#83: Eleven Years

Alex died 11 years ago.

Tomorrow is the last day of school for the kids. Benjamin finishes 7^th grade. Molly finishes 4^th, and Emily finishes 2^nd. The kids are light and happy about the end of the school year, and the start of summer break.

We have a jam-packed calendar of stuff tomorrow. A neighborhood party in the park, and a BBQ with friends.

Despite all the fun, there will be a fog that dulls all the happiness. Alex died 11 years ago and this looms over the house, and engulfs my heart.

We have so many events in our lives that we look forward to each year: birthdays, anniversaries, other fun milestones that we anticipate with fun and excitement.

How do you count down to the worst day of your life?

I don’t have a simple way to explain how it feels… it is empty and hollow. Like going into the batter’s box knowing you’re going to strike out. It is getting dressed up for a fancy dinner, knowing that you’re going to spill your food in your lap. Packing for a trip when you know you’re going to miss your flight.

You go through the motions, fruitlessly. You do all the right things, and complete all the steps, knowing the outcome will still be bad.

Alex was only two months old when he died. A lifetime of love, bound up in two short months. Two months that have changed our lives forever.

When he died, I took all the love that I had for Alex and I funneled it into Benjamin. My first-born child bears all the weight of a mother’s love… for two. I doubled down on how much he means to me. Even now, he bears the burden of hopes and dreams for two children, not one.

Molly, is my rainbow baby. I took all my sadness and washed it away with her smiles and tears. She was the unexpected gift that brought me from the brink of inconsolable sadness. Her strong personality and feisty wit are the product of a mother who chose to sweep away sadness into her beautiful rainbow blessing.

Emily is my fresh start. My cherished final child who taught me the simple joys of caring for a baby. My mind could never forget the tragedy of losing Alex, but her infancy gave me an opportunity to remember the carefree bliss of snuggling a baby, without bring crippled with the fear of loss.

My children aren’t just kids. They are a physical representation of this healing process I’ve been on for eleven long years. They are love, hope and peace.

It’s overwhelming.

When I think about what they mean to me, my eyes well with tears, and I am #allthethings. I am scared to lose them. I am worried about being the right parent for them. I am humbled that God trusted me to care for their beautiful little souls.

They are more than kids. They are a reflection of Alex. Before he died, and after the loss. They’re too young to understand, but in their hearts, I pray they still feel his presence in our family.

Eleven years isn’t a special milestone. It is just a highway marker that helps me measure the length of the grief. There may be a time when I don’t stop at each of the signs on the road… for now, I’m still on the journey.

 

#82: Golden Birthday (4/11/2011)

Growing up, I didn’t really understand much about Golden Birthdays. I am a September 30^th birthday, so it really didn’t seem to make much of a difference… it was so far off. By the time I finally turned 30, I was married, great job, nice house, pregnant with my first… I had everything I ever hoped for.

Getting all we ever hope for is a complicated thing. You can have everything you could ever imagine… and in a split second, it can be gone.

Benjamin, my first was born in November 2008.

On April 11, 2011, Alex was born.

I had everything I ever dreamed of. Two boys and my life was perfect. I had fulfilled everything I ever wanted.

Two months later, Alex died on June 9, 2011. I put him down for a nap and he never woke up.

This was 11 years ago. It has become a reality I have had to deal with, and a terrible experience I have tried to forget. Having two sons in my arms was *also* one of the most wonderful times in my life. The whole thing is very confusing and hard to process.

Fast forward 11 years to our lives now. Benjamin is 13. Molly is 9, and Emily is 7. One step in our stairs is missing, and life with our kiddos is *also* full and busy. We have unimagined joy, tears as you expect them, and lots of laughter.

It is hard for me to reconcile the differences between what I thought our life would be and what it is now. Two boys is different from what we are now.

Two boys is shared clothes, and playing baseball in the yard.

Two boys is flashlight tag at night, and wrestling after bedtime.

Two boys is a blue bathroom, with coordinating dinosaur towels.

Two boys is legos forever, and easier agreement on TV shows.

Three kids is also great. There is wrestling, and towels, and TV shows… Just different.

Sometimes I feel like I fill my life so full so there isn’t any room for sadness. I schedule the time so there’s no gaps for grief. And a Golden Birthday comes up and I’m not sure what to do.

