A couple of weeks ago, I attended a grief group for mothers. Here’s the honest truth. Of the 30 or so women who attended, probably a third lost their child—mostly kids Frick’s age or a bit older–in car accidents. Another third lost their child in a motorcycle accident. As we held hands and each of us introduced ourselves, shared our child’s name, how they…passed (I really hate saying that), and how long it had been, something hit me. I wanted to be different. I didn’t want to stand in a room and recite that it had been 21 months and three days since Noah was gone. I didn’t want to remember “that” anniversary in that way. For the past month, I have told myself to focus on the positive, to try to find our new normal. I told myself I would not mention those anniversaries, and I most certainly will not live by them–I still wont.
Well, try as I might, I cannot help but sit here and know that today has been one month since my son got in his car, drove away, and our life would never be the same. This time of day a month ago, I was having breakfast with my son. I made him a ham and cheese sandwich and fruit. He drank milk. We were sitting at the kitchen counter at my dad’s house and things were normal. Things were fine. And now, they just aren’t fine. None of this is fine. None of this is fair. I don’t want to have to think about how I feel like I lost my child twice—once a month ago today and once again on Father’s Day. I don’t want any of it.
Many of you have asked how we are doing, how Frack is doing, how the husband is doing. Honestly, we are just trying to get through the day, every day. The husband is back at work. Some days are good. Some not so much. He comes home earlier and we try to find new routines to make things easier. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it makes things worse. Frack’s spark is gone. He has lost his best friend. He spends his time playing video games on his brother’s computer and counting the days until he can get to North Carolina to see his friends. Thank God we are leaving tomorrow. When he’s not playing video games or spending time with us, he is under a blanket in his room, watching YouTube, hiding. He has two friends here and he sees them as much as he can, but they have both been gone on vacation with their families, or we have been gone. He’s going to Crossfit with me, which is good, but getting him out the door is hard. It’s easier under the blanket, because facing the world sucks.
We cry. A lot. We are quiet. A lot. We are not the care-free family we were a month ago. Things aren’t funny, except the occasional story about Noah. We can’t watch movies without crying, even if they are comedies, because inevitably there will be some brotherly moment, a mother/son dance at a wedding, or some other reminder of what Noah could have been. We don’t want to plan trips. We don’t want to celebrate anything. Every. moment. is a grind.
And it all started a month ago today. This is our life now. And yes, it will get easier, or so I’ve been told. But right now, it’s just sucky. People ask what they can do to support us. We have no idea. Our needs change minute by minute. What’s helpful one day is painful the next. Super not fair to all of you. Just bear with us as we try to figure out our life.
Okay, I’m stepping off my soap box now.
I’ll go back to being positive tomorrow.
Thanks for letting me rant.