My Secret Identity

Secret identities aren’t all they are cracked up to be. They are not what the movies make them out to be. I have a secret identity. I have had it for years now. I don’t have a fancy outfit or a cape to reveal my true identity. I just have a story. And it’s a doozy.

Carrying around this secret identity can get a bit weighty some days. I wish more people knew my secret. Being Clark Kent all the time with everyone when the S on my chest is screaming to be shown takes its toll. On the day that marks the occasion of my son’s death, my secret identity, being a bereaved mother, is particularly a heavy burden to bear.

That’s why I’m so thankful I got to go to George Mark yesterday and wear my secret identity proudly.

I was a hot mess at first. I went into the front office to sign in and as I tried to explain who I was and why I was there to the office administrator, I choked. Another employee who had known me for quite some time came up to me and let me cry, saying very little, giving me the space I needed to feel what I was feeling.

 Even when I think I have it together, memories of my son sneak up on me. But those memories are allowed to inundate me when I’m at George Mark. They are allowed to make me tongue-tied. My tears are welcome there.

I spent the whole day there. I hugged necks and talked to nurses. I told Kathy Hull that her Ted Talk was an absolute revelation. I was happy to learn that members of the team share our story when they walk past the tile wall when giving tours of the facility.

I told our story. I told our story. I told our story.

I let everyone see the secret identity, fancy outfit, cape, but most importantly scars and all.

Everyone knew about the hole in my chest where a child had once been. They knew the scars existed. It’s an utter relief to not have to hide the scars.  I spend so much time hiding them, diminishing them, that being able to let the scars see the light of day is an utter blessing.   

If you haven't yet, consider donating to the George Mark  #fundabed campaign. If you can't, please consider posting this on your social media feeds. Every little bit helps. Thank you.  

My super power

“But you’re not Ukiah’s mother anymore.” The funny things that come out of the mouths of babes. I know where this came from. My daughter was trying to wrap her head around the holiday that is mother’s day whilst also wrapping her head around the fact that she has a brother who isn’t here anymore.

“I’m always going to be his mother.” It was a knee-jerk response I wasn’t sure I was capable of. “Just because he’s an angel now doesn’t change the fact that I’m his mother.”

There was a confidence in the statement that surprised me. This confidence didn’t exist in me on my first mother’s day without him. I still remember half-yelling at my own mother “What am I mothering? A box?”

Now it’s different. Now I speak the truth. I’m still his mother. Death changes nothing about that.

Right after Ukiah died, my parents tried to convince me that I was more of a mother than most mothers could ever dream of being. The idea was that by being Ukiah’s mother, for however long it lasted, I somehow become a super-mom. Like being his mother gave me powers somehow. It’s a nice thought, one meant to soothe and bolster at the same time, but it’s not the truth.

I’m just a mom. I’m not super-hero mom. I’m prone to the same short tempers, the same gaps in judgement, the same misgivings as any other mother. Being his mother didn’t give me super-patience, or the ability to see through each and every decision and realize the outcomes.

The one super power it did bestow on me was enjoyment. When I have a moment with my daughter, by god I have a moment. It beautiful and perfect and every part of me knows it. I take my with it, relish in it.

That’s why Sunday was a good day, one of the best. Unlike many a mother’s day, it wasn’t met with a lot of fan fair or flourishes. We went to the grocery store and picked up stuff for a picnic. Then we loaded up the entire family, including the dog, and went to the river. We went to our favorite stretch of beach and had it all to ourselves. I watched the dog play fetch in the water for hours. I helped the daughter dig up sand and find shells. I smiled as she got a stick and pretended to fish. We wrote letters in the sand and drew pictures. She captured a ladybug and named it Bingo.

