Tag Archives: loss

What Happens Next?

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I didn’t know if there would be some kind of epiphany that would happen when Jensen turned one or what? The anxiety driven part of my brain told me this day would be a turning point. For some reason, I felt like I had to decide between these two extremes of how to honor Jensen during year two and beyond: privately or publicly. Which sounds really crazy because I’ve shared almost everything in the past year. Yet, in the lead up, I kept questioning if I should keep going on.

Is this still helping me?

Is this still helping others?

Do I just seem like a crazy person?

Maybe the question I was meaning to ask myself wasn’t if I wanted to keep sharing or not. I think it was more of me questioning if it would be socially acceptable to keep sharing in the way I am. Even though I’m the person that will tell someone else not to worry about what others think, I worry. In our culture, a year is well passed time to ‘heal.’ Although, I can tell you I wept most of the weekend because I missed Jensen so much. Year two is going to hold a lot of hard moments. Ones that will knock me on my feet, just like year one. It will also hold light moments full of love. Just look at his birthday celebration. The notion of me needing to be completely healed is ludicrous. What is completely healed anyways?

Throughout this whole time of sharing, I’ve felt healing with every word I’ve written.

The answer to my let-me-question-everything-I’m-doing to honor Jensen and have me heal seems pretty simple. Just because Jensen turned a year old doesn’t mean everything has to completely change. There wasn’t a sign to tell me to stop sharing or anyone who told me I was crazy for sharing his birthday. It all felt like my new normal.

So, what happens next? 

In short, I keep writing and sharing as to what I see fit. As long as it’s still helping me and other parents who are experiencing loss, I don’t see why not. But what will she write about?

Fortunately, I was numb this time last year. That’s how I was able to get through Jensen’s funeral and Mother’s Day. Easter is coming up this Sunday and it’s the first one I’ll spend without Jensen. There’s going to be a lot of grief that I have never even thought of that will happen and I want to share those moments. In May the May We All Heal Project is happening, which I’ll be sharing everyday (hopefully on here, but definitely on Instagram).  There’s also Bereaved and regular Mother’s Day, which will be interesting to feel and experience past the numbness. SO many sharable moments just in the near future.

I’d also like to talk more about mental health, like I did about PTSD. It was good for me to share my experiences with that and to let others know they’re not alone in those thoughts and feelings. Maybe I could even delve into more about PTSD and bereaved parents. Who knows? Most topics are just going to happen naturally. Nothing in the last year has been forced and neither will this second year of blogging through grief.

Most importantly, I’m going to share more about Jensen. I’d love to share his close up picture and maybe even more. There has been so many memories from my pregnancy that I didn’t share last year, that I may or may not get to this year. I just know that I’d like to be able to share and show him off as much as I can. Obviously I’m one proud mama, so I have a lot to talk about.

No matter what I write about this year, I’m going to keep sharing how Jensen continues to walk with me through my life. There will be a plethora of footprint pictures and ones of his ultrasounds in nature. I’m not done sharing and I don’t see it stopping any time soon. It is my hope that you all keep walking with me through this messy journey of loss and love.

The Day We Said ‘Goodbye.’

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April showers bring May flowers was the only phrase I kept repeating this day last year. It was a rainy day, but the sun was peaking out. My room had been pitch black, but I laid there never wanting to wake up. This day felt unreal. I knew when I turned the light on I would see the outfit I had chosen over the chair waiting to be worn. The bag the hospital gave us would be there too. If only I could keep my eyes closed and not have to face what challenges I knew today held. My buzzing phone made sure I remembered.

‘We have Jensen here. You guys can pick him up whenever.’

The baby that I had grown for thirty-eight weeks had been cremated and his ashes in his urn were ready to be picked up. It was especially important to have him cremated by today, since it was the day of his funeral. I remember getting the courage to get out of bed and I just went straight down the stairs to tell my mom and dad. They quietly decided they should go get him before the funeral, so I could see his urn beforehand. Probably not to make the experience at the church even more emotional.

I can remember them making me eat, but have no idea what I ate. My body was just going through the emotions. I didn’t disagree with anyone because I had no energy to do so otherwise. The TV was just on, trying to quiet the storm that was playing out in my head.

April showers bring May flowers. Your son’s funeral is today. April showers bring May flowers. Jensen really died. April showers bring May flowers. You have to do this.  

