june gloom. and i really can’t stop throwing up.

Paxton,

Momma has been feeling like a giant pile o’ poo lately. It’s the type of ‘don’t feel good’ where I sincerely struggle to get out of bed every morning. When I finally force my feet to the ground, and my legs to take consecutive steps in front of the other – I go into auto pilot until I make it into work. Once I arrive, I have to fight to stay upright and continually wonder if “today will be the day” I finally collapse on the ground and give up. Ambling through every day like this is just another part of my new ‘normal’. A ‘normal’ that only a bereaved parent could possibly understand. Anyone who can’t relate to my ‘normal’ – should occupy their spare time thanking the sun, the moon, and the stars for being the lucky ones.  Not understanding my ‘normal’ means they haven’t had their child die in their arms.

I guess I took a giant step back in my grief, because my body feels as empty, yet mysteriously heavy, as it did in the initial weeks following your death. I thought I had finally made it past the darkest of dark places; but I should know by now that this grief will continue to comes in waves for the rest of my life. When I least expect it, the riptides of grief come crashing to around me and attempt to pull me under. With each return, the undertow becomes harder and harder to fight. Somewhere along the way, someone very near and dear to me shared his painfully keen insight on grief. He said, “Believe me, sweetheart, the grief will never go away. It’ll come in waves for the rest of time. It has to come in waves; if it came all at once, no human could ever survive its toll.” He couldn’t have been more accurate. It will come as no surprise when I tell you he is a bereaved father. Only a parent who has lost a child could know of such unrelenting and unceasing pain.

Maybe I am feeling extra sad because another school year has come and gone. And, now I’m facing what I know will be another long and lonely summer without you. I can’t help but imagine all the things you and I would do together to fill our endless summer days. Momma and Diddy: a Dynamic Duo.  This summer, in particular, would be especially fun-filled. Two and a half – a perfect age for all types of perfect mischief. How in the world will I survive another summer without you? Why can’t we be together running wild and free? How did cancer ever end up inside your tiny body? Why didn’t I take you into the doctor sooner? How didn’t the treatment work? Where are you now? When is somebody going to end this sick fucking joke and bring you back?

I still think that, Diddy. Even after all this time, I have moments when I actually think someone is going to show up at my door and hand you back to me. I want to scream sitting here on my couch, staring at my favorite picture of you – so alive, so animated, so happy. Even your eyes are smiling at me. As I look into your blue eyes, for a split second, I wonder if you were even real. The life I knew with you seems so long ago. Another lifetime ago. In the deepest parts of my soul, I know it was another lifetime. I know that lifetime is gone. But, I still try to cling to the moments I had with you. As time goes on it gets harder to remember. My old memories are being replaced by new memories: as if they are in competition with one another. I promise you this: neither are going to win this fight.

I want my old memories, especially the good memories with you, more than anything in this world. The good memories are so hard to recall. Sometimes remembering them is just as painful as remembering the bad, cancer memories. I wish I could say I have found just a little peace with all of this, but I have not. I wonder how parents who’ve watched their child die, find peace. Do they ever truly find it, or just fragments of it here and there? Feeling at peace about you dying is never going to be reality for me; and that’s fine. At least I’m being honest with myself and what life feels like to continue in this life without you – which is still hell on earth every.fucking.day.

I think I am going to throw up now.

Thank you for being my eternal sunshine.

10153110_695445757163440_4215550584548568041_n

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

Advertisements

Eddie Vedder. Mookie Blaylock. Mr. President.

Diddy,

As you know, I’ve recently formed an unlikely – yet totally healthy, obsession with Pearl Jam. How they ever managed to slip off my musical radar, I haven’t a clue. But it’s a damn shame. Nonetheless, every time I hear a song by Pearl Jam, I have a visceral reaction of sorts. Their lyrics seemingly lace through my tattered heart and wrap around my torn soul, and somehow make me feel a little less hollow.

Eddie Vedder, in particular, possesses talent which I feel is uncanny and I am certain goes unmatched. He should probably be President. I swear the man could croon the world into peace. But, I’ll settle for him singing you into a peaceful slumber. After all, you are my entire world.

Sleep tight, wherever you are. Here is your lullaby for tonight…a la Mr. President.

