The Rain…

August 5th, a rainy day in Minnesota. Samson and I used to live for sunny days—those warm days with a high UV index so we could get tan. He checked that constantly. He would always be telling me, "Oh, Mom, I gotta go out, the UV is at 8," or whatever it was at. Today, well, today, the rain is falling. Thunderstorms have been constant since last night, and I prefer the rain over sun.

When I look out at the rain, the gloom, it resonates with how I feel. I see the rain, and I want to stand in it. I want to stay out there all day long and let the rain fall on me. I want to cry. That might sound dramatic, but that is truly how I feel. I want to sit in the rain, scream into the universe, and cry.

I had this giant misconception about grief. I'm sure you've heard it: "Time heals all wounds." No, it doesn't. It doesn't heal anything. You learn how to cope; you learn how to survive. You are not healed, and you never will be. You will never be who you were again. In fact, it feels like time actually causes your heart to ache more. It is real. You wake up gasping for air at times. Is this still real? Is this still my reality? Knowing you can never touch, hold, see, kiss, talk to—everything. You will never have that again.

One of the things that has constantly been going through my mind is that when you lose a child, you don't have the future to look at. You don't have them to see daily, or talk to, or right the wrongs. All you do is think about everything you could have done differently. Everything you should have changed, everything you should have done to prevent it.

Then my mind darts to his accident. Did he know? Did he know he was dying? Did he know he had hit his head? Did he know he was seizing? Did he know? It is on repeat in my mind continuously.

I miss him. I miss him so much it makes me ache. It makes you feel like you could die at times, that the pain is so intense you don't know how you are even still surviving. I know this isn't a happy or encouraging post, but this is why I haven't been writing as much. Because sometimes I am fighting to keep going.

These are the realities of losing a child.

I miss hearing his voice. I miss Samson. I miss everything about him. I hate that time is still moving; for the last eight months, mine has stopped. I wonder what he is doing. I wonder what heaven is like. I know that my worst days are his best. Samson is where I want to be. He is already in my home, waiting for me. However, that does not negate the fact that until I am with him, my heart will yearn for him.

I find myself so frequently going to text him, going to call him, checking his location to see where he is... It still takes a moment for my brain to register that he won't be there to answer. My perfect boy... He was always so respectful, he was a nurturer to little ones and women. He was strong, aggressive when needed. He was a cheerful helper. He loved helping, he would do everything with a smile. I always thought he would make such a great husband and father. So many that knew him have said that. He would have made such a great partner.

Samson and I had so many years alone together; I really let him be the little man of the house when he and I were alone. Even this week, our dog caught a bird and brought it into the garage... I instinctually went to go get Samson. He was always the man of the house when Dad was gone. He would take care of any of the icky things that Mom didn’t want to touch. He was so essential to our family. He made it our family. He was his brother's protector, he was the adventurer, he was the wild man who could have lived off the land. He really was everything I wanted to be.

He was a child who lived without fear, without inhibitions, without the world weighing him down. He seemed invincible to me, like nothing was going to stop him. I couldn’t wait to see his future. Now I will be left imagining what his future should have, and could have been.

I love you so much, Samson.