Answering the Call

We walked in to the balloon store like we do every year on this day, not knowing which one to choose. And within seconds, he chooses one for us.

“That one!” I can feel the words travel from my heart and trigger the neurons in my brain to translate the energy vibration that he has emitted into words that I can understand.

I stared at the bright yellow and contrasting black foil designed balloon and I knew instantly that was the one to mark a decade of this day. I pointed it out to the “Boss” and he smiled and said, “well, he would have been into Batman I guess at this age”. And so we agreed, that we were answering the call and getting the only Batman balloon in the store.

The clerk inflated it and asked what colour ribbon we wanted. Little did he know that all of the details really didn’t matter – that the balloon would soon be weathering sleet, rain and cold temperatures as it swayed back and forth, dancing in the whispers of the wind, adoring our son Jude’s resting garden place.

As parts of the world mark this day as the Epiphany following Christmas – we mark this day with this simple ritual every year, as a reminder that perhaps we too, would have stood adoring our son today, on his predicted birth day. We do it for us. We do it to honour ourselves and the journey that we have taken and continue to take in honouring Jude. It’s quiet, gentle and just for us.

Every year feels different and every year I question myself as to whether we should continue the ritual. But Jude always finds a way to call on us, so every year, we answer the call.

Decade

#judedays, Child loss, Grief

So much changes in a decade. The trees grow, people come and go, plans are made, then destroyed, winters come and summers flow, all while time just keeps on ticking by. It’s strange to me that so much can change over the course of a decade, but yet, the day you came into our lives stays etched in my memory so vividly even after a decade has passed. For that, I am grateful. I am grateful that I still remember what you looked like, how still the world felt to me and how heavy it all felt.

Today, it doesn’t feel heavy, the world does not feel still and I still recognize you in every way. I have come to learn how to hold the sorrow and joy in perfect balance and harmony. I have come to appreciate the beauty that was beneath all of the rubble. I continue to uncover the lessons you teach. It all seems so fragmented yet united in this quilt of love that covers us – protecting us from the passage of time and the expectations of others that just don’t understand.

A decade is not a lifetime and there is much more adventure to uncover, woven into the days, months and years – however many more I may have here on this side of the universe, without you.

This year, the joy supersedes the sorrow and peace has nestled in somehow, tucking our love for you tightly underneath it’s coverage. It’s surreal to be here – to be feeling this way. To marvel at all that you have taught us, have morphed us into, have contributed to our evolution as human beings, as a unit, as a family. Today’s version of me was never a version I could have imagined on the night you were born. I would have never imagined today’s version of me being here – with you – at peace. With the only visible scars of your presence being how we love, how we embrace your infinite presence in our lives and how we share you and your lessons with others around us.

This journey, that you have taken us on, has been life changing. A journey through a Kaleidoscope of ever shifting patterns of lightness and darkness, hard edged shapes and circular patterns, which all focus in on one thing. Your love. Our love. Our purpose together.

From this place, we continue to honour you and the evolution of our journey together. I have learned to trust the journey. Trust in the love and in the purpose. Trust that in the next decade, you will reveal greater lessons that will once again twist and shift the Kaleidoscope, bringing greater joy then any of us could have ever imagined.

Happy 10th Birthday, sweet Jude!

xo mommy

The Art of Letting Go

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing

Shortly after loosing my son Jude, someone said to me “You have to let him go”. I can tell you now and certainly would have told you then, just a few short weeks after loosing him, that statement was not helpful – at all! At the time, my body and mind were still numb and I couldn’t even grasp at the basic intention that was behind the statement. I’m sure there was some form of pure support intention behind the statement, but the thing is, even if I was in a position to grasp the intention behind the statement, letting go of your dead child is just something that you simply can’t do.

It’s not as simple as releasing your grip on a balloon string and watch it float away into clear blue skies. There are no blue skies after loosing a child and your child is not a balloon. Being told that you “need to let them go” is not as simple as it sounds, nor is it as liberating from the darkness of grief as most of those around us want to believe. Letting go is not that simple – a truth that is once again being demonstrated by the worlds beloved Orca Killer Whale, Tahlequah, who is once again holding on to her dead calf as part of her grieving process.

This year, will mark a decade since I lost my boy and I’m still grappling with the art of letting go. I know I will never let him go and that is not what I’m grappling with. I know that he’s forever a part of me and I of him and that will never change or dissipate despite the passing years. What I am learning to let go of is the rituals that no longer serve my grieving journey, the guilt that overwhelms and consumes me, the need to share him with everyone. Letting go of those things and making room for new ways to share his light, honour the lessons and light the path for those traveling their own grief journey behind me is how I’m choosing to embrace this next part of my journey.

