Birthday Cakes

I'm here this time to talk about cake. I. LOVE. CAKE. And in the last couple of years I have also come to love decorating cakes and cupcakes. Stick with me here because I promise you I am going to get all the way back around to cakes again and how they relate to my angel baby.

I know a lot of workplaces like to say "we're like family." But my no-longer-so-little place of employment really does feel like that to me now. I've been there for more than 10 years. It occurred to me recently that I have aged with my coworkers. We have celebrated weddings, babies, and returns of former coworkers. We have shared one another's sorrow in the passing of two beloved (and young!) members of our team. And we have come together more than once to care for one another for the losses of children, parents, siblings, and spouses. So when we say that our coworkers are our second family, we actually mean it.

In August of 2011 I was pregnant with Kerian. I will be honest (and this is no fault of Kerian's), the pregnancy was miserable. I was so sick, and knew that he was sick because of a congenital heart defect, but what kept powering me forward was the bliss of meeting him. It helped me get through each round of vomiting to know that soon I would be smiling down at his precious little face, holding him in my arms, and smelling his intoxicating baby scent. There is another woman at work who was pregnant with her first child around the same time that I was pregnant with Mister 10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv). I'm going to call her Kindred Spirit (KS). KS and I celebrated our baby showers somewhat back-to-back in the conference rooms at work. And that same woman was pregnant with her second child at the same time that I was pregnant with Kerian. I don't remember the exact birth of her son but it was in August, just like Kerian. I vaguely remember struggling with being envious of her after Kerian died because I wanted her to be happy and enjoy her baby, but at the same time I wanted so badly to hold my own darling boy in my arms. The years have passed and this same woman celebrated with me at another office-celebrated baby shower when I was pregnant with Sunshine Boy (SB).

So now to get back around to cake and why I shared all of that with you. Last October, I baked a cake for a dear, dear friend at work, and decorated it with a mermaid theme because she is really into mermaids. I was flattered to my toes when KS came up to me and asked me if I could bake a birthday cake for her daughter's birthday. I was then sad when the date didn't work out because it fell on the same day as SB's birthday party.

KS (being a kindred spirit) is a planner like me. She came around to my cubicle one day a couple of months ago and asked if I would be interested in making her daughter a "doll cake" for her 10th birthday party in October. The date is after SB's birthday and at the end of the month, so I said yes. I AM SO EXCITED. I bought myself a Barbie and am going to practice baking doll cakes until I am confident that I can get it right and not ruin some poor little girl's 10th birthday party with something off of Cake Wrecks or Nailed It! She and I have discussed it off and on and today she stopped by to show me a picture of what her daughter wants me to make. We got to talking about cakes in general and stuff I have done and I told her I had made a Minecraft-themed birthday cake for Mr. 10Kv the previous year. Her eyes lit up and she said, "My little boy loves Minecraft! Would you be willing to make him a Minecraft cake in August?" I said yes, and was secretly rather pleased to have the opportunity to try that theme again because the first time I went so far overboard with cake and icing that PF had to move the cake from the kitchen to the dining room table for the birthday party because it was so heavy.

It wasn't until the drive home tonight that I slowly came to a realization. The first thing that started my thoughts was a sign in SB's daycare that said they are planning a "graduation party" for the 3's who are graduating to "pre-K." I pondered SB turning four. And felt a twinge of sadness that kindergarten is not that far off. This of course led to me thinking about Kerian and how he would have been turning 7 this year. The same age as KS's son. It pains me that I have no way of knowing what theme Kerian would have wanted for his birthday. And it pains me that I cannot ask him, plan with him, and bake the cake of his choosing. What surprises me in all of this is that when I realized I was baking KS's son a birthday cake around the time of Kerian's birthday, I felt glad. Glad that if I couldn't bake a cake and see Kerian's face light up with a big smile at the sight of it that I could still bake a cake for KS's little boy and see his face light up. In a strange way, that cake will be extra-special to me because though it is for KS's little guy, in my heart I will be baking some love into it and decorating it with a little love in it too. That's what I call pennies from heaven.

Catching Up

It’s true. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. When I started this blog, and the blog My Franco American life, I was on maternity leave and I was healing from losing Kerian. The scar from my C-section healed far sooner than the scars on my heart. Then I went back to work, and in taking care of myself, my job, Mister 10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv), and Pierre-Francois (PF), and our home, I lost my momentum and stopped blogging.

