A safe place where parents can express their grief after losing their beloved child.
Author: pebblespond
I lost my 21 month old son in a tragic accident. I've never felt so lost in my entire life. I learned deeply in my faith, my family, and friends. I desired to know God deeply, in a more intimate way because I knew that if I was still on this earth, I still hadn't fulfilled my purpose. I had so many questions that I needed Him to answer, and seeking God was my way of staying sane during my pain and suffering. I know what it feels like to lose a child, and this is one way that I know will heal some wounds. I wish to be a light to others, inspire those who are hurting, and help those who have lost hope.
Happy Heavenly 10th birthday, my love. It’s hard not to think of how life would be if that tragic day wouldn’t of occurred. It’s hard to not think of how tall you would’ve been or the type of haircut you would have. I ponder and imagine you at 10, and all I can see is your little feet, your little hands, and your sweet smile with your incomplete teeth. I only see your 21 month self running awkwardly, and allowing me to still carry you when you fall. In a way, life has stopped. My heart, part of me, is still living in those moments. And yet, life has no mercy to shattered and broken hearts. It keeps going and today, you would’ve turned 10. Double digits! I wonder what theme you would’ve picked. I know you are celebrating, living in eternity with Jesus. I know you are happy and safe. I just miss you. One day soon, I’ll get to hug you again, and I may never let you go.
It’s hard to believe it’s been 8 years. Eight long years since I last held you.
If I had known eight years ago that life would have changed this much, I would’ve never believed I could’ve survived it. If someone had told me that I was going to lose my son in September of that year, I would’ve told them that I was going to die with him. There was absolutely no way I could survive my child dying. And in a way, I didn’t. I’m not that same person. Neither is my daughter or my husband. We all had to change. We all were broken, dead, in a way. Tragedy does that to a person. You have to change in order to live. Find your new self, your new norm. My son was our life, our energy, our complete circle, and we had to learn how to live with that circle now being broken. We had to learn how to mend the circle again.
I know by now all that have read my blog know how strong my faith in God is. The only reason we have survived in a sane manner is because of His grace. We are here because He gave us the strength, the peace, the guidance, the perseverance to keep going. We suffered and felt real agonizing and excruciating pain when we lost Pebs. We didn’t even want to live. We didn’t even see the purpose, but my seven year old daughter didn’t deserve such cruelty. Her life was complete, and her brother being called to heaven and seeing her parents in a state that no seven year old should ever have to witness was difficult enough for any child to bear. Amoree deserved her parents to fight for a “new normal” life.
I can’t begin to tell you how this tragedy has affected my Amee. She struggles with self-esteem issues, confidence, and relationships. She has a hard time trusting and getting close to anyone. She saw the devastation and agony in our eyes for years, and she knows true pain. Her struggle in believing in herself, trusting others, and talking about her feelings is an ongoing battle. I pray so hard for her because she is now 16 years old, and self-esteem and confidence are the last things you want your daughter at this age to lack, but then there’s God! I know He’s still working through her, with her, and for her. He is creating a beautiful, powerful woman of God. He turns the pain and hurt into good for us, for her. He is working even though we don’t see it or understand it.
I didn’t know i
I was going to write tonight. It’s been many months since the last time I wrote. Mainly because of life and the busyness of the world, but this was put in my heart tonight. I wanted, needed to thank Him for His goodness, for His faithfulness. I don’t like remembering that day. The day we lost him, but I can now look back at his videos, his pictures, and smile. I know there is a reason and purpose for everything He has planned. I trust in Him. Through every storm, through every tear, every fear, every obstacle, my God will see us through.
Tonight, I thank Him. I give Him the glory. I put my Amee, my Raphee, my husband, and myself in His hands. We are Yours. We are grateful. We are faithful.
The first time I heard it was when Rock was away at work. It was an unbelievable scream full of fear. It was 4am. I was in a deep sleep when the screams and cries vaulted me from bed. Pebs was in his crib across the room from me. I ran to him. He was laying in his crib. His arms and legs spread out as if he was falling. His eyes were all the way opened, looking up to the ceiling but in a blank stare. I picked him up, but instead of him naturally embracing my hold, his arms and legs stayed opened as if he was falling. I tried to hug him, but his body was stiff. I began to rock him and tried to calm him down. He kept screaming. He kept crying. I felt helpless. I was lovingly trying my best to comfort him, to let him know mama was there, but his night terror wasn’t stopping. It lasted for maybe a minute or two, but it felt like an eternity. When he had finished screaming, his crying was mixed with heavy breathing, some gasps as if the fear was still lingering in his thoughts. He was crying and gasping as I held him, rocked him, and comforted him. I squeezed his little toddler body until his breathing slowed down and became somewhat normal. I pulled him away and looked at his swollen eyes from all the crying. I asked him if he was okay, but he just fell back into my arms ready to fall back asleep. How I wish he could’ve talked to me about his nightmare.
The night terrors started after he turned one. They weren’t very often but usually when Rock wasn’t home. It was frightening to see my baby boy in such fear. I tried to explain how scary it was to Rock, but he couldn’t understand why I couldn’t calm him down. One day, he was finally home when it happened. He was able to see the fear, the true terror in Peb’s eyes. I could see how it affected him seeing his son and being so helpless. He understood what I had been going through. He realized there was nothing at that moment that we could do to help Pebs. I saw the fear in Rock’s eyes when he saw Pebs, his little arms spread out, his back arched, his eyes looking straight up with nothing but straight fear in his eyes, his screams full of dread.
These episodes didn’t just happen in the middle of the night. There were a few times we were in the car and ‘he’d wake up in his car seat in complete horror. I would have to sing, speak to him calmly, until he was out of the nightmare he was experiencing. He would always need a few seconds to catch his breath, calm down, and then, he’d fall back asleep. I discussed it with his pediatrician, but she assured us that they were just night terrors and he’d “grow” out of them. I’m sure you know by now, that’s not what I believed, and he didn’t “grow” out of the nightmares.
Looking back at these episodes, it’s hard not to think about how much he knew or felt. Was this a revelation of what was to come? I know it sounds silly or torturous in a way, but I also had a dream of Pebs passing away in my arms the Friday before the tragedy so it’s not unbelievable to think this could be a possibility. It is hard to imagine this happening to a baby, toddler per say, but if you had experienced just a tad bit of what I went through, this wouldn’t be hard to believe. I know God was with my Pebs when he left this Earth and went to Heaven. I imagine him being welcomed by so many loved ones, Angels, and Jesus! I can imagine them embracing him, loving on him, and all of it making sense all in one touch. But for my human mind and heart, it’s hard to understand the why behind it all. Why did my Pebs have to hurt, to fear? Why did he have to experience that type of nightmare? Did he dream of his fate before it happened? Did he know what was going to happen? So many questions unanswered, and it could drive me insane if I constantly dwell on them because the answers I’m seeking can’t be answered here on Earth.
I know what I experienced with my son. As a mom, we know our kids better than they know themselves. I know Pebs wasn’t just having a nightmare. I saw the terror in his eyes, the fear in his screams, the agony of trying to breathe when it had finally passed. I know what I saw and what he felt. It was real. It was scary. Do I know exactly what it was? Will I ever be able to prove it? Only God and Pebs know, and I’m sure when I see them in Heaven, it will all make sense. I won’t even have to ask. It will all be known. Writing about this was hard. It was another reality that tears me apart. It was part of our nightmare. I write about it for others. I write for Pebs. I write his story so that I never forget. I write because that’s what I feel led to do. I pray that it reaches those that it’s meant to reach.
