Thanksgiving morning.

Last year, we started a tradition on Thanksgiving morning. A balloon release in memory of our loved ones. Nothing too fancy, really.

We sit. We talk. We give thanks. We remember. With intention.

Who were they? What was special about them? What was funny about them? And any other questions they might have. 

We remember Harry's father. Also known as "Granddaddy-in-heaven." He was a great father. Harry said that no matter what anybody ever said, he always knew his father loved him. He didn't like people messing with his car or kids playing near it. That was a funny thing about him. He loved children and would have loved his grandsons. Yes, it makes Daddy sad that he didn't get to play with them. But Harry also says that before his father passed away, he had already taught him all he needed to know about being a man.

Granddaddy-in-heaven made his transition early in the morning on December 20, 1992 -- Harry's twenty-second birthday.

We remember C.J. Short for Cedric Jr. Everywhere he went, people marveled at how smart he was. His daddy has a big Harley Davidson hog and C.J. had a mini-hog just like Uncle Ced. C.J. loved to shake his booty to the theme song to Madagascar 2-- "I like to Move it-Move it." The kids are comforted in knowing that Auntie will get to help take care of him just like she took care of them.

C.J. left us four years ago today on November 23, 2008.  We will always, always remember to never forget his precious life.

We remember Auntie Deanna. Also known as simply "Auntie." It was hard to do a lot of talking. But we just hugged and talked and let ourselves feel thankful for her. She was funny when playing board games with the boys. Very. In fact, she never let any kid win a game just because they're a kid. Nope. Not Auntie. She was proud of all of us--and had this special way of making us all feel proud of ourselves.

Today marks one week since Auntie was called to heaven. Isaiah said he was glad that we started this tradition last year. I agreed and said that love should be intentional and remembering sometimes has to be deliberate. Especially as time passes. Then I explained that all that means is that you have to do stuff on purpose and not just wait for it to happen sometimes.

They got it. Especially Isaiah.

This image simultaneously broke and touched my heart. Oh, that Isaiah. That boy loved his Auntie. Both boys did. But, see, Deanna understood my Isaiah in a way that few do. She knew how to encourage him like no other and had this magical way of bringing out the best in him. She did.

I pray that he holds onto these lessons and carries them into manhood. Just like Harry did with his father.

Auntie's balloon had to be red. "'Cause that's her favorite color," Zachary insisted. And the boys also decided that they each wanted their own "Auntie balloon." I had no problem with that. The others got pink balloons since Dollar Tree was out of white stars. (Isaiah said not to let it happen again since he is sure that C.J. won't be so happy about a pink heart balloon!)

We also had balloons to release for Harry's and my grandparents that passed before they were born. And this year we got a balloon for our friend, Mrs. Reed's son, Mac. Because we love her and since we do, we love and remember him, too.

Up they went. Toward the heavens. Up, up, and away. (One close call with a tree, but fortunately it finally got out of there.)

Yes. Doing it this year was kind of hard. And no. We cannot release the acute pain we all feel this year. But we will love and remember with such intention that we won't release their memory. No, we will not. And my guess is that eventually it will be less and less painful. And maybe not painless. Just less painful.

I hope.

Oh. I was proud today when Isaiah was playing one of his favorite video games called "Scribblenauts" -- and showed me this character he'd created.

"It's Auntie," he said with a smile. "I was just thinking about her so I made her a superhero angel."

And I smiled at him and replied, "It's perfect, son." Because it was.


Even in the midst of all of this, he is learning that it's okay to remember. And what's better is that he's doing it his way -- and on purpose.

Yeah.

The seasons will change. The clocks will tick-tock and the earth will revolve. All while hearts are breaking and trying to mend in those quiet moments nestled inside of other lives going on. This is why we promise to always stop, pause, and surrender to love.

Last year I had no idea how meaningful this balloon release would mean to us just three hundred sixty five days later. No, I didn't. Isn't it funny how sometimes you think you're doing something for someone else, never realizing that it was really for you? Or just as much for you as it was them?

I don't know.

