Octobers

The other day as I parked the car Finn looked over to see a family getting out of their car. There were three kids and he said, "I wish Cale was here. Do you wish he was?"

It always makes my heart skip a beat when I see how Cale's absence has impacted Finn. He's said similar things - like the time he mentioned that the neighbors have three kids in their family and we should have three. I think he really would like to have a (living) brother and it pains me that he doesn't, but it also makes me happy that we talk about Cale enough that he really understands that someone is missing and that Cale should be here.

.....

On the 15th of this month I lit a candle for Cale, like I always do, but I couldn't help but think how much even that simple act has changed over the years. It seems grief has really grown into an almost comfortable aspect of my daily life. The sharp pain and literal ache of not having my baby is more infrequent, replaced by a somber yearning for what should have been.

I'm both grateful to be at this point in my life and also at times nostalgic for the days when the missing was all consuming. 

.....

It was eight years ago this month I learned I was pregnant with Cale. Those precious memories of the excitement and hope we felt have not been tainted by his death. I can think of our time with him and feel gratitude and happiness because it was a time full of so much love. He was wanted, he was loved, he is loved, and he is missed. This October and all others.

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Cale's 7th Birthday

My nephew Wolf was born last week. He's perfect, beautiful, and healthy and my sister is exhausted and emotional and absolutely on Cloud Nine with her sweet baby. It genuinely is wonderful to see (and I got to be there in Arizona for his arrival!), but of course it brings heavy emotions closer to the surface. My parents have three grandsons and two granddaughters and the three boys were all born in June which is special. When asked how many grandchildren he had, my ears couldn't help but eavesdrop as my dad replied, "five, but four living." I was so grateful for that reply and that acknowledgement of Cale.

What Wolf's arrival reminded me of was not only how damn special and amazing a newborns (SAFE) arrival is, but just how sad I am that Cale did not have that experience. Of course I'm sad for all our family has missed out over these last seven years, but I was reminded that his birth was not a celebration. It was grief and heartbreak and darkness. And that's just so unfair. Because he was and is none of those things. He was excitement and hope and love and he is beauty and gratitude and LOVE. 

Seven years seems so big, but I find myself thinking that every year. Early on I used to think how it was my baby who I was missing. I wanted my baby back. But lately I've been searching for what my seven year old would be like and it seems he's a familiar stranger to me. I've always said I miss who he was and miss who he should have been, but what's hard is missing what you don't even know. Who you don't even know. Tonight at dinner Finn asked why Cale had to die and after telling him that I just don't know and I wish he didn't, he simply stated, "but he should be here with us." Yes, sweetie. He should. 

Happy seven to you, Cale. Wish you were here with us. Always.

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Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. It used to sit a little heavier on my heart, and while this month will always hold a tender spot in my heart, the 15th especially, the emotions surrounding this month have just changed over the years just as my grief continues to evolve.

I want to always do something to acknowledge Cale and talk about him a little more on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day/Month, but this year was the first year that we really didn't do much. In the past we've participated in walks to remember, balloon releases, and candle lighting ceremonies. I've made candles for family and friends to light, and made a bigger deal in the past about inviting others to join us. But having just moved to a new country, move in to a new (empty) house, all we did this year was include specific thanks for Cale in our prayers and light his candle. It felt a little odd - like it wasn't really enough, but I'm also at a much more comfortable and aware point in my grief where I understand that the small gestures and the big ones can hold just as much meaning.

When we flew to England I carried Cale's urn in my bag that went on the airplane with me. Unfortunately at some point it got a chip in the bottom of it. It's a very soft stone (I don't entirely remember what we ordered - I think it's marble, but maybe not). His name has had some wear to it over the years as the engraving probably wasn't super easy on a gentle stone. And there is a little more wear on his name after our recent move. 

I was pretty upset about it, and had emailed with a few friends, but my friend Brooke made me feel better when she wrote, "I know that it's his so you want to keep it pristine and perfect and protected, but I kind of love that it's a bit damaged. Because it doesn't just sit in one place untouched--it's moved and carried and loved on and traveled with. Like how many people can say their urn is so well loved that it gets chipped?"

And that helped me look at it a little differently. Cale isn't with us how we ever imagined or wanted. But we can still do our best to ensure he is a remembered and loved part of our family. Even if that means just lighting a candle and sending him love.

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A Should Be Six Year Old

I sometimes pause when I go to write or say Cale's age. Because is it a would be age? A should be? A could have been? I guess it's all those things and I want whatever I say to convey how much it absolutely sucks that whatever I say, would/should/could, all those imply that his age is not referred to in the present tense. He will never be. A six year old, a kindergartner. A growing, thriving, living boy.

Six feels hard. They are all hard in their own way. But six somehow feels heavier to me than five did. Maybe it's because he would/should/could be off to kinder in the fall, or maybe it's because Miles and I unfortunately (and yet somewhat surprisingly) aren't together for his birthday - the first time we haven't been. Miles is attending a course out of state right now, but the other weekend when he was home we went out for dinner and talked about what we wanted to do on Cale's birthday. I mentioned that I didn't really expect him to do anything other than think about him and miss him and he gave me a little shrug and with glossy eyes said, "yeah, but I don't need a day to do that." It was a simple thing he said, but one that will stick with me and reminded me how lucky I am to have him as a partner through the thick, complicated, beautiful grief that we both still carry.

