A Mom's Journey Through Grief and Life

Covid-19 and Me

I don’t know about everyone else, but self isolation is nothing new to me. Since the day Noah died, there is nowhere I would rather be, than inside the four walls of my home. You see, it is a safe place. A place where I can feel what I need to feel, react how I need to react, and pull myself together, whatever that may look like.

Self isolation is a symptom of grief. One tends to “hide” from society because it just makes life much simpler. We don’t have to answer to anyone, except ourselves.

For me, self isolation is really a protection mechanism that I have been doing for quite a while. Little did I know that I was practicing what would become the norm for society with Covid-19, however for me it was a way of protecting myself from the world. I don’t have to see people. I don’t have to struggle with putting on a happy face, when inside I am crying. I don’t have to answer questions that one day may be easy to answer, and other days extremely difficult. I don’t have to be the person at work that is supposed to be strong for everyone that counts on me. I don’t have to focus for long periods of time, or try to remember a list of things all at the same time. I can allow myself to listen to a song, in its’ entirety and allow myself to feel all the emotions that surge to the surface. I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to. It really is a safe bubble for me to reside in, with no explanation needed, and one that I am quite comfortable in.

After being in the house for about a week, I had to head out to work. My day had a purpose, and I felt good about that. While driving in to work, I couldn’t help but feel like I was in an apocalyptic movie. On a normal day, there would be a steady stream of traffic heading in to town, but not now. I could drive for quite a while without witnessing anyone else on the road. The reality of Covid was clear. It had driven people into their homes.

On my way home from work, I had to stop and get groceries. I had been seeing the news, and hearing all the stories, but I was in my bubble, so I had this unreal thought that it didn’t affect me. As I approached the store, I could feel an anxiety attack coming. That, in itself, worried me as I have been able to manage my anxiety quite well. I felt like I was walking into an “unknown” and it panicked me a bit. As I enter the store and start grabbing just what I needed, I notice that I am talking to myself in my head. “Am I far enough away from that person?” “I just picked this up and now I don’t need it and I want to put it back, but are people looking at me like I am doing something wrong?” ” Am I being aware of how much of an item I am buying,” or “Am I standing far enough away from the grocery clerk so they feel safe?” It was mentally exhausting, and I was grateful when I got back to the safety of my car. One of my favorite things to do, is now the last thing I want to do.

The reality of Covid-19 hit me hard when I decided to go for a drive and take a care package to my mom. It was nice to get out, turn on my tunes, and just go. Within an hour, I am at my mom’s house. I get out of my car, grab the care package, put it at her door and ring her doorbell. I then go back to my car, because we must social distance ourselves. I see my mom through the glass, seeming hesitant to open the door. I think to myself that she must be feeling a bit unsure and perhaps scared. Eventually she opens the door, and sees me in her driveway. Tears are welling in her eyes, and I am crying. I can still see her with her hand over her mouth, just looking at me. I tell her that I love her and she replies the same. We chat for a few minutes, and during that entire time, I can feel my body holding itself back, because I want to just go and hug her and tell her everything will be okay. When it is time to leave, I get in my car, then open the window and wave and blow kisses and tell her again that I love her. I drive away crying.

Once home, I am grateful to be back in my bubble, but then being home with your thoughts all day can be hard too. I have found that the one sense that is always on high alert when home, is my hearing. The difference is that it isn’t what I am hearing, but rather what I am not. I miss Noah’s voice. I miss his laugh. I am so very grateful that Matthew is home with us and I know he is safe and healthy. However, I also know that he and Noah would be playing video games together, and I would hear the laughter, the name calling, the curse words and the giggles. I am so acutely aware that Noah is no longer here. There is a silent void in our house all day, every day. Listening to my boys together always brought me such joy and would always put a smile on my face. With technology today, Matthew can fill that void for himself by using a headset and interacting with his friends, but for me, I only get one side of the conversation. The silent void is deafening.

Working in childcare also brings another level of stress when managing through this pandemic. A sector that has forever struggled to be recognized as a much needed service for families, is all of a sudden being referred to as “essential.” As much as that is lovely for all childcare providers, it is also putting a pressure on them that they have never felt before. They are being asked to care for frontline workers children, in order to support them so they can go to work. This is understandable, but they are being asked to care for probably the most exposed age group in the Covid-19 scenario. Being in my position, I have 37 children and their families as well as 9 staff to think of. Trying to know what to do, and how to do it professionally and safely is a challenge. It is a constant balancing act between needs and safety. Not only do you feel like you have your staff’s livelihood on your shoulders, but also that of all the families. Stressful would be an understatement. Let’s hope that the world doesn’t forget these warriors value when we return to a new normal.

The world has changed because of Covid-19. People are in isolation, losing their jobs, unable to visit loved ones, hoarding goods. It is a time that none of us probably ever figured we would be a part of in our lives. Now, more than ever, we need to be reaching out to each other, checking in, helping however we can. I am sure all of us know someone who is living alone. Think about how difficult this must be for them. Sitting in their homes, alone, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I can feel in my heart the loneliness they must be feeling. It is our humane duty to reach out to these people and remind them that they aren’t alone, that we are only a phone call away. In a time when we are expected to be apart, we all need to do whatever we can to make sure everyone feels connected. We are in this for the long haul, so let’s be kind to one another, be grateful, and let people know you love them.

Covid-19 is here, and it has changed our world as we know it. Whenever this beast leaves us, we will be given a second chance at being a kinder world. We can be choose to go back to the way we were or we can choose to be a more grateful, compassionate, and caring society. If, as a society we can make it through this together, then together we can create a better world for our next generation when this is done.

