Author: Grief_is_a_b!tch

I thought I would be able to *at least* get through my workday without having a complete breakdown about how much I miss you. I mean, I obviously have missed you every second of every day that you have been gone. Not one second has passed that I haven’t missed you.

But how has it been 6 months since I have seen your face? Since I have heard your voice? Felt the warmth of your skin in a big hug? Heard that amazing laugh?

And how does 6 months seem like it has both flown by but yet also feel like it has been so long. It feels like it was just yesterday that I pulled out of the driveway and waved goodbye to you as I left for work that morning. It feels like just yesterday that I was given that horrible news. That I had to tell your dad and Tina. And had to tell Rory. And tell your brother. Fuck. It still stabs me in the heart to think about it. But it is so strange how it can feel like yesterday but also feel like it was so long ago. I don’t understand how that works. It fucks with my brain.

I was doing okay (mostly) today while at work. Just trying to keep busy…and since the day was oddly chaotic, it helped keep my mind busy. But then I saw my memories on Facebook in a brief downtime moment. And I felt my breath catch. And I felt the tears start to come. And I had to step away from patients because a complete breakdown was starting. I saw a photo from 8 years ago when I was picking you up after you’d spent 2 straight weeks with your dad. Carter had missed you so much that he just needed a hug so you went to the backseat and gave him a huge hug before getting in the car so we could go home.

There was no way that I was going to see that photo of you and Carter…on today of all fucking days…and not break down. He loves you so much. And I know how much you loved him. Love him. Wherever you are now. We still feel you around us. All of us do. There is way too much for it to be a coincidence so please know that we feel it. We love feeling you around. Like I literally just NOW heard a door close in the hallway. Clear as anything. A door being closed. Called to Carter to ask what he was doing…he is in the living room. I heard his voice from there. He didn’t close a door in the hallway. I was pretty sure it wasn’t him anyway because I didn’t hear his footsteps or any sound other than the door.

I still haven’t figured out how to live without you here. I am able to get through my days. We are still getting things ready to move. I think you’d have liked this new house and you’re welcome to come “haunt” it once we move…just let me sleep at night, okay?

Jokes aside. I really don’t know how to live without you. 6 months have passed but I still feel broken. I think that maybe I am now just used to the numbness? Or used to the pain? Is it pain or is it numbness? Or is it some weird combination of the two that makes it difficult to know which it is? Or maybe it’s like when you get that pins/needles feeling that starts as pain and then turns to a bizarre numbness? I don’t fucking know.

It still both pisses me off and breaks my heart to think of you losing your chance at having a life. You’d barely reached adulthood. You’d finally started to face your traumas. You’d found your love. You’d rebuilt relationships with family. You’d started to build adult relationships with siblings as opposed to the childhood ones you’d had previously. You were building a promising career. You’d found a passion for riding and rebuilding your truck, even though the damn thing is actually more work than you’d realized. The mechanic working on it for me now said that you did a great job with the radiator and water pump but yeah…we’ve found more that explains why the check engine light kept turning back on every time you and I each got it to turn off. But I am going to do this. For you. I will get this truck legal. Once I get it passing emissions, I can’t promise I won’t cry because I know how hard you worked to get that done and I now know how close you were to getting it there. I just wish it were you doing this, even though I know you wouldn’t have had the funds to do the needed repairs we found. You’d have figured it out though. You always did. You were just as stubborn as your dad. And I guess me too. I’m just gonna pretend that the stubbornness only came from your dad because he’s not sitting here next to me right now to say “Hey…you know you’re incredibly stubborn too, right?”.

I am not okay. I am not okay with you not being here. I am not okay that you were taken from all of us. I am not okay with knowing that you felt pain, even if it was probably only for seconds. I am not okay with knowing that you felt fear, even if it was probably only for seconds.

My job as a mother is to protect my children. I have always fought with everything I have to make sure my boys are happy and safe and healthy. Yes, I have made mistakes but I have picked up and done my best. For you and your brother. And knowing that I couldn’t keep you safe makes me feel like a failure, even though I know that it is a ridiculously illogical thought process. I know we can’t protect our kids forever. I know I couldn’t wrap you in bubble wrap and never let you leave the house. You craved independence. And you were *mostly* responsible.

I am sure the feelings of being a failure for not being able to protect you are just my mind wishing I could change the past. I hate that I can’t. I sometimes don’t even have words other than saying how much I hate it. I just feel…broken.

I know I told you that I loved you every day. If not multiple times per day. But I hope that you truly FELT it. I hope you knew how proud I was of you.

I hope that the last thoughts that went through your mind before it all went to black were how much I love you. I hope you felt wrapped in that love as it all faded away.

