For the past 16 years, I’ve written letters to Andy on his birthdays and angel days, and I’ve poured my heart into essays about how our family has navigated grief, found hope, and moved forward together. But one thing I will never write is that we’ve moved on without him.

If you come to our house, you’ll see his pictures on the walls in almost every room. His red, personalized toybox still sits in the playroom. His quilt is on his little brother’s bed, and two stuffed bunnies dressed in his onesies are perched in his little sister’s room. His name and image are on tee shirts in our closets – the ones we wear each year to the Cure SMA events we attend in his memory. His tiny socks are still in my nightstand.

Andy is very much a part of our home and family. He’s present tense, not past.

But that doesn’t mean that we’re hanging on to what’s not here. That we’re stuck in a cycle of grief. Instead, we’ve worked hard to keep Andy’s memory alive, even when it’s not always easy. The pain of losing him is tempered by the immense joy of having had him at all.

In the classic movie Steel Magnolias, the character Truvey Jones says, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.” I experienced that feeling firsthand on January 8, 2009 – and over and over again in the 16 years since.

You already know the story of the day he was born. I had a scheduled c-section at 41 weeks pregnant. He was 9 pounds, 14 ounces. The nurses in the operating room called him “Mr. Big”. I threw up on the operating table, then thought I was going to die from a freak reaction to intrathecal pain medication. The day Andy was born was my first real lesson in what the word “bittersweet” meant.

It’s no surprise that today feels equally as bittersweet—a “Bittersweet 16,” if you will. I’ve watched my friends’ children, the same age as Andy, grow up through social media posts. Seeing them now, I can’t help but wonder who Andy might have been as a teenager. I try not to dwell on the “what ifs” and “could have beens,” but they’re always there. I grieve for the birthdays he never got to celebrate and the life he never had the chance to live.

But then his siblings Lucy and Will come home from school, and I’m quickly reminded of everything we have because of Andy. He gave us this family, this home, this life—and that’s a sweetness all its own. Today, we’ll look for the dragonflies that symbolize him, and we’ll celebrate him the best we can. I’ll rehash that birth story again for the kids, wiping away the tears as I laugh at the memories. We’ll visit his garden and eat homemade cake. It’s not “normal” and it’s not what we planned, but it’s real. It’s not our past, it’s our everyday.

And, we’ll continue moving forward together – through the bitter and the sweet of it. All five of us.

–Audra Butler, Andy’s Mom

I haven’t written a birthday letter to you for the past few years. I tried, but the words didn’t come easily. Today, on your 15^th birthday, I thought I would try again.

I’m supposed to be working now, returning to the daily grind after a two-week winter holiday. It’s the last day of vacation for your little sister and brother, though Lucy has color guard practice and Will is busy playing outside with our neighbors. I’m sitting here with my laptop, thinking of how different today would have been if you were still here too.

We went to your garden today before Lucy’s practice started. Like always, your siblings blew bubbles to you, but no dragonflies came to visit us. It’s a cold day for Florida. It must have been chilly the day you were born as well, but I don’t remember the weather. I do remember how scared I was, waiting in pre-op for my c-section. The surgery was delayed for hours, and I was alone with my thoughts. I could not wait to meet you. I didn’t want my fear of surgery to overshadow the excitement of seeing your face. I just wanted it to be over and for you to be in my arms.

And soon you were. On January 8, 2009, at 11:52 AM, you arrived Earthside. You were 9 pounds, 14 ounces, and the nurses in the operating room called you “Mr. Big.” You were perfect. I held you against me and kissed your sweet face for the first time. Then Daddy scooped you up just as I got sick – not the best welcome to the world, I admit. It had only been minutes since you were born, and you already were teaching us lessons about how life can be simultaneously amazing and terrible.

I had an allergic reaction to the spinal anesthesia I was given, causing my body temperature to drop. I remember being so grateful that you were healthy, while terrified of what was happening to me. Thankfully, I was quickly stabilized, and together we went to our hospital room to meet Grandpa and Gigi.

You were so alert and strong, lifting your head the first time that your grandfather held you. I could not stop marveling at you – how sweet you were, how smart you were, who you looked like, how lucky I was that you were mine. Your daddy could not stop taking pictures. Then he snuggled us in the hospital bed, surrounding us with his love and protection. In that moment, our little family was all I needed, and all was right in the world.

