Thank You Very Much

With Christmas being just a hair over two weeks away, no doubt the air waves are being overrun with the showing of Christmas movies, classics, and modern favorites. At the Clubhouse it just doesn't become Christmas officially without the showing of one of these:

       A Christmas Story (You'll shoot your eye out, kid!)
       It's A Wonderful Life (gotta love Clarence and his quest for wings)
       Holiday Inn
       White Christmas (Bing Crosby ..need I say more?)
    and of course...
        A Christmas Carol

       I have several versions of this classic that I simply love and among them is a musical version starring Albert Finney. His crotchety demeanor and miserly swagger coupled with the sorrow of paying a call to the shadows of his past are nothing short of endearing. Even more comical is watching him deliver a speech of gratitude to a crowd of people indebted to him who intermittently whoop and holler and cheer, not realizing they are doing so because a casket containing Scrooge himself is being carried out of his counting house. The song and dance that follows..." Thank You Very Much..." is catchy, comical, and in a way rather sad. Who knew death could bring so much joy?

I mention this particular number because Matthew as of late has taken rather a shine to this movie and that exact scene. Once upon a time and not so very long ago he would not interact with anything, much less a movie or TV show. If we would put a movie on, he'd leave the room to busy himself elsewhere. So all of a sudden when Dad and I saw him moving his feet, swinging his arms IN TIME WITH THE MUSIC I might add, singing "Thank you very much! Thank you very much!" well...it was a surprise to say the very least.

I see the joy and delight in his eyes with each clap of his hands. His face glows and his eyes sparkle. I watch the way he mimics each move, each step, and how he seems to keep perfect rhythm. I remember the not so distant past when the longest he would sit for anything was maybe 30 seconds and even that was a bit of a stretch. Mimicking, copying, repetition were all unheard of. Singing? Ha! Not even close! Although music is something Matthew has always paid attention to and seemingly enjoyed, it was not something I can honestly say he was actively engaged in. That connection had not yet been made. Not until now...

And for that I say...even after the tenth time of watching it that day....

"Thank you very much!!!!"

Attitude Of Gratitude

As I write this, I am sitting at my mom's kitchen table, a hot cup of coffee (unleaded, unfortunately, but that is all my mom is allowed to have these days) beside me and a world of white surrounds me. This is supposed to be the season of giving thanks but from where I sit it would appear the snowglobe has been shaken just a tad. 

Matthew, God love him, has been outside. He plows through the snow piles in the front yard, shoes and all, happier than I can even begin to describe. Youth! Not that I mind winter...or even snow...but I have been known to sing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow somewhere else!" 

This year, as in past years, I have seen several postings online where the postees participate in what is known as "30 Days Of Gratitude." I liken it to a Reader's Digest version of  the"100 Happy Days" campaign that was all the rage a year ago. I've taken part in "100 Happy Days." I've taken part in "30 Days Of Gratitude" as well. They are both wonderful campaigns with the capacity to get us to dig deeper and discover just how blessed we really are.

However, I am not taking part this year.

I don't know....

Maybe I'm becoming a little more cynical in my old age...

Maybe I'm growing weary of the little facets that make up this jewel called life being taken for granted on what appears to be a daily basis...

Maybe I'm sitting here scratching my head trying to understand how thankfulness and gratitude became once a year campaigns instead of an integral part of daily living...


This past year, without question, has been difficult. These past 15 years? A roller coaster to say the very least...

Two sons were diagnosed on the autism spectrum...

My marriage failed....

Back and forth...back and forth....back and forth....my head...my heart....my emotions.....my spirit....

Financial struggles....do I really need to elaborate?...

Coming to terms with Ira's mortality and impending death....

Doesn't seem like there is much to be thankful for, does it?

Ah! But God is good! In the midst of all of this, He is good!

Hot and cold running water...

A job...not a high paying job but a job just the same with a team that has been supportive of my family over these past four years...

My family....

My friends....

More love than I have ever known....

A ministry (Keryx/Keryx In Community) which blesses and reaches those who are otherwise deemed "the least of these..."

Needs being met more often than I seem to be able to get my head around...

...and I could go on....

Thankfulness a campaign?
Happiness a challenge?

No.

Rather these are attributes to be worn as a garment, a covering when the cold sets in. These are whispered prayers or joyous choruses as the storm hits. These are or at the very least should be a way of living, not merely something you mark off on the calender.

