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.