“As for inflicting our sorrow on other people, one does not want to go around blathering and crying all the time. But perhaps it is our gift to others to trust them enough to share our feelings with them. It may help them deal with some of their own.”
Martha W. Hickman
“I am not mad; I would to heaven, I were, For then, ’tis like I should forget myself. O, If I could, what grief should I forget!”
William Shakespeare
Grief has indeed pushed men and women over the edge into insanity. Sometimes we may have felt this way ourselves.
I have the responsibility-and the power-to keep my life moving. -Martha W. Hickman
The first few days, weeks, and months after a tragic loss, there are loved ones surrounding you. They help keep you going. They bring food, help clean your house, feed your animals, take kids to school and sport functions. They keep you company, hear your stories of the one that just passed away, and bring some solace and comfort during the cloudy, foggy days. However, they, too, have a life they have to get back to and you are left with trying to figure out your new “normal.” When the house begins to be less chatty and silence over comes it, fear and pain grip at your inner soul. How will I live? How can I do this life? You understand that people can’t stay in your home forever, and yet, a big part of you wishes life never keeps moving forward. In a way, you desire this “stand still” of a life rather than it keep moving. Oh, if only there was a way to stop time or even turn it back to when we had our loved ones with us. But reality has set in and you now are required to keep moving with it. You can’t stop time. You can’t reverse it. You have to keep moving. We feel immobilized, at first, but slowly and clumsily, we take our first few steps into this moving new life. You find places and groups that understand your grief. Grief support groups, church, maybe new artistic ventures are all areas where you can share your loved one and keep their memory alive while doing the unavoidable task of moving forward. Living without your loved one seems impossible, almost unfair, but choosing to move isn’t a betrayal to your loved one. It is a necessity for your loved ones that are still present on this Earth to see and experience a different “you.”
“To keep a lamp burning we have to keep putting oil in it.” -Mother Teresa
How will you keep your lamp burning? We need to find healthy, positive sources of energy, love, comfort, strength, and peace. Everyone will have different avenues, but the important thing is to keep fueling your lamp, to keep moving forward. You will never know where it will lead you. Just keep moving. Just Go, Go, Go!
The moment we left the hospital, I left a part of my soul there with my Pebs. I would never be the same person that I once was. I was now a mother who had lost a child. The pain indescribable, unimaginable, unspeakable. My heart was broken into a million pieces. I had no desire to live, to continue. I had never felt rage, sadness, emptiness, and still love all at the same time. I wanted someone to come and make everything normal again. I just wanted to wake up from the nightmare, from this horrible reality.
All of my family and friends worried about me. I could see it in the way they looked at me, hugged me, and talked to me. They saw me when I was losing my mind in agony. I had walked, practically crawled to the place of the tragedy, the place where Rocky had handed me my baby boy’s body. I screamed as I tried to go inside the septic tank. I yelled, wailed, and laid there in pain trying to understand my life. I was surrounded by loved ones, but all I wanted was to go crazy and lose my mind alone. I realized the importance of their presence. Without them, I would’ve entered that hole and allow myself to go in that dark place of death. I felt their loving hands on my back, caressing my head, feeling their touch as they sat their next to my soulless body. I had no desire to live, and my loved ones knew that, and knew the importance of their presence. They tried to get me to stand up, to go back inside, to sit me up but without success. I was not myself. All of the emotions I had controlled during the time we were looking for Pebs, trying to stay calm and collected, had poured out viciously at that very moment. I felt like I had lost my mind. I was screaming, crying in pain. A crying scream from a mother who lost their child is an unforgettable sound. One will know once you hear it, the pain, the hurt in that scream.
Rocky had to come pry me away from the “place.” I yelled at him to put me down, insisted he let me stand up. With tears in his eyes, he set me down. With our loved ones standing around, some with tears in their eyes as well, we just held each other as we wept in pain. What were we going to do? How were we going to move on? My screams were mixed with cries, questions, angry words, and the name of my son. My Pebs. It was a moment I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It was night time during this particular, terrible moment. When we finally released each other’s embrace, I looked into Rocky’s eyes. Same eyes that I had. Lost. So lost. There wasn’t much to say right there. Not much you can say when you are filled with extreme pain, but as our friends and family went back inside, Rock and I slowly started to catch our breaths and clear our minds a little bit. As we wiped tears from our swollen faces, we looked up at the clear, star-filled sky. I leaned into his chest as we stood there staring up. I was talking to God, angrily. Nothing pleasant was in my thoughts at that moment, just anger, rage, devastation. We stood there, leaning on each other, slowly calming down, hearing each other’s breathing and looking up at the night sky. We weren’t speaking, just slowly crying and trying to somehow grasp the reality of our life. As we stared at the black, clear night sky, a shooting star flew over us. It was in an instant that it happened. So sudden and quick, but we had both seen it. I felt Rocky squeeze my arm as it dissipated from sight. We allowed the soundless tears just to stream down our faces again. Somehow, to us, that was a sign from our Heavenly Father that He was holding us up.
Rocky said almost in a whisper, “we are going to be ok.” We had to be ok. We had Amee and she needed and deserved both parents sane, healthy, and happy. She deserved a “normal” life. Someway, somehow I had to get it together for my daughter. She still needed her parents. She didn’t ask for her brother to pass away. She wanted her life to be filled with laughter, love, joy, just like before this tragedy, and I needed to find a way to give that to her. But, how? How could I when I was so broken? I had to grieve and heal for her. And at that moment when we saw the shooting star, I knew that God was going to be with us in this new life we were about to discover. A new normal.
During my healing, I had several of my “episodes.” Many were in the shower where I was alone and vulnerable. I had a few at the pond where I would spend every day reminiscing and talking to Pebs and God. One evening, I was at the pond. The night was cool and getting cooler as I sat there at the edge of the bridge. My tears started flowing, the grief of wave was about to hit. In an instant, I was laying on the bridge in a fetal position in pain, wanting it all to end. I had my depressing thoughts that filled my mind. What if I just slowly allow myself to drift into this water? I want to feel my heart stop beating, just like my Peb’s. I want to feel my body shut down, and just let it all go. My thoughts were selfish but real. I just laid there thinking I could end it all right here, and maybe finally see him again. But I heard a voice in the distance, very faint calling “mom, mom, mama.” I sat up, wet from the pond waters. I looked around thinking I would see Amee from the house, maybe she was looking for me. There was no one. As I pulled myself out from the waters, onto the bridge with the tears rolling down my cheeks, I sat at the edge looking up. I heard the voice calling for mama. That’s what I was. I was still a mom. My daughter. My Amee. She was inside while I was thinking of leaving her. How selfish of me. I let the agonizing pain out in screams, in cries, in shrieks. I was disappointed in myself. How could I do that to my daughter? I was ashamed, and grateful that the voice reminded me of my purpose. It was time to get up.
It is true that our children save us. Amee saved me in more ways than one. The episodes still exist. The pain doesn’t go away. Every time I write, I cry. Sometimes, I have to stop and compose myself before I continue. It’s hard reliving those moments. It’s a very scary, painful place I have to return to, but it’s also a part of who I am now. I lost my son. My daughter lost her brother. My husband lost his boy. It’s a reality. Many that don’t know our story, see us and would never know about Pebs. For me, it’s important and necessary to write. Writing my story keeps Pebs and the memory of Pebs alive, and may bring hope to those that may have a similar situation. His life meant so much more than just 21 months. He was meant for so much more than just his life on Earth. It’s beyond those few months. As a mom, I will use the gifts and talents that God has given me to tell his story and ours. It is for a reason. It has a purpose. I pray it will be enough for Him. I pray it reaches those that need it.
