Searching for Safe Harbor

It has become a yearly event for us to spend some time at the beach on Kai's birthday. Maybe it's just me, but I feel at peace when I'm near the sea on this day. There are times that it's not possible to do but my husband and I try to get off from work and make this day something special like some sort of a family holiday or maybe even a tradition.

Kian, Kai's little brother, is already 4 years old and understands this concept as only a 4-year-old can. He loves this day as he gets to play in the sand all day and eat ice cream and cake. He says his brother's name as if Kai was his long lost best friend, making up stories and imagining that he would also like trains.

My heart aches when I hear this, wondering painfully how the two would get along, what their relationship would be like, what mischief and mayhem would they get themselves into. But as it is, only one of them is here. He would never get a chance to meet his big brother. And this is what I regret the most.

It has been six years living with this grief and living without my firstborn. I'd say as life goes on, as we move forward, this grief has evolved into something bearable. It will always be with me but unlike when it was fresh and new, when it was like an iron weight pulling me down, this six-year-old grief is now like a buoy that marks the one horrible and painful point in my life that I was able to survive.

So every year and the years to come, we will always remember and honor Kai by celebrating LIFE, this life that is so short, fragile and precious, our life as a family. Happy Birthday, my boy! Love you forever.

I love you, Kai, to heaven and back.

It's been a while since I posted something in this blog. But it doesn't mean that I have abandoned this space or have forgotten about it. This place is sacred to me. It is where I struggled and battled with my grief. It is where I found kindred spirit. It is where I found release and yes, peace, from the most terrible thing that happened to me as a person, as a human being, as a mother.

Once in while, I look back at what I wrote here. Not out of nostalgia but of remembrance and reconciliation. Remembrance because all the thoughts I wrote on here contained the love I feel for Kai. Reconciliation because my grief then and my grief now both coexist in my present life.

Someone wrote that after a long time, grief will become that pebble in your pocket that sometimes you forget it's there. Amid the busy-ness of life, you find yourself feeling normal and able again as if you've never had it. But once in a while, you put your hand in your pocket and feel the pebble. It shocks you, it brings you back momentarily. But deep down, you know it's always there all along. You just learned how to live with it.

Today Kai was born and died. He would have been three years old.

We are in a quiet cottage overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Kian and his father are taking their morning nap while I sit here outside the balcony, looking at the far away water. The tide is not up yet. And the waves are calm.

This afternoon, we'll all go down to the beach and float a bouquet of flowers for Kai. We'll blow bubbles and watch his little brother try to catch them. It would be a bittersweet moment for us, watching our son who lives and remembering our son who died.

This is where we're at. We hold dear what is in front of us, live the present to the fullest and remember Kai with so much love and gratitude.

(My beloved Kai, happy birthday in heaven. You are in my heart for ever and always.)