This is probably not the “return of Loralee” post a lot of you were hoping for. The title is indicative about what the focus is. It is not funny. It is not pretty. There are a few disturbing mental images. It’s also very long and not the best thing I’ve written. This is one of those posts where I just write and give the middle finger to the editing process.
You don’t have to read it. You don’t have to comment although you are more than welcome to. I certainly don’t expect it. People can only say they are sorry so many times, you know? If you do though, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. People and their kindness is why I have gotten through to the point that I have.
I’m writing this for me, because I need to.
September 23rd marked five years since my son, Matthew passed away.
Obviously, today is Thursday, the 25th not Tuesday, the 23rd. I didn’t write a post about it on his anniversary. There are a lot of reasons why, but what it came down to is that I needed to write a post about it today.
Many people think that September 23, 2003 was the worst day of my life. They aren’t far from correct, but if you get down to the nitty gritty, the most horrible day of my life was Thursday, September 25th.
That probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, does it? I don’t blame you. I would have made the same assumption. In many ways that day WAS the worst day of my life. It was forever altered, ripped apart by the worst loss there is.
The day Matthew died was an ordinary Tuesday, except it was really, really busy. I ran a lot of errands and my parents came over to help me with fall cleaning. I still have the “To do do” list I planned for that day tucked away in a journal. Bleaching the grout in my shower was on there but “have your life shatter into a billion pieces because your baby will die today” was nowhere on it.
For a long time afterward, I would stand with water streaming over me in my shower and stare at that grout and feel grief that hours I could have spent with my son on the day he died were taken up cleaning that dingy grout in my shower with a Clorox bleach pen and a toothbrush.
It so wasn’t worth it.
The late afternoon came with an exhausted me and a request from my sister to come and make some beef stew because she had a mammogram earlier in the day and then had to take her girls out to get homecoming dresses. I didn’t want to go. I was so tired. My sister is more like my mom and she’d do anything for me and I’d anything for her. I knew she was exhausted and her family had been dealing with a whole lot of trauma and ugly things that I am not free to write about here.
So, I told Jonathan that I was going up the street to help her and he asked if I was taking the boys with me. “Of course not! Just bring them up for dinner. I’m making enough for everyone. I’ll call you.”
Matthew was asleep in his swing. I stopped to look at him and then I walked out the door.
The next time that I saw him he was minutes from being pronounced dead, laying white and lifeless on a gurney in the trauma bay of the ER.
If any of you have been near a baby lately you will know what I mean when I say that babies are not supposed to be STILL. Some part of them is always moving, squeeling, cooing, jerking. It is sooooo WRONG to see one lay as still as my son was.
Jonathan was sobbing, and I was desperately trying to process everything that was happening and that had happened in the previous half hour since the phone rang at my sister’s house, bringing my nieces screaming into the living room that the baby wasn’t breathing and me tearing like mad to get to a car and drive down the street to my house.
There were so many emergency vehicles all over the lawn and side of my house that for a moment I thought my entire family had died. Jonathan was with Matthew in a red fire department ambulance that tore away from the curb just as I arrived so I hopped in a police car with my sister and got as much information as I could about the situation from the policeman who was driving us MUCH TOO SLOWLY to the hospital.
Apparently, Jonathan checked on Matthew and then 20 minutes later checked on him again. He called 911 and began CPR.
20 minutes.
20.
That is a long time to be without oxygen and it was very much on my mind as I stared at the monitors in the ER.
It’s odd what your brain can pick up on. I noticed that the nurse standing nearest to me was wearing light blue scrubs and that she had a hot pink butterfly barrett holding her dark hair to the side of her ponytail.
Somewhere mind registered that my shoulder was throbbing because when I arrived by police escort to the hospital the door to the bay was locked and instead of knocking or waiting, some inner motherly instinct to get to my child at all costs took over and I hysterically slammed my body against the door to break it down.
They wouldn’t let me in the room unless I could “be calm and let the doctors work”. It took me a moment to speak because when I got the call that Matthew wasn’t breathing I literally screamed and screamed and screamed until my body gave out and wouldn’t let me anymore. I rasped out that I would do whatever the hell they wanted just let me GET TO MY BOY.
There were so many doctors and nurses gathered around him that I couldn’t see Matthew’s face. He was only wearing a diaper and one little sock.No matter how hard I tried to keep coverings on all my son’s toes, he seemed to perpetually have one sock or bootie missing.
I keep that one little sock in the drawer of my nightstand to this day.
There were huge, horrible syringes with big needles jabbed deep into the front of his legs. It looked so painful. Tubes were everywhere and monitors were beeping and alarms kept going off. When the nurse moved away to write on the white board, I saw a large, burly man in scrubs administering CPR very quickly with just two fingers.
I continued to stare at the monitors with readings that resembled a lie detector when it’s recording someone in the middle of a whopper.
Some part of me knew that something was wrong. I don’t know how else to describe it other than I have been an actress almost my whole life and I know when I am seeing a performance. They were doing what they were doing so Jonathan and I would know that they tried everything medically possible to save him.
I am an almost completely emotional person but at that moment I was almost completely analytical. I continued to take in information and analyze and I kept going back to the fact that Jonathan didn’t know how long Matthew had been without oxygen.
20 minutes…
I kept thinking over and over just how long that is for a brain to go without oxygen.
It took me years to admit, even to myself, but in those moments a tiny little voice wondered, “If they revive Matthew and he is horribly brain damaged, could I deal with that? Do I want him alive at any cost? Even if he is severely impaired?”