Stay safe, stay healthy, and let people know you love them. These should be the priorities right now. We have seen now that the rest can wait.

I Am Tired…….

It seems that in grief everything is magnified. Things that would never have bothered me in the past, or that seemed inconsequential, now make me ponder and think. With that comes fatigue. Fatigue that never gives you a moment’s break.

I am tired…….tired of waking up each day and reliving the fact that you are gone.

I am tired…….tired of feeling a heaviness in my chest and an ache in my heart.

I am tired…….tired of forcing my mouth into a smile, when it is not how I feel.

I am tired…….tired of saying “I am fine, or I am okay,” when all I want to do is cry.

I am tired…….tired of laying awake at night, missing you.

I am tired…….tired of asking day after day for you to come visit me, yet you don’t.

I am tired……tired of waking up, and still feeling tired.

I am tired…….tired of looking for signs or waiting for that “feeling” that you are around me.

I am tired…….tired of trying to carry on each day as though you are here, and you’re not.

I am tired…….tired of waiting to hear you say “I love you mom,” one more time.

I am tired…….tired of imagining what your life would have been.

I am tired…….tired of trying to figure out “why you?”

I am tired…….tired of not having answers.

I am tired…….tired of feeling my own insecurities since you died.

I am tired…….tired of trying to stay focused and on task.

I am tired…….tired that I carry a sadness with me all the time.

I am tired…….tired of looking in the mirror and seeing that I have aged and look tired.

I am tired…….tired because Grief is so heavy.

I am tired…….tired because you died…….

I know that grieving is a process, and I know there are suppose to be so called stages. I also know that I will move through this Grief and come out the other side. As humans, we know the natural order and how that is suppose to play out. What we don’t know is how we will handle the curve ball thrown at you, when the natural order gets changed up, and you had no control over that. No preparation.

I will continue to wade through these stages so that I can heal my head. I do know though, that through this entire mess, my heart will always feel a piece missing, one that can never be replaced. That is the ultimate sacrifice for unconditional love.

Beauty on the Ice

Over the years, nothing brought me greater joy than watching my boys play the game they love, hockey. Matthew started playing at around the age of 5 and never looked back. At that age, they all got to have a turn playing in goal. They want all the players to experience each position so they can see where they want to play. Not too many kids were thrilled with having pucks shot at them, but Matthew loved it. Eventually, every time it was someone else’s turn and they said “no thanks,” Matthew would say “yes please!” The love he has for the game is still deep within him, and he is now playing at the college level. Noah actually played soccer from about the age of 5, until the age of 9, when he decided he wanted to try the sport. We were thrilled for him, but not for our wallets! We already had a goalie, and goalie gear is expensive…….but thankfully Noah wanted to be a player. He became a defenceman.

Try to picture a child that is taller than most, trying to skate. He really was like Bambi on the ice, but eventually he got the hang of it, and the love bug of hockey caught him too. Noah grew fast and he was always tall for his age. In many sports, height is an advantage, but for Noah it was more often a hindrance than a help. With skates on, most of the other player’s heads were at his elbow height, so he certainly got his share of penalties and spent quite a bit of time in the “bad boy box” or the “sin bin.” I remember a time when he questioned whether he should continue playing because it caused him so much frustration. As the years went on, he got a reputation (not truly earned) as being a goon. Someone reported him to the governing body of minor hockey, and because of this they actually sent someone out to “watch this goon.” During the game that their observer was watching, he did knock or check someone down, and what does he do? He offers his hand to help the player back up. That is who he was. Was I offended that they sent someone to observe him? Absolutely not, because out of that I earned a beautiful friend, who was the one sent to observe, who is still standing beside me through my grief. A friend that knew the type of person Noah was from watching him play one game.

As the years went on, the boys were fortunate enough to get to play together in their early adult years. I am forever grateful that they got to share the love of the game together, on the ice. The hockey bond was a beautiful thing.

Since Noah passed, Matthew made a promise to him to live his life the way he knows Noah would expect him to, to the fullest. Matthew has being doing that since October 4, 2018.

A couple of weeks ago, Matthew had a hockey game against the top team in their division, a team that his school has never defeated. They actually had 2 games, back to back nights. The first game, they lost 7-0. The next night, it was Matthew’s turn in net. Lucky for us, we can watch the games on YouTube on our television, so Rick and I settled in to watch. We had no grandiose expectations, we just love to watch Matthew play.

For the first time, in a long time, I felt like I use to when I would watch him play a game. My stomach was in knots, and I felt very nervous, my hands clammy. I even told Rick that I was feeling this way, not sure why. I spent the evening watching, cheering out loud in my living room, and counting down the seconds to the end of the game. Matthew’s team played outstanding, as did he.

So after 40 minutes, we are finally in the third period. Fast forward to the last 12 seconds of the game. A time out is called. Both teams go to their respective benches, except Matthew. I remember thinking how strange that was, because he always goes to the bench when a time out is called. The camera is on him the entire time, and I can’t help but just stare at him in his net. He is in his crease, bent over at the waist, with his hands on his knees, head down. Not once does he look up. He stays in that position for the entire time out. While I am watching him, not blinking, tears start rolling down my cheeks. I know exactly what he is doing. He is talking to his brother. He is asking him to be with him for these last 12 seconds. He is asking him to help him keep the puck out of the net. He is asking him to help him see the puck. You see, we are winning, 3-2 and there are only 12 seconds left in the game, and the other team has pulled their goalie. These 12 seconds need to be Matthew’s best 12 seconds.

