I am THAT Mom

I am many things, some flattering, and some pejorative.

I am; a wife, mom, sister, daughter, writer, photographer, smartass, know-it-all, the former extrovert who is now reclusively introverted, a bitch, an aunt, a friend…so many things, yet sometimes nothing at all. I can change some of those things. Some, like being a wife, mom, friend, writer, and OK - a smartass, I wouldn’t want to change. 

There is one thing, one deep, scarring, tormenting aspect of my being that I will never be able to change…I am that mom, the one who has laid one of her own in the ground, to slumber forever.

I am that mom, the one who will forever wear this loss like some sort of morbid tattoo on her soul, on her being, and etched into her heart.

I am that mom, the one who will always have that piece of her soul, floating above her in the ether like so much ozone, there but yet not there.

I am that mom, who lost the child who first blessed her with the title of mommy, mom, mother, momma…

I am the mom who no other woman ever wants to be.

I am that mom; the one other moms look at with pity and something else…something harder to articulate. Other women, upon learning of my loss, hold their children close and thank God they’ve never experienced this pain, this horrible slow demise of the soul that is the death of a child. They are intact. I am not.  They look at me with pity; I look at them with jealousy.

I look at those unbroken women with an immeasurable envy.  They have not spent hours curled deep within themselves, in agony, missing the flesh of their flesh, trying to remember the laugh that no longer echoes through the halls, the smile that used to reach out to whomever it happened upon and grabbed them and made their heart melt, and the scent of him, dear God that wonderful mixture of little boy, bubble bath, dirt, sunscreen, and pure sunshine that so overtook my senses every time I’d nuzzle into the back of his neck. A smell I thought would forever be imprinted in every cell of my being but one which I now struggle to recall. I remember running my fingers through the golden curls at the nape of his neck whilst he napped and marveling at how perfect each individual ringlet was.  I ache to feel that silky golden hair slide through my fingers again.  I look at these women and wonder what it’s like to feel whole. I can’t remember. 

I’m that mom, the one who stands and stares into the white lights of her Christmas tree, longing to place presents under the tree for the little boy who won’t be there to open them. In April I make a birthday cake, every year, knowing he won’t be there to blow out the candles. This year there were twenty candles. They remained lit until the flames flickered out and the wax melted onto the cake. Nearly eighteen years after his death, bitter, salty tears rolled down my face, much the same way the wax of the candles flowed onto the chocolate frosting and then down the sides of the cake.

I am the mom who had to excuse herself from the room the evening her oldest daughter brought home the young man she was dating when I realized he was the same exact age Joshua would have been, had he lived. 

Over the years I have been the mom who stands along the sidelines at little league games, watching the boys who would have been the same age as her son and wondering if her little boy would have loved playing baseball and would he have hit a grand slam home run?  I long for things that never were...to hear the crack of the bat against the bright white ball, to stand and cheer along the sidelines as he rounded the bases with a huge grin on his face, to embrace him and tell him what an awesome job he did, and to feel a huge sense of pride - that was my boy out there, the one who hit the ball that went flying over everyone's heads and into the vast blue sky.

I'm the mom who is now obsessively overprotective of her remaining children, who can't bear to see them cross the street without looking both ways at least ten times lest a car hit and kill them the same way it did Joshua. 

I'm that mom, the one who angered easily when standing at Joshua's graveside and someone would tell me that wasn't him in there, he was "somewhere else."  In my mind and my heart, that boy, that precious baby who stole my heart and who was now buried in a hard box underneath cold earth was still my boy...that body, was the only way I knew him.  I can't count how many times I wanted to lay down on the ground to be near him.

I have been that mom since August 10^th, 1990.  1:14AM this morning marks eighteen long years since I became that mom.

I can scarcely believe sometimes that eighteen years have passed since that beautiful little boy with the golden curls and the laugh that overtook his entire body has been gone. Eighteen years since I first experienced the inexplicable pain of body and soul that ripped me apart and left me incomplete.

I was little more than a child myself when I gave birth to Joshua and would like to say that in the span of the two years, three months and ten days until his death, I grew and matured. Even with the birth of my twins who were only six months old at the time of his death, I was still that scared half-girl half-woman who didn’t have a clue what she was doing, who only knew that she loved her babies with every ounce of her being and was doing her best.

