Ronan. I am currently watching your Poppy sister play in her crib. At almost six months old, she has still not spent a night alone. Is that bad? I’m not sure — because I had all three of you boys in your cribs pretty much from the time you came home from the hospital. Babies in our beds happened sometimes — but not like this. Not every night. Not like we are doing with this Poppy girl.
Your daddy has been saying lately that it’s time for Poppy to go in her crib. And I launch into my “No way. Never happening.” rant. It usually goes something like this: “Kids who sleep in their cribs die. I’ve sat in support groups and heard at least three stories of eight-month-old babies who just up and die. She’s not going in her crib to die.”
The stories are true. The drama is mine. But I am not about to be separated from your Poppy sister through the night.
My mind doesn’t get to be naïve anymore — it doesn’t get that luxury. I live in a constant state of low-grade paranoia.
Here’s another example of how messed up it is inside my head.
I was at breakfast with Fernanda and Stacy and Fernanda was standing up, bouncing Poppy to sleep. She started singing “Silent Night.” You know — the song I always sang to you before you got sick.
I lost it.
“YOU CANNOT SING THAT SONG TO HER. THAT SONG IS JINXED. IT’S THE SONG OF DEATH.”
They both looked at me like I had eight heads.
“Sing her ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ like I used to sing to Ronan instead.”
Poor Fernanda pivoted mid-verse and Stacy just rolled her eyes. I didn’t want to explain the whole song thing — but when you first got sick, I remember telling Tricia and Marisa something insane.
“I always sang him ‘Silent Night.’ Is that because he’s going to die and now the nights are going to be silent without him?”
They told me no. Of course they did. But here we are.
I know “Silent Night” didn’t cause your death. I know that. But what if it was the universe foreshadowing something? What if it was some cruel warning I missed?
These are the fun thoughts I get now.
No “Silent Night” for Poppy. Ever.
The Gold Party came and went and I still feel emotionally wrung out from it. It was beautiful — sparkly — exactly the kind of night you would have loved. I was surrounded by my favorite people, minus a few who couldn’t make it.
At the end of the night I said, “I feel like Ronan would want us to jump in the pool.”
After a little Stacy magic — meaning convincing the amazing W people running the event — that is exactly what happened. Fancy clothes and all, into the pool we went. Me, Stacy, Fernanda, and your Fairy RoMo.
We laughed. We swam a lap. And then I sat at the edge of the pool and cried with Fernanda.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
I don’t think the shock ever leaves. Time doesn’t soften it. It just teaches you how to stand up inside it.
Everything still hurts just as much, Ronan.
But in that laughing-crying, chlorine-soaked moment — I felt grateful. Grateful for the people you have put in my life. I am so lucky in that way.
I’m doing my best here — but sometimes everything I’m doing takes a toll. I miss you. And I miss just being a mom. Just that. Not a foundation. Not a spokesperson. Not an advocate. Just a mom.
I feel pulled in a thousand directions.
Sometimes I want to scream “TIME OUT” and run away to New York. I know that’s not the answer — but sometimes I wish it were.
I’ve been getting emails asking if this blog is ending because I’m not writing as much. I don’t think I will ever stop writing here. But it has to go on the back burner for now. A book. A foundation. A baby. Two ten-year-olds in three sports each. A marriage. A house. Friendships that require maintenance.
Being a friend while being a bereaved parent is exhausting work. The ones who have stayed are family now.
Add in worrying about my brother. Add in trying to get back into some kind of exercise rhythm — because the baby weight and my childhood body image baggage like to tag-team me.
That leaves zero time for stillness.
And I know what happens when I ignore my grief.
I unravel.
There was a time when unraveling meant too much Ambien. That was the old, shattered me. Not this version. Not the mom with a baby in her bed. I won’t go there again.
But I need a plan.
I tried to get to Sedona to see Dr. Jo and it didn’t work out. So this week I’ll make a new game plan. Maybe stillness looks like hiking with Poppy. Maybe grief time looks different now. If that’s the only time I get — I’ll take it.
One more thing — thanks to the Phoenix Coyotes, we now have funding to do the Candy Cart at PCH once a month. That makes me really happy. If you have new, unused non-candy goodies to send — toys, books, stickers, crayons — the kids who can’t eat deserve something, too.
The Ronan Thompson Foundation
P.O. Box 44935
Phoenix, Arizona 85064-4935
Thank you for being patient with me in this quieter season. I am trying. I am just overwhelmed.
It’s almost 9:00. Which means I’m done.
Time to curl up with Poppy.
G’nite, Ronan. I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.
xoxo
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