Before we opened our gifts, we trudged through the huge snowbanks to decorate Noah's grave for Christmas.
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Kailyn made a special snow angel for our little angel...
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On September 21/05 we were blessed with a beautiful son. Born with a chromosome 12q deletion (q15q21.2), the challenges were many...cleft lip/palate, complex feeding issues, developmental delays, failure to thrive, multiple infections, blood clots, asthma, sleep apnea, GI and pulmonary bleeds, TPN dependency and kidney issues. Noah embraced life and taught us how to love. On July 29/09, Noah's journey ended, leaving us on a new journey...this journey on the pathway of grief...
I can no longer think back to what Noah was doing one year ago at this time. And that makes me terribly sad.
Thank you to those who have remembered us this past week in special ways. And thank you to the person who visited Noah's grave and left this stone...
Can it really be half a year since our world turned upside down?? Half a year sounds so long, yet often it feels like just yesterday that I held Noah, or heard his infectious giggle, or picked up the tupperware off the floor for the millionth time. I'm sure some days I still here Noah dragging his pumps across the floor.
A couple of weeks ago another boy we met at the Oley Conference lost his battle. I was able to attend his service online (thank God for the wonders of the internet). At the service someone talked about the image they had of that young man standing at heaven's gates, and dropping his backpack (his TPN backpack that was such a part of him), leaving it behind at the gate as he entered heaven. I love to think of Noah doing the same. Knowing that he no longer needs those things does bring some comfort. Kailyn decided there must be quite a pile of backpacks there already.
Someone asked me when the pain of this intense grief becomes manageable. It made me stop and think. And I realized that, yes, somewhere in this time, the pain has become more manageable. No, I don't miss him any less, the pain will always, always be there, and many days the aching of my empty arms is still so very intense. But I am slowly finding ways to put one foot in front of the other...to put meaning to it all...to begin to figure out how to live this new life without my son.