I want to take a mental health day. I want to check out of my life and just have 24 hours to celebrate a life. To take stock of how this all feels. And there is never any time.

The kids have positive associations with Alex’s birthday. They think about birthday candles and birthday plates and cupcakes. They want to release balloons up to him in heaven, and giggle and sing him happy birthday.

And sometimes it is hard for me to get there. Just under the surface, there is still so much sadness that it surprises me. I feel like it froze over the years. It’s like ice that I can walk on, and glide over. It is cold, but sometimes beautiful. The ice is peaceful and serene. The ice has hardened under my feet, and I take confidence in how it supports me. It is strong and solid underneath.

On his birthday, the ice thaws instantly and gobbles me up. Within seconds, I go from sliding on ice to drowning, and the world is wet and dark.

Even the tears are painful. They feel like little icicles stabbing from the inside. My head pounds and I’m just shaking my head in wonderment.

How am I back here again?

I fought my way out of this darkness. I swam my way to the top and I froze all of this to make it manageable, and to live my life.

And in an instant, the whole world is wrong again.

I don’t have PTSD about tucking the kids in for bed.

I don’t have arresting anxiety when I check on them at night.

I have fought my way through all of that to come out on the other side.

What I do have is grief so profound that it can take my breath away in a single instant.

What I have is complete and utter confusion about what to do with all of this.

Our lives were different 11 years ago.

Our friends were different 11 years ago.

What I don’t have is a way to explain to people in my life today, how complicated the last 11 years have been.

Elements of coping with Alex’s death were easier years ago… when I could let go and people would know what was wrong.

This time of the year is confusing. The change of seasons brings so much joy to winter, and yet these warmer temps remind me of our joy before the loss.

I am still a mother of four. I still birthed and nursed four beautiful babies. One of those babies lives only in my memory, and that creates a pain too powerful to explain and too deep to ignore.

On his golden birthday, I choose to remember him as a sweet, snuggly baby who would make little piggy noises when he ate. We will have cake and sing, and I will do my best, knowing some days I will glide, and some days I will drown.

 

#81: Ten Years in Heaven

10 years ago this beautiful son of mine went down for a nap and never woke up. I can feel his still warm body, limp in my arms. Not breathing, not moving. Nestled perfectly into my sobbing chest.

How do you describe the pain of a wound that never heals? How do you cure the phantom pain of a missing child? A hand you will never hold again. A cry you will never hear. A little face permanently missing from your Christmas card?

I try to think back. To summon his memories and harken his image into my mind. He’s not even in my dreams. I notice his absence and my whole heart aches.

The anniversary of his death is a milestone that’s different from any other marker in our lives. It isn’t something we celebrate. It’s more like a sobriety chip. A reminder that marks the time passed, and makes me marvel, “how on earth did I get through the past ten years?”

Alex is never forgotten. He’s not that child that gets dusty on the top shelf. He’s more like that child right at eye level. The one you have to move aside to get to the granola bars and goldfish crackers. He’s at the top of my sock drawer, at the bottom of my laundry basket. He’s in my rear view mirror when I back my car out of the garage.

He’s ever-present and most of the time his memory gives me comfort and warmth. As he has been gone almost 10 years, I can’t crumble into a puddle on the floor. There are baseball games and zoom meetings. Life continues in a predictable, annoying continuum.

I take a deep breath and try to appreciate the two beautiful months we had with him. Too hard to remember, too hard to forget.

 

#80: Ten Years

One of our family friends from Wisconsin does a special trip when each kid turns 10.

Alex would have been 10 today.

Our beautiful boy was born April 11, 2011 and died June 9, 2011. He was here for 2 short months and he was taken from us before we even got to hear him say his first words.

Our life has gone on. Molly was born in 2012, and Emily was born in 2014. Our children are happy, healthy and safe. We are surrounded by friends and family. Our lives have more laughter than tears, and we have more blessings than we can count.

And yet.

The more time that passes, the more time I have to reflect on how much we miss him. I will never hold my baby boy again. I will never see Benjamin hug his brother. I will never see what brothers act like when they go on vacation, or take the same school bus home.

