Just Be : How My Stillborn Son Taught Me to Surrender (eBook)

Prologue

June 1995

The summer air was thick, sweat was pouring down my beet red face, but I kept running. I saw him running in front of me, turning to laugh with me and within seconds we jumped through the sprinkler, feeling the relief of the cold water against our skin. Andy was my best friend. He was more than a friend, he was a third brother to me in many ways, protecting me against the world.

It was June, in the summer of 1995 and we were eleven-years-old. We just finished fifth grade and we couldn’t wait for the summer ahead: playing, exploring and getting lost within our imagination. Andy lived two doors down and we became fast friends from the first day we met. He was the youngest of three older brothers, as was I with two older brothers. That tied us together instantly, always running from our brothers or making up games to drive them crazy.

Andy and I grew up in Southbury, Connecticut, a quaint little suburban town in the northern tip of New Haven County. Our street was picture perfect. We lived on Holly Hill Lane which was tucked away behind Kettletown State Park. All around it was beautiful New England country scenery, filled with mountains and trees. You would often see lemonade stands on our street, kids playing basketball or riding their bikes and you would hear endless laughter echoing throughout the yards of all the homes. It was a dream neighborhood for any child. It was quiet and safe and we would spend from sun up to sun down playing all up and down it, often venturing into the woods and getting lost. We had other kids to play with us who lived near, but in those early days of my childhood, Andy was my first choice. We usually spent hours running through the sprinklers, but today I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks and felt my stomach tie up in knots. Was I getting sick? Something didn’t feel right. Here we go again…

“I need to go home, I don’t feel good!” I shouted to Andy and dashed off toward my house. As I raced home, flashes of a new home with my mother kept running through my mind. I started to get really sad because what was scaring me the most, was that I didn’t see my dad with us in this new house.

I had always carried a gift as a child, an intuitive ability and was able to predict many scenarios before they were about to happen. I would see them play out in my mind exactly how they did. It wasn’t fun, in fact it was often frightening to me. It didn’t end there. Starting around age four, I began to have intense dreams and they would shock my mother with what I knew when I told her. I would literally see myself sleeping in many of them before the dream would take off in all kinds of directions. The most chilling part of it all, was how I would meet many people “on the other side,” such as deceased family members and even strangers.

As I grew, my stomach became my next communicator along with these dreams. It was the sensation that I listened to first, even before the images in my eyes and the sounds in my ears. I would feel incredibly nauseated, to the point of nearly getting sick when I would get “a feeling” that something was about to happen and something always did. Mom always told me that we all have that ability to make decisions using our stomachs and to just listen to “our gut feeling.” This helped me to relax a little, but I was still afraid of my dreams. Therefore, I stayed quiet about them. As a child, I wasn’t sure how to organize it all in my mind or understand them.

Around seven-years-old, I didn’t know what to else to do with the dreams, so I pulled out my first journal and began to write them all down. I would take the bad feelings I had about my dreams and open my journal for a release. I would write about my feelings, the dreams in detail or visions that I would see, which were usually out of nowhere. I would sit on the floor of my room, on my knees, bent over my bed and write, sometimes for hours. Writing has stuck with me ever since. It became the tool of God’s grace for me.

As I ran home that day from playing with Andy, I knew when I opened my front door and went inside, something big was about to happen. I also knew that it wasn’t going to be easy. Voices boomed out from the living room, next to the office my dad just remodeled. I walked by the office, pausing to listen to them. I ran my fingers along his skillfully crafted bookshelves he made that held all of mom’s books. My hands were shaking as I slowly walked into the living room. Mom shifted in her seat, looking very uncomfortable. I looked over at dad, who was also uncomfortable with his arms crossed. My oldest brother, Matthew, came over and took my hand and put me on his lap. A strong smell of roses filled the air; my head started to spin and I put my head on Matthew’s shoulder, in attempt to keep myself from getting sick. The rose flower was with me as far back as I could remember and I just never knew why, so I wasn’t exactly surprised by the scent of them. My brother, Derek, got up and sat on the other side of Matthew. As the oldest of the three, Matthew was the rock for both Derek and me. Mom finally broke the silence.