Every moment of that day, as simple as it was, was perfect. My heart sang and I listened to its melody, completely at peace. Being in the moment, seeing it for what it is and not taking it for granted, that’s my superpower. That’s a gift that is partially from Ukiah and partially from my daughter, and it is a gift I cherish.

p.s. I know I’m beating a dead horse about this, but the George Mark House #fundabed campaign is still going on and it needs your help. Not just donations, but they can use that too, but just getting the word out. Please help them fund two of their beds for a year. A five buck donation buys one meal for one child at the house. Just five bucks. But if you don’t have five bucks, please consider posting it on facebook, sending out a tweet. Anything. 

Remembering Prince

Since Prince’s passing, I’ve been thinking a lot about him and basically consuming every obituary/think piece there has been. I don’t know why. Maybe it is to try and soak up all that there is in the void that his passing has left.

There is one thing about Prince that I’ve been finding out that I never knew or possible forgotten if I had ever found out about it; Prince had and lost a child. Every time this comes up, it feels like a footnote in everything I’ve read, taking a back seat to his musical genius or to his artistic legacy. It’s barely a blip on our collective radar screens.

I get why, or at least I think I get why. Nobody wants to dwell on what it means to be a parent that’s lost a child. And to be fair, it’s not all that he was. To the public he was all those other things first. But, and I’m guessing here, but it’s a guess built from my own experience, he would prefer to be thought of a father first, a grieving father second (maybe, but maybe not), and then all those other things happened to be pleasant white noise.

There’s a reason many an obit reads loving father, adoring husband, blah, blah, blah, because that’s usually the order of priority. The love we gave our kids is what should take the first prize.

Speaking as a mother who has also lost a child, the title of grieving parent is not something to be taken lightly. It’s something that I don’t want the collective we to pass over quickly, in obit or memorial form. No it’s not all I want to be known for. I'm a mother, a wife, a writer, a creative writer, a person deeply passionate about disability rights, beader, the list goes on. But I also don’t want it to be a footnote in my life when the final word is set to paper. Because Ukiah was certainly not a footnote in my life. He was so much more. He could be the central thesis, the theme on which the whole book hinges. That’s how much he shaped my life.

So I wonder what Prince would make of all this. It seems to me that this was all kept so close to the vest or else I would’ve been more aware of it. And anyone who has lost a child is certainly allowed to do whatever they want in the wake of such things. If Prince decided to keep that loss quiet, that was his choice and I respect it.

But when these things come to light posthumously, I wish such knowledge would be given the respect and width and breadth of appreciation such a thing is due. Prince was a father that lost deeply and lost greatly and among the many other things he was to each and all of us he was this thing too and he should be loved and respected deeper and more greatly because of this.

Prince, you’ve meant a lot to me throughout the years, but you mean so much more to me now knowing how deeply you have loved and how deeply you have lost. Rest in Peace and Rest in Power, but most importantly now you can rest with your child. 

Weight

I can’t stop petting it. I keep stroking a leg or rubbing an ear, squeezing it closer into my body as I do. I know that a grown woman holding and patting a teddy bear must be pretty strange. But I don’t care. I know I could have placed the teddy bear on the floorboard of the car or sat it next to my daughter for the car ride home. I know having it on my lap makes little to no sense and yet I keep it there, petting it, hugging it tighter into my body as I do. Because this bear has suddenly become everything. Because this bear has given me just a little semblance of something I’ve missed horribly; Ukiah.

Since Ukiah’s passing, one thing that I missed terribly was the weight of him on my lap. I use to joke that I have phantom lap pains because my chest, the place where his head would lay as he slept so many nights on the couch, would ache for no reason. All I’ve wanted/needed was to put that familiar weight back on my lap again.

My daughter’s weight, although similar is a weight all her own. I’ve never compared the two. Nor has Loralei’s weight replaced Ukiah’s in my mind. They are both separate but equal. When Loralei sits in my lap, she’s not taking his place, she’s taking her own rightful place there. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss the place he use to take. I still miss it terribly.

