A decade

I am consumed with emotions this week as I try to wrap my mind around what can happen in a decade.  And the fact that it can fly by in the blink of an eye. 10 years ago today, I was doing last minute preparations for my first baby to be born.  Last belly pictures. Checking the diaper bag for everything I thought he would need.  I still remember painting my nails the night before, like it would matter that this tiny newborn would see them when he met his mommy for the first time.  I remember choosing garnet earrings to wear to the hospital because it was both of our birthstone.  I knew this little baby boy would change my life.  But never in a million years did I think all the dreams I had for him, would never come true.  That I wouldn't be mailing 10th birthday invitations and blowing up balloons to adorn the house for his party.  I was never prepared for that, in all of my planning.  I remember being filled with so much excitement and hope as I waited for him.  I still remember his first cries and seeing his face for the first time.  Never realizing that in a decade, I would be making paper mâché balloons to leave at the cemetery on his 10th birthday.  My heart was never ready for this, it will never be ready for this.  I am bitter that he was never given the same fair chance as most other kids.  I am robbed.  I was driving to work the other day and was flooded with uncontrollable tears as I realized how close this decade was rearing its ugly face.  As I imagine what he would look like if he was still here.  And then realizing that in order to post a birthday collage like I do every year for my children, that I cannot find new pictures...they will all be the same.  They will be his toothy 7 year old pictures from the last days he was here.  He will never age.  The pictures will never change.  Their backgrounds will age as the times change.  Over the last couple of weeks, I have been scrambling to find things that I now loose sleep over.  All I have left are things.  I am so thankful I saved so many things. His art projects, locks of hair, hospital arm bands.  I am thankful that I have always been obsessed with taking pictures and I have ever angle of his face so that I never have to worry about forgetting his features.  I can almost reach out and still feel his soft skin, I can almost imagine his giggles somewhere in the distance.  I still get hints of the way he smelled.  The way he searched for me when I walked into the room.  I still look.  I still look back at his seat in the van and imagine him there.  As this decade comes and goes, I just hope that I can still imagine him so close over the years.  Despite my pain as this birthday comes, I will celebrate him.  I will celebrate the life he had here and how much he changed our lives for the good.  How strong he was through all of his battles.  We will remember him and share memories of him and never forget, everything that he will always be, to us.

Happy birthday in heaven my precious son.

Moments in life that change everything

There are moments in life that will change everything about our future.  At the time, they only seem ordinary.  But the hands of time are forever altered.  We all have specific days that are etched in our memories. What we wore that day, the faces that we will never forget, the details that didn't seem like such a big deal in the moment, but you can pinpoint as you reminisce. For me, most of the days I remember in that kind of depth, are full of heart break and agony.  The day I last remember my parents living under the same roof and hugging my dad goodbye as he left with his clothes still on hangers as he carried them out.  The day I split my forehead open and needed 10 stitches.  The day that our country was forever changed and 9-11 took a whole new meaning, as I sat in my english classroom watching the news updates on the tv in the upper corner near the chalkboard.  The day that I found out my then husband was using heroin and everything I thought was good, was a lie.  The day my son took his very last breath in my arms and I screamed for it not to be true. 
But there are also moments that changed my life for the good.  The day that each of my precious babies were born.  The day I opened my results of my NREMT and passed!  As all of those days fast forward through my memories and thoughts, there is another day that brings a smile to my face every time I think of it and the moments that keep resulting from that day.  I was training at dispatch and it was my night to do a ride along with a county officer.  I arrived 10 minutes early and was led to the briefing room beforehand.  I felt awkward and out of place but found an empty seat and tried to go as unnoticed as possible.  Soon, officers started coming in and finding seats as well.  I was introduced to the officer I would be riding with and soon after, another man came in quietly and sat at the end of the table, to my left.  His last name embroidered on his chest, stood out.  Carter. He had a styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand and didn't say much.  But I noticed him.  I remember the officer to my right spilling his cup of coffee and the others cracking jokes as they discussed any issues for the night.  I proceeded through the night doing my ride along and going about life.  A few months later, I got a friend request on Facebook from a name that took my breath away, Kirk Carter.  So close to my son's name, Carter Erick.  I had to look twice to make sure I was seeing it right.  When I took a look at his profile and realized he was the officer to my left, I decided to accept it.  Thankfully, he reached out from time to time and would ask me how I was doing.  It took a little time before we started talking more and more and he eventually asked if we could text since it would be easier.  The changes to come from this, is profound.  This man came into my life quietly but full of everything I needed.  From that first night when I was finally brave enough to go hang out with him and realized that sitting with him and doing nothing but talking, was everything right.  There was something in his eyes and in that smile, every time I seen them, that held me.  There have been so many times in the 14 months we have been dating that life has been off balance but he remains calm and collected as he tells me it's okay. He is the constant in my life that I was missing for so long.  I walked away from dispatch after 11 weeks of training, which was one of the hardest decisions I have had to make.  It just wasn't for me, even though emergency services is my calling in life.  But what I found while there, was why it was meant to be.  I don't know what the future has in store but I know right now, life just feels right. That man is everything that both myself and the girls need.  He is patient, gentle, kind, fun and wonderful. 
It's nice to be able to share how good life is for us right now! 

