Changes in Grief

When you think of grief, what do you envision? Before all of this happened, I envisioned grief as weeping, not being able to get out of bed, an unending sadness. What I didn't prepare for was the bargaining aspect of grief—the guilt that comes with it. What if I had just done this? What if he had a different vehicle? What if I had driven him that morning? What if we hadn't gotten his car fixed? What if I had warned him that morning about the slippery roads? What if I hadn't let him get his license and made him wait?

You know, in your right mind, you can't allow yourself to dive into the unknowns—the things you can't change. It reminds me of the serenity prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. The courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." This is something I absolutely cannot change.

As you navigate through the different stages of grief, some time has passed since you last held your child...  their room lay empty, their voice silent. One day, the weeping you've struggled to contain transforms into a hollow, empty numbness—a feeling of soul-deep absence. You're beginning to realize that they aren’t here. You deny, deny, deny...

Your first morning without them is the hardest. Nothing quite takes your breath away like that initial day. I'll never forget returning home from the hospital, only to wake up the next morning without Samson. There's no way to accurately describe that feeling. I recall entering his room, clinging onto these material possessions, the only tangible reminders I have of him. It feels surreal, like this can't be real, this can't be reality.

Then a week passes... How am I supposed to keep going? How can I even survive this? How... How am I supposed to get out of bed, to care about myself at all right now, when grief consumes me entirely?

Then comes week 2, and you're still engulfed in sobs, barely able to function. By month 1, the wind is still knocked out of you. Uttering their name brings forth a floodgate of tears you can't help but unleash. By month 2, things are starting to sink in. You're still in denial, but it's starting to settle. Your world feels like it's at a complete halt, yet others around you just keep going. Unfortunately, Tom was only given 2 weeks of bereavement leave. (That's a whole other tangent I could go on—how harsh we are with grieving in the US, forced to carry on as if we didn't just lose a whole life.)

I was left to sit in my thoughts, which was sometimes needed. It's such a blessing to have the support of others, to have them gather around you, but sometimes you don't want to talk. You don't want phone calls. You don't even want to exist, but you have no other option. So, you sit in your own thoughts, and grasp onto every memory of them that comes into your mind.

Now, entering month 4, the weeping has ceased at moments, replaced by a gaping hole and numbness. Numbness to the world... You're not actually living, you're merely existing. Despite knowing your loved one wants you to keep going, you don't feel like you have it in you.

It's spring, the time when Samson came alive. Hockey had stopped, and lacrosse practice would have been in full swing. You loved that, as it meant you could knock it out right after school and have your whole night free. You would have been playing with Gabe.

I keep thinking about your brother and how he must feel. We talk about you all the time, discussing how unfair this is to him. You were his built-in best friend—his travel buddy, his Xbox buddy. If you two were ever bored, you had each other to hang out with... but that's all gone now. He doesn't have his best friend anymore. We all just miss you.

Dad has been polishing your agates. He has a plan to make them into something awesome. We want to add some of your fishing lures in there too. We haven't been able to find your fishing bag, and gosh, is that driving me bonkers. You lived with that bag... I'm praying you show it to us in a funny place, somewhere unexpected.

Now Easter is this Sunday... It's so weird not getting you an Easter basket. Even though you were a teenager, we still had so much fun hiding eggs for you to find. In fact, I think it sometimes made it even funnier and more fun because you and Gabe were older. We could do harder spots for you guys to find. I still watch the video from last year... You stormed the place and had the most. Shocker... ha! Your competitiveness always showed through, even if it was Easter egg hunting.

I miss you, Samson. I miss you with every fiber of my being. I love you so much.