Dear Matthew,
Every year I make a pact with myself and swear that the anniversary of your death will be easier to deal with. And every year I usually sit here in the still hours of the night realizing that I am such an idiot for thinking this could (or should) get easier.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen your sweet face.
You would be 7 this year.
James was 7-years-old when you died.
He looks so little.
Your casket looks littler.
A casket should not be that small. It’s so very…wrong.
I know that I never talked to you like this when you were here, but it’s nice, every so often, to do. Because I have to believe that you are here somewhere. No matter how bitter, how filled with rage and despair and anger I have been, I have always believed that you still exist.
I refuse to believe otherwise.
Refuse.
You were too wonderful to just end.
So, here I sit.
Alone in the middle of the night with a lake of tears on my keyboard.
Aching to talk to you.
Hold you.
Kiss you.
7 years have passed since that horrible night I held you in my arms in a trauma bay and broke into more pieces than I will ever be able to put back together.
I feel like I have lived several lifetimes since then, held completely still and gone around and around like a broken record all at the same time.
I look at other 7-year-olds and think about what you would be doing, how many teeth you would be missing, how you should be going to school next door and how I should see you from our kitchen window waving at me from the playground at recess. You should, and would be doing all the things other 7-year-olds are doing. (Only you would be much better looking and talented than them all. What can I say? You were utterly adorable, son. I am just speaking the truth, here.)
I try to picture what you would look like and I am usually at a loss because I keep picturing you as my sweet little baby.
I miss you so much it physically hurts, Matthew.
I’ve been ok, really. Most of the time it is doable.
I laugh a LOT.
Ask anyone.
:)
I just…I feel so tired tonight.
Just worn to bits.
The things I think about and remember would make anyone tired.
Sometimes, not often, I look at photos from then.
In some ways it was easier right after I lost you because how I felt is obvious just by looking at me. I see my face in these photos and see a girl who could crumble to pieces with a gust of wind. Raw emotion is all over me. (And usually everyone with me. Especially your dad. He loves you so.)
When we were at the Mortuary with you–
During your funeral–
And the day after your funeral and I went to help your cousins get ready for Homecoming–
We all carried the weight that was your loss in every inch of us.
We still do.
I still do.
I am still this–
Whether I want to or not, I still carry this woman around with me every single day.
I probably always will.
(For the record, I think she could stand to lose a pound or two to give my back a break. And can someone tell her that the cast of Friends called and they want their hairstyle back. Just sayin’.)
I have found small ways to cope, though.
(Like inappropriate humor, for example. ;P)
Little things that don’t seem like they would help comfort anyone and yet they do.
I’m such a tangible person.
‘Things’ matter deeply to me.
I don’t know why this is and often, well, it kind of makes me feel shallow.
Even though I know I’m SO not that way.
Gifts make me feel like I am important to someone. It doesn’t matter overly what it is, it could be as small as a letter or a pack of my favorite gum. It’s what is behind it. Objects make me feel tied to someone. It’s almost like all my memories of them in something I can hold, touch and smell. In high school, when he was at one of his endless rehearsals or football practices, I used to spray my boyfriend’s sweatshirt with his cologne and wear it while slow dancing with a pillow in the dark to a mixed tape of “our songs” before writing poems about my pain.
(For the record, I am aware that I was a total tool in high school, son.)
Things can bring me a lot of comfort.
I went to a conference this week. It was a big change for me. I’ve never been away and around a lot of people near your anniversary. It was actually very helpful. So many people were kind and listened to me mention you a bit. They were all so lovely. After confessing to everyone how much I loved her handmade ruffled bags, a lovely lady told me to come by her booth and pick out any bag I liked. It was a good thing she did, too because your father would have hit the roof if I purchased one. more. handbag.
(Somehow, Bug, I know if you had been given the opportunity to grow into a man and marry a wonderful girl with a penchant for red hair you would have been TOTALLY understanding about a girl’s need to buy fabulous handbags. Because you are awesome.)
This is the one I picked.
(Photo courtesy of The Fancy Farmgirl)
It made me so happy when I saw it.
I bet you know why, don’t you?
And why I chose this particular bag this particular week?
Yup.
It’s orange.
Or as I like to call it, “Bug Orange”.
It reminds me of you, Matthew.
I could never find an orange outfit to dress you in and it was frustrating, but I would have dressed you in orange every day of your life if I had the ability.