The years since Joshua’s death and becoming that mom have been interesting, some more difficult than others, some passing without much note.

As I look back on the last eighteen years, I can finally see the difference between the child burying her child, and the woman, sitting here today, who has done what she thought, at one time, impossible…survive the loss of a child, subsequent failure of that marriage and another,  and made a name for herself in the radio and voice over industries.

Some days I still have no clue what I’m doing, I fly by the seat of my pants and hope that I don’t screw my kids up too badly. There are no manuals out there for dealing with life after the loss of a child. There are myriad books available on grief and loss, but nothing that really ever captured the essence of my loss.  Most of the books I read were of others journey's through their own personal hell after the death of a child.   Their pain is as unique to them as mine is to me.  The words on the pages seemed cold and unfeeling.  They were flat and did nothing to soothe a tortured soul.

How I wish the blogosphere had been around back then. It wasn’t until I found other mothers who have have traveled a seemingly unbearable road, that I realized I am not alone in this.   I have a voice and perhaps through my own voice, not only will I soothe my scarred and battered soul, but maybe be able to offer some support, encouragement and hope to someone else who has gone through this and is reaching out, grasping for something to hang onto.

As I read the words that tumbled from the hearts and minds of these women, they seemed laced with feeling, empathy, and something more...something alive.  They were part of a living tribute to their children.  They were not words in books that had been on shelves collecting dust, waiting for someone with tear-stained cheeks and a heavy heart to come and lift them and try and find some meaning to the madness and the grief...their blogs are like living entities, further proof that they have gotten up, day after day and gone on, and most of all, survived.  Unlike the authors of the plethora of books on coping after the loss of a loved one, I can reach out to these women and know that they are still there, they are real and a daily reminder of the spirit of their children.   

It’s ironic, when I look back on the last eighteen years and how I’ve pulled myself up out of the mire of the hell my life was immediately after Joshua’s death, (it wasn’t a depression so much as this ache that would never leave and feeling as if I’d never get over the sadness of what happened – it’s hard to articulate), and here I sit on the precipice of a serious depression now, that I don’t seem to be able to grasp the same thread of hope that I did all those years ago.

Granted, the situations are not the same, but today I am able to read the voices of other women like  who, like myself, have been on the edge of this very scary abyss, and have resurfaced, alive and functional. I am able to reach out to those women,  whose voices so poignantly, beautifully and painstakingly have chronicled their own battles with depression and I can take hold of their words like so many life-rafts and hang on with everything I have.

And, I can write! Perhaps not about the incident that led to all this, but I can get this all out of my head and onto paper and try and exorcize the demons that way. I can finish the book I've been writing over the last ten years but have stopped and then restarted so many times, and I can take the medication (once we get it all worked out and adjusted or switched to something that isn’t making me puke all day long and feel as if my head is completely disconnected from my body), and not feel the guilt of being labeled “depressed.” It won’t happen overnight, but in time, I hope I can look back on this much the same way I look back on the last eighteen years and realize that I did get through it, I survived and perhaps in doing so, I’ve given someone else the courage to do the same.  Maybe some day, someone going through something similar will be able to read my words and see that I am still here, still breathing and coping and know that they can reach out to me and hang on with everything they have.

I will always be that mom. However, I am now also that mom, the one who looks at her eighteen year old twins her fifteen year old son and am reminded of the balm that they were, that soothed my broken heart, in the months and years following Joshua’s death and what incredible young adults they are and what amazing lives they will lead.

I am that mom, who looks at her two year old with that impetuous twinkle in her eye and wild curl of her hair and smile as big as the sun and recalls a beautiful little boy who graced my life with his presence and who will always be with me, in some way or another. I look at this precious little girl and drink everything in and enjoy basking in her presence in my life.

I am that mom, the one who now knows tomorrow is out there. I just have to keep reaching for it.

Comments

[Redneck Mommy]

Thank you for writing this. You bring such a depth of comfort to another who is THAT mom, too.

Your words touched my heart and helped soothe it like a cooling balm. I thank you for that.

And I thank you for sharing this with us, because I know all too well just how difficult it was.

