those who say idiotic things. those who behave(d) badly. and others i’m done protecting.

Diddy,

Today started out better than most. In fact, one may have described me as somewhat smiley – nearly optimistic – given the exciting opportunity which has been presented to me throughout the past 72 hours. Then a well-intended person, spewing idiotic things from her face, came along and sent me straight into my sauce-zone.

People say stupid things to me about you all the time. In fact, at least once a week I find myself refraining from slapping the shit out of someone. Their stupidity is almost always rooted in a benevolent place, and I know this. It doesn’t make it any easier to listen to them drone on about you being “…an angel with wings”, “…still with me wherever I go”, or my personal favorite “…walking with our heavenly father”. All it does is send me into an internal zone where I chant my battle cry, “Hitting is wrong. Hitting is wrong.”

Alas, with 100% conviction this woman said, “Danna…the worst part is the loss of potential…” “Right?”

Honestly, this is perplexing. Potential what? Potential night-time snuggles after bedtime stories? Potential comforting hugs to soothe bumps and bruises acquired as you learned to walk, then to run? Potential belly laughs from watching you happily dance about the house? Potential first day of school pictures? Potential teenage angst? Potential orthodontist bills? Potential numb-butt syndrome from sitting on bleachers all weekend at basketball tournaments? Potential background checks of potential girlfriends? Potential tears as I drove you off to college? Potential Mother & Son dance at your wedding?

Yes. Somebody actually quantified your untimely and completely unfair death as a “loss of potential”. To refer to you as potential, an amorphous glob of fuel to be used up over time, is mind blowing – at least to me. I suppose it’s possible to think of humans this way: everyone is merely stored-up “potential” until his or her future is realized. But it seems remarkably insensitive to refer to a dead child this way. In fact, it seems completely devoid of human emotion. How utterly complex the human landscape that someone would attempt to empathize with me in a way that reflects no fucking empathy whatsoever.

Why does grief turn so many people into giant bags of idiot? Even those who have experienced grief can be morons. I look back at my life and I wonder how remarkably stupid I’ve been. I’ve certainly made many, many stupid choices. (I’ll save those for another day.) Maybe there should be a required class on how to avoid being insipid when you encounter a bereaved parent? And people should have to take it every other year, just to make sure they remember the good stuff.

To be fair, there are people who didn’t turn into idiots – who did exactly as they should have done. If they didn’t know what to say, they said nothing. They hugged me. They held my hand. They sat next to me. They told me to brush my hair and put on lip-gloss. Others burrowed their heads and hearts to avoid the specter of death: as if it may cast its shadow over their home, creep inside while they sleep, and steal their children. Even those people did not invoke my ire. Yes. Some people disappeared from my life altogether. I certainly should not be surprised by their dismissal. It is still exceedingly painful, all the same. (Wouldn’t it be great if we all had the good fortune to pick and choose who and what we cut out of our lives once our plot-line became less than idyllic? I’d delete you being diagnosed with cancer at 12 weeks and 3 days old….then dying in my arms less than eight weeks later. Hands mother fucking down.)

For the record I, too, know how to avoid terrors associated with your death. I know how to close my eyes just the right amount to make the entire scene become blurry. I know how to find the mirrors in a room before making eye contact with them for fear of witnessing the visage of encroaching sorrow. I know how to answer questions, by using questions – to avoid verbalizing feelings I cannot bring myself to utter out loud. I know, I know, I know.

I could numb out the pain entirely by allowing my heart to harden. I could run for Door #2, assume a new identity, and escape this life altogether. I could convince myself I’m content with contingent ‘promises’, fragile commitments, and faux happiness: all while selling myself the low-budget simplification that your death “…happened for a reason.” I could let grief win. But, I won’t. That is what a victim does. That is not what a Momma does.

At any rate, the nice people who say idiotic things will no longer catch me off guard. Moreover, I will no longer expend one.more.ounce of energy grinding my tongue against the sharp bone on the roof of my mouth until it bleeds, or squeezing my bicep at just the right angle to make it separate from the bone as a means to refrain from blurting out the truth. In turn, protecting those who simply do not fucking deserve my protection. Starting five minutes ago, the only person I’m going to actively protect in this entirely mixed up world, is you.

I digress. I am guessing this woman wondered about your potential because she genuinely gave a shit…which is also why she was so insistent I heard her (idiotic) thoughts. I’m guessing she was trying so hard to reach out and connect with me on this one point that she missed her target and accidentally stabbed herself in the eye.

If people care, reaching out is enough. I don’t need anyone to try to make sense of your death, or to explain what they guess I might be missing about you. Paxton, I don’t care even one little bit what potential people think you may have realized. The only thing I ever wanted you to be…was alive.

IMG_0989

I miss you so much. I love you even more. I hope wherever you roam, you are happy.

Stay with me, Sweet Boy.

xoox,

Momma

P.S. Sorry for all the swears. I’ll put extra quarters in your coin jar before I go to bed tonight.

Advertisements

Trick or Grief. Halloween was worse than I remember last year.

Little Diddy,

I’m not sure how I got to be 40 years old without realizing Halloween is one of the most child-centered holidays recognized in our society. This is the second Halloween without you…but, I simply don’t recall last year being this difficult. Maybe it’s because last year I was in a deep freeze? Maybe it’s because Iast year I instinctively knew as an 8 month-old, I’d have taken a few obligatory pictures of you in your costume – possibly next to your pumpkin – before I quickly took you out of the over-stuffed charade just in time to avoid an epic melt-down.

