Monday, February 11, 2013

Grief cannot exist without love. Or don't rush me.

For some reason I'm running into people who want me to be done grieving  I know my grief is not convenient for YOU, but my grief is not for YOU, my grief is for Bram.

In less than a week we reach the 3 month mark. Three months without my son. If you have children and they are all alive, you don't understand. If you don't have children then you're completely out of the realm of comprehension. Not because you don't want to, but simply because you can't.

I'm going to dwell. I'm going to be a mess. I'm going to rage, and cry. I'm going to hole up in the house, where I'm safe. Respect where I'm at. Respect that I'm not going to move on from this, and as I move forward it's not going to move fast.

Don't give me a guilt trip. Don't shame me. Don't try to manipulate me.

Leaving my house means flash backs, flash backs of my perfect boy's face ripped off of his skull, his tissues RIPPED from his bones. Flash backs of his blood rolling across the pavement. Flash backs of his pulse fading. Flash backs of confusion and horror pouring out from T and K's faces. Flash backs of their innocence crushed while they watched their brother die. Flash backs of paramedic telling me "no he doesn't have a heartbeat." Flash backs of  the doctor and nurse walking to me, and the look on their face. Flash backs of those words "skull's too much." Flash backs of walking in his room, and seeing him, CPR, tubes, machines, yelling, the palpable effort to make him live and his body being unable to fight, to heal. Flash backs of the horror that rippled across everyone's face as I had to tell them he's dead. Flash backs of his body turned to stone so we could hold him again. Flash backs of our last good bye as they transferred him into the cremation machine. So no, I can't leave my house today, I can't handle the flash backs. I can't handle the most horrific movie you could ever imagine being replayed involuntarily in my head.

So I can't be the friend you want. I'll likely flake out and cancel plans last minute. I'm not going to apologize, because in doing so you're asking that I apologize for loving my son. As uncomfortable as it makes you grief is a facet of love, it cannot exist without love, and to feel it so deeply it knocks me to the ground and changes  my world means I have known love greater than most.

3 months and you want me back to normal. Normal doesn't exist. You wouldn't hold this expectation to someone who had been in a coma for 3 months, or had a heart transplant, or lost all their limbs. For all intents and purposes pretend I've done all 3. Stop expecting normal. I haven't found mine yet.


  1. I am a mama too. If I lost one of my babies, I would never stop grieving. Never. I would NEVER be okay again. Not in a million years. Don't listen to those people. You cry, mama. You scream and rage and wail. You are every mama that ever lived, every mama that ever hoped not to lose her precious baby, every mama that ever had to feel the horror of it. You have every reason not to be okay. That is love. That is your unending, undying love. Don't ever let anyone tell you not to feel it. I am so sorry for your sweet babe. I promise every day to hug mine and know how thankful I am that I have not lost one. I promise to remember Bram and I promise to hope with my whole being that it doesn't have to happen to another mama ever, ever again. Poor, sweet Mama! I wish I could hug you. <3

  2. I cannot fathom your pain, your loss. To not only lose your child, but to see it, to be there-the horror and the helplessness as you watched that is beyond my comprehension. I have been blessed with two beautiful boys, the oldest of whom is Bram's age. Reading your blog has me in tears and running up the stairs to plant kisses on the faces of my sleeping sons. May God heal your heart and keep you and your family until the day you are blessed to join Bram again.

  3. To me it is bizarre that anyone would expect you to be back to normal after only three months. People can be so callous and self-centered. I just want to say, if you are still in the throws of it three years out and thirty years out, that will be normal and ok too. Who could expect you to be the same ever again? You are changed by grief and everyone else just has to adapt.

  4. Aww I wish I knew you and could hug the heck out of you. You grieve dear one. You do it how you need to do it and those who matter will go with what you need. 3 months, pshh..... try 3 years, 13 years, 23 years... Your baby is GONE! Sheesh.
    I lost my brother at 14 violently (20 odd years ago) and I still feel like I want to curl into a ball and never go out. Losing a child.... gazillion times worse.
    So sorry for your pain.
    Bless you and your lovely family. Hugs, Nicky


Thanks for reading and loving Bram!