His birthday is always one for reflection, but it's true that I don't really miss him any more today than I do every day. I think his birthday is like ripping off a band aid on a wound that never heals. 

I hired a sitter to come over this morning so I could go for a run. I wanted to run six miles for Cale's sixth and was glad to not have much pain from an off and on injury I've been dealing with of late. Plus it was nice just to have the time to myself. I'm so grateful for the needy little brother and sister who are jumping all over me as I type this, but it's nice to just have some time to get lost in my own thoughts and memories for a bit.

After my run I took the kids to the beach and once I wrap up this blog we will decorate some birthday cookies that Finn helped me bake yesterday. Finn has been so sweet about Cale's birthday saying some pretty funny things throughout the day, such as when he asked me if the guys on horses were going to bring Cale a birthday gift. I had no clue what he was talking about so said, "I don't know buddy, what do you think?" and he replied, "I think they will because they brought baby Jesus gifts on his birthday." Ahhhh, right. The wise men. Maybe we need to revisit the details of that particular story, but I love how his little brain connected things. He also said that Cale died and is in Heaven, then paused and excitedly said, "he's in outer space!"

As always, the love and the thoughts and prayers are appreciated so much. Miles suggested that this year we donate to The Birthday Party Project which helps give birthday parties to children in homeless and domestic abuse shelters. Additionally, we've had some really sweet gestures done in honor of Cale and it is really comforting to know there is so much beauty and kindness sent out on the world because of him.  

Thank you for missing him with us and thank you for the birthday love.

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Christmas with Cale

A couple days ago I received a message from the sister of a guy I went to high school with just letting me know that she was thinking of me and Cale and was curious if we had any traditions for him during the holidays. She is not someone I'm close with, but just a really nice and genuine person who has reached out to me several times over the years with kind words such as her latest message. I wrote her back and told her that it means so much, to not only know that she thought of Cale, but that she actually wanted to know about how we remember him and honor him. And even better than just wondering, she took the time to ask. Those people are gold, they really are. I happily shared with her our few traditions and thought I would share them here as well. 

Each year we try to "adopt" a child that is in need off one of the Angel Trees. We try to find a boy who is close in age to the age Cale should be. This year we didn't find a five year old, but did get to adopt a six year old boy who needed clothes. We got him a jacket, several pairs of pants, a few shirts, Star Wars underwear and a Star Wars shirt, and some toys - we got this boy Legos as those seem age appropriate and I suspect Cale would be really in to Legos just as his brother is starting to more and more. It feels good to get to buy for a child in need, but to do so because of our love for Cale. 

Every year when we decorate I pause and wonder if I like the stocking set up. The damn stockings plague me every year and I think I've found something that feels as close to good as it can, but definitely not right. Right now I have four stockings on the mantle with our initials. Then I have a smaller stocking for Cale hanging from a bookshelf with his Christmas name in the sand.  When we put the tree up, I have a little tradition where the first thing that is hung on the tree is one of our Cale ornaments. On Christmas morning I light a candle either next to his sketch (which is always on our mantle) or next to his stocking and leave it lit all day. 

Love this growing collection of ornaments. Three of them are from
my annual Baby Loss Mom ornament exchange - something I look
forward to each Christmas. 

The other thing that I struggle with each year is what to write on our Christmas Card in regards to Cale. I feel like I say the same thing; "we miss him, we love him," but not saying it also doesn't feel right. Last year I didn't mention him in the short blurb, but signed the card, "with Cale forever in our hearts" which is similar to what a lot of my loss friends write and I like that it's a simple, yet powerful way to remind others that Cale is never far from heart. This year I mentioned him by acknowledging that he would have been five this year and also included his Christmas name in the sand on the back of the card as well as a picture of Finn and Mary. It felt like the right thing to do this year and I've learned that I just have to do whatever feels best and brings the most comfort.

That's about it as far as traditions go. I'd love to hear about any you have and hope that the holidays were especially gentle to those of you missing loved ones.

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October 15, 2015

Yesterday I taught class for Stroller Strong Moms. I had spoken with my friend who is in charge of the Savannah Stroller Strong Moms and she was more than on board for a class specific to acknowledging Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. So we asked the moms to wear pink or blue to class and had a balloon release afterwards for anyone interested. There were 26 moms at class and all 26 stayed after for the balloon release. They all sported pink or blue and while many of them are affected by pregnancy & infant loss, I know several who have had miscarriages, not all of them are personally affected. Yet time and time again this group of women uplift and support one another and I'm really lucky to be a part of this community.

. . . . . . . . . .

A few months ago a man reached out to Faces of Loss, Faces of Hope and asked for audio recordings to play on his radio show for a segment on infant loss that they are doing throughout October. I wrote him back and said I was interested in sharing Cale's story and he asked that I record part of my submission to Faces of Loss. So I did and it was aired a few days ago. The recording, if you want to listen to it can be found here (6th one down). It also can be found by going to "topics" and then "Faces of Loss." It felt a little awkward to read, I worried it didn't portray the emotion I feel, but I'm grateful for the opportunity to raise awareness and to share Cale in any capacity.