Through tears, I see the teams come to the faceoff circle in Matthew’s end. I am now watching the clock, and watching the movement on the ice. I am counting them in my head, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1! We won! We just beat the top team in their division! Matthew stopped 57 of 59 shots! I am sitting in my chair, crying. I am crying because I know what happened in those 12 seconds. I know Noah was in the net with his brother. I know he heard him asking for his help. I saw the bond and love of the game the two of them shared in those 12 seconds. I know that Noah was telling Matthew to “close the door” as I would tell Matthew to do. I know Noah was so proud of his brother.

I spoke to Matthew after the game, and I asked him what he was doing in that last time out. “I was talking to Noah, mom.” “I knew you were my boy,” I replied.

The bond between those two will never fade, will never be broken. As parents, we need to nurture that connection within our children. We have a responsibility to them to do this, because in the normal life cycle that we hope all our children will have, they will need each other. As their parents age and eventually pass on, they will call on each other for the strength, love and support. Although Matthew will not have the “normal life cycle” with his brother here on earth, he still has such a strong connection with him, that he knows Noah will always be there for him, and Matthew can call on him, anytime.

I Am a Grieving Mom

I can clearly remember how I felt pre Noah dying. I had both my boys living at home, I had a husband that would laugh often, friends reaching out and wanting to spend time with me, family that would laugh and celebrate when together. I would do crazy snapchats with Matthew and we would belly laugh together. I volunteered, I engaged with people, and was really quite fulfilled. So much has changed. My husband doesn’t have that light air about him anymore, the friends lives have returned to normal, where mine is now a different normal, and the family still gathers, but it isn’t anywhere near the same.

To most, a grieving mom is someone that lost their child to death. This is a very simple way to explain what it is, but really a grieving mom is so much more than that. Their entire being, as they knew it, is no more. The weight that they carry is so heavy, yet not a burden, because it is the weight of their loved one. It is the weight of losing my son, and it is a reminder every day, of what use to be.

I am still a mom. I always will be, but it feels so different now. Never in my life have I felt awkward about talking about my boys, I talk about them all the time! The difference is that one is no longer here. For the first time, I felt uneasy in a conversation with a stranger about my children. The connection was Matthew, and they were asking about him, where he is, how is he doing. That was easy. Then they talked about their children, and when done, there was the pregnant pause like “it is your turn now to talk about your other child.” I felt a wave come over me, with a lightheadedness because this person didn’t know about Noah. It isn’t as easy as it seems telling someone that your child died. In that millisecond you are asking yourself whether you should tell them, and if so, then what? Maybe you then blow up the whole conversation because they sure as hell weren’t expecting that! Would you ever strike up a conversation with another parent, expecting to hear their child died? Probably not. If we had our way, we would talk about him to whoever would listen because he is US. But, not everyone wants to hear about it. That is the truth. It is not a bad truth, but rather an understandable one. We share the joys of having had him here on earth, but in that same moment, our face registers such sadness that it makes others uncomfortable. That is okay, because no one should feel comfortable with the fact that a parent lost a child. That just isn’t how life is suppose to happen.

An old high school friend posted this past week that they lost someone very close to their family, who was also a young adult. I must admit, that in the past, I would have felt horrible for the family, but I would carry on. Now, I hear about someone else losing a child, and I cry. I cry because I relive it, and I cry because I know exactly how the mom of that child is feeling. I can feel her heart ripping apart, and her exhaustion from not being able to sleep, and her rollercoaster of emotions. I can see her in my mind, going through the motions, planning a service, receiving flowers and cards and reading them, yet not seeing a word. I see all the people around her day and night, trying their very best to support her, and hold her up and love her. I see her not remembering things a minute after the fact, and I can feel her heart. She will manage to do the things she needs to and then once the service is done, she may do like I did and say to herself “well, that’s it. Now what do we do?” I couldn’t get this mom off my mind, so I sent her a private message. I told her “I GET IT!” I am in the same hell as you, and I am here for you whenever you need someone to talk to that ‘understands.’ She may reply, she may not, but I had to make sure she knew she was not alone.

You know what you do when you ask yourself “now what”, you grieve. You will grieve everyday for the rest of your life, while you are on this earth without your child. The child loss grief is a different demon from the other forms of grief. It is so very personal because you grew this human inside of you, was connected to you, so it makes it understandable why it is always there like a nagging headache. I can be having a day that feels normal, then I get in my car and I am driving along, and it jumps up and sucker punches me, right in the gut. I get the “butterfly” feeling you may get in your stomach when you are nervous or excited, but this butterfly feeling is cold. My entire system of organs goes ice cold. It washes over you, and brings tears and fear and anger and resentment and that fresh heartache all over again. It is like living in hell, but on earth among the living. I am not trying to be dramatic when I say these things, but rather I am wanting people to hopefully feel and understand what it is like to be a grieving mom every single day. I would not dare anyone to try to imagine, because I think if they did, they would feel scared to death from the emotions and trauma it brings with it.

Life is moving forward, as it would, but not as I had imagined it should. I have changed. I know this. I am more emotional now than I ever was. I am acutely aware of who is still in the “deep” with us, but I also understand those that can’t be in it with us. There is no blame, but rather loneliness. Regardless of the fact that my child died, I still own 50% of the responsibility for allowing some relationships to quiet down, and hibernate. I still love those that have chosen that path, and I ask you to understand that just getting up some days is difficult, so to try to keep relationships alive is tiring. However, my door is always open for you.

