Category: Uncategorized

Tomorrow is February 10th.

That date is 2 things.

February 10, 2003 was my due date. Of course, he wasn’t born that day…because Bryce never did anything the easy way. I am going to stick with the joke that his stubbornness 100% came from his dad…if anyone reading this knows me personally…you shush.

The second thing that tomorrow is…

7 weeks. It will be 7 weeks since my son’s accident that took his life. 7 weeks since I have seen his smile in person. Felt his warmth. Heard his laugh with my own ears instead of in videos. 7 weeks that I have been waiting to find out if the man who made that improper turn will be punished for his actions. 7 weeks that I have been in pain. 7 weeks that I have watched my 12-year-old grieve the loss of his big brother.

I know that healing isn’t easy. I know that it isn’t quick. I know that it isn’t linear.

But I feel like I am slipping backward. I know I mentioned that in a past post. But I do. I know my other son is. He is struggling. Grief is consuming him, and I feel lost on how to help him other than what I am already doing, but it hurts to see him in so much pain. I already thought my pain was maxed out, but seeing him? No. It wasn’t.

This upcoming Monday would have been Bryce’s birthday.

This upcoming Monday *IS* Bryce’s birthday.

20 years old. He should be getting excited about turning 20 years old right now. But he isn’t. He is now ashes in a fucking box in my living room.

Because an asshole wasn’t paying attention to motorcycles.

But this grief thing? I hate it. I hate the pain of missing my son, and I hate that his life was stolen. But I also hate what death and grief do to those left behind.

I am suffering. I am not okay. Not even a little okay. If I have a day where I think I am okay, something changes it from okay to not okay at least once during the day. I feel myself sinking leading up to Bryce’s birthday. Sinking hard and fast.

My 12-year-old is suffering. He is not okay. He was initially processing. But now he is regressing. He isn’t sleeping. He is depressed. He is withdrawn. I think Bryce’s upcoming birthday is making it worse for him too.

I will not speak for Bryce’s other parents, his girlfriend, his best friend. But I know how they’re doing. None of us are okay.

It is weird. Yes, time is passing. Yes, I am going to work. My other son is going to school.

Yes, I am eating…kinda…sometimes.

Yes, I am sleeping…kinda…sometimes.

I am torn between being at a loss for words and having so many words just flooding my mind. I am typing this in my bed covered with a blanket from Bryce’s…the last thing that has even a *little* bit of his natural scent still on it. I grabbed it the other day when I had a complete breakdown. It is like the grief has my brain fighting and trying hard to process the trauma. It doesn’t want this to be real. My heart doesn’t want it to be real either. I want Bryce to come in right now and plop into my bed and pet the pup while talking my ear off about his dreams of his future business plans. Or even come in and tell me he doesn’t feel good and take all 6’4″ of himself and curl up next to me with his head on my shoulder so I could rub his hair as I did just 1 month before his accident when he was sick with a nasty flu.

I don’t want to feel pain. I want to be able to think of Bryce and smile. I want to be able to think of my baby and be happy. Think of his amazing self. I want to watch all of his silly videos and laugh. I want to look at photos of him and his brother and feel happy. I want to laugh at his funny selfies. I want to smile at the selfies of the two of us. I want to smile at the old photos of little Bryce and me.

But fuck.

That bitch grief isn’t letting me. She is just pulling out the pain. Pushing the pain to the front. Dragging me down. Pulling me underwater.

And fuck me. I don’t know how to breathe underwater.

I should be sleeping right now. I actually promised someone I would be sleeping. And I am so damn tired. I am exhausted. I did try to sleep.

But it is a rough day. I got more details today. Reading them hurt. I feel like it pulled me back in my pain. Right back to 6 weeks ago, removing any progress I’d made and triggering the first full breakdown I’d had in a while. This is why I keep saying that grief is sneaky.

Anytime I start to feel like I *might* be advancing even a little, something pulls me right back again. It isn’t even two steps forward, one step back. It feels more like two steps forward, ten steps back.

Fuck. I can’t even explain how much it hurts. It is almost impossible to put it into words even though I am here trying to explain things to anyone who might be reading this. It is hard to find the words. People even often say that there are no words. But why are there no words? Why are we left feeling like we are alone with no way to process the pain even when we aren’t actually alone? Even when you have someone with you, holding you through the pain and tears. What is it about grief that does that to us? Is it simply that we feel alone due to the loss of person we are missing? The hole they have left in our hearts? Especially when it is the loss of a child. I made him. His father and I made him. He is half of me. I grew him. I provided him with life. I raised him. Nurtured him. Loved him. Supported him. Did my best to teach him how to be a good person and a good man. How to love. I might have also passed along some stubbornness, as did his father, but it made him HIM. It made him Bryce. The stubborn boy who with a loving heart who would do anything for those he loved. His parents. His siblings. His friends. He would do anything for all of us.

