Five days before the accident, I sent Dalton four nagging text messages in a row about cleaning the loft and not taking food upstairs. He replied with a single word, “ok.” Around twenty-four hours after his reply I would send him nearly identical messages. Except that Tuesday instead of answering my texts, he would walk past me in the kitchen while holding his gaze steady on my eyes, carrying two armfuls of food and drink trash. Never looking away, he grabbed ahold of the handle to the pull out trash cabinet with his pinky finger and dumped the garbage in there with a thud. In his quintessential matter-of-fact tone, he said three words before turning around to walk out of the kitchen. “Calm down, Jenny.”

On the morning of Thursday, November 13, as Dalton was eating his pop tart for breakfast, I would text him at 6:36am to tell him I wasn’t feeling well and that his dad was going to take him to school. I regret that decision to stay in bed because it would have gained me about 23 more minutes of spending time with my son. What I would give to spend 23 minutes alone with him today. Ironically, though, my decision to let Troy take DD to school that day allowed for them to spend their last car ride together as father and son. Troy can’t recall specifically what they talked about, but he remembers how it felt. Dalton rubbed Troy’s neck while he drove (a task Troy has manipulating all of us into doing for years) and then he traced the veins on his dad’s right arm while he read him inappropriate jokes off of his phone.

I text Dalton on the morning of the accident, “If you bring food upstairs again, you won’t have a guest over for 2 months.” We both knew it wasn’t true. Like the ones before, it went ignored. Kind of like the one I sent at 1:39pm on Saturday, November 15^th when I wrote in capital letters, “SLOW DOWN” after seeing him whiz by me on a ranger.

I catch myself time to time reflecting on the horrible details of that day. Most of the time I can replace a negative image with a positive one. But sometimes I can’t. The one that haunts me the most is seeing Dalton for the first time in the hospital laying in that bed. Or was it a table? How could someone so full of life suddenly be eradicated of all that makes him a living, breathing being in a matter of minutes? We had JUST talked. I had JUST seen him. And then as rapidly as the eye blinks or a hummingbird’s wing flutters, my son was gone. I couldn’t beg him back. I couldn’t pray him back.

In the days following the funeral, I yearned for my own death. Like the shepherd in the Parable of the Lost Sheep, I only wanted to find my lost child. Colton and Keely were safe and at home, but Dalton could not be found. I was unable to imagine in my mind where he was or what he was doing. The physical toll that our separation had on me only increased by the day. Eating was never much more than a passing thought. Why should I be able to eat when my son couldn’t? Laughing was inconceivable. How could I show joy when DD wasn’t here to be part of it? I recall asking my sister in law, Leah, for ideas of medicines I could try to treat heartburn because I actually attributed the burning feeling in my chest to that condition. I wouldn’t know until later that what I was experiencing was my heart breaking. Around 3-4 times a day, I would freeze up and wonder if I were having mini heart-attacks. They would turn out to be panic attacks.

In these early days, I would put off getting our mail until it was dark out. Our mailbox is right off a busy highway and I didn’t want to be seen by people during the daylight hours. One night after I had grabbed our mail out of our mailbox, I stood on the shoulder and watched mesmerized the flow of cars whipping by me in the darkness. Before my mind was even aware of what my body was doing, I had taken about 4 or 5 steps into the first lane of traffic. I took a few shallow breaths and steadily took a couple more. I started visualizing how easy it would be. The sky was so dark and I was wearing dark clothing. In a matter of seconds, I could remain standing right where I was and be smashed into 100 broken pieces by the unsuspecting driver on his way home to dinner with his family. Figuring I would probably get clipped by a car who sees me at the last moment, leaving me alive but in a vegetable-like state, I walked back up to my driveway clutching my mail. That would be the first of several times I would plot a myriad of ways to end my life.

