It’s the Sunday following Thanksgiving, and I’ve just finished decorating our Christmas tree alongside my two older children. It’s now covered in frogs.
One frog sparkles with golden glitter wings, its arms and legs dangling like a puppet. Another wears a tuxedo while holding a top hat, and there’s one crafted from green fabric and a walnut shell. Only one resembles a real frog. Near the top of the tree hangs a cheerful frog made from green felt, featuring a red heart with the name Noah spelled out in white. This marks our second time setting up the tree since we lost our youngest son. He was only 20 months old.
Last year, Noah was diagnosed with an aggressive form of brain cancer and passed away on November 12, 2019. While we were in the hospital, a friend gifted us a plush frog named Freddie. She explained that frogs can’t hop backward, which symbolized our need to move forward. I found myself longing to erase the diagnosis and return to a time when cancer was not part of our lives. I had to fight the urge to close my eyes and escape; I had to twist my legs like a frog to keep moving ahead.
Our friends and family joined us in the frog theme. We even created a hashtag: #Freddie’sFrogSquad. Each time I returned home from the hospital, I’d find a new collection of frogs waiting for me. I would arrange them around the house or in the yard, often too exhausted to do anything else. Friends would send me frog memes and videos or share pictures of their newly painted green nails. Despite the fear I faced in the hospital, these messages lifted my spirits when I felt overwhelmed. A simple frog emoji or a green heart became a shorthand for conversations I was too drained to have.
At some point, I confused the idea of progress with maintaining a positive outlook. To simplify things, I began sending updates to just a few close friends, who then relayed the information to others. It was easier to share good news, like when Noah’s white blood cell count improved after chemotherapy or when he was discharged.
However, sharing the more frightening moments was much tougher. I felt pressure to keep my messages light and optimistic, as if positivity could somehow change the outcome. I often prefaced bad news with “at least,” trying to downplay our situation not because it wasn’t serious, but because I wished it were less daunting. I thought I was moving forward, but in reality, I was stuck, fearful of what lay ahead, worried people would stop checking in if I shared too much.
When Noah passed away, there were no “at least” statements that could ease the pain of losing him. He was our third child, our little joy. I didn’t know how to move forward from such a deep sorrow. I was left with a shattered heart and countless frogs.
I can barely remember our first Christmas without Noah. Those early days of grief were physically taxing, like being trapped beneath something heavy. It took immense effort just to get out of bed and paste 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, Noah sat on Santa’s lap; this year, Santa’s arms were empty. The excitement on my other children’s faces, just weeks after Noah’s death, was both comforting and heart-wrenching to witness.
Because Noah passed so close to the holidays, many people gifted us frog ornaments for our tree, accompanied by notes saying, “No words. Just love.” Sometimes, silence speaks volumes.
This year, as I opened the red and green storage bins filled with Christmas decorations, memories of past holidays flooded back. The kids pulled out stockings, the nativity scene, and holiday storybooks. “Oh, I remember this,” they exclaimed, each time they unwrapped a figurine of Santa or Mary and Joseph. They greeted each item like an old friend.
“Here’s Noah’s pajamas,” my son said, handing me a pair of green elf suit pajamas still in their package. I had purchased them before Noah passed, intending to coordinate a Christmas card photo of the three kids together. I pictured them snuggling with Noah, who would have been the star of the photo. I never doubted he would be with us for another Christmas.
This year’s card features a picture of the kids cuddling Freddie the Frog instead.
As I gaze at my tree adorned with frogs, I reflect on how moving forward differs from merely staying positive. Positivity can create a false sense that my feelings can alter outcomes. Moving forward, however, acknowledges that the next step may not be safe, but it’s a step I must take, even if I’m not happy about it.
My frogs serve as talismans, connecting me with Noah and our army of support. They remind us to take one leap forward at a time.
Search Queries:
- How to cope with grief during the holidays
- Meaning behind frog symbols in grief
- Ways to remember loved ones during Christmas
- How to decorate a Christmas tree in memory of someone
- Emotional support during child loss
Summary:
Ava Thompson shares her poignant journey of decorating a Christmas tree covered in frogs, a symbol of moving forward after the loss of her son Noah to cancer. She reflects on how the frogs represent support from friends and family, and how they help her navigate the complexities of grief during the holiday season. This year, instead of capturing a photo with Noah, the card features his siblings with their comforting plush frog, Freddie. Ava emphasizes that moving forward doesn’t always equate to staying positive but involves taking steps despite the pain.