20/20 is associated with perfect vision. Now on this 20th day of the 20th month, I can say that my vision and perspective on life have definitely changed, but they are no where near perfect. Some days, like yesterday, I wake up with a little hope. Other days, I feel hopeless and lost. Sometimes, I feel both in the same day. It is an unending roller coaster that I will never be able to exit. But like a roller coaster, the hills and valleys of my grief are variable. Sometimes, it's a moment of happiness followed immediately by a dart of sadness. "How can I be happy without him here?" Sometimes I literally lie in bed, unable to move from the crushing weight of his loss.
It has been 20 months since the worst day in my life. I relive parts of that day almost daily. Sometimes I'm sitting at a soccer game, driving in my car or laughing with friends, but the thoughts are still constantly running through my mind.
If you ask me how I'm doing, or how we are doing, I'll say "fine". But what does that mean? Right now, it means I can get up and get the kids to school. I force myself to work out, train or exercise in some form every day, because it does help keep me moving. I make dinner most nights of the week (except Pizza Friday). We cart the kids to and from their activities. To the outside world, I'm sure we look "fine". But we are a shell, or shadow, of what we use to be. True "fun" and "joy" are fleeting moments that are few and far between. I try to grab those moments when I can for the kids, they have already given up so much of their childhood, their innocence, that I want them to still have those experiences.
A couple of nights ago, we were all sitting at the table for dinner (I've been trying to make it a point that we do that as often as possible, even with our impossible schedule.). Somehow, we started to play "Remember when?". Everyone, even Zach, had a memory to share, and most were funny. Lukah's were obscure memories that nobody else shared. Dylan's name came up often. I'm glad we can remember him in this way. At the same time we were having a good time, my heart began to hurt, because he was not here with us. Every time I experience happiness, joy or hopefulness, I am stabbed with an arrow of guilt, sadness and anger.
So if you ask me how I'm doing, and I say "fine", now you know what that means. It means I got up, stayed out of bed, and put on my mask for the day. 20 months have passed since I saw my son, and I still feel every second of his absence.