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”
“Whoever survives a test, whatever it may be, must tell the story. That is his duty.”
Ellie Wiesel
September 26, 2017 started the beginning of a new “normal” for our family. The sun rose without any remorse that my son was no longer with us. It cared not that we hadn’t slept, that we had spent hours and hours weeping, sobbing, begging, pleading, praying for a miracle with no avail. I have no recollection of where I laid my head down that night. We arrived from the hospital after midnight. I remember collapsing on my couch surrounded by my mom and other family members. My mother, a stronger woman than I could ever be, made the complicated tasks of calling loved ones that hadn’t heard the tragic news. I rested my swollen, drenched eyes on the couch’s pillow. I don’t recall much after that moment. Everything after that comes in vague, obscure pictures. Zombie-like is a what I use to describe myself in those days after the tragedy. The pain makes it near impossible to function rationally, much less think clearly. But death has a funny way of showing apathy towards your feelings. Arrangements still had to be made for my baby boy. I had to plan a funeral.
That day, which was a Tuesday, CPS came to visit. Anytime a child dies, it is protocol to do an investigation. Three employees from CPS talked to me and asked me what had happened the day before. I retold my story. I talked about the events leading up to his disappearance. I recalled the moment we found him. The tears never stopped. The pain in my chest must’ve been felt by all those listening because tears were being wiped away from their faces. I remember hating every bit of that situation. Telling the story of my son no longer being on this earth just made it all too real. I wanted to wake up from the nightmare, not relive it by having to explain what had happened. They wanted to speak to other members of the family that were there especially to Amee, my 7 year old daughter. They gave me their card and asked, “demanded,” that we take her to their facility for a personal interview. I agreed at that moment. I just wanted them to go away. Our family members from Freer had arrived during their interview and all I needed was to be held by them. CPS gave me their condolences, their business card, and said they would keep in touch. I immediately went to grandma and fell into her petite body for a full embrace. I crumbled into a million pieces all over again. I thought I was being strong for her while she wept in my arms, but she was the one holding me up.
I spent most of those days outside, wandering, weeping, and praying it was all a nightmare. I spent many hours in the pond, where my Pebs and I would frequent during our days together. My sister, with the help of my cousins and close friends, had the arduous task of finding a funeral home for our Pebs. I never even had thought about it. The first time I even heard of planning the funeral was when my sister asked me where I wanted him buried. I have no idea of the day we had a discussion about it, but one thing I was adamant about, was that I didn’t want my son buried in a cemetery where I had to drive and visit. I wanted, needed him with me. I was going to get him cremated. I wanted to place his ashes in my home. I was going to have some of his ashes placed in necklaces for me and many of our family members. I’m so grateful that no one questioned my decision. It didn’t feel right to have him buried with strangers where I could only visit him. My brain couldn’t make rational choices at that time, but i was unwavering about having him cremated. My sister began the unbearable duty of calling around for cremation and funeral services. We settled for Clayton Funeral services and went for a visit 3 days after my Pebs left this earth.
My parents, Rock, and my sister were all present as we made decisions about his casket, the different fees, colors, etcetera, etcetera. All I cared about was what necklace options did they have to carry his ashes. It was torturous sitting in that room, talking to the funeral director about how I “wanted” my son funeral service. I DIDN’T WANT ANY OF IT!!! I wanted to wake up from the nightmare. I wanted my Pebs back! I wanted him in my arms. I wanted to see him run, jump, clap, sing, dance, point, smile, laugh, cry, and be alive! I hated it. Every minute of it. And still, we had to make decisions. We had to give them a payment. We had to face the painful reality.
I chose a heart cremation pendant for our family and friends, a baseball one for Rocky, and a moon-shaped one for myself. I was trying to think of a way to show my gratitude to all those who were trying desperately to help us. This was my way of thanking them. I couldn’t buy everyone one, but I tried to give to as many as we could. I knew many, many of our family and friends loved my little boy. I needed to share him. I wanted to try and heal their hearts as well. I wasn’t the only one hurting.
We had so many people help plan for this depressing day. One of our friends made us green shirts with our Pebs face in the front and a beautiful quote on the back. Someone else made us green Pebble bracelets for all to wear. My aunt from down south had photo bins made with my Pebs face and dates. We had our softball family start a gofundme to help raise money for the funeral expenses. It was unbelievable how many people came together to help us survive this awful reality. We had my cousin help with producing a video of my sweet boy. This was nearly impossible for Rock and I to successfully complete without dying inside. Thankfully, we had loved ones that came to the rescue. All the while, I just survived. I wasn’t living. Life, as I had known it, was over. I was going to have to be reborn and live a new life without him. I wasn’t ready to move on. I didn’t have the strength. I hadn’t accepted the truth. I wasn’t ready. So, I just lived. I was on autopilot. I was dead inside but alive for others to see.
One of the pastors from our church directed the service. He had came earlier in the week to speak to Rock and me. He wanted to get to know us a bit better, to get to know more of Pebs, and to pray with us for strength, healing, and peace. Pastor Billy did an amazing job or that’s what I was told. I don’t remember the actual service. They said it was standing room only. That many couldn’t come inside because it was packed from wall to wall. We had one of our friends purchase pigeons to be released for the service, so we walked outside for this special moment. Loved ones were able to release the pigeons while a beautiful song was playing in the background, or so I was told. We walked back inside and have no idea what we said or how it ended but they told me I didn’t want to leave his casket. I was over him, crying, sobbing, unwilling to leave him.
After the service, we had a gathering at the house. We had food, drinks, and releasing of balloons in memory of our sweet boy. The house was packed with cars parked in the front and the back of the house. We had so many people there, supporting us, hugging us, and giving us their love and encourage us to keep moving. Again, a loved one went out of their way to purchase all the balloons and have them ready for this special moment. I have no idea how any of this could of been possible without our great circle of loved ones. I said some words before the release. I don’t know what I said. I’m sure it’s written down in all of my Pebble writings. I wanted to let all of them know, everyone that had traveled for hundred of miles or just a few, that our family will forever be grateful for their support, for their presence, and for their love for my Pebs. Once everyone had a balloon and wrote a sweet note on it, we released them together. The one thing that I had asked was to say “go, go, go” when we let them go. His favorite little phrase that he loved to say. We all said, “go, go, go” in unison as the balloons lifted higher and higher to the sky. The moon being present at the release of the balloons before dusk made it all more emotional yet so perfect in a melancholic but beautiful way. I really missed my son. I would’ve rather had him running in the yard, jumping for the moon instead of a house packed full of loved ones celebrating his life. I would’ve preferred seeing his angelic smile rather than our loved ones tears. My heart ached. It was shattered. Broken. I wanted to be lifted with those balloons. I wanted to leave this earth with them, float away and never feel pain again.
My Pebble shirt from this day is dingy, faded from all the times I’ve worn it and washed it. I’ve made others with a new logo that a sweet friend made for us in memory of our baby boy. The presents, gifts, cards, and intangible objects given to us on this day, before, and after we lost Pebs is impossible to describe. Regardless if I can remember them or not, I know they were a piece of the puzzle that helped us keep moving, to keep trying to “go, go, go.” Every time we had someone send us a message, a card, dinner, a smile, a surprise visit, a hug, a walk in the park, a book, a prayer, a plant, a bracelet, a loving word it gave us a tad bit of strength to take another step forward. Planning my son’s funeral, making decisions during a time that thinking isn’t even an option was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The service was beautiful because of our loved ones. It was successful because of all of those that were in our lives to help get it done, all those that cared for us. I will be forever grateful for them. We are blessed with such amazing, loving, kind, awesome family and friends.
