loss

Little Pieces of Light & Peace

2017, faith, Family, grief, loss, Toby

As Lent began, I searched for my focus for the next 40 days. I was looking for something that I could “do” that would help me in my grief, but also something that would help provide little pieces of light and peace. When we moved into our house last year there were two cardinals that would fly into the tree in front of our window in the family room. Every time we saw them we’d always hurry to the window “do you see them?” we’d say to Luke, as one of us was holding Toby in our arms. It was a moment of the day that made us smile. Last week I was sitting on the couch and something caught my eye at the window. I looked out and it was a cardinal, by itself, sitting in the tree. I hurried to the window to get a closer look at him, there for a split second, and then he flew away. There are many articles that say cardinals are visitors, angels, from heaven. It made me wonder, were the two that visited us over the summer watching over Toby? And the new visitor, this spring, is he alone for Luke? Or is that Toby visiting us?

We went away to the beach a few weeks after Toby died. In the mornings, the sky had these beautiful clouds with strong rays of light streaming down and reflecting on the ocean. Looking at it made me wonder what that sight was like from Heaven. How beautiful that must be. Can you imagine being able to have a seat and see any spot in the world? I cannot, but just the thought of that takes my breath away. Being able to have a place to sit in Heaven and look over your entire family? That is truly amazing.

I picked up a prayer book from church at the start of Lent. It has a short daily reflection and a few excerpts from Jesus’ journey to the cross. The focus of this prayer book is just that, prayer. How we pray. What we say to God. What we ask of God. His expectations for us.

Through these reflections, the Blessed Mother’s journey through this time have been front of mind for me. She is a grieving mother. She is a strong mother with the utmost faith in God. How did she do it? Through these first 20+ days of lent, I’ve found my focus. The Blessed Mother. I am laying my grief, anger, tears, sorrow, emptiness, loneliness, a longing to hold my sweet Toby in my arms and kiss his face, and the missing sound of TWO sets of tiny feet running through the hall upstairs, or our sons innocent laughs that we will never hear because they can’t play together. All of this. I’m laying at her feet for Lent and trying to join my grief to hers.

This 24th of March marks seven months. Those of you who have continued to follow in our journey through grief, through the loss of our beautiful son Toby, I am sure you are able to see some of our highs AND lows. And while there may be more of the latter, I continue to work on finding more of the former. It is so hard. Too hard to put into words. Too hard for many to understand the struggles we face, daily. The judgement, not said, but felt, to be happy, trust, move forward, accept. It is intense and paralyzing. I know, indisputably, we do not take a thing for granted anymore. I will be the first to tell you that prior to Toby’s death yes, I did take things for granted. So while I may not look like the most grateful person when you see me, I may not smile as much as I did, the depth of my gratitude for everyday moments runs deeper than you know. For I know, more than most, how quickly my greatest blessings can be taken away. How one, “Have a good day” kiss or “I love you” can be the last. I know the immeasurable pain of being robbed of ONE of the TWO greatest joys of my life.

As the seventh month anniversary comes at the mid-way point of Lent, I am noticing a change in myself. A loss of the pause when a stranger asks me about my children, because I don’t want them to be uncomfortable. The urge to be able to talk more about our loss and our joy with Toby for the time he was here. The desire to find ways to shed light on grieving parents and the societal pretense to “not talk about it” because it’s too uncomfortable. The bad days are still so dark and the worst moments still come at the drop of a hat. I continue to work on the acceptance of that. My prayers are different and the way I talk to God has completely changed. I continue to pray that when Toby sees Dan and me, he knows that the tears we are crying or the anger that causes us to curse at the sky is because the hole in our hearts for him is so big and each day without him is so hard. That there are just no words – only tears. I continue to hope that one day, through my actions, rebuilding, and finding a purpose on this journey I did not choose for our family’s life, that I can proudly say “Let me tell you about Toby. He is the one that showed me how to love beyond all measure. How to survive the unimaginable. How to live life for him.”

I am not there yet, Toby, but I’m working on it. Continue to hold my hand and my heart, sweet boy.