The day you were born was life-altering. I thought I knew love before, but it was nothing compared to my feelings for you. I was – and I remain – so proud to be your mother.

I thought that I’d have a lifetime to experience with you, my firstborn son. First words, first steps, first adventures. I had so many dreams of the boy you would be and the life you would have. I thought I would have the privilege of watching you grow. I was naive, I know. I imagined so many scenarios, but never one in which I would have to let you go so soon.

The only birthday we had with you was the day you were born. Since then, January 8^th is a bittersweet day for us. While your birthday is a day of celebration, it’s also one of reflection.

I can’t help but wonder what you would look like now as a teenager and who you would be. Would your eyes have stayed blue, or would they have turned to hazel like your sister’s? Would your hair still be curly? Would you love playing video games like your dad and brother or would you be a reader like me? What would your freshman year of high school be like? Would you be a class clown, or would you be shy?

Someday, I pray that I’ll meet you again at heaven’s gates and that I will finally get to hold you again. That I’ll get the answers to these questions. That my heart will once again be whole. Until then, I’ll share your story with your little sister, your little brother, and anyone else who will listen. I’ll keep looking for the dragonflies and learning lessons from you. You changed my life with your birth 15 years ago, and your legacy changed the world.

Happy 15^th birthday in heaven, my angel. I miss you every day. I will love you forever and always.

Love,
Mommy

The twilight sky was filled with streaks of gold, rose, purple, and indigo, as the sun met the horizon on the night of June 4^th, 2009. It was one of the most beautiful sunsets that I have ever seen. You had taken your last breath in the early evening, and your father and I hoped that the vibrant sky was a sign from you, telling us you were finally free and happy.

In the hospital room earlier that day, I had held you until the pink faded from your cheeks and the warmth left your skin. With the sky now blazing before me, I wondered how there could still be color in the world. I wondered, after the sun set on the last day that you were in the world, how it could ever rise again?

The blackness of my grief came with the darkness of night. I didn’t know how to breathe without you. I refused to shower because I didn’t want to erase your scent on my skin. I wanted time to freeze along with my cold, shattered heart. I didn’t want the morning to come.

But, even though I did not understand how, the planet still continued to spin and the sun continued to rise. One day without you became two. Somehow I kept breathing. Somehow a month passed, then a year and then another…and those years have turned into a decade. 3,650 sunsets without you.

In the past 10 years, the color has returned to the world, although not as bright. Every joy our family experienced – from the births of your little sister Lucy and brother Will to the everyday milestones of school graduations and dance recitals – is tinged with sadness. We’ve become accustomed to the bittersweet as our status quo. We’ve learned to live with the pain of your loss, but we miss you every day.  Our lives have moved forward, but we will never move on from you.

This morning, Will crawled into bed with me, and I kissed his forehead, and for a split second, I was with you again. Your memory lives in his skin. I see your light shine in Lucy’s eyes. I hear your voice in their laughter.

But, my baby boy, these glimpses of you are still not enough for me. If you are the day, then I am the night. Linked together but forced by life to be apart. I dream of meeting you again in heaven and never letting you go.

Saying goodbye to you 10 years ago today was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. Today, the disease that took you is almost eradicated. My only regret is that we couldn’t save you. Time wasn’t on our side then, but time continues on and will one day bring us back together.

As I explained the significance of your 10th Angel Day to Will and Lucy, my eyes filled with tears. Not wanting me to cry, Will put his arms around my neck to comfort me. He leaned close and whispered, “I don’t want you to die and go away like Andy.”

I reached out and touched his chest. “Andy is right here in your heart, and, God willing, I’ll be here with you for a long, long time,” I said. “You don’t need to worry.”

With a searching look, he questioned, “But, when you do go to heaven, will you be a dragonfly, too? And visit me like Andy does? And maybe you can sit on my shoulder and stay with me?”

I replied, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, baby. I will always be with you. I promise.”

And, Andy, as sure as each new day dawns, I know that you are with us. I’ll let the warm June wind embrace me today, and I will remember you in my arms. We’ll keep looking for the dragonflies, and we’ll see your reflection in the sunset. We’ll live the best life we can for you.

