Four

If I had a dollar for every time I open the notepad on my phone ready to release emotional floodgates- only to find my thoughts are somehow illegible the second a keyboard is at my finger tips- I wouldn’t be rich, but at least I would have a visual interpretation of how unexplainable missing Boston continues to be. How something I was moments before so sure of it felt palpable can turn to sand in my hands and just disappear.  It makes me want to cry. Sometimes I do cry. Not so much at my inconvenient loss for words, but because even if I could get it all out in front of me, it’s still inside of me too. It never goes away.

There is a part of me that is pristinely aware of where I’m at, but there is an equally prominent part that pulls me in opposite directions at all times. Lately that part of me is exhausted. Fed up. Weary. Defeated. 

How is it possible that I deal with the full spectrum of emotions on a daily basis yet can’t make sense of how I feel? It’s kind of like an out of body experience. Like I can look down at myself and see everything that I know for certain around me. I can see what I’ve overcome and worked through. I can see all the ways I’ve learned to cope and be gentle with myself and mind- but I also see all of this other... shit... for lack of a better term. Literal shit. And there’s no where else to put it. It’s making me confuse progress with unbearable ‘To-do’s’ and has me loathing the truth behind “Healing isn’t linear.” 

There’s been a multitude of times I’ve found that very statement comforting, however, most recently it makes me want to scream. Why can’t it be linear!? Why can’t there be some small infographic guide I could reference every time my mind is swarming with confusion over this awful thing called grieving.

Right now there is nothing I want more than clearly definable healing. I want answers. I want definition. I literally ache to see what is going on inside of me as words in front of me so I can stare at it’s existence. I want to memorize it the way it has memorized me. But I know that’s not how this works, and this is my tragedy; I fully understand even though I have come so far, the primal part of me will remain restless and unsatisfied. It is that part of me that cultivates my flustered speechlessness and leaves me dumb-founded because there are actually no words for how living with out Boston feels. Everything about it is a messy mind boggling paradox. 

It all feels like a figment of my imagination, like it was just yesterday, but also like a lifetime has passed all at once. His absence drains me of my will, but sparks something in me that I swear could move mountains. Losing him led me down a path of destruction, but also to saving myself. I ache to see his face, but looking through his pictures is too painful. I know that he is with me, all while simultaneously watching the day’s since I last saw him turn into years. No matter how many sweet signs he sends, I still plead with the Universe to tell me where exactly in the sky my son is at. 68 days with him changed every single day of the rest of my life. How even though I have lived 1396 days with out him- he is still at the core of everything I do. As his mom my role is to guide him through life, instead his spirit is guiding me. How yearning for the same baby boy somehow feels different every year. Being his mom is my deepest pain, but my ultimate joy. 

Boston’s birthday was on Wednesday. He would have turned 4. I’ve remained l steadfast in my attempts to be grateful for living with the spirit of my chubby cheeked baby boy- but on these special days I can’t help but imagining walking outside, throwing myself on the ground, and thrashing around while sobbing and screaming. This is the only thing that could possibly depict how it feels to watch the calendar mark another year with part of my heart on the wrong side of Heaven. 

And to my darling Bosty,

I still love you more every day.

Firsts

This one’s for Q

(Written last night) 

Tomorrow my oldest son Quinton starts the 1st grade. When I say he is an amazing kid- I mean it. He is beyond sweet, he is loving, and to say he is the best big brother is a vast understatement. Right now I am crying. Not even because my first baby isn’t a baby, but a first grader- but because he deserves the best and I haven’t given him that. 

Life has not been simple for me- for us, I should say- but that is an excuse and not a good one. I promise you, I am not looking for sympathy- only to release some of the weight guilt bears and writing has always been my sanctuary. 

When I look at Quinton I see an unbelievably handsome boy. I see my football and baseball star. I see endless potential. I see a silly but shy, blonde-haired, blue-eyed blessing. I see what a gift he is. But I also see a boy who’s far surpassed the age I thought he would be when I finally got my shit together. I see a boy who has seen too much. I see my sweet, sweet, boy who life nor myself have always been sweet to in return. And it makes me want to go back so bad that I can feel it in my bones. 

