Broken Days

I do my best to wake up every day, get out of bed, get ready for work, kiss only one of my children goodbye and make it through the day.  I do my best to go work with some children whose young lives have already been touched with more trauma and grief than most people see in an entire lifetime and help them shoulder the burdens placed on them far too early in life. I do my best to take advantage of every avenue of help available to us.  I’m trying.  But the truth of the matter is, some days there just isn’t enough therapy, medications, or self-help options out there to get me through a day.  Some days I’m just broken. And broken days are ugly.

A broken day starts with a night of bad sleep and an almost physical incapability of getting out of bed.  It’s a slow moving morning and a commute filled with tears.  It’s sitting in the parking lot trying to clean up my eyes and the mascara streaks off of my cheeks.  It’s calling Sean in the hopes he can set me right side up again and hearing the desperation in his voice when we both know he can’t.  It’s going into work and trying to find someone that I can tell I won’t be able to stay today.  It’s driving around until I know my house is empty because I just can’t bear to have my baby girl see her mommy like that again.  It’s uncontrollable sobs.  It’s letting my sister try to make me laugh or just cry with me over the phone.  It’s fielding concerned and loving texts from anyone that happened to see me or heard I was a mess that day. It’s spending the rest of the day positively wiped out from the outpouring of emotion that has taken place because I still just can’t comprehend that I have to go through life without my son.  I have to walk this earth without one of my children.  Some days I’m broken. 

This past Wednesday was a broken day.  And it was bad. It took me the rest of the week to come back from it, so I was incredibly grateful that my book club was that Saturday.  It consists of a group of ladies I love and we talk about life-the good parts and the bad, and laugh, and if we get around to it, we talk about the book too. I needed it.

 I also had convinced Sean that we could use a puppy in our lives.  We needed something to be excited about; a warm little body to hold and snuggle with.  When the foster mother pulled up and Kennedy realized what was happening she looked right at me and said, "Mommy now you don't have to miss baby Jack!" I almost died as I thought, if only it were that easy, my love.  Thankfully we were deemed a fit puppy family.  Yesterday, we adopted an adorable little girl with a beautiful Lab face and chubby, Bassett Hound legs and paws and named her Lennon, or Lenny; we are all in love (some of more than others....I'm lookin' at you Tucker).

In the coming weeks I expect to have many more broken days.  Jack Holden will be gone for an entire year and that is something my heart or my mind can wrap itself around.  So while my heart is broken, these two girls will help soothe it a bit and make broken hurt a little less. 

Resolution

“What’s your New Year’s resolution?”  You hear that question posed over and over again, year after year the first few days and weeks into January; usually you can expect to hear things like:  to lose 15 lbs., to stop drinking soda, to be more assertive, and things of the like.  So, I’ve probably been asked more than a dozen times already this week, and my answer has been the same thing, I don’t have one.  I didn’t make one and I don’t plan to.  Don’t get me wrong, I think New Year’s resolutions are a great tradition and that it gives people a gentle nudge to start something, stop something, or make a change in their life.  My issue is that I feel like it implies that you can only make a change once a year and if you haven’t begun by January 1^st or 2^nd you’ve missed the boat, fell off the wagon, or any of the other phrases made for instances where sometimes it’s as simple as:  You just weren’t ready. 

I don’t feel ready.  The fact that the one-year mark is approaching fast blows my mind while simultaneously breaking my heart.  I don’t know why, but in my head I have created this scenario where after one year I will wake up and all will be right in my life.  That January 26^th, I will wake up and the last year will not have forever changed who I am and what my life would have been had Jack been with us along the way.  But the pain in my heart reminds me daily that there is not a timeline on grief.  There is not an expiration date to this feeling of missing part of yourself.  I remember that there is not a possible way for a mother to avoid heartache while being apart from her child.  The feeling will not go away with the passing of 365 days. More than anything though, I just don’t feel ready to accept that a whole year has past and life really could go on without our precious boy.

New Year’s Eve I battled trying to stay positive while trying not to feel bitter as I read post after post on Facebook, and scrolled through Instagram with pictures remembering favorite moments of 2015, celebrating what a wonderful year it had been for so many.  Bitterness is not a feeling I am at all comfortable with.  I do not begrudge these people I am friends with and care about so deeply a happy year filled with wonderful memories.  I myself, recall typing those same sentiments after Sean and I had been married, when we bought our house, when Kennedy was born, truly amazed by how wonderful life had been to us.  So knowing how good it can be, it is just tough to take all of that in when 2015 is shrouded in so much sadness for Sean and I.  We watched the ball drop and had some good laughs with some good friends, while missing many more.  I made it through with a brave face, Sean and I sharing a kiss and a wish for a good year, and coming apart as the last people left.  But I made it.

We spent the weekend on Long Island visiting family and collecting an excessive amount of gifts for a spoiled little girl that is loved very much.  During one particularly rough point in the weekend I was crying in the car, doing my best to keep Kennedy from hearing me.  This perceptive little girl does not miss one thing happening around her and asked me, “Mommy, how would you like to go to Jackie’s special spot when we get home?  I bet that would make you feel better!”  I choked back a sob and said, “Sure, baby, that would be great.”  Then this child, the one who I literally get out of bed for everyday this last year, said, “You know, Daddy, Mommy just really, really, misses our baby Jack.”  And there it was, simple as that.  My heart just really misses him.

And so I do not have a resolution.  But I do have resolve.  As hard as it has been to make it through the early months, and the tear-filled, sleepless nights, I have somehow managed to survive.  And resolve is the only way I can explain that.