There was so very little I cared about after you died, but I knew that I wanted orange at the funeral. And as I look at the photos from that day, I see it peeking out everywhere-from flowers, to clothing to your little things that we brought with us to hold and love on as we said goodbye to you.
It’s kind of like that book and movie, Pascal and the red balloon when I look through your photo album, only with orange.
Even the bag piper that we had play the pipes in Celtic tradition to guide your soul off to heaven wore his plaid with orange in it (though it looks more red here, it.was.orange.)
I know it seems like such a small thing, but I am so tangible and this color has given me so much comfort over the long years here without you.
I buy orange as often as possible.
When I wear or use something orange it is like having a little bit of my sweet Little Bug with me.
And I always, always, ALWAYS think of you when I see it.
The same goes with ladybugs because well…that was your nickname.
We put lady bugs and orange all over where you are now.
Because they are YOU to me.
And they have brought me a lot of joy.
And so have the people that loved you.
And if they didn’t know you, they love you through me.
Those people loving you has helped save me, Bug.
I love them.
It’s why I sobbed my eyes out today when I opened a package and reading the sweet note enclosed from a dear, sweet, lovely friend. She is lovely and listened to me talk about you and orange and lady bugs this weekend. And then she flew home and made this little bug I can wear with “Always” stamped on the bottom.
And it’s true.
It is for “Always”.
Because you will always be here with me. I may be the most tangible person alive, but I don’t need one single object to remind me of my unending love for you, Matthew. You are my son. My little one. My light and life and love that will never stop being a part of me and a part of the people that love you so very, very much.
I miss you.
I think about you.
I love you.
ALWAYS.
Love,
Mama.
Tears and hugs for you.
I just wanted to send my love and empathy to you. I feel like I should say more, but the words won’t come. Invisible hugs to you and your family.
I don’t read your blog often (nothing personal, I just don’t have time), but I follow your tweets. You are my movie guide since pointing me to Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang.
I was very lucky that my son decided to stay with us instead of going back to God at 1 month old. It was a simple heart catheterization (he’s had 2 heart surgeries since), but anesthesia is tricky and he didn’t come back to us on his own. Anesthesia was my greatest fear and I was right. Every time I read or hear about a mama that has lost a child I’m right back in that moment. I would hug you so tightly if I was there.
I have long said that anyone who tells me that there is not something more after this life is telling me that I cannot see my Grandma again and they can just, well, “explicative” off. I get to be with my Grandma. You get to be with your Bug. No other possibility is permissible. End of story.
((((((((((((((((((HUGHS))))))))))))))))))))))))) I been in your shoes. I lost my baby girl. This past September 21st she should be 14 yrs. old. We haven’t stop thinking about her. (((((HUGHS))))
Oh, I am so sorry. My eldest boy is 14. I wish I could hug you right back.
I’m so sorry, Loralee. For you and your family. I don’t even know what to say except you are loved here and in the beyond and someday Matthew will be waiting at the door for when his mama comes home to Heaven and eternity will be filled with hugs and love that can finally be acted upon.
I wish there was something I could say that would make a real difference, but I don’t know if there is. You are an amazing mother. I know your Bug is proud of you. (HUGS)
Hugs to you. Today and every day.
ps. Love that purse.
I am amazed at how kind and generous and supportive you are of people around you, even while mourning your sweet sweet baby. You really have a beautiful spirit.
Orange is my little red-head’s color too. I started sobbing as soon as you showed the Gussy bag.
Still so sorry – all I can offer is inappropriate humor, for example. ;P, so I better be off.
Your humor is greatly appreciate, Joe. You almost always make me laugh, dude. :)
Sending hugs to you today. You have created a wonderful legacy for your boy. I will never be able to see orange or look at a lady bug without thinking about him now as well.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day. Read this letter this morning on my phone but just now getting a chance to comment. We lost my brother when I was 19 and seeing my mom go through the loss of a child is something so wrong and unnatural. Praying for you today and your loss.
I love that you have a color; a representation of life. Today, I wore orange (before I read this) and I am happy to say that it will be considered as my way of honoring you, and Matthew. I would have worn a ribbon, a pin, a picture for you to thank you for all the support you have been to me. September is….hard, angst ridden, profoundly sad and yet somehow made brighter because of the love that is shared in your written words and the words of those who love you.
We are all connected whether through grief or through kindness. What a world filled with love you have. You are amazing. Thank you for sharing your journey!
