What to do with all "this sucks"
A friend came into work the other day. We hugged. We both knew why we needed holding. . We sat in silence for a moment she said ,"this sucks". A tear slipped down my cheek . I said , "Yes this absolutely sucks." Her beautiful son died too. Every year since Owen's death it's the same drill.
In December I begin to psyche myself up for Christmas. I fail immediately by forgetting St Nick. It Never fails. Well I had never heard about it until I lived in Wisconsin . Growing up my kids learned St Nick was a day in December they got to go to Target after school and pick out a freebie gift. No the pain of losing a child doesn't go away. It actually permeates your whole being. It is a part of you forever. It's like being punched in the gut continually as you move about your day trying to look normal as you exist amongst the living . I remember drowning and gasping for breath my first Christmas after Owen's death. At my children's school mothers were asking me how many dozen creative cookies I was baking for the class party? Cookies? I was to bake? I stood there like a zombie in my black sunglasses. I wanted to tell them how proud I was that I had actually remembered to bring my children to school, we were out of bed, and they were dressed.
Nineteen Christmas' this year without Owen . Opening the Christmas decorations are difficult. I swallow the lump in my throat to stop the tears welling up in my eyes. I unwrap his stocking that I tuck a letter into every Christmas Eve. It's getting thick. I write as I listen to Silent Night. I rocked and sang that to Owen the night before he died. At bedtime Owen had a ritual. As we rocked drinking his bottle he would run his fingers over my face . It was much like a blind person feeling your face to identify you . As we rocked he tenderly caressed my cheek . This night a sly little grin appeared on his face when he got to my nose. He slipped his tiny finger inside of it. Milk poured out the side of his mouth as he started to giggle. We both burst into laughter and hugged as we rocked together next to the Christmas tree in the dark. That was my last night rocking my son. When you have a child die, that child's life is now divided in 2 parts. You hate having 2 parts. The "before" and "after". The "after" is unbearable to accept and each year that passes the "before" gets farther away . You are terrified . How has 19 years gone by without him? How did you go 19 years without him? Every year I re-read the letters I have written to Owen in his stocking. As I tuck that years letter in I hug his urn . I rock us by the tree as Silent Night plays softly in the background.
God's plan is not ours. I don't know why God chose to bring Owen home to Him. I will never understand. During one of our conversations I told my mom, "When I die I am running right past God to the little blond haired boy behind Him." Both of us were crying , my mom hugged me tight. She whispered," Mary Lyn He will understand. He knows what your feeling . He lost His little boy too."
For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life...