I'm thinking of you today. And your little blonde boy with curly hair. Just as I'm thinking of my own.

Thank you. From yet another That Mom.

[San Diego Momma]

It hurts my heart to even read this, so I cannot imagine the immeasurable grief in having it happen.

I'm glad you were able to find some solace or comfort or whatever it was that kept you going on. Yours is a strong and beautiful voice.

I'm really so very sorry for the loss of Joshua. Thanks for sharing some of your heart with us.

[BD]

I'm so sorry for your loss. Even 20 years later, your love for him sounds just as strong as I'm sure it was. Your post is beautiful.

[Simply Shannon]

You are an amazing woman Audrey.
Thank you for sharing yourself with us so completely. I know that there are absolutely no words that I could possibly say that would help in any way, but please know that you are in my thoughts today.
I am truly sorry for the loss that you have had to endure. It is unimaginable.

[Dana]

Wow. I just can not imagine.
There are no words. This was absolutely beautiful. You've left me utterly speechless. Thank you for sharing, your strength is amazing.

[MrsWaltz]

Oh, Auds. My heart hurts for you. And my keyboard is toast.

[Mr Lady]

I have no idea what to say here, so I'll just say this: Thank you for laying that all out. I'm amazed at the beauty you can find behind the tragedy, and I am honored to read this.

[CharmingDriver]

I'm that mom, too.

Heading into about a month from what would have been his 2nd birthday, sigh. Well, you know. And I'm so, so sorry that you know.

[Jen]

I can not even begin to imagine the grief that you have felt and are still feeling over the loss of your precious little boy. I will just say that reading this makes me want to go and hug my kids a little tighter and really try to appreciate every moment I have with them. This was such a beautifully written post. Thank you for sharing.

[carol]

Aud, I cannot even imagine the heartache you have felt the last 18 years.

A truly beautifully written insight into your experience. Thank you so much for sharing that with us all.

[Velveteen Mind - Megan]

Thank you for sharing this with us. I am not that mom, but a friend of mine just became that mom and feels very alone. Another friend looks as though she is about to become that mom and I've been hesitant to say, "Really, it sounds corny, but read these blogs."

Today I'm going to say, "Corn-fed women are strong women, read these blogs."

[Katie]

"I look at these women and wonder what it’s like to feel whole. I can’t remember. "

And that feeling right there is what cuts the deepest day after day after day.

I will remember your Joshua with you today, and every day as I hold fast to the thoughts of my own precious loss, my Jakie, the one that created in me "that" familiar image.

Bless you! And sincere, mother to mother hugs to you this day.

[Marlene]

Beautifully written. Tugged at my heartstrings, for sure. I can't imagine.

You ARE one strong woman.

[pajama momma]

I cried. Yes I did, I cried. You have gone thru every mom's worst nightmare. The most unimaginable pain possible.

I'm so, so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine the pain of all those anniversaries and the missed milestones.

Really, I'm sorry. Your story crushes me.

[Mamasphere]

My heart is hurting for you, to the depths it is capable of understanding. I'm so sorry.

[Steph]

I have no words for this, except words that are woefully inadequate to the situation. God, Auds, I'm so very sorry.

[bejewell]

I honestly don't know that I've ever read anything that touched me as deeply as this, right down to the core.

My heart is broken for you. But I'm also so proud of you for moving on with your life, finding some beauty in life still, and for sharing the pain of it all and making things, maybe, just a little easier for someone else who might be facing the same thing.

I'm really proud to be your friend today, Auds.

[Jody]

Auds. You are an incredibly strong determined loving person. I am blessed to know you. I can't even imagine what you've gone thru. I can only say I hope you do find daily peace by writing down what you feel. And I know this helps other Mothers in the same situation...

I always think of you when I have to deal with loss in my job. I have not walked in your shoes. But I have seen the shoes.

Writing this with tears on my face,
Your friend,
Joanne

[AMomTwoBoys]

Beautiful. Heartbreaking.

Thank you for sharing your story with us. I can't imagine how hard today must be for you.

Hugs.

[Loralee]

I will always be that mom. ALWAYS. Whether it's been 5 years or 50. It's a sad, unwanted club that we are in. I am so grateful that I am not here alone, although I would never wish this on anyone.