Oh, and then somewhere in between my last blog post and living my life, I became hellbent to have another baby. Obsessed, really. PF was on board with it, and I have to admit that my desire to have another baby became a need. Then it became my second job. Everyone in my house wanted that baby. Mr. 10Kv would ask me if I was going to have another baby. He would put his little hands on my belly and ask me if I was pregnant yet with “our baby” (meaning, the whole family’s baby). I was old...44 years old, so it took IVF therapy to make it happen, and after too many IVF injections to count, I finally became pregnant with Sunshine Boy (SB). He will be two next month, and he truly lives up to his nickname here on my blog. It is a pleasure to have the joy of a little child in the house again, for all of us. Mr. 10Kv is a little daddy to SB, and PF and I have a unique perspective on parenting that now makes us more patient than I believe we would have otherwise been.

But Kerian is not forgotten. PF and I think of him every day, at least once a day. On August 30 this year he would have turned 5 years old. We would have been planning his entry into kindergarten. We would have been deciding things like, “should he start kindergarten this year?” Or “should we let him do another year of preschool and send him to kindergarten next year?” I’ll be honest. I still feel robbed of the chance to make such choices. I’ve gone back to therapy, this time with a different counselor than the one I saw after Kerian died, and before Kerian’s birthday on August 10, I cried for almost the entire 50-minute session. So my great aunt Betty was right; “the pain never goes away, but it does get softer.” She should know, because God bless her, one of her own precious, beloved babies lies in a cemetery in Southern Indiana.

This is an odd place to stop a blog post, but it’s 6:10am and time for me to go upstairs and get ready for work. If you are reading this post because you found the books on the shelf at the hospital, because your child is in the PICU, then know that my heart goes out to you and your family, and especially to your beloved child. Stay strong. I hope you get the happy ending. And most of all, whatever your experience, I wish you peace.

Sweet Heft

In those early, dark days right after Kerian died, the glare of my grief was so bright I was blind, and the buzzing in my ears blared so loudly I could hear nothing else besides Mister 10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv), Kerian’s then three-year-old brother who still needed his mama. The ferocity of those sensations was heightened by the weather—it was the last day of August, and here in Virginia, even in early September, the heat and humidity are still intense. When we left the hospital the evening he died, the summer sun still loomed high above us as Pierre-Francois (PF) and I staggered out from the overly-cold PICU unit into the suffocating heat. My empty arms felt leaden at my sides as my arms and legs often do in my nightmares, and I wanted to fill them with Kerian so badly I could swear my muscles burned.

The first book I read after Kerian died was called Waiting with Gabriel, by Amy Kuebelbeck. In that excruciating, beautiful book, she wrote about her discovery during pregnancy that her baby boy (Gabriel) had a congenital heart defect called hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS). She recovered her composure well enough after the diagnosis to decide to carry him to term, deliver him, and to lovingly live his precious little lifetime alongside him in comfort care. In a paragraph of the delivery scene, she used a term that burned itself into my mind with the bright light of truth: “sweet heft.” That’s how she describes the feeling of having the sweet heft her beloved Gabriel, clean and swaddled after delivery, placed gently into her arms by a nurse. And if you have held your own beloved infant in your arms, you understand like I do what she means by that sweet heft of a newborn’s weight.

As I wrote this draft, it was Saturday, February 25, 2012, and spring was already making its gentle approach. I could hear birdsong outside my living room window, a melodious reminder of the coming of the season of resurrection. And yet, for me, for my family, during this particular spring, we have these painful truths to reconcile: the earth goes on turning, the seasons go on changing, and life without Kerian continues. Father Time drags me into the future while I dig my fingernails into the drywall to try to prevent it, because I am desperate to remember. My memories, some photographs, and one video are all that I have left of Kerian.

