Tag Archives: memories

April 1, 2012 · 11:05 pm

Another family like us

I just got done reading a blog about a family who lost their four year old son about eleven months ago and just lost their two year old daughter a few days ago. Both of their children in the same year. What kind of world is this that we live in?

The mom posted many pictures of their daughter in the hospital and after her surgeries. It reminded me of so many memories of Owen. How he laid there with his legs apart and his diaper. The tubes and tape on his face. The limpness of his body. His closed eyes. The sounds of the machines. Remembering hurts yet i welcome the pain and vivid images. They are the last memories that I have. The last touches. The last kisses.

Their daughter was on the transplant list after they discovered she had a deadly heart condition … The same one that killed her brother without warning. Want to know what I kept thinking as I read? I wish I had another heart I could give her. If only Owen still had more hearts to give out. If I had one I would have given it to this little girl.

Her visitation was today. Palm Sunday. I have no idea what her parents must be feeling or thinking. One blog entry showed her taking a few steps … Her mom reported that she was doing so much better. Then the next only two days later told that she had gone to be with her big brother in heaven. So many unanswered questions. Did the doctors miss something? Was she sleeping when her heart stopped? Were her parents with her? Why her? Why couldn’t she have been one of the miracle stories?

Funny and odd how I don’t ask those questions about Owen. I find myself feeling proud and strong in my son’s story. Perhaps it’s because I know I’m strong enough to take it. I don’t wish the same on anyone else. Perhaps it’s that I know with confidence that nothing would have saved him. There isn’t anything that I or anyone else could have done that would have given a different outcome. I didn’t miss any signs … There weren’t any to miss. I gave CPR … The doctors did everything. There aren’t what ifs in Owen’s story. Yet this blog is filled with them.

I pray for this family tonight and in the hours, days and years to come. May God give them the strength and hope in a better tomorrow.

Love, Mel

Here is the link to the family’s blog: http://dscarpenter.blogspot.com/

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Filed under Grief, Organ Donation, Owen's Gone, Posted by Melissa

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November 30, 2011 · 11:31 am

Flashbacks

Flashbacks. Vivid memories of what happened. They count down to the minute of what we were doing. 8:02pm we fought for Owen to be declared brain dead so we could still donate his organs. 8:15 he was sent down for his MRI. 8:30 our doctor told us he was going home for the day and another doctor would deliver the test results. 9:14 I sat in the hospital room with my family, unknowing of the radiology doctor’s declaration. 9:34 the other doctor comes in and tells us the news before I had a chance to hold Owen’s hand. It’s over. That quick. But every milestone ticks away as I watch the clock here in reality.

A piece of wisdom I received was to try and stop the flashbacks. Perhaps memorizing scripture or sing a song. Something to stop your mind from going back in time. I’m not so sure I want the flashbacks to stop. The pain reminds me of what I have survived. The pain reminds me that I am alive. I’m not sure I want them to become a thing of the past, that I think of less and less often. Those flashbacks are Owen. They are my last memories of the life that was once in our home. My son.

Stopping the flashbacks is a scary thing to do. It’s acknowledging that it happened and it’s done. To relive it over and over gives the memories, as horrible as they are, some kind of life. It brings them from the past into the present. It’s the only thing I have left of Owen … memories. Giving CPR is part of him … I touched him, a watched him, i tasted the blood, I breathed life into him. It’s horrific, but I was trying to save his life. It’s part of my life memories of Owen. I wrote before … I wish I could have stayed in the hospital with Owen forever. Our families were there. Together. We had each other. The rest of the world seemed to stand still while my family and I were able to just feel. To be.

Now the world goes on. Real life is setting in. It’s real. Owen is dead. It is the past. The present and future do not have Owen in them.

I asked for help in my grief support group. How do I stay healthy through this? I just want to stay healthy. Even if it hurts more now, if the ending is what is best, then I can endure it. Just help me … help me find the energy to take care of my family, the peace to sleep at night and the wisdom to honor Owen’s spirit and love my God.

Five minutes at a time. When you are tired and worn, just look at the next five minutes. Then re-set. what’s the next five minutes going to be like? An entire day might seem overwhelming, but I can do five minutes!

I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with the flashbacks … do I stop myself abruptly and not let them enter my mind? Or do I embrace the pain, the memories. Knit them into my life blanket. Let them become apart of my reality. I think that’s what I’ve been doing until now. There is a new level of pain. I not only remember the hospital and Owen’s death, but I remember last year when he WAS alive. I find myself thinking “last year we were here and the three babies were doing this.”

I’ve entered into a new phase of remembering. I never had a day to compare today to before. Owen never had a birthday. He never lived through a Halloween. I didn’t know what it looked like to have all three babies in a costume. I didn’t know this pain before. Thinking about Christmas … I automatically think about the white sleepers my sister bought for the triplets that said something about being on Auntie’s nice list. I think of our family picture … the last picture taken of our entire family of 6. This year there will be two gifts. There will be five in our Christmas Day family photo. There will be a hole in my reality.