I want to go back to the start and focus so much on him that the things that threw me off track never made it onto our path in the first place. I want to go back and put him first. I want to go back and choose being a mom. Not an irresponsible teenager. Not the newly 20-something girl that thought life should still be a party. Not the girl who didn’t plan nor think about the future. Not the girl who allowed people and circumstances to hurt me so much that I let my own pain manifest into my sons. I want to go back and let Boston’s death shake me and life as I knew it awake, instead of stopping it in it’s tracks. I want to go back and see Quinton’s face instead of only longing for his baby brother’s. I want to go back and feel Q’s presence, not just the absence of my Bosty’s. I want to go back and pour myself into him, instead of pouring my soul so far down the drain that I almost didn’t get it back.

I remember the time- before I allowed life to knock me down and keep me there- when Q was just a baby. I guess I was a baby then too, at 19, but I remember promising my parents, myself, the world really, that I would always give him the best. Especially MY best. I mean, after all- I was a mom now, I thought it was just a given. In fact, I’ve made that promise many, many times in his almost 7 years on this earth, and it devastates me to say that most of those times that promise was empty. I wanted the best for him, that WAS a given, but wanting and providing is as different as day and night. I hope any of you reading this can spare the sympathy and not pity me- because I can honestly say that I have never been healthier, happier, or more prepared and ready to give this amazing boy the absolute best in life than I am now.

However, I do ask for empathy. I desire nothing more on this beautiful Earth than that. I truly believe to be understood is the deepest form of intimacy, and for me that’s what this post is- vulnerable and intimate. Because it’s easy to want to go back. It was easy to live under the false premise that in the long run my mistakes wouldn’t be a big deal. It use to be so easy to think that someday things would just work themselves out and I would magically be a better me and the mother Quinton deserves. 

But it is not easy to want to move forward as much as I long to go back. It’s not easy to admit that my mistakes have been painfully larger than I let myself believe possible. It is not easy to admit how much I needed to change in order to change the fact that I have not always been the best mom that I could have and wish I would have been. It is not easy to have to grieve my 3-4 year old Quinton due to being so consumed by the death of his baby brother that I don’t recall anything about that time besides how much it hurt to even breathe. It is not easy to continue dissecting my own demons in order to heal. Healing has required me to be unapologetically vulnerable with not only myself, but also with others, and that is anything but easy.

I know it’s called healing, but for me much of it has felt like a war. A relentless internal battle to find the will to keep fighting no matter how many times I die inside in the process. Too many times to count I’ve thought “I’m really doing better. It’s all worth it because this time I’m really feeling better than I ever have before” only to turn around and lose myself in even deeper holes in between even steeper mountains. Learning how to live with half of my soul always out of reach has been at times unbearable, at times the loneliest feeling I’ve ever known, and all of the time so damn hard. 

Big moments in our lives- like the first day of first grade, or when Paxton does something new- make me feel so much love for my sons that it literally does feel like my heart may come out of my chest- and in those moments I am reminded that I use to get that same overwhelming heart exploding feeling about Boston too, and it’s hard not to burst into tears. 

So, not only is this my raw first day of 1st grade sappy mom post declaring how good it feels to say that today I know I’m being the best mom I can be- this is also my heartfelt cry to all the mom’s out there suffering through the anguish of should-be “firsts” that we don’t ever get to see happen. You are not alone.

3 years

There are some things that have to be done in a certain way to get done at all; this blog is one of those things. Writing these posts is like a form of sacred therapy for me. I write and rewrite and read it over and over and over until it feels like I am staring a piece of my own soul in the face. 

Given the therapeutic effect this has provided me- I've become increasingly anxious in recent months because I just haven't been able to get it right. I've attempted time and time again to sit down and form my thoughts into sentences and sentences into paragraphs and paragraphs into a blog post that allows me to share my undying love for Boston- but my thoughts have stayed seemingly stuck in limbo causing my mind to become unbearably heavy with the weight of all the things I haven't been able to articulate. 