I will be thinking of you, my lovely friend, and your beautiful boy today and for many days after this. That is the difficulty that is an anniversary. It's not confined to a simple day...it's a big cluster of days surrounding the specific day as well.

You are in my heart.

[Christina]

I love you Auds! That is the only way I can sum up my feelings reading your post. Now that I am a mom, I cannot even begin to imagine the pain and loss.
Christina

[BusyDad]

I often sit quietly and worry for no reason because my son is my entire life. I sit there and think what life would be like if something ever happened to him and I cannot do it. It does not compute. I sit here and read this with overwhelming numbness thinking about what you endured. I can tell you with all certainty, I would not be that strong. Not even close. It is beautiful how you described the moments you remember with your son.

[KD @ A Bit Squirrelly]

I cry and ache for you knowing that I cannot possibly cry or ache nearly enough to feel how you feel. My love to you always. I am here for you anytime.

-Kd

[G]

We have a picture of Joshua in the china cabinet. The Little Imp knows that it's Josh, and one day will know why she has never met him. Until then, she just knows that every time she says his name, her mum looks sad for a moment.

I never met him either, but Auds tells me stories and I can see in her eyes just how much she still loves him, 18 years on from that awful day. I know what she has been through since then, but I can barely appreciate how much it still hurts. But she knows I will always be there for her to lean on when she needs it.

ILUL

G

[foolery]

Auds, I e-mailed you. Just wanted you to know that I was here, that I read this. Peace to you, my friend.

-- Laurie

[Melanie @ Mel, A Dramatic Mommy]

I can see Joshua from the picture you painted. And I am so sorry that you know this pain.

[Linda S aka linneyshvede]

Just found your blog today. I'm so sorry for your loss and pain. I'm glad you have found this forum for getting your thoughts out. I'll be back!

[Erin]

What a beautiful and painful remembrance of the son you lost and love every day. I'm glad you have such good friends that can help you deal with the pain of losing such a precious life.

[pgoodness]

You've got this mom in tears and chills; a giant lump in my throat.

I am so very sorry for the loss of Joshua, but I am also feeling very honored that you shared this and put it out there. You will now always be that mom: that one who makes me feel a glimmer of your pain, the honesty of the world and how shitty it can be, and what hope and perseverance are really all about. Hugs to you.

[Bec (Bad Mummy)]

What a beautifully written post. I'm so sorry for you loss.

[american mum]

Wow, thank you for sharing that. WOmen like you amaze me to no end.

[All Adither]

Powerful stuff. It blows me away a little...

[Loralee]

I had to come back at the close of the day and give you another hug.

Hug! Hug!! Hug!!!

[Fairly Odd Mother]

I had to come by to see the post you sent and am so blown away. Please keep reaching for tomorrow. And, many hugs to you on this day.

[flickrlovr]

What a beautiful and honest account of such a terrible, gut-wrenching loss. I've never lost a child, but I've been through pain. I've lost friends. Lost family. And it never really gets any easier. You never do forget. It just becomes easier to wake up each day and easier to let yourself learn to be happy again.

This was amazing, Auds. Even though I'm sure it doesn't make the pain any less to speak it out loud, at least it lets a little bit of it out of your body and onto the page. Thank you for sharing this with us.

HUG.

[Carrie]

I'm emailing this to my Aunt. My cousin would be 33 today, and she is everywhere with us. I cannot pretend to understand the pain, but I see it in my Aunt and Uncle's eyes, in my Grandmother's eyes, especially on those days when the pain is so raw, like her birthday.

Thank you for writing, for bearing your soul, so other's might not feel as alone, even so many years later. This is the power of 'community' that is hard to find elsewhere.

[threeundertwo]

I'm crying. I wish I could hug you and tell you that now I have Joshua in my heart too. I wish I could express how sorry I am for all your pain. I wish I could give you some part of me that would make you stronger.

You've done something amazing here with this post. You've probably touched people and helped people in ways you can't even imagine.

[Rachael]

Wow. To have been through what you've been through, and continue to live daily, and write about it with such raw emotion, vulnerability, and clarity simply amazes me. I cannot even begin to imagine how it must feel to fiercely love 4 amazing children yet still feel such a huge hole in your heart, and I commend you for being able to share your feelings with all of us. I hope that soon your medications will be worked out - I certainly no there is no magic pill that will make any of the sadness and loss go away, but I hope it will make your hours and days at least a bit easier.

