Author: Grief_is_a_b!tch

It is that time of year.

Usually, that is a fun thing. Fall weather. Thanksgiving plans. Christmas decorations and plans. This year has been a bitch. The first of everything. The 23rd of each month is another anniversary. His birthday…the first without him. My first Mother’s Day without him. My first birthday without him. His baby brother’s birthday is in a week…the first without him. And then will come those holidays… But before Christmas…only 2 days before on the 23rd of December…we will be reminded that it has been one whole year without him. One year without his smile. One year without his laughter. One year without his hugs. One year without his silly personality. One year without hearing the words “I love you too”.

It was this time last year that I was asking Bryce if he had plans for Thanksgiving yet. His dad and I divorced when he was almost 5 so he was used to alternating holidays and getting two of each. To be honest, right now, I can’t remember what we did for Thanksgiving day. Was Bryce home with me and Carter? Was he with his dad and we had our own celebration another day as we always did when he spent a holiday with his dad?

In the middle of November last year, for Carter’s birthday, I bought him a trampoline. Bryce put it together for his baby brother. I told him I’d help. He didn’t take the offer from me. He did it one day on his own just to see his brother smile.

At the end of November last year, he helped me by putting up Christmas lights on our old house because he knew how much it meant to his baby brother. It wasn’t for me. It was for Carter. To see Carter happy.

That kid fucking loved hard. His family. His friends. He loved with his entire being. Apparently, it was too much love for one heart to hold.

December 23, 2022

We were texting that afternoon…only hours before my firstborn baby was taken from me…and I asked if he had finalized his plans for Christmas yet. I would be off work and so would he and was he planning on being home or with his dad for Christmas? He had previously said that he might be going to meet with his dad’s family at his aunt’s house but hadn’t confirmed yet. He said he’d figure out what he was doing and let me know so we can figure out what we were going to do and then said that he was going to meet up with friends to ride. I told him I loved him and I would see him after I got home from work that evening.

I never saw him again. At least not without his amazing loving heart while it was still beating. He was taken from us…from me…on his way home that evening.

We didn’t get our Christmas together.

We didn’t get any more days together. He didn’t get any more days with his baby brother. He didn’t get any more days with his dad or stepmom. He didn’t get any more days with his many other siblings. He didn’t get any more days with his friends. He didn’t get any more days with the love of his life. He didn’t get to live out the rest of his life. Get married. Have kids. Have grandkids.

The first year is a year of “firsts”. When you have a baby, their first year is full of firsts but those firsts are wonderful milestones. Landmarks.

However, the first year after you LOSE your baby…those are different milestones. They aren’t good ones. They’re painful landmarks. I don’t think the pain will ever lessen but I can only hope that I eventually get better at handling the pain.

It has been over a month since I have written here. Partly because I haven’t had anything to say. Partly probably because I have been shoving things down some? I don’t know.

We just passed by 9 months. Time hasn’t necessarily made things easier. I think I am just more numb. In the beginning, I was numb due to shock. Now, I think I am numb because of reality.

It is a fucking shitty reality. The asshole that caused Bryce’s accident isn’t being charged with causing his death because camera footage showed Bryce crossing the white line ONE SECOND after red. ONE SECOND. So that means that that man turned despite my son being right there. There is no way he didn’t see him as he first tried to claim. He was still negligent. So where is the logic in not charging him? There is none. My son crossing a line ONE SECOND after a light turned red means his life means less to the county prosecutors than a man who has over a decade of repeat misdemeanor vehicular offenses and was driving on a suspended license that night. So he will get yet another slap on the wrist if the city opts for more misdemeanor charges for the failure to yield and the suspended license violation. Because those have taught him so many lessons in the past, right?

The reality now has me waking up every morning and having to remember that my son isn’t here. I have to go through the day with that knowledge. I have to go to sleep every night with that knowledge. He will never see the rest of his life. Never get married. Never have children. Never grow old. All because of that man that night.

The reality now is that our entire family, extended family, and family friends are suffering right now. We are all struggling with the knowledge that one year without him is looming closer. Many of us are battling horrible depression. Many of us are battling horrible anxiety. His baby brother is so deeply depressed that his affect is so flat that his teachers this year have never seen him smile. He is so apathetic to life that he can’t see anything positive about life. Even when doing things he generally enjoys, he says he isn’t happy. I have had to medicate my 12-year-old. There is nothing wrong with needing it but I hate that he has needed it so young.

