Searching for Safe Harbor

Amid the hustle of this holiday season, we remember our little boy who is not here with us. We light a candle for him as a symbol of our love and remembrance. We also light a candle for all babies and children gone too soon. May their light always shine in their loved ones' hearts.

Remembering our beloved firstborn son, Kai. He is forever loved and missed. This is also for all the babies gone too soon. I look forward to the day when our tears will be wiped away, and there will be no more death, no more sorrow, no more pain - a day when we will all be reunited with the children we lost.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

...

Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

...

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.

...

I so terribly miss you, Kai.

The sixteenth of the month will always be Kai's day for me. It will perpetually be on any calendar I own. My iCal and google calendar's every sixteenth are marked automatically. It's the first entry I see when the month changes into another.

I know I don't need a reminder when my son died and was born. That sort of thing is permanently engraved in my heart and soul, but I have this need to have something visible to connect my ongoing history with my firstborn son. By doing so, I create an extension of his existence. That time, for him, didn't stop on June 16th, 2010.  'Normal' people would probably think this is dwelling in the past but I'd like to think that every sixteenth marks one of the most significant events in my life - the affirmation that my firstborn was once here and his short life mattered.

On this day, I came across a poem from another BLM's blog that brought on my tears. The halcyon has calmed the sea of grief within me, yet once in while the sea heaves and shudders, bringing with it that familiar pain of my loss and longing. On days like this, the sixteenth, I know that when my heart calls out for Kai, his spirit will momentarily be with me like an invisible sea mist, cooling the sadness away.

After the trip to the beach, we set up Kai's birthday corner in our dining room. We lit his mini birthday cake (a proper looking one this time) and sang 'Happy Birthday' to our darling boy. He will always be loved and missed.

We've hit two years in this grief journey. Somehow it feels unreal that so much time had passed since we last held our firstborn. There's still this hurtful throb in our hearts, pricking our consciousness and whole being as we remember Kai's special day this year.

The week leading up to his birthday had been tough on us. It's nothing new, I suppose. We felt the same way last year. But I was a bit surprised at how intense it was amid our frenzied caring for our newborn second son and Kai's little brother, Kian. Somehow, his absence is severely magnified by his sibling's presence.

Our firstborn, who we didn't get a chance to take home, who we would never have the opportunity to shower with love and care as a newborn, who we would never see grow up. I'm filled with longing for Kai, my child who is but will never be. But at the same time, I feel the need to let him go because his spirit should be free.

We went to where the ocean is to remember him that day. I imagined he was there when I looked at the wide expanse of the sea before us, just above the horizon line, tiptoeing on the water and flashing a smile as bright as the June sun.

"Now there's three of you to remember me by, Nanay," he said.

"Yes, anak. Every year from here on out, there will be three us to wish you a very happy birthday," I said.

Pacifica, CA. June 16, 2012. The place where I had my maternity photos taken when I was pregnant with Kai.

Mommy with Kian, hiding in the Ergo.

Daddy walking around with the bubble machine.

Baby brother, Kian, enjoying a quick sip of to-go breastmilk.

Happy birthday, Kuya (means big brother) Kai. We love you.

This is Kian's hand, holding my locket with Kai's ultrasound photo in it.

Two years ago today, we found out Kai had no heartbeat. It was our 9th year wedding anniversary. The world, my world, as I knew it crumbled before me. I wished the Earth would open up and swallow me whole. But mostly, I wished I was dead, too.

How could one of the happiest moments of my life become the saddest one, too?

Two years ago today, I felt Kai wasn't moving. I became worried but my mommy alarm bells didn't go off. Come late at night, he still didn't move. I was still worried but I had faith that he was fine. Preparing for labor, I naively thought. He'll probably just resting for the big day. And yet, I cried myself to sleep.

Kai's name in Bodega, CA. This is the St. Teresa of Avila Church. Right beside the street where Alfred Hitchcock filmed one of his movies, "The Birds." Nothing to do with Kai's day but I figured I should include an interesting tidbit on here.

