staying home

I just don't know what to do with myself.

I quit my job just a week ago. A full week of my part time position. Mixed in with some trips to the gym. And more than a little sadness.

Don't get me wrong. I am very grateful for this time. This time to heal. And grieve. And stay in my bed if I need to. I am grateful that I have some work to keep my mind working. I am grateful to belong to a gym where I can sweat and see the Fabio look-a-like sweating alongside me.

But the house is quiet. I turn the TV on just to provide some background noise. For as long as I have had a child, I wanted to be a stay at home mom. I wanted to be home with Michael. I was able to work it out with my ex-job to work different hours so that I could be home on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. So I got to be a part-time stay at home mom with full time job responsibilities. I loved those days. Before fourth grade, my favorite place to be was the car pick-up line. I got there early, armed with my Diet Coke and my lastest read. When the bell rang, I would search the crowd of elementary school students for my Michael. I could pick out his face pretty quickly. Like I was drawn to him. Then with fourth grade, Michael walked home from school. I would wait on the front steps. I could hear him before I saw him usually. He liked to talk to himself. Make up stories. Sound effects.

I loved our afternoons together. Tuesdays for the library; Thursdays for Young Actors and the Atlanta Bread Company. And Fridays were my favorites. No rush to finish homework. No going anywhere. Sometimes we'd put on our pajamas and watch cartoons. And perhaps nap. Or we would watch YouTube. Or have a Friday night dance party. We usually ordered pizza. It was good.

And now I feel guilty. That I wasn't able to stay home when Michael was living. That I wasn't able to spend the other two afternoons with him. That I am able to stay home now to grieve and to mourn. To figure out what I am to do next.

And I just don't know where to begin...

dreams

I had a dream over the weekend and woke up smiling. I dreamt that I knew it was Michael's last day. And we had a pool. And we stayed outside swimming until the wee hours of the morning. Because we could. We had so much fun. And our neighbors were mad.

But we didn't care. Because we were together and laughing. In those last few moments together.

It was one of those dreams that felt real. That I wished was real. And despite my disappointment that it wasn't real, I could hear the echo of Michael's laugh in my mind.

My favorite sound in all the world.

notice.

I haven't written in the blog for a while. I took a little hiatus. With the emotion that comes with the start of school and my work at the university starting to ramp up, I just didn't have the stamina to write anything. I was tired.

I do have news. I have given my notice at work. My last day will be the Tuesday after Labor Day. I just need time to mourn. To grieve. To miss Michael. It is difficult to do while working full time, for me. Grief is different for everyone. For me, I am unable to focus. I am unable to stop feeling guilty about that fact. I am not able to meet my own standards with work. And so it was time to give my notice. It was time for me to take time for me.

I wonder what this time will bring for me. I wonder what I will do with it. I have ideas. I have thoughts. My grief counselor cautions me not to put too much pressure on myself to be productive. Do what I want. When I want to. I'll need to remind myself of this. Often.

I'm nervous about this time. This season.

Thanks for continuing to check in with us.

would haves..

Today, we would have found out Michael's fifth grade teacher. Friday, we would have found Michael's fifth grade classroom. Saturday, we would have laid out Michael's fifth grade first day of school outfit. Sunday, we would have packed a lunch. Where I put in my first day of school mommy note. Monday, Michael would have been a fifth grader.

I know that today would have been filled with excitement. Michael would have been so excited to see who was in his class. Who his teacher was.

I would have lamented that I couldn't believe that I had a fifth grader. Aren't I too young for that, I would have said. Or time goes by so fast when you have kids. Or look at how big my sweet boy is now. Or any of those other things that moms will say on the first day of school.

But I won't get to say them. I'll remember first days gone by. And carry my sorrow of these first days ahead.

I am just so sad.

four months

Today is my birthday. It is also four months since that terrible day in April.

This is the month that Michael would have started 5th grade. He had wanted to start walking to school. By himself. I told him that we would wait until 5th grade to make that decision. Another decision that I won't make. Because it has already been decided for me.

I am jealous of all of the parent's that are picking out first day outfits. And new backpacks. And fresh supplies. I am jealous of the jubilation of moms that are sending their children back to school. That doesn't mean that I don't want to hear about it. I just wish I was experiencing the same emotions. The same routines that are supposed to come every year. But they don't. Not for Michael. Not for me.

When we were on vacation lounging by the pool, I could hear the cries of "Mom" from some kids on the beach. It struck me that I may never have someone call me that again. That I may never know that joy again. I read a quote by someone (I am too lazy to look up the exact quote or who said it): To be a mom is to wear your heart on your sleeve. I get it. I might change it up a bit ... To be a mom of a child that is no longer with you is to have your heart ripped off your sleeve, stomped on and given back to you. To hot glue back together.

A friend asked if my wounds were starting to heal. I told him not really. My wounds just scab over. And I pick it off. again. and again. and again.

I am in a very low place. I think this place is reserved for those days that are supposed to be special. But won't have the same significance ever again. Because how could they? When I am not complete.

It has been 4 months. And I miss my Michael more with each passing day.

Not a minute goes by that he is not in my thoughts.

Love you, boopy.

it is the little things.

I have a constant stream of Michael thoughts throughout the day. I am constantly thinking of him. Or reminded of him. It doesn't stop. I'm glad. I don't want to forget.

Today I am reminded of the little things. I thought I would list five here, because these are the ones I was thinking about this morning. This hour. I could list five hundred. And probably will. But not at the same time.

1. I am reminded of how when I would hear a crash from his room, he would shout "I'm OK". Before I even had a chance to ask. Or see what was up. He just wanted me to know that I didn't have to worry about him. He was OK.

2. I am reminded that when he was really upset about something, he wouldn't want to talk about it. He would bury his head in my chest and cry. And then start to tell me about it, in between sobs. He wasn't upset often. But when he was, he let loose.

3. I am reminded how my favorite place to be was in the car pick-up line at school. With my McDonald's diet coke. And how when I would see him waiting with the other kids, my heart skipped a beat. Because I got to see my buddy. Fresh from school. With an afternoon to enjoy together. When he started walking home from school this past year, my favorite place to be was waiting on the front porch for him. With my can of diet coke. I could usually hear him before he got to the driveway. He liked to talk to himself, out loud. Complete with sound effects.

