my last child. God willing, Ethan will be the first and last child I will lose. I have a feeling that my son is acting as my advocate up there in heaven. He is making me feel something that I can't possibly describe, but whatever it is...
I am not afraid.
I just have to wait and see what God's plan is for me.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
FAQ: Factor VII Deficiency...
I realize that a lot of you may be hesitant to ask me about what happened to Ethan. I can assure you all that I am perfectly fine with talking about it. Being deficient in Factor VII was part of who he was and I am not ashamed of his bleeding disorder. I decided to post some FAQs about what Factor VII Deficiency is. I got this from the Canadian Hemophilia Society website and all of the information is pretty legit. If you have more questions, please DON’T HESITATE to ask. I’d rather answer questions so the truth is known. I would prefer that there wasn’t any speculation about what happened to Ethan. Without further ado, here they are...
How did Ethan get Factor VII Deficiency and are the boys okay?
A carrier is a person who carries the defective gene but is not affected by the disease. In order for a person to inherit Factor VII Deficiency, both parents must be carriers. In such a case, the child inherits two defective Factor VII genes; one from the mother and the other from the father.
If a person inherits the defective gene from only one of his or her parents, he/she will be a carrier. His/her Factor VII level may be below normal, but there will be no signs of the disease.
Figure 1 shows what can happen when a carrier of Factor VII Deficiency has children with another carrier. There is a 1-in-4 chance that a child will have severe Factor VII Deficiency, a 1-in-2 chance that a child will be a carrier and a 1-in-4 chance that a child will be normal.
Approximately 1 out of 1000 persons is a carrier of the defective Factor VII gene. However, because both parents need to be carriers of the defective gene in order to pass on the disease, severe Factor VII Deficiency is extremely rare—it occurs in 1 in 500,000 people. The disease affects males and females in equal numbers.
What are the odds right? John and I are both carriers, but we don’t have any family history of Factor VII Deficiency. I guess we were just meant to be. The boys are fine. They do not carry a defective gene.
Could it have been detected during pregnancy?
Factor VII Deficiency is often diagnosed when a newborn has a bleeding episode soon after birth, possibly following circumcision. The diagnosis is made by measuring the level of Factor VII in the blood.
However, in some cases, Factor VII Deficiency is diagnosed later in childhood or even in adulthood.When a patient shows signs of abnormal bleeding, his/her doctor normally asks for a small blood sample in order to measure the length of time it takes for a clot to form. One of the things this test can show, especially when it is prolonged, is a deficiency in Factor VII.
* Factor VII is a trace protein found in the blood. It plays a role in the coagulation cascade, the chain reaction that is set in motion to form fibrin when there is an injury to a blood vessel. Factor VII is activated, or "turned on", by tissue factor. It is turned into Factor VIIa (the "a" stands for "activated"). Factor VIIa in turn activates Factor X (pronounced Factor 10) and Factor IX (pronounced Factor 9), allowing the clotting process to continue. If one of the clotting proteins such as Factor VII is absent, the chain reaction is broken, and clotting occurs more slowly, or not at all.
Because we didn’t have any family history of Factor VII Deficiency and we already had two perfectly healthy children, there was no genetic testing needed for me. Even if there was testing performed for hemophilia A or B (the most common bleeding disorder), Factor VII Deficiency is SO rare that it still wouldn’t have been detected. Besides, even if I found out while I was pregnant, I would NOT terminate the pregnancy.
How did the Factor VII Deficiency cause a brain bleed?
Blood is carried throughout the body in a network of blood vessels. When tissues are injured, damage to a blood vessel may result in leakage of blood through holes in a vessel wall. The vessels can break near the surface, as in the case of a cut. Or they can break deep inside the body, causing a bruise or an internal hemorrhage.
Clotting, or coagulation, is a complex process that makes it possible to stop injured blood vessels from bleeding. As soon as a blood vessel wall breaks, the components responsible for coagulation come together to form a plug at the break. There are several steps involved in forming this plug.
* Blood platelets, which are very tiny cell fragments, are the first to arrive at the break. They clump together and stick to the wall of the damaged vessel.
* These platelets then emit chemical signals that call for help from other platelets and from clotting factors.
* The clotting factors, including Factor VII, are tiny plasma proteins. The strands of fibrin join together to weave a mesh around the platelets. This prevents the platelets from drifting back into the blood stream.
The most common sites of bleeding with Factor VII Deficiency are:
* the joints. This is called hemarthrosis. Frequent bleeding into a joint can cause permanent damage to the joint, called hemophilic arthropathy.
* the muscles and body tissues. These bleeds are called hematomas. They, too, can cause serious damage, if left untreated.
* the central nervous system – the brain or the spine. This can happen after an injury or for no apparent reason.
* the mouth, usually after dental surgery or a tooth extraction. This type of bleeding is quite common in Factor VII Deficiency. Depending on the severity of the deficiency of Factor VII, affected persons may need to be treated with factor replacement therapy before any dental treatment so as to avoid bleeding.
Surprisingly, bleeding during or after surgery is quite rare in people with Factor VII Deficiency, even among those whose deficiency is severe enough to cause frequent joint bleeds.
Several studies have shown that up to 16% of people with severe Factor VII Deficiency have had a bleed in the Central Nervous System, either the brain or spine. This means that good care in a treatment centre that specializes in bleeding disorders is of vital importance. Intracranial bleeding can also occur in newborns due to trauma at birth.
Ethan’s brain hemorrhage occurred spontaneously and happened all at once. He did not slowly bleed and he did not suffer any head trauma during birth. The amount of blood that escaped was far too much. He bled into the part of his brain that controls the body’s vital signs so he could not breathe on his own. Ethan’s life was being supported artificially by the ventilator. People with bleeding disorders will suffer from random bleeds in their joints, GI tract, brain, or neck. There is no way to foresee them, the bleeds just happen. Sometimes the bleeds are fatal and other times they are not. There was no surgical intervention available to save his life.
What will happen if you have another baby that turns out to be Factor VII Deficient?