Stills

Family, grief, loss, Parenting, Toby

Lately, I’ve been trying to reflect on the last six months. The reality of six months makes me so incredibly angry. The months of September and October, I have no recollection of. Lucas turned 2 on September 4. I have two moments of that day that resurface in my mind – the first – standing on the deck, it was so hot, our family singing happy birthday to him; the second – standing in the kitchen looking out into the backyard as our nieces and nephews ran down off the deck to play. I remember blinking, leaning toward the window, thinking “someone’s holding Toby.” Waiting for one of our parents to walk down into the yard with him in their arms. But no one came. Now, when I look out the kitchen window, that’s the memory that plays in my mind.
There was a good stretch of time where I was finally sleeping. These past few weeks I’ve been waking up multiple times a night. I woke up one night last week, while Dan was away for work, and I swore I heard crying. Not Luke’s cry. It was a baby, the softest whine. I opened my eyes thinking I would see the monitor. Nothing. Darkness. And the sound was gone.

The waves of tears and uncontrollable crying have been replaced by a calmness that I absolutely hate. I feel numb again, like I did in those first weeks. I hate it. I feel guilty that I can’t cry when I feel like I need to. But then there are moments it is all I can do. I am sad, depressed, angry – nothing anyone says is the right thing.

I never experienced pain or loneliness until Toby died. You think you experience pain; you think the loss of someone you love is beyond words; you think people understand. We don’t. I unfortunately can say this, because I’ve been on both sides of this. 

You have no idea the pain of a grieving parent, unless you are a grieving parent. There have been many days this past month where my emotions are so bottled-up, feeling hurt, lost, and alone – the tears come when they come and there is no choice but to surrender to those feelings, because I don’t have the strength to stop them. 

I said before that six months makes me angry, and most days it does. When I look at the calendar or the date in the bottom corner of my computer, I instantly think another day away from you. My arms hurt. I feel the pain inside and out and then, like another wave of emotion, I feel guilty. How should I feel? Do people look at us and think we should be moving through this grief more smoothly or quicker? Am I being the best mom I can be for Lucas? People say, It will get better; time will help; it won’t hurt as bad.

Yes. Yes it does. It does hurt as bad. As bad as August 24. The flashes in my mind on any day are enough to knock the wind out of any mother. On a bad day? They’re a nasty nightmare. The sound of an ambulance siren. The lights, even if I close my eyes, the red and brightness, flash and I can’t breathe. Some routes home, I look out the window sometimes and feel like I’m not even moving, but the feeling in my heart and stomach is the same from that afternoon. There are no words for it.

Others say things, intending to be helpful, but aren’t. I’m trying to learn to take what is, and leave what isn’t.

The weather the past few weeks has gone from 30 degrees and snowing one day to 60 degrees and sunny the next. I think these glimpses of spring, of warmer weather, are bringing emotions with them. As much as the past six months have been unbearable, I’m starting to feel anxiety for the next six. Toby’s birthday. June. July. August. One year. Vacationing without him. Going back to the pool and parks where we spent 12 amazing weeks as a family of four.

Some have said to us, I don’t know how you do it? I really don’t know either. Some days we just don’t. We don’t leave our house. We stay inside with Lucas and our dogs, Murray and Theo, and do whatever we feel like doing. I used to long for those days, when we could enjoy the boys together. Laugh. Play. Sing. We still have those days, but now I long for Toby to be there with us. Sometimes when I close my eyes, my wish is that I’ll open them and he’ll be right there in the swing. That’s a still that’s in my mind. The still of his face in the car the morning of August 24 when I was taking our boys to daycare. He was smiling and laughing at Lucas. I hate hitting the light on Rt. 22. That’s the still that’s in my mind, except when I hit that light, I almost feel like I’m watching my life. All the lights, people, fast moving vehicles – they haven’t stopped, or even slowed. But if I look right or left, there’s no sound, there’s no color. It’s just still.

 As I continue to write, while it helps sometimes to get the feelings out and on paper, I hope that it will reach someone who’s maybe feeling the same. Whether in the first year of loss or the tenth. People go through many struggles. The loss of a child is a big struggle. A big, traumatic, loss. There is no fix for this. To lose a child is to lose the very heart and soul of you. My prayer right now is that this darkness that has come back will somehow make way for a time that will fuel me, us, to do things we never dreamed we could do. All while keeping the memory of our beautiful, blue-eyed, boy alive. And even though they hurt, I pray the stills never go away.

