Memories

Losing a child is every parent's worst nightmare – unimaginable, unthinkable, the worst pain you could go through in life. One doesn't even have to experience it to grasp the agony it brings; it changes everything. Life becomes different, home loses its familiarity, yet holds onto a lifetime of memories.

There are constant reminders everywhere. This morning, as I woke up and saw the sun shining, it unleashed a whole new fear. Thoughts of spring and then summer came to mind; those were some of Samson's favorite seasons. It's when he finally emerged, he absolutely loved ice fishing; but the moment he could go outside without being bundled up… Samson was giddy. He engaged in practicing for Lacrosse, running around the block to stay in shape, or riding his bike to a friend. It became a cherished part of those seasons.

A few weeks after Samson's passing, his little brother had a badminton tournament in gym class. We reminisced about setting up the badminton net in the backyard the past summer. The boys playing constantly. Choking up while looking into the backyard; I realized I'll never get to see Samson there again. Never get to see him skating on the pond, ice fishing, fishing… I just have the memories to hold onto.

Every day when I walk into the house, I see the ice scraper that I had just bought him for his car. He didn't even have the chance to take the tags off it. His car accident happened right before Christmas when eggnog had come out in stores. The night before his accident, he went and bought two containers of eggnog when I had asked him to run to the store for me. He had gotten me garlic powder, onion powder, Parmesan cheese, and then I told him he could get whatever else he wanted. Every time I open our seasoning cabinet, I see that garlic powder and onion powder he bought – constant reminders. I know they may seem like meaningless items, but to me, it reminders of the smile coming in the door. Him kicking off his shoes, saying “heyyyyyy handsome” to our dog. “Hey Ma! Got whatcha needed.” It is knowing he will never run another errand again, never walk through that door again.

I finally just threw away the eggnog because it had started to spoil. I know that material possessions or items don't mean anything, but if I could have, I would've saved that eggnog forever. Just to remember that night before the accident, when he was smiling and happy, excited that his dad had fixed his car, and that he could take his little brother to the grocery store and run errands for me.

As soon as I opened the pantry this morning, I saw his peanut butter protein powder. Opening the fridge, there's still a container of his protein drink in there. Again, I know that these little things, that would normally carry no meaning. Just knowing that it was his gives them profound meaning.

Grief is such an odd thing. I, of course, have felt like I was grieving this entire time, but it also takes time for things to sink in. For realities to feel real. Even talking about the hospital, it feels like I was just there yesterday, but it feels like an eternity since I've gotten to hold onto Samson. It is a new kind of grief every day. A new paralyzing realization daily.

Day three of the hospital, I think, was the hardest for me. It felt like I was beginning to see my son's injuries the way the doctors were. Finally coming to terms I may not be leaving here with him. The hope I held onto was fading. Anger stirred up within my body – angry that the results weren't changing, that his swelling had gone down the first night, yet we found out even more damage was done to his brain. Angry that others had made miraculous recoveries, but I wasn't seeing improvement in my son.

Friends had been sharing stories of people on life support making miraculous recoveries to try and encourage me. I kept thinking though, “ Why wasn't that my child? Why wasn't my boy making a miraculous recovery in front of me?” The world felt so unfair in that moment.

There's a different bond when you get pregnant with a child so young. I was only several months older than Samson when I found out that I was pregnant with him. It always felt like it was Samson and I against the world. I got my first apartment with him when I was 17, I had him in my arms when I got my High School Diploma, smiling proudly that I had still been able to walk with my class and graduate after having Samson. He was at my Grad Party, he was with me when I finished college. Tom and I met when I was 19, and Samson wasn’t even 2 yet. We were a package deal. He was my mini. Tom took him on immediately, and became dad quickly, like he was made for the role. I never knew life without him. I was a child having a child, and we grew up together. I would always say how grateful I am that we are so close in age, hoping that when he got married, his dad and I could be friends with him and his wife. I couldn't wait to watch him graduate. To see what his entrepreneurial mind would lead him to in his adult life. Tom and I had done everything in our power to give our boys a different life than what I had. I worked so hard to speak love and life into him. The world is already cruel enough; we don't need to tear down our children at home. I didn't want him to search for love in the world. I wanted him to know his love came from home, and his worth and value came from the way God saw him. That he was fearfully and wonderfully made, God had a purpose and a plan for his life. He was created for such a time as this, and was placed here for a specific reason. How was I so deserving of having such a wonderful, amazing, loving, adventurous, joyful, full of life son? I often thought that while staring at his face, rubbing his back while he had fallen asleep in my bed.

A lot of people wonder if I'm angry with God. At times, yes, I feel like a miracle should've happened, or that things could have gone differently. My anger is not directed towards God, though. My anger is directed at Satan. 1 Peter 5:8 says Satan is roaming the earth like a lion, looking to see whom he may devour. Ephesians 6:12 talks about how we wrestle not with flesh and blood, but powers and principalities of evil.

Every bad thing that has ever happened, I blame Satan for. I don't blame God. This world is evil and fallen, God doesn’t rule here. That's why we are not to make it our home.

On that third night, after receiving more negative results throughout the day, I pleaded with God. I said, "You have 12 hours to make a miracle happen, or I'm going to lose my child." As I was praying, I felt like the Lord told me that Samson was already gone, dancing with him in heaven. I had an overwhelming amount of peace come over me. It truly was a peace that surpasses understanding. In that moment, I felt like the Lord was meeting me exactly where I needed to be met.

This world may seem like it lasts forever, but our time is so short. I felt like God spoke to me, "You may have 50 years on this earth left, but you will get forever with your child. You will get all of eternity. He was mine, and now I've brought him back to his forever home." It felt like at that very moment, I knew I was just holding onto the vessel that had carried my son's spirit.

That moment is a moment that I have to hold onto. In the darkest hours, when I feel like I am going to go crazy from the panic of not being able to hold, hear, or see Samson again, I must hold onto that. I must hold onto knowing where he is. There truly is no other way to bring any kind of peace to my mind. My faith has played a major role in these last weeks. It has felt as though it is the only thing I must hold onto. Faith that I will see him again, faith that I will have forever with Samson, faith he wasn’t in pain in his last moments, and that his spirit was carried away before he knew what was happening. Without faith, I don’t think I could even continue to function. Continue to wake up day after day… It would kill me. This is a make it or break it moment for many parents, and this is what is helping me make it.