Honestly, I had to look like a zombie. I sure as heck felt like one. Everyone was scrambling around. My dad ended up going to get Jensen. Mom frantically was looking for a frame to put an ultrasound picture in for him. They got some of his hand and footprint seashells to show. Each were doing their part to help and they did amazing.

When dad got him with Jensen, I remember thinking his urn was so shiny. He was in this bag and it had this slip with his name on it. My dad didn’t really know where to put it, but I remember just wanting to hold it. I finally had Jensen back with me and I needed him right beside me. So that’s where he went. Right beside me, but he was on the table and I was sitting on the couch. I kept staring. In between my series of constant thoughts, I can distinctly remember wanting to say how disheartening it was that my baby fit into this urn. All of who he was and should be, just forever resting in his urn.

That was hard.

My mom had to force me to get dressed. It didn’t feel real until I saw myself in the clothes I’d wear to my son’s funeral. It rained on me as I got in and out of the car and I just protected Jensen’s urns and things. My dad had the umbrella over me when he could, but I didn’t care about me.

We sat there in the front row to the left. His urn candle was lit and people started filling in. I was at a loss of how to greet people to something like this, so I just sat there and let people come to me. Still, my eyes could not leave the two birds that were flying on it. The candle made it even shinier too. I can’t even tell you who was all at his funeral. Almost everyone came to me, except two people. Those two people I have not talked to since before that day and never will again. It felt like everyone that was important came though. I don’t feel like anyone else needed to come or maybe they did, the numbnesses really blacks those emotions out. Mostly because it wasn’t that important.

The service was as nice as a baby’s funeral can go. Our stand in pastor and I came up with how it would go a few days before. We decided there would be songs sung and Footprints in the Sand read during the service. The verses his picked were spot on and when I think about that day, my cheeks can still feel were the tears fell that day. I heard every word he said and sung. When others rose to singalong, I stayed seated. If I would have stood up, I think my legs would have given out. I felt so weak, I didn’t want this day to be here.

After, there was a lunch for us. Everyone ate and laughed. I can remember being able to talk then, I even laughed at one point too. Even though we did this big ‘goodbye,’ I didn’t feel any different and I didn’t feel like he was gone. Instead, I knew he was back on the table he was at the service. I remember showing his seashells off to whoever would let me. My body and mind was still trying to normalize something of this… motherhood, but I didn’t feel like I was one. I had prints and an urn, not a baby.

April showers bring May flowers I thought when I stepped in a water puddle while carrying his urn to the car. Then again while I sat inside afterwards and heard it tap on the roof. It was the only thing that stopped me from refusing the tears to fall down my cheeks. I wanted to believe there would be a May for me. That all of these tears would bring me some kind of flower, that my little boy in his urn would mean something.

This day last year we formally said ‘goodbye,’ but he’s never really left.

Jensen’s Birthday Celebration.

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On a day I never imagined surviving without my son, I did.

Jensen and my grief both turned a year old. It was never the year I had planned or envisioned. If I could go to myself a year ago, I would brush my hair, listen to the tears, and tell myself this journey is the hardest one you’ll ever be on and it is unending.

Yet, through all the sadness and pain of the past year, we celebrated Jensen on his birthday. Everyone said his name and reassured me he’d never be forgotten. I was sent cards, presents, and pictures of his name and candles lit. Family and friends came over to my house to make his day as special as it should be.


Huge ‘ONE’ balloons covered one of my walls and his room was stuffed with blue and orange ones. The food that lined the countertops smelled so good. Everyone ate and laughed. The little ones colored Jensen’s coloring pages and drew pictures of him and I. We played games outside. Conversation was light and there was laughter. It felt like a first birthday party and that’s all I wanted.


All of us were outside for a long while, until it was time to eat cake. This cake was handmade and iced with love and by me. It was the cake I dreamed of making him while I was pregnant. A three-tiered, blue cake. Of course with his cake topper and four silver sparkler candles. I took it to the island and everyone gathered around. All the lights were turned off and the candles were lit. This moment felt like it lasted an hour for me. I should be holding him or at least right behind him keeping him steady as he blew them out. The ‘one’ really set in for me. My baby’s one and I can’t ever bring him back. I think my brain could have been stuck in that moments forever, but it started.

Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday to you.
Happy birthday dear Jensen.
Happy birthday to you.

I started choking up when we were singing. I thought I was going to completely break down right then and there, but I kept singing. When I started back up, I sung loudly and proudly for him. He would have really liked that. My favorite part is when all the kids yelled his name as loud and proud as they could. All I could think is, he is remembered.