Treatment with blood products or blood substitutes can temporarily raise Factor VII levels high enough to stop bleeding. This is called factor replacement therapy. Factor VII concentrates can be infused:
* at the time of surgery
* to the mother during and after childbirth
* for serious bleeding in a joint
* after trauma
* before dental surgery or a tooth extraction
* for any other serious bleeding episode
Currently, the most commonly used treatment in Factor VII concentrate. This factor concentrate is made from human plasma and contains only Factor VII.
If John and I decide to have another child, they will be extra cautious with my pregnancy. I would have to have a C-section to avoid birth trauma. The baby will also have factor VII administered immediately after birth. They can attempt to test for it while the baby is still in the womb, but the results aren’t guaranteed. Again...even if I do have another child like Ethan, I would NOT terminate the pregnancy. If we have another deficient child, factor replacement therapy is effective in treating the deficiency. Ethan did not pass from being Factor VII Deficient, he passed due to the brain bleed. Preventing bleeds by keeping the factor level normal can guarantee that any future children we have will not have an untimely ending. People with bleeding disorderes can still lead healthy, fulfilling lives.
Hope this has helped answer some of your questions. If you have any more questions that you would like me to answer, message me. PLEASE, don’t hesitate to ask. I don’t care what the question is or how uncomfortable you may think it will be to ask me. Just ask. I don’t want speculation about what happened to my son. I’ve come across a person from my past who at first tried to pretend that the "news" did not reach them. It wasn’t until after I mentioned what happened that this person said "Oh yeah, I heard." I’m sure this person meant no harm, but nonetheless it was still an uncomfortable situation. The encounter upset me a little and it changed my outlook on what I chose to disclose about Ethan. I came to the conclusion that the truth is FAR BETTER than hearsay. Wouldn’t you rather know the truth anyway?
So again, just ask...it’s better for everyone that way.
How did Ethan get Factor VII Deficiency and are the boys okay?
A carrier is a person who carries the defective gene but is not affected by the disease. In order for a person to inherit Factor VII Deficiency, both parents must be carriers. In such a case, the child inherits two defective Factor VII genes; one from the mother and the other from the father.
If a person inherits the defective gene from only one of his or her parents, he/she will be a carrier. His/her Factor VII level may be below normal, but there will be no signs of the disease.
Figure 1 shows what can happen when a carrier of Factor VII Deficiency has children with another carrier. There is a 1-in-4 chance that a child will have severe Factor VII Deficiency, a 1-in-2 chance that a child will be a carrier and a 1-in-4 chance that a child will be normal.
Approximately 1 out of 1000 persons is a carrier of the defective Factor VII gene. However, because both parents need to be carriers of the defective gene in order to pass on the disease, severe Factor VII Deficiency is extremely rare—it occurs in 1 in 500,000 people. The disease affects males and females in equal numbers.
What are the odds right? John and I are both carriers, but we don’t have any family history of Factor VII Deficiency. I guess we were just meant to be. The boys are fine. They do not carry a defective gene.
Could it have been detected during pregnancy?
Factor VII Deficiency is often diagnosed when a newborn has a bleeding episode soon after birth, possibly following circumcision. The diagnosis is made by measuring the level of Factor VII in the blood.
However, in some cases, Factor VII Deficiency is diagnosed later in childhood or even in adulthood.When a patient shows signs of abnormal bleeding, his/her doctor normally asks for a small blood sample in order to measure the length of time it takes for a clot to form. One of the things this test can show, especially when it is prolonged, is a deficiency in Factor VII.
* Factor VII is a trace protein found in the blood. It plays a role in the coagulation cascade, the chain reaction that is set in motion to form fibrin when there is an injury to a blood vessel. Factor VII is activated, or "turned on", by tissue factor. It is turned into Factor VIIa (the "a" stands for "activated"). Factor VIIa in turn activates Factor X (pronounced Factor 10) and Factor IX (pronounced Factor 9), allowing the clotting process to continue. If one of the clotting proteins such as Factor VII is absent, the chain reaction is broken, and clotting occurs more slowly, or not at all.
Because we didn’t have any family history of Factor VII Deficiency and we already had two perfectly healthy children, there was no genetic testing needed for me. Even if there was testing performed for hemophilia A or B (the most common bleeding disorder), Factor VII Deficiency is SO rare that it still wouldn’t have been detected. Besides, even if I found out while I was pregnant, I would NOT terminate the pregnancy.
How did the Factor VII Deficiency cause a brain bleed?
Blood is carried throughout the body in a network of blood vessels. When tissues are injured, damage to a blood vessel may result in leakage of blood through holes in a vessel wall. The vessels can break near the surface, as in the case of a cut. Or they can break deep inside the body, causing a bruise or an internal hemorrhage.
Clotting, or coagulation, is a complex process that makes it possible to stop injured blood vessels from bleeding. As soon as a blood vessel wall breaks, the components responsible for coagulation come together to form a plug at the break. There are several steps involved in forming this plug.
* Blood platelets, which are very tiny cell fragments, are the first to arrive at the break. They clump together and stick to the wall of the damaged vessel.
* These platelets then emit chemical signals that call for help from other platelets and from clotting factors.
* The clotting factors, including Factor VII, are tiny plasma proteins. The strands of fibrin join together to weave a mesh around the platelets. This prevents the platelets from drifting back into the blood stream.
The most common sites of bleeding with Factor VII Deficiency are:
* the joints. This is called hemarthrosis. Frequent bleeding into a joint can cause permanent damage to the joint, called hemophilic arthropathy.
* the muscles and body tissues. These bleeds are called hematomas. They, too, can cause serious damage, if left untreated.
* the central nervous system – the brain or the spine. This can happen after an injury or for no apparent reason.
* the mouth, usually after dental surgery or a tooth extraction. This type of bleeding is quite common in Factor VII Deficiency. Depending on the severity of the deficiency of Factor VII, affected persons may need to be treated with factor replacement therapy before any dental treatment so as to avoid bleeding.
Surprisingly, bleeding during or after surgery is quite rare in people with Factor VII Deficiency, even among those whose deficiency is severe enough to cause frequent joint bleeds.