Perhaps the one thing that I have gained by going through this hell, is more compassion and understanding. We don’t know what each individual is dealing with on a daily basis. Maybe it is a death, or a relationship breaking up, or job stresses, or just life as it is today for them. It is true that we are all responsible for our own happiness and we cannot put the expectation to fill that need on to someone else. It is not fair to rely on others for that. Each day, I try to find a positive in it for myself, because that is on me. It isn’t my husband’s responsibility, or my son’s or my colleagues. I just wish that some days it was easier to find it. On those days that I can’t seem to find much of anything, I remember that I have an amazing son, that although he isn’t physically walking this earth with me, I can still hope that he is beside me.

January 1, 2020

The last day of 2019 was an extremely emotional day for me. I could not stop the tears. I felt emotionally dead on Christmas day, and now I feel like I have been thrown back in time, to October 4, 2018.

We stayed home on this “momentous” New Year’s Eve. (Insert some sarcasm there….) I was on my computer and I see all the posts about how fabulous everyone knows 2020 is going to be. I literally cried when I saw them. I cried because I use to look forward, now I tend to look back because that is where my family was complete and whole and where everything felt right.

There are pieces of the past decade that can just take a one way hike to anywhere. It has to have been the most difficult 10 years of my life……ever. Our family went through some horrible times, struggled, dealt with life altering injuries, yet came out the other end, somehow. We would be rich if we got paid every time we said “we will just make it work, somehow.” I don’t know how we did it, but we did. I should feel really good about that, but strangely enough, I don’t. I have said it before that I feel like I have been “punished” for some reason, throughout my life, however some call it “being tested.” Tested to see how strong I really am. Tested to see if our marriage could withstand such turmoil. Tested to see if I care enough to push myself to past these tests. These were all prior to Noah dying. I would say we passed those tests. But then we have our son pass away, and we get the same damn tests again. We have passed them again, I think. I am tired, and I am tired of being tested. I give.

In the past decade, I also watched someone very close to me struggle as well. His world, as he knew it, blew up. He became a lost soul, one who didn’t believe he was worthy of life or love. I grieved for this beautiful human because I could feel his pain, see his agony, and not fix it. All I could do was be there as best I could by letting him know he was important, and letting him know that I needed him, even if he felt he wasn’t needed, and I loved him, more than life itself. Slowly, over time, he found himself again and learned to love himself. I don’t say “love himself again” because I don’t know that he really did prior to his world imploding. He was so busy doing for everyone else and not thinking of himself as a human who deserved love. He looked at himself as a commodity. Watching his journey to becoming the amazing human he is today, has been inspirational. Many times he told me that my boys made him feel loved and lovable, when he didn’t believe he was. I am so proud of who he is today, and I love him more than I ever did before. He is a connection that I am grateful for, daily.

The past decade had milestones to it as well. My kids went from being children, to teenagers, to young adults. I was proud of them through every phase of their lives during the past decade. They both grew into amazing young men that anyone would be proud of. They both managed honor roll all through high school, while learning in French. They both played sports that they loved, and excelled in them. They both learned to drive and they both graduated with a double dogwood diploma. Noah became a journeyman electrician and Matthew is loving life at college. My children have always been, and always will be my greatest accomplishment. I will admit that over the past 10 years, I have accomplished some amazing feats in my job, and I am proud of them, but not near as proud as I am of my boys. They are the one thing in my life that I did absolutely right.

Here is where I struggle with venturing into the future. Like any parent, I had thought about my children’s’ lives in the years to come. Completing their education, getting a meaningful job, meeting the love of their lives, getting engaged, getting married, and having children. I am grateful that I will still get all those with Matthew, and the thought of his future gives us something to look forward to. Then there is the void, the loss of what would have been. For every future upside to something in life for Matthew, you remember the downside. The part where Noah won’t get to experience those life changing events, and where we didn’t get to bear witness to them. I imagine that for the rest of Matthew’s life, he will think the same way. Noah was going to be his best man. That was a given. Matthew was going to be Noah’s best man. Logically, you know that he will have someone close to him in his life that will fill that role for him, but it won’t be the same. As I write this, I am already feeling the gaping hole on that day, because we know what should have been.

People that have not lost a child, don’t think the same way as a parent that has suffered that loss. I have lost aunts, uncles, grandparents and parents. Believe me when I tell you, the depth of loss is not the same. It makes sense that they don’t think the same as I, because all they have, in this moment, is the ability to look forward to these events. I get it. I was them. It is hard to put into words how this feels. All that comes to mind is life altering. My vision for my children’s future will never be the same.

I don’t know what 2020 will bring, but I do know that my “life vision” is much shorter. I will live day to day. I will still wake up and be grateful that I did. I will still tell those that are important to me how I feel about them, and that I love them. I will continue to be so very cognizant of my amazing husband, and recognize that he feels the pain as deeply as I do and that he can have a bad day, and that is okay. I will continue to keep my heart open to those that want me in theirs, and I will try to keep mine open for those that don’t. I will learn to accept that people view grief differently, and I will not judge them for having an opinion about my grief journey. Perhaps I can teach them a thing or two that will help them to better understand. I will also try not to judge the people that are distancing themselves from me, or feel that I should be further along in “my grief and letting go.” I understand that I will always be at a different place than they are from now on. Hopefully, they will learn to accept me as I am.

Last, but most certainly not least, I will be grateful every single day that I was given the honor of being Noah’s mom. That is a gift and a privilege that is all mine, and one that I will wear with pride every day in 2020.