After the candles were all blown out with the assistance from a few little helpers, we cut the cake and ate away. Not to brag or anything, but I didn’t hear any complaints about how it tasted, everyone said it was very tasty.


We then had an orange and blue balloon release. I wish I could tell you the sky was filled with Jensen’s colors, but the wind took them right into my tree. We watched as the escaped the tree and flew into the sky, eventually. I laughed at this. Of course the balloon release for Jensen’s party would get blocked by a tree. It is my life anyhow. These moments are light, where we can laugh and tell the little ones that the balloons are going to heaven so Jensen can play with them. When there were only seven left stuck in the tree, we went back inside for a special activity I had planned to honor Jensen and my support people.


I wish I had a certain name for this project. Maybe something like, ‘In the Hands of Support’ or along those lines. Let me tell you, this was messy, but well worth it. I only need one more hand print on there for it to be complete, but it is one of my most prized possessions. All these handprints are my family and close friends. They have supported and loved me throughout this year in the best way they could. Even in the moments I resisted it, they never gave up on me or stopped talking about Jensen. I’m so thankful to always have a little piece of them, on his first birthday, forever.

Jensen’s first birthday made me feel so at peace. His day was full of love and light. I wish with all my heart that he would have been here to experience  smashing his cake and blowing out the candle. I’ll always wish for those moments.


Thank you all so very much for the love you’ve sent me this past week and year(!). Seeing all the birthday love for Jensen made me smile and I have saved every pictures and screenshot every “Happy Birthday” comment I received. It means the whole entire world to know he’s being remembered.

A Letter to My Son on His First Birthday.

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Dear Jensen,

Happy First Heavenly Birthday!

I cannot believe it’s been one whole year since you were born. Time works in funny ways, my sweet boy. My mind keeps remembering the first time I saw you. You were just a little kidney bean with your heart flickering on the screen. In that moment, I was full of so much love for you. I knew you would always have me wrapped around your finger. At that first appointment, they told me you’d be arriving April seventeenth. As soon as I left, I remember marking it on every calendar I had.

You grew so beautifully. Always measuring a little above average and of course posing for a picture. I remember seeing your long hair around the thirty week mark, I was happy you were happy, heathy, and had hair. We spent a lot of time going to ultrasounds, but I know we both will always treasure those moments. Just as I’ll always cherish reading to you every night. Feeling you kick me when you were pleased at the end of the book or verse. I think you would say your favorite time was when we jammed out to Usher and danced in the shower. All those moments are so priceless and no one can ever take them away.

Those thirty-eight weeks and two days were the best in my life. It was our little infinity together and I’ll believe we’ll be able to have another infinity again. You see, when you give me moments like this morning at 4:25, I know you’ll always be there. Always protecting me and providing me strength.

I wish I didn’t need that strength from you. I wish you were learning strength from me and maybe you did when you were safe in my womb. You’re braver than I’ll ever be.

Oh Jensen, I wish this could be different. Not just today on your birthday, but every single day. Although I know we’ve made memories in this first year, I wish we could have physically made them together. From brushing your hair for the first time to helping you take your first steps. Those are the memories you and I deserve. In some ways, I have brushed your hair from the lock I have in your drawer and you’ve taken many steps with me now, with your foot tattooed on mine. It’s not that way I planned. It’s not what I wanted to give you. But I know you know I’m doing my very best to be the greatest mom to you.

Today, in honor of your life and not your death, we will celebrate. We’re celebrating each day you were with us and all the love and light that you bring to so many people’s hearts. Your whole family will be here to look at your pictures and smile. All your friends in heaven’s moms have wished you happy birthday and let me know you’ll never be forgotten. Our little infinity will live on forever and that’s all because of the love we have for each other. I’ve made a cake for you and have planned an art project for your party. Your traveling scrapbook is all done and room is back to its glory.

It’s all done for you.

Jensen, I just want you to know how much I love and miss you. Everyday I live is so you can live through me. Through everything, I’ve wanted to be the best I can be so your as proud of me as I’m proud of you. I look at your beautiful face every single day and am in awe that I could make something so beautiful. That your pure innocence and beautiful life was made entirely from love. When I talk about you, I beam with pride and instantly smile.

You will forever be the reason I smile and I’ll always carry you in my heart.

I hope your first birthday is everything you imagined and more. Your great grandma is making sure you get the star treatment as you smash into your cake. Make sure to get pictures, little love. I can’t wait to hold you so I never have to let you go.

