death

A Sliver of hope

Posted on by Christina Tracy

Most do not know this, but my husband, Steve, was out of town for work the night Andrew died.

After the ambulance left with Andrew, my mother in-law drove Morgan and myself to the hospital. I realized I had to call Steve to tell him what we thought at the time…that Andrew had tried to commit suicide. Steve said he was leaving right away. He was 5 hours away in Panama City Beach, Florida. He was a truck driver. I knew it would be longer for him to drive his truck back to work and then make the half hour drive home. That call was made at 1:00am. Steve didn’t get home until 7:30 that morning. I was sitting in the living room holding Ethan. My in-laws and Morgan were there as well.

I heard the car pull into the driveway. I jumped up and started crying. “OH MY G-D, how do I tell my husband this???” I went onto the porch as he was rushing up the stairs. He was crying. I was crying and said, “He’s gone, Stephen. He’s gone!” He ran up to me crying and we hugged and cried together for the loss of the precious human we had created.

When we went inside, Steve went to Morgan and Ethan, holding his surviving children as we all cried. He embraced his parents. At that moment, Morgan, who had been standing in the middle of the living room, started hysterically screaming.

“This is going to break our family apart! We will never survive this!”

Steve and I immediately rushed to her, “No! It won’t! Listen to me, we are going to get through this! Somehow, we are going to get through this, together! We will not let this ruin our family!”. We hugged her and assured her and calmed her.

And there it was. In the absolute darkest moment in our lives, there was the tiniest sliver of hope. Hope for each of us. Hope for our future. Hope for our family. Hope. Just hope. We did not even realize we had already chosen hope. It just happened.

Why am I sharing this today? Just hours before Andrew’s five year angelversary? Because I want everyone who is reading this to know that there is always hope. Maybe not recognizing it at the moment, but it will come. It took a long time for me to realize that.

Even in the darkest hour, there is always hope. Always look for the hope.

And always choose kindness and laughter.

A Smile From A Memory

Posted on by Christina Tracy

Dear Andrew,

We are now in month 22 since losing you. It’s November. Thanksgiving is just a week away. The leaves are changing to majestic colors and falling. And I keep waiting for you to come home. I’ll be sitting in the livingroom and will look at the staircase, still expecting you to walk down the stairs. Head down, looking at your phone as you come down. But, you’re not there. It’s still unfathomable at times that you are gone. I miss you so much.

Life keeps chugging along. Even without you here. Daily routine things. Somehow, the world and our family has continued to move forward. Work, school, dishes, laundry and errands continue. Most nights, I quietly cry myself to sleep thinking of you and that another day ended without you here. Somehow, we have started living life without you and getting used to it. Which, to me, is a double edged sword. On one hand, it has been very important to our family that we continue to live our lives. Going from a Party of Five to a Party of Four is hard but it’s important that we continue to thrive for your brother and sister. On the other hand, it’s disturbing that this is our reality. However, it is a reality I continue to move through.

One of the first things I do every morning while I am waiting for the coffee to brew, is to check my Facebook memories. I get so excited to see if there is a memory of you. Today, a memory from 8 years ago came up. You were 9. You had a doctor’s appointment that morning. You were so good at the appointment that I decided to take you out to lunch before bringing you back to school. We went to this local southern restaurant and had a true southern lunch. I had fried chicken, fried okra, cornbread and sweet tea. You had meatloaf, deviled eggs, cornbread and sweet tea. We had such a nice lunch date that day.

Mommy & Andrew lunch date!

When the picture came onto my screen, I immediately remembered that day and smiled remembering the memory. And then I realized what I had done. This was the first time that I thought of a memory of you and thought back to it fondly versus getting sad and letting a few tears drop from heartache.

This is a pretty big turning point for me. The fact that I smiled and felt happy at the memory made me realize I am starting to move to acceptance of your death. The fifth stage of grief. I never thought I would reach this stage. It has startled me. And scared me. How can I accept this? How can I be ok with this? My child. My son. Died.

It’s simply what I have to do. I can’t change what has happened. I can’t live under the covers in bed. I have so much to do. I have to continue taking care of our family. And of course, I know this is what you want. I know you have been watching over me, waiting for me to start to get to this point. Where the blood curdling devastation starts to subside. Where I start to peek out on the other side. Where I slowly become stronger. And continue to live while honoring you and your memory.

Some days, like today, are easier than other days. Sweet boy, don’t you worry…I am getting back up. I am starting to put back together the shattered pieces of my heart. There have been many bad days, but today…today is a good day, where your memory shines brightly through my soul. I will savor each and every sweet moment I had with you. Treasure them and fill with love and warmth when I think of you. I love you, baby boy.

Love, Mommy