Matthew,

I’m staring at the photo of you I selected for this post and for your obituary. It’s one of  the few photos that we have of you and it’s how I always remember you.

My sweet red headed baby.

It never gives me any comfort to think of you as an adult spirit. You were my sweet, snuggly little baby and it’s how you stay in my mind.

Oddly, though…I feel the need and absolute desire to talk to you like a grown up today.

You would have been an amazing man, Matthew. Talented. Kind. Gentle. Strong. Much stronger than your mother ever could be. I wish more than anything that I could see you as a happy, fulfilled adult some day.

But it can never be because you died.

It’s been six years today since that horrible day that ripped us all to more pieces then we’ll ever find again.

I feel like I have aged centuries in these six years, Matthew.

There are so many thoughts twisting up my heart and tumbling through my mind this year about you.

I wonder if you knew your brother Aaron before he came to us. Somehow I keep thinking that you must have had a say in just what kind of spirit was going to be sent to our little family. If you knew that our family needed this particular little bundle of sweetness that is your little brother?

Aaron being here is very…complicated.

When I thought about what having a new baby in our family would be like I could easily imagine all the love and joy. I didn’t anticipate how much seeing and having a little one that is so close to your age on this day would hurt and tear at me.

Sometimes when I kiss the bridge of his nose I flash back to what it felt like to kiss yours. When he’s sleeping and I can only see the top of his head and nose I see such strong glimpses of you. It fills me with such joy to see you in some form that is alive and in motion that it takes my breath away much of the time.

While I absolutely love him for the individual that he is, seeing you in him can make me so happy my heart almost bursts.

I wish I could say that it was all good images that I remember. Too often when I snuggle or kiss or nod off rocking him I start in a cold sweat remembering your cold skin, your horrible wounds, the way your little body felt in my arms when your breath left it and you turned cold.

Do you know what that does to someone?

Sometimes I have had to look up to see hell.

If only I could give you my life to give you yours back; to make you breathe, live and grow, I would. I would trade my existence for yours without a moment of hesitation. I would fight tooth and nail and bloody my hands pulling and trying for the mere chance to make it happen. I try to live with my fury and disappointment at the inadequacies of the natural laws of this world that will never allow my to even TRY angers me, like so many other things regarding your loss. I try to put my rage at your loss on the least harmful targets as possible to spare those around me,  but it doesn’t always work.

What’s in my head escapes and hurts myself and others. I wish they would go away. There isn’t a far enough, dark enough, safe enough place that I can find to erase those images and there are many times that I have thought they would drive me insane. So insane I thought it would be impossible to survive through your loss many times, Matthew.

I often feel I will never be whole again.

But…

There is Aaron…this little baby.

A second chance.

And while it is still so very hard and I sit here struggling to get out of this very big hole I’m in?

I love him so much.

He has brought so much love and happiness to our family, Matthew.  He has made your loss more bearable in so many ways. Your father is a different man since he was born. Your brothers are proud little mother hens that adore and watch out for him.  He has saved your mother.

I wonder if you know all these things.

I hope so.

I know that you didn’t want to leave us, I KNOW IT.  I don’t blame you for ANY OF THIS.

Never.

EVER.

You are my sweet, sweet boy and you always will be.

I have to think and believe with how much we loved and treasured you that you miss us deeply and wish you were here with us as much as we long to have you back with our family.

No matter how lovely and perfect heaven is supposed to be?

I can’t imagine it being happier than being here with those that loved you so, so much.

Sometimes I feel silly writing these things to you or talking to you in the shower or in those really horrible hours of the morning with the light is blue and cold and lonely.

So many people of faith around me say that you are with me, that you are my guardian angel, that you are proud of me. I’m not sure about that. I want it to be that way. I want you to be around me, guarding me, giving me comfort, being proud of me.

If you are up there or here or wherever and you can see my life and be with me?

I’ve done the best I can, but I am not capable of a lot.

I’ve hurt so many.