One of the most difficult realities I faced on the day of the accident was that I personally had no control over what was happening. I assumed my child was in pain (and like most parents) I wanted to take that pain away. Beginning about two months after the accident, I inadvertently found a way in which I could manage the pain. It wasn’t Dalton’s pain; it was my own. But I could make it start or stop at my command. It began with his signature and a simple cross on my left wrist. Buzz… the needle of the tattoo gun hummed loudly as my skin felt like it was being burnt by a razor sharp cat claw. The second the artist was done and had bandaged my wrist, I was sorry it was over. The pain had been so welcomed. Never before had I received physical discomfort with more willingness. And so it began. 30+ hours of controlled pain on my back later, I had quite the art piece. Keely would give me unapproving looks after I would return from the tattoo parlor and Troy would just sort of shake his head. But everyone knew to let me be. I embraced every puncture of my skin because it made me feel back in control of something. Now I can say I proudly adorn some of the most exquisite art I have ever seen done by a talented and professional artist I respect. Between my shoulder blades I have a white dove symbolizing the Holy Spirit set in stained glass of red, yellow and orange. Jesus as the Good Shepherd in stained glass of blues and greens rests on my left shoulder. On my right shoulder I have the Virgin Mary cradling the infant Jesus with more stained glass background of blues and greens. Below the Holy Spirit tattoo I have a purple cross. To finish off the piece, I chose olive branches to frame the cross on each side to denote peace. My friends like to say they feel like they are sitting in church when they look at me from behind. Overall, it was a satisfying conclusion to my art, but a testimony of how far I’d come since my darkest days.

It is unfeasible to think I can fully sum up how much life has changed in this last year. There have been physical transformations along with emotional ones. Unlike before the accident, I have resolved to accept and embrace myself for who I am. Maybe it is because of all of the tears I’ve shed or maybe it’s because of my age, but I can see a year of stress and grief taking its toll on my body. The wrinkles are more pronounced in my face and the shadowing of dark circles under my eyes are a telltale sign of suffering. Not only am I not offended by them, I no longer wear much make up to conceal them. I am a grieving parent. Furthermore, I have packed on a few extra pounds during the process as well. Judge me if you will, but if I want that double-layered chocolate cake dessert after dinner, I’m eating it. Then keep an eye on yours because I might reach for it too. As for my mental state, I look forward to the days of not having to call in refills to treat depression, anxiety and sleeplessness. But it is not that time yet. For now I will allow modern medicine to do its thing.

I want to express my gratitude to those who have walked alongside me in this first-year journey. To all of Dalton’s teachers and friend’s parents who have sent us cards and letters, I greatly appreciate them. I have read them all and cried. Knowing how much you care warms my heart. To my “rock girlfriends” (Shannon, Missy, Lori and Cheryl) I couldn’t have come this far without you four. However, some newer friendships have blossomed around less predictable corners along the way. First, I have to thank my friend Ashlie for the gift of courage. Ashlie gave me hope when I had none. She also taught me that I owed no explanation to anyone if I wanted to wear sweatpants every single day. Ashlie serves as a template for me how to handle a tragedy with grace.

I would also like to credit my friend and hairdresser, Shawn, for building me up over and over. I have walked into the Sami Halaseh Salon several times in the past year about 3 days overdue for a shower and looking like I just rolled out of bed (which is very possible). With those twinkling brown eyes of hers, Shawn would smile and hug me tight. A good hairdresser is more like a life coach in some ways.

I credit my sanity to my friend Traci who text me every single day and asked me, “How was your day today?” I owe her more than I can repay. One of the most desirable traits a friend can have is the ability to be a good listener. Traci has never once tried to fix anything. She simply gives me an outlet for my feelings. I tell her when I’ve had an awesome day, but feel guilty for having fun without DD. She reminds me of all the ways Dalton lived joyously and how he would want that same thing for me. In those fresh months after the accident, I would tell Traci that I didn’t think I could function again as a mother without touching the face of my youngest child and looking into his eyes. It was in those times that Traci would encourage me by forcing me to hold onto the precious 13 years I did get to spend with DD.

Lastly, I want to thank my friend Erica. Erica is authenticity with no inhibition. Brazen and quick-witted, there is nothing pretentious about her. I can tell her anything and know she is going to give me pragmatic advice. She offers me the freedom to be myself and asks nothing in return. For holding my hand through that first long tattoo session and for always ordering my food for me because I’m late, I love you Erica. And before I take my last breath on earth, I will lead you to faith in Christ.

Dalton entered eternal life on a Saturday. Ironically, in some sense, every day is like Saturday to me now. Think about it. Jesus was crucified on a Friday. The tomb was covered with a heavy rock after He was laid to rest. Imagine the agony His followers felt as they waited all day Saturday for the messiah to return. There is little doubt that they grieved the loss of their friend and leader. We talk so much about Friday when Christ was crucified, as well as Sunday when He rose. But little is said about what happened in-between. Saturday was a day of waiting for something great to happen. That is how I wake up every day. Each day I remind myself of the promise Jesus made to you and I. He says He will return and offer eternal life to us all should we accept it. And Jesus always keeps His promises.

DD, momma loves you.