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I understand that everyone has their own religious views and beliefs. I do not take offense to people saying that they’re praying for me. I know the intent, and it is the same as those saying they’re sending me love. I feel the love of those people.
When my mom passed in 2016, I was annoyed by some religious comments.
But now, after my son?
I know that you think you’re trying to help, and I know that it might seem a comfort to YOU.
But do NOT tell me that “god needed his angel back” or “god has a plan” or “you will see him again in the next life” or other things like that.
A shitty fucking thing happened caused by a shitty fucking person.
It wasn’t your god taking MY SON back.
It wasn’t your god taking MY SON just as he was finding himself.
He’d barely reached adulthood. He was only 19.
It wasn’t your god with some random ass “plan”.
My son had a plan too.
He was facing his past, facing his past behaviors, fixing himself, found the love of his life and was making plans with her, found amazing friends, found a passion, found a career where he was excelling.
So if you have that blind faith that gives you comfort, I am genuinely happy for you.
But remember that we don’t all share that blind faith.
Some of us find it illogical, unlikely, or impossible to exist.
While we feel the love when you say that you’re praying for us and you are more than welcome to do so, do not disrespect those who are grieving by feeding them comments about “god’s plan”. Especially those grieving the loss of a child. Grief is a bitch no matter who you’ve lost, but parents should NEVER outlive their children.
My son had plans too.
And my son’s plans were more important than your god’s plans.
His place was here with us. With ME. Not in your idea of an afterlife.
Respect goes both ways when it comes to religious beliefs.
Please remember that.

I honestly don’t know what I believe. I used to have religion. Was I religious? I don’t know. But I did have religion. I did believe in God…basically.

Looking back, I think I was always more agnostic than I realized. Even when I was “religious”. Even when I was part of religious organizations. Because there were parts of it that didn’t make sense. Parts of it didn’t sit with my logical and analytical mind.

Where is the logic behind a supernatural being that created humans? Where is the logic behind anything in the bible? Behind heaven and hell? Behind a being letting humans do such horrible things to each other because of “free will”. Letting some prosper and letting others suffer. The world is fucking chaos and a loving god simply wouldn’t do that.

There is also the rabbit hole that comes when you research religion and see that all of them have the same stories and myths and that that can’t be possible if it is true and that a person’s religion and faith is simply a circumstance of birth. You are born in place A, and you’re Christian, place B, and you’re Jewish; and in place C and you’re Muslim.

Logic does not sit with religion.

Please be mindful of things like that when you are around someone dealing with grief. I imagine it would apply to anyone but especially a grieving parent. Losing my mom was horrible but she at least lived for 52 years. Had children. Grandchildren.

My son was 19.

He didn’t get the chance for any of those things. He was barely beginning his life. Learning who he was. Building his identity. Nothing you can say will comfort me. Especially anything in the religious realm. No god would find it to be loving to take my son at 19. So don’t use your faith to attempt to comfort me.

I will always defend your right to worship as you wish.

In return, I ask that you respect those of us who do not believe. I don’t know if I am atheist…or agnostic…or spiritual. And it doesn’t matter.

You respect me and I will respect you.

And leave my son out of it.

I am guilty of always being in a rush too. We have places to be, dammit! Work, home, appointments, shopping, kids, friends waiting, blah blah fucking blah.

So I get it.

But I notice how little people pay attention to their surroundings when driving, especially to motorcycles. I became even more aware of it when my son started riding.

I was scared out of my fucking mind anytime he went out riding with friends but I also saw how much he loved it. It truly gave him peace. Happiness. How could I be mad about that? Isn’t that what a mother wants for her children?

So do me a favor? It doesn’t even have to be for me. Do it for anyone who rides, anyone you know who has a loved one who rides, anyone. Or just do it because you have a damn heart.

OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES.

Along with me using my own social media as some cheap version of a virtual therapist, I was able to go onto my son’s social media and try to smile through the tears at his silly nature.

His Tiktok videos, like the one I am sharing with all of you, made me smile. Some were silly, some showed his love of riding, some made me cringe as a mom (kids love a good thirst trap nowadayssssss). But even if some made me shake my head, they still made me laugh because he was so funny.

Going through the photos and videos on his cell phone was another way I let myself feel closer to him. Seeing his phone hurts horribly because of how trashed it is. It was in his front jeans pocket during the accident. But he has so many funny photos and silly videos that he had sent to friends and siblings that show his fun side.

When I am feeling especially broken, I rewatch the videos of his that I have saved to my phone. Sometimes they do make me hurt worse. I won’t lie about that. But sometimes they make me smile and feel closer to him and help keep the memories of him fresh.