I miss you desperately. I love you even more.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

She is here. But part of her is elsewhere for eternity.

Paxton, I made it through the fuckwad days in May that I hate so much. I went to work on May 8th. That was  a major accomplishment in it of itself. Last year, I willed myself a million times over to die in my sleep. I didn’t get out of bed until the girls showed up, dug me out from underneath my pillows and held my hands as they guided me downstairs. They kept me busy: setting up new phone/cable service, buying tv’s, taking toys and contraptions you never got to use from the basement to Goodwill, sorting and packing some of your other things and safely storing them in the attic, cleaning out extra-large items abandoned in the garage, organizing copious amount of medical bills which somehow got backlogged in the insurance system, and attempting to make me eat. This was just three months after your Dad moved out, and left me holding a shit ton of bags of shit. Thank goodness for Momma’s girls; they swarmed in and helped me take care of a lot of that shit. Alas, this year I navigated my way to work. While my body was present, my mind was far, far away…recounting every detail of May 8th, 2012. Scene by scene, the reel started playing in my mind. I relived every minute that led us to Dr. D’s, which lead us to the ER, which lead us to the HOT unit, which ultimately lead us straight to the depths of Hell. Right around the time of day you were officially diagnosed, Allison appeared, grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s go.” She knows just how to make Momma listen. Your girlfriend, Ms. Nicole smiled knowingly and said, “Go. I got you. Please go.” And, just like that, two of Momma’s loveliest lovelies saved her heart once again. Allison had just come from Children’s Hospital. Somewhere along the way, I mentioned how much it would mean to me if PaxLove was spread throughout the HOT unit and the Clinic on May 8th. Allison and Erin found a way to make it happen – even though it meant taking a 1/2 day off of work, and exposing their vulnerable hearts to the very place in which you ended your brave battle. They packed your Treat Cart to the brim with ‘happy’, and rolled it right through the HOT unit and right into the hearts of so many brave, little warriors. Have I mentioned how much I love those girls? After work, I met up with Lala and her crew at Papa & Gg’s house. Lala received a “Cold Water Challenge” earlier in the week; she fittingly saved her debut for the most appropriate day. The point of a “Cold Water Challenge” being to jump into cold water, or make a donation to the charity of your choice. Living in Wisconsin, particularly on the heels of a Polar Vortex, finding cold water was NOT a challenge. Willing oneself the mental toughness to take the plunge – a far different story. Lala wasn’t fazed; she said, her super-hero nephew demonstrated far, far more bravery in his (ittsy bittsy pinkie) than she could in a lifetime, muchness by jumping into some cold ass water. Not doubt.  So, into Papa’s lake she went  In turn, she got to challenge three people to do the same.  She challenged her friend Sandy on the east coast, Beth Kille in Madison, and Britta in Cali – to jump or donate $24 – to mark 24 months since your diagnosis. Her battle cry was heard – and despite braving the cold waters, those ladies donated anyway. And they donated $100 each! You certainly have a way with the ladies, lil’ man. Mother’s Day was a bitch to navigate. I spent the day with Lala, the three musketeers, and Nana. Once again, I was physically present; but my heart was a million miles away – searching for you. The day took forever to end. Although I strained to feel you with me, to see a sign, sense a glimmer of your soul somewhere in my surroundings….I didn’t. And despite being in the company of some of the ones I love the most – I felt completely and entirely hollow and alone. It is oft said that being a mother is the hardest job in the world. Well, being a bereaved mother – is unbearable. The countdown is on…15 more days until stupid May is over. (Then I begin dreading the arrival of July.) I am so sorry you got sick. IMG_2098

Stay with me, Sweet Boy…

xoox

Momma

Before. After. There is no in between.

Paxton,

May is officially here and I’m trying my best not to go into freak out mode.  You know what May means; and no matter how many Jedi mind tricks I attempt to sell myself – one’s subconsciousness always knows the truth: May will never get easier. May 8th: diagnosis day. Mother’s Day: the day you started chemotherapy. (i.e. The day I allowed poisonous venom to be pumped throughout your teeny, tiny body. One of a thousand ways in which I failed to protect you.) May: the beginning of the end. May: there is no escape.