I’ve lost so much.

I’m so messed up.

I have set back after setback after setback. I think that I am doing well, that things are better, that I can actually function and be free of this debilitating sorrow that is so tied to you and then BAM!

I’m proved wrong.

I’m in a pretty dark and deep hole right now, Matthew. I wish I could be different for you. For everyone. For myself. I wish I could just be…fixed.

I have so many good and wonderful things about me. Why can’t they just stay center stage and outshine the other all the time?

Why do I keep falling down SO HARD?

So MANY times.

It’s exhausting to keep going through. For me and everyone that touches my life. It’s too much sometimes. I wish I could look at this like someone I want to get away from and distance myself from it.

I don’t have that luxury.

I get to stay right here. Front and center. Yippee.

And I feel like a failure.

Over and over and over again people tell me that you are here, with me and that you will give me comfort when I feel you.

But I don’t.

I don’t feel you here with me.

What kind of horrible mother says that?

Doesn’t feel their child’s spirit around them?

So I try.

I pretend.

I hope, and wish and try to FORCE IT TO BE SO.

But I just…don’t.

It has tortured me for a very long time.

A longtime friend that knows me inside and out lost their father at a young age and I confided this horrible guilty secret to them quite some time ago. They told me that it took years and years before they could take comfort and feel their dad around them. They were just too hurt and in pain to do so before then.

Just like they knew it would, it comforted me and gave me hope that one day I might.

That it would help combat how I feel all the time.

I hurt for you. I ache for you all the time.

I cry and sob and RAGE that you didn’t get more time here.  That you didn’t make it to four months like your brother did. That you will never have a first day of school, a first kiss, fall in love or give me a beautiful redheaded grand daughter to make up for the fact that your father is the only single chromosome male IN EXISTENCE.

Not one single day goes by where there isn’t at least a twinge of pain in my heart for you and it shows.

The fall out from your death is so big and ugly I wonder if I will ever stop feeling the effects of it. I have been asked again and again and again if it gets easier.

Sometimes I am actually truthful in my answer.

No.

No, it doesn’t.

It never, ever gets easier…I just get better at dealing with it.

Until I don’t.

And the process starts all over again.

I know this has been a hard day. A difficult letter. One I hope you understand.

Even if I am not through enough of my hurt and pain to feel you here with me yet?

If you’re really here?

Please don’t leave me.

Please.

To get through life without you I will need you by me every second of the way until I see you again.

Until I do?

I think about you.

I miss you.

I love you.

ALWAYS,

Your mama.

I just got home from a funeral.

Despite what the first three letters of the word may indicate, funerals are never fun. This one was especially sad and just…WRONG. Going to the funeral for a young, vibrant 20-year-old is something that just shouldn’t happen. It is out of order of how life should be.

I have put off writing about it because ever since I got the news I feel like I have been holding back a huge dam of emotion with a wall made of toothpicks. I don’t mean to take this and turn it into something that is about me, but this has evoked some powerful emotions and very painful memories for me.

I never met the person whose service I attended today. He was the son of my long-time OBGYN, Dr. Mark D. Heiner, who relocated to North Carolina about a year-and-a-half ago. His name was David and he was a Sophomore in college. You should have heard the lovely things that were said about him at his memorial. He just seemed like an amazing young man. Passionate, bright, and above all-very kind and loving. He was visiting his family in North Carolina and was swimming with his brothers at their country club pool and he was found at the bottom of the pool. After several days it was determined that his brain was not functioning, he was removed from life support and passed away on June 18th.

Today would have been his 20th birthday.

I know it may seem a little strange to go the the funeral of the son of your doctor, and to have such sorrow about it, but you don’t know Dr. Heiner. He has been my doctor since 1995. He delivered all three of my boys and brought all of them into the world kindly and safely. When I had a massive blood clot after Christopher was born, he diagnosed it over the phone and told me to get to the emergency room immediately. It saved my life.

