Saved by a Bluebird.

Posted on November 12, 2016 by danielleridgway

A bluebird saved me this week.

Which makes me smile because I can just imagine a huge bluebird holding me while it’s flying to safety. The moment was as dramatic as that image, but you get the point.

For the past two days, I’ve started writing at least twenty posts. All which were quickly deleted in the first two or three sentences. Nothing I write doesn’t seem worthy to share this week. These words that I write yell out for support, but another part of me doesn’t want them to be unanswered if I reach out. This self-doubt stems from the weeks after losing Jensen. Doubting everything I did during my time with him and how my emotions were making me feel crazy. I remember asking him for a sign to let me know he was okay and always with me. Then I saw the red and blue bird.

I still felt crazy in grief, but it did let me know he was close.

November has put this craziness and loneliness in my mind again. My whole body seems to be sinking in itself. Thankfully Jensen bear’s weight draws me to the outside world. There’s been moments this week I’ve wanted to throw out my phone, get sleeping pills, and just sleep for days. I kept asking why again. I’ve questioned if Jensen knows I love him. I pleaded to him to give me a sign because I needed it so bad. Thinking back now, it seems selfish because I usually get little signs during the day. But I needed that familiar sign to save me from myself. To save me from doubt and questioning my whole entire existence.

That’s when the bluebird came.

It was hopping from limb to limb outside the mud room window. This bluebird’s blue was almost shiny and the sun kept hitting it just right. My eyes were completely drawn to it and as much as I wanted to get a picture of this bird, it only stayed for a minute. There would have been no way for me to run and grab my phone to capture him. That’s how I knew it was sign. It made me stop everything I was doing and the sun reflected on its shiny wings.

This was Jensen’s ‘I love you, Mommy,’ from heaven.

When I realized yesterday was November eleventh, so 11-11, it was even more special. This is going to make me sound even more crazy, but when I was asking him for a sign it was 11:11pm on the tenth. Then there was my sign the next day. I can remember feeling him last year during this time, fluttering happily away. One year later, he came fluttering to me again. Maybe his spirit was carried on the bird like I had imagined me being in the beginning of this post.

I like that thought.

Maybe one day we can fly together. He’ll have to show me how and probably give me the courage to do it, but I’d fly with him.

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There’s days like these I wish I could go give everyone feeling this self-doubt and loneliness the biggest hug I can. I’d want them to know they’re not alone. Even if they don’t feel like they’re important or what they say doesn’t matter, they should know it does. This week on the internet has been rough and there’s a lot of people who need support for what’s going on with them. Grief doesn’t give days off, ever. There are times it’s lighter, but it’s always present. Believe me, I know how heavy it is and if you’re feeling it as you’re reading this, I’m walking with you.

You are important.

You are loved.

You have so much to give to this world.

I hope a bluebird can come save you too.

Happy Anniversary.

Posted on November 7, 2016 by danielleridgway

Today is a very special day for my family.

Twenty-four years ago, two people declared their love, said their vows, and walked through the doors a young, married couple. Their love story began years before and even survived through a war. Their story was exciting and now they were going to embark on their biggest one yet. Nine short months later, they brought home a baby girl and then sixteen months after that, a baby boy. As their children grew, they were able to teach them what true love really looked like. Even through the ups and downs, they were there to support each other because true love never fails.

Everyday of each year they would make sure to give their children everything they could, but they also taught them something special every seventh of November. Their anniversary was always their big day. They could take those twenty-four hours and make it the best they could for each other. No matter how many Sweetest Days or Valentines Days they missed, their would always be presents on their anniversary. If not presents, little getaways where they could really focus on each other. This taught the children that love really is special and worth it once you have it.

If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m of course speaking of my parents; Jensen’s grandma and grandpa.

