Mother's Day

My blogging has been slacking because... well... life, but I wanted to make a plea to anyone out there who knows someone or loves someone who is grieving. I posted a post called "The Strong Willed Woman in February of 2015, and you can read it here or you can scroll through the blog and find it yourself:

http://tgandsarcasticmom.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-strong-willed-woman.html 

I want to tell you how the grief of losing a child broke "the strong willed woman" into a million pieces. On April 13, 2016, we finally got our "justice." He pled guilty again and off to prison he went, but not without a fight. You see, what you read in the news is not all that goes on behind the scenes. We knew, even with that guilty plea, we still had a fight. There would be an appeal, and another, and another, all the way to the Alabama Supreme Court. All of this lasted until about November of 2016, when the Alabama Supreme Court denied to hear his appeal. Even after that, as early as April of this year, there was a personal appeal made to the new Judge in our case, since Judge Bush retired, for consideration of early parole. Thankfully, it was quickly denied. 

Keep in mind, this person has spent a little over one year in prison on a 16 year manslaughter conviction. To add insult to injury, his first parole consideration is coming up in 2020. If you're good with math, that's three years from now that we'll have to put on our "we're not scared" mask and go running down to the Board of Pardons and Parole and plead our case to keep him in prison. 

This is why I broke. It's NEVER going to be over. Sure, you have breaks, blocks of time where nothing happens and there's nothing to worry about. Then as sure as the sun rises, there is something to do. Justice. That word doesn't mean quite as much to me as it used to. More like we'll give you and your family "momentary peace" then, every so often, we'll dig all these emotions up again. And when these emotions come, they're just as raw and ugly and rip you apart in all the same ways they did the first time they tore you down. There's no hiding, no running, it's always in the back of your mind.

I told you that to tell you this: Mother's Day is coming up. Ohhhh... what a shitshow that day is. I've been told I'm not allowed to be sad on Mother's Day because I have Tyler Grace. To you people I pose this question: If you have children, which one would you be willing to live without? Yeah, I thought so. So let me say this: Mother's Day is allowed to suck. It's allowed to suck a whole, giant bag of dicks if I want it to because it's one of those days that can be grouped into my category of "Sucky Days" along with Christmas, his birthday and the day he died. Stop telling people who are grieving the loss of their child that they are or are not allowed to think or feel a certain way.

Because let me tell you something folks, there is no timeline on grief. It's not linear. It's not something that will diminish over time. It is a part of who we are now. It hasn't always been a part of us, but it is now and while it may take some time for you to realize that this grief has changed us, for us, we didn't get the luxury of having time to "get used to it." It was forced on us in the ugliest of ways, without warning and without a blanket to cushion our ass. So as strong willed as one might be, we're not unbreakable. 

To those of you out there who love someone who is grieving, especially a mother this Mother's Day, I need for you to show up and show out for them. I know I've gotten through Mother's Day before since he died and I'll get through many more, but for some, it's not as easy. On this day, THEIR day, be a punching bag because I promise you, these women, fight invisible, silent battles every damn day of their lives, give them something they can hit. Give them a face to scream at. Give them a judgment-free safe space where they can yell "THIS FUCKING SUCKS"  or "I'M SO FUCKING ANGRY I CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT"  or "I BLAME LOSING MY CHILD ON whoever." If you love them, give these amazing strong women, who fight battles we know nothing about, a place to release the demon that is the grief of losing a child.

Because, after all, it is THEIR day.

Finding Compassion

 

 

As I lay here tonight, trying to find the words to accurately describe what the holidays feel like for me as a bereaved parent, I find myself at a loss for words. I'm sad, I'm angry, I'm empty and I'm emotionally torn. I'm thankful that I'm still here. I'm thankful I get to spend another holiday season with my daughter and see her smile every day, but most of all, I'm sad. Sad that there will be an empty seat at our table. I'm sad that Keller was only allowed one holiday season. One Thanksgiving, one Christmas, one birthday. It's absolutely devastating. It's even more devastating to know these things were taken from him in a senseless act of violence. I'm not devastated that these things were taken from me, I'm devastated that my precious boy deserved so many more than just one. 

 

But strangely, I feel overwhelming compassion for the family of the man that took my son knowing I'm not the only one that is suffering this holiday season. This man has a family all his own and I know they are suffering immensely. Although there's an empty seat at my table, there is also an empty seat at his family's table, two little girls who will be without their daddy and a mother who longs for her son to sit at her table again.

