Shattered Faith, Part III – The Final Chapter

Posted on November 19, 2013 by Seth

To catch up on this series, check out:

Sunday night my wife, her mom and our friend Megan went to another show of Theresa Caputo’s, the Long Island Medium. We hauled out to the Saban Theatre in Beverly Hills (oohhhh la la) with seats on the floor this time. Jax came to Theresa again, and this time she saw us stand up and flail our arms for attention. This is our story.

~~~

Life’s been busy. I haven’t written anything on this site since November 1. Mostly because I don’t have the energy. Two-and-a-half hours in a car, a new job that requires full brain power and juggling the crazy schedule of a NICU night nurse have worn me down. So I completely forgot that my wife bought tickets for us to see Theresa Caputo again. A friend also going to the show kept reminding me.

As last Monday rolled around, I began to feel anxious. With seats on the floor this time, my expectations and hopes of Jax coming through and Theresa reaching us were sky-high. As the days led up to Sunday, I started talking to Jax. I told him the date, time and place. Described Theresa’s big hair and loving personality. Reminded him this was the same person he connected with last time. But that she couldn’t see us or reach us. I told him that his mom and I wanted to hear from him so badly. I told him he’d have to be strong. He’d have to speak up and be loud so Theresa could hear him.

I also prayed. I asked God, again, if Theresa’s gifts are from Him, that she could see/hear/feel Jax. That whatever Jax is doing for God on the other side, that He’d let Jax use his energy to reach Theresa.

As the weekend approached Sunday was all I could think about. My wife worked. We took the kids to see Santa Saturday night. But it felt like it was all just time filler until Sunday night.

On Sunday morning I got the kids’ breakfast ready and tried to wake up my wife to go to church. I failed. As they chomped on donuts and bananas, I felt anxious. Not a pleasant anxious, but a fearful anxious. What if we just got really lucky last time? What if it wasn’t Jax last time? What if nothing happens? I tried to spin it in my head that it was a night out to see a show. I made sure we had some good pre-show dinner options. And that all of our options had booze. My mind game didn’t work. I just kept hoping, hoping and hoping.

I took the kids to my parents to spend the night and talked to my mom a bit. She was anxious for us. I could see how deeply she just wanted something good to happen for us. I went home with thoughts of football and my dorky fake baseball draft preparation to look forward to. It helped distract me.

Megan met at our house, we got in the car and I forgot to print the tickets. Back on the road for a second time, we met my mother-in-law on the way there, picked her up and headed to Beverly Hills to eat.

We ended up at Rocco’s Italian Kitchen about a mile away from the theater on Wilshire. It scored four stars on Yelp and reviews praised their pizza. The service, though, was horrible.

About halfway through dinner two fire trucks pulled in front of the restaurant. The ladder truck was number 61 and the other was number 261. My wife either looked at me or said something, I don’t exactly remember. But there it was. More fire trucks.

On the day of Jax’s viewing, five days after he died, my wife got a voice mail on her cell. Now, before Friday, she’d received many texts and voice messages. Everything worked fine. The voice mail she got was from my phone. Sirens screamed. It was chaotic. I pocket dialed her or didn’t hang up when she didn’t answer. It’s eery that the voice message, recorded Sunday, didn’t land on her phone until Friday, the day of his viewing.

She told me she remembers thinking that it had to be Jax sending her a sign. Since that day my wife’s had a strange relationship with fire trucks. She sees them when she needs them most – to remember that Jax is close by. She saw one drive by our church the day of his funeral service. After a hard commute home, she saw one pull out of our tucked-away residential street. On holidays she finds them driving around town without sirens or an emergency to respond to. The engine that responded when Jax died was number 6. She’s also had a handful of run-ins with engines with number 3 (Jax’s number in tee-ball).

Some people have butterflies follow them, which are supposed to be the spirits of their dead loved ones. Kristina gets fire trucks.

So there we were. A fire truck parked outside Rocco’s window. Right in front of our Camry. With the number six in it. Coincidence or an omen?

While we were eating, Theresa finished the 3 p.m. show. We found out later that Jax talked to her well before our show at 7 p.m. She picked up a boy who drowned. And he told her that his parents would be at the show and that she needed to talk to us. I was likely licking my hot sauce-soaked fingers from the buffalo wings I clutched around that same time. Go me.

We packed our to-go boxes in the Camry and hustled on over to find parking, which isn’t very convenient in the area. With about 20 minutes until show time, Megan and I hit up the tiny bar and grill next to the theater for some shots while my wife and her mom found bathrooms in the theater. The two Miller Lites at Rocco’s didn’t calm me enough. But that large kamikaze shot sure helped.

After waiting for a mom and daughter to get out of the single-toilet men’s restroom, I peed and we found our seats. My wife had butterflies in her stomach. I was calm. The booze washed it away. Or, more likely, God brought me peace. He knew what was going to happen.

Saban Theatre

Theresa came out on stage. The show was beginning. I’m not positive, since I don’t remember this kind of thing, but she might have worn the same outfit in June when we saw her in Cerritos. I know she was wearing those same disco-ball like high heels. Those are unforgettable. She gave the same spiel and then finally started to talk to Spirit.