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Last year for their anniversary, I gifted them with little football booties and a grandparents sign. It was the moment we could all freely talk about the little life growing inside of me with all of us knowing. Of course, mom and dad already had known, but Logan did not. I can just see the pure joy in their eyes when I recall that moment. The little football booties sat in their bookcase for the longest time (we had to put them up because of their puppy dog) and the sign is still there. Everything felt like it was on track, that life was going how it needed to be. I remember thinking of how Jensen and I were going to be able to make them their gift the next year.

From then to now, a lot has obviously changed with me, but their love has carried on.

I’m sure this year has been one of the hardest on them. With the mix of grieving their grandchild and not knowing how to help their daughter, it has to be complicated for them. They helped so much during my pregnancy with getting things for Jensen and helping me finish my house. Every time my dad would talk, Jensen would listen intently. He would kick then when he started talking he would stop then start back up again when my dad would finish. When he was born, mom and dad were there and they got to see and hold Jensen. They protected my heart, helped me plan his funeral, and have supported me through my grief and Anthony leaving. No matter how hard it has been for me, they’ve been right there.

There is no way I could thank my parents enough. My whole life, I’ve only ever known my parents being in love. Of course there were hard times, but love prevailed. It really helped me know what kind of relationship I wanted to strive for. They are able to lean on each other and support each other in parenthood. No only that, but as I just said, they’ve made me the person I am today. They both made me want to be the as amazing as they were to Jensen. I wanted to give him everything I could, just as they did. They are my mentors, role models, and most of all my loving parents.

This year was different from I thought it would be. They still were given a handmade gift from me and I even think Jensen put his little touch on there; a smudge that looked a lot like baby angel wings. Instead of holding Jensen, Jensen bear was held and loved on. We were able to talk about the past, the future, and of course Jensen. I wish he would’ve been there, stealing the show and in some ways he still does. There was the obvious missing piece, but there we were. Able to smile, cry, and celebrate their twenty-four years of marriage and all that comes with it.

Happy twenty-four years of marriage, Mom and Dad. You’ve given me the very best and I know how much Jensen loves you both.

#WhatHealsYou

Posted on October 26, 2016 by danielleridgway

When someone breaks a leg (literally), healing could include surgery, rest, and physical therapy. It could take years for the deep pain of the break to feel like it was almost back to normal. Sometimes, the person might even have a limp for the rest of their life. No matter what you’ve done to heal the leg, it’ll never go back to what is was before.

In a crazy way, that’s kind of how grief and healing after losing a child works.

Obviously, one is physical pain and the other is a lot more complicated than that. But, it’s easier to explain something familiar to an unfamiliar situation. Instead of healing a broken bone in the ways I’ve said, for grief I’ve found ways to soothe myself, I rest a lot, and I go to therapy and support group throughout the month. Shock has fizzled out and there are days were I can feel something else besides deep pain.

I can’t tell the future or how my journey of grief and healing will go. There’s not a right way to live after losing a baby. If we keep on the analogy of breaking someone’s leg compared to grief, at physical therapy a person has to find what makes them want to learn how to walk again. Some like the bike and others like the treadmill. With grief, I’ve had to find things that are gentle on my heart. Those soothers are hard to find when everything looks so bleak, but they’re there… I promise.

For me, it’s a few things.

Leo and Poe can make me smile when I feel like nothing else can. They give me motivation to get up every morning and feed them to start my day. Leo gets himself into crazy antics almost every hour, like jumping on top of the shower curtain. Poe, who usually doesn’t want to be held, will come sit on my lap and let me cuddle on him everyday. His purrs are so loud and deep. They both let me care for them in a way I didn’t think I would ever care for anything again.

Hot tea, reading, and writing have saved me. When I can’t stop crying or when I can’t relax enough to sleep, I go to these each time. The aroma of the tea calms me, reading occupies my mind, and writing gets out all my thoughts. I’ve said over and over that it’s been therapeutic to me and that has been so healing. During those times, I feel like time stops and quickens at once. Getting lost in time is sometimes the only thing I know how to do to help.

