To my almost 2 year old

My darling Boston,

You are officially a big brother! Your baby brother Paxton arrived on December 23rd at 11:51 PM, but I have a feeling you already know this. It was a very special day for me. He arrived just in time for Christmas! I don't even know the right way to word it, there's not really a right way, but I was very worried that I would see him and want him to be you. Thankfully that hasn't turned out to be true. He is his own tiny perfect person that I love just as much as you, but in his own special way. He brought with him memories of you that I haven't thought of in quite some time. I have spent almost 2 years thinking about you being gone, I think I had forgotten to think about the fact that there was a time when I had you here with me too. I am thankful of the reminder that I have memories of you that are not painful, but it has me missing you in a very overwhelming way. 

Thinking of the happy times also reminds me of just how much I lost when I lost you, and there's not really words to describe how much your death still hurts. 

A year ago I was at the point where I had almost let it destroy me. When you died absolutely everything I thought I knew and understood was destroyed too. It is particularly brutal to lose yourself entirely in one moment. I really no longer knew myself. All of the sudden I was this traumatized shell of a human being and everything was scary and so so hard. 

My news years resolution is to be more fun for your brothers. To some this might sound silly, but your death has left me permanently scared. My brain is stuck in a terrible cycle of constantly imagining the worst, it has turned me into a irritable, no fun mom that says "be careful" about 500 times a day. What most people don't understand is that having the worst happen isn't just a figment of my imagination, the worst really did happened to us and there is no being care free once you've learned what it feels like to say goodbye to your child. 

In 4 days it will be your 2nd birthday which leaves me sitting here so angry that I was forced to plan your funeral before I ever got the chance to plan you a birthday party, but the more time that goes by the more I realize that in your passing, you gave me many gifts. You inspire me, and inspiration in any form is a gift. 

Because of you I know how precious life really is. Because of you I know that I am capable of keeping on even when I was positive there was just no way I was going to make it through. Because of you I'm proud of myself for the first time in my life. Because of you I have learned what it means to be appreciative and patient. Because of you I am better. 

I'd give all that up in a second if it meant I could have you back, but me and you both know the patience your death has taught me is the only thing that will get me to you in time. So until then, in a thousands ways every single day, I'll be missing you. 

I love you, Boston.

All my love,

Mommy

My little fatboy, 

I am missing you like always of course. My heart has been an overwhelming combination of pure joy and lingering pain lately. I've read more than once that when you lose a child you feel everything from a deeper place, and it couldn't be more true. 

There are no words accurate enough to describe how happy, blessed, and all around thankful I am that in 19 days or less your baby brother will be making his way into this world. He is truly the rainbow after the storm, but there are also no words accurate enough to describe the ache I feel in my heart for you, or how different having lost you has made this pregnancy for me. In all the joy, there is a shadow that never leaves. 

Every time I am asked if I have any other children I say "Yes, two boys."

I am then usually asked what your brother is going to be and reply "Another boy."

Which usually receives a response of "Oh my! 3 boys at home, you're going to be busy!" 

I smile and nod while crossing my fingers that I won't be asked how old, because that question means having to explain that I won't  actually know what it's like to have 3 boys at home, because my 2nd son is in heaven. 

It's a simple question but every time I walk away after answering it I'm either teary eyed or at the least trapped in thoughts about just how different life would be if you were just here.

Sometimes it's hard to escape the anger that shadow makes me feel because it's a constant reminder that even though when I feel joy now it's much more profound, I am never able to experience it without fear of the true raw pain that your death made me realize exists in this life. 

Living with that fear has been one of the most difficult things for me. I despise the feeling. I have come a long way when it comes to my anxiety, but it's still an every day thing for me. I spend an unfortunate amount of time trying to get my feelings to correlate with what I know in my head. Anxiety is a certain type of torture not easily explained or dealt with. I have been pretty on edge lately and I'm praying I find effective ways to cope when your brother arrives so that I don't let my worries over shadow the precious moments of watching him grow. 

