October 15 was the Wave of Light. We lit our candle for Owen at 7pm and left it burning for the rest of the night. Another babyloss mom who I know from the internet lights  a candle for every other baby she knows in addition to her own son, so Owen had a candle lit on her table as well. My facebook newsfeed was full of light that night, which makes me so very happy.

“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.” –Khalil Gibran

When I announced Owen’s birth and death to my online community of other mothers carrying very sick babies to term, I told them I was so happy but so sad all at the time. I called myself “the happiest kind of sad”–overjoyed at having met my Owen and proud of how beautiful his life was but also weeping for his loss and how empty we were without him.

Even now, I look at pictures of Owen or watch his videos and feel filled with gladness that I knew him, met him, and loved him. Literally in the exact same moment I also re-experience the fresh grief I felt when I had to give his body away. I know that as soon as I put the pictures away or turn the video off, Owen is gone again. He will never be mine to hold. I am both full and empty, brightened by knowing my son yet forever in darkness because his light was so fleeting.

“We’ll just do our best to make every decision out of love.”

Zach told me this when I was in constant distress over what to do for Owen when I was pregnant. He continued to remind me that this was our guiding philosophy for Owen’s life when I was feeling unsure of our decision for compassionate care instead of forcing aggressive medical intervention after Owen died. We’ve always discussed this concept–making every decision with love as our first priority–in relation to our children, but Zach also cares for me with deep compassion. There isn’t a time in our life together when I have ever doubted that Zach would support me with all his might (and I him).

When your baby dies, you are both weak, and you have to hold each other up while also knowing that sometimes one of you will break harder. I’m so lucky that Zach knows this. I’m so lucky we can do this for each other.

This is Owen’s little tree.

Because we had Owen cremated, there is not currently a physical space where he is memorialized. As I wrote yesterday, I’m glad that we will have a memorial space in our home, but I also wanted a spot in our community where Owen could be remembered. It is important to me that Owen’s life is acknowledged in a public way. To that end, Zach and I chose to have a tree in our local botanical garden dedicated to Owen. When we decided to have him cremated, I knew I would miss the fact that we didn’t have a plaque that would record his name for the outside world or a location where we could go and say to people “We did this for our son.” I am glad he is home with us, and I feel confident that this special tree space will serve my need of a public memorial space.

When we met with the Director of Giving at the Botanical Gardens, she took us for a walk around the garden to scout trees and locations. At the beginning of the tour, she showed us a spot that, though currently just forest, is being turned into a children’s garden with activities and an amphitheater for children’s shows and events. Owen’s tree is directly across from where the new children’s park will be, which is perfect to me. I would have loved to take him there one day. There’s also a really beautiful fountain and bench that I am sure we will enjoy with our future family. It is on a pathway, so I hope people who pass by will notice that it is dedicated to our baby who is very much loved and gone too soon. If people who see Owen’s memorial stop for just a second and hold his name in their thoughts, then realize how precious their little ones are, I will be happy.

Owen’s little tree doesn’t have a plaque yet, but hopefully it will soon.

I don’t really have a sacred place that I go to be with Owen. I certainly have sacred things, sacred rituals, but there’s not a place I go to remember him or be with him (I remember him all the time). Perhaps this is because we had him cremated. There’s no grave site to visit. His ashes are in our house, just like we wanted. In the beginning, I used to carry his ashes with me from room to room because I couldn’t stand the thought of him being alone. We created a little altar in our den where I put him during the day. We called it our Owen shrine. I used to go there to visit with him, but we’ve been doing some renovating and redecorating of our house, and the Owen shrine has been gradually dismantled–his ashes and photos in our living room, keepsakes and cards put into memory boxes, artwork moved about the house so we have remembrances of him in every room.

I like that he is represented in every room of our house, but I also liked being able to have a special place to sit with his memory. Zach and I have tentatively planned to turn one of our spare rooms into a library, with a space designated especially for Owen’s special things. I’ll be glad when we have that. I’ll like having a special place, I think.

(no photo today)

I took this in August when I was photographing my Baby Loss Before and After and ended up not using it, which I felt sad about because I wanted to show off Owen’s heart. What a perfect opportunity!

Soon after Owen died, I got this heart made by A Heart to Hold. It was made in honor of another lost son and gifted to us, and it weighs 7 pounds, 14 ounces–Owen’s birth weight. I love holding it, especially when I am feeling particularly empty-armed.

Today’s prompt was also inspired by E.E. Cummings poem “i carry your heart with me.” I (attempted) to read this Owen’s memorial service so it is especially near to my heart. Owen is gone from this world, but I carry him every day in my heart and in my mind. I am honored to do it but desperately sad that I must.