When you’re stuck in the middle of grief, you never know when you’ll find yourself pulled back. You’ll have days where you’re mostly okay…missing your person but still okay…as I’ve said in past blogs. And you’ll have other days where you’re pulled back and you know exactly why. But then there are other days. Days where you are pulled back but you have no fucking clue why.

I partly mentioned it in my last post but this past week was back to the “Grief is a bitch” days but yet I have no idea why. The entire week was hard. I can’t think of anything in particular that triggered me. Of course, I missed my Bryce as much as any other day. More than I can even articulate. But this past week wasn’t any different than any other. Work, school, nothing exciting. But yet I was still highly anxious all week. Highly overstimulated all week. Feeling like my skin was crawling all week.

I had planned on trying to accomplish some packing this weekend. Yesterday, I started early in the garage before it got warm outside. I am a pretty fast packer so I am not too concerned about most of the house.

But the garage…the things out there are mostly his. And his room…

Even though these things are being packed to move to the new house, it is still the fact that I have to go through them that is hard. I knew it was going to be hard. I have been expecting it. I have been mentally preparing. It was so odd to see the things that set me off vs the things that didn’t. I was okay moving things out of the way to start going through them, okay texting his best friend to ask if he wanted Bryce’s motorcycle stands from when he’d work on his bike, okay texting his dad to ask if he wanted Bryce’s concrete tools from work and his old paintball gear, okay texting Rory to tell her when I found a couple of her things and ask if the Christmas stocking I found was the one that she gave him.

But yet it was the crumbled Taco Bell receipt wedged in the seat of his garage creeper seat that made me cry. A receipt dated 13 fucking days before he was taken from me. THIRTEEN DAYS.

It was the container on the shelf for paintballs that he had covered with stickers because the stickers were such a hilarious fit to his personality so it made me laugh while crying. There was no way I would get rid of that so I hung it with his longboard on the wall of my garage. When I move, I will hang the board in the 3rd bedroom where his bed is going so the stickers aren’t ruined in the heat and I will put the container there as well.

It was finding the contract for his maintenance plan for his bike and the manual for his riding vest.

And it was going through the plastic 3 drawers that he’d left in the garage since the day we moved into this house last summer. Most of the stuff in there was stuff he’d outgrown mixed with a few of Rory’s things. I assume that he’d planned on eventually bringing it inside the house and unpacking the items in there but just never had a chance. Same as how he never finished straightening his room how he wanted it. Between time with friends, work, and his silly ADHD ass, it just didn’t get done. But yesterday…going through the drawers, I could tell that the stuff had been there since he was in his long hair phase because I kept finding his hair on everything. The clothes were clean and some of the hair was Rory’s because they were long and blonde. But I kept finding shorter, brown hairs. They’d been in those drawers mixed into folded clothes for probably a year. But yet they’re still soft. He always had the softest hair. Beautiful hair. He wasn’t the type of 19-year-old who’d use some shitty 2 in 1 shampoo. This boy had to have good shampoo and good conditioner. And when he had his longer hair, it was even more important to him. Always so soft. The hair I found was still soft. I couldn’t just throw them away. Toss them on the ground like I would my own shedded hair. I can’t do that to a physical part of my boy that I just happened to find. It didn’t feel right. At first I just sat there holding a couple of them, thinking about him. But then I just started collecting them as I found them while going through the drawers. I don’t care if anyone thinks I need a straight jacket for doing so but I now have some of my son’s hair in a ziplock baggie and it will be going in with the other keepsakes I have of him.

I didn’t even finish the garage. I cleared actual garbage, set aside piles for his dad and his best friend, and I have a pile for actual packing. That was all I could handle. After an entire week of feeling extra anxious and overstimulated and then topping it off with the emotional overload yesterday, I have spent today almost feeling “hungover”. I am fucking exhausted. I have laundry going because I need clean work clothes so I have no choice on that one. But I haven’t had the energy to do anything else I have needed to do. I really needed to do schoolwork. I needed to do some packing. I need to clean my house.

I need…I need…I need…

No. What I really need is my son back.

Everyone dealing with grief has their own methods of dealing with it. I know that I’ve mentioned that I wear Bryce’s clothes. Mostly his shirts but when it was still cold out, I was also wearing his hoodies and sometimes his sweatpants. I still sleep with his blanket on my bed. I still sleep with 2 round, fuzzy pillows that he had on his bed. I stole those off of his bed a couple of days after his accident because they smelled so strongly of him. He slept on them every night so they had a mixture of his usual scent, his shampoo, and his horrible, horrible stink that I never thought I’d miss. I slept with my face pushed into the pillow with the strongest scent until the smell wore off because it was the only way I was able to get any sleep in the early days. I can’t really smell him on that pillow any longer but I notice our dog still nuzzling it so I’m guessing he can. But even without the smell, I still hold that pillow every single night when I sleep. Just like I held my baby boy when we’d fall asleep on the couch together when he was a newborn. 

