It is still fresh. I don’t know when it will no longer feel so fresh and all consuming. I feel like, on the outside, that things are progressing. I’m putting one foot in front of the other. I’m carrying on. It’s not getting easier, as in less painful or sad, it’s becoming more routine. That’s all. Just routine to be stuck in this mental space where it’s numb and heavy.
I’m starting to feel the looming pressure of Christmas. So many people tell you how the holidays are the hardest, and it’s completely coming true. What would we have gotten him for Christmas? What would our Christmas photos look like? Just so many constant wondering what-ifs that we are left with. Ever single happy time is tinged with the constant what if Milo was here too? Would he be walking? Would he have a new favorite food? Would he be scared of Santa this year? It really will never end.
I do have more good days than bad, but the bad is still just constantly there under the surface. It feels like nothing is every going to relieve this emptiness. Even if all the most fabulous good things happen, it will still never be enough to overcome such a deep loss. It will never be all better. It will always just be hard and weird. I can easily talk about Milo, about the events surrounding his life and death, what he liked or didn’t like, but I can’t talk about out loud about how much I miss him, how much I want him back, or how I feel now that he is gone. There are no words for what all of that is.
I am struggling with flashbacks. I also have random moments of panic that I have left or forgotten him somewhere. If I’m not engaged in something, I am reliving the moments in our house when he went limp and the watching him undergo CPR for nearly 2 hours. It plays on repeat in my mind as I try to analyze any little thing that could have changed it. It happens at the most unpredictable and inconvenient times. I still very much feel like maybe one day he will just come back, or be better, and I can go get him. It feels like it will never be completely real to me – which is so odd because I know all the facts. I know what has happened.
And yes, I am seeing a therapist. I don’t know how that is supposed to help, yet, but I’m going. It seems like the thing everyone tells you to do, so I’m doing it. Before I started going I had so much hope that she was going to help me have some heart settling epiphany, but so far that has no happened – and I’m starting to assume that isn’t how it all works. I really don’t know how it’s supposed to work, but I’m going. I look forward to going, but when I leave I’m sort of confused about what just happened and what I was supposed to walk away from it with. It’s becoming harder for me to be as transparent and vocal about all of this. It’s becoming harder to write, and I don’t want it to be. It does help. I am just becoming more self conscious about it.
Does any of this mean I don’t want to carry on? No. I do. I want to be productive and happy again, but it’s not just something I can simply just do. It’s just too deep and too complex. I know now that even if I just tried to staunchly decide not to cry or dwell on it any more that it wouldn’t matter. It would still be there. It would wait, and fester, and get worse the more I tried to avoid it. No one chooses to be this unhappy. When something like this happens, you don’t get to choose to ignore it. I can ignore almost everything else going on around me at any given time, but I can not ignore this constant feeling like something is lost and I need to find it.
We still haven’t heard anything from anyone about the cause of his death. I am so hoping that it is soon. I just need to know something. Anything. If they tell me nothing was found I feel like I’m forever going to live in fear and doubt that it was something I did or didn’t do right. There has to be some explanation for a seemingly normal and thriving little boy just acted a little under the weather, and then just died. It makes zero sense. Even when I try to explain to people what happened it sounds like something sensational from a movie plot. Babies don’t just die. There has to be a reason. But, mine did, and I don’t know why or how.