Not a Cloud in the Sky

2017, faith, Family, grief, loss, Toby

There are some days I can stop here and have a million things to tell you and there are others when all I can do is cry. This grieving process is such a roller coaster ride. 


I went to get my haircut today and the lady asked me “what happened to your hair? It looks like it’s regrowing? Were you sick?” I frowned in the mirror. Yes, I lost a lot of it postpartum and then my son died, and I lost even more because my body couldn’t deal with it all. So it’s just starting to grow back. And then she said “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Is this your son?” And reached for Toby’s locket around my neck. “Yes, that’s Toby.” Her response made my proud. “Tell me about Toby. He is as beautiful as an angel.” I talked for awhile today, to a stranger, who genuinely wanted to hear about my son and our family. It was wonderful. 

The last two days have been so nice outside. There are many small things that I pay attention to now. The morning my grandfather died in 2004, the rain poured. It rained for hours and the sky was black, even at mid-day. I remember my mom saying “It’s heavens tears. We weren’t ready for him to go.” The day that Toby died, the thunderstorms that evening were so strong. The thunder loud, cracks of lightning and the wind. I remember sitting there listening to it outside and now when I think about it, I feel like that was all my emotion happening inside me, but portrayed through the weather. I was in such a state of shock and so vulernably helpless. But I remember the way that storm made me feel, to this day. I think I always will. 

Our family lost an amazing lady this week, my grandmother. Friday morning there was this beautiful sunrise on the way to work. I remember sitting at a stop light and looking around at the sky and it was this beautiful blue color. Not a cloud in sight. Just clear, calm and beautiful. And then I thought “this is for Grammy.” She is now at peace, in a place where there is no worry or anxiety. The sun always shines, there is nothing to cloud your mind. 

Grammy holding Luke on his first Christmas


It is remarkable to me how when you really start to replay moments in your life, good ones and bad, there are many little things, details that we don’t notice at the time or we think have no impact, but they truly do. We all see and feel and believe in different ways. That part of this human life is truly amazing. Many do not realize it and I think some only do when they experience something that really causes you to slow down and watch what is going on around you. 

I am someone who did not do this until Toby died. Slow down, that is. There are many times now when I find myself in the middle of the grocery store just watching people. Thinking about them. Or listening to conversations I overhear and really reflecting on them. It is amazing how oblivious we are to so many things. It’s incredibly sad. People are missing so much of life and of people they love, because they’re rushing to the next thing. 

Dan and I have learned through the most heartbreaking experience that the next moment is not promised to you. Whether you are 89 years or 12 weeks. Our time here, with the people we love and who love us, is completely out of our control. What is in our control is the way we spend the time we are given and what we do. Take the trip. Make the call. Go visit your grandparent. Play the board game. Say your prayers at night. Talk about the weather with your children. Eat dinner together. Take your child to story time at the library in the middle of the work day. Believe me, you will be so happy you did. 

As I was leaving the cemetery today I had this vivid image in my head of Grammy sitting on the beach and Toby was in her lap. Toby always loved the water. 

I’m sure they will be spending a lot of time at the beach. Maybe take Toby to see the carnival lights at night, Gram. I have a feeling he would love the carousel. ❤

The numbers in my head

Family, grief, loss, Toby

I was never much of a numbers person. Milestones have always been for the happiest of things. It is crazy the way your world changes in the face of a traumatic loss.

Five months. 154 days. 3679.5 hrs since I kissed your head and went to work. 149 days since we buried you. Five months and all that it carries. 164 days since we baptized you and asked God to bless and care for you as you continued to grow. Crazy that I know that? No. It’s how my mind works now.

You will be eight months old Friday. With every month that passes, I miss you more. I don’t know how that is humanly possible, but that is how I feel. This time, each month, makes me feel anxious, helpless and so incredibly sad.

I find myself searching for you more. For the first time since September I opened your dresser drawer to get Tylenol for Luke. The second and third drawer are filled with short sleeve clothes and onesies from the summer and for early fall. The site of them made me so nauseous. The smell and feel of those small clothes that you didn’t even fit into yet, I picked them up hoping to feel you. But it’s just empty.  Your towel from the bath I gave you on Tuesday night still hangs on the back of your door. I asked my guardian angel to visit you and hold you for a while.