2nd Christmas Without You……..

Reflecting back on Christmas 2018, I can honestly say that I don’t remember it completely. I know I got Matthew the picture of him with Noah on the back of their dad’s truck, and many of our gifts centred around Noah. Otherwise, I know we had dinner at our friend’s house, but again very little memory of it. I thought it was the Christmas I wanted to forget, but fast forward to Christmas 2019, and I realize I was wrong.

This past year has seen drastic changes for us. It was our year of “firsts” and adjusting to not having Noah walk through the door. It was also the year that Matthew went off to school. My heart has been torn apart this past year and it still feels like it is floating in a million tiny pieces. We went from a house of 4 adults and a dog, to 2 adults and a dog. The silence of not having children in the house is deafening. No laughter, no yelling at you from another room, or asking if you remembered to put “their” stuff in the dryer. The little things, the things I feel the void of so deeply.

I have truly struggled with Christmas this year. I feel no emotion about the day, but overwhelming emotion about Noah. Triggers everywhere. A friend reaching out to say “I am thinking about you,” to a song, or a yearly gift, or a tradition. Everyone says that we need to make new traditions, but I don’t think people understand how wrong that feels when you lose a child. There is a part of you that feels like you are eliminating them from your family, leaving them behind, like they never existed. I just can’t feel right about it. I want all the traditions we had as a family of 4, which sounds simple to do, but really it isn’t. When you go to carry on a tradition, you so clearly see and feel that the 4th is missing. It may have been the twinkle in his eye that I would notice because he loved Christmas, or the funny voices he would do with Matthew while en route to find the perfect tree, or the way he would throw his arms around me and just hug me, just because. Simple, little things…….gone.

Close your eyes and imagine yourself in these shoes for the past year. You probably don’t want to, or if you try, you just can’t even imagine. Of course you can’t because it is the unimaginable. That is a good thing, because I would never want anyone to feel even a minute piece of what it is like. Now, try to imagine how life altering it would be to lose a piece of you. I like to compare it to when someone loses a limb. They can feel that it is gone, they can see it is gone, they recognize how hard life is now without it, and in that same second, they may have phantom pains, where they believe it is still there. I get phantom pains in my heart. Your mind gets exhausted from the games it plays on itself.

This year for Christmas, I want for nothing, except to have Noah back. As I write that, the tears start flowing because I still wish for that everyday. A wish that can never be fulfilled. I grew that beautiful human inside of me. I remember the first time he moved, I remember feeling such love for this human that it felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest. I remember his Christmas concerts and having a friend pretend that he was Santa in our house and videotaping it so that he would continue to believe. I remember how beautiful he was, and how I didn’t feel I deserved such a perfect gift.

Out of all the holidays, Christmas is probably the worst when you have lost a child. You see all the posts of families in matching pyjamas, and people wishing Merry Christmas to everyone, and you feel nothing, just nothing. One feels dead on the inside, but putting on a great facade on the outside. Grieving is hard.

If I could have one more wish, it would be that people give the best gift of all to their loved ones, the gift of presence. Disconnect from the outside world for Christmas with your loved ones. Watch their eyes and their faces as they open the gifts. Put those in your memory bank. They are the moments you won’t get back. We all figure that we have so much time here on earth that we don’t need to be all that for others, but here is the thing………….you do, especially for your children. If you got them toys then play with them, don’t be a bystander. If you got them their favorite music, listen to it with them and have a dance party. If you are preparing food, ask them to help you. Very simple tasks that we can do for others, that gives them the gift of presence. I believe in the end, that is all we really want. The material objects will end up in the back of a closet, but the memories you create today will stay with you and your loved ones for a lifetime. Make memories and give them the gift of “you.”

Merry Christmas from our house to yours.

What is Faith?

I was raised Catholic. I remember going to church every Sunday as a family. We would put on our “best clothes”, climb into the station wagon and off we would go. The mass always felt very long, and I usually didn’t understand half of what they were preaching. I know that I was baptized, and I had my first communion, but I never went beyond that. Back in the day, attending church was not a choice one was given. It was just what we did as a family. That being said, I have a memory of being about 10 or 11 years old and being told that I could choose to go to church or not go. I chose not to go. I don’t recall getting an argument back from my parents for my choice, but I believe that was because my parents were divorcing. There was so much happening within our family, that faith wasn’t in the forefront anymore. I wasn’t upset about that at all. I didn’t feel the “pull” to attend mass. I have to be honest and say that I am not one to fully understand the Catholic faith, but that is on me, no one else. It was just never something that I felt I wanted to pursue further. Perhaps that is because I never really felt the depth of faith that others do. I have many people in my life that have extremely strong faith, and it serves them well. Perhaps if I had been one of those people, I wouldn’t be struggling with what I was raised to believe. God is great, and God is good and kind, and God loves you. Three little phrases, with so much power.

There are two definitions for the word Faith. The religious definition is “strong belief in God or in the doctrines of a religion, based of spiritual apprehension, rather than proof.” The other definition is “complete trust or confidence in someone or something.” When I read the two, I realize that the type of “faith” I have, is the complete trust or confidence in someone or something. The religious definition leaves me with more questions than answers.

Honestly, I have never really given this much thought, until my child died. I emphasize “my child” because that is who he is. Those with a strong faith base have told me he is a child of God first. This comment creates even more struggles and questions for me. I have questioned so much about God and my religious faith, or lack of it, since Noah died.