But back to the clothes. Why is it that something as simple as clothing comforts me even the tiniest amount? Who knows? Grief is a weird ass bitch. So is the mind. The only times I’ve worn shirts that were my own were for the 2 days of a work conference and when I went to a concert recently and for both of those events, I had one of Bryce’s white tank tops under my shirts because I didn’t feel ready to be without his clothes. 

Of course, I know that nothing will happen if I stop wearing his clothes every day and just add them to the rotation with my own. I’m fully aware of that. I even know that I now have my anxiety in check just enough that NOT wearing his clothes won’t trigger panic. It has actually been a while since I’ve had a panic attack but I know they can still be triggered. I know that my mind is still technically in survival mode and it will do what it needs to do to protect itself if it feels danger and you can’t always predict when that danger will appear. 

So if all of that is the case, why do I still find myself grabbing his clothes every day instead of mine? Why do I feel that drive? That instinct? Is it my mind protecting me from the potential of my anxiety freaking out on me? Or maybe it is my heart just wanting that reminder of my son touching me throughout the day so I feel him with me? Or is it simply habit now after over five months? 

I have no fucking clue.
All I do know is that I’m tired.
I’m tired of the pain.
I’m tired of the grief.
I’m tired of missing my baby.
I’m tired of seeing the stretch marks on my belly and having even more reminders of the beautiful boy who gave them to me and how he is not here.
I’m tired of the lower back pain that I still get that started as sciatica when I was pregnant with that 8lb 7oz baby boy and how now even my fucking back pain is a reminder of how much I miss him.
I’m tired of living in fear of being triggered by my PTSD anytime I see flashing police lights in the dark.
I’m tired of the fear of being triggered to think of my boy and his last moments by everything around me, even by school when I’m having to learn about head injuries.
I’m tired of going so long doing “okay-ish” just to have a day like today where I was just suddenly and out of the blue overstimulated while at work to a place of high anxiety that I hadn’t felt in weeks.
I’m tired of therapy even though I know I need it and even though my fucked up head needed it even before this because it’s so fucking hard to have to sit there and face my grief head-on even though I know I couldn’t push it away if I tried.
I’m tired of Mom pt 2 and my ex and I checking on each other all the time…not because it’s a bad thing…but because it’s fucking bullshit that we even HAVE to do it because he should be here.
I’m tired of Rory, Shae and I checking on each other so often for the same fucking reason.
I’m tired of knowing that my ex, his mom pt 2, and I have to represent him on something next month because he can no longer do it himself even though he’d been doing so for almost 3 years (if I have the emotional bandwidth once that “something” is over next month, maybe I’ll elaborate…I don’t know). I am tired of not having him here to spend time with his baby brother. I am tired of not having him here with his other siblings. I am tired of not having him here with his niece. I am tired of not having him here with Rory. I am tired of not having him here with his dad and mom pt 2. I am tired of not having him here to continue building an adult relationship with my dad. I am tired of not having him here with his best friend and all of his other friends. I am tired of not seeing his smile. I am tired of not hearing his laugh. I am tired of not having him here to hug. I am tired of not having him here to laugh with me. I am just…tired.

I should be doing homework. And I will. But first, I need to process shit in my mind. Even now, 5 months later, the emotions still flip from one to another to another, often with no warning. Sometimes I’m okay-ish. Sometimes heartbroken. Sometimes sad. Sometimes I love the memories. Sometimes I hate them. Sometimes I am angry. When I am angry, I am almost stewing. 

Stewing with the fact that the man who caused the accident that killed my son is still walking free. I’m upset. I’m hurt. I’m angry. I’m impatient because we’re still waiting. Waiting to see what the prosecutor will decide to do. 

But even with that anger, I’m mostly just in pain. Even if you know me “in real life” and see me regularly, and I am smiling and laughing, I might genuinely be laughing. The smile might be genuine. But even then, I am in pain. So much fucking pain. Never-ending pain. Because I just miss my son. No amount of crying or wishing to go back in time will bring him back. My beautiful and loving baby boy. Five months later, and the pain isn’t any better…it just seems less suffocating, maybe? The best way I can explain is that it is just like anyone with a medical condition with chronic pain. The pain is always there. Nothing makes it better. You just get so “used” to the pain that you are able to function despite it. 

Nothing will “cure” my pain because nothing can turn back time. Nothing will take me back to be able to warn him. To protect him. I am his mother. I was supposed to protect him. Logically, I know we can’t protect our kids forever. My Bryce was no exception. He was an adult. He was almost 20. There is only so much you can do to protect a 19-year-old young man just trying to find their wings. 

