Never Over It

So a few weeks ago, I went on a road trip.  There were a number of emotions surrounding this venture - anxiety over driving into and navigating around a big city, and lots of excitement about celebrating the engagement of two beautiful, important people.  A lovely visit with family, and a chance to meet a group of people for the very first time.  I promise you, it never occurred to me that the dreadful, inevitable topic of conversation was going to arise - How many children do I have.

That evening, a few moments into this intimate gathering, I heard more than one person say, "So your husband is at home with your three kids?" and I distinctly remember thinking, "How perfect.  Yes, I do have three kids at home.  We'll just go with that."  I was happy, I was smiling, it was wonderful.

Believe me when I say - I do not intentionally want to make people feel awkward.  I do not want to purposefully tell total strangers about my dead son.  That's not my agenda and it never will be.

But then it happened.  Some people were (politely starting random conversations) and said four kids, while others were saying three.  Then there was the silence as I tried to figure out how, and to what capacity, I was going to present my reality.

Then came the inescapable sad looks.  Because here's the crappy part, for me not for you - I do have four kids.  I am not just counting up all my pregnancies like I'm expecting to receive a medal for every positive pee stick.  No, I physically birthed and met four children.  Each one has a name and a face, and I have a million tiny moments in my memory from the day they were each brought into this world.  They were here and they all matter.  But should that be the subject of our small talk while we sip fancy drinks and eat miniature food?

Not surprisingly, the tears started falling soon after.  I was forced (haha) to explain the discrepancy and, oh yeah, there's the unavoidable (beautiful) giant angel wing tattoo which was also making an appearance, that came up in conversation.  Talking about Gabriel brings out everyone's sad eyes and I just. could. not. even.  At the end of the evening, when I could no longer muster the energy to shut off my waterworks, I said,  "I can't believe I'm so upset.  I can't stop crying.  It's been five years!"  And a total stranger (well, she was a few hours ago) sweetly encouarged me and gave me my very own advice without even knowing it, "But he was your son!  And you'll never get over it!"

The next day - after too much gluten, too much rum, and too little sleep - I was feeling awful physically, and even worse emotionally.  In my mind, I had made a scene with my grief.  I was so thankful to be comforted by my loving cousin who assured me that not only had I kept my tears relatively private, but that it was a good thing the emotions continue to come all this time later.

"I think you worry about how you're going to make the other person feel.  That hearing about Gabe will make them sad.  But this is your story!  That's the point!"

So, all that to say, I still haven't mastered THE question.  I still don't know the right way to address it.  All I know is - This is my story.  And it's still not easy.  And sometimes I still cry.  And that's because it's exactly what I always said it was...

Something I'll never get over.

The Day I met my Gabriel

Wearing one of my many Memorial Necklaces.  Still smiling.