Not a pretty thing to know you thought as they were working on your kid, huh?
It caused a lot of pain and damage and guilt for me over the years.
I asked the doctor to level with me and be very blunt.
“How does it look for him?”
“Not good.”
I took a deep breath in and said, “Oh.”
After a few more minutes, the activity seemed to decrease and I knew what everyone in that room was thinking, but didn’t want to say.
So, I did.
I told them they could stop and I moved in next to my son and laid over him and broke into more pieces than I will ever be able to put back together.
I had little breaks in my sobbing where I would pull back and take in exactly what was done to my son in the process of trying to save his life. He was intubated and very obviously…dead.
Do you know one of the most horrible things for me in those moments?
There was a very large part of me that was totally freaked out by it EVEN THOUGH HE WAS MY SON. I think that most humans are just ingrained to fear death and dead bodies.I had never seen a body that wasn’t already prepared for burial and I did not think that my son would be the first.
It was horrible.
I made myself look at his eyes because I didn’t want to be afraid. I didn’t want to be afraid of the body of my sweet little son and yet…I was. The were blank and empty and not at all like they should have been.
I know quite a bit about the death process, but there is nothing that can prepare you to hear the slow, hissing, congested “death rattle” that happens as the oxygen is exiting the body for the last time. Worse than the sound was that even though I KNEW what was happening there was a tiny, tiny flare of hope that somehow it was a miracle and that he could survive. That flicker would die as fast as it came and bring on a fresh wave of grief and despair.
There was so much that went on that was highly emotional and gut-wrenching, but if I ever want this post to end, I will skip ahead three hours to when Matthew and I parted. I was sooooo freaked out by images of a metal gurney and him laying on it with a sheet over his head and I did.not.want. to let him go. I only able to because his body started to change. It was getting cold and there was blood that started to settle in different places and I couldn’t watch it happen. So, I told the nurses that I was ready for the funeral director to take him.
The people in the funeral business know what they are doing.
There was no stretcher.
The very big man with kind eyes in a dark suit told me that he was going to carry him out in his arms. It made me sob with gratitude that he was going to continue to be held and that I wouldn’t have to see him wheeled away covered up.
He held out his arm so that I could transfer Matthew over to him and he did not move one solitary muscle to take him.
He waited stock still until I, as Matthew’s mother, GAVE him up and allowed him to go.
Somehow he knew how very, very important it was for me to not have my son taken from me any more than he already had been, but for me to say it was ok to take him away.
I didn’t think it was possible to break any further, but I did in that moment.
I had to be sedated.
I went home and thanks to a shot and a hefty supply of pills, one of the worst nights of my life came to a close.
So…what could be possibly be worse than that?
The day I went to the mortuary.
Matthew died early Tuesday evening.
Wednesday was spent running around like a crazy person making arrangements, buying duplicates of everything I could get my hands on that Matthew would be buried with, finding a burial outfit, answering a million questions and making more decisions than I thought were possible. We spent a very long time at the mortuary writing Matthew’s obituary and making decisions about the funeral. 
They laid out the basics about what was going to happen with Matthew and what I would have to do to prepare his body for burial. I asked where has was at the moment.
“They just got back from Salt Lake with him.”
“Why was he in Salt Lake?”
“That is where the medical examiner’s office is. He had to be autopsied.”
I felt like I had been punched. It took me a moment to be able to breathe but still…knowing he was in the same building was both comforting and unbearable.
“Oh. Of course. I forget. Can I see him?”
“I say this honestly…you do not want to see him right now. He’ll be ready for you to view tomorrow.”
As hard as it was, I knew he was right.
So, Thursday we went to the mortuary to dress him for the funeral on Friday.
This whole grief thing has been pretty tricky to figure out. I will probably deal with it my whole life, but at least I have finally realized some things about myself that have helped somewhat. I haven’t been doing well. There has been a lot going on this month and very little of it has been good. Adding Matthew’s anniversary to it has made me come undone a little.
I have had such kindness from so many. Loving words from people that I adore. That is what gets me through. Still…I have noticed this year quite a few remarks that have almost made me feel ashamed of myself for being grief-stricken during this anniversary. Like when my sister told a mutual acquaintance that I was struggling and they replied, “HOW long has it been?” Another person that read some of my writings about Matthew was surprised it had been almost five years because the way that I wrote made them think that it had happened very recently. I have news for people; sometimes it seems like it’s been a lifetime since he died and other moments it feels like only seconds have passed.
Helpful , well-meaning people have wanted me to look for “the good” on the day. The positive things about having Matthew in my life at all. Here is the thing. For starters, I am an extremely pessimistic person. Life has made me this way. I’m beyond a ‘glass is half-empty’ type of person. It’s more like, “There is no effing glass. The glass is all a freaking LIE.” So, looking at the positive is always a struggle for me, although I do usually try.
For another, I do this on other days. I think about the good times with Matthew a lot. On his birthday, we don’t even go to the cemetery. We take our kids out and to do something fun as a family and it is the same with most holidays. We talk about the things we love and remember about him and the joy he brought us. I’m just NOT able to do that on his anniversary. And believe me, I have tried.
After five years of puzzling it out, I have finally come to some reasons why this is. For one, Matthew died right as the season changes in full force. The changes in the visual aspects of the year are evident and the most difficult thing to deal with is the smell of the air. It changes from the warm, earthy smell of summer to the cold, smoky crisp of autumn and it always brings a flood of memories that slam into me with the first whiff of it.
But above everything, I think that it has to do with the sheer trauma of the situation.
Death IS trauma.