I have to sometimes literally remind myself to breathe. Like today during my breakdown. I couldn’t breathe and when I was, it was often erratic and irregular. It is hard to catch your breath and you have to concentrate on breathing.

Life feels like I am just going through the motions. I am waking up every day. I go to work. I take care of Carter. I am making sure he is okay. That he is going to his therapy appointments. His lessons. I am taking care of our animals. I am trying to stay motivated to keep the house clean. I am trying to stay motivated for school. I am taking my meds. Showering. Every day is just routine.

Routine. But not normal.

Will we ever have normal again?

I don’t even know.

I do know that I am tired of the pain. I am tired of crying.

And I just want my baby back in my fucking arms.

Grief is messy. It is a bitch..

It is weird how you almost feel guilty if you have a good day.

I will have a day when I think I am okay. I will make it the entire day without one tear and only think of Bryce with a smile. Maybe even watch silly videos or look at pictures of him.

Then before you know it….that sneaky bitch has returned. Sometimes it is the same day. Sometimes it is a different day.

It can be something large that triggers the sadness or sometimes it is simply looking at the clock and seeing that it is 8:57pm on a Friday night…the time of the accident.

If only I had that gift of seeing things or feeling premonitions where I could have said to just wait to come home. Just wait even 30 seconds.

Just 30 fucking seconds sooner or later and I would still have my son here.

30 FUCKING SECONDS.

I wasn’t sure if I should share this photo. It is private. It is mine. It is *MY* pain. And you can also see the pain on Rory’s face. This is our pain. This is nothing that a mother should have to endure. But this photo is also raw. It shows the pain of grief. It shows you why grief is a disgusting bitch who can fuck all the way off.

Healing takes time and no one heals the same. I know this. But I also truly don’t think I will be able to heal. Will I survive and learn to cope and live through the pain? Yes. Of course I will.

But will I HEAL?

Fuck no. If my son is no longer with me, I am not whole.

Will this impact my ability to maintain relationships with people in the future? Whether they be romantic or platonic. Will it make me so broken that it is hard for me to maintain friendships? Romantic relationships? I truly do not know. I want to see the future but I am currently having a hard time seeing next week, let alone what I see for my future.

Once upon a time, I envisioned BOTH of my boys in happy relationships with babies. Bringing me those grandbabies to spoil.

And now?

I honestly don’t know.

I don’t even know my work schedule for next week without checking my calendar.

It is so hard to stay focused.

I try to stay focused on work. On school. On Carter. On keeping my damn house clean. Remembering to eat. On just fucking breathing.

All I do is think of him. It still doesn’t feel real. My brain just tries to comprehend it and it just doesn’t sit well. I alternate between devastation and anger. The anger because this happened. To him. To us. To me. And anger that that man is still free because the county is still “reviewing” the case.

That is all I will say about that at this point. But are you fucking kidding me? With everything we know? You still need to review it?

I hate that I haven’t yet been able to get justice for my son. I know it won’t bring him back but maybe it will stop it from happening to someone else at the hands of the same person.

Maybe it is just because I feel so helpless. Like I am lost. Like I need to do SOMETHING to help with the pain. Like I need to do SOMETHING to help me feel better even though I don’t think anything really will make me feel better.

I want my baby back. I want my son back.

I want him back snoring on my couch.

I want him back laughing at the dog. Calling him a traitor because he loves me more.

I want him back here planning his future career possibilities. His future with his love. I want the possible grandbabies with gorgeous eyes, lashes, and dimples like he had.

I am so tired of feeling pain. Every fucking day.

I am tired of the anxiety that has started at the thought of answering simple questions from people I meet. People always ask about your kids. They ask how many kids you have all of the time. Patients at work ask. New friends. Coworkers. Doctors when you’re at appointments. People in the dating world.

That is now a very complicated question. And it is one that makes me really fucking anxious.

Do I still have two? Or do I have one? Do I say that I DID have two and now have one? If I say I have two, how do I answer when and if they ask their ages? Because one will age and one will now be forever frozen at 19. Never allowed to age. Never allowed to live the life that was stolen from him.