Very few people know the exact reason why I went back to work as early as I did. I didn’t tell anyone but my best friend then because I didn’t want to scare people.

I went back to work way sooner than I should have, yes. But I did it because I had to do it. Not because of money. Work was amazing and would have given me as long as I needed. They even got approval for me to go negative into my PTO if needed so I wouldn’t have to worry about pay. I needed something to force me out of bed. In the first week, I was only out of bed when I had to be. I let Carter play video games as much as he wanted because I knew that was how he was clearing his mind. I didn’t eat. I hardly had anything to eat for the first weeks. I lost around 10 pounds in the first couple weeks. I could barely drink anything. Anytime I tried to eat, it came back up. I couldn’t sleep either but yet I also could barely handle being out of bed. It was too overwhelming. The pain. It was too much. The second week wasn’t much better. I moved a little more and kept busy on projects around the house just to keep my brain busy. It still didn’t feel real but it was slightly more real because I had finally seen him. I didn’t see him that night. Or for the entire week after. I wasn’t able to see him until the funeral and that was hard because it looked like him…but it didn’t look like him. He looked so different. My logical side knows why he looked different. I even knew it then. But my brain also tried to protect me and it still wanted to pretend that he was just away. A trip maybe? His dad’s house? A snowboarding trip with Keston? He’d wanted another one of those. Maybe a trip somewhere with Rory. I didn’t want it to be real. I would lay in bed, wearing his clothes, with my face buried in his pillows that still smelled like him. I needed his smell. That fucking horrible 19-year-old boy stink. But it was his stink and I needed it.

But it was still too overwhelming. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. My depression wasn’t managed. My anxiety was so high that I was feeling like I was crawling out of my skin almost all the time. And I couldn’t imagine living without my baby. I didn’t yet know how fast or slow he’d died. We now know that it was instant. So if you knew him, please let that comfort you even slightly like it does us. But at that time, I kept imagining him in horrible pain. Scared. Crying for me when I was only a few miles away. It was too much.

All of that left me on the verge of suicidal. Don’t stress out and call for help for me because I am not now thanks to those who love me, therapy, and finally not being afraid of increasing my medication. But at the time, I kept having recurring thoughts of not wanting to live without him. Of wanting to go to the exact spot where he landed and just laying there. Let a car hit me? Doing something else…anything else…whatever it would take so that my heart could stop in the same place as his. I now know that Carter needs me and he is part of what pulled me out but then? I wasn’t even sure I was the best for him. How could I help him if I couldn’t even help myself? How could I help him if I was such a hot fucking mess?

So I went back to work. Weeks sooner than I should have. But I was between a rock and hard place. I either stayed home and let my mental health spiral more and more or I went back to work so that I would be forced to get my ass out of bed and they’d send a welfare check if I didn’t show up. I don’t know if it was the right choice. Looking back, I would have done things differently but it isn’t like my mind was thinking clearly.

And now…it has been over 9 months without seeing my beautiful boy. It has been 9 months of trying to adapt to a life I don’t want. I am doing the best I can for myself. For Carter. I don’t feel like its enough.

But do we ever?

I cried today before we even went inside the room.

Because you should have been there. You were one of the first to speak up. It took so much bravery. You were the one who tied it all together. You helped give your friends strength. You fought for yourself. For your friends. For the younger ones. You went to every hearing you could around school and then later work. For three years, everyone fought to get to this moment.

His side kept coming up with excuse after excuse after excuse. “His constitutional rights”. What about your rights? What about their rights? What about what was taken from you? From all of the others as well? How did the system keep determining that HIS rights superseded everyone else’s? Children. Young men. Struggling. Through childhood and adolescence. School. Trying to maintain relationships. Trying to become adjusted adults.

But yes. Let’s keep worrying about HIS rights again and again and again. For THREE years over and over and over. Because of that, it wasn’t in time for you. You were there just one day before you were taken from me as his side argued again for more time. As if they hadn’t had enough? As if he hadn’t taken enough? But yet they gave him even more. I had to tell you that he was granted that time. The next day…you were gone. Taken from me. Taken from all of us.

