Tonight I ended what was a very difficult week with a “not-so-happy” hour with two of my lovelies from BCHS. I wasn’t in the mood to be there, but familiar with their persistence in integrating me into the world at-large, I knew it’d be easier to join them. So I did. I made it to about 6:30 before I was ready to leave. As I approached my car, a man parked next to me quickly popped his head out from the backseat of his car where he was putting his child in a carseat. He said, “Excuse me. What does your license plate say?” I knew he was talking to me; but I froze – speechless and paralyzed. He continued, “Does your plate say, Paxlove”? I studied his sincere face and steadfast eyes as I faintly replied, “Yes. Paxlove.” He excitedly persisted, “Is it for Paxton? The baby? The little Peaceful Warrior?” I almost collapsed onto the goddamn pavement.
Before my legs had a chance to give out, he broke into a 40 yard dash in my direction. As he jogged towards me he yielded his “Paxton” bracelet in front of him like a white flag. Meanwhile my friend took over the talking part and proudly proclaimed that I am your Momma. Once in front of me, he put the bracelet an inch away from my eyes and exclaimed (repeatedly) that he wears everyday. He went on to explain how he learned about you and your brave fight. He said he attended PaxFest and donates to your foundation. Most importantly – he told me how he finds daily strength and inspiration through your brave soul.
As I attempted to absorb the scene unfolding around me, I noticed his wife had come out of their car and was now standing just steps behind us. Her hand was over her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face. As our eyes met, we innately stepped towards each other and hugged tightly. Through a tear-filled voice, she told me how you changed the way she mothers her son…and that she marvels at how I find the strength to continue to live without you. These kind-hearted people said so many endearing things to me. All of which I will hold close to my heart for many, many moons to come. The dad ended the conversation by telling me he is a defense attorney and that whenever he is in trial, he rubs his “Baby Paxton” bracelet to find strength and clarity. For he is reminded that whatever he or anyone in the court room is experiencing, or has experienced, pales in comparison to what “Baby Paxton” endured.
The entire time this couple talked to me, I literally did not utter a single word. In hindsight, my inability to speak makes me want to punch myself. I should have taken out my wallet and shown them pictures of you. And told them how everyone who was lucky enough to be in your presence noticed how peaceful (and beautiful) you were. I should have shared with them how (before you were sick and stopped feeling hungry), you would stop mid-suck while eating your bottle, smile right at me – and then happily resume eating. Or let them know your favorite CD is Coldplay’s Rock-a-bye Baby, and that you loved when we would dance around the dining room and sing, “I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas.” I should have relayed the stories of how you’d stare into Mr. Cow mirror and “Ooouuuooo!” so fiercely at the site of your adorable reflection that the entire house would erupt in laughter.
On top of failing to tell them any of the many things that make you incredibly special, I deeply regret that I didn’t think to ask them their names. While I hugged the husband, I did manage to eek out the words, “Please don’t take that bracelet off.” (He assured me that he wouldn’t.) With the exception of one simple sentence, I stood mute as two strangers told me how you have changed their lives. In exchange, they allowed me to embrace them as though they each contained a small part of you. I am sorry if I hugged them too tightly. I am more sorry I didn’t tell them about any one of the multitude of things which make you my uniquely perfect Paxton.
Very early this morning I was overcome by one of the greatest moments of despair I have yet felt. I don’t entirely know why. I guess this roller coaster of grief, bereavement, or grief-that-interrupted-the-initial-fucking grief will never make any sense. I do know that I literally begged you to send me a sign if you were still with me. Anything to prove that despite the emptiness in my stomach and the hollowness in my heart, I am not entirely alone in this world.
I believe with all of my heart, you sent that man to me tonight. You rescued me from the abyss of grief which I must consciously ward off from swallowing me whole. More than anything in this entire world, I would give anything – anything – to be the one saving you. It should have been me. Never you.
I miss you. I love you. I’ll look for you in my dreams.
Stay with me, Sweet Boy.