4. When Michael was little, he wore a hat constantly. The only place the hat was not worn was in the bathtub. But as soon as he was dried off and dressed in pajamas, he would put that hat back on. He slept in it. He went through surgeries and procedures in it. He didn't use a pacifier or have a blanket or suck on his thumb. He had a hat. I worried that when the time for kindergarten came, that he would not want to part with his hat. I shouldn't have ... in his typical laid back style, he stopped wearing the hat during the day for school and would put it back when he got home. Then he stopped wearing one all together. He had outgrown it, I suppose.

5. I am reminded of Michael's love of costumes. How he would go back to his room and come out as Spiderman or Batman or a Storm Trooper. He had a Spiderman costume that he got from my mom and dad when he was around 4. He would still put it on, even recently. Sure the pants were hitched around his knees, and there were holes in the seams, and it was threadbare. Didn't matter to him. He would still put it on. We laughed at our little super hero.

A hundred million little things that all add up to a life that was cut too short. I will keep sharing. To keep his memory going. Mostly for myself. But I appreciate that people read. And know what a special, special boy my son is. was.

thirty eight dollars

I got the bill for Michael's last day on Sunday. Technically, I received it sometime between Thursday and Saturday. But I was just home from vacation. And it was in the mail box.

$38.23

This is how much I owe the hospital where Michael was taken. This is the amount after our health insurance has paid their portion. It doesn't seem enough. I would pay 1000 times that amount. If only they would have revived him. If only their efforts could have brought him back. From the beat that couldn't fall in line. From a heart that was tired.

$38.23

I would gladly pay that amount. If Michael was still here with me.

But I don't want to pay them.

The amount that I am to pay for their efforts.

$38.23

I'm going to let it sit. And not pay it yet. It seems like yet another step towards closing out the events of the day. To pay for the work the hospital did to keep Michael alive. They didn't. And here we are. I'm not ready to close out that day. I'm not ready to pay a small amount for the failed attempt at keeping Michael's heart beating. I'm not ready.

And so they can bill me again.

Until I am ready.

the beach.

Every last week in July, my parents and my little family go to the beach. Our family best friend's own a house on Crescent Beach. This house is gorgeous and they are so generous to let us use it for the week. Our own swimming pool. Our own beach access. Our own celebrity sightings (I should tell that story one day). The biggest decision of the day is beach or pool. My kind of life.

Michael loved going. And this will be another first. Our first time being there without him. I imagine the pool will be more still. It will not be filled with shouts of glee. There will not be any "Mommy, watch mes" or "Come swimming with me (Pa, Nana, Stu or Mommy)".

It will be quiet. Each of us with our own memories. Of other summers. These are some of my favorite photos from those memory filled, happy times.

I will be glad to be there. But so sad that my favorite swimmer, jumper, sand castle maker will not be by my side.

forever

An old friend sent the lyrics to a song that he thought might ring true for me.  Does it ever.  I read the lyrics.  I cried.  I purchased the song from iTunes.  And now I play it on repeat. 

 I quote song lyrics a lot in this blog.  I do it in my scrapbooks as well.  I find myself  drawn to songs that have meaning.  Songs whose lyrics speak to me.  Don't get me wrong - I love a good pop song too.  It's just the songs that sustain the longest time on my playlists are more meaningful.  Like the soundtrack to my own life.

Here is the song.  Forever by Rascal Flatts

I miss you so much

Your light, your smile, your way, and everything about us
Though you're gone, you're still here
In my heart, in my tears
Yeah you sure left your mark and we were just getting started

It wasn't long enough, it wasn't long enough... Together...
But it was long enough, yeah, it was long enough... to last forever...

Sometimes I get so mad; I scream and swear at this
Cuz' this, isn't how we planned it
I sit here, in a cold room... Prayin'
Waiting on you
To run back through that door, the way it was before

You left, it wasn't long enough, it wasn't long enough... together
But it was long enough; yeah it was long enough to last, forever...

I feel Cheated (I feel Cheated), defeated (can't believe it)
Can't believe that you're gone (your gone, your gone)

It wasn't long enough.  

But it was long enough.  That my memories will have to last forever.

My memories stop.  At 9 years old.  

I will never know what he might have looked like at 15 or 20.

Or the look on his face when he graduated.  Or got married.  Or made me a grandma.

It wasn't long enough.

conversation.

Mommy?

Yes?

I love you.

Love you too buddy.

Mommy?  

Yes?

Sometimes.  I forget what I am going to say. So I say I love you.  Because I know that's always true.

cheated

Today I feel cheated.  

I feel cheated that I am not preparing for back to school time.  I feel cheated that I am not online purchasing new clothes for him.  In preparation for his last year of elementary school.  I feel cheated that I won't buy a new pencil box.  Or a new backpack.  Or markers and protractors.  Or to go see who his new teacher is.  That Orientation day will be just another day.   To get through.  

I feel cheated that I will look at holidays not with glee.  But as more days to brace myself against.  That holidays will never again have the same feeling of wonder.  Of joy.  That I don't get to experience them through the eyes of my child.  My sweet boy who still believed in the power of magic.  And of a jolly old man in a big red suit.  

I feel cheated of the tween years.  Of the teenage angst years.  Of the college years.  

I feel cheated that I have to contemplate the what could have beens.  Instead of the what is.   I feel cheated that I will never hear the sound of his voice again.  Or his laugh.  Or see his smile.  I will never receive another random note on my work space from him.  

I feel cheated.  Because he was cheated.  Of life.  And all those future years.

And I am angry.

Because I was cheated.  Of his life.  And all those future years.

the question

I have been waiting for this question. Dreading it.  Wondering where it would come from ... who would ask it ... would I be prepared for it?

Do you have any children?

It was asked very innocently.  Off the cuff really.  I was in a tennis tournament over the weekend.  I walked past one of my opponents (who we had just played).  I thought she was talking to me when I passed by.  She wasn't but said she could include me, if I would like.  We laughed and then she said ... Do you have any children?  I assume this is what she and the other person were discussing.

I mumbled something about needing to get my water and walked away.