How is that possible? I’m not sure I understand.

I am not okay. Still.

I can admit it. I know I am not. I know that those who know me well see it. Your dad saw me in a zoom meeting the other day and we were texting later that night.

“You looked tired today. Are you sleeping yet?”

I hate admitting that he knows me that well. But I’ve known him for over half of my life and even though we spent a good number of years not getting along after the divorce, we still know each other very well. I was younger than you when we met.

He’s not wrong, though.

I am not sleeping well. I am tired. But I am not sleeping well. I am exhausted both physically and emotionally. I don’t feel rested. I feel like I am just floating along my days on autopilot. Ultimate brain fog.

My appetite isn’t there either. Sometimes I think I am hungry so I eat a little but then it doesn’t sit well. Other times I am able to get a little to sit okay.

Worst fucking diet plan ever. Damn you, kid.

Do you know how much we all miss you? Even just at our house? Carter is struggling too. He isn’t sleeping well but you know him. He isn’t talking about it much. I had to pull it out of him after one of his teachers mentioned him falling asleep in class. He is struggling a bit in class too. He always struggles a bit in math but its even worse now. He loves you so much. Even though he always hides in his room. He changed his LED lights to purple for you too. And he stole your joker car and it’s up on his shelf. He even got his new rubber bands on his braces changed to purple this time.

Do you remember how I’d always get annoyed at you slamming the damn door when you came in from the garage? Or leaving concrete in the washer after washing your work clothes? Leaving food trash in your room?

Me too.

I wouldn’t complain at all if you were back here doing all of that again.

As long as you were back. Being silly. Giving me big bear hugs while pretending to be annoyed but yet smiling and laughing that amazing laugh. Smiling with those beautiful dimples. I still don’t know where you got those. I have small dimples, I guess, but nothing like yours.

I wish you were back spending time with your brother. Calling him bud.

I know your other siblings miss you too. They’re struggling too. I’ve talked to some of them. They’re having the same issues. Sleeping. Appetite. School.

Tina is too. She told me.

And your dad. I know we have been divorced for longer than we were together but we made you together. And now we have lost you. You’d probably laugh at how well the 3 of us are all getting along now but it’s because we all love you so damn much.

Your Aurora…she is trying. She has been here with me a lot. I don’t know if that is better for her or if it makes it worse. I know she said it helps her sleep to be here in your room. I gave her your garage opener. I like having her around and she can be here as much as she wants. She’s trying to stay on top of making me eat. You know how well she cooks. Aren’t you jealous? We talk about you a lot. And we both cry. We have cried together but I know we have also cried separately. I want her to be happy. She has been spending time with your friends. Her friends now too. That makes me happy. She needed more friends.

Even your friends are struggling. Did you ever realize that you had this much of an impact? Kamryn started crying the other day. Keston has a picture of you in his room. Jeremy is struggling with the rest of us. But even when he is struggling, he is checking on us. Checking on your brother. Checking on me. You found a great friend.

Do you know how loved you are?

Did you ever know that?

I know I told you often but did it really and truly sink in?

I miss you so much.

I love you.

Written on January 13, 2023:

It’s been a rough day.

Week.

3 weeks.

Today marks 3 weeks since we lost Bryce. 3 weeks without my baby here with me.

I’ve put together a memory box for him full of things that I don’t ever want to lose. A baby quilt. The outfit and blanket he used coming home from the hospital. His baby book. Boy Scout badges. His high school graduation cap and gown. Childhood school work showing his adorable little hands that later grew into monster sized ones.

With those cute things come “souvenirs” from my first child’s memorial service. Something a parent should never have to say. A shirt, bracelet, and sticker from his memorial ride. The red velvet pouch that contained a small portion of his ashes that I scattered at the lake during that ride. More things a mother should never have to do.

Today, I needed Rory with me. She went with me to get my tattoo done. We did lunch at a place that her and Bryce would often go. And she helped me make the memorial spot at his accident site look beautiful for him. And while we were there, we had an amazing sunset to see as I sat there and cried about how the fuck this could POSSIBLY be real life.

After what was already a difficult day, the very next day, a friend of Bryce’s drove past the accident site and noticed that his memorial wasn’t there. We checked it out and the memorial that Rory and I had lovingly cleaned and refreshed just the night before was gone. We checked with the property management and they didn’t do it. It was overnight on a Friday night so it wouldn’t have been the city and they don’t have an ordinance anyway but we still checked and it wasn’t them. And it wasn’t just vandalized that led to the thought of it being dumbass teenagers. It was literally just gone. Taken. Nothing left but a pile of rocks with spilled candle wax.

