Year One

One year ago today I heard the words that no parent, no matter what age, ever wants to hear.

“There is nothing else we can do.”

One year ago, Luke passed away peacefully in our arms, never feeling an ounce of pain. We held him, sang to him, said our good-byes. It’s hard to bring myself back to that day, and those moments, and I try my best not to. Because those moments do not define his life. He was not a sick baby, he was not a hospital baby. He was filled with love and light and joy and silliness and playfulness and everything a 3 year old should be filled with. He was perfect, he is perfect. But his death does not define his life, and that is one of the main things I have been focusing on this year. Not letting those final moments take away all of the beautiful memories we had together even in his 3 short years of life. Death doesn’t deserve that, Luke doesn’t deserve that. When we speak of him, we speak of his life. The love he gave us every day. The smile that would light up a room. He smiled with his eyes, with the longest eye lashes I’ve ever seen. His death and that day doesn’t deserve to take away anything from me. It has already taken so much. All I have left of my son is the memory of him and the years we had together. I refuse to let those last moments have space in my mind.

It is hard to come out of the darkness, but it has been getting easier.

I’m not sure what is so significant about the one year mark of anyone’s passing. Like you’re supposed to be done being sad? Because it’s been a year. You’re supposed to feel better? There’s no finish line, there’s no prize, no medals. So what is the importance of the one year? There’s this idea that we are supposed to stop grieving after a year, and we are supposed to move on and start feeling better. Hate to break it to you, but no one stops grieving. Not for a child, a spouse, a parents, a pet. Grief doesn’t end. Grief is a response to loss, and the loss is permanent. So grief doesn’t go away. It might get softer, it might not be as sharp or dark or intense over the years, but it doesn’t go away. It gets easier, the tears might not come at every moment, the days aren’t completely filled with pain. I couldn’t even walk passed the boys’ section at Target but now I go in there looking for little Spiderman shirts or Paw Patrol shirts. I couldn’t shower or brush my teeth, so thankfully that has gotten better. But there are days now we genuinely enjoy. We have beautiful moments as a family, we have celebrations and milestones. And even the silence of the nights has become less loud. We continued living, and we survived a year without Luke. But we won’t ever stopped grieving.

I’m trying not to look back, and say that Luke has been gone a year. Time doesn’t make a difference. He’s gone and he will always be. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, I will always miss him and want him here. But I’m trying to use the years that pass as milestones for myself, and say “look how far I have come this year, look at what we have accomplished this year.” I hate that Luke is gone and believe me if I can go back in time and change it I would. If I had to give up my heart or lungs to bring him back I would. But I can’t, and I hate that I can’t, I can’t change what happened. But losing Luke has unlocked a level or strength I never knew I had. I hate that I had to find it, but I’m glad I did. This last year I have put so much work and effort into healing, growth, positive energy, and survival. Not in that order – those first few months were about surviving. We did anything and everything we needed to do to make it through the day.

It was darkness, for a long time.

But I promised myself I would come into this year really focused on myself and this new way of living. Living without Luke physically but knowing his energy is still with me. Keeping his memory alive, talking to him and about him in our home and to others. Navigating Amelia’s grief as well, in a positive way. Working on our family and our grief and finding healthy ways to release our emotions.

So this year, I put a lot of energy into healing, and therapy. Not just counseling, but I’ve channeled my energy into things that are healing for my. My writing, the foundation, self care. Going for walks, exploring new places, traveling, cooking.

I have come so far in one year, and I am proud of myself. It took me a while to say that and even think it, but I am. And I feel it. Every time I took a step forward was a little win. And having a bad day or crying or falling into the darkness a bit is not a step back. It’s still a step forward – that is what grief is. Grief is always forward because grief is happy and sad. But every day that passed became a little easier to breathe again, to feel happiness again. It was, after all, one day closer to Luke.

I have learned so much about life, and how I don’t want to take it for granted. I’ve learned to really stay present in the moment, at home especially, but with everything. Because you really don’t know when it will be the last moment you get to spend with someone. It sounds cliche but it’s true. I don’t regret any moment of the last moments I had with Luke. The day before his surgery was one of the best days of my life. And I was to feel like that every day.

I have also learned that people fucking suck.

That’s right. People. Fucking. Suck.

I am a forgiving person, I really am. I don’t like confrontation. I let a lot of things slide. I take it all in and I don’t say anything.

But something about losing a child, or losing anyone close to you really, brings out the true colors of people. Or better yet, loss just makes you realize more about people. The goggles come off, you can see better. When people show you their true colors, believe them.

I don’t care if this is petty, I don’t care if this sounds selfish or childish or whatever. A lot of it comes from anger, a lot of it comes from hurt and pain. Which, is valid.

There were hundreds of people who came and showed up to support us during his services. People I’ve known my entire life, people I’ve just met, people who knew and loved Luke, people who never met him. We were floored with the amount of support we received, and we expected that to dwindle down over the coming few weeks and months, especially from the people who were not in our closest circle.

Which, we understood.

There are levels of closeness and circles of your “people” in your life. With a tragedy like this, I think people don’t know what to say or do, people who have kids it just hits them differently. People who we hadn’t seen in years came and supported us, sent condolences, and checked in every so often before going back to normal life.

But the people who you expect to show up, be in your corner, hold you, support you, grieve with you. That’s what hurts the most.

People who knew and love Luke, and Amelia. Who have been to our home, who have been to our parties and met our family. Who saw the kids all the time and became just as close as family would be. Those people.

I try to give them the benefit of the doubt – the loss was hard for them too. They are grieving, it’s hard for them to see us, to see Amelia.

But you know what’s harder? Losing your child.

You know what else is hard? Having to explain to your living child that her brother is not coming back.

You know what else is hard? Watching her get so excited when her support and her circle promised to come over and see her, and never showed up for her again.

I carried a lot of that anger with me this last year. The circle we expected to show up. The circle we needed support from. The circle who KNEW OUR SON and promised they would help us and be there no matter what.

And disappeared.

So I made a promise to myself, and to Luke. I’m not taking that anger with me anymore. I’m trying so so so hard to just let it go. And not just let it go but completely dissolve it from my life and my mind. I can’t hold on to this energy and this anger because people can’t meet the expectations that I set for them. So I’m letting this go.

Luke did not carry anger, or resentment, or negativity. Amelia does not deserve hate in her life, hate that I carry. The more anger I let go of, the more my heart becomes open for joy, love, light. Everything Luke emulated in his life.

One year later, we survived. One year later, we still grieve. We still hurt and ache and cry.

Is it easier? Yes and no. It won’t get easier living without Luke, it’s not easy to lose a child. But it is easier to enjoy life. It’s getting softer, it’s getting less painful in ways. The shock of it has gone away. We still have our dark days, weeks even. But we can and will move forward.

We will continue to learn about life, continue to heal, continue to change lives.

One year without Luke just means one year closer to him.

← Go back