How do I answer that question with someone that I probably will never see again?  Is that answer different with someone I just meet?  My answer will always be yes.  I do have a child.  To say no seems to dishonor Michael.  And his memory.  But to say yes.  To a virtual stranger.  Seems to be asking for more questions.  Like ... Boy or Girl?  How old is he? What grade?  Where does he go to school?

I have thought about the day that this question would be asked.  I don't put myself into situations, at the moment, that require me to talk about myself with someone that I do not know.  I stick with what I know.  I stick with the people I know.  

And so, I dodged the question the first time.  It allows me the opportunity to keep pondering my response.  

Or to keep avoiding those situations all together.    

three

It has been three months today.  Three months.  Three.

We were a family of three.  When we went to restaurants, we asked for a table for three.  We could all fit into one big bed (michael in the center of it all, of course).  Rides for two always were Michael and I in one;  Stu in the other.  It was just the way it was.  Always.

The first time we went to a restaurant as two, I felt my stomach drop as they asked if there were just two of us that night.  And we said yes.  It felt like an admission.  That yes.  We have moved on.  Yes.  We are just a family of two.  Yes.  

But it is not true.  

No.  There is no moving on.  No.  We are a family of three.  Only one is not here physically.  Any longer.

Three months.  Many lifetimes have passed in those three months.   We have missed our first birthday together.  Two birthdays really.  Stu's was April 17.  We will celebrate his birthday on another day.  Our first Easter.  Our first wedding anniversary.

This coming month, we will see our first trip to the beach without.  My birthday will be on the fourth month.  Of Michael's passing.   We will miss all of those moments of the mundane tasks of the everyday.  Michael has missed over 90 days of feeding Nellie.  Of taking out the recyclables.  Of me asking him to pick up his room.  Or to pick up his figures from the living room.

I miss hearing him sing in the shower.  Or to see his sopping wet hair as he brushed his teeth.  I miss his grin.  I miss his voice.

I miss him.  

Three months without the center of my universe.

And I still do not have a better understanding of how this goes.

Of how we keep going.  But we do.

This family.  Of Three.

messy

Grief is messy. 

  

In public, I have a very different face from the face that I see in the mirror.  In public, I can laugh.  I can joke.  I can seem as though my life is on track.  That it has some sort of normalcy to it.  

In private, I do not sleep.  Or I sleep too much.  I am a juxtaposition of sleep.  I cry.  A lot.  I zombie walk through the day.  I frown.  Deeply.  There is nothing normal about this life.

I am struggling with work.  Work is struggling with me.  Tasks that used to be easy.  And would take minutes.  I take more time to complete.  The Jenn that I was in March is not the Jenn that I am now.  I can not accomplish as much as I used to.  I can not motivate myself to care.

And the guilt that comes with that is crushing.  The thought that I am letting people down gives me a stomach ache.  I pressure myself.  And by doing so, I shut down.  I am unable to cope.  I don't know how to make it easier on myself.  I don't know how to make it easier on others.  I am unable to balance.  

Because this grief is messy.  And I am working my way through it.  

Because this grief is messy and I don't care about cleaning it up.  

Because time is ticking away and deadlines approach.  And pass me by.  Because those deadlines are gone.  And the only thing I can think of is the deadline of Michael's life.  That he had a deadline.  That passed us by.  That I didn't know about it.

I am doing my best.  I am trying.  It might not be up to others standards.  I wish I could say that it didn't bother me.  That not meeting someone else's standards was not important to me.  That as long as I was meeting my own standards it was OK.  But it I can't say that.  And so the messiness continues.

Oh.  This grief is messy.

And as much as I might try to clean it up, the dust will continue to come.  

It is a process.  And so I will take continue to dust it.  One knick knack at a time.

Being very gentle.

To not break anything.

this day.

I have made it through the first birthday.  I feel a sense of relief and sorrow at the same time. I braced myself to get through the day.  To be truthful, I slept through most of it.  I didn't stray far from my bed.  It seemed easier to face it ... behind my eyelids.  To just get through it.  

Stu and I went to the cemetery early this morning.  We purchased 3 green balloons to let out into the heavens.  We wrote notes to Michael.  Tied the notes to the strings.  And let them go.  We brought gifts.  Stu brought a Clone Trooper from Star Wars.  I brought a Transformer (Bumblebee because that was Michael's favorite).  Opened the gifts ourselves.  Left them at the grave.  

Stu brought home dinner.  And we went back to the cemetery.  I needed a few more moments there.  It seems as though quite a few people had been by Michael's spot that day.  His marker was filled with flowers.  And balloons.  And his name spelled out.  My sweet parents had been there. Friends has also come.   It was so sweet that so many came out to say hello to him.

Today has been quiet.  I kept the TV on even as I was sleeping just to fill the house with sound.  Stu went to work.  He needed to do something.  To keep his mind occupied.  So it was just me.  And Nellie (our dog).  Holding down the fort.  I didn't answer the phone.  Or e-mails.  

This day is over.  And I am sad.  What should be a day of joy.  Is not.  And will never be. 

Again.

I am a better person because I was Michael's mom. The world is a better place for having had Michael in it.  The world lost a good one.  I lost the best part of me.  

And I, more than anything, want him back.

gone too soon.

the day that you were born

a lucky world it was

a hundred billion years all leading up to something

 

you are my gravity

the motion and the rest all at one time

keeping all the universe aligned

you are gravity

binding and loosening

there are countless things, you're all the space that's in between

 

the day that you were born

creation heard the sound

a hundred billion years just might amount to something

 

you are the fingerprint of life's own betterment

(from the song:  A Hundred Billion Years - Chris Castle)

born to amuse, to inspire, to delight

here one day

gone one night

like a sunset

dying with the rising of the moon

gone too soon.

(from the song:  Gone Too Soon by Michael Jackson)

Happy Birthday, my sweet funny boy.

Oh, how I wish we were celebrating together. 

I miss you.  So very much.

Love you.  To the Moon and Back.

x1600.

one day more...

Michael was born at 6:52 pm on July 1.  In Cincinnati, Ohio. (Where, according to Michael, there are really  tall buildings.  And hot dog vendors.)  Mine was a difficult pregnancy.  So he was to be induced.  To better watch both of us.

I checked into the hospital the night before.  Where I was unable to get up from the bed.  And was not able to eat or drink anything after midnight.  Only ice chips for me.   

