You are here

I don't want to be here. I say this to myself at least once a day. I should clarify- I don't mean that in a sense that I don't want to be here physically, that I don't want to exist. As hard as life is, I do want to be alive. What I mean is that often times I don't want to be doing the things I am doing at that moment. All sorts of things. I know you've had this thought before too. In a long line waiting to pay for something, filling up with gas, watching a play/sport/band that you have no interest in. Ugh I don't want to be here, you think. But you are. You are here.

I don't want to be here. I remember thinking this as we sat in the hospital the morning after it happened. Clint and I were so devastated and broken that we were taken there to see if someone could help us. I don't want to be here, sobbing in the waiting room while our parents and brothers huddled near us with concern in their eyes and tears trailing down their cheeks. I don't want to be here, getting pamphlets on grief and talking about autopsies. I feel like going asleep for years and years so I don't have to face the horrible truth that he is gone. I don't want to be here talking about a future without him.

I don't want to be here. We were at the funeral home talking about arrangements. I don't want to be here, thinking about songs and caskets and what he would wear for his celebration of life. I wondered what would happen if I just got up and ran out. Ran home. Would I return to see him waiting? I know this answer is no, and I know they would just follow me out anyways. I just don't want to be here. I don't want to be a mother planning her son's funeral.

I don't want to be here: at the gym (I used to bring him with me, he laying on a mat or sitting up watching me while I am exercising and making funny faces at him), at the grocery store (he had just started riding in the shopping cart which he loved because he could get a good look at all the faces around him and I loved because I could steal little kisses) or even putting away laundry (he used to lay on his play mat beside me, teething his toys and babbling to keep me company while I folded clothes and put them away).

I don't want to be here, I think as I lay awake at night. I try begging the intense feelings of guilt to please just give me a break so I can sleep. I don't want to be here thinking about how I can't hold Caius even one more time. I don't want to be here feeling like I did something wrong, or that I could have done something to prevent him from leaving us. The thoughts torture me, causing mental and physical pain that is overwhelming. I don't want to be here. I want to crawl out of this body with a heart that hurts so so much and just take a break.

I don't want to be here. I am saying that to myself now as I type. I don't want to be sitting at my laptop crying. I don't want to be writing about how I am so tired of feeling sad and guilty. I don't want to have to go see a grief counselor this afternoon because my son died and I don't know what to do. I don't want to be here at my table, with articles and books about grief and loss scattered around me. But what it really comes down to is I don't want to be here without my Caius. I don't want to be here without him, doing things that all remind me that I can't.

I remember my dad wanting a license plate saying "YOU ARE HERE". I suppose he thought it would be funny because no matter where someone was reading it, it would be true. I am here, they would think. So I remind myself of this truth: I am here and he is not and I must do all the little things I don't want to do despite this fact. I am here and I cannot change that, not can I change what happened. When I start to feel as though I cannot cope, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I am here. At my table, writing on my laptop. Trying to stay present. Breath in, breath out. You can't move on if you keep going back, I tell Clint. And that's true. He is here, you are here. And so am I. 

Chantal