Tag: progress

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.

Roar

This song. The video is kind of…interesting…but I love the message of this song. I love the words. Sometimes in life big things happen. HUGE things happen. Those things change you on a deep level. They change you so much that you feel like a different person. But when you change, you roar. Through those horrible things, somehow, changes happen that make you stronger.

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You see, when your child dies you change. It’s not a maybe you will change, or you might change, but you WILL change. When your child dies a piece of you dies with them. It’s a loss that others can try to understand but the only way to truly know how it feels is to go through it. The pain of it can’t be described or explained. It must be experienced. It’s a pain that you hope to never experience.

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Since Gabe’s death I am different. And one of those pesky little things I can’t control is just how different I am. I’m sure the people I know see difference, and to some the changes may seem bad and some good. To me though they are mostly good.

One of the biggest things that has changed is I care less about what others think of me, because really in the grand scheme of things it just doesn’t matter. My priorities in this new life of mine are my ability to survive and helping those that live under my roof with me survive. My husband and my surviving sons. This ability to not really worry about opinions of others has brought with it a wonderful assertiveness. At first it was kind of uncomfortable, but now it kind of feels good. If there is something I am not comfortable with I say so, or I just don’t do it. If there is something that I know will overextend me I opt to skip it. And if there is a boundary I have set I make sure to enforce it.

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I think those things make me a stronger person, and ultimately will make me a more successful person. I also think those things are probably confusing for some of those around me to see. This change seems kind of drastic. It IS kind of drastic. But the change to MY LIFE was extremely drastic. And sudden. And horrible. And earth shattering. I know that despite what others may think this version of me is here to stay. My child died. I changed. I will be forever different. The old me? She’s gone, and this version of me will ROAR!

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Progress, I guess

Every morning I drop my middle son off at TA, the high school where Gabe attended. This morning I was thinking about how different it feels even just seeing TA than it did 2 years ago. I will never forget the first time I had to sit at the light, leaving the elementary school after dropping off my youngest. I sat at the light and right in front of me, across the street, was the high school that my oldest child no longer attended. It was a punch in the gut every time I had to do that, or had to pass the school. I would see the school that my child no longer attended because he died. Every day as I went to work I had to pass the school, cry, and pull myself together before walking in to care for children.

Those early days (and weeks, and months, and really year and a half+) were brutal. They were brutal in a way that only those who have buried a child (or probably a spouse with a very untimely death) understand. In those early days (and weeks, and months, and still most days) there were tears every single day. But often with those tears came panic. A panic so horrible that it was hard to breathe. That panic was brought about by my heart slowly realizing that a part was missing and it wouldn’t ever return. The panic would come as I would remember, over and over, every detail of that horrible day. And wishing in my mind that I could change those memories and make them un-happen. That panic would happen in the shower, in bed at night, in the car, driving near the school. It would happen when I would hear a siren, or get passed by an ambulance, or often in church as I looked around and saw so many intact families. It happened at the dentist when I had to update the information in my boys charts- but only for 2 boys because only 2 were still living. It would happen in too many situations to name. A few times it happened at work but I was able to pull myself together. It’s a panic that most people around think needs to be fixed. That the sadness of grief needs help to get better- through medication and counseling. And no doubt those things have their place. But the reality of this kind of grief is that nothing will fix it. It needs to be lived and worked through.

Thankfully now I don’t tend to have those panicky moments. Definitely not the moments that literally take my breath away. There are still sad days. They are not as frequent but still very brutal. I don’t think those sad days will ever fully end. Today I am in a better place than I was 2 years ago, and that is progress. I am grieving at my own speed and I don’t really care about what anyone around me thinks. This is, after all, my journey. I’m so thankful for the friends who still walk with me (literally and figuratively) and haven’t put any pressure on me to get better. Those friends love me exactly where I am and for that I am eternally grateful.

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The picture I placed above was given to me when I went to see a grief counselor within about 2 weeks of Gabe’s death. I think it captures the journey of a grieving parent perfectly. That is what it feels like. No other words are necessary.