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.”
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.”
August 25, 2017 was the date that Hurricane Harvey made landfall. That was a Friday. However, we didn’t experience any hurricane winds, rain, or storms until Saturday evening. There was a boxing match Saturday night Mayweather vs. McGregor. Rocky wanted to purchase the fight but was afraid Directv would lose signal in the middle of the fight due to the heavy winds and rain that had been building up earlier in the day. Therefore, when my cousin announced that he was going to order the fight, there was no hesitation in my husband’s decision to travel almost 30 miles with the family despite the increasing winds. We headed over to my cousin’s house. I remember being a little annoyed that we were driving into a hail-like storm, unable to see because of the heavy falling rains, just to see a boxing match. As I sit here today, I don’t regret going at all. We made some wonderful memories at my cousin’s house with Pebs. My parents, my sister’s family, my aunt and uncle, and other cousins were there with all the nephews and nieces. We had such an incredible night filled with laughter and love. Pebble loved to sing, (think in my previous blogs I mentioned our love for signing) and we would do it quite often. This day was no exception. During the fight, he began singing at the top of his lungs a song not understandable coming from his 20 month old voice, but he sang it so loud and strong you would think he was singing it for a congregation of millions. He had everyone at the house laughing and falling in love with him. My dad, who was my son’s number 1 fan, taught him how to hit a punching bag that my cousin had hanging on his back deck. It was so amazing seeing him and my dad punch this bag, making the sound effects “boom” and “pow.” Then, they pretended to fight each other and took turns with anyone who was around to take a round with him in boxing. My cousin had a couple of TV’s on during the fight, but we were all outside underneath his deck covering watching the boxing match. All the while, the storm was increasing in strength by the minute. Every round, the thundering rain would get louder and the wind would get stronger. I was getting nervous because I knew we had to drive in that rain back home, and there was no indication that it was “letting up.” Through the 3 min rounds, Pebs sang, hit the punching bag, fought anyone who wanted to play fight, and occasionally, came to get some food and a kiss from mommy. It was a wonderful night. We have spoken of that night since the tragedy on several occasions. We recall the moments that I mentioned, how funny Pebble was as he sang loudly even when he was told to quiet down because the men were trying to hear the TV. The feeling of joy, happiness, love during a hurricane that was blowing fierce winds and heavy rain seemed almost metaphorical. In a time where fear, doubt, and anxiety relates to the storms in life, one positive, little soul, full of life, joy, and love can change the mood, the attitude of the entire atmosphere. That was my baby boy.
The drive home was one of the scariest drives I’ve ever had to make. Thankfully, we arrived safe and sound at home. All my loves were fast asleep as we exited the vehicle into the house at night. It was way passed midnight by the time we fell into our safe and comfy beds. Pebs was placed into his crib but his usual 3 a.m. waking up call wasn’t far from occurring, and mama, routinely and lovingly, would pick him up out of his crib and lay him on her bed, in her arms to continue their sleep.
It was not much after 6 a.m. when I received a phone call from our friends who lived in Dickinson asking us how we were doing from the hurricane. I was surprised and caught off guard that they had called so early in the morning. It was still raining outside, but what I was about to hear want so unexpected. He stated that they had over a foot of water in their house and that he had his wife and their three kids upstairs safe from the rising waters. I was in shock. Flooded? I leaped out of bed and ran downstairs to check our house and Amee. We were in the clear, so far. I rushed outside, where it was still coming down, and realized our front yard looked like a lake. Our house is on beams and not on a slab, but our little house sits on almost 3 acres of land. From my front porch, I couldn’t tell where my yard started or ended. All I could see was water, and it was still raining.
Front yard before the Saturday rain. Almost all under water.
The roads all under water.
Roads headed towards Dickinson.
