This is so hard. Hard in so many ways. It's hard enough missing him each and every day. It's hard waking up each morning, and having the stinging reminder that he is gone. But do you know what else has become surprisingly difficult? As time goes on, it is getting even more challenging to write on this blog.
And that absolutely breaks my heart.
I feel defeated.
I have always said that it is our job to make sure that Luke's legacy lives on because he is not here to make one of his own. But my heart is broken because I simply can't write any more than I have already written over the past ten years.
I have written about his birth, his diagnosis, his surgery. I have written about his daddy, his siblings, his grandparents, his aunts and uncles. I have written about my faith, my fears, my joy, and my anger. I have written about my struggles, my victories, my hopes, and my dreams. And I have written about his death.
Truly, there isn't much left to write about. I'm kind of lost. This tenth anniversary has been one of the hardest, probably because double digits is a big deal in a child's life. But also because a decade has passed since we last saw those beautiful eyes. An entire decade without our "bringer of light".
I wish that there was something that I could say that hasn't already been said. Something deep. Something profound. But all I can say is that I am sad. I'm sad that our baby was born with a broken heart. I'm sad that he had to go through open heart surgery at one week old. I'm sad that no one listened when we told them that he wasn't well. I'm sad that we never got to hear him laugh. I'm sad that he never got the chance to crawl, or walk, or say "daddy" or "mommy". I'm sad that he never got to meet his legacy, his baby brother. I'm sad that he was never able to attend school or play a sport or an instrument. I'm sad that he will never get to drive a car or go on a date or have a job. I'm sad that he will never get married or be a father. I'm sad that he was not given the chance to outlive his parents, his grandparents, or even a few of his great-grandparents.
I'm sad that he's gone.
And I'm sad that, even ten years later, there are still people who can't acknowledge the loss. People who have yet to mention his name. People who ignore the fact that he lived. People who cannot pick up a phone or send a text to offer a word of encouragement or love.
I'm sad that people are cheating themselves by not knowing Luke.
As much as I wish that this would be an uplifting post, I am sorry that it didn't turn out that way. The truth is that Luke's actual day of birth was one the the most difficult days of my life and the actual day of his death was actually a lot easier because I immediately felt God's mercy bestowed upon our entire family, but especially upon Luke. He wouldn't have to live a life full of physical suffering. And we wouldn't have to watch him live that life. No, he was whole.
But ever since that day? His birthday has been so very joyful. And this day? This day has been so very sorrowful. There is just no joy in remembering the day you watched helplessly as your baby boy died.
So once again, I am sorry that this post is not what you may have expected or what I may have hoped for, but please extend grace. Because honestly, after ten years of posting, I am scared that I am losing so much of what I have to say about our precious Luke.
And it breaks my heart.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
Monday, March 12, 2018
{Amazing} Grace
...how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
How can ten years pass so quickly, yet seem to have gone by so slowly? How can it seem like we held him for the first time just yesterday, yet we said "goodbye" forever ago? How has our family survived without our son, our brother, our grandson, our nephew?
You know, this year has been hard. Like really, really hard. I'm sure I have said that before, but this year is different. This year, the milestone is different. Double digits. Luke would be ten years old. Double digits. That's huge!
And yet, as these ten years have both flown by and dragged on, I feel him less and less. Can you imagine how heart-wrenching that is? To have that void? To not be able to feel one of your children? To beg God to allow him visit you in your dreams, to send you a sign, to be near you so that you can feel his presence?
But...
Sometimes those signs are so subtle that I almost miss them. Like this morning during mass. As we sat down, I found myself {once again} begging God to allow Luke to send a sign that he was with us. As the choral member opened the list of song numbers, I opened the hymnal to the last song listed and it was one of the songs that was sung at Luke's funeral: "Amazing Grace".
I immediately showed Tommy and he nodded, knowing that tears would come {honestly, he was probably fearful of how many tears would come}. But it wasn't so much the song as a whole and the fact that it was sung at Luke's funeral that made me weep like a baby. Since Luke's death, "Amazing Grace" means so much more to me. The meaning of the words are so much more profound to me than the beauty of the music.
Now I don't promise to be a religious scholar, nor do I promise that my interpretation of this song is correct in any way, shape, or form. But I do love that boy with all of my heart and I always do my best to honor him and his life. This is what the song means to me in my life now, because of Luke.