Human connection. A huge generalization, but so important. I couldn’t imagine being locked up or stashed away somewhere completely alone. Friends, family, and the loss community have been there in different, but important healing ways. There’s understanding from those who have walked my shoes, encouragement and literally being dragged from places by my family, and a sense of trying to understand from friends. Even though grief is so individual, knowing I’m not alone in this journey through all the facets of my support, have helped me soothe and heal.

The last and most important is Jensen and love. I can’t imagine my life without Jensen being in it, which is probably weird to say since he’s not physically here, but he’s all around me. There are days when the only word that helps me is his name; I write it over and over again. I think of all the days I had with him and how the days were filled with joy. Seeing his face each and everyday calms me. He is all I’ve ever wanted. When I look at his urn with his candle lit, I feel a sense of peace. Warmth floods the room and it feels a lot like love. A mother and child’s love is unbreakable. Sometimes I can imagine it wrapping around my heart and trying to put the pieces back together. Love is what makes my world keep turning. It’s what allows me to get up in the morning to feed Leo and Poe. It’s what flows in and out when I read and write. It’s why human connection is even there. More importantly, it’s all Jensen knows and has.

Love is what heals me.

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Consciously Becoming.

Posted on October 24, 2016 by danielleridgway

Danielle before didn’t realize how terrible this world could be. Of course there were bad things to happen to her, but not to the magnitude of a child dying… to anyone she knew. She was carefree and loved adventure. If an opportunity arose where she could go somewhere, anywhere, she wouldn’t look back. Maybe she didn’t have her life figured out completely, but it was okay; she had the whole future.

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This was Danielle with Jensen, she felt like her life was starting to fall in place. She was happy and planned her future for her son. In this picture she was in Gettysburg and Jensen was just now moving. Which made her really sick, but she smiled with every movement. She planned on teaching him all she could about the world. There were times where she was scared because she didn’t know exactly what was going to happen, but she knew they would make it through. She was hopeful. Jensen made her feel like she had her place in the world. At the moment in the picture, she was on top of the world. Nothing could bring her down. Danielle was consciously becoming a mother each and everyday. Everything was right.

Then, it all changed when his heart stopped beating.

Danielle after Jensen is still a mother. I’m in survival mode every second of the day. Some days I don’t understand how I’m still alive and it doesn’t scare me to have those thoughts. I don’t want to welcome the upcoming days or listen to the clock ticking. Almost all of me is broken and then there’s a tiny bit of my taping myself back together. Most of the time I’m confused, but I’m working through it.

In this moment, I’m tired. I haven’t wanted to do anything all day, yet I had to. My heart feels like it’s beating really weak. I keep smelling Jensen’s candle, which makes me smile and want to cry at the same time. This is normal and how most things are for me lately. In my mind, I look like a Picasso painting. Some part of me wishes I could draw so I could show others how I think I am, but I can’t. My hair is fluffy from my shower and I honestly look like a new mom, without the baby physically here. I’m probably a mess to the outside observer, but like I said, I’m surviving.

Jensen’s death has changed me, not for better or worse. It just has. I can’t be carefree anymore, not that I haven’t tried. My natural ability to plan everything has just went out the window. I would say I don’t have any fear. It’s my belief that fear comes from being afraid to be harmed or killed. I just don’t find anything to be as scary as what’s happened to Jensen. My scariest day in my life has already happened, what could be worse? Here comes that bad karma my way.

It’s hard to imagine me being Danielle before Jensen now that he’s gone. There are times I wish I didn’t know this pain, but I wouldn’t give up not knowing Jensen for that. Maybe I wish I could have a little part of the carefree attitude back. What do I mean by that? I want to be able to go somewhere without fear of having an anxiety attack. It’d be nice to be able to accept any opportunity given to me without the fear of being judged or second guessing myself. Maybe that’s ignorance and maybe I want that innocence back. But I would still have it if Jensen never died.