Needless to say, I was seeing red. We waited a few days to let things calm since we didn’t know who removed it (or why) and to give us the time to make the calls to clear with the management for the businesses and the city to have it there. But you bet your ass that my baby has his memorial back. They don’t know me. I will put it back up every week if necessary.

Don’t fuck with my kid.

My son was a shithead at times. I can admit it. I knew him well. Fuck. I made him. I have known his dad since I was 18. I don’t like to admit that that has been over 22 years now because it makes me sound old. So shut it. I know that there was sometimes drama in his friend group. But I also know that they always came out of the drama because that’s what friends do.

And after Bryce’s accident, his best friend and one of the “dads” of the group (funny to me that he is the dad when even he is well over 10 years younger than I am) both approached me about planning a memorial ride for him. Their group has a tradition of planning a ride for the fallen. They plan a point A chosen by the family and ride to a lake NW of the metro where they bury some of the fallen’s ashes and spend time there in their honor.

We chose to start at the site of the accident.

Everyone started out for an hour+ drive to the lake led by me in a family car with his other mom, his girlfriend, and my 12-year-old with me. Bryce’s dad rented a bike. So many friends showed up to ride with us. It was such an amazing experience of love for him.

Once we arrived, the riders all scattered around the parking lot to do wheelies and burnouts in honor of Bryce. It was amazing to see. I made sure to do my part and do a burnout in honor of my baby boy.

As part of the experience, everyone spends time at the lake to reflect once the ashes are buried. We chose to allow the 3 parents, the siblings, and Bryce’s girlfriend and best friend some ashes to scatter if they so chose to do so.

Sometimes the hard things can also be a little cathartic. Scattering part of my son’s ashes definitely falls into that category. It isn’t all of them of course. His dad and I split most of them. “Split him in half” as his little brother said. But watching the ashes of my baby boy drift off in the slow waves of a peaceful Arizona lake was horrible. But yet cathartic.

And everytime I feel like I have it the worst of the pain, something proves me wrong.

Written on Facebook on January 6, 2023:

Two weeks.
Two weeks since I’ve had to nag you about cleaning that disgusting bathroom.
Two weeks since I’ve had to say to stop slamming the garage door.
Two weeks since I’ve said to please clean out your concrete mess from the washer after you wash your work clothes.
Two weeks since I’ve had to remind you not to blast music at 3:30am so you don’t piss off the neighbors.
Two weeks since I’ve had to tell you to get up for work because the constant snoozing of your 4 work alarms going off every 2 minutes was driving me bonkers.
Two weeks that I wish I could go back to being annoyed at those things.
Two weeks that I wish I could tell you to just wait 2 more minutes to come home.
Two weeks since I’ve heard your laugh.
Two weeks since I’ve seen that beautiful smile in person.
Two weeks since I’ve seen those gorgeous eyes that you started flashing at me the second you were born.
Two weeks since I’ve had one of your hugs.
Two weeks since I’ve heard you tell me that you loved me too.
Two weeks.
Two weeks that have felt like a lifetime.

This is a post I made on social media on January 2, 2023. 10 days after losing my son. 10 days after my world was shattered.

“Carter has been slowly asking more questions. About the accident, what specifically about the accident caused his big brother’s death, etc. Tonight, he asked me about cremation. Bryce knew that’s what he wanted and we honored his request after his memorial. So I explained it to Carter. And I said that half would be here with us and half would be with Bryce’s dad in Tucson.

Part of being raised by a nurse is being around a dark sense of humor your entire life. Bryce had that humor too. Apparently so does Carter.

Carter: So he’s being split in half? That’s kinda weird.

Me: Yeah. Do you think we want the burping half or the farting half?

Carter: {bursts into a fit of giggles}

Me: Even Bryce would have laughed at that one, huh?

Carter: He would have laughed until he farted.

Me: So maybe we should keep the burping end then?

Carter: {more giggles}

For those who knew Bryce, you know he’d have laughed his ass off at that convo.”

I am a nurse. My ex is a nurse. His wife is a nurse. My poor kid grew up with 3 different parents who never let him get away with faking sick because we always knew he was full of shit.

Along with that comes the bizarre sense of humor shared by healthcare workers and other professionals dealing with things like sadness and death regularly. We cope by using dark humor and when you’re the child of one of those people, you develop the same humor. So when I said that Bryce would have laughed at that exchange, I meant it.

