Simple things, sometimes mean the most.

It’s crazy, how it’s the small, seemingly meaningless conversations that mean the most to me now. The conversations as we sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, in the truck on the way to the doctor appointments, at the dinner table, or on the couch watching our marathon of the Dog Whisperer or The Walking Dead. Those conversations that seemed so simple….about life, about friends, about us.

I miss the sound of your voice, your laugh and your thoughts on life. I miss those simple little conversations every single day. That was our time. Our time. Just me and you. We had those moments to talk about the “little” things in life. You even let me listen to the songs that you loved the most. I miss, even though you were in a wheel chair with a broken back, how you tried holding the door open for me. I miss the times when it was just us in the waiting room, talking about the weather or the latest news. You were more insightful than you’ll ever know. Even though it was “small” talk, you had intuition. I enjoyed listening to you talk, telling me about life, what you thought of it, and what you made of it. I loved hearing the stories you told, the side-splitting, laughable ones and the alarming ones. I miss all of our conversations, our texts, our laughs….I just miss you.

All I want to do is talk about you….every minute of every day. I want to watch your videos, read your texts and look at your pictures. I include you in everything I do. It’s my way of keeping you alive, keeping you here. It’s like my brain is protecting my heart, because I still pretend you are at work, at school, or at the farm with the guys. It’s the alone time, the quiet time, the silence…that is deafening. That’s when reality tries to creep in. The voice in my head that says, “he’s gone Gina. He’s not coming home. He’s not at work, school or at the farm. He’s gone.” It’s that voice that I have to drown out. I have to keep it at bay, because with it, comes so much more. Vivid memories of the crash scene, the hospital, and the aftermath.

I think my body went into shock for the entire first year….and I believe it’s still there. I know they say I need to “go through it”, to “face it”…reality I guess. But I can’t, I don’t want to. Why would I if I am surviving by keeping you alive with me every day. Those that say that, have they gone through this? Do they truly understand what it’s like to give a child back to God? Because if they did, would they still say that?

Nature is where I find comfort. The silence doesn’t seem so paralyzing when the song birds are out. I have a garden now, a pretty big one. I also have chickens and goats….that was our plan. You wanted chickens and a garden. That’s where I find comfort. Doing what we planned to do. It gives me something to take care of, to nurture, to watch grow. Losing you, I lost my life. I carried you; you know what my heart sounds like from the inside. I cared for you, nurtured you, taught you, and loved you. I can’t just let that go, I’ll never let that go.

The world moves on….that’s what makes me angry. The world keeps going, and all I want to do is go back. Go back when our life was “normal”, when our family was whole. I don’t want to go forward, I don’t want to experience life without you. You should have graduated this year. You looked forward to graduation since the day you started kindergarten. You never liked school, and sometimes for good reasons. But you would have made it. All of your friends are having graduation parties, celebrating the accomplishment of finishing up 13 long years of school, and moving on to the next chapter in their life. Parents are posting how much they will “miss” their child while they go off to college, not knowing how they will survive the separation. I understand why they say it, believe me, I do. I just understand on a totally different level, the term “miss” has no comparison to the piercing pain of missing a child who is now in heaven. Not even close.  But I’ve come to the understanding that there’s no point in voicing how I feel, because they can’t begin to understand.

Only those parents and families in this horrific, unimaginable “club” of losing a child can understand. They understand why I think the way I do, say the things I say, and act the way I act. They understand why I don’t want to go out in public anymore, why I hate going to the store, and why I don’t want to be around crowds. It took me 8 months to go to the grocery store because I couldn’t bear the thought of picking out food for dinners that wouldn’t include you. I couldn’t bear the thought of not having to buy your favorite snacks. So I still do. I still buy the food you loved Cole, and I always will.

I’m trying Cole. I don’t cry too much in front of people now. I cry…but often I cry alone. It happens at various times, sometimes with no rhyme or reason. At times it’s triggered by a song, a story, a post, something someone says, or when I am in the shower, just thinking. Sometimes crying can be a release, and sometimes it can be a prison.

I love you, forever and always. You will live your life through me now, I will be your hands and feet on earth. I will continue what you started and live my life to make you proud. I just need help. I need God’s help, because I can’t do this alone.

I love you, forever and always.

Love mom