I haven't been a regular churchgoer for years. As a non-practicing Catholic, I attend mass on and off. Sometimes, only on special occasions - Christmas eve, Easter Sunday, specific masses offered for Kai. I've been disheartened by organized religion for so long that I've lost any inkling to actively be a part of the flock, or any flock for that matter.

When Kai died, I asked our midwife, "Is God punishing us?" At that time, I needed to make sense of what happened, to find someone or something to blame. Of course, that was the-little-faith-in-God- that-I-have thinking and talking. I needed to be angry with something incomprehensible and intangible so that I could carry the tremendous pain of Kai's death. I needed to blame God.

And for a time, I was angry. I shook my fist at heaven as I wail and rip my clothes in sheer despair and utter sadness. "Why did you allow this to happen?" "Why our son?" "Why us?" I asked all the why questions, knowing there were simply no answers to them. It was like being left to 'cry-it-out' until I realize for myself that no answers were forthcoming and that I should just accept that my firstborn is dead and no amount of wailing and asking would bring him back.

I haven't come to a point where I fully accept Kai's death. Right now, there's only a certain degree of acceptance in me. Sort of like conceding defeat. There was nothing I could do then and there is nothing I could do now. It's not really a comforting thought but I'm hoping that one day I can learn to accept my firstborn son's death with grace and gratitude in my heart.

My dearest Kai, You are not gone for good. Mommy believes that with all her heart and soul. One day, dear one, we'll be able to embrace each other and make up for the time we lost. I love you with all my heart. 

I've decorated Kai's corner for Easter at the last minute this year. But good thing, I made it before today, Easter Sunday. I was looking for Easter lily cut flowers but they only sell the plant in a pot at the grocery stores. So I decided to get another kind of flower. The name escapes me now but I thought it almost looked like Easter lilies. :) I hope you all had a meaningful Easter!

The pictures above were snapshots from a sort of progress video I made of Kai's nursery back in May 2010.

I remember it was this month last year that the hubby and I decided to pack everything away in Kai's nursery. We've agreed to play host to my brother-in-law and his couple friends who brought along their kid. And since the other two rooms in the house are pretty much taken up by hubby's home office and my studio, we thought of clearing up Kai's nursery and making it into a guest room again.

I was a bit surprised that the decision came easy to us, there was no debating it or mulling over it, considering we were only two months away from Kai's 1st birthday. But I guess it was because deep inside we were preparing ourselves to accept that he is gone and he's not coming back. That no matter how long the baby stuffs stay in that room, he will never use them. Ever.

I'm not one to connect material things to my firstborn son, especially ones that he didn't get to wear or use. These were meant to be his during my pregnancy with him, that's true, but the meaning stopped there when he died. It became only a "what-could-have-been", a "what-should-have-been".

But it doesn't mean it wasn't a part of my whole experience of having him. I had imagined him using that room so many times before he was born. I had imagined him wearing all those clothes, using all those diapers, sleeping on that crib. The hubby and I even 'rehearsed' taking him out of the crib and putting him on the changing table. I imagined him playing in the playpen and sleeping in the swing. I imagined sitting on the rocking chair feeding him. All of it was a prelude to a dream coming true so very soon.

Or so I thought.

When he died, that dream was shattered. I first entered this room when I got back from the hospital empty-handed. The sheer weight of my loss brought me to my knees as I wailed in grief not just over my firstborn son, but also the imagined things that I was looking forward to doing with him and for him in this room. It became a sad room that brought back painful joy and overwhelming despair despite it's cheery appearance.

Yet ten months into our grief, we mustered the courage to come into this room and pack away all the "what-could-have-beens" and "what-should-have-beens". I managed to keep it together and focus on the task at hand. I did surprisingly well with only a minute thought of wishing that Kai could have had the chance to use some of the baby stuffs we were putting away. Minute as it was, that thought tugged painfully at my heart.