So, yeah. We started out our Thanksgiving this year exactly like we did last year. By releasing balloons into the heavens in remembrance of those who've gone home before us. And this year--more than ever--something about watching those hearts flying high in the sky lifted all of ours.

I felt really thankful for that.

***
Happy Day-after-Thanksgiving.

Now playing on my mental iPod--this one's for you, C.J.!

Up, up and away.

We remembered CJ. . .

and Granddaddy-in-heaven. 

We talked about who they were and why they were special. We talked about being thankful and what we are thankful for. Isaiah is thankful for his family. Zachary? "This whole world."

We hugged and kissed and said "I love you." (With puppies as our witnesses.)

 

It was special and perfect and beautiful.

***

Happy Thanksgiving to all. 

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . the man in black sings this best.

. . . and to the "mommy of an angel" ~ I love you!

"and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age."  ~ Matthew 28:20

Remembering to never forget.

"Why would God take a child?"

This was what my son Isaiah asked me three years ago when he saw me crying into the crook of my arm. I was staring into the perfect face of my friend Davina's baby C.J. on a photograph in my hand. Eyes like tiny pools of light and features so symmetric that you wonder if they'd been mapped out by some world class architect. That three year-old face was on an obituary.

"I don't know, son."  My voice sounded more like a croak than a voice. Just looking at Isaiah made me erupt into more tears. Here he was, asking this innocent question at three years old. The same age as C.J. Carried in my womb during the same months Davina had carried him. Both big babies. . .surprisingly big babies to be coming out of not-so-big mamas.

And they began growing up and throwing our lives into upheaval in that way that only kids can. Requiring things to be kiddie-proofed and giving us reasons to linger in the kid section at Barnes and Noble. Making us change our choices of music on the radio and even the kinds of cars we drove. Because now? We were mamas. This was a new part of our identity and as thirty-somethings it was a welcome addition.

And so on this day, three years ago C.J. didn't feel good. Mamas know that sometimes their babies just don't feel good, especially at three years old. So even with that, the day was pretty ordinary. Woke up on Sunday. Went to church. Had something to eat. Came on home. Watched some cartoons. Nothing too exciting except for C.J. being under the weather a bit which, again, could be considered totally ordinary with a pre-school aged kid, right? Right.

But then C.J. kept not feeling well. So of course his perfect mama and his wonderful daddy did what good mamas and daddies do in such instances. They watched him for a bit and then took him to see a doctor. And for what? A febrile illness in November in a three year-old? Anyone reading this who has worked in a pediatric emergency center knows that this, too, is very ordinary. The bread and butter of pediatrics, especially in late November. Probably just dehydrated. Or some kind of viral infection. Or an ear infection perhaps? Or all of the above.

That fever was something more. It evolved from the mundane to the unthinkable. From "will I get a shot?" and "may I have some juice?" to  a medical emergency. Running, yelling, compressing, injecting. Not everyday things at all. And definitely not what a single person walking into that emergency department that night expected.

They signed up for Amoxicillin and, just maybe, some IV fluids. Not this. No, not this.

On November 23, 2008, my friends Davina and Cedric came home from that emergency department without their son. They walked into their house--sippy cup still on the coffee table and the Nickelodeon Channel still playing on the television. On this day, three years ago, C.J. lost his life to an overwhelming bacterial infection.

I still remember hearing that news. I was sitting in the clinic speaking to one of the residents about a patient that Monday and it came as a simple text from Harry.

"C.J. died last night."

Just like that. Like some kind of horrible mistake. And I froze in my tracks when I read it because this could not be real. No, it could not. But it was. Yes, it was.

C.J.'s father, Cedric, is one of Harry's very best friends. They were roommates in the Army and in each other's weddings. We came to the funeral and yes, it was exactly as awful as you might imagine the funeral of your close friends' three year old and only child. To this day, it is the only time I have ever seen my husband really and truly cry.

Though I knew Ced's wife, Davina, I'd never really knew her well before this happened. But somehow in all of this awful, Davina and I grew closer. It started with text messages and then became phone calls.  And eventually we developed a tight bond of our own. .  . . as women, as wives, as mothers.