Even in best case scenarios, which I had.
And this time of year I am hit again and again and again by horrible, horrible, HORRIBLE mental images and memories. I have a clotting disorder. I have made peace with it but I know that at any moment, I could throw a clot and either be severely injured or killed by it. Grief is a bit similar. Sometimes you will be going about a very normal day and BAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It rears up and overwhelms you in the blink of an eye.
I also know that there are situations where I am more prone to clotting. Long periods of sitting or laying and during pregnancies. So, I am full or more dread during those times, preparing and bracing the best I can. I walk around, inject myself daily in the abdomen with heparin and wear compression socks. It is very like this time of year during the buildup to his anniversary. I brace myself for what is to come. I know that the chances of reliving the hell of it all is much more likely. I have done as much as I can to prepare and heal but it’s just like battening down the hatches and pray that I make it through the hurricane without too much damage.
I am VERY aware that for someone who has lost a child I had about the best possible circumstances you could have. Parents of dead children are all in this horrible club that nobody wants to be a part of and as far as that club is concerned I am a platinum member because my son had perhaps the easiest, gentlest death that is possible for a human to have. I didn’t have to watch him suffer, he wasn’t maimed or tortured. He did not suffer. He literally went to sleep and didn’t wake up.
However, that doesn’t mean that it was easy.
No.
No, it wasn’t.
For a day-and-a-half I had been torturing myself with thoughts of my poor baby laying on a steel stretcher and laying in a refrigerated compartment.
I can’t tell you what that feels like. To know your baby is laying on something harsh, hard and cold.
It seemed like I waited forever before I could get in to see Matthew and each second that ticked by made me more and more agitated until I was about ready to go nuclear over everyone and tell them to get the fuck out of the way because I was frantic, frantic, FRANTIC to GET TO MY BABY.
Before I was allowed in the funeral director told me, “He’s right through here and I want you to know that he has been laying on that table since he got here.”
I was confused until I saw Matthew. He WAS on a gurney, but it wasn’t the cold steel contraption of my nightmares. Have you ever heard of a pillow-top gurney? Well, this was one. The table was covered with a soft, puffy almost bean-bag-esque top that was soft and comfy and it made me break down and sob with relief.
It may not have mattered at ALL to Matthew, but it mattered to ME.
After my brain registered what he was laying, on I saw my boy.
My little bug.
My Matthew.
That minute was a mixture of some of the most intense feelings of my life.
There was relief. I had never been away from Matthew for very long in his little life and so going that long without having him near me was unbearable. I was seeing him again and the sheer relief of being physically near him overwhelming.
But.
Here is the thing. Why I say that Thursday was the worst day of my life.
Because Wednesday was full of sedatives and a million decisions and running around and Tuesday was surreal. The sheer, physical SHOCK that I went into acted as a buffer in a way. Even though I watched him die. It didn’t seem real. Even though his body was starting to change when the funeral director took him away, he was still Matthew. My little bug. Not too different than the sweet baby I tickled, nursed, cooed at, hugged, kissed, bathed and rocked to sleep eleventyhundred times.
Staring down at him on that gurney, he looked the same in many ways but so, so different.
In that horrible moment my body felt like every nerve ending in my body was doused in gasoline and set on fie and my mind screamed and howled and broke apart as IT SANK IN.
Sank in that he was dead and never, ever coming back.
It isn’t like I didn’t know that before, I did. But it didn’t seem real. None of it seemed real. It seemed like any moment someone was going to say, “Wake the hell up, Loralee! You’re having a nightmare!”
Nothing will hammer reality in closer to home than seeing the effects of your baby’s skull being sawed in half, stuffed, and pieced back together by a staple gun.
He had been split in half and had his entire chest and torso opened up. The Y incision took up most of his body.
How’s that for something to think about in the dead of the night? The image and knowledge that your baby had literally been sawed in half, ripped open, stuffed and then stapled back together.
I always have a problem when I think of babies and little children that have surgeries. Their skin is so delicate and fragile and the thought of cutting into it makes me shudder and cringe horribly.
I went to pick him up to dress him and he…crinkled. You know, from the stuffing that filled the cavities of his body. His skin was harder and looked “set”. Almost like a doll. He didn’t smell right. He still smelled somewhat like him but there were also medical smells tinged with formaldehyde mixed in.
To see my son in this state has left scars on my mind, soul and heart that I will never heal from.
I rarely sleep and never sleep well because I have the most godawful nightmares you can imagine. Flashbacks. Anxiety attacks. I suffered from PTS and had so much fallout from it that I am still suffering five years later.
I have just have more ability to stay quiet about it.
In fact, I really thought I would be able to write more about this. I certainly set it up to write about mostly about “The most horrible day of my life”. I wanted to try and heal from some of that trauma and things that I saw but sitting here, I can’t do it. I spent more time writing about the day he died than the day I went to the mortuary.
I guess maybe that is illustrative of how bad it was, huh?
Just know that there is more. So much more that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write or speak of but I also know I will never, ever be able to forget it. Maybe I should have just posted this photo instead of making you read all of this. Like many of my photos of Matthew because we didn’t have a digital camera, It’s not the best photo. The quality is poor. My sister is the way. The lighting and exposure is bad, but it sums up that moment for me.
I just have to hope that one day it continues to get easier to bear. And it has to a point. Just not this time of year. Not this week in particular.
So, you’ll have to forgive me for not being all sorts of giggles and kicks. I’ll pull it together soon, I won’t leave this up for long and I do have a few light-hearted things to write about in mind. I needed to write this. To get it out. I’m sorry it was so long. It could have been much, much longer.
