Our Story

Well, here it is.  I don't know that I have the follow-through to write a book, but I find myself writing posts in my head all the time, so I might as well share them somewhere in hopes they do some good for others or possibly even myself.  

Another tragedy has struck close to home, and another child has joined my son in Heaven.  Rather than write my usual unsolicited advice to the grieving mother, I think I'll just write it here.  That way, if you are reading this, it is of your own free will and not because I am forcing my own experiences or opinions on you.  

Each loss is different.  Each loss is the same.  I told my counselor today that my heart is broken, not for the child who was lost (or, rather, found, as you will see my faith in God show through in my belief in Heaven and Hell and the saving grace of Jesus.  I don't apologize for this.  My blog, my rules.  (Man, I am salty tonight.)) but my heart is bleeding for the family left behind as I know the train that is about to hit them, and there is nothing I can do to make it stop.  There is nothing anyone can do to make it stop.  And I feel helpless.  

While I am helpless to stop the train, I am hopeful that some of my words will bring some help or healing or at least legitimacy to the chaos that follows the death of a child.  I have survived in the aftermath for 4 years, 2 months, 16 days, and about 16 hours at this point.  

Yes, I know very well the moment my life changed and the train came.  It was about 6:07AM on April 5th, 2013.  I had hit snooze once, pulled myself off the couch (too many kids having crawled in my bed during the night for me to sleep), answered a quick email, and headed upstairs in our old farm house to wake my children for school.  

Oh.  You may not want to know this yet.  I'm not sure.  Maybe you are still skimming life with the goal of making it to an acceptable adult bedtime each night so that you can just sleep and forget the day.  You may not want to know all the details yet or even care to ever know them.  If that is the case, please  skip the rest of this post and go up to the second post I will probably title something like "The First Days"  or "Act II."  I have no idea yet because I am still writing this one, and, if you have not yet picked this up, I am very much a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl.  If I can gain insight by Ann Vos Camp's prose in which I just wish she would finish a dang sentence for once, then maybe you can gain something from my lack of poetics.  

Anyway, for those of you wanting the dirt, the story continues in a nutshell that I went to wake my oldest son, Xander, and he was dead.  I knew it when I touched his leg and tried to shake it, and it didn't yield to my touch.  I knew it when I looked in his face and saw the (fancy medical word I can't think of that I have picked up by having a dad for a nurse and a previous affinity to crime shows) splotches of blue where the blood had settled on the bottom half of his face.  I knew when I touched his face and it was cold and I told myself it was because his fan was blowing on it, knowing full well I could see the fan opposite him was turned off.  I knew it when I put my hand under his shirt onto his back as I have done a million times since I birthed him to make sure he was still breathing and his back was cold and still.  

That's when I accepted it, screaming his name, ripping the pillow from under his head as I just knew he had suffocated in it while having a seizure in the night even though that makes no sense as I could clearly see his mouth and nose uncovered.  

Screaming for my husband and I ran down the stairs, seeing the last normal smile on the face the love of my life, bemused at what I thought would constitute such a dramatic flight. 

Pulling him into the living room away from the other kids to crush his world by whispering, "I need you to go upstairs.  I think Xander's dead."

Seeing him tear off up the stairs, wringing my hands and shaking them nervously as I waited for my fears to be confirmed. 

Hearing the worst sound I have ever heard in my life, no-panic husband screaming Xander's name and the word "NO!"

Feeling his hands on the sides of my faces as he looked at me with complete fear and panic saying, "What are we going to do?  He's cold!"

Taking my phone, calling 911, trying to explain to the operator that no, doing CPR was not going to help.  He was cold.  He was stiff.  He was dead.

Gathering our other 3 children in the living room, attempting to explain through my growing panic that their oldest brother was dead.  

Having my now level-headed husband take over the situation and explain that Xander had died in the night, but he had himself baptized Xander only a few months previously and that he knew, without a doubt, that Xander was now in the presence of Jesus in Heaven.   

Remembering, "Oh, yeah.  Heaven." and being able to take the first full breath I had since I found him.

Rocking my second born in my arms on the living room floor.  