Yesterday I was sitting on my deck watching the boys riding their bikes in the backyard. I savored that image. Them now big enough to play out back without me standing right there. Screaming. Yelling. Growing. Living. I thought about those early morning moments of happy anticipation I feel right before they awaken and how their little bodies feel when pressed against mine in a hug. And then I listened to their laughter and watched how dirty they were getting. . . and could already imagine that little boy smell that they would surely have once they came running like gangbusters into the house. That? It was too much. I dropped my face into my hands and I wept and wept.

I don't know why God would take a child. I don't. I am a believer but this one leaves me speechless and picking at my nails. This one makes me afraid and confused about the will of who I know is a loving God. When I do get my words again, they're nothing more than a mass of frustrated questions which fortunately, I'm sure God gets. And yes, I know that there are not-so-religious people who read this blog and that's okay because I bet you know how I feel, too. Because really? No matter what you believe, there is nothing natural about a mother burying her child. Or grandparents driving to town for Thanksgiving but coming to a funeral instead. Nothing at all.

Yes. Today is November 23, 2011 and this is the third year C.J. has been gone. Three years on earth and three years in heaven. This in itself is gut-wrenching. . . . the equality of these numbers and yet the inequality of what they represent. So I am just writing what comes to my head and my heart. And really just trying to honor C.J and his memory and a fellow mother's pain.

Look, I know someone is reading this and saying, "I thought this was a medical blog? What the. . .?" I know. And to someone else this whole post might seem macabre and morose or just too damn heavy. I know that, too. But I try to just write about life. And life is about joy and pain and sunshine and rain and dammit, a mother lost her baby three years ago today. A mother who carried that baby nine and a half months lost her perfect, angelic little son without any warning at all. A father who puts his life on the line for this country every single day lost his namesake. A soldier, a brother, a husband who spent part of those precious three years in far off lands fighting for far away people came home and then had to live through this. And. A grandparent had to receive a phone call on this day three years ago that they would never see their grandbaby alive in this life again. And I cannot and will not allow myself to ever, ever forget that. Not on any day but, especially, but not on this day. No, I will not.

So yes, I will remember. On this day, I will look at C.J.'s picture and imagine him at six years old. I will see him climbing a tree with Isaiah and Zachary or telling me the name of his first grade teacher. I will speak to Davina and tell her I love her and ask her to tell me a story about C.J. And I will listen and laugh and do my best to hold her hand. Yes, and I 'm sure that all of that will make me cry very, very hard but that's okay. Because something about that feels good and right. To me, it does.

It's okay to live our lives even after tragedy but life has this way of making us forget things and people and situations unless we decide to remember. So this is what I have decided. To remember. Yes, you were here.

Every year in November I try to think of ways to honor C.J.'s memory. Usually it comes through writing. But one thing that C.J.'s transition has given me is a much deeper and active love for my own life and those in it. My silly posts about stuffed puppies and Camp PaPa postcards are really my attempt to just live and love with more intention. Not a perfect life. . . . just one that isn't aimless, you know?

I'm rambling. I know.

Every year, Davina releases balloons into the sky on November 23 in C.J.'s memory. This year, I think me and the kids will do this, too. We will talk about being thankful and about love. We will speak of people special to our family that have passed on, too.  And we will talk about C.J. and his life. Yes. We will.

Who do you love? Do they know it? Will you participate with me in making this a day of intentional love?  Do something, some tangible act of love today. Talk about someone who isn't here. Pull out their photos and bring them to life. Release a balloon or better yet a grudge. Find something bigger and better than words. Even if it makes you cry a little. Hell, even if it makes you cry a lot. And then hug your loved ones even tighter than usual. Because you can. Do it for every mama and daddy and grandmama and granddaddy and daughter and son who would give anything in this world for something so simple.

Who's in? I hope you are. I bet that would make my friend Davina smile. And I bet it would make C.J. smile, too.

***
Remembering C.J. posts:


Year One: November 23, 2009
Year Two: November 23, 2010

***
Now playing on my mental iPod. . . my friend just reminded me of this song last week:


. . .and this is on my mental iPod, too. . .and when sang by Whitney Houston it just moves me deep in my soul.
 

