For a moment, I forget

Leaning against the car window, I scan the side of the road ahead for deer. I don’t know why I can’t trust John with that task. After all, he’s driving. I start to turn around to check on the children and freeze.

For a moment, I forget. For a moment, I fully expect to see Tiggy asleep in his car seat, hands behind his head, as I had seen him so many times before. For a moment. And the next moment I can’t bear to not see him, so I lean back against the window, staring down the road.

John flips on the radio.

“I think I’m going to Katmandu,

That’s really, really where I’m going to. . . “

He changes the channel.

For a moment, I can still see Tiggy in his car seat. And then it is empty. My mind drifts back to the hospital. Where I last held him in my arms. Felt his cold little hand. Kissed his cold forehead as firmly as I had wanted to before he went into surgery but didn’t for fear of hurting him. I promised to write down all his little stories and tried to figure out how to say goodbye.

“K-K-K-K-Katmandu. . .”

“That has to be the stupidest song ever written,” he comments.

He changes the station again.

I think about that long, impossible walk toward the exit. With every step, the door shrank away from me until we were suddenly there. Nurses stood at the door, offering condolences, hugging me, asking me if I needed a wheelchair. I remember being  mildly irritated at the suggestion. But as soon as I stepped out, I collapsed. My husband and two nurses caught me and carried me back inside, placing me in the wheelchair I had refused. Everyone was talking, trying to figure out who was going to ride where. A nurse suggested no one move the car seat. So it sat there empty for over a week.

“If I ever get out of here,

I’m going to Katmandu.”

John’s beginning to get annoyed.

“Seriously, I may as well sing about going to Narre Warren.”

The car seat had to come out for this trip. That didn’t really bother me as much as I was afraid it might. Slowly, everything that was his is being taken away. The last of his milk was drunk. The last of his clothes were folded and put away. His playpen was taken down. Soon, we’ll have to take his clothes out of his drawer to make room for the baby’s. Taking the car seat out didn’t bother me until I went out and found it lying upside down on the driveway.

I picked it up, dusted it off and carried it into the garage. But once there, I didn’t know quite what to do with it. So I set it on the floor and just stared at it. I had the strange urge to curl up in a little ball and sit in it, but there’s no way I would have fit. So I just continued to stare at it until John came in and moved it to the top of a storage tub where it was out of the way.

“There has to be an end to this song.”

And he hits the search button again, but without an antenna, the radio is only pulling one station.

I feel dead inside. These times are the worst. The fog is lifted and I feel just how deep the hurt runs. It’s heavy. It sits on my chest making it difficult to breathe. It threatens to consume me. But before it does, the fog settles as the numbness returns. I think for a moment perhaps this numbness I so often find myself fighting against is a gift from a merciful God who promises us no more than we can handle.

And the memory of him playing peek-a-boo in that car seat doesn’t quite make me smile, but at least I can breathe again.

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Moments throughout the day I think of you. Of Tiggy. Of your whole family. I think until I begin to feel a tiny taste of what it must be like. And then I flee away from thought and feeling because it hurts too much. But I can flee. I know you cannot totally flee. I hold my little ones tight once more. I pray once more for you all.

I do not know you, but we are sisters in Christ. The first day I read your blog was the day you wrote that your son had died. This post is heartbreaking to read. But I admire your courage and your ability to keep marching forward in these days. This is what walking in faith looks like. Just walking. In faith. You have been so much in my prayers these past weeks. I will continue to keep your name on my prayer list for a long time to come, praying for much grace and rich grace for your whole family.

Praying for you Dana. That you may be comforted and that you may be able to forget the pain, but never Tiggy!
:hugs: our Savior holds you tight and will continue to be with you through this. God knows what you’re going through as He lost His Son, so go to Him, hold onto Him! He will be there for you and will hold you!
much love to you and yours. praying for you!

