I watched a mom sitting in front of me rub the shoulders of her boy who sat next to her.  They stood to sing and she gave him a light tickle on his back.  The touch of love.  The silent reminder that I’m thinking about you and I want you to know that I love you.

I watched couples walking up for communion.  The man gently guiding his lady on the small of her back.  The couple who holds hands as they walk out of church.  The mom who rubs the leg of her little one sleeping on her lap.

My mom grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.  She reached over and held my brother and sisters hand at the same time creating a connected line of love.  Support – a silent way of saying “I’m here for you” and “thank you for loving me.”

They all seem so natural.  When I get excited I want to hug a friend.  When Doug does something nice for me I want to plant a big wet kiss right on his lips.  When Jaden cries I just want to cuddle him.  What makes this happen without really thinking about it?  The need, the desire the outward need to be touched.  Does it come from the love?  Does it come from social norms?  The way you touch someone – or even the fact that you touch them at all – says so much about the way you feel.

Hug someone you love today.  Let them know, without a doubt, that you love them.  That you care.  Hold their hand.    Love those around you.  Be kind to one another.

Love, Mel

I firmly believe that Doug and I were able to come to the agreements we did because we discussed our wishes ahead of time.  It might sound morbid but when we were newly married it came up in conversation once.  We talked about our wishes should we leave this world.  We both said we wanted to be organ donors.  Doug felt strongly about being cremated.  I was ok with it, although no one in my family has been cremated.  At one point we even discussed that Doug wanted to be a paul bearer should one of our children die.  He didn’t care if it wasn’t the “norm” no one would carry our son but him.  At the time we had NO idea one of our children were going to die.  It was all hypothetical.

Amelia (from Private Practice) sort of did the same thing.  She thought out what she wanted to do ahead of time.  So in her moment of grief and not wanting to live the moment, she had the plan to fall back on.  It’s the very moment when you think you just can’t handle anymore.  When you want to run away from the hospital, from the pain.  You don’t have to think – you just have to follow your plan.

On May 21, 2011, when approached by Dr Miller in the waiting room at Children’s, he asked if we would be willing to enroll Owen in a medical study.  It only took a look between Doug and I to know that we would say yes.  We called him back no more than 10 minutes later.  I remember how surprised he was to see us agreed and strong in our decision so quickly.  But it’s because we already had a plan should this happen.  We both believe in medicine and in that knowledge is power.  We both believe that medicine can save lives.  That doctors are someone we can trust.  I also believe that it’s also with the power of the Holy Spirit that all of the comes together.

So, not to sound totally creepy or weird but have you thought about what you would want if something happened to you or your child?  It might worth the pain to think it through now … because in the moment there will be so much more pain to sort through.  Don’t leave something like this to the last minute.  If anything, while you watch shows like this week’s Private Practice, think about what you would do.  I hope that you would say you’d like to save the lives of many. I hope you would want to find some kind of ‘unicorn magic’ in the face of evil and death.

I can say, first hand, that it’s worth it.  And I’m not the donor recipient who is saying thank you.  I’m the mother that handed her child over to a transplant team of doctors and let them cut him open while he was still breathing on a ventilator.  I can say with 100% certainty that I would donate Owen’s organs again!  In fact, I wish we could have given more.  My son isn’t really gone … he’s spread across two states.  He lives on in others – literally.  I have the honor to say that my son is a warrior.  He saved lives.  It’s no different from the proud military mom who can say that her son or daughter fights for our country.  Be an organ donor.  Be proud to be an organ donor!

Love, Mel

Register now to be an organ donor here:

 http://donatelife.net/register-now/
(if you register, be sure to leave a comment!)

For more information on organ donation:

http://donatelife.net/

http://www.organdonor.gov/index.html

http://www.thenationalnetworkoforgandonors.org/

Myths about organ donation:

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/organ-donation/FL00077

Took me back to 355 days ago … when Doug and I were fighting so hard for Owen to donate his organs.  It was the only good thing that could come out of something so ugly.