I love you and miss you, baby boy.

Love, Mommy

Dear Andy,

I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. I was terrified, alone in the pre-op room, waiting to be wheeled into surgery. I had never been in an operating room before, and my excitement to meet you was battling valiantly with my nerves over the impending C-section. I didn’t know what to expect, and I was so afraid of the pain I might feel.

Elvis was playing on the radio in the OR – it’s his birthday too as you know – and I kept asking the nurses when your daddy would be there. “He’s the one in the green shirt with an Irish accent,” I told them more than once. They reassured me that they wouldn’t bring the wrong husband to the room.

Still, I was rigid with fear when it was time for the spinal block, barely relaxing enough to let the anesthesiologist work. The nurses were almost done prepping me for the start of the surgery when your father was finally allowed in the room. He was suited in green scrubs with a mask over his face. I’ve never been happier to see him.

And then it was time. Pulling, pressure, and finally you were here. The doctor held you over the surgical curtain so I could see you, laughing that you were a big baby (9 pounds, 14 ounces!) and that the C-section was the right choice. In fact, one of the nurses nicknamed you “Mr. Big” on the spot. She whisked you off for your first tests and bundled you up, then she put you on my chest. You were perfect in every way. I didn’t want to take my eyes off you. You cuddled into me, and I started to cry.

That was the moment when I discovered how deep love could be.

I handed you over to your daddy, and he a joy in his eyes that I had never seen before. I think it was the proudest moment of his life.  Then, the two of you were taken out of the room, so the doctors could close the incision. The anesthesia made me sick, and the time seemed to stretch on forever. I just wanted to be where you were.

I still just want to be where you are.

I don’t know how ten years have passed since that day you made me a mother and changed my world forever. I don’t know how I have survived ten years without you in my arms. A minute without you was too long, never mind a decade.

Before you were born, I was scared of all of the wrong things. Surgical pain can’t compare to the pain of your loss. Anxiety over impending motherhood holds no candle to ongoing grief.

For ten years, I have been writing letters to you on your birthday and angel day. Trying to fill the void between us with words. But no word is big enough to express my love. No word can convey how much I miss you. While words can paint a pretty picture, they simply can’t bring you back to me.

And so I cling to my memories. I close my eyes and try to turn back the years. I try to recall all of the little moments that I am so scared that I will forget. The curls in your hair. The soft pressure of my kiss on your forehead. I try to calm my mind and remember how you looked at me with so much love and trust. I am so sorry that I couldn’t keep you safe in my arms, baby boy.

I wish more than anything you were celebrating your 10^th birthday here with me. Know that we try our best to celebrate and remember you every day, the baby you were and the guiding force you’ve become.

Happy 10th birthday, my sweet angel.

Loving you always and forever,

Mommy

Everything seemed so senseless. I remember talking to family that night, but the words had no meaning. I tried to be brave, to smile through the tears, but my feelings were hollow. Blackness was everywhere, and all that was good in this world seemingly had vanished into the depths of grief. How could I continue to live when you – the best part of me – were gone?

I had to remind myself to breathe in and out…minute by minute, hour by hour, until I made it through another day without you. Somehow those days stretched to months and then years. Nine of them, as of today. And, along the way, the light began to shine through the darkness, and I began to feel again.

I used to tell people that I segmented my life into three linear sections: the time before you were born, the time we had you with us, and the time after you died. Today, I realized that I have had it entirely wrong.

All of the experiences and choices in my life lead to your birth. Your life, while short, changed the trajectory of mine. And, your death has been at the center of everything since. My life isn’t a straight line, moving forward and farther away from you. It’s more like a tree trunk, made of concentric rings that build off of one another, encircling and protecting its core.

You are at my core.

I imagine the ring made by your death is wide and dark. And, while your father and I were living in that place of grief, it felt all-encompassing and unending. But, even the coldest season eventually fades. And, while we didn’t think it was possible, our family continued to grow. I envision lighter rings for the births of your little sister and brother, for milestones met and laughter rediscovered.

