There are names given to people left behind after a death. A wife who loses her husband is called a widow. A husband who loses his wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. But there’s no word for a parent who loses a child. We all experience loss during our lifetime, no one is spared. The loss you can reasonably anticipate, like the death of an aged grand parent, though heart-breaking, is at least within the realm of what most of us would consider to be the natural order of life. A parents’ or grandparents death severs a life-long connection to the person who first gave you unconditional love, the person who created a refuge where innocence could unfold into wisdom, the person who gave you legs to stand on and wings to fly. But parents die before their children, Right? You always knew it would be so.
It is said that when a parent dies you lose your past, but when a child dies, you lose your future. I think this is especially true when a baby or young child passes. With the death of a child, the grieving is more for the future they have lost, rather than for your own. The absence of Cashy's physical presence in our lives is palpable. But on occasion I am fortunate enough to sense him nearby, only a breath away. In trying to understand why life that is so lovingly given to each of us, it is at times so cruelly taken away. I often asked questions that cannot be answered, at least not answered in this lifetime. When I stop asking for a minute and start listening, I have began to see. It’s not about finding answers, it’s about having faith, faith in the Divine, the afterlife, belief in the One love. Faith comes first, then understanding and hope follow. Even so, nearly a half a year later, we still struggle to accept that Cashys not resting in bed in the other room or in his spot on the couch, or in his car seat in the back of the car, he won’t be there. Cashy's not hear to share his sillyness, his wisdom, his enthusiasm, his energy or his light. Or is he?
My resolve is to take a leap of faith, believing without benefit of proof and learning to see with my soul and listen with my heart. So, I talk to Cashy and he hears, I smile at Cashys pictures and he sees, I believe in Cashy and he knows.
Here's a nice quote I found on "faith."
“Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe. It is not enough that a thing be possible for it to be believed.” - Voltaire
Will I ever feel or be normal again? I don't even know what normal is anymore. Our lives have been such chaos since may 2010, I don't know what's coming or going. What is normal for a family who's lost a child to cancer? Well Normal is not sleeping very well because a thousand what if's & why didn't I's go through your head constantly. Normal is having the TV or pandora radio on the minute you walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening. Normal is staring at every boy who looks like he is Cashy's age, And then thinking of the age he would be now and how he would look before cancer and now at nearly 5 years old. Then wondering why it is even important to imagine it, because it will never happen.
Normal is every happy event in your life always being backed up with sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in your heart. Normal is telling the story of your child's death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of your "normal."
Normal is each holiday coming up with the difficult task of how to honor your childs's memory and how to survive those days. And trying to find the balloon or matchbox car that fit's the occasion. Merry Christmas? Well, Not really.
Normal is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special Cashy loved. Thinking of how he would of loved it, but how he is not here to enjoy it. Normal is having some people afraid to mention Cashy, which is often the case. Nobody seems to want to hit the topic, so I do it to break the ice. Normal is making sure that others remember him.
Normal is after the funeral is over everyone else goes on with their lives after the drama and the sadness, but WE continue to grieve our loss forever. Normal is days, weeks, months after the initial shock, the grieving gets worse, not better.
Normal is not listening to people compare anything in their life to this loss, unless they too have lost a child. Nothing compares. NOTHING. Not even your cat that died of cancer. Even if your child is in the remotest part of the earth away from you - it doesn't compare.
Normal is realizing you do cry everyday. Normal is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have two children or three children, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that Cashy is dead. And yet when you say you have two living children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed the dead child.
Normal is learning to lie to everyone you meet and telling them you are fine. You lie because it makes others uncomfortable if you cry. You've learned it's easier to lie to them then to tell them the truth that you still feel empty and it's probably never going to get any better -- ever. Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you to feel, so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal."
So really what is normal? I don't know anymore. Nothing seems normal without Cashy.
I layed away in bed yesterday while trying to take a little nap before work. The most amazing thing happened. I was laying on my side breast feeding sissy and holding her hand. At that exact moment, my hand holding her little delicate hand felt like Cashy's hand in mine. I closed my eyes tightly and gasped, "Cashy," and I held on tightly to her hand. It felt just like his little hand did, I had these overwhelming feelings shoot through me and tears just rolled down my eyes. I really felt his presence and it was so special. Goosebumps rolled up and down my body and I tightened my grip on sissy's hand. I knew at that moment it was Cashy, letting me feel his warmth and his everlasting presence in the spiritual world. This made me smile and cry at the same time. Oh how I miss our snuggles and cuddles and his silly demeanor and goofiness.
Cashy keep your daddy safe on his trip this weekend. I know you will be with him wherever he goes. I hope your happy and safe. I miss you more than you'll ever know. To infinity and beyond buddy, to infinity and beyond.
Love, your momma.