It was recently brought to my attention that many of my recent posts focus on being grateful for things in my life. It was also mentioned that this is a brave and difficult thing to do. And I wasn't even really aware I was doing it. So I began to wonder how powerful it might be for me to do it intentionally, for 30 days, and to share it with whoever cares to read my ramblings. And maybe on tough days I can go back and read the posts, as a little reminder of all that is good in my life. It seems fitting to start with family since they're been there since that very first day we lost Ryan. Like anyone who loves you, they just want to take the hurt away. And even though they can't, almost every single member of both of our families have reached out in special ways to show us we're not alone and to ease painful moments when they can. Whether that's been through visits, phone calls, FaceTimes, sending special gifts, and cards, no week ever goes by without family reaching out to help us on our way. Thank you for your nonstop support, even in the times you can't possibly understand our pain. We're so lucky to have family like you!

If you know much about me, you'd know that a few years ago being grateful for work would have extended about as far as "I'm grateful I have a job." It's a lot different now...Today was my first day back at a job I really like, in a school I really love. And with much thanks to employers who are some pretty caring and compassionate people I've been given the opportunity to transition back slowly starting with half days or less or more if needed. The going phrase seems to be "whatever you need." And I really couldn't be more grateful for that. I didn't realize until this morning how many "pregnant memories" I had associated with school... Like mornings spent at my desk feeling Ryan squirming around; mornings were always one of his busiest times while I'd be trying and failing to stay focused to get ready for the day. There was a lot of good in this morning -- the structure of getting out of bed with a purpose and goal for the day being the biggest blessing. There was a lot of tough stuff too, but I'm surrounded by some quality people, staff and students, who I'll get to see again tomorrow and take another shot at the whole "returning to work" thing.

This could easily become the longest post of the month. Mostly because there are so many people who have reached out to me each and every day to help keep my head above water. Every single message sent gets read, even if I don't always know how to respond. I'm talking about friends from all walks of my life-- grade school, high school, university, Teachers College, theatre, work, family friends. It's been an overwhelming outpouring of love. I'm grateful for every hand that's offered to help, and every friend who has just taken it upon themselves to jump right in and help knowing I might be hesitant to ask. The friends who bring care packages, take long lunch breaks to come visit with me, create thoughtful memorial gifts, visit Ryan at the cemetery, are always checking in and being available for chats... (Justine, you know I'm talking about you). On my strong days, I am strong because of all of you. And on my worst days, I know it won't be long before I hear from someone who will make me feel lighter. I'm grateful for all of you. Thank you for lifting me up and really for all of our years of friendships. I don't say it enough.

The term "emotional rollercoaster" has become synonymous with my life. In the early days, constantly surrounded by family, the noise and bustle of our house kept my mind from quieting. It wasn't until late in the evening, after everyone would go to bed or back to their homes that the house would be still and I'd lay in bed with my brain buzzing. Wondering, questioning, yelling, missing... I'd wish myself to sleep so I could wake up to more noise to keep the worst of the sadness at bay. Eventually, everyone had to leave and our lives had to return to "normal" (a relative term to be sure). I learned to be more still and quiet throughout the day and the nights became less scary and intense. Then, Rich went back to work. And instead of the nights bringing the quietness I has begun to associate with a baby-less home, it was the mornings. I'd wake each morning with an awful feeling in my stomach. How would I get through this day? How could I pass the time? The reason I was off work was to take care of a baby. Now what? This went on for weeks. Mornings got worse and I'd stay in bed too late just to have less time to kill. This was no way to live. Going back to work was a must. I needed structure and purpose. In this last week that anxious belly I'd been struggling with has faded. I'm eager to get out of bed in the morning. Even on the day this week that I didn't go to work. I have a restored sense of purpose. I spend mornings at school taking care of students who need my help, and afternoons at home taking care of myself. I'm quickly becoming more grateful for each morning as it brings new challenges for me, but also new optimism. Every day isn't roses, that's for sure. But I'm starting to see some light. Maybe it's the great weather?

If he had gotten to stay, Ryan would have been 2 months old today. In these last 2 months I've been known to sneak away for some quiet time in Ryan's nursery. I guess it's become some kind of a routine for me to spend a little bit of time in there each day. It's actually a place I find a lot of calm. Almost all of these reflections have been written from the rocking chair. Every night I stop in to close the blinds I opened that morning and I think a little wish or hello to him. Sometimes I find comfort in flipping through some of the books that began to fill up his little library. One of my favourites is the only one that Rich and I actually bought for him ourselves, "I Wish You More." It is full of many little things a parent wishes for their child... our wishes for him. We even wrote him a little message inside the day we brought it home from the store. "We wish so much for you." It seems so fitting now in such a different way than we ever intended. I really miss my little man today and every day. And so as hard as this one is for me because I wish it was him it could spend time with, I'm grateful to have his nursery as a sacred space for us. It gives me something to do and somewhere to go every day to be with him for a little while in my heart.

