18 months and the war continues

On September 7, 2017 by Michelle Love

BJ left us 18 months ago. I really never thought that I would have had to be here without him for this long. (Read whatever you want into that.) It’s been hell. There have been some good days sprinkled in over the past 18 months, but this grief overshadows everything. I’ve been happy at times, but there is always that piece of me that is still deeply hurting. Being carefree is a distant feeling, and one I doubt I will ever feel again. Yes, I know that BJ is in Heaven and I know without doubt that I will see him again, but that doesn’t take the pain away. How could it when I desperately miss him being physically present with us? I am a mother to the fullest definition of the word and I want to talk to, hug, teach, do things for him and love him with everything I have in me. I have so much to give him and he’s not here.

He’ll never be here again and I have no place for the things I would be doing for him. The mom I am to Carly doesn’t take the place of the mom I am to BJ. No special dinners, no special birthday cakes or new shoes and clothes, no pulling my hair out as he leaves in the car for the first time, no watching him play basketball or football or annoying his sister. No scrutinizing girlfriends, or dancing at his wedding, or loving on his babies. There is none of that for BJ anymore and it’s just too quiet…except inside my mind.

I liken the loss of a child to a battlefield. Bodies are scattered, there is evidence of death, smoke and ruin, and clothes are tattered and dirty. Once tall, healthy trees have been chipped at and pushed until they have crashed to the ground, taking others down with them.

I, along with so many others like me, am wounded severely, missing limbs, ears ringing, confused and disoriented, constantly scanning through smoke and fog, searching for my child even though I know he’s gone. All those like me are bleeding and broken, crawling, pushing ourselves onward through the trenches, scratching at the ground, pulling ourselves along with all our might.

Some of us have succumbed to the exhaustion of inching through the turmoil and lay in a mound of brokenness. Some refuse to move and join their beloved. Some have made it through this war zone with deep battle scars that aren’t quite healed. They have come back into the smoke to look for survivors and whisper encouragement to the broken souls.

Unaffected onlookers stand on the sidelines and watch, some with worried faces, some without expression. Some stand for a short time, watching, some just turn their backs to the grotesque sight. Some call out to the wounded, advising them of a better way to get through, or directing them to a different path. They claim knowledge of the battle plan, and yet they stand, unaffected, unscathed, with no battle scars. The wounded hear the calls from the onlookers as their words chip away at their reservoir of perseverance.

There are times along the way when the wounded quickly take cover, attempting to protect themselves from impending trauma and further destruction that isn’t always seen by the watchers. Those on the outside remark among themselves how strong the warriors are, happy that they haven’t been drafted.

As they crawl and push themselves along, the warriors on the battlefield scream out in deep pain and plead with whoever is listening to help them stop this war. “Please!!! Help us stop this destruction, stop this cruelty and torture, stop all this pain!” Some of the onlookers remain silent, some call out in agreement to stop the war, and very few onlookers join the resistance.

Let’s be clear. This is war.