With all this pain and heartbreak, I still love myself in a different way than I knew possible. I love my strength for being able to get up everyday, even when I don’t think I can. I love that my body was able to grow and nurture Jensen. I love seeing my feet when I look down because they remind me of his. I love that even through pain and heartache, I can still smile and even laugh. I love that I can allow myself to feel and grieve. I love that I’m not giving myself an endpoint to be done with this all. Most of all, I love being Jensen’s mom.

Through all my life experiences, I’m consciously becoming the person I’m supposed to be, even if I don’t know who she is.

Gratitude.

Posted on October 20, 2016 by danielleridgway

Some days I can’t stand thinking I have gratitude for anything in this world after it took Jensen away. Maybe it’s clouded from the rain or the darkness that has settled in me this evening. Instead of delving into my thoughts, I want to make a list of all the reasons I’m grateful. My mind can’t go any deeper than that tonight.

I’m grateful for you reading this and saying Jensen’s name quietly to yourself.

I’m grateful for my family and the support they give me.

I’m grateful for this path I’m on, even if I don’t understand it.

I’m grateful for my beliefs and how they keep me grounded.

I’m grateful for the loss community for never letting me feel alone.

I’m grateful for all the pictures of Jensen’s name I receive.

I’m grateful for noise, so the silence doesn’t pull me back.

I’m grateful for the rain as it waters Jensen’s tree.

I’m grateful for Leo and Poe, as they let me be the best cat mom to them.

I’m grateful for the happiness I once had.

I’m grateful for pain and it’s ability to push someone to their breaking point.

I’m grateful for my motherhood.

I’m grateful for the candle’s flame dancing just out of my reach.

I’m grateful for the first time I felt his kicks.

I’m grateful for every picture I have of him.

I’m grateful for his love of chocolate milk, that I still drink to bring back a part of him.

I’m grateful for the thirty-eight weeks and two days I carried him.

I’m grateful for the chubbiest cheeks I’ve ever seen.

I’m grateful for his button nose and pouty lips.

I’m grateful for his curly blond wisps.

I’m grateful for his memory and those who remember him with me.

I’m grateful for the courage he brought me.

I’m grateful for his signs.

I’m grateful for the love that constantly guides me in the right direction.

I’m grateful for being able to carry the most gentle soul and being able to learn all about him.

Most of all, I’m grateful for Jensen.

Healing Therapies.

Posted on October 18, 2016 by danielleridgway

Breathe in, one, two, three, four.

Breathe out, one, two, three, four.

I remember when deep breathing and counting were going to help heal the supposed worst pain of my life: giving birth. Even during my labor with Jensen, I don’t think I needed anyone counting for me. The contractions didn’t hurt, but I wanted some normalcy while I delivered him so silently. After he came into the world my body started healing, but emotionally, I didn’t even know how to begin healing. I was in pain and my brain instantly went into shock trying to protect the influx of emotions. During that time, I had to focus on healing my body by sleeping and trying to eat. That was the best I could do.

When I had to focus on emotional healing, I was lost. I felt alone and didn’t even know where to start. For the first few weeks, I just sat and stared into the nothingness. Everything felt numb and black. Even now, I can’t recall those moments or it just spirals out of control. The second week I looked in Jensen’s hospital bag. A brochure fell into my lap about online and in-person support groups. From there, I found You’re Not Alone – Love Letters from Loss Mom to Loss Mom, so many blogs journeying through others’ losses, and support near me. I read and read through so many pages, learning about how other’s heal. I realized how much reading through their words had helped me.

Then I decided to write Jensen’s story and share.

