The kids were excited.  They loved their grandparents and loved going up to the lake.  I got everyone dressed in warm clothes, and used articles of clothing that were Christmas gifts from Brock’s mom.  Things between us had still felt kind of strained, and I wanted to try to do the right things, to make them happy.

We were driving up to help as Jane and Ted wanted to go through the attic above their garage.  They wanted us to find stuff that was ours and get rid of it.  Take it, throw it, donate it – whatever.  We had moved out over three years earlier, and tons of our things were still up there.  I was of the mindset to just throw everything away; we hadn’t needed or used any of it in three years, we truly could survive without it.  Brock wanted to sort and go through everything.  Jane just wanted help.

Our car pulled in their driveway around ten. The kids climbed out from the car and went inside.  We talked for a while, but had come with a purpose and went straight to it.  Everyone went out to the garage and we let the kids come up into the attic where they each picked out a few vintage toys to play with while we worked – and then we worked.  We immediately started opening boxes and choosing things to throw or donate.  Jane, Ted, Brock and I were up in the attic above where the kids were playing in the floor of the garage. In just a few hours we had made a huge dent in the mess.  There were several boxes in the back of my car to bring home, several more in the back of Jane’s to go to donation, and tons in the trash pile.  We were all cold and hungry, so we decided to go into the house to eat.

I sat and nursed Rory in the breakfast area while everyone else prepared food.  Rory was fading fast, and I asked Brock if he would try to put him down for a nap – Rory only went down easily for Brock.  I fed the kids, then sat down to eat my own food, and Brock was back upstairs before I had taken my first bite.  Rory was so tired, he went down without hassle.

I guess we all sort of felt like we had worked hard enough for long enough that we let lunch run long.  We sat around talking while the kids played in the living room, and shortly after Uncle Brady arrived.  He ate lunch while we caught up and chatted.  It was nearly two when Jane and Brock headed back outside to continue cleaning, bringing Brady with them.  I stayed in the house with the kids, and waited for Rory to wake up.  After a few minutes of playing on my phone, I went downstairs to check on him.  His eyes opened the minute I walked into the room, but he was still laying in the same position that he had been sleeping in.  I was so happy to see him.  We cuddled in the bed for a bit, and then he was ready to go.  I asked if he wanted something to eat, and he nodded.

Rory and I climbed up the stairs and I got him a bun with some of the barbecued pork we’d had for lunch and put it on a plate.  He loved the bun, but did NOT love the barbecued pork – he took a bite and then immediately put it back down on the plate.  I laughed at him and let him just eat the bun.  We went outside where the other kids had migrated, and were playing on the driveway.  There was a giant, flat area and a steep hill that rode down into it.  Ronan and Ruby were playing with dolls on the flat part of the driveway, and Ryder had taken a ‘big-wheel’ out of the garage and was freewheeling down the hill towards the entrance of the house.  Max, Jane and Ted’s big German short-haired Pointer (a dog) was running around with the kids.

I remember standing in a patch of sunlight, trying to keep warm.  I remember feeling incredibly guilty that Brock and Jane were up in the attic working, and I was just down in the drive way doing nothing.  I felt terribly guilty, and like I was being judged as lazy, avoiding work.  I watched as Brady carried a few loads of trash up to the trash pile at the top of the hill.  I watched as Ted loaded several boxes into Jane’s truck.  I watched and took videos as Ryder came speeding down the hill, face filled with joy.  Rory had found a little green John Deere Tractor ride-on toy that he was pushing around like a lawn mower.  I watched as he toddled around, proud of his find.  Ruby and Ronan were still playing with old action figures and barbies together, and Ryder had found some toy aliens whose heads could pop off, and joined them.  I decided then, since everyone was sufficiently occupied, to go up into the attic to check on Brock and Jane.

Upon entering the attic, I found a box that hadn’t been gone through yet, and asked Brock if he knew who it belonged to.  He said it was ours, but I didn’t recognize any of the things in it.  At that exact moment, Ronan brought Rory up into the attic and said that Rory was trying to go up the stairs on his own.  The stairs were open to the garage with no wall or railing, so the kids weren’t allowed to be on them without a grown up.  I kept Rory upstairs with me for about fifteen minutes.  He kept wandering back towards the stairs, so I finally carried him back down into the garage and put him in front of his tractor, then went back up into the attic.  Ronan, Ruby and Ryder were all still playing in the driveway, and Ted and Brady had never come back upstairs.  Rory began slamming the tractor into a dog crate that was at the bottom of the stairs, and giggling wildly over the sound it made.

I went back up and returned to the box I had been looking through.  I found some baby pictures and a few CD’s that I wanted to keep.  I was separating things into two different boxes – keep and throw.  I stopped for a moment when I realized that I hadn’t heard any crashing noises from the kids for a while.  “I should go check on the kids,” I said.  “They’re fine,” Brock told me.  “I hear them outside this window.”  He pointed over his shoulder, and continued working.  I looked through another handful of discs, and started to feel heavy.  “I don’t hear the kids,” I said again, “I need to go check.”

“My dad is down there,” Brock told me, “and Brady.”

“I know,” I responded, “But I’m going to make sure.”

I went down into the garage, expecting to see the kids playing quietly, but no one was there.  The front door to the house was wide open, which was odd because it was VERY cold that day.  They must be inside.  They left it open as they went inside.  I ran into the house, hoping to hear the kids, and felt a little thrill of fear.  Silence.  I jogged into the kitchen, and Ted was standing next to the counter on his phone.  “You seen the kids?” I asked him.  He shook his head no.  I immediately left, and ran to the top of the stairs to the basement.  “RONAN?” I yelled, “BRADY??”  I listened for just a moment and didn’t hear any response.  My fear was rising.

I ran back outside and shouted up to the garage, “THEY AREN’T IN THE HOUSE!”

I heard Jane and Brock come down the stairs behind me and head up the road away from the house and lake as I started down the path to the water.  There is a long, deep, steep ravine to the immediate left of the house, and I didn’t stop to look down there.  I don’t know why.  I just kept going, down towards the water.  I found Rory’s tractor, abandoned off the path halfway to the backyard.

It’s maybe 20 quick paces from the end of the pathway down to the water.  I ran it on stiff legs, and felt every step jolt up into my brain.  I was cold and terrified.

Surely not.  Surely not.

I felt almost separate from the event.  It was so quiet, peaceful.  It was beautiful.  The water was smooth like glass, and reflected the sky, perfectly.  I walked quickly down to the boat ramp and looked out across the water and it was perfectly smooth, except for a small break off to the right of me, maybe 5 yards away.  It could be a stick.  Let it be a stick.  But I couldn’t see clearly in the mirrored sky, so I stepped up onto the boardwalk to get a better look.

Surely not.

Two steps up onto the boardwalk and I saw him.  I saw his face, turned towards me, still.

Unmoving.

No.

