So many things in our culture seem to be taboo- such as grief and everything that goes with it. We write about our grief daily and don't shy away from talking about it. Even more taboo than talking about sadness, grief or depression is when you want to die because the pain is too much. But it's a reality when you lose a child and the pain is overwhelming and suffocating. We were never shy about posting about Kreed and his struggles and I'm not afraid to post about our struggle now that we've lost him.
This is the story of how we were able to become part of Kreed's World through his communication device and also of our grief now that he has passed away. Kreed found his voice and was finally being heard and we will continue to honor his memory and story. This is and was his journey of hope through nonverbal autism and complex medical conditions that ultimately took his life.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
When I Want to Die
So many things in our culture seem to be taboo- such as grief and everything that goes with it. We write about our grief daily and don't shy away from talking about it. Even more taboo than talking about sadness, grief or depression is when you want to die because the pain is too much. But it's a reality when you lose a child and the pain is overwhelming and suffocating. We were never shy about posting about Kreed and his struggles and I'm not afraid to post about our struggle now that we've lost him.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
The Ghost
The Ghost
Every day I live with a ghost. I get up, get in my truck and go to work. I drive and the tears fall. I drive with a ghost. I can count on one hand the number of times I drove a car without Kreed. He was always there. We always had an adventure or place to go. We jam out to music, have conversation and rock the car. Now I sit with ghost.
I go to work and be with kids just like him and have to help them, even though I couldn't help him, I couldn't save him. He's the ghost there with me, in everything that I do. And all I want is for him to be back and having these epic adventures with me. Teaching him about the world and him teaching me to enjoy this life we have. Instead his ghost shadows everything I do.I sleep at night and am still plagued by his cries, his rages, his giggles. I still have all the alarms on my phone listed but no longer set. My nights have no purpose anymore. I come home from work to the emptiness of our house and have no idea what to do most days. My whole world was his needs, planning for him, hanging out with him, helping him and doing things with him. Now his ghost just sits with us in the room he barely lived in.
No one, and I mean no one but someone who lost a child can possibly understand this. And then, it's even more with a special needs child who was your everything and loved life so much and found so much joy in his world that you couldn't help but feel it too.
Now all we have is memories. Holidays become nothing because he was the reason we would go all out. I can barely be on social media. I see parents talking about how they can't wait for their kids to go back to school and all I want to do is shake them and tell them- don't you know! Life can change in an instant and you will have no more days with your loves. Hold them tighter, hang out with them longer, enjoy the moments! Don't wish for them to be out of your presence because they could one day be permanently out of your presence and you will wish you had held them longer.Find an adventure, teach them more, have more conversations, hold them longer, kiss them more, enjoy every moment your given because on any particular day at any particular time it could be gone. I would give up everything to have one more moment. A second. Anything.
We put Kreed above everything and I will never regret that. As we taught him and went through wicked hard times, he learned and learned to love his life despite any disability. He proved you could do anything, if you just tried. We were never afraid or if we were, we did it anyway just to get over the fear.
But now. Now, we are left with his ghost and nothing but memories. We can't reach out and touch him. We can't hold him. We can't see him. We can't hear him. And we are just left. With this massive empty void to fill that nothing does. It will remain there forever because you can't fill his shoes. He was so joyful and taught so many so much. Most of all, he loved his life.
So every day I get up and spend my day with a ghost, knowing all I have is pictured and videos to hear or see him and I'll never get to hold him again. We will never make another memory with him. I go to sleep at night and spend the night with a ghost and phantom laughs and sounds.
People see me smile and they think I'm fine. Well there's that grin, wow they just be doing so much better. Bull shit. The smile is to comfort others while we are silently grieving inside and struggling to make it through every day. You eventually become numb in this grieving process because the sadness becomes so overwhelming you can barely survive it. Especially at holidays. The sadness and grief is so big, if you let it out, you fear you'll never be able to stop crying or be able to seal up the emotions again. People aren't prepared for your emotions because they have no idea the emptiness you live with or how hard it is to function every day. If they did understand they wouldn't say stupid stuff or wouldn't turn their back because we all seemed fine.We will always seem fine and plaster that smile because how else would we possibly get out of bed every morning?