“Okay, now that Lindsay is home, we can share it with her too. Lindsay,” she turned to me and I noticed her eyes were red and wet from crying. “Before you came home, we were talking to your brothers about this,” she took a big breath, “your father and I have some sad news to share, but we both want you to know that you’ll be okay. Everything is going to be just fine.” No, it wasn’t. It’s never okay if you have to start the conversation like that, I thought. She continued, “we have decided to separate. Your father and I love you three very much, but right now, we need to separate from each other. We’re getting divorced.” Divorced?

Derek stood up and ran upstairs, slamming the door to his bedroom so loud that the walls shook. Matthew tightened his grip on me, not knowing what to say yet. My mother went upstairs to talk to Derek. Dad, with his head low, stood up and slowly walked out of the room. Matthew hugged me tightly, telling me it was all okay. I felt my stomach start to knot up again. It was once again right with its prediction. No matter how many times it was right, I was always surprised, which was odd because it never failed me before. I pushed away from him and went upstairs to my room, wanting to just hide.

As quietly as I could, I shut my door and locked it. I sat on the edge of my bed, silently letting the tears fall as I listened to Derek’s rage on the other side of the wall. Mom was desperately trying to reason with him. I held in my sobs because I knew Derek needed her right now. I heard Matthew quietly knock on my door but I stayed frozen with tears falling and pooling onto my legs. Leaning onto my bed, I began to push back a feeling of self-hatred that seemed to be overtaking my mind. Somehow, I felt like this was all my fault. I ignored Matthew’s gentle, consistent knocking.

I reached under my bed and pulled out my journal to write, as I kneeled on the floor. I thought about something that my mother always told me, which was if we are troubled to talk to God and the Angels and ask them for help. As the words flowed from my heart through my pen and onto the pages, an aroma of roses surrounded me again. I began to relax into my writing.

Dear God and the Angels, my Mommy and Daddy are so sad that they cannot make up from their fight. They are going to separate and maybe you can help them be happy again so we don’t have to all split up? I feel sad too and I don’t know if it is okay to tell them.

I stopped writing and began to cry, hiding my face in my bed. I wanted to scream, as anger circled underneath the tears and dark thoughts began to play through my mind. At eleven-years-old, I didn’t want to live anymore and I looked down at my journal one more time and wrote:

Can’t I just come to heaven and live with you, God? I don’t want to be here anymore…

I stared at my words, taken back by them. Standing up, I opened the closet door and hid my journal and covered it, so no one would find it. I didn’t want anyone to see what I wrote. In the mess of my closet, I paused and picked up a musical jewelry box with a horse on it. Before I could stop myself, I smashed it on the floor in complete rage. Running back to my bed, I cried as quietly as I could, in my pillow. I didn’t want my parents to split up or my daddy to not live with me anymore. I wanted more than anything, to grow closer with him and if they divorced, how would I accomplish that? The tears kept coming and I could still hear Derek on the other side of the wall, crying with our mom. After what felt like hours, I drifted off to sleep, praying that I would wake up and this would all just be a bad dream. As I started to doze off, my dreams became clearer and clearer and I heard an ethereal voice begin to sing.

I was in a trance-like sleep but I was still awake enough to question if I should wake up? Was it my mother singing to me? No, my mother’s voice was different and I felt chills run up my back. This voice soothed me deeper into the rest I needed to recover from this shocking news. I noticed I was standing in my closet again, holding the broken jewelry box that I just smashed only minutes ago.

She continued to sing, but this time it was more of a humming. Like a mother does with her newborn baby in a rocking chair. I wanted to turn and see who this was, but I was afraid.

Finally, curiosity took over and I slowly turned around and my mouth dropped open in surprise at what I saw. A lady stood before...