In the weeds...

I'm not a big fan of weeds. Weeds are full of ticks, snakes, and other creepy crawlies. Weeds grow uncontrollably. They overtake other plants. And when I walk among the weeds, I feel gross.

Which is why it has meant so much to me when people have walked in the weeds with us over the past sixteen years.

I took Luke's box out a few days before his birthday, but my emotions finally allowed me to look through it tonight. It's the box that contains many important things from his life: the stuffed animals he never got to snuggle, the blankets that no longer keep him warm, the booties that he never got to wear.

But Luke's box also contains some very cherished things. Things that helped us get through the terrible weeds in the days, weeks, and months after we lost him.

His box contains notes, mass cards, donation cards, and so much more.

Luke's box contains a copy of the homily that Father George shared at his funeral mass. This story still makes me tear up:

Luke's box contains notes, cards, mass intentions, and books. It contains the sleep 'n play he wore a few times and also the holy water that we kept from his baptism. It contains the program from his mass and the guest book from the funeral. It contains the most sacred words of love from friends and even strangers and the most precious pictures from children who were praying for our family.

Luke's box contains all of the cards from the hundreds of donations that were made in his memory. My mother and Nana took the time to collect all of the donation cards and tied them nicely together. There was so much kindness shown to our family and we are so thankful for the generosity that was shown in his memory.

I want to share these things with you because I want to show how many people were in the weeds with us sixteen years ago. How many people held us up while we trudged through the thick brush. Who walked with us as we faced the impossible. To those of you who took the journey with us sixteen years ago, I pray that you can look at these pictures and know that your love and support got us through the unimaginable. I hope that you can see how much even the smallest gesture meant to us. We saved these things for a reason: because they showed empathy, kindness, and love to a grieving family. 

And there are people who are still in the weeds with us. The people who visit his sacred place, because we do not live near. The people who donate to NICU families through Luke's Legacy Boxes. The people who pray for our family. The people who remember him. The people who say his name.

Our family is blessed.

Today, sixteen years from the day we last heard his voice, we are so very thankful for the people who we are blessed to call friends and family. We are thankful for those who walk in the weeds with us.

Walk through the weeds. Don't fear what you may face in the weeds. Walk through them. Because even in the weeds, there is beauty. 

And that beauty is love.

Happy angel day, precious Luke Thomas. 

I am honored to walk through the weeds to celebrate the miracle of your life.

I had to share the picture above, because he is wearing the he sleep 'n play that is in his box.

Sixteen years old.

 

Do not complain about growing old. It is a privilege denied to many.

-Mark Twain

Sixteen years have gone by since we first saw his beautiful face and heard his tiny cry. 

So many things have happened since Luke was born. And there are so many things that he has missed since we lost him.

The Haberkids have reached some important milestones this year. Emily turned 21, and enjoys being legal. Matthew started school at the University of Georgia and is thriving. James started high school and is now almost as tall as Matthew.

But Luke.

Luke is forever 5 and a half weeks old. He will never reach these milestones.

I think about all of the experiences that Em, Matt, and James have had thus far in their lives, and all of the things that Luke will never have the opportunity to experience,

Luke never laughed. He never learned how to walk or how to talk. Luke didn't learn how to swim or ride a bike. He will never graduate high school. He will never go to college.

And this year. His sixteenth year. 

I won't take pictures of Luke sitting in a car. I won't feel my eyes well up with tears as I watch my baby boy drive away toward a new independence.

These are all things we take for granted. Natural milestones in our lives.

But there are other things that happen as we get older. Things that aren't milestones as much as they are life experiences.

Luke will never feel the sand between his toes, nor the feeling of waves in the ocean. He won't feel the nerves that come with final exams, or the fear that comes with forgetting to do homework.

Luke won't know the butterflies that come with falling in love. And he won't experience the pain of heartbreak.

Luke won't have the opportunity to get on one knee and ask for forever.

He won't ever be a father.

He won't give us grandchildren.

No, none of these things will happen for Luke. 

And we won't be able to experience life with him. We will always be missing an important piece of the Haberman puzzle.

As much as our hearts break for what Luke is missing, we find peace in what he has in heaven. He is surrounded by loved ones. He is in the arms of Jesus and Mary.

Luke is whole. He is not hurting. He is happy. I believe this with all of my heart.

And that is what I need to remember in the midst of my grief: that no matter what sadness I have for what Luke has missed, he is fortunate in that he has only ever known love.

Grieving the loss of a child is a process, it begins on the day your child passes and ends the day the parent joins them.