. . . . . . . . . .

Tonight my candle is flickering on the mantle next to the sketch of Cale. I find myself gazing up at it from time to time and truly am confronted by all the family and friends who have lit a candle with me not just for Cale, but for all the babies who are so desperately loved and missed. My friend Allyson, who took our family pictures back in June, posted a picture and said one of the candles she lit was for Cale and another was for her big brother who waits in Heaven. Allyson has a brother who was stillborn and I teared up seeing her picture and knowing how much that gesture undoubtedly meant to her mom. I can only hope that Cale's siblings show the same love for him that she showed for her brother whom she never even got to know. It gives me hope that even after I'm gone, Cale will be remember and loved and missed as he deserves to be.

. . . . . . . . . .

I hope that today has been gentle to all of you with an ache that is a little stronger today. Missing and remembering your babies with you.

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The One Who is Always Missing

A little over a month ago my youngest nephew turned two. He is from the family we were fortunate enough to live near when we were stationed in Texas. I texted my sister-in-law Jenny and commented that for a few weeks, before her eldest turned six, between her kids and mine we had a one, two, three, four, and five year old. She wrote back and said that even after Carson turns six we should have a one, two, three, four, five, and six year old. I love that she thought, so effortlessly, about where Cale should fall in the mix. It was one of those comments that meant a lot because it reminded me that I'm not the only one who is missing him and thinking about him. Jenny has always been a really great Aunt to Cale. He's lucky to have her even though he never really go to.

A little over a week ago the kids and I flew out to Texas to visit our family. The kids did great on the trip and on the way out there we even had the row to ourselves which was really nice.

Finn was coloring on the airplane and I asked, "are you coloring that for Aunt Jenny?" as we were just talking about her and he replied, "no, I'm coloring it for Cale." 

It breaks my heart wide open in the best way possible when he says sweet things like that all on his own. I'm so sad for the relationship Finn and Cale do not have, but grateful for the one that somehow even exists at all.

When we arrived in Texas Finn and his cousins picked right up where they left off, as they always do. I just love their sweet little cousin relationship and friendship. We had a wonderful time with them and squeezed in a train ride, a splash pad visit, a high school football game (Lordy those Texans don't mess around), a trip to Target, several stops at Starbucks, trips to the playground, lunch visits at school, and just lots of play time for the kids.

One day we were getting ready to walk to their neighborhood playground and the kids were waiting patiently to walk down the driveway and cross the road. A couple of them stood against the garage so the rest followed suit and I thought it was cute so quickly grabbed my phone. But my heart skipped a beat when they stood in birth order and there was a space that so clearly should have been filled by my should-be five year old.

6, (5), 4, 3, 2

My loss friends and I often talk about the space in pictures were our child(ren) should be. It's always there, but not always this glaringly obvious. 

Shortly after I snapped this picture Carson scooted closer to Finn and Mary hopped in, but there still was a space. And while in some regards these pictures are almost painful to look at, they also are brutiful reminders of the person, the entire unique and amazing little being, who is missing and always will be. 

We had a wonderful time in Texas. It was fun and made me miss living near family and I anxiously await going back. But that space will always be there. There may be chaos and joy and far too many little creatures needing something or fighting over something or making a mess of everything, but as exhausting and wonderful as it all is, that space, that void can never be filled. 

The Middles and the Littles

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Microblog Monday: Puppy

I like the idea of these microblogs for quick posts about something worth remembering when I don't have time to post much more. We are traveling now, but I wanted to share this cute picture of Mary who is snuggling with her puppy. She managed to unzip the suitcase, pull out her puppy, say "pah-py, pah-py!" over and over in the cutest little voice, then fall asleep within twenty seconds of being put in the car. She's been snuggling with this particular puppy for a couple weeks now and I just love it because not only is it adorable to see her carrying it around, but it's a special lovie, one that was given to Cale from his Aunt Jenny.

I love when my kids get to use Cale hand-me-downs. It's even more meaningful when those hand-me-downs are special to them as well.

To Cale on His Fifth Birthday

Dear Cale,

I think I've olny written you a couple times. Since your death anyway. I used to write you all the time when I was pregnant with you. I have an entire journal I kept from our time together. I thought it would be neat for you to read one day. I never thought I wouldn't get to give it to you. I never thought I would lose you. And then in an instant, you were gone and the trajectory of my life forever changed. In many ways changed for the better. But in many ways not. 

The 'not better' is obvious - you aren't in our lives. Not in the way we had planned, dreamed, and hoped for anyway. I will never stop wanting you in our lives. Fives years without you is entirely too long and I miss you just as much, some days it even feels like I miss you more. Because you would be five now. Five. No longer my baby, but a boy well on his way to just being a kid. A little person with talents and opinions and thoughts we never got to know. And that's what is so hard about five. About all the birthdays and the missed days. I wish I got to know you. I thought I would always want my baby back. For the longest time that's all I remember thinking, "I just want my baby back." But it's YOU I want back. The boy. The person. My son. I daydream about who you would have been, but sometimes I worry I compare you too much to Finn. Or I project too much of him on to the figment of you. And that's not fair, to either of you, but I suppose it is what it is.