Several studies have shown that up to 16% of people with severe Factor VII Deficiency have had a bleed in the Central Nervous System, either the brain or spine. This means that good care in a treatment centre that specializes in bleeding disorders is of vital importance. Intracranial bleeding can also occur in newborns due to trauma at birth.
Ethan’s brain hemorrhage occurred spontaneously and happened all at once. He did not slowly bleed and he did not suffer any head trauma during birth. The amount of blood that escaped was far too much. He bled into the part of his brain that controls the body’s vital signs so he could not breathe on his own. Ethan’s life was being supported artificially by the ventilator. People with bleeding disorders will suffer from random bleeds in their joints, GI tract, brain, or neck. There is no way to foresee them, the bleeds just happen. Sometimes the bleeds are fatal and other times they are not. There was no surgical intervention available to save his life.
What will happen if you have another baby that turns out to be Factor VII Deficient?
Treatment with blood products or blood substitutes can temporarily raise Factor VII levels high enough to stop bleeding. This is called factor replacement therapy. Factor VII concentrates can be infused:
* at the time of surgery
* to the mother during and after childbirth
* for serious bleeding in a joint
* after trauma
* before dental surgery or a tooth extraction
* for any other serious bleeding episode
Currently, the most commonly used treatment in Factor VII concentrate. This factor concentrate is made from human plasma and contains only Factor VII.
If John and I decide to have another child, they will be extra cautious with my pregnancy. I would have to have a C-section to avoid birth trauma. The baby will also have factor VII administered immediately after birth. They can attempt to test for it while the baby is still in the womb, but the results aren’t guaranteed. Again...even if I do have another child like Ethan, I would NOT terminate the pregnancy. If we have another deficient child, factor replacement therapy is effective in treating the deficiency. Ethan did not pass from being Factor VII Deficient, he passed due to the brain bleed. Preventing bleeds by keeping the factor level normal can guarantee that any future children we have will not have an untimely ending. People with bleeding disorderes can still lead healthy, fulfilling lives.
Hope this has helped answer some of your questions. If you have any more questions that you would like me to answer, message me. PLEASE, don’t hesitate to ask. I don’t care what the question is or how uncomfortable you may think it will be to ask me. Just ask. I don’t want speculation about what happened to my son. I’ve come across a person from my past who at first tried to pretend that the "news" did not reach them. It wasn’t until after I mentioned what happened that this person said "Oh yeah, I heard." I’m sure this person meant no harm, but nonetheless it was still an uncomfortable situation. The encounter upset me a little and it changed my outlook on what I chose to disclose about Ethan. I came to the conclusion that the truth is FAR BETTER than hearsay. Wouldn’t you rather know the truth anyway?
So again, just ask...it’s better for everyone that way.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Glass Half Full...
I’ve come to the conclusion that there are worse things that can happen in life than death. The fact that life must go on despite death is even crueler than death itself. I know that sounds like a completely cynical thing to say, but it’s a fact of life and I’ve come to terms with it.
Life goes on whether you want it to or not.
I should have shut down died right there with Ethan, but I didn’t. Believe me… my heart still continues to ache with his loss, but I know that life MUST go on. I recognize that Ethan would have wanted me to be happy even though his passing has done nothing but fill me with sorrow.
I want to do what my son would have wanted so I’ve tried to move on with life. A part of me died when my son left this world and I will never be the same person again. However, it is what I choose to do with this experience that will define what type of mother I am. Yes I’m a changed person, but "what kind of different" I turn out to be is entirely up to me. Do I go crazy or stay strong? Choice number two works better for me, but it’s not an easy feat to accomplish.
Ethan’s passing has made me equally weak and strong. Losing him made me realize how vulnerable my heart really is. (I'm an emotional hemophiliac now.) His passing also made me realize my own inner strength. (I surprised myself when I didn’t go crazy with grief.)
Life threw me a huge lemon and somehow I have to figure out how to make lemonade. Eventually, I have to re-learn how to enjoy that lemonade. I’ve always tried to be an optimist, but it’s hard to see the glass as half full right now. I question my ability to see anything as "full" when I struggle to not feel so empty inside. Nevertheless, I try. Life goes on right? I try my best to make my heart stop hurting. I try my best to forget, but I’m not trying to forget Ethan.
I will NEVER forget my son.
What I am trying to forget is how much it hurts to not have him in my arms. What I am trying to forget are the last moments we spent with him in the emergency room. What I am trying to forget is the fact that I will never see him grow up. Well, trying to forget is hard to do.
No matter how hard I try to remember "only the good", certain thoughts continue to haunt my mind. The "why factor" preoccupies me sometimes.
Why did this have to happen to my son? Why did he have to be Factor VII Deficient? Why couldn’t there be a way to save him?
Obsessing about "why factors" has gotten me no where. It just makes me have a pessimistic outlook on life. Asking "why" to questions that don’t have worldly answers is pointless. I have to learn how to stop thinking about "why" because I’ve known "why" all along. To simply put it…
it was God’s will.
That should be enough right? I have to have faith that someday that answer will be enough. Eventually the "whys" will slowly fade away. The glass will slowly stop being half empty and start to be half full.
For now, I take things day by day and look forward to getting a little bit closer to "closure". His 40th day passed on Sunday so John and I have stopped praying the rosary every evening so our son can "rest". I got two steps closer to closure yesterday too. We met with Ethan’s hematologist and learned that he did indeed inherit Factor VII Deficiency from the both of us. We have a 25% chance that any male children we have will be born with it, but at least we can be prepared in the future. Should we decide to cross that bridge again, as always we’re going to hope for a girl because females are rarely born with inherited bleeding disorders since women are XX. I suppose there is some light at the end of the tunnel, but God only knows what He has planned for us. There’s a 75% chance that our next male child won’t get it, but that 25% is still risky. Nonetheless, I’m glad we know how it happened now.
We also approved the final draft for Ethan’s headstone yesterday. I’ve obsessed about giving all of my children meaningful names and looking at Ethan’s name on the headstone was breathtaking. It was beautiful. It finally dawned on me that aside from giving him life, his name will be the only gift that John and I will ever give him. In this life and in the next, he will always have that name.