So here it goes...
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
When we first lost Luke, I was angry with God. I yelled at Him. I told Him that Luke was our baby and that He couldn't have him. That I wanted him back. How dare He take our baby. He was so loved and so wanted. Why did He have to take our baby? What had we done in our lives that was so bad that God had to take him? It took a while before I realized how much grace we were shown with Luke. We were blessed in that a wonderful L&D nurse heard his murmur and sent him to the NICU. Without her help, we may have taken him home and lost him within days. Instead, we were given 5 1/2 weeks with him. We were able to know him and snuggle with him. We were also given grace in that Luke did not suffer with his HLHS. I have seen so many children suffer with this condition and it's just not fair. Luke was extended so much grace in that he was given the chance to spend eternity in paradise while he waits for us to meet him there. I was blind, so very blind. But it took a while for me to see the grace that we have been given.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed!
In these lines, I look at the word "grace" as being our Luke. Luke's life caused more fear in my heart than I have ever felt before. When I looked at him, I felt panic. When I thought about him, I felt panic. When I slept, I felt panic. I was a walking, breathing ball of fear. But as soon as I held him, the fear would slip away. I was holding my baby. Grace {Luke} relieved that fear in me. He was my baby and his soul had so much power over me. It still does. And wow, "how precious did that grace appear"? All I can ask is, have you ever looked into the eyes of an angel? Because I have.
The Lord hath promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
As I said above, I was angry. Angry at God for giving me a gift so precious as Luke and then taking him away. And not only taking him away, but taking him away in such an awful, scary, and life-altering way. In a way that you only see in movies or on television. I still ask Him "why", and I will never understand until I reach heaven. But one thing I know is that He understands. He understands my questions and He isn't upset with me for asking them. He knows my flaws and He forgives me for them. He has promised good to me. He has promised me that I will see Luke again. He sent His Son so that I will see him again. In His Word, my hope secures.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.
Like I said, I'm no religious scholar, and I am just reading this song as Luke's mom. nothing more, nothing less. But this last stanza is the one that is the most difficult for me to interpret, because I can read it in two different ways: one as Luke looking down from heaven and another as us yearning to be with him. Luke, up in heaven, shining like the sun. Can you imagine how brightly he shines? And how he must sing God's praises for showing him such grace and mercy in this lifetime. And us, waiting here on earth, singing God's praises for showing us the same grace and mercy that He showed our son.
So there you have it, my not-so-scholarly, Mom-of-Luke interpretation of "Amazing Grace". I don't believe in mistakes and I do believe that this song was sung in mass this morning for a reason.
Thank you for continuing on this journey with our family. We are continually amazed at the support that we receive from so many. From the Luke's Legacy Boxes that people give so generously to, to friends who visit our boy's site, to a special family who brings him an ornament at Christmas and sends us the identical one for our own tree. We are blessed. We are given grace.
But I must say that the most important gift of grace that we were given was the gift of our Luke.
Our own Amazing Grace.
Happy birthday, Wittle Bubba. You're double digits now--keep shining!
How can ten years pass so quickly, yet seem to have gone by so slowly? How can it seem like we held him for the first time just yesterday, yet we said "goodbye" forever ago? How has our family survived without our son, our brother, our grandson, our nephew?
You know, this year has been hard. Like really, really hard. I'm sure I have said that before, but this year is different. This year, the milestone is different. Double digits. Luke would be ten years old. Double digits. That's huge!
And yet, as these ten years have both flown by and dragged on, I feel him less and less. Can you imagine how heart-wrenching that is? To have that void? To not be able to feel one of your children? To beg God to allow him visit you in your dreams, to send you a sign, to be near you so that you can feel his presence?
But...
Sometimes those signs are so subtle that I almost miss them. Like this morning during mass. As we sat down, I found myself {once again} begging God to allow Luke to send a sign that he was with us. As the choral member opened the list of song numbers, I opened the hymnal to the last song listed and it was one of the songs that was sung at Luke's funeral: "Amazing Grace".
I immediately showed Tommy and he nodded, knowing that tears would come {honestly, he was probably fearful of how many tears would come}. But it wasn't so much the song as a whole and the fact that it was sung at Luke's funeral that made me weep like a baby. Since Luke's death, "Amazing Grace" means so much more to me. The meaning of the words are so much more profound to me than the beauty of the music.
