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.”
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”
“Good morning!” I hear mama say. Today, we are going on an airplane ride. We are taking a trip. Mama says it’s very far. Driving our car will take too long. The airplane will get us there much faster. Daddy said we have to pack our bags. My suitcase is a blue rectangle with wheels. It’s my favorite. I can pull it all by myself. I pack all my favorite things. My mama helps me. She said I also need to pack some clothes. I almost forgot those! “Don’t forget your toothbrush,” said Mana, that’s Spanish for sister. She’s older than me. Dada asks, “Are we ready to go?” We all say, “Yes! Let’s go, go, go!”
The airport is very big and full of people. I stay close to mama as we hurry to our gate. There’s lots of people working at the airport. They have blue shirts on and almost look like police. Mama said they are called TSA workers. Dada said they are to keep us safe while we go through the airport. They put our bags through a slide machine. It looks like a tunnel or a cave. Mama said it’s to make sure there are no dangerous things in the bags. It’s to keep everyone safe. I thought that was very cool. We then had to walk one at a time through the silver pathway. It looked like a door but only with no door. It was silver. Dada said I had to be brave because I had to go through all by myself. It was scary. I didn’t want to go by myself. Mama walked through the silver pathway first. Next, it was Mana’s turn. She was so brave. I wanted to be just like her. It was now my turn. Would I be able to do it. I looked at Mama. She smiled at me and said, “You can do it. You are a big boy.” Mana cheered me on. I looked behind at Dada. He said, “You are my brave boy. You got this.” I took a deep breath and stepped forward. I kept looking at Mama. The worker said, “Come on through. Ok, you did it. Thank you for being such a brave boy.” I looked back at Dada, and he gave me a thumbs up. I was so proud.
We all grabbed our stuff that had gone through the tunnel. We didn’t have anything dangerous. Mana handed me my blue suitcase, and I began to roll it as we headed toward our gate. It was a long way. I started to feel tired. Dada saw that I was walking slower. He scooped me up and placed me on his shoulders. Mama helped me and pulled my bag for me. I was very thankful that Dada had picked me. Everything was much easier to see on his shoulders. He was so tall and strong. I know one day, I’ll be big and strong like him. We finally made it to our gate. It didn’t take long before they let us get on the plane. They have you get on the plane in a certain order. Mama looked at our boarding pass and told us the group number we would line up in. We waited for that number and then, we got in line to get on the plane. We had to go through a long hallway that also seemed like a tunnel. It was taking us to the entrance door of the plane! I was so excited! Mana had been on a plane before so she already knew where we were going. She saw my nervous face and told me it was ok. I didn’t have to be scared. The tunnel was leading us to the door of the airplane. We were almost there!
Once we got inside the airplane, we had to walk in between seats. It was very tight. Mama kept saying sorry to the people sitting in the seats. We kept bumping them with all of our bags and suitcases. We had to look on the top of the seats where they had the numbers and letters so we could find our assigned seats. When we finally found them, Dada said we had to place our suitcases and bags in the safe place on top of the seats. They were like cabinets that opened down. They were sort of big for our bags to fit in. We put her suitcases in the bin, and then, we sat down in our assigned seats. I got to sit in the middle in between Mama and Dada. Mana was sitting in the same row but on the other side. We could still see her. There were people sitting in front of us, behind us, and across from us. The plane had many seats, and there were many people in a hurry to put their bags in the bin. The plane had workers that were also wearing blue uniforms, but they didn’t look like police. Mama said they were called flight attendants. They looked very nice. All of them were smiling and being very helpful. They offered Mama to help me with my seatbelt. Mama said she could do it and told them thankyou. They said I was such a big boy because I wasn’t crying. There were other kids on the plane that were crying, but I knew I had to be brave.