I wish you love and comfort, and a happy birthday to your beautiful Joshua.

[Velma]

This is so gorgeous, Audrey. I know that the loss of a child can never be healed, but OMG - your writing is such a healing gift, such a connection with others. Bless you.

[JaniceNW]

I am that mom too. I believe hell is on earth and those of us who lose a child have visited there often. My son died on 2/2/96 at the age of 10 months. He'd be 13 now.

This is the first year I feel as close to whole as I am going to get. I accept there will never be any more kids(genetic disease killed my son). My surviving two boys are healthy and annoying as teenagers should be.

Our family will be quite complete though. A person will be missing and we are all aware.

I am so very sorry for your loss. No one should ever have to lose a child. No one.

You have written a wonderful post and thanks for speaking of me as well.

I'm 46 now and will be starting nursing school in September. I have gotten through the valley and climbed the hugest mountain I hope to ever encounter.

Hugs from one that mom to another.

[Andrea]

Clicked over from the comment you left on my site and I have to say wow. You write so very expressively that I'm sitting at my desk at work with a blotchy face and a desire to give you a hug. I am not THAT mom, but I'm grateful to read your words so that I can try to understand. So that I can chime in my support when you need it. I have felt the tentacles of depression encircle and squeeze me, bleeding me dry. Thank you for writing this, not only for your own healing, but for others to read and find that they too are not alone.

I'm definitely coming back.

[Amy @ Milk Breath & Margaritas]

I'm so, so sorry.

[Don Mills Diva]

This was absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful.

I am so sorry for your loss.

[Black Hockey Jesus]

!!!

[Deb@Bird On A Wire]

Auds! I love ya kiddo. Thanks for sharing your heart and bearing your soul! I'm in awe that you could share so deeply. God Bless You.

Jim Eaton, go suck eggs, you freakin moron.You haven't a clue.

[~m]

I would tell you how inexpressibly sorry I am for your loss if I could stop sobbing over the kitchen sink.

there's no room for all the thoughts I'm thinking about so I'll just tell you my heart hurts for you. and thank you for being willing to share such a personal story.

[Steph]

Auds, please know that the vast majority of the people who read this blog do not echo the very ugly sentiments laid out by a particular commenter, in my never-humble opinion.

Once again, thank you for sharing this. It took a good deal of courage, if you ask me, and I, for one, have nothing but respect and caring for you.

With that, I'll stop feeding the troll...err, I mean, "Jim Eaton".

[Alias Liz Jones]

Dearest Auds...I understand. I am so very very sorry.
Much Love and a thousand hugs to you,
Love
Liz

[the daughter]

Love you mom

[Karelle]

You are an amazing woman Auds. Thank you for sharing your story with us. It moved me to tears.

[the daughter]

Love you mom

[mommypie]

You were in my thoughts all day yesterday, as you are today.

You are a strong and beautiful soul, Auds. And as your voice reaches across the blogosphere, know there are multitudes reaching back.

Thank you for sharing your soul.

[Kate]

Beautifully written. Thank you for writing the hard words and staying, if not 100% whole and healthy, at least articulate and grammatically correct; it's more than many of us could handle in similar circumstances.

As for Jim Eaton, I imagine it would be comfortable to be that Right all the time. The world must be a comfortable, smug sort of place when you can shut off things like empathy and emotional intelligence.

[Chicky Chicky Baby]

Brave, beautiful words. I'm in awe of you.

[Big Hair Envy]

My words are not sufficient.

You are an amazing woman........

[Aunt Amanda]

Aww. Poor Jim Eaton. He talks about all the bloggers out there only being bloggers because they need to "get off their asses"...well sir, what does that make you, exactly?

For one, My sister is an exceptional Mother. You know what she allows you to know, nothing more. The video of my niece is not any worse than anything you would see on America's Funniest Home Videos...and those people win money for that stuff. Are they bad parents?

I highly doubt you are perfect. Considering the fact that you would even dare to disrespect Mother's who have lost childern, and are strong enough to share it with others, lets me know that you are exactly the opposite of perfect.