“God is great.” At the point that I am at with the loss of Noah and facing grief in the face everyday, I find that extremely hard to believe. If God is so great, why would he take my child? People have told me that we are all God’s children, and he has a “plan” for each and every one of us. How often do we hear “we just don’t know how much time we have.” To me, that means that I have no idea how long I will live, not that I have no idea when God will decide when my time is up. The people that believe that it is all in God’s hands, have true religious faith, but what if you aren’t where they are? What if you struggle every day with that question? I find it really difficult to accept that a higher power has the right to take a child from their parent. Everyone, and I mean everyone, says that no parent should ever have to bury their child, but so many do. I am one of them.

“God is good and kind.” In my world he isn’t. If he was good and kind, which would probably also include caring and compassionate, he wouldn’t have let Noah die. He would have known how it would devastate me, along with family and friends. That is not what kind humans do, and according to my upbringing, he was a human. If this is truth, then it makes absolutely no sense to me at all. I am imagining by now that the truly faithful are possibly thinking that I don’t understand. Well, they would be right, I don’t.

“God loves you.” This is probably the toughest one of all for me. I love many people, and I would not do anything to intentionally hurt them or make them suffer. Interesting how the word suffer is there. The stories say that God suffered for us. Therefore, one would think that he would not want us to suffer ever, because he knows how painful it is. I am in a hell that is wracked with suffering, and it is painful and it is exhausting. It is called grief. If He loves me, why is He okay with this? If He truly loves me, why is it okay that I have to carry a broken heart and feel the pain of that? If He loves me, why do I feel more like he is punishing me? I actually asked Noah one night before I went to sleep that if he truly was with God, is He punishing me by telling you not to visit me in my dreams? Is he upset that I didn’t follow the path that was laid out for me by my parents? Is He disappointed that I didn’t take you down the path with me? I am sure by now, if you are still reading, you may think I sound a bit, or a lot crazy and that’s okay. Most would probably not understand many of the thoughts and questions I have around Noah’s death either. The religious aspect of “Faith” is not concrete for me. Much of it makes no sense at all in my mind, and what I was raised to believe, is not what I am believing today. Religion is complicated.

I have been told, on more than one occasion by a very dear friend, that I am “so damn logical.” Perhaps that is why I struggle with the religious aspect of “faith.” On the other hand, I absolutely understand the second definition, “complete trust or confidence in someone or something.” It makes total sense to me. I have complete trust and confidence in my family, in my friends, in my co-workers. I know that they are there for me, through the good and the bad. I know that they hate that I am grieving for my son. I know that should I fall, they will pick me up. I know that I could call them at any hour, should I need to talk. I know they would never punish me or intentionally hurt me. I know that they love me and accept me for the person I am today, with no strings attached. All of this I can confirm as being real. There is no complication.

I don’t know that I will ever have religious faith. Sometimes I honestly wish I did because then the bigger picture, whatever that is, would possibly make some sort of sense to me. Maybe if I did, I would feel more at peace with the events that have brought me to where I am today. If I did, maybe I wouldn’t have such feelings of anger towards the God I was raised to believe in. I have had people with faith try to explain it all to me. As hard as they try, I still cannot wrap my brain or heart around it. Perhaps, at this point in my life, I am too closed off for that. They say time heals. Maybe it will heal my heart that is angry and broken, and I will one day understand it all. I guess I just have to have faith that it will happen, someday.

The Holidays

This Christmas will be different from the last one, and the one before that. I am in countdown mode for Matthew to come home! I miss him probably more than I should. Losing Noah left a void in me that will never be filled, and then having Matthew go away, well that left a different kind of void. We went from a house full of laughter, love and craziness of 4 and a dog, down to 2 and a dog in under a year. It has been a massive year of adjusting.

Tonight, while sitting with Rick after dinner, I just blurted out “I have no desire to have Christmas.” His reply was “we still have other children and grandchildren.” “I am aware” was how I answered that. Then the tears came. My response was filled with weight. Weight that swung back around and hit me square in the face. I then thought about how it was still almost 3 weeks away, and that seems like an eternity right now. Where people are hustling and worrying about how Christmas is sneaking up on them and they still have shopping and preparing to do, I sit here feeling empty, and really couldn’t care less. Yes, I will make sure there are gifts, and we will get a tree, and we will have a dinner……..because that is what we are suppose to do. I haven’t gotten to the point where it is something I want to do. I am going through the motions, hoping that one day that “want” will return.

The holidays are especially hard for people that are grieving. I spoke with another mom today who also lost her son. I look her in the eyes when I speak to her, and we connect. Her eyes look sad and both of us have tears welling up as we chat. This is not a connection either of us would ever wish on another mom. We were discussing the holidays and people’s expectations (or so we assume) and what we would want people to know about us during the holiday season.

Once you are past the first year, you are more present and less numb. Although this makes you feel like you have returned somewhat to the living, your senses are on high alert. Because of this, your emotions will ebb and flow back and forth. You are so clearly aware that what was once your normal will never be again, and the joy you felt then, has not returned, not yet.

The simple, memory making tasks look and feel different now. For example, when it was time to get a tree, we would all load into the truck and go all over the place looking to buy the perfect tree for us. The boys would joke about how, just like every other year, we will spend hours looking because Rick has to have “the perfect tree”, only to go back to where we started, and buy the first tree we looked at. There would be tons of joking around and laughing. They would be just as into it as their dad, pointing out every little flaw, or finding the big gaping hole, but assuring me that we could turn that side to the wall and no one would be the wiser. This year, I have no desire to have a tree. That is probably more to do with not having the experience I was use to having with the boys than anything else and the task feels daunting. For now, it feels more like a chore than joy.

