November 16th of last year was the first full day of not laying my eyes on my son. He was buried November 15th, 2011. My wife's eyes and mine were the last eyes on earth to see my son. I know this because I shut the lid on his casket. Until his burial my wife and I made our way to the funeral home multiple times a day to talk to him, cry next to him, stroke his soft hair, kiss his forehead, hold his cold hand, hold him in our arms and even have a photo shoot done. Our first official family photograph session, pictures that are so emotional that I have only looked at them once. But he is gone now. And has been for a full year (leap year nonetheless). Four seasons underground while above his mommy and daddy have cried, held eachother, laughed, even made another child. His one year birthday and anniversary of his death came and went. The days leading up to them were harder than the actual anniversaries themselves. Grief that I have buried for months while I become a "productive member of society" again came rushing back with gusto. I melted down, thought the vile, insane thoughts that I felt right after he died, and even did a ton of research on why my baby died. I still have no answer to that question, nor will I ever. Alls I can understand from his death is that we(including the doctors/nurses/surgeon/OR staff/respiratory team/OR team/Nurse Practitioners/chaplains) all tried their hardest to bring my boy back to health. I will be forever grateful for them.
For the past year I had this idea that after 1 year has passed a wave of peace would wash over me and I would feel like myself again. Well, I do feel like myself because I have changed over the past year. I am no longer the person I was before November 9th 2011. I am thankful that my wife loves me for what I am no matter who I become. I still do not know exactly who I am. Am I a good person, bad, neither, both? People tend to look to you as a decent, loving person after you lose a child. Which I dont understand. If they saw inside my mind when grief is consuming me they would think otherwise. Thoughts I am so ashamed of I share with no one and damn grateful when they pass. Like grief they do pass, I know they will come again.
Losing Marcellus has taught me a lot though, it has taught me that I can survive. I have faced the worse, nothing that happens can be AS BAD as losing my son. Sure there are going to be some awful times in my life. But when I face those times I think to myself 'this is not as bad as losing my son.' He has taught me a lot of how to handle lives wicked situations.
I have also learned that my wife and I are different people, and thats ok. She grieves much differently than I do. Dates are much more important, so are the memories of each day he was alive. She has blogged about all of them. I have not read them, not because I dont want to but because its too hard. Just like his video's and most of his pictures, remembering that he was here and at one time I was able to hold him hurts too much. I want so badly to go back and be that guy, mostly because I feel like I wasted a lot of time doing other things and not just being with him. I was trying to balance my school, the house, the dog, taking care of a wife and new mother who just had a c-section, and have a baby in the NICU with just one car meant that I spent a lot of time away from his isolette. I was doing my best, and I had no idea that my son was going to die, but now I regret it terribly. I should have been there more, been by his side, hold him, touch him, just stare at him. I miss that part of him, I miss his life.
I also learned that men can cry. And should. This world festers a lot of pain, and sometimes its too much for even the stoic of gentlemen. But men are not suppose to cry in this western world. Growing up we are told that from a young age. Crying is associated with girls and babies, we are neither. Whenever I would get hurt as a child and start to cry my dad would snap at me "stop crying!" Stifling a cry as blood trickled down your leg was terrible, you still were hurt but now you also felt ashamed. It was not until I was 12 that I learned a valuable lesson, men can cry. My grandfather suffered a debilitating stroke when I was 11 or 12. This once strong farmer who never needed anyone to help him was fighting to live. My dad took me to see him. He was unresponsive and hooked up to a ton of machines. I was scared to see him in that room, I never knew him so helpless. As we drove away I started to cry. Being with my Father I also got ashamed so I turned away and tried to stop. He did not yell at me to 'stop crying', he held my hand and let me cry.
I miss my son, even after a year I miss him just as much as I did a month after he died. It will never go away, peace may come someday but not for a long time. And even when it does, I will still miss him.
