Anticipating One Year

I cannot believe we are approaching one year since Oliver's death. It doesn't seem possible. I feel like I need more time between then and now. I have spent many years trying to live in the moment. With the kids, I was holding onto my time with them. And now that they are gone, I am holding onto my grief. I have said before that my grief can, at times, feel like a heavy down comforter. It protects me and the weight allows me to feel the weight of my loss. 

Oliver's death was anything but peaceful. His final few days were riddled with pain and anguish. Matt and I worked with Oliver's nurse to find relief, but nothing we were doing was working. We were making major health decisions on little sleep. Our emotions were frayed, anticipating the loss of our son. And the immense pressure to provide him an easy passing was crushing. On the morning of December 4th, after an especially difficult night of multiple nurse visits, failing pain pumps and frustration, I demanded that Oliver be transferred to the inpatient facility. 

We gathered items to make a sterile room feel like home - twinkle candles, family photos, flowers, favorite blankets. Lotion, fresh clothes, stuffed animals and a book of prayers. As we awaited the ambulance's arrival, we broke down. Rapid fits of sobs and then pulling myself together to be strong. We loaded him onto the gurney and I remember how frail he looked. His pallor. The way his face winced and contorted with every moment. His body temperature was so high and yet my motherly instinct was to cover him and keep him warm.

Both Matt and I internally worried he would die in the ambulance. What a terrible end to Oliver's story. Thankfully we arrived and were welcomed. An angel of a nurse took over the nursing duties and I could simply be his mom. Heavy-duty pain medications were administered and within a few hours his jaw relaxed, his body stopped tremoring. He was as peaceful as one can be after the throes of anguish.

I am not ready to share the rest of his story. Our final few hours with him are sacred and I haven't allowed many people in to hear my memories. On December 5th, in the wee hours of the morning, Oliver took his final breath. I can still hear the air passing through his lips one last time. After years of anticipating the moment, I still screamed.

I have experienced four anniversaries with Waverly. There is no right way to honor the moment. Nothing feels right, because nothing is right. My daughter is dead. And in two days nothing will be right again. My son is dead. Time is distancing me from them. I miss them every day, but the anniversaries are different. They hold more weight, more emotion. What is and then was.

Please keep Matt and I in your prayers. Light a candle for Oliver on Thursday. Share a memory you have of him. Remember. Because my greatest fear is that Waverly and Oliver will be forgotten.