It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and I’ve just finished decorating our Christmas tree with my two older children. The outcome? A tree covered in frogs.
There’s one with glittering golden wings, its arms and legs dangling like a puppet. Another sports a tuxedo and holds a tiny top hat. There’s even a frog crafted from green fabric and a walnut shell. Only one of them actually resembles a frog. Near the top of the tree hangs a cheerful green-felt frog with a red heart that has the name Oliver spelled out in white letters. This is our second year setting up the tree since we lost our son. He was just 20 months old.
Last year, Oliver was diagnosed with a severe form of brain cancer and passed away on November 12, 2020. During his hospital stay, a friend gifted us a plush frog named Chatty. This friend explained that frogs can’t hop backward, symbolizing that we must only move forward from here. I often wished I could erase his diagnosis and go back to a time when cancer didn’t exist in our lives. I had to fight the urge to close my eyes and flee from the reality we faced. I found myself contorting my legs like a frog to keep them pointed ahead.
Our friends and family rallied around us, becoming frogs in their own right. We even created a hashtag: #FrogsUnited. Every time I returned home from the hospital, I found new frogs waiting for me. I would arrange them around the house or in the yard, too exhausted to deal with them properly. Friends sent me frog memes and videos, sharing pictures of their newly painted green nails. Even when I felt overwhelmed in the hospital, these messages offered me the support I desperately needed. A text with a simple frog emoji or green heart became a shorthand for the conversations I couldn’t bear to have.
At some point, I confused the idea of moving forward with maintaining a positive outlook. To keep things simple, I shared updates with a select few family members, who then relayed the information to others. It was easy to communicate the good news, like when Oliver’s white blood cell count improved after chemotherapy or when we were finally discharged.
However, sharing the scary moments was much harder. I felt pressure to keep my messages light, as if positivity alone could cure him. I often prefaced bad news with “at least.” I wanted to downplay our challenges not because they weren’t serious, but because I wanted them to feel smaller. I thought I was making progress, but in reality, I was standing still, terrified of what lay ahead. I worried that if I shared too much pain, people would stop checking in, and I needed my frogs to keep coming.
When Oliver passed away, there was no “at least” that could soften the blow of losing him. He was our third child, our little miracle. I struggled with how to move forward from such profound sadness. I was left with a shattered heart and countless frogs.
I barely recall our first Christmas without Oliver. Those early days of grief were physically draining. I felt as if I were trapped under an immovable object, struggling to roll and slide my way back to my feet. It took every ounce of strength to get out of bed and force a smile. My husband and I went through the motions of our holiday traditions, shopping for two kids instead of three. Last year, Oliver had been nestled in Santa’s lap; this year, Santa’s arms were empty. Watching my other children’s excitement just weeks after our loss was both heartwarming and heartbreaking.
Many people sent us frog ornaments for our tree, accompanied by messages like, “No words. Just love.” Sometimes, silence speaks volumes.
As I opened the red and green storage bins containing our Christmas decorations this year, memories of past holidays flooded back. The kids pulled out stockings, the nativity scene, and Christmas books. “Oh, I remember this,” they exclaimed, each time unwrapping familiar items. They treated them like old friends.
“Here are Oliver’s pajamas,” my son said, handing me a pair of green elf suit pajamas still in the package. I had bought them before Oliver’s diagnosis, planning for a picture-perfect Christmas card with all three kids. I envisioned them together, careful not to disturb his medical port line, fighting over who would hold him. I had never doubted he would celebrate his second Christmas with us.
This year, our card features a photo of the kids cuddling with Chatty the Frog instead.
Looking at my frog-covered tree, I realize that moving forward is distinct from merely staying positive. Positivity can create a false belief that my feelings can change outcomes. Moving forward means accepting that my next leap may not be safe, yet I must take it regardless of my emotions.
My frogs serve as talismans, a way to connect with Oliver and our supportive community, reminding me to take one hop forward at a time.
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Summary:
In a heartfelt reflection on Christmas after losing her son, Sarah Thompson recounts how her family decorates their Christmas tree with frogs, symbolizing hope and moving forward through grief. She shares the emotional difficulties of navigating holiday traditions without her son and the support they received from friends and family. The frogs serve as reminders to take each step forward, even through pain.
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