But I've come to realize that the baby stuffs and toys, the equipment, the furniture - all these don't define my beloved son's life. They were merely things. They hold little special meaning to me since his skin didn't touch them, his hands didn't play with them, his eyes never gazed upon them in this room. They've simply become one of the casualties of Kai's loss.

And so, I feel a certain detachment towards them. Perhaps, this is why it was a little bit easy to place every single one neatly inside designated plastic bins back then. The hubby and I worked on it methodically and quickly. We didn't linger and reminisce, we just did what was needed to be done since our guests were coming soon and they needed a room to use.

We worked fast but we didn't just throw everything in the bins haphazardly. Everything was neatly folded and categorized according to kind and color. Kai may not have used them at all, but we felt this need to treat them with reverence in honor of our memories of our firstborn while he was in my womb. As I closed the lids on each one, I grieved deeply for Kai but at the same time I also hoped and prayed that they would be used by his future sibling someday.

So now, almost two years into our grief, we opened the plastic bins and brought all the baby stuffs out into the room that was a guest-room-that-became-Kai's nursery-then-back-to-being-a guest room-and now-will-become-a nursery-for-Kai's sibling-TLB. A wave of dejavu hit me. Here we are again with the same baby stuffs in the very same room.

It seems that we are coming full circle with this room and all the baby stuffs Kai never got to use. As I go through them this week for cleaning and laundering, I can't help but think that they are Kai's legacy to his little brother, a welcome present of sorts. This time, I fervently pray that TLB gets to make full use of them when he arrives safe and sound in our arms.

Kai's name in Point Cabrillo Lighthouse, Mendocino CA.

My dear Kai,

In another life where you and I are together, you'll be 21 months today. I find no consolation in counting these months because in reality, you are not with me. There is nothing comforting about a mother who is without her child. There is only sadness, despair, emptiness and anger.

Today I'm just filled with so much anger, a feeling that hasn't visited me for a long time. I want to punch a wall or break things all day. I feel enraged as my whole being recalls the injustice of your death. Why are you not here? Why do you have to die?

I know it's pointless to ask these questions that really have no answers. And it makes me more angry. I have hopes and dreams for you, dear one, like any other parent in this messed-up world. I've always believe that there is something good to be had, being alive on this earth despite the fact that it's a messed-up world.

You didn't get that chance and thinking about it sometimes filled me with frustration and despair over the unfairness of it all. You deserve to live a long life as much as anyone here, even the undeserving ones. And yet, for some unknown reason, you were given one of shortest sticks in life.

If it's only possible, I would give you the years of my life, my son. I just miss you.

Your mommy forever

For Valentine season this month, I decided to decorate Kai's corner with a posse of love monkeys. They're quite a cheerful bunch. <3

Dear Kai,

It's been 20 months since you left us. It will be almost two years soon. Almost. I try not to think about your coming two-year angelversary. I'll just fall into the trap of what-could-have-beens and what-should-have-beens. They are just too painful like picking at a new scab of an un-healed wound.

How is it that I'm able to exist without you? I know the answer to this but sometimes I ask myself this question as if it would make a difference. You are gone and I am here. I wish the line between being and non-being is not so wide or at least, just once, I could see and hold you again. The intangible is tangible again. But unfortunately, this is not possible. My love for you is all that I have and I'm hoping against all hope it will transcend death and reach you.

Today, my new chiropractor asked me if TLB is my first. I said nothing. Not because I don't want to tell the truth about you but because if she couldn't be bothered to remember what was in my patient intake form, then I couldn't be bothered to share you with her. Yes, I've become selfish that way. I don't feel guilt for not being forthcoming to certain people about you and about what happened to you. I choose the time, the place and the people, especially the people, since I've been wary of non-reaction, non-sympathy and non-acknowledgment. From my experience, my grief for you does not always get any legitimacy from the public-at-large despite my honesty.