“Who has a finger print and ashes with them?” Theresa asked the crowd to start. “This is from a boy.”

My wife, her mom and me instantly stood in unison and waved our arms. But Theresa got stuck with someone closer to her. No one else, at least that I saw, raised their hands. This other person only had a finger print – no ashes. And it was for a girl, not a boy.

My mother-in-law was wearing a necklace with Jax’s finger print, just like the first show. My wife couldn’t connect the ashes, and I quickly said “tattoos” and pointed at my forearm. Both of us had very small portion of his ashes in the ink we were tatted with. Then she really started waiving her arms.

Theresa moved towards us. HOLY SHIT JAX YOU’RE A STUD! YOU DID IT AGAIN! YOU’RE SUCH A FREAKING STUD! That’s all I thought. How in the hell did he pull this off twice? If you don’t recall, he was first at the Cerritos show, but we were too far away for Theresa to see or reach us. We stayed standing and they passed us mics. Two camera men set up on each side of Theresa as she faced us from the aisle.

“You lost your son am I correct?” she asked. “And you lost him suddenly and/or tragically?” We nodded.

Now, I’m not going to get into the play-by-play of what was said. Simply because I don’t want to misquote or anything. The four of us spent the drive home talking about the experience and I tried to take notes. But I will paraphrase what Theresa told us.

Understand that we’re standing this whole time at our seats holding the mics, Theresa’s in the aisle and the entire theater is watching us on the big screen. She told us twice that this is the first time she’s ever started a show in the back of the room.

She began by telling us that he took responsibility for the way he died. That confused me. She said she felt like this was a preventable accident. Like it shouldn’t have happened. And it’s mysterious how it happened. Which it was. An adult right next to him, adults all around the pool. Very preventable. The guilt weighs on me daily. It’s the cross I carry. How could he take responsibility???

Theresa said it happened in an instance. She saw a snap of a finger. He didn’t suffer.

She said there was a father figure with him. We couldn’t think of anyone. After she moved on from that, my Uncle Tom popped in my head. He’s the only male figure in my life that has passed. He also passed tragically and unexpectedly. Could it be him? She then asked about a motherly figure. Kristina’s grandma died when Jax was 2. That was her. He’s with loved ones.

“He told me he’s making himself bigger,” Theresa said with a smile, as if Jax was so proud to tell her.

She described Jax as so full of energy. Radiant. He’d run up to her and jump in her arms. Those of you that knew Jax could see this. So happy, so much energy. So passionate.

Theresa got on a roll. Is his room untouched? Did we release balloons in his memory? Yep and Yep. Then she asked how we related to the number seven. We told her we didn’t.

“Something about a daughter and the number seven,” Theresa said. Holy crap that’s Presley, our first baby. She passed in July at 16 weeks gestation. She told us he brings this up to let us know that she’s with him.

Theresa asked if I carried Jax after his death. I did. I carried him from the hospital bed to the couch my wife sat on to hold him. And then back again to the bed. She asked if we spent time talking with him before the funeral. And we did. She said nothing was left unsaid. He got all of it.

“Was he buried in casual clothes?” Kind of. “Because he showed me dressed in a suit, then he spun around and was wearing casual clothes.” And she knew that we kept the outfit from his funeral. He was, however, cremated wearing an Iron Man costume.

Jax told Theresa his mom was pretty. Random, eh? In the middle of everything he said that.

Theresa asked if we had a dog. Which, if you know my wife, is laughable. No, we answered. She asked because she sees something being attracted to his room. Something that senses his spirit.

“Those are our other kids,” I answered. Gray is fascinated by his big brother and his room. Sometimes Ellie will join him in knocking on the door, looking underneath the door and asking to go in to his room. Fortunately they don’t open the door themselves. They respect it. But those are our “dogs.” They want inside.

She looked at me. My long-sleeved shirt covered both arms to my wrists ever since we parked the car. For a reason.

“Do you have his face or a picture of him tattooed on you?” I rolled up my right sleeve to show her. I told her I purposely made sure to keep my sleeves down. A little later she asked my wife if she had anything with her that Jax had written. She showed Theresa her small tattoo on her left wrist. It’s a copy of J-A-X in his own writing.

Theresa told me she sees Jax standing behind me, saluting. That’s her symbol that he’s proud. He’s proud that I was his dad. I lost it. Strangers were handing us tissues.

She asked if we took a family portrait before he died. We couldn’t think of anything. Then Megan reminded us of a giant photo in our front room of us at the Angel game. It was taken four days before he died. It was the last family photo taken of the five of us. Gray looks at that photo when he’s missing his mom, or me. And he likes to look at Jax.

She also asked if we’ve taken a family picture lately. Which we did, last Monday. She said he was with us.

Theresa asked if we’re grieving differently. We are. I was at the pool party, she wasn’t. I had control of the situation, she didn’t. Then Theresa asked if one of us felt guilty for not being there. My wife shared she did. She struggles with it a lot.