I love you with all my heart and soul,

Your Mommy

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The Day Everything Changed.

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It was a Monday.

The weather was surprisingly nice being in April, but I felt off. Being thirty-eight weeks pregnant takes a toll on a person, yet this was a different feeling. I couldn’t quite tell what was wrong, but my body was telling me I needed to lay down. So Poe and I laid on the couch while Anthony left. I remember Poe laying super close to my belly and me talking to Jensen. A little part of me was wondering why he wasn’t moving as much as he normally did in the mornings. I kept pushing it out of my mind since I’d be going to the doctor at one.

On the ride to our appointment, I remember saying I thought something was wrong.

‘What would we do if he was still?’

Honestly, I thought it was just me worrying. Now when I look back, I think I knew. Anthony told me not to worry, Jensen is just fine.

He still hadn’t moved when we were in the waiting room. I was talking to him and remember walking into the bathroom three times while waiting. Finally we were taken back to the room, it felt like another appointment. She had me lay down on the table and put the jelly on my belly. I distinctly remember making a joke that there wasn’t much room left in there. She nervously chuckled and told me she’d be back.

I was worried at that moment, but everything was going to be alright. He was moving and passed his ultrasound less than five days ago. My comforting thoughts calmed the worrisome ones until my doctor came in.

It didn’t take him anytime at all to see that Jensen’s heart had stopped beating.

‘I’m sorry there’s no heartbeat. Do you understand what I’m saying?’ 

The world has come crashing down around me. I understood exactly what he was saying, but I didn’t know what happened next. He was talking, but I couldn’t hear any sound coming out. Just that we needed to go to the hospital to double-check and they would let me know what to do there.

When we walked out of that room, I felt Jensen’s weight just hanging there. I felt numb and in shock. As soon as I sat in the car, I cried and just kept saying the doctor was wrong. That they would tell me this was all a joke when we got there. After gaining somewhat of a composure, I called my mom. I needed her there with me. I don’t know what ran through her mind when I told her Jensen was gone. He doesn’t have a heartbeat. But she was there at the hospital way sooner than she typically drives.

At the hospital, they ushered me into a room I never been in before. They had the portable ultrasound in my room, three times, just to make sure. Each time I had my hopes up that his heart would start back up again. That I would see my boy’s heart flickering as it normally did.

It didn’t feel real.

When my mom got in there and they explained everything to her, I knew by her face that this wasn’t some sort of elaborate prank. The heaviness of the day crashed down on me. My blood pressure, which had been perfect before finding out, skyrocketed. I could only see huge black dots and my arms were numb. Everyone was quiet and giving me options at the same time. This isn’t what I had read in the baby books and it’s definitely not a situation they warned me about in baby class.

I don’t remember breathing, seeing, or feeling anything until they told me I needed to go back to the delivery room. Before I blacked out, the decision was made that I would be induced that night to deliver him when he came. I begged for a c-section. I was adamant on not seeing Jensen. I couldn’t believe that death had stolen the one person who meant more than anything to me. My mind couldn’t wrap itself around seeing him born lifeless. Yet, I still had to walk to my room.

At that time I needed to be alone, so I walked ahead with my nurse. I can remember taking a deep breath then. The next time I walked those halls, I wouldn’t be taking Jensen home with me. He’d be left there and it hurt.

She told me she was going to ask uncomfortable questions, but they had to be answered. I just kept nodding my head. It had to be done. I can remember her asking me about where his funeral was going to be, who could pick up his body, what his name on the death certificate would be, who I wanted in the room, if and when I wanted an epidural, and the most important at that time, if she could write his name on the white board. It was information overload all at once. I literally was going through the motions and my parents had to answer most of her questions.

I’ll never forget the room I gave birth to my son in. The bed was on the left side and the couch in the back left corner pulled out to a full bed. A bathroom was located in the back right and along that wall had the TV and whiteboard where she wrote Jensen’s name. To the right of the bed the hospital brought in snacks for the family. I thought it was ridiculous at that time. They ate and read the pamphlets about losing a grandchild. When I got my bag, I remember telling them to get it away from me.

Deep down inside me, I still thought there was hope. I thought somehow through labor and birth he would jolt back. That death didn’t creep inside me and take my son.

They decided to induce me at eleven at night. The doctor and nurse told me I would probably have him the next evening or longer. I was scared and I thought I had time. Not that you can ever prepare for a silent birth. Everyone kept telling me to try to sleep. That I would need my energy for the next day. They dimmed the lights and played Game of Thrones for me.