Just stay home that night. Just leave 30 seconds earlier. Just leave 30 seconds later. Stop at that intersection because there will be someone who won’t yield and won’t even look before turning. He will be so preoccupied with making his turn while it’s still yellow that he won’t even look for you. You have so much life ahead of you and so much promise, and so much love to share. Just wait. 

I know I’ve said all of that. It’s something I’ve said here multiple times. It’s something I’ve thought of multiple times. But it’s also something that just goes round and round in my mind. 

It wasn’t a bad day today.  

It wasn’t a bad grief day. 

It’s always there, like one of those obnoxious apps always running in the background. And just like how those apps can slow your processor, the grief can slow you too. Maybe you get a full night of sleep. That doesn’t mean that you feel rested. Because that “background app” named grief is slowing your processor. Your energy will be down. You may deal with brain fog. Maybe those items are one way one day and the other way the next. Maybe you have no appetite one day and want to eat your feelings the next. If those things seem similar to your experience, maybe you’re just like me. 

Like the varying emotions, grieving your child will leave you wondering what might have been. What might they have accomplished in their life? For Bryce, I think about where his career might have led. He was being trained to be a foreman supervisor. Would he have gotten married? Would he and Rory have gotten married? Would he have had children? So many questions and so much life left to live.

All gone in an instant. Because of one man…who still walks free…because the justice system is obnoxiously slow. 

For now, I have to be patient. I am not good at being patient. 

So along with okay-ish, heartbroken, sad, and angry, I am also impatient. 

And I have no choice but to tolerate each of them. 

Family photos, Spring 2014. Bryce 11, Carter 3.

I keep having people ask what happened between me and my family. Some I will share and some I will not. Because despite their shit behavior, I’m not shit.
I will preface this with Yes I am okay. Now. I have an amazing support system. A chosen family. One who has been more supportive than my own blood.
Yes, I’m aware that this is a public outing but only to those who know me personally and also know them and if that’s the case, you likely know this already. Or some of you might anyway.
But I share there here for those of you dealing with grief like mine or similar to mine who find those who should be your biggest support system pulling away, being shitty humans, being unsupportive, or just in general being NOTHING.

First, I lost my mom in 2016. I know she’d be supportive. She fucking loved Bryce. He was her first grandbaby and she spoiled the fuck out of that kid. He even had a tattoo that partially honored her.
Second, my dad is fucking amazing. That man would give you the shirt off of his back even if it were the last one he owned. He is incredibly supportive and the only immediate family member who checks on me, says he loves me, and talks to me about Bryce. He was so proud of that boy and they always talked about riding because my dad used to ride.

This is about the rest.

I’ve known my step mom since I was 11. I’m almost 42. Over 30 years that she’s been in my life. We’ve never gotten along. She’s always been a bitch to me. One of my little sisters was born when I was in high school and she’d often force me to cancel my plans with friends to be her free babysitter. I love watching my sister and playing with her but you do not EVER parentify children. Ever.
“I’m going out with XYZ to the movies tonight”
“No. You’re staying home and babysitting. I’m going out with your dad.”
I never was able to do extracurriculars in school because she didn’t want to drive me. I was a cheerleader for a couple of years in high school but ONLY because I paid friends gas money to drive me home from practices and games and my mom sent me money for shoes and things.
Her mom was horrible and rude to me too. Needless to say, once I had my own transportation, I was home as little as possible. Worked every day after school. Stayed the night at my best friend’s house every weekend possible. Anything to be away from their toxicity.
By the time I graduated, she was angry at me for something so petty that I can’t even remember what it was and she refused to come to my graduation. My sisters were there. My dad. Grandparents. My mom and grandma drove in. But her bitchy, petty ass stayed home to pout.
Over the years, it stayed strained and I periodically tried to let it go. Every time I did, she’d show her colors again. Last year, I tried again. Carter and I went to visit over spring break 2022. Everything was fine. Didn’t seem to be issues.
Then Bryce’s accident in December.
My dad and one of my sisters came out to be with me for a week. She stayed home. No biggie. She has health issues.
But she didn’t call. Didn’t even text. Didn’t send a fucking card. This was her grandson too. She called my dad multiple times per day every day because she’s insecure as fuck but didn’t even ask to speak to me. Didn’t ask him to pass a message. Not a fucking word. Five months later and still nothing.
That was her final bridge and she detonated that bitch with C-4.

One of my sisters abandoned her kids with an abusive ex and his horrible family and refused to give DCS permission to speak with me so I could try to get custody before that happened. She did speak to me after the accident and said she loved me and I said it back and I mean it. I do. I love her. But I also still don’t want anything to do with someone who abandons their children with an abusive man.

