There Will Be Another

 I've been reminded lately about those first few days, weeks, months after E died. So many of the moments surrounding the death of your child become the images that play over and over again in your mind. At first, they play on a loop, so frequently that you're not sure you have other thoughts. It's like they become as commonplace as your breath, as your heartbeat. And you despise those thoughts as much as the function of your body that kept going when he didn't. 

Others can conceive of the next steps following a child's death, or at least they believe they can. There are funeral arrangements, conversations with your other children, and paperwork that you couldn't read if you tried. But that isn't the part that's been playing in my brain lately. It's the IMMEDIATE moment after that last breath, that last heartbeat that plays on repeat. Because what is that moment? What is to be done right after? You just cradled your child on your lap, set aside your own searing pain, and told him out loud that it is ok to let go. So what's next? You get up off the bed? Do your legs work? Why would they work? HOW would they work? Do you eat? Will food ever go down again? Do you just pick up your purse and walk out?

I still don't remember going down, don't remember what it felt like to hit the pavement. I just know that when I opened my eyes, that's where I was. Also, I could hear screaming. It was a sound so deafening I wanted to also call it silence. When I tried to make out its origin, I realized that it was coming out of me. The guttural, foreign sound wasn't foreign at all. It was mine. My voice. My pain. I know that my sister and my brother-in-law helped me into the car so that we could make the 2-hour drive home. I'd made that trip so many times before, but this time I would both ignore the landscape outside my window and etch it in my mind forever. My chest would burn with aching loss, and my thoughts raced as I tried to make sense of what would come next. What would I do with his toothbrush? Would I keep it? Would his room remember the little boy who just a short month ago had crawled along its carpeted floor and emptied its dresser drawers with the destructive expertise that only a toddler can muster?  Would it be expecting him to come back? Was I expecting that, too? 

I remember the people who showed up, the people who stayed. I remember the ones who would still look me in the eye and the ones who no longer looked at me like I was human. There was a tribe of women who gathered around me, and let me scream and cry and lose myself more and more. They came under the guise of sisterhood, but what they were doing was keeping me from ending my life. And at times, that was certainly warranted. It's not that I WANTED that. I just didn't know how a body and soul so utterly broken were supposed to go on living. I couldn't comprehend it. That's when those who had gone before me entered the chat. Those mothers whose brokenness had left them screaming and burning with their own pain were turning back to hold out their hands to the one who'd just fallen on the pavement. Held their hands out to me. How were they doing that? Were they breathing again? Did their hearts beat like they once had? Would I breathe one day, too? 

While I couldn't conceive of such a possibility at the time, I've come to learn that when the light does start entering again, it fills in the cracks. Nothing is solid or whole, but it is filled with something more, something bigger. And there are times I think of him and only smile. There are times that I'm so unbelievably grateful for the experiences we shared because it allows me to do my own turning back and reaching. It's my hand that's able to reach across the abyss now. It's me who's breathing in without the burn. And instead of being surprised by the ache in my own voice, I hear myself telling the next broken mother there is a next step. And though you can't see it, there is a next breath. It may not be today, or tomorrow, or next year, but it's out there. Maybe we'll take that next step together. Maybe we'll trade who does the leading and who does the following. But if we allow for the belief in that one next breath, there will be another...

I'll Take It

 When my E left the world, I assumed that I'd never again have a fully joyous moment in my life. And I didn't feel that with a sense of pity for myself, but as more of a fact about my new existence. I would think about the day that my other children would reach milestones like graduations, weddings, and worst of all....grandchildren. I love kids, but the thought of the amount of potential loss that grandchildren could bring was too much for my grieving heart to handle. I just "knew" that each of those milestones, although happy occasions, would always be tainted with pain, with the ever-present "someone is missing."

I've absolutely felt his absence in times of joy. It still amazes me that my boy, who never got the privilege of growing up, could leave such an enormous hole. That little 2-year-old leaves a gaping adult-sized wound in places I didn't know possible. However, what I have noticed in the last two years or so is that while I notice his absence, I'm also able to recognize joy in moments I might have missed had I not had the experience of loving that kid. One such moment was my adult son calling my husband and me on the phone while we were driving a long distance. He shared with us that he was happy. "So happy with my life right now", he'd said. He described his job, his new proximity to the woman he loves, and the friends he'd made at work. He talked about playing pick-up basketball games and rounds of golf with new and old friends.  In that moment, I felt this warmth all through me. I felt the excitement of a child on Christmas morning. Nothing was missing. Nothing in my chest felt heavy. I could feel warm tears stinging at the brim of my eyelids and threatening to spill over. Not one of those tears that fell was carrying pain. After that moment, I started noticing more "moments." I could experience that "Christmas morning joy" sitting alone in my backyard as the sun was going down and shining on my blooming flowers. I could feel it when my oldest daughter described her walk to work as she studied abroad and took in new cultures, new friends, and new adventures. The joy came again when our college freshman passed her EMT certification exam. And another time when our twins secured spaces in an incredibly promising high school course for which they'd applied. One of my very favorite pastimes is listening to them giving each other hell and laughing so hard they can't breathe. It's the best sound in the world. 

Of course, those first few times would allow for brief seconds of guilt associated with being joyful as somehow "forgetting" him. What I've learned since then is that I take him with me during these times of joy. When I'm able to do that, I get to have all of my kids at once. It's not in the way I wanted to experience them, but it's something. 

And let me tell you something about adult kids...they can be super cool :) First of all, they can wipe their own asses. Big plus. But also, adult kids who can drink with you kind of rock. Kids who pay their own bills? Hellllllll yes! I get such a kick out of watching them "adult". The gift of E is that I don't take credit for any of my children's successes, so I'm sure as hell not taking the blame :). What I mean is, I don't NEED for my children to be anything other than exactly what and who they are. I'm genuinely content getting to watch them simply reach their next birthday. The rest is details. I get to watch them learn, to love, and to share their compassionate hearts with the world. I've learned so much from each of my children. They each offer unique perspectives and opinions. Some are more opinionated than others, and I'm here for it! ;) All of my kiddos have some crazy, dark humor because we have SEEN SOME SHIT. And while that makes some question their sanity, to me it just makes them mine. We understand each other in a way that others will never be able to comprehend. Don't misunderstand, there are moments that I'd give back every lesson learned to be able to bury my face in those curls again. To drink in his scent, completely oblivious to the reality that children sometimes leave this world before their parents. But that's not what happened in this life. I don't get him in the way I wanted him. I get him in the way I needed him. And you know what? Today? Today, I'll take it.