George Mark House was expecting us. I’d called earlier that day and told them we were coming. I’d spoken to one of my favorite people there at the house that morning. I wasn’t expecting that the metaphorical red carpet would be rolled out for our arrival but it certainly seemed that way. My daughter wasn’t feeling well, and everyone was bending over backwards to please her, because that’s how they are.

They offered her juice boxes and cookies and tried to do anything to make her smile. It didn’t work but that didn’t keep them from trying. Everyone was all warm smiles and even warmer hugs. This never surprises me. Ken Sommer, the director at George Mark even took time out of his busy schedule to come talk to me personally. He said something that I’ve heard over and over again at George Mark but that never ceases to surprise me when I’m there. “It’s your home.” It was said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And it is my home. There’s a sort of peace there, a comfort in looking around. A smile crosses my face when I spy one of the eight mural-painted patient rooms. When I’m there by myself, I walk the halls. It’s the same ritual I perform at my Aunt Clare’s house. I have to see all the places that have filled me with comfort and love.

Today I settle for seeing some of the people I love. There are the two familiar faces in the front office along with Ken’s. At the nurse's station There’s the nurse I’d spoken with earlier that day. And she's soon joined by one other. She’s the one who asked the question.

“Do you want a bear?” I’m a little confused at first and then she explains further that a mother who’d lost a child had gifted these bears to the house and they could hand them out to families who had also lost a child. I immediately get choked up at the idea, so I leave the decision up to my daughter. Even though she isn’t feeling well, she nods. We go get the bear.

They are called Comfort Cubs. Each one is a little different, some are squatter than others, each has a unique nose. Each one is weighted. This is not your normal stuffed bear. This is like a brick in a purse. If you carry it around, you are doing so with conviction. I sit the one my daughter had picked on my lap and I immediately begin to cry.

It’s the weight of it. It’s his weight. It’s back on my lap again and it makes me feel…. I’m not sure how it makes me feel. It makes me feel so many things at once. I hold this bear in my lap and it’s like he’s there with me again. I held the bear on one leg and my daughter on the other and it felt like I had them both and that was everything.

I try to put words to my feelings and emotions, but they just get jumbled in my throat. The nice woman just grabs a Kleenex box and puts it in front of me. I don’t have to say anything. Those things I’ve been leaving unsaid are still being heard by those around me. That in and of itself is powerful enough.

I find my husband by the fountain up on the hill by the chapel. He’s already found Ukiah’s rock. We sit up on the park bench outside the chapel and I hold the bear. My husband said quietly. “This is a good thing. You’ve been wanting something like this.” It gets quiet again. Things I should be saying aren’t being said and it really doesn’t matter if they will be.

On the way home, as I’m clutching the bear, I want to tell him how important this is, and at the same time I want to diminish its importance. I want to brush off the fact that I’m clutching on to this bear and patting it lovingly. But at the same time I want to sing the praises of having this bear in the first place. Instead, we make the way home in relative silence. 

This bear, this simple stuffed bear gave me a gift I never thought I’d get back, it gave me Ukiah’s weight. Whenever I need him to ground me again, to comfort me, he can take the form of this bear and I can feel him again. It is one of the things that destroyed me when I lost him and now I get to have it back.

Thank you to the mother who gifted those bears. Thank you to the wonderful person at George Mark House who wanted me to have one. Thank you to all the people at George Mark House who created this safe space so that I might have one. Just thank you.

Please help me in thanking this wonderful organization by donating to their #fundabed campaign today.

Thank you.

Things said, things not said

I had to answer the phone but I couldn’t keep my sobs in check.

“Hey,” came my husband’s voice over the line.

“Hi,” I said, through muffled sobs.

“What’s going on?” After almost two decades of togetherness there wasn’t much I could hide from him. He’d learned almost every nuance in my voice.

“I found the pee shirt.” What little I was trying to hold back came flooding out.