I called my friend back and asked how they were doing. He stated that he was taking his family some food upstairs, but the water just kept rising. He mentioned that there were some rescue boats that were supposed to go rescue people in these areas. I immediately tried turning the TV on, but didn’t have a good signal with our satellite connection. I started googling information regarding the rescue teams. In just a matter of hours, our city was on a rescue mission. We had neighborhoods under water, and people were scrambling to get out of their homes into a safe place. I, we, had to do something. I woke Rocky up and told him we needed to get the little jon boat on the trailer and head over to the Dickinson area. He was somewhat baffled, but didn’t take him long to get on board. Anyone that knows us, knows we are all about adventure, action, and helping others. Since we had the boat on the deepest part of our land, getting the boat on the trailer was not an easy task as all of that area was way under water. Juggling the rain and helping Rocky load the boat, our rendezvous to help rescue our friends took us a few hours to prepare and get organized. Through our preparation, I kept in touch with our friends and could hear the desperation in his voice. He said he would walk, in waist high water, to the corner store trying to figure out what others in his area were doing. By this time, no one had power and all were waiting to be rescued. He mentioned there were so many people with boats that were trying to help rescue because there weren’t enough government boats to save everyone. I assured him we were on our way. However, so many roads were flooded and closed, finding the best route to them was going to be an additional challenge. It took us over an hour, all four of my family members, to arrive in their area. As we approached the closest entrance to their neighborhood, we could see numerous trucks with trailers parked on both sides of the road. It was like a boat trailer festival except for the fun part of it. There were so many boat trailers empty of boats but still attached to their trucks, big and small, parked all on the side of the road where we needed to cross. Rocky carefully drove farther, passing up a plethora of parked, empty boat trailers. There were so many boats on the street. We drove up to a stoplight, but were greeted with boats on the water instead of vehicles. It was unreal. It almost seemed like we were in a movie. It didn’t seem real. We were driving on a road that couldn’t be seen, hidden underneath a body of water, where boats were our driving companions instead of other 4 wheeled vehicles. Our truck is a big, jacked up truck with four by four by the way. Rocky drove into the street that entered into our friend’s neighborhood and as we exited the truck, the water was inches from entering the interior. He docked the boat and with the little battery operating motor, took off to our friend’s house who lived at the very back of the neighborhood. I stayed behind with the kids because the boat wasn’t large enough for all of us to ride in while trying to rescue a family of 5. We weren’t going to fit. As we waited, and waited, and waited, we would see boats coming out of the neighborhood with people, pets, and some belongings. Some people were escaping the floods by using their pool floats and even some blow-up air mattresses! After about an hour, I finally saw my husband and 5 other people coming back on the boat with a dog. It was starting to rain again, so the men did their best to quickly unload the family and their half husky, half wolf dog. Pebble was getting fussy and Rock wanted to go back to help others, so he decided Pebs would be a great assistant. The two men, plus my Pebs, headed back towards the neighborhood in search of others who needed assistance. My friend and I stayed behind with her two girls, her son, and Amee as the men did their heroic duty. In the several hours that we were there, they must’ve rescued 3 or 4 other families. They’d have women and children, all smiling nervously, as they were getting pulled out of their flooded homes. As the kids’ appetite increased and their cheerful attitude was replaced by raging fits, we finally had to abort our rescue mission. We offered to take a family down to a gas station where they would get a ride, and our friends would come stay with us. Again, the traveling back home was a challenge because the roads were already flooded, and difficult to travel on. We were all jammed packed in our two row seating truck, so 2 adults and the dog had to ride on the bed of the truck. Normally, this would be illegal in our area, but when you are in a flood, there are a few exceptions to the rules, and this was one of them. Of course, when you have to drive no more than 30 mph, sitting on the back of the truck seems pretty safe, considering the circumstance.
Rocky and Pebs on the jon boat during their rescue mission. Pebs was tired after his heroic day.
