Everything is gray

I hate hearing sirens. I wasn't even there when that sound filled the neighborhood my son was in but I absolutely despise the noise knowing it's an announcement to everyone around that something is most likely terribly wrong. Every time I see or hear one I wonder if it's the one Bosty was in. I remember pulling up to the ER and seeing it through the tiny little windows on the garage connected to the hospital. I still really can't believe it was my baby. When we let balloons go last Wednesday I remember thinking how amazing it would be if I arrived and he was just there. 

The balloons really were so beautiful, but not even comparable to Boston. I would truly never wish this pain on anyone but I want to understand why it had to be him. Why it had to be me? Why my family? It's a very hard thing to explain, but him dying was and is still shocking. When people ask me about him and tell me how much they can't imagine what im going through I think they expect some type of answer, but I really don't have one. I'm pretty sure the only thing I've ever responded with is that it's been very hard. Somebody perfectly healthy dying is always hard to wrap your mind around, but especially a baby. They are such a representation of the future and when they die so much is lost and the future you thought you had disappears. 

There really is a constant cloud over my life. The feeling of doom never leaves. I hate that too. I constantly see "inspiring" quotes and bible verses that explain that no matter what happens to you, it's up to you yourself and/or God to make your life positive and that no bad feeling is permanent. It makes me want to scream. No offense, but some things are permanent and positivity isn't really a mindset easily captured after watching life's most horrible nightmare unfold in front of your own eyes. Everything is so scary now. I was not chosen for this and having people tell me that I will someday understand and see why this happened is baffling to me. I wish it was true and I don't say this to insult anyone, but I really want to know what positive thing could ever come from handing my own incredibly perfect and beautiful son over to a detective after watching him die.

Boston's death is as endless as the time without him seems to be and while I would love to have his 68 days on this earth bring good, the cloud hanging over my head will forever cast a shadow that no amount of good nor light will ever out shine. The only other thing as endless as all of this is my love for him. Talk about irreplaceable...

"There is, I am convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.” -Charlotte Bronte

The day after

I get so anxious when any type of "anniversary" revolving around my sons death comes. I worry and worry and then it arrives and I worry some more. For example yesterday, June 17th, exactly 3 months since he died. It was hard. I'm filled with sadness and typically ache even more the day after the "anniversary" 

I think it is because I worry so much and reluctantly count down the minutes, hours, and days until it arrives, and then the day after comes and reality once again reminds me the world really is still spinning without him. No amount of wishing, praying, begging, crying, or sadness will return Boston to me. I'm stuck in this mess and whether I someday get to a better place or not, there will really never be an end or a way out. 

I send him balloons quite often. I always pray they get to him. Watching them disappear out of sight into the sky brings a certain sort of sadness because just like wondering where those balloons really go, I wonder where he is. What cloud is my chubbles on and why can't anyone point it directly out to me so when I'm looking for him I know? 

I miss him and I will never get over all of the "if only's" that fill each of my days. I wish doing everything I can to remember and honor him would just bring him back. I want to kick and cry and scream because I know that it won't.

We sent Boston around 90 balloons yesterday. My friend Angela sent her daughter, Zoey, around 40 at the same time. The same unidentifiable monster that took my Bosty claimed Zoey on May 7th. I hate that she knows my pain but am thankful to have someone to spend time with where words aren't necessary, we just understand how much pain is involved in each breath that we take. 

To Boston, to Zoey, to every angel baby out there. You are loved. 

"If I could wish one thing, I'd hear you call my name."

Wishing

Oh my sweet, sweet, Bosty

I am having such a hard time. I just can't believe it has been exactly 5 months since I was sitting in our upstairs recliner begging you to please grace us with your presence, and that moments later you decided to listen. Your grandma and I had just gotten home from eating at Bagel Boy with Aunt Stacy. I walked upstairs after arriving home and sat down to watch our favorite show "Last Man Standing" but of course had to pee the second I did. I got up and not even two steps later my water broke. The day I had been endlessly wishing for was finally here, you were coming! Grandma was grabbing something out of the car and when she came back in I yelled down from the top of the stairs "Mom, my water broke!" 