But there are times when I feel open and ready to share, without doubt and disillusionment sitting in my heart. I tell some people, who are worthy, about you with my eyes wide open. In fact, I look at them straight in the eye so they could see the kind of mother I have become, someone who fiercely loves you and affirms your life. A mother forever connected to the child she lost. I will tell them how I commemorate you and honor your gifts to me.

Yesterday, I sent the loom-knitted hats I made in your memory to Cure International. This organization provides hospital care to mothers and their sick babies in Afghanistan. I'm glad I was able to participate in this campaign to mark your 20th-month angelversary. It's one of the thoughtful ways I can honor your memory.

I hope these hats will serve as a reminder of love and hope to those mothers. Maybe they're not so pretty or cutesy like the ones I see on healthy babies but I pray that they can be a source of comfort and a way to let them know someone is thinking of them. It's never easy to have the welfare of one's child in the balance, to worry about what tomorrow will hold for them, so I'm grateful to have contributed in my own small way. And you know what, you made that possible, my son. Thank you for such a gift.

Six loom-knitted hats for the "Knit, Pray, Love" campaign of AIR1 and Cure International. Two preemie-sized and four baby-sized hats. Lovingly handmade in memory of our beloved Kai.

I hope that you are well and enjoying the freedom of un-tethered existence. Don't forget to watch over us - your mother, father and sibling - as you play in the waves of love and light. We live here on Earth, loving, remembering and missing you forever.

Your Mommy

Daddy, mommy and Kai. 1 May 2010. Pacifica, CA.

Last month, a friend of mine texted me that she was near the area where I live and wanted to meet up. I haven't been particularly sociable with friends for the last one year and 7 months or so. And I was surprised she invited me. I really do appreciate her for reaching out as I haven't had the energy to be open and social for a long time.

But the thing is, this friend had been pregnant at roughly the same time as I did with Kai. Her son was born only a few weeks after Kai. He's alive and doing well. So I was a bit apprehensive to see her since she was in the area with her husband and son. Eventhough I'm expecting Kai's sibling, TLB, right now, it is no surprise that I'm still uncomfortable at the thought of meeting a little boy who is the same age as Kai.

You see, there's more between us than just knowing each other and having our sons born on the same year. We supported each other during our pregnancies eventhough we live in different states. We exchanged long emails constantly, updating each other about our progress. We shared the joys and pains of our pregnancies so freely that it felt like we're a pair of long lost sisters.

We whined, complained about our changing bodies and gushed about the little ones in our wombs like truly blissful, first time mothers-to-be. We dreamt of having vacations in our respective states and having our sons play together. We were both happy and thankful that we were alone in our pregnancy journey. We had each other as support and sounding board for our hopes and expectations about our future families of three.

But things didn't work out as planned. Somewhere along our journey, my life took a different path. One that was totally different from hers. While she took home a healthy baby, I took home nothing but the memory of my son. While she celebrated her son's every milestone, I memorialized every month without my son. She is traveling the path of motherhood free from heartaches and despair, while I trudge on a parallel path filled with grief and loss.

My emails stopped coming. I didn't have the will to continue communicating with her in a time where I was angry and resentful at the universe and at those pregnant women who were 'oh-so-lucky' to take home their babies, including this friend. I'm not proud of that feeling. And I'm not proud of being such an a$$hole of a friend either.

Back then, I can't bring myself to be happy for her. It was easier for me to remain silent and turn away from the fact that she had a son who's alive and healthy. I mean the fact that her son escaped unscathed is truly a celebration in itself but I couldn't bring myself to be happy, to be genuinely and sincerely happy.

So when she sent me a message, the very same feelings got a hold of my heart once again. Involuntarily. I have expected that I would be more open, more okay-with-it. But it's been almost two years and I still feel embittered by what happened to my son. I know that it's not something Kai would be proud of, but I'm still processing, still trying.