It felt so healing to write his name. To let the whole entire world know about him and his impact on my life. I needed to share the good, the bad, and the ugly. There would be a lot of ugly, but love always paved the way for the good. Six months later, it’s one healing therapy that I do every single day. Usually with hot tea in my mug and candles lit throughout the whole house. Sometimes I want to share with the world and others, I keep it between Jensen and I. I haven’t missed a day of writing since that two-week mark. Getting all my emotions out on paper, or laptop, has let me sort through it everything.

As much as I wish writing could just heal me and I’d be perfectly back to normal, that’s not how grief works.

Talk therapy has done so much good for me.

One of the hardest things I’ve done post loss was making an appointment to a therapist. I did not want to ‘be weak’ and talk to a counselor. The first time seeing her, I was terrified. Then being able to say his name, talk about how I was feeling out loud, and not feel judged was healing. It encouraged me to go to my first in-person support group, then the second. I spend a lot of time with talk therapy, six times a month to be exact. Sometimes, like this month, I’ve gone to other groups or events where I could talk more about Jensen. It’s been one of the most healing therapies I’ve done in my life after loss. This journey is so lonely and knowing there’s so many people to support me is, well, bittersweet. It breaks my heart knowing these amazing, strong women have felt this way and are able to channel that to help me and so many other moms going through loss. Reaching out and letting others know you need help, is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s helped.

There’s no rulebook on what to do after your child dies. That’s what makes finding these healing therapies so individual and hard for people to narrow down. I believe it’s trial and error. What works for me, might not work for the next person and that absolutely fine. I will say, if you are a support person reading this and wondering how to help your loved one, the most healing therapy someone can help with is saying their child’s name. It’ll open the line of communication between you two and might help find what the other person needs to heal.

I’d also like to say one more thing, losing a child takes a lifetime of healing. Please be patient with them or yourself and never feel like they or you need to put your grief on a timeline. Loss moms and dads are trying to figure out their new normal and how to move forward with their life. Be gentle with our hearts, we’re doing our best to find our healing therapies.

Even if it begins with breathing in and out.

Dear World,

Posted on October 13, 2016 by danielleridgway

I always believed in the beauty that surrounded me. The crisp, fresh air would fill my lungs as I drew a deep breath. Colorful flowers would beckon me to stop and smell them; I would pick a bundle and put a few in my hair. Each time I would step outside and enjoy the splendor that is this world, I thought I knew my place. Even when I didn’t understand why something was happening, I could get lost in the stars. My hands would run through the grass calling out for me to just lay there and feel grounded.

When I learned Jensen was growing inside of my belly, I couldn’t wait to introduce him to you. There are so many opportunities you offer to each of us. In my dreams, I imagined him falling in love with all of your wonders and wanting to explore new places. Maybe I could even show him what you have done to comfort me. I’d see him play on your beaches and make sand castles. Our backyard would be full of mud pies and lullabies. He would be a fearless little boy and I hoped he would find his place here, just as I thought I had.

He’d grow up picking the flowers in a garden we’d make together, bundling them so he could give them to me. So proud that he had discovered a different part of you and bringing that beauty in our home.

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Deep down, I knew there was an innate darkness you had in your trenches. I didn’t think I would ever meet that part of you, until I did. You and my body were two of the only things I trusted with him. On that windy, spring day you flipped upside down letting darkness blanket over all the beauty I once found solace in.

You’re still upside down and I don’t know how to trust you anymore.

Bringing a child into this world is supposed to be the most natural act a person can do. There is nothing natural about him dying before he could leave my womb and discover you. Instead of him picking me flowers and discovering each constellation in the sky, his absence has brought me an eerie darkness. For awhile, that’s all you let me see and feel. You turned so cold, unlike anything I had experienced, especially after the warm nine months I carried him.

There were parts of me that came unearthed too. This overwhelming anxiety and depression that has made itself home in my body. A sense of dread each time the phone rang, wondering what other horror had escaped your trenches. The feeling of no fear, even when it was presented. There was hatred and a bunch of it towards myself and everyone and thing that was in close proximity. I felt betrayed by myself. All deviant feelings that I didn’t know existed were flooding me.

