Scars

Scars.  We all have them.  Some more than others.  There are scars that are obvious.  Those that you can see.  Then there are those that are invisible to most.  Those that only a select few notice.  The ones that can only be seen in a wistful smile or a single tear running down your cheek.  The ones on your heart.

My arm is all scarred from that awful night seven years ago.  For those of you that aren't aware, my arm was pinned under the vehicle until first responders were able to wrench it free.  I thought for sure it would be broken but it wasn't.  It was mangled.  Looked like raw hamburger.  I remember laying in the ditch with my arm stuck under the roof of our totaled Yukon.  There were three responders around me, I believe.  I knew two of them.  One, the pastor of my childhood church where my parents still attend.  And two, a girl that was in school a few years behind me.  If I remember right, there was another man but I didn't know him.  As other responders worked to raise the vehicle enough to pull my arm out, they kept me warm and calm.  When they were finally able to lift it and pull my arm out, the girl exclaimed, "Oh, my God!"  At the time I thought this was about how bad my arm looked.  I said, "It's broken, isn't it?"  Pastor nodded a distracted yes and they got me out of there and into an ambulance.  But my arm was most definitely not broken.  Not sure how that was possible.  I've thought about this particular part of that night over and over again.  And in hindsight I've often wondered if the exclamation from the girl wasn't about my arm at all, but because she saw Fane when they lifted the Yukon enough.  I'll likely never know, but it definitely makes me think.

My arm, of course, looks much better today.  A couple years ago the girl at the drive thru mentioned my "cool" scar and wondered where I'd gotten it.  I hadn't realized scars could be cool.  If you look closely you can see the spot on my palm just above my wrist where a small shard of glass was embedded for a couple weeks.  The scars have faded immensely...but they're still there.

Much like our lesser known scars.  They've also definitely faded...but they're still there.  Seven years.  Seven years have divided our then from our now.  Fane has been gone from us for twice as long as we had him with us.  The tears don't come as often now, but they still come.  They will always come.  Sometimes just a few, a sprinkle.  Sometimes buckets in a torrential downpour.  Now we get more of the wistful smiles.  The scars from the memories of what was as well as from glimpses of what never will be.

The other night Jerry and I were talking and remembering.  We see glimpses of Fane in all of his younger siblings.  His unbridled joy in Petra, his lashes on Jaeger, his dimpled grin in Krimson...we're constantly seeing him here or there.

Only our big three were around at the time of the accident.  And they were little.  It's unlikely that any of them have memories of him.  We can only imagine who he'd be as a 10 year old today.  We can only assume how our family would be different.  Our entire family dynamic was irrevocably changed seven years ago.  That scar is forever.

Over the last ten years I've been dealt some blows.  Blows that only a precious few know about.  Blows that have left scars.  But also over the last ten years I've learned that scars aren't just reminders.  They don't solely serve as markers of the past or missing future.  Scars can take what is broken and mend it into something new.  Something stronger.  Something beautiful.  

So, yes, we are scarred.  We always will be.  "Buddy" may be a placeholder but the Fane sized hole in our family isn't a thing that can be filled.  Yet, still, we are blessed.  We will not only survive, we will thrive.  Stronger.  Scarred...but beautiful.

Nine

Nine.  He'd be nine years old today.  It's the 6th birthday that we've celebrated without him.  I'll make his special cake and take his special book out to read to him.  I'll have an ugly cry and sob until I gag.  It's days like today when it hits me once again just how much we're missing out on.  How much we lost when he left.  I'll dwell on it for a bit but then I'll pick myself up and dust myself off.  I'll smile.  I'll laugh.  I'll celebrate.  I refuse to spend his birthday in a puddle of tears.  I do not need nor do I want words of sympathy today.  Though, I appreciate the sentiment, I want nothing to do with wishes of comfort.  This is a happy day!

My biggest fear as a bereaved mother is that my child will be forgotten.  Could there be a better way to avoid that than celebrating his life?  So tell me an anecdote you remember about him.  Wish him a happy birthday.   Think of him, not of me.  I miss him, yes.  Always.  That's a given.  But today of all days let's celebrate his life not mourn his death.

Fane Boxes

I have a pretty good memory.  My best friend in college always referred to it as a steel trap.  She'd rely on it to recall miscellaneous factoids of randomness.  She still does every once in awhile.  There's a mass of data kept within the figurative walls of my mind.  Most of it is in what I'd call a free float.  I have access to it pretty much whenever I want.  For some of it I need a refresher, a trigger to bring it up.  Other info will escape me when I'm looking for it only to pop up randomly at a later time.  I call that my mom brain. 

