Those Days

The days when we struggle... struggle to make sense of it all... struggle to accept that one of our precious babes is no longer with us... struggle to see the good... the positives.... the hope....

Those days when we ache... ache for the weight of our baby in our arms... ache to feel the jabbing kicks one more time... ache to smell their smell again... ache to kiss them... ache to have them back....

Those days when we fail to see light.... when the darkness seems too powerful... when the silence is too deafening....

Those days when the horrific, unthinkable memories emerge... rear it's ugly, dead baby, head... when the guilt brings you to your knees... unable to breathe... unable to think...

Those days.... those days... they have to happen....

Those days we have to bare

Those days we must face

Those days make way for the brighter days

Those days lead us to a path of gentle healing

Those days will always exist

Those days will always co-mingle with the new found joy

Those days knock you down, sometimes much further then you wish

Those days are a cruel reminder of your reality, your new normal

Those days....

Happy 8, Nicholas!

Nicholas' 8th Birthday ~ Balloon Release 2016
Thank you to all the beautiful lights that took time to celebrate Nicholas with us this afternoon.... the sun was perfect, warm and comforting and the energy was indescribable.
We are very humbled to have such wonderful, supportive and loving souls in our lives ~ those that wrap their friendship around our entire family <3 span="">
Love you all.

Strength and my "Why"

I have been led on a different path the past several months.  A more positive path.  A more productive path.  A more energetic path.  A path that finally feels like 'home'.

My "why" on this new journey has transformed along the way.  It has reshaped many beliefs and  molded new ones.  I have learned so much about myself and continue to strive to live out of my comfort zone.

In analyzing my "why" and the hills and valley's along the way I continue to come back to this; 

I often don't feel like I was very 'strong' when faced with the devastation of Nicholas' death.  I felt numb mostly.  Certainly not strong.  When I look back at the raw days, months and years after saying hello and goodbye in one breath, to one of my own... I didn't feel strong.  I felt broken.  For a long, long time. 

In the journey of grieving Nicholas I feel like I have cultivated strength.  Strength from the many friends and family who have supported us 100% along the way.  Strength from the perfect strangers around the world who remember our boy when they look at their baby's angel wings.  Strength from Nicholas' legacy.....  the strength and perseverance of that little baby boy could not be matched. 



My ‘Why’ ~ Story of Change

In May of 2015 my life and the life of my family was enhanced on so many levels. We decided to embrace a new, simple lifestyle in an effort to put more pure, whole food nutrition into our bodies. The results of adding a variety of over 30 additional fruits, vegetables, grains and berries into our daily routine has been incredible. Not only are we feeling exuberant amounts of energy to get through our normally crazy days, but we are losing excess weight, gaining muscle, experiencing smooth, vibrant skin, etc. etc.…. Most importantly, we are focused on maintaining a lifestyle filled with joy, fun, love, health and fitness!

I immediately fell head over heels with the way we were feeling and started sharing our experience with the people I love and care about most. This is when my ‘why’ transformed. My family is my ‘why’, yes. However, in this journey I have come to realize that my ‘why’ is so much more, so much deeper than I had ever dreamed. This opportunity has allowed me to get my ‘why’ back. I have found me again.

Just over 7 years ago I lost a big part of me when our son, Nicholas, died. For years I have gone through the motions, enjoyed my family and living children, absolutely, but something was always missing… I often felt like I was in a fog, always carried a tremendous amount of guilt and grief. Reaching out, comforting others in similar situations and creating a legacy through Nicholas’ Touch has helped to soothe my soul, but this recent journey into a healthier me/us has helped me to rise up on some many levels.

It has allowed me the confidence to believe in myself again. It has allowed me to strength and the will power to reach for the stars. It has allowed me the chance to touch people’s lives in such a profound way. It has allowed me the opportunity to be a part of such a strong, supportive and loving community of inspiring people. The energy that fills the room when we are all together is phenomenal and infectious. I am so very grateful that this new road found me several months ago….

Onward and upward!

Feeling empowered.

Missing you today....

One of those days.

Those days that you feel like the breath is being sucked out of your soul....

I miss you everyday, son, but today I feel something looming over my heart.

Mommy grief.

Grief that thickens and threatens and intimidates.

Then I look at the date.

January 7.

Funny how the heart just 'feels' those markers differently.

xx

This time of year....

I have been asked to speak to some health professionals at our local hospital as a piece of their perinatal bereavement training.

Here is my speech.

Love you, Nicholas.

Hospital Talk - 2015

Good Afternoon, Everyone and welcome,

I am honoured to be here and I would like to thank Kemayla for inviting me to share our story with all of you today.  Thank you to all of you as well.  I am sure you have had a long, emotionally draining day.  I appreciate your time and your willingness to engage and learn about a subject that is often thought of as taboo or too difficult to deal with in a compassionate way.

As this date approached I felt a little uneasy.  For obvious reasons, of course, but the more I examined my heightened anxiety I realized the date.

7 years ago tomorrow.  I was 35 weeks pregnant with our third son.