Now I don't promise to be a religious scholar, nor do I promise that my interpretation of this song is correct in any way, shape, or form. But I do love that boy with all of my heart and I always do my best to honor him and his life. This is what the song means to me in my life now, because of Luke.
So here it goes...
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
When we first lost Luke, I was angry with God. I yelled at Him. I told Him that Luke was our baby and that He couldn't have him. That I wanted him back. How dare He take our baby. He was so loved and so wanted. Why did He have to take our baby? What had we done in our lives that was so bad that God had to take him? It took a while before I realized how much grace we were shown with Luke. We were blessed in that a wonderful L&D nurse heard his murmur and sent him to the NICU. Without her help, we may have taken him home and lost him within days. Instead, we were given 5 1/2 weeks with him. We were able to know him and snuggle with him. We were also given grace in that Luke did not suffer with his HLHS. I have seen so many children suffer with this condition and it's just not fair. Luke was extended so much grace in that he was given the chance to spend eternity in paradise while he waits for us to meet him there. I was blind, so very blind. But it took a while for me to see the grace that we have been given.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believed!
In these lines, I look at the word "grace" as being our Luke. Luke's life caused more fear in my heart than I have ever felt before. When I looked at him, I felt panic. When I thought about him, I felt panic. When I slept, I felt panic. I was a walking, breathing ball of fear. But as soon as I held him, the fear would slip away. I was holding my baby. Grace {Luke} relieved that fear in me. He was my baby and his soul had so much power over me. It still does. And wow, "how precious did that grace appear"? All I can ask is, have you ever looked into the eyes of an angel? Because I have.
The Lord hath promised good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
As long as life endures.
As I said above, I was angry. Angry at God for giving me a gift so precious as Luke and then taking him away. And not only taking him away, but taking him away in such an awful, scary, and life-altering way. In a way that you only see in movies or on television. I still ask Him "why", and I will never understand until I reach heaven. But one thing I know is that He understands. He understands my questions and He isn't upset with me for asking them. He knows my flaws and He forgives me for them. He has promised good to me. He has promised me that I will see Luke again. He sent His Son so that I will see him again. In His Word, my hope secures.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.
Like I said, I'm no religious scholar, and I am just reading this song as Luke's mom. nothing more, nothing less. But this last stanza is the one that is the most difficult for me to interpret, because I can read it in two different ways: one as Luke looking down from heaven and another as us yearning to be with him. Luke, up in heaven, shining like the sun. Can you imagine how brightly he shines? And how he must sing God's praises for showing him such grace and mercy in this lifetime. And us, waiting here on earth, singing God's praises for showing us the same grace and mercy that He showed our son.
So there you have it, my not-so-scholarly, Mom-of-Luke interpretation of "Amazing Grace". I don't believe in mistakes and I do believe that this song was sung in mass this morning for a reason.
Thank you for continuing on this journey with our family. We are continually amazed at the support that we receive from so many. From the Luke's Legacy Boxes that people give so generously to, to friends who visit our boy's site, to a special family who brings him an ornament at Christmas and sends us the identical one for our own tree. We are blessed. We are given grace.
But I must say that the most important gift of grace that we were given was the gift of our Luke.
Our own Amazing Grace.
Happy birthday, Wittle Bubba. You're double digits now--keep shining!
Monday, April 17, 2017
Are there really only five stages of grief?
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| One of the last pictures taken of this precious boy...nine years ago tonight. |
I think it was a few weeks after his death before I was introduced to the Five Stages of Grief, developed by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Here I was...a post-natal mom, still "feeling pregnant", still lactating, still physically needing my baby in order to fulfill my motherly duties. And I was introduced to this idea that grief was supposed to be universal. That each of us who grieves goes through these stages. Sure, we may go through them at different times or we may stay at a stage longer than someone else. But the idea is that we will all face these stages.
And I have.
