It Stings

 It stings. I couldn't put my finger on it for the longest time. Why did the sun hurt so badly? I wasn't sure why the change of seasons weighed so heavily on my heart. I think maybe I've discovered at least part of the reason that the tears sit so close to the surface these days. It came to me when I put my face to the sun. I needed it, just like every other Midwesterner after a loooonnngg, unbearable February. But like everything else in my life now, it stung a little. 

I remember when I was about 11 or 12 years old and I was taking a walk in my very small, sleepy town. I was alone and it was the first truly beautiful day after a long, cold winter. I was so happy, so "filled" in that moment that I thought, "this is the height of happiness. This feeling right here is what it's all about. I needed this sun so badly and I didn't even know how much until it had gone." I felt a very similar feeling every time Christmas would roll around. I had the magical childhood Christmas experience described in books. I also felt the minor let down of that first season after I'd discovered the "truth" and I wondered if I'd ever feel that same Christmas joy again. It stung a little. But then my own children came and that feeling was bigger than I could ever imagine. No Christmas morning or first day of spring all rolled into one could have captured what it felt like to be a mother. Of course I experienced the moments that I thought were tough in my early years of motherhood, but ultimately, I'd found my calling. My children were my reason. Life made sense. 

And then I held him as he drew his last breath. In that moment I was a lifetime away from the young girl with her face to the sun. I was light-years beyond the mother of excited toddlers running toward the magic of Christmas. That was the moment I left my old body and entered one completely foreign to me. This new body didn't hold the same memories. It didn't FEEL with the same enthusiasm the old one had. It was like shrugging on a coat that wasn't mine, but that I was never allowed to take off again. This "coat" couldn't conjure up the feelings of blissful nostalgia I'd once known. Instead it hung heavily, unforgiving and immeasurably unkind. I didn't want it, but it's what I was given. It took so long to learn how to feel anything but pain beneath weight of that coat. It was a painstakingly long time before I realized that joy could exist there. Not in its entirety, or in the form I'd once known it, but it was there nonetheless. It was just sunshine that stung a little. Christmas magic that burned a bit. 

So that's where my love for those things has gone. It's still there. I still long for the green that shoots up out of the ground in March and I absolutely lift my face to the sun once again. But I must also allow for the sting. I have to heed the weight of the unwanted coat. I don't get to decide that it no longer exists. And as many grievers know, in a way, I don't want it to ever leave. But in those first few moments of sun, that first sign of Christmas magic, that sting that I can often so expertly hide, is the only thing I feel. It's like my broken momma heart feels I OWE her this pain. I must acknowledge her existence, even in the sun, maybe especially in the sun. 

I don't know if this is a feeling that grows smaller with each passing decade. So far it's still strong enough to pull me to my knees. However, you'll likely find me smiling or going about my work while pulling that unwanted coat a little tighter around my shoulders. So if you see me with my face to the sky, believe that I too am grateful for the sun, while I'm also feeling the sting. 

Empty Chair Graduate

 There were no invites. There has been no scolding regarding the 8th grade cap and gown that you need to hang up to avoid wrinkles. There was no last minute trip for a dress shirt that fits. We won't dress up and cram our exceptionally large family into an uncomfortable pew. There will be no moving of a tassel from right to left. 

But there will be an empty chair. 

They'll display your chair. It's a chair for a toddler who never got to require something bigger to hold him. Your big brother's bookbag will sit in it signifying something I needed to see. Signifying what, I don't know. Why does it need to be there? I honestly don't know. It just does. I need for the emptiness to be acknowledged, even when I won't be there to see it. You won't be there. I won't be there. But it will be, and that will have to be enough. 

The familiar burn in my chest has been there in all its cruelty and comfort. It's you. My connection to you. I hate it and need it. It takes my breath and gives you life. I can walk and talk and even smile through it. But it's there. It's heavy and makes everything slow. I remember the first time I had to don a lead apron again at work after you'd gone. I thought "that's it. This is exactly the heaviness I feel when grief is loud." But I can't take this heaviness off and hang it back up. I just keep carrying it, through work, through talking, through smiling. Can others not see it? I can't believe they can't see something that causes so much pressure, but they can't. If they could see it they'd ask why I was carrying such weight. They'd want to know why I didn't just lay it down. You and I know that can't be done. It must be carried. It cannot be ignored by the wearer. At some point it will be acknowledged and given credit for its immense weight. 

