It was not how I imagined it would be.
I woke up pissed at the world, at God, at everything. I was even pissed I didn’t get the right amount of sugar in my morning coffee.
This is by far the hardest part of grief: the screwball emotions. Certainly feelings of anger, of jealousy, of fear, are entirely normal faces of the infinite beast of Loss, but in my personal life, I have had little experience dealing with them. Sadness? Depression? Disappointment? Regret? Sure, that’s all familiar territory. I come from a broken and dysfunctional family, and so those faces of emotion are entirely too well-known.
The others? Not so much.
I seldom feel true Rage. I tend to have a “slow fuse,” and I am grateful for that because my temper is an aspect of my personality I really don’t like. It’s ugly. It’s wild and control-resistant, like a volcano. A force of nature. Yesterday, I felt Rage with a capital R. God was a f-cking bastard. I screamed it over and over. He took my son from me. I had feared (at times) through my pregnancy that He made a mistake in choosing me and I had trusted Him to prove me wrong — and instead He b-tch slapped me and my husband. How stupid of us to even think we were capable of being parents! How naive! I had one chance to do this right and I blew it. We were deemed Unworthy. And I hated Him for it. I hated everyone who’d ever pressured us to have children, I hated everyone who had disapproved of us once I had conceived. I hated that our boy would never know his father’s kind touch, and I hated that I would never get to sing him a lullaby. Most of all, I hated the cruel, senseless theft of his perfect little soul. Damn You, God. Damn you.
See what I mean? Ugly. However, anger does serve a purpose, and mine was like popping the tab on a soda that’s been shaken too much. A massive explosion of words and emotion, that eventually fizzles out. After I had my screaming fit, I was drained. I began to cry. I felt guilty for unloading such nasty things. Mostly, there were tears…
Then the funeral home called. In a little, blue velvet bag just barely bigger than my hands was not how I imagined bringing my son home. And I cried.
This morning? Peace. Blessed, calm, peace. The tempest blew itself out, and I can see clear again. Yes, my son is gone. Nothing I do or say can change that. Yes, I am hurt and saddened by it — it is a hole in my life that words are incapable of filling. Yes, I still cry. He was my baby boy, and I so wanted the privilege of being his mother. My husband wanted and looked forward to being a father. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be… But it is not the end of things. It does not define me. It does not define my husband, nor the relationship we have with each other. We will survive this. Our love for each other is stronger than this.
And so, we move on.
My husband and I are beyond blessed at the outpouring of love and support we have received from members of our community, our friends and acquaintances both online and off. We are very grateful. Just knowing there are people who care is beneficial. Thank you all for showing us we are not alone.