Another sister was one I was always close to. Before the accident, there were some personal issues for her that I won’t share. But once we all knew about them, we all jumped to help her. I am across the country so I could only do so much but I did what I could from here, which was mostly phone calls and research. I said some things to her husband that I don’t regret. I stand by them. I’m glad he’s done what he’s now done but I don’t regret what I said. They were the truth. She was angry about what I said but we’d made up.
After the accident, she couldn’t come out here but we talked and FaceTimed and she texted almost nightly to remind me to take my meds because she knew that I was in survival mode. I wasn’t sleeping. I wasn’t eating. I didn’t eat more than maybe a protein shake and 2 bites of food per day for weeks. Less than that for the first week. Didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours per night for weeks. No energy to be around people. Talk. Answer messages. Shower. But she knew I needed my meds so she messaged me to remind me and say she loved me.
But the support quickly faded. After maybe 2 weeks, messages turned to chitchat. Anytime I mentioned Bryce or sent pics or videos in our group chat, she didn’t respond. After 2 months of neither of my sisters messaging or calling at all, I called her (and my other sister…story pending) out and her excuse was how I didn’t support her when she was dealing with her issues and that all I did was try to take her kids away from her.
What the fuck? I just mentioned the stuff I did to help from across the country. And the kids thing? I’m fucking baffled even still and that was 2 months ago now. There was never a mention of her kids from me. This isn’t the sister I mentioned above where I mentioned trying to get custody because she was going to GIVE AWAY custody. This is a different one. There was never a mention of her kids, she never brought this up when things went down, when we made up after, or anything else. Because it didn’t happen and I’m lost on where she got this idea. Unless it’s the husband who I know hates me for calling his ass out making shit up. Who the fuck knows.
But this sister literally said that “it goes both ways” and since I never checked on her when she was dealing with her stuff (which I did), she had no obligation to check on me. I asked her if she was seriously comparing her {redacted} to the fact that my child is now literally ashes in a fucking box in my living room. Then she proceeded to block me all over social media. So yeah. Sister or not, done.

The last one isn’t as serious, but the excuse still hurt and pissed me off. This sister dropped everything when I called crying the morning after the accident. Drove with my dad across the country. Came to the memorial with my dad. Stayed here for a week to help me and be a support. Did my laundry and cleaned my house when I could barely function. Went with my dad and stocked my fridge and pantry so I wouldn’t have to think about food. She and Bryce would snap and send TikToks back and forth a lot.
For a little bit, she did respond to my messages about him. Sent me funny messages about him. After less than a month…nothing. Chitchat about her mom’s new dog even though that woman has rehomed every damn dog she’s ever had. Not really responding when I talked about how Carter and I were doing. Not checking on us.
When I sent the message calling them both out, her excuse…I’ve been busy. And then listed all of the things.
Cool, cool, cool. Yes, that does sound busy. I’d been busy too. Horrible depression and grief. A 12-year-old with horrible depression, grief, anxiety, and PTSD. Helping that kid not flunk out of 6th grade and have to repeat. Managing both of our therapy appointments. Working full time. Managing my grad school classes.
And seeing a box full of my son’s ashes in my living room daily.
But yes. Please tell me how you were too fucking busy to spare 10 seconds to send your big sister a text just to say “thinking of you” or “love you” or even just “💜”.

And now, for the good, aside from my dad and the cousins who reach out often since I have mentioned them.

My best friend has been my best friend since before Carter was born. Fucking thick and thin. My marriage with his dad and the divorce with all of his bullshit. My repeat court battles with his dad because of his child abuse and repeat refusals to pay child support. The constant stretches of him not using visitation and not even seeing his son. Her kids are Carter’s best friends. They are more like cousins than friends. Her daughter is 2 weeks older than him. She knows Carter better than his own dad does. My up-and-down relationship with Bryce’s other parents. My later relationship with an abusive alcoholic meant I had to quickly pack bags and run and stay on her couch for a week while I find a place for us. She was my call after the accident. 1 am, and she answered with “What’s wrong?” only to be answered by my sobs and she replied with “I’ll be right there”. She still wears the Bryce bracelet I gave her from his memorial ride. Always has my back. She is in my support circle.

Bryce’s big sister. Funny enough, I didn’t even birth her. I met her when she was 5. Damn outspoken, precocious, extrovert, never stopped talking. But hilarious and adorable. And when Bryce was born? Holy hell. That girl fought people for another turn to hold him. I have so many pictures of her holding him. They drifted a little as she got older and married but later got super close again because he moved with me full-time instead of part-time for the last 2 years before his accident. She also lives near me, so he often went to hang out with her and her husband and have Uncle Bryce time with his niece. He’d go with them on camping trips with their friends and join their game nights. They were able to get so close before he was taken from us. Even though her dad and I have been divorced for longer than we were married, that girl and I have maintained a relationship this entire time. Like her relationship with Bryce, we drifted just a bit as she first went off into adulthood but then returned together again. And now I am an honorary grandma to her mini-me and am allowed to spoil her. I see her often, we talk all the time and message even more. She also was at my house in the middle of the night after the accident. Sat with me while I was in shock. Half asleep but only because my body was shutting down and I’d been awake for over 24 hours. When I finally passed out on the couch curled up with the dog stuck in my arms because I wouldn’t let him go, she sweetly woke me up and put me to bed.
“Let’s go to bed, mama”
She is in my support circle.