I’m not sure exactly what time it was, but my parents had gone home to take care of their dogs. Anthony had been sleeping and I was awaken by strong contractions. My whole stomach felt like it was violently vibrating and clenching all at one. So I went to the bathroom to scream, cry, and try to keep breathing. I called my mom to tell her she needed to get back to the hospital. For some reason, I felt like he was going to come a lot sooner than twenty-four hours. The nurses must have heard me or Anthony went and got them. They frantically knocked on the bathroom door and I told them I was in pain.

When I was checked in to my room I was only one centimeter dilated. Only a few hours after I was induced, I was fully dilated and contracting every one to two minutes.

Somehow my mom and dad got to the hospital just in time. It felt like as soon as they came in, Jensen was right there. The nurses kept telling me and my mom that it couldn’t be time yet. It hasn’t been that long at all for her first birth. But I felt him, he was right there and I kept telling my mom. After she yelled at them to check, I was right.

‘He has a head full of blond hair.’

Within a few hard pushes, he was born. My hopes that he would somehow come back to life were gone. I can remember them calling out his time of birth, 4:25. Then nervously I asked if he had ten fingers and toes.

I wanted nothing more to wake up from that nightmare. The nurses kept telling me how good I did. That I should be proud of myself for the ‘easy’ birth I had. But my son… he was gone and was never coming back.

Nothing in the world could ever make that right again.

Tomorrow, at 4:25am, Jensen turns one.

I’m planning on sharing something extremely personal with you all. Although I’m still questioning myself with it, I know you all will be here to support Jensen and I’s journey. Thank you all for reading my story once again. It is so healing to be able to share.

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My Complied List of Fears at the One Year Mark of Loss.

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I’m afraid…

for tomorrow and how it holds the worst sentence I ever heard in my life.

that of the fact I have to live without him forever.

one day no one will ever say his name, besides me.

that after this year mark people will wonder why I haven’t started ‘moving on.’

I’ll never be able to give Jensen a sibling.

that if Jensen does have a sibling that I won’t love him or her as much as I love Jensen.

of breaking down in front of everyone on his birthday or any day at all.

that this pain will always be here.

that this pain I feel will go away.

of all the silent birthdays I’ll spend celebrating his life.

stillbirth, miscarriage, and baby loss are still taboo topics.

to welcome a whole new year of babies that don’t go home.

the earth will eventually shatter for holding this much.

of the flashbacks that I know I’ll be facing the next two days.

that I haven’t done enough for Jensen and I’ll never be able to.

to be alone tomorrow and the day after his birthday.

that this is my life.

because I will always try to figure out where it all went wrong.

there will be a day where I stop feeling anything at all.

that my motherhood isn’t valid.

of always living through my worst nightmare.

I’ll never be able to save myself because I couldn’t even do that for him.

for year two.

I’m not ready for any of this, but I know it’s coming.

that he’s seeing me at my weakest, but I hope he’s cheering me on.

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The Way Loss Damages the Before. 

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Life after loss is divided by the before and the after. 

When reflecting on the before, one sees innocence, happiness, and wholeness. Losing a child would never happen to them, or that’s what they believed. Each week and scan brought unmeasurable happiness. Motherhood felt so right. The baby that grew so perfectly inside made them feel whole. A person’s whole life felt like it was going just as planned. Nothing imaginable could take those feelings away. Of course there were scary moments, but the worst never actively entered their thoughts. 

The before is filled with dreams and hopes for the future. Whether it’s preparing the baby’s nursery or packing their hospital bag everything felt just right. A mom plans, not only for those immediately after birth moments, but for the rest of their lives. They think of preschool, vacations, graduation, marriage, and even becoming a grandparent. These hopes and dreams shine so brightly, nothing feels like it could dim it. 

Until a person reaches the turning point. 

All of these feelings become numbed, sone even lost. The dreams a parent had for the future gonblank. Darkness sets in and seems to make itself comfortable for a very long time, maybe forever. 

Life is different. The after completely changes the person, but always in bad ways but in ways a person never wish existed. The death of a child doesn’t just change a person’s being, it impacts the outlook of the world. Those happy moments they wished so very deeply would happen to them, never will with their child. This loss isn’t just one single moment, it’s in an infinite number of moments in the after. 