I hate that someone else has taken his life from him. That someone else has caused me to have such anxiety over such a simple fucking question.

That someone else has caused me to stress the potential anxiety my other son will always face when being asked about siblings and how to answer that question. Bryce will always be his brother but he shouldn’t have to answer that he had a big brother who died at 19 when he was only 12. Just like he shouldn’t be having to deal with this grief at 12.

I feel like I am rambling here but yet also feel like I am at a loss for words. Like I am so angry and upset and just lost that I don’t know what to say that doesn’t feel like a rambling mess.

I am just so…tired.

I am tired of missing my son.

I am tired of the pain.

I am tired of grief.

I am tired of feeling drained.

I am tired of seeing Carter in pain.

And the only thing that will help all of that is a big hug from Bryce.

We are still adjusting.

The house feels too quiet. Where is your loud music? The slamming doors? Your incredible knack for talking my damn ear off until I feel like my eyes have gone glassy?

The loud rumble of your bike.

That fucking bike that you loved so much. I hated how nervous it made me, but I loved how happy it made YOU. You found so much happiness riding.

I can tell that the pupper still misses you. He doesn’t know where you are. Any time Rory is here and in your room, he wants on your bed and burrows in the blanket. One of the last things that still has your scent.

I worry about Carter. He is doing better, but he still really misses you. He will be okay one minute and then something seemingly random will trigger him and he will start crying. I know that it is normal. I know that it is okay. I know that he is processing.

He asked to go to your memorial site for the first time today. He hadn’t wanted to go before today, and I wasn’t going to force him. You know him. He processes things on his own time. So after school, we went to his counseling appointment, his horseback riding lesson, and then the memorial. We added more solar lights for you. Lit your candles. Talked about you.

As we were leaving, he said, “It has been more than a month, and I am still not over it”. I had to tell him there is no “getting over it”.

We won’t just get over it. We will simply be adjusting.

We won’t get over losing you. We will always miss you. We will always have days where it doesn’t feel like real life. What we have to do is find a way to adjust to this new life.

So many things that I SHOULD be doing right now.

But am I doing them? Nope. Instead, I am sitting here…thinking about Bryce.

So many different things too. But I am thinking about how I have had to rebuild his roadside memorial 4 times because someone keeps ripping it down. Yes, we have cleared it with the city and the shopping center at that corner. No, it is not random vandals. They aren’t vandalizing it. They are completely taking it.

Those assholes don’t know me. They don’t know not to fuck with my baby, in life or death.

We put it all up in the spot that his friends started the morning after the accident. 4 weeks after the accident…to the day…they took it down. I rebuilt it. They took it down again. I rebuilt it again. Overnight that very night, they pulled it back down. Always the middle of the night. Always completely removed. This is direct targeting.

I will not say here how we got it all back. I will not say here how we are able to keep eye on it.

I will say that they’re fucking with the wrong mama. They’re fucking with the wrong group of friends.

Yes, we basically know who it is. We also have no legal standing at this point because it isn’t technically theft. I’ve called PD.

But no…I will not stop. You tear it down…I will put it back up. Again. Again. And again. Eventually, you will learn. Maybe this time spooked you? I had cops knocking on all of the doors surrounding yours because I knew where it was within a small radius. Your neighbors are fucking watching you now because the cop told them what you keep doing. My son has the best and most badass big sister who went dumpster diving and found the big trash bag you threw it all in once you realized I was on to you. We had it back up exactly as it was within hours of you pulling it down.

You had to have driven past by now. Seen it there. Seen that it is the exact same stuff. So now you know that *I* know where you live. Who you are.

DON’T.FUCK.WITH.MY.BABY.

First time before and after

Second time before and after

Third time before and after

Bigger and better each time, asshole.

I wish I was sure. I wish that I was sure like those who have a faith in god. In religion. In an afterlife. I wish that I was SURE that I would see my son again.

I know enough to admit that I don’t know.

To be honest with you, even those who say they are sure aren’t truly sure. It isn’t possible. None of us have actually seen what happens when we die. Even a near-death experience can be explained by science. They didn’t truly see “the white light”.

Is there something there? Do we see our loved ones again? Will I have the chance to see my son again? My baby? I don’t know. And neither do you.

What I do know is that I feel him.

Everywhere.

At home. When I am out. I feel his presence. I am reminded of him at all times. I see things. I hear things. I feel things. All of them remind me of him. Help me feel him.