At one point, I considered meeting up with her, thinking that I'm just being ridiculous. It's about time I get over myself and share in her happiness, that perhaps it's about time to take that brave step in meeting her son, who is the same age as my beloved Kai. I mean, they're both different persons, right?

But it's not that at all. Seeing my friend's son would undoubtedly bring so much emotions on the surface. Here's a little boy who epitomizes what Kai will never be. He has a full life ahead of him, the potential to be what he wants to be in this world. Kai will never have that opportunity. And as his mother, the very thought tear through my heart.

A discussion with my husband brought these feelings to the fore. He told me to find my comfort zone since I was obviously in a painful dilemma. I contemplated it some more and was unable to make a decision. So I did something that I thought I would never do ever again - I re-activated my Fac.e.book account and looked at some photos of my friend's son. I figured that if I decide to meet up with her, I wouldn't be affected by her son that much since I've looked at a bunch of his photos.

A bit stalker-ish, I know, but it was the only way I could gauge my feelings. And if I find myself crying and breaking down, I'll be in the safety of my own home. But I didn't feel too bad about them. I was just a bit taken aback by how different our 'walls' in the summer of 2010. While I have condolence messages on my wall, she had congratulatory messages on hers from our common friends - a testament of how our paths completely diverged.

I asked myself: What do I have in common with a mother with a living first-born son? How can I relate to her parenthood stories? Can she understand a childless mother like me? Will there be a common ground between us or perhaps a neutral subject that doesn't involve talking about our own children? *sigh*

People who haven't experienced a loss like mine would probably pull their hair out and say things like: "OMG! Why do you have to complicate things like this? Can't you just put on a brave face and be happy for her for once? Why don't you show her that you're doing fine after almost two years and that you've moved on? I don't see why this has to be difficult when you're expecting another child?"

Now there's the rub. Just because I'm expecting again doesn't mean I'm over the death of my firstborn son. The devastation I felt then may have eased a bit but it doesn't go away completely. And this is why I find myself in such a dilemma. I'm not as brave as other BLMs who were able to get pass this, I wish I am. But I'm a coward, I'd rather run away.

Making matters even more complex is the fact that this friend of mine had just given birth to her second son last December. And that made me even more conflicted. How lucky is she to be able to have two living children, one year apart. How lucky is she to be able to get pregnant right away and give birth without worrying whether her baby is going to live or die. (<--insert extreme jealousy here.)

Times like this I feel like one of the protagonists of the book I read last December, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter," by Kim Edwards. The wife named Norah gave birth to twins but one of the twins was stillborn. And she didn't get to see or hold that daughter (Phoebe) because her husband thought it best to not let her. So she has been living lost despite having the other twin, a son, survive his sister.

There's one scene in the book where she met another mother she knows in the playground. This mother has a daughter the same age as her son, and had just given birth to another daughter. And this passage from that scene may have very well been written for me: "For a moment she (Norah) felt another sharp, deep pang of envy. Kay lived in innocence, untouched by loss, believing that she would always be safe; Norah's world had changed when Phoebe died. All her joys were set into stark relief - by that loss and by the possibility of further loss she now glimpsed in every moment."

My friend's innocence, perhaps that is the source of my envy and apprehension. It makes me earnestly want to have the kind of motherhood she has - parenting living children and mothering without being haunted by grief and loss. Fearless and free to be blissful. Maybe if I could have a smidgen of that I wouldn't think twice meeting up with her and her children. Maybe.

Right now, I'm fearful about this subsequent pregnancy. I get by as best as I could but like Norah all my joys will always be punctuated by Kai's death and by the possibility of further loss. I have little confidence that this time around, that this pregnancy with TLB will have a better ending. There's no looking toward the future for me because I would just be paralyzed with fear. Only here and now matters. Every moment of everyday is all about remembering Kai and celebrating TLB at the same time.