So what do I do now? How do I survive this part? Does it get easier? Do I want it to get easier? I cling to the pain as my only thing left. The nasty, dirty baby blanket that you just can’t throw away because it’s all you have left from your childhood. The flashbacks are my blanket. I embrace the pain. But is it healthy? Am I jut hurting myself more and in turn hurting my family when I can’t care for them in the way I want to?

Love, Mel

ps I still have a post I’m working on about the rest of our holiday weekend :) But I just had to get this post out of my head before I could focus on another one. Look for more family photos coming soon!

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June 19, 2011 · 9:50 pm

Father’s Day

Today is the same as any other day in a lot of ways.  I wore orange.  The triplets woke up at 6am and eat sweet potatoes for dinner.  Jaden called me Mamacita Bun Buns all day.

The part that was different?  It was Father’s Day.  The first holiday without Owen.

I wonder if it effected Doug more than I.   Did he think about it as often as I did?  Or did he feel the same kind of hurt?  He couldn’t have.  He is Dad and I am Mom.  Fundamentally we are different in this.  But Owen is Son to us both.  So what parts are the same?  Does God know how we differ and does he approve of our differences?  I know it’s a silly question.

I can answer most of these questions as soon as I ask them.  But my head is filled with one question after another.  I find that is the way I talk with myself.  One questions leading to the next.  Like leaping from one cloud to the next.

Jaden made a recorded book for Doug for Father’s Day.  He was so proud of his gift and couldn’t wait to give it to him.  As Doug and Jaden sat together, pushing each button to listen to Jaden’s voice, I wondered how Owen would have answered the questions.  If he were 4, what would he have loved about Doug the most?  What would his voice have sounded like?  Just to hear his voice … mama, dadda, all done, I love you.  As I stand in the kitchen doing dishes, I picture Owen running behind me playing with his brothers.  When Jaden picks out his books for bedtime I wonder what book would Owen have picked?

Logan was rolling around one the floor last night in just his diaper.  Out of the corner of my eye he looked just like Owen when he was in the hospital.  Naked chest, white diaper, chubby legs.  I touched his knee half thinking it would be ice cold like Owen’s was from his cold blanket.  Took the wind right out of me. I couldn’t look at him anymore.  I had to put him in a onesie.

Reminders of our little warrior are becoming more frequent.  They hit fast and hard.  Sometimes taking the wind right out of my chest.  I take comfort in feeling my pain physically.  It’s not just being ‘down’ or crying.  I feel him through the pain in my chest and the shallowness of my breathes.  The feelings are as real and as physical as if I were still holding him in my arms.  I don’t want the physical to stop and to only have the memories and thoughts.

I imagine what this process is going to be like going forward.  What will this feel like in 10 years?  Next week?  I have a visual of this healing process sort of like cleaning out a dirty closet.  My healing closet.  Beginning with the moment I found Owen, through the hospital and even the funeral, I was taking my emotions and pain, looking at them, testing them out, then putting them in the closet.  Clearing my mind and spirit for the next emotion to come.  I put my fear in the closet so I could do CPR.  I put my questions in the closet so I could think clearly and cherish the moments I had left with Owen.  Nothing good would have become of wasting my last moments crying over the “whys”.  With all cleaning projects, you’ve got to make a bigger mess before it looks clean again.

All the clutter comes out of the closet, erupts all over the floor.  I picture myself sitting cross legged in the middle of a sea of clothes, shoes, books, belts, hats, odds & ends.  Then little by little, the items go back in, organized again.  First the big stuff.  The ones that can only fit in one spot.  My shirts are hung on the hanger and hung.  The shoes are paired together and placed in a line along the floor.  Then it gets a little tougher.  You’ve got the tid bits, odds and ends that you aren’t sure where they belong or where to put them.  The process slows down.  I usually loose my steam at this point.  That’s how I end up with a ‘junk drawer.’  I give up and throw the misfits into a drawer.

Do I get a junk drawer with this?  Is it fair to have one?  If I do, what kinds of things will go in my junk drawer?  Will I feel whole without those items in my closet?  I’m still sitting on the floor, surrounded by heaps of feelings, thoughts and questions that still need to find a place in my closet.

I still feel Owen in the lights.  We keep a nightlight on for the triplets.  Makes me feel like he’s still sleeping in his nursery.  Turning it on is my way of tucking him in at night.

I still have my night-time ritual.  I find comfort in patterns and rituals.  You know what to expect.  There is a sense of home.  My ritual is just not one that I would have chosen.  But I hold it close and cling to it.  My routine holds me up when I don’t know which way to turn.

Love, Mel

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