As I wrap this up, I think of those I hold dear, those whose presence has made a difference in my life...and I say thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you...thank you...thank you...

May our blessings continue to overflow!

A Dance With My Son

I danced with my son Friday night.

Such a simple thing, yes. 

For me, it was 15 years coming.

We went to a Halloween party being sponsored by the community mental health agency in our area about an hour or so away. Costumes were encouraged but not required. Men and women of varying ages, backgrounds, walks of life gathered for an evening of lighthearted, spooky fun.

Matthew had been more than eager to attend and reminded Dad and me on the regular for the three weeks prior to said party. "Bumblebee costume Friday! Fun!" It made me smile remembering how once upon a time and not so very long ago events like this were nonexistent because of the overload they put on Matthew's system and consequently us. We had taken him to the local Halloween store where he himself picked out his costume (Bumblebee three years running). He eagerly and happily let us know each day when this night of fun was going to be. 

Friday came and the family picked me up from work. The drive there was beautiful with the myriad of color in the autumn leaves. Matthew was in the seat behind me, rocking back and forth to the music of the Newsboys while his sister belted out the lyrics at the top of her 8-year-old lungs. His smile beamed, his eyes lit up. 

When we arrived at the township hall, we each went our way to change into our costumes. Jordan was a scurvy pirate. Kenny was a firefighter. Matthew, of course, was Bumblebee. Cheyenne a "Forsaken Soul," I an Egyptian queen and Ira was, well, Ira. We found ourselves a table and settled in to relax and enjoy some refreshments. Everyone was relaxed with each other, or at least they certainly gave the appearance of being so.

Somewhere between the worms in the dirt dessert and the lime Kool-Aid the music started. Matthew started tapping his feet and moving back and forth. I looked at him. "What do you want, Mattie?"

Matthew looked at the dance floor, pointed, and said, "Dance."

I took his hand. "Let's go, Mattie."

I like dancing. The only problem is, I suck at it. For one, I hate being watched. And when I wasn't being watched I always felt like I was being watched and I hated that feeling. The other thing is when I dance I look like I'm looking for my keys. None of this mattered at that moment. I was dancing with my son. The same son who would pull away from me, running down the hall screaming if I went to hug him or tell him I loved him. My son, who would spit in my face, bite his arm, or hit himself in the head, took my hand and walked with me out to the dance floor!! MY SON!!

As I looked around I saw a group of people who appeared to be comfortable within their own skin, who just didn't seem to care what this one, that one,or the other thought. This wonderful group of people accepted each other and did not hesitate to reach out to the people around them. Meanwhile here we are, the "normals," the "straights," the "neurotypicals,"trying to cut them down to fit into boxes we as a society have deemed for them. How sad is this!

Shadows

We are a multifaceted group here at the Clubhouse. Autism is just one of the permanent dwellers we have living with us, as most know.

We live with autism and Asperger's. We live with ADHD. We live with depression along with an undiagnosed case of Diva Disorder. 

We also live with diabetes...who as of late has been the most vicious and cruel resident of all.

Ira is back in the hospital. 

Over the weekend he had been looking rather rough and ragged but for the most part he appeared to be doing all right. He went through his daily activities as usual. We ate dinner together as we always do. But as evening began to set in he started feeling as rough as he was looking. Lightheadedness and nausea slowly crept over him and before I knew it, he was in the bathroom with the bucket underneath him. His blood sugar was at 310. "I need to go in," he managed to say.

Off came the pajamas and on with the scrubs. I managed to get him to the van and headed in the direction of ER. He had put the passenger side seat back but as we got closer to ER, he said, "Go inside and get help. I'm about to pass out." Which is exactly what he did.

Security got him inside while I parked the van. Once inside blood work was done...an X-ray was done on his remaining foot...blood sugar was checked again. It had dropped from 310 to 192 within 30 minutes. Before the hour was up it dropped again to 45. 

Needless to say I was not well. I watched Ira laying there in his bed looking worn and haggered. He looked at me with a look I have never seen before, almost blank and fixed, like he was looking past me at someone standing over my shoulder. Every emotion, every thought, every feeling, everything I have spent the last year stuffing boiled to the surface and the meltdown that ensued was inevitable but beyond imaginable. The poor nurse on duty got the brunt end of it all which only added to the guilt. 