Ethan Nikolas de Leon(END) – his name turned out to be so appropriate, but not in a sad way.
I don’t find irony in his initials even though some of my family members have. He was supposed to be the end of our children (if three kids was too crazy) or at least the end of the boys if John and I decided try a fourth time for a girl.
The name Ethan means "strong". Despite the fact that he did not survive the bleed, my son’s spirit was strong. He went through so much and still he went peacefully. Because all of our children have a saint’s name (Catholic tradition), Nikolas was derived from the patron saint (guardian) of children St. Nicholas. I have faith that my son is in heaven being guarded by St. Nicholas and nurtured by God.
Ethan Nikolas de Leon, my son. I miss him so much, but life goes on.
P.S. BIG THANK YOU to all of you who wanted to remember Ethan with a blanket donation. I am happy to report that the ICN babies will be wrapped in luxurious warmth thanks to you all. The blankets were lovely.
Life goes on whether you want it to or not.
I should have shut down died right there with Ethan, but I didn’t. Believe me… my heart still continues to ache with his loss, but I know that life MUST go on. I recognize that Ethan would have wanted me to be happy even though his passing has done nothing but fill me with sorrow.
I want to do what my son would have wanted so I’ve tried to move on with life. A part of me died when my son left this world and I will never be the same person again. However, it is what I choose to do with this experience that will define what type of mother I am. Yes I’m a changed person, but "what kind of different" I turn out to be is entirely up to me. Do I go crazy or stay strong? Choice number two works better for me, but it’s not an easy feat to accomplish.
Ethan’s passing has made me equally weak and strong. Losing him made me realize how vulnerable my heart really is. (I'm an emotional hemophiliac now.) His passing also made me realize my own inner strength. (I surprised myself when I didn’t go crazy with grief.)
Life threw me a huge lemon and somehow I have to figure out how to make lemonade. Eventually, I have to re-learn how to enjoy that lemonade. I’ve always tried to be an optimist, but it’s hard to see the glass as half full right now. I question my ability to see anything as "full" when I struggle to not feel so empty inside. Nevertheless, I try. Life goes on right? I try my best to make my heart stop hurting. I try my best to forget, but I’m not trying to forget Ethan.
I will NEVER forget my son.
What I am trying to forget is how much it hurts to not have him in my arms. What I am trying to forget are the last moments we spent with him in the emergency room. What I am trying to forget is the fact that I will never see him grow up. Well, trying to forget is hard to do.
No matter how hard I try to remember "only the good", certain thoughts continue to haunt my mind. The "why factor" preoccupies me sometimes.
Why did this have to happen to my son? Why did he have to be Factor VII Deficient? Why couldn’t there be a way to save him?
Obsessing about "why factors" has gotten me no where. It just makes me have a pessimistic outlook on life. Asking "why" to questions that don’t have worldly answers is pointless. I have to learn how to stop thinking about "why" because I’ve known "why" all along. To simply put it…
it was God’s will.
That should be enough right? I have to have faith that someday that answer will be enough. Eventually the "whys" will slowly fade away. The glass will slowly stop being half empty and start to be half full.
For now, I take things day by day and look forward to getting a little bit closer to "closure". His 40th day passed on Sunday so John and I have stopped praying the rosary every evening so our son can "rest". I got two steps closer to closure yesterday too. We met with Ethan’s hematologist and learned that he did indeed inherit Factor VII Deficiency from the both of us. We have a 25% chance that any male children we have will be born with it, but at least we can be prepared in the future. Should we decide to cross that bridge again, as always we’re going to hope for a girl because females are rarely born with inherited bleeding disorders since women are XX. I suppose there is some light at the end of the tunnel, but God only knows what He has planned for us. There’s a 75% chance that our next male child won’t get it, but that 25% is still risky. Nonetheless, I’m glad we know how it happened now.
We also approved the final draft for Ethan’s headstone yesterday. I’ve obsessed about giving all of my children meaningful names and looking at Ethan’s name on the headstone was breathtaking. It was beautiful. It finally dawned on me that aside from giving him life, his name will be the only gift that John and I will ever give him. In this life and in the next, he will always have that name.
Ethan Nikolas de Leon(END) – his name turned out to be so appropriate, but not in a sad way.
I don’t find irony in his initials even though some of my family members have. He was supposed to be the end of our children (if three kids was too crazy) or at least the end of the boys if John and I decided try a fourth time for a girl.
The name Ethan means "strong". Despite the fact that he did not survive the bleed, my son’s spirit was strong. He went through so much and still he went peacefully. Because all of our children have a saint’s name (Catholic tradition), Nikolas was derived from the patron saint (guardian) of children St. Nicholas. I have faith that my son is in heaven being guarded by St. Nicholas and nurtured by God.
Ethan Nikolas de Leon, my son. I miss him so much, but life goes on.
P.S. BIG THANK YOU to all of you who wanted to remember Ethan with a blanket donation. I am happy to report that the ICN babies will be wrapped in luxurious warmth thanks to you all. The blankets were lovely.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Remembering Ethan...
I have been thinking of ways to thank the Intensive Care Nursery for taking such good care of Ethan during his last days here on Earth. I asked our social worker for ideas of what we could do to show our gratitude in memory of Ethan and she came up with a wonderful suggestion...
To express our thanks, John and I will be donating some soft blankets to the ICN.
When we held Ethan in the ICN, all they had were hospital blankets to swaddle him in. The staff doubled them up for warmth when John and I held him the night before he was disconnected from the ventilator. (The day they took him off the vent we brought comfortable blankets from home to personalize the moment.)
Hospital blankets are thin and not nearly as warm and snuggly as the fuzzy kind you can buy at Carters or Target. I didn’t mind at the time, but now that I think about it holding Ethan in a "real" blanket probably would have made things more personal and less "hospital". (If you’re a parent or have a baby in the family you should know what I mean.)
The ICN has rocking chairs so why not warm blankets? If you can’t take your baby home, it should at least feel a little more special when you’re there. Parents come there all the time to hold their babies and I’d like to think our contribution will change the ambiance for the moment. Precious time should be spent feeling special.