-BJ Karrer

Fifteen years gone

“A mother’s joy begins when new life is stirring inside… when a tiny heartbeat is heard for the very first time, and a playful kick reminds her that she is never alone.”

– Author Unknown

This picture was taken the night before we lost Luke. I am so thankful that my father insisted on taking lots of photos of Luke while he was here with us. We didn't realize how short his time with us would be, so these pictures mean everything to me and Tommy.

Fifteen years have gone by since Luke passed. Some days, it seems like yesterday and others, it feels like forever. The grief is odd. There is never a perfect way to grieve, but I often question my grief: is my grief too strong? Too weak? Am I grieving the wrong way? How can I grieve better?

Tommy has been my rock since the day Luke was born. We left the hospital after Luke was life flighted, and we met with the cardiologist that evening. When we arrived at the hotel, Tommy held up his grieving wife. His wife who had given birth only hours before. His wife who should have been lying in a hospital bed, recovering from giving birth. He was my rock.

When Luke died, Tommy continued to be my rock. I was virtually catatonic. I stayed in the bedroom most days. I was numb. I didn't want to eat and I wouldn't go outside. But Tommy was so strong. He and my father went to the funeral home to discuss arrangements. He and my father went to the church to discuss the funeral mass. He made sure that I was ok. He didn't try to fix me. He was there through it all.

So you're probably wondering why I am jumping around in this post. Bear with me...because there is a point. A point between my grief journey and Tommy's unwavering support.

I remember one day when I was melting down. It was shortly after we lost Luke. I was explaining how I was having these horrible thoughts. Thoughts about what was happening to Luke's perfect body. Thoughts about him hearing gunshots from Greenspoint Mall (my Houston friends know what I'm talking about). Just very awful thoughts that were racing through my head.

And then I asked him. I asked him the question that had been bothering me so much, but the question that I was so fearful to ask. Maybe I was embarrassed. Maybe I was ashamed. Maybe I was just so deep in my grief that I didn't want to know the answer.

I asked him why I was crying so much more than him. Why my grief seemed so much more intense. Why he didn't seem as sad as me.

And his answer has stuck with me. I will never forget his words and how much they meant to me. How much I needed to hear them. Because with Tommy's answer, I was given a huge sense of peace about my grief. I knew that what I was feeling was perfectly ok.

He said that I was the one who knew Luke the best. I was the one who knew Luke the longest. And because of that, I was the one who would grieve him more deeply.

Tommy's words were the words that I needed to hear. They were what got me through the next few deeply sorrowful weeks. Tommy's words allowed me to fully feel my grief and to "dive in", which helped my own heart heal.

Because you know what? I was the one who knew Luke best. He lived inside of me. His broken heart formed in my womb. He grew inside of me. I felt him move and I cherished each kick.

And I knew him.

I knew that boy so well. 

And I am so thankful to have a husband {and a best friend} who helped me when I needed it the most. And who has been my rock ever since. I love him a lot.

If you know someone who is grieving, please just support that person. Don't try to fix it. Just be there, and let them know that they are loved.

“Before you were conceived I wanted you. Before you were born I loved you. Before you were here an hour I would die for you. This is the miracle of Mother’s Love.”

– Maureen Hawkins

Our baby boy is 15!

At sunset the little soul that had come with the dawning went away, leaving heartbreak behind it.” –  L.M. Montgomery

I read this quote today, and it really struck me. It also made me think more about the brief time that Luke spent here on earth. And the grief that followed.

Fifteen years seems like a long time, but it truly feels like yesterday. I remember seeing Luke for the first time. I remember looking at his little hands as he nursed right after birth. I remember noticing that they were still blue. When I asked the nurse about his hands, she reassured me that it takes a while for blood to circulate through a newborn's body. She heard a murmur a few moments later...

I would by lying if I said that I have never asked God "why Luke"? Why did our baby have to die? Why wasn't our baby one of the ones who made it? Why did we have to bury him? This boy was so wanted, he was so loved. 

One day, I will know the answer to these questions, but not until I enter eternity with Luke.

I'm not going to lie. This post has been weighing heavily on my heart over the past few weeks. I have been writing on this blog for almost fifteen years. At the beginning, I wrote one or two times a week, just to share our triumphs and our setbacks. To share the happy and the sad. 

It's not an exaggeration to say that this blog is one of the things that has helped me in my grief journey. Openly sharing my feelings has been a way for me to deal with my own grief, while hopefully showing others that it is ok to be sad, to encourage, to remember.