I have also been struggling with the fact that with weather and him arriving soon it's not likely I will make it to the cemetery every day.  There has been two times since you were buried that I didn't make it to see you. The first was because I did not realize they had switched to winter hours and close at 4:30 instead of 8. The other was the first day it snowed and the parking lot at my work was getting plowed and I wasn't able to leave on my break like I always do. 

They were awful days filled with a lot of tears. It was very hard to adjust to you being at the cemetery in general, but I was not at all prepared for how it would feel to drive up to closed gates. It was honestly one of the worst feelings ever having to turn around realizing that I am not even granted the small solace of being able to go to tell you I love you whenever I want. It's such an important part of my day and I'm not sure what I'm going to do when that routine changes. I think it is such a huge thing for me because for so long I kept your ashes with me and found comfort in feeing like I was protecting you. You were still right there with me. Since having you buried I eventually found comfort in having a little part of my day dedicated just to you. Going to tell you I love you every day is the one thing I have left that I can do that feels like actively being your mom. It is going to break my heart not being able to do so and I pray you know that it does not mean that you aren't on my mind. 

I pray that you are close by watching over us. It doesn't matter how long you've been gone, I will always need you Bosty. 

Thinking of you

Bosty, 

I guess you could say I've been in deep thought about just about everything in my life lately. Probably because in a short amount of time your baby brother will be arriving and that brings a lot of change into our lives, and for me it means facing a lot of things that scare me. 

In all of this thinking I've been doing there are two things I can't get off my mind; peace and acceptance. These words are used a lot in the after math of death and the process of grieving and "moving forward". 

At first I would stare at people in shock that they could even suggest I would ever find peace or acceptance. Now, 20 months later I have  a better understanding of why people say these things and where they are coming from, however, acceptance is the one that I to this day despise and probably always will. 

I find it frustratingly inappropriate to use in terms of the death of a child. 

In my life I have accepted help, apologies, gifts, differences in opinions, things of that sort, but I do not accept your death. 

I understand that you are gone. I understand that life does go on. I understand that it's okay to find happiness, but I do not "accept" any part of the who, what, when, where, why, and how of your passing. 

To me reaching a state of acceptance would be like me saying it is okay that you are gone, and that's certainly something I will never be okay with. Even though I no longer live in denial, I no longer cling to misery, and I no longer expect or even beg to wake up from the nightmare that your death was and still is, I do not accept it. 

I wish people would try to look at it as a form of understanding. I understand I have to miss you until the day that I die. I understand that means years of birthdays where cake and presents aren't involved, years of holidays that I will spend trying to focus on what is in front of me instead of what's missing, and many years of failing in my attempts to do so. I understand that this Christmas  instead of picking out presents for you, I am awaiting the arrival of your headstone. I understand that I wouldn't even know what to buy you because you left before I got the chance to know what you would like. I understand that I am strong enough to survive, but I am not strong enough to accept. How could I? 

Im not as reluctant or put off by "the finding peace" part because I can now say I have found bits of peace in my life, but it would be a lie to say that I'm actually at peace with your death. Maybe if someone can sit me down when I finally join you and say that there was a profound reason that you were taken from me in that moment then my heart could find true peace...but not a moment sooner. You will never see me wave a white flag when it comes to your passing.

I've been waiting for the right time to pursue justice when it comes to the who, what, when, where, why, and how of why you are gone. There have been times I was convinced I was ready, only to find myself utterly overwhelmed and once again drowning in your death after one conversation with lawyers. It's something that I've wanted to do since the moment I found out the circumstances of that day were terribly different than I had been told, but it's also something I have to make sure I am strong enough to do. I have to make sure I have enough joy to balance how painful recalling everything is, and I think I'm almost there. 

I hope I'm making you proud, I am really trying. Lord knows I'll always be proud of you. I love you, Bosty.

