Guest post: Betty Winslow

Gone

By Betty Winslow in memory of her daughter, Lisa










When the door opened, my world rocked on its axis.

The uniforms said my daughter, my firstborn, was dead.

Gone.

Time stood still as I absorbed the scream inside,
then rushed by as I went to tell my world.

Gone.

Her damaged body was put into the earth unseen.
My arms ached to hold her just once more.

Gone.

The shock wore off as the pain wore on and on,
but God’s song filled the hole His call to her had left.

Gone.

Someday, I’ll hear His voice calling me.
I’ll leave this place of sorrow and I’ll join them.

Gone.

Guest blogger: Connie Stevens

Today I welcome Connie Stevens to the Writing the Heartache Blog. Good to have you here, Connie.

~*~*~*



After my son died in 2006, my writing took a hiatus. I couldn’t find it within me to create anything, much less a happily-ever-after. So I fell back onto the profusion of Post-It notes stuck throughout my Bible on which I had scribbled down my thoughts, prayers, devotions, and those precious nuggets God gave me during the months of our cancer journey. These heart lessons became lifelines, pulling me from the depths of my grief, and for months I worked rewriting those notes. The compilation turned into a collection of devotionals that was rejected by every publishing house to which I submitted. Despite discouragement blending with my ongoing sorrow, I decided perhaps the writing of the devotionals was purely therapeutic—part of my own healing process. But I was still at loose ends, not only in regards to the direction for my writing, but also my own self-identity.

While I was comforted by God’s constant assurance that Jonathan was Home and safe and whole and cancer-free, there was a raw, gaping wound in my heart. Jonathan was healed, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t a mother anymore, I wasn’t a caregiver anymore, and it seemed I wasn’t a writer either.

The story I had begun at the time of my son’s illness languished in my files. When I pulled it up and looked over the storyline, it read as though someone else had written it—someone I didn’t know. The characters were strangers—Who were these people? Nothing about the synopsis felt familiar. I closed the file and stared at the blank screen.

I sought God’s face and asked, “Lord, where do I go from here? If You want me to continue to write, show me. How do I pick up the shattered brokenness of my heart and assemble the fragments back into a whole?”

Leaning on the Lord’s strength, I made myself pull that barely-started manuscript back out. If He was still calling me to write, He would give me the story and help me breathe life into the faceless characters. So I labored over the chapters, but no matter how long or hard I worked, there was still something missing.

Later that year I took my hollow story to a novelist retreat. One of the workshops, taught by the best-selling, award-winning author, DiAnn Mills, was about injecting more emotion into the opening scene. She started out by instructing everyone to take a sheet of paper, close their eyes and think of the worst thing that ever happened to them. Blindsided, I sat paralyzed for the space of several seconds. What could be worse than sitting at the bedside of my only child and watching him take his last breath? Then DiAnn did the unthinkable: she instructed us to write out the scene.

I stared at the blank paper. Could I actually craft the words to depict the events of that moment when I said my last goodbye? I had never considered writing it all out. Writing the devotionals had been different. They were kisses of truth God taught me during the darkest days of our cancer journey. But forming the words to spill my most heart-rending emotions onto the page—could I do that?

Oh God, how do I slice open my heart and lay it bare and vulnerable, throwing light on the hidden, secret places of my grief?

I pushed the pen across the paper and the words began to flow along with my tears. DiAnn stepped quietly to my side and gently whispered if the exercise was too hard, I didn’t have to do it. It was then I realized that, yes, I did have to do it. For more than three years since Jonathan’s Home-going, I had kept my deepest sorrow shuttered away when all the while God was patiently waiting for me to simply trust Him with my most private emotions.

Through the vehicle of putting words on paper—and some gentle prodding by a godly mentor—my imprisoned emotions found freedom. The scene spilled out, barely a trickle at first, but gaining momentum, until a waterfall cascaded forth. I wrote it all—the pain, the conflict, the bewilderment, the guilt, the anguish of my heart--until I was spent.

Then DiAnn told the class to use those same emotions and rewrite the opening scene of our stories, and give those emotions to our characters. For the first time, I saw my character breathe. Her pulse pounded in my ears, and her tears flowed down my cheeks. Her voice echoed from my heart when I infused her with those intimate emotions I’d kept sequestered for so long.