But this year, it has been really difficult to post. 

I just can't think of anything that will be encouraging or uplifting. 

Fifteen years of writing in the blog, and I'm lost.

I just don't know what to write, but I feel an obligation to write.

Because, in my mind, if I don't write then I fear that people will forget about him. And I have always said that Luke can't make his legacy, so it is our responsibility to make one for him.

I am well aware that {some} people have grown tired of me talking about Luke. I'm not blind to the fact that some of our closest friends have stopped reaching out. And that is heartbreaking.

But we will not ever stop talking about Luke. Because that is our responsibility as his parents. So I really want to apologize to those who I make uncomfortable. It is not my intention to upset others, it is just my intention to allow people know Luke. I look at it as a privilege to know and love our precious son.

When I say that this post is probably the most difficult one I have written, it is probably because I have been writing on it for such a long time. Fifteen years. 

It's a difficult concept to think of all that he has missed: high school, driving permit, dating...but then I realize that those things don't matter to him, because Luke is in heaven. He finished the good race, just a little earlier than most. 

I read a comment on social media the other day, it was on a video that a mother posted about the loss of her child. The poster said that to us, we grieve the life that the child didn't have. But to the child, he knew love his entire life, so he lived a full life {I summarized}. 

I pray that Luke felt how much he was loved. I pray that although his life was short in our eyes, in his eyes his life was full.

I feel the need to apologize for this post. It isn't the kind of post I am used to writing. But it is my heart and it is truth. Fifteen years is a long time to write about your child's death.

But if it helps one person know and remember our Luke, then I have done my job as his mother.

God bless our little Saint Luke, and may he intercede in all of our prayers.

 

Goodbyes

Today is the day that I dread each year:  the day we lost our little Luke.  The day we said goodbye. 

But we didn't really get to say goodbye to Luke, not in the literal sense.  

I will always believe that Luke fought to stay alive that last week because Tommy was out of town for work.  Luke had been "off" the entire week.  He was vomiting during most of his feedings and his weight was fluctuating to the point that it made my mama heart worry.  But he fought through the week, making sure that Tommy could see him one more time.  I think that he knew his time with us was waning, and that Tommy would need to see him one more time.  He went into distress within hours of Tommy returning home.

On the night we lost Luke, there was so much chaos.  The call to 9-1-1, the firefighters arriving first, Matthew waking up and rushing him back to his bed, the EMT/paramedics arriving.  The ambulance ride and being told that "babies do this all the time"{ummmm, how many babies who have half of a heart do this "all the time"?} and telling our baby boy that he would be ok and that we were going to get him to the hospital.  And then those dreaded words "pulse is dropping", and consequently being rerouted to a closer hospital.  They took him away and we were never able to give him a proper goodbye.  By the time we saw him again, he was gone.

Lately, I have been thinking of saying goodbye to writing on this blog.  Over the past 14+ years, writing has been cathartic for me.  Posting my fears, my triumphs, and my hopes has helped me through my grief journey.  It helped give me strength when I was pregnant with James.  But it's just not the same...I feel like it may be time to say goodbye to this page.  The jury is still out on that one...

But there is something that I want to share as I close out this post: a little hello.  If you have been reading the blog for a while, you know that one of my biggest fears is that Luke will be forgotten.  That people will not know his legacy.  We have a finite number of pictures, and even fewer videos.  But, after a lot of years of trying to figure it out on our own, my sister Katie was able to convert a couple of our videos so that I can post them on the blog.  The first video is a little longer and it was filmed on Easter Sunday 2008.  Luke was a few days out of his Norwood (open heart) surgery and he was still in the CVICU.  It was tough being in that room, and when I listen to the questions I asked, it is so apparent that I was overwhelmed and had no idea what was going on with Luke and his recovery.  The second video is quite a bit shorter, but so precious because you are able to see the beauty that was Luke's face.  He was the most beautiful baby I have ever seen.  This video was taken at home, after his bath, about a week before we lost him.  I look at this video and can see how scared I was, even to hold him.  But the way he looked at me while I held him?  That is something that I needed to see tonight.  It is something that I needed to feel.  Because if we cannot have Luke here with us, at least we can have the memories.

So without further ado, I would like you to say hello to Luke Thomas:

He was real.

It has been 14 years since Luke was born.  And in about five weeks, it will be 14 years since we lost him.  A beautiful life lived in just over five weeks.  

But most days, none of this seems real.  It's like a dream.