Monday the 21st will be the 1 year mark of the last time I saw Owen smile.  The last time I took a picture of him.  The last time I touched his warm skin.  Funny, I don’t know that I realized before writing that last sentence … after we found Owen unresponsive that night, I never felt his skin warm again.  He was blue when I did CPR.  He was still clammy when I kissed him goodbye before they transported him to Children’s Hospital of WI.  He was cold for the five days we sat and waited for answers.  And he was cool to the touch after his transplant surgery.  Drained of blood and warmth.  He was pale … so pale.  He skin was cool, like we had taken a long walk on a cool autumn day.

Warmth – a symbol of life.  Literally evidence that blood flows through your veins.  Figuratively it’s what you feel from the one you love – the ones who love you.  I never felt Owen’s warm skin, but I have felt the warmth of those who love me.

I’m thankful for those who have been by my side.  THAT is what has gotten me here.  Not the daily distractions.  Not the jamming my schedule full – always taking on more just to eliminate the possibility that life might totally and utterly suck again.  It’s the people in my life – my friends, my family, my kids, God.  THEY are why I stand tall and why I can face this anniversary – like the warrior Owen has taught me to be.

Love, Mel

I woke up to Jaden asking me what day it was.  When I said it was Mother’s Day his eye lit up and he jumped out of bed and reached underneath his bed frame and pulled out two wrapped gifts.  He was SO excited!  I opened them up slowly … he made me two garden stones at school.  He showed me each stone … this was is smooth … this one is really bumpy … I like the way it shines.  Then he sat up really tall and says “Ok I gave you your gift, now where is your gift for me?”  BAH haha  sweet kid.  I ended up finding him a set of Sponge Bob Square pants markers I had hidden away for a rainy day.

Doug treated me to a homemade breakfast of eggs & toast.  Isn’t it funny how much better food tastes when someone else makes it?

Then we headed over to my mom’s house.  My dad cooked for us … and I’m not lying when I say it was the best meal I have had in as long as I can remember!  Everything was perfect and sooooooo good.  Thanks Dad!

My mom had gotten a kiddie pool for the triplets to play in.  We striped them down and let them run around naked.  They had SO much fun!  I learned my first lesson of the summer … when the babies are naked outside, don’t forget to put sunscreen on their butts too!

As of course we couldn’t leave without a photo with all my boys (just like last year).

Then we tried for a full family photo.  Let’s just say out of the ten photos we took, we got one that was just ok.  It was blog post worthy experience!

Love, Mel

This is how I started writing.  With a journal.  I hated English in school … I preferred math actually.  English didn’t come naturally to me.  Memorizing grammar rules and spelling.  Oh gosh spelling was HORRIBLE!  My mom can tell you nightmares of me laying on the floor underneath the kitchen table crying on nights before spelling tests.  It wasn’t fun.

But journaling is totally different.  It’s not a school subject, it’s an experience.  Something happens when you sit down with paper and a pen and you write out your thoughts.  You begin to solve your own problems.  Understand feelings you felt but were never able to put to words.  Whatever you call that little voice in your head – the Holy Spirit, Jiminy Cricket, your conscience … it’s there and you have a direct line to it when you journal.

Believe it or not, I started journaling when I was in middle school.  For a while I started out my entries with “Dear Mr. Potato Head” (I had a Mr. Potato Head pillow I slept with).  I was so angry with my parents and I felt like they just didn’t understand what it was like to be a pre-teen.  So I started to write down all the stuff I wish my parents would say to me so I would remember when I was a parent.  I didn’t write in complete sentences.  I didn’t care about my spelling and most times I never went back to proof read what I wrote down.  I just let it flow out of me … in glitter and metallic pens of course!  (hello?!? I was 13!)

I remember when I was hurting so bad and my best friend (at the time) turned away from me.  I didn’t know where to go with all the “stuff” I was feeling.  So I wrote it all down … trying in some way to get it all out so I didn’t have to feel it anymore.