I had not considered my fiction writing as an outlet for the feelings I’d bound up. I had come to realize people didn’t understand the depth of my grief, and that was okay. I didn’t expect them to understand. I praised God they didn’t understand, and prayed they would never understand. But here was a way—cracking open the doorway to allow people to glimpse a shattered heart and perhaps in doing so, they could gain a new perspective into compassion.

2nd Corinthians 1:3-4 says, Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. God does not comfort us to make us comfortable. He comforts us to make us comforters. If God can use my grief to minister to another heart, if He can use my writing to illustrate compassion, then I’m willing to let Him have all of me. He has made anew my perspective into the direction for my writing, and He didn’t waste a single one of my tears.

~ By Connie Stevens
Connie Stevens lives with her husband of forty-plus years in north Georgia, within sight of her beloved mountains. She and her husband are both active in a variety of ministries at their church. A lifelong reader, Connie began creating stories by the time she was ten. Her office manager and writing muse is a cat, but she’s never more than a phone call or email away from her critique partners. She enjoys gardening and quilting, but one of her favorite pastimes is browsing antique shops where story ideas often take root in her imagination. Connie has been a member of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2000. You can read more about her books at this Amazon link.

Connect with Connie:
Website & blog: www.conniestevenswrites.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ConnieStevensAuthor
Twitter: @AuthorConnie

Latest releases:
Threads of Time Also at Amazon
A Place of Refuge

Advice for Parents: What to do on a dead child's birthday?

A living child asks for a birthday party. Or you, as the parent, ask him what he wants for his birthday. There’s dialogue. There’s a cake and candles and presents. The camera captures the smiles as he tears open his gifts. It’s easy. It’s tradition. Parents fall into bed at night, exhausted, but grateful. Their son or daughter seemed happy with her birthday. Moms and Dads rest-—they did it!

But what exactly is a parent supposed to do on the birthday of her child when he is gone? Not gone, as in out of town or at the beach, or out of the country. Gone as in-—no longer alive.

A dead child doesn’t want. A dead son asks for nothing.

What does a mom or dad do? Where’s the rule book for celebrating birthdays for a dead child?

Every year I hope to come up with something creative. Every year something comes forth-—a poem, an article, an idea, some gift to a charity in Daniel's memory. Each year I recall a little boy who told me that he wasn’t supposed to say "customer words" (cuss words). A little boy who celebrated his last birthday, his fourth, with the help of friends, family, and a big red fire truck that stopped by to give him and his guests plastic firemen hats. (Daniel didn’t seem too impressed, but he wore the hat over his bald head anyway.)

Today, Monday, is Daniel’s 22nd birthday. I want to go to Daniel’s Place, i.e., the cemetery. My three kids are busy with work and the first day of school.

How many years since Daniel’s death has the first day of school come on his birthday? Another reminder that he never got to go to real school, just Mother’s Morning Out at a church and a few sessions with the teacher at the hospital school.

My kids are remembering their brother. Liz, the youngest, who was born three months after he died, tells me she remembered at school today. But she isn't eager about going to Daniel's Place. What she wants is a nap after the first day of her senior year, a nap before she has to go to work.

I decide. I make a decision, those things that were so hard to do right after Daniel died. I’d made so many when he was alive undergoing treatments for his malignant tumor. When he died, I wanted to not have to decide anything.

But today I will go alone to Daniel’s Place. Because I am going to do what I need to do. This is my son’s birthday and he’s not here and I decide that it’s perfectly acceptable to be a bit selfish. Even though I’m a mom and moms are always doing for others and neglecting their own needs, I’m allowed. I will go alone to sit by his grave and not wait for others to find time to join me.

Carl says he’ll go with me. He never met Daniel either.

We stop at the Dollar Store and buy a Happy Birthday balloon with a butterfly. We indulge in a few snacks. Carl gets pork rinds even though the sound of them crunching annoys me. I pick out a bag called Party Mix because it has a birthday hat on the packaging.

“Really?” says Carl. “Party mix?”

I suppose he thinks a party is not what we parents of dead children have. Actually, I think, as I eat from the bag while the two of us are seated across from Daniel’s marker, I’m not feeling in the party mode. Last year the kids, Carl and I celebrated Daniel’s 21st year with a picnic. This year, I feel undone by a life that is relentlessly tough. My maternal inventory: I have an adult child with Borderline Personality Disorder who came back to live with us last summer and another who left home and did not graduate high school. The youngest is not allowed to screw up because mama is tired of dealing with disappointment and the law. And yes, I have a dead child I have not seen since he was four.