I wonder what your relationship would have been like with Finn. I hate that he doesn't have you in his life. I hate it for Mary too, but it stings more for Finn. He's been asking for a baby brother a lot lately. He will ask, "Is Cale my brother?" and when I remind him that yes, you are his brother, he will go on to tell me that he would like two brothers. It's sweet in a way - because it's as if he is able to acknowledge that he does already have one, he just would like another. He wants to go on a "time airplane" (time machine) to see you. He also told me he would drive anywhere to see you and that he would share his toys. I think you two would have been close. I wish you were sharing a room and staying up past your bed time, and fighting over trains and just growing up together. I wish we got to see you in that role of the oldest of three kids. I wish I could sign cards, "from Cale, Finn, and Mary." Even your names sound sweet together. 

There are, of course, the reasons this trajectory of life is better. Finn and Mary. They don't replace you, they don't make up for your loss, in many ways they highlight it so much more. Like when I look at pictures and find the empty space where you would fit. It's always there, that space. And when I think of how amazing it is to see these little people grow before my eyes, but that it is something we were robbed of with you - no, their presence in no way makes up for you. But they exist because of you. And not because you died, I don't ever think that. Rather I know it's because you lived and were here that they are too. So thank you, Cale - for giving me the two of the best gifts I'll ever be given. 

I wish that today was different. I wish that we know what kind of a cake you wanted or how excited you would be to be turning five. We are sending you balloons and spending the day as a family. We are talking to your siblings about you and making you a cake and lighting a candle and all these things feel horribly inadequate and aren't the things I want to do for you, but rather with you. But I hope that today, all days, you can feel our love. That you know we still miss you and that we will never stop loving you.

You are one of the best things I ever did. Happy Birthday, Cale.

I miss you.

I love you.

Mom

. . . . . . . . . . .

Finn helped me make the cake. When we ate it he paused and said,
"we didn't say 'happy birthday' to Cale!" as we didn't actually sing "happy birthday."
He's such a sweet little brother with a sincere and precious heart.

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Walk to Remember

Last night we participated in a walk to remember for Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. The event was put on by the Zoe Foundation which is the organization we raised money for in July as part of the Summer Sizzler 5K race. There was a really good turnout - they had music and tables set up to make quilt squares as well as tables with information about resources and support, and fundraising events. Next month I will be running for the Zoe Foundation during the rock 'n roll half marathon. Cale's name (and many others) will be on the back of my race shirt.

They also had jars at each table with the names of each child being remembered, and read the names out loud of all children who were being honored:

And after a few speakers, we were invited to light a floating lantern and push it out on to the nearby lake. I found this very peaceful and beautiful.

This is the first event we have attended specifically for loss awareness since Finn was an infant. It was important to me to attend first and foremost because of Cale, but also because Finn is at the age where he's starting to understand and process things more and I want him (and Mary) to grow up knowing about Cale and the importance of still celebrating and remembering him. When I told him we were going to the lake to light a candle for baby Cale, he asked me if it was Cale's birthday. I said, "no, it's just a special day to remember him and other babies."

When we left the park Finn asked, "where baby Cale at?" and we told him that Cale died. I've told him this before (I think it's important to be honest and not try to make a confusing subject more confusing), but he did say, "when me was a baby, I died" to which we quickly corrected him. He then said, "Mary didn't die, Daddy didn't die" to which we reminded him that yes, Daddy and Mary and you and Mommy are all alive, but Cale did die. We explained that when you die, you go bye bye and don't come back. He told us that baby Cale is with Uncle Daren, but a few days prior had asked if Cale was Daren's brother. We tell him who Daren is and try our best to explain it all to him and I do think he's understanding it a little better. Today we drove past a cemetery and he said, "is baby Cale der?" which is kinda sad, but mostly I think it's intuitive of him to ask as we have never told him that Cale was in a cemetery, but he does know that a cemetery is a place you go when you die. Honestly, the drive home from the walk was almost kind of comical. Yes honey, Cale is your brother and he died. No he's not Uncle Daren's brother, that's your daddy's brother who also died. I mean it's obviously not at all funny, but funny in the I'm going to laugh so I don't cry sort of way.

Finn's tag reads, "Walking in Honor of my brother Cale" and when we got home he was adamant about wearing it, so Miles put it on his pajamas and he slept with it on. Then when he woke up he asked me to put it on the shirt he wore today. I know he doesn't get the significance of it, but it tugged at my heart nonetheless.

I'm grateful this event took place and we were able to attend. We will also participate in the Wave of Light on October 15th. I invite you all to light a candle with us at 7pm that day (or anytime) in honor of all babies who are gone, but never ever forgotten.

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A Lovely Rainy Race

Yesterday Miles and I ran a 5K race which benefited the Zoe Foundation. I mentioned it a few posts back, but this wonderful foundation exists to help families who lose a child by providing funds to help cover the costs of a funeral or memorial. We were fortunate that the Army took good care of us when we lost Cale. Our out of pocket expenses were incredibly low and the service we had for him was very small and did not place a financial burden on top of our grief. But this isn't always the case and my heart aches for those who, in addition to suffering a tremendous loss, have any sort of financial stress trying to figure out the one thing they never should have to - how to say goodbye to their baby. So in addition to running the 5K we also did a fundraiser for the Zoe Foundation and thanks to the generosity of friends and family, we passed our $500 goal and raised $525! For those of you who helped us get there - thank you so very, very much.