Do you remember everything we did this summer? What were your favorite memories? You loved the pool. The sound from the waterfall soothed you and you were so happy to just lay there on the blanket with Dad, Luke and me. We loved watching you laugh and kick your legs with excitement. Your beautiful smile was contagious and Luke was so excited when he saw you laugh. My little guy, I hope that you are sharing that happiness and excitement and smile to make Heaven a happier place. I am so envious of the angels that get to spend each moment with you. Mommy and Daddy miss you so much.

I hope you can hear us talking to you. Praying to you and asking you to carry us another day. Luke misses you – he moved your binky over to where your bears are. I asked him to leave it on the table where it was so you would know, but he insisted that you love those bears and you would want it there with them. When you see us know that our tears are because we can’t see you, feel you, kiss you, play with you. Everything we do, we wish you were with us.

People ask if it is getting easier. No. It will never get easier. I will forever want you here by our side. We will forever love you with the deepest love there is. I long to close my eyes and feel your presence. I will continue to pray that you send us signs, they really help us take another step forward, especially when we are having a bad day. I hope the kisses that we send to Heaven everyday are reaching you. They are filled with love and unconditional longing for you to be here, at home.

Toby; The Little Fox; Toby's Foundation; Loss; A Mother's Love; Tobias Graham Stern

Sweet Toby, we love you.

xo, Mommy

 

 

 

I can’t look at the stars
They make me wonder where you are
Stars, up on Heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all,
I know you’ve gone too far
So I, I can’t look at the stars
Stars, Grace Potter & The Nocturnals

My Box

Family, grief, loss, Toby

I am finding the first weeks of this New Year to be more difficult than I expected. I write that, but inside I’m thinking to myself “will anything ever be easy again?” We made it through December, which was our wish when November started. The last eight weeks have been spent dodging landmines. Christmas decorations. Stockings on the mantel. Holiday cards with everyone’s families on them. Pregnancy announcements. Birth announcements. Birthdays. Packing for holiday travel and having seconds of relapse thinking “what do I need to pack for Toby?” only to be slapped back into reality with that horrible stab in my heart – he’s not here! Many may think that these relapse moments are ridiculous – why would that even cross your mind? Because I am a mother. We are parents. Parents of two – in two different places. Heaven and Earth. Please don’t get me wrong, because when I became a mother it was the biggest blessing and most fulfilling experience of my life. In some of the hardest moments throughout each day, when I just want to see Toby, I find myself thanking God for Lucas. But, seeing these moms and families, hearing or reading announcements, or watching siblings interact, it’s all very intense. My tears and screams are held back until I’m in the car, or the bathroom, or pulled over on the side of a road because it’s all just too much. Jealously consumes me. But again, the reality of it is I’m just broken. Physically, mentally, emotionally – heartbroken without Toby.

I feel as if January has pulled me backwards. Back to the days in September when my mind would have flashbacks to the day Toby died. I don’t have full-day flashbacks, thank god. Those were enough to make me feel like I couldn’t do this. But, now I feel like these flashbacks are even more incapacitating. They come out of nowhere and sidetrack my thoughts. Take my mind captive. I see his face. Him looking at Luke, as I watched him, in the rear-view mirror of the car. Toby smiling as I held him that morning after he had his bottle. They make me cry, but at the same time, I don’t want them to go away – they bring back vivid, sensory-evoking, pieces of my sweet Toby that I don’t want to lose. That I will never have again.