But today on this birthday without him. I want to remember a little boy who loved Toy Store, stickers, laughter, and watermelon. I want to recall when he said, “You’re pretty, mommy, can I kiss you?” and then when I said, “Yes,” he smiled and shouted, “Hot dog!”

The tears come; this year Daniel’s birthday hits me terribly hard.

I write out a message on a sheet of paper to attach to the butterfly balloon. In the distance a hawk soars over the tree tops. From a tote bag, I remove a Fisher Price airplane and a heart-shaped box Daniel painted and place them both on the grave. I take pictures.

I take pictures of the sky, hoping to get the hawk in one of them. Standing with Carl, we lift the balloon into the sky. It sails to the left. Never before in all the 18 birthdays since Daniel’s death has a balloon headed in this direction. Perhaps this is a reflection of why this day seems super hard to live. If it sailed right, maybe things would be going better.

Carl and I watch until the balloon makes its way safely over the electrical wires, over the tree tops, and over the Interstate. We watch until the balloon is no more.

When it comes to celebrating the birthday of a child no longer here, my advice to parents is do what you need to do. Take the day off if that's what you need. Who cares if no one else understands? Sit at the grave, take pictures of the sky. View the clouds, look for dragonflies. Write long messages and attach them to helium balloons. Drink a Corona or glass of chardonnay to your child’s life and try not to think of how unjustly short his time on earth was.

Take care of you. You, the one who lives with a hole in your heart. Be kind to you; you need to stay healthy. Surround yourself with those who get it, who encourage you, not belittle you, who let you tell the stories, who don't judge your tears. Hold on and drink deep from that well called hope.

Remember that your love for your child expands beyond the sky. Always.

On your child's birthday, give yourself that gift of remembering love.

~ First posted at The Patchwork Quilt Blog, Alice J. Wisler's blog.
Alice is an author, writer, speaker, and writing instructor. She'll be the speaker at the candle light service at the regional conference for The Compassionate Friends September 26-27, 2014, in Frankfort, KY.

The Battle We Lost

It can make you feel that you're sinking or suffocating, or going through a little of both.

Eighteen years have passed and you'd think the damage would be over. Battle complete. Troops moved out. Rebuild. On to business as usual.

If only we were made that way.

As the holiday weekend approaches, I watch the men and women in uniform being honored, the waving Red, White, and Blue, read the grocery store specials on ground beef and chips, and feel this overwhelming ache. There stands what only I can fully see---a little boy in a Barney T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The boy needs a hair cut. His Mama wishes she'd taken care of that.

But in one second, a hair cut is forgotten. Because the boy needs so much more. He needs immediate surgery, a Broviac catheter inserted into his back running to his heart for chemo. Later he will need radiation. And stronger chemo. And prayers.

After the first week of chemo, hair falls out in clumps, sprawled out on the back seat of the dusty green van. A hair cut is not needed. His five-year-old sister cries when she sees his blond strands and balding head. "It's so sad," she whispers. We buy him a red ball cap to wear, one with dinosaurs. We buy him a blue one, too. He wears them for a few days, but when his head is smooth and shiny, he goes cap-less.



I recall how friends from church were driving in their van and passed us. I saw their smiles and knew that they were on their way to the Memorial Day church picnic. They turned right; we veered left toward the hospital. That image remains.

Every year for me, Memorial Day marks the beginning of the end. Eighteen years later and it feels just like yesterday when I sat on the sofa the Friday of Memorial Day weekend in 1996. The cordless phone was in my hand. The pediatrician told me that my son had a malignant tumor in his neck. The war raged from that day on, and on February 2, 1997, it ceased. All the surgeries, the chemo, the fight, the hope, the prayers-----over.

There was no victory; we lost.

Every year on Memorial Day weekend I am reminded of how much we lost.

Pushing it aside does no good. I have to acknowledge my heartache-----own it, for it is mine.

That's how we mamas are made.

And so I write on my blog and for some reason, that helps. Writing unleashes some of the ache so I can go to the picnics, hear the bands play, watch the fireworks. Writing keeps me from shattering like a bullet fired in the dark night.

For me, Memorial Day honors all of our soldiers---those here and those here only in the delicate arms of memory.