I have received a bit of an education in the last 2 months. I've learned that 1 in 4 pregnancies will end in miscarriage or stillbirth. I don't say this to be morbid, or to instill fear in others. I say it, because it's a reality. And it's one I was not prepared to deal with. No one ever is. But I've learned that there are places and people willing to help me navigate this horrible tragic thing that happens all too often. The combined colours of pink, blue, and purple represent pregnancy and infant loss. They are the colours used by the Ontario support group called the PAIL Network (Pregnancy And Infant Loss). A social worker at the hospital referred us to them the morning after Ryan was born still. One week later, I made contact with them. I didn't know what I needed, but I know I needed something from someone who might understand. Very quickly a wonderful woman put me in contact with someone who runs the Durham chapter of PAIL and instantly I had a safety net. I was no longer navigating without the guidance that can only be provided from people that KNOW this pain. PAIL provides survivors of infant loss with free group support and one-on-one telephone support with other parents who have lost a baby. Though we have yet to use either of these supports, every month we are invited to attend the Durham support meeting when we feel ready, and in 2 months we have participated in different events and fundraisers that let us remember and honour Ryan's memory in a more public way than we do every other day. It has only been 2 months in a lifetime long journey, but I know we will be working with and relying on PAIL throughout that journey. I'm so grateful for all that they do to bring awareness to a tragedy that too often goes unspoken about, and to provide support to moms like me who just want to talk about and remember our lost babies.

I am a bit under the weather. There's something about being sick that just takes all of your strength away. On days like the last few when I'm so struck down with sadness and the hurting is so real I remember it's only been 9 weeks. How is that possible? Only 9 weeks and I expect myself to feel okay all the time? It seems like we've lived a lifetime without our sweet baby and barely any time has passed at all. On days like these where stringing meaningful words together feels like an impossible task I'm thankful for the words of others. Words that can describe things I feel that are so hard to understand. I've become a scavenger for quotes, poems, and prayers that resonate with everything I feel and think. I've compiled them and reflect on them when I need the boost or need to cry it out. I'm not the superwoman I'm told I am. I have managed to maneuver my way through these past 9 weeks on the shoulders of my husband, my family, my friends... And I can't fully express how much the messages and comments from the people reading these reflections has helped me every day. Today, it's not about the words that I'm saying. It's about the words written and said by others. Quotes like this one that help me understand my journey a bit more and to be less hard on myself. And words from the people I know and love that remind me I can be strong even if I'm not feeling strong. Today I let myself stay home and feel sad and take care of myself. And it's okay. The waves of grief rolled in today and I'll just ride it out until I feel strong enough to swim again.

Since about age 11, I've loved to sing. Eventually, singing and then musical theatre by extension became my everything well into university and for a little while thereafter. Sadly, in my adult life, my musical performances are mostly limited to cars and showers, but singing brings me no less joy now than it did at 14 or 24. Music itself has always and continues to be a source of comfort and inspiration for me. While planning Ryan's memorial, I heard Cam's song "Burning House" for the first time: "I had a dream about a burning house. You were stuck inside, I couldn't get you out. I laid beside you and pulled you close. And the two of us went up in smoke." I remember sobbing in the car driving away from the cemetery listening to it. This and many other songs seem to have taken on new and different meanings for me. And I suppose explains why, since Ryan died, I find it hard to sing without dissolving into tears. In the days after losing him I made a promise that from then on every song I sing would be for him. I used to sing to him before he was born and I wanted him to know that was still my gift to him. After making that promise I don't remember singing much at all, though. It was/is too different from my vision of rocking him and soothing him to sleep with my voice like I always imagined doing. However, in the last month I've caught myself singing quietly in the shower again. And these little musical moments remind me I'm still myself, though slightly changed. Perhaps in time I'll want to grab my guitar and sing and play one of the many songs on my list of songs to sing for Ryan, but until then I'll keep finding comfort and meaning in the music others create and perform.

My life will forever be divided down the centre of "before Ryan's heart stopped beating" and "after." That was the moment life changed for me. Really changed. Not just for the moment. But forever. A baby was born... He was stillborn, but he was STILL BORN. And my life will never be the same. I think that concept is best understood for me when I see "before" photos. Photos with smiles that stretch so far across my face and with eyes filled with so much sparkle that that kind of happiness seems impossible to me now. How, in a world without my baby, could I ever get to that kind of unrestrained happiness again? And then I remember: "Happiness is not a destination; it is a way of life." And I have to choose to find happiness in each and every day. And I have to be okay with not measuring my happiness by magnitude of feeling, but by my ability to let happiness in as often as I can. Some days it's easy. Some days it is hard. But every day it is possible, even for fleeting moments, because I'm surrounded with love, and life, and goodness. Please don't worry about me if I'm not happy all the time. Because I AM trying so hard all the time. So even though this "after" road is a rough one, I'll keep making choices to find happiness in every day. After all, I want Ryan to see the happiness that filled his home "before."