I consider him more than a doctor. He is a friend. He is the kindest and most HILARIOUS man. I swear most of the progress made during my labors was because of the hysterical laughter going on in the delivery room. He once told me to schedule my yearly checkup in the winter because they are gray and boring. He is just wonderful.

When my little Matthew was born, Dr. Heiner was one of the first people to see him. That fact ALONE would be more than enough to make him a very special person in my life. He was the one who told me that he had red hair. Being a redhead himself, Dr. Heiner piped up, “You realize this means he is going to be a genius, right?”

When Matthew passed away and I was writing his obituary, I included Dr.Heiner. Matthew’s life was so short that there were not many people who made a significant impact with him outside of family and friends. He came to bug’s funeral and he was very helpful to me when I was dealing with the enormous fallout that happened because of Matthew’s death. He was non-judgmental, loving and wise.

It was very sad to know that he and his beautiful family are going through such a horrible loss, knowing what I know. I waited a very long time in the receiving line to see him and his lovely wife. I recognized the looks on their faces and I just cannot express how my heart hurt for them. For what they have been through and for what is ahead of them.

You would think that someone who has had a son die would know better what to say, but I didn’t.  Even those who have lived through it are at a loss of what to say in the face of such awful tragedy like this.  So? I just went on instinct, and I hugged both of them and told them how very sorry I was and how I had been thinking of them. There were some tears. There was also a good deal of laughter. (I know that also may sound strange, but honestly, it’s how I deal with things like this and besides, Dr. Heiner started it!)

I am very grateful that they had 20 years of memories that they can hold close to them. I envy that. I know that probably sounds petty of me, and some of you may wonder how in the world anyone could envy people who have had such a huge loss, but I would give anything to have had more than 4 months with my little bug, to have seen what kind of man Matthew would have grown into, even if it meant ultimately saying goodbye.

However, Dr.Heiner said something very profound during the eulogy. He said that even if he had known David would pass away at 20, he would have had him again in a heartbeat. I feel the same way about my little bug. Even though my time as his mother was so very, very short, he was absolutely precious. I would do it all again without hesitation.

Above everything, the sentiment that was expressed time and time again during the service is how each person would give anything to have more time with David. Things like this are so difficult but they are also needed to put life into perspective. To value what you have. To hug those you love a little tighter and give thanks that they are still here and safe.

So? What are you waiting for? Go tell someone you love them.

There is a cloud of melancholy surrounding my snug little cottage* tonight.

For the last few weeks it has been quietly seeping in through the cracks in the mortar and inadequately sealed windows till it hangs thick in the air like smoke from cookies burning in the oven.

There is something about Christmas that makes you yearn for loved ones. Even though the holidays can try the patience of a saint, if you have those you truly love with you the moments of joy can be so very sweet. When you are separated from those you love it is like there is a missing chunk in those moments of joy where that person is supposed to be. You always wish that they were there with you, celebrating and sharing the joy.

When death is the thing that separates you the pain can be acute.

Christmas is always difficult when you have lost a loved one. Getting through the season is hard enough when you don’t do anything to make it worse on yourself or your family. I did that very thing. In a pretty big way.

I forgot about him.

Forgot about Matthew, my sweet Little Bug.

For the very first time in four years, I didn’t go to the cemetery on a holiday.

While I cannot bring myself to visit his grave site very often, I always take something to him and visit on every holiday. It is my way of loving on him and feeling like my little family is still together in some way. Sometimes family is with me, sometimes they are not; I don’t require anyone else to go with me to the cemetery. Every year, I traipse through the snow and ice and unearth his headstone, lay a wreath or a tree down, sing to him and tell him that I miss him.

OH, how I miss him.

It didn’t happen this year.

What makes me feel worse is that very late on Christmas Eve night I remembered and I thought to myself, “We’ll stop with the family on our way over to Brigitte’s for dinner and games.”

It didn’t happen because I forgot.

I FORGOT.

I forgot because I was happy.