She called your Aunt Stacy right away and told her tonight is the night and we needed to get to the hospital. I called my doctor to let her know, packed a few more things in our bag, and off we went. The drive there felt like it took an eternity, only because at that point those contractions were certainly making themselves known. By the time we got there and to the correct floor I was not pleased to find I had to stand at the front desk mid contractions filling out paper work. It really did hurt. I had told myself I was going to do it naturally as I had with your big brother, but decided to get an epidural a couple hours later because I remember all too well the intense pain that was coming. Once I was given the epidural I actually fell asleep. I was awoken by my doctor to be checked, and to my surprise she said it was time to push. Not even 10 minutes later you were placed on my chest. I had already loved you, but I can't describe just how wonderful my heart felt finally having you there in my arms. You were too beautiful for words. 

Never did I think 5 months later I would be sitting here helplessly wishing for the same thing. I never knew just how much you can miss someone. I am trying so hard to do right by you, Bosty.

I will fight until death of me to make sure it happens, but I can't lie and say that I don't need you. 

When I lost you I did not just lose your chubby 2 month old self. I lost ever hearing you laugh, seeing you crawl, walk, talk, your birthdays, each holiday, the man you would have become, the husband, and the grand babies you may have some day blessed me with. I will struggle for the rest of my life without you because you truly were such a blessing. I love you more than a million words could ever explain. 

Happy 5 months, chubbles! I wish so badly you were here. 

"Some people believe in angels. I held one."

I hope you got your balloons. Of course your big brother said his made it to you first and "won" again. 

I've been hard to love

In the months since my son died I have learned more than I probably would have in my entire life. Unfortunately, they've been cruel lessons and my heart aches to not know them. One of them is finding that my loved ones and the people that I thought would be there to catch me aren't actually waiting to do so like I had figured they would. 

I think it's a combination of everyone else's world still spinning even though I feel like mine has stopped, and that I have been kind of hard to love lately. There is an unintentional selfishness that comes after losing a child. I don't try to be selfish and in ways I'm not sure if that's even the right word, but I can't deny that I am entirely consumed by my own situation and feelings. I now live in an entirely different reality than pretty much everyone I know. Not that I was "innocent" before Boston's death, but losing a child robs you of being naive to anything in life or ever again experiencing that ignorance is bliss. I experienced first hand that life can change in an instant and that death and tragedy don't care if you are a good person, good mother, or if you're good at anything at all. When they come, they come, and when they do the only thing guaranteed is that you will never be the same. 

I think that some people feel that if they don't acknowledge my pain that it's not there, but it is present every single second of the day. My sons death has taken over each and every part of my life. My "new normal" is nothing being normal at all. Simple things are no longer simple, and no matter what I am doing anxiety cripples me in ways I can't explain. It's so frustrating that no matter how much I try to explain or put it into words, very few people understand what this type of pain feels like. If anything comes from my own terrifying "new life" my hope is that it is help for others who might ever have tragedy steal everything they thought they knew about life from them. So, here are some important things to remember if you love someone that's lost a child. 

We don't know what we're doing. Literally and figuratively. I honestly had no idea just how hard life could be and living with that is difficult and terrifying. Feeling lost no matter where you go and only thinking of your child no matter what you're doing makes it hard to do anything at all. So, when you see us and we have the same look on our face as the little one who can't find their mom in isle 5, even though she was just right there, it's because we're the moms who can't find all the love that was lost when OUR child left us forever. 

You can't take our pain away. You can help us struggle through it, but you cannot make it go away. It's not because you're incompetent and don't know how, it's because we lost the most precious form of love and it's truly irreplaceable. 

Keep your promises. If you're a friend or family member of someone that has lost a child and you promised to be there to support us, then please do it, or just don't bother saying you will. Life has insulted us enough and the last thing we need is your empty promises in a time where emptiness is all we know. 