I will come up with some sort of plan to get through the shitty days of May.  I realize how very lucky I am to know that I will do so surrounded by some of my most favorite people.  Having my lovelies by my side will help ease the pain a bit. But the body never forgets. No matter where I am, who I am with, what I am doing – every cell within me remembers the pain of these dates.

I don’t live in a normal world anymore. I live in a world that I often feel very alone.  I tend to do alright in this world. This world without you is so hard for me to live in, but I have done my best to make it bearable by living each day the best way I’m capable because I hope against all hope that you are watching me, and that you are with me. I refuse to disappoint you by being a loser Momma. You may say this new perspective has given me a clarity I never had before. I guess that all comes with the territory of living a life that includes a line of demarkation: a ‘before and after’.  My before cancer life, and after cancer life are unequivocally two completely, wholly, vastly different lives.

The always absence of you is more ever-present during certain times and certain days; May being one of those times. As always, I will keep you tucked as close to me as possible, and carry you with me in everything I do and everywhere I roam.  Thank you for not giving up on me.

Quotation-Ella-Frank-love-beginning-Meetville-Quotes-250110

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox

Momma

 

 

i don’t worry about not being normal. i only worry about you. (and maybe zombies. only sometimes.)

Lil Diddy Bop,

When I woke up this morning, it took me a few blinks to remember I was in Florida. I came here with two of my loveliest lovelies on a hunt for sunshine. It is the second time I’ve been to Florida and the upteenth time I’ve set out on a big o’ jet airliner and fled for unfamiliar land since you’ve been gone. No matter where I roam, the pain of missing you follows.

No matter how far, how often, or how abruptly I flee from home it is impossible to ‘run from grief’. To salt the wound, there also isn’t anything that feels right about being able to jump on a plane at any given time, and fly off to any given destination. I am supposed to be at home, with my two year old son – pinching his cheeks, and my pennies to save up for his first trip to Disney World. Instead, I’m laying in a strange bed, alone, in Boca Raton. Putting me about 185 miles from Disney, and 180 degrees from the life I should be living.

It’s impossible not to think about how wonderfully different life would be if cancer didn’t steal you. Glimmers of that life play through my psyche regularly – whether I stay at work later than normal, run multiple errands (in order to avoid going to an empty home), once I arrive at my barren, quiet, perfectly tidy home, on the weekends…and every minute in between. When I embark on an excursion outside of my day-to-day routine, I am stuffed with extra heaps of guilt, sadness, rage – and a hefty side-serving of confusion. How did this all happen?

My super-kind-extra-special lovelies are keenly aware of the angst such situations cause my heart. They couldn’t have been more supportive in their reassurances that everything would be alright. Even though I’ve heard that before and everything turned out the exact opposite of alright – I couldn’t help but trust them implicitly.  This is just one of the many reasons I love them.

Yesterday, as I was drying my hair, the all-too-familiar feeling of my heart lurching up into my throat started. Anxiety. It is as normal now as grief. And as breathing. I was certain something had happened to your “specials” in transit to Nana’s. I should’ve left them at home: in the fire-proof safe, locked in the fire-proof cubby, in the depths of the now fire-proof, bullet-proof, zombie-proof basement. But the fear of zombies conquering Milwaukee in my absence trumped my fear of the risk of having Nana take your ‘specials’ to her house for safe-keeping. Dammit. I chose wrong again. The other shoe had dropped. It all made sense. It also explained why no one was calling me. They didn’t want to ‘interrupt my vacation’ with more bad news.

My mouth filled with pre-puke saliva as I frantically lunged towards my phone. With a shaky hand, I pressed the button to call Nana. She didn’t answer. I shook out a text. No reply. I called Lala. No answer again. I sent her a text too. Again, nothing. I called Nana back. Oh my GOD… the fire – the car accident – the ER -the next death – the next memorial – the next obituary to write…the zombies.  And, just like that – the loosely stacked ruins of my AC world, collapsed like a house of cards caught in the vortex of a tornado.

I know there are people who find my thoughts neurotic, paranoid, or psychotic. Rest assured, those people don’t know what I know. I know all too well that there are absolutely no guarantees about anything in this life. I know that babies die for no explainable reason, from unthinkable accidents, from horrific acts, and from the biggest asshole murdered of all time: cancer. I know that evil exists. I know that some people are born without a soul. I know about things I never knew about knowing.

