Happy Seven in Heaven…

 Another trip around the sun without you, BJ. How do we ever learn to keep on living after losing someone that is part of us? It’s that question and so many more, when you lose your child, your sibling, someone so young when they are taken from us. We struggle to understand. We struggle to accept. We struggle to find reasons to get up, get dressed, and meet the day. BJ, that is what I have done every single day; it’s my mom motto post child death…Get up, get dressed, meet the day. I knew immediately that is what BJ would want me to do…although, it would have been so easy to stay in bed and not face the day.

I promised to keep your memory alive, and I do, to never forget (I mean, there is NO forgetting you!), and to always say, “3” when someone asks how many kids I have and to elaborate with, “two are adults and one died xxx years ago.” Of course, that then means I usually get, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know” of which I politely respond, “oh, I know and it’s ok, I’ve learned to live through the grief, and I know he’s always with me. I still have two amazing sons, four grands, and tons of family and friends that keep my life full.” That always removes the awkwardness the question brought about.

Seven years ago, I just couldn’t answer those questions or fathom how we would get through this. Today, I do every day…I answer with dignity and love, I reach out when I know someone has lost their child to offer support or sit in silence, I mention his name in casual conversations, I share his stories (and there are a lot of them!), and I share my story. My story is different than his dad’s story, different than either of his brother’s stories, different than his daughter’s story…it’s different than any other griever’s story. It’s unique to me and my relationship with my son. Everyone uniquely goes through grief. The hard part is learning not to get stuck in the process. To keep a good focus on your life and love for others. To get up, get dressed, and meet each day. I am not saying that is easy. In fact, it is quite the opposite. It takes willpower and a desire to not let yourself die when they die. If you are reading this and you have lost someone dear to you, no matter their age or your age, you know exactly what I mean.

Today (and everyday), I choose to celebrate a wonderful man that died too soon, a son that brought laughter, love, and even some heartache to my life, a child that taught me how to be a mom and love unconditionally. I also celebrate two other sons that bring love, strength, and joy to my life, that keep me going every single day, and that are the focus of why I didn’t stop living seven years ago when my world crashed. You see, I celebrate all three of my sons, every day because even though one died, he is still with me, and the other two still need me.

Her Journey Begins

Loss happens and grief ensues. That is just the process of life. What we never expect is to lose a child. After all, parents are supposed to die first; aren’t they? Some of us learn the hard way, that isn’t always how it happens.

Just over four years ago, I moved into my forever home and soon after met this lovely lady that lived right behind me. We chatted from her deck to my yard. She watched as I transformed a sea of weeds and overgrown plants into my garden oasis. We had a friendly and unsaid battle of solar lights! Eventually, we even had her grandson put steps from my garden to her space, so we could easily visit one another. She admired my Memorial Garden and was compassionate about the loss of BJ. What Shayla didn’t know then, is that she would endure the unimaginable and become part of this group that no parent wants to.

Shayla lost her son, one month ago today, in a motorcycle accident, and now her journey really begins. Today is the “first” of many firsts…first month without Ryan. She will count every single “month” until it is the First Year since he’s been gone. The first year is the most brutal. First this, first that, and it all just sucks and fills our eyes with tears…with every damn first. I never met Ryan, just like she never met BJ, but we know one another and understand the pain the other is going through. Today I am not only Remembering BJ, but I am also remembering Ryan. I will remember that because you are gone, my friend needs me. I will remember that because you are gone, others are grieving and trying to find their new normal. I will remember that because you are gone, I have learned to mentor someone through her first few weeks of grief.

My sweet Shayla, I cannot say this gets easier because in all honesty, it doesn’t. We do learn to live the new version of our life, where we hold our son in our heart and not in our arms. You will notice things that never caught your attention before. For me it is seeing “BJ” on a license plate or sign. Just seeing that melts my heart. I see BJ in both of his brothers, his daughter, and his nephew. His spirit lives on in many ways, and Ryan’s will too. Take the time to notice the small things, give grace to others that are grieving, and allowing yourself to cry when you need to, laugh at something he once said or did, and above all else…take care of you. You will be headed home soon and there will be days of silence. Cry when you want, reflect when you can, but take care of you.

Although we remember the ones we lose, don’t forget to love the ones we have.

 

Merry Christmas in Heaven, Son

I’m the mom of three boys; two on Earth and one in Heaven. One of the most difficult questions I have had to answer over the past 5+ years is, “How many kids do you have?” or “Do you have kids?”  and then, “How many?” You see, for me, the answer would never be two. I have three children. But, when I answer “three” and I am among friends that “know”, I get the look like, “did she just say that?” or “how difficult it must be for her to answer.” The answer is yes. Yes, I did just say that. Yes, it is difficult to answer. But the hardest of all questions is, “How old are your kids.” There is no other answer than, “17 almost 18, 37, and my oldest would be 40, but he’s been gone for just over five years.” If I simply answered “17, 37, and 40” I feel like I am lying or misleading and I just cannot do that. My son died. But he IS always my son, not “was” my son. I know this might be hard to understand, especially if you have not lost a child. But for those of us who have, you do understand.

For those that sometimes wonder and to those of you who ask…yes, I am doing fine. I am living life. That in no way means that I do not miss my son, because I miss him every single day. I just know that I must “live” not simply “be”, not just go through the motions of life. I have not fulfilled my purpose on Earth, he did.

Our hearts ache and the tears still flow. The holidays are joyful and sad. Today as I was driving back from the store, I imagined BJ coming to Portland today and that we would all go to Bryan’s for our family Christmas tomorrow. It would be happy, chaotic, and everything Christmas is meant to be. BJ would love Bryan’s home in the country, he would love playing with the kids, he would talk his big talk and tell his unending stories and I’d enjoy every minute seeing my family together. Reality is, he is not here, the grands are getting older, and we will still enjoy our family Christmas. We will miss his presence and we will feel that piece of our family that is only with us in spirit, but we will enjoy the day, the memories, and the chaos.