I screamed.  Medium, high, low.  Scream.  Scream.  Scream.  Guttural.  Deep.  I screamed over and over and over.  A separate part of my brain asked me why I was screaming like that – wouldn’t ‘help’ be better?  Call 911?  Instead, I screamed.

That crystal clear part of my brain was working slowly at the same time as my screams, and very aware of everything.  The water is not deep.  You will not need to swim.  Do not strip, just jump in.  Throw your phone, you will need it later.  Go.

I jumped down into the water that was ice-cold up to my thighs.  Three or four steps forward and I pulled him up out of the water.  He was limp and cold, his head rolled back in my arms.  I screamed again.  And again.  As I walked, waterlogged, towards the boat ramp, I started tipping him and squeezing him to get the water out.  I needed to get the water out to do CPR.  I tilted his head downwards, and squeezed his lungs.  Water and vomit came pouring out.  I screamed and screamed.

Faintly, to the left of me, I heard Brock yell, “CALL 911.  CALL 911.”  I glanced up where he was yelling and saw him on the back deck on the second level, running out of the house.  As I stepped up onto the boardwalk again, I knew I didn’t want Rory laying on the cement boat ramp to do CPR, I felt Brock beside me.  I didn’t know how he made it to me so quickly.  I didn’t find out until later that he had jumped the railing.  I was tipping Rory’s body, and felt Brock pulling his cold, wet clothes off.  I laid Rory down on the boardwalk, and began CPR.  Head tilt, chin lift.  Open the airway.  Breathe.  Breathe.  I hear it gurgle in his chest.  It’s going in.  Compressions.  Do compressions now.  I started compressing his chest.  I counted, because that’s what you do.  I compressed and counted and then gave breaths again.  His head was rolling around, and when I did compressions, vomit came out.  I kept clearing the vomit and then having to reset his head to do more breaths.  I remember feeling awful about his head on the wood… he was going to get splinters.

At some point, I heard Brock yelling, “GO BACK IN THE HOUSE.  GO BACK INSIDE!”  And I heard Ruby screaming.  I could not stop.  I couldn’t.  Compressions and breaths.  Compressions and breaths.  My entire world was taken up with compressions and breaths.

Suddenly, there was a body beside me.  “Let me help,” he said quietly to me.  I didn’t know who it was – someone who knew CPR and wanted to help.  He was doing compressions to my breaths, white hands emerging from a dark sweater.  I never saw his face.  I heard Jane on the phone next to me, and the 911 operator trying to tell Jane how to tell me to do CPR.  Everyone was telling me what to do.  Turn his head.  Breathe harder.  Clear his mouth.  Finally, between breaths, I shouted, “I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING.  STOP TALKING TO ME.”

Move his blood.  Breathe his lungs.  Move his blood.  Breathe his lungs.

There was no rational thought.  Just breaths and counting and moving his blood and pushing his oxygen.  No thought.  I heard the sirens, and then the paramedics were there.  My partner fell away and someone else took over for compressions.  I continued to give breaths, holding his head steady with his airway open.  Finally, someone tapped my shoulder.  They had a bag-mask, and wanted to intubate him.  I fell away… and wailed.

I stopped doing CPR and suddenly my baby was there, in front of me, with no heartbeat, eyes open, not breathing and not crying, and I was screaming.  Wailing.  Keening.  The sound of it came from the depths of me, and I couldn’t stop.  I couldn’t make it quiet.  I kept telling myself, “This isn’t helping, Mandy.  It’s not helping them,” and I couldn’t make it stop.  Brock was holding on to me for dear life, calling, “My boy.  My baby.  Save my boy, please.  My baby.”

I started shivering uncontrollably as adrenaline started to wear away and I realized I was soaking wet up to my navel.  They had placed a breathing tube and were able to continue CPR while they prepared him to go to the hospital.  Someone asked if I wanted to ride in the ambulance, and I said yes.  At this point, the police had arrived and I heard them asking everyone what had happened.  There was crime scene tape.

Jane brought me, shaking, into the house.  I stripped my clothes off inside the doorway, pants and shoes, and we went upstairs to find dry clothes.  She gave me a pair of underwear and sweatpants, socks and a pair of shoes.  I didn’t speak.  I didn’t know what to say.  We walked out to the ambulance, and I realized they hadn’t made it up from the lake yet.  It was a long, treacherous walk with a stretcher, and it was taking them time.  They had to continue CPR as they walked.  The driver pulled me into the cab of the ambulance and turned on the heat, full blast.  He said something kind, and I don’t remember what it was.  He held my hand.

Brock came to the window of the cab and kissed me.  I felt numb.  I wasn’t crying or screaming.  I kept telling myself, “That doesn’t help.  Just be here.  Feel your feet on the ground.  Just be here.”  They loaded Rory and the paramedics into the car, and Brock said he would meet me at the hospital.

It took the driver of the ambulance three tries to turn the big rig around in the narrow drive, and then lights and sirens were on, and we were headed to the hospital, exactly 12 minutes away.

Never before in my life had I seen how utterly horrific it is to witness how many drivers do NOT move out of the way when an ambulance, sirens blaring, bears down upon them – how many of them do not know to let the emergency vehicle past.  And how absolutely infuriating those moments could be… how long that drive felt.

We arrived into the ER bay, and Rory was whisked away.  A team was waiting for him, and I was moved off into a side room, offered warm blankets and water.  I started shaking again.  An officer came and sat next to me and said she wanted to take my statement.  I didn’t know what to do.  I told her, “My husband said not to talk to anyone unless there was a lawyer present.  He said that is for my safety.”

The cop looked at me sideways, and said nastily, “Well, that just makes you look guilty.”

I started sobbing and told her exactly everything that had happened.  My son was in the next room, physically dead with hope falling away, and she forced me to give my statement.  Brock and his parents showed up while I was talking, and Brock was immediately angry.  “This is not the time for this!” he shouted.  The other officer took him out into the hallway to calm him down.  I finished my statement and we sat in silence, waiting for news about Rory.

An ER doctor came in and introduced himself to us.  He looked kind, but visibly shaken.  He said that he was in charge of Rory’s care, and they were going to do everything they could.  He turned to walk back out and stopped. Over his shoulder, he said to us, “I have kids too.  I’m going to do everything.”

We waited minutes that felt like an eternity.  I don’t know how many passed.  Five?  Fifteen?  Fifty?  When, finally, the doctor burst back into the room and triumphantly shouted, “WE HAVE A HEARTBEAT!”

I screamed with relief.  I was so prepared for him to be gone.  I knew he was gone, and I had been telling myself to be ready for the news that he was gone.  For the apology.  The heartbeat… I screamed.  He immediately calmed, and with tears in his eyes told us that it doesn’t look good.  We didn’t know how long he had been down for, and he’d had over 40 minutes of CPR.  His heartbeat was slow, and they had called the life-flight team… but his heart rate had to maintain on its own above 60 for them to fly him.  They couldn’t do CPR on the helicopter ride.