October 28, 2008

The day our world stopped. The day we were told that part of our baby boy's brain had not formed. The day we had to make the most unimaginable decision of our lives.

This time of year marks the most tortures, unforgiving emotional ride as we re- live the days leading up to meeting our baby boy.    The grief thickens.  It’s deep.  It’s raw.  We are desperate for just one more glimpse.  We ache for one more touch.   We imagine his face at each family gathering.  We feel him in our souls.

Our journey through grief began 7 years ago when our youngest son, Nicholas passed away .

This is our story…..

Seven years  ago my husband and I received the most devastating, unbearable and confusing news any parent can hear.  Our third son, the baby we had planned.  The baby we grew with, the baby we loved… was in a desperately grave condition.  We were forced to face any parents worst torture ~ the unfathomable reality that our beloved child was unable to survive outside of the womb.  The fact that our son’s ultimate fate was death – even before he drew his first breath.

My pregnancy was eventful.   At almost 20 weeks I was rushed to the hospital and had emergency surgery to remove an 8 cm cyst that had twisted my ovary.  Life-saving surgery for both myself and baby.  Several doctor’s, nurses and technicians assured us that our baby boy was just fine.  Safe, healthy and totally oblivious to the pain mommy was experiencing.  I remember constantly thanking God for that.  I gladly took every ounce of pain just knowing that our baby was thriving.  As much as his strong kicks hurt my incisions, the tears I shed were those of gratitude.  I remember every kick …. Every hiccup and I rejoiced in the fact that we had survived such a life threatening event.

I was released from the hospital and went home to rest.  Quite a few weeks later, during a routine scan, my OB requested I be seen by a high risk doctor to rule out any possible problems with our baby’s ventricles in the brain.  My OB was fairly certain everything was fine, but with everything we went through to get there, he wanted to be sure.  I wasn’t worried.  I hardly thought about it.  Just an over cautious doctor, which I was grateful for.

In just a few short weeks our lives changed from anxiously expecting another beautiful, healthy son very shortly to living a nightmare in which we would never wake from.

The high risk doctor confirmed that our baby’s ventricles were indeed enlarged.  Grossly enlarged….  She immediately sent us to Mt. Sinai hospital where we endured many questions, tests and long, agonizing waits. 

I don’t remember much about that day, especially the latter half.  I remember being escorted into an office.  There were pictures of African animals everywhere…. A trip the owner of the office had taken, no doubt.  Pictures of smiling children, happy families… seemingly taunting us.  I remember my eyes being glazed over like they have never been before.  I remember holding my husband’s hand so tightly.. for fear I would melt to the floor.  We sat and we listened through the sobs to the doctors talking about our baby.  Our perfect little boy.  The baby who we were told was perfectly fine just a week ago.  We listened as they told us that his sweet little brain had ceased to develop or it had recessed after my attack, my surgery.  All that continued to run through my head was that I deprived my own child the very oxygen and blood necessary to grow….  I failed him.  I failed my husband, I failed his brothers who were so desperately awaiting his arrival.  I failed his grandparents…his Aunts, his Uncles….. I failed myself.

A week later, at 35 weeks pregnant, I was induced and our beautiful baby boy was born….. sound asleep.  I will always remember that overwhelming feeling, just moments after I felt him leave my body, of hoping beyond hope for a cry… that somehow the doctor’s were wrong… that he fought through… I prayed for some kind of miracle as the primal screams of desperation escaped me.

We were able to spend so much precious, memorable time with our boy.  We named him Nicholas Warren and he was perfect.  He’s still as perfect as ever.  He has such a strong presence in our lives.  Nicholas is loved, remembered and honoured every single day in our home.

Fast forward to today.  I wish I could say that this all makes sense now.  That there is some greater purpose of forever walking this road of missing our baby boy.  I’m not ready to say that.  I’ll never be ready to say that.  Today, none of what happened makes any sense to me.  I will never accept that our baby had to die for a reason or that God has another plan for him.  I don’t believe that.  I certainly don’t embrace it.    What I do know is that somewhere along my journey I made a promise to myself, my family and especially to Nicholas.  I promised that the anguish that resides in my heart over losing him will not define me, but rather, the gratitude and distinct honour of being chosen to be his mommy will soar above all else.  

As a baby loss mom the message I try to convey today to others facing this devastating tragedy is that after surviving the unimaginable, there is hope.  There are lighter and brighter days down the road.   No matter how far along we are in this journey we must remember to be gentle on ourselves.  Be patient.  Be kind.  Remember.  Love and be loved.  The sadness, the desperation, the anger… these feelings are all a part of the process.  Let yourself go to those dark places, but please, remember the light too.  As difficult as it is to accept that time marches on while our world has seemingly come to a crashing halt…. time is our ally.  Time softens the pain.  Time allows us to remember the good and not always the bad.

I know that I will always physically ache for Nicholas.   For his body in my body, his soul in my soul.   A mother’s love is endless. 

 No one else will ever know the strength of my love for you, buddy.   After all, you're the only one who knows what my heart sounds like from the inside. ...

