Thank you, for all of it.
I’m seeing some of the posts, messages and emails. Many I will need to read as I can over the coming weeks. I can’t see straight. I’m living, barely, in a state of disbelief.
I know there are a lot of questions. I don’t have answers.
We all know that Tanner’s heart was twice the size of anyone else’s. He was pure joy and light.
Tanner taught me how to love. He made me a mom.
I will forever and always be his mom.
The first time I was ever called “mom” was, ironically, our first “day visit” during the adoption process when he was 3 1/2. He landed in the hospital with pneumonia and I spent my days visiting him. One of the nurses called me “mom” and that’s when it really sunk in.
I would be Tanner’s mom.
Tanner had cardiovascular disease but I was always under the impression we would be able to manage it. We went into the hospital this week with him just being a little extra sick. We’d been there 100 times and like every time before I knew we’d be home within 48 hours.
But his huge, loving, caring, precious heart just became too big for his tiny body. Cardiac and respiratory failure ensued and in matter of nine hours he was gone. I was devastatingly blindsided. I never saw it coming. It never crossed my mind that yesterday would be the last day I held him, kissed him, touched him.
My love, my baby, my angel, my heart, my best friend, my joy, my laughter, my life, my light, my buddy, my Tanner-Man.
I’m in shock. It’s a nightmare I keep expecting to end. I’m unable to accept that my time with him is over. I’m struggling to find the will to survive him. I’m struggling to breathe. I feel guilty eating when my baby is dead.
Walking away from his body, letting go of his hand, was the single hardest moment in my life. Thank you to my beautiful friends who literally carried me through it.
The team at CHOC is phenomenal. He had probably 50 people trying to save his precious little life in the end. But his time here was done and Jesus called him home.
I’m distraught thinking of the noise and chaos and traumatic way his life ended — such a stark juxtaposition to the way his life was lived: quiet, joyful, and full of dance.
I heard of another mother who also lost her child last night, he passed in his sleep. My first thought was jealousy: why didn’t Tanner get to go quietly? I’m sure it sounds horrible to say. It’s just grief… I can’t come to terms with how things ended. I’m grateful to a dear friend who just came by with printed pictures. Anything to get the horrific final images of him out of my mind.
But I do thank the Lord it went fast. Nine hours from his first crashing to his passing. I can’t imagine families who struggle for weeks, months or even years only to lose their babies. Nine hours. It felt like a black hole where time wouldn’t end, but it could have somehow been so much worse. Thank you, Jesus, for sparing my baby that kind of turmoil and suffering.
I’ve been in your shoes. Wondered what to say to someone during a loss such as this. I’ve learned now there are no words. Losing your baby is an unfathomable grief. I feel guilty writing words like “devastated” because it seems so trivial in attempting to describe the paralyzing pain.
My precious baby is gone. My baby boy.
I don’t know how I survive this. I can tell you right now, today, I don’t want to. I just want to be with my baby.
But I will. My precious Travis just lost his best friend and brother. And Travis was an amazing brother to Tanner. The best he could have ever had. He needs me to find a way through this. So I will. Somehow.
But for today, I’m just figuring out how to breathe.
There will be a service at some point for anyone who wants to join. But if you think we are going to sit around and cry for an hour you’re out of your mind. Tanner would HATE that. There will be capes and Power Rangers and dancing and princesses and fluorescent clothes and a lot of noodles. And in all that, there will be Tanner.
Because we will celebrate his life. We will celebrate the gift he was not only to me, but to everyone who loved him. And to know him was to love him.
We will celebrate his ultimate healing. Most of you would never know it, but Tanner lived with daily pain and sickness from untreatable conditions. My baby boy is now free from hurt, free from sick. He is well.
My little love, my Tanner-man, is now perfect. He is without pain, he can speak clearly and tell his stories, and he can dance in the clouds with Jesus.
I thank God for choosing me to be his mom. I thank God for 14 years of the most genuine, purest love. He was the greatest gift I never deserved.
My world has been shattered and so many pieces are lost forever, but — as someone I love so eloquently pointed out — he was so worth it.
I love you, Tanner. My baby. Forever and always.