Please for all that is holy do not tell me to focus on the joy right now or look for the silver lining or make lemonade out of lemons, ok? I KNOW, ok? Really, I DO. And most other times of the year I DO. I have WONDERFUL moments and memories of Matthew. Just not right now.
Let me have my grief for a bit.
Thank you for listening and being there.
I appreciate more than I can say.
Terribly terribly sorry.
i read this original post at the time and thought, “how horrible.”
now, I’m here, right where you were and don’t know how i’m going to be able to cope. i so don’t want to be a member of this club. i don’t like clubs especially ones that involve children that die so senselessly.
thank you for your comment today. it means so much knowing there is someone who knows exactly how i feel.
Oh, God, Loralee, my heart is breaking for you. This was the most raw, real thing I have ever read in my life. I don’t know what to say except you are so incredibly brave and strong. Peace, prayers, hugs…I wish I could do something to ease your pain.
i ended up here after reading about what happened to gorillabuns’ son…and through tears, i am typing to tell you that a stranger in australia says i am so so so sorry for your loss.
I found you via #maddie and all of your kind words and suppport around their family. I, like you, did not know them but feel compelled to support. I have not been through what you have gone through and I don’t want to dilute your experience with words. I do care, you are amazingly real, and whether you feel it or now, I feel your strength, the strength to get it out, stand in it, let others shoot at you during that sharing, and stay standing. I support you in all of it and the healing that i hope will result from the obvious trudging you have had to do. I hope you can feel the support and caring of those who know you well, and those who have just met you.
jana
I too came here via Maddie’s tragedy. Everything here said – 10 times over. Your pain is valid to the highest degree. I’m shocked at some of the insensitive comments left. I just don’t understand how someone who has experienced your pain could hit that “submit comment” tab in any judgement.
you probably get tired of hearing this but you are a pillar of strength and i thank you for making me appreciate every second with my son even more. God Bless you and your family. <<>>
*HUGS*
Geez, I can’t even imagine. My heart goes out to you. I cried.
Headless Mom sent me an email as well to check in on your site; being that you live in the county my son had to visit. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to peak before we headed up to north. During our break of working on the 4th grade county report yesterday, I read your blog.
I was there for hours, mostly because it took me that long to read about your precious little Bug. I don’t cry; but as I read your eloquent words written with such passion, I began to feel that horrible lump in my throat and had to turn away. I would come back and finish reading, but tears welled and tears fell from my cheeks.
Grieving is a normal thing however painful it may be. Society expects us to take a week to gather our ourselves together and then jump back into the world. Personally, I believe grieving is a life long process, and nothing will ever replace the heartache. I can only hope that one day, you will all again be together as a family…
Your words oozed such love for your child and family. I’m thankful that you did write of Bug’s death and experience not only for you but for us. You have allowed us a glimpse into your world; the pain of heartache and the strength of family.
You ARE a pillar of strength to your readers and family; I appreciate your honesty and openness. God bless you and your family.
Bless your sweet heart. It doesn’t change a thing, but there are those who do understand, who wish with you, that parents never ever had to live through the heartbreak of losing a child.
You are wise beyond the telling of it. No, it won’t ever go away. Yes, it will continue to become easier to live with even though there will also be times when it feels all brand new again.
My heart goes out to you, and you and Matthew – and all your family – are in my thoughts.
yours,
Nan
Sometimes, I just come by and read this. xo
I don’t know what to say.. I just read this post and my heart cries out for you.. I’m so sorry!!
But I do want to tell you that you are a very brave woman, what you endured is not something mild it’s a life shattering experience but you are here to tell us about it!
I will not tell you that you will forget, it will get easier to deal with as the years go by but you will NEVER forget! You are a mom and losing a child is the worse that could happen no matter what age he/she was.
I could only send a virtual hug your way and pray for you and your family. Take care :)
Just came by your site via MomofTwoBoys (on Twitter). I lost my baby boy due to placental abruption- he passed away half an hour after was born. Losing a baby is the worst thing to ever happen to a person, and I am sorry you had to experience it.
Though I’ve never lost a baby, I lost my 12 year old last June 22nd, the anniversary is coming up and I know I will be a wreck. I am already feeling the blues about it, it’s looming over my head. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t cry for teh loss of my daughter. My PTSD turned into psychosis and I had to live in teh psych ward for about 2 months (which I think was the worst thing for me but anyways) I just wanted to let you know that I too am in this club of mothers. I wish we could be in person to comfort one another, but there again, that might be harder. *sigh* IDK. I am currently in a support group for mothers (some of them had children that died 5 or more years ago) and though we are healing, we are healing through tears and sad memories of each and every story. Just wanted to say I understand. take care
Loralee,
I can only add this:
Thank you for helping me (us?) know what NOT to say to grieving parents. Dear friends just lost their child, and I was horrified by some things people felt free to say.
The greater the love, the greater the grief…
Thank you for your honesty. God bless you and you will be in my prayers. I’m so sorry for your loss.
I am so sorry. It’s a beautifully written post about a horribly tragic story. Your beautiful little bug is in my thoughts.
I am so, so deeply, deeply sorry for your loss. I try not to live in absolute fear that the same thing could happen to my baby boy, but it’s in there, down deep. I’m so sorry that you have had to go through this. God bless.
“If they revive Matthew and he is horribly brain damaged, could I deal with that? Do I want him alive at any cost? Even if he is severely impaired?”
I thought the same thing about my Emma. I think it is natural.