Dana, your vivid description of what you are thinking and feeling touches the depths of my soul and takes me back 20 years to the day we said goodbye too soon to our baby daughter, Heather Rose. Sitting in a wheelchair by the curb waiting for Steve to bring the truck around, watching new mommies and their new babies come out on either side of me with their balloons and flowers and teddy bears. Their babies were vibrant and alive and pink-cheeked. Just like mine had been only hours before. It wasn’t fair. Twenty years later, it still isn’t fair.… Read more »

Your words are beautiful and heartbreaking all at the same time. I continue to pray for you.

So glad you’re at this point. Yes, you are working through, and yes, the numb is our merciful and gracious Father’s protection of us, lest we lose our sanity. I hated finishing Alex’s laundry, knowing those were the last loads I’d ever do for her. And yes, the bagel I had pulled out to defrost for part of her breakfast that day sat on the counter for weeks. I couldn’t bear to toss it and ended up taking it to feed to the birds at the cemetery. The rear view mirror is a tough one. Looking back and seeing one… Read more »
Jennifer in OR

Thinking of you this morning.

As I prayed for you this morning after reading this post, this scripture portion came to mind from Psalm 139… 7 Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? 8 If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. 9 If I take the wings of the morning, And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, 10 Even there Your hand shall lead me, And Your right hand shall hold me. 11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall fall[a] on me,”… Read more »

I am so glad you are being honest, and so glad you are able to write, too, Dana.

My heart is with you as you go thru these difficult days.


I have a little boy born just 3 weeks after your Tiggy. My heart breaks for you when I think of the pain you must be going through. I will hold my little man extra long today and pray for you and your family.


Never stopped praying for you and I will continue to do so. I know you don’t know me and I dont know you but I just cry for you daily.

Beth Herring

Dana – thank you for sharing your words with us. i can’t imagine your pain but i am praying that God continue to minister to you in a mighty way.

Dana, I think that numbness is a gift. We can’t possibly feel the true depth of our grief all the time or our hearts would stop. And that fog may just be the comforting arms of God, shielding you from all the pain. His little things may be going away but his presence will always be there with you. I remember how my daughter used to put a blanket over her head and say, ‘where is she? where is she?’ and we’d have to pretend we couldn’t see her, even though the rest of her body was in full view!… Read more »

Dana– I’m not sure I have the right words to share with you. But I know our Almighty Father is holding you tight in His arms and will not let you go.


I came across your blog via another homeschooling mommy. Our family has been praying for you. My husband pastors a church here in Nebraska. They are praying for your family.

My heart breaks for you. There are no new words of comfort that I can share but our heavenly Father knows what you’re feeling. Hold tight to Him.

In Christian love,

Ms. B.

I’m so glad you are able to write these posts, Dana. They help me to grieve with you and lift you up in prayer which I have been ever since the accident. Perhaps those moments of numbness are when our prayers are lifting you up. I remember going through the shock and grief of my divorce. There were days when I knew the only reason I was upright was other people’s prayers. I could feel it. Hugs, prayers, and tears, Patsy (Ms. B.)


Dana, I feel your pain as I read this. I can relate to your pain and I am so very sorry that your precious little boy is no longer with you. We had to say “good-bye” to one of our sons too early also and I’m sorry you are having to go through this. Grief is such a necessary process to go through, allow yourself all of these things that you are thinking and feeling. I am praying for you.

Your sister in Christ,

Jacque @Walking Therein

There is not a day that has gone by since I read your good-bye post that I don’t see something Samuel is doing at least once that makes me think of you and Tiggy and pray for your heart and those of your family.
Know you are on my heart and in my prayers.
Asking the Father to be there for you in that fog and numbness and to give you rest and his Shalom in every breath.
HUGS sister.
~J and family


I am so sorry for your loss! My heart aches for your family.

Angela Wimbish
Oh my goodness, how my heart is breaking for you this morning, precious one. I’d like to suggest a book written by Nancy Guthrie called Holding on to Hope. She and her husband lost two little children to a genetic syndrome. They were both 6 months old when they died and died about a year and a half apart. Their story is amazing and her words bring comfort. I lost my little Mary Margaret at 6 months old, 5 years ago, and Nancy’s book helped me get through that time. She and her husband actually hold respite retreats a couple… Read more »