Time really is such a strange thing. I often feel like I am living in a parallel Universe because it feels like not long ago at all that I lost you, but also like 10 lifetimes have passed in just 3 years. I've spent the last year of it tirelessly searching for middle ground- a place where the traumatized soul and grieving mother in me comes together with the mother I am and want to be for your two very vibrant, full-of-life brothers. 

I so admire people that have taken the time to really dig deep and approach introspection fearlessly in order to become aware of what they need to integrate day in and day out to accomplish balance. I personally feel balance is vastly under appreciated in today's world despite its immense value- I truly do ache for it. 

All of these things leave me asking myself how I find the line between surviving and thriving? Where do I begin with honoring my feelings but also honoring the necessity of moving forward? 

These questions have plagued me in recent months because there is still such a large part of me that is consumed by the death of my son. Ever since the third anniversary on March 17th, I've found myself wishing I would have had his body buried instead of cremated. Not because I regret my decision, but because I want to go get him from the cemetery and hold him. Not his Urn- him. Even though it would be bones, I just want to hold my baby boy one more time. 

I'm aware that is probably unsettling to some, but I've come to realize other people's perception of how honestly I grieve is based entirely off of their own experiences, and I really do consider you lucky if you can't understand. 

In the countless times I started to write this but couldn't find the words, I often settled for reading previous posts. I was reminded by my most recent one that grief is truly ever changing. Looking back to November I can recall how desperate for a miracle I was. With the death of my Grandpa the month before, the holidays, Boston's little brother turning one, and what would have been his 3rd birthday just a couple weeks later- saying I was emotionally overwhelmed is a vast understatement. 

I'm hesitant to say this because it could be misinterpreted, and there's just not any way to make it sound the way it felt, but there's been numerous times over the last few years that I have wished that I didn't care- that I didn't love Boston so much. I use to wake up every morning and try to convince myself that it wasn't actually as bad as it felt- that I was somehow exaggerating the hole in my chest. 

I've come a long way from those stages in my grief, but I can recognize a similarity in the feeling from my last post because I kept mentioning the need to "close the door."

I don't need to close doors or be at any specific place in this. The only thing I need to commit to is honoring my feelings while moving forward and letting go of the illusion that I have any idea or control over how it feel will as his birthday and the anniversary of his death come and pass again. There is not a time that will come when I will be use to this because my grief over him is forever changing. 

My sons death is something I cannot make sense of- but I can and will do my best at adapting to what it feels like as the years pass by without him. 

I use to think that losing Boston left an emptiness in my heart that could never be filled, but I am forever learning how pertinent it is to change my perspective. Now I think of what I once called a hole as a space that is Boston shaped- made perfectly in my heart for him when he entered this world and before I knew how quickly he would be leaving it. I honor it's space. I honor the boy who made it. Instead of letting it make me feel empty I try to look at it as something that is full of him. It represents unconditional love and my will to always honor what losing him has taught me because I carry that space with me every where that I go. 

So, to my darling Bosty,

Everyone one knows a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end- but I didn't know the end would really feel like the end this time. It's the loneliest feeling I've ever known. 

The 3rd anniversary came with the brutal reminder that there is no timeline on this- no finish line or date I can mark on a calendar to signify completion of this journey. I will go to my grave missing you. 

No matter how much I wish I didn't know what that feels like, if I had the choice I would still choose you. I would choose you every single time. 

You're why I know different. You are my light, and it is my life's work to shine in your name.

I love you so very much, Chubbles, 

All my love,

Mommy

Hey, you

 A couple months ago your grandma and I were talking about your passing after receiving some important news. She did her best to remind me the news was good as it makes it possible to close some very painful doors. I'll never forget the way it sounded when she said "he's not coming back, Sara." 