“But you weren’t supposed to be there,” Theresa told her. She described to us an episode of her show. A mom spent every day with her son. The one day she didn’t, the son drowned and died. When Theresa communicated with the departed son, he said she wasn’t there because she wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Theresa put her finger to her mouth, put her head down and thought for a few seconds. She asked if we’re worried that he’ll be forgotten. My wife and I have discussed this. We both have this fear, but my wife really struggles with this. We want to keep his memory alive. It’s why we do the CHOC Walk. It’s why we’re going to sponsor the Brewers tee-ball Little League team in Corona. And it’s why there’s a plaque hanging in his preschool with a scholarship in his name.

She went on to tell us that our situation was similar. It’s my soul’s burden to live with the fact that I was the one at the pool party that day with Jax. Because I wouldn’t want my wife to have to live with that. And that’s true. But damnit that’s a heavy thing to carry around.

I know this has been jumbled and probably doesn’t read well. I’m just listing shit. I don’t know how else to let you know all that was said. As she moved on from us we sat down. My brain was fried. It was hard to pay attention for the next 115 minutes.

The show ended and the theater emptied out. We stayed near our seats and talked. My wife’s mom and Megan went upstairs to the bathroom and my wife and I stood around the theater lobby. We talked a little. Hugged. Then I started to feel stares and looks. A few people came up to us. One asked to see my wife’s tattoo. Others offered condolences and joy that Theresa found us.

Over 24 hours later I don’t feel closure that I thought I would. I mean, what happened is f’ing awesome. And I’m so grateful and it puts me in awe of Jax. Maybe I’m still wrapping my brain around it. Maybe what I thought would fill the giant hole in my heart only numbs the pain, like everything else I’ve tried.

Or maybe it’s a level of peace built to last. I don’t really ever talk to him. That’s going to change. I know he’s safe. I know he wasn’t scared. I know he’s with us. Maybe that’s the foundation that will build the new me. The me that won’t let grief keep me from becoming the person God intends me to be. The me that can enjoy Gray and Ellie for who they are; they aren’t Jax.

The me that doesn’t sit around waiting to die and see Jax again.

Crushed Hope – Fallout From a Miscarriage

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Seth

July 31, 2013 – 1:15 pm

It was like any other day. I was in the office, just returned from lunch. In just over two weeks my job was ending. I was job hunting online. Then I got a text.

ICE stands for in case of emergency.

Oh shit. HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? If you know our story, you know this isn’t possible. My wife’s been pregnant three times – twice from artificial insemination and once from in vitro fertilization. I don’t have a job soon. Oh shit. HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?

We were done having kids. We sold off everything but a breast pump and pack-and-play.

I locked my work computer and hurried downstairs to call my wife. I don’t remember taking a breath. We asked each other how this could happen. We worried aloud. Our health insurance was ending. Another kid means dealing with Jax’s room far earlier than we wanted. This baby would grow up not knowing Jax.

She started to weep.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, trying to comfort her. But mostly myself. “This is totally from God. Everything will work out.”

Chicago

When I got back to my desk I sat for a few minutes, staring into nothing. We definitely knew the conception date. It happened in Chicago on our tenth wedding anniversary trip. I searched online for baby names influenced by the Windy City. Wrigley (the Chicago Cubs play at Wrigley Field) was the only name I could come up with on my own.

Photo credit: Me. F yeah.

But the Internet failed me. I played with Nymbler, a baby name assistant, for the next couple of hours. I worried about my wife. This wasn’t the plan. But I was anxious to get home and talk about this more.

To my relief, she was okay. And over the next several weeks, we were both very, very okay with this. Even excited. Really, really excited. My grief felt lighter. I laughed and smiled a little more. So did my wife. Things finally seemed to be turning around for us.

Hope

We’ve heard and read that the second year after losing a child is often harder than the first. That sounds impossible. But most of the support received in the months after the death has now moved on. They have lives to live. We are still stuck. The loneliness is harder. All of the firsts – first Halloween, Christmas, birthday, memorial – have passed. All that’s left is our broken hearts.

After Jax’s memorial service we felt the beginning of that rough second year.

But this pregnancy changed that. We felt hope for the first time. This baby was going to keep that second year from being worse. The baby embodied life after all we had known for a year was death.
It’s a gift from God. We thought it. The few people we told thought it. Everything’s going to be okay, because this is from God.

Neither of us could bury our fear completely. Fear of something bad happening. We lost our first child, Presley, at 16 weeks gestation without explanation. Then Jax tragically left us. There’s no way this will end badly. Right?

My wife’s first blood tests were positive. Her second blood test revealed increased hormone levels, indicating that everything was progressing appropriately. We decided we wouldn’t find out the sex of the baby. We threw more names around than the producers of the 50 Shades of Gray movie choosing its actors.

My buddy SJ, who was living in Chicago, offered up the name Addison. Wrigley Field’s address is 1060 W. Addison St. I liked it. But I kept pushing for Wrigley in the name somewhere.

August 17 – Seven weeks gestation

At some point, my wife told me she was spotting. I remained calm, especially after she told me it was light pink. To be extra careful, she called off work that night and rested on the couch. Anxious, I Googled her symptoms and found that everything was normal. I rested easy that night.

When we woke up, things seemed off. After a bit, I asked her how she felt. She started to cry as she said it got worse. I grew angry. This can’t be happening. Right?

We went to church that morning. I don’t recall the message, but I remember it being a perfect message for us to hear. My wife cried through most of it. I was busy hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Filling up that angry tank.