When we moved to Savannah I joined a stroller fitness group. I've always been a little apprehensive about groups like this since losing Cale. But in this group I've found some really kind women, who despite never enduring a similar loss, are very supportive and sympathetic. Most of them didn't know about Cale until recently and I was very touched by all those who signed up for this race and helped us honor him. Our group won the award for biggest team and the woman from our group who organized our team asked the race director to give me the award in honor of Cale. It was so nice to hear him mentioned in a public setting - a simple rarity that really means a lot. There were about 150 people who ran and probably another twenty or thirty who helped support and organize the race and considering it rained the ENTIRE time, I was really pleased with (and surprised by) the turnout.

The only downside of the day - I foolishly put my phone in the pocket of the stroller thinking it would stay dry. It did not.

I hope to participate in this race each year until we move (epecially if Miles pushes the stroller) and am so glad that we got to do some good in honor of Cale.

What Four Years Post Loss Looks Like For Me

The aching and the longing are still there, just not as acutely present. I can look at baby boys and find that my eyes don't well up with tears as they once did. In fact I can look at baby boys and not feel much of anything as they aren't my baby boy. Seeing brothers play together still makes me sigh, but it's an inward and silent sigh.

I usually don't initiate it, though sometimes I do, but when I talk to pregnant women, I can ask them questions about the future they are preparing for. I never ask, "is this your first?" or any question related to numbers of children, but sometimes I wonder if I should as there are times that I want to be asked those questions so that I'm afforded the opportunity to talk about Cale. Yet four years later I still don't always have the right answer and sometimes give a response that later causes anguish and guilt. Speaking of guilt, four years later and the guilt still plagues me in regards to all I failed to do after Cale was born. I'm afraid it always will.

Four years later and I'm still (thankfully) very much a part of the little kiddo stage of life. Conversations about crawling (not yet) and sleep patterns, pottery training, and tantrums happen almost daily. It's a season of life that I'm not ready to move on from for several reasons, but one of which is the connection it has to Cale. When the kids are older and no longer babies, I worry about what will happen to my forever baby. His presence will fade further and further from conversations and memories of pregnancies will start to blur.

As I mentioned before the age itself doesn't bother me as much as it once did. Perhaps that's because the age itself is getting less distinguishable. I should have a four year old, but four year olds don't cause me the same ache that one and two year olds once did. I suspect as time moves on it will be events that cause more reflection than age - I should have a kindergartner, a high school senior, etc.

Four years has me not only missing my baby, but also who he should have been. What's hard about that is not knowing who he should have been and not knowing exactly who it is I'm missing. Maybe he would have loved construction vehicles as much as Finn, or maybe trains or race cars would have been his obsession. What would his favorite food have been? What book would he want to read over and over? I have a hard time picturing what it would be like to have him as a four year old because he will forever be our baby.

Four years later and the acts of kindness people do for and because of Cale still mean as much as they did just following his death. Four years later and I still, very clearly, remember who was there for us (and who wasn't).

Four years has taught me that when I do bring Cale up and share his story with someone new, their reaction will lay the groundwork for any future relationship I may have with them. Four years makes you able to discern the keepers from the rest much more quickly and unabashedly.

Stories of loss and love and kindness and pain still resonate much more with me than they did over four years prior and I'm realizing more and more how connected we all are by the stories that are sometimes hard to share.

Four years later and I still can't believe he's not here, yet as I recently read another mom state, I think I'm accepting that he died (though I will forever hate the unfairness of it), but not able to accept that he never got to live. His death will always be wrong and horrible and I'll never be ok with it, but I am able to recognize it a little more for what it is - the worst kind of bad luck possible. A fluke and a tragedy.

Four years post loss and I still miss him every single day. 

Four years later and I love him just the same. 

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Cale's 4th Birthday

Cale was born four years ago today. I remember wondering what it would be like to be years out from my loss.Years intimidated me. It seemed so distant and hard to comprehend. But I love him no less today than I did four years ago  and the fact that he should be turning four today doesn't bother me so much. What bothers me is that he should be alive. Age really is just a number. Four years, or forty, I will always wish he were here. 

Each year my friend Molly has a family picnic on the birthday of her stillborn son. I thought it was a lovely idea, and since we we move around fairly often and don't have a spot dedicated to Cale in which we could spend his birthday, it seemed to be the perfect way to start a tradition that we could partake in each year. So this year we went to the beach and brought a picnic lunch. Then for dinner we grilled out at home and enjoyed a small birthday treat. It wasn't much, but it was something.

While at the beach, we were eating when Finn said, "ders Cale right der." Miles and I looked at one another wondering if we heard what we thought we did so I asked him, "what honey?" and again he said, as he pointed out in front of us towards the ocean, "ders Cale. Right der." Yet, there wasn't anyone directly in front of us. 

I asked Miles if while playing in the water with Finn, he saw Cale's name in the sand that I had written earlier. He said he saw it, but didn't say anything to Finn about it, nor did Finn comment on it. And he may have been a little confused as we were right next to a little boy's birthday party (because of course) and maybe he thought the party was for Cale since we had told him we were going to spend Cale's birthday at the beach. So it may have just been a three year old not being sure what he was saying. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was something.