Then they allowed us to see him.  He was on a high stretcher, surrounded by the accoutrements of medicine.  An IV line in his shin, a tube down his throat.  Someone was breathing the bag for him, and I felt like I should be doing that.  I wanted them to let me breathe for him.  I watched his heart on the monitor as I touched him, held his hands and stroked his face.  He was so cold.  His body was so cold.  He didn’t feel alive, but his heart was beating.  I kissed his forehead and whispered to him.  I told him to keep his heart beating so he could heal.  I said I was sorry.  So sorry.

The life-flight crew arrived as Rory’s heart beat rose to 80 and then 100 on its own.  The flight-paramedic checked his tubes and IVs, and said he would be safe to fly.  They asked if I wanted to ride with them and I said yes.  I had never been in a helicopter before, but there was no other choice.  I took his amber necklace off, then, before we strapped him down to fly.  I knew he couldn’t be wearing it, so I slid it into my pocket.  And then we went.

The pilot gave me all of the instructions that I would need for the duration of the flight.  I got into the cab of the helicopter while they loaded Rory in the back.  I could hear everything that everyone was saying through the headset.  It was so surreal.  I was terrified, but also incredibly calm.  It was like there were two completely separate parts of my brain.  And while we flew, I just focused on the horizon and let everything else fall away.  “If he’s going to be okay, he’s going to be okay.  If he’s not, he’s not.”  I let the words, heart beat, lungs move, oxygen flow, brain heal flow through my mind over and over and over.  It was a mantra.  The intention I was sending out into the universe.  Eyes on the horizon, and complete peace.

I don’t know how long the flight took.  It felt like forever and yet only an instant.  We landed at the hospital and were escorted through a maze.  It seemed like we walked through hundreds of hallways and corridors and elevators.  I was becoming angry, my peace falling away; it felt like a joke.  Where the fuck are we?  Where are all the helpers?  WHY is the PICU so fucking far from the helicopter pad??

We finally rolled into the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, and Rory’s care was taken over by the most incredible team of doctors, nurses, and techs.  They worked like mad to get him stable, lines placed, machines hooked up, body warming.  It was like a brilliant swarm of bees, or an intricate dance around his little body.  Every single soul in the room pouring all of their attention into that tiny human, all of them willing him to live.  I sat in the back corner and watched as they buzzed and flitted around the room, trying to save the life of my son.

No one knows we are here, I thought suddenly.  No one.  Who do I tell?

I took a picture of all of the feet surrounding his bed, and posted online, “Please send prayers for Rory.  Please lift him up.  We need your help right now.  Please pray for Rory.  Send him your love and light and intention.”

The doctor came over, then, and explained to me what was being done, how things looked.  What his prognosis was – not good.  She told me her goal was to get him through the next few hours, and warm his body.  We wouldn’t know what would happen until we got him back up to 98 degrees.  We couldn’t know anything until then.

Brock arrived, and I told him everything the doctor had said to me.  Then I said I needed to call my mom.  I walked out into the hallway and dialed.  She answered, and I started crying immediately.  “Mom.  Rory fell in the lake.  He’s unresponsive.  He has a heartbeat, but it doesn’t look good.  We don’t know if he’s going to make it.  Mom…”  I didn’t know what else to say.  I knew I was breaking up – the signal was poor.  I told her I would call her later if there was an update.

Brock and I went back and stood next to our baby.  He was covered in blankets and heating apparatus.  He had a tube going into his mouth, and tape across his face, but he still looked like our perfect little boy.  He looked like he was sleeping so peacefully.  We whispered promises to him, reasons to stay.  Mama would sleep with him again, and he could nurse all night long.  Dada promised that he would take the baby-gate down, and Rory could go into the kitchen whenever he wanted.  He could play with all of the big kid toys.  Just stay, Rory.  Please choose to stay.  I put my hand on his head and chest, and was again surprised by how cold he was.  I asked for a hat and there were none.  They didn’t have hats of 19 month old size in the PICU.  They wrapped a warm pillow case around his head, and I was angry.  He looked stupid.  Undignified.  I wanted a hat so badly.

Jane and Ted arrived, and sat with us.  Everyone was there, crying and hugging and praying.  Thomas and Brady were there too.  Our kids were at Jane’s neighbors house – Nancy was feeding them dinner and watching them.  I sat at the end of the bench and felt a crushing emptiness, an unexpected loneliness that shook me to my core.  Brock had his family, and I was alone.  My baby was dying and I was alone.  The ache filled my chest and I cried again.  I wanted my mom.  At that very moment, a nurse walked in and asked me if I knew someone named Meliea?  I was confused.  I mean, I did know someone named Meliea, but I had no idea why she was asking me that?  It felt very odd, like she was trying to figure out if she knew me from somewhere.  I said yes, I know a Meliea, and suddenly behind her I saw two familiar faces walking towards me.  Julie and Meliea.  They where there, at the hospital!  My heart lit on fire, and I was elated.  I couldn’t…  I didn’t…  I had no idea how they were there, how they knew, or why they had come.  But they were THERE.

They wrapped me in hugs, and asked what happened.  I cried, and they cried.  They touched and held Rory’s hands and face.  And then they said there was a room full of people waiting to hear news.  I didn’t fully comprehend that either, but I followed them out into the waiting room, and was utterly SHOCKED when I walked in.

Everyone.  I mean, everyone that I knew and loved was there.  Julie and Meliea had come in, but Tracy was there, and Beth.  Rachel and Becca.  Melissa.  Amber and Laura and Michael.  Shonta and Jaime.  Brock’s best friend from high school was there, in the hospital, waiting for us.  Waiting to hear.  Waiting for Rory to be okay.  I cried and cried and cried, and was surrounded in the biggest hug by so many arms.  Everyone gathered around as I explained quickly what had happened, and how Rory looked.  I was asked if we wanted my mom to fly out, and I said of course.  Tickets were arranged and I called her to tell her to be at the airport with her passport in the morning.  And then I hugged everyone again but wanted to get back to Rory’s side.

The pastor for the church that Brock’s family attended showed up and offered to bring us food, dinner.  We thanked him, and sat.  We sat and waited.  We sent people home.  We told them we would update, and we sent everyone home, and we waited.  Every hour, they did blood tests.  They were checking his pH levels, and organ functions.  They were checking to see if his body was working better or worse.  All night, he got better and better.  His blood levels kept improving.  His body was warming.  His heart was beating on its own, and it looked like his organ functions were getting better.  The attending physician came in and did a neurological exam on him to test for brain function, and it wasn’t good.  He had no reflexes, no pupil dilation, no blink reflex.  She told us that it didn’t look hopeful, but we had hope anyways.  His body wasn’t warm yet, function could return.  We had hope.  She noticed that his feet were jerking, and thought it was possible that he was having seizures, so she ordered an EEG.  They came in to apply the leads.  It didn’t take them long to figure out that the jerks were not seizures and so they removed the EEG apparatus.  The next time I went to him, he smelled like the most awful, toxic glue.  I cried over that.  He didn’t smell like my boy.