And it feels like I have to just set it aside. Everyone understands when you lose you child and cry unexpectedly, or can’t concentrate on your daily life. Ten years later, it is harder to explain or even comprehend. People who don’t even know about Alex can’t possibly know how hard this time of year is. 

My chest is heavy. My heart hurts. My eyes are glassy with tears that threaten to spill over, and I can’t predict when they will spring.

I keep busy. I make plans and keep going through the motions, hoping that the day will pass and life will go back to normal.

What I want more than anything is silence. And time to remember my sweet boy. And memories of him alive. I want dreams and reminders of when he was here, and not empty sadness from when he left. I want to see new pictures of him. I want to see him in family videos. I want to remind him to pick up his socks, and wash his hands before dinner. I want his name to bring smiles and joy, and I want to celebrate his life on his very special tenth birthday.

I can’t do any of that. There is no trip to plan. His absence weighs on my heart and makes me feel like I’m walking through concrete. Everything is a struggle and I’m just trying to get through the day.

Ten years is so long. Longer than a lifetime. Ten years without him. Ten years missing him. Ten years pretending that our family is exactly as it is supposed to be.

The more happiness I have in my life, the more room I have to fully acknowledge the gap that he’s left. When things were so fresh I couldn’t even wrap my arms around how crushing his death was. As more time passes, the sadness gets bigger… the grief collecting like compound interest.

A hard day. A hard month. A hard year.

It all comes together in the end.

I mark his life with ten years of sadness and feel like I have ten years of tears inside me.

Hug your kids extra tight. Try to take a deep breath and give yourself a break. Parenthood is hard, and also the deepest blessing God can give us.

If only we were planning a trip.

 

#79: 9 Long Years

 

It has been 9 long years since Baby Alex died. Nine long years since I found him unresponsive, laying face down during a nap. Nine years since I felt my heart drop out of my body. Nine years since I felt that the best parts of me died, and I would never be the same again.

And life moves on. Even though it felt so callous when people would say, “time heals all wounds.” Time passes and things have moved on. Molly was born, and then Emily. And we moved to MN, and life just keeps going.

I can’t quite imagine what it would be like if Alex were still here. Our family didn’t have 2 brothers for very long… I can’t picture what it would be like to have 2 boys in the family. Does that betray Alex’s memory?

I accept what our family has become. I trust God’s plan for how we go forward. I understand how our lives have evolved.

And yet.

I long for the baby who didn’t become a toddler. I ache for the child who will never become a man. I pine for the life that was simple and uncomplicated. The life that isn’t fraught with grief, confusion and inexplicable emptiness.

However.

There is joy, laughter and love in this life of ours. There are moments of unabashed simplicity that take my breath away.

The hard part is finding a balance between the two. There is powerful, agonizing grief that emerges without warning. There is arresting pain that surfaces at inopportune times. Times that are too far removed to explain to others who don’t know.

“Hey, sorry I’m having a bad moment. My son died nine years ago, and sometimes it hits me and I don’t know what to do…”

Not only does this hurt, but it still hurts. Every day. Some days more than others, but every day. How do you slog along in life, with this ache that intermittently paralyzes you, for nine long years?

Big sigh.

We are grateful for all the blessings in our life. We are grateful for the 3 kids we can kiss and hug everyday. We are grateful for a strong and solid marriage that supports our lives.

And.

The love you feel for three children doesn’t fill the hole you have for the one you lost. If you’re craving chocolate, a handful of jellybeans does nothing. All the light in the word doesn’t fill the darkness left by the loss of a child.

These annual milestones come and go, and I find myself still surprised by the fresh ache of grief that accompanies each one. Baby Alex, we love you. So much that it hurts to remember. So much that it hurts more to forget.

 

#78: 9 Years Tomorrow

#78: 9 Years Tomorrow

4/10/2020

Alexander Cameron Jonas was born on April 11, 2011. Tomorrow he would be nine years old.

Alex died when he was only 2 months old, so we have had years without him. We can almost adjust to our daily lives without him, yet when his birthday comes around… life gets so hard again.

Maybe it is life in quarantine. We are working and cooking and teaching and there is just no time left at the end of the day. Our kids need more, and there is nothing left to give.

