My first Mother's Day without him

Holidays have been hard for some time now. We have spent a good majority of these celebratory occasions in the hospital, fighting for life. But this day; Mother's Day; it is specific to me. And this was my first mother's day without him. What a roller-coaster of emotion. I never know what to expect going into days like these; what emotion will occupy most of my time or what thoughts will pass through my mind. I usually just take it as it comes because trying to control it would be unrealistic and silly. Honestly, I was terrified of what the day would bring. I have done a pretty good job of taking time out of each day, or each week, to grieve his loss so it does not become overwhelming. Sometimes that means a few minutes and sometimes that means hours at a time.

Our Mother's Day started like any other family. My two-year-old ran into our room to wake me up and wish me a happy Mother's Day, which was obviously prompted by daddy. Funny thing is that it actually came out as "Happy Birthday, Mommy," instead of "Happy Mother's Day, Mommy." What a great way to start the day. I needed a laugh like that as as soon as I woke up, and how cute he looked trying to say the correct words. Then came the coffee and breakfast made, followed by texting and calling family members to wish them the same. I remember feeling grateful as I looked across the table to Jonathan, and then to Choice, as we all ate our eggs and waffles. I was grateful that I was able to spend this time with the family. This was new to us. Sitting down together as a family to eat. We had been split for so long, and moments like these made me feel like a normal family, and appreciate the time we all spend together. All things that seem simple to me now that we only have one child.  I also remember telling myself to bask in this grateful feeling, because I knew at some point, today would be painful. So, I sat there just a little bit longer, smiling at the silliness of our conversation. We spent most of the morning playing, laughing, and just being spontaneous. Doing what I wanted; what we wanted. Just spending time together. Going outside, reading books, watching TV.  And then came nap time. Daddy took Choice up to his room to get ready for his nap as a way to give me some free time alone, which in hindsight, is actually what I thought I wanted. I had planned to nap myself. But that is when it hit me.

I laid down in bed, tablet in hand, ready to watch my favorite shows. But my mind quickly turned to Conley. The distraction was gone and the laughter was on pause. It was quiet and I was alone. Usually, this is something I enjoy, and typically what I envision this day to be like. But, things obviously have changed. I quickly thought back to our breakfast in the morning so I could remember the feeling of happiness and joy before the obsession began. At this point, I know my grief cycle well enough that I have started welcoming it. When it hits me, it hits hard. I usually just dive into the grief so I can get through it; otherwise, I am not sure if I will make it past the heartache. And I don't want to get stuck in the grief or the heartache, because I have another child who deserves a mother who is present; especially since I was absent for long taking care of his brother. Sometimes looking at pictures and videos of Conley helps me get through the sadness, but sometimes it only makes it worse. Today was not a day that it helped to look at pictures, but I could not stop. Push through, right? I kept looking at pictures, remembering him and thinking about how much I missed him today. Remembering how much he taught me about life, about myself and especially about how to be a mother. I spent a good part of nap time crying for him. Desperately wishing I could have one more day with him or one more smile. My heart broke all over again when I looked at the picture of our final night at home, never knowing that he wouldn't return with us. I not only cried for him out of sadness, but I cried out of relief. I felt so thankful that I was not spending Mother's Day in the hospital; staring at my son on life support or watching him cry out in pain, like we had spent so many holidays. My heart also ached for the mothers who had children in the hospital on this very day; how it is so unfair that any mother should have to watch her child fight for their life. Somehow I ended up in Conley's room. I guess I wanted to feel closer to him; to let him know that I still miss him. It was in that moment that I found some comfort. There is no doubt in my heart that he is okay, and that he is happy now; that he is no longer suffering. It still does not make the sacrifice of giving my child back any easier. I finally closed my eyes and fell asleep, only to wake up to the laughter and the sweet voice of my two-year-old calling out for me. And, in that moment, I was thankful again. I made it through the grief. Coming out on the other side is always something to celebrate. It is easy to get stuck, but walking through and finding a reason to keep going - that is what makes it hard.

How is it that you can feel such extreme heartache at the same time you are feeling so overwhelmingly grateful?