As a 20 month-old little guy, I have a feeling you would’ve been far more fascinated in the hoopla of Halloween, or at least the candy aspect that comes a long with it. (What can I say? You got your Momma’s tastebuds!) By now, you’d have identified favorite cartoons, favorite books, favorite characters in your favorite T.V. shows. It’s safe to say you’d have only just begun to express the very fabric of which you are weaved. You’d also have been able to say, “Tweeeeeeat! Peease?” Oh, Diddy, Diddy, what would you have been for Halloween? Besides anything you wanted.

Today I played the game I’m so good at playing. The one where I teleport myself into a parallel universe. In this universe we are together, we are happy, and best of all you are healthy. I find myself excited that our “Fall Fun Day” has arrived. I see myself constantly glancing at the clock, as I can predict almost the exact minute you will begin to stir from your afternoon nap. Once you are changed and fed, I grab the 3 or 4 bags of things you need, may need, and probably won’t need – but I neurotically tote along anyway. (I’m a professional at packing these bags; so we need not discuss how much easier it’d be to leave home without them. Momma just does it anyway.)

I can almost feel myself carrying you to the car and gently placing your bundled dupa safely into your cow-print car seat….which has now faced forward for so many months I have to strain to recall how long it’s been since you faced backwards. My thoughts are periodically interrupted by your squeaky voice excitedly calling out “Twwuck!” Tweee!” and “Pupkk-kin!”. When we arrive at Elegant Farmer, I hoist you out of the car and set you on your feet. Your tiny hand reaches up, and instinctively entrusts a guide in my own as we traverse the man-made corn maze. As the breeze briskly meet our cheeks, I reach down to make sure your hat is all the way over your ears. Moments later, I wipe your runny nose with the back of my mitten. You are blissfully unfazed by the elements; but, I can’t help myself from worrying anyway. I hear the echoes reverberating off the tops of pumpkins as you excitedly stake claim on the one you want to take home. No matter how big, how small, how lopsided or flat-topped, it is absolutely perfect.

After our adventure through the maze – I contemplate a hay-ride. But, not this year. I realize I’ve saved only enough time before ‘breaking point’ to sneak you inside for a caramel apple. I ask the girl to slice the apple in extra tiny pieces…then bite them into even smaller bits just to be sure you can chew them. I don’t ration the caramel. Momma gives you free reign on the good stuff on special occasions. With sticky hands and caramel-stained cheeks, we drive straight to Grammie’s for extra-special loving. Momma passes out from exhaustion on the couch while Grammie steals good loving from you. But first we discuss all things perfect about Paxton…including how much you are talking, how much you seemingly grew just since last week, how you look this cousin or act like that cousin – but agree you are unique in every way. Mostly, we marvel over how irresistibly adorable you are.

Do you know we went to Elegant Farmer once? You were tucked safely away in Momma’s tummy at the time. It was just weeks before being placed on bedrest that we spent a sunny afternoon in October enjoying what was slated to become one of our little family’s Fall traditions. In fact, it is one of the last outings we had before being sequestered in a hospital room, and then in our bed at home for the next 13 1/2 weeks. It’s painfully ironic that in anticipation of the future, which I was certain held so much promise, I envisioned many of the same things that day as well. The main difference being back then my heart was full of hope, my soul full of happiness. I remember laughing at everything and smiling at nothing. I also remember peeing two times in a glorified-outhouse. I was so punch-drunk in love with life, I would’ve been content peeing right in the middle of the corn maze.

I did not go to Elegant Farmer today. Instead I drove through our neighborhood to the big, yellow house on the corner that sits dark & empty. On the other side of my wind shield, I noticed the houses which line our street had seemingly transformed into grave yards overnight. Front yards more closely resembled something from ‘American Horror Story’ than suburban dwellings. Lawns lay blanketed with headstones, skeletons hang from garage doors, and cotton-stretched spider webs float in the breeze. Suddenly the ghosts and goblins, intended to symbolize a childhood wonderland, morphed into a literal haunting…of a childhood lost. I nearly suffocated at the realization that grave yards, headstones and skeletons more accurately reflected my reality of living in the “Land of My Child Died”, than that of a child-centered celebration. A shriek snapped me out of my trance, and also forced me to inhale. It took a few moments to register that it was the sound of my own cry.

I know it’s make-believe stuff. I know my reaction is not normal – even for a grieving Momma. I know this is one of those moments I should never, ever tell anyone about. But I am tired of keeping so many secrets bottled inside. I am tired of feeling like no one else in the universe knows what I experience in the course of a day. I am tired of being a sitting duck every damn time I venture into the world. I am just tired. I know there are a few people who say I am wallowing in my grief, and that I am choosing to remain in a ‘dark place’. (As if anyone would choose one single aspect of my life.) In fact, the grief of losing you is simply a part of my life now. It is not my entire life; but it is a part that cannot be abandoned. So really, what I am choosing to do – is courageously face my truth. Perhaps those people should stop wallowing in judgements and assumptions. Instead they could try to one thing in their lifetime that remotely reflects truth. Or, they could just fuck off.

You could have been whatever you wanted to be on Halloween – and every other day too. I promise I would have done everything in my power to support you in realizing your smallest of hopes and your wildest of dreams. You were bound for greatness, Paxton. I am so very sorry you got sick.

Trick or Tweeeeat, Sweet Boy. I’ll save all the red Gummy Bears for you.

1452185_10151768688838753_140636188_n

xoox,

Momma