The gatherings. People getting together, being festive, chatting, laughing, reminiscing. I wrote before about how I felt like the Thanksgiving weekend, wherever we went, Noah wasn’t mentioned. Maybe people think that if they avoid saying his name or bringing him up, that we will feel more normal? It is the opposite now. We are so aware that he is no longer here that when he isn’t mentioned, it is magnified tenfold. We want to talk about him, hear your stories about him, know that you still remember him and miss him like we do. Every gathering I go to, I feel the void of him no longer being here to celebrate and make memories with us. I am aware that his laugh is not resonating through the house. It makes me think of all the things that we should be looking forward to, like Noah finding his true love, getting married, having children. We not only lost him, but lost our future with him. Think about that for a minute, and imagine how empty that makes you feel. Those are more of the milestones I imagined the day he was born.

The traditions. Every year, since the boys were small, but old enough to eat chocolate, I have bought them a chocolate letter. It was something that I had growing up, that I have continued with them. I went today to buy them, methodically going through all the names I need to remember, and I grab a second “N” because Noah is in the list. I immediately threw it back. It cut me like a knife. A simple, stupid chocolate letter rocked the emotion wagon. I should have bought it. A side note to this, as I walked away and went up the next aisle, I hear a little girl calling “Noah, Noah, Noah!” I froze right there in the food aisle and grabbed my stomach. The tears started to come, and I had to turn and stare at the food on the shelf until I could breathe normally. Sounds silly, right? But this is the new reality. I had to compose myself, I can’t stand in the middle of this store and cry. I pull myself together, then head straight for the checkout, so I could get out of the store.

Of course, no holiday is complete without Family. Up until last year, (or maybe I did do it last year. I honestly don’t remember), we almost always host my side of the family’s Christmas dinner. Mainly because of the logistics of where everyone lives and we are the most central. I have always loved doing this, although it is exhausting. The family all laughing and chatting. I cook a turkey with stuffing, and ham (Noah’s favorite), green bean casserole (another favorite), potatoes and carrots and brussel sprouts and gravy. It was always a fun time. The kids, or young adults now, would sit in the TV room and play games. I would be in the kitchen, hearing them laugh, and snort and swearing, and I would soak up every second of it. It warmed my heart. Since Noah’s passing, they now sit with the adults and chat with us. I get it, they are adults now, but I can’t help but wonder if they realize that this tradition for them has stopped, and is it because they would have to face the fact that everything has changed? Not just for us, but for all the extended family as well. Noah had a presence that has left a massive hole that we all feel.

I would venture to say that grief has made us somewhat selfish. We try not to commit to events too far ahead, because we don’t know how we will feel when the time comes. We also allow ourselves to change our mind, and if we feel that we wouldn’t be the best company at that time, or that we just don’t want to “people,” then we won’t. We spend much of our time alone. Perhaps it isn’t selfishness, but rather self preservation.

During this holiday season, we need to be kind to ourselves first. Those that know me really well, know that this is probably the hardest thing for me to do, but it is time. If I don’t take care of my mind, body and soul, then I am not going to be any good for anyone else either. Losing Noah has shown me that life is short, and that we all need to surround ourselves with people that will carry the load when it is too heavy for us to carry alone, and celebrate with us even the most minute things that bring us joy.

My holiday wish for all of you is that if you have broken fences, mend them. Reach out to those that may be too proud to ask for help. Be kind to others, no gesture is too small. Above all, be kind to yourself, and let others know that you appreciate them and love them. These truly are the best gifts you can give.

Merry Christmas from our family to yours.

H.P.C.C.

As the director of the childcare centre that I work at, I have a steadfast rule: Don’t invite me to birthdays, weddings, baby showers, wedding showers or anything that is personal outside of our workplace. It may sound harsh, but I know for myself that I need this boundary to be the boss that I should be. I always say that policies are created because of something that makes them necessary. My “something” was my dearest friend Steph, who ultimately became Noah’s Godmother. I was her boss, and when we became close, lines could get blurry. (I thank her everyday in my heart for helping me to create this policy!)

From the day that I started working at my centre, this policy has been in place, and it has been good for me, until pretty much all of 2018. Noah passed in October, and my staff dealt with a very traumatic event in November. We also had staff dealing with illnesses in their families, and losses of loved ones. It truly was the ultimate year from hell.

I was chatting with one of my staff the other day, who has been struggling around the anniversary of the traumatic event of November 2018. We shared how we didn’t know what to expect on the one year anniversaries and how we thought we had prepared ourselves for them. Well, were we ever wrong. Neither of us expected to grieve even deeper than we did on those horrible days, nor did we expect it to take us back there, but it did. The connection that we share because of these events have definitely blurred the lines for all of us. Most days, I feel more like an equal than a boss, and I am okay with that.

There are certain qualities I look for when hiring staff to work with the children. Are they compassionate, caring, energetic, fun, hard working team players? Every one of my staff have these qualities and they give 110% every day. The interesting component to this is that they also have these qualities towards each other. 2018 really brought this to the forefront. There isn’t a “work” atmosphere amongst my staff, but rather a “family” atmosphere.