I typically take Alex’s birthday off from work. I take a day to myself to remember my sweet boy, and think back to the fleeting memories I can remember. Time fades specifics, but I remember the weight of him in my arms. I remember the scent of his head, and I will never forget the sweet sounds he would make when he was sleeping.

There is no quiet solitude in a quarantine. There are no warm hugs from friends. There is a lot of emptiness in a time that is already hard.

Sometimes I try to do the math in my head, and it doesn’t work out. How can the loss of 1 child be so strong, when there are 3 healthy, happy children still here in my arms?

I think it might be the unanswered questions. What would this third grader be like? Would he love sports like his brother Benjamin? Would he play Barbies with his sisters? Would he add harmony to our family in this time of chaos? Would he be the kid who is the consummate peacemaker? Are we missing his voice of reason, and is that why our three kids are always a little unbalanced?

Even when our house and our lives seem too small to fit 2 jobs and 3 academic careers, I still long for the little bear that we lost. His absence seems more palpable on days like today.

Tomorrow, I will make a birthday cake. The kids have come to expect some sort of a birthday party for Alex, so we will remember him as best we can. His presence lives in our hearts long after he has left our arms.

Happy birthday sweet baby- we love you always.

 

 

#77: 8 Years in Heaven

Alex went to Heaven 8 years ago. The worst day of my life has sort of transformed over the years into something else. Sometimes it is just sadness… other times it is joy that Alex got to enter the Kingdom of Heaven at such a sweet, young age. There are times when I feel bad that I don’t remember every single detail of Alex. I mourn the loss of his memory as much as the loss of holding him here on earth. I feel the emptiness in my arms and I am disappointed that we were robbed of so many memories that we should have had.

Today is a little different. We have three kids on a roadtrip heading back from a wedding in Wisconsin. Benjamin is the patient older brother who sits in the very back seat, and can be trusted to pack his own things. He doesn’t complain about where we stop for lunch and he is never the first one who needs the bathroom. Molly is the spirited middle child who is never quite satisfied. Not satisfied with the movie we watch in the car, not happy with what we order for lunch, and has strong opinions about where everyone should be sitting in the car. Emily will head to Kindergarten in the Fall, but she is so little she will probably be sitting in a 5-point harness for the next decade. I see all these personalities come together for a 6-hour road trip, and it doesn’t feel empty.

I will always miss Alex, but it doesn’t feel like he is missing from this equation. We have the family that God has intended for us to have. We don’t need to understand everything. It doesn’t change where we are at anyway…

I drove Emily to preschool last week and she was in a jolly mood in the car. At times like that you can just nod and say “mmm hmm” and she will keep talking for days. She tells me, “We have love in our heart. And Alex is in our heart. And he is my brother who is 8. And I have another brother who is 10. And I have a sister who is 7. And I am the little girl, and I am 4.” I have to say that our little girl seems to understand the world pretty well.

I think about Alex in different ways. It feels more about how his death has impacted our family, than why or how he died. I knew very little about SIDS when it happened, and even less about congenital heart defects. I have learned through this process that understanding and acceptance are two different concepts. I can understand the medical specifics of what happened, and that is completely separate from accepting that our family will always be a little bit different.

I have always thought that life is easier now with three kids, than it was when we had just Benjamin as a baby at home. Having your first kid is hard. You never know what you’re doing and you feel like everyone knows more than you. I hate that feeling. By the time we had Emily, we had been through 4 c-sections, we had been through nursing and pumping and swaddling and we knew everything we needed to know. When I was on maternity leave with Benjamin, it was hard because everyone would say, “enjoy it now! It goes so fast!” like every day was supposed to be a Hallmark commercial or something. I was sleep deprived, unshowered, and ravenous from nursing. I hated the thought that I didn’t have enough gratitude for this miracle that we had been given. Our perfect 23” baby that we had waited almost 2 years for. I felt like if I really *were* grateful, I wouldn’t be so exhausted.

After Alex died, I had a lot of second thoughts about all the things I felt like we missed out on. I feel like we declined invitations, and didn’t go places because of the inconvenience of packing up a toddler and a baby. Once that baby was gone, all I could think about was the missed opportunities. I thought we had plenty of time to take him to the zoo, or to visit friends. In reality, we weren’t guaranteed more time and we should have done things when we had the time.

