Unwavering Strength

April 17th, 2019.  Kirk's birthday.  Those close to me know that birthday's are a big deal to me.  It's the day we celebrate the birth of those we love and all the reasons we are thankful for that special day that brought them to us.  Through all of my heartaches over the last 10 years, finding a man who is so solid, strong and wonderful is always something to celebrate.  I wake up every single day in awe of the person he is and thankful that he is such an important part of my life.  So I looked forward to his birthday.  I had already ordered a cake for him from a bakery near my brother and he planned to drive it to me early that afternoon.  I had worked the night before but set my alarm to only sleep for a few hours so I could get up and spend the day with him before he had to go to work that evening.  Even the girls were excited to get out of school to have cake with him.  Everything went as planned.  I'm pretty sure I wished him happy birthday at least 10 times that day.  But as I snapped pictures of him blowing out his candles and the girls faces with joy as they watched, I had a pit in the bottom of my stomach.  Something just didn't feel right.

I brushed it off and kissed him good-bye as he left for work.  We texted here and there as we always do before I lay down.  Around 9:40 that night, I texted him that Nola was having trouble falling asleep and he texted back saying to let her work through it.  At approximately 11:08, I woke to my phone vibrating relentlessly.  The first thing I seen on the screen were Facebook messages asking me if Kirk was working and if he was okay. I felt that pit turn into a boulder.  Then the hospital number starting ringing...I knew.  I knew something was majorly wrong. I managed to answer although I could barely breathe.  The doctor told me that they had Kirk in the ER and that he had been in a trauma.  She proceeded to tell me he had been shot twice.  The sheer panic set in.  I managed to ask her if he was okay and where he was shot at. She told me he was going to be okay and had been shot in the upper leg and hand.  A small bit of relief as I knew we could work with those injuries.  I remember another doctor getting on the phone who knew us personally and she explained that he was alert and angry but that he was going to be okay. Shortly after they hung up with me and I was still standing in the same spot hyperventilating and dry heaving, my phone rang again.  This time, the sergeant was on the phone and he told me not to drive and that an officer was on his way to pick me up and bring me to the hospital.  It was then that I realized I needed to get dressed and call someone to come over to be with the girls. My cousin is who had messaged me asking if Kirk was okay when she heard an officer had been shot so I knew she would probably answer.  She was able to get to our house before the officer and took over things with the girls so I could leave immediately.  The officer drove me to the hospital as fast as he could even though it felt like an eternity. I remember pulling into the ambulance bay and knowing I just had a short distance left to travel before I could see him and touch him.  I ran.  I ran the rest of the way. There he was.  Laying in the trauma room, calm and pale.  The first thing he said to me was, "I'm 100%" as I gasped and felt relief flood my soul.  This man who is always so strong and calm, still saying he was okay even as the trauma doctor explained that his femur was shattered and they needed another CT of his hand to see what damage was done there.  The pain, surgeries and days to follow are a blur.

There are things that stand out more than others.  His parents and brother rushing to the hospital and embracing me with so much support and love.  Driving Kirk's car home from the hospital after an officer brought it over and hearing the most profound song playing (Get Up by Shinedown) and I cried big ugly tears for the first time through this.  And the most vivid memory; the sight of seeing Kirk stand up from his bed with the help of physical therapists on day 4 and mastering the modified walker as if it was all he ever knew.  It was at that moment that I knew he would overcome this as strong as he has alway has.  His calm and steady demeanor never wavered.

We are at almost 2 months post injuries and I am even more amazed by him than I was before.  The unimaginable super man!  He still has a long ways to go in his road to recovery and healing, but has come so far already.  As hard as this all has been, I can say that this has brought us closer.  He makes me laugh and smile every single day. So many stories but for another blog.  I want to end this by saying how amazing the support has been from every angle.  From all of his family, friends, co-workers as well as mine.  They always say that the men in blue are a tight family and I can say first hand, it most definitely is.  I am so proud of this man that I am so lucky to call my own.

