Grief

It’s been some time since I’ve written. I’ve wanted to write. I’ve had so much to write, but I often feel like it’s the same thing.

I’m broken.

My heart. My soul. My motivation. My love for this life.

I grieve.

For my son. For my family. For everything we will never experience with our beautiful little boy.

G said to me the other day- “I wanted to buy him shoes and comb his hair”.

Knowing that the love of my life hurts just as much as I do, is like getting drop kicked directly in the chest. Knowing she will never get to brush his beautiful little head of hair or buy him shoes, makes me want to quit.

And I feel as if I sound like a broken record. But I can’t help to feel this way when my life is like Groundhog Day.

Everyday we wake up to the same reality, and the same replay in our head of those 9 months before that Sunday, and the blur of the 20 something hours that Luca was alive.

We stare at the pictures of him, because those are the only pictures we will ever have of him. Not one of him in the onesies that my cousin made for him to wear on his month birthdays. Not of his first tooth. Not of G dressing him up in all those crazy outfits. Not of him and his mommy in the park, soaking up the sun.

None of them.

We have pictures of him sleeping in our arms, before his huge spirit left that beautiful little body and entered another realm.

There are many times when I think it would have been easier if we would have left with him.

I understand far too well now how uncomfortable grief makes people. Especially this kind of grief, because, well, let’s face it…..babies aren’t supposed to die.

Grandparents, parents, pets, they all die eventually. It’s somehow more easily accepted because most of the time, they’ve lived a full life. They’ve had the chance to grow and learn, and live.

But a baby dies………our Luca D’oro died, and every dream and thought we had for the future dies with him. And here we are, wading through the thickest quagmire of grief possible.

And in a society where grief is often swept under the carpet or stuffed someplace else, we end up feeling like lepers. Like those people who have this horrible story that no one wants to get near or touch for fear they might get it themselves.

Some of the people in our lives want G and I to be the old us again.

“It’s already been three months right? Can’t you just get over it already? Isn’t it time to move on? Don’t you think Luca wants you to be strong?”

But what some folks aren’t seeming to understand, is that we are no longer the same people. Losing our son, our only child, our first born, the very beginning of this extension of our nuclear family, is something that we will never get over.

And it’s not something we will just move on from.

We are strong.

Please don’t judge our strength.

We get up, I go to yoga, G goes to work, G runs miles upon miles, I reach out to someone to talk to or for a hug, I go run an errand, make myself a meal, we seek out other healing methods, we go to the beach and sink our feet in the sand. These seemingly little tasks that we complete, is evidence of us being strong.The fact that we get up and decide to do it all over again after the greatest loss we’ve ever experienced, is proof of this strength.

I know us being sad makes people uncomfortable, because it’s not what people knew us as before.  They don’t want to be around our constant grieving and they want us to get better, and sometimes they may feel as if they have to figure out a way to make us happy again, and help us get over it.

But you are not responsible for making it better. And the best thing that you can do, is to let us know you are here for us, and just be with us in our grief.

So just hang in there please. We need your support. We need the phonecalls, the texts and emails, and visits.

I swear the depression will lift, it will get lighter, and we won’t be this sad forever. And though I myself can’t fathom this right now, I’ve heard from other mothers who have lost their babies, that it is true.

But for now, yes. We have to be sad. So very sad.

We’ve lost our golden boy, and we’ve lost our way.

Family.