[This post first appeared at my Patchwork Quilt Blog.]

Is it a cheap shot? "You'll see him in Heaven"

It was not the first time someone told me this and I suspect it won't be the last.

Talk about bittersweet.

I suppose I should explain. I'm talking about when people hear that your child died and immediately----I mean without even pausing to take in a breath----say, "You will see him again in Heaven."

Is that supposed to make it all okay?

Tell me, what exactly do these kind folks mean when they toss out that line?

If I were to watch a mother or father crying over the loss of an infant that only breathed for a few moments or a son or daughter who lived to be forty, I would never say that line.

It's a cheap shot. My opinion. To me, it makes it seem as though there is no reason for tears. Or makes it seem that if I had real faith, I wouldn't be sad.

Don't get all ruffled up now. It's not that I don't believe. You see, I do believe in Heaven. I wish more was written about it in The Bible. On many days I wish for just a glimpse. When I'm at the ocean and the breeze blows and the waves dance against the shore, I feel I'm closer to Heaven. Or when I go for a walk and the scents and sights of spring fill my vision, I think, "Ah, this is heavenly."

I believe when people die they go to Heaven. The criminal on the cross next to Jesus was promised he would be with Jesus in paradise. Love is perfect there because the Creator of love, God the Father, lives in Heaven. There is no sin, no sorrow, no tears and no human frailty in this place of eternity.

Yet sometimes I wonder if those who tell me not to worry, that I'll be with my son again in Heaven, are not using their God-given mind to think, to ponder.

Do you really think I am going to be serving animal crackers and reading bedtime stories to my Daniel in Heaven?

There will be reunions, yes. But I will never be Daniel's mama on earth again. Gone is the dream every mother holds and that is to watch her little baby grow up. That ended for me with Daniel's death at age four. When he died, so did my need to buy Cocoa Puffs for him.

I was thirty-six then. I'm fifty-two now. That's been a lot of time for me to wonder and pray and think, and oh, yes, bite my tongue. Especially when well-meaning folk try to cast off my pain by quipping, "We'll just think, you'll see him again in Heaven."

"If Heaven is going to be just like earth where I have to take out the trash, worry about paying bills, and discipline my kids, I don't want it," a mother said to me.

Some seem to think Heaven is an extension of earth. That Heaven to many will be a repeat, only without mosquitoes and a place where consuming a pound of milk chocolate won't make one fat. Many act like it's going to be where I can see my Daniel again as he was on earth. Folks, that little body that took a beating to cancer is gone. It is no more. The Bible promises we'll get new bodies, and I imagine that they won't age. In fact we probably will all look the same age----young and flawless, like the women in all those Oil of Olay commercials.

So before you tell a mother who is sorrowful over the death of her dreams, who is questioning who she is now without her son or daughter, who dreads Christmas because it means one less stocking to fill, who has seen her family diminish in size, and who has a hard time putting one foot in front of the other on most days---even years later----THINK!

There are so many healthy and nurturing ways in which we can comfort each other. Consider them. Instead of giving a pat, "Well, you'll see your child in Heaven," why not sit down, hold a grieving mother's hand, and listen?

You just might cry when you hear her aching heart. Don't you think Jesus would be weeping if He were seated next to her, too?

She knows she'll see her child again in Heaven. Right now she needs more than that reassurance. She has to learn how to live the rest of her life without him. She has to conquer sleepless nights and inappropriate comments, criticism, and push herself to believe that she will get a day free of tears.

Let her know that she is going through the hardest journey a mother ever goes through.

Let love coupled with understanding be how you bring comfort.

~ Alice is the author of five inspirational novels and the new devotional on grief and loss, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning: Reflections of Comfort in Heartache. Read the reviews and order a copy here.

[This post was first posted at Alice's Patchwork Quilt Blog]

Sandy Hook Comfort Project at Gifts With A Heart

I love events that come from the brainstormings of others. The staff at Gifts With A Heart have something special planned for Friday, January 25 from 6 to 9 PM. There will music by Converting Hearts, door prizes, refreshments and an opportunity to shop at this unique store. The evening is part of the Sandy Hook Comfort Project, a project that started in December 2012, shortly after the tragic shooting at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newton, CT. Some of Alice's friends suggested her new devotional, Getting Out of Bed in the Morning, be sent to the families who lost beloved children to death on 12/14/12. The Project has morphed into a large and wide-spread outpouring so that now books will be sent not just to the families, but to others in the Sandy Hook community who were affected by the horrible shooting (first responders, teachers, clergy, hospital staff, etc.).