So in the end, I decided to bow out of my friend's invitation. Just examining the complexities of the whole thing and thinking of such a dilemma had stressed me out. There will always be my guilt of not being a good friend and of passing up the opportunity to hurdle one of the difficulties brought on by this grief. But I feel it's not my time to do that. Not yet.

I wished my friend and her children well. Maybe one day I'll be able to meet them with a heart that's healed, hopeful and joyous. And who knows, with a living child of my own.

I've been meaning to post some of the things we did when I was pregnant with Kai. This should have been a January entry but Slide.com is going to shut down soon. The site has made slide show-making so easy - just upload pictures, choose effects and voila, you have a nice slide show. Too bad, it's going to close down in March. So I had to put one together using iMovie. Here's the result:

It was difficult to choose the photos but it was more difficult to revisit them. Tears can't stop falling as I looked at each one and thought of how happy we were back then. We were thinking of so many dreams for Kai, so many things we wanted to do with him and so many places we wanted to take him. At that time, we were already building memories with him, a special time when we would tell him stories about our Hawai'i adventure when he was still in my womb. We had planned to take him there when he gets older and show him where we went and what we did. It would have been a fun family vacation for the three of us.

But plans and dreams have a way of not happening. And so we are left with these photos of two years ago - our babymoon trip when I was about four months or so pregnant with Kai. It was a triple celebration - our birthdays and our last trip together as a couple. We really didn't mind that it was our last trip as a couple because the next time we go, we'll be three.

We went to the Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park. I read that sulphur fumes from the active volcanoes are not good for pregnant women, so I was a bit wary. But a quick visit to the Visitor Center gave us the reassurance that it was safe because the advisory said the winds were not so strong as to cause the fumes to scatter all over the park. "But make sure you keep your car windows closed when you're driving," said the park ranger.

Then the next place we visited was the St. Benedict Painted Church. It's a quaint Catholic church built in 1899 and painted by Father John Velghe as a way to teach Catholicism to native Hawaiians. We went there after we had gone kayaking at Kealakekua Bay. No boating tours would allow me, a pregnant woman, to ride on their boats because of insurance liability. Plus, they said the jittery boats would be too rough on a pregnant woman. So we decided to do things ourselves. Yes, we were that fearless.

We also attended a luau. It wasn't an authentic one, of course, since it was mostly for tourists and it was organized by the resort. But they made sure to infuse traditional Hawaiian fare like poi, kahlua pork and lau-lau on the menu. The show was entertaining, too. We had a formal photo taken of the two of us, the very same photo we included among the things we want cremated with Kai. It was our most cherished photo of the whole trip. It showed a different 'us', no longer a couple but parents-to-be expecting their firstborn son. We beamed with so much pride and joy back then.

There were a lot of things that we did on the trip that made it so special for us. It was when we felt truly connected with Kai and it was where we found his name. At that time, our world was almost complete and we were only waiting for the one puzzle to be put in place. Our lives will be forever changed, we thought, but we truly didn't mind at all. Not one bit.

Those feelings, though painful to revisit at times, are so very precious to me now and I hope that I will always remember them for the rest of my life.

Dear Kai,

Let me tell you about Daddy because today is his birthday. Do you know, he gave you the nickname of Lumpy? He would touch my belly and feel for the lumps that you make. He would then guess what parts of your body they were. He found endless amusement at looking how your 'lumps' move and said he couldn't wait to touch and kiss those 'lumps' for real. Like me, Daddy couldn't wait to meet you.

Daddy is a quiet man yet he knows when to speak his mind. He's what you call a geek because he likes electronics, engineering, technology, gadgets. But believe it or not, he also likes poetry and the arts. Despite having a logical mind, he is easily moved. Yup, Daddy is a softie and I bet he'll be a softie on you.

When Mommy was pregnant with you, Daddy attended a new Daddy group and that was on his own accord. He figured he should get prepared for a life with a new baby eventhough he's not used to sharing his 'feelings' in a group setting, especially among strangers. But he was able to do it and attend the meetings every month because he found great time conversing with new daddies and daddy-to-bes.