Help us remember our children. It is terrifying and horrible to find that as time goes on the vividness of our memories fade. The first time I went through my sons clothes I sat on my bed with his outfits for hours because they smelled just like him. That scent is starting to fade and it truly kills me. Not that anyone can stop the scent of my son fading from his clothes, but I don't ever get to put him back in them or make new memories with him, so keeping the ones that I do have alive is more important than words can explain.

You talking about our child isn't reminding us that they're gone. I have not once escaped these thoughts since his death, so please, don't think you're hurting me by asking about him. Acknowledging his life makes me smile because it is important for me to know others remember him, and if they never met him that they care how much he changed my life. Plus, it's the only thing that is ever on my mind anyways, but please do remember there is a huge difference between caring and being nosey, and yes, we can tell. 

Be patient. We're learning. I remember the first time I showered after his death. I didn't want to because it was one of the things on a long list of "firsts" after losing him. Taking the clothes off I last held him in. Showering for the first time knowing my arms would never hold him again. Eating for the first time. Driving for the first time. Everything feels wrong after losing a child. No matter how minuscule the task, we are now doing it with the weight of the world on our shoulders. Please don't get frustrated with us. We're not exaggerating, it really is this hard. 

There will always be something missing no matter what is going on around us. I'm thankful for the people that have tried to give me an escape from this nightmare, but going out and being around people is more often than not terrifying and does not make the constant ache for my son go away. Anxiety is crippling and the last place I want to feel that impending doom start to attack is in a crowd of random people. 

If you're close to us and met our child we know that you lost something too, but learning how to handle our own grief is hard enough. We aren't trying to be selfish or ignore your sadness. We just already don't know what to do with our own. 

We are trying. We don't know where we are trying to go or get to because we can't get to the only place we want to be, which is with our child, but we are trying. We don't want to wallow in misery or be filled with constant pain, however, we were thrown into a giant black hole filled with both and fighting to get out of that is unbelievably difficult. Don't add your judgement to this struggle, just offer a helping hand and if that means keeping your mouth shut as you extend it, then so be it. 

We need you to love us and believe in us. The quote that says "It takes a village to raise a child" should be re-worded as "It takes a village to help a grieving mother." Not that I want anyone and everyone in my business, however, I do want help acknowledging the struggle that presents its self when losing a child or infant without reason. There's so many misconceptions out there about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome and Sudden Unexplained Infant Death Syndrome. My son wasn't smothered by a blanket or put in a crib with a bunch of pillows or other frowned upon belongings. He was in a safe place and I was told that they literally have no idea why he died. Doctors and most people in general don't talk about these "syndromes" and there's not munch funding going towards research. I want to save as many people as possible from knowing what this pain is like, but since most people don't know, they also don't care to actively pursue cures. Help us raise awareness about the mysterious monster who stole our child. It means the world... 

I know I can't speak for every mother out there because every situation is different. I just want to help, because at this point it's one of the only things I can do to honor my son. I've shared a lot of very private things on this blog because I will not sugar coat the reality of my loss. I want my son to bring good things to this world, but it's up to me to make that happen and never let his name be forgotten. When I say I will never give up on doing that, I mean each and every word. 

I love you, Bosty. This week is going to be hard. Tuesday will mark 12 weeks since you left me and also the day you would have turned into one incredibly loved 5 month old. I can only imagine, and trust me I try to all the time. I'll be sending you some balloons. I hope you smile. I cannot wait for the day I see you again and pray that I will find you've been watching how hard I am fighting to keep going, and that you can tell me if your big brothers balloons actually always "win." Q and I need you more than ever so please, please, send those angels to watch over us.

Thinking of you always and constantly praying you know exactly how much we love you. Sweet dreams my angel baby, and all of my love.

Maybe one day we'll find that place where you and I could be together. And we'll catch our dreams within the waves of change. So smile for me one last time and believe that we'll meet again. Until then, I'll be missing you." 

- R. M. Drake 

Missing you terribly

I never really knew about death before my son passed. I had attended a couple of my great grandparents funerals and recall how different they were in the times I had visited them right before they died, but there is truly nothing like holding your child and feeling life escape them. He continuously got colder as I held him. The feeling of resting my cheek on his forehead is forever etched into my being.