Another New Year

It has been 18 months, 14 days since I lost my hero.  Month by month, life continues to change. It continues to challenge and strengthen me, but it also relentlessly breaks me.  I have heard that the second year is harder than the first.  I'm not really sure it's harder or easier and doubt that it will ever be either, more or less than the other.  It's day by day.  Some days I am "okay" and some days I can physically feel my heart breaking.  The mere mention of his name still takes my breath away.  The girls will ask to listen to his songs or watch his videos and depending on which type of day I am having, I sometimes can't bear it.  I still find random things in the most unexpected places that can change my day in an instant.  Each birthday and holiday that comes and goes, is very difficult.  We still include him in everything we do, but his absence is debilitating.  I still cannot part with any of his things and his room is still in tact.  It's the only part of him that is still here and I am not sure I will ever be able to tuck away his clothes in boxes or part with the few medical supplies I still have.  Maybe that day will come, but not any time soon.  Just as people have said, I find that people speak of him less and very rarely ask me how I am doing with his loss.  Life moves on, I suppose.  But for me, his life will always go on...at least in mine.  

As I attempt to move forward and at the same honor my son, I am finishing the EMT program in the next 3 weeks.  It is something I have said for many years that I would love to do.  Medical became the biggest part of my life for 7 years and settled into my life as home.  Getting through the program has not been easy, but I am happy to say I have almost made it.  Mid-way through Carter's life I had hoped to do this with the goal of being able to better care for him at home.  But now, I hope to be able to help and support other families as they are making those difficult decisions and calls for their loved ones.  EMT is not the end goal; it is the beginning.  I am still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.  But I know I want to help people.  I want to be of help to those on their hardest days, in some form or another.  I can still remember the faces of those who truly cared and hoped for my son.  Those who cried beside me as I wept.  Those who grabbed my hand when I had nothing else to hold on to.  You never forget those people.  

So as I come up on 2018, I have no new year's resolutions or long term goals.  I simply take each day, one minute at a time.  I find victory in the smiles of my girls, the shifts I complete, the bills I pay, an empty laundry basket, my gas tank above 1/4, a decorated Christmas tree, and more than 6 hours of sleep at night.  

Shadow

There is always a shadow that I carry with me.  Every step, every turn and every moment of my day.  It doesn't matter which direction the sun shines or how dark the room is.  No matter how hard I try to redirect my soul, that shadow is always there.  I used to catch glimpses of it and cringe, but in recent days, I find that shadow comforting.  It means that my baby's time on earth was real.  His name carries emotions comparable to that of a historical event.  When I hear it or say it, I catch my breath and stop in my tracks.  Carter.  Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful child.  The loss of him is as real as the life he lived.  And both of those realities are equally painful for me right now.  When a story or memory is brought up, I get weak and crack.  Even memories that make me smile.  That smile is as painful as the tears I cry when I miss him.  For months, I have been numb.  With numbness comes constant guilt.  I feel awful for trying not to think about his absence.  I feel guilt over not opening the door to his bedroom except to get the vacuum that I store in there.  I feel saddened by my lack of speaking to him aloud.  I go through the motions of each day without much emotion and find myself seeking ways to keep myself busy.  Each day starts just like the last and the days creep by.  But as each day ends and another begins, here we are...350 days later.  The month of a May a happy month no longer.  Instead it is the month that recognizes mothers as we reminisce our babies and how they have changed our lives and made us who we are.  My first born child changed my entire world.  He was my entire existence for 7 years.  I lived and breathed for him.  At this time one year ago, I was laying beside him in a hospital bed as we waited.  Waited for him to get sick and leave this world.  My entire world slipping away.  All of the struggles and fighting to save him, coming to an end.  I was facing Mother's Day in despair.  I remember going to the mall to get a few things and having a panic attack right there next to a kiosk advertising Mother's Day gift ideas.  I left as quickly as I could to get back to my baby but found myself lost in downtown Ann Arbor with a dead cell phone. I tried with all my might to get my bearings together to find my way back.  Once back to Carter's room, I summoned a social worker to ask for help.  I knew I couldn't make it through the tougher days ahead without something to calm my nerves.  I couldn't even walk through the mall, let alone move my precious son to the hospice home.  I was sent to the psych emergency room to talk to a doctor.  I sat there staring at the rows of seats and feeling as though nothing in the world mattered anymore.  Of course, I knew my girls needed me and that life would inevitably go one.  It has to, right?!  So I sat there and cried as I told my story to a nurse, then a social worker and then a psychiatrist.  I was introduced to my new shadow that day.  The shadow of the person I once was.  I felt myself changing as I realized that I would never be the same.  The person I became when my son took his first breath; a mother.  I am still a mother, I will always be a mother.  But as I was saying goodbye to my first born, I was saying goodbye to that mother.  I am forever a different version of myself.