On that morning of February 25^th, I awoke thinking of Kerian, and wishing that I could go into the bedroom he was to have shared with his big brother, Mr. 10Kv, and pick him up out of his crib and snuggle him to my chest. In my dawn-of-dreams-inspired imagining, Kerian was plump, crimson-cheeked, and whole—a perfect Gerber baby at six and-a-half months. This “vision” happened without trying, a natural phantom inspired by my proximity to sleep. It came to me—I did not purposely paint it in my mind’s eye. Before and since that time, no matter how hard I try, I cannot conjure up any face other than that of his thirteen day old self. I am frustrated by my lack of imagination and my inability to create for myself in my mind’s eye the chubby, happy, cooing baby boy that Kerian would surely be had he been born whole, and survived. My frustration is amplified by my fear that I will forget—forget details of Kerian’s short life. I want always to remember the sweet smell of his hair, the warmth of his cheeks beneath my lips when I kissed him, every nuance of his sweet face. But memory falls victim to the cruelty of time my friends; like a miser’s riches stored under the mattress, it dwindles into rations rather than growing while stored safely in a bank.

On February 25^th, when I started this post, it was six months to the day that PF and I still had optimism that our Kerian would rally, that the tangled mass of his poorly-developed heart could be repaired by medical alchemy. We were innocent child-parents who believed in magic, in miracles, in doctors, and in resurrection. We had so many encouraging signs in the first few days of Kerian’s week-long stay in the PICU that we were able to hold on to hope while we longed to hold him in our arms. Alas, you know the end of Kerian’s earthly story—his survival was not to be. Notice that I did not say it was not meant to be—because it’s not that it wasn’t “meant” to be. He simply did not survive, but surely he was meant to have lived on, safely with his loving family. And it did not take me very long after his death to reconcile the subtle difference between the two statements, “was not to be,” and “was not meant to be.”

It was not to be that Kerian would ascend like the proverbial phoenix from the ashes. Instead, I, his mother, must day after day, step after step, continue my slow climb out of the punishing hole of grief, despite my now jaded beliefs about rising again, and despite the weight of what I carry with me. So tonight, one day after Kerian’s seven month birthday, as I write about these emotional stones on my back, I realize that I am living with my fear of forgetting what I still remember, agonizing over my guilt for forgetting what I already have, and missing his sweet heft.

Christmas Eve Reflections

I have never before been conflicted about Christmas, so feeling that way about this holiday is new to me. I can’t lie. I do occasionally feel cheated when I allow myself to imagine what Kerian would have looked like racing down the stairs in his pyjamas, hot on the heels of his big brother Mister 10,000 Volts (Mr. 10Kv). Even in his memorial service I mentioned that especially at Christmas I would miss him, and wonder about him.

This year, I have felt like there’s nothing I can do for Kerian for Christmas. I have lamented about the fact that I can’t give him gifts and can’t dress him in baby’s first Christmas clothes. I can’t sing Christmas songs while I rock him. I can’t buy him presents. The only thing I can do is pray to him and hope that he hears me and knows that I still love him even though he’s here in spirit but not in body. Then on the opposite end of the parenting spectrum, Mr. 10Kv is three this year and believes in Santa with all his little heart, and his contagious joy warms me like a cup of hot chocolate after an afternoon of sledding in Central Oregon (where I grew up). That Christmas-y closeness to Mr. 10Kv is in part what makes me wish for more than just the clichéd white Christmas—it makes my arms ache to hold my Kerian, to include him in all of our joy and excitement, and to watch him grow to learn to love Christmas just as Mr. 10Kv does this year. So on Christmas Eve, just three and three-quarter months after Kerian passed away, I felt further away from him than ever before. And aside from sharing my grief with Pierre-Francois (PF), I did at times that day, feel a loneliness that before then I never could have imagined.

On Christmas Eve, PF and I took Mr. 10Kv on a leisurely little drive to look at Christmas lights. It was chilly outside, and I was surprised at how happy I felt.  There we were, bundled up all snug and warm in the car as we listened to the classical music station and marveled at some of the homes with lights that when the home owner flips on the power switch, must surely make all of the lights dim for a moment up in Canada. We had just finished listening to “Away in a Manger,” and I was proud of myself for not starting an all-out bawling fest when I heard the words, “The little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head,” and I pictured myself gently laying Kerian down in his bassinette, my hand beneath his head so warm and round. 

Then the song “O Little Town of Bethlehem” came on the radio. It was a choral version of the song, and like a church choir it sounded angelic. And then the song came to these lyrics:

“For Christ is born of Mary,

And gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep

Their watch of wondering love”

My mind flashed through several thoughts at once; to my conversation with Sister Mary (the nun who prayed over Kerian the day he died) in which she reminded me while I sobbed that Mother Mary feels my pain because she too lost her son, she understands what a sacrifice it is when a mother loses a child; and to 1979 when I was 10 and granted the role of the Holy Mother in the church Christmas pageant. In that pageant, I sang O Little Town of Bethlehem while I cradled in my arms a baby doll that someone else had swaddled for me because I didn’t yet know how.