“Oh,” his voice was sympathetic and sad all at once, knowing exactly what I meant by the statement.

There are some items of Ukiah’s we hold as treasures, and some things we’ve just held. As I’ve mentioned before, the more time that has passed from his passing, the harder it is for me to get rid of anything related to him. But there are some things, like the invisible scars that are hiding and make themselves visible when I least expect it.

We’ve been staging the house recently because we are putting it on the market. This is in and of itself a bittersweet thing. The place is so full of memories we’ve made, memories we’ve made with him, memories that for better and for worse aren’t going to be in the new place, wherever that is.

I was doing a massive spring cleaning to stage the house and ran into things that I knew we still had but that I did not know we were hiding. Maybe my husband had been hiding them from me, or maybe I was hiding them from myself. I’m not sure. But I found them and they broke my heart all over again.

The Pee shirt was chief amongst those items. It was dubbed that because every time the hubbie wore it, Ukiah would inevitably soil it in some manner. The bodily fluids housed on the shirt are varied and numerous. Sorry to get gross on you, but it is the truth. The shirt itself is four-leaf clover green with a horse and rider screen-printed on it and some sparse wording that I don't remember. This shirt had seen war, not just of the bodily fluid variety. Swiss cheese ain’t got nothin’ on this shirt. It’s old and ratty and can’t be used for anything other than a rag and I will not get rid of it. You’ll have to pry it out of my cold dead hands. (Actually, I hope I get to go out that way, clutching something that reminds me of him, though probably not the pee shirt. I still have his stuffed animals. I’ll use one of those and one of the little munchkin’s while I’m at it. It would be nice to have the things I most treasure around me when I go out. And chocolate. Even if I’m not allowed to eat it, I want it close. But i'll save that for my will. Okay, digressing here, I’ll stop.).

I was clutching the pee shirt when he called. We both let the significance of it wash over us and were quiet for a while, neither of us knowing what to do with our feels. We switched tacks but we didn’t have to say much else. We knew he was there with us in that moment. We let him be. Sometimes the best things that are said are things that aren’t said at all.

Today is the anniversary of his passing, and there have already been several of those moments. Saying things and not saying things because not saying them is just as significant.

But right now I do have quite a few things to say. Mainly the big thing to say is that George Mark Children’s House, an organization near and dear to my heart and a charity that is well worth giving money to is having a fundraiser right now. Their current #fundabed  fundraiser is gaining traction right now on social media and on Indiegogo but it can still use all the help it can get.

The great thing about this fundraiser is you can select the exact amount, type of donation you want to give.  $5 buys a home-cooked meal. $25 buys a week’s worth of diapers and wipes. You can actually choose the type of impact you want your donation to make!

This is huge! It is so important you guys. And so worthy too.

Usually around this time of year, I make a plea regarding my Piggy Banks for Ukiah fundraiser, choosing to make this bittersweet time in our lives worth something by donating to George Mark House but this year I’ll be donating all my son’s piggy bank money (and if my daughter wants, some or all of her piggy bank money too) to the #fundabed campaign.

I would love to have enough in the piggie bank to buy an end of life suite. To be able to give a family the chance to use the same facilities my family and I were able to use when my son was there… to give that gift…. There are no words. None. I’m crying while writing this right now. I can’t even explain.

But with your help? Well, the sky’s the limit isn’t it?

I’m not sure if the Indiegogo fundraiser has the capabilities to let us pool our money for an item, but how great would it be to be able to give them enough to fund a day of care for a patient, or two. And real talk, as someone who as used their bereavement support services, if we could somehow band together to fund the bereavement support gift? I would be beyond the moon indebted to you to make this happen.

Right now, I don’t’ have much in the way of gifts or freebies to hand out to make your donation worth it, except what I’ve done in the past which is to lend my ever so humble blog to you for donating or spreading the word.

If you have any suggestions or ideas for pooling our funds/resources I’d love to hear it. 

