This is a hard post to write. The tears flow freely now, before the first sentence is even written. I expect them. This is one of the few times I allow myself time to fully grieve for you, but you know that. I know you are there watching. 3-months is a long time to not see your face.
I try hard to remember everything. Every moment of every day. Though no one can see it, you know. Everything reminds me of you…even if it doesn’t. You are at the center of everything I do.
This weekend is Easter. Our countdown is just 2-days. We were always counting down to something. I just can’t believe you aren’t here for one of your favorites. This will be the first year Melia will need to find her own basket. Who knows, maybe she will actually play our games. A part of me isn’t counting on it though. Regardless, I know she will miss you. We all will.
It’s been hard to prepare for, though you know that. Shopping for baskets I saw so many things that I would have bought for you. This weekend will feel like torture, but we will make it through.
I’ve perfected the art of not feeling. Ignoring reality. I never forget, I just don’t feel. I’m so numb…until I’m not. When the numb wears off, even for a brief moment, it terrifies me. Mostly because I worry that I haven’t even begun to feel the pain of losing you. Those moments are overwhelming. They put me so far out of my comfort zone that I try hard to keep them away. I call it staying grounded in my grief. As long as I stay close to it, in it, it’s easier to manage. Too much distraction (even good distraction) takes me too far away. I always end up in a bad place, which is hard to go through over and over.
We are trying hard to keep going. To hold things together. Maintain some sort of normalcy. Lately I’ve been trying to get back to some of my projects. It’s still hard to focus for long periods of time. Wish you were here to help. I know in some small way you are. I can still hear you say, “It looks good. I like it, Mom!” I miss my HGTV buddy. Even if asking to watch it was just a stall tactic for bedtime.
At the hospital, I told you it was OK to go…that we would be OK. We are, even though we aren’t. I still believe we are as good as we may ever be. Melia told me she hates heaven. I took it as a good sign because it’s not often that she expresses how she is feeling. It’s OK because I hate heaven too. Every day I wish we could trade places. At least if you were the one here I could see you.
I continue to watch for your signs. They keep me going. Like the other day when I found the last tooth you lost. When the tooth fairy collected it, she laid it with my jewelry. It was in a spot where you wouldn’t find it. Then I forgot about it. It never made it into the bag with the rest of your lost teeth. Two days ago, I found it. As creepy as it sounds, it was a nice reminder to me that you existed. I know you did, but the evidence was black and white. It’s not like that so much anymore. Those little things are all I have left so please keep your signs coming.
I know you’re on a new journey now. I’m doing my best to be happy for you, knowing you are happy where you are. This is my journey, depressing as it may be. I’m learning. The biggest learning I’ve had? That I am exactly where I am supposed to be. There is more learning in that statement than anyone will ever know.
To most it sounds dark, and they won’t understand. Each step I take, each day I survive, gets me that much closer to you. It feels impossible to plan for the future, but that is a day that I look forward to.
I love you forever, my favorite boy!