Wondering why some guy off the street in a camo hoodie and ball cap was coming in my house. ("First responder," my husband mumbled, pointing, as they went upstairs.)

Telling the uniformed officer, "They're up there," as he came in and attempted to come to me, thinking I was rocking the dead child.

Taking the other kids to my room, to my bed, our place of safety and love, so they would not see any other events or people or comings and goings.  

Calling our neighbor and "other grandma" who lived near us to come, knowing I had woken her, having to explain more than once that Xander was dead, and knowing she would tell the appropriate church people.  

Rocking back and forth on my knees, head to the floor, repeating "Oh, my God.  My, my Jesus," not in vain or out of anger, but as a desperate plea for this to not be happening. 

Quickly narrowing a list of my 3 closest work friends to one to call to tell and ask to spread the word.

Knowing I was now going to be one of "those moms" with a story to tell, someone people would want to listen to, and berating myself for years to come for that thought and how horrible a human being I must be to think such a thing when my child was dead, only to realize, that is a normal reaction or thought to have, looking for some bright side for some hope for something good out of the worst moment of my life. 

Arguing with my husband about if we should call our parents (his idea) or have an officer visit them and tell them in person (my idea).

Losing that argument, but winning the one in which I firmly told him I would call my own parents.  

Calling my dad.  telling him to get Mom and sit down.  Telling him his oldest grandson was dead.  Hearing my own father repeat my cries for help from God.

Form then on, my memories are snapshots, moments.  My cousin showing up in tears.  My uncle asking me who he could call.  Giving a friend's husband who was a pastor the number of the kids' karate teacher to call and tell.  

Text messages coming in and me not answering.  Facebook messages and tags and alerts of people vaguely giving condolences as we had not made it Facebook official.  

Being questioned by an officer, only to fall to the floor after 3 questions and start sobbing.  

Being held on the floor by my sobbing husband as people walked around us.  

My big, level-headed, loving, father-in-law lying down on the floor next to me crying.  

The kind, tear-filled voice of the medical examiner giving her condolences.

My mother-in-law saying he was just so beautiful. 

Asking over and over if my parents had arrived.  

Getting glass after glass of water as my mouth had immediately gone bone dry in a way it never had before or has since.  Sitting down the glass, forgetting where it was, and getting another glass.  

My husband's bosses come in my house and wondering if he was embarrassed because I was still in my pajamas.  

Breaking down crying asking my cousin to clean up my kitchen because so many people would be coming and it was a mess.  Berating myself for years for that selfish thought of how my house looked when my son was dead.

Sitting up in my bed when my husband calmly came in and asked where I wanted him taken after the autopsy.  

Giving the answer he already knew.  (To the same funeral home my grandparents were at, funeral at the same hometown church, and buried next to them.)

Sitting on a blanket in the sun with a friend, attempting to have a picnic and let the kids play and be as normal as possible on the most abnormal day ever. 

People everywhere.  

Thinking it took hours and hours for them to decide to move his body.  Staying hidden in my room because I didn't want the image of a bodybag in my mind, and then imagining it over and over in the coming years. 

My parents finally arriving.  

My oldest brother calling and asking what my favorite flower was.  

The kids' pediatrician calling, crying, asking what in the world had happened.  

The boys' school teachers coming to the house, bringing handmade cards from classmates, telling me of all those who were taking the news hard.  

Someone arriving bringing gifts for the 3 living kids and me trying to be positive and upbeat only to call out to the kids, "Xander, Gryffin, Br-...  I can't do this? Why is He making me do this?" and collapsing on the couch between my husband and my dad, all of us sobbing.  

My sister-in-law saying through her tears that I had achieved what every Christian mother strives for, my baby was in Heaven.  My mission with him was complete.  

Someone else coming late and wanting to see me and trying to make me laugh when all I wanted to do was go to sleep forever.  Going to sleep in my bed with my remaining 3 kids, my husband, and Xander's 5 month old yellow Labrador puppy.

Waking sometime later, to the sounds of my husband sobbing.  

And finally, falling asleep in my husband's arms on the couch.  Not dreaming. 

And there was mourning, and there was evening, the first day.