Some things just don't change

Bosty,

I really miss you. Not that there is ever a time that I don't, but lately I can't seem to get how badly I want to hold you again out of my head. I go to the cemetery every day and each time I leave feeling a little helpless, like there really should be somewhere or someone I could go to and demand I see you, and that you should be handed to me and then the pain of the last year and a half would just disappear. 

When I actually allow myself to think of how wonderful it would be to do that, it eats away at me and threatens to wipe away the "healing" I have done, because when I think about how wonderful it would be I am slapped in the face with the reality of how awful not having you is. 

It's something I don't think of constantly like I use to. Maybe because of how much time has gone by, maybe because I finally realized living with the hope of something that won't ever happen makes me completely miserable. There are so many unanswered questions that will be taken to my grave with me. 

I am still glad to say there have been many happy things going on lately. Yesterday was your big brothers birthday. He turned 5! Tomorrow I get to have an ultrasound and see what I'm assuming will be chubby cheeks that look a lot like yours and Qs. Not to mention our little baby P will be arriving in a few months and I have all of the happy, excited, and anxious feelings I had with you and your big brother, but some sad and slightly guilty ones too.  

I love your baby brother and the hope he gives me for brighter days, but that light will never be able to completely fill the darkness that your death brought into my life because even though I will have another beautiful face to wake up to again, it does not change that yours still will not be there. In all the happiness and joy I find in the the things I have to look forward to with your brothers, the underlining and profound ache I have to see you do the same never goes away. 

You're truly irreplaceable and I will spend the rest of my life fighting a never ending battle of trying to balance joy with pain.

I love you, my little fat boy. Come see me in my dreams. 

Nightmares

Bosty, 

I am exhausted. I've found it's almost impossible to sleep since having your ashes buried, and when I do I have awful dreams. Mostly about going to the cemetery only to find that your grave is no longer there. The worst one was a couple nights ago and in it I had gone to the cemetery and was brought into a weird room filled with news reporters by some man and told that I had buried you alive. 
I'm not sure if it's the dreams or the fact that I am not use to not having you with me but my anxiety has taken a turn for the worst again. I did not realize how much comfort having you with me brought until now. It's so hard to know what is right when you lose a child, because in reality nothing is right about it. Parents are not suppose to lose their children. It goes against the natural order of life and it makes everything so damn hard.
 I'm sure with time I will "get use to" where you are now, but as ridiculous as it may sound you being gone did not feel as permanent when being with you didn't require a trip to your grave. 
I really do try to stay positive but sometimes, especially lately,  I just want to throw myself on the ground like an angry toddler and kick and scream and cry. I am fed up with carrying the weight of your death with me. I am fed up with being scared and nervous and constantly worried. I am fed up with having to live with out you. Most of all I am fed up with the awful reality that it's never going to change. 

They say grief comes in waves, and right now they seem to be crushing me. I pray you know how much I ache to have you with me. 
I love you, fatboy, more than you will ever know...

Never Goodbye

My darling Bosty,

There is one part in the aftermath of your death that I  "skipped" I guess you could say... I did not lay you to rest. You came home with me. Not at all in the way I still so badly wish you would have, but in a pretty little blue urn.

After a month of trying to avoid looking at it each time I passed it sitting on the mantel, mostly because it took weeks for the shock that it was you in there to wear off, I picked you up. And then you started to come everywhere with me. Work, the store, to my friends. Even the Ed Sheeran concert I went to just to hear your song. Some people might find it weird or unsettling but being able to have you with me was the only reason I got through the last year and a half. On the 27th that is going to change.
You will be laid to rest right next to your Great Grandma Jean. Thinking about it instantly brings tears to my eyes and its going to be more difficult than I can put into words to get use to. Whenever I'm having a rough time it has become instinct to instantly reach for you.