The last two Christmases were spectacularly hard. I was basically numb for the first two years but it caught up to me and struck with a vengeance. One day I will write about them, but today is not that day. Let’s just say that I looked into the face of hell and I am not entirely sure why or how I am still here.

This year was better.

On Christmas Day I was enjoying myself, my family and friends.

It came and went and there he lay, all alone.

Totally forgotten by his momma.

I am six hundred different kinds of suck.

Now that the holiday is over, I can feel the full weight of it and feel terrible. I’m sitting here creating my own little thunderstorm with big, fat tears spattering all over my keyboard and sniffing and honking into a wad of tissues. At times like this, it is like a war in my head and my heart. There is the side that has so much self-hatred and guilt for “Letting this happen” and the side that knows that I loved my son and would give anything to have prevented his death if I could. I would lay down my life for his without even batting an eye.

It’s an exhausting struggle at times. Sometimes the self-loathing wins, sometimes not. More and more over the years the self-loathing gets beaten up and put away. The last four Christmas’s have been hell on earth and I know in my head that I shouldn’t beat myself up for being happy enough to let the pain go for the holiday’s. That Bug wouldn’t want that for anything.

My head knows it.

Try telling that to my heart, somebody.

I feel things deeply. I also hold onto painful things much longer than I should. I know it sounds odd, but it is like letting go of that horrible pain is letting go of HIM. The loss of my Little Bug was so awful, so traumatic, so final. It feels like it SHOULD hurt forever. That each and every day SHOULD SUCK FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN.

It’s been 1,558 days since the worst moment of my life.

I’m tired, people. Tired of the hurt, bitterness and anger.

Worn out from wishing that my life were different.

I feel very alone right now.

Except…I know in my heart I’m not.

I have family that LOVED my little one almost as much as I did. I have the most awesome friends in.the.whole.freaking.world. It takes extraordinary people to hold and cling onto me in the flames of the craziest, most destructive hell imaginable. They are all still here. Unbelievable. My gratitude to everyone in this paragraph is unending and indescribable.

And then there are you lovely people. My bloggity family and friends. The most helpful thing for me is that you are here 24-7 for me to pour out my heart to. I need that. Oh, how I need that. Things like this build and build inside me and having the ability to write my thoughts out here have helped me more than you know.

I have snotted in person to a few kind people who are very understanding. I have poured out my heart on the phone to a wise soul and my sister in name and spirit.

I have had so many email exchanges that have truly warmed my heart and even made me chuckle in sincere appreciation when you said that you hurt so much for me after reading my archives that you had to watch “SuperBad” at 1 am so that you could recover and sleep. (Humor is sometimes the only thing that makes me feel better. She gets that.)

These hugs of comfort in my inbox are so appreciated.**

I have also taken some comfort knowing that there are other people out there like me. Even if I just lurk on their blogs it is a comfort to know that there are people that “Get it”. That seem to mourn in similar ways. One that is particularly wrenching is another blogger who lost her “Little Bug”, too. These people don’t just kindly sympathize. They empathize. They know exactly what it is like to have that kind of fear and loss. To be in this horrible, exclusive club that nobody ever, ever wants to be a member of.

No matter my raging anger and bitterness that I have (OH, how I have it), I am eternally thankful that I have all this love and caring around me. Many days is the only armor that I have against the never ending hurt that seems to go on and on. I am doing so much better than I was and hopefully, more love and happiness will seep in and replace so many of the ugly wounds that I have on my heart.

I know that my son forgives me for forgetting him.

I will have to find some way of forgiving myself for this lapse in memory.

On a bigger scale, I know that one day, one day that is NOT today, I will work on forgiving myself for failing to protect him from things I had no control over.

One day at a time.

*If you can equate a 1918 bungalow built by cowhands in their spare time as a snug little ANYTHING.

**I know there are so many more of you. PLEASE forgive me for not putting everyone on here. My husband is starting to bitch at me to help him clean the house.