I am so sorry that you weren’t here for this. I am so sorry that you weren’t here to get your justice. We fought for you. We did it for you. Everyone did it for you. Almost everyone there today was either wearing purple, one of your bracelets, or your memorial ride shirt. Even Lacee was wearing a purple shirt.

I look at this photo and I see how happy you were. Those gorgeous eyes. That smile. Those dimples. It kills me to know that it is that little boy that you were protecting. Because you weren’t just protecting others. You were protecting the little boy within you too.

You have always been my sweet boy. And now you’re my hero too.

It’s interesting how things change.

They don’t necessarily get better but you just get better at dealing with everything. I don’t miss Bryce any less. I still cry often if something hits me in a certain way. I don’t hurt any less. My heart still feels like I have several different knives permanently embedded in my heart that occasionally twist, making the pain even worse.

But somehow…I’ve learned how to live with the pain. Not completely. But it’s like any other form of chronic pain. You build a pain tolerance and you simply learn how to survive despite being in immense pain every day.

I closed on our new house last month and we’re now moved in and working on getting settled. We have our “Bryce wall” back and a new home for his ashes. We feel better having it all back where it belongs.

I have finished Carter’s room and have his shelves up where he keeps his portion of Bryce’s ashes and other keepsakes of his brother. I have Bryce’s furniture and his belongings in the third bedroom and I will get it all set up soon. I can’t help thinking about how much I wish that he were here with us. That the third room was for HIM and not just his stuff. But that is part of this process. Learning to live with the pain. Learning to survive.

I have been seeing a therapist every other week to help me process my grief, trauma, and PTSD. One thing that he said at my last session has me a little stumped. We were talking about how I am doing in my healing process. In the conversation, we talked about how I have been a mother for over 20 years. I have been a nurse for over 19 years. I have progressively added to my education over the years…nursing certificate program when Bryce was a newborn, an associate degree nursing program when he was a toddler, a bachelor’s degree program years later, and now finally a master’s program. All but the first have been done while also working full-time.

For over 20 years, my identity has been mother, nurse, and student.

Who am I otherwise?

I will always be Bryce’s mom. Nothing will ever change that, even if he isn’t physically here any longer. I am Carter’s mom and will always be so.

I am a nurse and will be a nurse practitioner in a couple of years too.

But aside from those things, who am I? What do I enjoy? What is there that I always thought I wanted to learn but never did?

Healing isn’t only coping with grief. It is also preventing you from letting your grief become your new identity. I can’t let myself become “Jen the Bereaved Mom”. Yes. I am a bereaved mother. It is part of me but that is not *who* I am.

But who am I then? I guess that is to be determined.

I’m having a night. It’s been a while. Idk if it’s because Sunday was 7 months, because I’m frustrated that we’re still waiting for charges to be filed on that asswipe, if it’s because we’re moving and leaving the house where my baby boy was only hours before he was taken, or if it’s just because grief is an asshole that comes in horrible waves. But I’m sitting here missing the fuck out of my baby. When the waves come, I feel the stab in my heart again. It hurts like a bitch. It’s hard to breathe. I want him here. I want his giant ass to come sit next to me and put his head on my shoulder like he did only days before that night. I want to hug him and make fun of how bad he stinks. I want to make fun of his hair sticking up as he walks into the kitchen with sleepy eyes after waking up. I want to get annoyed at loud music. I want to hear him laughing at TikToks while in the bathroom as I roll my eyes about how he can’t just shit and get out. I want to hear that contagious laugh. I want to see those beautiful eyes and dimples. I want to be bored out of my mind as he drones on and on and on about whatever is on his mind at that moment. I want to see the sparkle in his eyes as he talks about Rory, or riding, or his plans for the future. I want to hear him tell Carter “I love you, bud”.
I don’t want a box of ashes.
I want my baby back.

When we think about grief, we think about ourselves. Our children. Friends. Parents. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. The humans who loved the one we lost. Before Bryce was taken from us, I knew that animals grieved the loss of those they loved as well. Whether it be their human family or other animal family members.