We brought home some lunch, but my wife couldn’t eat. I barely did. She called a friend and decided to go to the hospital. Her mom met her there and I stayed with the twins.

August 18 – 6:01 pm

While at my uncle’s birthday celebration, my wife sent me updates of ultrasounds and blood tests.

And then the news, as I stood in my uncle’s living room, reading my phone.

“:(( no baby”

Fuck. FUCK. Fuck this shit. I had to stay calm. My stomach sank. I wore my mask through the rest of the party. Had to act normal as we ate dinner and opened presents. Then we left. I just wanted to hold my wife.

Half way home my sister, who rode with us, asked how my wife was doing with the pregnancy. I told her about the miscarriage. Tears streaming down my face as I’m trying to drive us all home safely. I was finally able to unleash my sadness. I knew it was going to break her heart. And what was left of mine broke into even smaller pieces telling her.

The hope evaporated.

The next day I started my new job. The job that, along with the baby, was a gift from God. A gift of financial stability and health insurance after my first 90 days. Coverage that’d pay for the delivery that would never happen.

By now, my angry tank was overflowing. It all felt like a giant tease. A cruel trick. I kept asking myself why God would have us get pregnant naturally after years of not being able to only to go through yet another loss. F Him.

Today

My anger’s calmed down. I’m still mad, but I’m not trying to beat God up anymore. I still think the whole thing is f’d up. But my life’s been f’d up for a while now, so it’s just becoming normal.

Remember cheesy ’80s wrestling when the heel (bad guy) would get hit repeatedly, only to keep absorbing the blows before evilly grinning at his opponent and then asking for more? That’s how I feel. What in the hell else is life going to hit me with?

My wife came up with the idea to name the baby. And we used SJ’s idea of Addison. It fit for a boy or a girl. It signified Chicago. It was perfect.

I choose to believe that a fetus has a soul, and the soul of Addison is in heaven, hanging out with big sister Presley and big brother Jax.

Hopefully we can take our minivan to heaven with us. We’ll need the space.

Survival Strengthens the Soul

Posted on August 7, 2013 by Seth

In the short time since I’ve created this blog, I’ve met many other parents that have lost a child. Many of them read the site, either sporadically or regularly. There’s a kinship among us. We relate to each other the way our best friends can’t. We’re drawn to each other. They know exactly how I’ve felt, what I’m feeling now and what I’ll feel next year.

This post is geared specifically towards my bereaved crew. We’re all at various stages of our loss. It’s been 13 months for me. For others I know, it’s only been a month. For some of you reading this, unfortunately, maybe it’s something that will happen in the future.

It’s a post of hope. It’s something to read when you’re in the pit. When you don’t feel like you can climb out. When you don’t feel like anyone hears your cries for help.

George Anderson is a medium. On his website he claims to have had a special relationship with souls since he was 6, and he’s dedicated his life to helping the bereaved cope with loss. According to a post on a message board for families that have lost a child, Anderson wrote these words.

This post isn’t to vouch for his abilities or credibility. Like I’ve written before, it’s all confusing to me. I just wanted to spread his message, which I hope can comfort either yourself or your loved ones that have or will experience tremendous loss. I hope it helps.

It’s become typical–yet still always surprising–to hear from souls during a session who were themselves bereaved parents on the earth, that not only was the struggle of their lifetime here necessary, but “worth it.” That’s a rather spectacular statement to make, considering how we already know how difficult the path of a bereaved parent is. Let’s face it–things have to be pretty darn good in the hereafter for (formerly) bereaved parents to tell us here that every minute of the struggle here to continue after a devastating loss is not only worth the immense cost to us, but it was necessary to their spiritual growth and reward in their new world of joy.

The souls tell me that reunion with the children they longed so much to see again is breathtaking, and one of the most curious things they encounter is that with regard to appearances, not a second seemed to have passed since they last saw their children. It seems literally as if we pick up exactly where we left off, and that only once we are comfortable, we get to see the progression of the souls of our children almost exactly as it would have happened on the earth. It’s one of the joys the souls are most happy about–not having lost a minute of their child’s growth and maturity.

What is so encouraging about sessions like these, where bereaved parents “talk” to parents here, is that they don’t try to minimize the entire spiritual journey of a parent here by tossing out phrases like “it all gets better” or “you do get rewarded, so relax”–they take the journey both they and we have gone through with a seriousness that is unlike any other time in sessions. The experience of having lost a child on the earth and having struggled through the most difficult challenge of this lifetime (their words) has not at all been forgotten by the souls–but it has been forgiven, since they now see the arc of their lives, and the lives of their children, and how necessary it all was as a means to a magnificent end.

I can’t make you feel better when your heart is broken by just telling you that as a bereaved parent, it will get better one day–that is part of the spiritual lesson each of us will learn here. But I can remind you that when life seems at its most cruel and hopeless, parents just like you survived it. They not only survived, but they found everything they had lost, and much, much more. I hope the example of these brave souls and their incredible words can at least help us understand that there is Light ahead, and no matter how hard it is, we have to keep walking toward that Light, where everything we love and have lost is waiting for us in a world where no harm will ever come to our loved ones or us again. From your sisters and brothers who walked the same path as you, and came out the other side in joy, you know they can be trusted to tell you the truth. And it’s pretty spectacular.

