It’s been a long time since I’ve written. Way too long, honestly. Writing really does help me, and I’m in
need of some help lately. The last
few weeks have been beyond difficult.
In the last few weeks, I’ve had some of my worst days since the first
few days after Max died. There
have been days when I felt like the only thing I could do was cry, and so I did
just that for most of the day.
I’ve cried at work, in my car, at lunch, at the dentist’s office, at Wal
Mart, and of course at home. I’ve
held back tears a million times at a million places using a million different
strategies. Holding them back doesn’t
mean that they don’t come later, though.
Trust me on that. I know
that some people think that these “bad days” are happening because I’m coming
out of the fog that you seem to live in after someone you love dies. I won’t argue against the fact that my
life has been a bit hazy since Max died, but I will argue with you if you say
that I’m just coming to “accept” Max’s death. I hate that word.
It means a million different things. In some ways, I accepted
Max’s death the moment I picked him up and realized that he was dead. I accepted
his death because it was true, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make
it untrue. I accepted it because he was stiff and still and way too quiet and
cold to be alive. I accepted it because there were people at
my house telling me that my son was dead.
I accepted it because they
covered Max’s little body with a blanket, put it in a horrifyingly tiny body
bag, and took him to the morgue. I
accepted it because the medical
examiner called me after he cut Max’s body open and tried to find a reason for
his death. What in the world did I
do that day if I didn’t accept that
he was gone? What in the world
have I been doing for the last 137 days if I haven’t been accepting that Max is dead and our lives are forever changed
because of that?
I know that people probably don’t mean that I need to accept
the reality that Max is dead. They
must know that I know he’s dead. I can’t help but picture them thinking
that I have been living in some make-believe world where I go home from work
every day and carry a doll around, pretending like it’s Max though. I imagine that they think I change this
doll’s diaper, feed it, and talk to it while Ethan and Scott help keep up the
gig to spare my feelings.
Obviously, I don’t do this.
I know that people mean that I need to accept that Max is gone in a way that brings me peace and comfort
and makes me feel okay about that fact that I’ll never see him again. I think that’s an awful lot to ask of
me. I have every right to be angry
and sad and horribly heartbroken.
I know that I won’t feel like that every single day of my life; I don’t
feel that way every day even now.
But I do know that I’ll always go through phases when I feel like
that. That’s as close to acceptance as I’m ever going to
get. This is one time when I would
be happy to be wrong, though.
Sometimes I fear that people substitute acceptance for the idea of “getting over it” though. If you are reading this, you are
probably smart enough to know that I’ll never get over Max’s death. I will admit, though, that I thought
that it was entirely possible to get over a loved one’s death before Max
died. I see now that “getting over
it” is some phrase that people use to make themselves feel better about another
person’s loss. Before, I just
assumed that people got over their husband’s, child’s, parent’s, friend’s death
with time. I see now that I was
completely wrong. My grandma
hasn’t “gotten over” my grandpa dying; she misses him every day, and her heart
still aches at the thought of living without him. My mom hasn’t “gotten over” her dad dying; she wishes she
could call him every year on his birthday, and she still feels that painful
stab in heart when she thinks about the moment she found out that he was
dead. I have a co-worker whose
husband died suddenly years ago. I
didn’t know her when it happened, but I just assumed that she had “gotten over
it.” I feel like a jerk for
assuming that. No one ever gets
over it. We just go on because we
have to. We mention our dead loved
ones less and less because people get more and more freaked out at the sound of
their names years later or maybe because we are surrounded by people who might
know of our loved ones, but they
don’t really know. People mention our dead loved ones less
and less because they don’t want to bring it up. They don’t want to make us feel bad if we’re having a good
day or if we’ve “gotten over it.”
They don’t realize that having a “good day” means something entirely
different after your son dies and that I’ll never, ever “get over it.” If you say his name, you’re only saying
what’s been said in my head a thousand times already that day.
Weird transition coming, but just stay with me. I promise it will all come
together. Ethan has been seeing a
counselor since Max died, and he is doing really well. He feels a lot more comfortable asking
questions about Max, sharing his feelings and memories with us, and supporting
us when we’re feeling sad. Ethan’s
counselor helped him make memory boxes a few weeks ago. One was for Max; one was for Bonnie. Ethan painted the boxes and decorated
them, and then he recorded memories, thoughts, etc. about Bonnie and Max on
sheets of paper that were placed inside the boxes. When he brought them home, I didn’t look inside them at
first. I don’t know why; I just
didn’t. A couple of days later, I
did. The last sheet of paper that
I pulled from Max’s memory box said, “I miss all of him.” Children have a way of saying things
perfectly in as few words as possible.
It was such a simple way to say what Max means to him, but it was
absolutely perfect. I can’t
believe I never thought of that. I miss all of him. It’s exactly how I feel. I miss his hair, his eyelashes, his
nose, his toes, his smile, his laugh, his cry, his skin, his fingernails…all of him. Those words that came from Max’s big brother’s mouth made me
so sad for him, but proud of him also.
He is six years old, and he understands
what has been taken from him. He
is six years old, and he loved his little brother. I hope he gets a chance to be a big brother again.
Honestly, I don’t think that my recent “bad days” have much
to do with me accepting Max’s death
or coming out of any fog. I think
they have everything to do with me grieving the loss of one of the most
important, precious people in my life.
I think they have everything to do with me needing to take some time to
really feel the impact of my loss, pay tribute to my son, and mourn the loss of
his future. I think they have
everything to do with me remembering exactly
what his little body felt like that morning and comparing it to what his
body felt like every day of his life before that. They have everything to do with me feeling pissed off,
traumatized, and short-changed.
And knowing that I am completely justified in feeling those ways. I think I’ll always have periods of
time when I feel like this.
Sometimes I’ll know when they’re coming; most of the time I won’t. I’ll never accept Max’s death or get
over it or move on or do anything else that some people seem to think that
people can be heartless enough to do after losing a loved one, but I will
realize the impact of Max’s death and the importance of his life for the rest
of mine. It won’t feel good, it
will be hard, and I will hate every second of it. But I know that I’ll get through it.
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