Thank you for sharing this. So much of it I could relate to, from the above to the death rattle, I thought Emma was breathing again. It is just the worst.
I couldn’t finish the whole post, I will another day. You and I were going through this Hell at the same time. They died 1 month apart exactly.
I am so sorry.
Oh, Sweetpea. I must’ve read this post a thousand times and never felt like I had quite the right words to say, even though I wanted to tell you how beautiful your writing is and how much I was crying for you. So, here’s my verbal “hug”, many months later…
I do believe your sweet Bug is happy as a clam in heaven, even though I wish he was still in your arms here on earth. I also believe that he’s waiting happily for the day when he can wrap his chubby arms around your neck, cover you in kisses, and tell you with love and certainty that what happened that day was NOT your fault. And that he loves you so, so much and is so proud and blessed to have you as his Mama, because no one else could have been his Mama any better than you. It was no mistake that you two were matched up.
And I also hope I said the right thing, because if anyone deserves a smile, it is you. I am so happy for your newest addition and the joy he brings with him.
Many hugs to you, Loralee. I think you are a fantastic human being and mother.
I sat at my desk today and cried. I deal with my own grief everyday the tears that streamed down my face were cleansing. I hope you can find refreshment in the tears that stream down your face as well
Loralee,
My heart aches for you, even though I know Matthew is with his Savior now, he should still be with you for many many years. I pray that as time passes your pain will be more bearable. My own family lost an infant very recently and I know how much you are suffer and continue to suffer.
I’m just catching up on your blog, Loralee, and I am so very sorry about your loss. I am grieving with you. Sending hugs and love your way.
sobbing my eyes out right now. i’m so very sorry for your loss.
My 6 year old sister passed away 44 years ago. She was here one day and gone the next…no warning. She just died. I have never forgotten her. My Mother has told me she will never let go of her grief, it is hers and hers alone. She said she just got used to Cathleen not being there but a day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t think of her. Me either. I will pray that you will continue to remember Matthew and the good memories, and that the horrible images in your dreams turn into lovely dreams.
It’s probably an Australian way to phrase it but anniversaries are a bastard. People who think anniversaries are for thinking of the good times obviously haven’t experienced soul wrenching grief.
My heart goes out to you and yours.
Sweetie, God bless you. I’ve been there too.
I am sitting here in tears…i am a mommy, too. It’s almost unbearable to feel your grief, but I feel it proudly.
My parents died when I was 9, in an accident. I still miss them, and sometimes it sucks, and hurts, and makes me angry, and it is easier sometimes than others, but I have come to the conclusion that the hurt doesn’t ever go away. We have to find some way to bear the unbearable, you and me and everyone else who has lost someone they love. Best of luck finding the road through that. Sending love,
Amanda
I’m actually crying from reading your story. I don’t even know what to say except how sorry I am.
I have read this several times and it brings tears to my eyes each time… no one should ever have to go through that. I don’t know what else to say– I’m not sure if you need it now, but ((( hugs )))
I always need hugs from this.
ALWAYS.
THANK YOU.
xo
I don’t think there is a mother out there that just read that and didn’t imagine it being her baby and how she would have felt. I am still wiping the tears from my face. That is my biggest fear. I wish there was something that I could do for you, but I know that I can’t. I know it’s been said a million times over , but I’m so sorry. Greive. I know that I would be. I wouldn’t want any damn lemonade either. Don’t worry about what people say, but you could talk to your doctor about maybe giving you a little nerve medicine for this time of year. I do know of people having to resort to that just to get through the days. It might sound bad to say that, but you have other children and whatever it takes to help you will help them also. I hope that I’ve helped you in some way. Just know, that from the bottom of my heart, even though I don’t know you personally, I care.
I’m sitting here doing the ugly cry. Hiccuping, with tears streaming down my face. No human, no mother, should ever have to endure that kind of pain. I’m experiencing a microscopic portion for you this morning, and I am so sorry for your heartache. Beautiful post, very well written. Thank you for sharing your heart.
This. This is exactly it, and I want to thank you for sharing it with us as much as you could. My dad passed on September 23, 2008, and this year made for the first anniversary of it. And people (my friends at college and online) tried to direct the form my grief took that day. Everything you said about thinking about the good times the rest of the time rings true for me. The anniversary became a time to be depressed, to mourn, to yearn, and relive, and no one can change that.
I know the circumstances and everything are all so very different, but this type pain reverberates to all of the others.
I have no words. My heart aches for the hole you feel in yours. Hugs won’t help but I’ll give them to you anyway ((loralee). I also pray for peace. It’s not meant as lemonade or trite words, and it doesn’t mean the pain and grief go away, it’s just I hate for you to hurt so very bad. ((loralee))
I am so sorry…I am not sure what else to say that has not already been said.
No mother or father should have to go through this…no matter what. Bottom line.
Hugs and prayers.
Oh I am so sorry and before you explained why two days later was the worst I already understood. It all became far too real.
You never have to apologize for your grief. Never.
Anyone who makes you feel bad because you are grieving the loss of a child is a horrible and selfish person.
I lost a baby to a miscarriage on 9/11 and every year while the world is focused on the anniversary of the WTC, etc., my mind is on my baby girl that I will never hold.
Matthew is your son and you will always miss him.
My friend lost her daughter Claire to SIDS in 2007 and all of us who loved her feel that loss every April.
I am sorry for your loss and I do pray you will know peace again while I know you will always mourn the loss of your son.
((HUG)) Thank you for sharing Matthew’s story.