 I never thought a time would come that I would make this decision and I pray you know its not because I no longer want you with me. There is not a day that goes by that  I don't dream of what it would be like to not have your absence haunting me...but that's the thing. Your urn holds what remains of your earthly existence, it is a part of you that is sacred to me but it is not the you I ache to have by my side. I want my chubby baby that had just learned how to blow spit bubbles, but it is time for me to face the fact that I don't get to have that you until my time comes.

Please know how much I love and adore you. My work is only a couple minutes away from the cemetery and I promise I will come see you every day on my lunch break.
 I am so sorry.

I love you and it's never goodbye... It's see you later.

To My Children

A letter to my children

I contemplate the meaning of life often. It's hard not to after being dealt the hands I have. I know I'll never truly understand most of it, but there is one thing that always stands out to me. I can't speak for anyone else, but I would be nothing with out my children. So..

Quinny the pooh, 

If you ever read this I'm sure it will not be until you are much older,  but thank you for being my son. I know I brought you into this world but you are the one that has made each day since so worth it. I'll always wonder what I did to deserve you. You are a gem in a world full of sharp rocks and when my time comes I will find peace in knowing I did the world at least one favor by bringing you into it. You have been through more at 4 years old than some will ever have to go through in their entire lives and yet you are truly the sweetest most genuine boy there is. I worry about you because you're heart is pure but the world is not and it makes me fearful for the pain you might feel because of that. I pray you stay good little boy, even when it hurts.
When your brother died everything I thought I knew about life disappeared. I spent a large majority of the last year being a poor excuse of a friend, daughter, sister, and mother. I hate so much that your brother was taken from me, but what I hate just as much is that such a large part of myself was taken from the people that love me. There were days I was ashamed to be around you because I knew in my heart I was being unfair, but I just couldn't figure out how to do anything but miss Boston. I am not proud of the last year, but I am proud that I am finally allowing myself to see the light at the end of the tunnel, you. You'll never know just how much I adore you. You save my life every day.
I love you, Quinton Andrew.

Bosty,

Where do I begin? There are so many things I want to ask you. Like how are you? Are your cheeks still fat? Did you sleep okay? Where do you sleep? Who's all up there with you? Are you excited to be a big brother? Do you know how scared I am? 

Scared because on Monday I find out if you're having a brother or sister, and that means that this is real. There is really another baby that will be joining our family, and it's not you. Sometimes it is still so hard to let go of the picture I had in my head before you left. A picture of a very happy me with my two amazing sons. I thought I was set with just you and your brother and never imagined another baby to be in that picture, let alone that you would no longer be in it at all.
I'm excited and so thankful for this new baby, but so terrified at the same time because I know how unbearable it would be to lose it. Life is so fragile, and certainly not guaranteed, but a huge part of me believes you will always be close by protecting us.
I made a decision a couple months ago that I am going to have your urn buried. I am hoping that we can have you buried with your Great Grandma Jean. I know that she is with you in heaven so it seems fitting to have you with her here too, that way I know that you are safe. It will be painful to bury you as I have thoroughly kept you with me everywhere I go, but I want you to be out of harms way. I want people to be able to walk past you and see your name and know that my darling little fatboy did exist, and most of all I want your new baby brother or sister to be able to have a place to go to visit you. They will most certainly know that they have a wonderful brother here on earth, and one that we love just as much in heaven.
I love you, Boston, and I miss you so very much.


And to my new baby,

I have so many thoughts about you that I don't know how to put into words. You came to be in a time of crisis, and you will be arriving in this world so very wanted and needed. Sometimes I think you've already met your big brother in heaven. I think he's sending me you because for reasons that make me ache, he did not get to stay with us. We have the very best angel watching over us and when the time is right I will tell you all about him. I will not love you the same as him, but I promise to love you as much as I love him. You have another big brother too. He's so happy to have you join us and you are so lucky to have him to grow with in this crazy world. I cannot wait to have you in my arms.


Blessings come with patience,
Until we meet again my baby