Invisible scars

Some years it hurts worse than others. Some days, some moments even, it throbs. It never goes away, the invisible scar I wear, the burden I carry on my back. Maybe you can see it on my face, no matter how good I am at hiding it.  It will never go away.

I don't want it to. I am sometimes saddened that the burden has lessened, that the grief I feel isn't more. I grieve because there is less to grieve. I'm upset because the scar has healed just a little bit more.

I'm a lot antsier this year. I just want it to be over with. I don't want to think about April anymore. How Ukiah was born on April 15th and how he died on April 5th just shy of his second birthday.  I don't want to be with those thoughts any more and yet those are the only thoughts I want to be with.

For the first time in a long time I put his picture up at a place where I knew it would beckon the question from those that didn't know the story. It did. And even though I didn't really want to deal with it, deep down I did. I wanted people know him again. I'm not locking him away by any means, but for those who don't know the story, it's a hard topic to broach.

I had a son and then he passed away. It's a simple sentence in theory but in the real world it is hard as hell to say. I choke and sputter. Tears I promised myself wouldn't come pour out in a deluge. It's never not going to be difficult.

I'm okay with that. I mean I guess I'm okay with it. I'm not okay with him being gone. And even though the universe gave me an incredible daughter things still aren't square between me and the universe. Not by a long shot.

I don't know what April 5th or April 15th is going to bring my way this year. Joy, more grief, bittersweet tears? Probably, well most likely. But the how of it, the why of it, I won't know until it happens.

There is a way you can help. Well, there's a few different ways actually. First, have a slice of pizza, or a whole pie with family. Knowing that you are doing that on either day would make me smile. Second, consider spreading the good word about George Mark and if you can, make a donation. That would not only make me smile but it would bring tears of joy to my eyes and it would make my whole month brighter.

He's always with me. But knowing he's with you too, in your thoughts on those two days would mean a lot.

My Birthday Wish

Another Day, another year older. Oh what joys! Instead of waxing philosophic on another year, I'm just going to reblog the post I did for last year's birthday.

So my birthday's coming up in a week or so (August 27th) and I really don't have a lot of expectations. Dinner out with Fighting Nun, a good day out with  the whole family, my mom sending me homemade cookies, one or two small things, nothing big.  And that's the way I like it. A fuss being made over my birthday is old hat and I'm over it.

But there's something I'd like you all to do for my birthday if you've read my blog, or my tweets at all. I think you can probably guess what that is. George Mark House looms and will always loom large in my mind.  It's like an old friend who I forget about for big chunks of time but when I get back in touch, I fall right into my same rhythms with it.

I've done fundraisers and little things for them in the past with varying results and because I haven't had much time to organize myself, this one will be small and will probably have the same results. But I'd like to try and send them as much love (and money) as possible. I still have a small bevy of bracelets I made for the last fundraiser. On a first come first serve basis, I'll give those bracelets to the first five people who donate to George Mark House between now and my birthday. As always, if you've been saving up loose change for a rainy day, cash it in and send it. And if you do, let me know and I will parade you with as much gratitude as I have.

Just donate to George Mark House using their page, send me an email receipt ( tyliagardner @ hotmail (dot) com )  and where you'd like the bracelet sent to or or DM me on twitter with the information and boom, we're in business. Don't feel like donating, especially if you're not one of the first five, but you'd still like to donate?  No problem. Just tweet, or social media a link to George Mark House and you can have my blog for a full day. Want to promote your book , your blog, want to force my blog to post silly cat videos for a whole day? I will hand you the keys to castle if you give George Mark some love between now and my birthday. Seriously, any bit of love you can provide to George Mark house is enough and will garner you my love and and respect for the end of days. It's not only appreciated by me but George Mark House as well. Not enough people know what they do and how important they are to special needs and bereaved parents like myself.