This is where anger and jealously have planted their seeds and are growing in me, like a bad weed. I am struggling with what is Toby’s and what will never be Toby’s (or ours – Dan & I). I have this box that I “carry” with me every second of the day. In there are pieces of Toby – things that are his – memories that are ours – emotions and pieces of his beautiful personality – that is what is inside this box. As a mother, if someone or something dare touch those, or even get relatively close to them, I’m in lockdown mode. May 27 – Toby’s birthday. That will forever be Toby’s day. I don’t want to celebrate anything else in the days leading up to that, or the days following. Those are the days that I prepared for my son’s arrival and the days when we brought him home and he made us a family of four. Those are Toby’s – and will always be. Our Holiday Card this year. We made the decision to send one and use the family photos we had taken when Toby was three weeks old. That will be the only holiday card – for the rest of my life – that Toby will be in. August 23 – I gave Toby a bath that evening, fed him his bottle, and put him down for bed. He normally feel asleep pretty well for me, but that night he was fussy. I asked Dan to try and put him to sleep and he wasn’t in his room five minutes and Toby was asleep in his arms. Our normal routine was I got Toby ready and put him to bed and Dan wrangled Luke for bath and reading before his bedtime. When I think back on that night, I was so mad at myself because I got upset he wouldn’t lay down for me, and then I thought, what if our angel knew that was his last night and he wanted daddy to put him to sleep. Every picture. We have over 300 pictures of Toby from the 12 weeks and 5 days he was here with us. August 14 – the day Toby was baptized. It was the only day, in his short life, that both sides of our family were all together. Every one of us. For those that know us, you understand why this is so sacred. Tobias. His name. We wanted him to have a full name, like Lucas (even though he goes by Luke). After the paperwork for his birth certificate was done at the hospital he was Toby. He will always be Toby. Graham, Toby’s middle name, was a family name from Dan’s side. His mom’s grandfather and brother. That fit perfectly for him and will forever, in my mind, always belong to him. No one else. August 24. The day that changed our lives forever. These are just a few of the things – both material and spiritual – that are inside my box. Maybe over time the possessiveness of these things will change for me. Maybe they won’t. But for right now, these are the things that I am carrying and protecting. Please be careful with them. They are my world – my Toby.

This pulling force, that January brought in with it when we opened the door, is as breathtaking as the piercing air in winter. I am worried that I may never overcome these setbacks. Worried that they will turn everything grey. I still have no idea where life is going. Planning, which was such a part of everyday life for me in the past, has become somewhat of a “if I feel like it” in which most cases I don’t.

Every day is still a struggle for Dan and me. The reality of Toby not being here is still so raw and paralyzing. Our three lives – Luke’s, Dan’s, mine – feel so empty without him. Sometimes we feel like people forget just how awful this is. Everyone gets to move on with their life and their children – celebrate, grow, add to their family, take another picture. The pain we feel is downright excruciating. You may not see it every time you speak to us, but it is still there the raging anger, tears and sadness. There is no moving on. There never will be. There is only moving forward.

 

some-people-grief-quote

Quote found via Pinterest. Source: Nikita Gill via Instagram.

I found this quote one evening last week while I was mindlessly swiping through Pinterest before bed. It made me shake my head yes. My hope is that anyone going through grief, no matter what kind, never has to feel like they have to grieve a certain way. It’s not possible. People should be mindful of how grieving parents look vs. how we feel. There may be days we just hide it well.

Toby’s gift this holiday season

faith, Family, grief, loss, Toby

December began and brought more weight to our shoulders. When I felt like I couldn’t carry more, there was more – pain, sorrow, disbelief. We needed another focus. Dan and I have been working on a project for Toby. We are creating a foundation in his name – The Little Fox. We are still in the beginning stages, but we wanted to use it as a way to do something for Christmas in memory of him. We partnered with Play it Forward Pittsburgh and, working with a small group of friends, family, and neighbors, collected gently used toys for children and families in need this holiday season.

We had many ask if they could share with other groups they were involved with or post on social media and after much thought, we decided to keep it small for this first year. We were so grateful for the donations we received and the people that wanted to help us in any way possible. It showed us how much larger this effort could have been and we hope that in 2017, with a little more planning, we can help Play it Forward again, in Toby’s name.

There were five carloads of toys, materials to help the organization with their toy drive, and monetary donations that when given to Play it Forward totaled an amount that would help to cover a large amount of their operating budget for the upcoming year. They, along with Dan and I, were shocked and humbled by everyone that contributed to this drive.

Our friends Nick and Jess helped us make the delivery to the Convention Center, downtown Pittsburgh, where Play it Forward was accepting donations and organizing all the toys for their “one-day shopping” experience that they offer to anyone who needs help with toys for children at Christmastime. We got to meet Heather, co-founder of Play it Forward, who told us her and Amy’s story and how it has grown to the organization it is today. It was amazing to hear what they have done and the number of people they have been able to help, just from amazing people, just like those that helped us.