So, I promised that if we had the opportunity to have another baby, that I wouldn’t let my perceived inconvenience of things prevent me from doing things. The minute we left the hospital with Molly, I was off and running. I had Molly shopping at the outlet mall within a week with Miss Li, and I had her in the Dells within a few months with her Drina and Drino. I wanted to fulfill the promise of doing #allthethings.

Fast forward to today, we have three kids and a busy life. We try to travel with the kids and share the world with them. In 2018, we had the kids in the Bahamas, Puerto Rico, Boston, New York… all over! When we travel with the kids, it gets us out of the routine tasks of laundry and unloading the dishwasher, and we giggle and enjoy the experience of seeing new things. Staying in new hotels and having new, exotic chicken tenders.

And in these moments, life feels full. Our hearts are full and our arms are full. There are more than enough hands to hold and we are more full than empty.

It can feel hard to realize that the biggest impact of Alex’s life is the imprint he left now that he is gone. He casts a bigger shadow in death than he did in life. There’s no sense if that is good or bad, it is just true. Today we remember his life, and like every day, we continue to celebrate him as a very special part of our family.

 

#76: 8 Years

4/11/2019Today Today is so hard. There is a constant battle between normal and sad and it takes over unexpectedly, no way to control it. School was canceled today due to snow. I have 3 kids running around the house. Happy, excited to have both parents home, typical chaos for our household. There are moments of unbelievable pain that wash over me. Unexpectedly and unprovoked. In the middle of a work call, in the middle of an email, in the middle of a normal, daily task.

I talk about Alex at least 4 times a day. We mention him at meal prayers, evening prayers, any prayers… I can say his name without welling up with sadness. And then on his birthday I have a tangible reminder of the missing bear from our den. He would have been 8 years old today. That’s a third grader.

He would be playing baseball, watching YouTube, I don’t even know. I assume that he would have been a carbon copy of his brother, but that is probably selling Alex a little short. He would be his own person. He would have his own personality, his own preferences, his own hopes and dreams. He wasn’t with us long enough to learn any of this, so I can only speculate.

There is beauty that we don’t know. Alex remains this perfect baby boy who never caused problems. He didn’t spill chocolate milk in the backseat, and he never left his bike outside in the rain overnight. He never forgot to do his homework, and he never complained about practicing piano.

So many “nevers” to think about. He never learned his first word, never learned to walk, never gave us a first toothy grin.

Alex left us unexpectedly on June 9, 2011. He was 2 months old and so very loved. He went down for a nap, stopped breathing and never woke up. CPR, my prayers and my tears did nothing to revive him. I was alone. I think about those sad, scary moments we spent together and I weep. Tears because he’s gone, tears because I couldn’t save him, tears because there are no real words to explain what we went through.

We have abundant blessings in our lives. We are surrounded by friends and family, now more than ever. And there is still a gap. A hole in our family and a void in my heart. Time nor tears can heal it. We learn to live with the pain. We accept what is missing and focus on what is present.

Everything comes back though. The pain. The tears. The fogginess in my brain that was so helpful in protecting my heart. A numbness that makes me want to crawl under the covers and just check out for the rest of the day.

The day goes on. We dispense meals and snacks. We trudge through meetings and work. Life moves on, just like our family. There’s no better way to explain things. Today is so hard.

 