That night was a mix of emotion.  Excitement. For this new little bundle of boy-ness to come into my life.   Terror.  At the thought that I was about to be a mother ( I seriously considered asking if we could just wait a week.  I'd come back much better prepared. Right?)  Anxiousness.  About Michael's little heart.  What it would take in the beginning to keep it beating.  To stabilize him.  What the plan would be for the next week.  The next month.  The next year.

That night.  I was a bundle of nerves.  I couldn't sleep - partially because it was my first overnight in a hospital and I was terrified that I would pull the IV out - and partially because of the overwhelming emotions I was experiencing.  

I was meeting my little boy.  For the very first time.  He had been a part of me for 9 months.  I took him on Mommy-Fetus night outs.  We'd go to the movies and eat ice cream and popcorn. (See how Michael's love for movies started out in the womb?  He would say that he peeked through my belly button and ate the crumbs from my ice cream and popcorn.) 

The next day would be my very first time seeing his face.  And to touch his skin.  And to hold his hand.  And to make guesses about who he looked the most like.  To hold him.  and smooch him.  And rock him to sleep.  

That night.  Was a rough one. 

This night.  Will be a rough one. 

For very different reasons.  This is the night where I will only have memories, pictures to see Michael's face.  This is the night where I will only have memories of Michael's skin.  This is the night where I will only be able to touch his marker.  To blow kisses to the wind.

I will be a bundle of emotions again.  Just like I was 10 years ago.  Only with no great reward at the end for the long journey through labor.  I will not be joined in the excitement of my beautiful boy's arrival into this world.

I will be joined in sadness at the departure of my beautiful boy.  From this world.

The birthday countdown continues.  

I just want the world to stop spinning.

So I can catch my breath...

keep breathing.

I am listening to my iTunes library on shuffle today while plugging away at work.  A song that I have not heard in a long while came up.  Keep Breathing by Ingrid Michaelson.  

But all that I know is I'm breathing

All I can do is keep breathing
All we can do is keep breathing 

now

This seems to be my mantra of late.  When I am reminded of my devastating loss.  I remind myself to keep breathing.  When I come upon something that Michael had written.  I keep breathing.  When I hear a song that reminds me of him or a lyric that describes this season of my life.  I keep breathing.   

When I mark the days of my calendar.  And when I see that July 1 is only 2 days away.  And when I purchased a new toy to put on Michael's grave.  Because I can't NOT purchase something for my sweet boy on his birthday.  When I think that he will never reach his double digits milestone.  I keep breathing.

This week seems impossible to navigate.

All I can do.  Is keep breathing.

change.

I am a creature of habit.  I like traditions.  Routines.  I like to know that on Tuesdays we will go to the library.  Or on Thursdays we go to Young Actor's Theatre and then to dinner at Atlanta Bread Company.  I like advent calendars and Bingo at Christmas.  I like to watch the same movies over and over again.  Because I know the outcomes.  I go to the same restaurants.  They are comforting to me.  I like familiarity.  

I do not like surprises.   I do not like change.   I do not like to have things sneak up on me.  I do not like to be unprepared.  Or unplanned.

But I find myself right in the middle of the biggest life change imaginable - a life without my son.  The second biggest life change was the birth of Michael.  Now.  That is a change I can believe in.  This is a change that I can't accept.  A change that I do not welcome.  

This is not a change that I anticipated.  Michael had a heart defect.  Yes.  But he was not sick.  He was not ill.  He did not show any of the signs that I look for constantly.  That were on my radar on a daily basis.  

He was playing with magnets.  With his very best friends.  And then he wasn't.  

He was happy and laughing and making up fun stories.  And then he wasn't.  

His heart was beating.  And then it wasn't.

In an instant.  My whole world changed.  My whole identity changed.

I didn't get a say.  I didn't have a vote.  Or a choice.

I do not understand.  

Nor do I accept it.

As I was leaving the cemetery today, I was overcome.  With grief.  I laid my head against my steering wheel and cried.  Big tears.  Racking sobs.  I let myself feel.  And it overtook me.  I am good at hiding my emotion.  I am good at holding back tears.  But not today.  Not by myself.   And I let them sweep me away.   

I just want what I had.  I want to give back this change.  I want to check No.  

I want Michael.  Complete and whole.

And ready for Atlanta Bread Company. 

Because it is a Thursday.  And our family tradition.

birthday countdown

Michael's birthday is coming up in one week and one day.  I am simultaneously pushing it away and pulling it towards me.  I am not ready for it.  And yet, I just want to wake up and find myself on the other side of it.  Of course, the other side of it is where exactly?  I can't imagine a time where I will wake up and not feel the hurt of not being able to spend my baby's 10th birthday WITH him.  I will celebrate it FOR him. But he will not be there.

He will not be there to blow out his candles.  On the cake that Nana will make for him.  He will not be there to tear the wrapping paper off of his gifts.  He will not be there to watch a Star Wars movie with close friends and family.  He will not be there to participate in the annual birthday scavenger hunt.  Or pick out the special birthday dinner.  Or countdown the days until he is double digits.

But I am here to do all those things.  And all I want to do is crawl into a ball and cover my head with my covers.  To sleep through this momentous occasion.

I wonder if Michael will always remain 9 in my memory.  If he will age.  

I feel a bit like the movie Groundhog Day.  Where the same events keep happening.  With the same results.  Every day, I have the same realization.  That Michael is not coming back.  It is like I process the information over and over again.  Praying ... hoping for a different result.  Praying ... hoping that this is the day the cycle is broken.

I am unfocused.  I am sad.  I am weepy.

I am here.  Waiting.  Steeling myself. 

Trying to stop the cycle.  And failing.

Miserably.

daddy's day

Happy Daddy's Day to my sweet husband.  Michael's daddy.  The man who played countless games of Stratego, Yu-Gi-Oh and Bakugan.  Who created fun hideaway tents and large army battles.  The daddy who took Michael to history museums and forts.  Science centers and exhibits.  The guy who taught Michael how to throw a football.  Kind of.   The dad that would take Michael to Fun Station and stay for hours.  Who would play countless games of Laser Tag.  And Putt-Putt.  And bumper boats.  Who taught Michael how to play video games and the strategy involved.  Who introduced Michael to YouTube.   The man who encouraged our son to make friends.  To step out of his comfort zone and to not be shy.  The man who I liked to say contributed to the nerdiness of our house.