There was a man’s voice that came on the plane. Dada said it was the speaker or intercom. “Welcome on board to our airplane. We are so glad you are flying with us,” said the man. Dada said that the man’s voice was the pilot. He flies the airplane. The pilot said we would be taking off in a few minutes. We had to be buckled up and seated for take off. The flight attendants also spoke on the intercom. “Please listen carefully to the following instructions as we get ready for take off.” They were standing in the middle of the seats or the aisle and were showing everyone directions on how to buckle the seatbelts, where the restrooms were, the exit doors, and some other stuff I didn’t quite understand. Mama said it was important to pay attention to them because they were being helpful. When they had finished, the pilot came back and said, “prepare for take off.” I was a little nervous. I looked up at Dada as the plane started going faster and faster. He smiled at me. Mama grabbed my hand. I felt my body push back into my seat as the plane started to come off the ground. We were in the air! I felt us going higher and higher. I was flying!
The plane was really loud. Dada said it was the big engines making that big, loud noise. It hurt my ears a little bit, but I was tough. Mama said it was going to be a long flight so I could take a nap. I rested my head on Mama’s leg and closed my eyes.
I woke up to the sound of the pilot on the intercom. “I have some good news. We will be arriving soon. Please have your seatbelts on ready to land.” The attendants were walking up and down the aisles picking up trash and making sure we were all ready for landing. Dada let me see out the window. Everything down below looked very tiny from high up in the sky. As we started to go lower to the ground, the tiny things started to look bigger. I could see cars and houses and tall buildings, but they all still looked very small from the airplane’s window. The plane’s wings were so big and wide. All the clouds looked so fluffy and close. I pretended to reach my hands out and grab one. It was silly, but they were so close to the window that I felt I could put one fluffy cloud in my pocket. We kept getting lower and lower to the ground. Everything that looked tiny before started to look bigger and bigger. As the plane was getting ready to touch the ground, the plane shook and trembled a bit. It moved me around in my seat. Mama put her hand across me so I could feel safer. I was happy I was sitting next to Mama and Dada. They made me feel safe and brave. The plane was stopping really hard. I started to lean forward in my seat. Mama squeezed me back toward the seat. It felt like I was going to fall forward out of my seat. It was a very scary feeling, but with Mama’s arm across my body, I knew that I was okay. The airplane was now moving very slowly on the ground. We had landed safely! The attendants said we were taxiing or moving slowly towards our gate. We were almost there! They said we had to stay in our seats until the seatbelt sign turned off.
Once the plane stopped in front of our gate, the seatbelt light turned off and we were able to get our bags from the bins. We had to wait patiently for the people in front of us to get their stuff first. Mama said it was good manners to wait our turn. We grabbed our bags and started walking out of the plane when it was our turn. The friendly attendants and pilots were at the exit telling everyone bye and saying thank you. They even gave me a high five, and said I was a brave, big boy. I felt very proud. We walked down a big, long tunnel again until we entered another big airport. Dada said we had to go to the baggage claim to get the rest of our luggage. After we grabbed all of our bags, we waited outside for our ride. They would take us to our hotel.
I was happy we had made it. We walked outside to wait for our ride. Dada put me on his shoulders again. I looked up at the sky. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sun was going down. As I looked toward the evening sky and the sun going down, I saw the moon. I love finding the moon even during the day. This time, it was almost a big circle. It was missing some part. Mama saw me looking at it and said it was not a full moon. She called it “waxing gibbous.” That was a big word for me. I just loved the way it shined even when it wasn’t all the way dark. I was happy.
Dada said he was proud of his “Sunny boy.” Mama said, “Papasito was so brave.” Mana even gave me a high five. I was proud of how tough and brave I was on my first airplane ride. As we waited for a ride to arrive, we said a little prayer. We thanked God for arriving safely. We were safe. We had a good flight, and I can’t wait to do it again.
“He’d begun to wake up in the morning with something besides dread in his heart. Not happiness exactly, not eagerness for the new day, but a kind of urge to be eager, a longing to be happy.”
Jon Hassler
In memory of Rocky Russo Serna aka Pebs. We lost this precious baby boy at only 21 months. In his short life on this Earth, he experienced many different adventures. Pebble’s Adventures are true stories of his many escapades. He was and will always be a beautiful soul. These children’s book help to keep his memory alive, and share his many adventures through the eyes of a child.
Pebble's Pond 