I can’t wait to see Jax again. And if it really feels like not a minute has passed, it will be a glorious moment when we reunite. I can’t wait to rub my hand across that chicken-head hair of his.

Some of my bereaved brothers feel the same. To the point that perhaps they’ve seriously considered speeding up the process. It’s crossed my mind. I’m sure it’s at least crossed all of our minds for a second. But the hell we’re in isn’t for nothing.

So stay strong. When you’re not, let others carry you. When you’re feeling strong, let others lean on you. And when we do finally see our kids again, we’ll know surviving this hell was worth it.

The Remembrance

Posted on June 25, 2013 by Seth

I remember the drive home when the blind hope

Turned to crying and screaming, “Why?”
Flowers pile up in the worst way
No one knows what to say about a beautiful boy who died

– By Taylor Swift and Maya Thompson

Courtesy of Crossroad Photography, Heather Kusunoki.

Around October of last year, as we approached Halloween, a very difficult time for me as it was right there with Christmas as Jax’s favorite time of year, my mom emailed my wife and I a link to a song Taylor Swift performed about a boy with cancer. Swift wrote the song “Ronan” based on a blog Maya Thompson, the mother of Ronan, created when her 3-year-old son was diagnosed with neuroblastoma in August of 2010. Ronan died in May of 2011 three days before his fourth birthday.

My wife’s brother created a beautiful tribute video that we showed last night at Jax’s Remembrance. I’m guestimating about 100 people came to Mountain Gate Park in Corona to be together as a community to share stories, hug, laugh and cry.

Projected on to a make-shift movie screen (as you can see in the background of the photo above), the video wrapped up with “Ronan” playing as we watched videos of Jax performing for the infant twins and photos as we all last remember seeing him. The song crushes me every time I hear it. I managed to mostly avoid tears throughout the night until that song played. Even though I watched the video earlier in the day and wept alongside my wife, I still lost it at the park, standing in the background and swigging Macallan scotch from a flask while I wiped away tears. (thank you my very kind friend for sharing).

Courtesy of Crossroad Photography, Heather Kusunoki

The best way to describe last night was beautiful. We gathered beyond the outfield fence since the Corona American Little League all-stars practiced on the large field. Blankets and camping chairs filled the grass area and children played wiffle ball as we listened to some good music and mingled with each other. The way the sun’s glow shined upon us as it set in the crystal blue sky filled me with warmth and peace.

My wife made some keepsakes for people to leave with. Maria, a mother of one of Jax’s t-ball teammates, created this beautiful graphic shortly after the event, displaying and engraved washer and a jack, our symbol for Jax.

Courtesy of Maria McRoberts.

Several courageous people stood in front of us all and spoke of fond memories, how Jax’s life and death has affected them and the love they have for our family.

Following the multimedia presentation we lit the night up by candle light. Following a moment of remembrance we released balloons. We invited people to write messages on some of the balloons while others came installed with a LED light and glowed red (Jax’s favorite color) deep into the dark sky.

Courtesy of Crossroad Photography, Heather Kusunoki.

The day wasn’t without any hiccups and stresses, but the evening came off as well as my wife and I could have hoped. Thank you so much to everyone that attended. We hoped this night would be for you as much as it was for us. We all continue to grieve in our own ways and doing it all together, I think, made it less awful.

Several of you asked about the “Ronan” song, so I’ll end with the lyrics and a link. While it’s written for Ronan, maybe you’ll think of Jax every time you hear it.

Jax – you were my best four years.

I remember your barefeet down the hallway
I remember your little laugh
Race cars on the kitchen floor
Plastic dinosaurs, I love you to the moon and back

I remember your blue eyes looking into mine like we had our own secret club
I remember you dancing before bedtime then jumping on me waking me up
I can still feel you hold my hand
Little man, and even the moment I knew
You fought it hard like an army guy
Remember I leaned in and whispered to you

Come on baby with me
We’re gonna fly away from here
You were my best four years

I remember the drive home when the blind hope
Turned to crying and screaming, “Why?”
Flowers pile up in the worst way
No one knows what to say about a beautiful boy who died

And it’s about to be Halloween
You could be anything you wanted if you were still here
I remember the last day when I kissed your face
And whispered in your ear

Come on baby with me
We’re gonna fly away from here
Out of this curtained room and this hospital gray
We’ll just disappear
Come on baby with me
We’re gonna fly away from here
You were my best four years

What if I’m standing in your closet trying to talk to you?
And what if I kept the hand-me-downs you won’t grow into?
And what if I really thought some miracle would see us through?
But what if the miracle was even getting one moment with you

Come on baby with me
We’re gonna fly away from here
Come on baby with me
We’re gonna fly away from here
You were my best four years

I remember your barefeet down the hallway
I love you to the moon and back

Songwriter(s):Taylor Swift, Maya Maria Thompson
Copyright:Taylor Swift Music, Sony/ATV Tree Publishing

Thank you Heather Kusunoki for the beautiful photos. You can find her work at Crossroad Photography.