As the song continued, and we continued home in the car, a lump formed in my throat and rogue tears wetted my cheeks when in that moment I realized how incredibly innocent I had been, sitting there in church, singing that song to my flannel wrapped plastic baby, with no hint of imagination dark enough to picture myself 32 years in the future, on Christmas Eve, hearing that same song on the radio and crying for the baby boy I had just lost. PF heard me sniffle, and put his warm hand over the top of mine, and we drove on in silence as we listened to the rest of the song.

As I write right now, I have realized something. Kerian and I were not denied the ability to exchange gifts. It’s true that we did not necessarily exchange them on Christmas, but we most certainly did exchange them. To start with I gave him life. In return, my beloved boy gave me himself (which would have been enough, I would have been happy to stop there without the other gifts of life lessons). In the brevity of his life and his losing battle to survive he also gave me the discovery of my own strength and courage; the day he died I was strong and courageous for him and when they turned off the life support machine, I managed (as I cried) to choke the words, “We love you forever Kerian, and it’s okay to go to the light this time."

And I can give him gifts, even now, though he is with me only in spirit. I can make good on my promise to him to be a good mother to his brother, and a good wife to his father. I can continue to keep my promise to him to find something to smile about every day. I might not be able to wrap those gifts in crisp wrapping paper and sparkling bows and hand them to him in person, but I can get up every morning, put on a smile, and think of him and the profound gift his life was to me, and how fortunate I am to have known him. I hope that next year I will remember what I learned this Christmas, and that I will manage to keep my promises to my Kerian, so that I can continue to give him those gifts.

Gratitude

My beloved Kerian,

Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I had peaceful happy thoughts about you all day. I was grateful (and surprised) to have felt really good; not as sad as I had anticipated I would be. I did have several moments of missing you, and wishing you were with us, but overall, I made it through the day feeling pretty good because I have so much for which to be thankful.

Darling boy, I am thankful that pregnancy lasts nine months even though our experience was so hard. It was nine months of knowing you were there, in my belly, safe, and alive. I could feel you kicking and moving, and I could put your papa’s hand, or your brother’s hand on my belly and they knew you were alive and well, too. And for those nine months, your papa and brother and I could enjoy the anticipation of meeting you.

I am also thankful for the doctor at my OB/GYN’s office who had to move my appointment from Friday, August 12 to Wednesday, August 10. If she hadn’t decided to take the day off on Friday, then I would not have been in her office on Wednesday, August 10, when your heart rate dropped so dangerously low. She sent me to the hospital to have you immediately delivered. So your papa and I were able to meet you, and spend 13 wonderful days at home with you, and one more week reading stories to you in the PICU. I feel so lucky and grateful to have met you at all, because had you not been born on August 10^th, there is a good chance that you would have been stillborn.

How could I not be thankful for all of the doctors and nurses in the PICU, who worked so hard to save you, and who clearly were emotionally invested in your care? Dr. F. used adoring adjectives to describe you…he used “cute” one time, and “adorable” another. I was amazed he could see that through all of the tubes and wires. On the Saturday of your PICU stay, your father and I walked into your room just as Nurse G., whose back was to us, was talking softly to you—we heard her call you sweetheart. And oh, sweet boy, that did my aching mother’s heart so much good, because we weren’t allowed to stay overnight with you, and when we arrived that morning and heard her call you sweetheart, I knew you had loving care while I was at home at night.

I am grateful for the funeral director at the funeral home we chose in our state of blinding grief. We had such great fortune that he turned out to be an empathetic man, who gave us excellent advice and helped us create exactly the beautiful tribute we wanted for you at your memorial service. Without his assistance, there were several elements of the ceremony that might not have been, such as the viewing. I had wanted it so badly, but could not bring myself to put you in a coffin. He offered a “Moses basket,” and he let us bring your own flannel baby blankets from home to line it so that your body would be presented in a warm, sweet little nest.

I am grateful to all of the friends and coworkers who came to your memorial service. And to all of the people who sent us sympathy cards. Those cards helped us through some of the most excruciating moments of our lives, and even now, three months later, I still go through them from time to time and read the kind words and heartfelt sentiments that people took the time to write to us.