It's one of those things that has remained undeniable the whole time but we kind of let the truth of it float off near by instead of really applying it to everyday life. As soon as she said it we both sobbed. It's not easy to shut doors, even when what's behind them is painful. 

I have sat with your death for 967 days now, and each one of them- no matter how much healing I accomplished- I have remained steadfast in my refusal to use the word acceptance when it comes to you. It just seems so wrong because there are so many layers that go into what it would mean to accept what is; and I don't have the time or the right words to explain that, or to really even make sense of it in my own head. But, my little fatboy, 967 days later, and despite all my efforts to heal in every way except for finding acceptance- I realize why I have to. 

I have spent the last couple years- especially the last year- pretty much re-wiring my brain with healthy thought processes. It has been tedious and time consuming, but in all actuality I feel like I have always been this person and known these things, but bit by bit as I've emerged into this "mindful" lifestyle, the same thing keeps happening and revealing a very unhealed part of me. At work, at home, as a mother, and in general as someone who plans to live a life full of wonderful people and things- I can no longer deny myself the life I've always been meant to live by refusing to accept who I was before what happened, who I became in the aftermath, and who I am now. 

I have so much genuine hope, and so much love to put out into this world, but I can't expect anything or anyone to accept or honor them if I can't first be true to myself and do the same - no matter how low, victimized, or grief filled of a place these parts of me bloomed from- what matters is that they did and I owe it to you, the universe, your grandma, but more than anyone to myself- to allow that to be beautiful and forget the rest. In general I am putting my all into practicing non-attachment, because I truly do believe that what I am meant for and what is meant for me will be for me effortlessly.  

It's hurts to say it because I swore I never would- but it's time for me to start closing that door. A lot of people put their faith in churches and Religion and pray to God for answers- but I have faith in you. You are who I talk to when I'm seeking comfort and strength and guidance because you are the only reason I know what it means to love unconditionally and the only thing I am sure of. I will never stop looking for you in everything that I do, Bosty. Because I love you, I miss you, and because I know you're there. 

All my love, 

Mom

Crisis mode

One of the most prominent things I have learned from losing a child is that I must be patient and graceful with myself, because in all actuality I am never done losing him. 

I was reminded how true that really is a few weeks ago when we thought Q may have broke his arm, so off to the Emergency room we went. I was proud of myself for bringing him there. It was a huge step for me considering that for some time after Boston died I couldn't even drive past it, but as soon as we pulled in the horror of that day started replaying in my mind. Like the panic I felt walking in; the lady at the front desk that to my dismay told me to have a seat after telling her why I was there; the blonde haired EMS guy that emerged from behind the doors and said "come with me"; watching nurses rush someone in on a stretcher; Hearing them ask "is this mom? IS THIS HIS MOM?" 

I'm not sure if I responded. I honestly thought it couldn't be Boston. That was not my baby on a stretcher, my baby must have been in some other room. But then my mom appeared and I remember the look on her face, and I think that is when I almost fell over. Someone tried to lead me into the room, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't look at him like that. It was the most terrifying moment of my life. I recall bits and pieces of what followed after finally joining him in that room where my life changed forever; the shouting; the frantic nurses trying to save him; the woman's face that kneeled beside me to tell me that they couldn't. 

It was such an eerily sad experience being back in that same place. I could see into the room he died in. I remember how it looked sitting from the chair I last held him in. The marker board on the wall with the number 2 on it; the door that led into the nurses station that I was now standing in trying to pay attention to what the doctor was saying about Quinton's X-Ray, but all I could see was that room. I wanted so badly to go in. The lady probably thought I was crazy, but my mind could think of nothing but the detective that I handed my sweet little baby over to that day walking him through the very room I found myself in...I don't even know how to describe what that felt like. Crazy as it sounds, I had the urge to go double check if there was some sign of him in there, because even after 2 years every single part of me wanted to ask if I could have my baby back yet. 

Going to the ER was a very big moment for me. It sucked, it was difficult, and it was draining but it was a milestone in my grief recovery and so I have remained diligent in trying to see the good in that. 