GETTING OUT OF BED IN THE MORNING and Alice's son Daniel (8/25/92--2/2/97)


On January 25 you will have an opportunity to purchase a copy or two of Getting Out of Bed in the Morning for the Sandy Hook Comfort Project. Books will be shipped to the United Methodist Church in Sandy Hook for distribution by the end of this month. Each book will be autographed by Alice and sent with a letter, listing the names and cities of all the donors. The families who lost loved ones will have copies of their books personalized with the name of their child.

Join us for this meaningful time!


Gifts With A Heart
2889 Jones Franklin Road
Swift Creek Shopping Center
Raleigh, NC 27606


To read more about The Sandy Hook Comfort Project, head over to Alice's Patchwork Quilt Blog.

You can also read reviews for Getting Out of Bed in the Morning.

Hop over to see the merchandise at
Gifts With A Heart.

Guest Post: Life after the loss of a child

How to Go on With Life After The Loss of A Child

Losing a child is the worst pain that a person can experience. Whether the
passing is expected or unexpected, no one should have to bury a child. When
you have experienced such a heart wrenching loss, you'll need to find ways
to go on with your life.

*Grieve Properly*
How can a person grieve "properly"? Essentially, this means you must grieve in a way appropriate for you. Perhaps you'll want to say casual prayers each night, or maybe you'll just spend time crying. Don't let people tell you to stop. Eventually, yes, you will want to pick up and move on. However, before you can do that, you have to allow yourself to react in the way that is natural for you.

*Be A Team*
Sometimes, when a child passes away, parents start to blame one another for the death. Remember though, death happens, and it is, unfortunately, a natural part of life. In many cases, it is no one's fault. You need to look to your spouse for a sense of strength during this difficult time. Be one another's biggest supports, and don't criticize the other person's way of handling the passing. You'll make this situation harder on one another. Grieve as a couple too. Create a memorial for your child, or attend weekly prayer services together to ensure your bond stays strong.

*Find Your Faith*
When times are difficult and life hands people unfair lots, they often turn toward God or to another higher power in which they believe. Doing so offers a sense of comfort because it lets the parents know that life goes on beyond this world. Talking to God or other spiritual beings can give parents a sense of how their child is doing in the beyond. Ultimately, you want to look toward the other comforts that faith can provide you. Depending upon the religion, you may be reassured that your child has been
rewarded in the Kingdom of Heaven, or you may come to believe that your little one has been reincarnated and is still very much alive.

*Communication*
In addition to working together through this time as a team, you need to be able to communicate. Sometimes, communication will come in the form of tears and sobs and not just words. That is fine. You also have to be willing to communicate with your other children. If they are very young, they will likely be quite confused as to what is happening. Have your little one participate in going to mass or visiting your deceased child's grave. Do not make up fake stories. Be honest about what happened, and be honest about what your religious and spiritual beliefs are. For example, you don't want your child to think that he or she is going to pass away every time he or she is ill.

Dealing with the loss of a child is a pain that no parent should have to bear. Unfortunately, this tragic situation sometimes occurs. You'll likely have a long road of grieving ahead of you, and you will never forget your precious child. However, you can start to find ways to continue on - trust me.

Martha Whimers is a contributing author at http://www.healthinsurancequotes.org.

Guest post: Tanya Eavenson

Memories


I still remember what it felt like—shivering under the hospital sheet, legs drawn, unable to stay still. The two things I wanted were my baby and the pain to stop. I was guaranteed one of those when I awoke and sometime later, the pain had stopped, but my child was gone.

Winter that year brought many firsts. The first snowfall, the first snow man my husband and daughter rolled, the first time our acre pond froze over that you could actually walk on, and the first time it seemed a part of me died. I can recall the days afterward as vividly as the day it happened. Like when my husband asked if I wanted to take a ride into town to see the snow and how everything within me cried, No! Or how I told him, “I want that dining room table we talked about. If I can’t have the children to go around it, at least I’ll have the table.” I wanted to fill the void left in my heart, and if a table would do that, then I wanted the table. But nothing filled the void my child left no matter what I tried. At times I felt the Lord nudging me to draw near to Him, but I couldn’t. If I did, I would relive what happened, and I wanted to forget, so I avoided what I felt.