And like Tahlequah, the Orca Killer Whale who carried her first dead calf for 17 days (1,000 Miles) in 2018, we the bereaved parent, will only “let them go” when we are ready. Our definition of letting go is not the same as of those witnessing our grief journey from the sidelines. It is completely different and utterly unique – just like our child(ren). Grief paralyzes us, holds us hostage, changes us, moves us and expands us. We can’t let it go – it needs to let us go. And that does not happen with time, it can only happen with comprehension, appreciation and gratitude for the lessons learned and love endured.

The Heart is where our Souls meet

#judedays, Child loss, Grief

You come to me and pour your wisdom over me. It flows through my veins like medicine healing the scars left behind by you.

I know this process happens 365 days of the year, but somehow it never feels to be enough during this triggering time. This time where my heart wanders off into the land of what if’s and why’s and should have’s and could have’s and if only’s. My heart wanders there because it’s searching for you and it leads my mind down the narrow path of darkness and remembrance of all of the things that led up to the point of loosing you. And although the heart finds comfort, the mind plays tricks, speaks harsh untruths, lingers in the hallway of blame and leaves me in the darkness.

Until, I’m reminded by you, that no matter how many times, my heart wanders and leads my mind into this land, you will always be right there. Right next to me. Guiding me, leading me to the next beacon of light that spotlights the path for us to carry on, honouring you and ourselves in the process. It’s in the everyday moments that you remind me that everything is not what it seems and that there is greater purpose, deeper meaning and ultimate intention for that moment. It’s in the way you have chosen individuals to speak through to me, to show me what we were meant to accomplish together that leaves me in awe and comforts me. Reminding me that physical presence is a mere illusion to appease our eyes but not necessary for our hearts.

On your 9th birthday, we honour you with some of the same rituals that have been now woven into our family’s fibre. A mosaic of joy, sadness, grief, grace and light that represent everything we were before you and what you have shaped us to become. We say your name, eat cake, blow out a candle and feel our hearts wish that you were physically here with us. Yet, I know all too well that you never really left. Hidden in the lyrics of an old, legendary song, you reminded me of that.

Happy 9th Birthday Jude!

xo mommy

It’s the most triggering time of the year….🎶

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Self Growth

“The black one mommy! The one that goes choo choo!” She said motioning her hand to signal the lever pull of the train sound. Her eyes were filled with excitement as she shared with me the fact that the black train we include as part of our annual Christmas Village set up tradition, was her absolute favourite. She continued on about the black train and how she couldn’t wait to see it set up for Christmas this year, as the excitement in her voice and facial expressions bounced off her bedroom walls. The lines between my living child and my dead one blurred for a second (like it usually does given how much alive he is in my heart) and my mind thought about how much she would enjoy in that moment, reading the Polar Express storybook.

And there it was. The trigger. Pulled in a split second by one single thought that immediately sent me back to the first Christmas after we lost Jude. The Christmas where we spent countless numbers of hours searching for everything and anything that could possibly serve as a fitting gift to sit under our Christmas tree for Jude. The gift that we knew would be wrapped by us, and opened by us, alone. The gift that we placed all of our hope on healing our broken hearts and help us get through the holiday season. The gift that would fill the void. We finally landed on one – the special edition of The Polar Express storybook.

As the grief slowly seeped through the crevices of my heart, it was swept up by the current of my daughter’s excitement of her new found awareness that Christmas was on the horizon, and splattered all over the room. With very little white space left in my heart to distinguish between grief and joy, I found myself breaking my own rule and asking her, “ Would you like to read a story about a Christmas train? We can borrow one of Jude’s special books to read tonight”. She immediately said yes and hopped her way over to the space in our home that we reference as Jude’s room, where a library of story books belonging to Jude are kept.

That blended current of joy and grief bouncing around in the walls of my heart is what I need to prepare myself for, get comfortable with and accept to be my reality for the next 2 months. To a bereaved parent, the Holiday Season approaches like a freight black train. We can see it coming. We know it’s beautiful. We know it’s grand. We know it’s magical. But when it finally get’s close enough for us to see inside and notice the one single empty passenger seat, the speed at which it hits your heart is enough to kill you all over again, and again, and again….

So be gentle. Be accepting. Be open. And even be ok with not wanting to participate in anything that is brought on by the black train. Your heart will tell you what it needs to be able to survive the impact.

One inch closer to double digits

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing

I remember in those early grief days, hearing the statement that a bereaved mama knows exactly how old her child(ren) would have been if they were alive, even after decades had passed. I found that challenging to believe. I knew how my brain operated (and still does), where most times I couldn’t even remember what I had for breakfast earlier in the day, but now, I can confidently admit that I was wrong. A mama DOES in fact remember. In fact she remembers every single day.