 

In a matter of minutes, two mothers lost their son. One for 16 years and one forever. I'm almost tempted to say that I grieve for her and his children the same, if not more, than I grieve for myself. I wish that I could take away her loss, because no mother, no matter what the circumstances, should be without their baby. I wish that I could hug her and tell her everything's going to be okay, that I understand her pain, because neither she nor I chose for this to be our life. I wish that I could sit and cry with her. I wish that I could hug his little girls and tell them that I'm sorry.

 

I will, for the rest of my natural life, mourn the death of my son, but I will also mourn for the "forgotten family" in this tragedy, wholly, respectfully and without judgment.

 

So this year, most of all, I'm thankful that buried deep inside of my being lies a desire to feel compassion for the people I once thought undeserving and that's a pretty incredible feat considering the circumstances.

It Takes A Village

Let's talk about relationships. Let's talk about post-divorce, holy shit, what did I get myself into, relationships. Because those can be, for lack of a better word, a clusterfuck.

So, you got divorced. You find yourself almost 30 and single with a six year old daughter. Dating hasn't gone well for you post-divorce, but low and behold, miraculously, your ex-husband has managed to find someone. Someone who he cares about and who cares about him. Awesome. Wait... this "new girl" is going to be involved in my child's life. Shit. I forgot about that. What the fuck do I do now? Well, you buckle up cupcake, it's about to get bumpy.

My philosophy has always been "it takes a village to raise a child." But what if that village isn't "your" village. Shit. Again. Well here's what I've learned:

1. You're not being replaced, momma, calm down. You carried this baby, loved this baby, wiped her ass, dried her tears and have loved her since the moment you laid eyes on her. You can't erase or replace that.

2. Maybe you're apprehensive to actually be fond of this new woman in your daughter's life. Damn sure caught me off guard that I might actually like the thought of my super manly ex-husband having someone there to do the girly things with my daughter when she's at her dad's, instead of playing in the mud and teaching her how to play XBox or whatever play machine he stays on.

3. Maybe this new woman who has entered your child's life is a hell of a good woman. Bonus. Think... this woman will be there to calm fears and dry eyes and do mani/pedi girl dates in your absence in a way that only another female can do. Because, I mean, how fun could it be to have a mani/pedi date with dad? Not so much.

4. We've had some messed up shit happen in our lives, my ex-husband and I, and my biggest fear has always been that he's away in Georgia with no one there to make sure he's okay. This "new woman" just took on that responsibility and removed a huge cause for stress in my life. She did that without batting an eyelash and that demands an incredible amount of respect.

5. When I got divorced, I never "pre-thought" what it might be like to see my ex-husband with another female. When it smacks you in the face, there's so many emotions you didn't see coming. Jealously - wow. Definitely didn't see that one coming. Not jealous of the actual woman that's with your husband, like she's prettier or smarter or better, just unexplained jealousy. She's found it in herself to love all the things about him that you didn't. Hell of a feat. I was dumbfounded with jealously, that came out of nowhere, like a surprise sneeze when you're on your period, that he had found someone and I hadn't. Jealous of their happy relationship when I'm struggle-bus'ing to get a damn text back.

So to the woman who dates my ex-husband:

Be good to him. He deserves it. If he's happy, he's a happy parent. When you date a single dad, there's more to worry about than just if you're making him happy. There's an amazing little girl who thinks the world of him.

I promise to never speak poorly of you, in front of my child, or under any circumstances, if only you'll promise the same in return. I hope you do all the girly things with her. I hope that she adores you. I hope that you adore her. If in the future, your family gets to meet my child, I hope they treat her just as any other grandchild, with all the love and adoration that only grandparents can give. I hope that we always have an open line of communication between the two of us, not just through this man that has brought us together. I hope you call me when you don't know how to handle a situation, because sometimes, only a mom knows what to do and I promise to give that advice freely, honestly and without judgment.

I promise to never ask my child invasive questions about her father's life with you because no child should have to be the middle-man and I trust that her father will always be honest with me. I apologize in advance for any awkward situations in the future. This "post-divorce" dating is new to me too and, I assure you, just as weird on my end as it is yours.

