Birthday Balloons

On Andy’s birthday last Saturday, my best friend and I released 12 balloons– one balloon for each year that Andy would have had at this point. The balloons were absolutely beautiful. They were so vibrant and bouncing everywhere in the really strong wind we were having that day. I joked that apparently Andy would have enjoyed hitting me with balloons.

It was a bittersweet day, but I’m glad we found a way to celebrate that felt right. My best friend and I hung on to the bottom of the balloon bouquet, counted to three, and let them go. That’s always a hard moment for me– I think about how each balloon was so individual and how I’ll never get those same balloons back. The same thing happened last year on Andy’s birthday. Of course, it’s just symbolic. When we let the balloons go, though, I heard a man say “Look! Balloons!” and then I heard a small child laugh. That seemed so appropriate, and it made me smile. Andy is still bringing laughter and beauty to other people’s lives. I’m so proud of him and so lucky to have spent any time with him at all. My sweet boy. The balloons were my way of hugging him and saying hello. Perhaps that child’s laugh was his way of answering back.

The pics below are from the balloon release, of course. The second is the balloons high in the air. If you look closely at the center of the sky, you can barely make out them out. A beautiful image on a beautiful day for a beautiful child. We miss him dearly.

Happy Birthday

…to my beautiful child. He would be 12 today. My heart aches to have him with me. I just hope, wherever he is, that he is safe and happy.

Andy, my beautiful child, I love and miss you more than I can say.

Missing

Andy would be 12 on Saturday.  Almost a teenager.  There are so many things I wonder about the person he would be.  I want to hold him, even though at 12 he’d probably squirm a bit more than he did as a young child.  I wonder what sort of music he’d like, what sort of books he would read, what he would do for fun.  In essence, I wonder who he would be.  And that’s what hurts most– I have to wonder who my own son would be.  I don’t have the luxury of simply watching him grow.  Instead, I picture him growing up in my mind.

I was awake most of the night last night thinking about this person I’ll never meet.  When I finally did fall asleep, I dreamt of coffins and churches and rainy graves.  I dreamt of car accidents, screaming children, and tiny bodies damaged beyond repair.  The most frightening thing about my nightmares is that they continue in my waking hours.  This is life now– wondering how Andy is and who he would be today.  I wonder, too, about how and where he and his father are now.  I wonder if they can see and hear those of us who miss them so much.  Sometimes I *feel* Andy against my chest.  I wrap my arms around air and hold it close to me, imagining a beautiful little boy, my son, laughing as I hugged him.  The Great Mother.  The Protector.  Those archetypes can be found in all societies throughout history.  Losing that role physically hurts.  Once I finally got out of bed this morning, I doubled over after just a few minutes.  The pain in my stomach was almost unbearable, and I felt like someone was stomping on my chest.  Phantom pain.  What’s missing hurts me physically.  Amputation is an ugly word, but that’s what it is, really.  My child was amputated from my life, and my body aches from that loss.

Mentally, this week will be hell.  Andy’s birthday seems cruel now.  I want to celebrate his life, but it seems cruel to celebrate a birthday that he won’t have.  I don’t feel like celebrating anyway.  I feel like stomping my feet.  I’m angry that I have to walk around with this hole in me all the time and angry that my son’s life was stolen from him.  I’m just angry with everything at the moment.  More than any other day of my grief year, it’s Andy’s birthday that confuses me.  How do you mark the birth of your child who has died?  It’s just cruel.

Release

We had the balloon release for Andy on Friday, and I’m having trouble putting the experience in to words.  The balloons became so symbolic.  They were beautiful and vibrant, bouncing about in my car, adding color and enjoyment to the ride.  They had that energy a small child brings to your life.  And as soon as we let them go, I wanted them back.

Even if I bought up the flower shop’s entire supply of white balloons, I would never get those two balloons back.  Watching them float away and out of our sight, I could almost feel Andy being torn away from me as well.  They were just balloons, but they meant so much.  I want my child back with every fiber of my being, but just as I will never see those same balloons, I will never see the same Andy again.  Watching those balloons fly away hurt.  I felt helpless.

I need to find a release.  Growing up in a very violent family, I learned early on that crying was dangerous.  Of course, I *have* cried over Andy’s death.  I’ve even cried hard at times.  At the balloon release, though, I could not express what I felt.  Knowing I needed to release, I fought with it anyway and shoved it down in that place where emotions fester away and get expressed by other means.  The release will no doubt come, eventually.  Letting it happen in the moment would have helped tremendously, though.

I’ll write more on emotion and parental grief over the next few days.  For now, I need to draw away from this topic for a bit and revisit it when I’m feeling stronger.  Thanks to all of you who sent strength and good wishes.  It’s appreciated more than you could ever know.

Happy Birthday Andy

Andy would be eleven years old today.  We’re having a balloon release at a nearby river this evening to mark the occasion.  Please keep us in your thoughts on this difficult day.

I was awake most of the night thinking about all of the firsts– first steps, words, laughs, all of that.  It’s so hard to think that there were lasts as well– last steps, last words, last laughs.  I think about what I would say to him today and how a birthday party would go.  We’d definitely have strawberry cake.  I think about what I would give him as a gift, but that only leads to the fact that I can only guess what he would have liked at age eleven.  I’m sure it wouldn’t be the same as what he liked at age eight.

Instead of a party with our little guest of honor, though, we’re having a balloon release in hopes that he might see how much we love him still and how much a part of our lives he will always be.  It is my sincere hope that he will see these balloons floating towards the sky today and that, wherever he is now, the balloons will make him smile.

Loneliness

This is going to be a very difficult week, as Andy’s birthday is this Friday.  I haven’t got a clue of how to handle the time around his birthday, even though it’s already come up twice since his death.  The best I can do is write.  Maybe charting, for lack of better terms, the actions and emotions of this week will help me.  Maybe it will help others mothers out there dealing with the same issues as well.

Today is loneliness.  It’s a deep, burning ache in my chest that I can feel quite literally.  Last night I thought something was physically wrong with my heart.  I’m in a fog, just as I was soon after Andy died.  It’s like everyone is moving about, but I’m existing in a sort of slow motion.  I’ve stepped outside of life proper and am watching it continue on without me.  I feel like a player in a bad film.  Every part of my body feels too heavy to lift.

If the past is any indication, this week will continue on in similar fashion.  I’ll semi-exist in my isolated blur, waiting for the fog to lift again.  Being proactive and actually forcing myself to *do* something would likely help most, but I can’t seem to push the fog away enough to think, and I don’t think I’m willing to let myself feel all of that pain again.  It’s a sort of darkness surrounding a day that should be so bright.  Andy should be turning eleven, but he’s stuck at eight forever.