We’re going to buy some blankets tomorrow. If you would like to contribute a blanket in memory of Ethan please let me know - you decide whether you want your blanket be gender specific or unisex. I can pick it up from you or you can drop it off at my house. I’ll be collecting for the next two weeks. I plan taking a trip to the ICN after his 40th day (April 6th).
Thanks in advance for helping us remember Ethan.
To express our thanks, John and I will be donating some soft blankets to the ICN.
When we held Ethan in the ICN, all they had were hospital blankets to swaddle him in. The staff doubled them up for warmth when John and I held him the night before he was disconnected from the ventilator. (The day they took him off the vent we brought comfortable blankets from home to personalize the moment.)
Hospital blankets are thin and not nearly as warm and snuggly as the fuzzy kind you can buy at Carters or Target. I didn’t mind at the time, but now that I think about it holding Ethan in a "real" blanket probably would have made things more personal and less "hospital". (If you’re a parent or have a baby in the family you should know what I mean.)
The ICN has rocking chairs so why not warm blankets? If you can’t take your baby home, it should at least feel a little more special when you’re there. Parents come there all the time to hold their babies and I’d like to think our contribution will change the ambiance for the moment. Precious time should be spent feeling special.
We’re going to buy some blankets tomorrow. If you would like to contribute a blanket in memory of Ethan please let me know - you decide whether you want your blanket be gender specific or unisex. I can pick it up from you or you can drop it off at my house. I’ll be collecting for the next two weeks. I plan taking a trip to the ICN after his 40th day (April 6th).
Thanks in advance for helping us remember Ethan.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Smell...
When I took Physiology last semester I learned that smell is the most powerful sense linked to memory.
Our ability to associate different scents with specific memories occurs due to a link in the limbic system, otherwise known as the emotional part of the brain. Certain smells will uncontrollably conjure up vivid memories. These memories can set off heavily-rooted waves of emotion depending on what or whom we associate that particular scent with.
Sometimes smell will make us remember things we have forgotten.
Wednesday will be the five week mark of Ethan’s passing. The last time I inhaled my son’s intoxicating scent was the day his spirit left his tiny body. That was also the last time I cradled him in my arms...
...the last time I felt like my arms were full.
The day he passed, I immediately boxed up the clothes he wore in an attempt to preserve his sweet smell. I wanted to hold onto as much of Ethan as possible and his scent was part of that. Because I already knew that smell triggers powerful memories, I didn’t want the last "scent memory" of my son to be associated with formaldehyde. I was already anticipating that preservation would have robbed my baby of his signature smell. I know "saving a scent" sounds totally crazy, but grief makes you do crazy things.
I was clinging onto whatever I could.
Today was the first time I opened up the box and smelled his clothes. My arms felt especially empty today and I just wanted to feel like Ethan was still around. Ironically, the first outfit I took out was the last one he wore, the outfit he was in when we took him to the emergency room. Immediately after I pressed his clothing onto my face and inhaled deeply, I unexpectedly started crying.
I know I may seem like a masochist for doing this to myself, but I really missed Ethan today. Smelling my baby made me realize how much I miss nurturing him. It made me remember what it felt like to have him in my arms. I didn’t think that smelling him would affect me the way it did. Had I known that I’d lose it at that very moment, I probably would have waited a while before I opened up the box.
When he was in the ICN his smell was comforting, it didn’t make me sad. John and I carried Ethan’s hats everywhere when we were playing the waiting game at the hospital - it was portable comfort at the time. I suppose I was just trying replicate that comfort to make myself feel better.
My crying jag and the sadness I’ve felt afterward was totally unexpected. It made the reality of him being gone even harder to cope with.
I mean, he’s really gone.
Everything feels so real today... realer that it has ever felt. Before Ethan was born I washed his newborn layette and folded it neatly in drawers. We had to start fresh since Ethan was a surprise pregnancy...everything he had was brand new. He was so loved that his wardrobe was huge - at least enough to last him his entire 1st year! I distinctly remember being excited with anticipation as I prepared for his grand entrance into our lives.
All of the preparations I made before his arrival were put away this weekend; his drawers have been cleared out. I folded up the clothes I washed and boxed up the stuff with tags on them. Tomorrow we’re bringing everything to the ICN so the staff can use their discretion to distribute it to needy families. I guess sitting there staring at his empty drawers while smelling clothing heavily infused with his scent made me remember how much I miss him. I created my own terrible juxtaposition and the contrast didn’t make any sense.
I smelled my baby, but I had physical evidence that he was truly gone. The smell triggered memories of what it felt like to hold him, but my arms were empty. It made me feel a whole new level of anguish.
Once again my scab has been ripped off and my emotional hemophilia has set in. I think it might take a while for this particular bleed to stop.
At least I know opening up the box won’t make me feel so sad in the future.
Our ability to associate different scents with specific memories occurs due to a link in the limbic system, otherwise known as the emotional part of the brain. Certain smells will uncontrollably conjure up vivid memories. These memories can set off heavily-rooted waves of emotion depending on what or whom we associate that particular scent with.
Sometimes smell will make us remember things we have forgotten.
Wednesday will be the five week mark of Ethan’s passing. The last time I inhaled my son’s intoxicating scent was the day his spirit left his tiny body. That was also the last time I cradled him in my arms...
...the last time I felt like my arms were full.
The day he passed, I immediately boxed up the clothes he wore in an attempt to preserve his sweet smell. I wanted to hold onto as much of Ethan as possible and his scent was part of that. Because I already knew that smell triggers powerful memories, I didn’t want the last "scent memory" of my son to be associated with formaldehyde. I was already anticipating that preservation would have robbed my baby of his signature smell. I know "saving a scent" sounds totally crazy, but grief makes you do crazy things.
I was clinging onto whatever I could.
Today was the first time I opened up the box and smelled his clothes. My arms felt especially empty today and I just wanted to feel like Ethan was still around. Ironically, the first outfit I took out was the last one he wore, the outfit he was in when we took him to the emergency room. Immediately after I pressed his clothing onto my face and inhaled deeply, I unexpectedly started crying.