All I ask is that you be good to him, be good to my child and be a healthy part of this village that's trying like hell to raise this crazy child. Welcome to the village, friend. We're all batshit crazy here.

"My Person"

 

It's been a while since I've blogged. I haven't been in a "sharing" type of mood, but I wanted to take a moment to speak on a few things that have weighed heavy on my mind in the last few months. With Christmas fast approaching and the mind-numbing emotions that surround the Christmas holiday, I've been actively trying to hide from Christmas. Christmas embodies the spirit of innocence and family and the impending start of a new year and new beginnings. But for our family, Christmas is a sore reminder of things that are not new, things that will never change and things that will never be the same.

 

It's also a reminder that coming at the beginning of the year is something Keller's father and I never imagined in our entire lives we would have to endure together. The murder trial of our sweet baby boy. A public spectacle. A full display of the unimaginable, heinous murder of our 13 month old baby boy who we made together and loved together, our grief and heartache, our journey for justice.

Sitting at work a few months ago, I came across an article on Huffington Post. And while it pertained to the Michael Brown case, this isn't about the Michael Brown case. It was about what it's like to be a father who's lost a son due to the actions of another. This quote about Michael Brown's father struck a cord with me, particularly this:

"Brown reaches for a pack of Kools and heads out of the barber shop. As vocal as he has been in the year since his son was killed, he tells me there are lots of things he can't say. Things that stem from the anger and sorrow."

 

You want to talk about a force to be reckoned with? The quiet, calm man, the man of few words. That's what Keller's dad has embodied since day one. I'm the storm and he's the calm. While in the midst of this "storm" we're currently trying to survive, he's not shared much of his feelings publicly, or even privately. I sometimes wonder what he's really thinking. Is he really this calm and collected? Is he really okay? I'm not, I'm a freaking wreck. Have you ever been really "spinny" drunk and you have to place one foot off the bed and place it on solid ground to keep from spinning? He's my solid ground. He always has been.

Quiet. Calm. Collected. My rock. My steady voice. My pillar of strength in my moments of weakness. My understanding. My "I feel you." My "you're not alone." I can't even begin to imagine the thoughts he doesn't say out loud. But then there are rare moments he allows those feelings to emerge, when I least expect them, full of emotion, full of pain, sometimes rage and I realize in those profound moments that we're walking this journey side by side.

Being the woman I am, I have been somewhat vocal about my son's death, sometimes more than I should be. There are sad days, angry days, days of incredible rage, days of complete misunderstanding, and days of all of the above wrapped into one. I've not been shy about sharing those feelings with anyone willing to listen, even on social media for all to see. But he stands solid and calm. I don't know how he does it.

We've "done life" together for the past nine years and I can say with 100% certainty that I couldn't imagine "doing life" with anyone else. We're not "together." Our relationship is far from perfect. We're not perfect people. But we care deeply for each other and consciously make tremendous efforts to do the absolute best we can for each other. We have each other's back. We're on the same team. So many people have told me "I don't know how you guys do it, you make it look so easy." Well, it's not easy. It's hard as hell. But we still have a remaining child together that deserves our absolute best and we make every effort we can to give her our best every single day, together.

A lot can be said about a man who puts his family first before anything else in the world, even if that "family" sometimes includes the mother of his children who is occasionally far from his favorite person. But this man, my rock, my calm, my solid ground, is the embodiment of the strongest man I could ever imagine having the pleasure of knowing and I'm so thankful that no matter what circumstances have been thrown our way, he still stands firm in my corner, without judgment or malice in his heart. I am eternally grateful and forever indebted to him to be able to call him "my person." 

And also, he has the WORST singing voice when intoxicated. He's not just "off key," there's "no key."

 

Shit My Kid Says And My Favorite Conversations With Her... So Far

 

 

I've learned that my child might have my smart mouth and her dad's quick wit... I'm not sure if this is a good combination or a bad one. But, nonetheless, here are some of my favorite Tyler Grace'isms so far in her five short years. I'm sure there will be more to come.

1. "Mommy, am I still awake when my eye skin is closed?"

 

2. "If you don't get out of my room, I'm gonna fart."

 

3. "Did you know that sometimes my breath whistles out of my nose?"

 

4. "If I had a nickel for every time I said that, I'd be famous."

 

5. "Hurry up, we're late. Let's get this party started."