I am also thankful for the social workers and other people at the hospital who worked so hard to help your papa and I create the little memorial bookshelf in your name, in the PICU at the hospital where you passed away. It was so helpful for our healing to be able to donate books that other parents can read to their children in the PICU. And that will be an ongoing source of gratitude for me, because we will continue to make donations over the years.

I have a special call out of gratitude to the friend who has sent me “baby’s first” cards. She sent one at Halloween, and one for Thanksgiving, and I cried as I read them, and I shared them with your father, who also got choked up. That she thought to do something so tender and dear is a marvel to me—she has no children of her own yet. So I am deeply thankful to her for that special knowing that she has, that knowing that a bereaved mother of an infant still thinks about baby’s first everything. Friend, if you’re reading this, you know who you are—please also know how much I love you.

Lastly, my sweetest angel Kerian, I am just thankful to have ever known you at all. Your life with us was so short, but such an everlasting blessing. The only thing I would change would be to give you a perfect heart and have you come home with us. But as your papa says, the book of your life was already written when we created you—we just lived out your life paragraph by paragraph alongside you. Though you were ripped from us far too early, we would do it all again, exactly as it happened, just for the privilege of meeting, knowing, and loving wonderful you.

I love you Kerian,

Maman

What to Say (Or Not!) to a Bereaved Parent

I'm going back to work on December 1, and have been working with the HR office at work to prepare for my "re-entry." I offered to send a list of things not to say to a bereaved parent, and they took me up on it. In my research on the web, I also found a list of things that might be helpful to say to a mother or father who is grieving. If these lists look familiar, it's because I have borrowed bits and pieces of them from so many web sites I can no longer remember where I found them all. I believe most of the pieces came from these sites:

http://tcfcanada.net/2010/the-bereaved-parent/

http://www.nowisleep.com/showthread.php?19-I-am-a-grieving-parent...what-NOT-to-say.

http://thebiggestloss.blogspot.com/2010/07/what-not-to-say-to-grieving-parent.html

I edited grammar where I decided it was necessary.

Feel free to copy this list if you need to.

Best Things to Say to a Bereaved Parent

1.    “I don’t know what to say.”

This is an honest, straightforward response to parents, which still acknowledges the loss. When friends and family do not mention the loss, it can feel like the child never existed.

2.    “You must miss [child’s name],” or “I was thinking about [child’s name] today.”

Use the child’s name as often as you would if he or she were alive. He/she still lives in the hearts of their parents.

3.    “How is today going?”

This is a great alternative to “how are you.”

4.    “Do you have a picture of your child?” Or, “What was your child like?”

For the parents, whatever the age of their child, his or her life had meaning. When you ask about the child, it reinforces the fact that they played an important role in the family.

5.    “How are the other children?”

It is important to acknowledge their grief process as well.

6.    “Would you like to get coffee/go to lunch and talk about it? If you want to share, I am willing to listen.”

Often times, bereaved parents want to share the story. If you are strong enough to hear the details, and can listen without judging, your kindness will be appreciated.

What NOT to Say to a Bereaved Parent

1.    “You can have more children.”

All a bereaved parent really wants is to have his or her child back. You can't replace one child with another.

2.    "Be glad he was only [insert young age] and not [insert older age],” or, “He/she was only a baby.”

Length of time does not determine the size of a parents’ love, and a short life does not make the loss less painful.

3.    “It’s been [x] [days, weeks, months, etc.], get over it/move on, etc,” or, “Are you feeling better?”

A grieving parent will forever carry the heartache of losing his or her child. They might not ever say that they feel better. They might just feel “different.” Life after the loss of a child is often called the “new normal.”

4.    “He’s in a better place”

Most often, the bereaved parents simply feel that the best place for their child was in their home.

5.    “I know how you feel….my [husband/wife, mother/father, aunt/uncle, sister/brother, dog/cat] just passed away.”

When a child dies, the parent is left to grieve the future; they grieve first steps, graduation, wedding etc. Losing a child is very different from losing anyone else. If you actually have experienced the death of a child, share your story, and be patient with the grieving parent while he/she shares with you. This is often his/her favorite subject.

6.    “Thank God you have other children,” or, “Count your blessings with your older child/children.”