It isn’t just the things around the house that we have done to remember him. Carter and I chose together to have a “Bryce wall”. Carter picked this wall because he wanted to see it as soon as he came inside from school every day.

It isn’t just the shelving with his ashes and the box where I displayed the pocket square that he wore at his memorial, the hat that he had on his hip during the accident, or the rock from the vigil site that all three of us parents signed.

I feel his presence in every sunset streaked with purple, like the one I saw in my mirrors on my way home from work tonight.

I felt him while I listened to a random bird singing tonight outside of my home as I watched the faintly purple-streaked sunset.

I feel him with every breath I take.

I feel him with every beat of my heart.

My heart and his were once connected. And they still are. They always will be.

As long as my heart beats, I will be missing my baby.

As long as my heart beats, it will be beating while broken.

There is no healing from this for me. There is only coping. There is only learning how to live without him in my life. There is only coping with the idea that the baby that I created is now gone. That his life was taken from him before he had the chance to truly start living.

As long as my heart is beating, I will be missing Bryce.

As long as my heart is beating, I will love my Bryce.

I have been called strong a lot lately.

Friends. Family. Coworkers.

Bryce’s dad said “you’re better than I am”.

Fuck no, I’m not. I am a hot fucking mess. I break down all of the time. It’s been a month and I still break down all of the time. I don’t know how long until that isn’t a “normal” occurrence for me.

For context with my ex, he said it because I have been taking care of so many of the tasks that need to be done after someone dies. Closing banking accounts. Taking care of expenses. Turning off his phone.

It made me think about why I have wanted to do these things. Part of it is simply because having the accounts closed means less mail coming to the house in Bryce’s name and, therefore fewer things to trigger me.

I think that another part of it is because he is my baby. I feel the need to take care of my baby, even in this way. In some weird way, it feels like I am taking care of HIM by doing these things for him. By doing them on his behalf. Just like I did before when he’d ask me to make his dentist appointments or do some other random thing for him.

My mom heart needs to take care of my baby boy in any way I can. Each task I complete still comes with a complete breakdown. I either break down in the car after visiting a place in person or at home as soon as I hang up the phone.

For some, doing these things would make it feel final. It already feels final to me.

I arrived at an accident site and was told by police officers that my son had been killed in an accident.

I got a middle-of-the-night phone call from the county medical examiner’s office only 2.5 hours after finding out that my son had been killed to ask me about his medical history and if he used drugs or alcohol.

I had to plan a memorial service for my son.

I had to see my once healthy and gorgeous 19-year-old lying in a coffin.

It is already fucking final in my mind.

So then tell me why I still haven’t cleaned his room? Or emptied his workout supplements out of my hall closet even though the damn things take up an entire shelf?

Or clean out the bathroom cabinet of his beard oils, razor, and toothpaste? Or get rid of the beard shampoo still in MY shower from when he used my bathroom shortly before the accident. I still have no damn idea why he used mine instead of his.

While it is final in my mind, and while I know it is real, another part of me refuses to deal with the things that would remove his mark from the house. It refuses to remove the things from the house that make it look like he could come barreling in the door at any moment, prompting me to remind him yet AGAIN not to slam the door (have you noticed how many times I have mentioned him slamming the door?).

So while I can accomplish the tasks because my mind NEEDS to do that for my baby boy, I can’t throw away his stuff. I can’t throw out his supplements because he worked hard to get fit and build muscle. I can’t throw out his beard care stuff because he loved that beard. I have to admit that he looked good with facial hair too. I made a really pretty baby.

So no…I am not strong. I am a hot mess. I almost always feel like I am about to crumble into a million pieces. I honestly don’t know what position I would be in if I didn’t have a 12-year-old relying on me.

Do people think I am strong because I am just that damn good at pretending? Like Oscar-worthy? Is it the years and years of trauma that have made me so good at disassociating, compartmentalizing, and pretending to be okay until I am alone behind closed doors?

So trust me. I’m not strong.

I wonder how long until I will be able to stop saying “I have had a day”. It used to be that I said it when work was shit. Or someone was an ass and pissed me off.

If only that were the case now. Now it means that I had a bad grief day. Because grief is a bitch.

I never know what it is that will trigger those days. Sometimes it is literally nothing. Nothing at all. A random thought. Seeing his name on the Hulu profile because I haven’t had the heart to delete it. Seeing his text bubble with a picture still sitting in my pinned texts on my phone because I refuse to delete our texts. Sometimes it’s a Facebook memory popping up in my feed reminding me of something from years ago. Or even simply passing by my fridge and seeing the photos on the side.