Michael was a lucky little guy to call you his daddy.  I love you.

neighborhood.

I visit Michael every day.  Usually around the 5:00 or 6:00 hour.  Even on the weekends.  This just seems to be my time to go to the cemetery.  I don't stay long.  Just long enough to tell him how much I miss him.  And how I would do absolutely anything to get him back.  And I mean anything.  Or talk about the day.  Recently, I have been telling him about the many photos that people have sent spelling out his name.  

The cemetery is such an odd place.  I talk about his "neighbors" - Patricia and Joseph.  How they were buried in the 1980's and don't have flowers on their markers.  I was thinking that I should get them some.  How it would bring more color to Michael's spot.  When a new person "moved in", I gave him (Ed is his name) one of Michael's pinwheels.  I believe that Ed's family returned the favor by putting an angel statue on Michael's grave (I don't know if this is true ... I just don't know who else would have left it).

For 9 weeks, Michael's spot has had a temporary marker.  With his name and dates.  And it was surrounded by Star Wars figures and a Star Wars vehicle;  some Army men;  a Spiderman;  two pinwheels, a flower vase, and a gerber daisy. And the aforementioned angel statue.  I held my breath in recent weeks.  I knew that the time frame for the arrival of his permanent marker was soon.  I dreaded that day.

Today.  Was that day.  

I drove up and knew instantly that something was different.  And instantly I had a knot in my stomach.  Michael's marker had arrived.  He became a permanent resident.  In the cemetery. Another reminder that this is not a nightmare that I will awake from.  He is, in fact, all moved in.  To this neighborhood.

I took pictures.  I will upload them when I am ready. 

Today.  Is not that day.

The marker is nice.  It lists his name and his dates.  We added a star.  Because that was Michael.  A star.  And then we were able to add a description.  This was a tough choice.  What do you add to your son's marker that will sum up all that his life was ... and all that he could have been?  In one line?  

We chose:  Love you to the moon and back.

Because it's true.  For now and for always.  It is what Michael and I have always said to one another.  We usually added  - times 1600 (Michael's favorite go-to number).  I would say it as we said good night.  When I tucked him in.

It seemed fitting.  In his final resting spot.  His final tucking in.  To say it again.

Love you to the moon and back.

buddy. boopy. boo-bear.

I grew up with the nickname of BoBo.  I probably shouldn't put that out on the internet for fear that it will come up in strange places.  I go by BoBo, or Bo amongst family and friends.  Honestly, I kind of lucked out on my nickname.  Our family's best friends also have a daughter named Jenn.  Her nickname became JuJu.  I win.  

I think that the nickname came from being told it was "Bedtime for Bonzo" by my mom and dad.  And the Bonzo evolved into BoBo.  My parents loved the name so much that they named their dog after me.  They insist that his name is spelled Beau.  But we all know it is the same thing.

Anyway.

I love nicknames.  I love to call people chicken or sunshine buckets or sugar booger.  I think nicknames are fun.  And personal.  And sweet.

Michael was no exception to my love of pet names.  I am surprised that he ever knew his name.  He had many.  I was most consistant with Boo, or Boopy or Buddy.  Sometimes Boo-bear.  But had been known to call him any of the following (in no particular order, other than typing them as they come to me...):

• Captain Crankypants
• Sweet Pea
• Scooter Poot
• Stinky Pete
• Mighty Mike
• Doofy-Doo
• Love Bug
• Love Muffin
• Michael Michael Motorcycle
• Stinker Pie Poopie Pants
• Snuggle Bunny
• Cutie Pie Butt

There are many others.  The above is but a sampling.  I always expected that there would be a time when he would ask me to not call him anything but Michael in front of friends ... or girlfriends.  

He had not yet asked me to stop.  

ride it out.

Sometimes my sadness comes up and punches me in the throat.  I can't breathe.  I can't function.  I just sit.  And cry.  Things that used to make me crazy are no longer a big deal.  I don't care about the cleanliness of my house.  I don't care how the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher.  I don't care if the laundry is folded right away.  

The finality of Michael's passing hits me daily like a ton of bricks.  I open a closet and see our Christmas advent calendar.  I am struck with the thought that we will not do that again this year. I will not put little notes of fun activities for us to do together.   I am reminded of him as I feed the dog - one of his daily chores.  Or when the recycling bucket is full - it is on the tip of my tongue to call him to take it out.

I think of the ways that I could have prevented this.  I know I couldn't.  But it doesn't stop me from feeling like if I had only been able to hold his hand, he would have come back.  Or if I had been in the room with him while they were working on him, that he would have sensed it.  Known that he wasn't alone.  Known that his mommy was right there waiting for him to open his eyes. To breathe on his own.  Or if I had only prayed harder.  

I know intellectually that I couldn't do anything more.  But my heart constantly wonders what if.  It is the what ifs that hurt daily.  We used to make what ifs a game ... what if Star Wars was really true?  What if cars could fly?  Now what ifs haunt me.  Shake me to my very core.

Weekends are difficult.  I don't have a set place to be at a set time.  I have freedom to do what I want.  But I can't leave the house except to visit the cemetery.  I just sit.  And cry.  And remember.  And long for my sweet little boy.

Our grief counselor shared that when you are on a runaway train, all you can do is sit.   You can't stick your foot out to stop it.  You just ride it out.  Hold on tight.  

And so that is what I do.  I am gripping the seat rest.  Closing my eyes.  And riding it out.

misquoted.

Michael and I made a CD of some new music and some of our favorite songs for a road trip to Atlanta in January (the very same trip where we saw snow).  I'll post that story (complete with video) in the next couple of days.

Anyway, Michael asked me (from the back of the car), "Mommy, why would anyone need to say sandwich?"  Umm ... how does one answer that? 

 So I ask, "What?"  See how articulate I am?  I'll just make him ask again while I come up with something brilliant.  

And then he says, "Why is this person singing about needing to say sandwich?"

We were listening to Say What you Need to Say by John Mayer.  Michael heard "Sandwich - You Need to Say".  Funny.  Kid.