BJ, I miss you so terribly, and as these tears fall, my heart aches and I still lose my breath trying to hold back the tears as I write this. I know you are at peace. I know you watch over all of us. I know you are awaiting each of us to join you. We will one day…in the blink of an eye. Merry Christmas in Heaven, son. Love, your mama

Body and Soul: You are Free

Five years ago, on this dreadful day, at approximately 10:45 pm, you went from being my son on earth to our Heavenly Angel. BJ, you were such a dynamic human with the personality second to none. I was crushed. Your brothers were crushed. You daughter was crushed. Your entire family was crushed, and many friends were crushed. We had no idea how we would fathom life without you.

Today, five years later, we have learned to carry on. We have learned to live life after your death. Yes, I said it; “you died, your death, you are gone.” It is still body-numbing pain…every day. We do move on. We do carry on. We do live on. We don’t always want to, but we do.

You are our angel, and your presence is alive in us, with us. I see you…in the pain in your dads’ eyes and in his inability to process your loss. I see you in Bryan, when he longs to have his brother to banter with or drink a beer with or when he is silently mourning your loss to be strong for the rest of us. I see you in Dillon when I see the image of his profile and how much he is resembling you as a young adult and his characteristics and gestures. I see you in Willy’s humor. But, most of all see you…in Cheyenne. All that she is growing to be. Her humor. Her looks. Her gestures. Her bossy-ness. She is your “mini me”. You are all around us.

You continue to make your presence obvious. Whether I get a text from a friend, “oh my gosh, BJ was with me today when…” or I get a picture from a friend reminding them of you, or I see “BJ” or “Yup” on a license plate. I see you in your father. I see you in your brothers. I see you in your nephew. But most of all, I see you in your daughter. You are present in our lives. Five years later, you are present.

We are learning to live life without you, but you are ever present in our lives. I could never have imagined losing a child…not any of you…and the pain is unlike any other pain one can imagine. BJ, you are my first born, you taught me how to give unconditional love, and you taught me to carry on after you died.

I never thought…I would lose a child. I would carry this kind of pain every day. I would cry at the sight of your initials on a license plate, a sign, on anything. And…I certainly never thought I would belong to this club.

You gave me the most precious gift…to be a mom, to love unconditionally, to understand the full concept of loss, and to make me more present in the lives of your brothers after you left us. I could not love them more. I could not appreciate them more. I thought I had it all figured out before…what being a mom and grandma was all about. And then…you died. That’s a game changer.

This year, on your 40^th Birthday, May 16, 2021, we finally set your body free. It was a joyously difficult day. We were surrounded by family and friends as we spread your ashes…exactly where you wanted to be…halfway between the valley (Portland) and the desert (Central Oregon), at a lake in the mountains at one of your favorite camp spots. We shared stories, we cried, and we toasted your life with a Coors Light…just as you would want.

BJ, today, five years later…I love you as much as I ever have. I miss you an immeasurable amount. I hold your memory in my heart forever. I know we will be together again…in the blink of an eye. Until then, we will keep your memory alive, we will absorb your presence, and we will carry on. We will continue to share “BJ” stories. We will continue to love on your daughter. We will continue to be your loving little family that will ride this grief train together and stay stronger together, for each other. Your loss shook us to our core and showed us that our family is indeed built on love and that love is bringing us through the most difficult stage we never imagined living through.

I’ve never said goodbye. I’ll never say goodbye. I will always say, “until we meet again.” 

Four Years…How Can That Possibly Be?

 As this day approaches, I wonder…how could it possibly be? How can it be four years since I heard your voice? I know it’s supposed to get easier and I supposed in some ways it does. But in other ways…I’m still crying inside, screaming in pain, and wondering why? Why was it your time? Why did you have to go? Why didn’t we all get to tell you goodbye? Those are some questions that will remain unanswered.

As this day approaches, I am thankful for the 35 years, 5 months, and 4 days that I was blessed with you in my life. Blessed that God chose me to be your mother. Blessed that we made as memories as we did. Blessed that you are my son, Bryan and Dillon’s big brother, Hank, Addy, and Willy’s uncle, and Cheyenne’s daddy.

As this day approaches, I’m grateful I had no regrets. I’m grateful you knew how much I loved you and I knew how much you loved me. I’m grateful for all the experiences you had and that you chose to live life to the fullest, never knowing how long your life would be. I’m grateful that you chose my house to be your “home away from home” in the valley, after you moved to Central Oregon. I’m grateful we had such a strong relationship, but most of all we built a phenomenal friendship. I’m grateful you knew you could come to me with anything at any time. I’m grateful you were always here for me, even when I didn’t know I needed you to be.

As this day approaches, I’m still amazed by the many, many lives you touched. I’m amazed by those lives you touched that I had no idea about. I’m amazed by the young adults, teens, and kids you mentored; and maybe even unknowingly. I’m amazed that you shared your young path of destruction to detour another from that path. I’m amazed that you gave yourself selflessly to help others. I’m amazed by the memories and the love you left in your wake.

As this day approaches, I think of the many things I might have said to you or the many things I might have said at your Celebration had I been in clear mind. And then I realize, I didn’t have anything else I could have said to you that would have meant anything more than what I had already said or what I never said. As this day approaches, I realize I said it all to you…with or without words. You knew. I knew. Love is more than words. Love is a gesture. Love is listening.

As this day approaches, I still miss you. I can’t fathom that you’re gone. I’m thankful. I’m grateful. I’m blessed. I’m amazed. I love you.