6. "What's red with green leaves? A bird in a tree."

7. "I farted. That stinks. Eww."

8. "I don't like school. They always want me to do things."

9. "Can I call you back? I'm busy?"

10. "The light is green. GO, FOOL!"

11. "I need y'all to quit talking because it's been a long day and I'M FREAKING TIRED!!"

12. TG: "Mommy, you have a bug on your face!!" *SLAP*
Me: "Owwww... did you just slap me?
TG: "You had a bug on your face."
Evan: "BAHAHAHAHAA"

13. Me: "Please stop jumping from couch to couch. I don't want to go to the ER tonight."
TG: "But why not, mommy?"
Me: "You'll get Ebola and die."
TG: "Eww, yucky. Ok, I'll stop."

14. TG: "Kids can say grown up words too."
Me: A little hesitant to ask... "Um... like what?"
TG: "Like banana annnd shit... maybe?"
Me: "Tyler, don't say shit."
TG: "Ok I won't say shit, so just banana?"
Me: "Yes."

15. My autobiography shall be called "My 4 year old insists her hands remain dry during bathtime and other reasons I drink."

16. "Oh, oh, oh, I really don't care" [insert Demi Levato voice]

17. TG: "Mommy, french braid my hair."
Me: "Yeah but you're gonna have to get off your step stool so I can reach the top of your head."
TG: "Why? You're not tall like me?"
Me: ".... just get off the dang stool and stop asking questions."

18. Me: "Ty, calm down!! I can only do one thing at a time."
TG: "But you have 2 hands."
Me: "....... Well, you got my mouth, didn't you?"

19. Me: "Tyler, I'm taking a bath, what does it look like I'm doing?"

TG: "Do you need to wash your dirty butt too?"

20. TG: "Mommy, what rhymes with sucker?"
Me: "Ummm... new word."
TG: "Ok, what rhymes with truck?"
Me: "Really? Ok rhyme time over."
TG: "Ok, one more. What rhymes with song?"
Me: "BONG!!" - FAIL

21. My kid told me she had to poop, could I go with her. I said sure. We get in there, she tells me I need to go get my phone, stand by the faucet and text somebody on my phone until she's done. Very specific instructions from the 4 year old. Ok, tiny dictator.

22. Me: "Ty, get up baby, it's time to go to school."
TG: "But Mommy, the sun's not even awake yet."
Me: "True, but I am, so get up."

23. Me: "Tyler, hold my hand."
TG: "No mommy, I got this. "
Me: "Tyler Grace, I wiped your butt for 2 years, you're gonna hold my hand."
TG: "Fine. But just for today."

24. Me: "Tyler, please be sweet at Mrs. Johnnie's house."
TG: "No, she's not adopting me."
Me: "No, Tyler, she's not, but will you be sweet anyway?"
TG: "Yeah, I guess."

25. Swimsuit tops at our house are called... "Baby Booby Holders."

26. Tyler and I were talking about school and rhyming and she said "CAR." I loudly blurt out "BAR!" She just stared at me. Then I stumped my toe and yelled "SHIT." I heard my kid yell "HIT" from another room. Touche.

27. Me: "Hey Ty, what do you want to get Ryan for his birthday?"
TG: "A truck, a superman, makeup for his mom and a new TV."
Me: "Slow your roll sister. He's just a boy in your class."

28. Me: "So why did you hit Cannon today?"
TG: "Because he wouldn't be my bestest friend."
Me: "Ok. So you hit him?"
TG: "No. I didn't. Maggie did."
Me: "So you didn't touch him, at all?"
TG: "No. Maggie did."
Me: "Why didn't you tell your teacher you didn't hit him?"
TG: "Because 'snitches get stitches.'"
Me: "Um..."

29. "TG: "Let me tell you a joke."
Me: "Ok."
TG: "Why does your nose sit on top of your earring?"
Me: "I don't know. Why?"
TG: "So you can eat the bread."

30. Me: "Knock knock. Is there anything in there, Ty? It sounds empty. "
TG: "Yeah mommy. There's a brain in there. It tells me to do everything."

31. Tyler named her ponies. Thunder, Lightning, Apple Jack aaannnnnnddd. .. wait for it.... Haircut Brush.

32. While I was taking a bath one night, Tyler went in my closet and grabbed a pair of stilettos, kissed them and said "hey pretty, I've been waiting for you" and walked out.