Death is a hard concept to explain to children. But I'm glad we talk about Cale and glad that Finn and Mary will grow up knowing he existed and that he still matters to his family. I'm glad we can spend some time at the beach as a family and celebrate our boy. It's not what it should be, but it's something. 

"I love the boy with the utmost love of which my soul is capable, and he is taken from me….yet, in the agony of my spirit in surrendering such a treasure, I feel a thousand times richer than if I had never possessed it." 

William Wordsworth

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Blessed

When we moved to Georgia and met with the leasing agent to sign for our house, she looked at Finn and Mary, commented on how cute they are (I agree!), and told us how blessed we are. It's one of those comments that I smile for, nod in agreement, and yet cringe inwardly. After she left I asked Miles what he thinks when people make comments like that - saying how "lucky" we are our how "blessed" we are. We agreed that those comments are well intentioned, and true, and yet they are still just a little hard to digest. Because on one hand, I want to say, "if only you knew." If only you knew that we actually have another child who died at birth. That eight months after his son died, Miles' brother was killed in Afghanistan. That we had a miscarriage in between Finn and Mary, that the two cute children you see before you - it's not that we don't think we are lucky to have them, it's just that you don't know just how insanely lucky we are to have them in spite of all the bad luck that has come our way.

Several months ago I read this article which really resonated with me. The author argues that Christians should stop saying how blessed they are when it comes to materialistic possessions. That the definition of a blessing, or being blessed, according to the bible is pretty much the opposite of what modern day society depicts.  (eg - Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted  - Matthew 5:4).

But because of the way the most people view blessings, it's equally hard to digest the fact that the Bible says I'm blessed because I mourn. It seems counter-intuitive. But I'm trying to get better at not cringing when I hear people tell me how blessed I am, or how lucky we are. Because the fact of the matter is - we are blessed (both in the biblical sense and the modern sense). We have two adorable and healthy kids. I was able to carry and deliver three children. It really is amazing and I'm trying to handle those comments a little more graciously and let go of some of the bitterness. When someone tells me I'm lucky, I can't look at these faces and disagree.

Cale's death was unlucky and awful and heartbreaking. But it doesn't make Finn or Mary's presence any less wonderful. In fact it has the opposite effect.

It's just that even when I have some clarity and I can accept at face value how lucky I am, I wish I was even luckier. I wish I was even more blessed. I wish I had a nearly four year old who also needed a story and a snuggle before bed. I wish being blessed didn't feel like it had an asterisk next to it.

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As we round the corner to Cale's fourth birthday, we are raising funds for The Zoe Foundation, a local non-profit that helps newly bereaved families who have lost an infant by providing resources, support and funds to help cover memorial expenses. We will be running a 5K in July which benefits the Zoe Foundation and felt raising funds for their worthy cause would be the perfect thing to do in honor of Cale. If you would like to help us by making a donation, you can do so here. Any amount is greatly appreciated.

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Mother's Day

Last week as we were waiting for our stuff to arrive at our empty house, I was laying on the floor with the kids. Roscoe, who was probably the only member of the family not to mind the lack of furniture, happily came over to join us for a snuggle.

I grabbed my phone to take this picture, although it looks as though Finn were the photographer. Of course Mary, who had been smiling moments prior, decided she would make this adorable stink face for the picture.

It's hard to see, but I'm wearing a necklace with a little gold disc that reads, "cale." Miles got it for me last year for Mother's Day. It's a beautiful necklace and if I'm not wearing it, I'm usually wearing a silver one with his name or one with his initial my sister-in-law gave me. But almost every day, I have some sort of Cale jewelry on.

But I wish that instead of pretty necklaces symbolizing my first child, that the space in the bottom right of that picture was occupied. There will forever be an empty space in our family that I wish was filled with the immeasurable, yet massive, absence he left behind.

I miss him.

I miss him as Mother's Day approaches and I can't kiss his sweet face and look into his brown eyes and thank him for making me a mother. And I miss him on days that are sunny and beautiful and I can smile and laugh and hold my two other children (and fur baby).

I will miss him on Mother's Day and I will miss him always.

Mother's Day will always be bittersweet for me, as I know it is for so many. And to be honest I don't want the day to be much different than any other day because of the emotional complexity it brings. Today I saw some beautiful hydrangeas at the grocery store and sent a picture to Miles as a hint for a last minute gift idea. Seriously, Miles - you could just get me a plant and I'd be thrilled. Typing that out is just another reminder how much I am turning in to my own mother. Which I suppose is fitting given the topic at hand.

This Sunday I suspect will be like all days, and like all Mother's Days. A little sad, mostly happy, and also sort of exhausting. If the weather cooperates we plan to go tot he beach (because we live near a beach now and I plan to continually remind my friends and family of that fact to lure them in for a visit). And I will enjoy the day and our two kids, one who probably won't sleep through the night, the other who probably will sit in time out at least once. And I'll miss their brother with a little extra tug at my heart on the day I can claim as mine, because of him. So this Mother's Day, if your heart is heavy and your missing your own mom, or one of your kids, or your chance to have ever been a mom - I hope the day is a gentle one. And hope someone buys you a nice plant.