I live in a perpetual state of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I am constantly on edge, on guard, on call for something else to happen…again. Any time, anywhere. I am always expecting to trip over another dividing line. Another before and after.

Then, my phone rang. Nana. My mouth ran dry. Before she completed the first sentence: I exhaled. Everything was fine. I can always tell by her voice what she’s feeling even without her saying the precise words. Your special things were safe. Nothing was lost, tattered, ruined, burned or stolen. There was no accident, nor was there a trip to the ER. No one died. There was no memorial to plan. My house did not burn to the ground. As an added bonus: the zombies did not attack – yet.

I realize that my thoughts, fears, worries and obsessions are not remotely similar to those of mothers who are lucky enough to not have a dead child. I wonder if anyone realizes they shouldn’t be? Trust me, I’d trade my non-normal existence for their normal existence any day of the week. But my normal disappeared on May 8th, 2012…and was obliterated on July 2, 2012. All traces were expunged from my existence in February 2013. Anyone who feels the need to cast judgement, make assumptions, or spew conjecture about the thoughts which run through my mind on a perpetual loop should do the universe a giant favor – and fuck the fuck off.

I feel better knowing your “specials” are safe. I feel better because I’m writing to you. I feel better because I just said fuck a bunch of times too. Thank you for sending these lovely ladies into my universe…and for holding their hearts hostage. Half the time I am convinced the only reason they put up with me is because they are so deeply in love with you.

I wish you were here. Or, thatI I was there. I wish we were together – anywhere.

The sunshine always makes me think of you.

IMG_1870

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

P.S. Today is your Uncle Stephen’s birthday. Sneak a butterfly kiss onto his cheek at the point in the day when you feel he needs it most.

 

 

 

i’ll up the ante again. and again.

Paxton,

A memory of you popped into my mind’s eye this morning. You were happily bouncing and cooing away in your bunny seat, while smiling at your (adorable) reflection in Mr. Cow. As always, I recalled every last detail with acute precision: from the the tiny crook in the lobe of your left ear, to your almost-but-not-quite-off-centered smile, down to the way your arm involuntarily pumped into the air. Your half-excited, half-serious voice echoed in my ears and straight through my bones.

It didn’t take long before I began negotiating, with no one in particular, for a deal they couldn’t refuse. Bring you back to me. I pledged anything – everything, in exchange for you in my arms. My desperate negotiation ended the same way it always does; with the harsh realization that no matter how grandiose or lavish my ante: it will never be enough. You aren’t ever coming back.

Should anyone still find validity in the age-old, psychological Stages of Grief, your Momma must be stuck smack dab in the middle of the ‘Barging’ stage. If you ask me, there is simply nothing universal about the time or way in which a person grieves. Suggesting that a prescribed way to mourn the death of your only child exists, is as insulting as it is ridiculous. In fact, I am quite certain it makes perfectly good sense that I find myself attempting to strike a deal with the universe to let me have the love of my life back in my arms.

Without a doubt, and without pause, I swear on all things good and pure, I would give anything…everything, to have you back again.

I believe it’s just about time for your afternoon nap. Allow the rain falling from the sky wash away any tears you’ve cried today. Let the lyrics of your afternoon lullaby line your soul; I mean every last word. Fade into a peaceful slumber. I will be right here when you awake. I will be here forever thereafter, too.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you catch the kisses I throw into the sky for you.

xoox,

Momma

P.S. Today is April 26th. You’d be 26 months old today. I am so sorry.

 

 

hiraeth. you are my forever home.

Diddy,

I spent the afternoon doing one of my favorite things, with one of my favorite people. I had a “special day” (aka “Day of All Yes-es!”) with your super hero side-kick cousin, Finn Foo. Whenever Finn and I set into the world together, I feel as though I could conquer the universe. I also feel more vulnerable than when I am in the presence of any other person; as million an one vibrations of how life should’ve been echo through my bones. I remain convinced he carries pieces of your heart within his soul, and pieces of your soul inside his heart.

After an action packed day, Finny climbed into “his side” of bed and began fade into a slumber. Moments before his almond colored eyes closed for the night he said, “D.D., When can I meet your other kids?” Equal parts confused and rattled by his query, I quickly assured him I didn’t have any other children. Sleepily, he persisted, “…yes you do; you tell stories about them all the time. I want your other kids to be my cousins just like Paxton.”  Oh sweet, innocent, adorable Finn.