Every spare moment, I returned to my mantra:  heart beat, lungs move, oxygen flow, brain heal.  Over and over again.  It was after 2am when we were given a room and told to sleep.  There was nothing we could do.  They would come and get us if anything changed.  We checked into a parent sleeping room and I undressed.  My sweater and shirt were still wet from the lake.  Someone had gone to my house and brought me a change of clothes.  I put on pajamas, got into bed and closed my eyes and then just laid there, wide awake for ages.  I couldn’t make my brain stop spinning. After about two hours of fitful, unrestful sleep, I finally rolled out of bed and went back to be with Rory.  I got a coffee, and heard really wonderful news about Rory’s labs.  Everything was back to nearly the normal range.  We had decided when asked, the night before, that we were going to continue with hope and believing as long as things continued to go well.  Every turn for the better meant that perhaps he was going to stay.  But we knew that his body would not heal if he was going to go.  The labs – they renewed my hope.

I was asked to leave the room as a tech came in to do an x-ray, and then another did a brain CT scan to… I don’t know.  Get whatever information that they could.  My memories are so blurry now.  I knew we would have to wait until around 7 am to hear from the doctors about the reports from the films.  I asked the nurses for some soap and warm water so I could wash the glue out of Rory’s hair.  Almost immediately, two sweet nurses came in with a tub of warm, soapy water and a comb.  They cooed and talked over Rory; told him how beautiful he was; talked about his lashes and his curls.  They loved him as they washed the stinky glue out of his hair.  I was so grateful, and full to bursting with love for every person we came into contact with.

At shift change, we got a new crew of nurses and a new doctor, who came in around 7:30.  He looked at the CT and X-ray reports, and then he spoke to me.  Rory had some very dismal signs.  He had developed something called Diabetes Insipidus, which means that the body no longer regulates blood sugar, and that his kidneys were just dumping liters and liters of fluid.  Rory’s x-ray also looked awful.  His lungs were bruised and swollen, and they appeared to be filled with fluid – not IN the lungs, but tissue swelling.  Edema.  Then he looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “I’m so sorry, Mandy.  I can’t fix his lungs.  They just don’t have any more to give.”

He showed me that the ventilator was on the highest possible settings, with the highest flow of oxygen, and Rory’s oxygen sats were dropping.  His lungs just couldn’t move the oxygen into his blood.  He told me that maybe there was another, higher-tech ventilator we could try… but it might only give us a few hours.  He told me that we could keep fighting and lose him to the machines… or we could unplug the machines and hold him as he went.

Brock came into the room shortly after, and I relayed everything the doctor had said.  He was quiet for a few moments, and then we both cried.  We knew he was leaving.  We knew it was the right thing: to let him go.

We spread the word and updated the people nearest to us.  We asked to have our children brought to the hospital – it felt right to let them decide whether or not they were going to say good-bye.

And then we waited.  Again.  For people to show up and say their farewells.  It seemed like forever.  I got up in the bed with Rory, and held him and cried.  His body was warm, but sleeping.  Lifeless.  I held him and watched helplessly as his oxygen saturation levels crept lower and lower.  I got angry and frustrated waiting for family to show up, waiting for my children and Jane and Ted to get there.  I felt like we were losing him.  Waiting to lose him, and losing him.  I got angry when people came into the room to cry over me when I hadn’t asked for them.  I didn’t want them to be there.  I was mad when I was asked if they could take his footprints and handprints.  NO, I don’t want to be doing this.  I don’t want his footprints.  I want him.  I want him to be fine.  I want him to come home.  Don’t ask me this.  Don’t ask this of me.

Julie came in and told me that Amber had asked her sister bring her camera.  She told me that I wouldn’t be able to answer the question, and that I would never have to look at any pictures if I didn’t want to see them, but that she thought I should let Amber take a few.  I nodded.  I didn’t want to need them, but I knew I was going to need them.

Still we waited.  Finally, the kids arrived, and Brock went to tell them that their brother was dying.  He didn’t know how he was going to do it, and he bravely walked towards his children to tell them he hardest thing he could imagine.  The hospital had a department called the ‘child life program’ that exists solely to help children cope with life in the hospital.  For us, they functioned as an aid to help our children understand what was happening to Rory, why we were in the hospital, and to make things a little less scary.  The woman from the department came with our kids as they were brought in to say good-bye.

Ronan couldn’t stay.  He walked in the room and cried out in sadness and fear.  He had to leave.  He couldn’t be in the room… it was too much.

Ruby walked over sadly, and put her hand on his belly.  I cried when she told me, “It’s okay mama.  It’s not your fault.  It’s not anyones fault.”  She placed a drawing that she had made of our family, with Rory above us as a star.  She kissed him and said good-bye.  And then she left.

Ryder wanted to be on the bed next to me.  He was confused and didn’t understand.  He just wanted his mama, and Rory didn’t look like Rory –  he was so swollen.  Ryder wanted to touch Rory; his cheeks, his lips, his eyelids.  He pretended to cry, and I told him he didn’t have to be sad.  He just had to say good-bye to Rory, because Rory wasn’t coming home.  Ryder said good-bye, and seemed to be completely fulfilled with that.  He was taken out of the room.

Jane and Ted arrived shortly after, and I realized that the sun was beginning to go down.  I saw that familiar late afternoon glow, and time just seemed to slow down.  The nurses came in and asked if they could “un-wire” him.  I nodded, and they slowly and lovingly removed all of his lines, IV’s, tubes and cords.  Lastly, they pulled out the breathing tube and he was free again.  Just my baby again.  His sweet little body pressed into mine as it had been so many times before, and I could just hold him again.  I laid my cheek against his forehead and memorized the way his hair curled off of his skin.  The way his eyelashes left his eyes and touched under his brows.  The way his hand felt when it touched my face.  I pressed his tiny hand into my cheek over and over.  I whispered to him, “I’m sorry…  I love you…  Please forgive me…  Thank you.  Rory, I’m so sorry…  I love you…”

Each single moment stretched into hours, and suddenly the room seemed universally huge.  Filled with more than just my family, Brock’s family.  It was filled with light and love.  Everything was crystal clear, crystalline and in slow motion.  I saw every dust mote and heard every sound.  I whispered to him that it was okay for him to go as I felt him fighting to breathe.  “You can go, Rory.  Please don’t stay for me.  I will be okay.”

I looked up, around the room at everyone else, their eyes filled with horror and grief and tears.  No one looking at me, and everyone hurting.  Suddenly, unbelievingly I shouted, “Is this really real?!  IS THIS REALLY REAL?  IS THIS HAPPENING??”