33. Me: "Pinky promise you'll be good?"
TG: "Yes ma'am, I promise. What if I'm not?"
Me: "Your butt will fall off."

34. TG: "Momma, he said 'shit.'"
Me: "I heard him. Don't say shit."
TG: "Ok momma, I won't say shit anymore."

35. I asked Tyler why her and Annie got sad faces and put in time out, she said "Annie hit me, then I hit Annie, then Annie pushed me, then I pushed Annie, then we both went to time out." Well why did Annie hit you? "Because she was going to be someone else's bestest friend." Preschool probs

36. "If you tell Daddy I got a sad face, that's not very nice of you."

37. Me: "If you could be any animal, what would you be?"
TG: "A cow!!"
Me: "A cow!! Really!! Why?"
TG: "Because Mimi doesn't like snow."
Me: ".......... Alright then."

38. Me: "Hello?"
My mother: "Tyler, stop running into the walls!!"
Me: "Hi mom."
My mother: "Oh, hi baby, I did your laundry. TYLER GRACE GET OUT OF THE FIREPLACE!!! Got to go, love you." *click*

39. TG: "So where is Tennessee? Is it in Africa or what?"
Me: "Close Ty. Close."

40. Me: "I like your new pjs."
TG: "Thanks mommy. I like your face."
Me: "Um... thanks?"

41. I asked my precious, baby girl what she wanted to be for Halloween, to which, she responded "a bat." I replied, "like a creature of the night or like a baseball bat?"
Answer: "A flying bat at night."
Just why? WTF.

42. Me: "We're going to Adrian and Steve's."
TG: "Do they have a baby?"
Me: "Yeah, Grey."
TG: "Do they have a Steve?"
Me: "Haha, well... yeah."

43. Me: "Tyler Grace, why did you eat 10 pieces of gum at Daddy's house and swallow them?"
TG: "Because they were green and they tasted good."
 

44. Me: "Come on, let's put a diaper on so you don't pee in the bed." 

TG: "But if I pee in the bed, it's warm."

45. Me: "Tyler, get in the bed."
TG: "I'm very, very hot."
Me: "I know baby, I turned the air on."
TG: "GEEZ... Thanks mom, it's about time."

46. *ah chooh!!* "Bless me."

47. "Imma bust you in the snotbox."

48. "Imma bust yo grape down to the white meat."

49. "Fucking pizza!!" - in the middle of Target, 2 years old, in front of my mother and a horrified couple with small children.

And my final and favorite... 50. "When I rub your butt, it helps me go to sleep."

The Strong-Willed Woman

 

Strong-willed: Someone strong-willed doesn’t give up easily. A strong-willed person is determined. Your will is your desire or drive to do something, so a strong-willed person is someone with a powerful will. This can be positive or negative. A child who insists on going to the zoo in the rain is strong-willed in a stubborn way. Someone with deep beliefs is strong-willed in a better way. A hero — or anyone who shows courage — is strong-willed. You have to be strong-willed to stand up for what you believe in during difficult situations.

 

Above is the dictionary definition of "strong-willed." I am the strong-willed woman. I was lucky enough to be raised by a strong-willed woman. I am incredibly lucky to have strong-willed women as friends and I am trying my damndest to raise a strong-willed woman. Here are some things that I think qualify women to be strong-willed.

 

The strong-willed woman is opinionated. She believes in her opinions and probably didn't form them overnight. She's stubborn, but only because she's made a promise to herself to do right by what she believes in. The strong-willed woman is the woman who crawls out of bed each morning even though her body and mind says not to and goes to work. She's the woman that has suffered an incredible loss, yet still finds happiness in each day. She's the woman at your work who suffers in silence through anxiety attacks and still manages to get your work done for you.

 

The strong-willed woman is the one who's child has behavioral problems that no one talks about. The woman who's child tells them she hates them, that they wish they weren't their mommy anymore, that they wish she were dead. The woman that hugs them through their temper-tantrums and takes their TV out of their room even though she'd rather lay there with them and watch a movie. The one who continues to tell her children she loves them even when they're kicking and screaming "I hate you" at her.

The strong-willed woman is the woman who's child has a physical or mental disability. The woman who has sat through countless doctor's appointments only to learn nothing new. The woman who has prayed over her child every night to be healed. The woman who has heard her child will never be "normal" and no one can tell her why.