Every day for the last 71 days I have woken up doing one thing: hoping. I can't live without hope. I hope for a "good" day. I hope to smile. Hope to laugh. I hope I do okay. I hope Richard does okay. I hope my baby boy is happy wherever he is. I hope he knows how much he is missed and loved. I hope he is not alone. I hope for myself to not feel alone. I hope people are patient with me. I hope I can be patient with them. But the real hope, the one I focus on hard and have gripped onto with all of my strength is the hope for a sibling for Ryan. I hope so hard for our next baby. I hope to bring a baby home from the hospital one day. Hope to lay that baby to bed in his or her brother's crib. Hope Ryan's bear will bring that baby comfort. Hope that baby will bring us some comfort too. I don't expect everyone to understand how so soon after losing Ryan I can possibly hope these things, for another baby. But I do hope some people can understand. And when they don't, or if they don't, I hope they can forgive me for not caring what they think. This journey is a personal one. And it's different for everyone. I hope no one else has to experience this pain and these worries, though I know now that it happens too often. But I am still full of hope every day for better days to come. And I am grateful to be able to feel hope in times so dark.

Preface: This is a tough one for me to write because I'm not a hateful person. And I don't begrudge anyone, anything, ever. I really mean this... My aunt has let me borrow her motto: "My party, my rules." Though this is definitely the worst party I've ever attended, I'm slowly accepting that when you're grieving this intensely, you can't have set guidelines or timelines, and you certainly can't always behave the way people expect you to. For this reason, I've taken to taking timeouts. Maybe this means I need to stay home, sleep in, drink tea, binge on PVR, walk the dog, journal, go through Ryan's stuff and cry, read, lay on the couch and watch horrible movies. Whatever it is, sometimes I need to step away from people. This almost always involves turning off Facebook. Because in reality, it's the world that needs to take a timeout. So I can catch up. So I can put some patches on my heart and let it heal a little before more people have babies, announce pregnancies, celebrate milestones, complain about parenting. Here's the hard truth: I'm really happy for these people. Many of them are my friends and it really warms my heart to watch your children come home from the hospital, and grow, and laugh. The heart of a mom like me is a complicated mess. Because I am happy for you, but that happiness also makes me hurt something fierce. This healing process of mine feels sometimes like 1 step forward 2 steps back when I have to deal with the reality that time keeps rolling on. In the last week I've been hit with good news and bad news. And instead of being able to hit pause on the world, I have had to hit pause for myself. People call me brave, but sometimes, like today, I'm not and I have to go and hide for a bit. To protect myself. So like I said, I never want people to hide their good news from me, but please understand that even if my voice and eyes betray me, know my heart is happy for you. Today I'm grateful to have the luxury of this timeout. For the husband, friends, and coworkers who understand this timeout helps me be better, stronger, and more ready to face a constantly moving world.

We adopted Chase only about two and a half years ago, and he instantly became part of our family. I'm crazy about him and I had hoped every day that he'd get along with Ryan. I went to nutty lengths to get Chase comfortable with the idea of a baby. Playing baby sounds, rolling the stroller around him. Leaving the nursery door always open. He had taken to laying in there and I took that as his acceptance that something was about to change. Chase and Ryan were going to be buddies. I knew it. Coming home from the hospital without Ryan was devastating. Coming home from the hospital without Ryan to a house where the dog doesn't know any better and is just so happy to see me was somehow much worse. I hate admitting it, but I took no comfort from Chase, the happiest and most loving dog, in those early days. No, I didn't want to cuddle my dog. I wanted to cuddle my baby. I must have told him to "go away" more times than I'm proud of. I remember telling people "he's just a dog," when they'd ask if Chase was keeping me company. But he was unrelenting. He gave up trying to lay on me or touching me, and moved instead by my feet, or always close by. He wore me down with his silly dog-ways and I'm so grateful for that canine nature in him. I stand by my belief that he knew and knows when I'm sad. We're pretty tightly bonded, us two. And even when I was pushing him away, he was making it his mission to take some of my sadness away. He's not just a dog. He was the first step in growing our family. He's my little buddy, and I love him for that.