No one can ever replace the lost child—he/she was a unique individual even if only a tiny baby. It is true that when the energy for life is restored, there are activities and experiences the surviving children provide for bereaved parents.

7.    "It was God's will," or, “God wanted him/her,” or, "This was meant to be," or, “Things happen for a reason.”

It’s not your place to speak for God, and ultimately these kinds of comments make bereaved parents wonder why they were singled out for this kind of anguish and heartache.

8.    “Your child would not want to see you so sad.”

As with the question above, it’s not your place to speak for the dead child.

9.    “Why aren’t you back at work yet,” or, “You should go back to work,” or, “I’m surprised you took so much time off,” or, “You didn’t take enough time off.”

Grief is different for every individual. There is no magical time frame for returning to work.

10. “You should [fill in with advice].”

If the bereaved parent wants advice, even from someone who has suffered the loss of a loved one (even the loss of a child), he or she will ask for it.

Kerian's Memorial Bookshelf at the Children's Hospital

At last it happened. On Friday, November 11, 2011, my husband and I donated several books to the children's hospital where our Kerian passed away. I say at last because it took several weeks of communication with several people including the Development Officer to get what little space we were granted. (It's a big-city hospital and space is at a premium.) See image below.

The shelf on which you can see a copy of The Little Red Caboose is the space they gave us. Which is why we haven't yet donated multiple copies of each book.


Here's a closer picture of "the Kerian bookshelf."

And here's a picture of one of the books opened to the front where we put the labels with Kerian's photograph.

It was all so real again, once the elevator doors opened up to the PICU floor, and we saw the bright lights in the hallways leading to softly-lit hospital rooms, heard the humming, beeping and buzzing of medical equipment, and smelled the stench of sanitation.


All at once it was strange, and sad, and therapeutic, to look into that code room, at the very bed where our Kerian had been, all hooked up to wires, and tubes, and the ECMO machine. Part of me expected to see him there--the part of me that will forever be cemented in that place in time. Instead, in Kerian's corner of the room we saw a little Asian baby, his parents sitting on either side of his bed. And in the other corner, which had been empty during most of Kerian's stay, was a baby girl and her father. I felt my knees wobble, and at first I was light headed, but since the baby in Kerian's bed looked nothing like him, I felt a deep sense of relief. Neither baby was hooked up to a life support machine, and I felt hopeful for them, and for their parents.


As we spoke with the hospital staff, we learned that our donation, though smaller than that which we had originally planned, was indeed timely and welcomed. One staff member shared with us that the day before our donation, a father with a child on the PICU floor lamented that he was tired of reading the same three books to his baby. We were thrilled that our donation came the very next day so that he could begin to read our books to his child.


I expected to feel lighter, and more free for having made that donation. I can't say that that was the case. It didn't ease my burden, and it didn't take away my pain for having lost my innocent, and beloved boy. But it did feel good, so very good, to know that through those books that we read to Kerian to let him know we were there and that we loved him, other parents can do the same, and that this intimate sort of parenting can continue. The PICU is not fun--for us, it was part of our worst nightmare. I hope with all my heart that the parents who are led to those books will get the happy ending we were not given. I hope that by reading those stories to their children, they will all be given just a little bit of sunshine at a time when life can feel dark and ominous. The books we chose tell stories of hope and love, and emphasize the sweet innocence of childhood. Here is a list of the books we donated:

The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh, by A.A. Milne

A Beatrix Potter Treasury, by Beatrix Potter

Wherever You Are: My Love Will Find You, by Nancy Tillman

On the Night You Were Born, by Nancy Tillman

The Little Red Caboose, by Marian Potter

The Little Engine That Could, by Watty Piper


Guess How Much I Love You, by Sam McBratney 

The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Tumford the Terrible, by Nancy Tillman

The Crown on Your Head, by Nancy Tillman

Owl Moon, by Jane Yolen

This is not the end of our donation. Due to limited space, our initial donation was also limited. There is a remodel of the PICU floor coming up and we have been assured that an entire bookshelf is in the works. We are going to donate multiples of each book, as well as other inspiring and loving children's books as we come across titles that we think we would have enjoyed reading to Kerian.

My husband and I want to express our deepest, most humble gratitude to those of you who made donations to our cause. Please know that we have not yet spent all of the donations, but we do promise that every last penny of them will be spent on books for Kerian's "library." I will continue to keep you posted here, on Remembering Kerian.