It bothered me at first to touch his skin while at the hospital, because that is just not how the Bosty I knew felt. It was not my precious baby boy that I had woken up right next to less than 10 hours before. It was not the baby I laid in bed with in my arms feeding while waiting for the sun to rise. It was not the boy who's forehead I kissed multiple times before leaving their daycare unknowingly seeing him alive for the last time. 

I was use to him laying in my arms while watching Quinton wreak havoc in our living room. I was use to the Bosty that napped for hours as I held him, not the one that got colder by the minute all wrapped up in hospital blankets. He still had his sleeper on and his own blanket around him, but had a large white hospital sheet wrapped tightly around him also. His right eye for some reason always stayed ever so slightly open when he was asleep. It was the same way the day that he died. Shortly before having to say my last goodbyes to him my grandma was sitting next to me as I held him and I remember her saying "Oh Boston, close those eyes." She ran her fingers over his eyelids, forever closing that tiny little slit he peaked out of. 

I am traumatized to say the least. It took about 6 weeks for the reality of it all to hit me but in the last month I have not had even one remotely okay day. Not that I have really had any since his death, but there was at least days that I could function. I can't seem to do that anymore. I literally drive to work and sit outside trying to convince myself to go in. I can't really describe the war that rages inside of myself. I try to tell myself that I can do it and I want more than anything to make my sweet angel proud, along with his big brother, but there is something inside of me constantly screaming to just go home or to his daycare providers house. That's usually where I end up. I know not many people understand how I can go there, let alone accept anything that the woman who last saw my son alive has to say, but I feel him when I am there and know how much she loved him. She made him his own cubby when I was about 7 and a half months pregnant. His name is still plastered in big blue letters in the same place. 

The first time I went to her house after his death was the same day I went to his doctors office and had his pediatrician explain his autopsy to me. The report was quite obvious in the sense that it repeatedly stated "no abnormalities" but I had a few questions anyways. I cried the whole way there and almost left after parking my car outside of her house. It was a terrifying form of déjà vu to drive along the roads I had typically taken to drop my children off. I had actively avoided them until that day. It took me a few weeks after my first time there to go into the room he had technically died in. 

I wish more than anything I could know the exact second my son took his last breath. It probably sounds morbid but I wish I could see it for myself, exactly what happened in his last moments. What was he thinking? Was he scared? Did he want his mommy? I would have ran so fast...

The room he was in was a peaceful one. The pack n play was placed right next to her own daughters bed. It is a maroon colored room and a small lamp served as just the right amount of light for nap time along with the slight sunshine that seeped through the blinds. People have treated her as if she is a criminal. I wish they knew what I do and could understand the second she picked my child up out of that pack n play that her entire life came crashing down too. She told me she screamed "Boston, breathe!" He didn't. I'm not mad at my son, but I wish I could ask him why he left. He was so very loved and wanted and knowing I won't ever have that answer is debilitating. 

Until a few days ago I haven't really touched the urn that holds my sons ashes. I have walked passed it many of times, and not that I've ignored it because I am always well aware of it's presence, but I haven't had it in me to really pick it up until recently. It is tiny and very light and it never fails to shock me that the precious boy I loved with all my heart now resides in a vase. 

I miss you, Boston. Every. Single. Day. 

"Come up to meet you
Tell you I'm sorry

You don't know how lovely you are

I had to find you

Tell you I need you

Tell you I set you apart

Tell me your secrets

And ask me your questions

Oh let's go back to the start

Running in circles; coming up tails

Heads on a science apart

Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part

Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard

Oh take me back to the start

I was just guessing at numbers and figures

Pulling your puzzles apart

Questions of science; science and progress

Do not speak as loud as my heart

Tell me you love me

Come back and haunt me

Oh and I rush to the start

Running in circles, chasing our tails

Coming back as we are

Nobody said it was easy

Oh it's such a shame for us to part

Nobody said it was easy

No one ever said it would be so hard

I'm going back to the start.."