There are other memories that I keep in special boxes.  I call them my Fane boxes.  Most of my Fane memories are in free float.  I'm able to think of him and smile.  I'm able to speak of him without being brought to tears.  I'm able to function so that only a few are wise to the underlying pain that's been numbed to a dull ache over the years. But there are other memories that are just too much to bring up on a daily basis.  These are the ones that if allowed to fester will really bring me to my knees.  So I tuck them in a Fane box for safe keeping.  And I'll open one when I'm ready for a good cry.  The kind of cry that's so hard the sobs make me gag.  Those cries are oddly therapeutic, you know. 

Now that he's been gone for longer than we had him I sometimes catch myself half wondering if it was all a dream.  When I've gotten so used to the craziness and busyness of life without him he seems lightyears away.  Those are the times I open a Fane box.  The times I just need to feel a semblance of closeness to him.  The times I need to be reassured that he was real.  I pick a Fane box and let the floodgates open.   I say his name over and over again because it hits me just how much I've missed hearing it.  I speak to him.  I read to him.  I beg him to come back, as if he would even if he had the choice to.  Then there's no question that he was indeed real.  And I know that even if the rest of the world forgets, a mother never could even if she wanted to.   He was here and he was beautiful and he was mine.

Worn

I wanted to make a nice, thoughtful post for Fane's birthday yesterday.  I really did.  And I tried to.  I sat here in front of the computer for at least an hour last night just staring at the screen.  But nothing came.  I used to be really good at this sort of thing.  I was the kid who got perfect scores on essay tests and A+'s on book reports and term papers.  Putting words on paper in a not only coherent but eloquent fashion was something that had always come easily to me.  By the end of last night, however, I had nothing left.  I couldn't get past the fog that clouded my mind.  I was just done, worn.  So I finally gave up and went to bed.

Fun fact about being a grieving parent: it's a lifelong commitment.  Many people mistakenly assume it's something that can be beaten.  Now, I don't presume to be an authority on the subject so I won't speak in absolutes.  I acknowledge that there could be those that do just "get over" it.  Whatever that means.  For the vast majority, though, it's an ongoing thing.  In the same way an alcoholic is considered to always be recovering as opposed to recovered, a grieving parent will likely always be grieving.  True, the initial pain fades to an extent.  It isn't always as raw as it is in those first dark days following the loss.  The cut can heal if you let it but the scar is always there.

The grief never goes away completely.  It ebbs and flows.  It rears its ugly head at expected times.  Like birthdays and anniversaries, special milestones of surviving children, etc.  I was at my daughter's 4K graduation a couple weeks ago.  As I watched her up on the risers singing her songs with her classmates it hit me that Fane never got to do that.  It stung like a slap in the face.  And I struggled to put the thought from my mind so I could be happy for and proud of her.  Moments like that can be difficult.

Other times the waves are completely unannounced.  I could be strolling through a store and something random will trigger a memory.  A smell or a song.  Or it comes simply becsuse it's Tuesday.   I mean,  why not just any random Tuesday?  Or any day?  Or I'll see a little boy who reminds me of him.  I was at an event last summer where there was a boy who was probably about the same age Fane would have been.  He looked pretty much the exact way I imagined Fane in age progression.  I watched him interact with his mom and siblings.  And I entertained all of the "what if" thoughts that I usually save for times of solitude.

The truth is that I'm different now.  I have been since the day Fane left.  They say that losing a child is similar to losing a limb.  Your life goes on but you are different.  You learn to live without your child/limb but you are never the same.  You are never whole again.  Such has been the case for me.  I've been missing a part of me since the accident.  So I'm quiet occasionally.  I'm irritable sometimes.  Listless, moody, weepy, tired, emotional...the list continues.  I like to think that I do a pretty good job of compartmentalizing and keeping it all in check.  But there are times when it gets the better of me.  This usually happens when I'm around those who are closest to me and I relax enough to just be myself.  There are more rare occasions when I'm just so worn down that I'm too tired to try or even care to conceal it.  And that's when the fog descends.

The last month or so has probably been the foggiest since the initial period following the accident.  It can't solely be attributed to my grief.  There have been other factors.  The grief itself can be exhausting to manage, especially when it's reaching an overwhelming status.  The days leading up to Fane's birthday are often difficult.  Perhaps more difficult than his actual birthday in some ways.  It's periods like that when the stresses of everyday life end up tipping me into the fog.

I have five surviving children that I try my best to be there for.  It's taxing both mentally and emotionally.  They're all young and are learning how to get along and control emotions and follow directions.  There's potty training and nightmares and missing sippy cups or blankets.  Daddy works long hours now that summer is upon us and there doesn't always seem to be enough Mama to go around.  And then there's the housework which is never ending.  I'm admittedly not gifted in this arena to begin with.  So that's always a challenge in itself.  Last but surely not least there's the aforementioned Daddy who deserves and needs my time as well.  But by the time he's home and the kids are in bed I'm simply depleted.