The reality is Ira is on borrowed time. He is dying. Each day, each minute, each hour, each second is a gift because it is anyone's guess as to when the last one will come. He is becoming more and more vocal about his final wishes, something he never used to be before. And each day I curse diabetes more and more.

From here I will be making a trip to his hospital room. I will sit with him, talk with him, hopefully finding out what put him there in the first place. I will attempt to smile...I will sneak in some laughter...all the while piecing together a broken heart.

Ira is dying. And there is nothing I can do about it.

Life As I've Known It

I've taken a hiatus from the keyboard recently, going on what seems to be a cross between autopilot and ghost mode. My physical energies have been waning and my emotional energies at a near stand still. I breathe in...breathe out...some days that's as good as it gets.

Three-and-a-half weeks ago I had taken Ira into ER because of chest pains and numbness in his ring finger and pinky. Along with cohabiting with autism, Asperger's, and ADHD, another permanent resident in our home is diabetes and Ira has been battling it since 1996. He has had retinas reattached, cataracts removed, and multiple MERSA infections. He has had to have a device placed in his stomach to aid in the processing of his food, since his stomach no longer seems to want to cooperate with this function. Seven years ago his kidneys shut down completely and he became a dialysis patient. Four years ago this October his right foot was amputated. On Memorial Day weekend he lost three toes on his remaining foot because of an infection caused by a 2nd. degree burn. Every trip to the ER has been an emotional roller coaster, wondering what would or wouldn't they find and would this be the time he doesn't come home?

But...I digress....

Because of his history, the doctor was hesitant to send him home and so, he was kept for testing. His stress test showed the right side of his heart was enlarged. At some point, and why this wasn't done while he was still a patient, they talked about going back in and checking around his veins. Why? Though it was not detected on the EKG, they believe he has a blocked artery. 

What does all this mean?

Excess fluid...

Overexertion....

...and Lord knows what all else....will send him into full on congestive heart failure.

What else does this mean?

Any chances now for him to receive a kidney transplant are out the window...

...86ed....
...scratched....
...not even up for discussion.

And between his heart and the lack of a kidney, we're looking at maybe within a year, two tops, he could be gone.

I've known for a while now that something has not been right. We moved from a smallish, resort-style village into town this past February and since then, he has gotten sicker harder, faster, for longer periods of time and his recovery does not come as quickly. His mornings, not all but a good chunk of them, begin and end with him throwing up. He cannot walk from the front yard to the back fence without being physically wiped out. Shoot, most days it's all he can do to go from room to room. This dance isn't new to me. I watched him care for his mother when she was going through this exact same thing. She was 57 when she passed nine years ago. He turned 46 this past June. Now I listen to him say, "I'm on borrowed time!" Now I watch as he dies one piece at a time in front of me knowing full well there is nothing I can do to stop it. And I am not ready!

I am not ready in my heart. 

I am not ready in my mind.

I am not ready in my finances.

I am not ready in my emotions.

I am just not ready for what I know is coming. 

It may not be tomorrow.

It may not be next week.

It may not be next month.

It may not be a year from now....

....but it is coming!

And it is the hardest, most bitter pill I've had yet to swallow.

My thoughts are overwhelmed with trying to get the ducks in a row, trying to plan and figure. I have no clue how I will manage it all, how I will keep everything and us together when that day does come. I have no clue how I will face the world each day. 

I'll breathe in...

I'll breathe out...

And some days, that will just have to be as good as it gets!

Fireworks And Independance

How many look forward to July 4th? 

I mean REALLY look forward to it? 

Up and down my block folks are making ready for it. Lawns are getting cut, flowers bought and planted, grills being pulled out of musty garages, flags hoisted. At the Clubhouse we're not much different. Our grill is out back. Yesterday I bought over $100 worth of pretties at my work to give the front of the house a much needed burst of color. I've also been giving myself blisters trying to keep the yard groomed up. The only problem with this is that I own one of those reel mowers, the type of mower that doesn't have a motor and therefore does not require gas or electricity. It's a great little mower and I've given myself one heckuva workout with it. However, I am only able to cut the front half of the yard; the back half is much too long and gets bogged down in the blades. So the front part of my yard is nice and groomed while the back part looks like Pride Rock.

And of course there are the other festivities; parades, fireworks. How many look forward to this part of it? The noise, congestion, the crashing and booming of the fireworks that almost make it as though the sound barrier was being broken. I'm not sure just how many autism families look forward to this night with eager anticipation. I know I didn't. In some ways, I still don't.