December 2017 with Amee at her school celebrating Christmas. I had cried every day since I lost my Pebs.
Life didn’t stop just because of my aching heart. The funeral was the first step of acceptance. Many emotions followed from that moment. It wasn’t closure. It was facing reality. It was accepting a truth that was so painful, so awful, so agonizing. The funeral only caused my broken heart to shatter even more, but it allowed the mending to begin. Slowly. Painfully. Tearfully. My son wanted me to go, go, go and that’s what I was planning to do. I had no other choice. I had no other options. I would move forward one day at a time. I would go, go, go.
“Those that sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with them. “
Psalm 126:5-6
“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
The day my life changed. It has a date. The day that I always try to forget and avoid. September 25, 2017 was the day my son left this Earth and joined our Heavenly Father. The day I wish we could redo, go back to and make so many different choices. This day happened to be a Monday. It was the previous Friday that I had the terrible dream of losing Pebs. I dreamt of him dying from a fall. I dreamt him go limp in my arms. I dreamt of him being gone. Then, the awful reality happened.
Sleeping, peacefully my sweet boy.
Monday, September 25, 2017 was just another regular Monday. I woke up around 6:45 in the morning. Clumsily, I walked down the stairs to wake up Amoree for school. Rock was home which meant Pebs was going to be allowed to sleep in. On the days that Rocky was at work, I’d wake up Pebs and take him with us to drop off Amee at school. This day, he just rolled over onto his daddy’s side of the bed and continued his restful sleep. Amee and I left for school around 7:45. I don’t remember our conversation that morning, but I know we prayed for the Holy Spirit to surround us with His presence and to help us along the day. Her school isn’t far from our house, however, it took me about half an hour to get back home after battling the morning commuters. When I arrived home, my sweet Pebs and Rocky were already awake, playing, wrestling, giggling, and being boys. We had a full day ahead of us, thanks to Rock’s busy schedule. I made my boys some breakfast and fed Pebs in his high chair. Never in my wildest dreams would I had known that would’ve been his last time to eat in that place. Some of my most precious memories with him were made in that high chair feeding him. Those were some lovable moments. He would scoot his high chair towards me, pat it so I could sit him down, and give me his big, huge smile when I would lift him up to sit him down. I loved seeing his beautiful, brown eyes light up when I would do the airplane sound to feed him some “papa.” or food. We had some great, special moments in the kitchen with his high chair. Thank you for those, my sweet boy. After breakfast, we had some time to clean the house while Rocky was working outside in the yard. Pebble loved being with me, but when Rocky was home, he was his little shadow. Anytime Rock was outside, that’s where Pebs wanted to be. I remember almost forcing him inside a few times to change his dirty diaper or to get him his “agua.” or water. As soon as I’d change him or hydrate him, he’d hurry back outside. I’d open the front door for him and walk him over to where Rocky was so he’d know Pebble was outside with him.
We had to take one of our vehicles to the shop. I followed Rocky in the vehicle while he drove his truck. Pebs, of course, rode with Rocky. He had Elmo on in the truck video screen which was his favorite show at that time. We stopped at a gas station to get gas and some snacks. I captured a picture of the vehicles we were taking to get worked on. One of the few pictures I took that day. I didn’t know what impelled me to take a picture of the vehicles, but it helped me remember the day as I scrolled through my photos after the tragedy. In a way, I needed those pictures to refresh my memory of that terrible, unforgiving day.
When we arrived at the mechanic shop, Pebble was asleep taking his afternoon nap. We dropped off the vehicle that I was driving and climbed in the truck with Pebs while Rocky talked business with the mechanic. I had jumped in the truck in such a hurry, I had forgotten his diaper bag in the vehicle we dropped off. Little did I know, the next time I’d see that bag would be when my Pebs had already passed. It shattered my heart having to hold his bag, with his diapers, snacks, and his balls.
On the way home, my papasito woke up very peacefully and happily. I remember turning around and seeing his sweet face with his big smile. He was just giggling watching his Elmo. We arrived home with about an hour to spare before I had to get Amee from school. I remember being so sore from the day before. If you remember my previous posts, I had played softball the previous day, and my body was feeling every bit of it. I just wanted to lay down for a few minutes before I had to get Amee. My boys had other plans. I laid down on my bedroom’s floor, Rocky was laying on the bed, and Pebs was bouncing on my back and doing forward rolls all over me. Rocky was laughing hysterically because we had never seen Pebs do a forward roll before, and Pebble thought it was pretty cool to see his dada laughing which encouraged his somersaults and wrestling talents even more. I just laid there, hurting, sore, but extremely happy. I felt this euphoria of love in that moment. Unexplainable but unforgettable. I was in a wonderful, joyful mood that entire day. It was 3:00 PM. It was time for me to get Amoree. Two hours away from losing my son.
I asked Rocky if he wanted me to take Pebble or leave him. He told me to leave him. He was going to be doing some work in the garage. We had two of our close friends helping Rocky with yard work. I quickly left to the school while Pebble and Rocky walked toward the garage. I still picture Pebs shadowing his dada. He loved being in his presence, just as much as he loved being in my arms. I returned home around 4, one hour left from losing my son. I was in a hurry to fix Amee’s lunch for the next day, get her started on her homework, and prepare a snack for her before her second day of volleyball practice that would start at 6 p.m. that afternoon. Once I prepared her a snack and made her lunch, I finished some small tasks that I had pending before we had to leave to volleyball practice. I needed to measure my neighbor’s piano across the street that was placed in their garage because they had offered to give it to us. However, I needed to make sure I had room in the living room for it therefore, needed the measurements. I walked across the street with my measuring tape and proceeded to measure this piano that would soon be in our living room. As I walked back home, I saw my sweet Pebs, playing in our front yard. Sometimes, he climbed up the steps of our front porch, and other times, he was running from the steps to the front yard. He was being a boy and loving his play time. Every time I approached him or came close to him, I’d grab him and gave him a kiss. I had this sweet voice I always made when I talked to him. It was my special mama voice just for my baby.
The last time I saw him alive, he was standing on the bottom of the front porch, and I was walking inside the house. He turned to look at me, and I asked him if he wanted to come inside. He shook his head no. I turned to look towards Rock who was standing by the garage. I can still see him shake his head, smiling as I close the door behind me. It was 5:11 PM.
The choice that I made was to close the door with him outside. It tormented me for years. Why didn’t I just bring him inside? Why didn’t I let Rocky know he was going to stay outside? Why did I close the door? Why? Why? Why?
