MY NEW “NORMAL”
Normal is having tears waiting behind every smile
when you realize someone important is missing from all the important
events in your family’s life.
Normal is reliving that day continuously through your eyes and mind.
Normal is every happy event in my life always being backed up with
sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.
Normal is staring at every baby who looks like he is my baby’s age. And
then thinking of the age he would be now and not being able to imagine
it. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it
will never happen.
Normal is telling the story of your child’s death
as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the
horror in someone’s eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it
has become a part of my “normal”.
Normal is each year coming up with
the difficult task of how to honor your child’s memory and his birthday
and survive these days.
Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking
at the sight of something special that my baby would have loved, but how
he is not here to enjoy it.
Normal is having some people afraid to mention my baby.
Normal is making sure that others remember him.
Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to grieve our loss forever.
Normal is weeks, months, and years after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse sometimes, not better.
Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to
this loss, unless they too have lost a child. NOTHING. Even if your
child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you – it doesn’t
compare. Losing a parent is horrible, but having to bury your own child
Normal is trying not to cry all day, because I know my mental health depends on it.
Normal is realizing I do cry everyday.
Normal is being impatient with everything and everyone, but someone stricken with grief over the loss of your child.
Normal is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children and our new lives.
Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have
three children or two, because you will never see this person again and
it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you
say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if
you have betrayed your baby.
Normal is knowing I will never get over this loss, in a day or a million years.
And last of all, Normal is hiding all the things that have become
“normal” for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that
you are “normal”.