And I Carry On in the States

And I Carry On

“It is all right if it goes wrong, just keep calm and carry on.” According to the movie, The Book of Life, I am supposed to carry on. I have no choice to carry on with my life.

I suppose I can emphasize that my life has not always been perfect. I feel confident that I created the life I was supposed to have: A loving marriage and two awesome children who brought me joy every waking moment. Was I a perfect mother? Definitely not. I tried. I tried to create a strong family unit in which my children could grow and excel.

No one told me that one of my children could die. No one let me know that there was a possibility that my unit could be destroyed in a blink of an eye. My son died the day after Thanksgiving in 2012. I cooked the whole day before. The turkey, the dressing, the rich pumpkin pies that he loved so much. Pumpkin pie was his last meal before he died from a massive infection that took him in a blink of an eye. He was a beautiful boy at fourteen. Six foot tall with brilliant red hair and icy blue eyes. He had golden skin which is unusual for a red-head. We took him to the emergency room in the middle of the night. We left the next day without him. I felt certain I would not survive the grief. The grief clutched my throat, and even breathing became a labored chore.

No one told me that my independence would be shattered with the loss of my son. Being alone scared me. Grief counseling barely scratched the surface of my extreme grief. No one told me how to help my grieving daughter—my son and she were the best of friends. No one informed me that my husband and I would grow apart as we dealt with this extreme grief. We depend on each other, yet when we are grieving heavily, we push each other away. No one told me how lonely child loss can be.

As a family, we took many trips to the ocean. I remember the first time I visited a beach after he died. I went to San Diego with my husband in the summer of 2014. We decided to take a quick day trip to Coronado Island. When we arrived, the sounds of the waves crashing flooded my senses with the grief I was trying to suppress. Visiting any beach with my family has always brought peace and joy, but with my son gone, the crashing waves loosened a scab that I worked so hard to keep covered. The sound brought me to my knees. The roaring of the ocean that day was my soul screaming for my son. I swore I would never go back to the ocean after he died, yet, there I was. Walking through the sand and sobbing with each crash of the waves.

After standing in the frigid Pacific water for what seemed like an eternity, I realized that I can survive his death. I will never be the same person that I was before he died, but for one brief moment in time, the ocean reminded me that I am worthy of surviving. I am important. I can be independent again. I am allowed to grieve. I am allowed to be myself.

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