"Jesus Said: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Take care that you do not despise one of these little ones; for, I tell you, in heaven their angels continually see the face of my Father in heaven. So it is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost." Matthew 18: 3-4, 10, 14It often seems difficult to describe, grief is not a tangible thing you can wrap your hands around and simply handle. I pride myself on being a person who is controlled, anchored, focused. There has never been anything in my life I haven't been able to tough out. I was once told by a therapist that I am an "emotional steamroller." The pure definition of it is that when things, emotions in particular, get in my way, I bulldoze my way through them through pure will. It is an effective, albeit unhealthy, coping mechanism. It was created by my childhood and the things I endured... I didn't have a choice, I had to power through in order to push forward and come out in the end unscathed. When the dust settles, I deal with whatever is left behind, if anything, after I no longer feel emotional about it.
It is also safe to assume that this is the first situation in my life I cannot just push through. It's impossible for me simply to shut it off and push through. This runs too deep, it is too sneaky, grief is a damn ninja. My son was my miracle, he was my life, he was a piece that will forever be missing from my heart. I see him in everything... and I mean everything.
The pictures on my urn for Dominic was one of these things today. The beautiful smile of his face as he wore a onesie that said "Wild about Mommy" on it. I loved it on him, his smile was so big, he was laughing at me as I crouched over him after I had barely gotten him changed on the floor with one arm. It was a success in my world... to him it was simply funny that I kept asking him "Do you still love your cripple mommy?" I had posted the picture on Facebook. The thought, the memory, of course, took me to my videos... watching the video of me trying to get him to say hi to the camera as I recorded him in my lap. As he pressed his cheek against my side in the video, it echoed through my soul, resting deep within my gut. Grief sets in. That was in the past. I will never feel the press of his warmth, the feel of him sleeping against my shoulder, the smell of him.
That is my present... as I sat there staring at the urn, I could hear the boys playing. They came rushing in from outside, rosy cheeked, laughing about jumping on the trampoline we got Jordin for his birthday. He's nine.... he's growing so fast. My first son, though not of my womb, he is of my soul. He noticed me staring, he sat in the chair near me and hugged me. I hugged him back, fighting back tears. I don't hide my grief from the boys... it is important they see me mourn. I doubt it has been more obvious to them that I have feelings. He didn't say anything, he just sat with me while I held him close. I've loved his boy since the first time I saw him... he was 8 months old, sitting on his daddy's car, his mommy holding him there and joking about how much he loved the car. It was long before Frank and I got together... in this one 9 year old, there are so many memories.
The wind blew outside, the wind chime ringing softly on the shepherd's hook just on the other side of the window pane in the front lawn. Amy was given it by a co-worker the week after Dominic had passed. I remember her taking it out of the box and being annoyed with the sound in the living room, too large and too loud for the house. But now, it is comforting me when the wind blows through it.
This too is my future... having to learn to live without a piece of me. You see, it is my theory you give pieces of yourself to others, those you love, they take part of your soul and keep it forever. There is a piece of me in Jordin, in Malachi, in Kaiden, in my family that I love, to my children's father, to my friends who are more family than others, to so many. This one is gone forever, and I must learn how to endure. How do you learn to live without that part of you? Is there some sort of method I've missed when I've been steamrolling through all my problems? Is there a lesson to be learned?
I don't believe this was the will of God. I don't think it was anything but a bad thing that has happened. When I close my eyes at night, I never know what I am going to get. Am I going to see the cold features of my son who is gone? Or will I see the smiling handsome man who stole my heart before he was ever out of the womb? Will I wake to check on the boys? Or get up to check on Frank or Amy to make sure they are fine? Will a noise in the middle of the night cause the hair on my neck and arms to rise?
Sometimes the grief is too heavy. I wake up, I get the boys off to school, I get Frank off to work, I take care of everyone else... then suddenly I am too heavy. I go and lay down until the last moment before heading off to get ready to go to work, wishing I could just have one more hour... one more moment of the silence and the darkness of my bedroom. It is a battle of my own will against that of my grief. Sometimes the grief wins. Sometimes my will does. It's like flipping a coin some days.
I now count the days, weeks, and hours since my son has left us. I used to count the days, weeks, and hours he was old... it is a painful reality to know, before long, the time he has been gone will be longer than the time he was here. The holiday's scare me, just like Jordin's birthday party did this weekend. I watch the boys, so full of life and happiness, and I am filled with the happiness for them and the sadness that I will never see Dominic running along side them.
Frank asked me what was wrong when he got home from work. It is difficult to say everything and nothing all at once, that there is no specific thing dragging me under. His presence helps though, to know there is someone else to understands the emptiness one minute and the overwhelming feeling the next. He has started rubbing my neck, an affectionate gesture that says far more than the words we don't say:
"I'm sorry we lost our son."
"I'm sorry we didn't have more time."
"I wish we could hold him again."
"I wish you had gotten to experience more with him."
"I'm sorry that we had spent so much time fighting, less time living."
"I am sorry...."
"....I miss him too."
"I hurt too."
"I'm drowning."
"I understand."
"We will survive, I just don't know how yet."
"I am here."
"We will be okay."
The list goes on, the things we say without saying them. We say them with a look, a glance, we say them as we sat at our son's funeral. We say them silently with a soft touch and a sigh. We live by supporting each other, helping each other make it to the next step the next moment. This is our now...
I hope in the future it will get easier. That the pain won't hurt as much as it does now. I hope that I will stop wondering what he would look like, though the truth is that he would have looked like Kaiden's carbon copy. Whom, of course, looks just like his father.
I hope...
Until next time...
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