We have known great loss, but because of you, we have also experienced great joy. And, because of you, we’ve learned that it’s possible to have those feelings simultaneously. Today, your angel day, is the first day of a new summer camp for your brother and sister. They were so excited and nervous for their new adventure this morning. I worked very hard to keep my composure for them, then sobbed in the car after I dropped them off. I kept thinking how different this day is to June 4, 2009. I felt the sun on my face, as hot tears ran down my cheeks, and I remembered the chill of the ICU. I cried for how unfair it is that you weren’t here with us. And then, a dragonfly flew by, hovering in front of my windshield, and I understood that you were.

Another milestone, another ring around the trunk. You remain at the center of everything. You are with us, and we are with you. The impression you left in the world remains, as does your place on our family tree. Forever and always.

I love you, Andy.

Love, Mommy

Let me start your annual birthday letter with a story…

Before Christmas, your father, your little sister Lucy, your little brother Will, and I were browsing in the Disney store. Seemingly out of nowhere, a Buzz Lightyear toy sparked Will’s interest, distracting him from the Moana display. He picked up the little plush spaceman, hugging it to his chest, and saying that he NEEDED it. As he did, I noticed that the toy’s shoe had a name stitched on it. Lucy noticed too and said animatedly, “That toy has ‘Andy’ on it!!!! Is it our brother’s??? Has he been here???”

I tried not to cry as Lucy began to search through the stuffed toys on display, getting more and more excited as she did. “Look, Mommy! This one has Andy’s name too!!!!! Can we take them home, please??!!”

And so we left the shop that day with Buzz and Jessie the Cowgirl in tow, and, soon after, we had copies of all the Toy Story movies too. Together, we watched this other, cartoon Andy grow from a little kid to a 17-year-old preparing to leave for college. For your brother and sister, the fictional adventures of Andy and his toys are a real connection to you. Toys that you left behind for them have found their way out of the dark depths of the toy box and into everyday play. Lucy asks me to tell her which toys were your favorite, and Will wants to know which you saved specifically for him.

And, while I appreciate how Toy Story has given them new insight into the boy you were, for me, the movies are a window to what might have been.

When you were born nine years ago, your father and I had big plans for you. We had tried for so long to have a family and spent years imagining the picture-perfect life we’d share. We envisioned the backyard soccer games and playground adventures.  We couldn’t wait to watch you grow from a chunky baby to a tousled-headed toddler to a rambunctious little boy. Your birthday would be the start of many life-long celebrations to come.

But, on January 8, 2009, at 11:52 AM, you entered the world on your terms – a week late, pink and screaming. We should have realized then that life isn’t as predictable as a three-act film; nothing really goes according to our plans.

You were diagnosed with SMA, and the prognosis was unimaginable. Suddenly, everything that we once took for granted was uncertain. Unsure that you’d see your first birthday, we began to hold parties for you on the 8^th of every month. You’d wear a paper hat and a gummy smile, and we’d help you blow out your candles. There were always presents – new soft toys and rattles and music for your crib – but you preferred the shiny birthday balloons. You loved to pull their strings and watch them dance above you.

For your father and me, every day that we had you with us was a gift. You spent 140 days in our arms, and we both still long for more. If your life was a movie, it was cut short before the opening credits could finish.

On your ninth birthday, I can’t help but wonder if you’d be like that fictional Andy at all, were you still with us. I imagine you as a blue-eyed and brown-haired third grader with a sweet smile and a sharp mind. Funny and smart. Loyal and kind.

Your brother and sister are watching the last movie in the series again today, and they laugh as I get teary-eyed. “Mommy cries at all of the movies,” says Lucy, but then she snuggles closer to me on the couch. Not to be left out, Will crawls across my lap. He holds my face and whispers, “Mommy, don’t cry” then he tries to lick my chin. Laughter through the tears, a feeling that’s very familiar to me. And it’s one that I associate so closely with you, Andy.

The incredible joy of having you in my life is always tempered by the indescribable grief of losing you from it so quickly. But, while my arms still long for you, my heart knows we are forever connected by love. You made me a mother on January 8, 2009, and you will always be more firstborn son. You aren’t here with us, but we know you’re not far either.

Because I believe that your hand led your brother to that toy in the store on that December day. And, you spoke to us through those movies, so very clearly.

