Where I am - A month after losing my child

They say that writing how you feel is a good form of therapy. I have a lot to say. It’s been a month since my son died. My son DIED. How is that even possible? An eleven year old boy so full of life and love. From when it happened to where we are now has been such a whirlwind of emotion, pain, and straight up survival. Losing a child in the manner we have is my definition of hell. The day it happened repeats itself over and over again like a nightmare. Constant waves of panic, not being able to breathe, wondering where he is and then remembering what happened crashes on you like a ton of bricks. He’s not in his room but all his favourite things are. His drawers sit full of clothes that will not get worn again. His cereals and snacks are drying out in the cupboards. His bike and scooter sit at the backdoor waiting to be used. He is everywhere in here but nowhere to be found. He’s not coming back. That little face. That voice. That smile. I am so terrified I will forget things about him. I look back on all the things we did together or for him, never realizing that those memories were being made to reflect on with him gone. We are supposed to be gone first. This is not the order it goes in. None of this is normal. Yet I am seeking ‘normal’ so badly to be able to go on, raise my other child, retain a marriage, a life to carry on of my own. But without Ryan.

Ryan came into this world with a struggle. He was born 6 weeks premature. I didn’t get to bring him home when he was born as he stayed in the NICU for 3 and half weeks. Pregnancy is not my strong suit. Although Ryan was born totally healthy, albeit small at 3.5lbs, he was a good baby and met all of his milestones. We did all the checkups that one does with a preemie until the age of 5. He was diagnosed with ADHD at age 7 and we managed it. Ry was sweet, loving, cuddly, passionate and loved to be able to taste bouts of independence. Like walking home from school, going off on his bike around the neighbourhood or at our trailer park. He had just started venturing to another part of the neighbourhood where he had met tons of kids. We don’t have a lot of kids on our street the same age or at the same school as Ryan so this was a new adventure each day. Being online for school since March then the summer break and then back online since September, going out to see kids in person after school was what he looked forward to everyday. He was always on time to come back home and we allowed him to venture out for a couple of hours because he was in grade 7 (what were you doing at that age?) and he earned it for being so committed to school. The best we had yet to see academically.

You think you know your children. You think you are being told truths when you ask them. You think you know that they are safe, not talking to strangers, not going into peoples homes and such. We had no idea that he had made friends with older boys, younger boys, had been in their homes playing video games, etc. We thought he was riding around the town house complex on his bike or scooter, playing Manhunt, tag or at the park. We didn’t know he had been on the roof of that school more than once. My boy, Ryan, climbing up there. So much courage. So much freedom, having a ball. Being accepted into a friend group. Having a life of his own. Part of growing up. Being a boy.

The details of the night he died are so vivid and tormenting right now. We didn’t get the proverbial ‘phone call’ or door bell ring from the police. We happened upon the scene because Ryan didn’t come home when he was supposed to. I pulled up to a sea of First Responders and helicopters after figuring out where he was. Try processing that. But this is not about how he died, this is about the aftermath of us trying to pick the pieces where the hole is left wide open in my whole being. Where the life I brought into the world from my body has died. My little boy.

I have learned many things about feelings and emotions these last few weeks. Like how emotional pain physicalizes itself into so many things like lack of sleep, guilt, panic, chest pain, crying uncontrollably that you hurt in every fibre of your being, terrible thoughts, and outright despair. I also feel judged as a mother. I cant help it. I feel like I am looked upon, first with major sympathy and pity, but then with judgement of how I could have let my son go off and have this happen? I know it was an accident. It was no different than him running across the street and getting hit by a car. He stepped on a skylight that gave way. It was a freak accident. But the judgement is there. He went up there and paid the ultimate price. One of those nagging Mom things you warn your kids about. Like wearing a helmet or not running on the pool deck. You know you need to say it but you never think anything bad will actually happen. When I looked up how many kids this has happened to, I can find 5 stories in the USA and New Zealand in the last 5 years. What are the odds? Yes, I looked that shit up. We have always given our kids a good amount of freedom. I truly believed it was for the best, taught them social and street smarts. We’ve never been helicopter parents. Our Ryan always had a bit of naivety to him. Just that bit too trusting and need for social acceptance. He would go along with anything to fit in. My other son is so totally different, lots of friends, lots of street cred, he was constantly reminding Ryan of how to be and not to be at the skate park, trying to guide him to his level. It was a strain on their relationship as brothers actually. Only from a place of love, did Aidan do that. Ryan’s genuine innocence was his ultimate demise. The only solace I have in all of this is that he was having a the time of his life up there. I know it. The kids said they got down because Ryan had to go home. It was that final step of descent that was his last.