No one would ever wish the after on a person. It breaks the people who live in it everyday. They are exhausted, but know they have to keep fighting. To keep taking those steps their child never will. This time is mentally draining. Although there are certain parts of the after that begin to feel lighter at times, it can change and be heavier at a moments notice. A person who loses their child will forever be in the after. It’s not fixable, nor is there anything ‘bad’ about them being there. 

There’s also moments in the after where a loss parent looks back to the before. These reflections are bittersweet. On one hand, knowing they had these moments and happiness is peaceful. Their life hasn’t always been this way. They can look back and smile that their child was here. No one can take that away either. On the other hand, a person wants to rip the darkness off of them and someone travel back in time. They want to scream at their past selves to get help. To warn them about the storm that’s about to happen. They want to someone change their past when they are lost in these memories. It’s not everyday this happens, been when a grief trigger happens they have to play out. 

Today these grief triggers are playing out for me. 

On this day last year was the last big movements I felt from Jensen. I can remember sitting on my grandfathers couch after feeling like my little babe dropped even more. I was there to get an antique bassinet to keep Jensen in for my room. That day I was on my feet a lot. He felt like he always did though, just a little lower. When I actually sat on the couch he rolled and kicked his feet. A full term baby rolling in your belly definitely gets your attention. 

I remember just sitting back and rubbing where I felt him turn. This moment was peaceful. I was ready to have him in my arms and watch him move while he slept. My arms just laid across my belly, resting where he would be. Almost silently, I sung a lullaby. He seemed to calm when he heard me. I got one more swift kick and felt some small movements afterwards. 

This moment seems sweet to others. It really was at that time, but it’s the last roll I ever felt. The next day he moved. I felt him. My belly didn’t feel like it did on the fourth. He didn’t feel like he was just floating like he did on that morning. 

But the after… it really messes with your mind. 

The weeks following his silent birth I wondered if those last, big movements were are warning to me. Was he telling me to get to the hospital? My mind has forced me to think this was a sign. I hope it wasn’t. If it was, does this make me a bad mom? 

I will always question if I could have saved him. Just like I’ll always wonder who he was and remember the hopes I had for him in the before. 

The Love Letter I Never Read Out Loud to My Son.

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April 1, 2016

Jensen,

After months of waiting, I’m finally going to meet you in sixteen days (supposedly). I wish I could explain to you all my emotions, but I think you will have to feel them for yourself one day. Even though I haven’t met you, just yet, I already know I’ll love you more than anything.

At this moment, I’m sitting at your grandparent’s house, feeling you move in my belly, and watching Finnick be a bad boy. I wanted to write to you just to say how much I love you already. I’m scared I won’t be a good enough mom to you , but I know you’ll help me learn to be the best I can be.

Right now, in my life, I’m twenty-two years old. Last May I graduated college and want to go back to be a teacher. Mostly because it would give\allow me the most time with you. Our house is still under construction, I’m hoping it will be done before your arrival. Your dad and I love each other very much and are always talking about you. Your nursery is almost done and I wish\hope you grow up and love your room as much as I do.

I wish I had more exciting stories to tell you that has happened in the past few months. But I’m trying to stay nice and healthy just for you! I make sure to read the Bible or a children’s book to you everyday. I hope you love to read and write as much as your dad and I do.

Jensen, if I could let you know anything or want you to remember one thing it is: no matter what you do or want to do in your life, I will support you. Growing up is so hard and you will make mistakes. Just know I have made mistakes too and understand. There is nothing you can do for me to stop loving and supporting you. I know your dad feels the same.

I am so excited to finally be able to hold you and kiss your face. I want to see you grow and become the best, little boy you can. I can’t wait to hear you laugh and see you smile. I know you’ll break my heart a few times, but you’ve already made up for it by just being in my life. I can’t wait for you to come home from school and tell me all about your day. I want to know all your likes and dislikes. I can’t wait to travel with you and show you what the world holds. I want you to realize how much everyone cares about you and how much you care right back. I know you have been made with love and care. I am so excited you are my son.

No matter what, I will always be on your side, encouraging, comforting, and loving you. In sixteen days I’ll meet my favorite person and start the best part of my life. And I cannot wait.

I love you very much!

Your Mommy

Remembering the Last Time I Saw My Son Alive.

