Today is Valentine’s Day.
20 years ago today, I spent this day in the postpartum wing of the hospital, recovering from an emergency c-section, eating pizza with my now ex-husband, and cuddling with my newborn Bryce.
Yesterday, for what would have been his 20th birthday, the first of his birthdays without him here and only weeks after we lost him, I spent the day with some people who loved my son the most.
I initially wasn’t sure how I should spend my son’s birthday when he wasn’t here to celebrate with us. I have been told that while grief will always be difficult and I will never 100% heal, which I already feel will be the truth, the hardest days as the years go by will be his birthday and the anniversary of his death. Every year. No matter how many years go by.
I did start my morning with tears. Because I was waking up on my son’s birthday, and he wasn’t here to celebrate…and grief is a bitch.
Then Carter, Rory, and I went to buy some birthday balloons and fresh flowers for his memorial. Because he deserves it.
Rory and I had brainstormed a couple of weeks ago to decide how we should spend the day. We decided to spend the day doing things that *HE* would have chosen to do. Last year for his 19th birthday, she took him to a rage/smash room. He’d always wanted to try it. I’ve seen the photos and videos, and he absolutely loved it.
He loved it so much that he had planned on going back this year. Only his life was stolen from him 7 weeks before his birthday.
So we went in his honor. I took his girlfriend, his best friend, and his big sister, and we went and broke shit and raged in his honor. In honor of his birthday. In honor of his life. Raged about the asshole who took it from him.
It was hard. But good. And cathartic. And I don’t know what other words to say. Because he should have been the one there. Not me. I feel like I repeat myself a lot when I write things here, but I suppose that is to be expected…especially during the grief process. Your mind is going to just keep thinking the same things over and over. Your mind will race repeatedly with “what if” and “I wish”.
We wrote a nasty message on a plate to the man who took his life and smashed it to shit. We wrote messages on the wall. Both happy birthday messages to Bryce and nasty ones to that man, just to get the feels out. It felt good to let the rage and anger out.
Later, I took them and a few more people out to dinner. We went back and forth between two choices. Bryce often went back and forth between Olive Garden and Texas Roadhouse when choosing birthday dinners. As he got older, the choice often went to Texas Roadhouse when it was on mom’s dime…because big ass steak…and rolls…and rolls…and more rolls…and, damn, that boy could eat.
Jeremy took Bryce’s place for the evening with his intake of rolls and Roadhouse butter. I now wonder how many baskets they’d have downed if I’d ever have taken them both at the same time…
Shae got a Bloomin’ Onion in his honor and her and Kyle took advantage of that amazing bit of carbs for him.
Our waitress even humored us when we explained why we were there and asked if they’d do their birthday “yee haw” for him. When she heard why we were there, she didn’t just bring a couple servers…she brought all of them. They brought the saddle. Me, Shae, Jeremy, and Rory put our Bryce necklaces around the saddle horn. And she announced that they had a very special “angel birthday” for Bryce who would have been 20. It was so sweet of her.
So even though I said it yesterday, Happy Birthday to the first boy who made me a mommy. Who showed me the true meaning of unconditional love. The boy who never argued when mom asked for pictures or selfies. The boy who never argued when mom asked for a hug. The boy who never hesitated to say “I love you” back when I told him how much I loved him. The boy who would have been my baby boy no matter how old or big he grew.
Grief is a B!tch 