It felt like the most real and awful nightmare that I could imagine, and I couldn’t convince myself it was real.  My baby.  My Rory.  My sweet sunshine boy.  My little brown baby.  His breaths were stopping.  They were coming farther and farther apart.  They were shorter, and weaker.  And then… they were no more.  I felt his heart stop beating beneath my hand and I wailed again.

He was gone.

I held him tighter in that moment.  I squeezed him harder and held him closer and breathed him in harder.  I didn’t want to let him go.  I wasn’t ready yet.  His body was warm and he was my sweet, tiny boy.  I’m sorry.  I love you.  Please forgive me.  I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry.  My Rory.  I’m so sorry.

The doctor came in to listen with a stethoscope, and told me Rory was gone.  He pronounced time of death, but I knew he was wrong.  I knew when he left.  I felt it.

I held him for another few minutes, and then I had to go.  I had to go, and leave the room, and leave the hospital and go.  I didn’t want to feel him get cold.  I couldn’t feel him get stiff.  I had to leave.

They took me to another room, and brought the kids to see me.  It wasn’t right and I asked them to take the kids somewhere else.  Anywhere else.  Stay with a friend.  Keep them safe.  I couldn’t do it right then.  Someone came to ask me if I wanted to see him again and I said no.  I didn’t.  I wanted to go home.  My baby was gone, and that body wasn’t him, and I didn’t need to see it.  I just needed to go home.

Meliea pulled her car around.  I was escorted out of the hospital, supported on both sides as though I was deathly ill, weak and dying.  We walked out of the giant glass doors, and I realized that my world had stopped.  My baby was gone…  but the sun was still shining and people were still smiling and I was enraged.

WHY ARE YOU SMILING?  HOW CAN THE SUN BE SHINING?  DON’T YOU KNOW AN ANGEL HAS JUST DIED?  CANT YOU SEE THAT MY LIFE HAS BEEN SHATTERED?  WHY HASN’T THE WORLD STOPPED WITH US?

I climbed into the car, and Meliea took us home.  My house had been cleaned by well-loved friends.  People who knew that CPS would be involved, and that Rory was dying, and that wanted us to come home to a clean space.  Brock walked in and immediately took down the baby gate.  It had been his promise.

We sat down on the couch, and looked around our clean, empty house.  It had fallen dark.  There were no children.  There were no signs of life.  There was no noise, and no baby mess, and no diapers and no high chairs.  We were home, and it felt as though he had never existed.  I laid my head on Brock’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around me, and together cried anew.

We had to begin life again, after our baby died.  And it hurt.

In Loving Memory of Rory Kai Allender from Amanda Allender on Vimeo.

Life has come so far from where it’s been in the past – the eternal exhaustion and frustration.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I just yelled at Ryder to “Please, shut up!” (the please makes it okay?) because he was just shouting, “Be boo baba. Bo ba beba? Boo ba bebo baba?” over and over and over again, and eventually that shit has to stop, right?

So I sit down with my coffee (decaf, one stevia, one tablespoon of butter, and heavy whipping cream) and I open my laptop to write. It’s been almost a week since I last wrote anything… and BLANK. Nothing. There is nothing to write about. How do I have nothing to write about? HOW did I used to do this every three or four days – for YEARS?

Life is different now. The struggles are different. The challenges don’t look the same – and to be quite honest, I just can’t seem to find the things to be frustrated about. I’m not trying to portray things inaccurately, either. There are still plenty of things to be frustrated about in my life. My kids still eat on the couch without permission. They still bicker and fight. Brock still never takes the trash out unless I ask him. We have to sweep hardwood floors FAR MORE than I ever imagined possible in order for them to feel tidy… the difference isn’t the lack of frustrations.

The difference is the eyes through which I view them. And way back when life was hard and I was frustrated and constantly in darkness – I couldn’t see that. I couldn’t believe that life was always going to be life, and it was my choice to allow it to land more gently. What’s changed, then? How does it become different?

I know it sounds trite, but honestly the biggest difference in my life has come from gratitude. It’s not the regular, run-of-the-mill, ‘yeah yeah, I’m glad my kids are healthy’ gratitude, though. It’s a deep, abiding, earth shaking gratitude. And it’s not easy to access. Truly, I don’t think we get there without some type of push.

I’m not just thankful for my family, for my husband and kids (although I am.) I’m not JUST thankful for my friends and followers and support, (although I am!) I’m not just thankful for my home and my health and my passion (although I most definitely am.)

I also have deep gratitude for the things that are harder to love.

It seems like maybe it should be impossible, or undesirable, or even just plain stupid. It seems like you can’t possibly want to be grateful in this way. Seems like… but, I am. I’m thankful for the hurting. I’m thankful for the lessons. I’m thankful for the pain.

I don’t think it comes quickly or easily, and I don’t think everyone gets here. I am endlessly thankful for Rory’s life – his soul, his spirit, his sweet nature – but I am also filled with abundant gratitude that he died.

Don’t twist this. I am not glad that he died – I can wish for nothing more powerfully than that he were still here, and to not have experienced his death, the grief, and all that followed. But since that isn’t an option – and the ONLY option is this one, where he is gone – I’m choosing gratitude instead. I hate that he’s gone, and I miss him with all of my heart, but the life that I have – the life that I am living – is one filled with magic and wonder and gratitude, and I thank him daily for the path that brought me where I am.

Even though it really, really fucking hurt to get here.

I can tell you truthfully that I didn’t think I would survive to write those words. The moments and days and weeks after his death, I didn’t believe that I could live for that long. The pain was so exquisite – it was surreal. It didn’t feel possible that life would happen again.

On February 4th, 2017, our 19 month old son, Rory, wandered away unnoticed while the family was cleaning out and organizing a garage. He was surrounded by people – five grownups and three big siblings that doted on his every move – and yet he was able to quietly head in a direction that no one noticed.

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A post shared by Mandy (@tempestbeauty) on Feb 4, 2018 at 4:36am PST

It may have been two minutes, it may have been ten, but as soon as his absence was registered, I immediately ran for the lake. I found Rory’s body floating a few feet from the shoreline, and pulled him out of the water. My heart still aches at the day, my bones still feel the chill of the water. 911 was called while I performed CPR on my tiny, cold child – the world had stopped, and nothing existed anymore but my hands on his chest, and my breath in his lungs.

The human beings – angels – that tried to save Rory gave us 24 hours with him. We were able to hold him, smell him, stroke his hair and whisper all the words to him; we were able to say good bye. You can read the entire thing here.

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A post shared by Mandy (@tempestbeauty) on Feb 8, 2017 at 7:05pm PST

It’s been three years, and those words are just as shocking to me as the words, “my son died.” They are not meant to be said. It took me ages to be able to say them without a knife in my gut. He is gone, and that has become normal. In our day to day life, we have three children, and for the most part it’s easier that way. We don’t tell strangers about our dead baby anymore – it’s too painful and shocking to see the hurt on their faces, the surprise and the tears when they realize.