Hurricane Harvey devastated our entire city, but it brought memories that were made with my Pebs. It was a such a horrible time, filled with loss and suffering for so many, and we were blessed to have our home and help others during these difficult times. Through the next few days, we continued to be a support system for others in need. Not only did we help rescue them, but also help with the demolition of many destroyed homes. We were there, Pebs included, helping them rebuild their lives. He was present through it all. When we couldn’t drive in and out of our neighborhood because the roads were all flooded, we drove our rzr (sport side by side vehicle) up and down streets to bring food and drinks to those that weren’t able to leave their homes. We did this together, as a family, with our new house guests, as well. He was 20 months but never did he act like a baby. He was such a big boy. He never complained or whined. Everywhere around us, people were learning how to rebuild, how to file claims, how to demolish homes, where to dump their destroyed belongings, and churches coming together to help their communities and their own buildings. So many church buildings were damaged from this hurricane, but were still motivated to come together to help others in need. I had never seen such collaboration and cooperation in a city. I imagine that’s how New York united after 911 or Boston after the marathon bomb attack. I’m sure many cities, after a devastated catastrophe, unite to help all those in need. In my 36 years of living, I had never experienced such unison, such love, such support from human kind. It was so beautiful. I felt immensely proud to be a Houstonian, seeing so many people from my city and surrounding areas, come together for the common good of others. And through it all, Pebs was there. Present. Alive. He was Alive. He was breathing. He was laughing. He was smiling. He was living. I guess that’s why it’s so difficult to approach the year anniversary of Harvey without feeling the pain, the sharp pain of grief that engulfs my soul. We were blessed during Harvey. We didn’t get flooded, didn’t lose our home, and we were able to help others. We reached out, giving what little we had, for others to survive. We were teaching our kids the importance of giving, sharing (our home, our belongings, our time), and to appreciate everything.
I look back during those times and picture Amee and Pebs playing in the rain. It was their first hurricane experience and captured every moment of it. I recall Pebs walking in our flooded yard with his rain boots and getting stuck. He was so upset and kept calling for me to go rescue him. I was video taping him, telling him to just keep walking. He was going to be okay, and that it was just water. He didn’t move until sister went to help him, but the moment was captured. I remember him sitting on my lap while we rode in the rzr. His little arms and legs were cold from the water splashing up on us so I covered him with a towel that we had. He soon fell asleep in my arms. Though this moment was not captured on video, it was engraved forever in my heart. He then suffered from a little cold and runny nose afterwards. I remember feeling bad and thought that I shouldn’t of taken him on that ride in the rzr. Now, almost a year later, I thank God I went on that rzr ride with my Pebs. Him on my lap, us sticking our hands out to touch the water, as we drove right through the flooded streets.
Amee first hurricane.
Pebble was so excited for the rain. His first and last hurricane experience.
My sweet baby boy
We were all on the porch but the wind was blowing so wildly, we occasionally would get splattered with rain.
We don’t ever understand why things happen, but I have learned to trust in my God. He knows why. Even if He told me, I probably wouldn’t understand it anyways. I try to live today with that motto. God is trying to teach me, strengthen me, or wanting me to embrace this moment, and so, I must obey. Living in grief hasn’t been easy to be obey. However, when my moments of sadness comes seeping in, I call out to Him. Let this pain endure for just a little while, and then help me embrace this day. Whatever today brings, help be embrace it. When my heart aches in agony, I pray to Him. I know today is necessary. I don’t know why, but it is necessary if He has me here. Pebs is smiling. I know he remembers all of his adventures that we had, and one day, soon from now, we will reminisce on all of our times we shared together.
My baby boy
“And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes and there shall be no more death nor sorrow nor crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
-Revelation 21:4
Our friend and Pebs on the rzr while we continued helping others.
Good morning my sweet baby boy. This was the morning of August 26, 2017. We were headed for an adventure filled with memories.
“As I sit and stare at the shimmering moon, I also sit here and hope to see you soon. Then I realize I won’t be able to see you tomorrow….So I sit here and cry in sorrow. Now I only uphold a dream which I hope to come true and that one dream is to be reunited in heaven with you.”
Pebble's Pond 