They just recently had to stop their bereaved parent meetings, much to the chagrin of myself and parents like me. Tell them that their services and their support of my family and families like me is appreciated by throwing them a bone and some love, however small.

[Ed. Note: I've decided to extend my Birthday Challenge until the end of August, you have until 12:00AM August 31st to win loot or space on my blog!]

 I'm not doing a fundraiser this year. I 'd like to save that for Ukiah's birthday, but If you do chose to donate  a little bit of money to George Mark House between now and their annual gala and tell me about it, I still have some bracelets and some jewelry lying around that I'll gladly send you or I'll make you something special! But mostly I want their message and what they do spread out to the world. If you can,  tweet about it, put a link and their banner on your own blog, put it on tumblr. I don't care, just get the message out. I won't hand over the keys to my blog this time, but I will keep the karma rolling and tweet anything you want out to the world. On my birthday all I want is for George Mark House to shine and the message of what they do to reach as many people as possible. Thank you. 

April 15th 2014

She made cupcakes.

There was something about that act that surprised me. Not the act necessarily. I mean my mom will bake for any given reason. And she desperately wanted some bonding time with my daughter and cupcakes seemed like the way to do that.

It's just the day she picked to make them. April 15th, his birthday.

She had a valid reason. It was his birthday after all. Just because he wasn't here to enjoy it didn't mean it wasn't worth celebrating with cupcakes.

I'd never thought of it that way. Could never have thought of it that way before. There was too much heartache there to celebrate with freshly baked sweet foodstuffs. But that simple act made that day something else.

We took most of the cupcakes to George Mark House. I dropped them off at the Nurse's station, because I felt they'd get the most out of it and are the most deserving. It's their heart and devotion to the patients of George Mark house that keep the place going. I'm hoping my favorite nurse was working the PM shift last night and that he got to have a cupcake and it made him smile.

We also took a few other things to George Mark House. My mother made a quilt for them. She makes one per year for the house. Sometimes it gets auctioned off at their annual fall gala. Other times the house actually uses it. They have two apartments that families can live in while their child stays at George Mark House and once they put one of my mother's quilts in the apartment bedroom, a thought that still makes me smile.

We also dropped off a Safeway gift card of $100. That was the money from Ukiah's Piggy Bank plus a little extra. That's a $100 dollars of overhead they don't need to think about any more. Ukiah's piggy bank did that.

It's not much. I was once told it takes $700 per day per child to run George Mark House. If you round that up due to inflation and say it's $1000, it doesn't do hardly enough, but it is something. And I consider all the incredible tweets and awareness raising my friends online helped me do this year a lot of something. And I thank you deep down from the bottom of my heart.

Thanks to you, more people know about George Mark House and the good they do. Thanks to you, more people know about my son Ukiah and the legacy he's left in his stead. And that's huge! I'll be updating my list of supporters, all those of you who tweeted and retweeted soon to show my appreciation for what you did.

April 5th and 15th weren't easy days. They never are or are going to be, but thanks to you, and the good you did, the were better. So much better.

The cupcakes helped. Cupcakes help everything.

April 5th 2014

We tried not to think about it too much.

There was too much to do anyway. With a two year old who we're constantly keeping track of, there's always too much to do. There was grocery shopping to do, a birthday party to get ready for, laundry. There's always laundry.

It wasn't until we left the birthday party  and we wound our way to George Mark House that I let myself feel it. Four years ago on April 5th, our son died in our arms. It wasn't about to let me go so easily.

We went to the rock fountain where my daughter had a snack and we watched a bird bathe itself. We went to his tile, visited his rock at the staff fountain by the chapel. We wound our way around the grounds and went to the playground so our daughter could play.

Everything was very quiet, very peaceful. We didn't stay for too long. I signed us in at the nurse's station and back out again. I only saw one face that a I recognized and I'm not sure she recognized me.

My daughter didn't want to leave. She never wants to leave. She loves it there.