We have a saying in our centre, “we will make it work.” Someone has an appointment come up, we will make it work. A staff has a sick child at home, we will make it work. You want to go watch your child’s Christmas concert, we will make it work. Your dog has to go to the vet, we will make it work. You have family in town that you really want to spend a day with, we will make it work. You need a day for you, we will make it work. It doesn’t matter what it is, we will make it work. We do just as family would do. No one ever says “well that doesn’t work for me” because the relationships my staff have with each other is like no other. They are so aware of each other’s emotional state and will offer a hug, or just say “I am here if you need anything.” It is quite extraordinary considering the amount of grief and trauma our team has endured.

I really believe that traumatic events make you re-evaluate your life, and how you live it. Within the conversation around the anniversaries of our events, we discussed how grief has changed us. Yes, it can bring days when you don’t care one iota about anything, and you would rather stay in bed and not see a soul. But, it also brings such an acute awareness of others around you. Losing Noah completely removed the “boss” layer at work for me. I became vulnerable and had to ask for help and support. I still do to this day. My co-worker has learned that she too can’t always be the strong one (although it has taken her longer than me…..) We have both done a lot of soul searching this past year. As women, we both really struggle with the idea that we must be strong, because we feel we have to be the one to keep everything together for everyone, especially our children. But it is important for our children to see that we are human. We hurt and can be vulnerable, and need help. Our children learn from watching us, so if we try to hide it all the time, they will expect that they are to act the same, or expect the same from their future partners. We are doing them a disservice if we aren’t being true to ourselves.

As my 20 year anniversary approaches, and I reflect back on my time at my job, I am thankful and grateful for the people I get to have beside me every day. Beautiful humans who make our environment one that is full of love, compassion, kindness, laughter and friendship. To each of you, I want you to know that you have made this past year bearable for me, just by being there and saying those 5 little words……………we will make it work. Each and every one of you will always hold a special place in my heart. Thank you for being there for me at my lowest of lows. I couldn’t have made it to 20 without you.

My Birthday

November 6, 2019 was my 55th birthday. I really am not a big fan of birthdays anymore, well not my own anyway. I had the day off, and was envisioning a quiet day to just relax and not really do anything. The day did not go as planned.

On my birthday last year, I remember missing Noah, but I was still so very numb from his death. A numbness that stayed with me until this birthday. The night before my birthday, through tears falling on my pillow, I once again asked Noah to come and visit me in my dreams. I tried to let him know that was all I wanted for my birthday. I told him I needed to hear his voice because it has been much too long. I told him that I needed to feel his arms around me, giving me a hug. I told him that I wanted to be able to look into his beautiful eyes and tell him that I loved him. I told him that was all I wanted. Eventually, I fell asleep, but he never came.

On the morning of my birthday, I woke up with a sadness about me that I couldn’t shake. As I sat down to have my morning coffee, silent tears started running down my face. Eventually, they were a steady stream. They felt warm and as I closed my eyes, I could feel the warmth emanating from each individual tear. I remember thinking that I was glad they were warm, however I am not sure why. Maybe I thought that tears of love should be warm, just like your heart. I was sure that this waterfall would quickly pass, and I would “put on my big girl panties” and enjoy the rest of my day. I was so very wrong.

When I realized that these tears were not stopping, I thought perhaps it was time for me to have another conversation with God. Apparently he always hears you, and I was alone, so he was the chosen one. I was not nice to Him and I used some language that wasn’t very becoming. Here I was sitting on my couch, raising my voice at Him, and asking Him how can he think this is fair? How can He decide who goes and who stays? Does He not see that I have suffered enough in my life already? Does he not realize that taking Noah from me was the cruelest thing He could have ever done? Does he realize that I am suffering silently for so many hours out of every day? Does He realize that by taking Noah, He took a piece of me that will never return? Doe He know that I hate Him for what he has done to me and my family?

The conversation did not stop the tears. By the time I had finished having this one sided discussion, I was heaving and sobbing. The pain of missing Noah was crushing. I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. This sadness stayed with me all day.

Thankfully, my mom called and invited me out for lunch. Change of scenery would probably do me good, so I took my crying self into the shower and just let the tears flow with the water. By the time I was ready to leave, I had myself under control, so I thought.

I get into my car, and the first thing I do is plug in my phone. I go to my music app, hit my playlist and hit shuffle. I have about 150 songs on my playlist. The first two songs to play, were the songs that Noah’s dad and I each chose for his Celebration of Life. I have to admit that I had thought to myself while I was getting ready to leave, how weird it would be if all 4 of Noah’s songs played in a row while I was driving. I held my breath as the third song started, but it wasn’t a Noah song. I quietly thanked Noah for letting me know he is around me.

I cried so many tears that day that my eyes felt like they weighed 10 pounds each. (I am sure I wasn’t looking the best either.) This birthday was so painfully different from last year. I have heard it said that year two is actually worse than year one. After my birthday, I am tending to believe that this could be true. It will be our year of “seconds” and next year will be our year of “thirds.” It is like counting your anniversary, only these “seconds and thirds” bring a sadness with them, not the joy like an anniversary.

After that first year of numbness, the days are becoming more clear. With this clarity comes an even deeper feeling of the loss because you are now “present” to feel it. You aren’t going around in a fog and just trying to cope. You are trying, really trying, to move forward and remember the good times that were shared with Noah, and there are many. Actually any day that you got to spend with Noah was a great day.

I will continue on this journey of grief and I will continue to try to keep my heart open. I know that some days are going to be darker than others, and I have to allow that to happen. I don’t believe that suppressing feelings and emotions is a step in the right direction. I will choose to embrace every feeling that I have and make my way through them, because to me this is how healing works. It will be a long road, and one that I know I am never on alone. Day by day, step by step, I will get there. I have to believe that.