He said he learned practical parenting tips from the veteran daddies there. He got to hold a newborn baby one time and met a baby who knows baby sign language. He saw the baby communicate with her father by using sign language.  She said she saw a flower on the wall and the father explained it to the other daddies what she's saying. They all looked up to see where the flower was because they couldn't see what flower she was referring to, but when they found it, they were all in awe.

Daddy related this incident to me with tears in his eyes, "That was a cool thing to see. Maybe we could try teaching Kai some baby sign language, what do you think?" See, like I said daddy's a softie geek. I think he gained a little confidence at the prospect of becoming your father, thanks to those new daddy meetings he attended. It made him more excited to meet you.

When we found out we lost you. He was as heartbroken and as devastated as I was. But he couldn't let his emotions get the most of him when there were doctors to talk to and family and friends to get in touch with. He felt so lost but he needed to function first for mommy was already lost in her grief for you.

But he held you when mommy was unable to. You know, the first time he held you he cried and said, "I never know how to hold a newborn baby." And I told him: "You're doing just fine, hubby. You look like Kai's daddy." He burst into tears. Even the social worker and the nurses who were there who visited us in our room were in tears when they saw him in that state.

Seeing you in Daddy's arms, made me realize how deep our loss had been. You would have had fun with him as he planned to take you hiking, camping and teach you woodwork and electronics. He would have shared his love of reptiles with you (even if mommy thinks that would be a bit germy and icky). He has a lot of love to give you and a lot of things he wanted to share with you. And I felt how Daddy had lost so much of his chance to become a father to you.

I remember during the days before we went to Hawai'i to commemorate your first year angelversary, he was so saddened and frustrated with his co-workers' attitude. They kept saying stuffs to him like "Oh how lucky you are!" "I'm so jealous!" and "Have fun!" All he could do was shake his head and look at them solemnly. "I can't believe these people have forgotten what happened to us one year ago. I mean, they even sent flowers and cards to us and now they think I'm going there for fun?!"

I had to gently tell him that people can indeed forget and that they, too, have their own things in their lives that's more important. So I suggested that maybe next time, he should just come out and be honest that it was your angelversary. But knowing him, he would rather not do it because he didn't want to deal with such reaction and non-reaction. It was just too upsetting to him.

But even now, a year and a half since you died, he still misses you a lot. He loves seeing your corner decked out for every season. He gets teary-eyed when friends, BLMs and not, would send their thoughts and gifts that are in remembrance of you. And today on his birthday, he wishes for a lot of things and among them is for you to be at peace and to continue watching over us in Heaven.

We love you always, dear one.
 Forever your Mommy

On a separate note: I'm so glad to know some of the BLMs I've been following through their blogs are expecting their rainbows this year. It brought me tears reading about such good news. These are well-deserved gifts, indeed, after going through such tremendous and devastating losses. May our angel babies continue to watch over us and their little siblings.

Just like last year, we drove to San Francisco early in the morning to attend the Japanese traditional Bell Ringing ceremony at the Asian Art Museum. We felt really good attending last year's ceremony and so, we decided to go and participate in it again this year.

It was such a cold and foggy day.

The bell ringing ceremony begins. It was a crowded, Standing-Room Only event.

We were in group Number 44. According to Buddhist tradition, the bell has to be struck 108 times to symbolically welcome the New Year and curb the 108 mortal desires (bonno) that torment humankind. This enables the start of a prosperous and joyous new year. Of course, I have Kai's name with us just as we did last year.

(Btw, Kai's name is attached to a mini-zine that I had a writer in a craft fair do for us. She was like Silvi, the poet who wrote Kai's poem Christmas 2010, the writer was also offering her service - an impromptu story she wrote and illustrated in a mini-zine. I'll post the pages of the story next time.)  Here's to another year with and without you, Kai. We will always love you, Lumpy.