 

The strong-willed woman is the woman who has an empty crib down the hall. The one who sat across the courtroom from the man that caused her this pain with grace and dignity and fought relentlessly for justice and still, to this day, fights for justice. The one who made funeral arrangements for her baby. The one who picked out a headstone for her child. The woman who gave birth to a stillborn baby. The woman who weeps every single time there's only one line instead of two. The woman who names and loves the unborn children she's lost. 

 

The strong-willed woman is the woman who hears all the gossip about her, but never lets it get to her. The woman that people love to talk about. She's the woman that raising babies all on her own and doing a dang fine job at it. The woman that has to allow another female to be involved with her child after a divorce or separation. The strong-willed woman is the woman that no matter how many times she's been burned by men, she fights for love over and over again. She continues to open her heart to people in hopes of finding what the strong-willed woman who raised her found 43 years ago today in her partner. *Happy 43rd anniversary y'all!!*

These two still going strong after 43 years of each other's crap.

The strong-willed woman is the one that carries on. The one that puts the weight of the world on her shoulders to help lighten the load for the ones she loves. She will break her back to help you no matter how heavy the load is for her because she's stubborn. Dare not say she can't carry it all. She can carry her weight and yours too with a grace all her own.

 

The strong-willed woman will never hesitate to tell you exactly what she's thinking. She will tell you when you hurt her, when you say things that upset her and she will definitely let you know when she's mad. You will always know where you stand with a strong-willed woman.

 

If you know a strong-willed woman or, if by some miracle, you are lucky enough to love a strong-willed woman, know this: They're complicated, but never boring. You're privileged to know her. Even more lucky to love her if she loves you back. A strong-willed woman is not for the faint of heart. Be patient with her, she deserves it. She's been through more than you can imagine and yet, she pushes forward. She will strive for excellence even when excellence cannot be found. She expects the best from the people she loves and even though she may not get it, she will push for it.

 

So to all my strong-willed women out there: Be thankful you're not a doormat, that you stand up for what you believe in, and never stop being stubborn. Here's to the strong-willed women. I am thankful to be friends with the strongest women on the planet, to have been raised by the strongest one I know, hopeful I am becoming half of the woman that my mother is and trying my best to raise this already strong-willed child.

For The Days When There Are No Words

You will forever be my always.

There are some days in your life that no amount of words can accurately describe how you feel. Today is one of those days. You search your mind for the things buried so deep in the black space, reaching, scratching, begging, screaming for something, anything that will help you understand your emotions, yet you're left blank. I remember this day two years ago all too well. I rolled over that morning, looked at my beautiful, sleeping son and thought "man, I don't want to go to Nashville today, I'd rather just stay home and cuddle with him." But I didn't. I got up, got dressed, woke him up, dressed him and headed to daycare. I parked my car, got out, walked around to the backseat to see him smiling at me, unbuckled him, and carted his big butt to the door. I knocked. It opened. I hugged my baby boy, kissed him on the mouth, told him I loved him and I handed him to Nay-Nay. I've relived that moment in my head a thousand times. That one moment. That one moment because that would be the last time I saw my son alive. The next time I would see my son would be at 10:00 that night at Children's Hospital in Birmingham, brain dead.

There was no "prepare yourself" "we'll do the best we can" "it's going to be okay." There was simply "he is going to die from this." Those were her exact words, the doctor, "he is going to die from this." Those words will be burned in my brain until the day I die. There was nothing I could do. I stared blankly at this petite woman in her early 30s dressed in scrubs with the utmost compassion in her eyes, and thought to myself, "you're joking, right?" I just sat there. The only words I could come up with to say were "can I see him?" I wanted to see my son. I wanted to run to him, unhook him from those machines and save him. I wanted to pick him up and say, "Mommy's here, baby, I'll fix you."

But there was no "this can be fixed," only "he has zero brain activity," "we'll keep him alive as long as we possibly can, but we're not sure how long his tiny body will hold out on the medicine that's keeping him alive." We sat there through the night at his side, helplessly watching nurses come in and out to check for vitals, anything, that would show he was still here with us. But I knew from the very second I walked into his room and saw him that he was gone. The room felt empty. His presence, his spirit, the very essence of him that filled every room he was in, was gone. I could feel it. I think a mother just knows. I knew the second I entered the presence of that tiny body, that it was not my son lying there. His wordly presence was no more.