Speaking of dreams, I had a vivid one last night.  It was one of those dreams where I was back in college {we all have those kind of dreams, right?}.  I was selected to be a Fish Camp Co-Chair {my Texas Aggies know}.  But I was no longer in college.  I was in my mid-forties and I had a family.  I remember thinking while I dreamt: "why would they choose me to be a Co-Chair again?  I am married, a mom, I have a job, and I am old!"  I knew while dreaming that none of it made sense.  And when I woke up, I was relieved that it was only a dream.

But this dream.  This one is real.  This is a nightmare.

Each morning when I wake up, it only takes a few moments for me to realize that he is really gone.  That this is real life.  That this is a nightmare from which we will never wake up.  

As much as this nightmare hurts, our world is better because he lived.

He was real.

He was the best parts of me and Tommy.  He had his Grampa's ears and his father's nose.  He had my grandmother's mouth and his brother's curly hair.  

He was real.

He was such a good baby.  He rarely cried.  He watched us.  His eyes were so wise.

He was real.

His legacy lives on in me and Tommy.  In his siblings.  In his grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  His legacy lives on in Luke's Legacy Boxes and in the countless families who have been helped through the generosity of our family and friends.  

Because he was real.

And I am so thankful for this real baby boy, despite the endless nightmare of being an angel mom.  I count myself blessed that Luke was mine and that we were able to share nine months, just me and him.  How lucky am I that I carried a saint for nine months and that I was able to meet him face-to-face?  As much as I wish I could wake up from this dream, I am able to recognize the important part that he played in my life:  that every life is worth being lived.

He was real.

Happy 14th birthday, beautiful boy.  I so wish I could wake up from this dream and you would be here with us.

Control {or lack thereof}

You know when you are in an interview and the interviewer asks you to name your biggest flaw?  My answer has always been my control issues.  

Ask my co-workers and they will say that I have control issues.  Ask my parents and they will say that I have control issues.  Ask my siblings and they will say that I have control issues.  Ask my children and they will say that I have control issues.  Ask my husband and he will say that I have control issues.  

Lack of control is my kryptonite.

So when I feel like I don't have control of a situation, I naturally become uneasy, anxious, and {sometimes 😉} difficult.  I overthink, overanalyze, and overreact to situations which are beyond my control.  

Imagine the lack of control I felt the night that we lost Luke.

What happened that night is very personal to me and Tommy.  When talking to friends over the years, I have been able to recall the story without too many tears.  But it is not a story that I feel comfortable sharing on a forum like this (possibly because I would be unable to control how the story may be distributed}.  But I can tell you how I felt.  How the loss of control made me rely on my faith, my husband, and my family.  How I found refuge in God and Tommy.  And in my parents, Nana, and my siblings.  

How I realized that there was nothing {nothing} that could change God's will for Luke and his life.

It was a pretty surreal thing to stand outside of that ER that Friday evening, praying with my husband.  Telling God that we would "be ok" if He took Luke.  Did He really need our permission to welcome Luke to paradise?  Of course not.  But as I stood there with my best friend and prayed, a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders.  And that control that I had been holding onto so strongly had simply disappeared.  It was shortly after we stood weeping and praying outside of that ER entrance, when a member of the hospital staff came to bring us inside.  And it was then that we knew that Luke wouldn't make it.  It was as if God was waiting for us to release the control.  To know that we would be alright. 

And we are.  We are ok.  We aren't perfect and things haven't always been easy.  But we have our love, our friendship, our faith.  And with these things, we can get through anything.  And after losing Luke and all the things we saw and experienced that night, I'd like to say that I am pretty proud of me and Tommy.  We made it through every parents' nightmare.  And we came back stronger.

Emily is headed to college next year and the thought of her being on her own, a few hours away, is downright frightening.  But with Tommy's help, I am hoping to let go of that control and to trust in the path that she will take in life.  To remember that she is an intelligent young woman who is strong and faithful.  I can't wait to see how she soars!

I know that I will always struggle with control issues, but my hope is that I will be able to deal with them a bit better as time goes on.  And even though there are many things that I cannot control, I can control some things:  how I treat others, how I can help others, and how I can react when faced with adversity.  

On this day of our Luke's passing, please try to show love and kindness, offer help when needed, and don't give up when things get tough.  Take control of what you can, and release the things in which you have no control.

Here is one way in which I can spread love and joy, sharing a picture of an angel on earth:

And a picture of our Emily, because she has worked hard throughout school and deserves the recognition: