One Step Forward, Two Steps Back.

One step forward, two steps back. More like a thousand steps back.

There are weeks like these recent ones when I feel as though all I have done is take a thousand steps back, emotionally.  I fool myself into thinking I am doing so well, only to find myself sobbing uncontrollably at the smallest things.  And looking at Casen, at this new little life that is so perfect, it's as if fate constantly reminds me of all of the things it has robbed me of with Cain, all of the milestones, I will never see. Do you have any idea what that is like? To wonder what the child you lost would be like? I wish I didn't.  I wish my mind wouldn't go to those places of "what if" and "could have been" but I can't stop it.  I wish I didn't have to constantly explain to Cooper why his brother isn't here, but that's my reality, our reality, and frankly, it stinks. Hearing Coop say, "Mom, I really miss Cain," never gets easier. It always, always breaks my heart.

There are a few stories that I have been following lately, and maybe for my own sanity, I shouldn't. Still my heart constantly compels me to check in on these families who could possibly share the same fate as ours. God how I pray they don't.  I wouldn't wish this pain, this grief on anyone. Reading stories of similar journeys causes memories that have been submerged in the abyss of my subconscious to float slowly to the surface, only to drag me back under at a much faster pace, drowning me yet again and again.  It comes with the label of being a loss mom.  It's a label I wish I could cast into the darkest corner of the universe to be swallowed up by some black hole so that it could never be worn by anyone ever again.  Unfortunately, it is a label that is branded on me by the tears and anguish from watching my child die in my arms, helpless to do anything to change it.  It follows me where ever I go lest I should forgot. As if I could. As if anyone in my shoes could forget.  This journey isn't a forgettable one.  Life altering, debilitating: yes. Forgettable: no. No doesn't even seem like an adequate word.

Remember that old saying, "Time heals all wounds?"  I used to love that one until I found out the hard way that time doesn't heal all wounds. Seriously? Time has funny way of altering itself.  There are days that seem like an eternity without my son, and then there are others when it seems as if I just held him in my arms. I can certainly relive those moments as if they occurred only yesterday.  The memories haven't faded one bit. And neither has the pain. The pain, though suppressed at times, never, ever leaves. It never evolves, yet I am forced to in order to survive. Time is indeed passing, but the wound is still exposed, and it hurts as much as it did the first time I felt it.  That wound always feels as if my heart is being ripped from my chest.

My intent is not to scare those who know and love me.  I am not depressed. I just miss my son. I miss him more than I can relay with feeble words.  With every day that drops away from this year's calendar, I miss him more. And that's okay. I don't think I would be human if I didn't feel this way. There are days and weeks, like these, that I just need to cry, to cry from a place so deep inside of me that it feels like nothing is left when I am finished. I only want you to understand the need for my space, to not ask me to explain how I feel, but to simply let me continue to grieve in whatever way feels best to me. That's what I need. To grieve. Grieving is a process. A lifelong process.  I am sure it will take me a lifetime to get through this. Yes through it, not over it.  I'll never get over it, but I know I will get through it. I have two beautiful, loving boys who constantly remind me of that.  And I know through it all God is there, walking with me, carrying me, giving me the strength I need to survive it.