Since I never had you turn your back on me before, I shut you out. I didn’t believe there would ever be beauty in you again. How could there be?

Then I saw him with you.

You let him paint the sky with blues and oranges. He draws me to the prettiest flowers, that only little boys would choose. I feel his warmth as the sun creeps through my curtains and wakes me in the morning. The birds sing with him as I open the windows to welcome you in. He’s the shooting star that I make a wish on. You haven’t broken your promise to him and I. I see him discovering you in ways I could never imagine. Even though I can’t see his imagination spreading across his face, I feel his excitement as the seasons change. He has found his place in the world when he’s not sleeping in the clouds.

Oh world, I’m so angry with the darkness you’ve given to me. Most days I wish I could just get a tall enough latter to join him in the clouds, but I know that’s impossible. So, I live for the moments where I see his light. Somehow when I can’t see this, I remember he is doing all what I ever wanted him to do. He’s exploring the parts of you I’ll never see, until I’m free from this darkness and hold you have on me.

Love,

Danielle
Jensen’s Mom

Lemons & Lemonade.

Posted on October 12, 2016 by danielleridgway

So, I’m going to break the rules on today’s prompt. Chalk it up to having an emotional morning or just a horrible past six months, my mind is letting me delve into the ‘lemonade’ I’ve made since Jensen’s been born.

This prompt was inspired by a new show, ‘This Is Us,’ where a couple was pregnant with triplets. Long story short, one of the babies died (either shortly before or during birth) and the doctor was talking to the dad about baby loss and how you have to continue on for your family after this tragedy happens. He spinned the saying, ‘When life give you lemons you make lemonade,’ and added on to it with his own personal story of loss. There was also a line about (along the lines of), even given the sourest lemon you can make something resembling lemonade. I probably should have re-watched before I started typing, but as I said, emotional morning.

When I first saw the video, I thought, yes this is it. This analogy is perfect, everyone should see this. Until it weighed on my heart a little more; maybe I just know how to sour everything. I kept thinking, yes this works for life and can be applied to loss, as it was presented in the show. There’s a point, I think, in the loss journey that you there’s more positive than negative. People are able to see all the good they’ve helped bring into the world in honor of their babies and to help others out. I understand the analogy perfectly and believe one day I’ll even be able embrace it.

Right now, I can’t.

I’m not saying there’s no positives ever in my life after loss, but right now it’s very hard to see. Instead of sticking exactly to this prompt, I’m going to keep the analogy used, but share it in a way that represents the grief journey I’m going through.

To make lemonade, a person needs water, lemons, and sugar. The water is the base of the whole drink, you add in lemons to give the sour punch, and then end off with the sweetness of the sugar. Obviously, right? When we talk about it metaphorically, lemons are always given to us when life isn’t going our way. Jensen’s death has been the biggest, sourest lemon ever given to me. Since we’ve been molded to only see the sour part, we don’t look beyond the lemon. An outside person might believe I can use the lemon and make it ‘somewhat resembling’ lemonade. I’m challenging you to relook at this.

Instead of thinking of me getting the biggest, baddest lemon, think of it like the sugar has been taken away. Before, there was such much sugar that even if I got another lemon, I could just sweeten the rest up. Without sugar in lemonade, it’s just really sour lemon water. I can keep squeezing and making the most out of all the lemons ever given to me, but without that one ingredient, it’ll never be the same.

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Continue reading →

Creative Heartwork.

Posted on October 11, 2016 by danielleridgway

“I need to have a part of Jensen on my forever. Everyone needs to see him on me.”

A few weeks after Jensen was born, I kept repeating those words. My heart hurt that no one could see my baby in my arms and I wanted to somehow prove to the world that I was his mother. That and I wanted to feel physical pain, there was so much emotional pain that I needed to focus it somewhere else.

So we got tattoos.

