If you had told me seven years ago that I would survive the events of the following week, I would have told you that I would not.
Which is true, in some ways. That girl is gone. She disappeared late one night in Chicago, hours before she even knew it.
Because our minds no longer work as they did before, it took me seven years ~ seven! ~ to register the proximity of the coming and going days of the children of the four women, me included, who met online soon after our children died, and shared much of those first tender years together. Two birthdays in the past couple of weeks. Another loss anniversary in the next few days. And then, the day Josh was born, followed by the day he died. I am inundated ~ not unhappily ~ by words and pictures from heroic women, women still moving forward. Seven and eight years later.
I could not tell you how we do that.
It seems to me that at seven years, I might have words of wisdom to share.
I am grateful, so grateful, to be his mother.
I am not grateful that he is unable to live out his life, that the world does not enjoy his many gifts, and that I no longer share his company. I am, by turn and all at once, horrified, bereft, angered, heartbroken, baffled, lost.
I can hardly stand it, actually. Perhaps that is the wisdom I have to offer: You wouldn't believe how far you can continue to walk when you can't stand it. How brave you can be.
One of my FB friends, who lost her son to suicide only two years ago, posted this song last year. A vampire wedding song? There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . . . A thousand years, and a thousand more.