I'm having a hard time right now. With more than just grief. But isn't it a bitch how other struggles can so easily amplify grief? Frustration with work, financial stress, sickness and tiredness cause me to implode and among the rubble he's screaming for me. My God, how I miss him. I haven't struggled with missing him in a long time. The chaos of the last few months has settled. Ryan's 2nd birthday, Brayden's first. Returning to work. Family things. I've one again carved out yet another "new normal" routine. And I was adjusting just fine. Until I wasn't anymore.

The routine. The normalcy. It jars me sometimes. How little my life has changed. I mean, my life has changed a lot. Yes. But now Ryan's two and we're starting this third year without him here, and my life looks so normal. So much like it did before he died. The part of my life that everyone sees. We walk around and live our lives looking like a normal family of three. Except we're not. How we look on the outside just does not match at all how I feel on the inside.

Especially when I'm struggling. 

It kills me when I'm having a hard time coping with the realities of life and everything looks so normal. Because it is this illusion of "normal" where my biggest fears start to happen. 

I'm overwhelmed lately with this feeling that people are forgetting. Maybe not forgetting, but certainly not engaging with his memory. On the 15th of October, we lit candles for Ryan and his friends. And I couldn't help but notice that on this third Wave of Light, there were no messages with burning candles pouring in from those who've celebrated in the past. And I'm always so grateful to see the various birthday celebrations (from around the world!) on September 7, but I also can't help but notice when (and by whom) he's not mentioned on that day.

Most painful for me, is that I didn't even make time to write him a note on October 7. The very first 7th of the month since he died that I didn't. It was Thanksgiving weekend and he was obviously on my mind. But with going back to work, and family things... I was busy. I was tired. And I was already pretty emotionally drained. I know I need to give myself a break. But when you're feeling like around you, everyone has "moved on from him" the last thing I need to feel is like I'm leaving him behind too.

Grief is lonely.

Even when you're lucky enough to be able to share it so openly. As I am. When it hurts, it hurts. And when you look around you, and see how smoothly the world keeps turning, you feel stuck on an island alone. 

I know time has passed. I know you've got to keep moving forward. And I have. I do. But some days the moving forward hurts. 

That's me this past week. 

So when I saw the 7th on my calendar today, I needed to stop. I needed to sit here. And I needed to write. Despite how tired I might be. Despite my frustrations and stresses. I needed to put it out there and maybe feel less like I'm being swallowed by the loneliness that is my grief.

Because really, I just miss my son.

One year ago I was sitting here celebrating your 9 month milestone. Significantly more important than a 21 month marker to be sure. I wrote about it as the day that officially moved me into the zone of being apart from you longer than I was with you. Since that day, that physical separation has gotten greater and greater – obviously. That’s how time works.
 
Now, I’m sitting in the same place, but with a different situation. Brayden sits next to me, making all of his little guy noises, clapping with joy over the celery in his hands. And me, utterly confused about how I could spend the last few weeks the way I have.
 
It’s been a hard few weeks. Actually, the depth of the challenge of the past couple weeks I don’t think I can really explain. But I have been out of sorts. Not quite myself. On the constant verge of tears. So quick to anger. Shockingly impatient (even for me). Totally unable to shake the consistent shitty feeling following me around.

A year ago, I’d have blamed my situation. Missing you. Afraid for the little life growing inside of me. End of the school-year burn-out.
 
But now. I don’t know. I feel like crap and can’t seem to pinpoint the source.
 
So, I blew off our plans for the day, packed a picnic lunch, and came here. A place I’ve been able to count on to feel some calm. And even with Brayden climbing all over me, still celery in hand, I’m feeling bits and pieces of that calm I’ve been clamouring for over the past two weeks. I know these 30 minutes won’t fix anything. But maybe it’s a start.
 
I’m glad I made the time to visit you today.
Thank you for hearing me out.

Song: Small Bump
Artist: Ed Sheeran

Today is a lot. It's a Ryan-milestone (1 year, 8 months). And it's International Bereaved Mother's Day. It's no surprise lately I've been doing more than my usual share of thinking of Ryan. And most of it seems to be about the day he was born. One of the ways I know I still have a way to go towards healing is that I find myself still wondering why. Why did it happen? How did it get missed? Should I have asked more questions? Pointed more fingers? Was this really unavoidable? Could it have been caught? I don't know. I don't think I ever will. And I know, I really know, it doesn't help to ask these questions now. But I think back on that day, that night, and I still wish I would have done things differently. Held him more. Longer. Even though the warmth of my body was doing harm to his. The only way I make it out of these spirals of wishing and wanting is by reminding myself I did what I had to, what I could do, in that moment, and there's no going back. I was as gentle as I could be with his fragile body in those short moments we had together. This song is about a couple who loses a baby after 5 months of pregnancy. It addresses the hope and love had for the baby, and the questions they're left with when his life ends. It's how I feel today, on this 7th of the month, this day to honour mothers with hearts broken for their children.