It was then that I realized he is a duplicate of his mother.  Me.  I got through life thinking that many songs were something completely different than what they really were.  Like I Want a New TRUCK.  Right ... Huey Lewis was actually singing about wanting a new DRUG.  Totally different meaning.   Or Stop in the Neighborhood.  When really one was Stopping in the NAME OF LOVE.  Not the same.  I imagine that Michael would have had the same leanings as he got older.  See ... we liked music for the beat.  Without so much a care for the lyrics. If we didn't know it, we just made them up.  Filled in the blanks with other things.

I passed down my knack for mistaken lyrics to my child.  The rest of the trip and everytime we heard this song, Michael and I would sing the wrong lyrics.  We would also sing it when we ate sandwiches.  But we would point to the sandwich.  We are clever.  And choreographers. 

How thankful I am for fun memories with my funny kid.  I just wish that we were making more of them.  Today.  And every day.

rock superstar...

Mommy, Mommy ... you need to take my picture.  

Yes, yes I did.

name gallery

I have added all of the photos that I have received thus far into a flickr group.  The link is on the right side of my blog - just click on the photo of Michael pointing.  I set up a group - Michael's Name Project.  It is currently set to admin approval (that's me!).  If you would like to join the group, just send me a request with Michael's name in the body of the e-mail.  Easy.  Peasy.  

I decided to make the title of each photo the location that the photo came from, if I knew it.  I also added notes from the photographer, if any.  These mostly came from the e-mails sent.  I tried to not include any identifying information for those that have sent in photos.  If you would like to add something to your photo, drop me a line and I will add it.  Or leave a comment.  I'll add photos most every night.  So fun to see them all together!

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you. 

I know I said this before, but I am so amazed by the response to my not-so-little-anymore project.   Wow.  You people are awesome.

two months.

It has been two months.  Today.  It some ways it seems like two decades.  And in others it seems like two minutes.  It has been two months.

June was another big month in our household.  Michael and I would have gone on a solo road trip to Kentucky for a family reunion.  Stu couldn't go with us and so we were to have hit the road ourselves.  We were going to spread the trip out and stop at my alma mater, Berry College, along the way.  Michael had been to campus once, but he was three and didn't quite remember it.    I wanted to show him where I lived while on campus.  Where I worked.  Where I had class.  Where I got sprayed by a skunk my freshman year.  I think he would have gotten a kick out of the school.

We were going to make CDs of our favorite music.  Because that's what we did for road trips.  And we would have stayed in hotels along the way.  Hotels with pools.  And we would have jumped on the bed.  And we would have laughed.

Michael would also have started camp this month.  A camp that is held at his elementary school and full of fun field trips.  He would have brought his DS and played Pokemon or Bakugan or Star Wars or whatever else was on tap for the day.  He would have swam and skated and taken trips to far away places.

We would have planned big things for his double digit birthday.  We would have maybe had a sleepover.  Or maybe just a couple of friends over.  Or maybe another screen on the green.  We would have planned.  Michael would have been so excited that he couldn't hide it.  

I think of the things I have missed in these two months:  the smooches.  The hugs.  The "I love yous".  I think of the movies we would have seen.  And the trips we would have taken - to Star Wars Weekend.  To Kentucky.  To the grocery store.  I think of the games of UNO.  The celebratory dinner for completing 4th grade.  For making an excellent score on FCAT Writing.  For just being an all-around good kid.  I think of the rolled eyes when I would make him pose for yet another picture.  Or brush his teeth.  Or pick up his room.  I think of how involved he was in his play that his room was scattered with tons of his figures.  His tanks.  His battles.  I think about how I would ask him to clean his room.  And would find him playing with the toys as he put them away.  How cleaning was a game.  It took a lot of time ... but he made it fun.

I find myself wishing for more time.  Wondering what I would have done differently if I had just known about this April 9th deadline.  I wasn't given the timetable.  I didn't know.  

It has been two months.  And I am focused on keeping Michael's memory going.  To let his name be spoken.  To talk about him and his life.  That he will continue to impact others.

I am overwhelmed by the response to my call for photos of Michael's name.  I have already received quite a few. I am amazed.  I stand in awe of all of you.  Thank you.  Thank you for speaking his name.  Thank you for remembering.  Thank you.

Say my name...say my name...

It is my desire that Michael’s name always be remembered.  That he is not forgotten. That his memory will always live on.

 

Michael’s 10^th birthday is coming up on July 1^st.  Double Digits.  He would have been so excited about his day.   We had just discussed possible party plans on that Wednesday.  Before that terrible Thursday.

 

With that in mind, I have a big request.  I would like to see Michael’s name spelled out in as many ways as possible.  I would like to see his name in many settings.  From many people.   Handwrite his name, spell it out with objects, skywrite it.  It doesn’t matter.  Just write his name.  Be creative.  Be big.  Be small.  Take a picture.  And remember him, say his name.

 

And then send me the picture.  If you would like, include a story of where you were and why you wrote his name there.  Or send the picture and a memory.  Or just send the picture.  I'm not picky. E-mail is fine. I will post the photos on my blog (iloveyoubest.blogspot.com) or perhaps a flickr gallery.  I haven't quite decided on the logistics as yet. I think it depends on how many photos I receive.  But I will keep you informed.   I would like to eventually put them into a photo book.

 

I do have one request, if I may be so bold.  If you are going, know someone who is going, or know someone who works at Hollywood Studios – would you or ask them to get a picture with Michael’s name with some of the characters or attractions from Star Wars Weekend?  This upcoming weekend is the last for the Star Wars Weekends.  We were to have visited there two weekends ago.  We went last year and loved it. 

 

I got the idea from another blog,  MckMama (http://www.mycharmingkids.net/2008/08/eventually-these-photographs-will-be-in.html).  I didn’t want to take her idea without giving credit.  This link will take you directly to her son’s name gallery.

 

Will you help?  Send this request to friends far and wide.  Post on your blogs.  Perhaps your facebook page.  Or your work break room.  Wouldn’t it be fun to have names from across the globe?  I would be so touched.  So honored. 

 

I would love to have lots of photos prior to his birthday (July 1), but would certainly keep collecting well after that.  Again, not picky.  Just want my boy to be remembered by many.

 

Send your photos to jenndooley at yahoo.com.  Or mail them to us if that is easier.

