Moments with Marri

Written earlier this week but too timid to post... The thought of his decaying body near Halloween troubles me terribly. I’ve pressed my body to the ground and wailed for the desire to be near to him was so great that I chose something so seemingly strange to lessen the anguish of his distance.  Insects crawling on my body only intensified the wailing from the depths of my soul.  How could this be my son surrounded by dirt and worms?  I have tucked him right into the crook of my neck to feel the warmth of his heavy breathing just as his little body gave way to rest.  I carried him in my body, nursed him at my breast soaking in the sounds of his satisfaction, and cleaned that pudgy little tush countless times.  I know all the different twinkles in his eye and what they mean.  Surely, this terrifying anguish is some altered reality that I can escape.  Yet, it’s not.  This is my lot to bear, the cross I have been given to carry.  In a sense, I know Haddy is not there in the grave,

Joy and sorrow together can make you feel uneven, disoriented. The last few days have been full of beauty and full of pain. The juxtaposition of joy and sorrow can feel like a perpetual tilt-a-whirl. For a little while you enjoy the ride and then you can’t decide which way is up and which way is down. I’m there now. This week my Knox described a PTSD flashback with surprising clarity in his own language at nearly eight. “It repeats,” he said. Through tears he explained, “I want to make it stop and I can’t. For some reason it’s always the same.” I was thankful for his description, affirmed him in his anxious grieving, and utterly covered in grief that my curly-haired jokester wears so much anguish. It’s humbling to hear my child describe those sorts of things. The images, the sounds are all strongly tied to quaking emotions. To watch him describe them would humble just about anyone. The depth of his anguish is a direct reflection of the depth of his love, no doubt. Tonight Calvin ran

I miss the mundane.    Diaper changes.    Poopscapades.    Wrestling the alligator that is a toddler boy with wild legs and ants in his pants.    I miss the tickling that I would do to prevent the fussing.    I miss grabbing his chunky thighs.    I miss his messy hair.    I even miss his fussing.    I miss his stinky feet.    I miss toddler stank after a day full of playing.    I miss his chaos and his noise.    I miss his messes.    I miss his naked butt running through the house after a bath.    I miss his fingers and his toes.    I miss the slight curve of his lips just before that great smile.    I miss his little button nose.    I miss his dirty little neck that I wiped down hundreds of times after a messy meal.    I miss how ticklish he was.    I miss the completely individual way we loved each other in action.    I miss rubbing his back to settle his soul.    I miss his drool on my shoulder and that little pointing finger asking for me to walk him up to bed.    I miss his k

My post from August 31, 2018... “Mornings have been the toughest for me on the whole since Haddy went to heaven. Our mornings were filled with his giggly excitement for the day.    That could include elbows, knees, and feet to any part of your body while he climbed into bed.    It could also include fussing if we hadn’t moved fast enough toward breakfast.    That boy loved helping in the kitchen and he loved scrambled eggs.    Overall, Haddy was filled with the sweetest, bubbly playfulness in the morning.    We truly delighted in him.    Jason and I both anguish that he isn’t with us.    We feel conflicted with everything that we do these days.    Our hearts and minds are flooded with so many questions and unknowns.    We are settled though that the truth of God’s character is as steady and true as it was before Haddy went to heaven.    We may feel conflicted but He is not.” Still true.    Mornings are brutal.    How does the sun keep rising?    My baby is dead.   I wake

An unfinished post from 7/7/19... It's been a while.  My last blog was written as we approached Haddon's birthday on May 7th.  Mother's Day and Father's Day were right on it's tail, and then, Dooms Day, the 4th of July would be the grand finale for finishing off the dreaded year of firsts.  It's the day we all have feared since July 4th, 2018, the day that held our worst.  How would we ever endure that day?  Our children echoed our own sentiments and often.  It's just awful.  Everything about it feels awful.   Honestly, I didn’t think I could endure it, any notion of celebration surrounding the 4th of July left me spinning.    Last year broke me, shattered beyond recognition.    This kind of grief changes you to the core, heart, soul, mind, and strength.    Nothing is untouched in the wake, the aftermath of the death of my son.    I know I’m moving, through grief, through life.    I’m thankful to be moving.  I’ll never be the same.    My parents, siblin

I always knew if the opportunity arose, my answer would be a resounding yes.  I never dreamed my yes would come from my mouth on behalf of my child.  I said yes to the little red heart they place on your driver’s license the first time those questions were uttered to me, and I talked to my husband about it.  He hates those conversations.  You know the ones.  If I’m gone, these are my desires.  Having cared for terminal patients for many years, the sorrow of loss provokes conversation.  I needed to have them so periodically we did.  He would sometimes tell me to stop, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Fast forward to the night of July 4th.  Our time at the hospital seemed so incredibly short.  The ER team stopped CPR a little over an hour after I started it.  Haddon’s heart never produced a shockable rhythm, never anything but a flat line.  The knowing in the depth of my soul was unshakable.  He was gone.  Jason asked if he could hold him, and he did.  Shortly after, I