However, it has been eye-opening to see it firsthand. We adopted Brix with the intention of being Bryce’s dog. Rory was even the one who spotted him at the rescue. Bryce initially thought he looked like a rat or something. He wanted a bigger, more playful dog, and kenneled Brix looked so calm and sad. He was just lying there, curled up in a ball with big eyes. But as soon as we got him into the meet-and-greet room, Brix went straight to Bryce before anyone else. That kid was ALWAYS an animal whisperer. Animals and babies and kids all loved him. He just had that vibe.

He ended up choosing the name Brixton after the skate brand and we shortened it to Brix most often, though Rory, Carter, and I usually all call him Puppers. Eventually, it became a big joke about how Brix started to come to me most often for things like snuggles and sleeping and Bryce would laugh and call him a traitor.

But that pup still LOVED Bryce. Bryce came home…he’d go running to say hi. Bryce would wake up…he’d go running. He heard Bryce getting ready to leave…he’d go running. He’d still leave me to snuggle with Bryce for a while. He’d whine to be let in his room.

Right after the accident, the pillows I stole from Bryce’s bed to give me comfort smelt strongly of him. Brix would nuzzle his face in them too. He did the same in the clothes I wore in those first 2 weeks when they were stinky Bryce clothes. He was calmer. Not as happy.

He was sad.

It was obvious. He just didn’t know why Bryce wasn’t here like we did. He missed his friend but just couldn’t understand why Bryce left one evening and said “Bye, buddy” with plenty of scratches and then never come back again.

He doesn’t understand why I have slowly gone through his room, throwing some stuff away, packing other things into boxes for the move, and disassembling furniture.

I was in there this morning to patch the holes from where Bryce had his tv mounted and Brix was slowly walking around the room sniffing. After a couple of minutes, he started whining. All I could do was say “Me too, buddy” and give him scratches.

Dogs grieve too.

Am I the only one dealing with grief who sometimes stares into space and forgets? Not intentionally. But still.

Sometimes I’ll find myself zoning out and it seems like my brain pushes the last horrible 6 months away.

I’ll be staring blankly at the red light waiting for it to turn green. Then the light turns and I’m snapped back to reality and along with “time to hit the gas”, it’s “Oh yeah, your son is gone”.

I’ll be zoning out on trash tv, barely even paying attention to it, and my brain forgets. But then my attention shifts back to the present. “Oh yeah. Your son is gone.”

My alarm goes off in the morning and for a few blissful seconds, I forget. The world is right. I’m expecting to hear the garage open because he always comes home from work around the same time I’m waking up or shortly after. But then my mind clears the wake-up fog and then it’s “Oh yeah. Your son is gone.”

I’ve noticed that I almost always speak of him in the past tense now. I hate it. When I first started this blog, I said that I didn’t know how to refer to my baby in the past tense. But it seems that your mind will eventually do it automatically as time passes. I do sometimes catch myself saying “Bryce is…” or “Bryce does…” instead of “was” or “did”. Sometimes I correct it. Sometimes I don’t. I guess it just depends on who I’m talking to when it happens.

As much as I wish he were still here or maybe even that I could permanently forget what happened, that I could think he was still here, that I didn’t have this pain, this ptsd…it’s very unsettling when my mind shifts from the moments of “forgetting” and snaps back to the present. It’s almost *more* hurtful because there’s that brief moment when the world is happy again. Where my life is complete. Where my heart is full. Then it snaps back to a reality where my heart will never be full again. Where it will never be healed. Where the world will never be right.

A world without Bryce is not a truly happy world. *MY* world without Bryce is not a truly happy world.

I had to finish packing his room.

For 6 months, I’ve been able to just close the door and pretend. He always kept the door closed anyway. So I could close the door and just pretend that he’s at work. Or sleeping after a night shift. Or at his dad’s house. Or out with friends.

I mean, I’m not fucking delusional. It’s not like I *actually* pretend those things. It’s more that I could close the door and not deal with what was behind it. Obviously some of the stuff in there had been cleaned out since many of us took various clothing items and stuff. But the rest of his room was pretty much how he left it.

Which is to say that it was a fucking mess. Because that boy had some serious ADHD drama in his head and he hated cleaning up his space. I honestly think the mess was a bit comforting to him.