“I wish I could always be with you,” Andy’s mom says to him at the end of the third movie. “You will be, Mom,” he replies with a hug. And, I know this is true.

Happy 9^th birthday, my little braveheart. We have our party hats on, and we’ve got a special balloon, just for you. We love you to the moon and back, to infinity and beyond, always and forever.

Love,
Mommy

June 4, 2009, was the day we learned not to make assumptions. You closed your eyes in the late afternoon, never to wake up again. We held you as you took your last breath, and we knew then that life would never be the same. But we had no idea how much it would change, fundamentally and irrevocably.

It’s almost like we have lived two distinct lives: the period before you were diagnosed with SMA and the period after we lost you. Sometimes it’s hard to reconcile the regimented life we had with you to the cacophony of chaos that is life today.

I try to bridge the gap by talking about you with your little sister and brother. I tell them that you are a part of them and that they can feel you in their hearts. I want them to know you from the inside. I want them to look at your pictures and recognize your place in their lives as their older brother. And, more selfishly, I want them to understand why I cry when certain songs come on the radio or when the calendar turns another page. Why I helicopter after them on the playground or check to make sure they are breathing every night. Why we go to the cemetery on holidays and on anniversaries like today.

You see, we don’t have the luxury of making assumptions anymore about what tomorrow will bring. Grief is part of our every day, a balancing of the bitterness of your absence with the sweet of your little sister and brother’s budding lives. In fact, yesterday was your sister’s dance recital, and it was a long, glorious day. But, all day I worried that I was diminishing your memory while basking in her brightness.

I’m not always great at the balancing act. Lately, I’ve been working a lot, fueled by the desire to do more for our family but missing time actually spent with them. I am easily frustrated and quick to anger. I feel stress and anxiety more deeply. I worry too much, and I find myself breaking down in tears too often. I push myself forward, knowing that life doesn’t come with promises and the unthinkable can happen at any time. It’s hard to trust the future when the past has brought such great pain. I owe it to you to try harder.

So, today, we are slowing down the pace. Your little sister and brother just came into my bedroom, where I am writing this, to jump on the bed. Will brought me a toy. It’s a little stuffed animal that he calls “Baby Duck” and that he stole from his sister’s room. We bought it years ago, because the duck was holding a small dragonfly. Will points to the dragonfly now and says, “Look, Mommy! It Andy Dragonfly!”

As my tears start to fall, Lucy puts her arms around me in comfort, saying, “Mommy, don’t be sad. Andy’s with us. He’s in our hearts. You told us that.”

Her words are balm to my broken heart, bringing me hope. I have to believe that the little wonders in our life together are worth the struggle. That we’ll be able to continue to smile through the pain and to laugh through the tears. That, in some form or another, you are with us through it all.

Andy, you are remembered every day. You are loved beyond measure. You are missed ferociously. Today, tomorrow, and until the day comes when I can hold you again.

I love you always and forever,
Mommy

Today is your 8^th birthday, and we’re having a party – in part to mark the first anniversary of my business and also as an excuse to invite our friends and family over. It’s a reason to get out of bed on this very bittersweet day and to surround ourselves with the people we love. To have the kind of party you should have had to celebrate your “golden birthday” – 8 years old on January 8.

There are streamers and balloons throughout the house. The cupcakes and snacks are on the counter, and a bounce house is in the backyard. The only thing missing from this party is you.

Your little brother Will marches over to me and demands, “It NOT my birfday. Why there a party?”

“It’s your big brother Andy’s birthday today,” I explain.

“Not Woocy’s birfday?” he asks.

“No, it’s not Lucy’s birthday either,” I say.

Will’s brow furrows in thought, and he looks up at me – his blue eyes so much like yours – and asks, “Hmmm. Andy coming for his birfday?”

“No, baby,” I reply as my heart breaks a little more. “Andy is in heaven, and he has to stay there. But we’ll visit his garden later.”

“Okay,” he says happily. “I go to Andy’s house.”

“Yes, we’ll go later,” I say, my voice thick with tears, and turn away before he sees me cry.

At 3 years old, Will doesn’t understand. To him, your grave is a garden, and the little white gazebo that sits by it is a magical house.  You are a picture in a frame and a story we tell. A mythical brother that lives in the sky. An excuse to eat cake on a Sunday in January.