We have received so many beautiful, thoughtful, and helpful gifts since losing Ryan. Though they certainly can't make up for his loss, they have been instrumental for surviving this most difficult time. I never wrote thank you notes for these gifts. I honestly couldn't fathom writing them so soon after writing thank you notes from the beautiful showers we had to celebrate Ryan. Hopefully this note today can express how truly blessed and grateful I am to have received so much love from everyone. First of all, for the cards. For at least a month we had a steady stream of cards. Every day I felt lifted up by the pure love and shared sadness being expressed by loved ones from all over. The gifts of food in those early weeks were so appreciated. After my family left I was overwhelmed by the very thought of carrying on with simple domestic chores, so these gifts were well used and freed me of some burdens. Thank you to everyone who gave us the gift of their time. Coming to visit, whether it was to take me out or just sit in with me, was time you saved me from thinking myself in circles. I can't thank you enough for that. Some friends and family went above and beyond for us in your own ways. Those special gifts continue to help Rich and I each and every day. Finally, we have received so many sweet tokens of remembrance for Ryan. Things I never knew I needed, but have made such an impact on how I miss my baby. An angel pin, courage stones, a garden stone, my Ryan bear, and "R" charms are some of the gifts I can carry with me, sit with, or use in some way to keep him close. The gift that stays on me every day is this bangle. Inscribed inside are Ryan's initials, geographical coordinates for his exact resting place, and the phrase "Never alone." I was so worried once he left my arms at the hospital that he would be alone. It was a horrible feeling for me. This little bracelet makes me feel close to him and reminds me he's not alone because he's never too far and always in my heart. So thank you to everyone who has given any gift they could to help us on our way toward healing. Words can't express our gratitude enough.

"Loss Mom" and "Angel Mom" are two of the terms I've come across for being the bereaved mother of a baby. I suppose they (we) use this term because "bereaved mother" doesn't really roll off the tongue. Nor does it, in my opinion, seem to be enough to describe what I'm truly feeling. I hated those terms with a passion when I first saw them. If I was going to use a qualifier to describe my mothering I would want it to be "Super Mom" or something equally as cheesy and awesome. I didn't want to be a mother to an angel. I didn't want to be a "loss mom" either... That is, of course, until I met some. Email and social media has put me in contact with some of the most amazing women I've ever encountered in my whole life. Really, they are strangers to me. I've never met them in person. I have never even heard the sound of their voices. But in many ways they know me, or at least understand me, better than some people that I've known my whole life. These are women who are brave, strong, supportive, compassionate, and so very inspiring. When I am looking for ways to honour my Ryan I don't have to look too far to find the inspiration I need. When I am not feeling very brave or strong, I look to them and their journeys, and seeing my own reflected back at me can see that I'm just like them. Strong and brave. We are Angel Moms AND Super Moms because we love babies to whom we can't give hugs and kisses. We love babies who we miss every night as we go to sleep. We love babies who have to watch over us instead of the other way around. And yet, we get out of bed every morning and try so hard to take on the day. If I have to be a loss mom, at least I know I'm in good company. Because none of us want to be, and yet we are. And I'm so thankful to have even the virtual support of women so strong standing here, braving this loss mom life with me. Thank you, ladies. From the bottom of my heart.

"When a baby is born, it is the mother's instinct to protect the baby. When a baby dies, it is the mother's instinct to protect his memory." Truer words were never written. The protection of Ryan's memory began the day he died and the nurses prepared for us a box of tokens. I've taken to calling it his memory box because it contains all we physically have left of him with us. Clothes he wore, hospital bracelets he never needed, imprints of his hands and feet. If I look at them long enough they seem like they are so full of life and I can muster up the feeling of those little hands and feet pushing on me from the inside. I need these memories as much as I need to breathe some days. Physical reminders he was here. We haven't really shared them with anyone else. We keep them safe in our room. But that's not to say we don't want everyone to remember him. To speak of him. Part of his memory box now contains the cards we've been sent. Memories of how much he was loved by so many. Just recently I created a baby book for him. Full of memories from day one with our Ryan. Ultrasound photos, pregnant photos, announcements, entries from my pregnancy journal (yes, I kept a journal for that), and many more. I even added quotes from the Wish Cards friends and family filled out at my Toronto shower. It made me smile (and cry, too, I'll admit) to read all of the sweet hopes and dreams everyone had for our baby boy. It was healing to put it together. And it will be healing to flip through it on the days when missing him takes my breath away. Even though it's so hard to be, I'll be grateful to focus on the memories we do have, instead of the ones we don't.

This is Ryan. This is my baby boy. The boy I think of every day. Who I hope to dream of every night. This is probably my favourite possession. It's definitely my favourite photo. And it always will be. Because it's the only one there is and ever will be. I've hesitated in sharing it. It's so personal to me and I wanted to keep all of him for myself. But the proud mama in me overruled. He was perfect. And he had to be shared. I'm so thankful for my mom. She's the one who asked if we'd take his photo. They were driving from the Sault and didn't know if they'd get to meet him. I initially said no. When Ryan was born, I didn't know what would be "normal" or okay. I didn't know what to expect him to look like. And I was too scared to ask. I was his mom. And this was going to be the only time I'd ever get to spend with him, and I didn't know what I was supposed to do? How could that be? But then the nurse put him in my arms. And I saw his face. That face so much like his dad's. And I just knew how to be his mom. I looked at Rich and demanded a photo be taken. But I was still a little scared. And so that was it. Just the one. Then I just held him. I slept with him. And hours later it was time for him to be taken away, so fragile was his sleeping body. But I have this one photo. This one beautiful photo of him sleeping in his mama's arms and it'll have to be enough. The rest are snapshots in my memory. I love his perfect face. And his soft, silky hair. And I love that his first and only photo was taken by his dad. All three of us are represented in this photo. And I'm grateful for that. Our first family photo.