As much as I long to have Nicholas here, playing among his older brothers and protecting his baby sister, I feel like the“ache” has transformed.  I have learned to allow joy and grief to cohabitate in my heart.  It never ceases to amaze me how such definitive opposites can co-mingle so gracefully.

A very old friend once said to me; “I am not a religious person, however I have always believed in Guardian Angels.  How bittersweet that you got to meet yours”…  what a truly beautiful perspective.  It’s an image that speaks to my heart.

I can’t say that my personal journey has always been graceful or kind.  And I can most definitely say that it hasn’t been easy.  Some days are just plain hard, cruel and messy, but others are full of hope, joy and an abundance of love.  I suppose it will always be that way. One feeling trying to overpower the other.  Two completely different sets of emotions delicately balancing in my heart.

Four years we had a very special vision to celebrate and honour Nicholas on his birthday.  Our family, along with some very generous friends and family, have created some special Hospital Memory/Comfort Boxes for the labour and delivery ward at Southlake Regional Health Center. Although my feelings are mixed (I wish these types of boxes weren’t needed at all) the donation of the Comfort Boxes has become a tradition on Nicholas’ birthday… as well as if there is a need.  It is my understanding and my experience that not too much exists in terms of tangible care and support when you are forced to leave the hospital with empty arms.

It is our hope to provide items in these packages to newly bereaved parents that may help in memorializing their babies.   When parents are forced to face the unimaginable; saying goodbye to their children, tangible things such as pictures and hand/footprints aren’t often thought about until it’s too late.   Our goal is to offer comforting options... options that are not typically thought of in the fresh stages of grief.  

I was told years ago that one of the first boxes had to be gifted…. What an intrinsically bittersweet moment that was.  I only hope that the family knows how genuinely and incredibly sorry I am that they now find themselves on this journey… one where I have walked and wept.  I desire that knowing others have walked through this anguish gives them hope… that they know that they are not alone in what often feels like a very lonely journey.  I hope that they can feel my arms around them as I weep with them.

We have gone from deep, deep despair and sadness to feeling a sense of strength for enduring such heartache. We have gone from utter hopelessness to hopefulness in bringing a new baby home to our family. We have gone from missing our baby boy so intensely in the ravages of new grief to remembering him, talking about him and including him in our family every chance we get.

The past seven years have been intense, unpredictable and full of unimaginable grief, but they have also been filled with hope, inspiration and an incredible amount of healing.   Although it is painful to not have Nicholas here with us, his spirit and his legacy have infused our family with indomitable strength and immeasurable love over the past 7 years.   We remember him often, we honour him daily, we love him unconditionally.  He is forever a part of our hearts and our souls.

I believe that our loved ones are never too far away.  They are in the whispers of the wind, the first spring bloom of the season… the fluffy, white snowflakes that melt on our nose…they are in the crimson sunsets and marshmallow clouds…they are flying on butterfly wings and they are in the ladybug that lands and decides to stay for a while.  They with us always… holding our hearts tight and offering sweet comfort as we remember and pay tribute….  They are in the light of our flames  as we light our candles… they are in the tears that fall and they are in the embraces we receive.  Where ever you choose to “see” your Angel is the perfect spot… embrace those moments… there are always more to come.

I can only imagine that when faced with such shock and sadness ,your job, as health professionals, becomes a very difficult one.  One that most do not want to face.  One that most feel incredibly uncomfortable with.  I hope that today has been gentle on all of you.  I hope today’s training and our sharing has provided some encouragement of how to approach such profound loss… it is never easy, nor should it be.  Being in the positions that you are in , you already have a special and compassionate heart….  Trust that heart.  Feel it.  Connect.  Be present.  Love.

“Bereaved parents never forget the understanding, respect, and genuine warmth they received from caregivers, which can become as lasting and important as any other memories of their lost pregnancy or their baby’s brief life.”

This is also, of course, true for the flip side.  I can honestly say that we experienced both extremes.  From inconsiderate platitudes, accusations and utter lack of compassion to above and beyond care for our baby and our hearts…

I will forever be grateful for both perspectives.  They allow me to appreciate the human spirit in a beautiful light…

Thank you for taking the time to share in Nicholas’ story.

You are apprecitated.

You Are My Greatest Adventure

I have been horrible.

I yearn to write, yet the words seem stuck.  I feel when I write, yet I am unsure of what I feel.  I have to write, yet I don't make the time....

Guilty, guilty, guilty.  Seems to be the common theme.

The holidays were heavy.  I felt like a gloomy cloud hung over my head everywhere I went... like the weight of my heart would collapse at any given moment.  The reality of heightened grief over the holidays threatened to cave me...to knot my soul and destroy my spirit.

Sometimes it sneaks up on you.  The uncontrollable emotion of hopelessness.  Other times it lingers and slowly breaks you down no matter how hard you try to conquer it.  This year I felt defeated.  Like my positive attitude wasn't enough.  The powerful foe had gotten under my skin.  Invaded my thoughts and had just plain gotten me down.

