There was a time I loved the month of May.
In May of 2014, I gave birth to my baby boy, Cole. He came into this world weighing just 4 pounds. I had expected him to be perfectly healthy, just like his big sister Lexi had been. But life had other plans. Almost immediately, we learned that Cole would face challenges we never saw coming.
Still, even as a newborn, he showed us something extraordinary. He fought. He pushed through. He met every obstacle with strength and a smile. And through it all, he radiated a love for life that was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Cole defied every single odd.
He taught me more about perseverance and resilience in those early days than I’d learned in my entire lifetime.
Two short years before he was born, in March, Lexi had made me a mother. She was and still is everything I ever dreamed a daughter could be: sweet, empathetic, brilliant, creative and kind. When Cole arrived, our family felt complete. A beautiful pair my firstborn girl and her baby brother. We were what I’d always wanted a family of four. The months they were born March and May became extra special to me. Foundations of our story. Milestones of hope.
When you become a parent, you start measuring time differently. It’s no longer just seasons or holidays it’s firsts. First giggle. First steps. First “I love you.” You imagine how it will all go. Baby becomes toddler, child becomes teen, teen into adult. Maybe one day, you even become a grandparent, watching it all begin again. I’ll admit that the firsts were measured like a strict timeline with Lexi hitting everyone as planned or before and being so proud. The timeline was out to door with Cole. He spent his first 8 months in the hospital, being diagnosed daily with another obstacle to overcome, and having many many surgeries to keep him alive. Milestones were barely a thought. We became comfortable with the Cole Timeline, where he would do things when he was ready. He certainly became ready, without a doubt hitting and achieving every milestone and doing it with the biggest smile. He loved his family cheering for him and Lexi was always his biggest cheerleader.
Even the cold, bitter Midwest winters felt lighter because of the magic those little milestones brought. October was Halloween costumes, trick or treating, candy and joy. November brought extended family time and gratitude with Thanksgiving. December was Christmas, Cole and Lexi’s favorite; Santa, Cabo-The Elf on the Shelf, lights, tree decorations, presents. They both lived for it all. The magic in their eyes and excitement for everything to come made the darkest months glow.
But then came May 10, 2023.
That was the day everything changed.
That was the day my beautiful baby boy died. Unexpectedly. Unimaginably.
He was only 8 years old.
Since that day, May has not been a month of blossoms and beginnings for me. It’s a month of dread. A month where the weight on my chest grows heavier with each passing day. A month where I can barely breathe knowing what’s ahead. A month where faking that everything’s ok is much more difficult.
No parent should ever have to write their child’s obituary. That’s not how life is supposed to go. We are supposed to outlive our children. We’re supposed to watch them grow, stumble, and rise again. We’re supposed to cheer them on when they graduate, move out, fall in love, start families of their own.
But my May was ripped apart. My heart was torn in half. And now, year after year, I survive this month not live it, not enjoy it just survive it.
And maybe that’s why we keep ourselves so busy this time of year. Not because we’re strong. Not because we’re healed. But because staying still might mean falling apart.
This first weekend in May, Lexi had her aerial silks performance. She performed a breathtaking, Moana themed, duo with her friend Bailey. Bailey holds a unique place in my heart because of a memory that always makes me smile through tears. One Christmas, Cole wrote to Santa not for a rainbow bear like Bailey’s, but for Bailey’s actual rainbow bear. “No, Mommy,” he told me, “I want Bailey’s rainbow bear.” That was Cole. Determined, direct, and totally sure of what he wanted. That little moment still plays in my mind like it was yesterday. Also when Bailey spends the night she brings this special bear and the tag reads COLE.
Lexi and Bailey were incredible. Watching Lexi soar through the air with strength and confidence… it takes my breath away everytime. Her grace, her artistry, her pure passion it’s something truly special. She’s grown so much through this art form, and the pride she carries in herself radiates from the inside out. I’m endlessly amazed by her. The confidence she portrays in her every move on the silks is surreal, like she could truly conquer the world one twist, one turn, one drop at a time.
Tomorrow, we’ll spend the day cheering on her friend Adam at his Taekwondo competition. Another kind, thoughtful, respectful soul. Lexi chooses her friends carefully always gravitating toward those with compassion, warmth, and authenticity. She’s never been wrong. She sees people clearly, in a way that few ever do. She’s wise, and she’s protective of her peace. At such a young age, she carries herself with more emotional intelligence than many adults I know.
Next weekend, we’ll run the Deaf and Hard of Hearing 5K. We’ll be there… Of course we will. We were there every year with Cole, pulling his wagon with him in it across the finish line while he smiled so big. But the race, this year, falls on the exact day Cole died.
I’ll run with friends and family. And I’ll cry with friends and family. Honestly, I cry randomly now. I was never the emotional type and certainly not someone to break out into tears. But now, Im different and I think I’ll always be different. I find myself holding back tears during random times, sometimes multiple times per day. The triggers are everything. Seeing a young boy, hearing someone say how many children they have, hearing of other children’s accomplishments, seeing some of Cole’s favorite things, walking into a hospital, going through a car wash, passing the boys section at a store, being at a restaurant and seeing a glass of ice water. Literally, every and anything can trigger my sadness. Because that pain, that ache, it’s part of me now.
And then comes Mother’s Day.
No one tells you how excruciating Mother’s Day can be when you’ve lost a child. Yes, I have Lexi. I love her with a depth I didn’t know existed. She is my light, my best friend, my saving grace. But that doesn’t erase the empty chair. The silence. The ache for Cole, who should be here too. I go through the motions, smile for pictures, chat with others about everyday things. But what I really want to do is crawl into bed and sob until there’s nothing left. Because it’s not the same. It will never be the same.
And just when I think I’ve endured the worst of it, May delivers its final blow: May 30th Cole’s birthday.
It will always be his birthday. The day he came into the world. The day I met the incredible boy who would teach me more in eight years than most people learn in a lifetime. But now, that day is also a cruel reminder. Not just of who he was, but of who he could have been.
What would Cole be like now?
What would he ask for on his birthday?
Would he still want Bailey’s rainbow bear?
Would he still love Roblox?
Would he still be video calling people randomly throughout the day?
Would he still watch music videos on Youtube?
Would he still crack himself up watching the funniest cat videos?
Would he have become even a better pranskter?
Would he still carry that fire, that fight, that contagious smile?
I like to believe the answer to all of it is yes.
But I’ll never get to know for sure.
So I survive May. Not because I’m strong, but because I have to. Because Lexi needs me. Because Cole deserves to be remembered. Because even in grief, there’s still love.
And somehow, someway, that love keeps me breathing.