Seven Months
It has now been seven months.
Seven months. Seven weeks. Seven days. It all feels the same. It hurts just as badly. The only difference now is that we're quieter about it. Most people don't see the pain or think about how broken my heart still is. If this had happened to someone else and it were me, I would've thought the same way. I would've thought that 7 months later they were probably doing okay and were used to not having their child anymore. Having a part of your family missing is not something a parent ever gets used to.
Other grieving moms I've met have said that 6-7 months was particularly hard. It becomes more real, more permanent. The meals have stopped. The phone calls and check-ins have dwindled. Not many people ask anymore or talk about Jameson, but when they do, it is really nice. Not everyone has forgotten. There are a few angels who know us well enough to know that it still hurts. I've had several amazing friends from Raleigh come to visit me over the past few months. This month has a few visits from friends and family, which will be a nice distraction and comfort.
The hurt comes in waves. It is so true when people say this about grief. I can have a few days in a row where I can begin to accept my new life. Just when I'm starting to feel okay, the next wave rolls in. The pain is so strong. It can be debilitating. I am crippled and don't know how much more of this I can take. It brings evil thoughts, like guilt, shame, and the what if's. My mind starts to go back to that day and how helpless I was to save my child. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can feel my mind going to that dark place and I can try to distract myself. I know I shouldn't relive that trauma.
It's funny how, even 7 months later, at any given moment I can pretend, if only for a few seconds, that Jameson is still alive and I know exactly what he's doing. As I watch television, I can pretend that he's just in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I'll be cooking dinner and I can pretend that he's curled up on the couch under a blanket with a chapter book. As I check my email, I pretend that maybe he's up at the kitchen table working on some 4th grade homework. I relax on the porch and imagine that he's outside shooting hoops before the sun goes down. How I miss that rhythmic sound of his bouncing basketball. I pretend that at any second he's going to call out, "Hey Mama"to me from another room. Maybe he wants us to read together. Maybe he needs help squeezing the last bit of toothpaste out of his tube or carefully pouring his mouthwash. Maybe he wants to tell me something about his school day or something funny that happened at recess that day. Often I wonder what our lives would look like at this very moment if Jameson had never died. Our family would still be normal and happy.
Fall 2016: Jameson loved soccer and was pretty good at it. Here he is before a soccer game one fall day in first grade.
Seven months. Seven weeks. Seven days. It all feels the same. It hurts just as badly. The only difference now is that we're quieter about it. Most people don't see the pain or think about how broken my heart still is. If this had happened to someone else and it were me, I would've thought the same way. I would've thought that 7 months later they were probably doing okay and were used to not having their child anymore. Having a part of your family missing is not something a parent ever gets used to.
Other grieving moms I've met have said that 6-7 months was particularly hard. It becomes more real, more permanent. The meals have stopped. The phone calls and check-ins have dwindled. Not many people ask anymore or talk about Jameson, but when they do, it is really nice. Not everyone has forgotten. There are a few angels who know us well enough to know that it still hurts. I've had several amazing friends from Raleigh come to visit me over the past few months. This month has a few visits from friends and family, which will be a nice distraction and comfort.
The hurt comes in waves. It is so true when people say this about grief. I can have a few days in a row where I can begin to accept my new life. Just when I'm starting to feel okay, the next wave rolls in. The pain is so strong. It can be debilitating. I am crippled and don't know how much more of this I can take. It brings evil thoughts, like guilt, shame, and the what if's. My mind starts to go back to that day and how helpless I was to save my child. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can feel my mind going to that dark place and I can try to distract myself. I know I shouldn't relive that trauma.
It's funny how, even 7 months later, at any given moment I can pretend, if only for a few seconds, that Jameson is still alive and I know exactly what he's doing. As I watch television, I can pretend that he's just in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I'll be cooking dinner and I can pretend that he's curled up on the couch under a blanket with a chapter book. As I check my email, I pretend that maybe he's up at the kitchen table working on some 4th grade homework. I relax on the porch and imagine that he's outside shooting hoops before the sun goes down. How I miss that rhythmic sound of his bouncing basketball. I pretend that at any second he's going to call out, "Hey Mama"to me from another room. Maybe he wants us to read together. Maybe he needs help squeezing the last bit of toothpaste out of his tube or carefully pouring his mouthwash. Maybe he wants to tell me something about his school day or something funny that happened at recess that day. Often I wonder what our lives would look like at this very moment if Jameson had never died. Our family would still be normal and happy.
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