You are Cold. Apathetic. Cruel.

You must not have been hugged enough as a child.

My Nephew is in no way being disrespected by being spoken of. He is being Celebrated. In his short time here, he touched many with just a simple smile.

For you to plainly show no regard for this is what is truly disrespectful.

You are right though, you are free to lace the blogging world with your poisonous words.

But please remember, until you go through what my sister, or any of these women, have gone through, you are in no position to object to, or slander their feelings, or present state of being. You are merely a bitter, blogging groupie, who only wishes you could be more creative.

Please, do yourself a favor, get off your ass, and away from the computer, because your words are not wanted here.

[Loralee]

Here it is honey,

He is a mental case. Far worse than you or I or most of the world. He's in it for the Lulz and is an all around pity case.

Delete the comment. It is fouling up the air in here.

This person is not worth the time, energy or even a second thought.

[Loralee]

P.S. DELETE THE COMMENTS. I mean it. It brings nothing but disrespect to your son and mine. And Tanis's.

DELETE IT.

[becky]

This is the scariest thing for every mom. I cannot begin to imagine your pain. I cried as I read this, and I'm so sorry that you were forced to become THAT mom.

[crunchy carpets]

have been feeling the same way...realizing the pain will never go away..that I will be THAT mom for the rest of my life...how everything is marked....

Everything

[We are THAT family]

Thank you for sharing your story with us. I can't imagine your loss, your pain, the depth of your grief. I am sorry that you faced such tragedy and I know your words will console others in your position.

[Chickenliver]

I am that mom too.

[McMommy]

Auds...we love you. More than we can express in this little comment box.

[Karly]

Oh god, I don't even know what to say to this other than that I'm so sorry. I'm sobbing for you and your little curly headed blond boy.

[Rachael]

I'm so amazed by you. I'm late reading and commenting here because of the vacation, but I am just in awe of you. Thank you so much for writing this. I can't imagine the loss, but when I think of losing that snuggle into the back of Sam's neck, the big wet kiss on the lips... I can't even comprehend it. I appreciate posts like this because I know that it will help so many people who are also that mom. I know that it's been a long time, but I hope it still means something when I say that I'm so, so sorry that you had to go through this. No mother should. Okay, I have to go blow my nose now...

[singleworkingmommy]

Oh wow. I'm speechless, choking back the tears.

I'm so, so, SO sorry for your loss. May peace be with you.

[Jen]

I am NOT that mum...and i hope to god i am never that mum, i pray that i never have to experiance the sadness and emptyness that u have felt.

Thank u for sharing such a beautiful account of such a terrible loss.
xxxxxxxxx

[tinsenpup]

None of us should be asked to bear the unbearable. This was a beautiful tribute. You are a remarkable writer.

[ster]

it makes me so sick to my stomach to even read this, i can't imagine living through it. {{{{{auds}}}}

[Anastasia]

Beautifully written and with great courage and openness. Thank you for trusting us with your precious memories.

[Allison]

What a beautiful post. I can't imagine what you've gone thru in the past 20 years. I can feel the love you have for your son thru your words.

[marla]

thank you for sharing - for trusting strangers enough to share and remind us how precious things are...

[Jenny]

You brought tears to my eyes and a heavy heart that reaches out and gives you a big hug. We never know what life will bring us and the joys and sadness that come along with it.
I lost my mom when I was young and had a very close connection with her. The mom child bond is so precious and so dearly loved.
Hugs coming your way....

[a real anit-supermom]

I'm very sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing your story and demonstrating such braveness in these 18 years. Very, very well written.

[tyne White]

Auds, thank you for sharing your heart, love and grief. I am sorry for your loss, truly sorry.

[Monica]

Wow! This must have been difficult for you to write. I'm sorry that you are "that" mom. I'm sorry that anyone has to experience that sort of loss. I'm glad though that you have somehow found a way to make it through and can now be a voice of comfort for others who are new to being "that" mom.

[texasholly @ June Cleaver Nirvana]

I wish there were no THAT moms. My heart just hurts thinking about any part of THAT. Thank you for writing and sharing.

[tracey]

So incredibly sorry... No one should ever have to experience the loss of a child. Ever.