With his ghost. His memory. We continue on because we refuse for him to be forgotten or refuse for his life to not have meaning. We have to be the ones to make sure his light still burns. But inside we die a little every day. But we smile and function.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
The Quiet
We are surrounded by the quiet. Where once was a young man's voice of happiness and joy and at times of pain...there is now only the quiet.
I let the six month anniversary of his death pass without a word because I want others to feel how it feels- the quiet.
What I wouldn't give to hear his sounds in the night. The sounds of the morning. The sounds of his living in each of our days. What I wouldn't give to sit back and watch his ingenious ways to flood a bathroom, make a giant mess eating popcorn and chips- oh the sound of his crunching of chips, how I miss thee!
Instead we have the quiet.
Six months ago we lost him. A year ago his breathing difficulties began, as he silently marched toward his death without a soul knowing for months. While the depth of his issues was unknown, we were hearing him loud and clear as his pain screams began. We just didn't understand. We tried to protect him. To understand. To make doctors understand. And through it all, we made sure he was living the most epic life possible.
I never knew why my drive to give him such a life was so high- I just had the constant gnawing, the constant feeling that I needed him to live an epic life. We wouldn't hide away from the world out of fear. Instead we would teach- teach him the feel of the wind upon his face during a hike,
Six months has passed and we still are not used to the quiet.
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Death is Not Beautiful
Death is not beautiful. It's not a happy event in a life. It's the end of a life. And for a mother who loses their child, their heart, and their soul...it's the most horrific pain that would or could ever happen. It's not about the fact that they aren't in pain anymore and are now wherever your religious beliefs thinks they are. Because all a mother wants is their child here with them, not suffering and enjoying life with their family. But that reality is gone and replaced with a vast emptiness that is infinite and a pain that will never leave you and cause a pain unknown and inconceivable to anyone that has never experienced such a child loss.
Death is not beautiful. Watching our son bravely fight his illness despite the immense pain it caused him, only to stop breathing and lose his organ function and in his last days and hours, struggle to breathe, hearing that horrible sucking noise coupled with a hoarseness and labored breathing sounds that lets you know the end is near. Watching them lose the ability to swallow and unable to take anything by mouth that once filled their heart with joy (French fries!) and the life continues to seep out. Your once joyful child is facing the end of life and you are completely unable to save them, shelter them, protect them or keep them with you for even a second longer than their body will allow.
Death is not beautiful. You hold your child whose life is leaving and it's ugly, horrible, heart breaking and begins the soul tearing. The heart breaking in two. You hold your child and hear the last time their heart is ever going to beat again. Nothing prepares you for this. Nothing comes close to this feeling and living this nightmare. Your child's heart stops beating and yours continues to beat a now shattered heart.
Death is not beautiful. We aren't happy our child died and satisfied that they are now with "cool angels" (yes someone actually said this to a mother who just lost their son). We are devastated beyond belief. Shattered. Broken. We cease to be the people we were and begin a completely new life forever changed into someone new. Someone who now will live a life with our souls torn, our hearts shattered and a sadness that will never ever leave us and the feeling of our life being incomplete forever. We are angry. We are pissed. We are fucking broken beyond anything anyone can ever imagine. And no I don't care about YOUR feelings or if you think I should speak kinder or think of others or I have grieved long enough or I should be happy they aren't suffering and are with whatever belief YOU have. It's about US and OUR CHILD who is no longer with us, who suffered and died after a braver fight than you can ever imagine or conceive. Your thoughts on his death don't matter and they don't make me feel better. Nothing will. Nothing needs to be said because nothing will touch us or make a difference. Your thoughts that make light of his death diminish the life he did lead and the love he had for living. You want to know what to say to a grieving mother? Nothing. Instead do something. Provide a meal. Provide company. Be there if they want to talk, but don't impart your beliefs on it. Let her vent. Let her scream. Let her cry. Get involved. Do something. If you are going to say something, any comment related to a positive comment regarding death based on your religion is not helpful and actually more detrimental than saying nothing. Or that they aren't suffering anymore and how that must comfort us. No, it's not fucking comforting. He should be here, better and living the life he loved.
