It’s not supposed to be like this. I’ve said it a hundred times since December. When we considered his burial spot while I was still pregnant, we should have been in birthing class. When I agonized over whether or not to have a baby shower, I should have been able to rejoice over setting the date. When my husband, brother, and Dad brought me out to the car to show me the outer casket (his blue casket was too tiny and would be crushed on burial), I approved, but I should have been approving a crib. The day after Sam’s funeral, I was weeping. I should have been at my baby shower, opening gifts.
Today, my friend is coming over. I’m waiting for her to get here as I type. I should be waddling around, eating for two, buying bedding for Sam’s crib, but I’m not. My friend should be bringing her baby girl, born just a few days after Sam, but she can’t. I’m not ready. This should be a meeting filled with smiling and laughter, but we’re anticipating sweet tears. It shouldn’t be like this. I’m not just grieving the event of the loss of my son. I’m grieving everything I have lost because Sam’s not here. I’m grieving everything I’m losing because Sam’s not here. I will grieve everything I lose because Sam won’t be there.
We are marked because of Sam, just as every parent is marked because of their children. But ours is a mark we have to learn how to wear without his presence. It shouldn’t be like this. No glossy comfort. It simply shouldn’t be like this.