As much as taking time outs for quiet moments and reflecting has been instrumental to me these past 2 months, (more on this in days to come), I have found myself craving connections with people. After losing my physical connection to Ryan (but not my spiritual or emotional connection) it makes a lot of sense to me that I would go searching for ways to connect with others -- to share my experiences, my feelings, and my grief -- but also to just BE in some way with other people. The reflection is all well and good, but I find without people to share with and practice what I'm learning, the reflecting doesn't do much for me. In my own experience, anyway. So today, and most days, I AM thankful for technology. In many ways it gets a bad reputation for disconnecting people. I disagree. Living far from my family, FaceTime closes the distance. Any time of the day or night I can send a text to anyone to not feel so alone. Even sharing these thoughts on social media is a way for me to reach out and connect with anyone who feels compelled to help me on this journey just by reading and sending a virtual hug. It even let's me re-connect with my creative side -- a part of me that does give me lots of joy. So technology is something for me to be grateful for. And I'm sure I'll continue to embrace it as I need to in the months (and years) to come.

I love to read. So when Ryan died, I was offered books by various people about how to deal with grief. I declined every offer. My grief was different. There was no way anyone had written a book that could capture my feelings or how to "deal" with them. A few weeks later a care package showed up at my door containing a book about baby loss. I was very much in denial about having to read something so sad. Even the title jarred me. Needless to say it lived unopened in the box for a little while. I'm not sure why I decided to flip through it, but eventually I did. It covers everything from early days of grieving, ways of remembering your baby, trying to conceive again, and even parenting subsequent children. It's a reminder that our loss will be something we feel forever, but is a comfort on the days I feel myself floundering and worrying that my feelings aren't "normal." I've also been reading a bit about the power of being grateful. (Clearly). It really HAS been powerful as it gives me something else to focus my energy into, rather than just being sad all the time. Though I feel I should qualify that. I carry a sadness in my heart that I don't think will ever go away. Some days it's intense and makes it hard to breathe. And some days it's just sitting there, a little reminder of how much we've lost. But reminding myself every day to find some good has been so healing for that heart ache. Equally as healing has been journaling. Yesterday I mentioned how I spend my afternoons taking care of myself. And using a journal is one of the ways I do that. I share a lot here, but some feelings are still too personal and maybe they always will be. But it actually does unload my mind and heart to put those thoughts out there, even if it is in a private place. And lastly, I'm pleasure reading again. When I was pregnant, especially in the dead heat of summer, I was always too tired to spend much time reading. It's a great way to relax and let my mind wander to other places for a little while. I'm very grateful for everything books have given me in the last 2 months. Grateful for the information, advice, distraction, reflection, hope, and enjoyment.

I suppose it's odd to be grateful for running shoes, (especially if you really know me and therefore understand that I do NOT run), but it's more about what they represent: a healthy body. It was maybe 2 days after Ryan passed that I had enough awareness to really look at myself in the mirror. My heart sank at the sight of my deflated stomach. I actually had to look away from the mirror, and in the days that followed I avoided any sight of myself. To feel his absence was one thing. To see it was an entirely new acceptance of his loss. Gradually I was able to see myself and my new postpartum body again. I saw the marks on my skin as physical proof he was here. And while some new moms might curse those marks, I have really begun to cherish mine. With (some) renewed body confidence and feeling less sick at the emptiness of my belly, I put on my running shoes and starting going to the gym -- not to erase what Ryan left behind, but to get my body healthier again for whatever might be next for us. When I put on my running shoes and head to the gym or out for a walk with Chase, it's an acknowledgement that Ryan was here and of hope -- because as much as I'm taking care of my body for myself, I'm doing it also for the hope of continuing to grow our family some day. I'm grateful for every chance I have to care for the body my baby left behind and the future family we may give him.