Below the Surface

It's been over 6 months since my precious son passed away.  6 months since I last held him, kissed him, seen his smile, heard his giggle...
And I am so far from okay, I don't even remember what it's like to be alright. Behind my smile, my entire being is filled with sorrow and heartache.  A huge part of my life is missing.  Carter was my first child; life as I knew it, was encapsulated in his every move.  I planned my entire life around his.  When I look back at those weeks before his passing, I am slammed to the ground in pain.  I find myself panicking and sobbing if I allow myself to go there.  I have no idea how I got through those days.  I spent 40 weeks planning for his arrival into this world.  Creating a nursery, attending checkup's to make sure he was growing properly and reading countless articles on motherhood and how to take care of my newborn baby.  I studied the "What to expect when expecting" book as if my life depended on it's recommendations.  I wanted everything to be just right for my son.  No matter how much I did right, everything went wrong.  My baby was born so beautiful and perfect; yet so many things were wrong.  He was sick.  He had to fight so hard to do everything.  And as his mommy, so did I.  I would have searched the world high and low to find something that could save my child.  But no matter how hard we fought, we just couldn't stop the inevitable.  When doctors told us that they couldn't do anything more for him and it was no longer fair to keep intervening...and ultimately, that our son was dying, I jumped into action yet again.  But this time it wasn't in search for recommendations or easy stuff.  It was to meet with the funeral home, cemetery and pastor to discuss our son's funeral and burial.  We planned our final goodbyes weeks before he took his last breathes.  I look back and can't believe I had the strength to do this.  I have no idea how my heart kept beating and my feet kept moving forward.  I can still see every detail of that day when his father and I sat down with the funeral director and picked out his casket, announcements, floral arrangements and colorful sharpies.  I can still remember the exact path we took at the cemetery as we looked at available plots and decided on the perfect spot under the pine tree over looking the pond as if we were just looking for a good spot to camp out.  As if that was normal.  It sounds absolutely absurd that we did these things before our son had died, but to us, it was just as important as choosing his nursery theme and going home outfit.  Only this time, we chose what he would wear for his funeral and for the rest of eternity.  I still can't walk near the boys section at stores or talk about super heroes.  I can't do Christmas shopping.  I can't look at certain pictures.  I can't wrap my mind around the fact that he is gone.  To protect myself from this torturous pain, I shut down.  I shut it off.  I don't think about any of this. Grief for me these days is survival.  I am breathing, I am living.  But I am numb.  I am doing my very best to get through the days one minute at a time.  At any given moment, something might come to mind that stops me in my tracks.  I burst into tears at the sight or mention of something that forces memories to the surface.  I work.  I work the craziest hours and leave myself little time to think.  This is how I survive.  I am struggling to reach out for counseling or support groups because I know these things will force me to stop running.  They will ask me to talk about the truth.  They will make me strip away all of the layers to what lies beneath the surface.  I am terrified it will hurt too much.  I am afraid if I break, that I will shatter.  So, just like I was doing a few months ago, I am still running.  It's what I know how to do best.  I don't think there is such thing as a "normal" way to grieve the loss of a child, but for now...I will just stay where I am because it's working.  Running through the days as I curl into a ball in my mind. 

Stay with me, my angel...to infinity & beyond.

Navigating...to where?!

