I. Can’t. Breathe.
While I’ve always liked to believe I was exceptional in some of my own special ways, I’ve learned that, in grief, I’m as cliche as they come.
Get out a checklist of ways a grieving mom responds to the loss of a child: her reactions, insecurities, fears, and processes and that’s me. I’m just working my way down the list.
Friday was a good day.
Yes, my son is dead and my day was good. (Do keep in mind that “good” is a very relative term these days.) It wasn’t normal, it wasn’t happy, I cried a few times, but I felt human.
I spoke in complete sentences.
I laughed at a stranger’s story.
I swapped advice over IEP’s, travel and teenagers.
And then — holy hell — I felt guilty. Like punch-me-in-the-gut guilty. How could a mom who truly loves her son, not even gone for two weeks, be happy? Maybe I didn’t love him as much as I thought I did. Maybe I’m cheating the grieving process. Maybe those around me will think I’m being dramatic when I find myself sad again tomorrow. Maybe I’m….
No, I don’t need reassurances.
I know it’s not rational.
My love for my son is not measured by my grief.
But I felt guilty, still.
Then, this weekend happened…
I unpacked his hospital bag, had to sort through hospital papers, slowly began pulling the markers and Hot Wheels cars I kept stashed for him in my purse…
In an attempt at being normal, I decided to help Travis with a load of laundry. He put the load in and I added soap and hit wash. It wasn’t until I began to transfer it to the dryer that the pit of my stomach flew into the back of my throat: there were Tanner’s shorts, and then his pajamas, and even the clothes he had worn to the hospital. I just washed my last load of Tanner’s clothes.
I hate laundry. But I would give my life to have him dirty another load.
This weekend, I haven’t handled. I haven’t coped. Right when I think I’m pushing through the worst and finding my footing, I take four leaping steps backward.
I’ve not been able to breathe.
Going on day twelve without my son it’s beginning to sink in. He’s really not coming home.
But as I lay here in bed, my body weak, my head spinning and my eyes cried out, I am trying with all my heart to thank God.
How utterly blessed I was to have a child who literally takes my breath away.
My baby, my angel, the joy in my heart and the breath in my lungs…. your mommy misses you.
Thank you, Father, for my baby and every day we had. Hold him tight.