My ex-husband…believe it or not. We started as good friends before we started dating. I was only 18 years old and was fucking head over heels for those damn blue eyes. For those who knew Bryce…you know that charisma mixed with arrogance? Yeah. He got that from his dad. Ha! I won’t go into our marriage or divorce. It is irrelevant now other than to say that we didn’t get along for quite a few years.
But over the last couple of years, we were finally getting along. Not really buddies, but we could sit and chat and laugh and do just fine.
But now…a few weeks ago, we were talking on the phone about an important matter and then were just chatting and he made a comment and said “You know, I’d bet that Bryce is somewhere now rolling his eyes saying ‘Yeah sure…NOW you guys are friends’”. I mean, he’s not wrong. When I saw him for the first time a couple of days after we lost our baby boy, he gave me the biggest hug. We were both crying. We might have had our differences, arguments, and issues over the years…but we made that baby boy when we were in love. We both loved that boy with everything we had and he always knew how much we loved him, even through everything. He’s given me a big hug every time I’ve seen him since then. We text and check on each other. He is in my support circle.

His wife. I won’t get into history, but we didn’t get along for a very long time. In the past couple of years, we were okay. And now, we understand each other. As mothers. She didn’t give birth to Bryce and share his DNA as I did, but she was his second mother for 15 years. That is a long time to love a child. He wasn’t even yet 5 when she met him. He was fucking adorable back then. He was always adorable. But you should have seen him at 4. We share an unbelievable pain. We both have years of memories of “I love you, Mom” and Mother’s Day gifts and Christmases. We are both grieving the loss of our son. She texts me often to see how I am doing. I text her too. She is in my support circle.

All of my son’s siblings: the ones who were from my ex’s first marriage and live on their own, the ones living with my ex and his wife, my 12-year-old. They are in my support circle.

His best friend and the riders in his group. I am Mama Jen and I love them all and I am there for them. They are in my support circle.

The love of his life. She is the daughter I almost had. I will love her forever even though she will have to find a new direction for her life that doesn’t involve being married to my son. I will be happy for her when she finds a new path. I will be happy for her when she finds love again. I will be happy for her if she ever decides to marry. She will always be my family. She is in my support circle.

My girlfriend. We met when I was still fresh in the loss. Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m still fresh in it. I’m still a hot fucking mess. I probably shouldn’t have been dating. But we met. I enjoyed her conversations. Her company. We clicked. She understands me. She’s patient. She lets me be the hot fucking mess that I am. She lets me talk about Bryce when I need to talk about him. She lets me be quiet when I need quiet. She understands when I need alone time or just downtime at home vs going out. She’s perfectly content for take out and relaxing on the couch when I have those days. She affirms my feelings and my grief. Supports my process. Held me and coached my breathing during a panic attack after reading the official police report details. Reads my rants here and texts me with a single 💜 just to share her support and say “I see you, I hear you, I support you” after each one. She’s visited his memorial with me. She had a local artist create a drawing of one of his photos for me for Mother’s Day. She is in my support circle.

Yes, this was long. Yes, this was personal.

But my point is that family doesn’t have to be blood. Support circles don’t have to include blood family. You can choose your family. This is the worst thing I have ever encountered in my life and it is crucial to have true support. I may not have most of my immediate family supporting me but I have my chosen family.

Find your circle. Let them embrace you. Let them love you. Let them support you and hold you up. Even when you’re a hot fucking mess.

Photo from May 27, 2015. Bryce, age 12.

This past Tuesday was 5 months. So that means today is 5 months and 2 days. And I don’t get it.

How can time move so quickly but yet slowly at the same time? How can it already be 5 months since I saw his smiling face but yet also feels like it was just yesterday? That juxtaposition is so confusing. I feel like it has been forever, but also like it was just last night that he last parked his bike in our garage?

I don’t like the discomfort of that feeling. I’m surviving. But I hate it.

I fucking hate it. I hate that. And I hate this.

And I hate that this memorial exists. Not the actual existence…but that it has a REASON for existence. It exists because my son no longer does.

Yesterday, the kids lost another one of their friends while riding. I don’t know the details. Only where he was riding when he went down. That’s four. All from the same group of friends.