I walked back outside at 5:17 PM with Amee. Six minutes. He wasn’t standing in the last place that I had left him. He wasn’t there. We were headed to volleyball practice. Rocky was by the garage. The first thing that came out of my mouth was asking for Pebs. His response, immediately was, “He was just right here.” Crazy how panic mode doesn’t really set in right away. I’m a pretty calm person in dramatic situations. I was a lifeguard for years, a competitive cheer coach for even more years, and have seen my share of trauma, and I’m not one to think the worst in these type of situations. I would’ve never in my whole entire life imagined what was about to enfold. For the next 10 minutes, Rocky, Amee, our two friends, and myself searched for Pebs. Not frantically at first, but nervously. He never was lost, never out of our sight for this long. We always knew where he was. This was much different. I ran inside the house a couple times. I checked in every closet, in the dryer, under spaces. I remember the knot in my throat and chest building as the moments ticked by. The guys were searching outside in every crevice, under the house, in the treehouse. We have a huge pond in our backyard. Pebs would spend hours by the pond (not alone) throwing rocks into it. So naturally, that was one of the first places we checked. When he wasn’t there, we searched the outside and the inside of our house high and low. Twenty minutes passed by, and I had to make the phone call I never thought I’d ever make. I dialed 911. I didn’t even know what to say. I don’t even remember what I said. I know I was outside walking to the front of the house from the backyard. I thought maybe he had gone back to my neighbor’s house after he saw me measuring the piano. We hadn’t checked there so it was worth a shot. The dispatcher was very rude and accusatory, I felt. She asked me questions that I didn’t see the logic in at the time. All I wanted was for her to hurry up and get the police to my house. It’s surprising how your mind can remember certain things and forgets other incidents. I can’t remember if I spoke to female or male dispatcher or what was said, but I know it was the longest phone call of my life. The police arrived in minutes. I had called my neighbor, my sister, and my other neighbor. It had been 40 min since the last time I saw my son. It was like a nightmare. I felt I would wake up any minute. I made the next worst phone call. I had to call my dad. Peb’s guelo. His whole world. Dad must’ve heard the panic in my voice. I told him we couldn’t find Pebble. He couldn’t believe it and said he was on his way. He demanded I keep looking and not to lose faith. He tried to sound strong for me, but I knew better. I knew I had just broken my dad’s heart. My mom called me next. She’s even a stronger woman than I could ever be. She told me he’s fine. We will find him and he will be laughing, giggling, and everything will be okay. She told me she was on her way. Everyone was on their way to help find my son. It was over an hour since I had seen Pebs. Neighbors started showing up. They put pictures of him on our neighborhood social media. All the while, I knew he was close. I was in almost full panic mode now. I wasn’t thinking clearly, as much as I tried. I tried to close my eyes and hear my Heavenly Father. I tried to sit and pray, but I wasn’t able to calm down. I felt my heart beat going faster and faster. I was on the verge of losing my mind. I went back to the pond for the upteen time. I’m sure I must’ve dove into the pond about 20 times by this point. The police had a skimmer that was skimming the bottom of the pond. Every time I jumped in, I prayed I wouldn’t find him. I didn’t want him to be in that pond. I don’t know what time it was by this point, but our house was filled with caring neighbors and people that were helping us look for our son. I remember one time looking into Rock’s eyes and seeing emptiness, sadness, despair. I had never seen his eyes look like they did that day. He was sitting on the steps in our backyard. His face was in his hands. He said, “I won’t be able to live if something happened to Pebs. I can’t live anymore.” I grabbed his hands and don’t know exactly what I said, but I know that I mentioned Amee and how she needed him. I’m sure I said something about Pebs being ok and we’d find him. Our whole world was gone.
During our search, we used the security cameras to help figure out what could’ve happened to Pebble. At 5:12 PM, Pebble walked to the right side of the house, out of view of the cameras. In the security cameras, we could also see our dogs running back and forth by the pond so we assumed that the dogs were by the pond because that’s where Pebs went. It’s amazing how your brain doesn’t function correctly when you are placed in a dramatic situation. I couldn’t think. I remember trying to think rationally, and I couldn’t. I could see my son go the right of the house, and every time I passed the trampoline that was to the right of the house, I never thought to check under the trampoline. Never did I once think to look under it, where the septic tank was located. Never once.
We had the septic tank company come clean out our septic tank two weeks before Harvey hit Houston. When they came to clean it, they broke off the screws that had the lid screwed down. They were rusted and didn’t have another large size that was needed to hold the lid down. They were supposed to come back and fix it, but then we went through the flood and somehow, the lid came off some more. My husband, in the meantime, moved the trampoline over the septic tank so no one would walk over it. Didn’t think anyone would be able to walk under the trampoline. All of this was unknown to me. I’m not sure if anything would’ve been done differently even if I would’ve known. How would we have known the lid would’ve came off? How would we have known? It hurts me to my core that we didn’t know. Pain that is indescribable. The not knowing.
After I saw into my husband’s eyes, I began walking to the pond again. Pleading, begging, crying to God. Before I reached it, I heard this horrific scream, “Help! Help! We found him. Help!” The voice was my husband’s, and it was coming from the trampoline. Really? I passed by there a million times. I didn’t see him. Did I check under the trampoline? A million thoughts raced through my head as I raced from the pond to the side of the house. As I approached him, I saw our friend on his stomach, arms reaching down into this hole. Did I remember that the septic tank was even there? Why is he reaching into this hole? Rocky had jumped in and he was lifting our baby boy’s body up, out of the septic tank. His body emerged from this dark forsaken hole. It was 7:47 PM. His lifeless body was handed to me. I grabbed my baby boy and still remember seeing Rocky climb out of the septic tank. He had heroically jumped in when we finally had found him. He tried to rescue his Sunny Boy. Rocky was still yelling “help” as he was climbing out. I placed my Pebs on the ground, demanded those around me to pray, and I started CPR. We were surrounded by neighbors, family, friends and police. He was so cold. I don’t think I was performing CPR very long when the police took over. They made everyone get back and gently grabbed him from my arms. I heard my dad dying in pain. He argued with the police because he didn’t want to move. Rocky yelled back at my dad to let them do their job. I heard Rocky plead to me to wake up our son. I could feel the prayers from neighbors and friends. But, in a way, my life stopped. I could hear voices, see people around me, and feel my wet clothes, but my entire world was on pause. I remember being knelt next to my son’s lifeless body, rubbing his little hands and legs, frantically, trying to get some warmth back into his body. I talked to him. I wanted him to know I was there, that he was tough, and I needed him. I kissed him numerous times, making sure I wasn’t in the way of the police officers who were still working on him. I thought if I could just kiss him enough times, my love would revive him, my breath would bring him warmth necessary to live again. I’m not sure when the EMS arrived, but I remember one asking how long he had been in the septic tank. I had my eyes closed, holding my Pebs little hand when I heard the police officer say 2 hours. The EMS repeated, “How long?” And I slowly looked up at him and told him not to give up on my son. It had been two hours, but not to give up on him. They placed him on the ambulance bed. I don’t even remember when they took him from me. Most days in my mind, I’m still lying on that ground, next to the septic tank holding my baby boy’s hand. As they rolled him to the ambulance, my sister arrived. Her first image was of her baby nephew, godson was being rolled on an ambulance bed, lifeless. I heard her scream, shriek in pain, cry, and then, she found me. When she saw me, I collapsed in her arms. I fell into her embrace. Rocky was trying to get in the ambulance with his son, but they wouldn’t let him. He latched himself to the backdoors of the ambulance. fearfully looking through the windows, searching, praying for life to be revived. They were taking him to the hospital and my sis offered to drive us. They grabbed me some dry clothes, which I refused, and we jumped in her car in pursuit of the ambulance with my whole world at stake.
Happiness
My sweet boy and I at the playground.
His brand new cap. I fell in love with his mesmerizing smile.