But these aren't the only stages that I have faced. They aren't the only stages that Tommy has experienced. We all grieve differently. Tommy and I have grieved our son in very different ways. A few stages that I could add:
* Catatonia: this stage happened in the days and week after we lost Luke. I could barely move. I couldn't go outside. I could speak and talk, but I just wasn't "there". Tommy and my father took care of all of the funeral arrangements, but I just couldn't bring myself to go. They did a wonderful job and I can't imagine that it was an easy thing to do. I was present at the wake and the funeral (and I can tell you everyone who was there). But at home, I was catatonic. I have read that catatonia can be brought on by PTSD, which is definitely something that many people who have witnessed traumatic events can develop. It all makes sense.
* Thankfulness: This stage took a bit longer to reach. It took me a long time to realize that Luke was spared from a very difficult life. He wouldn't have to endure more hospitalizations, more surgeries, and an eventual heart transplant. God welcomed him to heaven at an early age to save him from an unknown future. And then we were given the gift of James--thanks to Luke's life, we were blessed with a new one.
* Bitterness: this stage kind of lingers. I first experienced it when some very important people didn't attend Luke's funeral. I realize that bitterness is not something that a newly grieving mother should feel, but it was involuntary. Bitterness still rears its ugly head every now and then. I hate it.
* Disappointment: it's cliché, but it's true that people show their true colors when others are faced with adversity. All of a sudden, I was part of a really crummy club: The Grieving Mom Club. It sucks and no one wants to be a member. And unfortunately, some people pulled away. In all honesty, I also pulled away a bit. But shouldn't I have been given a pass? I mean, I had just buried our son. A little bit of compassion and empathy goes a long way. And patience. Lots of patience. Disappointment is something that I still feel. Just today, I was disappointed. I have prayed so hard for a sign from Luke. But none came this year. I haven't felt him near. I haven't felt his presence. Thankfully, I have received some really amazing signs in the past here and here. But not this year. And my heart is hurting.
* Fear: what if something else happens to another loved one? What if someone else gets sick and dies? What if we have to witness what we saw that night? I realize that it's not good to worry. But no one knows what Tommy and I saw that night. It rocked us to our very core. The fear creeps up more often than I would like to admit.
I'm sure that this post probably seems a little negative, but when I started the blog almost nine years ago, I wanted to be transparent. To show the good and bad sides of grief. The easy and the hard. The pretty and the ugly. It is my hope that someone will read it and realize that they are not grieving the wrong way and that what they are feeling is ok.
Let's stop trying to put everyone in a pretty little box and send them on their way. Let us be present in their grief. Let us tell them that they are doing the best that can be expected. Let us be patient and kind. Let us not leave them behind because they can't "get over it". Let us not judge those whose shoes we would never want to fill.
Let us be good.
So on this night before the ninth anniversary of our baby boy's entrance to heaven, please be present in our grief. Please tell us that we are doing the best that can be expected. Please be patient and kind. Please don't leave us behind because we can't "get over it". Please don't judge these shoes that we wear, because you would never want to fill them.
Please be good.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
In the Thick of Things...
Each year when his birthday rolls around, I pray and ask for guidance in what I should write on this blog. It becomes increasingly difficult to find something new to write about. I told Tommy the other day that I had no idea what I would write. And I'm still not really sure.
I tend to write in stream of consciousness...I guess I'll continue that trend.
We are in the thick of things here at the Haberhouse. I used to think that the toddler days were difficult. And they were. But these years. These years are hard. Perhaps more difficult than when the kids were little and dependent on us for everything.
Don't get me wrong, I love this time in our lives. I love the conversations that we share with the kids, the girls' days with Em, watching them play their sports, seeing them achieve goals. But these years are hard.
And with that difficulty comes the constant reminder that we are missing one. That beautiful boy with wise eyes and great hair. That voice that I long to hear. That hand that I wish to hold. That face that I will never kiss again. We are missing one.
And that makes these years even harder. We won't see him play sports. We won't see him drive. We won't see him graduate from high school. We won't see him grow up.
I don't think I will ever understand why Luke was taken at such a young age. I can truly appreciate those who say that they don't ask "why?" after a tragedy. But I still ask "why?". I guess I am not strong enough to understand the whole picture.
Why?
Why Luke?
In these times when we are in the thick of things, I can't help but wonder if God thought that I wasn't strong enough to mother four teenagers at once? That I didn't have enough patience? That I would not be able to handle the difficult times?
That I wasn't enough.
Because y'all, sometimes I'm just not enough. And I want to be enough because I would give anything to have that sweet soul back with us. I want to be enough so that I would be able to see him play sports. To see him drive. To see him graduate. To see him grow up.
