Do You Remember?

This past week or so has been an emotional one for me, though not to the degree it used to be.  I’ve cried, as I’ve tried to fall asleep, every night lately.  Oftentimes I cannot tell precisely what I’m crying about, though the underlying reason is always the same.  Last night, though, I was able to control the thoughts running rough-shod through my mind enough to hear what was the reason, besides the horrendous loss, for the fresh rawness lately.

Does anyone care anymore?

Does anyone remember my son?

Does anyone remember our family and the loss we’ve sustained?

I think I’ve mastered keeping a lid on my emotions for the general public.  There are a few friends and family members who I know will raise their eyebrows at that statement!  But, for the most part, I can, as I have come to call it, keep the lid closed on my grief box.  Sometimes I have to stand on it to keep it closed.  But I can do that, too.

I think this new talent I have (keeping the lid closed on my grief box) has deceived people into believing I’m doing well, moving on, getting over the loss, etc. etc. etc.  FYI – I HATE with a passion, all those phrases.  I also hate “learning to accept”, “healing”, and “new normal”.  It’s kind of like lovers after a nasty break-up – watching The Notebook brings about a visceral negative response.

Am I doing better?  Yes, I am.

Is healing occurring?  When I ask my counselor if I am “stuck in my grief”, he assures me that I am not and he sees “healing” taking place.

Is there a “new normal”?  Of course there is.

Can I accept this tragic loss?  I can not.  Could you?

I am learning to live around it.  But I don’t think I can ever accept this.

But that is not really the trail of my thoughts today.

There have been times, over the past 33 months, when I’ve wanted to stand up and shout, “My son died.”  It seemed like everyone had forgotten the tragedy our family has had to endure.

But there are other times I want to stand up and shout, “My son lived.”

He lived.  He had a life.  He touched people’s lives.  He breathed.  He loved.  He laughed and cried.  He enjoyed my cooking.  He respected his dad.  He loved his siblings and enjoyed being with them.  He adored his nieces and nephew, playing with and holding them every time he was with them.

He loved Jello, and his Grandma Judy always made sure he had some when he came to visit.

He liked riding his motorcycle with his brothers and friends, and did so as often as possible.

He called his older sister whenever he needed sisterly advice.

He took classes to further his dream of becoming an aeronautical engineer.

He enjoyed drawing and creating things with his hands.

He was protective of his younger siblings.

He was a beautiful, gifted, loving and much-loved person.

He was my son.

He was my husband’s son.

He was my children’s sibling; my grandchildren’s uncle.

He lived.

We miss him.

We haven’t stopped loving him.

I still look for him, even knowing I will never find him here on this earth.

I look every time I see a motorcycle with a young man riding it.

I glance at the office building where I took him for physical therapy after his motorcycle accident, every time I drive by.

I am compelled to do a double-take when I see a comment on Facebook by someone whose name begins with the same letter as his.

I still consider calling him when I hear or think of something I know would be of interest to him.

My heart still stops when I see an old purple Toyota Corolla.  (None of us could believe it when he bought that thing.)

He is, and forever will be, a part of me; a part of our family; a part of our lives.

He is still so important to me; to us.

He lived.

Do you remember him?  Would you be uncomfortable if I talk about him as though he is still a very important part of my life?  Because he is still a very important part of my life.

He may be living in heaven now, but he is still my son, I am still his mother, and I still love him with all my being.

That will never change.

Do you remember him?