Grief is an asshole

There are things you learn about grief when it happens that you didn’t think about before it happened.

Before my son was taken, I knew grief was difficult for those dealing with loss. It was hard to lose my mom. It wasn’t like this, but it was hard. I knew there was pain. I knew there was crying. So much pain.

But I never would have thought of the “smaller” things that cause so much pain. Sometimes it’s seeing the memories pop up on social media from past years, like on Facebook. I’ll open up the app and scroll and here is that asshole app showing me photo memories of my Bryce. Sometimes it’s just him, sometimes him and Carter, and sometimes it’s all of us. Other times it might just be a status where I said something about him or spending time with him. These memories were always precious to me, and now they’re even more so, but they’re also painful. They’re reminders of what we’ve lost. We’ve lost our son. Our kids lost their brother. A friend was lost. A grandson. A boyfriend. A hard worker. A young man with big dreams and amazing potential. Lost due to someone else’s carelessness. I’m reminded of all of that every time one of those memories pops up on my social media. But despite the pain, I don’t want to disable the memory setting because I love them. It’s a weird juxtaposition.

Last weekend was the 4-month “anniversary” of his accident. I had a really hard time with it. I spent the afternoon celebrating my son. My girlfriend drove me, my son’s big sister, and my son’s girlfriend out to the spot that was our destination when we did his memorial ride. During the ride, everyone rode to that lake and we buried a small amount of his ashes in a spot overlooking the lake. The same spot where two other young men from his riding crew had their ashes buried. Our family also chose to each scatter a small amount of his ashes into the lake. I have a post about it here on my blog. It was an incredibly difficult day but it was also a bit cathartic. Well, on Sunday, we drove out to that lake and sat at the spot where Bryce’s ashes were buried. I left flowers for him and some for each of the two other boys whose ashes were buried there. Later, his sister, girlfriend, and I went and sat at his memorial for a little bit. Just sat and looked at the lit solar lights shining in the dark. Talking about him. I did well all day. I was sad but okay. But on the way home…I wasn’t okay. That’s when my energy faded. I started to cry. Once we got home, Rory was giving me a hug goodbye and I broke down and held her so tightly. Then Shae gave me a hug and I cried harder. After they left, I went to my room and sat on my bed. Looked at my phone to check the time. My phone screensaver is a photo of me and Bryce and the time shows above his head. When I looked at the time, it was 8:57pm…the time of the accident…4 months to the day at the exact time that it happened. And I broke down again. Even harder.

I was texting with his Mom pt 2 and mentioned that I couldn’t understand why 4 months was hitting me so hard. She said that she thinks that maybe it is because the numbers are getting larger. Time is passing. And I think that she might be right. 4 months was hard because it was more than 3 months. More than 2 months. More than 1 month. It is just longer and longer since he’s been here with us. Time just keeps passing even though our world hit a brick wall. We are all having to force ourselves to continue pushing through when that fucking wall is in the way.

So many things that you don’t think about when it comes to grief. The first time I noticed dust gathering on the shelving unit that houses photos and Bryce’s ashes, I broke down crying. Because he’d been gone long enough to accumulate dust. And the fact that I just said “the first time” is another indication of time passing. I just noticed this morning that I need to dust it again. Have you ever thought of the odd feelings that come with dusting off your son’s ashes? I never had. It is so fucking sad and disturbing and bizarre. I’d guess it might get less weird but every time I pick up the box to dust it off, I just stare at it and am baffled at how the fuck we ended up here. How the hell did I go from carrying my baby boy in my womb to carrying him in my arms to holding him in my arms to holding his ashes in a fucking box?

I am sure there will be so many more of these random things that come up and kick me in the ass. I am not looking forward to them.