When we arrived at the emergency room, Rocky went straight in. I stayed in the waiting room with my sister. I fell to my knees, cried, and asked God for mercy. I asked Him to take me instead just don’t take our joy. Don’t take my husband’s shadow, his son. Don’t take my dad’s whole heart. Don’t take our family’s baby, my daughter’s only brother. Don’t take for what we prayed for. There was a cop that soon came to get me, and the look on his face said it all. As I zombie-like walked into the room, I saw a scene from a horror movie. I saw tubes in and out of my son’s body, numerous people working on his tiny, fragile shell. I saw my husband unrecognizable. Rocky was knelt down beside him, but in a way, he was also just as lifeless. My son was laying on his right side. He looked like he was just sleeping, just like he had looked earlier that day when he napped. I reached over to touch him and he was even colder than before. Rocky, again, pleaded for me to wake up our son. I knelt down beside him and kissed his little legs, rubbed his tiny hands. Told him mama was there with him. I was again in a land of no time. Nothing seemed real. Then, I heard the doctor say, “I’m sorry ma’am. We’ve tried nine times. He’s not responding. Do you want us to try again?” I said, “Yes, please. The tenth time will work.” They put some medicine in his IV and started with compressions again. I know we tried to make a deal with God multiple times at that moment like bargaining with Him would change the outcome. I continued to rub him, kiss him, talk to him, but then I heard those terrible words. “I’m sorry. We did all that we could do.” They unplugged him. The chaos and noise of before suddenly went silent. He never moved. He just laid there like a sweet baby boy dreaming. It didn’t take long for Rocky and I to lose it alone in that room with our son’s lifeless body. I laid next to him. I wanted to warm him up, to keep him next to me. If I could just hold him long enough, he would be okay. He would wake up. I could hug him to life. Soon, we had my sister and other family and friends in the room saying their farewells. A room that was silent with immense pain, became a room full of dread. This couldn’t be reality. I don’t know how long we stayed there, but I know they let us stay a long time afterwards. My mom had stayed at my house to watch Amee, but when she heard Pebble went to be with Jesus, she wanted to see him. They gave us all the time we needed to spend with him before they covered him back up and wheeled him away again. As family members entered and said their good-byes, Rock and I were in disbelief, in despair. We were living in a moment that wasn’t real. I saw everyone come in, cry, touch Pebble, hug me, but I wasn’t present. I wasn’t alive. Rock wasn’t alive. We had died that day with our son.
It seemed like it was a short time that I was given to spend with him, but I know it was probably hours. Nurses and doctors gave us their condolences, but they were speaking to someone that had also just died. I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t live. When we finally had to leave, we walked out towards the waiting room. I took steps, but didn’t feel like I was walking. I think my sister and mother “pushed” me along. I didn’t want to leave him. When we finally entered the waiting room, I saw something beautiful. In that moment, I didn’t see it. I didn’t see how beautiful that moment was until later. What we were greeted with was a blessing, a light in a horrible, dark moment. The waiting room and outside of the hospital was filled, packed with our family and friends. Friends that lived over an hour away to be there for us. We had family members that had kids of their own who had school the next day that were there for us. We had a room full of love, hope, and support. My son was just taken form this world. My life is completely shattered, but we had love. I didn’t see that at the time, but I know I felt it. I didn’t see the hope, but I knew the support was always going to be there. I had friends and family hug me, hold me, touch me and whisper there love. Every bit of their support helped me take one more step to my sister’s car. I entered my sister’s vehicle as a grieving mother. That morning, I had prayed for the Holy Spirit’s protection, and that night, I was going home to an empty crib.
We live about 25 min from hospital. I don’t remember the drive. I don’t remember getting out of the vehicle. I have no idea where Rocky was. I remember laying on my couch with my family there. It was now 1AM. My mom made a phone call to grandma and Rocky’s dad. They would be there in the morning. I didn’t sleep that night. I still don’t sleep through the night. I wake up around the same times Pebs would wake me up to get him out of his crib to come into my bed. I breakdown frequently. I feared having to relive this day and my pain didn’t disappoint my fears. I dreaded writing about this day, and I pray, I’ll be able to do a better job of it next time. It all is so fresh and vivid with emotions still. Maybe that won’t ever go away, but hopefully, my writing will improve. It still haunts me, tortures me. Mondays will always be a painful day for me. I usually relive every hour on Mondays, counting down the last moments I saw him alive on that porch before I closed the door. Sometimes the torture of the unknown is not as strong as other days. There will always be some sort of guilt. It was my job to keep him safe. My responsibility. This is the main reason I hate remembering this day. I failed. I didn’t do my job. I know my son was welcomed when his last heartbeat palpitated on this Earth. I know Jesus was there, with open arms, welcoming my baby boy to Heaven. I know he didn’t suffer. I know he didn’t have any pain. I know he is safe. I know he is happy. We are sorrowful here on Earth because we love him deeply and miss him terribly, but how much joy will we all have the day we get to reunite with him in Heaven! He has visited me in my dreams on several occasions, and I feel him in my heart and soul. I know God turns all for our good. He allowed my son to be taken from me for reasons explainable to me. I don’t know why, but I believe that God has something special, something good, something miraculous coming from this tragedy. I pray, my tragedy, my grief, my story will bring hope to those that are going through their own tragedies.
“More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” -Romans 5:3-5
“And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” -Romans 8:28
This was taken the morning of the tragedy. Last picture of my son. Full of smiles.
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” -Jeremiah 29:11
“I will open my heart to the love that is around me.”
Martha W. Hickman
I felt the wave building. That wave of grief that hits you out of no where, rapidly and suddenly. I quickly put my running shoes on and took off. I began jogging at first, then increased my speed to a run. A mile down. I felt rage. The tears were streaming down my face, as I focused on slowing down my breathing and getting my rhythm in sync. I screamed inside. I used to run with my Pebs. I’d push his stroller as I enjoyed his presence with me. There wasn’t a stroller to push this time. Anger built up again. Rage. I should have my son with me, here. Another mile down. The tears kept flowing like an unstoppable waterfall. My run was now a sprint. My body was on autopilot. It knew the running trail I always took. My mind was elsewhere. I thought painfully and brokenheartedly about my Pebs. The guilt was overtaking my heart. All the what ifs were surrounding my mind. Mile 3 done. My body must’ve ached, but all I felt was anger. Rage. Wrath. Indescribable fury at the reality of my life. I was a mother that had lost her 21 month old son to a tragic accident in her home. Another mile done.
I was back at home. I had little recollection of my run. I was only out of breath because of my screams, my sobs, but my body was still raging in anger. I walked over to my vehicle and began washing it. Angrily. Blindly. I was cleaning the inside, throwing trash away and vacuuming. I had found a balloon from Amoree’s Valentines classroom party the day before. The balloon had fallen out of the car and was floating around while I kept cleaning the inside. Multiple times I came across the balloon, and instead of picking it up to throw it away, I would just stare at it and leave it there. I knew I needed to pick it up, but I would just walk over it. Rock had heard my tears, and walked over to hold me. I allowed myself to be held. And I finally released it all. I collapsed releasing it all. Rock held me. He wanted my pain to disappear. He wanted to fix the problem. “God wants us to have another baby, babe.” There was that subject again. “Why did he take my son away if he just wanted me to have another one?” I didn’t understand any of it. I just hurt. I didn’t want the pain to go away. I wanted my son back. After a few minutes, we released each other. I pulled away to come back inside the house. I was done. I needed to dry my face, my shirt, and sit down to talk to God. Rock stayed outside to close the garage door and put my car wash supplies away.