But at home, when we are comfortable and safe and no one is looking, we love and remember our boy. Not a day goes by that we don’t say his name, or talk about something he loved, or watch a video of his preciousness and soul. Not a day goes by that we don’t think about what might of been, how old he would be, how our life would look if he were still here. Not a single day goes by that we don’t see some sign of him, some swirl or bird or word or note; something that lets us know he’s not truly gone – just different.

My heart is stretched thin across two worlds, forever here with my living children, and yet not. Aching, yearning across time and space to see and feel him again. Impatient for the day when we are reunited, and yet filled with the endless patience that is required in order to stay here and live any kind of life worth living.

And this is the most surprising part: there is life again. Standing at the side of the bed where Rory lay, heart no longer beating, I could not fathom that there would be life again. It didn’t happen quickly, nor easily… but slowly, and painfully, and powerfully – our hearts and souls came back to this place, back to cleaning and cooking and working and struggling and loving. Back to joy. Back to disappointment. Back to ecstasy. Back to regular, boring old sadness. All of normal life was ours to savor again, with a new angle, a new facet that did not exist before: this life is truly sacred. Short. Powerful. Beautiful. Sudden. This life, our lives, YOUR lives… they are a gift, and the miracle of it can be seen in all things, at all times, without exception.

And so, again, here we are – three years later. There has been suffering and grief beyond words. There has been pain beyond counting. There have been tears and worries and fears. But now, and hopefully forever foward, there is miraculous life. One lived, not in spite of Rory’s death, but in honor of it. Daily reminders that he was here, he lived, he mattered, and he will not ever be forgotten – until we see him again.

One day closer.

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A post shared by Mandy (@tempestbeauty) on Nov 28, 2017 at 12:23pm PST

It’s been ages again since I’ve written, and I started out saying again that I don’t know why, but that isn’t true. I do know.

The minute I write a post, edit it, and then go to publish it, I’m hit with a powerful punch in the gut. It happens every time. “Why am I doing this? Why do I need to post this? Who cares?”

The deepest, most intense shame. And I know exactly where it comes from.

I can’t tell you how many times on this journey I have been told, “I love your writing.” “You make me feel sane.” “You should write a book.” “Please write another blog!” They are innumerable. Uncountable. It happens frequently, and I am always grateful. Honored. Humbled.

And yet, I CAN tell you exactly how many times I’ve been asked, “Why do you write such personal things?” “Can’t you just keep a journal instead?” “What makes you think you are good enough to do that?” and, “What are you trying to prove?” I can remember them powerfully and exquisitely and painfully. I remember who said them, and where. I remember how it made me feel. And I remember the deep, deep shame those comments elicited that continue to follow me to this day. It is reflected in my writing, and lack thereof. I feel it every time I am about to put something into the world.

I’m angry about it. I’ve had enough. I am no longer willing to participate in that shame. I quit. No matter what, those people don’t have the right to space in my mind, nor control over my actions. If they don’t like what I’m writing, they are free to NOT READ IT.

I’m writing this through tears, as I think I really didn’t know how heavily it had been weighing on me, nor how long I’ve let it ride.

I can’t promise I’m going to write more (because: life) but I CAN promise that shame wont be the reason that’s stopping me. If every person that put their thoughts and words and feelings out into the world listened to that shame, none of your favorite books would have ever been written.

The end.

So we made a plan and executed it. We drove to Asheville, had dinner together, and then walked over to the venue where this man was going to talk to us about how to “Die Wise.” We filed into the room with hundreds of strangers, not knowing at all what to expect, or even completely how to settle into the room. Our seats were fairly close to the front row, on the far right-hand side. We chatted quietly as the room filled, and waited expectantly as the lights were dimmed, and someone came out onto the stage.

I can only speak for myself, but I was a little bit nonplussed by the opening act. It was a group of musicians, unusual instruments, a little bit ‘out there’, a little bit otherwordly. I tried to suspend thought and judgement and just allow myself to be present in the room, and I found myself being carried away a little – I think for a while I felt like I could SEE the colors of the music as it was being played. I floated away in a cloud of uncaring, and despite the unconventional nature of the introducing act, I enjoyed it immensely. When the band finished playing, the original someone came back onto the stage to introduce our speaker.

I wish I could remember the introduction. I remember thinking, “I’ve never heard of this man, how does he have SO many accolades and titles??” I was very impressed by the introduction, and expectantly awaited my first glimpse of this speaker/author/poet.

Stephen Jenkinson walked out onto the stage, and I took him all in – a small, older gentleman dressed far more for the farm than for the road or show. He had on well worn boots, a colorful vest, and a flat-topped cowboy hat. His hair fell in a long braid down his back, twisted with grey. He had a white beard above which his shining eyes smiled out at us. He thanked the speaker for the introduction, and made a dry comment about how the intros always make him seem much more special than he actually is.

I laughed. I remember laughing SO much. Stephen was funny. Engaging. Passionate. He told stories about his life, and stories about deaths that he’d been present for, and what he’d figured out about dying in a culture that refuses to look at death. I was enchanted. I don’t know that I took a full breath the entire time… and time stood absolutely still. Two hours passed in what felt like mere moments, and then it was over. My eyes were wet with tears, and I was standing and clapping with all my heart, but it was over.

My friend and I filed out with all of the others, and I knew, wholeheartedly, that I had been changed. I had shifted. I would never be the same again. I walked into the room one person, and came out an entirely different someone. I couldn’t find the words to explain what I felt. I looked at my friend, eyes wide, and we agreed – that man was something special. He was speaking real, absolute truth. A prophet.

It wasn’t long after that that I bought his book and began reading it. I devoured it. I couldn’t put it down. Constantly and consistently, it challenged my views and broadened my knowledge. My friend and I agreed that we needed him to come here, to Charlotte. We wanted to see him speak again, and we wanted everyone we knew to get to see him speak as well. When you witness and experience something remarkable, you want to share it with others.

I contacted Stephen’s people, and inquired about another speaking engagement – what it would take to bring him here to Charlotte to give another talk. We emailed back and forth for quite some time before I was informed that Stephen WAS going to go on tour again, but this time, instead of just book readings, he was going to bring a musician with him. They were going to do a real show, with speaking, and reading, and music, and lights – it was going to be something fantastic to behold, and would I be interested in hosting?

I was in – 100% yes. I absolutely wanted to organize, and put in the hours, and get everyone that I know and love to come and see this man, this show. I felt like it would be incredibly easy for me to sell out tickets to this show – surely EVERYONE I know would come? Surely everyone who has been touched by Rory’s death would be interested? Obviously everyone in the world would be as ready and willing to learn more about death and dying as I am.

Holy. Moly. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Now, yes, of course – all of my dearest friends were interested immediately. I have SO MUCH love and affection and gratitude for each of those that were instantly willing to buy tickets and come see this fellow speak just because I suggested they come. It’s a great honor to be regarded so highly, and I don’t take it lightly.