#75: Seven Years

Seven years ago, our second son Alex passed away peacefully in his sleep. He had a congenital heart defect that we didn’t know about. I put him down for a nap, and he never woke up. He was 8 weeks old.
Benjamin was just 2.5 years old at the time. Too little to understand what had happened. Too little to even ask about Baby Alex after he died. I kept waiting for Benjamin to ask about him, but he didn’t. Explaining to Benjamin that his baby brother had died was a non-event. Benjamin calmly accepted and understood that Alex was in Heaven, and never asked anymore questions about it.
Explaining to the rest of the world that Alex was in Heaven was an entirely different matter. It would be months before I could re-tell the story without some sort of tears. The pain lingers.
It still hurts.
Unfortunately, when I think about Alex, I think about the pain more than the love. I had two months to love a perfect and beautiful little baby boy. I had two months to nurse and snuggle a little angel who would eat so loudly that he sounded like a little piggy. And when I think about that time, I mostly remember the pain.
We forget the pain of childbirth because the love for our children outweighs that event in our minds. For me, it is the sadness that lingers. I had a finite amount of joy with him in my arms. Every day since then has been a measurement of sadness compounding. Parenting an angel baby is the inverse of normal parenthood.
There is still joy. In my life, in my heart, in my world. And it outweighs the grief that persists. On most days.
Seeing posts about 7-year-old birthdays stings just a little bit. It is a reminder about a birthday we won’t celebrate with Alex. Seeing families with two boys makes me a little wistful. I wonder about what our life would be like with boys instead girls.
Most days are fine. The pain is manageable; it’s more of an ache than anything else.
Today things are a little more raw. My head goes back to that fuzzy state I was in after Alex died. I think the brain creates a fog to protect the heart. I will walk around like this until the clouds slowly clear and the rest of the world slowly comes into focus. In this transition, my husband and kids are the sunshine that pushes the clouds away. The noisy, funny, crazy and silly reminders that everything will be okay.
Seven years is long time to miss someone. But it’s just a reflection of how much we love him.

 

#74: Happy Mother’s Day

On Mother’s Day, most of us have relatively modest goals. Sleeping, have a bite to eat, maybe take a moment to read a book or do something for ourselves. Mine involves a massage, a movie and some Chinese food. My nine-year-old Benjamin has a baseball game at 2pm today, so we will see how many of those three items can be accomplished.

Mother’s Day today started much like any of our other days. Around 6 AM, my three-year-old Emily climbed into bed and proceeded to fall back asleep covering about 80% of my hair head and neck. Around 6:45 AM, my five-year-old Molly tried to climb in with me, realized that her sister was already in bed with me, and basically lost her mind.

Please note, that yesterday Molly had a 10-minute soliloquy about how much she loved me and how she was going to feed me breakfast in bed and massage my face. Today, she’s having a stroke because her sister had the audacity to get into bed with me first.

Around 7:45, Dad was a good Samaritan and got up out of bed and encouraged the girls to get up with him. Molly asked dad open to the present she bought with her birthday money last night at Target. (I used the promise of opening this gift this morning as the incentive I needed to coax her into bed last night.)

Of course, she was excited to open this gift first thing in the morning. Dad told her she had enough toys and that she should go back in her room and play with something else instead. A minor meltdown ensued. As much as you try to go back to sleep, you can’t help but hear all the chaos.

Through all the shouting, you know that the kids are having pancakes and sausage for breakfast. You know that somebody hid the remote. You know that somebody is not playing with somebody else. You know that somebody is sitting on someone else. You know that someone is thirsty, and that someone else didn’t want milk to drink. It is the usual chaos of any other day.

Today is Mother’s Day, but it is still a day like any other. And everything, and everybody is crazy.

Today, we moms all pretend to sleep in hopes that maybe we could have a couple of minutes to ourselves.

I would like to offer this perspective.

We lost our son Alex when he was only two months old. It was a time in life that was crazy with diapers to change and bottles to wash. I was so tired with the overwhelming work that comes with raising a two-year-old and a two-month-old, that I was so desperate for a break in all the work.

After Alex died, there are no more diapers to change, no more bottles to wash. The house was quiet, and I could sleep as long as I wanted. It was the darkest time in my life, and I could not get over how terrible I felt, for *ever* wishing to have less work as a mom.

Everything we do for our kids is a blessing. Each time we drop somebody off to an activity, when we give somebody a bath, when we send book fair money. Tying shoes, finding a ballet leotard, checking math homework, reminding someone to practice for piano, dropping somebody off to a birthday party or a baseball game, wiping a butt, washing someone’s hands, quizzing someone on spelling words, braiding someone’s hair, finding a baseball jersey, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Those tasks are an embarrassment of riches.

It is easy to get sucked into the details in everyday life. I would like to remind all of us overworked and tired mothers… The tasks of motherhood are blessings. There will be a time in our lives when we don’t have all this work, and we can look back smile how busy life used to be.

Today, like any other Mother’s Day, lean into the chaos and appreciate what a blessing it is to live in our world where we have kids to wake us up, kids to tuck in at night.

We have been blessed with families and without these crazy kids, we wouldn’t be mothers. Happy Mother’s Day mama – you deserve it!