A Planet Called 'Love' - An Ocean Called 'Grief'

It's not as depressing as you think...kind of

[lnd3411]

Bitter Anniversaries

Over the last few days leading up to today, I’ve told myself that I refuse to succumb to the anniversary thing. The anniversary thing where bereaved parents get anxious and nervous and relive the emotions that they felt when they found out that their beloved had left this plane. I promised myself and I berated myself. I made a pact and told myself that time doesn’t exist and neither does this anniversary.

None of that mattered as I drove past the Masjid where Noah’s celebration of life was held. The tears came as I re-experienced walking with my hand placed lightly on his tiny, white coffin down the ramp towards the hearse. They built up and fell harder as I drove past the hospital where my heart was shattered to pieces.

Everything came back.

It’s hard to believe that six months have passed. It’s almost like yesterday that we woke up to an abnormally beautiful, sunny and warm Friday where I showered Noah with all of my love as we got ready that morning. I still remember hugging him extra hard and giving him extra kisses before I strapped him into his car seat. I still remember the way he looked at me when I dropped him off at day care, almost like, “Go to school mommy, I’ll be okay.” And for the first time actually thinking about skipping class to take him to the park and get our weekend started right.

It’s hard to believe that it was six months ago that, as I intently studied for an upcoming exam, I received the worst call any mother could get.

“Meet us at the hospital, there’s been an accident.”

My legs get tired as I relive running all the way from Neckers to get to my car across campus. The pain in my chest comes back as I drive behind slow people who don’t seem to understand that my baby needs me and that I have to get to the hospital.

My heart begins to pound as I anxiously find a park and enter the ER to find that Noah’s not there yet. To remember the look in the ER intake’s eyes after I tell him whom I’m there for as he lies and says he has no information.

The shock and numbness as they wheel my baby’s lifeless body into the hospital.

The blood-curdling scream aches my throat and I fall to the floor again after the doctor tells me that there is nothing more they could have done.

These anniversaries do mean something in the beginning. To me, right now, with these tears streaming down my face, they mean remembering the time before. They mean getting back to a frame of mind where only smiles and happiness live, the good memories. Even though that’s not where I’m at right now, I hope that by the end of day I can remember that: “There’s really end, there’s really no beginning. There’s really no real, there’s really no pretending. There’s really no fail, there’s really no winning, ‘cause nothing really is, and everything really isn’t. I gotta keep going.” – Jhene Aiko

Noah Ahmad Burch, I loved you before I knew you, and I will love you for eternity more. You are infinitely the love of my life.

[lnd3411]

Being Alive and Merely Living

Every morning I wake up and I think to myself (or sometimes say out loud): “I really don’t know how I’m still alive.”

I really don’t know how I’m still alive.

When I found out that I was pregnant with Noah, I dedicated my whole life to him and to becoming the best me that I could be to help him grow into the best him that he could be. For the first time in my life I felt as though life was worth living…fully.

We tend to think that if we are breathing and can move and can work and do whatever it is that we do from day to day, that we’re alive, but I have to disagree; what that is, is merely surviving. Being alive and living fully involve living a life of purpose and engaging consciously in our day-to-day activities. It is being aware of our breath, it is being aware of the feelings we get when we interact with other people. It is being able to understand and accept all of our experiences, no matter how big or small.

I remember being alive up until about the age of twelve. Something happened in my life around that time that caused me to switch to autopilot and just survive. I lived like that until I discovered Muay Thai at around age 23, and it became that one thing that I could look forward to. It was something that taught me discipline and dedication.

It wasn’t long after I began my Muay Thai journey that I found out that I was pregnant. From that day forward I became consciously aware of everything in a different way that I had been with Muay Thai, as best as I could. Things weren’t perfect, and neither was I, but I was doing my best.

As time went on, things got better and I grew more. I became more compassionate and understanding, I appreciated what I’d been given and the love and opportunities that came into my life. Most of all, I learned what absolute true, unconditional love was and what it was like to live selflessly and for the happiness of someone other than myself. I even sacrificed the security that came with being in the military and having that guaranteed check every 1st and 15th because of the love that I experienced with my son and because of the compassion that he taught me.

With Noah, I felt so alive. I felt like I could accomplish anything. With Noah, I wrote a whole novel, I wrote a whole screenplay, I painted numerous pieces of art, I went to school full-time, I worked full-time, and every time I saw my precious baby boy’s face I became so energized. With all of what I had going on, going on, I still had plenty of time and energy to give Noah every minute and second of me that he needed and wanted.

This past April 30th marked the third month since my son left his physical body and went back to that place I feel like is our true home. Three whole months I’ve had to live without him, without his handsome smile, without his beautiful eyes, without his kisses, without his arms around my neck, without his silly dancing, without the love of my life.

Without Noah, it’s been three whole months since I’ve been really, truly, alive. So I guess, in actuality, I should be saying, “I really don’t know how I’m still living,” because I don’t know how it’s possible. I have not been alive since the doctor told me that Noah didn’t make it, that there was no way that his little body could have survived against a three-ton truck. I haven’t been alive since the guilt set in that I wasn’t there at the accident, that I couldn’t protect him, that mommy wasn’t even there to hold him when he crossed back over to where he came from.

Every time I run during a workout, I relive how I ran half a mile to my car to get to the hospital after I got the call, and I die a little more inside. When you see me smile or hear me laugh, there is something missing there, something important, something necessary. My passion for life, for being alive, for recognizing the significance in a simple breath left when Noah took his last one.