Through the years I have learned that grief.... this tumultuous journey we are on doesn't always make sense.  In fact, it almost never makes sense.  The feelings in my heart and head are contradicting ones.  There are times when I feel part of a tug of war... joyous and blessed in one moment yet anxious and beaten down the next.

I picked up a sign the other day... a rustic, barn board type of sign.  It says "you are my greatest adventure".  I loved it as soon as I saw it.  It drew me in and my mind began to race at all of the possible meanings this sign has in my life.  Life is most definitely an adventure.  A ride full of ups and downs, sharp turns, steep hills and stormy seas.  It is also full of joy, love, kindness and many, many blessings.  Our middle son, Kyle, read the sign when I brought it home and asked me what it meant.  I told him that 'you' are my greatest adventure.  Daddy, Evan, Kyle, Nicholas and Madison are my greatest adventure in this life... my greatest loves and my greatest adventure. And then the question; "what about 'Blossom', is she not part of your adventure?"  Be still my heart.  From our fabulous, insightful, gentle Kyle....

I felt a pang and the guilt and reality of it all quickly set in again... my sweet boy is right.  'Blossom' is a part of our adventure.  She gently came into our lives and then left in an unspoken moment...

Our adventure is ever changing.  An adventure full of glorious things and an adventure full of horrendous things...  whatever my adventure is it is certainly worth fighting for.

October 28, 2008 - The Beginning of the End ~ His Journey's Just Begun

 Today ~ October 29, 2014

These next 2 weeks mark the most torturess, unforgiving emotional ride....  This time of year is hard.  We love you sweet boy.  Today, always and forever.

His Journey's Just Begun

Don't think of him as gone away~
his journey's just begun,
life holds so many facets~
this earth is only one.

Just think of him as resting
from the sorrows and the tears
in a place of warmth and comfort
where there are no days and years.

Think how he must be wishing
that we could know today
how nothing but our sadness
can really pass away.

And think of him as living
in the hearts of those he touched...
for nothing loved is ever lost~
and he was loved so much.

~E. Brenneman


October 28, 2008

The day our world stopped. The day we were told that part of our baby boy's brain had not formed. The day we had to make the most unimaginable decision of our lives.

We were scheduled into the high risk pregnancy hospital that afternoon for a number of tests because an ultrasound had shown that the ventricles in our baby's head were larger than normal. My husband and I made the 1/2 hour drive into Toronto and, to be honest, our spirits were hopeful. We certainly had a million questions, but how bad could it be right? I was 33 weeks and had several ultrasounds throughout the pregnancy - every single one was "fine" - until the last one. How could something so catastrophic not been seen earlier??

When we got to the clinic I had blood taken, then we had the amnio... and then the "detailed ultrasound" performed by one of the head doctors. He studied our baby for a long, long time (all the while making small talk). I remember him telling us about his daughter and a big house they had bought not too far from where we lived...I look back now and wonder how in the world he could talk so casually when he could clearly see the trouble our baby was in.

The doctor was called away for what felt like hours and during that time my husband and I tried to remain calm... we didn't know anything for sure at this point. My husband looked at the transcript from the previous ultrasound and figured things were fairly positive (he has some training in the medical field and can read the jargon). When the doctor finally returned he probed my belly again and asked if he and the doctor we had been seeing (who was now in the room) could speak with each other freely. Sure. I didn't understand a single thing they were saying, but something deep in my soul knew that none of it was good. I kept looking at my husband for some kind of reassurance.... nothing. He just kept shaking his head and looking really concerned. When my husband looks concerned I know there's trouble.

The doctors finished up and we were sent to wait in the waiting room... for what we now know was the worst news of our life.

We were taken into the genetic councilor's office and shut the door. Oh God...

"Part of the baby's brain has not formed at all" the words went through me like a sword. "There was some kind of insult to the baby", probably during or after my emergency surgery at 20 weeks, "There is a high chance that the baby will not make it through labour or for very long once he is born" .... my vision is blurry now, I am staring blankly at who knows what, I don't hear them anymore. "If the baby is born alive we cannot guarantee what quality of life he will have... with half the brain missing...." "Everyone has different views and ideas of what quality of life is....there are options for you." Options, are you serious??!!!

After a while we were left alone in that office.... to scream, to sob, to shake uncontrollably. Our first and foremost thought was that we did not want our precious baby boy to suffer. We did not want him to be born gasping for breath, struggling to stay alive. We did not want him on life support and we did not want our beautiful boy to be attached to tubes and needles. We also felt like we had to think about our two boys at home... there were 5 people to think about. I will never forget my husband saying that. I don't remember too much, but that I remember. It struck a chord and resonated in my breaking heart.

The decision to let him go, without a doubt, was the most heart-wrenching, soul-searing, horrendous decision we have had to ever, ever had to make, but I truly believe we made it out of love. I have to believe that we spared him the pain, the suffering that he would have inevitably endured, regardless of the outcome.

I pleaded with the doctors not to send me home that night.... I really didn't know how to face anyone. But there are policies, of course. We were sent home to writhe in our pain... to start grieving our little boy who was still actively kicking and pushing his mommy's belly.

We waited 4 days to get an MRI scheduled. The MRI was to 110% confirm the findings (which we were all for).