Lyrics:
You're just a small bump unborn, in four months you're brought to life,
You might be left with my hair, but you'll have your mother's eyes,
I'll hold your body in my hands, be as gentle as I can,
But for now you're a scan of my unmade plans,
A small bump in four months you're brought to life

I'll whisper quietly, I'll give you nothing but truth,
If you're not inside me, I'll put my future in you

You are my one and only.
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.
Oh, you are my one and only.
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.
And you'll be alright.

Oh, you're just a small bump unknown, you'll grow into your skin.
With a smile like hers and a dimple beneath your chin.
Finger nails the size of a half grain of rice,
And eyelids closed to be soon opened wide
A small bump, in four months you'll open your eyes.

And I'll hold you tightly, I'll tell you nothing but truth,
If you're not inside me, I'll put my future in you

You are my one and only.
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.
Oh, you are my one and only.
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.
And you'll be alright.

And you can lie with me,
With your tiny feet
When you're half asleep,
I'll leave you be.
Right in front of me
For a couple weeks
So I can keep you safe.

'Cause you are my one and only.
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.
You are my one and only.
You can wrap your fingers round my thumb and hold me tight.
And you'll be alright.

'Cause you were just a small bump unborn for four months then torn from life.
Maybe you were needed up there but we're still unaware as why.

I recently came across this quote on a friend's blog and it jumped right out at me. Because lately I have been dealing with a fear of my own. A fear that comes from the realization that I'm really doing great. And fear of admitting that out loud.

I'm afraid of this feeling of "better-ness." This feeling like a whole person even though I'm not -- not really. (See, I won't even allow myself to admit to feeling whole). It feels like such a betrayal of you. And deep down, I'm afraid that if I can feel this good again, then to everyone else you must be such a distant memory.

It's times like this when I'm reminded how complicated grief is. How I can feel great and still miss you so terribly every day. How looking into your brother's eyes can fill me with the greatest joy and also the deepest longing all at once.

How I can feel relief in my happiness and also be so scared of it.

Every time another month passes, and I am a little bit further away from the raw despair of losing you, I feel lighter than I did all those months ago. And when I feel lighter, I start to worry. I don't want to forget the painful feelings because they're all tangled up in my memories of you. But don't misunderstand me. I am grateful to be able to walk through my life and see colours clearly, feel joy, see hope. It's how I know it should be. What's the cliche? You would want me to be happy. 

And, my sweet boy, I am. I am honestly, happy. But there will always be an asterisk by that word. Because my happiness is wrapped up in complications and confusion. And this month, as I sit in silence and think about how I'm feeling, 19 months without you here, that complication is the fear that as we continue to move forward, our time with you falls further away. And I'm left scrambling -- trying to find new ways to carry you forward with us.

It's like I'm afraid of losing you all over again. We've already lost your physical presence, and I don't want your memory to get lost in this happiness we've found. 

You are as much a part of me now as you've always been. 
And I hope you know my happy face isn't meant to disguise my missing you.
I guess today I just really felt the need to shout that out loud.

Love you always, baby boy.

I've done a lot of anticipating for today. Since your first birthday your milestones haven't seemed as significant as they did that first year. But today has been different. It seemed meaningful in the way the others did. 18 months. A year and a half. We'd definitely be looking at toddler-hood. You'd definitely be walking (running?!) around. We would surely have our hands full. 

Unlike some of the more recent milestone letters to you, I have been carefully planning what I wanted to say today. The last few have been very in the moment -- when I could steal a moment. But today, I had a plan And you know what they say about the best laid plans.

So I'm not writing this from the cemetery like I planned. I, of course, didn't make it there today. And the sun isn't shining as I'd hoped. Instead, it's dark and rainy. Sort of fitting though, for what I have to say.

The plan was to tell you how happy I've been. That here I am, a year and a half removed from the day that changed everything and I am happier than I've been in a long time. That I've been incredibly struck lately with how happy I've been. I catch myself in moments and think, "Wow. I never expected to be here ever again." And yet, here I am.

And although that's true in a general sense -- I have been really happy lately --  the last few days I've felt the opposite. That bitch called grief reared its ugly head and has taken a bit of the spring out of my step. I've been bombarded with a flood of same-age babies getting first haircuts, climbing all over their parents' couches, loving on new baby siblings, and every time my heart clenches and I feel so much hurt. So much missing you. 

In times like these, it's hard to remember how far I've come. To remember that this wave will pass and I'll feel that lightness again. A fellow loss-mama, Lexi Behrndt, writes about her son, and put it beautifully: "I don't have to stay in the darkness to be near to you (you're in the light, you always have been)."

Despite the sadness I feel today, I hold on to the fact that I've felt so much joy recently. And I don't have to feel guilty about it. Because in every joyful moment, I know you're there. Sometimes I see your presence -- the butterflies on onesies at mom groups, the flicker of a light, or a song on the radio -- and sometimes I just have to know in my heart that you're here with us.

So here we are, a year and a half later, and though I'm sad in this moment, and I've cried more in the last couple of days than I have in the past few weeks, I'm so grateful to have found a place where the happy outweighs the sad. This place where I can accept that life can be and should be and will be full of joy again. Though your brief life will always be the source of my greatest sadness, you will always be a light that fills me with love.

Happy 18 months, my boy.
​I miss you.

You have been on my mind a lot lately, Ryan. You've popped in to say hello in your special way quite frequently lately, and each time touches my heart now just as much as it did when we first lost you. 

Recently, time has been like a rollercoaster for me. So full of highs and lows. A high point has been Tuesday morning yoga with your brother. He's getting so expressive and interested in what's going on around him. He's been so fun and chatty. It's becoming easier and easier to focus my attention solely on him during that hour class. I used to feel such sadness that I didn't get those classes with you, and last week, just as that sadness was creeping its way in, we sat down for a little circle time and sitting across from me was a little baby girl with a big, bright, butterfly on her onesie. It helped me smile and shake off the sadness. Of course you're there with us. You always are.

On Super Bowl Sunday I dressed Brayden in a football hoodie passed down first from your cousin to you. Last Super Bowl I dressed your bear in it. And so with Brayden snug in the sweater this year, it felt like you were at the party with us. A presence I really needed watching a little boy, nearly the same as you running around the party, smile on his face. Making everyone else smile with delight too. Same-age babies will always be a challenge for me. But I felt you there. And it helped. Thank you.

Recently I've had a string of tough days. Crappy sleep, combined with a baby brother who isn't being the world's most cooperative napper was starting to take its toll on me. Though I'm so grateful for the love and noise your brother brings to my life, I found myself longing for a bit of quiet. That's when I saw online that another loss mom was hosting a retreat in New York this summer. I missed out last Spring on the retreat in Winnipeg, so I was determined to make this one work... and I got in! It brings me great peace to know that even though it's in the pretty distant future, I've been given one whole weekend where I can turn off some of the noise and just be present with you. Because no matter how much joy and light and love Brayden brings me, I still need to be able to hold some space with you. On the application I was asked what the retreat means to me, and it was easily answered. The retreat would give me time to just focus on you. And that is time that I really need.

This past month has been tough, emotionally, for me. I've had low patience. I've been so quick to temper. Easily frustrated by the tiniest things. But I've recognized it. And I'm taking steps to find my calm and my peace again. I was reminded very clearly this month of the journey of grief. And the never-ending-ness of it all. I'll admit some days I breeze through and if you didn't really know me I bet it would look like I was "done" grieving. And then I'm slammed hard against the wall of grief as a harsh reminder that it doesn't work that way. So I have to do better at finding ways to grieve a little bit more often, so I'm not left dealing with such heavy loads that show up unexpectedly every once and a while.

Recently I read an article on a site called Postpartum Progress. It said:

"You make goals. You celebrate small accomplishments. You give yourself a break. You ask for help. You put yourself first. You climb up. You rebuild."

This spoke to me. It is so me. I'll probably write it out on paper and pin it up somewhere. I spend so much of my time now taking care of Brayden, I have to remember to take care of me too. And one of my favourite ways to care for me, is to find quiet time to sit peacefully with you. 

Still missing you, 17 months later.

It's become a bit of a habit for me to miss writing to you on your exact date, but this month I think there was a special reason you wanted me to wait until today.

I had the most wonderful encounter this morning. First of all, I missed you on the 7th because your brother hasn't been well. A few trips to the paediatrician has revealed a bronchiolitis infection. So he has required a lot of extra cuddles which leaves no hands for typing. But today, while at the hospital for a follow up appointment, I ran into my OB. She spotted me and came over to tell me this:

​A few weeks ago she was on call when a woman lost her baby. She and the nurses were able to provide the new mom with the memory box we donated on your first birthday. Together they went through the box and used the items to make memories with their baby. My OB told me how much this meant to the woman and her family. I included some of my social media contacts in the box and my OB mentioned that the woman was hoping to connect with me some day. I hope she does. I'm sad someone needed to use the box, but I'm so happy it could bring such comfort.

It does my heart such good to know that because of your life we are able to help others through their hard times.

I just wanted to let you know that in this way you're not only special to me, but I think, to the world.

Happy 16 Months, Baby Boy.

Ryan, so sorry I missed your milestone. But it's not like I actually missed it. No, I didn't forget the day, December 7. I could never forget... And not just because it's neatly marked off on the calendar with a little blue butterfly either. But because every 7th of every month makes me think of you. But this month, your little brother was having some tummy troubles and wasn't his content little self, so it was hard to steal some time away to write to you. And that is called life getting in the way. Which kind of makes me cringe.

Recently, I was told I should live more in the present moment. To be less concerned about doing so much for you and just being present. For Brayden. I have to admit, for a brief moment I thought of how unfair it might be to Brayden that I spend time thinking about or fussing over you when you're not here. But then I realized, what actually isn't fair is that you two can't grow up together. What isn't fair is that if you hadn't died, we probably wouldn't even have Brayden. That you had to die for him to be here. When I think of you, and worry about doing enough for you, it's not because I'm trying to be unfair to the baby here in my arms. No, it's that I'm simply trying to make sense of these cards I've been dealt. Of this life I have been given to live. 

I'm not living in the past when I think of you. I'm living very much in the present, Because you are as much a part of my present as Brayden. You are both pieces of my heart in equal measure. 

I am sorry I missed writing to you on your actual milestone day. But we both know you're never far from my thoughts as Brayden is never far from my side. 

I may have missed your day, but this weekend was very much for you. Yesterday we attended a Holiday Remembrance Event for absent babies. On the way there, my Christmas song for you came on the radio. Thank you for letting us know you were with us in that moment. The ceremony was very lovely with some freshly fallen snow, a tree full of sparkling ornaments, each baby's name read aloud, and a reminder that we are never alone, that as a community of loss parents we all have each other to lean on and support one another, simply by standing together in a cold cemetery on a December afternoon listening to the names of each other's babies. It was pretty special and I'm glad we went. When we got home I hung your ornament, along with two others for babies who are spending their first Christmas not in their mommy's arms, in the tree in your garden. They look so pretty out there, glittering in the snow.

Then today, as we embarked on one of our last shopping days before Christmas, your dad, your brother and I picked out one special toy for a baby aged 18+ months old and dropped it off in the Toy Mountain drop box. It made me smile to once again do something to brighten another little one's Christmas in your memory. We all stood outside the donation box and I know your dad and I at least were thinking of you as we made the drop. It also made me smile to think that in a few years, Brayden will be able to pick out his own toy, something he thinks you might have enjoyed and make his own donation. A gift for the brother he never got to meet.

I love you, baby boy. And know I'm always thinking of you. Milestone days and every day.
Happy 15 months!

If you were here I wonder if I would still be measuring time this way. Or would you simply be one year old and I'd stop counting the months because I wouldn't have to? But no. You're more than one year. You're one year and two months. 14 months. And for some reason, because you're gone, that distinction seems important to make. It seems necessary to count every single moment you've been gone. 

I went to the cemetery on Saturday. But I didn't make it there today. I can't remember a milestone yet when I've been in the area and haven't gone to see you. The reality of that stings. That today, life just got in the way of me making it to you. Most days I'm okay with it. With life going on. I've accepted it. That's reality. But on days like today -- your day, the 7th of the month -- reality sucks. I've wanted to hide out with you today. The way I used to be able to sometimes. Just curl up and be sad you're gone. But I couldn't. And now that evening has come, your brother is crying inconsolably with your dad in the other room, it's dark, and the day's exhaustion has crept in, I miss you fiercely.  And I feel like I nearly missed your milestone today.

But I'm here now. With a few stolen moments to share with you.

To tell you I love you.

To tell you I miss you.

To remind you how special you still are to me. Even though life has gone on.

Love you forever, baby boy.