Oh, I miss him more than you could ever imagine. It is such a deep hole. A gaping hole. A huge part of me is missing and each day, it hits me like a ton of bricks: I wake up, oblivious to everything but my alarm clock. Life is perfect. And then I remember. And the hole makes it's presence known. It's a nasty cycle.
There are so many feelings that occur on Luke's birthday. Feelings of thankfulness, sadness, joy, and despair. Feelings of weakness and frustration. Feelings of love.
Because...boy, did we love him.
I pray that he knows this. I hope that he can hear me when I ask him to pray for me. When I ask him to pray for strength to get through a difficult time. When I beg him for a sign that he is near.
And although we are in the thick of things, and sometimes I feel that Em will never stop arguing. That Matthew will never smile for a picture. Or that James will never stop talking (seriously y'all, he talks incessantly 😂). I know that I love them with the part of my heart that still exists. I know that they are precious miracles. Gifts from God. And although I may not always be enough, I pray that they grow up to know that their mother loved them with every inch of her being and that she would do anything for them.
I love you, beautiful Luke. Happy 9th birthday, precious boy. And please pray for me. That I can be enough. And that Daddy and I can guide your brothers and sister through the thick of things.
I tend to write in stream of consciousness...I guess I'll continue that trend.
We are in the thick of things here at the Haberhouse. I used to think that the toddler days were difficult. And they were. But these years. These years are hard. Perhaps more difficult than when the kids were little and dependent on us for everything.
Don't get me wrong, I love this time in our lives. I love the conversations that we share with the kids, the girls' days with Em, watching them play their sports, seeing them achieve goals. But these years are hard.
And with that difficulty comes the constant reminder that we are missing one. That beautiful boy with wise eyes and great hair. That voice that I long to hear. That hand that I wish to hold. That face that I will never kiss again. We are missing one.
And that makes these years even harder. We won't see him play sports. We won't see him drive. We won't see him graduate from high school. We won't see him grow up.
I don't think I will ever understand why Luke was taken at such a young age. I can truly appreciate those who say that they don't ask "why?" after a tragedy. But I still ask "why?". I guess I am not strong enough to understand the whole picture.
Why?
Why Luke?
In these times when we are in the thick of things, I can't help but wonder if God thought that I wasn't strong enough to mother four teenagers at once? That I didn't have enough patience? That I would not be able to handle the difficult times?
That I wasn't enough.
Because y'all, sometimes I'm just not enough. And I want to be enough because I would give anything to have that sweet soul back with us. I want to be enough so that I would be able to see him play sports. To see him drive. To see him graduate. To see him grow up.
Oh, I miss him more than you could ever imagine. It is such a deep hole. A gaping hole. A huge part of me is missing and each day, it hits me like a ton of bricks: I wake up, oblivious to everything but my alarm clock. Life is perfect. And then I remember. And the hole makes it's presence known. It's a nasty cycle.
There are so many feelings that occur on Luke's birthday. Feelings of thankfulness, sadness, joy, and despair. Feelings of weakness and frustration. Feelings of love.
Because...boy, did we love him.
I pray that he knows this. I hope that he can hear me when I ask him to pray for me. When I ask him to pray for strength to get through a difficult time. When I beg him for a sign that he is near.
And although we are in the thick of things, and sometimes I feel that Em will never stop arguing. That Matthew will never smile for a picture. Or that James will never stop talking (seriously y'all, he talks incessantly 😂). I know that I love them with the part of my heart that still exists. I know that they are precious miracles. Gifts from God. And although I may not always be enough, I pray that they grow up to know that their mother loved them with every inch of her being and that she would do anything for them.
I love you, beautiful Luke. Happy 9th birthday, precious boy. And please pray for me. That I can be enough. And that Daddy and I can guide your brothers and sister through the thick of things.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
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:
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:
Friday, March 11, 2016
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.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Once Again
Once again, I sit here on my computer. Trying to come up with words to eulogize our son. Attempting to be eloquent when I'd really like to scream. Wanting to be positive and uplifting, when the reality sucks. Hoping not to upset anyone, but realizing that I probably will.
Once again, I am at a loss. What can I say that hasn't been said a hundred times? How can I explain the unexplainable? When will the emptiness go away?