That was Friday, October 31, 2008 - Halloween Day. And that is for another post.

My heart and soul ache for you Nicholas..... we love you more every day... xo

Nicholas' 6th Angel Day - Honouring and Remembering...

Nicholas' 6th Angel Day ~ Honouring and Remembering

leanna reeves

16/10/2014

Dear Friends and Family,

It is difficult to believe that our son, Nicholas' 6th Angel Day is approaching.  As much as time helps to soothe the soul, this time of year never fails to bring with it intense nerves and unexpected waves of grief.  Nicholas' beautiful face, his tiny hands that wrapped around his daddy's, his sweet, baby smell are all such precious memories.... we just wish there was more time.  Every year is hard.

Although this time of year is particularly challenging we also feel incredibly grateful that Nicholas' short life has been able to impact so many others in a positive way.  Nicholas' legacy is infectious.... he continuously wraps his family with unconditional love, peace and strength...

Every year our family chooses to remember Nicholas in a unique way.  This year we are honoured to share with you an incredible journey of faith, hope and love...  It is our wish that our son will be remembered as we also celebrate an amazingly beautiful person in our lives.

Please take a few moments to read the story at the link below.

https://www.southlakefoundation.ca/tributeevents/Event.aspx?event=DACBF28AE7E04229B12ACD8FD5B24EFD

As always, we thank  you all from the bottom of our healing hearts.

With Love and Gratitude,
Leanna, Jim, Evan, Kyle, Madison and Nicholas

"I would rather had had one breath of his hair, one kiss of his mouth, one touch of his hand, than an eternity without it..."

The Rawest Form of Anguish

A few weeks ago there was a horrific accident involving a bright, beautiful and enthusiastic young 15 year old girl.  That girl was the sister of one our oldest son's hockey teammates.

Evan and I went to the funeral.

Torture.

Pure, gut wrenching, torture.

The church over flowed with people.  Loved ones.  Friends.  Acquaintances.  I suspect people who didn't even know this young soul personally, but felt compelled to pay respects to such a young life lost.

We got two of the last seats (extra seating just outside of the congregation itself).

I sobbed.  Uncontrollably.  Along with the hundreds of other breaking hearts in that church.  My son held my hand as I much as I held his...  my 11 year old son.

This girls father spoke.  Our friend.  A broken man at the funeral of his daughter.  The daughter he had just played catch with the day before her death.  The man whose soul was drenched with the rawest of pain....

The tears flowed freely.  The "ugly cry" reared it's head.... exhausting.

I sobbed for that family.  I sobbed for a life gone far too soon.  I sobbed for the one's left behind to mourn such a life full of love and prosper.

I sobbed for our Nicholas.  I sobbed as the memories of losing our son poured to the forefront, once again...

The look in this young girls mom's eyes as she hugged me and locked eyes with mine...  "how do you do it?" she asked...  I just hugged her extra tight.

Truth is there is no answer to that question....  her life is forever changed.  Forever shattered in that moment.  I wanted to tell her that there will be light, but not today.  There will be light when there is meant to be light..  her daughter will provide that.

But today, she is broken... fractured... immobilized by a loss so deep that there are truly no words.

Spring..... again

Funny... as I look back at the posts at Nicholas' Touch around this time of year it is always the same... the arrival of Spring... a new season to rejuvenate life and refresh the soul.

I awoke this morning from a horrifying 'flashback' type of dream.  They are terrifying and merciless ... when they happen they rock my world as I am transported back to the day my baby boy was ripped from my body.... to the day when I so desperately wanted to hear him cry, wimper, anything...

He didn't... he never will... and I know that.  The mind is an intricate piece of machinery, however, and it can rip you apart when you least expect it... play games with your already fragile heart and cause the raw, in the moment pain to come roaring back...

I accept it.  The pain.  The longing.  The guilt.  The love.

Below is what I wrote just last year.... March 22/2013

______________________________________________________________________



It comes every year.  I should be used to it by now.  I should be prepared for the shock.  I should be able to stare it in the eyes and steady myself.  I should be able to keep my composure.

But every year it comes... and every year the grief of carrying Nicholas in my heart explodes into a nasty mess.  A heated pool of anguish over the loss of my third son.

Spring.

It gets me every time.

I stare out the window and witness the tulips slowly rising... the abundance of Robins with full bellies waiting to lay their eggs.  I admire how the grass magically turns from dry, brown, dead.... to lush, green and inviting.  I pop open the windows in our home to release the staleness of winter and allow the cool spring breeze to revitalize the air.  The sun shines and I can feel the warmth as it tries to soothe my soul.

The new life.  The freshness of the air.  The vitality of the buds on the verge of blooming..... it's all so bittersweet.

I love Spring, but it's all such a heavy reminder.

Such life and growth..... but he's dead.

As I read my own words they sound so harsh.  Probably because no one should have to write those words.  No one should have to endure the death of their own child.  So, the words may be harsh, but they are my reality.  My world.

As the fragrance in the air subtly changes from winter cold to spring fresh.... I miss him.