One Year Later

Posted on June 24, 2013 by Seth

For a few days I’ve racked my brain on what to post today. I wanted something special. Something symbolic and fitting of a year that’s passed since Jax died.

But there is no magic idea to make us all feel better today. It’s a day I have to let happen. I can’t just get through it. I have to be present as it takes place. I have to shed the tears, feel my heart squish in my chest and my stomach ache. Numbing the pain with distractions is temporary.

Tonight we’ll come together not just to remember Jax, because we remember him constantly. But to experience today together. To hug, laugh, cry and be present.

One year. It’s been both the shortest and longest year of my life, at the same time. I can’t believe it’s already been a year since it happened. But I feel like it’s been a life time since I heard his voice, gazed into his gorgeous eyes, held him in my arms, kissed his head and jumped in to his infectious passion.

I miss you, Jax.

I LOVE you,

Dad

Below is a slideshow. No idea how this will work for you mobile users.

How It Feels After the Death of a Child

Posted on June 12, 2013 by Seth

Soon after Jax died I dove into the Internet for comfort. A few people told me about The Compassionate Friends, a national organization aimed at helping parents and grandparents grieve the death of a child naturally and without isolation to heal and find hope again. One evening my wife came to check on me in the office and found my red, puffy face soaked with tears. I joined a chat room at the website of The Compassionate Friends and explained to strangers for the first time Jax’s death.

The Compassionate Friends

“Why would you even want to do that to yourself?” she asked with a compassionate smirk. I laughed back. “I don’t know,” I answered.

That same night I found a section of the site for “To the Newly Bereaved.” I read it and realized I wasn’t alone. My wife dealt with everything differently than I did. She didn’t want to deal with any of it. So the ability to identify with countless others that already experienced and came through this hell was a big deal for me.

The “To the Newly Bereaved” lists emotions and feelings that parents, grandparents and siblings might feel shortly after the loss of a child. It’s divided into psychological, emotional, physical and family/social categories. If you know of anyone suffering through grief, this may be of help to them. They’re not alone. Below I’ve listed what I remember feeling and struggling with, and often still do.

Psychological

You wonder how someone can feel this much pain and survive.
Thoughts of suicide briefly enter your mind. You tell yourself you want to die—and yet you want to live to take care of your family and honor your child’s memory.
You are no longer afraid of death as each day that passes puts you one day closer to being with your child.
Thoughts of “what ifs” enter your mind as you play out scenarios that you believe would have saved your child.
Your memory has suddenly become clouded. You’re shrouded in forgetfulness. You’ll be driving down the road and not know where you are or remember where you’re going. As you walk, you may find yourself involved in “little accidents” because you’re in a haze.
You find there’s a videotape that constantly plays in an endless loop in your mind, running through what happened.

Emotional

You rail against the injustice of not being allowed the choice to die instead of your child.
You yearn to have five minutes, an hour, a day back with your child so you can tell your child of your love or thoughts left unsaid.
Guilt becomes a powerful companion as you blame yourself for the death of your child. Rationally you know that you were not to blame—you most certainly would have saved your child if you’d been given the chance.

Physical

You no longer care about your health and taking care of yourself—it just doesn’t seem that important anymore.
The tears come when you least expect them.
Your appetite is either gone or you find yourself overeating.

Family & Social

Things you liked to do which seemed so important before now seem meaningless.
If you have surviving children, you find yourself suddenly overprotective, not wanting to allow them out of your sight. Yet you feel like a bad parent because it’s so difficult to focus on their needs when you’re hurting so bad yourself.
Others say you’ll someday find “closure,” not understanding that closure never applies when it is the death of your child.

One of my goals of this blog is for it to be a resource for the newly bereaved. My vision is to create a section that parents can click on and find anything and everything to help them realize that they’re not alone, that they have the strength to get through this and to keep breathing as the sun will rise tomorrow. A link to “To the Newly Bereaved” will be the first thing someone will read in that section, when I can get that up.

Shattered Faith, Part II

Posted on June 7, 2013 by Seth

This is going to be weird. I’m going to open up about some stuff that will make you judge my faith, my strength, my mental/emotional stability and question whether you will keep reading this site, or even talk to me without looking at me differently. I just ask that you read with an open mind, without judgement and with love.

“Who here lost a young boy that drowned?” Theresa asked as she stood at the front of the stage with her platinum blone hair and flashy disco ball-like high heels, which now function for me similarly to the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock for Gatsby.

No one answered, so she inquired again. My heart pounded. My face felt sort of numb.

“In this section, right here. Someone lost a young boy that drowned.” With her arms extended straight and parallel, she pointed at our section.

Holy shit, this is happening. Everything I wished for is happening. My wife and I raised our hands in unison. But we were five levels up from the stage, sitting in the second to last row of the theater.

FUCK.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Towards the end of last summer, with encouragement from a friend and a thirst for something, anything that would help me believe in heaven again, I watched an episode of Long Island Medium on the cable channel TLC. For those that don’t know, the show follows a medium from Long Island, Theresa Caputo, as she helps the living communicate with loved ones that have crossed over (died).

I recorded any episode I could find on my DVR and watched alone. Whereas I was okay sobbing while soaking up some gut-wrenching episodes, my wife wasn’t ready to watch. My skepticism reminded me that this was a TV show. It’s cool to believe Caputo could really communicate with the dead and bring comfort and closure to the living, but what if it’s just all for show?