For months I was lost in nothingness--nothing I did could make me happy. Then one day I felt the Holy Spirit pulling me to read scripture. I hadn’t read for a while, but I picked up my Bible and began. It didn’t take long for me to find the scripture God had for me. 2 Corinthians 12: 8-10 says, 8 Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. 9 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 10 That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.


Yes, I remembered pleading with God to save my baby, and to say I was weak was an understatement. But that’s where God had spoken through His word. “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” To me, God was saying, I am all you need and I will help you through this. I will make you strong, not in your power, but Mine.

Over the years, God has used my loss to comfort others who’ve lost loved ones. I can relate to what it feels like to lose someone they will never hold again or at all. Do I truly know what they are going through? Only God does, but I’ve become sensitive to others who are hurting. Whether it’s bowing in prayer with someone or through sharing my story, I’ve found joy, knowing God keeps His promises. God never left me, even when I turned from Him in my pain, He drew me like Jeremiah 31:3 says, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.” If you’re hurting today from a loss, remember God is near, and He is faithful. Take comfort in knowing He has loved you with an everlasting love and draws you to Himself. There, in the shelter of His arms, you will find peace and rest.


~ Tanya Eavenson accepted Christ at a young age after walking down the reddest carpet she’d ever seen. At sixteen, she received her first Bible for Christmas. Never in her wildest dreams did she think God would use her to reach others for Him. But that is exactly what she’s been doing since God called her and her husband into the ministry. Tanya is also a writer for Christ to the World Ministries. She is a member of ACFW and was a semi-finalist in the 2011 Genesis Contest. You will find her blogging at Proof, See the Evidence http://proofseetheevidence.org; Guided Girls http://guidedgirls.blogspot.com/ and Student Life http://www.studentlife.com/

And when that ice cream truck . . .

As I think about your four years with us here on earth, I wonder if I was a good enough mom for you, Daniel. Questions swarm around me: Did I hug you enough? Did I listen to your ideas well? Should I have baked more cookies, read you Curious George another dozen times, laughed with you more? Not insisted you go to bed by eight PM? Bought you a puppy?

I was feeling a bit guilty the other day as I remembered the ice cream truck that threaded through our neighborhood the summer you turned three. The first time, excitedly, your father and I took you and Rachel out to greet it. We bought you both a red, white and blue popsicle. Your smile was so wide as you ate, the popsicle juice running down your chin in streaks of blue and red.

The next day when the ring of the truck's bell sounded, you stopped eating dinner, pushed away from the table, and went for the front door, begging us to hurry up. Within a week's time, you were grabbing spare change out of the drawer in the kitchen, waiting for no one. You rushed out to meet the ice cream truck, handed the vendor some pennies, quarters, and dimes and bought a fudgesicle.

What made me sad the other day was recalling how I told you that not every time the truck came to our cul-de-sac were you going to get an ice cream of your choice. Each cone cost $1.50, and was I made of money? Hardly.

Guilt-ridden and wondering, led me to believe that if you were still alive with us, Daniel, oh, I'd do things differently. Yes, no guilt for me. Instead I would have been a better mom. I would have done the following:

* When you picked flowers from the neighbor's yard for me, instead of telling you that those were not to be picked, I would have said, "Thanks! Feel free to pick the ones in the garden across the street, too."

* When you didn't want to take a nap, I would have said, "Sure, stay up! Play instead. I'm exhausted because I'm pregnant with your brother, but, hey, let me push you in the swing and then we'll make a six-foot sandcastle in the sand box."

* When you'd said you didn't want to clean the toys off the family room floor, I would have said, "No worries. We'll let your big sister Rachel do that."

Oh, you would have been so spoiled that after your death, no one would have missed you.

I suppose I did all right as your mother.

But I do confess that when that ice cream truck had rolled around the summer you were five (had cancer not been your demise), I wouldn't have said, "None for you today. You had a large Nutty Buddy bar yesterday." Instead, I think I would have said, "Sure. One cone today. But none tomorrow, okay?"

And you would have smiled and I would have smiled, both of us knowing that tomorrow never really comes, does it?

Yeah, I think there would have been nothing wrong with doing that differently.

Oh, how I miss you, son, especially when that ice cream truck rolls around.