That's what our Nicholas smelled like.  Fresh, soft, spring air.  A pure and gentle cocktail of beautiful baby.

Sigh......

Happy Spring, sweet Nicholas.

Newspaper!

 Nicholas,

I had the absolute honour of sharing you with our community the other day.  Our local newspaper visited to do an interview with me regarding our journey after losing you and the hope and comfort that has risen because of it.  I think your Mama did okay... not too many hiccups, not too many moments of having to catch my breath.  You give me strength every day, buddy... and the will to continue what we do to help others experiencing the same type of heartbreak....

The direct link to the newspaper article and interview are here.

Abandonment

Hey Buddy,

Yesterday was a day to remember.  To keep safe in my heart for many years to come.  Yesterday a community of people came together to remember, honour, pay respect to two beautiful, tiny souls.  Souls that weren't given a chance at life.  Souls that were left to die... alone, in the dark, in the cold, with no one to cuddle them, no one to love them as children deserve to be loved.  Yesterday I stood respectfully before their tiny, white coffins.  Those coffins.  Many memories of my last moments with you....  a coffin should not be that small.  It's cruel.  Unfair.  And far from okay.  I stood there and the tears came.  The lump formed...  as I imagined these precious lives being so unnecessarily cut short.  Imaging their helplessness ... and the helplessness these mothers felt.  Praying that the media coverage the service was getting will somehow, someway break through a barrier of society that doesn't seem to want to touch these subjects.  Hoping that "the powers that be" will find compassion for these lost souls... for the parents that are scared or sick...  Wishing that there will be something put into place to help.  To give these parents an option.  An option over abandonment.  An option over death.

I felt my body physically ache and become weak with grief as those sweet baby boys were carried out of the funeral home.  I had to remind myself to breathe... to steady myself as my heart broke all over again.  We followed the hearse to their grave.  A peaceful, delicate spot carved in the garden of the cemetery...  The temperature was beyond cold (-30) and the wind whipped the snow around us.  It was bitter... yet fitting.  I could endure a few minutes of dreadful cold to say goodbye to these boys.  To give them the dignity and respect they did not get in life.  To love them and comfort them on the last leg of their journey....  because they deserve it.  Because we cared.

"I Mention Him"

Exactly, buddy.... never far from my thoughts.... always in my heart

I Mention Him

Submitted by TreysMommy  |  November 6, 2012 - 5:00pm

I Mention Him

 

Not to make you uncomfortable,
He's my son, I should be able to talk about him.

Not to dwell,
He will forever be my son, part of my life, my heart.

Not to make you feel guilty,
He is a child just like your own, but he's in Heaven.

Not to bring you down,
It brings me joy to speak of him fondly.

Not to get attention,
He exists in my life just as your topics of conversation exists in yours.

Not to gain sympathy,
Believe you me, I wish I did not have to speak on him the past tense.

Not to bring you down,
My grief is lifelong, my healing is in the only life he has now, his mommy.

Not to rub it in your face,
I would never wish this on ANYONE!

Not to make it about me,
I am just another parent trying to speak of my kids the way you do yours.

Not to suck you into my world,
Your world is just as important to me.

Not to distract you,
I want to hear how your life is going, your happiness is relevant.

Not to take away from the conversation,
Yet life as well as death is a part of common conversation.

Not to make my life seem more important than yours,
I am my own person in my own journey and I share what is in my heart just as you do.

Not to remind you of your own grief,
We all walk our own paths and stumble as all humans do, we should pick each other up.

Not to garner your support,
Everyone gives whatever they can to enrich the lives of the ones they care for.

Not to remind you,
No one needs to be reminded of the loss of a child.

Not to haunt you,
It sucks, it truly does but not speaking of him haunts those who love him.



He is my son, I mention him, his life, his passing, and the times since then because I live every one of those moments in real time everyday.  He is a part of my being.  He is a part of my soul.  He has a place in my heart.  I carried him in my womb.  I watched him struggle.  I made the hardest decision a parent will EVER have to make...I let him go.  But understand, though I let him go physically, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally, he will ALWAYS be with me!  I am thankful for it, it's all I have and at this point, it is all I need.  

 

Thinking...

I think about you so much.  I think about how much you have enriched my life... how much strength I am able to present, because of you.  I think about our connection and the connection I have been honoured to make with others...  I dream about your tiny, little spirit and just how big it truly is.  My heart is healing and I am relieved to say that I feel at peace.  I

On your 5th birthday we visited a small hospital in Ottawa.  I presented 6 Comfort Boxes to an audience of 8 nurses, doctors, caregivers....  6 Comfort Boxes in your name and in your honour.  Your legacy continues, buddy.

On that very day, just as we were posing for a group photo I spotted a ladybug....  a beautiful, perfect ladybug silently perched on a luscious plant inside of the hospital.  My heart was stunned at the timing... it was also filled with joy and warmth as I realized that your spirit was there.. with your family, far from home... offering your energy and your light to an emotional day.

Beautiful things do happen.

Love your sweet soul, buddy...

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

November 6 and 7, 2013 - You have given us so much.....