When someone I love dies, I search for them, in little things, to feel they're still out there. Trying to be with me. This has been most intense for me with Ryan. And it would seem that the symbol I find him most in is the butterfly. Butterflies have a long history of representing life after death. And how true is it with the death of a baby? The growth and change that takes place in the cocoon mirroring that of the mother's womb. And when that butterfly emerges, so beautiful, it quickly flies away. My baby was born with wings like a butterfly, and much to my heartbreaking disappointment couldn't stay with us and flew away. But now, when I see a butterfly I'm reminded of him, and how in little ways, his short life made the world a more beautiful place. At least for us. I'm grateful for those butterflies. The real ones that fluttered by on the early days after his loss. The depictions of ones I've seen everywhere since -- on TV, in ads, artwork, clothing, signs. My house is now home to some butterflies. Some have even been here for years. And when I really miss him, I bring one to the cemetery, and leave it in a tree so he knows his mom was there thinking about him. And every single butterfly I see is like a tap on the shoulder from my little Ryan whispering, "I'm still here with you, mom." And it brings me a little smile, sometimes a few tears, but always some peace.

I think when you're asked to reflect on your "hands," you're supposed to express gratitude for all the things you can do or create with your hands. I'm choosing to look at things more literally. The necklace I now wear every day has an etching of one of Ryan's handprints. I keep it tucked as close to my heart as I can get it. From the time we found out Ryan's heart stopped beating to the time he was born was less than 12 hours. We had very little time to collect our thoughts on exactly what memories we'd need to make with our little one once I delivered him. Labour moved so quickly for me the nurses barely had a chance to ask me if I wanted him cleaned up before holding him. Apparently between pushes I chose to have him swaddled first. When the nurse handed him to me he was wrapped so tightly we could only see his cute little face and that dark, dark hair of his. I wanted to look him all over but I remember worrying that his little body was so fragile I didn't want to disturb him. I didn't say anything to anyone. Just kept him bundled and cuddled him for a long time. But I never got to hold his hands. This is something that still breaks my heart today. I never got to wrap his little fingers around mine and imagine what it would have felt like to feel his warmth. A little reflexive squeeze. I've seen photos, impressions, and prints of his hands. But never the real thing. So this necklace is so special to me. Though it serves as a reminder of all the things we never got to do and will never get to do, it's also a treasure I can bring with me everywhere to remind me of his realness. My baby is someone I can still carry with me. Maybe not in my hands. But in my heart. "I carry [his] heart with me. I carry it in my heart." e.e. cummings

I find myself constantly seeking comfort. From Richard. From family and friends. In the warmth of my bed. At the cemetery. Most of the time just hearing or reading Ryan's name brings me comfort. There's a blank sign in his room that was meant to display his name. We bought the letters but decided not to put them up until we brought him home. Made it official. The sign is still empty. And it makes me more than a little sad. But I think Rich and I have an unspoken agreement that it'll stay up and eventually, someday, hold the name of Ryan's baby brother or sister. The sign will be part him, and part someone else. The hope of this brings me some comfort -- thoughts of continuing our family. Ryan's name is on a whole lot of other things. The necklace and bracelet I wear every day, various memory pieces given to us by the hospital, finally on his urn niche at the cemetery, and this little bear my sister had made for us. It's made from the first outfit we bought for Ryan when we announced he was going to be a boy. The first and only outfit we had him dressed in at the hospital. Some wonderful woman somewhere in Ottawa turns baby clothes into bears and I don't think she'll ever know how much it means to me to be able to hold something every day that was so close to my baby. Something that touched him everywhere I never got to. He sits with me now and every day as I write these reflections and it brings me such comfort to feel his closeness to me.

Rich and I love food. We love to cook, bake, and try different restaurants. We enjoy the food and time we spend together enjoying it. There's always conversation and laughter. For us, time spent cooking or eating is time well spent because it is always quality time. We had some pretty grand ideas about how this joy of mealtimes and togetherness would transfer over to our family once Ryan was born. We planned on some struggles, but also lots more laughs and lots of bonding. A week before Ryan was born, we went out to eat at a favourite Italian place. It's a "nicer" restaurant, and we were seated next to a young couple and their 3 year old son. He was noisy and silly and his parents apologized, but nodded knowingly to us that we'd be dealing with some of the same soon. We all laughed and I remember excitedly talking with Rich throughout dinner that we WOULD be like those parents -- taking our little boy out to nice places. Teaching him manners. Laughing and enjoying each other. We were making plans and memories with Ryan before he was even born. Since then Rich has had to talk me through many meals at restaurants. We've had to sit in the car for long moments while I've cried before entering a Subway or our "breakfast spot." Because each time, into my head popped the last time we were there. Ryan safe inside me, talking about how the "next time" we'd be lugging a car seat around. I've since managed to go out to eat without difficulty. But occasionally I slip into the "it should be different" mindset and it's hard, even at home. Some days it's hard to cook. Some days it's still hard to go grocery shopping. I'm off work in the afternoons and not surprisingly stores are full of moms and babies. It's funny how food can be such a trigger. But it also makes sense since it's something that has so many positive memories associated with it. I'm grateful for the times it's brought us together, and for the celebrations of Ryan in which we shared food. Our dinner table will continue to be full of conversation and laughter. And in some ways we'll always have an open seat for our little boy.