In college, I remember the exact day I started a new journal – it was purple with a green pattern on it.  My mom had given it to me as a gift and she had written a note on the inside cover.  I sat in the reflection lounge on campus and I wrote out everything that I wanted to change about my life.  How I wanted to feel, act and live.  Then I spent time writing out a list on how I was going to accomplish that.  I re-read the entry not too long ago.  Funny how I actually accomplished several items on my list.

When I go back and read previous entries, the same feelings come flooding back again.  It’s like I relive the journal entry all over again.  It’s as if the feelings really were released and sealed onto the page.  It’s like they are seeping back out like a scratch and sniff sticker.  But feeling them the second time isn’t as hard.  I already know how it ends.  I (most of the time) have seen the solution or have enough perspective to see how it was a good thing.  Like boyfriend break ups, not getting a job I had my eye on, changing my degree and so on.  I wouldn’t be where I am today without all of those experiences.

Journaling brings you closer to God.  So whether you write out your feelings for the world to read on a blog or you secretly jot down your heart’s desires in a secret book … write them down.  Do both.  Jot them down.  Type them out.  They bring you to a place that you would never be able to reach otherwise.

Love, Mel

Last night I was putting the finishing touches on today’s mailbox stuffers and all I could think about was how I wanted to crochet.  I haven’t had time to work on the two “in progress” blankets all week and I was really missing it.  I kept looking at the clock to see if maybe there would be enough time to crochet at least one row.  Considering how tired I was and that it was already 10:30pm I decided to read a few chapters out of “Shades of Grey” (I know — guilty pleasure!) and go to sleep instead.

While brushing my teeth I starting mulling over why I missed crocheting so much and I started to realize that each stitch I crochet, I was also holding myself together.  The time where my hands do all the work and it allows my mind to wander a little bit.  The moments in between rows when I inhale and exhale.  I was literally holding myself together by crocheting.  Without this time of peace each day, I start to lose myself.  I need to crochet for my sanity … not just for the joy of making hats for all my friend’s cute little girls but also for myself.

Jaden asked me to make him a blanket a week or two ago.  When I asked him what color he wanted he said orange because he misses Owen and this way it would be like he was sleeping with him each night.  Then he added that he thought it should have green and blue in it for all of his brothers.  Is it just me or is this a deep thought for a 5 and a half-year old?

As soon as this week’s festivities are over, I’ll be back at it with my crochet hook and yarn.   What helps hold you together?  What part of your daily routine brings you sanity and keeps you from losing your mind?

Love, Mel

My reality is forever a lie.  I have four children, yet nothing to show for it.  I say that I have triplets, because I believe I do, yet I can’t prove it.  I reply that I have four children, yet I have to go back and clarify … well I really have three, Owen passed away almost a year ago.

I don’t want to face that there are only five at our table.  I don’t want to say that I have three boys.  Yet three boys are my reality.  Three meals, three faces, three kisses at night.  When I tell people I have four boys am I in a state of denial?  Have I not fully accepted that Owen died?  I think I know that he died.  I feel like I accept it … but if I really accepted his death would I still say that I have four children?

The medical examiner finally confirmed that the DNA testing came back negative.  There is no evidence as to why Owen died.  She said that I didn’t sound surprised by the results.  I wasn’t.  I knew it was going to come back inconclusive.  I expected no answers.  We didn’t opt to have an autopsy as a means to finding answers.  We made the decision out of responsibility to Jaden, Logan and Weston.  If there was something we could learn, we needed to find out so we could protect the children we had left.

I told her it was ok to stop looking for answers.  It was time to close out his life insurance policy.  We don’t need the money, but it’s just time to get the paperwork filed.  I’m sick of getting the letters in the mail requesting a death certificate.  I believe it’s going to state that the cause of death is SIDS.  One of the words that no one thinks it’s going to effect them.  I’ll never get cancer … until someone you knows receives the diagnosis.  It never happens to you … until it does.

I look at the front door and I remember throwing the baby swing out-of-the-way to allow room for the stretcher to get through the front door.  I remember wearing Doug’s fleece that night.  The same fleece he wore while outside for our family bonfire tonight.  Shit … life keeps ticking way … you keep wearing the same clothes … yet everything seems to be a lie.  My reality is a lie.  I have four children, not three.