Grief. I've never had a loss like this in my 30 years.  I don't know how to grieve.  I don't know what's right or wrong.  I don't know if my life will ever resemble what most would consider "normal".  I find myself navigating through the days as though nothing is out of place.  I still wake up each morning and climb out of bed.  I still make plans.  I still answer "I'm okay" when asked how I am doing, even when I'm far from okay.  I smile and laugh at silly things around me, even when I feel guilty for finding humor in such a sad world.  I am asked why Carter died from people who never knew him or his 7 years of struggles and I answer in synchronized memory from words I've repeated 10,000 times.  But through my facade of being "okay", I am broken into a million pieces.  I find myself looking for signs everywhere that Carter is still near by.  I grasp on to every cloud that resembles wings and every scent that reminds me of him.  I still trick myself into thinking he's alive and tucked away somewhere safe where he will some day come home again.  Part of this game, involves not thinking too much.  I physically and intentionally remind myself not to go there when my thoughts start to wander to his last hours, last minutes and last breathes.  I run.  I keep running.  Some days I am good at this game.  I go to work and occupy my thoughts with what is right in front of me and that is it.  It's when people see his picture in my work badge and ask how old he is and how many children I have.  A very difficult question to answer.  I still cannot say his name or age in past tense...I cannot say I only have 2 children.  I cannot.  Those words grab me from the dimension thousands of miles away and the last 6 weeks comes flying to the ground faster than the sound barrier and I feel the floor shake below me.  I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and my chest tightens to the point that I cannot breath.  There's no way around the words, "my son died".  There's no lie that can make his heart beat again.  There's no wish that will ever make him come back.  As each day run into the next, I find myself feeling more sad and angry.  Through my uncertainty with grief, this is all I know.  This is where I am.  But one thing I do know in my mixed up mind, is that I want to talk about him.  I want to be asked about him.  I don't want to be asked if I am okay, because I will never be okay.  But ask me about him.  Keep his memory alive, because that is all I can do.  If I cry, just let me cry.  If I end up turning around and walking away, please don't feel bad.  The scariest part of grief for me, is the lack of control.  I'm used to always being in control of my emotions and this is the first time in my life...I am on the verge of disaster at all times.  Carter was my entire world for 8 years (womb time and all), so I am still trying to figure this out...who I am now.  So please bear with me as I try to figure this out.  Please don't mistake my silence or lack of responses for not caring or thinking of you...I just can't find the right words for most things right now.  I'm focusing a lot of my thoughts on defying grief.  It might not make sense, but none of this makes sense. 

I want to thank all of my family, friends, co-workers, hospice team, Lyle Torrant Center family, Mott family and everyone I've met along the way...for texting, messaging, calling, sending cards and flowers and lifting us up when we are falling.  Please bear with me.

I stand behind my words

 I wrote this blog on September 23rd, 2014 on my old blog page http://mitowarriorsmomma.blogspot.com/ and it is still one of my favorite blog posts yet.  It is so true for how I felt about raising my precious boy.  I have no regrets in the decisions I made in all areas of his life.  I will forever wish that I could have cured him and kept him with me forever, but wishful thinking is my worst enemy.  I can't change what has happened to him, but I promise to always keep his memory alive.  I will always be so thankful for the gift I was given


 I gave up a while ago, but not in a way that you would think.  Anyone who is not in our shoes, may not entirely understand but let me try to explain.  Giving up doesn't mean we have "given up'' in a sense.  When we tell people about our son's medical problems and how difficult it is to see him gain and lose all of his skills, a popular phrase we hear often is, "no one knows what Carter's future holds, miracles happen every day" or "doctors don't know everything".  And I totally 100% agree, but there's another side to this as well.  Have you ever wanted something so badly, that you forget to appreciate what you DO have?!  When Carter was a baby, I hoped so badly that he would catch up in development or start doing the things his therapists worked so hard on.  I spent most of my time wishing for something that wasn't there.  I cried for all the things I had dreamed about for my first child.  I wanted all of those mommy experiences that every mother imagines.  I wanted to take Carter to the park and watch him make friends, I wanted to share my favorite snacks and foods with him in hope that he would follow in my footsteps, I wished for the day that my husband could play sports with his only son.  And over those years, I neglected to appreciate the miracles in front of me.  The smiles and giggles that Carter had over the rare toys he enjoyed.  The glimpses of eye contact that we worked so hard on in speech therapy.  The negative test results for devastating disorders that doctors wanted to rule out.  I let all those things pass me up while I still held hope for bigger things.  Without even realizing I had given up, I did.  But something different happened that may seem contradictory.  I didn't lose hope nor did I feel defeated.  Instead I feel empowered, stronger and happier.  I celebrate all the little things and brag to my family and friends about Carter's favorite squishy ball.  I laugh and enjoy the funny faces Carter makes when he watches his sisters dance and sing.  I clap and applaud when Carter poops on the potty.  I feel triumphant when Carter has a pain free family vacation where he is happy the entire time.  I go on and on about the 12 ounces of pureed baby food that he has consumed twice a day for a month now.  Do I dwell on the what if's and possibilities that could happen at any time in regards to Carter's medical conditions?  Yes, every single day.  Do I always hope for a new cure or treatment that will help my child live a better and longer life?  Every moment of every day.  But I give up on wishing for something that isn't meant to be for my son.  And the most important part of this, is that I am OKAY with that.  Being okay with something I cannot control, was the hardest obstacle by far.  I believe that miracles sometimes create unrealistic expectations.  Miracles don't always mean a magic cure or over night phenomenon.  In my world, miracles are simply every little thing that my son does.  He is alive, he is happy and he is beautiful.  THOSE are true miracles.  So I beg of my family and friends, to understand when I say that I have given up and that you will understand and respect that I don't wish for perfection anymore.  I don't beg God to change to my child.  Would you want God to change your child and the gift you have been given?  My every day miracle goes by the name "Carter".