My son is Matthew’s age. Once he asked if he died, if I would be sad. I told him, Baby, if you died, Mommy would never ever be fully happy ever again.
You will hurt forever. If people don’t get that, then…they are missing a part of their heart.
Thank you for sharing your son’s story. I’m so sorry for your loss- both then and now.
–Trish
The moment I realized what the doctor was saying – that my nephew had died – I started screaming. I screamed at the top of my lungs right in the middle of the PICU. I was not his biological mother, but had lived with him for most of his 4 ½ years. I had taken care of him those first few precious weeks of life, when his mother was recovering from her near death during his delivery. I remember sleeping – or rather NOT sleeping – with my ear pressed against the baby monitor, listening for the tiny breath sounds and movements that proved he was alive.
As hard as his death was/is for me, I know it was incalculably worse for my sister. Her first-born, her baby boy taken from her – killed in a tragic accident.
No one can tell you how to grieve, or how long. My sister still takes to her bed during the anniversary of his death, and it has been 14 years. 14 years – sometimes it feels like a moment ago, and sometimes it feels like yesterday. There is truth to the words “You don’t get over it, you just get through it.”
I guess my points are there is no right or wrong way to grieve, and you are not alone. You are right that it is a club no one wants to join (though my membership is ancillary). I am very sorry for your loss.
I wish I could think of something to say as wonderful as what missy said. But yeah… that. My little girl is 5 and I lived (and still live) in fear of losing her. If by sharing in your tears we could only help to make your burden a little bit lighter…for only those with a heart of stone could read what you wrote and not be broken.
I am so sorry. I wish we were friends or sisters and I could hold you and cry with you and help you just a little to deal with the pain.
I am desperately sorry for the loss of your baby.
Loralee — I just found you through Sandi. I can’t even speak through the tears. I am so very sorry for your loss. He was a beautiful boy.
I still cry about losing my niece, and I didn’t even lose her suddenly. It’ll be five years this Christmas since my brother and his wife had to let her go. I miss her, my kids miss her. Her sweet brother misses her too. I cry for him, for them… for her not getting a chance to grow up with my girl… they were the same age. I’m crying for you too. And wiping my tears now because there goes the alarm clock.
Ignore the insensitive comments. Even people who have been through a similar crisis can’t understand exactly what happened to you, because they aren’t you. They don’t have full access to your heart. I’m pretty sure God is the only one who really gets it. Hang in there and hold on to the little blessings that get you through.
My heart breaks for you. My little girl is almost 6 months old. She has had three surgeries to correct a birth defect — the first one when she was two days old. I wasn’t sure HOW I’d make it through those first 12 days in the NICU. It was hellish.
But losing a child is HELL. And no one, absolutely no one, has a right to tell you how to grieve or how long to grieve. You just make it the best way you know how — that’s all any of us can do.
I hope the moments you can remember the joys of Matthew are more and more and the moments it hurts to breathe from the pain occur less and less.
Wow! I am writing a reply, but I don’t have a reply for that. I am so so so sorry that you have had to deal with this. I got your website off of the 13 and counting blog. My daughter will be 4 months old in February and I can’t even imagine being able to go on another day if that happened. Even with my husband and son to take care of. I’m afraid the grief would overpower me. Thank you for sharing your story and I look forward to reading more.
I know your pain, except I still have my boy. My son ALMOST died, but didnt. I am left with a soul that is so severly handicapped I cry daily cause his life is ruined. I dont know which is worse greving for a child lost or grieving for a handicapped child whom is also lost. I know your child is in a better place than mine.
(((HUGS))) from one greiving mom to another. Thank you for sharing.
Loralee, I can’t find any words. I can’t imagine any of it.
It’s March 2010 and I feel terrible that I’m only reading this now. I am beyond sorry and utterly devastated for your loss.
I am so. so. sorry. I am actually so sorry I feel sick.
Just reading your story for the first time and wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss. My 4 year old daughter and I are praying for you.
I am so sorry for you loss and your grief. There is never a silver lining or lemonade or any other positive thing that comes from such an unnatural situation.
It is not NATURAL for mothers to lose their children. And to think that anyone could “look for the good” in it is ridiculous. Death is unnatural. The only natural thing about death is that we react in a natural way–we grieve. It’s what we do.
I am so sad for you :( My heart is breaking. That last picture of you holding your precious baby boy is heartbreaking. I could never imagine what you are going through, but know that I am praying for you and the sweet baby that you so unexpectedly lost. You have a beautiful angel watching over you mama. HUGS.
I am crying over here.
So sorry for your loss.
Just so, so sorry.
Have you read “A Grief Observed,” by chance? I read it a long, long time ago…and it touched me.
I’m so so sorry.
I’m so sad for you.
You are right though, the scars and pain will never go away. My father died when I was 12. I was home alone with him when it happened. When he called me for help, I did not go right away, I thought he wanted me to get him a glass of water or something and I did not want to. I was mad at him for not letting my friend come over. When I did go the second time he called me he said something like I’m sick or I need help. I can’t remember his exact words anymore. I responded with “well what do you want me to do” and I did NOT say it nicely. He told me to call my mom and while I was on the phone with her he passed out and vomited on himself. You would think dieing of a heart attack would not be a traumatic thing to see, but it is.
I had such guilt thinking that if I had responded to him quicker he may have lived and how could I have been so mean to him speaking to him that way. The guilt was intense but as a 12 year old I didn’t express it and my mom didn’t know for a few years. She finally figured it out and told me that even if he was in a hospital at that exact moment he would not have made it.
The damage was done though.
