Today marks 22 years since the passing of my son. To be honest, the saying “time heals all wounds” is bullshit. Time does not heal ALL wounds and I can tell you every year on this day my heart breaks all over again. The tears come whether I want them to or not, the pain tears through me like a physical blow and there is nothing to do but ride the tidal wave of grief until it subsides. I can say that the pain does recede and becomes that low hum in the background. Sometimes it rears its head when I least expect it but mostly it stays quietly in the background, always there but tucked in its place in the part of my heart where the broken ruins of loss remain forever. I know that sounds dramatic but to make it sound less is to pretend, to try to make it less uncomfortable for someone who doesn’t know what it feels like.
My son was a baby, he was dying before he was born and died on his journey into my arms. I never heard his voice, I never saw his eyes open or felt his breath. I don’t have a lifetime of memories of his growing up only the phantom space of where he should be. In my heart I see him along side his sisters grown, handsome, strong. For a long time I felt I didn’t have a right to such grief I know others who lost grown children surely that is a more tangible grief? Yet it is there. He was here, he was real I held him in my arms I felt him move and kick in my belly and most of all I loved and wanted him with all of my heart.
My friend Jessica gave me the greatest gift in the world and that was a place and permission to grieve my son, to not keep it to myself to not keep him to myself and reminded me that I am his mom always.
My eldest daughter was 2 1/2 when he died and she took it harder than I would have expected any child to even comprehend. I had to take my 2 year old to grief counseling for gods sake. Yet in her child's mind she healed by making him a part of her world. When an animal died, her brother had it so it was less sad.. he needed a cat. When she would throw her ball in the air she would ask him to catch it from heaven and if that ball was lost she believed he kept it. She would chatter to him constantly. To her he was real, he was here, she had felt him move in my belly and wanted him so badly. It was never a thought that talking about him was strange to her she knew him and he was hers. Every year if we aren’t together we are connected. She is grown now and still, he is hers.
A few years ago we made a plaque for the music box that holds his ashes, the first word under his name is brother.
My baby’s name was Chance and for the rest of my days I will be his mom.