The Call

I know I have written about grief before.  It's a never ending cycle that people publish books about. The stages of it, the process of healing, the unusual ways that people learn to cope.  I could write about it for days and how different each day is; the song that goes on and on and on.  But the bottom line is, it sucks.  There are days when I feel like my past is just a dream and then there are days when the reality of it cripples me.  I have endless issues with over thinking, constructing scenarios that have never happened, self doubt.  I constantly fear the day when shit hits the fan again.  I brace myself for it.  Just the sight of something out of place on the kitchen counter or our mailbox being hit by the snow plow, throws me into irrational thoughts of what may have happened.  If we all had time, I could go on and on about the things my mind has blown out of proportion.  I have been through months of counseling to help me rewire the way my brain copes.  I have to talk myself off the ledge multiple times a week.  I drive myself nuts sometimes.  If you see me, will you see the pain on my face, feel the ache in my heart or the permanent pit in my stomach?  More than likely you will not.  I will keep my fears quiet and later find humor in the craziness.  But this is a cycle, a never ending cycle.  I often wonder if I will ever learn that it's okay.  Life is okay.  And even if it isn't, it will be.

Today, I got a phone call.  I recognized the number as that from University of Michigan hospital, expecting that it may be the cardiology department since my girls have an appointment next month.  But the voice on the other end was familiar.  It was one that a mother never forgets.  From the moment he asked if I was Sierra, I could hear the compassion and worry in his voice.  He said, "this is Dr. Innis, is this an okay time to talk?"  I felt so many emotions that I burst into tears.  YES, YES now is a good time, it will always be a good time to talk to this man.  He told me that he got a notification from the genetics study on my son's genome sequencing that we did back in 2013.  He explained that the pathogenic cardiac mutation changed to unknown.  This means we will continue to have my girls followed by cardiology throughout their lives.  He then told me that the unknown significance in the Mitochondrial mutation that came from me had changed to benign.  This means that we no longer need to worry that this finding caused Carter's medical issues.  So far, there's no indicator that he inherited a genetic problem from me or his dad.  I am not sure how to explain the way this feels.  All I know is that it makes me cry.  We are no closer to answers than we ever were before.  But to know that his genetic testing is still being reviewed regularly and that I will hear from this man who has meant so much to us, brings me peace.  Dr. Innis has been a place of comfort and alliance in this battle.  He has fought so hard to find answers.  He spoke at the 4th birthday benefit we organized to raise funds for research and he sat with the rest of Carter's team of specialists the day that we made the decision not to intervene anymore.  I remember sitting across from all the doctors as they explained that Carter was tired and that intubating and intervening wasn't helping him anymore and Dr. Innis got up mid way through and walked out.  He hurt with us.  This decision impacted so many people.  Carter mattered to his team, especially to Dr. Innis.  In the medical world, they see so many things and so many cases.  I imagine that doctors become conditioned and shut off from the pains that disease brings, but I can whole heartedly say that I felt the love and pain from his team as they sat through that decision with us.  We have yet to find the answers and hearing from the geneticist today reminded me that it still matters and although Carter's journey has ended, the search for a reason have not.  

All of this to say, grief sucks.  It can take us from okay to turmoil in an instant.  A smell, a voice, a picture, a memory.  It is real and it is hard.  For some reason that call this morning brought me back to the visits we had with the geneticist.  Sitting next to Carter in his wheelchair, the grin on his face and the sound of his voice as he watched and listened.  The planning it took to make the trip to Ann Arbor and the endless parking battle once we arrived in P2.  The twinge of hope I felt each time we went as I hoped for something, something that might help my little boy.  And although there was never a discovery or medication that worked, the team never gave up.  Even at the end, I like to think they still hadn't.  We all knew the same thing; that fighting was only causing suffering.  There is such a thing as saying enough is enough, is still fighting.  We had to make the hardest decision there is in life.  Letting go.  Letting go of all the things we couldn't fix. We had to let this beautiful boy go.  Fighting for what was right had become everything wrong.  So as I process the phone call I got today, I am still emotional and my heart feels raw. 

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.