I spent an incredible amount of time today wondering what favorite restaurant you would have chosen as your 8th grade graduation meal tonight? I laughed when your big brother had his choice of anyplace he wanted and we all huddled around tall tables at Jimmy John's. I'm almost certain we'd have a main dish of ice cream tonight if you were to decide. Maybe if grief allows me to eat later, I will make that my dinner. 

That chair. Instead of registering you for high school with your classmates, I sent a message requesting that one of the freshman teachers please allow me to set your chair in their room for the year. That's not how this was supposed to go. I wasn't supposed to feel so heavy, to be walking through air that feels like deep water. I'm not supposed to be lying next to your garden, listening to my coveted "pain playlist" and writing to you in this way. That chair shouldn't exist. A smelly, curly-headed, goofy boy should be in its place. What I wouldn't give to see that boy/young man today. 

I can't watch them walk down that aisle. I can't listen to their names being read from a podium. I can't sit there and know that I won't see your face in that sea of classmates you never met. There will be no Mom. There will be no sisters and no brother. No grandpa and grandma. No aunts, uncles or cousins...

But, there will be a chair. 

There Will Be People

 A letter to my 2012 self,

I know that everything is upside down today. I know that there is a deafening static in your ears as the realization of what you're experiencing washes over you. Right now, and for the next year, you'll be in the tunnel. You'll have no idea what you're supposed to do with yourself in the coming days. People will ask why you're out and you won't know how to answer. The static stays. And it stays loud. It drowns out any rational thought. 

This past week has been a veritable Hell for you. You were alone in that room when the unknown doctor came in and confirmed what you'd known in your heart for quite some time. He stayed for awhile but you didn't hear him once the first sentence left his lips. The static replaced his voice. 

You made an impossible decision. You told your babies and they hit you and screamed at you to fix it and give them their brother back. You just took it. You let them pelt you with their little fists and their big feelings and you held them closer, almost as if you could keep them from breaking through sheer will and love. 

You held him. You sang to him. You cradled him in your arms for the rest of his life. 

Right now it seems that everything from breathing to walking is impossible. It feels like they forgot to pronounce you gone at the exact same time. It's impossible to even begin to imagine any kind of "life" after this...

But...there will be people.

On that first day home, your neighbors, who are also grieving parents, will carry you into your house. 

For the first few months a tribe of women will gather over and over again, despite having their own lives, to sit with you to let you scream in pain. 

One of those women will literally pick you up out of the snow. And she's still holding on, 11 years after this day. 

People will honor his life with kindness and love for others. Hundreds of people. 

Your closest people will listen to the pain. They'll hear the stories of these final days and they won't back away. But instead, sit with you in your brokenness. 

A friend, and fellow broken mother, will be a lifeline on more days than I can count. 

Every year at this time, your "people" will see your fragility. They'll handle you with care and love you in the most beautiful ways. 

At some point you'll take breaths that don't crush your soul. You'll reach for others who have experienced this pain and you'll hold onto them as much as they do to you. 

You'll still want to leave this world. And you'll explain that you only mean to see him, to be his mother, to want what all mothers want. And sometimes that desire will wash over you with a force that you're sure you can't withstand...

But...there will be people.

Your babies who once pounded your chest in pain, will grow and thrive and look at you with different eyes. 

Friends will gather to bring you meals, and a clean home so that all you have to do is to remember and to grieve. 

The static will soften and be replaced with a different sound. It will be the voices of those who continue to love you despite your brokenness. You are surrounded with such an overabundance of love that it will almost fill those cracks made in your heart so many years ago. Almost. You still get the odd comfort of your grief. You will remain broken and some days, shattered. But you'll breathe again. You'll even smile. And all because...

There will be people. 

Fragile

 Today was a "fragile" day. I call it that because that's how I feel. I don't really know exactly how to describe the extent to which my fragility affects me. It's said time and time again that grief comes back again and again like a "tidal wave". And while that's true, that isn't the only thing that happens. 

I'm always surprised at how blind-sided I am by this tsunami of grief that washes over me. It feels like, that at this point, I shouldn't be so caught off guard. But I am. Every damn time. This is a rough time of year, which may seem obvious given upcoming holidays, but this season is particularly tough for me in relationship to my timeline of loss. The thing is, I "know" that, in my brain. I could tell you that if you asked. However, it still somehow sneaks up on me. And my body knows first. Every time, my body feels the pain, the anguish, the weight of grief before I'm consciously aware. 