Part of me wants the day that the pain isn’t so strong. Part of me doesn’t want the memories of him to fade and it feels like that is the only way that the pain will subside.

I am good at pain.

Physical pain. Emotional pain.

I have dealt with all of it.

If anyone is actually reading this, I highly doubt you want me to elaborate on those things.

But *NONE* of those compare to this. None. This pain is like my heart has been compressed. Not even just broken. It’s being squeezed. I can’t breathe. There is an elephant on my chest. And it is all just constant.

My baby. My baby boy that I grew, delivered, raised, loved. He is gone.

How do people heal from this type of thing?

The part that makes it even worse is watching my other son struggle with the loss of his big brother. He is 12. He is my quiet introvert, versus Bryce, who was definitely my loud extrovert. That boy NEEDED his social interaction. But Carter…he would be content to stay in his room all day, every day. Give him his video games and his phone and he’s a happy kid.

The problem with a grieving introvert is that they keep it inside. Trust me. I am having to pull things out of him. He cries with me sometimes. He tells me how much he misses Bryce. How much he loves him. How sad he is. But there are other times that he doesn’t tell me. Sometimes he keeps things to himself. I didn’t know he was having a hard time sleeping until I found out that he was falling asleep in class.

“I just can’t get my brain to stop.”

I feel that. Me too, kiddo.

When we scattered some of Bryce’s ashes at the lake during his memorial ride, Carter scattered some of his portion but chose to save some. I had been holding on to them for him with the intention of finding him some sort of urn. I found one that works really well for him and put the remaining portion of his big brother’s ashes in there for him. When I showed him, I asked if he remembered what an urn was and said that now he had his own special purple heart for the rest of the ashes. I said that now he can always have it, even when he grows up and moves out and gets his own house. He held it tightly and hugged it to his chest and asked, “So now I will always have Bryce with me?” while sobbing.

And of course I cried. Again.

It feels like I am always crying. Or nearly crying. Or at least walking around in a daze because my mind is utter chaos.

Dude. I am used to chaos. I seem to thrive in chaos. I have lived in that shit for decades. Single mom. Twice divorced. Did my LPN nursing program when my Bryce was an infant, still waking up at night to eat. My associates in nursing when Bryce was a toddler. Had my first divorce when he was in elementary. Later had a second baby. Then a second divorce when that baby was a toddler. Then got my bachelors degree as a single mom while working full time. And now I am in grad school as a full time nurse and single mom. That is the fucking definition of chaos.

But the chaos in my mind NOW? Yeah. It is nowhere near the same kind of chaos. My brain feels like complete mush with a side of chaos marinated in caffeine so that I can at least attempt to stay alert through the day.

To add to my chaos, my fucking eye has been twitching for part of the day, every day. I asked Dr. Google how to stop it and his answer?

1. Get more rest
2. Decrease stress
3. Limit caffeine

Well, I guess this fucking eye is just going to twitch indefinitely.

I don’t think you realize the things that still affect you until they happen.
I went the other morning to make sure Bryce’s memorial made it through the night after putting it back up post-asshole removal. As I was getting closer to the intersection, I encountered traffic…and police lights flashing.
There was a horrible accident in the westbound lanes, but it had traffic affected in both directions, and some traffic was detoured. The accident was a multi-car accident just past his accident site.
Approaching the intersection and coming up to traffic with flashing lights and detouring traffic made my heart start racing and my breathing erratic.
My brain knows that it’s not the same accident. My brain knows I can’t be given the same horrible news AGAIN. But yet, my body still panicked.

How the hell do you get your body to stop betraying you? How do you train your body not to panic at things like that?

While you’re answering questions for me, I’d also love to know how to fix this sleep disturbance.

People say time heals. That things eventually get better. I honestly don’t know if I WANT them to get better. Does “getting better” mean that I am forgetting him? Letting the memories fade? The memory of his laugh. His scent. The way his hugs felt. Letting go of the memories of him curled up with me a month before the accident when he was sick and I just rubbed his hair like I did when he was little even though he most definitely wasn’t little anymore.

I don’t think that time necessarily heals. I think it maybe just makes it so that we learn to live with it. I think that is what it will be for me. I know I won’t “get over” this. I know I won’t “heal” from this.

But maybe I will eventually learn how to cope with the pain? How to function? Be able to sleep again? Eat normally?

Maybe Carter will too? He lost his big brother, and he isn’t coping well.