The anniversary is on the horizon.  Doug and I are flying his sister, Sherri, home.  I’m ok …. really I am.  My heart is a little heavier than usual, but it’s not too heavy.  For the first time in my life, I am truly blessed with amazing, quality friends.  I can’t tell you the amount of support I receive from my Supermom’s group at church.  They were physically in my home the day that Owen got sick (hours before).  They are forever bonded to my definition of who I am … simply because they were there.  I can never forget their faces … they are burned into my mind just as the small details of the ambulance ride are.

Jaden crawled onto my lap this evening … mama I want to you to have another baby.  I’m sorry, what?!?!  I asked him why?  He said because Owen died, we needed to have another baby.  Is it crazy that I felt the same way?  I wanted another child so badly after he died.  You can’t replace him.  Having another baby would never fill the hole of my dead child.  Yet, Jaden has the same feeling like I do.  There is a baby missing … so let’s have another to fill the gap.  Do I feel like a child, or is he mature in his thinking?  The line is blurred … grief is a fog that disguises clear lines.

The path is unknown.  Unforeseeable.  Sometimes I make the wrong turn … I find myself in the middle of a huge muddle puddle and must swim across the trench … in the cold and dirty water.  Yet, I am not sorry that I made the wrong turn.  I am not discouraged.  I am thankful for the lessons I learned along the way.  I praise God for my pain … it’s the proof I need to know that I am alive .. that I am real.

God is good – he has never left my side.  And if you are in pain as you read this … he has not left your side other.  He is there, whether you know he is there or not.

I believe.

Love, Mel

PS.  I can barely watch this video … but it also screams of life to me.  It forces me to remember his face with life.  It forces me to acknowledge the nightmare I am living.  He once had life.  He no longer is alive.  He is never coming back.  Never.

I know all mothers say that their kids are beautiful … but dang … what a handsome kid he was/is.  What I remember the most is the way his hair and head felt under my hand.  I used to run my hand from his forehead to the back of his head all the time.  His hair was smooth and his head perfectly round.  And those eyes … doe like.  Always soft.

These pictures almost seem like someone else’s.  Like I’m staring at someone else’s child.  The harsh reality on how quickly life changes.  And proof that healing is possible.

Love, Mel

I can’t picture what his face looks like. I close my eyes and I only see a blank face. A face without eyes, nose or a mouth. I don’t look at pictures of him. Although I think of him every other minute. Seeing his picture reminds me of how really gone he is. If I keep him in my heart, then in some ways he feels as though he is still alive. That part of my son isn’t gone … The part that I carry with me. It’s the same part that had me worried when I didn’t know exactly where his ashes were or the part of me that found comfort when the officials would update me as to where his body was and where it would go next. It’s the part of a mother that never stops worrying.

I carry each of my kids in my heart. I pray for each of them. I meditate on their names. I hold them up. I cherish their little souls and I ask for the strength and wisdom to be the Lord’s arms in hugging them. I do this for all four of my boys.

When I look at his picture … His face is forever frozen in time. Forever having a gummy smile. His baby face. Those large, round, dark eyes. I want to see his face. I want to look at him all the time. But it’s just more proof of the loss … A different kind of pain than just remembering he died.

It’s looking at a face that has life and then remembering his lifeless eyes while doing CPR. It’s seeing him giggle and coo in home videos and then remembering his doll like stillness at his funeral. It’s disgusting knowing that life once filled those eyes. Knowing that looking at a picture of my own flesh and blood can hurt so badly.

I welcome the pain as much as I fear it. The more I welcome it the quicker I will become accustomed to it. The less interrupting the pain will be. If I open myself to it … The pain will be absorbed and become part of my flesh. A pain that will make me stronger. A pain that will eventually hold me together. It becomes the bricks in my foundation. Apart of the path that is life.

So tomorrow I’m going to look at his picture. Stare at his face until the pain is numb. Then I’ll do it all over again. Convince myself that I will see his face again some day … Remind myself that he is still with me … And forgive myself for not remembering what he looks like some days.

Love, Mel