Tucker…July 2022.

Carson…September 2022.

Bryce…December 2022.

Gil…May 2023.

Less than 1 fucking year and 4 friends are all gone.

It wasn’t until tonight, sitting out at Bryce’s memorial with Rory because today was her and Bryce’s 2-year anniversary, that it hit me how triggered I was by Gil’s accident last night. I didn’t realize it last night. I didn’t realize it earlier today. But tonight, it hit me. The last accident was my son. The last time the riders gathered because someone was down and lost was my son. They were gathered on the corner. They were there before I was there. Somber. Crying. Angry. Hurting. Thinking about them losing Gil made me think about Bryce. How I felt. It hit me how Gil’s family is feeling right now because I know exactly how they’re fucking feeling. I don’t know his family situation. Does he have a mom in his life? Or I guess, did he have a mom? I know her pain. I know the pain. Numbness. Despair. The heaviness on her chest. Like she can’t breathe. Can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t handle being around people. No energy to even shower. And now she has to think about planning a funeral for her son, who died doing what he loved. I know that she is about to learn about everything you must do after someone passes that you may never have thought about, like handling their finances, insurance claims, social security, death certificates, and notification to credit bureaus.

She is now starting the same path I started 5 months ago this past Tuesday. Does he have siblings? I know how they feel. I’ve seen how all of Bryce’s siblings are suffering. A dad? I’ve seen how this has broken Bryce’s dad. My ex. Who was his best friend? I know how this affects a best friend. Did he have a girlfriend? I know how it affects them too.

Bryce, I love you.

There are so many things about grief that I had no idea even existed. The new one I have recently discovered is how bad and bizarre brain fog can be. And when it hits vs when it doesn’t.

I can focus on work. I can focus on school. Usually anyway. But general conversation…holy fuck. That is a different story. I will be holding a conversation with someone and words can sometimes literally fall out of my head. The words just drop. Similar to that feeling when a word is on the tip of the tongue but you can’t place it. Or when you were going to say something but can’t remember what you were going to say.

It is such an offputting feeling. It makes me feel like something is wrong with me. Or with my head. Or with my brain. I know there isn’t obviously, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t still feel it.

What the fuck is this? Why do I have to deal with pain and stress and missing my baby boy every second of every motherfucking day and then having my head feel like I’m having a fucking stroke all of the damn time on top of it?

Is it my brain still working in survival mode? Trying it’s damnedest just to keep me functioning at a base level? Trying to help keep me breathing, keep my heart beating, keep me waking up each day so I can put one foot in front of the other? I truly don’t know and don’t understand. But it fucking sucks and I hate trying to hold a conversation and having words just fall out of my head.

It’s strange, though, that the words flow here. And I fucking hate writing. I always have. I hate writing papers. I don’t like writing fiction. Poems. I hate it all. English class was not fun for me growing up. College hasn’t been either. I don’t even like to journal. What should I say?

“So I had a day today. Woke up. Brushed my teeth. Went to work. Came home. Went to bed.”

I have just never been one for that type of thing. And speaking now doesn’t seem to work well either. Because words drop out of my head like I am having a fucking stroke. But this…

This I can do. This…

This clears my mind. It doesn’t make anything better. The only thing that would make it better would be having my baby back. I might still be dealing with horrible depression that only purchased serotonin in the form of a large dose of escitalopram is keeping at bay. I might still be dealing with horrible anxiety that my cuticles are paying the price for. And I might still be dealing with PTSD from that horrible night and the memories that replay in my head again…and again…and again…

But this at least helps me process the thoughts in my mind. At least until the next time that I can’t remember the fucking word I am trying to say

My mind has been a fucking mess lately. Like the brain fog kind of mess. The kind of mess where I try to hold a conversation and words just fall out of my head. Like I am having a fucking stroke.

One of the things that I have learned about grief is that each of the firsts are horrible. They’re rough. One week. Two. One month. Two. His birthday.

Mother’s Day.

There was a baby boy with big blue eyes and long, dark lashes who was (almost) always smiling and made me a mommy for the first time. He was the reason I celebrated Mother’s Day for the first time.

I was young. I’d turned 21 while I was pregnant. We were living in a state on our own. No family. Just me, my then-husband, and a new baby. The most beautiful boy. That boy was flirting with girls from the start. Batting his lashes, showing off those damn dimples from his car seat, and making the cashiers at the grocery store talk about how cute he was.

I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, but I knew I loved him and I’d do anything I could to keep him safe. To make sure he was happy. I failed. I won’t go into details. But I failed.

And I sure as fuck couldn’t keep him safe otherwise he’d be here with me now. But I also couldn’t wrap his gigantic ass in bubble wrap. No matter how hard we try, we can’t protect our kids forever. And I definitely couldn’t protect him from assholes who don’t look before making left turns.