I know I may seem like a masochist for doing this to myself, but I really missed Ethan today. Smelling my baby made me realize how much I miss nurturing him. It made me remember what it felt like to have him in my arms. I didn’t think that smelling him would affect me the way it did. Had I known that I’d lose it at that very moment, I probably would have waited a while before I opened up the box.
When he was in the ICN his smell was comforting, it didn’t make me sad. John and I carried Ethan’s hats everywhere when we were playing the waiting game at the hospital - it was portable comfort at the time. I suppose I was just trying replicate that comfort to make myself feel better.
My crying jag and the sadness I’ve felt afterward was totally unexpected. It made the reality of him being gone even harder to cope with.
I mean, he’s really gone.
Everything feels so real today... realer that it has ever felt. Before Ethan was born I washed his newborn layette and folded it neatly in drawers. We had to start fresh since Ethan was a surprise pregnancy...everything he had was brand new. He was so loved that his wardrobe was huge - at least enough to last him his entire 1st year! I distinctly remember being excited with anticipation as I prepared for his grand entrance into our lives.
All of the preparations I made before his arrival were put away this weekend; his drawers have been cleared out. I folded up the clothes I washed and boxed up the stuff with tags on them. Tomorrow we’re bringing everything to the ICN so the staff can use their discretion to distribute it to needy families. I guess sitting there staring at his empty drawers while smelling clothing heavily infused with his scent made me remember how much I miss him. I created my own terrible juxtaposition and the contrast didn’t make any sense.
I smelled my baby, but I had physical evidence that he was truly gone. The smell triggered memories of what it felt like to hold him, but my arms were empty. It made me feel a whole new level of anguish.
Once again my scab has been ripped off and my emotional hemophilia has set in. I think it might take a while for this particular bleed to stop.
At least I know opening up the box won’t make me feel so sad in the future.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
One Month Ago...
Ethan would have been a month old today and I still can’t believe he’s gone.
He should be snuggled beside me right now -- warm and cozy in my arms. I should be ranting about sleepless nights and the craziness of three kids, but...I’m not. It just wasn’t the plan for him or for me.
His birth and passing happened so quickly that sometimes I feel like it was all just a dream. If my body wasn’t still showing signs that I did indeed have a baby, I’d probably think I hallucinated all of this. If I didn’t have a memory, I’d think I was going crazy. My grief is still very much real and I keep praying for the sadness to subside.
My emotional wound is slowly healing, but the scab just keeps getting picked off. On occasion something will rip it off and my heart starts bleeding all over again. I feel completely helpless when sad memories of Ethan, the memories of him being sick, come flooding back.
Encounters with people who "heard what happened" or perhaps even hearing key words like brain, blood, or baby will start a slow bleed again. Seeing mothers with newborns Ethan’s age hurts even more;
I feel sad with envy.
If I’m going to remember my son, I want to remember him during healthier times. I don’t want to be sad when I think of him. I don’t want to envy moms with "living babies", but I can’t help it.
Every time my scab is ripped off and a bleed begins, it takes a long time for my heart to heal. I suppose I too am a hemophiliac in that retrospect. Ethan was Factor VII deficient and I’m deficient when it comes to emotional bleeds - we both have difficulty clotting.
We both need a little help to stop the bleeding.
The human mind is interesting. Sometimes I feel like my thoughts don’t make sense and I constantly find myself looking to John for validation. I am compelled to ask him if I’m going crazy.
I’m okay, but I’m not okay.
How can something so ridiculous make so much sense? Several of you have sent me messages and that has helped me more than you know. Writing has been therapeutic in itself, but I feel a little more sane when I know that my feelings are feasible and not just signs of me slowly losing my mind.
The upside to all of this "scab picking" is at least I can look forward to my wound getting a little smaller each time the scab is ripped off. Once I’ve gotten over the bleed, I know that the same scenario won’t trigger another one. I guess I just have to wait until all possible scenarios have presented themselves before I can say that I’m done bleeding. I’ll still have the scar, but the eventually the physical pain, the scab, will be gone.
With time, I’ll heal; I just have to find patience.
He should be snuggled beside me right now -- warm and cozy in my arms. I should be ranting about sleepless nights and the craziness of three kids, but...I’m not. It just wasn’t the plan for him or for me.
His birth and passing happened so quickly that sometimes I feel like it was all just a dream. If my body wasn’t still showing signs that I did indeed have a baby, I’d probably think I hallucinated all of this. If I didn’t have a memory, I’d think I was going crazy. My grief is still very much real and I keep praying for the sadness to subside.
My emotional wound is slowly healing, but the scab just keeps getting picked off. On occasion something will rip it off and my heart starts bleeding all over again. I feel completely helpless when sad memories of Ethan, the memories of him being sick, come flooding back.
Encounters with people who "heard what happened" or perhaps even hearing key words like brain, blood, or baby will start a slow bleed again. Seeing mothers with newborns Ethan’s age hurts even more;
I feel sad with envy.
If I’m going to remember my son, I want to remember him during healthier times. I don’t want to be sad when I think of him. I don’t want to envy moms with "living babies", but I can’t help it.
Every time my scab is ripped off and a bleed begins, it takes a long time for my heart to heal. I suppose I too am a hemophiliac in that retrospect. Ethan was Factor VII deficient and I’m deficient when it comes to emotional bleeds - we both have difficulty clotting.
We both need a little help to stop the bleeding.
The human mind is interesting. Sometimes I feel like my thoughts don’t make sense and I constantly find myself looking to John for validation. I am compelled to ask him if I’m going crazy.
I’m okay, but I’m not okay.
How can something so ridiculous make so much sense? Several of you have sent me messages and that has helped me more than you know. Writing has been therapeutic in itself, but I feel a little more sane when I know that my feelings are feasible and not just signs of me slowly losing my mind.
The upside to all of this "scab picking" is at least I can look forward to my wound getting a little smaller each time the scab is ripped off. Once I’ve gotten over the bleed, I know that the same scenario won’t trigger another one. I guess I just have to wait until all possible scenarios have presented themselves before I can say that I’m done bleeding. I’ll still have the scar, but the eventually the physical pain, the scab, will be gone.
