Right On. AWESOME!

Justin and I participated in the 5th Annual Atlanta Walk to Remember on Sunday (my 2nd, his 1st). The program included speakers, parents sharing their stories and other original writings, and music. After the short walk, there was a beautiful balloon release. Attached to each balloon were purple butterflies with messages to our angel babies written from mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, friends, etc. When I got to the butterfly table, I could feel myself getting teary. Like last year, I just quickly scribbled my message: "Dylan, Missing you so much, each and every day. Hope you're looking down on us and your new sis Faith! Love, Mommy, Daddy, Faith, and Inu"

Justin wrote: "Dylan, It's been far too long since we were blessed with you. We all miss you so much and send our love to you in our prayers every night. We love you with all our hearts and souls, Mommy, Daddy, Faith, and Inu" I swear, sometimes I think he's so much better at this than me.

The gathering was awesome. The stories we all shared - with our tears, in the embraces of our husbands, in long staring matches with living children, even in quiet communion - were awesome. The day was awesome. To have to share this, to have to experience it, to have a reason to participate in this walk . . . tragic, but still awesome.

Anyway, I'm really just poking fun at a random person that stopped us on the walk route (which also explains the title of this post). He asks us, "What are you guys doing here? Are you on some sort of tour?"

I answer, "No, it's a walk."

"Oh really, what kind of walk."

"A Walk to Remember." (At this point, I'm really just trying to not make it awkward for him, but he persists.)

"Oh, what's it for?"

"It's for people whose babies have died."

He says (and I kid you not): "Right on. Awesome!"

I looked at Justin in disbelief. Did he really just say that? Perhaps he didn't hear me. We just kept walking . . .

So, on to some pictures from the day:

This Little Light of Mine

I don't have anything better to write than what I wrote last year for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Rememberance Day: I lit a candle for Dylan today . . . I know I don't need a special day to remember Dylan, I will remember him everyday for the rest of my life. But it's still nice, you know? . . . I lit just about every candle I could find (I bet Dylan can see the lights from Heaven ;).

This little light of mine,
I'm gonna let it shine

This little light of mine,
I'm gonna let it shine

This little light of mine,
I'm gonna let it shine


Let it shine,
Let it shine,
Let it shine.

I light In Dylan's Memory. I light in Isaac's Memory. I light in Christian's Memory. I light in George's Memory. I light in Audrey's Memory. I light in Cayden's Memory. I light in Samuel's Memory. For Vivian & Annemarie. For Max. For Logan & Brody. For Hope. For Brenham. For Nicholas. For Carleigh. For Jenna. For Thomas. For all.

To other mommies and daddies who had to say goodbye far, far too soon. For the countless other stories I've come across and for the countless other stories that I may never know. I let it shine for all of you tonight. Thank you for sharing your lives, your experiences, your grief; it's enriched me in a way that you may never know.

A New Mourning

Some friends of ours recently got engaged, and when I heard the news, I was beaming for them. I love weddings! I love going to weddings, getting all dressed up, dancing, seeing the bride for the first time. I've shot and edited wedding videos; even had a brief stint as a wedding coordinator.

Then, I thought about Dylan’s wedding. I felt as if I was mourning a new kind of loss. I’m no longer just mourning my newborn son, the tiny little boy that I held in my arms. I’m mourning the person he would become as well. I’m mourning the fact that I will never get to do a mother-son dance with my firstborn. Never have this kind of untainted happiness again:

My existence has changed forever. And if you can’t quite wrap your mind around it, think of like this: Once you become a mother, you’re a mother for life, no matter the circumstance.

Well, once you become a mother whose child has died, you’re a babylost mother for life. There are no band-aids or quick-fix remedies. There are phases you go through. Times that are more difficult than others, but you will always be defined as a babylost mother.

Closing Thoughts of the Day

"When you lose someone, it stays with you, always reminding you of how easy it is to get hurt." --Elena, from The Vampire Diaries (of all places)

"Life is not the way it's supposed to be. It's the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference." --Author Unknown (grabbed from a friend's e-mail, thanks Jackie!)

Grieving

Excerpts from tonight's Grey's Anatomy (so true, so profound, so close to home):

"Grief may be a thing we all have in common, but it looks different on everyone."

"The thing we all have to remember is that it can turn on a dime."

"When it hurts so much you can't breathe, that's when you survive."

"Grief comes in its own time for everyone, in its own way."

"The very worst part of grief is that you can't control it."

"The best we can do is to let ourselves feel it when it comes, and let it go when we can."

"The very worst part is that the minute you think you're past it, it starts all over again."

"And always, every time, it starts all over again."

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

Remembering

Remembering on 9/11/09 means something completely different for me than it does for most. Today, while all of my friends update their status on Facebook with something inspirational about the tragic events of 8 years ago, my thoughts were drawn elsewhere. Today, Dylan would've been 15 months old. That's just my reality, perhaps a tad too profound for a status update.

15 months. Part of me wants to stop counting because it just makes me sad to think about what he would be doing at this age and what he would look like. The other part of me is driven to never stop counting and never forget. That part will probably triumph because, behind the pain and behind the tears, we still want to celebrate a life that was cut far too short. We love you Dill!