I had almost 20 years with him. It wasn’t enough. No amount of time would have been enough with him.

That beautiful boy with dark hair and big blue eyes. See that blue bear? He loved that fucking bear. I still have it. The damn thing was close to falling apart because he never let it go and was always chewing on the ears. I eventually hid it from him before it actually did fall apart. It’s now in his memory box. A box with everything from that bear and a quilt that my former mother-in-law made for him, a couple of baby outfits, childhood drawings, his high school diploma and cap and gown, his motorcycle license plate, and other random keepsakes…such as his cement covered hard hat from work, one of the shirts from his memorial ride, condolence cards people sent me, the felt bag that my share of the scatter portion of ashes was in, and the sign in book from his memorial service. The second half of that list and so much of the stuff in that massive box is stuff that I shouldn’t even have. Because he should still be here.

This is a really shitty club. I didn’t want to join. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. None of us did. I should try to find happiness with Carter today. I am going to try. And I am so fucking grateful that he is healthy. And that he is slowly getting to a better place. He is still grieving. He is still suffering. He still misses his big brother so much and sometimes just goes through his phone and looks at his photos and videos of Bryce. Tells me how much he misses him and I just reassure him that I miss Bryce too and that we all do.

But while I am grateful to have Carter with me, I still grieve for the boy who made me a mommy. The boy who never grew out of giving me hugs and letting me give him a kiss on the cheek and laughing when I poked his dimples and said “I made them so I’m gonna poke them”. The boy who grew up curling up next to me watching movies. The boy who came and laid with me and cried in my bed when he and his love broke up for that short period of time. The boy who would still come sit next to me and lay his head on my shoulder even once he was a grown, bearded, 6’4″ 19-year-old. Would he admit it to his friends? No clue. But he did it anyway. He acted tough sometimes, but he had a soft heart. An amazing heart. My baby was an arrogant twerp sometimes because what 19-year-old young man isn’t? But he loved so hard. His heart was the best.

My loving and silly boy.

When he bought his bike, I was scared shitless. But not at all surprised to be honest. And I was actually proud of him for managing his finances to be able to buy it. Plus it was in his blood. His dad used to ride. His grandpa used to ride..my dad. He was named after my dad. His middle name…Allen…is my dad’s middle name. He and my dad would text all the time and he’d send my dad videos of his progress with things like learning wheelies. And when my dad would visit, he’d drive him around to the store or wherever he needed to go.

Riding was in his blood.

My blood gave him life. And then someone else took it from him.

So now. It is now Mother’s Day 2023. My first Mother’s Day was 2003. 20 years later and I have gone from holding that beautiful boy in my arms to looking at photos. Or videos. Or staring at the urn of his ashes. Or letting my mind wander at almost 20 years worth of memories of raising the best young man I’ve ever known. The boy who will always hold a massive place in my heart. The boy who took part of me with him when he left us.

I should be doing one of multiple things right now, and sleeping would be at the top of the list. But I also already had my laptop on my lap because I had been slowly working on homework.

But while doing things like homework, I usually need tv or something to give me background noise or to occasionally divert my attention to help keep my brain from getting overwhelmed with school.

Tonight, I was watching a show where a woman came home and found her husband dead in their living room. During the course of the episode, they show her trying to do CPR on him while speaking with 911. Following the ambulance to the hospital in a state of shock. Becoming involved in some drama at the hospital (naturally since it’s tv).

But the main point is that she meets a family whose son is dying in the ICU and struggling to say goodbye. Throughout the episode, she is still in shock, but the narrative of the show shows the audience that she is struggling with the fact that she did not get to say goodbye. She is watching this family take advantage of the opportunity to spend time with their loved one and say their goodbyes, and it makes her grief come hard and fast. Like a fucking freight train slamming her head on. And that is when she breaks down.

And that is when I started crying.

Because I am her.

I did not get to say goodbye to my boy. I was able to say goodbye to his body in a casket. I was able to talk to him. Tell him that I am sorry that I couldn’t protect him. Tell him how much I loved him.

But I did not get to say goodbye to him while his heart was still beating. While his skin was warm, while his cheeks were pink, and while his skin was soft.

I did not get to say goodbye. I had a general conversation in a text 6 hours before it happened. We had our standard “Be safe tonight. Love you.” and “Love you too” that we always exchanged whenever he left the house, whether in his car or on his bike.

If something horrible happens in your life or to someone you love and you know they will not be able to survive this life, do not pass up the opportunity to say goodbye. Do not be afraid. Yes, it will hurt like a bitch. It will hurt like a motherfucker.

But despite the misery of the situation, getting the opportunity to say goodbye is a gift. Not everyone gets it.

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.