Today has been a tough day. It started out that way. It’s been brewing, I guess. I know that I’m bound to have good days and bad ones, but I
guess I still struggle with realizing that this is my reality. I have to wake up every single morning
and remember that my son is dead.
And then I have to figure out a way to face the day. Some days, it’s just easier than
others, and unfortunately today wasn’t one of those days.
I’ve been talking a lot with a mom who lost her daughter to
SIDS almost two months ago. She’s
devastated, obviously. We share so
many of the same thoughts and ideas, and I can’t help but remember what it was
like in those first few months. It
is painful to wake up in the morning.
It is literally painful.
The pain is everywhere, but it starts in your chest. It’s the pang that comes along with the
realization that you’re awake now and that your child is still dead. Grief is painful in so many ways. I never realized how sore it makes you. My muscles and bones ached for months
after Max died. My head never
stopped hurting. My eyes were dry,
the skin around my nose raw.
Sometimes I was sick to my stomach. The physical pain is really the least of it. I could deal with that. It was the pain inside that was so
unmanageable at times. I mean,
there are only so many distractions to be found and undertaken in a single
day. Sometimes I would just
sit. I would sit and stare and
sometimes cry. Sometimes I was too
exhausted to cry. Sometimes I was
too pissed off to cry. Every day
was unpredictable. While I have
managed to get past the all-consuming grief that made it impossible to
accomplish small tasks like going to the grocery store or cleaning a bathroom,
I haven’t gotten past the unpredictability of it all. I suppose I never will.
This new mom is so fresh in her grief. It is heartbreaking. I’ve never met her, but I don’t need to
have met her to know that what she is dealing with is beyond what any parent
should ever go through. She also
has an older child, another little girl.
We share so many similarities, even our hometowns. She has a lot of support from her
family and friends, and I know firsthand how crucial that is. I also know how important it is to have
people around you who can relate.
That’s a nice way of saying that you need other moms who have lost
babies to lean on. I felt my first
glimmer of hope after talking to another mom who has lost not one, but two
children. If she can get through
this, then I can too, I thought.
And it was true. I can get
through this, and I will.
I originally started writing about Max’s death and my feelings
because I had to get it all out somehow.
Writing about it gave me a sense of release that nothing else had given
me. I started sharing my writing
because I hoped that it would help those close to me understand what I was
going through. I also hoped that
it might help other parents. I
know that this mom has read my blog, and she told me that it has helped
her. She appreciates knowing that
another mom has been exactly where she is and has been able to find some peace
and feel some hope. I know that
she is probably reading this, so I want her to know that she will get there
too. It’s hard work, but it has to
be done. I want her to know that
it’s been such a relief to have someone ask me about Max. It’s been so good to be able to say his
name and to share things about him.
I love hearing about her daughter, even though I know how it ends. I like to picture her in those happy
moments, and I hope she knows that those will be the memories that will stand
out in the end. Those are the ones
that really matter. What I really
want her to know is that she has been as helpful to me as I hope I have been to
her.
I mentioned that today has been tough, and then I got
sidetracked. What’s new? I went to breakfast with my family
today. My parents, my sister and
her son, and Scott and Ethan. I
noticed a newborn boy brought in by his parents as we sat down at our
table. I’ve actually been okay
lately with babies. I still don’t
like seeing newborns that belong to strangers, but I don’t burst out in tears
or feel anxiety like I did before.
We ordered and ate our food, and then I just happened to look up as the
mom carried the baby boy out of the bathroom. I remembered doing the same thing with Max last year while I
was out to breakfast with my parents.
This baby had a full head of black hair and beautiful skin, just like
Max. I held my breath a
little. The sight of that baby
stopped me in my tracks, but I held it together. Until he started crying. Of course, as is my life, his family was seated at the table
directly behind us. He cried and
cried. Each sound brought me
closer to bursting, but I was confident that I could keep myself together. Obviously, I wasn’t upset or annoyed
because the baby was crying; it was the familiarity of it all that was
upsetting. It was hurtful. It was just another reminder of what
was missing at the table and what will always be missing in my life. I reached a point where it became
pointless for me to sit in the restaurant any longer. I (not so eloquently) told Scott I needed to go to the car
and got up and left. I was already
sobbing, and I’m sure people thought that my tears were the result of some
domestic disagreement. Scott and I
laughed about that later. Poor
Scott. I am not hard on myself
when I have breakdowns like this.
I know that it’s natural and healthy and that it’s just going to
happen. I’m fine with that. I guess what it really shows is that
I’ll never be immune to the emotional reaction that can accompany the sight of
a newborn baby with black hair or the familiar sound of that baby crying. It doesn’t matter how old I am, how
long Max has been dead, or how hard I try not to cry. I’m always going to be a mom without her son.
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