A few minutes later, he came back inside. I was sitting on the couch, praying, and looked up at him. His face was covered in tears. His eyes bloodshot from sobbing. He hadn’t been crying when we were outside holding each other. Why was his face covered in tears? I saw the balloon in his hands. He stared at me. Then looked back at the balloon that simply said, “I love you.” He said, “Babe, I know God wants us to have a baby. When you came back inside, I looked up and told God not to make me liar. I told Him that if He really wanted us to have a baby, to be with me and not make me liar. As I began walking to the garage door to close it, I looked down. I saw this balloon. I felt Him. I felt Him telling me that He loves me and would never leave me. For me to trust in Him.” Tears rolled down his face as he was telling me this. I cried, but there were no tears of anger this time. They were of hope. They were of love. They were of our Father holding us, guiding us, and giving us strength, answers during the dark times we were going through.
The enemy was working hard to break us, but my God was shielding us with His love, His Holy Spirit, His protection. We felt His presence all around us that day. Even when I was running, He was with me. He was with me when I was washing my vehicle. He was urging me to leave that balloon there because He would reveal it to my husband later. He knew that day would happen before I even started running. He knew. I needed to trust.
It’s at our lowest point that we can see His goodness, if we allow Him to work in us and through us. I would never wish any of this on my worst enemy, but oh the blessing of His love was revealed over and over again. I saw miracles on miracles, blessings upon blessings. I experienced His Spirit in my life, and I will not ever let that go. His goodness will be shared through my pain. His love will be told.
It has almost been a year since my Pebble went to Heaven, and I’m still struggling to climb out of the darkness, the black pit that grief shoves you in. At first, I didn’t even realize I was in this sorrowful hole. My life was a complete daze, blurred, and unimportant. I wasn’t living a reality. I’m not sure when I came to, but when I opened my eyes, pure darkness surrounded me. A faint light from high above shined into this tiny, gloomy pit. I didn’t care at the beginning, that I was trapped in this god-forsaken place. My son was gone. My whole world was shattered, but I slowly and faintly, began hearing voices. Voices of my loved ones calling for me. I heard my daughter’s sweet voice calling for her mom. My husband, in a very distant cry, heard him needing me. I, eventually, opened my eyes and looked up. I couldn’t see anyone, and the pain of not having my baby boy in my arms tortured my soul. I laid in a fetus position again, surrounded by darkness, hoping I would soon see my baby again. As I laid there, cold and miserable, my father’s voice came to me. He, too, was calling for me, needing me. I closed my eyes, praying it was just my imagination, but then, I heard my mother. Her cries of desperation, searching for her daughter’s return home. I could hear my sister, my nephews, my cousins, and my friends. The voices increased in volume, and my daughter’s would usually be the loudest. She sounded desperate for me. The whispers of my name, faint at first, but something in the voices that caught my attention. It wasn’t just the calling of my name, it was the love that emerged from their voices. My eyes sprung open, and yet, I could see nothing in the dark besides the faint light from above. I managed to pull myself up into a crawling position. For the first time since my son’s death, I decided to move. I began to hear another voice, but this one didn’t sound like the other familiar voices I had been hearing. It wasn’t an external voice. It was almost coming from my own heart, coming from within. I heard the sweet, soft sound of my Pebs telling me, “Go, go, go…” His famous words when we would race together. His three little words he would yell when he would run the bases. He was telling me to go, to move, to live. I sobbed, not wanting to move. I wanted to stay in that hole with him, in my grief forever, but he knew that my loved ones up above needed me, and I knew that too. I began to move, reluctantly, painfully. The darkest pits, filled with pain, suffering, and anguish are dark and steep, but once they feel movement, it’s almost as if they adjust to the person’s emotions. The steep slope began to adjust as I began climbing. It was extremely difficult at first. I slipped, fell, but I kept trying and kept climbing the slope and it began to not be so steep. There were many times I wanted to just slide down and return to my hole that I once laid in, but the voices were constant, “Mom,” or, “Sis.” Some voices I heard were of my name or my husband calling for me, “Babe,” but the loudest one was of my Pebs. “Go, go, go,” and so, I did. Every fingernail claw that penetrated the dirt, I felt myself getting stronger. Every step, slip, or every tear, I felt life seeping into my soul again. I allowed myself to look up every once and a while, and I would inch closer to the light. I could see more of the hole, and from up above, I began to see things in a completely different perspective. I never had been so close to dirt or mud before or really looked up at things from the very bottom of a pit. Everything looked different. The tree branches and their leaves looked majestic, swaying gracefully in the breeze. I would look at these things before but never really saw them. Grief has a way of revealing things to you that were always there but never really been seen.
I believe I’m still climbing. One day, I will be free from the pit that we call grief, but, as for now, I’m still trying to get out. I’m still moving forward. I get to communicate back to the voices now. I interact with them, and we occasionally laugh, sing, talk, cry, but I’m not completely out of the darkness yet. I’m being renewed through this journey, trudging, crying, and struggling. Every step I take forward, God is renewing my soul, my spirit, my heart. I believe this is why I see things in a different perspective. I’m not the same person I once was a year ago. When I fell into the darkness, I had a choice. I was going to be changed regardless, whether I wanted this change or not. Life had dealt me a new set of cards, and there was nothing I could do about it. My only choice was to stay in the darkness or to live. When the choice was made to move forward, His Holy Spirit took over because of faith. I believed He was with me. He would make all things for my good. As I moved forward, I prayed like I’ve never prayed before. Called onto Him every step of the way because I needed His strength to move me. He lovingly and full of mercy has stayed by my side throughout this entire journey. “You are so strong,” I hear people tell me, but they don’t know I’m still climbing. They don’t know my breakdowns. They don’t know my emotional battles. They don’t know it is His strength and not my own. They don’t know the mental war that is constant, day in and day out. They don’t know how many times I want to give up. They don’t know how weak I really am. They don’t know how there wasn’t another choice. They don’t know.
My handsome PebsMy first plane ride.He loved this day! Surrounded by balls!
Grief will take you into depression, unbearable sadness and agony, and unless there is a stronger power than our own flesh, our human nature will start searching for worldly “medicine” to make the pain go away. Parents that I have met who also lost a child, found temporary relief in anti-depressants, alcohol, drugs, and an abundance of worldly, sinful things to take their minds off the agonizing pain. My life would have been the same if I would’ve stayed in the dark pit of grief. Thank God I was already a believer. Thank God I had people praying for me. Thank God I was able to still see all of His blessings before it was too late. My Heavenly Father is not done with me yet. I know if I keep climbing, one day, I will exit this hole as a new person ready to fulfill his purpose for my life. I will stay faithful, believe in His promise, and live once again. I will continue to listen to the voices that early on urged me to start moving. I will hold them dearly to my heart and know that I am needed and loved. I will, especially, keep listening to me sweet Pebs as he tells his mama, “go, go, go.” I am son. Mama is moving. Mama is going to leave this dark pit soon. Mama will live happily and joyfully again, and one day very soon, we will be together again.
“There is no way out, only a way forward.” -Michael Hollings
We were going for a run. He doesn’t look that excited, but he really was happy.
“The relationships of our life are a system, an interlocking network, and when one element is affected, so are they all. The death of a loved one will unbalance the whole lot….It is a good time to pay attention, to make these relationships as good as possible. If we are buoyed and fed by satisfying relationships now, there is less other-directed energy floating around, trying to attach in unrealistic ways to the one who is gone.” -Martha Whitmore Hickman
Had taken Pebs to the pool with his cousins the summer before the tragedy. He loved it.