However. The work of spreading the word of this man, this music, this show… the real, nitty-gritty of the work has been SO MUCH HARDER than I ever could have expected. Because the word doesn’t spread. It’s true; no one wants to talk about death. No one wants to hear about death. No one wants to learn more about death. No one wants to spend an evening listening to someone who might crack them open by talking about life, and love, and grief, and the end of life – no matter how beautiful it may be.

And so, now just two weeks before the show comes to Charlotte, I find myself at a complete loss. I don’t know where to go, or how to spread the word to those that might be interested. I have hit wall after wall, written hundreds of emails to no response, sent out handfuls of private messages to lukewarm reception. I find myself feeling like a failure, like I took on too much, or I was the wrong person to do this job.

So here’s what I’ve got. I know that I can’t wait to see this show. I know that I want everyone to hear this message, and perhaps focus a little differently on life; life that acknowledges that death is a part of it. I want everyone to see dying in a way that maybe, perhaps, it isn’t such a theft, such a wrong, such a damaging, life-rending event. I want everyone I know and love to be able to see and feel and hear and understand how death can be more than just DEATH.

I’m writing this more as a spiritual dump – I need to get the stress and anxiety and fear of it off of my chest. But I’m also writing it as a heartfelt invitation – come spend some time in a room and allow yourself to be opened; come and listen to some music and some words that might broaden the horizon of your soul; come and think deeply about subjects that you haven’t focused on yet. This isn’t a sales pitch. It’s a plea to depth of your spirit. Come and listen. It might make all the difference.

Truly. I hope to see you there.

Link to the event: https://www.facebook.com/events/464009724143525/?ti=icl

I remember sitting on the couch next to Brock, the world in sharp relief around me.  Everything felt more real and yet somehow less real; a continuation of a dream that just wouldn’t seem to end.  I could not wake myself up.

I could not make myself fall asleep.

Meliea had made some calls and gotten a prescription of Valium for Brock and I.  I took one that first night, when we went to bed.  Our children were being cared for by loving friends, and we laid next to each other in a quiet, empty home – and we cried.

I had, in the past, experienced heavy sorrow before.  I had cried until it hurt.  But I had never experienced the deep grief and exhaustion that comes from loss, and it is hard to describe: the pain and sadness that filled my existence to my bones.  The way my eyes hurt, and my lungs hurt, and my throat ached from crying.  My jaw… it’s hard to explain.  My jaw felt like I had been at the dentist for a million hours.  The pain in my jaw would become the pain I associated with heavy grief, and it returns whenever I return to that space.

Brock and I laid in bed, looking at pictures and videos of our Rory, crying and hurting, until the valium did it’s work, and we fell asleep.

The next morning, we woke in the same nightmare.  Rory was still dead.

The days after became in incredible blur.  We were surrounded by loving people and friends.  Food was brought and placed in front of us.  My mother was flown in and began caring for us.  We were reminded constantly to eat – the desires to continue living seemed to have faded.  The usual urges to take care of self had thinned to mere whispers.

Despite the reality of losing our child, we were forced to continue being rational and coherent, and make decisions about everything else.  Sign paperwork.  Cremation.  Money.  Urns.  Memorials?  Planning a memorial for your own child feels like, above and beyond, the worst of things that can be asked of you.

Our need to take care of ourselves had faded, but so had most of my social hesitations and proprietary restrictions.  I began saying whatever words popped into my mind.  When I was given a choice or an option on something, I would immediately and unabashedly pick the one that sounded or felt right, and then moved forward unapologetically.  There were people that I did not want to celebrate Rory’s life with us.  There were “traditional” things that I did not want at his celebration.  There were things that felt important to me that I had not ever heard of people doing before.  And there were some things that needed to be said out loud – so I said them.  I also went ahead and planned two memorials – a private, intimate, family celebration; and a public memorial.  It just felt like the right thing to do.

Each step away from the moments where Rory was alive felt like torture.  It felt cruel to force us to continue moving away from his life.  We wanted to sit quietly, shut down and stay there with him – in that space where his existed within his body – and we couldn’t.

Eventually we had to bring our children back home – sooner, I think, than we would have liked.  Ruby’s 6th birthday was five days after Rory died, and we knew the celebration of her could not be overshadowed by the death of her brother.  We fought powerfully and intentionally to make sure our children’s lives, irrevocably changed by Rory’s death, were not also ruined by it.

Around this time, the gifts and cards and messages started pouring in, along with the fundraisers.  It was painful and beautiful to watch, the way love poured out of people in the form of handwritten notes, thoughtful statues and candles, as well as money.  But it also filled us both, Brock and I, with an intense feeling of shame.  Our child died, and people are paying us.  We didn’t keep our son alive, and people are loving us.  Caring for us.  It felt wrong.

In those same days, the media was hounding us.  I think, honestly, I had never felt so ashamed of mankind.  The way the press was pushing us for a story, knocking on our door and the doors of our neighbors and even the neighbors at the lake house, digging to find out what happened so they could ‘break the story’.  It hurt so badly.  We were also under investigation by CPS.  The morning the phone call arrived that Rory’s body had been released from the medical examiner, and his autopsy had cleared us from “criminal investigation”… felt like I had been punched in the face.  We did not request an autopsy.  We were not aware we were under criminal investigation.  Our son had drowned, and we had pulled him from the water and tried desperately, inexhaustibly to save his life – and we were under criminal investigation.  The rational parts of my brain knew that there was reason that this was protocol, but it felt like a gross insult and heaving injury to our loss and our grief.

Finally, the story broke on the news – someone had given the media the names and details of Rory’s death.  Not long after, I published, “How Rory Died” on Facebook and Instagram.  I had wanted my words to be the ones that were shared, but it didn’t work out that way.  The story spread far and wide, and the loving words that went with it restored some of my faith in humanity.  We experienced very little shame and judgement, which I think is not typically the case.  Anyhow, if people were thinking it, they weren’t speaking it – and the reality is, WE were thinking it.  Grief and guilt had become inseparable within both of us, and it didn’t take long for us to return to therapy.

I think I’ll write more later.

I asked for ideas of what to write about, and it was met with resounding enthusiasm.  I was given many, many subject ideas and I decided that the best idea was to tackle them all, one at a time.

As of now, I’m just going to go down the list in the order that they were suggested, and write about them as I can.  It will either be in blog format, or IG format depending on the length of the answer.

Today’s topic:  Homeschooling.

I’m going to caveat this with two things.  The first is that homeschooling is an intensely personal endeavor for each family.  What works for one family will PROBABLY not work for another.  It is not “one size fits all” and we will NOT all agree on what is ‘best’.  The best we can do is look at what someone else has chosen, and trust that those parents are doing exactly what they feel is right for their own complete souls that they are guiding through life.

