Courage

The last few years have been a scary, roller coaster journey of dissecting the past, breaking down walls, building up character, and learning to be the most amazing ME I can be.

I have made mistakes, poor choices, and downright horrible decisions in my life.  I was in an endless wash cycle ... soil, soak, wash, rinse, dry, repeat.

When I got pregnant with Colton I thought my life was headed the right way. I had myself convinced the errs of the past were behind me, that life was good, and that *I* was healing.  I thought I was with the "right one" and that everything would be wonderful and bliss forever.

I was obviously still thinking like a child.

When Colton died, everything died.  And, while I regret a lot that happened, I am forever grateful for it as well.  I reverted to my "old" ways (were they really "old" or just buried) and I self-destructed.

And it was the best thing that could have happened to me.

Of course, not losing Colton. I would do anything to have my little boy back.  I miss him with every ounce of my soul and heart.  It took losing him, though, and losing myself, to be able to rebuild.

It really wasn't until I was pregnant with my rainbow that I started rising from the depths of my emotional and spiritual grave.  Priorities changed.  Thoughts changed.  Morals changed.  I changed.

I have learned to value myself.  I have learned I am the only one I can rely on.  I have broken past patterns and become the person I really am meant to be.

The journey has been filled in tears, struggle, and heartache.  I am challenged daily and set up to fail. And with every obstacle, with every punch, with every trigger that in the past would have broken me I draw strength. I will not be broken again. I will not repeat past behaviors.  I will prevail above who I was, what I've done, and - most importantly - what I've lost.  I will have the courage to continue to grow and become who I was always meant to be.

When Colton died, so did I.  Somehow, though, that was exactly what I needed. And I can't help but think that he's happy, and he's proud, of all his momma has accomplished.  I do it for him, I do it for me, I do it for Delaney.  I can't change or fix the past, but with courage I can be the me I was always intended to be.

Burying Your Child

There is no time in life when burying your child is okay.  When it doesn't hurt you to the core and bring you to your knees.  There is no loss that can compare to that of your child.  Whether they never took a breath - like Colton - or lived a long life, if you outlive your child and are forced to say goodbye it is devastating.

Last week I attended the funeral of a former coworker, and friend.  He was funny, kind, generous, and sweet. He had the goofiest laugh and a smile that spread from ear to ear.  He was a smartass (probably why we got along so well).  He would also take the shirt off his back for someone else. Matter of fact, I remember one time him giving me his jacket because I was cold.  It was nipple snappage cold that morning.  Yet he suffered and shivered to make sure I didn't.  He was a hard worker and worked as hard at living life.  He was a good, good soul.

The big, fat, nasty, sonofabitch Cancer attacked him and he was powerless to fight.  One day he was doing well and kicking ass back, and within weeks he was gone. 

His dad worked with us too.  He was definitely an apple that didn't roll far from his fathers tree.  When I heard of his passing my heart ached for his father and for his mother I had yet to meet.

When I walked up to his funeral I was greeted by my Tio. I have seen him many times, but at that moment I remembered attending the funeral of his daughter, who had passed in her 20s.  And as he hugged me I looked across to Colton's resting place. 

In that moment I looked around and wondered who else? Who else amongst us has felt this tremendous loss, this crippling pain?  How many more were mourning the loss of this friend as well as the pain of his parents and reliving their own loss as well. 

I held it together well.  Until his mom let out her first loud weep.  My heart shattered for her. I knew that wail. It escaped me at that same cemetery so many years ago as I buried my own son.  I knew the pain she was feeling and I knew that she would never, ever be the same.

The service was beautiful.  It still paled in comparison to his life.  His life is a light that will always glow in those that knew him. 

His mom and I hugged and she agreed that we wish we didn't ever meet this way.  That we wish we weren't part of that club ... The child loss club.  The age doesn't matter.  The time we had - or didn't have - doesn't matter. 

We should never, ever lose our babies.

Colton has friends who understand, and so do I.

Last night I had a great collaborative chat with a new found partner and friend.  She and I may have a lot in common, but we haven't chatted much to know for sure.  Yet we are excitedly working together on a project that means a lot to both of us and is the reason we met.  We both have angels watching over us.  And we both have beautiful little girls blessing us. We are mothers who have lost and who love both in heaven and on earth.

After our chat last night I was asked who I was talking to and Logan was excited and chill when he said "Oh so her daughter (editing out name) is with Colton. Cool, he has friends!".

The comfort I got from that little proclamation was immense.  Yes, Colton has friends.  Ones that knew the same short existence that he did.  Ones that are full of only love, as that's all they ever experienced.  And, more importantly, my ten year old gets it. And acknowledges his brother and his angel friends.  And that is a gift to me and to every angel mom.  Just hearing our children's names and knowing they are valued, too.

I have been blessed to discover - and hopefully help develop - a whole network of other mommy's just like me.  Moms who have had to say goodbye long before a goodbye was due.  Most of who never got to say hello first. 

And these women are all virtually strangers.  You start to recognize names and build connections, but, honestly, they are people I've never met and may never meet in person.

Yet, we are bonded.  We chat like old friends. We discuss raw, intense, difficult emotions and thoughts that no one else understands. We love each other unconditionally, without malice or judgment.  We share without fear of scolding, a cold shoulder, or being ignored.  We are united in our grief, and in our hope. 

It's been a while since I felt like I belonged somewhere and that I had a true purpose in the world outside of my children and work.  Even amongst friends I often feel alienated and out of touch. I don't think it's their fault and I don't think it's mine. It just ... is. 

I'm not the same person I was four years ago.  I am not the same person I was even just a year ago.  Grief changes us, renewed hope changes us.  And being amongst others who gets us ... well, it changes us too.