I have been sitting here staring at this blinking cursor for a good 20 minutes, not knowing what to write. So many possibilities on what to cover: visitors, memories, feelings, brief field trips into “the real world.” What to focus on? I’m so fractured and broken that I don’t even know where to begin. I count on others to even get me through the day (have you eaten? taken your meds?), that making any type of decision on my own can be agonizing, no matter how minute or unimportant it might be.
For a while, I kept looking for Noah or expecting him to come running into the room. I feel myself slowly letting go of that expectation and it’s agonizing. Because I still clean up breadcrumbs meticulously out of habit, since they make my Celiac disease-afflicted Noah very sick. I sleep in too late and feel guilty for however long the kids might have been watching cartoons and waiting for me to get up and make breakfast. The knocking noise of the fan in my car continues and I can just hear his little voice: “Mommy you STILL haven’t fixed that??” I sit with his urn in my lap, so much lighter than my mother’s was, and stroke it as if he were here. My forays into public places: Walgreen’s, the doctor’s office and Petco, have me clutching the cars Lightning McQueen or The King in one of my hands. I must look like a crazy person. And I feel like one constantly.
I should have a sign or a big stamp on my forehead that says: “Caution: Prone to Sporadic Breakdowns!” It’s been two weeks and one day since Noah’s accident. Since I saw his smiling face. One week and two days since he was pronounced dead at 9:43 pm on July 5. Here I am, halfway through the month of July now and it feels like it’s been about three days. I am existing in slow motion, bewildered and stunned, as the world bustles on around me. I can literally feel the cloud of depression descending. The denial and shock are slowly eroding, leaving me defenseless to whatever the books say is the progression for my grief.
The more mornings I wake up in this vile, cruel reality, the less I want to go to bed at night. Just like six months ago when my mother passed away, I am absolutely furious at the passing of time. I hate every new day for putting more time between now and the last time I saw him playing, smiling, talking…even just laying there motionless with the machines all around and in him. Wow. That anger is almost blinding! How dare another day pass? How dare the sun shine when this has happened? How dare God or who/whatever expect me to go through another day with what seems like a perpetually shattered heart and this endless, unquenchable longing for my son?
I realize this is selfish but I don’t care. Really I don’t. I just want him back. I don’t want him on a shelf, split into two urns; one for Jason and another for me. I want more photos of him. I want to hold him in my lap again. I want to scratch his back and tickle him. I want him to grow and to learn. There were so many things I still had to say to him, stories to tell, games to play. And I am angry that I have to talk about him in past tense: He WAS only six years old. He USED TO love peanut butter waffles. He WOULD think that is so funny. These things all seem to haunt me now and it’s just pure torture.
This was my baby. My son. My little boy. He was sweet and loving and empathetic. He never did anything wrong. He loved the world and learning and he loved people. He didn’t deserve any ill turn of events. And he’s gone. Just like that, right in front of me, he lives no more.