Originally posted - March 2009

The days leading up to Nicholas' birth were so surreal. I'm convinced that I was in complete shock... and in complete despair. I often wish that I consciously connected with him more during those last few days. Instead, I felt shame. Not ashamed of my sweet baby boy, never that, but ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I had let this horrible thing happen to my baby. Ashamed that my body couldn't keep him safe. I changed in the dark. I wore the absolute baggiest clothes I could find and I physically cringed when my husband would touch my belly. I disconnected because that is what felt safe for me at the time. I didn't want to bond any more than I already had with this baby for fear of completely breaking down. I now know that was the stupidest thing I could have done... our bond was already as strong as strong could be and I wasted precious time.


Secretly I cherished the kicks, the nudges, the hiccups and the bubbles those last few days, but never again did I say "Oh my gosh, watch my belly, he's rocking and rolling again". It's very difficult to put into words why.... I think all of you know the feeling. Complete helplessness. Deep and utter sadness. Those days were so incredibly hard. I couldn't understand why he was so active and seemingly okay when the opposite was true - he would not have that "life" when he wasn't connected to me. It truly is amazing what we do for our babies... how we nourish them, grow them.. and love them so.

It's funny, everyone always seemed to ask how I was sleeping, if at all. I never had any problem sleeping. I was so completely and totally drained that closing my eyes and falling asleep was a relief. My problem was waking up. It literally hurt to wake up... to reality. Every day we would wait for the phone call from the doctor to say that the ethics committee had met and made their decision. Every day I held my breath as the phone rang and rang and rang. I was very angry at the fact that an "Ethics Committee" held the fate of our family and our precious baby at their mercy.

We finally got the call and went into the hospital on Thursday, November 6, 2008. We got to the clinic early and there only a few people walking the halls. I was in autopilot... I remember one pregnant lady sitting across from us. She had seen my bag and pillow and commented on the fact that we were going to have our baby that day.... little did she know.

I have never, ever cried so much or felt such immense pain as I did when I felt our sweet baby boy go...

I was given something to relax me and then the induction began. It seemed to take forever. I was feverish and nauseous from the gel the doctors were giving me every few hours. I was given an epidural where I could manage the dose... I remember forcing myself or my husband to press that button... I wanted to feel this labour. I wanted to work for my Nicholas. This was the last thing we were going to do together... and I wanted to remember every (although painful) minute.

Fast forward to the next day... Friday, November 7, 2008. My body seems to have shut down. I am not dialating, I am not contracting. I can't even do this right.
Then suddenly I feel the tremendous urge to push. He's ready. I'm not. I'm not ready to push him out of me. I'm not ready to let go.

I remember these young, inexperienced (in bedside manner anyway) interns coming in to assist with Nicholas' birth. They were anything but gentle. Not that I cared, really. I didn't care about anything at that point, except for holding my beautiful boy in my arms. I'll never forget the feeling of him slipping out... slipping away. I howled.... just howled. It was over and I was lost. I couldn't keep him safe any longer.

He is just beautiful. The first thing my husband and I noticed was his red hair. Our first born has red hair and Nicholas was the spitting image of him. He smelled so clean and fresh. His skin was so smooth and perfect. His lips so red and kissable. I couldn't get enough of him and yet I felt myself detaching.... shock has a funny way of protecting was needs to be protected. I thank God for shock. It allowed us to savour the precious time we had with our son. To love him. To caress him. To just "be" for at least a few hours before we had to say goodbye.

Goodbye. What an impossible thing to do.

to be continued...

October 28, 2008

October 28, 2008 - The Beginning of the End

October 28, 2008

The day our world stopped. The day we were told that part of our baby boy's brain had not formed. The day we had to make the most unimaginable decision of our lives.

We were scheduled into the high risk pregnancy hospital that afternoon for a number of tests because an ultrasound had shown that the ventricles in our baby's head were larger than normal. My husband and I made the 1/2 hour drive into Toronto and, to be honest, our spirits were hopeful. We certainly had a million questions, but how bad could it be right? I was 33 weeks and had several ultrasounds throughout the pregnancy - every single one was "fine" - until the last one. How could something so catastrophic not been seen earlier??

When we got to the clinic I had blood taken, then we had the amnio... and then the "detailed ultrasound" performed by one of the head doctors. He studied our baby for a long, long time (all the while making small talk). I remember him telling us about his daughter and a big house they had bought not too far from where we lived...I look back now and wonder how in the world he could talk so casually when he could clearly see the trouble our baby was in.

The doctor was called away for what felt like hours and during that time my husband and I tried to remain calm... we didn't know anything for sure at this point. My husband looked at the transcript from the previous ultrasound and figured things were fairly positive (he has some training in the medical field and can read the jargon). When the doctor finally returned he probed my belly again and asked if he and the doctor we had been seeing (who was now in the room) could speak with each other freely. Sure. I didn't understand a single thing they were saying, but something deep in my soul knew that none of it was good. I kept looking at my husband for some kind of reassurance.... nothing. He just kept shaking his head and looking really concerned. When my husband looks concerned I know there's trouble.