Death is not beautiful. It's not a fairy tale. To you it's not real so you visualize something to comfort yourself but it doesn't comfort the mother who held her child until the last heart beat after watching them suffering for hours, days, months and/or years. Your visualization of what you think death is or was is not our reality. The reality that keeps us up at night, haunts our dreams and become our waking nightmare. Your visualization of what death is doesn't stop our tears from falling and the sadness that follows us day in and day out. Your visualization of what death is doesn't stop the emptiness we now live with that makes us think about ending our own life to stop the pain. Your visualization of what death is...is not reality or even close to it and not comforting for even a second.
Death is not beautiful. Death is not awesome. Death is not a positive thing in any way, shape or form. And telling a grieving mother who held their child through the end of their life, after fighting for their life and watching them suffer and bravely make it as long as they could, demeans them and their child and the life they lived. We should be sad beyond any sadness ever known, angry beyond any anger we've ever felt before and feel a heart break and soul tearing that nothing will ever heal or be fixed. Because that IS what the death of a child causes.
So please, for grieving mothers everywhere, stop saying death is beautiful or something positive. It's not the loss of a parent, spouse, sibling, friend or any other kind of loss. The loss of a child is unlike anything anyone can ever imagine and the pain that comes from such a loss in unimaginable and known as the greatest pain any human being can feel. That is death. It's horrific, heart breaking, sad, angry, devastating, excruciating, crippling, torturous, agonizing and not something a parent comes back from.
Death is not beautiful. My child's life is beautiful. His smile was infectious and his wonderment for the world, the most joyful thing I've ever seen in my life. He was brave through the end and handled his illness with more grace and joy than most people can ever imagine. Most of all he lived and loved his life and didn't want it to end and had a heart stronger than anything this world could throw at him.
Death is not beautiful. My child's life is beautiful. That's what should be celebrated and remembered.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016
When he can't tell me
Originally posted Sept 14th, 2015
What’s it like having a medically fragile child who can’t tell you his symptoms or what his body is feeling?
You hold your breath. You check him over every day for any sign of illness, injury and you hope you find nothing. When there is an injury or illness, you hold you breath. You treat it and hope it doesn’t spread. You keep the dark thoughts in the back of your mind from entering your conscious mind. You pray the doctors are right in their diagnosis and are doing the right thing.
You spend a lot of time researching. And hoping. Hoping something will add up. Hoping the symptoms will come together and make sense.
You spend a lot time teaching. Teaching the language of pain. Hoping he will understand and be able to start telling you. And knowing how hard it is to teach your child the different types of pain. And silently crying on the inside when he does tell you the pain he’s in. Knowing every day he’s having pounding headaches and he’s telling you it feels like sharp knifes.
Then you call doctors. You research. You try to put the pieces together. Treatment begins and you hold your breath. You hope it’s the right thing. But you prepare for it if it’s not.
Sometimes you have to protect your child instead of being able to hug and kiss them. This may be one of the hardest things. When your job just becomes protecting and keeping him from hurting himself because the pain inside himself is too great, you often weep at night for the choices you must make. You just want to hug him and tell him it will be OK and you will make it better. Nothing breaks your heart more than watching him go through this. You feel helpless and try to stay calm and keep searching for answers.
It’s one thing to be medically fragile, but it’s another thing to not be able to explain your symptoms. Everything is locked up inside his body, and you feel like you have to be a behavior detective to figure out what the symptoms are and the cause of those symptoms. It’s a vicious circle. Through it all, you hold your breath. You love harder than most people can imagine because you never know what the next moment will bring. Will there be a dimple smile and tears of happiness or will it be cries of pain?
So you are often holding your breath. And loving. Loving harder than you ever thought imaginable. And when you hug, you hug deeper, stronger and longer than you knew was possible. And you live, live a fuller life than you ever imagined and cherish each moment your child is well and happy and smiling.
And you say I love you. Always. As much as possible. So he will always know your love is there and never wavering.
“When they ask how far love goes, when my job is done, you’ll be the one who knows.” — Dar Williams.





