Your little sister Lucy, at 6, is more aware of the magnitude of your life and loss. She’s heard the story of your birth many times over. She points to your portrait when her friends come over, proudly stating, “That’s my big brother, Andy.” She tells them you had a bad disease and died when you were a baby.

She tells me she wishes she knew you.  “Your brother is a part of you,” I say as I touch my fingers gently to her chest. “He’s always in your heart.”

It’s been said that when you have a baby, your heart goes walking around outside your body. You were the first to show me how true that is. The day you were born, 8 years ago, was one of the happiest days of my life and also one of the scariest. It was the day you taught me what unconditional love really was. The day I realized my life was no longer my own. That my heart was forever yours.

And when you left, you took part of me with you. As I carried you in my body, you carry a piece me on your journey over the rainbow and beyond the clouds. I believe that we are still connected by those heartstrings. That I can speak to you through a heartbeat and that you can feel my love wherever you are.

And I believe that you’re just as connected to your father, sister and brother. Heart to heart. Each a part of the other.

But, Andy, I still wish for more. I dream of a life where we’re all together, our family of five. A different reality where SMA didn’t take you from us. One where you’d be here today, bouncing with your friends and blowing out your candles. One where you’d run over to me, your face crusted with frosting and flushed from playing, and I’d lean down to kiss you and to brush a curl from your eyes. I’d breathe in your smell of sunshine, sugar, and little boy. I close my eyes, and I can almost feel you.

Andy, I miss you so much every day, but especially on your birthday.

So I’m trying very hard to focus on the good of today – the gift of your birth, the love of our friends, and the comfort of our little family. More than anything else, I’m wishing you the happiest of birthdays among the angels. I love you, baby.

Forever and always,

Mommy

Andy and Mommy on January 8, 2009

It’s storming outside as I sit here, trying to find the words for my annual letter to you. Torrential rain lashes against the windows. The sky is foreboding and gray, punctuated with angry flashes of lightening. Thunder booms nearby, and the whole house reverberates with the sound.

I remember learning about “pathetic fallacy” in a literature class many years ago. It’s the attribution of human emotion and conduct to all aspects within nature. Given how I feel today, it seems fitting that this is the weather. That nature is so furiously mourning your loss too.

Tomorrow, June 4, is the seventh anniversary of your passing.

I am sitting in the living room as I write this, alone in my grief. My tears fall hard and steady. My body shakes as I swallow my sobs. There is a raging storm within me, far surpassing the intensity of the one outside.

In the first days after we lost you, my grief was all-encompassing and unrelenting. I was completely lost, unable to navigate through the pain. Because I felt, so very deeply, that I had failed you. As your mother, I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to be your refuge in this life. But I was powerless to stop SMA’s progression. I couldn’t keep you safe. I held on to you with all of my strength, but I couldn’t stop disease from taking you.

My greatest fear was realized, and my anxieties swirled around me with gale force. Every time the skies seemed to lighten with relief, I’d be knocked down by another torrent of sorrow. It took a long time for me to find my way to shelter and to trust any feeling of peace. To smile without guilt and to laugh without remorse.  To believe that the clouds would ever part and the sun would return.

Over the past seven years, I have worked hard to learn how to survive the tempests of my emotions. Anything can trigger a memory of you – a snippet of a song, a lingering fragrance in the air, a baby hat tucked away in the back of a drawer. And with those memories, while they are achingly sweet and fragile, come a downpour of grief. I have cried more tears than I ever thought possible. I miss you with an intensity that never fades.

But passing time has brought more periods of quiet between these storms. I find solace in the very things most take for granted – how easily your little sister Lucy and brother Will throw their arms around my neck for a hug, how effortlessly they scamper around the house, how fearlessly they face this world.

Right now, they are playing together in the other room. The weather has subdued them; Will doesn’t like the rain, and the thunder scares Lucy. They, however, are used to the storming of my emotions. It’s a sad commentary that my outbursts are part of their normal. That my tears are commonplace. That visits to the cemetery are just a part of everyday life.  That a damaged mother is all they know.

