Dear Friend

It's been three and a half years since you died of cervical cancer. I was still nursing my son. I remember crying as I fed him. Crying as I told my boss. Every time I touch something you gave me or see pictures, I feel the ache that you aren't here too.

It had been two years since we'd spoken when you died. Too long. You know how that happens. You always think there will be more time.

We had fun. Remember high school? We called you Queen of the Band Hall? I still have the notes we passed. I read them and laugh. And then I cry. Because they're the last notes we'll ever share.

I love you. I remember the night your sister died. It was the worst thing I ever thought could happen. Until you got cancer.

I wish I'd been there for you more. Your family says it was a relief when the end came, because the pain was too great. And I hate that. But I think about you. I hope there is a part of you I can pass on to my children.

I look at my own kids, and I think, not them. No way. But your parents had three, lost two. How could that happen? I don't know. But it haunts me. And I'm not the only one.

We love you. We remember.

Grief's grip

In this world of medical innovation, children are not supposed to die. Infant mortality is way down in this country, true, but that is no comfort to the parents with infants born with special needs. In the last few months, we've prayed for two families - high school and college friends, respectively - with newborns who may never get out of NICU. As a mother, I can't think of anything more scary than the daily hope and daily fear of my child losing her battle before her life really had a chance to begin.

This morning, we learned one of the babies wasn't been able to continue the fight. Just a few precious days with her parents and now she's gone. A heart problem that was more than the doctors could repair.

Another dear friend lost a son a few years ago. She says there is absolutely nothing - nothing - that can prepare you for the grief that cascades over and through you. Drowning you in what should have been. Yet, she says, you go on breathing, living for the family you do have. In her case, a very bewildered three-year-old and husband.

It's moments like these when I want to hold my own children and never, ever let them go. Ever. My frustration about a misunderstanding or a naughty moment are feelings these other parents would give so much to share with their child. So today, I want to remember my blessings. They are many. I want to find a quiet place and pray for my fellow mothers who have been forced to live on without a child. And I want everyone of us to remember just how precious each breath is.

What do you have to be thankful for today?

Dr. Death

I'm shirking. We've had a death in the family and my grand master plan is to hide it from my son.

To be fair, it's his great-grandfather. He's a distant figure in my son's life. Someone who's sat in a chair quietly during our visits. He loved Donovan as his first grandson, but D is just so young I don't know if he'll really remember.

It just didn't seem fair to interrupt D's 4th birthday to do the death talk.

So am I a coward?

I hope not. Our last visit with his great-grandpa a few weeks ago prompted lots of questions about death. He's confused right now. And we're trying to give him a little time to process his feelings and ask more questions or let it be.

It's difficult. What would you do?