Birthdays....

Today my son Sloan would have been 12 years old. He was born on election day in 1994 while Tropical Storm Gordon was raging through south Florida where I lived. He weighed all of 3 pounds and 4 ounces and I don't really remember much of it because I was so sick. He has been gone for over 7 years now. It gets easier in some respects because it is harder to connect directly to the pain anymore. But, if I let my mind wander I can place myself back in a room with him at The Hattie Larlham Foundation, cuddling with him in his chair, holding his Frumple Bear to support his neck and watching him soothe himself with his pacifier. When I do this the pain is just as real and just as current as if he just passed away.
I wasn't going to blog today because it is hard to write the words above. Tears just seem to keep streaming down my face. Its hard to go where it is so painful. I changed my mind about blogging today because of a conversation I had with a coworker about coincidences and synchronicity. She lost her mother recently in a tragic car crash. We were talking about ways we want to connect with those we have lost. She said that she has been having strange happenings that make her feel closer to her mother. It reminded me of two distinct occurrences that happened after Sloan died. I will tell you about both.

When Sloan died the funeral home was out of "big boy" caskets. The only casket they had was a white casket. At the time I didn't want him to have a baby casket that was white. I was really upset about this but had to adjust to the fact I wasn't going to get what I wanted for him. We flew his body to Grand Haven, Michigan for the funeral service. The cemetery out by the Lake was where we held the service. It was a beautiful summer day. Ron Turner, the minister was reading his notes and speaking to us all about how my son was finally able to run, jump, skip and play for the first time in his life. At that moment a white butterfly flew up and landed on the casket. Everyone was silent. The butterfly didn't move. Everyone stayed silent - all 300 people who attended. We were moved by this butterfly sitting on the white casket. The butterfly stayed for the rest of the service. It signified to me that my son had been transformed. Here is where the coincidence comes in. A couple of weeks later my genetics counselor wrote me a letter. She had been at the funeral. Earlier that week she went on a Labyrinth walk. On the way through the labyrinth walk she was told to release and pray for whomever came to her mind. She came across a black butterfly and it reminded her of someone who had died that she had not forgiven. She forgave the person. She walked further and came across an orange butterfly. This butterfly also reminded her of someone who had passed away. She prayed about this person. Just before she got to the church at the end of the walk she came across a white butterfly and thought of Sloan. She prayed for Sloan and I. She thought it was strange at the time because Sloan was alive and the rest of the people she had thought of were dead. After she prayed she kept repeating a mantra on the way to the church - "Run, jump, skip and play." It was just like the minister and the white butterfly at his service. The day she did that walk the day that my son went in to the hospital for the last time.

The second coincidence was when my son had been gone for two years. My husband knew I was going through a hard time on the anniversary of his death and asked me if I wanted to write Sloan a poem and then balloon launch the poem for him. I thought this sounded like a good idea. We were living in Columbus Ohio at the time. We went out that evening and let my writing go off with the wind. I really was struggling at the time and the event didn't soothe my grief. A couple of months later and well in to the winter season, my husband and I decided to go and visit a friend in Chicago. We liked to drive the 5.5 hour route so that we could talk and catch up with each other. During that drive I spoke of how hard it was to move on after losing a child. We ended up stuck in a traffic jam on the Chicago Skyway. We weren't getting anywhere quickly so I reclined my seat next to my husband who was driving and looked out the window. Up in the huge electrical poles were my deflated balloons and my poem stuck in the wires. It was a moment where I truly felt my son was telling me that he was okay. I never would have noticed the details of the balloons or of the package hanging from it if we had just been able to drive through.
I wish I could say that I've ever reached a point since his death that I feel totally complete again. I do see white butterflies everywhere I go now and it reminds me of his transformation and how happy he must be now that he isn't in pain all of the time. Whenever I see a balloon launch or a balloon floating off on its own in the sky I think of my son and the time we did have together even though it was short.
Happy Birthday Sloan. I love and miss you more than words can try to express.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Mom