January is tough. Another year that you will not be a part of. Time teases me. Time is said to heal, but all measurements of time remind me that you are not present. Right when my heart recovers from a new year on the calendar without you, your birthday rolls around. The third one without you. 21. I would be a nervous wreck about what you might get into turning 21. Fearing the worst for your safety, you would have had a lecture about drinking, driving, choices… it would have ended with, have fun, be careful- I love you. Very similar to the one we had on the afternoon of May 13, 2017 when you said you were headed out to celebrate a friends 18th birthday and I reminded you that the roads were slick and the visibility poor and you said, “so drive really fast…” and then giggled and said, “I know mom and put those big arms around me, said I love you, and out the door you went. Your work boots and wet jeans from the farm that day still in a pile in the garage and a greasy fingerprint on the door frame above my office where you hung your arms like a monkey.
The worst has come and gone. I don’t have to wait to hear from you and know you are safe on your 21st birthday in 2020. I know you are safe. You have been safe since that night in 2017 when I was left with the boots and fingerprints. My head says you are the lucky one. My faith dictates that your time on earth was merely buying time until you reached the ultimate celebration. My heart says this stinks. I fight a daily battle now. Waking to the realization that you are not here, I spend the day going through the motions of life while a self-talk reel runs in my head. In an 8 hour span I can move from… “why, not fair, what if, weighing the guilt, waking up my faith, running the same thoughts and questions past Nathan for the billionth time and he patiently walks me through the answers again, remembering the good times enough to pull out a smile, and complete the exercise with acceptance”.. only to go to sleep and start again the next day. This is just one element of the grief cycle. Grief work is hard. On birthdays it is suggested to write about the joy of your birth or celebrate with a traditional birthday party or focus on the life you had. I have done this the past two years and it was- ok. I found moments of joy in your birth story. I found moments of joy in going to your favorite restaurant and having cake. But always, lurking under the joy, is grief that is suffocating. Suffocating is not always the end. You had asthma when you were a tow headed toddler. You would struggle for air, your cheeks turning red and your gulps of air creating a cough cycle. We would administer the prescribed breathing treatments that meant you had to sit still, never a good thing in your world. Following that treatment you would breathe better and be filled with extra energy created by the albuterol. You would be very busy and motivated. Suffocation turned to energy with a little intervention.
Taking a note from you my son, I have vowed to take my suffocation and turn it into energy to #loveBIG. The foundation allows me a place to breathe better and motivates me to reach out a hand to those that need a little help or maybe just a short lecture- about choices followed by a reminder to have fun, be careful, and- you are loved.