As we made our way out, she cried and moaned "Bro Bro Rock" "Bro Bro Place". I cried for a bit. I'm not sure why that triggered it, but it did. I don't always know what she understands about her brother. I think she knows she has a brother and he's not around. I think she knows that there are certain toys, cloths, blankets that are his, even though he isn't here any more. She gets a little mad when she sees toys in the hallway cabinet, that are kept and not played with. Everything should be played with after all.

Her 'Bro Bro shirt' is her favorite clothing item. It's got a small outline picture of him on it. She points to it and says Bro Bro. There's certain things she knows and understands about it. How much she grasps, I'm not sure.

Ukiah is just going to play a part in all of our lives in ways big and small for the rest of our lives, hers especially I think.

After George Mark House we went to Lanesplitter, partly as an homage to our son and partly because it's been years since I've had a slice of their pizza and I needed it, like NEEDED it. I'm going to quantifiably say this; Best thin slice, neigh, best slice of pizza pretty much anywhere. Yeah I said it.

(Dear Lanesplitters, please open a restaurant in the tri-valley. It doesn't have to be in Livermore, which would be nice, but it doesn't have to be here. Pleasanton, Dublin, San Ramon. I just want to be able to get to it in twenty minute drive, instead of an hour. An hour is almost too long to drive for pizza. I will continue to drive to Temescal for your pizza if I have to, but I NEED it closer. Please.)

It was bittersweet, being in the restaurant where we'd go many a day to decompress after many a hospital visit. It was our little retreat, a six block walk to 15'' Carnivore and a cold pint. It was the place where we could reflect and figure out a plan of attack. It was a place where we could be ourselves after a long day at the hospital.

It is now the place where our daughter dumped about half a canister of Parmesan on the floor (sorry). Old memories and new memories.

Once we got home, I didn't think much more about the day, what it meant, the grief. After all, there was too much to do.

(Please consider making a donation to George Mark house between now and April 15th. You'll be supporting a wonderful organization and getting some of handmade jewelry in the process. See my fundraising post for more information.)

Ukiah's Piggy Bank and a George Mark Fundraiser

So the piggy bank broke Friday. The Piggy Bank. The little piggy that went to the market and provided George Mark house with a day of care for one lucky child. Ukiah’s Piggy Bank.

I wasn’t in the room when it happened. My husband was doing what he usually does when being in a room for longer than fifteen minutes; he was rearranging it to make it perfect. He’d moved a furniture item and the shelf on which the piggy bank was perched fell and the piggy bank broke into a million ceramic pieces.

When I got upstairs to witness the scene, my heart broke into a million pieces along with it. I was absolutely bereft, although I didn’t show it. I shed a few stray tears, but I didn’t have time for much else. My daughter was in the room with my husband when it happened and we needed to wrangle her away from the debris.

We spent a good amount of time scooping up all the loose change, change I hadn’t cashed in since the last Piggy Banks for George Mark fundraiser. We had it to put all of it somewhere. I brought out two smallish tins, thinking it would be enough, but instead we ended up using a fairly big plastic bin. Close to five years of putting in all our spare change, two years of the little munchkin having to share change with her brother coin per coin netted a nice little collection.

April 5^th is almost around the corner. April 15^th too. Those two days and the eight days in the middle are always the roughest for me. I had planned a bunch of distractions to keep me occupied around those dates, so I don’t feel the lingering, the weight, the pain. But they’ve mostly fallen through. I was supposed to run a 5k on April 5^th, but that got cancelled. I’ve got a work trip smack in the middle of these dates, but I’m not sure it’ll be distracting enough. My parents are coming and will be here on the 15^th, but I’m not sure how that will go.

But I do know that on either or on both days I’ll be going to George Mark House and cashing in the nice little chunk of change we’d saved up in Ukiah's piggy bank. Maybe I’ll use a portion of it to buy Ukiah another piggy bank, so it’s always there, a fixture in our house and in our lives. He deserves that legacy.