But I’m moving in less than a month so I can’t keep putting it off. My last post mentioned how Rory and I went through things together. Feel free to go back to that one and read it if you missed by hot mess express. Today, my best friend/chosen sister/biggest support came over to help me with the rest. I probably could have done it alone but she said she wouldn’t let me. And honestly, even just having her there was comforting.

We laughed at his mess. The one bit of Taco Bell trash that I must have missed when I took trash out a couple of weeks after his accident. Laughed hysterically at the stashed condoms (I thought they were gone when I tossed the box I found right after his accident). I guess I’m just glad I taught him safe sex. Sorry to the other parents reading this ha!

We packed Rory’s squishmallows that she insisted stay with his bed because “that’s where they belong”. We packed his comforter stained with concrete because he accidentally sat down on it in work pants. Took down his tv. Took the bed apart.

The room where my baby boy last slept only hours before he rode away for the last time is now disassembled. Even though this is all coming with me to the new house and will have a place in the 3rd bedroom, it still hurts.

His life now packed into boxes. Disassembled.

Ashes in a fucking box on a shelf in my living room.

All because of one random asshole on one random Friday night who didn’t pay attention before making a left hand turn.

Rory came over today.

She is moving and I am so fucking happy and excited for her. She isn’t going far. Only about an hour and a half. But still. She is one of my kids now and she almost married my son so it is bittersweet.

I took the day off from school stuff today to do some of my own packing since we’re moving in a month. Then she came over this evening because there were some things here that she wanted. Some of it was her stuff that she’d left at various times. Some of it was Bryce’s but is stuff I was letting her have because it was from their time together.

Before starting to go through things, she had to raid my fridge and freezer because she was hungry and of course I’m gonna feed one of my kids. “I’m going to miss being able to raid both of my moms’ fridges”.

After she ate and we chatted, we went into his room. I don’t go in there often. Sometimes I am okay with it. Sometimes it is really hard. I can look at the bed and still see him lying there curled up on his side. I can still see him lying there the month before his accident when he was incredibly sick with the flu and looked so pitiful. I can still see him lying there sleeping cuddled with Rory’s Squishmellows. I can see him lying there cuddled with the dog. It is empty now. No life. Just dust on his furniture.

It hurts my heart.

So I only go in sometimes. And usually only if I need something, need to put something in there, or need to try to force my sense of smell to find even the tiniest bit of his scent.

But tonight, Rory and I went in there. Together, we went through the boxes that his lazy butt never unpacked when we moved in here a few months before he was taken, we went through his “hoarder pile” in the corner of the room, the files that we were pretty sure were all trash but should be looked at anyway, and the drawers in his bedside table. Having her with me made it easier. We laughed at some of the stuff we found…because the kid was a damn packrat. Like why did he feel the need to keep the massive box for the Beats headphones that he no longer owned because they got lost when his bag went flying off of him while riding home from the gym? Again…packrat. 6’4″ packrat. We made morbid jokes when we found the manual for his helmet (“Well that didn’t fucking help much, did it?”) because that’s who we are and how we cope. While going through the incredible randomness he had tucked away in his drawers, she found a really small box inside of another box. Inside of the box was a couple of things but the most meaningful was the promise ring that he’d given to her while they were together. When they’d had their short breakup, she gave it back to him. They later got back together but he hadn’t yet given it back to her before he’d had his accident. We never found it easily and never thought to look inside of this hella random location inside of his drawer for a tiny box. She’d assumed he’d gotten rid of it because he was upset about the breakup. He didn’t. He kept it. I think he had hope that he’d get his shit together for her. And he did. It makes me so happy that he did. He was finally happy again. Happy with her. And now she has her ring back. 6 months after we lost him, we randomly find the ring and it is back on her finger where it belongs.

I found another hat. Yeah. I know. Not much of a segue. I found a Tilly’s bag under his shoe rack. I moved it so I could clean the rack to let her have it and then I look inside the bag. There was a hat. Tags still on it. Receipt in the bag.

11/23/22

One month. To the day. One month to the day before his last day. He was shopping. Buying clothes. A new hat. No worries.