Silenced by the need to stifle my sobs, I was unable to explain that when I refer to, “…one of my kids” – I actually mean, “…one of my students”. For once, my lack of composure likely worked in my favor.  A conversation of that nature would’ve only further confused the little guy. My arm was the only part of my body that wasn’t paralyzed by the reminder of Finny’s ever-complex existence of trying to navigate life without you – his wing-man. So I used it to stroke his hair across the top of his furrowed brow. I managed to eek out the only words which needed be said: “Paxton is my only child.”

As always, the voice inside my head ensued on one of its familiar rants. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that it’s talking to the ‘other people’ inside my head. So it’s fine. “Paxton is my only child. He is my only, miracle child. He is my only, miracle child who I waited for my entire life. He is my only, miracle child, who I waited for my entire life – and he is dead.”

My only child died. He was diagnosed with cancer when he was just 12 weeks and three days old. In 146 days, he raised an entire village. In less than one second, he stole my heart. Without uttering a single word, he rewrote the definitions of bravery, courage, grace and peace. My son took his last breath while safely tucked in his Daddy’s arms…with his cheek pressed against my own. I felt the warmth of his last breath brush across my lips. It is the only good-bye kiss I will ever get. And, it will suffocate me for as long as I am breathing. My only child is dead. 

No matter how many times I say it, even if it’s not out loud and only to the ‘other people’ in my mixed up head, I cannot wrap my mind around the incomprehensible truth. You are dead. I am not dead; yet I am not alive. I am fighting to live; yet begging to die; breathing yet suffocating; attempting to exhale, yet holding my breath; smiling on the outside, yet crying on the inside. My existence is every parents’ worst nightmare; only it is not a dream-state nightmare. It is a real fucking nightmare. It is my life.

Other parents complain about their kids spilling kool-aide on their carpet, their homes being a mess, their laundry piling out of control. Whenever I hear such banter, I swallow my grief whole while I silently beg to choke to death on my wishes to have problems just.like.theirs. Mud-stained, sticky-carpets; spilled milk, smashed peas and crushed gold fish crackers randomly strewn across my kitchen floor. I ache for the signs of the living, breathing, playing, alive in my home version of you. I long for the iterations of all that could have and should have been.

Instead, I have an empty chair at every meal, ‘loads’ of laundry that make me twinge with guilt and shutter with rage that it’s all I have, again this week, to wash. The contents which encompass your entire life sit neatly stacked in plastic bins – which have been organized with acute precision, in my attic. I can’t bring myself to verify as much – but, I know in my soul they now smell more of ‘stillness’ than of you.

It is true, I refer to my students as my ‘kids’. It is also true that I love some of them in ways the majority of the planet could never understand. In many aspects, I consider parts of them to be mine. I also love your crazy daisy, adorably unique, and perfect in every way cousins well beyond my own comprehension. I know for a fact parts of them are mine.  From the outside looking in, my life appears to be chocked full of love, from a vast continuum of children young and old. Rest assured, it is always empty. I’m left with an equation that never equates.  No matter how many times I recompute, the only one that matters – the only one who is really mine, is missing. A million more children, and a trillion more blonde haired, blue eyed boys, could never replace or erase the pain of missing you.

There is an eternal hole in my heart and in my life. It is the precise size and shape of you and only you.  No one and nothing will ever be able to fill this hole. Despite the incomprehensible complexity of being a bereaved mother, all that truly matters is quite simple. You are my son. You are my heart. You are my soul. You are my dream come true. You are my home. 

Diddy, you are as real to me now as you were when you were here in my arms.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

1453271_625359260838757_329810949_n

xoox,

Momma

a grocery store. a bathroom stall. and a promise. like all good things – it ends with wine and gummy bears.