[Chelle]

Beautiful, heart breaking, and so well written. My nephew died 10 days before his first birthday. To see my sister and her husband walk through that? The whole experience was (and is) heartbreaking. I love the tribute to your son in this post, and, to the strength you have found within yourself. The stories our lives tell, even during tragedy, are so beautiful and worth telling. If it were up to me, no parent would ever experience such deep pain, but I am thankful to those who have and choose to share their stories. Beautiful, simply beautiful.

Yea, you are THAT mom, the one who is surviving when others would crumble.

[She]

Beautiful writing. Such sadness. It overwhelms me because my mom is that mom, too. I had a sister who died in 1960 after spending nearly two years in our family. My mom, all these later, still calls me to tell it's Belinda's birthday. I wasn't born until 1965, and even so, Belinda's absence is felt by me, a woman who desired to have an older sister. And, of the 4 remaining children, I am the only one who looks like she did, the one who reminds my mom of her loss, our family's loss.

Thank you for sharing your heart here and giving me eyes into my own mother's heart!

Love.

[She]

Beautiful writing. Such sadness. It overwhelms me because my mom is that mom, too. I had a sister who died in 1960 after spending nearly two years in our family. My mom, all these years later, still calls me to tell it's Belinda's birthday. I wasn't born until 1965, and even so, Belinda's absence is felt by me, a woman who desired to have an older sister. And, of the 4 remaining children, I am the only one who looks like she did, the one who reminds my mom of her loss, our family's loss.

Thank you for sharing your heart here and giving me eyes into my own mother's heart!

Love.

[A]

My heart breaks for you when I read this Auds. You are an amazing woman and writer!
Much love & hugs,

[SSP]

I just read this...after being linked to it from the 622am phone call from the Police officer....guess I haven't read far back enough in your blog to know who you are, and I am sorry for that. Auds, this is a beautiful piece of writing. I ache for your loss, even though I don't know you, but the images you have painted and the memories you articulate are vivid and mournful. I am So glad you have found expression and direction for this pain with your writing, as you have brought so much to those of us who read you, and I will never forget the evocative vision of those golden curls at the name of that little sleeping angel's neck....I am directing Rabbit Hole, which is a play about a woman in your exact circumstance, and I would like my actors to read this, so please let me know if I have your permission to share this with them, out of context of the rest of your blog. If not, I understand and will respect your privacy...

[CynthiaK]

I hadn't known about this before and happened upon this post linked from your post from today (mar 22) about your phone call. I don't even know what to say except I'm sorry and I think you're amazing. First and foremost, you have survived this ordeal and lived on with the blessings of your other children. You are also a really beautiful writer. I have enjoyed reading your posts but this one in particular, despite the fact it has reduced me to tears, was incredible to read. You clearly have so much to give and you have already been an inspiration to many. You have made being 'that mom' real and raw for your readers. Very powerful.

[Denise]

I am not that mom. I cannot relate. I cannot even imagine. To try is something more than a nightmare, something bigger and worse. I don't know if I'd have the courage to be that mom, the one who not only survives it but can write about it so openly.

[Sandhill Sis]

You are that mom...as is my mother.

Thanks for this... such insight to a world while familar, I don't KNOW. But helps me understand, if only a little.

[Wendy Butler]

I too am that mom. Lost my beautiful 3 month old baby girl to SIDS 26 years ago, then a little over a year ago watched as my 17 year old daughter slowly died from Leukemia. Words cannot descibe the agony...but you come close with yours. Thank you for that.
Wendy

[annbb]

What a beautiful tribute to your son. You are an incredible from the heart writer, Audrey. Glad our paths crossed.

[Grace (gracekslick91)]

I am so sorry that you are THAT mom... I am blessed that I came and read tonight. I will have to be back and read this post again and again. Quite a good, thought prevoking, sad, honest post. See you around twitter. Hugs my friend.

[Account Deleted]

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[Shannon Zanger]

I just became that mom on Dec. 8, 2012 at 3:03pm. I miss his dark curly hair, his brilliant blue eyes, and that wonderful smell of baby shampoo. Thank you for this. I write to cope also, but it helps to know that someone else has found a way to keep breathing for so long. Sometimes that seems impossible.