It’s the Sunday following Thanksgiving, and I’ve just finished decorating our Christmas tree with my two eldest children. To my surprise, it’s covered in frogs.
Among the decorations is one with glittering golden wings, its limbs dangling like a marionette. Another sports a tuxedo and clutches a top hat. There’s one crafted from green fabric and a walnut shell, while only one truly resembles a frog. Near the top hangs a cheerful green felt frog with a red heart bearing the name “Noah” stitched in white. This marks our second Christmas tree setup since our son passed away. He was just 20 months old.
Last year, Noah was diagnosed with a swift-moving form of brain cancer and sadly left us on November 12, 2019. During his hospital stay, a friend gifted us with a plush frog named Benny. She explained that frogs can’t hop backward, symbolizing our need to move forward. I longed to erase his diagnosis and return to a time before cancer invaded our lives. I fought the urge to close my eyes and escape, forcing myself to keep my legs, like a frog, pointed ahead.
Our friends and family joined us in this frog-themed journey. We even created a hashtag: #BennysSquad. Each time I returned home from the hospital, I was greeted by a new collection of frogs waiting for me. I would place them around the house or in our yard, or sometimes they would simply remain in a pile as I was too exhausted to sort them out. Friends sent me frog memes and videos of frogs in their yards. They even shared photos of their freshly painted green nails. Despite the overwhelming fear of our hospital reality, these messages provided much-needed comfort during my darkest moments. A simple text with a frog emoji or green heart became a shorthand for conversations I was too drained to have.
Somewhere along the way, I confused the idea of moving forward with maintaining a positive outlook. To simplify updates, I shared news only with a few close family and friends, who then relayed it to others. It was easy to share the good news: when Noah’s white blood cell count rose after chemotherapy, or when we were finally discharged, or when he said “mama” for the first time post-surgery.
However, it was much harder to communicate the frightening moments. The times we thought he might have an infection in his brain, or when he was vomiting blood, or when his heart rate remained above 150 beats per minute for days. I pressured myself to keep these messages light, as if my positivity could somehow cure him. I often prefaced bad news with “at least,” trying to diminish the gravity of our situation. I wanted to make it seem smaller, not because it wasn’t serious, but because I was desperate to minimize it. I thought I was making progress, but I was actually standing still, terrified of what lay ahead. I worried that people would tire of hearing about our struggles and that they would stop reaching out, which meant I needed my frogs to keep coming.
After Noah’s passing, there was no “at least” to soften the agony of losing him. He was our third child, the icing on our cake. I felt lost, unsure of how to move on from this overwhelming sorrow, left with a shattered heart and countless frogs.
I can hardly recall our first Christmas without Noah. Those early days of grief were physically draining, like being pinned beneath an immovable weight. It required all my strength to muster the will to rise and put on a brave face. My husband and I went through the motions of our typical holiday traditions, shopping for two children instead of three. Last year, Noah had been sitting on Santa’s lap. This year, there would be no little one to fill that space. Watching the excitement on my children’s faces just weeks after Noah’s death was a bittersweet experience—comforting yet heart-wrenching.
Because Noah passed so close to the holidays, many people sent us frog-themed ornaments for our tree. They came with messages like, “No words, just love.” Sometimes, silence speaks volumes.
As I opened the red and green storage bins filled with Christmas decorations this year, memories of past holidays flooded my mind. The kids dug out stockings, nativity sets, and Christmas books, exclaiming, “Oh, I remember this!” with each unwrapped item. They reacted as if they were reuniting with old friends.
“Here are Noah’s pajamas,” my son said, handing me a pair of green elf suit pajamas still in their package. I had purchased them before he passed, along with red and white striped sets for his siblings. Noah had been in the hospital since mid-October, and I was trying to prepare for Christmas. I had envisioned capturing a photo of all three kids together for our Christmas card, imagining the joyous chaos of them vying for the chance to hold him. I pictured Noah with his big blue eyes and a smile slightly askew from surgery, basking in the love of his older siblings. I never doubted he would be with us for his second Christmas.
This year, our card will feature a photo of the kids snuggling with Benny the Frog instead. Looking at my tree adorned with frogs, I reflect on how moving forward differs from merely trying to stay positive. Positivity can create a false sense that I can alter outcomes by my attitude, while moving forward means embracing the fact that my next steps may be uncertain or painful, yet I must take them regardless.
My frogs serve as tokens, connecting me with Noah and our support network. They remind us to take one hop forward at a time.
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Summary:
This heartfelt narrative captures the experience of a mother, Jane, decorating her Christmas tree with frog ornaments, a poignant symbol of her late son Noah’s battle with cancer. Through the lens of grief, she reflects on the complexities of moving forward while navigating the challenges of the holiday season without her child. The story highlights the importance of community support, the role of meaningful traditions, and the journey of embracing both sorrow and hope during difficult times.