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What October 15th Means to Me

Dear Friends,

I don't know what I did on October 15, 2009. The day wasn't significant to me. I wish it had been. I wish I knew the importance of the day without having to be personally affected. But I didn't. Not until a year later after we had lost our son Cale and were in the thick of grief, did I come to learn about Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. And every year since then, the day has had special meaning.

It's a special day because it means that as a community, of bereaved and non-bereaved, we can come together to honor the lives of those who left us far too soon. Each year we ask our family and friends to join us and light a candle - not just for our boy, but for all those who are missed. The thought is that if everyone lights a candle at 7pm, in all time zones, there will be a worldwide wave of light. It's a lovely thought and even lovelier image. We ask that you light this one candle on this one day, but know that when you do it's every day we miss them. It's every day we ache for them and wonder what life would be like had we never had to lose them in the first place. And know that when you light that candle, it means so much.

It means you haven't forgotten Cale.

It means you still hold him in your heart. And that you miss him too, despite never knowing him.

It means you acknowledge the profound tragedy that was his loss, but also the profound importance that is his life.

It means you acknowledge all forms of pregnancy loss.

It means that you are grieving yourself. For your own loss or that of someone close to you. Or that you're grieving along with us, something that is rare and touching.

It means that you are thankful for the gift of life and grateful for the pregnancies and the children you've been blessed with.

It means that you aren't too shy to reach out.

It means that little actions make a big difference.

It means . . . so much.

So thank you, in advance, for lighting a candle today and honoring all the babies who are loved and missed every day.

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Good Night, Baby Cale

I have few stories to share that I need to write down before I forget the little details and the sweetness of them.

The first happened about a month ago. Miles had just gotten back from being in the field for several weeks and hadn't gotten much sleep while he was away. The morning after his first night back I got up with Finn and turned off the monitor so it wouldn't wake Miles. When Miles and I went to bed later that night, he passed out quickly, still exhausted from the field, but I stayed up to read. When I went to turn off my light I realized that I hadn't turned the monitor back on from earlier that morning. When I did I was surprised to see that Finn was up (it was after 11 at this point). He wasn't crying really, but he was standing in his crib saying "Mama pick e up" ('me' sounds like 'e') over and over. This wasn't like him so I quickly went into his room where he became a little more frantic "Mama pick e up! Pick e up! Mama hold." I stood at the crib and hugged him (him still standing in the crib) and I rubbed his back and said "You're ok, you're ok. Mama's here. Did you have a bad dream, are you scared?" to which he started to crawl into my arms saying "scared" while shaking his head. Poor little guy. So I picked him up and went to the rocker and he laid his head on my shoulder to "nuggle." We rocked for awhile and I could feel his body relax, though I knew he wasn't asleep. I was about to put him back in the crib when I looked up at Cale's sketch and just thought "no rush, stay where you are" and so I did. I continued to rock him, to comfort him, but really to love on both boys. It was just a sweet moment that I soaked up longer because of Cale. I'm thankful for his reminders to enjoy those moments a bit longer and a bit more fully. We rocked until I started to fall asleep myself and when I put Finn back down, he wasn't asleep, but was much more calm and content. I was too.

The other little story I wanted to share happened last night. We sit in the rocker and read a few books each night before going to bed - just a nice way to settle down for the evening and Finn will remind you each night that it's time to "read book" as he runs to his shelf to fetch a few. Finn's crib is next to the rocker on the wall opposite his dresser. Above his dresser is a framed sketch of Cale:

After we finished reading, I asked Finn to give me a hug and a kiss. I said "I love you" to which he replied "I loff you Mama" (it's the cutest thing, but my favorite was when he told me he loffed me the other week, totally unprompted - in fact it was out of the blue when he said it. . .swoon). Anyway, after we said "night, night and I loff you" I picked him up and he said "Mama nuggle" so I rocked him while standing in front of his crib about to put him down. Just as I went to put him in his crib I hear "good night, baby Cale." I pulled my head back and looked at him and just smiled, totally caught off guard. He was facing Cale's sketch while we were nuggling and I was facing the crib. He said it again, soft and sweet, "good night, baby Cale" so I said "yes, sweetheart - goodnight to baby Cale" and laid him down telling him how much I loved him.

I left the room and cried a few happy tears, thankful for such a sweet boy.

The same boy who tonight asked to "feel belly" while reading stories.

Sweet Finn - I don't know how we got so lucky to have you. But I'm forever thankful we do.

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Love You Forever

Miles deployed when I was 24 weeks pregnant with Cale and came home the day before he was born. Talk about timing being everything, egh? Anyway, before he left we went to Barnes & Noble and both picked out a book for our babe. Miles picked Where the Wild Things Are and I picked Love you Forever. It's always been a book that holds a special place in my heart because it's always been a book that holds a special place in my mom's heart - it was one she read to my siblings and me when we were little. We went on to receive two more copies of it - I can't remember if it was when I was pregnant with Cale or Finn, but to this day we still own all three copies.

Back in August I ordered this picture of Cale's name beautifully written on an Australian beach by an artist and baby loss mother herself.

