What is Left for me to Say When the Memories are so Few?

Really.  I am at a loss for words.  Tomorrow, it will be eight years since we last fed him.  Since we last held him.  Since we last heard him cry.  Since we last saw those eyes.  Those beautiful, wise eyes.

It's difficult.  I mean, how can I continue to write about him when I have literally rehashed every.single.memory that I have of our life with Luke?  I have told you how sweet he was.  What a good baby he was.  How strong he was.  What a gift he was in our lives.

The memories are finite.  We can't make any new memories with our Luke.  And it's horrible.  Really, really horrible.  This weekend, we made lots of memories (as mundane as they may have seemed at the time):  I watched Emily master a tumbling skill that she has been working on, I watched James play excellent defense during his soccer game, Tommy watched as Matthew's team suffered a tough loss at his baseball tournament.  Every little thing we do in life creates a memory.  But what if one's life is too short to make infinite memories?

Because of the lack of hundreds of memories, I am finding it very difficult to write for his Angel Day this year.  Honestly, I just want tomorrow to be over.  We will go to work, take the kids to various practices, and somehow fit dinner in to our plans.

We will stay busy.

Because the moment I sit down, I will look at the clock, and think about where we were at that exact moment eight years ago.  Were we at clinic with my dad, telling the cardiologist how sick I believed him to be?  Were we on our way home from TCH, still unnerved by the fact that the doctor sent us home without admitting Luke?

Or was it that moment?  That moment where the world stood still?  9-1-1.  Pulse-ox.  Ambulance.  CPR.  Yelling.  All of that.  From about 8:00 until about 11:00.  The world stood still. But at the same time, the world came crashing down. Our world came crashing down.

Why is this memory the one that is the most difficult to forget?  Why is it that I can't recall all of the wonderful things that Luke did throughout his life, but I can remember every. single. moment of that evening?  I can remember how I felt as I handed Luke to my mother so that I could put the pulse-ox monitor around his tiny toe {and how I felt as though I failed him as a mother at that very moment} because I knew that she would protect him.  I can remember how the paramedic dismissed our concerns.  I can remember the ambulance driving without its lights on.  I can remember the sound of her voice when Luke's pulse dropped.  I can remember pulling into St. Luke's and being sent to the waiting room.  I can remember crying as everyone in the waiting room stared.  I can remember the phone call that Tommy made to his mom, and what he said to her.  I can remember the prayer that we said, telling God that we would be ok if He took Luke.  I remember the looks on the faces of all of the professionals as they exited Luke's room.  And I remember the way my father wept as he stood over the crib of his (favorite) grandson after he had passed.  And I remember how it felt as we left the ER.  Without our son.

But I can't remember the sound of his voice.  I can't remember his smell.  I can't remember what he looked like when he smiled (only twice).  The memories are so few.

I just want to remember.

Tomorrow evening, will you please do me a favor?  If you have a chance, between 8:00 and 11:00 (CST), can you say a little prayer or think a good thought for our family?  That Tommy and I can remember only the happy memories?  That his siblings will remember his strength and will always strive to be just as strong?

It's difficult for each of us and none of us are immune to the pain that is life without Luke.  But we do hold on to the hope that we will see him again.  And that gives us peace.

My dear friend Amy went to visit Luke today.  She brought him a rosary since this is the year that Luke would have received his First Holy Communion.  He usually sends her rain, but today he sent her ants (the same thing that he sends my sister Katie).  Thank you, Amy.  From the bottom of my broken heart.

The most beautiful baby I have ever seen:

When Heaven Comes

Tomorrow, eight years have passed since we welcomed a 6-pound, 15 ounce baby Luke Thomas to the world.

Perfection.

He was perfection.

Perfection with a perfectly imperfect heart.

There were so many feelings that day:  joy and sadness.  Anticipation and fear.  Confidence and anxiety.

A few weeks ago, I experienced another emotion:  peace.