I remember when Matthew was smaller and we would pack everyone up for the firework displays in our town. Between the noise and confusion of people around us, the cracking and exploding of the fireworks, and the congestion of traffic, the last thing on my mind at that point was celebrating our nation's independence. I just wanted to get us out in one piece. It really was quite the contrast. Jordan watched with impish delight and excitement while Matthew sat with his fingers in his ears trying not to explode  from the circuitry overload I've no doubt he was experiencing. Once we got back home and indulged in a smore or two, all was right with the world. Until then, it was a nightmare. 

Fast forward to present day where Matthew now loves the fireworks and eagerly reminds us several days in advance they'll be happening. Instead of plugging his ears and throwing himself to the ground when there is a thunder-like boom, he will touch his ears and say, ''Too loud.'' My boy enjoys the 4th where he never did before and I must admit it is no longer the nightmare it once was. Though there are still bittersweet overtones to it.

We celebrate our independence as a country and nation on the 4th. We celebrate the freedoms that are ours because of what took place with our founding fathers in 1776. As parents we raise our children to be independent, to one day leave the safety of our four walls and discover the world for themselves. As autism parents independence for our children is more of a dream than a goal. As autism parents we pray..we fight...we weep...then we start all over again...because some dreams are worth fighting for and the investment we have in the lives of our children is most definitely worth the sacrifice. 

This July 4th, I will trim up the front half of my yard. My newly purchased flowers will be placed strategically around the front of the house so as to give it some pop. I will go to work that day and afterward pack the family up and stake out our spot for the fireworks. Matthew will wrap himself up so as to give himself the calming comfort needed when the booms and crashed begin. I will give thanks for my freedom and independence just as I will continue to pray and weep and fight for my son's independence...and maybe indulge in a smore or two.

The Best Gift Ever

This morning I was sitting on the sofa with Matthew and Ira, coffee in hand, watching the news, and trying to wake up. As I sipped my coffee I glanced over at Matthew who was leaned against his dad, smiling, the blankets wrapped around him like a burrito. 

And then, Matthew did this:

He sat up, leaned against me, and took my hand. 

Why is this such a big deal?

Matthew, for the most part, cuddles more with his dad than with me. He's quicker to show more affection with and to his dad than with me and always has been. I, on the other hand, have to ask for hugs, kisses, what have you. I've never understood it and admittedly, I still at times wrestle with it. For the longest time it was me and me alone at the helm, trying my hardest to keep it all and us together so I guess it would be only natural that I would take his affections for his dad a tad personally. And then I thought, how stupid of me. You know he loves you!

And then he reaches out and takes my hand. No prompting. No cues. HE did it! On his own!

Do you know what that does to a mom's heart?

It makes mine skip a beat!

As an autism mom, I've had to let go of some of the hopes and dreams I used to have for him in exchange for a whole new set. I've had to let go of the image that I'd held in my head for so long and learn to accept him for who he is and all the while still pushing him toward the potential I know he possesses. He is not broken. He is not defective. There is nothing in him missing. He is my son! And I could not be prouder of him!

He only held my hand for a few minutes but the hold he has on my heart is for a lifetime!

To all of you warrior moms on this Mother's Day weekend, I wish you and your incredible children happiness and blessings!

Photographs And The Pursuit Of Happyness

There is a campaign going around on Facebook called "100 Happy Days." A couple of my friends and co-workers have been participating and, as I have followed their posts, my curiosity has grown to say the least. Last week at work I finally asked one of them what it was all about. She went on to tell me that there is a website you go to and register (http://www.100happydays.com). Once a day, for 100 days, you are to post a picture or simply write a post of at least one thing that makes you happy. The idea behind is that there is enough going on in the world to steal our joy and bring us down. Can we be happy for just 100 days?

I figured, why not? There's no cost. No adverse side effects. Quite frankly, considering what I have been dealing with as of late, a little bit of happiness sounds pretty good. So I went to the site, registered, and away I went.

Yesterday I posted some pictures of me and Matthew before he headed off to school.

What then? 

75 people hit the "like" button. There were at least 17 comments (well...14..3 were mine).  I could not believe it. I figured I might get a handful of "likes" and maybe a comment here and there but this was not anything I'd anticipated. To many these pictures are nothing more than a mother with her son. Ah! but they are so much more!