Just like looking at your boy cut up after the autopsy.
I’m 38 now, it’s been a looong time and it still hurts. What has happened for me is I can go longer periods with out thinking about it. I know that when I do think about it, no matter how old I get, it will always hurt.
You will learn how to manage it as I’m sure you already have. Time will not heal it, it will just make it more managable.
You are a proactive, strong woman who is obviously loved by many!
Sincerely,
Wendy
I’m deeply sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your honest journey with us.
I too am just reading this, so didn’t comment sooner. Your writing is profoundly moving, but I so wish you didn’t have to live with such pain…
I will never forget your story, nor your Matthew.
HUGS from yet another stranger,
Nancy
I’m just reading this, as I’m fairly new to your blog, and I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I know it is late, and I know it is silly, but I feel like I just had to say it.
I’m so, so sorry.
Thank you for sharing this. On May 7, I will cry for the loss of my dear one. I share your grief and pain. Time heals a lot but never completely. It still comes like huge waves, and catches me by surprise.
Wow, what a moving entry. I have been sitting here crying with your pain, trying to imagine how anyone survives such loss without loosing their mind, and knowing that the empathetic tears I cannot stop are a pale shadow of what you have felt.
I wish something I could say or do would in anyway sooth the hurt you have felt.
Dearest, I am so sorry.
I’m not crying. I can’t. My heart is in my throat and my breathing is shallow. Just like when you were speaking at bloggy boot camp. Words won’t change what happened to your sweet little bug. Words won’t erase the guilt or the pain. But words can convey the love and support I feel for you right now.
I feel like an asshole trying to write something that doesn’t sound stupid about something so traumatic, and i am pretty sure i am failing horribly at it. All I can say is that I am so very glad I hugged you when I had the chance. You are an amazing speaker, person, writer, and mother. And I am so, so, very sorry for your loss and the pain you are still dealing with.
And there. Now I’m tearing up.
I don’t know what else to say, so I’ll just end it here. Thank you for sharing. I’d hug you again right now if I could.
Found your blog today and read this entry. Is it wrong to say thank you? Thank you for being honest and putting into words how I seem to be feeling myself? I lost my mom 28 years ago, and yet for some reason this year I am struggling with her loss. Missing her in a way I haven’t for years. And so, for me, this entry of yours makes me feel as though I’m okay.
The 5 year anniversary is tough. A friend of mine had the foresight to warn me. I don’t know why it is so.
I like to think that the reason I still miss the people who have left life before me is because I loved them and they loved me. And in some way, that comforts me. Because, aren’t we suppose to love?
I attended your panel at BlogHer this weekend and just want to say how brave and amazing I think you are. Your story has been in my heart every second since that panel. I have a three month old son and just can’t imagine. Thank you for continuing to talk about your grief. People need to know that it doesn’t just disappear and it doesn’t get easier. The more people know, the more we can support each other. Thank you for helping us learn that.
A friend posted a link to your site – I too am a mother whose child has died.
I don’t know if you’ve discovered Glow in the Woods (I’d presume so) but since we’ve lost Foster (Died March 21/22, born March 23 2010) it’s been a help.
I wept at your description of the funeral director carrying your sweet boy away. Ours did the same for us. He remarked that Foster was just too sweet to leave in the back of the car and so he drove up front with him to the coroner. The simple kind gestures were both painful and heartbreaking because they happened, and yet I’m grateful for them.
I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry you’re doing without.
Through various channels I ended up at your blog. I read it because the hilarity of your typical posts caught my attention. I loved the candor and the way you expressed yourself as if we were inside your head with you. But I followed the link to this entry and read what you said here. It was a totally different tone, but just as clear.
As a mother of 3 little boys (one of which would NOT sleep unless on his stomach and that gave me nightmares) I sobbed and my heart ached for you then, and now. Nothing I say will make it all better, and maybe I’m being silly in saying this, especially as a comment to a rather old post… but I think I will anyway.
My mother and I have had many long talks about things like SIDS. So many children are put in situations where they COULD be affected by this, but not all are. For whatever reason we both feel like some are meant to be here only a short time. That’s really the only explanation there can be for why some leave us and some do not.
I had a friend lose a child last summer in an awful accident. I’ve listened to hear talk about her feelings knowing she needed to talk and to be listened to even if it was painful.
Please just know that you have my prayers and my heartfelt understanding for having to deal with grief the way you need to. No, silver linings and lemonade do not make it better, and while the idea is nice, the reality is just not along those lines. As I am reading this at this time of year due to the link you sent back to it from this year.. I just want you to know that you are cared about by a stranger.. a fellow mother who has wept with you, ached with you, and wished with all her heart she could hug you and just let you cry if you need to.
My heart is in pieces. I can’t imagine what yours may feel like. I’m so sorry
MY HEART GOES OUT TO YOU. I CAN’T EVEN BEGIN TO IMAGINE WHAT YOU’RE GOING THROUGH. I’M A MOTHER OF A 2YR OLD AND I CAN’T NOR DO I WANT TO PICTURE MY LIFE WITHOUT HER. SHE IS MY LIFE. YOU TAKE ALL THE TIME THAT YOU NEED. THOSE WOUNDS MAY NEVER HEAL.
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I lost my brother in the fall 14 years ago. You know what someone had the nerve to say to my sister not even a whole year later? ‘It’s been 6 months already, get over it’ I wanted to pound them into the ground. 6 months? It took me years before I could finally truly enjoy the Christmas season. I know this isn’t about me and I’ve come along way. And I can’t say that I know how you feel because with children of my own I have never lost any of them. I would think that losing a child would be harder than a sibling? Well, I saw my mom go through it and it was heartbreaking. I’m sorry that another mother has to go through it. Sorry for the long post. And I am so sorry for your loss.
