It has been too long since I’ve written. There is no excuse – other than the fact that this numbness thing has made stringing multiple sentences together an elusive feat. Everyone who knows me could attest that I express the contents of my heart best through the written word. I realize that talking proves to be the most efficient and effective form of communication for most people. Apparently, I am not most people; at least not when I’m expected to express emotions by talking. So much of what I want to say remains unvoiced when I have to rely on my mouth to keep up with my brain. (Momma is a quick thinker. But when matters of the heart are at play, the right words don’t always catch up with my speedy brain…much less find their way out of my mouth. Ironically, in situations that it’d behoove me to be at a loss for words – thoughts fly out of my mouth all too quickly. It’s gotten me into trouble every now and again. Largely because the things that fall out of my mouth, when not speaking with my heart, happen to include the “F” word…usually more than once. And also because most people don’t appreciate the versatility of the word as much as I do.)
In hindsight, writing to you proved to be a helpful way for me to process my grief. I guess it took me until January to begin writing because that’s when my grief-induced numbness started to wear off. Each time I wrote, little pieces of my heart grew closer together. Uniting my scattered, yet most sacred, thoughts into a coherent and heart-felt voice allowed a tiny sliver of my soul to come back to life. Given I had lost my beloved child, to a gruesome and horrific disease – just six months prior, I don’t think my emotional paralysis was uncommon or unacceptable. As it turns out, others thought differently.
Two months ago a deep-freeze-Novocain-shot-to-the-heart-type-numbness returned. This round being induced by a choice, not a disease, feels entirely different…yet strangely familiar. Apparently, numbness is how I spare myself from pain so profound that, if absorbed, it would kill me. I never understood how Aron Ralston, the hiker who got trapped under a boulder for 127 hours in the mountains of Utah, managed to severe off his arm to dislodge himself and save his life. Now it makes perfect sense. Mr. Ralston cut off his arm; I cut off my feelings. Survival: I guess it is an involuntary reflex after all.
I am glad I survived until today, because today you would have turned 14 months. Before I even opened my eyes this morning, I knew it was the 12th. I knew it was 14 months. Instead of letting my eyes give way to the tears which all too often push their way past my lids and down my cheeks, I closed them a little tighter. As I did, I was met with a vision of you so vivid that if I’d reached inside my eyes, I could’ve grabbed onto you. You held onto the railing of your crib as you bounced just high enough to make me nervous…but too excited to make you stop. Across your sweet face spread your trademark, semi-lopsided, contagious smile which was so fierce that it pushed your cheeks against the bottoms of your baby-blue eyes. You had on fuzzy pj’s – – through which your diaper, being extra squishy, made your dupa stick out a little further than the rest of you. The babble you uttered was purposeful in nature – – as you were luring Momma to your room to swoop you into my arms for a good-morning kiss and love-packed squeeze.
I could have watched you all morning. But just as quickly as you came – you were gone. When that happens, especially in a semi-sleep state, I am still not sure if you actually came to visit, or if I simply conjured up a desired reality. Either way, I feel as close to you as I can possibly get – which makes my heart smile.
I eventually willed myself out of bed. I forced myself into the shower. I put one foot in front of the other. I set out to execute the motions of the day. But I held that vision of you so steady in my eyes that I can’t say for sure I ever saw the road as I drove through the dark, rainy morning. I was snapped out of my trance by a message from someone I thought I may never hear from again. The gesture alone was beyond what I could have asked for…especially today…especially in that very moment. I am certain you were behind that too, Sweet Boy. You always find a way to remind me that we are together in this shit storm of life.
For now, Momma has to go to sleep. As always, I will look for you in my dreams. Wherever you are, and wherever you roam, I hope you can feel my love – – from the top of your precious little head all the way down to your tippy-tippy toes.
I am so sorry you got sick. I am so sorry I couldn’t protect you. I am so, so sorry for all of this.
I love you. I miss you. I hope you are safe.