I Hate This Month-

Sometimes, I dread writing because I feel like a broken record. What is there to say when you’ve lost your child? The sun isn’t as bright. The skies aren’t as blue. The color and light have been taken out of my world.

I feel like a broken record because my heart is still shattered—like a record thrown to the floor, scattered into a million pieces. There’s no way to ever put it back together, and that’s how I feel about my heart.

This whole month brings me nothing but dread. It marks the last holiday we ever spent with Samson. The last four weeks we had with him. The last month I ever got to hear his voice, hug him, see him in his room.

There were a few more car rides to and from school. A few more moments to dance and laugh together. To hear about his day. I loved those car rides. I loved the age he was at—16. He was finally my friend. I wasn’t his enemy anymore. He understood that I was just trying to help him prepare for adulthood—the adulthood I never got to see. The adulthood that will never come to fruition.

All I keep thinking about are those last moments. Seeing him the morning before his accident. Giving him a big hug. Telling him I loved him. Texting him five minutes later to say it again.

I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll keep saying it: I didn’t know what love was until I had Samson. If our mission and purpose in life is to be love, then Samson mastered that.

He was love.

He showed love to the least of these. He showed love to kids who were alone. He found the person who had no one and made them feel included. He let them know they belonged.

He truly was the best son anyone could have asked for.

He was such a good baby. He never cried. He was always so content and happy. As a big brother, he wasn’t the kind to leave his little brother out. He made sure his little brother went everywhere with him. He stood up for what was right.

He was a protector—not just in life, but on the field and in the rink. He loved competition. He thrived in it. If there was a game to play, he was all in. If he had a chance to beat me, he would take it. He didn’t go easy on me just because I was his mom!

Samson only knew two speeds: full force or asleep. There was no in-between.

From the moment I woke him up, he’d pop up that beautiful face, ask me what time it was, and hop out of bed. I’ve never known another child who did that—even as a teenager. He was just so ready for every day and everything life had to offer.

So often, I wish I could pull myself out of this depression and truly live more like Samson.

To live without care. To live without worry. To be so excited for life and everything it has to offer.

He was brave. He was fierce. He was bold. He was everything I wish I could be.

Unapologetically himself.

He was just Samson.

And he didn’t know how to be anything else.

I admired that so much in him. I admired that he was always unapologetically himself.

I’ll never forget a story he told me. He had gone to the Roseville mall with his then-girlfriend and one of her friends. They spotted a car with two boys in it, and the friend said, “One of those boys is cute.”

When they all got out of their vehicles, Samson—being Samson—walked right over to the boys and said, “Hey, my friend thinks you’re cute!”

And just like that, Samson ended up hanging out with those guys the entire time he was at the mall. He even left with them.

I thought it was absolutely hilarious. A little risky, sure, but hilarious.

He had never met those kids before. He had no idea who they were. Yet he turned strangers into fast friends in a matter of minutes.

That was Samson—a little risky, a lot funny.

He kept hanging out with those guys. He would meet them at parties on the weekends and continued building friendships with them.

Samson didn’t hesitate. He didn’t overthink. He had this incredible ability to connect with people instantly, to make them feel seen and valued.

Sometimes, I think he knew.

We had a conversation once where I told him I found it hard to imagine myself growing old. I just couldn’t see it happening. Samson replied, “Yeah, I can’t for me either. I can see having kids and being a dad one day, but I like doing fun stuff. I won’t settle down right away. I want to explore.” I encouraged that in him. I said go backpacking throughout the world. I wanted him to join the military. I thought he would have excelled in the AirForce. I thought that was best of both worlds. Exploring the world while being paid. Sure, it may have been rigorous, but again- Samson would have thrived.

That was Samson. He lived for the fun stuff. I didn’t picture him settling down anytime soon, either.

In my mind, I pictured him ending up as this tan boy with long hair, living by the ocean, surfing every day eventually. He talked about it often—his dream of living somewhere with waves. At the same time, he had this ambitious, entrepreneurial side. He wanted to go into finance, investing, e-commerce, entrepreneurship.

I kept nudging him to start his pilot’s license. He was intrigued, but his love for the water always came first. When he was younger—up until about 13—he used to say he wanted to be a marine biologist. He lived for water. It didn’t matter if it was fresh, frozen, or a lake—he just wanted to be in it.

No fear.

I have so many videos of him paddling into the ocean, trying to surf even the tiniest waves. He would just throw himself into it with total confidence.

That lack of fear didn’t stop with water. It extended to land and sea alike. We all know now about his utter fearlessness when it came to jumping cliffs in Arizona.

For 16 years, he packed in as much life as he could.

I’m so thankful I shared that “leaf in the wind” personality, so I could let his little self—and then his taller-than-me self—explore.

Oh, how I miss his laugh while he was off doing something adventurous. It was infectious, filled with joy and that unshakable confidence he carried everywhere.

I miss everything about him.

How can it already be coming up on a year when it feels like I just saw him? I hate that I’ll have to start saying “a year,” because a year makes it sound like I should have my grief dealt with. Like I should be put back together. Like I should be “normal” again.

But I won’t ever be.

Half of me is missing, and it always will be.

I can’t wait to be home—my forever home—with Samson.

I’m not ready for the holidays. Another birthday for Gabe that Samson won’t be here to celebrate. Another Christmas without him.

Last Thanksgiving was the last Thanksgiving I ever had with him. I can’t bring myself to put up any fall décor this year. That was the last thing Samson saw, and the thought of taking it out—knowing my friend and brother had to put it away while we were at the hospital—it makes me sick to my stomach.

So many things do this month.

I just want him back.

I know I won’t get that. I know. But that’s what my heart wants. I want him here, in our family, happy, laughing, playing hockey, getting ready to chow down next week. That’s all my mama heart wants.

I love you, Samson.

Until I see you again, I’ll always be thinking of you.

It’s taken me nearly a week to post this because every day feels like a step closer to the anniversary I dread. I hate it. I hate thinking about those last seconds, those last days, those final moments with Samson.

I just wish I could hold him. I wish I could hear his voice or see his smile.

This loss has taught me what really matters in life. Some people think family trips are silly or not worth the money. To me, they’re priceless. The best red cent I’ve ever spent. Those trips were some of the best moments of my life with him. I didn’t care that he skipped three days of school for his 16th birthday trip. I cared about making memories that would last a lifetime.

For me, they do.

For Samson, they lasted one more month.

I can’t stop the flashbacks. The call from the cop. Did he know Samson was already gone? The neurosurgeon saying Samson would recover in four weeks, only for the pediatric surgeon to tell us ten minutes later that he wouldn’t make it.

The shock.

The calling.

Calling Tom. Calling my siblings. Making the drive, thinking maybe he had broken a bone. Praying it was just a broken bone.

Never—not in my wildest, most twisted imagination—did I think, not my boy. Not Samson.

Losing a child is a nightmare you can’t wake up from. It’s a parent’s worst fear. The one thing you’d give anything to change. You’d trade places in an instant.

He was my babe. My sweet boy.

He was the age I was when I got pregnant with him. Half my life—all of his—we spent together.

What a treasure. What a gift to have had 16 years with one of the most incredible humans to ever walk this planet.