rain falling gently now

I do not sleep

Freddie said “I love to hear the rain” and I said “I do too.”

To walk through his house again to smell the smell of his house and the redwood trees to visualize him pushing his walker down the hall stopping briefly at the living room door where I slept on the couch to say “Mom I am sorry about the things I said last night.” and I would answer “I am sorry as well for my behavior. I love you.” and he would go into the kitchen to make his breakfast or take his medicine.

To see him feed his worms; work in his tomato pots on the gorgeous deck, in the sun; eat watermelon with his friend, Ron, who came for an hour each Wednesday. He did not have many visitors dropping by because of his illness.

I wish I had not said “Stop playing with your phone and try to sleep”

The phone was his connection to the world; I should have known because it was my connection to the world as well, then as now. Oh, that hind sight could be zero and present sight could be 20/20.

to hear him call me during the night “Mom, I am going to be sick”

to hold the basin and clean it after he vomited

to pull up the syringes for him even though I simple could not bring myself to give him the shot, rescue shot, in the abdomen. I wish I could have but it hurt me to much to think about it. My fear of hurting him. He hated giving himself the shop but he needed it to live.

i could have learned on an orange.

I must tell all the stories before I forget.  I have to write my way through this if I am going to live.

Sunday Again

Today I sat in Freddie’s room and played the story of Dan Baker, Twin Lakes Church, Santa Cruz pastor, for him but of course he already knows. I did not therefore, I would suppose it was for me.

Today I wondered many things:

Are you tired, God? I am.

What is right? I have so many things wrong with me maybe you goofed up when you sent me down here.

When does the pain go away? Never? Yes never, you say.

What did I do that was so bad that Freddie had to suffer? Why not me?

Could you just punch my card now? I have so much to write, to throw away that I am overwhelmed and I know that when you die so many things are left undone that is why I subtitled my blog Bits and Pieces of Life.

Today I have been dealing with those bits and pieces.

Silence cloaks the room

with silver gossamer thoughts

Telling earth and sky

You walk not the earth

You walk the sky.

Belated thank you to many

First: I do not know the names of all who gave to Fred’s Go Fund Me for a total organ transplant.

Thank you, thank you. Fred would “tear up” each time he saw a donation and the donor. He knew that you had not forgotten him.

Second: I called The Space and Rocket Center this afternoon to request the names of those who gave to the Frederick Joseph Bourgeois,III Memorial Scholarship Fund. They had not sent this info to me.

The scholarship is for one middle school student each year to attend Space Camp during the 4th of July week, his birthday week. Therefore, my thank you cards to these donors are delayed.

My only excuse is that this has been a stressful year, with my being away from home for 5 months, caring for my older sister, and her husband who died June 29. My sister was in the hospital two times.

These thank you cards will be forthcoming.

Third: For those who gave to the Go Fund Me, I do not expect you to keep giving.

It would be awesome if this might become something that became a cause for one or many of his different group of friends to do, i.e. $2.00 this year in December that would represent that he has been In the Stars for two years.

Of course, this is just a thought from a mom who would like to keep his memory forever alive.

No donation is necessary for his memory to be alive. I know that you, his friends will not forget him.

Thank you.

Freddie’s Mom

Below is the original letter.

Hi All,

It is my wish that you are well and having a great spring/summer!

I spent a lot of time trying to decide how/what I could do to memorialize Freddie in the space community. Finally, I made a decision. I hope you think it was a good one.

Here is a link to the Memorial Scholarship in Freddie’s name at the Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, AL.


Freddie loved going to this special place and I have funded this Scholarship for 5 years for at least one child to attend each year.

Each year a child in Middle School, who needs the money for tuition, will be able to apply for and receive the money to attend Space Camp for a week during the July 4th time…Freddie’s birthday being July 4.

The child may be any color, from any country and any gender. The only criteria requested that they display an entrepreneurial spirit and other characteristics that Freddie had during his lifetime.

Thank you if you can give even a small amount. A child will appreciate your kindness and will learn the value of going to space as a realistic dream and hope for the future of mankind…one that Freddie believed was possible.

Thank you,

Linda Bourgeois, Ph.D.

Two Stools; Two States

Every night in my head, I write. The next morning, I have forgotten. I do not want to forget the memories I have of my son. 

I see the black colorful stool in the kitchen. I see him sitting there, one foot on the rung, one on the floor. He has on his brown leather jacket watching me walk into the kitchen. He looks at me so sad; I wondered why but did not ask him. I was always afraid to ask. Perhaps he was waiting for me to ask. I will never know.

Switch to CA and he is sitting on the stool in his kitchen with all his medicine in front of him, hating to give himself that shot that helped to keep the cancer at bay. He looks at me sadly. I wish I could have had his courage and given it to him. Why did I not ask to try? He could have talked me through it.

Two stools; two houses so far apart. Why did I not go more often? He was right when he told his wife that we did not come because of her. I never felt wanted and did not want to intrude.

I never saw his christmas trees; his birthday celebrations; his easter celebrations. We never went to church while I wa their the last six months of his ife. He was to sick to go.He loved music but we never played any music. We watched television at night. Sometimes he would ask: “Mom, will you watch television with me?” and I did until I could not hold my eyes open any longer. Had I known how close to death he was; had I known that he was probably afraid; I would have stayed awake for the entire six months. I did not.

I could not remember the stories to tell him. My memory had not fully retured and the only prayer I could remember was:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take.


Did I ever pray this prayer with him which I had taught him as a child? No, I would go to bed on the couch in the living room and cry, so afraid he was dying yet hoping he could be saved. Always that hope that tomorrow would bring that cure for him; that miracle.

I see him everywhere. I hear his voice in my head. He talks to me or my brain thinks he is talking to me. Every cardinal is him; every feather; every raindrop.

I ask him where I should live. I promised to move back to that little green house where I could walk down and sit on my tombstone bench and read to him and my parents.

Two steps forward; one step back. Two stools; two houses; two thousand thoughts pushing, shoving, sometimes snarling at each other…

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Webs we weave

Spiders weave their webs overnight and if they are lucky, folk like me will not walk through them. Not that I would on purpose , however in the early morning walk down the drive to get the daily paper, I sometimes do not see them. I feel myself being wrapped in gossamer, silver threads and know that I unintentionally destroyed a work of art.

Sometimes, when they are left to weave huge webs, they write messages for us to decipher. My mother would study these webs and now I do.

Speaking of webs we weave, life seems to be carved into webs; some broken into loose fragments; some sturdy and strong. Webs are strange filaments that many times break the silver thread connecting us to those we love and those we lost.

Dust to Dust

Open the black velvet box

Nothing but ashes


Open the silver locket

A few ashes, nothing else

Look into the open grave

The black velvet covered box

Inside the vault

Nothing but ashes

I wonder which part

Of my son

I have within the silver locket

God can put all the pieces back, right?