It's been two months since that tragic morning when I awoke in a nightmare that I have yet to escape. Two months since I've held my sweet bug, nursed him, sang to him, or blew raspberries into his bellybutton. Two months since his sister has seen him. Two months since I've heard the screams from deep within both my husband and me.
Some days I still snap my head up when I hear the cat meow because it sounds like Charlie crying and some days it feels like I've never had another child except for Adaline. There are days where I rush frantically to my computer to find an image of his sweet face because the only one in my mind at the moment is his blue streaked cheeks and I need to see that smile to make it go away. There are times when I can smell him and see him so clearly, and then hours will go by where he feels like a beautiful dream and I can't wait to go back to sleep so that I can see him and be with him again.
I fear the future, and long for it at the same time. I hate every day that I spend without him and the fact that the days keep coming and going is a testament to the fact that life goes on without him- an unfair truth that no mother wants to admit. Our children are our world, and it's hard to know that the world doesn't need your child in order for it to keep on turning and existing like it did before your child and after your child. I feel guilty for getting further from the pain, further from the idea of him being here with me. But I long for the distance between his death and our life. I want to look back at this whole experience and smile about how lucky I was to get to spend such an amazing 10 weeks with a perfect, wonderful little boy.
That will never happen- and I know it. Like everything bad that happens to us, we just can't wait for it to be over. Nightmares, bad trips, terrible jobs, physical pain: these things almost always come to an end. They are over at some point. I think I'm coming to the realization that no matter how many months come between me and that terrible, terrible day the missing him and having an inherent sadness inside of us will never just be over.
I remember my husband wanting to see him before the funeral. I didn't want to, but I knew David needed me to be there with him, so I did. After the initial shock of seeing his body, careful examination of him, and some deep, guttural crying, we sat there. Just sat there with him and hung out, like he was just sleeping. It was so peaceful, just looking over at him every now and then and seeing him was the last comfort he brought us. He was there, we were in the same room. We never wanted it to end, and burying him was so hard. Burying him made it clear that we'd never have that moment again- he'd never just be across the room sleeping. He was in the ground. Gone away from me forever.
I've come a long way in the past two months- since the morning that I woke up in my worst nightmare,since the day we saw him after my family and friends dressed his little body and presented him to us, since that beautiful sunny day when we buried him and my fingers where intertwined with the grass and dirt as I kneeled on the ground scream-whispering, "Not my baby, not my baby."
It's been a long two months. But after 10 counseling sessions, multiple drunken nights, multiple panic attacks, several late night chats with friends, two short weeks on anti depressants (which got me out of a funk, but I have now stopped them for personal reasons), I can say to you that I am ok.
I can go into a grocery store- even ones like Whole Foods where there are tons of mamas wearing their babies and even some nursing, I can hold babies, I can eat food, I can drive my car, I can parent my child without help most of the time, I can cook meals without burning everything, and I can think about what I might need to do tomorrow. I can do most of this without falling apart- most of the time.
I give myself a little bit of time to grieve my son everyday. Just a little bit- to look at his pictures, think of him, smell his spit up covered blanket, or just hold him in my thoughts for a moment- the happy him. He was amazing, and I got to have him for a little bit. I do have to say, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.