 

Can’t wait to see them!  Thanks for entertaining this slightly off the wall request!

 

Much Love,

Jenn Dooley

three days

I participated in the 3 Day Walk for Breast Cancer last year.  Started out by myself, but made a great friend, Jenny,  at the beginning of the walk.  We ended up walking together the entire 3 Days. 

I had a pretty amazing support team.  Stu and Michael picked me up every day from camp so that I could spend the night in the hotel with them.  Call me a wussy because I opted out of camping - but I enjoyed spending the time with them.  And they totally pampered me.  Brought me meals.  And Icy Hot.  And Blister Band-ads.  Very sweet.  They were at most of the cheering stations.  I looked forward to seeing them at every opportunity.   I needed that connection.  I needed their hugs.  And high-fives.  I needed their love to keep me going.

And keep me going they did.  Along with my mom and dad and my family members and friends.  I couldn't have done the walk without so much support.

I was tired at the end of the walk.  But felt really good about the big accomplishment.  I came home on a big high.  Like I could do anything.  And so, I signed up again for the walk this October, 2009.  With nary a thought turned toward the 6 blisters on my left foot.  Or the pain in my knees on the last day.  Forgot all about those things.  I recruited more people to join me. I was glad to be walking with a team.  Cute t-shirts.  Tent decorations.  A team name.  

And then when the unthinkable happened, I knew that I wouldn't be able to complete the walk this year.  Michael was such a big part of my experience last year that I couldn't imagine doing it again without him.  I didn't want to imagine it.  His little face was what kept me going when I thought I couldn't go any further. 

But then my sweet husband reminded me of how proud Michael was of me walking. How he talked about cheering me on again this year.  How he was my trainer and would come in while I was on the treadmill and tell me to hustle it up.  Walk harder.  Faster.  Stronger.   How he wanted to complete the walk with me when he was older.  How we would be a great team.  

And now he can't.

But I can.

I am going to participate in this walk.  I imagine that Michael will be with me at every step of the way.   I made a promise to do it.  And Michael was adament that promises always be kept. Because otherwise you were lying.  and we. do. not. lie.  It was a rule of the house. (Alongside the rule of never talking to Mommy during Biggest Loser... ahem)

So I am in.  It will be hard.  I will cry.  I will talk of quitting.  But I am determined to push forward.  For my Michael.  For my Grams.  And for me.

Want to join me?

Click here to go to my donation page:  http://www.the3day.org/goto/jenndooley

thoughts on geico...

"I'd just do what Pa says - Flick off his eyes and take the money".

Michael, after spring break with his Pa and Nana (April 2009)

model. model.

Because I need a laugh today...

I love reality shows.  That won't surprise most.  I don't watch the more mainstream shows like American Idol or Dancing with the Stars.  No ... I watch Rock of Love, and Charm School and Big Brother.  Only the classiest for me.   I also am a fan of Biggest Loser and any of the Real Housewives or Top Whatevers on Bravo.  

Michael liked to watch {some} of these shows with me.  I didn't so much let him watch all of these shows ... as they are a bit on the ... um ... scandelous side of things.  But he would watch Top Chef or Project Runway or Biggest Loser with me.  And he liked the cartoon Total Drama Island, which is like a reality show.   For the smaller set.

Michael was asked to write about Rules for his the Writing portion of the FCAT.  He told me that he wrote that one of the rules in our house was "that no one could talk to Mommy while she watched Biggest Loser".  I wasn't that strict ... I would totally chat during commercials.  Sheesh.  (I'm hoping to get a copy of this writing ... it is not a typical request, but I am hoping to see it.  I can only imagine the other rules he might have written about.)

Anyway, I thought I would share these two pictures.  These are his model/runway walk photos.  You can tell two things:  1.  I took tons of pictures of my kid.  I used to say he was the least photogenic kid ever (don't believe me?  check out all of those school pictures for the past few  years!).  I would take hundreds of pictures to get one that I liked.  He was a pretty good sport, but obviously liked to spice things up a bit.  2.  We practiced our runway walks and end poses in the house.  Especially with first day of school outfits.  Hilarious.    Michael was pretty good at the posing.  As evidenced by these two photos.  

My boy.  Totally hip.

Heaven's Next Top Model?

differences. similarities.

Some friends of ours had a baby the same week that Michael left us.  Their little one arrived on a Monday.  Our little one left us on a Thursday. 

It is interesting to me the similarities that I have encountered with these seemingly very different life events.  As they are preparing for life with a baby, we are preparing for life without.  

But we both have received meatloafs.  And chicken casseroles from friends.  Both of our families receive cards.  And the thoughts from many. 

They picked out a going home from the hospital outfit.  I picked an outfit for burial.  

Both of our families are struggling with sleep.  They don't sleep because the baby cries.  I don't sleep because I cry.  And routines.  They are establishing routines while I am fighting against a routine.  Because routine means that the world continues to spin.

They measure their little one's age in weeks.  I measure my loss in weeks.  And soon those will turn to months.  And then years with half years sprinkled in to measure time.  

They will document firsts.  I struggle through firsts.  And lasts.  And then will struggle when firsts become seconds.    They will lament the fact that time goes by quickly.  That their baby is growing up.  I will agree with them.  That time goes by quickly.  They will wish for time to stand still ... for their little one to stop growing.  I will agree.  And wish for time to reverse.  To get my baby back.  And to treasure each moment. To document it so that I don't forget even the tiniest of detail.

They look forward.  I look back.  

They think of what will be.  I think of what could have been.

dinner

On that last Wednesday, I can remember that Michael and I had spaghetti for lunch, that we had an UNO tournament that I won, that Michael snuck out of bed for one last goodnight smooch, and that he was excited to watch Clone Wars as he got ready for night-night.  I can remember a portion of our lunch conversation where he wanted me to tell him a funny story.  So I told him the story of my Halloween.  When I was a witch and was scared that people would really think I was a witch and so I made my mom take me home early.  We laughed.  

But I can't remember what we had for dinner.  

I have searched my memory for this fact.  I can't remember. And that terrifies me.  

last day of school

I had the opportunity to spend some time in Michael's class yesterday ... this last day of fourth grade for the students in his class.   I hadn't planned on being there.  But one of his best friends e-mailed me, asking if I would come see her.  How could I say no to that?  I couldn't and so I made certain that it was fine with Mrs. Branch.  It was.  And so I went.