Diddy,

I hate grocery shopping. It is the stupidest concept on the planet. Let’s talk it through. You drive to the store, grab a cart…if you have my luck, the cart has a wobbly wheel, a sticky handle-bar, and/or a mind of its own. Only after spending five minutes pretending you aren’t irritated by the wobbly-wheeled, sticky handle-bar cart, you finally ditch it. Normal people, who shop for normal sized families are forced to search for another cart. Not your Momma. I just turn on my super hero powers and carry everything I need for the week in my tired arms. I digress. Then you walk up and down aisles, taking items off shelves and placing them into your cart. Just when you think the up-down-up-down is over – you remembered an ingredient you just can’t make that casserole without, so you loop all the way back to the first aisle.  Then…you stand in line.  You often stand in that line longer than it takes you to drive there – and home. Next, you place the items onto the checkout belt. Only to then pack the items into bags. You then take the 50 bags of food – that easily could’ve fit into 6 bags, and put them back into your cart.

You wheel the cart to your car, and unload the 50 bags – which could be six, into your trunk. Then, you drive home. (You consider stopping for a drink to award yourself for a job well done, but you quickly remember your cash flow has just been spent on stupid food, which is in 50 stupid bags, in your stupid ass trunk – which you now hate even though it is an innocent by-stander in this whole stupid excursion.) So you just drive home. When you arrive, you take the bags inside. Even though you should take four trips, you insist you can make it happen in two. A dented can of beans and a leaking milk jug later, you curse yourself for trying to be Shera, queen of the grocery bag carrier, again.

Next up: you spend 20 minutes putting those SAME items you removed from shelves in the store, back onto shelves in your kitchen. It.truly.makes.no.sense.

Your Nana maintains that she’s never seen anyone more content with going hungry than having to obtain and make food. I will point out, I made more meals during the 8 weeks you and I were home on maternity leave than I did the combined 37 years prior. It’s fine. I was just waiting for the ‘know how to cook a meal’ gene that emerges after women have children. I always knew it would come.

This weekend, the whole ‘eating to survive’ thing trumped my distain for grocery shopping. So off to Sendick’s I went. It only took moments for me to realize I just didn’t have the energy to go through the motions of doing normal things, that normal people, with normal lives, and normal families partake in without blinking an eye. To buy myself some time, I ditched my cart…even though it wasn’t wobbly – and headed to the bathroom. I locked myself behind a stall door and attempted to give myself a pep talk. Before my first deep inhale, a mother and her toddler son entered the bathroom. I wanted to flush myself down the toilet.

I am assuming the little guy was about 3 years old – I never did get a look at him. His mommy was insistent that he go ‘potty’ alone, while she stood guard outside his stall door. The encouragement required to get him to agree to this arrangement was beyond endearing…and beyond heart-breaking. In the end, his mommy’s authentic support convinced this little guy that he was brave enough to ‘be a big boy’.  No sooner did his stall door close – did he began to rattle off questions.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Mommy. Mommy? Are you waiting for me?”

“Of course, sweetie. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mommy…don’t leave me.”

“Sweetie, I will NEVER leave you.”

….pause, pause, pause.

“Never?”

“No, sweetie. Never.”

“Mommy, you won’t leave me…even if you die?”

(Audible gasp…Though, at this point, I still can’t say for sure if came from this little guy’s Mommy – – -or from me.)

“Of course not, honey. Not even when I die.”

“Mommy, if I die – I won’t leave you either. Because I don’t want to ever be away from you. Not even if I die.”

I am certain this mommy heard my stifled sobs, which were nicely echoing off Sendick’s, barren bathroom walls. It took all I had not to charge through the stall door, grab onto her shoulders, look through her eyes, and straight into her soul – while begging her to never, ever let her dear boy go.  Never. Not even for a second. Not even to encourage him to be a big boy and use the bathroom on his own. But, my legs wouldn’t have worked if I wanted them to.

There have been many times in the last 20 months when I’ve known you’re with me.  Other times I think it is you – but, I find myself wanting ‘more proof’.  Today falls under the former category. After all, only you would come with me on the most dreaded errand of all time, and follow me right into the grocery store bathroom – to make good and sure I knew it was really you.

The fear that management would be beckoned to check on “…the crazy woman hyperventilating in the Ladies’ Room” propelled me into action.  I swung the stall door open, threw water on my face, avoided eye contact with the reflection of the stranger who so often greets me in the mirror, and fled for safety. I quickly realized I was in a god damn grocery store…making it not so safe and cozy after all.

I ultimately left with two of the 24 items on my list: gummy bears and wine. There’s always next week.

