Before and After
We did a big shopping trip to Sam's Club and Aldi the other day. Now that we live in the mountains, it's a bit more of a drive to get to these stores, so between that and having our lives turned upside down, it had been months since we made it out there.
As I made my shopping list, going through our pantry and house, I took stock of what was running out or gone. I went through cabinets of cleaning supplies, closets, the basement, the garage. I didn't want to forget anything.
It made me realize again that everything... everything in my entire house, everything in my entire life can now be sorted into two categories. Before Jameson's death and after. This bottle of almost empty pancake syrup. He used it on his pancakes. His little hands held this bottle. This bottle is before Jameson's death. The new hydroflask water bottles sitting on the counter. Those are after Jameson. The bottle of kids' shower gel, the kids' ibuprofen, the bag of cat food, his unused swim goggles that I found in the pool bag the other day. Those are before Jameson's death. They all remind me of the first 38 years of my life that were so joyful and easy. I had no idea that it wouldn't last.
A few days ago I was sorting through old magazines and deciding which to throw out. I glanced at the months they were printed. September 2018. November 2018. January 2019. Those issues were before Jameson's death. I got them in the mail when life and my family were normal. Back then, I was happy. One or two times, I have caught myself going back to emails that I received or wrote before February 27, 2019 just because maybe for a second I will feel closer to that joyful, content life I once knew.
Because every single thing in our house can be categorized into before Jameson's death and after, and because most of the house is still "before Jameson's death," you can easily see why my house is full of hard reminders. Everywhere I turn, I see things that make me sad. His unfinished lego set that he bought with Christmas money. BEFORE. His basket of sneakers that still sit under the table by the front door. BEFORE. His flip flops that should be getting a lot of use this summer. BEFORE. His stash of Valentine's Day candy still in the pantry. BEFORE.
I'm almost embarrassed to talk about it sometimes. Who gets sentimental over a bottle of pancake syrup just because their son once touched it, once picked it up to pour syrup onto his pancakes on carefree Saturday mornings? Who gets teary over a bottle of shower gel sitting on the edge of a tub that was used to scrub two little blonde heads of hair, one of which isn't here anymore? It all sounds so ridiculous.
As grieving moms, we search and clasp onto any little thing, any proof, no matter how silly it seems, that our child was here. He lived. He breathed. He loved. Can't you see? He was here and he was healthy and normal. Every object from BEFORE is ultimately valuable and hard to let go. As painful as it can be to hold it, touch it, to look at it, these objects can also help me feel connected to the child I lost.
But this is the life of any mom who has lost a child. You have thoughts you never thought would enter your mind, things you'd never think would bother you. Everything, and I mean everything, in your life connects somehow to the child you once had. His absence is felt so deeply that the only relief I get from the pain is when I temporarily can't even believe that this is real. This can't be my life. This has to just be a nightmare. It's almost like denial.
There just shouldn't be any before and after a child's death.
As I made my shopping list, going through our pantry and house, I took stock of what was running out or gone. I went through cabinets of cleaning supplies, closets, the basement, the garage. I didn't want to forget anything.
It made me realize again that everything... everything in my entire house, everything in my entire life can now be sorted into two categories. Before Jameson's death and after. This bottle of almost empty pancake syrup. He used it on his pancakes. His little hands held this bottle. This bottle is before Jameson's death. The new hydroflask water bottles sitting on the counter. Those are after Jameson. The bottle of kids' shower gel, the kids' ibuprofen, the bag of cat food, his unused swim goggles that I found in the pool bag the other day. Those are before Jameson's death. They all remind me of the first 38 years of my life that were so joyful and easy. I had no idea that it wouldn't last.
A few days ago I was sorting through old magazines and deciding which to throw out. I glanced at the months they were printed. September 2018. November 2018. January 2019. Those issues were before Jameson's death. I got them in the mail when life and my family were normal. Back then, I was happy. One or two times, I have caught myself going back to emails that I received or wrote before February 27, 2019 just because maybe for a second I will feel closer to that joyful, content life I once knew.
Because every single thing in our house can be categorized into before Jameson's death and after, and because most of the house is still "before Jameson's death," you can easily see why my house is full of hard reminders. Everywhere I turn, I see things that make me sad. His unfinished lego set that he bought with Christmas money. BEFORE. His basket of sneakers that still sit under the table by the front door. BEFORE. His flip flops that should be getting a lot of use this summer. BEFORE. His stash of Valentine's Day candy still in the pantry. BEFORE.
I'm almost embarrassed to talk about it sometimes. Who gets sentimental over a bottle of pancake syrup just because their son once touched it, once picked it up to pour syrup onto his pancakes on carefree Saturday mornings? Who gets teary over a bottle of shower gel sitting on the edge of a tub that was used to scrub two little blonde heads of hair, one of which isn't here anymore? It all sounds so ridiculous.
As grieving moms, we search and clasp onto any little thing, any proof, no matter how silly it seems, that our child was here. He lived. He breathed. He loved. Can't you see? He was here and he was healthy and normal. Every object from BEFORE is ultimately valuable and hard to let go. As painful as it can be to hold it, touch it, to look at it, these objects can also help me feel connected to the child I lost.
But this is the life of any mom who has lost a child. You have thoughts you never thought would enter your mind, things you'd never think would bother you. Everything, and I mean everything, in your life connects somehow to the child you once had. His absence is felt so deeply that the only relief I get from the pain is when I temporarily can't even believe that this is real. This can't be my life. This has to just be a nightmare. It's almost like denial.
There just shouldn't be any before and after a child's death.
December 2018: Jameson and Rhys decorating Christmas cookies. This was BEFORE.
It DOES NOT sound ridiculous. I imagine I, or anyone frankly, would feel similar. Well stated piece, Erica. You speak from the heart, right to the heart.
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