It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and I’ve just finished adorning our Christmas tree with my two older kids—it’s now decorated with frogs. One frog sparkles with golden glitter wings, its limbs dangling like a puppet’s. Another sports a tuxedo and holds a top hat, while a third is crafted from green fabric and a walnut shell. Only one resembles a typical frog. High up on the tree hangs a cheerful green felt frog with a red heart displaying the name “Liam” in white letters. This marks the second year we’ve set up the tree since we lost our son. He was just 20 months old.
Last year, Liam was diagnosed with a severe form of brain cancer, passing away on November 12, 2019. During his hospital stay, a friend gifted us a plush frog named Freddy. She shared that frogs can only hop forward, symbolizing our need to do the same. I wished to erase his diagnosis and go back to a time when cancer wasn’t part of our lives. I fought the urge to close my eyes and escape, instead contorting my limbs like a frog to keep facing forward.
Our friends and family embraced the theme, becoming part of “#FreddysArmy.” Each time I returned home from the hospital, I’d find new frogs waiting for me—some displayed around the house, others piled up, too exhausted to figure out what to do. Friends shared frog memes and videos, along with pictures of their freshly painted green nails. These messages lifted my spirits when I felt utterly alone. A simple text with a frog emoji or a green heart became a shorthand for the overwhelming conversations I couldn’t have.
Somewhere along this journey, I confused the notion of moving forward with maintaining a positive attitude. To streamline updates, I shared news with a few close family members, who then relayed information to others. It was easy to share the good news, like when his white blood cell count improved after chemotherapy or when we were discharged from the hospital.
However, discussing the scary moments proved more difficult. I often downplayed the gravity of our situation, using “at least” to qualify bad news. I wanted to minimize it not because it wasn’t serious, but because I wanted it to feel smaller. I thought I was progressing, but I was actually stuck in fear, worried that sharing our struggles would cause people to check out. I needed the frogs to keep coming.
When Liam passed away, there were no “at least” phrases that could dull the pain of losing him. He was our third child, the sweetest addition to our family. I didn’t know how to move forward from this heart-wrenching place. All I was left with was a shattered heart and a multitude of frogs.
I barely remember our first Christmas without Liam. Those early days of grief were utterly draining. I felt like I was trapped beneath an immovable weight, needing to slide and roll my way to my feet. It took all my energy to rise and paint on a smile. My husband and I went through the motions of our usual holiday traditions. I shopped for two kids instead of three; last year, Liam had sat on Santa’s lap, but this year, Santa’s arms were empty. The excitement on my other children’s faces was both comforting and heart-wrenching to witness.
Because Liam passed away so close to the holiday, many people sent us frog ornaments for our tree, accompanied by messages like, “No words, just love.” Sometimes, silence speaks louder than words.
As I opened the red and green storage bins filled with our Christmas decorations this year, memories flooded back. The kids pulled out stockings, nativity figurines, and holiday books, exclaiming, “Oh, I remember this!” They unwrapped Santa and Mary and Joseph like they were reuniting with old friends.
“Here’s Liam’s pajamas,” my daughter said, handing me a pair of green elf suit pajamas still in their packaging. I had bought them before Liam passed, along with red and white striped sets for his siblings. I had planned ahead for Christmas when we were all home, imagining a perfect photo of the three kids with Liam nestled in their laps, vying for the chance to hold him. I had never doubted he would see his second Christmas.
This year, our holiday card features the kids snuggling with Freddy the Frog instead.
As I gaze at my frog-laden tree, I realize that moving forward is not synonymous with staying positive. Positivity can create a false sense of control over outcomes, while moving forward means accepting the uncertainty of each step, even if it doesn’t come with joy.
My frogs are cherished reminders, connecting me to Liam and our support network, encouraging us to take one hop forward at a time. For more insights on navigating the journey of home insemination and pregnancy, check out this article on home insemination.
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In summary, this heartfelt reflection illustrates the journey of grief and healing through the lens of holiday traditions. It captures the importance of remembrance and the support of community while navigating the complexities of moving forward after loss.
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