I miss you. I love you. I would have packed really good lunches for you.

IMG_1816

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

 

 

wrestling…and my entire life is summarized in one word.

Paxton Bowe,

I’ve spent a good deal of time throughout the past several months watching your warrior brothers wrestle their way to the top of the GMC conference, and through the WIAA Regional and Sectional tournament. Momma sat in those bleachers – a complete nerve ending: picking her eyebrows, biting the inside of her cheek; all the while holding back my visceral urge to run onto the mat and stomp each competitor brazen enough to try to bend or maneuver one of those boys in the way they shouldn’t bend.

Today, Joshie and Juju left for the WIAA State Wrestling Meet. I sent them on their way, with bags and bags full of ‘all the right food’, ‘good luck blankets’, ‘motivational notes only-to-be-opened-at-specific-times’, and ‘pinkie promises’ to keep me updated with every last detail. After hugging them for the fourth time, I released them for their chariot; god love them for putting up with my neuroses. I did my best to burn the image of them running towards the gym doors, filled with fleeing innocence, into the permanent parts of my brain. As they rounded the corner, Juju poked his head back in my direction – one more time…and waved good-bye. I almost collapsed right onto the floor.

I shoved the sob rising in my throat firmly against the back of my chest. As I held it in place, tears began to beat against the backs of my eyes.  True to Wrestling Momma form, I pinned the pressure and the tears in place…right up until 3:09. As I attempted to flee for the Exit door – my ever-insightful, keenly astute friend stopped me in my tracks. She said, “This all has to be equal parts heart-warming and heart-breaking for you.”  And just like that, I came undone…but good.

Yes. It is equal parts heart-warming and heart-breaking. Every last part about my AC life  is neither one, or the other anymore.

I wish there was a way I could adequately or accurately explain my AC life, without having to ever become who I am now. I  am still the person I’ve always been; yet I am not the same at all. I am still a mom, yet I am not able to mother…all at the same time.

The a pain I carry is unlike any pain I can describe.  This pain is always there.  It doesn’t nap during the day, or get safely tucked into bed at night.  It follows me everywhere, it never leaves my side – like you should be doing. Only this grief-induced pain is not cuddly, nor sweet and it certainly does not make me smile, squeeze my face, or give me good-night kisses.

My grief is almost always coupled with guilt. It is relentless in nature. I am consumed with guilt when I devote hours on end attending your warrior brothers’ wrestling matches. I never got to watch you learn to walk, see you run – and I certainly will never be able to attend one of your sporting events, or participate in a parents’ night….as I proudly meet you at half-court, while donning an oversized button displaying your handsome face. On the other hand, I am equally consumed with guilt when I don’t attend their matches – as I feel like I am letting both them and you down. After all, you have made it abundantly clear that you’re hopelessly in love with them.

I still catch myself bargaining to have both worlds. The “inside-my-head” voice plays on loop, “If I can go pick Paxton up from daycare, and bring him to the meet – I won’t beg for the boys to win again tonight. Instead, I’ll just take them all for ice cream. (Or celery sticks if they’re cutting weight.) One minute, I’ll wipe the dried blood off Joshie & Juju’s faces; the next, the dried ice cream off of Paxton’s chin. Each of them will remain blissfully unfazed by my OCD; as they’ll be lost in a world only traversed by the spiciest of monkeys. Before the evening closes, I will thank my older boys a hundred times over for the myriad of ways in which they so effortlessly love my son. We will all head to our respective homes, and sleep soundly while when dream of of all things happy.”

Paxton, I plea for a different ending, over and over again; one where no one dies.  Most especially not you. Then, the panic of it happening again, anytime, anywhere…sets in – followed quickly by the spiraling of obsessive thoughts, (What if…If only?). 

Ahh, those boys: they will never understand how they have saved my life over and over again. Alas, they’ve set out to participate in another long-awaited, well-deserved, exciting experience. Please give them extra special doses of bravery throughout the weekend. As always, watch over their vulnerable hearts…which this mixed-up, fucking world has already shattered into a million little pieces. When you find me in those bleachers, biting the insides of my cheek, and picking my eyebrows – climb into my lap. Momma’s arms will always hold you safely … right where you belong.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are happy.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma