And I am so far from okay, I don't even remember what it's like to be alright. Behind my smile, my entire being is filled with sorrow and heartache. A huge part of my life is missing. Carter was my first child; life as I knew it, was encapsulated in his every move. I planned my entire life around his. When I look back at those weeks before his passing, I am slammed to the ground in pain. I find myself panicking and sobbing if I allow myself to go there. I have no idea how I got through those days. I spent 40 weeks planning for his arrival into this world. Creating a nursery, attending checkup's to make sure he was growing properly and reading countless articles on motherhood and how to take care of my newborn baby. I studied the "What to expect when expecting" book as if my life depended on it's recommendations. I wanted everything to be just right for my son. No matter how much I did right, everything went wrong. My baby was born so beautiful and perfect; yet so many things were wrong. He was sick. He had to fight so hard to do everything. And as his mommy, so did I. I would have searched the world high and low to find something that could save my child. But no matter how hard we fought, we just couldn't stop the inevitable. When doctors told us that they couldn't do anything more for him and it was no longer fair to keep intervening...and ultimately, that our son was dying, I jumped into action yet again. But this time it wasn't in search for recommendations or easy stuff. It was to meet with the funeral home, cemetery and pastor to discuss our son's funeral and burial. We planned our final goodbyes weeks before he took his last breathes. I look back and can't believe I had the strength to do this. I have no idea how my heart kept beating and my feet kept moving forward. I can still see every detail of that day when his father and I sat down with the funeral director and picked out his casket, announcements, floral arrangements and colorful sharpies. I can still remember the exact path we took at the cemetery as we looked at available plots and decided on the perfect spot under the pine tree over looking the pond as if we were just looking for a good spot to camp out. As if that was normal. It sounds absolutely absurd that we did these things before our son had died, but to us, it was just as important as choosing his nursery theme and going home outfit. Only this time, we chose what he would wear for his funeral and for the rest of eternity. I still can't walk near the boys section at stores or talk about super heroes. I can't do Christmas shopping. I can't look at certain pictures. I can't wrap my mind around the fact that he is gone. To protect myself from this torturous pain, I shut down. I shut it off. I don't think about any of this. Grief for me these days is survival. I am breathing, I am living. But I am numb. I am doing my very best to get through the days one minute at a time. At any given moment, something might come to mind that stops me in my tracks. I burst into tears at the sight or mention of something that forces memories to the surface. I work. I work the craziest hours and leave myself little time to think. This is how I survive. I am struggling to reach out for counseling or support groups because I know these things will force me to stop running. They will ask me to talk about the truth. They will make me strip away all of the layers to what lies beneath the surface. I am terrified it will hurt too much. I am afraid if I break, that I will shatter. So, just like I was doing a few months ago, I am still running. It's what I know how to do best. I don't think there is such thing as a "normal" way to grieve the loss of a child, but for now...I will just stay where I am because it's working. Running through the days as I curl into a ball in my mind.
Stay with me, my angel...to infinity & beyond.