Once again, the memories will come flooding back. That horrible night. The sights. The sounds. The helplessness. The fear.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, it will be seven years since we said "goodbye".
Once again, April 18th will be an acute reminder of the worst day of our lives.
I really want to be positive y'all. But the truth is, being his mother is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. It's just not fair.
Most days I am good. I can talk about him with a smile. I can put on a happy face, making sure not to make anyone else uncomfortable. I can explain how sick he was and how he is in a better place.
And he definitely is in a better place.
But I still want him here. I want him with us. Each and every day.
And it's hard. It's hard because, once again, I'm writing this post, worried about what people will think.
And why do I worry about what they will think? Do those people know what it's like to bury a child? Have they had their hearts broken in so many pieces that it will never be the same? Who are they to judge a grieving mother?
So, I will tell you how I feel: I feel sad. And happy. I feel angry. And joyful. I feel scared. And optimistic. I could go on and on.
Because when we lost Luke, everything changed.
And as I have said many times, I have changed.
Part of that change enables me to be more straight-forward and less "Pollyanna Sugarcoat" {a nice little name my sister Rita once gave me}. And frankly, I'm ok if people aren't ok with me. Because my life was fundamentally changed on April 18th, 2008. And there was nothing I could do to stop that change from happening.
Luke's death hasn't made me bitter (well, maybe a little), but it has made me better. To others, I may not seem to be a better Bernie {believe me, I struggle with "New Bernie" a lot}. I'm more inclined to speak my mind, to stand up for myself and others, to be the advocate that my children need. I have allowed relationships to wane, but have invested a lot of time in developing new ones. I have realized how important it is to keep people close who make you better, and not bitter. I've let go when I wanted to hold on, because I now know what's better for me. And I'm ok with it all.
Once again, as withsome most of my posts, this one has been all over the place. But I want to leave you with this...
Once again, we will spend tomorrow with the ones we love. Once again, we will remember the most beautiful boy in the world. Once again, we will hold fast to the promise that we will see him again. And once again, we will thank God for being given the chance to be Luke Thomas Haberman's mommy and daddy.
Once again, I am at a loss. What can I say that hasn't been said a hundred times? How can I explain the unexplainable? When will the emptiness go away?
Once again, the memories will come flooding back. That horrible night. The sights. The sounds. The helplessness. The fear.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, it will be seven years since we said "goodbye".
Once again, April 18th will be an acute reminder of the worst day of our lives.
I really want to be positive y'all. But the truth is, being his mother is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. It's just not fair.
Most days I am good. I can talk about him with a smile. I can put on a happy face, making sure not to make anyone else uncomfortable. I can explain how sick he was and how he is in a better place.
And he definitely is in a better place.
But I still want him here. I want him with us. Each and every day.
And it's hard. It's hard because, once again, I'm writing this post, worried about what people will think.
And why do I worry about what they will think? Do those people know what it's like to bury a child? Have they had their hearts broken in so many pieces that it will never be the same? Who are they to judge a grieving mother?
So, I will tell you how I feel: I feel sad. And happy. I feel angry. And joyful. I feel scared. And optimistic. I could go on and on.
Because when we lost Luke, everything changed.
And as I have said many times, I have changed.
Part of that change enables me to be more straight-forward and less "Pollyanna Sugarcoat" {a nice little name my sister Rita once gave me}. And frankly, I'm ok if people aren't ok with me. Because my life was fundamentally changed on April 18th, 2008. And there was nothing I could do to stop that change from happening.
Luke's death hasn't made me bitter (well, maybe a little), but it has made me better. To others, I may not seem to be a better Bernie {believe me, I struggle with "New Bernie" a lot}. I'm more inclined to speak my mind, to stand up for myself and others, to be the advocate that my children need. I have allowed relationships to wane, but have invested a lot of time in developing new ones. I have realized how important it is to keep people close who make you better, and not bitter. I've let go when I wanted to hold on, because I now know what's better for me. And I'm ok with it all.
Once again, as with
Once again, we will spend tomorrow with the ones we love. Once again, we will remember the most beautiful boy in the world. Once again, we will hold fast to the promise that we will see him again. And once again, we will thank God for being given the chance to be Luke Thomas Haberman's mommy and daddy.
Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.
Luke 18:17
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