Tommy had a business trip in Houston at the end of February.  As a gift for my birthday as well as a way to visit Luke, he bought a ticket for me and arranged for my (awesome) sister Rita to watch the kids.

The trip to Houston was nothing short of amazing.  I truly didn't realize how much I missed my hometown.  Tommy worked most of the time, so I spent my days and nights visiting with family and friends.

We went to visit Luke shortly after we landed in Houston.  The day was beautiful and we were able to spend some time with our boy.  We even took a selfie with his stone:

We stopped to visit him again on the way back to the airport.  I prayed, asking him to send us a sign that he was near.  The wind was blowing and there were some pinwheels that were spinning at another grave.  As much as I wanted that to be the sign I had been praying for, I knew in my heart that it was simply the wind.  I had no idea that the sign I would receive would be so much more profound.

As I said, the trip was amazing.  But that's not what this post is about.  It's all about him.

Luke.

On his eighth birthday.

And about the peace that he gave me shortly after our trip.  

But this story actually began a few years ago...

Those who know my father are aware that my he is a very spiritual man.  He is a cradle Catholic attended Catholic school through high school and he is a devout member of the church.  When I have a question about faith, I usually ask my dad.  After Luke died, I had so many questions.  

One was major:  how old are we in heaven?  

Of course, this opens up the opportunity for even more questions:  Will Luke still be a baby?  Will he know me?  Who has been with him since we lost him?  Who has taken care of him?

I was once talking to a priest and he said, "there are no babies in heaven".  

I was devastated.  

So naturally, I asked my dad (because to me, he obviously knows more than the priest :) ).  I was confused.  I was disheartened.  I was crushed.  I asked him to tell me his thoughts on the subject.  My father, in all of his infinite wisdom and faith, told me something that stuck:  he believes that in heaven, we are in the prime of our lives.  

The prime of our lives.  

Just as Adam and Eve were when they were created.  And as Jesus was when He died on the cross.

That's a great thought, right?  The definition of prime is "of the best quality; excellent".  You can define the word "heaven" using the same words.  It makes perfect sense.  

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when we returned from our trip to Houston.  

I can't tell you how or when it happened.  I know that at some point, Rita and I were talking about heaven.  And I *think* that I was discussing heaven with one of our children.  Again, I truly cannot tell you how or when it happened.  

When Luke sent me the sign that I had prayed for at his grave.

I'm not sure if you would call it a vision (that is definitely not the charism given to me by God--I was told that my gift is encouragement), but I know that it was not a dream.  Luke has visited me in my dreams before.  But this time was different.  I was awake.  And it was instant.  It was just all of a sudden fact.  There was no question.

I saw Luke.  Not standing right in front of me, but I saw him in my mind.  Not as a baby, not even as a child.  

In the prime of his life.

Luke was a young man.  A handsome young man, tall and slender.  His hair was a light brown/dark blonde and it was short.  He was so handsome.  Like movie star handsome.  Such a beautiful sight to see.  I couldn't tell you much about his features, but I do remember his nose.  Probably because that was the first thing I noticed about him after he was born.  It was a perfectly-shaped, very masculine nose.  What a strange thing to remember, but I can recall it vividly.

We didn't speak, but I knew.  I knew instantly that he will be there to welcome me when I enter the gates of heaven.  He will accompany me to paradise.  This young man, in the prime of his life.  

No words.  Just peace.

That is what he gave me: a glimpse of what I will never see here on earth:  our Luke in the prime of his life.  

I am so thankful to my father for being patient with each of my questions as I know it is not easy for him to talk about Luke without becoming emotional.  His insight helped me understand things a lot better.

Tomorrow, we will celebrate his life once again.  We will go to a soccer game, head to Dave and Buster's, followed by dinner at Chuy's, and a balloon release and cake when we return home.

I hope that this post has given you some peace if you are grieving a loved one and may God bless you.  Thank you for remembering Luke.