I continued to watch with an open mind, and Caputo continued to blow me away with her episodes. Her ability to bring up specific details she could never know with love and positivity while at the same time giving honor to God hooked me. A practicing Catholic, Caputo walks a curved line of traditional Christian beliefs and alternative spiritual theorem. She mixes in a typical Italian New Yorker stereotype and a charming naivety that warms the soul.

What if is this is true? Then I will see Jax again. He is walking with me. He knows my sorrow, my guilt and how much I miss him.

This show brought me peace. It gave me hope at a time when I had nothing.

The Show

About six weeks ago our friend, who is a big fan of the show and wrote in to TLC to get us on the show for a reading, text me that Theresa Caputo was coming to the west coast. She found available tickets at the Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts. I asked my reluctant wife if she wanted to go on June 6, our tenth wedding anniversary. Romantic, huh? A few hours later I bought tickets at the back of the theater, the only ones left.

My seat at the Cerritos Center for the Performing Arts. AKA BFE.

The theater seats 1,700 people spread across five floors with box seating that flanks the main stage. Our seats were on that fifth level, to the right of the stage if facing it and in the second to last row. Binoculars would’ve been appropriate.

The night before I spoke to Jax for about 10 minutes. Typically I cry when I talk to him, but that night I felt calm. I matter-of-factly explained what we were doing and that this woman Theresa could speak with him. I advised that there were going to be a lot of people there that wanted to speak with their passed loved ones, and that he needed to push his way to the front to reach Theresa. I asked him to be strong, because his mom and I ache to hear from him.

Last night my wife and I picked up our friend and met my mother-in-law in Cerritos for the show. The venue, a beautiful site which I highly recommend checking out an event, was packed with middle age women, which shot my blood pressure up and required soothing deep breaths to keep from elbowing the ones that couldn’t seem to figure out that I was standing against a wall so that they wouldn’t walk in to me.

Caputo started the show praising God for her gift, explaining how she operates and curbing our expectations for the night. She told us Spirit was ready to work earlier than she expected so she got right to it.

My Experience

“Who here lost a young boy that drowned?” That’s how she opened the whole freaking thing. There’s 1,697 other people in here, I’m sure she’s not just speaking to us, I thought. Then she asked that second time. What the shit? I’m stuck up here in the boonies. Short of jumping off the balcony she wasn’t going to see us waving our hands.

Caputo moved on to other spirits communicating to her. About 45 minutes later, after moving around the lower level of the theater followed by a camera man and microphones, Spirit led her to ask who had a necklace with a thumb print. I didn’t think much of it until no one raised their hand, that I saw at least. I looked to my left and saw my mother-in-law tugging the chain around her neck. At the end was a flat charm with Jax’s thumb print. I totally forgot she had that keepsake.

What the hell is happening? Is my little boy, the first loved one to step forward, trying for a second time? Is he fighting for us? I felt helpless.

“Does anyone have an anniversary of some kind today?” Caputo inquired. Oh c’mon! My wife raised her hands, both of them. Just before the show I snacked on a sandwich in the parking lot and our friend snapped a photo of my wife and I sharing our “anniversary dinner” and posted it on Facebook. Again, no one else said it was their anniversary.

This can’t be coincidence, can it? I mean, it can, I guess. We’re showing up despearately hoping to hear from Jax. I could turn around a lot of things Caputo said that night to relate to us so that I felt better. But these three things were too specific. And NO ONE ELSE affirmed her messages.

I believe it was Jax. I have to. That’s what faith is, right? Belief that isn’t based on proof.

As far as Caputo goes, I utterly believe everything she did that night is true, real and a gift from God. It’s impossible to know much of the stuff she asked the audience as their loved ones communicated with her. She nailed the dead’s personality to a tee, knew about tattoos hidden behind clothing and detailed some horrific ways that loved ones died.

A Real Account

In late summer or early fall I told my mom about the comfort I found with the Long Island Medium. In November she emailed me a story she found posted by a woman on a message board at the MISS Foundation. The woman explained how she attended a Caputo show and her daugther came through and communicated to her.

My mom emailed the woman and formed a common bond. Her daughter also drowned.

“I questioned heaven every day, wanting to believe but also thinking why, why why?” wrote Jill Ritts to my mom. “Now I can honestly say that I have ZERO doubt that my daughter is really really with me, everyday. It is such a sense of relief.”

With Jill’s permission I’ve included her story, which she wrote three days after her Caputo experience. Because of her post, and my mom emailing to let me know about it, my faith took its first step towards restoration.

10/13/2012

The showroom at the Tropicana showroom’s 2000 seats was sold out. We were seated on the mezzanine level closer to the back. We luckily had the first four seats in our aisle and the Duffy’s let me have the aisle seat. The stage had a table and chair and large screen projector. I was so nervous and kept telling myself that Madison didn’t stand a chance of coming through when there were so many other people here. I convinced myself that I didn’t care; I would be just as happy to watch other people get read.