And it's discouraging to hear both firsthand and through the grapevine that I'm just not measuring up.  I have one person suggesting that perhaps my kids are neglected while another tells me that I pay them too much attention.  Whatever progress I make is seemingly overshadowed by the depth of the hole I'm trying to climb out of.  I'm trying to discern the line between being fair and balanced and being a doormat.  I don't mean to be throwing myself a pity party and by no means am I looking for sympathy here.  A little more understanding and little less judgement would be great, though.

Like last weekend at the Family Festival.  I had taken all five kids by myself and was juggling them as we went from table to table.  There was a woman who came up to me and said, "You do such a good job with them."  And I just wanted to hug her.  After feeling like so many people were telling my what a crummy job I was doing, this stranger totally made my day.  It's refreshing to be recognized for my work.  Not that recognition is a necessity for a job well done.  I don't really expect it.  I don't need a badge for doing my "job."  But it sure does go a long way in the encouragement department.

I digress, though.  The whole point of this long winded epistle was transparency.  This was for the people who ask how I'm doing and really want an honest answer.  The people who get my reply of fine/good/etc and think, "No, really, how are you doing?"  I know there's a few of you out there.  This was also for the people who have seen me lately and have thought there's something different about me.  Newsflash:  I've been different for the past 3 1/2 years.  Last I checked Fane was still gone.  If you're just now seeing signs of a new me...well, I don't really know what to say.  It's been a rough month and behind the back comments really do nothing to help my situation.  No, I'm not depressed.  Yes, I'm taking good care of my kids.  No, my faith is not being shaken.  Yes, I know very well where he is, please don't patronize me with a reminder.  No, I'm not always okay.  Yes, I will be okay again.  Like I said, grief ebbs and flows.  The accompanying emotions ebb and flow.

Thank you for caring.  I don't mean to be cavalier or rude about accepting your concern.  I appreciate it.  I really do.  I know I'm loved and I'm thankful.   If you're trying to fix me I just want you to stop.  I'm not going to be the pre-accident Haylee again.  I can't be fixed.  At least not by a person.  If you're trying to pull me out of a "funk" I want you to stop.  There are times when I just need to be sad and let it pass.  I'll be fine soon enough.  Even if I'm not at the moment.  Tomorrow is a new day.

A Father And His Son

Evidently Fane was so much a daddy's boy that he had to make his entrance two months early just to be born on Father's Day.  Or perhaps it was being born on Father's Day that made him such a daddy's boy.  Most likely it was neither but it is something that I've thought about.  Regardless, Fane was unquestionably a daddy's boy.

It was around 12-13 months that Fane really started gravitating towards Jerry.  He loved being outside and riding in any kind of machine.  And those were things that Daddy's always done.  And Jerry could make him giggle like no one else.  How I miss that giggle.  Plus, at the time his brand new baby sister was occupying quite a bit of my time.  So it makes perfect sense that Fane would be so attached to Daddy.  I never begrudged Jerry that.  It was amazing to see them together and I was happy for them.  













I was definitely envious, though.  The relationship that Fane and Jerry had was so special.  Everyone noticed it.  It was hard not to. There was no one Fane loved more than Daddy.  I was a distant third or fourth behind Uncle Taylor and Grandpa Hall.  There were many times that Fane acted as though he didn't even like me.  I'd be lying if I said that didn't sting a little.  But I always reminded myself that he would grow out of it someday and that I was special to him too.  Only he never did grow out of it.  His time here ended before he got the chance to.

It often seems like people put more focus on grieving mothers than grieving fathers.  Yet fathers suffer the loss just as much.  I think mothers and fathers tend to be affected by and deal with it differently.  That's definitely been true for us.  But make no mistake, we were both deeply affected by such a profound loss.  And we grieved hard.  We still do sometimes.  Though we walk this path differently, we walk it together.

It was Jerry that told me Fane was gone.  Actually, he didn't tell me.  I remember laying in the ER when he came in.  I asked very hopefully if they'd found Fane.  It was his teary eyes and the ever so slight shake of his head that told me what I already knew.  And I asked him to forgive me.  Even though it was an accident, I was at fault.  I asked him not to leave me.  I'd heard the divorce statistics after the death of a child.  He told me I was forgiven and that he'd never leave me.  He spent that long terrible night with me in the ER...went with me to the funeral home...took care of me while my arm healed...stood beside me at Fane's casket...held me while I cried.  We held each other.  He took the time to get the permit and approval to have Fane buried on the property where we'll build our house.  We were there together as they put the vault in the ground.  Jerry himself filled the hole while I looked on.  Just the two of us.  And never once did he blame me.  I've apologized for the accident more times than I can count.  If it weren't for my mistake Fane would likely still be here.  It was because of me that he was gone.  I felt like I had robbed him of such a beautiful father/son relationship.  Jerry just told me that if it weren't for me he'd never have had him in the first place.  He's shown me more grace than I could have hoped for.  I look back on the could haves, should haves, and would haves.  Jerry looks toward our eternal future where we'll be reunited for good.