Much love,
4
I have had three children gravely ill at birth, and have pictured my world without those children, it is not a picture I can bear to conjure. I have been praying for you all month. I will continue to pray that you are given a measure of peace, and that God will bless you with a sign that Matthew is nearby, watching, waiting for the day, long from now, that his mama and dad join him. Blessings and many hugs to you, Megan
Oh, that was a terrible day. But I’m honored to have been there and to have known Matthew. (I think I may have taken the picture of Christopher.) Love, and hugs, and you are in my prayers, as always.
I still have the beautiful sign you made of his name, Holly. I love it. xo
Wrigley would have been 7 at the beginning of this month. I sit here at my daughter’s soccer practice crying with you my sweet friend. I feel and understand all that you wrote to your Bug. Pain and joy mingle together everyday with us. Laughter and tears are the norm. If we ever meet I’ll be the fool hugging you while I’m blubbering and grinning simultaneously (and knowing me probably tripping on something). Love and hugs my friend.
Oh, I am so sorry for your loss. THERE ARE TOO MANY OF US.
But at least there is a band of people who support and love and cry and empathize at soccer practices for someone far away experiencing something they know all too well.
Hugs to you.xo
Sweet Loralee…my heart is aching for you this week. You are brave and strong and brilliant and beautiful, but sometimes you get to throw all of that out of the window and just be a mess of sobs. I know that I would if I were in your shoes. I cannot imagine the pain that you deal with on a daily basis, but you mange to hide it with grace and humor and all around awesomeness (perhaps the Diet Coke is the secret). Please know that you are loved and admired for all that you are to so many. I am fortunate to have met you and honored to call you my friend (unless we’re not friends, in which case, meh, whatever).
I adore you and am sending you gigantic (((((((hugs)))))))
Always remember these broad shoulders :)
xoxo
S
You and your broad shoulders are definitely friends of mine.
(And not just because you got me to laugh here. Heh.)
xo
loralee, i am sending hugs and kisses you today. this was such a beautiful post dedicated to your little one who is safe and happy i heaven right now. that’s so great you were able to attend the conference and cheer up a bit!
Hugs for all of you.
I’ve never read you before (got here via Y’s blog), but I can tell you that I will now think of your sweet Bug whenever I see the color orange. I’ll ask my mom to keep a lap open for him.
Sending you much love and many hugs from the Rockies. You’re a great mama.
-Debbie
This may sound strange, you may find it out of line, and if so, I apologize. You have often stated that you and your husband have been to hell and back together. I look at the pictures you have posted here, and it seems so clear that you were able to lean on him, even though he was grieving too. I think that’s what makes a marriage – that in the worst of times, he’s just there, being strong – even if he falls apart, he’s there. I am sure you held him up, too. You must have held each other up. But, he looks so simply THERE. It’s a commendable thing, to be able to do that. I’m glad that he was the one there for you, he looks like he was meant to be. I hope that makes some kind of sense.
No…it does make sense. For awhile we were very solid and pulling together but it is the hard truth of grief…it is huge and can overwhelm you and you go into survival mode. It is very hard to grieve when your style of it is completely different than what your partner needs, if that makes sense.
It took an enormous toll in all areas of our life.
It has been a very long road but yes, he was utterly there for me and I could not have gotten through it without him. XO
I know most of the replies here are from women who feel that special mother bond. But, as a father, I feel pain for you and your family as well. Guys cry too. I just proved it. A lot. I have two sons, 14 & 9. We also had two miscarriages in between them. My wife says that was our two little girls. It is every parent’s fear that something awful will happen to their children. I get upset when my 14 year old gets his heart broken by a little girl he has his “high school crush” on.
I was 8 years old when i lost one of my closest friends on the playground at recess. He had a undiagnosed heart condition and it could have happened any time any where. It just happened to be just after he passed the basketball to me. To this day I go and sit by his grave, though it’s been 37 years. I tell him how sorry i am he didn’t get a chance to grow up with me. I cry. A LOT. You’d think pain like that would ease after so long. But sometimes it just all comes back. We break down, slowly put ourselves back together and move on. God bless you for sharing your grief here. God ease your heartache. God Bless your little “Bug”.
Fathers of lost little ones break my heart. They hurt just as much but honestly…society doesn’t remember them nearly as much as the mothers.