When Theresa came on stage she explained that she didn’t like sitting on the stage and would be walking around and listening for messages, and would go to the person whose spirit on the other side was taking to her. No calling out or standing up, she would come to you. She told us that she could not possibly read everyone in the audience.

She started in the front row and proceeded to read about 3 people, one of which was a very distraught mother who had lost her daughter and now her daughter would have been 5. I knew at that moment that I was supposed to be comforted by that reading and that my Madison couldn’t get through!

Theresa then walked up to the middle aisle, about 20 rows down from where I was sitting and said “there is someone here with a very specific tattoo of their child, like a portrait of their face”

Liz hit me and told me to raise my hand and I did so tentatively but a man down close to where Theresa was standing actually stop up and said he had his son’s face tattooed on him, I dropped my arm and Theresa proceeded to read him but then got interrupted and looked up into my direction, Still 20 rows away and said:

“No, there is a little girl here and she is showing me a very specific tattoo.” Theresa was holding her left wrist and looking toward me.

I raised my hand and said “I have a tattoo on my wrist but it is not a portrait.” She said “But it is something specific to your child.” I said “It is her name on my wrist.” She said “Well you can’t get more specific than that! And what’s up with the butterfly? Do you communicate with her through butterflies?” I had long sleeves on and she could not see my tattoo of Madison’s name and a butterfly on my left wrist.

I was handed a microphone from an unseen woman but was shaking so bad, I could not stand up. Theresa walked a little closer and said to anyone, “who is Madeline?” Me and another woman both raised our hands. She asked “And she is showing me the number 3?” I said “That’s me; my daughter was 3 when she died.” Theresa walked right up to me, camera man trailing and said “and the necklace you wear, she is showing me something on the necklace.”
It was under my shirt and I pulled it out and said it is a butterfly also.” Theresa said there is something more specific on the necklace” I said “Yes her initials are engraved on the back.”

Then Theresa said “what about her hair? She is showing me her hair”
I said “It was dark?”
She said “No she is showing me a locket of her hair. Do you have a locket of her hair?” Yes in a shadow box on my mantle.

Next, Theresa was rubbing her stomach, chest area and said “She’s showing me an infection, in her stomach? Lungs?” I said lungs.

Theresa said “She is showing me that she is swinging on a swing set, playing. She was unable to move for some time and now she wants you to know she is playing.” I said she was in a coma for 11 days.

“She is showing me a manmade body of water.” At this point Theresa got very flustered and on the verge of tears. She was pacing back and forth and kept repeating “It was crazy, there was no current. It was almost like drowning in a bucket, something as senseless as that?”

I said “It was a pool and they don’t have currents either”

Theresa slapped her head, like duh.

Next she blurted out “What’s with the book? There is a book memorializing her life?” I almost died at this point and said “Yes. I am writing a book about her!” Theresa said well she is acknowledging your work.

Next she said “You called her Maddie didn’t you?” and I said yes and Theresa looked right at me and said well she just climbed up on your lap and gave you a hug and said “I’m my Mommy’s Maddie!” Again I almost died as I had a chill run from my toes to my head.

Then Theresa said “and she just jumped up and gave me a hug to thank me for talking to you. She is showing me on that swing set again. She really wants to let you know she is playing and having a ball.”

“She is showing me some drawings or writings now. Did you find something she drew after she passed and put it in a box?” I told her yes I found some papers that Shannon made Madison write her scribble; Shannon was trying to teach Madison how to write. When I found the papers I couldn’t look at them and put them in a box. I still don’t know where the box is.

“Now she is showing me a pretty dress and turning around so I see dirt on the back of the dress. Like she was a girlie, girl and a tomboy. She would put on pretty dresses and then go outside and play in the dirt.” Yes this is her.

“She is showing me a park. Like you have a tribute to her in a park, and her name is somewhere in park??” I said yes. We have a Miles for Madison walk in Tyler park each year, and just, just, just received information to have her name engraved on a bench there. The info is on my fridge at home.

Next she said “She is showing me a princess bathing suit.” I said “That is what she died in.” Theresa said no she is showing me that couldn’t find it. After Madison died I wanted to see the Ariel bathing suit and my mom admitted to throwing it out and I was a little upset.
Theresa said, “She wants to acknowledge that you were upset about the bathing suit, but it doesn’t matter. There she is on those swings again.”

Theresa stood quietly for a minute and said “Who is Lila? Libby? Liddy?”
I said “Linny”
She said “Who is she?”
I said “the babysitter”

Everyone in the audience, including Theresa got very flustered and loud and Theresa kept pacing back and forth. So I said “No. No they loved each other.” Theresa stayed quiet a minute and then came over to me and gave me a hug before moving on to someone else.

I’d say the whole night she read about 20 people and Madison’s was by far the longest. It felt like it went on for 15 minutes but I’m not sure.

Jill prayed for my wife and I last night. A lot of you did. I asked God yesterday that if this was of Him, that is will be done.

I believe it was Jax last night. I believe he made it through all of those other loved ones passed on and up to Caputo first. He knows what it means for my wife and I to hear from him. He knows how much we need it.

I have to believe. Without belief there’s no hope, and that green light at the end of Daisy’s dock fades to darkness. I lived in darkness enough over the past year. I need that light.

Smiling Through Tearz

Category Archives: Grief