We are approaching 4 months without Landon.
Since diagnosis, life events and celebrations have also doubled as countdowns. Through every event that should be happy, there was always the voice in my mind that wondered “is this the last?” Or ” We are one year closer to never having this again.”
And now…the count is moving in a new direction. Time is now marked by how many days, weeks, and months have passed since I’ve kissed my child’s face, heard his laugh, or held him in my arms.
Even though my mind has accepted that this is reality, and that Landon is never coming back, I don’t know that my heart ever can.
Now that months have passed, people have moved on. And I get it. No one will ever feel this loss the way in which I do. Not everyone will mark the days and the weeks and the months. But I always will. Not because I refuse to keep living, not because I can’t move forward and continue being the best mother I can be for Blake and Gabe, but because he was my son. His physical absence in my every day life is palpable and I feel it in every breathe I take.
Because the bond between a mother and her child can never be severed. I carried that child in my womb, and from the moment I knew of his existence, I loved him. I dreamt of his future and felt him move and grow inside my body long before I ever saw his perfect face. I would have given my life for that child before I ever met him.
From the second he was born, my every thought or decision revolved around how it would affect him. Since 12:02 am on July 16, 2006, I have happily come second to another human being. I raised that child and even when I found out that I would outlive him and all I wanted to do was lay down and die because the thought of life without him hurt too much, I picked myself up and kept going.
I did everything within my power to give him everything he ever needed or wanted. When I became a single mother and couldn’t work, I went without eating to make sure he and Blake were always fed and diapered, I went without sleeping for more than 2 hours a night for months on end to keep him safe when he wasn’t sleeping and would be up roaming and screaming at night. I made horribly difficult decisions that broke my heart into a million pieces so that Landon could have the fullest and most meaningful life possible.
I made beautiful memories with that child. He saw the ocean, and Disney World, and Mount Rushmore, and the mall of America, and I watched him explore it all with a smile and zest for life that is enviable.
I watched sanfilippo syndrome steal his independence and skills piece by piece. I watched him have seizures, spend months sick with varying illness, be put under anesthesia for different surgeries and procedures, and I was powerless to change any of it.
There isn’t anything I wouldn’t have done to spare him the fate he was dealt. I would have sold my soul to the devil himself if it would have saved my son.
You don’t “get over” that kind of love. There is no moving on. He is a part of me, and no amount of time, or distance, not even death can change that. A part of me is gone forever, and although I am learning to live with that truth, I will never be the same. There’s no way I could be.
if you haven’t lost a child, I’m not sure I can make you understand why I will never let go, or stop talking about my son, or why I will never fully be healed of the pain that losing him has brought into my life.
I guess it could be said it would be like suddenly losing your dominant arm. Although you would still be able to function and continue living, your life is permanently altered. The way you see the world and live your life will forever be different. You Always will feel and be affected by that loss.
As I ramble on, I really just want you to know: I am okay. Well, I am as okay as I can possibly be in light of my life being entirely altered and different. But the person I was before is gone now. And I am still learning who the new me is. Please be patient with me. I know that it is not easy to be around or hear the thoughts of someone who is walking in the shadows of grief. I know I speak often of my loss and how much it hurts. And I can’t tell you when or if that will change. But I am trying and right now, that’s all I can do.