Struggling to stop the tears. I don’t know what to say but thank you for your vulnerability to share this with us.
I can’t imagine if my daughter died. I would claw at the earth and scream until I lost my breath or I burst a lung. God, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever read. I’m so sorry.
I am so deeply sorry. Thank you for sharing this in order to give others of us even a vague clue of what this kind of pain looks like. I can’t imagine having my heart broken this way. I wish I had better words to express my sympathy.
I still have the doll I bought to give my baby, Angel. I keep it in my underwear drawer along with the poof from my moms body powder she used. Every time I open that drawer I see it and touch it. I can’t figure out if it helps or makes it worse.
Honey
Thank you for sharing, my dear… it is through YOUR passion, YOUR wisdom and YOUR strength that you teach us all to cherish, adore, heal and protect each precious memory. Please remember that you are NEVER alone….His light never leaves your side. TJ
I want you to know even two years later, I can only imagine the pain that you go through each year and it definitely understandable.
My son would also throw the glass away. He has never believed in a glass half full and until this, I didn’t understand. Maybe I do now. He feels as though everything goes against him and as his dad said recently, lately he hasn’t had a whole lot to go right in his life. Thank you for making me understand there are others out here like him.
I also understand your questioning if you would want your “BUG” to live if he was horribly brain dead. In some ways he would still be alive, but he would not be the child you had held and loved and that would have to be a very hard thing to go through.
More than anything I want to say I would also give you a hug if only I could reach you. You honesty about your feelings and the love you and your husband have for your baby is so wonderful. You have a right to all the grief you feel and will for as long as you live.
Susan
I’ve spent the past few hours reading your 2011 blog and then jumped back in time to this one. I’m crying for your loss. I still get upset every year over my own loss, but that’s who I am. who we are.
This is my first time reading your blog. I am so, so sorry and my heart is breaking for you. What an unspeakable thing to lose a child. Lots of love.
Stopped by your blog for the first time today from a link to your family fights post and I happened to click on this. You have great insight and awesome strength to be able to put this into words to share. I have one friend who lost her son and she described it to me one day as a fight against letting insanity take her life each and every day. She wakes up, forces herself to get out of bed, get dressed and go on living because she fears the day she will lay down and give up. This was not weeks or months after the death of her son, but many years later and I completely understood how life shattering that moment was, how you sometimes move forward the best you can but some things don’t just get left behind, they are forever. Sending a big hug for you and your family.
Oh my dear!My friend just lost her baby from SIDS, they kept him alive for a few weeks and then had to let him off the ventilater, he was 4 months old and he was breathing on his own for awhile, they fed him threw his veins but the feeding made his tummy bloat becauce he could not be burped! this started maken his breathing harder.He was a fighter! He gave up the battle this morning10/13/11 after 27 days, his lil heart couldnt take it anymore:(….It is so very sad and im sad for u and ur loss also!I honestly have no idea what my friend and u are going threw!I lost my grandparents and my mother and father and my brother all with in 10 years, that hurt me so horribly bad, i could not function!To loose my own child would have put me over the edge i believe!God Bless You!Stay Strong!!Take Care! Debbie Tremmel (momma_clubby@hotmail.com)
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I’m not sure I will be able to see what I ‘m writing through the tears that just don’t seem to want to stop! Thank u for sharing your traumatic story and your deep intense “grief ” that is extremely raw and very much real! I can only pray that God will give you more good days than bad. I know in the Bible it says “blessed are those that mourn for they shall be comforted ” Maybe that comfort will be when Jesus places your little bug back in your arms for eternity, so until then grieve as much and however long you soul needs to! A mother’s love is forever, so why would her grief not be just as long <\3
I’ve read this post many times over the past 4 years. Each time my heart sinks and I just want to hug you and cry with you.
I recently had my first child; a son, with red tinted hair and the middle name Matthew. For the past two months, he has been my world. Every night I pray that God will protect my angel from SIDS. I’ve been so paranoid that I didn’t want to put him in a swing. I kept thinking of your little angel, Matthew. I gave in, he loves his swing. The whole time he is in it, I feel so much anxiety. I keep reverting back to this post.
I have a found a product that has made my nights a little more relaxed. It’s a SIDS monitor that clips onto the baby’s diaper to monitor his breathing. I would suggest EVERY parent invest in this gadget. I had been using mine for about two weeks and two nights ago it paid off.
My husband and I were sitting on our loveseat watching TV while I put the baby to sleep. He had just finished his bottle and fallen asleep in my arms – IN MY ARMS. He has just been a little wiggle worm and finally got still when all of the sudden his monitor went off. My husband jumped up as I looked down to see my baby not breathing. I had read stories online saying to clap loudly to startle the baby awake. I began screaming his name and shaking my arms to wake him. My husband was yelling as well. He finally snapped out of it and woke up. His cry was the best sound I had ever heard. The whole ordeal probably lasted 30 seconds, but felt like hours. I’ve never cried that hard. He now wears his monitor anytime he is sleeping, not just at night.
I writing this story for two reasons: First, I want you to know that my heart aches for you. I will continue to pray for you and your family. Secondly, I think others need to be aware of this monitor. I only recently found out about it and am so thankful that I did. If this story can save a life, than I will be that much more at ease.
The product that I have is a Snuza Halo. The link to their website is: http://snuza.com/