It’s been hard to say thank you.
Gratitude? No problem. The depth of my appreciation for all who have come alongside me in this heartbreaking journey knows no measure.
It’s the word, the action.
Just saying “thanks” leaves me with this uneasy anxious feeling. I feel as though every “thanks” should have an asterisk. It’s almost like this irrational concern the recipient of my gratitude is going to mistake my appreciation for an indication that all is well.
For some reason, I actually get scared people are going to think I’m already okay.
I would feel a lot more comfortable if I could say: “Thanks for bringing the pasta, even though my dead baby can’t eat it too.” Yes, I’m grateful, but don’t forget I’m still hurting.
As a Make-A-Wish wish granter I have attended way too many funerals and memorials for children we lost. I always told myself that if I ever had to walk that road I didn’t want to be the weeping mom in the front row.
In the immediate days after Tanner died, that thought stayed heavy with me. I just needed time. There was no reason to rush it.
After a few weeks, I began moving forward, very slowly but surely. A few steps forward. A step back. And then forward again. Finally, it was time to set a date. I was doing okay — or as okay as I could be given the obvious.
And then it hit.
In the days leading up to the Celebration, I was anything but celebratory. I began to melt down the day I returned from Louisiana and went downhill from there. To be fair, the horse rescue trip was a welcomed escape from where I needed to be. It should say a lot that a kill pen in the nations largest feedlot surrounded by horses shipping to slaughter was preferred to being home planning my baby’s Celebration of Life.
I wasn’t coping.
I couldn’t face the reality.
The final chapter of my baby’s life had to be written and I didn’t feel strong enough to do it. How do you close the pages on the most beautiful life you’ve ever seen lived?
The party was handled by the girls. The service was mine to do: pictures and words. There’s just a little pressure in trying to sum up the life of a boy who touched hundreds, if not thousands, of lives in his short 13 years. I became physically nauseous at the fear I would let him down, that I would do something to fail him. I laid awake at night swirling in the thought I wouldn’t honor him well enough.
The reality is I could have skipped the whole thing, given everyone a high-five and sent you on your way and Tanner would have been perfectly honored.
But that wouldn’t do. I became fixated on sharing pictures and not missing representing a single important event to him. So through thousands of photos, I began to sift. In the beginning, it brought smiles along with the tears.
2004… 2005… 2006…
Hours upon hours it took.
But then.
Then I hit 2016.
The last year of his life. Sheer panic set in.
January 2016.
February 2016.
I was inching toward the end. The end of his life, the end of pictures. The end of smiles.
I freaked.
The closer I got to 2017 the heavier I sobbed. I wanted to just stop. To pretend it didn’t end. I couldn’t get myself to go there.
But I had to. So I did. I reached the last photo of his beautiful, short life and my whole world seemed to close in on me.
Job was done, a beautiful slideshow of his life, and finally an ounce of relief.
I spent most of Wednesday early morning praying for strength to make it through the day in a way that would honor and celebrate my precious, joyful baby boy. The day was everything I dreamed of for him.
I am so grateful God allowed me the day to love him without the heavy shroud of heartache.
The day after, the shroud was lowered. I began to think over how perfect the day was and every turn in my mind landed me in the same place: he should have been there and he wasn’t.
My baby wasn’t there.
Don’t. Don’t tell me he was there. That sentiment became the most frustrating of all platitudes. He wasn’t there. The entire reason for the party is to celebrate his life because he is dead. If he was there I would have a picture of him. If he was there I would have been laughing and videoing his bootie shakes. If he was there I would have seen the gleam in his eye and grin as he said “Noodos?! Rice?!” If he was there I would not have stopped looking after him, watching him, making sure he’s okay.
I don’t feel him.
I don’t see him.
I just miss him.
It’s been said that this is normal grief and that pain can block a lot of our ability to connect or to feel those we love around us. I believe it. I truly feel I will get to a place where I can look back and see him and his joy in every smile of his friends who came to love and dance.
The days since his Celebration have rocked me: they’ve been the worst for me since the week he passed. What now? His story just feels like it’s over. I don’t know what to do for him. It feels so utterly empty.
And in my missing Tanner, I’ve been missing God. Maybe I blame God for not showing me my child. I’m hurt He took him from me. I don’t understand why I was allowed to be robbed of the most beautiful joy in the world.
But God is here. And sometimes in our dark moments, where the noise of the pain becomes deafening… He has to speak a little louder for us to hear Him.
Darrell called me yesterday. He had been filming an episode of Storage Wars and bought a men’s locker. As he began to go through it he opened a small drawer and there, there was a beautiful, small, white butterfly. He was shocked and it rocked him.
Another drawer opened, and then another… In all, sixty-six gorgeous, ornate butterflies. In 39 years of buying lockers, this is the very first butterfly collection of its type he’s ever come across.
I don’t believe in coincidences.
I believe in a God who loves us and finds ways to reach us.
In case I was reserving any doubt, there was one pin very different from the others; one pin that included a butterfly with an animal…
It was a cat chasing a butterfly.
Of all pins in the world… A cat. Chasing a butterfly.
About a week after Tanner passed I posted of watching a white butterfly in my backyard and seeing Tanner in it, when one of my cats lept for it. I too lept and ultimately saved the butterfly. Protecting the butterfly from the cat was reminiscent to me of the 13 years I protected my baby.
I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it’s simply an “I love you. I hear your pain. I’m here,” from God. I don’t know if it’s a sign that my baby boy truly is here. Maybe not in the way my heart and soul desires, maybe not in a way that will ever let me hold his hand or kiss his chin or high-five his face, but maybe he is here.
What I know… it that I’m not alone.
I believe Tanner is here.
And I do know that God loves me still.
Thank you, Father, for the butterflies.
