Yesterday was 18 months, a year and a half, since Evan was alive. He has been gone for over a year and a half now. I didn’t even realize that yesterday was the 23rd until near the end of the day. My body, heart, and mind felt it, though.
The first year of Evan being gone seemed to fly by. I couldn’t believe that the first year came and went as quickly as it did. I guess I don’t really remember very large chunks of it. The first couple of months after Evan died are a complete blur. Literally. Then, there are bits and pieces that I remember from there on out, but not much. It’s so bizarre – although I’ve come to realize it is quite common.
Now, I find that these last 6 months have almost seemed to creep by. I still can’t believe it’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen him alive. Its been a year and a half since we held him for the first and last time. It has been 18 months since I felt his heart slow down as I held him, until I couldn’t feel it beating anymore. It still seems pretty unreal and almost as if it happened to someone else, and I will find Evan in his room later tonight, or he will just magically appear and I will wake up from this f’ed up nightmare.
I wish for the rest of my life to fly by most days. I want this all to be over already, so that I can hopefully hold my baby boy again in my arms. I want to see him and kiss his face and give him the biggest smile. I want to hear him call me “mom”. I want to hear him call Grant “dad”. I want us all to be together again. It already feels like a lifetime since we’ve been away from him. I don’t want to literally wait another lifetime.
So, we put one foot in front of the other and make it through the days. The days then turn into weeks and months. That’s all life is now – one foot in front of the other. I have a feeling that it will always be this way. This is just how things are. After becoming close with so many other bereaved parents, I have learned this to be “normal” (whatever that means). We don’t feel normal. None of us will be the same again. Ever. That is a pretty strong realization. We live for our children everyday. We love them and miss them with everything we are and everything we have. That never changes. It never gets easier. I have heard that it gets “different” in a way that you slowly learn to just live it with, frankly. We carry that loss around with us all the time – a piece of our soul forever missing. The pain never subsides.
I will always and forever feel incomplete. I know that. But, I have to feel incomplete and put one foot in front of the other. I have to feel like my life is over, but yet not have it be over. It is a constant struggle. And it doesn’t mean that there are not things I enjoy or that I cannot genuinely laugh or have a good time. It is possible. We can and we have quite often. There are times when Grant and I are laughing at something, and we look at each other, and I can tell it’s for real. Those times when you are both laughing at something and can’t seem to stop, and your eyes start to fill with tears. You have a hard time catching your breath. It’s moments like those that stand out to me now. Before, we would just laugh about something and probably move on, but I stop and notice those moments now. I think about how Evan must see us in that moment, and know he is laughing along with us, smiling because we’re smiling. He is so happy that we are happy in that moment. And that means everything.
Everything I do and think and feel is for Evan. I am always doing things for Evan. I am always thinking of him. I am who I am for him. I live and go on, for him.
Evan, I cannot begin to explain how much I miss you. That pain I feel from not having you here with us is unbearable. It is so heavy. It weighs me down. But, at the same time, I feel so much love for you that I radiate with light in my own way. You are our world. It’s so hard to parent a child that is no longer here. But we do it without even thinking about it. I am amazed most days by wondering how to heck we made it through yet another day. We hold on tight to each other and love each other (and you) so much. We hold each other up when we can, let ourselves fall when it just gets to be too much, and help each other up when one of us is more weighed down than the other. I could not do this without him. And I could not do this without your love. I love you to the moon and back.