 . . . and last but not least, C.J.'s favorite song to which he always shook his booty. This one's for you, kiddo. 

Have no fear.

I will remember you.

Will you remember me?

Don't let your life pass you by

Weep not for the memories.

from Sarah McLachlan's "I Will Remember You."

_______________________________________________________________

I sat next to a patient yesterday who was dying. I held his hand and stroked his face as he took laborious breaths. His family clung lovingly by his bedside. They understood that things were not likely to be reversed, and had asked that we do nothing heroic. The patient had made peace with every member of his family and according to his family, was at spiritual peace, too. There was no unfinished business.

I was glad to know that my patient would have death with dignity.

And a few hours later, that's exactly what happened. He made a loving transition surrounded by the ones who cherished him the most.

I asked his loved ones what their favorite things about him were. It was wonderful to hear them conjuring up their favorite moments, and to see them smiling. It somehow felt better than the "sorry" I'd offered earlier.


Death is, unfortunately, a big part of my job. It's something I see regularly. Something I discuss often. Sometimes multiple times daily. Instead of being horrified by it, I believe that it's an honor to be there as a human being nears the end of this life. Because of that, I try hard to respect the family, and to honor the patient. In life and in death.

So I guess after more than ten years of working in the hospital, I thought I knew a lot about what to say and not to say in times like this. I considered myself savvy in dealing with death's aftermath; even if sometimes it meant flat out crying in front of a family at times or in my car on the way home.

But it wasn't until recently that I really learned some of the most valuable lessons I could ever learn about death and life. These lessons could not be taught in a medical school classroom, a journal or a textbook. They had to be learned through an experience that hit close to home.

_______________________________

C.J. 

Two years ago today, God decided He needed another angel. He decided it swiftly and without much warning. Just like the way He blesses people out of the blue, yet we somehow don't think of it that way. On November 23, 2008, a three year and 11 month old cherub joined the heavens.

His name was C.J.

Celebrating the return of daddy from the Gulf

C.J. was the beloved son and namesake of Harry's dear friend, Cedric and his wife Davina. He was the cherished sunshine of his parent's lives and an absolute joy in every way. But. . . .the same God who gave C.J. to Ced and Davina decided that He wanted to bring him back home.

The moment I entered their home on the day before C.J.'s memorial service remains one of the single most pivotal, painful, and riveting moments of my life.

But.

On that day, Davina and I somehow connected on a level that continues to feel otherworldly even two years later.  She has taught me so much that I didn't know. And ever since, I have never seen grief the same.

I recently read something a wise person wrote that said:

A man who has lost his wife is called a "widower." A child without parents is an “orphan.” Yet there is no single English word to describe a parent who has lost a child. A heartbreaking lexical gap.

Hmmm.

Davina calls it "Mommy of an Angel." It's not a single English word, but it is still beautifully descriptive.

I am so thankful to the "Mommy of an Angel" for trusting me and so many others with her feelings during this painful walk. She has made me a better doctor, a better mother, a better wife, a better writer, a better sister, a better daughter, a better friend, and a better believer.

Today I am reflecting on some of the things I learned from Davina about loss, about unspeakable grief and about life. These are things we could all take pause on. . . .I know I have.

Thanks to Davina, I now know that:

• A mother who has lost her child is still a mother.
• Mothers love to talk about their children. Even when they aren't alive any more. Especially when they aren't alive any more.
• "Time" doesn't necessarily heal all wounds.
• Some things are just as awful and painful as they seem.
• "Good morning. . . I love you" is an acceptable thing to say when you don't know what to say.
• So is "Hey. . . "over a text message.
• Another baby, though a blessing, can't replace the one you lost.
• Saying "I know another baby isn't a replacement, but. . ." might be better left unsaid.
• Understanding when you don't get called back/emailed back immediately is deeply appreciated.
• There's not a good answer to, "No . . .how are you really?"
• Pretending like you no longer have children of your own when talking to a mom who lost hers is alienating. Because, even though it's hard sometimes, mommies not only like talking about their own children, they like hearing about yours, too.
• Fear is alienating, too.
• Not being afraid to speak her child's name is so much better than cryptic references and awkward silences. Even when you mean well.
• We shouldn't allow gripping pain and tragedy to permanently redefine who a person is. It's like making a person relive a funeral for the rest of their life.
• Joy and pain really are like sunshine and rain.
• Loving like you mean it is a good way to live without regret.
• Remembering is not a passive thing. It is active.
• So is love.