The other thoughts that are a sea of emotion right now is being defined and identified by this. Like ‘Oh there’s that girl that lost her son who fell through the skylight’. Or ‘you know them, the ones whose kid died’. This is a reality. It’s so sad. I only know one couple who have lost a child suddenly. I talk about this because its really fucking frustrating, and its not intentional, trust me, I know, but when you say to someone who has lost a child suddenly something like ‘Oh, when my Dad died’ or ‘When my brother died’ you are not helping us. It’s nowhere near what we are going through. Yes, death, sudden death specifically, is tragic. It’s COMPLETELY different when it is your child. Remember the order of death, where we are supposed to go first? I cannot find any way to identify with you when comparisons like that are stated. And I know they come from the heart. But unless your child was there one minute and then ripped away from you the next, you will NEVER be able to understand the pain or torment that this is. Also, its such a routine question but don't ask parents who are grieving 'How are you?' What do you think? If I retort, 'I'm good', I'm not. And now I feel guilty for saying I'm good.

I saw Ryan at 1:30pm on the day he died. I got my hair cut at 2pm, picked up Aidan at 3:45 from our house to take him to his girl friends house and then I ran some errands and was on my way to pick up Thai food for dinner when my Mum called to say Ryan was not home yet. He left home at 3:20pm after school, with my husbands blessing and supervision. That was it. One moment they are there, the next they are not. It was instant and sudden. We had no warning. No goodbye. As we go through the process of therapy and eventually meeting with other parents who have lost a child, I cannot help but only want to speak only with those who lost a child suddenly. An illness or situation that leads up to death is horrible. But it’s not the same. I have been down that road 3 TIMES. I am no stranger to death. You have some time mentally to prepare, no matter how hard, that preparation is still a buffer. I mean no offence to those who have tried to console us with words that come from experiences of death in their lives. Its automatic to want to help, to perceive what we are experiencing. It’s just not the same. Unless it is.

I have not seen Ryan in a month. Imagine that for a moment. Imagine not seeing your own, dependant child, one that sleeps at home in their cozy room, you make breakfast for, you nag to shower, brush their teeth, go to bed, pick up their clothes, yell at to be quiet, yell at to get up, kiss goodnight, and laugh at when they giggle or tell you a funny story. A month feels like an eternity. And there is no coming back. Remember how I said we didn’t get to bring Ryan home from the hospital for almost a month when he was born? That feeling of driving home from the hospital when I was discharged is how I felt when we picked up his ashes from the funeral home. Where is my child? Left behind somewhere. Now in a box on my lap. It’s just not the norm. A big hole. It’s just fucking wrong.

And this is where I am now. Routine is no longer. I crave the past. I crave normalcy. I fear for my older son. I fear for my husband. I am strong but this is the worst thing that has ever happened. The definition of hell. I suffer from so much guilt. Guilt for what happened. Guilt for trying to distract myself from sadness. Guilt for doing things for myself like working out, laughing, getting a coffee, shopping, breathing. Sometimes I don’t cry for a whole day. I feel shame. But then sometimes seeing a certain grocery item sends me into pure panic because it was one of Ryan’s favourite foods. Getting back to normal things keeps me sane. I need to be sane. It’s just trying to establish the new routines with a broken heart is so, so hard. I grieve hard for my Mum, my husband who is absolutely broken, my friends who are grieving for me, Ryan’s friends who are traumatized and miss him.

I am the chosen Mum who lost her child. I am different from my friends and family who still have their kids, I am the lucky Mum who still has a child. I am forever broken but still here to carry on. Bear with me as I try to just be.