It's been 9 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day since Fane left. I oftentimes have people ask me how I am doing. Typically I say good or fine. And most of the time those answers aren't really lies. Most of the time I really am good or fine. At least as good or fine as I get since the accident. As good or fine as a mother who's lost a child can be. There really is a lot more that goes into it than that. But I use the same response for times when I really am not feeling good or fine or anywhere near to those standards. For one thing, those responses have become so natural to me. Like a reflex, I say them without even thinking about it. Secondly, I figure most people don't really want to hear how I really am doing. Thirdly, I realize that I'd probably break down right then and there on the spot if I were honest. And I guess it's my own stubborn pride at work there. I don't want people to see me blubbering. So, for those of you who do want to know, here is how I really am doing:
I still cry everyday. Every. Single. Day. Some days more than others. I honestly don't think there's been a day since the accident that I haven't cried at all. Fane's absence has become the new normal even though there's really nothing normal about it. It's almost gotten to the point where I'll think to myself, "Did that really happen? Did I have a son one second and in the next he was gone?" And then I'll look down at the hideous scar on my arm and am vividly reminded that, yes, it all really happened. The reality of it hits me and I struggle. I still have moments when I literally crumple to my knees because I just can't stand any longer. I still will go to the place we buried him (I can't bring myself to call it a grave even though I know very well that's what it is) and lay there sobbing so hard I gag. And every now and then I still beg God to send him back to us because heaven is just too far away at the time.
I am more irritable than I ever used to be. I have less patience. Things get to me like they never used to. I have very little tolerance for (what I see as) petty parental complaints. Things such as kids waking you up in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea what I would give to have Fane wake me up in the middle of the night again? Or your babies are growing too fast. You cried because you put your kid's size 12 month clothes away? Try going through your kid's closet for the last time, storing clothing you got for next year that he'll never get to wear now. You broke down on her first day of school? Fane doesn't get a first day of school. Guess I sound a little bitter. I don't really mean to be. Like I said, things irritate me a lot easier than they used to.
It bothers me when people say, "I know how you feel." And I know they mean well, but I don't like it. Really? You know how I feel? Even if you have lost a child also, you don't know how I feel. Do you know how I feel every time I drive by the ditch where my son died? Do you know how the most random thought will trigger the memory of the accident? How I'll relive the entire car ride from church to the ditch? Replaying our conversation? Saying it's okay, we're just going in the ditch, we'll be fine? Replaying Fane's cries that turned into screams from all four of my kids? Do you know how it feels to relive laying in the ditch with your arm stuck under the vehicle? Not being able to get free to take care of your three screaming children, two of them still strapped upside down in their car seats? Or not being able to look for the fourth baby even though you know in your gut exactly where he is but hoping, praying you're wrong? Do you know how it feels to have your daughter come up to you crying because she misses Fane and wants him to come home? Do you know what it's like to live with the knowledge that you were driving the vehicle that killed your son? Our personalities are different, the circumstances surrounding our children's deaths were different, and our circumstances in the aftermath are different. You may know some of what I am feeling and can relate. Yes, it is painful for anyone who loses a child. I'm not saying my loss is more painful than yours or vice versa. I'm just saying you cannot
know how I feel. Just as I couldn't know how you felt when you lost
your son or daughter. Saying that you know how I feel...well, to me it's a little insulting. Like it's belittling my pain.
I sleep clutching his ratty blue "Buddy" every night. When Fane was born he was given one of those little security blankets with a stuffed animal head attached. We noticed he had grown rather attached to it by his first birthday. It was then dubbed "Buddy" and they were henceforth inseparable. He would drag it all around the house and basically could not sleep without it. I usually washed it once a week, the thing smelled so bad. I meant to wash it the day of the accident but for some reason ended up not getting to it. I was happy I didn't. I had never before enjoyed that smell but suddenly it became precious. A couple of months after the accident it stopped smelling and I was devastated. I hated to wash it again. Anyway, now Buddy sleeps with me every night because it's the closest thing I have to Fane.
I still peek around the door into what is now just the girls' room after they're asleep just to make sure that Fane really is gone. Or maybe it's in hope that he'll have miraculously returned as if nothing ever happened. I've had many dreams of that happening. Typically in each dream I fear sleep, thinking I'll wake up and he'll be gone again. Or I won't let him out of my sight thinking I'll turn back and he'll have disappeared.
I don't care for driving, especially at night. Typically, I don't drive at night unless I absolutely have to. Driving the stretch of road where the accident happened is particularly difficult. I often don't feel safe in a vehicle. I know all to well how it feels to be in control one second and then suddenly not the next. Even the slightest swerve freaks me out. I am really not looking forward to winter roads.
I regularly think about what he would do in various situations. How he would be interacting with his sisters and brother. It breaks my heart to think of Saphira and Hawke not even remembering him. Saphira knows him in pictures but I don't think she remembers him. Hawke was two and a half months at the time of the accident. I doubt at this point he even knows Fane was ever here. Aria will ask about him from time to time and it just warms my heart. I try to picture what he would be like now, nine and a half months older. I see other kids his age playing and I hurt knowing he'd be playing with them if he were still here.
It's not all bad, though. I have good times. I smile. I laugh. I am trying to keep things in perspective. I know I am not the first mother to lose a child and I haven't been the last. I know I have not been singled out to carry this burden. There are others like me out there. It could have been much worse. I could have lost all four of my babies in that accident. There have been countless other parents who have lost multiple children in one fell swoop. So really, I don't feel I have room to complain. And I try not to most of the time. Yet complain I do from time to time. I am only human and it is in my nature after all.
I still have my faith. I know there are some who would mock me for it. Perhaps even some who read this blog. That's fine it's your prerogative. Just as it is mine to continue to praise God and trust Him in the midst of my suffering. Well, try to trust Him anyway. That part isn't always so easy. Yes, my baby boy is gone for now. But I do believe I'll have him back
one day. For a follower of Christ this life here really is the dream, a
nightmare for some that will be over in a blink. And one day I believe
I'll wake up on the other side to an eternal reality. A reality in
which I'll ask myself if this earthly lifetime of mine ever really
happened. That's my hope anyway. And a big part of what keeps me
pressing on.
And now I feel as though I'm rambling. The thoughts that were in my head when I started seem to no longer be there. Perhaps it's the hour. This is late for me.