Eight. You my sweet boy, would have been eight today. I remember being eight. Eight was a year of change. A hard year. A year full of newness and curiosity. Full of adventure and unfamiliarity. Full of courage and fear. I look back at my own eight year of life and see how much different it would stack up against what yours could have been or would have been if only….

We’re inching closer to a decade in this grief journey, yet somehow it still feels just like yesterday where our hearts were filled with a cocktail of joy and sorrow that we would only identify and swallow much later in our grief process.

When I speak of you, it no longer makes me feel uncomfortable – it only makes me feel proud. Proud that you are ours and we are yours, and that together, we have managed to intertwine our love into the most beautiful safe space to foster community, guidance and rest for grieving hearts. Our demonstration of unconditional love and connection to you extending beyond the living world, has allowed others on similar grief journeys to honour and share their own loss children with us and the world. And that has both humbled us and made us grateful for the unbreakable bond we have with you.

I don’t know what the journey will feel like at the decade mark, but for now, I know that my heart is filled with gratitude for the guidance, strength, love and courage you have gifted us with over the last eight years.

Even when we feel your absence everyday, we can’t imagine a life without your love present.

Happy Birthday Sweet Jude.

xo mommy

Navigating the Early Days

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, self care

I’ve had the fortune (or misfortune – depending on the lens you look through) to be consulted a few times on how to support a newly bereaved mother. By no means do I consider myself to be a professionally qualified consultant on the matter, but I do have one credential that places me in a different segmentation of the average individual. I am a bereaved mother. And so, by default, that makes me somewhat qualified to be consulted on the topic.

During the most recent ask to consult on what to say or how to help a recently bereaved mother in what I think is an impossible situation, I found myself a little lost for words at first. To be honest, swearing was the only cohesive speech I managed to share with the friend who was so dutifully asking me for my advice on the matter, admitting that she had absolutely no experience and very aware that not everything that is intentionally helpful, helpful to a newly bereaved mother.

My mind immediately raced through all of the things not to do or say – the cliches, the religious anecdotes, the “at leasts…”. But then I paused, took a deep breath in and let myself carefully drift back to those early days of grief — early hours of grief, where the shock of loosing your precious baby(ies) is still very present and you feel nothing but numbness. The early hours of grief where you stare out beyond the world, for hours, and the world stares back through you, carrying on as if nothing had happened. The sun sets, the moon rises, the traffic flows, the stars glow, the sidewalk bustles, the emails ping, the people smile, the flowers bloom, the snow falls, the clocks run, the school day ends, the tide rises and the waves crash and it all just flows through like nothing ever happened. In those early grief days, none of that matters. It’s all just swept up into the numbness and shock of the perpetual thought of “my baby(ies) just died – does nobody give a fuck?”.

So, as an innocent (and concerned) bystander, all you see is this shell of a person who you love, is maybe just stillness and silence and not responsive to the world around them and all you want to do is fix it. Take their pain away, make them smile again. See them happy. See them live. So how do you do that? What encouraging words can you offer? What actions can you take that will help them “snap out of it” and get back to life?

Before leaping into action, what you must realize and come to terms with, is this. Your loved one, didn’t JUST loose their baby(ies). They LOST their baby(ies) AND they lost THEMSELVES. So much of themselves is lost in that moment when the realization that their baby(ies) have been lost forever. Just because that newly bereaved mother is still physically alive, does not mean that she did not also die with their baby(ies). Believe me (I guess this is the qualification factor), a large part of us as individuals, vanishes when our baby(ies) die. So the best thing you can offer any newly bereaved mother is space.

Space to grief. Space to tell you about her baby(ies). Space to share her birth story. Space to cry, be angry, be resentful, be sad, be happy, be confused, be honest. Space to just be. That gift of space, can be wrapped and gifted in so many different ways. It can be wrapped up in a walk outside. A drive along the country side road. A hot cup of coffee, tea, soup broth in a quiet, private place. It can be bundled in the shape of a colouring book and colourful pencils to give her a place to rest her mind. It can be wrapped in the form of a journal with a sharp pencil or felt tip pen to give her a place to unpack her emotions and try to answer all of the unanswered questions. It can be boxed along with some bath salts, moisturizers, essential oils and soft slippers to remind her to take care of herself. It can also be just a simple stuffed animal toy to give her empty arms something to hold.

None of those things will bring her baby(ies) back. But having the space to navigate the thick grief fog, rollercoaster of emotions and process of re defining herself is a good start. There’s no timeline and no end game for the bereaved mother. Her grief will not come to a magical finish line. Her love for her baby(ies) will not end, therefore, all she is left with is the space in between – to tread the journey. Just be there. Quietly and gracefully, treading beside her.

This is Seven

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

Seven looks a little different. The lead up to seven has sped through our lives like a gust of wind that comes quickly and with purpose – a reminder that another season is upon us. Another year has passed. Another year of your present absence.