They told us "be with your baby" but I wanted to scream out at them and tell them this wasn't my baby lying there. This was his shell. I couldn't pick him up. I could barely touch him. So we just stood there, for hours, stroking his hair, holding his tiny hands, kissing the one fat foot that wasn't hooked up to something. I studied him. Every inch of him that wasn't hooked to something or covered by something. I just wanted more than anything to hold my baby. Fix him. I begged him to let me fix him. Just come back to me so Mommy can make it all better. I begged him to come back to me. I begged God to let me switch places with him. "Give this to me, but make him okay again. Make him whole and I will gladly go in his place."

But there was no fixing him and no trading me for him would come for us. A neurologist came into our room in the pre-dawn hours of February 7, 2013, with a team of interns and said "there's nothing we can do for this child," gave me a heartfelt nod and calmly walked out of the room that my son would soon die in. A doctor asked us if we wanted to remove life support as a young nurse stroked his hair and told us what a beautiful baby boy we had. He was beautiful. Too pretty to be a boy. 

We told the doctor we would sign the forms for a Do Not Resuscitate, but I just wanted to hold my son. It took an incredible amount of strength and courage, that I'm still not even sure where it came from, to sign a form telling qualified physicians not to attempt to bring the Earthly being of my child back to life. For me, it wasn't a life, it was only the remaining shell of a body that my son once encompassed that they would be saving. But to put my name on that line was giving them permission to let my baby die. To allow his physical being, the being we made, the one I carried in my womb, the one I birthed, the one I rocked and sang lullabies to, the one I bathed, fed, cared for, protected with my life, that physical being I would never see again until the funeral home. But that was not his soul, his gentle spirit that I envied so much, it was his shell. 

An hour later, his blood pressure bottomed out. I remember the quiet in the room before the screaming beeps of the machines. I remember looking at Keller's dad from across his hospital bed. The look on his face I will never forget. The look of terror and also understanding. I think, as scared as we both were, we knew what was happening. We knew it was time. All I could do was scream at the nurses rushing in the room to give me my son. "Give him to me, NOW!" They told me to sit down in a chair beside his bed. The same young doctor that told me hours before "he is going to die from this" looked at me with tears in her eyes. She paused and just looked at me for a moment, then began to quickly unhook him from what machines she could and turned to me and handed over to me my son's limp, lifeless body to hold for the last time. I held him for a long time. I held him long enough to feel him turn cold then I handed our son to his father. His first born son. His namesake. I watched a giant of a man crumble to a broken, defeated father holding his dead son. I had to leave the room. It broke me. 

I remember everything about the last moments I shared with my son - from the nurses faces, to the look of despair on Evan's mother's face when she walked in the room - I thought she was going to collapse, the feeling of my mother's cold hands on my shoulders as she watched her only child hold her son for the last time, the feeling of Evan's shoulder leaning against mine as he cradled and stroked his son's hair. I remember hearing him sob. I remember the sounds, the wailing of the beeping machines until the nurses turned them off. I remember the sound I swore my heart made when it broke as the machines went silent. And I remember the smell. That smell. The smell of my son. The smell of his hair. I will never forget that smell. Everything but his hair smelled like a hospital, but not his hair. That smell was uniquely his and I will remember it my whole life. 

And I remember walking out of his room and collapsing in the hall. I remember the feeling the exact moment it hit me that I would have to leave this hospital without my child. I would have to go home to an empty crib and tell a three year old daughter what it means to die and wondering how in the world she would comprehend the magnitude of the situation. This precious child that I just lost from this Earth was still survived by a big sister who couldn't possibly understand that her "Kedder-Man" would never exist in this world again. 

I relive the hours of those two days over and over again in my mind. The hours I stood by his bedside.  I will forever. I miss him. I miss his smile. I miss his incredible belly laughs. I miss singing Wagon Wheel to him. I miss his big blue eyes. I miss everything about his being. All I want is to hold my baby. I cannot wait to hold my baby.

"He was my dream. He made me who I am and holding him in my arms was more natural to me than my own heartbeat. I think about him all the time. Even now, when I'm sitting here, I think about him. There could never have been another."