And oh how thankful I am that I did.

The kids in his class are the sweetest of the bunch.  I can't imagine a better class.  They are all friends.  They all cheer on each other.  And they are lead by one of the most amazing women.  Mrs. Branch is a gem of a teacher.  I love her.  Michael loved her.  She is one of those people that lights up the room.  That made Michael a lover of school.   Quite a feat for a boy who was never a fan of the inside of the classroom.

To be truthful, the day was bittersweet.  I loved being in the class.  But such a big part was missing.  He was missing.  He would have been thrilled.  Going to fifth grade.  The rulers of the school.  The top dogs.  He would have loved it.  Counted down the loudest.  High fived his friends.  We would have celebrated the weekend at Disney World.  He would have strutted like a peacock.

It would have been fun.  It would have been exciting.  It would have been a proud moment.

Instead, it is sad.  Just another moment in the laundry list of moments that I won't have.  That I won't collect in the recesses of my memory.  To tell his grandchildren. 

 Just another could have been.

cd

We made CDs of Michael's favorite music to give to his classmates (no worries, family and friends, we made a ton of extras to give to all of you as well!).  I did edit the list a bit as I thought some of his favorites might not be appropriate for all households (nothing terrible ... but not everyone lets their kids listen to Low or My Humps or Baby Got Back or Ice, Ice Baby).  Maybe I will put together a volume 2 of his favorites that can include more of the edgier songs. In our house, the beat of the music was important. We like a funky beat that we can dance to...

Anyway. I thought I would share the cover and inside cover.  These are just some of the songs that we sang on road trips.  Danced to in our house.  Sang while cleaning or playing video games or walking in the store.  

Songs that every time I hear, I will think of Michael.  And smile.  And remember him.  His spirit.  His funky dance moves.  His booty shakes.  

garden

The dedication of Michael's memorial garden was yesterday.  The garden is beautiful ... and put together so lovingly by Michael's class and the school.  The stepping stones spell out his name and were designed by Michael's class.  The flowers were also planted by Michael's class.  

At the dedication, the principal spoke as well as two of Michael's classmates and his teacher.  Their words were so sweet.  Michael would have loved it.

Afterwards, we went to Michael's classroom and spent time with his class.  The students shared their Michael moments.  So funny.  We ate pizza.  Laughed together.  It was good to be there.  Good to see his friends.  Good to be amongst kids again.  I haven't been around kids in a long while.  I needed that.  It was good for my soul.

Our neighborhood is just across the street from the school.  I can walk to Michael's garden whenever  I want.  It is so peaceful - I drove by there tonight.  I look forward to seeing it grow.

Michael was blessed with a great school.  A fantastic teacher.  Good friends.  Their tribute to him is beautiful.  I don't have enough words to thank them for all they have done.

moments

I have moments.  Of extreme sorrow.  They sneak up on me when I least expect it.  I also have moments.  Of extreme anger.  I am mad and want to lash out.  I am mad and want someone to be held accountable for righting this wrong.  This incomprehensible act.  

The taking away of my precious boy.

Stu and I went to see Night at the Museum 2 on Saturday.  A movie that we would have/should have taken Michael to see.  I couldn't laugh.  I knew every moment that Michael would have laughed.  The kind of laugh where no sound comes out because it was just. that. funny.  The kind where his whole mouth would go wide and he would look at me with big eyes and the most musical sound would come out.  His laugh.  His guffaw.  I knew those moments.  And the joy that we would have shared ...  would have remembered long after the credits rolled ... was not there.  I couldn't laugh.  Because HE can not laugh.

And I was mad.  We left the movie and I was angry.  I was feeling sorry for myself.  And angry that my child was taken from me.  I don't know what to do with myself in those moments.  I lash out.  I sob.  I find it hard to breathe.  

I feel incomplete.  I am overwhelmed.

And I am selfish.  I am not able to be a comfort to anyone else.  My grief is whole and I have no room for other parts.  Stu and I are grieving.  Alongside each other.  But in different ways.  That's OK.  There is no right or wrong way.  

Tomorrow is the dedication of the Memorial Garden at Michael's school.  His class assisted in designing the garden and created 9 stepping stones for him (7 to spell out his name and 2 more - the class wanted to have 9 as that was his age).  The class also participated in the planting of the flowers.  My parents are here for it.  We will have pizza afterwards.  I made cookies.  My friend Carmen is bringing fruit.  Mrs. Branch is bringing drinks.   Michael loved the pizza parties at school.  It seemed fitting to have one after the garden dedication.  Michael loved his class.  He LOVED his teacher.  I am glad to be with them for the day.  To hear their Michael moments.

I just can't believe he won't be there.  

flip flops

I went to Old Navy yesterday.  I bought a couple of shirts that I will probably end up returning.  Victims of retail therapy.  

As I was checking out, the Old Navy employee asked if I would be coming back over the weekend for the $1 flip flop sale.  I said, Oh, I forgot about that.  I should probably stock up on flip flops for my son.

I'm sure she looked confused when the look of horror came over my face when I realized what I had just said and I high-tailed it out of the store.  I don't know.  I didn't look back.

fun with dad...

When I did the 3 Day walk in Atlanta this past fall, Stu and Michael came to cheer me on and be my support team.   And to also have some fun in Atlanta while I was on the route.  I thought I would share some of the photos from their time together.  They loved going to museums.  A fun time to share together.  They would spend hours there.  Exploring all of the exhibits.  Trying out all of the educational displays.  Learning.  Laughing.  Enjoying their time together.

These are pictures from their time at Fernbank.  Aren't they so fun?

Hilarious!

Polar bear hands and feet.

I love Michael's face in the penguin costume.  Cracks me up.  He looks like he might be on the cusp of being embarrassed, and was probably coerced into putting on the costume at Stu's request.  He did it, though, and posed for the photo.  

The other thing that I love about the penguin photo is to see his shoes scattered haphazardly in the back and his hoodie jacket thrown on the floor in front of him.  As if he and Stu took over the room.  And threw their belongings all over the room.  I love it.  An indication of the good time they were having.

An indication of the good time they always had.