The second is that I have no idea if I am doing the right thing or the wrong thing.  I’m just doing what feels right for THESE complete souls.  And for myself.

We are mostly radical unschoolers, with a dash of “please learn to read.”

I currently believe that my children will learn the very best when their learning follows the path of their own desire.  When they are delving into their own interests.  When they get to ask the questions, and then follow the answers as deeply as they need to in order to be satisfied.  It has always seemed to result in the best learning for us, learning that sticks around long after the interest has gone.

We are currently using Reading Eggs in order to help the kids develop reading skills.  Other than that, we learn by living.  We spend time together.  We talk and ask questions.  We go to the library (or not).  We go grocery shopping and spend time with friends.  We have a homeschool co-op where we meet and learn together.  We watch YouTube videos on interesting subjects, and we go to museums, and we Google whatever we don’t know.

The hardest part for me, right now, is trusting that reading will come.  Holding on to the belief that, once reading fluency occurs, learning will be unstoppable.  Knowing that, when I put them in learning situations, they cannot help but learn.  We aren’t there yet, and so I’m still trusting.

This is our current path.  Everyone seems to be flourishing.  Enjoying.  Loving.  Living.  At this point, I cannot imagine learning any other way.  I’m so happy to have my kids home with me.  I’m excited to help them find their own paths through knowledge.  I look forward to guiding them in the directions that set their hearts on fire.  I feel unabashedly, unbelievably lucky.

Also, sometimes it’s hard as shit.

If you are interested, I have a blog a few pages ago that has hundreds of homeschooling and unschooling quotes that set MY heart on fire.  It’s good reading.

And that’s all!  Open to questions but totally not to judgements or denigrations!  <3

I can’t tell you how many well intentioned messages I’ve gotten from very loving humans that make me think this point is absolutely missed. Parenting was already challenging. Raising children was already hard. Being a good mom was already a full-time job. Losing Rory wasn’t supposed to make that harder – for anyone. Including me.  Including YOU.

It wasn’t long after Rory’s death when I realized that I couldn’t keep saying “yes” to everything.

“Your brother died, yes you can have cookies for breakfast.”

“I would feel bad if you died and I always said no, so yes you can play video games.”

“Absolutely we can go to the store and buy a toy. Life is short.”

People. That lasted a week.

We still have to parent. We still have to survive as parents. We still have to live within our ability to handle the bullshit-slinging around the house, all day. Every day.

We still have to clean up the messes, and deal with the sugar highs and the crashes, and the world wrestling federation style smack-down that happens when video games are on for too long.

We still have to be able to enjoy our kids.

I’m learning very intentionally, now, how to draw compassionate boundaries – both in my relationships and in my parenting. Much kinder to have a boundary and stick to it, than to FTFO (that is “freak-the-fuck-out”) when you realize all of your limits have been crossed, all your buttons pushed.

So many people have been changed – in a beautiful way – by the passing of Rory.  I find it to be an incredible part of his legacy, and I’m so proud that something lovely has come from his loss.  But don’t let it make parenting be harder.  Rory was sweetness and joy and light… but he was also a toddler that pushed boundaries, and threw glasses of water off of the table, and whacked his siblings with sticks.  Hard is still hard.  Life is still life.  And that is okay.

Instagram and Facebook and text and words. Hugs and gifts. All poured out with love and concern. All given with the most caring of hearts. All sharing the same sentiment.

“I don’t know what to say.”

The truth is, nothing helps and everything hurts. The truth is the words are all pain. Pain in love and pain in suffering and pain in loss. Everything hurts.

I’m so sorry.

I love Rory. I miss him with you.

Everything hurts like the gaping open wound that it is. Everything hurts every moment. There is no balm or salve. There is no bandaid. There is no healing, save time.

But that same truth? The same one is that everything helps. Every single word of memory, of concern, of caring. Every single time I know and feel and believe that someone remembers Rory with me.

Nothing helps and everything helps.

When you have gone through this most terrible of terribles, and been on this journey – you are given a perspective that no one wants to have. You are given a gift that everyone you know has spent their entire life avoiding, fearing, worrying, manouvering around. Thanking all that is bigger than they are for not having.

The perspective is this: There is beauty in all things painful. There is pain in all things beautiful.

You will never again see pain without noticing the beauty. You will never again see beauty without also seeing the pain.

Some of you are lucky enough to have gained this perspective with us. Lucky enough to not have to have lost your own child to see this new facet of the gem of life.

It is a perspective I did not want, and would give back in a moment… but I am thankful for the view it has provided me.

Where I can put words down on the page.  Where I can see my thoughts leap out of my mind and take physical form.  Where I can capture how I feel, put a name to it, and then release it.

Always.

Strange to come back to writing, after many months of not.  Strange to sit down at this familiar place, and be aware that there are giant gaps in the history of me.  Strange, knowing that, were someone to find me for the first time, they would have no idea what is going on.  So I guess some background is in order.

I’m Mandy.  I’m married to Brock.  We’ve been growing up together and raising children in North Carolina for the last eleven years.  I am a photographer, studying to be a midwife.  I homeschool my kids, of which there are four.  Ronan has a poets soul and a mischievous smile – he is 8.  Ruby sets the world on fire with her kindness and her joy – she is 6.  Ryder is every single bit a powerhouse – of love, of energy, of kindness, of bravery – he is 4.  Rory has eyes that are dark and knowing, to the depths of his soul; he’s filled with a calm being, an intense joy – he died when he was 19 months old.

An interesting paragraph that begins with “I am Mandy,” and ends with ‘my baby died.’

That feels like my whole life right now.  All encompassing, entirely enveloping, completely smothering.  Grief and sadness and sorrow and loss.  I am Mandy, and my baby died.

It has been five weeks since he died.  Rory slipped away unnoticed while our family was cleaning out the attic, and he drowned.  I found him, and did CPR until the ambulance arrived.  The team in the emergency room was able to get a heartbeat.  We airlifted him to the children’s hospital where he spent 24 hours under the most amazing care of the most incredible human beings on the planet in the pediatric ICU.  We held him and cried when they told us his lungs were not going to get better; there was nothing else we could do.  We held him and cried when they removed the tubes that were keeping him alive.  We held him and cried as he left.

It has been five weeks, and it feels like a hundred years and mere seconds in the same instant.  I can’t believe he’s gone, and I sometimes struggle to believe he was real.

Sometimes, I feel like that sweet, beautiful baby boy (whom I can still smell if I try hard enough) was really just an incredible dream that we all were lucky enough to dream together for a while – and then we woke up.

So where am I standing now?

Alive.  Feeling like maybe I shouldn’t be.  Struggling with positive emotions and negative ones.  Knowing Rory wouldn’t want us to be sad, and yet reeling with the guilt of joy.  Breathing, and breathing deeply.

Working at walking forward.  Always forward.  Even when it’s hard.

A post shared by Mandy (@tempestbeauty) on Mar 9, 2017 at 3:15pm PST