I am fighting with time again.
The more time that passes since Xavier's death, the further away I feel from him and the more pain I feel. "They" say it gets easier with time, but I call bullshit. No one who has lost a child says that. It changes, yes, but it never gets easy.
In the beginning I felt so much closer to him, to his spirit. Now I feel this gap widening. I hate it. It makes me cry, it makes me sob and cry aloud for him. It’s yet another step forward into this new life. And change is hard... I resist it with every tear that falls. I am growing and so is he in Heaven. We are both becoming stronger and transforming into better beings from our experiences. We are learning. But it hurts.
Time makes no difference. As much as I try to stay positive, hopeful and prepared, my body remembers the trauma. It’s emotional and physical. The subconscious feelings of the last months of Xavier’s life are bubbling up again. Even though I wasn't consciously thinking about that, my mood had become unstable with more frequent bouts of crying, extreme fatigue and and feelings of hopelessness. It wasn't until I took some time to think when I realized the timing was right in line with some significant changes in Xavier's condition.
Although unconfirmed, I knew at this time in 2017 that treatment had failed yet again and my boy was dying. An emergency MRI in March showed little change, but I knew better. There were changes not visible on a scan. These changes were in his heart. He knew it too and he was fighting to live.
The anticipation of his death -- of what will be the second year since his death-- is always the hardest. Be patient these next few months as my body involuntarily remembers and I unwillingly relive these horrific experiences in my mind. They are part of this journey — a part of my PTSD perhaps.
But nonetheless, I will ride this now more predictable storm, and remember how these painful moments paint a picture of a brave, loving and intelligent little boy who brought our family together with a love and strength we never knew we had.
The more time that passes since Xavier's death, the further away I feel from him and the more pain I feel. "They" say it gets easier with time, but I call bullshit. No one who has lost a child says that. It changes, yes, but it never gets easy.
In the beginning I felt so much closer to him, to his spirit. Now I feel this gap widening. I hate it. It makes me cry, it makes me sob and cry aloud for him. It’s yet another step forward into this new life. And change is hard... I resist it with every tear that falls. I am growing and so is he in Heaven. We are both becoming stronger and transforming into better beings from our experiences. We are learning. But it hurts. Time makes no difference. As much as I try to stay positive, hopeful and prepared, my body remembers the trauma. It’s emotional and physical. The subconscious feelings of the last months of Xavier’s life are bubbling up again. Even though I wasn't consciously thinking about that, my mood had become unstable with more frequent bouts of crying, extreme fatigue and and feelings of hopelessness. It wasn't until I took some time to think when I realized the timing was right in line with some significant changes in Xavier's condition.
Although unconfirmed, I knew at this time in 2017 that treatment had failed yet again and my boy was dying. An emergency MRI in March showed little change, but I knew better. There were changes not visible on a scan. These changes were in his heart. He knew it too and he was fighting to live.
The anticipation of his death -- of what will be the second year since his death-- is always the hardest. Be patient these next few months as my body involuntarily remembers and I unwillingly relive these horrific experiences in my mind. They are part of this journey — a part of my PTSD perhaps.
But nonetheless, I will ride this now more predictable storm, and remember how these painful moments paint a picture of a brave, loving and intelligent little boy who brought our family together with a love and strength we never knew we had.
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