I consider myself a creative person. That creativity has helped me in many ways on this healing journey. Writing these reflections lets my mind work in different ways to express what I need to. And I'm constantly thinking of ways to memorialize, honour, and celebrate Ryan's memory. Today I took some time to create this shadow box. The "R" comes from the letters I had purchased to spell his name in his nursery. The flowers I dried out after Ryan's memorial service where his aunts, uncle, grandparents, and Rich and I all made a wish or a prayer for him on a rose and left it with him at the cemetery. Three roses were left over. A blue one, representing our baby boy, and two white ones, representing the two people left on this earth who love him more than anything. I'm grateful for this creative mind that lets me take what little we have left of Ryan physically with us and turn it into something to keep his memory alive and keep his beauty and his presence with us in our home. A concern was once raised that putting up his photo, or displaying some of our memories with him might be awkward or uncomfortable for some people. And although unfortunately I have been recently confronted on several occasions with that kind of discomfort in discussing him or speaking his name, I can't help but want to fill my home with the baby who never got to come home. So I'm going to talk about him. And I'm going to want you to talk about him. And I'm going to keep creating so many beautiful things for him. Because I'm his mom, and I can.

I've never been one to find cemeteries all that comforting. They were somewhere I'd go for a funeral or occasionally on "special occasions" to "visit" lost loved ones. But it was always more out of ritual or respect that I would do these things. Until now, of course. We were able to lay Ryan to rest at one of the prettiest cemeteries I've ever been to. It's not something any parent should ever have to consider: Where will my child be buried? But in the days after his death when we should have been concerned about car seats and feeding schedules, we were picking out urns and cemeteries. I remember being in such a haze making some of the most important decisions I would ever make for my son. We made the decisions so quickly because we wanted it all done and taken care of that sometimes I wonder if we should have taken longer to really examine all of the options (which I easily could have taken a year to do)... But we made our choices and now I have a beautiful place I can go to sit with my baby when I need to. It's been more often than I ever thought it would be. But as it turns out, I do find comfort in going there. A mother without a child to take care of on the earth is left with a lot of caretaker energy. So I take care of his little "garden" next to his niche. Clean out old flowers. Bring little tokens for him when a special milestone comes. It all sounds really sad to write about, but it brings me some peace of mind. A feeling that I've taken care of my little guy in some way. As the weather gets cooler my visits get shorter, but I've also got his nursery as a place to feel close to him. So I guess I'm grateful to have found comfort places where I can spend a quiet moment thinking of and caring for my baby in my own special way.

I have been blessed with really excellent healthcare providers. I'm very fortunate for this. In the last two and a half months I've encountered other bereaved parents who have been less fortunate in this area and I can't imagine grieving as deeply as I do and not have been receiving compassionate and thorough care from doctors and nurses. I'm thankful for the nurses working with Rich and I at the hospital the night Ryan was born. They held my hand, talked me through everything, hugged me, cried with me. They cared for Ryan like they would any baby. They sent us off with a box full of memories. There was nothing they wouldn't have done for us that day and I'm grateful for them. I'm thankful for the OB on call who delivered Ryan. He was gentle, thorough, and kind. He explained our options multiple times. Answered questions we asked over and over. Sat with us to try to make sense of this horrible loss even though he had a floor full of women expecting living babies to be born. I'm thankful for the nurse and receptionist at my OB's office. They've taken so many phone calls from me. Provided me with support and have taken care of paperwork outside of their regular duties just so I wouldn't have to deal with more. And I'm especially thankful for my OB. Who has also been so available by phone. Was thoughtful enough to provide natural remedies to ease the pain of my breast milk coming in days after Ryan died -- the medicine available might have had side effects that would be harmful to my grieving. She met with me outside of office hours at 6 weeks postpartum to talk and go over every detail of that night. She hugged me. Cried with me. She even offered to refer me to another OB if seeing her would be too painful. For a while, and sometimes still, it's hard to accept that nothing was missed. That this wasn't her fault. And the reality is I need someone like her in my corner moving forward. Someone who knows our story. Someone who will understand my "crazy" and my hurt. I'm so grateful to have people like her caring for me, even now, even still, after Ryan.