The doctors finished up and we were sent to wait in the waiting room... for what we now know was the worst news of our life.

We were taken into the genetic councilor's office and shut the door. Oh God...

"Part of the baby's brain has not formed at all" the words went through me like a sword. "There was some kind of insult to the baby", probably during or after my emergency surgery at 20 weeks, "There is a high chance that the baby will not make it through labour or for very long once he is born" .... my vision is blurry now, I am staring blankly at who knows what, I don't hear them anymore. "If the baby is born alive we cannot guarantee what quality of life he will have... with half the brain missing...." "Everyone has different views and ideas of what quality of life is....there are options for you." Options, are you serious??!!!

After a while we were left alone in that office.... to scream, to sob, to shake uncontrollably. Our first and foremost thought was that we did not want our precious baby boy to suffer. We did not want him to be born gasping for breath, struggling to stay alive. We did not want him on life support and we did not want our beautiful boy to be attached to tubes and needles. We also felt like we had to think about our two boys at home... there were 5 people to think about. I will never forget my husband saying that. I don't remember too much, but that I remember. It struck a chord and resonated in my breaking heart.

The decision to let him go, without a doubt, was the most heart-wrenching, soul-searing, horrendous decision we have had to ever, ever had to make, but I truly believe we made it out of love. I have to believe that we spared him the pain, the suffering that he would have inevitably endured, regardless of the outcome.

I pleaded with the doctors not to send me home that night.... I really didn't know how to face anyone. But there are policies, of course. We were sent home to writhe in our pain... to start grieving our little boy who was still actively kicking and pushing his mommy's belly.

We waited 4 days to get an MRI scheduled. The MRI was to 110% confirm the findings (which we were all for).

That was Friday, October 31, 2008 - Halloween Day. And that is for another post.

My heart and soul ache for you Nicholas..... we love you more every day... xo

Today

Every year around this time I struggle.  The tears flow without warning.  There is a dull ache in my chest and my breaths are a little harder to take.  The vulnerability I feel at this time is painstaking.  Unstoppable.  Agonizing.

I try my very hardest to honour you, sweet Nicholas.  To keep your beautiful legacy alive in this world.  I try to give back to others hurting as we do.  I do it in your name.  I do it because you gave me clarity to what I could give back in this life.  You were taken away.  I am still here.  My resolve is to parent you through comforting others.  To allow my love for you honour other babies gone too soon.  To offer support and strength to their families.  To remember you with purity and passion.

But the anniversaries come with pain and sorrow.  The subconscious memories blindside me and I am left to pick up the pieces.  The rest of the year is dedicated to honouring your beautiful little life.... but today, little man, mommy is struggling. 

I love you. 

I am so sorry.

Nicholas' 5th Angel Day

October 22, 2013

Dear Family and Friends,                                               

Nicholas’ Birth/Angel day is Thursday, Novemeber 7^th.  It will have been 5 whole years since Jim and I had the incredible opportunity to meet our third son, face to tiny, perfect face.  Five years since we were blessed to hold him in our arms… smell him… kiss him….talk to him… love him.  

I am struggling with 5 years.  Every year is a milestone, but 5 seems truly unimaginable.  When Nicholas died I remember genuinely wondering how the world could continue to spin… how the stars still shone… how the birds still sang…  Our world was drastically halted in that moment and it seemed beyond unfair and cruel that time didn’t stop.

Flash forward to today.  

I couldn’t be more grateful for time.  

Time to dull the intense pain.  

Time to begin to heal our broken hearts. 

 Time to try to forgive myself.  

Time to remember and honour Nicholas.  

Time to realize how much love he has brought to our lives.

Most of you will remember that we have been marking Nicholas’ Angel Day with a special and unique event each year.  Together, with an amazing support system, we have created life long memories on what is an extremely emotional day for our family.

This year we will be travelling to Ottawa on November 7^th.  To be honest, I have had a hard time accepting this truth, however, we have come up with a plan to continue our tradition of honouring Nicholas’ memory on his birth/angel day.

I have been busy putting together more Comfort Boxes.  We will donate 6 of them to a hospital close to where we are staying in Ottawa.  We are more than comforted to know that some families may find some much needed solace from the items we have provided.  

I am saddened by the fact that we will not have the opportunity to again share this day with an abundance of friends, family and supporters.  However, I am encouraged to know that we will be surrounded by our “hockey family” as we navigate our way through this latest anniversary. 

In the past, the events have changed, as it will this year, but the meaning will always be there.  It is so important to us to have a positive focus on what could be a terrible day re-living horrific memories.    

Nicholas’ legacy lives on and that is what it is all about.

We continue to heal our broken hearts by remembering and honouring our special little guy every day.   We do this together, with love, perseverance and with the boundless support of amazing family and friends who have been there for us every step of the way.   We thank you all.

With Love and Gratitude,

Leanna, Jim ,Evan, Kyle, Madison and Angel Baby Nicholas Reeves

“I would rather have had one breath of his hair, one kiss of his mouth,

one touch of his hand, than an eternity without it…”