You mean the pain gets worse?

I thought it was horrible being told that my son had been killed in a motorcycle accident.

I thought it was horrible having to tell his 12 year old brother that his big brother had died.

I thought that having to even THINK about planning a memorial service for my first born baby was horrible.

But no.

Seeing your son at the family viewing before the memorial. Laying inside of a coffin. Looking like him but yet somehow also NOT looking like him. Laugh crying with his dad and big sister about how he’d be so mad at how they combed his hair while his sister gently used her fingers to fix it for him.

Almost falling over…again…just like I did that night…when I saw him lying there.

We hadn’t seen him yet. By the time I arrived at the scene of the accident, he had already been taken away. He wasn’t even taken to a hospital. Straight to the county medical examiner office. I didn’t get to see him. Touch him one last time while his skin was warm and soft. That still hurts. Even though I know that he died on impact in the accident and I’d have arrived after he was gone no matter what, I still wish I’d have been there before he had been taken. Even though I know it would have been horrible to see him that way. They could have covered him with a sheet for me.

But knowing that I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye when I could have touched his hand and rubbed his cheek while he was still warm breaks me even more. Just when I thought I couldn’t break even further.

By the time I was able to see him, it had been a week of pain. He was in a coffin. He had makeup that had been carefully applied by the funeral home. But it wasn’t my baby boy.

That was a shitty Madame Tussauds version of my gorgeous boy. The smile wasn’t there. The dimples weren’t showing. I couldn’t see the life and glimmer in his eyes like he was trying to get away with something. His beard hair wasn’t as soft as he kept it. He was so fucking proud of that beard. There is an entire row of beard oils and conditioners still sitting in his bathroom cabinet. I can’t part with it.

Even though it was my baby but not my baby, seeing him that way caused yet another breakdown. I had had many. Upon many.

I couldn’t help talking to him. Just telling him how sorry I was. I laid my hand on his chest and cried harder feeling the cold against my skin. I rubbed his beard, trying not to rub too firm because the coolness of his skin was making me feel close to full panic. But I couldn’t not rub it. Because I always did. A month before the accident, he’d gotten so sick with the flu and my giant baby boy was still cuddling with me like when he was little and I just sat and rubbed his hair and beard.

He was so fucking proud of that beard.