The Mother of All Mothers

This week is always such a mix of emotions for me.  I am beyond grateful for each person that will sit around me at our Thanksgiving table on Thursday.  Without them, I am nothing.  But as full as I feel as I look into each of their blue eyes, I also feel the deepest ache because there is one chair that will forever remain empty. 
 
A wonderful friend shared with me a link to a book about mothers and their grief after losing a child.  I think it is so beautifully written and really speaks to me.  I'm hoping that it can bring some comfort to my fellow "warrior mamas..."
To see more about this book, check it out here. 

You Are the Mother of All Mothers By: Angela Miller
I have to tell you this.
You didn’t fail. Not even a little.
You are not a horrible mother.
You didn’t choose this. You didn’t want this to happen. You didn’t do anything wrong. It just happened. To you. Despite your begging, pleading, praying, hoping against all hope it would not. Even though everything within you was screaming no, no, no, no, no.
God didn’t do this to punish you, smite you, or to teach you a lesson. That is not God’s way. You could not have prevented this if you tried harder, prayed harder, or were a “better” person. Nor if you ate better, loved harder, yoga-ed more, did x, y, or z to the nth degree—fill in the blank with any other lie your mind devises. You could not have prevented this even if you could have predicted the future like no one can.
No, there is nothing more you could have done. You did everything you possibly could have. And you are the best mother there is because you would have done absolutely anything to keep your child alive. To breathe your last breath instead. To choose the pain all over again just to spend one more minute together. That is the ultimate kind of love. You are the ultimate kind of mother.
So wash your hands of any naysayers, betrayers, or those who sprinted in the other direction when you needed them most. Wash your hands of the people who may have falsely judged you, ostracized you, or stigmatized you because of what happened to you. Wash your hands of anyone who has made you feel less than by questioning everything you did or didn’t do. Anyone whose words or looks have implied this was somehow your fault.
This was not your fault. This will never be your fault, no matter how many different ways someone tries to tell you it was.
Especially if that someone happens to be you. Sometimes it’s not what others are saying that keeps you shackled in shame. Sometimes you adopt others’ misguided opinions and assumptions. Sometimes it’s your own inner voice that shoves you into the darkest corner of despair, like an abuser, telling you over and over and over again you failed as a mother. Convincing you if only this and what if that, it never would have happened. Saying you coulda, shoulda done this or that so your child would not have died.
That is a lie of the sickest kind. Do not believe it, not even for a second. Do not let it sink into your bones. Do not let it smother that beautiful, beautiful light of yours.
Instead, breathe in this truth with every part of yourself: You are the best damn mother in the entire world.
No one else could do what you do. No one else could ever mother your child as well as you can, as well as you are. No one else could let your child’s love and light shine through the way you do. No one else could mother your dead child as bravely. No one else could carry this unrelenting burden as courageously. It is the heaviest, most torturous burden there is.
There is no one, no one, no one who could ever, ever replace you. No one. You were chosen to be your child’s mother. Yes—chosen. And no one could parent your child better in life or in death than you do. You have within you a sacred strength.
You are the mother of all mothers.
So breathe, mama, keep breathing. Believe, mama, keep believing. Fight, mama, keep fighting for this truth to uproot the lies in your heart—you didn’t fail. Not even a little.
For whatever it’s worth, I see you. I hear your guttural sobs. I feel your ache deep inside my bones. And it doesn’t make me uncomfortable to put my fingers as a makeshift Band-Aid over the gaping hole in your heart until the scabs come, if and when they do.
It takes invincible strength to mother a child you can no longer hold, see, touch, or hear. You are a superhero mama. I see you fall down and get up, fall down and get up, over and over again. I notice the grit and guts it takes to pry yourself out of bed every single day and force your bloodied feet to stand up and keep walking. I see you walking this path of life you’ve been given, where every breath and step apart from your child is a physical, emotional, and spiritual battleground. A fight for your own survival. A fight to quiet the insidious lies.
But the truth is, you haven’t failed at all. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.
You are the mother of all mothers.
Truly, the most inspiring, courageous, loving mother there is—a warrior mama through and through.
For even in death, you lovingly mother your precious child still.

Happy Thanksgiving to all the warrior mamas out there.
Love to y'all,
Tracy

The Grass Isn't Always Greener

Of course, I think of Nash countless times every single day.  Most of the time, it's memories and what ifs.  When we found out what was wrong with Nash, we were told many times that the only option we would have had to save him would have been a heart transplant, and that this wouldn't have necessarily had a positive outcome.  Sometimes I let myself imagine what would have happened if we had gone down that road.  This week is one of those times.
 
A couple days ago, I found out that a little boy that went to school where I teach, passed away after a receiving a heart transplant back when he was a baby.  He had gone through many, many battles over the years and eventually his little heart just couldn't keep going.  I remember meeting him last year, and wondering how his journey may have mirrored the one that our family never got a chance to embark on. 
 
On most days, I get a get a great amount of peace, knowing that Nash was happy for all five months of his life.  He played and giggled and smiled nonstop, bringing nothing but joy to all who knew him.  We are blessed by these memories. 
 
But what if things had been different? 
 
We've been told that had we known about Nash's heart defect, he would've been admitted to a Pediatric ICU immediately and then we would have waited for a healthy heart to be ready for his little body.  We would've sat at his side day and night, waiting for another parent to have to say good-bye to their baby so that our baby might be able to live.  I can't imagine... The agony of all of that.  The stress, the worry, the fear.  Our lives would have been so very different. 
 
When it comes down to it, of course, I would have done everything and anything to save my son.  No matter how hard it might have been.  I would have endured every possible stress, worry, or fear just to keep him here even one more day.  But, because we had virtually no warnings that Nash was ill, I truly believe that he saved us from a lot of pain and heartache. 
 
Please say a prayer for my school's former Brinker Bear that is now living healthy and strong alongside my little boy in heaven.  I know all too well the journey his parents have begun - and it's tough and rocky and neverending to say the least. 

Love to y'all,
Tracy