I'll do what I did for my birthday. I still have a few more U Hope bracelets to give away. The first four people who donates to George Mark  and sends me an receipt  of their donation via email will receive a bracelet. Anybody else who donates and sends me a receipt will receive a special jewelry or bead gift (your choice). 

If you do donate, please tell them its in memory of Ukiah Gardner. They'll know exactly who you are talking about. They always do.

And if you can't donate, don't worry about it. Spread the word. Tweet about George Mark House (Use the #Supportgmch hashtag and if you want, tag @gmch in the tweet), Facebook it (Send me a link via twitter or email), or use any form of social media you want just to let people know George Mark House exists and the incredible work they do.  Do that and forward it to me and I'll give you free space on my blog. This means a blog post or as many blog posts as you want, space on my sidebar, whatever space you'd like to have.

Ukiah's never very far from my thoughts. Doing this means means he's in yours and that makes a world of difference to me.

Ukiah's Birthday and the Boston Marathon Bombing

Yesterday would've been Ukiah's Fifth Birthday.

Yesterday two bombs detonated near the finish line of Boston City Marathon.

Words cannot explain how inextricably sad I am over both events.

I spent the morning at George Mark House with my husband and my little girl, walking the grounds to see Ukiah's tile and his rock, two fitting tributes to our son that exist at George Mark House. We then went to the Oakland Zoo, a place we think Ukiah would've loved. We never got to take him there as much as we wanted to and so we take our sweet munchkin there every chance we get.

We went home to rest and regroup from the day and turned on the television only to be inundated with coverage from the Boston Marathon Bombing. I think it goes without saying that my heart goes out to all of those families that lost loved ones and all those injured in the blast. This was devastating and I'm sorry for your loss.

My heart also goes out to those who caused this chaos. This might be a controversial statement but whomever it is had to be in a very bad place to even consider this as a course of action for whatever reason. This is not the act of a sane, healthy happy person or people. I despise the act, but I can not despise the people because they have to be in a very bad place to feel the need to pull something like this off. I refuse to hate whoever did this because they had hate enough in their hearts already. Every body deserves love especially those who could pull off such hateful acts. They probably need it more. Hating them isn't the answer. Making them responsible for their actions is.

I'm so sad that my son's birthday now shares this date with a very heinous act of violence that needed not to have happened. I think I might still be so shell shocked from the events to be able to make much sense of it here in this space.

Trifextra Challenge

Apparently, my last post for the Trifecta challenge didn't link up correctly to their sit. Nobody got to read that piece, unfortunately, which is why I'm linking to it here. I was really proud of it regardless. Now, for the weekend they've posted an extra challenge: 

This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words inspired by the following quote from the book you could win in the WBN giveaway. Good luck!

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” ― Paulo Coelho, Alchemist

 Here's my submission:

The tuft of red hair

Those blue eyes

Pure, innocent, fragile

His head lying on my chest

This dream can no longer be

Replaced by curls and curiousity

A different dream come true

 

**************************

I no longer write as much poetry as I use to, so I feel a little rusty in the format. Please bare with me. 

I think I should explain this one a  little. On April 5th, 2010, my son passed away. After he passed, I had this really intense dream about him. He was no longer surrounded by monitors and wires and I was just holding him and happy. I'd give anything to have the dream come true just one last time. Instead, a much different dream came true. I got to have my daughter and she has been thankfully healthy and happy. She's a curly haired spit fire and in her I find a joy I never knew could exist. I had to let go of one dream to feel the freedom to live another. 

My son's birthday is April 15th. He would've been five. I'd be honored if you wonderful Trifectans would check out George Mark House and at the very least become informed about what they do. Very few people in the United States understand the important of pediatric hospice and palliative care. I'd be honored if you made a donation in my son's honor, but honestly the more people that know about George Mark House and what they do, the better. 

Thanks for reading.