HEre's what Happened:

I found myself laying next to my son in a children's hospital bed on the oncology floor. I was still wearing the skinny jeans & black sweater I wore to work.

The following is a sample of my recent essays and stories, always in a concise 500-words-or-less. These writings detail the death of our son, Jonah, from a 2.5 year battle with pediatric cancer, and the birth of his brother, Harrison, a few weeks after. It's been a hell-of-a-ride, but I was destined to tell our big, beautiful love story. 

Click over to Instagram to read more. (You can even start at the beginning of our story by going to the post on Nov. 20, 2014, Jonah's first chemo)

THE UNKOWN SOLDIER “He has no next of kin, no friends. I don’t think anyone will be at his burial,” the funeral home director said on the phone to Father Storey about the upcoming celebration-of-life for David Saint-John, veteran. . After mass last Sunday, Aaron came home excited to tell me, “On Wednesday at 10 a.m., Father Storey has asked that the entire parish attend a veteran’s funeral. He doesn’t have any friends or family.” . Wednesday at 10 a.m. the three of us walked into a standing-room only sanctuary for David Saint-John’s funeral. I can’t speak for everyone else’s reasons for coming, for us, it was Jonah. . The children’s choir serenaded us, “this journey is our destiny,” with endearing, imperfect harmony as Father Storey encouraged everyone to squeeze in and make room, “so we can be one big family.” . Father Storey said we only know about David Saint-John what his neighbors shared. He was 80 years old and passed of cancer that progressed quicker than he expected. The neighbors said he loved to garden, take trips, and was a devout catholic. He was soft-spoken. He loved his country. . I began to wonder about David Saint-John, how does one end up with no one to bury them, but dutiful neighbors? What if he has bodies buried in the basement? Father Storey reminded us, our presence here is Christianity at its best. He looked into us from his pulpit vantage point and talked about our humanity, “we don’t know him, but don’t we all know him? We will all question, did my life make a difference?” . I thought about Jonah’s funeral. Aaron and I eulogized him in front of our friends, family, and perfect strangers. Our final parental duty- making sure everyone knew Jonah’s life mattered. . No one at his funeral knew David Saint-John, but he was one of us. We occupied the same planet. He gave life his best shot. He was our unknown soldier, but not a soldier of the unknown. . The mass ended, and we gathered by the hearse that held David’s cremains, and a folded U.S. flag. Members of the Navy saluted him. David Saint-John, one of our own, was given the goodbye we all hope we deserve.

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I love you with my whole broken heart

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