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It was an early morning, like all my other Thursday scans. My mom and Jensen’s dad had to work, so I had to get Jensen and I to the hospital before ten. Which might not seem like a huge feat, but, remember, he wouldn’t let me eat before ten; even at thirty-seven weeks pregnant. The doctors wanted me to eat before the scans though. Thankfully I quickly found out Jensen had a thing for McDonald’s breakfast. He’d allow orange juice, an egg and cheese bagel, and a hash brown on our early mornings. This morning wasn’t any different.

While eating breakfast and driving to the hospital, he kicked and danced around to Usher. He absolutely loved listening to his songs. Of course I sung to him and was engrossed in our mommy and Jensen time. Smiles and laughs came so freely then. Those were my favorite moments in my life.

The appointment seemed really ordinary. I was noticeably the most pregnant person waiting to go back for the scan. Walking at that point to the wind right out of me, so sitting there waiting was a relief. All the moms in the waiting area talked and shared about their pregnancies. I swear Jensen kicked every time he heard his name. I felt so normal. I took it for granted. My whole life felt like it was falling into place and I was perfectly happy. It just only crossed my mind that it was the last time I talked to people, outside my family and friends about Jensen and motherhood before he was gone.

Our conversation ended when the technician called out my name. I had never had him before, but I saw my bulky folder. Twice a week appointments call for a lot of papers. It took me a minute or two to finally stand, but I made my way towards him. He sprinted walked a whole lot faster to the room than I could waddle, but eventually I got there.

Everything was already set up and he didn’t even warm the ultrasound goo before it went on my belly. I can remember trying to joke with him, but he was trying to get the scan done quickly. All the images were really choppy because of how fast he was moving the wand. The screen showed Jensen moving his hands to his mouth and moving his legs all around. His heart was beating strongly at 132 bpm. He was practicing his breathing and I remember seeing his nose. In all, it last about ten minutes; which was quick considering the past few weeks college students had been observing scans. But he said Jensen looked perfect and didn’t seem at all concerned.

‘You have no worries.’

I’ll never forget him looking right at me and saying that. All my worries went away when I exhaled. My baby was perfectly fine and obviously I had ‘no worries.’

Then I began my trek back to the car. My hands literally had to cradle my belly to carry his weight. Jensen seemed to have gained a pound a day. Well that’s what it felt like in those last weeks. I remember just holding him and humming. When I got out to the parking garage, I felt like he had dropped even lower. I rubbed where I knew he was laying and I whispered as I walked an assuring statement to him.

‘The next time we’re in this hospital, you’ll be born.’

For some reason, I was SO sure he was coming in that next week. I wasn’t being induced or anything like that, but I felt it in my bones. He seemed to be okay with this statement because he nudged me in a way I hadn’t felt before.

I knew my life was going to be forever changed… just not in the way it did.

This day last year was the last time I ever saw my son alive. It’s the beginning of the five days that constantly replay in my head. I’ve talked about flashbacks and reliving the moments before, but on the big, grief days they play out so much more vividly. I can attest, they hurt. Those moments of seeing him move and watching him do everything that he was supposed to do made me so proud.

Being told he was going to be just fine pushed out any bad thoughts I may have had. I was in a blissful state anyways, but it just made me float higher. When I look back and realize how quick the scan actually was, I wish he would have taken more time out for me. Would he have caught something that was wrong? Was there something there that he missed

How does a baby who passed all the tests die in four short days?

The other haunting part of this day was me knowing he’d be born soon. Why couldn’t I have just been induced right then and there? If I had a feeling he’d be coming soon, why didn’t I just go to the hospital? No one knows the answer to what would have happened if one thing had been different. There’s a huge possibility that even if he was taken out early, he still would have died.

It hurts and my brain is still trying to figure out what went wrong.

Until Wednesday, I’ll be writing a lot. There are raw emotions coming to the surface that I need to sort through. All of your support through this year has been amazing. Thank you for bearing with me and allowing me to talk about Jensen and facing (again) the worst moments of my life.

The Do’s and Don’ts of Supporting Loss Parents During Important Grief Dates.

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Jensen is turning one in eight days.

This is how I always pictured Jensen and I near his birthday…

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Encouraging him to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I never imagined he’d be teaching me how to do the same.

How time passed so quickly completely eludes me. It feels like just yesterday I saw him dancing across the ultrasound screen just five days before. In another sense, it feels like forever since I’ve been able to catch my breath. From the moment I found out his heart had stopped beating to this one right now, and all the moments for the rest of my life, I will never fully grasp that this is my reality. That I will forever be physically without Jensen. The fact that I have to face his big day is overwhelming.

but…

With almost a full year of grief under my belt, I have an understanding of what I need during these huge grief and trigger days. This list is compiled from what has helped me and my support group during the last year. It hasn’t been an easy process to find out what worked and what didn’t, but I am so thankful for my support circle that have been so willing to learn and swim through the waves with me. Although I can’t speak for every loss parent, these do’s and don’ts are with the bereaved hearts and their support in mind.