Today I woke up and my son was dead. I actually panicked. My chest burned like it was on fire as the bastard that is PTSD coursed through every inch of my body. I don't just "remember" the pain, the fear, the guilt. I'm actually THERE. I'm transported back to the smell of the hospital room. I'm being asked to make that same decision again. I feel the immense guilt and searing pain of signing on that line. My arms are actually heavier. My lungs unable to take on air in the way I could just moments ago. At one point I was pretty sure that if someone even accidentally brushed up against me that I'd crumble to the ground. I felt as if my skin was not enough to keep me from going everywhere at once. Fragile. I feel fragile. 

Grief Apple

 Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night, and my son is dead. That's the best description I can give for being slapped with reality in these moments. It's odd to me that after years of grief and very much "knowing" this fact, that it would continue to hit me SO hard at times. 

It's mentioned frequently that grief is like a tidal wave when it hits out of nowhere. I can't believe the accuracy with which that describes the absolute blast of reality I experience. There is no special date or anything right now, and I've found throughout my grief life that these waves can be even more damning when the latter is true. A random Tuesday will hold so much pain and so much reality that your chest is crushed with the weight of it. Sometimes I'll be seemingly oblivious to anything but mundane tasks and I'll reach for an apple in the produce aisle of the grocery store and that sneaky bastard, Grief, will deliver a blow so devastating that I simply have to abandon that grief apple, as well as my cart and walk out of the store. 

He isn't here. He isn't physically ever going to be here again. He won't see his siblings graduate, begin their careers, maybe marry and have children. That's real and right now it's so raw. My babies feel it too. I've seen it in them. Two of them recently left for college and the reality of who  isn't here has hit, at times, with a new vengeance. I wish I could take their pain. But I also know that it is my grief, my pain, that connects me to that boy sometimes. It's the thing people can see. They can't see him, but they can look into our eyes and recognize that he was here, that he IS here. The dichotomy of raging against that grief while also pulling it close and holding onto it for dear life is something I couldn't have imagined if I'd tried. 

As I get older, maybe wiser, certainly more grateful for the gifts in my life, I recognize that my grief has shaped this skin I'm in. It has tormented and twisted me inside and out. It has found me on a couch at 2am, listening to the sobs of my now teenager as he/she laments the loss. Grief has added lines and scars. It has shoved me to the depths of human despair, and has also raised me to a height I would have never known possible. I often don't know what to do with the absolute tsunami of grief I sometimes experience. All I know, is that sometimes, in the quietest dark, I wake suddenly and realize in the screaming silence that my son is dead.  

MIZ...I'll see you

 I don't fit again. The loss of a child changes so many things about the way you used to fit into society. When that piece of you dies with them, and a new you fights for life again, the end result is a person who no longer recognizes the you that you left behind. 

Confused? Me too. My oldest two children are leaving for college on Wednesday.  We've been packing and planning for a couple of months now, but official move in day is in less than a week. I've talked to each of them separately about how I'll miss them, and that I'd love it if they'd send me a text every once in awhile. But there are no tears. There is no longing. I'm not sad that they're in this place in their lives. In fact, if anything, I'm really excited. 

I know I've talked about this particular sentiment before in that I've mentioned that I don't have typical "mom" feelings anymore. That's probably to be expected. But there is a sense of guilt, or almost like I need to hide how I'm feeling because it doesn't meet the social norm. And that's why I chose to write today. As always, I write to process difficult emotions. I write to heal. And I needed to see, in writing, that what I'm feeling is ok. Maybe someone else needs to see that, too? 

I don't begrudge you your feelings about your children leaving for college, or starting kindergarten for the first time. I don't hate your posts about your worries and fears as they make their way into the world outside of you. I guess what I need, is for my feelings to be ok, too. I need for it to be ok that when I DO read the posts lamenting college drop off, that it's ok that I don't feel that. I need for it to be acceptable that because I don't feel that, I hurt a little inside. 

Once, early in my grief, I tried explaining to a worried coworker why I mentioned wanting to die in such a nonchalant manner. It wasn't that I wanted to take my own life. I just wanted college drop off day, like everyone else does. Why do you drop your kids off? Because you want to see their new home. You want to meet some of the people with whom they'll now be spending their time. You want to make sure they're comfortable in their new surroundings. That's all I want as well. But, for me, in order to do that, I'd have to go to heaven, right? I can't see his "room". I can't see his "friends". I just wanted what we all want. 