Like many bereaved parents, I want nothing more than to feel alive again, but it’s just not the same. I want Noah to be here, too, to see how much he makes me feel as though I can do anything! I want to see his eyes light up with the simple, silly things that I used to do to make him smile, because I felt so alive.

When they say, “Cherish every moment as if it were your last,” I can’t agree more, especially when you have others who you may hold dear or who hold you dear. One thing I’ve learned is that life truly can change in an instant.

[sisterlogic]

To all the tough mommas out there.

[lnd3411]

549 Pictures

Today I just received an order that I’d placed with Shutterfly about a week ago. That order contained 549 pictures of Noah that had been taken over the course of about a year and some change. I don’t know why I felt the need to take so many pictures and all of the time of him. The majority of the photos I’d taken were when I was off of social media, so that reason is off the board.

I guess I just loved to take pictures of him. That can be a reason, too. Seeing him happy and smiling and having fun was one of the greatest things that I experienced as his mother, and I was able to capture those moments, as well as the love that we shared.

Despite all of that, 549 pictures cannot bring my baby back. It cannot awaken his physical body from the eternal slumber that it is locked into, nor will they ever bring back the baby kisses or the toddler fingers that once held onto me as though I was the most important person in his life.

Those pictures can, however, remind me of our love and induce my muscle memory to bring back the feeling of caressing his little nose and the way his toes felt between my fingers. They remind me of the way his hair felt as I stroked his head during nap time. They can remind me of his spirit, the immortal aspect of him that will never cease to exist.

So to the me of the last four years, thank you for whatever compelled you to take so many pictures of our baby boy. They keep him alive more than you’ll ever know.

[lnd3411]

A Sense of Powerlessness

Noah was a child filled with so much spirit. He was an intense lover of life, and luckily, a lover of his mommy. Anything that he did, he did it with such passion that you'd think he was a little old man. That old man-ness was a thing that I'd felt from him since he was a little baby. He'd go into these deep space-out moments where I could tell he wasn't in this "reality" for some moments. Other times I'd find him walking around with his hands in his pockets or behind his back, just...walking. The hardest thing, the thing I struggle with the most is how a child with so much spirit, so much life in one moment, be so lifeless in the next. As a person who can only rely on this physical reality and the 5 senses that we're allotted, it's a difficult task to remember that energy never dies. Even Einstein said so. Energy cannot just cease to exist. It has to move on to something else. We are energy using human bodies as vessels for a very short period of "time", and when our "time" is up, that energy that animates our physical bodies goes somewhere. We may not understand it, especially those of us who have lost children and witnessed just how animated their beautiful little bodies can be, but it's natural law. Energy in motion stays in motion and matter barely exists as we believe it does. Our bodies are 99.9% space (as is everything else that has its made of matter.) The idea of us as humans is more real than the "reality" of us as humans is. So if we think about it that way, the real question is "where did the energy of my child go, and can I go there some day?" I don't know the answer to that question for sure, but for me personally, my son is in the Land of Light. Last night was the first night I didn't take sleeping meds. Granted it was rough, but I made it. Some time during that sleep, though, Noah came to me, just his beautiful face and smiled. He smiled so big and his was made of pure light. He stayed maybe give seconds, but it was the best five seconds I've had since he passed on. It truly let me know that while he's not here physically, he is still here as he was before he became physical: light. There are definitely beautiful moments in grief, beautiful, healing moments that remind us to be compassionate and loving, because that is all our children know now, is love.

[lnd3411]

Been listening to this song on repeat. All of the things I want to know, my Noah Bear

[lnd3411]

Thinking of You

Lenny Kravitz is playing in my ears, a song that I used to listen to as a child, but am only now just understanding the meaning. It’s about a son who is still on earth while his mother is up in heaven. He asks her all of these questions about heaven and then tells her that he thinks of her and all of the things she wanted him to be. He tells her that he’s trying to be those things.

It’s hard to explain my grief without starting from the beginning; it’s hard to talk about this grief without explaining the deep love that made this grief what it is.

I’ll get to the beginning one of these days, but for now, I just want to think about the love of my life missing in action and all of the things that I wanted to be for him.

[lnd3411]

Sometimes You Just Have to Jump

Writing has always been an outlet for me, especially when my brain just won't shut up. It helps to quiet things down so that I can just "be" and stop worrying or over-thinking things. So, here I am, in the land of the blogs again. This time, I actually have something to talk about other than the ramblings of my mind. This time, I really need to have a blog because, otherwise, I will spontaneously combust with all of the words and the feelings that spin around at light speed up there in the old cranium.

This time...I feel the need to possibly help other women who may be in the same boat as me, the boat that we don't have while we navigate through an ocean that we never knew existed; the ocean called Grief that we involuntarily jump into when we lose a child.

So, as I write these painful words, I will pepper them with a little bit of hope for the near-future. Grief lasts for a lifetime. There is no end to it; it just becomes easier to deal with over time. What helps to get to that point is the ability to have gratitude for the time we got and to remember the amazing love that we shared with our children. There is no room for sorrow in a heart that is filled with love and gratitude. Unfortunately, sometimes we don't have the ability to always feel that love and gratitude, but we can remember that it is an option once we get from under one of those ravaging waves.

Here's to this new blogging journey and the remembrance, love, and gratitude that will come from it.