Up until today I've been writing these reflections based off of a suggested list of gratitude topics. Today I'm going to deviate from the list in order to share a story of my baby that I haven't yet shared with anyone but my aunt. 8 years ago today, my cousin Marc and his girlfriend Melissa lost their lives in a car accident. Last night, before bed, I saw the snow coming down in big flakes and instantly remembered the snow that fell that night in North Bay. Every year on this day the wound gets reopened and I miss them both very deeply. They were so young and had so much life left ahead of them. Very likely together. Fast forward to now. Hours after the doctor broke the news to us about Ryan, and the first and most nauseating wave of shock subsided, I instantly thought of Marc and Melissa. I had this very vivid picture of Marc cradling my baby boy. Mere hours after finding out about losing him, I had this brief moment of comfort knowing my baby was safe in the arms of someone I love. Since then, I've had moments of envy over this same image. Though I'm grateful he has people to cuddle and snuggle him, I want so badly to be the one cradling my boy. And then, comfort again, in thinking that in losing Ryan, maybe we've given Marc and Mel a little piece of the future they could have had if they could have stayed. This mother's heart is a complicated mess. A beautiful, painful disaster of a mess that is so full of love for the baby angel looking out for me and the other angels caring for him until we can meet again.

I couldn't possibly focus on gratitude this month and not devote a whole day to my love, Richard. People say I'm so strong, and brave, and inspiring. Anything I am right now I owe to him. He is strong, and brave, and inspiring. He has been my clichéd rock throughout this loss and he continues to put me before himself every single day. He's the most selfless and kind man I know and I'm so grateful he's my husband. About a week before Ryan was born I had a weird moment of mourning the life we were about to put behind us -- just him and me. I even cried. So deep is my love for him. Change was coming. We'd have to share our time now, with our little Ryan. But that change didn't come. And little did I know we wouldn't have to share that time. Split our attention. Now it seems so silly to have ever worried how Ryan might change things, when I'd give anything to have him here now. But since he can't be here, I'm so thankful I still have my Richard. I wasn't sure I'd ever REALLY laugh again, the loss of Ryan hurt so deeply. I thought, sure I'd laugh and be happy sometimes. Eventually. But not in a pure and true way. But Rich makes me feel happy. And he can make me laugh a laugh that lets me be peaceful for a moment. I've lost a lot in the last 11 weeks, but I haven't lost love. He's always right there picking me up or carrying me when it's all too much. We promised to love each other for better or worse. And he makes the worse a little bit better. I only hope I do the same for him, my sweet baby's dad.

The holiday season is here. For me it's always been the time of year when I reflect on the past year and make hopes for the new one. It's been a tradition for me to write myself a letter at the end of each year containing these hopes. I'll read it and write a new one on New Years Eve. But I won't be reading mine this year. I know what I wrote. That I hoped to be reading my New Year letter with a baby in my arms. Two days after writing that letter I found out I was pregnant with Ryan. I know I have a lot to be grateful for in my life. My family. Friends. Health. The beautiful, yet imperfect life Rich and I have built. But I don't think anyone will begrudge me for struggling to remember all of that this holiday season. We've decorated. Our house sparkles with lights. Gifts are waiting to be wrapped. Cookies will be baked. The carols play. And my baby is missing. The baby that was THIS close to being my New Year dream come true. My Ryan. I'm grateful for the 9 months we had together. In my heart I want this year, 2015, to be remembered for and defined by those happy 9 months and not these last awful 3. Maybe someday it will be. In the meantime, I try to be grateful for everything I still have. Everything and everyone that will be with me this Christmas. And I'm grateful in advance for the patience, kindness, and gentleness I know I'll be shown as I trudge through this holiday. Thinking every minute of my sweet son who couldn't stay.

As my month long reflection comes to an end, I feel compelled to make some decisions. The first is that I have to keep sharing what's in my heart about my boy. This simple act of sharing has done so much for me the past 30 days. It has connected me with new friends. It has reconnected me with old friends. It has helped bring clarity to those closest to me. And most of all it has helped me connect with myself and what's in my heart. Sharing has helped me to not be swallowed by the waves of feelings that come at me sometimes. It has forced me every day to not only think of Ryan (I would do that anyway), but to think of things that scare me. Things that I would otherwise force back down and not deal with. Sharing reminds me it's okay to cry a little bit every day. It doesn't make me weak. Or depressed. It makes me human. That remembering and thinking can make me both sad and happy at the same time. Sharing has let me embrace the complicated nature of these feelings and accept them as okay. I'm still scared of the days when the sadness hurts. And reflection and sharing doesn't make that hurt go away. But it helps. Especially when my opening up opens up a dialogue with friends and family. Creates a way for people to reach out to me. I will always need those connections. Those conversations about Ryan to feel really whole. Talking about him lessens the hurt. So thank you for reading and reaching out. This month has been amazing for me in that way. The second decision I've made is to try and remember my baby the way we were in this photo. Together. Whole. Happy. This isn't easy. And most days the hurt is too strong for me to feel honestly grateful and happy for those times. But occasionally that gratitude and happiness creeps in. And I know if I keep making this decision every day it'll become easier and easier. And hopefully, one day, my thoughts of Ryan will always be easy and happy. Because he deserves it. And he's the one who has made me who I am today. A mom.