But, they let me know every day, in so many seemingly insignificant ways, that I am all they need. They are certain in my love. I am broken and imperfect, but I am enough for them. That, in turn, has allowed me to believe that I was enough for you too. The healing light of this truth soothes my soul.

Thunder crashes again, and Lucy and Will rush down the hall towards my haven on the couch. They jump into my lap, climbing all over me and pressing their small bodies against mine for comfort. Together, we wait for the downpour to lessen, and the calm to come. I hold them close and remember again how it felt to hold you. I take deep breaths, inhaling the essence of them. The lightening illuminates their faces, so familiar to yours. I try to focus on the light once more.

As the storm quiets, I know peace will follow. The rain will stop, and the tears will dry. I know that the sun will peek through the clouds. I know that tomorrow will be a new day.

But, I also know that it marks the start of another year without you. We will continue move forward, holding on to each other, weathering the storms as they come, and looking towards the light. And we will find you there.

Andy, I love you and miss you more than the forces of heaven and earth combined.

Loving you forever and always,
Mommy

Today is your seventh birthday – a celebration of the day that you were welcomed into the world and the start of our family. Our house should be filled with your little friends, birthday presents, and balloons. You should be a gap-toothed first grader on a cupcake-fueled sugar high. Our family should be intact and our hearts unbroken.

But that’s not our reality.

Sometimes I feel like our time with you was spent in an alternate existence. Who your father and I were then – the dreams we had for you and the life we planned – seem so foreign to me now. We never considered a future that didn’t include you. That you would be born healthy was a basic assumption. That you would thrive and grow was a given. You were so wanted, and you were so perfect. Your birth was our beginning.

Looking back over the past seven years, I question if that day – January 8, 2009 – was the last day I was completely happy. I was so enthralled by the wonder of you. The absolute miracle of your birth. The precious first moments we shared as a family of three.

Certainly, I was very naïve then. While I generally knew that terrible things happened to innocent people, it didn’t occur to me that we could be those people. While I had heard stories of other mothers who lost babies too soon for too many reasons, I never considered that I could take the place of that mother and you that baby.

I worried about all of the wrong things. I agonized over how soon I’d have to return to full-time work. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to juggle my career and my responsibilities as your mom. That my love for you wouldn’t be enough to make up for the mistakes I’d surely make. But, as I held you close, your warm weight pressing against my chest and breathing in your milky baby smell, my fears would abate. You were the balm to my soul.

Never once in all of my anxiety-fueled musings, did I think my arms soon would be empty and that you would be forever gone. That you wouldn’t be here to celebrate any birthday, be it your first or your seventh, with us. That life, as I knew it, and our family, as I dreamed it, would be devastated. That we would have to find a way to begin again in your absence, a seemingly impossible task.

Which brings us to today.

Seven years is a long time to live without you, sweet boy. I’ve grown accustomed to the constant ache of grief and learned to function again despite it – that my heart will always hurt and my arms will always long for you is my truth. And, that acceptance has, at times, fooled me into thinking I’d gotten past the questions of what could have or should have been. But, the truth is, for as long as I live, I’ll wonder about the life you left behind. Today, I envision you as a tousle-headed boy with a cheeky grin and an answer for everything. I find solace in these daydreams. This reverie that only we can share.

And, then I wonder if you can see us now and if we are still recognizable to you. Everything is just so different. Our family of three is now a family of five. Your little brother and sister dash around our house, filling it with the cacophony of their happy play. Your father and I rush from one responsibility to the next, trying our best to manage the chaos. Our day-to-day life is fast-paced and often frenetic, in a way that it simply wasn’t when you were here.

After your SMA diagnosis, time almost seemed to slow down. We rarely left home, secluding ourselves to try to control the uncontrollable and to keep you safe. We had steadfast routines, and each day was filled with quiet order. The calm in the storm. You and I would cuddle together in our rocking chair for hours. Back and forth we’d go, the only movement in the stillness of the house, soothing both of us.

Right now, with your brother and sister at school, there is a similar moment of tranquility. And so I look for you in the quiet. I listen for your whisper of recognition. I close my eyes and picture us together once more, celebrating your birthday as we planned it long ago. I stroke your head, and I kiss your sweet face. And, I never want this fantasy to end.

Happy seventh birthday, son.

Loving you always and forever,
Mommy