Year One

With the one year anniversary of my son’s death having come and gone I feel a little bit defensive.  I’m afraid that there is an expectation that I should be “getting over it” by now.  I’m sure there will be that expectation at some point, but I haven’t gotten over it and I will never get over it. I’m doing my very best to move forward, but never will I move on.  If this makes you uncomfortable, I do not apologize.  My child’s death makes me uncomfortable (what a polite and politically correct way to say it) every moment of every day.

In some ways the passage of the first year has gone quickly.  Most days and nights were painfully long, but the year has gone quickly.  I feel perhaps the fog in my mind is just now beginning to lift a little, but even a year later, I still can’t seem to grasp the reality in its fullness.  My thoughts have continually been along the lines of “this time last year, life was good” but just the opposite is true now.  I’m conflicted about how I feel about the passing of the first year. Looking back into the past I’m not happy that there is this increase in time and space between myself and my son.  Yet, I recognize it’s closing the gap in the time and space between us in the future and I am very happy about that.
  

I will say that as a bereaved parent there are a few things I’m becoming a little more accustomed to with the passing of time.  I would not say that dealing with my loss has gotten easier over the last year.  It definitely has not.  Rather I would say that the grief and pain are unwelcome companions I’m getting a little more use to having around.  I don’t want them here, but no matter how hard I try they just won’t go away.  I’ve become familiar with them and their constant presence.  We go everywhere together.  We are together at work, in bed, at church, at the grocery store, in the car, at home, while I’m out with friends, in the shower, at family gatherings, on holidays, on normal days, while I cook dinner and the list goes on...

I’m becoming more accustomed to viewing everything through the lens of someone who has lost a child.  I can recognize that the lenses are there now. They can’t come off no matter how much I wish they could and they impact how I see everything: myself as a person, my faith, my worldview, my everyday life, eternity, every song, every sermon, every prayer I pray or hear, other parents, every new memory made that doesn’t include my son, every religious quote and the list goes on...

I’m becoming a little more accustomed to constantly living on edge, waiting to step on one of the many landmines in my path.  It's not a matter of if, it's when. I want to remember my son (as if I could forget him…) but there are so many reminders that to be honest, are painful.  Some are so painful they are like a knife in the heart I just don’t see coming, others are more of a tug, that while painful, don’t fully take my breath away and still others result in a full blown panic attack.  Often the first encounter, the first smell, sound, or sight of the reminder is the most painful.  With the passing of time I at least have learned these reminders are coming and that for the most part I can’t anticipate when, although avoiding public places and social situations does help to minimize the chance.  I’m not caught off guard so much by being caught off guard.  Usually the reminders are something commonplace, mostly small stuff.  A sippy cup that looks like his, an outfit just like he had, a passie like one he used, a diaper changing station in public restroom, a toothbrush like his, a toy I know he would have loved, blueberries, a nectarine, greek yogurt, a box of cheerios, hearing itsy bitsy spider or patty cake, a Sophie the giraffe teething toy, a box of diapers on an end cap in Wal-mart, sidewalk chalk, the smell of baby lotion, pop its, oldies music, any mention of death, talk of pregnancy or labor or breastfeeding, celebration of birthdays or any other holiday for that matter, accidently stumbling upon his autopsy report when looking for another document on the laptop, or the list of contacts and medical info I filled out for daycare when he first started, a piece of mail advertising Carter’s has a sale, someone I haven’t seen in a while inquiring about my little one, unexpectedly seeing the detective that came to the house when he died at the school where I teach on career day, seeing someone else wearing the shirt I wore the very last time I held my child alive, a Fat Cat birthday card from the Credit Union when he should have turned two, hearing a child say “mama,” and the list goes on....

I’m becoming more accustomed to the reminders that there is nothing fair or just about this situation.  There is no denying it, yet there is nothing I can do about it, no way to fix it.  The reminders of what I am missing out on and how unfair life is are everywhere. Other families continue to increase in number, while mine will always be one less than what it should be, they make new memories together as a whole, see their children grow and reach new milestones, celebrate birthdays and graduations, and perhaps the most unfair thing of all is that after a few short weeks or maybe a few months at the most everyone else got to go back to life as they knew it.  For my husband and I life as we knew it ended, yet somehow time continues to pass and for everyone else around us life goes on...