It seems these days that the role of husband and father is undervalued in our society.  That's an entirely different subject that I don't care to elaborate on in this post. Though, I will say that it's a load of foolish nonsense.  I am unashamed to say that I need Jerry.  Not only do I need him but our kids need him too.  Frankly, our society needs more fathers and husbands like him.

I am so thankful for both of these guys.  I'm thankful for my husband who loves me in spite of my flaws and failures.  He's seen me at my worst and still he stays.  I'm thankful for his strength when mine is gone.  For his faith in uncertain times.  His work ethic.  Just thankful that he's mine.  I doubt that he will ever truly grasp just how much I adore him.







 And I am thankful for my firstborn, Fane.  I am thankful that I had him for three and a half years.  Though, truth be told I was hoping for another sixty or seventy.  I am thankful for the joy he brought to our lives.  For his innocence and kind heart.  For his blond curls and dimples.  His sparkly eyes and infectious laughter.  I am thankful for the memories.

The truth is, my life has been forever changed on account of both of these important men in my life.  I'd like to think I'm better because of it, but in all honesty I'm probably not the best person to make that judgement.













 So on this, Fane's 6th birthday/Father's Day I celebrate the only man I've ever loved and the kid who turned him into a daddy.  I love them both more than words can say.  And I'm proud to call them mine.

"I'm Happy, Mama"

I have a video from Christmas morning two years ago.  As per Hall family tradition I have my kids in their brand new matching pajamas which they opened and slept in the night before.  Jerry and I are getting them situated in front of the Christmas tree for a sibling picture before the chaos of present opening.  Hawke was 2 months old at the time and not too entirely pleased with the whole process.  He was making us well aware of the fact to which I responded with something about how Hawke wasn't happy.  And I can still hear Fane's little voice saying ever so sweetly, "I'm happy, Mama."

And he was happy.  Almost all of the time, not just on Christmas.

So now on Christmas day two years later, I woke from a short nap following the gluttony that is Christmas lunch at my Grandma Hall's house.  The rest of my family is still snoozing.  And I see Buddy (whom I still sleep with every night, by the way).  And I am reminded of my little boy.  My happy little boy.  And I miss him terribly.  I miss what we had that we will never have again.  And I long for what will be when we are reunited in another time and another place.  I entertain thoughts of the gifts he would have opened this morning were he still here with us.  I grieve for the Christmas (and everyday) mornings that his siblings do not get to share with him.  And I despise the gaping hole that exists where he should be.  I just miss him.

I imagine that everyday in heaven is Christmas.  And through my tears I can hear Fane say, "I'm happy, Mama."

I imagine you are, Fane.  I imagine you are...

My 5 Year-Old Son

My little boy is 5 today.  He loves his two sisters and two brothers.  Despite the common squabbles that would suggest otherwise, he definitely loves them.  He loves having little brothers to play with and likes to show them how to be little boys.  He is so proud to be the man of the house when Daddy is away.  He likes tractors and trains, dinosaurs and dogs.  He likes to play in dirt and splash in mud puddles.  He likes to run and play catch and chase bugs and frogs.  His favorite food is macaroni and cheese.  He's excited for his birthday cake.  My little boy is 5 today.

At least he would be 5 if he were still with us.  And I imagine all of the above descriptions would be accurate.  But he is not here with us anymore.  And he is not 5 today.  He is forever 3 1/2.  So I can only imagine what a 5 year-old Fane would be like. 

I was up late last night.  It occurred to me that I was putting off going to bed.  I realized that I simply didn't want to go to sleep.  I knew that when I woke up Fane would still be gone.  And I just didn't want to spend his birthday without him.  I still don't want to. 

Today is overcast and gloomy.  It's fitting for my mood.  Oh, how I'd love to be getting ready for a birthday party.  Instead I am making a cake that we will eat without him.  We will take it to him and sing "Happy Birthday" but we will eat it without him.  I am sad for us, but happy for him.  I've always been a fan of birthdays.  Birthdays are fun here.  Just imagine how much better they are in heaven when you have Jesus to celebrate with.

Happy Birthday, my sweet Fane! My sweet, sweet boy...we miss you so!!