Category: Milestones

Missed Milestones

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Driving. It’s something Gabe never got to do. Well, not legally anyway. He drove on someones private property, and he pulled the car from the back to the front to park it once, but that is the extent of it. On his 15th birthday (which ended up being just 19 days before he died) he went to the DMV website and started taking practice tests. He often talked about what kind of car he would get, and how he would modify it. He was completely unrealistic in what he would have actually been able to get, but he liked to dream big. He was SO excited at the prospect of driving.

Gabe driving was not something that his dad and I were too excited about. He was reckless-always. Reckless on his bike, on his skateboard, in his actions.

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I imagine he would not have been the most careful driver. Gabe had a hard time thinking things through. He had ADHD, sensory processing dysfunction, and difficulties with planning. Driving would have been an extremely challenging task. But he was very thrilled about it.

Driving has been on my mind lately because Gabe’s middle brother will soon be learning to drive. Milestones like that are hard to navigate. It is wonderful to see him grow up, to see who he’s becoming, and help him figure out life. It is also so difficult though because my oldest didn’t make it this far. Since 19 days after he turned 15, my middle son has lived longer than his older brother. That is a very difficult reality. And I’ll feel it again when the youngest surpasses that age.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. This year should look very different. The rest of our lives should look very different. Sometimes I think people feel like parents grieve too long, but I know I will never stop grieving. I can’t. Because when a child dies you lose the FUTURE. You still have A future, but not the one that should have played out. I know, many things alter the future and we have to shift and reassess, change and rewrite things. But the death of a child is a completely different thing. I can’t just rewrite things, because my brain always sees the picture of life as it should be- with my oldest son who is now 17 pulling up to the front of our house in a beat up old car, and telling us that he got another ticket. Because that is exactly how it would be.

 

 

The Empty Room

It’s right there. At the top of the stairs. Gabe’s room. It’s filled with stuffed animals, tons of clothes, and little things he collected over the years. The sheets are still on his bed, unwashed. The clothes he wore on April 7 are still in his hamper (though I have to be honest- I put them there. They were on the floor before).

Gabe’s room is not in great shape. There is plaster chipped on the walls, and cracks, and some paint peeling from the window frame. He didn’t seem to mind those things. He just loved that it was HIS room. He had this great loft bed and he loved being high up. We offered to get him a normal bed but he never wanted that.

Above Gabe’s door is a window, as old houses often have. Sometimes he would try to sneak and text friends late at night, but I could see the glow of the screen through the window. Handy for his parents, not so handy for him. Gabe also had a temper and would often slam that door. Amazingly the glass never broke.

I think the most interesting thing about Gabe’s room is how I haven’t been able to change anything. I never understood, before, why people kept things the same after someone died. I never understood how people could hold on to everything. I understand now. I don’t want to get rid of anything he touched. It is all there. It is some tiny connection to him, and I want to keep it all- his shirts, pants, socks, wallet, backpack, skateboard and helmet. Everything he wrote, everything he touched. The items that we carefully selected to display at his funeral are in there too, in blue plastic boxes lovingly packed up with the help of a wonderful friend.

Maybe one day I’ll feel the courage to change his room. Or maybe not. And that’s ok.

Time

When a child dies there is an initial shock. It is a huge shock and time seems to stand still. The beginning is purely about survival. I think that shock is the only way parents can survive the death of their child. If we felt all the sadness at once we would never make it.

As time goes by the shock slowly eases up, in layers, and the sadness really hits.  And it is like that horrible sadness hits over and over. The sadness comes from those little reminders around the house like their things, their seat at the table, their bedroom, and their pictures. Then as more layers of shock wear off you start to realize:

Life goes on as usual for everyone else

My world and my surviving sons world has been broken. But everyone else’s world keeps going. It feels so wrong! It feels like the entire world should stop when such a huge part of mine died. Yes others are sad too, yes they miss him, but it’s not in the same way. It’s not the same when it was your child, living in your home. It’s not the same for anyone else. That makes this journey the hardest.

As time goes by and more shock wears off a bit you start to realize things- his friends are driving and he should be too. His friends are getting jobs and he should be too. His friends are heading into their senior year, thinking about college. They are planning their lives but he is not. We, as his parents see every bit of that. Each milestone his friends reach is one he will never reach. And that is extremely painful to see. I’m so happy for those friends and their families as they do these things, but there is also a brutal unfairness that is excruciating.

I think this is why the death of a child alters the parents and siblings so much. Because it changes the future. It changes the way the future should be, the way we thought it would go. I don’t think our brains and hearts will ever fully understand that. This child should be here and he is not. That just doesn’t make sense.