These pictures are the evidence of the road Matthew and I have both traveled, of a time when I could not touch my son, hug him, kiss him, show him any kind of affection. A time when I could not tell him I loved him without him pulling away from me, running down the hall screaming, throwing himself on the floor and hitting himself in the head. A time when I was so heartbroken for not being able to tangibly show affection to my son I actually believed he hated me when all it was was my own lack of knowledge for the sensory issues that accompanied autism. He loved me. It just hurt him physically to show it.

15 years later, I get hugs AND kisses. I get tickled. I hear my young man's voice say, "I love you, Momma." Up until about 7 1/2 years ago, his voice was silent. I loved him as much then as I do now. But oh, how my heart sang when I heard his voice for the first time!

That's definitely something worth being happy about!

Blue Lights, Ribbons, And Starving The Dragon

The scars have healed.

They have healed and yet still are visible. No matter how I touch them with my fingers or wish them away, they are permanently etched in my skin. Trophies of what I've no doubt attempted to kill me, I suppose they should be respected and treasured. Right now, I just find them ugly reminders of a dark side I never realized was there. 

I wish I could say that the urge to engrave again has completely gone away but it hasn't. It has been a daily battle, one I have fought with every bit of strength I possess, no matter how small it may seem. Sometimes it comes on me all at once, other times it tip toes but no matter how it chooses to approach me, its presence is like a wet blanket that has been coated with cement laid across my shoulders. 

It's a frightening feeling when that urge hits. I've spent the better part of my life with the notion of not having it in me to do something like this anyhow for any reason. Now that I have, who is to say that I wouldn't attempt to take it further. A rather unsettling thought to feel so out of control. 

World Autism Awareness Day was April 2nd. Campaigns across the country to light it blue, light it red, light it gold, or to paint a rainbow with multi-color lights to show the spectrum in all of its diversity. I live in the lower peninsula of Michigan and for the last two years, the cables of the Mackinac Bridge have been lit blue throughout the month of April. Over the past year I've made ribbons for autism and had contacted the sponsoring organization about making some for the bridge lighting. I was thrilled to say the very least!

And then the dragon came to the door and I found myself in the ring again, dodging blows, jabs, and fiery darts. He poked at my scars continuously and the urge to engrave was almost overwhelming. My body hurt, my stomach nauseous from the pain. 

I am determined. The dragon is not going to win this fight! I will not die! I will live!! I will survive!!!

In those moments of wanting to engrave, I sought my craft bag and went to work instead.  Scissors, glue, buttons, backings, and gemstones. Five spools worth of ribbons were the result. Light bulbs were changed out from standard to blue. My winterberry tree I had bought at Christmastime was brought in from the garage and donned here and there with ribbons. The urge was there, the dragon had roared. But I refused to feed him. 

It has been a month thereabouts since my scars appeared. The urge is there but growing smaller. Though the dragon roars, he will not be fed. I am more than these scars. Four beautiful souls look to me and depend upon me to be there and to fight for them. I am their voice. They are my rock! I will live!! I will survive!!

The Poems On My Skin

There are poems on my skin.

Their couplets etched in blood, each stanza rough and jagged. Each line carelessly scrawled in pain through a stainless steel pen. No rhyme. No reason. 

I used to hear about young people and adults who would engrave their own poetry on their skin. They would talk about the temporary release they felt with each cut, each burn, each scratch, or whatever their means of medium was and how, even for just a moment, the pain they felt inside came to a stop. I listened and ashamedly dismissed these stories as the tall tales of the disturbed. Looking for attention is what passed through my mind along with a myriad of other things. Crazy. Dangerous. You get the idea.

Now as I sit here bearing the scars of my own engraving I realize a painful reality--I am these other people. I touch my hand to my skin's broken edges and I wish that somehow with each touch my skin would go back together as it once was. I run my hand along each surface and ask myself if I am indeed crazy or, at the very least, on my way there. Am I looking for a way out of this rat race called life? Am I simply looking for attention? What is wrong with me?

The truth of the matter is, I am neither crazy nor am I looking for attention. I am not ready to leave this world and I certainly do not want to help myself along. I am battling a dragon that is bigger than myself who, as I have said once before, is coming against me with every weapon, every fiery dart, every jab, every means possible to break me. The pain and the loneliness that goes with it is isolating to the point of being crippling. Simple every day tasks drain me of energy and it takes every ounce of strength I have left to move throughout my day. Each day is a battle. Each day I fight. 

