23 Months

 

Early on I counted the time in weeks and then at some point it turned to months. I never counted in days because, at that stage, I was still trying to remember to eat and get dressed and take care of the other kids. I stopped cooking for 3 months after Luke died. I remember distinctly when I made my first home-cooked meal that wasn’t from a box or something frozen I could stick on a pan and put in the oven. It was around the 3 month mark. If you asked my family, I still don’t cook much 23 months later. I don’t know why that was so hard and has still continued to be a struggle. 

This week on the 18th is another anniversary. It will be 24 months and it would make sense to start counting the time in years. But I dread that with my whole being.  I dread this next anniversary. You see, the more time passes, the longer it has been since we have seen Luke, talked to him, been near him. Our memories, which are all we have now, get fuzzier. It becomes more difficult to remember what it was like when he was here. I think that’s why I have gone into his closet at times and touched his clothes. Recently I came across his black dress shirt that he wore for orchestra concerts. It clearly had not been washed because I noticed it had a glitter-like substance on the armpit. I envisioned him putting his arm around or hugging a girl who had a sparkly dress or something that rubbed off onto his shirt. Perhaps they were posing for a picture. I sat there with that thought and relished the imagined memories. 

Along with the sweet memories that bring me joy comes the pain of knowing there will be no more. There are so many paradoxes in grief. I don’t think people understand this very well, so I will explain it. I have come to learn that you can be full of gratitude for the many good things in your life and yet be devastatingly sad. I was always taught that gratitude makes you happy. It does, but it doesn’t take away grief. You can be focused on your living children and helping them move forward, but be consumed with thoughts of the child that isn’t here. I thought focusing on others is supposed to help you move forward. It does, but it doesn’t take away the grief. You can love God and believe in a beautiful afterlife and yet feel lost knowing that you will never see your son on earth again. You will be a different person, your other children will be different, and Luke will be different whenever that heavenly reunion happens. You can have faith and still know that death claimed some things that can never be restored. And that thought can shatter you. And yet you cling to hope. 

That’s why platitudes fall short of comfort for many bereaved parents and siblings. It’s more complicated than I ever realized before going through this process. It reminds me of being a new mother and how you think you could never love another child as much as that first one. But then you have your second and you realize you love them just as much. Your love can grow! And then the same with your third and then your fourth. And then you realize 4 is your limit, so you stop there. 😊 With grief, it is similar except it’s the amount of emotions that can exist in your heart and brain at the same time. It’s mind blowing and yet your mind never actually explodes. It expands. 

This cycle of near-exploding and expanding of my brain is painful. That’s why I think I’ve spent a good part of this second year feeling numb. I feel like it must be a protective factor of sorts. It comes and goes. Sometimes I’m grateful for it. Like, thank you, Brain. I did not feel like bawling my eyes out in public today. I owe you one. At other times it’s frustrating. You want to feel something and you can’t. 

If your head is spinning trying to make sense of all of this, then I did a good job of explaining how I feel at 23 months. I’m not sure if after this week I will call it 24 months or 2 years. I’ll keep you posted...