“He gives strength to the weary and increases power of the weak.” -Isaiah 40:29
“Where there is great love, there are always miracles”
October 2017. A month after my son left this earth, our softball family and friends went above and beyond for us. They put together the best softball benefit and fundraiser you could imagine. It seemed as if Everyone came together and demonstrated their support. They had raffles, merchandise, multiple teams entered, concessions, and lots of supporters. This day was full of love, support, comfort, and pain. Lots of pain. As much as I appreciated everyone showing us so much love, I would’ve much rather not have been the reason and the cause for such a benefit. The whole purpose of us being there, made my stomach, heart, and soul ache and shatter into million of pieces. I felt so much love and anger all at the same time.
Earlier in the day, I was in my closet getting ready to change when the grief wave hit me. It hit me like a thousand bricks plowing into my soul. I collapsed on the closet floor, screaming in agony. My son was gone. We were headed to a softball benefit in his honor. Why was this happening? Why me? Why my son? I didn’t want a fundraiser, a benefit, a get together. I wanted my son back. I felt like my heart was tearing out of my body. Everything hurt so much. At that moment, Rocky walked in. He picked me up and just held me. He cried with me, but mainly, just held me. We cried and held each other for several minutes. As we pulled away, in between sobs, wet tears, he said, “I think we need to have another son.” If my face wouldn’t of been covered in fluids from crying, I would’ve been able to see his face. I grabbed a towel, and as I dried my face, I tried to process what he had just said to me. Did I just hear him correctly? He wants us to do what? As I slowly started to catch my breath again from all the sobbing, I recall telling Rocky there was no way. “I’m not in the right state of mind right now to think. I can’t think about anything but the pain.” He said he really wanted to think about this idea. I solemnly walked away more perplexed and lost than before.
The day was filled with hugs, tears, melancholy conversations, more hugs and always tears. Rock and I were so grateful for everyone, but we were like some lost puppy dogs. We wandered around the fields helping, and yet, not really doing anything. All the while, hoping and praying this was just a nightmare.
Soon after, I began having my dreams. I kept dreaming of the name Raphael. I never would see anyone, I would just hear the name in my dreams. I had that name in my thoughts throughout the day. I decided to look up the name and it’s meaning. Raphael, means “God has Healed.” When I read those words, of course, I started bawling. The thought of having another child was real, and since Rock had brought it up that day, I kept praying about it. When I was in a fetal position hurled in pain, I’d ask God for guidance. During my Bible study sessions, I’d make that part of our prayer requests. I talked to Him on a daily regarding my husband’s recommendation, and if that was something He really wanted us to do. I NEEDED Him to talk to me. I wanted something from God. When the name became part of my dreams and thoughts, and then when I discovered the meaning, it was overwhelming. I felt Him answer me, even though I was reading it, it was almost as if I could “hear” Him whisper it to me. “God has Healed, Trust me and have this child.”
After that revelation, I decided to make an appointment with my OBGYN. After Pebs, I had tied my tubes. I needed to weigh out my options if we were going to be serious about having another child. My doctor shared with me some IVF options that would be the safest and most reliable option for us. She gave me a referral and hugged me longer and harder that day. She had delivered Pebs and was distraught about the news as well. My Pebs had made an impact on many, many people.
Our IVF appointment would be in 2018, but I wasn’t 100% convinced that God really wanted this for us. I was still angry, hurt, lost, basically still grieving. I always prayed about this because there was no going back if we decided to have another baby. Would I be the same mother? Would I be depressed and always compare them? Would I be a fearful mom? Scared of everything? Would I be obsessed with protecting him? I. Was. Scared. I was confused and so lost. I needed Him to guide me and help us with this decision. I kept searching. I typed in the name again. This time, I found a cite that gave more information than just the meaning of the name. When I saw everything that was associated with Raphael, I stopped for few seconds. I think I stopped breathing. I stared at my phone. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I looked up and wailed. I let it all out. I knew He had finally reached me. He had answered my prayers.
The color associated with the name Raphael is Green, the only color my Pebs was able to verbally tell me. We used green for our shirts, balloons, bracelets, during the funeral. The gemstone associated with Raphael was Moonstone. Moonstone. My Pebs, who loved to look for the moon during the day and night and would love to jump for it. The moon. I felt in that moment that I would try for another son. I knew that He had answered my prayers. He would bless this decision and would be with us throughout this new journey. Many people may think all of this was just a coincidence, the name and the color, the dreams, the name in my head, but I know God moves in mysterious ways. I questioned Him for a long time. I had many battles and angry conversations with Him. He knew my fears, concerns, questions, before I could even express them. He knew what we needed before we could even think of it. I can’t say I was ready, even when I knew that’s what God wanted of us, but I knew I needed to be obedient. The last thing I wanted was another baby, but God knew the plans of our life even when we didn’t. I didn’t trust it right away. I still had my doubts, but I always prayed about it. When I doubted and feared, He would show up with another miracle, another proof, that He was guiding us through these dark times.
Raphael. We started the IVF process in March of 2018. The egg retrieval process was done with no complications. I had a total of 23 eggs. 23. A number that my husband and daughter wear to play softball. This number now represents Pebs who loved watching his daddy and mana play ball. My Pebs, who loved spending his days and nights at the ballpark. The number twenty-three matters to us. A Lot. Once they fertilized the eggs, we had only 8 that matured correctly. We did the chromosome test on the 8 eggs, and 2 did not have the necessary number of chromosomes which meant, we had 6 fertilized eggs available. We did the genetic testing as well. Out of the six mature, healthy embryos, we had one male. Only one. That one was my Raphael. We were scheduled to do the egg transfer in June, but the lab had their semi annual inspection therefore, we had to wait until the following month. July 2018 was the egg transfer. In the room, with doctors, nurses, and Rocky present. I asked for us to pray. I had everyone in tears. I wanted God to know even though the doctor and nurses were doing the procedure, I needed Him to do the miracle. We needed His Holy Spirit to surround us with protection and for the transfer to be successful. August 2, 2018 we had a positive pregnancy test. September 4, 2018 we had a heartbeat. Raphael was alive.
The decision to have another son after we lost Pebs was not by human choice. God was in our hearts, our minds, our souls in order for Raphael to have been born. He knew I wasn’t ready. He knew that’s not a choice I would’ve made without Him showing me His plan. Raphael was God sent. Raphee has healed our hearts the only way God can heal. He was born 3-19-19. In an odd way, I find connections to everything since the tragedy. It might seem odd to you, but adding 3+1+9+1+9 is 23. Even his birth was a sign that he was meant to be born. He was meant to be here. He has a purpose. All of my fears, questions, concerns I had about him being born, about my parenting seemed to fade once I held him in my arms. I had God on my side, guiding me. If He needed Raphee here, then He would be with me every step of the way. I knew I wasn’t alone.
Raphee is now four. I’ve seen and witnessed God moving in him. He is very special. Not just because I’m his mom, but because there is something God is calling him to do. I have seen Raphee during prayer. I have heard him talk about his dreams. He has mentioned things that he shouldn’t even know about. He has talked about stuff that he isn’t supposed to know about regarding Pebs, and yet, he knows. It is very overwhelming just writing about it, but I know he is something special. I don’t know how or what, but Raphee is meant for this world for this time because of God. I can’t explain it but I will write about it someday. For now, Raphael, a name that means “God has Healed” was just a name. It was just a thought, but God allowed His love and power to shine through all the negative thoughts, fears, and doubts. He created a way for us to see His plan, and guided us to be obedient. Raphee is here not because of modern science, but because we trusted in Him, believed in what He was revealing to us, and were faithful to His plan.
“For with God nothing shall be impossible. ”
Luke 1:37
“Even through the experience of this pain, I am grateful for the intensity of my love for the one I have lost.”
Pebble's Pond 