Will my skin contain anymore poems?

I don't know...

I pray not....

And so, the war wages on. I will fight as I have never fought before. The dragon will not win. He may come at me still with everything he has.  He may knock me down. I may bear scars. I will not be beaten down! 

Fighting The Dragon

Have you ever hurt so bad it felt as if your skin were about to break?

Have you ever felt like you were neck deep in water but you weren't getting wet?

Have you ever felt like it was just you surrounded by white noise?

Have you ever felt devoid of everything? No joy, no ambition, no motivation, no anything and you're going through life on auto-pilot? 

If you have, you may have at one time or another shaken hands with the dragon known as Depression. I have met this dragon on more than one occasion. We have done battle many times. Each time we meet, each time we face off, and the battle appears to be over when in fact the dragon is merely hibernating, resting and recharging so that it may fight another day. 

The dragon is waging another battle. He is coming against me with everything he has, every fiery dart, every piercing jab, his breath smoke and brimstone. The dragon is relentless and does not tire easily. No matter how tall I may stand or how I may square off, every fight leaves me weak and worn. I am knocked down and it takes every ounce of strength I have to pick myself back up. 

Sleep eludes me and food nauseates me. Just the sight of food makes my stomach churn and I force myself to eat. I am empty. I am empty in my head, my heart, and my soul. My body hurts to the point where it feels like my skin is peeling off one layer at a time. I'm shut down. I have two faces; one a mask that I very carefully don to muddle through the day to day. The other face is seen by few and even then not always in full view. I put one foot in front of the other on what seems to be a huge treadmill--I'm moving but not going anywhere. I'm empty, I'm worn, and I'm exhausted.

Just how long will this battle wage on, I have no idea. I am sure, as in any battle, there is a course it must run and I somehow must summon up the courage to continue the fight. Will I slay this dragon? Only time will tell. Will the dragon slay me? He will make attempts, I've no doubt. I must continue the fight. I must find whatever ounce of strength is still within me. I cannot let the dragon win!

Rest Now, Little Soldier

The heart of a community, a nation, and especially a family is breaking this night.

Nearly four months ago, on October 4th, a young teenage boy wandered off from his school in Long Island City, NY. His remains were identified today near the East River. 

When this young man, whose name is Avonte, went missing, a city wide search took place. Social media seemed to explode, pages and groups and anything else to keep the flame of hope burning and to somehow bring him home to his family. We in the autistic community, along with the parents of this precious young man, were living every parent's worst nightmare. 

As I read the news update on my break at work, I closed my eyes and felt an old familiar aching in the pit of my stomach. I remember thinking back to when my Matthew was about the same age as Avonte, 14. At that time we were living in a 16X80 trailer in a neighborhood trailer park and we had family that lived two rows over from where we are. The kids would take turns spending the night there and I remember a few such occasions that could very well have ended in disaster. In every one, Matthew was involved.

What do you say when your son comes back home in the early to mid-morning hours while the adults of the house are still asleep? What do you say when your son comes home covered in pitch and tar because he was playing in the newly patched roads near the park? What do you say when your son is no where to be found and, after circling the neighborhood more times than you have fingers and toes to count with, going from door to door and not being able to reach anyone, you come back to find him sitting on the front steps? 

Avonte was non-verbal and up until seven years ago, so was Matthew. He would not have been able to call for help, to call for me, for his dad, or for his older brother. He would not have been able to alert anyone of our phone number or address with the hopes of us being notified.  My blood ran cold at that thought then. It's even colder as I write.

My heart is breaking as I think about this family weeping for their child. When you lose a child, there is very little (if any) consolation. A piece of you is forever gone and no matter what is done, regardless of how much time has passed, that piece can never be gotten back. Even the word closure is like salt in the wound.

Too many families, in and out of the autistic community, have lost their children in such a fashion. In some instances, there have been happy endings. Sadly, others are left with grief and memories as they lay their precious children to rest. 

I pray tonight for Avonte's family, that they will be wrapped in comfort and love. I pray for peace. I pray that no other family will ever know this kind of pain!

Sleep now, little soldier. Your journey is now done.
Sleep now, sweet angel boy. A valiant race you have run.