7 weeks already?

Tomorrow is February 10th.

That date is 2 things.

February 10, 2003 was my due date. Of course, he wasn’t born that day…because Bryce never did anything the easy way. I am going to stick with the joke that his stubbornness 100% came from his dad…if anyone reading this knows me personally…you shush.

The second thing that tomorrow is…

7 weeks. It will be 7 weeks since my son’s accident that took his life. 7 weeks since I have seen his smile in person. Felt his warmth. Heard his laugh with my own ears instead of in videos. 7 weeks that I have been waiting to find out if the man who made that improper turn will be punished for his actions. 7 weeks that I have been in pain. 7 weeks that I have watched my 12-year-old grieve the loss of his big brother.

I know that healing isn’t easy. I know that it isn’t quick. I know that it isn’t linear.

But I feel like I am slipping backward. I know I mentioned that in a past post. But I do. I know my other son is. He is struggling. Grief is consuming him, and I feel lost on how to help him other than what I am already doing, but it hurts to see him in so much pain. I already thought my pain was maxed out, but seeing him? No. It wasn’t.

This upcoming Monday would have been Bryce’s birthday.

This upcoming Monday *IS* Bryce’s birthday.

20 years old. He should be getting excited about turning 20 years old right now. But he isn’t. He is now ashes in a fucking box in my living room.

Because an asshole wasn’t paying attention to motorcycles.

But this grief thing? I hate it. I hate the pain of missing my son, and I hate that his life was stolen. But I also hate what death and grief do to those left behind.

I am suffering. I am not okay. Not even a little okay. If I have a day where I think I am okay, something changes it from okay to not okay at least once during the day. I feel myself sinking leading up to Bryce’s birthday. Sinking hard and fast.

My 12-year-old is suffering. He is not okay. He was initially processing. But now he is regressing. He isn’t sleeping. He is depressed. He is withdrawn. I think Bryce’s upcoming birthday is making it worse for him too.

I will not speak for Bryce’s other parents, his girlfriend, his best friend. But I know how they’re doing. None of us are okay.

It is weird. Yes, time is passing. Yes, I am going to work. My other son is going to school.

Yes, I am eating…kinda…sometimes.

Yes, I am sleeping…kinda…sometimes.

I am torn between being at a loss for words and having so many words just flooding my mind. I am typing this in my bed covered with a blanket from Bryce’s…the last thing that has even a *little* bit of his natural scent still on it. I grabbed it the other day when I had a complete breakdown. It is like the grief has my brain fighting and trying hard to process the trauma. It doesn’t want this to be real. My heart doesn’t want it to be real either. I want Bryce to come in right now and plop into my bed and pet the pup while talking my ear off about his dreams of his future business plans. Or even come in and tell me he doesn’t feel good and take all 6’4″ of himself and curl up next to me with his head on my shoulder so I could rub his hair as I did just 1 month before his accident when he was sick with a nasty flu.

I don’t want to feel pain. I want to be able to think of Bryce and smile. I want to be able to think of my baby and be happy. Think of his amazing self. I want to watch all of his silly videos and laugh. I want to look at photos of him and his brother and feel happy. I want to laugh at his funny selfies. I want to smile at the selfies of the two of us. I want to smile at the old photos of little Bryce and me.

But fuck.

That bitch grief isn’t letting me. She is just pulling out the pain. Pushing the pain to the front. Dragging me down. Pulling me underwater.

And fuck me. I don’t know how to breathe underwater.