It was a bittersweet moment, standing in the bottom of the Convention Center with the pile of gifts we had unloaded, Luke running around with the volunteers, and thinking about how all of this happened and our amazing little boy, Toby, behind our donation. The ache in my heart at that moment, for him to be here with us, to be holding him in our arms – it was so intense. But for a moment, the room went quiet and the thought of how I wish you were here brought this feeling of warmth and a smile to my face.

toy-drive-1

Our garage was packed with donations – this was merely 10 days of collecting – amazing. (don’t mind the mess outside of the toys)

toy-drive-3toy-drive-4

I talk to Toby a lot. Everyday. I had told him what were were doing and what was collected. When we stood in the garage sorting toys, I talked to him. I wanted him to know the smiles that all these things would bring to little boys and girls on Christmas morning. I hope he can see what Dan, Luke and I were able to do. I hope it makes him smile. He had the most beautiful smile and the cutest laugh that when you heard it, you couldn’t help but laugh with him. I hope that he is smiling and laughing with all the children that receive those toys this Christmas.

We continue to be amazed at people who offer their support during our time of grief. We’ve received cards in the mail from people we don’t know. Cards that offer thoughts, prayers, advice and even “thank you’s” for what we are doing. There have been a handful of notes that say “Toby would be proud.” Sometimes I look at those words and cry. I don’t want him to be proud – I want him to be here. But sometimes I look at those words and can look up and say I hope you are, sweet boy. Everything Dad and I do, we are doing it for you and for Luke. 

toy-drive-5

toy-drive-6

Our friends, Nick & Jess, helped us make the delivery to Play it Forward

toy-drive-7

Luke trying to “take back” a few of his donations 😉

Play it Forward was so thankful for our donations that they asked if they could thank us through their social media pages and post our website link so that others could hear about Toby and see what we’re hoping to do on his behalf. When they posted the link, it attached Toby’s picture to the post and when it popped up in my facebook newsfeed, it took my breath away.

play-it-forward_post_2016

Play it Forward’s Facebook post

How lucky are we that so many people will get to see Toby’s beautiful face and read his story? How many people will our story impact that prior to our one act of kindness, never would have known? That is just amazing to me.

Our Christmas Gift to Toby this year was smiles, joy and laughter to thousands of families in the Pittsburgh region. That is what I hope we can hold onto on Christmas morning when we’re wishing so badly that he was with us in our arms watching Luke play with his toys and experiencing so much love from our families.

Thank you to everyone that contributed to our drive. For those of you that clicked on the link and visited our site – thank you. We hope seeing Toby’s face put a smile on yours for the day and we thank you for continuing to support our efforts through The Little Fox | Toby’s Foundation in the future.

Signs from Heaven

faith, Family, grief, loss, Toby

If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook  you may have seen my post from Thanksgiving morning. I have spent the last 13, going on 14, weeks looking, longing, desperately wanting to see something, find something, hear something that would soften this feeling of uncertainty – make me feel like Toby is OK.

When my grandfather passed away the summer of 2004, I had a hard time dealing with his death. It was the first time that someone that close had passed away and I just didn’t know how to deal with it. I was very emotional and had lots of questions. About a year after his death my Aunt Jamie said she had found some pennies in different places that she knew were from Pup. Then, I started finding them. A few here, a few there, but they always came when I needed them, or when I was missing him a lot. The morning of my wedding day, Aunt Jamie found one as she was leaving her house. We knew it was his way of telling us that he was there that day, even though we couldn’t see him.

For the past 13 weeks I haven’t found or seen any pennies. It’s really made me sad because I know in my heart that Pup is with Toby and that he was there when he entered Heaven. But has he not seen how hard the days are? Doesn’t he know how much I need something to help with this hurt and sorrow? Why isn’t he here? Then I started to question my own anger and questions – He can’t be here with me right now because he’s taking care of Toby. He has other things that he is helping the angels with. He is enjoying his time with Uncle Bill – they are playing with Toby.

One week before Thanksgiving as I was leaving work heading to the cemetery before dusk, I opened the side door to leave and right before I stepped down I looked to my feet and there it was – a penny. I reached down and grabbed it and squeezed it in my hand. I looked up, “Thank you, Pup.”

