I didn’t just lose my child.
On April 8, 2016 my son passed away and with him went my entire life. When you lose your child you lose your security, your hope, your comfort, your light heartedness, your compassion, and your empathy. You lose the ability to think simply, to go with the flow, or enjoy a carefree evening. You lose sleep. You lose contentment. You lose friends. You lose patience. You lose excitement.
You also gain some things…anxiety, anger, doubt, confusion, heaviness, bitterness, emptiness. The list could go on.
What people don’t realize is that losing a child touches every single piece, moment, and area of your life for the rest of your life. You are never the same. Every single joy also comes with sorrow. Every single moment also comes with a what if. What if he were here? What would he be like now? What would we be doing. There is always a hollow feeling in the room. A missing piece.
Remember when you were younger and you used to float around the water in an inner tube? You blissfully paddled along laughing and splashing until you slipped through the middle and suddenly realized you were in the deep end and didn’t know how to swim. Your security floated away and you were left drowning, gasping for air, trying to keep your head above water. You inhaled so much liquid you felt like you needed to puke and every splash of people jumping and laughing around you was amplified and pushed you deeper under. You looked up and what was once a bright and sunny day was now dim and blurry. The water sloshed above and around you and you could hardly keep yourself afloat no matter how fast you paddled your feet? That is what it feels like EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.
My days are now filled with confusion. Nothing is simple. Everything is hard and complicated and exhausting. A single trip to the zoo with my daughter feels wrong because I should be taking two children instead of one. Planning holidays or get togethers with friends is too much to bear. Simple tasks like checking the mail or answering the phone now bring fear and worry because another bill or call from insurance could send me into a spiral of tears that ransacks the entire day. I am riddled with anxiety because the unthinkable has happened and I’m on guard for the next shoe to drop.
I maintained security in the fact that so many bad things had happened already. I’d seen trauma. I’d overcome the odds. Surely there was no way I’d lose my son too and then I did. Now I’m afraid. Afraid to lose everything I love. Afraid to be out in big crowds. Afraid to be alone because my mind is just waiting for what’s next. I see the blank stares and the sad eyes. They cut like knives.
AND not only do I feel all of these new things, but then I feel guilty for feeling them. I know I shouldn’t be anxious, but I am. I feel terrible for getting upset when I see new babies born or happy families who don’t have to fight just to stay afloat. I don’t want those feelings, but they are now mine for a season because, you see, I didn’t just lose my child, I lost me. I had taken on this new role as a mother of two. A heart mom. A mom of a boy and a girl. I lost my identity and was left with its shattered remains. Now I’m on the uphill journey to find myself again, but this time is different. This time I am new. This time I am a bereaved mother and it’s a title I carry with unending heartache.