Do…

Offer support/ask how you can help.

Honestly, this one is a little tricky. Most of the time I don’t know what I want or need in terms of support. It’s frustrating because I know there has to be something. Whether that be someone to listen to me or to sit with, to actually helping with events or plans concerning that day. Big grief days are exhausting. On top of not knowing, (for me) reaching out seems difficult because I’m exhausted and deep down, I know this is the only way I can mother Jensen.

A big thing I’m going through with his birthday party is telling people I have everything planned. In my mind, that’s true. As of today, there is a lot I need help with and my family and friends have asked and I said no. Deep down though, I know those people want to help me and will if I ask. Like I said, this is in my experience, planning his birthday is how I’m able to parent Jensen and heal my heart.

Even if there isn’t any way you can help, just by asking if a person needs support or help, they know you’re there for them. You’ve opened up a doorway that will positively impact that next moment and interaction.

Listen to their stories, feelings, and emotions.

Even if it’s the same story you’ve heard a thousand times, this is all we have. It could be about the first kick or their birth story. Of course there’s sadness, confusion, and anger towards loss. On the other hand, there is so much beauty in their son or daughter’s life. Their lives, although short, were full of love and happiness. For most of us, having them grow and finding out we were parents was the best time of our lives.

This is another form of support. To me, it’s so important to be able to share Jensen’s story. and not just his death. In fact, his birthday will be a celebration of his life. There will be cake, laughter, and his lifetime of memories. Now, I’m not going to lie to you all, the day before will be a day of mourning. On each day, I hope and know that my support circle will be there to listen to it all.

Say their child’s name.

Always. Even if you’re miles away, write their child’s name down and send them a picture of it. This seems way simpler than the others, but it means the entire world to a loss parent. It lets us know that our child is not being forgotten. For me, it is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give.

Embrace their child(ren)’s life and memory.

Sort of like some of the previous ones, but it goes a little deeper. When you’re listening to their stories about being pregnant or other memories they have, tell them something you remember. Maybe it was the day they told you they were going to be parents or a memory you have of feeling the baby move. Don’t be shy to bring these moments up. We haven’t forgotten.

Also, if there’s something they want you to do, try your best to do it. Usually it won’t be anything too huge, but something like lighting a candle on their hard days. Do a random act of kindness in their child’s name. This embraces and keeps their memory alive.

Don’t…

Be afraid to ask questions.

This can be different for everyone depending on where they are in their journeys. It is hard to talk about certain parts, for both parties. But, if you want to see pictures of their child or know what time they were born, just ask. Don’t be afraid to ask about those memories. I know for a lot of moms (sorry dads) facts and moments are constantly playing through their minds. It helps get the information out and, again, it helps to know you want to be there to support us even through the messy part.

Personally, I’ve always been one to tell people to ask me questions. I would rather them know from me and the truth about it all. Like I said though, this is completely different for other loss parents.

Get angry if the plans for the day change.

If you get a text a few hours before you’re supposed to meet up for a lunch or self-care day on one of these grief days, don’t be mad. No one really knows how they’re going to be until the day comes. It could be they woke up that morning and the waves are crashing down. This isn’t anything personal against you, this is a way they’re helping their heart.

Downplay their pain, even when it makes you feel uncomfortable.

Grief and loss hurt like hell. There hasn’t been a moment of comfort I’ve had since April 4, 2016. Believe me, I know it’s hard to hear your loved one is hurting, but that’s why they’re talking about their grief. Please, please, please don’t downplay or cut someone off. They’re talking to you about the hardest and most tragic event that they will ever go through in their life. Opening up to another person about these raw feelings is extremely brave for a person to do. It is terrifying to start talking about emotional times to only be told that what their feeling isn’t really that intense.

We live in a society who do not really know how to grieve. I’m thankful that not every person in the world knows what it’s like to lose a child. But I am telling you, that releasing these emotions to the outside world is so healing. Yes, it’s uncomfortable. Imagine how that would be like every day.

Tell them that it’s time to stop grieving OR any hurtful comments.

Just please don’t do it.