There is not a day that goes by that I don't actively think about C.J. Despite all the requests God gets constantly, it still amazes me that He heard my whisper of a prayer. . . to not be afraid. He took all the fear and trepidation away and allowed Davina and I to forge an authentic bond as mothers in the mommy-army.

To talk about our children. To talk about our husbands. To talk about nothing. To laugh. To cry. To remember. Without fear. Without facades.

Roomies: Ced and Harry, July 2010

Ced came to see us over the summer while passing through Fort Benning. It was our first time seeing him since C.J.'s memorial service, and the heaviness in the room was suffocating. I was industrious in the kitchen while Harry sat with Ced in the sun room and, for the first time, seemed at a loss for words with one of his very best friends. It hurt to watch . . . .

But then something happened.

Isaiah skipped into the room and completely out of nowhere plopped a framed picture of C.J. right on Ced's lap. Ced looked at the picture. . .this beautiful picture with C.J. beaming straight into the camera. . . .and looked like the air had been knocked straight from his chest. I cannot even begin to describe his expression. It was. . . .so. . .so . . . .yeah.

"Where'd this come from, man?" Ced asked him while staring incredulously at Isaiah.

Harry mouthed to me in the kitchen, Did you tell him to do that??

I mouthed back, Hell no, I didn't tell him to do that!

"He's our playroom angel, so duh Uncle Ced! I got it from the playroom!" Isaiah announced in the most beautifully innocent way ever. Ced wrapped his arms around Isaiah and drew him into his chest.

"Wow. . .man, this really means a lot to me, Isaiah," I heard him say quietly.

Isaiah seemed to recognize his grief. He peered into Ced's haunting eyes and said, "It's okay. Everybody knows that C.J. is in heaven. It's okay."

Harry and I looked at each other, both silently shaking our heads. Neither of us ever told him to say such a thing. But even more interesting. . . .Isaiah had never met Ced in person. Remotely, he'd asked what "C.J." stood for and I'd told him it stood for "Cedric Jr. since his daddy's name is Cedric" but that was it.

It was divine. In that moment, God used a little child to do what the adults in the room could not do. Speak C.J.'s name. From that moment on, the mood lifted and the walls came down. Harry reconnected with his friend as a father. . . as C.J's father. The fear of remembering melted away. . . .

Ced (with Zachy) and Harry (with Isaiah): Ice broken between friends and daddies.

So now I get it. Sometimes a simple "I'm sorry" is perfectly suitable. And sometimes just a silent hug is amazing. But remembering? Really remembering. . . now that's special.


As I promised C.J., I will do my best to honor his memory by speaking his name and introducing him to others. . . .just has his mother had the courage to do for me. And I bet he'd want you to meet his mommy and his daddy, too. :)

May I introduce you to whom we affectionately refer to as "The Royal Family?"

• Major Davina C. aka "Queen D." (super funny, quite sassy, a wonderfully squeaky voice, and one of the raddest mommies I know)

• Lieutenant Colonel Cedric C., Sr. aka "King Ced" (quite possibly the sweetest man ever. . .he refers to Davina as "my bride"--gaaaahh! But don't let that sweet face fool you. Harry says their roommate days were wild and crazy! Mmm hmmm, Ced!)

• and Heaven's Angel, Master Cedric "C.J." C, Jr. aka "Prince C.J."(scary smart, the life of all parties, lover of the arts, lover of Disney, champion booty-shaker, major flirt, mini-Harley Davidson owner, an angel on earth and in heaven.)

__________________________

Dear Sunshine Girl,

I will never forget. Ever.

Love,

Your sister and fellow mommy in the mommy-army

_______________________________

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear; because fear has torment. 

He that fears is not made perfect in love."

~ 1 John 4:18