With time, I’ll heal; I just have to find patience.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Holy Angels...
I went to visit Ethan today. I usually see him once a day, but today’s visit was a little different.
Shortly after I arrived at the cemetery another set of parents, an older Filipino couple, came to visit their child. Much like Ethan’s, the grave was still fresh with the telltale sign of perfectly cubed grass. Like Ethan’s, it still didn’t have a headstone. I’m not 100% sure, but I’m assuming they were visiting their daughter because the plot was decorated with purple and pink flowers. I always noticed that particular grave since it was one of the few there that had decoration. There are a lot of neglected plots at the children’s cemetery. I’m assuming the barren headstones belong to parents who perhaps hurt too much to visit their children or may have "forgotten" about their children over time. Either way it still breaks my heart and I hope to God I never forget about Ethan. I know I won’t, but that’s an underlying fear I have. I don’t ever want to forget.
I made eye contact with the parents as they walked toward their child’s grave. Their daughter is only a few feet from Ethan so it was pretty much unavoidable. Their child passed away before Ethan did, but I’m not sure by how much. I wondered if they lost an infant as well, but I didn’t dare ask.
I mean, what could possibly be said to someone at the cemetery?
After we exchanged awkward nods I tried to mind my own business, but there was something distracting about that couple. Maybe it was because they were Filipino or maybe it was because we shared the same heartache of losing a child, but whatever the case may be I felt compelled to watch them interact with their child. I suppose I was trying to find some sort of sign or answer since they lost their child before I did.
I was caught off guard when the Mom knelt down and began to weep. I wasn’t expecting it and suddenly, I felt completely alone. This Mom lost her child before I did and she still had tears to shed. Her tears hadn’t dried up yet. My grief is fresher than hers, but I don’t have the urge to cry when I visit Ethan. I’m in mourning, but I don’t cry when it’s "expected". My tears always come at the oddest times and never at the cemetery. I’m sad, but it just doesn’t come out when it’s "appropriate".
This woman was a lot older than me, at least in her early 40’s, and I think it’s safe to say she’s more experienced with life. Although nothing can be compared to losing a child, I’m sure she’s dealt with death before -- surely she has lost a grandparent or maybe even a parent. Seeing her cry made me feel like an "inexperienced Mom".
Shouldn’t shedding tears be second nature for me?
I was hoping that watching them would help me identify with someone more, but it made me feel even more isolated.
Do I lack the "emotion" because I’m so young?
Ethan was the first major loss in my life -- I haven’t lost a parent or a grandparent. I’ve lost loved ones before, but he was the first direct link I’ve had with death.
So why wasn’t I crying for my baby at his graveside?
Shouldn’t this be worse for me since it’s my first "real loss"?
Shouldn’t this feel even more tragic since my first "real loss" just so happened to be my son?
It’s not natural to bury your child. It’s not natural to visit your baby at the cemetery. So why do I cry when I see his bottle or his clothing, but not when I see his grave? I feel sad, but my sorrow doesn’t manifest itself physically as often as I’d like it to.
I feel like my emotions are trapped inside of me. The confusing part is I don’t want to bottle it up nor do I try to hold it in. I want them to come out. Crying physically and emotionally hurts, but it’s healthy. I feel cleansed after I cry. I just think that I’m feeling so many things that it’s hard to make sense of it all. Everything is clouded by my own doubts and insecurities as a mother. My very own grief is creating a thick fog in my heart and in my mind. My vision has been compromised and I know shedding tears will help my acheive clarity. All I can do it wait for those tears to come.
I know time will help me heal, but I wish that time would come soon.
Shortly after I arrived at the cemetery another set of parents, an older Filipino couple, came to visit their child. Much like Ethan’s, the grave was still fresh with the telltale sign of perfectly cubed grass. Like Ethan’s, it still didn’t have a headstone. I’m not 100% sure, but I’m assuming they were visiting their daughter because the plot was decorated with purple and pink flowers. I always noticed that particular grave since it was one of the few there that had decoration. There are a lot of neglected plots at the children’s cemetery. I’m assuming the barren headstones belong to parents who perhaps hurt too much to visit their children or may have "forgotten" about their children over time. Either way it still breaks my heart and I hope to God I never forget about Ethan. I know I won’t, but that’s an underlying fear I have. I don’t ever want to forget.
I made eye contact with the parents as they walked toward their child’s grave. Their daughter is only a few feet from Ethan so it was pretty much unavoidable. Their child passed away before Ethan did, but I’m not sure by how much. I wondered if they lost an infant as well, but I didn’t dare ask.
I mean, what could possibly be said to someone at the cemetery?
After we exchanged awkward nods I tried to mind my own business, but there was something distracting about that couple. Maybe it was because they were Filipino or maybe it was because we shared the same heartache of losing a child, but whatever the case may be I felt compelled to watch them interact with their child. I suppose I was trying to find some sort of sign or answer since they lost their child before I did.
I was caught off guard when the Mom knelt down and began to weep. I wasn’t expecting it and suddenly, I felt completely alone. This Mom lost her child before I did and she still had tears to shed. Her tears hadn’t dried up yet. My grief is fresher than hers, but I don’t have the urge to cry when I visit Ethan. I’m in mourning, but I don’t cry when it’s "expected". My tears always come at the oddest times and never at the cemetery. I’m sad, but it just doesn’t come out when it’s "appropriate".
This woman was a lot older than me, at least in her early 40’s, and I think it’s safe to say she’s more experienced with life. Although nothing can be compared to losing a child, I’m sure she’s dealt with death before -- surely she has lost a grandparent or maybe even a parent. Seeing her cry made me feel like an "inexperienced Mom".
Shouldn’t shedding tears be second nature for me?
I was hoping that watching them would help me identify with someone more, but it made me feel even more isolated.
Do I lack the "emotion" because I’m so young?
Ethan was the first major loss in my life -- I haven’t lost a parent or a grandparent. I’ve lost loved ones before, but he was the first direct link I’ve had with death.
