Most of you know the story of Elijah so I'm not going to tell you it. But in case you just came across my blog and name for the first time today (lucky you), I had a son in 2010, he was full-term and born after 41wks of gestation. He was injured during labor and never recovered. His life was very brief totaling 14hours.
To be honest I don't want to do this, I don't want to be this, I don't want to have to sit here and acknowledge that another year has passed since I last saw-last kissed my son. I know that today will pass-silently-and I also know I'll get through it, I always do. In fact this is just the passing of the storm, the build up started weeks ago. Sometimes the dread of the event is worse than the actual day. Because what really can I do? My son is dead, it happened, he's not going to come walking through those doors anytime soon. I gave up on counseling, until they can cure death, it won't make things right. Everyday starts with a deep breathe, a prayer and then one foot in front of the other. You learn to live and rebuild-you learn to survive. It doesn't mean I only think of him once a year. No, I think about him every.single.day. The events that span March 07-March 08 affect every event and my perspective. Sometimes it jades things, other times it makes things better. Regardless of what my future has for me, Elijah has taught me to survive and persist. It has taught me a lot about being humble and grateful. I'm not saying I'm a better parent than someone who hasn't lost a child, but I'm definitely a better parent to my own than I would have been if I hadn't experienced loss.
So how was the second year of grief? Once again being brutally honest it was pure hell. The first year was in fact easier for me. Your mind puts you in a fog to protect itself. You sort of walk around in a daze. Your child died, and that's as far as it goes. The second year, at first little memories sink in, and as you get better at coping with that the details come pouring in. It is time to process the event, to come to terms. The safety of your cocoon is ripped off and you are exposed. Let me tell you something-the mind is great at capturing every little detail, every little sound. The hardest part of it however is you want to talk, but people around you have already put the event behind them. You're dwelling on it. Get over it. The second year is by far the most isolating. Sometimes you isolate yourself, I know I struggled with a lot of shame-why can't I just move on? Luckily I have a lot of supportive friends and a family that doesn't stop amazing me. There are so many acts of kindness I've experienced from Christmas tree ornaments, to grave ornaments to simple texts when I'm down. I hold comfort in knowing that as I enter year three it's going to be gentler. I've heard on many accounts from bereaved parents is the first 2 years are the hardest and then of course milestone years but by the third year time is already putting up that buffer between you and the pain.
I'm not asking for pity, I just want to feel like a normal human being again. A part of you dies when you bury a child and what's left behind is seriously messed up. For the last year I've lived the same day every single night. I can tell you the exact beeping and clicking sound of the life support machines, when I close my eyes I can see Elijah's chest moving up and down. I remember the first time seeing all the tubes in his body. Elijah didn't die on his own, he was on life support. He died by my hands, I made the call to end life support. I remember holding him, and listening as the machines shut off. I remember begging him to breathe-it can't be that hard I've been doing it for 26yrs without a second thought. I remember him trying to -and failing, I remember the sound his chest made as I held him. I remember staring at him and watching him grow cold and still and blue. I don't regret taking him off life support, for us a miracle is going to happen off the machines-the machines would have kept him in status-quo. It was the last act a mother could do for her child, relieve him of the pain and suffering-to have mercy. Keeping him here would be for my benefit not his. Part of me regrets doing it so soon, I wish I took the time to look at him, cuddle him and read to him. I didn't even count his toes until a week later at the funeral home. I don't believe in ghosts, but I believe that places can be haunted. If you walk down the halls of Children's Hospital and you feel like it's haunted, I'm pretty sure it's not the souls of the children that passed away but the souls of the parents that had to say goodbye. I know in my mind I tread that hallway over and over again. Most bereaved parents will tell you the most aweful experience is walking down the hospital halls empty handed. I see other things, I see my son's tiny blue casket sitting in the cold March ground, I see flowers being thrown in the grave.
How do I feel today? The last few months I've been choking back silent rage and frustration. People say that life isn't fair-and it isn't. It wasn't fair that I got to hold my beautiful son for a few hours only to have him ripped away. It was like I was a few steps away from the finish line only to trip and stumble and break my leg. It isn't fair that they messed up my episomety and I'm in constant pain and discomfort even today. I will eventually have to get it re-cut and re-constructed. It isn't fair the 10s of thousands of dollars of debt we nearly drowned under or the fact that in our first year of marriage is soaked in grief. When I look at my wedding pictures my heart sinks- I was 3months pregnant. I look and see all the promise, hope and true happiness in our eyes. I'd love to see it again in my husband or myself. It isn't fair that Lily not only lost a brother but in a way she lost part of her mom. There are firsts she's had that are drenched in sadness, seen through tears. I'm just happy that mentally I'll be better equipped when she starts building memories.
What about the silence? The silence that takes up every single spare space. The silence between me and friends. The silence between husband and wife. The silence of the cemetery. There is a joke on "Family Guy" that rings true, after Joe loses his teenage kid Peter says "bereaved parents are so awkward. If you don't mention their kid, they get upset, if you do they get upset". It's true, to be honest there are many times I am face to face with a bereaved parent and I have no idea what to say.
So what is it like being a bereaved parent? It's like the story of "the little mermaid". Not the PC Disney version but the old version where after getting her legs, every step Ariel takes is pure agony, it's like walking on broken glass. Broken glass that is the shattered remains of your formal life.
People ask me if I've lost faith, if I'm angry at god. The simple answer is no. Thing is, in the whole bible, no where does it say life is going to be great and easy. It just doesn't happen. God's most devoted followers suffered the most-look at poor Job, and he never once got mad at god for losing his keys. I need to know that this isn't the end of Elijah's story. That one day I will see him again and that his life was part of something bigger. I don't want to be at the cemetary saying to myself, yes that is it. That was his life.
There is so much more I can write about. About that day, about the last two years. However I am typing this out on my IPhone and I think I'll stop there.
*Love you Elijah, my baby boy forever you'll be.*
~In loving memory of Elijah Lachlan McRoberts. Born March 08 2010 12:01AM-2:45PM~
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