I'm so proud of the two young adults I'm "dropping off" next week. I only take so much credit for them, but I believe they're pretty good humans, and that was always the goal. They're kind and compassionate. They're accepting and loving. And they're both going to love this next adventure. So though I'm not at all sad, and I likely won't have any tears for them, what I will have is an overabundance of gratitude for getting to witness this day. I may not have a map to heaven, but I can sure as hell get to Columbia...go be awesome, my babies! 

Grief Gratitude

 I haven't talked about grief in awhile, and there's a reason for that I suppose. It's just always there. It shifts and changes. It teaches and torments. It causes darkness and provides clarity. But one thing remains steadfast through all the changes, and that is simply that it never leaves. 

When I used to think about a lifetime of grief, it made me nauseous. I would physically react to the thought of carrying the weight of this burden for the rest of my life. However, in true "what-the-hell-is-grief-gonna-do-next" fashion, that thought has shifted once again. 

Christmas felt different this year. It's felt different every year since Easton died, of course, but this year's differences struck me as more unexpected than normal. This year I noticed my gratitude for Christmastime was greater than even before our loss. The family time and togetherness I was able to experience felt deeper and richer than I've previously felt. And that's not to say that I didn't appreciate Christmas when my earthly family was whole. I did. I just didn't understand fully, exactly how gracious I could be for that specific time. 

Christmas used to be my favorite time of year. I, like many, would get swept away by the magical feeling it brings. I loved decorating. I loved buying the perfect gift. I loved the family time. And I THOUGHT I knew what it meant to be grateful for that. But I didn't. Even though I knew in my head that not everyone enjoys the holidays, that some experience depression, and that some people don't have loved ones around, I didn't ACTUALLY KNOW the depths of that pain. You can know something, and not KNOW it. If grief has taught me nothing else, it has taught me that! Although I could articulate that I was grateful for family and friends, somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious I felt OWED those things. Almost like it was whispering "well sure I'm grateful, but of course I have a happy, healthy family. Of course I have a loving partner and kids opening presents." That sounds ridiculous even as I write it, but ultimately it's true. So, after Easton died, I mourned many things, obviously. One thing I was really PISSED about was that grief had taken my love for Christmas. I couldn't breathe on what used to be my favorite holiday. I resented family members who could still enjoy moments of Christmas. It opened an already bleeding wound that I was sure would never heal. My grief, my pain, my agony, showed up in sheer anger. And I've felt this way for MANY years. 

The past few years, while anger has certainly been my companion at Christmastime, it has softened, slowly. The addition of two children whose Christmas experiences needed to be good ones, certainly softened some edges. My best friend being a professional gift giver and lover of making a big deal out of birthdays and holidays was a huge part of my ability to sort of hold pressure on that wound, at least long enough to mimick her process. The past couple of years, I've overbought for my children. And it isn't because I think they need THINGS. It's because I was trying to heal a portion of myself I assumed had long since died. Despite the fact that my children are older, I still choose wrapping paper they've never seen. I hide their gifts from them, and I put them out the night before Christmas after they've gone to bed. They humor me now, as a way of honoring both my grief, as well as their own. Even if they don't realize that's what they're doing, it most certainly is a part of the healing process. 

This year, I not only looked forward to Christmas, I sat and listened to my now teenage grievers and asked them what THEY would like to see happen in relationship to their brother on Christmas. It was healing and eye opening, and only this year have I been in a place to even ask the question, let alone honor the answer I was given. And I make no apologies for that. I have done exactly all that I could in order to keep breathing each day of the past 10+ years. I'm so grateful for each agonizing step we've taken that has gotten us to this place. I've spent this year having HARD conversations about grief with my children. They've shared their current pain as well as their childhood pain that I wasn't able to hear about when they were young. I'm in a place now in my grief life that I can hold some of that for them. I can let them know that I realize they lost their mother for awhile, and that although I couldn't have done it any differently, that I'm sorry for the intense pain and fear that caused them. I'm able to do the same for my husband. We left one other while grieving. We had to. Not physically, but emotionally, and that's certainly worse in my book. We couldn't be what the other needed at that time. And so we're using our combined knowledge of our own specific grief to carry one another through this particular part of the journey. That's not to say that it won't shift again someday. We aren't naive enough to believe we have learned all things "grief". 

I guess this rambling is simply meant to highlight my gratitude for my grief journey. Would I prefer ignorance and having my son here doing all the preteen things that make a mother crazy? Sure. But that wasn't our soul plan. That wasn't what was mapped out for us. So, I'll take our mutual agreement to learn grief, longing, sacrifice, and gratitude, and I'll see things differently than I would have had I never known the honor of being his mother. ❤️💛💙