Seven feels like a pivotal year. One that signifies change. One that enables movement forward, although we have somehow managed to keep moving without you. It hasn’t always been forward, but it’s movement; and in grief, that’s all that counts.

For seven years, we have shared you within our world. We have openly and freely said your name. We have lived and loved unapologetically in your honour. We have continued onward with our lives as best we could – living in parallel realms, with and without you.

But seven is not enough. It’s not enough to heal. Infinity is not enough, so why would seven be? Instead seven feels like a pause in a time lapse, where we assess our vantage point and reposition before continuing to record this journey we’re on with you.

At seven, we can pause and see the light that you have shone through the cracks in our hearts out into the world. We can see the brightness that you have lit our world with. We are starting to understand the purpose of your love in our lives. Understanding is not accepting – it’s simply understanding and opening ourselves to whatever else you teach us along this journey.

Such a small number for a big lesson when you put it into perspective. With every season and every year that passes, we are reminded that your love is present and purposeful. It’s a guiding force if we surrender to it and it will continue to be until our realms once again collide and our lights are no longer pouring through the cracks, but intertwined together. Once again whole.

Until then, we love you and wish you were here everyday.

Happy 7th Birthday sweet Jude.

xo mommy

6

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting, Uncategorized

Six. It’s been six year since we’ve lost you and I wonder today how the weight of the grief that I carry compares to weight your little body would be at six. I’m sure your little body would have been 10x lighter without a doubt.

But I guess we’ll never really know.

The on again off again pandemic environment has once again made it challenging to celebrate your birthday in the way that somehow makes my heart feel like it’s enough, so this year, as we celebrate you differently (again), my heart looks for ways to fulfill that feeling of enough. But it has not been successful. In the days leading up to today, I wander in and out of stores looking for things that speak to me. That remind me of you. That make my heart happy. And every single time, I question whether it’s enough.

Many bereaved parents will identify with “signs” as a way to hold on to a glimmer of hope and light that they’re child(ren) continue to be with us in this universe despite not being physically by our side. To the non bereaved, these signs may seem ridiculous, but to us, the bereaved parent, they are all that we have.

And so, this week, as I wandered aimlessly to find what exactly would be considered enough to celebrate and honour you, I came across many of these signs that I know was your way of saying “hello! I’m here. And I’m with you’. From the tiniest white feathers I found every morning this week tangled in your sister’s hair as I brushed it in the morning, to the heart shaped planters and posters in the garden centre, even to the pillow that suggested a coping mechanism to get through yet another year without you, they were all there. Speaking to me. Telling me something — but never enough.

It’s just not enough to not have you here. Not enough to try and celebrate you in every way that I know how. Just not enough.

So, I carry you. I carry you in my heart and feel the weight of the grief against the walls of my heart and know that for now, in this space, this lifetime, that will just have to be enough.

Until we meet again my sweet boy. Happy 6th Birthday!

XOXO mommy

Nothing but you…

#judedays, Child loss, Grief, Healing, Parenting

So 2020 is a little different. Different on the surface, but at the core, where you and I co exist, it’s the same. It feels weird that we can’t celebrate you in the same way that we always have, especially since it’s your 5th birthday. 5 years is a milestone, but one that is ironically being hit without much celebration.

This year, there’s an overwhelming, persistent numbing feeling that has not resurfaced since the early days of grief. But your love is the constant and that’s what I’m trying to stay focused on.

There will still be balloons, and cake and sunrises and we will still be surrounded by your love and those who love us, and that’s all that matters.

Every year, leading into your birthday, I dig deep into the ocean of my heart where you live and ask you “how do you want to celebrate your birthday? You always have an answer for me, but not this year. This year your silence was truly deafening and my heart finally aligned with the fact that maybe this year’s inability to celebrate you in the same way was more to do with your wishes then the rest of current life events.

Today, as I stood in the sacred silence that is only present in the morning dawn and watched the sunrise, I noticed the calm of the water on the horizon. It glistened with the orange yellow highlight of the sun coming over the horizon crest and I felt ok. I felt calm. I felt at peace. Following the path of the gentle sway of the water, I noticed that closer to the shore, the waves still hit the rocks aligning the shore with fierceness, splashing water well above the marked shoreline. That fierceness reminded me that no matter how calm and how at peace I feel about you, grief will always crash against me. And that’s what I’m ok with. That’s what I’m at peace with. That’s what I’m numb to.

The celebration planning leading up to your birthday provides me with an unhealthy dosage of distraction. This year, there was no planning, no organizing, no noise, no distraction. Stripping all of that away left me with nothing but you. And in a way, I’m grateful for that. It’s just what my bereaved mama heart needed to realize that sometimes, doing things differently may not be what you want, but what you may truly need.

Happy 5th Birthday Sweet Jude

xo mommy