Tomorrow I plan to approach another milestone, but I am panicking. Tomorrow I am bringing Pax to daycare. I am not leaving him there; I am going to stay with him to get a better feel for it, but even saying those words makes my chest hurt.

 There is a part of me that knows this is a good thing. Lots of babies go to daycare. Plenty of daycare providers are wonderful people. Putting him in daycare means pursuing my dream and going to school. That is a such a good thing. But the me that lost Boston is wreaking havoc on the positive that I know exists in this situation. The me that lost Boston is in full blown crisis mode because logic means nothing to the traumatized parts of my soul. 

Some days I am determined to change the world with what the pain I've endured has taught me. Other days, like today, I am forced to face how vulnerable child loss has made me. 

So, to my darling Bosty,

Please keep us safe while I attempt to be graceful in honoring the still very broken parts of my heart, but also the ones that have healed enough to know there are many things out there waiting for me. 

I love you, and I miss you always. 

Thank you

Bosty, 

It has been some time since I have posted in here, but I believe you know that I think of you always either way. I'm still proud as ever that I am your mom and I am sending all my love and the worlds biggest thank you up to you. 

When I use to speak of your death I would talk about how much it has changed me, but it's not just your death that changed me, it's the fact you lived. No where near long enough, but you did. It's your smile that I know some day I will see again. It's the memories I keep tucked away in the most sacred part of my heart. It's that even though you aren't physically here, to me you still exist which means you still influence my every day life and decisions. 

Sometimes it seems more like a dream and I have to remind myself that your life really did happen. You are not a figment of my imagination, but my beautiful fat cheeked baby boy and it is my duty to honor your life each day that I am still here living. 

I recently got a job unlike anything I have done before. I am a resident assistant in a facility that houses severely mentally ill adults. Since this is uncharted territory for me I was quite nervous at first, but even after only being there a month I couldn't be happier that I took that leap. For the first time ever I look forward to working and learning. Something about it just clicks and it has sparked something in me that I'm not sure I would have ever knew existed if it weren't for the fact that you exist in my life. 

You have taught me profound patience, true kindness, and what it means to be resilient and persevere, and I now know that there are people out there that need the things that I know in my heart. I will always wish I could share those things with you, but since I have to wait my lifetime to do so I will share them with those who need it in your name. 

I owe everything I am becoming to you. Thank you for making me better, chubbles. 

I love and I miss you always. 

2 years

In 8 days it will have been 2 years since you were taken from me. I am in a much different place than I was last year. Last year your death was still like this huge gaping wound I was trying to deal with. This year it's like it's no longer an open wound, but there's still a huge ugly scar and it reminds me everyday how much pain I've endured and marks the spot of a still very injured inside. Like if your death was really a scar that people could see they would know how treacherous the path to healing has been, and that there's no way that a full recovery is possible.

This year I am angry. Truly so very angry. I am angry that you should be two years old but instead that is how long you have been gone. I'm angry because I used to have such a clear picture of your face in my mind, but my memories of you are no longer as vivid and it really hurts to say that. Im angry because your death haunts me and has instilled such a fear in me with your brother that we don't leave the house. I'm angry because I learned that I can live without you and it fills me with guilt.

 I spent the first year waiting for the world to stop, I really did. I held so tight to this notion that somehow one day everyone would just understand how I felt inside so I wouldn't have to fix myself. I was prepared to be miserable forever because a part of me felt like it proved my dedication to you. Kind of like a duty as your mother to let the pain of losing you show through in everything I do.
I'm angry that as your mother my only choices were to let your death consume me and fail your brothers in the process, or to figure out a way to live with out you when all I wanted was to live with you. I'm angry because I ache to show my devotion to you but there's simply just no way to really do that because you're not here. I'm angry because I ache to be your mother here and now and I'm angry that the 2 year anniversary is just another in the many to come and slap me in the face with how much time has gone by since I was robbed of my chance to do that. 

I love you, Boston, and I miss you so very much.