So why wasn’t I crying for my baby at his graveside?
Shouldn’t this be worse for me since it’s my first "real loss"?
Shouldn’t this feel even more tragic since my first "real loss" just so happened to be my son?
It’s not natural to bury your child. It’s not natural to visit your baby at the cemetery. So why do I cry when I see his bottle or his clothing, but not when I see his grave? I feel sad, but my sorrow doesn’t manifest itself physically as often as I’d like it to.
I feel like my emotions are trapped inside of me. The confusing part is I don’t want to bottle it up nor do I try to hold it in. I want them to come out. Crying physically and emotionally hurts, but it’s healthy. I feel cleansed after I cry. I just think that I’m feeling so many things that it’s hard to make sense of it all. Everything is clouded by my own doubts and insecurities as a mother. My very own grief is creating a thick fog in my heart and in my mind. My vision has been compromised and I know shedding tears will help my acheive clarity. All I can do it wait for those tears to come.
I know time will help me heal, but I wish that time would come soon.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Untitled...
I've tried hard to get my feelings straight, but it's just not happening as quickly as I want it to. I know my strength is still there, but I can't deny the fact that my grief is worse now that I can't physically see Ethan anymore. I miss him and it confuses me sometimes. I'm hurting, but I'm at peace with where my son is. He is far better off in God's hands than my own. Heaven is a far prettier place than Earth.
I know this, but it still hurts.
My body is healing from childbirth and I'm still producing milk. Physically I feel like I have a baby, but my arms are still empty. Even though I know Ethan will always be with me, my heart aches because I still feel like I'm missing something. I don't understand how it's possible to miss someone that is essentially still around in spirit. I know he is with me, but I miss feeling his presence physically. I miss his sweet smell and his soft skin. I miss holding him and kissing his tiny lips. I hate that my arms feel so barren even though I feel his spirit inside of me.
I suppose it's because I continue to dwell on the fact that I'll never get to "mother" Ethan ever again. It hurts, but I also know that the heartache that I feel, the pain of not being able to "mother" my son anymore, is a worldly ache.
Ethan will always be my son in this life and in the next. I find comfort in that fact. I'm thankful that I was given the opportunity to be his Mom at all. Ethan was so special that there was a 1:500,000 chance behind his uniqueness. God chose him to be mine even if it was only for a short while. I consider myself very lucky in that retrospect.
I just miss my baby, that's all.
I know this, but it still hurts.
My body is healing from childbirth and I'm still producing milk. Physically I feel like I have a baby, but my arms are still empty. Even though I know Ethan will always be with me, my heart aches because I still feel like I'm missing something. I don't understand how it's possible to miss someone that is essentially still around in spirit. I know he is with me, but I miss feeling his presence physically. I miss his sweet smell and his soft skin. I miss holding him and kissing his tiny lips. I hate that my arms feel so barren even though I feel his spirit inside of me.
I suppose it's because I continue to dwell on the fact that I'll never get to "mother" Ethan ever again. It hurts, but I also know that the heartache that I feel, the pain of not being able to "mother" my son anymore, is a worldly ache.
Ethan will always be my son in this life and in the next. I find comfort in that fact. I'm thankful that I was given the opportunity to be his Mom at all. Ethan was so special that there was a 1:500,000 chance behind his uniqueness. God chose him to be mine even if it was only for a short while. I consider myself very lucky in that retrospect.
I just miss my baby, that's all.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
FAQ
"What happened?" is a frequently asked question that I still don't have the complete answer to.
To be quite honest, I don't know if I ever will have an answer to that question. I don't know if I will ever understand what happened or why Ethan passed. I'm finding a lot of strength in my faith in God's plan and from the outpour of support, but I'm not going to lie
...it still hurts.
Although writing has always served as a theraputic outlet for me, there just aren't words in the English language to express what I'm feeling inside. I'm having a hard time getting my feelings out liguistically and that troubles me.
To be quite honest, I don't know if I ever will have an answer to that question. I don't know if I will ever understand what happened or why Ethan passed. I'm finding a lot of strength in my faith in God's plan and from the outpour of support, but I'm not going to lie
...it still hurts.
Although writing has always served as a theraputic outlet for me, there just aren't words in the English language to express what I'm feeling inside. I'm having a hard time getting my feelings out liguistically and that troubles me.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Funeral information...
The following information is for those of you who wish to join us in celebrating Ethan Nikolas de Leon's journey to heaven. Please feel free to pass this information along. If you wish to attend Ethan's burial, we are asking that you please wear white.
We are also having a Rosary prayer every evening for the next 7 days. Send me a message if you would like to attend.
Thank you all for your love and support. Your prayers gives us strength. God Bless.
Viewing:
MONDAY MARCH 3, 2008 3:00pm-9:00pm
Duggan's Mortuary
500 Westlake Avenue, Daly City, CA 94014
Phone: 650-756-4500
Vigil will begin at 7pm
Mass:
TUESDAY, MARCH 4, 2008 11:00am
St. Augustine Church
3700 Callan Blvd.
South San Francisco, 94080
Phone: 650-873-2282
Burial and graveside service to follow.
We are also having a Rosary prayer every evening for the next 7 days. Send me a message if you would like to attend.
Thank you all for your love and support. Your prayers gives us strength. God Bless.
Viewing:
MONDAY MARCH 3, 2008 3:00pm-9:00pm
Duggan's Mortuary
500 Westlake Avenue, Daly City, CA 94014
Phone: 650-756-4500
Vigil will begin at 7pm
Mass:
TUESDAY, MARCH 4, 2008 11:00am
St. Augustine Church
3700 Callan Blvd.
South San Francisco, 94080
Phone: 650-873-2282
Burial and graveside service to follow.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A message from my family...
We cannot begin to express enough gratitude for the love and support that we have received from our family and friends during this trying time. We are truly blessed to have you all in our lives.
From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.
Please pray for Ethan Nikolas to have a safe journey to heaven when he leaves us tomorrow morning.
From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.
Please pray for Ethan Nikolas to have a safe journey to heaven when he leaves us tomorrow morning.
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