I had a talk with Jon about my post. He is such a private person and these are such personal pictures, I wanted to make sure he was ok with it because frankly…it’s as emotional as you will ever see him. I didn’t want to invade his privacy further by writing about him as well, you know? But I also wanted him to feel loved.
I wish that for every father who has gone through this.
I am so, so, SO glad you commented here.
Bless you (and your crying.). Both are wonderful. xo
Loralee, I have thought about you guys all day today. As a parent, I can’t even imagine. But just so you know, your “looney” writing/coping mechanism has saved me twice. As you know, it was because of your bug that I found your blog. You know the post. But the thing is that a couple times when I was rock bottom, drowning in my own desperation, your p.s.sssssss lifted my spirit. Those posts floated my spirit off the shoals of despair. It’s an amazing thing to have tears of desolation turn to tears of laughter without the wet trails on your face ever drying. You made me smile and laugh and my heart followed. So thank you for that. And also remember that the intensity of your family’s pain today, is testament to the depth of your love for Matthew. Big cyber hug for all of you.
thank you for sharing this tender, heartfelt tribute, loralee -this conversation between your bug and you. sending love to you and your family. so much xoxo
I’m so behind on blog reading and I’m sorry this comment is so late.
I just wanted to say that I’m thinking about you, and I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. Your writing is so heartbreaking and beautiful.
My heart aches for you. My heart prays for you. My heart loves you.
A mother’s love can be felt, I’m sure, far longer than we realize or dare to dream. I have two girls, one we call “Bug” and one who adores orange. I’ll give them both bigger hugs and more kisses tonight. Peace momma, peace.
I came here after a link from Lex’s site . . . I read this . . . my little man turns six today. I realize how extremely lucky I am, more so now. You’re a stronger human than I. I have two (6 and 20), and if I lose my boy, me thinks I lose myself as well. Being a guy and all, I hate to cry – did too much of it in the past, for not a lot of reason. But cry I did, as I owe it to you. Having never met you, I feel very close to you after reading the above, as all parents who love their children must feel the same.
Dearest Loralee,
I thought about writing this letter privately to you, and then thought again. For you to share so openly, honestly, and to be so exposed has given me more strength than you will ever know. I can’t imagine what this horrible day must have felt like for you and your family, or how every year you must relive it. What I can tell you is that I too, struggle on a daily basis about how much longer I may have my own child, knowing how fragile her health is. It really struck home to me that I am almost certain that I will out live my child, and that I may have to one day be at her funeral. You are such an amazing person, and I thank the universe for you and I having met. I truly do. Your strength, character, individuality, and personality shine through everything you do. I know you may not completely believe that about yourself yet, but others see it. CLEARLY. Of course I am right here with you, pushing tears off my keyboard, so I can continue to write. Thank you for being you, and letting us know it is ok to be us. It is ok to show your emotions, and it may have far reaching effects on those you have shared it with. My love and thoughts are with you and your family, my dear, and with your blessed little matthew…..
Tiffany
nimrod is beautiful. (i’m hopping back & forth between today’s post & comment on this one.) i only wish more people heard the beauty of the classics.
hugs & kisses to you, darling. and to your family.
I LOVE LOVE LOVE your blog. I lurk here often. I laugh and cry right along with you. I made the mistake of reading this post while I listened to the music from the post after this one. Very emotional. I live up in the same little part of northen Utah you do. Maybe someday I will run into you at the grocery store and give you a big hug! Thank you so much for what you write.
Oh, please do! It’s such a joy meeting people from “the hood”. Heh. xo
Damn it Loralee. . . .I come over here from Lex’s and in the very first blog I read, you get me blubbering like a schoolgirl. Very unsettling. . .but immensely worth it. I weep for your loss and I’m glad that you decided to speak up over at Lex’s. Keep singing. It’s truly a gift from the Gods.
Also just popped over from Lex’s.
I am so so sorry, Loralee, that is such a sin. I have two children myself and I cannot even begin to imagine your pain. All I can say is that you were so very lucky to have had him, even for such a short time. And he was equally lucky to have had you.
(big squishie hugs) Love you, Loralee. Remember, I still owe you hedgehogs for Thanksgiving..and now I’m going to look for something orange as well. :)
Love
Karen
Beautiful letter. I echo everyone else’s thoughts. Sending lots of love your way.
Reading this a week late, but still so moved! What a wonderful letter to your Matthew! :)
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