Even though the one I got wasn’t the one I originally planned, I’m so happy it worked out that way. The celtic knot for motherhood is forever on the back of my neck. It’s beautiful and to me, represents that Jensen will always be with me. The pain I expected it to bring wasn’t there. Instead, the humming of the machine relaxed every muscle in my body. After it was all done, I was so proud Jensen was honored there for the rest of my life. I loved that I was able to find the design and put his birthday underneath it.

As much as I love sharing my first Jensen tattoo with everyone, I think a lot of creative heartwork happens behind the scenes. It’s sharing your story online and at in-person support groups. Or it can be the connection you make with other loss mamas and doing anything you can to be there for them. Maybe it’s writing your baby’s name hundreds of times in every font you know how to do. It could be framing your favorite outfit of their’s in your favorite spot, so you can see it everyday. If a baby is buried, you can be creative during all the holidays and anniversaries and decorate their spot. SO many things that is creative and comes from the heart.

For me, it seems like I share all the creative heartwork that I do for Jensen. I love showing how much he means to me and my creative side. Today i’m going to share something a little more personal. As I’ve said before, when people walk into my house, Jensen is everywhere. Most people wouldn’t even notice the stack of notebooks of letter, filled with love, that I have written to Jensen. It started when I was pregnant, I would write a verse and then tell Jensen all about my day. When he was born, I started drawing him pictures and adding color to every letter. It was my way to be creative with him while I let all my emotions out on the paper. Every single word filled with love and appreciation to him. These letters have became my favorite part of the day and are a huge part of my healing. It’s my favorite heartwork I do for Jensen.

In between all those love letters, are drawings and letterings of his name or anything that reminds me of him. Today, I keep writing his name over and over again. If you’ve been following along, you all know Tuesdays are hard for me. They’re even harder when I can’t be creative and do things for him. All I’ve been able to do is writing his name. Even finding the words to this Capture Your Grief prompt has been difficult. This Tuesday marks twenty-seven weeks since Jensen was born sleeping. All those weeks ago, I bought my first remembrance bracelet to remember him by. It was Aries constellation bracelet, that I wear everyday. I never imagined then, that six months from that moment my favorite heartwork would be the letters I wrote to him just two days before his birth.

Tonight, as I continue my private, creative heartwork for Jensen, I’ll be thinking of the love we show to all our babies everyday. Even in our deepest pits of pain, we continue creating beautiful things to honor our angels; out of these dark pits, blossoms the loveliest flower.

Happy twenty-seventh week in heaven, Jensen. When you look down on me from heaven, I hope you see all the creative heartwork that I do all for you. I miss you. I love you.

Symbols & Signs.

Posted on October 10, 2016 by danielleridgway

The morning Jensen was born, my best friend came to the hospital. He brought flowers and just sat and listened. It was fairly early when I texted and told him Jensen was born so silently. I remember just talking and explaining it, I don’t even know if I was crying or if shock had taken my tears. He had to be so brave coming into that room. It’s not the scenario anyone expects to walk in. Usually there’s the baby being passed around and the mom is beaming. Anyways, during our talk he told me, “Jensen will come to you in a red bird and a blue bird.” I remember the thought of a sign from Jensen giving me so much hope.

It would be a happy moment that he was with me even in his death.

When we got home from the hospital, I completely forgot about our conversation on the birds. There were no birds going to come in my room as I let the darkness cover me. I was dragged out of the house to go on a drive two days before his funeral. We drove all around the county and ended up going to eat at a little restaurant that I’ve been to countless times. I sat down in one chair and didn’t like it, so I sat in the chair across the table. It felt better about that chair, weird I know. Then I looked up at the wall, one I’ve looked at before, and I saw my sign. A picture of a red bird and one of a blue bird right beside it; my sign from Jensen.

I remember just staring at it and not listening to a word my mom said. All I could do was point at the pictures and say, ‘he’s okay.’