All 3 of us parents told jokes during our speeches at his memorial. His stepmom made a joke about how she was telling me about once yelling at him during a fight that just because he didn’t come out of her vagina didn’t mean she didn’t love him any less, and I told her that it was okay because he didn’t come out of mine either. That damn kid was a long induction followed by an emergency C-Section. I told a joke about canceling his premium Spotify account and how their site asked, “how likely are you to resubscribe” and I had to select “very unlikely”. To cap it all off, his father said that his wife had stolen his joke, but it was okay because Bryce didn’t come out of his vagina either.

Told you we were all weird. I’d bet that it was the first time that a funeral home heard the word vagina used during a memorial service, though.

At that point after the accident, I was still living in my son’s dirty clothes. I couldn’t bring myself to wash anything. Sleeping in his clothes with my face pressed into his stinky pillow was the only way I got even a *little* sleep. Wearing his clothes every day brought me comfort. Honestly, it still does and it has been almost 4 weeks. His clothes. His favorite color, purple, has become a comfort color to me. Even his little brother has been wanting a little extra purple around.

A post made to my Facebook on January 1, 2023

Baby brother’s purple LEDs and collage frame of them

Purple to welcome us home in honor of my baby

Written January 9, 2023:

Am I sharing too much in such a “public” forum? Maybe. But this is almost like therapy for me.
It has been 17 days since my heart was torn into more pieces than I ever could have thought possible. I’m still barely sleeping. I’m still barely eating. It’s better, yes. But still not great. I still cry every day. I still have full breakdowns most days where I feel like I can’t breathe. Like an elephant is sitting on my chest. I am grateful that his other 2 parents and I have grown closer from this horrible experience and we’ve been checking on each other almost daily, even just to say “I’m having a bad day. How is yours?”
Parents shouldn’t outlive their children. I still sleep with his pillows just hoping I can catch small bits of his scent. I still wear his shirts and hoodies every day.
I went back to work today even though I technically didn’t have to. But I knew that if I didn’t, the likelihood of sinking into a depression I couldn’t climb out of would only increase more and more. So I wore his shirt with my scrub pants. I wore the new ring I bought with his birthstone (amethyst). I wore my necklace with both boys names. I wore my bracelet that his riding group had made for everyone for the ride over the weekend. I smiled that work had purple masks and that my stethoscope is purple. And I tried my best to keep my brain focused. I didn’t do well. But I survived. And that’s all I can do. Because Carter needs me to do that. He can see me sad. He can see me cry. Because he’s sad too. And he cries too. We can cry together. But he needs me to survive.
So I’ll just continue to sleep with this pillow that’s losing the scent of Bryce. And cry when I need to cry.

I thought it was horrible being told that my son had been killed in a motorcycle accident.

I thought it was horrible having to tell his 12 year old brother that his big brother had died.

I thought that having to even THINK about planning a memorial service for my first born baby was horrible.

But no.

Seeing your son at the family viewing before the memorial. Laying inside of a coffin. Looking like him but yet somehow also NOT looking like him. Laugh crying with his dad and big sister about how he’d be so mad at how they combed his hair while his sister gently used her fingers to fix it for him.

Almost falling over…again…just like I did that night…when I saw him lying there.

We hadn’t seen him yet. By the time I arrived at the scene of the accident, he had already been taken away. He wasn’t even taken to a hospital. Straight to the county medical examiner office. I didn’t get to see him. Touch him one last time while his skin was warm and soft. That still hurts. Even though I know that he died on impact in the accident and I’d have arrived after he was gone no matter what, I still wish I’d have been there before he had been taken. Even though I know it would have been horrible to see him that way. They could have covered him with a sheet for me.

But knowing that I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye when I could have touched his hand and rubbed his cheek while he was still warm breaks me even more. Just when I thought I couldn’t break even further.

By the time I was able to see him, it had been a week of pain. He was in a coffin. He had makeup that had been carefully applied by the funeral home. But it wasn’t my baby boy.

That was a shitty Madame Tussauds version of my gorgeous boy. The smile wasn’t there. The dimples weren’t showing. I couldn’t see the life and glimmer in his eyes like he was trying to get away with something. His beard hair wasn’t as soft as he kept it. He was so fucking proud of that beard. There is an entire row of beard oils and conditioners still sitting in his bathroom cabinet. I can’t part with it.

Even though it was my baby but not my baby, seeing him that way caused yet another breakdown. I had had many. Upon many.

I couldn’t help talking to him. Just telling him how sorry I was. I laid my hand on his chest and cried harder feeling the cold against my skin. I rubbed his beard, trying not to rub too firm because the coolness of his skin was making me feel close to full panic. But I couldn’t not rub it. Because I always did. A month before the accident, he’d gotten so sick with the flu and my giant baby boy was still cuddling with me like when he was little and I just sat and rubbed his hair and beard.

He was so fucking proud of that beard.