The picture was first posted on Carly Marie's website where I could purchase a digital copy of it. She had a form you filled out with your baby's name and birthdate and whatever else you wanted displayed on her site the day the picture was posted. I chose the verse from  Love You Forever.

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”

So I've always loved this book, not only for its connection to myself and my mom, but to Cale as well.

Well, it gets even more special.

A couple weeks ago a friend shared this blog with me in which I learned that Robert Munsch, the author of Love You Forever, wrote the book as a tribute to his stillborn babies, two boys, born in 1979 and 1980. On his website he explained:

Love You Forever started as a song.

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”

I made that up after my wife and I had two babies born dead. The song was my song to my dead babies. For a long time I had it in my head and I couldn't even sing it because every time I tried to sing it I cried. It was very strange having a song in my head that I couldn't sing.

For a long time it was just a song but one day, while telling stories at a big theatre at the University of Guelph, it occurred to me that I might be able to make a story around the song.

Out popped Love You Forever, pretty much the way it is in the book.

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So here we are, three years from the death and birth of our first son. We'll celebrate him tonight as best we can, but of course I wish we were celebrating with him. I wish I knew so much more about Cale. I wish I knew the kind of three year old he would have become. I wish I knew what his little voice would have sounded like or what his favorite toy would be right now. There's not much I know about him, but I know this much:

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”

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Rainbow Weekend

A few weeks ago I made a trip to Chicago to spend three days with a group of baby loss mothers and their rainbow babies. There were FOURTEEN of us who made the trip. Fourteen broken hearted mothers who, for the most part had never met before, yet fourteen of us who could not be happier to see one another. It was not weird or awkward and despite the fact that I had only actually met two of these women before, it felt like I knew each and every one of them and only wish I had more time with them. Since losing Cale and connecting through blogs, I have met some very wonderful and genuine friends. Friends I wish I never knew, at least not under the circumstances that brought us together. We've grieved with each other, understood each other, and supported one another during some of the darkest times in our lives. I was asked recently if having another baby was what helped the most after we lost Cale and honestly the answer is no. It was a scary, anxiety filled journey filled with PTSD-esque moments. But it did give us hope and light and the end result, fortunately, was amazing. And yes, having Finn has healed me in a way I never thought possible. But I will never be fully healed. And that will never be Finn's job. What helped me the most was having this tribe. Having people I could cry with, grieve with and walk the unknown with. These bereaved and beautiful women, and many others like them, have been my biggest source of comfort and help these past three years.

But it wasn't just meeting the mamas that made the trip wonderful. Meeting the siblings of all the babies lost was equally special. Finn was the oldest of the rainbow babies, the other 13 falling between 8 and 18 months. These kids are amazing. They each have these wonderful and unique personalities and getting to love on them in person was so special.

But it was definitely bittersweet as we remembered and talked about the 15 siblings who aren't here. The big brothers and sisters they will never grow up knowing, at least not in the way any of us had hoped. Fifteen much wanted, and missed little babies who can only be loved on from afar. Sonja, wearing a sunhat in the first picture, brought gifts for each of the babies. Her mother knitted unique rainbow hats for each child. We all cried when we listened to the touching note her mother enclosed with the hats and laughed as we attempted to get a group picture. Would have helped if someone, whose name rhymes with Binn, would have kept his hat on.

For a wonderful post on just how special this picture is please read Brooke's blog

Cale's birthday is on Friday. I wish more than anything he were here to celebrate it. But I have my tribe. I have my people, and so many others, who will help us celebrate him, love on him, and remember him. And for that I'm forever grateful.

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Right Where I Am 2013: Almost Three Years

Nine days from now my son should be turning three.

He was born nine days before his due date.

Lots of babies are born nine days early. Lots are born even earlier. Most are born alive.

But in nine days my baby will still be dead. And he won't be a three year old. He will still be my baby. My perfect, beautiful baby who was born nine days early, but without the most important thing - a heartbeat.

Right where I am in my grief is similar to where I was last year. I think Cale has blended in to all our lives as best as possible. Never as it should have been, but he is still here and still an important part of our lives.

Finn can now say "baby Cale." He once grabbed my necklace and I said "Mama's necklace says Cale" and ever since then anytime he grabs any necklace I'm wearing he will either say "baby" or "baby Cale." He looks at his pictures and exclaims "baby!" "baby!" over and over until I acknowledge him. His soft voice saying his brother's name is the sweetest thing in the world, but it's heartbreaking too.

A friend of mine once said the most poignant thing in regards to situations like ours, if I substitute my children's names for hers, the quote goes like this "Watching Finley grow up is the greatest joy of my life. Not watching Cale grow up is the greatest heartbreak of my life. Figuring out how to be a mother to both has been the most challenging and rewarding experience of my life."

As Finn grows, I find that I am still not only learning how to be a better mom to him, but how to continue to be a better mother to Cale, and incorporate him in Finn's life in a positive and meaningful way.

After losing Cale it may have taken time, but there were glimmers of hope that life would still be good. And now, almost three years after his death, I can say confidently that life is good. I still grieve him and always will, but life can still be good, and grief can be beautiful.

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I'm linking up with Still Life With Circle's Right Where I Am Series - blog submissions about where we all are in our journey with grief since the death of our child(ren).