Thanksgiving this year was November 24. The 24th. Three months since Toby passed away. Dan and I were really having a hard time the night before, knowing what the next day represented. Knowing that we had to be places we’d rather not be. Knowing we’d have to smile, when we’d much rather just sit together and cry. I went to bed an emotional mess. Crying and again asking for some answers. Reassuring Toby that our hearts were still broken and that when we thought it couldn’t hurt any more, it did, because we missed him so much.

I woke up Thanksgiving morning and went into the bathroom. I started to brush my teeth and looked in the mirror. I leaned in towards the mirror. Stuck on my left shoulder was a tiny white feather. I pulled it off and tears started rolling down my face. I couldn’t believe it. I had been waiting 13 weeks for something. And at a moment when I least expected it. At a moment when my mind was stuck on the sorrow of what the day could bring – he showed me. He let me know that he was there. In the exact spot where his head laid so many times over the 12 weeks and 5 days that he was here with us, he left me a sign.

sign-from-heaven

Just yesterday I was at home with Lucas for the day. We were putting Christmas decorations up around the house and he was fixated with the window sticker Nativity Scene that we placed on the front door. He must have taken it off the door five times and then I’d put it back up. Last night, as I was cleaning things up after dinner, I picked the Nativity Scene up out of a basket Luke had been carrying it around in all day. I opened one of the stickers that had been rolled up and something fell into my lap. I looked down and there it was, another feather.

When I showed it to Dan he said “Maybe Toby is going to leave us feathers, instead of pennies like Pup does?” I went to bed last night wondering how often Toby is there in our home? I wonder if Luke gets to really see him, or if he plays with him? I wonder if he comes alone or is he with a loved one or another angel?

As I start to take steps forward on this new path that we were put on, I am beginning to realize that the only things in this life that are lasting are those we can’t hold with our arms, only with our hearts and souls. Love, friendship, faith – these are things that you can’t see with your eyes but yet you know are there.

Taking Things Slow

Family, grief, loss, Lucas, Toby

So often we spread ourselves thin with the intention of greatness. We set goals and write “to-do” lists. Many times I run through the evening thinking about all the things to do tomorrow to find its bed time again. Over the past few months I have been making a conscious effort to make the evening time, time to spend with Luke. He is growing up so fast. His vocabulary is multiplying by the day and the things that he’s interested in playing, or watching or reading just amaze me. I want to be a part of that. If that means I become an expert at what Ryder, Chase, Marshall, Rubble, Rocky and Sky are doing, I’m okay with that. I want to remember all of this. And I want to really enjoy it.

evenings-with-luke

It’s November 1. I really can’t believe that. I know everyone gets to November and says that, but I’m saying it for a different reason this year. It’s nearly three months since Toby left this earth. He will be six months old over the Thanksgiving holiday and seven months old right after Christmas. As much as I just talked about being present for Luke and enjoying those moments, these next eight weeks scare me. This will be one of the loneliest holiday seasons for Dan and me. How can we watch all the kids open presents and take pictures and open holiday cards and not just want to pull the covers over our head and cry until January?

I know I’ve said it before, but fall has always been my favorite season. So many fun things happen in the fall, but this year I’m just sad and angry. I’m sure people would say “you have a right to be” or “no one expects anything from either of you” but those statements make me angrier. I’m angry because I won’t experience Luke & Toby enjoying Christmas together, or Luke showing Toby his presents, or photos of our family of four – with Toby physically here. These feelings of anger have been consuming my days lately. I can let go of a little bit of the overwhelming feeling by writing and letting it out. But I can’t let it all go. Maybe it’s not the right thing to do, but we’ve been told by so many “there is no right thing now.”

Thinking of his beautiful blue eyes makes my throat tighten and my eyes well. Whenever I leave the house now, or do something out of routine, I find myself telling him where we’re going, or how long we’ll be gone “We’re just going to work today.” Or “We’re going outside to play with Luke – you can come too.” I’ve been told that he’s not in any one spot – he’s not in his room, he’s not at the cemetery, but maybe, for now, those are the places that I want him to be. The places I feel closest to him. The places I can talk to him and cry for him. The places that I can touch something of his or smell something that may still have a hint of his newborn smell on it. Right now that’s all I have to cling to – that some part of Toby is there – and that he knows where we are and what we’re doing and that we’ll never do anything without wishing he was there with us. Our family of four.