There was a time when the words threatened to explode out of me if I didn't write them down. The emotions spilled like a fountain, overflowing. There was a time when I need the validation of comments from people who knew my ugly fate personally. When the best way to process the enormity of my loss was out loud.
Faithful followers have noticed, those times have gone (for now). In the quiet moments of my days, I wonder if people who don't understand think it means I no longer care, or that I'm "healed", or that I'm "finished grieving". As none of those things are possible in my remaining lifetime, the worrisome thoughts haven't led me to explain. But for the sake of stating the obvious, and calming the nagging thoughts in my head, let me just speak it plainly: No, I'm not over his death. No, I'm not healed. No, I'm not finished grieving. You'll know when I am, because I'll be gone from this world.
It's been 2 years and 3 months and 4 days since Samuel died. I say that out loud and it sounds long. A thousand years have passed in the days since he left. A million, maybe. It feels like a very long time. It feels far away. At times it feels so far away I question if it really happened at all. But not really. I stop and look around this new life of mine that's mostly unrecognizable from the life of my former self, and it feels like another lifetime ago that we decided to start a family. Those words alone feel odd in my mouth. How strange that we live in a world where people believe their decision to start a family is all that it takes? That thought is nonsensical to my new self. The self that knows how truly wrong (arrogant? naive? innocent?) it is to believe you have ultimate control over how things turn out.
Our lives are so dramatically different from the lives of every other person around us that I often feel like a stranger to this world. A misfit. An oddity. An outsider.
In a way, I am.
But only to people who don't acknowledge how often children actually die. (It's often, believe me). I'm 31 years old. I'm a wife. a mother. a daughter. a sister. a friend. But my status as "bereaved" supersedes it all, and leaves me a foreigner to normality.
The first year (really, more), we just survived. That was all. And it was all we needed to do. I look back and cringe. I feel those days in my soul and I shudder. There are not - and never will be - words powerful enough to capably explain those days. Horrible, terrible, monstrous, hideous, abhorrent, abysmal. All these words are deficient in monumental ways. I might as well just say it was a bad time. That's how lacking every word on the planet is to describe life just after the death of your child.
I look back and wonder how we managed.
I look back and see how far we come.
In this past year, we have begun the task of rebuilding our lives. I have embraced - at times begrudgingly, at times open armed - this new way of living life that's contrary to everything I'd ever known, or believed, or been taught about how things work. I understand the reality of life in a way many (most?) do not. Directly encountering Death does that to you. To become so intimately connected to Death without a complete change in your views of life would be impossible. And now that I've changed, I see the reality of Death's authority over life.
This new life, for me, has now become comforting. and safe. and normal. It's still fundamentally unwanted. It will always be unwanted in favor of an alternative where Samuel was never sick. But I've found the groove that works for me and it's how I've managed to survive. It's taken two years. That's the amount of time I needed to find a path that functions as I need it to. As I change, so will my path.
Some will read this and understand immediately what I'm saying. Others will imagine embracing my new normal means I'm over it. As per usual, those people who believe in such concepts as getting "over" the death of your child, will be wrong. There is no such thing as that.
You see, I think about Samuel every single day. Many, many times a day. Really, in some way or another, all day long. There is no such time as a time I've forgotten he should be here. It's impossible for someone to remind me he died, because I'm constantly aware of his absence. I still cry for him. I still long for him. My heart still hurts because he's not here. That's what happens when there's a hole in your heart the exact size and shape of your child. Nothing and no one can fill that space, because only he fits. So, while the initial gushing of blood has slowed to a trickle, the wound never closes, and the possibility for the gushing to begin again is never gone. Any day, at any moment, for any reason, the hollowness of that space overtakes me and I have no choice but to feel it. Some call this a wave of grief. I call it my new normal. I accept it. I embrace it. I give myself permission to feel whatever comes, as it come, and without shame or judgment, or the need to examine it. I just let it be what it is.
If I hurt, it's because I miss my baby. If I cry, it's because I know he should be here and I need the release. If I'm raging, it's because of the injustice, or my jealousy, or the never-quite-gone confusion, or the bitterness of experiencing a never-ending situation I don't want, with no explanation.
If I laugh, it's because I can still find humor in things. If I smile, it's because I'm calm, or I'm remembering his life. If I momentarily resemble my past self, it's because I'm fundamentally still me. I'm just a new version of who I once was.
All of these - and so much more - are my normal life now. And just like grief emotions don't mean I'm wallowing or "stuck", so do happy emotions not mean I'm over him. All emotions and reactions to life and just what they are, and I'm okay with them.
So when you find this place to be left untended for a time, remember not to come to any mistaken conclusions. My life does continue on (at this moment in time, I'm okay with it. Ask me tomorrow - or an hour from now depending on what transpires within that time - and my answer may be the opposite). My heart still beats for Samuel. My grief changes, yet always remains. My love grows. My days always include a sense that things are not as they should be. I no longer partake of life in the way typical mothers do, but that's just how it is for me.
Just like everyone before me on this path, and everyone following behind me, I continue on; always learning, always growing, always wishing life were different, and always carrying Samuel with me.
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| For Samuel <3 |