It makes me think about how I still have that fucking ham in my freezer. I can’t throw it away. We were texting about it 6 hours before he took his last breath. He got a free Honeybaked Ham at work and was excited about it. My sister packed it up for me and put it in the freezer so it wouldn’t go to waste. I wasn’t able to eat it. But I also can’t throw it away. It’s not good now. But it was his. He got it that day. His last day. None of us knew it was his last day. I didn’t know it was his last day when he was texting me that afternoon about putting it in the fridge.

But back to the room. We were moving stuff around at the foot of the bed because that was a random collection spot for some reason. There was a shirt. I hadn’t seen it. Still dirty. Still covered in concrete. Still smelled like him…just barely. 6 months of lying on his bedroom floor had let it air out enough that it’s not very strong. But it is strong enough that the last bit of strength that I had while going through the room just faded away. Tears started. That’s okay though. She cried at the ring. I cried at the shirt. But we went through things together.

I also noticed the dog go from his normal self to a little more withdrawn, I suppose. He even left the room and went to lie down without us, which is unusual. We looked over and he just looked so sad. Maybe all of the smells in Bryce’s room were just too much for him? I know he really was withdrawn like I was for the first little while after the accident. He was smelling everything with his scent and was looking around for him. So maybe being in the room had him feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated. I know I was. After the shirt, I had to leave the room. Light off. Door closed. Overstimulated, done for the day, showered, in bed. Done.

6 months later and it’s not necessarily easier. Maybe it’s just that I have adjusted more? I have learned to function through the pain. That makes the most sense to me. I will never be used to life without my baby boy. I think it is more that it is an unusual form of adaptation.

And as much as I will miss my girlie with this move, I am glad I will still get to see her often when she comes down to visit. She will always be family to me. She will always be one of my kids. I am so proud of her for making this move and doing something good for her. Stepping out of her comfort zone. I know this will be amazing for her, even if it is also a little hard sometimes. I love her and I love seeing her grow.

Why was *my* birthday without him just as hard as his without him? Even though the damn kid couldn’t ever remember my birthday anyway.

“Bryce. It isn’t hard. When is Christmas?”

“December 25.”

“Okay. Now exactly 6 months later is my birthday. June 25.”

(while laughing) “Yeah. I just always forget.”

Every damn year. To be honest, I’m surprised he remembered his own birthday. He wasn’t much for dates. He remembered Rory’s birthday. And their anniversary. He was able to remember the general timeframe of his parent’s birthdays. Same for his siblings. Otherwise…nope. Rory reminded him of my birthday last year.

I wasn’t offended. I never cared much. Just like I didn’t put much stock in not getting Christmas gifts. I have always enjoyed watching my boys open the gifts I gave them for Christmas or birthdays.

I just had my birthday over the weekend. I never do much for my birthday. This year, we went out to dinner. Then came back here for cake and a movie. Just me, the gf, and Rory this year. Calm but yet perfect. I am not sure I could have handled much more. All of these firsts are horrible. But dinner was fun. Silly. Laughter. I got a card that made me smile and laugh from the gf and a small gift. Plus she insisted on paying for dinner. Rory brought me flowers sprinkled with purple, chocolate, and a beautiful card.

After dinner, we moved the car the short distance to the memorial so we could visit and replace a few solar lights that the local homeless had removed. They do that sometimes.

After we finished at the memorial, we went back to the car to leave. It wouldn’t start. All 3 of us tried. It is a European car with an unusual key so maybe we were doing something weird and just weren’t doing it right? Nope. Even the owner of the car couldn’t get it to start. Did it need a jump? Nope. All of the power was working. Nothing made sense.

Maybe 10-15 minutes later and with the 3 of us baffled…we try again…and it starts. No issue. Just starts like nothing was wrong.

Random coincidence? Bryce telling us that he was there? Or maybe Bryce stopping us from leaving right at that moment for some reason? I don’t know. But we all felt him with us. So maybe there would have been an accident if we had left when we’d tried to go? Who knows.

He is always on my mind…even when he isn’t “haunting” me. For 6 months now, every time I think I have cried all of the tears I possibly could cry, more fall. I would be okay with him forgetting every date, every birthday, every holiday if he were back here with me. Even just for one more hug. Just to make sure he truly knew how much I loved him. I am sure he knew. He must have known, right?